danielewski – Page 2 – American Postmodernism

Layers of echoes

Several posts have been about Danielewski’s lack of presence– dare I call it his silence?– in the novel. I was certainly struck by this as well. However, Danielewski’s voice, like so much of the postmodern literature that we have studied, is buried under layers of intertextuality–editors, Truant, Zampano, Navidson, Karen, etc. The only way we “hear” Danielewski’s voice is through layers of fictitious characters. While we occasionally hear Navidson, he is presented through a film clip, or through a critic’s interpretation, or through Zampano. Even Zampano’s voice, which is primarily heard through footnotes, is being interpreted through Truant. And Truant’s voice (or absence like Susanna pointed out) is also qualified by the editors. All of these layers of distance and absence are important to simulation of reality. I don’t feel like I quite understand Baudrillard’s successive phases of the image (or even if they can be successive), but the bit about the Moebius strip splitting in two and always calling into question the real by the imaginary seemed to fit in this case. Isn’t Danielewski using the imaginary, the intertextuality, to define exactly who he is?

Another layer (real or imagined) was the lengthy and sometimes tangential comments about echoes in chapter v. The very nature of an echo is imaginary, even mythic as the opening to the chapter suggests. The echo isn’t the actual voice, but the mimicking of a voice– calling to mind the very strategy that Danielewski is using in crafting his book. Many moments of the echoes arise in this chapter, mainly in regard to the hallways. “In the living room, Navidson discovers echoes emanating from a dark doorless hallway which has appeared out of nowhere in the west wall” (57). These echoes are the voices of his children lost in the hallways.

Not only do the echoes add a type of layering to the story that mimics the structure of the story, but they also add to the eerie tone. “Delay and fragmentation repetition create a sense of another inhabiting a necessarily deserted place” (46). After the children’s shouts are heard throughout the living room, Karen “freezes on the threshold,” paralyzed by fear of the unimaginable. This same sentiment is brought up a few chapters later when Navidson is lost in the hallway at 3:19 am. Instead of the echoes being created by the hallways,”suddenly immutable silence” takes its place (67). After hearing the growl, Navidson makes vain attempts to call out to his wife and brother, but his shouts are met again by silence. Couldn’t this absence of words be relate to the echoing of words? Each is missing some sort of reality of words. Is Danielewski trying to do as Baudrillard suggests and define something according to its binary?

By way of a tangent, it’s interesting to note that “Simulacra and Simulations” is the article being read by the character Neo early in the film “The Matrix.” The movie contains multiple other references to the essay, including the phrase (uttered by Morpheus upon his revealing the wasteland that is the ‘real world’ of the future earth) “the desert of the real”– a direct quote from the essay.

The Art of Simulation

I decided to compose my blog post this week after having read the introduction to Danielewski’s House of Leaves and before continuing through the rest of the book:

So what are we to make of Danielewski’s introduction? I’m not exactly sure, but neither is Mr. Johnny Truant.

First, we have what appears to be a frame narrative of sorts (or perhaps this is merely an introduction; I don’t know if the book returns to the point of view of Johnny Truant). Nevertheless, we have a narrator addressing the writing that follows him.

So what does this supposed framing establish? Very little…

I’m kidding of course…or am I? If one thing is for certain of the words of Truant, it is that nothing is for certain (or real for that matter?)…

Now, surely we have all encountered the frame narrative used in it’s classical form one time or another: William Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, One Thousand and One Nights, or Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Perhaps what all these frames have in common is their establishment of incentive for the reader. What do I mean? In each of these examples, the reader is given a reason to enter through the frame and into the heart of the text: Chaucer’s prologue establishes the pilgrimage, its travelers/storytellers, and a reason to read through their various stories: to find out who gets the free dinner! In One Thousand and One Nights, the reader is encouraged to find out if Scheherazade’s storytelling can save the day!

But in the introduction to House of Leaves, the reader is left to question: Does any of this matter? Why should we read on if The Navidson Record is fake? But in rebuttle, Johnny Truant asks the reader: should it matter if it doesn’t matter?

“See, the irony is it makes no difference that the documentary at the heart of this book is fiction. Zampano knew from the get go that what’s real or isn’t real doesn’t matter here. The consequences are the same.” (Danielewski xx)

Johnny Truant, Zampano (and more generally Danielewski) are calling into question the relevancy of reality, of Truth:

“They say truth stands the test of time. I can think of no greater comfort than knowing this document failed such a test.” (xix)

As readers, we buy into the ‘reality’ of a story. Heart of Darkness is a piece of fiction; its frame narrative is a piece of fiction that ‘sets up’ another piece of fiction…and yet we accept the ‘reality’ of the characters. At times, we sympathize with Marlow, but we also criticize his actions. We are confused, fascinated, and appalled by Kurtz. We root for the cannibals…(just me? okay). We do all of these things as if Marlow, Kurtz, and the cannibals were actually ‘real’.

Through this introduction, Danielewski questions the simulation that is art, and our role in this simulation as readers. Should I continue through the rest of House of Leaves? Should I continue to read what I know is ‘fake’? Of course, because the “consequences are the same.” The difference between Heart of Darkness and House of Leaves? The latter is self-aware of its role as fiction, as simulation. This is not to say that Joseph Conrad and his readers (or any author/reader for that matter) are unable to distinguish between their lives and the literature they read; but rather, it’s writers like Danielewski and Luigi Pirandello, or directors like Jean-Luc Godard, Francois Truffaut, and Robert Altman who are willing to play with these conventions and incorporate these self-reflexive elements.

Postmodern Horror?

One of the things the first strikes me about this novel is its connections to the horror genre (I vaguely recall hearing or reading about this novel a number of years ago and thinking that it was a work of horror). The title House of Leaves is reminiscent of the titles and settings of other great works of horror fiction: The Haunting of Hill House, House of Frankenstein, the house on the hill in “Salem’s Lot, the Overlook Hotel in The Shining. The creepy, old house that some unsuspecting family moves into is an undeniable cliche of the genre. The novel certainly plays up the ominousness and foreboding from the very beginning. Much like the voice-over/introduction to The Texas Chain-saw Massacre, the story of how Truant acquired Zampano’s writings blurs the line between fact and fiction, grounded reality and infinite dreams and nightmares. All horror relies upon creating a space in the audience’s mind where anything can happen.

While Truant’s introduction and his footnotes contribute to the tone and tension of the work, as a horror novel, the narrative lacks immediacy. Scary stories usually depend upon the reader being drawn into a situation of terror with one of the characters. Danielewski undermines the immediacy though by switching between the Davidson plot and the Truant plot. He also noticeably softens the horror by ending chapter four with Karen screaming and then beginning chapter five with a long, tiresome explanation about the mythology and science of echoes. It is as though the author wants the story to walk a line between being horror and being something else.

And if this is a horror novel of a sort, what is the horror, the boogeyman? I suspect that it has something to do with house, not because it is haunted, but because the house is a symbol for the American Dream as is the family that inhabits the house. There is something wrong with the ideal life of a couple living in a perfect home with two kids and a dog (and a cat in this novel). There is something terribly romanticized in the way that Davidson describes his new home, life, and project.

“Maybe because of my past they’re expecting something different, but I just thought it would be nice to see how people move into a place and start to inhabit it. Settle in, maybe put down some roots, interact, hopefully understand each other a little better. Personally, I just want to create a cozy outpost for me and my family. A place to drink lemonade on the porch and watch the sun set” (9).

The whole situation seems too optimistic to me. For a guy who won a Pulitzer for a photograph of a dying girl in Sudan, he seems oddly oblivious to the possibilities of obstacles to be met and imperfect conclusions.

The blending of reality and fiction within the novel and the preoccupation with the family is reminiscent of the sado-masochistic games that the older couple plays in Albee’s play Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. Neither of the families in these works are complete; there is always a space that needs to be filled whether it be with an absent child (Albee’s play), an absence of communication between husband and wife (Davidson and Karen seem to communicate a lot through cameras), or actual rooms that appear out of impossibility. I think it is interesting to note that both Truant and Zampano are single, without family, and in the eyes of the American Dream, incomplete.

I suspect that in this horror story the boogeyman is not a fantastic monster, but the reality that the American Dream is tainted, uncontainable, or unattainable.

Layers and Reliability

I believe I mentioned in class that one of my students had the most bizarre reaction when I mentioned that I was going to be reading The House of Leaves. One day, when I told her I was going to start reading the book that night, she cried, “Oh no! Don’t read it at night! Read it during the day when you’re sure of yourself and the world around you!” Her reaction made me laugh, but when I did go to start reading the book later that evening I must admit that I was a bit hesitant. J Maybe it was the warnings of my student that got me, but I did find the style to be rather ominous. I kept waiting for the horror I might discover on the next page. Although I still feel that Danielewski has successfully created an eerie, foreboding mood, I’ve overcome that initial hesitation and I am very much intrigued by the style of the book!

Several people have commented on the many layers of the book. I find this layering just fascinating! We’re reading a book told from the point of view of a narrator (a “frame narrator”?) who is piecing together a book from scraps of writings about a film which, as others have mentioned, is also fragmented. Then there is the layer of false support and commentary found in the footnotes. Additionally, Truant’s compilation also offers him a chance to reflect in journal-like writings. Just like the house in the novel, these layers seem never-ending.

In addition to the layers of the novel, I’m also interested in the names Danielewski chose. Susanna discussed the significance of Truant’s name. I’m also intrigued by Truant’s friend, Lude. Lude is rather lewd, but, then again, so is Truant. However, by going through Zampano’s writing, Truant begins to think on a deeper level, to some level going beyond the lewd lifestyle of smoking pot, getting drunk, and having sex with multiple (and random) partners. However, Lude (or the lewd lifestyle) keeps interrupting his thoughts (50).

As others have mentioned, Truant’s lifestyle has other implications…he can be seen as an unreliable narrator. Sara mentioned that Truant’s errors make him unreliable. I had a very different view, though. I actually see Truant has a rather reliable narrator because he is presented as very “real”. Truant’s voice is very conversational. He apologizes for how he is expressing his thoughts, he uses clichés (which we’re all guilty of), and he does make mistakes. Also, Truant demonstrates an understanding that time distorts memory. Within the first few pages of his introduction he admits that a particular memory “isn’t entirely accurate” but states that he is trying to be (xvi). Sure, we might not be getting an accurate account of this fictional tale, but I believe that Truant is presented as a rather real, believable character trying to make sense of what he has stumbled upon.

Speaking of real…I was relieved to learn that I was not the only one who struggled with Baudrillard’s essay on the real and the simulated. (I honestly struggled a bit with Foucault’s, too.) I think there have been some interesting comments about the connection between Baudrillard’s piece and The House of Leaves. I particularly liked Susanna’s observation that “Zampano’s reality becomes Truant’s reality”. From what I could gather, Baudrillard seems to make the argument that, due to representation and simulation, the real and the imagined become intertwined, and the imagined (or, in our case, the seemingly impossible) becomes another sort of reality. This thought really came back to me when I was reading Truant’s introduction and he states, “Zampano knew from the get go that what’s real or isn’t doesn’t matter here. The consequences are the same” (xx). I feel this statement really connects to the idea of constructed realities. At this point in the novel we’re also seeing Truant dealing with consequences from what is not truly real but has become real to him through his connection to Zampano and his work. (Did that make sense? J)

I look forward to discussing the novel and the articles in class tomorrow!

~Jennifer Kathryn Fulton

1/4″, 5/16″ or whatever

I suppose the things that interest me most so far in House of Leaves in no particular order are : the way danielewski plays with the assumptions of genre– here he is hopping in an out of narrative, scholarly journal, confessional, etc. The way the footnotes often overtake the “narrative,” and the subjectivity involved in the order of reading; they do some really cool things. I think it says something about authorial intent/control. danielewski, i suppose, directs us in certain directions, but unlike in the traditional linear narrative, the ultimate decision is left up to us. Kind of like a darker “Choose Your Own Adventure” book, only with less giant squid or space vampires:

You could (presumably as I’ve not finished the entire book yet) theoretically and to a certain extent read all the narrative pieces straight through and then go back to the footnotes, or vice versa, or read them in simultaneously (though at some point(s) you must diverge from one or the other for a page or two…).

What, then is he saying about narration, or authorship? I suppose it could be that he wants stories to tell stories (rather than writers telling stories), thus the book/story reveals itself in its own order/pace, similarly to the mysterious hallway. The parallels, as I think Alana pointed out, between the text and the room/hallway are many. The “overfullness,” the new/multiple arterial pathways, the pacing, the shadow, which exist inside that extra 1/4 (or 5/16)”.

Surprisingly, I’m most interested when danielewski is completely absent from the text — when it is zampano, truant, -Ed.(still detached from danielewski) etc, speaking. but, mentioned by name or not, danielewski does seep in on occasion. In the “spilled coffee” rant by zampano and following commentary by Truant, in which Truant claims he would have just as soon edited the whole thing out if not for fear of (severe paraphrase here) “minimizing all thats left of the old man,” danielewski is too present for my taste. his self-conscious-about-being self-conscious commentary (as zapano as truant as -ED or whatever) breaks the fourth wall….what it boils down to, here in this passage, is a writer commenting on essentially poorly and overlywritten fluff (I know, it serves a purpose here, hear me out) and then calling attention to it, effectively passing the fictitious buck from himself to truant and from truant to a fear of somehow increasing zampanos absence…does that make any sense? probably not. Maybe it’s like an author righting in dialect, only the dialect isnt any good…but he/she justifies it with, “well thats what the character said. thats not on me.” It’s really not the quality of the zampano passage that bothers me…its the way danielewski oversteps his bounds, whether its in someone else’s voice or not.

So, in spite of my lengthy and circuitous complaining, I’m really enjoying this work so far.

Layering Signifiers, Space, and “Reality” in House of Leaves

Before I get into my fragmented points about signifiers, space, and “reality” (vs. simulation) in House of Leaves, I wanted to add to Sara’s point about absence in the book. I noticed that the “narrator,” if we can call him that, is named “Truant” which can be used (in the noun form) to mean “one who is absent without permission” or “one who shirks off responsibility” (www.dictionary.com). Obviously, both definitions incite conversation (given Truant’s sometimes less-than-responsible behavior), but in terms of a conversation on absence, Truant serves as both the signifier and the signified: he conveys the message, and he himself is the message. Truant tells Zampano’s story (which has Zampano telling Navidson’s story), so he serves as one signifer for another signifier. Then, his name reflects the absence in the story he is telling; the message of absence is, ironically, present in the narrator’s name.

Along with several other posts, I was fascinated by the layering of this story; not only is the narrator telling Zampano’s story who’s telling Navidson’s story, but also, the story is a fragmented novel about a fragmented story about a fragmented film. The layering of media, or signifiers, really strikes me as Postmodern. Foucault explains in “Of Other Spaces” that a train “is something through which one goes,.. something by means of which one can go from one point to another, and then it is also something that goes by” (24). In the same sense, House of Leaves presents, what Foucault calls “the curious property of being in relation with all the other sites, but in such a way to suspect, neutralize, or invert the set of relations that they happen to designate, mirror, or reflect” (24). The multi-layered signifiers demonstrate the relationship between each story, but interweave to create a fragmentary and, at the same time, mirrored experience. Truant becomes so engrossed in Zampano’s story (at least by p. 79, we know something of this) that he, too, becomes somewhat agoraphobic and paranoid; Zampano’s reality becomes Truant’s reality. (We can speak of “reality” next, in relation to Baudrillard’s article.) Even before the transference between the living Truant and the dead Zampano, we have reason to believe that Zampano has experienced some of the same obsession with space and reality that Navidson had. As far as I am in the book, I feel ill-equipped to go further with the analysis of transference and multi-layered signifiers, but let me try to assess Baudrillard’s argument on “simulation” and “reality.”

Baudrillard writes, “Illusion is no longer possible, because the real is no longer possible” and this: “Simulation is infinitely more dangerous [than transgression and violence] since it always suggests, over and above its object, that law and order themselves might really be nothing than a simulation” (177). When I read that, I immediately considered what we know of the suddenly-appearing hallway in Navidson’s film. (I say “film” because I think we must always consider that “reality” is mediated by a signifier, and thus may not be reality at all.) I wondered whether, at page 79, whether we are right to question the reality of the story. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve already been terrified a few times by Danielewski’s story (let’s do give him a little credit since, really, it is his story, and not Navidson’s or Zampano’s or Truant’s), but it could be that we are really reading a “simulation” of reality. This is, after all, someone’s film; dare we remember the “true” story that was The Blair Witch Project. In any case, I think Baudrillard is relevant in reminding us, at this early stage of our reading, that there is no clear demarcation between what is real and what is imagined; in fact, there may be nothing that is “real” anymore. Law and order have been lost in 1/4 of an inch, or whatever the measurement turns out to be.

And yet, the imagined space is terrifying. We do not believe the “always” as little Daisy calls them could possibly open up and envelop Navidson as they do, and the “growl,” what is that? A monster? Come on now, Danielewski. And yet, and yet, I am shakin’ in my boots. The imagined has taken the place of the real, it has effectively inhabited multiple spaces through multiple signifiers, and it has done so in a positively disturbing way.

ISO Orphan Annie Secret Society Decoder Pin

When approaching a text as markedly enigmatic as House of Leaves, I am reminded of a climatic moment from “A Christmas Story.” To set scene, we find Ralphie racing into his parents home, package in hand. After weeks of fastidiously checking the mail, it (finally!) arrives. The Orphan Annie Secret Society Decoder Pin. Ralphie, rapt with anticipation at the prospect of decoding his first Orphan Annie secret message, scurries up the stairs of his parents’ home to lock himself away in the bathroom. He will need complete solace to complete the serious task at hand.

It could be said that reading House of Leaves requires a similar form of dedicated concentration and blind enthusiasm. 79 pages into the book there’s no telling what the message will be or if the efforts will be worthwhile. The dual texts intersect at (seemingly) random times, interrupting each other with hiccups, rants, and footnotes. The two narratives differ in tone, the former a confessional, the latter a journalistic/scholarly voice. In conjunction with the introduction, the layering of the two voices manages to both undermine and augment the authenticity of the story. The fact and fiction are used interchangeably, ad nauseum. Danielewski invents various citations, placing them alongside of actual documents. At one point in the text he quotes from Borges’ “Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote.” To this he appends another citation, citing Menard as if he were an actual person [he is not]. He then compares the real quotation with the faux one in an effort to support Zampanò’s echo theory. How are we to read this occurrence?[1] Is the reader to suspend belief throughout, marry fact and fiction and trust that the author will provide the tools necessary to digest the text? Or is the reader to look to points such as these and use them as evidence to dismiss/ignore the echo theory? Or does the author assume that the reader won’t recognize the inconsistency or, if he does, won’t place any importance on it? At this point in the text, there’s no way to know what the right answer is, instead we must pick a path and move forward. If we are wrong, we can only hope that the desire to understand the text fully will compel us to revisit it. As Borges notes, “Besides, rereading, not reading, is what counts.”[2]

But will we reread? Given where we are at page 79, we must admit the potential necessity. Are the narratives compelling enough to revisit concomitantly or will we find ourselves skimming through passages looking for breadcrumbs? Will we end up scouring the internet in attempt to circumnavigate a tiresome task? Or will we find the drive to master the text, embracing it fully, perhaps even creating our own footnotes and appendices? Or, like Ralphie, will all our efforts be repaid by a simple: “Be Sure To Drink Your Ovaltine”?

[1] Must we send away for a Secret Society Decoder Pin?

[2] Borges, Jorge. “A Weary Man’s Utopia.” The Book of Sand and Shakespeare’s Memory. Trans. Andrew Hurley. New York: Penguin, 2007

Book within a book within a book… and an attempt at Baudrillard

When I’m reading, say, Vonnegut or David Foster Wallace, I’m aware that I’m reading their words throughout the book, often stopping to think how they wrote a certain section or how they might’ve decided on structure or how ideas in the book might go along with the author’s personality or life, like how Vonnegut often writes of WWII or secular humanism, and how David Foster Wallace typically incorporates technology, morality, etc. However, when reading House of Leaves, which I finished this past week while at the conference in Chicago (I skipped a bunch of panels and spent much of the week in my hotel room with the book), I didn’t once think of Danielewski. He had managed to hide himself as author of House of Leaves within the layers of authorship in the book. Of course, I know that it is Danielewski writing about Truant who is writing about Zampano who is writing about Navidson, but in all of this, as I was reading it, the source–the original author–was lost. I’m wondering if this is what Baudrillard is referring to when he talks about the simulacrum replacing the original. I might be totally off here, since I didn’t fully understand Baudrillard’s piece, but it seemed that he was suggesting that the original is lost when the copies become reality, or something to that effect. On top of all the layers of authorship in House of Leaves, you also have the editors and the fake critical sources adding up to a sense of reality, since we generally see critical essays as analysis of something real–why, for instance, would someone analyze something not real, unless the entire analysis is a fabrication… does this make sense?

Whenever Prof. Sample asks if we experienced anything postmodern in our lives the previous week, I never had anything to say, not because I didn’t experience anything “postmodern” but because if I did, I didn’t realize it or didn’t understand it as postmodern. However, when I was in Chicago, I felt for the first time aware of many “postmodern” occurrances. For instance, when my fiance, Lucas, and I first got to our hotel room, we noticed that we had two double beds (which looked more like two twin beds), which was weird for us because we didn’t know what to do with this extra bed. At first we joked that one would be the “eating” bed and the other the “sleeping” bed, but eventually, we each sort of nonverbally claimed a bed. That first night, he was on “his” bed and I was on mine, and we were watching television. There was this show on and in the episode, this couple was forced to sleep on separate beds. Lucas, as we were watching this couple in their beds on television, said something about how weird it was that we were sort of in the same predicament. But, what was weirder, was that the couple on television turned on their television and saw an old black-and-white television series with a couple in separate beds (back when couples couldn’t sleep in the same bed on tv). So, essentially, Lucas and I, in our separate beds, watched a couple on television in their separate beds as they in turn watched another television couple in their separate beds. My point to this anecdote is that I immediately thought of this class, but it wasn’t until now, when writing this blog, that I made the connection between that experience and the person writing about person writing about person issue (and book within a book within a book) in House of Leaves.

Going back to the authorial tone insofar as the editors and critical writers in the book, there were times when I became so engrossed in the Navidson Record that I gave serious consideration to the footnoted critics and almost forgot that these critics were made up and that the Navidson Record as source material wasn’t real. Again, I’m not sure if this is what Baudrillard is saying when he talks about simulacrum but it seems to make sense, at least in my understanding of the article. Or maybe this could be the simulation, the difference between “imaginary” and “real,” perhaps? But that would be the book itself, too, correct? I think, like the post before me, I seem to have more questions than answers when relating House of Leaves to the other readings for this week. Foucault and Baudrillard aside, I have questions just on House of Leaves–like, for instance, the aforementioned authorship. It had seemed, in the beginning of the book, to be as I stated before–Danielewski writing about Truant who is writing about Zampano who is writing about Navidson–but toward the end this authorship is questioned in two specific scenes; I won’t mention the details of these scenes for those who haven’t finished the book (but for those who have: the song that the band plays and what Navidson uses the matches for), but these two scenes completely threw me off on what I had presumed to be “real,” to use that term loosely, and I almost, briefly, considered rereading at least the first 100 pages or so of the book again. I don’t believe I’ve ever consumed this much writing in this short of time–I’m interested in what others have to say about it! And hopefully someone can clear up Baudrillard and Foucault for me. Funny how when reading these two articles, knowing that they were assigned with House of Leaves and looking for connections, it felt like I was reading the critical writers writing about the Navidson Record.