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Flusser and Roth - The Gesture of Writing
Flusser and Roth - The Gesture of Writing
Flusser and Roth - The Gesture of Writing
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The Gesture of Writing
19
20 the gesture of writing
to press out from inside. This meaning is less obvious in the gesture of
writing. But introspection permits us to say that the one writing is pressing
a virtuality hidden within him out through numerous layers of resistance.
“What virtualities?” is a bad question at this point, for this virtuality will
only be realized in the written text. The answer is the text, which is not
known beforehand to the one writing. In fact, the gesture of writing is
the answer to the question “What am I trying to express?”
It would be better to ask about the layers that must be penetrated to
be able to press the keys of the machine. Such a question offers a criterion
for dividing literary criticism into two kinds, a stupid kind that would
ask, “What does he want to say?” and a clever kind that would ask, “In
the face of what obstacles has he said what he said?” These obstacles are
many, and among them are some that precede writing. They have to do
with rhythmic and formal rules that weigh against the virtuality to be
expressed and assert their own forms. But only after having penetrated
these layers, only when the virtuality has met the resistance of the words,
does one decide to write. Until then, the virtuality to be expressed might
press out in another gesture, such as that of musical composition or paint-
ing. When we are talking about writing, we must start by describing the
resistance of words.
There are words in my memory. Not only are they instruments for
absorbing the virtuality to be expressed, giving it a typeable form, so to
speak. Words are also unities that vibrate and have a life of their own. They
have their rhythms, harmonies, melodies. In their roots, they conceal the
timeless wisdom of all history, to which I am heir. They project a whole
framework of connotations. And so, from the words in my memory, I
can’t just freely choose the ones that “fit” the virtuality to be expressed.
First I must listen to them.
In my memory, there are words from various languages. They don’t
mean the same things. Each language possesses its own atmosphere and,
as a result, is a universe in itself. It is inexact to say that I command the
languages stored in my memory. Of course I can translate, and in this
sense, I transcend them all. In this same sense, I can choose the language
in which I would like to write. But in another sense, it is the languages that
command me, program and transcend me, for each of them throws me
into its own universe. I cannot write without first recognizing this power
the gesture of writing 23
that the words and the languages exercise over me. It is, furthermore, the
root of my choice of the gesture of writing.
The power of words is so great that each word evokes a whole chain
of other words without my knowing it. A whole mob of words can rise
up against me and against the keys of the machine. Such a thing as écriture
automatique, “automatic writing,” is a seduction and a danger to be guarded
against. It is lovely to dive into the stream of words, to let them flow from
within, through the fingers, over the keys of the machine and against the
paper, so as to marvel what they have wrought, the sheer musical beauty
of the words, their wealth of connotations and the wisdom of genera-
tions. But I lose myself in the flow, and the virtuality that pushes out to
be typed in the machine dissolves. Once again, writing means leaving the
magical power of the words behind and, by doing so, gaining a certain
control over the gesture.
This dialectic between word and self, between what the words say and
what I want to write, takes a completely different form when I decide to
speak rather than write. When I speak, the words impose phonetic rules,
and if I speak them, they become sounding bodies and vibrations in the
air. This is a different linearity from that of writing. It is therefore inexact
to say that writing is a record of spoken language. The transcription of a
sound recording is not a written text. The dialectic in the gesture of writ-
ing plays out between me and the words of a language whispered sotto
voce. It concerns a dialectic between me and the words that remain in the
virtuality. The beauty of the act of writing consists in realizing the words.
Being a writer does not necessarily mean being a speaker. A bard is not a
poet. Words resist writing and speech in different ways.
My work begins only after my decision to articulate whispered words
in the form of letters in the typewriter. I must first order the words so
that the blurred initial thought finds expression. Various orders present
themselves. A logical order—and I persuade myself that what I want to
express is defending itself against being ordered logically. What is to be
expressed must be adjusted. Then on to the grammatical order: and I
persuade myself that the two orders do not agree. I begin to play with
both orders and to proceed in such a way that what is to be expressed just
barely slips between the contradictions of logic and grammar. Then comes
orthographic order—and I discover the wonder of alphabetic code: the
24 the gesture of writing