Beyond the Galaxy [A Conference Talk]

Recently, I was invited to deliver a paper at the BH+DH Conference at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. The call for papers prompted presenters “to study how digital humanities grows out book history, how ‘bh’ and ‘dh’ continue to be mutually informative and generative, and how they also contradict each other.” Below is a copy of my presentation, which I hope to return to as an article:


First film, then print, and finally, the post.

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After the horrific events of Charlottesville and a growing tolerance of racist rhetoric by our civic leaders, various pundits and politicos throughout the mainstream media have expressed, on the left, shock, and further to the right, awe, at the reemergence of white nationalism from out the west wings of American political discourse. Of course, racist ideology is nothing new to our nation’s institutions, nor has it ever vanished from them entirely, such that if anything of late has been in fact surprising, it is not that white supremacists occupy every corner of the Oval Office, but rather that they do so, so flagrantly. Just about gone are the folksy dog whistles—why would they need them, when the Commander-in-Cheeto is the first president in over a century to not enjoy the companionship of any pet—and in their place we hear political rhetoric hounded by Dixie-whistling confederate apologists and shepherds of a Germanic carnage, who bear the tiki-torch of America’s shameful and ongoing legacy of racism. The fact of that matter is that while the White House has repeatedly housed white supremacists, the American public has not seen such brazen and blatant racism come from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue since Woodrow Wilson screened D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation (1915). The first-ever film shown at the presidential residency, Wilson reportedly described it as “writing history with lightning,” and it was thanks to his enthusiastic approval and that of the Supreme Court—Chief Justice Edward White only agreed to watch the three-hour epic after hearing it made heroes of his beloved Klan—that the pictured secured wide release and enormous popular success.[1]

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For all its ahistorical sincerity, the irony underlying the historic impact of The Birth of a Nation is that, while the film utterly and willfully misrepresents white supremacist propaganda as an accurate record of Reconstruction and the rending of American unity, at the same time Griffith’s masterpiece engendered a new movie-going public across the country, as well as rekindled the KKK—the same iteration as likely included Fred Trump, by the way. In establishing for the first time a nonverbal cinematic language, a feature-length narrative structure, a full score combining original and adapted music, realism as film’s standard aesthetic mode, and (especially) Hollywood’s huge economic potential,[2] The Birth of a Nation stands as a principle illustration of the relationship between a citizenry’s ideology and its media. Said otherwise: D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation gave birth to our nation of movie-goers, with its artistic and technical innovations defining even up to today the basic rules and expectations we have for cinema—an origin inseparable from the film’s similar entwinement with the politics of its, which remains our, time. The point here is not simply that Griffith’s movie functioned explicitly as racist propaganda reimagining and revitalizing American white nationalism, but that by delineating the nascent medium’s grammar and potential, The Birth of a Nation hailed a cinematic citizenry, doing for the 20th Century what Benjamin Franklin’s printing press did for the 18th and what Silicon Valley has been doing for ours: That is, they effect newly mediated publics, or what Benedict Anderson has termed imagined communities.

According to the late Anderson, the birth of a nation—and here we are talking about the concept of a nation generally, no longer limited to Griffith’s film or to America specifically, but nationhood and nationalism at large—is entirely dependent upon an era’s dominant medium of communication, and in particular, the development and standardization of print technology. When combined with the mechanical reproduction and disseminative power of Capitalism, early print media “laid the bases for national consciousness” by both giving “a new fixity to language” as well as fixing “unified fields of exchange and communication” among a burgeoning public.[3] For the first time, print media—and especially newspapers and pamphlets—permitted people who would otherwise be strangers separated across continental geographies and centennial temporalities to conceive of themselves as an interrelated population of fellow-readers, all sharing the same semi-official “print-language,” each reading the same printed material. “These fellow-readers, to whom they were connected through print,” writes Anderson, “formed, in their secular, particular, visible invisibility, the embryo of the nationally imagined community,” wherein every morning people would open their newspapers, well aware that countless like-minded neighbors were simultaneously replicating this banal ritual, absorbing the news in privacy and silence, as if in morning prayer. What is more, the synthesizing form of the medium itself allowed this emerging citizenry to imagine themselves as a quasi-cohesive community, sharing the space and the time of a single printed page: Persons in, say, Maryland could see juxtaposed on the same page a column covering the commercial news of their surrounding neighborhood and, barely a line apart, a paragraph on the social happenings in Virginia, thereby creating among these fellow-readers a sense that this disconnected assemblage of events, people, and things all belonged together, and in time, all belonged to the imagined community of a single, limited nation[4]imagined not because they are inauthentic, but because nations are speculatively established, founded upon a promise first made available by the “reproducibility and dissemination” of print media.[5]

2561532Despite immediate appearances, the literary character of nationalism is not lost in the transition from print to film as our dominant national medium, from the birth of a nation with cannons to The Birth of a Nation with cameras nearly a century and a half later. Had I the time here, I would more fully trace the relationship between exclusionary racism and print-culture nationalism through reference to the work of Peter Sloterdijk, and tying that together with the traditional humanities more generally, but for now I want to limit our scope to a discussion of how media structure ideologies, and thus how communication technologies inform our understandings of the human condition. That media function unconsciously to constitute our social and psychical experience is what Marshall McLuhan means with his famous dictum that the medium is the message: The ideological power of the periodicals written by the founding fathers stems not so much from the overt arguments they make for revolution or democracy, but from the material form in which those arguments are delivered. The topical juxtaposition of a newspaper page or the replicative distribution of a printed pamphlet thus can do more to unite and stabilize the idea of a national public in the minds of diverse, silent, yet monolingual fellow-readers than any explicit patriotic rhetoric.

For McLuhan—who agrees with Anderson that nationalism finds its origin in the regularity of print technologies,[6] which is why modernity’s epoch of the nation-state is coterminous with what he calls the Gutenberg Galaxy—the cinematic medium merely continues the alphabetic, literary import of the printing press. Insofar as “the Gutenberg technology of movable types is quite indispensable to any industrial or film process,”[7] from the contracts to the critics, then, writes McLuhan, “[f]ilm, both in its reel form and in its scenario or script form, is completely involved with [print] culture,”[8] that is, with “a culture in an extreme reach of typographic conditioning,”[9] of which “[f]ilm [is], as a form, [its] final fulfillment.”[10] McLuhan’s claim here is not ancillary to my larger point about nationalism, print culture, and—here is where we are headed, in short order—the Internet’s transformation of traditional ideological structures; rather, McLuhan helps us to explain the excessive popularity of Griffith’s film by interpreting The Birth of a Nation not as a revolutionary break with communications media past, but stricto sensu as a continuation of print’s ideological form of mechanical reproduction and uniformity, imagistic juxtaposition, phantasmatic interiority, high-definition realism, and linear narrative structure.[11] By this account, the unprecedented and perhaps still unparalleled triumph of The Birth of a Nation at bottom should be generally attributed to its patriotic and nationalist function, instead of its entertainment appeal, aesthetic merit, sheer novelty, or use as Klan propaganda (in this context, it is worth recalling that the film came out after the outbreak of World War I, but before the United States joined the Allied forces, a point when exceptionalist isolationism and protectionist nationalism were running high).

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Were Griffith to release his film today, complete with CGI-enhanced battles and a score by Hans Zimmer that goes BWONG, I doubt it would be greeted with the same success, despite an audience already existing that has shown a renewed political commitment to white nationalism. Even a century after The Birth of a Nation, mainstream film studios, like our public discourse at large, have maintained a banal tolerance of racist ideologies, and audiences rarely balk at even the most egregious examples of minority exploitation or erasure; rather, it would be the film’s overriding and structural nationalist implications that would fail to connect with viewers today. Such a claim may seem counterintuitive in light of movements declaring they will #hashtag Make America Great Again and demanding we put America First—the latter slogan also being used by Woodrow Wilson in the 1916 presidential election—but my point here is, again, a structural one: If nationalism and nationhood as such arise with the ascendancy of print media, are conditioned by and contingent to Gutenberg technologies, then in an era marked by the decline and death of print, in the wake of print’s waning, nationalism and nationhood consequently must bear witness to this shift, characterized itself by the fluidity and specificity of the Internet, our new, now dominant medium.

This is all to say that if we have, over the past few years, seen the rise of neo-nationalisms and neo-fascisms abroad and at home, then these social trends and political movements necessarily must be of a different quality than their print-based predecessors. In place of print-nationalism’s mechanical uniformity, wherein a Texan and a Wisconsinite conceive themselves as always receiving the same news, sharing the same page, appearing under the same typographic conditions, the economic model of the Internet is constructed around targeted advertising and individually curated newsfeeds, what Eli Pariser describes as our algorithmically personalized filter bubbles, which prevent traditional communities from imagining themselves as interconnected across space and time. Whereas print technologies effectively stabilize and elevate some particular vernacular dialect into a standardized national tongue—or, in the related case of screen media, the way regional American accents generally have been reduced in deference to network newscaster English—the Internet once again returns us to a semi-oral kaleidoscope of nonstandard usages and in-group slang, often involving nonverbal signals like memes, emojis, and reaction gifs. This drift moves in other directions, as well, for if print media traditionally were limited in their dispersive capacity to physically and temporally “finite, if elastic, boundaries, beyond which lie other nations,” as Anderson says,[12] these borders fall away when faced with the instantaneous, widespread, indefatigable reach of the Internet.

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The rapid-fire, far-ranging technological systems underlying contemporary modes of communication irrevocably alter our traditional social formations, thereby giving birth to new nationalisms ostensibly reproducing an imagined past, but in reality unrecognizable to those older institutions. The hypertextual fecundity and fluidity of modern digital media make print’s uniformity, isolation, and commonality unviable as principles for political organization, which is why neo-nationalisms (particularly of the white supremacist type) position themselves as a-nation-within-a-nation, representatives of a supposedly “true” or “real” political remnant that inherently disrupts any sense of functional national unity by pitting neighbor against neighbor, where a citizenry are defined not by a geographic or typographic relation, but by ideological and ethnic affiliation. Again, had I the time today, I would trace this transformation of nationalism from the so-called Gutenberg Galaxy of print media, through the Babbage Black Hole of digital technology, to what McLuhan labels our emerging Global Village—but whereas McLuhan sees this “simultaneous happening,”[13] this “sudden implosion” of “all social and political functions” as a net positive of the Net,[14] what we have seen of late is how the move from classical nationalism to the Global Village has resulted in a resurgence of tribalism and eugenic ideologies.[15] To be clear, this is not to say that such racist and divisive tribalism is inevitable, nor do I mean to endorse a vision of strict technological determinism; yet changes in media will ineluctably have social and subjective effects, prostheses working to redefine what we can do, how far we can go with one another, and therefore, at bottom, who we are as a people. Had we been paying closer attention to this shift, the advent of the Global Village could have gone the way McLuhan believed it inevitably would, a world where political boundaries and personal bigotries fall away as we are thrust into a situation of radical cybernetic interconnectedness. The possibility has not been foreclosed, and we might still reorganize ourselves and our society towards that egalitarian promise should we chose to do so—and the moment for that choice simply will not wait in a world of digital haste—but a functioning democracy can no longer be achieved through the stratagems and structures of print-nationalism, for though the structural ideal of the republic might still remain, the nation as traditionally imagined is no more.

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Annotated Bookshelf: Cross-talk in Comp Theory

Villanueva, Victor and Kristin L. Arola. Cross-talk in Comp Theory: A Reader. 3rd ed. Urbana, IL: NCTE, 2011.

This hefty anthology — which aims not at being “comprehensive, but is, rather, fuel with which to prime the pump: some talk and some cross-talk, the utopic and the dystopic” (xiv) — charts six major themes within composition studies that have emerged over the past half-century. The initial section traces the development of pedagogies that teach writing as a process not product, while the following focuses on discourse-centered rhetorical theory; attention shifts in the third section to cognitive approaches, as well as their subsequent critiques; anthropological, multicultural, and antifoundationalist approaches inform the fourth section; questions of race, gender, and class — as they inform voice broadly construed — are posed in the fifth; a final section, added for this edition, explores the intersection of new media and composition. A specific thread the ties together the sixth part, “Virtual Talk,” is the way that the rhetoric surrounding technology homogenizes while the technology itself reinforces cemented divisions, a tone which is set by a prescient 1985 text by Richard Ohmann, “Literacy, Technology, and Monopoly Capital,” and carried through Adam J. Banks’ piece, “Oakland, the World, and the Divide: How We All Missed the Moment.” For Ohmann, “questions of literacy and technology are inextricable from political questions of domination and equality” (699): Because “computers are an evolving technology like any other,” they are inexorably “shaped within particular social relations, and responsive to the needs of those with the power to direct that evolution” (704) — that is, to the managers of late capitalism who are characterized by its “powerful drive toward planning” of the instrumental and Taylorist type (702). “Technology, one might say,” pace accounts that suggest media simply arise from the ether sans politics, “is itself a social process, saturated with the power relations around it” (705); thus, “the computer revolution, like other revolutions from the top down, will indeed expand the minds and the freedom of an elite, meanwhile facilitating the degradation of labor and the stratification of the workforce that have been hallmarks of monopoly capitalism from its onset” (707) and which are signified by terms of (il)literacy. Yet teaching literacy still has liberatory potential, and technology can help achieve that aim, but only insofar as it is recognized that “[t]echnique is less important than context and purpose in the teaching of literacy; and the effects of literacy cannot be isolated from the social relations and processes within which people become literate” (711).

This post is one entry in an ongoing annotated bibliography of my bookshelf. If it’s useful to any person other than myself, all the better.

Annotated Bookshelf: The Electronic Word

Lanham, Richard A. The Electronic Word: Democracy, Technology, and the Arts. Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1994.

Illustrative of the optimism that welcomed the first wave of personal computers, Lanham’s collected essays celebrate the aesthetic, political, and pedagogical potential of digital literature and new media technologies. Such possibilities are expressive of a general “expansion of rhetoric’s sphere of influence” since the Sixties, a revival of “the rhetorical paideia as our dominant theory of knowledge and education” (55) that is, “above all, a theory of general education, a centripetal system” (145); Lanham contrasts this “oral/rhetorical/dramatistic/semiological world” with “its literate/ philosophical/positivist opposite” (214), the binary divisions and didactic denunciations defended by Plato and Ramus, a fundamental antagonism that has characterized the entire history of Western culture between rhetoricians who created the truth of their own reality (and the reality of their own truth) and philosophers of the fixed and static. The computer, then, for Lanham, “often turns out to be a rhetorical device as well as a logical one” (31) and as such “constitutes the ultimate postmodern work of art” (17), destabilizing the distinctions between creator and critic, dissolving traditional disciplinary and aesthetic boundaries, and drawing us to “look at the surface pattern” of the text, “AT the design rather than THROUGH it” (43). “Rhetoric as a method of literary education aimed to train its students to toggle back and forth between AT and THROUGH vision, alternately to realize how the illusion is created and then to fool oneself with it again” (81); and Lanham argues that digital literature allows modern subjects to attain and maintain a bistable oscillation, “a toggle to boggle the mind” (82) between those “two basic orchestrations of reality” (166). In this schizophrenic “reality in which figure and ground can continually change places” (82), pace the fears of Luddites like Postman, “[t]he characteristically unstable Western self, by turns central and social, sincere and hypocritical, philosophical and rhetorical, is just what electronic literacy has been busy revitalizing” (25) because it suspends the line between private and public selves (219).

This post is one entry in an ongoing annotated bibliography of my bookshelf. If it’s useful to any person other than myself, all the better.

Annotated Bookshelf: How We Think

Hayles, N. Katherine. How We Think: Digital Media and Contemporary Technogenesis. Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 2012.

Simultaneously a celebration of and challenge to the burgeoning Digital Humanities, especially the field of Comparative Media Studies, Hayles grounds her text in the basic claim that “our interactions with digital media are embodied, and they have bodily effects at the physical level;” moreover, in our relationship to technological objects, this McLuhanesque “[e]mbodiement then takes the form of extended cognition, in which human agency and thought are enmeshed within larger networks” (3). One result of this insight is that the hard-and-fast distinction between humans and their technology radically weakens, so that the development of either is directly enabled by and influences the other in a process of technogenesis, a “coevolutionary spiral in which humans and tools are continuously modifying each other” (31). As such, an effect of “the cycles of continuous reciprocal causality that connect embodied cognition with the technological infrastructure” (96) is the way in which the human brain has adapted to the increased potential speeds of digital media, epigenetically rewiring its neurons for hyper attention; and likewise, technology progresses full speed ahead to stay ahead of other market innovations, as occurred, in terms of rhetorical evolution, during 19th Century telegraphy, with esoteric code books that “not only disciplined language use but also subtly guided it” (132). Hayles thus calls for increased pedagogical and artistic emphasis beyond traditional close reading of narrative texts — though without abandoning these historical forms, which “are essential to the human lifeworld” (181) insofar as without them, meaning would be impossible — through practices of hyper and machine reading. These techniques are especially helpful for understanding increasingly prominent database-dominated storytelling, as exemplified by contemporary “distributed author function[s]” like Danielewski, in whose novels “[n]etworked and programmable machines are [] much more than a technology the author uses to inscribe preexisting thoughts. They actively participate in the composition process” (236).

This post is one entry in an ongoing annotated bibliography of my bookshelf. If it’s useful to any person other than myself, all the better.