— I read to sense the doubling of time: the time of a book’s form, which pertains to the enclosure and topology of rooms, allegories, houses, bodies, surfaces; and the time of my perceiving, which feels directional, melodic, lyric, inflectional. Then, because of the book’s time overlaying my own, reading opens a proposition. It receives in me the rhythm I didn’t know I missed.
- Lisa Robertson, “Time in the Codex”, Nilling
Gérard Genette’s Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretations athletically theorises those
liminal, marginal, associative, and attendant objects that inevitably accompany, and
indeed, as he argues, are co-constitutive of, a text: the notes, lists, colophons,
addendums, errata slips, biographical lines, dedications, epigraphs (to name but a
few); as well as the material circumstances of typesetting, printing, binding, scanning,
distributing, reading; and finally the larger, more abstract textual markers, like the
century or language that a text is written, or the gender or sexuality with which a
writer is interpellated. For Genette, a paratext is any thing that contributes to the
actualisation of a given text. He refers to paratexts as “thresholds” that comprise a
kind of “fringe at the unsettled limits that enclose with a pragmatic halo the literary
work”. “The paratext” he writes “is empirically made up of a heterogeneous groups of
practices and discourses of all kinds and dating from all periods.” Crucially, and
perhaps surprisingly, he argues that the paratext is “characterized by an authorial
intention and assumption of responsibility”—or, to put it differently, “something is
not a paratext unless the author or one of his associates accepts responsibility for it”.
I read this emphasis on intentionality and responsibility as one that serves Genette a focus on the specifics of a textual object in its pragmatic materiality. One could easily, as I will suggest here, dilate this definition to include the unintended (which is not say Freudian), unreciprocated, unknown, and unanticipated textual nightlives and afterimages that accompany, sometimes at a distance or wonky angle, any textual form. For, alongside the text is a swarm of paratexts whose very capacity to live alongside affords them a particular kind of subtle efficacy.
At one point, Genette asserts that while there is no text without paratexts, there are paratexts without texts. He means this in an historical sense: there are lists, annotations, indexes, and appendices for which no object survives. These oddities serve as footnotes to an unobtainable textuality that can nonetheless be read via a different, more distant, or perhaps more interrogative, inquiry. To this category of the paratext-with-no-text, Craig Dworkin — American poet-critic and key figure in the so-called and somewhat-contested scene of ‘conceptual writers’ working towards a kind of post-author poetics — adds contemporary examples of purposefully paratextual objects. The paratext-as-text, Dworkin argues, is an aesthetic mode that ironises the sanctity and autonomy of the artwork while critiquing the assumed uniqueness of the artist or author. To this category, Dworkin recruits a number of artists and writers whose work constructs material and thematic paratextualities in the manner of lists, inventories, speculative documentaries, and databases.
The list is a paratextuality with an especially social discursive life: lists most readily point away from the rhetorics and stylistics of the text in which they occur; also, lists are often independent from a single text, say, for example, in the case of a shopping list. In the history of poetry, the list form has figured as a constructive conceit—one that, through the seemingly paradoxical affects of repetition and difference, speaks of a world both heterogeneous and somehow harmonious. Walt Whitman, an exemplary list poet, used the performative affect of the litany to emphasise his most beloved subject: multitudinousness.
Bruno Latour, too, is an accomplished composer of litanies — so much so that Ian Bogost in Alien Phenomenology gives Latour’s name to the list-forms that have become a stylistic trend in speculative realism and object-oriented ontology, especially in the work of Graham Harman. These ‘Latour Litanies’ function as exemplary strings of ‘objects’ in the broad terms set out by this new philosophical position. Objects, as defined by Harman et al, should not be imagined as being restricted to inert lumps of matter as in previous metaphysical schema, nor should they be imagined as restricted to the abstracted realm of the prototype or general category. Rather, they should be readily called on by way of example and in order to demonstrate their radical alterity. An example is this one from Harman, who is explicitly citing Latour’s We Have Never Been Modern: “neutrinos, stars, palm trees, rivers, cats, armies, nations, superheroes, unicorns, and square circles”. This kind of rhetoric is strategic—it aims on the one hand to seem arbitrary and on the other to seem a measured education on ‘flat ontology’: if everything is equally and irreducibly an object in a world of objects, then there can be no such thing as an exemplary object and only a swarm of equal-footed and de-privileged objects. Thus, the litany here becomes a kind of de-emphasis by emphasis.
I read this emphasis on intentionality and responsibility as one that serves Genette a focus on the specifics of a textual object in its pragmatic materiality. One could easily, as I will suggest here, dilate this definition to include the unintended (which is not say Freudian), unreciprocated, unknown, and unanticipated textual nightlives and afterimages that accompany, sometimes at a distance or wonky angle, any textual form. For, alongside the text is a swarm of paratexts whose very capacity to live alongside affords them a particular kind of subtle efficacy.
At one point, Genette asserts that while there is no text without paratexts, there are paratexts without texts. He means this in an historical sense: there are lists, annotations, indexes, and appendices for which no object survives. These oddities serve as footnotes to an unobtainable textuality that can nonetheless be read via a different, more distant, or perhaps more interrogative, inquiry. To this category of the paratext-with-no-text, Craig Dworkin — American poet-critic and key figure in the so-called and somewhat-contested scene of ‘conceptual writers’ working towards a kind of post-author poetics — adds contemporary examples of purposefully paratextual objects. The paratext-as-text, Dworkin argues, is an aesthetic mode that ironises the sanctity and autonomy of the artwork while critiquing the assumed uniqueness of the artist or author. To this category, Dworkin recruits a number of artists and writers whose work constructs material and thematic paratextualities in the manner of lists, inventories, speculative documentaries, and databases.
The list is a paratextuality with an especially social discursive life: lists most readily point away from the rhetorics and stylistics of the text in which they occur; also, lists are often independent from a single text, say, for example, in the case of a shopping list. In the history of poetry, the list form has figured as a constructive conceit—one that, through the seemingly paradoxical affects of repetition and difference, speaks of a world both heterogeneous and somehow harmonious. Walt Whitman, an exemplary list poet, used the performative affect of the litany to emphasise his most beloved subject: multitudinousness.
Bruno Latour, too, is an accomplished composer of litanies — so much so that Ian Bogost in Alien Phenomenology gives Latour’s name to the list-forms that have become a stylistic trend in speculative realism and object-oriented ontology, especially in the work of Graham Harman. These ‘Latour Litanies’ function as exemplary strings of ‘objects’ in the broad terms set out by this new philosophical position. Objects, as defined by Harman et al, should not be imagined as being restricted to inert lumps of matter as in previous metaphysical schema, nor should they be imagined as restricted to the abstracted realm of the prototype or general category. Rather, they should be readily called on by way of example and in order to demonstrate their radical alterity. An example is this one from Harman, who is explicitly citing Latour’s We Have Never Been Modern: “neutrinos, stars, palm trees, rivers, cats, armies, nations, superheroes, unicorns, and square circles”. This kind of rhetoric is strategic—it aims on the one hand to seem arbitrary and on the other to seem a measured education on ‘flat ontology’: if everything is equally and irreducibly an object in a world of objects, then there can be no such thing as an exemplary object and only a swarm of equal-footed and de-privileged objects. Thus, the litany here becomes a kind of de-emphasis by emphasis.



