Commentary #11: Hélène Cixous

Desperately Seeking Cixous


I am not a prude, but some of Cixous’ rhetoric in “The Laugh of the Medusa” made me squirm. Not because the vocabulary or the subject was shocking (neither is), but mostly because I was going to be the one leading the classroom discussion. I wondered just how graphic the conversation would need to be to successfully cover the essay.

Fortunately, we have a stellar class, and everyone treated the material honestly and respectfully. No problem. Landis didn’t rattle me when he asked if I knew the real meaning (wink, wink) of Cixous’ coined word joissance (possibly joiessance) or the legit French word jouissance – all indicating pleasure (and beyond). Take your pick, I guess. Anyway, I enjoyed hearing various interpretations of Cixous’ writing and wish we had had time to delve into more of the text.

One passage that caused me to nod in agreement can be found on Page 1527 of Bizzell/Herzberg, where Cixous writes of what one might call women’s signature guilt:

. . . (writing) will tear her away from the superegoized structure in which she has always occupied the place reserved for the guilty (guilty of everything, guilty at every turn: for having desires, for not having any; for being frigid, for being “too hot”; for not being both at once; for being too motherly and not enough; for having children and for not having any; for nursing and for not nursing. . .)

Ouch. I hope the young women in our classroom don’t have to contend with the guilt trips that plagued my generation – and even more so my mother’s. When you’re at work, you feel guilty for not being at home with the kids. When you’re home with the kids, you feel guilty because you’re not out making money for the household. You do both and feel guilty because you don’t feel you’re giving both home and career adequate attention. You feel guilty about feeling bitter when you’re overextended, and you feel guilty when you ask for relief. You even feel guilty about a glass of champagne you drank on your anniversary when you were eight months pregnant, because now you know "the facts"; and now you just know that one drink lowered your child’s I.Q. by at least ten points. You know you shouldn't feel guilty, so you feel guilty about feeling guilty.

Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, as “they” say. Moms are always yearning for do-overs. I don’t know any men who have battled this kind of guilt or suffered from what appears to be a female-oriented “if-only” syndrome. In fact, to illustrate: My son and daughter-in-law are not planning to have children, and yet she is the one who catches most of the flak about their decision. Is that fair?

Cixous insists that WRITING will release women from the guilt that has been imposed on them in a phallogocentric culture. If that's all it takes, then come on, girls; let’s write, write, write!

Commentary #10: Erasmus

Erasmus Erupts in The Praise of Folly

Desiderius Erasmus was not a happy camper.

First of all, his parents were unmarried (and totally star-crossed) lovers – his mother a widow and the daughter of a physician, and his father a priest. As he matured, Erasmus remained sensitive to the stigma of his illegitimacy and, while he lived with his mother and grandmother, continued to suffer from being abandoned by his father. According to Minnich and Meissner, after both of Erasmus’s parents died during his teen-age years, his guardians persuaded him to study in a monastery – a course of action that he accepted but did not embrace. Having no family, no wealth, and being in poor health, how could he refuse the plans of his elders?

Erasmus’s spirits lifted when he pursued classical studies and became familiar with the humanist culture, which seemed to address his own personal needs. Humanists believed that God would not blame children for their parents’ sins, and that view soothed Erasmus, to a certain degree. The oppression he felt at school was somewhat lessened, too, after he met Servatius Roger, a young man for whom Erasmus felt a deep affection. But Servatius did not share the love, and Erasmus was again left feeling abandoned.

After becoming an ordained priest, Erasmus was flung from the tranquility of the monastery into the harried political scene, where he served as secretary to Bishop Henry of Bergen. Unhappy with this position, Erasmus convinced his boss to let him study theology in Paris, where he also encountered disillusionment, discouragement, and more depression. Feeling victimized, he blamed the incompetence of teachers for his lack of scholarly success.

Taking a welcomed opportunity to spend a year in England, Erasmus was able to rub elbows with a number of aristocrats – one of which was John Colet, a humanist-theologian, who became a good friend. Five years later, he met humanist/scholar/statesman Thomas More, the man who most inspired Erasmus to take the plunge into satire – resulting in the eyebrow-lifting The Praise of Folly.

It must have been amazingly therapeutic for Erasmus to unload years of pent-up anger, criticism, gripes, cynicism, and frustration via the satirical commentary of Folly. The pleasure of the purge was short-lived, however, as noted by Minnich and Meissner (609):

. . . Once in print, the Praise of Folly did not go unnoticed. Erasmus believed that as a man of learning he was entitled to satirize with impunity the foibles of humanity, especially since he had provoked in the process serious reflection. . . While friends like More appreciated his Moriae Encomium, others could neither forgive nor forget those large sections of the work in which they found themselves scoffed at and satirized. But it was perhaps his playful use of the text of the Holy Scripture that caused the most trouble.

Taken aback by the backlash, Erasmus answered his critics, defended his work, but later admitted he might not have written Folly had he known it would vilify him. Furthermore, he lost one great joy of his life, his supportive, dear friend Thomas More, in 1535, when Henry VIII had More executed for refusing to take the Oath of Supremacy. Erasmus himself died a year later, embattled and embittered.

Minnich and Meissner portray Erasmus as brilliant, witty, clever, and urbane as well as narcissistic, self-pitying, sickly, gloomy, and a few other not-so-flattering adjectives. I say, cut the guy some slack. Considering the obstacles Erasmus faced from birth, I think he accomplished a great deal more than would have been expected. And maybe some of his complaints were justified; perhaps he was underappreciated in his own time. Perhaps he and his Folly were misunderstood. What’s wrong with a little satirical whistle-blowing if it helps weaken corruption and inspire reform? Perhaps a sixteenth-century writer wasn't supposed to “tell it like it is.”

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(Note: The Praise of Folly, with an introductory note from Erasmus to Thomas More, can be found online at , provided by Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, Oxford, Mississippi.)

Work cited

Minnich, Nelson H., and W. W. Meissner. “The Character of Erasmus.” The American Historical Review 83, 3 (1978): 598-624.

Commentary #9: Margaret Fell

Margaret Fell (But She Got Back Up Again!)

What surprised me about Margaret Fell's story is that she seemed to get away with a great deal more than one might expect of a seventeenth-century Quaker lady. As the dear soul who is referred to as the “Nurturing Mother of Quakerism” in the Gwynned Friends Meeting Historical Notes, she certainly knew how to pack a punch, rhetorically speaking.

We read that Judge Thomas Fell did not approve of his wife’s activism in promoting the brand-new, politically incorrect Quaker religion (Society of Friends) and, at times, even stifled her. He did, however, provide his wife legal protection as long as he could. After his death in 1658, Margaret was no longer able escape legal prosecution and landed in jail several times for refusing to take an oath of allegiance to the king.

The issue of women’s rights to speak publicly was a major cause that moved Margaret to action. In fact, during a four-year incarceration, she made use of her time by writing what turned out to be her most memorable work, a pamphlet entitled Women’s Speaking Justified, Proved and Allowed of by the Scriptures, All Such as Speak by the Spirit and Power of the Lord Jesus And How Women Were the First That Preached the Tidings of the Resurrection of Jesus, and Were Sent by Christ’s Own Command Before He Ascended to the Father, which is found in our Bizzell and Herzberg textbook and online at <http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/~kuenning/fell.html>.

She comes out swinging at the beginning of the text, pointing out how clergymen erroneously object to women speaking out in church. But she doesn’t whine or complain unattractively; rather, she forthrightly states her case and crisply uses Scripture to support it. What better ammunition could she have found to endorse feminism at that time, for her audience?

By the time Margaret finished writing her manuscript, she may have worked herself up into a bit of a snit. Here is how she begins the postscript: “And you dark Priests, that are so mad against Womens Speaking and it’s so grevious to you. . .” O.K., maybe I’m reading something into the text that doesn’t exist, but I detect a seething bitterness resulting from womanhood scorned, as well as several undeserved years in the clink.

(Note: A rough abstract of the life of Margaret Fell can be found in the Gwyedd Friends Meeting Historical Notes at <http://www.gwyneddfriends.org/margaret_fell.html>.)

Commentary #8 (Fulvia)

How Fulvia Put the “B” in Witch

In Rhetoric Retold: Regendering the Tradition from Antiquity Through the Renaissance, Cheryl Glenn addresses “Woman’s Place in Roman Society: Historical and Literary.” In this portion of the handout, we read about the disdain men held for women, especially those who might aspire to public service. A quote from Cicero seems to sum it up: “How great will be the misfortune of that city, in which women will assume the public duties of men. . .”

Cicero was also quick to criticize specific women who dared to assume “man’s work,” which included any kind of involvement in politics. One insubordinate woman whom her contemporaries had cast as pure evil is Fulvia, former wife of P. Clodius, C. Scribonius, and finally of Mark Antony. What had she done to deserve such contempt?

Well, it seems Fulvia ditched kitchen cookery for political crookery, thus alienating both the men and women of her day. After Caesar died in 44 B.C., Antony took power – with remarkable participation from his better half. Fulvia’s apparent devotion to her husband’s success could have been construed as excessive as she became the first wife of a Roman leader to be totally involved in her spouse’s business. (She was also the first Roman woman to have her likeness replicated on coins.)

While Antony was handling business in Egypt, Fulvia took it upon herself to protect his interests by entering into a civil war with Octavian. Antony, who at this time was smitten with Cleopatra, let it be known that he furious with his wife for causing a major rift between him and Octavian. Spurned by the man she loved, Fulvia retreated from life and died at age 40. Following Fulvia’s death, Octavian and Antony were reunited; and just to demonstrate there were no hard feelings, Antony married Octavian’s sister (Answers.com).

None of the above would really convince me that Fulvia was all that bad. After all, she was just trying to be of assistance to her beloved husband. However, there is one activity ascribed to Fulvia that goes beyond what is acceptable, and it occurred after Cicero was assassinated and his detached head and hands had been displayed on (possibly nailed to) the rostrum of the Roman Forum. Per Cassius Dio, and according to “The Roman World,” “Antony’s wife Fulvia took Cicero’s head, pulled out his tongue, and jabbed the tongue repeatedly with her hairpin, taking a final revenge against Cicero’s power of speech.”

That, my friends, is when Fulvia crossed the line.
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Works cited

Answers.com: Online Encyclopedia, Thesaurus, Dictionary and More. Oct. 14, 2007.

“The Roman World.” Ancient Worlds. 14 Oct. 2007.

Commentary #7 (Cicero)

Cicero: Much More than a Chickpea

Do you ever wonder what lies beyond the textbook descriptions of the ancient Greek and Roman personalities we study in English 525? I do. For instance, we have read that Cicero (106-43 B.C.) was an Italian legal orator whose eloquence gained him high political positions although he lacked a patrician background. He believed that an orator must be well educated in a wide variety of subjects, and he favored an elaborate or florid style of writing and speaking. Among his works is De Oratore, in which he expresses his own ideas about rhetoric.

But what about Cicero and his family? According to William Smith (994), Cicero married Terentia perhaps in 80 or 79 B.C. and had two children – Tullia (Tulliola) and Marcus Tullius Cicero Minor (Letters). Below, a transcript of an emotional letter Cicero wrote to is family while he was in political exile portrays him as a loving husband and father who desperately misses his loved ones. He says he wants Terentia to come to him but fears that travel would compromise her health.

Cicero’s tone seemed to change after his return to Rome. Although Terentia appeared to have managed the household as well as she could without her husband, he blamed her for the poor state of their finances. In 46 B.C., he divorced Terentia and ignited a scandal by marrying the young Publilia. Reportedly, Cicero had not married the girl for her youth but, rather, for her money, which he wanted to use to pay off his debt to Terentia. Apparently, Wife No. 1 never did receive restitution of funds from Cicero, and it is not clear whether or not she remarried. Some claim she married one of Cicero’s enemies, a historian named Sallust (Smith 994).

Tullia was the apple of her daddy’s eye, and she in turn was a devoted daughter who worked side-by-side with her first husband, Calpurnius Piso Frugi to gain safety for Cicero, then living in exile in Brundisium. By the time Cicero returned to Rome, Tullia was widowed; but she soon married and divorced Furius Crassipes. Next she married the wealthy, young patrician P. Cornelius Dolabella, a known but tolerated “bad boy” of the time. Not only did Cicero and his son-in-law disagree politically, but Dolabella turned out to be a womanizing scamp, who didn’t even console his wife when their baby died shortly after childbirth. When finances and her marriage faltered, Tullia visited her father at Brundisium in 47 B.C. (Smith 1181). She died in 45 B.C., and her father never recovered from the loss of his beloved “Tulliola.”

Oh, about the chickpea: One of Cicero’s male relatives had a cleft on his nose that resembled the indentation on a chickpea – or cicer in Latin, from which the name “Cicero” originates. Despite pea pleas from well-meaning people who feared his name would impede his chances for success in law, Cicero refused to change it. (“The Roman World”)
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Cicero wrote the following letter to his family while he was in exile in Brundisium:

To Terentia, Tulliola, and Young Cicero (at Rome)Brundisium, 29 April

Yes, I do write to you less often than I might, because, though I am always wretched, yet when I write to you or read a letter from you, I am in such floods of tears that I cannot endure it. Oh, that I had clung less to life! I should at least never have known real sorrow, or not much of it, in my life. Yet if fortune has reserved for me any hope of recovering at any time any position again, I was not utterly wrong to do so: if these miseries are to be permanent, I only wish, my dear, to see you as soon as possible and to die in your arms, since neither gods, whom you have worshipped with such pure devotion, nor men, whom I have ever served, have made us any return. I have been thirteen days at Brundisium in the house of M. Lænius Flaccus, a very excellent man, who has despised the risk to his fortunes and civil existence in comparison to keeping me safe, nor has been induced by the penalty of a most iniquitous law to refuse me the rights and good offices of hospitality and friendship. May I sometime have the opportunity of repaying him! Feel gratitude I always shall. I set out from Brundisium on the 29th of April, and intend going through Macedonia to Cyzicus. What a fall! What a disaster! What can I say? Should I ask you to come—a woman of weak health and broken spirit? Should I refrain from asking you? Am I to be without you, then? I think the best course is this: if there is any hope of my restoration, stay to promote it and push the thing on: but if, as I fear, it proves hopeless, pray come to me by any means in your power. Be sure of this, that if I have you I shall not think myself wholly lost. But what is to become of my darling Tullia? You must see to that now: I can think of nothing. But certainly, however things turn out, we must do everything to promote that poor little girl’s married happiness and reputation. Again, what is my boy Cicero to do? Let him, at any rate, be ever in my bosom and in my arms. I can’t write more. A fit of weeping hinders me. I don’t know how you have got on; whether you are left in possession of anything, or have been, as I fear, entirely plundered. Piso, as you say, I hope will always be our friend. As to the manumission of the slaves you need not be uneasy. To begin with, the promise made to yours was that you would treat them according as each severally deserved. So far Orpheus has behaved well, besides him no one very markedly so. With the rest of the slaves the arrangement is that, if my property is forfeited, they should become my freedmen, supposing them to be able to maintain at law that status. But if my property remained in my ownership, they were to continue slaves, with the exception of a very few. But these are trifles. To return to your advice, that I should keep up my courage and not give up hope of recovering my position, I only wish that there were any good grounds for entertaining such a hope. As it is, when, alas! shall I get a letter from you? Who will bring it me? I would have waited for it at Brundisium, but the sailors would not allow it, being unwilling to lose a favourable wind. For the rest, put as dignified a face on the matter as you can, my dear Terentia. Our life is over: we have had our day: it is not any fault of ours that has ruined us, but our virtue. I have made no false step, except in not losing my life when I lost my honours. But since our children preferred my living, let us bear everything else, however intolerable. And yet I, who encourage you, cannot encourage myself. I have sent that faithful fellow Clodius Philhetærus home, because he was hampered with weakness of the eyes. Sallustius seems likely to outdo everybody in his attentions. Pescennius is exceedingly kind to me; and I have hopes that he will always be attentive to you. Sicca had said that he would accompany me; but he has left Brundisium. Take the greatest care of your health, and believe me that I am more affected by your distress than my own. My dear Terentia, most faithful and best of wives, and my darling little daughter, and that last hope of my race, Cicero, good-bye!

29 April, from Brundisium (Letters)
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Works Cited

Letters of Marcus Tullius Cicero. Trans. E.S. Shuckburgh. New York: P.F. Collier, 1909. The Online Library of Liberty. 13 Oct. 2007. .

Smith, William. Directory of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology 3: 994. The Ancient Library. 14 Oct. 2007. .

Smith, William. Directory of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology 3: 1181. The Ancient Library. 14 Oct. 2007. .

“The Roman World.” Ancient Worlds. 14 Oct. 2007. .

Commentary #6 (Aristotle's Rhetoric)

Just the Facts?

“The right thing in speaking really is that we should be satisfied not to annoy our hearers, without trying to delight them: we ought in fairness to fight our case with no help beyond the bare facts: nothing, therefore, should matter except the proof of those facts.”

Have to admit that these words from Aristotle (Book III, Chapter 1) had me nodding in agreement. Yes, how neat and tidy and easy it would be for all of us (speakers and listeners) to successfully pitch and receive, respectively, only the bare facts.

Aristotle continues: “Still, as has been already said, other things affect the result considerably . . .” Yes, that’s true. After all, raw facts are often bolstered and enhanced by other elements, as basketball teams are often buoyed to victory by the wildly cheering fans surrounding them.

Now comes the painful ending to Aristotle’s previous sentence: “. . . [other things affect the result considerably,] owing to the defects of our hearers.” Two paragraphs later he adds: “Even now most uneducated people think that poetical language makes the finest discourse. That is not true: the language of prose is distinct from that of poetry.” (237). Ouch! Aristotle is blaming the failure of the speaker’s bare-facts tactic on the inadequacies of the audience!

Here’s the thing: Many years ago, I had to take a course called English Literature from the Middle Ages to the Eighteenth Century as part of an undergraduate degree in secondary education. At the startup, neither my classmates nor I were especially thrilled with the prospect of Beowulf, Everyman, An Apology for Poetry, and other perhaps dryish readings included in the syllabus. The cause of our ennui – whether it be preconceived notions about the contents of the course or just our immaturity – doesn’t matter. What matters is that the teacher presented an argument FOR the literature that included way more than facts. This curious-looking young prof, with one pronounced eye that wandered outwardly – plus a tangle of dark, untamed waves that often flopped over his brow – plunged into our texts with vigor. Unlike Aristotle, Dr. Gallagher was not satisfied “not to annoy” his hearers. In fact, he might have wanted to “delight” them, because during each class period, that man poetically exuded life and meaning from mere words and ideas that could have easily remained dormant. He made his students true believers in the talents and worth of the likes of Christopher Marlowe when, with total absence of self-consciousness, he jumped on top of his desk to explain the importance of a specific dialogue between Dr. Faustus and Mephistopheles. Dr. Gallagher’s enthusiasm, his genuine excitement in sharing facts he had already savored, and his bigger-than-life delivery were spectacular – not to mention effective in teaching the facts.

So, as brilliant as Aristotle may have been about the subject of rhetoric, I think he could have shown more respect to options of delivery. Of course, were he here, he might remind me that the success of speaker Gallagher’s inappropriate delivery was the fault of my classmates and me – the audience – the defective, uneducated hearers.

Commentary #5 (Enthymeme)

One Mean Enthymeme

Here's an enthymeme in the popular Geico ad "So easy a caveman can do it.":

Geico Caveman 4: Fourth Commercial
Television Ad /October 1, 2006
<< A brand-new 30-second Geico Caveman spot is back on television featuring an airport sign over an airport walkway. When he is in the airport walking on the moving walkway he passes a billboard sign for Geico which reads “So easy a caveman can do it.” Seconds later, he walks back to the sign and just stares at it with digust followed by the Geico logo. . . >>

This commercial can be viewed at www.geico.com/video. Select "Enjoy our popular TV ads," "Caveman," and "Everyplace he goes, there is something to remind him."

The claim: Cavemen are able to get Geigo insurance.
The stated reason: Getting Geigo insurance is very easy to do.
Unstated assumption: Cavemen are not intelligent and viewers are intelligent.

- OR -

The claim: Getting Geico insurance is very easy to do.
The stated reason: Cavemen are able to get Geico insurance.
Unstated assumption: Cavemen are not intelligent and viewers are intelligent.

The enthymeme in this ad could be based on Aristotle's premise of "signs," as described on Page 184 of our Bizzell-Herzberg text: The fact that the character in the Geico billboard ad is a primitive caveman is a sign that he is someone who does not have enough intelligence or sophistication to acquire insurance. However, Geico makes purchasing insurance so easy that even a lowly caveman can do it. The implication that the viewers of this ad are much more intelligent and sophisticated than a caveman is a sign that they would have no trouble at all acquiring Geico insurance. Piece of cake! Of course, we realize that Geico has committed a heinous faux pas (and cute gag) when the modern-day caveman who spots the billboard in an airport appears to be intelligent and sophisticated -- and deeply offended by Geico's insult to him and/or his caveman society.