NAME OF AUTHOR: ROBERT EINARSSON
TITLE OF THESIS: THE CONCEPT OF RHYTHM IN LITERARY PROSODIC
ANALYSIS
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DEPARTMENT OF
ENGLISH
3-5 HUMANITIES
CENTRE
T6G 2E5
DATE: March 19, 1991
THE CONCEPT OF RHYTHM IN LITERARY
PROSODIC ANALYSIS
BY
ROBERT EINARSSON
A THESIS
SUBMITTED TO THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE
STUDIES AND RESEARCH
IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS
FOR THE DEGREE
OF Ph.D.
DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH
(SPRING, 1991)
FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES AND
RESEARCH
THE
UNDERSIGNED CERTIFY THAT THEY HAVE READ, AND
RECOMMEND
TO THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES AND RESEARCH
FOR
ACCEPTANCE, A THESIS
ENTITLED
THE CONCEPT OF RHYTHM IN LITERARY PROSODIC ANALYSIS
SUBMITTED
BY ROBERT EINARSSON
IN
PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF
Ph.D.
________________________________________
PROFESSOR ROBERT MERRETT,
SUPERVISOR
________________________________________
PROFESSOR NORMAN H. MACKENZIE,
EXTERNAL EXAMINER
________________________________________
PROFESSOR JOHN HOGAN,
DEPARTMENT OF LINGUISTICS
________________________________________
PROFESSOR C. Q. DRUMMOND,
DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH
________________________________________
PROFESSOR BERT ALMON,
DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH
________________________________________
PROFESSOR GLENN BURGER,
DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH
________________________________________
PROFESSOR JULIET MCMASTER,
COMMITTEE CHAIR
DATE: March 19, 1991
ABSTRACT
In modern prosody, the prevalent thinking
is that rhythm originates
primarily
in temporal repetition. By closing in on
the temporal series,
this
view fails to see the relational, integrative nature of rhythm as the
principle
which fuses the utterance and allows unified expression. Focus
on
the temporal series rather than relational unity removes the traditional
moral
and pedagogical aspects from prosody.
The first Chapter reports on the concept
of rhythm as relational
integration. The view of language rhythm which emerges
connects rhythm to
the
logical unity of an utterance and hence to expression. Eighteenth
Century
theories of language lead to the view that rhythm is the enabling
factor
in true expression: the interjection represents decisive expression;
it
is rhythm which preserves the same force of unity even in sophisticated
language.
Chapter Two surveys prosodic views of
rhythm, either stated or
implied,
in five schools of metrical analysis:
the Modern Traditional, the
Metrical
Contract, the Traditional Linguistic, the Isochronal, and the
Structural
Linguistic schools. I defend the
reputation of George
Saintsbury
as a true rhythm-theorist, and claim that the Modern Tradition
which
he represents has more in common with the Structural Linguistic
school
of prosody than it does with several intervening schools which claim
a
traditionalist affinity.
The third Chapter and an Appendix
demonstrate prosodic analysis based
on
this view of rhythm. Methods are offered
to determine the minimal units
in
the accentual, syntactical, and phonetic strata of language, and for
showing
their interconnection.
The prosodic system is justified by its
elocutionary validity, because
all
of the units which it identifies are audible and thus contribute to the
expression,
and by its pedagogical usefulness, because students will come
to
understand expression in writing and in speech through understanding and
learning
to hear these units.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
.............................................
CHAPTER
ONE: THE THEORY OF RHYTHM AS LOGICAL
INTERCONNECTION
............................
1.1
Rhythm as Logical Form ............................
1.2
The Philosophy of Rhythmical Form .................
1.3
Suzanne Langer ....................................
1.4
Ezra Pound ........................................
1.5
Rhythm as Isomorphic Form .........................
1.6
Requirements for a Definition of Rhythm ...........
1.7
The Definition of Rhythm ..........................
1.8
The Saintsburean Tradition ........................
1.9
The Modern Tradition ..............................
1.10
Saintsbury's Theory of Rhythm .....................
CHAPTER
TWO: THE STATE OF
OF METRICAL ANALYSIS
.......................
2.1
The Inductive Approach ............................
2.2
Problems with Inductivism .........................
2.3
Rhythm as Repetition: The Early
Authors ..........
2.4
The Entrenchment of Regularism ....................
2.5
Regularism and the Romantic Tradition .............
2.6
The Metrical
2.6.1
The Fallacy of the Metrical Norm;
Expectation Theories of Meter
..............
2.6.2
Subjectivism ...............................
2.6.3
The Conventionalism Convention .............
2.7
The Traditional Linguistic School .................
2.7.1
Metrical Tension ...........................
2.7.2
A Different Concept of "Tension" ...........
2.7.3
The Spondee ................................
2.7.4
Trager-Smith Stress: Effects on
Elocution
..................................
2.8
The Elocutionary View of Scansion .................
2.8.1
The Elocutionary Concept of Accent .........
2.8.2
Recitation .................................
2.9
The Isochronal School .............................
2.9.1
Problems with the Isochronal View of
Rhythm in Poetry
...........................
2.9.1.1
Demoted Accent ...........................
2.9.1.2
"Silent Stress" ..........................
2.9.1.3
Effects on Elocution .....................
2.9.1.4
The Elimination of the Spondee:
"Pairing"
................................
2.9.2 Musical vs. Language Rhythm
.................
2.9.2.1
Maury Yeston .............................
2.9.3
Musicalist Metrists ........................
2.9.4
The Elimination of the Line Unit ...........
2.10
The Psychological School: Rhythm
as a Type of
Trance
............................................
2.11
Structuralism .....................................
2.12
The Rhythmical Core ...............................
2.13
The Structural Linguistic School ..................
2.14
Generative Metrics ................................
2.14.1
Alan Prince ................................
2.14.1.1
Restoring the Metrical Foot ..............
2.14.2
Gilbert Youmans ............................
2.14.3
Paul Kiparsky ..............................
CHAPTER
THREE: THE DISCOVERY OF PATTERN: SOME
TECHNIQUES FOR THE ANALYSIS OF
RHYTHM ....
3.1 The
Reality of the Metrical Foot ...................
3.2 The
Mathematical Definition ........................
3.3 Sir
Thomas Browne ..................................
3.4
John Keats .........................................
3.5 The
Elocutionary Word, or Clitic Phrase ............
3.6
Segmentation Rules .................................
3.7
Intersection of the Accentual Foot and the
Elocutionary Word: The Metreme.....................
3.8 The
Elocutionary Scansion ..........................
3.9
Phonemic Scansion ..................................
3.10 The Phonemic
3.11 A Preliminary Method of Scansion
...................
3.12 "To Autumn"
........................................
3.13 Richard Outram: "Vision" ..........................
NOTES
....................................................
SELECTIVE
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF PRIMARY SCHOLARSHIP ............
APPENDIX: AN EXAMPLE OF THE FOOT DERIVATION PROCEDURE
...
INTRODUCTION
During the course of this project, three
objectives were at one time
or
another the central aim of the dissertation.
However, each goal was
subsequently
thwarted by the lack of sufficient previous theorizing on the
nature
of rhythm itself. One by one, all three
objectives gave way to the
same
question, which was only brought to the surface at the candidacy
orals: "what is the concept of rhythm which
backs up all endeavours in
prosody?" Up to this point, I had been continually
forced in the same
direction,
backwards toward the theoretical premises of rhythm itself. The
three
objectives which were each at one time the stated aims of my research
were: 1) to do a comprehensive survey of the
schools of metrical analysis,
2)
to do a historical analysis showing the continuity, rather than rupture,
between
traditional verse and free verse, and 3) to devise a complete,
mechanical
means of scansion. In all of these
pursuits, however, the
theory
of rhythm itself continually re-emerged as the prior, unsolved
problem. The final product, presented here, is
therefore a direct address
of
the theory of rhythm. Although the
dissertation still shows the traces
of
these previous goals, none of them has been addressed as the full and
central
topic.
The survey of the schools which I proposed
would still be a worthwhile
project. The massive number of writings on metrical
analysis, 5,977 items
listed
in Brogan's bibliography, now requires a survey oriented toward
defining
the schools of metrical analysis with more precision. Many of the
studies
of prosody which will appear in the next years will be such surveys
and
groupings of the items that Brogan lists, and often annotates.
However,
such a survey is curtailed in this dissertation insofar as each
school
is considered only in its approach to the question of rhythm. The
five
schools that I have identified (the Traditional, the Metrical
Contract,
the Traditional Linguistic, the Isochronal, and the Structural
Linguistic
schools) are defined for these purposes according to the idea of
rhythm
itself, stated or implied in each school.
While I began by
attempting
to group the works listed by Brogan, I ended up grouping them
only
for the purpose of uncovering the definition of rhythm operating
beneath
much modern prosody.
Another earlier goal was a comparison
between historical periods of
poetry,
in order to argue that the rhythmical basis of free verse was
emerging
as a hidden form even in the poetry of Yeats.
But this was also
pre-empted
by the necessity to answer the primary theoretical questions.
Emphasis
shifted from the historical development of poetry to the theory of
rhythm
which provides the methods for metrical analysis. The traces of
this
project are still visible: still at issue is a method of analysis
which
accommodates prose, traditional poetry, and free verse. The examples
I
use here, the poetry of Keats and Richard Outram, and the prose of Sir
Thomas
Browne, are not analyzed so much for their own sake as for the
purpose
of demonstrating the techniques of analysis themselves. However,
most
of the current techniques (unlike the one that Saintsbury espoused)
are
incapable of handling all of these on the same terms. The
"norm-variation"
principle is one example that is confined to a narrow
range. The fundamentals of rhythm itself have to be
addressed prior to
developing
a method of analysis which is able to go beyond traditional
poetry,
and yet remain on consistent grounds.
The third goal, the metrical analysis
itself, is a process which I
foresee
taking the form of a full set of discovery procedures, to draw out
the
patterned elements from every aspect of language, and to compare them.
Needless
to say, such a procedure must have a clear theoretical basis; we
must
know exactly what rhythm is and how it manifests itself in language
before
developing a completely procedural method for uncovering rhythmical
structures
in any text. To accomplish this, both a
refinement and an
advancement
are made upon the traditional concept of rhythm. The
traditional
view argues that rhythm is located in segmentation, found in
different
strata of language. These strata
simultaneously force different
segmentations
among the syllables. This view can be
refined by a more
stringent
definition of each stratum, and by defining an order of primacy
among
the strata, which includes reaffirming Saintsbury's view that the
accentual
foot is fundamental among these strata.
This view can be
advanced,
as well, by defining a specific, higher level unit which is
caused
by the interaction between the segments formed out of these primary
strata. As they are conflated, the segments will form
secondary and
tertiary
units among the syllables, but at each level they will still
reflect
a rhythmical segmentation. Because the
primary strata are based on
audible
structures, such as accentual patterns, phrasing groups, and
alliterative
patterns, the rhythmical analysis is also tied to an
elocutionary
analysis 1: the rhythmical segmentation derived will also
stand
as an expressive segmentation, and combined with emphasis will be put
forward
as an elocutionary script. This
formation of specific higher level
units
is the metremic effect (see section 3.7) and is perhaps the most
definite
advance I claim to make upon traditional methods. Yet, the method
I
propose in Chapter Three is far from complete (the strata have not all
been
identified, and the mechanical systems for deriving the units have not
all
been determined).
In this project, a reasonably complete set
of rules appears in Chapter
Three
to isolate the clitic phrase 2. The
clitic, or minimal phrase was
also
intuitively felt by traditional elocutionists as the "elocutionary
word,"
but no set of rules, suitable for the metrical student, has been
given
to derive it. But a functional set of
rules for determining the foot
unit
is still elusive. To illustrate the kind
of procedure which will
eventually
be required, I have included a failed set of steps in the
Appendix. Such steps will mechanically derive the foot
units of prose,
poetry,
free verse, and the prose-poem alike.
The process begins with the
accentuation
values separated out, and then groups them according to each
step. An iambic pentameter line, for example,
begins with ten unattached
accentuation
markers (- / - / - / - / - /), and ends up divided neatly
into
the five traditional feet (-/ -/ -/ -/ -/).
Steps like these will derive iambic feet
from traditional iambic
lines. It will perhaps explain why these are the
proper feet of the
passage,
since each step has a rationale based on the patterning of
elements. The steps will even derive substitutions. For example, the
trochaic
substitution emerges from the first grouping in a case like this,
/--/
-/, to give the expected arrangement:
/- -/ -/. For the present
purposes,
however, the method leads through procedures which sometimes
become
so complicated that working out these steps is a sufficient topic
for
another project altogether. With dozens
of groupings of '-' and '/,'
confusion
easily ensues unless absolutely mechanical procedures are
followed. (Even so, a single mistake can cause one to
lose track
completely.) Mechanism is especially necessary when the
number of analyses
increases
exponentially, since some of the steps require the procedure to
follow
out two possible lines at once. In the
Appendix, the procedure is
applied
to a single line, in order to illustrate that, while it works to a
degree,
it also presents its own questions which are secondary to what has
become
the central problem of the present work.
The theory of rhythm must
be
worked out before systems of metrical analysis can be devised.
However, it may be worthwhile to
illustrate the procedure briefly for
one
line, since it typifies the approaches and objectives of this thesis.
Charles
Olson's elegant free verse poem, "Celestial Evening, October 1967,"
begins
with this sufficiently non-iambic line:
-
/ / - /
- - /
- -
Advanced out toward the external from.
The
procedure begins with the binary accentuation of the line written out
separately,
with the individual accents and non-accents ungrouped:
Arrangement: - / / - / - - / - -
The
steps then produce the following collocations among the items:
STEP 3:
- // -
/ - -
/ - -
STEP 4:
-//- / -
- / - -
STEP 5:
-//- / --
/ --
STEP 6:
-//- /--/ --
The groups of step 6 are the feet,
determined by the pattern which
exists
in the accentual arrangement. The
procedure has gone, then, from
the
mere "arrangement," to what is claimed as the pattern for this line's
accentuation.
Each of the three groups in step 6 exhibits a concentric
pattern. As well, the first two are inversions of each
other, and the
third
occurs both closed and split in the first two.
To illustrate the
validity
of these collocations, one may ask which of the following
groupings
has more of what we mean by "pattern," the first (which is a mere
division
into pairs), or the second, from Step 6 above:
1)
-/ /- /-
-/ --
2)
-//- /--/ --
The metrical feet so derived are
completely independent of the syntax
or
lexis. But Saintsbury still claims that
true feet are subtly audible,
and
have a rightness to their pronunciation even if their boundaries are
exaggerated. A premise of this dissertation is that the
reader is
responding
to the logic of the accentual pattern itself, irrespective of
other
groupings such as syntax. These foot groupings do have a natural
collocation:
-
/ / -
/ - -
/ - -
[Advanced out to] [ward the extern] [al from]
And
this is more rhythmical than the mere grouping into pairs, which is not
based
on the contingencies of pattern:
- / /
- / -
- / -
-
[Advanced]
[out to] [ward the] [extern]
[al from]
Simply
put, one can hear the symmetry of the collocations in the first
grouping.
PROSODY,
RHYTHM, AND ELOCUTION
This
dissertation springs from a desire to find an explanation for that
quality
of finish and control heard in the voice of accomplished poetry and
prose. This quality, where a sense of the completeness
of meaning is
conveyed,
is what I took to be rhythm itself, and I set out to explain the
perception
of this quality through the theory of prosody.
Prosody's task
could
be defined as providing an illustration of the audible qualities of
language,
qualities which are perceptible but otherwise difficult to
explain. Prosody provides a picture of the text, or of
those aspects which
illustrate
a way of reading. It thus attempts to
draw out the expression
of
a poem in graphical form. The analysis
proposed here shows which units,
at
higher and higher levels, are cohesive and therefore elocutionary. The
focus
on audibly cohesive units is what connects prosody to the
elocutionary
reading. Rhythm involves the elocution
and the unity of a
piece
of writing. Through rhythm the text
culminates in the single
expressive
gesture which, as Yeats says, causes the finished expression to
"come
right with a click like a closing box" (Letters, 24). The study of
elocution
in relation to metrical analysis was the key to several of the
problems
posed in my dissertation proposal.
This view of prosody eventually led in two
directions: toward the
nature
of rhythm as enabling expression, and toward a broader and broader
view
of the aspects of language which take part in the rhythm of a poem.
As
I proceeded, I became dissatisfied with what I began to see as the
current
and habitual restrictions on the scope and purpose of prosody; I
saw
that the whole subject of elocution had to bear on the aims of prosody,
and
that the singular focus on accentuation schemata was inhibiting the
study.
A definition of rhythm was a prior
necessity. To this end, I came to
see
rhythm as the third step in a hierarchy of arrangement and placement.
First,
there is mere "arrangement" of items, then arrangement in a pattern,
and
finally rhythm emerges when several patterns mutually condition one
another. This view of rhythm, then, led to the search
for pattern in
aspects
of language besides just the accentuation stratum, and ultimately
led
to the view of prosody as the discovery of language segments and their
overlapping. The segments themselves are often based on
patterns, and
their
overlapping is what gives them a rhythm in their mutual cohesion.
But
since they are based on audible patterns, prosody, which untwines these
segments
from one another, is a science of elocution as much as
linguistics.
Much of the work here, then, was spurred
by a growing dissatisfaction
with
the current concept of rhythm. A habit
of thought has reduced the
concept
of rhythm to the mere status of pattern.
There are still many
metrists
who define rhythm simply as an even beat, or as an ideal pattern.
Those
metrists who apply a musical analogy, and emphasize a time beat,
rarely
reverse this analogy, and apply the syntactical terminology to
music;
they attempt to force poetry into the musical grid, but they do not
observe
the more linguistic aspects of rhythm in music, such as its
phrasing,
its emphasis, and its sense of giving an explanation. It turns
out
that the musicologists themselves, such as Barbara Wharram, were the
ones
who had the "syntactical" view of rhythm, and at the same time, more
sensitivity
to the concept, than those in the field of language rhythm:
The measuring of music into beats with
their recurring accents is
called metre or time. "Rhythm" is a far broader term,
that includes
metre, melody, harmony and the whole
movement of the music through the
grouping of bars into phrases, phrases
into sentences, and sentences
into
a completely integrated piece of music. (93)
Theorists
of rhythm in the field of language usually adopted an analogy to
music. For example, Derek Attridge's stated
definition of rhythm is four
isochronically
spaced time beats: "an underlying rhythmic structure: four
lines
of four beats each, which I shall abbreviate as 4x4" (83). But the
musicians
themselves have more deference toward the whole concept of
rhythm:
While music theory has discovered the
basic principles of
melody and harmony, it has not yet been
able to find satisfactory
explanations for those higher constructive
functions of meter and
rhythm that make up what is generally
known as "Musical Form."
(Hindemith, 157-158)
The principles of meaningful form that
give rise to meter and then to
rhythm
(in poetry and all the arts) are underestimated at the present time.
It
is my argument that the areas of logic and rhetoric, subordination and
dilation,
the grammatical structures which give shape to the utterance and
expression
to the voice, are just as important as a metrical pattern such
as
iambic pentameter. Meter is the units
formed in any stratum. Rhythm is
the
effect of the interconnection of all meters at once.
In my original dissertation proposal I
said that I would attempt to
discover
ways in which modern ideas could be used to refine traditionalist
metrics. Part of this turned out to be the discovery
that one branch of
modern
metrics, the Structural Linguistic school, really has more in common
with
the tradition than do many purported derivations, such as the Metrical
Contract
and Traditional Linguistic schools.
Whereas in my proposal I
envisioned
a study which layered the metrical theories relating to
accentuation
(so that generative, musicalist, and quantitative accentual
schemes
would be viewed at once), in practice the dissertation began to
de-emphasize
the merely accentual stratum of the poetic line, and to
heighten
the importance of other strata. This was part of a discovery that
the
whole question of accentuation in relation to meter had been
exaggerated
by virtually all metrical analysis after Saintsbury. Forcing
the
whole question of rhythm upon the shoulders of accentuation is the
source
of several limitations on the concept of rhythm and the analysis of
rhythmical
expression.
CHAPTER
ONE: THE THEORY OF RHYTHM AS LOGICAL
INTERCONNECTION
In the current divisions of the field of
prosody, most theorists give
the
same basic definition to the science:
prosody is the study of how a
predetermined
pattern is substantiated within a given line of poetry. Each
school
has a certain structure in mind which it takes to contain the
essence
of "metricality" or of rhythm; and each provides a set of rules to
decide
which variations fall within the limits of this structure. The
central
aspect to all of the approaches to metrical analysis, then, is this
predetermined
structure. It will be argued that this aspect limits our
understanding
and analysis of rhythm in poetry. The
emphasis placed on the
predetermined
structure prevents the prosodist from seeing what might
actually
be there, while looking for the structure in mind. What if rhythm
is
a broader phenomenon than the one pre-set structure can indicate? If
so,
a more exploratory method is needed for prosody; prosody would be seen
as
a set of methods for discovering what patterns do inhere in a line of
poetry,
rather than as a method merely for relating the line to one
predetermined
pattern.
The metrist who predetermines which
pattern is relevant limits prosody
to
this single pre-set structure.
Furthermore, this structure occurs
within
a single stratum or medium of language.
The term "meter" has become
synonymous
with "accentual pattern." But the literal definition of meter as
the
measure of a line does not require that accentuation units will be the
only
eligible units of measurement. A line
can be measured according to
any
aspect of language which is susceptible to forming units. Hence a
phonetic
or syntactical unit which is rigorously defined is of equal
importance
to the ubiquitous accentual metrics.
Furthermore, the
measurements
arising from all of these strata of language are concurrent: a
thoroughgoing
prosodic analysis must decide which strata are relevant, how
they
resolve into audible units, and finally, must indicate their
simultaneous
interrelations. This, I will argue, is
what the Tradition was
doing
all along, in varying degrees of refinement.
A prosodic analysis which defines the
units occurring in the various
strata
of language will have another focus not found in current approaches:
it
will consider specific new units formed by the interaction between more
fundamental
units. This is an advance consistent
with the premises of
traditional
theory. Instead of trying to make each
line connect to a
predetermined
norm, the method of prosodic analysis proposed here will
uncover
the hidden patterns which make a given line unique, and yet in its
own
way patterned, integrated, and unified.
1.1 RHYTHM AS LOGICAL INTERCONNECTION
A consideration of the connection between
rhythm and expression
enhances
the concept of rhythm; it takes rhythm out of the exclusive realm
of
the accentual beat and toward the systems which allow language to convey
expression.
Rhythm is a product of the interrelation between ideas, as much
as
the lay-out of sound patterns.
When one views rhythm as the pattern of
interrelations occurring in
several
language strata, some controversies in metrical analysis come into
a
new focus. For example, this view completely averts the argument over
whether
rhythm is primarily temporal or spatial.
Rhythm is a phenomenon
best
classified as a prior logical form, with both manifestations, the
temporal
and the spatial, seen as secondary.
In his dissertation, "A Theory of
Prosody and Rhythm," John Rosenwald
states
that insisting on a difference between the terms "symmetry" for
space,
and "rhythm" for time, "is only a semantic problem." He also
indicates
that this distinction is at the root of several misconceptions in
prosody;
it leads "so many writers . . . one
step further to an insistence
upon
ordered temporal elements or still further to a proposal of isochronic
intervals"
(26). He perhaps has Sonnenschein in
mind, an exemplar of
isochronal
theory who states that only temporal phenomena are rhythmical,
while
in reference to spatial phenomena "rhythm" is a term applied
incorrectly
and at best metaphorically:
For the sake of clearness it is
convenient to call the
proportioned extension of things in space
'symmetry,' as distinct from
rhythm.
A row of palings at equal distances from one another and seen
at a glance may then be said to be
symmetrical, but not to be
rhythmical. Yet it is possible for things in space to
have rhythm in
a certain sense. The eye of the spectator as it passes from
point to
point in any product of nature or art may
receive an impression of
rhythm, in so far as he becomes aware of
proportion in the sequence of
his sensations. . . . But it is only when sensations follow one
another in time that they can properly be
said to be rhythmical.
(14-15)
This
quotation bears out Rosenwald's prediction, that those theorists who
insist
upon the temporal aspect, as revealed by the key term "sequence,"
inevitably
draw prosody toward the isochronal theory of rhythm. The
separation
of spatial "symmetry" and temporal "rhythm" is one step in
narrowing
the concept of rhythm. Finally, it will be relegated to the sense
of
flow and the beat of accents, rather than the total expression of the
language. However, this distinction disguises a
fundamental similarity
between
the phenomena, a similarity which points toward a more
comprehensive
definition of rhythm. Whether in time or
space, a logic of
relationships
connects the parts of the phenomenon, forming them into
patterns
of repetition and inversion. Furthermore, several strata of
patterning
can be isolated. These strata then form
the various bases
between
which higher levels of interrelation occur, hence creating new,
composite
units. However, these higher units no
longer form tidy patterns
of
repetition and inversion; they begin to exhibit all manner of waves,
curves,
and irregular forms which nonetheless derive from strict pattern at
the
lower level.
Equivalent to Sonnenschein's row of
palings is Thomas Taig's series of
dots:
The series of dots . . . . . . . .
given as the simplest spatial
form does not become rhythmical until the
eye or the hand travels to
each one in succession, and when we speak
of a flowing line a similar
sense of movement is implied. Separate sensations are connected in
the mind, grouped so that some
relationship is established between the
parts, and the resultant form is
rhythmical only by virtue of this
connection. (15)
Although
they insist that rhythm involves the perception exclusively of a
time
sequence, their comparisons between spatial and temporal forms suggest
this
common element of logical relation.
Sonnenschein insists on
"proportion
in the sequence" and Taig on "some relationship between the
parts." Thus, both see that rhythm arises "by
virtue of a connection"
between
the elements. They argue that these
connections produce rhythm,
but
arbitrarily limit this to when the connections are activated in time.
Clearly,
the statement is correct but the restriction is unjustified. The
connections
which produce rhythm exist whether or not the element of time
is
introduced. The connections are logical
relations which exist prior to
either
time or space. Looking to this logical
realm as the location of
rhythmical
form will allow a more comprehensive theory and analysis of
rhythm.
In addressing the issue of spatial or
temporal, Rosenwald was
attempting
to broaden the concept of rhythm. He
succeeds in conflating the
temporal-spatial
dichotomy to a relational origin, but even so he fails to
go
beyond "repetition." He does
state that whether heard or seen in a
photograph,
a series of water-drops is rhythmical: "When visual and
auditory
phenomena are so clearly the function of a single source, I think
we
must say that perceptions of them differ in mode but not in substance"
(22). He thus broadens our view of rhythm
effectively to include the
spatial
as well as the temporal, but in both realms he still returns us
squarely
to repetition: "no repetition and
consequently no rhythm" (48).
Rosenwald's dissertation is a reaction
against "a limited view of
rhythm
itself, one based upon an insistence that rhythmic phenomena are
invariably
temporal, isochronic, and restricted within narrow boundaries"
(iii). He starts with a direct attack on the
isochronal definition of
rhythm:
From the earliest Greek analyses to
the most recent American
ones, there has been too much emphasis
placed upon treating rhythm as
1) a temporal phenomenon 2) which consists
of actually or apparently
isochronic intervals 3) which are of
sufficient brevity or magnitude
to be isolated by the perceiver. (20)
Then,
he gives a more intriguing example of spatial rhythm than
Sonnenschein's
row of palings:
Let us consider the sculpture of
Rodin. Here we find absolutely
no intrusion of a primary rhythm or of a
temporal basis for perception
as there was with the drops of water. At best we might say that the
visual sensation expands in time as our
eyes linger upon an individual
statue. . . . An acknowledgment of rhythms such as those of
Rodin's
sculpture, however, indicates that
intervals need not so much as
appear equal, for no amount of measurement
will discover even
approximately equidistant segments in his
work. By analogy,
therefore, spatial rhythms suggest that
temporal rhythms need not be
isochronic. (25-26)
Although
his illustration proves that rhythm need not reside in temporally
equivalent
segments, he nonetheless goes on to give a quite standard
definition:
. . . I would define rhythm as the
repetition of identical or
similar sensory elements in such a way that
the mind can assimilate
them into a pattern. (40)
His
denial of the need for close brevity between events does allow him to
classify
events which occur widely separated in time as rhythmical, but it
does
not allow him to escape from the simple repetition of an event.
Rosenwald
complains about the naive view of rhythm as isochronal
repetition,
but fails to expand this into a broader view such as the
general
principle of interrelation of parts. In
the study of rhythm in
language,
the tradition of rhythm as logical interrelation has a clear
reference
to the structures of grammar, whereas the tradition of rhythm as
temporal
form, such as Rosenwald objects to, tends to underestimate
grammar,
having no place for it in its theories.
But the current of
thought
which places rhythm in structures of relation sees every
grammatically
sound sentence as rhythmical because its syntax connects
substance
and attribute. Sentence fragments still
have relation words, but
now
they indicate that some other member of the relation is missing. The
unrhythmical,
"stilted" quality of a fragment is thus a phenomenon of
incompleteness,
caused by an unfulfilled logical implication.
Because so
many
metrical systems ignore grammar, and thus have fewer structures which
they
can refer to, they begin to exaggerate the importance of repetition.
The
foremost bibliographer of versification, T. V. F. Brogan, correctly
assesses
the available scholarship; theorists have mishandled the term and
limited
it exclusively to repetition:
"Rhythm" is easily the most
troublesome, most abused, most
semantically dissolute term in
versification, perhaps in all of
criticism. In its kernel sense of
"periodicity, periodic repetition"
it is of course the crux of any theory of
verse-structure. (109)
It is a question whether the phrase
"poetic rhythm" has any real
semantic content at all by now; it has
been applied to virtually every
species of repetition in poetry, from the
iteration of imagery to the
patterning of phonemes. (131)
David Masson's article,
"Sound-Repetition Terms," illustrates the
decadence
of repetition as a metrical structure.
He creates a taxonomy for
hundreds
of types of alliteration, with a descriptive name for each:
Solid mixed echoes (a variety of
tight) include compound-start /
compound- end solid (slit/silt); and the
scrambled slit/still (see
INTERCHANGE in the section on
FINE-STRUCTURE). Mixed COMBINATIONS
involve inversion of type- order, and
include spurred
solid-cum-frame/frame-cum-solid. The above mixed echoes are all
SIMPLE-MIXED (a term not normally
required): COMPLEX- MIXED varieties
are possible with over two members: e.g.
compound start / frame /
compound start (as in spit/sap/spare or,
with threesomes,
split/speck/splash). (192)
The
examples seem somewhat contrived, and have questionable relevance to
poetic
or literary language. (A notable point
is that all of his
taxonomies
mark repetitions which coincide exactly with word unit
boundaries,
as seen in the pairs or "threesomes" which he aligns for
comparison. The significance of phonetic repetition which
does not align
with,
but crosses word boundaries, will be discussed in Chapter Three.)
Likewise, Katharine Loesch defines a
number of rhyme types, based on
isolating
the phonemes which are repeated in Dylan Thomas's poetry. This
deriving
of kinds does illustrate the particular nature of Thomas's rhymes.
But
it does not have a theoretical basis to explain the function of rhyme
and
other types of repetition within a theory of rhythm. Taxonomies are
the
brute force approach to prosody. One
could go on distinguishing types
at
length, without recognizing the essential structure, or its function.
They
provide no theoretical principle.
However, as Peter Clemoes states in
relation
to Old English poetry, the principle behind alliteration is "to
reinforce
a phrase internally" (21).
Clemoes's remark looks behind the
fact
of repetition to its effect of reinforcing the structure. This
principle
of unifying the object becomes more important than a specific
list
of the kinds of repetition. Internal strength derives from the
connection,
of logical identity, between the repetitions of an element.
One
could extrapolate from this purely structural effect to the effect on
tone
of voice: the voice uttering a phrase
which is reinforced by
repetition
will itself be reinforced in tone. Thus,
the purely sonic
structuring
of a statement can affect the meaning, by providing the
resources
for a strong vocal quality. Purely sonic
features produce a
"thickening"
of the voice which allows for strength and conviction.
Interrelationships
caused by sonic repetition reinforce the unity of a
structure
because the association between identical phonemes is a type of
logical
connection. With this function,
alliteration can take its place
among
many phenomena which produce the internal relationships of rhythmical
language.
Clemoes quotes Cicero, who says that "things that are bound
together
have much more force than things that are loose" (24). Whether
syntactical
or phonetic, rhythm occurs in connections which bind and
strengthen
vocal expression. Longinus discusses the affinity between rhythm
and
expression in similar terms. He ranks composition structure as the most
important
requirement of sublime language, because it is composition
structure
which enables the argument to be fully declared and comprehended.
But
Longinus surprisingly extends composition structure beyond the merely
grammatical
realm of argument and exposition, to include the less apparent
areas
of alliteration and sonic texture. He
claims that these also enhance
expression:
The fifth of the factors contributing
to the sublime which I
specified at the beginning remains to be
dealt with, my friends, and
that is the arrangement of words in due
order. . . . for my present
purpose I need only add the essential fact
that men find in a
harmonious arrangement of sounds, not only
a natural medium of
persuasion and pleasure, but also a
marvellous instrument of grandeur
and passion. (150)
It is not immediately clear why a
harmonious aural structure should
have
any relation at all to the expression of ideas.
The fact that it does
leads
to the paradox that to be natural and convincing, language must be
calculated
and consciously artificial. George
Puttenham echoes this
paradox:
Utterance also and language is given
by nature to man for
persuasion of others, and aid of
themselves, I mean the first ability
to speak.
For speech itself is artificial and made by man, and the
more pleasing it is, the more it
prevaileth to such purpose as it is
intended for . . . .
The
more artificial it is, the better it communicates. One implication is
that
versified language has more potential than ordinary prose:
. . . but speech by meeter [sic] is a
kind of utterance, more
cleanly couched and more delicate to the
ear than prose is, because it
is more currant and slipper [sic] upon the
tongue, and withal tunable
and melodious, as a kind of musicke, and
therefore may be termed a
musical speech or utterance, which cannot
but please the hearer very
well.
(8)
W. B. Yeats also refers to the paradox of "passion
and precision"
("Upon
a House Shaken by the Land Agitation," l. 2) combining in an
utterance. He denies the romantic notion that
calculation and exactness
are
antithetical to intense emotion. In
"The Statues," he shows
Pythagorean
sculptors who chisel out "Calculations that seem but casual
flesh"
(l. 11), and inspire "boys and girls . . . to press at midnight in
some
public place / Live lips upon a plummet measured face" (ll. 7-8).
These
images illustrate that urgency and vitality are intensified by
deliberate,
artificial measurement. Yeats also tells
us that the "slow,
carefully
modulated cadence" of Wilde's speaking style "sounded natural to
my
ears" (Autobiography, 79-80). In
"Adam's Curse," he explains the
paradox
of diligently creating highly artificial forms which are only
perfected
once they achieve the quality of seeming not artificial, but
natural
and spontaneous. The lines themselves do achieve this goal:
We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close
friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, "A line will take us hours
maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's
thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been
naught." (ll. 1-6)
Northrop
Frye expresses the same paradox in reference to his concept of
genuine
speech, which is expressed in accomplished literature, in which
calculated
skill permits the freedom to communicate spontaneously. He
cites
the paradox that artifice enables naturalness as he describes genuine
speech:
The half-baked Rousseauism in which
most of us have been brought
up has given us a subconscious notion that
the free act is the
untrained act. But of course freedom has nothing to do with
lack of
training.
We are not free to move until we have learned to walk; we
are not free to express ourselves
musically until we have learned
music; we are not capable of free thought
unless we can think.
Similarly, free speech cannot have
anything to do with the mumbling
and grousing of the ego. Free speech is cultivated and precise speech
. . . . (The Well-Tempered Critic, 42-43)
A solution to this often cited paradox may
be the artificial nature of
language
itself. Artificiality is not alien to
language, but is essential
to
it. Artifice became essential to
language once the primitive 4 stage of
the
spontaneous vocal and physical gesture was transcended, and language
inevitably
became a conscious arrangement.
Elaborating the arrangement,
pattern,
and artistry merely taps the essential quality of all language
sophisticated
beyond the stage of primitive self-expression.
The weakness
of
primitive expression is its inability to provide an analytical
explanation. A sophisticated explanation, on the other
hand, often loses
the
empathy of the primitive outcry. Language must juggle these two
aspects,
the primitive expression and the sophisticated explanation. When
language
goes toward explanation, it loses expression.
But rhythm is the
means
to restore primitive expression, which comes from unity, gestural
force,
and accuracy of meaning, in sophisticated language. The achievement
of
poetry is to restore this primitive unity, in spite of the difficulties,
nuances,
and complexities which are part of sophisticated language. Meter,
alliteration,
rhyme, syntactical schemes, and line units are all artificial
structures
which enhance rhythm: these provide the
resources for
rhythmical
interrelation. Although they seem
unrelated to the grammar of
ideas,
these aural structures do also take part in the network of
connections,
and strengthen the expression through a purely sonic medium.
Strengthening
it, they return it to the combined force of the interjection
and
gesture. With reference to grammatical
relations, sonic rhythms
restore
the primitive quality, purity of expression, to language.
In his discussion of the artistic
structure of language (Institutio,
Book
9, Chapter 4), Quintilian states that the function of sonic aspects in
conveying
thoughts is both to unify them and to create empathy. Rhythm
allows
the facts to be conveyed accurately, and also enables the empathetic
side
of communication; to re-create the experience of the facts requires
rhythmical
structure:
Consequently in my opinion artistic
structure gives force and
direction to our thoughts just as the
throwing-thong and the bowstring
do the spear and the arrow. And for this reason all the best scholars
are convinced that the study of structure
is of the utmost value, not
merely for charming the ear, but for
stirring the soul. For in the
first place nothing can penetrate to the
emotions that stumbles at the
portals of the ear, and secondly man is
naturally attracted by
harmonious sounds. . . . But if there is such secret power in rhythm
and melody alone, this power is found at
its strongest in eloquence,
and, however important the selection of
words for the expression of
our thoughts, the structural art which
welds them together in the body
of a period or rounds them off at the
close, has at least an equal
claim to importance. (Institutio vol. 3, 511; my emphasis)
Rhythm
accomplishes empathetic communication by restoring the disparate
parts
of the expression, into one, holistic state of awareness. This means
that
thoughts are not run along in a series, but are postponed and held in
relation
until the whole can be built up and perceived at once. Although
they
seem unrelated to the conveying of ideas, it is the aural structures
which
overcome the divisive, analytical syntax of language.
1.2 THE PHILOSOPHY OF RHYTHMICAL FORM
Two definitions from the Oxford English
Dictionary will illustrate a
narrow
and a more broad concept of rhythm. The
narrow definition, which
focuses
language rhythm on recurrence, alternation, and a steady flow
similar
to a musical beat, is from prosody itself:
II. 4. Pros. The measured recurrence of arsis and thesis
determined by vowel-quantity or stress, or
both combined; kind of
metrical movement, as determined by the
relation of long and short, or
stressed and unstressed, syllables in a
foot or a line.
II. 4. Pros. d. The measured flow of words or phrases. . . .
"The church service . . . its
recurrent responses and the
familiar rhythm of its collects."
1863
The
other definition is from the field of art.
It does not limit rhythm
either
to specific aspects of the phenomenon or to specific principles
ordering
these aspects. Instead, it refers to a
broad principle of
integration:
6. Art. Due correlation and interdependence of parts,
producing
a harmonious whole.
"While symmetry is an
architectural idea . . . rhythm is a
plastic idea. . . . Symmetry implies and expresses the lasting,
uniform, and inorganic; rhythm implies
change, the organic, as
sculpture deals with animal life."
Under
the definition from art, rhythm is not identical to symmetry.
Because
symmetrical images, such as the rainbow and the pentagram, do give
the
impression of fixity and constancy, another category must exist to
define
rhythmical images, which imply growth and change.
Although metrical theorists usually assume
the definition of
"alternation
at regular intervals," there are those who attempt to apply
the
"due correlation" and "internal harmony" definition to
language.
Citing
the aesthetic impression of artistic unity in successful works,
Suzanne
Langer extrapolates a gestalt definition.
Langer, Ezra Pound, and
other
rhythm theorists, put forward a view of rhythm based on some type of
internal
logic which gives cohesion to an object.
Following their lead, I
wish
to define rhythm as "the temporal or spatial expression of logical
form."
1.3 SUZANNE LANGER
Suzanne Langer directly questions some of
the easy assumptions about
rhythm. She enlarges rhythm from the domain of
repetition and symmetry.
Langer
is one of the few to state that the essence of rhythm is not
repetition,
and that it is applicable "to other arrangements than the
series"
(64):
the rhythms of life, organic, emotional
and mental . . . are not
simply periodic, but endlessly complex,
and sensitive to every sort of
influence. (126)
The word "rhythm," [is] carried
over somewhat glibly to the realm
of conscious acts, which, for the most
part -- and certainly the most
interesting part -- are not
repetitive. (355)
There have been countless studies of
rhythm, based on the notion
of periodicity, or regular recurrence of
events. It is true that the
elementary rhythmic functions of life have
regularly recurrent phases:
heartbeat, breath, and the simpler
metabolisms. But the obviousness
of these repetitions has caused people to
regard them as the essence
of rhythm, which they are not. (126)
While
the metrist Paull Baum purports that the "rhythmic thought" (5, note)
of
Othello exists in an alternation of emotions, Langer's view of rhythm in
the
drama is more penetrating. In a note,
Baum cites the promising concept
of
"rhythmic thought." The
reference suggests possibilities of syntax,
logic,
and other structures quite independent of the series; but he then
returns
to the simplistic idea of serial alternation.
The rhythmic thought
of
Othello is said to occur in an alternation of emotions during the course
of
the play, and not in single emotional moments, as logical complexes of
feeling
and idea.
According to Langer, rhythm is not the
staggered repetition of two
moods;
rather, it is the gestalt by which the parts of the drama are drawn
into
artistic unity. Rhythm, in this
sense, pervades all the aspects of
the
work. The dramatic action is seen as a whole, unified by the internal
interrelations
of rhythm:
with respect to drama . . . it is
precisely the rhythm of dramatic
action that makes drama "a poetry of
the theatre," and not an
imitation (in the usual, not the
Aristotelian sense) or make-believe
of practical life. As Hebbel said, "In the hand of the
poet, Becoming
must always be a passenger from form to
form [von Gestalt zu Gestalt],
it must never appear, like amorphous clay,
chaotic and confused in our
sight, but must seem somehow like a
perfected thing." The analysis
and definition of rhythmic structure,
given in Chapter 8 with
reference to musical forms [126-9], may be
applied without distortion
or strain to the organization of elements
in any play that achieves
"living" form. (355)
In
discussing the artifices of speech, deployment of syntax, choice of
word-colour,
and so on, Langer connects rhythm to the successful
communication
of the original "feeling-perception" which motivates the work
of
art:
A statement is always a formulation of an
idea, and every known fact
or hypothesis or fancy takes its emotional
value largely from the way
it is presented and entertained.
This power of words is really
astounding. Their very sound can
influence one's feeling about what they
are known to mean. The
relation between the length of rhythmic
phrases and the length of
chains of thought makes thinking easy or
difficult, and may make the
ideas involved seem more or less
profound. The vocal stresses that
rhythmicize some languages, the length of
vowels in others, or the
tonal pitch at which words are spoken in
Chinese and some less known
tongues, may make one way of wording a
proposition seem gayer or
sadder than another. This rhythm of language is a mysterious trait
that probably bespeaks biological unities
of thought and feeling which
are entirely unexplored as yet. (258)
Rhythmical
structures allow one to assert the emotional meaning along with
the
idea. Hence it is the essential element
of art, which may be defined
precisely
as the successful communication of this complex idea, or
feeling-perception.
Langer affirms the role of rhythm in
artistic unity. Rhythm is
required
to master the art; its effects are freedom, virtuosity, and
absolute
control of detail. In dance, rhythm
enables movement to become
gesture,
that is, to express meaning. Every
detail of movement acquires a
sense
of newness by its place within the whole.
Among the romantic
treatments
of rhythm, Langer's is the most resonant:
The most important, from the balletic
standpoint, is the last -- the
sense of freedom from gravity. This ingredient in the dance illusion
is untouched by the shift from cult values
to entertainment values.
It is a direct and forceful effect of
rhythmicized gesture, enhanced
by the stretched posture that not only
reduces bodily motions -- the
free use of arms and shoulders, the
unconscious turnings of trunk, and
especially the automatic responses of the
leg muscles in locomotion --
and thereby produces a new body-feeling,
in which every muscular
tension registers itself as something
kinesthetically new, peculiar to
the dance.
In a body so disposed, no movement is automatic; if any
action goes forward spontaneously, it is
induced by the rhythm set up
in imagination, and prefigured in the
first, intentional acts, and not
by practical habit. In a person with a penchant for the dance,
this
body-feeling is intense and complete,
involving every voluntary
muscle, to the fingertips, the throat, the
eyelids. It is the sense
of virtuosity, akin to the sense of
articulation that marks the
talented performer of music. The dancer's body is ready for rhythm.
The rhythm that is to turn every
movement into gesture, and the
dancer himself into a creature liberated
from the usual bonds of
gravitation and muscular inertia, is most
readily established by
music.
In the highly serious, invocative, religious dance, the music
often had to establish a complete trance
before the dancers moved . .
. (202-203).
One effect of rhythm, which Langer points
out in the drama, is a sense
of
forward impulse: "The essence of
rhythm is the preparation of a new
event
by the ending of a previous one" (126).
However, this sense of
forward
momentum must not be mistaken for the metrical concept of
expectation
created by a regular beat. Instead, the
forward impulse of
rhythm
is caused by a structure which involves an implication requiring
fulfillment. Rhythmical structure is more like the
equation, in which
closure
can be inferred, and less like the series, which, on the other
hand,
has no capacity for closure at all. The
openness of the series
sometimes
causes metrists to overlook the line as a closed unit, and to
offer
scansions which wrap the last syllables of every line over to the
following
line. A view like Langer's would lead to
a search for closure,
caused
by a structure whose parts are mutually implied. Langer's
description
of dramatic rhythm concludes upon the idea of "culmination,"
which
gathers up the parts of the total "fable":
A dramatic act is a commitment. It creates a situation in which
the agent or agents must necessarily make
a further move; that is, it
motivates a subsequent act (or acts). The situation, which is the
completion of a given act, is already the
impetus to another . . . .
Dramatic acts are analogously connected
with each other so that each
one directly or indirectly motivates what
follows it. In this way a
genuine rhythm of action is set up, which
is not simple like that of a
physical repetitive process (e.g. running, breathing), but more often
intricate, even deceptive, and, of course,
not given primarily to one
particular sense, but to the imagination
through whatever sense we
employ to perceive and evaluate action;
the same general rhythm of
action appears in a play whether we read
it or hear it read, enact it
ourselves or see it performed. That rhythm
is the "commanding form" of
the play; it springs from the poet's
original conception of the
"fable," and dictates the major
divisions of the work, the light or
heavy style of its presentation, the
intensity of characters, and the
degrees of their development. The total action is a cumulative form;
and because it is constructed by a
rhythmic treatment of its elements,
it appears to GROW from its
beginnings. (355-356)
The
rhythmical object here is imbued with a structure of relationships,
which
permeates all of its aspects. Its sense
of "direction" is caused by
implication,
by the central commitment which entails the whole. Hence
rhythm
is more like the unity of syntax than of the series. Syntax
involves
relational morphemes and words which require completion. Thus,
"arrhythmic"
is a synonym to "fragmented," and has the effect of stilted
expression.
Throughout Articulate Energy, Donald Davie
discusses "rhythms of
ideas,
that is, as patterns of syntax" (32).
He elaborates what may be
called
the schematic view of rhythm. He cites
Langer's idea that "a poem
is
like a piece of music in that it . . . establishes internal relations,
establishes
also relations of feeling building up the structure" (19). The
schematic
conception of rhythm is represented in
Northrop
Frye: "The link between rhetoric
and logic, between the image and
the
concept, is the diagrammatic structures underneath our thoughts, the
logical
connections which appear in the spatial metaphors we use.
'Beside,'
'on the other hand,' 'upon,' 'outside':
nobody could connect
thoughts
at all without such words, yet every one is a geometrical image,
and
suggests that every concept has a graphic formula" (Articulate Energy,
133). Likewise, Hugh Kenner turns our attention
from the popular tropic
figures,
those which bear on the meaning of words, to the less appreciated
schematic
figures of speech:
So a word here seems
two-faceted. But syntax is a one-way
street, its principles and subordinates
guiding us with sometimes
misleading ease through a sentence or a
poem. In the same way
perspective (small means distant; lacuna
means overlap) tells us how
to relate the members of a picture. Disregard, then, [puns,
metaphors, and other tropes]; fix your
mind on the structure
determined by the little words men (on the
one hand") and de ("but on
the other hand") . . . (140).
1.4 EZRA POUND
Ezra Pound is another rhythm theorist who
indicates the directional,
geometrical
component of a rhythmical structure.
"Tone leading" is a
feature
of music for which Pound seeks a comparison in language rhythm:
"We
know that certain notes played in sequence call for other notes, for a
'resolution,'
for a 'close' . . . are there in the words themselves
'tone-leadings'?"
("Osiris," 39). If so, the
relational aspect of syntax
can
also be accomplished in other linguistic media; a phonetic pattern can
produce
the same sense of completion as an answering phrase, and language
media
less obviously connected to statement and resolution can be seen to
strengthen
the utterance. Following the syntactical
view will lead also to
the
synchronic view of rhythm. A synchronic
view of an object allows all
of
its parts to be seen in relation simultaneously. The diachronic view is
when
the parts are seen only in the order in which they emerge. The
synchronic
structure is the abstract, frozen aspect, rather than the
flowing
aspect, as in diachronic or isochronal forms.
Like synchrony,
syntax
is mutual placement and relation, without reference to a linear
order.
The relational syntax between the elements is fixed, while the
linear
order in which the elements are written down is capable of great
variation. Hence, the sequential order is irrelevant to
the abstract
syntactical
order. The rhythmical entity is likewise
synchronic. This is
to
say that all of its parts are caught in a web of mutual entailment.
Progression
is not essential to the deep structure; a given progression is
only
one substantiation, and non- progressive, that is, simultaneous,
substantiations,
are also possible. Ultimately, it is this simultaneous
grasp
which any progressive expression attempts to capture. This
synchronic
view accommodates the syntactical definition of rhythm in that
syntax
is a collocation, without reference to serial order.
In "Automorphic Structures in the
Poem's Grammatical Space," Daniel
Laferrire
discusses the "spacialization of the temporal." He says that
"what
at first seemed a series of events in time at length turns out to be
a
single timeless concept in the process of self-articulation" (70). He
turns
the attention from the series in progression to the static pattern.
Likewise,
Frederic Jameson speaks of "translating a formless temporal
succession
into a simultaneity which we can grasp and possess"
(Prison-House,
74). In analyzing a rhythmical sequence,
then, there is no
requirement
to maintain the progression. There is a prior synchronic
structure
(Jameson, 69), which contains the rhythm itself. Thus,
versification
may deal with the pre-temporal, the synchronic or logical,
rather
than the temporal form. We can look at
the structures of a poem as
a
crystalline diagram spread out on the page instead of as a flow or series
in
any sense limited by the sequential unfolding.
The rhythmical
perception
is a moment completely removed from flow and change. Hence, the
true
perception of rhythm is not that of the sequence, but is the state of
awareness
when the sequence is completed and the whole is perceived.
However, current metrical analysis often
places great weight on the
seriality
of the poem. Studies based on
"expectation" focus on the serial
order
of the feet. They construct a view in
which the poem unfolds itself
for
the linear reader, with expectation leading to surprise. This view is
naive. For one thing, it implies a first-time reader
for every poem. It
cannot
explain the sense of rhythm in a familiar stanza which moves
inexorably
to the point where the last of the implications is fulfilled.
Instead
of the series of beats in time, the metrical line must be seen as
an
ideal form, independent of time. The
overall relations which pertain
between
the metrical units exist on another plane from the order in which
the
feet are uttered. Seen from the
bird's-eye- view, the feet form
patterns
which are independent of the direction of utterance. In a
familiar
poem, the mind is aware of this pattern, and senses the
correctness
of its closure in time, but the pattern itself is prior to the
expression
in time. It is synchronic, in spite of
its diachronic
expression.
Charles Olson's idea of "composition
by field" affirms the idea of a
synchronic
structure:
(We now enter, actually, the large area of
the whole poem, into the
FIELD, if you like, where all the
syllables and all the lines must be
managed in their relations to each
other.) It is a matter, finally,
of OBJECTS, what they are, what they are
inside a poem, how they got
there, and, once there, how they are to be
used. . . . every element
in an open poem (the syllable, the line,
as well as the image, the
sound, the sense) must be taken up as
participants in the kinetic of
the poem just as solidly as we are
accustomed to take what we call the
objects of reality; and that these
elements are to be seen as creating
the tensions of a poem just as totally as
do those other objects
create what we know as the world.
The objects which occur at every
given moment of composition (of
recognition, we can call it) are, can be,
must be treated exactly as
they do occur therein and not by any ideas
or preconceptions from
outside the poem, must be handled as a
series of objects in field in
such a way that a series of tensions
(which they also are) are made to
HOLD, and to hold exactly inside the
content and the context of the
poem which has forced itself, through the
poet and them, into being.
Because breath allows ALL the
speech-force of language back in
(speech is the "solid" of verse,
is the secret of a poem's energy),
because, now a poem has, by speech,
solidity, everything in it can now
be treated as solids, objects, things;
and, though insisting upon the
absolute difference of the reality of
verse from that other dispersed
and distributed thing, yet each of these
elements of a poem can be
allowed to have the play of their separate
energies and can be
allowed, once the poem is well composed,
to keep, as those other
objects do, their proper confusions. (152)
Olson
sees the poem as a static energy field, a view in which topology
overrules
sequence. Determining the metrical feet
in an Olson poem, as in
any
poem, thus requires a synchronous view.
The scansion is a map in which
the
relative placement of the locations establishes a design, whose only
prescription
is that it exhibit design-logic. In the
context of metrical
feet,
Olson's synchronic view implies a grouping principle which resolves
the
individual syllables into logical groups, based on the patterns formed
by
the arrangement of their accentual values.
The simultaneity of the
pattern
indicates its unity, and ultimately supports the unity of
expression.
Another aspect of rhythm is its capacity
to interconnect the parts of
the
object. Ezra Pound will echo these ideas
of Puttenham on the design of
a
rhyme scheme as a "bind" for the stanza. As Puttenham states,
Besides all this there is in SITUATION of
the concords two other
points, one that it go by plain and clear compass
not entangled:
another by interweaving one with another
by knots, or as it were by
band, which is more or less busy and
curious, all as the maker will
double or redouble his rime or concords,
and set his distances far or
nigh.
Now
you may perceive by these proportions before described, that there
is a band to be given every verse in a
staff, so as none fall out
alone or uncoupled, and this band makes
that the staff is said fast
and not loose: even as ye see in buildings
of stone or brick the mason
gives a band, that is a length to two
breadths, and upon necessity
diverse other sorts of bands to hold in
the work fast and maintain the
perpendicularity of the wall: so in any staff of seven or eight or
more verses, the coupling of the more
meters by rime or concord, is
the faster band: the fewer the looser band, and therefore in a
"huitaine" he that putteth four
verses in one concord and four in
another concord, and in a "dizaine"
five, shows himself more cunning,
and also more copious in his own
language. (89)
The
pattern of the rhyme words defines the stanzaic unit: by an
overlapping
and interlocking, similar to that which strengthens brickwork,
the
unit is created and strengthened.
According to Puttenham, an
insufficiently
"interwoven" rhyme scheme will cause an eight-line stanza to
dissolve
into two units of four: "Therefore if ye make your staff of eight,
by
two fours not intertangled, it is not a huitaine or a staff of eight,
but
two quatrains, so is it in ten verses, not being entertangled they be
but
two staves of five" (66). Likewise,
Pound emphasizes the
interconnection
created by rhyme; the effect of rhyme words does not depend
upon
"their multiplicity, but upon their action the one upon the other; not
upon
frequency, but upon the manner of sequence and combination"
("Osiris,"
26). The same function of sonic associations is
asserted by
regard
to Pound. Expressive unity is not
created by a regular count nor by
mere
evenness; rather, it is by the internal association of parts. Pound,
managed for the first time to articulate
numerous extended poems in a
"verse libre" not confoundable
with cut-up prose, answerable to no
overt system of counts or assonances, but
held together from within by
so many filaments, syntactic, sonoric,
imagistic, that any change, as
surely as change in a verse of Pope's,
will be change for the worse.
(Pound Era, 200)
Another effect of pattern is the creation
of focal points in the
arrangement,
which also helps to explain how patterns from a purely sonic
realm
can be involved in meaning and emphasis.
Pound illustrates the idea
that
structures contain key points in words which form the nexus for a set
of
connections:
Let us imagine [words] charged with a
force like electricity, or,
rather, radiating a force from their
apexes -- some radiating, some
sucking in. . . . When [the proper] conjunction occurs let us
say
their force is not added one's to the
other's, but multiplied the
one's by the other's; thus three or four
words in exact juxtaposition
are capable of radiating this energy at a
very high potentiality; mind
you, the juxtaposition of their verticies
must be exact and the angles
or 'signs' of discharge must augment and
not neutralize each other.
(Pound, "Osiris," 34)
As
he states in "Treatise on Metre" (199), the individual qualities of
syllables
are altered by their involvement in this totality: "syllables
have
. . . weights and durations that seem naturally imposed on them by the
other
syllable groups around them." This
mutual and non-linear support
between
words in a text is also discussed in Pound's "Osiris" essay:
At a time when both prose and poetry
were loose-jointed, prolix,
barbaric, he [de Born-Arnaut], to all
intents and virtually,
rediscovered 'style.' He conceived, that is, a manner of writing in
which each word should bear some burden,
should make some special
contribution to the effect of the
whole. The poem is an organism in
which each part functions, give to sound
or to sense something --
preferably to sound and sense gives
something. . . . He bears to the
technique of accented verse of
Pound's
ethical basis for poetry is the writer's effort in devising an
integrated
structure, of facing "all drudgery in attempting to find some
entanglement
of words so subtle, so crafty that they can be read or heard
without
yawning" ("Osiris," 35).
The idea of "some entanglement of words"
of
such necessity that "each line have its own entelechy" (
Era,
200), is a conception of rhythm and meter much richer than either
isochronism
or repetition.
In his analysis of Pound's theories of
prosody, Kwan-Terry constantly
recurs
to a geometrical and synergistic metaphor in the conception of
rhythm:
"sound is tied to sound, word to word, cadence to cadence, line to
line,
stanza to stanza, to form a tightly knit pattern" (63). This system
of
relations creates key points not only by intersection, but also by their
exclusion
of certain items. Through lack of
repetition, items may become
individuated,
and thus establish points in relation to the pattern: "a
scheme
of rhyming sounds can establish a melodic system which will allow
other
sounds to play against it in counterpoint" (63). Purely sonic rhythm
goes
as far in Imagism as to take part in the creation of the "image,"
which
experience:
the 'image,' that which the poet
constructs, is not necessarily a
static 'thing' like a pine-tree or a suit
of armour, but may be, and
in all but the simplest cases will be, a
chain of events, an
interaction of rhythms (for an accent IS
an event), anything up to the
most intricate combinations of visual,
tactile, neuro-muscular, and
rhythmic to be found in the last phase of
Shakespeare. That a rhythm
is PART OF not background music to, a
poem, Pound explains in these
words:
". . . I believe in an absolute rhythm. I believe that every
emotion and every phase of emotion has
some toneless phrase, some
rhythm-phrase to express it." ("Rhythms," 112)
The
view of rhythm here is equivalent to Langer's subsuming of everything
under
one totalistic fable or commanding form.
Pound, just as Langer and
Longinus
do, is able to bridge the gap between the phonetic texture and the
ideas
expressed.
1.5 RHYTHM AS ISOMORPHIC FORM
As well as the concept that rhythm is the
internal associations of an
object,
another important idea is that rhythm is an abstract and prior
form.
Unlike Sonnenschein, who insists that time is the only realm in which
rhythm
occurs, Suzanne Langer and Ezra Pound see rhythm as either spatial
or
temporal. Furthermore, Pound's definition implies the prior nature of
rhythm,
that it exists in an abstract state prior to its expression in a
temporal
medium: "Rhythm is form cut into TIME, as a design is determined
SPACE"
(ABC, 198). In both theorists, there is
an abstract form prior to a
manifestation
in either time or space. What this
implies is that the
expression,
or substantiation, of rhythmical form can be "isomorphic." 6
That
is, because rhythm has an existence prior to its manifestation in any
tangible
medium, a single rhythm can thus be expressed in different media.
As
a communicative gesture, as the internal cohesion for a
feeling-perception,
a rhythm itself is an isomorphic form, is prior to any
substantiation,
and so is capable of different substantiations.
As
Cunningham
states in "The Problem of Form," this structure is only
recognizable
through its various expressions:
"It follows, then, that form
is
discoverable by the act of substitution.
It is what has alternative
realizations"
(14).
Another argument for the idea of rhythm as
prior logic derives from
the
controversy over "irreconcilable" types of rhythm. In his Theory of
Prosody
in Eighteenth-Century England, Paul Fussell argues that there are
irreconcilable
differences between early century accentual-syllabic and
late
century accentual meters. He points out
that while the second is
isochronal,
the first is not, and then argues that the second required a
whole
learning process by the readers. One
could add other meters to this,
and
further illustrate the idea of irreconcilable types of rhythm. For
example,
a poem in pure syllabics is organized by number, line, and phrase,
without
reference to accentual arrangement or feet.
All of these forms
carry
different tonal resources; each encourages a different ethos
altogether. Yet, all three metrical forms are rhythmical,
and therefore
must
have some connection deeper than the "irreconcilable" surfaces. The
implication
is an "a priori" definition of rhythmic form, something deeper
than
a comparative description of surface accentual arrangements. Thus,
accentual,
accentual-syllabic and syllabic meters can be seen as sharing
the
same prior rhythm, but expressing it through different substantiations.
Another example of isomorphism is the idea
that music and poetry have
different
expressions for the same rhythm. Pound,
like Yeats, complains
that
many musical renditions distort the words into the musical rhythm.
However,
the difference between musical and linguistic substantiations of
rhythm
does not always preclude a musician and a poet from finding
expressions
that are compatible enough to combine in a single score:
One reads the words on which the notes
indubitably depended; a rhythm
comes to life -- a rhythm which seems to
explain the music and which
is not a "musician's"
rhythm. Yet it is possible to set this
rhythm
in a musician's rhythm without, from the
poet's feeling in the matter,
harming it or even "altering
it," which means altering the part of it
to which he is sensitive; which means,
again, that both poet and
musician "feel around" the
movement, "feel at it" from different
angles.
. . . it is quite certain that some people
can hear and scan "by
quantity," and more can do so
"by stress," and fewer still feel rhythm
by what I would call the inner form of the
line. And it is this
"inner form," I think, which
must be preserved in music; it is only by
mastery of this inner form that the great
masters of rhythm --
Yeats, whoever you like --are masters of
it. ("Osiris," 38)
The
"inner form" is the rhythm itself, the same rhythm which may be
expressed
in both the music and the poetry, or which can be destroyed if
the
exigencies of one medium are forced upon the other.
One persistent rhythmical form remains at
the heart of the artistic
expression
of a meaning, even if this expression occurs within different
artistic
mediums. Furthermore, we can still hear
the same essential rhythm
even
when a poem comes from a different dialect, or even a different phase
of
the language. We hear the original
elocutionary voice, caused by the
same
clinching effect of rhythm-logic, which gives accuracy and fullness to
expression. Part of the reason that surface changes to
language do not
affect
the essential perception, as Ian Robinson argues, is that these
changes
are themselves systematic. Hence they
will alter the sound pattern
in
such a way as to reproduce the same system of relations. Addressing the
prosodic
problem of dialects, Robinson argues that a given poem will be
"the
same poem" no matter whose dialect it is pronounced in. This answers
the
often-cited issue in metrics, where the poet's own pronunciation is
held
against the reading which a particular student of metrics gives to the
lines: when the poet's version of the sonic design
is translated into the
metrist's
version, the ontological pattern nonetheless remains. The design
items
are changed, but because the changes are systematic, all items of a
particular
kind are changed together; hence, as long as our reading is
expressive
and meaningful, it is just as legitimate as the poet's own.
This
also opens up issues of the relativism of a given performance, the
subjectivity
of text perception, and the collaboration of the reader in
making
meaning. The
relativism-subjectivity-collaboration arguments make
up
a set of ideas, all of which attack the notion of a real expressive
entity
in the poem. Robinson intensifies the
strength of this conflict by
using
Chaucer as his example, because in Chaucer the difference in dialect
crosses
a phase of the English language itself.
However, he says that it
is
quite permissible to "naturalize" (30) or "acclimatize"
(33) a poet to
the
pronunciation of one's own dialect. And
the result is fully as true
and
accurate as the poet's own pronunciation; for example, "The sounds of
Shakespeare's
poetry are the ones in which the poetry has as much of its
full
meaning as possible" (28). This
explains why we can still perceive
the
personality implied in Chaucer's poetic voice, even in a modernized
pronunciation. In this translation of the character of the
student
(Coghill,
27), we still hear the sympathetic and humane voice of the
author:
An OXFORD CLERIC, still a student though,
One who had taken logic long ago,
Was there; his horse was thinner than a
rake,
And he was not too fat, I undertake,
But had a hollow look, a sober stare;
The thread upon his overcoat was bare.
He had found no preferment in the church
And he was too unworldly to make search
For secular employment. By his bed
He preferred having twenty books in red
And black, of Aristotle's philosophy,
To having fine clothes, fiddle or
psaltery.
Though a philosopher, as I have told,
He had not found the stone for making
gold.
Whatever money from his friends he took
He spend on learning or another book
And prayed for them most earnestly,
returning
Thanks to them thus for paying for his
learning.
His only care was study, and indeed
He never spoke a word more than was need,
Formal at that, respectful in the extreme,
Short, to the point, and lofty in his
theme.
The thought of moral virtue filled his
speech
And he would gladly learn, and gladly
teach.
According to Robinson, the argument over
the final -e is irrelevant,
unless
it is placed in an elocutionary context.
The final -e should be
sounded
only when doing so encourages the rhythmical production of a vocal
presence: "no convincing account of sounded final
-e in Chaucer is
possible
without an explanation of the rhetorical effects of the sound"
(83). All of Robinson's arguments fall back on
elocutionary validity, on
the
"living" quality which a certain reading will produce: "his
description
of Alison . . . depends for its life on rhythms not recognized
by
the traditional metre" (166);
"Few readers would . . . deny that
Chaucer's
verse conveys more of a sense of the speaking voice than Gower's
.
. . the simulation of speech by heightened, yet fresh and natural 'pieces
of
language;' one heightening agent is the metre" (72).
Robinson's argument that we are hearing
the same Chaucer is drawn from
the
idea that rhythm is an isomorphic form, because an isomorphic form can
be
expressed in a number of manifestations, all the while retaining its
identity.
The absolute pattern itself does not change with systematic
changes
to the language, between phases, between dialects or idiolects,
only
the unit indicators of the pattern change.
This explains, in
contradiction
to a historicist view, the traditional, romantic concept of
the
timelessness of poetic expression.
Self-expression and communication are two
universal values. Poetic
language
embodies these values through the full presentation of a "feeling-
complex"
which is set forth and preserved through the unifying structures
of
rhythm. Rhythm gives life to the voice
in the first place (without
rhythmical
unity, utterance does not "fail" per se; it simply does not
become
language at all, in the sense of true expression); and it preserves
the
life of a passage in the second place.
Through rhythmical expression,
it
is possible to see the continuity, rather than the fracture, of human
history:
To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence
I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.
I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.
But have you wine and music still,
And statues, and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?
How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.
O Friend, unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.
Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To
greet you. You will understand.
James Elroy Flecker
1.6 REQUIREMENTS FOR A DEFINITION OF RHYTHM
To fully disengage rhythm from its
temporal expression, we must see it
as
occurring in abstract relations, such as those of logic, which are
pre-temporal,
and pre-spatial, but which may be expressed in time or space.
This
view has the advantage of deriving one basis for all forms of
rhythmical
phenomena; whatever images, actions, sounds, or set of ideas,
which
has a peculiar quality of organization and wholeness will be analyzed
as
rhythmical on the basis of the prior logic of association between its
parts. Along these lines, the best definition for
rhythm is simply to
equate
it with cohesion or unity, and say that rhythm is that set of
relations
which gives an object inward association of parts. The word
"inward"
is important in this regard. The
isochronal and repetitive
definitions
discussed above are both purely "extensive" rather than
"intensive"
conceptions of rhythm. That is, they see
rhythm as something
laid
over the poetic line, by virtue of repetitive arrangements or of equal
time
divisions. But in the intensive view, we
are looking for something
within
the arrangement which unifies it from the inside. A structure such
as
this, [ab(c]d), for example, is internally unified because "c"
belongs
to
both sets of brackets.
While it is often pointed out that a
repeated shape acquires rhythm,
Ezra
Pound focuses on the single shape, the single element of a repetition,
as
an integrated rhythmical entity in itself.
Like Langer, Pound
recognizes
that a single pattern-unit can be rhythmical:
Intense emotion causes pattern to arise in
the mind -- if the mind is
strong enough. Perhaps I should say, not pattern, but pattern-units,
or units of design. . . . I am using this term
"pattern-unit,"
because I want to get away from the
confusion between "pattern" and
"applied decoration." By applied
decoration I mean something like the
"wall of
or the first pair of them. The rest is repetition, is copying.
("Affirmations," 374)
The
single figure is a rhythmical entity, prior to any repetition. The
"single
jet" is usually repeated, but it can also stand on its own:
By pattern-unit or vorticist picture
I mean the single jet. The
difference between the pattern-unit and
the picture is one of
complexity. The pattern-unit is so simple
that one can bear having it
repeated several or many times. When it becomes so complex that
repetition would be useless, then it is a
picture, an "arrangement of
forms." ("Affirmations," 374)
The
inherent unity of this prior pattern shows the repetition theory of
rhythm
to be inadequate. The question
arises: "But what about the single
unit
which, though taken alone, is rhythmical?"
Some of W. B. Yeats's
poetic
phrases, for example, are less than a whole line, but have a notable
strength
which makes one want to call them rhythmical in themselves. They
provoke
the question "at what point does a section of language become
rhythmical?" Is it possible to work backwards, and
discover a single
phrase,
or even a single word to contain rhythm?
One phrase from Yeats's
line,
"I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour" (out of
"A
Prayer
for my Daughter") illustrates rhythm by itself. The phrase may be
scanned
with the same firm degree of accent on three syllables:
-
/ / /
"for this young child;"
It
is the expressive urge that gives it rhythm, even when it is taken out
of
a repetitive context. The rhythmicality
of this lone phrase casts doubt
upon
the theory of rhythm which states that rhythmic expectation and
surprise
are created by the context of several regular lines.
One test of the repetition theory is to
work backwards to the single
unit.
One can not back up and identify the point where the poem starts to
generate
a sense of rhythm. The elocutionary
effects of rhythm, which are
the
felt quality of a prepared and calculated statement, often occur right
from
the first word. This is the case in Yeats's poem "Memory," where what
Langer
calls the "commanding form" imbues the whole, and gives a sense of
an
oratorical declamation beginning on the first syllable:
One had a lovely face
And two or three had charm
But charm and face were in vain
Because the mountain grass
Cannot but keep the place
Where the mountain hare has lain.
It
is easy to recognize the poem's firm closure; as Yeats says, the
finished
product clicks shut like a box. However,
the poem is also firm in
its
opening. This is caused by the accent which is planted upon the word
"One,"
because of its role as a numeral. In the
pronunciation of "one" as
an
adjective, on the other hand, the intonation would rise:
\
One day
But
in the pronunciation of the word as a numeral, as in "Memory," the
intonation
falls very firmly. To start an utterance
with
Ŀ
ONE
is
in fact very rare; it occurs mainly in counting. As well, there is a
pause
created when the word is pronounced as a numeral: "ONE . . .
had a
lovely
face." This is a much greater
juncture than occurs with the
adjective
form.
An expectation theory of rhythm could not
determine in advance that
the
word "One" was a numeral instead of an adjective. A proper enunciation
of
the word can only be given after it is realized that the word is the
beginning
of an enumeration. In the line,
"One had a lovely face," certain
requirements
pertain to the word "One," and these requirements make certain
that
the word will instill the felt quality of rhythm (which is the sense
of
a determined and unequivocal statement, a guarantee of the deliberate
unfolding
of the meaning) before any metrical contract can be agreed upon,
or
any metrical expectation generated.
Hence, before we can really read Yeats's
"Memory," we have to know its
meaning
already, and know that "One" is the beginning of a numerical
sequence.
From our first real understanding of it, then, this word is
caught
in a vectorial structure, being both a point and a direction. It
therefore
has one quality of rhythm discussed in the last section, the
quality,
as required by Langer and Pound, of a missing implication. The
word
"One," pronounced as a numeral, implies an enumeration to
follow. As
a
numeral, it is also a pronoun; and so this pronunciation also implies a
clause
to be completed, and in fact a series of parallel clauses to reflect
the
numeral series. The boundaries of the
poem are set not only by the
rhythmical
closing, but by the rhythmical opening syllable, by the
oratorical
gesture of the first syllable.
This word, "One," is the
intersection of these several patterns.
Intersection
gives a fusion of directions, a point that radiates, but also
tapers
and focusses the lines that draw outward from it. The coming
enumeration
is revealed by the correct emphatic pronunciation of the word.
It
is emphatic, because in an enumerated series, each item is a basic
pattern
point.
As well as emphatic, the word also occurs
within a purely accentual
pattern,
that of the feet in the line:
/
- - / - /
One had
a love ly face.
Thus
we have an immediate co-occurrence of an accentual and an emphatic
pattern.
The word is accented in itself, and furthermore is emphasized in
this
function as an enumerator. The
accentuation involves it in one
pattern,
in which it forms a foot with the following word. On the other
hand,
the emphasis involves it in another pattern altogether, which
connects
it to the other enumerators, and in this context separates it from
the
following word, "had." Hence,
two patterns conflict: the strong
phonological
separation between "one" and "had" is traversed by the
cohesion
of the foot unit. The convergence of the
syllables in the foot,
in
turn, is traversed by the enumeration series, which involves only the
first
syllable of "One had." This
example demonstrates a rhythm caused by
the
coincidence of accent and emphasis, and a rhythm which is evoked prior
to
the establishment of any lilting beat.
It demonstrates a rhythm which
exists
apart from both isochronism and recurrence, and which is audible in
the
strong oratory of the poem, from its firm opening to its clicking shut.
A pre-temporal, pre-spatial, or
"intensive" theory, in other words, a
view
of rhythm as a type of logic, is the only definition that can apply to
everything
that rhythm is involved in. Rhythm is a
set of relations giving
rise
to unity and coherence. Elocution ties
into this conception, in the
emphasis
and integration created by metrical points and overlapping
segments. Rhythm is thus heard in a voice which has the
quality of
determination
and clarity. This may explain the voice
of certainty which
may
well define poetry itself. It will
explain why no one argues with a
couplet
from Alexander Pope; one either memorizes it for future guidance,
or
else avoids it altogether; it is "finished" and therefore unanswerable.
This theory also explains isochronism
without being limited to it, for
the
word "rhythm" is used properly for many things which do not exhibit
isochronism,
even by analogy. The golf swing is said
to be rhythmical when
successful
contact is made with the ball. But there
is little equivalency
involved. The back swing is much slower that the
forward swing. In
chipping
and pitching shots, the back swing is also much shorter than the
follow
through. There are no equidistant or
isochronal points to be had,
yet
the whole inheres rhythmically. Rhythm
has more to do with the working
of
many elements toward the successful completion of a significant action,
than
it has to do with a veneer of equivalence placed over units and
movements. The rhythmical golf swing does have
suspension, completeness,
contact,
result, and accuracy. It is a complex
moment of concentration, a
moment
in which time and the mind are mastered by skill in preparation and
execution. Skill turns a moment into a rhythmical trance,
but without
temporal
repetition.
Furthermore, isochronism and repetition
cannot provide a structure for
closure,
even though closure is necessary to the elocutionary view of
expressive
rhythmical clinching. This lack of
closure becomes apparent in
isochronal
analysis when the last unaccented syllable of a line is often
applied
to the foot beginning the next line, and the line as a unit per se
is
subverted. Likewise, current generative analysis of meter ignores the
line
as a unit per se. Because the only two
items considered are the
"metrical
position" at one extreme, and the whole line at the other, there
is
no way to see the line as a composite of smaller, interlocking units.
Current
generative theory therefore gives no reason to stop at the whole
line,
and to consider it as an interlocking entity, with an integrity
beyond
the text layout.
A unit such as the poetic line is a
semantically and syntactically
arbitrary
section. Yet the poet's challenge is to
unify each of these
arbitrary
sections. As Brooks and Warren point
out, bad poetry is
precisely
that which fails to make each line a genuine, intensive unit.
Merely
tacking on rhyme, an extensive unifier, will not do, because it
fails
to achieve the inward unity of the whole line.
The result of such
failure
in rhythmical structure is a faulty poetic voice; one can hear
which
sections fail to inhere, and because the structure is not unified,
the
voice loses rhythmical certainty. The
singular, unequivocal statement
becomes
impossible.
The
key to building this statement is rhythm, because rhythm is the
force
which binds all the parts into a single entity.
Rhythm takes
discrete
units, and forms them into larger, higher-level units. The
implication
is that there must be an intermediate level of metrical unit
between
the single foot and the whole line.
The contemporary focus on structure has
made the concept of "levels"
very
specific. "Lower level" and
"higher level" are now understood to be
strictly
related by the sharing of the same elements but assigning those
elements
to different segments. Jonathan Culler,
in his book on Saussure,
specifies
this concept in reference to the level jump from phonemic to
morphemic. The higher level subsumes the elements from
the lower. At the
same
time, it is differences between the lower level phonemes which define
the
higher level morphemes:
We can summarize and illustrate this
view by saying that since
language is form and not substance its
elements have only contrastive
and combinatorial properties, and that at
each level of structure one
identifies the units or elements of a
language by their capacity to
differentiate units of the level
immediately above them. We identify
phonological distinctive features as the
relational features which
differentiate phonemes: /b/ is to /p/ and /d/ is to /t/ as voiced is
to voiceless; thus voiced versus voiceless
is a minimal distinctive
feature. These phonemes in turn are
identifiable because the contrasts
between them have the capacity to differentiate morphemes: we know
that /b/ and /p/ must be linguistic units
because they contrast to
distinguish bet from pet. And we must
treat bet and pet as
morphological units because the contrast
between them is what
differentiates, for example betting from
petting or bets from pets.
Finally, these items, which we can
informally call words, are defined
by the fact that they play different roles
in the higher-level units
of phrases and sentences. (49-50)
This
strict analytic may be applied to poetry in defining the second level
groupings
within the lines. In extent, these
groupings will occur in
between
the foot and the line; they will be the result of an overlapping
between
first level groupings, and will form a specific new unit (the
"metreme,"
see section 3.7). It is important to
distinguish the idea of a
level,
which is created out of this strictly defined interaction, and the
idea
of a "stratum." A stratum is
the units formed out of any aspect of
language. Feet are a stratum created out of the aspect
of accentuation. A
second
level is created when units from two strata overlap, and then are
taken
together as forming a new unit. This new
unit is on the second
level,
as it subsumes units from two strata on the first level. Some
metrical
works do not take advantage of this strict idea of levels, and use
the
terms "level" when they simply mean any stratum or aspect. (Cureton's
"Multilevel
Analysis" of rhythm views a liberal assortment of strata, but
mistakenly
calls them different levels.) Traditional metrical analysis in
general
observes different strata; it may be refined by consciously
specifying
the relevant strata, and may be advanced by observing the new
units
created when these strata overlap.
1.7 THE DEFINITION OF RHYTHM
Rhythm is the third type of possible
arrangement. First there is the
placement
of items together, or mere ARRANGEMENT itself.
Then, if an
arrangement
exhibits any kind of proportion or symmetry, its elements may
be
grouped into the units of a PATTERN, which is an arrangement according
to
exact proportion. Both isochronism and
recurrence are patterned
arrangement,
because both are exact in proportion.
Finally, as a second
level
of organization, RHYTHM occurs when two patterns intersect.
Rhythm is caused by the interaction of
patterned media: two crossing
structures
may produce emphatic points, which become the units of a higher
order. Take the two patterns, abcabcabc and
123454321, and intersect them.
The
resulting sequence is rhythmical:
1 a 2 b 3 c 4 a 5 b 4 c 3 a 2 b 1
c.
Here
we have two patterns, one repetitive:
abc abc abc, the other
centripetal:
1234 5 4321. Each is a pattern, because
of some form of exact
symmetry,
the first because a certain arrangement is repeated, the second
because
an arrangement is inverted, and pivots on a central point. That
is,
neither one could be called a mere arrangement of items, because,
having
the cohesion of symmetry, they achieve the next status above
arrangement,
namely pattern. Each has nine units, but
they partake of
different
types of symmetry, and share none of the same units. On their
own,
they have no connection or relationship to each other. But
superimposed
upon each other, they are fusible into a single arrangement
which
is not strictly patterned anymore, but which becomes rhythmical.
Within
the above string (in which abcabcabc and 123454321 have been
superimposed),
a2b occurs twice. It is the only
arrangement to occur
twice.
Along with it, the figure 3c4 occurs in inversion: 3c4 -- 4c3. A
great
deal of the total arrangement is neither repeated nor inverted, and
in
fact the original two patterns, which displayed a high degree of
inversion
and repetition, are now hidden, each throwing off the other's
symmetry. It can no longer be said that 'abc' is
repeated. 1a2b3c occurs,
and
4a5b4c occurs and 3a2b1c occurs, but then none of these is a
repetition. Likewise, 1234 is not inverted; instead,
1a2b3c4 4c3a2b1c do
not
exhibit inversion. What we have is an
intersection of two patterns, in
which
not much repetition or inversion occurs, but in which key points are
created
at a higher level than either of the patterns alone. What we also
have
is a case where the outlines of the original patterns are vaguely
discernable,
but no longer exist as patterns. They
are "sealed off" from
the
level at which a2b and 3c4-4c3 occur.
But what gives us a higher order
than
the order of pattern is the new units created in this fusion. A2b and
3c4
take us one step above pattern this time, into an arrangement which
illustrates
the nature of rhythm. Without these two
emphatic points, there
would
be no integration to unify the whole set of integers into a single
arrangement,
an arrangement which is not only patterned, but also
rhythmical.
Any single structure is not
rhythmical: rhythm is caused by the
intersection
between two patterns, or what Jury Lotman calls static
structures.
Lotman describes "dynamic structures" in similar terms to this
description
of rhythm: "a dynamic structure
will appear as a minimum of
two
static models which are in a definite mobile relationship" (58). The
effect
is like a wave in which the two patterns interact, coming into a
distinct
element with the key points.
According to this ranking of structures, the
image of a rainbow would
be
considered a static pattern and not a rhythmical figure, because it is a
perfect
arc, which does make it appropriate as a symbol of an eternal
promise. It presents a quality of frozen stillness, of
an immovable though
beautiful
object. The shape is absolute, and even the colour bands are
ranged
and proportionate. Comparing this figure of a perfect arc to that of
a
tapered arc, one could imagine a straight line (another "pattern") laid
across
the perfect arc, so that one point of the line touches the zenith,
and
the other touches the same plane that the arc rests on. This gives two
independent
patterns which have no necessary connection but which have been
juxtaposed,
much like the two series of numerals above.
Then, if the
straight
line and the arc are blended together, the arc will become tapered
at
one end, and will no longer be perfectly symmetrical. At the same time,
the
line will no longer be straight, but will absorb some of the arc's
curve. This tapered line, which is the fusion of an
arc and a vector, (two
static
structures), however, is rhythmical. It
is the flowing sweep which
is
integrated within itself (because it comes from two symmetrical
patterns),
but which is not to be analyzed as a simple case of symmetry.
It
is the shape, for example, of the eyebrow.
The arc and the tapered arc are two kinds
of beauty, one, the beauty
of
rhythm, is appropriate to the living and mortal, the other, the pattern
of
the rainbow, appropriate to the eternal.
Living forms are always ovate
rather
than circular (rather, in fact, than oval, which is also a patterned
symmetry). They present a mysterious beauty because they
are the complex
fusion
of two patterns: the eye cannot extract the one from the other even
though
the outlines of the ideal forms are still there. Rhythm will hold
the
interest much longer because of this, while pattern has a conclusive
"key."
In current practice, metrical theorists
often treat patterns as
rhythms.
But the differences are evident. If the
pattern-arrangement is
considered
rhythmical, then an undifferentiated grid, for example a piece
of
window screen, would also be designated as rhythmical. This is in fact
the
implication in much metrical theory. But
the iambic pentameter pattern
in
itself is not a rhythm until it is crossed by another pattern, such as a
grammatical
scheme, that does not correspond to the metrical scheme. The
window
screen is a very dull archetype for poetic rhythm. Furthermore, in
such
a grid there is no implied closure. As
in some metrical theories, the
border
of the screen is simply a cut-off point:
the end of a line unit is
signalled
by a cut-off, not by an inward cohesion.
What distinguishes bare
pattern
from poetry is the sense of closure and the self-determination of
the
higher-level unit, the line. Rhythm is
not like a design on a couch.
The
couch limits the extent, but the design itself is merely overlaid, and
has
no internal implication of conclusion.
It is a repeated pattern which
cuts
off half-way through one unit because the couch ends. Nothing in the
design
relates it to the shape of the couch itself.
The limits of the
design
have no relation to the limits of the couch.
Thus, there is no
intensive
unity. If the pattern on the couch were
somehow intersected with
the
shape of the couch itself, then the whole would attain rhythmical
integration.
Rhythm is pattern altered, because of the
blending of another pattern.
The
outlines of both are vaguely discernible, but cannot be fully
extracted.
Seasons are rhythmical because they contain the full period of
life,
the whole cycle, a whole gesture completed; the seasons on a dead
planet
are bare pattern, not rhythm. Days are
rhythmical because we live
in
them in a way that the units of our lives harmonize with these units of
time,
not because a light flashes on and off at patterned intervals. Nor
is
there a simple corresponding match-up between the life lived and the
days
it is lived in. Routine is a high achievement,
but if all the events
of
a life were to correspond exactly with the hours of every day, the
routine
would become robotic; it would lose its rhythm and become mere
pattern,
and as such would be deadening. The mere flashing on and off of
light
is no rhythm; not even if the pattern is complicated by a solstitial
change
in duration of light and dark, because these changes also occur in a
proportional
pattern. The relative durations between
the days thus differ
by
patterned, that is, mathematical or "arithmetical" proportion; that
is
to
say, they do not occur by "rithmetical" proportion. In other words,
even
the most mathematically elaborate pattern is not a rhythm, until a
significant
action occurs within it: a second,
independent pattern must
intersect
with the first to produce a third entity which is a fusion of the
two
patterns, such that the original patterns are still hinted but are not
fully
distinguishable in the third. They are
still "hinted" because they
remain
on a lower level, sealed off from the standpoint of the higher
levels,
but revealed by analysis. They are
"significant" because they
provide
closure and therefore a definition of meaning.
Those who ignore a difference between
rhythm and pattern rely on
isolating
simple forms, without seeing their involvement and change through
the
merger with other simple forms.
Proponents of isochronism and
recurrence
often have recourse to biological analogies in explaining
rhythm. The heartbeat, breathing, and walking, are
recurrences cited as
the
physical source of rhythm in our psychology.
The origin of the
perception
of rhythm is said to be the bi- lateral symmetry of the human
body. Thomas Taig is one who assumes the symmetry
of rhythm, and its
origin
in the body:
The use of the caesura to divide the
spoken line into two balanced
phrases is but one instance of the natural
tendency toward binary
division which reveals itself in
sound-rhythm generally, and which is
explained by most theorists as arising
from the bi-lateral structure
of the human body and consequent movement
of alternate limbs. (102)
However,
the caesura does not divide the line in the exact center, to give
perfect
symmetry. In the model of the iambic
pentameter scheme, the
caesura
falls after the second foot, which actually throws off the symmetry
of
the ten syllable sequence. The
presumption of symmetry causes Taig to
overlook
the simple fact of asymmetry in the very structure he is
discussing. Unlike Langer, when Taig discourses on the
rhythms of nature,
he
relegates all phenomena to symmetry.
"Visible movements of all kinds .
.
. and animals (including the human body) . . . the calls of birds and
animals,
all forms of music and speech" (11), these are all said to bespeak
the
symmetry of nature. Nonetheless, we
rarely see them in symmetrical
view,
but in postures of movement where symmetry is hidden and their
rhythmical
gestures revealed. The symmetrical view
is only had when the
animal
is dead in a laboratory diagram.
Because metrists so often cite
observations of nature, it may be
relevant
to cite a recent Scientific American article, "The Handedness of
the
Universe," which states that nature is in fact full of asymmetries from
the
subatomic to the macroscopic levels, and so goes against those metrists
to
whom nature proves that symmetry is at the heart of life and of rhythm:
Thus, Pasteur . . . came to view
handedness as one of the clearest
distinctions between living and dead
matter and ultimately proclaimed
it to be a profound fact of nature that
went far beyond the chemistry
of life. "Life as manifested to
us," Pasteur wrote, "is a function of
the asymmetry of the universe and of the
consequences of this fact."
Later, before the
conjecture: "L'univers est
dissymtrique." (Hegstrom, 108)
The
article discusses "chirality" or handedness, as an indication of
fundamental
asymmetries in nature: "From atoms
to human beings, nature is
asymmetric
with respect to chirality, or left- and right-handedness" (108).
Not
even the statistics for the choice of handedness work out
symmetrically:
Given that humans generally are not
ambidextrous, the next question
is: Why are most people right-handed? . .
. One might also ask why
right- and left-handed persons are not
born in equal numbers.
(108-109)
And
certain helical plants choose to spiral in different directions
depending
on the temperature at which they germinate.
The processes which result in handedness
in humans and other species
begin
at the level of the electron, which can spin in only one direction.
The
authors make certain observations about the asymmetry of nature,
observations
which metrical theorists like Taig overlook:
If all processes were chirally symmetric,
one would observe in the
real world an equal number of mirror-image
systems displaying opposite
preferences. That we do not is evidence that some
processes in nature
are asymmetric. . . . This is strikingly demonstrated in the case
of
living organisms. Human beings, for instance, are structurally
chiral:
the heart is to the left of center, the liver to the right.
People also display functional
chirality. For example, although there
is no apparent intrinsic advantage to
either the left or the right
hand, few people are ambidextrous. (108)
But
regardless of which side the natural phenomena do support, symmetry is
a
cold, idealistic pattern; it is fixed and austere; it is lifeless; all of
which
put it in contradistinction to rhythm.
Quintilian points this out in
the
context of expressive posture in elocution.
The bolt upright posture
in
the human figure is a distancing factor; its symmetry is not conducive
to
communication. Only when this austere
pattern is crossed and merged
with
another pattern does the body take on expression:
The body when held bolt upright has but
little grace, for the face
looks straight forward, the arms hang by
the side, the feet are joined
and the whole figure is stiff from top to
toe. But that curve, I
might almost call it motion, with which we
are so familiar, gives an
impression of action and animation. So, too, the hands will not
always be represented in the same
position, and the variety given to
the expression will be infinite.
(Institutio, vol. 1, 293)
Quintilian
actually describes that "bi-lateral symmetry" said to be the
origin
of rhythm in order to illustrate an image notably devoid of rhythm
or
allurement to the eye. But the
mysterious "curve" which he describes in
effect
hides this symmetry in presenting the expressive posture, in which
symmetry
is implied but not located.
Some figures are represented as running or
rushing forward, others sit
or recline, some are nude, others clothed,
while some again are
half-dressed, half-naked. . . . Yet the critic who disapproved of the
figure because it was not upright, would
merely show his utter failure
to understand the sculptor's art, in which
the very novelty and
difficulty of execution is what most
deserves our praise.
Quintilian
immediately applies this example to language, showing the same
principle
in the figures of speech. The statement
itself converges with
the
figural pattern, and the result is expression of meaning:
A similar impression of grace and charm is
produced by rhetorical
figures, whether they be figures of
thought or figures of speech. For
they involve a certain departure from the
straight line and have the
merit of variation from the ordinary
usage. (Institutio, vol 1,
293-295)
The
idea of interaction between two patterns explains a great deal about
poetic
rhythm, especially in relation to the poetic voice. Rhythm comes to
be
seen as a "thickening agent," binding the line at every point, and
bridging
the gap between sonic and semantic aspects as it gives the power
of
conviction and flawless procedure to the voice.
The line of poetry can
be
seen to partake in the fusion of two patterns, beginning at the
fundamental
level of the conflict between foot grouping and the series of
individual
syllables.
The mere series of syllable units
(irrespective of accent value) is a
pattern. We get another pattern when the accent values
are divided into
patterned
feet. These pattern groupings cross the
pattern of the mere
series,
and in this crossing they alter the series.
They cause small
bubbles
of cohesion in an otherwise straight series; they fuse progression
with
sections of closed unity; thus, the feet are a primary occurrence of
truly
rhythmical sections (sections created by conflict between two
patterns)
in the line.
In a given line, the metrical ideal often
does not exist; in many
lines
it may not even be implied. What are
present are a serial pattern of
syllables,
and a pattern of foot divisions which crosses over this series.
Tension
is thus between the force which forms the units, and the force of
the
series. Reference to tension against an
implied (a non-present) norm
is
unnecessary and limiting. Actually
present is a conflict of sub-and
over-units
and between units from language strata which combine syllables
into
different, overlapping groupings. In
this view, rhythmical tension is
described
as the intersection of two actual, occurring patterns, not a
divergence
from an assumed ideal pattern.
The tension between the pattern levels of
the mere series and the foot
grouping
is fundamental to poetic rhythm, and plays a role in prose rhythm
also.
Saintsbury's view of prose feet is identical to that for poetic feet,
although
prose feet turn out to be longer (four syllables on average)
because
the lower proportion of accented syllables results in patterned
divisions
which fall into greater lengths. On the
other hand, the
Traditional
Linguistic and Structural Linguistic version of tension can not
explain
prose rhythm in the absence of an ideal model of feet.
While the syllable and foot tension is
fundamental, it is not quite at
the
root of linguistic rhythm. Rhythm in
language occurs at its lowest
level
when the syllable itself compels its phonemes into groups above their
mere
sequence. Each syllable has a natural unity caused by the individual
physical
gesture. Thus, the phoneme series is crossed by the grouping of
phonemes
into syllables. If the definition of rhythm is the subsuming of
units
into larger units, then language is susceptible to rhythm from the
syllable
level upward. If the series of syllables
and phrases can also be
thoroughly
crossed by metrical groupings, then the gestural quality of
rhythm
can be preserved throughout an entire stanza.
A complex meaning, or
feeling-perception,
will thereby retain the expressive integrity of a
single
expressive gesture.
1.8 THE SAINTSBUREAN TRADITION
Saintsbury,
the least popular but greatest prosodist, is the summa of the
Modern
Tradition school of literary prosody. As
viewed in the Modern
Tradition,
rhythm is a broad category which contains meter. Hence, it is
not
limited to the conception of "a controlled departure from a metrical
norm"
(the view of the Traditional Linguistic and other derivative
schools). It is a commanding form which an accentual
meter may determine,
but
which may even occur without the medium of accentuation. What the true
Modern
Tradition school has always looked for, then, is not a departure
from
an ideal scheme, but the interaction of several actual schemes, that
is,
not symmetry, but integrity.
All broad views of rhythm fall under the
Tradition, as does anything
which
attempts to view all the influencing factors at once, which sees
rhythm
as the weaving of different types of pattern, and which studies
prosody
in the broad aesthetic range of language.
Hence, the variety of
eclectic
studies which focus on a syntactical or phonetic method of
scansion,
or which follow an arithmetical or geometrical metaphor, also
come
under the Modern Traditional umbrella.
In the studies of metrical
critics
and theorists such as Robert Beum, Yeats, Pound, Piper, Cureton,
Tarlinskaja,
and Schipper, rhythmic character is determined by the
intereplay
of discoverable accentual and non-accentual units, not by the
conflict
between ideal and actual arrangements along the stratum of
accentuation
alone.
George Saintsbury leads us toward this
view of rhythm. Specifically,
he
shows that poetic rhythm occurs in the interaction between the foot
grouping
and the phrasal and phonemic embellishments on this grouping. The
management
of this interaction is called the individual "fingering" of the
meter,
which gives rise to the musical character of the line. Thus,
Saintsbury
can analyze rhythm without reference to a metrical norm, and can
derive
feet from any written passage. Closeness
to the norm is important
for
Saintsbury only because it illustrates the type of orderliness in the
arrangement
for poetry rather than prose, not because the comparison
between
the ideal and the actual is the locus of rhythm. These deviations
from
the norm, that is, metrical substitutions, are indeed rhythmical
modulations.
But this has to do with the nature of rhythmical proportion,
in
which mathematically unequal configurations are accounted as equivalent.
This
"equivalence," made between things not mathematically proportionate,
is
an illustration of the concept of "rithmetical" as opposed to
"arithmetical"
proportion.
The much earlier prosodist, Puttenham,
makes an etymologically
inaccurate
but teasing association between "rithmetical" and
"arithmetical,"
an echo which he takes to subsume both terms, "rhythm" and
"meter." He describes rithmetical and arithmetical
proportion as contrary
in
nature. In the latter, proportionality
occurs between numerical
differences
in a constant ratio. In the former,
"proportionality" occurs
between
numerical differences which defy a constant ratio, but which are
nonetheless
related.
Hence, this rithmetical proportion of
Puttenham, and the metrically
"equivalent"
substitutions of Saintsbury, both point out the essential
difference
between rhythm and pattern. While
"arithmetical proportion" is
patterned
ratios, "rithmetical proportion" transcends pattern and exact
equivalence. The rithmetical thus defies an association
with exact
pattern;
it is a warped or paradoxical pattern, in which, for example, a
three
syllable unit is equivalent to a unit of two syllables. This is the
difference
which Saintsbury senses and constantly alludes to with his
paradoxical
use (consciously indicated by his repeated italicizing) of the
term
"equivalence." It is also the difference his predecessor, Puttenham,
addresses
outright. Interestingly, Puttenham also attributes the expressive
and
persuasive qualities of language to this rhythm:
There is an accountable number which we
call arithmetical (arithmos)
as one, two, three. There is also a musical or audible number,
fashioned by stirring of tunes and their
sundry times in the utterance
of our words, as when the voice goes high
or low, or sharp or flat, or
swift or slow: and this is called rithmos
or numerosity, that is to
say, a certain flowing utterance by slipper
[sic] words and syllables,
such as the tongue easily utters, and the
ear with pleasure receives,
and which flowing of words with much
volubility smoothly proceeding
from the mouth is in some sort harmonical
and breeds to the ear a
great compassion. (77)
. . . this rithmus of theirs, is not
therefore our rime, but a certain
musical numerosity in the utterance, and
not a bare number as that of
the arithmetical computation is, which
therefore is not called rithmus
but arithmus. (69)
"Arithmus"
is taken as an abstraction from "rithmus;" it is returning the
ovate
to the circular.
Saintsbury's use of the term
"equivalence" to describe substitutions
reveals
the same line of thought. By what logic
is a three syllable unit
of
measurement, such as an anapest, "equivalent" to a two syllable unit,
such
as an iamb? In what sense are they
"proportional" and
"interchangeable"? The "equivalence" of trisyllabic
substitution is not an
arithmetical
equivalence, but a rithmetical one. A
line with ten syllables
is
purported to be equivalent to a line with eleven syllables. This is
only
possible if the syllable level is subsumed:
both lines have five
feet;
as the syllable sequence is bent into the foot sequence, the
inequality
is absorbed:
The lowest term to which the line could be
cut down -- the syllable --
had an extraordinary promiscuity of
values, determined apparently by
accent, by musical setting or suggestion,
and by many other things,
besides or contrary to the original
prosodic quantification; but the
next superior unit, the "foot,"
was in quite a different position. It
was clearly upon it that the scansion
depended; you could take with it
either no liberties at all, or liberties
in the older forms strongly
determined by the laws of
equivalence. And this establishment and
consecration of the foot communicated an
unmistakable rhythmical
swing.
(History, 1.17)
Saintsbury is adamant about the essential
role that trisyllabic
substitution
plays in poetic rhythm. He denigrates
elisions which smooth
over
these substitutions; he wants the three syllable unit to defy its
arithmetical
inequivalence, in asserting its rithmetical modulation:
EQUIVALENCE means, prosodically, the
quality or faculty which
fits one combination of syllables for
substitution in the place of
another to perform the part of foot, as
the dactyl and spondee do to
each other in the classical hexameter, and
as various feet do to the
iamb in the Greek iambic trimeter and
other metres. It is, with its
correlative, Substitution itself the most
important principle in
English prosody; it emerges almost at
once, and, though at times
frowned upon in theory, never loses its
hold upon practice. (Manual,
280)
Equivalence,
or substitution, as Saintsbury conceives it, is not the same
as
divergence from a norm. Substitution of
equivalent feet can occur
outside
of the context of a norm. It is not an
allowable deviation; the
fact
that unequal things can stand in a relation of equivalence is
essential
to the nature of rhythm. Thus, Saintsbury insists on its
importance:
The most important law of English prosody
is that which permits and
directs the interchange of certain of
these feet with others, or, in
technical language, the substitution of
equivalent feet. (Manual, 32)
The two rules quoted below govern this
process of substitution.
Saintsbury
strikes a chord with C. S. Lewis (see 2.2) when he claims that
the
first of these rules is "a priori," and he typifies the Modern
Tradition
when he claims that the second is based on experience or taste:
"This
process of substitution is governed by two laws: one in a manner a
priori,
the other the result of experience only" (Manual, 32). The first
of
these rules will determine that each line of poetry is resolvable into
comparable
though not identical feet. The same principle can be imposed on
free
verse and prose, with the result that the accentual arrangement will
fit
within certain limits of orderliness.
The second rule is a matter of
taste,
but even so it clearly indicates the important point that the foot
division
does have an audible aspect, even though it refers to a language
medium
strictly isolated from phrasing:
19.
Substitution must not take place in a batch of lines, or even
(with rare exceptions) in a single line,
to such an extent that the
base of the metre can be mistaken.
20.
Even short of this result of confusion the ear must decide
whether the substitution is allowable.
. . . there is nothing, from Shelley's
apparently impulsive and
instinctive harmonies to the most
complicated experiments of Browning
and Swinburne, which will not yield to the
master keys of equivalent
substitution and varying of line-length,
subject to the general law of
rhythmical uniformity, or at least
symphonised change. (Manual,
100-101)
1.9 THE MODERN TRADITION
There might seem to be a broad gap between
Saintsbury and a
contemporary
theorist like John Lipski, who wrote "Connectedness in Poetry:
Toward
a Topological Analysis of E.E. Cummings," but it is Saintsbury who
sets
the precedent with mathematical terminology and analogies. Saintsbury
is
canny in his use of these terms:
[The foot] arrangement is determined by an
ascending series of
considerations, pertaining as they ascend
to different sciences and
orders of thought. The first is purely MATHEMATICAL, being the
simplest possible permutations of
"short" and "long."
And the fact
that the classical foot- names are merely
convenient and appropriate
labels for these permutations demonstrates
the folly of those who
object to the use of these names.
(History, 3.521)
The
feet are mathematical "permutations" (a term for groups within a
linear
series);
they are "integers." And he
uses the same topological metaphor:
"the
central idea of this book, [is] that feet or 'spaces' are the
integers,
the grounds, the secret, of English prosody" (History, 1.x).
Lipsky
also refers to the unit "spaces" of the line:
Fundamental to topological analysis is the
determination of precisely
to what extent a given surface or space
may be composed of smaller
units without introducing any
discontinuities or "holes." A
basic
topological notion in this regard is the
concept of "connectedness,"
which underlies several areas of
mathematical investigation, including
the domain of homotopy theory. Informally speaking, a surface may be
regarded as connected if any two points on
the surface may be joined
by means of an unbroken arc. Similarly, a connected surface may be
considered free of "holes" (in
the intuitive sense) if any two arcs
sharing the same end points may be
continuously deformed onto each
other.
(146)
Lipsky
uses Cummings as a model of topological interweaving, and claims,
although
he does not demonstrate, that the same principles apply to all
poetry:
un(bee)mo
*
vi
n(in)g
are(th
e)you(o
nly)
*
asl(rose)eep
In this poem it is clearly apparent,
unraveling the parentheses, that
we have two discrete phrases woven
together, one reading "unmoving are
you asleep," and the other "bee
in the only rose." This poem
incorporates disconnectedness involving
words, syntax, and semantics
(and by extension, of course, also
phonology) in order to achieve the
effect of the mutual embedding. (150)
This type of unit subsuming and boundary
crossing is the epitome of
rhythm.
The comprehension of the poem occurs in a complex moment, outside
of
the realm of linear discourse. Lipsky
points out a very clear case of
intersection
between units, a cohesion caused by
"the embedding of a word,
sentence,
or entire passage in a main or matrix poem":
mi(dreamlike)st
. . .
will be wor
*
(magi
c
ally)
*
lds
In this passage it may be observed that
the words "mist" and "worlds"
have been typographically disconnected by
the insertion of the words
"dreamlike" and
"magically," respectively. (149)
"Mist will be worlds;" . . .
"dreamlike," "magically."
The effects of
interweaving
in this poem are hypnotic. The reader
must linger over the
structure,
not proceed linearly; its rhythmical form is entrancing because
it
is a composed conceptual unit:
In the case of one of Cummings'
disconnected poems, it is necessary to
read through the poem several times,
picking up additional information
on each reading, and receiving in the end
a composite interpretation
resulting from the various readings. (151)
The
reader looks backward and forward through the structure, and finally
observes
its holistic meaning. The reader
discovers how meditated intent,
which
rhythm gives to a text, is implied in the structure. For example,
Cummings
brings out a luxurious, elongated gesture in postponing the last
half-syllable,
"lds," to close the rhythmical form.
In the next chapter I
will
argue that these two theorists, Saintsbury and Lipsky, can both be
classed
under the "Modern Tradition" heading, while other supposed
traditionalists
must be excluded from this distinction.
Many metrists can
be
excluded from the Modern Tradition on the basis that they do not adhere
to
one of these tenets:
1) rhythm is a broad interrelation of
linguistic media
2) rhythm is independent of, or even
adverse to symmetry
3) the line is an integrated unit
Instead,
supposed traditionalists such as Winters, Wimsatt, and Fussell
actually
diverge from Saintsbury on important points.
They focus their
analysis
narrowly on accentual patterns, misinterpret the principle of
equivalent
substitution for a principle of norm-variation, and fail to
analyze
the mutual integration of rhythmical units.
These details, it will
be
seen, distinguish the Metrical Contract and Traditional Linguistic
schools
from Saintsbury and other Modern Traditionalists who, I will argue,
have
more essentially in common with the Structural Linguistic school of
prosody.
1.10 SAINTSBURY'S THEORY OF RHYTHM
In practice, Saintsbury does not
distinguish between meter and rhythm;
he
uses, and virtually defines the two terms interchangeably. Brogan
promotes
the separation between the concept of rhythm and the concept of
meter,
but to do this limits meter to the accentual stratum: only the
units
created by accentuation can be used as meter, even though other units
are
also "mensural." Meter could be defined as any division of the line
into
smaller units, which are then counted to determine its measurement.
Other
lines with the same number of such units are, in that aspect,
commensurable. Rhythm is analyzed by isolating the metrical
units from all
relevant
strata, and by revealing their intersection.
The closeness with which Saintsbury
handles the terms "meter" and
"rhythm"
is apparent:
METRE. In the wide sense, collections of rhythm
which
correspond, both within the collection,
and, if there be such, with
one or more other collections
adjoining. In the narrow, collections
dominated by a single foot-rhythm, as
"iambic metre," "anapestic
metre," etc. (Manual, 288)
RHYTHM. An orderly arrangement, but not necessarily a
correspondent succession of sounds.
(Manual, 291)
Notably,
Saintsbury pauses to distinguish exact "correspondence," from the
broad
concept of "order." Rhythm is an
order, a relation among elements,
rather
than regular repetition:
WHITMAN An American poet who has pushed farther than
anyone
before him, and with more success than
anyone after him, the
substitution, for regular metre, of
irregular rhythmic prose, arranged
in versicles something like those of the
English Bible, but with a
much wider range of length and rhythm, the
latter going from sheer
prose cadence into definite verse.
(Manual, 315)
Norm-variation
theories encounter prose rhythm and find no regular
recurrence
to evoke expectation, but Saintsbury handles it easily within
the
same framework as poetic rhythm. Both
can be divided into metrical
feet,
which interact with other unit divisions.
Nonetheless, Saintsbury
ascertains
a consistent difference between poetic and prose rhythm; because
of
the sheer density of accents, poetic feet average two syllables, while
those
from prose average four. The first step in analysis, to resolve the
accentual
pattern into an orderly set of foot units, can also be applied to
prose. In his discussion of "Musical and
Rhetorical Arrangements of Verse"
(Manual,
269), he then reveals that a full analysis of the text requires a
second
pass, which will indicate the music and the rhythm as emerging from
the
intersection of two schemes. Above the
division of accentuation into
feet,
"certain additional arrangements of verse may be made for musical or
rhetorical
purposes" (Manual, 269). It is this
crossing of the accentual
pattern
by the phrasal pattern that produces the "music" of poetry:
Tennyson's
The watch | er on | the col |
umn to | the end,
and Mr Swinburne's
The thun | der of | the trum |
pets of | the night,
are both regular and unexceptionable
"heroic," "five-foot iambics,"
"decasyllabic lines," etc. but
in reading them the voice will not
improbably be tempted (and need not resist
the temptation) to arrange
them as
The watcher | on the column | to
the end,
and
The thunder | of the trumpets | of the night,
respectively, while in the case of the
latter line other dispositions
are possible. In blank-verse paragraphs especially, the
poet is
likely to suggest a great deal of such
scansion. No doubt there are
in this arrangement four-syllable
divisions and three-syllable ones
like amphibrachs, etc.; but that does not
matter, because the line has
already passed the regular prosodic tests.
(Manual, 269)
He points out that the phrase units are
separate from the regular
prosodic
units. They are not determined on the
basis of logical pattern
division,
but he considers them as another arrangement (based on logical
phrase
division) in themselves:
And no doubt the sections, or whatever
they are to be called, are not
strictly substitutable; but then on this
scheme, which is not
positively prosodic and applies to the
individual line only, they need
not be. (Manual, 269)
The possibilities for discovering units,
based on all types of logical
divisions,
are wide open. The full view of rhythm
will need to take in as
many
of these intersecting schemes as possible:
So, too, there is no harm in dividing
Hood's famous piece, for musical
purposes, into ditrochees:
I remember | I remember,
How my little | lovers came,
or even in making what are practically
eight feet out of
All : peo : ple : that : on : earth :
do : dwell,
in order to get an impressive musical
effect. Here also the lines
have passed the prosodic preliminary or
matriculation; as in the
other, as ordinary "long
measure." (269)
Saintsbury is definite on the point that
all the aspects of the line
must
be considered, but is equally firm in stating that they must be
considered
separately, that the different schemes must be isolated and
shown
in relation to a basis on the foot division:
The effect of English poetry at all times,
but especially for the last
hundred years, has been largely dependent
on VOWEL-MUSIC. . . . a
sort of ACCOMPANIMENT to the intelligible
poetry -- a prosodic
SETTING.
In the management of this, as of rhyme,
pause, enjambment, and even
the selection and juxtaposition of feet themselves,
the poet often, if
not as a rule in the best examples, uses
particular sleights of
fingering and execution parallel to those
of the musical composer and
performer.
The results of this may appear to constitute
verse-sections different from the
feet. But these, however, never
supersede feet, and are always resolvable
into them; nor do they ever
supply criteria for anything except the
individual line or passage.
They stand to prosody proper very much as
delivery or elocution does
to rhetoric. The conveniences of this
"fingering," or poetic
elocution, as well as sense and other
things, may sometimes bring
about alternative scansions, but all these
connect themselves with and
are obedient to the general foot system.
(Manual, 35-36)
The
multi-scheme overlay is perfectly clear in this passage. Other
unit-forming
linguistic media condition the foot structure, which itself is
the
basis (i.e., which is "at the foot") of rhythm. These connect the
basic
divisions, providing a phrasing which curves over them.
As well as the phrasing scheme, the
alliteration scheme is seen in
relation
to the foot. While he always insists
that the foot is the basis,
Saintsbury
actually promotes some of the other structures to the position
of
highest beauty: "In a certain sense
vowel-music may be said to be, and
always
to have been, a main, if not the main, source of pleasure given to
the
ear by poetry" (Manual, 297).
Of course, Saintsbury is aware that these
other types of units have
been
pointed out. The error is not in
recognizing these other units, but
in
misunderstanding the foot and ignoring the essential fact of the
intersection.
Properly speaking, these items belong on top of the foot, in
overlapping
layers which interlock the whole. Some
theorists, he states,
REPLACE
the foot with other units, rather than layering them above the
feet:
Now it is this necessary preliminary
which the plain- and
fancy-stress prosodists neglect; putting
their stress divisions not on
the top, but in the place of it. And the probable result would be, if
the proceeding were widely followed -- as,
indeed, it has been already
to some small extent, -- the creation of a
new chaos . . . (Manual,
269).
Unless
the foot is placed at the foundation, there is no way to indicate
the
full integration of the whole. The foot,
unlike the phrase, is based
on
the minimal accentual division; hence,
all feet are of equal
rithmetical
extent or size. Because feet are formed
on the principle of
the
smallest ordered grouping of syllables, all of the syllables are all
involved
equally in determining the units which they fall into. This
provides
a universal basis for the whole structure, whereas the phrase
units
have no such interchangeability, and so cannot form a universal
basis. At the same time, the feet are only the basis
of rhythm; equally
important
is the superstructure of other units.
However, the whole
analysis
of meter in contemporary times has become concentrated on the
foot;
the entire objective has become to determine the mapping rules which
will
define the limits of variation in the arrangement, i.e., allowable
substitutions. But the question of substitutions is not
complicated enough
to
bear this intense theorizing. Evidently,
substitutions will sooner or
later
occur in every position of the line, if not in one poet then in
another.
Saintsbury's answer to substitution is
simply that the base foot
should
not become obscured: "There is a
certain metrical and rhythmical
norm
of the line which must not be confused by too frequent substitutions"
(Manual,
23). If it is iambic pentameter, iambs
should predominate, or
else
chaos will ensue. If iambs do not
predominate, then the division of
accents
may produce another order:
It is the great evidence of rockfast
genuineness in the "foot" that
you can apply it everywhere, in metre and
in rhythm, in verse and in
prose.
But you cannot everywhere make a satisfactory and
corresponding AGGREGATION of feet. (History, 1.31)
The
test of poetry is the orderliness which does pertain when foot units
are
discovered. The feet in prose can be
derived by the same principles,
but
will not tend to be as similar to one another.
It is the avoidance of
chaos
that Saintsbury requires. Thus, a small
point in Saintsbury's rich
view
of rhythm -- an observation of the general tidiness of accentual
patterns
in poetry -- becomes the entire definition of metrical analysis in
many
modern schools.
As well as broadening the realm of rhythm,
Saintsbury also defies the
omnipresence
of symmetry. He states, for example,
that in order to have
rhythm
the sonnet form must be asymmetrical:
More than one of Wyatt's sonnets actually
falls into a pair of quasi
rhyme- royale stanzas, or, at least, into two
septets of rhyme-royale
character. But this arrangement is wrong .
. . . Unless very rarely
practised and very carefully concealed, it
"breaks the back" of the
sonnet, destroys its unity, and provides
no such rush and recoil of
the wave as is given by the octave and
sestet, or even, in the
commonest English model, by the more
daring distribution of douzain
and couplet.
The structure, by rhyme and otherwise, of
the second half prevents
mere "splitting," and the
intricacy and symphony of the sonnet are
always tolerably preserved. (History,
1.308)
It
is ironic that it is the symmetrical form, the two seven-line sections,
which
breaks the unity, and upsets the rhythmical "wave." But the same
principle
is true for the single line, which is not paused directly in the
center,
and for the rhythmical substitution, which asserts the equivalence
of
asymmetrical items. As well as the
asymmetrical bend, or because of it,
we
have the importance of interlocking composition, illustrated, as in
Puttenham,
by rhyme schemes:
Now the importance of this is
difficult to exaggerate. There had
been, in earlier English poetry, many
stanzas of very great length and
complexity -- Chaucer himself had used
them up to the dizain. But
they had seldom or never acquired complete
symphonic effect; they were
merely loose congeries of lines, or of
small stanzas braced together.
Hardly beyond rhyme-royale itself, with a
few exceptions for the
octave, had this symphonic effect been
attained. But even had it
been, the sonnet was a new symphony,
carrying with it, in the process
of its imitative formation, the echoes of
a language [Italian] itself
the most purely musical in
as an alternative to English. You could not attain this music by the
wooden stumping of the Lydgatian prosody;
you could not attain it with
the uncertain and chaotic syllable-values
of the Lydgatian
pronunciation. These things had to become new, and they
became new;
not yet in a state of perfection -- that
could not be expected -- but
in a state of most marvellous
improvement. (History, 1.308-309)
The
symphonic effect, the synthesis, the musical rhythm, these are analyzed
on
the broad basis of composition patterns which mutually condition and
change
one another, patterns which bend all aspects of the language into a
cohesive
rhythm.
CHAPTER
TWO: THE STATE OF
What is likely the most pervasive
influence in modern metrics is
Twentieth
Century relativism.
"Prescriptive," "a priori," "deductive,"
"objective;"
to the relativist, all of these adjectives signal
authoritarianism
and absolutism. The suspicion of authoritarianism
legitimately
led Twentieth Century metrists to avoid the prescriptive
stance,
of which they saw Edward Bysshe as an illustration. But in
avoiding
this, they lost view of the true nature of deductive metrics.
Deductive
metrics is prescriptive only in the sense that it attempts to
predetermine
the abstract nature of rhythm, and thus dictates a poet's
expression
and a reader's interpretation only insofar as the obviously
valid
demand that it be rhythmical. While
inductivist methods purport
merely
to describe "what is there," deductive methods do attempt to
determine,
but only in the abstract, "what must be there" in order to
achieve
rhythmical expression. The fear of authoritarianism went too far,
and
caused the deductive element to be falsely conceived as authoritarian
prescription. This fear misdirected attention away from the
fundamental
question
of the theory of metrics, namely, the nature of rhythm. However,
there
are several elements which distinguish legitimate deductivism from
authoritarianism,
and indicate why the deductive basis is necessary.
First, metrics can be prescriptive without
prescribing every detail of
the
phonology. Instead of dictating the
necessary requirements for the
correct
performance of a given line, "a priori" metrics prescribes the
nature
of a rhythmical line only in the abstract.
Once abstract rhythm has
been
defined, any number of isomorphic fulfillments are possible. This
does
force requirements on the poet and upon the interpreter, but not
specifically
determined requirements; rather, the prescription is for the
non-determined
requirement of fulfilling an abstract formula by any
possible
substantiation of it. Thus, the
implications for performance are
not,
as the inductivists warn, to dictate every aspect of the reading.
Secondly,
deductive analysis often defines only certain MINIMUM features
which
all accurate readings will exhibit. This
leaves room for a
potentially
infinite number of expressive readings, while still defining
the
necessary aspects by which the line conveys meaning and embodies
rhythm. The argument that ambiguous passages permit
different analyses
even
on this minimal level will be dealt with later in section 2.7.4.
What is needed in prosody is a proper
sense of the term "a priori."
This
term does not mean a prescription of specific accentual patterns, but
means
instead a substantive embodiment of the abstract relations of rhythm,
which
give intensive unity. Because the
"prescription" is abstract, no
particular
structure has been ordained. At the same
time, the truly
legitimate
requirements of metrical unity and rhythm may be defined and
observed. The need for deductivism is the need for
laying out to view the
universal
requirements of rhythm. Laying these out
to view, in their most
abstract
form, is to define the essential concepts of prosody. And this
can
be achieved without exacting authority over poetic expression:
"It is clear," writes
Baudelaire, "that systems of rhetoric and
prosodies are not forms of tyranny
arbitrarily devised, but a
collection of rules required by the very
organization of the spiritual
being:
prosodies and systems of rhetoric have never prevented
originality from manifesting itself
distinctly. The opposite would be
far more true, that they have assisted the
development of originality.
(Maritain, 135)
2.1 THE INDUCTIVE APPROACH
The
ethical tone of for inductivism is illustrated by Marina Tarlinskaja:
Rather than imposing external
"metrical rules" deduced from limited
selections of material, the "Russian
school" metrists try to discover
what the poets themselves considered
acceptable and how they utilized
the prosodic features of their language to
create meters. The
"Tomasevskij school" metrists
analyze large amounts of material,
generalize the results statistically, and
only then derive theories.
("General and Particular
Aspects," 122)
This
quotation illustrates the relativist's indignation over a prosodist's
"imposing"
of a formula or an interpretation on a poet.
Instead, they say
that
objective procedure must come first, and "only then" can theories be
created.
But this method faces the logical problem that objectively
analyzing
the material requires theoretical precepts such as the decision
to
concentrate on accentuation to begin with.
As well, there is an added
complication
which never resolves entirely in the analysis:
"what the
poets
themselves considered acceptable" is something which can be adduced
on
occasion to bolster the ethics of the inductive method, but it also
brings
in various intentionalist problems and irrelevancies. Another
problem
arises in inductive metrics when "what is there" is different from
one
poet or one "corpus" to another.
A relativist metrist like Tarlinskaja
is
forced to say that a certain arrangement is metrical only in the context
of
a given poet or era. We do get a
descriptive norm for the poet in
question,
but this approach tells us nothing about the inherent nature of
metricality
itself. In fact, it contradicts the
existence of an inherent
nature
in meter and rhythm.
2.2 PROBLEMS WITH INDUCTIVISM
Two
problems arise from a non-deductive stance.
First, it is still
necessary
to make a prior choice as to which mediums or structures are
relevant
to rhythm. C. S. Lewis points out that some choice must be made as
to
which structures to observe in the scansion:
"If the scansion of a line
meant
all the phonetic facts, no two lines would scan the same way, for no
two
different lines are phonetically identical.
If, on the other hand, we
are
asking only for some of the phonetic facts then we must want those
which
are relevant. But to what? Clearly not
to phonetic fact but to
something
else" ("Metre," 280).
Hence, no matter how inductive the
analysis,
some non-inductive choice of metrical medium must originally be
made. In the strict sense, the inductive observer
would have no way of
knowing
in advance what structure to look for, or what linguistic medium to
find
it in. Yet in practice they all do
decide, and the decision has
generally
been to limit rhythm to the single language medium of
accentuation.
The choice of accentuation has caused metrists to overlook
other
aspects of language when assigning rhythmical structures to a line.
Ironically,
a prescriptive stance leads to wider views of rhythm. If, for
example,
an abstract requirement such as "grouping structures" is posited,
then
the discovery of grouping is not limited to any particular language
medium. It becomes a principle in the true
sense. C. S. Lewis protests
against
the inductivist method in prosody, which has been prevalent since
the
turn of this century. Lewis's
"first rule" is
"Avoid the Inductive
Method." It sounds very plausible to
say: "Let
us not be "a priori." Instead of bringing to the actual lines some
arbitrary idea of what is Regular, let us
stick to facts -- what the
poet actually wrote. Let us, without any
prejudice, tabulate all the
types of line we find in the poem and
then, inductively, construct the
paradigm to cover them, to SAVE THE
APPEARANCES." This commends
itself to a scientific age. But surely it is quite fatal?
For if you proceed thus you will have
no irregular lines at all.
If your inductive paradigm "gets them
in," they have become regular.
("Metre," 281-282)
Lewis
warns that inductivism cannot make the decisions necessary to
discovering
the essence or definition of rhythm:
"Inductively constructed
paradigms
thus fail because they 'cover the facts' TOO WELL. We must not
begin
with individual lines, nor even with classified types of line" (282).
Ironically, the second result of
inductivism is the restriction of the
phenomena
related to rhythm; without an abstract notion of rhythm, one
capable
of a great variety of substantiations, metrists are left with the
relative
paucity of a merely accentual analysis.
This promotes a
limitation
of the concept of rhythm to repetition.
Although the definition
of
rhythm should be one of the central questions of prosody, there is
surprisingly
little variety in the depiction it receives in metrical works.
Metrists
often treat the term as a known entity, and make easy references
to
"ordinary prose rhythms."
Those analysts who do not simply gloss over
rhythm
often derogate it to repetition. John Rosenwald's dissertation
(cited
earlier) reveals how inveterate the repetition view of rhythm is.
Even
though his thesis is directed at enhancing the concept, he is unable
to
take it beyond the realm of repetition:
My concept of the rhythmic phenomenon
involves a vast scale of
rhythms, all of which are patterned
repetitions, but all of which vary
these patterns and repetitions to a large
degree. I believe that this
view
of the subject can best explain both objective rhythms and the
different reactions of individuals to
identical rhythms. Upon the
scale we can immediately recognize two
poles: a series of isochronic
identical hammer blows or equidistant
parallel lines, and a single
recurrence of my cough on March 22 and
June 15. (46-47)
The
confinement of rhythm to the metrical plane has a peculiar result in
the
work of Ellis, who discovered "forty-five expressions for each syllable
to
be considered" (Barkas, 21).
Instead of discovering other things
besides
accentuation to draw out the nature of rhythmical expression, Ellis
complicates
the one stratum immensely. He identifies
hundreds of
variations
of the iamb, but has no means to include structures besides the
accentuation
and feet. Although Ellis is an extreme case, the repetition
view
of rhythm has led to limitation and decadence throughout modern
metrics. Modern schools, such as the Metrical Contract
and Traditional
Linguistic
metrics, derive from this definition of rhythm.
2.3 RHYTHM AS REPETITION, THE EARLY AUTHORS
That
the current state of rhythm theory is decadent can be demonstrated by
a
survey of definitions of rhythm in this century. They are all the same
in
essence, in spite of a perceptible struggle to refine, elaborate and
enhance
the concept. But "repetition"
and "equivalence" can be elaborated
only
so far.
The decadence of the
"repetition" view of rhythm is demonstrated in R.
Wallaschek's
"On the Difference of Time and Rhythm in Music," an article
highly
praised by Brogan, who calls the first two pages "essential reading"
(740).
Wallaschek goes behind a typology of symmetrical and repetitive
arrangements,
to derive the prototype of all rhythm in a kind of primal
symmetry:
"there are not two kinds of [time or] symmetry, a twofold and
threefold;
there is only one, that is represented by evenness, no matter
whether
the objects which are to be arranged symmetrically are groups of
even
or uneven numbers" (30).
"Evenness" in all its forms will continue as
the
definition of rhythm throughout the Twentieth Century.
Among the authors who define rhythm as
some form of regularity, there
is
a group in the early decades of this century who work under the
assumption
that exact isochronism is the essential definition of rhythm.
This
group dexterously invents different contexts for regularity: the deaf
man
can see rhythm in the swinging of a pendulum; the blind man can feel it
in
the swaying of a train-car; rhythm can be tasted in flavoured swabs
applied
at regular intervals to the tongue!
According to Charlton Lewis:
Rhythm may be roughly defined as a
recurrence of similar phenomena at
regular intervals of time. . . . A deaf man can see the rhythm of a
pendulum, and indeed a man deprived of all
five senses could feel the
rhythmic swaying of a railway train. . . .
Regularity of
time-intervals is a "sine qua
non" of rhythm. The fact needs no
proof, for it is obvious. (2)
In
fact, the definition of rhythm as regularity overrules the perception of
rhythm
in poetry. Because rhythm must be
regularity, and poetry is
evidently
not perfectly regular, then poetry falls short of achieving
rhythm:
Verse is no more truly rhythmical than
prose. In neither form of
speech is the rhythm perfect, and in prose
it is likely to be even
more irregular and disjointed than it is
in verse; but it is a
property of both. (9-10)
If a critic should force our definition of
rhythm upon us with verbal
minuteness, we might have to say that
verse, like prose, is not really
rhythmical at all, that it only
approximates rhythm . . . . I shall
insist that the essence of rhythm is
equality, but that in verse, as
in prose, absolute equality is often not
present. (14)
The opposite approach would be to treat
the premise that poetry is
rhythmical
as given, and then to derive the definition of rhythm
consistently
with this premise. Instead, Charlton
Lewis takes part in
those
attempts to bridge the gap between the isochronal theory of rhythm
and
the non-isochronal phenomenon of poetry:
In reading (or writing) verse we are
guided by our instinct for
strict [?]ity in time-intervals, and deep
down below our conscious
minds there is a sense of an ideal
rhythmical scheme, in which the
time-intervals are exactly equal. The actual movement of the verse
does not exactly correspond with this
ideal scheme; it plays all about
it, swaying back and forth like a pendulum,
perhaps, now behind and
now ahead of the ideal; but it never
wholly forsakes it. (16)
However,
the idea of a pendulum is averse to the rhythmical "play" of
poetry.
Expressive language does not derive from an isochronal beat.
Robert Bridges' "Letter to a
Musician" reveals other problems in the
prevalent
concept of rhythm. Like many
regularists, he separates the
"metrical
rhythm" from the "speech rhythm." Regularity is defined as the