aesthetics of the "ych" ("V"/Fanny Burney, from Rei Terada, on NASSR)

[jporter]

>>The contemporary theoretical locus classicus of the "ych" that we haven't
>>mentioned is Kristeva's discussion of abjection; paradigmatically, a
>>child's loathing of certain foods ("that skin on the surface of the
>>milk").  The abjected stuff is supposed to be the focus of primal
>>repression, including of the mother's body, so milk really is a
>>non-accidental example.
>>
>>Fanny Burney's description of her mastectomy (I know someone who wrote
>>about this) competes well with Pynchon's "Esther's nose job" episode in
>>_V._  She makes much of the potential erotic impropriety of the operation
>>(7 goggling doctors), and despite her apologies, her prose is mercilessly
>>enthusiastic about pursuing all the ych details.  Medical language
>>doesn't take us away from the obscenity of it at all.  To the contrary.
>>I'm wondering whether what's necessary to make something as ych as
>>possible is that kind of language: instrumental, purposive, hence
>>anti-aesthetic language.
>>
>>Rei Terada
>>Univ. of Michigan
>>
>>

I think the gremblins of the net chewed that last message up a bit and I'm
not familiar with Kristeva, so I am at more than my usual disadvantage here
tonight, but the final comments of the above missive have touched a
familiar chord within. I recall working my way through college as a
hospital orderly, during the late seventies, early eighties (quite an
insightful experience), before all the hyper-real TV dramas like ER, etc. I
was basically a little squeemish to begin with- a head full of literature
and poetry- poor insulation for the undiluted realtime chaos of an
emergency room. I had to develop the inner strength to become calm in the
presence of serious bleeding, among other things. It was amazing to observe
the equanimity of the nurses and docs swirling around  and within the
chaos, while I was fighting off the possibility of fainting.

But the eeriest part of the experience was walking around the place late at
night, when things were quiet, and no trauma had found its way through the
doors. They had this room called the "Life Support Unit." It was perfectly
layed out: every detail ready. All the equipment to handle any horrible
contingency: severed limbs, gaping wounds, everything. It had all been
thought out and planned for- stainless steel sterility, gleaming white
sheets, racks and shelves and drawers full of instruments and meds...All
totally appropriate and organized.

In my sensitivity, grappling with my fear and inexperience, still trying to
develop the inner strength to be useful when tragedy inevitably came
rushing in, I reached a point early on where I was overcome with a
superstitious feeling, that took a long time to shake. It was almost as if
the whole meticulously planned environment, the system that had put it into
place, etc., somehow, in its very clinical and unflinching recognition of
the inevitable, had become the cause...a magnet for disasters yet to
happen. Sympathetic magic. Pavlovian.

Gradually I became "appropriately" insensitive, and was able to deal with
it. After awile something happened- too much misery to internalize- and
distance developed.

But for awhile I could kind of relate to old Tyrone, trying to keep the
causes separate from the effects. Before that ability to block out an
emotional response to horrible circumstances develops, often the only
defense one is left with is denial. In the presence of the "anti-aesthetic
language" of the clinic, denial is shredded and "ych" comes screaming in.

jp