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Bodies of Blended Times: Time Compression Figures and the Imagination of the Future

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PAGE 1

BODIES OF BLENDED TIMES: TIME COMPRESSION FIGURES AND THE IMAGINATION OF THE FUTURE By DAVID A. MATTHEW A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLOR IDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA 2003

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Copyright 2003 by David A. Matthew

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For the One who makes possible a future I had not imagined.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I am grateful to all my teachers and professors who helped a nave reader find meaning in reading and thinking about texts, and who encouraged me to continue. I am indebted to Mary Neal Kirkland-Johns, who, through the Kirkland Fellowship established in memory of the late Professor Edwin C. Kirkland, made it possible for me to pursue doctoral studies at the University of Florida with greater ease than others. An aide at the October 2000 Annenberg seminar on second-generation cognitive science, held at the University of Southern California, single-handedly did more to make my dissertation possible when she added me to a dinner table that included Gilles Fauconnier, Mark Johnson, George Lakoff, and Mark Turner. I may have forgotten your name but not your good deed. I thank those who, through coglit@yahoogroups.com, have offered advice and encouragement. I especially thank Mark Turner for heartening communications at a difficult stage. If this dissertation fails to meet the standards of those doing research in cognitive approaches to literature, I ask their forbearance; I have been at a decided disadvantage not working under the closer scrutiny of those in the field. My dissertation committee members have served me admirably. Anna Peterson first steered me toward the work of Lakoff and Johnson, setting me down a path toward a new theory of embodiment that I had not anticipated. Phil Wegner helped me see the utopian function of my work, and his justifiable wincing at the biologism that currently and too confidently pervades this dissertation has inspired me, in the future, to more iv

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adequately explain and more humbly qualify my claims. Jim Paxson proved a trooper by agreeing to come on board the committee late in the game. Pamela Gilbert helped first by asking, early on, What is the status of the real in your project? and again, later on, by taking over the directorship of my dissertation near its eschaton. Alistair Duckworth is to be rewarded with mille grazies for his tireless patience directing my dissertation before his retirement set him free. My dogsBonnard and Luckykept me aware that our embodied brains are more alike than different. Through the course of my writing, they offered pleasant diversions and instructive contemplations just when it seemed I needed them. The students, staff, and council at the Presbyterian and Disciples of Christ Student Center in Gainesville graciously allowed me extra time and space to work on this dissertation; may they not have suffered more than benefited by their lenience. I hope that they and others who dwell across ecclesia et academia will discover the value of cognitive theory for matters both sacred and secular. v

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Page ACKNOWLEDGMENTS .................................................................................................iv LIST OF FIGURES ...........................................................................................................ix ABSTRACT .......................................................................................................................xi CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION: FIGURING THE FUTURE IN BODIES OF BLENDED TIMES1 The Aims of Literature.................................................................................................1 The Biblical Sources of Figures That Blend Future and Present..................................2 The Prior Question of the Figuring Mind.....................................................................5 Time in the Theory of Conceptual Metaphor...............................................................6 The Theory of Conceptual Integration Networks, or Blending Theory..................14 A Common Figure of Blended Times: The Conventional Ghost...............................21 The Purposes of Figures of Blended Times................................................................23 The Bodys Role in Assessing the Effectiveness of Time Compression Figures.......27 The Uses of Blending Theory in Literary Criticism...................................................32 Victorians and Time-Compression.............................................................................35 The Future of Figuration.............................................................................................38 2 CONCEPTUAL ANATOMIES OF MARLEYS GHOST AND VICTORIAN DEBATES ABOUT HELL........................................................................................40 A Conceptual Anatomy of Marleys Ghost................................................................40 Contributing Spaces to the Conceptual Network Containing Marleys Ghost...........42 The Living, Embodied Person.............................................................................42 The Corpse...........................................................................................................44 The Soul...............................................................................................................45 The Soul in the Afterlife......................................................................................48 Punishment in the Afterlife.................................................................................50 I wear the chain I forged in life........................................................................52 The Chain as Instrument of Punishment.............................................................55 The punishment of resurrected bodies at the future Last Judgment.............55 The punishment of immortal souls immediately after death........................56 Cashboxes, keys, padlocks [] and heavy purses wrought in steel................58 The Ghost Blend Offers New Meaning at Once Metaphoric and Metonymic...........59 vi

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A Conceptual Anatomy of Victorian Debates about Punishment..............................63 Victorian Challenges to Retributive Justice...............................................................65 Marleys Ghost: Decompressing Cause and Effect to Disconnected Spaces?....69 Marleys Ghost: Compressing Penal Cause and Effect within the Individual....71 Interpreting Scrooge as Living in the Blend...........................................................74 3 THE GHOSTLY NUN: TIME COMPRESSION IN GERARD MANLEY HOPKINSS THE WRECK OF THE DEUTSCHLAND......................................80 From Sinful Ghost to Saintly Ghost...........................................................................80 Where The Wreck of the Deutschland Is Headed...................................................81 The Multiple Blend Network That Steers The Wreck to Its End............................84 The Input Spaces to the Ghostly Nun Conceptual Integration Network....................85 The Input Space of the Nuns Shipwreck and Death..........................................86 The Input Space of the Nuns Afterlife in Heaven..............................................88 The Input Space of Nuptial Intercourse...............................................................92 The Blended Space of Nuptial Intercourse and the Nun in Heaven....................92 The Blended Space of Nuptial Intercourse and the Nuns Earthly Shipwreck...96 Multiple Blend of Blended Spaces: the Bride of Both Earth and Heaven........101 Compressions Created by the Ghostly Nun Blend...................................................102 Compression of Times.......................................................................................103 Compressions of Identity...................................................................................105 Compression of Cause and Effect.....................................................................108 Multiple Spaces Permit Multiple Readings of The Wreck...................................111 The Generic Space: The Body Altered by External Force.......................................119 Hopkins and the Phenomenology of Sense Experience....................................126 The Generic Space and the Poems Rhetorical Effectiveness...........................128 4 EROTIC PROPHECIES, POLITICAL SEDUCTIONS: TIME BLENDING IN WALT WHITMANS SO LONG!.......................................................................136 From Ghosts In the Text to Ghosts Outside the Text........................................136 Tracing the Directions of Whitman Criticism..........................................................140 Textbook Cases: Leaves of Grass in the MLA Handbook for Teachers..................142 One Direction: Leaves of Grass Conceptualizes Political Life via the Body....143 A Second Direction: Leaves of Grass Conceptualizes the Body via Political Concepts.........................................................................................................150 The Counterintuitive Strength of the Second Direction: The Body May Be Abstract..........................................................................................................156 A Third Way Proposed: Double-Scope Blending with Dual Directionality.....161 So Long! as Double-Scope Blend.........................................................................163 The Visionary Orator Frame.............................................................................163 The Sexual Seduction Frame.............................................................................166 Other Double-Scope Blending in Leaves of Grass...................................................177 Whitman Criticism and Double-Scope Blending.....................................................185 vii

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Whitmans Contribution to Cognitive Science.........................................................187 Anticipating The Life to Come..................................................................................188 5 A LEAP, A LINE, A LIFETIME: THE BLENDING OF TIMES IN E. M. FORSTERS THE LIFE TO COME.........................................................................190 A Leap, a Line, a Lifetime........................................................................................191 The Extension of Time Added to the Compression of Time....................................196 The Other Boat: the Young Leaping to Early Death.............................................199 The Plot of The Other Boat............................................................................200 The Compression and Extension of Time in The Other Boat........................202 The Dynamism of Leap-Line-Life Blending in The Other Boat...................203 The Life to Come: the Old Leaping to Young Death............................................207 The Plot of The Life to Come........................................................................208 The Compression and Extension of Time in The Life to Come....................209 The Dynamism of Leap-Line-Lifetime Blending in The Life to Come........210 Ansell as Response to The Other Boat and The Life To Come.....................216 The Plot of Ansell..........................................................................................216 Multiple Blending in Ansell...........................................................................218 Forsters Touch and the Direction of Narrative.................................................221 6 AFTERWORD: HIDDEN PICTURES OF THE FUTURE IN THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY.........................................................................................................224 The Denial of Time in The Picture of Dorian Gray.................................................224 Another Denial of Time in The Picture of Dorian Gray..........................................228 Painting Mental Pictures of the Future.....................................................................230 The Representational Art of Making a Promise: Depictive or Performative?..........231 Dorian Gray as Parable............................................................................................234 LIST OF REFERENCES.................................................................................................237 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH...........................................................................................244 viii

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LIST OF FIGURES Figure page 1-1. The Two-Domain Structure of Conceptual Metaphor...............................................15 1-2. Conceptual Integration Network...............................................................................16 1-3. Typical Ghost: Time Compression Figure Blending Past and Present.....................22 1-4. Compression of an Outer-Space Relation to an Inner-Space Relation......................25 2-1. The Soul as an Entailment of a Conceptual Blend....................................................46 2-2. The Corpse as a Conceptual Blend of a Body Missing the Soul...............................47 2-3. Compressions of Cause and Effect in Marleys Ghost..............................................72 3-1. Network with Blending of Nuns Afterlife with Nuptial Intercourse.......................93 3-2. Network with Blend of Nuptial Intercourse and Nuns Death..................................97 3-3. Multiple Blend of Blends Producing the Ghostly Nun............................................102 4-1. So Long! with Reader as Primary Time-Traveling Ghost...................................138 4-2. So Long! with Whitman as Primary Time-Traveling Ghost................................139 4-3. The Metaphorical Argument for Whitmans Democratic Appeal.......................145 4-4. The Metaphorical Argument for Whitmans Sexual Manifesto..........................152 4-5. So Long! as Double-Scope Blend........................................................................168 4-6. So Long! Blend Showing Tension Across Modes of Knowing...........................171 5-1. Curving Line AD.....................................................................................................191 5-2. Diving Human Body as Curving Line AD..............................................................192 5-3. Conceptual Metaphor of Life as Motion Along a Line...........................................192 5-4. Moving Body at One Point Along Its Lifetimeline.................................................194 ix

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5-6. Blend of AD and AB, Anticipated and Actual Lifetimelines..................................195 5-7. Edward Blends His Falling Books with His Lifetimeline.......................................219 x

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Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy BODIES OF BLENDED TIMES: TIME COMPRESSION FIGURES AND THE IMAGINATION OF THE FUTURE By David A. Matthew December 2003 Chair: Pamela Gilbert Major Department: English Using Gilles Fauconniers and Mark Turners theory of conceptual integration networks, this dissertation identifies and examines literary figures created by an imaginative blending of the future with the present. They are similar to conventional ghosts, which are created when the mind compresses distinct past and present conceptual spaces into a blend, a conceptual space producing its own new and emergent properties and logic. A key function of the figures identified here is that their bodies exhibit causal links between present and future; they thus compress otherwise diffuse and uncertain causal relationships between external, temporally distant spaces to an internal relationship directly experienced in the body. The time compression figures identified and discussed are Marleys Ghost from A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens; the Ghostly Nun from The Wreck of the Deutschland by Gerard Manley Hopkins; the encounter between reader and poet in So Long! from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman; and the dying young figures created xi

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by the reader of Ansell, The Life to Come, and The Other Boat, short stories in The Life to Come, and Other Stories by E. M. Forster. By beginning with ghost figures that seem to be in the text and ending with figures that the reader must create from and add to the text, the argument highlights the active role of the readers embodied mind in creating ghosts and other time compression figures. Analysis of the conceptual constituents of these figures of time compression sheds light on the elements required for the readers active engagement with these texts, as well as on the insights and limits of previous literary critical responses. Rather than replacing other approaches to literature, the cognitive approach used here opens up and supplements canonical interpretive approaches. Because the figures examined here reveal mostly new attempts to conceptualize the future in a culture deeply concerned with time, their analyses contribute to the fields of Victorian studies and utopian studies. As examples of temporal blending, they are offered as evidence to the field of cognitive science and its inquiry into embodied conceptualizations of time. xii

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CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION: FIGURING THE FUTURE IN BODIES OF BLENDED TIMES The Aims of Literature According to a tradition that goes back to Horace, the aims of literature are to instruct and to delight: aut prodesse [] aut delectare (Ars Poetica l.333). Sometimes, however, literature reaches for more. Turning a critical eye on the world, literature may reveal a belief that merely entertaining or even edifying an audience is not enough, that what is needed is more radical change. Breathing through the text may be a desire that the audience must become completely different people, or that the conditions people find themselves in must be completely alteredor that both people and their conditions must be fundamentally changed together. In such literary aspirations, the urge simply to instruct is ratcheted up several notches. The hope is not to teach what wise sages have already learned. The hope is for unprecedented knowledge, the kind that leads to unprecedented experience: a previously unimaginable life, a previously unimaginable world. There are diverse ways to conceptualize such change, and it is the intrepid effort of the interdisciplinary field called utopian studies to identify and consider them all. This dissertation attempts to identify and to examine just one: the literary figure created by an imaginative blending of the future with the present. By compressing the future and the present into the same conceptual space, such a figure often aims to give its present audience a proleptic experience of the future. Offering the reader a foretasteor what Marxist utopian theorist Ernst Bloch called an anticipatory illumination (Zipes xxxv) 1

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2 of the future, the time compression figure attempts to confirm the reality of seeds that have been planted either within the reader or the readers world, seeds that give promise of more and better fruit to come. The Biblical Sources of Figures That Blend Future and Present I first became interested in this rhetorical figure, an imaginative device that prompts readers to blend the future with the present, as a student of biblical eschatology. Bloch has acknowledged that the utopian spirit arrived with the eschatological conscience, which was brought to the world by the Bible (152). In its narrowest sense, eschatology refers to the eschaton, the last things of the end-time envisioned by biblical writers. The term was coined in the early 19 th century by theologians to refer to that part of systematic theology which deals with Christian beliefs concerning death, the afterlife, judgment, and the resurrection (Aune 594). Over time, eschatology has acquired a more general definition and now signifies the whole constellation of beliefs and conceptions about the end of history and the transformation of the world which particularly characterized early Judaism, and early Christianity, and Islam (594). Discussing the concepts of promise and fulfillment in biblical eschatology, New Testament scholars distinguish between consistent (or future) eschatology and realized eschatology (Aune 599-600). In consistent eschatology, Gods promise of a new reality is experienced as not yet fulfilled because it consistently exists only in the future. In realized eschatology, the promise is experienced as having been already fulfilled; the promised reality can therefore be experienced now in the present. New Testament texts, especially the epistles of Paul, have created incessant debate because they exhibit a tension between the already and the not yet, sometimes manifesting realized eschatology, sometimes manifesting consistent eschatology. Pauls

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3 letters make it clear that he had to deal with problems that arose when his followers could not, to his satisfaction, discern when and how to apply these two eschatological principles to daily life. If Jesus has already been resurrected to rule over the cosmos, does this mean that Pauls followers who call Jesus Lord no longer need to obey the laws of Rome? If the sinful body has died with Christ in baptism, does that mean the believer baptized by Paul has a body that is now radically free from both sin and death? According to the logic of realized eschatology, these are plausible conclusions. When Paul felt his co-religionists had gone too far in the direction of realized eschatology, he pulled them back to consistent eschatology. He maintained that some things (including the final rule of Christ and the absolute inviolability of the spiritual body) will be fully realized only when Christ returns. On the other hand, Paul also exhorted spiritual slackers to actualize in present behavior their already redeemed, already heaven-stamped selves. These included Gentile Christians who thought they needed to be circumcised into Judaism to become part of Gods new creation (Galatians 6:15 NRSV). And these also included some Jewish Christians who continued to wait for the political restoration of Israel rather than believe that an alternative, utterly spiritual kingdom had already been granted in the resurrection of Christ (Fredriksen 173). The presence of an alreadynot yet tension in Christian scriptures has led some to describe it as the defining dynamic, or even the key problem, of Christian personal and communal life (Ramey). When the believer (or the community of believers) is conceptualized as an entity having one foot in the promised kingdom of God and the

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4 other foot still in this world, the result is a distinctively Christian figure of future-present blending. In the Christian literary canon, a prime example of future-present blending can be found in Lukes story of the Transfiguration of Jesus (9:28-36; all citations NRSV). As Luke tells it, Jesus had taken Peter, John, and James up to a mountain to pray. Jesus suddenly became altered: his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Moses and Elijah appeared alongside Jesus and were speaking of his departureliterally, his exoduswhich he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. The context surrounding the story clarifies that the Transfiguration is telling Lukes readers about the impending death of Jesus: [Jesus] said to his disciples, Let these words sink into your ears: The Son of Man is going to be betrayed into human hands. But they did not understand this saying (9:43b-45a). Lukes readers are meant to understand what the disciples, apparently, do not. They will understand that the present Jesus on the mountain with his disciples is simultaneously the future Jesus, the one who will have depart[ed] and accomplish[ed] Gods work, and who will have been given the white robe reserved for the souls of those who had been slaughtered for the word of God and for the testimony they had given (Revelation 6:11, 9). In the Transfiguration story, readers are shown a Jesus in whom the future and the present are blended. Readers are prompted to see a future, resurrected Jesus at the same time as they see a present Jesus who has yet to be crucified. This kind of temporal confusion in a text may present no problem for the literalist who thinks that God can do anything, and who believes that God wrote the Bible by somehow bypassing biologically created, historically situated, fully human brains of living writers. But the responsible

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5 scholar should be interested in how a human mind could have conceived the Transfiguration: how that mind could invent a person who is at once the present Jesus, living among his first disciples, and the future Jesus, martyred and resurrected and dwelling in heavenly glory. Of equal importance is the question of how the readers mind can be prompted by the textual data to recreate that blend of distinctly different times. The Prior Question of the Figuring Mind In other words, simply noticing a figure that blends the future with the present is not enough. When I began to notice time-blending figures in other, non-biblical texts, I began a deeper inquiry into this particular figuration process. How can the human imagination invent such figures of blended times in the first place, and what functions might they serve? My search for answers, the results of which are laid out in the rest of this introductory chapter, proceeded along several lines: 1) Because these figures are temporal blends, we first need to ask how the human mind conceptualizes time, as well as different times, such as past, present, and future. I found answers to this set of questions in the conceptual metaphor theory of George Lakoff and Mark Johnson. 2) Because these figures blend different times, we must also ask how human minds can conceptualize what might seem impossible to conceive. If, after all, we start off conceptualizing the future and the present as mutually exclusive concepts, then how can we turn around and blend them into the same conceptual space? I found answers to this set of questions in Gilles Fauconniers and Mark Turners theory of conceptual integration networks, also known as blending theory. My use of the term blend is borrowed directly from them.

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6 3) Because the figures I am identifying blend the future with the present, we can ask what is gained by such blends. In addition to Blochs utopian function that offers an anticipatory illumination of the future, might there be other operations that these figures perform? Blending theory suggests that these figures do, indeed, have other functions, chief among them the function of compression as a means to insight. 4) Because the literary blends I examine in the following chapters are each figured as human bodies, we can ask why the figure of the human body is so important to time compression. Are there time compression blends that are not figured as human bodies? If so, then why are the blends that are figured as bodies so compelling? For these questions, I have settled upon answers that ultimately derive from second-generation cognitive science, which is the interdisciplinary umbrella under which both conceptual metaphor theory and blending theory fall (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh (74-81). Time in the Theory of Conceptual Metaphor To create a figure of blended times, a mind must be able to conceptualize time. The experience of time is real, yet it is thoroughly mediated through human brains. Because humans experience time only relative to the experience of events, humans must conceptualize time using terms that come from our bodies experience of events; this means, consequently, that our conceptualizations of time are metaphorical. Apparently, we learn to perform this metaphorical translation from experience to time so quickly that it soon becomes unconscious. According to George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, our brains are built to help us forget that when we think about time we must use metaphorical concepts (the original term used in Metaphors We Live By [7]), also known as conceptual metaphors (the more recent term used in Philosophy in the Flesh [45]).

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7 Lakoff and Johnson have continued to work on an understanding of the unconscious mind and its store of conceptual metaphors ever since their first collaboration, Metaphors We Live By (1980), up through Philosophy in the Flesh (1999), their most recent. They explain human imagination and reason with the model of a mapping or projection from a source domain to a target domain. When the mind conceptualizes a more abstract target domain of human experience or judgment, it maps or projects inferential structure from (what is usually, but not necessarily) a more bodily, concrete, literal, and familiar source-domain concept. The result is a conceptual metaphor. These source-to-target mappings acquire a subjectively felt stability because they are hard-wired along neural pathways in the brain, presumably stored as a knowledge structure in long-term memory (Grady et al. 102). Yet if conceptual metaphors are hard-wired and thus have the subjective feel of stable truth, they are nevertheless invented. They are not innate. They are neural creations that occur after birth as the infants embodied mind begins to interact with its environment. Although new conceptual metaphors can be learned later in life, the set of conceptual metaphors that builds with the developing brain is called the cognitive unconscious (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 9-15). (It should also be noted that when cognitive scientists use terms like hard-wired, they do so fully aware that they are reasoning metaphoricallyyet inescapably soabout real neural activities in real human brains.) In analyses using conceptual metaphor theory, a conceptual metaphor is usually capitalized, often with small capitals, and frequently in the form of [TARGET DOMAIN] IS [SOURCE DOMAIN]. In an analysis of any particular conceptual metaphor, the projection

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8 or mapping of inferential structure from one domain to the other is always depicted with an arrow in the opposite direction: [Source] [Target]. Because this dissertation identifies and examines figures of blended times, the theory of conceptual metaphor helps point us to a cluster of what are called TIME IS SPATIAL EXPERIENCE metaphors. In these metaphors, the sensorimotor bodys early experiences of navigating its spatial environment serves as the source domain of our concepts of time. Within the cluster of TIME IS SPATIAL EXPERIENCE metaphors is the TIME ORIENTATION metaphor. In this metaphor, the target domain is an understanding of the concepts of past, present, and future. The source domain is ones familiarity with bodily orientation in space, which gives us the literal concepts of in front of and behind. The following array presents a skeletal analysis of the TIME ORIENTATION metaphor and how the embodied mind maps concrete spatial experiences to the abstract domain of different times (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 140): THE TIME ORIENTATION METAPHOR The Location of the O bserver nt re The Space Behind the Observer The Past The metaphorical results of the TIME ORIENTATION METAPHOR can be seen in everyday statements such as The future is before us, I want to live in the here and now, and As soon as this issue is behind us, we can relax. The [Source] [Target] array is especially useful because it helps us attend to the left side of the arrow, the source domain. There we can quickly discern the presence of what Lakoff and Johnson refer to The Prese The Space In Front of The Observer The Futu

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9 as the literal, basic sensorimotor concepts that serve as the stable source domain for the abstract concepts to the right (58). In the TIME ORIENTATION METAPHOR, the conceptualization of time derives especially from structure borrowed from the bodys visual system that has eyes that look forward in the same direction from one area of the head (unlike fish, which have eyes on right and left sides). The observers eyes perceive and observe the space in front of its body, but the observer can also turn so that the eyes can look behind its body or even at its own body as it is standing still in one place. The mind projects these experiences of visual orientation of space around the body to understandings of future, past, and present, respectively. In a related conceptual metaphor for time, the MOVING OBSERVER metaphor, the visual orientation is supplemented by the bodys motor skills. Temporal experience is conceptualized through the experience of an observer who physically moves from locations now behind it to locations ahead of it, hence, from the past to the future. The result creates the possibility of conceptualizing more times than simply three (past, present, future). It also permits the conceptualization of time as something that can pass in the same manner as bodies that can travel (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 146): THE MOVING OBSERVER METAPHOR Locations On Observers Path s The Motion Of The Observer The Passage of Time The Distance Moved By The Observer The Amount of Time Passed of Motion Time

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10 The MOVING OBSERVER METAPHOR permits us to unconsciously and quickly make statements about the future such as Well get to Friday soon enough and Youll find yourself running into a problem down the road. Additionally, because the sensorimotor body not only moves in space but also experiences objects as they move toward and away from it, we also have a flip version of this metaphor in our cognitive unconscious, the MOVING TIME METAPHOR. In the MOVING TIME METAPHOR, figure and ground switch places; instead of conceptualizing time as a static landscape across which an observer can move, time is now conceptualized as an object that moves relative to a stationary observer (141): THE MOVING TIME METAPHOR Object s s Time Time The Motion Of Objects Past The Observer The Passage of The MOVING TIME METAPHOR permits us to utter such statements as My, the hour has flown by! and I cant wait until the weekend arrives. If the bodys experience of motion in space grounds everyday conceptual metaphors for talking about time, it also grounds the metaphors and rhetorical flourishes that poets and other imaginative thinkers use to express time. Poets create extraordinary art, but they do so using the building blocks of ordinary conceptual metaphors. Their art is especially evident in the ways they add flesh to the bodily skeletons that structure unconscious conceptual metaphors. Consider this passage from Tennysons Locksley Hall (1840): When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed;

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11 When I dipt into the future as far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the world and all the wonder that would be. (13-16) Tennysons narrator is thinking about time, which is especially noticeable due to therepeating instances of the word When. The narrator uses the TIME ORIENTATION metaphor in which past, present, and future correspond to observable positions around him. Starting from the premise that time is a spatial location, the narrator then proceto visualize time as an entire landscape. On that landscape Tennyson can add fruit-bearing trees, and he can depict his narrator clinging to the ground beneath him wgazing as far as human eye could see. Tennysons poem simply gussies up an everyday concept from the cognitive unconscious to express a temporal visi eds hile on of the future ure rray of words on the page metaphor for time: breath, (and, in case you are wondering, no, it is not ultimately a pretty one). Often the creative mind can do more than simply add flesh to the bodily skeletons that ground conceptual metaphors. It can also try to represent that conceptual skeleton ina new artistic form. Consider the spatial dynamics of William Butler Yeatss An IrishAirman Foresees His Death (1919). In this poem, a pilot ponders the meaning of his life. Combining several conceptual metaphors for time, the poem has the pilot observingthat the future is to come and that the past is behind him, even as he himself is also flying in motion over a landscape. Yet what is unique in Yeatss poem is not the mixtof metaphors (anyone can do that!); rather, it is the arrangement of different times as different spaces within the visible form of his text. The spatial a mimics the spatial grounding of the I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of A waste of breath the years behind

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12 In balance with this life, this death. (13-16; emphases added) For the airman, spatial orientation provides temporal orientation, which ultimately provides existential orientation. But for Yeats, the poet who must arrange words on a page, the orientation in the airmans mind can also be recreated spatially on the page. The years to come and the years behind visually balance each other on left and rightsides of lines 14 and 15; this balance corresponds to a spatial balance made possible by the unconscious roots of the temporal concept. The airman is basically an observer who, in the present, occupies a midpoint between past and future. Or rather, he concludes thahis imminent death may provide a perfect midpoint between one set of years (the past) and another (the future), both of which are equally a waste of breath. He seems to find existential meanin t g in conceptualizing a balance between two equal spaces, two equivily s it. y 5, stories send bodies or books leaping to their deaths as protests against imagined futures. alent times. In this dissertation, it is assumed that literary imaginations of the future necessaremploy conceptual metaphors for time. Often, I will treat a texts imagined future as target domain, and I will proceed to draw attention to the source domain that groundIn some cases, the grounding experience can be strikingly peculiar. In Chapter 3s discussion of The Wreck of the Deutschland, for instance, Gerard Manley Hopkins adapts a brides experience of going to her bridegroom and being sexually penetrated bhim to ground a vision of a dying saint going to her future reward in heaven. In other cases, the grounding experience can seem quite conventional. As I discuss in Chaptereach of three short stories in E. M. Forsters The Life To Come relies on the MOVING OBSERVER metaphor. Yet in Forsters stories, the conventional metaphor for time is employed for unconventional purposes, as is demonstrated when these

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13 At this point I should make an important disclaimer about conceptual metaphors for time: the conceptual metaphors discussed above are not the only ways to conceptualize time. Admittedly, linguistic evidence seems to support the claim that there is no human culture that does not conceptualize time in terms of the bodys experience of motion and space. Yet as the MOVING OBSERVER and MOVING TIME metaphors demonstrate in their figure-ground reversals of one another, there is ample room for variety even within the TIME IS SPATIAL EXPERIENCE cluster of conceptual metaphors. Anthropological evidence exists to support this variety. The Aymara of the Chilean Andes, for example, are reported to be alone in regularly conceptualizing the future as behind them. This is because the Aymara conceptualize the future as that which cannot be seen, the eyes perceiving only what is in front of the body (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 141). Yet two things must be said about the Aymaran conceptualization of time: first, because the Aymara conceptualize the future as coming toward them from behind, they still rely on space and motion to conceptualize the future. Second, the Aymaran conceptualization of the future as unseen relies on another common conceptual metaphor, KNOWING IS SEEING, which is also rooted firmly in basic bodily experience: to see an object is to have some basic knowledge of it; hence, ideas can be conceptualized as objects that can be seen and manipulated. The KNOWING IS SEEING metaphor, by the way, forms the bodily basis of Descartes ironically disembodied epistemology (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 393-414). In the course of working on this dissertation, I have often been stirred by the utopian spirit to wonder what it would be like to have a radically different source domain grounding a radically new conceptual metaphor for temporal experience. In the west,

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14 there is, in fact, an alternative metaphor for time already available in our cognitive unconscious: TIME IS A RESOURCE. Some cultures, such as the Pueblo, do not produce a statement such as I didnt have enough time for that, although they might produce the statement, My path didnt take me there to express the same thought (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 164). But in the west, we can produce and understand statements such as Ive wasted this hour, Who gobbled up my weekend? and Steal some moments this evening for yourself. Money is one kind of resource, and the importance of money in the west has brought the full force of cultural institutions and artifacts, including clocks, time management, budgets, and efficiency studies, to help the TIME IS MONEY metaphor become entrenched in the cognitive unconscious of most westerners. That said, however, I have yet to see any literary work in which its conceptualization of time and the future is fundamentally grounded in money or any other resource. (Intuitively, the changing light of the day and the change in amount of water seem chief possibilities.) Until I am surprised by a literary work that is structured on a TIME IS A RESOURCE, TIME IS MONEY, or some other, entirely unprecedented, metaphor, I must satisfy myself with exploring texts in which the experience of motion in space grounds the conceptualization of time and the future. The Theory of Conceptual Integration Networks, or Blending Theory Conceptual metaphor theory can account for the ways we conceptualize past, present and future. But how do we explain a figure, such as the Transfiguration of Jesus, in which exclusive times seem pressed together, and in which the distant future impossibly shares the same space with the present? To account for creative clashes such as this, we need a different theory.

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15 Conceptual metaphor theory offers a model with two distinct conceptual spaces: a source domain and a target domain. In addition, the model proposes a unidirectional flow: because the arrow goes from source to target, the model implies that the source domain provides all the crucial structure for understanding the target domain. Using a diagrammatic model, conceptual metaphor theory might be represented something like Figure 1-1: Source Domain Target Domain Figure 1-1. The Two-Domain Structure of Conceptual Metaphor Each circle represents a conceptual domain. Each line represents the mapping or projection from the source domain to the target domain. The black points represent the schematic structure that is projected from the source domain to create counterpart structure for the target domain. For example, in the TIME ORIENTATION metaphor, the source domain counterpart the location behind the observer is connected to its target counterpart the past is behind. Upon discovering figures that could not be explained by the conceptual metaphor model, Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner developed a new model, called the conceptual integration network. Their model is reproduced below in Figure 1-2 (Conceptual Integration Networks Cognitive Science 22.2: 142-144; The Way We Think 46).

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16 Generic Space Figure 1-2. Conceptual Integration Network In this model, there are not two but four conceptual constituents: two distinct input spaces, an all-important blended space, and a generic space (not to be confused with genre) that shares basic structure with the other spaces. The solid lines in the model represent connections between counterparts across the input spaces (these would include the metaphoric counterparts that we see in conceptual metaphors). The broken lines represent selected elements that are projected from one space to another. The unlinked dots in the input spaces represent the fact that not every element of an input space is selected to, or has relevance for, the blended space. Moreover, the unfilled dots within the blended space represent new elements that may be recruited to the blend, but that do not come from any of the main input spaces. Importantly, the blended space thus Blended Space Input Input Space 1 Space 2

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17 develops structure that is not directly available from either inputit is not copied from the inputs (Conceptual Integration Networks 144). The square in the blended space represents this emerging structure that is composed and completed in the conceptual blend, and which can even be elaborated further if the mind traces out the new logic and principles made possible in the blend. One clear advantage of the blending model over conceptual metaphor theory is that it challenges the idea that only one source domain will provide all of the key structure in a rhetorical figure. In so-called primary metaphors such as KNOWING IS SEEING and the TIME IS SPATIAL MOTION, the source alone does appear to provide all of the key structure to the resultant blended space (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 49-54). In many cases, however, a figure that we might call metaphorical actually receives crucial structure from more than just one input space. Such a blend may even have more than two input spaces (Figure 1-2 is only a minimal network), and a blend will often develop new structure of its own, recruiting new elements not available from the inputs. Another advantage of blending theory is that the two circles correlating to source and target domains are here called input spaces (or input mental spaces) rather than domains. The concept of the input mental space is potentially more open-ended than the concept of the domain, which may imply a completed or bounded set of knowledge. Indeed, whereas conceptual metaphor theory emphasizes the stable and enduring set of conceptual metaphors in the cognitive unconscious, blending theory is more apt to stress the partial and temporary nature of the mental space, defined as a partial and temporary representational structure which speakers construct when thinking or talking about a perceived, imagined, past, present, or future situation. Mental spaces (or, spaces, for short) are not equivalent to domains, but, rather,

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18 they depend on them: spaces represent particular scenarios which are structured by given domains. (Grady et al. 102) So while the input mental space relies on, and thus does not contradict, the dynamics of conceptual metaphors, because they are scenarios that are partial and temporary, they may be fed by diverse and even clashing metaphors. Important in blending theory is the claim that the mind constructs this network on-line; that is, the entire conceptual integration network is dynamic and active along real neural pathways in the brain. We find a blend meaningful only because our brains are actively sustaining and integrating each of the contributing spaces within a live network, while simultaneously keeping those spaces distinct, too. Also, it must again be cautioned that cognitive scientists are aware that these diagrams are nothing more than useful representations of actual neural processes they are trying to model. And if words like network and on-line sound overly mechanical, we should recall that cognitive scientists are quite aware that they are using metaphors to conceptualize mental processes that remain largely a mystery. Cognitive scientists do not have a problem with the fact that conceptual metaphors and blends ground reasoning, including scientific reasoning. While the cognitive theory of blending is quite recent, the recognition of literary blends is quite old. Horace begins the Ars Poetica, his letter to those aspiring poets, the Piso boys, by advising them to refrain from inventing exceedingly fantastical blends: If a painter were willing to join a horses neck to a human head and spread on multicolored feathers, with different parts of the body brought in from anywhere and everywhere, so that what starts out above as a beautiful woman ends up horribly as a black fish, could you my friends, if you had been admitted to the spectacle, hold back your laughter? Believe me, dear Pisos, that very similar to such a painting would be a literary work in which meaningless images are fashioned, like the dreams of someone who is mentally ill, so that neither the foot nor the head can be attributed to a single form. Painters and poets, someone objects, have always had an equal right to dare to do whatever they wanted. We know it and we both seek this indulgence and grant it in turn. But not to the degree

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19 that the savage mate with the gentle, nor that snakes be paired with birds, nor lambs with tigers. (l.1-13; emphases added) Although Horace is warning against blends he finds rhetorically silly, it is noteworthy that this granddaddy of reader-response criticism does begin, nevertheless, by describing invention as a kind of conceptual blending. Before telling the Pisos to reject the fantastical creature, he requires his readers to construct it in their own minds. He asks his readers to select elements from normally distinct conceptual specieswhat we might call distinct input spacesand then he directs his readers to blend those elements into a single figure, creating something altogether new. If we, as Horaces readers, select a horses neck, a human head, and some birds feathers, we create in our minds something that is neither a horse, nor a human, nor a bird, but something radically newlet us call it a hormanird. In the theory of conceptual integration networks, the hormanird is a conceptual blend. Because it behaves in a way that no horse, no human, nor bird ever could, it manifests emergent structurethat is, it has properties that do not derive from any of the mental input spaces alone but that emerge only within the resultant blend. Suppose, for example, that this hormanird is said to squawk with joy whenever it sees a human child. Its emotion would come from the input space of the human being, but that emotion would be expressed through the sounds coming from the input space of the bird with feathers, even though we know next to nothing about whether birds actually express happiness, let alone how they feel about human children. Moreover, the neck, where human vocal chords are located, is a horses neck in the hormanird, yet instead of whinnying, as we might expect, it squawks. Squawking with joy would be an emergent property that is developed in the blendsomething new, something not derived from any single contributing input space.

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20 Let us further conjecture that the hormanird gives rides to young children, but that the children ride on its long neck, rather than on its back. Neck riding, however, does not derive from the input space of the horse, for a horse is ridden on its back, not its neck. The concept of hormanird riding would derive in great part from the input space of horseback riding, but the part of the horse required for riding would be completely absent from the blend! A new propertyhormanirdneck ridingwould emerge from the hormanird blend. It would not be available from any single input space, but would emerge as a new development within the creative blend. If our hormanird seems too implausibly fantastic and, for this reason, as Horace advises, should be rejected, we should recall that Horace has plenty of advice to give about the proper way to depict satyrs and fauns, those fantastical goat-men of myth (220-250). For Horace, of course, it is not the invention of the hormanird that is problematic but the audiences predictable response to it. For our purposes, however, it is important to ask what Horace only takes for granted: how a hormanird, a satyr, or any other such novelty can be conceptualized in the first place. Indeed, there is reason to believe that the origins of art in modern Homo sapiens can be traced back at least 30,000 years to artifacts exactly like Horaces satyr: drawings, figurines, and carvings that blend animals with humans (Mithen 155-164). From many diverse fields from anthropology to neurobiology, a consensus is converging on the thesis that the unique property of the modern human brain is its ability to invent by crossing, mapping, projecting, or blending across distinct domains, modules or spaces of knowledge and experience (Mithen; Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 183-87; Spolksy Gaps in Nature 19-41; Spolsky Darwin and Derrida). In accord with this consensus, the theory

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21 of conceptual integration networks offers a non-reductive explanation of invention as that which also newly emerges as a result of the mixtures of previously available conceptual spaces. A Common Figure of Blended Times: The Conventional Ghost We can now bring conceptual blending theory to bear on the issue of how the embodied mind createsand, through reading, recreatesa figure of blended times, which is a different kind of blend than Horaces figure of blended animal parts. Let us consider, instead, the conventional ghost. Unlike the future-blending figures that this dissertations chapters examine, the conventional ghost is a figure that blends the present with the past. Using the theory of conceptual integration networks, we can begin to understand such a ghost as the blend of input spaces distinguished primarily (if not solely) by their temporal differences. Like a satyr or a hormanird, a ghost cannot be corroborated by empirical evidence; according to all the laws of physics and biology, it is an impossible being. But the figure of a ghost emerges as the new product of an imaginative process of time compression blending. The ghost becomes possible when the mind compresses the distance between the past and the present (Figure 1-3). To imagine such a ghost, the mind must select elements from two distinct input spaces, past and present, and blend them into the same space. In the input space of the past, there is the living body, but which has since died, decayed, and disappeared from normal human sight. In the input space of the present, we do not have tangible communication with dead peopleat least, not of the kind that can be recorded on videotape or audiotape sufficiently to convince a public audience that the ghost can also be experienced by those not subjectively or emotionally tied to the ghost. But in the blended space, some feature or features of that once living or dying body are

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22 Generic Space Real shape, voice, animation Figure 1-3. Typical Ghost: Time Compression Figure Blending Past and Present perceptibly present, contrary to the laws of physics: a familiar shape is seen, even though the material body that produced that shape is gone; a recognizable voice is heard, even though there are no vocal chords to create sound; moreover, information may be shared, even though the ghost has no brain which could store information to share. By its very Input Space 1: Body in Past Time Blended Space: Ghost Body Input Space 2: Body in Present Time Materiality; biological life (but now dead) Shape, voice, animation Obeys some laws of physics but not others Communicates across different times Communicates with others in current time Absence of material basis for shape, voice, memory, animation Communicated with others in past time Conversation Real shape, voice, animation Materiality; biological life (still alive) Perception of objects and motion

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23 existence, the typical ghost bridges distant space-time events that could not be naturally experienced by a human being, and it becomes an apparition or presence capable of communicating across the temporal divide. Figure 1-3 accounts for how the mind can imagine figures that have one foot in the past and one in the present. This dissertation, however, examines figures distinguished by having one foot in the future. Because the processes required to imagine these figures are similar to those involving the imagination of conventional ghosts, I refer to them, too, as essentially ghost-like. The only difference involved in imagining ghosts from the future is that the mind must activate and sustain an input space of the future. Because ghosts from the past are common in culture and literature, we may forget to be amazed that they pose a serious problem to the scientific, empirically rigorous, modern mind. In fact, for the extreme positivist, even imagining a ghost poses a problem because the positivist assumes that the reasoning mind should only discuss empirically verifiable entities. Because the positivist assumes that ghosts, fantasies, and other fanciful figures (including metaphors) are irrational, he banishes them from the realm of meaningful public discourse. This is too bad, for he consequently deprives himself of a powerful rhetorical tool of reason and persuasion. The Purposes of Figures of Blended Times We have already mentioned the utopian function that blending figures can perform. But the most powerful tool of time-blending figures may be the global insight they offer due to their time-compressing nature. As Fauconnier and Turner put it, any compression blendwhether it compresses time, cause and effect, change, or other vital relationsaims chiefly to provide global insight through a figure that can be apprehended on a human scale:

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24 Compression is a phenomenon in conceptual integration that allows human beings to simultaneously control long, diffuse chains of logical reasoning and to grasp the global meanings of such chains. [] In blending networks, a vital relation across inputs (outer-space vital relation) can be compressed into a vital relation within the blended space (inner-space vital relation). [] [O]ne of the overarching goals of compression through blending is to achieve human scale in the blended space, where a great many of our conscious manipulations take place. (Compression and Global Insight 283) Figures created by time compression blends offer insight into what would otherwise be a long, diffuse chain of connections and relationships over time. The blended figure affords the mind a shorter, more comprehensible link between distinct and distant times that the mind might otherwise find rather difficult to link. Significantly, the blended figure often conceptualizes these distant connections across separated input spaces as an internal relationship within the blended space. Fauconnier and Turner call this the compression of an outer-space relation to an inner-space relation (The Way We Think 94), where outer-space refers to the different input spaces, and inner-space refers to the blended space. Translated to the conventional ghost blend, for example, we can see that a complex (we might even say impossible) relationship between the past and the present can become conceptualized as a conversation between two people (Figure 1-4). A conversation is a simple scene we can understand at human scale. The ghost blend creates the possibility of an otherwise impossible conversation between someone from the past and someone in the present. Moreover, other chains of connections between the distinct spaces may become possible as a result of the conversation. Conversations with others often lead us to change our minds and to embark on different actions. Consequently, according to the logic emerging in the ghost blend, there is the possibility that the ghostly conversation can lead to changed minds and new actions. One can live in the blend, thinking and

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25 acting according to the logic engendered there (Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 232). Outer Space 2: Present Time Outer Space 1: Past Time Noncommunication Conversation Blended Time Figure 1-4. Compression of an Outer-Space Relation to an Inner-Space Relation Figures that compress the future offer global insight in much the same manner. Epistemologically, future-blending figures may even offer potentially more insight than past-blending figures due to the difference between our knowledge of the future and our knowledge of the past. Because the future is radically less knowable than the past, the real relationship between present and future may appear even more diffuse than that between present and past. The future-blending figure provides a way for the mind to manage that diffusion by creating a relationship between present and future that is intelligible at human scale. And once the figure has prompted the mind to understand the relationship between the present and the future, the mind can then perform conscious manipulations that were formerly unavailable in what had been a diffuse and indeterminate relationship. By means of the blend, the mind can manage the unknown

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26 variables inherent to any thinking about the future. The blend allows the mind to conceptualize causal links between the present and the future, and to undertake action accordingly. As aids to action, figures of future-present time compression manifest a pragmatic function. As Mark Johnson argues in Moral Imagination: Implications of Cognitive Science for Ethics, the aesthetic permeates every aspect of our lives (208), including the pragmatic aspects relating to our moral and temporal lives: Moral imagination is our capacity to see and to realize in some actual or contemplated experience possibilities for enhancing the quality of experience, both for ourselves and for the communities of which we are a part, both for the present and for future generations, both for our existing practices and institutions as well as for those we can imagine as potentially realizable. And this holds true for whether we are experiencing and judging artworks or engaged in pressing moral deliberations that determine the course of our lives. (209) Time-blending figures are particularly well-suited for the moral imagination because they allow the mind to see and to realize in some actual or contemplated experience an intelligible relationship between the present and the future. In order to act in the best way we can, we must try out various framings of situations [] and explore possibilities for constructive interaction that are latent within situations (212). In their human-scale compactness, future-blending figures offer themselves precisely as such new framings for possible action. The moral significance of the minds invention of blended figures is implicitly made in a comment by the philosopher Merleau-Ponty toward the end of Phenomenology of Perception. In a response to Sartre on the question of the nature of freedom, Merleau-Ponty imagines a scene in which a prisoner must invite phantoms into his cell in order to help him act well:

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27 Let us suppose that a man is tortured to make him talk. If he refuses to give the names and addresses which it is desired to extract from him, this does not arise from a solitary and unsupported decision: the man still feels himself to be with his comrades, and, being still involved in the common struggle, he is as it were incapable of talking. Or else, for months or years, he has, in his mind, faced this test and staked his whole life upon it. [] What withstands pain is not, in short, a bare consciousness, but the prisoner with his comrades or with those he loves and under whose gaze he lives []. And probably the individual in his prison daily reawakens these phantoms, which give back to him the strength he gave them. (453-54; discussed in Winter 354-57) Merleau-Pontys prisoner creates scenes of spatial and temporal blending; because the prisoner conjures up friends and family from his past to share his cell with him, the way he understands his current situation is ultimately affected. Merleau-Ponty uses the example to conclude that we choose our world and the world chooses us (454). Figures of time compression blending are the means by which we conceptualize our world, and, when we live in the blend, such figures indeed frame the conditions and possibilities of our actions. The Bodys Role in Assessing the Effectiveness of Time Compression Figures If we want to assess the rhetorical effectiveness of time compression blends, then we will want to judge how well the imagined blend creates an inner-space relation that compresses outer-space complexity. Charles Dickenss A Christmas Carol, the subject of the next chapter, ends with the repentance of Ebenezer Scrooge. Because of Scrooges conversion, most readers might judge Marleys Ghost to be quite effective. Scrooge is the intended audience of Marleys Ghost, so Scrooges response to reading that ghost will indicate the ghosts rhetorical effectiveness. Marleys Ghost is a figure formed from elements of a complex, Christian-based web of ideas asserting certain vital relations between bodies and souls, between sinful acts and end-time punishments, between human and divine beings, and between earthly life and the afterlife. When Scrooge converses

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28 with the ghost and sees its chains, he gains global insight into that complex web. And once Scrooge accepts the blend and lets it reconstruct his temporal thinking, he can then consciously work within the blend, too, and act according to its logic. He can do something uncharacteristically new and different based upon his understanding of the ghost blend. Because we know that Scrooge ultimately changes his life, it can be argued that Marleys Ghost is a superbly effective rhetorical figure of time compression. Scrooge proves that the fantasy world seems to have had profound effects on the psychological reality of the real world (Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 231). But Scrooge, alas, is an invented and purely imagined audience. As Scrooges creator, Dickens could make sure that Scrooge would correctly and competently read Marleys Ghost and would thereby become as good a man, as the good old city knew (Dickens 65). Dickens had control over both the blend and how its reader, Scrooge, would respond to it. It will always be possible to question whether Scrooge could have understood the blend differently, or whether he could have been visited by a different kind of ghostone whose inner-space logic grew more out of economic critique, say, than of Christian individualism. The inner logic that emerges in any blend may always be judged to be inappropriate as an insight if it is first judged that the real relationships that should be compressed are something else entirely. If false consciousness produces some blends, then true consciousness can always supply other blends. (In Victorian fiction, it could be argued that Olive Schreiners timeand space-compressing allegories in Dreams offer socialist and feminist global insight into the same conditions surrounding Scrooge.)

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29 An even more basic difficulty is that, from person to person, the insight offered by time compression figures may vary in their ability, first, to be understood by the reader, and, second, to be sufficiently appropriated. Many readers have failed to notice the Ghostly Nun blend in Gerard Manley Hopkinss The Wreck of the Deutschland precisely because his poetry can appear more diffuse than the insight it tries to offer. Admittedly, Hopkins probably did not intend his poem for unpracticed readersthose without the prerequisite literary competence (Culler). But it did bother Hopkins that the poems first audience, his friend Robert Bridges, could remain so completely unmoved by the logic of the Ghostly Nun. We may have to conclude that, for Hopkins, at least, she was persuasive enough. Even when a figure of time compression blending does not ultimately persuade its audience, we can at least credit some of its rhetorical effectiveness to the compelling nature of its figuration. Once we see Hopkinss Ghostly Nun being tossed to and fro in a sea storm, she attracts our attention. Whether we choose to follow her or not to the future she posits, she is at least effective in turning our eyes toward her. So what is the nature of this first-level effectiveness, this attraction, of Hopkinss Ghostly Nun and Dickenss Marleys Ghost, as time compression figures? I have concluded that it has to do with the sensorimotor body. If the figures examined in this dissertation are interesting for their speculations about the future through insightful compressions of time, they are equally compelling for the ways those speculations and compressions are figured in physical bodies, which must be the most human scale figures we know. When Scrooge imagines what his future soul will look like, he sees the chained body of Marley (Chapter 2). When Hopkins imagines how souls will experience

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30 Gods active power in heaven, he sees a nuns body buffeted and penetrated by gale force winds (Chapter 3). When Walt Whitman imagines a future reader cradling his Leaves of Grass, he sees a reader touching his body (Chapter 4). When we imagine the alternative lives that characters in E. M. Forsters The Life to Come might (or might not) have enjoyed, we see bodies leaping and falling to their deaths (Chapter 5). When conceptual metaphor theorists and others in the field of second-generation cognitive science claim that our knowing is ultimately rooted in our bodys most basic experiences, they usually talk first about our experience as bodies in motion. Taking a different, but parallel, route, Elaine Scarry, who can also be categorized as a cognitive theorist, has claimed it is the body in pain that grounds human imagination and art (The Body in Pain). Scarrys claim is at least partially supported in Chapter 3 of this dissertation, where I argue that Hopkinss The Wreck of the Deutschland grounds an experience of the future in the bodys experience of being the passive and painful object of another agents activity. Then again, moving the opposite direction from pain, I argue in Chapter 4 that Walt Whitmans So Long!, the concluding poem to Leaves of Grass, partially grounds an experience of the future on a different bodily experience, that of sexually mature erotic pleasure. Whether it is the body in motion, the body in pain, or the body in pleasure, it is apparent that the sensorimotor body plays a central role in our conceptualizations of time. When employed well, the body can effectively confer its qualitative feel of certainty onto our concepts of time. Consider, for example, how the human-scale, sensorimotor body can even be recruited to ground the unsexy field of geology. Geologists have had to invent time-compressing figures to explain the notion of deep time. Stephen Jay Gould

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31 cites several examples of these figures in Times Arrow, Times Cycle. I offer two below; the first is taken directly from Mark Twain, and the second is Goulds paraphrase of John McPhee from McPhees book Basin and Range. Which of the two is more effective? 1. If the Eiffel Tower were now representing the worlds age, the skin of paint on the pinnacle-knob at its summit would represent mans share of that age; and anybody would perceive that that skin was what the tower was built for. I reckon they would, I dunno. (qtd. in Gould 2) 2. Consider the earths history as the old measure of the English yard, the distance from the kings nose to the tip of his outstretched hand. One stroke of a nail file on his middle finger erases human history. (3) As metaphorical blends, both examples present imagesa tower and a kingthat compress deep time to human scale. Looking at the Eiffel Tower and looking at a king are much easier than comprehending the billions of years of the earths history. But even Gould confesses that the most striking metaphor of all is the second statement. Could this be because its image puts time onto an actual human body, and then also shows that same human body being slightly whittled away? Sadly, we do not have Gould around so that we might ask him, but that would be my guess. If we choose to argue, instead, that Twains Eiffel Tower figure is superior, I cannot imagine how that argument could prevail without referring to Twains image of paint as skin. For human bodies, our skin is the largest, most visible human organ, and essential for life. But we also experience a loss of skin that is entirely innocuous: peelings after sunburn, calluses bitten off, scrapes that heal, etc. In addition, we have the conceptual metaphors IMPORTANT IS INSIDE and UNIMPORTANT IS OUTSIDE. These metaphors are grounded in a number of experiences, including experiences of the self or soul (as an internal agent who causes the external body to move) and experiences of containers of valuable objects (the peel vs. the fruit, the clothes vs. the person, the

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32 strongbox vs. the cash, etc.). The paint of a building is unimportant compared to the steely edifice it covers. So Twains Eiffel Tower blend results in a clashing set of inferences: a) human beings are unimportant because they are mere paint; and b) human beings are important because human skin is essential to human life. If the clash of inferences in Twains figure is rhetorically effective, it is so chiefly because it is achieved through the blending of a steel tower with a human body. Because it failed to sway even its first intended audience, perhaps the rhetorical lesson of Hopkinss The Wreck of the Deutschland is that the most effective blends are the ones we create ourselves. If this is true, then the blends in Whitmans poetry and Forsters short stories may ultimately prove quite significant. More than Dickens and Hopkins, Whitman and Forster require their readers to become conscious that it is our own reading mindsour own embodied reading mindsthat create blended figures from texts. Reading Whitman and Forster, we can become aware that the rhetorical energy is flowing along new neural pathways created by firings inside our own brains. The time compression blend, its global insight, and its eliciting of new contexts for meaningful actionsthese are all things that our embodied minds do, even when we are reading someone elses words. The wordsthe textual cues that prompt us to build the figures of blendingmay dim compared to the brilliance of the embodied minds of both writers and readers who can create, and recreate, those figures. The Uses of Blending Theory in Literary Criticism For my own mind, this dissertation succeeds on one level by simply identifying literary figures of future-present time compression blending, examining their constituent elements, and appreciating their new and emergent properties. Indeed, readers of the following chapters will discover a bulk of analytical and formal discussion about the

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33 particular figure at hand and how it could be invented. But I hope the chapters will demonstrate that the uses of blending theory can succeed on other levels, too. Once it has been added to their toolboxes, literary critics can find that blending theory helps opens up literature to new questions from other interpretive fields. In Chapter 1, an analysis of Charles Dickenss A Christmas Carol opens up an inquiry into a specific chapter of Victorian history. An anatomy of Marleys Ghost reveals conceptual dynamics operating in Victorian religious debates about the afterlife, which dovetailed legal debates about punishment. Significantly, the anatomy reveals that the conceptual groundwork that permitted one to shift from the orthodox view to the emerging liberal viewfrom the belief in hell as a future punishment to the belief that hell is a quality of present lifecan be seen in the conceptual differences between the blended figure of Marleys Ghost and Scrooges internalization of new logic emerging from Marleys blend. In Chapter 2, an analysis of Gerard Manley Hopkinss The Wreck of the Deutschland shows how the reader is prompted to blend past, present, and future scenes in one figure, whom I call the Ghostly Nun. While this analysis helps explain the variety of scholarly interpretations of the poem, it ultimately leads to a focus on the generic space of the Ghostly Nun blend. By understanding the basic story of this generic space as that of a body who is the passive object of anothers agency, light is shed on the psychologythe cognitive unconsciousgrounding Hopkinss religious experience. The value of blending theory for mapping out the variety of scholars interpretations of a particular work becomes even more apparent in Chapter 4. Walt Whitmans poems in Leaves of Grass have been alternately called hymns for the

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34 individual sexual body or praises of social democracy. A first-time reader of Whitman can become confused about which group of scholars to follow in reading Whitmans poems. Do they read the poems as using sexual experience to conceptualize political experience, or, vice versa, do the read the poems as using political experience to conceptualize sex? An analysis of So Long! reveals that these two interpretations of Whitman are metaphorical, and it proceeds to show how blending theory can better account for the formal dynamics of his poems. Moreover, in this chapter it is argued that Whitmans blending of distinct times in So Long! also blends distinct emotions, creating a unique conceptualization of the future as a blend of short-term sexual anticipation with long-term political hope. The fifth chapter nudges just beyond the nineteenth century to examine three short stories written in the early twentieth: The Life to Come, The Other Boat, and Ansell, which are all included in E. M. Forsters posthumously published collection The Life to Come. I argue that in order to find meaning in these stories, the reader must create in his or her own mind a blended figure who is simultaneously young and at the end of a long and happy lifewhat I call a dying young figure. This blended figure created in the mind is pre-figured by the stories depiction of bodies and objects that travel, leap, and fall along a finite spatial line whose end-point can move, as it were, from one expected point to another. Through the TIME IS SPATIAL EXPERIENCE metaphor, this spatial line projects to a lifetimeline of meaningful temporal experience. Blending analysis offers a new way of thinking about the problems Forster had with what he felt to be inescapable Victorian narratives with heterosexist, racist, and classist endingsnarratives that foreclosed the future end-point of what could be considered a meaningful

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35 lifetimeline. But just as important, in my view, is the way a blending analysis of Forsters stories illustrates how reading a meaningful narrative and living a meaningful life both involve the blending of times in order to be judged meaningful at all. Victorians and Time-Compression On an added level, in my view, this dissertation succeeds by finding an approach to a set of texts that suits both their content and their context. Although rigorous scientific inquiry into the time-conceiving, time-blending mind is relatively nascent, the concern with time is, of course, an established theme within Victorian studies. If cognitive anthropologists are correct, the ability to conceptualize time and to create figurative blends of past, present, and future has been part of the human species for no less than 30,000 years. Yet if one were to pick up the latest literature on human time, one would be tempted to conclude that it is only in our present age that human beings have felt themselves to be living in a time-pressed worlda world that corresponds to the time-compressing faculty of the human imagination. In his notable Faster: the Acceleration of Just About Everything, James Gleick concluded in 1999 that We are in a rush. We are making haste. A compression of time characterizes the life of the century now closing (9; emphasis added). Declaring ours to be the epoch of the nanosecond, Gleick appreciates how our worldwide communications systems depend upon the finicality of the modern timekeepers to manage [i]nhuman compressed time scales. Gleick cites even Bill Gates, the computer baron, who worries, It seems like the whole world operates in five-minute intervals (qtd. in Gleick 12). As much as he positions himself among time-anxious nanotechies at the end of the twentieth century, Gleick sounds like a Victorian Englishman. Indeed, one can argue that nineteenth-century westerners contemplated more radical changes in their experience of

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36 time than those now living at the dawn of the third millennium. Mostly, the change in their experience of time was due to the introduction of the railroad. Reducing the time for ordinary stagecoach travel by two thirds, railroads caused Londoners (and Parisians and Baltimoreans) to become lightheaded at the sudden reconstitution of normal space-time experience. It was one thing to imagine, as a youthful Dickens did while reading Le Sage, floating above the city on a magic carpet. It was quite another to physically see the landscape zipping past ones eyes from a railcar. As Wolfgang Schivelbusch has deftly noted in The Railway Journey: the Industrialization of Time and Space in the 19th Century, Victorians concrete experience of space was doubly affected by the railroads: space was both diminished and expanded (35; original emphasis). Space was diminished because distance seemed to decrease as the customary time for traveling from one point to another decreased. In 1850, Dionysius Lardner in Railway Economy formulated the equation this way: Distances practically diminish in the exact ratio of the speed of personal locomotion (35; qtd. in Schivelbusch 33). Yet the reduction in transportation time was met by a corresponding expansion of space; if people could travel from point A to B in only one-third the time, they could also traverse three times more space in the customary time. Lardner observed how the new expansion of spatial travel was creating Londons suburbs: It is not now unusual for persons whose place of business is in the centre of the capital, to reside with their families at a distance of from fifteen to twenty miles from that centre. Nevertheless, they are able to arrive at their respective shops, counting-houses, or offices, at an early hour of the morning, and to return without inconvenience to their residence at the usual time in the evening. Hence in all directions round the metropolis in which railways are extended, habitations are multiplied, and a considerable part of the former population of London has been diffused in these quarters. (36; qtd. in Schivelbusch 35-36; emphasis added).

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37 Though commuters arrived home at the usual time, they were traversing unusually expansive landscapes in the process. It would be a while before the unusual felt normalhuman scaleagain. As locomotive technology was giving Victorians a new sensorimotor basis for what constituted daily time, developments in geology and biology were forcing Victorians to comprehend an unprecedented expansion of historical time. Lyells Principles of Geology (1830-1833) and Darwins On the Origin of Species (1859) extended the earths age from several thousand to several hundreds of thousands of years. In one sense, deep time produced intellectual humility; Lyell declaimed, We are prepared to find that in time also, the confines of the universe lie beyond the reach of mortal ken (384; qtd. in Buckley 27; original emphasis). In another sense, however, the expansion of earthly time magnified the confidence Victorians had that human progress had culminated in their culture. These developments in practical and theoretical science helped produce what Patricia Murphy has aptly called the Victorian engrossment in time (10). This preoccupation with timeas well as with times correlate, spacewas manifest in various ways, expressed in the modes of both expansion and compression. As Victorians were busy advancing historys progress by spatially extending the Queens empire, they were also busy finding ways to compress or cut up time in order to study it, manage it, and benefit from it. Whether we look in on Charles Kingsley, who in 1850 imagined a tailor having an dream in which he personally evolves from the lowest point of created life up through soft crab, remora, and baby-ape finally to become not merely a selfish-savage man but a Christ-like servant (Alton Locke chap. XXXVI); or Frederick

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38 Winslow Taylor, who in 1880, in the first of his time-efficiency studies, determined that a laborer could load a wheelbarrow with loose dirt and wheel it a hundred feet two hundred and forty times in a 10-hour day (Kanigel 202); or Eadward Muybridge, who in the 1880s captured the Human Figure in Motion and Animal Locomotion using split-second photography; or H. G. Wells, who in 1895 sent one man in The Time Machine to a devolutionary future in 802,701 A.D.no matter where we look, it seems, what we repeatedly notice is the Victorian mind trying to master the enigma of time, both the long and the short of it. As different as they are, the works of Dickens, Hopkins, Whitman, and Forster that are discussed at length in this dissertation emerged from, and provide further evidence of, the Victorian engrossment in time. Yet more than just representatives of the era, these texts are particularly interesting because they offer central figures that prompt the mind to perform time-compression blending. They thus lead readers to re-enact in their own minds the time-compressing character of the Victorian age. The Future of Figuration If we are to think about the future differently, we will have to appreciate both the limits and the possibilities of the mind that can first conceptualize the world before undertaking to change it. Utopian (or, for that matter, dystopian) futures can only be conceptualized by human brains, and human brains will undoubtedly continue to be, for a very long time yet, embodied brains. It is true that our present sensorimotor body sets some limits on the basic image schemas and primary experiences that will resource our concepts for time as well as our concepts for other complex subjective and social experiences. It is also true, however, that the embodied minds creative power of blending allows a virtually unlimited number of possibilities for new concepts, new ideas,

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39 and new modes of experience made possible by living in these new blends. The inherently creative, embodied mind grounds our imagining, conceptualizing, planning, and acting. If there are to be alternative imaginations, concepts, plans, and actions, we will have to look there. The path to the future, to utopia, leads through the bodyprobably even to the body. And with their creative blends, the artists are leading the way.

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CHAPTER 2 CONCEPTUAL ANATOMIES OF MARLEYS GHOST AND VICTORIAN DEBATES ABOUT HELL A Conceptual Anatomy of Marleys Ghost This chapter presents two conceptual anatomies and shows their relation. The first anatomy is of Jacob Marleys Ghost, a chief character in Charles Dickenss 1843 short novel A Christmas Carol. Using instruments from the theory of conceptual integration networksalso called blending theorythe anatomy will show that the readers mind must activate and integrate several input mental spaces to construct, comprehend, and competently read Marleys Ghost, each input mental space lending different elements to the blended space that composes the ghost. Furthermore, some of the input spaces feeding into the ghost blend will be proven to be conceptual blends that are themselves fed by still other input spaces. In this first section, a significant finding will be presented: a particular element in the ghost blendnamely, the chain surrounding the ghostprompts the mind to create both metonymic and metaphoric meanings. The ghosts chain thus offers evidence contesting Roman Jakobsons famous conclusion that there is a competition between both devices, metonymic and metaphoric (46; emphasis added). This first conceptual anatomy will show why blending theory is well equipped to account for the way the imagination can create and understand a complex figure possessing elements that must be read as simultaneously metonymic and metaphoric. In the second section of the chapter, the Marleys Ghost blend will be recruited for a conceptual anatomy of Victorian notions of punishment, both legal and theological. 40

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41 Geoffrey Rowell, in Hell and the Victorians, identifies three chief beliefs about hell evident in British religious debates of the period: 1. hell as a future destiny of re-embodied souls following the resurrection at the future Last Judgment and Second Coming of Christ; 2. hell as a state of spiritual or moral punishment, into which sinful or immoral souls, conceptualized as disembodied and immortal, enter immediately after death; 3. hell as an internal, self-imposed state experienced in ones present life on earth. Historical evidence shows that there was a marked emergence of the third belief during the Victorian era, and that theological calls for reform in the divine justice system resonated with legal calls for reform in the British penal system. Marleys Ghost can help explain the dynamics that made it possible for Victorians to move from the first two conceptualizations of punishment and hell to the third. One of the key features of Marleys Ghost is its compression of time (past, present, and future) into one figure, with a corresponding compression of cause and effect (past deeds lead to punishment in a future afterlife). While Marleys Ghost compresses what are normally contrasting and dissimilar temporal states into one figure, that compression into one body makes possible the concept of the self-production of hell in the here and now, which becomes evident in the novels narration of Ebenezers Scrooges life. Scrooge effectively lives in the blend made possible by the compressions of traditional eschatological dynamics, for he exhibits a personal hell and heaven compressed to internally caused, present states of mind. Literary critics have already noted the Victorian character of Scrooges self-made hell and subsequent self-reform into domestic bliss. However, the anatomy performed here offers a new account of the dynamics that permit Marleys future hell to be conceptualized as Scrooges present hell. Marley and

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42 Scrooge are themselves condensed pictures of larger Victorian conceptual developments made possible by the compression that results from conceptual blending. Contributing Spaces to the Conceptual Network Containing Marleys Ghost There are several input spaces that contribute to the network from which Marleys Ghost can emerge as a unique conceptual blend. These spaces include no fewer than the following: the living, embodied person the corpse the soul and its afterlife Victorian concepts of justice, both legal and theological the notion of a life as the unified product of a unified individuals own labor over time the embodied experiences of carrying a heavy burden and of being physically restricted By attending to each of these spaces, we can dissect and reassemble the conceptual blend that is Marleys Ghost and account for the meanings it prompts readers minds to create. The Living, Embodied Person In the fictional world of A Christmas Carol, Jacob Marley was once a living, embodied person, the business partner of Ebenezer Scrooge. At some point Marley died, his body was buried, and, until Christmas Eve seven years later, Scrooge had no reason to think that there was anything left of Marley except some memories and business accounts. From that once-living Marley, the ghost receives much of its physical appearance: it has The same face: the very same (Dickens A Christmas Carol 22). It looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look, with ghostly spectacles turned up upon its ghostly forehead. Along with these visible features, Marleys Ghost receives its audible voice from the living Marley, as the narrator confirms in relating the first conversation between Scrooge and the ghost:

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43 How now! said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. What do you want with me? Much!Marleys voice, no doubt about it. (26) Despite its transparent immateriality, the ghost also has some of the motor activities of Marleys physical body, for it can to do certain activities that seem familiar to Scrooge, like sitting in a chair: In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley. Can youcan you sit down? asked Scrooge, looking doubtfully at him. I can. Do it then. Scrooge asked the question, because he didnt know whether a ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fire-place, as if he were quite used to it. (26-30) Additionally, from the living Marley the ghost receives the things attached to its chain: cashboxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel (26). In this input space, these items are connected to Marley as objects of the business life he led. (We should keep in mind, however, that not every object Marley used in business is attached to his chain. There are no pens or inkbottles, for example, even though they contributed just as much to his money-lust. As we shall see, the objects selected are done so for their weight, which derives from a different input space.) Finally, Marleys Ghost retains the memories of the living Marley, as well as the ability to call upon those memories when conversing with Scrooge. In many ways, the ghost seems very much like the once-living Marley.

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44 The Corpse The corpse of Jacob Marley lends two inputs to the ghost blend. First, the appearance of the ghost has the appearance of Marley at his death. The ghost does not look or sound like a version of Marley in his youthful prime. The ghost has the death-cold eyes (26), the fixed, glazed eyes (30) that correspond to the dead body. Scrooge notices, too, that the ghost has a folded kerchief bound about its head and chin, which wrapper he had not observed before (26). The kerchief was commonly tied around the head and chin after death; in fact, in The Annotated Christmas Carol one can see a sketch of a hauntingly similar wrapper around Dickenss own deathbed corpse, drawn by John Everett Millais in 1870 (77). When the ghost removes its kerchief, its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast (Dickens A Christmas Carol 32)a reminder of the corpses loss of muscle control prior to rigor mortis. Marleys Ghost, the corpse of Jacob Marley seven years dead (24), maintains this aspect of the memento mori. Second, the corpse input space provides a very important inference of the end of agency. Although Marleys Ghost appears to have animate agency, it is limited in one crucial way: it cannot change its fate. His partner, Scrooge, has a future that is still open, for Scrooge is still alive and can ask, hopefully, Are these the shadows of things that Will be, or are they shadows of the things that May be, only? (128). But Marleys Ghost lives with a closed future; the things that Will be cannot be changed. This closure comes from the input space of the corpse, for the corpse marks the endpoint of the time period for which the soul is morally and spiritually accountable. In cognitive terms, we can identify the concept of a corpse as an input space that is itself a constructed blend of other input spaces. We will be able to understand how the

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45 corpse is a conceptual blend if we compare it to the concept of the soul, for the two are conceptually related. The Soul According to Turner, the western notion of the soul, which has roots going back before Aristotle, is the result of a blend of two input spaces. In one input space, there is the irreducible, living human being; in the other, there is the embodied and neurally entrenched spatial story of actors who cause objects to move: If actors move objects, what moves the actors? What is the source of their movement? One answer that has come up historically is the soul. The soul is what moves the body. The body is the object the soul moves as a consequence of its own self-movement. In On the Soul, Aristotle surveys theories on the nature of the soul, showing that in nearly all of them, soul is regarded as having movement and sensation. His survey testifies to the antiquity and durability of recognizing actors as movers and sensers. This abstract concept of the soul is created by a [] projection. We know the small spatial story in which an actor moves a physical object; we project this story onto the story of the movement of the body. The object projects to the body and the actor projects to the soul. (The Literary Mind 21; original emphasis) In cognitive terms, the soul is not an obvious fact; it is rather an entailment created by the creative projection of a generic story about how we experience the world onto the irreducible living human organism. If we picture how the generic story actor causes object to move is projected onto living bodies, we can better see how the conceptualization of the soul is an invention of the embodied mind (Figure 2-1). As Figure 2-1 helps clarify, the concept of the soul is an entailment that results when the mind projects onto an otherwise irreducibly unified organism an intentional, internal actor that moves an external body. It is grounded in our most basic embodied experiences of observing others actors as they cause other objects to move.

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46 Input Space 2: Generic Story of Caused Motion Input Space 1: The Whole Living Person Figure 2-1. The Soul as an Entailment of a Conceptual Blend Furthermore, when we use the word corpse we are already presupposing a body that no longer seems to have a source of animate agency, an internal actor. Because the concept of a corpse manifests the same concern for agency, it is related to that of the soul. In the case of the corpse, what we project into the blended space is the idea of absence (Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 205, 241). We project the persons source of agency and intention into the blend, but we conceptualize that source as missing (Figure 2-2). In addition to observing an actual corpse, other embodied experiences may help entrench in the mind the paired concepts of internal soul and external body. When we see a person put on clothes and move around in them, we conclude that the person inside the clothes is the agent that causes the external clothes to move. However, if we see the Blended Space: Body Moved By The Soul Actor Cause of motion (pushing, pulling, etc.) Person (who also moves) Object Soul Intention (will, desire, etc.) Body

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47 Input Space 2: Generic Story of Caused Motion Input Space 1: The Living Person Figure 2-2. The Corpse as a Conceptual Blend of a Body Missing the Soul same suit or dress hanging before us on a hanger or a mannequin, it can seem as if the clothes are missing their internal agent. In A Christmas Carol, the clothes of Jacob Marley may thus play an important part in convincing Scrooge that the entity moving inside Marleys clothes is Marleys soul: Marley in his [] usual waistcoat, tights, and boots (Dickens A Christmas Carol 26; emphasis added). Another embodied experience that helps entrench the dualism of soul and body is the experience of dreaming. After having a dream, we may conclude that our soul has been traveling outside the body, for on awaking we find ourselves suddenly in our body once again instead of in the dream world. In our dreaming, we may experience flight or instantaneous travel to different spatial and temporal realms, and so we may conclude that the source of our conscious thoughts and emotions is radically disembodied. In this Blended Space: Corpse Actor Cause of motion Moving Person Object moved Soul (absent) Intention (absent) Body (not moving)

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48 sense, it may be significant that Scrooge meets the ghost at a time and place associated with dreaming. Scrooge meets Marleys Ghost not in the crowded London streets, and not during daylight hours, but when he is alone, at night, in his bedroom. Finally, Dickens invokes an additional set of embodied experiences that aid the entrenched dualism of soul and body. When Marleys Ghost climbs the house stairs and passes through the locked door, the flames in Scrooges bedroom fireplace undergo a sudden change: Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried I know him! Marleys Ghost! and fell again (26). It is a common experience to observe the flames in a fire suddenly intensify after previously waning. But with the generic concept of caused motion, the mind can readily supply an agent to account for that event. So the embodied experiences of flames, dreams, clothes, and corpses all help reinforce the concept of the soul as an agent that causes the body to move. The entailments from this blend create the possibility of claiming that the soul is something that is distinct from the body, something that is absent from the body at death, and something that can even escape the body. We are now in a position to ask what happens to the soul when it is conceptualized as absent from the body. What has Marleys soul been up to in the seven years since it escaped the corpse? The Soul in the Afterlife We would not be able to conceptualize the afterlife of the soul without the prior conceptualization of the soul as an agent that animates the body and, consequently, as something that may metaphorically depart the body at death, leaving an inanimate corpse. In Marleys case, the departed soul appears to have an afterlife that is very similar to embodied life. The soul appears to animate Marleys Ghost form much the same way

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49 that it animated the living body. It causes the ghost body to move and to sit in a chair. But more important than physical movement, the ghost exhibits emotions that the living Marley could experience: regret, anger, despair. The ghost also exhibits the resource of memory necessary to have these emotions, and memory and emotions are necessary as a basis for intentional action. In short, Marleys Ghost seems to exhibit a consciousness capable of thought, memory, emotion, and desiremuch like the consciousness that seems to depart from our body when we dream. But the soul animating Marleys Ghost differs from the soul that animated the living Marley in several significant ways. First, as we have already discussed, even though Marleys soul exhibits agency, that agency is restricted. The fact of the bodys death bars the soul from being able to change its ultimate destiny in the afterlife. Second, the soul that moves Marleys Ghost also exhibits a different kind of agency: it can now move its ghost form through walls and travel across the globe without restrictionan unprecedented form of motion unavailable to the living Marley except, perhaps, in involuntary dreams. Third and most innovatively, the soul of Marleys Ghost experiences new emotions and acquires new memories, insights and thoughts after the bodys death. It even relates some of these afterlife experiences to Scrooge. When Scrooge asks, But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me? (32), Marleys Ghost indicates the new knowledge and feelings his soul has acquired in the afterlife: It is required of every man, the Ghost returned, that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the worldoh, woe is me!and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!

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50 In sum, after bodily death, Jacob Marleys soul experiences continued consciousness. In the afterlife the soul acquires new memories, new knowledge, and new feelings. And yet this afterlife consciousness is also restricted in one specific way: it can no longer act on its own behalf. Indeed, its particular form of suffering appears to be the direct result of this discrepancy: despite its enlightenment, Marleys soul cannot use its afterlife awareness in any practical way. It cannot change its fate. Punishment in the Afterlife The ghost states that its suffering in the afterlife is punishment deserved for the earthly life of Jacob Marley. In the passage cited above, the ghost comments to Scrooge that the soul is required or condemned to perform certain acts. These words point to concepts about justice that are also feeding the ghost blend. While these concepts are specifically theological, we must admit the possibility that theological concepts of justice are partially based on already existing legal (or even other) concepts of social justice. Many Victorians took the biblical concepts for divine justice to be literally true. Indeed, in the Hebrew scriptures, or Christian Old Testament, the Judaic faith develops as a literal, legal covenant, a contract between God and the people, complete with stipulated punishments should the people fail to obey (Deuteronomy 30:15-20). However, many Victorian theological and secular scholars presumed that human concepts for divine attributes and actions are inherently metaphorical and thus always provisional. There is precedence, from both biblical texts and the history of theology, for adopting such epistemological humility. The second commandment prohibits reifying any single image as a sufficient representation of the divine (Exodus 20:4). And in the history of Christian theology, John Calvin, whose Reformation writings in the Institutes of the Christian Religion heavily influenced Protestant belief, repeatedly stressed the limitations of human

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51 concepts for divine reality. Calvin, emphasizing the impossibility of a purely literal interpretation of scripture, consistently warned that believers should not insist precisely upon the words (1388, 1389). This imprecision of human concepts for the divine is evident in one important difference between the Victorian legal system and the theological. In Victorian England, people were not ordinarily rewarded by the Queen for obedience to her laws. In Judaism and Christianity, however, the souls of those who obeyed God in life are rewarded. In Judaism, the obedient bnai brith, children of the covenant, can die knowing that their obedience will be remembered within the surviving community. In Christianity, despite the Protestant emphasis on faith over works, the faithful can die with the Pauline hope that they shall receive eternal life after death: a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing (2 Timothy 4:8 KJV). So the Heavenly King who dispenses justice metes out reward as well as punishment, unlike his earthly counterpart who seems preoccupied with punishment alone. Peoples ability to keep the legal and eschatological systems distinct is not insignificant, for it manifests an ability to consciously keep two conceptual domains in metaphorical relation without substituting one for the other. This is a key finding of blending theory: when creating conceptual blends, including metaphors, from input spaces, our minds are both selective and creative. We selectively project only some elements from an input space to the blend (the human monarch executes justice; the Heavenly King does, too). But we also disregard many other elements in the input spaces (human monarchs age and die; the Heavenly King does not). Moreover, the blended space can develop new inferences, too (human monarchs are

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52 powerful enough to hand out rewards to the living who have served them well, but the Heavenly King, omnipotent, can hand out rewards even to the dead, whom he resurrects). Despite their differences in the matter of reward, in the matter of punishment Victorian concepts of human and divine justice were quite similar. As John R. Reed notes in Dickens and Thackeray: Punishment and Forgiveness: Forgiveness is a word in a moral lexicon, pardon in a legal one. Punishment appears in both (xiii). Many Victorians could acknowledge that the human social justice system was but a dim copy of the divine justice system. Yet most Victorians also believed that once real people died, their souls would be subjected to some real form of heavenly justice, even if that form remained imperfectly knowable by human minds. Just as a criminal is condemned to do recompense for his crimes, the soul animating Marleys Ghost states that it is required or condemned to perform certain acts as penalty for the life it led while it animated Marleys living body. Like the earthly penalty, the divine penalty laid upon the soul produces discomfort. The ghost says that one of its punishments is to wander through the world with regret (32). The ghost is conscious of what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness! In addition to emotional suffering, there is also visible in Marleys Ghost an indication of something like physical punishment. The ghosts body is bound by a chain, to which heavy objects are also attached. Under closer scrutiny, this chain and its objects prove to be in both metonymic and metaphoric relation to different input spaces. I wear the chain I forged in life Marleys chain is described in Scrooges first introduction to the ghost: The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cashboxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers,

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53 deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel (26). Later in their conversation, the ghost answers Scrooges question about the origins of the chain: You are fettered, said Scrooge, trembling. Tell me why? I wear the chain I forged in life, replied the Ghost. I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you? Scrooge trembled more and more. Or would you know, pursued the Ghost, the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have laboured on it, since. It is a ponderous chain! (32) This chain is no mere piece of metal. Despite how easily and quickly we may grasp its meaning, the chain is an element in a complex blend of input spaces. The ghost that is a conceptual blend wears a chain that is also a conceptual blend. Although Scrooge immediately understands the chain to be an instrument of punishment and restriction (You are fettered), the ghost explains the chain as something else entirely. It is, claims the ghost, a reified metaphor of its earthly labor. In this metaphorical blend, a chain and its interconnected links project to a human life. In the target space, there is a human being who physically changes over time and who likely undertakes many diverse activities over time. In the source space, there is a metalworker who never changes over time and who does only one thing: he forges metal links into a chain. A key entailment of this metaphor is that a person fashions, out of a supply of resources, a unified life. Notice, however, that we do not project into the target space any split between the subject and the object (metalworker alienated from metal) that might exist in the source space. Once again, this confirms blending theorys claim that projections from one space to another are always selective rather than total. Indeed, the metaphor does not indicate alienation at all, but rather a unity produced out of diverse

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54 activities over time. Through this CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor, a human beings subjectivity, temporality, and productive activity can be conceptualized as one unified event. The CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor achieves the conceptualization of life as a unity through compression. It compresses identity over time: a person can be said to have a unified life because, in the metaphor, there is only one person, a metalworker, who is never anything else. Unlike any actual person, this metalworker begins and ends life knowing how to do his job. But the chain also compresses actions over time. He never stops making a chain to do anything else. In the metaphor, a persons life of activities is one chain. Different actions across different times are compressed into a unified whole, connected by sequence and by category. Actions in the target domain of life receive sequential connection because each link is preceded by one link and followed by another. And actions are also connected by category because each link, no matter where it exists on the chain, is the same kind of thing: a link. In the conceptual space of Marleys Ghost, Marleys soul is a metalworker, and his actions duringbut not afterhis earthly life make up the chain. When his body died, the forging ceased, and his chain then became apparent. Moreover, according to Marley, Scrooges soul is a metalworker, too. But because Scrooge is not dead yet, Scrooge (and the reader) cannot see the ponderous chain Scrooge has been forging for himself. Only Marleys Ghost is in a spiritual, post-death, post-forging position to see Scrooges chain. So when viewed from the input space of Marleys life, the chain around it is metaphoric: by conceptualizing Marleys labors and actions over time as a chain, Marleys soul prior to death is metaphorically understood to be an unchanging

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55 metalworker who does one thing, and his earthly life is metaphorically understood to have sequential and categorical unity. The Chain as Instrument of Punishment We have seen how Marleys Ghost wears a chain that relates to the input space of his earthly life, metaphorically conceptualized as the CHAIN OF LIFE. As we may recall, however, Scrooge first identified the chain as a restraint: You are fettered. The chain appears to bind the ghost, just as a literal chain binds an inmate in the penal system. If Marleys chain is also an instrument of punishment, how is it punitive? Literally? Metonymically? Metaphorically? The punishment of resurrected bodies at the future Last Judgment Marleys chain may, in one sense, be considered a literal instrument of punishment. As Geoffrey Rowell confirms, some (if not most) Victorians believed divine punishment is more like literal human punishment, for they believed it has yet to fall upon future, resurrected bodies, of which Christs, so far, is the first and only one. This Jewish, pre-Hellenistic strand of eschatology still abided in the nineteenth century (as it does to this day), especially among dissenting Protestants such as the Baptists, who may have influenced Dickens as a child (Rowell 28; Ackroyd 43-44). According to this belief, the earth will have its eschaton, its Last Day, at an undetermined future point. The Last Day will also bring a Last Judgment. According to Paul in 1 Corinthians 15, at the Last Judgment the dead will no longer sleep but shall be raised incorruptible; this mortal must put on immortality, resulting in a new blend of spirit and body, a spiritual body. Resurrected, the dead will be then be sentenced by Christ to either heaven or hell, where they will experience either joy or torment in a manner befitting a spiritual body.

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56 In this view, then, Marleys Ghost could be interpreted as a preview of punishments to come for Marleys yet-to-be-resurrected body. His chain is metonymically associated with his future punishment. In its current afterlife state, Marleys disembodied soul suffers spiritual torment, but his soul, along with all of creation, is still awaiting the Last Judgment. The ghostly body that appears to Scrooges eyes is but a shadowy anticipation of that future re-embodied state in which Marley will wear a real chain for all eternity. For the Victorian who leaned toward this view, Marleys Ghost could be read as a metonymic precursor of the Last Judgment that is yet to come. The punishment of immortal souls immediately after death Among Victorian Christians, the belief that judgment only happened at a distant Last Day was not the prevailing view. Rather, as Rowell indicates, both Protestant orthodoxy and pietism reverted to an emphasis on the day of death as the decisive point in eschatology (28). A corollary to this emphasis was the belief that the soul is immortal and entirely distinguishable from the body. Although this latter belief derives from non-Christian, Hellenistic roots, it combined with the earlier eschatology to form a belief that the immortal soul is judged, sentenced, and enters its eternal destiny immediately after separation from the corpse. Crucially, in this view the souls route to final judgment is direct rather than deferred to an unforeseeable end-time. As Christian scriptures offer evidence that spiritual punishment and reward are deferred to a Last Day, they likewise attest to the more direct path. In the New Testament parable of the rich man and Lazarus, Luke recounts the story of a poor beggar, Lazarus, who lies outside a rich mans gate hoping for a few crumbs. The two die and are immediately located in what appear to be post-judgment spaces:

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57 And it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom: the rich man also died, and was buried; And in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments, and seeth Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom. And he cried and said, Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame. (22-24; KJV) We may safely presume that, like Calvin, some Victorians understood Abrahams heavenly bosom and the hellish torments of flame as metaphors for realities that are ultimately beyond human comprehension. Yet these same Christiansindeed, even non-Christians and deists influenced by the Enlightenment idea of natural immortality manifested by the rational mind (Rowell 28)also believed in the immortal and disembodied soul as a literal fact. Victorian Christians assumed that, after bodily death, the soul continued to experience conscious thought and emotion. But they also believed that death immediately brought the soul to final judgment by God and a sentence to an immortal life of heaven or hell. Consequently, Victorians could take Lukes parable to be literally true in terms of time: a dead persons soul immediately enters heaven or hell. At the same time, though, Victorians could take the parable to be metaphorically true in terms of physics: there would be no real flames tormenting real bodies in hell, but rather the spiritual or emotional equivalent of physical torment. For Victorian Christians who understood divine justice to work in this way, Marleys Ghost would not be a metonymical preview of a future resurrected body but a metaphorical affirmation that Marleys immortal soul has been punished ever since it left the corpse. The chain surrounding the ghost is likewise metaphoric rather than metonymic: borrowing from the human legal system, the chain conveys an idea of penalty bestowed upon a disembodied soul. Marleys Ghosts body surely cannot feel the chain as literally restrictiveindeed, in the ghosts own words, his ghost body is

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58 condemned to move freely about the world. The chain surrounding him is thus incongruous with physical restriction. The chain must be understood as an embodied metaphor conveying the restriction of something other than the body. In Marleys case, what is restricted is the souls agency. He is unable to intervene in the world and share or turn[ ] to happiness any of the worlds misery. So, more than punishment of the visible body, Marleys punishment is of the will and emotionsand in the conceptual blend that has the soul as an entailment, the will and emotions belong to the soul, not the body. In sum, in this view Marleys chain is only metaphorically related to his punishment. As a metal chain restricts the material body of an inmate, Marleys chain restricts the agency of his immaterial soul. And his torment lies precisely in having the desire to be an agent of change while lacking all ability. Marleys Ghost seems tormented by more than restricted agency, however. His ghost body is restrained by more than just a chain. Our anatomy of the ghost must still account for all the objects that are attached to that chain. Cashboxes, keys, padlocks [] and heavy purses wrought in steel Attached to the chain around Marleys Ghost are several objects: cashboxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel (26). We can now view these objects from the standpoint of each of the different spaces in the entire conceptual integration network. Depending on the space from which we consider these objects, they are either absent, metonymic, metaphoric, or, strangely enough, at once metaphoric and metonymic: In the space of the human justice system, which serves as a basis for the divine justice system, these items are absent. Real prisoners may be chained, but they do

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59 not usually have items associated with their life prior to imprisonment physically attached to that chain. In the space of the living Marley, they are metonymicthat is, they are things that Marley actually worked with in his business. Importantly, they are only a selection of things from Marleys business, e.g. cashboxes and ledgers, but not pens or inkbottles. In the space of divine justice understood as future judgment of resurrected bodies, these elements are also metonymic, but in a different way. They are precursors of future punishment. Because divine justice dispenses a sentence befitting the sin, Marleys resurrected and re-embodied soul will suffer holisticallyphysically and spirituallyin relation to the very things he used in the course of his sinning. In the space of divine justice conceptualized as a spiritual burden experienced by immortal souls after death, these items are metaphoric. Cashboxes, ledgers, and steel purses are additional weights and restrictions placed upon the immortal spirit, conceptualized here through the metaphorical source domain of the physical body (You are fettered). Added to the weight of the chain, their weight further restricts the souls agency in the afterlife. In the unique space of Marleys Ghost itself, the ghost wears the chain I forged in life, so these additional items are metonymic elements from Marleys life that also compose his metaphoric CHAIN OF LIFE. The ghost experiences the items as simultaneously metonymic and metaphoric. We can now see that the ghost space truly differs from the other input spaces. The ghost space is a uniquely inventive blended space. It is fed by selected elements from the other input spaces. And while it includes elements from the input spaces, it also develops new inferences that do not derive from the other inputs. The Ghost Blend Offers New Meaning at Once Metaphoric and Metonymic For one thing, we can see that chain in the ghost space develops new meanings that do not derive from any of the other input spaces. The CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor has been created solely within the blended space of the ghost. The chain is not a vital element taken from any of the other input spaces. The CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor has nothing inherently to do with Marleys embodied business lifehe was an accountant, not a metalworker. The CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor does not derive from biblical texts or

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60 theologies, either; it is not inherent in the idea of the souls disembodied afterlife, or in in the idea of the souls resurrected and re-embodied afterlife. Very significantly, the CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor does not derive from the input spaces of legal or divine punishment, either. The only element connecting the metaphor to punishment is the literal idea of a chain. But the meaning that chain has in the CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor, where it is the product of ones labor, is completely different from the meaning it has in the conceptual frame of punishment, where it is an instrument of restraint. So how can one of the worlds most famous ghosts be built upon such a weak semantic link (pardon the pun)? Actually, according to Turner and Fauconnier, conceptual blends are often crystallized by just such random, circumstantial connections: Creating the blend often involves the exploitation of metonymies (Metaphor, metonymy, and binding 469). Consequently, what appears to be a coincidental connection between input spaces can be exploited to serve as the cornerstone of a new construct that offers new insights and inferences. In the conceptual integration network producing Marleys Ghost, there is the concept of divine justice, and this in turn is metaphorically understood through the experience of human justice, which has the element of chain metonymically associated with it. This chain is recruited by the ghost blend to create an entirely new concept, the CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor. This metaphorical concept posits the unity of a persons identity over time and the unity of a persons actions over time. It also posits a direct causal relationship between a person and the varied actions that person undertakes. The causality and unity posited by the metaphor help us to a new insight: Marley has forged the very chain that restricts him. Having

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61 reached this insight, we may then project it back into the space of divine justice, so that a key new inference emerges there, too: in earthly life, Marleys soul created the very instrument of spiritual punishment that will restrict his soul in the future and/or eternal afterlife. We cannot exaggerate the creativity of the mind manifested by the invention of Marleys Ghost, as well as the creativity of the readers mind that can comprehend the ghost and its chain. Somehow, as Dickenss mind was playfully traversing across the various input spaces he was dealing with, his mind forged a link between two different meanings of chain. This mental link occasioned a new conceptual link, permitting the concept of productive activity (forging a chain) to be blended with the concept of instruments of punishment (a fettering chain). It might be argued that the force compelling this conceptual link is the notion from the space of human and divine justice that the penalty should fit the crime. Admittedly, when we look at Marleys Ghost, we have an almost immediate sense that he is being punished according to his own sin. If we scrutinize this thoroughly, though, we can see that this immediacy starts to fall apart. Even if we take the ghosts suffering to be a literal precursor of his resurrected bodys future punishment, we have to ask: What crime is the counterpart of a punishment that weighs down a body with heavy ledgers and cashboxes? Marley is not accused of having weighed down other bodies during his lifetime. Nor is he accused of having been so peripatetic in life that his soul must now at last be restricted. Indeed, his punishment is that he is doomed to wander, so he really can move, and without the normal restrictions placed on physical bodies. By his own testimony, Marley says his chain does not keep him from moving out into the world, it

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62 only keeps him from helping other people, which is what he now, in eternal hell, desires. So Marleys crime is not directly related to his moving body. The only way that the cashboxes and the chain can fit his crime is as a metaphor of restriction. The restriction is on the souls ability to share what it cannot share, but might have shared. If we let our own minds play within the network and elaborate it, we might also discover that cashboxes and keys and padlocksunlike pens or ink, which have not been selected to the blendlook like items connoting enclosure. To the enlightened soul in hell, they are painful reminders of the person who, in life, was unwilling either to share his (literally) enclosed accumulations or to escape his own (metaphorically) enclosed area of self-concern. This anatomy of Marleys Ghost has demonstrated that the chain and its contents are part of a blended space with both metaphoric and metonymic connections to several distinct input spaces, including the accounting business, the human penal system, the theologies of eschatological justice, and the embodied experiences of being confined, bound, and weighed down. The blended space has exploited a metonymic relation to one of the input spaces in order to develop the concept of metalwork as metaphor for life, a new meaning that does not derive from the input spaces. In this blended space, metonymic counterparts from Marleys life are visited upon the ghost as metaphoric burdens that confine the disembodied spirit. Blending theory can account for each of the spaces that contribute to the larger network, and for the complex relations that exist between the spaces. But blending theory is especially equipped to explain how the ghosts chain and cashboxes can be simultaneously metaphoric and metonymic. Without referring to these multiple spaces and the complex relationships between them, the

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63 Jakobsonian model, in which metaphor and metonymy are always assumed to be in competition, can appear rather oversimplified and inflexible (Jakobson 48). A Conceptual Anatomy of Victorian Debates about Punishment In Marleys Ghost, we have seen how the chain in the blend occasions new meanings unavailable from the input spaces. Another set of crucial new meanings also arise from within the blended space alone: the compression of time, and a corresponding compression of cause and effect. In the figure of Marleys Ghost, Scrooge and other readers of the ghost get to see what is normally impossible for any human being to actually see: a direct and visible connection between earthly life and future afterlife. This leads us into the second section of this chapter, in which we show how compression in Marleys Ghost can illuminate legal and theological debates arising in Victorian England and, consequently, shed light on several literary critiques of A Christmas Carol. If we juxtapose A Christmas Carol alongside Victorian debates about both penal and eschatological punishment, we can see in Marleys Ghost, as well as in Scrooges response to the ghost, the conceptual dynamics that make these debates meaningful. Because Marleys Ghost compresses time, it also compresses cause and effect. In Marleys ghostly body, future effects (punishments to come in the afterlife) are compressed with past causes (the deeds of earthly life). As a result, what are normally radically disconnected spacesearthly past and present, on the one hand, and deferred or unascertainable eschatological future, on the otherare visibly and tightly connected within the same body. At the same time, in the ghost blend the agents and instruments of sin are compressed with the agents and instruments of punishment. Marleys earthly preoccupation for his business becomes the chain that restricts his eternal soul. As a result, the ghost condenses a justice system that normally requires several agents and

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64 instrumentsan individual commits acts through various means, is judged by another individual, and is then sent to be punished by other individuals with other means of punishmentto a system that requires only one agent and instrument: the individual punishes himself. The implications of these compressions visible in Marleys Ghost are mind-altering and life-changing for Ebenezer Scrooge. Though Marleys Ghost is constructed of orthodox eschatology, Scrooge appropriates from the ghost something unorthodox. Instead of being reminded that a state of true justice is rendered only after death or at the end of time, Scrooge learns from Marleys Ghost that a person creates his own living heaven or living hell. Indeed, as Dickens scholars have argued, this is the precisely way Scrooge is depicted throughout A Christmas Carol. Readers are shown a Scrooge who is not so much a figure bound for a future hell as one who already lives in a present-day hell of his own making. And readers also see that Scrooge, rather than adopting a radical hope in a future justice rendered by God, also becomes his own agent of destiny, ultimately creating for himself a present-day state of heaven-like joy. If we understand the compressions that are made visible in Marleys Ghost and appropriated by Scrooge, we can gain insight into debates that emerged in the middle of the nineteenth century concerning both penal and eschatological punishment. In penal terms, Marleys Ghost compresses the many parties, agencies, and instruments involved in the legal justice system to the internal dynamics within the mind of one individual. This mirrors a utilitarian desire in the Victorian era to help the lower classes educate themselves to avoid crime and its punishment. In eschatological terms, Marleys Ghost compresses past deeds and future punishment into a single body. This helps us trace how

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65 a Victorian Christiansomeone like Scrooge, or someone like the liberal theologian F. D. Mauricecould move from believing that hell is a future punishment delivered by God, to believing that hell is a present state of mind caused by oneself. Victorian Challenges to Retributive Justice In debates about both eschatological justice and Victorian legal justice during the nineteenth century, the concept of punishment experienced challenges and calls for reform. In order to foreground these developments, it will be helpful first to highlight the existing background ideas of punishment in both the eschatological and penal arenas. In eschatology, the entrenched view was, as the apostle Paul writes in Romans 3:23, that all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God (KJV). Paul presumed that Gods glory is injured by human sin, and thus the only penalty for a crime committed against the divine nature is the annihilation of the sinner: For the wages of sin is death (Romans 6:23 KJV). In the British justice system, this theological concept of punishment was matched by a feudal legal code that established penalties based upon the status of the injured. A crime against the monarch, for example, was defined as essentially different from a crime against a peasant or a member of the working class. Harsher punishment was merited because the offence was against a more important being. In theology, hell was defended the same way, on the old feudal ground that an offence against an Infinite Being merited infinite punishment (Rowell 30); Orthodox Christians insisted that it was retributive, vindictive, as they frequently described it (42). We could argue about which way the influence flowed, from the legal to the theological or vice versa, but we can safely conclude that the two systems of justice reinforced each other. The appropriate punishment for any crime, penal or eschatological, was retribution, and

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66 retribution was based not on the dynamics of the act itself but on the assumed nature of the party injured by the act. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the utilitarian ideas of Jeremy Bentham generated new doubts about retribution. In utilitarian theories of punishment, emphasis shifted from the needs of the injured party to the need to prevent criminal activity in the first place. Because urban crime was increasing, retribution no longer seemed a perfect deterrent. Moreover, too harsh a punishment was seen to exacerbate, rather than to soften, criminal behavior. Utilitarian critique led to a new focus on the intentions of the individual offender; intervention was needed to affect those intentions so the potential offender would never commit offenses and the past offender would not repeat. As Michel Foucault famously argued, the compulsion behind much European penal and educational reform in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries can be understood as an attempt to get subjects to provide their own surveillance (Discipline and Punish 195-228). In traditional retribution, cause and effectindividual offense and state disciplinewere separated. In the emerging conceptualization, however, distinct cause and effect were becoming compressed to the subjects own self-controlling watchfulness. Because of this desire to mold the inner life of potential criminals, the Victorian era witnessed broad efforts to educate the lower classes, which were viewed as the cradle of most criminal activity. Apparently, just before he wrote A Christmas Carol, Dickens appeared with fellow novelist and future prime minister Benjamin Disraeli at a fundraiser at The Manchester Athenaeum, founded to provide a place of education and recreation for the labouring men and women of that city (Ackroyd 407). Dickens often expressed

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67 his firm belief in the need to reduce crime by improving Ignorance, famously depicted in A Christmas Carol as a Yellow, meager, ragged, scowling, wolfish street urchin in present-day London (102). Yet Ignorance is also just a boy; if he is sent to schools instead of prisons or workhouses (103), he may have a chance to be led not into temptation: Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing (102). Throughout the Victorian era, leaders and institutions, both evangelical and secular, collaborated in this desire to educate the lower classes so they would be ruled by inner angels rather than inner devils. Among Victorian theologians, similar uneasiness about retribution affected debates about eschatological justice, resulting again in a focus on the inner life of the individual. Rowell notes that the uneasiness that carried over from legal to theological debates appears more in terms of the general way in which hell was questioned, than in the specific citation of Benthams ideas, which was rare (13). This general reconsideration of punishment in both the penal and the eschatological domains is significant, but not simply because it indicates how deeply the two were enmeshed in the Victorian mind. More significant is that, in both penology and eschatology, the focus was increasingly on the (potential) offenders own mind: By Benthamite criteria hell was not a successful punishment, for it manifestly did not prevent sin and crime; as an evil, which all punishment was held to be, it inevitably compromised the goodness of God; and an infinite punishment, which was imposed because the offence had been committed against an infinite Being, did not tally with Benthams contention that in punishment regard should be paid to the intentions and understanding of the offender. (14; emphasis added) So under the influence of utilitarianism, liberal ministers began conceptualizing orthodox eschatology differently. Just as legal reformers turned the spotlight away from injured parties and vindictive punishment to focus, instead, on the mind of the potential criminal,

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68 some liberal theologians shifted away from sin as injury to God and hell as Gods retribution to focused on the mind of the potential sinner. A key entailment of this shift is that the temporal sequence of cause and effect involved in offenses and punishments could be reframed as occurring within the mind itself. The theologian who best exemplifies this reframing is F. D. Maurice, who taught at Kings College in London until being dismissed for his unorthodox views. In his Theological Essays of 1853, Maurice removes the future from eschatology altogether, and he argues that heaven and hell are present-day emotional states of the individual: The state of eternal life and eternal death is not one we can refer only to the future, or that we can in anywise identify with the future. Every man who knows what it is to have been in a state of sin, knows what it is to have been in a state of death. He cannot connect that death with time; he must say that Christ has brought him out of the bonds of eternal death. Throw that idea into the future, and you deprive it of all its reality, of all its power. I know what it means all too well while you let me connect it with my present and personal being, with the pangs of conscience which I suffer now. It becomes a mere vague dream and shadow to me, when you project it into a distant world. (405; original emphasis) For Maurice, sin is not an act committed by one party against another. Sin is the pangs of conscience, a state of my present and personal being. Notice that Maurice also equates sin with hell, now an earthly experience of feeling the bonds of eternal death. Sin is not what causes a future eschatological judgment; it is the present feeling of hell. And salvation is not something given to the believer in an eschatological future; it is the present feeling of having been delivered from the feeling of hell. The individualistic shift in Maurices Theological Essays results in a definition of sin as individualistic, as a turning away from social connections: the sense of Sin is essentially the sense of solitude, isolation, distinct individual responsibility (25). And sin is experienced when a person recollects how he has broken the silken cords which bind him to his fellows; how he has made himself alone, by not confessing that he was a

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69 brother, a son, a citizen (25-26). As the disease is individualized, so is the cure. It is up to the individual to repent of individualism. All responsibility for both feeling and for action falls upon the individual; the presence or possibility of social, ecclesiastical, or divine agencies (as in orthodox theology) appear to recede backstage. Marleys Ghost: Decompressing Cause and Effect to Disconnected Spaces? Rowell cautions against exaggerating Benthams and Maurices influences on both penology and religious belief, reminding us that there were those who stood by a retributive theory of justice throughout the Victorian era (14). Belief in a future hell, too, was steadfastly and widely preached, mostly for its deterrent value [] used to ensure virtuous living in the present (30). Contrary to what we might expect of someone, who, as a child, was scarred by his fathers stint in debtors prison, Dickens seems to have preferred plain old punishment to many penal reforms. The biographer Peter Ackroyd reports that in the year before writing A Christmas Carol, Dickens toured the United States, where he was introduced to alternative model prisons. Apparently, Dickens found them too comfy: He believed the model prisons to be too lenient to their inmates and extolled instead the virtues of hard and unrewarding labour. Certainly he preferred a regime which relied more upon punishment than upon moral improvement; it is a satisfaction to me, he wrote some years later, to see that determined thief, swindler, or vagrant, sweating profusely at the treadmill or the crank (377). If Ackroyds characterization is accurate, then we could surmise that Dickens believed that Marley gets the future afterlife that his earthly life deserves, and that Scrooge is effectively deterred by the spectacle of Marleys future in hell. Upon this assumption, we could easily be tempted to conclude that the Marleys Ghost conceptual blend performs an important function that Fauconnier and Turner call decompression (The Way We Think 237). Some blends have the aim of being

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70 decompressed: they prompt our minds to dissolve a tight inner relation that exists in the blend so that we can reflect on the way that certain input spaces in the network actually clash. This is especially obvious in counterfactual blends, where an analogy created by the counterfactual possesses rhetorical effect only when it is decompressed into disanalogy. For example, suppose I were to say, If I were Superman, I could push the earth back three months in its orbit around the sun and give myself more time to finish my dissertation. In the counterfactual blend, two identities are compressed into one: I am Superman and thus able to reverse time. But my counterfactual statement really prompts the mind toward disanalogy: I most certainly am not Superman, I cannot turn back time, and my dissertation deadline is rapidly approaching. Decompressing what is compressed in the blend puts me and Superman back in our two appropriate, but very different, input spaces. The counterfactual and its decompression have the effect of spotlighting feelings of powerlessness in the input space that includes me. Likewise, when we contemplate Marleys Ghost, our minds mayand I stress maybe prompted to decompress what appears to be compressed in the counterfactual ghost. Decompressing the ghost leads us to remember that we do not take it literally. Decompressing its painful appearance reminds us that, in our actual experience, sinners often do not suffer the consequences of their acts during their lifetimes. Decompressing thus spotlights a rather desperate hope in a future time or divine realmwhat Maurice derided as a distant world, a mere vague dream and shadow (405)in which all people will actually get what they deserve. Decompressing Marleys Ghost in this way, we sustain a very ancient theological view of eschatology. Our minds first loosen the tight causal connection that exists in the ghost blend: we see that Marleys earthly activity

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71 forges the very chain of his souls eternal punishment, but then we push the cause and the effect back to their distinct and disconnected spaces. Decompressing Marleys Ghost reminds us that we live in an earthly, unjust realm where many evil people are actually quite happy, and where many good people unduly suffer. The ghost and our minds decompression of it spotlight an awareness that the two spaces, living deeds and just deserts, are radically disconnected in real life, and can only be connected by an act of equally radical hope. Marleys Ghost: Compressing Penal Cause and Effect within the Individual Now, if you do not feel that the Marleys Ghost blend prompts our minds to decompress its tight connections, I cannot blame you. Marleys Ghost seems confident in the truth of its compression of cause and effect over time: acts done during lifetime create the instruments of a future, eternal punishment. If daily experience disconfirms the connection of cause (actions during life) and effect (just deserts for those actions), Marleys Ghost provides Scrooge with visible proof of that connection (Figure 2-3). Because Marleys Ghost compresses two input spaces, two times, that in normal life appear disconnected, it consequently exhibits a justice system very different from the normal idea of retribution. Earthly retributive justice involves actions of many parties: the state, which relies on several actual agents (police, prosecutor, prison warden), punishes the offender for harming an injured party. Hells retributive justice also involves many parties: God punishes sinners for offenses against the glory of God, against the commandments of God, or against another person bearing Gods image. But Marleys Ghost condenses these many parties to one: Marley punishes himself.

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72 Space 2: Future or Eternal Hope Space 1: Earthly Experience Effects: Causes: actions, just and unjust Lack of Perceptible Connection just deserts for all actions Tight Connection: Cause Is Effect Marleys Ghost Blended Space Figure 2-3. Compressions of Cause and Effect in Marleys Ghost If Marleys Ghost compresses many parties to one, it also compresses many actions to one. In earthly retributive justice, the means of offense and the means of retribution are varied: a burglar may use a gun to rob a store, and a warden may use food rations, chains, guards with rough habits, etc., to punish the burglar. And in eschatological justice, orthodox belief holds that sinners commit various offenses, and that in final reckoning before God, God will create punishments that will be appropriate to the sins. But in Marleys Ghost, the instruments of sin are the instruments of punishment. Again, the many are compressed to one. Various actions, distinct causes and effects, are compressed to a relationship of identity: cause is effect. By compressing times, identities, and causes and effects into one self-punishing body, Marleys Ghost makes possible new eschatological concepts that are remarkably congruent with the liberal views of F. D. Maurice and others. Borrowing a term from blending theory, we can understand Maurices unorthodox eschatology as the product of

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73 backward projection. According to Turner, new inferences that emerge in the blended space may be project[ed] back to give correlative inferences for the influencing spaces (Turner Cognitive Dimensions of Social Science 36). Inferences created in the Marleys Ghost blend may consequently be applied to input spaces that feed the blend. The ghost compresses earthly time and eschatological future into one body that is visibly present to Scrooge. If that inference is projected back to the input space of religious belief, the result is an eschatology like Maurices: each individual suffers hell or enjoys heaven in their present body. Incidentally, while backward projection of inferences from the blended space may permit new conceptualizations of an input space, it may also necessitate downplaying other critical inferences that are part of the original blend. In eschatology, for example, if compression erases the distinction between life and afterlife, then a key inference from the input space of the corpsethe idea of a decisive end point to the souls agencyis diminished. There is not as great a need for an end point to the soul once the gap between the two realms has been closed. In fact, Maurice fell into hot water precisely over this matter because most readers of his Theological Essays assumed, incorrectly, that the author professed the universalism of the Unitarians (Rowell 62). In universalism, the afterlife permits no retribution because Gods nature, it is presumed, is not vindictive. The weakness of universalism, charged opponents (including Maurice), was that it inadequately acknowledged the reality of spiritual evil (Maurice 28; Rowell 77). Despite Maurices rejection of universalism, the popular misperception of Maurice as soft on sin makes sense as an entailment of his compressions of eschatological time and causation. First, his compression of eschatological time creates a problem: once

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74 earthly life and eternity are conflated, it is a small step to conclude that all souls will eventually be reformed and saved, whether in this life or the next. If there is not some point in time that marks an end point of the souls agency, then there is less incentive to try to make the souls immortal life on this side of bodily death count for good. One can always use the next stage in eternity to work out ones troubles. Second, an additional problem is created by the compression of eschatological cause and effect. Once hell is defined as the present product of ones own sin, then sin, having no final, eschatological standard, may seem to be relative to each persons personal experience. And to the ancient protest that evildoers have it too easy in this life, the only answer can be that people must try harder to persuade evildoers that, despite evidence that they are happy, they are actually experiencing hell. This task of persuasion can quickly be scorned as just one more burden the evil do not have to bear. Interpreting Scrooge as Living in the Blend In A Christmas Carol, the task of persuading Ebenezer Scrooge that he is actually experiencing hell falls upon many characters, major and minor. While it is true that the novel maintains some ostensible concern for the state of Scrooges soul in a future afterlife, it is more apparent that the novel repeatedly portrays Scrooge as someone who lives in a present hell of his own making. Several Dickens scholars have noted this fact, even if they have not sufficiently related the eschatology emerging in Scrooge to the eschatology in Marleys Ghost. Elliott L. Gilbert, revealing a Mauricean preference for an existential rather than eschatological definition of eternity, argues that Scrooges story is one of eternal innocence lost and found again. Gilbert lauds the novel for showing that chronology, in short, is an illusion (28) caused by the individuals fall from eternal innocence into the

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75 machinery of rational society (27). Restoring ones innocence is escaping from the enemy of chronological time by recognizing that the past, present, and future exist in an eternal present: [T]ime, which is therefore the enemy, can be defeated by a phenomenological insight into the simultaneity of all experience; defeated as Scrooge himself defeats it when, immediately upon awakening from his dream, he cries out, I will in the Past, the Present, and the Future! The Spirits of all Three shall live within me! (28) Gilbert adroitly observes the ways Dickens compresses time to simultaneity for the novels characters as well as for the reader. In the case of Scrooge, the whole of his life is actually lived in the course of one night; consequently, if he is of any age at all, he is barely half-a-dozen hours old (28) by the readers standard, even though the reader has seen Scrooges entire life fastforwarded. Additionally, says Gilbert, Dickens compresses time by juxtaposing a child with an adult so that we see only one, identical character: [O]ne of Dickens favorite devices [] is the use of a child and an adult together in a story to represent the same character at different stages of his life, but with the two existingas if to underscore the metaphysical point of the storysimultaneously. Tiny Tim and Scrooge have that kind of a relationship in A Christmas Carol, the rejected child of Scrooges memory of himself being actualized in the crippled boy (29) In the alternate future in which Tiny Tim dies, Scrooge also dies; in the actual future of the story, Tiny Tim lives, and so does Scrooge. In Gilberts analysis, when the reader sees the two as one, the reader is engaging in the same redemptive act of simultaneity. Gilberts claim that Scrooges redemption lies within his own power is echoed by Dennis Walder in Dickens and Religion: [I]t is one of Dickenss deeper and more convincing insights that [Scrooges] alienation from humanity is shown to be rooted in self-alienation (123). John R. Reed explicitly ties Scrooges self-alienation to the idea

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76 of self-punishment. Scrooges punishment is to discover through psychological travail his own internal fault (155). Gradually, says Reed, Scrooge emerges from the dungeon of his self into the light of family affection, and into a recognition of his fellowship with all creatures. Reeds inclusion of penal, theological, and domestic elements in his statementdungeon, light, family affectionmay look like a forced mixture of distinctly different conceptual domains. But Reeds mixture makes sense when readers observe Scrooge first refusing the love offered to him by his former fiance, Belle, and his nephew, Fred, and subsequently repenting by finally joining himself to the welcoming families of Fred and the Cratchits. In these interpretations, Scrooge is said to exemplify what we identified at the beginning of this chapter as a third view of hell that emerged in the Victorian era: hell as an internal, self-imposed state experienced in ones present life on earth. Interestingly, while these interpretations clearly point out the eschatology implied in the narration of Scrooges life, these interpretations are rather silent about the eschatology apparent in Marleys Ghost. And none accounts for the fact that, although the eschatologies of Scrooge and the ghost share conceptual roots, they yield very different theological fruit. A cognitive anatomy of Marleys Ghost and the life of Scrooge can show how the two eschatologies are related but different. Let us first recall that the ghosts body confirms three beliefs from orthodox eschatology: The afterlife really exists At bodily death, one loses the agency to affect ones eternal fate In the afterlife, just deserts are rendered for choices made in earthly life Scrooge never directly challenges these beliefsindeed, he seems to accept them as having been verified by the words and appearance of the ghost. However, as scholars

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77 have pointed out, Scrooges life as it is narrated by Dickens seems to confirm some surprisingly unorthodox beliefs about eschatology: Scrooge exhibits the afterlife (hell) as identical with his earthly life In his earthly life, Scrooge experiences the just deserts for choices he has made In the argument presented here, Scrooge is living in the blend created by Marleys Ghost. Marleys Ghost as a unique conceptual blend within a larger conceptual integration network that includes pre-existing contributing input spaces. If we decompress Marleys Ghost as a counterfactual, we create no revision of orthodox eschatology. The ghost confirms the traditional hope in a final and perfect system of justice, without forcing us to confuse the concepts of this life and the afterlife. However, if temporal and causal compressions in the ghost are projected back to the input space of theology, we create two unorthodox, yet intriguing, possibilities: earthly life and afterlife are no longer disconnected but simultaneous within the same person; and earthly actions and eschatological justice are no longer disconnected but identical within the same person. The eschatology exhibited by Scrooge can be explained as the backward projection of temporal and causal compressions that exist visibly in Marleys Ghost. I do not mean to imply that this is what actually occurred in Scrooges mindScrooge, of course, is a fictional character with no biological brain apart from the one that created him. But neither do I mean to claim that Dickens must have first created Marleys Ghost, next reflected on the theological possibilities created by his ghost, and last created Scrooges existential hell and redemption by reifying the compressions made visible in the ghost. What I do claim, however, is that Dickens, like many Victorians, had a creative mind that could play along several input spaces. Moreover, Dickenss mind, like the minds of

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78 many social reformers and theologians of his era, was playing along some of the same conceptual input spaces. And because the mind naturally seeks to blend conceptual spaces in order to solve problems and create new solutions, it therefore makes sense that similar kinds of blending would pop up in different arenas, from theological essays to works of the narrative imagination. As Turner writes, The blend does not eliminate the influencing spaces. On the contrary, the blend exists in a conceptual integration network of different and interacting mental spaces, all of them with their uses. We can work inside the blend, or outside the blend, or in both simultaneously and interactingly (Cognitive Dimensions of Social Science 44). F. D. Maurices Theological Essays and Dickenss A Christmas Carol share interacting mental spaces, especially the spaces of penal theory and Christian eschatology. The unique advantage of Dickenss creation is that it provides a single figure, a ghost, in whom we can detect those mental spaces and how they are blended to make possible new inferences. Furthermore, the present conceptual anatomy of Marleys Ghost exemplifies how minds can work inside the blend, or outside the blend, or in both simultaneously and interactingly. Working inside the blend, we have accounted for the implicit hell of Scrooges own making, as well as for Maurices explicit compression of the distance between present and eschatological future to simultaneity in the present. Working outside the blend, we have shown how Marleys Ghost can still be interpreted as confirming traditional orthodox beliefs about the afterlife. Working between the blend and the input spaces, we have accomplished two more steps. First, we have illustrated how the construction of the entire integration network is occasioned by the innovative CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor, recruited to the blend by the exploitation of a metonymy from

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79 the domain of punishment. Second, we have indicated that any interpretation of the entire network depends on whether what is connected in the blend is projected back to affect an input space, or is decompressed to outer space relations. If Scrooge is the decisive reader of Marleys Ghost, then his experience of living in the blendallowing his daily life to exhibit to the eschatological logic confirmed by the ghostpoints to a single interpretation. But the possibility remains, of course, that an adequate interpretation will play along many possibilitiesespecially because we cannot escape the fact that the orthodox eschatology generating Marleys Ghosts is incompatible with the unorthodox eschatology that Scrooge takes from the ghost. A Christmas Carol thus vividly confirms how conceptual blends permit the mind to generate new meaning that may appear to clash with the very sources of its generation: We create mental blends to see whether we want to make them real, or to create emotional states, or to draw inferences that impinge upon reality, or to solve problems, or to achieve a compressed version of more diffuse knowledge, or to supply a global insight into diffuse knowledge, or to create new meaning, or to help us reason to choices, or for other purposes, and in doing so we often work inevitably, simultaneously, having it both ways, with a blend and an influencing space that are incompatible or even, sometimes, centrally opposed. (Turner Cognitive Dimensions of Social Science 44; emphasis added) Having it both ways, we can keep Marleys Ghost and Scrooge in conceptual tension with one another. That tension best illuminates the periods theological debates about hell. It also best exemplifies the flexibility of the mind that can create and comprehend conceptual blends.

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CHAPTER 3 THE GHOSTLY NUN: TIME COMPRESSION IN GERARD MANLEY HOPKINSS THE WRECK OF THE DEUTSCHLAND From Sinful Ghost to Saintly Ghost Marleys Ghost had a limited mission: to convert one man to a state of belief in the afterlife of his soul. And the ghost succeeded: it changed the way Ebenezer Scrooge thought about his future. Having experienced Marleys Ghost as a insightful compression of time, Scrooge was able to change his decidedly unghostly life. If Marleys Ghost surpassed its missionby changing, say, the way Dickenss readers also think about their own futuresthen this can only be attributed to the hopes of the author and the imaginations of his readers, not the explicit job description of the ghost. A less familiar work than Dickenss tale, Gerard Manley Hopkins 1875 poem The Wreck of the Deutschland shares the hope of changing the future, and it also conjures up a ghostly figure to that end. But while Marleys Ghost points its finger at a single miser shaking in his bed in London, Hopkinss ghost points at everyone in England. In The Wreck, the ultimate hope is that all English souls, once they understand the heaven-haven of the reward in the afterlife, will be converted. Their present impairment is not that they are Scrooges but Anglicans. Hopkinss poem tries to persuade England that its future happiness lies in turning, as Hopkins himself had done nine years earlier, to Roman Catholicism. Because even the short poems of Hopkins are often complicated, many readers shy away from The Wreck of the Deutschland. At 280 lines, The Wreck is as difficult to 80

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81 understand on a second or third reading as A Christmas Carol is easy on a first reading. Hopkinss friend Robert Bridges, upon introducing The Wreck to the public in the 1918 edition of Hopkinss poems, wrote that the poem stands [] like a great dragon folded in the gate to forbid all entrance (Poems 1876-1889; qtd. in Milward Readings of The Wreck v). Yet if we are guided by the model of the ghost as a conceptual blend, we can get past that dragon and understand Hopkinss work as something very much like Dickenss simple tale. Using the theory of conceptual integration networks, we will see that Hopkinss poem prompts readers to construct a ghostly network of earthly, heavenly, and nuptial scenes that results in the compression of different temporal moments into one. By giving English souls a rather intimate insight into past, present and future, the poem aims to motivate rare-dear Britain to turn from the apostasy of Henry VIII and return to its once, and future, Roman Catholic faith. Where The Wreck of the Deutschland Is Headed To understand the future hope to which The Wreck of the Deutschland is oriented, let us start at the poems end. In the last of its thirty-five stanzas, The Wreck offers a prayer. Because it concludes the poem, this prayer is a clue as to how Hopkins hoped to affect his readers. Further below, we will examine the complex blending that leads up to this prayer, but in its last stanza we get a glimpse of the future hope that generates the conception of ghostly blends in Hopkinss imagination: Dame, at our door Drowned, and among our shoals, Remember us in the roads, the heaven-haven of the reward: Our King back, Oh, upon English souls!

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82 Let him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east, More brightening her, rare-dear Britain, as his reign rolls, Pride, rose, prince, hero of us, high-priest, Our hearts charitys hearths fire, our thoughts chivalrys throngs Lord. (273-280) The Dame refers to one of five nunsShe was first of a five and came / Of a coifd sisterhood (153)who drowned when the Deutschland ran aground off the mouth of the Thames in a storm in December 1875. This particular nun is usually referred to by scholars as the tall nun, following Hopkinss use of the term in line 151 of the poem. News reports had noted the physical height of one of the five nuns. She and her fellow Franciscan sisters had fled Prussia due to anti-Catholic legislation there. Hopkins, a Jesuit priest who had converted to Catholicism nine years earlier, interpreted their deaths as martyrdom. In his mind the nuns, after their deaths, received the heaven-haven of reward for their witness to the true faith. In Catholic tradition, one can pray to those in heaven and ask them to intercede with God on behalf of those still living. In this manner Hopkins makes a request of the dead but risen Dame, directing to and through her his own desire for the eventual conversionor, more accurately, the reconversionof all England (Moore 120; see also Bumstead). In this final prayer, the poem offers a simple scenario of a king who rules over his subjects. The sighing Oh and exclamation point in the fourth line of the stanza indicate the depth of Hopkinss longing to have Our King back, Oh, upon English souls! Although Roman Catholicism is not expressly mentioned hereit is more directly praised, and Protestantism more directly condemned, elsewhere in the poema Roman Catholic England is implied. To wish a king back implies that that king has been

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83 absent. Absent since when? Since the days of rare-dear Britain, the medieval days when chivalry and throng and Rome-allied royals were part of a Catholic English culture. Other termshigh-priest, easter, dayspringcast the readers eye eastward to Rome and the crimson-cresseted pope there who, until Henry VIIIs apostasy, was also high-priest of England. Hopkinss future hope is also captured in the last stanzas imperative to the nun. Remember is not only a call to mentally bring back something from the past. It is also, in its literal sense, a call to gather again, to re-member, the lost (British) members of the Catholic faith. In typical Hopkins fashion, this meaning is reinforced by the nearby placement of an apparently insignificant word. As a noun, shoal means a shallow area, but it also has a second, verbal meaning: To come together in large numbers; throng (American Heritage College Dictionary, 3 rd ed.). The rhyme prompts our minds to link the two: If English souls would only shoal under a Catholic king again, then the heavenly King would be more pleased, and his reign, restored from the dimness of our English apostasy, more gloriously roll[]. Other images earlier in the poem contribute to this hope of a future regathering. If the poems final stanzas depict a king royally reclaiming (271) his subjects, the thirty-first stanza shows a shepherd reclaiming his lost sheep. There, Hopkins expresses his hope that the faithful obedience displayed by the nun, the fact that the Maiden could obey so (247), will Startle the poor sheep back! (248). He immediately follows up the shepherd image with another New Testament image of reclamation, that of the harvest: is the shipwrack then a harvest, does tempest carry the grain for thee? The harvest image has been shaping Christians imaginations of the future since the time of Jesus

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84 death. For believers, the future holds the promised return of Jesus who will return to retrieve what properly belongs to him: his harvest, his sheep, his subjects. Hopkins nudges this traditional hope in a particular direction, emphasizing it as a future re-taking of his England: Our King back royally reclaiming his poor sheep back! (emphases added). Hopkins bends the flexible New Testament imagery of reclamation toward the specific rewriting of English political and religious history. If the biblical Christ will return to rule over a world of unified believers, then, for Hopkins, this hope should direct English souls to be unified under one faith and under one Catholic king, again, on English souls, shoals, and soil. The Multiple Blend Network That Steers The Wreck to Its End Now that we have seen why Hopkins set his poem sailing, lets look at the conceptual integration network he creates to drive his readers toward his future hope. Recall that in A Christmas Carol Marleys Ghost prompts the reader to compress different temporal realms into one embodied figure, giving visible confirmation of the continuity of the soul on both sides of deaths divide. The Wreck of the Deutschland offers similar insight, but through slightly more complicated means. Unlike Scrooge, who was visited by a sinner, the English readers of The Wreck are visited by a saint. She is one of the five nuns, the tall nun (151). In the poem, her body is figured as simultaneously approaching death on the sinking ship and experiencing her heavenly reward after death. What truly distinguishes Hopkinss nun is that her compression of earthly and heavenly scenes is made possible by blending each of those two input scenes with a third scene, nuptial intercourse. The presence of this third input space prompts the reader of The Wreck to construct not one but three blended spaces: 1. There is a blend of the shipwreck scene with the nuptial scene.

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85 2. There is a blend of the heavenly scene with the nuptial scene. 3. There is a blend of the previous two blendsa multiple blend rather than two intertwined metaphors (Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 281). It should be noted that the above are ordered not chronologically but conceptually; it is likely that the reader will become conscious of the second and third blends before noticing the first. For claritys sake, I shall call the first two blendsthe nuptials-shipwreck blend and the nuptials-heaven blendminor blends in the network. The blend of the two minor blends creates the major blend, which I also call the Ghostly Nun blend. As we shall see, there are important differences between each of these blends, and these are not eliminated as readers activate the entire network in their minds. For example, an inconsequential element in a minor blend may become quite significant in the major blend. Ultimately, it is the major blend that achieves the compression of future and present in The Wreck. When the reader successfully activates this third blend, the nun becomes an eerie figure inhabiting two temporally distinct times. She becomes a Ghostly Nun, for her body simultaneously exhibits both before-death and after-death experiences. The Input Spaces to the Ghostly Nun Conceptual Integration Network For an adequate analysis of the Ghostly Nun, it will be useful to lay out the input and blended spaces individually without referring to the text too much. Because even a short phrase from Hopkinss poem can prompt readers to start constructing and integrating all the conceptual spaces, it is better to delay that integration and, instead, attend to the individual conceptual spaces that will be integrated. After we have briefly elucidated the input and blended spaces feeding both the minor and major blends, we will be able to return to Hopkinss words more closely and notice how they exhibit the entire network and invite dynamic play along all the spaces.

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86 Once we understand the conceptual makeup of The Wreck, we will then turn to various interpretations of The Wreck. Responses to The Wreck can be distinguished by which of the contributing spaces to the entire network a critical reader seems to emphasize. By identifying which spaces scholars highlight in Hopkins, we can identify both the merits and the limitations of an individual reading of the poem. Finally, we will identify and examine the generic space that also contributes to the entire multiple blend network. The generic space feeding The Wreck presumes the experience of ones own body being altered by external forces. The generic space is a term we passed over in the previous chapter, yet it will prove more salient here. Any argument about the overall rhetorical effectiveness of The Wreck may finally depend upon a readers appreciation of the poems generic spaceor what Hopkins might have called the underthought, conveyed chiefly in the choice of metaphors etc used and often only half realized by the poet himself (Further Letters 252). The Input Space of the Nuns Shipwreck and Death The tall nun as central character. The most ostensible input space given to the reader is a scenario of one nun suffering and dying on a storm-tossed ship. The scenario imagined in The Wreck is richly supplied by the events an actual disaster. There is evidence that Hopkins was searching for a way to crystallize his powers to a new poetic and religious purpose when the Deutschland ran aground (White 250). While more than sixty aboard the ship died and Hopkins wrote without knowing all the particulars (Robert Bernard Martin 244), Hopkins focused on the political and religious significance of the fact that five Roman Catholic religious women, Banned by the land of their birth (Hopkins The Wreck 162), had also died in the disaster. Having read a report in the December 11, 1875 issue of The Times that the tallest of the five, amid shrieks and

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87 sobbing of women and children, had been calling to Christ till the end came, Hopkins turned his sights on her (The Times; qtd. in Robert Bernard Martin 255). In his dramatic poem, this particular nun vividly upstages all other characters who appear in The Wreck. The ship itself and the scores of other doomed passengers do not play key roles in this drama. They receive almost no poetic attention compared to the tall nun who calls out to Christ and her four sisters who together play lesser, but still meaningful, roles. The nun is mortally vulnerable to natural forces. The other key element in the shipwreck space is that of nature. The most important inference from the shipwreck that pervades The Wreck is the inference that the nuns body is painfully and mortally vulnerable before powerful natural elements. Wind, water, and cold each pose a danger to ships and to human beings; combined together, however, these three forces become widow-making deadly: Into the snow she sweeps, Hurling the haven behind, The Deutschland, on Sunday, and so the sky keeps, For the infinite air is unkind, And the sea flint-flake, black-backed in the regular blow, Sitting Eastnortheast, in cursed quarter, the wind; Wiry and white-fiery and whirlwind-swivelled snow Spins to the widow-making unchilding unfathering deeps. (97-104) In a deft touch, Hopkins manages to suggest two additional natural perils even though they are not actually present in the Deutschland disaster. He invokes the threat of fire by calling the snow white-fiery, and he raises the danger of sharp rock by giving the sea the modifier flint-flake. In this manner, Hopkins makes the reader see that his

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88 shipwreck is more than just a story of one nun in peril at sea. His shipwreck calls to mind the many natural perils that can cause human life to suffer and die. The Input Space of the Nuns Afterlife in Heaven A second input space to the Ghostly Nun network concerns the tall nuns future experience after her death at sea. According to Hopkins, she is received into the heaven-haven of the reward (275), which is awarded her for earthly service to Christ and obedience to Christs (Roman Catholic) Church. The heavenly characters. In the heavenly input space, there are primarily two beings: the tall nun and the deity (God/Christ), who causes the nun to receive her future state of saintly afterlife. In the poems vision of heaven, the other nuns who have died play a minor role in the heavenly scene, just as they do in the earthly scene. Their presence recalls the fact that in Christian doctrine, all obedient believers who have died for Christ will be given the heavenly reward. Indeed, Hopkins wonders if he can imagine himself in that heavenly population, too: But how shall Imake me room there? (217; original ellipsis). The nun experiences a continued consciousness but a changed body. The heavenly input space carries the assumption that the nun will still have conscious existence after her death. Hopkins refers to the nun with the same identifiersshe, herin both the earthly and heavenly input spaces. Because she retains her consciousness in the afterlife, she is much like the ghost of Jacob Marley in A Christmas Carol, although with none of his regret and misery. The heavenly space assumes some kind of new body for that consciousness, however. Hopkins agrees with the apostle Paul that the human body is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body (1 Corinthians 15:44 KJV). Although it is difficult to

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89 describe, the nun in heaven is assumed to have had her body changed from a natural to a spiritual body. The nun gains heavenly knowledge. Another inference from the heavenly input spaceand one that will be projected to all three blended spacesis the belief that in heaven God is more fully known by the nun. This inference can be seen, for example, in the twenty-ninth stanza, where Hopkins portrays the nun as having the spiritual heart and eye to rightly comprehend Gods unshapeable activity: Ah! there was a heart right! There was single eye! Read the unshapeable shock night And knew the who and the why; Wording it how but by him that present and past, Heaven and earth are word of worded by?; (225-230) The clue that we must be operating on the future side of the nuns death here is the word unshapeable. Hopkins believes, with Paul, that on the earthly side of death our eye is never single enough to see the true shape of things: For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known (1 Corinthians 13:12; KJV). It is only then, in the future, that the eye becomes perfectly clear, the heart perfectly right, and the wordas logos, meaning both knowledge and divine creativityperfectly worded. For Hopkins, it is only in heaven, after Thou hadst glory of this nun (236; emphasis added), that the nun will receive a birth of a brain that can newly conceive (239) and shape what was formerly unshapeable.

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90 The continuity of divine character and action. Related to the inference of knowledge is the inference of the continuity of divine character and activity across dissimilar temporal domains. In short, the nun in heaven learns not only the who and the why but also that the who and the why have been identical on both sides of deaths divide. In the thirty-second stanza, Hopkins pauses to affirm this belief by praising the Ground of being, and granite of it: past all Grasp God, throned behind Death, with a sovereignty that heeds but hides, bodes but abides. (254-56) These clauses contain multiple possibilities of syntax, manifesting a skill evident in many of Hopkinss poems. Here, each syntactic reading reiterates the same affirmation, only in a different way. In one possibility, God is confessed to be the past all / Grasp God; God is past all comprehension because God hides behind / Death. Yet, reading with an alternative syntax, Grasp changes from modifier to verb, and the reader is urged to Grasp God, throned behind death, which suggests that once we are beyond death, past all, we will understandusing the primary embodied metaphor UNDERSTANDING IS GRASPINGthat God abides the same way on earth as in heaven. On this side of death, that continuity is hidden. Though the continuity of Gods sovereignty across both earth and heaven hides from the living, it is at last graspable by those in the afterlife. The nun and the deity experience a heavenly relationship. An additional inference from the heavenly realm influences the entire conceptual integration network. The Christian doctrine of heaven asserts some kind of new and lasting relationship between the soul and the deity. Whereas the future space of the Marleys Ghost blend entails the unparalleled solitude of the eternal sinner, the future space of the nun entails

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91 unparalleled relationship between God and the martyred soul. Unlike the Comfortless unconfessed (244), the nun is No not uncomforted because she has thee (245, 241). Heavens reward to the saint is the experience of lovely-felicitous Providence (245) in such a way that the lovely and felicitous aspects of the deity are accentuated. Heaven is experienced as Gods goodness to the nth degree. The saintly soul in heaven not only conceives Gods character more fully, that soul also directly experiences Gods goodness more profoundly. Because it is not an event a living person can experience and write home about afterward, heavenly union with God must be represented either through very abstract terms, such as lovely-felicitous, or through a variety of concrete images that are necessarily rooted in bodily experience on this side of death. We addressed this difficultytrying to represent what is believed ultimately to exceed the human powers of representationwhen we considered the invention of Marleys Ghost. Marleys eternal soul is, in theory, beyond sense experience. Yet key inferences of Marleys psychic statehis eternal misery, regret, and burdenare conveyed through a ghostly body that is a blend of the earthly Marley and his posthumous, disembodied soul. Marleys ghostly body is just enough like a normal body to convey the physical discomfort that must serve as a metaphor for his eternal souls spiritual distress. It is similar with the Ghostly Nun. Hopkinss saint is given a heavenly body that is just physical enough to convey, through the metaphor of physical pleasure, the concept of a spiritual encounter with God. Many bodily-based metaphors are imaginable that could convey the encounter of heavenly saint with heavenly deity. For example, Hopkins does represent the heavenly nun as a being that can receive a crown (199) on her eternal head and a treasure

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92 (208) in her eternal hands. In this way, her heavenly body is made a figure of Olympic victory that accords with Pauls imagery in 1 Corinthians 9:24-25. Yet no matter how she is imagined, the saints heavenly form must appear just physical enough to provide a concrete, bodily-based metaphor of the heavenly union as a blessing and glory. Hopkins has no choice but to choose some images from this side of death with which to represent the happy union of God and saint on the other side of death. The Input Space of Nuptial Intercourse Two roles, one event. The dominant image that frames the heavenly experience for the reader of The Wreck comes from a third input space: sexual intercourse attending marriage. This nuptial space includes a bride, a groom, and his sexual penetration of the bride, which consummates an irrevocable change in her sexual and social status. It also effects their union as one flesh, which has legal, social, and religious standing. The Blended Space of Nuptial Intercourse and the Nun in Heaven We can better identify which elements of the nuptial input space are significant when we notice how that space gives conceptual structure to the nuns experience in heaven (Figure 3-1). The nuptials-heaven minor blend is almost entirely metaphorical. With one notable exception, every element of the nuptial scene serves as a source domain that organizes the target domain of heavenly experience. Hopkinss imagery prompts the reader to conceptualize heavenly experience largely as a wedding night event with several key inferences.

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93 Input Space: Input Space: Nuns Soul in Heaven Nuptial Intercourse Roles: groom, Roles: deity, bride nun Event: groom has sexual pleasure of bride & causes her to become united to him as one flesh Event: deity has pleasure giving nun new life, full knowledge, and eternal union with deity Bride gains carnal knowledge Other roles: other nuns also have union with deity (No other roles: the two are alone) Roles: deity/groom, nun/bride Other nuns/brides present in heavenly bedroom Event: deity/groom has pleasure of nun/bride and full union with her Nun gains spiritual knowledge & irrevocable union with deity/groom Blended Space: Bride and Groom in Heaven Figure 3-1. Network with Blending of Nuns Afterlife with Nuptial Intercourse The groom causes irrevocable change in the bride. Most importantly, the nuptial event projects a caused event structure into the nuns heavenly experience. In the nuptial space, the groom causes the bride to lose her virginity and become something new. Her sexual and social status are changed forever. Projected to the heavenly scene, the brides transformation corresponds to the nuns transformation from flesh to spirit. True to both spaces is the concept that a first-time event experienced by the bodysexual penetration in one space, bodily death and resurrection in the otherchanges more than merely bodily reality. Yet because the religious belief concerns an event not available to

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94 earthly experience, it is likely that, in this case, at least, the transformation of the bride to a Dame provides the concrete structure for the concept of the transformation of the natural body to a spiritual body. Crucially, the agency behind this important change lies not with the bride but with the groom. Projected into the heavenly scene, the grooms agency becomes the (male) agency of the deity (God/Christ). He causes the dead nun to become changed forever. He transforms her from a fleshly being to an eternal saint. The groom unites with the bride as one flesh. With sexual intercourse, the groom makes his bride one flesh with him. In Victorian times, the act sealed a physical, social, legal, and religious union. Projected into the heavenly scene, the deitys action upon the nun consummates a religious and spiritual union that both parties desire. Indeed, the actual nun has been living in this performative blend ever since she took her vow to remain celibate and give herself bodily and spiritually to Christ alone. In the heavenly space, there is an indefinite (although strongly held) concept that somehow the nun will have her promised union with the deity fulfilled after her death. In the blended space, however, that fulfillment is no longer indefinite. The nuns earthly vow and her heavenly belief are blended. Her posthumous union to the deity is conceptualized as the consummation of a marriage. The groom experiences pleasure; the bride experiences pain but gains knowledge. Although there were undoubtedly exceptions to this generalization, it is likely that most men in Hopkinss Victorian society expected the wedding night to be pleasurable, while women found it frightening and painful. The sexual ideology expected men to learn about sex by having early sexual experiences (Colp 710). Men,

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95 having already experienced orgasm, would have looked forward to the wedding night familiar with the carnal pleasure that marital intercourse makes possible. Unmarried women, however, were encouraged [] to wait passively or to have mental conflicts about the possibility of sexual pleasure. Indeed, while a sexual advice manual might instruct women that intercourse could be enjoyable, it might also warn that sex could cause mental and physical exhaustion (Colp 710). In addition to the physical pain of first-time sexual penetration, women may have experienced psychological distress. Expected to be chaste, Victorian brides would have faced the wedding night with some fear of the unknown. In the space blending nuptial and heavenly scenes, the grooms sexual pleasure is projected to the deitys divine pleasure. Hopkins writes of Gods pleasure as glorious, describing the scene as the night / Thou hadst glory of this nun (235-6). The Finger of Providence touches the feathery delicacy, the breast of the / Maiden (245, 246-47). As for the bride, her gaining of carnal knowledge is projected, in the blend, to the nuns gaining of spiritual knowledge. She understands more fully the who and the why, the character and the ways of God. We should note that it is possible to read Hopkinss nun in heaven as experiencing a sexualized pleasure, too. She is described as calling out to Christ, her lover, with love in her (195). While the brides sexual pleasure was not out of the possibility of Victorian expectations, the fact that the poem elsewhere vividly emphasizes her physical pain suggests that any sensual pleasure exhibited by the bride in heaven more likely derives from the inference of heavenly bliss than from sexual enjoyment. This is one

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96 reason why the blended space in Figure 3-1 cannot be explained as a simple metaphoric projection from the nuptial space alone. In the blend, heavenly plurality intrudes on nuptial intimacy. Victorians would also have assumed that when consummation takes place, the bride and groom are alone. In the heavenly input space, however, there are others present. God may be the consummate lover of the nun who arrives in heaven after dying on the Deutschland, but he is also the consummate lover of the four other nuns who died with her. In the nuptials-heaven minor blend, these two inferences clash; heavenly plurality trumps nuptial intimacy. When Hopkins writes of the nun as a lioness (135) and of her pride that her lover ride[s] (224), the typical wedding night becomes suddenly crowded. The bride is not the only lioness in the pride, which includes at least her four sisters who also drowned. The five-livd [] pride / Are sisterly sealed together under the same lion. That heavenly pride even includes Hopkins himself, for there are many souls calling / A master, her master and mine (145-46; emphasis added); Hopkins wants to make me room there, too (217). The existence of more than two in the blended space producing a heavenly bedroom proves that there is more than single-scope, metaphoric blending involved here. On this one matter, the heavenly space organizes the nuptial space, even though the rest of the nuptials-heaven minor blend is chiefly organized by the nuptial event. The Blended Space of Nuptial Intercourse and the Nuns Earthly Shipwreck The nuptials-heaven blend is easier to notice than the nuptials-shipwreck blend. One reason is historical: the identification of heaven as a wedding scene has seeped into western cultures through Christian texts. But another reason is conceptual and structural: as Figure 3-2 illuminates, it is more difficult to establish a counterpart in the shipwreck

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97 scene for the bridegroom in the nuptials scene. Indeed, one might reasonably ask whether the nuptials-shipwreck minor blend exists at all. The answer is this: it must exist because the major blend, which is noticed by the reader, presumes that it is there, even if it is not as conventional as the nuptials-heaven blend. The fusion of the nuptial event with the shipwreck event produces a figure who appears to be a bride conceptualized as a storm victim, or a storm victim conceptualized as a brideor some ambiguous mixture of the two. It is difficult to discern which of the two spaces most influences and organizes the nuptials-shipwreck minor blend. Input Space: Input Space: Figure 3-2. Network with Blend of Nuptial Intercourse and Nuns Death Nuns Suffering and Death in Shipwreck Nuptial Intercourse Roles: groom, Roles: stormy elements, bride nun Event: groom penetrates willing bride, causing pain Event: elements thrash nun, causing pain and death Other roles: the other nuns who also die No other roles: the two are alone Roles: storm/groom nun/bride Event: storm/groom penetrates and kills nun/bride Blended Space: Bride Experiences Groom as a Storm; Sex is fatal / Death is sexual or Shipwreck Victim Experiences Storm as a Bride Experiences Groom Nun willingly submits to death

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98 Death and sex. In the nuptials-heaven blend, the wedding night organizes the heavenly scenewith the notable exception of the notion of plurality, which is added from the heavenly input space without any counterpart in the nuptial input space. When readers construct the nuptials-shipwreck blend, however, they may be less conscious of the subtle ways that the nuptial scene may serve to organize the nuns experience of death. For one thing, the presence of death in the blend seems to come from the shipwreck space alone. Yet unlike heavenly pluralitywhich had no counterpart in the nuptial scene at all, causing Hopkins to retrieve one from the sex life of lionsearthly death does have a counterpart in the nuptial scene: painful intercourse. It is doubtful that death existed in the Victorians typical image of the wedding night. If anything, Victorians were probably more apt to associate the wedding night with the creation of new life. So by itself, sexual intercourse may offer a rather inapt metaphor for a womans death in a shipwreck. But if we recall that conceptual blending need not be metaphoric, then the nuptial-shipwreck blend can prompt us to notice analogous relationships, even if they seem forced. For one, sexual penetration and death are both one-time events that involve bodily pain. For another, both events are believed to cause an irrevocable change in the persons being. Moreover, if we remember that sex is the one thing that leads to pregnancy, and that pregnancy always posed a mortal threat to women of the nineteenth century, we can notice another link between the spaces of nuptial intercourse and the nuns earthly shipwreck. Because Hopkinss poetry fuses sexual penetration and shipwrecked death into a blended space, the results are new inferences that may exist either independently or in

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99 tension with one another. Perhaps the crucial new inference is that sex is fatal and irrevocable. Perhaps the inference is that death is sexual and, therefore, that death is something to which one should, like an obedient bride to her husband, submit. Because of this instability in the minor blend, the likelihood is that readers will allow the inferences in the major blend to exert pressure upon the nuptials-shipwreck blend. Once the two minor blends are blended, the major blend will determine which inferences from the minor blends are more significant than others. That does not mean, however, that the ambiguities in the minor blend simply vanish. They remain active and available to the mind (including the critics) that integrates the network. Inanimate elements become an intentional actor. If death seems to influence the nuptials-shipwreck blend from the shipwreck space, then identity influences the blend from the nuptial space. In the blend, the natural forces from the shipwreck space become the male groom from the nuptial space. The result prompts readers to compress the variety of natural forces facing the nunthe sea flint-flake, white-fiery wind, whirlwind-swivelled snow, infinite air, and unchilding unfathering deepsinto a single actor. This allows the nun to respond to the storm as though it were a single character capable of response. Hopkins portrays the nun as calling to the black-about air, to the breaker, the thickly / Falling flakes (191, 189-90) just as she might call[] Christ to her. Because, in the blend, the storm dons the personality of the groom, the nun can even be seen as submitting to the storm willingly, as a bride submits to the inevitable pain of first-time sexual intercourse. By taking on the grooms identity, the storm also takes on the attribute of human intentionality. It is not an unfeeling storm but malevolent. Hopkins writes that the air is

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100 unkind (100). Contrasting his own security to the nuns danger, he describes the storm as a conscious predator: I was under a roof here, I was at rest, / And they the prey of the gales (187-89). By animating the winds, Hopkins may appear to be rehearsing a literary convention that goes back to the Greek invention of Aeolus, the mythological agent of the winds. But the ascription of animate qualities to inanimate naturewhat John Ruskin famously termed the pathetic fallacy (Modern Painters III, ch. 12)is older than mythology. As cognitive archaeologist Steven Mithen has argued, anthropomorphism (conceptualizing non-humans as people) and totemism (conceptualizing people as non-humans, usually animals) can be traced back to the earliest artifacts of Modern Homo sapiens and can only be explained by a cognitive fluidity that we too quickly take for granted (Mithen 165, 166). A more careful examination of Hopkinss predatory storm demands that we ask whether its intentionality may not be simply perfunctory but have a counterpart in the nuptial space. The males seeking of a female mate shares a basic schematic structure with the predators search for prey. And we should also recall that in Victorian times, no less than ours, women were keenly aware of sexual predators (a conceptual blend that has become quite entrenched in ordinary discourse despite its figurative origin). Indeed, Victorians were more likely than westerners today to place the physical violence that attends rape in the same category as secretive courting. The sexual danger faced by women and girls, writes Anna Clark, greatly concerned Victorians of all classes, but they often confused rape and seduction [] and it mattered little to the Victorians whether a fallen woman had lost her virtue through rape or seduction (711). If it is

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101 possible to see the Victorian seducer (and future groom) as a rapist, then it is possible that the concept of predation is projected into the nuptial-shipwreck blend from the space of sex and love, and not from the space of gales and snow, which are inanimate to begin with. Multiple Blend of Blended Spaces: the Bride of Both Earth and Heaven Because the nuptial space feeds each of the two minor blendseven though those blends are organized differently by different inferences from the nuptial sceneit also provides much of the structure conceptualizing the major blend, the multiple blend of the two minor blends. Once the two minor blends are joined as inputs to a major blend, the all-important temporal connections between the shipwreck space and the heavenly space become possible (Figure 3-3).

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102 Input Blend: Input Blend: Bride in a Storm Deity/groom, Storm/groom, Nun/bride Nun/bride Deity has pleasure of bride, causing her to unite to him as one flesh Storm/groom kills willing nun/bride Bride gains knowledge Other willing nuns/brides also killed Other nuns/brides in heavenly bedroom Storm/groom/deity, Earthly nun/bride/heavenly nun Storm/groom/deity causes nuns death/union/afterlife In bodily event, nun gains knowledge that master of storm is master of heaven; she thus willingly submits to both at same time Earthly suffering and heavenly afterlife have same apparent structure Others on earth and in heaven experience same Master Blended Space: Compression of Earth & Heaven Bride in Heaven Figure 3-3. Multiple Blend of Blends Producing the Ghostly Nun Compressions Created by the Ghostly Nun Blend Recalling the theory of Fauconnier and Turner, one of the chief functions of a conceptual blend is to compress diffuse relationships between outer input spaces to

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103 an inner-space relationship within the blend. The blend thus offers global insight at a human scale (Compression and global insight 283). This is true of the major blend that produces the Ghostly Nun. Through the inner-space relationships that exist in the nuptial frame, the major blend offers compression of time, compression of causal relationships, and compression of identity across the chasm between the nuns earthly life and her heavenly afterlife. Compression of Times The most ghostly compression achieved by the major blend is temporal. The blend collapses two separate events occurring at different timesone a shipwreck prior to the nuns death, and the other a heavenly reception after the nuns deathinto one event happening at the same time. This is a new inference that emerges only within the major blend. Once noticed, this compression of times becomes apparent throughout the poem. We can notice it best in verses whose words invite the reader to see both earthly storm and future heaven. Because Hopkins can, with a short phrase, prompt us to construct either the shipwreck space or the heavenly space, we can have the illusion that his words are themselves temporal compressions. For example, when Hopkins describes the nuns aboard the Deutschland as being Surf, snow, river and earth / Gnashed, he immediately solicits a second, heavenly perspective that views the same scene from the future: in thy sight / Storm flakes were scroll-leaved flowers, lily showerssweet heaven was astrew in them (164-65; 167-68). In the earthly storm, as the snowflakes were falling on the ship, the nuns were, of course, still alive. They had not yet died and entered heaven. Only after their deaths could there be lily showers signifying (a) their earthly deaths, and (b) their future resurrection and inscription into the scroll of the righteous. Placing

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104 the scroll in the midst of the Storm prompts readers to see the temporally dissimilar scenes blended together. This is more than a case of foreshadowing. In foreshadowing, the present viewpoint admits a glance at the future. But that glance is brief, and the narrative usually snaps back to the dominating, present-time focus. In The Wreck of the Deutschland, however, neither present nor future viewpoint dominates. This is why Hopkinss use of the past tense in the phrase sweet heaven was astrew in them (emphasis added) is significant. The use of was places sweet heaven in the same temporal moment of his past-tense narrative of the shipwreck; more significantly, it also casts the narrative present into the future of the shipwreck, so that the narrator stands in a future perspective after the nun has been received into the heavenly future. The substitution of a future tense word (would be) in the same line would have resulted in confining the narrative perspective to earthly time. For Hopkins, the two spaces, earthly Storm flakes and heavenly lily showers, have equal force, equal presence. We can see this reiterated in the twenty-third stanza, where Hopkins writes that the five nuns Are sisterly sealed in wild waters, / To bathe in his fall-gold mercies, to breathe in his all-fire glances. Present and the future are compressed in an image of inseparably cold-warm waters: the cold wild waters of the earthly storm, and the warm fall-gold waters of the baptismal seal[ing] received in the all-fire purification of heaven. We should remember that the temporal compression of the nuns earthly and heavenly experiences is only made possible by close temporal dynamics that exist in the nuptial space. Although virginal maiden and post-coital Dame are contradictory and exclusive categories, the wedding night event brings the two close in time. The

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105 before and the after of nuptial intercourse are part of a relatively brief event. When the mind projects this close temporal dynamic back to the input spaces, the ineffable gap between earthly life and heavenly existence is collapsed to a brief event that the mind can easily comprehend. Compressions of Identity Aiding the compression of time in the major blend are compressions of identity across heaven and earth. Because the groom and the bride are roles in each of the minor blends, the major blend achieves compressions of identity for both roles across the temporal divide between those blends. Natural forces = groom = deity. The most startling compression of identity in the major blend is that which collapses the male or penetrating actors from each input space, so that the natural forces of wind, snow, wave, etc, are identified with the groom and with God. We should remember that the storm/groom identity compression in the nuptials-shipwreck blend and the deity/groom identity compression in the nuptials-heaven blend can and do exist independent of one another. In the major blend, however, the groom role creates conceptual pressure to compress the already compressed roles once more. The key result is that throughout The Wreck the deity and the deadly natural forces can be seen as one husbandly actor who stars opposite the bridal nun in a drama that tells two stories simultaneously, one on earth and one in heaven. One achievement of this identity compression is that the positive intentions of the heavenly deity, as well as any positive intentions attributed to the groom in the nuptial scene, can now flow through the network to influence the shipwreck scene. Readers can now reconceptualize the absence of a meaningful relationshipa lonely nun braving impersonal (unfathering) and predatory natural forcesas an intimate encounter

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106 between a woman and her partner. The storm is not only a predator; it is also her groom, the God, throned behind / Death with a sovereignty that heeds but hides within the storm itself (265-66). The positive influence affects not only the tall nuns experience but her companions, too: the nuns did not merely fight inanimate elements, They fought Gods cold (129; emphasis added). The fatal breakers that drown the nuns in the shipwreck do not create only a hollow scene of lives at last [] washing away (119); they also perform Christs seal of his seraph-arrival for the brides who at last receive their groom in heaven (181). Because of the compression of identities through the groom figure, a death-dealing sea-storm is also an intimate heavenly union, which is, by definition, the very antonym of solitude. The compression of storm, groom, and deity into the same actor makes the depiction of the nuns willing submission to death more plausible. If the storm is God, then she can face it with less fear and terror. Examples of compressed identity appear throughout the poem. When the nun stands in the sinking ship summoning Christ, as the newspaper reported, Hopkins imagines the scene more deeply, depicting her as also summoning the natural elements to her. Because deity, storm, and bridegroom share a compressed identity in the blend, calling out in desire to one is the same as calling out to all three: She to the black-about air, to the breaker, the thickly Falling flakes, to the throng that catches and quails, Was calling O Christ, Christ, come quickly: The cross to her she calls Christ to her, christens her wild-worst Best. (189-192) She calls to the [] air and at the same time calls Christ to her. If she understands the storm as the source of her suffering, a cross to her, she also identifies it as Christ

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107 to her. Her wild-worst is also her (divinely capitalized) Best. The virgin who, as a nun, took a vow of celibacy to be a bride only to Christ now begs to receive him quickly and end the pre-marital distance between her and her lover (195). Storm and Christ and lover are all one. In the twenty-eighth stanza, Hopkins appears to assert the compression of identities across distinct times as a pivotal affirmation: [] There then! the Master, Ipse, the only one, Christ, King, Head: He was to cure the extremity where he had cast her; Do, deal, lord it with living and dead; Let him ride, her pride, in his triumph, despatch and have done with his doom there. (220-24) Here there is only one actor in all the spaces contributing to his poetic vision. He is the storm that drowns the nun and has done with her in the extremity where he had cast her. He is the Master, the familial Head who performs his role most physically when, in consummating their marriage, he ride[s] his maiden sexually and has done with her, his physical penetration eliminating her former, virginal, status. He is also the mate of every lioness (135), as this particular one joins her pride with his other heavenly subjects. And He is also the Christ who will cure her pain with heavenly deal[ing]; he will apportion her a share in the blissful eternity. As identities collapse, temporal distance collapses, too. Viewed from one angle, the God in heaven is sitting on a thunder-throne (269); thus, the heaven that will receive (or has received) the saint has the thunderous appearance of the earthly storm she is in (or has just left). Viewed from another angle, the storm that is wringing the life out

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108 the human being has the appearance of heavenly love: Thou art lightning and love [] a winter and warm; / Father and fondler of heart thou hast wrung (70-71; my emphases). The compression of identities requires us to set in play all temporal angles together: we see heaven through the storm, and the storm through heaven. We see God in the violent wind, and a storm in the heavenly gathering of righteous souls: is the shipwreck then a harvest, does tempest carry the grain for thee? (248). And because of the blend, which makes this compression thinkable in the first place, we see a groom penetrating a bride in both spaces. Earthly nun = bride = heavenly nun. As with the male actors in the storm/deity compression, the living nun aboard the Deutschland and the posthumous nun in heaven have their different consciousnesses and experiences compressed, too. This compression of her own temporal identities also makes the nuns earthly submission to the storm more plausible. The nun can only truly know that God is in the storm after she has died and entered the heaven where such knowledge is given. But because that counterpart self in heaven has been able to Grasp God as the master of the tides, the earthly nun can proleptically submit to the storm as God. The decisions that the nun makes aboard the Deutschland are decisions that are informed by her future, heavenly self, where she has the birth of a brain (239) to properly conceive (238) that the deity whom she can Let [] ride as her heavenly husband is also the force that rides time like riding a river (47) and caused the shipwreck. Compression of Cause and Effect The compressions of time and identities in the major blend of The Wreck are matched by a compression of causal relations that link the input spaces of heaven and earth. Believers affirm that the saved soul changes from an earthly state to a heavenly

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109 state. But the earthly mind remains unclear exactly how this occurs. In the major blend, though, the how becomes more specific because it is organized by the logic of nuptial causality. Sexual transition projects to heavenly transition. Knowing how a Victorian virgin becomes a wife in the nuptial scene, readers are prompted by the major blend to understand that an obedient soul crosses from earth to heaven in a similar way. On her wedding night, the virginal (136) female becomes a Dame (273) only after the male performs the act of sexual penetration. A relatively brief event causes an ineradicable transition. Once the maiden-furled virgin is unfurled (267), she is changed forever. In the major blend, the relatively brief event of sex corresponds to the relatively brief event of dying. Once dead, the earthly nun is changed forever into her heavenly self. Double-standard male causation projects to double-standard divine causation. In the Victorian nuptial chamber, although the female experiences an essential change, the male does not. (The male, for example, does not change his name; nor is there any stigma attached to him if he has already lost his virginity.) Although the female character becomes a Dame, the male character remains the same Master or lord both before and after the act of sexual consummation. In the major blend, this inner-space double-standard is exploited and projected to a double-standard between divine and human agency. No matter how sexist and out-dated (rare-dear?) the groom-changes-bride prototype may seem today, its double-standard is precisely what makes it effective for Hopkinss poem. God alone causes the essential transformation of the human soul. And as God produces this transformation, Gods being does not change. God is the same lord of both living and dead (223),

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110 the same Master that present and past, / Heaven and earth are word of, worded by (229-30). Hopkins needs this double-standard in the nuptial blend to affirm the double-standard he believes about earth and heaven. God causes people to change, but God doesnt change. Thus, Gods activity on earth and in heaven look essentially the same: God rides the storm just as God rides the female in the heavenly pride. The heavenly mercy that outrides / The all of water is just a further action of the same master of the tides (249) who drives the penetrating sea storm. The nuns passivity is projected throughout the network. A side-effect of the assertion of divine causation in The Wreck is that the human soul appears passive in the major blend and, correspondingly, in each of the minor blends and their contributing input spaces. In the major blend, the earthly nun is changed into a heavenly soul by divine action that she can only receive passively. In the minor nuptials-shipwreck blend, the earthly nun is portrayed as passive before the powerful forces of the weather and sea. But even in the other minor blend, the nuptials-heaven blend, the heavenly nun is also passive to a deity who takes active pleasure in her. In the thirty-first stanza, after the nun is received into heaven, we are told that her reward is that she has thee for the pain (241). Her heavenly relief of pain is immediately followed by an affirmation of pleasureyet this pleasure is not hers, but Gods: [] lovely-felicitous Providence / Finger of a tender of, O of a feathery delicacy, the breast of the / Maiden [who] could obey so (245-47). It is her breast, her feathery delicacy that the divine Finger enjoys. Indeed, whenever Hopkins describes the activity of the nun, what readers see is her preparation for passivity. In the nineteenth stanza, Hopkins shows the nun taking

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111 apparent action: Sister, a sister calling / A master, her master and mine! (145-46). But he immediately reinterprets her active calling as a yielding of herself to be divinely penetrated: she rears herself to divine / Ears (150-51). The virgin can actively call out and thus express her willingness to be changed, but even this activity is exhibited through passively rear[ing] herself to the penetrating Head (221). The same is true of the nuns action vis-a-vis the shipwreck: the dying nun can actively hope to enter heaven, but only by yielding up her body to the black-about air, to the breaker, to the storm that is also Christ to her. In sum, the rules of causation that dominate the major blend influence the entire network. In the major blend, the storm/deity causes the earthly nun to become a heavenly saint through the brief event of death. This agency and causality are projected throughout the network, with the result that the earthly nun/bride/heavenly nun is seen as actively readying herself to be the passive object in this causal equation. Multiple Spaces Permit Multiple Readings of The Wreck In interpreting any conceptual integration network, much will depend upon what the audience brings to it. The reader of The Wreck of the Deutschland is an active partner in making its meanings come alive. The reader is responsible for allowing the different contributing spaces of the network to become dynamic, yet different readers will disagree on whether one space influences the poem is influenced more than the others. While competent readings must be limited by the confines of the entire network, many different interpretations of the poem emerge as plausible. When readers of The Wreck of the Deutschland emphasize a theological interpretation of the poem, their eye can be focused on one of several contributing spaces or elements in the network. Paul L. Mariani, for example, stresses the verbal activity of

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112 the nun, noting especially her responses in the nuptials-heaven blend. The fact that the nun says very little, and yet this utterance brings the bridegroom to this virginal maid (38) anyway, suggests that her lexical spareness may be more appropriate than Hopkinss own lexical plenitude in order to utter what can, finally, only be imperfectly uttered no matter how rich the verbal lode one has at ones command (40). While this reading is plausible, it is interesting that the result of Marianis argument is an emphasis on the causal activity of the nun/bride. In Marianis view, the brides voice brings the groom to her. For the sake of an argument about representation, Mariani ignores the bulk of the poem in which Gods activity, versus the nuns painful passivity, is paramount. Also, claims Mariani, For what had happened out there in those dark waters was tragic only if viewed from its dark underside and in the short view (35; emphasis added). For Mariani the long viewthe future space of heavenly rewardcannot admit inferences of tragedy or darkness. But this reading preemptively restricts the dynamics of the poems total network. As we have seen, the darkness of being physically penetrated can also be projected to the counterpart of the God whose activity appears similar in both the short (shipwreck) and long (heavenly) spaces. Lyle H. Smith, Jr. reads The Wreck as an exploration of the problem of representation. Arguing that Hopkinss poems point beyond the Romantic sublime, Smith shows how Hopkins continually writes a more-than-sublime divine subject on nature and thus hints that man is not alone in the universe (183). In short, Smith wants to distinguish between the distinct and dogmatic way readers project divine agency onto the storm in The Wreck and the way Wordsworth or Coleridge project an indefinite Otherness onto nature in their poetry. What we have shown above

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113 confirms Smiths point: Hopkins goes beyond an indefinite projection of agency onto nature by giving his storm a specificity that derives from the theological conceptual spaces (which Smith explores) but also from the nuptial space (which Smith does not address). Some interpreters of The Wreck do not look to the input space of the nun in heaven to provide crucial inferential structure. Instead, they base their readings of poem on inferences from the input space of the nuns earthly suffering or the input space of sexual intercourse. For example, Thas E. Morgan finds at the heart of The Wreck only a disturbing focus on violating the feminine (85); accordingly, she does not acknowledge how the sexual double-standard can effectively communicate any dynamic other than sexual politics. God is merely masculinity writ large in The Wreck, in which both God and the male poet, Morgan argues, become creative through women who die violent deaths due to sexual conflicts. As an interpretation that focuses on what happens to the nun, Morgans reading is on track. But it unfortunately leans toward a corollary argument that any male use of passive female bodily experience as a source domain for conceptualizing another target domain will necessarily result in violating the feminine. A similar argument runs through Michael W. Murphys assertion that the violent imagery in The Wreck represents the sublimation of a strong sado-masochistic element in Hopkins personality (10); Hopkins liked violence (11;original emphasis). In his psychogenetic explanations of Hopkinss poetry, Murphy relies on reading the nuptial space in The Wreck as influenced primarily by the input space of the shipwreck with its powerful and pain-producing forces. Like Morgan, Murphy cannot see how the

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114 nuptial scene serves as a way to compress earthly and heavenly experience, and he projects the deadly violence of the storm into the nuptial bedroom without seeing that projection works the other way, too, whereby identity and agency are projected from the groom onto the chaotic elements. Moreover, any entailment of happy encounter from the input space of heaven is correspondingly diminished in, or even absent from, the interpretation. Despite their faults, however, these feminist critiques of The Wreck remain plausible. As we discussed above, the nuptial blend can be imagined by the readerand probably was assumed by the Victorian readerto be a scene in which only the groom experiences pleasure while the woman experiences pain. And no matter what other, less violent inferences influence the complete Ghostly Nun network, it is possible to focus on the male-penetrating-female scene in The Wreck and raise not only a credible interpretation of the poem, but also a question about the rhetorical, psychological, and ethical effects of such a scene. A related psychosexual interpretation of The Wreck focuses on the passivity of the nuptial bride. Aleta Cane finds in the poems image of bridal passivity the poets own homoeroticism (166), which, needing an outlet in Victorian society, found expression in religious practice and poetry. By creating a scenario for a passive nun, Cane argues, Hopkins also tries on that persona, because for him the passive feminine experience is closest to his own experience as a Jesuit priest. Canes reading of Hopkinss poem, by suggesting that the erotic nun was a way of bringing together two parts of his own emotional life, the sexual and the religious (167), has the aesthetic advantage of mirroring the blending that occurs in the major blend. Cane grounds her

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115 analysis on the sexual dynamics of the nuptial blend, yet she allows that the religious realm is a distinct input space, and not only for the poem, but for Hopkins, personally, as well. While Cane prioritizes the erotic as the engine driving Hopkinss sublimated religious life, she allows that there is a double discourse (166) in which the religious discourse has the power to validate his sexual discourse, not just the other way around. (Unfortunately, there is little appreciation in Canes argument for a third discourse that deals with the nuns actual earthly suffering). It is possible for The Wreck of the Deutschland to invite a reader to ponder multiple input spaces simultaneously, none of which has full dominance over the interpretation. Charles Lock, in Hopkins as a Decadent Poet, finds in The Wreck a deliberately shocking ambivalence (133) due to its combined Catholic and Decadent juxtapositions of incongru[ous] (139) categories: carnality-incarnation; masculine-feminine; active-passive; asceticism-sensualism; high diction-low diction; silence-speech. Missing from Locks able analysis, though, is a treatment of the poems most important juxtaposition: earthly present-heavenly future. There is another group of readers who try to identify a different input space in The Wreck: the input space of writing. The difficulty with this claim is that any theory of writing is probably already highly metaphorical. Is writing the wielding of a pen or pencil or phallus (as Morgan, noted above, argues, relying on The Madwoman in the Attic by Gilbert and Gubar)? Is writing the male experience of sex, or the female experience of sex? Is it singing? Uttering (Salmon 87)? Spreading news (Bizup 136)? Even though images of sexual impregnation, child-bearing, speaking and other images used to conceptualize poetry can be found in The Wreck, the poem gives little evidence of a

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116 discernible input space that contributes distinct inferences from the act of writing alone to the entire poem. The value of these readings of The Wreck lies not in their locating a writing space in the poem but in their ability to have us see in their criticism a target domain space of writing, for which Hopkinss poetry provides a source domain supply of images. Not to be forgotten, one last group of readers of The Wreck has had much influence on critical approaches to the poem. This group begins with J. Hillis Miller and continues with those who have responded to his claims that the poem is precociously postmodern. According to Miller, the poem exhibits an underthought that recognizes that there is no word for the Word, that all words are metaphorsthat is, all are differentiated, differed, and deferred (58). To respond fully to Millers claim would require a lengthy comparison of the theory of language implicit in his argument and the theory of language offered by second-generation cognitive science. To date, perhaps the best defense of cognitive theory from a literary critic trained in postmodernist theories of language comes from Mary Thomas Crane in the introduction to Shakespeares Brain: Reading with Cognitive Theory. As Crane (following the lead of F. Elizabeth Hart) puts it, postmodernist theories that are ostensibly post Saussureincluding Freudian (or Lacanian), Derridean, Foucauldian, and Althusserian theoretical models [] of authorship (15)are actually haunted by lingering and unacknowledged formalisms inherited from Saussure and Derrida (4). These formalisms amount to a theory of mind in which semiotics and culture have substance but the brain disappears. Yet, Crane asks, if discourse determines what writers minds produce, then where in these theories is the

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117 brain, the material place within the body where discourse is processed and therefore where discursive construction, if it occurs, must be located (7)? For Crane, as for others using the insights of second-generation cognitive science, the brain is the one material site where the body and culture interact, mutually constructing and constraining each other. Importantly, Crane rightfully rejects the objection that the cognitive approach takes one back to logocentrism, that reign of rigid and unchanging definitions that Miller and other deconstructionists were so keen (and correct) to reject. This is because, unlike Derrida, who accepts the basic [Saussurean] concepts of arbitrariness, self-contained systematicity, and meaning produced by difference (11), cognitive theory holds that the relationship between concept and language is significantly different from the paradigm suggested by the Saussurean semiotics (7). In brief, cognitive theory asserts that our embodied concepts are prior to our language, not vice versa. Metaphor, like other rhetorical figures found in language, must first be seen as a conceptual rather than a purely linguistic phenomenon (Grady et al 101). The proof of the priority of concepts over language lies in empirical evidence showing how metaphoric and other blending processes are prompted not only by language but by bodily gestures, non-verbal advertisements, visual editorial cartoons, and other media. Thus, second-generation cognitive sciences explanation of metaphoras well as of metonymy, allegory, and other rhetorical figuresis more comprehensive than the language-based theories of metaphor presumed by Miller et al. It should be noted that second-generation cognitive science shares with postmodernism a radical critique of the correspondence theory of language. Like postmodern theory, writes Crane, these cognitive approaches recognize that human

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118 cognition and the symbolic systems through which it works are neither unified nor primarily rational (13). But this brings a benefit: If you do not expect human cognition to be unified or logical, a way is cleared to supplement deconstruction. Furthermore, because it finds embodied image schemas and basic-level categories (Johnson The Body in the Mind 208) at the source of the imaginative figures we use for reasoning, second-generation cognitive science is more willing to claim that conceptsand the languages they give rise toare relatively stable. Since embodied concepts ground the brains intelligent activity to begin with, then literary and other expressions that rely on embodied concepts may be more stable than postmodernists and poststructuralists, because of their lingering dependence on Saussure, are usually willing to grant. In fields as diverse as legal philosophy (Winter) and film theory (Bordwell), others like Crane have taken up the cognitive response to postmodernism in ways that appreciate postmodernists insights while recognizing their limits (Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 277; Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 89-90, 98-108, 463-68; Johnson Moral Imagination 217-43; Winter xvi, 6-12; Spolsky Darwin and Derrida: Cognitive Literary Theory as a Species of Post-Structuralism; Bordwell, A Case for Cognitivism). As for Millers interpretation of The Wreck as a harbinger of the death of logocentrism, we are probably better off appreciating it as a classic and powerful display of Millers deconstructionist project. After all, in that project any linguistically expressed conceptual space will, under fierce scrutiny, appear to stand on shaky ground; we would simply be required to pore over the inputs to The Wreck and look for cracks. But the cracks are not ultimately what the cognitive approach finds most interesting. Ultimately, what we want is a helpful way of understanding the interplay between the

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119 embodied conceptual spacesspaces created not by language alone but by the interaction between the embodied mind and its physical and cultural environmentthat were built and brought together in the brain of Hopkins and that may be built and brought together in the brain of his reader. The Generic Space: The Body Altered by External Force Given the dynamics of the major blend, the input minor blends, and their contributing input spaces in The Wreck of the Deutschland, we can account for existing interpretations of the poem, why they are plausible, and which contributing spaces they implicitly highlight as most important for understanding the poem. For my money, however, the space that most affects the reading of the poem is the one we have neglected until now: the generic space. The generic space is another input mental space feeding the conceptual integration network. It should not be confused with literary genrealthough there may be good reasons for arguing that the two are related. A genre is identified as containing several instances of figurations by various writers in various historical contexts. In the analyses of Fauconnier and Turner, however, the generic space is identified only within a particular conceptual integration network. (That does not preclude the possibility that the dynamics in the generic space of one network may be found in the generic spaces of other networks existing in other literary and artistic works. The likelihood that different works will share generic spaces may point to a connection between the generic space and genre, but that is a question we must leave on the horizon). If we recall the diagram of a conceptual integration network (Figure 1-2), we see that circles represent the different mental spaces that contribute to the entire conceptual integration network. Above the blend and the main input spaces, we see a fourth space,

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120 the generic space. Fauconnier and Turner propose that when the mind runs a blend, distinct neural pathways for the blended space as well as for the input spaces are simultaneously active. In addition, the mind also activates neural pathways of basic, embodied concepts that are shared by those spaces. Evidence in brain research supports the theory that the minds cognitive unconscious is resourced by many image schemas, basic-level categories, basic stories [] of events in space, and primary metaphors (Johnson The Body in the Mind 208-9; Turner Literary Mind 13; Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 9-15, 49-54, 103-104). Rooted in our bodies sensorimotor experience, these are the building blocks of all creative and innovative cognitive activity. So when we decompress a particular conceptual integration network for the sake of understanding it, we should also be able to identify basic dynamics that are generic to the input spaces and the blended space. In Hopkinss The Wreck of the Deutschland, an obvious candidate for the generic space is the embodied experience of causative force: one body enacts force upon another body, causing the latter to be changed. This is a concept that becomes entrenched in our minds during early childhood: we experience our hand as it hits the cup and causes the milk to spill; we feel the plastic ball hit us in the head and cause us to fall down and feel pain; we grab the wooden block and cause it to move to the toy box, etc. We can be the actor, we can be the object that is acted upon, or we can be both simultaneously (as when we pinch ourselves). Neurally, these experiences provide the growing mind with a basic concept of causative force that will come in handy so often that it will have the feel of unmediated truth for us.

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121 This repeating concept of causative force dominates the experience of reading The Wreck of the Deutschland. It might be said that the poems cognitive unconscious is pervaded by it. When reading Hopkinss magnum opus, one cannot escape repeatedly feeling oneself as a physical body being acted upon by an external physical force. Now, it might be argued that this concept is inescapable in the English language, which can use the subject-action-direct object structure to represent almost any event. In fact, cognitive scientists argue that the concept of causative force grounds English grammar and language (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 497-504; Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 178-79, 181; Turner The Literary Mind 140-68). Our mental prototypes of what constitute a subject, a verb, and an object derive from these prototypical bodily experiences of physically acting upon something else and being physically acted upon by another. Even if this is true, in The Wreck the absolute agency of the subject, the absolute power of the action, and the absolute passivity of the direct object are repeatedly stressed. It is as if Hopkins sees this causal event, which stems from our bodily experience and grounds our language, as the fundamental law of the entire cosmos. It is, for him, a supernatural as well as natural rule, the underthought not only of his own poetry but of the entire creation, as true for windstorms and ships as for living people, posthumous saints, and heavenly throne. Cognitive science and similar non-objectivist philosophies can remind us that the world as we know it can only be known through the structures of our finite, thoroughly embodied, human brains. But for Hopkins, the subjective universe is the earthly universe is the linguistic universe is the heavenly universe. The Wreck raises the prototype of human grammar and many human spatial eventsan actor acting

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122 upon an objectfrom its status as a prototype of human phenomena to the status as the prototype of all phenomena. We can detect the importance of the generic space in the opening stanzas of The Wreck, in which Hopkins interprets his own spiritual experiences. In the first ten stanzas of the poemPart the first he calls itHopkins relates his spiritual autobiography up to and including his conversion. Hopkins alludes to the sexual mastering of the nuptial blend that dominates Part the second, but what stands out more is the way he amplifies the generic space of causative force. In the first lines of the poem, Hopkins stresses the absolute agency of God, the absolute power of Gods activity, andthis is keythe absolute passivity of himself as an object of Gods action: Thou mastering me God! giver of breath and bread; Worlds strand, sway of the sea; Lord of living and dead; Thou hast bound bones and veins in me, fastened me flesh, And after it almost unmade, what with dread, Thy doing: and dost thou touch me afresh? Over again I feel thy finger and find thee. (1-8) The first three words capture the generic space perfectly: subject + verb + direct object. That generic structure also expresses the explicit sense of the entire poem: God is the Prime Mover, the human soul is the direct object, and their relationship is defined as the causal relationship between actor and acted upon. The first verb even embodies this relationship. The concept of mastering requires two roles in an unequal relationship: a master who masters the mastered. From womb (Thou has bound bones and veins in

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123 me) to grave (And after it almost unmade) and beyond (dost thou touch me afresh?), human beings are objects prior to becoming subjects. Before a human being can say I, one must experience the concept me. The humans first possibility for subjective action, for saying I, emerges from the consciousness of being an object, of feeling oneself being touched by another: I feel thy finger and find thee. The generic space of the poem is, for Hopkins, the structure of all metaphysical and temporal reality: the penetrating flint-flake of deadly storm and the penetrating bridegroom of heavenly union and the temporal transition between earth and heaven are all caused by the one omnidigitatious Finger (246). After the opening stanza, Hopkins continues to augment this force-dynamic philosophy. In the second stanza, describing his troubled youth, Hopkins says he converted and confess[ed] (11) to Catholicism only after he experienced his heart being thrown and stepped on by God: The swoon of a heart that the sweep and the hurl of thee trod / Hard down with a horror of height. It is not enough that the actor acts and the object is acted upon; the reader must see this action exaggerated to the extreme limits of bodily experience. And here, too, the humans ability to act by confessing is trumped by the activity of the divine confessor who hears the confession: I did say yes / O at lightning and lashed rod; / Thou heardst me truer than tongue confess / Thy terror, O Christ, O God (9-12; emphasis added). The humans capacity for subjective activity is only an acknowledgement (I did say yes) of what has already been done to him. A stanza later, Hopkins continues his theme of seeing his human soul as fundamentally the object of anothers action: I am soft sift In an hourglassat the wall

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124 Fast, but mined with a motion, a drift, And it crowds and it combs to the fall; I steady as water in a well, to a poise, to a pane, But roped with, always, all the way down from the tall Fells or flanks of the voel, a vein Of the gospel proffer, a pressure, a principle, Christs gift. (25-32) Twice Hopkins uses the word I, which might indicate the possibility that the soul has subjective power. But the uses of I here indicate the subjective consciousness of feeling oneself as an object. The I becomes conscious of itself because it is first an object that is being ground down like sand, being captured like well-water, and being roped with a pressure. A few lines later this pressure and principle is described as the stress felt (42), the stroke dealt / Stroke and a stress that stars and storms deliver, / That guilt is hushed by, hearts are flushed by and melt (44-46). Just as mastering implies a master and one who is being mastered, these lines exhibit nouns exemplifying verbal action. The words stroke and stress are both nouns and verbs. For Hopkins, the actor is known by feeling oneself being acted upon; the noun is known by its verbal action. Thus, God can only be known in experiencing oneself as the object of Gods action. Indeed, for Hopkins, the experience of feeling himself acted upon necessitates the conclusion that there is a Something that is acting upon him. We can also see in these lines a nice capsulation of all four mental spaces that dominate the poems entire conceptual integration network. The stars and storms deliver in the earthly, present-time input space. The guilt is hushed by God in the space of the heavenly judgment and afterlife. The hearts are flushed by and melt in the space of the nuptial sexual

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125 encounter. And finally, in the generic space, we have a stroke and a stressa generic principle of the physical pressure exerted by one body on another. We cannot underestimate how thoroughly this generic pressure exerts itself as an embodied image schema (Johnson The Body in the Mind 28-29) or basic story (Turner The Literary Mind 13-15) that grounds the entire poem and, consequently, Hopkinss understanding of natural, human, and divine phenomena. In the seventh stanza, Hopkins depicts the incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection of Jesus as events driven by the same causal force: It dates from day Of his going in Galilee; Warm-laid grave of womb-life grey; Manger, maidens knee; The dense and the driven Passion, and frightful sweat; Thence the discharge of it, there its swelling to be, (49-54) Again, we find Hopkins making the same words refer to different temporal events, so that we see birth, death, and resurrection simultaneously, and thus under one causality. Already dizzyingly multiscopic, these lines bring distinct temporal events into greater simultaneity because Hopkins manages to describe them using verbs of continual, present-tense activity (going, swelling). In the first temporal event, we are given the incarnational Manger scene, where the stroke penetrates earth from heaven by his going in Galilee to Bethlehem to penetrate Marys womb. While Mary passively experiences her body acted upon, making her have a frightful sweat, it is the baby, not Mary, who is actively in charge of the discharge of it as well as in charge of its own swelling to be a human child who will sit on Marys knee. In the second temporal

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126 event, we are given the crucifixion scene, where the same active stroke drives the Passion of Jesus on the cross in Jerusalem. We see his frightful sweat as he prepares to release his spirit into Gods hands (the discharge of it). Removed from the cross, he will lay upon Marys knee in a piet before going to his grave. Finally, in the third temporal event, we see the resurrection through the same words used for the previous two events. The grave is warm-laidthat is, recently left; like a still-warm chair, its warmth is noticed because of the absence of the body that recently occupied it. Now his going in Galilee refers not to his incarnation but to his resurrection. Galilee, according to Marks gospel, is the site of the ongoing activity of the risen Jesus. Unlike the other gospels, Mark ends with a stranger at the empty tomb telling the affrighted women (are they in frightful sweat?) that he goeth before you into Galilee (16:7; KJV). This discharge of Jesus from his earthly mission now drives his going in Galilee and the swelling to be of the new dispensation his resurrection has inaugurated. Hopkins and the Phenomenology of Sense Experience As we have seen, an embodied concept of causative force grounds Hopkinss public description of his spiritual experience and his understanding of cosmic and theological events. But we can also look to Hopkinss private writings to see how important physical pressure is to him. When we read Hopkinss journals, we notice the psychological and emotional power that mere sense experience has for him. To see a thing of beauty is, for Hopkins, to feel himself powerfully acted upon by it. And yet his experience of passive sensation is not uniformly a pleasurable experience for him; Hopkins rarely sits back and simply enjoys the sensual ride. The intensity of his sense

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127 experiences are often tinged with pain and fear. On September 24, 1870, upon seeing the Northern Lights, Hopkins wrote in his journal: My eye was caught by a beam of light and dark very like the crown of horny rays makes behind a cloud. [] This busy working of nature wholly independent of the earth and seeming to go on in a strain of time not reckoned by our reckoning of days and years but simpler [] and dated to the day of judgment was like a new witness to God and filled me with delightful fear. (qtd. in Gerard Manley Hopkins, ed. Catherine Phillips, 1986, 202-203) Hopkinss eye doesnt actively see; it is passively caught. To him, nature is not what his neural apparatus makes of it but is independent and busy working. Visual experience is a visceral experience of himself as an object of independent action. The following spring, Hopkins noted in his journal a similar feeling of himself as object upon his observing the clouds: What you look hard at seems to look hard at you (204). Because being acted upon can be either pleasurable or painful, it is reasonable to see how Hopkins can speak ambivalently of delightful fear. Biographer Robert Bernard Martin has noted the intense sensuousness of his nature (102), adding: He was both in love with the phenomenal world and aflame with fear of it (77). And this ambivalence is present whether Hopkins is perceiving the Northern Lights, an attractive person, or God. In To What serves Mortal Beauty? Hopkins notices the bodies of lovely lads [] wet-fresh (l. 6). He worries, however, that the power of their beauty can lead him to mortal sin: To what serves mortal beauty | dangerous; does set danc/ Ing bloodthe O-seal-that-so | feature (1-2). But even when he actively tries to redirect his experience by remembering the law (10) that requires him to actively appreciate the loveliestmens selves (11), Hopkins remains consistently passive. For just as physical beauty makes his blood dance, so too the spiritual Self | flashes off frame and face and affects him (11). He remains a passive object, flashed by a higher beauty. His

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128 cure for his sin, which is caused by his being passively affected by beauty, is not to take new action (such as seal[ing]), but to yield to deeper passivity. In sum, to comprehend The Wreck of the Deutschland, the readers mind must activate the main influencing spaces that contribute to the poem: the earthly storm victims vulnerability to sea, wind, and snow; the heavenly souls vulnerability to the pleasurable acts of God; the nuns vulnerability to bodily change caused by God in the event of death; and the brides vulnerability to the penetrating groom. In the activation of these spaces, there is also activated a generic space, a constant firing of neurons reinforcing an embodied concept of direct causative force. But to go beyond mere comprehension to full appreciation of the poem, the reader must also appreciate his or her own body and how it feels to be physically acted upon by an external force. The generic space of The Wreck continually elicits from the reader this viscerally felt confirmation of the body as sentient object of an external subject. The Generic Space and the Poems Rhetorical Effectiveness Even if the reader both comprehends and appreciates, in an embodied manner, the reading of The Wreck, the question can still arise: does the poem do what Hopkins wanted it to? Does it convert the Anglican or unbelieving reader to Roman Catholicism? At this point, perhaps it would be wise to return to the notion of genre, and make a distinction between genre, on the one hand, and the different rhetorical aims of poems within the same genre, on the other. The generic space of the Ghostly Nun blend shares a generic space with other spiritual poems Victorians would have been familiar with. This permits us to further envision a tenuous link between cognitive theorys concept of generic space and the traditional notion of genre. The cognitive analysis of The Wreck may contribute to

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129 literary criticism by suggesting that a key method of defining (or redefining) a genre may lie in identifying the basic embodied concept(s) that the genres particular members share. For example, there may exist a rather loosely defined genre called spiritual poetry. But a spiritual poetry in which a deity is conceptualized as a (usually masculine) force who acts upon a (usually feminized) being and causes it to changethat would be a more defined genreand thus a more useful one. Such a genre would include John Donnes fourteenth Holy Sonnet (1633), in which Donne asks God to bend / Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new (l. 3-4). Also included would be Julian of Norwichs A Book of Showings (ca. 1390), in which she writes that God directly gave her a bodily sickness so that she could have the more freedom of my heart to be at Gods will and thereby become a medium of revelatory visions (356). But I would also go back and include the prophet Hosea (8 th c. BCE), whose God alternates between threatening Israel, his adulterous wife, to strip her naked, and set her as in the day that she was born and promising to make you lie down in safety and take you for my wife forever (2:3, 18-19 KJV). Some might even go back to the mythological story of Leda and the Swan, which was so brutally reimagined by Yeats millennia later. The sudden blow Zeus deals Leda potentially gives her his knowledge and power (Leda and the Swan l.1, 13). In each of these examples, a deity acts with intense bodily force and changes a human entity. But how do we judge the effectiveness of any particular example of this genre? While all of the above examples share generic structure, they are deployed for different results. For example, one has no intention of converting anyone (Yeatss Leda and the Swan); another intends only the (re)conversion of oneself (Donne). Of all the

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130 poems in this genre, only the Hosea passage shares Hopkinss desire to convert other people. To judge the ultimate effectiveness of The Wreck, therefore, maybe we should return to the reasons Hopkins sent it to the poems first reader. Hopkins mailed The Wreck to his friend Robert Bridges, but apparently Bridges did not respond too kindly to the poem, telling Hopkins its sprung rhythm was presumptious [sic] jugglery (Gerard Manley Hopkins: Selected Letters 91). In a letter written to Bridges in the summer of 1877, Hopkins defended his work with self-confidence and good humor. Besides ribbing Bridges for his spelling error (or, alternatively, for his failure to use a word with an Anglo-Saxon rather than Latin root), Hopkins raised the issue of religious conversion while discussing his desire to sway Bridges to the poetic achievements of The Wreck: My verse is less to be read than heard, as I have told you before; it is oratorical, that is the rhythm is so. I think if you will study what I have here said you will be much more pleased with it and may I say? converted to it. You ask may you call it presumptious jugglery. No, but only for this reason, that presumptious is not English. I cannot think of altering anything. Why shd. I? I do not write for the public. You are my public and I hope to convert you. (91) The slight hesitation indicated in the phrase may I say? converted suggests that the idea of religious conversion was an issue that the two had argued about before. Hopkins wryly reminds Bridges of his own religious conversion and uses it as a metaphorical source domain for the target domain of poetic theory. So behind the hot issue of poetic conversion broils the hotter topic of religious conversion. Clearly, Hopkins desired more than merely poetic conversion from Bridges, his first public for The Wreck of the Deutschland. Three years after writing the poem, Hopkins wrote a letter to Bridges in which he explicitly stated that he of course wanted

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131 his friend to religiously convert, and he spelled out two steps Bridges should take toward this end: I should also like to say one thing. You understand of course that I desire to see you a Catholic or, if not that, a Christian or, if not that, at least a believer in the true God (for you told me something of your views about the deity, which were not as they should be). Now you no doubt take for granted that your already being or your ever coming to be any of these things turns on the working of your own mind, influenced or uninfluenced by the minds and reasonings of others as the case may be, and on that only. You might on reflection expect me to suggest that it also might and ought to turn on something further, in fact on prayer, and that suggestion I believe I did make. (Selected Letters 110) Hopkins states that Bridges has not been properly influenced to become converted. Too independently relying on his own mind, Bridges needs the remedy of being properly acted upon. Suggesting that Bridges is not enough an object, Hopkins first suggests he try prayer as a remedy. His conversion might turn on this ability to place himself prayerfully in the position to be acted upon by Godwhich, we might recall from The Wreck, looks like rear[ing] oneself to the divine actor (150). Next, Hopkins suggests Bridges also give alms, which will produce the all-important effect of feeling himself pinched: But I have another counsel []. I lay great stress on it. It is to give alms. It may be either in money or in other shapes []. I daresay indeed you do give alms, still I should say give more: I should be bold to say / give, up to the point of sensible inconvenience. [] the difference of the mind and being between the man who finds comfort all round him unbroken unless by constraints which are none of his own seeking and the man who is pinched by his own charity is too great for forecasting, it must be felt: I do not say the difference between being pinched and being at ones ease, that one may easily conceive and most people know, willy-nilly, by experience, but the difference between paying heavily for a virtue and not paying at all. It changes the whole man, if anything can; not his mind only but the will and everything. (110; emphases added) As his suggestions to his friend demonstrate, Hopkins believes the road to conversion travels through the passive, feeling body. The mind, will, and spirit do not change before the body is heavily burdened and pinched. The Wreck carries this same message

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132 of visceral objectivity for two hundred and eighty lines. Reading The Wreck leads one to conclude that the necessary step Bridges or any other non-Catholic must take to find the true God is first of all to feel ones own body intensely as an object uncomfortably touched by an external force. How persuasive, ultimately, is Hopkinss via corpa objectiva as a method of specifically Roman Catholic conversion? A difficulty is revealed by Hopkinss words to Bridges: You understand of course that I desire to see you a Catholic or, if not that, a Christian or, if not that, at least a believer in the true God (emphases added). It is understandable that a heightened awareness of oneself as an object might lead one to posit a single divine Subject as the cause of everything happening to ones objective self. (An aesthetic terseness is evident in the mind that reads experience and concludes, to paraphrase Julian Norwichs belief about her illness, that God did it.) At best, this points to a mystical, personal form of deismand perhaps this is what Hopkins meant by hoping Bridges would become at least a believer in the true God. But beyond the notion of a deity as Primary Cause, it is difficult to see any inferences in the generic space of causative force that would entail a peculiarly Roman Catholic or even Christian belief. Evidently, Hopkins himself found in Roman Catholicism something that was lacking in his native Anglicanism. It is possible that his own conversion was more connected to his phenomenological experience. For him, Roman Catholicism provided a more adequate home for his intense sense of his bodily objectivity and his consequent belief in a Subject acting upon him. There are signs of this in his writing prior to his conversion. In an 1865 letter to his friend A. W. M. Baillie, Hopkins wrote:

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133 You will no doubt understand what I mean by saying that the sordidness of things, wh. one is compelled perpetually to feel, is perhaps [] the most unmixedly painful thing one knows of: and this is (objectively) intensified and (subjectively) destroyed by Catholicism. If people cd. all know this, to take no higher ground, no other inducement wd. to very many minds be needed to lead them to Catholicism and no opposite inducement cd. dissuade it. (Further Letters 266-67) The entire issue of conversion turns on perpetually feelingindeed, feeling the most unmixedly painful thing one knows of. For Hopkins, Catholicism promises to resolve the experience of himself as an embodied object, but only because it first intensifies sensual experience. In that letter to Baillie, Hopkins was referring to Anglo-Catholicism, which already had a strong presence within the Church of England. It is possible to imagine Hopkins staying in the Church of England while maintaining these High Church views. Yet, because of the intense experience of his soul as an embodied object, it easy to see why he would choose to leave the Church of England. If his feeling could be intensified by turning to Rome, then taking that step could only make God more tangible to Hopkins. In fact, the experience of conversion caused Hopkins to feel a great deal of pain, which is evident in his poems as well as in correspondence with his family, friends, and Oxford teachers. Converting provided him enough grief to give evidence that there was a Finger behind it all. The greater Hopkins felt emotional pain, the more he discerned the Finger: I feel thy finger and find thee. As for Bridges, the initial public of The Wreck of the Deutschland, it appears he was never converted to, or by, the poem. In his editorial introduction to the poem, Bridges admitted that both subject and treatment were distasteful to him (Hopkins Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins 104). In a letter written to Hopkinss sister longer after Hopkinss death, decades after the poem was composed, Bridges felt free to share:

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134 That terrible Deutschland looks and reads much better in typeyou will be glad to hear. But I wish those nuns had stayed at home (Selected Letters of Robert Bridges, 726; qtd. in Robert Bernard Martin 258). Bridges never appreciated the nuns, neither as historical figures of Catholicism nor as ghostly figures of Hopkinss poetic powers of conceptual blending. As for other readers, a wide range of responses are possible to The Wreck of the Deutschland. Hopkinss Ghostly Nun is a technically inventive and emotionally powerful figure of compressed times. She visibly blends distinct metaphysical, temporal, and emotional states of being, all in an effort to turn the reader to Catholicism, Christianity, the true God. At the very least, readers must marvel at the imaginative skill and emotional power displayed in Hopkinss Ghostly Nun. But whether readers are persuaded by herwhether, like Marleys Ghost to Scrooge, she convinces her audience of the continuity of life and afterlife, and thus motivates them to changeremains a question that hangs upon more than the poems artistry. If Hopkinss writings provide any hint, the ultimate persuasiveness of the poem hangs on how readers will make meaning of the generic space. That is, it depends on readers capacity for, and reflection upon, their own embodied experience in the world. For Hopkins, to feel himself as an object entailed the affirmation of an external Subject, an I did say Yes to a divine Actor who rules life and afterlife. For his friend Bridgesand, I suspect, for many other readers of The Wreckthe appreciation of that generic space concept may entail less dramatic conclusions. No matter what a reader decides, however, one thing is certain: reading The Wreck of the Deutschland and comprehending Hopkinss Ghostly Nun blend of

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135 heavenly and earthly times is no out-of-body experience. It requires full-body contact in the service of mental and spiritual exercise.

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CHAPTER 4 EROTIC PROPHECIES, POLITICAL SEDUCTIONS: TIME BLENDING IN WALT WHITMANS SO LONG! From Ghosts In the Text to Ghosts Outside the Text With Walt Whitman, we make a transition from ghosts that seem to be in the text to ghosts that can seem to be outside the text. Readers of A Christmas Carol do not have to think much about their own temporal existence to understand that Marleys Ghost is a blend of different temporal realities. Even if Scrooge experiences his past, present, and future all in one evening, readers may safely sit back and observe Scrooges time-compressed evening without subjecting their own lives to the compression of time. Similarly, readers do not have to question their own future to be able to marvel at the Ghostly Nun in Hopkinss The Wreck of the Deutschland. Like Robert Bridges, the first reader of The Wreck, we can maintain a comfortable distance from the nuns heaven-and-earth blending traits, even if we notice that Hopkins could not. This readerly distance from the texts temporal blends is less easily maintained, however, when we pick up Walt Whitmans Leaves of Grass. Perhaps more than any other nineteenth-century literary work in English, Leaves of Grass explicitly summons readers to leap backwards into the past and touch the living body of its author. In several poems sown throughout the Leaves, the reader is asked to travel back in time to a dark street in 1800s Manhattan and physically touch the poets body. This is especially true in So Long!, the poem that has ended Leaves of Grass since the 1860 edition. Towards 136

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137 the end of this poem, the poet cease[s] from his poetic singing and initiates, instead, an outright sexual seduction of his future reader: My songs cease, I abandon them, From behind the screen where I hid I advance personally solely to you. Camerado, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man, (Is it night? are we here together alone?) It is I you hold and who holds you (51-56) For the one who reads this poem generations after the good gray poet has in fact died, this seduction can only occur if the reader imaginatively compresses the present (say, 2003) back to a year in Whitmans lifetime (1860 or so). Standing within the space created by that compression of time, the reader can see the living Whitman who writes these words and hopes this hope. The reader can even respond to the poets advance, by voluntarily accepting the role of fantasy object to the living Whitmans desire. Because it is created by a compression of time, this seduction scene is bathed in a ghostly light. Moreover, the question of which character is more ghostlyWhitman or the readerdepends upon whose temporal perspective is taken. A typical ghost, we recall, is a figure who appears in the present moment even though it properly belongs to a different (usually dead and gone) moment. Consequently, seen from the perspective of the poet writing in 1860, the reader is the more ghostly figure. Properly speaking, the reader does not yet exist. Yet in the imagined encounter the future reader becomes a real body who touches Whitman, the real man (Figure 4-1).

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138 1860 PERSPECTIVE Input Space 1: Present Time Input Space 2: Future Time you the non-existent future reader Walt Whitman the living man reader touches Whitman the man Blended Space: impossible encounter of present and future bodies Figure 4-1. So Long! with Reader as Primary Time-Traveling Ghost Alternatively, seen from the perspective of a reader living in 2003, Whitman is the more ghostly figure. The text may even lean toward this view, for in line 57 the poet declares: I spring from the pages into your armsdecease calls me forth. In these lines, it is the decease[d] Whitman who, like a typical ghost, time-travels into the future, spring[ing] beyond his death and into your arms, the physical presence of the living reader (Figure 4-2). In this perspective, too, there is the added ghostly feature of the book becoming the body of Whitman: Camerado, this is no book, / Who touches this touches a man. When the reader imagines that the physical Leaves of Grass is no longer a book but a living body, it is a different kind of blend, that of an inanimate object with an animate human being. Yet this non-temporal blend clearly exists to substantiate and reify the primary blend of times. Because the reader in 2003 actually touches the book,

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139 the book makes a nice material anchor, a concrete object prompting the reader to perform a time-compression blend (Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think 195). For Whitman, the primary goal of the seduction scene is to prompt the reader to materialize the blend of times. 2003 PERSPECTIVE Input Space 1: Input Space 2: Present Time Past Time you the existing reader Walt Whitman the non-existent man reader touches Whitman the man Blended Space: impossible encounter of present and past bodies Figure 4-2. So Long! with Whitman as Primary Time-Traveling Ghost Inasmuch as the reader yields to this back-and-forth seduction across time, the future that Whitman imagined seems to become something more material than mere fantasy. For Whitman, this possibility of becoming re-embodied in the imagination of his future readers is everything. It is, as he declares, Delicious, enough (61). Now, given all that we have discussed about time compression blends in previous chapters, the ghostly character of the seduction scene in So Long! does not seem too difficult to comprehend. It is enjoyable to contemplate, yes, but easily accessible. However, theres more to So Long! and Leaves of Grass than a simple encounter of

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140 poet and reader across time. Much more. The brilliance of Whitman is not just his power to seduce readers into an imaginative game of time-travel. No, Whitmans greater innovation is to use this seductive game to make us think differently about what it means to have hope in the future. He does not merely ask us to blend different times; he goes further, asking us to blend different kinds of embodied experiences and emotions that ground future hope and desire. In Leaves of Grass, and especially in So Long!, Whitman mixes erotic desire with political hope in such a way that, once we have experienced the blend, we may feel that our imagination of the future is diminished if we ever have to disentangle the two again. An explanation of Whitmans unique contributions to the conceptualization of the future is the subject of the rest of this chapter. Tracing the Directions of Whitman Criticism How should students new to Whitman understand Song of Myself, So Long! and similar poems in Leaves of Grass? Aside from those interpretations that lead students to the self-referentially biographical or poetic (Whitmans poems are about Walt Whitman; Whitmans poems are about the poetic process), critical approaches tend to steer students toward one of two directions: Whitman is the political poet, the bard of democracy. Whitman is the sexual poet, the singer of the body. Using the theories of conceptual metaphor and conceptual integration networks, an analysis will show that these two approaches rely on similar metaphors in their reasoning. Each approach shares converse source and target domains for their metaphorical arguments. In the first approach, Whitmans poetry is interpreted as addressing social and political reality; to express this target domain in a new way, Whitman borrows source

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141 concepts grounded in intimate and even private sexual and bodily experience. In the second approach, Whitmans poetry is said to envision new possibilities for sexual bodies; to confer validity upon this target domain, Whitman recruits source concepts from public and political discourse. Each approach relies on a simple metaphora single-scope conceptual blendbecause it implies that the key inferential structure flows from one conceptual domain to another: either from the sexual body to conceptualize politics, or from common political discourse to conceptualize the sexual body. In addition to illuminating the single-scope, metaphorical bases of these two approaches to Whitmans poetry, the theory of conceptual integration networks can suggest a third approach. Unlike a single-scope blend, double-scope and multi-scope blends manifest final products whose inferential structures are constructed by elements not from one but from two or more conceptual input spaces. It is argued here that So Long!the concluding poem to Leaves of Grassis a double-scope blend that prompts readers to construct a scene in which both the sexual and the political experiences of time are fused together as mutually enhancing and clashing influences to the poems structure. Offering this cognitive approach to Whitmans So Long! gives students a useful conceptual map of two major interpretive routes taken within Whitman criticism. Additionally, understanding the double-scope blending in the poem can help students notice how other poems in Leaves of Grass manifest doubleor multi-scope dynamics. A third and vital advantage of this approach is that it more adequately spotlights a unique experience of time created by reading So Long! and similar poems in Leaves of Grass. This experience of time requires the readers familiarity with two different kinds of

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142 events: anticipating the possibility of imminent erotic climax; and expressing hope for a changed political scene in the distant future. This unique experience of time cannot be reduced to either sexual anticipation or political hope aloneand it is something different than the sum of the two, as well. Finally, an appreciation of the temporal dynamics of Whitmans poetry can help extend important cognitive scientific research concerning conceptualizations of time. Whitmans So Long! offers evidence that the most common image schemas used for conceptualizing time may not always be adequate for expressing a particular experience of time. Typically, time is conceptualized through image schemas grounded in bodily motion in spacean experience available to young and old alike. In So Long! and similar poems in Leaves of Grass, however, the conceptualization of time requires the additional experience of erotic anticipationan experience available only to the sexually mature embodied mind. Textbook Cases: Leaves of Grass in the MLA Handbook for Teachers If we peruse the contributions to Approaches to Teaching Whitmans Leaves of Grass (1990)a publication offered by the Modern Language Association, no lesswe can find confirmation of the two general directions of answers, political and sexual, to the question, What is Whitmans poetry about? To the reader who comes fresh to Leaves of Grass and is seeking an interpretive path by which to traverse Whitmans poetry, the two directions may seem irreconcilable. Which theme should the reader be looking for: public life, or private life? Social policy, or sexual intimacy? The apparent divergence of opinion about which theme predominates may lead the student to ask, If different scholars can declare that the same poem in Leaves of Grass points to two very different themes, then how am I to relate the two? To the green Whitman student, trying to

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143 reconcile the political and sexual themes may seem as incongruous as reciting the Pledge of Allegiance while masturbating. In fact, the contributors to the MLA handbook prove quite skilled in making connections between the political and the sexual elements in Leaves of Grass. If we examine some of the handbooks essays a little more closely, we can discover that the connections scholars make between politics and sex are metaphorical in nature. If a Leaves of Grass poem is interpreted to be about American political life, then any sexual elements in that poem are said to serve that political vision. And if a Whitman poem is interpreted to be about the sexual body, then any political elements in the poem are said to serve that sexual body. The engine behind that service, although not explicitly stated by the essayists, is conceptual metaphor, or single-scope blending. One Direction: Leaves of Grass Conceptualizes Political Life via the Body A time-honored tradition in Whitman criticism has emphasized the politicaland specifically democraticsignificance of Leaves of Grass. In The Bard of Both Americas, one of the contributions to the MLAs Approaches handbook, Doris Sommer would have students notice Whitmans Pan-American democratic appeal, and she neatly delineates three dimensions to his poetrys political importance: One aspect is technical or aesthetic; it asks how Whitman produces the effect of democracy. Another is historical and explores how Whitmans poetry fits into the ideological and political framework of antebellum America and whether his work can be universally valid. A third is ethical and focuses on the consequences of Whitmans demand for an equalizing identity with the reader. (159) For Sommer, the aesthetic, contextual, and reader-response aspects of Leaves of Grass all work toward a greater project: political democracy. But what fuels this work? Sommer argues that Whitmans narcissism is the necessary origin of his democratic plan:

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144 By supplying his perfect self as the ideal lover for each of us, Whitman elicits our desire for him. And if students understand that he is trying passionately to appeal to them (in both senses of appeal) through a laconic work that invites completion, they will feel the infectious excitement of Whitmans proposition to be his lover and coauthor. (164; original emphasis) By directing students toward narcissism and the theory of sexual psychology, Sommer establishes a sexual body as the conceptual source of Whitmans political vision. On this assumption, her argument builds and takes shape. Whitmans democratic equality is aimed at through an appeal to the sexual desires at the origin of the readers own sexual psychology. As Sommer succinctly puts it, Leaves of Grass constructs that equality by seducing each reader into becoming Whitmans ideal lover and counterpart (164; emphasis added). That last and in Sommers phrase lover and counterpart implies causal consequence rather than mere conjunction. The seducing of a lover occasionsconstructs, to use Sommers wordthe equality of Whitmans democratic appeal. The logic here depends on the image of construction. Just as construction causes a completed building, so in Whitmans poetry a sexual scene causes a political effect (I could say Whitmans sexual scene causes a political erection, but the pun would be unbearable). Using the terminology of Lakoff and Johnson, we would say that Sommers argument establishes sexual seduction as the source domain for a metaphor that has as its target domain an understandingor, more correctly, an experienceof democratic equality (Figure 4-3). Familiarity with the physical experience of sexual seduction is a necessary prerequisite for understanding Whitmans invitation to partake in a democracy of equal partners.

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145 THE DEMOCRATIC APPEAL METAPHOR TARGET DOMAIN: SOURCE DOMAIN: Sexual Seduction of One Person by Another Becoming an Equal Partner in a Democracy Key Inferences Mapped from SOURCE to TARGET: Sexually attracted bodies Politically attracted citizens Sexual desirability Political desirability Mutual bodily pleasure Mutual political participation Figure 4-3. The Metaphorical Argument for Whitmans Democratic Appeal This source-to-target, sex-to-democracy direction is evident in Sommers use of the phrase democratic appeal and in her parenthetical reference to both senses of appeal. If the word appeal refers to sexual attractiveness, then the phrase democratic appeal demonstrates what Mark Turner has identified as a common ADJECTIVE-NOUN grammatical prompt for a conceptual blend (in this case, a metaphorical blend). For example, in ADJECTIVE-NOUN constructions like intellectual progress and political crossfire, we can discover that the noun comes from the source and the adjective from the target (Literary Mind 93). In intellectual progress, the changing of ones intellectual convictions is conceptualized via the human-scale scene of making progress on a journey. In political crossfire, political debate is conceptualized via the human-scale scene of gunfire between armed combatants.

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146 The same ADJECTIVE=TARGET / NOUN=SOURCE prompt operates in Sommers argument for Whitmans democratic appeal. Sommer recruits the concept of sexual attraction from the noun (appeal) and employs it toward the conceptualization of political life in the adjective (democratic). In the source domain, there exists a person who becomes physically and sexually stimulated by an appealing body. In the target domain, there is the idea of political democracy, which includes the nation, its citizens, and political relations between citizens and between citizens and their government. How does the source domain, with its appealing body, structure the target domain of democracy? By making democratic relations, which we normally do not think of in sexual terms, attractive and appealing. Of course, we know that, literally speaking, political ideas are not sexual bodies. The metaphor goes beneath political theory and all its complex mediations to draw upon the immediate experience of the sensorimotor body. The phrase democratic appeal is intelligible to us because, as a conceptual metaphor, it confers upon the relatively abstract realm of political ideas some of the concreteness of sensual bodies. In Sommers essay, the metaphor that makes her argument intelligible is projected back into the flesh, blood, and psyche of Walt Whitman himself. It is not only that Whitmans poetry uses sex to conceptualize politics; for Sommer, it is Whitman himself, driven by narcissistic desire, who skillfully creates democratic appeal with his reader and thus makes political life sexy. From a cognitive standpoint, however, we would emphasize that Whitmans skilland, for that matter, Sommers skill in interpreting himderive not solely from narcissism but from a more fundamental drive at the root of all imaginative invention: the embodied minds ability to conceptualize one realm of

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147 experience by drawing upon another. Usually, the source comes from the more concrete experience of the sensorimotor body. The body that can experience sensual and physical appeal comes prior to and forms the conceptual source for a target understanding of the democratic behavior of two or more bodies. (In fact, even in the other sense of appeal that Sommer alludes to, as entreaty or plea, the meaning of democratic appeal is still grounded upon the sensorimotor body. In this case, the conceptual metaphor is grounded by a spatially advancing, rather than sexually appealing, body. The Latin root of appeal is appellare, which means to drive to. Grounding this sense of appeal is the concrete image of a human body who physically moves before another human body in order to make a face to face plea.) In Whitman in the Undergraduate Survey, Robin Riley Fast echoes Sommer with a brief discussion of Whitmans organic unity (124). Pointing particularly to sections 5 and 6 of Song of Myself, Fast would have students notice the poems theme of organic inclusiveness and be able to trace it back to Emerson and the transcendentalists. But the tracing of this theme should proceed not only historically but conceptually, too. The concept of organic unity presumes familiarity with biological organisms. If Whitmans democratic America is said to possess organic inclusiveness, then an imagined political reality is getting its inferential structure from a prior awareness of biological organisms. At the root of Sommers, Fasts, and similar views of Whitmans poetry is a very basic conceptual metaphor that conceptualizes social reality through recourse to the human body. This basic metaphor makes possible such terms such as governing body, the social body, and, in an exceptional switch of the ADJECTIVE=TARGET /

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148 NOUN=SOURCE grammatical prompt, the body politic. Aided by this very generative metaphor, the student of Whitman can approach a poetic scene involving a physical body or bodies and subsequently map the key inferences borrowed from that body or bodies to a political scene. Although we may overlook its significance, the most important inference we draw from the concept of the body is probably that of unity. When we perceive a human body, even our own, we cannot help but experience a bounded, unified object. Neuroscientists still grapple with what is known as the binding problem (Bownds 202-204). They marvel at the brains visual system, which somehow takes the various stimuli entering through our visual receptors and binds them into perceptible units. The brain receives an immense range of stimuli, but we perceive bounded, unified objects: a human body, a tree, a leaf of grass. But the greatest of these, perhaps, is the human body, beginning with the mothers body that is recognized by the infants developing brain. The physical body plays a fundamental role in giving our minds an embodied understanding of unity. This direct experience of bodily unity is then made available, via the cognitive unconscious, to be recruited by the brain for understanding other kinds of unities that we do not directly experience as bounded objects, including families, states, nations, and ideas. As Whitman scholars appreciate, unity, or Union, is one of the chief political themes that runs throughout the poetry of Americas Civil War-era bard. In So Long!, first published in the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass at the dawn of civil war, Whitman bids farewell to the reader by proclaiming one last time his urgent desire for national unification: I announce that the identity of these States is a single identity only, I announce the Union more and more compact, indissoluble,

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149 I announce splendors and majesties to make all the previous politics of the earth insignificant. (19-21) Reading backward to Ones-Self I Sing, the poem that has opened Leaves of Grass since the 1871 edition, the reader can see the same concern for political unity that exists in the concluding poem expressed through the initial celebration of the bodys physiological integrity: Ones-self I sing, a simple separate person, Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse. Of physiology from top to toe I sing, Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete is worthier far, The Female equally with the Male I sing. (1-5) What is true for Whitmans poetic project is literally true of the cognitive project of the brain. The metaphorical imagination can confer the bodys physiology upon the politics of the earth and thereby give it an indissoluble structure. Whitman mimics the brains imaginative processes by starting with the physical body, which is required before the concept of a political entity can even be thought. A political entity must have its status as an entity conferred upon them by the brains cognitive unconscious, which borrows from the sensorimotor experience of bounded objects, especially the Form complete, the human body. Because any political entity is, neurologically speaking, an imagined community, one that depends on the unconscious processes of the embodied mind, Whitmans poetry can be read as bringing that process to some level of consciousness.

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150 In sum, this first direction interprets many poems in Leaves of Grass as rhetorical uses of the source domain of the human body to conceptualize (or re-conceptualize) the target domain of social and political reality. Once equipped with this interpretive tool, a budding Whitman student may quickly (if perhaps a bit recklessly, as we shall see) wield it to explain how images of the physical and sexual body structure or confer insight upon political and social concerns that are the true project of Leaves of Grass. A Second Direction: Leaves of Grass Conceptualizes the Body via Political Concepts If the reader were to interpret Leaves of Grass in the body-to-politics direction alone, a second voice would arise to cry foul. According to this second argument, the key to understanding Whitmans poetry is not to interpret from the body to politics, but the other way around, from politics to the body. If more traditional criticism accepts the body as given in Whitman and wonders how the body opens new windows for visualizing American democracy, more recent criticism explores how Whitman uses political discourse to open up new possibilities for the body, particularly the autoerotic and the homosexual body. In his contribution to the Approaches handbook, Robert K. Martin frequently reads Whitman from politics to the body. When discussing Whitmans sexual imagery, Martin insists students are able to notice Whitmans sexual body only because the poet is restoring the genital to a world from which it had been banished (78). Literally speaking, of course, genitals are not banished. But because our minds are so adept at using metaphor to understand Martins logic, we probably do not create a detailed image of the President issuing an edict that removes everyones genitals from their bodies and sends them across the border into Canada or Mexico. Nevertheless, this is the structuring imagery for Martins argument. Banishment has roots in political, not genital,

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151 experience. And by using this social concept to frame Whitmans biological scenes, Martin forces the reader to create a political canvas on which Whitmans sexual figures can even appear. Martin explicitly states that Whitmans poetry applies political concepts to the body: Whitmans masturbatory poems are thus [] a cultural act of some magnitude; they apply to the body the political impulses of the revolution, fulfilling the parricide by a new reign of brothers (74; emphasis added). The sexual body that appears in Whitman is to be understood as the caused effect of the prior political concepts of revolution and a new reign. This is as explicit an acknowledgement of the politics-to-body metaphorical direction of interpretation that one is likely to find in Whitman criticism. In the concurring words of William K. Shurr, another contributor to the Approaches handbook, Whitmans work is a sexual manifesto (Leaves of Grass as a Sexual Manifesto: A Reader-Response Approach 104; emphasis added). Shurrs statement supplies an ADJECTIVE=TARGET / NOUN=SOURCE prompt for a metaphor. The target is indicated by the word sexual, the source by the word manifesto. A manifesto is a public declaration of principles, policies, or intentions, esp. of a political nature (American Heritage College Dictionary 3 rd ed.). If students are to understand Leaves of Grass as a sexual manifesto, then they will locate its creativity in its conceptualization of sexual experience via public and political discourse. If newcomers to Leaves of Grass follow Martin and Shurr, they will read Whitman by switching the source and target domains of the previous metaphor (Figure 4-4). Because Whitmans poems apply to the body the political, students who interpret the

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152 poems in this direction will ask, How are political concepts structuring Whitmans sexual bodies and causing them to appear in the text as they do? TARGET DOMAIN: SOURCE DOMAIN: Familiar political concepts and discourse Conceptualization and validation of sexual behavior THE SEXUAL MANIFESTO METAPHOR Key Inferences Mapped from SOURCE to TARGET: Poetry of sexual experience Written manifesto of political philosophy Poetic speech about intimate behavior Public oratory about public policy Political banishment of people Shame surrounding genital experience Political enfranchisement Inclusion of private, new, or concealed sex acts Figure 4-4. The Metaphorical Argument for Whitmans Sexual Manifesto The poems scholars identify as autoerotic and homoerotic may best lend themselves to this interpretive direction. If masturbation and homosexual acts are not normally public behavior, then the invocation of them in any style of public oratory speaks more about their social than their physiological status. In section 24 of Song of Myself, for example, the speaker makes a confession of what sounds like a religious

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153 credo. But what he confesses as the object of his worship is not an external Spirit but his own flesh: I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Divine I am inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touchd from, The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer, This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds. If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it, Translucent mould of me it shall be you! Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you! Firm masculine colter it shall be you! You my rich blood! your milky stream pale strippings of my life! (522-531) The speakers attitude begins like that of the biblical prophet Amos, whose God declares that he finds justice more aromatic than the incense accompanying prayers (5:21-24). For Whitman, divine justice demands the divine appreciation of ones own sexual body. And like Hosea, who married a prostitute to embody Gods fealty to faithless Israel, Whitman makes public policy personal. Only here, the redemption of Israel is translated into the reclamation of the (undifferentiated) body (Martin 76). Simply by celebrating autoeroticism in the style of prophetic verse, Leaves of Grass reveals a political will to make masturbation both visible and validated. The same can be said of the homoerotic body that emerges from the Calamus section of the Leaves, the first poem of which makes visible a male poet in my forty-first

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154 year who desires athletic love and declares: I proceed for all who are or have been young men, / To tell the secret of my nights and days, / To celebrate the need of comrades (In Paths Untrodden 14, 15, 16-19). Telling his secret indicates a desire to have it publicly validated. Two poems later, the poet speaks of the comrades long-dwelling kiss, equating it with the new husbands kiss, / For I am the new husband and I am the comrade (Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand 20-21). Reading from social to the sexual, the reader will conclude that Whitman uses the familiar image of passionate newlyweds and applies it to the bodies of kissing comrades. The key inference is that the social acceptability (not to mention the erotic passion) that surrounds kissing spouses is conferred upon the new concept of men kissing men. If the politics-to-body direction of interpretation suits Whitmans autorerotic and homoerotic verse best, it is nonetheless also apt for understanding Whitmans famous catalogs of diverse phenomena. Reading section 15 of Song of Myself, the Whitman student may wonder why the poet has juxtaposed what appear to be scattered observations: The pure contralto sings in the organ loft, The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of the foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp, The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner, The pilot seizes the kingpin, he heaves down with a strong arm, The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready, The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches, The deacons are ordaind with crossd hands at the altar, The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,

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155 The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks at the oats and rye, The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirmd case (264-73) This catalog goes on for another fifty-five lines, yet in these ten lines alone the reader is taken indoors and outdoors, to land and to water, and even to different days of the week, a Thursday, (Thanksgiving) and a Sunday (First-day). How are we to piece these disparate observations together other than as the outcome of a decision to be all-inclusive? This is the precisely the point Ed Folsom stresses in his contribution to the Approaches handbook: [Whitman] is out to incorporate everything into his poetry, for to leave out is to discriminate (and Whitmans Leaves will try to leave nothing out; ideally, there should be no missing leaves). To discriminate, Whitman believed, is the primordial antidemocratic act (142; original emphases). Applied to So Long!, the main poem on our plate, this politics-to-body hermeneutic can yield a reading that finds significance in the difference between the poems beginning and its ending. The poem commences in the style of loud, public oratory spoken in broad daylight. The speaker addresses a crowd about a crowd, envisioning the hundreds of millions who will populate a future America: To conclude, I announce what comes after me. I remember I said before my leaves sprang at all, I would raise my voice jocund and strong with reference to consummations. When America does what was promisd, When through these States walk a hundred millions of superb persons, When the rest part away for superb persons and contribute to them,

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156 When breeds of the most perfect mothers denote America, Then to me and mine our due fruition. (1-8) By the end of the poem, however, the style and mood have completely changed. The outdoor rhetoric that began in daylight has turned to a night-time whisper, and the speaker addresses not hundreds of millions but one person, You, the reader: Camerado, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man, (Is it night? are we here together alone?) It is I you hold and who holds you, I spring from the pages into your armsdecease calls me forth. O how your fingers drowse me, Your breath falls around me like dew, your pulse lulls the tympans of my ears, I feel immerged from head to foot, Delicious, enough. (53-61) Readers may interpret this change as a representation of the poemsindeed, of the entire booksconceptual dynamics. Public discourse comes before, and therefore occasions, private whisperings. Social concepts precede, and thus shape, sexual possibilities. The Counterintuitive Strength of the Second Direction: The Body May Be Abstract At this point, we should acknowledge the likelihood that, to some, the politics-to-body interpretive direction may seem counterintuitive and, therefore, less plausible. After all, isnt it a principle of second-generation cognitive science that the mind uses

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157 more concrete domains to help us understand more abstract domains? And isnt the immediate body and sex more concrete than the realm of mediated political discourse? In most conceptual metaphors, it is true, we are accustomed to having the source-to-target mapping go in the direction from the more concrete to the more abstract. In the prototypical metaphor, a concrete experience of the sensorimotor body lends its inferences to the conceptualization of a more abstract domain of mental or cultural experience. For example, in the primary metaphor UNDERSTANDING IS GRASPING, the concrete experience of grasping objects and manipulating them with the hands lends its inferences to the mental activity of understanding. Ideas and concepts thus become things which one can hold, grasp, observe, manipulate, and even throw away. (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 54). It is important to note, however, that metaphors do not require a mapping from the concrete to the abstract. It is possible to conceptualize a relatively concrete and bodily-based target domain by a more abstract source domain. Craig Raines poem A Martian Sends a Postcard Home is replete with counterintuitive metaphors in which complex technologies serve as source domains for phenomena that are more readily familiar even to the earthling without electricity or steel: Mist is when the sky is tired of flight / and rests its soft machine on ground (7-8); Rain is when the earth is television. (11). Douglas Couplands novel Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture gains the readers attention in part because of its frequent use of ephemeral pop-consumer phenomena and large-scale historical events to conceptualize conventionally more universal, small-scale human experiences, as in the description of seeing dead and blackened Washingtonia palms that seem to have been agent-oranged (15). On one page

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158 of Generation X, a banner in the margin reads Soil isnt a document (14). In this case, the business use of paper, which can be easily trashed, is anachronistically being used to describe whats happening to the soil, which farmers for millennia have probably never thought of as something you throw away. Raine and Coupland, though, are no more counterintuitive than old John Donne. Centuries ago, in A Valediction Forbidding Mourning, Donne used a technically complex and fairly uncommon geometers compass to conceptualize the simple and quite common separation of two lovers. Nevertheless, it should be noted that televisions, agent orange, office documents, and geometers compasses are very concrete and familiar to the speakers in those respective literary worlds. The metaphors in those texts may use less conventional domains to conceptualize more familiar and phenomenologically prior domains, but they are still concrete, just idiosyncratically so. The above examples prove how hard it is to invent abstract-to-concrete metaphors. One might try poetically to say, What is a snack but the filling of a vacuum?, which uses abstract physics to conceptualize a concrete experience of eating food. But it will probably not have the feel of poetry to the average ear. This is because our embodied experience first wires our brains to feel metaphors the other way around, from what feels bodily to what feels more subjective or abstract. As Lakoff and Johnson state: metaphors provide subjective experience with extremely rich inferential structure, imagery, and qualitative feel, when the networks for subjective experience and the sensorimotor networks neurally connected to them are coactivated (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 59). So it is more likely that the physics professor will explain an abstract theory by referring to the body and say, A vacuum is a stomach just before

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159 the snack. The sensorimotor body has an advantage over more abstract domains because the structure it lends to human understanding is privileged to have that qualitative feel of truth. In terms of cognitive science, then, the insight of the politics-to-body approach in Whitman criticism is the (usually unstated) insistence that, as concrete and real as the body may be, it remains a complexity open to interpretive understanding by other familiar domains. The body has mysteries, and to comprehend them we frequently resort to models outside the body. Consider, for example, the concept of organic unity discussed above under the first, body-to-politics, direction of interpreting Whitman. When critics refer to the organic unity of Whitmans democratic poetry, we assume that the integrity of a biological organism is being used to conceptualize national diversity-in-unity. But if we peer further into the word organ, we discover that its Latin (organum) and Greek (organon) roots mean a tool or instrument one works with. Upon reflection, this makes a great deal of sense, for if scientists once had as their target the modeling of biological processes, they had to borrow from a conceptual domain that was already available. Early on, the word organ may have felt highly figurative, forcing its users to think of a hard, lifeless, mechanical tool even as they were examining wet, living, mysterious tissue. With entrenched use and greater biological understanding, however, individual minds eventually understood organ without recalling its original source image. (The same is true of the word broadcast, which relatively recently was an agricultural term meaning to cast seed over a broad area. But who thinks of agriculture when they hear the word now?).

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160 Developmentally, human children become familiar with tools before they ever understand the full range of their own bodies organs and organic functions. And to the pre-adolescent boysuch as the young Walter Whitmanthe concept of a broadaxe or a pen would have become entrenched in the brain long before the concept of an ejaculating penis, which he had not yet experienced. As with the experience of tools, so it is with the experience of politics. Children are schooled in basic political ideas and learn the names and roles of political officials. Children learn about political maps and the boundary lines that both separate states and also unify them under a common boundary labeled The United States. Children may physically witness a courthouse, a polling booth, a political speech and other institutions of a democratic republic. Consequently, children can have a relatively concrete experience of political democracy well before puberty kicks in. So it should come as no surprise that the body and its post-adolescent sexual possibilities should be open to conceptualization and ordering from domains, such as political life, which are available to pre-adolescents. In this light, the more recent Whitman criticism is correct to ask how Whitmans love for territorially expanding democracyAlways the free range and diversityalways the continent of Democracy (Our Old Feuillage 8)ultimately shaped the way he wrote about the expanding penisthe love-flesh swelling (I Sing the Body Electric 59) advancing toward a wide variety of desirable objects. The politics-to-body direction in literary interpretation has become more popular in recent decades, largely due to the influence of Michel Foucault. But it is not new. As Avishai Margalit reminds us, the interpretive priority of using collective models to understand individuals better goes back at least to Plato. Plato proposed the well-ordered polis as the model for the well-ordered soul, believing that the city-state writes

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161 in big letters what the individual writes in small ones (49). Foucault had a keen eye for the way concepts from the discourses of powerful social institutions are inscribed and written, as it is now so often said, upon particular bodies. And having learned to look with that same keen eye, many Whitman critics now argue credibly that the real subject of Leaves of Grass is the socially constructible bodya sexual body especially shaped by the political discourses of nineteenth-century American democracy (not to mention, as Alan Helms points out, other nineteenth-century discourses that influenced Whitman, which are apparent in Whitmans devotion to phrenology and animal magnetism, his enthusiasm for the technological advances of his day, and his avid reading about the new disciplines of geology and archeology and discoveries in astronomy [148]). A Third Way Proposed: Double-Scope Blending with Dual Directionality Having learned two converse, yet eminently plausible, methods for interpreting Whitman, newcomers to Leaves of Grass appear to have a dilemma. How do we decide which set of glasses to put on to read Whitman? Which domain crucially structures our understanding of the other? Must we translate from the bodily to the political, or from the political to the bodily? To rightly read So Long! and Leaves of Grass, must we choose one set of glasses over the other? The theory of conceptual blending from second-generation cognitive science offers a way out of this dilemma. Blending theory instructs us to distinguish between single-scope blends, on the one hand, and double-scope or multi-scope blends, on the other. A single-scope blend corresponds to our understanding of the typical metaphor, in which a source (or vehicle) is used to say something about a target (or tenor). In the theory of input mental spaces, a metaphor is a single-scope conceptual integration

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162 network (a network consists of the blended space together with its input spaces and generic space, but cognitive scientists often use blend to refer to the entire network): A single-scope network has two input spaces with different organizing frames, one of which is projected to organize the blend. Its defining property is that the organizing frame of the blend is an extension of the organizing frame of one of the inputs but not the other. [] Single-scope networks are the prototype of highly conventional source-target metaphors. (Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 126-27). Examples of single-scope networks come readily to mind because typical metaphors are plentiful. Life is a journey is a single-scope network and a typical metaphor. We have little difficulty deciding which of the two input spaces, life and journey, supplies the concrete organizing structure for the other. Life, of course, is far too complex to be fully conceptualized by a single metaphor alone. But the concrete spatial image of a traveler on a journey helps give the concept of life just enough structure to make it briefly manageable. Double-scope and multi-scope networks are more complicatedand potentially more creativethan single-scope networks. Most of us call double-scope networks metaphors because they feel metaphorical and figurative. However, their metaphorical feel should not lead us to confuse them with single-scope networks that constitute prototypical metaphors. A double-scope network has inputs with different (and often clashing) organizing frames as well as an organizing frame for the blend that includes parts of each of those frames and has emergent structure of its own. In such networks, both organizing frames make central contributions to the blend, and their sharp differences offer the possibility of rich clashes. Far from blocking the construction of the network, such clashes offer challenges to the imagination; indeed, the resulting blends can be highly creative. (131) So a double-scope network has two organizing frames (a multi-scope network even more), and, very importantly, those frames may conflict.

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163 So Long! as Double-Scope Blend Reading Whitmans So Long! as a double-scope blend, we can more adequately honor the full range of the poems complexity, especially its complexity in regard to conceptualizing the future. The poem presents two organizing frames whose temporal entailments conflict dramatically. One frame includes one person at the center of a long-term picture: a visionary orator imagines the relatively distant future of America. The other frame puts two people at the center of a short-term picture: two individuals experience a seductive encounter, which involves the relatively imminent future of sexual satisfaction. The Visionary Orator Frame In the first frame, a speaker envisions a relatively distant future long after the speaker has died. This frame makes us imagine some kind of public orator or visionaryperhaps a street preacher, a political speech-maker, or even a biblical prophet, all of whom have been identified as influences in Whitmans poetic personae. I am less interested in the differences between these personae than in the fact that they all share a common image schema of one person who is sharing his imagination of the future of the community. If we highlight certain phrases in the opening lines of So Long!, we can detect how the distant future is the special concern of this visionary frame: To conclude, I announce what comes after me. I remember I said before my leaves sprang at all, I would raise my voice jocund and strong with reference to consummations. When America does what was promisd,

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164 When through these States walk a hundred millions of superb persons, When the rest part away for superb persons and contribute to them, When breeds of the most perfect mothers denote America, Then to me and mine our due fruition. (1-8) As the poem continues, this visionary orator frame is intensified in lines 15 through 29 because each of the fifteen lines (with one notable exception, which will be discussed later) begins with the declaration I announce []. Repeating as they do down the page, each I announce may remind the reader of a church service litany or a petition filled with Whereas resolutions nailed to a public kiosk. It may also esemble a political credo published in a newspaper or read before a political gathering. Though a single I speaks, the speech is entirely public, for it is aimed at the entire community, the future America. The poems opening correlates spatial with temporal imagery. The setting of the speech implies a relatively large public scene with many listeners; it is concerned too, with hundreds of millions of people in Americas future. These require the mind to imagine a space containing more than just the speaker and a few intimates. It is a large spaceas big as westward-expanding America will one day be. Corresponding to demographic and geographic size is temporal distance, for the speaker envisions a relatively long period of time, requiring the reproductive labors of many mothers and breeds. Here we begin to detect a hint of sexual events, which is the concern of the second frame, yet this sexuality is so abstract that any intimacy is latent, at best. These events of breedings are not brief and personal but ethnic and national, entailing a long chain of generations that must pass before the due fruition, as the ensuing lines of the poem substantiate:

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165 I announce justice triumphant, I announce uncompromising liberty and equality, I announce the justification of candor and the justification of pride. I announce that the identity of the States is a single identity only, I announce the Union more and more compact, indissoluble, I announce splendors and majesties to make all the previous politics of the earth insignificant. (16-21) Toward the end of the opening I announce section, Whitmans democratic vision is inflated with messianic tones: I announce the great individual [] I announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual, bold, I announce an end that shall lightly and joyfully meet its translation. I announce myriads of youths, beautiful, gigantic, sweet-blooded, I announce a race of splendid and savage old men. (25-29) A justification, a great individual, a new race, an abundant life, youths and old menit all sounds like something out of the prophet Joels messianic vision of old men who dream dreams and young men who see visions upon the arrival of the eschatological day of the LORD (2:28-31 KJV). It is true that biblical prophets usually proclaimed that the divine day of cosmic justification was imminent. However, the reader who is familiar with the biblical prophets may recognize that the anticipated end time of the bible has been delayed and delayed and delayed for millennia. Consequently, the eschatological flavor of Whitmans verses tends to push his vision of the end farther into the future rather than to bring it nearer.

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166 The Sexual Seduction Frame Clashing with the visionary orator frame in So Long! is a second organizing frame, one involving intimate sexual seduction, foreplay, and satisfaction. Unlike the visionary orator frame, which entails a public address, the sexual seduction frame is private and quiet: From behind the screen where I hid I advance personally solely to you. Camerado, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man, (Is it night? are we here together alone?) (53-56) Putting the scene at night accentuates its intimacy; it also makes us aware how much the preceding announcements, by contrast, were made in the daylight, in public. The uncertainty and hesitation behind the questions in line 56 are strikingly different from the non-parenthetical confidence of the I announce section. There is an added irony, here, in the contrast between the two frames. The visionary orator addresses a crowd and envisions a future crowd, yet he speaks alone. He uses the first person I voice and speaks about a third-person group of people. Although he has the future of many othersAmericaat heart, the reader experiences him as a solitary voice, loud and self-satisfied. As with many street preachers, the audience can walk on by and fail to be captivated by the speakers vision. In the sexual seduction scene, however, there is no vision for the future of many others. The concern is immediate, one person hoping the other will soon satisfying his sexual urge. Indeed, one might say that this seduction frame reveals the concern of only one person, the narcissistic seducer who seeks another only to gratify himself. Despite its narcissism,

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167 though, this is one scene that Whitman is betting the reader cannot easily walk by without interest. So the seduction scene that cares nothing for the masses seems inherently more accessible to the masses than the visionary speech that addresses the masses about their own future. Beyond these noticeable differences between the two frames, it is their temporal clash that stands out the most. The visionary orator frame prompts the reader to think about long generations of time between the initial statement of what was promisd and the consummations of those promises. By contrast, the sexual seduction frame prompts the reader not to think about time at all, but rather to feel times approach in the erotic approach and touch of another body, and to feel times passing in the foreplay toward sexual climax. In the visionary orator frame, time advances slowly. But in the intimate encounter, it is not abstract time that advances but a concrete body: I advance personally solely to you. In this seduction frame, to sense the future is simply to anticipate, with ones own aroused senses, what current foreplay can imminently lead to. The poet casts you, the reader, in the role of a participant, and so the future becomes as near to being realized as your own adult capacity to remember ever having been sexually aroused by another. The sexual seduction frame implies a promise of impending consummation, with nothing to stand between the two partners. This is completely at odds with the visionary orator frames implication of great temporal length mediated by the mothers and hundred millions of superb persons who stand between an old promise and a distant fulfillment of that promise. It is a deed impromptu (62) rather than a deed requiring many intermediate steps.

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168 Generic Space: Time as the Experience of a Desiring Body in Space Figure 4-5. So Long! as Double-Scope Blend We would weaken the effect of So Long! if we were forced to choose one frame over the other as the ultimate frame for the poem. The poem is the experience of both framesboth independently and in tension with one another. So Long! presents a Body sees, moves toward, and touches desired object Input Space 1: Input Space 2: Visionary Orator Sexual Seduction Whitman sees (imagines) but cannot touch future American bodies; Poet and reader see, move toward, and touch each other; Future is n ear Future is distant Distance vs. proximity (spatial & temporal); Blended Space: Dynamic Tension of Input Spaces Longing vs. satisfaction Key Tensions in the Blend: Political / Prophetic Erotic Public declarations Intimate whispers a hundred millions you Relatively short time for deed impromptu Relatively long time until consummations

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169 double-scope blend of conflicting, yet creative, organizing frames with conflicting, yet creative, entailments (Figure 4-5; counterpart lines between spaces have been removed to eliminate visual clutter). Neither frame sets the terms completely for the other. The reader must feel the two frames clash and somehow, in that clash, gain insight into what it means to imagine and desire the future. We should note that the temporal and emotional clashes in the blended space are made possible because of a similarity in the generic space. Our experience of time is directly related to our experience of events; We do not perceive time independently of events (Lakoff and Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh 154). Normally, when an object we desire, such as a cup of coffee, is near at hand, we feel fairly confident of two things. First, we trust our perceptual or epistemological knowledge that the cup of coffee is truly there. Second, we are subjectively or emotionally confident that, if we reach across and pick up the coffee, we can drink from it; were sure it will not put up any resistance to our desire. In this case, our experience of future desire is marked by maximal certainty in both modes: certainty of the desired object and certainty that the object will meet our future need. By contrast, we have less confidence that the human being we are attracted to will allow us to reach out and touch him or her, let alone help us consummate our desire. In a demographically and geographically expanded version of this image schema, Whitman seeks to reach out and touch future Americans. Unlike the coffee cup that I can actually see, merely imagining the future of an America that comes after me entails all sorts of epistemological uncertainty. Oddly, though, Whitman complicates this uncertainty by giving the visionary orator a confident tone. Even though the things he imagines and

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170 desires are in the distant futurethus offering minimal perceptual certainty because he cannot literally see themhe speaks confidently that they will come true: I announce. This rhetorical certainty is not perceptual but reflects the speakers certainty about his own desire. He is certain (and so are we) of his desire that America will someday do what was promisd. The subjective certainty in the visionary orator frame is paralleled by a tone of subjective uncertainty and questioningIs it night? are we here together alone?that pervades the seduction frame, where the object of desire is, nevertheless, quite visible and within reach. The uncertainty within the seduction frame consists of the hesitation of the seducer in approaching the potential lover, along with the question whether that person will join him in an act of mutual sexual pleasure. Despite this subjective uncertainty, however, the seduction frame rests upon a bodily-felt sexual certainty that cannot be matched by any confident speech. Can we imagine any reader who has had sex with another person insist that their picture of the political future feels as real and as certain as their imagination of sex? After the experience of reading So Long! the reader may feel that it is the subjectively uncertain, rather than the subjectively certain, picture of the future that, paradoxically, comes closest to being realized. Understanding So Long! as a double-scope blend helps us do justice to the presence of such a paradox in Whitmans poetry. If we were forced to read only from the body to politics or vice versa, then we would have to decide which frame the attitude of confidence and certainty (or that of hesitation and uncertainty) comes from, and to which frame it is projected. But if we read the poem as a double-scope blend, we can notice that each frame entails both certainty and uncertainty about the future (Figure 4-6).

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171 Generic Space: Perceptual and Subjective Experience of Seeing & Obtaining Objects Figure 4-6. So Long! Blend Showing Tension Across Modes of Knowing In So Long!, then, what are blended are different modes of certainty and uncertainty about the future. The result involves comparison and contrast, but includes more, a mixture of emotions that seeps in and colors each of the two moods. Once we enact the blend, for example, we can go back and reread the visionary orator section and notice that he sounds less certain than on our first hearing. Likewise, the sexual seducer sounds more confident and the sexual affair seems more likely than the questioning whispers first led us to believe. By blending the two frames in a dynamic network, the poem explores different kinds of certainty and uncertainty, confidence and hesitation, that Body sees & touches object = visual & tangible certainty; Input Space 2: Input Space 1: Body fails to get object = subjective uncertainty Sexual Seduction Visionary Orator Visual & tangible confidence; Visual & tangible uncertainty; Subjective hesitation & uncertainty Subjective (rhetorical) confidence Perceptual certainty vs. uncertainty; Subjective confidence vs. hesitation Blended Space: Tension across Perceptual & Subjective Attitudes toward Future

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172 accompany different experiences of desire and hope for the future. And this richness can only be adequately explained by approaching the poem as a double-scope, rather than single-scope, conceptual blend. Once we have noticed the double-scope nature of So Long!, we can go back through the poem and observe the way Whitman often hints at one frame even while the other seems to occupy center stage in the text. For example, tucked into the middle of the early I announce section, where the visionary orator frame predominates, two lines subtly build a bridge between the two frames: I say you shall yet find the friend you were looking for. I announce a man or woman coming, perhaps you are the one, (So Long!) (23-24) Stepping out of the first person stance of an I who confidently announces third person objects and abstract objects of the future, the speaker briefly slips into a second-person conversation, which will be taken up again later when the seduction frame is dominant. Whitman says I say instead of I announcea lonely aberration in the middle of an otherwise contiguous list of fourteen I announce statements. This slight qualification of oratorical confidence corresponds with the first use of the second person you in the poem. We could simply say that the intimate seduction frame is intruding, here, into the visionary orator frame. Yet the intrusion implies more, that the two frames are blended and not merely contrasted. Rereading these lines after having read all of So Long!, the public announce-ment of you shall yet find the friend you were looking for now takes on the intimate immediacy of the seduction frame. What the public visionary is

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173 looking for in the big, long-term, political picture is connected to the intimate, short-term picture that you, the reader-as-potential-lover, may be looking for. Further intensifying the blend of the two frames, the next line returns to the more formal, messianic, and hence distancing, voiceI announce a man or woman comingeven though the conclusion of that line is entangled with the desire for the intimate friend: perhaps you are the one. To pull the verses apart and force them to fit only one frame would be to dismantle the entire poem. So Long! is less a puzzle where each piece has its exact place than it is a 3-D holographic picture which shifts depending on our angle of sight. As lines 23 and 24 fuse the two clashing frames, they also present the first of two uses of the poems title, So Long! (the other is in line 30). The temporal meaning of this parenthetical phrase depends on the frame to which we attribute its origin. The literal meaning of so long indicates a spatial length, and this meaning is metaphorically projected to temporal duration, as in, The road between here and my destination is so long; therefore, the time for my journey will take so long. The adverbial so intensifies the relative distance, both spatial and temporal. In this case, then, the phrase appropriately has origins in the visionary orator frame with its emphasis on temporal distance. However, the parentheses and italics characterizing (So long!) in line 24 visibly mark it off from its neighboring words, and this prompts us to wonder if it originates from a different frame. William Sloane Kennedy apparently asked Whitman about the meaning of the phrase So long! and reported Whitmans reply: A salutation of departure, greatly used among sailors, sports, and prostitutes. The sense of it is Till we

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174 meet again, conveying an inference that somehow they will doubtless so meet, sooner or later (The Fight of a Book for the World 110; cited by Bradley and Blodgett in Whitman, Leaves of Grass 1973, 503n). This colloquial meaning would correspond to the frame of an actual encounter between two people; it is not a phrase a public orator would send ringing out across the multitudes. Moreover, Whitmans remark to Kennedy included prostitutes, which makes the phrase even more appropriate for the frame of an imminent and brief sexual encounter. So the double-meaning of the phrase (So long!) in line 24 serves as another textual hint that we should blend, rather than separate, the two frames. We must also account for another temporal anomaly in the same line: the placement of (So long!) at the end of a phrase announcing a man or woman coming, perhaps you are the one. In effect, the poet appears to be saying goodbye at the first moment he sees you, the reader, arriving. Talk about a brief encounter! But if, as Whitmans remark to Kennedy suggests, So long! also implies a future rendezvous sooner or later, then the poet is also saying he expects to see you, the reader, in the undetermined future. The phrase both compresses the time of the encounter down to a split secondhello as goodbyeand simultaneously extends that encounter into the unforeseeable futurehello and goodbye but lets do this again sometime. This takes the brief encounter and stretches it out toward a long-term, abstract and undetermined future. So both the semantic meanings and the syntactic placement of the phrase So long! prompt us to blend the idea of an imminent and very certain future with the idea of a distant and undetermined future. As readers, we are asked to conceptualize and to

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175 imaginatively experience both temporal frames and to blend, at the same time, their unique moods and emotions. Perhaps it is in this sense that we should understand the term gliding present that is interjected in the scene of erotic intimacy toward the end of the poem. Starting at line 52, the poet defines his book as his own body and then, through line 65, he describes what it means to feel physically connected to the reader whose hands are holding his book-body. But interrupting this description are lines 62-63, where the poet pulls back from the concrete presence of the reader to reflect enigmatically on time: Camerado, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man, (Is it night? are we here together alone?) It is I you hold and who holds you, I spring forth from the pages into your armsdecease calls me forth. O how your fingers drowse me, Your breath falls around me like dew, your pulse lulls the tympans of my ears, I feel immerged from head to foot, Delicious, enough. Enough O deed impromptu and secret, Enough O gliding presentenough O summd up past. Dear friend whoever you are take this kiss, I give it especially to you, do not forget me (52-65; emphases added) It is significant that the ruminating, dying speaker settles on the phrase gliding present in this last poem of the Leaves. What exactly is this gliding present other than

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176 the poetsand the readersimaginative ability to transport oneself across different frames of time and to experience simultaneously their different moods, their different hopes, even their different physical sensations? In the present time of his own embodied imagining, Whitman glid[es] from the past to the present and into the arms of a future American reader, his Camerado. And in the present time of the readers embodied imagination, the reader experiences a gliding present, too, for the reader slips back to the time when Walt Whitman truly was a living body. There, the reader notices both the long-term political vision sung by Americas bard, and yet the reader also notices the erotic advance of Whitman desiring imminent gratification. The phrase gliding present, we could rightly affirm, is an appropriate term for the embodied minds ability to compress time through conceptual blending. Because the gliding present can quickly traverse very different temporal frames, we see how, ultimately, it is the present moment that holds all the power for temporal experience. It is in the present moment alone that we ever experience past or future. The different moods and emotions that we use to think about the past or the future are moods and emotions we are having now. It is appropriate, then, that Whitman writes So Long! in present tense. He does not write, Dear friend whoever you will be, but Dear friend whoever you are. This is an example of classical prolepsis, in which present-tense language actually intends a future scene. And once the reader of So Long! has taken up the imaginative conceptual exercise, Whitmans envisioned future becomes realized in the present time of the reader. In this sense, Whitmans hope of connection with his reader is fulfilled: it is Enough.

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177 The Indo-European root of the word enough means To reach, attain (American Heritage College Dictionary 3 rd ed.). This root indicates a primary metaphor, grounded in the bodys sensorimotor experience of space. Whitmans use of Enough here conceptualizes the fulfillment of time as the attainment or reaching of a spatial destination. We can conclude that, in both organizing frames, Whitman attains his goal. In the visionary frame, he attains his future vision when, many generations and breeds after he has died, a new American reader holds him (as his book) in hand. In the seduction frame, too, I would argue, Whitman also reaches his goal, the future of imminent fulfillment of bodily desire. Whitman concludes the poem with a line that expresses his feeling upon reaching his goal: I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead (71). These last wordsthe last words of Leaves of Grassmake him sound like a time-traveling ghost. But Whitmans use of disembodied is not a denial of or escape from embodiment. His triumphant disembodiment is made possible only by his prior re-embodiment in the imagination of the readerand, I would insist, by his making the reader aware of the readers own embodiment. Whitman consummates his seduction scene not so much by actually arousing the reader to sexual climax as by making the reader become conscious of his or her bodys presence in the acts of reading, imagining, and thinking about time. Other Double-Scope Blending in Leaves of Grass Understanding double-scope blending in So Long! can help new students of Whitman notice many rich examples of blending, temporal and otherwise, in Leaves of Grass. One way to use this conceptual tool profitably would be to focus on an explicit ghost poem in the Leaves. Equipped with an understanding of double-scope blending,

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178 readers can notice greater substance in what may otherwise have seem to be a transparent set piece. For example, in A Boston Ballad (Poetry and Prose 404-6), Whitman resurrects the dead out of the earth! These particular ghosts are maimed militiamen from the colonial era. They appear as phantoms amidst federal forces marching in what is, for Whitman, present-day Boston (1854): A fog follows, antiques of the same come limping, Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless, Why this is indeed a showit has called the dead out of the earth! The old graveyards of the hills have hurried to see! Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear! Cockd hats of mothy mouldcrutches made of mist! Arms in slingsold men leaning on young mens shoulders. (8-14) The occasion of the poem is some kind of show (more on that later) taking place in Boston in 1854. The show involves a public procession of the Presidents marshal (4) and those in the Federal foot and dragoons (5). Whitman notices how clean they all look: How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! / Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town (7-8). If those in the procession are clean, those watching the procession are just as clean: well dressd onlookers who orderly [] conduct themselves (22). In contrast to the clean and cute (42) appearance of everyone at the 1854 procession, Whitman imagines a parallel event in which antiques of the same present-day soldiers come limping alongside them. Usually, we expect that it is the ghosts who disturb the living. But remarkably, in A Boston Ballad it is the ghosts who are

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179 disturbed: What troubles you Yankee phantoms? what is all this chattering of bare gums? (16). And usually, in ghost stories, it is the unexpected appearance of a ghost that causes the living to run off in frightened hysterics. In Whitmans vision, conversely, it is the shame-ful appearance of the living that agitates the phantoms into mania: For shame old maniacsbring down the tossd arms, and let your white hair be, Here gape your great grandsons, their wives gaze at them from the windows, See how well dressd, see how orderly they conduct themselves. (20-22) Ironically, the ghosts find this hour with the living too dead to bear (24). In response to the horrifying display of good, but dead, behavior by the living, the ghosts return to their graves: Retreat thenpell mell! To your gravesbackback to the hills old limpers! I do not think you belong here anyhow. (25-27) Of course, ghosts normally do not belong with the living. In the 1854 Boston of Whitmans imagination, however, it is the living who do not belong with the dead! Whitmans inspiration for A Boston Ballad came from an actual historical incident. The Bradley and Blodgett footnote to the poem indicates that it was probably composed in June 1854, during the indignant public excitement at the arrest and trial in Boston of the fugitive slave, Anthony Burns, shortly after the passage of the Kansas-Nebraska bill that threatened to allow slavery in the northern regions of the Louisiana Purchase (Whitman Leaves of Grass 1973, 265). Whatever indignant public excitement was actually exhibited when the federal marshal and armed guards legally marched Burns out of Boston and back toward Virginia and slavery, Whitmans poem

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180 strongly protests that, to the contrary, the people of Bostonand indeed the entire nationwere not indignant or excited enough. Explained by the theory of conceptual integration networks, A Boston Ballad presents a blended scene marked, once again, by time compression. The scene compresses two distinct times, 1776 and 1854, as input spaces to the blend. The two times are blended onto one generic spatial location, Boston, aided by a shared organizing frame of a military march. The Boston marchers of 1776 and the Boston marchers of 1854 thus mirror each other, creating a mirror network for the purpose of compressing temporal distance (Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 122-26). A mirror blend usually highlights similarity, but in this case it highlights dissimilarity. The marchers may all look like military soldiers, and the location may be the same, yet the militiamen of 1776 would not have condoned what the Federal foot and dragoons of 1854 are doing. This moral and political dissimilarity between the two times is enhanced by a metaphoricalor, more precisely, a metonymicalrelationship: ghostly Yankee bodies appear injured and rag-tag because they risked their bodies to free the colonists from England. In contrast, the living Bostonians of 1854 appear bright and orderly because they have failed to risk their bodies for freedom of slaves who have escaped the Southern states. A Ballad of Boston compresses Bostons past with its present, forcing the poems readers to notice the former fleeing in moral repulsion from the latter: Worse and worsecant you stand it? are you retreating? (23). The poems readers are thus moved to admire the ghosts and to be disgusted by the living, which runs contrary to our normal expectations of what happens in a ghost narrative.

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181 A Ballad of Boston is intriguing because it brings together different temporal events ultimately to force them apart again. What are confused and what are forced apart are very different things: by confusing chronological matters, the poem distinguishes moral matters. Moral distinction is often the function of a ghost: by its very presence, a ghost collapses temporal distance in order to provide a moral perspective that otherwise would not be available to the present. The ghost of Hamlets father appears and casts doubt on the legitimacy of Hamlets fratricidal, usurping uncle. The ghost of Jacob Marley appears and casts doubt on the current state of Scrooges soul. Likewise, Whitmans Yankee phantoms appear and cast moral doubt on the Bostonians of 1854. A Ballad of Boston is a narrative extension of the sentiment expressed in the common phrase, If X could see this right now, he would be rolling over in his grave! But Whitmans extension helps us see the practical value of such imaginary counterfactuals. In fact, X cannot see whats happening or roll over in his grave, and Bostons Revolutionary militiamen cannot see what is happening in 1854. Nevertheless, this fantastical formula, which conjures up ghosts to indict the present, helped Whitman engage in moral reasoning that was anything but fantastical. Without the benefit of understanding double-scope blending, readers could probably detect the moral and political outrage that lies at the heart of Whitmans ghost poem. However, equipped with this conceptual tool of analysis, readers can better appreciate this more essential point: even highly fictional time-compression blends play a vital role in the real practical and moral distinctions, judgments, and actions that people make as part of their very non-fictional lives. Reading A Ballad of Boston, students will appreciate that practical

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182 reason requires an imaginative rationality (Lakoff and Johnson Metaphors We Live By 193); moral reason is irreducibly imaginative (Johnson Moral Imagination xi). Just as double-scope blending can help readers notice the gliding present that compresses distinct times into the same space, it can also help us appreciate poems where Whitmans gliding present encompasses distinct spatial locations within one small moment. The Sleepers (Poetry and Prose 542-51)is built on this premise of simultaneity. What begins, the poet admits, as a simple night visiona dream, an imaginary eventtakes on the physical and spatial substance of a journey. The poet walks up to various locations and bends over the people he sees/imagines: I wander all night in my vision Stepping with light feet, swiftly and noiselessly stepping and stopping, Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers, Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill-assorted, contradictory, Pausing, gazing, bending, and stopping. How solemn they look there, stretchd and still, How quiet they breathe, the little children in their cradles, The wretched features of ennuys, the white features of corpses, the livid faces of drunkards, the sick-gray faces of onanists, The gashd bodies on battle-fields, the insane in their strong-doord rooms, the sacred idiots, the new-born emerging from the gates (1-9) And on and on he goes, from bedside to bedside (29). He comes beside the socially approved married couple (11) as well as the socially condemned prisoner (16) and

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183 murderer (17), pass[ing] my hands soothingly to and fro a few inches from them (24). As a conceptual blend, The Sleepers recreates at a spatial level the temporal dynamics of So Long! and A Ballad of Boston. In A Ballad of Boston, one spaceBostonconfused bodies from two mutually exclusive times. In The Sleepers, conversely, one person experiences a multitude of spatial locations in one time, one night vision. The power of simultaneity experienced by the wanderer in The Sleepers is the same as that which the Ghost of Christmas Present bestowed upon Scrooge as they traversed the globe observing how people both on foreign lands, and [] close at home were spending the same Christmas Eve, 1843 (A Christmas Carol 100). Simultaneity, the ability to be at exclusive locations at the same time, creates psychological effects not unlike those created by time compression. Because it is humanly impossible to physically experience either time compression or simultaneity, the fact that we can imagine both can feel a bit . well, creepy. In this sense alone, critics have had reason to be disturbed when writers engage in the spectacular peering under the roofs of so many homes in the course of one night (Jaffe). (Dickens learned this technique as a boy reading Arabian tales of heroes who ride on magic carpets and birds peering down on all the scenes of the world [Wilson 182]). They have as much right to be disturbed, at any rate, as Horatio, Marcellus, and Barnardo have to be disturbed upon seeing the ghost of Hamlets father. One creepiness is primarily spatial; the other, primarily temporal. In The Sleepers, Whitman seems aware that engaging in imaginative spatial coextension has a disturbing quality. But instead of trying to excuse it or reason it away,

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184 he intensifies it. He personally implicates himself as a creepy spectator. (A benevolent peeper is still a peeper, just as a benevolent ghost is still a ghost.) He is not a passive observer but an active intruder. He is continually invading the private spaces of others, pressing up closely, physically, pass[ing] my hands soothingly to and fro a few inches from those whom he can see/imagine, but who cannot see him. In the last part of the opening section of The Sleepers, the poet goes Stepping with light feet one step further in his coextending dream. Not satisfied with walking up to and bending with open eyes over other individuals at their bedsides, he now breaks the ultimate spatial barrier by stepping into their dreams and thus becom[ing] them: I go from bedside to bedside, I sleep close with the other sleepers each in turn, I dream in my dream all the dreams of the other dreamers, And I become the other dreamers. (29-31) The poet finally locates himself in the one place no one can gointo the very being of anotherseveral others, in fact: I am the actor, the actress, the voter, the politician, / The emigrant and the exile, the criminal that stood in the box, / He who has been famous and he who shall be famous after to-day (42-44). From a cognitive perspective, this transition from the complex machinery of imagining to simply becoming and being (I am the actor) is intriguing. It echoes the claim of second-generation cognitive science that a chief labor of the embodied imagination is to make us unaware of its activity. The neurobiological machinery exists, but when it works well, we forget that it is there. This is reflected syntactically in Whitmans reduction of an eight-word word-chain down to one word, in the transition from line 30 to line 31. Syntactically, the eight-words about dreaming in the middle of line 30dream in my dream all the dreams ofare removed and replaced by one word

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185 in line 31: become. Whitman raises the machinery of imagining to visibility only to make it go away. Whitman could have ignored this issue of how ones consciousness can seem to travel from oneself and inhabit the lives of others. In keeping with his spatial imagery, he could simply have said something like, I pass into the others / And I become them (the image of passing recurs frequently in Whitmans poems). As much as any poem in the Leaves, The Sleepers asks readers to notice that our experience of having bodies that move in space is central to our ability to imagine and to liveto dream, and to become, so much so that we forget that we have, and are, bodies in space and time. Whitman Criticism and Double-Scope Blending As new students of Whitman begin to recognize and run the conceptual blends in his poetry, they will also find they have a useful tool for reading Whitman criticism. Knowing how single-scope blending works, they will be able detect when scholars read from the body to politics, from politics to sex, or from some other domain X to another domain Y. Knowing about double-scope blending, students might also notice when scholars cannot finally decide which way to readand instead of being overly critical of such scholarly ambivalence, students will have new reasons for appreciating that very ambivalence. Of the contributors to the Approaches to Teaching Whitmans Leaves of Grass handbook, Betsy Erkkila is most deserving of such credit. In Song of Myself and the Politics of the Body Erotic, and even more so in Whitman and the Homosexual Republic, published a few years later, Erkkila urges us to interpret Whitman ambidextrously. Arguing against this notion of a neat division between the more revolutionary impulses of the private poet of homosexual love and the more conventional impulses of the public poet of democracy, Erkkila offers a both-and alternative

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186 (Whitman and the Homosexual Republic 159; emphasis added). She uses the apt metaphor of an amalgam to describe has been explained here as double-scope blending in Leaves of Grass (158). For Erkkila, the first step to interpreting Whitman rightly is to reject the older interpretations of Whitman's love poems to men as allegories of American democracythat is, to reject a single-scope interpretation that reads solely from homosexuality to politics (155; emphasis added). As for the next step to interpreting Whitman, Erkkila avoids the trap of simply switching conceptual directionalthough she comes close, when she suggests that democratic discourse, because it is historically prior to the concept of homosexuality, is the source domain that construct[s] homosexuality as a new target domain: the discourse of democracy intersects with material transformations in labor, industry, and social relations in the nineteenth century in the United States to construct homosexuality as a type and a pathology (emphases added). The word that saves her statement from single-scope limitations is intersects, a word that helps us see Whitmans poems as double-scope conceptual blends rather than single-scope allegories. (Indeed, Erkkilas more pointed argument is that homosexuality as a concept is a multi-scope blend made possible by the intersection of several different input spaces or discourses.) Errkilas use of the verb intersects is buttressed by similarly apt words and phrases, including amalgam, intersect and flow into each other (158), is articulated together with (159), simultaneously with (160), slips ambiguously between (161), fluid relationship between (161), and intermix and mingle (163). All refer to the key insight that inferences in Whitmans poetry cross discursive (input space) boundaries and create an original conceptual blend. Errkila is justified, then, in concluding her later

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187 article with Whitmans famous question posed in the first (1855) edition of the Leaves: Who need be afraid of the merge? (Poetry and Prose 33; emphasis added). Whitmans Contribution to Cognitive Science One of Erkkilas conclusions about Whitmans unique conceptualizations exhibits a post-structuralist fascination with permeable boundaries: Whitman in fact suggests the extent to which the bounds between private and public, male and female, heterosexual and homosexual, are still indistinct, permeable, and fluid in his work (162; emphases added). By now, however, we have seen that the permeability of conceptual categories is not some self-subverting fluke of the conceptualizing brain. It is its prerequisite. By prompting the mind to merge inferences from different input spaces, a conceptual integration network produces, in the blend, emergent meaning that cannot be reduced to any contributing input space alone. In Whitmans So Long!, two input spacesone resounding with political and prophetic hope, the other wet with erotic anticipationmerge to create a new thing, something which is nothing less than the total experience of the poem itself. In the blend, a loud dry voice merges with a wet whisper. As political hope and erotic desire merge, long-term (so long) vision carries with it the excitation of imminent fulfillment; the titillation of sexual climax bears the unanticipated weight of indeterminate future longing (So long!). The distant political hope, so long in the future, is, in the blend, gratified by the touch of the future American reader. And the brief sexual liaison, quickly gratified, becomes, in the blend, deferred to an undetermined future: So long! Cognitive scientists have demonstrated that conceptualizations of the future are most frequently grounded in embodied experiences of spatial motion. The theory of double-scope blending can map out the conceptual tensions that emerge when, prompted

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188 by our reading of So Long!, we blend one kind of temporal experience with an entirely different one. But mapping out the conceptual dynamics requires, first, the ability to feel them. For that to occur, readers need to bring to their reading of Whitman an awareness of their own bodies: of seeing something and wanting it; of wanting something but not yet seeing it; of seeing something and not being able to have it; of seeing someone and wanting to have sex with them; of having sex with someone and then leaving them, wondering if they will meet again. Cognitive science can teach us about the way our embodied minds are able to conceptualize the temporal dynamics in Whitmans poetry. In the end, though, it is the cognitive scientists who will admit they have more to learn from the good gray poet. Anticipating The Life to Come In Whitmans poetry, we have seen a gliding present that can expand and contract. Expanding, it can encompass long stretches of time, so that a poet in 1860 has his life extended more than a hundred years after his death, to 2003 when a new reader can pick up his book and touch him. Contracting, the gliding present can collapse the distance between a longing subject and his object of desire and press them as close together as the leaves of a book. Whitman helps his reader do the work of time compression; the poet explicitly invites the reader to travel, ghostlike, along the gliding present toward him. In our next chapter, however, we investigate stories in which readers are given little help, never explicitly invited to compress and expand time. Yet compress and expand they must, if they are to experience the stories fully. As we turn to E. M. Forsters short stories in The Life to Come, we will revisit the idea of a gliding present that both extends and compresses time. The time-gliding ghosts in Forsters stories are not in the text, explicitly described as time-compressing

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189 figures. Nor are they outside the text, in the forms of a time-traveling author and his time-traveling reader. In Forsters stories the reader does not even have the advantage of pretending to be the ghostlike time-traveler. No, Forsters ghosts are where, finally, all ghosts truly exist: inside our heads.

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CHAPTER 5 A LEAP, A LINE, A LIFETIME: THE BLENDING OF TIMES IN E. M. FORSTERS THE LIFE TO COME The previous chapters have examined figures from texts that overtly create figures of time compression. Dickenss Marleys Ghost, Hopkinss Ghostly Nun, even Whitmans time-traveling book-body are easily recognizable to readers as highly imaginative, fantastical creatures. Now, however, we turn to time-blending figures that are harder to recognize. The figures required to understand three short stories from E. M. Forsters collection The Life to ComeThe Other Boat, The Life to Come, and Ansellcannot truly be said to exist in the stories. Forsters prose pieces serve up no ready-made ghosts or fantastical bodies. These figures, instead, originate in the readers mind, which assembles time compression blends working from only a few subtle textual prompts. The practiced reader of Forsters fiction probably forms these time blending figures so quickly and effortlessly that the figuring process goes completely unnoticed. In this chapter, we slow down and try to take notice of that process. It is worth the time, too, because Forsters short stories are particularly good at demonstrating the use of temporal blends in moral deliberation. Offering protests against expected futures that foreclose against new possibilities for happiness, Forsters stories rely, for their moral and utopian impact, on the readers ability to create a blend in which a single character simultaneously experiences both one lifetime and another. 190

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191 A Leap, a Line, a Lifetime Imagine a curving line extending from point A to point D (Figure 5-1). And imagine that there can be any number of intermediate points along this curve, such as points B and C. The curve is continuous in its degree of curvature, too. Thus, any segment of the curve has visible part-whole similarity with the entire curve. If you were to snip out segment AB, or BC, and enlarge the segment, retaining proportional curvature, it would look just like the entire curve AD. Figure 5-1. Curving Line AD Now imagine a human body arced along the same curve. Put him in a kind of diving motion, with his toes at point A and his fingertips reaching forward to point D (Figure 5-2). As we look at the arcing body, we see nothing particularly unusual. The body and the line share a curvature that is literal. When we observe a graceful diver, a leaping acrobat, or an athletic dancer, the human body can visibly remind us of a curving line. Now let us go a step further. Because of an unconscious metaphor by which we conceptualize time as motion in space, we can also find temporal meaning in the diving bodys apparent motion. We often say, and without any consciousness that we are

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192 Figure 5-2. Diving Human Body as Curving Line AD speaking figuratively, that a person moves from birth to death. Thus we can represent a persons lifetime as a line stretching from its beginning point A to its endpoint D. We can highlight this particular conceptual metaphor for time by adding an arrow indicating direction of motion along line AD (Figure 5-3). Figure 5-3. Conceptual Metaphor of Life as Motion Along a Line As was discussed in the first chapter, our western cognitive unconscious has stored a cluster of metaphors for conceptualizing time as spatial experience. Recalling the work of Lakoff and Johnson, we can demarcate two related metaphors involved in

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193 comprehending the above figures. The first is the TIME ORIENTATION metaphor, by which we can speak of facing the future and having the past behind us (Philosophy in the Flesh 140): THE TIME ORIENTATION METAPHOR The Location of the Observer The Present The Space In Front of The Observer The Future The Space Behind the Observer The Past Similar to the TIME ORIENTATION metaphor is the MOVING OBSERVER metaphor, by which we can speak of taking steps toward tomorrow and revisiting the past (145-47): THE MOVING OBSERVER METAPHOR Locations On Observers Path of Motion Times The Motion Of The Observer The Passage of Time The Distance Moved By The Observer The Amount of Time Passed Using the TIME ORIENTATION and MOVING OBSERVER metaphors in combination, our minds can understand the arcing body in Figure 5-2 as a moving, rather than static, body. He is an observer who, in the course of his lifetime, will travel along the spatial line AD. He faces toward, and dives toward, the future and his eventual death at point D. Behind him, where his feet are/have been, is his past. Points B and C represent distinct moments between birth and death that will be experienced as he metaphorically moves along his lifetimeline. Furthermore, if we want to imagine the person at a particular moment during his lifetime, we may conceptualize him as occupying a point along his lifetimeline, and,

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194 consequently, we may insert a smaller version of the same arcing body at B or C (Figure 5-4). The difference between the larger and smaller bodies is only a matter of scale. The smaller figure at B remains forward-facing, diving toward his future. Through part-whole metonymy, we understand that the smaller body at point B and the larger body encompassing AD (Figure 5-2) represent the same body. Figure 5-4. Moving Body at One Point Along Its Lifetimeline Now suppose that, although we may expect a man to live a long life, to point D, he actually dies at point B (Figure 5-5). We might say that he died too soon, before his Figure 5-5. Shortened Lifetimeline

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195 time, or that he died young because his life ended before we expected it to, before the anticipated point D. These phrases would express our subjective sense of disappointment at having our hopes about the future radically altered. Despite our shock, however, we would still say his death completed a biological lifetime. He lived and he died; the arc of his lifetimeline is done. So we revise our notion of his complete life, from what we previously expected to what is now actual. Here is where the proportional curvature along AD proves useful. If a life lived from A to B is as much a complete biological lifetime as a life lived from A to D, then the segment AB can now be blended with our understanding of the whole curve AD. We can blend B with D, resulting in B/D (Figure 5-6). Figure 5-6. Blend of AD and AB, Anticipated and Actual Lifetimelines Recall that in blending theory, the blended space does not eliminate the ongoing vitality of the input spaces. The meaning we derive from the entire conceptual integration network comes from the mental play along all the spaces, and the input spaces

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196 remain distinct and active in our minds even as we blend some of their features together. In the B/D blend, we can see how this holds true. Point B retains its value as an early point in what was anticipated to be a relatively long lifetime, and point D retains its value as the endpoint of a long life. The meaning of the B/D blend comes from the shocking collapse of the two. It highlights a dissimilarity between what we anticipated and what actually happened. The point of the blend is decompression, so that we reaffirm our belief that the two input spaces should be dissimilar. In the case of an unexpectedly foreshortened lifetimeline, meaning comes in a shock that only the blend can provide. When we learn of an unexpectedly early death, we gasp in surprise, because unconsciously we understand that B has suddenly taken on the features of D, and vice versa. We may ask, What if? and try to imagine what the persons life may have been like if endpoint D had been extended further along the line than at point B. But the meaning of this counterfactual thinking only has value because we are aware that this is no longer possible. In such a situation, imagining What if? is evidence that we are aware of how much we assumed point D and point B would be different. It is the sudden blending of the two that reminds us of how strongly we expect being young and dying to occupy very different points along the lifetimeline. The Extension of Time Added to the Compression of Time Now we are in a position to talk about ghosts again. In geometry, it is no big deal to collapse D onto B. So what if linear point D is congruent with linear point B? It does not disturb our sense of the integrity of the curve AD. Furthermore, if we use geometry to conceptualize time, initially it may not seem odd to collapse the future D onto the earlier B along the same temporal continuum of a lifetimeline. We can plot being young and dying at an old age along the same metaphoric time-lineindeed, the

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197 unconscious metaphor of the time-line enables our minds to blend D with B, dying at an old age with being young. Still, the fact that the linear metaphor for time makes the blend possible does not diminish the incongruity felt in real life. It can be quite a shock if we have to come to grips with a foreshortened life, to collapse D onto B. The news of someone dying young shocks us, and this shock is a ghostly shock, for it results from the blending of two temporal spaces that seem incongruent, being young and dying at an old age.. Will the blend dying young always produce the same effects? Interestingly, the answer is no. As we shall see, Forsters stories enact different possibilities created by the blending of youth and death in old age. As Figure 5-6 indicates, blending D with B not only implies temporal compressionthe compression of our expectation of a long life (AD) onto a much shorter one (AB). It also implies the possibility of temporal extensionthe expansion of a shorter period of time (AB) to the status of a much longer one (AD) that, very significantly, is felt to be complete. Indeed, given the part-whole metonymy of the curve, it is possible to compress AD to any smaller segment of the curve, as well as to stretch any segment, such as AB or BC, to encompass the entire curve AD. When human life is conceptualized, consciously or unconsciously, as a timeline, then a phrase like dying young can produce various possibilities of compression or extension. The results will depend on the context. We have noted the case in which, at the news of an unexpectedly early death, the words He died young communicates a feeling of disappointment due to unexpected compression. But now consider another case: suppose an old gentleman, in the course of making love, has a fatal heart attack.

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198 Someone might say with a wink, He died young. In this scenario, the dominant feeling conveyed by the dying young blend is not disappointment but satisfaction. The inference is that if an old man is going to die, it is better to die while he can still enjoy youthful activities and pleasures, rather than in a declining state of physical pain and torpor. This second blend reveals the same input spaces as before, being young and dying at an old age. However, in this blend we do not select out the factual element of old age from the input space of dying at an old age. Unlike the previous blend, which highlighted a temporal incongruence between the two input spaces, the second blend highlights a qualitative incongruence between the two input spaces. Here, being young carries inferences of physical health, strength, and pleasure, while being old carries inferences of physical degradation. In saying, He died young, we affirm our desire to be physically healthy when we get old, and thus defiantly hope against a common expectation of what old age can bring. Additionally, while this blends purpose is not primarily temporal, it does carry a temporal by-product. Blending youthful bodily health with old age, the result can extend an earlier point (young and healthy) to the endpoint (old and dead). The effect is the extension of B to D, unlike the compression of D onto B in the previous example. So the blend dying young, fed by the unconscious metaphor of a lifetime as linear (spatial) motion, can prompt us to create compressions and extensions of time in order to make sense of life. In Forsters collection The Life to Come, The Other Boat prompts readers to create a dying young blend highlighted by compression; when the text shows us a brief affair between two young men, we must simultaneously see it as a long-term relationship ending in old age, even though the affair and both men die abruptly. The

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199 Life to Come, by comparison, prompts a dying young blend characterized by extension; when the text shows us two unhappy men dying in old age, we must simultaneously see them as happy young men who have been experiencing pleasure together for years, even though the pleasures they actually experienced together lasted just one brief night. To see these characters as simultaneously young and old, and to see their pleasures as simultaneously brief and long-term, is to add a distinctively ghostly element of blending to the reading of Forsters fiction. What makes these blends possible is the conceptual metaphor of time as linear motion, a lifetime as a curved line, which Forster even invokes explicitly in The Other Boat. To appreciate Forsters stories adequately, readers must blend a curved line and a lifetime together. But thats not all. Both stories also treat the reader to vivid scenes of leaping bodies, human beings literally jumping to their deaths. Because these arcing bodies physically enact the metaphor of time as spatial motion, we must add a third, embodied element if we are to assemble the meaningful ghosts in Forsters stories. To appreciate The Life to Come and The Other Boat, readers must simultaneously see a spatial line, a temporal life, and a bodily leap. The Other Boat: the Young Leaping to Early Death The Other Boat would make sense to us even if its narrator did not offer this explicit invocation of the time as a curve metaphor: The sweet act of vengeance followed, sweeter than ever for both of them, and as ecstasy hardened into agony his hands twisted the throat. Neither of them knew when the end came, and he when he realized it felt no sadness, no remorse. It was part of a curve that had long been declining, and had nothing to do with death. (E. M. Forster The Life to Come 196; emphasis added) The curve has everything to do with death, despite Forsters narrative protest. Indeed, it is precisely because the end of the curve does have something to do with death that the narrators protest can arise and have meaning. The Other Boat follows this narrative

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200 protest with a scene of a sensational leap toward death, and when we see this leap as the culmination of a curve that had long been declining, we cannot help but see the compression of the curve onto the part, and the compression of the entire lifetime onto the brief relationship as well as on the even briefer suicide leap. Seeing the leap, the curve, and the lifetime as one, we can understand The Other Boat as a protest about what kind of relationships (here, heterosexual versus homosexual, and racially homogeneous versus multiracial) are socially permitted to endure. Before we can adequately analyze the way temporal compression and temporal extension lead to social critique in The Other Boat, let us rehearse its plot. The Plot of The Other Boat In The Other Boat, after a young Englishman becomes sexually intimate with a man of a different race and culture, he ends the brief relationship by killing the man and then immediately throws himself overboard. The Other Boat begins in the Suez on a ship heading from India to England. On the ships deck, a boy, Lionel March, and his siblings are playing. On their way home from India with their mother, the March children are entertained by Cocoanut, a blackish-grayish-skinned half-caste of unspecified origin who appears to be about the same age as Lionel (173, 183). Cocoanut knows all about the ship, shows the children secret spaces to play inside the ships bows, and engages them in joyously covering their bodies with paint and playing, unEnglish-like, in the direct sunlight. The storys prologue ends when Cocoanut is scolded by Mrs. March: You never will play any game properly []. You are a silly idle useless unmanly little boy (170). Ten years later, Mrs. Marchs son, now Captain March, is again aboard a ship in the Suez, this time headed the other way: March is leaving his post in the Middle East for

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201 a new post in India after being wounded in a desert fighting savages (195). By coincidence, Cocoanut is on the same boat, having become influential in shipping circles (171). Cocoanut arranges things so that he and March share a cabin together, for Cocoanut had longed for him ever since their first meeting, embraced him in dreams when only that was possible (174). Similarly, although Captain March is a combination irresistible to the fair sex (172), it is Cocoanuts dark body that March cannot resist. The two begin a clandestine relationship in the cabin below, hid from the eyes of the other English travelers who prefer to sleep on the deck, and with whom March socializes when above. Cocoanut begins to imagine a future with March: All his life he had wanted a toy that would not break, and now he was planning how he would play with Lionel for ever (174). March, however, has trouble imagining a socially acceptable future with Cocoanut. He becomes wracked with guilt and shame, and he decides to end the affair, telling himself there is already a girl he hoped to marry, Isabel: For Isabels sake, as for his professions, their foolish relationship must stop at once (193). At night in the cabin, March refuses Cocoanuts advances. Cocoanut protests by biting Marchs arm. Simultaneously aroused and enraged, March gives himself over to satisfying both passions. As his ecstasy harden[s] into agony, his hands twist[] the throat of Cocoanut, killing him. He then kisse[s] the closed eyelids tenderly and burst[s] out of the stupid cabin onto the deck, and naked and with the seeds of love on him he dive[s] into the sea (195-96).

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202 The narrator closes the tale by confirming that Marchs body was quickly eaten by sharks, that Cocoanuts body was buried at sea, and that Mrs. March received a posthumous letter from her son, after which she never mentioned his name again (197). The Compression and Extension of Time in The Other Boat March and Cocoanut are presented as dying young. If the story leads our minds to think about the dying young blend as a temporal compression, the story reads this way: we compress the meanings of the whole (AD) onto the part (BC); that is, we select some of the meanings that we associate with long life and long-lasting relationships and assign them to the relatively short lives of the two men and their relatively brief relationship. These selected meanings are, in this case, especially social and moral. The social approval that normally attends a long-lasting marriage (unto death do us part) is backwardly conferred upon the brief relationship that is felt to have no social approval. We may feel that the part is protesting against the whole because, by arrogating death to itself, the part is claiming for itself the meanings of what was originally expected to be a much greater whole. Yet we must note that the part also affirms the whole, too, because the meanings of death desired by the part derive from the whole. Or, as the reader might more simply put it: March and Cocoanut may have wanted their relationship to last to old age and openly (as when they were children, playing in the direct sunlight on the boat), but, given Marchs circumstances, this was felt to be impossible, so he decided they should die young (and in the darkness of night). Because the two men could not realistically get married and live into old age when a natural death might separate them, March chose early death, thereby giving their brief affair all the meanings of old age and lasting marriage that post-Victorian English society could not. Through temporal compression, then, The Other Boat presents a dying young blend in which the positive

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203 meanings of dying at an old age, and of having experienced the enduring love of a spouse, are conferred upon the brief affair. Alternatively, if we focus on the dying young blend as giving meaning through temporal extension, The Other Boat yields slightly different nuances, if still to the same overall effects. If our reading minds carry the meanings associated with the part and assign them to the status of the whole, the story delivers a proposal for a redefinition of the whole. The story asks us to contemplate the possibility that such a relationship, although short-lived in the story, might have lasted a long time. What if such a relationship were permitted to exist openly, on the deck, instead of in darkness in levels beneath the deck? Such a relationship would then be defined by different factors than those currently acceptable. The peculiarities of a persons particular sexual attraction would be more important than factors, such as race or gender, which might constrain individual desire. Seeing the story as promoting the part to the status of the whole, our minds understand the story as affirming the validity of long-lasting homosexual, as well as interracial, relationships. The Dynamism of Leap-Line-Life Blending in The Other Boat So, on the one hand, reading The Other Boat as temporal compression accentuates the meaning of the whole (lasting heterosexual marriage determined by social conventions) and distills it onto the part (brief and socially unacceptable homosexual liaison). On the other hand, reading the story as temporal extension accentuates the meanings of the part (erotic attraction determined by individual psychology) and extends it to redefine the whole (lasting relationship enjoying social approval). Both directions are meaningful. We read the story well when we allow the different temporal possibilities of the dying young blend to interact dynamically in our minds.

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204 Once we do, we cannot help but notice, in addition, the many ways the story prompts us to blend a lifetime with a physical leap. This is especially apparent when the text presents images where spatial distance plays a role in characters thinking about the meaning of human temporal existence. These images are both global, at the level of plot structure, and local, at the level of specific narrated moments. At the level of global imagery, The Other Boat enacts a source-domain spatial story to ground a target-domain temporal story. The story has Lionel March literally traveling on a ship toward a distant destination in India, a destination that anchors his current visions of his future. By presenting the basic spatial story of a moving observer who moves toward the future, The Other Boat prompts our cognitive unconscious to enact the MOVING OBSERVER and TIME ORIENTATION metaphors discussed previously. Globally, spatial distance maps to Marchs long-term aspirations for his future marriage and his future vocation. When March worries that his relationship with Cocoanut will jeopardize both his future marriage to Isabel, the girl he hoped to marry (193), and his rising military career (192), he is located [u]p on deck at the ships railing and under the stars (192). The narrator adds that [t]he widened expanse of the sea, the winking lighthouse, helped to compose March to be able to make his decision to end the relationship with Cocoanut. Forsters choice to show March thinking about the future while looking at the sea is not an arbitrary one. The panoramic vista as a site for temporal reflection is an artistic invention, but relatively determined. Our neural patterns regularly map from spatial to temporal experience, and from physical size to subjective importance. By including these embodied experiences of looking at distant objects and grand spaces, Forster provides

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205 scenes that ground the subjective, human thoughts of March. They reiterate what Marchs mind, and the readers mind, do naturally. Because marriages and vocations are events of great duration, it is natural and fitting that March ponders his situation while looking across a great landscape and toward distant objects. But it is natural and fitting only because of the embodied nature of the mind of both writer and reader (and even, one might add, of the imagined characters), a mind that maps from concrete bodily experience in space to abstract conceptualizations of time, as well as from spatial magnitude to qualitative importance. The storys global level imagery of traveling a great distance is even more fitting: as human beings, we cannot actually experience great distance in anything that feels like a single event. Apart from the help of special effectssuch as film footage that speeds up the frames, creating a visible temporal compression, or spatial compressions such as maps, globes, and pictures of the earth taken from spaceour natural experience of a great distance is that it is not something we can experience as a single visible event. It is not a human-scale event. However, a single, visible leap is experienced as a single visible event. We have great familiarity with relatively short spatial distances that begin and end in one simple, human-scale event. And at the local level of specific imagery, The Other Boat juxtaposes the notion of a great, global distance with numerous instances of small leaps and fallings of bodies and objects. Reading with our leap-line-lifetime blend, these juxtapositions become compressions, whereby the global space is compressed upon local space, and, metaphorically, long-term temporal concerns are compressed upon momentary events.

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206 Over and over again, we find in The Other Boat images of leaping bodies and falling objects. Captain Marchs willful, naked dive overboard stands out as the most vivid and memorable leaping body in The Other Boat. But throughout the story other, less spectacular, leapings and fallings prefigure Marchs arcing dive. Cocoanuts body, for example, is seen both willfully and passively falling. After Marchs leap into the water, the story immediately recounts the crews disposal of Cocoanuts dead body, which is lowered to the water and consigned to the deep with all possible speed (196; emphasis added). Despite the great distance implied by the word deep, the reader visualizes the of the bodys fall without mentally blinking. The speed of the act tightens the duration of the event so that the reader mentally sees the bodys lowering as a unified event, contained within one visual frame of the imaginationa simple plunge, as it were. The events visual unity is also aided by the fact that the it is reported in the narrative space of just two sentences. If at the end of the story Cocoanuts body is visualized as a passively falling object, at the storys outset Cocoanut appears actively falling and leaping. The young Lionel insists to his sister that they must have Cocoanut play at soldiers with them, for Cocoanut is the only one who falls down when hes killed. All you others go on fighting too long (166). A few moments later, Cocoanut makes an especially vivid leap before the condemning eyes of Mrs. March. Cocoanut draws a chalk circle around Mrs. March on the deck: She stepped out of the circle and as she did so Cocoanut sprang into it and squatted grinning (170). It is precisely Cocoanuts springing motion that incites Mrs. March to scold him, saying Youre a silly little boy (170). This springing is also

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207 significant because it is the final visual image of motion in the storys childhood prologue. Elsewhere in the story, the reader is treated to descriptive images of flying fish and of children bounc[ing] up and down (167). On the night of the fatal climax, March is depicted as having spat into the sea just after he makes his internal vow Never again to be with Cocoanut. The spitting invites the reader to visualize an object cast over the deck and into the sea, prefiguring the plunge that March himself will later make in a desperate attempt to bind himself to his Never again vow. Besides these explicitly visual images, the story also offers implied images of rising and falling. The story, for example, requires that March and Cocoanut frequently descend and ascend to and from the deck above to their cabin below. And in a compressed copy of that same motion, the story implies that March descends from his upper cabin bunk to share Cocoanuts bunk, and that Cocoanut climbs from his lower bunk up into Marchs. Through both explicit descriptions and implied spatial actions, then, The Other Boat repeatedly requires the reader to visualize bodies and objects rapidly rising and falling. When the reader steps outside of the reading experience to become conscious of how many times she has imagined similar arcs of moving bodies and objects in The Other Boat and in The Life to Come, this arcing pattern, by dint of sheer repetition, seems momentous. And this arcing pattern serves as the embodied, local-level anchor of the entire leap-line-lifetime blending required of the reader to find the story meaningful. The Life to Come: the Old Leaping to Young Death The title story in The Life to Come collection is very similar to that of The Other Boat: two young men of different races and cultures have a brief sexual affair; the men

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208 die in a murder-suicide; and the suicide consists of a dramatic, naked leapnot overboard, this time, but off a roof. The Life to Come differs from its companion story in that its murder-suicide is committed not by the Englishman but by the racially other partner, and the deaths occurs not in youth but in old age. Because the story prompts us to blend the old men with their younger selves, however, the result of The Life to Come is very similar to The Other Boat. It, too, produces a moral protest against what kind of relationships may be permitted to endure in society. The Plot of The Life to Come The Life to Come recounts the relationship between an Anglican priest and a tribal chief. As a very young man (66), the Rev. Paul Pinmay is sent into a wild region (65) where he accomplishes what no other priest had been able to do: to convert Vithobai, the wildest, strongest, most stubborn of all the inland chiefs (66). However, Pinmays method of conversion is unusual. Arriving at the priests hut one night, the young chief listens as the priest reads to him from the Bible about love and exhorts him, Come to Christ! (67). The chief responds erotically to the words, drawing closer to the priest. In turn, the priest himself becomes attracted to the handsome native, whose body [is] aglow and smelling sweetly of flowers (68). The priest gives in to temptation and after this night of love born to two human bodies as a midnight cry (65)the chief declares that he and all his tribe will become Christians. Vithobai devoutly adopts the English customs that the guilt-ridden Pinmay urges upon him and his people. Vithobai also regularly comes before Pinmay, imploring, God orders me to love you now, and, Christ awaits us in my inner chamber (71). With each visit, however, Vithobais unholy suggestion is rejected by Pinmay, who answers, Not yet.

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209 Years pass, and Vithobai patiently waits for a second night of intimacy with Pinmay. On the eve of Pinmays marriage to a female medical missionary, Vithobai again asks the priest to take him into his hut where they can Come to Christ, for it has been now five years since you first said Not yet (75). This time, instead of saying, Not yet, Pinmay responds: now I say Never. Immediately thereafter, Vithobai begins to sicken of consumption. At the end of the story, Vithobai is sinking on his deathbed, a poor skeleton of his former self (80). Pinmay asks Vithobais forgiveness, and he assures Vithobai that in the life to come (81) they will know each other with all spiritual knowledge. But, Vithobai asks, Will there be love? Pinmay answers, In the real and true sense. Vithobai, interpreting real and true differently than the priest, finds encouragement and strength in these words. In a final embracetheir only embrace since that first night together in their youthVithobai tells Pinmay: Wait for me in it [the life to come]. Gathering enough strength to pick up a knife, Vithobai then stab[s] the missionary through the heart. Vithobai is able to survive[] for a moment longer to accomplish one final deed: Mounting on the corpse, he climbed higher, raised his arms over his head, sunlit, naked, victorious, leaving all disease and humiliation behind him, and he swooped like a falcon from the parapet in pursuit of the terrified shade (82). The Compression and Extension of Time in The Life to Come Vithobai and Pinmay die in old age. Yet part-whole blending prompted by the story renders it meaningful as another dying young tale in which long life and a long period of time are compressed onto a brief period of time experienced in youth. For example, we cannot appreciate the embrace of the old men on the rooftop without simultaneously seeing the two young men in their first and only embrace years earlier.

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210 One is mirror of the other, and their blend permits us to read one through the other. This blending of old age with youth is aided by the narrator in explicit ways. For example, as the aged Vithobai prepares to jump from the roof, we are told that He rejoiced as in boyhood (82). The old king dies young. Here, the inferences of subjective satisfaction that attends the concept of dying in old age (because of having completed a journey, achieved a goal) are projected backwards in time to boyhood, an earlier time that corresponds more closely to the time of Vithobais sexual experience with Pinmay. But the boyhood example demonstrates that temporal projection moves the other direction, too. The relatively brief period known as boyhood also projects forward, conferring upon a man dying of old age, disease, and humiliation (82) the countervailing inferences of bodily strength, physical enjoyment, and innocence. In this sense, the embrace of the two men in old age serves as the shadow of the earlier embrace enjoyed in youth. Associated with physical and sexual strength, Vithobais penetrating knife and his [m]ounting of Pinmay at the end can be seen as the climactic fulfillment of the initial (and thus interrupted?) sexual encounter that briefly occurred years earlier. The Dynamism of Leap-Line-Lifetime Blending in The Life to Come As in The Other Boat, the leap-line-lifetime blending in The Life to Come is prompted by both global and local imagery. At a global level, the story presents Pinmay, as one who travels a great distance from England to Vithobais inland tribe in the wild region of an unnamed continent. Moreover, both Pinmay and Vithobai conceptualize the afterlife spatially, as an ultimate destination. The idea of the life to come would seem to constitute a distance that cannot be experienced at human scale. Yet that afterlife space is not so important to the story as a metaphysical reality but, rather, as a spatial backdrop physically large enough to ground the long-term concerns about human

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211 relationships that drive the story. In The Life to Come, eternity confers value on earthly aspirations by reference to its unsurpassed temporal vastness. The Life to Come regularly offers scenes in which characters long-term hopes are explicitly underwritten by grand spatial dynamics. In one instance, Pinmays search for an appropriate long-term spouse is situated within the long-distance progress of Christianity. Even as the narrator prepares the reader for the next crisis that Mr Pinmay had to face with Vithobai, the reader is informed that the reported crisis occurred five years later, just before his own marriage. The cause of Christ had progressed greatly in the interval (73; my emphasis). The inclusion of the cause of Christ, something progressing for nineteen hundred years toward an unforeseeable destination, places Pinmays aspirations in an immense spatial, and, by metaphor, temporal picture: Pinmay sees his work and his marriage as having great historical and even eternal significance. The same scene also works to heighten temporal compression. But by slipping in the idea of a next crisis that occupies Pinmay just before his own marriage, the narrator prompts the reader to recognize that Pinmays brief relationship with Vithobai poses a threat to that grand and noble picture. The progress of millennia are compressed onto the crisis of the moment. An even more explicit metaphorical connection connecting long-term aspirations to large space is provided in the same scene. As Pinmay is reflecting on his impending marriage and how the cause of Christ had progressed, he is depicted as lean[ing] over the veranda looking out over the entire village (73). Given our cognitive unconscious, we cannot fail to correlate Pinmays grand panoramic view of the town with his grand aspirations. The same can be said of the climactic scene when Vithobai, too, pauses to

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212 take in a view of his village before he jumps to his death, anticipating his entrance into the future kingdom of the dead: He dragged himself up, he looked over the parapet. Below him were a horse and cart, beyond, the valley which he had once ruled, the site of the hut, the ruins of his old stockade, the schools, the hospital, the cemetery, the stacks of timber, the polluted stream, all that he had been used to regard as signs of his disgrace. But they signified nothing this morning, they were flying like mist, and beneath them, solid and eternal, stretched the kingdom of the dead. (81-82) Earthly kingdoms of spatial territory match spiritual kingdoms of human desire. Because we are reminded of The Other Boat, with Lionel March staring at the sea and the stars while thinking about his future wife and military career, we recognize again how similarly the two stories share a spatial grounding for conceptualizations about the future. The two stories share not only global imagery but local imagery, as well. Like The Other Boat, The Life to Come is replete with images of leaping and falling bodies and objects. Twice in The Life to Come, the leaping of a human body vividly takes center stage. The first instance occurs immediately after Pinmay changes his response to Vithobais pleas. When Pinmay amends his Not yet to Never, the two are traveling in a horse-drawn cart. The narrator tells us that, as soon as the chief hears the priests response, he leaps from the cart: Without replying, [Vithobai] handed him the reins, and then jerked himself out of the cart. It was a most uncanny movement, which seemed to proceed direct from the will. He scarcely used his hands or rose to his feet before jumping. But his soul uncoiled like a spring, and thrust the cart violently away from it against the ground. (75) As Pinmay watches, he finds Vithobais leap startling and disgusting. And the descent was equally sinister. [Vithobai] lay helpless as if the evil uprush had suddenly failed (76).

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213 The second vivid scene of a bodily leap in The Life to Come occurs, of course, at the end of the story. Vithobais two grand leaps are the storys most memorable instances of gravity-bound bodies rising and falling to the ground. Yet they are by no means the only instances of the uprush-and-fall pattern that the story presents to the readers imagination. Other bodies and objects are sent into the air and down to the ground, and though these are less memorable, they are no less important in priming the reader for feelings of inevitability about the future. The Life to Come concludes, as we have already noted, with a human body throwing itself off a roof. Yet the story begins with non-human objects being thrown into a stream. The objects are flowers and a Bible. They are thrown by Pinmay, the young priest, the night after he and Vithobai have been intimate. Vithobai has left the priests hut, and the priest is reminiscing about his romantic evening when he notices his Bible on the floor along with flowers the chief had brought: A remote, a romantic spot lovely, lovable and then he caught sight of a book on the floor, and he dropped beside it with a dramatic moan as if it was a corpse and he the murderer. For the book in question was his Holy Bible, Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not A scarlet flower hid the next word, flowers were everywhere, even round his own neck. Losing his dignity, he sobbed Oh, what have I done? and not daring to answer the question he hurled the flowers through the door of the hut and the Bible after them, then dashed to retrieve the latter in an agony of grotesque remorse. All had fallen into the stream, all were carried away []. (65; emphases added) In this scene, the astute reader observes that, besides sending the flowers and the Bible into the river, Pinmay also sets himself in motion: he actively drop[s] his own body to the floor. Later, at the very end of the story, the astute reader may remember this opening scene of falling body and flowers when reading that Vithobai, just before he jumps off the roof, does not have the strength to push the body [of Pinmay] onto the asphalt or to spread the skein of blue flowers (81; emphasis added). Though Vithobai does not

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214 accomplish these acts, the narrator has nevertheless led the reader to visualize the possibility of the dead priests body dropping from the roof and blue flowers raining down upon it. However, even the astute reader may not notice that there is an additional object that rises and falls in the storys opening scene: the priests dramatic moan. For the reader, the visual events of the dropping body and of the tossed Bible and flowers are matched by the aural event of the priests voice. Aural objects and visible objects are, of course, very different things. Nevertheless, we routinely describe voices and other sounds by projecting from visual, spatial experience. Sounds, though invisible and intangible, are often described as rising, falling, and even being thrown. Aural structure, then, is something we can conceptualize by projecting visible, spatial structure. In our minds eye, we read Forsters story and imagine three-dimensional bodies that move and drop, that are flung and come to a stop, in space; likewise, in our minds ear we imagine a sound that our cognitive unconscious perceives as having the same spatial structure. The quick starting and stopping of the priests dramatic moan echoes the quick starting and stopping of the priests bodily drop to the floor, the quick tossing of the Bible across the hut, and the quick flight of the flowers into the stream. What these many flights have in common is an image-schematic structure that is brief, essentially visible, and experienced at human scale. When we blend this simple arcing structure with the concepts of linear distance and temporal duration, we can meaningfully declare that they seem to figure as compressions of the greater whole. Indeed, because they so repetitively reenact the image of a quick and neat event, beginning followed by immediate end, they may even prompt our reading minds to

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215 anticipate a quick and sudden end to the greater story which they anchor. The same can be said of the leaps that ground The Other Boat. The presence of so many leaps and falls may prime the reader to expect doomed, rather than hopeful, endings to the two stories. In one peculiar way, The Life to Come gives the reader a specific prompt to perform a temporal blending that is not shared by The Other Boat. The Life to Come structures its tale according to four consecutive periods, which are titled, respectively, Night, Evening, Day, and Morning. Each of the four periods includes a key scene that literally occurs at the stated time period. But what we notice is that these periods go in the opposite direction of the way we humanly experience time. The story, as narrated, tends to follow time in a chronologically conventional directionevents follow events as evening follows morning. As readers, then, we read the beginning of the tale, but see the word Night, and so on until, at the end of the tale, we see the word Day. This new blending prompted by the titles increases the possibilities of compression and extension. If we begin the story with Pinmay and Vithobai first meeting at Night, we may confer on that meeting the inferences of culmination and completion associated with the concept of the night that completes a full day. Likewise with the end of the story: if we read that the deaths of Pinmay and Vithobai occur at Day, we may confer on that dying embrace the inference of a true beginninga beginning together anew in the life to come, perhaps. We may even bestow on that final embrace the notion of a reversal of time, as a kind of erasing of all the negative effects that had accrued since the first meeting. Night moves backwards across the metaphoric time-line, erasing, so to speak, the disgrace and humiliation experienced during the in-between

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216 period. So while the section titles actually prompt us to create new temporal blends, those blends collaborate well with the overall leap-line-lifetime blend that dominates a competent reading of the story. Ansell as Response to The Other Boat and The Life To Come The story that opens the collection in The Life to Come is best read after The Life to Come and The Other Boat. Apart from its peculiar enjoyments, Ansell is best understood as a response to the temporal problems explored in those two stories. What I propose is that to appreciate Ansell fully, we must blend our reading of it with our readings of The Other Boat and The Life to Come. The Plot of Ansell Written in 1902 or 1903, Ansell may be one of Forsters most personal stories. Its central character, Edward, shares Forsters given first name and narrates the story in the first person voice. And, like Forster, Edward is Cambridge-educated. As Oliver Stallybrass notes in his introduction to The Life to Come, the storys title character, Ansell, shares the name of a childhood friend of Forster (viii). And like Forsters childhood friend, Ansell is a servant. (Another character named Ansell also appears in The Longest Journey, which suggests how deeply his real-life friend affected him.) In the story, Edward relates how he and Ansell had become childhood playmates. Edwards father would bring him for extended visits to his older cousins country estate, where Ansell served as garden and stable boy (2). As boys, Edward and Ansell spent time together in physical and noisy outdoor activities. Edwards older cousin became aghast at the friendship he had created. No work was done in the garden and very little in the stable. Ansell was always called off by Master Edward. Likewise, Edwards father worried that the class-crossing relationship threatened his sons intellectual

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217 development: my father did not like my entire separation from rational companions and pursuits. I had suddenly stopped reading and no longer cared to discuss with him the fortunes of the Punic War or the course of Aeneas from Troy. The adults decided they must restrict the boys playtime together; they were allowed to play once a week before Edward went off to school. Now twenty-three, Edward is returning to the country estate on holiday from Cambridge, where he has been writing his dissertation on the Greek optative caseHypothetics []: the science of what might have happened but did not (6). Because his dissertation is to be sent within a month (4), Edward has brought along a large box of his books and paper with him, the seeds and fruit of my careerchiefly the seeds, to judge by the weight (5). Edward is met at the train station by Ansell, who good-naturedly complains, Them books (3), as he lifts the box into the back of the horse-drawn cart. The book-box is so heavy that the cart immediately tilt[s] at a miserable angle (1-2). On the road to the estate, about halfway now, where the road goes up the river ravine in a ledge that has been cut in the rock (5), the horse becomes jumpy under rain-filling clouds. Just where the ravine is the steepest, the horse backs the cart against the wooden guardrail. The fence gives way, and the cart, horse, and two men nearly go over the edge. As Ansell regains control of the horse, Edward surmises that [s]omething slipped from the cart into the abyss, and I concluded it was me (5-6). In fact, what had gone was the box: It then struck me that what had gone was the box. A great deal was crowded into that half-second, for I was just in time to see the conclusion of its fall. About halfway down it hit a projecting rock, opened like a waterlily, and rained its sweetness upon the deep. Most of the books were heavy and plunged like meteors

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218 through the trees into the river. One or two of the smaller ones roosted coyly for a minute on the branches before they too slipped through and disappeared. (6) Ansell assures Edward that only one or two books can be retrieved, and not until the next day after the rain has stopped. As they continue on toward the manor, Edward silently concludes, Suicide seemed the only course (7). With Edwards books gone, however, Ansell becomes more animated. He talks at length about the nearby woods, where there are grouse and rabbits and air [] so pure that you felt like a different person and so clear that you could see the sea (7). The next day, they are able to retrieve a few of the books. Edward reports that Ansell himself dived pertinaciously into the pool below the road, and fished up the cover of an Aristotle and a couple other items (8). Nevertheless, of the unfinished dissertation and the essential notes there was not a sign. Edward concludes with finality and certainty, I knew that my career was closed. But while Edward writes off his career, a new lifeone without a distinct futurebegins. Ansell takes him on physical adventuresI have a bruise on my shoulder from shooting and a cut on the foot from bathing, and the pony has rubbed my knee raw against a wallwhich divert Edward from worries about his life and plans: I have no time to think of the future. Occasionally they pass the place where the box spilled and Ansell looks over and says Them books! and laughs, and I laugh too as heartily as he, for I have not yet realized what has happened (9). These lines conclude the tale. Multiple Blending in Ansell The overall effect of Ansell differs from the effects of its companion stories. It ends happily; its central relationship endures after the concluding period. However, it would be wrong to deduce that the reason for its dissimilarity with the other two stories is

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219 structural. In fact, Ansell depends on exactly the same leap-line-lifetime blending that makes The Other Boat and The Life to Come meaningful. So what makes the stories different? Because Ansell has a blend that permits a box of books to represent a human life. As Figure 5-7 below demonstrates, the key image in Ansell is not that of a leaping human body, but of a human body watching himself leaping. Only, it is not himself that he sees leaping, but a box of books and papers that both literally and symbolically contains his expected future. The books are lost before they can fulfull their anticipated future potential. In short, the books die young. For Edward, Them books represent a vision of his past, present, and future life, a vision that he has held for quite some time. They are even metonymically related to his future, because he needs them to secure that future. So once the books have fallen to their end, he cannot imagine his own anticipated future any longer. Figure 5-7. Edward Blends His Falling Books with His Lifetimeline Ansell is the tale of the death of a picture of the futureor rather, given the emphasis on Them books, perhaps we should say that the story recounts the death of a narrative of the future. What Edward learns is that, although it felt quite real, and had quite real affects on his current behavior, his narrative of his future was always, in part,

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220 only an imagined and possible one. There is wry justice, here, because his dissertation was to be on Hypothetics and the optative case, which is the grammatical case in Greek used to wish (optare) for something to be possible, even though it may not be possible. Losing his own books and papers have taught him more about his dissertation topic than his own writing ever could. Herein lies the major difference between Ansell and its companion tales, The Other Boat and The Life to Come. It is not simply that Edward gets to live rather than die a leaping death, nor that he gets to end the story enjoying bodily life with a male friend. By inserting a simple new blendThem books as life to comeinto its tale, Ansell allows its protagonist to engage in reflective thinking about timeand, just as importantly, it prompts readers (if not also Edward) to think about our own thinking about time. In The Life to Come and The Other Boat, it is the readers who are first prompted to blend the different lifetimelines of the stories characters. We think about them, and we feel about them, hypothetically. We wonder, What if? or Why not? We see the lives of Vithobai, Pinmay, Cocoanut, and March played out and ended, and the finality of their endings permits us to engage in retroactive interpretation of their lives, as well as proactive protest for what wishfully could have been different. And the meanings we find come by way of temporal blends: youth blended with death, brevity blended with endurance, part blended with whole. In Ansell, however, this very process of thinking about time through leap-line-lifetime blending is lifted to the level of theme. Edward himself is shown thinking about how he thinks about his futuresthe former future now lying dead at the bottom of a hill, and his new futures: those not

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221 yet imagined, radically potential futures characterized more by a wishful mood than a specific, wished-for object or end. Its a nice touch to a good storyand a fitting response to The Life to Come, and The Other Boat that are, quite unfortunately, placed after Ansell in the collection. In The Life to Come, there is one leap-line-lifetime story that does not end with death. It ends, instead, with a focus on how one thinks about the future. Ansell associates hope, life, and the validation of physical pleasure with the ability to stand back and see how we think about time. As a lens through which the rest of the tales in The Life To Come might be read, then, Ansell prefaces the sexual and social future of human bodies with a call for an embodied awareness of human conceptualizations of time. Forsters Touch and the Direction of Narrative Much has been made of the importance of a particular experience in Forsters life: once, while visiting the third sex theorist Edward Carpenter, Carpenters lover George Merrill touched Forsters backsidegently and just above the buttocks, as Forster described it in a letter. The sensation was unusual and I still remember it. [] It seemed to go straight through the small of my back into my ideas, without involving my thoughts (qtd. in King 57). The importance of sexual awakening and the validation of erotic desire in the anecdote are obvious. But in light of the importance I have been ascribing to image schemas of spatial motion in Forsters short stories, I propose that we see this anecdote through another lens, albeit one complementary to the erotic lens. There are two elements of motion in the anecdote. Forster mentions the first one explicitly, speaking metaphorically of the sensation as something that traveled from his body to his mind: It seemed to go straight through the small of my back into my ideas. The statement

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222 nicely shows Forster relying on the role of his own neural system in driving the creation of his imaginary worlds. As such, it could stand as a kind of neural centerpiece in a embodied, cognitive approach to Forsters fiction. Yet there is a second element of motion in Forsters anecdote that is unconscious but no less significant. In common experience, when a person places a hand on your back, it often means that you are being directed somewhere. The usual situation entails the assumption that you need directing because you do not know where you are supposed to gofor example, which room in the house you are being asked to wait in, or which chair to take at the dinner table. So a simple hand in the back may reflect an attempt to move your body to a new and unanticipated place. In this chapter, we have seen how Forsters short stories The Life to Come and The Other Boat use the image schema of a real body in motion to protest against expected futures. And we have seen, too, how one story, Ansell, could use the same image schema to give hope toward an unanticipated future, a yet-to-be-imagined future free from what had been previously expected. Given Forsters claim about the direct link between Merrills hand and his own ideas, and given our analysis of Forsters fiction, we have every reason to posit a common conceptual domain grounding both the import of that touch and the temporal structure of the short stories in The Life to Come. Merrills hand was a first mover for Forster, both for him, personally, as well as for his narrative imagination. As an agent of erotic awakening, that hand stimulated Forster to imagine previously unanticipated possibilities for his life and to reject certain pathslike marriage, and writing novels that end in marriagethat seemed to him inescapable. Yet, too, as a gesture entailing the motioning of a body, that hand supplied the basic sensorimotor pattern that structures

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223 some of Forsters best writing, including two desperate tales protesting foreclosed futures (The Life to Come and The Other Boat) and one masterly crafted tale of hope in the unforeseen (Ansell).

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CHAPTER 6 AFTERWORD: HIDDEN PICTURES OF THE FUTURE IN THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY The Denial of Time in The Picture of Dorian Gray There are good reasons why Oscar Wildes The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891) should not be introduced at the end of an argument about time blending figuresespecially those future-oriented figures manifesting the Victorian engrossment in time. For one thing, there is the matter of temporal concern. Dickens, Hopkins, Whitman, and even Forster can be categorized as authors whose works were influenced by what Richard D. Altick dubbed the twin philosophical assumptions of their period, that the only reality was the material and that time, to the Darwinians at least, was nothing more than the scene of universal senseless brutality (293). Alticks claim may, by oversimplifying the case, sound dated now. Nevertheless, it is true that the works we have previously discussed reflect a genuinely Victorian concern with the grand sweep of time in a world that is inescapably material (even if it runs parallel to or is intersected by a spiritual world). Even Forsters short stories, which were written in the early twentieth century, echo both from and against a Victorian world laid open by and for men whose identities and bodies were wrapped up in the often brutal extension of the British Empire in space and time. Wildes works, by contrast, are often read as part of aestheticism and Decadence, movements which disavowed these material and temporal assumptions (Altick 293). As Altick puts it, once it became apparent that most Victorians felt no need to cultivate 224

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225 truly good art in their lives or in society, the aesthetes and the Decadents gave up on the idea, traceable to John Ruskin, that art might arrive as the messianic cure for a sick industrialized nation: The functionalism which lay at the heart of [Ruskins] aesthetic argument went disregarded. And so it was Victorian Englands refusal to act upon Ruskins prescription for its salvation that impelled the artist to withdraw himself from it. Beauty must be sought in the privacy of ones own imagination. (288) In Alticks view, then, instead of joining Ruskin in trying to redeem society with the advent of better art, the aesthetic movement retreated from future concerns altogether. If we keep in mind that Dorian Grays mad wish (Wilde 73) effectively freezes the present moment of his physical beauty, then, indeed, The Picture of Dorian Gray does seem an odd duck to throw in with the likes of Hopkinss The Wreck of The Deutschland and Whitmans So Long! These poems embrace the natural processes of aging and dying even as they look to new and distant futures. By contrast Dorian Gray denies the future by worshipping the isolated moment. Moreover, the fascination with personal sin and corruption, so evident in The Picture of Dorian Gray, seems part and parcel of the Decadents search for forgetfulness in vice (Altick 297). Dorians search for forgetfulness through sensuous experience appears to be a search for an escape from temporalityfrom the obligations of the future no less than from the memories of the past. By contrast Scrooge wallows in memory in order to become a different, future self. Even the dying young blends constructed while reading Forsters short stories require remembering each characters youth in order to ignite the insight that he might have enjoyed (or suffered) an alternate future. A second reason not to introduce Dorian Gray at this stage of the game is because of the course of the development of the argument. The previous chapters have

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226 progressed in a deliberate fashion, beginning with a celebrated ghost story and ending with stories having no ghosts at all except those created in the readers mind. The course has been to examine, first, a highly obvious figure of time compression blending, and then to follow that step by examining not-so-obvious figures that can be explained by similar processes and functions. It would be a reversal, then, if we were to end this study by switching back to a story with a highly obvious blend. And what a blend it is, offering famously ghostly effects, too. In one input space to the blend, there is Dorian Gray, a normal human being. In the other input space, there is a portrait of Dorian painted by and given to him by his friend, Basil Hallward. The two spaces share a generic space of two-dimensional visible iconicity. Once Dorian utters his mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old (73), the blended space comes into being. It is not so much a space as a new set of conditions that take effect. Importantly, the blended reality is highly selective of the elements it takes from each input space. In the blended reality, Dorian appropriates the unchanging appearance that is normally the property of the portrait; his physical appearance no longer shows any indication of temporal life. However, he continues to experience an otherwise temporal life. He lives, moves, eats, etc. His ghostliness becomes apparent to the observer only as each year passes. After several years, he will seem an abnormally youthful man. Likewise, the portrait in the blended reality also becomes a ghost of its former self. Having appropriated Dorians aging process, it becomes an eerie picture that changes with each new vice Dorian undertakes and with each year that Dorian passes. Because

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227 the blended reality affects the portrait more immediately than it affects Dorian, Dorian must keep the increasingly ugly and creepy picture from public view. Once we notice this ghostly portrait in Wildes oeuvre as a conceptual blend, one possible conclusion (although it is not the one that will be focused on here) is to see that Wilde was doing what Dickens with Marleys Ghost and Hopkins with the Ghostly Nun did before him. Responding to the same Victorian theme of how to comprehend life and living in the grand scheme of time, Wilde invented a literary figure with similar time-blending properties. Indeed, because Dorian Gray puts the blending of temporal properties center stage, it could even be argued that Wilde foregrounds the very notion of time-blending as well as the inventive processes required in temporal thinking and living. Theres only one problem with this conclusion: Dorian Gray is not, strictly speaking, future-oriented. Admittedly, Dorians wish does, in one sense, protest against the present: it decries the ever-present fact of temporality, the inescapable reality that humans must age over time. Yet Dorian Gray offers nothing radically new in its critique of the present. It does not cast its eyes toward that which does not yet exist. It freezes its gaze on an already present object and hopes that both the object and the gaze will remain ever the same. We could say that Dorians blend extends point B to point D while at the same time denying the reality of death that makes D meaningful in the first place. For this reason, our approach to The Picture of Dorian Gray must look elsewhere for treasures befitting a proper conclusion to this study. In fact, what we find going on not in the foreground but in the background of Dorian Gray proves to be just as relevant, if not more so, to our purposes. Behind Wildes story about a temporal picture lie other neglected pictures of time. Yet in these pictures may lie hints about what kind of fruit

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228 may be reaped when traditional approaches to literature are crossed with cognitive-rhetorical approaches such as ones focusing on how the mind conceptualizes time and the future. Another Denial of Time in The Picture of Dorian Gray The hidden pictures of time in Dorian Gray become noticeable as secondary byproducts of the performative blend. Once Dorian utters his mad wish and the world of immortal art is crossed with the mortal temporality of human life, one overt result is that Dorian fails to age. But there is a second temporal consequence, too: Dorian suddenly fails to keep his promises. This breakdown starts as a simple failure to appear at an appointment with a friend, and it becomes complete collapse when Dorian reneges on a marriage proposalAn irrevocable vow (63). The Dorian created by the blend seems constitutionally unable to bind himself to pictures of the futureappointments, agreements, promisesthat he has made with others. As the story opens, the normal, fully temporal Dorian consistently comes by to sit and by painted by his friend, Basil Hallward. But once Hallwards finished portrait acquires Dorians property of visible aging, Dorians first actor perhaps we should say his first failure to actis to break an appointment to visit Basil. We see this failure at the end of the second chapter. Basil, Dorian, and Lord Henry Wotton have just declared Basils painting to have captured Dorians fidelity (28). They mean fidelity in visible likeness, but the novel aims to rob him of his ethical fidelity, too. As Wilde concludes the chapter, Dorians faithful visits to Basil come to an end. Before Dorian leaves with Lord Henry (Harry), Basil first warns Dorian that Lord Henry always breaks his own [promises] (29). Basil then asks Dorian to promise to return the next

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229 day, and he follows that question with by turning to Lord Henry and asking him to remember something, too: [] Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come tomorrow. Certainly. You wont forget? No, of course not, cried Dorian. AndHarry! Yes, Basil? Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning? I have forgotten it. I trust you. I wish I could trust myself, said Lord Henry, laughing. (29) In this telling scene, Basil and Lord Henry are positioned at two opposite poles. At one end is Basil. Basil makes future commitments with others, Basil remembers those commitments, and Basil trusts both himself and his collaborators to keep them. At the other end is Lord Henry. Harry may make future commitments with others, but Harry does not trust himself, let alone others, to keep them. His laugh is unnerving; his good humor cannot hide the fact that he does not seem to care about friendship enough to value either the promises he makes or the trust that friends put in him. Once the portraits curse has taken effect, Dorian slips from one pole to the other, from fidelity to infidelity. Indeed, the tomorrow of Dorians appointment with Basil is recounted in the third chapter, but Dorian spends the day entirely with Lord Henry instead. The chapter concludes with Dorian consciously choosing to break his promise to

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230 meet Basil. Lord Henry even reminds Dorian, But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him. Dorian responds, I would sooner come with you (39). In the third chapter, as in the second, an anxiety about the ethical problem of temporal infidelity can be felt beneath good humor. In a conversation between Lord Henry and the Duchess of Harley, the reader is shown that Lord Henry is just as Basil warned: a person who breaks promises at will. The Duchess of Harley asks Lord Henry to make an appointment to see him in the future: You must come and dine with us some night. Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday? Lord Henry responds: For you, I would throw over anybody, Duchess. It is left to the Duchess to remind the reader that that is very nice, and very wrong of you (38; emphasis added). Lord Henrys phrase throw over may simply be a Victorian idiom, but the image conveys an act of violence perpetrated against someonesomeone who believes the perpetrator is a friend. It would require a bit of anthropological research to back it up, but I would venture that physically harming a friend probably constitutes a general prototype of very wrong behavior. Beneath Lord Henrys very nice ingratiation toward the Duchess, there lies an attitude of harmful betrayal. His failure to appreciate the importance of promises is equivalent to the failure to care whether one is hurting a friend. Painting Mental Pictures of the Future The words Basil directs at Lord Henry and Dorian at the end of the second chapter are especially apt, for they reveal how much any mutual commitment to the future involves remembering and trusting. From a cognitive perspective, promises are mental pictures of the future that two or more people make together. Imagining the future involves the same neural pathways devoted to actually looking at pictures, and may well

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231 involve hearing, smell, and other senses and emotions, too. Remembering a future appointment involves recreating that picture of the future upon the neural canvas of the mind. Trusting someone to keep an appointment or promise involves subjectively feeling that the other person(s) will also sustain that mutual picture of the future, and that they will also act on the basis of that picture to see it realized. The Representational Art of Making a Promise: Depictive or Performative? It may be helpful to ask whether the mental pictures involved in making promises are depictive or performative. In Blended spaces and performativity, Eve Sweetser, building on the work of J. L. Austin and John Searle, distinguishes between the depictive and the performative functions of both linguistic and non-linguistic representations. In the depictive function, the representation is taken as fitting the represented space (310). In the performative function, it is the other way around: the represented space is taken as fitting (being causally influenced or changed by) the representation. In the performative, the act of representation, by its performance, constitutes (or performs as a causal agent in) the structure of the represented space. Sweetser uses this distinction to highlight special rituals and rites that are performative because they cause the present or future reality that they are representing to come into being. Yet Sweetsers insights raise the intriguing possibility that things as common as promises and simple appointments are also performative. Suppose I tell you that I would like to meet you next Tuesday at 11:00 at Starbucks. Am I not making a representation that is intended to help cause the represented space to come into being? Any representation about ones intended future actions is, at the very least, potentially performative of that future event. The promise may eventually be depictive of what actually does occur, but its more impressive power surely lies in its performative

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232 potential. Finally, if you suggest 11:30 instead of 11:00 and I agree, are we not collaborating in the making of this representation? For that matter, are not we collaborating even if you merely agree to my original time of 11:00? For I need your agreement before I can ultimately commit myself to recreating this representation in my mind. Our mutual agreement to this representation will make it that much more likely that its represented space will come into being. In Wildes novel, the representation (the portrait) causes the represented space (Dorian) to become permanently beautiful. Yet once this performative conceit becomes effective, it seems also truealthough there seems to be no inherent linkthat a second set of performative representations, Dorians promises, become ineffective. Because promises are representations that are potentially performative of the future, we can interpret the trail of broken promises in Dorian Gray as evidence of an anxiety about a representational art that is temporal and pragmatic. The novel celebrates the success of depictive art (the portrait captures Dorians likeness). It also playfully imagines the successful performativity of representational art (what if a painting rendered its subject immortally beautiful?). However, by raising the possibility of performative artof life imitating artDorian Gray simultaneously manifests a grave concern about the performative art of promise-making. Is this just a coincidence, or is it evidence of something more profound? Behind the novels celebration and playful imaginationbeneath the nervous laughter of Lord Henry and the Duchesslies a worry about the failure of art: the failure of ones representations (about the future) to create the represented space (the promised future).

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233 In one sense, the aging of Dorians portrait points to a kind of performative failure. After all, wouldnt one ideally wish to have both ones body and ones portrait remain changelessly beautiful? In another sense, moreover, Dorians broken promises foreshadowand, I would offer, even over-shadowthe ultimate failure of the portraits performative powers. The novel posits a humanly impossible crime against time in the first performative relationship (from the portrait to its subject) and then links it to an all-too-human crime against time in the second performative relationship (from the promise to its fulfillment). The result of this link leads us to reconsider the novels prefatory statements distinguishing art from ethics: The artist is the creator of beautiful things. [] They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty. [] No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. [] All art is quite useless. (3-4; emphases added). What the Preface foregrounds is contradicted by the novels background anxiety about the harmful consequences that occur when performative representations fail. If representation may fail in lifes little appointments, so it might fail in the (to the aesthete) more important matters of art. In Dorian Gray, performative representation, the collaborative art, emerges as the common problem of both aesthetic and existential (pragmatic and ethical) activity. In this view, then, The Picture of Dorian Gray is interesting not just for its famous portrait. It is also impressive for its many mental pictures of the future, the ones Dorian co-creates with others but then destroys, either by forgetting them or by consciously choosing to break them. It seems fitting, both from a cognitive and an aesthetic perspective, that Dorians initiation into both atemporality and immorality begins with a

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234 broken promise, which is both temporal and moral in nature. Dorian is depicted as an aesthete, but he destroys the simplest art of all: the promise, a picture of the future, an imagined work of art that is part of mundane human living. Dorian, the art enthusiast, is an art-killer. How appropriate, then, that the novel ends with him stabbing his own picture. Admittedly, traditional literary approaches to Wilde have already established the problem (Ellmann 310) of contradictions and ambivalence (Van Cauwenberge 1; Altick 286) in Wildes and other Victorian aesthetes views about the relationship between art and ethics. But one thing we have demonstrated here is how a cognitive approach using the theory of conceptual blending can complement and enrich those findings. Dorian Gray proves fertile ground for showcasing one Victorian artists invention of a conceptual blend in order to explore the meaning of art and its relationship to life. But the novel proves even more fertile because of the hidden treasures it offers in its subtle questioning about the powerand fragilityof our collaborative pictures of the future. Dorian Gray as Parable This, above all, is why Dorian Gray serves an apt parable by which to conclude this study. The findings of second generation cognitive science indicate that what is true of Dorian Gray is true of the human brain: that the background is where the most importantand most artisticactivity is going on. The cognitive approach adopted here has hoped raise to consciousness some literary figures that comprise not only the most obvious examples of the time-blending literary imagination of the future, but also some of those time-blending figures hidden in the corners of the text and in the subtle processes of the readers constructive mind.

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235 By attending to the invention, comprehension, and reading of future-oriented time compression blends, this dissertation participates in the ongoing effort to identify and categorize new rhetorical figures according to the activities of the embodied mind that creates and comprehends them, rather than according to properties presumed to reside in figures or in words themselves. Contemporary rhetoric, and contemporary literary studies in general, can honor classical rhetorics concern for precision and allow the redefinition and reorganization of rhetorical terms and categories under the pressure of new findings about the imaginative brain. Research from neurobiology, psychology, anthropology, and cognitive linguistics are beginning to produce evidence that calls for new terms and categories. Of course, as we continue to gain more insight into the embodied mind and how it interacts with its biological, physical, social, and historical environments, there will be a need to revise next year what we state in our textbooks and teach in our classrooms this year. This is the future of a blending between cognitive and literary studies as many are imagining it today: interdisciplinary ventures that cross the constructed boundaries between the sciences and the humanities, blending and integrating those spaces for new and previously unavailable insights. The categories that contain and preserve disciplines can become entrenched alone ones neural pathways so that they consequently feel as stable and true as other categories. Like ghosts, new conceptual blendings across established intellectual and academic spaces may appear strange, paradoxical, illogical, impossible, and unacceptableand undoubtedly some will prove to be little more than wisps of air. But if we exorcise them from our midst too quickly, we may end up banishing what is material along with the immaterial.

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236 I offer this work, then, in the spirit of those friendly ghoststhose benevolent mixtures of cognitive science and literary studies and rhetoricthat are stepping toward us with one foot from the future. May it aid in their apparition.

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243 Walder, Dennis. Dickens and Religion. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1981. White, Norman. Hopkins: A Literary Biography. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992. Whitman, Walt. Leaves of Grass. Ed. Sculley Bradley and Harold W. Blodgett. Norton Critical Edition. New York: W. W. Norton, 1973. ---. Poetry and Prose. Ed. Justin Kaplan. New York: Library of America, 1996. Wilde, Oscar The Picture of Dorian Gray. Ed. Donald L. Lawler. Norton Critical Edition, 1 st ed. New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1988 [1891]. Wilson, Angus. The World of Charles Dickens. New York: Viking Press, 1970. Winter, Steven L. A Clearing in the Forest: Law, Life, and Mind. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2001. Yeats, William Butler. The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. 2 nd ed. London: Macmillan and Co., Ltd., 1950. Zipes, Jack. Introduction: Toward a Realization of Anticipatory Illumination. The Utopian Function of Art and Literature. By Ernst Bloch. Cambridge: MIT Press, 1986. xi-xliii.

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH David A. Matthew was born in and raised near Portland, Oregon. He is a graduate of the Robert D. Clark Honors College at the University of Oregon in Eugene (B.A. Comparative Literature, 1982); the San Francisco Theological Seminary in San Anselmo, California (M.Div., 1986); and the University of Wyoming (M.A. English Literature, 1996). Ordained in 1986 as a minister in the Presbyterian Church (PCUSA), Matthew has served Presbyterian communities in Arkansas, Oregon, and Florida. In 2001 he became the Director of the Presbyterian and Disciples of Christ Student Center at the University of Florida. 244


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BODIES OF BLENDED TIMES:
TIME COMPRESSION FIGURES AND THE IMAGINATION OF THE FUTURE














By

DAVID A. MATTHEW


A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT
OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA


2003

































Copyright 2003

by

David A. Matthew


































For the One who makes possible a future I had not imagined.
















ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to all my teachers and professors who helped a naive reader find

meaning in reading and thinking about texts, and who encouraged me to continue.

I am indebted to Mary Neal Kirkland-Johns, who, through the Kirkland Fellowship

established in memory of the late Professor Edwin C. Kirkland, made it possible for me

to pursue doctoral studies at the University of Florida with greater ease than others.

An aide at the October 2000 Annenberg seminar on second-generation cognitive

science, held at the University of Southern California, single-handedly did more to make

my dissertation possible when she added me to a dinner table that included Gilles

Fauconnier, Mark Johnson, George Lakoff, and Mark Turner. I may have forgotten your

name but not your good deed.

I thank those who, through coglit@yahoogroups. com, have offered advice and

encouragement. I especially thank Mark Turner for heartening communications at a

difficult stage. If this dissertation fails to meet the standards of those doing research in

cognitive approaches to literature, I ask their forbearance; I have been at a decided

disadvantage not working under the closer scrutiny of those in the field.

My dissertation committee members have served me admirably. Anna Peterson

first steered me toward the work of Lakoff and Johnson, setting me down a path toward a

new theory of embodiment that I had not anticipated. Phil Wegner helped me see the

utopian function of my work, and his justifiable wincing at the biologismm" that currently

and too confidently pervades this dissertation has inspired me, in the future, to more










adequately explain and more humbly qualify my claims. Jim Paxson proved a trooper by

agreeing to come on board the committee late in the game. Pamela Gilbert helped first

by asking, early on, "What is the status of the real in your proj ect?" and again, later on,

by taking over the directorship of my dissertation near its eschaton. Alistair Duckworth

is to be rewarded with mille grazies for his tireless patience directing my dissertation

before his retirement set him free.

My dogs-Bonnard and Lucky--kept me aware that our embodied brains are more

alike than different. Through the course of my writing, they offered pleasant diversions

and instructive contemplations just when it seemed I needed them.

The students, staff, and council at the Presbyterian and Disciples of Christ Student

Center in Gainesville graciously allowed me extra time and space to work on this

dissertation; may they not have suffered more than benefited by their lenience. I hope

that they and others who dwell across ecclesia et academia will discover the value of

cognitive theory for matters both sacred and secular.



















TABLE OF CONTENTS
Page

ACKNOWLEDGMENT S ................. .............._ iv..._.__....

LI ST OF FIGURE S .............. .................... ix

AB STRAC T ................ .............. xi

CHAPTER

1 INTRODUCTION: FIGURING THE FUTURE IN BODIES OF BLENDED TIMES

The Aim s of Literature ................... ....... .. ....... .. .. ...............1..
The Biblical Sources of Figures That Blend Future and Present. .............. .... ............2
The Prior Question of the Figuring Mind ................. ...............5............ ..
Time in the Theory of Conceptual Metaphor .................. ........... .. ...... .......... .....6
The Theory of Conceptual Integration Networks, or "Blending" Theory .........._......14
A Common Figure of Blended Times: The Conventional Ghost ............... .... ...........21
The Purposes of Figures of Blended Times .................. ... ...... ... ........._._ .....2
The Body's Role in Assessing the Effectiveness of Time Compression Figures.......27
The Uses of Blending Theory in Literary Criticism ........._ .......... ............._..32
Victorians and Time-Compression ................. ...............35........... ....
The Future of Figuration ................. ...............38................



2 CONCEPTUAL ANATOMIES OF MARLEY' S GHOST AND VICTORIAN
DEBATE S ABOUT HELL .............. ...............40....

A Conceptual Anatomy of Marley's Ghost ................. .......___ ..... .............4
Contributing Spaces to the Conceptual Network Containing Marley's Ghost...........42
The Living, Embodied Person ........._.. ....___ .......___ ...........4
The Corpse............... ...............44.
The Soul....................... ..............4
The Soul in the Afterlife ............ ..... .._ ...............48..
Punishment in the Afterlife .............. ...............50....
"I wear the chain I forged in life" ....__ ......_____ ......___ ..........5
The Chain as Instrument of Punishment .................... ........... ...... ........... ....55
The punishment of resurrected bodies at the future Last Judgment. ...........55
The punishment of immortal souls immediately after death.............._._. .....56
"Cashboxes, keys, padlocks [...] and heavy purses wrought in steel" ........._.....58
The Ghost Blend Offers New Meaning at Once Metaphoric and Metonymic ...........59











A Conceptual Anatomy of Victorian Debates about Punishment .............. ................63
Victorian Challenges to Retributive Justice ...................... ......................6
Marley's Ghost: Decompressing Cause and Effect to Disconnected Spaces? ....69
Marley's Ghost: Compressing Penal Cause and Effect within the Individual ....71
Interpreting Scrooge as "Living in the Blend" ............. ...............74.....


3 THE GHOSTLY NUN: TIME COMPRESSION IN GERARD MANLEY
HOPKINTS'S "THE WRECK OF THE DEUTSCHLAND" ................. ...............80

From Sinful Ghost to Saintly Ghost .............. ....... ...............80
Where "The Wreck of the Deutschland" Is Headed ................. .......... .... ........._..81
The Multiple Blend Network That Steers "The Wreck" to Its End ................... .........84
The Input Spaces to the Ghostly Nun Conceptual Integration Network ....................85
The Input Space of the Nuns' Shipwreck and Death ........._.._.. ......._.._......86
The Input Space of the Nun' s Afterlife in Heaven ........._.. ....... ..._.. .........88
The Input Space of Nuptial Intercourse................... .................9
The Blended Space of Nuptial Intercourse and the Nun in Heaven ........._.._.......92
The Blended Space of Nuptial Intercourse and the Nun' s Earthly Shipwreck ...96
Multiple Blend of Blended Spaces: the Bride of Both Earth and Heaven ........101
Compressions Created by the Ghostly Nun Blend ...........__.......__ ..............102
Compression of Times ................. ...............103................
Compressions of Identity ................. ...............105................
Compression of Cause and Effect .................. .... ........... ........108
Multiple Spaces Permit Multiple Readings of "The Wreck" ................ ................111
The Generic Space: The Body Altered by External Force ................. ................. 119
Hopkins and the Phenomenology of Sense Experience .............. ..................126
The Generic Space and the Poem' s Rhetorical Effectiveness ................... ........128



4 EROTIC PROPHECIES, POLITICAL SEDUCTIONS: TIME BLENDING IN
WALT WHITMAN' S SO LONG!" ........... ......................136

From Ghosts "In" the Text to Ghosts "Outside" the Text ................. ................ ..136
Tracing the Directions of Whitman Criticism .............. ... .... .. ........ ................ ..140
Textbook Cases: Leaves of Grass in the MLA Handbook for Teachers ........._._......142
One Direction: Leaves of Grass Conceptualizes Political Life via the Body....143
A Second Direction: Leaves of Grass Conceptualizes the Body via Political
C oncepts ............... .... ... .. .. .. ..... ... .. .. ..... .. .. .. .. ............ 5
The Counterintuitive Strength of the Second Direction: The Body May Be
A b stract ............... ... ......... ........ .... ......... ... .... ... .. ... .......15
A Third Way Proposed: Double-Scope Blending with Dual Directionality .....161
"So Long!" as Double-Scope Blend ................. ...............163..............
The Visionary Orator Frame .............. ...............163....
The Sexual Seduction Frame .......... ................... ...............166 ....
Other Double-Scope Blending in Leaves of Grass ................. .......... .............1 77
Whitman Criticism and Double-Scope Blending .......... ................ ...............185











Whitman' s Contribution to Cognitive Science ......____ ........__ ...............187
Anticipating The Life to Come ............ .....__ ...............188



5 A LEAP, A LINE, A LIFETIME: THE BLENDING OF TIMES IN E. M.
FORSTER' S THE LIFE TO COM~E.. ......__....___ .......__ ..............190


A Leap, a Line, a Lifetime ............... ......__ .......__ ..........19
The Extension of Time Added to the Compression of Time .............. ................1 96
"The Other Boat": the Young Leaping to Early Death. ............_... ........___........199
The Plot of "The Other Boat" ........._._... ......._. ... ...... ...._.._ ..........20
The Compression and Extension of Time in "The Other Boat".............._._._.....202
The Dynamism of Leap-Line-Life Blending in "The Other Boat" ........._........203
"The Life to Come": the Old Leaping to Young Death. .........._.... ........_._._......207
The Plot of "The Life to Come" ............................. ....................20
The Compression and Extension of Time in "The Life to Come" ....................209
The Dynamism of Leap-Line-Lifetime Blending in "The Life to Come" ........210
"Ansell" as Response to "The Other Boat" and "The Life To Come" .....................216
The Plot of "Ansell" ............... ...............216...
Multiple Blending in "Ansell" ................ .........._ ...............218 ....
Forster' s "Touch" and the "Direction" of Narrative ................. .......................221



6 AFTERWORD: HIDDEN PICTURES OF THE FUTURE IN THE PICTURE OF
DORIAN GRA Y ................. ...............224................


The Denial of Time in The Picture ofDorian Gray ................. ........... ...........224
Another Denial of Time in The Picture ofDorian Gray ..........._._. ........._._.....228
Painting Mental Pictures of the Future..........._._. ..... ......_... .............._......23
The Representational Art of Making a Promise: Depictive or Performative? ..........23 1
Dorian2 Gray as Parable .............. ...............234....
LIST OF REFERENCES ............ ...... .... ...............237..

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .............. ...............244....


















LIST OF FIGURES


Figure pg

1-1. The Two-Domain Structure of Conceptual Metaphor............... ................15

1-2. Conceptual Integration Network .............. ...............16....

1-3. Typical Ghost: Time Compression Figure Blending Past and Present .....................22

1-4. Compression of an Outer-Space Relation to an Inner-Space Relation. ................... ..25

2-1. The Soul as an Entailment of a Conceptual Blend ........___......... ._._.........._...46

2-2. The Corpse as a Conceptual Blend of a Body Missing the Soul .........._.... ..............47

2-3. Compressions of Cause and Effect in Marley's Ghost. .........__. ..... ..._.._.........72

3-1. Network with Blending of Nun's Afterlife with Nuptial Intercourse .......................93

3-2. Network with Blend of Nuptial Intercourse and Nun' s Death ................ ................97

3 -3. Multiple Blend of Blends Producing the Ghostly Nun ................. .....................102

4-1. "So Long!" with Reader as Primary Time-Traveling Ghost ........._..... ................138

4-2. "So Long!" with Whitman as Primary Time-Traveling Ghost. .............. ..... ........._.139

4-3. The Metaphorical Argument for Whitman' s "Democratic Appeal" .................. .....145

4-4. The Metaphorical Argument for Whitman' s "Sexual Manifesto" ................... .......152

4-5. "So Long!" as Double-Scope Blend ................. ...............168.............

4-6. "So Long! Blend Showing Tension Across Modes of Knowing ................... ........171

5-1. Curving Line AD ........... ..... .._ ...............191.

5-2. Diving Human Body as Curving Line AD ....._____ .... ... .__ ..........__.....19

5-3. Conceptual Metaphor of Life as Motion Along a Line ..........__.... ......__........192

5-4. Moving Body at One Point Along Its Lifetimeline ....._____ .... .. ..__ ............194










5-6. Blend of AD and AB, Anticipated and Actual Lifetimelines .............. ..............195

5 -7. Edward Blends Hi s Falling Books with Hi s Lifetimeline .............. .............. .21 9
















Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School
of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

BODIES OF BLENDED TIMES:
TIME COMPRESSION FIGURES AND THE IMAGINATION OF THE FUTURE

By

David A. Matthew

December 2003

Chair: Pamela Gilbert
Major Department: English

Using Gilles Fauconnier' s and Mark Turner' s theory of "conceptual integration

networks," this dissertation identifies and examines literary figures created by an

imaginative blending of the future with the present. They are similar to conventional

ghosts, which are created when the mind compresses distinct past and present conceptual

spaces into a "blend," a conceptual space producing its own new and emergent properties

and logic. A key function of the Eigures identified here is that their bodies exhibit causal

links between present and future; they thus compress otherwise diffuse and uncertain

causal relationships between external, temporally distant spaces to an internal

relationship directly experienced in the body.

The time compression Eigures identified and discussed are Marley's Ghost from A

Christmas Calrol by Charles Dickens; the Ghostly Nun from "The Wreck of the

Deutschland" by Gerard Manley Hopkins; the encounter between reader and poet in "So

Long!" from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman; and the "dying young" figures created










by the reader of "Ansell," "The Life to Come," and "The Other Boat," short stories in

The Life to Come, and Other Stories by E. M. Forster. By beginning with ghost Eigures

that seem to be in the text and ending with Eigures that the reader must create from and

add to the text, the argument highlights the active role of the reader' s embodied mind in

creating ghosts and other time compression Eigures.

Analysis of the conceptual constituents of these Eigures of time compression sheds

light on the elements required for the reader's active engagement with these texts, as well

as on the insights and limits of previous literary critical responses. Rather than replacing

other approaches to literature, the cognitive approach used here opens up and

supplements canonical interpretive approaches.

Because the Eigures examined here reveal mostly new attempts to conceptualize the

future in a culture deeply concerned with time, their analyses contribute to the Hields of

Victorian studies and utopian studies. As examples of temporal blending, they are

offered as evidence to the Hield of cognitive science and its inquiry into embodied

conceptualizations of time.















CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION: FIGURING THE FUTURE INT BODIES OF BLENDED TIMES

The Aims of Literature

According to a tradition that goes back to Horace, the aims of literature are to

instruct and to delight: "aut prodesse [...] aut delectare" ("Ars Poetica" 1.333).

Sometimes, however, literature reaches for more. Turning a critical eye on the world,

literature may reveal a belief that merely entertaining or even edifying an audience is not

enough, that what is needed is more radical change. Breathing through the text may be a

desire that the audience must become completely different people, or that the conditions

people find themselves in must be completely altered--or that both people and their

conditions must be fundamentally changed together. In such literary aspirations, the urge

simply to instruct is ratcheted up several notches. The hope is not to teach what wise

sages have already learned. The hope is for unprecedented knowledge, the kind that

leads to unprecedented experience: a previously unimaginable life, a previously

unimaginable world.

There are diverse ways to conceptualize such change, and it is the intrepid effort of

the interdisciplinary field called "utopian studies" to identify and consider them all. This

dissertation attempts to identify and to examine just one: the literary figure created by an

imaginative blending of the future with the present. By compressing the future and the

present into the same conceptual space, such a figure often aims to give its present

audience a proleptic experience of the future. Offering the reader a foretaste-or what

Marxist utopian theorist Ernst Bloch called an "anticipatory illumination" (Zipes xxxy)--









of the future, the time compression figure attempts to confirm the reality of seeds that

have been planted either within the reader or the reader' s world, seeds that give promise

of more and better fruit to come.

The Biblical Sources of Figures That Blend Future and Present

I first became interested in this rhetorical figure, an imaginative device that

prompts readers to blend the future with the present, as a student of biblical eschatology.

Bloch has acknowledged that the utopian spirit arrived with "the eschatological

conscience, which was brought to the world by the Bible" (152). In its narrowest sense,

eschatology refers to the eschaton, the "last" things of the end-time envisioned by biblical

writers. The term "was coined in the early 19th century by theologians to refer to that part

of systematic theology which deals with Christian beliefs concerning death, the afterlife,

judgment, and the resurrection" (Aune 594). Over time, eschatology has acquired a more

general definition and now signifies "the whole constellation of beliefs and conceptions

about the end of history and the transformation of the world which particularly

characterized early Judaism, and early Christianity, and Islam" (594).

Discussing the concepts of promise and fulfillment in biblical eschatology, New

Testament scholars distinguish between "consistent" (or "future") eschatology and

"realized" eschatology (Aune 599-600). In consistent eschatology, God's promise of a

new reality is experienced as not yet fulfilled because it consistently exists only in the

future. In realized eschatology, the promise is experienced as having been already

fulfilled; the promised reality can therefore be experienced now in the present.

New Testament texts, especially the epistles of Paul, have created incessant debate

because they exhibit a tension between the "already" and the "not yet," sometimes

manifesting realized eschatology, sometimes manifesting consistent eschatology. Paul's









letters make it clear that he had to deal with problems that arose when his followers could

not, to his satisfaction, discern when and how to apply these two eschatological principles

to daily life. If Jesus has already been resurrected to rule over the cosmos, does this

mean that Paul's followers who call Jesus "Lord" no longer need to obey the laws of

Rome? If the sinful body has died with Christ in baptism, does that mean the believer

baptized by Paul has a body that is now radically free from both sin and death?

According to the logic of realized eschatology, these are plausible conclusions. When

Paul felt his co-religionists had gone too far in the direction of realized eschatology, he

pulled them back to consistent eschatology. He maintained that some things (including

the final rule of Christ and the absolute inviolability of the spiritual body) will be fully

realized only when Christ returns.

On the other hand, Paul also exhorted spiritual slackers to actualize in present

behavior their already redeemed, already heaven-stamped selves. These included Gentile

Christians who thought they needed to be circumcised into Judaism to become part of

God's "new creation" (Galatians 6:15 NRSV). And these also included some Jewish

Christians who continued to wait for the political restoration of Israel rather than believe

that an alternative, "utterly spiritual" kingdom had "already been granted in the

resurrection of Christ" (Fredriksen 173).

The presence of an already-not yet tension in Christian scriptures has led some to

describe it as the defining dynamic, or even the key "problem," of Christian personal and

communal life (Ramey). When the believer (or the community of believers) is

conceptualized as an entity having one foot in the promised kingdom of God and the









other foot still in this world, the result is a distinctively Christian figure of future-present

blending.

In the Christian literary canon, a prime example of future-present blending can be

found in Luke' s story of the Transfiguration of Jesus (9:28-36; all citations NRSV). As

Luke tells it, Jesus had taken Peter, John, and James up to a mountain to pray. Jesus

suddenly became altered: "his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white."

Moses and Elij ah appeared alongside Jesus and "were speaking of his departure"-

literally, his exodus--"which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem." The context

surrounding the story clarifies that the Transfiguration is telling Luke's readers about the

impending death of Jesus: "[Jesus] said to his disciples, 'Let these words sink into your

ears: The Son of Man is going to be betrayed into human hands.' But they did not

understand this saying" (9:43b-45a). Luke's readers are meant to understand what the

disciples, apparently, do not. They will understand that the present Jesus on the mountain

with his disciples is simultaneously the future Jesus, the one who will have departeded"

and accomplisheded" God's work, and who will have been given the "white robe"

reserved for "the souls of those who had been slaughtered for the word of God and for the

testimony they had given" (Revelation 6: 11, 9).

In the Transfiguration story, readers are shown a Jesus in whom the future and the

present are blended. Readers are prompted to see a future, resurrected Jesus at the same

time as they see a present Jesus who has yet to be crucified. This kind of temporal

confusion in a text may present no problem for the literalist who thinks that God can do

anything, and who believes that God wrote the Bible by somehow bypassing biologically

created, historically situated, fully human brains of living writers. But the responsible









scholar should be interested in how a human mind could have conceived the

Transfiguration: how that mind could invent a person who is at once the present Jesus,

living among his first disciples, and the future Jesus, martyred and resurrected and

dwelling in heavenly glory. Of equal importance is the question of how the reader 's

mind can be prompted by the textual data to recreate that blend of distinctly different

times.

The Prior Question of the Figuring Mind

In other words, simply noticing a figure that blends the future with the present is

not enough. When I began to notice time-blending figures in other, non-biblical texts, I

began a deeper inquiry into this particular figuration process. How can the human

imagination invent such figures of blended times in the first place, and what functions

might they serve? My search for answers, the results of which are laid out in the rest of

this introductory chapter, proceeded along several lines:

1) Because these figures are temporal blends, we first need to ask how the human

mind conceptualizes time, as well as different times, such as past, present, and future. I

found answers to this set of questions in the "conceptual metaphor theory" of George

Lakoff and Mark Johnson.

2) Because these figures blend different times, we must also ask how human minds

can conceptualize what might seem impossible to conceive. If, after all, we start off

conceptualizing the future and the present as mutually exclusive concepts, then how can

we turn around and blend them into the same conceptual space? I found answers to this

set of questions in Gilles Fauconnier' s and Mark Turner' s theory of "conceptual

integration networks," also known as "blending theory." My use of the term "blend" is

borrowed directly from them.










3) Because the Eigures I am identifying blend the future with the present, we can

ask what is gained by such blends. In addition to Bloch's "utopian function" that offers

an "anticipatory illumination" of the future, might there be other operations that these

Eigures perform? Blending theory suggests that these Eigures do, indeed, have other

functions, chief among them the function of compression as a means to insight.

4) Because the literary blends I examine in the following chapters are each Eigured

as human bodies, we can ask why the figure of the human body is so important to time

compression. Are there time compression blends that are not Eigured as human bodies?

If so, then why are the blends that are figured as bodies so compelling? For these

questions, I have settled upon answers that ultimately derive from "second-generation

cognitive science," which is the interdisciplinary umbrella under which both conceptual

metaphor theory and blending theory fall (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh

(74-81).

Time in the Theory of Conceptual Metaphor

To create a figure of blended times, a mind must be able to conceptualize time.

The experience of time is real, yet it is thoroughly mediated through human brains.

Because humans experience time only relative to the experience of events, humans must

conceptualize time using terms that come from our bodies' experience of events; this

means, consequently, that our conceptualizations of time are metaphorical. Apparently,

we learn to perform this metaphorical translation from experience to time so quickly that

it soon becomes unconscious. According to George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, our brains

are built to help us forget that when we think about time we must use "metaphorical

concepts" (the original term used in M~etaphors We Live By [7]), also known as

"conceptual metaphors" (the more recent term used in Philosophy in the Flesh [45]).









Lakoff and Johnson have continued to work on an understanding of the

unconscious mind and its store of conceptual metaphors ever since their first

collaboration, M~etaphors We Live By (1980), up through Philosophy in the Flesh (1999),

their most recent. They explain human imagination and reason with the model of a

"mapping" or "projection" from a "source domain" to a "target domain." When the mind

conceptualizes a more abstract target domain of human experience or judgment, it

"maps" or "proj ects" inferential structure from (what is usually, but not necessarily) a

more bodily, concrete, literal, and familiar source-domain concept. The result is a

conceptual metaphor. These source-to-target mappings acquire a subjectively felt

stability because they are hard-wired along neural pathways in the brain, "presumably

stored as a knowledge structure in long-term memory" (Grady et al. 102).

Yet if conceptual metaphors are hard-wired and thus have the subj ective feel of

stable truth, they are nevertheless invented. They are not innate. They are neural

creations that occur after birth as the infant's embodied mind begins to interact with its

environment. Although new conceptual metaphors can be learned later in life, the set of

conceptual metaphors that builds with the developing brain is called the "cognitive

unconscious" (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 9-15). (It should also be

noted that when cognitive scientists use terms like "hard-wired," they do so fully aware

that they are reasoning metaphorically--yet inescapably so--about real neural activities

in real human brains.)

In analyses using conceptual metaphor theory, a conceptual metaphor is usually

capitalized, often with small capitals, and frequently in the form of [TARGET DOMAIN] IS

[SOURCE DOMAIN]. In an analysis of any particular conceptual metaphor, the projection









or mapping of inferential structure from one domain to the other is always depicted with

an arrow in the opposite direction: [Source] + [Target].

Because this dissertation identifies and examines figures of blended times, the

theory of conceptual metaphor helps point us to a cluster of what are called TI1VE IS

SPATIAL EXPERIENCE metaphors. In these metaphors, the sensorimotor body's early

experiences of navigating its spatial environment serves as the source domain of our

concepts of time.

Within the cluster of TI1VE IS SPATIAL EXPERIENCE metaphors is the TI1VE

ORIENTATION metaphor. In this metaphor, the target domain is an understanding of the

concepts of past, present, and future. The source domain is one's familiarity with bodily

orientation in space, which gives us the literal concepts of "in front of" and "behind."

The following array presents a skeletal analysis of the TI1VE ORIENTATION metaphor and

how the embodied mind maps concrete spatial experiences to the abstract domain of

different times (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 140):

THE TI1VE ORIENTATION METAPHOR

The Location of the Observer The Present

The Space In Front of The The Future
Ob server
The Space Behind the Observer The Past


The metaphorical results of the TI1VE ORIENTATION METAPHOR can be seen in everyday

statements such as "The future is before us," "I want to live in the here and now," and

"As soon as this issue is behindus, we can relax." The [Source] + [Target] array is

especially useful because it helps us attend to the left side of the arrow, the source

domain. There we can quickly discern the presence of what Lakoff and Johnson refer to









as the literal, "basic sensorimotor concepts" that serve as the stable source domain for the

abstract concepts to the right (58). In the TI1VE ORIENTATION METAPHOR, the

conceptualization of time derives especially from structure borrowed from the body's

visual system that has eyes that look forward in the same direction from one area of the

head (unlike fish, which have eyes on right and left sides). The observer's eyes perceive

and observe the space in front of its body, but the observer can also turn so that the eyes

can look behind its body or even at its own body as it is standing still in one place. The

mind proj ects these experiences of visual orientation of space around the body to

understandings of future, past, and present, respectively.

In a related conceptual metaphor for time, the MOVING OBSERVER metaphor, the

visual orientation is supplemented by the body's motor skills. Temporal experience is

conceptualized through the experience of an observer who physically moves from

locations now behind it to locations ahead of it, hence, from the past to the future. The

result creates the possibility of conceptualizing more times than simply three (past,

present, future). It also permits the conceptualization of time as something that can

"pass" in the same manner as bodies that can travel (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in

the Flesh 146):

THE MOVING OBSERVER METAPHOR

Locations On Observer's Path Times
of Motion

The Motion Of The Observer The "Passage" of Time

The Distance Moved By The The Amount of Time
Observer "Passed"









The MOVING OBSERVER METAPHOR permits us to unconsciously and quickly make

statements about the future such as "We'll get to Friday soon enough" and "You'll find

yourself running into a problem down the road."

Additionally, because the sensorimotor body not only moves in space but also

experiences obj ects as they move toward and away from it, we also have a flip version of

this metaphor in our cognitive unconscious, the MOVING TI1VE METAPHOR. In the

MOVING TI1VE METAPHOR, figure and ground switch places; instead of conceptualizing

time as a static landscape across which an observer can move, time is now conceptualized

as an obj ect that moves relative to a stationary observer (141):

THE MOVING TI1VE METAPHOR

Obj ects Times

The Motion Of Obj ects The "Passage" of Time
Past The Observer


The MOVING TI1VE METAPHOR permits us to utter such statements as "My, the hour has

flown by!" and "I can't wait until the weekend arrives."

If the body's experience of motion in space grounds everyday conceptual

metaphors for talking about time, it also grounds the metaphors and rhetorical flourishes

that poets and other imaginative thinkers use to express time. Poets create extraordinary

art, but they do so using the building blocks of ordinary conceptual metaphors. Their art

is especially evident in the ways they add flesh to the bodily skeletons that structure

unconscious conceptual metaphors. Consider this passage from Tennyson's "Locksley

Hall" (1840):

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed;

When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed;









When I dipt into the future as far as human eye could see,

Saw the vision of the world and all the wonder that would be.-- (13-16)

Tennyson's narrator is thinking about time, which is especially noticeable due to the

repeating instances of the word "When." The narrator uses the TI1VE ORIENTATION

metaphor in which past, present, and future correspond to observable positions around

him. Starting from the premise that time is a spatial location, the narrator then proceeds

to visualize time as an entire landscape. On that landscape Tennyson can add fruit-

bearing trees, and he can depict his narrator clinging to the ground beneath him while

gazing "as far as human eye could see." Tennyson's poem simply gussies up an

everyday concept from the cognitive unconscious to express a temporal "vision" of the

future (and, in case you are wondering, no, it is not ultimately a pretty one).

Often the creative mind can do more than simply add flesh to the bodily skeletons

that ground conceptual metaphors. It can also try to represent that conceptual skeleton in

a new artistic form. Consider the spatial dynamics of William Butler Yeats's "An Irish

Airman Foresees His Death" (1919). In this poem, a pilot ponders the meaning of his

life. Combining several conceptual metaphors for time, the poem has the pilot observing

that the future is "to come" and that the past is "behind" him, even as he himself is also

flying in motion over a landscape. Yet what is unique in Yeats's poem is not the mixture

of metaphors (anyone can do that!); rather, it is the arrangement of different times as

different spaces within the visible form of his text. The spatial array of words on the

page mimics the spatial grounding of the metaphor for time:

I balanced all, brought all to mind,

The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind









In balance with this life, this death. (13-16; emphases added)

For the airman, spatial orientation provides temporal orientation, which ultimately

provides existential orientation. But for Yeats, the poet who must arrange words on a

page, the orientation in the airman's mind can also be recreated spatially on the page.

"The years to come" and "the years behind" visually balance each other on left and right

sides of lines 14 and 15; this balance corresponds to a spatial balance made possible by

the unconscious roots of the temporal concept. The airman is basically an observer who,

in the present, occupies a midpoint between past and future. Or rather, he concludes that

his imminent death may provide a perfect midpoint between one set of years (the past)

and another (the future), both of which are equally a "waste of breath." He seems to find

existential meaning in conceptualizing a balance between two equal spaces, two

equivalent times.

In this dissertation, it is assumed that literary imaginations of the future necessarily

employ conceptual metaphors for time. Often, I will treat a text' s imagined future as

target domain, and I will proceed to draw attention to the source domain that grounds it.

In some cases, the grounding experience can be strikingly peculiar. In Chapter 3's

discussion of "The Wreck of the Deutschland," for instance, Gerard Manley Hopkins

adapts a bride's experience of going to her bridegroom and being sexually penetrated by

him to ground a vision of a dying saint going to her future reward in heaven. In other

cases, the grounding experience can seem quite conventional. As I discuss in Chapter 5,

each of three short stories in E. M. Forster' s The Life To Come relies on the MOVING

OBSERVER metaphor. Yet in Forster' s stories, the conventional metaphor for time is

employed for unconventional purposes, as is demonstrated when these stories send bodies

or books leaping to their deaths as protests against imagined futures.









At this point I should make an important disclaimer about conceptual metaphors for

time: the conceptual metaphors discussed above are not the only ways to conceptualize

time. Admittedly, linguistic evidence seems to support the claim that there is no human

culture that does not conceptualize time in terms of the body's experience of motion and

space. Yet as the MOVING OBSERVER and MOVING TI1VE metaphors demonstrate in their

figure-ground reversals of one another, there is ample room for variety even within the

TI1VE IS SPATIAL EXPERIENCE cluster of conceptual metaphors. Anthropological evidence

exists to support this variety. The Aymara of the Chilean Andes, for example, are

reported to be alone in regularly conceptualizing the future as behind them. This is

because the Aymara conceptualize the future as that which cannot be seen, the eyes

perceiving only what is in front of the body (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh

141). Yet two things must be said about the Aymaran conceptualization of time: first,

because the Aymara conceptualize the future as coming toward them from behind, they

still rely on space and motion to conceptualize the future. Second, the Aymaran

conceptualization of the future as unseen relies on another common conceptual metaphor,

KNOWING IS SEEING, which is also rooted firmly in basic bodily experience: to see an

obj ect is to have some basic knowledge of it; hence, ideas can be conceptualized as

obj ects that can be seen and manipulated. The KNOWING IS SEEING metaphor, by the

way, forms the bodily basis of Descartes' ironically disembodied epistemology (Lakoff

and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 393-414).

In the course of working on this dissertation, I have often been stirred by the

utopian spirit to wonder what it would be like to have a radically different source domain

grounding a radically new conceptual metaphor for temporal experience. In the west,









there is, in fact, an alternative metaphor for time already available in our cognitive

unconscious: TI1VE IS A RESOURCE. Some cultures, such as the Pueblo, do not produce a

statement such as "I didn't have enough time for that," although they might produce the

statement, "My path didn't take me there" to express the same thought (Lakoff and

Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 164). But in the west, we can produce and understand

statements such as "I've wasted this hour," "Who gobbled up my weekend?" and "Steal

some moments this evening for yourself." Money is one kind of resource, and the

importance of money in the west has brought the full force of cultural institutions and

artifacts, including clocks, time management, budgets, and efficiency studies, to help the

TI1VE IS MONEY metaphor become entrenched in the cognitive unconscious of most

westerners. That said, however, I have yet to see any literary work in which its

conceptualization of time and the future is fundamentally grounded in money or any

other resource. (Intuitively, the changing light of the day and the change in amount of

water seem chief possibilities.) Until I am surprised by a literary work that is structured

on a TI1VE IS A RESOURCE, TI1VE IS MONEY, or some other, entirely unprecedented,

metaphor, I must satisfy myself with exploring texts in which the experience of motion in

space grounds the conceptualization of time and the future.

The Theory of Conceptual Integration Networks, or "Blending" Theory

Conceptual metaphor theory can account for the ways we conceptualize past,

present and future. But how do we explain a Eigure, such as the Transfiguration of Jesus,

in which exclusive times seem pressed together, and in which the distant future

impossibly shares the same space with the present? To account for creative clashes such

as this, we need a different theory.









Conceptual metaphor theory offers a model with two distinct conceptual spaces: a

source domain and a target domain. In addition, the model proposes a unidirectional

flow: because the arrow goes from source to target, the model implies that the source

domain provides all the crucial structure for understanding the target domain. Using a

diagrammatic model, conceptual metaphor theory might be represented something like

Figure 1-1:










Source Domain Target Domain


Figure 1-1. The Two-Domain Structure of Conceptual Metaphor

Each circle represents a conceptual domain. Each line represents the mapping or

proj section from the source domain to the target domain. The black points represent the

schematic structure that is proj ected from the source domain to create counterpart

structure for the target domain. For example, in the TI1VE ORIENTATION metaphor, the

source domain counterpart "the location behind the observer" is connected to its target

counterpart "the past is behind."

Upon discovering figures that could not be explained by the conceptual metaphor

model, Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner developed a new model, called the

"conceptual integration network." Their model is reproduced below in Figure 1-2

("Conceptual Integration Networks" Cognitive Science 22.2: 142-144; The Way We Think

46).










Generic Space


Input
Space 1


Input
Space 2


Blended Space


Figure 1-2. Conceptual Integration Network

In this model, there are not two but four conceptual constituents: two distinct "input

spaces," an all-important "blended space," and a "generic space" (not to be confused with

genre) that shares basic structure with the other spaces. The solid lines in the model

represent connections between counterparts across the input spaces (these would include

the metaphoric counterparts that we see in conceptual metaphors). The broken lines

represent selected elements that are proj ected from one space to another. The unlinked

dots in the input spaces represent the fact that not every element of an input space is

selected to, or has relevance for, the blended space. Moreover, the unfilled dots within

the blended space represent new elements that may be recruited to the blend, but that do

not come from any of the main input spaces. Importantly, the blended space thus









develops structure that is not directly available from either input--it is not "copied from

the inputs" ("Conceptual Integration Networks" 144). The square in the blended space

represents this emerging structure that is composed and completed in the conceptual

blend, and which can even be elaborated further if the mind traces out the new logic and

principles made possible in the blend.

One clear advantage of the blending model over conceptual metaphor theory is that

it challenges the idea that only one source domain will provide all of the key structure in

a rhetorical figure. In so-called "primary" metaphors such as KNOWING IS SEEING and

the TI1VE IS SPATIAL, MOTION, the source alone does appear to provide all of the key

structure to the resultant blended space (Lakoff and Johnson Philosophy in the Flesh 49-

54). In many cases, however, a figure that we might call metaphorical actually receives

crucial structure from more than just one input space. Such a blend may even have more

than two input spaces (Figure 1-2 is only a minimal network), and a blend will often

develop new structure of its own, recruiting new elements not available from the inputs.

Another advantage of blending theory is that the two circles correlating to source

and target domains are here called "input spaces" (or "input mental spaces") rather than

"domains." The concept of the input mental space is potentially more open-ended than

the concept of the domain, which may imply a completed or bounded set of knowledge.

Indeed, whereas conceptual metaphor theory emphasizes the stable and enduring set of

conceptual metaphors in the cognitive unconscious, blending theory is more apt to stress

the "partial and temporary" nature of the "mental space," defined as

a partial and temporary representational structure which speakers construct when
thinking or talking about a perceived, imagined, past, present, or future situation.
Mental spaces (or, 'spaces', for short) are not equivalent to domains, but, rather,










they depend on them: spaces represent particular scenarios which are structured by
given domains. (Grady et al. 102)

So while the input mental space relies on, and thus does not contradict, the dynamics of

conceptual metaphors, because they are "scenarios" that are "partial and temporary," they

may be fed by diverse and even clashing metaphors.

Important in blending theory is the claim that the mind constructs this network "on-

line"; that is, the entire conceptual integration network is dynamic and active along real

neural pathways in the brain. We find a blend meaningful only because our brains are

actively sustaining and integrating each of the contributing spaces within a live network,

while simultaneously keeping those spaces distinct, too. Also, it must again be cautioned

that cognitive scientists are aware that these diagrams are nothing more than useful

representations of actual neural processes they are trying to model. And if words like

"network" and "on-line" sound overly mechanical, we should recall that cognitive

scientists are quite aware that they are using metaphors to conceptualize mental processes

that remain largely a mystery. Cognitive scientists do not have a problem with the fact

that conceptual metaphors and blends ground reasoning, including scientific reasoning.

While the cognitive theory of blending is quite recent, the recognition of literary

blends is quite old. Horace begins the "Ars Poetica," his letter to those aspiring poets, the

Piso boys, by advising them to refrain from inventing exceedingly fantastical blends:

If a painter were willing to join a horse 's neck to a human head and spread on
multicolored feathers, with different parts of the body brought in from anywhere
and everywhere, so that what starts out above as a beautiful woman ends up
horribly as a black fish, could you my friends, if you had been admitted to the
spectacle, hold back your laughter? Believe me, dear Pisos, that very similar to
such a painting would be a literary work in which meaningless images are
fashioned, like the dreams of someone who is mentally ill, so that neither the foot
nor the head can be attributed to a single form. "Painters and poets," someone
obj ects, "have always had an equal right to dare to do whatever they wanted." We
know it and we both seek this indulgence and grant it in turn. But not to the degree









that the savage mate 11 ithr the gentle, nor that snakes be paired as ithr birds, nor
lamnbs l ithr tigers. (1.1-13; emphases added)

Although Horace is warning against blends he finds rhetorically silly, it is noteworthy

that this granddaddy of reader-response criticism does begin, nevertheless, by describing

invention as a kind of conceptual blending. Before telling the Pisos to rej ect the

fantastical creature, he requires his readers to construct it in their own minds. He asks his

readers to select elements from normally distinct conceptual species--what we might call

distinct input spaces--and then he directs his readers to blend those elements into a single

figure, creating something altogether new.

If we, as Horace's readers, select a horse's neck, a human head, and some bird' s

feathers, we create in our minds something that is neither a horse, nor a human, nor a

bird, but something radically new--let us call it a hormanird. In the theory of conceptual

integration networks, the hormanird is a conceptual blend. Because it behaves in a way

that no horse, no human, nor bird ever could, it manifests emergent structure--that is, it

has properties that do not derive from any of the mental input spaces alone but that

emerge only within the resultant blend. Suppose, for example, that this hormanird is said

to "squawk with j oy" whenever it sees a human child. Its emotion would come from the

input space of the human being, but that emotion would be expressed through the sounds

coming from the input space of the bird with feathers, even though we know next to

nothing about whether birds actually express happiness, let alone how they feel about

human children. Moreover, the neck, where human vocal chords are located, is a horse's

neck in the hormanird, yet instead of whinnying, as we might expect, it squawks.

"Squawking with j oy" would be an emergent property that is developed in the blend--

something new, something not derived from any single contributing input space.









Let us further conj ecture that the hormanird gives rides to young children, but that

the children ride on its long neck, rather than on its back. Neck riding, however, does not

derive from the input space of the horse, for a horse is ridden on its back, not its neck.

The concept of hormanird riding would derive in great part from the input space of

horseback riding, but the part of the horse required for riding would be completely absent

from the blend! A new property-hormanirdneck riding--would emerge from the

hormanird blend. It would not be available from any single input space, but would

emerge as a new development within the creative blend.

If our hormanird seems too implausibly fantastic and, for this reason, as Horace

advises, should be rejected, we should recall that Horace has plenty of advice to give

about the proper way to depict satyrs and fauns, those fantastical goat-men of myth (220-

250). For Horace, of course, it is not the invention of the hormanird that is problematic

but the audience's predictable response to it. For our purposes, however, it is important

to ask what Horace only takes for granted: how a hormanird, a satyr, or any other such

novelty can be conceptualized in the first place. Indeed, there is reason to believe that the

origins of art in modern Homo sapiens can be traced back at least 30,000 years to

artifacts exactly like Horace's satyr: drawings, figurines, and carvings that blend animals

with humans (Mithen 155-164). From many diverse fields from anthropology to

neurobiology, a consensus is converging on the thesis that the unique property of the

modern human brain is its ability to invent by "crossing," "mapping," "proj ecting," or

"blending" across distinct "domains," "modules" or "spaces" of knowledge and

experience (Mithen; Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 183-87; Spolksy Gaps in

Nature 19-41; Spolsky "Darwin and Derrida"). In accord with this consensus, the theory










of conceptual integration networks offers a non-reductive explanation of invention as that

which also newly emerges as a result of the mixtures of previously available conceptual

spaces.

A Common Figure of Blended Times: The Conventional Ghost

We can now bring conceptual blending theory to bear on the issue of how the

embodied mind creates--and, through reading, recreates--a figure of blended times,

which is a different kind of blend than Horace' s figure of blended animal parts. Let us

consider, instead, the conventional ghost. Unlike the future-blending figures that this

dissertation's chapters examine, the conventional ghost is a figure that blends the present

with the past. Using the theory of conceptual integration networks, we can begin to

understand such a ghost as the blend of input spaces distinguished primarily (if not

solely) by their temporal differences.

Like a satyr or a hormanird, a ghost cannot be corroborated by empirical evidence;

according to all the laws of physics and biology, it is an impossible being. But the figure

of a ghost emerges as the new product of an imaginative process of time compression

blending. The ghost becomes possible when the mind compresses the distance between

the past and the present (Figure 1-3). To imagine such a ghost, the mind must select

elements from two distinct input spaces, past and present, and blend them into the same

space. In the input space of the past, there is the living body, but which has since died,

decayed, and disappeared from normal human sight. In the input space of the present, we

do not have tangible communication with dead people--at least, not of the kind that can

be recorded on videotape or audiotape sufficiently to convince a public audience that the

ghost can also be experienced by those not subj ectively or emotionally tied to the ghost.

But in the blended space, some feature or features of that once living or dying body are










Generic Space


objects and
motion


Real shape,
voice, animation /

Communicated with
others in past time


Real shape, voice,
animation


-' Communicates with
,'others in current time

Materiality;
biological life
\(still alive)


\\ voice,


now dead)


Input Space 1:
Body in Past
Time


Input Space 2:
Body in
Present Time


Communicates ac,
different times

; Absence of material
basis for shape, voice,
memory, animation


O Obeys some laws
\ of physics but


Blended Space:
Ghost "Body"


Figure 1-3. Typical Ghost: Time Compression Figure Blending Past and Present

perceptibly present, contrary to the laws of physics: a familiar shape is seen, even though

the material body that produced that shape is gone; a recognizable voice is heard, even

though there are no vocal chords to create sound; moreover, information may be shared,

even though the ghost has no brain which could store information to share. By its very










existence, the typical ghost bridges distant space-time events that could not be naturally

experienced by a human being, and it becomes an "apparition" or "presence" capable of

communicating across the temporal divide.

Figure 1-3 accounts for how the mind can imagine Eigures that have one foot in the

past and one in the present. This dissertation, however, examines figures distinguished

by having one foot in the future. Because the processes required to imagine these Eigures

are similar to those involving the imagination of conventional ghosts, I refer to them, too,

as essentially ghost-like. The only difference involved in imagining ghosts from the

future is that the mind must activate and sustain an input space of the future.

Because ghosts from the past are common in culture and literature, we may forget

to be amazed that they pose a serious problem to the scientific, empirically rigorous,

modern mind. In fact, for the extreme positivist, even imagining a ghost poses a problem

because the positivist assumes that the reasoning mind should only discuss empirically

verifiable entities. Because the positivist assumes that ghosts, fantasies, and other

fanciful figures (including metaphors) are irrational, he banishes them from the realm of

meaningful public discourse. This is too bad, for he consequently deprives himself of a

powerful rhetorical tool of reason and persuasion.

The Purposes of Figures of Blended Times

We have already mentioned the "utopian function" that blending figures can

perform. But the most powerful tool of time-blending figures may be the "global insight"

they offer due to their time-compressing nature. As Fauconnier and Turner put it, any

compression blend--whether it compresses time, cause and effect, change, or other "vital

relations"--aims chiefly to provide "global insight" through a Eigure that can be

apprehended on a "human scale":










Compression is a phenomenon in conceptual integration that allows human beings
to simultaneously control long, diffuse chains of logical reasoning and to grasp the
global meanings of such chains. [...] In blending networks, a vital relation across
inputs (outer-space vital relation) can be compressed into a vital relation within the
blended space (inner-space vital relation). [...] [O]ne of the overarching goals of
compression through blending is to achieve 'human scale' in the blended space,
where a great many of our conscious manipulations take place. ("Compression and
Global Insight" 283)

Figures created by time compression blends offer insight into what would otherwise be a

"long, diffuse chain" of connections and relationships over time. The blended figure

affords the mind a shorter, more comprehensible link between distinct and distant times

that the mind might otherwise find rather difficult to link.

Significantly, the blended figure often conceptualizes these distant connections

across separated input spaces as an internal relationship aI ithrin the blended space.

Fauconnier and Turner call this the "compression of an outer-space relation to an inner-

space relation" (The Way We Think 94), where "outer-space" refers to the different input

spaces, and "inner-space" refers to the blended space.

Translated to the conventional ghost blend, for example, we can see that a complex

(we might even say impossible) relationship between the past and the present can become

conceptualized as a conversation between two people (Figure 1-4). A conversation is a

simple scene we can understand at human scale. The ghost blend creates the possibility

of an otherwise impossible conversation between someone from the past and someone in

the present. Moreover, other chains of connections between the distinct spaces may

become possible as a result of the conversation. Conversations with others often lead us

to change our minds and to embark on different actions. Consequently, according to the

logic emerging in the ghost blend, there is the possibility that the ghostly conversation

can lead to changed minds and new actions. One can "live in the blend," thinking and










acting according to the logic engendered there (Fauconnier and Turner The Way We

Think 232).

Outer Outer
Space 1: Space 2:
Past Time Present
Time
Noncommunicatio









Conversation



Blended Time


Figure 1-4. Compression of an Outer-Space Relation to an Inner-Space Relation

Figures that compress the future offer global insight in much the same manner.

Epistemologically, future-blending figures may even offer potentially more insight than

past-blending figures due to the difference between our knowledge of the future and our

knowledge of the past. Because the future is radically less knowable than the past, the

real relationship between present and future may appear even more diffuse than that

between present and past. The future-blending figure provides a way for the mind to

manage that diffusion by creating a relationship between present and future that is

intelligible at human scale. And once the figure has prompted the mind to understand the

relationship between the present and the future, the mind can then perform "conscious

manipulations" that were formerly unavailable in what had been a diffuse and

indeterminate relationship. By means of the blend, the mind can manage the unknown









variables inherent to any thinking about the future. The blend allows the mind to

conceptualize causal links between the present and the future, and to undertake action

accordingly.

As aids to action, figures of future-present time compression manifest a pragmatic

function. As Mark Johnson argues in M~oral Imagination: Implications of Cognitive

Science for Ethics, "the 'aesthetic' permeates every aspect of our lives" (208), including

the pragmatic aspects relating to our moral and temporal lives:

Moral imagination is our capacity to see and to realize in some actual or
contemplated experience possibilities for enhancing the quality of experience, both
for ourselves and for the communities of which we are a part, both for the present
and for future generations, both for our existing practices and institutions as well as
for those we can imagine as potentially realizable. And this holds true for whether
we are experiencing and judging artworks or engaged in pressing moral
deliberations that determine the course of our lives. (209)

Time-blending figures are particularly well-suited for the moral imagination because they

allow the mind "to see and to realize in some actual or contemplated experience" an

intelligible relationship between the present and the future. "In order to act in the best

way we can, we must try out various framings of situations [...] and explore possibilities

for constructive interaction that are latent within situations" (212). In their human-scale

compactness, future-blending figures offer themselves precisely as such new "framings"

for possible action.

The moral significance of the mind' s invention of blended figures is implicitly

made in a comment by the philosopher Merleau-Ponty toward the end of

Phenomenology ofPerception. In a response to Sartre on the question of the nature of

freedom, Merleau-Ponty imagines a scene in which a prisoner must invite "phantoms"

into his cell in order to help him act well:










Let us suppose that a man is tortured to make him talk. If he refuses to give the
names and addresses which it is desired to extract from him, this does not arise
from a solitary and unsupported decision: the man still feels himself to be with his
comrades, and, being still involved in the common struggle, he is as it were
incapable of talking. Or else, for months or years, he has, in his mind, faced this
test and staked his whole life upon it. [...] What withstands pain is not, in short, a
bare consciousness, but the prisoner with his comrades or with those he loves and
under whose gaze he lives [...]. And probably the individual in his prison daily
reawakens these phantoms, which give back to him the strength he gave them.
(453-54; discussed in Winter 354-57)

Merleau-Ponty's prisoner creates scenes of spatial and temporal blending; because the

prisoner conjures up friends and family from his past to share his cell with him, the way

he understands his current situation is ultimately affected. Merleau-Ponty uses the

example to conclude that "we choose our world and the world chooses us" (454). Figures

of time compression blending are the means by which we conceptualize our world, and,

when we "live in the blend," such figures indeed frame the conditions and possibilities of

our actions.

The Body's Role in Assessing the Effectiveness of Time Compression Figures

If we want to assess the rhetorical effectiveness of time compression blends, then

we will want to judge how well the imagined blend creates an "inner-space" relation that

compresses "outer-space" complexity. Charles Dickens' sA Christma~s Calrol, the subject

of the next chapter, ends with the repentance of Ebenezer Scrooge. Because of Scrooge's

conversion, most readers might judge Marley's Ghost to be quite effective. Scrooge is

the intended audience of Marley's Ghost, so Scrooge' s response to "reading" that ghost

will indicate the ghost' s rhetorical effectiveness. Marley's Ghost is a figure formed from

elements of a complex, Christian-based web of ideas asserting certain vital relations

between bodies and souls, between sinful acts and end-time punishments, between human

and divine beings, and between earthly life and the afterlife. When Scrooge converses









with the ghost and "sees" its chains, he gains "global insight" into that complex web.

And once Scrooge accepts the blend and lets it reconstruct his temporal thinking, he can

then consciously work within the blend, too, and act according to its logic. He can do

something uncharacteri stically new and different based upon hi s understanding of the

ghost blend. Because we know that Scrooge ultimately changes his life, it can be argued

that Marley's Ghost is a superbly effective rhetorical figure of time compression.

Scrooge proves that "the fantasy world seems to have had profound effects on the

psychological reality of the real world" (Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 23 1).

But Scrooge, alas, is an invented and purely imagined audience. As Scrooge's

creator, Dickens could make sure that Scrooge would correctly and competently read

Marley's Ghost and would thereby become "as good a man, as the good old city knew"

(Dickens 65). Dickens had control over both the blend and how its reader, Scrooge,

would respond to it. It will always be possible to question whether Scrooge could have

understood the blend differently, or whether he could have been visited by a different

kind of ghost--one whose inner-space logic grew more out of economic critique, say,

than of Christian individualism. The inner logic that emerges in any blend may always

be judged to be inappropriate as an insight if it is first judged that the "real" relationships

that should be compressed are something else entirely. If "false" consciousness produces

some blends, then "true" consciousness can always supply other blends. (In Victorian

fiction, it could be argued that Olive Schreiner' s time- and space-compressing allegories

in Dreams offer socialist and feminist "global insight" into the same conditions

surrounding Scrooge.)









An even more basic difficulty is that, from person to person, the insight offered by

time compression figures may vary in their ability, first, to be understood by the reader,

and, second, to be sufficiently appropriated. Many readers have failed to notice the

Ghostly Nun blend in Gerard Manley Hopkins's "The Wreck of the Deutschland"

precisely because his poetry can appear more diffuse than the insight it tries to offer.

Admittedly, Hopkins probably did not intend his poem for unpracticed readers--those

without the prerequisite "literary competence" (Culler). But it did bother Hopkins that

the poem's first audience, his friend Robert Bridges, could remain so completely

unmoved by the logic of the Ghostly Nun. We may have to conclude that, for Hopkins,

at least, she was persuasive enough.

Even when a Eigure of time compression blending does not ultimately persuade its

audience, we can at least credit some of its rhetorical effectiveness to the compelling

nature of its figuration. Once we see Hopkins's Ghostly Nun being tossed to and fro in a

sea storm, she attracts our attention. Whether we choose to follow her or not to the future

she posits, she is at least effective in turning our eyes toward her.

So what is the nature of this first-level effectiveness, this attraction, of Hopkins' s

Ghostly Nun and Dickens's Marley's Ghost, as time compression figures? I have

concluded that it has to do with the sensorimotor body. If the figures examined in this

dissertation are interesting for their speculations about the future through insightful

compressions of time, they are equally compelling for the ways those speculations and

compressions are figured in physical bodies, which must be the most "human scale"

figures we know. When Scrooge imagines what his future soul will look like, he sees the

chained body of Marley (Chapter 2). When Hopkins imagines how souls will experience









God's active power in heaven, he sees a nun's body buffeted and penetrated by gale force

winds (Chapter 3). When Walt Whitman imagines a future reader cradling his Leaves of

Grass, he sees a reader touching his body (Chapter 4). When we imagine the alternative

lives that characters in E. M. Forster' s The Life to Come might (or might not) have

enjoyed, we see bodies leaping and falling to their deaths (Chapter 5).

When conceptual metaphor theorists and others in the field of "second-generation

cognitive science" claim that our knowing is ultimately rooted in our body's most basic

experiences, they usually talk first about our experience as bodies in motion. Taking a

different, but parallel, route, Elaine Scarry, who can also be categorized as a cognitive

theorist, has claimed it is the body in pain that grounds human imagination and art (The

Body in Pain). Scarry's claim is at least partially supported in Chapter 3 of this

dissertation, where I argue that Hopkins' s "The Wreck of the Deutschland" grounds an

experience of the future in the body's experience of being the passive and painful object

of another agent' s activity. Then again, moving the opposite direction from pain, I argue

in Chapter 4 that Walt Whitman' s So Long!i," the concluding poem to Leaves of Grass,

partially grounds an experience of the future on a different bodily experience, that of

sexually mature erotic pleasure.

Whether it is the body in motion, the body in pain, or the body in pleasure, it is

apparent that the sensorimotor body plays a central role in our conceptualizations of time.

When employed well, the body can effectively confer its qualitative feel of certainty onto

our concepts of time. Consider, for example, how the human-scale, sensorimotor body

can even be recruited to ground the unsexy Hield of geology. Geologists have had to

invent time-compressing figures to explain the notion of "deep time." Stephen Jay Gould









cites several examples of these Eigures in Time 's Arrow, Time 's Cycle. I offer two below;

the first is taken directly from Mark Twain, and the second is Gould' s paraphrase of John

McPhee from McPhee' s book Ba~sin and Range. Which of the two is more effective?

1. If the Eiffel Tower were now representing the world' s age, the skin of paint on the
pinnacle-knob at its summit would represent man's share of that age; and anybody
would perceive that that skin was what the tower was built for. I reckon they
would, I dunno. (qtd. in Gould 2)

2. Consider the earth' s history as the old measure of the English yard, the distance
from the king' s nose to the tip of his outstretched hand. One stroke of a nail file on
his middle Einger erases human history. (3)

As metaphorical blends, both examples present images--a tower and a king--that

compress deep time to human scale. Looking at the Eiffel Tower and looking at a king

are much easier than comprehending the billions of years of the earth's history. But even

Gould confesses that "the most striking metaphor of all" is the second statement. Could

this be because its image puts time onto an actual human body, and then also shows that

same human body being slightly whittled away? Sadly, we do not have Gould around so

that we might ask him, but that would be my guess.

If we choose to argue, instead, that Twain' s Eiffel Tower Eigure is superior, I

cannot imagine how that argument could prevail without referring to Twain's image of

paint as "skin." For human bodies, our skin is the largest, most visible human organ, and

essential for life. But we also experience a loss of skin that is entirely innocuous:

peelings after sunburn, calluses bitten off, scrapes that heal, etc. In addition, we have the

conceptual metaphors IlVIPORTANT IS INSIDE and UNI1VPORTANT IS OUTSIDE. These

metaphors are grounded in a number of experiences, including experiences of the self or

soul (as an internal agent who causes the external body to move) and experiences of

containers of valuable obj ects (the peel vs. the fruit, the clothes vs. the person, the









strongbox vs. the cash, etc.). The paint of a building is unimportant compared to the

steely edifice it covers. So Twain's Eiffel Tower blend results in a clashing set of

inferences: a) human beings are unimportant because they are mere paint; and b) human

beings are important because human skin is essential to human life. If the clash of

inferences in Twain's figure is rhetorically effective, it is so chiefly because it is achieved

through the blending of a steel tower with a human body.

Because it failed to sway even its first intended audience, perhaps the rhetorical

lesson of Hopkins' s The Wreck of the Deutschlan2dis that the most effective blends are

the ones we create ourselves. If this is true, then the blends in Whitman' s poetry and

Forster's short stories may ultimately prove quite significant. More than Dickens and

Hopkins, Whitman and Forster require their readers to become conscious that it is our

own reading minds--our own embodied reading minds--that create blended Eigures from

texts. Reading Whitman and Forster, we can become aware that the rhetorical energy is

flowing along new neural pathways created by firings inside our own brains. The time

compression blend, its global insight, and its eliciting of new contexts for meaningful

actions--these are all things that our embodied minds do, even when we are reading

someone else's words. The words--the textual cues that prompt us to build the figures of

blending--may dim compared to the brilliance of the embodied minds of both writers

and readers who can create, and recreate, those figures.

The Uses of Blending Theory in Literary Criticism

For my own mind, this dissertation succeeds on one level by simply identifying

literary figures of future-present time compression blending, examining their constituent

elements, and appreciating their new and emergent properties. Indeed, readers of the

following chapters will discover a bulk of analytical and formal discussion about the










particular figure at hand and how it could be invented. But I hope the chapters will

demonstrate that the uses of blending theory can succeed on other levels, too. Once it has

been added to their toolboxes, literary critics can find that blending theory helps opens up

literature to new questions from other interpretive fields.

In Chapter 1, an analysis of Charles Dickens's A Christmas Calrol opens up an

inquiry into a specific chapter of Victorian history. An "anatomy" of Marley's Ghost

reveals conceptual dynamics operating in Victorian religious debates about the afterlife,

which dovetailed legal debates about punishment. Significantly, the anatomy reveals that

the conceptual groundwork that permitted one to shift from the orthodox view to the

emerging liberal view--from the belief in hell as a future punishment to the belief that

hell is a quality of present life--can be seen in the conceptual differences between the

blended figure of Marley's Ghost and Scrooge' s internalization of new logic emerging

from Marley's blend.

In Chapter 2, an analysis of Gerard Manley Hopkins's "The Wreck of the

Deutschland" shows how the reader is prompted to blend past, present, and future scenes

in one figure, whom I call the Ghostly Nun. While this analysis helps explain the variety

of scholarly interpretations of the poem, it ultimately leads to a focus on the generic space

of the Ghostly Nun blend. By understanding the basic story of this generic space as that

of a body who is the passive obj ect of another' s agency, light is shed on the

psychology--the cognitive unconscious-grounding Hopkins's religious experience.

The value of blending theory for mapping out the variety of scholars'

interpretations of a particular work becomes even more apparent in Chapter 4. Walt

Whitman's poems in Leaves of Grass have been alternately called hymns for the









individual sexual body or praises of social democracy. A first-time reader of Whitman

can become confused about which group of scholars to follow in reading Whitman's

poems. Do they read the poems as using sexual experience to conceptualize political

experience, or, vice versa, do the read the poems as using political experience to

conceptualize sex? An analysis of "So Long!" reveals that these two interpretations of

Whitman are metaphorical, and it proceeds to show how blending theory can better

account for the formal dynamics of his poems. Moreover, in this chapter it is argued that

Whitman' s blending of distinct times in "So Long!i" also blends distinct emotions,

creating a unique conceptualization of the future as a blend of short-term sexual

anticipation with long-term political hope.

The fifth chapter nudges just beyond the nineteenth century to examine three short

stories written in the early twentieth: "The Life to Come," "The Other Boat," and

"Ansell," which are all included in E. M. Forster's posthumously published collection

The Life to Come. I argue that in order to find meaning in these stories, the reader must

create in his or her own mind a blended figure who is simultaneously young and at the

end of a long and happy life--what I call a "dying young" figure. This blended figure

created in the mind is pre-figured by the stories' depiction of bodies and obj ects that

travel, leap, and fall along a finite spatial line whose end-point can move, as it were, from

one expected point to another. Through the TI1VE IS SPATIAL EXPERIENCE metaphor, this

spatial line projects to a "lifetimeline" of meaningful temporal experience. Blending

analysis offers a new way of thinking about the problems Forster had with what he felt to

be inescapable Victorian narratives with heterosexist, racist, and classist endings--

narratives that foreclosed the future end-point of what could be considered a meaningful









lifetimeline. But just as important, in my view, is the way a blending analysis of

Forster' s stories illustrates how reading a meaningful narrative and living a meaningful

life both involve the blending of times in order to be judged "meaningful" at all.

Victorians and Time-Compression

On an added level, in my view, this dissertation succeeds by finding an approach to

a set of texts that suits both their content and their context. Although rigorous scientific

inquiry into the time-conceiving, time-blending mind is relatively nascent, the concern

with time is, of course, an established theme within Victorian studies.

If cognitive anthropologists are correct, the ability to conceptualize time and to

create Eigurative blends of past, present, and future has been part of the human species for

no less than 30,000 years. Yet if one were to pick up the latest literature on human time,

one would be tempted to conclude that it is only in our present age that human beings

have felt themselves to be living in a time-pressed world--a world that corresponds to the

time-compressing faculty of the human imagination. In his notable Faster: the

Acceleration of Just About Everything, James Gleick concluded in 1999 that "We are in a

rush. We are making haste. A compression of time characterizes the hife of the century

now c haing` (9; emphasis added). Declaring ours to be the "epoch of the nanosecond,"

Gleick appreciates how our "worldwide communications systems" depend upon the

"Hinicality of the modern timekeepers" to manage "[i]nhuman ... compressed time

scales." Gleick cites even Bill Gates, the computer baron, who worries, "It seems like the

whole world operates in five-minute intervals" (qtd. in Gleick 12).

As much as he positions himself among time-anxious nanotechies at the end of the

twentieth century, Gleick sounds like a Victorian Englishman. Indeed, one can argue that

nineteenth-century westerners contemplated more radical changes in their experience of









time than those now living at the dawn of the third millennium. Mostly, the change in

their experience of time was due to the introduction of the railroad. Reducing the time

for ordinary stagecoach travel by two thirds, railroads caused Londoners (and Parisians

and Baltimoreans) to become lightheaded at the sudden reconstitution of normal space-

time experience. It was one thing to imagine, as a youthful Dickens did while reading Le

Sage, floating above the city on a magic carpet. It was quite another to physically see the

landscape zipping past one's eyes from a railcar.

As Wolfgang Schivelbusch has deftly noted in The Raibray Journey: the

Industrialization of Time and Space in the 19th Centwry, Victorians' concrete experience

of space was doubly affected by the railroads: "space was both diminished and'

expanded" (35; original emphasis). Space was diminished because distance seemed to

decrease as the customary time for traveling from one point to another decreased. In

1850, Dionysius Lardner in Raibray Economy formulated the equation this way:

"Distances practically diminish in the exact ratio of the speed of personal locomotion"

(35; qtd. in Schivelbusch 33). Yet the reduction in transportation time was met by a

corresponding expansion of space; if people could travel from point A to B in only one-

third the time, they could also traverse three times more space in the customary time.

Lardner observed how the new expansion of spatial travel was creating London's

suburb s:

It is not now unusual for persons whose place of business is in the centre of the
capital, to reside with their families at a distance of from fifteen to twenty miles
from that centre. Nevertheless, they are able to arrive at their respective shops,
counting-houses, or offices, at an early hour of the morning, and to return without
inconvenience to their residence at the usual time in the evening. Hence in all
directions round the metropolis in which railways are extended, habitations are
multiplied, and a considerable part of the former population of London has been
diffused in these quarters. (36; qtd. in Schivelbusch 35-36; emphasis added).










Though commuters arrived home "at the usual time," they were traversing unusually

expansive landscapes in the process. It would be a while before the unusual felt

normal--human scale--again.

As locomotive technology was giving Victorians a new sensorimotor basis for what

constituted daily time, developments in geology and biology were forcing Victorians to

comprehend an unprecedented expansion of historical time. Lyell's Principles of

Geology (1830-1833) and Darwin's On the Origin of Species (1859) extended the earth's

age from several thousand to several hundreds of thousands of years. In one sense, deep

time produced intellectual humility; Lyell declaimed, "We are prepared to find that in

time also, the confines of the universe lie beyond the reach of mortal ken" (3 84; qtd. in

Buckley 27; original emphasis). In another sense, however, the expansion of earthly time

magnified the confidence Victorians had that human progress had culminated in their

culture.

These developments in practical and theoretical science helped produce what

Patricia Murphy has aptly called the "Victorian engrossment in time" (10). This

preoccupation with time--as well as with time's correlate, space--was manifest in

various ways, expressed in the modes of both expansion and compression. As Victorians

were busy advancing history's progress by spatially extending the Queen's empire, they

were also busy finding ways to compress or cut up time in order to study it, manage it,

and benefit from it. Whether we look in on Charles Kingsley, who in 1850 imagined a

tailor having an dream in which he personally evolves from "the lowest point of created

life" up through "soft crab," remoraa," and "baby-ape" finally to become not merely a

"selfish-savage" man but a Christ-like "servant" (Alton Locke chap. XXXVI); or Frederick










Winslow Taylor, who in 1880, in the first of his time-efficiency studies, determined that

"a laborer could load a wheelbarrow with loose dirt and wheel it a hundred feet two

hundred and forty times in a 10-hour day" (Kanigel 202); or Eadward Muybridge, who in

the 1880s captured the Human Figure in M~otion and Animal Locomotion using split-

second photography; or H. G. Wells, who in 1895 sent one man in The Time Machine to a

revolutionary future in 802,701 A.D.-no matter where we look, it seems, what we

repeatedly notice is the Victorian mind trying to master the enigma of time, both the long

and the short of it.

As different as they are, the works of Dickens, Hopkins, Whitman, and Forster that

are discussed at length in this dissertation emerged from, and provide further evidence of,

the "Victorian engrossment in time." Yet more than just representatives of the era, these

texts are particularly interesting because they offer central figures that prompt the mind to

perform time-compression blending. They thus lead readers to re-enact in their own

minds the time-compressing character of the Victorian age.

The Future of Figuration

If we are to think about the future differently, we will have to appreciate both the

limits and the possibilities of the mind that can first conceptualize the world before

undertaking to change it. Utopian (or, for that matter, dystopian) futures can only be

conceptualized by human brains, and human brains will undoubtedly continue to be, for a

very long time yet, embodied brains. It is true that our present sensorimotor body sets

some limits on the basic image schemas and primary experiences that will resource our

concepts for time as well as our concepts for other complex subj ective and social

experiences. It is also true, however, that the embodied mind's creative power of

blending allows a virtually unlimited number of possibilities for new concepts, new ideas,










and new modes of experience made possible by "living in" these new blends. The

inherently creative, embodied mind grounds our imagining, conceptualizing, planning,

and acting. If there are to be alternative imaginations, concepts, plans, and actions, we

will have to look there. The path to the future, to utopia, leads through the body--

probably even to the body. And with their creative blends, the artists are leading the way.















CHAPTER 2
CONCEPTUAL ANATOMIES OF MARLEY'S GHOST AND VICTORIAN
DEBATES ABOUT HELL

A Conceptual Anatomy of Marley's Ghost

This chapter presents two conceptual anatomies and shows their relation. The first

anatomy is of Jacob Marley's Ghost, a chief character in Charles Dickens's 1843 short

novel A Christma~s Calrol. Using instruments from the theory of conceptual integration

networks--also called blending theory--the anatomy will show that the reader's mind

must activate and integrate several input mental spaces to construct, comprehend, and

competently read Marley's Ghost, each input mental space lending different elements to

the blended space that composes the ghost. Furthermore, some of the input spaces

feeding into the ghost blend will be proven to be conceptual blends that are themselves

fed by still other input spaces. In this first section, a significant finding will be presented:

a particular element in the ghost blend--namely, the chain surrounding the ghost--

prompts the mind to create both metonymic and metaphoric meanings. The ghost' s chain

thus offers evidence contesting Roman Jakobson's famous conclusion that there is a

"competition between both devices, metonymic and metaphoric" (46; emphasis added).

This first conceptual anatomy will show why blending theory is well equipped to account

for the way the imagination can create and understand a complex figure possessing

elements that must be read as simultaneously metonymic and metaphoric.

In the second section of the chapter, the Marley's Ghost blend will be recruited for

a conceptual anatomy of Victorian notions of punishment, both legal and theological.









Geoffrey Rowell, in Hell and the Victorian2s, identifies three chief beliefs about hell

evident in British religious debates of the period:

1. hell as a future destiny of re-embodied souls following the resurrection at the jitture
Last Judgment and Second Coming of Christ;

2. hell as a state of spiritual or moral punishment, into which sinful or immoral souls,
conceptualized as disembodied and immortal, enter immediately after death;

3. hell as an internal, self-imposed state experienced in one's present life on earth.

Historical evidence shows that there was a marked emergence of the third belief during

the Victorian era, and that theological calls for reform in the divine justice system

resonated with legal calls for reform in the British penal system.

Marley's Ghost can help explain the dynamics that made it possible for Victorians

to move from the first two conceptualizations of punishment and hell to the third. One of

the key features of Marley's Ghost is its compression of time (past, present, and future)

into one figure, with a corresponding compression of cause and effect (past deeds lead to

punishment in a future afterlife). While Marley's Ghost compresses what are normally

contrasting and dissimilar temporal states into one figure, that compression into one body

makes possible the concept of the self-production of hell in the here and now, which

becomes evident in the novel's narration of Ebenezer' s Scrooge' s life. Scrooge

effectively "lives in the blend" made possible by the compressions of traditional

eschatological dynamics, for he exhibits a personal hell and heaven compressed to

internally caused, present states of mind. Literary critics have already noted the

Victorian character of Scrooge' s self-made hell and subsequent self-reform into domestic

bliss. However, the anatomy performed here offers a new account of the dynamics that

permit Marley's future hell to be conceptualized as Scrooge's present hell. Marley and










Scrooge are themselves condensed pictures of larger Victorian conceptual developments

made possible by the compression that results from conceptual blending.

Contributing Spaces to the Conceptual Network Containing Marley's Ghost

There are several input spaces that contribute to the network from which Marley's

Ghost can emerge as a unique conceptual blend. These spaces include no fewer than the

following:

* the living, embodied person
* the corpse
* the soul and its afterlife
* Victorian concepts of justice, both legal and theological
* the notion of a life as the unified product of a unified individual's own labor over
time
* the embodied experiences of carrying a heavy burden and of being physically
restricted

By attending to each of these spaces, we can dissect and reassemble the conceptual blend

that is Marley's Ghost and account for the meanings it prompts readers' minds to create.

The Living, Embodied Person

In the fictional world ofA Christmas Calrol, Jacob Marley was once a living,

embodied person, the business partner of Ebenezer Scrooge. At some point Marley died,

his body was buried, and, until Christmas Eve seven years later, Scrooge had no reason to

think that there was anything left of Marley except some memories and business

accounts. From that once-living Marley, the ghost receives much of its physical

appearance: it has "The same face: the very same" (Dickens A Christmas Carol 22). It

"looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look, with ghostly spectacles turned up upon its

ghostly forehead." Along with these visible features, Marley's Ghost receives its audible

voice from the living Marley, as the narrator confirms in relating the first conversation

between Scrooge and the ghost:










"(How now!" said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. "What do you want with
me?"

"Much!"--Marley's voice, no doubt about it. (26)

Despite its "transparent" immateriality, the ghost also has some of the motor activities of

Marley's physical body, for it can to do certain activities that seem familiar to Scrooge,

like sitting in a chair:

"In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley."

"Can you--can you sit down?" asked Scrooge, looking doubtfully at him.

"I can."

"Do it then."

Scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know whether a ghost so
transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that in the
event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing
explanation. But the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fire-place, as if he
were quite used to it. (26-30)

Additionally, from the living Marley the ghost receives the things attached to its

chain: cashboxess, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel"

(26). In this input space, these items are connected to Marley as objects of the business

hife he led. (We should keep in mind, however, that not every obj ect Marley used in

business is attached to his chain. There are no pens or inkbottles, for example, even

though they contributed just as much to his money-lust. As we shall see, the obj ects

selected are done so for their weight, which derives from a different input space.)

Finally, Marley's Ghost retains the memories of the living Marley, as well as the

ability to call upon those memories when conversing with Scrooge. In many ways, the

ghost seems very much like the once-living Marley.









The Corpse

The corpse of Jacob Marley lends two inputs to the ghost blend. First, the

appearance of the ghost has the appearance of Marley at his death. The ghost does not

look or sound like a version of Marley in his youthful prime. The ghost has the "death-

cold eyes" (26), the "fixed, glazed eyes" (30) that correspond to the dead body. Scrooge

notices, too, that the ghost has a "folded kerchief bound about its head and chin, which

wrapper he had not observed before" (26). The kerchief was commonly tied around the

head and chin after death; in fact, in 7he Annotated Christmas Calrol one can see a sketch

of a hauntingly similar wrapper around Dickens's own deathbed corpse, drawn by John

Everett Millais in 1870 (77). When the ghost removes its kerchief, "its lower jaw

dropped down upon its breast" (Dickens A Christmas Calrol 32)--a reminder of the

corpse's loss of muscle control prior to rigor mortis. Marley's Ghost, the corpse of Jacob

Marley "seven years dead" (24), maintains this aspect of the memento mori.

Second, the corpse input space provides a very important inference of the end of

agency. Although Marley's Ghost appears to have animate agency, it is limited in one

crucial way: it cannot change its fate. His partner, Scrooge, has a future that is still open,

for Scrooge is still alive and can ask, hopefully, "Are these the shadows of things that

Will be, or are they shadows of the things that May be, only?" (128). But Marley's Ghost

lives with a closed future; the "things that Will be" cannot be changed. This closure

comes from the input space of the corpse, for the corpse marks the endpoint of the time

period for which the soul is morally and spiritually accountable.

In cognitive terms, we can identify the concept of a corpse as an input space that is

itself a constructed blend of other input spaces. We will be able to understand how the










corpse is a conceptual blend if we compare it to the concept of the soul, for the two are

conceptually related.

The Soul

According to Turner, the western notion of the soul, which has roots going back

before Aristotle, is the result of a blend of two input spaces. In one input space, there is

the irreducible, living human being; in the other, there is the embodied and neurally

entrenched "spatial story" of actors who cause obj ects to move:

If actors move obj ects, what moves the actors? What is the source of their
movement? One answer that has come up historically is the soul. The soul is what
moves the body. The body is the obj ect the soul moves as a consequence of its
own self-movement. In On the Soul, Aristotle surveys theories on the nature of the
soul, showing that in nearly all of them, soul is regarded as having movement and
sensation. His survey testifies to the antiquity and durability of recognizing actors
as movers and sensers. This abstract concept of the soul is created by a [...]
projection. We know the small spatial story in which an actor moves a physical
obj ect; we proj ect this story onto the story of the movement of the body. The
obj ect proj ects to the body and the actor proj ects to the soul. (The Literary M~ind
21; original emphasis)

In cognitive terms, the soul is not an obvious fact; it is rather an entailment created by the

creative proj section of a generic story about how we experience the world onto the

irreducible living human organism. If we picture how the generic story actor causes

object to move is proj ected onto living bodies, we can better see how the

conceptualization of the soul is an invention of the embodied mind (Figure 2-1).

As Figure 2-1 helps clarify, the concept of the soul is an entailment that results

when the mind proj ects onto an otherwise irreducibly unified organism an intentional,

"internal" actor that moves an "external" body. It is grounded in our most basic

embodied experiences of observing others actors as they cause other obj ects to move.










Input Space 2:
Input Space 1: Generic Story of
The Whole Caused Motion
Living Person
Actor
I Cause of motion
Person,I (pushing, pulling,
(who also
I etc.)
moves) I
\ ~ Object


< ~ ~ Inetin






Blended Space: 't ,
Body Moved a ,
By The Soul \ ,' Body


Figure 2-1. The Soul as an Entailment of a Conceptual Blend

Furthermore, when we use the word "corpse" we are already presupposing a body

that no longer seems to have a source of animate agency, an internal actor. Because the

concept of a corpse manifests the same concern for agency, it is related to that of the soul.

In the case of the corpse, what we proj ect into the blended space is the idea of absence

(Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 205, 241). We project the person's source of

agency and intention into the blend, but we conceptualize that source as missing (Figure

2-2).

In addition to observing an actual corpse, other embodied experiences may help

entrench in the mind the paired concepts of internal soul and external body. When we

see a person put on clothes and move around in them, we conclude that the person inside

the clothes is the agent that causes the external clothes to move. However, if we see the










Input Space 2:
Generic Story of
Caused Motion


Input Space 1:
The Living
Person


Blended Space:
Corpse


Figure 2-2. The Corpse as a Conceptual Blend of a Body Missing the Soul

same suit or dress hanging before us on a hanger or a mannequin, it can seem as if the

clothes are missing their internal agent. In A Christma~s Calrol, the clothes of Jacob

Marley may thus play an important part in convincing Scrooge that the entity moving

inside Marley's clothes is Marley's soul: "Marley in his [...] usual waistcoat, tights, and

boots" (Dickens A Christma~s Calrol 26; emphasis added).

Another embodied experience that helps entrench the dualism of soul and body is

the experience of dreaming. After having a dream, we may conclude that our soul has

been traveling outside the body, for on awaking we find ourselves suddenly in our body

once again instead of in the dream world. In our dreaming, we may experience flight or

instantaneous travel to different spatial and temporal realms, and so we may conclude

that the source of our conscious thoughts and emotions is radically disembodied. In this









sense, it may be significant that Scrooge meets the ghost at a time and place associated

with dreaming. Scrooge meets Marley's Ghost not in the crowded London streets, and

not during daylight hours, but when he is alone, at night, in his bedroom.

Finally, Dickens invokes an additional set of embodied experiences that aid the

entrenched dualism of soul and body. When Marley's Ghost climbs the house stairs and

passes through the locked door, the flames in Scrooge's bedroom fireplace undergo a

sudden change: "Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried 'I

know him! Marley's Ghost!' and fell again" (26). It is a common experience to observe

the flames in a fire suddenly intensify after previously waning. But with the generic

concept of caused motion, the mind can readily supply an agent to account for that event.

So the embodied experiences of flames, dreams, clothes, and corpses all help

reinforce the concept of the soul as an agent that causes the body to move. The

entailments from this blend create the possibility of claiming that the soul is something

that is distinct from the body, something that is absent from the body at death, and

something that can even escape the body.

We are now in a position to ask what happens to the soul when it is conceptualized

as absent from the body. What has Marley's soul been up to in the seven years since it

escaped the corpse?

The Soul in the Afterlife

We would not be able to conceptualize the afterlife of the soul without the prior

conceptualization of the soul as an agent that animates the body and, consequently, as

something that may metaphorically depart the body at death, leaving an inanimate corpse.

In Marley's case, the departed soul appears to have an afterlife that is very similar to

embodied life. The soul appears to animate Marley's Ghost form much the same way









that it animated the living body. It causes the ghost body to move and to sit in a chair.

But more important than physical movement, the ghost exhibits emotions that the living

Marley could experience: regret, anger, despair. The ghost also exhibits the resource of

memory necessary to have these emotions, and memory and emotions are necessary as a

basis for intentional action. In short, Marley's Ghost seems to exhibit a consciousness

capable of thought, zentory, emotion, and desire--much like the consciousness that

seems to depart from our body when we dream.

But the soul animating Marley's Ghost differs from the soul that animated the

living Marley in several significant ways. First, as we have already discussed, even

though Marley's soul exhibits agency, that agency is restricted. The fact of the body's

death bars the soul from being able to change its ultimate destiny in the afterlife. Second,

the soul that moves Marley's Ghost also exhibits a different kind of agency: it can now

move its ghost form through walls and travel across the globe without restriction--an

unprecedented form of motion unavailable to the living Marley except, perhaps, in

involuntary dreams. Third and most innovatively, the soul of Marley's Ghost

experiences new emotions and acquires new memories, insights and thoughts after the

body's death. It even relates some of these afterlife experiences to Scrooge. When

Scrooge asks, "But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?" (32),

Marley's Ghost indicates the new knowledge and feelings his soul has acquired in the

afterlife:

"It is required of every man," the Ghost returned, "that the spirit within him
should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and if that
spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to
wander through the world--oh, woe is me!--and witness what it cannot share, but
might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!"









In sum, after bodily death, Jacob Marley's soul experiences continued consciousness. In

the afterlife the soul acquires new memories, new knowledge, and new feelings. And yet

this afterlife consciousness is also restricted in one specific way: it can no longer act on

its own behalf. Indeed, its particular form of suffering appears to be the direct result of

this discrepancy: despite its enlightenment, Marley's soul cannot use its afterlife

awareness in any practical way. It cannot change its fate.

Punishment in the Afterlife

The ghost states that its suffering in the afterlife is punishment deserved for the

earthly life of Jacob Marley. In the passage cited above, the ghost comments to Scrooge

that the soul is "required" or "condemned" to perform certain acts. These words point to

concepts about justice that are also feeding the ghost blend. While these concepts are

specifically theological, we must admit the possibility that theological concepts of justice

are partially based on already existing legal (or even other) concepts of social justice.

Many Victorians took the biblical concepts for divine justice to be literally true.

Indeed, in the Hebrew scriptures, or Christian Old Testament, the Judaic faith develops as

a literal, legal covenant, a contract between God and the people, complete with stipulated

punishments should the people fail to obey (Deuteronomy 30:15-20). However, many

Victorian theological and secular scholars presumed that human concepts for divine

attributes and actions are inherently metaphorical and thus always provisional. There is

precedence, from both biblical texts and the history of theology, for adopting such

epistemological humility. The second commandment prohibits reifying any single image

as a sufficient representation of the divine (Exodus 20:4). And in the history of Christian

theology, John Calvin, whose Reformation writings in the Institutes of the Christian

Religion heavily influenced Protestant belief, repeatedly stressed the limitations of human









concepts for divine reality. Calvin, emphasizing the "impossibility of a purely literal

interpretation" of scripture, consistently warned that believers should not "insist precisely

upon the words" (1388, 1389).

This imprecision of human concepts for the divine is evident in one important

difference between the Victorian legal system and the theological. In Victorian England,

people were not ordinarily rewarded by the Queen for obedience to her laws. In Judaism

and Christianity, however, the souls of those who obeyed God in life are rewarded. In

Judaism, the obedient bnai brith, children of the covenant, can die knowing that their

obedience will be remembered within the surviving community. In Christianity, despite

the Protestant emphasis on faith over works, the faithful can die with the Pauline hope

that they shall receive eternal life after death: a "crown of righteousness, which the Lord,

the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also

that love his appearing" (2 Timothy 4:8 KJV). So the Heavenly King who dispenses

justice metes out reward as well as punishment, unlike his earthly counterpart who seems

preoccupied with punishment alone. People's ability to keep the legal and eschatological

systems distinct is not insignificant, for it manifests an ability to consciously keep two

conceptual domains in metaphorical relation without substituting one for the other. This

is a key finding of blending theory: when creating conceptual blends, including

metaphors, from input spaces, our minds are both selective and creative. We selectively

proj ect only some elements from an input space to the blend (the human monarch

executes justice; the Heavenly King does, too). But we also disregard many other

elements in the input spaces (human monarchs age and die; the Heavenly King does not).

Moreover, the blended space can develop new inferences, too (human monarchs are










powerful enough to hand out rewards to the living who have served them well, but the

Heavenly King, omnipotent, can hand out rewards even to the dead, whom he resurrects).

Despite their differences in the matter of reward, in the matter of punishment

Victorian concepts of human and divine justice were quite similar. As John R. Reed

notes in Dickens and Thacker~ay: Punishment and Forgiveness: "'Forgiveness' is a word

in a moral lexicon, 'pardon' in a legal one. 'Punishment' appears in both" (xiii). Many

Victorians could acknowledge that the human social justice system was but a dim copy of

the divine justice system. Yet most Victorians also believed that once real people died,

their souls would be subj ected to some real form of heavenly justice, even if that form

remained imperfectly knowable by human minds. Just as a criminal is condemned to do

recompense for his crimes, the soul animating Marley's Ghost states that it is "required"

or "condemned" to perform certain acts as penalty for the life it led while it animated

Marley's living body. Like the earthly penalty, the divine penalty laid upon the soul

produces discomfort. The ghost says that one of its punishments is "to wander through

the world" with regret (32). The ghost is conscious of "what it cannot share, but might

have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!" In addition to emotional suffering, there

is also visible in Marley's Ghost an indication of something like physical punishment.

The ghost' s body is bound by a chain, to which heavy obj ects are also attached.

Under closer scrutiny, this chain and its obj ects prove to be in both metonymic and

metaphoric relation to different input spaces.

"I wear the chain I forged in life"

Marley's chain is described in Scrooge's first introduction to the ghost: "The chain

he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and

it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cashboxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers,









deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel" (26). Later in their conversation, the ghost

answers Scrooge' s question about the origins of the chain:

"You are fettered," said Scrooge, trembling. "Tell me why?"

"I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and
yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.
Is its pattern strange to you?"

Scrooge trembled more and more.

"Or would you know," pursued the Ghost, "the weight and length of the strong
coil you bear yourself! It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas
Eves ago. You have laboured on it, since. It is a ponderous chain!" (32)

This chain is no mere piece of metal. Despite how easily and quickly we may grasp its

meaning, the chain is an element in a complex blend of input spaces. The ghost that is a

conceptual blend wears a chain that is also a conceptual blend.

Although Scrooge immediately understands the chain to be an instrument of

punishment and restriction ("You are fettered"), the ghost explains the chain as

something else entirely. It is, claims the ghost, a reified metaphor of its earthly labor. In

this metaphorical blend, a chain and its interconnected links proj ect to a human life. In

the target space, there is a human being who physically changes over time and who likely

undertakes many diverse activities over time. In the source space, there is a metalworker

who never changes over time and who does only one thing: he forges metal links into a

chain. A key entailment of this metaphor is that a person fashions, out of a supply of

resources, a unified life. Notice, however, that we do not proj ect into the target space any

split between the subj ect and the obj ect (metalworker alienated from metal) that might

exist in the source space. Once again, this confirms blending theory's claim that

projections from one space to another are always selective rather than total. Indeed, the

metaphor does not indicate alienation at all, but rather a unity produced out of diverse









activities over time. Through this CHAINOF LIFE metaphor, a human being's subjectivity,

temporality, and productive activity can be conceptualized as one unified event.

The CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor achieves the conceptualization of life as a unity

through compression. It compresses identity over time: a person can be said to have a

unified life because, in the metaphor, there is only one person, a metalworker, who is

never anything else. Unlike any actual person, this metalworker begins and ends life

knowing how to do his job. But the chain also compresses actions over time. He never

stops making a chain to do anything else. In the metaphor, a person's life of activities is

one chain. Different actions across different times are compressed into a unified whole,

connected by sequence and by category. Actions in the target domain of life receive

sequential connection because each link is preceded by one link and followed by another.

And actions are also connected by category because each link, no matter where it exists

on the chain, is the same kind of thing: a link.

In the conceptual space of Marley's Ghost, Marley's soul is a metalworker, and his

actions during--but not after--his earthly life make up the chain. When his body died,

the forging ceased, and his chain then became apparent. Moreover, according to Marley,

Scrooge's soul is a metalworker, too. But because Scrooge is not dead yet, Scrooge (and

the reader) cannot see the "ponderous chain" Scrooge has been forging for himself. Only

Marley's Ghost is in a spiritual, post-death, post-forging position to see Scrooge's chain.

So when viewed from the input space of Marley's life, the chain around it is

metaphoric: by conceptualizing Marley's labors and actions over time as a chain,

Marley's soul prior to death is metaphorically understood to be an unchanging









metalworker who does one thing, and his earthly life is metaphorically understood to

have sequential and categorical unity.

The Chain as Instrument of Punishment

We have seen how Marley's Ghost wears a chain that relates to the input space of

his earthly life, metaphorically conceptualized as the CHAIN OF LIFE. As we may recall,

however, Scrooge first identified the chain as a restraint: "You are fettered." The chain

appears to bind the ghost, just as a literal chain binds an inmate in the penal system. If

Marley's chain is also an instrument of punishment, how is it punitive? Literally?

Metonymically? Metaphorically?

The punishment of resurrected bodies at the future Last Judgment

Marley's chain may, in one sense, be considered a literal instrument of punishment.

As Geoffrey Rowell confirms, some (if not most) Victorians believed divine punishment

is more like literal human punishment, for they believed it has yet to fall upon future,

resurrected bodies, of which Christ' s, so far, is the first and only one. This Jewish, pre-

Hellenistic strand of eschatology still abided in the nineteenth century (as it does to this

day), especially among dissenting Protestants such as the Baptists, who may have

influenced Dickens as a child (Rowell 28; Ackroyd 43-44). According to this belief, the

earth will have its eschaton, its Last Day, at an undetermined future point. The Last Day

will also bring a Last Judgment. According to Paul in 1 Corinthians 15, at the Last

Judgment the dead will no longer "sleep" but "shall be raised incorruptible"; "this mortal

must put on immortality," resulting in a new blend of spirit and body, a "spiritual body."

Resurrected, the dead will be then be sentenced by Christ to either heaven or hell, where

they will experience either j oy or torment in a manner befitting a "spiritual body."









In this view, then, Marley's Ghost could be interpreted as a preview of punishments

to come for Marley's yet-to-be-resurrected body. His chain is nzetonynzically associated

with his fieture punishment. In its current afterlife state, Marley's disembodied soul

suffers spiritual torment, but his soul, along with all of creation, is still awaiting the Last

Judgment. The ghostly body that appears to Scrooge's eyes is but a shadowy anticipation

of that future re-embodied state in which Marley will wear a real chain for all eternity.

For the Victorian who leaned toward this view, Marley's Ghost could be read as a

nzetonynzic precursor of the Last Judgment that is yet to come.

The punishment of immortal souls immediately after death

Among Victorian Christians, the belief that judgment only happened at a distant

Last Day was not the prevailing view. Rather, as Rowell indicates, "both Protestant

orthodoxy and pietism reverted to an emphasis on the day of death as the decisive point

in eschatology" (28). A corollary to this emphasis was the belief that the soul is immortal

and entirely distinguishable from the body. Although this latter belief derives from non-

Christian, Hellenistic roots, it combined with the earlier eschatology to form a belief that

the immortal soul is judged, sentenced, and enters its eternal destiny immediately after

separation from the corpse. Crucially, in this view the soul's route to final judgment is

direct rather than deferred to an unforeseeable end-time.

As Christian scriptures offer evidence that spiritual punishment and reward are

deferred to a Last Day, they likewise attest to the more direct path. In the New

Testament parable of the rich man and Lazarus, Luke recounts the story of a poor beggar,

Lazarus, who lies outside a rich man's gate hoping for a few crumbs. The two die and

are immediately located in what appear to be post-judgment spaces:









And it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels into
Abraham's bosom: the rich man also died, and was buried; And in hell he lift up
his eyes, being in torments, and seeth Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom.
And he cried and said, Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus, that
he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in
this flame. (22-24; KJV)

We may safely presume that, like Calvin, some Victorians understood Abraham's

heavenly "bosom" and the hellish "torments" of "flame" as metaphors for realities that

are ultimately beyond human comprehension. Yet these same Christians--indeed, even

non-Christians and deists influenced by the Enlightenment idea of "natural immortality"

manifested by the rational mind (Rowell 28)--also believed in the immortal and

disembodied soul as a literal fact. Victorian Christians assumed that, after bodily death,

the soul continued to experience conscious thought and emotion. But they also believed

that death immediately brought the soul to final judgment by God and a sentence to an

immortal life of heaven or hell. Consequently, Victorians could take Luke' s parable to be

literally true in terms of time: a dead person's soul inanediately enters heaven or hell. At

the same time, though, Victorians could take the parable to be metaphorically true in

terms of physics: there would be no real flames tormenting real bodies in hell, but rather

the spiritual or emotional equivalent of physical torment.

For Victorian Christians who understood divine justice to work in this way,

Marley's Ghost would not be a metonymical preview of a future resurrected body but a

metaphorical affirmation that Marley's immortal soul has been punished ever since it left

the corpse. The chain surrounding the ghost is likewise metaphoric rather than

metonymic: borrowing from the human legal system, the chain conveys an idea of

penalty bestowed upon a disembodied soul. Marley's Ghost's body surely cannot feel the

chain as literally restrictive--indeed, in the ghost's own words, his ghost body is









condemned to move freely about the world. The chain surrounding him is thus

incongruous with physical restriction. The chain must be understood as an embodied

metaphor conveying the restriction of something other than the body. In Marley's case,

what is restricted is the soul's agency. He is unable to intervene in the world and "share"

or "turn[ ] to happiness" any of the world' s misery. So, more than punishment of the

visible body, Marley's punishment is of the will and emotions--and in the conceptual

blend that has the soul as an entailment, the will and emotions belong to the soul, not the

body.

In sum, in this view Marley's chain is only metaphorically related to his

punishment. As a metal chain restricts the material body of an inmate, Marley's chain

restricts the agency of his immaterial soul. And his torment lies precisely in having the

desire to be an agent of change while lacking all ability.

Marley's Ghost seems tormented by more than restricted agency, however. His

ghost body is restrained by more than just a chain. Our anatomy of the ghost must still

account for all the obj ects that are attached to that chain.

"Cashboxes, keys, padlocks [...] and heavy purses wrought in steel"

Attached to the chain around Marley's Ghost are several obj ects: cashboxess, keys,

padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel" (26). We can now view

these obj ects from the standpoint of each of the different spaces in the entire conceptual

integration network. Depending on the space from which we consider these obj ects, they

are either absent, metonymic, metaphoric, or, strangely enough, at once metaphoric and'

metonymic:

*In the space of the human justice system, which serves as a basis for the divine
justice system, these items are absent. Real prisoners may be chained, but they do










not usually have items associated with their life prior to imprisonment physically
attached to that chain.

* In the space of the living Marley, they are metonymic--that is, they are things that
Marley actually worked with in his business. Importantly, they are only a selection
of things from Marley's business, e.g. cashboxes and ledgers, but not pens or
inkbottles.

* In the space of divine justice understood as future judgment of resurrected bodies,
these elements are also metonymic, but in a different way. They are precursors of
future punishment. Because divine justice dispenses a sentence befitting the sin,
Marley's resurrected and re-embodied soul will suffer holistically-physically and
spiritually--in relation to the very things he used in the course of his sinning.

* In the space of divine justice conceptualized as a spiritual burden experienced by
immortal souls after death, these items are metaphoric. Cashboxes, ledgers, and
steel purses are additional weights and restrictions placed upon the immortal spirit,
conceptualized here through the metaphorical source domain of the physical body
("You are fettered"). Added to the weight of the chain, their weight further restricts
the soul's agency in the afterlife.

* In the unique space of2arley 's Ghost itself; the ghost wears the "chain I forged in
life," so these additional items are metonymic elements from Marley's life that also
compose his metaphoric CHAIN OF LIFE. The ghost experiences the items as
simultaneously metonymic and metaphoric.

We can now see that the ghost space truly differs from the other input spaces. The

ghost space is a uniquely inventive blended space. It is fed by selected elements from the

other input spaces. And while it includes elements from the input spaces, it also develops

new inferences that do not derive from the other inputs.

The Ghost Blend Offers New Meaning at Once Metaphoric and Metonymic

For one thing, we can see that "chain" in the ghost space develops new meanings

that do not derive from any of the other input spaces. The CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor has

been created solely 0I ithrin the blended space of the ghost. The chain is not a vital

element taken from any of the other input spaces. The CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor has

nothing inherently to do with Marley's embodied business life--he was an accountant,

not a metalworker. The CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor does not derive from biblical texts or









theologies, either; it is not inherent in the idea of the soul's disembodied afterlife, or in in

the idea of the soul's resurrected and re-embodied afterlife.

Very significantly, the CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor does not derive from the input

spaces of legal or divine punishment, either. The only element connecting the metaphor

to punishment is the literal idea of a chain. But the meaning that "chain" has in the

CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor, where it is the product of one 's labor, is completely different

from the meaning it has in the conceptual frame of punishment, where it is an instrument

of restraint.

So how can one of the world' s most famous ghosts be built upon such a weak

semantic link (pardon the pun)? Actually, according to Turner and Fauconnier,

conceptual blends are often crystallized by just such random, circumstantial connections:

"Creating the blend often involves the exploitation of metonymies" ("Metaphor,

metonymy, and binding" 469). Consequently, what appears to be a coincidental

connection between input spaces can be exploited to serve as the cornerstone of a new

construct that offers new insights and inferences. In the conceptual integration network

producing Marley's Ghost, there is the concept of divine justice, and this in turn is

metaphorically understood through the experience of human justice, which has the

element of chain metonymically associated with it. This chain is recruited by the ghost

blend to create an entirely new concept, the CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor. This metaphorical

concept posits the unity of a person's identity over time and the unity of a person's

actions over time. It also posits a direct causal relationship between a person and the

varied actions that person undertakes. The causality and unity posited by the metaphor

help us to a new insight: Marley has forged the very chain that restricts him. Having









reached this insight, we may then proj ect it back into the space of divine justice, so that a

key new inference emerges there, too: in earthly life, Marley's soul created the very

instrument of spiritual punishment that will restrict his soul in the future and/or eternal

afterlife.

We cannot exaggerate the creativity of the mind manifested by the invention of

Marley' s Ghost, as well as the creativity of the reader' s mind that can comprehend the

ghost and its chain. Somehow, as Dickens's mind was playfully traversing across the

various input spaces he was dealing with, his mind forged a link between two different

meanings of "chain." This mental link occasioned a new conceptual link, permitting the

concept of productive activity (forging a chain) to be blended with the concept of

instruments of punishment (a fettering chain).

It might be argued that the force compelling this conceptual link is the notion from

the space of human and divine justice that "the penalty should fit the crime." Admittedly,

when we look at Marley's Ghost, we have an almost immediate sense that he is being

punished according to his own sin. If we scrutinize this thoroughly, though, we can see

that this immediacy starts to fall apart. Even if we take the ghost' s suffering to be a

literal precursor of his resurrected body's future punishment, we have to ask: What crime

is the counterpart of a punishment that weighs down a body with heavy ledgers and

cashboxes? Marley is not accused of having weighed down other bodies during his

lifetime. Nor is he accused of having been so peripatetic in life that his soul must now at

last be restricted. Indeed, his punishment is that he is "doomed to wander," so he really

can move, and without the normal restrictions placed on physical bodies. By his own

testimony, Marley says his chain does not keep him from moving out into the world, it










only keeps him from helping other people, which is what he now, in eternal hell, desires.

So Marley's crime is not directly related to his moving body. The only way that the

cashboxes and the chain can fit his crime is as a metaphor of restriction. The restriction

is on the soul's ability to share "what it cannot share, but might have shared."

If we let our own minds play within the network and elaborate it, we might also

discover that cashboxes and keys and padlocks--unlike pens or ink, which have not been

selected to the blend--look like items connoting enclosure. To the enlightened soul in

hell, they are painful reminders of the person who, in life, was unwilling either to share

his (literally) enclosed accumulations or to escape his own (metaphorically) enclosed area

of self-concern.

This anatomy of Marley's Ghost has demonstrated that the chain and its contents

are part of a blended space with both metaphoric and metonymic connections to several

distinct input spaces, including the accounting business, the human penal system, the

theologies of eschatological justice, and the embodied experiences of being confined,

bound, and weighed down. The blended space has exploited a metonymic relation to one

of the input spaces in order to develop the concept of metalwork as metaphor for life, a

new meaning that does not derive from the input spaces. In this blended space,

metonymic counterparts from Marley's life are visited upon the ghost as metaphoric

burdens that confine the disembodied spirit. Blending theory can account for each of the

spaces that contribute to the larger network, and for the complex relations that exist

between the spaces. But blending theory is especially equipped to explain how the

ghost' s chain and cashboxes can be simultaneously metaphoric and metonymic. Without

referring to these multiple spaces and the complex relationships between them, the









Jakobsonian model, in which metaphor and metonymy are always assumed to be in

"competition," can appear rather oversimplified and inflexible (Jakobson 48).

A Conceptual Anatomy of Victorian Debates about Punishment

In Marley's Ghost, we have seen how the chain in the blend occasions new

meanings unavailable from the input spaces. Another set of crucial new meanings also

arise from within the blended space alone: the compression of time, and a corresponding

compression of cause and effect. In the figure of Marley's Ghost, Scrooge and other

readers of the ghost get to see what is normally impossible for any human being to

actually see: a direct and visible connection between earthly life and future afterlife. This

leads us into the second section of this chapter, in which we show how compression in

Marley's Ghost can illuminate legal and theological debates arising in Victorian England

and, consequently, shed light on several literary critiques of A Christmas Calrol.

If we juxtapose A Christmas Calrol alongside Victorian debates about both penal

and eschatological punishment, we can see in Marley's Ghost, as well as in Scrooge's

response to the ghost, the conceptual dynamics that make these debates meaningful.

Because Marley's Ghost compresses time, it also compresses cause and effect. In

Marley's ghostly body, future effects (punishments to come in the afterlife) are

compressed with past causes (the deeds of earthly life). As a result, what are normally

radically disconnected spaces--earthly past and present, on the one hand, and deferred or

unascertainable eschatological future, on the other--are visibly and tightly connected

aI ithrin the same body. At the same time, in the ghost blend the agents and instruments of

sin are compressed with the agents and instruments of punishment. Marley's earthly

preoccupation for his business becomes the chain that restricts his eternal soul. As a

result, the ghost condenses a justice system that normally requires several agents and









instruments-an individual commits acts through various means, is judged by another

individual, and is then sent to be punished by other individuals with other means of

punishment--to a system that requires only one agent and instrument: the individual

punishes himself.

The implications of these compressions visible in Marley's Ghost are mind-altering

and life-changing for Ebenezer Scrooge. Though Marley's Ghost is constructed of

orthodox eschatology, Scrooge appropriates from the ghost something unorthodox.

Instead of being reminded that a state of true justice is rendered only after death or at the

end of time, Scrooge learns from Marley's Ghost that a person creates his own living

heaven or living hell. Indeed, as Dickens scholars have argued, this is the precisely way

Scrooge is depicted throughout A Christma~s Calrol. Readers are shown a Scrooge who is

not so much a figure bound for a future hell as one who already lives in a present-day

hell of his own making. And readers also see that Scrooge, rather than adopting a radical

hope in a future justice rendered by God, also becomes his own agent of destiny,

ultimately creating for himself a present-day state of heaven-like j oy.

If we understand the compressions that are made visible in Marley's Ghost and

appropriated by Scrooge, we can gain insight into debates that emerged in the middle of

the nineteenth century concerning both penal and eschatological punishment. In penal

terms, Marley's Ghost compresses the many parties, agencies, and instruments involved

in the legal justice system to the internal dynamics within the mind of one individual.

This mirrors a utilitarian desire in the Victorian era to help the lower classes educate

themselves to avoid crime and its punishment. In eschatological terms, Marley's Ghost

compresses past deeds and future punishment into a single body. This helps us trace how









a Victorian Christian--someone like Scrooge, or someone like the liberal theologian F.

D. Maurice--could move from believing that hell is a future punishment delivered by

God, to believing that hell is a present state of mind caused by oneself.

Victorian Challenges to Retributive Justice

In debates about both eschatological justice and Victorian legal justice during the

nineteenth century, the concept of punishment experienced challenges and calls for

reform. In order to foreground these developments, it will be helpful first to highlight the

existing background ideas of punishment in both the eschatological and penal arenas.

In eschatology, the entrenched view was, as the apostle Paul writes in Romans

3:23, that "all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God" (KJV). Paul presumed

that God's glory is injured by human sin, and thus the only penalty for a crime committed

against the divine nature is the annihilation of the sinner: "For the wages of sin is death"

(Romans 6:23 KJV). In the British justice system, this theological concept of punishment

was matched by a feudal legal code that established penalties based upon the status of the

injured. A crime against the monarch, for example, was defined as essentially different

from a crime against a peasant or a member of the working class. Harsher punishment

was merited because the offence was against a more important being. In theology, hell

was defended the same way, "on the old feudal ground that an offence against an Infinite

Being merited infinite punishment" (Rowell 30); "Orthodox Christians insisted that it

was retributive, 'vindictive', as they frequently described it" (42). We could argue about

which way the influence flowed, from the legal to the theological or vice versa, but we

can safely conclude that the two systems of justice reinforced each other. The

appropriate punishment for any crime, penal or eschatological, was retribution, and









retribution was based not on the dynamics of the act itself but on the assumed nature of

the party injured by the act.

In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the utilitarian ideas of Jeremy

Bentham generated new doubts about retribution. In utilitarian theories of punishment,

emphasis shifted from the needs of the injured party to the need to prevent criminal

activity in the first place. Because urban crime was increasing, retribution no longer

seemed a perfect deterrent. Moreover, too harsh a punishment was seen to exacerbate,

rather than to soften, criminal behavior. Utilitarian critique led to a new focus on the

intentions of the individual offender; intervention was needed to affect those intentions so

the potential offender would never commit offenses and the past offender would not

repeat. As Michel Foucault famously argued, the compulsion behind much European

penal and educational reform in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries can be

understood as an attempt to get subj ects to provide their own surveillance (Discipline and

Punish 195-228). In traditional retribution, cause and effect--individual offense and

state discipline--were separated. In the emerging conceptualization, however, distinct

cause and effect were becoming compressed to the subj ect' s own self-controlling

watchfulness.

Because of this desire to mold the inner life of potential criminals, the Victorian era

witnessed broad efforts to educate the lower classes, which were viewed as the cradle of

most criminal activity. Apparently, just before he wrote A Christma~s Calrol, Dickens

appeared with fellow novelist and future prime minister Benj amin Disraeli at a fundraiser

at "The Manchester Athenaeum, founded to provide a place of education and recreation

for the labouring men and women of that city" (Ackroyd 407). Dickens often expressed









his firm belief in the need to reduce crime by improving "Ignorance," famously depicted

in A Christmas Calrol as a "Yellow, meager, ragged, scowling, wolfish" street urchin in

present-day London (102). Yet Ignorance is also just a boy; if he is sent to schools

instead of "prisons" or "workhouses" (103), he may have a chance to be led not into

temptation: "Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out

menacing" (102). Throughout the Victorian era, leaders and institutions, both evangelical

and secular, collaborated in this desire to educate the lower classes so they would be

ruled by inner "angels" rather than inner "devils."

Among Victorian theologians, similar uneasiness about retribution affected debates

about eschatological justice, resulting again in a focus on the inner life of the individual.

Rowell notes that the "uneasiness" that carried over from legal to theological debates

"appears more in terms of the general way in which hell was questioned, than in the

specific citation ofBentham's ideas," which was rare (13). This "general"

reconsideration of punishment in both the penal and the eschatological domains is

significant, but not simply because it indicates how deeply the two were enmeshed in the

Victorian mind. More significant is that, in both penology and eschatology, the focus

was increasingly on the (potential) offender's own mind:

By Benthamite criteria hell was not a successful punishment, for it manifestly did
not prevent sin and crime; as an evil, which all punishment was held to be, it
inevitably compromised the goodness of God; and an infinite punishment, which
was imposed because the offence had been committed against an infinite Being, did
not tally with Bentham's contention that in punishment regard should be paid to
the intentions and understanding of the offender. (14; emphasis added)

So under the influence of utilitarianism, liberal ministers began conceptualizing orthodox

eschatology differently. Just as legal reformers turned the spotlight away from injured

parties and vindictive punishment to focus, instead, on the mind of the potential criminal,









some liberal theologians shifted away from sin as injury to God and hell as God's

retribution to focused on the mind of the potential sinner.

A key entailment of this shift is that the temporal sequence of cause and effect

involved in offenses and punishments could be reframed as occurring within the mind

itself. The theologian who best exemplifies this reframing is F. D. Maurice, who taught

at King's College in London until being dismissed for his unorthodox views. In his

Theological Essays of 1853, Maurice removes the future from eschatology altogether,

and he argues that heaven and hell are present-day emotional states of the individual:

The state of eternal life and eternal death is not one we can refer only to the future,
or that we can in anywise identify with the future. Every man who knows what it is
to have been in a state of sin, knows what it is to have been in a state of death. He
cannot connect that death with time; he must say that Christ has brought him out of
the bonds of eternal death. Throw that idea into the future, and you deprive it of all
its reality, of all its power. I know what it means all too well while you let me
connect it with my present and personal being, with the pangs of conscience which
I suffer now. It becomes a mere vague dream and shadow to me, when you proj ect
it into a distant world. (405; original emphasis)

For Maurice, sin is not an act committed by one party against another. Sin is the "pangs

of conscience," a state of "my present and personal being." Notice that Maurice also

equates sin with hell, now an earthly experience of feeling "the bonds of eternal death."

Sin is not what causes a future eschatological judgment; it is the present feeling of hell.

And salvation is not something given to the believer in an eschatological future; it is the

present feeling of having been delivered from the feeling of hell.

The individualistic shift in Maurice' s Theological Essays results in a definition of

sin as individualistic, as a turning away from social connections: "the sense of Sin is

essentially the sense of solitude, isolation, distinct individual responsibility" (25). And

sin is experienced when a person "recollects how he has broken the silken cords which

bind him to his fellows; how he has made himself alone, by not confessing that he was a









brother, a son, a citizen" (25-26). As the disease is individualized, so is the cure. It is up

to the individual to repent of individualism. All responsibility for both feeling and for

action falls upon the individual; the presence or possibility of social, ecclesiastical, or

divine agencies (as in orthodox theology) appear to recede backstage.

Marley's Ghost: Decompressing Cause and Effect to Disconnected Spaces?

Rowell cautions against exaggerating Bentham's and Maurice's influences on both

penology and religious belief, reminding us "that there were those who stood by a

retributive theory of justice" throughout the Victorian era (14). Belief in a future hell,

too, was steadfastly and widely preached, mostly for its "deterrent value [...] used to

ensure virtuous living in the present" (30). Contrary to what we might expect of

someone, who, as a child, was scarred by his father's stint in debtors' prison, Dickens

seems to have preferred plain old punishment to many penal reforms. The biographer

Peter Ackroyd reports that in the year before writing A Christma~s Calrol, Dickens toured

the United States, where he was introduced to alternative "model prisons." Apparently,

Dickens found them too comfy:

He believed the 'model prisons' to be too lenient to their inmates and extolled
instead the virtues of hard and unrewarding labour. Certainly he preferred a regime
which relied more upon punishment than upon moral improvement; 'it is a
satisfaction to me,' he wrote some years later, 'to see that determined thief,
swindler, or vagrant, sweating profusely at the treadmill or the crank'" (377).

If Ackroyd' s characterization is accurate, then we could surmise that Dickens believed

that Marley gets the future afterlife that his earthly life deserves, and that Scrooge is

effectively deterred by the spectacle of Marley's future in hell.

Upon this assumption, we could easily be tempted to conclude that the Marley's

Ghost conceptual blend performs an important function that Fauconnier and Turner call

"decompression" (The Way We Think 237). Some blends have the aim of being









decompressed: they prompt our minds to dissolve a tight inner relation that exists in the

blend so that we can reflect on the way that certain input spaces in the network actually

clash. This is especially obvious in counterfactual blends, where an analogy created by

the counterfactual possesses rhetorical effect only when it is decompressed into

disanalogy. For example, suppose I were to say, "If I were Superman, I could push the

earth back three months in its orbit around the sun and give myself more time to finish

my dissertation." In the counterfactual blend, two identities are compressed into one: I

am Superman and thus able to reverse time. But my counterfactual statement really

prompts the mind toward disanalogy: I most certainly am not Superman, I cannot turn

back time, and my dissertation deadline is rapidly approaching. Decompressing what is

compressed in the blend puts me and Superman back in our two appropriate, but very

different, input spaces. The counterfactual and its decompression have the effect of

spotlighting feelings of powerlessness in the input space that includes me.

Likewise, when we contemplate Marley's Ghost, our minds may--and I stress

may--be prompted to decompress what appears to be compressed in the counterfactual

ghost. Decompressing the ghost leads us to remember that we do not take it literally.

Decompressing its painful appearance reminds us that, in our actual experience, sinners

often do not suffer the consequences of their acts during their lifetimes. Decompressing

thus spotlights a rather desperate hope in a future time or divine realm--what Maurice

derided as a "distant world," "a mere vague dream and shadow" (405)--in which all

people will actually get what they deserve. Decompressing Marley's Ghost in this way,

we sustain a very ancient theological view of eschatology. Our minds first loosen the

tight causal connection that exists in the ghost blend: we see that Marley's earthly activity










forges the very chain of his soul's eternal punishment, but then we push the cause and the

effect back to their distinct and disconnected spaces. Decompressing Marley's Ghost

reminds us that we live in an earthly, unjust realm where many evil people are actually

quite happy, and where many good people unduly suffer. The ghost and our mind's

decompression of it spotlight an awareness that the two spaces, living deeds and just

deserts, are radically disconnected in real life, and can only be connected by an act of

equally radical hope.

Marley's Ghost: Compressing Penal Cause and Effect within the Individual

Now, if you do not feel that the Marley's Ghost blend prompts our minds to

decompress its tight connections, I cannot blame you. Marley's Ghost seems confident in

the truth of its compression of cause and effect over time: acts done during lifetime create

the instruments of a future, eternal punishment. If daily experience disconfirms the

connection of cause (actions during life) and effect (just deserts for those actions),

Marley's Ghost provides Scrooge with visible proof of that connection (Figure 2-3).

Because Marley's Ghost compresses two input spaces, two times, that in normal

life appear disconnected, it consequently exhibits a justice system very different from the

normal idea of retribution. Earthly retributive justice involves actions of many parties:

the state, which relies on several actual agents (police, prosecutor, prison warden),

punishes the offender for harming an injured party. Hell's retributive justice also

involves many parties: God punishes sinners for offenses against the glory of God,

against the commandments of God, or against another person bearing God's image. But

Marley's Ghost condenses these many parties to one: Marley punishes himself.










Space 1: Space 2:
Earthly Future or
Experience Eternal
Hope
Causes: Lack of Percetible Effects:
actions, `\ Connection ,, just deserts
just and for all
unjus 1 / actions




Tight
Connection:
Cause Is Effect



Marley's Ghost
Blended Space


Figure 2-3. Compressions of Cause and Effect in Marley's Ghost

If Marley's Ghost compresses many parties to one, it also compresses many actions

to one. In earthly retributive justice, the means of offense and the means of retribution

are varied:. a burglar may use a gun to rob a store, and a warden may use food rations,

chains, guards with rough habits, etc., to punish the burglar. And in eschatological

justice, orthodox belief holds that sinners commit various offenses, and that in final

reckoning before God, God will create punishments that will be appropriate to the sins.

But in Marley's Ghost, the instruments of sin are the instruments of punishment. Again,

the many are compressed to one. Various actions, distinct causes and effects, are

compressed to a relationship of identity: cause is effect.

By compressing times, identities, and causes and effects into one self-punishing

body, Marley's Ghost makes possible new eschatological concepts that are remarkably

congruent with the liberal views of F. D. Maurice and others. Borrowing a term from

blending theory, we can understand Maurice's unorthodox eschatology as the product of









"backward proj section According to Turner, new inferences that emerge in the blended

space may be "proj ect[ed] back to give correlative inferences for the influencing spaces"

(Turner Cognitive Dimensions of Social Science 36). Inferences created in the Marley's

Ghost blend may consequently be applied to input spaces that feed the blend. The ghost

compresses earthly time and eschatological future into one body that is visibly "present"

to Scrooge. If that inference is proj ected back to the input space of religious belief, the

result is an eschatology like Maurice's: each individual suffers hell or enj oys heaven in

their present body.

Incidentally, while backward proj section of inferences from the blended space may

permit new conceptualizations of an input space, it may also necessitate downplaying

other critical inferences that are part of the original blend. In eschatology, for example, if

compression erases the distinction between life and afterlife, then a key inference from

the input space of the corpse--the idea of a decisive end point to the soul's agency--is

diminished. There is not as great a need for an end point to the soul once the gap

between the two realms has been closed. In fact, Maurice fell into hot water precisely

over this matter because most readers of his Jheological Essays~sssssssss assumed, incorrectly,

that the author professed the universalism of the Unitarians (Rowell 62). In universalism,

the afterlife permits no retribution because God's nature, it is presumed, is not vindictive.

The weakness of universalism, charged opponents (including Maurice), was that it

inadequately acknowledged the reality of "spiritual evil" (Maurice 28; Rowell 77).

Despite Maurice' s rejection of universalism, the popular misperception of Maurice

as soft on sin makes sense as an entailment of his compressions of eschatological time

and causation. First, his compression of eschatological time creates a problem: once









earthly life and eternity are conflated, it is a small step to conclude that all souls will

eventually be reformed and saved, whether in this life or the next. If there is not some

point in time that marks an end point of the soul's agency, then there is less incentive to

try to make the soul's immortal life on this side of bodily death count for good. One can

always use the next stage in eternity to work out one's troubles. Second, an additional

problem is created by the compression of eschatological cause and effect. Once hell is

defined as the present product of one' s own sin, then sin, having no final, eschatological

standard, may seem to be relative to each person's personal experience. And to the

ancient protest that evildoers have it too easy in this life, the only answer can be that

people must try harder to persuade evildoers that, despite evidence that they are happy,

they are actually experiencing hell. This task of persuasion can quickly be scorned as just

one more burden the evil do not have to bear.

Interpreting Scrooge as "Living in the Blend"

In A Christma~s Calrol, the task of persuading Ebenezer Scrooge that he is actually

experiencing hell falls upon many characters, major and minor. While it is true that the

novel maintains some ostensible concern for the state of Scrooge's soul in a future

afterlife, it is more apparent that the novel repeatedly portrays Scrooge as someone who

lives in a present hell of his own making. Several Dickens scholars have noted this fact,

even if they have not sufficiently related the eschatology emerging in Scrooge to the

eschatology in Marley's Ghost.

Elliott L. Gilbert, revealing a Mauricean preference for an existential rather than

eschatological definition of eternity, argues that Scrooge's story is one of eternal

innocence lost and found again. Gilbert lauds the novel for showing that "chronology, in

short, is an illusion" (28) caused by the individual's fall from eternal innocence into the









"machinery" of "rational society" (27). Restoring one's innocence is escaping from the

"enemy" of chronological time by recognizing that "the past, present, and future exist in

an eternal present":

[T]ime, which is therefore the enemy, can be defeated by a phenomenological
insight into the simultaneity of all experience; defeated as Scrooge himself defeats
it when, immediately upon awakening from his dream, he cries out, "I will in the
Past, the Present, and the Future! The Spirits of all Three shall live within me!"
(28)

Gilbert adroitly observes the ways Dickens compresses time to simultaneity for the

novels' characters as well as for the reader. In the case of Scrooge, "the whole of his life

is actually lived in the course of one night"; consequently, "if he is of any age at all, he is

barely half-a-dozen hours old" (28) by the reader's standard, even though the reader has

seen Scrooge's entire life fastforwarded.

Additionally, says Gilbert, Dickens compresses time by juxtaposing a child with an

adult so that we see only one, identical character:

[O]ne of Dickens' favorite devices [...] is the use of a child and an adult together in
a story to represent the same character at different stages of his life, but with the
two existing--as if to underscore the metaphysical point of the story--
simultaneously. Tiny Tim and Scrooge have that kind of a relationship in A
Christmas Carol, the rej ected child of Scrooge' s memory of himself being
actualized in the crippled boy (29)

In the alternate future in which Tiny Tim dies, Scrooge also dies; in the actual future of

the story, Tiny Tim lives, and so does Scrooge. In Gilbert's analysis, when the reader

sees the two as one, the reader is engaging in the same redemptive act of simultaneity.

Gilbert' s claim that Scrooge' s redemption lies within his own power is echoed by

Dennis Walder in Dickens and Religion: [I]t is one of Dickens' s deeper and more

convincing insights that [Scrooge's] alienation from humanity is shown to be rooted in

self-alienation" (123). John R. Reed explicitly ties Scrooge's self-alienation to the idea









of self-punishment. Scrooge's "punishment is to discover through psychological travail"

his own "internal fault" (155). "Gradually," says Reed, "Scrooge emerges from the

dungeon of his self into the light of family affection, and into a recognition of his

fellowship with all creatures." Reed' s inclusion of penal, theological, and domestic

elements in his statement-"dungeon," "light," "family affection"--may look like a

forced mixture of distinctly different conceptual domains. But Reed' s mixture makes

sense when readers observe Scrooge first refusing the love offered to him by his former

fiancee, Belle, and his nephew, Fred, and subsequently repenting by finally joining

himself to the welcoming families of Fred and the Cratchits.

In these interpretations, Scrooge is said to exemplify what we identified at the

beginning of this chapter as a third view of hell that emerged in the Victorian era: hell as

an internal, self-imposed state experienced in one's present life on earth. Interestingly,

while these interpretations clearly point out the eschatology implied in the narration of

Scrooge's life, these interpretations are rather silent about the eschatology apparent in

Marley's Ghost. And none accounts for the fact that, although the eschatologies of

Scrooge and the ghost share conceptual roots, they yield very different theological fruit.

A cognitive anatomy of Marley' s Ghost and the life of Scrooge can show how the

two eschatologies are related but different. Let us first recall that the ghost' s body

confirms three beliefs from orthodox eschatology:

* The afterlife really exists
* At bodily death, one loses the agency to affect one's eternal fate
* In the afterlife, just deserts are rendered for choices made in earthly life

Scrooge never directly challenges these beliefs--indeed, he seems to accept them as

having been verified by the words and appearance of the ghost. However, as scholars










have pointed out, Scrooge's life as it is narrated by Dickens seems to confirm some

surprisingly unorthodox beliefs about eschatology:

* Scrooge exhibits the afterlife (hell) as identical with his earthly life
* In his earthly life, Scrooge experiences the just deserts for choices he has made

In the argument presented here, Scrooge is "living in the blend" created by

Marley's Ghost. Marley's Ghost as a unique conceptual blend within a larger conceptual

integration network that includes pre-existing contributing input spaces. If we

decompress Marley's Ghost as a counterfactual, we create no revision of orthodox

eschatology. The ghost confirms the traditional hope in a final and perfect system of

justice, without forcing us to confuse the concepts of this life and the afterlife. However,

if temporal and causal compressions in the ghost are proj ected back to the input space of

theology, we create two unorthodox, yet intriguing, possibilities: earthly life and afterlife

are no longer disconnected but simultaneous~tttt~~~ttt~~~ within the same person; and earthly actions

and eschatological justice are no longer disconnected but identical within the same

person.

The eschatology exhibited by Scrooge can be explained as the backward proj section

of temporal and causal compressions that exist visibly in Marley's Ghost. I do not mean

to imply that this is what actually occurred in Scrooge's mind--Scrooge, of course, is a

Sectional character with no biological brain apart from the one that created him. But

neither do I mean to claim that Dickens must have first created Marley's Ghost, next

reflected on the theological possibilities created by his ghost, and last created Scrooge's

existential hell and redemption by reifying the compressions made visible in the ghost.

What I do claim, however, is that Dickens, like many Victorians, had a creative mind that

could play along several input spaces. Moreover, Dickens's mind, like the minds of










many social reformers and theologians of his era, was playing along some of the same

conceptual input spaces. And because the mind naturally seeks to blend conceptual

spaces in order to solve problems and create new solutions, it therefore makes sense that

similar kinds of blending would pop up in different arenas, from theological essays to

works of the narrative imagination.

As Turner writes, "The blend does not eliminate the influencing spaces. On the

contrary, the blend exists in a conceptual integration network of different and interacting

mental spaces, all of them with their uses. We can work inside the blend, or outside the

blend, or in both simultaneously and interactingly" (Cognitive Dimensions of Social

Science 44). F. D. Maurice' s Theological Essays and Dickens' sA Christma~s Calrol share

"interacting mental spaces," especially the spaces of penal theory and Christian

eschatology. The unique advantage of Dickens's creation is that it provides a single

Eigure, a ghost, in whom we can detect those mental spaces and how they are blended to

make possible new inferences. Furthermore, the present conceptual anatomy ofMarley's

Ghost exemplifies how minds can "work inside the blend, or outside the blend, or in both

simultaneously and interactingly." Working inside the blend, we have accounted for the

implicit hell of Scrooge's own making, as well as for Maurice's explicit compression of

the distance between present and eschatological future to simultaneity in the present.

Working outside the blend, we have shown how Marley' s Ghost can still be interpreted

as confirming traditional orthodox beliefs about the afterlife. Working between the blend

and the input spaces, we have accomplished two more steps. First, we have illustrated

how the construction of the entire integration network is occasioned by the innovative

CHAIN OF LIFE metaphor, recruited to the blend by the exploitation of a metonymy from









the domain of punishment. Second, we have indicated that any interpretation of the

entire network depends on whether what is connected in the blend is proj ected back to

affect an input space, or is decompressed to outer space relations.

If Scrooge is the decisive reader of Marley's Ghost, then his experience of "living

in the blend"--allowing his daily life to exhibit to the eschatological logic confirmed by

the ghost--points to a single interpretation. But the possibility remains, of course, that an

adequate interpretation will play along many possibilities-especially because we cannot

escape the fact that the orthodox eschatology generating Marley's Ghost' s is

incompatible with the unorthodox eschatology that Scrooge takes from the ghost. A

Christmas Carol thus vividly confirms how conceptual blends permit the mind to

generate new meaning that may appear to clash with the very sources of its generation:

We create mental blends to see whether we want to make them real, or to create
emotional states, or to draw inferences that impinge upon reality, or to solve
problems, or to achieve a compressed version of more diffuse knowledge, or to
supply a global insight into diffuse knowledge, or to create new meaning, or to help
us reason to choices, or for other purposes, and in doing so we often work
inevitably, simultaneouslyttt~~tt~~tt~~ having it both ways, 0 ithr a blend and an influencing
space that are incompatible or even, sometimes, centrally opposed. (Turner
Cognitive Dimensions of Social Science 44; emphasis added)

Having it both ways, we can keep Marley's Ghost and Scrooge in conceptual

tension with one another. That tension best illuminates the period's theological debates

about hell. It also best exemplifies the flexibility of the mind that can create and

comprehend conceptual blends.















CHAPTER 3
THE GHOSTLY NUN: TIME COMPRESSION INT GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS' S
"THE WRECK OF THE DEUTSCHLAND"

From Sinful Ghost to Saintly Ghost

Marley's Ghost had a limited mission: to convert one man to a state of belief in the

afterlife of his soul. And the ghost succeeded: it changed the way Ebenezer Scrooge

thought about his future. Having experienced Marley's Ghost as a insightful

compression of time, Scrooge was able to change his decidedly unghostly life. If

Marley's Ghost surpassed its mission--by changing, say, the way Dickens's readers also

think about their own futures-then this can only be attributed to the hopes of the author

and the imaginations of his readers, not the explicit j ob description of the ghost.

A less familiar work than Dickens's tale, Gerard Manley Hopkins' 1875 poem

"The Wreck of the Deutschland" shares the hope of changing the future, and it also

conjures up a ghostly figure to that end. But while Marley's Ghost points its finger at a

single miser shaking in his bed in London, Hopkins's ghost points at everyone in

England. In "The Wreck," the ultimate hope is that all "English souls," once they

understand "the heaven-haven of the reward" in the afterlife, will be converted. Their

present impairment is not that they are Scrooges but Anglicans. Hopkins's poem tries to

persuade England that its future happiness lies in turning, as Hopkins himself had done

nine years earlier, to Roman Catholicism.

Because even the short poems of Hopkins are often complicated, many readers shy

away from "The Wreck of the Deutschland." At 280 lines, "The Wreck" is as difficult to










understand on a second or third reading as A Christmas Calrol is easy on a first reading.

Hopkins's friend Robert Bridges, upon introducing "The Wreck" to the public in the

1918 edition of Hopkins' s poems, wrote that "the poem stands [...] like a great dragon

folded in the gate to forbid all entrance" (Poems 1876-1889; qtd. in Milward Read'ings of

The Wreck v). Yet if we are guided by the model of the ghost as a conceptual blend, we

can get past that dragon and understand Hopkins's work as something very much like

Dickens's simple tale. Using the theory of conceptual integration networks, we will see

that Hopkins's poem prompts readers to construct a ghostly network of earthly, heavenly,

and nuptial scenes that results in the compression of different temporal moments into

one. By giving "English souls" a rather intimate insight into past, present and future, the

poem aims to motivate "rare-dear Britain" to turn from the apostasy of Henry VIII and

return to its once, and future, Roman Catholic faith.

Where "The Wreck of the Deutschland" Is Headed

To understand the future hope to which "The Wreck of the Deutschland" is

oriented, let us start at the poem' s end. In the last of its thirty-five stanzas, "The Wreck"

offers a prayer. Because it concludes the poem, this prayer is a clue as to how Hopkins

hoped to affect his readers. Further below, we will examine the complex blending that

leads up to this prayer, but in its last stanza we get a glimpse of the future hope that

generates the conception of ghostly blends in Hopkins's imagination:

Dame, at our door

Drowned, and among our shoals,

Remember us in the roads, the heaven-haven of the reward:

Our King back, Oh, upon English souls!









Let him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-
cresseted east,

More brightening her, rare-dear Britain, as his reign rolls,

Pride, rose, prince, hero of us, high-priest,

Our hearts' charity's hearth' s fire, our thoughts' chivalry's throng' s Lord. (273-
280)

The "Dame" refers to one of five nuns-"She was first of a five and came / Of a coif~d

sisterhood" (153)--who drowned when the Deutschlan2d ran aground off the mouth of the

Thames in a storm in December 1875. This particular nun is usually referred to by

scholars as the "tall nun," following Hopkins' s use of the term in line 15 1 of the poem.

News reports had noted the physical height of one of the five nuns. She and her fellow

Franciscan sisters had fled Prussia due to anti-Catholic legislation there. Hopkins, a

Jesuit priest who had converted to Catholicism nine years earlier, interpreted their deaths

as martyrdom. In his mind the nuns, after their deaths, received the "heaven-haven" of

"reward" for their witness to the true faith. In Catholic tradition, one can pray to those in

heaven and ask them to intercede with God on behalf of those still living. In this manner

Hopkins makes a request of the dead but risen "Dame," directing to and through her his

own desire for the eventual conversion--or, more accurately, the "reconversion"--of all

England (Moore 120; see also Bumstead).

In this final prayer, the poem offers a simple scenario of a king who rules over his

subjects. The sighing "Oh" and exclamation point in the fourth line of the stanza indicate

the depth of Hopkins's longing to have "Our King back, Oh, upon English souls! "

Although Roman Catholicism is not expressly mentioned here--it is more directly

praised, and Protestantism more directly condemned, elsewhere in the poem--a Roman

Catholic England is implied. To wish a king "back" implies that that king has been









absent. Absent since when? Since the days of "rare-dear Britain," the medieval days

when "chivalry" and "throng" and Rome-allied royals were part of a Catholic English

culture. Other terms-"high-priest," Easterr," "dayspring"--cast the reader' s eye

eastward to Rome and the "crimson-cresseted"' pope there who, until Henry VIII's

apostasy, was also "high-priest" of England.

Hopkins' s future hope is also captured in the last stanza' s imperative to the nun.

"Remember" is not only a call to mentally bring "back" something from the past. It is

also, in its literal sense, a call to gather again, to re-member, the lost (British) members of

the Catholic faith. In typical Hopkins fashion, this meaning is reinforced by the nearby

placement of an apparently insignificant word. As a noun, "shoal" means a shallow area,

but it also has a second, verbal meaning: "To come together in large numbers; throng"

(American Heritage College Dictionary, 3rd ed.). The rhyme prompts our minds to link

the two: If English souls would only shoal under a Catholic king again, then the

heavenly King would be more pleased, and "his reign," restored from the "dimness" of

"our" English apostasy, more gloriously "roll[]."

Other images earlier in the poem contribute to this hope of a future regathering. If

the poem' s Einal stanzas depict a king "royally reclaiming" (271) his subj ects, the thirty-

first stanza shows a shepherd reclaiming his lost sheep. There, Hopkins expresses his

hope that the faithful obedience displayed by the nun, the fact that the "Maiden could

obey so" (247), will "Startle the poor sheep back!" (248). He immediately follows up the

shepherd image with another New Testament image of reclamation, that of the harvest:

"is the shipwrack then a harvest, does tempest carry the grain for thee?" The harvest

image has been shaping Christians' imaginations of the future since the time of Jesus'









death. For believers, the future holds the promised return of Jesus who will return to

retrieve what properly belongs to him: his harvest, his sheep, his subjects. Hopkins

nudges this traditional hope in a particular direction, emphasizing it as a future re-taking

of his England: "Our King back" "royally reclaiming" his "poor sheep back!" (emphases

added). Hopkins bends the flexible New Testament imagery of reclamation toward the

specific rewriting of English political and religious history. If the biblical Christ will

return to rule over a world of unified believers, then, for Hopkins, this hope should direct

English souls to be unified under one faith and under one Catholic king, again, on

English souls, shoals, and soil.

The Multiple Blend Network That Steers "The Wreck" to Its End

Now that we have seen why Hopkins set his poem sailing, let's look at the

conceptual integration network he creates to drive his readers toward his future hope.

Recall that in A Christmas Calrol Marley's Ghost prompts the reader to compress

different temporal realms into one embodied figure, giving visible confirmation of the

continuity of the soul on both sides of death' s divide. "The Wreck of the Deutschland"

offers similar insight, but through slightly more complicated means. Unlike Scrooge,

who was visited by a sinner, the English readers of "The Wreck" are visited by a saint.

She is one of the five nuns, "the tall nun" (151). In the poem, her body is figured as

simultaneously approaching death on the sinking ship and experiencing her heavenly

reward after death. What truly distinguishes Hopkins's nun is that her compression of

earthly and heavenly scenes is made possible by blending each of those two input scenes

with a third scene, nuptial intercourse. The presence of this third input space prompts the

reader of "The Wreck" to construct not one but three blended spaces:

1. There is a blend of the shipwreck scene with the nuptial scene.









2. There is a blend of the heavenly scene with the nuptial scene.
3. There is a blend of the previous two blends--a "multiple blend rather than two
intertwined metaphors" (Fauconnier and Turner The Way We Think 281).

It should be noted that the above are ordered not chronologically but conceptually; it is

likely that the reader will become conscious of the second and third blends before

noticing the first. For clarity's sake, I shall call the first two blends--the nuptials-

shipwreck blend and the nuptials-heaven blend--"minor" blends in the network. The

blend of the two minor blends creates the "maj or blend," which I also call the Ghostly

Nun blend. As we shall see, there are important differences between each of these

blends, and these are not eliminated as readers activate the entire network in their minds.

For example, an inconsequential element in a minor blend may become quite significant

in the maj or blend.

Ultimately, it is the maj or blend that achieves the compression of future and present

in "The Wreck." When the reader successfully activates this third blend, the nun

becomes an eerie figure inhabiting two temporally distinct times. She becomes a Ghostly

Nun, for her body simultaneously exhibits both before-death and after-death experiences.

The Input Spaces to the Ghostly Nun Conceptual Integration Network

For an adequate analysis of the Ghostly Nun, it will be useful to lay out the input

and blended spaces individually without referring to the text too much. Because even a

short phrase from Hopkins's poem can prompt readers to start constructing and

integrating all the conceptual spaces, it is better to delay that integration and, instead,

attend to the individual conceptual spaces that will be integrated. After we have briefly

elucidated the input and blended spaces feeding both the minor and maj or blends, we will

be able to return to Hopkins's words more closely and notice how they exhibit the entire

network and invite dynamic play along all the spaces.









Once we understand the conceptual makeup of "The Wreck," we will then turn to

various interpretations of "The Wreck." Responses to "The Wreck" can be distinguished

by which of the contributing spaces to the entire network a critical reader seems to

emphasize. By identifying which spaces scholars highlight in Hopkins, we can identify

both the merits and the limitations of an individual reading of the poem.

Finally, we will identify and examine the generic space that also contributes to the

entire multiple blend network. The generic space feeding "The Wreck" presumes the

experience of one' s own body being altered by external forces. The generic space is a

term we passed over in the previous chapter, yet it will prove more salient here. Any

argument about the overall rhetorical effectiveness of "The Wreck" may finally depend

upon a reader' s appreciation of the poem's generic space--or what Hopkins might have

called the "underthought, conveyed chiefly in the choice of metaphors etc used and often

only half realized by the poet himself" (Further Letters 252).

The Input Space of the Nuns' Shipwreck and Death

The tall nun as central character. The most ostensible input space given to the

reader is a scenario of one nun suffering and dying on a storm-tossed ship. The scenario

imagined in "The Wreck" is richly supplied by the events an actual disaster. There is

evidence that Hopkins was searching for a way to crystallize his powers to a new poetic

and religious purpose when the Deutschlan2d ran aground (White 250). While more than

sixty aboard the ship died and "Hopkins wrote without knowing all the particulars"

(Robert Bernard Martin 244), Hopkins focused on the political and religious significance

of the fact that five Roman Catholic religious women, "Banned by the land of their birth"

(Hopkins "The Wreck" 162), had also died in the disaster. Having read a report in the

December 11, 1875 issue of The Times that the tallest of the five, amid "shrieks and









sobbing of women and children," had been calling to Christ "till the end came," Hopkins

turned his sights on her (The Times; qtd. in Robert Bernard Martin 255). In his dramatic

poem, this particular nun vividly upstages all other characters who appear in "The

Wreck." The ship itself and the scores of other doomed passengers do not play key roles

in this drama. They receive almost no poetic attention compared to the tall nun who calls

out to Christ and her four sisters who together play lesser, but still meaningful, roles.

The nun is mortally vulnerable to natural forces. The other key element in the

shipwreck space is that of nature. The most important inference from the shipwreck that

pervades "The Wreck" is the inference that the nun's body is painfully and mortally

vulnerable before powerful natural elements. Wind, water, and cold each pose a danger

to ships and to human beings; combined together, however, these three forces become

"widow-making" deadly:

Into the snow she sweeps,

Hurling the haven behind,

The Deutschland, on Sunday, and so the sky keeps,

For the infinite air is unkind,

And the sea flint-flake, black-backed in the regular blow,

Sitting Eastnortheast, in cursed quarter, the wind;

Wiry and white-fiery and whirlwind-swivelled snow

Spins to the widow-making unchilding unfathering deeps. (97-104)

In a deft touch, Hopkins manages to suggest two additional natural perils even though

they are not actually present in the Deutschlan2d disaster. He invokes the threat of jire by

calling the snow "white-fiery," and he raises the danger of sharp rock by giving the "sea"

the modifier "flint-flake." In this manner, Hopkins makes the reader see that his










shipwreck is more than just a story of one nun in peril at sea. His shipwreck calls to mind

the many natural perils that can cause human life to suffer and die.

The Input Space of the Nun's Afterlife in Heaven

A second input space to the Ghostly Nun network concerns the tall nun's future

experience after her death at sea. According to Hopkins, she is received into the

"heaven-haven of the reward" (275), which is awarded her for earthly service to Christ

and obedience to Christ's (Roman Catholic) Church.

The heavenly characters. In the heavenly input space, there are primarily two

beings: the tall nun and the deity (God/Christ), who causes the nun to receive her future

state of saintly afterlife. In the poem' s vision of heaven, the other nuns who have died

play a minor role in the heavenly scene, just as they do in the earthly scene. Their

presence recalls the fact that in Christian doctrine, all obedient believers who have died

for Christ will be given the heavenly reward. Indeed, Hopkins wonders if he can imagine

himself in that heavenly population, too: "But how shall I...make me room there?" (217;

original ellipsis).

The nun experiences a continued consciousness but a changed body. The

heavenly input space carries the assumption that the nun will still have conscious

existence after her death. Hopkins refers to the nun with the same identifiers--"she,"

"her"--in both the earthly and heavenly input spaces. Because she retains her

consciousness in the afterlife, she is much like the ghost of Jacob Marley in A Christma~s

Calrol, although with none of his regret and misery.

The heavenly space assumes some kind of new body for that consciousness,

however. Hopkins agrees with the apostle Paul that the human body "is sown a natural

body; it is raised a spiritual body" (1 Corinthians 15:44 KJV). Although it is difficult to