# 6 = Volume 2, Part 2 = July 1975
On Lem on Todorov
ROBERT SCHOLES. LEM'S FANTASTIC ATTACK ON TODOROV
As an admirer of Stanislaw Lem—both as a speculative fabulator and as a
poetician—I was grieved by his attack on Tzvetan Todorov in the essay "Todorov's
Fantastic Theory of Literature" (SFS 1:227-37). That I have a personal
stake in this must be admitted. I have written an introduction for the Cornell
Press's new paperback version of the very book Lem attacked so virulently, and I
am presently translating Todorov's Poétique de la prose. Also, I have
written with some enthusiasm—though tempered, I trust, with critical restraint—of
structuralism itself, and structuralism was a major object of Lem's polemic. I
make this clear so that the reader may know my bias, but at the same time, I
will try to keep that bias under control in the interest of objectivity and that
truth to which we all aspire but never attain.
Polemical criticism has its uses. Certainly it can shake us out of critical
complacency. A polemical review of Todorov's book will appear soon in Novel,
a magazine of which I am the book review editor. But there are polemics and
polemics. It seems to me that a polemic is valuable to the extent that it
challenges ideas, and that it loses in value to the extent that it seems aimed
at inflicting psychological damage on a human adversary. And Lem is plainly
guilty of this. It is just a style of debate, you say, but it is an unfortunate
style, and unworthy of Lem, whose words are weighty enough simply because they
have his extraordinary achievements behind them.
When Lem turns to ideas, he says some very shrewd things about the
limitations of certain kinds of structural criticism, though I think he is wrong
in postulating a monolithic "structuralism" to which all of his
criticisms apply. His criticism of Todorov, in fact, takes a familiar pattern,
which may be distinguished as a generic feature of polemical criticism as a
whole. First he labels his antagonist: in this case, as a "structuralist."
Then he defines "structuralism" in a very limited way. And finally he
abuses the "structuralist" for abandoning "structuralism"
whenever he fails to conform to the narrow definition provided. This is a
classic double-bind situation, typical of psychological in-fighting but not very
helpful in critical discussion.
But rather than attack Lem, and generate a new polemic of my own, or simply
defend Todorov, I will try to mediate here if I can. It seems to me that the
main point at issue between Todorov and Lem involves the number and variety of
texts that are going to be called "fantastic." Todorov wants to be
exclusive. Lem wants to be inclusive. (But we should remember that only a few
issues back, in the first volume of SFS, in Lem's own
"structural" approach to the genre, he wanted to exclude most so-called
sf from his privileged category of "realism about some other place on the
space-time continuum," presumably dumping the left-overs into a catchall
category of fantasy.) According to Todorov, the whole point of generic analysis
is to refine generic awareness by excluding, sharpening critical focus until a
closely related group of texts may be studied together. Lem, when he is being
"structural" about sf, seems to work the same way, but he is quite
content to include as much as possible under the heading of fantasy. Thus it is
not at all clear how he would go about distinguishing between "fantastic
theology," for instance, and "real theology." Not to mention the
possible confusions between the fantastic theology of the present and the real
theology of some other place on the space-time continuum.
But I don't want to turn this into a polemic against Lem's generic criticism,
which I actually find stimulating and fruitful. The point is simply that generic
criticism is very difficult, and there is no easy middle ground in it between
defining too precisely and not precisely enough. Such criticism also poses
immense terminological problems, forcing the critic either to adapt old terms to
new purposes or to invent new ones, neither of which is always a happy solution.
The essential conflict between Lem and Todorov, as I see it, lies in this area
of terminology, specifically in the word "fantasy" itself. Todorov has
taken, here, a word normally used to designate a large and spongy tract of
literature and given that name to a narrow pathway. From this, much disputation
has begun to spring. Yet I have no doubt that the genre Todorov had studied in
his book is as real as any other generic grouping. Nor does Lem seem to doubt
its existence. On the other hand, it is clear to me that this genre is only a
small part of what we usually call "fantasy." Todorov calls the larger
territory simply "the imaginary," and he locates his
"fantastic" on the interface between the real and the imaginary just
as Lem locates his "real" on the interface between myth and fairy
tale). If Todorov had called his intermediate genre the "uncanny," or
given it some other less broadly designative term, much polemicizing might have
been avoided. As a mediator, here, I am perfectly willing to say that I wish he
had not tried to take a term that usually designates the radically unreal and
make this same term designate a hesitation between the real and unreal. In
ordinary English usage, at any rate, "uncanny" is much closer to the
mark. Here Todorov's English translator has not helped much, by translating
étrange
as uncanny. Still, if we could separate a dispute about names from the dispute
about concepts, we might find that there is actually less to dispute about than
we had supposed.
There is much in Lem's more general attack on structuralism that I should
like to discuss, but SFS is probably not the place to do this, especially
with the space limitations the editors have set for this response to Lem's
critique. Here, I must content myself with urging readers to look into Todorov
for themselves, since Lem has not represented his adversary's position as
clearly and fairly as he might have.
RICHARD ASTLE. LEM'S MISREADING OF TODOROV
It is difficult for me to imagine that anyone familiar with Tzvetan Todorov's
Introduction à la littérature fantastique (misleadingly abbreviated to
simply The Fantastic for the English translation) could take seriously
Stanislaw Lem's misreading of it in SFS #4. However, for the benefit of those as
yet unexposed to Todorov and to structuralism, some sort of response seems
desirable, particularly in light of Lem's otherwise well-deserved prestige in
these pages. (Note: in what follows, not having seen the English-language
edition, I will rely exclusively on the French text published in Paris in 1970,
which is also, I understand, the text used by Lem.)
Todorov's purpose in that portion of the book that Lem attacks is a simple
one: to investigate a literary category, a "genre," characterized by a
particular effect, and to discover the rule that defines this category. It is Todorov's fate, or
perhaps his carelessness (not seeing Lem in the bushes, waiting to pounce), to
have chosen for the name of this effect a word, "fantastic," which
means something quite different to Lem. It is, in turn, Lem's fate not to have
noticed this difference in terminology, and to have become hopelessly confused
on almost every point he takes up.
The "fantastic," according to Todorov, is characterized by the
hesitation of a being (the hero of the story and the reader who
"identifies" with this hero) who knows only natural laws when faced
with an event in appearance supernatural. This hesitation finds the hero
suspended between abandoning her or his dependence on rational explanation on
the one hand, and, on the other, constructing a complicated and unlikely but
rationally possible explanation for the apparently supernatural events.
Historically speaking, prior to what we refer to as the
"Enlightenment," there could be no such hesitation. The supernatural
was accepted as a part of life. Witches and God co-existed with men and women,
and a story could, in Todorov's terms, be "marvelous," but never
"fantastic." Examples abound: Sinbad the Sailor, fairy tales,
chivalric romances. At the other end—our end—of the nineteenth century, with
the psychoanalytic discovery of the unconscious, there is again no hesitation.
The witness to bizarre events, or at least the reader of the story, knows them
to be the creations of his or her own mind. A story then may be
"strange" (étrange, inexplicably translated as "uncanny" by
Richard Howard), but, again, never "fantastic," science fiction and
Todorov's careless remarks about it notwithstanding. For Todorov, science-fiction
is a species of the marvelous, but the sense in which "robots,
extraterrestrial beings, the whole interplanetary context" are supernatural
is entirely different. Here the marvelous and the strange intersect without
creating that cognitive hesitation characteristic of the fantastic, for the
explanation of the events, while currently impossible (we as yet know no
interplanetary beings) is implicitly rational (we recognize the possibility that
we will know such beings in another time).
Thus the hesitation of the reader-hero in the fantastic reflects the
hesitation of history, and Todorov's fantastic is an historical form, nothing
but the backside of nineteenth century positivism, with its foreclosure of the
supernatural ("la littérature fantastique n'est rien d'autre que la
mauvaise conscience de ce dix-neuvième siècle positiviste" (p176). Should
this conclusion hold up—and Lem, at least, does not attack it—the value of
Todorov's book seems to be assured, whatever one thinks of his methodology.
Lem misunderstands not only the object but also the theoretical framework of
Lem's study, at at least two points: the notion of "genre" and the
nature of "Todorov's axis."
Historical genres do not correspond to biological species, despite Todorov's
attempt to rehabilitate Propp's morphological analogy. There is, as Lem points
out, no such thing as a "normal" story in the sense that there is a
"normal" (i.e., "abstract") tiger. However, there is no such
thing as a "normal" Victorian house, either. Yet one need not look at
them all to discuss the "historical genre" of Victorian houses.
Of course, this notion of genre is restrictive, and "only mass literature
must call in the notion of genre" (translated from pp10-11 of the French text). (Lem makes the same point, remarking that "the more
inferior and paradigmatically petrified the texts which it undertakes to
anatomize, the more readily [Todorov's method] will reveal structures," but
careless continues, "Todorov, not surprisingly, omits to draw this
conclusion" [SFS 1:228].) But since all works inevitably find their place
somewhere between generic conventions and the breaking of them (one need only
think of Solaris and the conventions of the alien-contact novel), the
notion of genre is more or less applicable to all texts.
Todorov, however, is not speaking directly of historical genres, but of
"theoretically possible" genres, elementary and complex, defined by
the presence or absence of a single structural trait or a conjunction of such
traits, respectively. These genres are not, as Lem seems to understand, mutually
exclusive categories into which texts are pigeon-holed. A single text may belong
to any number of theoretically possible genres, or a given genre may be
represented by no texts. The usefulness of Todorov's method, in its movement
from this level of theory back to practice lies in the adequacy of the following
observation: "On all evidence, the historical genres are a subset of the
set of complex theoretically possible genres" (translated from p35 of
French text).
Lem's chief theoretical (as opposed to bilious) objection to Todorov's
method lies elsewhere:
Let us now take a closer look at Todorov's axis. It is of logical
ancestry. The structuralist is indebted to the linguists, and they in turn
adopted the simplest structure of exclusion from set theory, in that
here the principle of the excluded middle holds: an element either belongs
to a set or it does not, and 45% membership in a set is impossible. (SFS
1:232)
This takes the form of a general protest against structuralism on a basic
theoretical level. Sticking to the example before us, it is clear that if a work
is characterized by the presence or absence of a single structural trait, it
either belongs or does not belong to the genre defined with respect to that
trait. With a complex genre, defined by a conjunction of traits, the question of
partial membership can of course be raised, but it would seem obvious that the
concept of membership is too crude, too simple to deal with it. One detects
here a whiff of that crude desire for quantification characteristic of
"nineteenth century positivism."
However, Lem here seems to be talking about two things at once. The
Todorovian axis referred to stretches from the "marvelous" to the,
"strange," and the "fantastic" is precisely the
"excluded middle," defined by the balance, the cognitive hesitation,
between two traits: the supernatural and the complex natural explanations for
events, respectively. Here, at least, Lem's apparent desire to place works along
a continuum would seem to meet with some satisfaction.
STANISLAW LEM. IN RESPONSE
My brief response comes tripartite: (1) preliminaries, (2) evidence against
the Todorovian doctrine, and (3) general remarks.
1. I concede that to show the deficiency of Todorov's conception is not to
refute all existing schools of structuralism. I concede too that there are in
Todorov's book some valid observations on the early period of a subclass of the
"Fantastic" in the 19th century, but still maintain that he failed to
hit the important target at which he aimed, his generalizations being
substantially indefensible and misrepresentative of the real complexity of the
generic problems at stake.
2. Let us imagine a novel dealing with the conflict of opinions arising from
an event like the following. There is preserved in a Roman church in a phial the
blood of a sainted martyr, and this blood, when shown to a large crowd on a
certain day of the year, becomes liquid. The central dilemma of the novel is
whether this liquefaction of the blood in the glass container occurs naturally
(e.g., catalyzed by sunlight) or whether it represents a "true
miracle." Mr. Astle writes, "The 'fantastic,' according to Todorov, is
characterised by the hesitation of a being (the hero of the story and the reader
who 'identifies' with this hero) who knows only natural laws when faced with an
event in appearance supernatural." If so, then the novel described above
must per definitionem be classified as "fantastic." But this would
contradict what any sane reader would say—that the novel is a realistic
novel, for the facts described in it are real, and the problematics
involved are of a religious instead of a fantastic character. Or
take another novel, one concerned with the central controversy of
anthropogenesis: what caused the change of some hominids into men—natural
evolution only, or some divine intervention? I hope that no one will dare to say
that this question is of a fantastic character in the meaning that Todorov has
given the term. Nevertheless we have before us in both cases the typical
hesitation (according to his definition) between natural and supernatural laws.
If we follow Todorov further (as good believers should), we will be forced to
conclude that all head-on collisions between the "sacred" and
"profane" mainstreams of human thought are coextensive with the
"fantastic." Every literary hero who as a "doubting atheist"
or "doubting transcendentalist" hesitates between naturalistic and
super-naturalistic ontology becomes, ipso facto, according to the Todorovian
doctrine, the hero of a fantastic story. But this is already reductio ad
absurdum of the whole concept, is it not?
My next example is the "sealed room" subset of crime stories. When
the impenetrability of the sealed room to all "natural means" has been
described in details of the utmost completeness, the evidence thus accumulated
points to the fact that the crime could not have been accomplished
"naturally." If so, then every reader should hesitate between the Natural and Supernatural explanations, for the situation
embodies perfectly the structure of Todorov's "fantastic." But there
is no trace of such hesitation in the readers. No fan of crime stories will
anticipate a "supernatural explanation" of the crime. Why not? The
answer is simplicity in itself: the readers are accustomed to the rules of this
play, and its first rule denies the author any use of "accomplices from
heaven or hell." So if a story should end with the Detective's assertion
that "this crime was perpetrated by some Superhuman Agent," the
readers would tell the author a cheat. This shows that the reader does know
the genre of the text beforehand, and because of this the reading is never
of an "immanent" character as structuralism would have it. Todorov has
himself perpetrated petitio principii, giving the explanandum for the
explanans.
In my SFS essay I demonstrated that there are literary works, as those of
Borges, that do not comply with the Todorovian conditions of
"fantastic" but are nevertheless appreciated as "fantastic"
by the average reader, and above I have shown that there are literary works that
comply perfectly with all the conditions necessary and sufficient, according
to Todorov, to produce the "fantastic effect" but that have nothing in
common with our intuitions of what we are accustomed to regarding as
"fantastic." What follows can now be said easily. Sometimes the
Todorovian conditions are fulfilled by what we are accustomed to calling
"fantastic," and sometimes they are not. But a theory sometimes
confirmed and sometimes confuted is no valid theory at all.
3. I do not imagine, however, that I have convinced my critics with the
arguments made above, so now I come to the last part of my counterargument: the
origin of the principal differences between our attitudes in the field of
cognitive generalizations. I have had no formal training in the humanities; in
this field I am an intruder from the realm of natural science, where I learned
what a theory is. It is a generalization from a univocally delimited set of
facts falsifiable by means of experiment. Please note that neither of my critics
is defending the theory of the fantastic as it was stated by Todorov;
each is instead defending his own version of that theory. Should more
parties come into the field, then there would begin a further disintegration of
Todorovian doctrine, a divergent multiplication of theoretical attitudes without
end. This situation I find intolerable. One must have established means to prove
or refute any given theory in the humanities as well as in physics. I am well
aware of the monstrous difficulties that arise when one attempts to introduce
into the theory of literature this kind of methodological rigor as standard. I
have myself written an opus, "Philosophy of Chance," with the
subtitle, "Literature in the Light of Empiricism" (Cracow: Wyd.
Literackie, 2nd edn, 1975), in which in the first part of the second volume I
criticize various schools of structuralism. This work I cannot summarize here. I
can only describe the context of my grievance against structuralism.
We are now in the midst of an information explosion, and one of its centers
is in the arts, where the danger comes from what I will call the limits to
cultural growth. To transgress these limits is to release the entropy of culture
in an uncontrolled way. This growth, accelerating, produces disorder (= entropy)
and thus disrupts the self-sustaining chain-processes of cultural evolution; or,
to put it another way, the rising chaos incapacitates all factors responsible
for the value-oriented "natural selection" of paradigms in culture.
This "natural selection" has given to the culture of the past a
homeostatic equilibrium between anachronization and modernization of creativity.
But today the traditional values are invalidated and the new ones are born
immature and with a constantly decreasing life span. Any evolutionary process in
which there is no adequacy of the mutation and stabilization rates, in which the
stabilizing factors are held down while the mutational ones multiply
exponentially, must collapse. Confronted with the premonitory symptoms of such
collapse, what we need most in the theoretical field are, first, generalizations
emphasizing the diachronical linkage of culture, and, second,
generalizations capable of axiological differentiation. Both these tasks
are neglected by structuralism. It is neither diachronical in its typical
proceedings, nor axiologically selective. It is hermeneutical proliferation at
its worst, since it suffices to know some logic (some second-rate logic, I would
add) and to have a McLuhanian imagination to produce each day a lot of new
structuralistic hypotheses, promoting the already great confusion of concepts.
Because of this, structuralism is not a neutral constituent of our intellectual
life, but a paralyzing agent, the modern reincarnation of scholasticism, even if
some of its fruits are not as toxic as Todorov's Introduction à la
littérature fantastique.
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