The Geneva School Revisited



The
proper
model
for
the
relation
of
the
critic
to

the
work
he
studies
is
not
that
of
scientist
to

physical
objects
but
that
of
one
man
to
another
in

charity.
I
may
love
another
person
and
know
him
as

only
love
can
know
without
in
the
least
abnegating

my
own
beliefs.
Love
wants
the
other
person
as
he

is,
in
all
his
recalcitrant
particularity.
As
St.

Augustine
puts
it,
the
love
says
to
the
loved
one,

"Volo
ut
sis"—"I
wish
you
to
be."


J.
Hillis
Miller,
"Literature
and
Religion"



Middle
age
inspires
reminiscences—about
first
loves,
first
marriages,
first

children,
first
critical
methodologies.
The
present
theoretical
mid‐life
crisis
remarks

concern
the
latter.


I
was
once
a
Geneva
Critic,
or
aspired
to
be.
Completing
my
doctoral

work
at
the
University
of
Florida
in
the
1970s,
already
under
the
sway
of

Merleau‐Ponty,
Heidegger,
Bachelard,
and
phenomenological
thinking

generally,
I
began
consorting
with
Marcel
Raymond,
Jean‐Pierre
Richard,

Jean
Starobinski,
Albert
Beguin,
Georges
Poulet,
and
the
early,
pre‐
deconstructionist
J.
Hillis
Miller,
those
phenomenological
critics—"critics
of

consciousness,"
as
Sara
Lawall
would
call
them
in
the
only
book‐length

study
of
the
movement—either
associated
with
the
University
of
Geneva
or

under
the
influence
(anxious
or
otherwise)
of
indigenous
Genevans.


Like
the
Geneva
critics
but
about
a
decade
late
(always
slow
to
catch
on,
I

didn’t
discover
the
Sixties
until
1975),
I
had
come
to
concern
myself
with
the
whole

of
a
writer’s
work,
believing
with
Miller
that
"all
works
of
a
single
writer
form
a

unity,
a
unity
in
which
a
thousand
paths
radiate
from
the
same
center"
(Charles

Dickens
ix)
and
sought
to
find
that
center,
the
discovery
and
articulation
of
which
I

had
come
to
consider,
along
with
the
Geneva
critics,
to
be
an
activity
higher
than

both
formal
analysis
and
biography.
I
wanted
to
be
faithful,
while
reorganizing
and

representing
an
author’s
mental
development
in
an
order
which
differs
from
the

order
of
presentation
in
published
works,
to
what
Lawall
deemed
the
"systole
and

diastole"
(196)
of
artistic
individuation.
I
sought
to
"deepen"
and
"prolong"
(Poulet’s

terms)
when
necessary,
to
emphasize,
to
bring
into
greater
relief
those
episodes,

ideas,
images,
and
insights
in
an
author’s
works
which
invite
the
reader
to
dwell

upon
them
more
carefully
and
at
greater
length
than
the
writer
himself
sometimes

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 2

did.
Had
not
the
founder
of
the
Geneva
School,
Marcel

Raymond,
insisted
that
"True
criticism
is
creation,
a
recasting
of

the
work
of
art,
more
conscious
than
the
original
and
more

transparent?"
(quoted
by
Ender).
That
Geneva
criticism
made

me
feel
vicariously
creative,
an
often
unacknowledged,
often

very
hidden
agenda,
of
the
parasitic
academic
critic,
was
part
of

the
lure.


Like
the
Geneva
critics,
I
liked
to
think
of
all
of
the

elements
of
an
author’s
verbal
presence—imagery
and
ideas,
personae,
sense
of

narrative,
metaphoric
language—as
the
means
of
personal
development,
attempts
to

achieve,
on
the
behalf
of
the
self,
"ontological
integrity"
(Lawall
198).
Like
them,
I

too
sought
to
discover
Poulet’s
"point
of
departure"—that
"act
from
which
each

imaginary
universe
opens
out"
(the
phrasing
is
Miller’s
["The
Geneva
School"
478
and

"The
Literary
Criticism
of
Georges
Poulet"
481)—
which
lies
at
the
heart
of
every

word
of
an
author’s
corpus.


Like
them,
I
aspired
to
isolate
the
"unit
passages"—those
recurrent

obsessions
of
a
work
which
serve
as
the
fundamental
landmarks
of
an
author's

"interior
distance,"
Poulet's
name
for
the
inner
space
of
consciousness,
populated
by

the
objects
of
an
author's
world,
within
whose
"vacancy"
he
draws
close
to,
or
feels

himself
separated
from,
the
world
as
it
is
"redisposed"
there
(see
Poulet,
The

Interior
Distance;
Miller,
"The
Geneva
School"
478).
Like
Jean‐Pierre
Richard,
it
was

the
phenomenological
"sensuous
logic"
and
not
the
intellectual
abstractions
of
a

writer
which
attracted
me.


Like
Miller,
I
sought
to
bring
to
light
the
"original
unity
of
a
creative
mind"

(Charles
Dickens,
ix)
by
following,
through
the
mediation
of
the
work,
the

"metamorphoses
of
a
circle"
(the
expansions
and
contractions
of
the
self,
identified

by
Poulet,
as
it
seeks
to
find
its
orientation
in
the
exterior
world
[see
Poulet,
The

Metamorphoses
of
the
Circle;
Miller,
"The
Literary
Criticism
of
Georges
Poulet"
483‐
84]).


Because,
like
the
Genevans,
I
had
become
convinced
that
the
purpose
of
a

critic
is
to
offer
a
"criticism
of
consciousness,"
not
textual
analysis
or

deconstruction,
I
concurred
with
Poulet
that
the
"intimacy"
which
criticism
requires

"is
not
possible
unless
the
thought
of
the
critic
becomes
the
thought
of
the
author

criticized,
unless
it
succeeds
in
re‐feeling,
in
re‐thinking,
in
re‐imagining
the
author's

thought
from
the
inside"
(Miller,
"The
Geneva
School,"
468‐69).
I
took
my
goal
to
be

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 3

not
objectivity
and
not
judgment,
but
what
J.
Hillis
Miller
termed
"coincidence"

between
the
mind
of
the
critic
and
the
author
studied.


J.
Hillis
Miller
once
noted
that
"every
significant
critical
study"—even
a
new

book
on
Shakespeare,
or
one
on
Dickens—brings
by
emphasis
and
discovery
a
new

author
into
the
world
("An
Exercise"
284).
This
is
true,
as
Miller
elsewhere
observes,

because
the
imaginal
universe
of
a
great
artist
is
virtually
infinite
and
capable
of

engendering
more
and
more
readings
of
its
structures
and
meanings.
Hence
the

strong
impression,
the
enticement,
that
the
critic
"sees
what
nobody
else
has
seen"

(de
Man)
that
doing
Geneva
criticism
offered.




Evelyn
Ender
has
observed
that
the
Geneva
School

also
had
a
not‐very‐hidden
agenda:
to
trace
out
"in

their
criticism
the
significant
moments
of
a
history
of

the
imagination,
of
feelings,
and
of
consciousness
in

the
modern
era."
Most
influenced
by
Poulet’s

contemplations
of
evolving
temporal
consciousness
in

Studies
in
Human
Time
(1956)
and
Miller’s
companion

studies
of
the
search
for
immanence
in
19th
and
20th

Century
English
and
American
poets
(The

Disappearance
of
God
(1963)
and
The
Poets
of
Reality
(1965),
and
already
immersed

in
the
greatest
of
my
own
intellectual
influences,
the
work
of
the
British
philologist

and
Inkling
Owen
Barfield
(1898‐1997),
I
was
more
than
ready
to
foreground
his

agenda.
Barfield,
for
those
who
are
not
familiar
with
him
(and
that
includes
about

99%
of
students
of
modern
thought)
had
come
to
understand
that
in
language,

especially
literary
language,



the
past
history
of
humanity
is
spread
out
in
an

imperishable
map,
just
as
the
history
of
the
mineral
earth

lies
embedded
in
the
layers
of
its
outer
crust.
But
there
is

this
difference
between
the
record
of
the
rocks
and
the

secrets
which
are
hidden
in
language:
whereas
the
former

can
only
give
us
a
knowledge
of
outward,
dead
things—
such
as
forgotten
seas
and
the
bodily
shapes
of

prehistoric
animals
and
primitive
men—language
has

preserved
for
us
the
inner,
living
history
of
man's
soul.
It

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 4

reveals
the
evolution
of
consciousness.
(History
in
English
Words
14)



Preoccupied
now
with
Barfield’s
powerful
ideas,
any
possibility
of
my
ever
being
a

methodological
purist,
always
slim,
given
my
interests
and
enthusiasms,
was
ended.

If
I
was
to
be
a
Geneva
critic,
it
would
only
be
with
a
Barfieldian
twist.
The
influence

of
cognitive
psychologist
Howard
E.
Gruber
in
the
early
1980s
did
not
make
things

any
simpler.


Like
the
Geneva
School
with
which
it
shares
both
geographical
and

intellectual
origins—
Gruber
was
a
student
of
another
great
Genevan

phenomenologist,
developmental
psychologist
Jean
Piaget—his
case‐study
method
of

examining
the
work
of
historically
great
creative
individuals
is
self‐effacing,

dedicated
toward
a
close
reading,
in
turn
phenomenological—"inside"
and
close
to

the
subject's
own
point
of
view—and
critical—
detached,

"outside"
the
subject
and
aware
of
possible
bias—of
the

original
text
(Wallace
32),
a
hermeneutic
which
results
in

"schematizing
the
ideas
of
the
creative
thinker
in
a
way
that

he
would
probably
recognize
and
accept
as
a
reasonable

representation"
("And
the
Bush"
290).
Using
Pouletian

language,
Gruber
explains
that
"Our
main
point
of
departure

will
always
be
the
study
of
the
construction
of
an
idea,
of
a

work,
of
an
oeuvre"
("From
Epistemic
Subject"
177).

Gruber’s
goal
was
nothing
less
than
"To
see
the
creative
thinker
in
full
historical

context
is
a
large
undertaking,
requiring
the
knowledge
and
skills
of
historian,

anthropologist,
sociologist,
and
literary
critic"
("From
Epistemic
Subject"
169).

Convinced
that
"the
most
challenging
task
of
creative
research
is
to
invent
means
of

describing
and
explaining
each
unique
configuration"
("Inching"
245),
Gruber,
like

the
Genevans,
sought
always
to
study
the
entire
creative
output
of
a
subject,
not

only
published
an
unpublished
books,
essays,
journals,
notebooks,
sketches.
And
so

Gruber’s
method
became
part
of
my
new,
expanded
Geneva
School
approach
and

creativity
my
true
subject.




Busy
with
other
matters,
I
didn’t
get
the
memo
in
the
1970s
from
the
post

structuralist/deconstruction
administrative
office
in
Paris
that
the
author
was
dead.
I

had
wiped
out
on
the
linguistic
turn
and
was
left
by
the
side
of
the
road
as
literary

theory
moved
on,
or
so
it
seemed.


 The Collected Works of David Lavery 5

When
I
left
the
University
of
Florida
in
1979,
a
brand‐new
PhD
about
to

discover
the
harsh
realities
of
the
job
market,
the
English
Department
was

undistinguished.
Only
a
few
faculty
had
national
reputations;
few
were
publishing.

The
smell
of
burn‐out
and
cynicism
permeated
the
atmosphere
of
higher
learning
in

the
study
of
literature.
The
topics
had
all
been
covered.
There
seemed
to
be
no
need

(especially
since
there
were
no
jobs)
in
doing
yet
another
dissertation
on
Faulkner,

or
Yeats,
or
Piers
Plowman.
We
needed
a
new
thrill.
The
mines
had
been
stripped
of

their
ores.
The
fields
were
no
longer
fertile.


The
following
year
the
Algerian‐born
French
philosopher
and
critic
Jacques

Derrida
was
in
residence
in
the
Florida
English
Department
for
a
semester.
The

timing
was
propitious.
Deconstruction
was
gaining
steam,
and
his
influence
was
much

felt.
Not
only
the
department's
young
turks
but
some
of
its
senior
faculty
as
well
fell

under
the
sway
of
the
arch‐boa‐deconstructor.
I
began
to
notice
a
sizable
number
of

U
of
F
English
faculty
mining
the
rich
new

deconstructive
veins
and
publishing
regularly
in
good

journals.
I
vividly
recall
that
one
essay
by
a
then

assistant
professor
began
with
the
words
"As
Jacques

Derrida
said
to
me.
.
.
."
A
fellow
new
PhD
became,

almost
overnight,
a
deconstructionist/post‐
structuralist,
and
with
great
success.
I
report
with
no

envy
whatsoever
that
the
seven
books
and
ninety
plus

articles
on
film
he
has
produced
in
the
last
twenty

years
are
the
totally
opportunistic
and
formulaic
reworking
of
deconstructive

themes.


Viewed
from
the
perspective
of
the
sociology
of
knowledge,
the
epidemic

spread
in
the
1980s
of
the
French
disease
and
of
German
measles
is
understandable

enough.
Unemployable
English
PhDs
suddenly
had
something
to
write
about.
Piers

Plowman
could
now
be
deconstructed.
Dissertations
on
a
Renaissance
poet
could

now
concern
themselves
with
"the
means
through
which
the
poet's
voice

hypostatizes
the
infrastructural
gap
over
which
subjecthood
replicates
the
precarious

scaffolding
that
preserves
it
as
such
"
[an
actual
quotation
from
an
actual

dissertation
abstract
by
an
actual
colleague—author
intentionally
not
identified].


Established
scholars
could
discover
second
careers,
reborn
as

deconstructionists.
As
a
Genevan,
J.
Hillis
Miller
had
at
least
believed
in
the
search

for
"presence,"
had
held
out
the
possibility
that
a
"poetry
of
reality"
was
at
least

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 6

attainable.
Under
the
influence
of
Derrida,
Deconstructionist‐Miller
became
the

champion
of
the
denial
of
meaning,
presence,
and
authorship.
Histories
of
criticism

will
speak
of
an
early
and
late,
a
pre‐
and
post‐deconstructionist
Hillis
Miller.

Deconstructionist‐Miller,
I
note
in
passing,
parlayed
his
fame
into
an
escape
from

rust‐bucket
New
Haven
into
a
new
California
sensibility
at
Cal‐Irvine,
transplanting

Eurothought
into
La‐La
Land,
and
Derrida,
too,
became
a
virtual
American—a

constantly
visiting
professor
at
U.S.
institutions.




Oblivious
to
my
old‐fashionedness,
my
Genevan
inclinations
would
nevertheless

result
in
several
projects,
the
first
major
published
critical
reading
of
Annie
Dillard,
a

book
length
study
of
Loren
Eiseley
completed
soon
out
of
graduate
school
but
never

published
(though
I
intend
to
dust
it
off
soon),
a
Gruber‐meets‐the
Geneva
School

book
on
"avocational
creativity"
now
in
its
final
stages.
And
Geneva
played
a
pivotal

role
as
well
in
yet
another
unpublished
work,
now
available
as
a
hypertext
on
the

web:
Evil
Genius:
An
Experiment
in
Fantastic
Philosophy,
an
odd
science
fiction
which

tells
the
story
of
Joanna
Climacus,
a
21st
Century
phenomenological
psychologist,

who
journeys
back
in
time
to
assassinate
René
Descartes
in
order
to
preempt
the

outbreak
of
a
neurological
dysfunction
known
as
Proprioception
Deficit
Disorder,
aka

Descartes’
Disease.
In
search
of
a
proper
time
machine,
I
found
it
in
one
of
the

Geneva
School’s
most
famous
essays.
Poulet’s
"The
Phenomenology
of
Reading"

hypothesizes
that,
in
the
actual
encounter
with
a
book,
the
self
of
the
reader

momentarily
becomes
another—
becomes,
in
fact,
the
other
subjectivity
which

produced
the
writing.


For
every
reader,
according
to
Poulet,
the
experience
is
the
same.
Immersed

in
Klee's
"Open
Book,"
a
reader
finds
"the
entrance
to
a
secret
chamber";
he
finds

himself
not
only




inside
a
book,
but
inside
a
mind,
a
consciousness—that
which
produced
it—
which
is,
in
turn,
inside
him:
"there
is
no
longer
either
outside
or
inside"

while
reading,
I
am
aware
of
a
rational
being,
of
a
consciousness:
the

consciousness
of
another,
no
different
from
the
one
I
automatically
assume
in

every
human
being
I
encounter;
except
that
in
this
case
the
consciousness
is

open
to
me,
welcomes
me,
lets
me
look
deep
inside
itself,
and
even
allows

me,
with
unheard‐of‐license,
to
think
what
it
thinks,
and
feel
what
it
feels.




 The Collected Works of David Lavery 7

Thus
the
reader
moves
out
of
time,
discovering
that
"a
book
is
not
only
a
book[;]
it
is

the
means
by
which
an
author
actually
preserves
his
ideas,
his
feelings,
his
modes
of

dreaming
and
being.
It
is
a
means
of
saving
his
identity
from
death."
It
is
his
means

of
perpetuating
consciousness
in
the
face
of
history.
As
John
Milton
had
suggested
in

Areopagitica,
"A
good
book
is
the
precious
life‐blood
of
a
master
spirit,
embalmed

1
and
treasured
up
on
purpose
to
a
life
beyond
life." 

"On
loan
to
another,"
able
miraculously
to
"pronounce
an
I
.
.
.
which
.
.
.
is

not
myself,"
the
reader
discovers
that
the
book
which
he
holds
"becomes
(at
the

expense
of
the
his
own
life,
which
it
suspends)
a
sort
of
human
being
.
.
.
a
mind

conscious
of
itself
and
constituting
itself
in
me
as
the
subject
of
its
own
objects."
A

"second
self"
takes
over—
the
"I"
who
wrote
the
book.
In
the
act
of
reading
we
thus

experience
"something
resembling
the
apperception
I
have
of
myself,
the
action
by

which
I
grasp
straight
away
what
I
think
as
being
thought
by
a
subject.
.
.
."
In
the

phenomenological
encounter
with
an
actual
text
a
reader,
"animated
by
this
vital

inbreathing
inspired
by
the
act
of
reading,"
may
partake
in
a
kind
of
consciousness

splicing,
if
you
will,
with
the
very
mind
that
had
generated
the
text
in
the
first
place.

"Since
every
thought
must
have
a
subject
to
think
it,"
Poulet
writes,




this
thought,
which
is
alien
to
me
and
yet
in
me,
must
also
have
in
me
a

subject
which
is
alien
to
me.
It
all
happens,
then,
as
though
reading
were
the

act
by
which
a
thought
managed
to
bestow
itself
within
me
with
a
subject
not

myself.
Whenever
I
read,
I
mentally
pronounce
an
I,
and
yet
the
I
which
I

pronounce
is
not
myself.




In
the
"interior
world"
of
a
book,
says
Poulet,
"where,
like
fish
in
an
aquarium,

words,
images
and
ideas
disport
themselves,
these
mental
entities,
in
order
to
exist,

need
the
shelter
which
I
provide;
they
are
dependent
on
my
consciousness."


The
heroine
of
Evil
Genius
accesses
her
target
by
journeying
back
to
the
17th

century,
to
Ulm,
Bavaria,
November
10,
1619,
the
night
of
Descartes’
"Pentacost
of

Reason"
(Maritain)
dreams,
in
one
of
which
the
father
of
modern
philosophy
is

visited
by
a
mysterious
stranger,
my
hero,
who
tried
to
dissuade
him
from
his
history

transforming
course.



1
As
Descartes
himself
observed
(in
the
Discourse
on
Method,
"the
reading
of
all
good
books
is

like
a
conversation
with
the
most
virtuous
people
of
past
ages
who
have
authored
them,
or
even
like
a

considered
conversation
in
which
they
reveal
to
us
only
the
best
of
their
thoughts."


 The Collected Works of David Lavery 8



While
I
was
falling
hard
for
Geneva,
I
was
also
being
seduced
by
the

movies.
Under
the
sway
of
W.
R.
Robinson
at
the
University
of

Florida
I
had
come
to
think
of
movies
as
the
"new
story"
and

literature
as
"the
old."
So,
when
I
decided
to
do
my
dissertation
on

the
films
of
Federico
Fellini,
I
sought,
naturally,
to
translate
the

Geneva
School
approach
to
the
study
of
film,
splicing
together
basic

Genevan
assumptions
with
the
presuppositions
of
the
auteur
theory.

It
seemed,
to
me
at
least,
perfectly
natural.


Drawing
on
the
original
insights
of
the
French,
American
critic
Andrew
Sarris

had
translated
the
auteur
theory
into
an
American
idiom.
Under
the
influence
of

Sarris’
goal
of
converting
"film
history
into
directorial
autobiography,"
it
had
become

possible
to
think
and
talk
and
understand
the
movies
through
specially‐ground

lenses.
"Over
a
group
of
films,"
Sarris
insisted
in
what

amounts
to
his
foundational
principle,
"a
director
must

exhibit
certain
recurrent
characteristics
of
style,
which

serve
as
his
signature.
The
way
a
film
looks
and
moves

should
have
some
relationship
to
the
way
a
director
thinks

and
feels"
(Sarris
586).
It
took
only
modest
tinkering—
substituting
visual
presence
for
verbal
presence,
for

example‐‐to
hybridize
the
Geneva
approach
and
the

auteur
theory.


In
the
last
decade,
moreover,
I
have
expanded
my
new
media
obsessions
to

include
the
study
of
television,
but
I
have
taken
my
basic
Geneva
School/Gruber‐
influenced
inclinations
with
me
as
I
have
made
my
subject
the
creative
processes
of

television
auteurs
like
The
Sopranos’
David
Chase
and
Buffy
the
Vampire
Slayer’s
Joss

Whedon.
That
sound
you
hear
may
well
be
the
original
Genevans
turning
over
in
their

graves.




Earlier
I
said
that
I
did
not
get
the
memo
announcing
the
birth
of
structuralism
and

deconstruction.
Ok.
I
lied.
I
did
get
the
memo
but
tore
it
up
and
tried
my
best
to

ignore
the
ravages
of
the
French
disease.
Convinced
that,
as
Edward
Said
suggested

twenty
five
years
ago,
the
movement
should
be
thought
of
as
"the
rough
beast"
of

theory
"slouching
toward
Bethlehem
to
born
again,"
I
endeavored
to
wait
for
the

epidemic
to
run
its
course.
Now
that
it
is,
let
us
pray,
almost
dead,
the
time
seems

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 9

auspicious
to
consider
replacements,
and
I
humbly
offer
the
Geneva
School
for

reconsideration.
With
or
without
my
own
critical/theoretical
plug‐ins,
with
or

without
my
extrapolation
of
it
onto
new
media,
the
Geneva
School
deserves
our
full

attention.





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