Hayles N Katherine Writing Machines

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Writing Machines
N. Katherine Hayles
DESIGNER
Anne Burdick
EDITORIAL DIRECTOR
Peter Lunenfeld
MEDIAWORK
The MIT Press
Cambridge and London
MITPRESS.MIT.EDU/MEDIAWORK
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Title Page
1 Table of Contents
2 Preface
CHAPTER 1 Media and Materiality
CHAPTER 2 Material Metaphors, Technotexts,

and Media-Specific Analysis
CHAPTER 3 Entering the Electronic Environment
CHAPTER 4 Electronic Literature as Technotext:

Lexia to Perplexia
CHAPTER 5 Experiencing Artists’ Books
Lexicon Linkmap
CHAPTER 6 A Humument as Technotext:
Layered Topographies
CHAPTER 7 Embodiments of Material Metaphors
CHAPTER 8 Inhabiting House of Leaves
Source Material
Endtroduction
Designer’s Notes
Author’s Acknowledgements
Colophon
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8
18
34
46
64
72
76
100
108
132
138
140
142
144
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Preface
Preface
On this sultry August evening I am crammed into a seat in the Los Angeles
Shrine Theater along with 3,500 other attendees to SIGGRAPH 2001, the huge
computer graphics trade show. We all paid $40 to see the “Electronic Theater,”
an evening of computer animation where high-tech practitioners of this
digital art strut their stuff. Over twenty-five selections, none more than a
few minutes long, are on the bill, including clips from studio films as well as
short videos from independents. When the entries come from films, they
often are altered to give this insider audience a glimpse of how the effects
were achieved. No audio—just visuals revealing the underlying programs
that created the effects. In the Academy Award-winning animated feature
film, Shrek, for example, as the heroes flee the fire-breathing dragon across
a rope bridge and the fire snakes after them, the flames appear realistically
fractal in their complexity. After seeing the scene as it appeared in the
movie, we are treated to a glimpse of how the modeling was done. The fire
is replaced by wire-framed spheres of decreasing size, which are then tex-
ture-mapped and fractalized to yield the final effect.
Sometimes the clips contain inside jokes and witty allusions a tech-
savvy audience would appreciate. It was one of these sly moments that
caught my attention and made me think of this book. The scene in Shrek
begins when the Princess is being confronted by Robin Hood and his Merry
Men and she leaps into the air to do a karate move. In this altered clip pre-
pared especially for the SIGGRAPH audience, her figure is stopped in midair
and rotated 360 degrees, an allusion to a similar moment in The Matrix when
the same move is done by Neo, the Keanu Reeves character. Unlike Neo,
however, the Princess is not the film REPRESENTATION of an actor but a
computer-animated figure with no counterpart in the real world. This con-
flation of real-world actor with computer program is continued as the
“camera” backs away, revealing a movie set as it might have appeared in
the shooting of The Matrix, with cameras positioned around a circular stage
so the footage can be spliced together to give a 360-degree view. The stage
5
Preface
set reminds us that rotating Neo’s image requires many cameras when
shooting film, but can be done effortlessly with a computer program sim-
ply by rotating the perspective. Then the apparently realistic cameras are
wire-framed as if they were three-dimensional objects within a computer
SIMULATION, which indeed they are. In this dizzying procession of images,
a simulation (the Princess) has been converted to a representation (the
Princess being filmed by cameras) and re-converted back to a simulation
(wire-framing the cameras)—all within a matter of a few seconds, flashing
by so quickly the audience scarcely has time to laugh.
The sequence illustrates that which Richard Grusin and Jay Bolter
have called REMEDIATION, the cycling of different MEDIA through one
another. These processes are going on all around us, including computer
screens being arranged to look like television screens, television screens
with multiple windows made to look like computer screens, print books
mimicking computers, computers being imaged to look like books. One term
put forward to describe these complex relationships is MEDIAL ECOLOGY.
The phrase suggests that the relationships between different media are as
diverse and complex as those between different organisms coexisting with-
in the same ecotome, including mimicry, deception, cooperation, competi-
tion, parasitism, and hyperparasitism.
These robust interactions between media suggest a different take on
the relationship between representation and simulation than that famously
proposed by Jean Baudrillard more than two decades ago. Broadly speak-
ing, representation assumes a referent in the real world, however mediated;
there is an actor playing the role of Neo, although the actor of course is not
the same as the character. In simulation, the referent has no counterpart
in the real world; there is no actor playing the Princess, only ones and zeros
in a machine. Baudrillard writes about the “precession of simulacra” as a
teleological progression, resulting in an inevitable “implosion” of the real
into the hyperreal, a realm in which there can be no distinction between
reality and simulation because everything is already a simulation. But the
cycling back and forth between representation and simulation in the SIG-
GRAPH Shrek clip suggests that we are not so much racing toward a final
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Preface
implosion as participating in an ecology in which one medium is remediated

in another, only to be remediated in turn.
If simulation is becoming increasingly pervasive and important, how-
ever, MATERIALITY is as vibrant as ever, for the computational engines
and artificial intelligences that produce simulations require sophisticated
bases in the real world. The engineers who design these machines, the fac-
tory workers who build them, the software designers who write programs
for them, and the technicians who install and maintain them have no illu-
sions that physical reality has faded away. If representation is an increas-
ingly problematic concept, materiality offers a robust conceptual frame-
work in which to talk about both representation and simulation as well as
the constraints and enablings they entail.
This book is an experiment in forging a vocabulary and set of critical
practices responsive to the full spectrum of signifying components in print
and electronic texts by grounding them in the materiality of the literary
artifact. While commenting upon a variety of cultural phenomena, it offers
extensive engagement with three different kinds of literature: an elec-
tronic work by Talan Memmott entitled Lexia to Perplexia; an artist’s book by
Tom Phillips called A Humument; and Mark Danielewski’s print novel House of
Leaves. These texts range from coterie literature with Lexia to Perplexia, to a
more widely read but still specialized book in A Humument, to a best-selling
novel like House of Leaves. Together they demonstrate that materialist strate-
gies are important across the board, from works aimed at esoteric reader-
ships to those engaging mass audiences. The different media in which
these works are instantiated provide the occasion for Media-Specific
Analysis, a mode of critical interrogation alert to the ways in which the
medium constructs the work and the work constructs the medium. As part
of the Mediawork series, this book attempts to practice what it preaches by
being attentive to its own material properties. As the author of the verbal
text, I speak the words, but these are only part of the message; my collab-
orator Anne Burdick speaks in another mode through her design. The the-
oretical framework is mine, but my collaboration with Anne has deeply
affected how I think about the interaction of verbal and visual components
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Preface
and so has influenced the verbal text as well.
Became Posthuman: Virtual Bodies in Cybernetics, Literature and Informatics. How

materiality affected literature was something I was learning as I followed
the theoretical debates surrounding ELECTRONIC LITERATURE and its
development from FIRST-GENERATION HYPERTEXTS into fully multimedia
works. I saw in electronic literature the opportunity to think more rigor-
ously about interactions between content and digital environments; I also
believed these insights could be reflected back onto print to see it more
clearly as well. This book is frankly experimental both in its format and
ideas. In the zesty, contentious, and rapidly transforming medial ecology
of the new millennium, it would be hubris for anyone to believe she had the
definite take on anything. If Anne and I open a path or two that others may
find profitable to pursue, we will in our own terms have succeeded. As is so
often the case with HYPERTEXT, the rest is up to you.
CHAPTER 1 Media and Materiality 8
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Media and Materiality

worked in academia a decade before I realized that the
I
bureaucratic, medieval, and wonderful institutions called
universities have two ways of operating. One is dictated
by administrative structures and codified rules. The other
way, penetrating the first at every point, runs through
networks of people and is determined by the folks who are
hiring and firing, interpreting policies and setting them, approving curricula
changes or not. If you really want to understand why a department gave Profes-
sor X tenure and kicked out Professor Y, you will not find the answer—or rather,
the complete answer—in the handbook specifying tenure criteria. Only when you
know the people in the department will you begin to see the fuller picture. The
same holds true for the creative works, theories, and practices that constitute
the world of literary studies. On the one hand is the skein of words, images, and
artifacts that operate according to a complex dynamic of tradition and innova-
tion, competition, and cooperation. On the other are the writers, critics, and the-
orists who produce the artifacts. While no one person working alone can swing
that small universe one way or another, individuals matter in determining its
trajectory, and networks of people matter even more.
In this experiment called Writing Machines, exploring what the print book
can be in the digital age, only part of the story lies in the theories, concepts and
examples articulated here. Another part, obvious from the moment you lay eyes
on the book, inheres in its visual design. Still another is comprised by the people
initiating change and resisting it, writing books and creating digital environments,
struggling to see what electronic literature means and ignoring its existence
altogether. Telling a fuller story requires these narrative chapters interrogating
the author’s position, her background and experiences, and especially the com-
munity of writers, theorists, critics, teachers, and students in which she moves.
Having become an autobiographer almost against my will, I am reminded of
Henry Adams’ satiric admiration of Rousseau’s determination in the Confessions
that he will reveal everything about his life, from his masturbatory practices to
his most wretched night thoughts. An intensely private person whose life was for-
ever marked by his wife’s suicide, Adams could not conceive indulging in such
self-display. He held up his third-person character Henry Adams as a stick figure
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to be dressed in the fashion of the times, a shield to protect him when he was in
the grave, concealing as much as it revealed and marked by multilayered ironies.
If Rousseau ranks as a ten in self-display and Adams a one, I come in somewhere
around three, certainly much closer to Adams’ horror than Rousseau’s narcis-
sism. Insofar as my life experiences can be of interest to anyone outside my
immediate family and friends, it is because they are characteristic of the transi-
tion generation raised and formed by print but increasingly molded by electronic
environments. The focal points, media and materiality, will be the same as for the
rest of the book but in a different voice. I am under no illusions that I can write
myself, for so many reasons I cannot list them all here, from the inevitability of
partial perspective to the passing of time that makes the person who writes
incrementally or vastly different from the one written. Although there are auto-
biographical elements in the persona who will be written in these narrative chap-
ters, no one should confuse her with me. To mark that crucial difference, she
needs a name related to mine but not the same. I will call her—Kaye.
To understand Kaye’s position, we need to know something about her back-
ground. She was raised in a small town in northeastern Missouri, an easy hour’s
drive along limestone bluffs to the Hannibal of Mark Twain fame and three hours
north of St. Louis. The town was called Clarence, named along with Annabel and
Leonard for the children of the brakeman who rode the Union Pacific Railroad that
cut this hometown of a thousand souls in half like a butcher knife cleaving an
apple. Every once in a while someone would get killed on those tracks—the town
drunk who had a hobby of racing the train and one night lost to his puffing oppo-
nent, or the disgruntled husband who parked his pickup on the tracks after dis-
covering his wife had run off with his best friend. In a place where everyone not
only recognized Kaye but the model and make of the family car, there was little
likelihood she could come to harm, so she was allowed to roam freely throughout
the town and surrounding countryside. The experience gave her a lifelong love of
the outdoors and a vivid sense of the world’s materiality. She delighted in the
richness of her physical environment, wealthy in tadpoles swimming in the water
collected in the foundation of a ruined house, the crawdads she could tease out
of the ditch by pushing a stick down their holes, the buckeyes she collected and
shelled so she could watch them turn brown on her window sill. Not all her
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pleasures were innocent. She blushed to remember the evil day she and her older
brother armed each fist with a crawdad and, claws snapping, chased their mother
screaming through the house.
Offsetting these pleasures, guilty and not, was the paucity of intellectual
stimulation. Although dinner conversations at home were invariably lively and
wide-ranging, the small town offered little other food for the mind. School was
unbelievably boring, and the local gossip was much too preoccupied with the lat-
est scandal of the minister sleeping with the widow to talk about the political
events of the day, much less larger intellectual issues. So she early turned to
books, finding in them the range of experience, intensity of thought, and expanse
of imagination missing in her tiny midwestern town. Her life was lived on two
planes, both vivid in different ways—the everyday world of family, friends, and
school, and the larger and in many ways more exciting realm of imaginative liter-
ature. By adolescence she exhausted all the reading material in the house and
everything of interest in the town library, an antiquated brick building with a lofty
tin ceiling and the town jail—all two cells of it—in the back. Occasionally a new
book would float within her grasp. Her seventh-grade history teacher, recogniz-
ing her intellectual precociousness, gave her Lao Tzu’s The Way, a book so remote
from her experience that for the first time since she learned to read she could not
make the words cohere into meaning.
Newspapers meant the Clarence Courier, a weekly dominated by such break-
ing news as Mrs. Floyd Jones having afternoon tea with Mrs. Robert Smith, where
a jellyroll was served and enjoyed by all. She did not see a dial telephone until she
left home for college; in Clarence she used the phone by cranking the ringer,
whereupon Delores, the town operator, would answer and ask what number she
wanted, no doubt continuing to listen in to catch the juicy bits. Television, like all
things technological, came late to the little town, arriving a good decade after it
had hit the big cities of St. Louis and Kansas City. The family purchased its first
set when she was nine, and she still remembers staring at test patterns, sitting
through Howdy Doody, and watching Cowboy Jim gulp down Prairie Farm milk.
Aside from such occasional treats as Science Fiction Theater and Elvis on the Ed
Sullivan show, the fare was much too thin to hold her attention for long, as were
the B-Westerns shown at the Royal Theater on Saturday nights. Certainly they
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Derrida, she could say, “Le papier, c’est moi.”

As she matured intellectually, the vibrancy of the physical world returned in
more sophisticated form in her science and mathematics classes, the only part of
the high school curriculum that demanded real thought from her. To be sure,
incompetence and mediocrity could strike even here. She sat stupefied before a
physics teacher who evacuated the school’s antique bell jar with a paper clip sus-
pended at the top so he could demonstrate there is no gravity in a vacuum. After
class she self-righteously marched to the principal’s office to demand the
teacher’s resignation—she was given to such gestures in those days—but it had
already been decided the teacher would not do, and the poor fellow slunk out of
town on the midnight train. The mishap could not spoil science’s grand attraction.
She was fascinated by the underlying regularities so cleanly exposed by the laws
of motion, the periodic table she memorized at sixteen, the geometric theorems
that became more entrancing as they grew more difficult, and the complexities of
calculus to which she and her best friend were introduced in a special tutorial her
senior year.
It was inevitable that when she entered college, the only two options she
really considered were science and literature. Chance drew her to Rochester,
New York, where she enrolled in the Rochester Institute of Technology, a rapidly
developing school that had recently received accreditation. Faced with a limited
curriculum and no humanities majors, she decided upon chemistry. Immersed for
the first time in an intellectual environment that could absorb all the mental
horsepower she could rev up, she was in a constant state of exhilaration, so
delighted to be racing along at full throttle that she only occasionally missed the
literature that had sustained her for so many years. She had little free time in the
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demanding curriculum that required long hours in the laboratory. Still, she could
not help buying a novel every now and then, devouring it in guilty pleasure
through a long night that stretched toward dawn if the book was big, squinting
through the last hundred blurry pages in the wavering light of her bedside lamp.
Mediation came to her most vividly, then, not through the television her
apartment did not have, or the newspapers she had no time to read, or the movies
she could not afford on her frugal budget, but in the chemistry laboratory. If only
she could peer at the molecules and see exactly what they were, how they moved
and coupled with one another, how they arranged themselves in space and time
as the reactions proceeded! The desire to see them was so intense she dreamed
about it, sure that misconceptions and hazy notions would be dispelled if she
could only encounter them directly. She reminded herself sternly this was sci-
ence, not fiction, and the only way she could get at them was through the layers
of mediation created by the laboratory equipment and procedures. She learned to
speak and write precisely, careful to state no more than she could actually
demonstrate, learning from mistakes and bad guesses to be wary of her conclu-
sions to the point of eschewing all generalization (or almost all, the qualifier the
lingering mark of that early education).
The move to graduate school at Caltech put her in a different class of stu-
dents and teachers. Now it was not a question of revving up but keeping up as she
worked alongside the brightest and best the nation—indeed, the international
community—had to offer. As she began completing her course work, she found
herself becoming restive. The clarity she prized and the deep explanations were
as thrilling as ever, but the focus became increasingly narrow as she spent less
time in classes and more time in the research laboratory coming to realize what
every practicing scientist knows, that laboratory science is 95 percent mundane
exacting work and 5 percent inspiration. In an odd way this environment began to
seem less like a release from parochialism than a return to it, living within nar-
rowly defined boundaries where large questions are ruled out of bounds. Perhaps
the problem lay in her particular research, she thought, so she began questioning
her peers at lunchtime to find out more about their research. What is it about, she
would ask, and her colleagues gave eloquent and detailed answers. But when she
asked them the questions that were bothering her—why is it important? what
14
does it mean?—they laughed or shrugged them off, looking at her as if she had com-
mitted a breach of decorum. She knew, of course, that cutting-edge research was
going on all around her and that it sometimes led to momentous conclusions, but
she began to suspect this was the exception rather than the rule—the reward for
long years of laboring day after day on work that seemed stubbornly to resist the
penetration of human thought into resistant materiality. As Evelyn Fox Keller has
wittily observed, it is hard work to make nature obey the laws of nature. Kaye did
not mind hard work, in fact thrived on it, but she yearned to ask the big questions.
So she began to flirt with the idea of returning to her other love, literature.
She took some of the few literature courses offered and had the good fortune
(bad fortune for her scientific career) to encounter two gifted teachers, each
great in a different way and oddly with the same surname. From Hallett Smith she
was given the magnificent gift of a private tutorial in English Renaissance litera-
ture, not through any merit of her still-naive literary intelligence but from the
simple fact that the workload was so strenuous the other students dropped out.
Hallett Smith knew things her scientific teachers did not, but his mind worked
along the same lines, valuing clarity, accuracy of information, careful reasoning,
and depth of analysis. Through David Smith she encountered the literature known
as the American Renaissance, and with it a mind that worked in entirely different
ways from those to which she was accustomed. Ambiguity was valued over clarity,
and while fascinating mysteries were posed, the point seemed to be to experi-
ence rather than explain them. It was her first encounter with a certain kind of lit-
erary sensibility, and it left a lifetime mark on her thinking. She never abandoned
her commitment to precise explanation, feeling that if she really understood
something she should be able to explain it to others so it was clear to them. But
she began to realize that the literary game might be played in very different ways
from the scientific enterprise.
The realization hit her up the side of the head with the force of a two-by-four
after she entered graduate school in English, a story too removed from media and
materiality to be of interest here. One memory encapsulating this third and most
painful part of her education surfaces to sum up its implications. After she had
completed her Ph.D. and taken her first academic job at an Ivy League college,
she was standing on the steps of the English building—a House as it is called in
15

those circles, though it was far from harboring the close-knit intimacy of the fam-
ily home she had known. The afternoon sun slanted on her face, and she felt a
moment of pure physical pleasure, so welcome after a long, stressful East Coast
winter of coping with new colleagues, a new environment, and the parochialism
that continued to follow her like an old ailment she couldn’t shake. It was a kind
of parochialism new to her, consisting of making finer and finer discriminations
until most of the world was excluded, including public universities, technical insti-
tutions, regional colleges and all the zesty, unpredictable things happening in
them, but she had no trouble in recognizing it as parochialism nevertheless. One
of her colleagues, a man who spoke in long monologues she found almost impos-
sible to follow, approached her and said in an accusing tone, “You know, the trou-
ble with you is that you think you are solving problems.” She was startled by the
indictment’s accuracy and could only plead guilty. “That’s exactly what I think I
am doing,” she responded. “What are you doing?” “I,” he said proudly, “am inves-
tigating problematics.”
It took many years for her to temper her problem-solving attitude with an
appreciation for problematics, although she grew more adept at it with practice.
Meanwhile it turned out she had not so much left science behind as returned to it
It was over-determined that she would want to get her hands into it. The challenge,
she understood even at this early moment, would be to bring together the binaries
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that had somehow always been important to her life: media and materiality; sci-
ence and literature; immersion in an imaginative realm and delight in the physical
world; the strict requirements for precisely written CODE and the richness of
NATURAL LANGUAGE; underlying regularities and the free-form of creative
play. She was hooked.
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18
Material Metaphors, Technotexts, and Media-Specific Analysis
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CHAPTER 2 Material Metaphors, Technotexts, and Media-Specific Analysis
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W
hy have we not heard more about
materiality? Granted, there have
been some promising beginnings
and a host of materially-based
studies in the emerging field of
science studies. But within the
humanities and especially in literary studies, there has traditionally
been a sharp line between representation and the technologies produc-
ing them. Whereas art history has long been attentive to the material
production of the art object, literary studies has generally been content
to treat fictional and narrative worlds as if they were entirely products
of the imagination. Significant exceptions include the tradition of artists’
books and the exuberant experiments of such materially-based prac-
tices as concrete poetry. A few theorists attentive to these developments
have argued eloquently for the importance of the book as a physical
object and for criticism as material practice. Yet they remain the excep-
tion rather than the rule. By and large literary critics have been content
to see literature as immaterial verbal constructions, relegating to the
specialized fields of bibliography, manuscript culture, and book pro-
duction the rigorous study of the materiality of literary artifacts. Even
cultural studies, refreshingly alert to the importance of materiality in
cultural productions, has made only an incremental difference, largely
because it usually considers artifacts outside the literary text rather
than the text itself as a material object.
As the vibrant new field of electronic textuality flexes its muscle, it
is becoming overwhelmingly clear that we can no longer afford to
ignore the material basis of literary production. Materiality of the arti-
fact can no longer be positioned as a subspecialty within literary stud-
ies; it must be central, for without it we have little hope of forging a
robust and nuanced account of how literature is changing under the
impact of information technologies. Not only electronic literature but
virtually all historical periods and genres are affected as print works
are increasingly re-produced as electronic documents.
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The loyal opposition has been insisting for some time now that lit-
erary studies must expand to include images. The respected critic,
W. J. T. Mitchell, has forcefully made this point, urging that we think not
only about words but what he calls the textimage, words and images
together. In the digital age, however, image is the tip of the iceberg. In a
stimulating exchange I had with Mitchell, I was surprised to find him
defending the position that although image was of course important,
the expansion of literary attention should stop there. Once image has
been introduced into the picture (so to speak), literary critics have
everything they need to deal adequately with literary texts. This print-
centric view fails to account for all the other signifying components of
electronic texts, including sound, animation, motion, video, kinesthetic
involvement, and software functionality, among others. Moreover, it
does not do justice even to print books, as the vibrant tradition of artists’
books testifies with the innovative use of cutouts, textures, colors, mov-
able parts, and page order, to name only a few.
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I found a clue in Greg Egan’s brilliant novel Permutation City, a book I

love to hate because it challenges almost everything I thought I knew
about materiality. The novel begins by enacting the scenario that techno-
fabulist Hans Moravec proposes in Mind Children: The Future of Robotic
Intelligence—downloading human consciousness into a computer.
Unlike Moravec, Egan does not find it necessary to destroy the original
in creating the SIMULACRUM. Moreover, the Copy does not find himself
identical with his biological progenitor as Moravec supposes. Depressed
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at becoming an artificial intelligence without a body, Copy after Copy

commits suicide. Those that reconcile themselves to living inside the
computer often create INTERFACES that allow them to preserve the
illusion of ordinary human existence. For example, a CEO creates a
boardroom with video screens through which he can interface with the
far-flung business empire legally transferred to the Copy upon the orig-
inal’s biological death. In a sense the interface is a metaphor, for the
character is not actually in a boardroom but merely interacting with the
world through functionalities similar to a boardroom’s operation.
Nevertheless, this metaphor has power to make things happen in the
real world, for it is connected to a complex material apparatus that
operates machinery as well as such socio-material constructions as
economic transactions.
Traditionally metaphor has been defined as a verbal figure. Derived
from a root meaning bearing across, it denotes the transfer of sense
associated with one word to another. In Egan’s fictional scenario, the
transfer takes place not between one word and another but rather
between a symbol (more properly, a network of symbols) and material
apparatus. This kind of traffic, as old as the human species, is becom-
ing increasingly important as the symbol-processing machines we call
computers are hooked into networks in which they are seamlessly inte-
grated with apparatus that can actually do things in the world, from the
sensors and actuators of mobile robots to the semiotic-material
machinery that changes the numbers in bank accounts. To account for
this traffic I propose material metaphor, a term that foregrounds the
traffic between words and physical artifacts.
We are not generally accustomed to think of a book as a material
metaphor, but in fact it is an artifact whose physical properties and his-
torical usages structure our interactions with it in ways obvious and
subtle. In addition to defining the page as a unit of reading, and bind-
ing pages sequentially to indicate an order of reading, are less obvious
conventions such the opacity of paper, a physical property that defines
the page as having two sides whose relationship is linear and sequen-
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Reading Eye Dog. Photo D. Horvath
tial rather than interpenetrating and simultaneous. To change the phys-

ical form of the artifact is not merely to change the act of reading
(although that too has consequences the importance of which we are
only beginning to recognize) but profoundly to transform the metaphoric
network structuring the relation of word to world.
This was the informing realization of “The Future of Reading” at
San Jose’s Tech Museum of Innovation (2001) mounted by the Research
in Experimental Documents (RED) team at Xerox PARC, which included
such pioneering thinkers as Richard Gold and Anne Balsamo. To under-
stand the power of material metaphors, let us consider one of the read-
ing machines the RED group built for the exhibit, the Reading Eye Dog.
Designed to look like a large robotic upright dog, this mechanism scans
printed material placed on its reading stand and uses a text-to-speech
program to speak the words aloud. The metaphoric associations put
into play by the device’s physical form include traffic between machine
and biological organism, companion animal and parent, printed marks
and oral production, static book and dynamic text-to-speech genera-
tion, artificial intelligence and human cognition, reading text without
understanding it and (for young children listening to the Reading Eye
Dog), understanding what is said without being able to read it. All these
associations are structured by the materiality of the artifact and differ
significantly from the structuring associations called forth by the print
book. To change the material artifact is to transform the context and cir-
cumstances for interacting with the words, which inevitably changes
24
the meanings of the words as well. This transformation of meaning is

especially potent when the words reflexively interact with the inscrip-
tion technologies that produce them.
Here I should specify what I mean by INSCRIPTION TECHNOLOGIES.
In print books words are obviously inscriptions because they take
the form of ink marks impressed on paper. The computer also counts
as an inscription technology, because it changes electric polarities and
correlates these changes with binary code, higher-level languages such
as C++ and Java, and the phosphor gleams of the cathode ray tube. To
count as an inscription technology, a device must initiate material
changes that can be read as marks. Telegraphy thus counts; it sends
structured electronic pulses through a wire (material changes that can
be read as marks) and connects these pulses with acoustic sound (or
some other analogue signal) associated with marks on paper. Additional
examples include film, video, and the images produced by medical
devices such as X-rays, CAT scans, and MRI. Even nanotechnology
slouched its way toward inscription when scientists arranged mole-
cules to form their company’s logo, IBM.
25
Not all literary works make this move, of course, but even for
those that do not, my claim is that the physical form of the literary arti-
fact always affects what the words (and other semiotic components)
mean. Literary works that strengthen, foreground, and thematize the
connections between themselves as material artifacts and the imagina-
tive realm of verbal/semiotic signifiers they instantiate open a window on
the larger connections that unite literature as a verbal art to its mate-
rial forms. To name such works, I propose “technotexts,” a term that
26
connects the technology that produces texts to the texts’ verbal con-
structions. Technotexts play a special role in transforming literary crit-
icism into a material practice, for they make vividly clear that the issue
at stake is nothing less than a full-bodied understanding of literature.
My title, Writing Machines, plays with the multiple ways in which
writing and materiality come together. “Writing machines” names the
inscription technologies that produce literary texts, including printing
presses, computers, and other devices. “Writing machines” is also what
technotexts do when they bring into view the machinery that gives their
verbal constructions physical reality. As a literary term, technotext can
be understood through its similarities and differences to related con-
cepts. All of the technotexts I discuss in this book could also be called
hypertexts. Hypertext has at a minimum the three characteristics of
MULTIPLE READING PATHS, CHUNKED TEXT, and some kind of LINKING
MECHANISM to connect the chunks. The World Wide Web, with its links,
millions of pages and multiple reading paths, is a vast hypertext of
global proportions. From the definition, it will be immediately apparent
that hypertext can be instantiated in print as well as electronic media.
A print encyclopedia qualifies as a hypertext because it has multiple
reading paths, a system of cross-references that serve as linking mech-
anisms, and chunked text in entries separated typographically from one
another. These hypertextual characteristics of the encyclopedia form
the basis for Milorad Pavić’s brilliant print work Dictionary of the
Khazars: A Lexicon Novel. Other examples of print hypertexts include
Ursula LeGuin’s Always Coming Home, which includes audio tapes to
document a richly imagined science fiction world; Paul Zimmerman’s
artist’s book High Tension, which creates a multiplicity of reading
paths through an unusual physical form that allows the reader to fold
diagonally cut leaves to obtain different combinations of text and
image; and Robert Coover’s “The Babysitter,” a short story that pushes
toward hypertext by juxtaposing contradictory and nonsequential
events suggesting many simultaneously existing time lines and narra-
tive unfoldings.
27

As hypertext theory developed during the late 1980s and early to
mid-1990s, theorists such as George Landow, Jay Bolter, Michael Joyce,
and others emphasized the importance of the link, which tended to
loom larger than hypertext’s other characteristics. This orientation was
consistent with first-generation electronic hypertexts such as Joyce’s
Afternoon, a story, an almost exclusively verbal work that employs
Storyspace software to link one screen of text (or LEXIA) with another
through “hot words” the reader can activate by clicking. Although this
structure departs from print in providing multiple reading paths, it pre-
serves the basic print convention of moving through a text by going
from one page/screen to another. In retrospect the revolutionary claims
made for these early hypertexts appear inflated, for they were only
beginning to tap into the extraordinary resources offered by electronic
environments.
As the technology changed, and especially as the Web grew in size,
scope, and functionality, writers began to move away from the
Storyspace interface to explore the rich diversity of interfaces available
in such commercial software packages as Flash, Shockwave, and Dream-
weaver and also XTML, VRML, DIRECTX, and other web-oriented lan-
guages. A new breed of SECOND-GENERATION ELECTRONIC LITERATURE
began to appear that looked very different from its predecessors, exper-
imenting with ways to incorporate narrative with sound, motion, ani-
mation, and other software functionalities. Riding on the crest of these
developments, Espen Aarseth’s pioneering Cybertext: Perspectives on
Ergodic Literature argued for a perspective fundamentally computa-
tional in nature. To this end he proposed the category CYBERTEXT and
defined it to include a wide variety of texts that used combinatorial
strategies, including print works such as Raymond Queneau’s Cent
Mille Milliards, electronic fictions like Afternoon, a story, computer
games, and even the I Ching. He gave substance to the idea by develop-
ing a typology of semiotic variables, including in addition to links such
concepts as perspective, access, determinability, transience, dynamics,
and user function. Combinations of these variables yield 576 different
28
variations, which can be plotted on a grid to locate a particular text’s

strategies within the cybertext domain. This schema is undoubtedly
more appropriate to second-generation electronic literature than earlier
hypertext theory, which now began to appear dated and provincial com-
pared to Aarseth’s flexible and theoretically powerful approach.
Meanwhile, other critics and writers who continue to be interested in
linking have developed theoretically sophisticated ways to talk about
hypertext that move considerably beyond the first generation of hyper-
text theorists.
These developments have invested hypertext and cybertext with
connotations that make them useful relatives to technotext but also sig-
nificantly different from what I have in mind when I use that term.
Hypertext connotes an emphasis on links, a brand of criticism derived
from traditional literary approaches, and a polemic that seeks to con-
vince the literary community of the value and importance of electronic
hypertext for pedagogy, criticism, and theory. Cybertext connotes a
functional and semiotic approach that emphasizes a computational
perspective, a polemic that wants, as Stuart Moulthrop put it (echoing
James Joyce), to “kill the literary priest,” and an emphasis on computer
games as paradigmatic examples of ERGODIC texts, which Aarseth
defines as those literary systems that require “nontrivial effort” to allow
the user to traverse them. To use one term or the other is not only to
invoke a particular approach but to position oneself in a highly con-
tested field where allies and enemies sometimes count more than argu-
ments. Neither term pays particular attention to interactions between
the materiality of inscription technologies and the inscriptions they
produce. As a consequence, neither term is completely appropriate to
my project, although I will use both on occasions when their connota-
tions are appropriate to the point at hand.
29
Although material criticism is highly developed in specialized fields

such as bibliographic criticism and textual studies, I think its value is
much more general and widespread. Accordingly, I want to call it
media-specific analysis (MSA), as a way to invite theorists and critics to
think more broadly about the connections between strands of criticism
that have not yet made common cause with one another.
Lulled into somnolence by five hundred years of print, literary
studies have been slow to wake up to the importance of MSA. Literary
30
criticism and theory are shot through with unrecognized assumptions

specific to print. Only now, as the new medium of electronic textuality
vibrantly asserts its presence, are these assumptions clearly coming
into view. In his influential essay “From Work to Text,” Roland Barthes
uncannily anticipated electronic hypertext by associating text with dis-
persion, multiple authorship, and RHIZOMATIC structure. In positioning
text against work, Barthes was among those who initiated semiotic and
performative approaches to discourse, arguably one of the most impor-
tant developments in literary studies in the last century. But this shift
has entailed loss as well as gain. Useful as the vocabulary of text was
in expanding textuality beyond the printed page, it also had the effect,
in treating everything from fashion to fascism as a semiotic system, of
eliding differences in materiality. Perhaps now, after the linguistic turn
has yielded so many important insights, it is time to turn again to a care-
ful consideration of what difference the materiality of the medium makes.
In calling for MSA, I do not mean to advocate that media should be
considered in isolation from one another. On the contrary, media con-
stantly engage in a RECURSIVE dynamic of imitating each other, incor-
porating aspects of competing media into themselves while simultane-
ously flaunting the advantages their own forms of mediation offer.
Voyager’s now-defunct line of “Expanded Books,” for example, offered
readers the opportunity to dog-ear electronic pages. Another option
inserted a paper clip on the screenic page, itself programmed to look as
much as possible like print. On the other side of the screen, many print
texts are now imitating electronic hypertexts. These range from John
Barth’s Coming Soon! and Don DeLillo’s Underworld to Bolter and
Grusin’s Remediation, which self-consciously pushes toward hypertext
through arrows that serve as visual indications of hypertextual links.
MSA attends both to the specificity of the form—the fact that the
Voyager paper clip is an image rather than a piece of bent metal—and
to citations and imitations of one medium in another. MSA moves from
the language of text to a more precise vocabulary of screen and page,
digital program and analogue interface, code and ink, mutable image
31

and durable mark, computer and book.
One area where MSA can pay especially rich dividends is in hyper-
text theory. Some theorists working in the area of electronic literature
argue that hypertext ought to be reserved for digital works. In my view,
this is a mistake (and not one that cybertext theory makes). When
Vannevar Bush, widely credited with the invention of the form, imagined
a hypertextual system more than fifty years ago, it was not electronic
but mechanical. His 1945 article, “As We May Think,” testifies that it is
possible to implement hypertext in a variety of ways, not only through
the “go to” commands that comprise the hypertext link in digital com-
puters. If we restrict the term hypertext to digital media, we lose the
opportunity to understand how a rhetorical form mutates when it is
instantiated in different media. The power of MSA comes from holding
one term constant across media (in this case, technotexts) and varying
the media to explore how medium-specific possibilities and constraints
shape texts. Understanding literature as the interplay between form,
content, and medium, MSA insists that texts must always be embodied
to exist in the world. The materiality of those EMBODIMENTS interacts
dynamically with linguistic, rhetorical, and literary practices to create
the effects we call literature.
In attending to the materiality of the medium, MSA explicitly
refutes the concept of the literary work that emerged from eighteenth-
century debates over copyright and that has held considerable sway
since then, although not without contestations. As Mark Rose has
shown in his important book Authors and Owners: The Invention of
Copyright, legal theorists such as Blackstone defined a literary work as
consisting solely of its “style and sentiment.” “These alone constitute its
identity,” Blackstone wrote. “The paper and print are merely accidents,
which serve as vehicles to convey that style and sentiment to a dis-
tance.” Subsequent commentators realized it was not practical to copy-
right “sentiment,” for some ideas are so general they cannot be attrib-
uted to any single author: that men are mortal, for example. Rather, it
was the ways in which ideas were expressed that could be secured as
32
literary property and hence copyrighted. This judicial history, played

out in a contentious environment where conflicting economic, political,
and class interests fought for priority, had important consequences for
literature that went beyond purely legal considerations, for it helped to
solidify the literary author as a man of original genius (the author’s
assumed gender in these discourses was invariably male) who created
literary property by mixing his intellectual labor with the materials
afforded him by nature—much as Locke had argued men created private
property by mixing their labor with the land. Consistently in these dis-
courses, material and economic considerations, although they had force
in the real world, were elided or erased in favor of an emphasis on lit-
erary property as an intellectual construction that owed nothing to the
medium in which it was embodied. Although this conclusion was
repeatedly challenged in court and in such literary movements as futur-
ism and imagism (“No ideas but in things,” William Carlos Williams
declared), the long reign of print made it easy for literary criticism to
ignore the specificities of the CODEX book when discussing literary
texts. With significant exceptions, print literature was widely regarded
as not having a body, only a speaking mind.
MSA aims to electrify the neocortex of literary criticism into rec-
ognizing that strands traditionally emphasizing materiality (such as
criticism on the illuminated manuscript, on writers such as William
Blake and Emily Dickinson, where embodiment is everything, and on
the rich tradition of artists’ books) are not exceptions but instances of
MSA. Like all literature, technotext has a body (or rather many bodies),
and the rich connections between its material properties and its con-
tent create it as a literary work in the full sense of the term.
Here I want to clarify what I mean by materiality. The physical
attributes constituting any artifact are potentially infinite; in a digital
computer, for example, they include the polymers used to fabricate the
case, the rare earth elements used to make the phosphors in the CRT
screen, the palladium used for the power cord prongs, and so forth.
From this infinite array a technotext will select a few to foreground and
33

work into its thematic concerns. Materiality thus emerges from inter-
actions between physical properties and a work’s artistic strategies. For
this reason, materiality cannot be specified in advance, as if it preex-
isted the specificity of the work. An emergent property, materiality
depends on how the work mobilizes its resources as a physical artifact
as well as on the user’s interactions with the work and the interpretive
strategies she develops—strategies that include physical manipula-
tions as well as conceptual frameworks. In the broadest sense, materi-
ality emerges from the dynamic interplay between the richness of a
physically robust world and human intelligence as it crafts this physi-
cality to create meaning.
In urging increased attention to materiality, I hope it is clear that I
do not mean to argue for the superiority of electronic media. With both
print and screen, the specificity of the medium comes into play as its
characteristics are flaunted, suppressed, subverted, or re-imagined.
Many critics see the electronic age as heralding the end of books. I think
this view is mistaken. Print books are far too hardy, reliable, long-lived,
and versatile to be rendered obsolete by digital media. Rather, digital
media have given us an opportunity we have not had for the last several
to teach and delight.

34
CHAPTER 3 Entering the Electronic Environment

35
Entering the Electronic Environment

teeped in print literature, Kaye was like those of her
S
generation who came to the computer as an adult.
Even so, her somewhat idiosyncratic experience made
her an early adopter. Her first encounter with comput-
ers predated the desktop variety by nearly two
decades, for she used a computer interface to program
electrodes in her scientific work. It is mind-numbingly difficult to program in
ASSEMBLY CODE, and for Kaye it would always be associated with darkness. She
arrived at the lab before the sun came up and left after the sun went down. Since
the lab was in a sub-sub-basement, she saw precious little of that golden orb dur-
ing the week. Only on weekends was she able to glory in the Southern California
landscape drenched in sunlight, which soon became a second home to her.
At the Ivy League college where she served her academic apprenticeship,
she encountered the equipment that before long would be called “dumb termi-
nals,” but at the time she found it thrilling to move from typewriters to this more
flexible and powerful medium. At this early point terminals were not capable of
full-screen response; she edited line-by-line using computer commands in a
process users today would find unbearably primitive. Still idealistic enough to
think she could change the world, she tried to recruit her English Department col-
leagues to the medium. She has a vivid memory of demonstrating the technology
to a senior professor to show how easy and fun it was compared to typing and
retyping drafts. He was not persuaded, begging out after fifteen minutes, saying he
had other things to do (he was too polite to say, better things). To find colleagues
who shared her enthusiasm, she went to the mathematics/computer science
department, where she suggested co-teaching a master’s level summer course on
“Computer Literacy.” At this time in the early 1980s, MODULAR PROGRAMMING
was a new idea, and she thought it had much in common with the composition
techniques she used in her writing classes. Paragraphs were like modules; tran-
sitions were like comments and annotations; structure and organization were like
flowcharts. Why not teach advanced writing in a context that drew parallels with
the modular computer programming that participants could learn at the same
time? And throw into the mix some texts that would stimulate discussion about
36
the effects of the computer revolution on print culture? Without really under-
standing the implications, she already knew that the computer would drama-
tically change the dynamics of what she would later learn to call medial ecology.
The connection with literature came when she received in the mail an adver-
tisement from Eastgate Systems for “serious hypertext.” By this time she was
back in the Midwest, teaching at the University of Iowa and debating postmod-
ernism with the bright eager graduate students who turned up there. She had
graduated from dumb terminals to a desktop computer and couldn’t wait to order
Joyce’s Afternoon, a story. She devoured it in a single setting, the way she was
accustomed to do with print novels. But then it occurred to her that she had
missed the point, for her reading strategy had been to use the default, which soon
took her to the end—or rather, an end. Further exploration showed that the
default left untouched large portions of the text. So she went back, and this time
read more systematically, using the NAVIGATION tool to read all the screens, or
lexias as they were called. She soon arrived at the same conclusion Jane Yellowlees
Douglas was to argue later in print—that the privileged lexia, “White Afternoon,”
allowed the reader to see that Peter, the protagonist, was responsible for caus-
ing the very accident he spends most of the narrative investigating. A clever
strategy, she thought—but how would one teach a work such as this?
She tried it out with a group of college teachers from across the country
when she was asked to conduct a weekend seminar for Phi Beta Kappa. Many of
them made the same mistake she had, missing a lot of the text. Others argued
vehemently that this electronic hypertext failed to deliver the immersion in a fic-
tional world that for them was the main reason to read narrative literature. When
she pointed out that many print texts, especially postmodern works, also failed
to deliver this experience, they fell back on what Mark Bernstein would later call
the “bathtub theory of literature,” arguing that if you couldn’t take the text into
the bathtub with you, it wasn’t worth reading. She was not entirely unsympa-
thetic, for as noted earlier the tub was one of her favorite reading spots, along
with being sprawled across the bed. But Kaye was not ready to concede the point.
“Oh come on,” she responded, “surely you cannot judge a piece of literature by
such superficial standards. So what if you read it on the computer? Isn’t it far
more important what the language is like, the linking structure, the plot, the
37
igation systems that consisted largely of clicking on links to go from one lexia to
another. Although early commentators claimed that the NONLINEAR structures
and links made electronic literature qualitatively different than print books,
in retrospect Kaye realized that these first-generation works were more like
books than they were like second-generation electronic literature, because they
operated by replacing one screen of text with another, much as a book goes from
one page to another. Despite the hoopla, first-generation works left mostly
untouched the unconscious assumptions that readers of books had absorbed
through centuries of print. They were a brave beginning, but only a beginning. Not
unlike the dumb terminals Kaye now thought of as quaint antiques, these works
opened up pathways of change that would, when more fully exploited, make them
seem obsolete.
Meanwhile, computer hardware and software were changing at exponential
rates, and with them, ELECTRONIC LITERATURE. The text that heralded the
transition to second-generation electronic literature for Kaye was Shelley
Jackson’s Patchwork Girl. It presented itself as a rewriting of Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein in which the female monster, dismembered by a nauseated Victor in
Mary’s classic tale, is reassembled and made into the text’s main narrator.
Written in a later version of the Storyspace software that Joyce used for
Afternoon, Patchwork Girl engaged the tool in significantly different ways. In an
38
Screen from Patchwork Girl

important innovation, it drew connections between the electronic text and the
female monster’s fragmented body. One of the screens showed a large head in
profile, presumably the monster’s, divided into sections after the style of a
phrenology chart. Clicking on them took Kaye to the stories of the women whose
body parts were used to make the monster. Navigation was envisioned as taking
place not only between lexias but between images and words, and more pro-
foundly between the text and the computer producing it. This was something very
different than moving from lexia to lexia; it was an effect print could not dupli-
cate. Jackson reinforced the point by writing passages that explicitly drew con-
nections between the machinery and the text, asking what happened to con-
sciousness when it existed discontinuously as screens with gaps in between.
Where was the narrator’s consciousness during the gaps, the microseconds that
separated one screen from another? Did it dissolve into the noise of the machine,
decomposed back into ones and zeros?
The speculation sent chills down Kaye’s spine. It was her first glimpse into
how significantly literature might change if the literary body was not a book but
a computer. She could name dozens of print texts that played with connections
between the book and a narrator’s body, from Laurence Sterne’s eighteenth-
century masterpiece Tristram Shandy, to Italo Calvino’s contemporary print
hypertext novel If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler. As a print lover, she had taken
for granted that the book as a physical artifact would ground metaphoric
39

networks connecting the print form with the bodies of characters and narrators,
authors and readers. Authors regularly thought of their books as offspring; char-
acters in metafiction often tried to peer out of the covers that contained them to
see the book as an object; the human form converged with book technology even
in such inert metaphors as footnotes, spine, and appendix. All this was obvious
and known. But the trembler now rippling through her consciousness hinted at a
shift in tectonic plates massive enough to send an earthquake roaring through the
terrain of literary studies, for it implied that a shift in the material SUBSTRATE of
the artifact would affect not just the mode of delivery but everything about the
literary work. Like all really momentous changes, this realization came in fits and
starts for Kaye, now clearly foreseen, now slipping into inarticulate intuition. She
knew and yet she didn’t know. It would take several shocks to her system before
she grasped the fuller significances of moving from print to the computer.
The first shock was mild, even pleasant. She was invited by the University of
Bergen to serve as the “First Opponent” on the dissertation defense of a young
Norwegian scholar, Espen Aarseth. The procedure was a grueling full-day ordeal
that bespoke the university’s medieval origins. The candidate delivered a 45-
minute lecture on his dissertation, which the committee judged satisfactory or
not. If satisfactory, the defense proceeded to the second stage, which consisted
of the First and Second Opponents questioning the candidate for a full hour each,
probing for weaknesses, inconsistencies, and so on. She thought the dissertation
was excellent, but she tried gamely to enter into the spirit of the exercise. When
the candidate passed with flying colors, tradition called for him to host a dinner
that evening, to which were invited friends, relatives, mentors, and of course the
dissertation committee. Numerous toasts were made, all in Norwegian so she
couldn’t understand a word, but she gathered that the gist was to ridicule the
academic proceedings, a sport she enjoyed even without knowing the language.
The dissertation was already accepted for publication by the Johns Hopkins
University Press and would become an influential work in electronic literature. As
noted earlier, Aarseth coined the term cybertext, clearing the field of previous
work that had identified the link as the defining characteristic of hypertext. He
argued for a computational perspective, a move that placed literary works on the
same playing field as computer games and other combinatorial works. He made
40
the important point that textual functions must not only be based on the marks
appearing on screen but also had to take into account what was happening inside
the machinery. To distinguish between screen display and underlying code, he
coined the terms SCRIPTON and TEXTON. Here was a perspective and vocabu-
lary that reinterpreted the print book in terms of the computer, rather than shoe-
horning electronic texts into categories derived from print.
The second shock came at a Digital Arts conference in Atlanta at which she
had been invited to deliver a keynote address. Usually she prepared carefully for
such occasions, but the week of the conference she came down with a violent flu
and spent days shaking in bed with chills and fever. A sensible person would have
cancelled, but she came from good German stock where phrases like “Your word
is your bond” were not only intoned but actually practiced. So she gulped down
the antibiotics that her doctor had predicted would do no good and boarded the
plane. Her lecture passed in a daze; she could scarcely remember what she said,
and no doubt it deserved to be forgotten. The discussion that followed, however,
was memorable, for it marked a turning point for Kaye. In the audience were such
luminaries as Michael Joyce of Afternoon fame and critic Janet Murray, author of
Hamlet on the Holodeck. They took her to task for using vocabulary and concepts
that were too literary—the opposite of Aarseth’s computational approach. She
was startled to hear this objection from someone like Joyce, who was, if possible,
even more steeped in the literary tradition than she and constantly used allusions
to literary works in his writing, including several lexias in Afternoon based on
James Joyce’s Ulysses. Surely, she objected, we cannot throw out everything four
centuries of literary criticism has taught us about character, plot, narration,
voice? He conceded the point but remained unconvinced. He wanted something
more, though he could not say exactly what.
The next shock struck closer to home. Her close friend, M. D. Coverley, had
given Kaye her electronic hypertext novel Califia. To Kaye, M. was Margie, a won-
derful person who was invariably warm and gracious, smart and perceptive. Kaye
read the work and was not swept away by the narrative, finding it presentable but
not overwhelming. When she conveyed this, Margie patiently pointed out fea-
tures that Kaye had noticed but had not really integrated into her reading—the
navigational structure, for example, which offered at least twenty different
41

Screen from Califia
pathways on every screen and which, with two or three clicks, could be used to
access any of the work’s 800 screens. Only later, when Kaye returned to Califia
after more than a year had passed, did she understand that her mistake had been
precisely to read the work, concentrating mainly on the words and seeing the
navigation as a way to access the words, the images as illustrations of the words.
She thought more deeply about the nature of the Califia project, which drew con-
nections between present-day narrators and a rich treasure trove of California
history, including economics, water politics, and geology, using an astonishing
variety of inscription surfaces including road maps, documents, letters, journals,
and even star maps. Finally it hit her: the work embedded the verbal narrative in
a topographic environment in which word was interwoven with world. The world
contained the words but much else besides, including layered images, complex
navigation functionalities, and simulated documents. By focusing on the
words alone, she had missed the point. Now she was able to evaluate Califia in a
different way, from an integrated perspective in which all components became
SIGNIFYING PRACTICES. From this viewpoint, she could see not only that it was
a ground-breaking work but also that the materiality of the text was integral to
its project of connecting word with world.
This was a significantly different practice from a conventional print novel in
which a world is evoked exclusively through words, and different also from an
illustrated work in which words and images work together. She could not grasp
42
the work as a whole without taking the computer into account, with its material
specificity of hardware capabilities and software functionalities. Medium and
work were entwined in a complex relation that functioned as a multilayered
metaphor for the relation of the world’s materiality to the space of simulation.
“This is deep,” she thought to herself in a dawning realization that was half per-
plexity, half illumination. “Material metaphor,” a phrase casually dropped by her
anthropologist husband, swam into consciousness as an appropriate expression
to describe these complexities.
The point was driven home by her encounter with Diana Slattery’s Glide, a
beautifully designed piece that speculated about what it would be like to live in a
culture that had developed a VISUAL LANGUAGE that could be written and
enacted but not spoken. The Glide site was a fully multimedia work, displaying
animated GLYPHS—the components of the Glide language—transforming into
one another while deep resonant chords played on the soundtrack. The narrative,
extracted from Slattery’s full-length print novel, The Maze Game (soon to be pub-
lished), depicted a culture whose central ritual is the titular Game, a contest
between a Dancer who runs a maze that is also a Glide message and a Player who
tries to solve the maze represented as a video game. Breaking the deep connec-
tion between written mark and spoken sound, Glide envisioned different connec-
tions emerging between language and vision, body movement and code. Kaye
saw in it a parable about the profound changes afoot as the human sensorium
was reconfigured by information technologies, including electronic literature.
Now she thought she had something worthwhile to say, and when the North
American Association for the Study of Romanticism invited her to give a keynote
lecture, she accepted despite knowing little about English Romantic literature.
The conference topic was the materiality of Romanticism, and she figured to use
the occasion to convey some of her hard-won insights about the importance of
materiality in literary works, the necessity for MSA, and the ways in which think-
ing about electronic texts could illuminate print. Brimming with good health this
time, she prepared her talk with care, using visuals from the magnificent William
Blake Archive on the Web to show that the electronic Blake functioned in signifi-
cantly different ways than Blake in print. She further made a point of the site’s
rhetoric, which emphasized rendering the print Blake as exactly as possible,
43

Screen from Glide
providing users with a sizing tool and color device so they could adjust their
browsers. But these very functionalities were themselves part of what made the
electronic Blake different than the print Blake. In her conclusion she drew the
seem too simple. Her audience’s reaction told her otherwise. As they moved into
the discussion period, the room seemed to break out in a sweat. As the tension
became palpable, one woman articulated it explicitly: “I want you to know how
anxious you have made me,” she said. Kaye was even more taken aback when
W. J. T. Mitchell, the other keynote speaker whom she revered as a god, rose to
express the opinion mentioned earlier: that the only two important signifying
components of a literary text are words and images; nothing else really counts.
Mitchell had authored the influential book Picture Theory arguing that literary
criticism had to move away from the parochialism of considering literature to be
only verbal structures; images too must be taken into account. Kaye was stunned
to think he could not see that the arguments of Picture Theory made it important
to think about a medium in all its specificity. She was sure his assertion that only
words and images mattered did not hold true for electronic literature; Califia and
Glide had taught her that. But she believed it did not hold true for print texts
44
either, including virtually all artists’ books.

She left the conference thinking she would have to learn more about why her
audience had been so resistant to media specificity. She recalled a computer-
phobic colleague who complained to Kaye about various outrages to which the
computer subjected her. Kaye could sympathize to an extent; she had spent too
many hours dealing with software glitches and hardware problems not to under-
stand the woman’s frustration. But she had no more power to stop the transfor-
mation of literary studies by information technology than her colleague—even if
she wanted to, which she didn’t. For literary people like her colleague, the com-
puter was threatening because it demanded new skills and made traditional ones
obsolete at an alarming rate. “I’m glad I am retiring soon,” another colleague had
remarked to her, “because now I won’t have to deal with these changes.”
She acknowledged the problems. It was not only the computer-phobic who
suffered from their impact. She watched incredulously when Michael Joyce, a fig-
ure so esteemed in electronic literature that he was regularly referred to as “His
Joyceness,” announced he was leaving electronic literature and going back to
print. When she wrote an urgent email asking why, he responded with an “open
letter,” sent to many of his colleagues and admirers, saying that he felt his con-
tinuing growth as a writer and thinker required it. Another blow was delivered by
Robert Coover, a man she admired not only for his experimental print fiction but
also for the stance he had taken in an influential New York Times article a decade
ago in which he had put his considerable prestige at risk to come out in favor of
hypertext literature. At the same Digital Arts conference where she had spoken,
Coover stunned the audience of mostly younger writers and artists interested in
pushing the envelope of the electronic medium by announcing that the Golden
Age of hypertext was over and we were rapidly declining into the Silver Age, if not
the Bronze and Iron.
She could not imagine why Coover would make this pronouncement, and it
was several months before she had the chance to talk with him about it. He
explained that for him literature was about the voice of the writer, and he feared
that voice was being overwhelmed by the very developments that seemed so
exciting to Kaye. She could see that if voice was what mattered most to you,
45

creating works that contained components drawn from literature, visual arts, com-
puter games, and programming practices. To her, this was part of their appeal.
Coover also expressed concern about the relentless cycles of software
innovation and obsolescence. He felt he could not continue to master all the new
software programs coming out at an accelerating pace and still devote his energy
to what he cared about most, crafting words. She could understand his reasoning
and respect his position, for she knew as well as he that the marketplace was
demanding and unforgiving. The personal decisions of Joyce and Coover fore-
grounded more general concerns that worried her about electronic literature—
problems of access, obsolescence, and software compatibility, not to mention the
fact it was a pricey enterprise for writers, and very few if any were making money
from it.
Still, even considering these difficulties, she saw electronic literature as one
of the most important literary developments since the mid-twentieth century,
and she felt confident it would be a major component of the twenty-first century
canon. Moreover, electronic textuality was here to stay as more print books were
reconstructed for the Web, from medieval manuscripts, to illustrated works like
William Blake’s books, to multimedia sites devoted to such master texts as
Joyce’s Ulysses. Even if electronic literature crashed and burned, which she con-
sidered highly unlikely, literary studies could no longer pretend that electronic
textuality was print on a screen. The desktop computer changed things forever.
Print would never be the same as it was when she was programming assembly
code in the sub-sub-basement—and neither would she.
46
CHAPTER 4 Electronic Literature as Technotext: Lexia to Perplexia

47
Electronic Literature as Technotext: Lexia to Perplexia

48
A
lan Turing gave us the hint half a century
ago when he proved that the Universal
Turing Machine could simulate any
calculating machine, including itself.
During his era the emphasis fell on the
computer’s calculating abilities, but he
already saw that an equally important quality was its capacity for sim-
ulation. In the new millennium, the digital computer has emerged as the
most powerful simulation engine ever built. Computers are much more
than hardware and software. In their general form, computers are sim-
ulation machines producing environments, from objects that sit on
desktops to networks spanning the globe. To construct an environment
is, of course, to anticipate and structure the user’s interaction with it
and in this sense to construct the user as well as the interface. When the
simulated environment takes literary and narrative form, potent possi-
bilities arise for reflexive loops that present the user with an imagina-
tive fictional world while simultaneously engaging her with a range of
sensory inputs that structure bodily interactions to reinforce, resist, or
otherwise interact with the cognitive creation of the imagined world.
The MINDBODY is engaged, not merely mind or body alone. Hence the
force of material metaphors, for they control, direct, and amplify this
traffic between the physical actions the work calls forth and structures,
and the imaginative world the artifact creates with all its verbal, visual,
acoustic, kinesthetic, and functional properties.
In the electronic literary work considered in this chapter, diverse
strategies are employed to create a technotext that structures users
as well as environments. Because the medium is the computer, the
reflexive loop circles through the computer as a simulation engine. As
ARTIFICIAL LIFE researchers have argued, simulation does not neces-
sarily mean that the processes running in a computer are artificial. The
processes can be as “natural” as anything in the real world; they are
artificial only in the sense that they run in an artificial medium. Thus
the naturalness or artificiality of the environment becomes a variable
49

to be defined by the work, not a pregiven assumption determined by the
medium. In Talan Memmott’s Lexia to Perplexia, the artificiality of the
environment is foregrounded to suggest that subjects are themselves
simulations operating according to the dynamics and protocols of the
medium through which they are constituted. To the extent the user
enters the imaginative world of this environment and is structured by
her interactions with it, she also becomes a simulation, an informa-
tional pattern circulating through the global network that counts as the
computational version of human community.
Memmott’s work insists on the co-originary status of SUBJECTIVITY
and electronic technologies. Instead of technologies being created by
humans, this work imagines DIGITAL TECHNOLOGY present from the
beginning, with subjects and technologies producing each other
through multiple recursive loops. Divided into four sections, Lexia to
Perplexia is less a narrative than a set of interrelated speculations
about the future (and past) of human–intelligent machine interactions,
along with extensive reinscriptions of human subjectivity and the
human body. “The Process of Attachment” re-describes bonding and
community in terms that make their formation inextricably entwined
with intelligent machines. “Double-Funnels” uses iconography (eye-
conography) to suggest that “local” bodies connect to “remote” bodies by
comingling in and with the computer apparatus in a process appropri-
ately called “remotional.” “Metastrophe” sets forth several “minifestos”
proclaiming that the future of human life lies in “communification,” a
coinage combining commodification with communication. “Exe.termi-
nation” provides an animated sequence of hyper words (“hyperlecture,”
“hyperlexia,” “hypermedia,” etc). along with images of written sheets.
Clicking on these reveals texts that give an overview of the project’s phi-
losophy, especially the processes of “cyborganization”—transforming
human subjects into hybrid entities that cannot be thought without the
digital inscription apparatus that produces them.
To develop these ideas, Memmott devises an idiosyncratic language,
a revisioning of classical myths, and a set of coded images that invite
50
the reader to understand herself as a permeable membrane through

which information flows. Three principal strategies enact this transfor-
mation. The first category is linguistic. Memmott devises a wide range
of NEOLOGISMS—coinages made from existing words that express new
syntheses. He also creates a CREOLE discourse compounded from English
and computer code. (A creole, unlike PIDGIN, is not an amalgam but a
new language that emerges when two different language communities
come into contact.) The creole is formed as code erupts through the sur-
face of the screenic text, infecting English with machine instructions
and machine instructions with English, as if the distinction between
natural and programming language has broken down and the two
scripts are mingling promiscuously inside the computer. In addition to
these linguistic strategies are rewritings of myth. Drawing on a range
of classical references from the story of Echo and Narcissus to Minoan
funeral practices, Memmott reenvisions this material to make it enact
narratives about how human subjects misunderstand themselves as
autonomous agents when in fact they cannot be separated from the
information technologies that, more than expressing, co-create them.
Finally, Memmott develops a symbolic visual language that images the
cyborganization of human subjects, including eyes that mutate into
“I-terminals,” mathematical expressions that suggest human thought is
being transformed into algorithms as it mingles with computer
processes, and animations that remind the user she is only partially in
control of the text’s movements.
One way to bring these issues into focus is to notice at what points
the screen displays cease to be legible as readable texts. These occlud-
ed representations create visual images that mark the limits of what
human perception can discern. Illegible texts hint at origins too remote
for us to access and interfaces transforming too rapidly for us to grasp.
The text announces its difference from the human body through this
illegibility, reminding us that the computer is also a writer, and
51

that our bodies are also undergoing metamorphoses. What we read
when we cannot read is not so much the disjunction between us and the
computer (for it is always possible to access the underlying code and
hack our way into a readable version of the non-readable text). Rather,
the occluded display signifies a trajectory in which we become part of a
cybernetic circuit. Interpolated into the circuit, we metamorphose from
individual interiorized subjectivities to actors exercising agency within
the extended cognitive systems that include non-human actors. In this
broader context, illegible text reminds us of the changes our bodies are
undergoing as they are remapped and reinterpreted by intelligent
machines working within networks that bind together our flesh with their
electronic materiality. In this posthuman conjunction, bodies of texts and
bodies of subjects evolve together in complex configurations that carry
along the past even as they arc toward an open and unknown future.
Typical is the opening screen locating the origin of the self in a
specular play with an Other:
52
Read as HTML, <HEAD>[FACE]<BODY> has two opening tags but

no closing tags, which would indicate that FACE is part of HEAD but is
not included in BODY. A different interpretation is suggested by
<BODY>FACE</BODY>, which indicates that FACE is tagged as being
the BODY. These creolized puns make a serious point, for they allude to
the mind/body split in which the face, the most intensely signifying
part of the human form, is first associated with the head or mind and
then read as part of the body.
Parsing body parts as textual components initiates a connection
between flesh and electronic materiality that is further underscored by
the electronic signature . Inserting the dot refer-
ences its use in program names to delimit a file extension. The dot also
divides the name; it functions both as an allusion to Freud (Fraud),
announcing its ironic appropriation of this seminal thinker and also
punctuating (or as one of Memmott’s neologism would have it, “punc-
turating”) the signature so that it performs what cyborganization
implies by transforming a proper name into creolized sign. This per-
formance of hybridity is further reinforced by the passage’s content,
where the self is generated through a reflection on the inside of the
screen, as if on “the inside of a mask.” The dislocation from traditional
subjectivity is here triply articulated. First the face is seen as a mask,
implying an inside different from the outside, and then this traditional
trope of the persona is further dislocated by metaphorically connecting
the mask with the screen, so that the interiorized life of the subject is
positioned inside the technology. Thus inside and outside, terms con-
ventionally generating the boundaries between subject and world, are
reconfigured so the subject and the techno-object are both inside, inter-
faced with the world through a screen that functions at once as display
and reflecting surface. A third layer is added through the screen display,
for as the user moves the cursor over the passage quoted above, stylized
eyes appear along with terminal screens. This iconography can be read
either as interiorized eyes looking out at us through the screen-mask or
reflections of our own eyes looking at the screen, thus positioning the
53

reader as Narcissus gazing at an image that he fails to recognize as
himself. By implication, this narcissistic doubling positions us inside
the screen as well as external to it, intimating that we too have become
techno-subjects. Although this specular play obviously alludes to the
Lacanian mirror stage, it differs significantly from the Imaginary self
that Lacan theorized. The subject generated by the reflections between
terminal and I/eye is inscribed as cell...(f) or cell.f, expressions that
visually display their infection by code and hint that the subject has
been fused with the technology. From this dynamic emerges the subject
as an I-terminal, an expression recalling critic Scott Bukatman’s pun-
ning phrase TERMINAL IDENTITY. Acknowledging the illusion of an auto-
nomous I/Eye, I-terminal subverts autonomy through the hyphenated
appendage that connects human vision with the scanning electrode
beam of a computer display.
As we have seen, Lexia to Perplexia moves toward a creole devised
from the merging of English with programming code. Creole expres-
sions include the cell...f (and cell.f) noted above, homophones for self
that conflate identity with a pixilated cell and the notation for a math-
ematical function, respectively; inTents, a pun that collapses intensity
into intentionality and also references the programming practice of
using interior capitalization to make clearly visible two functions in a
variable name that allows no spaces; exe.stream, another pun that ref-
erences and inverts the usual use of the exe. extension to denote an exe-
cutable program; and *.fect, a neologism that alludes to the program-
ming practice of using * as a wild card, so *.fect could be read as infect,
defect, disinfect, etc. To what purpose is this creole concocted?
Compounded of language and code, it forms the medium through which
the origin of subjectivity can be re-described as coextensive with tech-
nology. Just as these hybrid articulations do not exist apart from their
penetration by code, so the subject does not exist apart from the tech-
nology that produces the creole describing/creating the techno-subject.
Nowhere is this circular dynamic more on display than in Mem-
mott’s revisioning of the myth of Echo and Narcissus. About Narcissus
54
who mistakes himself for an Other through the mediation of a reflective

surface we have already heard, but Echo’s role is equally important. She
reacts to her exclusion from the narcissistic circuit by losing her flesh
and becoming a mediated repetition of what others say. Echo is an
appropriate nymph to haunt this text, for Lexia to Perplexia is perme-
ated by echolaic articulations. In an email dated November 12, 2000,
Memmott says that he created the text by selecting passages from such
seminal thinkers as Freud, Nietzsche, Heidegger, and Deleuze and
Guattari. He then “mediated” (or remediated) them by puncturating them
with neologisms and creolized transformations.
It was my method for the development of this piece to collect a

stack of books that I thought may be helpful, distracting, add to
or subtract from the argument. As I passed through these volumes
I would pull texts for later mediation. When there was enough text
to begin this mediation work, which in fact began by the selecting
of various volumes, I compiled the excerpts together and began
parsing for context. So, I became I-Terminal; you, she, he became
X-terminal, and so on. This made the collected texts, the analects
very messy so I endeavored to rewrite only using this premedi-
ated text as reference. The context is built from the simple
replacing of ‘selves’ and ‘others’ with cyborganized values. Then it
is a matter of creating the connective, conductive space between.
To see the results, consider the following passage describing the

appearance of Echo, associated with the collapse of the original into the
simulation, so there is no longer an ONTOLOGICAL distinction between
real and artificial life.
55

Through the neologism, “solipstatic,” the state of mental isolation
denoted by solipsism is conflated with static, which in a machine con-
text references both the inevitable intrusion of noise and the on-off
functionality of the machine. In contrast to living organisms, the
machine can undergo a period of inertness and still be capable of rean-
imation when the switch is turned on. The neologism thus combines two
very different forms of intelligent life into a “solipstatic community,” an
oxymoron whose strong internal tensions are envisioned as springing
from the combination of fleshless Echo with doubled Narcissus.
The oxymoron is then further assimilated with the programming
function n.tmp, a name customarily used for a function that will be
replaced by another. As the nomenclature suggests, n.tmp immediately
slides into another union as the “originating” and “simulative” machines
collapse into one another. If we like, we can suppose that the originat-
ing machine is the human and the simulative one the computer. But any
such assignment partakes of the Imaginary, for the emergence of the I-
terminal reveals that the division between the human and the techno-
logical is an origin story that narrates as a temporal process something
that was always already the case. So the cell.f imagines “the self as out-
side of itself” in “realtime.” Realtime is a phrase programmers use to
indicate that the simulated time of computer processes is running, at
least temporarily, along the same time scale as the real time experi-
enced by humans. Thus the temporal language used to authenticate the
evolutionary story of an originary machine separate from a simulative
machine is already infected with the technological. The collapse of the
56
simulative into the original can be imagined as an event at a discrete

moment in time, but the language reveals that this narration is after the
fact, for the fusion has always already happened.
The transformation of the self into a cell.f does not end with the
individual subject, for the process extends from local to remote bodies.
As a result, the progression into the solipstatic original is suc-

ceeded by
so that the individual
is subsumed into the
formed Thus human
community becomes indistinguishable from the global network of the
World Wide Web.
...
“Synamatic,” a homophone for cinematic, perhaps alludes to the

Symantec (semantic) Corporation, famed for their Norton Anti-Virus
and Norton Utilities, a conflation that implies computer health is inte-
gral to the reproduction of screen image and therefore to subjectivity.
Communification arises when the circuit is completed, that is when
humans and intelligent machines are interconnected in a network
whose reach is reinforced by naming the few exceptions “detached”
machines.
The graphics accompanying these texts include, in addition to ter-
minals and eyes, the letters E.C.H.O. dispersed across underlying text
and animated rollovers that appear in quick succession, occluding por-
tions of the screen. Particularly significant is the image of double funnels
with the small ends facing each other, a sign that Memmott associates
57

with “intertimacy,” the process by which two selves (cell...fs) meet in the
computer “apparatus” and, through their interactions with the appara-
tus, reconstitute from bits and bytes an impression of an other in a rela-
tion that Memmott appropriately neologizes as “remotional.” Seen from
one perspective, as Memmott points out, the cone with an elongated end
is a funnel condensing the cell....f so it can circulate through the net-
work; seen in mirror inversion, the cone becomes a megaphone, an
amplifying device that lets the receiving cell...f construct an image of
the sending cell...f. As Memmott makes clear in the companion work
“Delimited Meshings: agency|appliance|apparatus,” Lexia to Perplexia
must be considered not only as text but as a fully multimedia work in
which screen design and software functionality are part of its signify-
ing practices. Memmott, who came to electronic textuality from a back-
ground as a painter, notes that “much of the writing is integrated with the
screen design. In addition to this, much of what was written prior to the
development of the hypermedia work has in fact been incorporated into the
functionality of the work. Portions of the text that I thought may be bet-
ter served as screen interactions do not appear at the superficial text level
but inspired some of the animations as actions that occur in the piece.“
(email dated November 14, 2000).
These actions often surprise and frustrate a user. Slight cursor
movements cause text the user was reading to disappear or become
illegible as new images and symbols are superimposed on top of it.
Lexia to Perplexia is a very “nervous” document. It constantly acts/
reacts in ways that remind the user she is not in control; not only are
the cursor movements extraordinarily sensitive but some of the actions
are animations controlled by timed computer sequences. Eugene
Thacker, commenting on a version of this essay, writes about his
encounter with the work. “A first-time reader of this work is, among
other things, struck by the activity of the work: like many hypertext and
net.art works, it seems to be alive, sometimes frenetic, sometimes frus-
tratingly inert, and usually hyper-sensitive to any action on the part of
the READER/USER.”
58
This dense layering of the screen display, insofar as it interferes

with reading, manifests itself as a kind of noise that is simultaneously
a message. The linking structure works not by moving the reader from
lexia to lexia—the standard form used by first-generation literary
hypertexts such as Afternoon—but rather through a combination of
user and computer actions that nervously jump from one screen layer to
another, as if probing the multiple layers of code used to produce these
effects. Thus the action of choosing that first-generation hypertext
theory attributed solely to the reader here becomes a distributed func-
tion enacted partly by the reader but also partly by the machine.
Memmott interprets this design in “Delimited Meshings: agency|appli-
ance|apparatus” as creating “a text that does what it says—confronting
the user as it mimes the User’s actions.” The I-terminal is thus at once
a theme within the work and a performance of techno-subjectivity
jointly enacted by computer and user.
An important component in the process of configuring the subject
as an I-terminal is noise, which can play a productive role in complex
systems by forcing them to re-organize at higher levels of complexity.
seems to evoke this possibility
when it proclaims,
Recalling the phrase

that circulated through the post-World War II Macy Conferences on
Cybernetics of the “man in the middle” (i.e., the man spliced between
two automated cybernetic machines), the “mess in the middle” promises
to self-organize into a new kind of message, an emergent articulation
produced by subversive who
.
59

The apparatus names not only the technology but also the interpolated
subjects who have become indistinguishable from electronic messages.
proclaims,
...
“Hyperlobal” neatly sutures lobes—presumably of the brain—into the
hyperglobal expectations of a worldwide communication system, creat-
ing a technohuman hybrid. A similar conflation resonates in logos as a
mathematical (sine) function and a word capable of signification (sign).
If re-organization occurs, these neologisms suggest, it will operate to
fuse human subjectivity with silicon processes. In fact this transforma-
tion is already underway as the creole performs what it describes, cre-
ating a narrative that reaches back to an origin already infected (or
*.fected) with technology and pushes forward into a future dominated
by communification.
60
As we learn to make sense of the creole, we are presented with an

ironic description of our attempts to make everything
to reduce its POLYVOCALITY so that
At times the “doubled trans/missive agent(s)” of code and language

cooperate to yield a consistent meaning, as in the neologism hyperlobal.
But these moments of clarity are embedded in screen designs where
they are transitory at best, flashing on the screen in quick bursts bro-
ken by animated graphics that intervene to obscure text and layer one
image over another. The noise that permeates the text may serve as a
stimulus to emergent complexity, but it also ensures meanings are
always unstable and that totalizing interpretations impossible.
As the transformation of self into cell...f continues, the work imag-
ines flesh becoming digitized into binary signs.
...
\
Significantly, there are no intact bodies imaged at the site, only eyes and
terminals (I-terminals), along with creolized text, mathematical func-
tions and pseudo-code. Of course, everything is already code in the pro-
gramming levels of the computer, so in this sense the human body has
already been “reduced and encoded, codified…made elemental.” If the
body of this text aspires not merely to represent the bodies of writers
and readers but also to perform them, then they too become code to be
compiled in a global dynamic of communification. In a startling literal-
ization of the idea that we are bound together with the machine, this
61

vision implies that at some point (or many points) our flesh will circu-
late through the cybernetic circuit, miniaturized so that it can slip
through the “mouth of the
funnel” and merge with
other subjectivities into a
collective “we.”
This at least is the
ideology of the text, but
the actuality of its materialization is more complex. At the same time
the work appears to banish the flesh, it also relies on embodiment for
its digital performance. Mark Hansen drew my attention to the bodily
responses necessary to actualize the homophonic puns permeating the
work. For example, “inTents” references the motivations that drive the
creation and consumption of the text; it also is a pun on “intense,” the
state of focused alertness necessary to comprehend this difficult text.
Moreover, through internal capitalization it suggests that the state of
in-tending can be read both as inwardness and as a trajectory “tending”
toward some end, presumably communification. To decode these multiple
meanings, the
user needs
three differ-
ent sensory
modalities:
sight, sound, and kinesthesia. To catch the intents/intense pun, the user
must “hear” the sound through subvocalization; to decode the creolized
pun suggested by interior capitalization, the user must attend to the
word’s visual form; and to connect word with screen design, the user
must move the cursor over many areas of the surface.
In a print medium, the durable inscription of ink marks on paper
normally requires that only one word be written in one place. The mul-
tiple layers embedded within a single screen in Lexia to Perplexia rou-
tinely violate this presumption, revealing multiple encodings piled on
top of one another on the same screen. The electronic medium is here
62
used to create “noisy” messages, making noise itself a message about

the distributed cognitive environment in which reading takes place. The
nervous screen constantly challenges the user by reacting to her move-
ments in ways she did not anticipate or intend. Against this background
of bodily performance—considerably more complex than that involved
in reading a traditional print work—the text proclaims “it is the hope of
communification that we minimize the space of the flesh.” But the text,
in ironic subversion of communification, actually creates conditions of
consumption that expand the “space of the flesh.”
Similarly, the text also takes an ironic stance toward the future of
“communification” when it explores its own obsolescence.
proclaims,
This narrative voice—which can be read as emerging either from the

techno-subject or the computer—teases the reader with the bold-faced
taunt, If the user clicks on the
phrase the program immediately shuts down, throwing her back to the
preliminary screen from which the program loads. In this way the work
anticipates its own inevitable future when the platform on which it
runs is obsolete, and it can no longer be opened. The work at this point
will cease to exist, for properly understood, it is not a web site or a
CD-ROM—in fact not a product at all—but a series of dynamic process-
es created when a computer running the appropriate software executes
the commands. The work can no more escape its body than its human
interlocutors can escape theirs. Whatever future communification holds
for us, it will not do away with materiality or the constraints and
enablings that materiality entails.
63

Amidst these complexities, what is clearly established is not the
64
CHAPTER 5 Experiencing Artists’ Books

65
Experiencing Artists’ Books

aye's first encounter with an artist's book was a gift,
K
as was so much in her life, from the Squire of
Serendipity. And from her friend Ann Whiston Spirn,
who in 1994 had come for a visit and brought as a
house gift Johanna Drucker’s Otherspace: Martian
Ty/opography. Kaye loved all books, but she didn’t quite
know what to make of this one. It did not yield its meanings to her cursory glance
through it, and it seemed to have many more images than text, which she perused
quickly but did not understand. It would take years and much more experience
with experimental WORDIMAGES before she would be prepared to appreciate
Drucker’s forays into visual typography. Ann explained that artists’ books are
often produced in small editions, frequently by visual artists, and that they usu-
ally come in experimental flavors. But it was not until a couple of years later,
when Kaye happened upon Drucker’s historical survey The Century of Artists’
Books, that she began to learn how to read artists’ books by reading Drucker.
Drucker, both an artist and art historian, gave careful attention to the book’s
materiality. Her tactful yet penetrating contextualization of the project instanti-
ated by the book, her reading techniques that brought to images many of the
same strategies Kaye was accustomed to bringing to words, and most of all her
insights into how word and image connected, opened a new world for Kaye. Not
ventions, materiality, and specificities of print could become more apparent by

comparing them to electronic works. She believed that both print and electronic
works needed to be taken more seriously as physical artifacts. The biliographers
and textual studies scholars were way out in front on this score, developing modes
of criticism fully attentive to the book’s material properties. But the criticism on
66

electronic textuality suffered from an unfortunate divide between computer
science folks, who knew how the programs and hardware worked but often had
little interest in artistic practices, and literary critics, who too often dealt only
with surface effects and not with the underlying processes of the hardware and
software. She was looking for a way to talk about hypertext narratives in print
and electronic environments that would take the materiality of media into
account. She also felt certain there had to be many more print hypertexts than
the same tired three or four examples that were usually trotted out, and she sus-
pected she would find them in the tradition of artists’ books.
She researched the topic and soon discovered that the Museum of Modern
Art in New York City had major holdings, including the famous Furnace Collection.
So on her next year’s research grant she included a budget for a trip to New York
City and Rochester. She remembered from her years as a Rochester undergradu-
ate trudging home in the snow from the bus stop and walking past a building with
a small sign, “Visual Studies Workshop.” She had often wondered what visual
studies might be, a field so remote from her scientific experience that her imagi-
nation, which usually revved along at high speed on these walks, failed even to
conjure an image. She took the memory to be another prod from Serendipity and
resolved to visit it.
The budget did not stretch to cover lodging, so when the time came to make
the New York trip, she booked the cheapest hotel she could find over the Internet,
reasoning that she meant to spend in the MOMA library every minute it was open,
so the hotel didn’t matter much anyway. She had gone through the artists’ books
listed in MOMA’s on-line catalogue and whittled her requests down to a hundred,
guessing from the descriptions what might be most germane. She was first in line
at the door an hour before the library opened, watching New Yorkers scurry by as
snow flurries fought for possession of the sidewalk. The scene took her back to
her student days—the fleabag hotel, the apple she had bought from a street ven-
dor for lunch—but of course she would not have been able to afford the shock-
ingly high prices of even a fleabag back then. Good, she thought. I am a student
again, and I can’t wait to get at it. When she was finally ushered into the library,
there was a full cart waiting for her and a pair of cotton gloves, which she was
instructed to put on before handling the books.
67

Page from The VoyAge
She tried to go through them quickly to make a first sort of the most appro-
priate ones, but they kept seducing her into savoring them, teasing her with their
unusual shapes, pop-ups, page textures, complex images, and strategies that
made her rethink what a book could be. She lingered over Emmett William’s The
VoyAge. Bound in a simple black cover with white pages over which block letters
sail, the book experiments with a digital algorithm by limiting itself to word units
comprised of three letters—a constraint that often requires creative spelling—
with the spacing between them corresponding to the page numbers on which tri-
ads appear. The units on page one are separated by a single space, those on page
two, by two spaces, on page fifty, by fifty. Remediating a computer, the page
functions as if the spaces are addressable. When the required spacing exceeds
the spaces available on the page, the triads drop one-by-one off the page until,
as Williams says in his introduction, “after a long solo trip, the last triad vanishes.”
Moreover, “the frame of each successive page diminishes in size, so that the far-
ther out we go, the harder it is to see the shore, and slowly but surely the poem
disappears,” making the margins function as if they are a receding shoreline. The
content reflects on the constraints of this metric, as on the page that mourns
“WOE/WOE/GEO/MET/RIC/FOR/CES/GOB/BLE/UPP/OUR/POE/EMM/BIT/BYE/BIT.”
The visual patterns formed by the triads make the reader aware of the grid dic-
tating their spacings, invisible in itself but brought into visibility through the
68

dispersed letters. Kaye thought this a wonderful analogy to the underlying code
structures of electronic texts, with a similar interplay between the visible surface
and the memory addresses in which the bits are stored. In this case, the theme of
DISTRIBUTED COGNITION was also in play, although in a different way than
with electronic texts. In the poem, the voyage is constituted as an interplay
between human agency—the Captain’s steering and the narrator’s voice that
sometimes voices frustration—and the non-human algorithm relentlessly deter-
mining how the voyage will proceed.
Michael Snow’s Cover to Cover provided a fascinating demonstration of how
the book can fashion itself as a cybernetic circuit that interpolates the reader’s
body into its worldview. In this VISUAL NARRATIVE, the first page begins the
sequence with a realistic image of a door. On the next page, the image shows a
man opening the door to go into a rather ordinary room. With each successive
page, the image “opens” the previous representation to reveal it as a posed pho-
tograph—for example, by including the photographer in the picture. As Kaye
approached the center of the book, the narrative progressed through the house
to the street outside, and at the same time the images began shifting angles,
becoming obliquely situated on the page. At the book’s midpoint she had to turn
it upside down to see the remaining images in proper perspective. At the end of
as she constructed the text through her interactions with it.

69

Karen Chance’s Parallax used similar techniques to construct a hypertextual
narrative about two entwined but conflicting perspectives. Using the bright colors
of a crayon box, cutouts and a front/back reversal, Chance creates a sequence that
from front to back tells the story of a straight man who sees gay men as unwanted
intrusions into his life. When she reached the end of the book, Kaye turned it
around to go through it backwards, this time reading a visual/verbal narrative
about how the same events look from the perspective of a gay man who sees his
life threatened by straight people who refuse to acknowledge his existence. The
same images, contextualized differently, were made to tell different stories, so
that Kaye’s physical orientation with respect to the book became an embodied
remediation of the two oppositional perspectives embodied in the narrative.
By the third day in the library, her head was bursting with new possibilities
opened up by these books, and she raced through the last few so she would have
a couple of hours to record her chosen selections with the slide film bought espe-
cially for the occasion. She lingered until the last possible moment, finishing the
final shot as the library was closing. She emerged into the night to find the air
cold and clear, holiday lights shining around her. She paused to let her spinning
brain empty itself of thoughts so she could sink into the moment. Everything qui-
eted down, as if even bustling New York were on hold for a second, and out of the
moment emerged a thought with quiet clarity. “I’m glad I have lived to see these
wonderful books.”
The library was closed the next day, her last in the city, so she planned to
mosey down to Printed Matter Bookstore, having sussed out that, next to MOMA,
it had the best collection of artists’ books in town. She liked to rise early, and the
bookstore did not open until midmorning, so she treated herself to a walk that ran
nearly the length of Manhattan Island from her uptown hotel to Greenwich Village.
Run as a collective, Printed Matter began, manager David Platzker explained,
when a group of artists realized they had boxes of books stored in their base-
ments that were going to waste. The store has a rule that any artist’s book
accepted for sale must have a run of at least 100 copies; other than that, any-
thing is game. Kaye spent the day browsing the shelves, and in between cus-
tomers, David graciously showed her the more expensive items stored in flat files
behind the counter. If his generosity in sharing the store’s treasures was a sales
70

ploy, it was fantastically successful. By the end of the day Kaye had spent way
more money than she intended and walked back wondering how she was going to
fit all these books into her suitcase and her budget.
One of her favorite finds was a small hand sewn booklet by Roberta Allen
entitled Pointless Arrows, with each page decorated by a single vertical line and,
on the facing page, an “explanation” of what the line was. As images the lines
were all the same, but contextualized by the texts, they all became different.
Spine by Joan Lyons and Paul Zimmerman used the mirror technique of contextu-
alizing words with images, naming the parts of a book with playful punning
images that changed their meanings. The word “leaf,” for example, was displayed
across an image showing a fall leaf, “flyleaf” with the image of a fly, and so on.
Her trip to the Visual Studies Workshop gave her the opportunity to meet
Press Director Joan Lyons, who kindly gave Kaye a tour of the printing facilities at
the Workshop. It was Kaye’s first encounter with the inscription technology used
to produce offset books, and it made a lasting impression. So too did the Work-
shop’s bookstore, where she again found herself unable to resist far too many
books. Perhaps the most memorable part of the visit was an observation Lyons
made in passing during their conversation. Learning that Kaye was a literary
scholar, she remarked that many of the artists’ books coming out of the Workshop
were more interesting visually than verbally. She speculated this was so because
many of the artists tended to locate metaphoric intensity and play in images
rather than words. While the images employed a full range of rhetorical devices,
including metaphor, simile, pun, condensation, displacement, analogy and inver-
sion, the prose was often rather flat because it was seen as an explanation or
amplification of the images. The insight struck home for Kaye, because she rec-
ognized that its inverse often held for literary scholars, who tended to locate
metaphoric intensity in words and regard images as illustrations of the verbal
content. Johanna Drucker was exceptional, Kaye saw, not only for the intelligence
and astuteness of her insights but also because she was able to give full weight
to both word and image.
Upon her return to California, Kaye found other projects demanding her
attention, and it was months before she could pursue the project on her own turf
by exploring the splendid artists’ book collection at the Getty Research Library.
71

Universum
She felt privileged to have this magnificent resource a
mere ten minutes’ drive from her UCLA office, and she
felt a joy so intense it approached reverence as she
mounted the handsome Travertine marble steps to the
main plaza, perched at the top of a mountain, and took
in the breathtaking view. She found in the Special
Collections room some of the same books she had seen
in New York, including “book-like objects,” as the Getty
catalogue called them, that alluded to books for their
conception and significance. Among these was Maurizio
Nannucci’s Universum, a small volume encased in a
handsome marbled slipcover. When she removed the
cover, Kaye found the book bound on both sides so it
could not be opened. Equally playful was Nannucci’s The Medium is Word, which
came in a handsome wood box with a sliding top. Inside was nestled a tan felt bag
with a drawstring, and inside that, a black kaleidoscope. When Kaye put it to her
eye she saw the black letters “W-O-R-D” along with the usual colored chips. As
she turned the tube the letters rolled around to form different patterns, some of
them legible as “Word” but many not, forming complex verbal/visual symmetries.
Perhaps her favorite book-like object was by Fred A. Hillbruner, according to the
catalogue created to “expand catalogers’ understanding of the potential range
of artists’ books.” When the object arrived, Kaye found a soft white ball, ten cen-
timeters in diameter, that had the title stamped on it along with the copyright
date and the artist’s initials. The title said it all: What is wrong with this book?
It tickled Kaye to see the fifty-cent ball carefully encased in a specially made
cardboard box (like those used for all the books in Special Collections) that she
estimated must have cost the Getty at least ten dollars to order and purchase.
She wondered if the artist had anticipated this irony, speculating that he proba-
bly appreciated the joke as much as she did.
That was part of what she loved about the tradition of artists’ books. Although
some are unique and precious objects, requiring hundreds of hours of meticulous
handwork and expensive materials, others are made from castoff materials or
humble household items. Her friend Martha Gomez, whom she met during her stay
72
Lexicon Linkmap
go to MITPRESS.MIT.EDU/MEDIAWORK
HTML
INTERFACES CODE
NATURAL
NEOLOGISMS
MATERIALITY
LANGUAGE
POLYVOCALITY
SCRIPTON
DISTRIBUTED COGNITION TEXTON INSCRIPTION TECHNOLOGIES
CREOLE
RHIZOMATIC
PIDGIN
VISUAL
VISUAL LANGUAGE
NARRATIVE
GLYPHS
MULTIPLE
VISUAL NARRATIVE
READING PATHS CHUNKED
NAVIGATION
TEXT LINKING MECHANISM
LINKING MECHANISM
CODEX
RECURSIVE
SAMPLES
MINDBODY ERGODIC
ORIGINARY SUBJECT
LEXICON
ONTOLOGICAL
LINKMAP
MITPRESS.MIT.EDU/MEDIAWORK SOURCE MATERIAL
AFFORDANCES
REPRESENTATION
ARTIFICIAL LIFE
SPATIAL WRITING
WORD MAPS
UNRELIABLE NARRATOR
73
To use the Lexicon Linkmap go to
Lexicon Linkmap
REMEDIATED NARRATOR
SIMULATION
SUBSTRATE
ASSEMBLY CODE
CYBERNETICS
MEDIA-SPECIFIC
TECHNOTEXTSANALYSIS
WORDIMAGES SUBJECTIVITY
MATERIAL METAPHORS
REMEDIATION
TERMINAL IDENTITY
DIGITAL
ELECTRONIC
TECHNOLOGY
MEDIA
LITERATURE
LEXIA
FIRST-GENERATION HYPERTEXTS
M
NONLINEAR
MEDIATION PLOT, MEDIAL ECOLOGY
REFERENT
EMBODIMENTS
XTML, VRML, DIRECTX,
INTERIORIZED SUBJECTIVITY
SECOND-GENERATION ELECTRONIC LITERATURE
HYPERTEXT
CYBERTEXT
MODULAR PROGRAMMING
SIGNIFYING PRACTICES
MITPRESS.MIT.EDU/MEDIAWORK PROPRIOCEPTION
SIMULACRUM
READER/USER
74
Page from wordswordswords

at Bellagio on Lake Como, was at work on a book about artists’ books produced in
Mexico, and she had shown Kaye pictures of books fashioned from used coffee fil-
ters, autumn leaves, wooden pencils, and dryer lint. Kaye was entranced with the
“can-do” attitude these books implied, as if friends gathered for coffee in the
kitchen suddenly turned to each other and said, “Let’s make a book!”
While all the books were delightful, her focus on technotexts predisposed
her to be blown away by Edwin Schlossberg’s wordswordswords, a collection of
poems written specifically for the material on which each poem is printed. This
was a white cotton glove affair, and when she opened the metal box in which the
poems lay, she could see why. One of the poems was not inscribed with ink but
impressed into sheets of heavy white Italia paper. To read it, Kaye had to slant
the papers to catch the light just right; it took her some time to make out the block
letter impressions. It spoke of finding the words tactilely by moving one’s fingers
over the sheet, a soft stroking that correlated with the scratching of one’s mind.
“Paradox is a way of seeing,” another poem entitled “Poem for Jasper” proclaimed
from the inked surface of an aluminum sheet, a formulation that the poem went
on to characterize as “somewhat true,” in a lovely play of self-reflexivity that
reminded Kaye of the wariness of generalization instilled in her by scientific training.
Tracing her white-gloved fingers over the rich papers, Kaye thought about
the interplay between materiality and mind these beautifully crafted objects
75

initiated. It suddenly struck her that Vannevar Bush was wrong, or at least not
entirely right. In his 1945 article “As We May Think,” about which we have already
heard, Bush argued that his hypertextual machine called the Memex was superior
because it worked the way the mind works, through association. Kaye was not
sure the claim was correct. Certainly she sometimes caught herself thinking
through association, but logical ordering and linear sequencing were also impor-
tant. Now she was able to clarify her objections. What Bush’s formulation neg-
lects, she thought, is the feedback loop from materiality to mind. Obviously arti-
facts spring from thought, but thought also emerges from interactions with arti-
facts. Someone starts to make a technical object—a book, say—but in selecting
the paper and choosing the cover design, new thoughts come as the materials are
handled. Insights are stimulated through touching, seeing, manually fitting parts
together, and playing with the materials, that declined to come when the object
was merely an abstract proposition. Such breakthroughs appear frequently in
science and are almost the norm in creating technological artifacts. They also
pepper art history; she thought of Jackson Pollock laying his canvas on the floor,
flinging paint on it, and seeing in this action a new potential for making art.
When the MINDBODY is focused on a problem and alert for clues, the mate-
rial world gives of its bounty unstintingly. Thinking makes shaping, shaping
makes thinking, new ideas arrive and are instantiated in more shaping. This was
why artists’ books were so appealing, Kaye thought, for she saw in them traces
of this process. In retracing it, her thoughts too were stimulated and changed by
She would never read books the same way again.

76
CHAPTER 6 A Humument as Technotext: Layered Topographies

77
A Humument as Technotext: Layered Topographies

78
A mong the best known and most be-

loved artists’ books is Tom Phillips’s
genre, A Humument interrogates the material properties of the book

and mobilizes them as resources for signification. Its specificity as a
technotext comes from its origins in a preexisting book. Intrigued by
Like other
works in the
William Burroughs’ cut-ups, Phillips liked the idea of operating on

source texts to make entirely new documents. To create A Humument,
he took an obscure Victorian novel by William Mallock entitled A
Human Document, bought by chance because it met his criterion of
costing no more than three pence, and “treated” it by covering over the
pages with images that left only a few of the original words visible.
Through curious serendipity, his treatment of Mallock’s text rein-
scribes Mallock’s own strategies; Mallock in his “Introduction” creates
a persona who agrees to edit a scrapbook of journals, letters, and mem-
orabilia of two recently deceased lovers. These documents are hyper-
textual, for though “some single thread of narrative, in a feminine hand-
writing, ran through the whole volume,” this was “broken by pages of
letters, by scraps of poetry, and various other documents” in a mascu-
line hand (Mallock, p. 4). The editor believes that this profusion of mate-
rials disqualifies the scrapbook from being a novel. Uncannily antici-
pating contemporary descriptions of hypertext narrative, he asserts
that “as they stand they are not a story in any literary sense; though
they enable us, or rather force us, to construct one out of them for
ourselves” (p. 8).
The story that emerges from his recasting of this hypertextual
profusion focuses on Grenville, a poet-philosopher turned finance offi-
cer, who feels himself on the threshold of a highly successful career in
government, complete with a wealthy prospective wife. But before this
bright future can materialize, love shakes him around, turning him
79

toward an uncertain future with the unhappily married Irma. The novel
attempts to resist its own stultifying conventionality in the editor’s
positive view of the lovers’ illicit liaison—but these resistances, pre-
cisely because he regards them as so daring, merely underscore his
conservatism.
It is all the more surprising, then, to find in Mallock the postmod-
ern strategy explored by Jennifer A. Wagner-Lawlor in which, she argues,
the text shows Irma and Grenville creating their subjectivities through
the act of writing. Especially significant for our purposes are scenes of
writing where other narrative pathways beckon—for example when
Grenville, on looking over his journal, discovers some faint pencil lines
he recognizes as a forgotten poem of his. The scene takes place at a
moment when he is congratulating himself for being safely beyond
love’s tumult, the experience described in the poem. With unconscious
prescience he decides to ink in the lines, thereby rendering as durable
inscription an emotion he will soon experience with life-transforming
intensity. It is as if, in hypertext fashion, he is choosing by this act of
inscription the narrative path he will follow. The trope recurs when
Grenville finds in Irma’s journal faint writing on the flyleaf, a discovery
that reassures him it is their destiny to be lovers. Again possibility is
transformed into durable inscription, this time through Grenville’s (and
behind him, the putative editor’s) reinscription of the lines into his jour-
nal. These acts of re-writing are repeated twice over on a meta-level:
first when the editor surmises that Irma is reinscribing Grenville’s jour-
nal into her narrative, thus synthesizing their two diaries into a single
story, and again by the editor’s recasting of Irma’s incomplete narrative
into the novel he produces from the materials in the scrapbook.
These strategies share a double impulse. On the one hand, they posit
precursor texts that embody a hypertextual proliferation of narratives,
signified by a diversity of material forms and incomplete or erasable
marks. On the other hand, the novel’s project is to suppress this unruly
complexity, smoothing many conflicting paths into one coherent narra-
tive. This double impulse takes thematic expression through the editor’s
80

professed desire to rebel against the “rules” dictating that characters
(particularly women) should have only moral thoughts, and his equally
strong aversion to the frankness of Zola’s Nana, which he sees as a
moral aberration. His resistance to rules is encoded as the hypertextu-
al proliferation of unruly and multiple narratives, whereas his anxiety
about where this might lead is enacted through scenes of writing that
over-write previous inscriptions to make them more tractable, predictable,
and coherent—which is to say, make them a novel rather than a hypertext.
In “treating” Mallock’s novel, Phillips creates an artist’s book that
seeks to bring into view again this suppressed hypertextual profusion.
The opening page proclaims:
81

Most of the treatment consists not of coining new words but obliterating
ones that already exist, as if to silence the rationalizing consciousness
of narrator and editor so that the murmurs of hypertextual resistance
to coherent narrative can be heard. Page 178 illustrates the technique;
here a page from Mallock’s text has been torn, burnt around the edges,
and stained in the middle, making most of the text illegible. More typi-
cal is page 17, where the few phrases left visible are joined by “rivers”
consisting of white spaces between Mallock’s words. Visually these
rivers of white space trickle down the page, often branching into multi-
ple pathways. Other devices creating hypertextual profusion are leaky
borders, which visually separate the page into multiple narrative levels
and also transgress this separation, suggesting that distinctions
between character, narrator and author are less ontological categories
than contingent boundaries susceptible to multiple reconfiguration.
Additional hypertextual effects are achieved through interplays
between word and image.
82

All these strategies are on display on page 17, where a central gray
rectangle, colored to suggest three-dimensional texture, is placed on a
field of variegated yellow, itself centered on another rectangle of varie-
gated tan. The placement of the gray block suggests a page surrounded
by margins, which in turn becomes a page in Phillips’s text surrounded
by the white margins of his book. This arrangement is further compli-
cated by the rivers that run through the borders, as well as by the lexias
that extend beyond the outermost yellow field and intrude into the mar-
gin’s white space, thus suggesting that even the page as Phillips defines
it is a boundary to be transgressed. On this page there are several pos-
sible sequences in which to read the spatially dispersed words:
“art/art/art/art/art”
—a repetition that enacts the narrative multiplicity of hypertext and

also gently mocks it, since the words are all the same, differing only in
their placements within the image. The attentive reader can make out
some of Mallock’s text through the covering paint, and this effect offers
another possible reading sequence.
The text on this page illustrates the nature of the narrative.
Broken and reassembled, the prose achieves the compression of poetry,
becoming allusive and metaphoric rather than sequentially coherent:
83

The ambiguity of the hypertextual rivers makes it possible to read these
lines as if the REFERENT for “makes me ill” is the critic’s name on a label,
in which case malady and cure spring from the same source, a bottle of
“art/art.” Twelve pages earlier comes page 5, which seems to comment on
this strategy:
84
Here the comparison with Mallock is especially illuminating. The lines

were reworked from the editor’s “Introduction,” in which he criticizes
Irma’s style as she strives to make a single narrative out of her diverse
materials. Despite himself, the editor admires her “baffled and crippled
sentences, her abrupt transitions, and odd lapses of grammar,” for
though these “could hardly be said to constitute a good description of
85

what she professed to have felt, seemed to be more than that:—they
seemed to be a visible witness of its reality, as if her language had been
broken by it, like a forest broken by a storm, or as if it were some living
tissue, wounded and quivering with sensation” (p. 5).
Yet it is this very hypertextual intensity that the editor smoothes
away in his putative recasting. From this smoothed language Phillips,
by obliterating most of the editor’s words, recovers a sense of the bro-
ken language that supposedly underlies it, making the coherent text
speak of the “attempt to cripple,” a phrase that can be taken to apply to
the editor rather than the editor’s judgment of Irma’s faulty style.
Similarly, it is now not Irma’s wounded sensations that are “quivering,”
but the fabric of the perceptual world itself, “reality broken by quiver-
ing peculiarities.” The strategy of uncovering the putative hypertext
underlying Mallock’s novel is beautifully captured in “poken,” a frac-
tured word that both alludes to the “spoken” of Mallock’s text and the
evocative, broken language it supposedly covers over.
Contributing to the recovery of hypertextual profusion is the rich
interplay between subtext and context, word and image. Running
across a visual bend in page 5 are the words:
86

naming as well as illustrating Phillips’ hypertextual breaking of
Mallock’s page. Also on this page are the squiggly lines that run in rows
across the “page” as it is defined by the yellow margins (and then decon-
structed as a page by being set within white margins, which recontex-
tualize the page as the leaf in Phillips’ text). These squiggles clearly
resemble writing—perhaps the handwriting of the journal the editor
recasts. Significantly, this writing is illegible as words, transformed
into the image or representation of writing rather than writing itself. A
similar technique appears on page 83, where the text in the upper right
river names:
87
a scene that the white squiggles against the dark background seem to
enact, although again they are illegible as words and function instead
88

as visual representations of verbal marks. Commenting on this inter-
play of word and image in his Curriculum Vitae series, Phillips makes
an observation equally relevant to A Humument: “Once more I empha-
size the fact that I regard texts as images in their own right: treated as
they are here with words ghosted behind words to form a (literal) sub-
text they are all the more image for being doubly text.”
Phillips’ strategy of recovering and heightening the hypertextual
profusion implicit in Mallock’s text extends to his own sense that every
page offers multiple possibilities for treatment. “In order to prove (to
myself) the inexhaustibility of even a single page I started a set of vari-
ations on page 85: I have already made over twenty,” he comments in the
“Notes.” So rich does he find Mallock’s vocabulary and range of refer-
ences that he confesses to using it as his “personal I Ching.” He contin-
ues to revise A Humument, constantly creating new pages that he
introduces into subsequent editions and puts up at his web site even
before the editions can appear. “If this book finds favour (i.e. sells) and
I live,” he comments in the Notes, “the consequent reprints will allow me
to replace say a dozen pages with each new edition. A notional thirtieth
(!) printing therefore would be an entirely reworked book with almost
no pages surviving from the first.”These remarks suggest that he thinks
of Mallock’s text as an inexhaustible hypertext, only some of whose
possibilities he can actualize in his inscription of narrative pathways,
which themselves offer multiple hypertextual readings.
The main character moving through the hypertextual profusion of
A Humument is Toge, who can appear only on those pages of Mallock’s
text that contain the words “together” or “altogether,” since it is only in
these words that the requisite combination of letters making up Toge’s
name can be found. (Whimsically, Phillips in his “Notes” suggests that
Toge’s first name is Bill, an extra-textual name that familiarly rein-
scribes William Mallock’s first name.) In many respects Toge is a typi-
cally Romantic character, constantly yearning for Irma, as did Grenville
in Mallock’s (sub)text. Over and over he finds himself inflated with
desire, only to suffer a catastrophic deflation when the erotic liaison
89
doesn’t come off as he hoped. In this reading the narrative is all about
INTERIORIZED SUBJECTIVITY, which is to say, Toge as an autonomous
and independent agent who actualizes himself through the workings of
desire. Also in play, however, is his image, which Phillips decided could
take shape only through the rivers of white spaces running through
Mallock’s words. As a result, Toge has an amoeba-like form whose uncer-
tain outlines emerge from the interplay between Mallock’s text and
Phillips’s design. His figure visually testifies to the complication of
agency that comes from this union of Phillips with Mallock as his
“unwitting collaborator,” a production in which Phillips’s agency is con-
strained by Mallock’s text, and Mallock’s text is transformed in ways the
long-deceased writer cannot know, much less control. The processes that
inscribe Toge’s form as a durable mark embody a multiplication of agency
that at the very least complicates, if it does not altogether subvert, his
verbal construction as a solitary yearning individual. Page 165 shows
90

Phillips treating the page by creating backgrounds that make Mallock’s
text visible through Toge’s eyes, mouth, and larynx (body locations asso-
ciated with perception and articulation), thus literally inscribing Toge as
a subject who is spoken as well as a subject who speaks.
A particularly rich interplay between text and image emerges from
page 229, a putative photograph of Toge’s beloved Irma, doubly framed
by a white opaque border and a tan surrounding frame through which
the words of Mallock’s text are visible, with lines drawn between letters
in visual patterns suggestive of hieroglyphics, signifiers based on iconic
resemblance.
runs a river of text over Irma’s face, an articulation that in Romantic

fashion locates the image’s origin deep inside the interiority of the feel-
ing subject. But an alternate explanation is offered by a river of text that
overruns the inset white border and tan hieroglyphics to spill out onto
the white border of Phillips’ page.
91

this articulation declares, shifting the weight of signification from
image to text and its location from inside the subject to the boundary
line between the treated page of Mallock’s text and Phillips’ own page.
On one view voiced on this page, then, art issues from the subject who
possesses a consciousness and reaches out into the external world; on
another view, it flows into the subject from the external world through
interfaces that allow externally originating changes to permeate inward
and create the illusion of interiority. At the boundary sit the complexi-
ties of the double frames functioning as image and text simultaneously,
a double voicing also performed by the text/photograph at the center of
these multiple frames.
92

The interplay between inside and outside, the subject possessing a
meaningful interiority and the simultaneous deconstruction of that
subject, is strikingly performed on page 150. On this page, Toge steps on
the figured carpet and looks through a window at a landscape (the fig-
ured carpet and landscape window are so frequently associated with
him that Phillips suggests in the “Notes” they function as Toge’s two
“insignia”). The window through which an artist looks functions as an
important motif in Phillips’ work as a whole. In Works and Texts, crit-
ic Huston Paschal points out that Phillips’s artist’s book Dante’s
Inferno places Dante and Virgil in studies with windows. She writes,
“The study/studio bespeaks the artist’s dilemma: the creativity that
confers a chance for immortality demands a sacrifice. The artist is held
hostage to his art.”
The rivers of text on page 150 highlight this ambiguity, bracketing
Toge’s name with two conflicting imperatives to:
93

and to
94

In commanding Toge to “inspect the landscape,” the text evokes it as an
actual terrain visible through the window, thus connecting subjectivity
with the representation of a world greater than the self. On the other
hand, the text also directs Toge to examine the walls “for microscopic
incidents,” thus alluding to the inward turning that creative in-sight
demands. By implication, these conflicting imperatives can be under-
stood as an oscillation between a depth model of realistic representa-
tion and a foregrounding of the material means through which such
illusions are created, an ambiguity nicely expressed in the juxtaposition
of a natural “landscape” with the artificial “fittings.”
The oscillation is deepened on the facing page 151. Rendered in
colors similar to the landscape Toge “inspects,” the image functions
visually as a continuation of what Toge sees, as if the authorial eye had
moved beyond the window to look at the landscape directly without
the mediation of the glass/picture. No sooner has the reader made this
transition, however, than the rivers of text recontextualize the landscape
as existing in art and memory rather than unmediated perception.
95

runs one river, complemented by
the more general comment:
Whether the landscape emerges from Irma’s dreams or Toge’s memories

of home, it enters the represented world of the text not as an “actual”
exteriorized setting it first appeared but as a phantasmatic image that
at once confirms the interiority of the subject and subverts it by reveal-
ing that interiority as an illusion the flat page creates.
96

These strategies make us freshly aware that the character is never
self-evidently on the page; they also construct Toge as an alter ego for
Phillips. As Paschal points out, the alert reader can see signs of Phillips
everywhere. On page 44, a scrawl on a brick wall announces “Tom [w]as
here, ” along with the “X” repeated throughout his Terminal Greys series
and recurring so frequently in his work that it can be regarded as his
“mark.” The page forcibly reminds us that Toge exists only insofar as he
on the wall and pedestals associated with the display of art objects.
Instead of physical objects, here the pedestals are occupied by rivers of
text,a move that imaginatively cycles through the (absent) object to
arrive at the words. The text reenacts this displacement by proclaiming:
97
A Humument as Technotext: Layered

a punningly appropriate phrase that performs what it names,
abstracting the missing artifact into “abstract art.” The dis-
placement thus cycles through the (representation of) a mate-
rial object, which gives specificity to the abstract cognitive
activity of making these punning connections.
Another pedestal-object proclaims:
while the third comments:

98

an allusion to the complex processes by which material objects are
abstracted into “timeless” art, as if the object could be removed from its
historical specificity and treated as a representation that exists inde-
pendent of its material circumstances.
That this is precisely the move the book resists is suggested by the
picture on the wall, which Phillips tells us in the “Notes” was made from
pages taken from the first limited edition of A Humument by Tetrad
Press in 1970. Think of it. First the text exists as a physical object. Then
Phillips dismembers the book and rearranges the pages into a material
composition that obscures the words and emphasizes the visual quali-
ties of pattern—a process which, if we take him at his word, involved
the interplay between thought and artifact as he worked with the pages
until he was satisfied with the design. He then used this physical object
as the basis for his visual composition, which he inscribed onto
Mallock’s printed page as a form representing a picture hanging on the
wall. When the reader decodes that representation in light of the
“Notes,” she mentally reconstructs from the flat image the three-dimen-
sional display of crumpled pages, themselves inscribed with words and
images Phillips layered onto Mallock’s book as he worked with the
materiality of the individual pages—a materiality that goes beyond ver-
bal content to include gutters, margins, white space, and the paper fiber
as it interacts with paint. In these complex transactions, the artifact (or
representation of it) plays an essential role, for it allows the interplay
between thought and physicality to craft an emergent materiality ripe
with creative potential.
Phillips engaged in a similar process when he pasted pages of
A Humument over a series of globes, creating visual patterns reminis-
cent of continents and oceans. Instead of the usual geographical names,
phrases from A Humument are visible, creating a rich interplay between
a material form that gestures toward the world while locating that world
within the text’s imaginary space. The text-continents, in their simulta-
neous reference to a fictional world made of words and a (representa-
tion of) a world literally made from words, are multilayered collaged
99

compositions that evoke in their complex forms the further complexities
of Phillips’ images overlaid onto Mallock’s text, which remains physi-
cally present even in the highly mediated form it takes in this composi-
tion, subtly contributing its attraction to the globe’s gravitational field.
Complementing these flexible movements between verbal con-
struction and artifactual physicality is the configuration of the page as
an interface that implicitly constructs the reader through its material-
ity. As the two-dimensional page is visually stretched into something
like three dimensions, a topographic space is created into which the
reader can imaginatively project herself, experiencing the text as a
space to explore rather than a line to follow. Because the reader’s capa-
bility for proprioceptive projection into the text is strengthened, read-
ing is transformed from the subvocalization of interior voices into a
more complex activity actualizing the textual space so that it is kines-
thetically vibrant as well as verbally resonant. As we have seen, the
complex textual layering also has the effect of locating subjectivity
ambiguously between a depth model of interiority and the chance junc-
ture of multiple agencies following independent causal lines. As a
result, subjectivity for both characters and readers becomes not only a
matter of interior voicing but of interaction with a physically evocative
world that creates the new precisely because it resists the reduction to
an immaterial realm of disembodied verbal signifiers.
Readers are consequently less likely to read the text cover-to-cover
than open it at random and mediate over a few pages before skipping
elsewhere or closing it for the day. This mode of reading reminds us that
in the Middle Ages the codex book was heralded as a great improvement
over the scroll precisely because it allowed random reading. In contem-
porary parlance, we might say that the book is the original random
access device (RAD). Contrary to much hype about electronic hypertext,
books like A Humument allow the reader considerably more freedom of
movement and access than do many electronic fictions. In this respect
the book is more RAD than most computer texts—a conclusion that the
bibliophiles among us will relish.
100
CHAPTER 7 Embodiments of Material Metaphors

101
Embodiments of Material Metaphors

aye was standing in a ucla gallery, transfixed by an
K
event that all teachers worth their salt dream about—
the moment when her students not only surpassed her
expectations but leaped ahead of what she herself
could have done. She was watching Adriana de Souza e
Silva and Fabian Winkler demonstrate their installation
database. It was their final project for a graduate seminar on word and image in
the digital domain, an experimental course she was co-teaching with Bill Seaman,
an electronic artist from the Design | Media Arts department. The idea had germi-
in the close reading of difficult texts but often did not have high technical compe-
tence or extensive visual skills, and those from Design | Media Arts, who were
visually sophisticated and had technical chops but often quailed at reading hun-
dreds of pages of dense theoretical texts. Seminar discussions had been intense,
insightful, and rewarding, and the students had caught fire as they planned their
final projects.
Adriana and Fabian had taken off on the idea that the materiality of the tech-
nology should be brought into visibility, an enterprise they undertook by revers-
ing and subverting its usual operations. The installation consisted of a computer
screen displaying virtual text, a printer with a miniature video camera attached,
and a projection screen displaying the camera’s output. Sitting in the printer were
sheets of paper full of text, the exterior database for the project. When the user
moves the cursor over the white computer screen, black rectangles appear that
cover over most of the text, along with keywords that fade into white again when
the cursor moves away—unless the user chooses to click, in which case the
102

keyword is also covered by a black rectangle. At the same time, the click sends a
message to the camera to focus on a second keyword in the exterior database
related to the first through agonistic relation, perhaps an antonym or some other
oppositional tension. For example, clicking on “perpetually” on the screen makes
“too fast” appear on the wall projection; the screenic “promise” links to the pro-
jected “past.” After a few clicks, the screen is dotted with black rectangles. The
user can then click on a red dot at the upper right corner to activate a “print”
command. The printer sends through the sheet full of pre-written text, blacking
out the keywords chosen by the user as the camera gives a fleeting glimpse of
them before they disappear. At the same time, the obliterations create alter-
ations in the database’s linear narrative text that change its meaning.
Adriana and Fabian’s accompanying essay made clear the project’s com-
plexity. The inversions bring into visibility a range of assumptions normally so
taken for granted they are invisible. The printer obliterates rather than inscribes
words; the database is stored as marks on paper rather than binary code inside
the computer; clicking blacks out visible words rather than stabilizing them; the
camera “reads” but does not record; and the projection displays words opposi-
tional to the ones the user has chosen. The inversions create new sensory, phys-
ical, and metaphysical relationships between the user and the database. Printing,
a technique normally associated with external memory storage, transforms pres-
ence into absence. The video camera, usually linked with storage technologies
that make a permanent record, here makes writing ephemeral and transitory, dis-
appearing from the projection as the word is inked out. The database, rather than
residing at physically inaccessible sites as bit strings dispersed throughout the
hard drive, is here constituted as linear text Kaye could literally hold in her hands.
The significance of these inversions is broadened by the prose constituting
the database, selected from various writers meditating on time and memory,
including Borges’s “The Immortals.” In this fiction, the narrator is searching for
the City of Immortals. He discovers a tribe of troglodytes, seemingly subhuman
creatures that cannot speak, do not sleep, and eat barely enough to keep alive.
The narrator decides to teach one of them to speak, only to discover that the
creature is the poet Homer. Following Borges’s logic, Adriana and Fabian point out
that immortality drastically alters one’s relationship to time. Since time for an
103

database
immortal stretches in an endless horizon, the future ceases to have meaning; the
future is precious for mortals because they understand their lives have finite
horizons. The immortals, by contrast, live in a present that obliterates the past
and devours the future, becoming absolute, permanent, and infinite. Saturated by
memories stretching into infinity, the immortals become incapable of action, par-
alyzed by thoughts that have accumulated through eons without erasure. Seen in
light of this story, the obliterations the printer creates can be read as inscriptions
of mortality, non-signifying marks that paradoxically signify the ability to forget,
a capability the immortals do not have.
Just as the printer plays with time by linking inscribing/obliterating with
immortality/mortality, so the wall projection plays with time by linking writing/
speaking with visibility/invisibility. The words projected on the wall function as
visible inscriptions, but inscriptions that behave like speaking since they disap-
pear as the printer inks out the selected word. Writing, a technology invented to
preserve speech from temporal decay, here is made to instantiate the very
ephemerality it was designed to resist. Kaye understood that her relation to this
writing was being reconfigured to require the same mode of attention she nor-
mally gave to speech. If her thoughts wandered and her attention lapsed while
she was listening to someone speak, it was impossible to go back and recover
what was lost, in contrast to rereading a passage in a book. Moreover, the wall
projection did not repeat the word she selected on screen but rather substituted
another word orthogonally related to it. Blacked out as soon as she clicked on it,
the screen word became unavailable to visual inspection. She could “remember”
it only by attempting to triangulate on it using the projected word, which required her
104

to negotiate a relationship constructed by someone else through the fields of mean-
ing contained in the database. But as soon as she printed the database out, it was
altered by the printer obliterating the words she had selected, which also changed
the meaning of the narrative that provided the basis for the relationship between
screenic and projected words. Thus she was placed in the position of trying to nego-
ticularities into a parsimonious few. The more instances that can be

reduced, the more powerful the theory is understood to be. Because the
noise of reality cannot be so easily tamed, scientific theories always
exist in tension with experimental data. Deviation from theoretically
predicted results is the mark of the real, the inscription of interacting
complexities that may rarely or never be completely eliminated. The
point of experimental practice is to reduce this noise as much as possi-
ble. Reduction is good, proliferation is bad.
Theory in literature has related meanings but different cumulative
effects. Here theory serves as an interpretive framework through which
particular instances of literary texts can be read. Like scientific exper-
iments, texts may rarely or never be completely explained by a given
theory; there will always be elements that resist incorporation into a
theoretical matrix. Unlike scientific theory, however, the more predic-
tive power a literary theory seems to have, in which it yields readings
that can be known in advance once the theory is specified, the less valu-
able it becomes. At this point literary scholars tend to feel the theory
has become reductive in a bad sense, because it represses the text’s
power to generate new meanings and so to renew itself. Here reduction
is bad, proliferation good.
105

Years ago I proposed an economic interpretation for this differ-
ence, suggesting that whereas science can renew itself by continually
opening new realms of phenomena for investigation, literature is in the
very different position of having an established canon of a finite num-
ber of texts. While some new frontiers can be opened by expanding the
canon or, in the case of contemporary literature, adding to it through
new works, it is unlikely that there will ever be new plays by
Shakespeare or new medieval texts to study. “Too many critics, too few
texts” was the way I expressed this situation, leading to a dynamic in
which the economics require that old texts must be capable of being
read in new ways if literary scholars are to publish new research. The
inexhaustibility of texts thus comes to have an economic value very dif-
ferent from the noise of experimentation in science. Rather than trying
to eradicate noise, literary scholars have a vested interest in preserving
it. When literary theories become sufficiently established that they
threaten to make this noise invisible, they cease to have the same utili-
ty for critics and will normally be employed in different ways. They are
then less likely to be seen as interpretive frameworks dictating entire
readings than to be regarded as one tool among many, used for discrete
passages or momentary insights but rarely the central focus of a criti-
cal argument. Literary theories thus have life cycles distinctively dif-
ferent from that of scientific theories (itself a complex topic too exten-
sive to discuss here).
In addition, the ideology of science sees theories as cumulative (or
more precisely, subsumptive). Older established theories, for example
Newton’s laws of motion, must be reconciled with newer theories and
folded into them, as when mechanics is established as a limit case to
quantum mechanics. Although it is a moot point whether this is a
smooth folding or a rupture covered over by changing what key terms
mean, nevertheless it is fair to say that the cumulative effect of theory
building is greater in science than in literature. This difference too gives
literary theories sharper and more well-defined life cycles than scien-
tific theories.
106

Anecdotal evidence has a shifting value for literary theory that
varies according to where in the life cycle it comes. Particularity weighs
in most heavily at the beginning of theory formation, when it gives
vividness and heft to theory’s generalizations, and near the end of the
cycle, when it often serves to unravel a theory or force it to reorganize
at a higher level of complexity. At the moment, we are near the begin-
ning of a theory of media-specific analysis in literary studies. Many peo-
ple, Kaye thought, are now making journeys similar to hers, moving from print-
oriented perspectives to frameworks that implicitly require the comparison of
electronic textuality and print to clarify the specificities of each. Others have yet
to begin the trip, remaining firmly within print and seeing electronic textuality as
a subset of print or as something still too distant to be an important considera-
tion. For these folks, theory might provide the best catalyst for re-think-
ing their perspective, since they do not yet have the experiences that would
both in the narrative and theoretical chapters, so now the two voices of
personal experience and theoretical argument merge as Kaye’s cumulative
experience leads her to the theoretical concepts articulated at the start of
this book. The end is in the beginning, and the beginning is in the end.
Kaye’s laboratory experiences, her first disciplined encounter with materi-
ality, no doubt predisposed her to realize that books are more than encod-
107

ed voices; they are also physical artifacts whose material properties offer
potent resources for creating meaning. Indeed, it is impossible not to cre-
ate meaning through a work’s materiality. Even when the interface is ren-
dered as transparent as possible, this very immediacy is itself an act of
meaning-making that positions the reader in a specific material relation-
ship with the imaginative world evoked by the text.
The database project makes this unmistakably clear by positioning the
database of verbal signifiers within a complex semiotic-material apparatus
that integrates the words with a series of machine interfaces that materi-
ally affect their meaning. Moreover, through its rigorous interrogation of
the ways in which users interact with the interfaces, it also makes clear
that subjectivity is an emergent property produced in part by the work’s
materiality. The interplay between semiotic components and physical
attributes that gives rise to materiality simultaneously and with the same
gesture gives rise to subjects who both perceive and are acted upon by this
materiality.
In the broadest sense, artistic practice can be understood as the craft-
ing of materiality so as to produce human-intelligible meanings, while at
the same time transforming the meaning of terms like “human” and “intel-
actuality necessitating that their materialities and meanings are deeply

interwoven into each other.
108
CHAPTER 8 Inhabiting House of Leaves

110
Inhabiting House of Leaves

f my case for the importance of materiality rested
I
only on A Humument and Lexia to Perplexia, it might
risk being seen as special pleading; for these
texts, wonderful though they are, are somewhat
anomalous in the literary tradition. House of Leaves
demonstrates that materialist strategies are also
intimately involved in a best-selling novel. Camouflaged as a haunted
house tale, House of Leaves is a metaphysical inquiry worlds away from the
likes of The Amityville Horror. It instantiates the crisis characteristic of post-
modernism, in which representation is short-circuited by the realization
that there is no reality independent of mediation. The book does not try to
penetrate through cultural constructions to reach an original object of
inquiry—an impossible task. On the contrary, it uses the very multi-lay-
ered inscriptions that create the book as a physical artifact to imagine the
subject as a palimpsest, emerging not behind but through the inscriptions
that bring the book into being.
The book’s putative subject is the film The Navidson Record, produced by
the world-famous photographer Will Navidson after he, his partner Karen
Green, and their two children Chad and Daisy occupy the House of Ashtree
Lane in a move intended to strengthen their strained relationships and knit
them closer as a family. Precisely the opposite happens when the House is
revealed as a shifting labyrinth of enormous proportions, leading to the
horrors recorded on the high-8 videos Will installed throughout the house
to memorialize their move. From this video footage he made The Navidson
Record, which then becomes the subject of an extensive commentary by the
solitary Zampanò. When the old man is discovered dead in his apartment,
the trunk containing his notes, scribblings, and speculations is inherited
by the twenty-something Johnny Truant, who sets about ordering them
into a narrative to which he appends his own footnotes, which in Pale Fire
fashion balloon into a competing/complementary narrative of its own.
Zampanò’s narrative, set in the typeface Times, occupies the upper portion
of the pages while Johnny’s footnotes live below the line in Courier, but this
initial ordering becomes increasingly complex as the book proceeds.
111

Equally complex is the ontological status of objects represented with-
in the book and finally the materiality of the book itself. In his introduction,
Johnny Truant reveals that the film The Navidson Record, about which he,
Zampanò and others write thousands of pages, may in fact be a hoax:
(p. xix-xx). Yet as the many pages that follow testify, the lack of a real
world referent does not result in mere absence. Zampanò’s account con-
tains allusions, citations and analyses of hundreds of interpretations of The
Navidson Record, along with hundreds more ancillary texts. Johnny Truant’s
footnotes, parasitically attaching themselves to Zampanò’s host narrative,
are parasited in turn by footnotes written by the anonymous “Editors,”
upon which are hyper-parasitically fastened the materials in the Exhibits,
Appendix, and finally the Index (which like the index of Pale Fire turns out
to be an encrypted pseudo-narrative of its own).
To make matters worse (or better), this proliferation of words happens
in the represented world on astonishingly diverse media that match in vari-
ety and strangeness the sources from which the words come. The inscrip-
tion technologies include film, video, photography, tattoos, typewriters,
telegraphy, handwriting, and digital computers. The inscription surfaces
112

are no less varied, as Johnny Truant observes about Zampanò’s notes,
including writing on
(p. xvii). Despite his uncertainty (or perhaps because of it),

he adds to these “snarls” by more obsessive writing on diverse surfaces,
annotating, correcting, recovering, blotting out and amending Zampanò’s
words, filling out a journal, penning letters and poems, even scribbling on
the walls of his studio apartment until all available inscription surfaces are
written and over-written with more words and images.
None of the dynamics displayed in House of Leaves is entirely original,
yet the bits and pieces add up to something very specific if not unique.
What distinguishes House of Leaves is the way it uses familiar techniques to
accomplish two goals. First, it extends the claims of the print book by show-
ing what print can be in a digital age; second, it recuperates the vitality of
the novel as a genre by recovering, through the processes of remediation them-
selves, subjectivities coherent enough to become the foci of the sustained
narration that remains the hallmark of the print novel. The computer has
often been proclaimed the ultimate medium because it can incorporate
every other medium within itself. As if imitating the computer’s omnivo-
rous appetite, House of Leaves in a frenzy of remediation attempts to eat all
the other media, but this binging leaves traces on the text’s body, result-
ing in a transformed physical and narrative corpus. In a sense House of
Leaves recuperates the traditions of the print book and particularly the
novel as a literary form, but the price it pays for this recuperation is a meta-
morphosis so profound it becomes a new kind of form and artifact. It is an
open question whether this transformation represents the rebirth of the
113

novel, or the beginning of the novel’s displacement by a hybrid discourse
that as yet has no name.
These transformative processes are on display in an early scene
between Will Navidson and Karen Green. The scene is related by Zampanò,
who positions his readers as first-person viewers watching the film of The
Navidson Record along with him. Since the film does not exist, his description,
which inevitably interprets as well as a remediates, creates the film as an
object within the text and also as a putative object in the represented
world. He describes how Navidson takes Karen’s jewelry box out of a crate
and removes the lid and inner tray to look inside, although
(p. 10). Later we learn that Karen keeps old love letters in her jewelry box,
so the moment is fraught with an invasion of her privacy and an implicit
jealousy by Navidson. Then Karen comes in as Navidson is pulling a clump
of her hair from her hairbrush; she watches as he tosses it into the waste-
basket. She tries to snatch the hair, saying,
Zampanò’s commentary focuses on

.
Despite the casual way Will handles her things, Zampanò’s interpretation
claims that and
through the way he edits the images, thus
contrasting his attitude at the time he edited the video with his apparent
disregard for her privacy at the time the high-8 camera caught his actions.
The layering here is already four-fold, moving from Navidson and
Karen at the time of filming, through Navidson as he edits the film, to
Zampanò’s initial viewing of the film, to his re-creation of the scene for us,
the putative viewers, who of course read words rather than see images and
so add a fifth layer of mediation. The layering is further complicated when
Zampanò introduces “Samuel T. Glade,” a critic who points out the ambi-
guity of Navidson’s “No,” arguing that it could refer to
114

(p. 11). As
the meanings proliferate, Navidson’s relationship with Karen became sim-
ilarly multilayered and complex, combining disregard with tenderness,
jealousy with regret, playful resistance to her chiding with a deep wish to
recover what he has thrown away. But these complexities all come from
the multiple remediations of the supposedly original moment, recorded on
a film that does not exist in a house that cannot be because it violates the
fundamental laws of physics. Thus subjects (in this case Will, Karen, and
their relationship) are evacuated as originary objects of representation but
reconstituted through multiple layers of remediation.
The pattern is repeated throughout the text. When relationships are
not mediated by inscription technologies they decay toward alienation,
and when they are mediated, they progress toward intimacy. Karen’s dis-
trust of Will grows as he becomes increasingly infatuated with exploring
the House, and only when she makes a film about him, “A Brief History of
Who I Love,” can she see him with fresh eyes and rekindle her love. Here
is Zampanò’s interpretation of the process:
(p. 368). Navidson undergoes a similar process when

he makes “Tom’s Story,” his edited version of the videotape recording his
brother Tom while Will forges ahead to explore the House. When Navidson
returns, he finds that Tom has left his post and bitterly complains:
(p. 277). Only in retrospect, after he edits the tape following Tom’s
death, does Navidson recapture their childhood closeness and recuperate
a far more loving vision of Tom. Zampanò, calling the edited tape:
115

stresses there is
...
(p. 274).
Although we can tease out a temporal sequence for the events repre-
sented in The Navidson Record, these actions are screened through a complex
temporality of remediation. The MEDIATION PLOT, if I may call it that, pro-
ceeds from the narration of the film as a representation of events, to the
narration of the film as an artifact in which editing transforms meaning, to
the narration of different critical views about the film, to Zampanò’s narra-
tion as he often disagrees with and re-interprets these interpretations, and
finally to Johnny’s commentary on Zampanò’s narration. Onto this already
complex pastiche is layered a related but distinct temporality constituted
by the different processes of inscription. This sequence begins with articles
and books that Zampanò collects and reinscribes in his commentary, pro-
ceeds to Johnny’s writing as he orders Zampanò’s notes into a manuscript,
and supposedly ends with the editors’ emendations and publisher’s inter-
ventions as they convert the manuscript to a print book. Onto the chronol-
ogy of events and the order of telling are thus overlaid further temporal
complexities introduced by recognizing that the narration is not an oral
production but a palimpsest of inscriptions on diverse media. Conse-
quently, the story’s architecture is envisioned not so much as a sequential
narrative as alternative paths within the same immense labyrinth of a fic-
tional spacetime that is also and simultaneously a rat’s nest of inscription
116

surfaces that prove to be as resistant to logical ordering as the House is to
coherent mapping. Locating itself within these labyrinthine spaces, the
text enfolds the objects represented together with the media used to rep-
resent them, thus making itself into a material metaphor for the recursive
complexities of contemporary medial ecology.
At the same time, House of Leaves insists on its specificity as a print
novel, showing a heightened self-awareness about its own materiality. To
see this self-consciousness at work, compare the narrative strategies of
House of Leaves with those of the turn-of-the-century novel as it began to
move away from realism and into stream-of-consciousness. Think of the
moment in Heart of Darkness when Marlow sits on the deck of the Nellie and
spins his tale. It is a critical truism that Marlow’s consciousness creates
multiple layers within the narration. His account of Kurtz’s death to the
Intended differs from his narration of that moment to the men on the ship,
both of which can be supposed to differ, subtly or substantially, from how
he would relate it to himself. But there is no recognition in the text of how
these multiple oral narrations are transcribed into writing. However visible
the mediations of consciousness (and unconsciousness), the technologies
of inscription are invisible, their effects erased from the narrative world.
Moreover, there is no consideration of how mastery of technique (or lack of
it) might affect the inscriptions, whereas House of Leaves offers extended
reflections on how Navidson’s “great eye” affects the film Zampanò narrates.
In Heart of Darkness events are never seen apart from mediating con-
sciousness; in House of Leaves consciousness is never seen apart from medi-
ating inscription devices. The text emphasizes that people within the rep-
resented world—Will Navidson and Karen Green on one level, Zampanò on
another, and Johnny Truant on yet another—exist only because they have
been recorded. Moreover, these characters participate in further cycles of
remediation as they use inscription technologies to explore past trauma,
reenvision relationships that have been damaged, and understand the
relation of themselves and others to the inscriptions that bring them into
being. The UNRELIABLE NARRATOR, a literary invention foregrounding the
role of consciousness in constructing reality, has here given way to the
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REMEDIATED NARRATOR, a literary invention foregrounding a prolifera-
tion of inscription technologies that evacuate consciousness as the source
of production and recover in its place a mediated subjectivity that cannot
be conceived as an independent entity. Consciousness alone is no longer
the relevant frame but rather consciousness fused with technologies of
inscription.
It is not difficult to hear in some of Zampanò’s remarks the views of the
author as he draws attention to this fusion. Consider Zampanò’s comments
at the conclusion of the breathless narration in which the house eats Tom,
a point where the action explodes and we are allowed for a moment to for-
get the layers of mediation separating us from the putative event. This
momentary lapse into pseudo-realistic narration ends as soon as the cli-
mactic sequence is over, when footnote 308 reminds us that:
Zampanò emphasizes that Navidson

118

The “pointed reminder” sharpens when we discover that the Last
Interview is missing, so that we see the complex chain of mediation only
through Zampanò’s written remediation of it, remediated in turn by Johnny
and the editors.
So intricate are the layers of mediation that unmediated moments are
glaring in their incongruity once we notice them. Commenting upon how
obsessed Navidson is with the house prior to his final exploration, Zampanò
delivers the following account meant to show that Navidson has become
deadened to stimuli that ordinarily would arouse intense emotions. The
scene begins
a sequence we have already read in another
context. The point in Zampanò’s re-telling of the scene is that Navidson
(p. 397). If we
have our wits about us we may ask, how can Zampanò possibly know how
Navidson viewed this scene? There is no possibility he was actually in the
room, so he could know only if Navidson recounted his reaction in the miss-
ing Last Interview, about which nothing is said in the text, or made a tape
of himself editing the tape. But the tape of Navidson watching the tape
would itself have been subject to editing, cuts, and other manipulations, so
it could not function as a naive record but only as another interpretation.
Moreover, Zampanò’s comments come not from his own viewing or reading
but from his analysis of the Haven-Slocum Theory (HST). In the view of the
HST, Navidson’s lack of reaction becomes “highly climactic” precisely
because it is an absence where there should have been a presence.
(p. 397). The negative thrust of the

argument is sufficiently convoluted that it may almost succeed in keeping
119

us from noticing there is no way the putative object of inquiry—Navidson
watching the tape of the kiss—could have been observed by those who
interpret it. This incongruity, a mediated version of what film-makers call
a continuity error, creates an absence at the center of the presence manu-
factured by the multiple layers of interpretation. The interpretation exists, in
fact several layers of interpretation, but the real-world object is as impossi-
ble to conjure up the House on Ash Tree Lane, an impossible object because
its interior dimensions exceed its exterior measurements.
Mark Johnson and George Lakoff have written about the elemental
schema that express themselves in “metaphors we live by,” so pervasive
and fundamental they often are not even recognized as metaphors. Among
these schema are inside/outside and container/contained. We assume,
without thinking much about it, that the inside must be smaller than the
outside that encases it, and the contained must be smaller than the con-
tainer if only by the thickness of the walls. Violating these preconscious
assumptions, the impossible House nevertheless enters the space of repre-
sentation, much like M. C. Escher’s ascending/descending staircases (refer-
ences to Escher’s self-deconstructing spaces pepper the House’s footnotes).
The House is undeniably present within the text, yet in crucial aspects it
remains unrepresentable. The interior hallway that mysteriously creates a
door in the living room where there was none before leads to spaces, sup-
posedly contained by the dimensions of an ordinary two-bedroom family
house, greater than the diameter of the earth and older than the solar system.
The absence at the center of this space is not merely nothing. Rather,
it is so commanding and absolute that it paradoxically becomes an espe-
cially intense kind of presence, violent in its impossibility and impossible to
ignore. Navidson, insisting that his documentary should be taken literally,
is quoted by Zampanò as saying:
(p. 4). Only if we read “nothing” as a substantive does this passage make
sense, a negation converted into the looming threat of something,
although it is impossible to say what unless it be negation itself, working to
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obliterate our everyday assumptions about reality.
One of the tropes for this threat is the beast that manifests itself
through physical traces that always remain shy of verifiable presence. So
we read about the mysterious claw marks of some enormous paw that
Johnny finds alongside Zampanò’s dead body; the deep growls that issue
from the House, untraceable traces that may be the sound of the beast or
perhaps just the House groaning in its endless rearrangements; the rend-
ing of the fluorescent markers with which the explorers try to map the
House’s interior, along with the destruction of their supplies; the rank odor
that Johnny first encounters in Zampanò’s apartment and that he identifies
then with the smell of history; the ominous creatures that populate the
margins of Chad and Daisy’s classroom drawings, with the intense black
square in the middle that grows larger in each painting; the black hand of
darkness that swipes into the camera frame to consume Holloway’s dead
body. Representing both the interiority of psychological trauma and the
exteriority of raging appetite, the beast, like the House itself, inhabits a bor-
derland between the metaphoric and the literal, the imaginary and the real.
Nowhere is the dance between presence and absence more deftly exe-
cuted than in the scene where Johnny goes into the storeroom at the tat-
too shop to load up a tray with ink. As the door swings shut behind him, he
suddenly senses that something is going “extremely wrong” and thinks he
sees the beast’s eyes “full of blood.” The narration from this point on is full
of contradictions. He smells a stench and we may believe it is the rank
smell of the beast until Johnny confesses:
Increasingly incoherent, he sees
(p.71). He bolts from the storeroom through a door that is inexplicably

open rather than shut and tumbles down the stairs as
Although a client in the shop later
calls Johnny’s attention to the “long, bloody scratch” on the back of his
neck, other details he reported come undone in the continuing narration.
He discovers, for example, that he has not soiled his pants after all.
Moreover, the scratch that remains the only verifiable evidence of the
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encounter recalls the half-moon cuts his mother left on his neck when she
tried to strangle him at age seven. Is the triply mediated “shape of a shape
of a shape of a face” the face of the beast, or of the mother who herself
remains an incomprehensible object for Johnny in the intensity of her love
equaled only by the ferocity of her insanity and abuse?
The ambiguities already inscribed into the scene intensify when
Johnny looks down at his body covered by ink spilled in his mad dash down
the stairs and sees it as an “omen.”
At this point the “foreseen” dissolution of his identity connects with the
beast as a signifier of absence, a negation that spreads like an inkblot to
encompass his subjectivity. But then the passage continues by recovering,
through a doubly mediated reflection, the blotted-out subject:
(p. 72). The purple ink that brings back portions of his splattered face
recalls the purple nail polish his mother wore the day her fingernails dug
into his neck, marking him in a complex act of inscription that here merges
122
with the purple and black ink to form an over-determined double writing
that operates simultaneously to negate and assert, obliterate and create,
erase and mark.
there is a wide diversity of typefaces and spatial orientations, with the type
set so that it goes in many directions including upside down, sideways and
in reverse. Zampanò suggests this chapter should be called “The
Labyrinth,” a title that makes explicit what is already implicit in the typog-
raphy, that House of Leaves mirrors the House on Ashtree Lane, both of
which are figured as a labyrinth, a motif also embossed in black-on-black
on the cover.
The analogy between the labyrinthine physical form of Chapter IX
and the House can be traced through footnote 144 (p. 119). This extremely
odd annotation perches near the top of the page inside a box outlined with
a blue line, a significant hue because it is the color used for the word
“House,” which appears in blue throughout the text, including equivalent
123

words in languages other than English (haus, casa, etc.). The footnote is
attached to a passage in which Zampanò remarks upon
the House’s mysterious interior:
(p. 119). Despite Zampanò’s comment that we

should not linger, footnote 144 attempts to enumerate over the space of
twenty-five pages everything that is not in the House, from hot-air regis-
ters and bathtubs to a Christmas tree. Since nothing is in the House, the
list of what is absent, even if limited to accoutrements usually found in
houses, is infinite. If we read the blue color as an evocation of the blue
screen of a movie backdrop onto which anything can be projected, then the
text is attempting to project into this space the linguistic signifiers for
everything in the world, as if attempting to make up through verbal prolif-
eration the absolute emptiness of the House as a physical space.
Moreover, the type is set so that when we turn the page over, the
words inside the blue box are repeated from the other side but in reverse,
as if we were seeing them from the inside of a barbershop window deco-
rated with text meant to be read from the outside. The box calls into ques-
tion an assumption so commonplace we are not normally aware of it—that
book pages are opaque, a property that defines one page as separate from
another. Here the back of the page seems to open transparently onto the
front, a notion that overruns the boundary between them and constructs
the page as a leaky container rather than an unambiguous unit of print.
Treating the page as a window can be seen as a way to compensate for the
House’s viewless interior. After denying us any transparency through
which we can look into or out of the House, the text turns its own material
substrate into a window that proposes to bring into view everything not in
the house, an enterprise as paradoxical as it is quixotic.
Even after the words cease, the box in which they were inscribed con-
tinues to signify. It next appears bereft of words but filled with light blue
color, as if it has once again become the blue screen of film production. The
reverse of this page shows the box filled in with black ink, an image that
124

suggests either nothingness or inscriptions so densely over-written they
have obliterated themselves. The facing page shows only a blank space
where the box has been, its defining blue border erased along with the
text. Thus the fullness of an ink-black square is linked with nothingness,
the blue screen of infinite malleability with the articulation of an infinite
series, the opaque front of a page with a transparent back. The dynamic
interplay between words, nonverbal marks, and physical properties of the
page work together to construct the book’s materiality so that it functions
as a mirror to the mysterious House, reversing, reflecting and inverting its
characteristics even as it foregrounds its own role as a container for the fic-
tional universe in which such an impossible object could exist.
Larry McCafferey, a colleague who teaches at San Diego State Univer-
sity, is a force of nature, a white-haired wiry dynamo who has made him-
self an expert on the Anza Borrega desert area where he lives. Since we
both work on contemporary American literature, we had come to know and
like one another. Late one afternoon he called to explain he had set up a
meeting with Mark Danielewski but was having second thoughts because
he was scheduled for a strenuous mountain climb early the next morning,
and he invited me to go in his place. I jumped at the chance. I was told the
bar was in Santa Monica, an easy half-hour drive from my house. When I
began cruising down Santa Monica Boulevard in the death-defying Friday
night traffic, I realized the bar is in fact in West Hollywood, a trendy area
inaccessible by any major freeway. So I had no choice but to continue my
grueling course down Santa Monica, taking on stoplight-by-stoplight the
Jaguars, Mustangs and other fauna native to these streets. I arrived an
hour-and-a-half late, but mercifully Mark was willing to forgive me and
even to talk about his book. Shouting above the black leather jacket crowd,
I asked him about its publication on the Web. According to him, the Web
was merely a convenient delivery vehicle, an easy way to distribute the
book prior to its print publication to acquaintances asking for copies. But I
am tempted to see in this publication history something more, a work that
edged toward becoming a distributed multi-sited production, one of whose
manifestations was a print book.
125

By this time I had taken to lurking on the House of Leaves website,
where self-selected readers pursued the book with an intensity rivaling the
most devoted literary critics, debating its intricacies with thousands of
postings interrogating minute details. Evidently the book has become a
cult phenomenon, attracting the same kind of devoted audience that
Gravity’s Rainbow won in the ’70s and ’80s. Judging from their rhetoric and
interests, I guess that most of the website participants are young people
between the ages of fifteen and thirty. I would die to have them as my stu-
dents; they really care about this book. Their postings make clear that for
them this literary text, rivaling in complexity works like Melville’s Moby Dick
or Joyce’s Ulysses, is not a dusty classic but a vital living work they claim for
their own.
My guesses were confirmed when Mark, fresh from a rock tour he took
with his sister who sings under the name Poe, related the experience he
had of running onto stage in the Dallas stadium to read the five-minute
passage from House of Leaves that he and Poe recorded for their hit single
“Hey Pretty.” Eleven thousand fans, most under thirty, rose to their feet
and gave him a standing ovation, roaring so loudly he was forced to wait
several minutes before he could proceed. Complex literature as a rock per-
formance? The phenomenon demands an explanation. I suspect the book
has succeeded so wildly in part because it offers multiple paths into its
complexities. It can be read on many levels, each offering specific pleas-
ures. Straightforward action sequences appeal to fans neuronally chal-
lenged by too many Tom Cruise movies; the elaborate games and puzzles
speak to the kind of users who spend months figuring out computer games
like Myst and Riven; spoofs like the fake interviews with the glitterati,
including Jacques Derrida, Andrew Ross and Camille Paglia, insinuate
themselves with the cognoscenti; the complex narratives that emerge from
Johnny Truant’s footnotes and the letters of his mad mother, Pelafina, grab
novel readers looking for psychologically complex characters and dense
metaphoric patterns. For my part I like all of it, especially its encyclopedic
impulse to make a world and encapsulate everything within its expanding
perimeter, as if it were an exploding universe whose boundaries keep
126

receding from the center with increasing velocity.
I was astonished to learn from Mark that the publisher accepted the
manuscript when it was a continuous typescript, without any of the design
elements that would become such a prominent feature of the published
book. During production he tried to communicate to the press’s designer
what he had in mind and found it impossible; the design was too complex.
So he flew to New York and sat for a month in the press’s offices, typeset-
ting the book himself on a computer. Upon first seeing the book, I thought
it screamed “digital!”, for it would have been almost impossible to set
without a computer and certainly could not have sold for under twenty dol-
lars. But in an interview with Larry McCafferey and Sinda Gregory that
Larry generously shared with me prior to its publication, Mark makes a
point of underplaying the role of the digital. He says “HA!” to critics who
might think the book was written entirely on a computer, pointing out that
he storyboarded the ferociously complex Chapter IX, where print runs riot
in many directions on the page, entirely in pencil, a technology he praises
for its robustness and reliability.
In that same interview, Danielewski relates a fascinating story about
the book’s origins that illuminates the privileged status it claims for print.
His father was a mid-level filmmaker and a devoted student of the medium.
He owned a projector and professional screen and would frequently bring
films home for Mark and his sister to watch, even when they were very
young. After dinner the father would put on a film and expect the children
to view it with rapt attention. When it was over the father would grill them,
asking detailed questions about edits, scene construction, and other tech-
nical matters (a practice that no doubt sheds light on the theme of narcis-
sistic parents running through House of Leaves).
A crisis in the relationship came when Mark was in his early twenties
and his father was hospitalized for prostate cancer, possibly terminal.
Distraught, Mark channeled his intense emotions into a short story,
“Redwood,” a coded narrative about his relationship with his father. He
showed it to his father in the hospital, who understood it was about their
relationship. The father responded by becoming enraged, taunting Mark
127

128

by saying he should take quit wasting his time writing and get a job at the
post office. Mark was so devastated he tore up the story and threw it in a
dumpster. As far as he was concerned, that was the end of his writing
career. A few days later his sister invited him to dinner. After a lovely
meal, she presented him with a manila folder. He opened it to discover that
she had retrieved the pieces of paper from the dumpster and painstakingly
taped them back together. That rescued story became the kernel of House
of Leaves.
The anecdote suggests that the book’s remediation of film is, along
with much else, the mark of a generational struggle, the son claiming the
right to his own voice by encapsulating the father’s medium within his.
Moreover, although Danielewski has received several lucrative offers for
movie options, he remains adamant that he will not allow the book to be
made into a film. Unlike artists and writers who choose to work in digital
media, Danielewski in his mid-thirties is young enough to take computers
for granted. The daring move for him is not to adopt them but to return to
the print book and re-invigorate it by extending its claims in relation to a
plethora of competing media.
The remarkable achievement of House of Leaves is to devise a form that
locates the book within the remediations of the digital era, along with the
concomitant realization that reference becomes unstable or inaccessible in
such an environment, and still deliver the pleasures of traditional realistic
fiction. Evacuating the ORIGINARY SUBJECT, House of Leaves situates itself
within the postmodern landscape but recovers an intensity of character
and narrative through the processes of remediation themselves. The strat-
egy is exemplified by the check mark that appears in the lower right cor-
ner of page 97. Before we arrive at this inscrutable sign, we read on
page 72, in footnote 78, advice from “Ed.” suggesting we skip forward to
Appendix II E, the letters Pelafina writes to Johnny. If we follow this advice,
we come upon the letter in which Pelafina, infected by growing paranoia,
suspects the staff of interfering with her correspondence and asks Johnny
to place a check mark in the lower right corner of his next letter if he has
received her letter intact (p. 609). Breaking the boundary of the page, the
129

check mark we see also crashes through the narratological structure that
encapsulates Pelafina’s letters within the higher ontological level of
whomever arranges for the deceased woman’s correspondence to be
included in the manuscript (presumably Johnny) and the published book
(presumably the editors).
The implications of these subversions are heightened by Pelafina’s let-
ter dated April 5, 1986, in which appears a semi-coherent series of phrases
encapsulated within dashes. If we use the simple coding algorithm Pelafina
suggests to Johnny in an earlier missive of forming messages by taking the
first letter of each word, we are able to decode the sentence “My dear
Zampano who did you lose?” (p. 615). The intimation that Pelafina can
speak about Zampanò implies she may be the writer who creates both the
old man’s narrative and her son’s commentary. Combined with the check
mark, this coded message suggests that apparently distinct ontological
levels can melt into one another. The subversion includes the reality that
we as readers inhabit, for the page margins into which the check mark
intrudes exist in a space contiguous with our world and House of Leaves as a
book we can hold in our hands.
These paradoxical inversions prepare us for the unforgettable scene in
which Navidson, deep in the bowels of the House and floating suspended
in space, uses precious matches (which have their own history) to read the
book House of Leaves. When he is down to his last match he lights the page,
his eyes desperately racing to finish before the fire consumes it (pp. 465–67).
The image of him reading the story that contains him presents us with a
vivid warning that this book threatens always to break out of the cover
that binds it. It is an artifact fashioned to consume the reader even as the
reader consumes it. We cannot say we have not been warned. We have
seen the writing devour Zampanò’s life, render Johnny an obsessional
wreck, and compel Navidson to reenter the House though he knows he
may die in the attempt. This is a technotext so energetic, labyrinthine, and
impossible to command that we will not be able to leave it alone because it
will not leave us alone. It grabs us, sucks out our center, and gives us back
to ourselves through multiple remediations, transforming us in the process.
130

In these posthuman days, House of Leaves demonstrates that technolo-
gies do not simply inscribe preexisting thoughts. Rather, artifacts such as
this book serve as noisy channels of communication in which messages are
transformed and enfolded together as they are encoded and decoded,
mediated and remediated. House of Leaves implicitly refutes the position
Claude Shannon assigns to humans in his famous communication diagram,
in which they are positioned outside the channel and labeled “sender” and
“receiver.” As readers enmeshed in the book, we find ourselves positioned,
like Will Navidson, inside the book we read, receiving messages to be sure
but also constituted by the messages that percolate through the intersect-
ing circulatory pathways of the book called House of Leaves.
provides a powerful example showing why a fully adequate theory of semi-

otics must take into account the materiality of inscription technologies as
well as a material understanding of the signifier. Technological effects can
no more be separated from literary effects than characters can be separat-
ed from the writings that contain and are contained by them. Through its
material metaphors, House of Leaves suggests that the appropriate model for
subjectivity is a communication circuit rather than discrete individualism,
for narration remediation rather than representation, and for reading and
writing inscription technology fused with consciousness rather than a mind
conveying its thoughts directly to the reader.
Focusing on materiality allows us to see the dynamic interactivity
131

through which a literary work mobilizes its physical embodiment in conjunc-
tion with its verbal signifiers to construct meanings in ways that implicitly
Source Material: Lexia to Perplexia
132
133
Source Material: Lexia to Perplexia

Source Material: A Humument
134
135
Source Material: A Humument

Source Material: House of Leaves
136
137
Source Material: House of Leaves

138
Endtroduction
Endtroduction
With Writing Machines, the Mediawork Pamphlet series becomes even more
explicit in its goal of producing theoretical fetish objects with visual, tactile,
and yes, intellectual appeal. Because, what is a fetish, after all, but an
object imbued with fantasy, a thing that links outside itself to powerful
imaginary realms? It’s no wonder that one of the chief fetishes our society
has produced is the book. But bibliomaniacal impulses are mutating in this
world of multi–, trans–, inter–, and re–mediation, and we need to establish
new categories for describing the emotional and physical relationships
readers have with what (and how) they read.
The emergence of computer mediated communication has affected
not just our ideas about the world, but also the forms they take. In Writing
Machines, N. Katherine Hayles has woven together the modes of intellectu-
alized theory and personalized narrative, the cultures of science and the
humanities, and through her collaboration with Anne Burdick, the mandates
of writing and design. I can imagine no team better suited for such a project.
Professor of English and Design | Media Arts at the University of Cali-
fornia at Los Angeles, N. Katherine Hayles (Kate to her friends) is our most
significant thinker about the intersection of literature and technology,
from The Cosmic Web: Scientific Field Models and Literary Strategies in the Twentieth
Century (1984), through her groundbreaking work Chaos Bound: Orderly
Disorder in Contemporary Literature and Science (1990) and the edited collection
Chaos and Disorder: Complex Dynamics in Literature and Science (1990), to How We
Became Posthuman: Virtual Bodies in Cybernetics, Literature, and Informatics (1999)
which won both the Rene Wellek Prize for the best book in literary theory
and the Eaton Award for the best book on science fiction theory and criti-
cism. With the polemical little book you have in your hands, Kate makes
the case that thinking about literature without thinking about materiality
isn’t really thinking at all.
Anne Burdick’s triple threat practice—she designs, writes, and/or edits
client-based and self-initiated projects out of the Offices of Anne Burdick—
139
Endtroduction
made her the ideal choice for Writing Machines. The plurality of “Offices” goes
beyond the binary of practice and theory, enfolding what might be termed
Anne’s entrepreneurial approach to broadening the parameters of contem-
porary design. Anne is the site designer and design editor of the online liter-
ary journal, electronicbookreview.com. She designed the Fackel Wörterbuch:
Redensarten (2000), an unconventional 1,056-page dictionary created in col-
laboration with literary scientists at the Austrian Academy of Sciences,
which won “The Most Beautiful Book in the World” prize at the 2001 Leipzig
book fair. Currently, Anne is a core faculty member in the graduate Media
Design Program at Art Center College of Design, and also teaches at the
California Institute of the Arts.
Together, Kate and Anne have created both a book and an object, ideas
embedded in visual language, narratives embodied between covers, flowing
over printed surfaces. They mount a brilliant defense against the instant
nostalgia which posits a golden age just passed—a golden age of literature,
or of electronic literature, or of a perfectly unmediated existence.
Major ongoing funding for the Mediawork Pamphlet series comes from
the Rockefeller Foundation. The first three Pamphlets are supported by a
start-up grant from Jeffrey and Catharine Soros. Additional funding has
been provided by the Office of the President, Art Center College of Design.
Doug Sery at The MIT Press continues to offer support and inspiration. I’d
like to thank Andy Davidson for his friendship and support over the years.
And for their help launching this series, I’d like to acknowledge Brenda
Laurel and Denise Gonzales Crisp, author and designer respectively of the
first Mediawork pamplet, Utopian Entrepreneur (2001). I’m appreciative of the
work that Triplecode’s David Young and Pascal Wever put into the
Mediawork Web site, and to Scott McCloud for setting the bar so high with
the first WebTake, “Idea Tree.” You can see all of their work and more at
MITPRESS.MIT.EDU/MEDIAWORK, including the WebTake for Writing Machines.
Peter Lunenfeld, Editorial Director

140
Designer’s Notes
Designer’s Notes
New types of criticism require new forms, which require new ways of
working. In order to create a book that embodies its own critical concepts—
a technotext—it is imperative that the design evolves in tandem with the
text. The Mediawork series fosters such cooperation, which allowed me to
work as a designer with words rather than after words, the usual chain of
command. Thanks to Kate Hayles’s intellectual generosity and Peter
Lunenfeld’s vision for the series, the design of Writing Machines was able to
become more than a visual translation alone: it’s a critical investigation, a
Media-Specific Analysis in more ways than one.
Kate’s critical framework challenged me to create a book that re–pres-
ents itself, over and over: as a tool for storage and retrieval, as the first
home of Literature, as a navigational device, a writing space, and a repre-
sentation of knowledge. The material metaphors that result work and
rework the body of the codex, amplifying the book’s status as a book.
The referential imagery that accumulates on the surface of each page
includes visual SAMPLES from the three central projects under considera-
tion—Lexia to Perplexia, A Humument, and House of Leaves—a design–writing
strategy that exposes the shortcomings of certain word-centric scholarly
conventions. Folding the pages of these projects into the pages of Writing
Machines created its own set of difficulties, but in the process it revealed
much about the complex relationship between showing and telling, from
the role of context in quotations to the ways in which we read.
The table of contents, the LEXICON LINKMAP and its counterpart at
MITPRESS.MIT.EDU/MEDIAWORK, the samples and the SOURCE MATERIAL
that gives them context, and the AFFORDANCES (those amplified entry
points into the text) each offer an alternate view of the conceptual terrain
of the book. (And they reflect my own interest in SPATIAL WRITING and
WORD MAPS—new names for underused forms that have found in Hayles’s
text a type of criticism that fits.) These refractions make visible differ-
ent aspects of the writing’s internal rhythms, organizational logic, and
141
Designer’s Notes
theoretical orientation.
When searching for the right typefaces to identify the two voices that
Kate braids into a third, I longed for a working version of Typalette and
Font Sculptor, a prototype software project developed by Cynthia
Jacquette. Typalette is a type catalog and search tool that allows the user
to find fonts based on “look” (contrast, weight, serifs, etc.), “facts” (histori-
cal context, type designer, etc.), and—significantly—“feel” (rural, aggres-
sive, precious, and so forth). If a typeface doesn’t exist that matches your
selected attributes, Font Sculptor will make a custom face that does.
Fortunately Cynthia works with me now, and she could perform the
tasks that her prototype could only promise. She located the typeface Cree
Sans for the personal and Egyptienne for the theoretical. Then she melded
the two to create Creegyptienne, the synthesized voice of the personal–
theoretical, the “soft serif” font that you are reading now. While the subtle
typographic coding may not be recognized by every reader, we felt that a
synthesis more accurately reflected the writing than did the fragmentation
of a hybrid.
Working with such a provocative critic as Kate, one whose opinions are
strong and generous in equal measure, was a pleasure, a learning experi-
ence, and an honor. A successful design–writing collaboration requires an
editor who addresses each realm with equal interest. Peter Lunenfeld is an
exception in the scholarly world: he is a true advocate of the cultural con-
tributions that design can make. His voice and support are invaluable—as
evidenced by this pamphlet series. I am grateful to Peter for inviting me to
be a part of this important project, and especially for pairing me with Kate.
On the personal level, I have to say that smack in the middle of design-
ing this book I bought a house, gave birth to a son, and built and moved
into a new studio. I couldn’t have done it all and completed this project and
kept my sanity without the understanding of Peter and Kate, Cynthia’s tal-
ent and good humor, or the love and support of my mother, Marcia
Ackleson, and my partner, Roy Morris.
Anne Burdick
142
This book was born when Peter Lunenfeld made the trek over to the West
Side of Los Angeles to talk about his idea for small-format books, with
extensive visual content, scheduled to appear in a new series at MIT Press.
I listened with excitement, seeing in his offer an opportunity to explore the
interaction of words with images that had already attracted my attention
in electronic media. When he told me that I would be limited to 110 pages
of manuscript, I thought, “This will be easy—something I could whip off in
three or four months.” What I mistook for the buzzing bloom of a spring day
was, I would discover three or four months later, the laughter of the gods
at another mortal madly deceived. As fall deepened into winter, I contin-
ued apace with the theoretical and critical readings of the literature, but
the autobiographical component Peter insisted the book should have eluded
me. I toyed with various schemes, inserting personal passages, alluding to
past events, but none satisfied me. They seemed tacked-on, beside the point,
feeble in comparison to the clarity and precision of theoretical analysis.
As the new year dawned I was close to despair. I considered telling
Peter that I could not do autobiography, that he should ditch this project
and go on to someone more skilled in the art of self-revelation. Then I
heard J. Hillis Miller deliver a wonderful paper in which he invented autobi-
ographical personae, based on him and his grandson, to explore the differ-
ences between a generation raised with print versus one raised with com-
puters. Suddenly I knew how to solve my problem; I could invent a per-
sona. The solution was laughably obvious, the first lesson of Fiction 101, but
it had taken me months to work through the barriers I had thrown up
around the idea of autobiography so I could finally see it. With that real-
ization, the words came tumbling out in a flow I felt I was not so much
inventing as barely controlling in its exuberant engagement.
My next challenge was the length restriction that at first had made
the project seem easy. I had written at least twice that amount, and now
the problem was condensing without losing the density that appealed to
143
me. Peter played a major role, intervening in ways that reminded me of
editors in times gone by, when the editor did not merely rubber-stamp a
completed manuscript but actively worked with the author to create the
final product. For his good sense and editorial intuition, I am profoundly in
his debt. Also important were Anne Burdick’s insights. More than any of us,
Anne remained alert to the material qualities of the texts I was discussing
and producing, pointing out places where descriptions needed to be more
concrete, engaging, and specific in their attention to materiality.
I still have lingering regret that the series format does not allow foot-
notes and other scholarly apparatus. As a compromise, we are posting
them on the web site associated with the book. I encourage readers to con-
sult MITPRESS.MIT.EDU/MEDIAWORK, where I acknowledge the extensive
debts I owe to scholars, critics, theorists and writers. To Marjorie Luese-
brink, who read drafts and offered warm support, I am deeply grateful for
her insights and friendship. I benefited from conversations with Doug Sery,
Robert Coover, Michael Joyce, David Platzker, Joan Lyons, Tom Mitchell,
Mark Danielewski, Jay Bolter, Richard Grusin, Rita Raley, Bill Seaman and
John Johnston. Espen Aarseth, Jerome McGann, Johanna Drucker, and
Matthew Kirschenbaum inspired me with their pioneering work in materi-
alist criticism. M. D. Coverley, Talan Memmott, Diana Slattery, Adriana de
Souza e Silva and Fabian Winkler graciously gave permission to quote from
emails and essays and use images from their works. Michael Fadden and
Carol Wald contributed essential research assistance. I am grateful to the
Museum of Modern Art in New York City and Getty Research Library for
access to their collections. Portions of Chapter 6 first appeared in Narrative,
Chapter 4 in the SIGGRAPH Electronic Catalogue and Digital Creativity, and Chap-
ter 8 in American Literature, and I am grateful to them for permission to
reprint. I deeply appreciate a fellowship from the National Endowment for
the Humanities and the University of California, Los Angeles Senate
Research Grant. My greatest debt is to Nicholas Gessler for innumerable
discussions and the use of his DSL connection.
N. Katherine Hayles
144
The MIT Press

Cambridge, Massachusetts
London, England
Writing Machines
by N. Katherine Hayles
a MEDIAWORK pamphlet
©2002 Massachusetts Institute of

Technology. All rights reserved. No part
of this book may be reproduced in any form
by any electronic or mechanical means
(including photocopying, recording, or
information storage and retrieval) without
permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed and bound

in the United States of America.
Library of Congress Control Number:

2002113867
ISBN 0-262-58215-5

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1

CHAPTER 1 Media and Materiality

CHAPTER 2 Material Metaphors, Technotexts,

CHAPTER 3 Entering the Electronic Environment

CHAPTER 4 Electronic Literature as Technotext:

CHAPTER 5 Experiencing Artists’ Books

CHAPTER 7 Embodiments of Material Metaphors

CHAPTER 8 Inhabiting House of Leaves

implosion as participating in an ecology in which one medium is remediated

Became Posthuman: Virtual Bodies in Cybernetics, Literature and Informatics. How

Media and Materiality

Media and Materiality

Derrida, she could say, “Le papier, c’est moi.”

Media and Materiality

Media and Materiality

Media and Materiality

Material Metaphors, Technotexts, and Media-Specific Analysis

Material Metaphors, Technotexts, and Media-Specific Analysis

I found a clue in Greg Egan’s brilliant novel Permutation City, a book I

at becoming an artificial intelligence without a body, Copy after Copy

Material Metaphors, Technotexts, and Media-Specific Analysis

tial rather than interpenetrating and simultaneous. To change the phys-

the meanings of the words as well. This transformation of meaning is

Material Metaphors, Technotexts, and Media-Specific Analysis

Material Metaphors, Technotexts, and Media-Specific Analysis

variations, which can be plotted on a grid to locate a particular text’s

Material Metaphors, Technotexts, and Media-Specific Analysis

Although material criticism is highly developed in specialized fields

criticism and theory are shot through with unrecognized assumptions

Material Metaphors, Technotexts, and Media-Specific Analysis

literary property and hence copyrighted. This judicial history, played

Material Metaphors, Technotexts, and Media-Specific Analysis

to teach and delight.

CHAPTER 3 Entering the Electronic Environment

Entering the Electronic Environment

Entering the Electronic Environment

Entering the Electronic Environment

Entering the Electronic Environment

Screen from Patchwork Girl

Entering the Electronic Environment

Entering the Electronic Environment

Entering the Electronic Environment

Entering the Electronic Environment

Entering the Electronic Environment

Entering the Electronic Environment

either, including virtually all artists’ books.

Entering the Electronic Environment

CHAPTER 4 Electronic Literature as Technotext: Lexia to Perplexia

Electronic Literature as Technotext: Lexia to Perplexia

Electronic Literature as Technotext: Lexia to Perplexia

Electronic Literature as Technotext: Lexia to Perplexia

Electronic Literature as Technotext: Lexia to Perplexia

the reader to understand herself as a permeable membrane through

Electronic Literature as Technotext: Lexia to Perplexia

Electronic Literature as Technotext: Lexia to Perplexia

Read as HTML, <HEAD>[FACE]<BODY> has two opening tags but

Electronic Literature as Technotext: Lexia to Perplexia

Electronic Literature as Technotext: Lexia to Perplexia

who mistakes himself for an Other through the mediation of a reflective

It was my method for the development of this piece to collect a