Leeann Hunter, Ph.D.

Yes, I can “see,” I wear contacts, but clearly this morning I was in a blur. I left my house, walking across the parking lot to cross the road, when I take a quick scan of myself and am stunned into laughter. Could it really be possible that I was walking outside in public like this?! Under what circumstances, or how far would I have had to go, before I
would choose to continue my errand rather than give everything up to
turn around back home to change? I’m usually so conscientious of myself
and my surroundings that nothing like this ever happens to me. When it does, I feel somewhat inspired. It’s as though I’ve transcended the trappings of my body…

I’m not far from home at all, so I do turn around and change before heading out again. I drop the videos off at Blockbuster before heading to the coffeehouse to read. I order a latte and in the middle of ordering I discover I don’t have my wallet! (This of course happens all the time to a tweety bird I know, so perhaps it’s not so unusual.) I panic! How do I produce money out of thin air? Do I ask another customer for some change? At this point I couldn’t possibly go home and return again–especially not when I haven’t had any caffiene to drink–and to my luck the solution is near at hand. I turn around and the Comics Reading Group is in session, and yes, you guessed it, one of the members came to my rescue.

One of the members of my dissertation circle is working out a thesis that reconceives of historical fiction in terms of space, or topos, identifying, for example, wild spaces (the typically sublime space of fairy tales) as unexamined settings for historical fiction. I became troubled as I commented on his work, not knowing when, if, or how to draw the boundaries between historical fiction and other genres (“genre” itself problematic). My question ultimately became: when is fiction NOT history?

My own dissertation (the focus of which evidently changes every week) has recently taken a turn toward the examination of “character”–inspired in the main by Victorian installations of what I consider exemplary sympathetic virtures among the working class, i.e. Samuel Weller, Stephen Blackpool, and Bob Jakin. By “character” I also mean the very representation and formation of human qualities in literature–the accumulation of behaviors, speeches, and descriptions that result in the “character.” What then is the relationship between this character and a “real” human being? E.M. Forster addresses this question in Aspects of the Novel, citing the French critic Alain (?):

Alain examines in turn the various
forms of aesthetic activity, and coming in time to the novel (le roman)
he asserts that each human being has two sides, appropriate to history
and fiction. All that is observable in a man–that is to say his
actions and such of his spiritual existence as can be deduced from his
actions–falls into the domain of history. But his romanceful or
romantic side (sa partie romanesque ou romantique) includes ‘the pure
passions, that is to say the dreams, joys, sorrows and self-communings
which politeness or shame prevent him from mentioning’; and to express
this side of human nature is one of the chief functions of the novel”
(73).

Thus, the human exists,
on the one hand, as a “historical” figure whose gestures and speeches can
be visibly / audibly recorded and communicated and, on the other hand, as a
“fictitious” character who possesses a world entirely internal and
hidden, only capable of release via the art of the novel. Likewise, if we consider a character in a novel to be a “real human,” heorshe could also be said to possess this layered nature. But wait, in the novel we have the benefit of narration to provide access to the hidden and invisible world of the human. Now my question is: how can I turn my life into a novel?

So I’ve finally encountered a term for the aspect of labor that I had in mind when I was proposing my dissertation topic: Gallagher calls it “somaeconomics,” the system of drives and desires that influence political economy. She uses this term to address debates about productive / unproductive labor and the pleasure / pain principle that drives labor.

Labor is generally considered a kind of pain, otherwise we couldn’t distinguish it from leisure and pleasure. When a capitalist uses his profits for consumptive activities–such as the employment of servants in the household–then he is  experiencing an immediate gratification that depletes his profits. On the other hand, if he uses his profits to reinvest in the productive labor of his workers, such as in the plowmen, he will further increase his profits. What would be the use of deciding to increase profits (labor = pain) rather than expend profits (consumption = pleasure)? Gallagher suggests that desire surpasses feelings even of enjoyment, so that the investment in capital will not merely produce more profits and goods, but it will also work toward future expenditures in consumptive activities.

Therefore, human consciousness–and its relation to the body’s emotional states–is most heavily influenced by the desire for future enjoyment; in other words, even the manual laborer does not reap the benefits of his toil until he has completed his task; the capitalist likewise feeds into this system of delayed enjoyments.