Epigraphs:
Notes
Toward
a
Theory




It
may
be
true,
as
the
critic
Wayne
C.
Booth
has

observed,
that
epigraphs
and
titles
assume
a

particular
importance
in
modernist
writing,

where
".
.
.
.
they
are
often
the
only
explicit

commentary
the
reader
is
given.
.
.
."
All
the

same,
they
are
hokey;
one
more
bit
of
window‐
dressing
before
we
get
to
the
goods.

John
Barth,
"Epigraphs,"
The
Friday
Book

(quoted
from
J.
B.:
"Epigraphs,"
in
The
Friday
Book)



Though
collecting
quotations
could
be
considered
as
merely
an
ironic

mimetism
.
.
.
it
was
[Walter]
Benjamin's
conviction
reality
itself

invited—and
vindicated—the
once
heedless,
inevitably
destructive

ministrations
of
the
collector.
In
a
world
that
is
well
on
its
way
to

becoming
one
vast
quarry,
the
collector
becomes
someone
engaged

in
a
pious
work
of
salvage.
The
course
of
modern
history
having

already
sapped
the
traditions
and
shattered
the
living
whole
in
which

precious
objects
once
found
their
place,
the
collector
may
now
in
good

conscience
go
about
excavating
the
choicer,
more
emblematic

fragments.

Susan
Sontag,
On
Photography



Why
does
it
make
us
uneasy
to
know
that
the

map
is
within
the
map
and
the
thousand
and

one
nights
are
within
the
book
of
A
Thousand

and
One
Nights?
Why
does
it
disquiet
us
to

know
that
Don
Quixote
is
a
reader
of
the

Quixote,
and
Hamlet
is
a
spectator
of
Hamlet?
I

believe
I
have
found
the
answer:
those

inversions
suggest
that
if
the
characters
in
a

story
can
be
readers
or
spectators,
then
we,

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 2

their
readers
or
spectators,
can
be
fictitious.
In
1833
Carlyle
observed

that
universal
history
is
an
infinite
sacred
book
that
all
men
write
and

read
and
try
to
understand,
and
in
which
they
too
are
written.

Jorge
Luis
Borges,
"Partial
Enchantments
of
the
Quixote"




I

In
John
Barth's
The
Friday
Book,
a
collection
of
the
occasional
writings
of
that

quintessential
modernist,
we
find,
as
part
of
the
book's
protracted
front
matter

(which
includes—in
typical
Barthian
fashion—selections
entitled
"The
Title
of
This

Book,"
"The
Subtitle
of
This
Book,"
an
"Author's
Introduction,"
in
addition
to
the

usual
"Table
of
Contents"),
a
section
entitled
"Epigraphs."
It
is
not,
of
course,

unusual
for
an
author
to
include
a
significant
quotation
or
two
as
a
prelude
to
the

text
to
follow.
But
Barth's
"Epigraphs"
are
not
typical.

They
begin,
in
medias
res,
with
an
ellipsis:





.
.
.
should
be
avoided.
There
is
something
hokey
about
an
epigraph,

even
a
straightforward
epigraph:
a
posture
of
awe
before
some
palimpsestic

Other
Text;
a
kind
of
rhetorical
attitudinizing.



An
epigraph
which
argues
that
epigraphs
should
not
be
used
(later
in
a
footnote

Barth
of
course
criticizes
the
use
of
footnotes)
is
obviously
self‐referential,
but

Barth's
hall
of
mirrors
does
not
stop
there.
The
epigraph
goes
on
to
deride
epigraphs

as
"one
more
bit
of
window‐dressing
before
we
get
to
the
goods"
(see
the
epigraph

above).
Epigraphs,
we
are
told,
only
remind
the
reader
that
"he
might
better
spend

his
time"
with
the
"superior
author"
who
penned
the
epigraph
rather
than
with
the

author
of
the
text
itself.
Thus
epigraphs
become
"tails
that
wag
their
dogs,
but
from

in
front,
like
an
awkward
figure
of
speech."
Barth's
appended
quotation
ironically

singles
out
for
special
criticism
"comic
ironic
epigraphs."

A
second
epigraph
goes
on
to
inform
us
that
the
only
thing
worse
than
a

single
epigraph
is
"a
brace
of
epigraphs,
especially
when
the
second
is
employed
in

Tantalizing
Ironic
Counterpoint
to
the
first,
as
it
almost
always
will
be,"
and
judges

them
to
be
annoying
and
needless
"throat
clearings
and
instrument
tunings"
which

only
prevent
the
author
from
getting
on
with
the
work
at
hand.

Now
since
the
source
of
these
epigraphs,
we
are
informed,
is
"J.
B.:

'Epigraphs,'
in
The
Friday
Book"
(after
the
second
epigraph,
Barth
merely
places
an

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 3

"Ibid"),
we
must
of
course
judge
Barth
himself
to
be
guilty
of
many
of
the
faults
the

epigraphs
themselves
name:
of
employing
epigraphs
in
the
first
place,
of
using

comic‐ironic
epigraphs,
of
offering
a
"brace
of
epigraphs,"
of
delaying
getting
on

with
the
story.
And
yet
he
cannot
be
accused
of
posturing
in
awe
before
"a
superior

author"!
All
in
all,
these
Mobius‐strip
epigraphs,
like
a
double
negative,
add
up
to
a

positive
testimony
in
favor
of
their
use,
whatever
their
words
explicitly
say.
These

are
epigraphs
which
bite
their
tail.

When
I
first
discovered
Barth's
playful
exercise,
before
I
realized
their

humorous
intent,
I
was
momentarily
taken
aback,
indeed
insulted.
In
fact,
I
took
his

seeming
criticism
of
epigraphs
quite
personally.
As
an
inveterate
user
myself,
I

winced
at
his
complaints
against
them
and
wondered
if
I
was
not
myself
guilty
to

some
degree
of
the
posturing
he
discerns
in
the
obsessive
epigrapher.
When
I

gradually
realized
that
Barth
was
giving
back
with
one
hand
what
he
was
taking
away

with
the
other,
I
felt
somewhat
better
about
my
craft.
But
the
need
to
defend

myself,
and
in
so
doing
to
explain
myself,
remained.

The
following
thoughts
might
also
have
been
called
"The
Confessions
of
an

Epigraph
Addict."
Though
my
ultimate
motives
are
theoretical,
these
"notes
toward
a

theory,"
however
whimsical
they
may
seem,
should
be
understood
as
well
as
partly

apologia.
For
my
own
obsession
with
the
epigraph—I
now
find
it
very
difficult
to

write
an
essay,
or
even
a
poem,
without
beginning
with
several—has,
to
my
surprise,

inspired
many
a
sarcastic
comment
(not
unlike
Barth's
complaints)
from
my

colleagues,
and
I
would
thus
like
to
take
this
opportunity
to
engage
in
a
form
of

1
discourse
we
might
call
"epigraphy" 
to
vindicate
myself
against
my
accusers.




II

I
have
often
joked
with
friends
about
starting
a
professional
epigraph
service.

Placing
ads
(or
"author's
notices")
in
The
Chronicle
of
Higher
Education,
PMLA,

Writer's
Market,
Publisher's
Weekly,
and
The
New
York
Times
Book
Review,
I
would

then
offer
my
services
to
find
the
proper
epigraph
(or
epigraphs)
for
that
almost‐
complete
scholarly
article
about
to
be
sent
out
to
a
target
journal.
Or,
for
a
much

larger
fee,
I
would
orchestrate
the
epigraphs
for
an
entire
book,
with
special
rates


1
The
word
"epigraphy,"
of
course,
originally
referred
to
the
historical
study
of

inscriptions
appearing
on
monuments
or
ruins,
but
it
would
seem
to
be
the
proper

name
for
the
activity
in
which
I
am
engaged
here.

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 4

for
the
complete
package:
epigraphs
for
the
frontispiece,
parts,
chapters,
and

sections.

I
would
promise
to
find,
after
actually
having
read
the
article
or
book
in

question,
the
exactly
right
"short
quotation
or
pithy
sentence
placed
at
the

commencement
of
a
work,
a
chapter,
etc.
to
indicate
the
leading
idea
or
sentiment"

(I
am
quoting
the
OED
definition)
to
serve
as
a
bridge
and/or
extrapolation
from
the

exactly
right
title
to
the
about‐to‐follow
appropriate
introduction.
My
guarantee
to

subscribers
would
promise
that
the
quotation(s)
provided
would
do
what
every
good

epigraph
should.
They
would
act
as
mottoes,
preparing
the
reader
for
the
text
to

follow,
paving
the
way
for
the
author's
thesis,
or
announcing
the
mind‐set
with

which
the
pages
ahead
should
be
read.
If
asked
to
supply
them
for
an
entire
book,
I

would
see
to
it
that
they
show
their
own
development,
their
own
rising
action,

climax,
and
denouement,
echoing,
enhancing,
counterpointing,
and
fulfilling
one

another
in
a
veritable
fugue.
My
epigraphs
would
be
more
that
"throat‐clearings"

and
"instrument‐tunings."
My
epigraphs
would
have
resonance.

No
doubt
there
is
a
need
for
such
a
service.
After
all,
a
colleague
of
mine
was

recently
asked
by
a
university
press,
to
which
he
had
submitted
a
book
manuscript

for
consideration,
to
find
epigraphs
for
his
chapters
prior
to
its
issuing
a
contract
for

the
book.
The
press's
readers
had
recommended
the
book
for
publication,
but
not

until
it
had
epigraphs!

My
consulting
service
would
be
especially
appealing
to
literary
critics.
For
my

market
research
clearly
indicates
the
use
of
epigraphs
is
on
the
rise
among
this

segment
of
the
population.
Both
the
old
guard
and
the
avant‐garde
use
them

liberally.
M.
H.
Abrams
and
Frank
Kermode,
for
example,
would
not
think
of
doing

without
them.
Both
usually
begin
a
chapter
with
several
(sometimes
no
less
than
half

a
dozen
in
Natural
Supernaturalism
and
an
equal
number
in
The
Sense
of
an
Ending).




The
works
of
Gaston
Bachelard,
to
cite
another
example,
would
lose

much
of
their
distinctiveness
without
his
eclectic
and
often
enigmatic

mottoes,
drawn
from
his
wide
reading
in
the
poetry
of
several

languages.
 

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 5



And
Jacques
Derrida,
not
surprisingly,
is
an
inveterate
epigrapher,

though
his
quotations,
like
his
own
prose,
are
often
unreadable
and

plead
for
deconstruction
themselves.



Every
trendy
article
or
book
should
certainly
have
epigraphs.
Assistant

professors
would
be
wise
to
master
the
art
in
order
to
help
them
break
into
the

pages
of
the
prestigious
journals
but,
failing
that,
they
can
always
rely
on
me
to

supply
the
correct,
clever,
eye‐opening
epigraphs
necessary
to
get
their
work

noticed.
Having
mastered
many
of
the
nuances
of
the
art,
I
often
look
on
dismayed
at

the
amateurishness,
the
classic
mistakes,
of
other,
naive
epigraphers:
at
epigraphs

which
are
boring
and
unenticing;
at
books
which
use
epigraphs
for
some
chapters
but

not
for
all
(thereby
violating
the
reader's
need
for
symmetry
and
pouring
cold
water

on
his
or
her
already
aroused
epigraphical
expectations);
at
authors
who
refuse
to

explore
the
endless
possibilities
of
epigraphs
at
all,
or
epigraphers
who
limit

themselves,
with
excessive
tidiness,
to
only
one
quotation
when
obviously
there

exists,
in
this
Borgesian
universe
of
ours,
an
infinite
number
of
possible
epigraphs

for
any
essay,
chapter,
or
book.

My
clientele
would
not
be
limited
to
academics
however.
Many
trade
non‐
fiction
works—from
Marilyn
Ferguson's
The
Aquarian
Conspiracy
to
Carl
Sagan's

Cosmos
and
Fritjof
Capra's
The
Tao
of
Physics
(to
name
but
a
few,
chosen
at

random)—also
use
epigraphs
prominently,
often
quite
creatively.
But
surely
not
all

the
authors
of
these
proliferating,
trendy,
"New
Age"
books—on
the
new
physics
and

Eastern
wisdom,
or
consciousness
raising,
or
futurology,
or
biofeedback,
or
space

exploration—find
the
numerous
epigraphs
which
decorate
their
pages
themselves.

Surely
both
publisher
and
author
would
need
my
expert
assistance.

I
might
even
make
my
services
available,
I
suppose,
to
creative
writers
as

well,
those
who,
in
the
tradition
of
T.
S.
Eliot,
have
realized
that
an
epigraphical

allusion
(perhaps
in
Latin)
at
the
beginning
of
an
obscure
poem
or
story
is
absolutely

2
de
rigger. 


2
A
favorite
example
of
a
recent
literary
epigraph:
a
collection
of
Woody

Allen's
wonderful
short
pieces
bears
the
title
Without
Feathers,
an
enigmatical

choice
until
we
discover
the
book's
epigraph
(from
Emily
Dickinson):
"Hope
is
the

thing
with
feathers."
Allen's
title
thus
conspires
with
his
epigraph
to
help
lay
the

foundation
for
the
book's
characteristic
comic
pessimism.
Obviously
Mr.
Allen
will

not
need
to
employ
my
agency.

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 6

My
qualifications
for
masterminding
such
a
service
are
clear.
After
all,
I
have

been
a
fanatic
quotation
gatherer
for
years,
keeper
of
a
commonplace
book
which

now
fills
three,
three
hundred
page
Chinese
diaries,
stuffer
of
a
half‐dozen

shoeboxes
of
3
x
5
notecards
on
each
of
which
appears
a
pithy
quote
(I
seldom
seem

to
take
notes,
or
to
paraphrase,
but
only
to
quote)—each
longing
to
be
someone's

epigraph.
In
a
sense,
I
read
in
order
to
search
for
likely
quotations
and
am
always

delighted
when
I
discover
a
book
full
of
epigraphical
potential,
which
I
then
set

3
about
gutting. 
And
I
practice
what
I
preach,
of
course,
expertly
using
epigraphs
in
all

my
own
writing.
After
reading
a
published
essay
of
mine,
which
synergistically

combined
quotations
from
Adrienne
Rich
and
the
Tao
Te
Ching,
an
astute
colleague

commented
that
all
my
essays
seem
to
have
their
inception,
their
inspiration,
in
my

epigraphs,
as
if
I
wrote
the
essays
themselves
to
fulfill
their
epigraphs'
potential.

(Would
it
surprise
you
to
know
that
when,
as
an
undergraduate,
I
read
Moby‐Dick,
I

identified
not
with
Captain
Ahab
or
with
Ishmael,
but
with
that
"late
consumptive

usher
to
a
grammar
school"
who
gathered
those
ten
pages
of
epigraphs
concerning

whales
called
"Etymology"
which
precede
that
stupendous
novel?
Were
he
still
alive,

I
would
make
a
him
a
full
partner
in
my
epigraph
service.)

Prior
to
opening
my
doors,
of
course,
I
would
need
to
input
(and
completely

cross‐indexed)
my
own
commonplace
books
into
a
computer,
and
my
book
shelves
at

the
company
office
would
need
to
be
filled
with
the
proper
reference
library:

Bartlett's,
the
Penguin
Dictionary
of
Modern
Quotations,
Seldes'
The
Great
Ideas,

Auden's
A
Certain
World,
The
Oxford
Book
of
Aphorisms,
and
the
like.
But
this
work

would
be
a
labor
of
love,
and
of
course
I
own
most
of
these
books
already.

I
would
love
to
share
with
you
all
of
my
insights
into
epigraphy,
in
the
hope

that
I
might
prevent
you
from
going
astray
in
the
future,
but
to
do
so
would
be
to

pull
the
rug
out
from
under
my
own
future
small
business
enterprise.
I
don't
want
to

disclose
all
my
trade
secrets
I
will
have
to
limit
my
comments
to
a
few
modest

observations
on
the
state
of
the
art.
I
will
be
content
if
I
manage
to
shed
light
on
the

true
meaning
of
the
epigraph.


I
have
discovered
that
I
am
not
alone
in
this
preoccupation:
the
great
German

critic
Walter
Benjamin
was
similarly
obsessed.
His
friend
Hannah
Arendt
has

observed
that
"nothing
was
more
characteristic
of
him
in
the
thirties
than
the
little

notebooks
with
black
covers
which
he
always
carried
with
him
and
in
which
he

tirelessly
entered
in
the
form
of
quotations
what
daily
living
and
reading
netted
him

in
the
way
of
'pearls'
and
'corals.'
On
occasion
he
read
them
aloud,
showed
them

around
like
items
from
a
choic
and
precious
collection."
For
Susan
Sontag's

explanation
of
Benjamin's
motives,
see
the
second
epigraph
at
the
head
of
the

present
essay.

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 7

III

Why
does
an
author
use
an
epigraph?
When
I
first
learned
the
art,
my
motives

were
simple:
I
wished
to
impress
my
teachers.
When
I
put
that
quote
from

Dostoievski
at
the
head
of
my
paper
on
Moby‐Dick,
I
hoped
my
American
literature

professor
would
think,
prior
to
reading
my
sophomoric
thoughts
on
"metaphysical

rebellion"
in
the
novel,
that
the
paper
had
been
written
by
a
quite
erudite

undergraduate.
My
epigraph
was
thus
both
a
boast
and
a
signature;
it
would,
I

hoped,
beg
the
question
of
the
distinctiveness
of
a
quiet
student's
mind.
Certainly

the
rationale
for
my
undergraduate
epigraphs
also
lies
behind
many
a
sophomoric

scholarly
epigraph
today.
Epigraphs
are
often
used
pedantically
to
special
plead
in

advance
for
the
author's
wide
reading.
(I,
of
course,
have
outgrown
such

pretentiousness.)

A
second
possible
motive:
authors
often
use
quotations
out
of
context
in

epigraphs
as
arguments‐from‐authority
on
the
behalf
of
their
own,
about‐to‐be‐
presented
thesis.
When
James
Hillman
(in
Re‐Visioning
Psychology)
quotes
from

William
Butler
Yeats'
"Sailing
to
Byzantium"—"man
is
but
a
paltry
things,/A
tattered

coat
upon
a
stick,
unless/Soul
clap
its
hands
and
sing
.
.
.
"—the
reader,
he

presumes,
will
infer
that
Yeats
has
thereby
sanctioned
the
very
special
meaning
the

archetypal
psychologist
will
later
breathe
into
the
word
"soul."

A
blatant,
and
reprehensible,
example
of
such
a
practice
comes
to
mind.
An

astrophysicist
named
T.
A.
Heppenheimer
uses
the
following
lines
from
Eliot's
"Little

Gidding"
(in
Four
Quartets)
as
an
epigraph
to
Towards
Distant
Suns,
a
book‐length

paean
to
space
exploration
and
colonization:



We
shall
not
cease
from
exploration

And
the
end
of
all
our
exploring

Will
be
to
arrive
where
we
started

4
And
know
the
place
for
the
first
time. 



Now
Heppenheimer
intends,
of
course,
that
we
interpret
Eliot's
poetic
vision
as

support
for
his
own
extraterrestrial
ambitions:
man's
true
home,
his
place
of
origin,


4
These
particular
lines
may
well
be
the
most
"epigraphed
in
all
modern

literature.
I
have
seen
them
quoted
as
epigraphs
in
at
least
a
dozen
books
and

articles
in
the
last
five
years.

 The Collected Works of David Lavery 8

we
are
supposed
to
think,
is
in
fact
the
cosmos.
In
his
zeal
to
support
his
argument

with
prefatory
evidence,
thus
implying
that
both
sides
in
the
war
between
the
"two

cultures"
are
at
least
in
agreement
about
chasing
after
distant
suns,
Heppenheimer

badly
misreads,
indeed
betrays,
Eliot's
very
Christian
and
earthbound
wisdom,
as
the

lines
which
follow
those
he
does
quote—describing
the
glories
of
"the
last
of
earth

left
to
discover"—clearly
show.
But
Heppenheimer,
who
probably
found
Eliot's
words

already
quoted—out
of
context—in
a
book
of
toastmaster's
quotations
and
not
in
the

actual
poem,
evidently
did
not
expect
that
an
English
professor
would
be
reading
his

text
and
blowing
the
cover
off
his
fallacious
epigraphy.

Yet
a
third,
related,
motive
is
discernible.
As
Harold
Bloom
has
chronicled
for

us
ad
nauseum,
writers
suffer
from
the
"anxiety
of
influence,"
and
this
is,
I
suppose,

as
true
of
scholars
as
it
is
of
poets.
Compulsive
epigraphing
(not
to
mention

compulsive
footnoting)
may
thus
be
the
result
of
a
bad
dose
of
such
anxiety.
Afraid

of
speaking
for
themselves,
scholars
often
resort
to
epigraphs
in
order
to
establish

up
front
their
pedigree,
to
show
they
are
not
alone
in
thinking
as
they
do,
to
evoke

precedent
for
their
sometimes
dubious
passions.
Whereas,

according
to
Bloom,
every
poet
seeks
to
pretend
he
is
not

playing
ventriloquist's
dummy
to
the
voice
of
a
greater
poetic

father
in
the
tradition,
scholars,
however,
seem
to
embrace

that
voice
when
they
allow
it
a
home
at
the
beginning
of
their

text
in
an
epigraph.

Epigraphs
may
also
prove
to
be
creative
in
their
own

right,
offering
insights
which
could
be
come
upon
in
no
other

way.
In
Susan
Griffin's
Woman
and
Nature:
The
Roaring
Inside

Her,
a
radical
feminist
re‐reading
of
the
Western
intellectual
tradition,
the
author's

juxtaposition
of
epigraphs
is
central
to
her
unusual
mode
of
inquiry.
For
example,
at

the
top
of
a
section
entitled
"Territory"
(which
deals
with
the
conquering
of
the

"virgin
land"
of
the
American
continent),
she
brings
together
quotations
from
three

seemingly
disparate
sources:
1)
the
inventor
of
the
speculum,
2)
a
patristic

theologian,
and
3)
Sir
Walter
Raleigh:



I
saw
everything
as
no
man
had
ever
seen
before
.
.
.
I
felt
like
an
explorer
in

medicine
who
first
views
a
new
and
important
territory.

Marion
Sims,
M.D.
(on
the
invention
of
the
speculum)



 The Collected Works of David Lavery 9

Consider
Him
who
chose
to
be
born
of
a
virgin.
.
.
.
Freely
he
penetrates

viscera
known
only
to
Himself
and
with
greater
joy
enters
paths
where
none

has
ever
been.
These
limbs,
He
feels,
are
His
own:
unsoiled
and
unshared
by

any
man.
.
.
.

Fortunatus
(bishop
of
Poitiers
530‐609),
Opera
Poetica



.
.
.
a
countrey
that
hath
yet
her
mayden
head,
never
sakt,
turned.
nor

wrought.

Sir
Walter
Raleigh,
"Discovery
of
Guiana"



The
reader
is
immediately
struck
by
the
pattern
of
sexism—the
ubiquitous
metaphor

of
the
world
of
knowledge
as
a
virgin
female
in
medicine,
theology,
geography—
revealed
by
the
meeting
of
these
quotations.
In
this
case
epigraphs
have
become
for

Griffin
a
revealing
means
of
psychohistorical
exploration.

Whatever
the
rationale
for
their
use,
it
seems
clear
that
epigraphs
are
now

very
much
"in"—a
minor
but
revealing
passage
in
the
labyrinth
of
post‐modernist

literature—and
our
critical
understanding
will
likewise
need
to
develop
if
we
are
to

comprehend
the
meaning
of
this
evolving
subtext
(or
should
I
say
"epitext"?).




IV

Have
you
noticed
that
epigraphs
from
Derrida,
Foucault,
Lacan,
et
al
are
very

much
the
order
of
the
day?
In
the
1970s
Derrida
was
a
visiting
professor
at
my
alma

mater.
Since
then,
I
have
duly
noted,
the
scholarly
articles
of
a
number
of
its
faculty

are
headed
with
epigraphs
from
the
arch‐boa‐deconstructor
(as
Geoffrey
Hartman

has
called
him),
in
one
instance
followed
by
an
introductory
paragraph
which
began

(if
memory
serves
me
right),
"As
Jacques
Derrida
said
to
me
.
.
."
Obviously
my

former
professors
know
very
well
how
to
get
published
in
these
days
when
"the

French
disease"
(the
term—and
the
insult—is
James
Hillman's)
afflicts
the
scholarly

establishment.

Or
consider
the
example
of
a
recent
article
on
movie
musicals
which
featured

a
quotation
from
Foucault
(something
about
the
incapacity
of
language
for
capturing

reality)
followed
by
a
comparable
observation
from
Al
Jolson
in
The
Jazz
Singer:
"You

ain't
heard
nothing
yet."
Thereby
implying,
or
so
I
felt
free
to
infer,
that
Foucault's

insights
are
not
that
original
after
all.
Such
a
use
of
what
Barth
calls
"comic‐ironic

epigraphs"
calls
to
mind
the
radical
juxtaposition
of
disparate
things
which

 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 10

surrealism
had
patented.
"As
beautiful
as
the
chance
encounter
of
a
sewing
machine

and
an
umbrella
on
a
dissecting
table,"
wrote
Lautreamont
in
Maldoror.
Michel

Foucault
meets
Al
Jolson
is
a
no
less
strange
encounter.
But
the
article
was
published

in
a
good
journal,
and
I
suspect
that
its
striking
epigraphs
had
much
to
do
with
its

appearance
there.

Another
striking
epigraphical
technique—and
an
emerging
trend
in
the

genre—is
to
leave
the
epigraph
unidentified,
even
in
a
footnote.
A
variation
on
the

old
Eliot
stratagem
of
leaving
the
Latin
or
Greek
untranslated,
this
gambit,
of
course,

sets
us
to
wondering
about
the
identity
of
the
epigraph's
author
and
not

concentrating
very
much
on
the
text
at
hand.
A
permutation
of

this
technique
might,
of
course,
be
an
unidentified
quotation

in
a
foreign
language—the
best
of
both
worlds.
Other

permutations
are
likely
to
become
common:
fictional

epigraphs,
for
example,
as
pioneered
already
by
Borges
and

Douglas
Hofstadter,
are
an
emergent
trend.
Or
perhaps

epigraphs
in
which
an
author
quotes
himself
.
.
.

As
an
epigraph
to
his
Where
the
Wasteland
Ends,

Theodore
Roszak
quotes
Ephesians
6:
12:
"For
our
contention
is
not
with
the
flesh

and
blood,
but
dominion
and
authority,
with
the
world‐ruling
powers

of
this
dark
age,
with
the
spirit
of
evil
in
things
heavenly."
Certainly

epigraphical
quotation
from
the
New
Testament
is
nothing
new.
But

Roszak
appends
a
note
after
his
citation
which
reads:
"quoted
by

William
Blake
on
the
title
page
of
Vala."
Thus
Roszak
intends
his

epigraph
to
be
a
double
allusion—to
the
bible
and
to
the
Romantic

visionary—thereby
summoning
the
support
of
both
for
Roszak's

about‐to‐unfold
exploration
of
"Politics
and
Transcendence
in
Post‐
Industrial
Society."

The
reference
induces
a
kind
of
intellectual
vertigo,
however,
similar
to
what

we
feel
in
reading
Barth's
epigraphs,
but
all
the
more
perplexing
for
its
seeming
lack

of
self‐consciousness.
For
the
thought
occurs:
what
if
I
were
to
now
use
Roszak's

(Blake's
[Ephesian])
epigraph
as
an
epigraph
in
an
essay
of
my
own—this
one
for

example?
Would
I
not
then
have
to
note
that
the
quotation
had
been
used
by
Roszak,

and
thus
make
it
Lavery's
(Roszak's
[Blake's
{Ephesian}])
epigraph?
From
such
an

illusory
hall‐of‐mirrors
there
may
be
no
escape.
It
was
inevitable,
I
suppose
that

 T h e C o l l e c t e d W o r k s o f D a v i d L a v e r y 11

epigraphs
in
our
time
would—like
the
novel,
film,
and
drama—become
self‐
referential,
oroboroic.
Are
not
epigraphs
about
to
begin
biting
their
own
tails?

But
the
opposite
tendency—away
from
inversion
and
toward
complete

autonomy
for
the
epigraph—can
also
be
observed.
After
all,
Walter
Benjamin,
Susan

Sontag
informs
us,
had
envisioned
half
a
century
ago
a
work
of
criticism
which
would

"consist
entirely
of
quotations,
and
would
thereby
be
devoid
of
anything
that
might

betray
empathy."
The
work
was
never
completed,
but
the
inspiration
remains,
for

here
lies
yet
another
possible
new
direction:
such
a
work,
after
all,
would
be
pure

epigraph,
doing
away
with
the
needless
bothersome
task
of
creating
a
text.

And
yet,
if
Carlyle/Borges
is
correct,
if
"universal
history
is
an
infinite
sacred

book
that
all
men
write
and
read
and
try
to
understand,
and
in
which
they
too
are

written,"
the
art
of
the
epigraph,
whatever
metamorphoses
it
undergoes,
remains
a

revealing
form
of
expression.
For
as
metonymous
windows
opening
into
the
other

pages
of
the
infinite
book
of
human
thought,
epigraphs
acknowledge,
almost

apologetically,
the
partiality
of
the
additional
pages
now
about
to
be
added
to
it

while
excavating
the
"emblematic
fragments"
of
a
colloquy—what
Richard
Rorty
has

called
"the
conversation
of
mankind"—in
which
the
present
author
recognizes

himself
to
be
but
one
small
voice.