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214 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1997
There could be, I knew, no finality to the one raindrops, to the number and variousness of the stars, to the books to be read, to the languages to be learned. The mosaic of the possible could, at any instant, be splintered and reassembled into new images and notions of meaning. The idiom of heraldry, those “gules” and “bars sinister,” even if I could not yet make it out, must, I sensed, be only one among countless systems of discourse specifically tailored to the teeming diversity of human purposes, artifacts, representations, or concealment (I still recall the strange excitement I felt at the thought that a coat of arms could hide as well as reveal).
I have conducted my emotional, intellectual, and professional affairs in distrust of theory. So far as I am able, I can attach meaning to the concept of theory in the exact and, to some degree, applied sciences. These theoretical constructs demand crucial experiments for their verification or falsification. If refuted, they will be superseded. They can be mathematically or logically formalized. The invocation of “theory” in the humanities, in historical and social studies, in the evaluation of literature and the arts, seems to me mendacious. The humanities are susceptible neither to crucial experiments nor to verification (except on a material, documentary level). Our responses to them are narratives of intuition. In the unbounded dynamics of the semantic, in the flux of the meaningful, in the uncircumscribed interplay of interpretations, the only propositions are those of personal choice, of taste, of echoing affinity or deafness. There can be no refutations or disproofs in any theoretical sense. Coleridge does not refute Samuel Johnson; Picasso does not advance on Raphael. In humane letters, “theory” is nothing but intuition grown impatient.