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Charles Olson's Art of Language The Mayan Substratum of Projective Verse

Charles Olson's Art of Language The Mayan Substratum of Projective Verse

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totality performs a function and informs a sensibility—is vital to Olson’s

theory of open verse, outlined most concisely in his May  letter to

Elaine Feinstein and in his  essay ‘‘Projective Verse.’’ Together they offer

a radical, anthropological poetics binding language and utterance through

an accredited value to the biological makeup of the human species. ‘‘Behind

every word in Olson is the body’’ (Watten , ), a situation that unavoidably invokes the cherished topographical binaries of inner/outer and

surface/depth. Olsonian energy is conceived not as a surface turbulence

(as in Lucretius’s atomic law) but as encrypted within anthropological and

anatomical circuitries whose mandate (via poetry) is as much outerance as


The call is for a verse that follows ‘‘certain laws and possibilities of breath

for the breathing of the man who writes as well of his listenings’’ (, ).

In a critical paragraph, midway through ‘‘Projective Verse,’’ Olson makes a

significant commitment to speech over writing and to its attendant metaphysics of presence: ‘‘[B]reath allows all the speech-force of language back

in (speech is the ‘solid’ of verse, is the secret of a poem’s energy)’’ (, ).

Despite its trenchant repudiation of closure and metrical bondage, ‘‘Projective Verse’’ supports a poetic tradition of voice that stresses the unmediated transmission of energy according to pneumatic laws. (One must wait,

of course, until the mid-s and Hélène Cixous’s Medusan laughter before a gendered, politicized version of proprioception emerges.) 2 For Olson,

breath is an essence—both culturally and philosophically unproblematic—

insinuated into a theory of writing as ‘‘natural’’ to carry enormous positive

presuppositions. Breath and graphism are brought into an interesting complicity in Olson’s argument for proprioceptive origin: ‘‘And the line comes

(I swear it) from the breath, from the breathing of the man who writes, at

the moment that he writes’’ (, ).

Patently writing against the prevalent metrically regulated poetries of

the s—Karl Shapiro, Richard Eberhart, Theodore Roethke, and John

Berryman, for instance—Olson appeals to breathing as the formal determinant of the poetic line but unwittingly suppresses important predecessors:

Henry Sweet, for instance, who writes on the phenomenon of ‘‘breathgroups’’ in his  work A Primer for Phonetics.

Tseng 2001.8.8 16:02

The only division actually made in language is that into breath-groups.

. . . Within each breath-group there is no pause made whatsoever, notwithstanding the popular idea that we make a pause between every two

words. Thus in such a sentence as put on your hat, we hear clearly the



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‘‘recoil’’ or final breath-glide which follows the final t of hat, but the t of

put runs on to the following vowel without any recoil, exactly as in the

single word putting. (Quoted in Huey , )

J. E. Wallace Wallin’s  research into articulatory utterance at Yale ascertained the average quantity of syllables uttered between breath-pauses to

be about six.

Olson’s positivization of the pneumatic also finds significant precedence

in William James. In a confident anti-Cartesian gesture, James conflates

mentation and breathing in what amounts to a staggering ecumenical valorization of the latter. ‘‘I am as confident as I am of anything that, in myself,

the stream of thinking (which I recognize emphatically as a phenomenon)

is only a careless name for what, when scrutinized, reveals itself to consist chiefly of the stream of my breathing. The ‘I think’ which Kant said

must be able to accompany all my objects, is the ‘I breathe’ which actually

does accompany them.’’ James continues, revisioning Bergson’s stream of

consciousness as a respiratory stream. ‘‘There are other internal facts beside breathing . . . and these increase the assets of ‘consciousness,’ so far as

the latter is subject to immediate perception; but breath, which was ever

the original of ‘spirit,’ breath moving outward between the glottis and the

nostrils, is, I am persuaded the essence of which philosophers have constructed the entity known to them as consciousness’’ (quoted in Byrd ,

).3 These references to Sweet, Wallin, and James should not be construed

as an attempt to belittle Olson’s argument—their work on quotidian utterance and breath never attempted to suggest a direction for poetics—but

they are intended to relativize the novelty of projective verse in the light of

a suppressed historical sediment.

Olson’s related valorization of the syllable has similarly unacknowledged

precedents. ‘‘Projective Verse’’ evokes the syllable as a sovereign spontaneity

aligned to the categories of breath, voice, and listening—so as to register

an unmediated presence.

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It is by their syllables that words juxtapose in beauty, by these particles of

sound as clearly as by the sense of the words which they compose.

I say the syllable, king, and that is spontaneous, this way: the ear, the

ear which has collected, which has listened, the ear, which is so close to

the mind that it is the mind’s, that it has the mind’s speed


the HEAD, by way of the EAR, to the SYLLABLE. (, –)

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This essentialist investment in the syllable is already espoused as early as

Plato, who in the Cratylus advances his doctrine of true naming as the expression through sound of ‘‘the essence of each thing in letters and syllables’’ (, e). An equally phonocentric investment is made by the

sixteenth-century poet-musician Thomas Campion: ‘‘[W]e must esteeme

our syllables as we speake, not as we write; from the sound of them in a

verse is to be valued, and not their letters’’ (, ). In the sixth of his

ten lectures at Dresden on the philosophie der sprache, Friedrich von Schlegel

offers a variant antecedent to Olson’s thinking.

Properly syllables, and not letters, form the basis of language. They are

its living roots, or chief stem and trunk, out of which all else shoots and

grows. The letters, in fact, have no existence, except as the results of

minute analysis; for many of them are difficult, if not impossible, to pronounce. Syllables, on the contrary, more or less simple, or the complex

composites of fewer or more letters, are the primary and original data of

language (, ).4

Setting aside the problematic implications of the arboreal metaphor,

this particular genealogy of the syllable effects a serious foreclosure on the

range of Olson’s radical discontinuities, suggesting a surprising belatedness—a residual, organicist romanticism—in his poetics. Moreover, Olson

neglects to address proprioception’s link to prephonemic vocalities—the

child’s babble, for instance, which is the subject of detailed study by David

Applebaum. ‘‘Babble induces proprioception, the body’s specific awareness

of itself [and] phonically announces the help of a body awareness dissolved

in phonemic distance’’ (Applebaum , –). If breath truly announces

what speech forgets (), then Olson stumbles at this point at an aporia,

committing proprioceptive forces to restricted, phonematic manifestation.

The theory of ‘‘Projective Verse,’’ instead of releasing vocalic energies and

expenditures, recovers them to the civilized pale of the syllabic. Olson’s remains a speech-based rather than a voice-based poetics that finally betrays

breath, enshrining the syllable not only as a corporeal effect but an exclusively adult potential.

Meditating on Celan, Gerald Bruns draws attention to a counterprojective agenda for breath that marshals Rilke and Levinas in its support.

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A turning of the breath . . . can answer to the name of poetry; or, perhaps,

vice versa: this event, this breath, is what poetry responds to. Poetry is

perhaps this response or responsiveness, this responsibility for the side



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of speech that resists reduction or the turning of breath into a mediation or expression. Possibly the poem is as much the taking of a breath

as the expulsion of it (‘‘A breath for nothing,’’ says Rilke); or perhaps, as

in Levinas’s account of [the outside in Otherwise than Being,] freedom is

breath, ‘‘the breathing of outside air, where inwardness frees itself from

itself, and is exposed to all the winds.’’ Here breathing is non-subjective:

it means taking in the air that belongs to ‘‘an outside where nothing

covers anything, non-protection, the reverse of a retreat, homelessness,

non-world, non-inhabitation, layout without security[.]’’ As if there were

a link between breath and exile. (Gadamer , –)

Significant, too, is Olson’s suppression of breath’s other law.

The decay of epic or the decline of tragedy, assuming this to be the

case, implies the end of periodic rhythm as such. Time then ceases to be

organized as respiration according to a process of inhalation and exhalation which inserts a moment of life between two silences or zero points.

(Lyotard b, )

Olson abrogates breath’s other possibility—to articulate fragility onto the

signifying system. Conceived as respiration, breath offers a less positive

model—a dyadic, even dialogic one—articulated onto the rhythmic

ground of the involuntary. As a concept, breath is breachable in accordance

with an ambiguity within its own constitution and interpretative order. On

the one hand—and this is Olson’s positive stress—breath is the productive

sign of presence, offered as the exteriorization of complex proprioceptive

stimuli. But breath’s other law legislates a negative economy of waste and involuntary expenditure, and Olson ignores the implications of respiration’s

binary components, its cyclicality and systolic-dyastolic regulations.

Against Olson’s celebration of pneumatic plenitude, a different disposition can be offered. For the Islamic calligrapher, the crucial issue is to master breathing and counter the disruptive forces of its ‘‘naturalness’’ upon

a silent, graphic practice by denial, suppression, and a strict, regulatory

control. Hassan Masoudy recounts this dramatically different relation to


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The capacity of the calligrapher to hold his breath is reflected in the

movement of his hand. . . . Normally one breathes instinctively. In the

course of his apprenticeship the calligrapher learns to control his breathing and to profit by a break in the drawing of a letter to take a new

breath. . . . A push or pull movement is altered according to whether the

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writer breathes in or out while making it. When the movement is long,

the calligrapher holds his breath in order that the process of breathing

should not interrupt its flow. Before calligraphing a letter or a word, he

should note the spaces where it will be possible to take a breath and at

the same time to re-ink the pen. These breaks are made at very specific

points in the text, even if it is possible to hold one’s breath for longer or

if there is still any ink remaining in the pen. The halts therefore serve to

replenish both air and ink. . . . Calligraphers who choose to use traditional methods of writing do not like fountain pens, since these allow an

uninterrupted flow of ink; mastery of breathing therefore becomes unnecessary, and the calligrapher loses the satisfaction of feeling the weight

of time in his work. (Quoted in Jean , –)

For his part, Henri-Jean Martin quotes a first-century author on the importance of calligraphy in ancient China: ‘‘If speech is the voice of the

spirit, writing is the drawing of the spirit’’ (, ). Clearly recognizing

a spiritual-respiratory connection emancipated in such a graphic practice,

Martin concludes that ‘‘calligraphy was an integral part of an art of painting in China that privileged the line and demanded that the artist animate

his drawing with the breath of life’’ ().

Blanchot counters the vectors of projectivism with a mandate for writing to move toward a still and empty space. Breath—as Olson fails to point

out—is intervalic and structurally dependent on a gap between two points.

Blanchot wedges writing in the stillness of the dead space of this interval—in his poetic there is still a prior demand from the work’s space before

writing. This locus is understood as petrific and demanding an ordeal of


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This ordeal is awesome. What the author sees is a cold immobility from

which he cannot turn away, but near which he cannot linger. It is like an

enclave, a preserve within space, airless and without light, where a part

of himself, and, more than that, his truth, his solitary truth, suffocates

in an incomprehensible separation. . . . A work is finished, not when it

is completed, but when he who labours at it from within can just as well

finish it from without. He is no longer retained inside by the work; rather

he is retained by a part of himself from which he feels he is free and from

which the work has contributed to freeing him. . . . The work requires of

the writer that he lose everything he might construe as his own ‘‘nature,’’

that he lose all character and that, ceasing to be linked to others and to



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himself by the decision which makes him an ‘‘I,’’ he becomes the empty

place where the impersonal affirmation emerges. (Blanchot , –)

This reading of Olson through Blanchot might introduce another American writer, Charles Brockden Brown, whose  Wieland (b) and

posthumous fragment Memoirs of Carwin (a) stand antipodal to Olson’s writings in relational strategies to language, sound, breath, and body,

and petition comparison. Wieland is an innovative Gothic tale that modifies

conventional terror with a more contemporary device. The plot hinges on

multiple tactics of ventriloquism (or ‘‘ventrilocution,’’ as Brown terms it)—

a relatively unknown and undiscussed ability in the late eighteenth century.Ventriloquism follows its own specific laws and possibilities of breath.

‘‘Sound,’’ writes Brown, ‘‘is varied according to the variations of direction

and distance. The art of the ventriloquist consists in modifying his voice

according to all these variations, without changing his place. . . . This power

. . . may, possibly, consist in an unusual flexibility or exertion of the bottom

of the tongue and the uvula’’ (b, n). This description finds adumbration in Sir David Brewster’s Letters on Natural Magic: ‘‘Ventriloquism

loses its distinctive character if its imitations are not performed by a voice

from the belly. The voice, indeed, does not actually come from that region;

but when the ventriloquist utters sounds from the larynx without moving

the muscles of his face, he gives them strength by a powerful action of the

abdominal muscles. Hence he speaks by means of his belly, although the

throat is the real source from whence the sounds proceed’’ (, ). The

significant point in these lengthy citations is to allow comparison of ‘‘highenergy transmission’’ in Olson’s theory of field composition with Brown’s

low-energy transmission through constraint, and the strategic relationship

of the vocal subject to the Other. The subtext of ventriloquism saturates

the texts of Blanchot. In both his and Brown’s there is the central notion

of speech emerging from an outside that is inside. (This latter configuration is central also to Leibniz’s concept of the monad [see chapter ] and

Nancy’s elaboration on the nature of interiority [in note  of the same chapter].) For the eighteenth-century prosodist Joshua Steele, breath provides a

natural support and temporal basis for metrical cadence. ‘‘Our breathing,

the beating of our pulse, and our movement in walking, make the division

of time by pointed and regular cadences, familiar and natural to us’’ (,

). (Steele’s notational innovations in ‘‘rational prosody’’ are examined in

chapter .)

Blanchot’s essay on Edmond Jabès, ‘‘Interruptions,’’ outlines three moCharles Olson’s Art of Language


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dalities of writing.The first reduces the distance between subject and object.

The second affirms distance but tends within the affirmation toward unification. Such a mode would include Keatsian negative capability and Olson’s

own objectism, which, as Charles Altieri rightly points out—though referring to it confusingly as ‘‘objectivism’’ (, –)—has, as a prime concern, the preservation of the energies of immediate experience and which

establishes the poem as an object among objects—heterogeneous but unified. Blanchot’s third modality, however, is without a unifying effect. As

a decidedly nondialectical mode, it founds its subject-object relation on

an interruption in being, affirming estrangement, radical separation, and

essential otherness (Blanchot , –). For Blanchot, the universe is not

Olson’s ‘‘human’’ universe but a fundamental articulation upon the infinite

as this erupts among the gaps and cessations of the finite.

Blanchot explicitly differentiates this modality of interruption from the

manipulated white space in a text. The site of the intervalic is not the nonsite invested with significance, as in the breath line of field composition,

but a change in the structure or form of the language. Blanchot compares

this change to the switch from a Euclidean to a Riemannian surface that

would entail ‘‘making the relation of words into an essentially asymmetrical field ruled by discontinuity: as if it were a matter (once you have renounced the interrupted strength of coherent discourse) of revealing a level

of language where you could reach the power not only to express yourself

in an intermittent way but to make intermittence itself speak’’ (, ).

Against Olson’s conception of the poem as a ‘‘high-energy construct and,

at all points an energy discharge,’’ Blanchot offers the notion of writing as a

low-energy inscription whose pneumatological-physiological coordinate is

asphyxiation—further suggesting that to release expression, yet keep it void

(as in pain, fatigue, or misfortune) may be to stage expression within ‘‘the

dimension of the infinity of language.’’ Blanchot senses a deeper cessation

than that of aesthetic silence occasioned by the space of the line-break. For

him, space, silence, and lack constitute a site for the entry of a profoundly

nonunifying language—the start of a struggle, in fact, toward a writing that

cannot figure in language. It is that Otherness—a radical alterity registered

by a modality of waiting—that negotiates itself as the suppressed aspect of

the Object, and permits a return to Olson in a relation other than antinomian. For the Object as the Other emerges nonproprioceptively in a context

other than Olson’s poetics: his study of—and fascination with—the art of

the Mayan language.



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We have lived long in a generalizing time, at least since 450 B.C. And it

has had its effects on the best of men, on the best of things. Logos, or

discourse, for example, has, in that time, so worked its abstractions into

our concept and use of language that language’s other function, speech,

seems so in need of restoration that several of us got back to hieroglyphs

or to ideograms to right the balance. (The distinction here is between

language as the act of the instant and language as the act of the thought

about the instant).

—Charles Olson (1967, 3–4)

Olson visited Mayan sites in the Yucatan through the winter, spring, and

summer of  and his Mayan Letters, written to Robert Creeley, occupy a

significant chronological conjunction with his poetics that will bear exploration.5 Written at almost the same time as the ‘‘Projective Verse’’ essay, one

might anticipate a similar—if not identical—notion of writing. But this is

not the case. Despite a familiarity with Mayan grammar—Olson owned a

copy of Alfred Tozzer’s A Maya Grammar (T. Clark , )—the Mayan

Letters expose a dense interest in the silence of a graphic economy and a system of writing irreducible to either speech or breath. Olson offers his theory

on the singular genesis of Mayan writing, an origin rooted in a cultural attention to pangestural expression: ‘‘Men were able to stay so interested in

the expressions and gestures of all creatures . . . that they invented a system

of written record, now called hieroglyphs, which, on its very faces, is verse,

the signs were so clearly and densely chosen that, cut in stone, they retain

the power of the objects of which they are the images’’ (Olson , ).

In a  letter to Creeley dated ‘‘tuesday, march ,’’ Olson proposes a

vital connection:

Christ, these hieroglyphs. Here is the most abstract and formal deal of

all the things this people dealt out—and yet, to my taste, it is precisely as

intimate as verse is. Is, in fact, verse. And comes into existence, obeys the

same laws that, the coming into existence, the persisting of verse does.

(Olson , )

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By March  he is convinced that the meaning of the glyphs lies in their

status as language and not astrological pictographs. At this point, Olson

has the strong feeling that the glyphs mark in their designs the figures of a

spoken language. On Sunday, April , he writes:

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What continues to hold me, is, the tremendous levy on all objects as

they present themselves to human sense, in the glyph-world. And the

proportion, the distribution of weight given the same parts of all, seems,

exceptionally, distributed & accurate[.] . . . That is, the gate to the center was, here, as accurate as what you & i have been (all along) talking

about—viz., man as object in a field of force declaring self as force because force is in exactly such relation & can accomplish expression of

self as force by conjecture, & displacement in a context best, now, seen

as space more than time. (, –)

Three paragraphs further on, Olson anticipates his notion of the formcontent binary as it appears in ‘‘Projective Verse’’:

[A] Sumer poem or Maya glyph is more pertinent to our purposes than

anything else, because each of these people & their workers had forms

which unfolded directly from content (sd content itself a disposition

toward reality which understood man as only force in field of force containing multiple other expressions (, ) 6

(This sentiment reappears in ‘‘Projective Verse,’’ of course, in the noted dictum first formulated by Robert Creeley that form is never more than an

extension of content.) 7

A more detailed account of Olson’s interest in these glyphs occurs in a

little-known text: the poet’s application to the Viking Fund and WennerGren Foundation, submitted in , to continue his field research in the

Yucatan and to culminate, he hoped, in the publication of a book: The Art

of the Language of Mayan Glyphs.8 In the application, first published in 

as ‘‘Project (): ‘The Art of the Language of Mayan Glyphs,’ ’’ Olson

makes much of a singular feature of these glyphs: their plastic nature.

Mayan ‘‘writing,’’ just because it is a hieroglyphic system in between the

pictographic and the abstract (neither was it any longer merely representational nor had it yet become phonetic) is peculiarly intricated to the

plastic arts, is inextricable from the arts of its own recording (sculpture

primarily, and brush-painting), in fact . . . writing, in this very important instance . . . can rightly be comprehended only, in its full purport,

as a plastic art. (, )

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It soon becomes clear that Olson’s interest lies in the artistic dimensions of

the glyphs—especially the plastic resonance—and not in their meaning as



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linguistic signs.While acknowledging the work of decipherment by his predecessors, Olson remains emphatic that his own studies move in a different

direction: ‘‘[I]n Mayan studies the decipherers have made themselves the

measure, and my aim is to try to do a study exact enough to give the arts

(and I include writing) the sort of attention I take it they deserve’’ (,

). Olson proceeds to define the ‘‘art’’ and ‘‘language’’ of the glyph:

[A] glyph is a design or composition which stands in its own space and

exists—whether cut in stone or written by brush—both by the act of

the plastic imagination which led to its invention in the first place and

by the act of its presentation in any given case since. Both involved—I

shall try to show—a graphic discipline of the highest order. . . . Simultaneously, the art is ‘‘language’’ because each of these glyphs has meanings

arbitrarily assigned to it, denotations and connotations. (, –)

Of several felicitous conjunctions in this passage, one might point out the

reference to the glyph’s space as ‘‘a design or composition which stands in its

own space and exists’’—an ontic autonomy to which Olson elsewhere appeals in formulating his definition of meaning as ‘‘that which exists through

itself ’’ (b, ). In the light of the poststructuralist ‘‘allegory,’’ the temptation is to counter Olsonian meaning with the very different description

offered by Lacan: ‘‘no meaning is sustained by anything other than reference to another meaning,’’ arriving this way at the counterproposition: that

which exists through itself can never be meaning. The fascination of the

glyphs to Olson is neither phonocentrism in general nor the specific Saussurean principle of twentieth-century linguistics whereby the glyphs, like

words, would gain meaning by their differential and oppositional play with

other glyphs.9 Indeed, the Mayan glyph takes on precisely those qualities

and powers ascribed by Kant to the modality of the Beautiful, evinced in

landscapes, that offer figuratively a cryptography or cipher (chiffreschrift)

impossible to decode or capture rationally but made available via taste to

feeling (cf. Kant , ).

There follows in the application a most remarkable alignment:

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The value of the writing to my work here would seem to be a matter of

the insights which follow from the practice of it as a profession, particularly such graphic verse as a contemporary American poet, due to the

work of his immediate and distinguished predecessors does write. Two

recent publications document the point of such practice, particularly as

it applies to such things as Mayan glyphs: the essay on ‘‘Projective Verse’’

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. . . and the study of language in relation to culture, ‘‘The Gate and the

Center.’’ (Olson , )

A proclamation of breath and syllable as the poetic agents developed from

the graphic plasticism of the Mayan glyph? It appears that for Olson there’s

no contradiction between the phonocentric-bias of ‘‘Projective Verse’’ and

the abstract, plastic, graphic economy of the Mayan glyph. In fact, their

interrelation is endorsed by a ‘‘documental practice.’’ However, the chronological proximity of these two documents removes any possibility of a rational appeal to an ‘‘evolution’’ or ‘‘progression’’ in Olson’s thinking. Clearly,

the Mayan project and the concerns of ‘‘Projective Verse’’ were concurrent preoccupations, and the Viking application warrants scrutiny as the

suppressed ‘‘other’’ text of ‘‘Projective Verse.’’ Of course, this contradiction

need not negate the strength of Olson’s poetics, but it must complexify its

reader-reception and should alert us to a more graphic and spatial element at

work in The Maximus Poems.10 The Mayan glyph is both Olson’s blindness

and his insight.

My emphasis on the live stone, for all the value of its ‘‘relief ’’ . . . and,

within any given stone, the analysis of two parts: not only the individual

glyph and its elements (with the emphasis shifted from too close an attention to its denotation as ‘‘word’’ toward more understanding of its

connotations, from its force as carved thing) but also that unit which

dominates a stone visually . . . the glyph-block, that ‘‘square’’ which can

include up to  glyphs and which sets itself off into an area usually about

 ×  inches. The mechanics of the glyph-block (the way it organizes its

glyphs and the way the glyph-blocks are organized to make up the ‘‘passage’’ of the whole stone) is the clue, my studies so far suggest, of the

other important element of this art, time . . . the double nature of this

unusual writing . . . is at once object in space (the glyph) and motion on

stone in time (the glyph-blocks). (, )

Tseng 2001.8.8 16:02

Olson comes close here to inventing a syntactic context that eludes the

problems of the glyph’s alleged sovereign authority. The discovery of the

glyph-block is Olson’s path back to the page and to the kinetic temporality of an objectist writing. It opens, too, the double nature of Olson’s

own poetic productions, as both sound and sight, both breath and text,

inscribed in a hesitation between two historically antinomian systems. If

herein lies a contradiction, then the contradiction is superbly bracketed—



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Charles Olson's Art of Language The Mayan Substratum of Projective Verse

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