“You don’t have a Soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.” –C.S. Lewis
Lewis’s definition of the human identity establishes an interesting idea; humans are the essence of themselves; the body is simply a container for the soul, and does not define the nature and personality of the individual. This presents an interesting dichotomy between body and soul, medium and meaning, form and function, especially when applied to not just humans, but works of art as well. Does the form through which the meaning is relayed affect how that meaning is interpreted? Shelley Jackson, considering the technologically dominated society of modern times, addresses this question in her hypertext Patchwork Girl, inspired by Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and other works by writers such as L. Frank Baum. Shelley’s computerized disc sent shock waves throughout the literary community, as it presented a new medium through which writers could present their works. Some, however, viewed this revolutionary new method with horror and trepidation, including critic Sven Birkerts. Birkerts points out the many fallacies of using hypertexts such as Shelley’s, leading to the ultimate conclusion that while hypertextual literature is an innovative idea, the obscure organization of it detracts from the overall meaning presented.
One of the most frustrating issues for readers of texts such as Patchwork Girl is the organization- or lack thereof. In Patchwork Girl, there are many different sections to click; Journal, Graveyard, Story, Crazy Quilt, with many different sections stemming from those. This in turn leads the reader to somewhere completely different and pulls them off the original track they were on, until they have lost comprehension of the story. In Jackson’s own words, “Hypertext is schizophrenic: you can’t tell what’s the original and what’s the reference.” Additionally, the text can be viewed in different formats, ranging from hierarchical charts to flow charts. The same information is presented in different ways, complicating the reading even more because not only are there different sections to read, but different formats in which to read it. Thus, “A hypertext never seems quite finished, it isn’t clear just where it ends, it’s fuzzy at the edges, you can’t figure out what matters and what doesn’t, what’s matter and what’s void, what’s the bone and what’s the flesh, it’s all decoration or it’s all substance” (Jackson). Clearly, hypertext renders the story, and thence the meaning, confusing; there is no direction or plot to follow. Because there are so many routes to follow (none of which are clearly designated) no clear resolution is established, making the reader feel that there is no worthy point to text.
Part of this organizational chaos can be attributed to the lack of linear structure; in novels, the story is laid out in a series of pages, and a beginning, middle, and end are clearly designated. Thus, every part of the story is identified and read, and the reader ends the book with a sense of resolution. “The order of print is linear, and is bound to logic by the imperatives of syntax… Print communication requires the active engagement of the reader’s attention, for reading is fundamentally an act of translation” (Birkerts 122). However, with hypertext, no clear direction is designated. “Hypertext doesn’t know where it’s going” (Jackson). The reader is presented with many sections to choose from, thus there is no sense of a beginning or end. Indeed, Patchwork Girl presents boxes with arrows leading to different boxes; however, the arrows branch off at various sections, leading to nothing specific. The reader finds it difficult to fully commit themselves to whichever section they arbitrarily selected, because they are unsure whether or not they missed a crucial part of the story before their current reading. Indeed, one feels disconnected from the text; they are unaware of the basic plot in the story, and therefore do not feel any desire or drive to continue reading. The responsibility of choosing the next section of the story can be overwhelming, as well. As Birkerts relates, “For the effect of the hypertext environment, the ever-present awareness of possibility and the need to either make or refuse choice, was to preempt my creating any meditative space for myself (Birkerts 162). Patchwork Girl is more active; it requires the reader to make decisions and click on sections. Texts are more passive; the pages sit quietly waiting for the reader to turn them. This does not place any pressure on the reader; thus, more space is created to absorb and reflect on what was read at the reader’s discretion.
Despite the abstract nature of words, many readers enjoy being about to feel a concrete book in their hands and physically see the letters in print. With hypertext, however, the screen acts as a barrier between the reader and the words. According to Birkerts, “Words read from a screen or written onto a screen- words which appear and disappear, even if they can be retrieved and fixed into place with a keystroke- have a different status and affect us differently from words held immobile on the accessible space of a page” (Birkerts 154). Clearly, hypertext fails to hold the same potency, and deliver the words as powerfully and completely, as books, because it seems so transient; in novels, the words are firmly, irrevocably printed onto the pages, while on screen, the potential to delete or edit exists at the discretion of the reader’s fingertips.
Nearly weightless though it is, the word printed on a page is a thing. The configuration of impulses on a screen is not- it is a manifestation, an indeterminate entity both particle and wave, an ectoplasmic arrival and departure. The former occupies a position in space- on a page, in a book- and is verifiably there. The latter, once dematerialized, digitalized back into storage, into memory, cannot be said to exist in quite the same way. It has potential, not locus (Birkerts 155).
Thus, the identity and existence of a novel is irrefutably established, while Patchwork Girl and other hypertexts only exist in a virtual world, easily destroyed by an errant keystroke. Hypertext is simply to transient and fleeting in its format, and this transience is transferred to the words themselves. Not only did any meaning garnered from choppy readings of Patchwork Girl fail to take hold in the reader’s mind, but the format itself distracted the reader from the actual subject. The many boxes, some in different colors (such as the “Crazy Quilt” section) similarly bewildered Birkerts.
I experienced constant interruption- the reading surface was fractured, rendered collagelike by the appearance of starred keywords and suddenly materialized menu boxes. I did not feel the exhilarating freedom I had hoped to feel. I felt, rather, an assault upon what I had unreflectingly assumed to be my reader’s prerogatives (Birkerts 162).
Birkerts describes how his very instincts as a reader were impaired; rather than feeling liberated by this revolutionary new format, he simply felt overwhelmed and confused. Reading, as traditionally defined, was obscured by brightly colored boxes, swerving arrows, and disjointed text.
The soul- or essence- of something can only find translation through the body through which it is presented. As Birkerts says, “Soul- a vast, elusive word” (Birkerts 212). Unfortunately, even the most profound and beautiful writing or observation will be stifled if the form is an ugly, muddled mess. Such is the case with Patchwork Girl; no meaning can be garnered because it’s the medium of hypertext is confusing and difficult to navigate. The medium itself is so distracting, the reader loses focus on the actual meaning. The focus becomes simply trying to figure out how to read the text, not the meaning of the words themselves. Thus, not much meaning can be discussed because the hypertextual format obstructed any ability to grasp a plot or story line. The soul is, ultimately, subsumed beneath the body; clearly, the two are inextricably intertwined. Indeed, this effect is quite tragic, given, as Birkerts observes, that “Soul is our inwardness, our self-reflectiveness, our orientation to the unknown” (Birkerts 212). Reading is usually an individual pastime, and the soul is where one retreats for the meditation and contemplativeness needed to truly absorb meaning. To strip away the soul from a piece of literature, then, is to strip away the quiet place which conveys the essence of the story.
It is interesting that, as a culture, so much emphasis is placed on outward appearances. Teenage girls are pressured into starving themselves to appear thin, and thus beautiful; high-end fashion is designed, not to feel comfortable, but to look beautiful; safety in sports cars has been sacrificed to make them visually appealing. Yet, adults constantly tell their children “outer beauty does not matter; it is what is inside that counts.” Socially, it seems, more focus is put on outer beauty; however, morally, inner beauty is paramount. This can also be said of works and art and literature; the substance is more important than the body through which it is presented. Thus, Patchwork Girl fails in the highest sense of its art: it does clearly present any point through its writing. Indeed, the focus becomes not the what, but the how. If hypertext is the future of literature, then it is a drab future indeed. However, the many shortcomings of hypertexts may deter readings and critics alike from embracing this new medium.
“The medium shapes the message and the message bears directly on who we are; it forms us” (Birkerts 145).
The body is not even experienced as whole. We never see it all, we can’t feel our liver working or messages shuttling through our spine. We patch a phantom body together out of a cacophony of sense impressions, bright and partial views.
Hypertext doesn’t know where it’s going.
