The Norse god Odin (a.k.a. Odinn, Woden, and Wotan) sings of how he took up the secret craft of runes and rune-making in an ancient Scandinavian lay, "The Song of the High One" (Hávamal). Here is a key segment, translated from medieval Icelandic by Patricia Terry (in Poems of the Elder Edda, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1990):
Odin said:
I know that I hung on a high windy tree
for nine long nights;
pierced by a spear - Odin's pledge -
given myself to myself.
No one can tell about that tree,
from what deep roots it rises.
They brought me no bread, no horn to drink from,
I gazed toward the ground.
Crying aloud, I caught up runes;
finally I fell.
Nine mighty songs I learned from the son
of Bölthorn, Bestla's father,
and I came to drink of that costly mead
the holy vessel held.
Thus I learned the secret lore,
prospered and waxed in wisdom;
I won words from the words I sought,
verses multiplied where I sought verse.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Digital Runes
Why “Digital Runes”? Let me clarify that my purpose is not to create a system for psychic prognostication via the internet. Neither do I propose to examine the history of alphabets, at least in any precise scientific sense. Between these two accepted meanings of “rune” – (a) characters inscribed in wood or stone used for fortune-telling and (b) a specific alphanumeric system of writing used by ancient proto-literate societies in Northern Europe – are more provocative meanings for the term. A rune is also a riddle: a specific figure whose meaning is activated through the imagination of the “reader” - who might also be described as "listener" or even "singer." Digital Runes, then, signifies a collection of images, figures, reference points, and so on, that are intended to provoke a creative response in the reader – as well as serve as a system for remembering the content that is generated.
The great Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen described one of his contemporaries as understanding how runic symbols differ from more conventional symbolism:
The great Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen described one of his contemporaries as understanding how runic symbols differ from more conventional symbolism:
“[He] has allowed the symbolism to stand there without commentary like a runic inscription, leaving it to each member of the audience to interpret it according to his or her individual needs … And the play does not end at the fall of the curtain on the fifth act. The true end lies beyond; the poet indicates the direction in which we may seek; it is now up to each one of us to find his or her own way there.”
Quoted in Michael Meyer, Ibsen: A Biography (1971: 148).
An author who uses runes is not interested in concealing a specific, concrete solution or hidden meaning; rather, what is hidden is the exact potential of the author's reference, which the reader (or listener, or performer) must unlock through interpretation.
Although semiotics and deconstruction have complicated the referential stability of language and representation, the basic structure of the sign remains that of an indicator: a sign points to something. The meaning of any sign may unfold in the interactions among signifier, signified, and interpreter, but the shape of its function is based on periodic and definitive resolutions (as if one were walking a path marked with clear road signs) – through icons that narrow the field of possible meaning and achieve communicative closure. To put that another way – signs direct the reader on a specific journey with a defined path and a definite end.
Runes are not signs, in this sense. Runes mark out not a road, but a riddle – they don’t so much direct the interpreter on a specific path as inscribe the boundaries for a game. Runes point away from answers and direct referents. Instead of closing meaning (arguably the basic purpose of communicating with someone – being understood), runes use expanding layers and fields of reference to open meaning. The purpose of a rune is not to transparently lead the interpreter to a defined meaning; it is to deliberately obscure a specific meaning in order to open up a larger field of possible interpretations. Runes attach to contexts, not precise definitions; and the ancient riddle-game that they invoke is not the sort where the answers are printed upside-down at the bottom of the page. To put it another way, runes function as acts, as an activity, rather than establishing facts or set conditions. A rune never means one thing; it stimulates a process of making meanings.
The history of the word “rune” itself gives some indication of this, as well as how flexible the concept of runes can be. In the 12th century, the Middle English word rune meant an utterance, whisper, or murmur; by 1200 it could also mean speech, language, and even a song or poem. This usage descended from the Old English run which meant “secret” or “mystery” – suggesting that the later usage carried with it the artistry of evasion. All of these later forms (and there were many in Northern European languages) are cognates of the Old Saxon runa, which means a secret or mystery, but also “counsel,” as in sage advice. Later descendants include the German raunen (“whisper”) and the English rumor . (For more information, see The Barnhart Dictionary of Etymology, NY: H.W. Wilson, 1988.)
The relationship between these carved figures in wood or stone and the magic associated with them was more than denotative, as a specific rune could be used for varying and diverse purposes. But as an artifact, a rune not only concealed a secret, its use was also a craft – a mystery that had to be learned through practice. Runes had to be enacted (activated by the “reader”) in order to be useful. The value of these devices was not simply as alphabetic characters, defining a coherent sound; they served as the marker for secrets, whispers, rumors, songs, and poems – all activities involving the multiplication of meaning, rather than its limitation. As an idea, then, “rune” describes a fairly coherent range of related concepts: something hidden has been marked, but requires the active participation of the user in order to be used. Moreover, just as a rumor tends to escape the event or story from which it originates – expanding into a broad sphere of unanticipated interpretation and transformation – a rune likewise begins a process of meaning-making, rather than simply bringing it to rest.
“Digital Runes,” then, describes an experiment in using kernels of data – inscribed figures of text, imagery, or events – that I encounter and reflect upon. My purpose in each is not to exhaust a particular subject but to open it for further speculation. Each essay – each post – comes from an impromptu attempt to activate the potential significance of a starting point of discrete data. In the case of this particular post, today’s musing stems from a passage on runes in my doctoral dissertation, The House of Memory (2000). But in combination with the subjects of the other posts, a new range of possible meanings and associations can be opened up. Indeed, the authorship – as is the case on blogs open to reader commentary – is shared by all who participate in it. All it takes active engagement and creative reflection to share in the craft of reading runes.
Friday, August 27, 2004
Kenning "Grok"
A variant meaning of the term kenning derives from an older Anglo-Saxon verb for “knowing” or “recognizing,” ken. Various definitions associate this kind of kenning with sight and seeing, which dovetails curiously with the poetic device and its use of imagery (as well as the powerful use of vision in ancient memory arts). In this light, this blog – an experiment with latter-day kennings – also becomes a verb: an exploration of knowing, particularly through multimedia experiences.
That said, it seems a bright idea to help curious readers ken my more obscure references, such as the term “grokking” in the heading of my last post. For those of you unfamiliar with Robert Heinlein’s science fiction novel Stranger in a Strange Land (1961) “grok” is a verb invented by Heinlein and later popularized among SF fans and neopagans. It’s a useful description for a depth of understanding and communication that transcends language, and it’s one of the more useful slang terms you’ll ever come across.
In brief, “to grok” is to understand something so completely that one internalizes its meaning.
In Heinlein’s novel, grok literally means “to drink.” Because the word comes from a culture where water is so scarce that it assumes religious significance, this kind of drinking carries with it huge metaphorical associations. To drink water with another is to share life with another; sharing water is to share existence as well as sustenance. Grokking, then, is itself a metaphor for sharing meaning on so profound a level that the meaning shared (like water consumed) becomes part of each drinker.
Let’s take this from another angle. Imagine that we’re watching a particularly spectacular sunset over the waters of the Mississippi River. You say to me, “What a spectacular sunset!” I might reply: “I hear you,” which suggests that I’ve heard your opinion (without necessarily agreeing with it). I might say “I understand,” which implies that I have some concept of how and why you find this sunset so spectacular. I might reply, “I know,” which hints that I concur with your view. But if I were to say, “I grok,” what would that mean?
It would mean that – in a gesture bordering on faith – I have not only heard and understood your view, I share it to the point where I have effectively made it my own. I’ve internalized your statement, the moment, the sunset itself, and the memory that all of these have made. Insofar as it’s humanly possible, I’ve tried to make what you see my own – and, by reflecting your view, made my view yours. We have shared understanding, just as one might share a drink of water. One cannot grok without sharing.
What distinguishes grokking from other forms of understanding and knowing, I think, is the extent to which it must be shared – to grok, one must partake of a shared experience. And if we may return to kennings for a moment, the kind of knowing suggesting by the ancient words “ken” and “kenning” also involves a shared experience – a shared vision, story, or experience, whether or not that shared experience is actually present. The neologism “grok” meets the ancient logic of kenning through the sharing of experience.
This, too, is one of the guiding principles behind this blog, and I devoutly hope that if you’re reading this, you feel invited to respond and participate in a digital conversation, this digital experience of explored meaning. I see the internet in general, and blogs in particular, as an exceptional opportunity for strangers (and friends) to share their perspectives and ideas through a new and unfamiliar language of experience – a language, by the way, that increasingly shapes the world we live in.
Do you grok?
That said, it seems a bright idea to help curious readers ken my more obscure references, such as the term “grokking” in the heading of my last post. For those of you unfamiliar with Robert Heinlein’s science fiction novel Stranger in a Strange Land (1961) “grok” is a verb invented by Heinlein and later popularized among SF fans and neopagans. It’s a useful description for a depth of understanding and communication that transcends language, and it’s one of the more useful slang terms you’ll ever come across.
In brief, “to grok” is to understand something so completely that one internalizes its meaning.
In Heinlein’s novel, grok literally means “to drink.” Because the word comes from a culture where water is so scarce that it assumes religious significance, this kind of drinking carries with it huge metaphorical associations. To drink water with another is to share life with another; sharing water is to share existence as well as sustenance. Grokking, then, is itself a metaphor for sharing meaning on so profound a level that the meaning shared (like water consumed) becomes part of each drinker.
Let’s take this from another angle. Imagine that we’re watching a particularly spectacular sunset over the waters of the Mississippi River. You say to me, “What a spectacular sunset!” I might reply: “I hear you,” which suggests that I’ve heard your opinion (without necessarily agreeing with it). I might say “I understand,” which implies that I have some concept of how and why you find this sunset so spectacular. I might reply, “I know,” which hints that I concur with your view. But if I were to say, “I grok,” what would that mean?
It would mean that – in a gesture bordering on faith – I have not only heard and understood your view, I share it to the point where I have effectively made it my own. I’ve internalized your statement, the moment, the sunset itself, and the memory that all of these have made. Insofar as it’s humanly possible, I’ve tried to make what you see my own – and, by reflecting your view, made my view yours. We have shared understanding, just as one might share a drink of water. One cannot grok without sharing.
What distinguishes grokking from other forms of understanding and knowing, I think, is the extent to which it must be shared – to grok, one must partake of a shared experience. And if we may return to kennings for a moment, the kind of knowing suggesting by the ancient words “ken” and “kenning” also involves a shared experience – a shared vision, story, or experience, whether or not that shared experience is actually present. The neologism “grok” meets the ancient logic of kenning through the sharing of experience.
This, too, is one of the guiding principles behind this blog, and I devoutly hope that if you’re reading this, you feel invited to respond and participate in a digital conversation, this digital experience of explored meaning. I see the internet in general, and blogs in particular, as an exceptional opportunity for strangers (and friends) to share their perspectives and ideas through a new and unfamiliar language of experience – a language, by the way, that increasingly shapes the world we live in.
Do you grok?
Grokking Kennings
In oral cultures, we are sometimes told, memory served those needs that written text fulfills in literate societies. Earlier cultural historians tended to argue that writing brought a quantum leap in the preservation and perpetuation of knowledge (which is almost certainly true). However, their reasoning was based on an inadequate understanding of memory; in particular, the extent to which memory can be trained by technique and shaped by art. One brief example can provide an indication of how flexible and creative the memory arts – “mnemotechnics” – of ancient societies were … as well as the pervasiveness of those techniques in modern societies.
The kenning, after which this blog is named, refers to a device used throughout Germanic (particularly Norse) poetry and mythology. Simply put, a kenning is a story in miniature: an evocative phrase, sometimes associated with imagery, that alludes to another story without actually mentioning or summarizing it. For a familiar example, consider:
Achilles ’ heel
In conversation or narrative, this simply means “vulnerable spot” or “weak point.” But why does it mean this? Nothing in “Achilles” or “heel” specifically evokes weakness or vulnerability. The phrase acquires its meaning from an absent story – moreover, a story that many who use the phrase might not even know in full. Achilles was the greatest of Greek heroes, in part because his mother immersed him into the River Styx shortly after he was born, making him invulnerable to harm. But she had to hold on to his heel to do so, which meant that this single spot on his body would remain unprotected. When Achilles finally fell in battle, it was due to this minor flaw in his otherwise unassailable person.
All of this, of course, is far too big a mouthful for anyone wishing to refer to it in detail; but if a poet, say, wishes to evoke the powerful image of a single weak spot in an otherwise perfect defense, the phrase itself can be used as an anchor for memory. Without having to re-tell Achilles’ story, the artist can refer to it through a kenning, a kind of literary metaphor made of memory. For example:
Kryptonite is Superman’s Achilles ’ heel, because exposure to this green ore can remove his powers and eventually kill him.
Without telling Achilles’ story, the speaker can make a connection between it and the related (modern) tale of Superman, a similarly invulnerable superhero. The basic principle of kennings, then, is to allow speakers to refer to entire narratives through powerfully economical metaphors, linking not just images and ideas, but entire stories to each other.
What distinguishes kennings – which can function just as effectively in literate societies – is that they involve the audience in a remembered absence. By evoking without describing the absent story, a host of possible connections and parallels are opened for the audience to consider; unlike an allusion, however, typically a kenning does not prescribe or specify what connections might exist. The audience becomes co-creator, through the medium of memory, opening the narrative to possible meanings and associations that the artist never specifically imagined.
In a sense, a kenning functions very similarly to a hyperlink; in a hypertext, one can pass over linked phrases or words, or re-trace the author’s steps to sources or related material by following the link. The key to understanding kennings – and by extension, the power of arts of memory even in literate societies – is that they provide the power of hyperlinks without having to be specifically anchored to another site. Imagine a hyperlink definition, for instance, that provided a randomly selected website from a short list of choices. Imagine if, in a hypertext describing Superman, clicking on “kryptonite” brought up an entire assortment of literary and artistic precedents and parallels (such as Achilles’ heel, Smaug’s missing scale, Siegfried’s back, and so on). Through memory – and particularly a memory trained by exposure to the narratives, myths, and imagery of an entire culture – the written word catalyzes an interpretive activity.
I’ve named this site after kennings, then, to evoke that kind of activity and associate it with this blog. My purpose here will be to address texts and experiences, narratives and images, through a language of connection, and place these brief essays in a context where other readers might expand their meaning and their potential further than I might imagine. I invite readers to browse these essays through the binocular focus not only of their creativity, but their memories, providing associations, connections, commentary, and arguments that the essays themselves could never contain.
I dedicate this work at the outset to a high school teacher named J. D. Soley, who taught me how to write critically (“analyze – avoid mere summary – and be concrete”), but also rapidly– through the countless impromptu essays he would assign in the classes I took from him. This site marks my effort to return to the basic principles of the writer’s craft that he revealed to me over fifteen years ago.
The kenning, after which this blog is named, refers to a device used throughout Germanic (particularly Norse) poetry and mythology. Simply put, a kenning is a story in miniature: an evocative phrase, sometimes associated with imagery, that alludes to another story without actually mentioning or summarizing it. For a familiar example, consider:
Achilles ’ heel
In conversation or narrative, this simply means “vulnerable spot” or “weak point.” But why does it mean this? Nothing in “Achilles” or “heel” specifically evokes weakness or vulnerability. The phrase acquires its meaning from an absent story – moreover, a story that many who use the phrase might not even know in full. Achilles was the greatest of Greek heroes, in part because his mother immersed him into the River Styx shortly after he was born, making him invulnerable to harm. But she had to hold on to his heel to do so, which meant that this single spot on his body would remain unprotected. When Achilles finally fell in battle, it was due to this minor flaw in his otherwise unassailable person.
All of this, of course, is far too big a mouthful for anyone wishing to refer to it in detail; but if a poet, say, wishes to evoke the powerful image of a single weak spot in an otherwise perfect defense, the phrase itself can be used as an anchor for memory. Without having to re-tell Achilles’ story, the artist can refer to it through a kenning, a kind of literary metaphor made of memory. For example:
Kryptonite is Superman’s Achilles ’ heel, because exposure to this green ore can remove his powers and eventually kill him.
Without telling Achilles’ story, the speaker can make a connection between it and the related (modern) tale of Superman, a similarly invulnerable superhero. The basic principle of kennings, then, is to allow speakers to refer to entire narratives through powerfully economical metaphors, linking not just images and ideas, but entire stories to each other.
What distinguishes kennings – which can function just as effectively in literate societies – is that they involve the audience in a remembered absence. By evoking without describing the absent story, a host of possible connections and parallels are opened for the audience to consider; unlike an allusion, however, typically a kenning does not prescribe or specify what connections might exist. The audience becomes co-creator, through the medium of memory, opening the narrative to possible meanings and associations that the artist never specifically imagined.
In a sense, a kenning functions very similarly to a hyperlink; in a hypertext, one can pass over linked phrases or words, or re-trace the author’s steps to sources or related material by following the link. The key to understanding kennings – and by extension, the power of arts of memory even in literate societies – is that they provide the power of hyperlinks without having to be specifically anchored to another site. Imagine a hyperlink definition, for instance, that provided a randomly selected website from a short list of choices. Imagine if, in a hypertext describing Superman, clicking on “kryptonite” brought up an entire assortment of literary and artistic precedents and parallels (such as Achilles’ heel, Smaug’s missing scale, Siegfried’s back, and so on). Through memory – and particularly a memory trained by exposure to the narratives, myths, and imagery of an entire culture – the written word catalyzes an interpretive activity.
I’ve named this site after kennings, then, to evoke that kind of activity and associate it with this blog. My purpose here will be to address texts and experiences, narratives and images, through a language of connection, and place these brief essays in a context where other readers might expand their meaning and their potential further than I might imagine. I invite readers to browse these essays through the binocular focus not only of their creativity, but their memories, providing associations, connections, commentary, and arguments that the essays themselves could never contain.
I dedicate this work at the outset to a high school teacher named J. D. Soley, who taught me how to write critically (“analyze – avoid mere summary – and be concrete”), but also rapidly– through the countless impromptu essays he would assign in the classes I took from him. This site marks my effort to return to the basic principles of the writer’s craft that he revealed to me over fifteen years ago.
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