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.
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