Consciousness, Literature and the Arts

Archive

Volume 2 Number 2, July 2001

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The Peculiar Morality of the Artist

 by

Gregory Frank Tague

 

    The artist, the moment of artistic creation, the completed work, and the viewer are integral parts of a whole.  The loose unity that includes all of these elements can be called the aesthetic experience for both artist and viewer.  In the present discussion, a character/actor in a film and one painting (by a writer) will be examined to help highlight how any particular artistic manifestation continually and inevitably moves outward beyond the initial moment of creation.  An artistic moment of creation is an act, in a philosophical sense, that endures and has consequences.  Essentially, an artist or an actor sees him/herself engaged primarily in the moment of inspiration.  The artist is only aware of the present.  But such creation, at its best, will always invite many viewers to participate not simply in the moment of performance (re-creating artistic inspiration) but to understand the larger, humanistic dimensions.  But, the innocuous acts of aesthetic creation and contemplation, if perpetuated in the purely artistic moment and concretized thereafter as aestheticism (and not as including a notion of philosophical action) disregard the morality of art that reverberates in ripples from the brush or the scene into the larger (contentious) social community.

 

    Regarding the word peculiar, we mean that which is, according to its Latin origins, a particular and private property; current usage has evolved the meaning of this word to include strange, in English, and étrange in French, extraño in Spanish, and seltsam in German.  In truth, something peculiar is idiosyncratic to the individual on its surface but synchronous with humanity at its core.  There is nothing strange about human nature once the mask of the individual is lifted.  Carl Jung, at the beginning of part two in his book, The Relations Between The Ego And The Unconscious, indicates that in the process of individuation the peculiarities of an individual become recognizable as he or she fulfills his or her nature, satisfying the urge to be a definite, unique being; but really, individuation means the fulfillment of the collective qualities of the human being--the peculiarity of the individual is better suited to social integration than to wasteful solipsistic surfeit.[1]  What we call art, whether it be a Grecian urn or an ode about such an urn, carries weight as an objective thing that ushers forth, beyond its intrinsic self-contained embodiment, signals for a human response, a real, positive, uplifting experience.  Although someone's character cannot change, art holds a force that can strongly influence behavior and conduct.

 

An artistic creation becomes property.  In the act of creation it is the peculiar subjective response (whose origins are unknown) of the artist to existence; after the act of creation it is a peculiar empirical substance that impinges on objective world existence: people can see it, read it, hear it, or touch it.  Once initiated, artistic creation moves (acts of, by, and through itself) from an arena within a human psyche (an unknown particular subjectivity) to an arena outside: it becomes visible and tangible and as such is property, even if abandoned, that once belonged to the artist.  The creator owes an allegiance to the creation, through his or her act of creating and by virtue of the result.  Regardless of disavowal, an act (either conscious or unconscious) of making real that which previously was latent and unknown, adheres to its creator as property to an owner.  In its actuality, the now-external item belongs not only to those who come in contact with it but to the artist.  The act obligates the one who has acted, and by implication, such an action may obligate one who receives the action (in the gallery, museum, or theater), either by fortune, chance, or desire.  The act of making is a process of inclusion into the world context (social, economic, intellectual) and not, as some privilege themselves to believe, exclusion.

 

Let us examine, for example, a moment of human crystallization (from the artistic act) in the 1936 Frank Capra movie, Mr. Deeds Goes To Town, that best exemplifies, by using compassion and empathy, the peculiar morality of the artist.  In spite of the extreme singularity of artistic creation (property), there are aspects of it that can touch the state of human being.  Whether we call the unknown source of artistic creation the unconscious, the sublime moment, or an epiphany, it is essentially a living, human source: the product may be called art, but the mysterious wellspring belongs to humanity and its capacity (individually and collectively) to feel compassion for anything alive.  The aesthetic moment is inadequate precisely because it is only a moment that abstracts human life out of the entirety of a full (both subjective and objective), pulsating, worldly existence.  An aesthetic moment is inadequate because only one (the artist or viewer) burns with an intense, gemlike flame, to use Walter Pater's words, that only satisfies the moment, perhaps an ecstasy of continual egoistic (selfish) moments.  We require, however, an art of compassion that reverberates forever, unfolds with infinite novelty beyond any peculiar moment for any single, interior personal delight.

 

We must recall that at the beginning of the movie, Mr. Deeds, played by Gary Cooper, is at home in Vermont, and upon hearing that he has inherited 20 million dollars from his uncle, says, Why would he leave the money to me--I don't need it.  Such an idiosyncratic remark is a clue to the viewer that Mr. Deeds' core interest/desire goes beyond money.  The obvious question, then, is, "What does Mr. Deeds, by now apparently a representation of a healthy, young American, at a time of social crisis (the Depression) need?  Nevertheless, Mr. Deeds gets the twenty million.  He is a character, in wholesome appearance and honest manner, with whom many American men (and women) of the time would be able to identify.  Later, disenchanted with his adventures in New York City, its lawyers, and the publicity his eccentricities (strange peculiarities) have engendered, Mr. Deeds decides to loan (and then forgive such loan) 18 million dollars to thousands of unemployed farmers, in the form of land and seed, provided that the farmers can successfully work the land.  As his name suggests, Mr. Deeds is a man of action.  (This is evidenced histrionically by his habit of hitting men.)  The title of the film, too, suggests a dichotomy between action and deeds (the later word not without moral import) and a simple man's journey (literally and metaphorically) to a large, impersonal town (suggesting, for instance, the place Vanity Fair of Pilgrim's Progress).  Importantly, this man's compassion comes not in the form of words (he rejects the millions) but in deeds, both majestic and even simple.

 

By now the actor on the screen, the handsome and righteous character with whom many can empathize as if they are he, is a real person because whatever he sees, feels, or tastes is experienced by the viewers.  Deeds (principally through the directions and the acting) is a projection on the screen of the viewer, so his action invites participation.  Although there is a scene with a distraught farmer (who threatens to kill Deeds) that precipitates Mr. Deeds' extraordinarily magnanimous and humane plan, the director chooses not to show explicitly the plan's genesis and unfolding.  Consequence is the worthier study, for in fact (it is learned) Deeds is interested in performing a feat of glory, of saving a young woman in distress.  An act of compassion that is expressed more simply and pointedly and not seen by the viewers occurs when there is talk by the actors within the movie of an episode where Mr. Deeds has fed donuts to a horse, recalling the eighteenth-century sentimentalism of the English novelist Laurence Sterne and the episode in France when the character Tristram Shandy feeds macaroons to an ass.

 

A simple but key moment of the movie, a tableau or vignette (much like a still painting), comes when Mr. Deeds, mired in the bureaucracy that he himself created in order to fund the farmers, stops to consider eating lunch.  He is a hungry, working man, here, as he was in rural Vermont.  (In Vermont Deeds owned, and apparently managed with equanimity, a wax-works factory, symbolic of his ability to spread light.)  He is seated at a table, thousands of destitute farmers lined up in front of him.  One man, aptly named Christian and fortuitously next in line, pulls a huge sandwich on pumpernickel bread from a brown paper bag, first, for Mr. Deeds, and then miraculously repeats the act for himself.  After he bites into the sandwich and pronounces it tasty, Mr. Deeds looks out at the maze of blank, waiting, staring, empty faces before him and announces to his ubiquitous-city-slicker-always-skeptical assistant that he will provide lunches for all of the men.  It is clear from the actor's facial expression and eyes, exactly at the moment he chews, with the director now scanning the wan, drawn expression-less faces of the men, that the viewer is asked to experience, simultaneously, the satisfaction of Deed's hunger and the emptiness of the men.  Deeds' christian act of feeding the others recalls not merely the simple benevolence of Tristram Shandy but, with contemporary poignancy because of its social context, Christ's miracle of multiplying seven loaves and a few fishes into a feast to feed four thousand.

 

Compassion must not be a conservative pronouncement distanced from activity by the shield of a pulpit or a political podium but is a liberal and passionate movement of body and soul and spirit among and between other human beings.  Art can and should help us understand and feel compassion.  Building on his already philanthropic self-less acts, in a moment, where time for deliberation intercedes suddenly, where mind and body and soul and spirit act spontaneously together, Mr. Deeds feels the hunger of the men.  He must feel it because by his expression and what the director reveals in the faces of the other men the viewers feel such hunger too.  He perceives, throughout his body, from his taste buds to the nerve synapses in his brain, the emptiness in their mouths and stomachs as he chews: by eating he participates in their hunger--and he moves on this feeling.  The director, it is clear, has taken pains in this long and important scene, to consolidate in Deeds, the men, and the viewers, the diurnal physical sensation of hunger and the elevated human emotion of compassion.  (Earlier in the movie, other scenes involve Deeds feeding his want-to-be lawyer at his home in Vermont, the pseudo-damsel "Babe," class-conscious operatic snobs, and the distraught farmer.)

 

Granted, in its incipient aesthetic moment artistic creation feeds only the self, but later, after the enclosed, egoistic moment, it at best provides crucial metaphysical sustenance for others.  The viewer witnesses the gesture for a particular moment of en masse feeding and sees, within the scope of the camera, the transformation on Mr. Deeds' face from happy relaxation by eating to sympathetic uneasiness as he projects himself into the hungry bodies of the men before him, a compassionate deed in the making.  This scene is not pedantic, not didactic, not an allegory akin to the work of Hogarth, but a motif of human-kindness illuminating itself in the act of discovery and self-perpetuation from actor to participant-viewer.  The fledgling, inchoate poet-musician Mr. Deeds creates a participatory act that literally and figuratively nourishes others.  The viewers feel satisfied (physically and spiritually) by his generosity.  The artistic moment of the cinematic act nourishes the audience with a moral metaphor.

 

According to the nineteenth century German metaphysical philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, in his book, On The Basis Of Morality, compassion is participation, and only insofar as an action springs from compassion does it have moral value: there is no ulterior consideration and no difference between the me or the him.[2]  By the end of the movie, all of the apparently strange peculiarities (eccentricities) of Mr. Deeds, such as his tuba playing, poetry writing, and fire-engine chasing, become, in the public event of a courtroom, patent links from one decent man to all humankind: Mr. Deeds becomes the metaphor for an empathetic viewer.

 

Schopenhauer rightly tells us that compassion momentarily abolishes the barrier between the ego (what one feels as his/her own) and the non-ego (what lies in another person): the other person's needs and sufferings become one's own; there is a sharing, in which the other is not necessarily strange and empirical; this is a mysterious occurrence that, fortunately for humanity, happens frequently.[3]  It is important, here, to discuss Schopenhauer's theory while still thinking of Mr. Deeds--the film and the man.  Schopenhauer, in his Morality book, discusses the issues of conduct and compassion purely in terms of ethics, how people can act in a community.  He says that the deed (as intention) can become either reprehensible or praiseworthy [4] because a motive, causality through knowledge, stimulates someone to act; thus, actions must not be presupposed upon something (an imperative, such as Kant's as if) that lies outside of our cognition but our actions must be explained and interpreted upon what actually is.[5]  The best explanation for life is found in the puzzle of life itself, in its remnants scattered around.  Therefore, a moral stimulus must be a real motive, must be empirical and automatic, to the extent that it has a powerful force to overcome one's egoistic senses and self-motives: the focus needs to rest on actual conduct.[6]  Mr. Deeds (the film and the person as directed by Capra) is moved to act (in a philosophical sense) according to conduct in a human community, to act with compassion, and the viewer responds to this not because of an abstract imperative but through the visceral emotions aroused by the scene.

 

Near the end of his Morality book, Schopenhauer insists that self is a combination, equally proportioned, of egoism for oneself and indifference to others; one regards only him/herself as real, others as imaginary visions, because everyone is given to him/herself directly whereas others are indirectly given, through re-presentation: directness asserts its right.[7]  Mr. Deeds is a significant character because he, despite his egoistic desire for glory, sees others and acts for them (as demonstrated from the scene discussed above).  It is, according to Schopenhauer, the absence of all egoistic motivation that is the criterion of an action of moral worth[8]; the moral significance of an action lies in its reference to others.[9]  (In the latter part of the twentieth century, this would become fundamental to the phenomenological ethics of the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas.)  While, in a film such as Mr. Deeds, it is easy to see how Schopenhauer's morality operates in compassion for others, it is more difficult to comprehend such compassion in one painting, where there is no direction or acting or participatory movement.  A painting is still, apparently static.  This will, notwithstanding, be discussed forthwith in considering a painting by the writer D.H. Lawrence.

 

The peculiar morality of the artist is based on belief.  The artist strongly believes in what he or she is doing at a particular time: there is no before, no after, no reasoning.  This is not to say that the artist places him/herself beyond good or evil, for as Jung notes in his book, On The Psychology Of The Unconscious, that will only lead (as in the case of Nietzsche) to a moment of Dionysian frenzy.[10]  Rather, the artist places him/herself in a moment of spontaneity that is edged by the contemporary: the artist acts from the forces within his or her human soul, the basis of humanity, in an epoch that shapes her and which she, in response, shapes with her ability to see anew, to re-present the contemporary in light of the universal, timeless, humanity, within the soul.  Art is neither good nor bad (coming, rather, from shades of difference) and is the source from which such relative values flow: the artist is outside of time and space, while, ironically, both a product of them and working closely in them.  The art is outside morality, momentarily in the act of creation, but once it is finished it is an act(ion) of the artist in context and bears weight with its empiricalness in the public domain of the world; now the artist has a responsibility for a product that heretofore did not exist, except in the private mind, but now makes contact with time, space, and other human bodies and minds.

 

Schopenhauer correctly asserts that egoism is the ready and living standard of the will and has the advantage of the ius primi occupantis (the right of first occupation) over every moral principle: that is, egoism decides for us, not right or wrong.[11]  Schopenhauer is concerned with what will happen, not with what ought to happen.[12]  Bakhtin echoes this anti-Kantian notion in Toward A Philosophy Of The Act when he says that so-called morality without reference to an individual subject is nothing but desolation.[13]  Thus, art by its nature is not vacuous but participatory--open to acceptance and disdain.  In his essay "On History," Schopenhauer places emphasis and significance on the inner reality of the individual and his or her personal unity of consciousness; the external world is relevant only insofar as it relates to the individual and to how life now exists for him or her, to be examined philosophically (Plato and Kant) and not historically (Hegel).[14]  Artistic creation, then, is both real property (the artist's physical substance) and an internal, emotional experience by the viewer in and through time.  Schopenhauer tells us that a person's thinking is not necessarily simultaneous to the deed, but our acts must be understood with reference to the past, the present, and the future.[15]  Such is the case with Mr. Deed's feeding of others because it transmits his compassionate act to the viewers.  Or in the words of Bakhtin, we act confidently only when we do so not as ourselves but as those possessed by culture.[16]  Deeds acts alone but represents humanity, and one who sees him act accepts the humanity.  Similar cultural transmission happens in painting, but not with the same precision.

 

To borrow from one of Bakhtin's concepts, found in a collection of his essays published as The Dialogic Imagination, painting could be thought of as, to use his terminology, heteroglossia (the physical, social, and historical context).[17]  There is a double intention by human subject and artistic painter[18]; painting is a refraction of another life, a visualization of an interrelated double discourse, with no one superseding voice, where the human known and the artistic unknown compete.  As Gary Saul Morson and Caryl Emerson, Bakhtin scholars, might say, a painting helps me to show what is mine; the sense of the external other seeing me, as I experience myself seeing, helps me define what is mine.[19]  Moreover, and in special regard for the discussion of painting, Bakhtin finds that an essential moment in aesthetic contemplation is the act of empathizing into an individual object--seeing from inside its own essence.  This is followed by objectification, placing outside of oneself the individuality understood through empathizing.[20]  This is an active process, Bakhtin says, where empathizing actualizes something that did not exist either in the object or in one prior to; there is an acknowledgement of the other, so the result is a richer being.[21]  In film the character portrayed on the screen (the other) acts; the viewer of a painting becomes an actor by initiating movement from the shapes and colors on the canvas (something other).

 

The film scene under discussion, while speaking to many people and crucial for the analysis herein, is a stepping stone to discussing a painting.  Mr. Deeds is encumbered with references to a time and place, whereas the painting to be discussed breaks time and is without historical stasis.  Art need not be a performance of the solipsistic, bodily grotesque in a confusing absence of reference to reality but a participation with others that shares something humanly particular in its associativeness.  The relationship the artist reveals, D.H. Lawrence says in his essay, "Morality and the Novel," is humankind's "living moment"[22] joining one to the circumambient universe, with subtle interrelations as yet unseen by the camera eye but available to the artistic, spiritual vision; morality is "that delicate, forever trembling and changing balance . . ."[23]  Lawrence was cognizant of E.M. Forster's dictum to connect, but Lawrence envisions a tenuous and tentative connection as the most salutary, simply because it permits, implied in his important poem "Manifesto," a freedom of creative movement (for artist and viewer) toward the edge of the mystic present.

 

Symbolically and with grace this immaterial linkage is represented in Lawrence's painting Dance Sketch (circa 1928).[24]  This painting was probably inspired by Lawrence's trips to Italy and recorded in his excellent travel book, Etruscan Places.  (The Etruscans held a special place for Lawrence, a people living simply in happy accord with nature much as he desired most of his life.)  It is useful to examine a painting by D.H. Lawrence because, as a novelist, poet, and essayist espousing a life philosophy of human and natural participation, he embodies a bridge between aesthetics and experience, both of which, as subjects for intellectual thought, emerge out of the nineteenth century.  Lawrence rightly attempts to ground art in lived, human life--without neglecting transcendent elements.  Art as a manifestation of culture certainly reiterates, to borrow a thought from John Ruskin, human conduct.

 

In Lawrence's painting there are three figures: a dark, naked man, a pale, naked woman, and a goat dancing on its hind legs.  The almost-incompletely drawn man and woman are imperceptibly joined at the hip, suggesting the necessity, but not the finality, of their flowing conjunction and consummation to each other and to an unknown, mysterious essence.  The figures are deliberately incomplete, unfinished, suggesting not a particular person but anyone.  The dance depicted is one of harmony between light and dark, movement and stasis, time and eternity, humankind and beast, male and female.  There are a few, phallic trees whose shapes mimic the human limbs over which they loom.  This is not necessarily a painting worthy of close scrutiny; it is not replete with detail; instead, it is suggestive, inviting even the casual viewer to connect with the theme of primitive humankind.  It is as if, with recourse to Bakhtin's observations made in his Author And Hero In Aesthetic Activity, painting for the artist, and with more significance for the viewer who imagines the artist imagining, operates in this way: I see another; I empathize about his position, seeing the world as he sees it; back in my own place, with this "excess" of seeing, I "enframe" him.[25]  Lawrence's painting is significant for its latent content, for what it asks the collective unconscious of viewers to utter about being human, not for technique.

 

But one is not connatural with the world and its excess, thus one needs a pivot to help him/her create a perspective.  Visual art provides this critical point of positioning for the viewer.  There is no excess of seeing oneself: one's own "exterior" only enters by fragments and stimulates a sensation of self; I do not see myself; I am situated on a boundary of seeing, says Bakhtin in Author And Hero.[26]  This suggests our need to become an active continuum in the universe by looking outward through the medium of art.  Lawrence's human figures and their relationship with the goat as Pan, the god of fields, pastures, and Dionysian dance and music are such a pivotal representation of a viewer who seeks to look beyond (and depart from) his/her own point.  The painting becomes a reflector of latent images, in a Jungian (not Freudian) sense.  The goat represents lust, and thus it stands apart, but not far from, the couple.  The deliberately unfinished human figures, bending and stretching in the Turneresque swirl of color, complement the notion of creative, forward movement; and, to use Lawrence's words from his poem, "Moonrise," "perfect, bright experience never falls / To nothingness . . ."[27]  We are asked to experience the nakedness, the dancing, the pure revery of the couple as symbols and yet as real people.  Paul Tillich says, in volume one of Systematic Theology, that while a human being becomes anxious about a finished form (life and the common conception of self) that will complete his or her vitality, he is simultaneously anxious about rampant, energized chaos without form (death and non-being).[28]  Lawrence's painting provides for any attentive viewer at least part of the completion of self and the resistance to formlessness in the archetypal images.  Even the most abstract painting reconciles the anxiety of chaos and the pleasure of created form.

 

There is a suggestion of polar of equilibrium, or what Bakhtin might call the potential creator of "our own exterior"; that is, I enclose others in space when I see, but I cannot do the same for myself--because I cannot gather my self into "an outward whole."[29]  Lawrence's painting helps us see ourselves, for it is an archetypal image of ourselves seen through elemental man, woman, and nature in harmony.  With reference to Jung's writings in The Archetypes And The Collective Unconscious, one finds that, in addition to any personal consciousness (something empirical), there is an inherited and impersonal unconscious that gives form, painting, to human psychic activity.[30]  Lawrence's painting provides the second self of human nature that shows the whole of the universe.  Such an artistic act, the creation of and participation in, reveals innate human and universal compatibility.  Lawrence's figures awaken in the viewer the known (form) and the unknown (preformed figures).  The painting works on several planes, first, by revealing humanness and, second, by suggesting an action of human cooperation and participation.  This is exemplified when Jung says that the archetype is an unrealized completion, a possibility, something only of forms; although it has an inviolable center of meaning (in principle) in its reality it appears under a variety of aspects[31]; moreover, the archetypes connect humankind, root it, in Nature and supply a primordial energy that is necessary for social culture.[32]  Lawrence's painting, more than Mr. Deed's one act, invokes human and natural compassion in a moment that is palpable but ineffable.  Viewers connect with Lawrence's figures because, on some level, they realize themselves in the figures, and after the connection is made, the viewers go forth into society with the realization that everyone else, too, is represented in the painting.

 

That which we call art instigates response; art is real, meaningful, disgusting, or joyous only in relation to that which is human; art helps humankind partake of and participate in cosmic and human nature.  While the film Mr. Deeds speaks eloquently of the human community, Lawrence's painting strikes each of us, individually, in a visceral way.  The Spanish philosopher Miguel De Unamuno, in his book, Tragic Sense Of Life, writes that thinking ought to come not only from the brain but from the blood, the marrow of the bones, and the belly.[33]  If there is no emotive response to art (whether through compassion or the striking of an elemental chord) it is aesthetic abstraction, failure.  Just as we cannot abstract thought out of lived life, we cannot extirpate art from life: in spite of its allusive morality, it is a part of lived (and to-be-lived) life.  At the moment of creation the artist's morality is peculiar, but upon display the morality is open to response.  Unamuno's notion echoes, in addition to ideas of Schopenhauer, Henri Bergson's pronouncement, in Creative Evolution, that humanity would be complete if conscious activity fully developed both intellect and intuition.[34]  Mr. Deeds acts intuitively with compassion, and so the viewer responds likewise.  Lawrence's painting is intellectually provocative, but some primal intuition is aroused in the viewer and predominates. 

 

These artistic creations succeed not just because they are Art, but because they stimulate a positive human response.  The human mind is capable of reason but is not, at its core, rational.  Art is not a portrait drawn after the fact but according to the joys and horrors of existence.  The artist's morality is peculiar because it occurs in an amoral vacuum--but thereafter as property it is the possession of viewers who either do or do not find in it compassion and humanity.  Whatever we think, whatever the so-called judgment about a particular piece of art, the fact is that since it is a real thing, in the context of our lives, touching us, imposing itself upon us by its existent being-there, a sense of morality inheres in it.  The artist can be (theoretically) immune in the neutral tones of creative impulse, but any-thing that exists, especially if it is labelled as art, connects one to another and others to it, first, aesthetically, then, empathetically, and at best, compassionately.

REFERENCES

1.   Jung, Carl G.  "The Relations Between The Ego and Unconscious" in Two Essays. Trans. R.F.C. Hull. 2nd ed. 1953. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1966. 173-174.

2.   Schopenhauer, Arthur.  On The Basis of Morality.  Trans. E.F.J. Payne.  Indianapolis: Library of Liberal Arts, 1965. 144.

3.   Basis, 165-166.

4.   Basis, 66-67.

5.   Basis, 52-53.

6.   Basis, 75.

7.   Basis, 132.

8.   Basis, 140.

9.   Basis, 142.

10.  Jung, Carl G.  "On The Psychology of The Unconscious" in Two Essays. Trans. R.F.C. Hull. 2nd ed. 1953. Princeton: Princeton UP,    1966. 32.

11.  Basis, 89.

12.  Basis, 79.

13.  Bakhtin, M.M.  Toward a Philosophy of the Act.  Ed. Vadim Liapunov and Michael Holquist.  Trans. Vadim Liapunov.  Austin: U of Texas P, 1993. 5-6.

14.  Schopenhauer, Arthur.  The World as Will and Representation.  Volumes I & II. Trans. E.F.J. Payne.  New York: Dover, 1966. Vol.II, Ch.38.

15.  Basis, 81.

16.  Toward, 21.

17.  Bakhtin, M.M.  The Dialogic Imagination.  Ed. Michael Holquist. Trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist.  Austin: U of Texas P, 1981. 428.

18.  Dialogic, 324.

19.  Morson, Gary Saul and Caryl Emerson.  Mikhail Bakhtin.  Stanford: Stanford UP, 1990. 191.

20.  Toward, 14.

21.  Toward, 15.

22.  Lawrence, D.H.  Study of Thomas Hardy and Other Essays.  Ed. Bruce Steele. Cambridge: CUP, 1985. 171.

23.  Hardy, 172.

24.  Levy, Mervyn, ed.  Paintings of D.H. Lawrence.  London: Cory, Adams & Mackay, 1964. 61.

25.  Bakhtin, M.M.  Art and Answerability: Early Philosophical Essays. Ed. Michael Holquist and Vadim Liapunov.  Trans. Vadim Liapunov.  Austin: U of Texas P, 1990. 25.

26.  Art, 28.

27.  Lawrence, D.H.  The Complete Poems.  Ed. Vivian de Sola Pinto and Warren Roberts.  New York: Viking, 1964. 193.

28.  Tillich, Paul.  Systematic Theology: Volume I: Reason and Revelation, Being and God.  Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1951. 200.

29.  Art, 33, 37, 35.

30.  Jung, C.G.  The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious.  Trans. R.F. C. Hull.  2nd ed.  1968.  Princeton: Princeton UP, 1990. 43.

31.  Archetypes, 79, 81.

32.  Archetypes, 93-94.

33.  Unamuno, Miguel De.  Tragic Sense of Life.  Trans. J.E. Crawford Flitch.  New York: Dover, 1954. 14.