Suggestion Speaks Louder than Words

There was definitely a lot of reading this week, but it was fascinating stuff! Before I proceed with addressing the material proper, let me vent and say that there were SO MANY Sanskrit terms to contend with. But of course, there’s no way around it. A thought occurred to me though: just as Abrams’ Glossary of Literary Terms (can you tell I used to be an English student?) readily rescues the troubled scholar of English literature, we students of Sanskrit literarature are in DIRE need of a such a glossary. It would certainly help to have quick reference to the meaning of , e.g., varöa, paryŒyokta, apahnuti, d´paka, saºkara, prŒk¨ta-dhvani, vaik¨ta-dhvani, vŒcya, pratyamŒna, guö´bhètanvyaºgya, tŒtparyav¨tti, vakrokti, etc., etc., etc! Such a tool would be all the more invaluable to Sanskrit literature than to English literature given the fact that one can’t simply look a word up in Sanskrit and expect to arrive at a single, reasonably fixed, literal meaning. As Goldman aptly points out in Translating Texts Translating Texts: Issues in the Translation of Popular Literary Texts with Multiple Commentaries, the Sanskrit language is in effect a “massive proliferation of different philosophical, metaphysical, scientific and technical systems [e.g. dhvani theory!], all drawing from the same lexical well [and is thus characterized by] a certain hypertrophy of semantic features, notably synonymity, nominal compostion, and kenning…” (94) For example, alaµkŒra means not only a rhetorical trope, but a physical ornament, and god knows what else! Hmmm…perhaps someday I can work on a “Sanskrit Glossary of Literary Terms”, but hopefully someone is already doing so! Ajay..?

One of the questions Daniel Ingalls raises in the introductory essay to his translation of înandavardhana’s Dhvanyaloka is “what is it about [înandavardhana’s view] that places [it] in such a magisterial position?” The question is quite understandable given the extent to which this work influenced the discipline of literary criticism in South Asia by this work over the centuries. Regardless of the “nuts and bolts” of its receptive history, the work itself is, in my opinion, a remarkable piece of scholarship, in any age, in any culture. I claim no intimate understanding of the arguments presented by this 9th century Kashmiri scholar, however, his treatise appears methodical, thoughtful, and thorough. He appears to be advancing an original and intricate theory of Literary Criticism – i.e., dhvani Theory – one whose novelty and subtlety are indicative of a fine intellect at work. In addition to his originality, he appears to be quite a learned scholar. His familiarity with Sanskrit literature is evident by the fact that he incorporates several textual examples throughout the work in order to bolster his arguments. Due to my own lack of familiarity with the material, I cannot comment on how insightful înandavardhana’s reading of the Sanskrit literary canon is, but his anticipation of objections, and answers thereto, lends his work an air of credibility.

As outlined by K. Kunjunni Raja in chapter seven “Vya–janŒ, Suggestions” of Indian Theories of Meaning (p 289-302), the critiques against dhvani theory (most of which he anticipates and addresses) are essentially as follows: critique (a) is where the NaiyŒyika-s (e.g. Mahimabha a in his Vyaktiviveka) asserts that dhvani is no more than standard inference, or anumŒna; Critique (b) is where dhvani may be considered arthŒpatti, which is a kind of immediate inference based on the universal relation between the absence of major and the absence of middle terms; Critique (c) is where some ŒlaµkŒtrika-s, e.g., Mikilabha a, include suggestion, vya–janŒ/dhvani as lak·ana: all instances of ideas which convey a meaning differing from their literal sense; this can be called the tail of the primary meaning of the word (abhidhŒpuccha); Critique (d) is where M´mŒµsaka-s of the PrabhŒkara school who follow the anvitŒbhidhŒna theory of verbal comprehension, considering dhvani as included in the primary function of abhidhŒ itself: the meaning of a word is what is being conveyed by it; Critique (e) iswhere Dhvani and tŒtparyav¨tti - ŒlaµkŒrika-s such as Dhanaµjaya and Dhanika consider it tŒtparv¨tti, a function of the sentence postulated to explain the verbal comprehension arising from a sentence; and, Critique (f) is where Kuntaka, for example, thought dhvani to be vakrokti, or, the striking mode of speech. The one critique (and answer) to which I wish to respond is critique (a), i.e., the association of dhvani with anumŒna.

K. Kunjunni Raja cites Wittgenstein who remarks (in Tractatus) that “whatever can be said can be said clearly. And what we cannot speak about we must leave in silence” (292). However, I entirely disagree with him and support Raja’s sentiment that “great poetry is written on the fringe of that silence; it aims at conveying the inexpressible by means of suggestion”. Logic and Language are for me, too inadequate vessels to contain the essence of literature, aesthetics, religion, etc. To subject such experiencing to the measure of reason and language would indeed be to render “whole areas of human discourse” as “meaningless and unintelligible”. I firmly support Raja’s statement that “it is only through the power of language to suggest things which cannot be expressed directly, that it can convey philosophical truth” (293). On this basis, I wholeheartedly reject the impulse to confine dhvani, literary suggestion, to the sphere of anumŒna, logical inference. Power to înandavardhana! Dhvani, according to Dhvanyaloka, is the soul of poetry, not the soul of science. The “thing” to which the poem alludes is not merely a which is readily knowable to the spectator. It is not something which may be easily cognize, and articulated. Rather, it is an experience which evades the scope of language. It (dhvani) is a means to aesthetic relishing (rasa) and is, for înandavardhana, the very measure of poetry. Poetry is poetry because of this “suggestive” capacity, and good poetry is poetry which accomplishes this more competently. I would like to now draw a comparison to this line of thought.

One of the most enriching courses of my entire undergraduate degree was “RLG304: Language Symbols, and the Self” in which we discussed Martin Heidegger’s notion of “poetic dwelling”. Heidegger distils his philosophy from a reading of a poem by Friederich Holderlin. I could not begin to do justice to Heidegger in a blog entry (nor to înandavardhana for that matter!), but Heidegger’s thesis was essentially that poetry’s function was to try to express the inexpressibility of reality, and this, to always be “pointing” to something we cannot see. A poem is a poem because it points to the inadequacy of language. This “pointing to” is remarkably resonant with dhvani theory, which is of course based on vya–janŒ, suggestion. Both Heidegger and înandavardhana – two thinkers tremendously separated by time, place and culture –seemingly concur that the measure of poetry somehow lies in it’s capacity to allude, point, suggest, etc. To employ an analogy, we often consider prosaic language as the vehicle of meaning. It conveys specific “cargo”. Poetic conveyance, however, carries nothing specific, except a map, a suggestion of where the cargo, the meaning, may be found. Although the vehicle continues along the route of the map, the destination lies beyond the perimeter of the map. The map points to something beyond the map. So, too, does language, at least poetic language (though Heidegger would argue that this holds true of ALL language) is marked by its artful suggestion of that which lies beyond the domain of words. I find the parallel between Heidegger and înandavardhana absolutely fascinating, and entirely aligned with what Raja writes, that “language suggests things which cannot be expressed directly” and only in this suggesting do we approach “philosophical truth”. Philosophical truth is, for me, trans-lingual because it is trans-rational. This is precisely why I object the reduction of dhvani (or any account of aesthetic experience) as anumŒna, i.e., a mere function of grammar and logic.

There is one other parallel which I would like to draw upon before concluding this entry. înandavardhana adamantly states that the poet DOES NOT experience the emotional equivalent of the rasa being created. Just for reference sake, I will list the rasas and their corresponding emotional moods. The eight sthŒyibhŒva-s (emotional moods) are: rati (love), hŒsa (laughter), §oka (sorrow), krodha (anger), utsŒha (energy), bhaya (fear), jugupsŒ (repugnance), vismaya (wonder), and their corresponding rasas are, respectively, ·¨ºgŒra, hŒsya, karuöa, raudra, v´ra, bhayŒnaka, b´bhatsa, adbhuta. So the idea is that the poet facilitating raudra rasa DOES NOT experience anger (krodha). As we know in the case of the adhikavi VŒlm´ki, the poet channeling karuöa rasa DOES NOT experience sorrow (§oka). I’ve allowed this notion to percolate for while now and I don’t quite know what to make of it, but I overall subscribe to the idea that VŒlm´ki, for example, does not himself experience grief but merely ruminates upon the grief (due to the bird’s immense suffering), identifies that grief with grief in his memory, and, meeting it with a heartfelt response, undergoes a certain relishing (rasa) of the grief, indeed a relishing which melts one’s thoughts, and results in artful speech. This process is what enables us to escape our indiivudal selves when we enter in great art. How else may we get lost in a painting? I really like the quote înandavardhana uses from Bha anŒyaka, who says in the H¨dayadarpaöa, “until he is filled with this rasa, the poet does not spill it forth”. This speaks to me, though I don’t know what it says. Perhaps its meaning is poetic and thus merely suggests something beyond its literal meaning! With this distinction in mind - VŒlm´ki experiencing grief versus him merely utilizing it somehow, without experiencing it - I would like to draw a parallel to Wordsworth, a prominent English poet of the Romantic era. I believe I made mention of this in my response to Barbara’s blog last week. I quoted what Wordsworth wrote in his Preface to Lyrical Ballads, which, much like Dhvanyaloka, was an attempt at a novel addition to literary criticism. Wordsworth argues that poetry is "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings from emotions recollected in tranquility”. The “spontaneous overflow” is definitely present in VŒlm´ki’s curse. Also, the “powerful feelings” is also present since VŒlm´ki identifies with the intense sorrow of the lamenting bird. Furthermore, Wordsworth’s stipulation that the overflow of emotion must be “recollected in tranquility” is highly resonant with înandavardhana’s insistence that the poet DOES NOT experience the feelings, but merely associates them with his own recollection of that feeling in order to produce a certain rasa. Wordsworth does here comment on the aesthetic experience, but what he does say about the poetic process is highly compatible with the poet’s production of rasa as derived from a specific emotional mood. Here, too, the poet needs to distance himself in order to acquire the necessary tranquility to channel powerful emotion. On the one hand, I might be comparing apples and oranges, but based on the assumption that aesthetic production and appeal are universal principle, perhaps both of these thinkers were expressing the same ideas in different literal and cultural languages.