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      <p align="Center"><b><font color="#666600"><u>
The Second Person: A Point of View? <br>
The Function of the Second-Person Pronoun in Narrative Prose Fiction</u>.</b></p>
      <p align="Center"><font color="#666600"><b>

Chapter 3</b></p>
<P ALIGN=CENTER><B>Radicalising Models and Functions </B>
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</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER>&nbsp; 
</P>
<P><A NAME="0-3"></A><B>Part 1. The
Reference Model</B> 
</P>
<P>In the previous two chapters I have
contextualised my discussion of &quot;second-person&quot; narrative
as a critique of Cartesianism. In doing so, however, it is not my
intention to advocate a sweeping dismissal of Cartesianism's terms. I
have proposed that the anthropocentric categories of &quot;person&quot;
are powerfully entrenched not only within literary criticism, but
also within notions of subjectivity and identity. The issue to be put
is the <U>nature</U> of those categories; the issue to be taken with
Cartesianism is its naturalisation and institutionalisation of
particular conceptions of &quot;person,&quot; and the particular
social and cultural relations that these conceptions circulate and
sustain - relations that privilege the individual over the social. As
I will argue more fully later, it is in some measure inevitable - for
the time being at least - that we will speak amongst ourselves (and
to ourselves) about &quot;persons&quot; and &quot;voice&quot; in
narrative and about the behaviour of speaking subjects in texts, for
to do otherwise would be to cease to speak about narrative <U>as</U>
narrative. As Fludernik argues, narrative is quintessentially
anthropocentric. Narrative is <U>about</U> &quot;persons.&quot; <U>How</U>
we speak about &quot;person&quot; and the speaking subject, then,
becomes crucial. 
</P>
<P>In this chapter, therefore, I want to
explore ways of describing &quot;second-person&quot; modalities in
terms that are explicitly self-conscious of the Cartesianism
instilled within the practices they describe. The first is a general
descriptive model that conceives of &quot;second-person&quot;
modalities within a system of <U>referentiality</U> rather than - as
with the paradigmatic model described by figures 1 to 4 - a system of
address. I will also explore two key functions of the &quot;second
person&quot; that are fundamentally concerned with the
anthropocentric nature of &quot;person.&quot; Both of these functions
are elements of the figural, and so can exert effects on what I have
already identified as narrative-&quot;you&quot; as well as
narratee/reader addressed texts. The first of these functions is the
generalising function, which is attached to the generic mode of
&quot;you;&quot; the second is the address or allocutionary function.
I will argue that the &quot;second person&quot; has a generic or
generalising function that can be overridden (overwritten) by the
individuation or particularisation of the &quot;you&quot; as either a
reader/addressee figure or a protagonist; and that it has an address
function whose allocutive force is diminished by the disengagement of
the deictic/allocutionary function of the &quot;second-person&quot;
pronoun from the pronoun's necessary grammatical form. I will show,
moreover, that the generalising function and the allocutionary
function, whilst being independent of one another, are most
frequently concurrent and congruent. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="1-3"></A><B>1. Reference
versus Address. </B>
</P>
<P><A NAME="foot51"></A><A NAME="todeix"></A>Another
way of characterising &quot;second-person&quot; narrative employs as
its benchmark the object of the &quot;you&quot; utterance, so that
the pronoun may signify a protagonist (narrative-&quot;you&quot;), a
recipient of direct address (there are two: metafictional-&quot;you;&quot;
and what I will coin as mesofictional-&quot;you&quot;), or none of
these (figural-&quot;you&quot;). The narrative and figural forms have
been spoken about earlier, but will be more clearly defined here. The
metafictional case is defined by its direct address to a (putative)
reader; the mesofictional is defined by its direct address to a
narratee. <A HREF="8notes.htm#51">51</A>
However, unlike address models such as those proposed by Kacandes and
Fludernik or within my four-part model above, the object of a
&quot;second-person&quot; utterance is not conceived of here so
explicitly as an object of <U>address</U>. Rather, it is to be
regarded as an <U>object of reference</U>: as (merely) the object or
objects referred to deictically by the &quot;second-person&quot;
pronoun in any passage of text. <A HREF="#note1">[NOTE]</A> 
</P>
<P><A NAME="fig11"></A>Besides the
unremarkable intradiegetic &quot;you&quot; (of characters addressing
one another), there are four very broad classes of reference. Mapped
over the narrator-character-narratee-reader nexus of the addressee
model (on line b.), the cases of the reference model (on line a.)
are: 
</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER><IMG SRC="../figs/fig11.gif" NAME="Graphic1" ALIGN=BOTTOM WIDTH=408 HEIGHT=67 BORDER=0>
</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER>Fig. 11. Reference
Identity model 
</P>
<P>There are three determining criteria
for the reference model. The first concerns the force of the
allocutionary function, and specifically the degree to which the
&quot;you&quot; pronoun carries the grammatical, deictic function of
the vocative case, in such a way that the &quot;you&quot; signals its
referent to be an object of <U>direct address</U>. The second
criterion concerns the degree to which the referent of the &quot;you&quot;
is to be construed as a character/protagonist in a story. The third
asks whether or not the object of the &quot;you&quot; utterance is to
be understood as designating a reader implicated in processes beyond
the fictional realm of the story - that is, as an entity
self-conscious not only of his or her own activity as a reader, but
also of separation from the text world. By setting these criteria out
as a sequence, <U>first</U> through <U>third</U>, I do not mean to
imply that they are successive or that one is in any way dependent or
prior to another. It is the combination of the three criteria (and
their absence as well as their presence) that produces the four broad
classes. 
</P>
<P>Three criticisms of such a schema can
be made (and then set aside) quickly. The first is that these four
terms are too general. Intended to encompass the entire field of the
&quot;second-person&quot; pronoun in narrative beyond mere dialogue
between characters, this generalness and breadth, however, is exactly
the worth of these terms. The second is that this new reference model
overlaps the address model, so that one or the other should surely
fall redundant. The overlapping of models, however, is not only a
consequence of differing approaches to textual analysis and narrative
textuality, but also of the fluidity of the &quot;second person&quot;
itself. &quot;Second-person&quot; prose narrative does not lend
itself to unifying models and typologies. The formal, grammatical
properties of the pronoun itself are such that &quot;second-person&quot;
textuality will perforce be sensible to readers in terms of address,
but an address model alone cannot account for the varieties in form
and effect. Indeed, this need to regard the &quot;second person&quot;
in the light of address <U>and</U> reference is intimated in David
Herman's insights into deictic mechanisms in &quot;second-person&quot;
texts. Although he makes no claim for the general applicability of
his discussion, and circumspectly confines himself to commenting on
Edna O'Brien's <U>A Pagan Place</U> (1984), Herman's observations are
indeed useful in the broader exploration of &quot;second-person&quot;
textuality (Herman, 1994: n.9 406). He argues that the &quot;you&quot;
of <U>A Pagan Place</U> does carry the grammatical features of the
&quot;second-person&quot; pronoun. 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>[This] prima facie seems to
encode the role of the addressee into narrative discourse,
nonetheless .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. the [referential] deictic functions of
<U>you</U> are in some instances only partly in agreement with the
term's morphosyntactic [or grammatical] features. Functionally
speaking <U>you</U> superimposes the deictic role of the audience or
overhearer (in this instance the reader) onto the deictic role(s)
spatiotemporally anchored in the fictional world elaborated over the
course of the narrative. The grammatical profile of you thus
drastically undermines its deictic functions; the text projects
itself into a range of contexts that cannot be strictly delimited.
(Herman, 1994: 390) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Or rather, the &quot;you&quot; of <U>A
Pagan Place</U> &quot;projects itself into a range of contexts&quot;
that cannot be contained by a model constituted primarily by
conventional, grammatical properties of address. 
</P>
<P>Thirdly, it can be argued, properly
enough, of course, that the terms &quot;object of address&quot; and
&quot;object of reference&quot; are simply two terms that designate a
single object. Certainly, whether the object of any particular &quot;you&quot;
utterance is conceived of as an addressee or as a referent, it is one
and the same object/identity. It would be hasty to assume from this,
however, that one or the other term is therefore redundant. The terms
&quot;object of address&quot; and &quot;object of reference&quot; are
only superficially interchangeable. The <U>address</U> functions of
the &quot;second-person&quot; clearly rely for their very sense on
the <U>referential</U>, deictic functions of the &quot;second-person&quot;
pronoun. That the shifter's function is substantially suspended in
&quot;second-person&quot; narrative is, I suggest, illustrative of
the point. Ordinarily, the shifter function requires that the &quot;you&quot;
and &quot;I&quot; renew their referents in each utterance, dialogue
being the paradigmatic case; but, as already shown, in
&quot;second-person&quot; narrative, the &quot;you&quot; can acquire
a fixity so that it comes to denote one protagonist more than any
other. This, indeed, is a feature that Herman focuses on in his
reconception of deixis as sociocentric rather than egocentric (see
page 100 below). It is exactly the augmented <U>referential</U>
function of the &quot;you&quot; in &quot;second-person&quot;
narrative that stalls the shifter. It would appear, therefore, that a
signifying function is a prior condition for any address function.
Even an address to &quot;nobody&quot; (or nobody in particular)
refers itself, exactly, to &quot;no body&quot; (in particular). 
</P>
<P>For my purposes, the seizure of the
deictic function of the &quot;second-person&quot; pronoun underscores
an important distinction between the two paradigmatic approaches to
characterising &quot;second-person&quot; narrative. The addressee
identity approach sees the &quot;second person&quot; in terms of
communicative circuits and functions of address, and so <U>necessarily</U>
maintains the anthropomorphic metaphors of somebody addressing or not
addressing, speaking to or not speaking to, somebody else.
Communicative discourse models require entities between which the
discourse is travelling: the metaphors themselves are the grounds
upon which these models are raised, modelled on assumptions about
&quot;natural&quot; circuits of communication. Alternatively, the
object-as-referent notion approaches &quot;second-person&quot;
narrative through the non-humanist terms of textual functions and
structuralist linguistics/semiotics. To an extent, this system
circumvents some of the still inevitable call to the metaphors of
&quot;person.&quot; Powerfully embedded deep within the system, of
course, the metaphors do remain. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="foot52"></A><A NAME="foot3"></A>All
four classes have an anthropomorphic constituent, three of the
classes explicitly so. <A HREF="8notes.htm#52">52</A>
The fourth class, the figural, too, has recourse to a &quot;person&quot;
as a constitutive element, albeit in a negative sense: <U>negatively</U>,
in that the &quot;you&quot; referent&quot; is defined by its
difference from the other classes, as being <U>not</U> a reader, <U>not</U>
an addressee, and <U>not</U> a character. But, if the referents
remain anthropomorphic, the capacity to respond, to &quot;speak,&quot;
within a communicative circuit is denied them here - or rather, is
made beside the point. The system remains advantageous beyond its
inevitable constitutive anthropomorphism for its disruption of the
circuits of communication so often used as definitive within models
of &quot;second-person&quot; narrative. In a sense, these four
classes borrow something of the functionality conventionally reserved
for &quot;third-person&quot; pronominal forms, pronouns that
Benveniste describes as <U>non-personal</U> precisely because they do
not constitute in and of themselves any communicative circuit between
&quot;persons;&quot; they don't merely designate, but actively
exclude the object from a circuit of communication by reifying it as
object.<A HREF="8notes.htm#53">53</A> 
</P>
<P>The value of this broad system is
that it facilitates an account of the combination and fluidity of
&quot;second-person&quot; modality in any passage of text. Its
advantage can be illustrated by turning to David Herman's discussion
of O'Brien's <U>A Pagan Place</U>, in which he makes a painstaking
micro-analysis of the address mechanisisms of narrative <U>you</U>.
Herman is at pains to demonstrate that any passage will carry within
it a number of &quot;formal features help[ing] us negotiate instances
of <U>you</U> that deviate from what we might be inclined to call the
default interpretation.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&quot; (Herman, 1994: 384). 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>Take this passage, for
example: &quot;The squeels of each particular pig [being slaughtered
by the father] reached you no matter where you hid, no matter where
you happened to crouch, and it was heart-rending as if the pig was
making a last but futile appeal to someone to save him&quot; (19).
Here, arguably, the chain of emphatic identification stretches beyond
the diegetic situation of the novel--beyond that virtual &quot;you&quot;
who, in O'Brien's fictional world, addresses herself comments
regarding her own inability to ignore the pigs' final appeal--and
reaches those fragments of our world(s) in which pity for pigs is
actually to be found.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. It seems that in
descriptions like [this], textual <U>you</U> functions not (or not
only) as discourse particle relaying and linking the various
components of a fictional protagonist's self-address, but (also) as a
form of address that exceeds the frame of the fiction itself. <U>You</U>
designates anyone who has ever been or might conceivably be upset at
the slaughter of animals.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. (Herman, 1994: 385-86)

</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P><A NAME="foot54"></A>Herman
identifies a complex, micro-level shift in modality here, and
suggests that the reason we take its meaning is that the discourse
model of self-address--the &quot;default interpretation&quot;--is
briefly superseded by a second discourse model, that of reader
address. As he put it earlier, deixis has shifted transgressively
from its anchor in a self-referential narrator in the fictional world
to the reader in the (or an) actual world. But Herman's frame--and
limit--remains determined by communicative models of address. The
value of his observations about the fluidity of the &quot;second
person&quot; at the micro level of narrative, I suggest, can be
sharpened by the strategy I have been outlining: that of turning away
(formally) from discourse models to a reference model. <A HREF="8notes.htm#54">54</A>
What Herman identifies here can also be characterised as the
emergence of a brief case of figural modality--the case I will define
below as the highly generalised generic-&quot;you&quot;--within the
&quot;default&quot; case of narrative-&quot;you.&quot; This
narrative-&quot;you,&quot; moreover, to return to the conventional
discourse models so as to complete Herman's picture, is the form
modelled as narrator self-address. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="2-3"></A><B>2. The
metafictional case </B>
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>You, dogged, uninsatiable,
print-oriented bastard, it's you I'm addressing, who else, from
inside this monstrous fiction. You've read me so far, then? Even this
far? For what discreditable motive? How is it you don't go to a
movie, watch TV, stare at a wall, play tennis with a friend, make
amorous advances to the person who comes to your mind when I speak of
amorous advances? Can nothing surfeit, saturate you, turn you off?
Where's your shame? (Barth, 1969: 123) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>I mean metafictional in a narrower,
more exclusive sense than the sense it has taken over the last two
decades. My intention in confining the sense of the term metafiction
is not to redefine the term or its objects as explored by Patricia
Waugh (1988), Robert Siegle (1986) and others, but to mark a special
case of &quot;second-person&quot; functionality. Waugh defines
metafiction as &quot;a term given to fictional writing which
<U>self-consciously and systematically draws attention to its status
as an artifact</U> in order to pose questions about the relationship
between fiction and reality&quot; (emphasis added, Waugh, 1988: 2).
She goes on to argue that: 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>metafiction is not so much a
sub-genre of the novel as a tendency <U>within</U> the novel which
operates through exaggeration of the tensions and oppositions
inherent in all novels: of frame and frame-break, of technique and
counter-technique, of construction and deconstruction of
illusion.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. The expression of this tension is
present in much contemporary writing but it is the <U>dominant</U>
function in the texts defined as metafictional. (Waugh, 1988: 13-14) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>By Waugh's account, virtually all
&quot;second-person&quot; narratives of the types I refer to as
character-address and self-address, and a great number of those
classed as reader-address, would (properly) be regarded as exhibiting
metafictional and reflexive qualities. Indeed, it is the very nature
of &quot;second-person&quot; narrative utterances, in their
provocative gestures toward readers, to draw attention to their
texts' &quot;status as an artifact.&quot; In order to retain the
usefulness of the term in this scheme, then, I find it necessary to
restrict the object to which it refers. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="foot55"></A>Metafictional-&quot;you&quot;
involves a &quot;you&quot; that is implicated in processes beyond the
fictional realm of the story. It designates an implied reader who
knows that s/he is reading a work of fiction. <A HREF="8notes.htm#55">55</A>
Furthermore, by its very definition, this class of the &quot;second
person&quot; is ideally experienced by the actual reader as direct
address. Its most typical form is illustrated by O.Henry's story &quot;The
Story of the Caliph Who Alleviated His Conscience,&quot; in which the
narrator intrudes into the narrative to address an implied reader
directly. Unlike the mesofictional-&quot;you&quot; of <U>The Catcher
in the Rye</U> which disavows its fictitiousness, metafictional-&quot;you&quot;
involves a consciousness of the narrative's status as fiction. In
O.Henry's story, for instance, the narration breaks off after the
first lines so that the narrator may address its readers directly. 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>Thus, by the commonest
article of trade, having gained your interest, the action of the
story will now be suspended, leaving you grumpily to consider a sort
of doll biography beginning fifteen years before.&nbsp;[ .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
] There now! it's over. Hardly had time to yawn, did you? I've seen
biographies that - but let us dissemble.&nbsp;[ .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. ]
After all we are all human - Count Tolstoy, R. Fitzsimmons, Peter
Pan, and the rest of us. Don't lose heart because the story seems to
be degenerating into a sort of moral essay for intellectual readers.
(O.Henry, cited in Ejxenbaum, 1978: 255) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P><A NAME="foot56"></A>Recalling the
three determining criteria of this model, then, the metafictional
case requires the following: the presence of a marked vocative
function; the absence of characterisation of the &quot;you&quot;
referent; and self-conscious acts of reception and interpretation,
the actual reader having decided that the &quot;you&quot; does denote
some approximate rendering of him or herself. <A HREF="8notes.htm#56">56</A>

</P>
<P><A NAME="3-3"></A><B>3. The
mesofictional case</B> 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>In the beginning of the last
chapter, I inform'd you exactly <U>when</U> I was born;but I did not
inform you, <U>how</U>. No .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.besides, Sir, as you and I
are in a manner perfect strangers to each other, it would not have
been proper to have let you into too many circumstances relating to
myself all at once. You must have a little patience. (Sterne, 1940:
10-11) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>The term mesofictional is coined as
an adjunct to the term metafictional: and, like metafictional-&quot;you,&quot;
it is quintessentially a category of address. Where the metafictional
case implicates a self-aware reader who stands on a higher
ontological level than the story and the world of the text, the
mesofictional case constitutes an addressee figure - whether &quot;reader&quot;
or implicit interlocutor - that is credulous, that accepts the world
of the text (or more precisely, accepts at least one of the textual
worlds available in the reading of the text). This is the reason I
identify the &quot;you&quot; of Sterne's <U>Tristram Shandy</U> as
belonging to the mesofictional class rather than to the
metafictional. Certainly, <U>Tristram Shandy</U> draws attention to
itself as metafictional in Waugh's broader sense; but, in the
narrower sense, as a special case of the &quot;second person,&quot;
it does not exhibit the self-consciousness at the level of the
utterance required of metafictional-&quot;you.&quot; The
reader-narratee of the mesofictional text is required to be credulous
and respectful of the narrative utterances. It is the case in which
the &quot;you&quot; signifies a peripheral but still uncharacterised
narratee, a &quot;you&quot; referent who may be installed <U>within</U>
the story, if not yet as a participant in narrative action--Virginia
Woolf's <U>The Waves</U> (1963); Atwood's &quot;Rape Fantasies&quot;
(1978)--or who may be situated <U>outside</U> the story, but
nonetheless held embedded in (and believing of) the story's
(fictional) world--Charlotte Bront&egrave;'s <U>Jane Eyre</U> (1966)
and <U>Villette</U> (1990). 
</P>
<P>Indeed, <U>The Waves</U> (1963) and
<U>Jane Eyre</U> (1966) can stand as the two paradigm cases of the
mesofictional class. The &quot;you&quot; of the final section of <U>The
Waves</U> represents the interlocutory narratee present upon the
telling of the story; and the &quot;you&quot; of Jane Eyre's journal
represents the literary narratee, the reader. 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>You see me, sitting at a
table opposite you, a rather heavy, elderly man, gray at the temples.
You see me take my napkin and unfold it. You see me pour myself out a
glass of wine. And you see behind me the door opening, the people
passing. But in order to make you understand, to give you my life, I
must tell you a story.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. (Woolf, 1963: 169) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<BLOCKQUOTE>You have forgotten little
Ad&egrave;le, have you, reader? I had not.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
(Bront&egrave;, 1966: 475) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>In neither case does the &quot;you&quot;
participate in the tale or intrude markedly on its unfolding. Rather,
these two act principally (but not solely) as recipients of acts of
&quot;first-person&quot; narration and thereby provide a realist
alibi to the story-telling situation. In each case, the mesofictional
becomes the &quot;person&quot; employed by a narrative to generate,
contingent upon further contextual material, a sense of the situation
of narrational enunciation, calling forth or animating the situation
in which the narrating takes place. Salinger's opening gambit in
<U>Catcher in the Rye</U> (1958), for example, uses a
mesofictional-&quot;you&quot; to establish the situational
relationship as that of patient/psychiatrist, in which the &quot;you&quot;
is constituted as a silent but not disinterested, critical listener. 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>&quot;If you really want to
hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where
I was born.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. I'll just tell you about this madman
stuff that happened to me around Christmas .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. &quot;
(Salinger, 1958: 5). 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Atwood's strategy in &quot;Rape
Fantasies&quot; of presenting a monologue spoken by a woman to a
(never characterised) male stranger across a bar table constitutes a
situational relationship similar to Woolf's, but one that is finally
much more charged and implicitly menacing. The principal function of
the passive and receptive mesofictional-&quot;you&quot; of <U>The
Waves</U> is, firstly, to provide a space into which the character
Bernard can narrate his tale in a bid to delimit the bounds of his
own identity; and, secondly, into which, at another level, the
engaged reader might step, in that move constituting him-/herself as
a particular type of reader. In &quot;Rape Fantasies,&quot; the &quot;you&quot;
is present in the narrative not merely (or not even) as an enabling,
receptive addressee: &quot;I don't know why I'm telling you all of
this, except I think it helps you get to know a person, especially at
first, hearing some things they think about&quot; (Atwood, 1978:
103). The &quot;you&quot; also plays a significant role in the
implications of the narrative - in the events that follow its last
sentences, which by no means constitute an ending. The narrative's
true closure is elided, yet to come, the stranger (by implication)
following the naive narrator from the bar, perhaps himself a rapist
of a quite different disposition to those of the narrator's confessed
fantasies. 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>For instance, I'm walking
along this dark street at night and this short, ugly fellow comes up
and grabs my arm, and not only is he ugly, you know, with a sort of
puffy looking face, like those fellows you have to talk to in the
bank when your account's overdrawn .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. but he's
absolutely covered by pimples. So he gets me pinned against the wall
.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. and he starts to undo himself and the zipper gets
stuck. I mean, one of the most significant moments in a girl's life,
it's almost like getting married.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;, and he sticks
the zipper. 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<BLOCKQUOTE>So I say, kind of disgusted,
&quot;Oh for Chrissake,&quot; and he starts to cry. (Atwood, 1978:
99) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>If the male reader has indeed settled
into the position of addressee over the course of the story, perhaps
adopting an attitude of vague, even wry condescension towards the
naive narrator, then this is a confronting position to find oneself
in at the close of the story. Given the explicit gendering of the
&quot;you&quot; as male, the situation for the female reader may be
quite different. She may not have tied herself so closely to the
narratee position in the first place, but might instead have come
more readily to identify with the authorial element, that is, the
ironic voice above the narrator inviting judgement on her expurgated
notions of sexual assault. Or, given the nature of the psychoanalytic
concept of fantasy, the female reader might identify more readily
with the &quot;first-person&quot; narrator herself. Of course, the
female and male reader might both finally come to see the narrator's
fantasies as bids to maintain some degree of autonomy and control -
even if only in the Real of fantasy - within a social environment in
which she feels vulnerable and impotent. 
</P>
<P>The degree to which the mesofictional
is <U>less</U> generalised and more singular - the degree to which it
is subject to more detailed description of specific attributes,
spatial and temporal relations, or characterisation - marks the
movement towards and across the soft boundary between the
mesofictional and narrative classes of &quot;you.&quot; Those
barely-drawn diegetic figures of <U>The Catcher in the Rye</U>, &quot;Rape
Fantasies&quot; and <U>The Waves</U> rest squarely on that cusp
between the mesofictional and narrative-&quot;you.&quot; When the
&quot;you&quot; does become a fully-fledged protagonist, when in the
story it stands up from the table and comes to stand behind the
&quot;first-person&quot; narrator to rest its hand on the narrator's
arm and amiably begins to speak in its turn, then it enters the
narrative class. In this class, the referent of the &quot;you&quot;
is involved as a protagonist in unique narrative action. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="foot57"></A>Before moving on
to discuss the narrative case, then, it will be useful to return to
the questions raised by the mesofictional case's three constitutive
criteria. The referent of the &quot;second-person&quot; pronoun is
not a participant in the unfolding action - not, certainly, at the
moments of the utterances in question. <A HREF="8notes.htm#57">57</A>
The &quot;second-person&quot; pronoun does carry the grammatical
function of the vocative. And lastly, the &quot;you&quot; signified
by the vocative is a figure embedded in the world/s of the text
itself and is not an appropriate cipher for the implied (or actual)
reader. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="4-3"></A><B>4. The narrative
case </B>
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>You, yesterday, did the
usual things, just as any day. You don't know if it's worth
remembering.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. Yes: yesterday you will fly home
from Hermonsillo.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. [E]ntering the Valley of
Mexico .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. flames will begin to hiss from the outside
right motor; and everyone will shout and only you will remain calm
and motionless.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. The fire suppressors inside the
motor will operate, and the plane will land uneventfully, and no one
will have noticed that only you, an old man of seventy-one years,
that only you maintained composure. You will feel proud of yourself
without showing it. You will reflect that you have done so many
cowardly things in your life that now courage has become easy.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
(Fuentes, 1966: 7-8) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Narrative-&quot;you&quot; embraces
all forms of self-addressed &quot;you&quot; and character-addressed
&quot;you&quot; narratives as represented by the first two figures of
my addressee model in Chapter 1. Only those involve the &quot;second
person&quot; as a subject of narrative action - as an existent
involved in <U>particularised</U> and <U>unique</U> narrative action.
In the above passage, for instance, the &quot;you&quot; clearly
refers to a narrative protagonist who exists, so to speak, in the
particular time and space of the text-world. This is made explicit in
the text itself in that the passage follows one in which a
&quot;first-person&quot; narrator urges himself to reflect back on
the day before. The &quot;you&quot; immediately refers itself to the
&quot;I&quot; of the previous pages, a patriarch on the verge of
death. The metafictional, mesofictional and figural, on the other
hand, as modes that appeal to the (implied) reader or narratee or
that deploy a host of rhetorical functions and tropes, point above or
beside the point of the action of the story and the story's
ontological planes. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="foot58"></A>The narrative
case requires that the antecedent of the &quot;second-person&quot;
pronoun, the deuteragonist, to borrow John Barth's expression,
possesses an actantial function. <A HREF="8notes.htm#58">58</A>
For Monika Fludernik, actants (or existents as she prefers to call
them) are prototypically human, by which I take her to mean that the
nature we attribute to them is modelled on the nature we
auto-affectively attribute to our own experientiality/existentiality.
They are textual entities who &quot;can perform acts of physical
movement, speech acts, and thought acts, and their acting necessarily
revolves around their consciousness, their mental centre of
self-awareness, intellection, perception and emotionality .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
&quot; (Fludernik, 1996: 26). Implicit in Fludernik's notion,
moreover, is the assumption that the &quot;you&quot;-referent's acts
of speech, thought, movement and so on will possess the <U>singularity</U>
and <U>uniqueness</U> attributed to lived experience. By way of
illustration, Fludernik's description of the actant provides a useful
gloss on Morrissette's reason for arguing that Maugham's &quot;The
Beast of Burden&quot; (1925), a passage of which follows, is not an
example of narrative modality. 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>You see a string of coolies
come along, one after the other, each with a pole on his shoulders
from the ends of which hang two great bales, and they make an
agreeable pattern.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. You watch their faces as they
pass you. They are good-natured faces and frank, you would have said,
if it had not been drilled into you that the oriental is
inscrutable.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. You will be thought somewhat absurd
if you mention your admiration to the old residents of China. You
will be told with a tolerant shrug of the shoulders that the coolies
are animals.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. You can no longer make a pattern of
them as they wend their way. (Maugham, 1925: 209-301) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>According to Morrissette, &quot;The
Beast of Burden&quot; does approach narrative modality at some points
through the description of specific past action - the speaker's
implicit admission of his own admiration for these workers, for
instance. For Morrissette, this narrativisation is obstructed because
the text &quot;is immediately generalised by the combination of 'you'
with the future tense ('you will be .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. ') into something
standard or typical and thus rendered nonnarrative&quot;
(Morrissette, 1965: 6). Although Fludernik would agree, what the
generalisation of the &quot;you&quot; referent achieves for her is
the stalling of any movement towards that figure's particularisation
in spite of its clearly anthropomorphic nature. And indeed, typical
of such pieces, the &quot;you&quot; remains throughout &quot;The
Beast of Burden&quot; a detached, if affected, observer. The
difference between the &quot;you&quot; of narrative and the &quot;you&quot;
of the &quot;second person's&quot; guide book mode is that, in
narrative, the &quot;you&quot; is necessarily unique. On the other
hand, the &quot;you&quot;indeed the action itself, so far as there is
any - of the guide book mode is infinitely repeatable and is always
typical rather than unique. As assuredly as the &quot;s/he&quot; of
&quot;The Beast of Burden&quot; exists in the world of the text, and
as &quot;human&quot; and &quot;moral&quot; as &quot;s/he&quot; is
represented to be by the passage's end, the &quot;you&quot; performs
no acts, exhibits none of the singularity and uniqueness required of
a narrative character, and its moral dimension becomes subsumed under
the amorphous, humanist categories of &quot;the universal.&quot; 
</P>
<P><A NAME="5-3"></A><B>5. The figural
case </B>
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>About some towns there is a
quality that impresses straight away, an intangible quality hard to
define, just as you may be lost for an explanation as to why some
individual appeals to you.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. Of course, your most
secret thought will be public property before you utter it, and your
reputation shredded up and down the main street. (Farwell, 1949:
22-23) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>One of Morrissette's most significant
observations in &quot;Narrative 'You'&quot; is that the &quot;second
person's&quot; rhetorical cast &quot;never, in fact, disappears
entirely from the mode, even when it becomes unmistakably narrative&quot;
(Morrissette, 1965: 10). Rhetorical functions - what I refer to as
the figural cases of the &quot;second person&quot;will deeply inflect
instances of narrative-&quot;you,&quot; mesofictional-&quot;you,&quot;
and metafictional-&quot;you.&quot; Nor are the effects of this
affective core restricted to texts in which there is a sustained,
systematic use of the &quot;second-person&quot; pronoun. The &quot;second
person&quot; may appear in any passage of narrative (or
quasi-narrative) text, and indeed, as examples below show, the
rhetorical effects themselves rely not only on orthodoxies of
literary practice and infractions against orthodoxy, but very much
also on everyday usage. They work variously to generalise, moralise,
axiomise, coax, goad, question, interrogate, evaluate, judge,
reproach, challenge, exhort, mock, accuse, admonish, advise,
instruct, lecture, and so on. Two of its most frequently noted
rhetorical functions (as discussed in Chapter 1), are its tendencies
to universalise/generalise - which in turn can facilitate the
reader's identification with the &quot;you&quot; and its didacticism.
Indeed, these two rhetorical elements are often drawn into a
particular relation that can function to constitute the text or
passage itself as a particular form of &quot;knowledge,&quot; as
something &quot;finally known.&quot; It can be said about this
knowledge, &quot;of course you know this, remember? this is what you
know.&quot; And in &quot;remembering,&quot; the reader is
interpellated or constituted as a particular type of reader. This
knowledge, this memory provided from outside, is what Costello refers
to when she describes the &quot;second-person&quot; pronoun as
reaching out uncannily as a &quot;memory&quot; that needs to be
returned or &quot;narrated over,&quot; its utterances constituting
for the reader a &quot;re-imagined self&quot; (493) a re-imagining
that often carries an explicitly moral dimension. This returned
knowledge or memory also appears to have the character of what Paul
Virilio, in <U>War &amp; Cinema: The Logistics of Perception</U>
(1989), calls &quot;paramnesia.&quot; Reflecting on popular/mass
audience genres such as the Second World War movie which narrate
stories that we seem, again uncannily, already to know (for instance:
The Holocaust; The Besieged City), Virilio describes &quot;paramnesia&quot;
as a type of memory produced (intertextually) in our experience of
texts rather than within actual experience, but a memory to which we
respond, nonetheless, in the manner of: &quot;Yes, I know this to be
true&quot; (Virilio, 1989: 33). Thus, in the film <U>Zentropa</U>,
the disembodied narratorial address made to &quot;you&quot; - not
necessarily the protagonist, but conceivably to the cinema audience -
provides an exemplary &quot;second-person&quot; narration of just
such a &quot;paramnesiac&quot; memory. <U>Zentropa</U>'s narratorial
address, moreover, employs the artifice of a psychoanalytic/hypnotic
exhumation of repressed memory (albeit in a self-consciously
allegorical context), taking/talking the &quot;you&quot; back to a
dream-like, &quot;lost&quot; recollection that is in need of being
&quot;narrated over.&quot; 
</P>
<P>To return one last time to the
determining criteria of the reference model's cases, if the first
criterion concerns the degree to which the &quot;you&quot; pronoun
carries the function of address, then the response for the figural
case has to be heavily qualified. As in the narrative case, the
figural can no longer be said to carry the full vocative force
expected of the &quot;second-person&quot; pronoun, because the
&quot;second-person&quot; pronoun's deictic function has become
substantially and even fully disengaged from its grammatical,
morphosyntactic form (Herman, 1994: 392). Where the function of
address remains implicit in the <U>grammatical form</U> of the
figural &quot;second-person&quot; utterance and the pronoun's related
verbs, only the most general of addressees is designated. This
general addressee, moreover, remains non-particularised, so to answer
both the second and third criteria, in its &quot;degree-zero&quot;
form (in which &quot;you&quot; = &quot;one&quot;), it can
systematically designate neither a character/protagonist in a story,
nor a reader or readership. On the one hand, as soon as the text
endows the referent of the &quot;you&quot; with the marks of
particularity and with &quot;the parameters of a real-life schema of
existence .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. situated in a specific time and space
frame&quot; (Fludernik, 1996: 30), at that point the utterance begins
to be constituted as an instance of narrative-&quot;you.&quot; On the
other hand, the generality of the figural also precludes its
identification as a reader, because, as an element within figures of
speech, the figural points to no particular &quot;person&quot; at all
- points to &quot;no-body.&quot; At the point at which the &quot;you&quot;
becomes a less generalised addressee, here it begins to be
constituted as an instance of meso- or metafictional-&quot;you.&quot;

</P>
<P><A NAME="00-3"></A><B>Part 2. The
Generalising Function. </B>
</P>
<P>In parts two and three of this
Chapter I want to focus on the two key functions of <U>generalisation</U>
and <U>address</U>, both of which are not only pervasive within
&quot;second-person&quot; textuality, but, as I will argue in Chapter
7, contribute to the deepest effects of Protean-&quot;you.&quot; 
</P>
<P><A NAME="6-3"></A><B>6. Generic-&quot;you&quot;
</B>
</P>
<P>A powerful function of generalisation
is the defining feature of the case of the &quot;second person&quot;
I call <U>generic-&quot;you</U>.&quot; It tends to make incidents in
a passage of text appear typical and probable, presenting an incident
as that which is likely to occur to anybody, or a scene as the one
likely to be viewed by anybody, in the circumstances given. Uri
Margolin describes the generic or impersonal &quot;you&quot; through
the aphorism: &quot;You can't take it with you.&quot; This &quot;you&quot;
is non-specific, &quot;involving everyone or anyone, singular or
plural: any reader or hearer of the message, plus others&quot;
(Margolin, 1997/91: 3-4). The generic utterance, then, refers to
<U>nobody (in particular</U>). This refusal of the utterance to
designate a particular addressee is the feature Herman focuses on in
his description of what he calls the &quot;pseudo-deictic <U>you</U>,&quot;
named after Melissa Furrow's example (Herman, 1994: 396; Furrow,
1988: 372). In conventional circumstances, deixis and grammatical
form will agree, such that, operating deictically, the pronoun will
designate the addressee of any utterance. In two broad classes of
&quot;second-person&quot; utterance, however, deixis and address
cease to agree. These two classes are those that I have designated
narrative-&quot;you&quot; and figural-&quot;you.&quot; Herman's
analysis of pronoun deixis and grammatical address (discussed further
in Part 3 of this chapter), helps further explain the impression of
similarity between some figural and narrative utterances. Herman
shows that both share the feature of the disengagement of the deictic
function from the grammatical form. In narrative-&quot;you,&quot; the
work of deixis is frozen so that the &quot;you&quot; no longer works
as a shifter, but refers dominantly, instead, to a particular actant.
In the case of the figural, deixis is not so much frozen as
dissipated: &quot;<U>you</U> and <U>your</U> virtually lose their
deictic force&quot; (Herman, 1994: 392). Allowing Herman to cite his
own points of reference, the uncoupling of the pronoun's deictic
function from its grammatical form produces an &quot;impersonal or
generalised you&quot; that: 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE><A NAME="foot59"></A>often
plays a prominent role not only in second-person literary narratives
but also in (the language of) proverbs, maxims, recipes, VCR
instructions, song lyrics, and, though they might tell you otherwise,
astrologers' prognostications. Thus, in a string like <U>When you're
hot, you're hot</U>, &quot;the second-person pronouns are impersonal:
non-deictic in that their interpretation does not depend directly on
any feature of the non-linguistic context of the utterance&quot;
[Anderson and Keenan, 1985: 260].<A HREF="8notes.htm#59">59</A>
(Herman, 1994: 397) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P><A NAME="fig12"></A>To that extent,
generic-&quot;you&quot; is to be defined inversely against the degree
of specification, singularity or uniqueness of place, time,
character/personality, activity, speech/thought, and so on attributed
to the &quot;you&quot; referent. At some point, coming with greater
specificity, it is no longer feasible to regard the &quot;you&quot;
referent as just anyone. 
</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER><IMG SRC="../figs/fig12.gif" NAME="Graphic2" ALIGN=BOTTOM WIDTH=356 HEIGHT=127 BORDER=0>
</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER>Fig. 12. The
Generic-Particular curve. 
</P>
<P>The &quot;you&quot; can be made
particular in one of two directions: it can be constituted as a
narrator's addressee; or it can emerge as an individuated actant (see
figure 12). As an addressee it falls into the vocative cases,
becoming a meso- or metafictional-&quot;you,&quot; and finally a
specified, actual reader. Characterised, it crosses the soft boundary
from the figural's generic modalities into narrative cases of &quot;you,&quot;
becoming recognised as a particular narrative protagonist performing
particular acts and expressing particular attitudes. It is to be
remembered, of course, that these terms are still defined for their
referential function, not for the allocutionary function which will,
by and large, remain present. Being equally available to narrative
cases as to the vocative cases, the allocutionary function cannot be
taken as a definitive term of this system, forming a second keystone
of the pervasive figural class, standing adjacent to the generalising
function. 
</P>
<P>Morrissette himself describes a
&quot;family of cases&quot; that make explicit the generalising
function, a family of generic text-forms that includes cookbooks,
guide books/travelogues, craft and technical manuals, and &quot;a
whole group of 'you' modes related to publicity, advertising, and
journalese,&quot; in which &quot;'you' invites the reader to place
[her or] himself in the position of the writer, with the clear
implication that <U>anyone</U> who so places [her or] himself will
witness the identical scene or perform the same action&quot;
(Morrissette, 1965: 2). This generalising force is clearly diffused
by any increase of detail attached to the &quot;you.&quot;
Nonetheless, such is the generalising function's tenacity that some
trace will often remain. Morrissette's generic &quot;family of
cases,&quot; however, clearly involves a complex range of
over-determinants, tonalities, and variants, so that even brief
instances may exert a medley of rhetorical force and tonality:
generic &quot;second person&quot; utterances rarely <U>just</U>
generalise. A generic address, moreover, might arise a small number
of times and with no regularity in any text, as is the case in each
of these three short passages: 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>Overhead, clouds were
shredding themselves into rags. You could see the firmament better,
the air was so much warmer up there in the mountains than it was down
by the coast.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. (Olshan, 1994: 60) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<BLOCKQUOTE>We advised each other on
which remote cities were well maintained, which were notable for wild
dogs running in packs at night, snipers in the business district at
high noon. We told each other where you had to sign a legal document
to get a drink, where you couldn't eat meat on Wednesdays and
Thursdays, where you had to sidestep a man with a cobra when you left
your hotel. (DeLillo, 1982: 7) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<BLOCKQUOTE>I got to know the trees
pretty well over the years and I never had trouble finding the ripest
fruit. You only had to stand there and cup the cumquats gently in
your palms and they would fall off and come to you. (McGregor, 1985:
5) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>No supplementary function is invoked
in these mesofictional utterances, certainly not in the way that the
generic's generalising function will frequently be combined with
others. The guide book-&quot;you&quot; mode, for instance, will
typically combine the generalising function with the procedural and
propositional functions, as in this passage from Book II of <U>The
History of Herodotus</U>, written circa 440 BC. 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>The following is the general
character of the region. In the first place, on approaching it by
sea, when you are still a day's sail from the land, if you let down a
sounding-line you will bring up mud, and find yourself in eleven
fathoms' water, which shows that the soil washed down by the stream
extends to that distance. (Herodotus, n. p.) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P><A NAME="foot60"></A>The excerpts
from Olshan, DeLillo and McGregor quoted above, however, are
representative of the more exclusive instance of the generic-&quot;you.&quot;
But they are not all of a piece. Only the first passage might be
considered neutral: each of the others has acquired a tonality, a
colour. The nuances of tone are not drawn solely or even primarily
from the &quot;you&quot; utterances themselves, but, rather, arise
from the passage in which they are embedded. Significantly enough,
however, the tonality of each appears to sharpen at the moment of the
&quot;you&quot; utterance, so that tonalities or effects do assemble
around instances of the generic &quot;you&quot; address. The
ethical/evaluative function that generates overtones of censure in
some &quot;you&quot; texts, for instance, cannot be said to arise
because of the &quot;you&quot; utterances alone, but certainly finds
its focus and forcefulness in those utterances. Where the &quot;you&quot;
figure of the first passage is quite neutral of tone, the second
passage, while certainly generic in character, draws to itself
something of the extraordinary: the &quot;you&quot; is particularised
to the extent that it signifies an entity familiar with the exciting
dangers of travel in exotic places. Similarly, the third passage is
inflected both by the vernacular informality of its tone and by a
certain emotional/psychological attitude. The two generalised,
referentially unspecific &quot;you&quot; figures of the DeLillo and
McGregor passages are much more narrowly cast than the every-person
&quot;you&quot; of the Olshan. The &quot;you&quot; of the third
passage even acquires for itself a shadow of narrative-&quot;you,&quot;
an effect arising in part from the explicit relation between the
narrative-&quot;I&quot; of the first sentence and the rhetorical
&quot;you&quot; of the second, <A HREF="8notes.htm#60">60</A>
and in part from the way in which the image of the palms cupped under
the cumquats begins to provide the &quot;you&quot; a sense of
embodiment. What these examples show is both the rarity of the
neutral case and how readily generic-&quot;you&quot; takes up other
tonalities. 
</P>
<P>At this point, I would like to grant
three premises with regard to the generic-&quot;you:&quot; first,
that the generic-&quot;you&quot; mode is defined by the generalising
function (so that it is proper to say that, wherever the force of
generalisation asserts influence on any &quot;you&quot; referent,
then there is the presence, at least as a trace, of the modality of
the generic-&quot;you&quot;); second, that this generalising function
will, in most instances, be accompanied by other functions, so that
any &quot;you&quot; utterance will rarely serve <U>only</U> to
generalise/universalise (though this may certainly be the dominant
function); and third, that this generalising function is dissipated
by degrees (if rarely fully) through the text's act of making
particular or unique the &quot;you&quot; referent's identity and
activity, whether this is by (progressively) particularising the
&quot;you,&quot; or by specifying or naming the addressee/reader. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="7-3"></A><B>7. The Modes of
the Generic </B>
</P>
<P>The &quot;second person's&quot; glide
away from the generic, for convenience of description, might be
broken into five standard or typical cases. These are: 
</P>
<UL>
	<P>a. <U>generic-&quot;you</U>,&quot;
	whose referent is &quot;no-body in particular&quot; 
	</P>
</UL>
<UL>
	<P>b. <U>particular-&quot;you</U>,&quot;
	whose referent is a specific, textually embodied protagonist 
	</P>
</UL>
<UL>
	<P>c. a significantly common variation
	of particular-&quot;you&quot; in which the referent is transposed
	from generic-&quot;you&quot; status to particular-&quot;you&quot;
	status 
	</P>
</UL>
<UL>
	<P>d. <U>inclusive-&quot;you</U>,&quot;
	whose referent is &quot;anybody, in general&quot; 
	</P>
</UL>
<UL>
	<P>e. <U>exclusive-&quot;you</U>,&quot;
	whose referent is &quot;this specific person&quot; 
	</P>
</UL>
<P><A NAME="fig13"></A>Refining the
earlier bell diagram, the paradigm cases can be represented thus: 
</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER><IMG SRC="../figs/Fig13.gif" NAME="Graphic3" ALIGN=BOTTOM WIDTH=428 HEIGHT=202 BORDER=0></P>
<P>Fig. 13. The Generic-Particular model
revised as a <U>field</U>. 
</P>
<P>The five nodes are to be understood
solely as indications of the status of the &quot;second person's&quot;
generalising function. They do not name categories or types of
utterance. Instead, they name loose, if nonetheless definable,
clusters of paradigmatic cases of &quot;you&quot; utterance, each of
which is associated with a specific function. There are three such
functions in this model: the generalising function (for the generic
case); the allocutionary function (for the two vocative cases); and
the narrative function (for the narrative cases). The increasing
particularisation of the addressee or narratee and concomitant waning
of the generalising function does not, strictly speaking, trace a
<U>linear</U> continuum. The myriad cases of the &quot;second person&quot;
are complex and highly fluid, no case, generally speaking,
necessarily superseding or excluding another. For instance, the
possibility that a &quot;second-person&quot; utterance might project
a generalised form and a particularised form simultaneously is
already implicit in my arguments that the generalising function is
pervasive. The diagram above (fig. 13) is not to be thought of as
depicting a spiraling, linear progression from node to node. The
model is more appropriately understood as a surface or field across
which can be mapped any number of cases of the &quot;second-person's&quot;
relationship with the generalising function. The nodes I will discuss
stand around the arched periphery of this field. Ranged across its
interior are the more ambiguous and hybrid cases. That the periphery
of the model is not closed might itself be taken as an iconic
metaphor. &quot;Second-person&quot; discourse cannot be so easily
contained even by so broad a descriptive model. 
</P>
<P>The first case is the more &quot;pure&quot;
generic as it is illustrated in the Olshan, DeLillo and McGregor
passages above. From there, as the &quot;second person's&quot;
modality moves away down the left wing of the arc into the meso- and
metafictional cases, or down the right wing into the narrative cases,
the force of the generalising function carried potentially by any
&quot;second-person&quot; utterance will typically diminish. On the
vocative (or address) wing, the <U>least</U> generalised &quot;you&quot;
referent will be a specified narratee or figure of address not
involved in narrative action--as Bernard's interlocutor in the last
third of Woolf's <U>The Waves</U> (1963), and Phill Donahue in Lee
Smith's &quot;Dear Phill Donahue&quot; (1981). On the protagonist (or
narrative) wing, the least generalised &quot;you&quot; referent, of
course, is the (immediately) particularised actant of
narrative-&quot;you&quot;--as Delmont in Butor's <U>La Modification</U>
and the unnamed &quot;you&quot; of McInerney's <U>Bright Lights, Big
City</U> (1986). 
</P>
<P><A NAME="8-3"></A><B>8. The Vocative
Wing </B>
</P>
<P>If the utterance in question is
mesofictional-&quot;you&quot; or metafictional-&quot;you,&quot; then
the strength/weakness of the generalising function will reside, in
the first instance, in the degree of specification of a referent. The
status of the referent as mesofictional or metafictional, though, has
little immediate bearing on the generalising function itself. What
does count is the inclusivity or exclusivity of reference. That is,
what counts in this respect is the degree to which the pronoun refers
either to anybody or somebody in particular. That the &quot;second
person's&quot; sense of address can be divided into these two broad
categories has also been suggested by Katherine Passias, who has
argued that the &quot;second person&quot; pronoun carries a pair of
grammatical functions that, for her, are mutually exclusive of one
another. &quot;The two basic linguistic functions of the second
person pronoun are the illocutionary function - the act of addressing
a receiver of the message directly - and the collective function&quot;
(Passias, 1976: 198). The grammatical function that dominates, she
writes, depends upon the reader's experience, degree of
identification with the &quot;you&quot; being addressed, and whether
the reader feels directly (and personally) or generally addressed.
Unlike my own position, however, she contends that both of these
functions vanish altogether when &quot;a very personal experience&quot;
is described, that is, in narrative-&quot;you&quot; (Passias, 1976:
199). In such instances, she states, the &quot;surface&quot; pronoun
of &quot;you&quot; reveals itself to have the &quot;deep&quot;
structure of an &quot;I,&quot; an &quot;I&quot; speaking to him or
herself and not addressing a reader. Passias makes one concession:
both address functions will be present as a &quot;deep&quot; residue.
This concession, however, is made on the basis that narration is
always an address to a listener/reader, and that &quot;surface&quot;
pronouns don't alter the implied, underlying relationship between
author, reader and text - and so it is a concession that applies to
all literary narrative. In other words, &quot;second-person&quot;
modalities can make no special claim to them. 
</P>
<P>In the inclusive case, the
referentiality of the &quot;you&quot; remains at its broadest, and
emerges through an addition of a marked allocutionary function to an
otherwise generic utterance, the pronoun now necessarily referring to
<U>a person</U> (or at the very least a thing, a body), rather than
to <U>no-body</U>. The most traditional and conventional form of the
inclusive case is the parenthetical &quot;dear reader&quot; variety
of general reader address used to such advantage by Charlotte Bront&egrave;.

</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>And reader, do you think I
feared him in his blind ferocity?if you do, you little know me.
(Bront&egrave;, 1966: 456) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<BLOCKQUOTE>Religious reader, you will
preach to me a long sermon about what I have just written, and so
will you, moralist; and you stern sage; you stoic, will frown; you
cynic, sneer; you epicure, laugh. Well, each and all, take it your
own way. (Bront&egrave;, 1990: 194) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Here, the &quot;you&quot; addressed
might be anyone at all. Certainly, of course, the passage from
<U>Villette</U> appears more specific in its designation of
particular addressees, but, although it does provide a list of
readers, the passage does not address each one individually so much
as hypothesise on the broad composition of the tale's readership. All
of these readers - the pietist, the moralist, the sage, the cynic,
the epicureare included within Villette's generalised, confessional
address, and it is clear, moreover, that they are by no means the sum
of the tale's readership. The two readers most conspicuously omitted,
of course, are the young woman for whom this didactic moral tale will
have some benefit, and the like-minded, sympathetic confessor who
will take the story Villette's way. The reader inscribed into the
text by Jane Eyre, too, is subject to moments of specification which
nonetheless do not significantly affect the generalising function. 
</P>
<P>In the exclusive case, the identity
of the referent is more narrowly cast. The &quot;you&quot; no longer
refers to just any addressee, but to somebody in particular. Like the
movement from the generic to the inclusive, the movement from the
inclusive to the exclusive is scalar. This &quot;you&quot; referent
can be made particular through the narrative's attribution to the
narratee of specific characteristics, experiences, implied specialist
or private knowledges, a name, and so on: the greater the density of
such specifications, the more exclusive is the case. As this case
involves acts of direct communicative address between identifiable
parties, another of its indicators is the detailed articulation of
the situational context, such as is a feature of most epistolary
fiction. The &quot;you&quot; referents constituted through the
exchange of letters in Helene Hanff's novel <U>84 Charing Cross Road</U>
(1981), for instance, leaves no ambiguity about who is saying what to
whom on what date and in what circumstances. Indeed, the epistolary
form, for its typical lack of ambiguity (and the accompanying
weakness of any sense of generality), can be given as the
paradigmatic case of the exclusive recipient. Take, for instance, the
following passage from Margaret Coombs's <U>The Best Man for This
Sort of Thing</U> (1990). 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>To Jemima Ayling Chelsea, 25
October 1971 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<BLOCKQUOTE>Dear Jemima, Here I go again
- but it has to be you because I've lost faith in &quot;Dear &mdash;
&quot;. At least you're <U>real</U> in a way that &quot;Dr Argyle&quot;
and &quot;Dear &mdash; &quot; are not - and you won't <U>always</U>
be only six months old! I'm writing to tell you what it's like, how
lonely I am.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. Kate has a middle ear infection and
you, poor baby, have a cold, and this morning I was close to
paralysed with depression.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. (Coombs, 1990: 313) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Conversely, Coombs's <U>The Best Man
for This Sort of Thing</U> also provides a number of instances of a
rarer, non-specific mode of epistolary address, hinted at in the
above passage: &quot;Dear &mdash; .&quot; The addressee of these
letters is unidentified, but is construed by the letter-writer to be
a sympathetic, attentive correspondent. For a period, the atypical
openness and non-specificity of the address facilitates the generic
mode's function of drawing the epistle's reader into the story, in
some measure inviting the reader to take the address as &quot;Dear
reader.&quot; But this effect is neither strong nor sustained. Helen
Ayling's letters are written to no person at all, not even, we
realise soon enough, to a Dear Reader. Unlike Celie's letters to God
in Alice Walker's <U>A Colour Purple</U> (1983), Coombs's &quot;Dear
&mdash; &quot; is entirely a fabrication, a nobody, so to speak:
&quot;Dear &mdash;, God I wish there was somebody I could talk to
about this, someone who'd understand how angry I felt. (Not like
fucking Don!)&quot; (Coombs, 1990: 249). For a period, then, Ayling
imagines her own correspondent, only to reveal it finally as always
having been inadequate: &quot;Dear &mdash;, I'm reduced to writing to
<U>you</U> again. I have to tell <U>someone</U>&quot; (Coombs, 1990:
280). Finally, in a stroke of self-irony, despairing of the value of
even this imaginary addressee, she addresses herself to the inanimate
medium itself. &quot;Dear Piece of Paper, I am grief-stricken .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
&quot; (Coombs, 1990: 250). 
</P>
<P><A NAME="9-3"></A><B>9. The
Protagonist Wing </B>
</P>
<P>The <U>immediately particular</U>
case of the narrative pronoun is that in which the protagonist is
fully individuated from its first appearance in the text. The
protagonist might be introduced within the first lines, as in Michel
Butor's <U>La Modification</U>), or far deeper into the work, as in
Brian Aldiss's <U>Somewhere East of Life</U> (1994). As Darlene
Hantzis puts it, individuation occurs in the <U>specificity</U> of
the character (Hantzis, 1992: 94). Particular, unique behaviour and
individual characteristics &quot;both affirm and participate in the
perception of the presence of a subject&quot; (94). 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>Standing with your left foot
on the grooved brass sill, you try in vain with your right shoulder
to push the sliding door a little wider open. 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<BLOCKQUOTE>You edge your way in through
the narrow opening, then you lift up your suitcase of bottle-green
grained leather, the smallish suitcase of a man used to making long
journeys, grasping the sticky handle with fingers that are hot from
having carried even so light a weight so far, and you feel the
muscles and tendons tense not only in your finger-joints, the palms
of your hand, your wrist and your arm, but in your shoulder too, all
down one side of your back along your vertebrae from neck to loins.
(Butor, 1958: 9) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Not all cases of narrative-&quot;you,&quot;
however, so hastily declare their referents as narrative
protagonists. The <U>becoming particular</U> case, as clumsily named
as it is, is a variation on the previous case in which a generalised
&quot;you&quot; transforms into a more fully narrativised and less
generalised &quot;you.&quot; The generic offers the reader a more
comfortable and more ordinarily stable relationship with the &quot;you&quot;
referent because of the generic's established place in conventional
rhetoric, and consequently draws the reader into such a relationship
with greater ease than would a potentially more confronting and
alienating narrative-&quot;you&quot; referent. But, having engaged
the reader, having successfully invited him or her to identify with
an every-person, the narrative then transforms that &quot;you&quot;
into a unique protagonist. The first lines of Don DeLillo's <U>Running
Dog</U> (1978) exemplifies this movement. &quot;You won't find
ordinary people here. Not after dark, on these streets, under the
ancient warehouse canopies. Of course you know this. This is the
point. It's why you're here, obviously&quot; (DeLillo, 1978: 3). The
opening sentence offers an immediately recognisable generic-&quot;you,&quot;
one strongly inflected with the vernacular and a tone of irony: the
statement is flat and imperative and the &quot;you&quot; might be
anyone at all. The next appearance of the &quot;you&quot; very few
words later, however, is immediately and unmistakably narrative. 
</P>
<P>The movement from the generic to the
particular in Ruth Morse's &quot;A Journey&quot; (1988) is even more
gradual, but also much more conflicted. The work seemingly begins
with a generic-&quot;you&quot; address to a reader who knows what it
is to travel beside a nuisance co-traveller, but then begins to mark
a shift from the figural's realm of the general into the narrative's
realm of the unique and particular. It is a movement, however, that
is not decidable until far into the piece, if not until the very end.

</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>You recognise her. You've
been her victim, too. She climbs watchfully .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. up the
Greyhound steps.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. Is it peripheral vision that
sets the alarms ringing? Indeed, you, too, have been nervously
watchful, hoping that the bus will be empty or at least not crowded,
that the plagues of nuisances who threaten the fragile and certainly
precious privacy of public places will pass you over. (Morse, 1988:
75) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>For much of the piece, robbed of
certainty by the ambiguous character of the two opening statements,
only partly persuaded by the figural character of the guide book mode
invoked as a genre model by the opening sentences, specificity or
typicality is undecidable. The &quot;you&quot; may belong to either
the narrative or the vocative arm. It clearly refers to an entity
involved in the performance of narrative-like action, but this action
appears to resolve into action that is typical and generic, rather
than unique. That is, it becomes action more akin to the iterative
action that is the staple of travel writing than to the unique action
of narrative proper. As the narrator herself reminds us, &quot;There
are jokes about this encounter&quot; (Morse, 1988: 77). We come to
recognise the tale as one of those pieces in which the narrator
typically sets out to say: &quot;I/you/we have all had this
experience, haven't we?&quot; This sense of typicality soon appears
confirmed, moreover, when the details of the bus trip itself become
more fluid and speculative. For instance, the &quot;you&quot; may be
seated first, or she may board late; and the family member meeting
the unwelcome traveller at the conclusion of the journey is
identified alternately as a married daughter and as an unmarried son.
The sense of typicality/generality is also maintained through the
presence of lists. Rather than stipulating singular and unique acts
and elements, the narrative is punctuated by catalogues of options
that are merely typical of a circumstance: &quot;Now, even now,
though you bury yourself in your newspaper book magazine letter term
paper .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. &quot; (Morse, 1988: 75). But simultaneous with
this are tokens of specificity: 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>No, no, if she had to make a
long haul flight you know where she would be sitting. In fact, coming
back from your last conference flight trip journey you thought she
was right there. And perhaps she was, but in another language and
didn't have a word of English, and your glee was quite unseemly.
(Morse, 1988: 78) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Catalogues of options like
&quot;conference flight trip journey&quot; are accompanied by
references to specific incidents or facts. &quot;A Journey,&quot;
then, begins to rewrite itself as a particular woman's travel story
on a particular occasion. Albeit gradually, it begins to become a
story, or a vignette, about a Greyhound coach ride that continues a
journey begun with an Atlantic crossing (implying a journey of some
importance), travelling past trees that are &quot;scarlet memories of
the fall you have not seen in twenty years&quot; (Morse, 1988: 77).
It is only as the piece progresses that the &quot;you&quot; referent
begins to acquire the specifications of a life history, and that the
experience of the long-haul bus trip becomes more than merely
typical. Indeed, the structural gradualness of the move toward
specification itself becomes a thematic element, coming to figure or
echo a dramatic/psychological deferment of &quot;coming to the point&quot;
in the story - a point about aging and a child's responsibilities
toward a parent that also glances at the situation of remaining a
single, childless woman. In a story about sitting next to a woman who
talks incessantly about aging, family, and grandchildren, not only is
the referential specificity of the &quot;you&quot; suppressed for
much of the piece, but so are clear enunciations of the particular
issues facing the younger travelling woman. It emerges only very
slowly and obliquely that the &quot;you&quot;-protagonist has taken a
long journey for family reasons, to see a parent, probably her
mother, responding to a late-night, cross-Atlantic phone call. 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>More dangerous still, the
reason for this journey which you have made suddenly and without
warning beyond the often contemplated knowledge that it would come
with just this suddenness. . . and when the telephone rang in the
middle of the night because this is how it always happens you had to
come via New York. . . and then the shuttle is solid and there is a
waiting list you decide it will be almost as quick to take the bus
anyway you will have the solace of keeping moving and awake the
comfort of doing something when there is nothing to be done. For
there is old age waiting for you and this above all you do not wish
to share with this old woman who must think in the night what you
think but more sharply, more presently will it be today for you think
you have time but she only hopes that she has another little while as
New England fades outside will it be all tubes and flashlights or a
human being who resembles the one I remember? Is there time? Lord, if
not now, when? (Morse, 1988: 79-80) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>In spite of the work undertaken by
the text to maintain the impression of generality, of typicality, of
non-identity, there is throughout the story a specific &quot;you&quot;
moving underneath its generalising utterances, an unclear figure that
does finally emerge as a unique entity in the last paragraphs, and
which, in the concluding lines, does face that which she has been
avoiding throughout the piece. What she has been avoiding, in fact,
is not <U>only</U> confessing (to the old woman? to herself?) the
&quot;dangerous reason for this journey,&quot; the matter of her
aged, ill mother - a confession which can only work now as a reminder
to herself of her own status as aging, single and childless, themes
already established in the story. What the closing lines also mark is
that the younger woman, a dissembling &quot;I&quot;/&quot;you&quot;
narrator, has been avoiding an identification with the older woman,
the nuisance traveller, a woman &quot;who must think in the night
what you think but more sharply.&nbsp;&nbsp;.&nbsp;&nbsp;.&nbsp; for
you think you have time&quot; (Morse, 1988: 80). 
</P>
<P>The presentation of a generalised
&quot;you&quot; with which (any)one can identify followed by a shift
to a more fully narrativised &quot;you&quot; is a characteristic of
&quot;second-person&quot; textuality observed by many critics. Its
use in this way is described as a strategy for drawing the reader
into the tale before the pronoun is particularised in narrative.
Readers coming upon this generalising modality certainly may feel 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>sorely tempted to identify
at first, but only so long as their situation overlaps with the
protagonist's.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;; as soon as the protagonist
becomes too specific a personality, becomes, that is, a fictional
character, the quality of the presumed address to an extradiegetic
reader in such texts evaporates. (Fludernik, 1994b: 287) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Faced with specificities of &quot;sex,
job, husband or wife, address, interests, and so on,&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
the reader has to realise that the 'you' must be an other, a or the
protagonist&quot; (Fludernik, 1994c: 452). In many instances,
however, the effect of direct reader address may not entirely
evaporate after all. As Fludernik notes, there are indeed 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>some texts in which the
generalised reading (&quot;you&quot; equals &quot;one&quot;), in the
form of a very specific reader role, persists despite the narrowing
of reference, and it does so because in these texts the desired
effect is precisely to make the reader feel personally responsible,
personally caught in the discourse. (Fludernik, 1994c: 452) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>In Jamaica Kincaid's <U>A Small Place</U>
(1988), for instance, writes Fludernik, the &quot;you&quot; initially
seems to be the generic &quot;you&quot; of the guide book mode
(Fludernik, 1994c: 453). &quot;If you go to Antigua as a tourist,
this is what you will see. If you come by aeroplane, you will land at
the V.C. Bird International Airport&quot; (Kincaid, 1988: 3). It
slowly emerges, however, that the &quot;you&quot; within the opening
section of the text refers to a particular tourist whose &quot;background
and current experience are sketched in ever more specific terms,
thereby signalling that she is no longer just 'anyone' (and therefore
no longer the virtual reader in his or her real-world identity) but
has turned into a fictional character&quot; (Fludernik, 1994c: 453).
This woman is made 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>to shoulder the guilt of
Western society towards the colonial subject and implicitly becomes
an object of identification with the real reader.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
Even better than third-person (or first-person) reflector-mode
narrative, the &quot;you&quot; [as] a reflector character can induce
the hypnotic quality of complete identification by a maximal bid for
readerly empathy on the discourse level in terms of the generalised
&quot;you&quot;a &quot;you&quot; that initially keeps the
communicational level well in view - and it can even make this
generic meaning reemerge, turning fiction again into virtual
facticity or &quot;applicability.&quot; (Fludernik, 1994c: 453) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Thus, where the simultaneity (and
undecidability) of case in &quot;A Journey&quot; resolves finally
into a particularised narrative-&quot;you,&quot; in <U>A Small Place</U>
the case resolves back into the generic modality that was invoked in
its opening lines, but does so with a re-doubling of effect, the
narrative discourse achieving the striking duplicity of being
experienced by the reader as an inclusive-&quot;you&quot; address and
as direct, aggressive address, the reader &quot;asked to feel guilty,
to recognise him- or herself in the negative image&quot; presented by
Kincaid of the Western tourist and of that tourist's complicity with
the economic and cultural degradation of Antigua (&quot;Test Case&quot;
453). 
</P>
<P><A NAME="10-3"></A><B>Part 3. The
Allocutionary Function </B>
</P>
<P><B>10. The Allocution of &quot;You&quot;
</B>
</P>
<P><A NAME="foot61"></A><A NAME="foot62"></A>The
allocutionary function concerns the &quot;second person&quot;
pronoun's effect of address, which it only rarely gives up entirely.
<A HREF="8notes.htm#61">61</A> Whereas
an utterance such as, &quot;Spot, you go fetch the stick, go on,&quot;
clearly does cast the referent of the pronoun as being a participant
within a speech event, the &quot;you&quot; unequivocally picking out
the addressee (albeit that the canine addressee's response is
unlikely to be verbal as such), the &quot;you&quot; in an aphorism
such as, &quot;You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it
drink,&quot; refers to no-body. When the context and nature of the
utterance is ambiguous, however, as it is in the opening line of
DeLillo's <U>Running Dog</U> (1978), the generic-&quot;you&quot; for
&quot;one&quot; may still carry an effect of address. &quot;You won't
find ordinary people here. Not after dark, on these streets,&quot;
says <U>Running Dog</U>'s extradiegetic narrator (DeLillo, 1978: 3).
Whether the address is to the putative reader, a narratee or a
protagonist is a closely related, but, nevertheless, subsequent
question. Where the generic-&quot;you&quot; still carries an
allocutionary function it is provoked through the insistence of the
trace of what is taken as the &quot;second-person&quot; pronoun's
grammatical, unmarked case: the &quot;you&quot; as quintessentially a
pronoun of address.<A HREF="8notes.htm#62">62</A> As I will argue,
moreover, the effect of address can be deepened by the degree of
particularisation or individuation of the &quot;you&quot; referent. 
</P>
<P>A further point about the
allocutionary function must be made. In that the standard account of
address as developed by B&uuml;hler, Jakobson, Benveniste and others
assumes deictic relations between a dyadic &quot;I&quot;-&quot;you&quot;
couple, the address function has become instrumental in binding the
reader securely into Cartesianism's imaginary. It does so by
explicitly positing the &quot;I&quot;/ego as the centre of
communicative practice and as the &quot;subjective&quot; ground or
&quot;origo&quot; of deixis - the centre from which &quot;I,&quot;
&quot;here&quot; and &quot;now,&quot; the three classical terms of
deixis, are understood. That the address function should lend itself
to Cartesianism, however, is not an inevitable circumstance. In the
first place, as I will take up further below, it need not be the case
that deixis within instances of address be ego-centric, for as
William Hanks proposes, other participant domains of deixis are
conceivable. For instance, he writes, one can also discern: the
Common ground (sociocentric), the ground of the Addressee
(altercentric), and of the Other (of the non-participant in the
current speech event) (68). In the second place, as Peter M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler
and Rom Harr&eacute; show in <U>Pronouns and People</U> (1990), there
is no inevitability that Cartesianism's ego-centred, privatised
notion of the self and of Being should subtend communicative
practice. Through close scrutiny of a large and varied number of
social and grammatical systems, they demonstrate that a culture's
conception of the self closely and reciprocally mirrors the
pronominal system and grammar in which that conception is articulated
(M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute;, 1990: 16). The implications
of such a situation are not negligible. &quot;What sort of beings we
take ourselves to be in [the] ontological or metaphysical sense will
depend on the grammar of our language&quot; (M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler
and Harr&eacute;, 1990: 20). 
</P>
<P>Traditionally, discussions about
addresser-addressee relations have, by and large, conceived of these
relations as being fairly straight-forward. The systematic
distinctions made between participant roles within literary texts, no
matter how elaborate they become--as, for instance, Percy Lubbock's
typology of narrators in <U>The Craft of Fiction</U> (1957), and
Susan Sniader Lanser's more contemporary reworking of point of view
theory in <U>The Narrative Act</U> (1981), in which the
narratee/addressee is properly elevated to a position beside the
narrator/speaker, or Kacandes's continuum of reciprocity--remain
essentially dyadic, in that such systems tend to identify utterances
in terms of <U>a</U> speaker and <U>an</U> addressee. The two main
approaches to speaking about this relation are the (structuralist)
metaphor of the conduit, and the (humanist) model of prototypical
conversation. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="fig14"></A>The former
approach, that of the metaphor of the conduit, is typified by Shannon
and Weaver's communication model, originally devised during the
Second World War within the Bell Telephone Laboratories to model the
efficient transfer of information (see figure 14). 
</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER><IMG SRC="../figs/fig14.gif" NAME="Graphic4" ALIGN=BOTTOM WIDTH=406 HEIGHT=150 BORDER=0>

</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER>Fig. 14. Shannon and
Weaver's communication model. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="fig15"></A>Chatman's
classical model of narrative textuality (see figure 7 above, page 44)
clearly takes its lead from the conduit metaphor. Roman Jakobson's
communication model, too, is similar to Shannon and Weaver's model in
several key respects. &quot;A message sent by its addresser,&quot;
Jakobson argues, &quot;must be perceived by its receiver. Any message
is encoded by its sender and is to be decoded by its addressee. The
more closely the addressee approximates the code used by the
addresser, the higher is the amount of information obtained&quot;
(Jakobson, 1971: 130). Certainly, like literary criticism's use of
Shannon and Weaver's model, Jakobson's basic model &quot;situates
literary discourse firmly within the same communicative context of
other speech events&quot; (Lanser, 1981: 66), implicitly representing
the agents of those events as both autonomous and intentionalist. 
</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER><IMG SRC="../figs/fig15.gif" NAME="Graphic5" ALIGN=BOTTOM WIDTH=278 HEIGHT=89 BORDER=0>

</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER>Fig. 15. Jakobson's
communication model. 
</P>
<P>No matter how sophisticated, write
M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute;, such models remain typical of
the way linguists treat human communication &quot;as a process
comparable to the exchange of telegraphic messages&quot; (M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler
and Harr&eacute;, 1990: 11). They point out that such formulations
invite analysts &quot;to concern themselves with a well-known social
monster, the ideal speaker-hearer&quot; (M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and
Harr&eacute;, 1990: 12). 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>This choice of metaphor
tacitly includes the view that speech communities are homogeneous,
that the same code is shared by all interactants, that messages can
become signals and vice versa without any problems, that there is no
limitation to memory, that production and reception are symmetrical,
that there are such processes as encoding and decoding and that what
language use is principally all about is exchange of bits of
information. (M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute;, 1990: 12) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P><A NAME="fig16"></A>Lanser's detailed
revision of Jakobson's model in her book <U>The Narrative Act</U>
(1981) (see figure 16) complicates this scheme somewhat in at least
two ways: first, she proposes that the sender and receiver need not
employ the same code nor respond to the same knowledges, beliefs,
values, needs and so on; and second, she focuses attention on the
manifold nature of communicative context, particularly the
communicative contexts of the literary text. She proposes that &quot;the
reduplication of the sender's role&quot; in the author-narrator pair,
and the &quot;similar doubling of the receiver's role&quot; in the
narratee-reader pair, &quot;yields a model for written communication
that is more complex than that for spoken discourse&quot; (Lanser,
1981: 117). 
</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER><IMG SRC="../figs/fig16.gif" NAME="Graphic6" ALIGN=BOTTOM WIDTH=392 HEIGHT=300 BORDER=0>

</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER>Fig. 16. Lanser's
revision of Jakobson's communication model. 
</P>
<P ALIGN=LEFT>In arguing this, and also
in arguing that the &quot;textual speaker-listener construct&quot;
will at the very least be homologous (if not necessarily identical)
to the relationship between the historical author and audience
(Lanser, 1981: 118), however, Lanser's greater degree of
sophistication might yet be characterised as a conventional nesting
of discourse levels, the author-reader relationship standing
parenthetically around the narrator-narratee relationship, itself
standing parenthetically around protagonist relationships. Moreover,
such a formulation continues to imagine the categories, ideally, as
individuated &quot;persons&quot; sending and receiving a narration.
Lanser's model remains true to the formal dyadic structure of Shannon
and Weaver's communication model. As &quot;pernicious&quot; as the
conduit metaphor is, say M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute;, it
is nonetheless &quot;the most common metaphor in the metalanguage of
English&quot; (M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute;, 1990: 12). It
is pernicious, they argue, because &quot;this conception of
communication enshrines the Cartesian myth of mental 'theatres'
behind the skilled activities of everyday actors, the myth of mental
entities more or less imperfectly represented in public symbolic
actions&quot; (12). 
</P>
<P>The second approach is illustrated by
prototypical conversation. As Stephen Levinson describes it, this
approach is a matter of 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>divid[ing] each such
category according to presence/absence from the speech event.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
Thus we would have speakers who speak for themselves <U>versus</U>
those that speak for absent others (spokesmen), addressees who are
intended recipients, <U>versus</U> those that are vehicles for a
message to absent others (messengers), and third parties who are
present (audience) <U>versus</U> third parties who are absent
(non-participants).&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. (Levinson, 1988: 166) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Levinson's criticism of traditional,
simple dyadic and structuralist models is that they reduce all of the
possible roles within address events to two paradigmatic terms -
speaker and listener. Dyadic schemes that offer no finer categories
than author, narrator, character, narratee and reader, Levinson
argues, cannot capture the breadth of &quot;the kinds of participant
roles actually employed .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. &quot; (Levinson, 1988: 166).
Thus, in order to describe speech events adequately, he contends &quot;we
need some finer-grained conceptual analysis&quot; of participant
roles within address utterances than is offered by traditional models
(Levinson, 1988: 167). Levinson's own model divides the roles into
ten participant and non-participant producer roles, and seven
participant and non-participant reception roles, none of which
necessarily excludes the others, so that any address event may
involve more than just a speaker and a listener, as laid out below.
Levinson's participant and non-participant roles are: 
</P>
<UL>
	<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm"><U>participant
	producer roles</U> <U>example</U> 
	</P>
	<UL>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">author
		ordinary speaker 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">&quot;ghostee&quot;
		ghosted speaker 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">spokes[person]
		barrister 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">relayer
		reader of statement 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">deviser
		statement maker 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">sponsor
		defendant in court 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">&quot;ghostor&quot;
		copresent ghost writer 
		</P>
	</UL>
	<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm"><U>non-participant
	producer roles</U> 
	</P>
	<UL>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">ultimate
		source source of military command 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">principal
		delegate's constituents 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">formulator
		absent ghost writer 
		</P>
	</UL>
	<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm"><U>participant
	reception roles</U> 
	</P>
	<UL>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">interlocutor
		ordinary addressee 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">indirect
		target 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">intermediary
		committee chair 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">audience
		
		</P>
	</UL>
	<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm"><U>non-participant
	reception roles</U> 
	</P>
	<UL>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">overhearer
		bystanders 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">targeted
		overhearer Barbadian &quot;butt&quot; 
		</P>
		<LI><P STYLE="margin-bottom: 0cm">ultimate
		destination 
		</P>
		<P>(Levinson, 1988: 171-74) 
		</P>
	</UL>
</UL>
<P>While I agree fully with the thrust
of Levinson's proliferation of distinctions at this point, the fact
that he divides his roles under the two paradigmatic headings of
&quot;production&quot; and &quot;reception&quot; is revealing. For
even in his model, the speaker-listener dyad that underpins the
traditional models remains substantially in place, although now
considerably expanded beyond the reductive terms that he rightly
criticises. Levinson is quite aware that his own model shares their
basic premise, however, and in his own defence argues that &quot;it
does seem that there is something natural enough about the grouping
of concepts into 'speaker,' 'addressee' and 'other' to make the
classical three-person system recur in most natural languages.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&quot;
(Levinson, 1988: 183). Herman clearly shares this view, arguing that:

</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>it seems that all languages
encode through their personal-pronoun systems reference to (at least)
the speaker, the hearer or addressee, and the non-speaker or
non-hearer. Typically, these three persons and the different numbers
(i.e., singular .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. versus plural .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. ) are
considered as &quot;the set of contextual anchors&quot; of deixis.
(Herman, 1994: 389) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute;
respond unequivocally to this type of argument, however, with the
assertion that it is not the case at all that &quot;all languages
have pronominal categories involving at least three persons and two
numbers&quot; (M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute;, 1990: 64).
Whereas Levinson's quarrel is with the adequacy of standard systems
of classification of participant roles within address, M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler
and Harr&eacute;'s is with the Cartesianism that has come to underpin
those systems. Thus, while Levinson's proliferation of roles is a
valuable corrective to the narrow purview of the earlier accounts, it
needs to be read through M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute;'s
propositions. M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute; observe that
there can be no doubt of the existence of an &quot;empirical&quot;
self, or that as embodied beings they themselves are things amongst
things, their actions events amongst events. 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>But don't I need to
hypothesise another self, a transcendental being, unobservable,
indeed, necessarily so, but a necessary condition for the possibility
that my experience should exhibit the orderliness that it does? And
is not that the being that <U>I</U> refers to? Everything I say about
myself must be grammatically assigned to <U>I</U>, so must not the
pronoun then function as some kind of referring device by which that
inner core of being, my transcendental self is picked out?
(M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute;, 1990: 20) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute;'s
unequivocal answer to the final question is no. &quot;It has long
been realised that there is something very wrong with this line of
thought&quot; (M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute;, 1990: 17).
Rather, what they show is that &quot;the transcendental ego is a
shadow cast on the world by grammar&quot; (M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and
Harr&eacute;, 1990: 20). They make the implications of such a
position to linguistic analysis quite explicit. &quot;To use pronouns
grammatically, correctly, one must deploy one's philosophical
theories of what one is as well as one's knowledge of the social
relations in which one stands to those with whom one converses&quot;
(M&uuml;hlh&auml;usler and Harr&eacute;, 1990: 16). Having observed
that there can be no doubt that their own actions are events amongst
events, there can likewise be no doubt that their participation in
speech events entails the adoption of specifiable discourse roles
structured by the grammar particular to the language and the social
relations of the event, and of specifiable conceptions of the nature
of their being (Being) within such roles. That is, to use pronouns,
to say &quot;I&quot; and &quot;you&quot; and &quot;they,&quot; is to
mobilise particular ontological and epistemological conceptions of
what it is to be a person. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="11-3"></A><B>11. The
Specification of &quot;You&quot; and the Depth of Address </B>
</P>
<P><A NAME="foot63"></A>The two
paradigms of address discussed above, of the conduit and prototypical
conversation, are the principal conceptions of address used in
describing or accounting for the depth of the allocutionary function
in &quot;second-person&quot; fiction. Both Fludernik and Kacandes,
for instance, draw explicitly upon the conversational model. In turn,
the addressee identity nexus and Hantzis's conception of
&quot;second-person&quot; point of view proper as involving an
oscillation of reference both owe much to the conduit model.
<A HREF="8notes.htm#63">63</A> One might
observe, too, though, that the two paradigms are not exclusive of one
another. In so far as Kacandes must still identify who addresses
whom, the conduit model in some measure subtends the conversational
model. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="foot64"></A><A NAME="foot65"></A>There
is, however, a third approach. The depth of the effect of address of
the allocutionary function can also be construed in the more formal
terms of grammatical structure. Herman draws our attention to the
fact that the &quot;second-person&quot; pronoun's deictic profile and
its grammatical, morphosyntactic form can become disengaged from one
another. By &quot;morphosyntactic form,&quot; Herman means the aspect
of language of which the pronoun &quot;you&quot; is a conventional
constituent. Its proper place in the overall structure of the English
language is within the grammar of address. Many instances of the
&quot;second person,&quot; he shows, exhibit an incongruity between
grammatical form and deictic function in that they cease to retain
the full shifting character of deixis expected of them. Such
disengagement of form and function, in fact, lends authority to
Kacandes's arguments. Dialogic reciprocity might be taken as a
consequence of the full agreement in an utterance of deictic and
morphosyntactic form, and non-reciprocity as a consequence of their
disagreement. Indeed, Herman's continuum closely echoes Kacandes's
model, his pole of incongruent form and function and its typical
narratives corresponding with Kacandes's non-dialogic pole, his pole
of congruent form and function corresponding with Kacandes's dialogic
pole, and his doubly deictic case corresponding in type, if not in
position on the respective continuums, to Kacandes's radical
narrative apostrophe. <A HREF="8notes.htm#64">64</A>
Herman's insightful move has been to recast this scheme in
grammatical terms, moving away from the tendency to
imagine - and circularly to analyse - its
instances in terms of privatised selves acting out
communicative acts. Herman's second move, following Hanks's lead, is
to shift the underpinning grounds of deixis (for at least one mode of
&quot;second-person&quot; textuality) away from conventional
ego-centric conceptions of deixis towards one that is principally
sociocentric.<A HREF="8notes.htm#65">65</A> 
</P>
<P>The case for reconceiving deixis as
sociocentric rather than ego-centric might advantageously begin, as
Peter Jones writes, with Voloshinov's and Bahktin's observations on
the social nature of language. Jones writes: &quot;Each and every
utterance should be registered as a social event, as a unit of
'speech communication' whose essential quality is its 'addressivity,'
that is, 'its quality of being directed toward someone' (Jones, 1995:
46). Volosinov properly asserts that the &quot;organising centre of
any utterance, of any experience, is not within but
outside - in the social milieu surrounding the individual
being&quot; (cited in Jones, 1995: 46). Bakhtin puts it this way: 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>from the very beginning, the
utterance is constructed while taking into account possible
responsive reactions, for whose sake, in essence, it is actually
created. As we know, the role of the <U>others</U> for whom the
utterance is constructed is extremely great [because] the role of
these others, for whom my thought becomes actual though for the first
time (and thus also for my own self as well) is not that of passive
listeners, but of active participants in speech communication. From
the very beginning, the speaker expects a response from them.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
The entire utterance is constructed, as it were, in anticipation of
encountering this response. (Bakhtin, 1986: 94) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Jones concludes that to claim that
&quot;the speaker's utterance, including the use of deictic terms, is
ego-centric or speaker centred is quite wrong; what the speaker says
is 'address-centred,' the viewpoint and expected response of the
addressee is already, as it were, built into the utterance itself&quot;
(Jones, 1995: 47). Reasserting the social, communicative nature of
language, our starting point for the investigation of deixis, he
writes, &quot;would not be what is individual, but what is shared,
i.e., social activity, practical cooperation in the world, mediated
by language&quot; (Jones, 1995: 47). For supporting evidence, he
looks to Bruner's discussion in &quot;The Organization of Action and
the Nature of Adult-Infant Transaction&quot; (1982) on the
development of language. Here, writes Jones, 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>language is shown to emerge
between mother and child in common contexts of activity. These shared
contexts are not perceptual phenomena but goal-directed activity
structures in which words, including deictic words, emerge and come
to mean what they do as &quot;slices&quot; or phrases of a particular
action guided and controlled by shared intention and expectation. The
deictic field would therefore be not so much a passive registration
of a &quot;canonical situation&quot; or external environment but a
synthetic &quot;model&quot; of the real domain being altered, or to
be altered, by creative social action, a position which would allow
for constant dialectical interaction between the activity domain and
its model. (Jones, 1995: 47) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Jones also proposes that we should
consider deixis in the light of what Bakhtin says about the role in
communicative language of &quot;speech genres.&quot; Bakhtin
describes these as &quot;relatively stable and normative forms of the
utterance.&quot; He writes that: 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>Speech genres are much more
changeable, flexible, and plastic than language forms are, but they
have a normative significance for the speaking individuum, and they
are not created by him but are given to him. Therefore, the single
utterance, with all its individuality and creativity, can in no way
be regarded as a <U>completely free combination</U> of forms of
language, as is supposed, for example, by Saussure (and by many other
linguists after him), who juxtapose the utterance (<U>la parole</U>),
as a purely individual act, to the system of language as a phenomenon
that is purely social and mandatory for the individuum. (Jones, 1995:
80-81). 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P><A NAME="fig17"></A>According to
Jones, this approach to deixis would &quot;attempt to discover the
typical stylistic and generic resources available to users of a
language .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. on the assumption that the speaker's very
selection of a particular grammatical form is a stylistic act&quot;
(Jones, 1995: 47). Such an approach, Jones continues, would
&quot;encourage scepticism&quot; towards the traditional view that
there is a basic or general meaning for deictic expressions as Lyons
posits in &quot;Deixis and Subjectivity: Loquor, Ergo Sum?&quot;
(1982). And it would emphasise, instead, &quot;the heterogeneity or
meanings and uses of apparently one and the same expression&quot;
(Jones, 1995: 47). Jones proposes that, with these ideas in mind,
&quot;one might explore the hypothesis that deictic words are always
sociocentric in orientation, because of the very nature of verbal
communication&quot; (Jones, 1995: 47). This approach would
enable - and encourage - us to differentiate &quot;speaker-&quot;
and &quot;hearer-centred&quot; and differently oriented deictic
values &quot;according to the nature of the activity, the nature of
the participant roles, and convention&quot; (Jones, 1995: 48), rather
than to assume from the outset that deictic utterances must be
ego-centric. 
</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER><IMG SRC="../figs/fig17.gif" NAME="Graphic7" ALIGN=BOTTOM WIDTH=389 HEIGHT=127 BORDER=0>

</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER>Fig. 17. Herman's
continuum between grammatical form and deictic function. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="foot66"></A>Herman's
exploration of deictic values brings him to draw a continuum on which
&quot;the degree of concord between grammatical form and deictic
functioning&quot; is high at one end and low at the other (Herman,
1994: 393). He identifies five paradigmatic uses of the &quot;you,&quot;
two of which he places on each opposite pole, the fifth of which is
placed somewhere between (see figure 17). <A HREF="8notes.htm#66">66</A>
On the right-hand pole Herman places &quot;occurrences of <U>you</U>
in which the form of the expression exactly specifies its function,&quot;
the pronoun's morphosyntactic form and its deictic function agreeing
(Herman, 1994: 393). Agreement produces either fictionalised address,
which concerns instances of direct dialogic discourse between
characters, or apostrophic address (my mesofictional- or
metafictional-&quot;you&quot;), which is address directed &quot;toward
an actual .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. addressee&quot; (Herman, 1994: 394). On the
left-hand pole are the terms that exhibit incongruity. In the
generalised &quot;you&quot; case, the &quot;you&quot; pronoun takes
on the now familiar role &quot;of an impersonal or generalised or
colloquial <U>you</U>,&quot; the pronoun virtually losing its deictic
force (Herman, 1994: 392). In the &quot;fictional reference&quot;
case, the &quot;you&quot; pronoun &quot;entails the displaced deixis
of an <U>I &mdash;&gt; you</U> deictic transfer&quot; (Herman, 1994:
392), in which the &quot;you&quot; points back at the utterer as a
dissembling &quot;I&quot; within mere self-reference as opposed to
self-address. That is, it retains a deictic element, but pointing to
the addresser, holds the function grammatically proper to
&quot;first-person&quot; deixis rather than &quot;second-person.&quot;
This would appear to be the case that Fludernik describes as
&quot;reflector-mode you,&quot; the &quot;you&quot; that functions as
interior monologue in which &quot;the narrative disappears entirely
behind the thoughts of the protagonist 'you'&quot; (Fludernik, 1994c:
451). Herman makes a point of distinguishing this case from
self-addressed modes of &quot;you,&quot; positing that &quot;the
phenomenon of self-address .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. constitutes a kind of
hybridised category&quot; that combines features of both case 2,
fictional reference, and case 3, fictionalised address (Herman, 1994:
n. 5, 405). Given that his principal example of case 2 is Butor's <U>La
Modification</U>, it is to be inferred that the narrator must be more
or less explicitly marked as a self-conscious &quot;I,&quot; as in
the texts discussed at the end of Chapter 6 (cf. Fludernik, 1994c:
451). But even in texts in which the &quot;I &mdash;&gt; you deictic
transfer&quot; is much less equivocal than that of <U>La
Modification</U>, such as Kocan's <U>The Treatment</U> and <U>The
Cure</U> (see pages 147-48 below), it is not necessarily the case, I
suggest, that the address function is disengaged. Indeed, as is
attested in Chapter 6, it is far from conclusive that the &quot;you&quot;
of Herman's paradigm text, <U>La Modification</U>, itself
relinquishes any of the &quot;second-person&quot; pronoun's effect of
address. In contrast to Herman's proposition, one might consider the
breadth of response Kacandes reports with respect to <U>La
Modification</U> (see page 5 above). Such texts do disengage the
deictic profile of <U>you</U> from its grammar, but each nonetheless
carries to the reader the sense that an address is being made, an
address that invokes the inference of particular anthropocentric,
interpersonal relations, even where we struggle to identify the
entities involved, and even where we struggle to identify the roles
that might hold within the proliferation of cases revealed in
Levinson's catalogue. 
</P>
<P>Where deixis becomes incongruent with
the grammatical profile of an address utterance, it can be shown that
the allocutionary function is <U>not</U> necessarily undone as one
might expect it to be. The &quot;grammatical profile&quot; of the
&quot;second-person&quot; pronoun can, as Herman himself puts it,
drastically undermine the pronoun's deictic functions (Herman, 1994:
390). This, I believe, is what Brian McHale is reacting to when he
suggests that the reader is fully justified in endeavouring to
identify the addresser and addressee and the nature of &quot;the
communicative circuit that joins them&quot; in any &quot;you&quot;
utterance (McHale, 1985: 95). If the deixis that is proper to the
&quot;second-person&quot; pronoun can be disengaged, as it clearly
can, then it must be concluded that the particular feature that
enables the &quot;second person&quot; to convey &quot;some sense of
address, even in its most 'innocent,' impersonal instances&quot;
(McHale, 1985: 112), inheres in some way in the utterance's
<U>grammatical</U>, morphosyntactic form, and operates, to invoke
Bakhtin's term, much like a &quot;speech genre.&quot; What I mean by
this is no more than that we recognise or register an instance, a
moment, of address in the utterance's formal structure, in its
<U>appearance</U>. Even when the pronoun has adopted a figural or
narrative modality and relinquished the conventional deictic function
required for the full functionality of dialogic address, the
insistence of the morphosyntactic form of address left as a trace in
the &quot;second-person&quot; pronoun can carry the allocutionary
function forward. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="fig18"></A><A NAME="foot67"></A>On
the other hand, the more forceful effect of address does, by and
large, correlate with instances of greater congruence; and
conversely, where the grammar and deixis of &quot;you&quot; in the
generic cases display little agreement and there is little
anthropocentric particularisation or specification, the allocutionary
effect will be correspondingly shallower. <A HREF="8notes.htm#67">67</A>

</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER><IMG SRC="../figs/fig18.gif" NAME="Graphic8" ALIGN=BOTTOM WIDTH=396 HEIGHT=225 BORDER=0>

</P>
<P ALIGN=CENTER>Fig. 18. Depth of
Address model 
</P>
<P><A NAME="foot68"></A>My suggestion,
illustrated in figure 18, is that the force of address returns to
narrative-&quot;you&quot; precisely for the &quot;you&quot;-protagonists'
<U>particularisation</U> in narrative, and that its force will more
or less correspond to the degree of particularisation of the
protagonist. Hence, the effect of the allocutionary function in
Maugham's &quot;The Beast of Burden&quot; (1925) is somewhat deeper
than the effect of the aphoristic &quot;you&quot; for &quot;one.&quot;
Maugham's generic-&quot;you&quot; figure is subjected to a certain
amount of particularisation in terms of circumstance, albeit that
this particularisation is itself non-unique (see page 78 above). The
depth of address model - set for useful
comparison beside the generic-particular model -
illustrates the way in which anthropocentric particularisation
of the pronoun's referent puts Herman's model under stress. The
anthropocentric particularisation of the pronoun's referent forces an
effect of address back into the narrative discourse regardless of the
pronoun's deictic incongruence. In skaz, caught between the generic
and the mesofictional cases as it is, for instance, considerable
agreement between form and function remains but the allocutionary
force is now softened, as it were, by the generality of the address
and generic identity of the addressee. The pronoun continues to
designate an addressee in each utterance and to sustain a strong
sense of dialogism. <A HREF="8notes.htm#68">68</A>
But this reader/listener is no longer somebody in particular: he or
she simply provides the opportunity for the tale to be told.
Skaz-styled works usefully demonstrate another significant feature of
the address function, however. Vernacular forms of discourse and
address-related mechanisms (such as the speaker's immanence in
vernacular constructions and the phatic function) enhance the
allocutionary force of any utterance of address. This enhancement,
indeed, is the reason skaz reaches so far toward a sense of dialogism
in spite of the amorphous nature of its addressee: as inappropriate
as it would be for the addressee to interrupt the speaker, the
immediacy of the discourse seems to allow for such interruption.
Indeed, in oral skaz, the addressee may very well speak, albeit that
the sole <U>appropriate</U> form of such speech is encouragement and
support for the story teller, utterances that articulate the
listener's engagement with the story-telling itself. 
</P>
<P>In reference to the vocative wing of
the generic-particular model (which accounts for Herman's apostrophic
case), it is proper and expected that the pronoun's referent be
particularised. As Barbara Johnson puts it, this is part of the
explicit, rhetorical undertaking of classical apostrophic address:
&quot;The fact that apostrophe allows one to animate the inanimate,
the dead, or the absent [by addressing it directly] implies that
whenever a being is apostrophised, it is thereby automatically
animated, anthropomorphised, &quot;person-ified&quot; (Johnson, 1987:
191). In reference to the narrative wing, and disbarring the
eventuality of some hybridised relationship such as explicit
self-address, Herman's argument would conclude that, as
particularisation increases, the sense of address that holds will
remain shallow and easily passed over. Reading narrative-&quot;you&quot;
texts, however, one tends to experience something quite different. 
</P>
<P>In many instances, therefore, as
particularisation increases, so, too, does the depth of the
allocutionary function. That is, to some extent, in the same way that
apostrophe will tend to anthropomorphise its object simply because it
<U>can</U>, &quot;second-person&quot; utterances that refer to an
anthropomorphic, particularised object will tend to be construed in
some sense as articulating an address, just because they <U>can</U>.
The reader registers the trace of address in the &quot;second-person&quot;
pronoun's morphosyntactic form, and feels that he or she should be in
the presence of address. 
</P>
<P><A NAME="12-3"></A><B>12. The
Sociocentricity of Deixis </B>
</P>
<P>I have not as yet spoken about
Herman's fifth case, &quot;double deictic <U>you</U>.&quot; Herman
insists that this case can only emerge &quot;against the background
of the other [four] modalities&quot; and their hybrids (Herman, 1994:
397). Its &quot;perceptibility&quot; within texts &quot;derives from
its (fluctuating) position relative to a ground&quot; comprised of
the other four functional types. He provides the following
illustration from O'Brien's <U>A Pagan Place</U> (1984). 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>You were saying goodbye to
fields and trees, and even to headlands of fields where a plow never
got and where not an ear of barley had chanced to grow. In all these
corners there were bits of things, machinery, broken delft, cowhorns
that had served as funnels, machine oil tins and the rags and
remnants that the scarecrows wore. 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<BLOCKQUOTE>You felt a terrible burden
as if something inanimate might speak or something motionless might
get up and move. (Cited in Herman, 1994: 400) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>By the end of this passage, Herman
asserts, the condition has been produced for a &quot;doubly deictic
projection of a fictional <U>you</U> onto the audience and vice
versa&quot; (Herman, 1994: 400). The passage 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>cannot be completely reduced
to the <U>you</U> encoding, either via reference to the fictional
protagonist or via self-address, a participant who is located
somewhere in the indexical field of the current discourse. Yet the
<U>you</U> does not stand in for <U>one</U>, either, since the amount
of circumstantial detail built into the description .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
cannot be reconciled with the notion of an impersonal or generalised
<U>you</U>, nor for that matter with an apostrophic <U>you</U> in the
strict sense. Again, the deictic scope of the <U>you</U> encompasses
more than a particularised addressee or a specific discourse
participant but stops short of including everyone whatsoever. The
scope of <U>you</U> is modalised, as it were, such that it covers
anyone who might conceivably be a participant in the discourse; <U>you</U>
ranges over any context that might be activated and brought to bear
on the discourse. (Herman, 1994: 400) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>The similarity of this description to
Kacandes's notion of radical narrative apostrophe is clear. Herman's
double deixis is named not for its hybridity, however, but for the
reason that it &quot;produces an interference pattern between two or
more competing deictic fields, none of which can fully orientate the
deictic transfers&quot; (Herman, 1994: 398). Because of these
competing fields, writes Herman, &quot;the scope of the discourse
context embedding the description is indeterminate, as is the domain
of participants in principle specified or picked out by <U>you</U>,&quot;
freeing the reader to implicate him or herself or any other available
entity in the indeterminate deictic reference (Herman, 1994: 399).
This fifth term, I suggest, is the most valuable element of Herman's
formulation of the &quot;second person's&quot; address function. It
is this term that shifts the model from the ego-centric, standard
account of deixis to the more open, sociocentric deictic fields
posited by Hanks. 
</P>
<P>In &quot;The Indexical Ground of
Deictic Reference&quot; (1992), Hanks proposes that: 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>In theory at least, one
could imagine any number of alternative indexical pivots,
logocentric, person-centric, event-centric, and so forth. Given that
acts of reference are interactively accomplished, a sociocentric
approach is certain to be more productive than an egocentric one,
even when the speaker is the primary ground of reference. (Hanks,
1992: 53) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Although Hanks freely grants that
deixis requires an origo for communicative sense to be made of the
utterance, given that the notion of &quot;pointing to&quot; is
rendered nonsensical without the specification of the instance of
&quot;pointing from,&quot; he proposes that one need not assume this
origo to be the speaker, the &quot;first person.&quot; Deixis is
therefore, for Hanks, not to be characterised as being fundamentally
&quot;subjective&quot; in the way that proponents of the standard
account suppose it (Hanks, 1992: 52). Rather, he writes, it is better
to think of deixis as &quot;a framework for organising the actor's
access to the context of speech at the moment of utterance&quot;
(Hanks, 1992: 61). To be sure, speaking subjects can and do act as
the origo of deictic utterances, but it is neither necessary nor
inevitable that they do so. One of Hanks's illustrations is of a
fragment of conversation between two people working in a field, and
would appear to involve the participant domain he refers to at one
point as Other. The first person (designated A) says to the second
(B) about a third person (C, who constitutes the participant domain
of Other): &quot;so then he says to me, 'Come here (to me)' he says,
so I went to him&quot; (Hanks, 1992: 55). In order to make the
illustration more pointed in the context of a discussion of the
&quot;second-person&quot; pronoun, one might rewrite Herman's
illustration to make the implicit addressees more conspicuous. A says
to B about C, &quot;so then he says to me, you know, 'You come here
to me,' he says, so I went to him.&quot; Hanks points to the segment
marked as quoted speech, noting that, 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>Although A utters the
standard directive for summoning an addressee.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;, B
understands immediately that A is not calling him to his side. He
also understands that the referent of [here] does not refer to A's
current locus, but to C's locus at the time of the original
utterance. [ .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. ] (Hanks, 1992: 55-56) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Likewise, while B would understand
himself to be the referent of the first &quot;you&quot; uttered, he
would also understand that the &quot;you&quot; within the segment of
speech quoted by A does not refer to him, but to A himself. &quot;It
follows,&quot; writes Hanks, &quot;that one and the same deictic is
interpreted in one way in quoted discourse, but quite differently in
direct [discourse]&quot; (Hanks, 1992: 56). The type of shift in
reference illustrated here, he continues, is well enough known, and
&quot;is what motivated  Jakobson's original description of these
forms as 'shifters'&quot; (Hanks, 1992: 56). But Hanks goes on to
insist that although the one deictic, &quot;here&quot; (and in my
augmented version of his illustration, &quot;you&quot;), can be
interpreted quite differently, this does not mean that it is
necessary to construe &quot;that the relational values reverse from
use to use&quot; as is the conception in standard accounts. Rather,
writes Hanks, 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>the shift can be accounted
for by saying that quotation involves a transposition of the
indexical ground of reference. The Relational features of the forms
remain constant in both types of discourse, but the <U>origo</U> is
projected in quoted speech from the actual utterance framework into a
narrated one. (Hanks, 1992: 56) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>That is, the origo of the utterance
can no longer be said to be exclusively held to the utterer, to be
ego-centric, but might also be seen as involving an instance of
Other-centred deixis. Moreover, as Hanks observes, speakers
&quot;routinely interact across boundaries of various kinds,&quot;
speaking from room to room, across a work site, across open distances
and so on, with deictic utterances reorienting the speakers &quot;to
a relatively great degree, creating a reciprocal or common focus of
attention&quot; between the participants where initially there was
none (Hanks, 1992: 67). Thus, whereas &quot;[i]n many deictic acts,
an already constituted deictic framework is presupposed, in which
interlocutors share certain relevant knowledge, immediate experience
and engagement,&quot; in others, the origo is not already in place,
so that the deictic acts must immediately create a framework, &quot;an
interactive relation that did not exist prior to the utterance&quot;
(Hanks, 1992: 67). This play between &quot;presupposed&quot; and
&quot;creative&quot; aspects of deixis, Hanks argues, is ongoing,
revealing that &quot;the indexical origo is a dynamic ground, rather
than a fixed object&quot; (Hanks, 1992: 67). 
</P>
<P>Herman's double deictic case of &quot;you&quot;
is an attempt to conceive of the Protean-&quot;you's&quot; shiftiness
precisely in terms of this dynamic ground. Kacandes's spectrum of
reciprocity (a dialogic model) and Hantzis's &quot;second-person&quot;
point of view proper (implicitly a conduit model) both continue to
conceive of the problem through the ego-centric ground of the
standard account of deixis - and indeed,
both draw heavily on Benveniste's account of the shifter. In double
deixis, writes Herman, &quot;there is no longer any ultimate
(nonimaginary) reference point anchoring localised .&nbsp;.&nbsp;.
shifts in space and time.&quot; 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE><A NAME="foot69"></A>Neither
a term of address nor not a term of address, doubly deictic <U>you</U>
ranges over the middle portion of a continuum whose lower and upper
limits, respectively, are marked by the two limit cases of
virtualised and actualised <U>you</U>. Hovering between these two
extremes, double deixis ontologically destabilises a modal system
that can no longer be neatly divided into the virtual and the actual.
(Herman, 1994: 398)<A HREF="8notes.htm#69">69</A> 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>Interpreting double deictic &quot;you,&quot;
Herman writes, &quot;requires that we abandon what Hanks has
characterised as the 'assumption of egocentricity' [in favour of a]
'sociocentricity of deictic reference'&quot; (Herman, 1994: 400).
Herman argues that, in reading O'Brien's narrative, 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE>we (the audience) are able
to adopt the role of participant precisely because discourse in
general encodes reference to a set of potential addressees even when
pointing to an actual addressee. The doubly deictic <U>you</U> of
second-person narratives suggests that there can be an addressee just
because there could be other addressees: that is, what we deem to be
actual speech situations are just part of a larger network of (more
or less) virtualised speech situations toward which the current
discourse is constantly tending and from which it never ceases to
emerge.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. [H]earing can no longer be neatly
distinguished from overhearing. We are eavesdroppers on the discourse
that addresses us and beckoned by discourse addressed to others.
(O'Brien, 1984: 401) 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>I suggest that there is a particular
ambiguity in Herman's working through of doubly deictic &quot;you&quot;
at this point that should not pass unaddressed. Double deixis seems
to be characterised as a multiplication of &quot;I&quot;-&quot;you&quot;
couples, therefore as nothing so much as a tabling of all who may
speak from a deictic centre (i.e., as the origo) and all who may be
pointed to from that centre. Herman is fully aware, however, of the
much deeper implications of Hanks's propositions, and his final
remarks make it clear that he intends these to be played out fully in
the notion of double deixis: Hanks is not speaking merely of a
loosening of deictic reference between available speech event
participants. 
</P>
<P>Herman proposes in the final section
of &quot;<U>You</U> and Double Deixis in <U>A Pagan Place</U>&quot;
(1994) that the ground of deixis - and of
double deixisis not constituted by a range or set of more or less
reciprocal relations of deictic self-centred-ness. He insists that
the familiar use of speaker-centred deictic terms is not evidence for
their primacy, nor for the primacy of egocentric orientation in
general. And he makes clear, too, that linear models are not adequate
to describe the address effects of double deictic &quot;second-person&quot;
narrative. Rather, the allocutionary effect is better conceived of as
specifiable within a field of intersecting constituents, or, more
properly, amongst overlapping fields of deixis. As Herman elegantly
and justifiably claims about his case of double deixis in his closing
remarks, 
</P>
<BLOCKQUOTE><A NAME="foot70"></A>doubly
deictic you reveals that context itself is never petrified and
immobile, but dynamic and vegetable, living, growing with the
multiplicity of linguistic forms it embeds and in which it is
embedded. It resembles the lichen that you sometimes see growing on
and through a wall, lichen that may have 'passed into the body of the
stone and .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. become part of it. There was white and
green and rust-coloured lichen and there were queer shapes, all
watery at the edges, like the borders of countries on the school
map.'&quot; (Herman, 1994: 404)<A HREF="8notes.htm#70">70</A> 
</BLOCKQUOTE>
<P>The deictic origo therefore must be
understood to be dispersed and dispersing, rhyzomic, its indexical
framework of reference always changing as &quot;interactants move
through space, shift topics, exchange information, coordinate their
respective orientations, and establish common grounds as well as
non-commonalities&quot; (Hanks, 1992: 53). The origo, observes Hanks,
is neither a psychological nor metaphysical given but is an entity
&quot;bound up crucially in the interaction between participants&quot;
(Hanks, 1992: 68). 
</P>
<P><A NAME="foot71"></A>To summarise,
then, I would identify three aspects of &quot;second-person&quot;
textuality as contributing to the depth or strength of the effect of
the allocutionary function. These three aspects, I propose, are most
felicitously described in the context of a reference model of &quot;second
person&quot; textuality. Such a model offers two advantages. First,
the model permits the critic/reader to construe its categories of
agency - the &quot;you,&quot; the narrator, the reader and
narratee, and the &quot;no-body&quot; of the figural, to name the
categories at their most coarse <A HREF="8notes.htm#71">71</A>as
quintessentially anthropocentric (i.e., as &quot;persons&quot;
engaged in acts of virtual or actual communication). But, second, it
effectively at the same time disengages address from the model as a
directly constitutive term under the assumption that a referential
(i.e., signifying) function is a prior condition for any address
function. Although all four classes retain an anthropomorphic
constituent, each marked by the qualities inevitable to any figuring
of &quot;person,&quot; the reference identity model conceives of
&quot;second-person&quot; narrative in the non-humanist terms of
textual functions and structuralist linguistics/semiotics. As I have
argued, though the categories remain anthropomorphic, the capacity to
participate within a communicative circuit is made beside the point.
The model remains felicitous beyond its inevitable anthropomorphism
for its disruption of the circuits of communication that typically
underpin critical models of the &quot;second person.&quot; The
problem of address, as a complex function of narrative textuality,
becomes preserved as an object in its own right. 
</P>
<P>The three aspects of &quot;second-person&quot;
textuality that contribute to the depth of the allocutionary function
are: first, the degree of agreement in any occurrence of the &quot;second
person's&quot; morphosyntactic profile and deixis; second, the
insistence of the trace of the &quot;second-person&quot; pronoun's
morphosyntactic profile in the utterance; and finally, the degree of
anthropomorphic particularisation (as opposed to generalisation) of
the &quot;you&quot; referent. As I will argue in the final chapter,
the functions of generalisation and address seem to play a vital role
in the particular and peculiar effects, the &quot;strangeness,&quot;
of Protean-&quot;you&quot; discourse - discourse
that &quot;points to ontological structures clearly
transcending the limits of literature itself&quot; (Ellis, 1991:
239). It is a mode of narrative discourse that has the potential, I
will argue, not only to radicalise notions of narrative &quot;person&quot;
and narrative discourse more generally, but also to radicalise the
notion of &quot;self.&quot; 
</P>
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<p align="center"><font size="-1">contact: <a href="mailto:emmas@wn.com.au">Dennis 
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		ftlObj.sP(ftlObj.x, ftlObj.y);
		setTimeout("stayTopLeft()", 10);
	}
	ftlObj = ml("divNavBar");
	stayTopLeft();
}
JSFX_FloatTopDiv();
</script>

</BODY>
</HTML>

