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Mason, Eric D.
Moving Thumos :
b emotion, image, and the enthymeme
h [electronic resource] /
by Eric D. Mason.
[Tampa, Fla] :
University of South Florida,
ABSTRACT: This dissertation connects classical theories regarding the enthymeme and thumos (a Greek word commonly translated as "heart," "mind," or one's "capacity for emotion") to modern theories of images and emotion in order to reconsider the central role of visual discourse in persuasion, ideology, and subject formation. Since "enthymeme" comes from en and thymos, meaning "in heart," etymologically the enthymeme is an argument that is realized in an individual's thumos.^ ^This dissertation thus attempts to establish the notion of thumos in rhetorical studies by developing a theory of visual enthymemes.The understanding of the enthymeme used within this dissertation works less from the Aristotelian model of the enthymeme as a truncated syllogism, and more from the sophistic use (particularly that of Gorgias, Anaxamines, and Isocrates) of enthymemata---the kairotic "emotively charged reasons" that rely on stylistic force to create an "enthymemic moment" in the audience's experience that produces persuasion or belief. In other words, where Aristotelians envision enthymemic discourse as a structure, the sophists see it as an event. This sophistic enthymemic tradition is evident in the visual rhetoric of modern social activists, particularly in what Kevin DeLuca calls "image events"---the visually based rhetorical efforts of those attempting to move people to action.^ These activities embody a form of "biopolitics" in which the traditional binaries between emotion and rationality, between body and mind, and between text and image no longer hold.The visual enthymeme is offered as one way to understand the affective power of visuals without returning to conventional understandings that situate images and emotional appeals primarily as immoral or otherwise underhanded rhetorical strategies opposed to reason. Depictions of thumos in both classical rhetoric and poetics exemplify a type of "internal rhetoric" in which subjects identify with one "package" of reason and emotion over other possible packages. This packaging holds significant implications for understanding how multimodal texts function enthymemically, and how teachers participate in the education of student emotion.
Dissertation (Ph.D.)--University of South Florida, 2007.
Includes bibliographical references.
Text (Electronic dissertation) in PDF format.
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Mode of access: World Wide Web.
Title from PDF of title page.
Document formatted into pages; contains 199 pages.
Co-adviser: Debra Jacobs, Ph.D.
Co-adviser: Lynn Worsham, Ph.D.
t USF Electronic Theses and Dissertations.
Moving Thumos : Emotion, Image, and the Enthymeme Eric D. Mason A dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirement s for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Department of English College of Arts and Sciences University of South Florida Co-Major Professor: Lynn Worsham, Ph.D. Co-Major Professor: Debra Jacobs, Ph.D. Gary Olson, Ph.D. Elizabeth Hirsh, Ph.D. William A. Kealy, Ph.D. Date of Approval: March 29, 2007 Keywords: rhetoric, affect, politics, visual, composition Copyright 2007, Eric D. Mason
i Table of Contents Abstra ct............................................................................................................ iii Chapter 1 Â– Introduction: A Vision of Thumos..................................................1 Internal Divisions ..................................................................................7 On Reconstructing the Sophist s..........................................................10 Taxonomies of His toriography .............................................................17 Sorting Antifoundationalist Sheep from Foundationalist Goats............20 The Primacy of Rhetoric in Rhetorical Theory.....................................23 Further Di/vi sion...................................................................................30 Recovering T humos.............................................................................34 Chapter 2 Â– Reconsidering the Hear t of Enthymemic Rhetoric......................38 A Problem of De finition........................................................................45 AristotleÂ’s Legacy................................................................................. 54 Pedagogies of the Enthymeme............................................................60 JoyceÂ’s Â“Technic EnthymemicÂ”: Or, Bloom Bl ows It.............................72 The Enthymeme: Tw o Paradigm s........................................................88 Chapter 3 Â– Recovering Thumos in (the History of) Rhetoric ........................99 Reuniting Cognition and Emotion in t he Enthymem e.........................100 A Skeptical View of the Desire for Emotion in Rhet-Comp.................107 Interdisciplinary Contributions to t he Study of Affect and Emotion.....115 What is T humos? ...............................................................................118 Thumos as the Internal Dialogue of Ideology .....................................125 Visualizing Thumos ............................................................................130 Chapter 4 Â– Re-seeing the Visual Enthymeme for the First Time.................133 The Visual Enthymeme in the Academic Mind...................................135 The Enthymeme Does Not Exis t........................................................139 Naturalizing the Enthymem e..............................................................142 The Political Work of Visual Enth ymemes .........................................146
ii Imag(in)ing the En thymeme...............................................................149 Image and Emotion in Rhet orical T heory........................................... 153 Arguing against the Structure of the Visual En thymeme....................159 The Sophistic Contribution to the Visual En thymeme........................166 Activating T humos............................................................................. 174 Chapter 5 Â– Touc hing Thum os..................................................................... 177 Movement in Theory ..........................................................................178 Notes ............................................................................................................184 Referenc es...................................................................................................188 About the Aut hor..................................................................................E nd Page
iii Moving Thumos : Emotion, Image, and the Enthymeme Eric D. Mason ABSTRACT This dissertation connects classica l theories regarding the enthymeme and thumos (a Greek word commonly translated as Â“heart,Â” Â“mind,Â” or oneÂ’s Â“capacity for emotionÂ”) to modern theories of images and emotion in order to reconsider the central role of visual discourse in persuasion, ideology, and subject formation. Since Â“enthymemeÂ” comes from en and thymos meaning Â“in heart,Â” etymologically the enthymeme is an argument that is rea lized in an individualÂ’s thumos. This dissertation thus attempts to establish the notion of thumos in rhetorical studies by developing a theory of visual enthymemes. The understanding of the enthymeme us ed within this dissertation works less from the Aristotelian model of t he enthymeme as a truncated syllogism, and more from the sophistic use (particula rly that of Gorgias, Anaxamines, and Isocrates) of enthymmataÂ—the kairotic Â“e motively charged reasonsÂ” that rely on stylistic force to create an Â“enthymemic momentÂ” in the audienceÂ’s experience that produces persuasion or belief. In other words, where Aristotelians envision enthymemic discourse as a structure, the sophists see it as an event. This sophistic enthymemic tradition is evident in the visual rhetoric of modern social activists, particularly in what Kevin DeLuca calls Â“image eventsÂ”Â—the visually
iv based rhetorical efforts of those attemp ting to move people to action. These activities embody a form of Â“b iopoliticsÂ” in which the tr aditional binaries between emotion and rationality, between body and mind, and between text and image no longer hold. The visual enthymeme is offered as one way to understand the affective power of visuals without returning to conventional understandings that situate images and emotiona l appeals primarily as immora l or otherwise underhanded rhetorical strategies opposed to reason. De pictions of thumos in both classical rhetoric and poetics exemplify a type of Â“internal rhetoricÂ” in which subjects identify with one Â“packageÂ” of reason and emotion over other possible packages. This packaging holds significant implications for understanding how multimodal texts function enthymemically, and how teachers part icipate in the education of student emotion.
1 Chapter 1 Introduction: A Vision of Thumos This dissertation seeks to contribute to the recovery of the notion of thumos in rhetorical studies. Thumos, in its broadest sense, is oneÂ’s capacity for emotionÂ—a dunamis according to Aristotle, that incorporates both activity and characteristic disposition. While this Greek term (spelled either thumos, or thymos ) is relatively unknown to modern rhet oric scholars, this dissertation will integrate thumos into rhetoric and co mposition studies through a concept much more familiar to rhetoricians: the enthymeme In particular, Jeffrey WalkerÂ’s work in ancient rhetoric reveals a signif icant relationship between thumos and the enthymeme (the word enthymeme being from en and thymos or Â“in heartÂ”). Etymologically, an enthymeme is an argument that is realized in an individualÂ’s thumos (171). The involvement of oneÂ’s capacity for emotion is not the understanding of an enthymemic argument that is most familiar to academics. For most academics, the enthymeme is primarily a ssociated with the logi cal structure of the syllogism, and, thus, t he mode of the audienceÂ’s pa rticipation is strictly rational and linguistic. There is a small amount of schol arship that has sought to reinvigorate our disciplineÂ’s understanding of the enthymeme by reconsidering its pre-Aristotelian roots in a ffective persuasion. But none of this scholarship has
2 sought to connect the enthymeme to one of the most pervasive forms of persuasion and argument in contempor ary public discourseÂ—the image. In addition to contributing to the l ong-standing disciplin ary debate over the nature and function of the enthymeme, this dissertation will engage current conversations in rhetoric and composition related to emotion and visual studies. As will be clear later, the value of a notion of thumos to these domains is that it provides a way of speaking about the work of rhetoric in ways that do not depend on the traditional binary hierarchies bet ween emotion and ra tionality, that between body and mind, or that between text and images. It also contributes to current models of subjectivity and belie f in composition theory by recognizing how the emotion-based enthymeme is part of the visual heteroglossia through which individuals identify themselves as subjects. While an understanding of the thumos-based enthymeme will contribute to the current scholarly interest in emotion and visual rhetoric, thumos also promises to be a productive term for many interests often grouped under the rubric of cult ural studies, including studies of race, class, gender, ideology and politics, as well as the many branches of visual studies. Barbara Koziak has shown the potential of the concept of thumos in her book, Retrieving Political Emotion in which she uses it to examine gendered political practices and the politics of gender in drama and criticism. Koziak does not argue that emotion is absent from pub lic discourse. Rather, she argues that we need to overcome the Â“dr ead of political emotionÂ” in public discourse without calling for the Â“overthrow of reason,Â” and develop instead a sense of political
3 emotion that enables political action ra ther than discouraging it (2). Koziak chronicles a Â“sea change in the scholarly understanding of emotionÂ” that has drawn from work being done across seve ral disciplines, noting that scholars Â“have gone from viewing the passions or em otions as universally wild, irrational, dangerous, subjective bodi ly phenomena that impair good practical and theoretical judgment, to posing emotions as rational, cognitive, evaluative, and essential to good moral character and acti onÂ” (13). This dissertation extends KoziakÂ’s valuation of the political work made possible through a concept of political emotion to consider the signifi cance of the recept ion and production of visual discourse as part of this political work. This dissertation is also undeniably about rhetoric and, to some degree, the historiography of rhetoric. By re constructing the enthymeme based on the pre-Aristotelian notion of t humos, it participates in the recovery of sophistic rhetorical theory in order to shed light on modern rhetorical practices. Linking discussions of images, persuasion, and em otion allows one to articulate, for instance, how the rhetorical and ideol ogical practices that engage emotions through the use of images do so by creat ing visual enthymemes. This leap from emotion to enthymeme is enabled by the pre-Aristotelian notion of the enthymeme which includes discourse that affects someone in his or her thumos. One could argue that this alternate version of the enthymeme is available even in Aristotle, but it is most visible in sophi stic works such as those of Isocrates, Gorgias, and Anaxamines, and thumos is we ll-represented in the narrative works of Greek poets, such as HomerÂ’s Iliad
4 This updated version of the enthymeme continues a long tradition of reformulating the enthymeme to match contemporary scholarly interests, a history that Carol Poster has chroni cled in her essay Â“A Historicist Reconceptualization of the Enthymem e.Â” As she writes the continual redefinitions of the enthyme me are Â“typical of the process by which rhetorical theorists of all ages seem to reinterpre t Aristotle to bring his theories into conformance with the dominant rhetorical thinking of their periodÂ” (6). Rather than see this as a reason to discount the enthymeme as a rhetorical concept, I view this as one of the theoretical strengt hs of the enthymeme, especially in view of William CovinoÂ’s observation in The Art of Wondering that the Â“maj or figures of classical rhetoricÂ—Plato, Aristotle, CiceroÂ—define and demonstrate rhetoric as the elaboration of ambiguityÂ” (2). If the definition of the enthymeme were not ambiguous, it would not be of much use to rhetorical theorists. In other words, the ambiguity of t he enthymeme makes it a producti ve concept in rhetorical studies. The term Â“visual enthymemeÂ” is not new, but it may be new to some rhetoricians as it has been primarily defined and deployed by scholars working and publishing in journals only indirectly a ssociated with the fiel d of rhetoric and composition. While I believe there is mu ch value in the work being done in these fields, I also believe that these appr oaches would benefit from a greater engagement with the conversations within the field of rhetorical studies about the nature of the enthymeme. Although the defin ition of a Â“visual enthymemeÂ” has been attempted before, grounding a definition of the visual enthymeme in thumos
5 has not. Adopting the pre-Aristotelian relation between thumos and enthymeme, visual enthymemes would be images that work by engaging the thumos, or emotional capacity, of the viewer. Com pared to the Â“enthymeme-as-rhetoricalsyllogismÂ” derived from Aristotle and pr eserved in so many textbooks and articles, the visual enthymeme has been bar ely theorized. In fact, those scholars who have gestured toward the possibility of visual enthymemes have been (universally, as far as I can tell) housed in philosophy, communication, and speech departments. In the scholarship emerging from t hese departments, Â“visual enthymemeÂ” seems to be a synonym for Â“visual argum ent,Â” the equation of which strips the enthymeme of all the characteristics whic h have made it worthy of recovery in rhetoric and composition over the last half centuryÂ—namely, the engagement of the audience in the construction of the me aning of the event in ways not entirely bound to the discursive structure pres ented by the rhetor. The prevailing understanding of a visual enthymeme, seem ingly, is limited both by a lack of engagement with scholarship in rhetoric and composition, and by the assumption of a hierarchical distinction betwe en argument and persuasionÂ—a relationship that might alternately be fi gured as a hierarchy between philosophy and rhetoric. The enthymeme required by philosophical logic is dependent on a definition of the enthymeme as a linguistic structure ( an incomplete or deficient syllogism). This formalistic and systematic (i.e. Aristo telian, or structural) understanding of the enthymeme is not conduciv e, I argue, to effectively theorizing the rhetorical force of emotions and images.
6 Even AristotleÂ’s extensive commentary on the enthymeme is typically left unaddressed by scholars in other disciplines proclaiming the possibility of visual enthymemes, and the disciplinary debate over the enthymemeÂ’s forms and functions is even less likely to appear. Th is means that many of these scholars simply consider the enthymeme a type of syllogism in which the viewer participates by supplying the missing premis e. One of the scholars of the Â“visual enthymemeÂ” presents the resulting Â“ authoritativeÂ” approach toward the enthymeme when he writes that the enthyme me is Â“a form of argument . in which the arguer deliberately leaves unstat ed a premise that is essential to its reasoning. Doing so has the effect of dr awing the audience to participate in its own persuasion by filling in that unexpressed premiseÂ” (Blair, Â“RhetoricÂ” 41). While this is one view of the enthyme me (garnered most often from the survey work on the enthymeme done by Lloyd Bitzer), it is one that ignores totally the sophistic notion of the enthymeme which focuses on the emotional engagement of the viewer. In ot her words, it ignores thumos. Admittedly, this is a common understanding adopted by scholars in many fields, rhetoricians included. Thus, the goal of this dissertat ion is not simply to dismiss academic work being done in certain departments, but to provide an expanded understanding of the visual enthymeme by recalling an alternate construction of the enthymeme itself. This ignorance of thumos is unfortunat e since thumos is directly implicated in the capacity for individuals to be moved by discourseÂ—to respond to rhetoricÂ— as well as to the active circulation of desire through discourse It is the thumos-
7 enabled potential for movement that forms the basis of politics and, for some, confirms the existence of such a thi ng as Â“effective rhetoricÂ” (Jacobs and Micciche 3). If thumos does indeed descr ibe an effective venue for the work of discourse, then it is easy to agree wit h Ellen Quandahl that Â“this heart-word [thumos] ought to become a ke y term for rhetoricÂ” (14). By bringing a sophistic understanding of thumos to bear on the enthymemes that circulate in contemporary public discourse, I hope to fac ilitate the recognition of this concept as a productive term in cont emporary rhetorical theory. Internal Di-visions Preceding the chapters below, the s ubsequent sections of chapter 1 will situate the methodology of this dissertat ion. Part of that methodology is the serious consideration of sophistic pos itions on knowledge, emotions, and discourseÂ–what ironically might be charged by some to be itself a type of sophism, by making Â“the worse case appear the better.Â” Sophistic rhetoric has been attacked both in classical and modern times as being relativistic, materialistic, and immoral. Some scholar s have even charged that all classical rhetoric is ultimately Â“unassimilable to a contemporary context (Knoblauch and Brannon, S. Miller)Â” (Jarratt xix ). But this dissertation is also an appropriation of sophistic texts and concepts, if not a de liberate misreading, wit hout the intent of remaining faithful to the int entions of the original author s. This is a practice now more commonly practiced and accepted t han it was, for instance, in 1991 when Susan Jarratt wrote Rereading the Sophists or as evidenced in the work of Jasper Neel, but it is one that still encounters resistance. The introduction will
8 explore the conventional forms of this resistance and establish to what extent this dissertation (or any recovery of sophistic rhetoric) can be considered to be within the sophistic rhetorical tradition. The organization and content of the subsequent chapters are explained in brief below. The first chapter, Â“Reconsidering the Heart of Enthymematic Rhetoric,Â” considers the recurrent question in r hetorical studies regarding what an enthymeme is and how it functions, and provides an overview of the various approaches to defining and impl ementing the enthymeme as a rhetorical concept that have been active in the field of rhet oric and composition studies. While most of these approaches have focused on w hat might be called technical issues related to the structure of the enthymeme and its relation to the syllogism, I argue that the heart of the enth ymeme is the experience of ambiguity and that, since an engagement with ambiguity is a traditional objective of rhetor ic, the enthymeme is a rhetorical event that defies assimilati on to a structural definition (as in its definition as a Â“rhetorical syllogismÂ”). The ambiguity sets the stage for the dialogue between emotion and rationality that is often ignored or disparaged by conventional accounts of persuasion. The second chapter, Â“Recovering Thumos in Rhetoric,Â” investigates the ancient notion of thumos and modern debat es over emotion and cognition in order to better understand why thumos is des erving of recovery at this time. It looks to rhetorical treatises and classical Greek epic to generate an understanding of this Â“heart wordÂ” that def ies traditional valuations of emotion, reason, and images. By considering the plac e of thumos within the psychological
9 and rhetorical theories of t he Greeks, as well as current conversations regarding discourse and ideology, it seeks to offer in sight into the role and utility of thumos in rhetorical theory. The third chapter, Â“Re-seeing the Vis ual Enthymeme for the First Time,Â” addresses how the visual enthymeme has previously been theorized through the lens of communication studies and argues for the possibili ty of a visual enthymeme based in thumos. Specifically, it critiques the constructions of visual argument that reference the enthymeme yet limit it to a formal linguistic structure that mirrors the logical st ructure of syllogistic argum ent. It also addresses the approaches to persuasion and images that have emerged through the various fields contributing to visual studies, ones that have downplayed the role of emotion in the meaning of visual disc ourse. It builds upon critiques of reader response theory, and the work of Kevin DeLuca on Â“image eventsÂ” produced by activist environmental groups to theoriz e the visual enthymeme as an event rather than a structure. The final chapter, Â“Touching Thumos,Â” contemplates briefly the usefulness of thumos and the visual enthymeme to ot her areas of study wit hin the fields of rhetoric and composition and cu ltural studies. Specifically it looks at the status and description of movement within these fi elds as a way of illustrating the need for a concept like thumosÂ—one that embraces the complexity of subjectivity over the need to reduce emotion, reason, and identity into a static knowable formation.
10 On Reconstructing the Sophists This dissertation attempts to separate the enthymeme from its history as a linguistically deficient logical structure (a structured lack based in AristotleÂ’s description of the enthymeme as a type of syllogism), and to reconceptualize it as an emotionally sufficient image event (an organized excess based on the sophistic understandings of thumos and the enthymeme). This project, admittedly, relies primarily on sophisti c and pre-Aristotelian understandings in order to appropriate classical discour se Â“to provide critical insight to contemporary theoristsÂ”Â—what Edward Sc hiappa, in his essay, Â“Neo-Sophistic Rhetorical Criticism or t he Historical Reconstruction of Sophistic Doctrines?Â”, would refer to as Â“ratio nal reconstructionÂ” (Sch iappaÂ’s term for the less appropriative practice of studying classi cal discourse to determine the meaning of the original author is Â“historical reconstructionÂ”) (194). Schiappa has taken pains to argue his understanding and a cceptance of postmodern approaches to historiography such as those practic ed by neosophists. But many still maintain that Schiappa ultimately denies the validity of neosophistic approaches to classical texts and figures, treating su ch approaches as either unknowable or less worthy than traditional approaches to historiography.1 Victor Vitanza, for instance, argues that Schiappa himself appropriates the work of Richard Rorty on the history of science and philosophy in order to privilege Â“Â’historically groundedÂ’ (would-be responsible) historiography over and against fictionalized, therefore, ungr ounded (irresponsible) historiographyÂ” (31). According to Vitanza, Schiappa constructs a binary between the responsible
11 Â“historical reconstructionÂ” of sophistic doctrineÂ—historiography that attempts to be faithful to the meani ng of the SophistsÂ—and the irresponsible Â“rational reconstructionÂ” of sophistic doctrineÂ—hist oriography that holds some other value above oneÂ’s faithfulness to historical meaning. One might ask: (where) woul d the present work fit in to this classification system? The punctum to use Roland BarthesÂ’ term, of this dissertation through which thumos is being explored, is t he enthymeme. And the main classical source for the dominant definitions of t he enthymeme is Aristotle (primarily his Rhetoric and Prior Analytics ). And it is AristotleÂ’s commendation of the importance of the enthymeme in his works that has made the enthymeme Â“the most intensively studiedÂ” element of Aristo tleÂ’s rhetorical treatises (Gaines 5). So, it may at first seem that I am addressing a topic lacking the need for reconstruction. But this dissertation ulti mately rejects the conceptions of the enthymeme developed from Aristotle as being unsuited to the highly visual nature of modern discourse, favoring inst ead the sophistic understanding of the enthymeme derived from the works of Is ocrates, Gorgias, and Anaxamines. But the ultimate goal is not simply to underst and what these rhet ors meant in their use of the term Â“enthymeme,Â” but to motivate these al ternative approaches in the study of modern discourse. The debates ov er the historiographic methods used to construct sophistic and neo-sophistic r hetoric is thus relevant to this dissertationÂ’s development of an understand ing of visual enthymemes born from, but not beholden to, sophistic acc ounts of enthymemic discourse.
12 Edward Schiappa, in Â“Sophistic Rhetor ic: Oasis or Mirage?Â”, contends that despite efforts by neosophistic scholars such as John Poulakos to produce a coherent sophistic definition of rhetoric, that sophist ic rhetoric is a Â“mirageÂ— something we see because we want and need to see itÂ” (5).2 Later in his essay, Schiappa critiques attempts to distinguish a Â“sophistic rhetor icÂ” by pointing out several difficulties inherent in such wo rk. Among these difficulties lie the most basic of questions, including how one defines who was a sophist. Some scholars, including Poulakos, adopt the list comp iled by Herman Dielz and Walther Kranz in their work Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker which identifies the following rhetors as sophists: Gorgia s, Hippias, Protagoras, Crit ias, Antiphon, Prodicus, and Thrasymachus. This list is easily criticized, since m any ancient Greek te xts identify other individuals as sophists, and any set of ev aluative criteria will always be open to the charge of being arbitrary. Truly, t he figures on the Diels-Kranz list have garnered more attention than others in moder n scholarship (partially due to their placement on the list), but various sc holars have included on their lists of sophists the following: Prometheus, Home r, Hesiod, Damon, Solon, Thales, Pythagoras, Anaxagoras, Empedocles, Ze no, Plato, Socrates, Isocrates, Gorgias, Antiphon, Thrasymachus, Hippi as, Prodicus, Aeschines, Eudoxus, Protagoras, Critias, Polus, Euthydemus Dionysodorus, Callicles, Antisthenes, Alcidamas, Anaxamines, Alcidamas, and Lycophron, as well as several as-yetunnamed authors of ancient rhetor ical treatises (Â“MirageÂ” 5Â–7).
13 Schiappa focuses on three questions one must confront when attempting to discuss sophistic rhetoric: First, are there any ideological or political views common to the sophists? Poulakos does argue in Â“Sophistical Rhetoric as a Critique of CultureÂ” that sophists shared a liberatory pur pose that was subversive of the dominant social or der. And Sharon Crowley has called for the revival of sophistry based exactly on its tradition of so cio-political critique in her essay, Â“A Plea for the Revival of Sophistry.Â” Bu t Schiappa argues that the evidence of socio-political subversion is undercut, despite their challenge to orthodox understandings of knowledge, for instance, by the high fees that would have restricted such rhetorical educati on to only the rich (Â“MirageÂ” 10). Even the charging of fees, though oft en cited, was not universal, and therefore makes it difficult to answer in the affirmative SchiappaÂ’s second question: are there any professional behaviors common to sophists? Other behaviors attributed to the sophists are arguably even less consistent than the charging of fees. Often, specific sophi sts are held up as exemplars of a more general sophistic practice. For exampl e, Roger Moss argues, based mostly on GorgiasÂ’ highly poetic style, that one of the defining characteristics of sophistic rhetoric was the Â“highly-wrought use of alliteration, assonance, rhyme, and other parisonic devices, [and] parallelisms of all kindsÂ” (213). But Gorgias was as popular as he was exceptional, and such generalizations may obscure more than they illuminate. Also, the attention given to Gorgias is partially a function of the status of PlatoÂ’s work of the same name, so that placing him at the center of a
14 definition of sophistic theory is ulti mately a deference to Plato and his (evaluative) definition of what it means to be a sophist. SchiappaÂ’s third question concerns whet her it is possible to say of the sophists (however defined) that they had anything adding up to a unified (or at least, organized) sophistic rhetoric. Barring any material commonalities yet unknown, Schiappa calls the desire to see sophistry as a unified project Â“simply wishful thinkingÂ” (Â“MirageÂ” 5Â–10). The difficult y of defining a sophistic rhetoric is compounded by the fact that the term from which we deriv e our modern word rhetoricÂ— rhtorikÂ— was coined by Plato; Â“the sophists used not rhetoric but logos to refer to their art of discourseÂ” (McComiskey, Gorgias 7). Schiappa writes of the word Â“logosÂ” that it is Â“one of the most equivocal terms in the Greek languageÂ” (Â“MirageÂ” 8). In fact, Schi appa has been a vocal proponent of the argument that the word we now translate as Â“rhetoricÂ” was most likely Â“coined by Plato in the process of composing Gorgias around 385 B.C.Â” and is therefore unsuitable for application to the practices of sophists (Â“DidÂ” 457). Of course, as mentioned above, if we are always alr eady viewing the notion of sophistry through works like PlatoÂ’s Gorgias then perhaps it is more acceptable to use the word rhetoric in reference to their art of discourse. Even if one could identify a group one was willing to label sophists, one must still deal with their being a diverse set of individuals with divergent views and methods. Even the sophistic use of Â“l ogosÂ” rather than Â“rhetoricÂ” does not provide a solid basis on which to build a sophistic rhetoric. McComiskey notes that the two most prominent sophists, Gorgias and Protagoras, each held a Â“very
15 different conception of logos Â” and, therefore, any concep tion of sophistic rhetoric is admittedly a Â“generic ficti on with little historic validityÂ” (Gorgias 7). As Schiappa puts it, the construction of neosophistic r hetoric, especially one with the goal of socio-political critique, is simply a sign that Â“it is we who have formulated the rhetoricÂ” (Â“MirageÂ” 15, emphasis added). Here is where I would like to part wit h Schiappa, not by denying his claim that we actively formulate (the history of ) rhetoric to match our purposes, but by arguing that he doesnÂ’t acknowledge the full im plications of this claim for all of rhetorical theory. SchiappaÂ’s critique of neosophistic rhet oric seems to want to bypass the neosophistic claim that Â“ every historical account is itself a historically conditioned act of inventive writing and that every historian is inescapably situated in his or her own contingent historical perspectiveÂ” (Consigny 255, emphasis added). The recognition of th is claim by Schiappa would call into question not only conceptions of sophistic rhet oric, but of all rhetorical theory. As Covino reminds us, all conceptions of r hetoric are a product of interpretation practiced by historically-situated selv es, not only conceptions of sophistic rhetoric. He writes: . until recently, students and teacher s were acquainted with an Aristotle whose Rhetoric prescribed the style and arrangement of prose, and whose Poetics reduced Tragedy quite neatly to rising and falling action punctuated by catharsis. This was an Aristotle who had reached us through centuries of interpreters, the Aristotle made congenial to Medieval formulae for eloquence, Renaissance logi c, and Enlightenment positivism.
16 This rather tidy, decisive Aristotle was quite appropriate to mid-century American classrooms that mimicked the military virtues that won the war and saved the peace: a codified, sc hematized philosopher who gave us rules ( Art 1Â–2) If all conceptions of rhetoric are products of interpretation (which Schiappa does elsewhere admit), then it seems odd for him to single out neosophistic conceptions of rhetoric for special treatm ent. In other words, it makes sense to problematize the constructi on of a neosophistic rhetoric that appeals to the needs of contemporary rhetoricians, but only if one is equally willing to problematize the construction of all rhetorical theory and t he positions advanced by its historical formulations. Perhaps the challenge to articulating a description of sophistic rhetoric would be partially alleviated by treati ng each sophist individually (to study Gorgian rhetoric, Critian rhetoric, Hesiod rh etoric, etc., separatel y). After all, part of the reason that t he dominant rhetorical traditions se em fixed is that they focus almost exclusively on the works of only a few individuals (i.e., Aristotle and Plato). But even the wor ks of these two have been interpreted variably by theorists over time. Looking at the hist oriography of rhetoric, Covino concludes that the Â“very instabilit y of the Â‘rhetorical tr aditionÂ’Â” should signify to us that Â“[h]ow we read the history of rhetoric, and w hat we read, and the implications for teaching we derive, can changeÂ” (2). Any attempt to identify a group of Greek thinkers to whom we can apply a generic label, and a group of Greek thinkers to
17 whom we can not apply these labels, thus seems unlikely to hold up under historical analysis. Taxonomies of Historiography Â“SOCRATES: I am a great lover of these processes of division and generalization; they help me to speak and to think.Â” Â– Plato, Phaedrus Schiappa makes a distinction between st udying sophistic rhetoric through Â“historical reconstructionÂ” and Â“rational reconstruction,Â” terms borrowed from Richard RortyÂ’s Â“The Histori ography of Philosophy: Four Genres.Â” Schiappa distinguishes these approaches, respecti vely, as the desire either to interpret or to appropriate ancient texts, claiming that Â“both ought to be done, but done Â‘separatelyÂ’Â” (Â“Neo-SophisticÂ” 196). Schiappa compares his distinctions to those made by Stephen Malkin between histor ical and rational reconstruction: Â“ historical reconstruction of some philosopherÂ’s thought gives an account of what some past thinker said, or would have said, to his contemporariesÂ” while a Â“ rational reconstruction treats a thinker (in many cases, dead) as within our own philosophical frameworkÂ” (Qtd in Â“Neo-SophisticÂ” 193Â–194). Schiappa describes the appropriative pr actice of rational reconstruction thusly: Â“Since the goal of rational reconstr uction is to provide critical insight to contemporary theorists, the needs and valu es of current audiences justify less rigidity and more creativity in the pr ocess of interpreting how dead authors through their texts speak to live, cont emporary authors (Â“Neo-So phisticÂ” 194). As postmodern theory confirms, itÂ’s not possi ble to have a value-free description, and SchiappaÂ’s is no exception. Schiapp a depends on hierarchical oppositions
18 (creative/academic, formal/informal, ri gid/flexible) to describe rational reconstruction, oppositions where one term is typically favored in any given discourse community. Since value-em bedded descriptions are inevitable, perhaps the greatest indictment of Schiapp aÂ’s description, then, is not that he uses such oppositions, but that he asso ciates rational reconstruction with terms that his own discourse community does not favor. Bruce McComiskey critiques SchiappaÂ’s ta xonomy, arguing that Â“historical reconstruction and rational reconstruction ar e fluid points on a continuum, not allor-nothing categories, and this conti nuum is best understood as historical interpretationÂ” ( Gorgias 10). Furthermore, McComiskey refuses even to allow that all examples of Â“neosophistic appropriati onÂ” fall within the category of rational reconstruction, arguing that some writer s Â“search the past for contributions to modern theoretical probl ems and problematicsÂ” without necessarily Â“treating a thinker Â‘as within our own philosophical framework.Â’Â” Furthe rmore, not even all neosophistic appropriation is per formed in order to Â“appropriate ancient doctrines in the same way,Â” and thus those desiring to categorize historicist work in rhetoric cannot maintain a Â“clear distinction bet ween the goals and methods of historical scholarship that interprets ancient doctrines and Â‘neoÂ’ historical scholarship that appropriates ancient doctrines for contemporary purposesÂ” ( Gorgias 11, 8). In VitanzaÂ’s words, the application of such exclusionary categories Â“ disenable history-writing and hi storiographyÂ” (352). Victor Vitanza is less kind to Schiappa than McComiskey is (or, apparently, I am), stating that Schi appa is a Â“traditional-philological-
19 Â‘metaphysicalÂ’ formalistÂ” who, in his opposition of rational and historical reconstructions of sophistic doctrine, is attempting to sort Â“sheep from goatsÂ” (32, 31). VitanzaÂ’s disapproval of SchiappaÂ’s dist inctions is part of his greater inquiry into what he calls the Â“negative dialecticÂ” in his book Negation, Subjectivity, and the History of Rhetoric The negative dialectic includes various mechanisms of exclusion, including the Â“dividing practicesÂ” ( diaerisis ) that Vitanza claims Schiappa employs Â“to do hist oryÂ” (12). For Vitanza, the negative Â“enables, it disenables . [but it is] mostly a di senabler because it excludes.Â” Vitanza finds such a disenabling in SchiappaÂ’s essay mentioned earlier, Â“Sophistic Rhetoric: Oasis or Mirage?Â”: Let me in/cite in historiography on e general example: Schiappa asks the question: The Sophists, oasis or mir age? He employs a dividing practice, either oasis or mirage. No matter how anyone, including Schiappa, needs or wants to say otherwise, with this formulation of the question, Schiappa destroys the conditions of possibilities of the Sophists. (13) In view of the dividing practices being app lied to sophists, Vitanza feels his own work in the history of rhetoric serves to Â“resurrect, or recr eate the conditions of the possibilities for, the Sophists as s ublime, sovereign subjects that-are-notsubjectsÂ” (11). Vitanza argues that by opposing historical reconstruction Â“over and against fictionalized, therefore, un grounded (irresponsible) historiography,Â” Schiappa privileges historical reconstruc tion in ways that are not supported by RortyÂ’s more pragmatic views from whom Schiappa takes his terms (Vitanza 31).
20 According to Vitanza, Rorty is more of an Â“Â‘ironicÂ’ formalistÂ” and the difference between SchiappaÂ’s and RortyÂ’s approache s to historiography can be summed up in this way: The difference here, then, lies between the new philology (as practiced, say, by Nietzsche and Rorty) and the ol d philology (as practiced by Ulrich Wilamowitz-Moellendorff and Schiappa). The two have radically different notions of Â‘describingÂ’ the world: Again, for Rorty, the ironist believes in no Â‘final vocabularyÂ’ and, thus, [believes] in redescriptions (anything can be made to look either good or bad, like an oasis or mirage, a fact or fiction) while the metaphysician, [believes] in descriptions (anything is either good or bad, etc.). (32) This raises the question of whether t he success of the negative dialectic is restricted by the possibility embedded in VitanzaÂ’s own wordsÂ—that, for the ironist, Â“anything can be made to look either good or bad, like an oasis or mirage, a fact or fictionÂ” (emphasis altered). Al though Vitanza seeks to expand the possibilities of emergence of sophistic rhetoric, his own language reproduces a dividing practice by limiting the ironistÂ’s redescriptions to binary sets of either-or constructions. Sorting Antifoundationalist Sheep from Foundationalist Goats If McComiskeyÂ’s critique challenges t he very possibility of categorizing scholarship easily by the degree of interpretation, it also suggests the impossibility of the easy application of the labels Â“anti-foundationalistÂ” and Â“foundationalistÂ” in the debate over the theorization of sophistic rhetoric
21 (admittedly, I write this with the full realization that neosophistic theorists have been widely, perhaps exclusively, associ ated with antifoundationalism). In a response to Schiappa, Scott Consigny writes with remarkably high confidence that . we may characterize SchiappaÂ’s neosophistic rivals, a group including John Poulakos, Sharon Cro wley, Victor Vitanza, Kathleen Welch, and Susan Jarratt as Â‘antifoundationalistÂ’; and we may identify SchiappaÂ’s own camp, one including Eric Havelock, G. B. Kerferd, Jacqueline de Romilly, and Thomas Cole, as Â‘foundationalist.Â’ This distinction is illuminating, for it situat es their battle within the war raging in the intellectual community over th e nature and scope of rational inquiry and of knowledge itself. (253) As McComiskey critiques the bifurcation of all theorists of sophistic rhetoric into responsible and irresponsible historiographer s, so would I critique the automatic labeling of those who doubt the existence of a coherent system of sophistic rhetoric with foundationalism (as long as this doubt is qualified as a lack of current persuasive account of sophistic r hetoric, not the impossi bility of such an account). Significantly, the association of sophi sm with antifoundationalism is related to the recovery of rhetoric as a field of cr itical inquiry in the twentieth century. As Stanley Fish writes, Â“another word fo r antifoundationalism is rhetoric, and one could say without too much exaggerati on that modern antif oundationalism is old sophism writ analyticÂ” ( Doing 347). The eagerness to engage in a debate over
22 the viability of a concept of sophistic rhetor ic is thus a marker of the valuation of rhetoric itself, and engaging in such a debate regardless of the side taken, could be taken as an affirmation of antifoundati onal principles. As Schiappa himself writes, the Â“worst fate in academia is to have oneÂ’s work ignoredÂ” (Â“SomeÂ” 272). In some ways, the conversation of rhetor ic can only continue to the degree that it is antifoundational. The Â“war raging in the intellect ual communityÂ” between foundationalists and antifoundationalists that Consigny identifies may exist, although the differences among factions in this Â“warÂ” are unlikely to boil down to two opposing and contradictory groups, one of which is wrong and the other right. Such classification seems incompatible wit h some of the sophistic pronouncements favored by neosophists, such as ProtagorasÂ’ assertions that Â“of all things the measure is man,Â” that one can make the Â“weaker logos stronger,Â” and that Â“contradiction is impossible,Â” since thes e assertions suggest that Â“there are no absolute, context-independent criteria t hat exist independently of the human beings who hold themÂ” and, thus, the Â“truth of any assertion derives from the persuasiveness with which it is presented to a particular audienceÂ” and not in any disinterested realm of abstr act truth (Consigny 256). Wh at this suggests, rather, is the dependence of the persuasiveness of any claim on the standards of specific communities of scholars. If one accepts that even foundational accounts are persuasive to some communities of scholars, then one can see that foundationalism and antifoundationalism are si milar in that that they are both deployed rhetorically.
23 Consigny claims that Â“many neosophi sts tend to describe their fifthcentury Greek precursors with the pivota l topos of Â‘philosophy and rhetoric,Â’Â” where philosophy is identifi ed with the Â“search for ontol ogical or epistemological foundationsÂ” and rhetoric is identified with the Â“antifoundational wo rld view itselfÂ” (255). At the least, ConsignyÂ’s descripti on elides one central pointÂ—that despite the meta-differences among historiogr aphic communities, they both proceed to defend their views rhetorically. Consigny states that sophists advocated a Â“rhetoricist model of language in which Â‘truth Â’ is a sobriquet awarded by particular audiences to persuasive, partisan fabricati ons rather than a cond ition of the world that some statements accu rately represent.Â” But C onsignyÂ’s dismissal of SchiappaÂ’s account of sophistic rhet oric overlooks the manner in which SchiappaÂ’s foundationalist discourse is par t of the vocabulary found persuasive by a certain historiographic communi ty. Stated another way, foundationalist discourse (even if Â“wrongÂ”) is entirely rhet orical, since it appeals to the search for foundations espoused by members of a co mmunity of scholars. To set such a community against another community that is supposedly committed to rhetoric is to limit rhetoric to only that with which you agree. The Primacy of Rhetoric in Rhetorical Theory I will return to ConsignyÂ’s defense of the work of neosophists and the need to view these theories as rhetorical endeavors below, but want to here point out that I bring up this debate, not simply to justify attention given later to a nonAristotelian (Â“sophisticÂ” seems too l oaded at this point) account of the enthymeme grounded in thumos, but to temper my own dismissal of the
24 enthymeme tradition derived from the work of Aristotle. According to James McBurneyÂ’s early retrospective, Â“The Pl ace of the Enthymem e in Rhetorical Theory,Â” scholars have traditionally conc erned themselves with six areas of inquiry regarding discussions of the ent hymeme in the works of Aristotle: (1) The passages in which Aristotle ex plains that the materials of the enthymeme are probabilities ( ) and signs ( ); (2) the passages in which Aristotle dec lares example to be a form of the enthymeme; (3) the passages in which he discusse s the relationship of the enthymeme to the topics or topoi ; (4) those in which we may see th e relation of the enthymeme to ethos and pathos ; (5) the passages in which demonstrati ve and refutative enthymemes are distinguished; and (6) the passages relating to the s uppression of a proposition in the enthymeme. (56) It is not uncommon to find entire essays devoted to one of the above concerns, essays that seek to answer limited inquiri es such as how many premises must be present for an audience to construct a sy llogism from, or whether the enthymeme makes use of fallible or infallible signs. It is not my goal to show that theorists interested in these conventional questions and characteristics are wrong (or that theyÂ’re foundationalists), only that such considerations are not as useful to contemporary scholars interested, for instance, in the field of visual rhetoric, as a
25 conception of the enthymeme underst ood through thumos can be. The easy designations of groups into extreme pos itionsÂ—both Schiapp aÂ’s separation of scholars into rational and historical re constructionists as well as ConsignyÂ’s division of scholars into either antifoundat ionalists or foundationalistsÂ—is likely to be inaccurate and, to use VitanzaÂ’s word, Â“disenabling.Â” I am less interested in clarifying what Aristotle Â“meantÂ” the enthymeme to be (and, honestly, not entirel y committed to what Gorgias or Anaxamines or Isocrates Â“meantÂ” by it either), than in a more expansive view of the practices found in enthymemic rhetorical practices. And while I believe that the theorization of the visual enthymeme may further certain antifoundational projects, IÂ’m not convinced that its derivat ion from sophistic approac hes to the enthymeme or thumos make it automatica lly antifoundational. It seems unlikely that much of what Consigny characterizes as foundatio nal principlesÂ—that Â“there are rational laws and standards immune from the v agaries of time and chance and that knowledge is more secure than the transient beliefs of contingent human beings,Â” for instanceÂ—is evident in any strong sens e in the works of the authors he labels as foundational (253Â–254). Rat her, these are absolute stat ements to which few, if any, scholars in rhetoric would ascr ibe. In fact, Schiappa has argued quite forcefully for his antifoundational chops and the acknowledged situatedness of his own inquiry in his Â“Some of My Best Friends Are Neosophists: A Response to Scott Consigny.Â” One way to restate the incongruity at the heart of an tifoundationalist critiques such as ConsignyÂ’s is that, though they assume that the Â“the art of
26 reading is thoroughly Â‘rhetoricalÂ’ in that it involves using the vocabulary of oneÂ’s own community in order to invent a persuasive account,Â” they do not allow that, for some communities, the language of foundationalism is such a vocabulary (254). So, while I generally agree with t he observations of antifoundationalists, it is hard to agree with ConsignyÂ’s dism issal of SchiappaÂ’s work on the grounds that it Â“presents a highly partisan interp retationÂ” when antifoundationalism itself reveals that Â“Â’truthÂ’ is a sobriquet aw arded by particular audiences to persuasive, partisan fabricationsÂ” (253, 255). Acco rding to antifoundational principles, persuasive arguments can only ever be Â“partisan fabrications.Â” To insist otherwise would be to deny the situatedness of speakers in what Stanley Fish calls interpretive communities communities that ensure t hat Â“every interpretation is a provisional fabricati on whose validity depends solely on its ability to elicit commendation or approval fr om members of the communityÂ” (Consigny 254). ConsignyÂ’s claim that Schiappa Â“fails to make [his reading of the sophists] stronger than that of his neosophistic riva ls,Â” disregards the basic insight of antifoundational theoryÂ—that t he determination of what makes one argument stronger than another is only possible with in the evaluative standards of some community (253).3 By not distinguishing betw een the standards of what is persuasive to the communities being addressed by the foundationalists and the communities addressed by the antifoundationa lists, this claim deploys a universal standard (of what makes an argument strong), even as it repudiates the notion of universal standards. Just as AristotleÂ’s description of the s ophists enabled Â“future rhetoricians to vilify the sophists as oppone nts to everything right and good .
27 regardless of its actual resemblance to what many of the sophists might have professed,Â” the contemporar y specter of foundationalism promoted by Consigny may enable the vilification of historic al reconstructionists (McComiskey, Gorgias 3). I am cautioned here by FoucaultÂ’s explanation of repression in The History of Sexuality in which he posits that there is a Â“speakerÂ’s benefitÂ” embedded in the belief that sex is repressed which ensur es that the Â“mere fact that one is speaking about it has the appear ance of a deliberate transgressionÂ” (6). It is possible that advocates of antifoundat ionalism have often benefited from a characterization of foundationalism as mo re uniform, more entrenched, and more influentialÂ—in a word, more foundationalÂ— than its practitioners achieve. I have no desire to defend foundationalism, only to remind myself that the disciplinary history of the enthymeme, and of all hi storiography, is based within a Â“warÂ” (to use ConsignyÂ’s description) among vari ous discourse communities, each of which, as antifoundationalism teaches us, is Â“inescapably situated in [its] own contingent historical perspectiveÂ” (Consi gny 255). To dismiss the arguments of situated scholars on the basis that they are situated within communities with which one does not share founding beliefs is to construct unnecessary impasses among scholars, and to grossly underesti mate the dialogic potential located within the play of signification, which r egularly overcomes the incommensurability of situated language games.4 Arguing for the recovery of a concept of thumos in order to reform our understanding of what an enthymeme is, and what a visual enthymeme might be,
28 will undoubtedly break with current dominan t accounts of the enthymeme. But where this endeavor will most strongly alig n with past attempts at theorizing the enthymeme is in the rhetorical nature of the endeavor. In r egards to PosterÂ’s claim cited earlierÂ—that t he history of the enthymeme shows that Â“rhetorical theorists of all ages seem to reinterpre t Aristotle to bring his theories into conformance with the dominant rhetorical thinking of their periodÂ”Â—it should now be clear that such reinterpretation is consonant with an antif oundational view of discourse as rhetorical, regardless of the specific community addressed or the principles invoked (6). With this understanding, there is more to gain by exposing continuity between this and past accounts of the enthymeme, than by a strictly oppositional framework. In the terms used by Vitanza and Rorty above, this dissertation is admittedly a redescription of the enthymeme that is also an appropriation of thumos, conceiving of it as a notion which Â“can be madeÂ” to apply to todayÂ’s visually saturated discourse. My evaluative criteria becomes thus to be useful, or to be interesting, or to be provocative, but not necessarily to be correct. The redescription of visual enthymeme s is intentionally an act of theorizing Â—Â“the act of engaging in critical, philosophical, he rmeneutic speculation about a subjectÂ”Â— as opposed to theory-building Â—Â“the attempt to arrive at a generalizable explanation of how somethi ng worksÂ” (Olson 8). By theor izing the circulation of visual enthymemes, I do not anticipate being able to describe how all visuals work, or even how all enthymematic visuals work, but rather to speculate as to
29 the connections between our understandings of emotio n, images, and a Greek concept over 2500 years old. The desire to understand the relationships among images, emotions, and persuasion by (re)theorizing (visual) ent hymemes matches VitanzaÂ’s desire to Â“redescribe so as to create the c onditions for the possibility of new configurationsÂ” (33). The reconfiguration of the ent hymeme made available will hopefully better accommodate the wi despread use of images in modern discourse and recognize the role of t he audienceÂ’s capacity for emotion in the reception of these images. This is a s peculative act with no in tention to remain within the traditional bounds of the ancient rhetoric al texts from which it proceeds. Thus, this text is probably best viewed as Â“provocation rather than information, as interruptions in t he long-standing conversation about the elements of rhetor icÂ” (Covino 3). The redescription of the enthymeme in this text could be considered a form of rational reconstr uction that probably falls further towards the appropriation pole of McComiskeyÂ’s contin uum of historical interpretation. Although it does make use of sophistic te xts, it primarily appr opriates a notion from classical rhetoric pr oper, the enthymeme, thereby re inforcing the notion that every rhetorical concept is brought to us through a process of interpretation. And, therefore, it focuses also on the recepti on and uses of these theories by various scholars, rather than their original contex ts. This text will not establish a Â“theory with a big T Â” capable of translating all images in to a formally structured model of the visual enthymeme or even necessa rily arrive at an applicable model
30 appropriate to the teaching of college-level argument (O lson 8). In fact, one of the key features of the enthymeme ex plored here will be it Â’s ambiguityÂ—its conceptualization as a Â“rich set of re lationships with the potential of being expressed in a multitude of waysÂ”Â—a qua lity that makes the enthymeme, despite its classical heritage, uniquely suit ed to theorizing connections among postmodern argumentation, visual persuas ion, and the experience of emotion (Emmel 132). It is the enthymemeÂ’s malleabilit y, rather than its specificity, that makes it of interest here. Further Di/vision Discussions of the enthymeme are often characterized by the same type of dividing practices as those identified by Vitanza and practiced by Consigny in discussions of the sophists. The following examples provide insight into how the features identified above wit h the debate over the recovery of sophistic rhetoric have been deployed in debates specifica lly concerning with the enthymeme. Richard Lanigan writes, for instance, t hat the Â“scholarly preoccupation with enthymematic definition is a continuing attempt to explicate faithfully or radically depart from the corpus of Aristotelian writ ingsÂ” (207, emphasis added). Such a characterization misrepresents the nuanced differences among the various approaches to defining the enthymeme. It also perpetuates, without naming it so, the binary between the historical recons truction and rational reconstruction of rhetorical theory. In practice, what it pr ovides is simply a way to dismiss certain scholarly work or approaches as inferior or misguided.
31 Another scholar who is interested in sorting sheep from goats in the context of the defining of the enthyme me is Robert Gaines. In his essay, Â“Aristotle's Rhetoric and the Contemporary Arts of Practical Discourse,Â” Gaines produces an overview of the scholarly works on the enthymeme, attempting to show that most of them Â“exploit their chosen subject merely as the platform to launch a doctrine that is either foreign or antithetical to explicit doctrines in Aristotle's positionÂ” (10). Gaines soft ens this statement with the following: Of course, there is nothing inherentl y wrong in holding views that oppose AristotleÂ—about enthymemes or anything else. But insofar as argument theorists directly or indirectly attri bute such views to Aristotle himself, a problem arises; for they put words in Aristotle's mouth that he would have refused to speak. The result is a mi sappropriation of Aristotle's authority and, ultimately, the demotion of the Rhetoric to a shallow heuristic, devoid of consistency or theoretical force. (10) Here, Gaines is defending the legitimacy only of reconstructing the ideas of Aristotle, and he does so by assuming t hat most of the scholarly works he consults are attempting historical reconstr uction in order to level his criticism that they claim Â“Aristotelian authority for a position that Aristotle could not have acceptedÂ” (17). But even Gaines admits that the Rhetoric reveals that Aristotle is Â“openly committed to contrary viewsÂ” regar ding the enthymeme (8). Despite this, Gaines displays a clear willingness to crit icize scholars for attempting rational reconstruction. For instance, in respons e to JasperÂ’s NeelÂ’s statement in AristotleÂ’s Voice that Â“Of this one claim, howev er, I am certain: whatever an
32 enthymeme may be, it is not a syllogismÂ” (63), Gaines writes that Â“Regrettably, Neel was not at pains to specify the non-syllogistic nature of enthymemeÂ” (15). Rather than read NeelÂ’s work as an int entional misreading of the passages Neel cites, Gaines chooses to Â“infer [NeelÂ’s ] view from the Aristotelian passages he stresses.Â” GainesÂ’ criticism of Neel is especially ill-aimed consider ing the fact that Neel makes it exceptionally clear that his goal is not to reconstruct AristotleÂ’s (or any other figureÂ’s) original meaning. Neel explicitly contrasts the Â“professionalÂ” discourse of scholars like Gaines and Schiappa with what he calls Â“mere sophistryÂ” (190). He writes: One alternative to such professionaliz ation is sophistry, which seems to be the place where I always end up. T he most obvious way to become a sophist is to articulate and then inhabit the theory and the pedagogy of previous sophists. . Increasingl y, I prefer a second, perhaps less obvious, way of seeking out a theory and a pedagogy with the name "sophist." And I find the second way more reliable and more productive than trying to figure out w hat Protagoras or Gorgias or some other sophist meant or thought. I prefer to inhabit the notions of "sophistry" created by Plato and Aristotle. Whether Plat o and Aristotle described "sophistry" accurately matters little to me. What matters is t hat the theoretical frame (up) that Plato and Aristotle left for us exists through its exclusion of something that they ca lled "sophistry." (190Â–191)
33 Rather than try to walk in the shoes of past sophists by reproducing specific pedagogies or theories, Neel chooses instead to (dis)identify with the characterization of sophists as passed down from rhetoricÂ’s Â“founding fathersÂ” (191). The historical figure of the sophist is one that, as Neel admits, is Â“quite difficult to pin down.Â” Aristides, a Greek r hetorician of the second century, writes of this term skeptically in his Orations : Did not Herodotus call Solon a Â“sophist,Â’ and in turn Pythagoras? . Does not Lysias call Plato a Â‘sophist,Â” and again Aeschines? By way of reproach in the case of Lysias, one might say. Bu t the rest of the authors at any rate were not reproaching those other dist inguished individuals; nevertheless they called them this name. . No I think that Â‘sophistÂ’ was probably a general term . . (Qtd. in McComiskey, Gorgias 3) Although the historical accuracy of the te rm sophist is debatable, the description of sophistry given us by Plato and Aris totle is something that Neel can engage (and inhabit), without feeling the need to explicate the works of specific individuals to find the most accurate inte rpretation or most faithful translation. Besides, this pursuit would most definit ely be hindered by the fact that Â“the ancient Greek term sophist simply meant Â‘wise man,Â’ until, that is, Plato and his fourth-century BCE contemporaries change d its usage to a term of reproachÂ” (McComiskey, Gorgias 3). It is only by adopting the definition of sophist passed down by Plato that one has a specific approach to rhetoric to contend with. T hus, the study of sophistry is for Neel a way to recognize how Â“Plato and Aristotl e located rhetoric
34 in a certain place and oriented it in a certai n direction. I am not content either with the place or the direction, and I would very much like to know what happens when that foundation is moved and the orientation turnedÂ” ( 191). It is difficult to see how Gaines, in defense of his own interpretation of the enthymeme, could legitimately accuse Neel and others of being Â“shot through with misappropriation . [because, for instance, their] reading conflicts with Aristotle's sharp distinction between logical and expressive matters within the Rhetoric Â” (18). Such an accusation assumes that Neel is attempting to produce a historical reconstruction of the sophists, which obviously he is not. Recovering Thumos Rather than align the recovery of t humos in rhetorical studies via the enthymeme with antifoundatio nal or foundational thin king, it may be more accurate to say that this recovery will be rhetorical. Th e connection of thumos to the visual enthymeme is useful, not only because it allows one to bring the enthymeme into line with contemporar y rhetorical thinking and forms of discourse, but because it enables the link age of the discourse s of emotion and images to classical persuasion. Although my goal is to construct a space for theorizing the visual enthymeme, a concept I believe would be useful to rhetorical theorists, I imagine no ultimate telos for it (nor for the conventional enthymeme) within rhetoric and composition studies. As Michel Foucault has said, Â“If you knew when you began a book what you woul d say at the end, do you think that you would have the courage to write it? . The game is worthwhile insofar as we donÂ’t know what will be the endÂ” ( Technologies 9).
35 In the discussion below, the enthyme me may emerge primarily as a practice to be resisted due to its ability to obscure the workings of ideology because of Â“how natural enthymematic r easoning is in the arguments we makeÂ” (Emmel 134). Or the recons ideration of the enthyme me may needlessly reaffirm tenets of reader-response theory that now comp rise the Â“foundational assumptionsÂ” of much modern day scholar ship (Harkin 416). Or the enthymeme may appear irrelevant once it emerges that the enthymeme is a Â“condensed, mediated, and now ubiquitous, formÂ” of pub lic argumentation, a banal feature of the always Â“already saidÂ” condition of fragmented postmodern discourse (Aden 62, 55). If any of these outcomes occu rs, I will not be entirely disappointed or surprised. In terms set forth by Gregory Ulmer, the transformation of the enthymeme from a linguistic model to an affective model constitutes the Â“choral workÂ” of heureticsÂ—the creation of a space in whic h a new method can be invented, work that is Â“only preclusive, a mere begi nning, a proposal, an experimentÂ” (33). Heuretics is UlmerÂ’s answer to the oftcited divide between theory and practice. While method is often considered a prio r condition to theory, heuretics is a project of Â“generating a me thod out of theory,Â” a met hod that is based on the work of avant-garde artists and therefor e applies Â“performance strategies to researchÂ” ( xii ). It focuses on production rather t han interpretation, prompting us to ask not, Â“what is the meaning of an exis ting work?Â”, but Â“[b]ased on a given theory, how might another text be produced?Â” ( xiii ).
36 According to Ulmer, the enthymeme of Aristotle is part of a discourse focused on the creation of unassailabl e (because correctly structured) arguments. In this type of Â“argumentat ive writing the reader deals with the product or end result of a reasoning proc essÂ” (38). Rather than introducing the audience to the potential meanings and k nowledge accessible through dialogue, argument Â“provided one path and suppressed ev erything else . the goal of the enthymeme was to convince the reader that the solution offered to the problem was the only one possible.Â” Reinventi ng the enthymeme is thus also an opportunity to place it beyond the realm of argumentative writ ing. The visual perhaps represents a method that is va luable exactly because it can be an enthymeme without being an argument. Due to the speculative nature of a ttempting to reinvent the enthymeme, application is not an explicit goal. In other words, the goal is not to produce a Theory of the visual enthymeme that will a llow one to explicate individual images in a mechanical manner. As Brian Massumi wr ites: Â“The first rule of thumb if you want to invent or reinvent concepts is simple: donÂ’t apply them. If you apply a concept or system of connecti on between concepts, it is the material you apply it to that undergoes change, much more markedly than do the conceptsÂ” (17). MassumiÂ’s charge perhaps takes postmodern accounts of incommensurability to an unnecessary ex treme, suggesting that rethinking concepts is only possible within the ar ena of a single assembly of language games. But it does draw attention to the fact that the most contested areas of theoretical work are not likely to be in the application of concepts, the
37 consequences of which, he claims, are most ly limited to the objects of criticism. Because new objects lack hierarchical dist inction within a discipl ine, the work of theory is most contentious when practiced within a disciplineÂ’s recognized borders. Such is the work of recoveri ng the enthymeme, not through applying a conventional definition to a new field of objects (images), but through the recovery of a suppressed conception of the enthymeme made visible by inquiry into our modern reliance on visual discourse.
38 Chapter 2 Reconsidering the Heart of Enthymemic Rhetoric Â“What then was an Enthymeme? Oxford! Thou wilt think us mad to ask.Â” Â– Thomas De Quincey, Selected Essays on Rhetoric by Thomas de Quincey In William Covino and David JolliffeÂ’s 1995 collection, Rhetoric: Concepts, Definitions, Boundaries which attempts to introduce students to the Â“Â‘scopeÂ’ and Â‘circumferenceÂ’ of the field of rhetoricÂ” by illuminating t he Â“presence of rhetoric in intellectual and instituti onal history and as a shaping force in contemporary intellectual, academic, and political domai ns,Â” the enthymeme does not appear in any of the collected excerpts of scholarly articles and books ( xi ). According to the textÂ’s index, the single m ention of the enthymeme is in the opening glossary. The opening words of the first thr ee of the five paragraphs in this glossary definition reveal the approach of the editors in defining the enth ymeme: Â“In his Rhetoric Aristotle proposes the enthymeme . Â“; Â“For Aristotle, the enthymeme . .Â”; Â“AristotleÂ’s proposal that the enthyme me . Â“ (Covino and Jolliffe 48). The fourth and fifth paragraphs of t he enthymemeÂ’s glossary definition focus on two examples that illustrate Ll oyd BitzerÂ’s reconsideration of the enthymeme from his essay Â“ AristotleÂ’s Enthymeme RevisitedÂ” (emphasis added). Obviously, the heart of enthymemic rhetor ic is here defined by Aristotle and his interlocutors. In Keywords in Composition Studies the enthymeme garners just a single mention in the section on argument, w here it is given the sole definition as
39 Â“a syllogism from probabilities and signsÂ” (a structural definition derived from Aristotle) (Heiker and Vandenberg 14). In the race for contemporary rhetorical theory, the enthymeme appear s to be an Â“also ran.Â” It seems that despite the contemporary resurgence of interest in classical rhetoric, of which Covino and JolliffeÂ’s te xt is a part, the enthy meme has not lived up to AristotleÂ’s claim that the enthymeme constitutes the soma or fundamental body or substance, of persuasion.5 Charles Mudd writes that if we believed AristotleÂ’s claims that Â“the enthymeme is the heart of this rhet oric . we should expect to find the enthymeme at the very basis of our teaching of argumentation and persuasion. Such, however, is not the caseÂ” (409). In fact, only one textbook has made the enthymeme a central part of its pedagogy, John GageÂ’s 1991 The Shape of Reason (Gage has also authored several well-known articles on the enthymeme). Before considering t he various pedagogies built upon the enthymeme (not much evident in text books, but evident in scholarship, and presumably, therefore, in individual cl assrooms), the rec ent history of the enthymeme within the field and the record of its transformations as a rhetorical concept should be addressed, since it is here that one finds the theoretical bases for these pedagogies. Open up handbooks of rhetor ical theory, classically-based writing textbooks, or the many journal volumes in which discussions of the enthymeme have appeared throughout the 20th century, and you will find a range of descriptions of what lies at the heart of enthymemic rhetoric. And this is not due to the fact that there exist in these documents sophistic and Aristotelian
40 understandings of the enthymeme in competition with one another. In most cases, the range of definit ions and approaches derive solely from the work of Aristotle. AristotleÂ’s trend toward syst ematizing may provide many things, but, historically, one of them has not been an authoritat ive understanding of the enthymeme. In the absence of such an aut horitative definition of the enthymeme, one encounters definitions like the following: Â“The enthymeme was understood to be a syllogism of which one proposition is suppressedÂ” (Seaton 113) Â“[by enthymeme, Aristo tle] means concrete pr oof, proof applicable to human affairs, such argument as is actually available in current discussionsÂ” (Baldwin, qtd. in Bitzer 400) Â“The enthymeme is defined as a syllogism with one (or more) premises missingÂ” (Simonson 303) Â“[Aristotle] defines the enthymeme as a syllogism with a specific subject matter, namely syllogisms fr om probabilities (eikos) and signs (semion)Â” (Madden, Â“TreatmentÂ” 167). In looking at the various accounts of the enthymeme (and there are dozens more, to be sure), one finds that even t he most straightforward descriptors are found in incongruous and sometimes contra dictory forms. For instance, scholars donÂ’t agree on the number of premises t hat can be missing from a syllogism in order for an enthymeme to exist. Some scholars claim that only one premise can be missing, while other scholars clai m that more than one premise can be missing from the original syllogism.
41 One could support the former claim that only one premise can be missing by arguing that any two propositions of a syllogism do contain all three elements that are being related. Ther efore, deductive syllogistic reasoning that does not diverge from the original syllogism can be constructed enthymemically from only two propositions because all three terms will be explicit even in only two of the three propositions that make up the syllo gism. The caveat to this approach which supports the latter claim is t he recognition that, in any speech situation, there are always a host of unarticulated assumptions or premises that could provide the basis for the elaboration of deductive reas oning, even from just one premise of a syllogism, which will necessarily estab lish some relation between two elements. The enthymemic elaboration of an argument from only one premise understandably allows more flexibility in the connec tions drawn between the terms, but the standards of the discourse community in which these premises circulate effectively limit the possible connections that community members will construct. Of course, there are many other constr uctions of the enthymeme that do not depend on whether one or more than one premise can be missing. As Covino and JolliffeÂ’s text mentions, current Â“ scholarship has called into question the practice of defining an enthymeme in terms of the num ber of its part sÂ” (48). Other sources refer to the enthymeme as a Â“r hetorical syllogism,Â” a Â“dialectical syllogism,Â” the Â“very body of proof,Â” or the Â“substance of rhet orical persuasionÂ” (Miller and Bee 201). These definitions alternatively stress the incompleteness, the mode of reasoning, the ma terials used, the concreteness (i.e. probability) of
42 these materials, or the extent or ty pe of audience participation necessary to consider a statement an enthymeme. While t hese distinctions ar e important to an understanding of the enthymemeÂ’s disciplinar y history, the two paradigms of the enthymeme that are of pr imary importance her e are what will be referred to as the structural and rhetorical paradigms of the enthymeme. Obviously, from the com peting definitions menti oned above, it would be mistaken to claim that the enthymeme has been ignored in the discipline of rhetoric and composition. But neither has it been embraced in any standardized manner. One theorist claims it is the Â“the most intensively studied of all Aristotelian subjects among communicati on and English scholarsÂ” (Gaines 5). But the amount of scholarly attention giv en to the enthymeme is no measure of its disciplinary status. Rat her, since the enthymeme is generally theorized via the works of Aristotle, this more likely says something about the disciplinary status of Aristotle himself. As Thomas Conley cl aims, Â“nowhere outside of Aristotle does any notion of the enthymeme as a syllogistic creature or as a stylistic turn play a very important role in rhetorical theoryÂ” (180). The two notions that Conley m entions above represent two common approaches to the syllogismÂ—that which treats as its heart the logical structure of deductive reasoning (a Â“syllogistic creatur eÂ”), and that which treats as its heart an aesthetic or emotional effect. Scholarl y definitions of the reasons for using enthymemes rarely focus on the logical structure, but do tend to focus on the interpersonal or situational aspects of communication, as when one scholar writes that the Â“shared communal percept ionÂ“ on which the enthymeme is based
43 is so familiar that to ment ion it would Â“insult the reader's intelligence, advertise the writer's ineptitude, and slow down the discourseÂ” (Green 624). The first concern above is most closely related to pathos, as a desire to avoid insulting the audience; the second concern above is most closely related to ethos, as a desire to maintain the writerÂ’s aura of intelligenc e; while the third concern above is most closely related to stylistic concerns. In none of these convent ional explanations for why the enthymeme is used in persuasive discourse do formal qualities play a significant role. The opposition between descriptions of the logical form of the enthymeme and the contextual explanations for its existence and useÂ—earlier likened to the opposition of rhetoric and logicÂ—has provided a productive dichotomy for rhetorical scholars exactly becaus e it reproduces the boundary between objective and subjective models of commu nication, a barrier that scholars are perpetually fond of transgre ssing. Similar boundaries saturated the debates over process and product, for example. In some cases, these boundaries were transcended by introducing a third term. In the work of James Berlin, the writing pedagogies based in the objective and subj ective epistemological theories of reality and rhetoric are considered in the light of a third (arguably superior) category that he calls Â“transactional.Â” Wh ile objective approaches located truth in the material world and subjective approac hes located truth in the internal experience of the subject, tr ansactional approaches locate truth in the interaction of the elements of the rhetorical situation. As Berlin writes:
44 Transactional rhetoric does not locate reality in some empirically verifiable external phenomenon (sense impression or the quantifiable) or within some realm apart from the external (ideas or visi on). It instead discovers reality in the interaction of the features of the rh etorical process itselfÂ—in the interpretation of material reality, writer, audience, and language. (155) The distinction is important to the discussion of the enthymeme here because, since scholars have been preoccupied wi th defining what an enthymeme is Â— regardless of whether they bas e this definition in syllogi stic structure or in the audienceÂ’s reactionÂ—they often ignore the rhetorical contexts in which enthymemes circulate. It is interesting that Berlin singles out vision as one of the realms of interior subjectivity (although, oddly, Â“sense impressionÂ” is associated with external phenomena despite the lessthan-objective condition of most sensory experience; seemingly, vision is not one of the objective senses). BerlinÂ’s association of vision with subjective approaches to reality suggests that our experience of an image is highly individualized. But scholars such as John Berger, Laura Mulvey Roland Barthes, and Stuart Hall have detailed how ways of seeing are socially construct ed, reproduced through codes suffused, for instance, with ideologies of race, class and gender. Whether a theory of the visual enthymeme based in the notion of transactional rhetoric has been or could be developed remains to be seen. But just because the two dominant versions of the enthymeme are opposed along traditional lines of objective and subjective approaches does not mean they have been given equal weight in compos ition theory.
45 A Problem of Definition Claims that the enthymeme has been understudied or overstudied lack any easy criteria for how much a discipline should pay to a particular concept. It can be said with surety, however, that within the texts that have sought to address the enthymeme and its ro le and potential in rhetoric al theory, there is no single agreed-upon definition of the enthyme me. Carol Poster recognizes this when she states that Â“Despite the fr equency with which the enthymeme has been discussed in contemporary rhetorical liter ature . there s eems to be no general agreement on the precise nature of what it is that is under discussion when the term enthymeme is usedÂ” (1). Even Â“mo st of what we have read about the enthymeme in the literature, Â” Conley states, Â“proves on closer examination to be simplisticÂ” (183). Many essays focusing on the enthymeme begin with a declaration of the ambiguity surrounding its def inition, echoing the incr edulity expressed by de Quincey above. Nancy Harper begins her essay on the enthymeme by stating that Â“[a]s most students of rhetoric eventually learn, everyone knows what an enthymeme is and no one knows what an ent hymeme isÂ” (304). Conley echoes this dilemma of students when he writes that Â“A great deal of what circulates these days as settled opinion about the nat ure of the enthymeme . is less secure than most students of rhetoric s eem to realizeÂ” (168). Daniel Goulding simply states that the Â“concept of t he enthymeme continues to be an enigmaÂ” (104).
46 In a sense, the ambiguity identified is the exigence the author cites to justify the imminent essay, lending suppor t to the idea that the enthymemeÂ’s ambiguity is indeed productiveÂ—at least of scholarship in rhetorical theory. The Â“problem of definitionÂ” is the comfortable port of entry for many a scholar into the scholarly conversation surrounding the enthymeme. These authors acknowledge the ambiguity of the enthymeme, yet do not alwa ys attribute this lack of consensus to any specific cause, leav ing readers merely with the sense that there exists a disciplinary lack of a systematic or re solute definition of the enthymeme. In many cases, this ambigui ty regarding the enthymeme is seen as something that can be eliminated through rigorous scholarship, rather than as a necessary component of the enthymemeÂ’s function. Besides modern scholarsÂ’ lack of agr eement over the definition of the enthymeme, other grounds exist for subs tantiating the need to re-examine this concept. For instance, some scholars lo cate the cause of the uncertainty regarding the enthymeme in the content or shape of Ar istotleÂ’s work. As Brad McAdon writes, AristotleÂ’s accounts of t he materials that constitute enthymemes are Â“never reconciled into a coher ent account (or theory) in the Rhetoric Rather, each conception of materials for the ent hymeme is presented in a way that obscures, rather than facilitates, our understandingÂ” (223). Lanigan points to AristotleÂ’s placement of discussion of t he enthymeme in separate texts (in the Organon and in the Rhetoric ) as contributing to t he widespread belief in the Â“bifurcation of formal and material caus es,Â“ a belief which obscures the actual Â“unity of conceptualizationÂ” achieved in AristotleÂ’s discussions of the enthymeme
47 (209). Lloyd Bitzer states plainl y that Â“the reader of AristotleÂ’s Rhetoric will find no unambiguous statement defining the enthymemeÂ” (399). Others scholars suggest that t he lack of agreement regarding the enthymeme signifies confusion, inco mpetence, or even opportunism among scholars As mentioned in the opening chapter, Gaines leans toward the latter when he accuses scholars of the enthymeme of Â“exploit[ing] their chosen subject merely as the platform to launch a doctrine that is either forei gn or antithetical to explicit doctrines in Aristotle's positi onÂ” and putting Â“words in Aristotle's mouth that he would have refused to speakÂ” (10). ItÂ’s not clear that such attacks on theorists are to be taken seriously, however. While not every instance of theory is equally interesting, reasonable, or even ethical, it is commonplace to attack theorists for, basically, being theorists. For instance, the editors of the recent anthology, TheoryÂ’s Empire: An Anthology of Dissent mount an attack on the dominance of theory in the fi eld(s) of English studies over the last few decades by claiming that . todayÂ’s theoretical vocabulary has l ed to an intellectual void at the core of our educational endeavors, scarc ely masked by all the posturing, political zealotry, pretentiousness, general lack of seriousness, and the massive opportunism that is particu larly glaring in the extraordinary indifference to or outright attacks on logic and consistency. (Corral and Patai 13) Here, the charge of opportunism is brought to the forefront, since charges of incompetence or confusion are less likel y to find purchase among the established
48 scholars these editors seek to de throne. In short, the editors of TheoryÂ’s Empire attack the ethos of theorists, hoping to c onvince readers that these scholarsÂ’ motives are selfish and insincere, and that their methods are lacking in professionalism. In fact, Wayne Booth calls such a vi ew of discourse Â“motivism.Â” Those who take this view believe that Â“anyoneÂ’ s justification for an action is always suspect and often merely self-servingÂ” (C ovino and Jolliffe 55). Patricia RobertsMiller writes in her book Deliberate Conflict that such an Â“interest-based model of discourseÂ” assumes that the primary moti vation of communication is selfishness and therefore conflict Â“should not be se ttled through argument as much as through bargainingÂ” (5). Roberts-Miller al so states that such a model of communication is Â“likely to have come from the agonistic tradition in rhetoricÂ” (5). Motivism thus positions rhetors in competition with one another, without the necessary tolerance for alternate viewpo ints or for incommensurable language games that many have argued is a requi rement for living in contemporary society. Because they do not focu s on commonalities among positions and communities, but rather take a polemical view of discourse, motivists find it difficult to discuss values or to en dorse any reasons that could be used effectively in the public sphere to generate consensus among discourse communities. Not all attacks on scholars of the enthymeme rely on ethical claims. Bower AlyÂ’s verdict combines the two faults of confusion and incompetence when he writes that Â“philoso phers generally, I have come to suppose, either have not read
49 or do not understand the Rhetoric of AristotleÂ” (266). Richard Lanigan advocates the former as well when he claims that t he Â“historical controversy generated by logicians and rhetoricians over the def inition of the Â‘enthymemeÂ’ appears to derive from a confusion of causality and persuasionÂ” (207, emphasis added). Edward Madden impugns logicians in par ticular when he writes that they reproduce willingly a simplistic defini tion of the enthymeme based on the syllogism, Â“falsely suggest[ing] a unifo rmity in views among philosophers which neither existed historically nor . exists currentlyÂ” (Â“CrossroadsÂ” 368).6 One might say that the r edefinition of the concept of the enthymeme has become so commonplace that it requires so me effort to make such a well-trod path appealing to readers. O ne essay inaugurates its investigation into the enthymeme as a form of confession. In Â“Enthymemes: the Story of a Lighthearted Search,Â” Aly writes: Now for a confession: I am no longer confident that I know what an enthymeme is. When I was an age of the youngest of you here, I could have told you neatly and precisely that an enthymeme is a truncated syllogism. This kind of innocenc e I forfeited long ago. (266). Although seemingly unique in its approac h, AlyÂ’s essay perhaps underscores the association of indulgence with the study of the enthymeme that has led Poster to label the modern state of theory on the enthymeme an Â“embarrassment of richesÂ” (4). Due in part to this sense of excess, the desire of scholars to redefine the enthymeme is sometimes associated with vanity or weakness. Conley, in his survey of various scholarsÂ’ approaches to the enthymeme, warns that it is
50 Â“always risky to record the consensus of a group of scholars, for scholars like to have their own positions on issues, distin ct from othersÂ” (168). Divesting himself of the status of what Lacan calls the Â“subject supposed to know,Â” Aly begins his essay with a self-admitted lack. But th is admission of lack may also be an obsession with lack which calls to mind F oucaultÂ’s description of the practice of confession: . the confession lends itself, if not to other domains, at least to new ways of exploring the existing ones. It is no longer a question of asking what was done . but of reconstructing, in and around the act, the thought that recapitulated it, the obs essions that accompanied it, the images, desires, modulations, and quality of the pleasure that animated it. ( Technologies 63) In some sense, the confession is itse lf a genre of exigence, one motivated by desire for subjectivity, one that turn s inward to explore new ways of understanding existing domains. This last part at least seems a fair description of the continual redefinitions of the enthymeme, a proces s that turns toward past descriptions of the enthymeme in a quest for insight. In AlyÂ’s case, his essay is a transcr iption of a speech given to an audience of students and peers, and is thus an intere sting divestment of the position of knowing subject. In part, Al y admits this lack of knowle dge, only to spend the rest of the speech working on his lack of knowle dge, a public display of what Foucault might classify as a Â“technology of the selfÂ”Â—an activity that
51 . permit[s] individuals to effect by their own means or with the help of others a certain number of operations on their own bodies and souls, thoughts, conduct, and way of being, so as to transform themselves in order to attain a certain state of happiness, purity, wisdom, perfection, or immortality. ( Technologies 18) Whereas the other opening lines above identify a lack in others (in their competence, intent, or understanding), Aly identifies a lack in his self that prompts further reflection. That Aly uses t he topos of confession, titles his speech a Â“lighthearted search,Â” and that the confession is obsessed, in part, with images and desires, holds much promise for t he enthymeme as the crossroads of persuasion, image, and emotion. While a single performance of attemp ting to understand the enthymeme is unlikely to prompt criticism, the large number of similar a ttempts to understand the enthymeme, having little in the way of concrete results, makes theorizing the enthymeme seem to some critics indulg ent at best and, at worst, a form of narcissism. FoucaultÂ’s claim that Â“confession is a ritual of discourse in which the speaking subject is also the subject of t he statementÂ” would seem to substantiate this view ( Technologies 61). But making the subject of an enthymeme a speaking subject also seems fitting to the ex ploration of the enthymeme, since the enthymeme is a rhetorical event in wh ich the audienceÂ’s Â“completionÂ” of the enthymeme is viewed as a commitment to or identification with a belief considered already part of the self. The enthymeme thus may serve as a form of self-identification or self-affirmation, vindi cating oneÂ’s present beliefs by placing
52 them in the context of a reasonable argument. Suppor ting this view of the enthymeme as self-affirmation, Geor ge Kennedy has even claimed that the enthymeme functions because it Â“flatters the vanity of those to whom one speaks by leaving something to their intelligenceÂ” (297). Imagining the enthymeme as a form of pandering or flattery surely reinforces PlatoÂ’s accusations against the Sophists (and those who would learn sophistic persuasion from them) that they were more concerned with money and status than in truth. In the Phaedrus for instance, it states that the orator need not Â“learn what is really ju st and true, but only what seem s so to the crowdÂ” (Qtd. in Fish Â“RhetoricÂ” 123). In PlatoÂ’s Gorgias Socrates claims that the Â“orator need have no knowledge of the truth about th ings; it is enough for him to have discovered a knack of persuading the ignor ant that he seems to know more than the expertsÂ” (23). The enthymemeÂ’s pl ace as one of the primary means of rhetorical performance thus indicts all of rhetoric as being unconcerned with truth. A caricature of (sophistic) rhetor ic, even repeating the well-known charge of making the worse appear the better, appears in MiltonÂ’s description of Satan in Paradise Lost: . up rose Belial, in act more graceful and humane; A fairer person lost not HeavÂ’n; he seemed For dignity composÂ’d and high exploit: But all was false and hollow; though his Tongue Dropt Manna, and could make the worse appear The better reason, to perplex and dash Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were low; . . . yet he pleased the ear, And with persuasive accent thus began. (II, 108Â–15, 117Â–18)
53 This passage, as Fish writes, is Â“rec ognizable as a brief but trenchant essay on the art and character of the rhetoricianÂ” (Â“RhetoricÂ” 122) The focus of the scene is on the actions leading up to the speech, since these allow Milton to contrast the pleasing appearance and s ound of the speaker with the unprincipled content of the speakerÂ’s arguments. Such an approach depends on a form-content binary that has historically been used to denigrat e rhetoric, or at least diminish its importance. In the sixteenth century, Peter Ramus c ontributed to such a diminishing of rhetoric by claiming that issues of in vention, arrangement, logic, and ethics were the province of philosophy. Ramus instead circumscribed rhetoric to issues of style and deliveryÂ—the mere performative aspects of persuasion. A similar circumscription leads students to believe t hat writing teachers and writing center personnel are most concerned with presentational aspects of writing such as the mechanical correctness of spelling, gramma r, and punctuation. Th is definition of rhetoric as presentational ra ther than substantive or in ventional continues to hold sway in many uses of the word Â“rhetor icÂ” in the public sphere, where it is common to hear the accusation directed towa rd a political opponent that his or her words are Â“just rhetoric Â”Â—the show or appearance of sincerity or truthfulness that masks a deeper motive or deception. One of the striking featur es of MiltonÂ’s caricature is the emphasis on the senses. The devil is Â“fairÂ” in appearance, he physically rises up even as his thoughts are Â“lowÂ”, and he pleases the earÂ—i n short, his actions reinforce binary distinctions, such as that between surfac e/depth and exterior /interior expressed
54 through SatanÂ’s outward grace and internal emptiness. Similar binaries attempt to separate the faculty of r eason from passion. Thus, the critique of rhetoric as a performance addressed to the senses is oft en also a critique of the role of ethos and pathos in persuasion. In this way, vision has often been associated with an attempt to bypass logos. As shown above, the enthymeme has also become associated with the individu alÂ’s unseemly vanity or need for ego strengthening. In the next chapter, the work of thumos as a type of Â“internal rhetoricÂ” will expand upon this notion of the subject as the s ubject of the statem ent within enthymemic discourse, not in order to show the w eakness or defect of those interested in (enthymemic) theory, but to inquire into the interrelation of emotion and reason in all persuasion. AristotleÂ’s Legacy Â“How for example shall we know what our author (Aristotle) means by the term Enthymeme? This question goes to the very heart of the Rhetoric since Aristotle tells us that enthymemes are the essential instrum ents of oratorical persuasionÂ” Â– Lane Cooper, The Rhetoric of Aristotle It is clear that theories of the enthymeme that do circulate in the field of rhetoric and composition ( and literature) ar e primarily those derived form Aristotle. Conley claims this quite forc efully when he writes that Â“all who write on the subject [of the enthymeme] base their discussions on one author, the Â‘inventorÂ” of the enthymeme and its comp rehensive expositor, AristotleÂ” (169). This narrow range of sources is unfor tunate, since there are enthymemic traditions within sophistic works (often under the term enthymma ) that offer alternative approaches to t heorizing the enthymeme th at do not focus on the
55 enthymemeÂ’s relation to the syllogism, as AristotleÂ’s does. In order to understand the significance of these alternative approaches, it will first be necessary to understand the place of the enthymeme in AristotleÂ’s rhetorical theory, which necessitates an understanding of AristotleÂ’s approach to discourse as a whole. According to Aristotle, discourse can be divided first into that which seeks scientific truth (a.k.a. apodeictic certaint y), and that which seeks to establish probable truth and instill belief. In the Prior Analytics Aristotle details the use of the syllogistic method as a means to atta in truth through scient ific demonstration. The search for probable truth is separat ed into two methods: dialectic and rhetoric. Dialectic is the traditional question and answer method used notably in philosophical dialogues as a means of inquiry. AristotleÂ’s Topics develops a catalog of the common, general, and special topoi which orators use to further such inquiry (topics are not limited to use only in dialectic, however). Rhetoric also deals with probabilities, and its end is thus belief, not truth. Within the art of rhetoric, according to Aristotle, the two types of proofs, or pisteis utilized by rhetors are non-ar tistic and artistic ones (also known as Â“atechnicÂ” and Â“entechnicÂ” proofs). Nonartistic proofs are thos e elements of persuasive discourse that the rhetor does not creat e but are Â“preexisti ng: for example, witnesses, testimony of slaves taken under torture, contracts, and such likeÂ” ( Rhetoric 1355b 37). Artistic proofs are Â“whate ver can be prepared by method . one must use the former and invent the latter.Â” Thus, the emphasis of many textbooks on heuresis or invention, can be attributed to AristotleÂ’s definition of the artistic proofs necessary for effective rhetoric. These artistic proofs constitute
56 the three species of persuasive pr oof that have been widely adopted in both pedagogical and theoretical approaches to writ ing: ethos, pathos, and logos. Put simply, ethos refers to t he character of the rhetor performed or invoked, pathos refers to the rhetorÂ’s ability to invoke emotion in the audience, and logos refers to the reasoned argument present ed to the audience. Aristotle places the enthymeme direct ly in the realm of logos when he writes that all speakers Â“produce logical persuasion by means of paradigms [examples] or enthymemes and by nothing other than theseÂ” ( Rhetoric 1356b 40). Aristotle suggests in both the Rhetoric and in the Topics that the example is an inductive form and the enthymeme is a deductive form, which solidifies the enthymemeÂ’s syllogistic pedigree. While it would be easy to regard the enthymeme as a purely logical form of per suasion, this does not seem to match AristotleÂ’s claim that the ent hymeme is the substance of all persuasion. James McBurney admits that, at first, the enthymeme may not seem appropriate to persuasion through ethos or pathos, si nce the enthymeme is a Â“rhetorical device and as such is dependent, so to speak, upon language symbols. Persuasion arising from the personality of the speaker . is therefore clearly outside the realm of the enthymemeÂ” (62). But McBurney goes on to write that ethical and pathetical appeals are expressed in words, both make use of the topics, and Â“we are explicitly told that these topics are the sources to which we may turn for the propositions to compose our enthymemesÂ” (63). In ot her words, Aristotle presents the enthymeme as the foundation of all pers uasion, not just logos established
57 through Â“terms and propositionsÂ” (McBurney 62). If the topics are to be the basis of persuasion, it is clear that one mu st consider how these topics may be expressed visually as well. So far, the enthymemic legacy of Aristotle has been presented as relatively straightforward and consistent. Bu t this conflicts with the approaches of various scholars seen above that take as t heir starting point the inconsistency or ambiguity within Aristotle. It would be convenient to believe that the lack of agreement on the definition of the enthymeme is simply due to a lack of understanding by modern scholars as to w hat Aristotle meant by the term. But Aristotle is not as helpful in this sit uation as one might think. We have already encountered BitzerÂ’s observation t hat Â“the reader of AristotleÂ’s Rhetoric will find no unambiguous statement defin ing the enthymemeÂ” (399) The result of this condition is that when scholars atte mpt to define the enthymeme through Aristotle, the passage they cite is rea lly dependent on what they already believe the enthymeme to be. In some sense, the process is itse lf enthymemic, since the reader finds persuasive those statements that speak to his or her pre-existing beliefs regarding the enthymeme. For instance, th ose who view the enthymeme as an abbreviated syllogism often point to this passage from AristotleÂ’s Rhetoric : the enthymeme is Â“drawn from few premises and often less than t hose of the primary syllogism; for if one of these is known, it does not have to be stated, since the hearer supplies itÂ” ( Rhetoric 42). George Kennedy calls this passage the Â“authority for defining an enthymeme as a syllogism in which one or more
58 propositions are not expressedÂ” (297). Thomas M. Conley suggests that a tentative list of such authoritative statements might include the following from AristotleÂ’s Rhetoric and Topics : Â“Everyone who persuades by proof in fact uses either enthymemes or examples. There is no other wayÂ” (1.2, 1256b 5Â–7). Â“Enthymemes are the substance of persuasionÂ” (1 .1, 1354a 14f.). Â“The enthymeme is a sort of syllogism ( syllogismos tis )Â” (1.1, 1355a 8). Â“Enthymemes and examples deal with what is for th e most part contingentÂ” (1.2, 1357a 14f.). Â“An enthymeme is a syllogism dealing with . practical subjectsÂ” (2.20, 1394a 25ff.). Â“The enthymeme must consist of a few propositions, fewer than those which make up a normal syllogism. For if any of these propositions is a familiar fact, there is no need to mention it; the hearer adds it himselfÂ” (1.2, 1357a 16ff.). Â“We must not carry (the enthymemeÂ’s) reasoning to o far back, or the length of the argument will cause obscurity; nor must we put in all the steps that lead to our conclusion, or we will waste words in saying what is already clearÂ” (2.22 1395b 24Â–8). Â“We must us e as our modes of persuasion and arguments notions possessed by everybody, as we observed in the Topics when dealing with the wa y to handle a popular audienceÂ” (1.1, 1355a 27 ff.; cp. Topics 1.2, 101a 30Â–4 ). (169Â–170). Such a list lays bare statements that tak en singly may seem Â“straight forward and unambiguous,Â” but which, taken together, comprise a complex and contradictory
59 web of possibilities (Conley 169). Howe ver, none of these Â“authoritativeÂ” statements has achieved domin ance over the others. While some scholars such as James Raymond suggest that there does exist a single authoritative understanding of the enthymeme that has been Â“misunderstood, ignored, or denigratedÂ” by the multiple attempts to bend it to match individual scholarsÂ’ own needs and de sires, it is unlikely that such an authoritative account of the enthymeme has ever existed (140). ItÂ’s not that theorists havenÂ’t tried either. So lomon Simonson produced, perhaps overconfidently, an essay titled Â“A Defi nitive Note on the Enthymeme.Â” Lanigan authoritatively claims that Â“for Aristotle the enthymeme is best understood as a speakerÂ’s syllogistic method, not as a lis tenerÂ’s syllogistic responseÂ” (emphasis added, 207). ItÂ’s not uncommon for scholar s to claim that their approach to a particular topic is useful in some intelle ctual or practical context. But in response to LaniganÂ’s statement above, besides questioning what criteria makes something best for Aristotle, one might also ask: why best for Aristotle ? Why not best for contemporary scholars? Or for st udent writers? Â“BestÂ” seems to conceal a particular set of interests which are primarily geared toward a certain type of historiography, hermeneutic rather than heuristic (and definit ely not heuretic). Furthermore, one might point out t hat valuing certain approaches to historiography is most likely to benefit certain historiographers, not their objects of study who have been dead for over 2300 years.
60 To better understand the Â“embarrassment of richesÂ” represented by so many competing definitions of the ent hymeme, Poster categorizes textbook definitions of enthymemes into the following types: (a) abbreviated syllogism (one premise omitted) (b) syllogism of which at least one premise is probable (c) abbreviated syllogism of which one premise is probable (d) informal deductive reasoning (e) syllogism of which one at least one premise is a sign (f) syllogism of which at least one premise is a maxim (g) syllogism from premises in a ccord with audienceÂ’s world view (4) The common factor in all but one of t he above classifications is that the enthymeme is a type of syllogism. This is pure Aristotle and a clear sign that textbooks have generally embraced a st ructural approach to the enthymeme. According to these texts, the heart of ent hymemic rhetoric is a logical form, one with an underlying structure that validates the connecti ons made by the audience using the premises presented to t hem. Such is AristotleÂ’s legacy. Pedagogies of the Enthymeme So far, it is clear that the enthy meme has received much attention in theoretical attempts to expl icate it. But how does the enthymeme fair in rhetoric and composition pedagogy? Barbar a Emmel writes that, Â“ despite a growing body of scholarship that positions the enthyme me at the very heart of the composing process,Â” the enthymeme is Â“more likely to alienate composition teachers than to attract their interest and attentionÂ” (132) Another scholar claims that the large
61 amount of talk surrounding the enthymeme is Â“theoretically interesting but pedagogically insignificantÂ” (Madden Â“TreatmentÂ” 198).7 Popular texts based in classical rhetoric such as Edward CorbettÂ’s Classical Rhetoric for the Modern Student seem to support this assertion. This textÂ’s characterization of classical rhetoric is thoroughly Aristotelian, and the sophists are ment ioned as part of rhetorical history without attempting to ma ke use of their ideas pedagogically. In this text, the enthymeme is discussed in the section on the three modes of persuasion (ethos, pathos, logos), under the heading Â“The Appeal to Reason.Â” Corbett presents a traditional perspecti ve by describing the enthymeme as an Â“incompleteÂ” or Â“abbreviat edÂ” syllogism that produces Â“a tentative conclusion from probable premises,Â” emphasizing the criteria of incompleteness and probability (60). Corbett opposes this enthymeme to the Â“normal syllogismÂ” that leads to a Â“necessary conclusion from universally true premisesÂ” (60). Understanding the enthymeme as merely an incomplete syllogi sm provides little incentive to develop studentsÂ’ understanding of it. This subor dinating approach is evident when Corbett asks students, not to produce enthymemes, but to translate the enthymemes presented by the text into complete syllogisms. This basically positions the student as the audience in the rhetorical situation rather than as the speaker. The subordination of the enthymeme to the syllogism is further evident by the fact that CorbettÂ’s text devotes over 40% less space to the enthymeme than it does to the syllogism proper.
62 Sharon Crowley and Debr a HawheeÂ’s textbook, Ancient Rhetorics for Contemporary Students, reverses this trend by dev oting more space to the enthymeme than to the syllogism (a lthough the enthymeme does not garner a listing in the index). But much of this section in Crowley and HawheeÂ’s book is taken up by an analysis by Kathleen Hall Jameison that portrays the use of the enthymeme as one of the unethical Â“dirty tr icksÂ” that political campaigns employ to lead voters to Â“draw conclusions that [are] not trueÂ” ( Qtd. in Crowley and Hawhee 143, 145). Crowley an d Hawhee even write of this example that, Â“[f]rom a rhetoricianÂ’s point of view, however [the enthymemic argument presented] is an example of what Aristotle calls Â‘false reasoning,Â’ because its premises were not true.Â” They disregard the Â“winning cand idateÂ’s point of view,Â” in which the enthymeme might be valued as a techni que of effective rhetoric and instead focus on the logical characteristics of the enthymeme (Crowley and Hawhee 145). By locating the enthymeme in secti ons devoted to their chapters on logical reasoning, Crowley and Hawh ee (and Corbett) further entrench the application of logical criteria to the enthymeme. Ev en though the enthymeme is treated as a form of rhetorical proof productive of probable knowledge, textbooks often lead students to subject enthymemes to the criter ia of apodeictic logic: the ability to arrive at necessary truth. Under this crit eria, Â“what counts is ending rather than continuing the discourseÂ” (Covino 129). Also by focusing on the presentational structure of the discourse (i.e. the ent hymeme, or the syllogism), textbooks embrace what John Gage calls Â“empty forms Â” (Â“TowardsÂ” 6). A narrow focus on
63 the forms, or shapes, that discourse can take can replace discussions of what constitutes ethical persuasion, reducing t he evaluation of rhetoric down to what Wayne Booth calls measures of Â“skill, not knowledge or wisdomÂ” (qtd. in Gage, Â“TowardsÂ” 6). By not making this distincti on, Booth warns, textbooks suggest that the Â“goal of all thought and argument is to emulate the purity and objectivity and rigor of science, in order to protect oneself from the errors that passion and desire and metaphor and authority and all of those logical fallacies lead us intoÂ” (Qtd. in Gage, Â“TowardsÂ” 6). Crowley and Hawhee do make distinct ions about the ethical qualities of arguments, but it is interest ing to note that the primary narrative by Jameson, and the editorsÂ’ analysis of this narrative in cluded in the section on enthymemes, shows enthymemes being used unethically. A reasonable question is: why is the enthymeme introduced primarily as an example of an underhanded method of persuasion when the syllogism is not? Discussion of the syllogism includes examples that are overreaching but benign, claiming that ghosts and vampires are immortal creatures, politicians c an not be trusted, and the death penalty cannot be justified (Crowley and Hawhee 139). These might be considered incorrect, but not underhanded. Most important ly, information about the syllogism is embedded in a section titled Â“deduction, Â” thereby equating the syllogism with reason itself. The effect of this char acterization seems to be to reinforce a positivistic and technocratic view of communication in which oneÂ’s success is dependent upon the formal comprehensive lingui stic display of premises that obtain logically.
64 Not all pedagogical uses of the enth ymeme stress its logical pedigree. Lloyd BitzerÂ’s 1959 article in the Quarterly Journal of Speech Â“Aristotle's Enthymeme Revisited,Â” has served as a springboard for many scholars attempting to develop pedagogies of the ent hymeme that focus attention on the epistemic nature of knowle dge and the collaborative nature of discourse. In his article, Bitzer identifies three gener al schools of thought concerning the enthymeme: that Â“the enthymeme is distin ctive on account of (1) its basis in probability, (2) its concreteness, and (3) it s usual formal deficiencyÂ” (400). Bitzer then goes on to show how each of these approaches Â“failed to name a truly distinguishing featureÂ” of the enthymeme that would separate it from other forms of syllogism. According to Bitzer, the single aspect of the enthymeme that sets it apart from other forms of reasoning explored by Aristotle is that, in the enthymeme, Â“ the audience itself helps construct the proofs by which it is persuaded . . [the enthymemeÂ’s] successful construction is a ccomplished through the joint efforts of speaker and audience and this is its ess ential characterÂ” (408). Such a view makes the social processes underlyi ng the enthymeme and the relationship between rhetor and audience central concer ns, making it impossible to justify allowing students to Â“write artificially for a fictitious audienceÂ” (Emmel 133). Even those who do not explicitly cite Bitzer often adopt the focus on process over structure, as Barbar a Emmel does when she argues for the usefulness of enthymemes in guiding Â“activ ities of inquiryÂ—thinking, questioning, defining, conversing, under standing, connecting, and concludingÂ” (Emmel 133).
65 Scholars such as Emmel have moved this undervalued aspect of enthymemic discourse to the forefront of pedagogies that aspire to be Â“genuinely dialogic in natureÂ” by using the enthymeme as Â“a means of continuing that dialogueÂ” begun by the shaping of an argument (147). Although Emmel begins by stating that the enthymeme is Â“not just a logical paradigm . but a conceptualizatio n of a rich set of relationships,Â” she still adopts a fairly structural account of the enthymeme (132). EmmelÂ’s approach is one that adopts the enthyme me as an architectonic pr inciple of argument in general. As she writes, the enthymeme Â“serves both as an heuristic for the thinking that leads to a recognition of the argument and as a paradigmatic schema of the key ideas and premises that create a progression toward a complete argumentÂ” (147). For Emmel, the enthymeme represents not just a model for the product of writing but for the process of writing. She claims that the enthymeme is repres entative of the Â“ processes of thought that are inherent in reasoned discourse and of the organic connections that exist among those processes, the process of writing a paper, and the final structure of that paperÂ” (Emmel 133, emphasis added). This does have the advantage of embedding the enthymeme in the dialogic space of the cla ssroom, in which students arti culate, defend, and amend their discourse to bette r accommodate the respons e of their (classroom) audience. In this way, Emme l transforms the imagined dialogue of the rhetor and audience in which enthymemes circulate into the actual dialogue among students in which enthymemes ar e developed, discarded, and built upon. But EmmelÂ’s
66 classroom, in which students Â“offer asserti ons or claims that they want their classmates to accept and when questioned, they offer additional statements (or claims) in support of those initial clai ms,Â” simply restages the fundamental scene of dialectic, turning authority for what is co rrect to the class rat her than to a single speaker (134). While such passing of authority may, i deally, be dialogical, it also puts the force of the groupÂ’s endorse ment behind the logical co nnections drawn between statements. If students simply adjust their claims to pr oduce ones acceptable to the class, then it is hard to see how such a pedagogy is an advance over forms of collaborative learning advocated by the likes of Kenneth Bruffee, the critiques of which have well established how such scenes stage cultural reproduction as learning.8 The ensuing Â“predictable patternÂ” of student discourse in EmmelÂ’s classroom where Â“claims naturally lead to enthymemesÂ” may simply reinforce logos as the sole quality of good arguments. If it is only Â“[w]henever a line of reasoning is offered in support of a clai m, an enthymeme ensues,Â” then we have not moved far from the notion of the enthymeme as a pseudological device modeled on the syllogism (134). Just as Emmel promises to take st udents beyond the traditional definition of the enthymeme, GageÂ’s textbook, The Shape of Reason presents the enthymeme to students as a way to refer to the Â“relationship created between a reason and a conclusionÂ” that is Â“more open and flex ibleÂ” than models from formal logic (58). But just as EmmelÂ’s approach returns to a basically formal conception of the enthymeme (albeit one that provides structures at more than
67 just the level of the sentence), GageÂ’s enthymeme reduces down to an unregulated relationship between an a ssumption, a stated reason, and a conclusion. Gage emphasizes the enthy memeÂ’s flexibility and, indeed, in the span of a few pages, GageÂ’s enthymeme appears as a form of implicit reasoning, as two ideas connected by a Â“because,Â” as a thesis statement, as a way of generating an essayÂ’s structure, and as the grouping of an assumption, a stated reason, and a conclusion ( Shape 77Â–80 ). What is flexib le here seems to be the manner in which Gage describes the enthymeme, but not necessarily the structure being described. The structural legacy of GageÂ’s ent hymeme is unquestionable considering its placement in a chapter titled Â“Developi ng StructuresÂ” and filled with subtitles such as Â“The Structural EnthymemeÂ” and Â“From Enthymeme to Structure.Â” Again, the enthymeme appears in a metonymic rela tionship to the overall structure of an essay, the frame of which is presumed to consist of interconnected enthymemes that provide the Â“outline of ideasÂ” that is not a mere list of topics, but a chain of claims and reasons that flow in a sequence ( Shape 80). While Gage denies any formulaic method for Â“generating a struct ure of ideas from the parts of an enthymeme,Â” he does say that using enthy memes produces a Â“responsibilityÂ” in the writer to the Â“several potential structures imp licit in the enthymemeÂ” ( Shape 81). These structures are seemingly self-re vealing, as they unfold logically from prior statements according to underlying rules of reason and decorum. As Gage writes in Â“Teaching the Enthymeme: Inv ention and Arrangement,Â” it is possible to
68 obtain from Aristotle the notion that the Â“structures of whole arguments can be seen to derive from a si ngle enthymemeÂ” (39). These pedagogical approaches do differ fr om classical definitions of the enthymeme as a truncated syllogism by identifying in enthymemes a process of structuring embodied in the acti vity of the rhetor, and not just a formal structure of words. But it is exactly because thes e more flexible conceptions of the enthymeme simply extend the structural form of t he enthymemeÂ—finding in it an alternative to more rigid formulas of essay-writingÂ—that they transform a structure of expression into a dynamic of thought. Of course, these theorists would not deny that this is what they are doing, but would defend the transfer of the structural definition of the enthymeme into a Â“metonymy for the whole rhetorical activity of discovering a bas is for mutual judgment,Â” arguing, for instance, that such approaches are useful because they are more flexible and less prescriptive than traditional approaches and therefore teach students, not to adhere to rigid linguistic models, but to engage in a process of dialogic performance (Gage Â“AdequateÂ” 157). One inflexible feature of GageÂ’s enthy meme is its embodiment as a purely linguistic structure. GageÂ’s conceptua lization of the enthymeme, (like many others derived from AristotleÂ’s technical descriptions), is a type of linguistic relationship, calling upon the audience to provide language that provides a bridge between a Â“stated reasonÂ” and a Â“conclusion.Â” This is still a considerable status upgrade from the appearance of the enthyme me in other textbooks. But even CorbettÂ’s exercises already conceive of the syllogism as a linguistic relationship
69 between two statements. While the focus on the relationships among words is unsurprising in a writing class, it is also unfortunate since this attention tends to devalue ethos and pathos, since these ar e often presented in these texts as arising from non-linguistic sources. Although the textbooks above include t he enthymeme to differing degrees as part of their approach to writi ng (with GageÂ’s text being the most incorporative), many writi ng textbooks ignore the enthymeme altogether. It is possible that textbook authors fi nd that the flexibility of the enthymeme or its lack of a necessary conclusion make it unsuita ble for writing instruction (at least for current-traditional writing inst ruction with Â“clarityÂ” as its primary goal). But it is also possible that textbook authors donÂ’ t believe classical rhetoric to be applicable to modern contexts or that they are si mply unacquainted with the enthymeme. It could still be true today tha t, as Kathleen Welch states in the opening sentence of her 1987 article, Â“Ideology and Freshman Textbook Production: The Place of Theory in Writi ng Pedagogy,Â” that Â“[o]f the hundreds of pounds of freshman writing books produced each year, few are constructed with any overt indication that composition t heory has ever existedÂ” (269). In their introduction to the collection (Re)Visioning Composition Textbooks: Conflicts of Culture, Ideology, and Pedagogy Fredric and Xin Liu Gale identify a Â“conspicuous lag of textbooks behind the changesÂ” in the field of rhetoric and composition. But this lag cannot be blam ed entirely here, since revivals of the enthymeme have been ongoing throughout the last century (4).
70 It is also possible that the absence of the enthymeme from composition textbooks is related to the general devaluati on of emotion in textbooks. In her essay Â“The Pathos of Pathos ,Â” Gretchen Flesher Moon examines how composition textbooksÂ’ treatm ent of emotion is charac terized by two (negative) positions toward pathos: either the little attention pathos is given associates it with the fallacies and other unreas onable or unethical methods, or Â“ pathos as a rhetorical appeal to the readerÂ’s emoti ons, values, and belie fsÂ” comprises the textbookÂ’s entire treatment of emotion (35). Each of these positions toward pathos enacts an explicit or implicit critique of the ro le of emotion in judgment, subordinating emotion to r eason and often portraying the effects of emotion as Â“potentially unsav oryÂ” (Moon 35). Moon goes on to chronicle the many ways in which textbooks disparage the role of emotion in persuasion, and how they advocate an affectively neutral discourse free of Â“crude emotionalismÂ” (36) The enthymeme is the target of a similar devaluation. For inst ance, the enthymeme is often chastised exactly for its ability to admit into discourse passionately he ld beliefs that are Â“self-evident to an audienceÂ” regardless of their va lidity (Crowley and Hawhee 146). In Ancient Rhetorics for Contemporary Students the editors Sharon Crowley and Debra Hawhee write the following: Enthymemes are powerful because t hey are based in community beliefs. Because of this, whether the reasoning in an enthymeme is sound or whether the statements it contains are true or not, sadly enough, often makes little difference to the comm unityÂ’s acceptance of the argument.
71 Enthymemes work best when listeners or readers participate in constructing an argument . . Th e audience will enjoy supplying the missing premises for themselves, and ma y be more readily persuaded by the argument because they have participated in its construction. (145Â–46) Here, the enthymeme is responsible for a llowing into discourse beliefs shared by community members that do not meet some external (i f not universal) notion of truth. Also, there is a pot entially moralistic critique pr esent of the enthymeme as supplying pleasure to the audience (presumably because it will make the audience overlook the lack of truth in the enthymeme). This hearkens back to MiltonÂ’s warning in Paradise Lost that Satan Â“pleased the earÂ” even as he spoke falsehoods (II, 117). These indictments parallel MoonÂ’ s discussion of pathos in that both are assumed to contaminate a neutral discourse of rational beings and reasonable arguments by allowing into an argument elements that do not meet standards of reasonable and ethical behavior. Thus, the anxiety over the use of the enthymeme may likewise be an anxiety over the role of emotion in persuasive discourse, since it is po ssibly through the enthymemeÂ’s ambiguous functioning that passionately held beliefs may enter discourse. Recovering a notion of the enthymeme grounded in oneÂ’s capacity for emotion (i.e. thumos) thus faces a dual opposition from thos e already wary of both enthymemes and emotions as insignificant components o f, or actual impediments to, successful writing pedagogies.
72 JoyceÂ’s Â“Technic EnthymemicÂ”: Or, Bloom Blows It Â“I cannot possibly do this mechanical part with my wretched eye and a halfÂ” Â– James Joyce, quoted in GottfriedÂ’s Joyce's Iritis and the Irritated Text If the enthymemeÂ’s status as a pe dagogical method is small, itÂ’s acknowledged usage as a liter ary technique is microscopic. Admittedly, scholars such as Doug Hesse have considered the role of enthymemes in the Â“narrative dimension [that] underlies the textÂ” (34). At this level, Hesse claims, the Â“enthymeme shares the same epistemol ogical ground as plot, both depending on the configuration of wholes from parts through causal connection in time.Â” Hesse identifies a narrative underlying AristotleÂ’s Rhetoric arguing that AristotleÂ’s arguments emerge over ti me, and therefore any c onviction produced in the reader can Â“hardly [be] the product of singl e arguments isolated in time" (32). The recognition that persuasion is temporal is actually quite common. Robert Reich, writing about the f our stories that Â“Americans have been telling each other since our foundingÂ“ argues that political argum ents speak to four basic narratives embedded in American culture and that th ese Â“four mental boxes are always going to be filled somehow . because peo ple donÂ’t think in terms of isolated policies or issues. If theyÂ’re to be under standable, policies and issues must fit into larger narratives about where we have been as a nation, what we are up against, and where we could be goingÂ” (17) HesseÂ’s and ReichÂ’s observations undermine the importance of individual instances of persuasion embodied in demonstrative argument and look instead at rhetorical performance in a more holistic way, as a process of accret ion of evidence that enables eventual
73 persuasion, or, perhaps, sust ains adherence in the absence of evidence. Just as "plot mediates between individual ev ents and a story taken as a whole,Â” enthymemes can motivate the audience through the articulation of ideas and evidence experienced over long peri ods of time and embedded throughout a work (Hesse 34). Such a view of persuasion is more akin to BakhtinÂ’s description of the dialogic novel, which Â“orchestrates all it s themes, the totalit y of the world of objects and ideas depicted and expressed in i t, by means of the social diversity of speech types and by the differing indivi dual voices that flourish under such conditionsÂ” (263). In some sense, Hesse is arguing that the selection of the voices that are allowed into a narrative constitute the parts of the enthymeme. HesseÂ’s statement that the ent hymeme shares the same Â“ ground as plotÂ” might also be taken as a directive to consider the relation of the narrative enthymeme to BakhtinÂ’s notion of chronotope. Wh ile literally meaning Â“time-space,Â” chronotope refers to the Â“the intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships that are artistically express ed in literatureÂ” (84). Such inquiry might reveal that enthymemes are a widespread li terary technique in which the physical and temporal topography of the story is re lated to the structure of the enthymeme being expressed. HesseÂ’s description of enthymemes in lit erature is quite similar to GageÂ’s belief that chains of enthymemes can be used to produce outlines for essays. As Gaines states, this type of approach conceptualizes the Â“movement of a rhetorical audience from its initial state to final judgment as requiring narrative
74 emplotment by the rhetorÂ” (15). This perspective removes some of the emphasis off of the structure of the enthyme me, since HesseÂ’s enthymemes become Â“ events [that move the reader] towards the textÂ’s conclusionÂ” (emphasis added, 35). But these narrative enthymemes conti nue to serve structural purposes within the process of reading and wr iting the text, as EmmelÂ’s did, and thus do not transcend their structural function. The existence of structural enthyme mes within narrative is not the same as claiming that the enthymeme is a c onscious literary technique. The one place where the conscious use of the enthymeme has been a topic of a ttention is in the seventh chapter of James Joyce Â’s modernist tour-de-force Ulysses in a chapter commonly referred to as the Â“AeolusÂ” episode because its contents correspond to UlyssesÂ’ encounter with King Aeolus in Book 10 of HomerÂ’s Odyssey Bloom, one of the main characters, spends the novel wandering throughout Dublin, and the Aeolus chapter is the only one wher e Bloom is seen working. According to the stemma of the Aeolus episode transmi tted to us through JoyceÂ’s interlocutor, Stuart Gilbert, we know the following about this chapter: the scene is the newspaper, the hour is noon, the organ is th e lungs, the art is rhetoric, the color is red, the symbol is the editor, and the technique is enthymemic (177). Many of these elements are easy to ident ify in JoyceÂ’s text (Â“easyÂ” at least relative to the frequent obscurity of JoyceÂ’s allusions). The setting is primarily the office of the newspaper FreemanÂ’s Journal and National Press and the hour is reported as noon. Other elem ents are less straightforward yet still easy to divine. The lungs are commiserate both with the em phasis on oratory in the chapter, the
75 many references to Â“windÂ” or wind-rela ted themes (Aeolus is the King of the Winds), and the bluster of the Irish newsm en, particularly Miles Crawford (the editor of the Telegraph and the Homeric counterpart of Aeolus, king of the winds).9 The color red appears throughout (in t he character of Red Murray and in StephenÂ’s blushing, for example). And t he editor is not only embodied in the figure of Mr. Crawford, but is present through the insertion of the numerous headlines into the chapter by an Â“externalÂ” editor. Despite one criticÂ’s claim that Â“The art of the chapter is rhetoric, a subject that now seems tedious to nearly all readers, critics, and writers,Â” there may yet be some value in considering the c hapterÂ’s relation to the enthymeme and rhetoric more generally (Hodgart 121). There is a significant amount of persuasive discourse in the chapter, alt hough that attempted by Bloom generally fails (hence, the wind-inspir ed subtitle above, Â“Bloom bl ows itÂ’). Rhetoric as an art is visible generally in the interact ions of the characters and explicitly presented in three speeches exemplifyi ng the three main kinds of oratory according to Aristotle: the deliberative, the forensic, and the epideictic. In short, deliberative rhetoric is that of politics and future action; fo rensic rhetoric is judicial speech and judgment of past events, and epideictic rhetoric is ceremonial speech of praise or blame focused on t he present. One of the speeches in the Aeolus chapterÂ—Mr. Justice Fitzgibbon Â’s epideictic speech concerning the revival of the Irish tongueÂ—is, in terestingly, the only passage from Ulysses that Joyce ever consented to make an audi o recording of, strengthening this chapterÂ’s claim to realizi ng the art of rhetoric.
76 While most of the stemma is easily identified, critics are routinely confounded as to what it means that t he episodeÂ’s technique is Â“enthymemic.Â” M. J. C. Hodgart calls this Â“one of the most irritating minor problems in the interpretation of Ulysses,Â” partially because Â“neither Joyce nor anyone else seems to know what an enthymeme really isÂ” (123). So far, all this tells us is that Joycean scholarship suffers from t he same confusion common to other investigations of the enthym eme. The nature of the Â“techni queÂ” of JoyceÂ’s text is also unclear. Is it a technique of compos ing, in which Joyce himself employs the enthymeme to develop the text? Is it a technique of interpretation, in which readers employ the enthymeme to construct the text? Is it a technique evident in the actions or dialogue of the characters ? In short, exactly how is the chapter technique related to the enthymeme? Gilbert does little to resolve this ques tion. Gilbert does attempt to catalog every rhetorical scheme and trope active in the chapter, and does provide an example of the enthymeme from the c hapter, but never directly addresses the issue of the enthymeme as a technique. While his catalog includes over ninety examples of schemes and tropes from t he chapter, GilbertÂ’s analysis of this episode has been cited as Â“inaccurate and incompleteÂ” (Tompkins 199). For instance, Gilbert has difficulty with individual schemes and tropes. Although he provides an extensive inventory, Gilber t omits two common devices from his list: polyptoton and anatanaclasis. Polyptoton (the use of mult iple words based on the same root) is found in the Aeolus chapter of Ulysses in the form of Â“imperial, imperious, imperativeÂ”
77 (Joyce 108). Anatanaclasis (the use of a word twice in two different senses) is found at least twice in the chapter, once on page 116 with the phrase Â“sitting in,Â” and once on page 119 with the word Â“brawn.Â” The latter example is part of a story that Stephen Daedalus tells titled Â“The Parable of the Plums,Â” in which two elderly women climb to the top of Â“NelsonÂ’s Pillar.Â”10 The two women first purchase Â“one and fourpenceworth of br awnÂ”Â—a type of sausage most often made from the head of a pig (also known as Â“head cheeseÂ”). Later, as they wearily climb the winding staircase to t he top of the pillar, one asks the other Â“have you the brawn,Â” using it in t he more common sense of strength or endurance. But none of this makes it into G ilbertÂ’s account of rhetorical devices. Considering the inexacti tude with which Gilbert handl ed rhetoric within the Aeolus episode, perhaps it is fortunate t hat he did not attemp t to explain the meaning of an Â“enthymemicÂ” technique. In truth, GilbertÂ’Â’s analysis of the chapterÂ’s rhetorical features is not simply incomplete, it is faulty. For instance, G ilbert identifies three examples of oratory in the chapter as Â“deliber ative,Â” Â“forensic,Â” and Â“exp ositoryÂ” (188). Since the Rhetoric is concerned with persuasive speec h and standard translations of Aristotle refer to this third type of speec h as Â“epideicticÂ” (the speech of praise or blame, sometimes called Â“ demonstrativeÂ” or Â“panegyric, Â” but not expository), GilbertÂ’s use of Â“expositoryÂ” rhetoric seems out of place, especially considering that his example of exposit ory rhetoric is the speech of Dan Dawson, which is clearly epideictic in its praise of Ireland. To oppose GilbertÂ’s characterization of this speech as expository, Phillip Tomp kins points to the celebratory headline
78 given to the speech by the exter nal editorÂ—Â“ERIN GREEN GEM OF THE SILVER SEAÂ”Â—and the contents of DawsonÂ’ s ensuing speech, which praises the Â“peerless panorama of IrelandÂ’s portfo lio, unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunt ed prize regions, for very beauty, of bosky grove and undulating plainÂ” (Joyce 230). The typical view of an enthymeme that Gilbert may be o perating under is that of the truncated syllogismÂ—a syllogism with an omitted premise. Understanding the enthym eme as a scheme of omission suggests other Â“enthymemicÂ” discourse in the Aeolus epi sode, since omission in a more general sense is a common theme within the episode and the novel as a whole. Ulysses is quite famous for omitting, among other things, quotation marks and other punctuation. Schemes of omission su ch as apocope (removing the ending of a word to form a new word, as in Â“mornÂ” from Â“morningÂ”), aphaeresis (removing the beginning of a word to form a new wo rd, as in Â“neathÂ” from Â“beneathÂ”), and asyndeton (omitting conjunctions, as in JoyceÂ’s Â“They watched the knees, legs, boots vanishÂ” ) also appear within the Aeolus episode. Gilbert explicitly identifies examples of four other rhet orical devices of omission: ellipsis, brachylogia, sync ope, and synaloepha. Instances where words are left off the ends of sentenc es, where spaces between words are omitted, where letters are skipped, where names are shortened, where conjunctions are excluded, and where ac ronyms are used are examples of similar linguistic and typographical omission s. Other instances in which words, individuals, or actions are Â“omittedÂ” ar guably exist (Bloom is excluded from the
79 camaraderie of the office workers, for instance), though these are not constructed in any truly enthymemic sens e as discussed so far. One might even read omission into the 3/4 time signatur e of the newspaper presses (which Â“clanked in threefour timeÂ”) and of the Polish round dance that Lenehan performs to lampoon Bloom, since this could be read as an Â“incompleteÂ” 4/4 measure (Joyce 98). While Gilbert does not address the enthymemic technique of JoyceÂ’s chapter, he does give an example of an ent hymeme in his list of rhetorical devices active in the Aeolus chapter. Though there is no way to be sure under what definition of enthymeme Gilbert was working, the example he gives is from a short exchange between Bloom and Mr. Hynes, a reporter. The background necessary to understand this scene is that Hynes owes Bloom money: Â—Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off. Mr. Bloom stood in his way. Â—If you want to draw the cashier is ju st going to lunch, he [Bloom] said, pointing backward with his thumb. Â—Did you? Hynes asked. Â—Mm, Mr. Bloom said. Look sharp and youÂ’ll catch him. (Joyce 98Â–99) Gilbert refers to the line Â“If you want to dr aw the cashier is just going to lunchÂ” as an enthymeme, presumably because the pr emise that Hynes could pay Bloom the three bob that he owes him by drawi ng it from the cashier has been omitted. This could match the formalistic conc eption of an enthymeme as a less-thanthree-part syllogism. But if this is just a part of the syllogism, what does the
80 completed syllogism look like? Below is one possible formulation of a syllogism that adequately summarizes the situation: M : Hynes should retrieve and give to Bloom the three bob he owes him at the earliest convenience. m : The earliest convenience for Hynes to retrieve and give to Bloom the three bob he owes him is right now. C : Hynes should retrieve and give to Bloom the three bob he owes him right now. This syllogistic formulation is hardly co rrelated to the dialogue above. The line that Gilbert identifies as an enthymeme (Â“If you want to draw the cashier is just going to lunchÂ”) could be considered an approximation of t he minor premise above: Â“The earliest convenience for Hynes to retrieve and give to Bloom the three bob he owes him is right now.Â” But what does it mean for an enthymeme of this syllogism to exist? The loss of any one premise from the syllogism above would still leave the three Â“termsÂ” inta ct (the three term s being Â“the earliest convenienceÂ”, Â“right nowÂ”, and Â“that Hynes should retrieve and give to Bloom the three bob he owes himÂ”). Furthermore, this idealized formulation only states what Bloom believes should happen, but not what will happen. In other words, this is simply an exhibition of BloomÂ’s own des ire, not an attempt to engage the desire of Hynes (to be a good neighbor, to act honorably, etc.). The example above does not make use of the exact phrase that Gilbert identifies as constituting the enthymeme. The following syllogism better captures the information presented in G ilbertÂ’s enthymeme example:
81 M: Hynes can pay back Bloom (by drawing money) if the cashier is still available. m: The cashier is still available (i.e. just about to go to lunch). C: Hynes can pay back Bloom. Again, what seems to be mi ssing from this view of t he enthymeme is the will to act. Gilbert seems to mean by enthymeme the simple omission of information, but what is more strikingly absent is any motivation embedded in GilbertÂ’s example; there is no evoked ethical imperative regarding the relationship between Bloom and Hynes. Without these, it is unlikely that Hynes will spontaneously supply an enthymemic res ponse that leads him to action. Even if one does accept this exch ange as enthymemic, one must admit that it is a rhetorical failure: Hynes does not catch BloomÂ’s hint (or at least, he does not let on that he does). It seems that Hynes was unable or unwilling to supply the premise missing fr om the enthymeme. ItÂ’s unc lear though that this exchange can function enthymemically, since not only one premise, but the conclusion is unknown. How this could be stated without the conclusion being already given is unclear. Wi thout Bloom telling Hynes op enly that he should get the money to give to him and then supplyi ng Hynes with one of the premises that would lead, through Hynes participation, to the realization of the previously stated conclusion, no action seems likely, and in fact that is exactly what does (fail to) happen. Without a reason for catching the cashier before he goes to lunch, Hynes will not seek him out, and not simp ly because the knowledge of the given conclusion is not shared between both the rhetor and the audience.
82 There are more conventional exam ples of enthymemes than Gilbert identifies. Bloom reasons t hat if he can get the ad desi gn to Nanetti, heÂ’ll Â“give it a good place,Â” and Crawford claims that he knows Taylor did not prepare his speech because Â“there was not even one short handwriter in the hallÂ” (Joyce 100, 116). Each of these is a claim to know ledge (one about an event in the past, one about an event in the future ) that leaves out an assu med premise. Even similes are like enthymemes. Bloom thinks of the newspaper men as weathercocks, stating: Â“Funny the way those newspaper men veer about when they get wind of a new opening. WeathercocksÂ“ (Joyce 103) One could easily argue that the simile, Â“Newspaper men are like weatherco cksÂ” is based on the premises that Â“Weathercocks veer about in the windÂ” and Â“Newspaper men veer about in the windÂ’Â” and, therefore, Â“Newsp aper men are like weather co cks.Â” Of course, this is only an enthymeme insofar as one adopts a structural view of what an enthymeme is. BloomÂ’s job as an ad canvasser is significant to the argument here concerning the circulation of visual ent hymemes. Bloom spends the greater part of the episode attempting to get an ad placed in the Telegraph the content of which is Â“Two crossed keys here. A circ le. Then here the name. Alexander Keys, tea, wine, and spirit merchant. So onÂ” (J oyce 99). When Bloom goes to sell the ad to the foreman at the newspaper, he draws the foremanÂ’s attention to the conclusion offered by the adÂ’s illustration:
83 Â—The idea, Mr. Bloom said, is the hous e of keys. You know, councilor, the Manx parliament. Innuendo of home rule. Tourists, you know, from the isle of Man. Catches the eye, you see. Can you do that? Bloom locates the effect of this ad exactl y in its Â“unstatedÂ” yet shared knowledge regarding the meaning of the Â“house of keysÂ” as signifying home rule, here being used to promote drinking (ironically, Jo yce associates alcohol consumption exactly with the Â“g.p.i.Â” [general paralysis of the Irish], a stat e most unfavorable to the establishing of home rule). That su ch an image Â“catches the eyeÂ” suggests that there can be a visual trigger for enthymemic discourse. Visual discourse saturates the newspapers at the Telegraph office. As Bloom po ints out, Â“ItÂ’s the ads and side features sell a weekly, not the stale news in the official gazette. . M.A.P. Mainly all picturesÂ” (Joyce 98). Bloom never does succeed in getting KeyesÂ’ ad published, though this is not the only ad that brings him grief. T he jingle for Â“PlumtreeÂ’s Potted Meat,Â” plagues Bloom throughout the day, remi nding him as it does of his wifeÂ’s possible infidelity with Blazes Boylan. This jingle statesÂ” What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Incomplete. With it, an abode of bliss.Â” The incompleteness of the home is offered as a reason for the consumption of the product. This raises the question of w hether all commercial discourse is enthymemic in the sense that it proffers a lack that the cons umer can then fill by buying the product. Perhaps it is appropria te that JoyceÂ’s chapter utilizing an enthymemic technique occurs within the commercial scene of the newspaper office.
84 Reassessing the dialogue that Gilbert iden tifies as being enthymemic, it is possible to see enthymemic structure f unctioning in another manner. Consider the end of the exchange: Â—If you want to draw the cashier is just going to lunch, he said, pointing backward with his thumb. Â—Did you? Hynes asked. Â—Mm, Mr. Bloom said. Look s harp and youÂ’ll catch him. Â—Thanks old man, Hynes said. (Joyce 98Â–99) Hynes unfinished question, Â“Did you?,Â” in view of BloomÂ’s subsequent imperative to Â“Look sharp,Â” very probably was the begi nning of the full question Â“Did you just see him?,Â” to which BloomÂ’s answer is an affirmative Â“Mm.Â” The success of this exchange, confirmed by HynesÂ’ appreciative Â“Thanks,Â” relies on BloomÂ’s participation in supplying the unspoken words. The conclusion that Bloom provides, that which would necessi tate both HynesÂ’ question and BloomÂ’s interruptive response, is HynesÂ’ desire to meet the cashier before he goes to lunch. This conclusion has been handily provided by the earlier dialogue, though the exact reason why Hynes desires to see the cashier proves not to be the same as BloomÂ’s. This should give pause to those who might think that an enthymeme based in emotion or images would be somehow more effective than those using words. More likely, ambigui ty and misreading will be the norm, as oneÂ’s emotions are often not obvious to observers, nor even to those experiencing them.
85 Jacques Derrida, in an address given at the Ninth International James Joyce Symposium in Frankfurt, (West) Ge rmany in 1984, provides a meditation on the word Â“yesÂ” in the works of James Joyce, one of the most famous uses of which comes at the end of JoyceÂ’s Ulysses in MollyÂ’s monologue. Derrida writes that although Â“yes,Â” is something that . names nothing, descr ibes nothing, whose grammatical and semantic status is most enigmatic, it seems at least possible to affirm the following: it must be taken for an answer. It is always in the form of an answer. It supervenes after the other, to answer a request or a quotation, at least implicit, of the other, even if this is the other in me, t he representation in me of another word. Yes implies, as Bloom would say, an Â“implicit believerÂ” in some question put forward by the other. (34) Since Â“yesÂ” always arises in answer to a pr evious event in the context of a prior discussion or relationship, Derrida sugges ts that one might question even calling MollyÂ’s speech a monologue (27). The rec ognition of the question put forth by the other is for Derrida a critical moment because every utterance is at once addressed to the other and to itself; it is a Â“dispatch to oneself, a dispatch returned from oneself which both never leaves itself and never arrives Â” (66). Such a conception of communication matches well with contemporary descriptions of the role of af fect as well. Massumi writes that affect is the field of emergence for sensation, perception, and memory, a Â“complicat ing immediacy of self -relationÂ” (14, emphasis added).
86 BloomÂ’s Â“MmÂ” in response to HyneÂ’s questi on of Â“Did you?Â” is just such a dispatch, one that attemp ts to affirm a complex relation between Bloom and Hynes not limited to the linguistic displa y of premises, but dependent instead on the remembered ethical responsibility under lying the act of communication. Thus Derrida finds in the repeated yesÂ’s in JoyceÂ’s works the Â“always already implicated affirmative of any statement Â” which questions the Â“independent status of Â‘subjectÂ’ and Â‘objectÂ’Â” (Bernstock 71) .The meaning of an utterance is always dependent on oneÂ’s relationship to an Other, a relationship maintained Â“[w]ith or without words, taken as a minimal event, yes demands a priori its own repetition, its own memorizing . . The memory of a promise begins the circle of appropriation, with all t he risks inherent in the technique of repetition, of automatized archives, of gramaphony, of simulacrum, of wandering deprived of an address and destination. (Derrida 68) This allows a reconsideration of Gilber tÂ’s example of the enthymeme in which Bloom attempts to remind Hy nes of his debt. DerridaÂ’s di scussion of the Â“yesÂ” in Ulysses establishes dialogic conditions that we might apply to the enthymeme by asserting that the enthymeme relies on a ty pe of prior affirmation of premises, of a social or ethical commitment that is an essential element of the recognition that precedes not simply the completion of an argument, but the event which is the presupposed Â“yesÂ” that is called for by the premises, as well as the Â“yesÂ” that is the result of the enthymeme. For Derrida, this posterior Â“yesÂ” is not merely embodied in a linguistic structure, for the event of language is one in which Â“Only another event can sign,
87 can countersign to ensure that an event has happened. This One, that we naively call the first One, can only affirm itself in the confirmation of the Other: a completely different eventÂ” (70). In Bl oomÂ’s case, this event never happens, for there is no recognition by Hynes of the ethical obligat ion between them, and therefore, one might argue, no enthymeme. In his essay Â“Discourse: Structure or Event?Â”, Michel Pcheux doubts the usef ulness of any interpretive method in which the eventfulness of discourse is i gnored and, rather, discourse is reduced to a structure Â“without any other or realÂ” (648). The la tter is precisely what the conventional approach to identifying enthy memes does when it is expressed in the structure of the syllogismÂ’s major premise, minor prem ise, and conclusion. Pcheux warns that Â“. . the act that consis ts in inscribing a given discourse in a series, in incorporating it in a corpus, alwa ys risks absorbing the event of this discourse into the structure of the seri es insofar as this series tends to function as a historical transcendental reading grid or anticipatory memory of the discourse in question.Â” (648) The syllogistic structure used to delimit the enthymemeÂ’s corpus imposes a grid upon the discursive act that screens out all but the linguistic relationships between utterances. Such a Â“structural conception of discursivityÂ” leads to the Â“obliteration of the event.Â” Treating the enthymeme as an event rather than as a structure invites one to recognize the host of elements left out of the traditional model of enthymemic argument, such as the visual and emot ional aspects of persuasion. Claiming the enthymeme as a completable structure (completed by
88 expansion into a syllogism) is one way of Â“denying the act of interpretation at the very moment it occursÂ” because such an approach locates the telos within the structure presupposed by the enthyme me. Rather, one might locate the enthymeme as the effect of the Â“yeses Â” of the Â“implied believerÂ” that Derrida identifies, and which are the Â“effects of identifications that are [conventionally] assumedÂ” (or ignored), but which a model of the enthymeme based in thumos attempts to make ex plicit (Pcheux 648). The enthymeme as event recognizes that its claim to existence Â“can only affirm itself in the confirma tion of the OtherÂ“ who interp rets that event (Derrida 70). By doing so, it returns the enthymeme to the sphere of rhetoric, and thus to ethics, since only if every event is mo tivated by an Other can discourse become Â“a matter of ethics and politics: a question of responsibilityÂ” (Pcheux 648). This is not the Â“responsibilityÂ” G age identifies, which is a resp onsibility the writer holds to the Â“several potential structures im plicit in the enth ymemeÂ” (81). GageÂ’s responsibility is the account ability of words to other words, of subjects to predicates or verbs to objec ts. DerridaÂ’s and PcheuxÂ’ noti on of responsibility is that which one accepts for others engaged in ethical and political struggle. The enthymeme can become truly rhetorical, but it must transc end its structural history to do so. It must exist as event. The Enthymeme: Two Paradigms Â“It is in ambiguity that we dev elop the capacity to changeÂ” Janet Bean, Â“Manufacturing EmotionsÂ”
89 So far, most of the familiar disci plinary definitions provided of the enthymeme and the pedagogies built upon this concept focus on the enthymeme as a (syllogistically) stru ctured entity, one that can be extended as a structuring principle to the whole process of writ ing. Even those approaches that do attempt to forego comparison of the enthyme me to syllogisms still focus on the enthymemeÂ’s structural characteristics. Therefore, the most common definition is not one in which a premise is provided via the audienceÂ’s previously held knowledge in a context of et hical obligation, or one that evokes other responses in the audience, but one that defines the enthymeme in terms of content, in which a premise is lacking which would otherwise make t he structure a true syllogism, irregardless of the audienceÂ’s reaction. This latter approach to the enthymeme will be called here the Â“structuralÂ” approach following the work of Gaines and predecessors such as Lawrence Green, whose essay Â“Enthymemic Inventi on and Structural PredictionÂ” claims that enthymemes can not only provide stru cture to an argument but to an entire discourse as well, and claims that the ent hymeme is possible only because of a predetermined structural relati onship among its premises. In order to show that there is always an assumed syllogistic relationship enabling the enthymeme, Green writes that the . relation between the writer's conclusion (the thesis) and the writer's basic strategy (the minor premise) is enthymematic in the Aristotelian sense because it always implies the existence of a second premise that
90 joins the two clauses. This second and implicit premise is the major premise of the enthymeme. (624) Thus, according to Green, no one can establish a causal relationship between two elements without employing enthymem ic structures. The enthymeme thus becomes an architectonic principle applicab le to all levels of discourse (this approach is evident in pedagogies such as that of Emmel discussed above). GreenÂ’s willingness to base his account of invention on the Aristotelian enthymeme was not unrelated to the recove ry of classical rhetoric that was stimulated by the publication of Edwa rd P. J. CorbettÂ’s 1965 textbook, Classical Rhetoric for the Modern Student and James L. KinneavyÂ’s 1971 work, A Theory of Discourse both of which relied heavily on Aristotelian concepts to construct a modern view of rhetoric. Together, t hese two texts provided an Aristotelian foundation for both composition p edagogy and composition theory. GreenÂ’s work was influential as well. As Gaines notes, the Â“theory of structural enthymemes developed by Gr een was quite influential on subsequent attempts to provide compositional pr ecepts for the classroomÂ“ and was adopted in pedagogical approaches developed by J ohn T. Gage, Maxine Hairston, Martin Jacobi, Barbara Emmel, Hiu Wu, Marsha ll Gregory, Wayne Booth, Linda BenselMeyers, and others (12). These Â“applicat ions of the enthymeme stressing its architectural featuresÂ” f ound purchase in diverse areas, including teaching argument, professional and bus iness writing, ethics, a nd public speaking, often as an inventional method designed to bot h work backwards from established syllogisms and to work towards intended theses (Gaines 12).
91 The other approach to the enthymeme that Gaines identifies remains nameless, although he does associate it with those who, like Kinneavy, have Â“attempted to advance composition theor yÂ” (12). Gaines associates this alternative approach with the work of sc holars such as Lisa Ede, Andrea Lunsford, Robert Connors, Jasper Neel, and John T. Gage. Ad mittedly, John T. Gage was associated with the structural approach as well, but this is mainly because his work has been employed by seve ral scholars to advance a structural view of the enthymeme, and thus his in fluence falls within both camps. By connecting their reading of Aristotle to a more social and epistemic view of communication and knowledge, scholars such as the ones Gaines lists emphasized the enthymemeÂ’s social nat ureÂ—that it suppl ied an inventional method in the Â“rhetor's search of mu tually agreeable grounds for probable knowledgeÂ” (Gage Â“AdequateÂ” 157). Th is approach will be called here the Â“rhetoricalÂ” approach to the enthymeme. The division of the enthymeme into st ructural and rhetorical approaches to the enthymeme is not unlike other attemp ts to define theoretical approaches to discourse and culture. O ne can see clear parallels to these divisions, for instance, in Stuart HallÂ’s discussion of cu ltural studies in his well-known essay Â“Cultural Studies: Two Paradigms.Â” In th is essay, Hall identifies two ways of practicing cultural studies that he labels Â“culturalistÂ” and Â“structuralistÂ” paradigms. Hall associates the culturalist paradi gm with the work of Raymond Williams and E.P. Thompson, whose wor ks understand culture Â“not as a set of privileged texts,
92 but rather as the systems of meanings em bodied in all social practicesÂ” (Katz 43). This approach to social practices val ues the individualÂ’s experience of the world, and is thus often associated wit h Â“humanism and experi entalism.Â” On the other hand, the structuralist paradigm that Hall associat es with scholars such as Claude Levi-Strauss and the Louis Althusser Â“decenters experience by showing it to be an effect of social structures whic h cannot be reduced to the Â‘materialsÂ’ of experienceÂ” (Katz 43). By looking outside t he subject for the root of subjectivity, structural approaches are sometimes cr iticized for denying the possibility of individual agency. Thus the Marxist des ire to develop a scientific approach to history is sometimes viewed as an attempt to read Â“human will and agency out of historyÂ” (Trimbur, Â“ArticulationÂ” 38). Such Â“limitedÂ” agency is complicated by Michel FoucaultÂ’s view of power in his earlier works which stresses the circ ulation of power through all levels of a structure. OneÂ’s placement wit hin such structures is in dicative of oneÂ’s access to Â“power-knowledgeÂ”Â—FoucaultÂ’s term for the way in which regimes of power are constituted through systems of knowledge. Also, access to such powerknowledge contributes to oneÂ’s perception as to what exactly constitutes agency in any situation, thereby further lim iting possible action. Whatever the weaknesses inherent in such approaches, th e more structural that one assumes the world to be, the greater predictive value these theories hold. As Stuart Hall writes, the Â“great strengt h of the structuralisms is their stress on Â‘ determinate Â’ conditionsÂ” (67, emphasis added). But determination has rarely been a success
93 story of even the most orthodox structur alisms. As Raymond Williams wrote, "No problem in Marxist cultural theory is more di fficult than that of determination" (83). HallsÂ’ attempt to negotiate the role of determination in culture without depending exclusively on eit her of these two approache s led to the development of his theory of articulation, which John Trimbur describes as an attempt . to formulate a model of determination that avoids, on the one hand, the traditional Marxist view of a fixed and necessary correspondence between cultural practices and social structures and, on the other, more recent poststructuralist views of the indeterminancy or necessary noncorrespondence and incommensurability of discourses, practices, and structures. By looking at how particular ideas, discourses, and practices are linkedÂ—or articulatedÂ—to particular conjunctures in the social formation, Hall has sought to defi ne a "Marxism wit hout guarantees," a guide to action that relies not on the predictive certainties of classical Marxist theory but on a reading of thos e linkages and how they articulate, at specific times and places, interests, subjectivities, and social forces. (Â“ArticulationÂ” 39) This approach allows Hall to avoid the extr emes of either the structuralist or the culturalist approach, and to recognize tha t, since power is reproduced at every level of a structure, so t oo is the possibility for resist ance to that structure. The degree and type of determination will t herefore always depend upon historical linkages, for instance, among discourse s and artifacts, and among ways of knowing and modes of production. HallÂ’s project is bolstered by what Williams
94 calls the "extraordinary linguistic comp lexity" of the term "determine" (84). According to Trimbur, the historical roots of this term that W illiams unearths show that Â“determineÂ” can be used to refer Â“not only to an external force or authorityÂ— whether history or GodÂ—that decides or controls the outcome of an action but also to the way limits are set and pressu res exerted by the momentum of the social process itselfÂ” (Â“ArticulationÂ” 38). This more contextual and fluid sens e of determination is perhaps what underlies Carl HolmbergÂ’s essay Â“Dialectical Rhetoric and Rhetor ical Rhetoric,Â” in which he argues that Â“rhetoric c an be determined and grounded rhetorically instead of dialectically determinedÂ” (232). According to Holmberg, the past two thousand years of rhetorical history reveal that Â“what has been ca lled rhetoric . has been a dialectical rendering of rhetoric and, hence, not pure rhetoric.Â” A dialectical rendering of rhetoric (represent ed most clearly in the Platonic dialectic seeking to verify that which is already k nown) would have us view reality in Â“only one way,Â” while a rhetorical rendering of rhetoric would have us experience Â“one of the many viewsÂ” that are possible (Holmberg 236, 237). Dialectical rhetoric assumes that Â“Being is determinate, ph ysical, and morphic,Â” while rhetorical rhetoric assumes that Â“Being is indet erminate, not necessarily physical, and amorphicÂ” (238). Holmberg ident ifies strongly with the Sophists, since it is in their view that reality was Â“basically relati visticÂ” and the Â“means of describing reality were contradictoryÂ” that he finds a kinshi p with his own views of rhetoric as an Â“ambiguating way of speakingÂ” (236, 239).
95 Dialectical rhetoric does not value ambiguity. The tw o main characteristics of dialectical rhetoric are that Â“[s]peaking and writing are to be clear and correct if truth is to be ascertained,Â” and, since only one of the various experiences of reality can ever be the correct one, the goal of the rhetor is the Â“conversion of experiencers who are Â‘incorrectÂ’ to the Â‘co rrectÂ’ viewÂ” (Holmberg 238). Dialectical rhetoric might be viewed as discourse co mmitted to what Gary Olson calls the Â“rhetoric of assertionÂ” (7). According to Olson, the English studies model of composing Â“has always seemed to be asso ciated with asserting something to be true.Â” Olson claims that this Â“rhetoric of assertionÂ” is Â“masculinist, phallogocentric, foundationalist, often essentialis t, and, at the very least, lim itingÂ” (9). At the least, the perspective in which the truth of disc ourse is born from assertion is one in which the enthymeme can not occupy any pos ition except that of an obstruction to clarity and closure. But this dialectical perspective ignor es the history of rhetoric as a Â“philosophy of composition that exploits writing as a mode of avoiding rather than intending closureÂ” (Covino 130). This Â“revisionist historyÂ” is the topic of CovinoÂ’s The Art of Wonderin g, which argues that the Â“f ormulary obedienceÂ” of rulesbased interpretations of classical rhetoric is part of the perennial codification of rhetoric into rules and systems, a practice that ignores that, to reiterate CovinoÂ’s observation, the ways modern rhetoricians and the Â“major figures of classical rhetoricÂ—Plato, Aristotle, CiceroÂ—def ine and demonstrate rhetoric as the elaboration of ambiguityÂ” (2). The alternative to the dialec tical model of rhetoric is
96 to Â“delay answers, postpone closure, avoid assertion, looking instead for more open-ended, dialogic methods of inquiryÂ—a non-assertive rhetoricÂ” (Olson 10). By refusing to make an assertion that is necessarily true, the enthymeme may be a key element of a non-assertive rhet oric faithful to the dialogic inquiry that Olson calls for and the tradition of ambi guity that Covino identifies as active in classical and modern rhetoric. As Holm berg writes: in rhetorical rhetoric, Â“[s]peaking and writing are enthymemic . [enabling] various and equally correct interpretations . [made possible by the] duplicity or ambiguity of expression and nonconventional syntaxÂ” (238Â–239). Images are enthymemic for these reasons as well, and it is only by asso ciating rhetoric with the dialectical demands of clarity, or Â“dup licity or ambiguity of expr essionÂ” with maliciousness, that one can justify excludi ng them from the canon of persuasive method in their most rhetorical forms. It is telling that Blair, in his attemp t to argue that a cartoon by British cartoonist David Low is a visual argumen t, takes pains to reassure the reader that Â“there is no ambiguity or vagueness whats oever about LowÂ’s meaningÂ” (Â“RhetoricÂ” 48, emphasis added). Ironically, th is is in a section attempting to refute the claim that the Â“vagueness or am biguity [of images] make visual argument impossibleÂ” (Â“Rhetor icÂ” 46). BlairÂ’s refutation of this claim is that 1.Words are ambiguous, not just images, and that 2.Images (as shown by the Low cartoon) can achieve the clarity (i.e lack of ambiguity) commonly attributed to words (45Â–49). In other words, ambigui ty is in BlairÂ’s portrayal one of the Â“risksÂ” that all communication must negotia te, a flaw that must be overcome
97 (Â“RhetoricÂ” 47). For Blair, visual argument is possible because Â“ not all visual communication is vague or ambiguousÂ” (59, emphasis added). Blair is thus able to accept that images can be arguments wit hout altering his sense of what an argument is. If we accept HolmbergÂ’s argument that a rhetorical approach to rhetoric embraces the enthymeme and the ambiguity through which it functions, then it is hard to see BlairÂ’s approach to the enthy meme as anything but an expression of dialectical rhetoric. The construction of r hetoric as dialectical in the sense of logical determination helps account for the academic interest in the structure of visual argument, because it is only by adopting the uncomprom ising structure of the syllogism that one can determine w hat visuals mean. If one values the ambiguity necessary to rhetorical exchange, then images become legitimate rhetorical arguments, without any need for the apologies scholars often offer in light of their tendency to lack propositiona l content, to evoke emotions, and to incorporate numerous and even contr adictory appeals. Mirzoeff writes in An Introduction to Visual Culture that we must move beyond the idea (which he attributes to semiotics) that Â“visual im ages succeed or fail to the extent that we can interpret them successfullyÂ” (Mirz oeff 13). To do so would be to enact another iteration of a dialectical a pproach to images. Approaching enthymemes as examples of rhetorical rhetoric forc es one to see enthymemes as robust axes of rhetorical forces, as entities that are not Â“simply statement s of probable fact but reflect values and attitudes as well. That is, enthymemes, viewed in their
98 rhetorical context, function not just as logos but involve ethos and pathos as wellÂ” (Conley 169). Ambiguity is key in disc ourses of emotion, and t he enthymemeÂ’s ability to express and incorporate ambiguity thus holds promise for its ability to draw attention to the affective element s of discourse. Megan Boler, in Feeling Power develops what she calls a Â“pedagogy of disco mfortÂ” in which st udents, along with instructors, are invited to explore the Â“e motional dimensions of [their] cognitive and moral perceptionÂ” ( xxiv ). By asking students to engage in the Â“discomforting process of questioning cherished beliefs and assumptions,Â” Boler hopes to get individuals Â“willingly to inhabit a more ambiguous and flexible sense of selfÂ” (176, emphasis added). Approaching rhetoric as the Â“elaboration of ambiguityÂ” and as a way of engaging with discourse both ethi cally and politically complex enables one to develop an understanding of the enthyme me that is amiable to the role of images and emotion as fundamental elem ents of belief and persuasion, rather than as distracting or disingenuous tactics of unethical rhetors (Covino 2). Thus, the ambiguity of t he enthymeme is its greatest asset, and the ambiguity of images makes them likely candidates to be enthymemes.
99 Chapter 3 Recovering Thumos in Rhetoric In order to justify the re covery of thumos in rhetoric, it is necessary to consider the place of emotion in discu ssions of enthymemic discourse and in the field of rhetoric and composition more generally. Many of the pedagogies described earlier, especially those bas ed on Bitzer, value foremost the participatory aspect of the enthymeme. Ho w does one establish, however, not just the social character of the enthymeme, but its emotional character as well? Aristotle may be a more useful source in this regards than might be expected. First we can look at, as Arthur Miller and John Bee state, Â“AristotleÂ’s rationale for viewing the enthymeme as the primary engine for rhetorical proof and practical reasoningÂ” (201). BitzerÂ’s answer would likely focus on the collaborative method of enthymemic production, arguing that Â“[b]ecause they are jointly produced, enthymemes intimately unite speaker and audience and provide the strongest possible proofsÂ” (408). But Miller and Bee claim that Â“the a ffective component inherent in the enthymeme is the essence of AristotleÂ’s concept of the enthymeme as practical reasoningÂ” (they define the affective com ponent as denoting the Â“area of feelings and emotionsÂ”) (201). Miller and Bee locate the enthymemeÂ’s claim to affective structure in the etymology of the word enthymeme, which they note is from thymos the basic meaning of which is Â“soul, spir it, as the principl e of life, feeling
100 and thought, esp. of strong feeling and pa ssionÂ” (201). Thus, the roots of the enthymeme in thumos show that Â“enthy memes inherently involve an affective component that operates from a base of feelings and emotionsÂ” (Miller and Bee 202). It is this affective component of discourse which addresses both mind and appetite that Â“gives the enthymeme force as rhetorical proof, pisteis and thus as the substance of rhetorical persuas ionÂ” (Miller and Bee 205). Even a more traditional conception of the enthymeme could incorporate some affective aspects, if one acknowledged the following: that reasoning is not a solely rational operation and therefore emotion is an active part of practical reasoning; and that the audience can Â“completeÂ” the enthymeme not just by suppl ying a linguistic proof, but through an affective response. In fact, the convent ional focus on the logical structure of the structural enthymeme might be attributed, not to a dismissal of passion, but to a passi onately held attachment to logic. Reuniting Cogniti on and Emotion in the Enthymeme Though they have often been opposed to each other, emotion and reason are not discrete processes. As Ellen Q uandahl shows, pointin g to the work of scholars such as Jeffrey Walker and Ma rtha Nussbaum, Â“emotions are not only not fully separate from reason, but involv e reason or cognitionÂ—and thus also languageÂ—in crucial waysÂ” (12). Some scholars even reverse the traditional hierarchy of rationality over emotion. George Marcus claims in his book, The Sentimental Citizen that Â“people are able to be rational because they are emotional; emotions enable rationality,Â” ultimately arguing that sentimental citizens are the only ones capable of function ing as political subjects (7). Antonio
101 Damasio even provides a neurological basis for the role of emotion in the maintenance of consciousness, suggesti ng that Â“Biologically, emotion makes consciousness possible, and consciousness translates emotions into feelings, from which spring language and reasonÂ” (Kerr 28) It is thus difficult to maintain the Â“false dichotomies between reason and emotion, mind and body, text and personÂ” that underlie the structur al approach to the enthymeme. The notion that an enthymeme can require an affective rather than linguistic response is not overly difficult to accept if one looks at the goal of persuasion as moving people to action. The Latin root of emotion, motere means Â“to move,Â” and Aristotle, in his model of the soul, suggests that desire was important to moving people to action (Jacobs and Micciche 3). Miller and Bee reinforce this notion that the realm of emotion is where one moves people to action, by stating that, according to Aristotl e Â“mind, by itself, is never sufficient to originate action or movemen t. For action to occur there must be appetiteÂ” (203). In other words, Â“Action requires an affect ive stateÂ” (204). For those who maintain, as Blair does when describing visual ar gument, that Â“Assertion is a kind of action,Â” it becomes clear that the affe ctive is operational at all stages of persuasion, including the original assertion, not just in the audienceÂ’s reception of the argument (Â“RhetoricÂ” 44). Formi ng arguments requires emotion. It might seem strange, cons idering the vast literat ure on the nature of the enthymeme, to find little on its relation to thumos. This oversight might be considered part of the general disdain for emotion that is evident in so much academic discourse. There is no doubt that the enthymeme remains an active
102 rhetorical concept, both in pedagogical and theoretical disc ourses, although it mainly persists in its structural form The relationship between the enthymeme and thumos has mostly been ignored by modern scholarship on the enthymeme as well as recent scholarship on thumos.11 This ignorance of the relationship between enthymeme and thumos might be seen as part of the long-standing desire to characterize argument as a ra tional enterprise, and to banish emotion to the periphery of the public sphere. By adopting the paradigm of the enthymeme as a quasi-syllogism with an underlying logical structure complete, scholars have been able to accept the social aspect of enthymeme formation whil e denying the role of emotion in this process; in other words, it allows them to value argument while devaluing persuasion. Such policing of public discourse to limit the role of emotion recalls Jrgen HabermasÂ’ conception of the Â“ideal speech situation,Â” which has been criticized for, among other things, its Â“assumption that emotions undermine rationalityÂ” (Marcus 6). Rather than expl ore the context that always exceeds the logocentric structure of argument, such approaches embrace the notion that rationality is the standard for public disc ourse since "[o]nly reason can make its claims explicit, available for public discussion and deliberation" (Marcus 19). Alternately, the ignorance of t he relationship between enthymeme and thumos might be seen as related to the general belief that Â“strong emotion is inconsistent with poststructuralismÂ” as we ll as the resistance to emotion within discourses that critique subjectivity (T erada 1). This perspective allows one to deny the role of emotion in enthymeme formation as well, but for different
103 reasons than above. From this post-struc tural perspective, scholars committed to such postmodern views are understandably wa ry of the approach to emotion of scholars such as Sondra Perl, who hopes that attention to emotion will favor embodied ways of knowing t hat challenge postmodernism and enable Â“genuine expressionÂ” and Â“full experiencingÂ” (59). By recasting discipl inary debates over the status of the enthymeme within the pre-Aristotelia n framework of thumos, I hope to illuminate the relationship between images, persuasion, and emotion in a way that neither maintains any hierar chy between rationality and emotion, nor reinforces notions of subjectivity that see emotion, perception, or belief as markers of an essential self. Fredric Jameson famously wrote in Postmodernism: Or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism of what he calls the Â“waning of affect in postmodern cultureÂ” (10). According to Jameson, the Â“moderni st thematics of a lienation, anomie, solitude, social fragmentati on, and isolationÂ” found in art such as Edward MunchÂ’s painting The Scream is not merely an expression of a certain type of emotion, but participates in Â“a virtual deconstruction of the very aesthetic of expression itselfÂ” (11). The loss of the concept of expression in the postmodern era, Jameson argues, is marked by the Â“end, for example, of style, in the sense of the unique and personalÂ” (15). This brings with it the Â“Â’deathÂ’ of the subject itselfÂ—the end of the aut onomous bourgeois monad or ego or individualÂ” and the Â“end of the psychopathologies of that ego.Â” What follows for Jameson is that the Â“liberation, in contemporar y society, from the older anomie of the centered subject may also mean not merely a liberat ion from anxiety but a liberation from
104 every other kind of feeling as well, since there is no longer a self present to do the feeling.Â” In light of su ch statements, many account s of poststructuralism have assumed that Â“[post-struct ural] theory does not have an account of emotionÂ” (Terada 3). This post-structural dismissal of emotion is not unchallenged (and by challenge, I do not mean here a return to t he centered subject or to belief in the primacy of expression). Rei Terada, in her book Feeling in Theory: Emotion after the Â“Death of the Subject Â” writes that postmodern t heory has often seemed to take a dim view of the persistence of emotion in postmodern subjects. But she argues that emotion is not proof of subjecti vity at all. Rather Terada states that Â“we would have no emotions if we were subjectsÂ” (4). In other words, Terada rejects the notion that Â“onl y subjects feelÂ” and takes the existence of emotion instead as proof that we are not autonomous subjects (3 ). She looks, for instance, to the passions, which are Â“oft en portrayed as expres sions of a subject imposed upon a subject, as when someone is seized by remorse or surprised by joyÂ” (5, emphasis added). Alison Jaggar in her essay Â“Love and Knowledge: Emotion in Feminist Epistemology,Â” obs erves as well that the Â“common way of referring to emotions as the Â‘passionsÂ’ emphasized that emot ions happened to or were imposed upon an individual, something she suffered rather than something she didÂ“ (146).That we conceive of ourselv es as the object of emotion is one way in which the existence of emotion is char acteristic of the Â“ nonsubjectivity within the very notion of the subjectÂ” (Ter ada 5). In this way, emotion might be considered a central met hod in enabling students to move towards the goal of
105 critical pedagogy in which they are enc ouraged to Â“develop a relationship of nonidentity with their own subjec t positionsÂ” (Giroux 129) For Terada, the death of the subject does not destroy the possibility of emotion; rather, Â“emotion entails this death,Â” providing the grounds for selfdifference (3). This self-difference is not simply cognitive, as in F. Scott FitzgeraldÂ’s definition of a Â“first-rate in telligenceÂ” as Â“the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function" (69), Nor is it merely deceptive, as in George OrwellÂ’s definit ion of Â“doublethinkÂ” as Â“[t]o know and not to know, to be c onscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contr adictory and believing bothÂ” (35). Such duplicity seems like a recipe for inaction, but Fitzgerald at least attempts to alleviate this concern when he gives as an example of the ideal response to holding opposed beliefs that one should not just be able Â“to function,Â” but Â“be able to see that things are hopele ss and yet be determined to make them otherwiseÂ” (69). This self-difference is the effect of our embodied selves as the field of emergence for sensation, per ception, and memory, a Â“complicating immediacy of self-relationÂ” that Massumi calls Â“intensityÂ” (14). More important to the argument fo r recovering thumos in rhetorical studies, Terada writes that the Â“Â’poststructuralistÂ’ dissatisfaction with the subject appears in classical thought about emotion: theor ies of emotion are always poststructuralist theoriesÂ” (3, emphasis added). Terada claims that the dominant discourse of emotion defines it as Â“nons ubjective experience in the form of self-
106 difference within cognition.Â” It is exactl y this cognitive experience of selfdifference which I believe is visible in the Greek notion of thumos. As stated earlier, thumos is used nowadays, in its bro adest sense, to refer to an individualÂ’s capacity for emotion and is thus directly implicated in oneÂ’s capacity to be moved by discursive and non-discursive phenomenaÂ—to respond to rhetoric. It is variously translated from the Greek as Â“s piritednessÂ” or Â“mindÂ” or Â“passionÂ” or Â“heart,Â” although these words do not fit without difficulty into the variable models of the psyche active in ancient Greek though t. It is, as Caroline Caswell writes in her extensive work, A Study of Thumos in Early Greek Epic the Â“most-used psychological term in Homeric diction,Â” but has received Â“little attentionÂ” in the twentieth century (1). Those seeking to tr anslate it into English have been forced to use words ranging from Â“soulÂ” to Â“mindÂ“ to Â“anger,Â” to encompass all of the faculties and situations in which one finds this word being used, for instance, in Greek epic. The multiplicity of associations that thumos invokes is evident in its etymology. Throughout Rhetoric and Poetics in Antiquity Jeffrey Walker consistently uses Â“ thymos Â” rather than Â“thumosÂ” in order to stress its relation to other Greek terms such as thymoo (to Â“make angryÂ” or Â“impassionÂ”), thymoumenon (Â“passionÂ”), enthymeomai (to Â“lay to heart, ponder, consider, form a plan, infer, conclude, be concerned or angry at,Â” and enthymmata (the Â“emotively charged reasonsÂ” invoked in the audienceÂ’s thumos) (171Â–72; 175). This choice might be best understood in c ontrast to WalkerÂ’s choice to use Â“enthymemeÂ” rather than the Greek Â“ enthymma .Â” Walker chooses Â“enthymemeÂ”
107 because his work is an intervention into the ongoing disciplinary debate over the term Â“enthymeme,Â” not over disciplinary debates over the term Â“ enthymma .Â” Using both of these terms provides Walk er an easy way to differentiate between the rhetorical tradition which draws on Ar istotleÂ’s account of the enthymeme and the sophistic discourse in which enthymma was a Â“nontechnical term in common useÂ” (171). In terms mentioned in the introductory c hapter, this allows Walker to move between the poles of historical and rational reconstruction in order to Â“develop a general notion of Â‘enthymemeÂ’ for whic h both Aristotelian and non-Aristotelian approaches offer some lines of descrip tionÂ” (184). Walker admits that to reconstruct a pre-Ar istotelian notion of enthymma would require access to a Â“sophistic discourse that is no longer fu lly available to usÂ” (171). The use of thumos rather than thymos throughout this dissertation is based on a similar ambitionÂ—to mobilize thumos in order to understand the role of emotion in contemporary imagistic discour se rather than to reconstruct a classical notion of thymos A Skeptical View of the Desi re for Emotion in Rhet-Comp While there is important intellectual wo rk being done and to be done in the study of emotion, and while the study of thumos done here is intended to further the conversation regarding the relation of em otion to rhetorical studies, it may be fruitful to ask why emotion has become in teresting to scholars in rhetoric and composition right now for asking: to what degree is the study of emotion fed by emotion itself? The centrality of emotion to the study of rhetoric is currently being
108 promoted by work in several disciplines and by many scholars, particularly those influenced by feminist studies The recent collection, A Way to Move: Rhetorics of Emotion and Comp osition Studies is representative of the scholarly attention now being given to emotion in the field of rhetoric and composit ion. The editors of this collection, Dale Jacobs and Laura Mi cciche, note that their articles are broken into three types: thos e that Â“develop theories of emotion that work out of classical rhetoric, feminist studies, and cognitive neuroscience,Â” those that Â“explore the specific ways in whic h emotion shapes and is shaped by our teaching practices,Â” and those that focu s on the Â“relation between emotion and the our professional roles as teachers and administratorsÂ” (2). To the commonly cited theory-practice binaryÂ—o ft represented by the contra st of the transient, lowpaid, unsatisfied composition teacher to the tenured, bette r-paid, satisfied professor of literature (o r nowadays, perhaps, of cultural studies)Â—Jacobs and Micciche add a third term: management. The addition of management as a signi ficant division of interest is unsurprising when one cons iders the changes in English departments over the last two decades, which have placed many scholars with degrees in rhetoric and composition studies as wr iting program administrat ors in charge of large numbers of graduate teaching assistants and other temporary faculty. With this new division in mind, I would offer that the role of rhet oric and composition professors as managersÂ—as what Ja mes Sledd and others have called Â“boss compositionistsÂ”Â—has precipit ated the interest in emoti on in composition studies. This is because, within a context of Â“f lexible, mobile, and precarious labor
109 relations,Â” it is primarily emotions t hat these professional s must manage (Hardt and Negri 112). It is in these relationshi ps that professors increasingly face Â“emotionally laden ethical dilemmasÂ” as t hey recognize that the programs they manage depend on exploitative labor practi ces and Â“structures of entrenched inequity for teachersÂ” (G illam 113; Peters 136). Labor itself undoubtedly contains an em otional aspect. Marxist theorists Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri see profic iency in such Â“affective laborÂ” as one of the Â“primary skills employees needÂ” in todayÂ’s global service economy and which they classify as any Â“labor that produces or manipulates affects such as a feeling of ease, well-being, satisfaction, excitement, or passionÂ” (108). In the context of writing program administrati on in English departments, Â“emotion workÂ” has been defined as: . responsive attention to the emoti onal aspects of social life, including attention to personal feelings, the emotional tenor of relationships, empathy and encouragement, mediation of disputes, building emotional solidarity in groups, and usi ng oneÂ’s own or othersÂ’ outlaw emotions to interrogate structures. (Holt et al 147, original emphasis). Efforts to change structures are thus conv entionally seen as developing out of an (subversive) emotional respons e, a position that is ofte n grounded, as it is above, in Allison JaggarÂ’s notion of Â“outla w emotions.Â” According to Jaggar, Â“unconventional emotional responsesÂ” c an be used as the basis Â“for forming a subculture defined by perceptions, norms, and values. By constituting the basis for such a subculture, outlaw emotions may be politically (because
110 epistemologically) subversiveÂ” (144). Laur a Micciche writes as well that anger can become a Â“necessary response to inequi tyÂ” that has historically functioned Â“as a catalyst for collectively or ganized social movementsÂ” (34). The differences between the two c onceptions of emotional labor above are telling: one sees such labor as consti tutive of the service orientation in modern capitalism in which legal assistant s, flight attendants, and fast food workers provide service with a smile (Har dt and Negri 108). The other sees such labor as the basis for subversive and critic al activity. The first sentence in one of the chapters of A Way to Move states the authorÂ’s response to his recent firing as Â“I got angry. . losing a job hurt. I wa s at turns angry, sad, pitiful, and funny.Â” (Wright 124). He resents that he Â“ had believed many of the encomia to community,Â” and he resents the call for Â“Â’No hard feelings,Â’ which we were told more than once, [and which] came to mean Â‘no feelings at all.Â’Â” The downsized author seems to value an emotional la bor grounded in anger even as he resents the emotional labor that previously made hi m feel at ease in his position as a supposed member of a community. His belie f that the Â“official discourse of letters, meetings, and pronouncementsÂ” called in fact for Â“no feelings at allÂ” seems to suggest that any emotion is here considered an outlaw emotion, a claim that may render moot JaggarÂ’s distinction of outlaw emotions as Â“unconventional.Â” What the author characteri zes as Â“no feelings at allÂ” could be seen, not as the absence of emotional labor, but as a failed attempt at the emotional labor of the type that Hardt and Negri focus onÂ—t he labor to produce feelings of ease,
111 well-being, and satisfaction. When the author later calls for Â“a theory of workplace pathos,Â” itÂ’s uncl ear how the Â“line[s] of co mfortÂ” and other forms of supportive and indignant pathos that he di smisses at the beginning of the essay differ in any way from the expressions of Â“mirth, anger, and sympathyÂ” that he longs for at the end of the essay (Wri ght 124Â–25, 134). Any theory of workplace pathos should consider that emotional labor will not always serve the interests of what he calls the Â“potential heroes,Â” but what he calls the Â“potential villainsÂ” and Â“minor devilsÂ” as well (Wright 128). Likewis e, academic work on emotion will not necessarily be subversive, but could lead to potentially more effective forms of emotional labor that better placate those, for instance, with legitimate bitterness toward inequitable conditions. Insight gai ned from such work may make WPAs better managers who are better able to manage the emotions of those who work under them, and better able to empathize with and excite employees within todayÂ’s corporatized university. Among Â“boss compositionists,Â” the i nequitable conditions of English departments may be more likely to evoke gu ilt rather than anger, at least if one agrees with the prediction embedded in the title of an essay by Mark Bousquet and published in JAC that composition is becomi ng Â“A Discipline Where Only Managements Gets Tenure.Â” In a 1998 essay in the online journal Workplace Cary Nelson wrote that many literature faculty thought of composition teachers as part of the Â“Rhet/Comp Droid assembly line s, Â” who simply Â“beep and whir and gradeÂ” and who therefore need no reduction in teaching loads because they are not trained (or expected) to do research (s ection 18). It is such sentiments that
112 Joseph Harris claims shows the Â“routine contempt that English still holds for intellectual work in compositionÂ” (44). Such observations draw attention to the diversity of emotions that attend hierarchized departm ental structures where, perhaps, the feelings of ease or security experienced by one group of professionals depends on the denial of these to other groups. The Â“sad women in the basementÂ”Â—a s Susan Miller labels the dominant image of composition teacher sÂ—is another routine ackno wledgement, not just of the low status and poor conditions of adjuncts and graduate students, but of the differential distribution of emotion throughout English departments (121) Ira Shor comments as well that English depar tments and composition courses in particular are increasingly staffed by an Â“army of underpaid, overworked writing instructors (largely female) [that] marks our field's continuing shame Â” (Interview by Parascondola, section 2). It is possible to argue then that the material conditions of English departments have prov ided a strong stimulus for the study of emotion, by placing pr ofessionals within a set of unequal relationships that hosts a large mass of low-status and di senfranchised indivi duals whom these managers exercise power over, conditions t hat seat professors with strongly felt ethical and emotional obligations. That these obligations c ontribute to an increased desire to study emotion may say little about the efficacy of emot ional labor, subversive or not. Asking individuals to act on such obligations m eans asking them not ju st to embrace the (righteous) anger of those opposed to inequ ity and/or the shame of those who benefit from it, but to embrace the feelings of anxie ty and disempowerment that
113 the dismantling of institut ional hierarchies would likely induce in those who previously held positions of security. Unt il calls for action consider the emotional consequences of change and not just the em otional motivation for change, real structural changes seem unlikely. Regar dless, there may be a strong degree of what might be called Â“emotion hopeÂ” embedded in scholarship on emotion. Stanley FishÂ’s notion of Â“theory hopeÂ” posit s that most attempts to generate a theory have been grounded in the possibility that knowledge claims could be made that could be objectivel y justified without reference to the context of those making the claims. In this tr aditional view of theory, t he hope is that by providing a generalizable account of how things work, it can Â“reform practice by neutralizing interestÂ” (Fish Doing 319, emphasis added). Emotion hope is not the same as theory hope. In the case of theorizing emotion, a recurrent view seems to be that one can reform practice by stimulating interest. While FishÂ’s work suggests that theory can have no consequences outside of the practice of theory itself, emotion hope seems to be based in the desire that theory can have social and political consequences. As the editors of A Way to Move write, they want to conceive Â“emotion as a basis for professional and social actionÂ” that produces a Â“galvanizing force to create social and institutional movement Â” (Jacobs and Micciche 5, 6). But this may underestimate the degree to which emot ion is also attendant to professional and social in action. If emotional labor is not recognized as being active in both the act of resistance and the act of complic ity, attempts to reform academia by calling for increased attenti on to emotional structures may accomplish little. In
114 Textual Carnivals: The Politics of Composition Susan Miller warns us that it is possible that such Â“Â’reformsÂ’ in fact re -form tradition by sustaining its root metaphors and masking what was at stakeÂ” in the original st ructure (10). Such reforms may ignore the deep ideological power of emotionsÂ—their ability to define the stakes which academics are willi ng to defend and the structures they are willing to change. In her afterword to A Way to Move Lynn Worsham cites Toni MorrisonÂ’s Â“distinction between feeling Â‘touchedÂ’ and being Â‘movedÂ’Â” as being critical to understanding the ideological function of em otion (161). Â“Feeling touchedÂ” is the appeal to emotion that Â“goes nowher e and accomplishes nothing except a confirmation of the distance between self and other.Â” It is the triggering of emotion in ways beholden to dominant ideo logies. Â“Being movedÂ” goes Â“beyond mere sentimentalityÂ” to become a Â“vehicle for critical consciousness.Â” The desire for emotion in rhetoric and composition studies may lead to critical interrogation of the role that emotion plays in the fo rmation of subjectivity through a form of Â“ paideia the whole social education of mem bers of a cultureÂ” (Quandahl 11). This Â“schooling of emotions,Â” as Worsham calls it, allows us to see that Â“all education is sentimental, that all educati on is an education of sentimentÂ” (163). But if scholarly interest in emotion simp ly touches us, if the experience ends at (re)forming our own subjectivity, then politic al action is unlikely to occur, and our positions will remain unmoved.
115 Interdisciplinary Contributions to the Study of Affect and Emotion As indicated earlier, article authors in A Way to Move find support for their inquiry from scholars in ot her fields. The work of Damasio in neurobiology, as stated earlier, is used to establish a biol ogical basis for the central role of emotion in the maintenance of consciousne ss. DamasioÂ’s work is used to argue that emotion is critical to all consci ous thought, including language and reason (Kerr 28). In his investigations into patients with brain lesions, Damasio found that patients who had lost the ability to feel emotion had also lost their ability to make simple decisions. It was not that these patients could not employ reason, but that in situations wher e there were no strict reas on-based criteria on which to base a decision, the patients were unable to reach a conclusion. For instance, patients could not schedule ap pointments in the future by choosing between a Monday or a Tuesday. Lacking any absolut e criteria on which to choose one day over the other, the patients were unabl e to make plans. What DamasioÂ’s research perhaps best exemplifies is t he degree to which emotion is Â“embedded in the social and institutional fabricÂ” of everyday life and the decisions we make using seemingly logical crit eria (Jacobs and Micciche 3). The inability of DamasioÂ’ s patients to make simple decisions recalls the philosophical paradox commonl y referred to as Â“Buridan Â’s ass.Â” Jean Buridan was a French priest and philosopher of the 14th century, and this paradox is associated with him even though he never dire ctly writes of it. In fact, the situation described in t he paradox is referenced in book 2 of AristotleÂ’s De Caelo In AristotleÂ’s version, a man is placed equidistant between food and drink, and is
116 both hungry and thirsty. In the version a ttributed to Buridan, a donkey is hungry and standing equidistant from two equally ma tched bales of hay. In both cases, the actor lacks a rational basis on which to choose one object over the other, and therefore no action occurs. This is some times used as a way to discredit theories (such as those posited by Buridan), t hat one should always choose the greater good. But it is also possible to see this inaction as a failure of emotion, not a failure of logic. As Aristotle wrot e, choice is a function of Â“desire and reasoning with a view to an endÂ” (qtd. in Mille r and Bee 204). Reason alone is never the origin of decisions. DamasioÂ’s work corresponds well wit h the work of scholars such as Martha Nussbaum, Jeffrey Walker, and John Cooper, all of whose work suggests that Â“emotions are not only not fully separate from reason, but involve reason or cognitionÂ—and thus also languageÂ—in crucial waysÂ” (Quandahl 12). Such work makes it difficult to maintain the Â“false dichotomies between reason and emotion, mind and body, text and person,Â” suggesting a more complex relation between desire, rationality, ethics, and emotions (Kerr 28). For scholars such as Ellen Quandahl, any conceptualizatio n of emotion Â“belongs in the ethical sphereÂ” and, therefore, she finds thumos closely associated with Aristotelian virtues ( artes ) (13). She notes that virtues for Aristotle are Â“dispositions toward praxis and pathos toward acting and being acted upon, doing and feelingÂ” (15). Aristotle says as much in the Nicomachean Ethics when he writes that Â“the virtues have to do with actions and emotionsÂ” (1104b).
117 The connection of thumos to ethica l action through virtue is one reason for making the distinction between emotion and affect. Emotion typi cally refers to a psychological event that is at least Â“m inimally interpretiveÂ” (Terada 4). The physiological aspect of this experience is affect. Brian Massumi emphasizes the linguistic nature of emotion, arguing that Â“An emotion is a subjective content, the sociolinguistic fixing of the quality of ex perience which is from that point onward defined as personalÂ” (28). Thus, affect is always that which is in excess, the supplement that escapes the letter of emot ion, the repressed energy that returns, the complexity that is reduced to a knowable emotional state.12 Despite the complexity of affect, the reduction of emotion to affect would leave little room for a rhetorical interest in emotion. As El izabeth Spelman writes, Â“we could not regard our emotions as very interesti ng facts about usÂ—in particular, as deeply connected to ourselv es as moral agentsÂ—if emotions were simply events, things happening in us like headaches or bleeding gumsÂ” (222). Based on the definitions of emotion and affe ct above, the configuration of thumos as the capacity for emotion places it at least on par with other forms of linguistic discourse in terms of its importance to the liberal arts. Thum os is the foundation of our capacity to be moved by discourse Â—to respond to rhetoric that calls upon our reason and emotion. Po litics would not function, nor would everyday instances of persuasion and c ognition, without this elem ent of Â“effective rhetoricÂ” (Jacobs and Micciche 3). To reiterate Quandah lÂ’s call to rhetoricians: Â“this heartword [thumos] ought to become a key term for rhetoricÂ” (14).
118 What is Thumos? Defining thumos is not an easy task. Even though it is Â“the most-used psychological term in Homeric dictionÂ” efforts to develop a coherent definition of it have mainly succeeded only as far as they have ignored the high degree of variation in its uses (Caswell 1). Even in its primary role as a term to describe inner experience in Homeric epic, its uses are so varied and cover Â“almost every important aspect of inner human experience, that it seems possible only to translate each occurrence as is fitting to that passage without attempting consistency.Â” Issues of translation hav e also proven difficult, and one finds thumos translated as Â“soulÂ” or Â“spiritednes sÂ” or Â“mindÂ” or Â“ passionÂ” or Â“heart.Â” Scholars such as Caroline Caswell, rat her than seeking a Â“universal [English] equivalentÂ” of thumos, have sought instead to enumerate its Â“semantic associationsÂ”Â—the functional contexts in which references to thumos appear in Greek literary texts. Caswell iden tifies five of these contexts: 1. Loss of consciousness/death 2. Intellect/cognition 3. Emotion 4. Inner debate/conflict 5. Motivation (49Â–50) Thumos thus links together the realms of cognition, affect, emotion, and perception. As Caswell writes, Â“Homeric diction does not compartmentalize the physiological and the psychologicalÂ” (16). In addition to these functions, thumos is often associated with breath, storms, and wind, especially when Â“inner turmoil
119 . [is] compared to violent storms and winds on the wate rÂ” (50). (This is also yet another reason to reconsider JoyceÂ’s choi ce of the enthymeme as the technique of his Aeolus chapter.) Thumos is distinctive from some other rhetorical concepts in that it was an active term within ancient Greek poetics. But the various words now used in its place must be contextualized within an understanding of how thumos was situated within the Greek psyche by different thinkers. Especially significant is the reduction of the scope of thumos by Plato, who dow ngrades thumos to one of three parts of the unified soul (reason, spirit, and appetite) which should ideally be ruled by reason, or logos Rather than hierarchize the parts of the soul by insisting that one rule over the other, Homer presents thumos as the seat of emotions in order to explore the psychic interior of the characters in his epic poem, Iliad the very first line of which focuses our attention on the anger of Achilles. While for Homer the thumos was not associated with any specific emotion, but was rather the Â“site, locati on, the interior mental but quasi-physical part where emotions happen,Â” la ter writers have tried to restrict the scope of thumos to the emotion of anger (Koziak 43). The strong association between anger and thumos is understandable, since the paradigmatic emotion of representative texts such as the Iliad is anger. And following these early Greek epics, this association is reinforced by Plato and Aristotle, who do not simply ignore thumos but severely restrict its rhetorical potential. As Koziak writes, Â“PlatoÂ’s Republic gives an especially meaty role to thumos,Â” but one that Â“concentrates almo st exclusively on the experience of
120 angerÂ” (39). Such interpretations of t humos continue to modern times with scholars such as Allan Bloom, who argues in The Closing of the American Mind that the ancient concept of thumos est ablishes the paradigm of the Â“ambitious, warlike, protective, possessive ch aracterÂ” of men; this Â“central natural passionÂ” he renames Â“machismoÂ” (129). But Koziak has effectively shown that such a definition of thumos does not match with the illustrat ions of thumos in the Iliad While Homer does most often associate anger this is not true in all cases. Anger is most often associated with the t humos of men and sorrow is most often associated with the thumos of women, but both genders have thumoi that host not only sorrow, anger, and fear, but Â“the de sirable, pleasurable emotions of delight, gladness, and loveÂ” (Koziak 42). PlatoÂ’s well-known division of the soul into reason, spirit, and appetite in book 4 of the Republic differs from earlier accounts by insisting that thumos (spirit) is ideally ruled by reason. T he relationship between the three parts is Â“more coercive than dialogical,Â” as evi denced in SocratesÂ’ second speech in the Phaedrus where the tripartite soul is co mpared to a charioteer guiding two horses (Neinkamp 31). Put simply, the noble wh ite horse (spirit) aligns itself with the charioteer (reason) to control the ignoble dark horse (appetite). In this model, the alignment between reason and spirit is so close that some have even argued that this in fact a bipartite soul, since the aims of the char ioteer and the white horse are the same (Robinson 117). What sometimes goes unnoticed in this model is that reason and emotion are not opposed but dependent on each other. As Jaggar writes, this model of
121 the soul suggests that the Â“split be tween reason and emotion was not absolute, therefore, for the Greeks. Instead, the emotions were thought of as providing indispensable motive power that needed to be channeled appropriately. Without horses, after all, the skill of the charioteer would be worthlessÂ” (145). Granted, emotion is portrayed here as subordinated to reason, but this scene can also be used to support the Â“complete interdepende nce of reason and emotion in moving actionÂ” (Moon 34). Moon argues that the Ar istotelian view that being moved to ethical action is only possible when Â“oneÂ’s emotional state is ready for rational guidanceÂ” should be read against the m any warnings found in composition textbooks against succumbing to non-rational appeals, as well as the tendency for textbooks to treat logos, ethos, and pat hos separately (another variation of the dividing practices that Vitanza wr ites against). None of the twenty-five textbooks Moon looks at include examples t hat Â“explicitly illus trate the effective combination of all three appealsÂ” used together (36). The trivial role given to thumos in the Platonic soul is unlike earlier articulations of thumos, such as those found in HomerÂ’s epic poem, the Iliad Rather than hierarchize the par ts of the soul by insist ing that one rule over the other, Homer presents thumos as the seat of emotions as a way of narrating the psychic interiors of his characters, as he does when he opens with AchillesÂ’ anger. But thumos is just one part of Home rÂ’s version of the psyche which is to modern readers a Â“strange coll ection of interior elements, some neither purely organic nor purely psychicÂ— kardia and tor meaning heart, phrenes meaning lungs, or diaphragm, or mind, noos meaning mind, plan, or purpose, psuch
122 meaning a breath that flees the body at t he point of death, and thumos Â” (Koziak 37). Furthermore, Homer indicates that emotions are Â“inÂ” the thumos, that emotions emerge Â“out ofÂ” the thumos, and that one c an affect oneÂ’s thumos emotionally (for instance, by gladdening it) (Koziak 43). Considering thumosÂ’ mall eability, it is not su rprising that PlatoÂ’s and AristotleÂ’s more systematic formulations of the soul would downgrade the role of thumos. Luckily, thumos is not being in troduced here for its ability to provide systematic coherence to the process of persuasion or to the structure of the psyche. The feature most relevant to the functioning of the enthymeme is that the Homeric thumos is not merely a container for emotion, it also participates in deliberation. It is in th e thumos that Â“one considers things, draws inferences, becomes impassioned, forms desires, has intentions, and makes plansÂ” (Walker 173). Consider HomerÂ’s exposition in the Iliad of OdysseusÂ’s mental state as the Trojans advance upon him: And troubled, he spoke then to his own great-hearted thumos: Â“Ah me, what will become of me? It will be a great evil If I run, fearing their multit ude, yet deadlier if I am caught Alone; and KronosÂ’ son drove to f light the rest of the Danaans. Yet still. Why does the thumos within me debate on these things? (11.401Â–12) While some have argued that OdysseusÂ’ ultimate decision to stand his ground in the face of the Trojan assault is a triumph of reason over emotion, Koziak argues that this ignores the fact that Homer shows t hat Â“both the emotion and the reason seem to reside in the thumos Â” and that, rather than reason winning over emotion, it is true in stead that Â“one package of a reason and
123 emotion wins over another.Â” ( 51). As later lines in the Iliad show, the emotion of fear is packaged with the reason that Od ysseus is badly outnumbered, and the emotion of anger is packaged with the reason that this is an opportunity to win honor as a warrior. By siding with the latter, Odysseus Â“both reasons and feels himself into stayingÂ” (Koziak 51). That th is articulation of emotion and reason into action occurs in the thumos suggests ri ch possibilities for the enthymeme as a site of the persuasive function of the collaboration between pathos and logos. Jean Nienkamp argues that the model of Â“mental di visivenessÂ” evident in Homer Â“necessarily constitutes what Ja mes J. Murphy calls the Â‘rhetorical consciousnessÂ’Â” and what she calls Â“inter nal rhetoricÂ” (Nienkamp 11). In her book, Internal Rhetorics Nienkamp argues that Â“ people persuade themselves into certain decisions or actionsÂ” and that these deliberations can form the basis of a study of Â“internal rhetoricÂ” (7). She begins with Classical formations of internal rhetoric, arguing that the activity of the thumos as described in works such as the Iliad is a form of internal rhetoric w here Â“heroes talk to themselves in order to clarify situations, reinforce convic tions, or make decisions in the midst of battleÂ” (Nienkamp 37Â–8). It is such Â“rhetorical moments of t he epicÂ” that Susan Jarratt uses in Rereading the Sophists to argue against claims that Â“there is in Homer no genuine reflexion, no dialogue of the soul wit h itselfÂ” (15; Snell 19). Jarratt claims instead that the Â“mythic discourseÂ” of Gr eek epic contains t he Â“beginnings of a Â‘rhetorical consciousnessÂ’Â” and that this consciousness Â“expresses itself both through public argument and internal debateÂ” (35). JarrattÂ’s assertions are a
124 response to scholars who identify in t he fifth century B.C.E. a Â“shift from mythos to logos as a major restructuring of cognition re sulting from the growth of literacyÂ” ( xxii ). In effect, these scholars try to divi de mythic consciousness from rhetorical consciousness, claiming that the preliterate or oral c onsciousness of the Â“mythicÂ” world is unsuitable to the Â“introspection or critical distance presumed necessaryÂ” for Â“elaborated syllogistic logicÂ” (Jarratt 31). Walker corroborates JarrattÂ’s defens e of pre-literate rhetorical consciousness by identifying in Greek lyric poetry an enthymeme-suffused Â“rhetorical poeticsÂ”Â—poetic discourse as the Â“oldest and original typeÂ” of epideictic rhetoric (6). The deliberating function em bodied by thumos therefore serves to connect the study of rhetoric back through poetic discourse, not only to highlight the argumentative function of poetics, but to illuminate how the rhetorical tradition is related to a poetic tradition in which Dionysius of Halicarnassus could say the best orati ons were Â“like the mightiest poems and lyrics,Â” and Aelius Aristide could assert that the best poetry was that which Â“comes nearest to rhtorik ,Â” where rhtorik is understood as an Â“art of eloquently reasoned ar gumentÂ” (Walker 154Â–55). This debate is important to the def ense of a thumos-based enthymeme because some scholars dismiss the worki ng of thumos and t he pre-Aristotelian meanings of the enthymeme as being relics of pre-rational discourse from before the Â“progress toward non-narrative philosoph ical proseÂ” (Jarratt 45). The favoring of logos over mythos leads many scholars of the ent hymeme to re strict their attention to the works of Ar istotle in order to codify a narrow logic-based reading
125 of the enthymeme that defi nes it primarily through its schematic relationship to the syllogism ( xxii ). CovinoÂ’s The Art of Wondering exposes as Â“reductive summariesÂ” those attempts to reduce r hetoric to Â“tree di agrams of finite categories or subcategories, or lists of ru les and precepts,Â” as well as attempts to construct unity out of a Rhetoric Â“rife with inconsistency, meandering, and sketchinessÂ” (9, 22). Covino claims that these scholars ignore the Aristotle for whom Â“the principles of discourse are s upple, inclusive, and finally indeterminateÂ” and construct instead a Â“rather tidy, decisive Aristotle . a codified, schematized philosopher who gave us rules (24, 1Â–2, original empha sis). The return to a sophistic notion of the enthymeme grounded in the deliberative function of thumos denies that AristotleÂ’s enthymeme is one of the Â“fix ed monuments in the dust of progressÂ”Â—Â“ progress toward a comprehensive de scription of the art of rhetoricÂ” (Covino 5, 23, original emphasis). Rather, it recognize s that this history is unstable and that Â“[h]ow we read the history of rhetoric, and what we read, and the implications for teaching we derive, can changeÂ” (Covino 2). Thus, the enthymeme of Aristotle is not necessarily superior to the enthymemes of previous authors based on its situation in a Â“newÂ” type of liter acy represented by syllogistic rhetoric. Thumos as the Internal Dialogue of Ideology Classical epic, Nienkamp claims, Â“portra ys internal rhetoric in a variety of circumstances and with a variety of types of reasoning, all pointing toward initiating action at a crucial momentÂ” ( 14).By initiating action at the opportune moment, the activity of t humos may even be associated with the ancient concept
126 of kairos of due measure, fitness, or proper timing. Nienkamp argues that the submersion of the internal aspect of rhet oric is primarily due to the focus of Plato and Aristotle on (philosophy as separate from) rhetoric in the public sphere. Nienkamp relies most heavily on Isocrates because of his refusal of the Platonic bifurcation of thought and speech (and, therefore, between philosophy and rhetoric, and between persuasion and clarific ation). This refusal allows him to pursue both public argument and inter nal debate under the rubric of logos IsocratesÂ’ belief in the continuity between philosophy and rhetoric is evident in this excerpt: With this faculty [logos] we both c ontend against others on matters which are open to dispute and seek light for ourselves on things which are unknown; for the same arguments wh ich we use in persuading others when we speak in public, we employ also when we deliberate in our own thoughts; and while we call eloquent those who are able to speak before a crowd, we regard as sage those who most skillfully debate their problems in their own minds. (qtd. in Nienkamp 18) Nienkamp believes that Isocra tes, through his emphasis on kairos and his understanding of a thumos-enabl ed internal rhetoric th at Â“has both a positive ethical evaluation in its own right and a ro le as the source of ethical behavior,Â” provides a solid argument fo r rhetoricians to embrace the study of thumos (20). NienkampÂ’s support for the study of t humos as internal rhetoric depends on the presence of an active dialogue in one Â’s mind. Susan Griffin, in an article titled Â“The Way of All Ideology,Â” writes t hat Â“speculation about dialogue is also a
127 speculation about ideology,Â” since the way we think is both dialogic and ideological (274). Our experi ence of ideology as internal struggle may therefore be similar to NeinkampÂ’s description of thum os as a type of internal rhetoric. As Bakhtin writes in The Dialogic Imagination our Â“ideological development . is an intense struggle within us for hegemony among various available verbal and ideological points of vi ew, approaches, directions and valuesÂ” (345Â–46). The location of this struggle is arguably the thumos. Although she doesnÂ’t use this term Â“thumos,Â” Judith Goleman suggests t hat our ideological lives are guided by our (shifting) investments in a range of discourses, and that, by structuring our identifications, these discourses provide the basis for the internal hegemonic struggle that is our experience of ideology. It is possible to see GriffinÂ’s essay as an attempt to narrate the workings of thumos. By identifying the in ternal workings of thumos as separate individuals arguing within her thoughts, Griffin anthropomorphizes the discourses that constitute her own ideological (thumot ic) struggle. At the least, thumosÂ’ association with emotion serves to so lidify the associati on of ideology with emotion. Griffin begins her essay by fi guring ideological thought as a type of dialogue: I speculate about ideology. About form. And then about dialogue. The three phenomena occur to me at once. Form s: the form of hierarchies, of institutions, of habits, the way th ings are done; the forms of language, gesture, art, of thought, and equally, of emotion. What we say to one
128 another being often what it is predictable that we will say; what I will say, if you say that: Dialogue. (273) The forms that Griffin identifies implic ate both rational and emotional thought, the body as well as the mind. In stead of the thumos as par ticipant in deliberation, Griffin envisions two internal presences asking herself Â“Who are these two in me? The Â‘IÂ’ with whom I identify, the Â‘youÂ’ whom I define as not Â‘IÂ’Â” (274). That Griffin has already identified herself with one of these presences suggests perhaps that much of our reaction to arguments is embedded in our past relations to these internal forms, to thes e positions that we have occupied in the past, and not as much to the cohesiveness to the discursive structure we are facing. Through identification with one of these presences, Griffin enacts the same sort of distancing that is evi dent in TeradaÂ’s view of emotions as Â“expressions of a subject imposed upon a subject,Â” which Terada uses to question the connection of emotion to subjectivity (5). Griffin enacts a similar disconnection in her description of the shifting identities of the figures that constitute her internal rhetoricÂ—sometimes one is a Â“nag, the dictator, the time and motion expert, the boss, the destroyer,Â” and sometimes the other is Â“the authority, the good girl, the stable and predictable oneÂ” (274). Regardless of the specific ideologies or id entities that these figures represent, it is through their Â“exhausting ar gumentÂ” that Griffin can say to herself Â“I know I am split from myselfÂ” (275) In other words, Terada and Griffin both identify an experience of internal otherne ss that marks the lim its of understanding the non-subjectivity of subjectivityÂ—the experience of being a spectator to oneÂ’s
129 thoughts and emotions. Such experiences are arguably connected to BakhtinÂ’s views on the dialogic nature of language, in which our words are always borrowed from the world around us. The inte rnalization of that dialogue within the thumos provides a model for how ideolog y works, even as it suggests ways in which the critique of this dialogue can occur through identification with and in opposition to these imagined speakers: Slowly I begin to identify myself with the new thought. I split away from my doubts, calling this doubting self Â‘you. Â’ Now I project th e doubting half of my own inner conversation upon another I supply her with her missing part of the dialogue. As I argue with myself, I imagine I am arguing with her. (Griffin 275). GriffinÂ’s meditation on i deology mirrors the partici patory debate depicted within the thumos in classical te xts, and shows that affect and emotion, ideology and reason, are part of the heter oglossia that underlie our beliefs and values. GriffinÂ’s essay also shows the usefulness of a c oncept of thumos in which reason and emotion are not set at odds, but are considered constitutive of each Â“sideÂ” in the internal debate of thumos. As Griffin writes, the Other wit h which she argues Â“embodies all that is part of the natural, sensate life of the body and all of the natural emotions which so often cause one to feel out of contro l, even frightened of oneselfÂ” (275). Her ex ample shows that ideology works to lead us to conceptualize our own internal rhetoric through the restrictive binaries that structure much of discourse Â—to see emotion as the Other to our rational selves. Thumos may provide a way of referring to oneÂ’s Â“internally persuasive discourseÂ”
130 that is just unfamiliar enough to displace conventional understandings of what it means to be a subject within ideology (Bakhtin 342). Visualizing Thumos The next chapter will address the ongoi ng debates over visual argument, and make a case for understanding the visu al enthymeme through its relation to thumos. The choice here to recover the c oncept of thumos, not by exhausting the history and uses of this term through a deep analysis of Greek texts, but by developing a concept of the visual enthymeme is directly related to the historical usefulness that the enthymeme has shown in rhetorical studies. As Poster writes, the changing definitions of t he enthymeme are Â“typical of the process by which rhetorical theorists of all ages seem to reinterpret Aris totle to bring his theories into conformance with the dominant rhetor ical thinking of their periodÂ” (6). Recognizing that t he enthymeme has always been used as a way to assess the relation of Greek thought to contemporary rhetorical thinking, I see no reason to not continue this process. In Defining Visual Rhetorics editors Charles A. Hill and Marguerite Helmers writ e approvingly of this timely practice of reinterpretation that Poster identifies; they write: Â“every new turn in the study of rhetorical practices reveals yet more po ssibilities for study, for discussion, for wonder. The visual turn is just the latest of theseÂ” (21). The desire to redefine the enthymeme as a visual and emotional st ructure thus proceeds from PosterÂ’s historicizing of the highly variable def initions of the enthymeme, an analysis which shows that Â“rhetorical terms are not so much immutable entities with fixed and unchangeable meanings, but rather me thods by which a culture analyzes its
131 own discursive practicesÂ” (1). That thes e practices are increasingly visual in contemporary society is unden iable. One might even say that our historical context invites a visual redefinition of the enthymeme. And as mentioned above, one goal here is to avoid reinscribing the visual enthymeme as a structure, and redefine it in terms of its eventfulness. But how will this redefinition conn ect the enthymeme to events? As shown, the majority of models of the enthymeme emphasize its relation to the syllogism (stated variously as it being a truncated, abbreviated, or incomplete syllogism), a portrayal that limits the enthymeme to being a Â“formally deficientÂ” structure (Bitzer 404). In comparison to the Â“completeÂ” syllogism composed of a major premise, minor premise, and conc lusion, the enthymeme seems to be lacking a premise. But as Brian Massumi writes in Parables for the Virtual Â“the effect of the mass media and other imageand information-based media simply [cannot] be explained in terms of a lackÂ” (43). Rather, Massumi focuses on what he calls the Â“potentialÂ” embodied in the Â“i mage/expression events in which we bathe. . images as conveyors of fo rces of emergenceÂ” (42Â–43). As Nicholas Mirzoeff writes, visual culture is defined . by the interaction between view er and viewed, which may be termed the visual event When I engage with visual apparatuses, media and technology, I experience a visual ev ent. By visual event, I mean an interaction of the visual sign, the te chnology that enables and sustains that sign, and the viewer. (13, emphasis added)
132 This event is the visual enthymeme, and is the basis of the Â“power of things visually to persuade usÂ” (Blair, Â“RhetoricÂ” 42). Since the Â“exemplary event is a deferred completion,Â” the Â“incompletenessÂ” of the enthymeme is its potential as an event (Massumi 64). A theory of vis ual enthymemes must thus shift focus from the propositional struct ure of traditional argument to a notion of argument as event.
133 Chapter 4 Re-Seeing the Visual Enth ymeme for the First Time As seen in the previous chapter, t he enthymeme has a variable history within rhetorical studies. But what is t he view of the enthyme me from outside of English departments? The current understanding of the enthymeme active in visual studies is part of the disciplinar y formations that have accompanied the increased interest in the visual. Since Arguments and Advocacy Â’s special issue on visual argument in 1996 there has been a substantial expansion in the locations of visual studies in the ac ademy. The list of disciplines in which academic interest in the visual is curr ently thriving is long. Art History, Media Studies, Humanities, WomenÂ’s Studies, English, Cultural Studies, Film, Comparative Literature, Communication, Education, Philosophy, SociologyÂ— these are just some of t he fields/departments in which some form of what James Elkins calls Â“visual studiesÂ” has taken hold (8). The confluence of approaches to the visual has led to a rich and somew hat overwhelming Burkean parlor of ideas regarding the study of image-based discourse. As James Elkins writes, the disciplinar y homes of visual studies scholars, the academic canons to which these schol ars point, and the favored objects of their studies seem Â“hopelessly misce llaneous or happily in clusive, depending on your point of viewÂ” (36) The same year that A&A published its special issue on visual argument, the journal October published responses to a questionnaire on
134 visual culture in which the Â“general tenor . was that visual culture is a disorganized, possibly ineffectual, illegi timate, and even misguided extension of art history and other disciplinesÂ” (Elkin s 18). Although the viability of visual studies is today less questionable, the anxiety and irregularities emerging from the interdisciplinary nature of visual studies remain. Such disciplinary anxietie s regarding the viability of visual studies have not hindered the wide circulation of visual media, which have become Â“commonplace in all aspects of contemporary public discourseÂ” (McComiskey, Â“VisualÂ” 188). This is in no small way related to the cultural importance of the screens which Â“have gradually so infiltrated our habits of being that their presence has become normal for many citizens at work and playÂ” (Welch, Electric 4). While we are most likely to think of T.V. and computer screens, Anne-Marie Christin writes in LÂ’image crite that we should define screens as any host medium of a sign, and that these screens work to Â“screen th inking.Â” As Jan Baetens writes, screen thinking is not simply the name for how viewers decode signs, but Â“a matter of subjective evaluation of emergent networ ks of framed visualit y. . a way of looking [that] becomes a way of thinkingÂ” (194). ChristinÂ’s notion of Â“screen thinki ngÂ” has much in common with what Kenneth Burke calls Â“terministic screens.Â” According to Burke, our choice of terminology functions as a screen that det ermines what can and cannot be said: Â“even if any given terminology is a reflection of reality, by its very nature as terminology it must be a selection of reality, and to this extent it must function also as a deflection of realityÂ” (45). But such functions must apply to our
135 understandings of these terms as well, including the impli ed hierarchy among reflections, selections, and deflections. The understanding of th e enthymeme that views it as an Â“incompleteÂ” or Â“abbre viatedÂ” syllogism, producing Â“a tentative conclusion from probable premises,Â” as opposed to the Â“normal syllogismÂ” that leads to a Â“necessary conclusion from universally true premisesÂ” is a screen as well, focusing arguments, for instance, onto issues of technical difference between probability and necessity (Corbett 60 ). Accepting any definition of the enthymeme, or of visual studies for that matter, must necessarily Â“affect the nature of our observations, in the sense t hat the terms direct the attention to one field rather than to anotherÂ” (Burke 46) Re-seeing the enthymeme thus almost requires the introduction of a term such as thumos, which is not an active term in most of the debates over the enthymemeÂ’s function. The Visual Enthymeme in the Academic Mind In a study of the various understandi ngs of the enthymeme in academic work, Lloyd Bitzer finds that the ent hymeme is conventionally marked as Â“distinctive [from the syllogism proper] on account of (1) its basis in probability, (2) its concreteness, and (3) its usual fo rmal deficiencyÂ” (400). Bitzer concludes, however, that each of these approaches Â“f ailed to name a truly distinguishing featureÂ” of the enthymeme that would s eparate it from other forms of syllogism. According to Bitzer, the single aspect of the enthymeme that sets it apart from other forms of reasoning explored by Ar istotle is that, in the enthymeme, Â“ the audience itself helps construct the proofs by which it is persuaded . . [the
136 enthymemeÂ’s] successful construction is accomplished through the joint efforts of speaker and audience and this is its essential characterÂ” (408). BitzerÂ’s argument has been influential across many disciplines, and is the sole characteristic of enthymemes t hat authors typically invoke when they announce the possibility of visual enthymemes. Past articles in Argumentation and Advocacy contain several such statements. For instance, Cara Finnegan, in her 2001 exposition of the Â“naturalisti c enthymemeÂ” active in documentary photography, claims that Â“the enthymeme l eaves space for the audience to insert its own knowledge and exper ience; it assumes an audienc e of judges capable of Â‘filling in the blanksÂ’Â” (143). In Â“Can Pictures Be Arguments?Â” David Fleming summarizes theorists who claim that Â“po litical cartoons are a kind of enthymeme, relying on socially-sanctioned presuppos itions to produce reasoned belief and action in others. Cartoons, that is, argue for political positions by adducing acceptable (albeit unspoken) reasons to hold those positionsÂ” (12). Even when only alluding to the possibility of vi sual enthymemes in the opening to the A&A special issue on visual argument, David Birdsell and Leo Groarke look to the social sanctioning of ideas to authorize visuals, stating that Â“[s]tudents of argumentation have accepted since Aristotle the influence of acculturation in the production of verbal enthymemes. We are now arguing that the same allowances must be made for visual commonplaces as wellÂ” (7). In eac h case above, the participation of the audience in construc ting the latent argum ent from socially available premises is emphasized over a ll other possible char acteristics of the enthymeme.
137 The dominance of this participatory aspect in the definition of the enthymeme is not unrelated to the Â“social turnÂ” that occurred in many disciplines, and the development of reader-response theor ies that Â“formed an important part of the wider concern wit h popular participation in the 1960s and early 1970sÂ” (Harkin 414). According to Harkin, the t heories that focused attention on the role of the reader in the meaning-making pr ocess now simply form the Â“foundational assumptionsÂ” of much modern day scholar ship (416). At one time, Harkin claims, these theories were intellect ually exciting, if not radi cal. Scholars could publish articles, as Chris Anderson did, on the Â“rhetoric of gaps,Â” where he argues that the reading experience Â“depends on the Â‘gapsÂ’ or Â‘blanksÂ’ in a text, the gaps arising from dialogue, for example, or from unexplained events, delayed revelations, and uninterpreted concrete imagesÂ” (10). Such approaches are often based on the work of Wolfgang Iser, whose book The Act of Reading introduced many to the notion that Â“what is said only appears to take on significance as a referenc e to what is not saidÂ” (168). In this system readers are Â“assigned the tasks of f illing in the Â‘gapsÂ’ between the fixed points [within the text]Â” (Brub 15). This is precisely the view taken by Blair in his recent essay Â“The Rhetoric of Vi sual Arguments.Â” In his essay in A&A ten years ago, Blair was rather skeptical abo ut the possibility of visual argument. Diana George finds that BlairÂ’s previous essay Â“just barely manages to agree that visual argument, possessing all of the Â‘s alient properties of arguments,Â’ could actually be said to existÂ” (29). BlairÂ’s mo re recent essay affirms the existence of visual arguments more forcefully, and, of particular interest her e, it very clearly
138 announces that Â“[v]isual ar guments are typically enthymemesÂ—arguments with gaps left to be filled in by the participat ion of the audienceÂ” (Â“RhetoricÂ” 52). This approach to the visual enthyme me repeats the participatory aspect shown to be valued in Bitzer and reader response theories in general. Blair ascribes to two related notions about ent hymemes: that they leave a premise unstated, and that the audience supplies this missing premise. As Blair states at the beginning of his essay, the enthymeme is Â“a form of argument . in which the arguer deliberatel y leaves unstated a premise that is essential to its reasoning. Doing so has the effect of dr awing the audience to participate in its own persuasion by filling in that unexpressed premis eÂ” (Â“RhetoricÂ” 41). This characterization of the function of the enthymeme is squarely based on the work of scholars such as Iser in which gaps Â“d raw the reader into the actionÂ” (168). To better understand what Blair means by the term Â“visual enthymemeÂ” (especially in relation to the broader concept of vi sual argument), one can consider the primary example he offers, which is a TV spot run during the 1964 presidential race between Lyndon Johnson and Barry Goldwater. In this ad, a little girl is seen pi cking a daisy apart while counting upward; when the girl reaches Â“ten,Â” a voice over begins a downward countdown; at zero, a mushroom cloud appears and we hear J ohnsonÂ’s voice state Â“These are the stakes, to make a world in which all G odÂ’s children can live, or go into the darkness. Either we must love each other or we must dieÂ”; the screen then fades to black and we see the words Â“On November 3rd vote for President JohnsonÂ” (qtd. in Â“RhetoricÂ” 50). Bl air claims that the purpose of this ad was to Â“suggest
139 that Goldwater was trigger-happy about the use of the H-bomb, and thus that to elect him would be to place the nation in grave perilÂ” (Â“RhetoricÂ” 50). He goes on to claim that the ad is Â“a kind of visual enthymeme requiring the viewing public to supply Goldwater as the alternative to J ohnsonÂ” (Blair Â“RhetoricÂ” 50). In addition to some factual assumptions discuss ed below, BlairÂ’s example ignores the substantial critique of Is er and of the rhetoric of gaps, which effectively demonstrates that the enthymeme, im agined as a structure with gaps intentionally placed by the arguer, does not exist. The Enthymeme Does Not Exist In what Michael Brub calls the Â“Fis h-Iser Debate,Â” whic h initially played out in the pages of the journal diacritics Stanley Fish claims that Wolfgang IserÂ’s theory of reader respons e, which depended heavily on the notion that Â“some features of texts exist prior to or beyond any scheme of interpretation, while other features are variable and ther efore susceptible to interp retationÂ” was, to put it simply, wrong (Brub 13). Iser believed that readers are Â“assigned the tasks of filling in the Â‘gapsÂ’ between the fixed points Â” of the text, although he did allow for a Â“certain degree of critical pluralism by acknowledging that different readers will fill these gaps in different waysÂ” (Br ub 15). Blair makes a similar statement when he writes that, in addition to the premises that he extrapolates from the image, Â“a number of equally plausible alternative verbal renditions of the argument are availableÂ” (Â“RhetoricÂ” 50). T he assumption of both Iser and Blair is that the argument is inherent in the original text, a nd not much changed by the interpretation of viewers.
140 Blair suggests that the role of the i ndividual is to reconstruct the authorÂ’s intentional argument implied by the gaps in texts, and t hat there is more than one way to Â“correctlyÂ” verbalize this argum ent. This structural approach reduces visual argument to a type of rebusÂ—a visual puzzle where pictures represent wordsÂ—and is part of BlairÂ’s distincti on between Â“visual argum entÂ” and Â“visual persuasion.Â” The former is Â“ logical or dialectical ,Â” while the latter is Â“ rhetorical Â” (Â“RhetoricÂ” 51). BlairÂ’s approach submits the visual to a st ructural criterion that relegates the Â“evocative powerÂ” of images to the realm of persuasion (Â“RhetoricÂ” 51). In this system, the audienceÂ’s parti cipation in the argument is merely a convenience, not a requirement. It may add Â“more force or i mmediacyÂ” to the expression of the argument, but it adds nothing to the structure of the argument (Â“RhetoricÂ” 53). Thus, when scholars such as Blair talk about visual enthymemes, they may reference rhetorical approac hes to the enthymeme, but they seem more concerned with structure. The discu ssion of visual argument thus becomes an analysis of underlying propositional struct ures to which people might or might not respond (depending supposedly on whether they are capable of constructing the propositions from the images presented). Presenting these visual arguments as enthymemes is a way to affect a conc ern with the social aspect of rhetoric without disrupting oneÂ’s devotion to a structural approach to argument. The development of critical theory led to the realization that gaps could be found in every part of the text, not just in those places intentionally predetermined by authors. FishÂ’s devastating conclusion was that Â“what follows from the possibility that Â‘gapsÂ’ are everywhere is the conclusion that Â‘gapsÂ’ are only
141 where youÂ—that is, where your interp retive assumptionsÂ—find themÂ” (Brub 16). In short, (the gaps that signal the presence of) enthymemes are produced in the act of reading, and thus are not realizations of some hidden meaning implanted by the author, and are not either true nor false, but only more or less interesting or compelling to other readers. Individual in terpretations of an image are not, as Blair claims, Â“equally plausible,Â” since this would mean that individual interpretations would only be capable of recognizing gaps in texts, but not creating them. Instead, each interpretation is subject to the standards of what Fish calls Â“interpretive communities,Â” whic h he defines as a Â“set of practices that are defining of an enterprise and fill t he consciousnesses of the enterpriseÂ’s membersÂ” (Â“YetÂ” 36). If the enthymeme is constructed through sets of interpretive practices embodied by different communi ties of readers, there can be no identification of author-intended gaps. For instance, take BlairÂ’s claim that viewers of the Â“GoldwaterÂ” ad, based on the girl picking apart the flower, w ould believe that Â“Goldwater might, on something as arbitrary as a whim (the mere chance of which petal was plucked last), engage the nation in a nuclear holoc aust, thus causing the destruction of everyone, including the innocent children who pluck daisies playing Â‘s/he loves me; s/he loves me notÂ’Â” (Â“RhetoricÂ” 50). So me readers could point out that the girl in the ad, somewhat obviously, is not playing the loves-me-loves-me-not game. She pulls off petals while counting upwar ds (imperfectly) to ten, and proceeds until a male voice begins a countdown from ten to zero, at the end of which we see a nuclear explosion. Fr om another perspective (a possibly more compelling
142 one to some interpretive co mmunities), there is no erra tic dynamic in the image of the girl from which to extrapolate that it stands for an arbitrary whim of any sort, only a forceful and direct movement and counter-movement. Could it be argued that JohnsonÂ’s invo cation that we must Â“love each otherÂ” or die supports the existence of a Â“loving/not-lovingÂ” motif amenable to BlairÂ’s interpretation? Of course. Do view ers construct meaning from images in ways that are Â“radically cont ingent, radically situationa lÂ” (Olson 9)? Surely. But this only means that these interpretations will never be more than localized acts of interpretation situated in a visual cultureÂ’s ways of seeing and thinking. If nothing else, BlairÂ’s next sentenceÂ—Â“The in ference that it would be a danger to the national interest to elect Goldwater follows straightforwardly Â”Â—grossly fails to qualify the rigidity of the interpretation offered, and thus fails to interrogate to what degree his Â“verbal argument is cons istent with the visual presentationÂ” (consistency is yet another textual pr operty that is constructed through discourse), or the degree to which the cont ext is amenable to this interpretation (Blair, Â“RhetoricÂ” 49, emphasis added). The Â“ gapÂ” that Blair identifies as existing in order to forward this interpretation does not exist (as a gap) prior to BlairÂ’s identification of it as such and therefore, there can be no such thing as a visual enthymeme that exists prior to a viewerÂ’s awareness of it. Naturalizing the Enthymeme Â“True philosophy is to learn again to see the world.Â” Â– Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Phenomenology of Perception
143 One essay in A&A since the 1996 special issue on visual argument directly affirms the possibility of th e visual enthymeme: FinneganÂ’s Â“The Naturalistic Enthymeme and Visual Argum ent: Photographic Representation in the Â‘Skull Controversy.Â’Â” In this ar ticle, Finnegan finds that documentary photographs of the 1930s use their Â“perceived relationship to natureÂ” as an argumentative resource ( 135). In other words, doc umentary photographs are persuasive by virtue of their (presum ed) Â“realismÂ”Â—the audienceÂ’s assumption that the image portrays a real or natural setting (Finnegan 136). Finnegan ultimately finds that this Â“naturalistic enthymemeÂ” in which the audience assumes the realism of the photograph, although ultimately vulnerable to challenge, is often so embedded in a cultureÂ’s way of se eing that individuals prefer to argue over what level of realism is acceptable rather than challenge the very possibility of realism in representation. John Ber ger, following Walter BenjaminÂ’s argument in Â“The Work of Art in the Age of Reproducti onÂ” that art has lost its Â“aura,Â” writes that our ways of seeing constitute a Â“l anguage of imagesÂ” and that, since Â“The art of the past no longer exists as it once did. . [its] authority is lost. In its place there is a language of images. What matte rs now is who uses that language for what purpose" (33). FinneganÂ’s analysis of the natural istic enthymeme suggests that, although high art had lost its aura, a function of its distinctiveness and individuality, photography retained somethi ng of its aura in its claim to absolute realism. While FinneganÂ’s analysis of the debat es over the persuasive use of images is compelling, there are a few diffi culties here in understanding this as an
144 enthymeme. First, FinneganÂ’s Â“naturalisti c enthymemeÂ” names an assumption of the audience that exists prio r to the image and is used to authorize the use of the image in an argument. This seems to me to simply be another way of referring to what Stephen Toulmin calls the Â“backingÂ” in the structure of an argument. In The Uses of Argument Toulmin establishes a si x-part system of argument description: to the familiar data, claim, and warrant (which are roughly similar to the three parts of a syllogism common to analytical argument ation) he adds the qualifier, rebuttal, and backing. In ToulminÂ’s terminology, the backing is composed of Â“other assurances, without which the warrants themselves would possess neither authority nor cu rrencyÂ” (103). The Â“visual culture of realismÂ” that Finnegan identifies could be considered the backing that allows one to connect, using one of FinneganÂ’s exam ples, the image of a bleached cow skull with the drought conditions depicted in the photograph (136). What does calling this process an enthymeme add to ToulminÂ’s description, except to draw attention to the fact that Toulmin does not include images in the examples he gives of hi s system? Â“Visual backingÂ” would seem just as descriptive a term for an underlying assumption that supports the use of images in some argumentative context, and might not carry so much disciplinary baggage as the term Â“enthymeme .Â” Gaines writes similarl y that although theorists adopt a notion of the enthyme me that is generally Â“cons istent with AristotleÂ’s view. . upon close inspection, it appear s equally consistent with other views of practical deductionÂ—not least those recent ly offered by Toulmin and Perelman and Olbrechts-TytecaÂ” (16). Also, the ph ilosopher Douglas Walton writes in his
145 book Informal Logic that "determining enthymematic premises is a pragmatic task of argument" (115). This linking of the enthymeme to practical argumentation suggests that this approach to the enthymeme treats it merely as the backing to more structured (i.e Â“realÂ”) arguments. Also, Blair writes recently that the Â“reasons [ar guments] use are propositions,Â” and since these Â“propos itions are standardly expressed in sentencesÂ” that have a Â“ truth value ,Â” visuals can be persuasive but cannot be arguments (Â“RhetoricÂ” 44). But people rare ly speak of images as being true or false. This suggests to me that FinneganÂ’s Â“naturalistic enthymemeÂ” is really a way of describing how stat ements about images to which we can attribute a truth value (i.e. Â“This image is realisticÂ”) a ffect our interpretation of images, and not really about images themselves as visual enthymemes. By her own admission, FinneganÂ’s enthyme me is of limited use since the naturalistic enthymeme is only active in im ages that make a claim to realism and, thus, much of modern imagery is beyond the scope of this resource. Contrary to what might be expected, Finnegan clai ms that public anxiety over the manipulation of images s hows the continued strengt h of the naturalistic enthymeme, not its demise (147) Truly, it is only when we are no longer anxious about the Â“specter of digital fraudÂ” that the naturalisti c enthymeme will lose its potency (Baron 28). But while continued anxi ety does maintain the specter of a realistic image, this also shows that the source of FinneganÂ’s Â“naturalistic enthymemeÂ” is the degree to which mani pulation of the im age is expected or
146 authorized in the context in which the image circulat es. At best, these are enthymemes about visuals, not visual enthymemes. The Political Work of Visual Enthymemes The focus on contradiction as a qua lity of enthymemic discourse might raise doubts about the possibility of vis ual enthymemes, and does raise the question of negation. Typically, images are assumed to be incapable of embodying the negative, which is rese rved for language. As Kenneth Burke writes, Â“The negative is not picturable, though it can be indicated . . It is properly shown by a sign not by an image For a Â‘negative imageÂ’ would be a contradiction in termsÂ” (430) This is a standard view of images, but it does not restrict the functioning of an enthyme me. Contradiction need not be negation, since visual elements may make use of visual binaries that are considered oppositional without necessar ily negating each other. Darkness and light, for example, can be used to establish visual contradiction. Such a strategy may even be active in the Goldwater ad that Bl air examines, since the intense light of the nuclear explosion is followed by a Â“fade to blackÂ” that is reinforced by JohnsonÂ’s voice warning the audience of the possibility that they may Â“go into the darknessÂ” (qtd. in Â“RhetoricÂ” 50). The visual opposition of dark and light is a powerful binary that is employed in many persuasive contexts. In a review of how democrats can Â“win back the heart and soul of the [American] electorate,Â” Robert Reich writes that democrats Â“have to speak to the basic stories that have defined and animated the United States since its founding,Â” narratives such as the triumphant
147 individual, the benevolent community, the m ob at the gates, and the rot at the top (16). Reich admonishes to politicians t hat Â“Speak to these four stories and you resonate with the tales Americans have been telling each other since our foundingÂ—the two hopeful stories rendered mo re vivid by contrast to the two fearful onesÂ” (17). These narratives explicit ly invoke the oppositions that Walker identifies as enabling enthymemes (in this case, the four stories present the various combinations of the oppositions of individual/group and good/evil). It is reasonable that their imaging would deploy oppos ition as well. Reich notes that in the Â“mob at the gatesÂ” story, Â“the Un ited States is a beacon light of virtue in a world of dark ness, uniquely blessed but continuously menaced by foreign menacesÂ” (16). The ima ge of the U.S. as a beacon of light was often used in speeches by Presi dent Bush following September 11, 2001. Since 2002, and as recently as the 2006 A rmistice Day celebration at the Korean War Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., Vice President Dick Cheney has referenced a high-contrast satellite image taken at night of the Korean peninsula that makes use of this opposition. This image show s South Korea awash with lights, while only one pinpoint of light come s from North Korea, from its capital city. In an address to Korean War veter ans in San Antonio, Texas, in 2002, Cheney stated: Because so many sacrificed [in the Korean War], South Korea is today a land that enjoys progress and prosperit y, its people free from repression, scarcity and starvation; the daily c onditions of life in North Korea. President Bush has observed, on a num ber of occasions, that satellite
148 photos of the Korean Peninsula at night show the North in almost complete darkness. South Korea, on the other hand, is bathed in light; a vibrant enterprising society, a prosperous democracy, sharing ties of commerce and cooperation with many nations a ll over the globe, a peaceful and talented people who have built the third largest economy in Asia. We look to the day when the li ght of freedom and progress covers all of Korea and stability on the peninsula rests on a foundation of peaceful reconciliation. Until then, st ability will be maintained by our great military alliance. That the Â“enthymemeÂ’s power lies in its use of emotively significant oppositionsÂ” speaks to the potential of this pass age and image (Walker 178). Specifically, Cheney invokes oppositions such as pr osperity/scarcity, light/darkness, cooperation/isolation, and freedom/repression to Â“moti vate audience adherenceÂ” to both the validation of past U.S. military ventures in Korea but to present ones in Iraq as well. CheneyÂ’s speech hold s much in common with the style of IsocratesÂ’ Panegyricus in which Isocrates famously called for a Â“Â‘HellenicÂ’ identityÂ” that could be s hared by all those who s hared in Greek culture. Nowadays, the call is for the spread of democracy, but persuasion still requires that Â“reasons [be] embodied in the netwo rk of emotively significant, evaluative oppositionsÂ” communicated through enthymemes (Walker 178). The above
149 narratives not only tap into affects of fear and hope and into the spirit of American nationalism, they are intensely visual as well. To reduce these combinations of image, narrative, and affect to syllogistic logic would be to remove t he very heart of what make s them powerful. To call them Â“persuasionÂ” rather than Â“argumentÂ” is to ignore how individuals experience arguments as enthymemic events in whic h they are called to produce and identify with a number of propositions both spoken and embodied in emotions and images. The strength of the non-Aristotelian enthymeme is that it does not separate persuasion from argument, nor does it portray a disi nterested structure as the standard by which to measure the efficacy of visual argumentation. It does not reinforce the disciplinar y anxieties about the role of emotion or the body in persuasion, nor does it retreat to a Ramu s-like circumscription of rhetoric to issues of style and delivery. Imag(in)ing the Enthymeme Â“We desperately need a politic al economy of the image.Â” Â– Mark C. Taylor and Esa Saarinen, Imagologies The scene opens with snow-covered hills beyond a sea of icy blue-green water, a cold wind blowing clouds across the screen. All-caps lettering floats in front of the polar landscape callin g upon us to Â“Save the Greenbacks,Â” and a voice states that the Â“plig ht of the greenbacks continues. Â” It then cuts to a figure standing in the snow wearing a red jacket with a high-contrast patch on the chest on which can barely be made out the shape of a whale. A close-up follows of a dollar half buried in ice and snow. The i ndividual bends down to retrieve the
150 dollar, which is in two pieces, and dec lares that Â“this [dollar] barely stood a chance . but together we can save thous ands just like it by taking part in KiaÂ’s Â‘Save the GreenbacksÂ’ program.Â” Two other Â“a ctivistsÂ” join the first in examining the torn dollar (their whale patches now clearly visible) and they raise a handmade Â“Save the GreenbacksÂ” banner (with amateurishly off-center lettering) before we are shown a fan-shaped (whale ta il-shaped?) group of Kia vehicles on which we can save money if we Â“hurry Â” and buy Â“todayÂ” (Kia Motors America, Â“ArcticÂ”). The television ad described above undoubtedly alludes to the efforts by groups such as Greenpeace to draw medi a attention to environmental concerns. This ad most directly evokes the activi st movements to st op hunting of baby harp seals and to rescue animals following the 1989 Exxon Valdez oil spill off the Alaskan coast. Another Kia ad in the sa me campaign shows individuals gathering dollars on a beach and collecting them into a rubber raftÂ— a craft strongly associated with GreenpeaceÂ’s efforts to ban commercial whalingÂ—while warning us that Â“greenbacks are disappearing at an alarming rateÂ” (the similarity between Â“greenbackÂ” and Â“humpbackÂ” is unambiguous, especially so in view of the whale patch worn by individuals in both ads ) (Kia Motors Amerida, Â“BeachÂ”). The rubber raft, the handmade banner, t he concern with future events (i.e., extinction), the call to actionÂ—a ll of these featur es are appropriated generally from environmental activism and s pecifically from what Kevin DeLuca calls Â“image events.Â” In Image Politics DeLuca studies how Â“image eventsÂ”Â— staged acts of protest intended for m edia disseminationÂ—emerged as the
151 primary rhetorical tactic of environment al groups such as Earth First! and Greenpeace (3Â–4). That the Kia ad desi gners can expect the audience to recognize the appropriated form of their commercials is proof that the image events of past activists continue to ci rculate in cultural consciousness. Below, I will relate the circulati on and success of image events to the method of rhetorical argument known as the enthymeme. Loosely put, I am arguing that image events aspire to be visual enthymemes. This formulation might seem to establish an unfortunate hi erarchy between the material event and its argumentative struct ure, one in which words trump images. DeLuca specifically criticizes the desire to make words primary in a discussion of image events, and singles out Roger AdenÂ’s e ssay, Â“The Enthymeme as Postmodern Argument Form,Â” as representat ive of the Â“tendency in the discipline of rhetoric to study television and other imagistic media by focusing on words to the neglect of imagesÂ” (18).13 While Aden does admirably show how political figures present arguments that take adv antage of the publicÂ’s Â“pos tmodern processingÂ” of enthymematic forms, his examples of enthymemes deviate little from the common depiction of the enthymeme as an Â“incompleteÂ” linguist ic structure, a Â“syllogism with one (or more) premises mi ssingÂ” (55; Simonson 303). He may put this linguistic structure in the contex t of a broader of persuasive rhetorical concerns, but ultimately AdenÂ’s enthyme mes are relations between observations, generalizations, and inferences composed of words. My conception of the enthymeme is not word-based, however. It is thumos -based.
152 The image events that DeLuca discusses may be seen as calling upon an individualÂ’s capacity for emotion realiz ed in that individualÂ’s thumos. The presence of thumos in ancient Greek poetics as well as sophistic discourse suggests a performative aspect that fits D eLucaÂ’s focus on the public protests of environmental groups. Since most accounts of the enthymeme as a logic-ruled linguistic structure are based on Aristo tleÂ’s systematic treatment of the enthymeme, a thumos-driven conception of argument hopes to displace this word-centric model by returning to a Â“sophistic, non-Aristotelian notion of the enthymeme that is pervasive in the Helleni stic rhetorical tradi tionÂ” (Lauer 53). In this tradition, an enthymeme Â“is not strictly propositional and may include among its Â‘premisesÂ’ such things as sense perceptions, ment al imagery, memories, cognitive schema, deepset beliefs and values (ideologies), bodily states, the aesthetic effects of things like mu sic or drugs, and existing emotional predispositions . as well as exp licit propositions or Â“ideasÂ” overtly present to the psycheÂ” (Walker 174). The adoption of this expansive notion of the available resources from which to construct enthymemes is meant to endorse rather than dismiss the visual nature of image events. The idea that image events aspire to be visual enthymemes should also not raise fears of word-centrism because th is is basically a temporal distinction: the formation of visual enthymemes occurs after the image event is disseminated. As DeLuca writes, in the production of image events we Â“witness
153 people acting passionately (Â‘irrationallyÂ’) on behalf of nature and place, [with] commitments that owe as much to love and emotional connections as they do to instrumental reasonÂ” (59). I would argue that in the reception of image events we witness people forming enthymemes on behalf of emotion and reason, and that these enthymemes can be constructed fr om visual resour ces that generate action. As Jeffrey Walker writes in Rhetoric and Poetics in Antiquity the Â“conclusionÂ” of an enthymeme is Â“not a proposition or Â‘thoughtÂ’ but an action or will to act. . a physically embodied will to act Â” (174, original emphasis). If the conclusion of an enthymeme need not be a proposition composed of words, why would we restrict its initiation in this way? Image and Emotion in Rhetorical Theory AdenÂ’s account of postmodern ar gument as a Â“condensed, mediatedÂ” recombination of Â“previously articulat ed fragmentsÂ” would seem to describe the Kia (and many other) ads well (55). But even by AdenÂ’s account, itÂ’s unclear whether the Kia ad described above could be considered enthymematic. It is surely a condensed and mediated argumen t, although the fragments of discourse it recirculates are both verbal and visual The emotions it seeks to evoke are less clear, however (and, as we shall see la ter, the thumos is not only home to emotional responses, but to debates in volving both reason and emotion). Under a thumos-based account of the enthymeme, this adÂ’s borrowing of features from other textsÂ—the Â“already saidÂ”Â—is simply not enough to be enthymematic. To be an enthymeme, the ad would have to tap in to the Â“already feltÂ” as well. It may seem here that I am being nave by suggesting that ads donÂ’t routinely make use
154 of audience emotions. Rather, I am claimi ng that any description of these texts as enthymematic is inadequate without a seri ous consideration of the emotion at the heart of the enthymeme. In AdenÂ’s article, for example, even though he obser ves that the arguments of political candidate and exKKK member David Duke found traction by appealing to Â“frustration,Â” Â“anti-gover nment sentiment,Â” and prejudices such as Â“racial fear,Â” he introduces these as Â“c ultural factorsÂ” (56Â–57) Aden writes that Â“DukeÂ’s rhetoric features subjects deeply ingrained in the American psycheÂ” and then he provides examples of enthymemes t hat make no explicit reference to the emotions that make these subjects res onate in the first place (59, emphasis added). This is a modified form-content bi furcationÂ—emotions are associated with the content of argument without ever being al lowed to enter the structural form of the enthymeme. If emotion is the reason for the audience accepting the observation that is presented, then it is misleading to state that Â“Duke relies on the Â‘already saidÂ’ to provide both the po litical cover he desires and the political response he cravesÂ” (Aden 60). By focusi ng on the verbal (the Â“saidÂ”), and by using emotive words (Â“desiresÂ” and Â“crave sÂ”) to describe someone attempting to appeal to the worst in people, the role of emotion is either ignored or demonized by Aden. Granted, AdenÂ’s article is a potent analysis of persuasive method, and the enthymeme here is at least recognized as a powerful tool of persuasion, but the article does these things without integr ating emotion into t he structure of the enthymeme.
155 In fact, Aden seems to overall deval ue the role of emotion in public discourse. He writes that a greater under standing of enthymemes will help critics to Â“identify both the unsaid/ already said and [reveal] t he means by which public figures attempt to further t heir own ends at expense of . the societal goodÂ”; this understanding will also help break the Â“ cycle of cynicismÂ” in public discourse (Aden 61, 62). Aden associates the c ondensed enthymematic form with immoral intent by stating that it is the Â“enthymeme that allows Duke to appeal to prejudice without overtly doing soÂ” (57). His stat ements that public argument should be more Â“openÂ” and Â“explicit,Â” and Â“public offici als [forced] to clarify their argumentsÂ” suggest that the influence within public disc ourse of Â“unsaidÂ” factors such as peopleÂ’s fears, anger, and cynicism could be overcome by a greater commitment to clear speech. (Aden 62). The injunction to clarity follows fr om the standard belief that composing must be an exercise in Â“a sserting something to be tr ueÂ” (Olson 9). Gary Olson claims that we should abandon this Â“rhetoric of asserti on,Â” partially because it is Â“masculinist, phallogocentric, foundationalist, often essentialist, and, at the very least, limitingÂ” (9). Also, AdenÂ’s goal of eliminating ambiguity from argumentation ignores William CovinoÂ’s observation that Â“major figures of classical rhetoricÂ— Plato, Aristotle, CiceroÂ— define and demonstrate rhetor ic as the elaboration of ambiguityÂ” (Covino 2). Arguably, t he enthymeme depends upon a degree of ambiguity to initiate audience participat ion in its completion. Furthermore, the resistance to ambiguity makes it difficult to take seriously either emotion or images in arguments. The immateria lity of emotion makes unambiguous
156 description difficult. And it is common for people to assume that Â“the visual is inescapably ambiguous or vagueÂ” (Blair Â“RhetoricÂ” 46). In AdenÂ’s view of clarified communication, the goal is to turn language into a static representation of discourse. Dialogue is not val ued, nor are more open-ended methods of interpretation and assertion. Despite a general distrust of emoti on that stretches back to Socrates, critical interest in emotion has incr eased significantly among rhetoricians in recent years. Foremost in prompting this interest is the recognition that emotions are not merely experienced privately, but can be understood Â“as evidence of oneÂ’s position in social relations and as a form of social actionÂ” (Jacobs and Micciche 4). In their introduction to A Way to Move: Rhetorics of Emotion and Composition Studies editors Dale Jacobs and Laura R. Micciche find the potential for rhetoric to enable social change embedded in the word Â“emotionÂ” itself: [A] key term for us is move We take, as our starting point, the Latin root of emotion, motere which means Â“to move,Â” suggesting that a tendency to act is implicit in every emotion. Mo vement, or repositioning oneself in the face of ever-changing situations, is a central goal of classical and contemporary rhetorical t heory. Effective rhetoric is dynamic rather than static; effective rhetoric moves us towards new ways of knowing and creates avenues for social change In our book, linking emotion with movement underscores the r hetorical nature of em otion as a mode of
157 articulation by which thought and action are moved, or are always in flux, and are a source of moving others. (3) These scholars explicitly connect emoti on with moving people to action, a central goal of activists. Arguably, this emphasis on action is evident in Aristotle as well. Larry Arnhart claims that the connection between emotion and action is always assumed in the Aristotelian enthymeme Â“since enthymematic argumentation is a practical form of reasoning, its aim is to move men not just to think but also to act ; and arguments cannot move men to action unless it somehow elicits the motivational power of emotionÂ” (10). Wh ile many approaches to argument (and, indeed, politics) have generally de-emphas ized the role of emotion, or, less kindly, associated it with distraction, fallacious reasoning, or deception, these scholars suggest that a social capacity fo r emotion must be the warrant of any form of rhetoric that claims to be Â“effective.Â”14 In a manner similar to the way in which emotion has been dismissed, image events have also often been dismissed by theorists Â“as gimmicks or the antics of the unruly . [or reduced] to flares sent out to gain the attention for the Â‘realÂ’ rhetoricÂ” (DeLuca 17). Even in classr oom practice, where Â“visual literacy is an old and perennialÂ” concern, images are often conceived Â“as a problematic, something added, an anomalyÂ” (George 13) In these classrooms, image analysis is common but image production is not considered a serious rhetorical practice, despite the fact that images have become Â“commonplace in all aspects of contemporary public discourseÂ” (M cComiskey, Â“VisualÂ” 188). The lack of instruction in the rhetorical uses of images, and in how to take advantage of
158 media to disseminate visual arguments, is unfortunate, especia lly considering the common notion that teaching argumentation is Â“necessary for the life of the polisÂ” (Roberts-Miller 3). Admittedly, doubts exist as to whether visuals can constitute arguments in more than a Â“non-metaphorical wayÂ” (Blair Â“PossibilityÂ” 23). But an imageÂ’s lack of a formal propositional st ructure made up of a Â“lingui stically explicable claim and one or more overtly expressed r easonsÂ” should not condemn images to dismissal from the rhetorical classroom. After all, images dominate the public sphere because of the Â“power of things visually to persuade us, to shape our attitudes, and even our beliefs and acti onsÂ” (Blair Â“RhetoricÂ” 42). It is unsurprising, then, t hat activists embrace the visual as central to the political work enabled by mass media. For instanc e, the 2005 Live 8 concerts made extensive use of visual media to disseminate Live 8Â’s anti-poverty message.15 This Â“political event,Â” as organizer Bob Ge ldorf calls it, functioned in at least one way like GreenpeaceÂ’s naval confrontati ons with whaling boat s: it did not succeed primarily as a direct action but as an image event (qtd. in Tyrangiel 66; see DeLuca 1Â–6). As activist-musician Bono of U2 stated, the fact that Live 8 organizers had moved on from the Â“tin-c upping of Live AidÂ” to applying Â“real pressureÂ” on world leaders Â—moved on from the direct action of raising money to the orchestrating of event s that raise awarenessÂ—was a sign that they had Â“moved into real politics and real activi smÂ” (qtd. in Tyrangiel 66). This real activism is no longer measurable in dolla rs contributed, but in people moved to action.
159 Since images and emotions often t end to be dismissed using similar strategies, it is likely that a defense of the legitimate and necessary role of emotion in argument and a defense of t he legitimate and necessary role of images in argument will be mutually s upportive. If image events succeed when they function as visual enthymemes, Â“moving thumosÂ” can be considered an effective strategy for the political work of activism. Addressing emotion is vital to activism because, as menti oned earlier, the Â“mind, by itse lf, is never sufficient to originate action or movement. . Acti on requires an affective stateÂ” (Miller and Bee 203, 204). The widespread validation of the Â“emotive power of the imageÂ” suggests that the production of images is therefore appropriate to responsible rhetorical pedagogies (LaG randeur 119). Once one accepts Â“emotion as a central [and legitimate] ingredient in the act of persuasion,Â” it is easy to agree that thumos should be recove red in the field of rhetor ic (Jacobs and Micciche 2). If thumos ought to become a key term for rhetorici ans, Â“visual enthymemeÂ” ought to become a key term for activists as well (Quandahl 14). Arguing against the Structure of the Visual Enthymeme Scholarly skepticism of the possibilit y of visual argument rests less on denying the rhetorical force of images and mo re on a restrictive definition of what constitutes an argument. J. Anthony Blair, for instance, has published multiple articles on the possibility of visual ar guments. Indeed, his claim that Â“[v]isual arguments are typically enthymemesÂ” would seem to be ideal support for this chapter (Â“RhetoricÂ” 52). But BlairÂ’s depicti on of visual argument is, I believe, too focused on structure to be useful in developing a concept of the visual
160 enthymeme. As George observes, Blair Â“jus t barely manages to agree that visual argument, possessing all of the Â‘salient pr operties of arguments,Â’ could actually be said to existÂ” (29). Even if Blair does allow for the possibility that visual arguments exist, his discussion of visual arguments does not advance a sophistic understanding of the enthymeme that recognizes the role of thumos. By defining enthymemes as Â“arguments with gaps left to be filled in by the participation of the audience,Â” Blair ultimately subordinates the visual enthymeme to the verbal structure of traditional argument by posit ing visual arguments as complete, but not fully expressed structures that exist independent of the actions of those who observe them (Â“RhetoricÂ” 52). BlairÂ’s approach to visual argum ent enacts another content-form bifurcation. He focuses on the co ntent of images to understand their argumentative potential, hoping to derive from them propositions that will validate the imageÂ’s status as argument. This st ance adheres closely to the convention that the Â“reasons [that arguments] use are proposit ions,Â” and that these Â“propositions are standardly expressed in sentencesÂ” that have a Â“truth valueÂ” (Blair Â“RhetoricÂ” 44). BlairÂ’s test for whether a visual is an argument is Â“whether it would be possible to construct from what is communicated visually a verbal argument that is consistent with the visual presentationÂ” (Â“Rhetoric Â” 49). All of this suggests that the content of images c annot be considered part of the form of the enthymeme until it has been translated in to propositional content. Furthermore, Blair states only situations in which t he audience Â“consciously assentsÂ” can be considered persuasion, and only situations in which the audience is presented
161 with Â“ reasons for accepting a point of view Â” can be considered argument (Â“RhetoricÂ” 43Â–44). BlairÂ’s requirement that persuasion occurs only when we assent or Â“can choose to complyÂ” might be read al ongside AristotleÂ’s claim in the Nicomachean Ethics : Â“The origin of actionÂ—its efficient, not its final causeÂ—is choice, and that of choice is desire and reasoning with a view to an end Â” (Â“RhetoricÂ” 43; qtd. in Miller and Bee 204, emphasis added). In ot her words, choice for Aristotle presumes the involvement of emoti on, reason, and a concern with possible outcomes. Choice for Blair seems merely to be an acceptance or rejection of the argument as structured previously by t he arguer. By focusing on the structural qualities of visual argument s (regardless of whether he ultimately decides visuals can or can not be arguments), Blair tr eats emotion as immaterial to the determination of the possibility of visual argument. This is evident in the two examples Blair provides two examples of situations that function as instances of persuasion yet do not constitute argum ents: one where a per son is robbed at gunpoint, and one where a man is seduced by t he touch of a woman. Blair states that you might hand your wallet over to an armed man, but Â“t he robber has not presented an argument for doing so just by pointin g his gun at you. [BlairÂ’s] fantasy womanÂ’s seduction might hav e been persuasive, but stimulating an erogenous zone does not constitute an argument Â” (Â“RhetoricÂ” 43). What Blair overlooks in these situations is t he central emotional components of these events, namely fear and desire.
162 BlairÂ’s dismissal of these events as non-arguments rests on a tidy division between the rational and the irrational: emoti ons located bodily in the gut or in an erogenous zone are considered outside the economy of reason and thus outside the structure of the argument. One way this can be refuted is by recognizing that emotions can be considered propos itional. George Marcus, in The Sentimental Citizen defines an emotion as Â“sensat ion together with a meaningful commentaryÂ” (10). Massumi writes simila rly that an Â“emotion is a subjective content, the sociolinguistic fixing of the quality of experi ence which is from that point onward defined as persona l. . It is intensit y owned and recognizedÂ” (28, emphasis added). In other wo rds, emotions can be propositions. As Quandahl writes, Â“our access to emotion, finally, is in language.Â” In other words, emotions are always already propositions; they ar e statements we make about ourselves that have a truth value, such as Â“I am happyÂ” or Â“I am fearful.Â” And since emotions are always already language, t hey can be integrated into either the structural or the rhetorical model of the enthymeme. The realm of emotion and perception is not simply some unregulated subjective realm; it is accessible to individuals through language that turns affective states and sensory stimuli into internal propositions. When Blair argues that Â“the arguer has to be able to pr edict the nature of the audienceÂ’s participation,Â” and that the Â“visual arguer mu st be particular[ly] astute in reading the audience,Â” part of this astuteness invo lves being aware of the emotions that these visuals will invoke (Â“RhetoricÂ” 52) These emotions are predictable due to the highly social dimension of emoti on. Much recent scholarly work has
163 highlighted how Â“emotion is schooled through cultural institutions such as the family, the media, and a ll levels of the education systemÂ” (Jacobs and Micciche 4). This schooling ensures that emotions emerge in predictable ways conditioned by social expectations regarding Â“how, when, where, and by whom emotions ought to be enactedÂ” (Lutz and Abu-Lughod 12). The recognition of affective states as specific emotions transforms them into a content of the inte rnal rhetoric that we engage in continually (and which, arguably, falls within the dom ain of thumos). If one insi sts that these arguments need to be elaborated verbally, one could imagine the individuals in BlairÂ’s examples responding to the situation (i.e., the presence of the gun or the touch of the woman) with the phrases Â“I am afraid Â” or Â“I am turned on.Â” It is not even difficult to place these phrases into the enthymematic structure forwarded by Nancy Harper: Observation: I am afraid right now. Generalization: When I am afraid I should not put up a fight. Inference: I should not put up a fight right now. In HarperÂ’s system, an enthymeme is a Â“psycho-logical process of inference based upon observationÂ” connected by an often unstated generalization (306). Harper differentiates the Â“causalÂ” nature of the enthymeme from the Â“conditionalÂ” if-and-then nature of the syllo gism, which is a structural relationship that Â“can only be valid or invalidÂ” (309). A causal is a Â“combination of two or more propositions joined together by a connective word or phrase such as because Â” (305). Harper develops her definition of t he enthymeme inductively by looking at
164 examples provided by Aristotle in the Prior Analytics and the Rhetoric What she finds is that the enthymeme is an Â“a rrangement of propositions in which one proposition is presented as a claim and another . is presented as a reason or as evidence to support the claim. In other words, an argument and a causal partake the same form.Â” Additionally, the reason supporting the inference is Â“always something observable by the sensesÂ” (Harper 305). As causal statements, enthymemes are obviously ar guments. BlairÂ’s position on visual argument is limited because he is unable to account for the fact that Â“something observable by the sensesÂ” is likely to evoke a proposition (Harper 305). The linguistic fixing of emotion allows it to have a truth value. In fact, the individualized experience of emotion is often used Â“as the ground of and warrant for knowledgeÂ” (Worsham 163). Though uns ophisticated, we know something to be true because we feel it to be true. In what Rei Terada calls the Â“content approachÂ” to emotion, emot ions are Â“less sensations that happen to one than thoughts that one pursuesÂ” (19). Edmund Husserl provides the phenomenological foundation of the content approach: Â“We do not merely have a presentation, wit h an added feeling associatively tacked on to it, and not intrinsically related to it, but pleasure or distaste direct themselves to the presented object, and could not exist without such a directionÂ” (qtd. in Terada 19, original emphasis). In this view, the emot ion is an intention directed toward the object. Therefore, the emot ion would not occur without the objectÂ’s presence. By presenting the gun, then, the robber in BlairÂ’s exampl e could be considered to be
165 presenting the reason for the em otion. Blair is searching for the truth value in the content of the image rather than in the emotion of the audience. Since Blair insists that the reason is given by the arguer and that this reason supplies the content for the ar gument, he is more interested in the Â“creator of the visual expressionÂ” than in the package of reason, emotion, and expected outcome involved in the choice being, presumably, internally debated by the audience (Â“RhetoricÂ” 53). BlairÂ’s clai m that visual arguments do not exist because the Â“essential components [o f] argumentsÂ—propositionsÂ—cannot be expressed visually,Â” disregards the possibility that propositiona l content arises through the interaction between individuals, rather than simply being transmitted by one party and assented to or rejected by the other (Â“RhetoricÂ” 47, emphasis added). Specifically, he does not consider t he possibility that an object presented for observation can constitute the reason for a proposition. BlairÂ’s resistance to visual argument is based on approaching argument as structure rather than appr oaching argument as event. This impasse is akin to what Lyotard calls the Â“differend,Â” in wh ich the Â“success (or the validation) proper to one genre is not the one proper to othersÂ” (136). But in order for emotion and images to matter, arguments may have to become events. Massumi writes that the Â“ primacy of the affective in image receptionÂ” does not guarantee any Â“correspondence or conformityÂ” between the content of an image and its effect (what Masumi calls the imageÂ’s Â“qualit iesÂ” and Â“intensityÂ”) (24, original emphasis). Rather, the Â“primacy of t he affective is marked by a gap between content and effect Â” (Massumi 24, original emphasis). Approaches that look only
166 at the content of visual arguments ex ist, but what such approaches Â“lose, precisely, is the expression event Â—in favor of structureÂ” (Massumi 27). If Blair (or others) situate their definition of (visual) argument in effect rather than content, then the possibility of visual ar gument will be difficult to deny. The Sophistic Contribution to the Visual Enthymeme Although DeLuca writes t hat image events fall Â“o utside the domain of a rhetoric traditionally conc eived,Â” the qualitie s of image events DeLuca identifies resonate with a classical understanding of the enthymeme that is not exclusively Aristotelian ( xii ). Certainly, Aristotle is respons ible for much of the scholarly attention given to the enthymeme, since he called it the Â“bodyÂ” or substance of persuasion in the opening of the Rhetoric (1354a). In fact, Poster writes that the Â“only universally agreed upon notion of why the enthymeme is of any but historical importanceÂ” is that it is Â“central to AristotleÂ’s Rhetoric Â” (5). But beyond the affirmation of the import ance of the enthymeme, Aristotle is not as helpful as one might think. As Lloyd Bitzer obs erves: Â“the reader of AristotleÂ’s Rhetoric will find no unambiguous statement de fining the enthymemeÂ” (399). Even within textbooks, which should be Â“conservative recapitulations of the agreed upon assumptions of an academic discipline,Â” Poster categorizes seven competing definitions of the enthyme me (1). Out of the seven, six make explicit reference to th e syllogism, reproducing t he narrow reading of the enthymeme as a logic-based linguistic structure (the divergent one defines the enthymeme simply as Â“informal deductive reasoningÂ”) (Poster 4). But a thumosbased conception of the enthymeme draw s attention to those aspects that
167 engage emotion most directly. Accordi ng to the approaches introduced below, enthymemes are: 1.stylistically kair otic, 2.composed of oppositions or contradictions, 3.premonitory (futur e-oriented), and 4.amenable to visual resources. These are all qualities that successful im age events possess as well. From Isocrates and Anaxamines, tw o philosophers roughly contemporary with Aristotle, one encounters the first pr ofessional and technica l descriptions of the enthymeme. Although some claim that Isocrates use of enthymeme suggests merely a Â“well-turned phrase, a well considered-thought,Â” th is downplays the importance of kairos in IsocratesÂ’ system of rhetoric (Poster 12). Kairos is typically associated with right timing, or due measure or proportion (Kinneavy 85). Kairos is an important factor in the tactics of grassroots environmental groups as well. DeLuca writes that t he success of grassroots tactics Â“require people close by who can seize on the wing the possibilities that offer themselves at a given momentÂ” (76). In Against the Sophists Isocrates portrays the essence of rhetorical skill as bei ng the ability Â“to see what kairos demands, and speak a discourse wholly wrought with fitting ent hymemesÂ” (16Â–17). Being kairotic, these enthymemes will Â“in some sense come as a surpriseÂ” and therefore Â“will not be fully predictable, will not follow as inev itable conclusions necessitated by the Â‘premisesÂ’ preceding themÂ” (Walker 179). In other words, the typical view of the enthymeme as an audienceÂ’s expression of unstated premises that completes the enthymeme ignores the stylistic forc e of the enthymemeÂ’s presentationÂ—of the production of Â“what might be calle d an Â‘enthymematic momentÂ’ in the audienceÂ’s experienceÂ” (Walker 175, original emphasis).16
168 Anaximenes closely associates the enthymeme with style as well. Seven of the thirty-eight chapters in his Rhetoric to Alexander are directly concerned with style, and he begins this discussion be stating that an effective style is Â“achieved in this wayÂ—you state half an enthymeme, so that the audience may understand the other half for t hemselvesÂ” (qtd. in Walker 177). It is from a similar perspective that George K ennedy writes in Â“The Concept of the Enthymeme as Understood in the Modern Period.Â” that Â“abridging the st atement, makes it stronger and more livelyÂ” (297). The latte r part of KennedyÂ’s statement points to the stylistic efficiency or eloquence which many scholars believe an abbreviated syllogism engenders. A similar deference to the stylistic demands of the audience is contained in RaymondÂ’s statement that enthymemes Â“are appropriate to the audience of rhetoric because these lines of reasoning do not tax the attentionÂ” of the audience (148). De LucaÂ’s observation that the Â“televisual public sphereÂ” is home to corporat e and state Â“spectaclesÂ” as well as counterpublic Â“performance of image event sÂ” reinforces the necessity of considering style in public argument (21). By incorporating style as part of its successful functioning, the non-Aristote lian enthymeme remains an appropriate strategy in this era of Â“[ c]ritique through spectacle, not critique versus spectacleÂ” (DeLuca 22). To show how Â“all the graceÂ” can be tak en from an expression when it is in stated in full syllogistic form, Kennedy looks at this line from OvidÂ’s Medea : Â“I was able to save you: do you then ask if I c ould slay you?Â” (279). Expanding this to include the premises Â“He who can slay can saveÂ” and Â“I saved you,Â” Kennedy
169 writes, goes against the principle t hat one of the prim ary beauties of an enthymematic statement is Â“to give an oppo rtunity to the mind to form a thought more extended than the expressionÂ” (298) Depriving the audience of such an opportunity seems, not merely to diseng age active attention to the argument, but to oppose the aesthetic and communitarian sensibilities of those involved in rhetorical exchange, who assume both a certain ability to construct arguments as well as an appreciation of eloquent expression. Part of the stylistic force of t he enthymeme comes from its use of opposition. Anaximenes writes that enthy memes are composed of contradictions or Â“oppositionsÂ” embodied Â“not only in words or in actions . but also in anything elseÂ” (qtd. in Walker 176). These cont radictions can often be situated in Â“principles of justice, law, expediency, honor feasibility, facility, or probabilityÂ” or in Â“the character of the speaker or t he usual course of events.Â” Anaximenes places enthymemes within an Â“exetastic di scourseÂ” consisting of an Â“Â‘exhibitionÂ’ of inconsistencies or contradictions in someoneÂ’s intentions, deeds, or wordsÂ” (Walker 176). The emphasis on contradict ions and inconsistencies challenges the typical view of enthymemes as depend ing solely on accepted knowledge, and suggests that enthymemes can be epistem ic. Such deconstructive intent is clear in the tactics of activists to Â“contest social norms and deconstruct the established naming of t he worldÂ” (DeLuca 59). Contradiction is also a point of entry in to critical discourse. As part of her work to articulate counter-hegemonic teaching practices that avoid the tendency of critical pedagogies to ignore the inte rnal struggle of ideology that every
170 individual faces (and never really over comes), Goleman writes: Â“As writing instructors, we need a concept of contr adiction that will help us to accept and accommodate this intense, ongoing struggle toward critical discourse among our students, a struggle that leads them to ward both a reproduction of social contradiction and its critiqueÂ” (85). Perhaps the concept(s) that Goleman seeks is thumos, and the method appropriate to it s functioning: the enthymeme. GriffinÂ’s conceptualization of this struggle as an in ternal dialogue which must ultimately have a single winner may not sit well wi th critical pedagogues. The model of discourse that Griffin presents is not one amenable to how critical pedagogues often represent interaction in t heir classrooms. Griffin writes: Here then is another aspect of ideolog ical structure. DialogueÂ—which is finally perhaps the form of all th oughtÂ—must become a war. One must lose and the other win. There must be a clear victor. One must be shown to be wrong. And therefore, each kind of thought is pitted against the other. (283) This is not your teacherÂ’s contact zone.16 But Goleman attempts to make a space for the continuation of c ontradiction as a way to understand subjects within ideology. Rather than elimin ate this state of struggle, Goleman calls on students to identify with it. By visual izing contradiction, images events may serve as useful tools in such pedagogies, especially si nce the technologies of vision and reproduction always call into question the ex tent to which manipulation is part of discourse, and therefore, enables us to as k ourselves Â“to what extent are we manipulating the direction of this st ruggleÂ” (Goleman 85). By making the
171 contradictions of ideology visible and av ailable for critique, Goleman lays bare the workings of ideology, since ideology Â“must insist that no other truth than its own is possible. The very idea of an alternative suggests a search. But any search might disclose the original lieÂ” (Griffin 286). Image events often make deliberate us e of opposition to further critical ends. For instance, the images distributed as part of GreenpeaceÂ’s efforts to stop whaling operations regularly utilize t he visual opposition between the rubber raft (a small craft filled with smiling members of the progressive c ounter culture) and the whaling boat (a Â“massive depersona lized, technical juggernaut of Soviet communismÂ”) (DeLuca 98Â–99). Images of activists chained to vehicles and lying across or buried in roads evoke an opposition between action and immobility, between helplessness and authority. Also, the Â“contrary imagesÂ” presented when grandparents are arrested while protes ting (as opposed to the stereotype of nave twenty-somethings) derive their forc e from a similar set of Â“emotively significant oppositionsÂ” that work to produce shame in viewers (DeLuca 10Â–11; Walker 178). Based on the qualities adv ocated by Isocrates and Anaxamines, the sophistic enthymeme emerges as a Â“concise emphatic statement of an emotionally charged oppositionÂ” (Walker 177). This is also the foundation of image events. Thomas FarrellÂ’s contemporary approac h to the enthymeme stresses its status as Â“premonitoryÂ” discourse, whic h he defines as Â“interested, unfinished referenceÂ” regarding a Â“world yet to come into existenceÂ” (104). The call to action embedded in image events is just such a ki nd of future-oriented discourse, and
172 environmental groups display a Â“rich tradition of struggle that provides a spark of hope for those confronting a daunting future Â” (DeLuca 163, emphasis added). This concern with the future poses spec ial problems for image events dealing with environmental concerns. The distende d timeline of environmental effects can conflict with the intended kairos of the performanc eÂ—the consequences of inaction may simply seem too far off to be motivati onal. As DeLuca points out, environmental groups must also cont end with the powerful ideograph of progress. By arguing that Â“humanity, by dominating nature through the use of instrumental reason and technology, will ac hieve progress,Â” industrialists have made it difficult to think of the future without the unrelenting ex ploitation of natural resources (DeLuca 40). It is clear that visuals ar e exceptionally well-suited to provide the sophistic qualities of enthymematic discourse. The gestalt nature of imagesÂ—their all-atonce-ness or Â“immediacyÂ”Â—make them ideal for the Â“sudden, dramatic sense of opening prospectsÂ” that characterizes enthymemes (Walker 179). Even Blair recognizes that Â“one can communicate vi sually with much more force and immediacy than verbal communication al lowsÂ” (Â“RhetoricÂ” 53). The economy of the image parallels the desir e expressed by the sophist s to create Â“enthymemes that embody these oppositions as briefl y and economically as possibleÂ” (Walker 176). Thus, the enthymeme Walker finds in sophistic discourse is one that affirms the role of visuals in st imulating the senses and the emotions, while maintaining the necessity of kairos in their presentation. The rhetorical rhetoric of the
173 enthymeme anticipates the necessarily ambiguous and flexible nature of such situationality. What is referenced by enthymemes is the Â“mosaic of commonplaces, conventions, traditions, and provisional interests making up the doxa [popular opinion] of rhetorical cult ureÂ” (Farrell 99). The corpor ate-centric control of the production and distribution of mediated im ages has led to an association of images with corporate interests. Kathleen Welch identifies a series of Â“visual koinos topos ,Â” or visual commonplaces, that infuse news media ( Electric 165). These specific visual topoi she claims are Â“sight bites . fragm entary . visual shards that lead nowhere except to the visual similarity of the commercialsÂ” (Welch, Electric 163). But it is also true, if vi sual commonplaces can be used, as Welch argues, to Â“reduce the ability of any decoder in any discourse community to absorb and assess what is going on,Â” t hat visual commonplaces can also be utilized to improve the ability to dec ode and assess (and produce) meaning. After all, rhetoric allows us to see the ava ilable means of persuasion, but does not restrict us from the use of any particu lar appeal. The anxiety over the ability of enthymematic images to persuade, and even to deceive, is understandable. But only if one rejects the possibility that images can be used for a variety of rhetorical ends. At the beginning of Image Politics DeLuca states Â“How are people persuaded, moved? In a word: rhetoricÂ” (xii) If the enthymeme is the citizenÂ’s proper rhetorical strategy, then citizens hav e at their disposal a wide variety of resources that are already in circulat ion, Â“fragmentsÂ” of discourse that
174 characterize the postmodern condition in which Â“apparently finished discourse is in a fact a dense reconstruction of all the bi ts of other discourses from which it is madeÂ” (McGee, qtd. in Aden 55). Alt hough aware of the necessary play of language, and its usefulness in forming comm unity, DeLuca is critical of Ernesto Laclau and Chantal MouffeÂ’s concept of Â“fl oating signifiersÂ” as elements useful to activists since their status as Â“rel atively empty and ambiguousÂ” cannot be the basis for shared understanding of the material world (DeLuca 43). DeLuca favors McGeeÂ’s notion of the Â“ideogr aphÂ” instead, but the available elements of visual discourse might also be located in Mikhail BakhtinÂ’s notion of speech genres, those textual types that originate and draw material from everyday life, manifesting an organized yet heterogeneous system of relationships among genres of writing. If such forms exist, then there is no reason that a parallel system of Â“image genresÂ” has not developed in our image-dominated media culture, a type of shared visual knowledge, what Welch calls visual topoi, upon which enthymemes can be built. Activating Thumos When activists seek to take advant age of the potential of image events, they harness their enthymematic potential to move affect. There are really two events here: the image event coordinated by activists to disseminate through media, and the event realized in the re ception of these im age events. Whether an audience responds to an enthymeme is Â“at least in part, connected with its eventfulness,Â” but the scope of this event should not be limited to the original act of protest (Farrell 102). As Massumi clai ms: Â“what the mass-media transmit is not
175 fundamentally image-content but event-potential. A m ediatized event has the potential to transfer into new domains, and when it does it repeats its eventfulness with a change in its natureÂ” (269, emphasis added). The enthymematic function of image events dem onstrates that the domain in which the event is repeated is the domain of thumos. Because thumos is not simply a specif ic emotional appeal, but the place of rational/emotional deliberation, it is related to the classical notion of konoi topoi the common topics or common places of rh etorical argument. As Welch explains: Â“A topos is not a what Greek keyword; rather it is a how keyword. . it is part of informed performance. Â‘ Topos Â’ in Greek signifies place; it is a location where one takes oneself in order to develop an issueÂ” ( Electric 114Â–15). In other words, such places facilitate the invention and performance of argument s. The role of the thumos in moving people to action sugge sts that the effective rhetor should forefront Â“ presentational and inventional concerns: the means by which enthymemes can most effectiv ely be generated Â‘inÂ’ a listenerÂ’s thymos Â” (Walker 175, original emphasis). Emmel claims that Â“[t]he paradigm of the enthymeme is not a form imposed on the process but rath er a form representative of how that process takes shape Â” (Emmel 137, emphasis added). No t just a structure, the enthymeme might be seen as a method sim ilar to what Gregory Ulmer describes as that of the Â“chorographer, then, [w ho] writes with paradigms (sets), not argumentsÂ” (38). Visual enthymemes ar e not simply examples of images structured to have a certain effect on audi ences, but a descrip tion of how images
176 are both produced in kairotic ways, and how those images are received by audiences through an interactive package of reason and emotion. Composing image events with paradigms requires the articulation of the shared visual elements of discourse. How both activist s and scholars envision this process is evident in the visual enthymemes they produce.
177 Chapter 6 Touching Thumos There is much hope attached to the study of emotion. The hope of some is that the current interest in emoti on will lead to understandings that propel programs of social and individual change and will hel p realize the long-term projects in composition studies that seek to dev elop studentsÂ’ critical consciousness and rhetorical ability. The editors of A Way to Move make claims for emotion that range fr om the ambitiousÂ—it will Â“create a culture of movementÂ”Â—to the unexceptionalÂ—it will Â“mo ve our discipline in new directionsÂ” (Jacobs and Micciche 2). Others, such as Sondra Perl, seem to hope that attention to emotion will favor embodied ways of knowing that challenge postmodern accounts of subjectivity and, rather, enable Â“genuine expressionÂ” and Â“full experiencingÂ” (59). If nothing else can be said, it is at least true that approaches to emotion and the purposes t hat motivate them are local and diverse. The belief in the possibility of change, however, seems universal, as does the anxiety over the failure to take advantage of the motivational power of discourses of emotion. As Worsham st ates, it would be a Â“shame if the new interest in emotion as a category of critical thought does not move us into a new orbit of social and political possibilityÂ” (163). But she al so warns of the possibility that the study of emotion may simply reinforce existing boundaries and patterns of discourse.
178 In reference to Toni MorrisonÂ’s distinction between being touched and being moved, the title of th is chapter, Â“Touching Thumos,Â” suggests the difficulty involved in the intellectual work of reeducating emotion, and in the ethically and politically sound deployment of affect in public discourse. The title of this work, Â“Moving Thumos Â” represents the hope that this can be done in a politically engaged and self-reflective way. It is not as if opportunities for reflection are rare. Events we encounter daily trigger diffe rent affective responsesÂ—we may be shamed by events at Abu Ghraib; dis gusted by Morgan SpurlockÂ’s 30-day indulgence in fast food in the film Â“Super Size MeÂ”; in awe at photos of the human bodyÂ’s interior landscape; indifferent to celebrity charity concerts; angry at the money spent on our universityÂ’s latest re-branding e ffort; joyful at a sonogram of a friendÂ’s baby; bitter at t he result of the latest televised trial; and, hopefully, moved by the passionate commitment of other citizens. T he primacy of the affective in discourse is part of the mom entum of its circulation. By connecting the affective dimension of discourse to the paradigm of t he enthymeme, it may become clearer how citizens engage in the production of events that move thumos, and how we interpret these events as calling upon us as certain types of subjects, subjects who respond to disc ourse over time and through a range of enthymemic modes that are not reducible to the linear st ructures of traditional argument. Movement in Theory I return to the question of movement. Composition studies has had difficulty theorizing subjects in motion. As Massumi writes, many Â“accounts of
179 subject formation emphasize systemic st ructurings,Â” embr acing a language of positionality (location on a grid, an Â“ oppositional framework of culturally constructed significationsÂ”) and treating the body as merely the Â“local embodiment of ideologyÂ” (2Â–3). The enthymeme, as shown earlier, has suffered a similar fateÂ—being reduced to a structurin g that separates it from its potential as a rhetorical event Advocate s of change (whether they embrace expressivism, constructivism, growth theory, or some form of liberatory pedagogy) often unintentionally idealize the individual subjectÂ’s capacity to change at the expense of a more nuanced understanding of the complexity of subjectivity. Recall Jacobs and Micci cheÂ’s claim that Â“[m]ovement, or repositioning oneself in the face of eve r-changing situations, is a central goal of classical and contemporary rhetorical theoryÂ” (3). Here, the language suggests that the situation changes and that individuals reposition themselves in relation to external change. Representing this proc ess as a repositioningÂ—as movement between positionsÂ—de-emphasizes the fact that subjects are always already subjects-in-motion. While the goal of this model and ot hers may be to authorize Â“local resistance in the name of change,Â” they authorize this potential for change by first Â“subtracting movement from the pictureÂ” (Massumi 3). Critical models based on ideologically structured positions between which movement takes place donÂ’t really theorize movement at all. They are ZenoÂ’s paradox writ large. ZenoÂ’s paradox basically goes like this: when Zeno imagines an arrow being shot, he thinks of its flight as a linear sequence of points that the arrow inhabits one after
180 the other. But since in ZenoÂ’s model ther e is an infinite number of intervening points between each point, and since the nature of infinity is that you can never reach its end, the arrow never actually move s from the point it currently inhabits. This paradox has been disproven in se veral ways, one of the more well-known being Diogenes simply stepping forward (i.e moving) and claimi ng Â“thus I refute Zeno.Â” The problem with how Zeno imagines moti on is similar to the problem with how composition pedagogies often construct subjectivity. Zeno refuses to see that the arrow moves because he imagines an infinite number of positions which the arrow can inhabit. But it might be more accurate to say that the arrow is never in any single point, it is in passage across them all. As Massumi claims, Â“A path is not composed of posit ions. It is decomposable: a dynamic unityÂ” (6). In this Â“continuity of movementÂ” intermedi ary positions only appear retrospectively by being constructed through discourse (Ma ssumi 6). The subject of composition pedagogy is also in continuous movement, albeit one that cycles among favored positions in response to recurring contexts. Goleman warns that pedagogies based on restrictive models of Â“situationalityÂ” threaten Â“merely to ratchet up expressionist modes of writing to new heights of self-consciousnessÂ” by c haracterizing critical reflection as increasing self-knowledge ( Working 99). Her theory of Â“critical effectivityÂ” proceeds not from a denial of situat ionality, but from attempts to use Â“contradiction and overdeterminationÂ” as Â“speculative instruments that give students a nonfoundational l anguage for the effectivity of a structure in its effectsÂ”
181 (99). The last part of this sentence refe rs to AlthusserÂ’s notion of structural causality (what Goleman calls Â“structural effectivityÂ”). In Reading Capital one finds that, for Althusser, [The object of structural causality] is precisely to designate the mode of presence of the structure in its effects . . The structur e is not an essence outside the economic phenomena which comes and alters their aspect, forms and relations . on the contrary . the structure is immanent in its effects, is nothing outside its effectsÂ” (qtd. in Goleman 15). To say that a Â“structure is immanent in its effectsÂ” is to recognize that Â“all knowledge must be understood hi storically as the particular effects of a social structureÂ” (Goleman 14). T herefore, no transcendental subject exists to make absolute knowledge available. Knowledge does not resi de in objects where it waits to be discovered. More importantly being able to know something through its effects (rather, than say, through its essence) allows Goleman to argue that situated knowledge can be used to further the goals of critical pedagogy. GolemanÂ’s builds her theory of agency upon AlthusserÂ’s materialist epistemology and BakhtinÂ’s theory of dialogic language and seeks to engage students in a process of incremental c hange characterized by the Â“incessant recognition of ideologyÂ’s effects and me chanismsÂ” (20). Through this process, ideology is not avoided or negated, but simultaneously reproduced and critiqued. Movement is thus reconceptualized, not as movement outside of ideology, but as movement within the multiple ideologies that we inhabit (or, in light of the desubjectifying effects of emotion and t humos, the ideologies that inhabit us).
182 GolemanÂ’s critical effectivity recognizes that there are a host of positions within these ideologies that can be used for self -critique. Of course, the idealization of the possibility for movement can bec ome its own justification and thereby Â“radically truncate the possibilities of dram a by eliminating action, reducing action to sheer motionÂ” (Massumi 10). One effect of the critique of situationality is to help recoup the notion of change in composition studies. It is impo ssible, of course, to predict in any meaningful way specific changes caused by discourse. To do so would be to automatize the dialogic str uggle of discourse. But models of discourse or subjectivity that deny the possibility of movement are much less useful descriptions of subjects in discourse. But such discourses still recognize difference as a key concept, and perhaps change is simply difference over time. Descriptions that depend upon a subject incapable of change have simply substituted another form of centered subj ect for previous models. Without the possibility for change, there is no decenter ed subject. It is perhaps better to describe this change as movement, and admit that we are all subjects in motion. As Brian Massumi writes, although we th ink of the ground on which we stand as stable, Â“ground is anything but,Â” and our recognition of it as a stable and physically measurable space is Â“predicat ed on the capture of processes already in operationÂ” (11). Such is the self. The enthymeme, with its connection to the Greek concept of thumos Â—our capacity to be movedÂ—could become a key term for discussing the role of affect in subjec t formation and the po litical organization of subjects through the educ ation of emotion. And the theorizing of visual
183 enthymemes can contribute to our understanding of argumentation in contemporary visual culture, and to the dev elopment of a rhetor ical rhetoric of images in which visual ambiguity is seen as an argumentative resource.
184 Notes 1. To read SchiappaÂ’s defense in its original context and the article by Scott Consigny to which he was responding (i tself a response to an earlier Schiappa article) see Rhetoric Review 14.2. Schiappa cites the following articles to help establish his Â“antirealist beliefs and commitment to antifoundationalist socialconstructionismÂ”: Â“Burkean Tropes and Kuhnian Science: A Social Constructionist Perspective on Language and Reality.Â” JAC 13 (1993):401Â–22.; Â“Counterstatement: A Response to Thom as Kent, Â‘On the Very Idea of a Discourse Community.Â’Â” CCC 43 (1992): 109Â–10.; and Â“Dissociation in the Arguments of Rhetorical Theory.Â” Journal of the American Forensic Association 22 (1985): 72Â–82. 2. To better understand the claims regarding the coherency of Â“sophistic rhetoricÂ” to which Schiappa is responding, see John PoulakosÂ’ Â“Towards a Sophistic Definition of RhetoricÂ” Philosophy and Rhetoric 16 (1983): 35Â–48. 3. I believe the Bush adminis tration currently faces a si milar crisis of vocabulary as when antifoundationalists put their trus t in the community. For instance, the Bush administration claims that it is quite interested in spreading freedom throughout the Middle East by establishing democratic elections. But it is still possible, as seems to be the case in Iran, that democratic choices by a community can still lead to electing antidemocratic regimes. In the same way, because standards for what counts as tr uth are always est ablished within the discourse of that community, it is entir ely possible for a scholarly community to adopt a foundational regime of truth, even in light of antifoundational critiques of the inadequacies of foundationalism. 4. Â“IncommensurabilityÂ” is a concept root ed in the work of Thomas Kuhn, Paul Feyerabend, Richard Rorty, and, perhaps mo st notably, Jean-Francois Lyotard. 5. The textual evidence for t he centrality of the enthymeme to Aristotle is hard to challenge, although some scholars seem to acquiesce halfheartedly: Â“I submit that in AristotleÂ’s rhetoric al system the enthymeme is the element or unit of all persuasive discourseÂ” (McBurney 63). Th is compunction might be read as evidence that the enthymeme truly does not fit well into the Â“more prescriptive and schematic treat mentsÂ” of the Rhetoric (Covino 6).
185 6. The arguments of M adden and Lanigan are both high ly relevant to the development of theories of the vis ual enthymeme out of the field of communications. In particular, the dist inction between causality and persuasion that Madden recognizes is key to underst anding how my own theorization of the visual enthymeme differs from previous attempts. Rather than claim that scholars confuse the two, as Madden does, I argue that causality has become the sole standard for the discussion of visual enthy memes, leaving persuasion, and thus rhetoric, out of the picture. 7. In the September 15, 2006 digest of WPA-L, a listser v for those interested in writing program administration, which covers all messages sent in a 24-hour period, a request was made for suggestions for the Â“Â’perfectÂ’ rhetoric text to teach the dreaded Aristotelian enthymeme.Â” T he first three suggestions were for textbooks discussed in this dissertati onÂ’s section on pedagogies of the enthymeme: CorbettÂ’s Classical Rhetoric for the Modern Student Crowley and HawheeÂ’s Ancient Rhetorics for Contemporary Students and John GageÂ’s The Shape of Reason That these were the primary texts recommended by multiple respondents suggests that they repres ent accepted dominant approaches to teaching the enthymeme. Other texts mentioned in clude the following: Joliffe and RoskellyÂ’s Everyday Use: Rhetoric at Work in Reading and Writing and Dobyns and CallaghanÂ’s A Meeting of Minds 8. Some of the significant names in t he disciplinary conversation over the value of collaborative learning in the composit ion classroom include Kenneth Bruffee, John Trimbur, Xin Liu Gale, Greg Myers, and Patricia Bizzell. See especially TrimburÂ’s "Consensus and Differ ence in Collaborative Learning." 9. In addition to the literal winds bl owing through JoyceÂ’s Â“AeolusÂ” chapter, Hodgart identifies over 45 different a llusions and metaphors dealing with wind. As Hodgart writes, the wind embodies all types of high and low distinctions; it Â“may be flatulence, over-blown rhetoric or fa lse inspiration, but it may also be the true inspiration of religion and artÂ” (118). The significanc e of the relation of wind to the chapterÂ’s enthymemic technique may become clearer when the close association between the wind and thumos is discussed in the next chapter. 10. Â“NelsonÂ’s PillarÂ” is a common but inco rrect reference to Â“The Nelson Pillar,Â” a granite pillar raised in Dublin in 1808 wit h a statue of Horato Nelson at its top. Horatio Nelson was an English Admiral made famous in the Napoleonic Wars. The pillar, built against the wishes of the Dublin city council but pushed through by the British Lord Lieutenant at the time was reminiscent of NelsonÂ’s Column, a similar monument in Trafalgar Square in London, England. While opposition to the pillar was steady after its constructi on and into the 20th century, the Nelson Pillar remained standing until it was bombed by members of th e Irish Republican Army in 1966.
186 11. While Arthur Miller and John D. B eeÂ’s essay discussed above Â“Enthymemes: Body and Soul,Â” which appeared in the journal Philosophy and Rhetoric does recognize the thumotic roots of the enthyme me, there article is exceptional in this respect. Other recent works on thumos such as Barbara KoziakÂ’s book, Retrieving Political Emotion: Thumos Aristotle, and Gender fail to connect thumos to the enthymeme. Jeffrey Walk erÂ’s work provides one of the few sustained articulations of the relati onship between thumos and the enthymeme, and will provide the foundation of much of the next chapte rÂ’s discussion of thumos in relation to the enthymeme. 12. Â“AffectÂ” is the term Massumi uses to refer to the Â“intens ityÂ” that becomes emotion once fixed linguist ically. The difference between affect and emotion is critical to Massumi, who claims that Â“A ffect holds a key to rethinking postmodern power after ideologyÂ” (42). In most ca ses below, I will continue to use Â“emotionÂ” since this seems to better identify the rec ognized affective states that enter into deliberation withi n oneÂ’s thumos. 13. DeLuca also cites the work of Ka thryn Olson and G. Thomas Goodnight as representative of analysis that Â“implicitly instantiates a hierarchy that privileges the discursive (words) over the nondiscursive (images)Â” (18). 14. See JameisonÂ’s Dirty Politics for a view of emotion as exploitative rhetoric. See Walton for a book-length treatment of how emotion is associated with fallacious reasoning and other Â“odiousÂ” rhetorical tactics (3). Although the bookÂ’s first sentence claims that Â“The thesis of this book is that appeals to emotion have a legitimate, even important, place as arguments in persuasion dialogueÂ” the book focuses on the latter half of this sentence, which warn s that emotional appeals Â“need to be treated with caution because they can also be used fallaciouslyÂ” (1). For Walton, the Â“value of arguments that appeal to emotionÂ” is ultimately based on the possibility that Â“emotional appeals can be reasonable arguments in some casesÂ” (255, emphasis added). 15. The Live 8 concerts and the debates surrounding them represent a rich source of theorization regarding image ev ents which, for the most part, lie outside the scope of this essay. Watched by approximately 2 billion people and accessible to roughly 80% of globe, it set a new standard for media dissemination of political activism. The image-based interactive features available to viewers were many, includ ing the Â“G8 Gallery,Â” where supporters were encouraged to submit images to Live 8 organizers which were printed and placed along a 2-mile stretch of the Â“Long Walk to Justice,Â” the closing march to Edinburgh. The actual marchers along the Lo ng Walk to Justice, however, had to deal with police taking pictures of them as well. BonoÂ’s claim that the Â“The lingua franca [of political momentum] . is not EnglishÂ—it's pop musicÂ” is evocative as well, suggesting that the aural com ponent of image events may benefit from further attenti on (Tyrangiel 66).
187 16. Again, Bono is prescient here. He st ates that Â“There's got to be a moment, an explosive moment of concentration on [poverty ]. The point of Live 8 is to provide the colossal, dramatic mom ent where everybody gets to grips with itÂ” (qtd. in Tyrangiel 66). 17. For those who find this sentence c onfusing, it is a reference to the 1988 campaign by General Motors to revive in terest in their redes igned Oldsmobile in a younger demographic: "This is not your father's Oldsmobile."
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About the Author Eric Daniel Mason recieved his Bac helorÂ’s and MasterÂ’s degrees from Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton, Florida. Born a Floridian, he spent much of his time outdoors before moving to Tam pa. His love for the outdoors developed mainly through his work with the Boy Scout s of America, for whom he has served as a youth and adult leader, and by whom he has been recognized as an Eagle Scout, Woodbadge leader, and FounderÂ’s Awar d recipient. His wife, Julia, and three catsÂ—Kate, Molly, and SashaÂ— prefer the outdoors as well.