Literary quotation is not like raisin cake. This, at least, is what Herman Meyer would have us believe, although it should be noted up front that he operates on a significant bias. If literary quotation were the same as raisin cake, his two-hundred-and-seventy-two-page work, The Poetics of Quotation in the European Novel, woulad come to a halt after a two-page introduction—following, I would imagine, a new, more appropriate title page: The Poetics of Raisin-Cake Metaphors in Herman Meyer’s Interrupted Criticism.
To be precise, Meyer’s raisin-cake claim is really, at first, a question: he asks whether quotations are anything more than simply the raisins in the cake, and whether their aesthetic effect can go beyond the momentary delight that the raisins offer the palate.
Sorry. To be precise, Meyer asks:
“Are quotations anything more than simply the raisins in the cake, and can their aesthetic effect go beyond the momentary delight that the raisins offer the palate?”
Two-hundred and seventy pages of argument notwithstanding, I remain unconvinced of Meyer’s final stance. I would maintain that literary quotation is actually quite a bit like raisin cake. Let me count the ways.
Affectation. Surely I’m not the only one to wonder whether literary quotation is not simply plagiarism under another name. If I know the batter to my cake is going to taste really boring, you bet I’m going to put some raisins in it. Put in enough and I might get requests for the recipe. From professors.
Depth. To be fair, I don’t think Virgil and Dante and Milton were just cheating. For those who chew slowly, the taste of a raisin recalls the image of the vine. Levels of meaning. Layer-cake.
Tradition. Ah, but what if the vine looks different now from how you remember it? After you eat the raisins T.S. Eliot has had dried, do you ever think of grapes the same way?
Suspense. A largely untapped potential for quotation, I feel. If there are raisins in the opening slices, you expect the same number in each slice as you progress. How do you account, then, for the fifth slice of Joyce’s Portrait? Where are the raisins of Augustine’s Ostia, after the forbidden fruits of Carthage and Dublin?
(All bets are off if you’re baking in a Bundt pan, or reading Finnegans Wake.)
Breadth. If literature is the dessert to the dinner-party of philosophy, then even a postmodern host will save a slice for each of his guests. I made two loaves, just in case.
Intention. Actually, is raisin cake meant as a dessert course, or am I supposed to serve it as an hors-d’œuvre? It’s not in the book. Does it have something to do with using golden raisins instead of red?
Juxtaposition. I’m also replacing the walnuts with dried apricots. I forgot to go to the store.
Intertextuality. Maybe if I garnish the pork-roast with raisins and apricots as well, the cake won’t seem as weird. Yeah, I’d better do that.
Intratextuality. If I had time to make an icing I’d put raisins in that too.
Revision. Damn. Always keep an eye on the oven. What if I scrape… no, the inside is tearing off. This is why I hate baking. Maybe I can just serve the raisins. Yeah. I’ll dip them in chocolate or something.