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    F i l m - P h i l o s o p h y
    ISSN 1466-4615
    http://www.film-philosophy.com
    Volume 3  Number 29
    July 1999

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    Erica Sheen

    As Animals Might Dream



Fredric Jameson
_Signatures of the Visible _
New York: Routledge, 1992
ISBN 0-415-90011-5 hb
ISBN 0-415-90012-3 pbk
254 pp.

I
'The visual is essentially pornographic, which is to say that it has its
end in rapt, mindless fascination; thinking about its attributes becomes an
adjunct to that, if it is unwilling to betray its object; while the most
austere films necessarily draw their energy from the attempt to repress
their own excess (rather than from the more thankless effort to discipline
the viewer).' (1)

This is the opening sentence of Fredric Jameson's _Signatures of the
Visible_, a collection of essays that includes most of his best known
pieces on film and cinema. Between them, these articles display the acuity
of Jameson's perception of the important film, whether in the context of
Hollywood, or that of global cinema: 'Reification and Utopia in Mass
Culture'; 'Class and Allegory in Contemporary Mass Culture: Dog Day
Afternoon as a Political Film'; 'Diva and French Socialism'; 'Historicism
in The Shining'; 'In the destructive element immerse' (Syberberg on Hitler
as auteur); 'Allegorizing Hitchcock' (with its wonderful divagation on the
perils of negotiating the San Franciscan sidewalk); 'On Magic Realism in
Film', an intense cross-reading of Polish and Venezualan films about
political violence; and a new piece, 'The Existence of Italy', an extended
reappraisal of the dialectic of realism, modernism, and postmodernism which
Jameson describes as 'the most sustained . . . I have so far attempted' (6).

It is also the winning sentence in _Philosophy and Literature_ journal's
1996 Bad Writing Contest. Three of the essays in _Signatures of the
Visible_ were first published in _Social Text_, so they might be said to
have a distinguished pedigree in incomprehensibility: _Social Text_ was the
journal to which Alan Sokal famously submitted a spoof essay parodying what
he saw as the meaningless discourses of contemporary theory. Commenting on
this contest in _Philosophy and Literature_, Denis Dutton appeared to agree
with him. Pointing out that 'it remains our opinion that anyone who thinks
visual experience is essentially pornographic suffers confusions that no
improvements in English are going to remedy', he identified what he
described as 'a challenging new career opportunity for an academic:
translating the prose of Fredric Jameson into English'. [1]

In fact, by Jameson's own standards, the sentence in question is a pussy
cat. But there are ways in which the issue of translation (and of domestic
animals) can more usefully be brought to bear on the main argument of this
book: the 'proposition' that 'the only way to think the visual, to get a
handle on increasing tendential, all-pervasive visuality as such, is to
grasp its historical coming into being' (1).

II
Reviewing a book which was published seven years ago and consists largely
of essays that have been in the public domain for up to twenty years is a
particular kind of critical activity. I am not going to treat it as if this
material needs introducing to a new readership, though I will have things
to say about the kind of publishing activity that does. [2] Bearing in mind
the interests of _Film-Philosophy_, and some of the recent arguments under
discussion here in the salon, what I intend to do is consider two
ostensibly unrelated issues: 'bad' writing; and the 'historical coming into
being' of the visual. There is, I suggest, a relationship between them, and
a much more interesting and important one than a merely institutional or
disciplinary put-down might imply. From John Milton's description of Satan
as a 'bad angel', to Abel Ferrara's _Bad Lieutenant_, the word 'bad'
carries an intensity of heroic understatement that bears witness to a kind
of materialist sublime. Theoretically proleptic as well as formally
oppositional, this little word alerts us to forms of transgression whose
time has not yet come, but whose meanings are imminent. What does it mean
for history to have powerful beings -- devils, policemen, cultural
theorists -- who are committed to being 'bad'? [3]

To begin with, I should say that this sentence of Jameson's had a bad
effect on me too, but mainly because I think the word 'pornographic' has
lost all serious theoretical content. This is very much to the point. As
Denis Dutton's comment seems to confirm, an identification of this sentence
as bad writing seems to veer undecidedly between the difficulties of a
single word, and those of a syntactical structure. The sense that this
writing is 'bad' (a 'confusion') seems in itself to create a confusion
about where badness in writing is. This isn't just a question of making a
choice between semantics or syntax as the appropriate level of description;
more of how the connection between these levels works -- just exactly where
in a sentence do we make the jump from form to meaning, or vice versa? I
want to suggest that this confusion -- the geopolitics of reading, so to
speak -- is what happens with Jameson all the time, and that it is the
basis on which his bad writing is a significant contribution to 'thinking
the visual'.

III
I always look forward to reading Jameson, with a strong expectation of
illumination. I always look back at having read him with a sense of
captivated enrichment. What happens in between, however, is more of a
problem. The word-by-word process (Derrida's 'dialectics of protention and
retention that generates all signifying force in alphabetic language') is
extremely, almost physically, painful, and I have to force myself over and
over again to concentrate, to keep reading, and to finish -- which,
notwithstanding, I do. Since there are lots of books I don't finish, this
is in itself interesting. The fact is, Jameson makes me feel so bad that I
read him in a state sensitised to the extent of my own failure, and
finishing him is one of the few things I can do to atone. I suppose you
might say that he thus forces you to experience one of the most
characteristic perceptions of what he calls 'the Marxist problematic': the
function of 'determinate failure' within the dialectic of cultural forms.
Indeed, through me, that dialectic inscribes itself fully on Jameson's work
as well as in it. My copies of his books are covered with annotation, even
though at the time I often can't remember what he's said from paragraph to
paragraph. When I pick his books up again later, I'm amazed at the ideas
that came into my mind while I was working on it, but also at how little of
it I still seem to know. Where does it all go?

It is of course an orthodoxy of contemporary theoretical discourse,
particularly of Marxist discourse, that it's difficult, and that that's the
point -- jouissance rather than plaisir; a politics of writing that
deconstructs the intellectual agency of the author even as it reconfigures
the text as the space of the reader. Unsurprisingly, the Barthesian
paradigm has provided the starting point not only for a Marxist stylistics
but also for a critical approach to it. [4] Equally unsurprisingly, the
paradigm doesn't perform exactly according to expectations. Terry Eagleton
has identified the experience of reading Jameson as one of 'profound
pleasure'. By this he meant pleasure, not 'bliss'. According to Eagleton,
since Jameson is prepared to take up the 'grave burdens' of 'historical
responsibility', he must be allowed a little for himself, and that,
precisely, is style. Style in Jameson is the excess or self-delight which
escapes even his own most strenuously analytical habits. [5]

Something fascinating is happening here. In his own highly characteristic
use of that single word 'precisely', Eagleton allows himself, precisely,
the 'little' that is, precisely, style; in doing so, he turns his own (by
Jamesonian standards) unexcessive second sentence into a critique rather
than an affirmation. What Eagleton is saying is that Jameson offers the
pleasures of the masterful and mastering Author. At the same time, though,
he himself offers a plaisir which, because it draws attention to the extent
to which it allows itself to be contained within strenuously analytical
habits rather than self-delightedly escaping, insinuates Jameson's style
as, by comparison, a form of (politically self-indulgent) jouissance. This
is a master/slave dialectic indeed; a style war that might remind us of the
shoot-out between Ben Jonson and Shakespeare, to whom I will return in due
course.

It is, ultimately, the question of politics that is at stake, and Jameson
is not prepared to concede it. In _The Ideologies of Theory_, Jameson
insists that Barthes's _The Pleasure of the Text_ restored 'a certain
politically symbolic value to the experience of jouissance, making it
impossible to read the latter except as a response to a political and
historical dilemma'. [6] (Note here this use of 'the latter'. If Eagleton's
prose is marked by the pointedness of 'precisely', Jameson's is marked by
the syntactic sprawl of anaphoric 'former/latter' structures. They make you
scroll constantly forwards and backwards across the surface of his page).
If this analysis of Barthes strikes some readers as a somewhat masterful
reading of _The Pleasure of the Text_, _Signatures of the Visible_ offers
another, and it is one that brings us directly us to the idea of the
sentence, and from there, back to the issue of translation. Here I quote,
at some length, a crucial passage from his Introduction:

'Barthes thought certain kinds of writing -- perhaps we should say, certain
kinds of sentences -- to be scriptible, because they made you wish to write
further yourself; they stimulated imitation, and promised a pleasure in
combining language that had little enough to do with the notation of new
ideas. But I think that he thought this because he took an attitude towards
those sentences which was not essentially linguistic, and had little to do
with reading: what is scriptible indeed is the visual or the musical, what
corresponds to the two outside senses that tug at language between
themselves and dispute its peculiarly unphysical attention, its short
circuit of the sentences for the mind itself that makes of the mysterious
thing reading some superstitious and adult power, which the lowlier arts
imagine uncomprehendingly, as animals might dream of the strangeness of
human thinking. We do not in that sense read painting, nor do we hear music
with any of the attention reserved for oral recitation; but this is why the
more advanced and rationalized activity can also have its dream of the
other, and regress to a longing for the more immediate sensory, wishing it
could pass altogether into the visual, or be sublimated into the scriptural
body of pure sound.' (2)

Difficult as this is -- structures of cohesion are both foregrounded and
dysfunctional -- it is not an accurate representation of Barthes's ideas
about 'scriptibility'. The inaccuracy begins with the act of
(mis)translation identified by 'certain kinds of writing -- perhaps we
should say, certain kinds of sentences'. If we look at the section of _The
Pleasure of the Text_ translated as 'sentence' -- in French, the section
called 'phrase' -- we get a clearer idea of what Barthes meant by
'sentence' and how he understood its relation to 'language':

'One evening, half asleep on a banquette in a bar, just for fun I tried to
enumerate all the languages within earshot: music, conversations, the
sounds of chairs, glasses, a whole stereophony of which a square in
Tangiers (as described by Severo Sarduy) is the exemplary site. That too
spoke within me . . . I myself was a public square, a sook: through me
passed words, tiny syntagms, bits of formulae, and no sentence formed, as
though that were the law of such a language'. [7]

For Barthes, the sentence is 'hierarchical': 'In fact it is the power of
completion which defines sentence mastery and marks, as with a supreme,
dearly won, conquered savoir-faire, the agents of the Sentence. *The
professor is someone who finishes his sentences*'. [8]

And perhaps that is the point: even though his sentences do their utmost
not to finish, Jameson, like Eagleton, has quite simply too much at stake
in 'the agency of the Sentence'. In contrast to Barthes -- for whom sensory
stimuli are always already part of language, and sentences are an
ideological form that stands in resistance to them -- Jameson allows
'sentence' priority over 'writing', and positions it at the interface
between the 'mind' and 'the outside senses'. In doing so, he effectively
redirects the Barthesian account of jouissance into an Adornoesque critique
of instrumental reason: 'the more advanced and rationalized activity can
also have its dream of the other'. But there is a curious doubling back
within the theoretical perspectives that intersect within the frame of this
analysis. Jameson's metaphor -- 'as animals might dream of the strangeness
of human thinking' -- seems to confirm the presence in this analysis of a
Deleuzean discourse of becoming. On some level of the very process of
reading that Jameson himself invokes -- this 'mysterious thing'; this
'superstitious and adult power' -- it *feels* as if what he's *said* is
that we long for sensory immediacy *as humans might dream of the
strangeness of animal thinking*: the historical coming to be of the visual
thus linked with a human becoming of its animal other. But in fact he is
reasserting -- against Deleuze, of the status of whose 'pioneering attempt'
at a 'meditation on the visual' he remains unconvinced (5) -- a classical
Marxist humanism: the coming to be of the visual does not overcome human
thinking, it becomes it. Through the mediation of the sentence, Jameson
navigates our way through the wormhole of postmodernism and comes out the
other side:

'Scriptible is not however the poetry that actually tries to do that (and
which is then itself condemned to the technical mediation of a relationship
to language not much more poetic than the coloration of orchestral
instruments and the specialized, painfully acquired knowledge of their
technologies); it is the prose stimulated by the idea of sound, or the
sentences that something visual -- unfortunately, our only word for it is
the image -- calls into being by suggestion and by a kind of
contamination.' (2-3)

So here we are: where this curious elision of the Barthesian distinction
between writing and sentence takes us is a place from which Jamesonian
prose becomes the royal road to the historical unconscious. The Jamesonian
sentence is not just our point of access to the image: it is called into
being by it, a being distinguished by a Goethean perception of its own
Orphic status:

'We don't write about these things, it is not a metaphorical representation
that the sensory pretext summons but rather something related by affinity,
that prolongs the content of the object in another, more tenuous form, as
though to prolong a last touch with the very fingertips.' (3)

The sentence, then, is not so much 'writing' as a hyperlink: an access
point within the dialectic of protention and retention that opens up, not
to the problematic of meaning, but to a beyond of writing. A word we might
have used instead of 'hyperlink' is the Heideggerian Lichtung: 'the
radically ephemeral appearance of the scene as such within a different type
of space, that Heidegger calls the *clearing*' (193). This idea underpins
the last essay in this collection, the only one published here for the
first time: 'The Existence of Italy' -- as he puts it, 'the most sustained
rehearsal of the dialectic of realism, modernism and postmodernism I have
so far attempted, *and which I have hitherto misrepresented by staging one
another in isolation*' (6, my emphasis).

Jameson's understanding of 'signatures of the visible' thus moves way
beyond the implications of the citation from Joyce's _Ulysses_ taken as the
reference for this book's title: 'signatures of all the things I am here to
read'. Writing that breaks open to reveal something 'beyond' itself (as it
never does in Joyce) is translation, and the paradox of animal thinking is
perhaps one of our best ways of approaching this. [9] Thus Shakespeare:

Snout: O Bottom, thou art changed. What do I see on thee?
Bottom: What do you see? You see an ass-head of your own, do you?
Quince: Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee. Thou art translated. [10]

'Bottom's Dream' in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ is that of an animal that
knows the very terms of its visibility to humans are those of metaphors of
human identity: the cratylically named 'Snout' sees an image of what he
already is but doesn't yet know. Foucault understood that what he called
'commentary', and what a Marxist would call 'critique', is the way we
access this mode of translation (again, I quote at some length):

'In this activity known as commentary which tries to transmit an old
unyielding discourse seemingly silent to itself, into another more prolix
discourse that is both more archaic and more contemporary -- is concealed a
strange attitude towards language: to comment is to admit by definition an
excess of the signified over the signifier; a necessary, unformulated
remainder of thought that language has left in the shade -- a remainder
that is the very essence of thought, driven outside its secret -- but to
comment also presupposes that this unspoken element slumbers within speech,
and that, by a superabundance proper to the signifier, one may, in
questioning it, give voice to a content that was not explicitly signified.
By opening up the possibility of commentary, this double plethora dooms us
to an endless task that nothing can limit: there is always a certain amount
of signified remaining that must be allowed to speak, while the signifier
is always offered to us in an abundance that questions us, in spite of
ourselves, as to what it 'means'. Signifier and signified thus assume a
substantial autonomy that accords the treasure of a virtual signification
to each of them separately; one may even exist without the other, and begin
to speak of itself; commentary resides in that supposed space. But at the
same time it invents a complex link between them, a whole tangled web that
concerns the poetic values of expression: the signifier is not supposed to
'translate' without concealing, without leaving the signified with an
inexhaustible reserve; the signified is revealed only in the visible, heavy
world of a signifier that is itself burdened with a meaning that it cannot
control. Commentary rests on the postulate that speech is an act of
'translation', that it has the dangerous privilege images have of showing
while concealing, and that it can be substituted for itself indefinitely in
the open series of discursive repetitions; in short, it rests on a
psychologistic interpretation of language that shows the stigmatas of its
historical origin. This is an exegesis which listens, through the
prohibitions, the symbols, the concrete images, through the whole apparatus
of Revelation, to the Word of God, ever secret, ever beyond itself. For
years we have been commenting on the language of our culture from the very
point where for centuries we had awaited in vain for the decision of the
Word.' [11]

It is characteristic of the 'anti-hermeneut' Foucault that, whilst he is
perhaps the most sophisticated analyst of 'the endless task', he does not
look beyond it. For him, virtual signification does not open up to the
Real; we are 'doomed' to language. Jameson's prose more often makes us feel
(sorely) the burden of meaning; but he does have an idea of something
beyond, and he does keep trying to get there. He has himself described
Marxism as a 'translation machine', mediating between the 'private
languages' of different theoretical discourses:

'I would like to defend the idea that Marxism is a far more subtle and
supple mode of translating between these languages than most of the other
systems. It is true that the great universal systems -- Catholicism, for
instance -- had that once; maybe Catholicism still does. There was great
power in the way in which certain kinds of Catholic theologians, the
Jesuits, for example, were able to pass from one philosophical language to
another. Marxism is the only secular version of this capacity I know
today.' [12]

The comparison with Catholicism is interesting because it acknowledges a
sense of responsibility -- responsibility in the Levinasian sense of
responding from here to the beyond -- to something universal even as its
disavows the notion of transcendence: 'Reality takes care of truth', he
says; 'the codes are our business'. [13] This book would suggest he doesn't
really believe this. If that is the case, it is a matter of some regret
that Jameson hasn't written any thing systematic about film and continues
to make his readers do the kind of work that makes them (this reader,
anyway) feel they might have got more out of it if he'd done more of it
himself. Thus, when he approaches his concluding paragraph with the
acknowledgement that his hypothesis 'clearly demands *verification* by way
of a very great range of historiographical materials' (228), there is a
small-minded part of you at that precise moment -- aware of how long it's
taken you to get to there -- that would rather trade all his difficult
pleasures for just a little piece of 'verification'. For the academic
reader, at least, there can be a sense that Jameson's defining positions --
that characteristic vision, for instance, of 'determinate failure' [14] --
have become perverse refusals masquerading as theoretical imperative. (At
least Deleuze gave it a shot.)

In the Preface to _Geopolitical Aesthetics_, Colin MacCabe drew attention
to the shape of Jameson's career. He had, MacCabe said, spent over twenty
years (the twenty years cognitively mapped by this volume) working out his
theoretical position 'patiently', and once that was achieved, had replaced
it with a 'riot of cultural analyses'. At some level, one can only feel
regret that the point in his career when he turned most conclusively to
film was that at which patience gave way to riot. There is here, perhaps, a
final, crucial, paradox. As we have seen, the postructuralist
deconstruction of the author/reader dyad is ultimately of less interest to
Jameson than the Marxist concept of the masterful intellectual whose
writing becomes the site of theoretical conversion. But there is a way in
which Jameson himself seems to have settled for the former rather than the
latter. Maybe the problem, in the end, is that of the institutional context
from which this mastery derives its status, and to which it submits its
credentials. Certainly, there is a way in which the postmodernist paradigm
is one in which the problematic being addressed is above all one of the
deconstructive relation between autobiography and [academic] institutional
identity. Interviewed recently in _New Literary History_ Jameson himself
recognised that his global narrative has what he calls a 'situational
specificity':

'The notion of postmodernity emerges from my experience as an American, and
I am an American. I think that, in the United States, we are also
relatively limited by this very successful institutional form which is
federalism, constitution, and the states and so forth. Politics here, when
it is effective in terms of power, the people, the distribution, and so
forth, feeds immediately and exclusively back into local politics.' [15]

Having recently spent some time in Washington DC, I have an idea of just
how situationally specific this 'American' sense of the hyperlink between
the local and the global is. In the same interview, Jameson spoke of the
possibility that this 'situational specificity' is beginning to result in
irritation with American parochialism in parts of the world -- Australia,
for instance -- where the academic institution is arguably taking on the
intellectual challenge of a global manifest destiny:

'The specificities or the exceptionality of American culture is that
Americans think that they are in the universal; that somehow we are the end
of history; there are no other realities than this one, or other realities
are culturally determined -- what the French do, what the Chinese do -- but
the United States is the true and universally human. Therefore, they need
not take an historical perspective on this; maybe they do not even need to
take a class perspective on this form of scholarship. They do not need to
see themselves in terms of their own situation.' [16]

I'm sure the _Film-Philosophy_ salon has many American members who would
reply that this is more Jameson's problem than theirs. Even so, _Signatures
of the Visible_ shows that Jameson is one of the few academics who responds
to, and can illuminate, a world culture. One of the significant features of
the modernist moment, of which he is so important an analyst, was the rise
of a characteristic 'relation of production' that negotiated the link
between base and superstructure within creative and intellectual work: the
impresario, the collector, the publisher, the editor, the agent. Jameson
needs a great editor -- someone to do the patience thing while he carries
on rioting; someone who sees the responsibility of getting his work into
the public sphere as itself a form of intellectual work; someone who would
be prepared to make decisions as small as making him write slightly shorter
sentences, and as big as a bold reconceptualisation of the formal structure
of a collection like _Signatures of the Visible_. The worst thing about
this book is that it is not what it says it is. It is not a book that
argues a proposition, and it would have been better presented in a
different way: as a retrospect with a reappraisal, perhaps, either in the
form of an interview (particularly successful, I think, in the volume of
_New Literary History_ cited above) or a general introduction/series of
individual introductions by a dogsbody happy to dream of the strangeness of
Jamesonian thinking. In the case of other contemporary writers of
comparable intellectual status, this job tends to get done not so much by
an editor as by a translator -- where would Jacques Derrida be today
without Gayatri Spivak's introduction to _Of Grammatology_? In the last
analysis Denis Dutton may be right, but not in the way he meant it. Many of
the difficulties of Jameson's work come about not because he doesn't speak
English, but because he does. In terms of career opportunities within the
postmodern academic institution, translating the prose of Fredric Jameson
might be a rather more worthwhile occupation than most.

University Of Sheffield
June 1999


Footnotes

1. Denis Dutton, 'Writing Good, Bad and Classic', _Philosophy and
Literature_, vol. 21 no. 2, 1997 p. 501.

2. More conventional reviews have been provided by Douglas Bruster in
_Modernism/Modernity_, vol. 11 no. 1, 1994, pp. 163-6, and by Steven
Helmling in _Kritikon Litterarum_, 1992.

3. This question has been asked, particularly in relation to 'grand
narratives' of history, about 'evil'. I suggest that the notion of
'badness' has far more pertinence to such accounts.

4. See Steven Helmling, 'Marxist Pleasure: Jameson and Eagleton'
(_Postmodern Culture_, vol. 3 no. 3, 1992
<http://jefferson.village.virginia.edu/pmc>) for an extremely detailed and
attentive discussion of this issue. In an article that has considerable
resonance for my own argument, he concludes that Jameson 'conflat(es)
plaisir/jouissance with S/Z's lisible/scriptible', and that:

'Jameson reads Barthes' binary of 'pleasure' and 'jouissance' as a
contemporary avatar of Edmund Burke's 'beautiful' and 'sublime' . . .
Jameson has remade Barthes' jouissance, in short, in the image of his own
'sublime', a passion of 'fear' prompted by 'History', by 'what hurts': it
is not Barthes who has chosen what crushes him; Barthes is willing to
confess (or boast) that at least parts of him are not crushed; it is
Jameson who insists on being crushed, by a 'sublime' villain, late
capitalism. The measure of that 'crush' is of course the effect of the
prose in which Jameson projects his 'vision of Necessity' and its inverted
Hegelian-Marxist metanarrative in which 'the subject of History' proves to
be not the proletariat but capitalism. 'Pleasure: A Political Issue'
invites a redescription of what Eagleton named the 'pleasure' of Jameson's
prose as, on the contrary, a type of 'the sublime.''

See also the same author's article, 'Jameson's Postmodernism: Version 2.0',
_Postmodern Culture_, vol. 9 no. 2, 1999
<http://jefferson.village.virginia.edu/pmc>.

5. Terry Eagleton, _Against the Grain: Selected Essays_ (New York and
London: Verso 1986), p. 66.

6. Fredric Jameson, _The Ideologies of Theory, Volume 2: The Syntax of
History_ (Minneapolis: U of Minnesota Press, 1988), p. 69.

7. Roland Barthes, _The Pleasure of the Text_, trans. Richard Miller (New
York: Hill and Wang 1975), p. 49.

8. Ibid., p. 50; my emphasis.

9. _Film-Philosophy_ members interested in this topic might want to have a
look at the Animal Minds public forum at the Edge: <http://www.edge.org>.

10. William Shakespeare, _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, III.2.109-114.

11. Michel Foucault, Preface to _The Birth of the Clinic: An Archaeology of
Medical Perception_ (London: Routledge, 1989), pp. xvi-xvii.

12. Interviewed by Xudong Zhang in _New Literary History_, vol. 29 no. 3,
1998, p. 365.

13. Ibid.

14. 'It is to be doubted whether any study of film can have this
philosophical or historical value [i.e. that of the Lukacsean Form problem]
. . . nor is it likely (despite Deleuze's pioneering attempt . . .) that
the meditation on the visual will achieve even the symbolic value of the
19th century meditation on music.' (5)

15. Zhang (1998), p. 375.

16. Ibid.


Copyright © _Film-Philosophy_ 1999

Erica Sheen, 'As Animals Might Dream', _Film-Philosophy_, vol. 3 no. 29,
July 1999
<http://www.mailbase.ac.uk/lists/film-philosophy/files/sheen.html>.

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