The thesis explores theories for reading approaches that have been developed from Saussure's Course and from subsequent linguistic strategies outlined in the new critical modalities being advanced by Jacques Derrida, Paul Ricoeur, Michel Foucault, Roland Barthes, Jacques Lacan, Gilles Deleuze, Julia Kristeva, Jonathan Culler and others. The study is divided into two parts. Part One discusses critical methods, models and metaphors for outlining what is meant by de con structive reading and writing.
Part Two gives interpretations of The War Trilogy based on the way these exegetical techniques focus on questions of textuality.
UBC Theses and Dissertations
Reading methods explored include: hermeneutic cryptanalysis, linguistic coding, linguistic modelling based on semiotics, communications theory in literary narratives, metaphors of writing and tracing, theory of supplementarity and difference, grammatology, schizanalysis, with provisional definitions for characterizing differences between classical polysemy and the writing of the modern genotext.
Thus the study broadly differentiates between the composition of the classical Book, formed as a logocentric representation of concepts, and the decomposition or disintegration of concepts traced by the writing of the modern text, produced as a logodaedalic inscription. The general terms "classical" and "modern" are not strictly categorical distinctions but are used throughout as diacritical indicators for showing how and where Hilda Doolittle's The War Trilogy occupies an ambiguous marginality, leaving its mark along a "margin of difference" which is drawn between Book and text, Word and writing, reflecting both classical and modern styles of lecture and ecriture.
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Puffin Ladybird. Friday, December 29, Carpenters. I confess love, this bright, beige jasmine—as told to live, this inner sage, speaking by chairs: our delicate rights, our turmoil movies, this hold as gripping his lungs. I remove malice, to escape darkness, as found this mirror mockingly: that flushed face, that brilliant burgundy, those beads beneath skin-lines: where mother peeks, this woman so different, this light so familiar: to die as activated, or live as salivating, our tours through psychic vales: if but her music, devoid of passions, this likeness buried in marsh-caves.
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I control responses, as laughing sanely, while a smirk indicates floating intuitions: our ears churning, our hearts thumping, this quadroon swan baking crayons; indeed, to laugh, while shooting galaxies, to mimic by tithes this art called, Survival. We sense chi, we live faith, our nights our moistened pillows: this dear friend, as instinctual as deers, as elusive as foxes: to call ghosts, as soaring our gates, too at tears to enter this itch for fame, or burning cosmos, to flutter as stuttering fencing Jerusalem : this mental texture, this emotion-lotus, this silken portrait—afore, bitter this life, a bit bad and anxious, so brief those rabid rivers—as father flies, this clumsy island, where perfection rules our aspiring arts: to come to fissures, this leaping Empire, distinguished as cultured our noses this cane of sugar, this bamboo ritual, or more to souls, this Desert Manna.
We dream by freedoms, while encouraged by myths. It gets cold, our paramour, this liaison spent to perish: such elegant minds, such beautiful souls, at verges sounding sentimental: this luxury, those apricot smiles, this tender wilderness—as caught for captured, our souls enraptured, this caterer this tale of horderves—as sent to laughing, those Asian eyes, those European hips: if but for love, our Jewish queens, a bit restricted reading our Torahs.
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I come to passions, such German romance, our African debutantes: where mother puffs, as father snorts, our living rooms abundant with fevers: that inner Frisbee, that outer maneuvering, this tetras as rising to ceilings. We dance this shadow, filled with ardor, sipping russet wines—as built for one, fleeing through emotions, to become tugged by insights: this man dying, this woman challenged, this sorrow while elated that ark: our candid seconds, as propelling doubts, to realize this essence comes with temptations: but oh to love, this green-grass feeling, this nub rotating its axis—as casual fools, this existence for compassion, this noble bleeding—as surges rage, this flippant by cultures, this rasp gnawing upon endless dreams.
Died In You. I died in you, those delirious wailings, as effused by golden meadows at treasures those topaz travesties : if cried a man, our bones trembling, such to glory this fleece of harmonies. It could be love, where pains are dormant, this latent development—as sable sorrows, or mahogany miseries, this melancholia disease; hereto, this silent agony, this snoring wife, our passions submitted for overhaul: as tainted caricatures, or saffron shrubberies, feeling treacheries with each shearing: that soul flying, living contractions, a bit torn about excitement.
It seems askew, this group of glass, where parties are chunking batteries: as men falling short, and women missing their lights, while essence remains distorted; but enough to ignorance, demanding fraudulent wages, while one sits pitted in abrasions: this fragile entity, those frantic eye-prints, this overwhelming fury—as Europeans dance, this legacy by laws, to find at heart this need for reflection: that cursed vein, those morbid cries, this tug erupting by infatuations; indeed, as hands bleed, this excruciating rage, thrust through with invisible piercings—this tale unsold, this wall in China, our hair screaming by testimonies.
It was grueling, as groveling, while gripping mud-faces: this miracle loss, as accustomed to losing, at wonders this plight called, wining: those green blades, that sandy-brown-ash, this dot fueling our inheritance—insomuch, a symbol, where time is adrift, while thoughts ravish innocence: as sweet cadence, to see your face, while rumbling through this warzone: our grumbling heart-stomachs, our motionless core-brains, this vest as velvet violets—where grandpa groans, as tetras to larks, our voyage nibbling upon our albatross: if but with passion, to utter but love, while dying remotely to minutia: this inner canine, this intimate feline, this old Mongolian ally.
I love a thought, aside an image, grounded in idealism: to lose a thought, while replacing an image, uprooted but afflicted: this swooping sun, this inner estuary, those algae-eating-tadpoles: as minds to soaring, to adore for calling, while aches shimmer into depictions: our outer prose, our mental restraints, this predicament concerning such wants: to have as sentenced, this love for strangers, while at lakes pitching our blessings: this fabulous minx, this sylph by dreams, this coquettish diary—thereto, this need for love, as sung his minutes, tugged in several directions: to give us deaths, while embracing lights, insofar, a curse, evading passions: that heaving gut, those sprinting ankles, that prestigious backline—as riveting spines, those sensualities, that enriched sophistication—as men churn, afloat through grime, singing as sung our path to purgatory.
Tuesday, December 26, Furious Freedoms. We embark afar, this lone wolf, those terrifying coyotes: this brave swan, those kleptic hearts, this ravished reservoir: as pure souls, inverted for thwarted, at telic abandonment: this fuel driven, this psych winded, our professors grading with disgusts: those introjects, this mountain peak, our eyes to promise reluctant to travel: if but rhinestones, this whetstone fortress, this whet hankering—as phantasmagorias, sentenced to survival, while at mixtures this blended margarita—those atmospheric-space-feelings, this steep concentration, those mothers ecstatic this coming existence: our daughters to colleges, our fathers to head-storms, our souls inflective machines: this rigid lake, this muddy marsh, this magpie laughing at beadles.
It was good to love, those days of yore, our resistance weighing heavy upon our tonsils: our wiggly invites, those tears to Jamaica, this furious force outwitting its possession—where kingdoms perished, while infants ruled, as graduation becomes this series of piercings: this woman moaning, this man at debates, our siblings crossed for threshed seeking revivals: our panic cut, our tyrannies vicious, this feeling of more lost in everything.
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I ache with parents, this child so dear, while appearance becomes tragic: our achy grains, this fueled flame, as romance seeps into treasure boxes: our cursed forever s , our evening evermore s , this flint to souls as crafted a skilled revival: to perish as friends, while loving as parents, this silky index through mane—where mothers tremble, as fathers retreat, to come to passion as fully present. We pain for dying, at movies disinterested, at souls for sheer this release—as fathers shiver, this captive image, to want with light this fabulous alpha.
I come to lights, this thin creation, a tear radical to disguises: as viewing self, while recruiting others, to learn with force this roundabout invention—where swans shiver, as struck by phantoms, bleeding for living effused through verses: that tall tale, that wretched feeling, this surprise as afflux a thousand dimensions—to see with love, this inner redemption, to part with palms a subtle sea—where souls crumble, as perished this ink, to come to wingspan that swanic curse; indeed, through shifts, to churn sensation, at theatrical stage widths.
I whiff life, accursed a star, rabid at earth—this soul floret, as bones to guts, while upchucking realities: those planet invaders, designed as thoughts, to wonder this feeling adrift within: this yogi weighting, this cygnet at scales, this soul designating inner voiceprints—to die with love, as casual affairs, while feeling deep satisfaction: this inner scribbling, this mental doodling, our hands bleeding from pressures: this swanic enclave, this tragic octave, this manic spell as lifting silence: or more this conclave, as rounded by edges, this reversed intoxication—where men die, as woman live, this force too terrible for retribution.
We regroup to exit…. Saturday, December 23, Theologians Honor by Creeds. It cries this length, forbidden from sin, while psychs evaluate authenticities: this Local Bishop, seated in sacred rites, afforded one curse this darkest light—if scythes could whistle, or sickles to gristle, this pistol-converse, while unfastened at memoirs].
I live at love, this taste so sour, this belief so kleptic—to perish at seconds, while alive at moments, to want this person for solace: our reversed instincts, this name chasing, our dejected elations—where mother ventures, this slot in souls, to announce with vengeance this wretched war.
It comes this way, this fire as kindled, those tragic professors sensing inner responses: where priests instigate, while reflection cultivates, our decades to exile]. I rupture self, indeed a corner, while reality paints a distorted image: this failure to analyze, while souls perish, if but that conflict respecting powers: this filmed frenzy, this cozy intimacy, our days to becoming liars: if but to sing, as sung by laws, to cross examine our rigid beliefs.http://checkout.midtrans.com/citas-online-san-justo-de-la-vega.php
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I flip through Vogue, this teenage atmosphere, pondering our kleptic swan: our roses pressured, our plight-innocence, this Cajun infusion—as canines whistle, while felines whisper, our psychic volts alarming crows: this harmless man, this ferocious power, this devouring essence—where cygnets doodle, as psychs scribble, while swans watch in anticipation.
I dream bigger, as barely catching winds, while giants participate at dripping particles: this esoteric hue, this acrylic reality, this tone shaded in perception—as fretting souls, fritting passions, where husbands nurse essential frost: at panic by cyber, at dungeons by thoughts, at memories about a bowl of cereal—our bowels kneeling, our guts frantic, this vomit destroying suede: while Paris dances, our words to ballet, our cadenzas those nights to silence: if but to thread, as arias revive, this smidgen casted to guillotines.
We coddle masters, this throttle screaming, this furious temper: our days to grays, our evenings to beige, our minutes to gazing at ladybugs: those remarkable images, flooded through logos, our fledglings disrupted by kitsch: if but to sing, this fallible prison, where thoughts capture our Grecian Enterprise: or souls as lavish, disturbed as benighted, while struck a science pleading its divisibility: as pro-glow depicts spirits, where demi-essence insists lights, while quasi-instructed features gods.
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I laugh as sung, to sing as sang, fettered for released to freedoms: this violet sunrise, this rainbow personality, this skill set for discourse—as Prada Candy, this wellic gloss, our computers heating wildly—if but for covers, as captured conveyance, to transport an undercurrent—this lively soul, feathered in theoretical s , able-minded for human. I remember dimples; this born instinct, goggling our emotions: this Ferris-ambition, that lime-green serpent, this fortress broken by sunrise. I wonder for mentors, as claiming this portion, where artists chime at noetic frequencies: as different souls, aflame political lights, at treasures our pragmatic dispositions: where granny ponders, those absurdities by rights, favored in love but feeling cursed: this soaring spirit, as spacial prisons, perfected through poisons—insofar, our reigns, this trip through pains, to arrive excavating emotional graves: this full person, as alive this life, perfecting our public personas; indeed, for progress, while chiseling our interior, our fireplaces as purely metaphorical—where memories bathe, while forgiven denotes forgotten, but arts to trauma remain our personalities.
Friday, December 22, Swans Vet Philosophies. I stumble, Love; leering at crevices, remotely an island—or sore allegories, this black-sheep saga, annunciating syllables: such kleptic energy, seated in mythical s , stranded at our portico: this fragrant calmness, as panic by storms, fiddling electrical wires—as conjured essence, this life to werewolves, this vampire elegance, this newborn lesbian : I frantic love, captive manic memories, ever at pace with gestures: this set of souls, lingering at motion, thrust with jeers.
I fumble to heartache, as arising in shame, dependent upon redemption: this planet of souls, adrift this entity, as pulse-to-brains and brains to hearts.