“The Semantic Approach to Myth” in “Myth”
THE SEMANTIC APPROACH TO MYTH
AS an initial definition of myth I am content to borrow the one recently published by Alan W. Watts: “Myth is to be defined as a complex of stories―some no doubt fact, and some fantasy—which, for various reasons, human beings regard as demonstrations of the inner meaning of the universe and of human life.”1 This definition has the negative advantage of avoiding any connotation of “untrue” or “unhistorical” as a necessary part of the meaning, and the positive advantages of stressing both the narrative character and the transcendent reference of myth. These two latter properties, however, need to be qualified with some care, lest they involve us in undue limitations of the myth concept.
Regarding the narrative aspect of myth, we may take our bearings by two rather extreme and contrary views. The one, represented by Cassirer, treats myth as primarily a matter of perspective, and in this vein Cassirer speaks of “transposing the Kantian principle”—that all knowledge involves, at the instant of its reception, a synthesizing activity of the mind—”into the key of myth.”2 Myth here becomes a synonym of the mythopoeic mode of consciousness—a view that is reflected or at least adumbrated, I should think, both in Levy-BruhPs theory of participation and in Susanne Langer’s treatment of myth as a primary type of human expression, parallel to, but distinct from, those two other primary types, language and art.3 At the opposite extreme from this view, which defines “myth” without any necessary implication of “narrative” (although recognizing that mythic envisagement may, in fact, have a strong tendency to develop into narrative forms), we may place the view, lately revived in Richard Chase’s Quest for Myth, that “myth is literature and must be considered as an aesthetic creation of the human imagination”;4 in other words, that the earliest mythologizers were individual poets—or, by modern analogy, novelists— constructing out of their especially sensitive imaginations tall tales characterized by a peculiar complication “of brilliant excitement, of the terrific play of the forces natural and human,” and eventuating in some deeply desired and socially sharable feeling of reconciliation among those forces.
In any such controversy as this, concerning what myth “is,” there is danger of confusing questions of fact with questions of definition. While questions of fact are the terminally important ones, we can behold them steadily only if we first settle the question of definition on an accurately relevant basis. It is pretty obvious that Chase, who takes myth as a species of literature, and Langer, who follows Cassirer in distinguishing between myth and art as separate categories, are not working from the same initial definition. Without wishing to claim anything like finality in the matter I would offer, as a tentative classificatory principle, a threefold conception of myth; or (as it may be regarded) a theory of three main ways in which “myth” has been, and may legitimately be, conceived. For convenience I shall call them primary myth, romantic myth, and consummatory myth. Of course in any particular mythic instance we must be prepared to expect some overlapping.
Briefly (since I have not yet focused down to the main point of my paper) I would say that Cassirer and Langer are dealing with myth in the primary sense, as a basis, and even perhaps in some instances as a pre-linguistic tendency, of human envisage- ment; whereas Chase is taking myth in the romantic sense (as connoting le roman, or deliberately contrived story), although with rumblings of universality which never become quite explicit. (I hope it will be recognized that I intend nothing pejorative in reviving this now slightly soiled word “romantic”.) The consummatory myth, as I conceive it, is a product of a somewhat late and sophisticated stage of cultural development: a post-romantic attempt to recapture the lost innocence of the primitive mythopoeic attitude by transcending the narrative, logical, and linguistic forms which romantic mythologizing accepts and utilizes. Admittedly the line between the romantic and the consummatory is wavering and obscure; nevertheless we can hardly deny a significant difference of tone, technique, and quality of insight as we pass from the bright epic-Olympian story-forms of Homer to the utilization of symbols and patterned imagery in Aeschylus and Pindar, or from the faery-fantasy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream to Shakespeare’s utilization in The Tempest of neo- Platonic symbols to throw open the vision of a brave new world of peculiar values and destinies, or from the straightforward storytelling of any typical nineteenth century novel (or its stunted descendant, the television drama) to such a charting of unknown seas as in Kafka’s The Castle. Indeed, I tend to think that the idea o£ consummatory myth offers a clue to the mysteries of much modern art—perhaps even to what is most authentic in all modern art, of which Picasso’s Guernica, with its agonized repudiation of hitherto acceptable forms of construction and its single- pointed insistence upon the reality of dislocation, enormity, and pain, might stand as an eminent representative.
My purpose in distinguishing these three meanings, or modes, or (it may be) stages of myth has been to separate out the first of them for clearer analysis. For myth in its primary aspect bears a special relationship to language, and the exploration of this relationship strikes me as a particularly useful way of discovering something about the nature of myth and language alike. Unfortunately, that towering nineteenth century scholar, Friedrich Max Miiller, has muddied the waters of this particular stream by his too provocative remark that myth is a “disease” of language, and by the subsequent eddies of doubt as to whether his etymological examples were sufficiently representative. For even though disease may have its creative side—as the pearl in the oyster and the last quartets of the deaf Beethoven attest—the word implies a derogatory valuation which is quite arbitrary with respect to the evidence. Accordingly, I propose that we reconsider the basic relationship between primary myth and the linguistic function without the use of shock-tactics and relying more upon semantic analysis and the known meanings of certain mythic symbols than upon the sometimes risky hypotheses of philology.
To clarify the question before us I am obliged to repeat, in brief summary, a distinction which I have developed at some length elsewhere:5 the distinction between steno-language (the language of plain sense and exact denotation) and expressive language (such as is found to varying degree in poetry, religion, myth, and the more heightened moments of prose and of daily conversation). These two complementary and interpenetrating uses of language are the outgrowth, by and large, of two complementary semantic needs: to designate clearly as a means to efficient and assured communication, and to express with maximum fullness. The two are not always in actual conflict, to be sure; for many of the everyday ideas that we need to communicate have only a limited relevant fullness. But the criteria of relevance are altered by context, circumstance, and intention, and there are occasions when a writer or speaker cannot avoid the choice of whether to put primary emphasis upon wide-scale com- municability or upon associative fullness and depth.
Myth in its first phase, the primitive, generally arises in an age before steno- language has been evolved to any marked extent, and consequently when some kind of expressive language is still the widely current medium of linguistic encounter. Or it may be that certain characteristics of steno-language have been developed for secular, everyday practical use, whereas expressive language is employed in that wide area which may be designated “sacred,” and which doubtless includes those forms of story-making that have enough transcendental reference to be properly classified as “myth.” Consequently, in order to estimate what effect language may have had upon the early growth and character of myth, it will be desirable to survey certain main characteristics of expressive language.
First, then, into what, if any, components can expressive language be analyzed for the sake of inspecting its modes of operation more minutely ? In steno-language the basic elements are easy to identify: they are the term—which is non-assertorial: it simply means, but does not declare; and the proposition—which is an assertorial relation between terms. That is to say, a proposition (“The dog barks”) can be meaningfully affirmed or denied, whereas a term (“dog”) cannot. In expressive language, on the other hand, no such tidy distinction can be maintained. For terms and propositions, in their strict logical signification, are the products of a considerable logical and linguistic evolution, and their analogues in expressive language do not ordinarily show such clear-cut outlines and differences. Nevertheless^ such analogues do exist even in the most fluid, exalted, and emotively charged language. A rough distinction can still be found between its non-assertible and its assemble or quasi- assertible elements; and for purpose of easy reference I shall call these elements by the names diaphor and sentence respectively.
By “diaphor” (a word coined by Friedrich Max Miiller) I mean approximately what the term “metaphor” has come to mean in some contemporary writing, according to Herbert Read’s definition of it as “the expression of a complex idea, not by analysis, not by direct statement, but by the sudden perception of an objective relation.”6 But since the older definition of metaphor, as “the transference (epi-phora) of a name from the thing which it properly denotes to some other thing,”7 is still widely current, we can better avoid ambiguity by using the less familiar, more neutral term. Meta-phora connotes motion—i.e., what may be figuratively conceived as a semantic motion, or the production of meaning—away from die already settled meaning of a term to an unusual or contextually special meaning: as when a man of filthy habits is called a pig. But such metaphoric transfer is possible only where certain terms with already settled meanings are available as starting-points; it is, therefore, more characteristic of the romantic phase of myth than of the primitive. There is a prior semantic movement which operates, often pre-consciously, by bringing raw elements of experience—qualities, capabilities, emotionally charged suggestibilities, and whatever else—into the specious unity of being represented by a certain symbol. Such primitive meanings are formed by a kind of semantic “motion” (phora) through {did) a number of experiential elements, related in the first instance, no doubt, by a sort of vague but highly charged and tribally infectious emotive congruity, and then gradually formalized into a tribal tradition. Such a semantic motion seems to be indicated, for instance, by the Sioux Chief Standing Bear’s explanation of the multiple yet unified significance of the pipe for his people: “The pipe was a tangible, visible link that joined man to Wakan Tanka and every puff of smoke that ascended in prayer unfailingly reached His presence. With it faith was upheld, ceremony sanctified, and the being consecrated. All the meanings of moral duty, ethics, religious and spiritual conceptions were symbolized in the pipe. It signified brotherhood, peace, and the perfection of Wakan Tanka, and to the Lakota [Dakota?] the pipe stood for that which the Bible, Church, State, and Flag, all combined, represented in the mind of the white man.”8
Of course any such catalogue of diaphoric meanings is a cutting of the cloth into retail lengths. In the mythopoeic mode of consciousness there is a strong tendency of the different experiential elements to blend and fuse in a non-logical way. And not only that, but the selfhood of the worshiper tends to blend with them; that is to say, he becomes a full participant, not a mere observer. Finally, there is a blending, or partial blending, of worshiper and sacred objects and ceremonial acts with certain transcendent Presences—such as, for the Sioux, the Four Winds and the great spirit Wakan Tanka.
The last of these dimensions of the participative law points to a most important aspect of much diaphoric language: namely, its concrete universality, or archetypal character. I would suggest (although I am not sure how far the generalization will carry) that the most forceful archetypes are likely to arise out of a diaphoric situation where at least two of the diaphorically related elements represent human functions or interests of a deep-going and pertinently associated sort. Thus to the ancient Egyptians the scarab, or dung-beetle, was a symbol which conjoined diaphorically such diverse themes as the visible motion of pushing a ball (since it could be seen rolling a pellet of dung, containing its eggs, along the ground) and the idea of generative potency (since from the invisible eggs new life would mysteriously hatch). Many popular superstitions attached themselves to the dung-beetle too, and the entire mass of such ideas, fused into a general vague notion and attitude, constituted the diaphoric meaning of the symbol for the popular Egyptian consciousness. But the two characteristics I have mentioned played not only a diaphoric but also an archetypal role, since they applied not only to the lowly dung-beetle, but also to the indispensable and lofty sun. The sun bestows a warmth of generative power, and also the sun appears as a ball being rolled across the sky, no doubt by an invisible celestial beetle. The archetypal meaning becomes further reinforced when, in the process of mummification, a gold scarab is substituted for the dead man’s heart; for now the meaning of the symbol is extended to include the idea of spiritual regeneration, as the dead man’s ba (hiero- glyphically indicated as a bird) flies upward to be judged by, and then he mystically united with, Osiris.
Or again, take the ancient Egyptian tau. Here, too, was a symbol around which many ideas, superstitions, and ritual observances clustered diaphorically. But two of them had such human importance and such associative vitality as to give the symbol an archetypal character. The tau was a plug which held back the waters of the rejuvenated Nile and which, when removed, would release them for the irrigation of the land. The tau also, by its shape, carried phallic suggestions. Obviously each of these aspects in its own way implies the archetypal idea of new life. Then, when this fused meaning of the tau was already several centuries old, a semantic reinforcement was provided by the Christians of Alexandria, who envisaged the tau as the Christian Cross with the top prong broken off, and hence as a symbol of spiritually renewed life from yet another standpoint. (The Scandinavian use of the tau as an icon of Thor’s hammer is extraneous to the development here described, although historically it did introduce certain later complications.)
What bearing has this curious interaction of diaphoric and archetypal modes of activity on myth? One’s answer must be particularized, of course, according to the conditions of each specific culture and the nature of the diaphorically combined ideas. Undoubtedly the existence and character of a myth depend upon a variety of conditioning factors, including early man’s love of storytelling, his need to explain odd occurrences, his rationalization of ritual, his moral codes, his techniques of magic, and his readiness to retain almost any sufficiently vivid association. I do not underrate the importance of such factors, although they lie outside the boundaries of the present argument. A semantic approach to the matter is not all-sufficient; it may still be very illuminating, however, provided its results are not spoiled by excessive claims of finality. With the same caution and the same limited claim I now proceed to consider the nature of expressive language from the standpoint of its quasi-assertorial elements— i.e., its typical sentences.
Naturally, “sentence” is here to be taken functionally rather than grammatically. The single word “snake” (or the equivalent thereof in some primitive language) may function sententially, and in a variety of ways according to the tones in which it is uttered, the gestures that accompany it, and the context (e.g., whether practical or ritualistic) out of which the utterance arises. Any strictly non-sentential unit (e.g., the word “snake” in the logician’s or lexicographer’s sense) is a later and more sophisticated construct, abstracted from the actual and living occasions on which a snake has been dreaded, pursued, wondered about, worshipped, and the like. Thus the sentence is a vehicle of concrete meaning, whereas the logical terms which can be analytically discovered in it, together with the logical propositions which are built out of them, are vehicles of abstract meaning. Now the language of terms and propositions is the language of logical analysis and of science. The nature of myth is so stubbornly opposed to the nature of these sterner disciplines as to appear, from the empirio-logical standpoint, arbitrary and false. This is the more understandable because myth sometimes irresponsibly borrows elements of literal language and thus appears to be invading the realm of tidy fact more aggressively than was perhaps deliberately intended. Consider, for example, the mythic statement, “God created the world in six days.” The awkward intruder here is the final phrase, which brings a false appearance of scientific precision into an affirmation that is properly mythic in the sense of applying the familiar Craftsman idea to a situation that man’s natural wonder spontaneously accepts as transcending the understanding. Of course we cannot be sure how the phrase “in six days” was understood by the ancient Jews who presumably originated the mythos, but in any case it tends to blur the nature of the original mythic sentence by giving it the look of a proposition.
Since I wish to explore the possible relationship between primitive sentence-making and myth, I must first ask what is the nature of a sentence in its pre-logical form. Fortunately, we are none of us logical all day long, and we can discover a good deal by noticing how sentences actually function in our more conversational, everyday, off-guard moments. This is but a special form of the more general question: What is the semantic role of the non-logical in our familiar discourse? Of course there is more than one way of being non-logical. I am not here speaking of the //logical (i.e., a using of logical terms without abiding by the rules they impose) nor of the sub- logical (as in phatic discourse, the merely perfunctory and vapid), but rather of the expressively trans-logical. For in regard to all really important affairs where some degree of valuation and emotional commentary enters, we instinctively recognize the inadequacy of strictly logical forms of speech to do justice to our full intended meanings; and we endeavor by tone of voice, facial expression, and gesture, as well as by choice and arrangement of words, to break through the barriers of prescribed definition and express, no doubt inadequately, the more elusive elements in the situation and in our attitude towards it. Let us call such uses of language “expressive” without any implication that they are therefore to be dismissed as merely subjective and fictional. I am suggesting that in this occasionally spontaneous outreach beyond the conventional and formal properties of language we are perhaps coming somewhat closer to the conditions of primitive utterance (how close we cannot know) than in our more logical declarations and inquiries. Let us, at any rate, accept the possibility as a working hypothesis, and inquire into the nature of expressive sentences.
Since there is a good deal of ambivalence in most human attitudes, it will not be surprising if we find that expressive sentences tend to function in terms of certain polarities. Three such polarities seem to me especially prominent and fundamental. An expressive sentence tends to involve, simultaneously but in varying degree, affirmation and questioning, demanding (or hortation) and acceptance, commitment and stylization. Let us look at these three pairs in turn.
In all the larger affirmations that we make about the world there is likely to be a note of questioning; and this is so because such affirmations touch upon the radical mystery of things, which forever eludes our intellectual grasp. There are two ways of affirming such a sentence as “God created the world.” It can be affirmed dogmatically, as a declarative without any interrogative aspect; or it can be affirmed with a fitting intellectual modesty, in which case the declarative and the interrogative will be blended as inseparably as the convex and concave aspects of a single curve. For, to assert it as a pure statement is to imply: “There was a question, but the question is now answered, and thus there is no longer a question.” But this can be the case only if the sentence, “God created the world,” is essentially intelligible—that is, only if “God,” “original creation,” and “world” carry meanings that we can put the finger on and say, somewhere in experience, “That is it!” And since this condition—the adequate verification of a transcendental idea by the finite evidences of human experience—cannot possibly be met, it is equally impossible that the sentence, “God created the world,” should be a pure statement. To assert it as such is therefore self- delusive. On the other hand there is statement resident in the sentence; a believer does not abandon the declarative element. What he does is to fuse something declarative and something interrogative into a single attitude which is a tension between basic faith and deep questioning. Religiously considered, the sentence enqiploys theological terms symbolically in order to express the radical inseparability of meaning- fulness and mystery.
The second polarity which expressive sentences tend to involve—a demanding and an acceptance—brings up the question of wishful thinking. There is likely to be some element of the mandatory—an implicit command, “It shall be so,” or an implicit supplication or wish—in all expressive thought and utterance. This is the pragmatic element, which William James found to be present in every judgment, religious and secular, idealistic and materialistic alike, so far as it makes any truth- claim beyond the immediately verifiable connections of direct experience. Inasmuch as religious judgments do make such transcendent truth-claims, the presence of a pragmatic element in them is undeniable. But it is equally important to recognize that the pragmatic element is never the whole affair, and that where it becomes unduly dominant the result is fantasy, not religion. In a truly religious judgment the coercive element, the “Let it be so!,” plays a strictly limited role, as an expression of loyalty to a certain general way of conceiving and interpreting the world; in each particular respect it is subordinate to an attitude of acceptance, whatever the grounds and occasions of acceptance may be. The sentence, “God exists,” if it represents a mytho- religious affirmation and not simply a metaphysical hypothesis, involves both a demand for a certain way of envisaging the world and an acquiescence towards the obligations which that mode of envisaging entails.
An important contribution to the semantic role of acceptance, or acquiescence, in man’s primal form of encounter with the world has been made within the last few decades by those continental thinkers (notably Martin Buber, Franz Rosenzweig, Eugene Rosenstock-Huessy, Karl Lowith, Gabriel Marcel, and Julian Marias) who have stressed the priority of the second grammatical person over the third. The logic of science necessarily employs the third person, because its objects must (linguistically) be spoken about and (operationally) be manipulated. It is a widespread assumption, in a world of books and research foundations, that the truth about anything can be adequately revealed (in principle at least) by statements made about it. The writers just referred to have challenged this assumption. And there is one sphere of experience where the inadequacy of the bit and the indispensability of the bthou relation is universally recognized—namely in our experience of other human persons. Knowledge of one’s fellows, to be more than superficial, must grow out of an experience of mutuality, of speaking to them and listening as they speak in return; and according to all of the above writers, this radical dialectic is what primarily distinguishes the bthou relation from the ‘bit. In more primitive societies it seems probable that, to say the least, the lines between spheres where the I-thou relationship could be meaningfully adopted and those where it could not were much less sharply drawn than now. A certain readiness to address nature, or the mysterious presences “behind” nature, and to open one’s mind and heart to the “signs of address”9 which are given in return is a recognizable mark of the primitive attitude.
The third of the sentential polarities—truth-commitments vs. stylization—introduces an idea which I have discussed elsewhere.10 To start with colloquial instances: when we make a conventional remark about the weather, or when we assure our hostess that we have spent an enjoyable evening, how fully do we commit ourselves to the assertorial content of what we are saying? Not altogether, it is obvious; for in making such remarks we are ordinarily less concerned with the strict truth than with what the immediate situation seems to call for. We recognize them as stylizations, to some degree, in a conversational game, and hence as not committing us to full consistency of belief. Nevertheless, stylization is not quite the whole of it; for while we might phatically applaud ‘the virtues of the weather with a good deal of careless latitude, we would hardly be willing to murmur “Nice day!” (unless with conscious irony) in a downpour of rain. Thus, while the assertorial weight of such conventional remarks (cf. “Having a wonderful time”; “Mi casa es su casa”; “Vous etes tres gentil”) stands somewhat above the sheer assertorial zero of the purely exclamatory (“Heigh- ho!”), it does not match the full assertorial weight of an intentionally informative sentence (“It is twenty miles to Woodsville”) or a deliberate declaration of value (“That is a dastardly scheme”).
The casual instances just cited point the way to analogous but more important instances in the linguistic strategies of poetry, religion, and myth. Coleridge’s phrase, “suspension of disbelief,” and Richards’ doctrine of the “pseudo-statement” represent attempts of both critics to explain how it is that although the sentences employed in poetry seem to be making statements of a kind, they often cannot be accepted with anything like full commitment of assent. But as I have argued elsewhere,11 I believe that Richards errs by making too sharp a dichotomy between “statements” (claimants for exact verification by scientific method) and “pseudo-statements” (word-patterns which look like statements and which serve to organize certain emotive attitudes in the prepared reader, but to which any question of truth or falsity is entirely irrelevant). The most interesting examples of poetic statement fall somewhere between these extremes: they invite some degree of assent, but less than full intellectual commitment.
As we turn from primarily poetic sentences to primarily religious sentences (admitting, of course, a wide area of overlapping) we find that the relation between commitment and stylization is characteristically somewhat different. A genuinely religious believer is one who gives full commitment—not necessarily to the sentences in their literal meanings and in any case not in their literal meanings alone, but to some half-guessed, half-hidden truth which the sentences symbolize. (Let it not be forgotten that the early Fathers of the Church were wont to speak of their articles of faith, in which they certainly “believed,” as symbola.) The commitment in such a case does not necessarily diminish as the stylization of liturgy and figurative language is increased (although extreme Protestants have sometimes made the mistake of supposing that it must do so); for the commitment may be given in and through the stylized forms. In short there may be full commitment here, but it is largely commitment by indirection. I say “largely,” not “wholly,” because a typically religious believer is likely to feel some degree of commitment to the concrete vehicle (e.g., the Virgin Birth, the avatars of Vishnu, the magical connection between pipe smoke and thunder clouds, etc.) as well as to the transcendental tenor (the real but hardly sayable significance of these doctrines for the serious believer). The literal meaning of the vehicle is usually clear and vivid, although perhaps shocking to everyday standards of probability; its transcendental tenor looms darkly behind the scene as something vague, inarticulate, yet firmly intuited and somehow of tremendous, even final, importance and consequentiality. To accept the vehicle in its literal aspect exclusively is the way of superstition; to accept its transcendental references (the tenor) exclusively is the way of allegory. The primitively mytho-religious attitude in its most characteristic forms has tended to settle into some kind of fertile tension between these two extremes without yielding too completely to either of them. So far as the mythic storyteller is half-consciously aware of the tension his narrative may achieve that tone of serious playfulness which characterizes so charmingly much early myth.
The hypothesis with which I now conclude connects the earlier and later parts of my paper, and is offered tentatively, as suggesting certain possibilities of further research. Perhaps the line between the primary and romantic phases of myth, although vague and wavering at best, can be drawn a little more clearly by the aid of such semantic criteria as I have been discussing. Primitive myths may be regarded as the early expressions of man’s storytelling urge so far as it is still conditioned by such proto-linguistic tendencies as diaphoric ambiguity and the several kinds of sentential polarity. Later myths, and later retellings of the earlier myths, betray their essentially romantic character by the degree to which such semantic fluidity and plenitude have been exchanged for tidier narratives relying on firmer grammatical, logical, and causal relationships. In its propaedeutic aspect the hypothesis invites a more active liaison between semantics, broadly conceived, and anthropology—a collaboration which might prove to have fruitful consequences for both disciplines.
University of California
Riverside, California
1 Alan W. Watts, Myth and Ritual in Christianity (London, 1953), p. 7.
2 Ernst Cassirer, Die Philosophic der symbolischen Formen, Vol. II: Mythisches Denizen (Berlin, 1923-1929).
3 Lucien Levy-Bruhl, How Natives Think (London, 1926), chap. 2. Susanne Langer, Philosophy in a New Key (Cambridge, Mass., 1942), chap. 7.
4 Richard Chase, Quest for Myth (Baton Rouge, 1949), p. 73; cf. p. 110, et passim.
5 Philip Wheelwright, The Burning Fountain: A Study in the Language of Symbolism (Bloomington, Ind., 1954), chaps. 2, 4, et passim.
6 Herbert Read, English Prose Style, rev. ed, (New York, 1952).
7 Aristotle, Poetics, chap. 21.
8 Chief Standing Bear, hand of the Spotted Eagle (Boston, 1933), p. 201. Cf. Hartley Burr Alexander, The World’s Rim: Great Mysteries of the North American Indians (Lincoln, Neb., 1953), chap. 1, “The Pipe of Peace,” where the above passage is also quoted.
9 The phrase is Martin Buber’s. See his Between Man and Man (London, 1947), especially Part I, “Dialogue.”
10 Wheelwright, The Burning Fountain, pp. 66-70, 274-282.
11 Wheelwright, The Burning Fountain, pp. 33-36, 45-50, 296-298.
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