Radio Corpse - Daniel Newton Tiffany PDF

bout the origins of Anglo-
American poetic modernism, one thing is cer¬
tain: it started with a notion of the image,
described variously by Ezra Pound as an
ideogram and a vortex. We have reason to be
less confident, however, about the relation
between these puzzling conceptions of the
image and the doctrine of literary positivism
that is generally held to be the most important
legacy of Imagism. No satisfactory account
exists, moreover, of what bearing these founda¬
tional principles may have on Pound’s later
engagement with fascism. Nor is it clear how
figures such as the vortex and the ideogram
might contribute generally to our understand¬
ing of modern visual culture and its compulsive
appeal.
Radio Corpse addresses these issues and offers a
fundamental revision of one of the most power¬
ful and persistent aesthetic ideologies of mod¬
ernism. Focusing on the necrophilic dimension
of Pound’s earliest poetry and on the
inflections of materiality authorized by the
modernist image, Daniel Tiffany establishes a
continuum between Decadent practice and the
incipient avant-garde, between the prehistory
of the image and its political afterlife, between
what Pound calls the “corpse language” of late
Victorian poetry and a “radioactive” image that
borrows an intuition of the invisible from the
(continued on back flap)

adio Corpse
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DANIEL TIFFANY
IMAG I SM AND THE
CRYPTAESTHETIC
of EZRA POUND
H AR VAR D UNIVERSIT Y P R E S S
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
LONDON, ENGhA ND 1 9 9 5
Copyright © 1995 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
Permission has been kindly granted by New Directions Publishing

Corporation to reprint the following material: “Amina Sola,” from Ezra
Pound, Collected Early Poems, copyright © 1976 by the Trustees of the
Ezra Pound Literary Property Trust.
Earlier and shorter versions of Chapters 3 and 6 appeared, respectively, in

Paideuma, vol. 21, no. 3 (Winter 1992), and SubStance, no. 61 (1990).
Library of Congress Catalogi ng-in -Publication Data
Tiffany, Daniel.
Radio corpse: imagism and the cryptaesthetic of Ezra Pound /
p. cm.
Includes index.
ISBN 0-674-74662-7 (alk. paper)
1. Pound, Ezra, 1885-1972—Criticism and interpretation. 2. Radio
broadcasting—Italy—History—20th century. 3. Fascism and literature—
United States. 4. Imagist poetry—History and criticism. 5. Modernism
(Literature)—United States. 6. Pound, Ezra, 1885-1972—Aesthetics.
7. Aesthetics, Modern—20th century. 8. Death in literature. 9. Dead
in literature
I. Title.
PS3531.082Z865 1995
811'.52—dc20 95-10353
CIP
Designed by Gwen Frankfeldt

For Norman O. Brown
ontents
Abbreviations ix
The Mystery of Negation 1
Mortal Images 37
Cryptaesthesia 65
Making and Unmaking 65

Memory Cells 81
Corpse Language 113
Hyperaesthetics and the
Cult of Mourning 129
Anathemata 147
The Sad Wit of Pollution 147

Plastic Surgery 159
Impossible Effigies 175
Radioactivity 221
Radium 221
Phantom Transmissions 236
Magical Realism 251
Erotic Casualties 262
Dictation and Oblivion 273
Acknowledgments 293
Index 295
Abbreviations
ABC Ezra Pound, ABC of Reading. New York: New Directions, 1960;
orig. pub. 1934.
C Ezra Pound, The Cantos. Fourth collected edition. New York: New
Directions, 1987.
CEP Ezra Pound, Collected Early Poems. New York: New Directions, 1982.
EPVA Ezra Pound and the Visual Arts. Ed. Harriet Zinnes. New York: New
Directions, 1980.
GB Ezra Pound, Gaudier-Brzeska: A Memoir. New York: New Directions,

1970; orig. pub. 1916.
GK Ezra Pound, Guide to Kulchur. New York: New Directions, 1970;

orig. pub. 1934.
J/M Ezra Pound, Jefferson and/or Mussolini. New York: Liveright, 1935.
L Ezra Pound, Selected Letters, 1907-1941. Ed. D. D. Paige. New York:

New Directions, 1971.
LE Literary Essays of Ezra Pound. Ed. T. S. Eliot. New York: New

Directions, 1960.
NPL Ezra Pound, “Postscript.” Remy de Gourmont, Natural Philosophy of

Love, trans. Ezra Pound. New York: Collier, 1961. Reprint of 1932
edition; trans. orig. pub. 1922.
P Ezra Pound, Personae (1926). New York: New Directions, 1971.
PD Ezra Pound, Pavannes and Divagations. London: Peter Owen, 1960.
P/J Pound/Joyce: The Letters of Ezra Pound to James Joyce. Ed. Forrest
Read. New York: New Directions, 1967.
Abbreviations
P/L Pound/Lewis: Letters of Ezra Pound and Wyndham Lewis. Ed.

Timothy Materer. New York: New Directions, 1985.
PMN Ezra Pound, Plays Modelled on the Noh. Ed. Donald C. Gallup.
Toledo: Friends of University of Toledo Library, 1987.
P/S Ezra Pound and Dorothy Shakespear: Their Letters, 1909-1914. Ed.
Omar Pound and A. Walton Litz. New York: New Directions, 1984.
RB aEzra Pound Speaking”: Radio Speeches of World War II. Ed. Leonard
W. Doob. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1978.
SC Humphrey Carpenter, A Serious Character: The Life of Ezra Pound.

Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1988.
SP Ezra Pound, Selected Prose, 1909-1965. Ed. William Cookson. New

York: New Directions, 1973.
SR Ezra Pound, The Spirit of Romance. New York: New Directions,

1968; orig. pub. 1910.
T The Translations of Ezra Pound. Ed. Hugh Kenner. New York: New
Directions, 1963.
///// x
I die in the tears of the morning
I kiss the wail of the dead . . .
Exquisite, alone, untrammeled
I kiss the nameless sign
And the laws of my inmost being
Chant to the nameless shrine.
—Ezra Pound, “Anima Sola”
C H A P T E R 1
'////////////////////,
Mystery of Negation
The living being is only a species of the dead, and a very rare species.
—Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science
Man is made in his own image: this is what we learn from the strange¬
ness of cadavers. But this formula should first of all be understood this
way: man is unmade according to his image.
—Maurice Blanchot, “Two Versions of the Imaginary”
Few people would dispute the fundamental association between

imagery and visuality; the idea of a nonvisual image is paradoxical. Yet
pictures of all kinds, including graphic images, frequently resist, con¬
test, or subvert visuality by a variety of formal means. Furthermore,
images routinely seek to represent invisible things, or things without
a sensible basis in the natural world, and, increasingly, to render
objects (and bodies) in a manner that presupposes the dislocation and
restructuring of the object according to nonocular principles (such as
magnetic resonance imaging). By contesting or simulating the visible,
images often reinvent visuality. Thus, although it is tempting to under¬
stand images as being defined by their intrinsic visuality, it is probably
more accurate to say that “visuality” per se is the contingent term,
which depends on the changing discourse and materiality of images
for its conceptual coherence. If indeed images provide an index of the
historical character of visuality, then we can only conclude that in
certain periods the realm of the visible is continually submerged, or
defaced, by the invisible and by what does not exist or has never
R A D I O CORPSE
existed. One could argue that all images display a general—that is to

say, generative—resistance to visuality, yet I think it is essential to
regard the fundamental obscurity of images, in any medium, as the
residue of historical tensions.1 History may indeed be frankly visible
in a picture, yet it may also make its appearance by confounding the
observant eye and by censuring the realm of the visible.
The aggressive visualization of the unseen that characterizes modern
culture frequently produces images that are distinguished, paradoxi¬
cally, by a resistance to visuality and a persistent quotient of the invis¬
ible.2 These qualities, though certainly implicated in the modern
fetishizing of means, should not be understood merely as effects of
the modern technical media. Rather, the paradox of a nonvisual image
must be attributed to a more general “scopic regime” of modernity,
in which the desire to see, to possess, is continually frustrated and
confounded by the image itself, by an opaque immediacy that fore¬
closes the possibility of resemblance. Opacity and negativity—the
power to withhold from the eye the visualization promised by the
image—become the salient features of the image. A superb example
of this negativity and its effects occurs in one of the opening chapters
of Melville’s Moby-Dick, where the narrator describes a painting that
is remarkable for its obscurity:
On one side hung a very large oil-painting so thoroughly be-

smoked, and every way defaced, that in the unequal cross-lights by
which you viewed it, it was only by diligent study and a series of
systematic visits to it, and careful inquiry of the neighbors, that you
could anyway arrive at an understanding of its purpose. Such un¬
accountable masses of shades and shadows, that at first you almost
thought some ambitious young artist, in the time of the New Eng¬
land hags, had endeavored to delineate chaos bewitched. But by
1. My discussion in this chapter of the problematic visuality of the image owes a large
debt to suggestions made to me by W. J. T. Mitchell and, more generally, to his
remarkable study Iconology: Image, Text, Ideology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1986).
2. More predictably, modern discourse has tended to react against visual culture.
Martin Jay finds in modern French theory, for example, “a profound suspicion of vision
and its hegemonic role in the modern era.” See his recent book Downcast Eyes: The
Denigration of Vision in Twentieth-Century French Thought (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1993), p. 14. I am suggesting that this discursive negativity is already
an integral part of modern visual culture (and a source of its fascination).
/////2
The Mystery of Negation
dint of much earnest contemplation, and oft repeated ponderings,

and especially by throwing open the little window towards the back
of the entry, you at last came to the conclusion that such an idea,
however wild, might not be altogether unwarranted.3
Although the narrator, at once perplexed and fascinated by the image,

is eventually able to construct a “final theory” about its significance,
I would like to forgo consideration of whatever specific meaning the
narrator ascribes to the painting (its “sublimity,” its possible evocation
of the “great leviathan”), in order to concentrate instead on the for¬
midable negativity of the image and its tantalizing deferral of vision.
Even before we can address the painting as such, however, we must
acknowledge that, as readers, we experience the painting only as a
verbal description. Thus, as a verbal image, the painting never becomes
visible to the reader in any real sense, though the immediacy of Mel¬
ville’s ekphrastic description is likely to produce an impression, or at
least the effect, of visualization. We might then suppose that the read¬
er’s approximate relation to the painting resembles the narrator’s
vexed apprehension of it, which, given the bad light, stems as much
from “conversation” and “contemplation” as it does from actual
looking. From this standpoint, IshmaePs “vision” of the painting is
perhaps more akin to reading than it is to looking (though reading,
of course, is a kind of looking that entails being sequestered visually
from the world of objects—a looking founded on blindness). The
experience of visualization for both the spectator/narrator and the
reader is highly mediated, though the reader, it seems, is apt to be
more credulous than the spectator regarding the painting’s visuality.
Although Ishmael initially ascribes the image’s obscurity to poor light
and the accumulation of smoke and grime, he eventually decides that
the resistance to visualization, which is “enough to drive a nervous
man distracted,” is intrinsic to the painting. This material image,
which one would assume to be intrinsically visual, is therefore distin¬
guished by its formidable and tantalizing obstruction of visual expe¬
rience. Compelled by the image’s obscurity to mediate (that is, to
textualize) its ambiguous visuality, the narrator’s vision of the painting
can be no more than a “theory,” constructed upon the opinions of
3. Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press,

1988), p. 12.
3 /////
U A D 1 O CORPSE
others (though we should not forget the unexpected illumination

afforded by “the little window towards the back of the entry”). The
negativity of the painting further suggests to the narrator that it might
be an artifact produced during the time of the Salem witchcraft trials
and that the inscrutable subject of the image is “bewitched.” This
association is confirmed for the reader, if not explicitly for the narrator,
by the other objects displayed in the room with the painting: “The
opposite wall of this entry was hung all over with a heathenish array
of monstrous clubs and spears. Some were thickly set with glittering
teeth resembling ivory saws; others were tufted with knots of human
hair” (13). We can hardly avoid the conclusion that this wall hung
with fetishes is the primitive counterpart of the inscrutable painting.4
Writing about images can bring to light only what resists the obser¬
vant eye, as well as the residual blindness of the picture itself. To write
about images, then, is to write about nothing. Yet nothing, as gram¬
matical categories inform us, is always something; and little has been
written about images that makes more of nothing than Maurice Blan-
chot’s “Two Versions of the Imaginary.” The essay is built around a
startling gambit: “At first sight, the image does not resemble a
cadaver, but it could be that the strangeness of the cadaver is also the
strangeness of the image.”5 The initial shock of this comparison, which
suggests, curiously, a latent animism in the artifact, depends on a
moment of blindness: a resemblance has “at first sight” been over¬
looked. Yet the “second sight” that would enable one to grasp this
resemblance is deferred, at least initially, by Blanchot’s use of the term
“resemble” (ressembler). For to resemble a cadaver, an image may be
said to be an image of a cadaver. Making sense of this comparison
4. David Simpson has examined Melville’s writing in relation to the discourse of fet¬
ishism; see Simpson, Fetishism and Imagination: Dickens, Melville, Conrad (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1982). Although the originality and articulation of
Simpson’s essay are impressive, I find his argument to be less than satisfying for several
reasons. First, his emphasis on phallicism and his tendency to define fetishism as a kind
of false consciousness (a definition that risks confusing fetishism with the concept of
ideology) neglect the crucial problem of materiality in fetish discourse. Second, Simpson
rarely views Melville’s (or Conrad’s) novels as informing or mediating the discourse of
fetishism; rather, he sees them as being merely symptomatic or illustrative of a concept
that is already somewhat narrowly defined.
5. Maurice Blanchot, “Two Versions of the Imaginary,” in The Gaze of Orpheus, ed.
P. Adams Sitney, trans. Lydia Davis (Barrytown: Station Hill, 1981), p. 81.
/////4
therefore depends on Blanchot’s precise conception of the image and,

more specifically, on his concern with the duplicity of the image, which
is at once material and ideal, opaque and transparent. Are we to under¬
stand the correlation of corpse and image in ideal, that is to say pri¬
marily visual, terms? Or are we to grasp a more difficult resemblance,
dictated by the intransigent materiality of the corpse and somehow
resistant to visuality (in spite of the conventional association of
imagery and vision)?
For the moment, I’d like to defer this question by posing it in rela¬
tion to another, more celebrated theory of images, which is captivated
by, and indeed founded on, a similar moment of blindness. The sec¬
tion of Marx’s Capital titled “The Fetishism of Commodities and the
Secret Thereof’ opens with a statement that serves as one of the
founding principles of cultural criticism in the humanities: “A com¬
modity appears at first sight an extremely obvious, trivial thing. But
its analysis brings out that it is a very strange thing, abounding in
metaphysical subtleties and theological niceties.”6 Overcoming the
limitations of the naked eye, the second sight of analysis, decomposing
the commodity’s “stiff and starchy existence as a body” (Capital 144),
discovers what Marx calls the “phantom objectivity” (yyespenstijye
Gejyenstandlichkeit) of exchange value (128). Thus, poised on the
threshold of sightless vision, the materialist historian discovers a non¬
visual, metaphysical component of the fetish object, which is the
“secret” of its enigmatic power. The second sight of analysis described
by Marx may be compared to Ishmael’s theoretical “vision” of the
inscrutable painting. As an image, then, the commodity resists visuality
in an essential manner. Indeed, the “perversity” of the fetish, whether
economic, sexual, or aesthetic, consists in the ambiguity of being at
once present and absent, visible and invisible.7
6. Karl Marx, Capital: A Critique of Political Economy, vol. 1, introd. Ernest Mandel,
trans. Ben Fowkes (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1976), p. 163.
7. The material instability of the fetish object may be ascribed, in part, to the historical
uncertainty of the fetish concept in colonial discourse. In his survey of fetish discourse,
William Pietz notes that the fetish is described variously as a decorative object, a form
of currency, a demigod, and a verbal charm or oath. Pietz, “The Problem of the Fetish,”
pts. 1, 2, and 3a, Res 9 (Spring 1985): 5-17; 13 (Spring 1987): 23-45; 16 (Autumn
1988): 105-123. On colonial fetish discourse in particular, see pt. 2, pp. 36-45, and
pt. 3a, pp. 108-122.
5 /////
A D I O CORPSE
Although Marx does not evince the “strangeness” of the com¬

modity fetish by comparing it to something else (as is the case with
Blanchot’s revelation of the strangeness of the image), he does re¬
peatedly emphasize the Doppclcharakter of the fetish—the fact that
commodities are “sensuous things which are at the same time supra-
sensible” (sinnliche ubcrsinnlichcs Ding 165). In effect, the com¬
modity fetish is a split or double object, with material and phantasmic
properties; it is an inert body haunted, or animated, by the specter
of human labor. This spectral dimension of the fetish has not been
overlooked by critics. Michael Taussig, for example, has observed,
“Fetishism elucidates a certain quality of ghostliness in objects in the
modern world and an uncertain quality of fluctuation between thing-
hood and spirit.”8 Marx, indeed, identifies not only the ghostly infer¬
ence of commodities but his own investment in a rhetoric of death
and animation when he refers to “all the magic and necromancy that
surrounds the products of labor on the basis of commodity produc¬
tion” (169, emphasis added). One should also recall that Freud, in
his later reflections on the subject, calls the fetish a “remnant” or
“precipitate” of an archaic sexual formation, thus insinuating the
corpse into medical definitions of fetishism.9 Furthermore, the most
important twentieth-century theorist of commodity fetishism, Walter
Benjamin, argues that the modern fetish, succumbing to “the sex-
appeal of the inorganic,” represents “the rights of the corpse.”10 It is
8. Michael Taussig, “ Maleficium: State Fetishism,” in William Pietz and Emily Apter,
eds., Fetishism as Cultural Discourse (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993), p. 217.
See also Thomas Keenan, who conjures the ghost of “humanity” from Marxian
exchange value: “Humanity, the abstraction, is the ghostly residue that names the prag¬
matic necessity of likeness in exchange. To be alike is to be abstract, which is to say, to
be a ghost—to be human, or a commodity.” Keenan, “The Point Is to (Ex)Change It:
Reading Capital Rhetorically,” in Fetishism as Cultural Discourse, p. 172.
9. Sigmund Freud, Three Essays on Sexuality (1905), reprinted in the Standard Edition
of the Complete Psychological Works, ed. James Strachey (London: Hogarth Press, 1960),
vol. 7, p. 154, n. 2. Freud added this footnote in 1920 in a later edition of the Three
Essays. The idea of the fetish as a “remnant” anticipates the views of the “Fetishism”
essay of 1927, where Freud describes the fetish as a “memorial” to a lost object, an
abstract image of the dead. In the same essay, Freud compares the loss precipitating the
fetishistic exchange to an unmournable death—a case of two sons who “disavow” even
as they recognize their father’s death (Standard Edition, vol. 21, pp. 152-157).
10. Walter Benjamin, Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism,
trans. Harry Zohn (London: Verso, 1983), p. 166.
/////6
The Mystery of 'Negation
no accident, then, that Blanchot’s theory of the image shares this nec¬
rophilic dimension with Marx’s great philosophy of the animism of
the made object. For the most important modern allegories of making,
such as sexual or economic fetishism, or formalism, usually exhibit a
fascination with death, which finds its limit—and extinguishes itself—
by deconstructing “death” in matter (or language), thereby revealing
the fundamental animism of things (and words). Similarly, modern
cultural fixations on death, as unmaking or decomposition, should be
viewed as negative or inverted allegories of the irrationality—the
“magic”—of making.
By invoking the strange materiality of the cadaver, Blanchot intends
to break the spell of visuality and abstraction that holds the image as
well as the observer in thrall, and to emphasize, therefore, the essential
duplicity of the image. He observes, for example, “how much the
apparent spirituality, the pure formal virginity of the image is fun¬
damentally linked to the elemental strangeness and to the shapeless
heaviness of the being that is present in absence” (“Two Versions”
83). Behind the transparency of the image that “helps us to recapture
the thing in an ideal way” are the remains of the image, its materiality
as a thing that refers only to itself—or to nothing at all. We are drawn
to this other “image” not by its visuality but by its gravity and its
opacity. Hence, for Blanchot, as for Marx, the “strangeness” of the
image behind the image remains suspended in a problematic visuality:
“When someone who is fascinated sees something, he does not see it,
properly speaking, but it touches him in his immediate proximity, it
seizes him and monopolizes him, even though it leaves him absolutely
at a distance.”11 The object of “fascination,” whether commodity
fetish or cadaverous image, imposes a kind of “seeing” which is at
once visionary and oblivious to any real thing that the image might
represent. By abdicating its meaning as a sign—indeed its status as a
sign—the fetish becomes indistinguishable from what it represents
and thus forecloses the possibility of resemblance (since it has become
the object itself).12 The enigmatic power of the fetish depends entirely,
11. Maurice Blanchot, “The Essential Solitude,” in The Gaze of Orpheus, p. 97. Blan¬
chot’s discussion of “fascination” occurs in a section of his essay titled “The Image.”
12. Michael Taussig writes, “The fetish has a deep investment in death—the death
of the signifying function. Death endows both the fetish and the Nation-State with life,
7/////
¥L A D I O CORPSE
however, on the possibility of resemblance (albeit inscrutable) and the

“phantom” of socially constructed meaning. The “magical” identi¬
fication of sign and referent results, paradoxically, in the disappearance
of the referent as an objective or empirical entity (and, conversely, in
the desublimation of the image).
Whereas Marx associates the object of visionary abstraction—some¬
what conventionally—with a realm of “phantom” values (which can
be grasped only by the second sight of analysis), Blanchot insists upon
anchoring this problematic visuality in the least accessible features of
materiality: “What we call the mortal remains evades the usual cate¬
gories: something is there before us that is neither the living person
himself nor any sort of reality, neither the same as the one who was
alive, nor another, nor another thing” (“Two Versions” 81). For
Blanchot, it is not the abstraction, the metaphysicality, of the phantom
but the obdurate facticity of the cadaver that destabilizes the “usual
categories.” The “strangeness” of the cadaver as an image resides, as
I have suggested, in its resistance to visuality, imposing “vision that is
no longer the possibility of seeing, but the impossibility of not seeing,
impossibility that turns into seeing.”13 Yet “the impossibility of not
seeing” coincides with an aversion to a representational image that
has been stripped of its referent; the cadaver is a picture of no one;
there is nothing to “see” but the material license of the image. In
certain respects, like a modernist abstract painting, “The cadaver is its
own image. He no longer has any relations with this world, in which
he still appears, except those of an image” (“Two Versions” 84). Yet
the corpse, unlike the abstract painting, retains in the strongest con¬
ceivable manner not only the possibility of resemblance, as well as
unassailable objectivity, but an organic resistance to meaninglessness.
a spectral life, to be sure. The fetish absorbs into itself that which it represents, leaving
no trace of the represented.” Taussig, “Maleficium,”p. 246.
13. Blanchot, “The Essential Solitude,” p. 75. For Blanchot, the counterpart of the
image as cadaver is a philosophy of vision that is epitomized by what he calls “the gaze
of Orpheus.” The object of this gaze always escapes visibility, or disappears as it becomes
visible: “As we look at the most certain masterpiece, whose beginning dazzles us with
its brilliance and decisiveness, we find that we are also faced with something which is
fading away, a work that has suddenly become invisible again, is no longer there, and
has never been there. This sudden eclipse is the distant memory of Orpheus’ gaze.”
Blanchot, The Gaze of Orpheus, p. 103.
///// 8
Nevertheless, as Blanchot observes, “The image has nothing to do

with signification, meaning, as implied by the existence of the world
. . . Not only is the image of an object not the meaning of that object
and of no help in comprehending it, but it tends to withdraw it from
its meaning by maintaining it in the immobility of resemblance that
has nothing to resemble” (“Two Versions” 85).
The melancholy severance of the image from its referent, as well as
its paradoxical nonvisuality, produces another kind of “strange¬
ness”—namely, estrangement. In Marxist terms, of course, the subject
is profoundly estranged from its “possessions,” which accumulate as
commodities, seeing only its death as a subject reflected in the
“phantom” objectivity of commodities. Similarly, even if a dead
person is not transformed into a vengeful ghost, the subject’s relation
to the corpse is profoundly estranged by the sudden instability of ref¬
erence and temporal dislocation. As an image, the cadaver, like the
fetish, exerts a powerful sense of autonomy; it not only signals its
estrangement from its referent by a paradoxical opacity, but it isolates
the subject from its possessions (its images), instituting a separation
that is nevertheless an encounter. Thus, Marx claims that commodity
fetishes “appear as autonomous figures endowed with a life of their
own” (Capital 165). Furthermore, the strangeness of the image,
which is an effect of its complete autonomy, derives from what Blan¬
chot calls “the power of the negative”—a negation of both subject
and object which vitalizes the image itself. Hence, the image is not
merely a dead thing but a corpse animated by negation, by what Elaine
Scarry calls “the nonreferential character of the dead body ... a non-
referentiality that rather than eliminating all referential activity instead
gives it a frightening freedom of referential activity.”14
Though the idea of an autonomous image, as well as Blanchot’s
trope of the cadaver, may seem far-fetched and even grotesque, a quick
glance at the basic tenets of Kant’s Critique of Judgement will show
that Blanchot has not strayed very far from the origins of modern
formalism in his theorization of the image. Or let us say he has illus¬
trated—deconstructed—the aesthetic philosophy of modern for¬
malism, by realizing its necrophilic inclination. Pleasure, says Kant, is
14. Elaine Scarry, The Body in Fain: The Making and Unmaking of the World (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1985), p. 119.
9 /////
U A D I O CORPSE
the basis of aesthetic judgment, but a pleasure that is “pure and dis¬
interested”—a negative pleasure, if you will. The “strangeness” of
Blanchot’s image-cadaver, which is an effect of its autonomy, appears
in this light as a starding but authentic expression of Kant’s theory of
aesthetic disinterestedness. The opening sentence of Kant’s “Analytic
of Aesthetic Judgement” states, “If we wish to discern whether any¬
thing is beautiful or not, we do not refer the representation of it to
the Object by means of understanding with a view to cognition, but
... we refer the representation to the Subject and its feeling of pleasure
or displeasure.”15 Thus, from the standpoint of aesthetic judgment,
the image is severed from its empirical object, which exists not to be
known, understood, or defined in relation to a concept but to be
pleasurably intuited by the subject through the material form of the
work. The disappearance of the object is only the first step, however,
in a relentless dissociation of the image from anything real or empir¬
ical, including the subject: “The delight which we connect with the
representation of the real existence of an object is called interest . . .
Now, where the question is whether something is beautiful, we do
not want to know, whether we, or anyone else, are, or even could be,
concerned with the real existence of the thing . . . One must not be
in the least prepossessed in favor of the real existence of the thing, but
must preserve complete indifference in this respect” (42-43). Thus,
the negative pleasure evoked by the image depends not only on the
disappearance of the object but on the mortification of the subject.
In a reading of Kant’s third Critique, Derrida claims that “pleasure
does not presuppose the pure and simple disappearance, but the neu¬
tralization, not simply the death but the entombment of everything
which exists insofar as it exists.”16 The distinction made here, as I
understand it, is essential in comprehending the necrophilic dimension
of both formalism and fetishism, as the essential modern allegories of
making. The “death” of subject and object presupposed (and em¬
bodied) by the modern, formalist image is emphatically not a simple
disappearance or elimination of these entities but a suspended ani-
15. Immanuel Kant, The Critique of Judgement, trans. James Creed Meredith
(Oxford: Clarendon, 1952), p. 41.
16. Jacques Derrida, “The Parergon,” trans. Craig Owens, October 9 (Summer
1979): 11.
/////10
mation, a transubstantiation, a mediation of bodies. As the rhetoric of

death in Marx and Blanchot indicates, to be entombed or encrypted
implies not only reanimation and metamorphosis but the art of cryp¬
tology, hermeneutics, and hieroglyphic meaning. Thus, Derrida
argues, “Beautiful forms, which signify nothing and have no deter¬
mined purpose are therefore also, and by that very fact, encrypted
signs, a figural writing set down in nature’s production. The without
of pure detachment is in truth a language that nature speaks to us—
she who loves to encrypt herself and record her signature on things.”17
Death, in this context—as in every other—is a discursive condition, a
mediation of bodies and historical conceptions of the artifact, visuality,
pleasure, and subjectivity.
The autonomous image, the image as corpse, should be regarded
as a cryptic image, not only because of its obscurity and its withdrawal
from visuality, but as a reminder of its figurative debts to the topos of
death. Furthermore, the negative pleasure afforded by the image
should be compared, as Derrida suggests, to the task of mourning: “A
pleasure of this sort defines the judgement of taste and the enigmatic
relation of mourning—the work of mourning begun beforehand—
with beauty.”18 Indeed, the concept of aesthetic disinterest, eventually
consumed by the discourse of objectivity, may be understood as a form
of exquisite but aberrant mourning. Julia Kristeva’s conception of the
abject, which is founded, she claims, on “the logic of prohibition,”
renders the image-cadaver as an effect of melancholy.19 Echoing Blan-
chot’s thoughts on the imaginary, Kristeva writes that “the corpse is
the utmost of abjection” and “the most sickening of all wastes”; “It
is something rejected from which one does not part . . . Imaginary
uncanniness and real threat, it beckons to us and ends up engulfing
17. Jacques Derrida, “Economimesis,” trans. R. Klein, Diacritics 11 (June 1981):

15.
18. “The Parergon,” p. 11. Elsewhere, Derrida draws a specific correlation between
mourning and visuality. In Kant’s aesthetic philosophy, he argues, “the greatest nobility
accrues to sight, which achieves the greatest remove from touch and allows itself to be
less affected by the object. In this sense, the beautiful has an essential relation with vision
insofar as it consumes less. Mourning presupposes sight. Pulchritudo vajya [vague
beauty] gives itself above all to be seen: and, by suspending consumption on behalf of
theorem, it forms an object of pure taste in nature.” Derrida, “Economimesis,” p. 19.
19. Julia Kristeva, The Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, trans. Leon S. Roudiez
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1982), p. 64.
A D I O CORPSE
us” (3-4). The abject withdraws entirely from meaning and intelli¬
gibility; it is irremediably lost, foreign. Yet the cryptic features of the
dead object, which are an effect of its radical materiality, are also,
according to Walter Benjamin, the basis of its allegorical propensity.20
The cadaverous image can mean almost anything to the modern eye—
an eye “engulfed” by melancholy.
Encrypted by the gesture of negation, the image-corpse oscillates,
like the fetish, between thing and phantom, but it also becomes a tomb
in which subject and object are encrypted. What this means histori¬
cally, as I have indicated, is not the disappearance of these entities but
their transformation. Thus, historically speaking, the formalist image
becomes a vault, a crypt, in which not only the concept of the sign,
but the social formations of visuality and subjectivity which it assumes,
enter a period of decomposition and reanimation. The correspon¬
dences between the image, mortification, and the renovation of dis¬
cursive formations such as visuality and subjectivity emerge most
effectively—and unexpectedly—in the concept of scientific and aes¬
thetic objectivity, as it emerges at the end of the nineteenth century
and the beginning of the twentieth. Not only is the concept of sci¬
entific objectivity, like that of aesthetic disinterestedness, charac¬
terized by what Derrida calls “the without of detachment,” but it
institutes a similar encrypting of natural signs, and depends on a non¬
visual conception of the image as well as on a new model of material
or carnal vision. Indeed, I will argue that the discourse of objectivity,
deployed across a spectrum of positivistic disciplines, provides the
most important modern examples of the autonomous, cryptological
image.
The strange autonomy of the image is, of course, a fiction of almost
irresistible potency, signaled by the fact that no living thing can achieve
such independence: only a phantom or a corpse is adequate as a figure
for the magical “objectivity” of the fetish. In spite of its power to
enthrall and to obscure historical recollection, the autonomous image
is never more than an empty vault, a crypt on whose walls are inscribed
the ciphers of modernity, with its violent transformations of subjec-
20. Benjamin’s theory of melancholy is most fully developed, along with his theory
of the image, in The Origin of German Tragic Drama, trans. John Osborne (London:
NLB, 1977).
/////12
tivity and perception. Among the most powerful and enigmatic of

modern hieroglyphs, of course, is the concept of scientific objectivity.
Its obscurity, as well as its remarkable resistance to disenchantment,
are due in part to the uniquely powerful sedimentation of empiricism,
asceticism, and irrationality embedded in its theoretical and practical
expressions. (We should bear in mind that scientific empiricism, which
began as a movement against rationalism, can be swayed and even
enchanted by the physical magnetism of “nature.”) Indeed, the figure
of the autonomous image, along with its fetishistic and necrophilic
habits, finds a perfect host in the modern discourse of scientific and
aesthetic objectivity.
In a recent study, Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison argue that
“objectivity is a multifarious, unstable thing, capable of new meanings
and new symbols: in both a literal and figurative sense, scientists of
the late nineteenth century created a new image of objectivity.”21 Sur¬
veying the production of visual “atlases” by physiologists, botanists,
and other scientists, the authors emphasize the divergence of seven¬
teenth- and nineteenth-century empirical epistemologies, in their
efforts “to pry apart the ideals of verisimilitude and objectivity” (84).
Thus, it is not “truth to nature” that modern positivism seeks, but a
form of representation characterized by the power of negation—a dis¬
tinction which is essential in illuminating the otherwise puzzling dis¬
tinctions that modern poets make, for example, between naturalism
and realism, or mimesis and objectivity. Emphasizing “the negative
forms of all objectivity” (82), Daston and Galison argue that “objec¬
tivity is a morality of prohibitions rather than exhortations . . . Among
these prohibitions are bans against projection and anthropomorphism,
against the insertion of hopes and fears into images of and facts about
nature: these are all subspecies of interpretation, and therefore for¬
bidden” (122). Thus, the concept of objectivity is constructed on a
system of taboos that seeks to rid scientific (and aesthetic) represen¬
tation not only of ambiguity but of all interpretive meaning. (The
taboo, of course, only ensures the hypostasis of that which is prohib¬
ited, including the phantom of meaning.) Foremost among the taboos
of objectivity is subjective intervention (the port through which
21. Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison, “The Image of Objectivity,” Representations
40 (Fall 1992): 123.
Radio corpse
socially constructed meaning surreptitiously enters): “In its negative

sense, this ideal of objectivity attempts to eliminate the mediating pres¬
ence of the observer” (82). The mortification of the subject in the
context of science clearly resembles not only the Kantian concept of
disinterestedness but, more immediately, the “doctrine of imperson¬
ality” in Anglo-American modernism.
Moreover, as the authors indicate, the new “image” of objectivity
is not merely a figure of speech. Images—graphic, mechanical, and
photochemical—literally become the privileged medium of scientific
representation: “The image, as the standard bearer of objectivity, is
inextricably tied to a relentless search to replace individual volition and
discretion in depiction” (98). As instruments of the negative power
of objectivity, images are “talismanic guards” (115) and “protective
charms” (82) against not only ambiguity but “interpretation, selec¬
tion, artistry, and judgement itself’ (98). Thus, scientific objectivity
seeks to establish its authority by using images as fetishes to ward off
the delusional powers of subjective, hermeneutical, and socially con¬
structed meaning. Objectification, in this regard, is equivalent to for¬
getting, to oblivion.22 Although images possess a fetishistic power in
the discourse of objectivity, it is a dialectical and even antithetical
potency, since they are instruments of disenchantment and icono-
clasm—images directed against the potency of images.
The image of objectivity is clearly in thrall to what Blanchot terms
“the power of the negative”; such an image implies not only the mor¬
tification of the subject but its own possible extinction. In a phrase
that betrays the inherent conflict with linguistic values and modes of
expression, Daston and Galison note the historical tendency to view
scientific images as “texts so laconic that they threaten to disappear
entirely” (82). The idea of an image hovering on the threshold of
disappearance recalls the possibility of an image that is somehow non¬
visual but also, more surprisingly, it suggests a trace of resistance to
the visuality of the object. Although the discourse of objectivity
depends upon the mortification of the subject, and the reduction—
22. Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer observe that “the loss of memory is a
transcendental condition for science. All objectification is a forgetting.” Dialectic of
Enlightenment, trans. John Cumming (New York: Continuum, 1970), p. 230.
/////14
even disappearance—of the medium, one does not expect to discover

in the modern construction of objectivity a resistance to the object
itself.23 Yet Daston and Galison indicate that “photochemical,
mechanical reproduction was not always or even usually the means to
make an image that readers would automatically find most similar to
a bird, a dissected corpse, or a cell” (117). What, then, is left? Not
the subject, or the object precisely, or the medium itself (in the sense
that images are “texts so laconic that they threaten to disappear
entirely”). An image of a corpse will not resemble a corpse, especially
if we view it “automatically,” that is to say, naturally. The corpse will
appear—somehow—but always at the risk of disappearing. If, in fact,
the object disappears—along with everything else—in the image of
objectivity, then the image will be no different from the corpse itself,
or it will at least possess all of the features of autonomy that Blanchot
attributes to his image-cadaver. Yet nothing, as semantic and gram¬
matical categories indicate, is always something. The necrophilic
dimension of objectivity teaches us, above all, that nothing disappears;
and death is the shrine of nothing.
In his book Techniques of the Observer, Jonathan Crary confirms the
intuitions of Daston and Galison regarding the disappearance of the
object in “objective” modes of representation: “Certain forms of
visual experience usually uncritically categorized as ‘realism’ are in fact
bound up in non-veridical theories of vision that effectively annihilate
the real world.”24 I want to reiterate that the disappearance of the
object signals not its nonexistence but rather a peculiar resistance to
appearing, to visuality, or, perhaps more appropriately, a dislocation
23. From a Marxist perspective, photography, the most “objective” of all media, is
characterized by this improbable estrangement from the object: “The relationship
between the camera’s shot and its target is not the same as that between conscious
subject and his world. Any picture represents an act of the camera. Not only does it not
identify with its object, it does not identify an object at all. It is a human agency that is
reflected in the choice of image.” Marcus Paul Bullock, The Violent Eye: Ernst JungeVs
Visions and Previsions on the European Right (Detroit: Wayne State University Press,
1992), p. 109. The discourse of objectivity requires us, of course, to shed as well the
deforming influence of “human agency,” in order to ensure the complete autonomy
and reflexivity of the image.
24. Jonathan Crary, Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nine¬
teenth Century (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1990), p. 14.
15 /////
U A D I O CORPSE
or restructuring of the object by nonocular visual practices. Crary’s

work derives from, but also refashions, the familiar premise that the
sense of sight dominates a modern era inaugurated by Descartes and
Bacon and permeated by the ideology of science.25 Crary breathes new
life into the equation of modernity and visuality by stressing the issues
of spectatorship and corporeality. He argues that “modernization
effected a deterritorialization and revaluation of vision” (149), and
that the decomposition of vision in the late nineteenth and early twen¬
tieth centuries resulted in “practices in which visual images no longer
have any reference to the position of an observer in the ‘real’ optically
perceived world” (2).
Crary and others have discerned that the so-called annihilation of
the real world is, in fact, a quantification of the object, which reappears
in contemporary fields of nonvisual imagery (such as ultrasound, pos¬
itron-emission tomography, and magnetic resonance imaging). The
modernists themselves, of course, were exposed to images of the
unseen (harbingers of purely quantitative images) through the devel¬
opment of X-ray technology.26 (We should also bear in mind that X-
ray images are negative images.) On the problem of “graphic
inscriptions that effectively subsume the sense-based perceptions of
the autonomous subject,” Lisa Cartwright has written: “An over¬
looked fact of contemporary imaging technologies is that they do not
allow the observer to see more clearly either the body or the unseen
(or any other entity). In fact, imaging systems usually involve an
optical display of properties initially conceived in terms other than
optical . . . These images are, essentially, quantitative depictions of
properties like density or mass—properties that exceed or confound
25. Martin Jay provides a good discussion and bibliography of this topic. See Jay,
“Scopic Regimes of Modernity,” in Hal Foster, ed., Vision and Visuality (Seattle: Bay
Press, J988), pp. 3-23. Jay borrows the phrase “scopic regime” from Christian Metz.
A more recent volume of essays on the subject of modernity and vision is David Michael
Levin, ed., Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1993).
26. Photography is also capable of such nonvisual images. The German artist Sigmar
Polke, for example, has produced a series of images by placing a piece of uranium on
sheets of photosensitive paper. The resulting “photographs” record the invisible radio¬
active energy of the stone—each bearing a different “image” of the same object. See
the exhibition catalogue Photography in Contemporary Germany: 1960 to the Present
(Minneapolis: Walker Art Center, 1992).
/////16
optical geometry.”27 The idea of visual images of pure quantity has an

important bearing on the problem of the fetish, since Marx claims that
the “phantom objectivity” of exchange value emerges from the trans¬
formation of quality into quantity, at the moment when the quality
of a thing’s use value becomes a quantity of abstract human labor
(Capital 125). Thus, the modernist conception of scientific objectivity
(as a precursor to nonvisual images of pure quantity) must be viewed
as an essential expression of the logic of fetishism. The problematic
visuality of the Marxian fetish coincides historically with the “formal¬
ization of vision” that Crary and Cartwright describe.
It should already be evident that Craiy (under Foucault’s influence)
also separates the history of perception from the history of represen¬
tation. In turn, he distinguishes these two sites of inquiry from (yet
sees them as symptomatic of) the more fundamental question of the
historical formation of subjectivity. Thus, any speculation regarding
the transformation of the modern visual sign, artifact, or apparatus
always entails other questions. First, what model of perception can we
deduce from the artifact? And second, what type of observer, or sub¬
ject, is embedded in the artifact and its implied model of visuality?
Indeed, as the title of his book (Techniques of the Observer) suggests,
Crary is less interested in modernist representations than in the arti-
factuality of physiological vision. He views specific modernist artifacts
(whether poems, paintings, or buildings) as afterimages of the decom¬
position of the autonomous subject. Correlating the triumph of objec¬
tivity with a specific historical formation of subjectivity, Crary writes,
“The achievement then of that kind of optical neutrality, the reduction
of the observer to a supposedly rudimentary state, was both an aim of
artistic experimentation . . . and a condition for the formation of an
observer who would be competent to consume the vast new amounts
of visual imagery and information increasingly articulated during this
same period” (96). Only by viewing the modernist artifact in relation
to the model of vision that it implies, and then by viewing both as
symptoms of a larger discursive formation of subjectivity, can we view
a modernist poem, for example, as being related to a specific political
discourse such as fascism. Cartwright takes this correlation a step fur-
27. Lisa Cartwright, “ ‘Experiments of Destruction’: Cinematic Inscriptions of Phys¬

iology,” Representations40 (Fall 1992): 134.
17 /////
A D I O CORPSE
ther by linking new configurations of “life” to the articulation of

“death” through scientific (and avant-garde) experimentation: “The
decline of sensory observation, and of sight in particular, accompanies
the development of visual instrumentation not for the production of
scientific knowledge in the observer, but for the reconfiguration of
life through the experimented-upon body” (136). We must therefore
assume that modernist images in any medium, as well as the artifact
of vision, are haunted by afterimages and remnants of archaic visual
formations—by the ghosts, for example, of verisimilitude, naturalism,
or realism. Still, we must ask—especially in the face of certainty—
“Where do the ghosts come (back) from?”28
As Crary sees it, the modern reconstruction of optical experience
implies that vision is constitutive. Modernism entails “a positive reor¬
ganization of the senses. The issue was not just how does one know
what is real, but that new forms of the real were being fabricated, and
a new truth about the capacities of a human subject was being artic¬
ulated in these terms” (92). Crary attributes this extraordinary rein¬
vention of reality and subjectivity to a single historical development,
namely “the insertion of a new term into discourses and practices of
vision: the human body, a term whose exclusion was one of the foun¬
dations of classical theories of vision and optics.”29 With the emer¬
gence of the new discipline of physiology in the nineteenth century
and its discovery that light is only one among a variety of stimuli that
are capable of producing visual experience, scientists began to develop
theories of vision that identified “the physiological makeup of the
subject as the site on which the formation of representation occurs”
(Crary, Technique 77). Furthermore, the study of neurophysiological
phenomena such as afterimages led to conceptions of “a new produc-
28. Having posed this question, having acknowledged the impossibility of exchange
(the impossibility of the fetish), we must resist the temptation to answer it—though it
must also be true that a ghostbuster believes in ghosts. See Keenan, “The Point Is to
(Ex)Change It,” p. 169.
29. Jonathan Crary, “Modernizing Vision,” in Foster, ed., Vision and Visuality, p. 33.
Although Crary argues that the incarnation of vision emerges historically as a result of
discoveries made in the nineteenth century, Barbara Stafford has demonstrated that the
investigation of this phenomenon must begin earlier, in the context of eighteenth-cen¬
tury theories of art and medicine. See her book Body Criticism: Imaging the Unseen in
Enlightenment Art and Medicine (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1991).
/////18
tive observer whose body has a range of capacities to generate visual

experience; it is a question of visual experience that does not refer or
correspond to anything external to the observing subject” (Crary,
“Modernizing Vision” 34).
As I have indicated, there are two primary consequences of what
Crary calls “the carnal embodiment of sight.” First, people come to
understand the visual perception of real external phenomena as a
product of neurophysiological and biochemical processes that can be
influenced by nonocular sources. The problem of modern spectator-
ship therefore asks: How do we draw the line between the transparency
of visual experience and the opacity of the physiological processes that
produce it? We must, in response, begin to acknowledge and to the¬
orize “the palpable opacity and carnal density of vision” (Technique
150). Indeed, I would argue, modernist theories of the image struggle
to comprehend opacity as a crucial and productive component of
vision. Furthermore, the incarnation of vision, which anchors the vis¬
ible in the body’s darkness, is precipitated by the visualization of the
unseen, by physiology’s penetration into the hidden recesses of the
body. This complex dialectic of incarnation has its ideological coun¬
terpart in the negativity of the modernist image, in the fetishized
superimposition of seeing and not seeing, blindness and insight. We
can thus say that the modernist image resists visuality in its specifically
carnal dimension, which in turn corresponds to the imageric subver¬
sion of visibility in modern formalism.
One must also emphasize that the carnal embodiment of sight
assumes a conception of the body as a physiologically productive appa¬
ratus. Images of the real are not received but conceived in the volatile
matrix of the body. Though this remarkable new conception of vision
emerges in the context of science, Crary reminds us that “what is in
question here is the discovery of the ‘visionary’ capacity of the human
body” (“Modernizing Vision” 34). Thus, what Derrida says of the
Kantian doctrine of aesthetic disinterestedness could well be said of
the scientific discourse of objectivity: “Utterly irreducible heteroaffec¬
tion inhabits—intrinsically—the most hermetic autoaffection” (“Par-
ergon” 13). Just as the disappearance of the object in the autonomous
image depends on its being translated into quantity, so the mortifi¬
cation of the subject assumed by the image reveals itself to be a tran-
19 /////
Radio corpse
substantiation (or translation) of the Cartesian subject into a visionary

body. Nothing disappears, and death is the shrine of nothing.
T he proper subject of my book is not a general theory of the image

or of vision, but a specific historical instance of what Martin Jay
calls the “scopic regimes of modernity.” The present study examines
Ezra Pound’s “Doctrine of the Image,” which in 1913 inaugurated
the poetics of Anglo-American modernism. The Imagist moment is
exemplary in the sense that it entails and portrays the conversion of
literary Decadence into a formation of the avant-garde—a metamor¬
phosis that is reiterated in countless other manifestations of mod¬
ernism. In Pound’s case, the emergence of Imagism in his career
coincides with his repudiation of what he calls the “corpse language”
of late Victorian poetry (which includes most of his own early poems).
More specifically, the Image (a term that I capitalize when it pertains
to Pound’s poetic conceptions) is the centerpiece of Pound’s efforts
to rid his work of an illicit—and obviously Decadent—infatuation
with dead bodies and ghosts, which in turn sustains a poetic language
exemplified by these figures. My revision of Pound’s aesthetic ideology
proceeds, therefore, by excavating from the poetics of Imagism (and
its immediate prehistory) a preoccupation with death and memory that
impedes his formalist agenda. I argue not only that the modern poetics
of “objectivity” (exemplified by the Image) is constructed on the basis
of Pound’s youthful experiments with “death” in poetic language, but
that the essential negativity of the Image (its objectivity) is formulated
as a cryptology, a poetics of decomposition and reanimation. The crypt
aesthetic of the Image survives, moreover, into its political afterlife via
Pound’s fusion of modernist practice and fascist ideology.
The essential negativity of the modernist Image identifies it, on one
hand, as advancing the poetics of “objectivity” and modern posi¬
tivism, but also, given its cryptic nature, as susceptible to hermeneu¬
tical or “mythological” structures of meaning. Thus, the modernist
Image, founded on a doctrine of impossibility—the impossible criteria
of objectivity—falls prey to a variety of phantasmic effects, also held
to be “objective,” which extend as far as Pound’s fascist radio broad¬
casts. Indeed, Pound originally conceived of the Image as a “radiant
///// 20
node or cluster”—a radioactive and “mythological” substance, con¬

ceived on the analogy of radium and endowed with telegraphic prop¬
erties. As such, the modernist Image appears in a certain physical and
ideological “frequency,” yet is continually verging, from its inception,
upon radiography (the art of radio images) and the “tribal magic” of
radio. Under certain historical circumstances, then, the Image is dis¬
placed along a spectrum that is at once material and ideological: the
Image conceived as a “radiant” cadaver becomes the voice of fascism,
converted by the medium of radio into the ghost of a lost aesthetic
(its political afterlife). In terms of aesthetic ideology, this radiological
phantom is indistinguishable not only from the “radiant” substance
of Image, but from the technical medium of radio, and must therefore
be viewed as the deranged fulfillment of Pound’s (and modernity’s)
program of literary and cultural positivism.
In more mundane terms, my speculation concerning a radiological
medium that veers between verbal and visual “frequencies” is rooted
in the assumption that the modernist poetic image entails a mediation
of visuality simply by its displacement of the image concept into a
verbal medium. A verbal image is visual only in a complex and rather
problematic sense. (On the larger question of what constitutes an
image, I would refer the reader to W. J. T. Mitchell’s seminal work,
Iconology.) Yet even if we acknowledge that Pound wished to exploit
certain features of the ideology of vision (such as its association with
objectivity) by designating modern poetry as imagistic, we must not
ignore the subversion of the visible and the empirical that he proposes
in the name of the Image. Thus, I will argue that the modernist poetic
Image is equivocally, but intentionally, nonvisual, insofar as it resists,
contests, and mediates the experience of visuality, but also in its pre¬
occupation with the invisible.30 Second, in its fascination with things
characterized by a peculiar resistance to appearing, to visibility, the
30. Herbert Schneidau has noted the resistance to visuality in the earliest expressions
of Imagism: “Although these poems neither rely on visual images nor conform very well
to any ‘theory of the Image’ as usually understood, we must face the fact that no visu¬
alization requirement nor theory of the Image is listed among the points agreed upon
by Pound, H.D. and Aldington.” Though Schneidau’s observation is valuable, it fails
to consider that Pound’s conception of the Image may be important precisely because
it does not conform to any “theory of the Image as usually understood.” More specif¬
ically, Schneidau neglects the possibility that one might retain a notion of the Image
21 /////
Radio corpse
necrophilic dimension of the Image is a fundamental expression of

objectivity’s inscrutable relation to fetishism. Furthermore, the nec¬
rophilic dimension of the Image raises a literary historical question
that overlaps yet is distinct from the cultural poetics of vision and
imagery. To what degree does Pound’s pursuit of objectivity via the
Image correspond to the development of a distinctively modern mode
of poetic elegy—indebted to Hardy and emerging from the experi¬
ences of war and exile? Given the abiding and generative yet also
ambivalent concern with death that Pound displays in his work (as
poet, translator, and critic), shouldn’t we question the conventional
wisdom of viewing T. S. Eliot as the exemplar of “elegiac mod¬
ernism”? Indeed, we should seriously consider whether it is not Eliot’s
but Pound’s work that articulates most suggestively and comprehen¬
sively a poetics of aberrant mourning that is specifically modern in its
reformulations of loss, pleasure, and visuality for the male poet.
Critical attention to Pound’s writings on the subject of the Image
almost invariably equates the Image with visuality and the origins of
a particular strain of modern poetry dominated by the sense of sight.
In addition, this critical history has been for the most part fixated on
the nature of the Image as sign or representation, or preoccupied with
a vague conception of “immediacy” that falls somewhere between the
realms of perception and representation. In a recent work by Vincent
Sherry, for example, one finds the claim that “the Vorticists’ own
program—it foresaw a literature written to the more demanding stan¬
dards of the visual arts—explains their attraction to the European
physiology of the senses, above all the superiority of the eye.”31
Although Sherry offers a valuable survey of the physiological specu¬
lations of writers such as Sorel, Benda, and LeBon, he stops short of
characterizing physiological vision as an artifact that is in fact shaped
by these theorists and by sources such as Pound’s writings on the
Image. In the case of Imagism, it is not simply that representation (the
poetics of the Image) is conditioned by an eccentric “ideologic” of
vision (which Sherry holds to be a distortion of the physical neutrality
that has “no visualization requirement.” Schneidau, Ezra Pound: The Image and the
Real (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1969), p. 8.
31. Vincent Sherry, Ezra Pound, Wyndham Lewis, and Radical Modernism (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1993), p. 5.
///// 22
of perception). Rather, “natural” vision and the semiotic properties

of the Image are entangled in a series of reciprocal alterations: influ¬
ence runs in both directions. According to Pound, the telegraphic
character of the Image requires alterations in the basic features of per¬
ception. Thus, the Image emerges as an instrument to reconstruct not
only the medium of poetic representation but the social artifacts of
vision and, more obliquely, subjectivity.
Following the methodology I outlined in the previous section, I
hope to avoid the misleading equation of Image and visuality—an
equation that inhibits recognition of the reciprocal relations between
artifactuality, perception, and subjectivity in the discursive formation
of the Image. Thus, in my estimation, the influence of the visual arts,
which is normally emphasized in discussions of Imagism, is important
but not decisive. It is essential to recall that the public declarations of
Vorticism take a clear stand against the confusion of artistic media—
a principle supported and frequently reiterated by Pound. Hence his
view that each artistic impulse occurs in a “primary form” (GB 81).
Although this does not prevent Pound from suggesting correspon¬
dences between poetry and sculpture (primarily because of its tactile
nature), it should also encourage the student of Imagism to take seri¬
ously the analogies drawn from physics, biology, mathematics, and
engineering—a mosaic of disciplines that indicates the discursive
foundation and ambitions of Imagism. Furthermore, critics rarely
acknowledge that the most celebrated figures of the Image (vortex,
ideogram, Freudian complex, algebraic equation, and so on) are curi¬
ously resistant to conventional notions of visual experience. The idea
of the Image as a Chinese ideogram, for example, clearly mediates the
experience of visualization in a manner that produces the visible realm
as an effect of reading rather than looking (insofar as reading is a kind
of looking, founded on blindness). Furthermore, conceived as a
vortex, the Image is even more remote from any stable or traditional
notion of a visual image. Imagism’s evocation of the opacity, or uncer¬
tainty, of vision, as well as the heterogeneity of Imagist rhetoric, indi¬
cates, as Martin Jay suggests, that “the scopic regime of modernity
may best be understood as a contested terrain, rather than a harmo¬
niously integrated complex of visual theories and practices” (“Scopic
Regimes” 4).
23 /////
U A D I O CORPSE
I am concerned, then, not merely with the modernist Image as a

sign (as a form of representation) but with the model of perception
and the type of observer that its formulation implies. My sometimes
elaborate speculations on the nature of the Image as a sign, and its
flight from meaning, are always shadowed by a question concerning
the observer as one who sees, but also as one who conforms or adheres
to, and abides by. What must the observer adhere to, in the act of
seeing (or not seeing) the Image? What notion of subjectivity (and
subjugation) does Pound’s Image theory imply? Ultimately, these
questions pertain to the difficult debate concerning the relation
between the Image (or, more broadly speaking, visuality) and fascism.
Are we to find, with Donald Davie, a line “clear and unbroken” from
Imagism to fascism?32 Or, as Robert von Hallberg argues, is Imagism
to be associated with the heyday of “anarchist individualism” prior to
World War I, and therefore fundamentally inconsistent with the “state
totalitarianism” of fascist Italy?33
Generally, there has been a strong tendency to equate visuality and
fascism—an echo, perhaps, of the imputed dominance of visuality in
the modern era (as if fascism were the essence of modernity). Russell
Berman, for example, claims that “the fascist modernist denounces
identities constituted by language, while expressing a desire for the
image freed of verbal mediation.”34 Sherry takes a similar position:
“The modernists’ new standard of visual immediacy in words led them
to esteem (what they saw as) a superior directness in the political cul¬
tures of Nazism and fascism” (7). In my view, aside from whether or
not their conclusions are correct, the terms of their arguments are
impaired by the same limitations that characterize the critical reception
of Imagism generally. Berman depends on an untenable and mis¬
leading conception of pure visuality as the index of fascism; whereas
Sherry, as I have already indicated, does not sufficiently articulate
32. Donald Davie, Purity of Diction in English Verse (New York: Schocken, 1967;
orig. pub. 1952), p. 99.
33. Robert von Hallberg, “Notes on Imagism and Politics,” paper delivered at the
Modern Language Association conference, Chicago, 1990.
34. Russell A. Berman, “Written Right Across Their Faces: Ernst Jiinger’s Fascist
Modernism,” in Modernity and the Text: Revisions of German Modernism, ed. Andreas
Huyssen and David Bathrick (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989), p. 75.
/////24
either the discursive character of vision or the incursions of the Image

into the histories of perception and subjectivity. Only by distin¬
guishing carefully between these latter two fields and the history of
the artifact, and then by establishing their symptomatic correspon¬
dences, can we determine what bearing the poetics of Imagism might
have on the formations of subjectivity that the politics of fascism
engender. Only by formulating, first of all, a sense of the pliability,
the blindness, of the observer implied in the rhetoric of the Image,
and, second, a notion of the kind of observer required by fascism (that
is, state totalitarianism), might we argue that the modernist Image
anticipates, or dictates from afar, Pound’s speculations on fascist cul¬
ture. We might then ask whether a theory of autonomous images bears
any relation to the rise of state fetishism, to Pound’s Rome Radio
broadcasts, or to the collapse of subject and artifact into a new medium
“half-way between writing and action” (SP217).35
Should we begin to think about the radio broadcasts as a culmina¬
tion of the radiology of the Image, a discourse of radio pictures—not
darkness visible, but the light of reason made invisible and displaced
along the magnetic spectrum? Is the cryptological Image merely dead,
or does the strangeness of the cadaver call to mind a thing animated
by negation and translated into its political afterlife by a technical
medium, by the “tribal magic” of radio? Is the autonomy of the Image
therefore an effect of its radioactivity—the incommensurable half-life
of an artifact that cannot be neutralized or eliminated?36 And, finally,
35. Writing about Lenin in 1928, Pound observed, “Apart from the social aspect, he
was of interest, technically, to serious writers. He never wrote a sentence that had interest
in itself, but he evolved almost a new medium, a sort of expression half-way between
writing and action.” Cited in Tim Redman, Ezra Pound and Italian Fascism (Cam¬
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), p. 74.
36. Elaine Scarry describes nuclear waste as an “autonomous object” that has severed
the reciprocal relation between the artifact and its maker: “An object that refuses to
surrender its referentiality will be destroyed; if it both refuses to surrender its referen-
tiality and cannot be destroyed, we then enter the nightmare situation of the sorcerer’s
apprentice.” The autonomy of this type of object does not stem primarily from its ani¬
mism (since all made objects, according to Scarry, are animated); rather, it stems from
a refusal to refer back to its maker or to anything other than itself. The modern, formalist
Image then begins to resemble the artifactuality of nuclear waste not only in its extreme
reflexivity but in its claims to objectivity and universality, which amount to a disavowal
of history and its own mortality. Scarry, The Body in Pain, p. 365, n. 79.
25 /////
Radio corpse
shouldn’t we view the strange materiality of the Image, which is

somehow radioactive, as the sign at once of immortality and mortal
danger?
P ound began his career as a poet fascinated by scenes of loss, by

mournful “spirits” that often refused to appear openly, and by
their resistance to visibility. Yet the gradual emergence of the figure
of the Image around 1912 signals an estrangement from the realm of
the dead, from the veil and compulsion of mediation that governs all
contact with the dead. The modern poet would seek to converse
directly with things. At the same time, the Image becomes the dis¬
placed object of sightless vision (the poet’s means of apprehending
the dead) and of the negative pleasure of mourning. The Image, like
the “cadaverous dead,” submits to visibility only to withdraw from it.
The immediate—though overlooked—context for Pound’s ambig¬
uous and still puzzling correlation of death and visuality (which finds
death encrypted in the Image) is one of his earliest translation projects,
the Sonnets and Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti, published in 1912. These
translations provide an indispensable key to the necrophilic dimension
of the modernist Image. Indeed, I will argue that Pound’s conception
of the Image cannot be properly understood without reference to his
theory of translation and exchange, a debt that further illuminates the
contribution of Imagism to fetish discourse. It is through his trans¬
lation of Cavalcanti’s poems that Pound first discovers the Image that
blinds and annihilates, as well as the Image as a medium or sign that
preserves, even as it conceals, the power of death. Further compli¬
cating the translational effect of the Image is the fact that the effects
of World War I confuse historically Pound’s attempt to break, or to
formalize, the elegiac spell of the dead. It is no coincidence that the
most comprehensive treatment of the Image occurs in his memoir of
the young sculptor Gaudier-Brzeska (who died in battle in 1915), a
book of the dead that records not only the poet’s grief over the loss
of his friend but gruesome descriptions of the battlefield from Gau-
dier’s letters, as well as Pound’s repugnance at the destructiveness of
the war in general. Indeed, the public act of mourning Gaudier and
///// 26
the anonymous dead must be understood as a perilous restaging of

the poetics of Imagism.
The historical tendency to characterize Imagism as a doctrine of
impersonality and objectivity must therefore somehow accommodate
a submerged economy of loss and mourning. This can be accom¬
plished, however, only by claiming—in complete contradiction to the
received wisdom about the nature of Imagism—that Pound’s concep¬
tion of the Image neglects the “real” and even actively seeks to sever
itself from the empirical object. At the same time, we must give full
consideration to Pound’s inclination to align the poetics of Imagism
with the scientific discourse of objectivity. Recalling Daston and Gal-
ison’s comment about “the negative forms of all objectivity,” we are
struck by the almost entirely negative or prohibitive character of the
basic tenets of Imagism, including “a series of about forty cautions to
beginners” (GB 84). The Imagist poem, which Pound calls an “ob¬
jective reality” (GB 85), is essentially the precipitate or remnant of a
regime of prohibitions. The result is a poem composed of “the smallest
possible number of words” (LE 50), an Image that appears and then
returns to obscurity, indeed, appears with the sole aim of enacting its
disappearance. By resisting the duplicity of appearance, the objectivity
of the poetic Image ultimately veers toward tautology—a crumbling
of the distinction between sign and object: “The serious artist is sci¬
entific in that he presents the image of his desire, of his hate, of his
indifference, as precisely that, precisely the image of his own desire,
hate, or indifference” (LE 46). Indeed, some of the earliest and most
perceptive responses to Imagism noted the tautological character of
the Image. In 1915, for example, May Sinclair wrote, “The Image is
not a substitute; it does not stand for anything but itself . . . You
cannot distinguish between the thing and its image.”37
It is not a question, therefore, of whether Pound sees the Image as
objective; it is a question of what he understands by “science” and
what becomes of the object in the discourse of poetic objectivity. An
article that Pound published in 1912—around the time he was for¬
mulating the poetics of Imagism—suggests that the fate of the object
37. May Sinclair, “Two Notes,” The Ejyoist2 (1915): 88-89.
27 /////
Radio corpse
is not entirely secure in the discourse of poetic “objectivity.” Citing

a “scientific and satisfactory definition of poetry” from an unnamed
author,38 Pound concurs that in poetry “all animate, inanimate, and
intangible things may assume the properties and attributes of tangible,
living, thinking, and speaking things, possessing the power of
becoming what they seem, or of transfiguration into what they sug¬
gest” (SP 359). Poetry, then, in its “scientific definition,” appears to
be equivalent to a form of animism—quite distinct, apparently, from
the stutter of tautology. Yet if tautology dictates that the Image is
identical to its object, then the object must exhibit the inherent ambi¬
guity of the Image, and thus always points beyond itself to its super¬
fluous other. Naught copulating with naught, tautology produces an
open cancellation, an Image that, by its very meaninglessness, its inno¬
cence, is continually susceptible to hidden values and significance.
Tautology, engulfing the objects of both poetry and science, therefore
engenders an art of cryptography, as we learn from Pound’s analogy
of “a few sheets of paper covered with arbitrary symbols—without
which we should have no wireless telegraph” (SP 362). Implicidy
comparing poetry to the equation on which telegraphy is based (the
advance signal of radio), Pound asks, “Is the formula nothing, or is it
cabala and the sign of unintelligible magic? The engineer, under¬
standing and translating to the many, builds for the uninitiated bridges
and devices. He speaks their language. For the initiated, the signs are
a door to eternity and into the boundless ether” (SP 362). Following
the logic of this analogy, several years later Pound will describe the
Image as an algebraic equation whose signs have “variable signifi¬
cance” (GB 84).
From the analogy of mathematical formulas, we can begin to under¬
stand how the discourse of scientific (and poetic) objectivity can sever
itself from the empirical object. As Pound sees it, the “arbitrary sym¬
bols” of scientific objectivity (epitomized by mathematics) have a
double significance. On one hand, these symbols point to an object
in the world and can serve as a set of instructions for building such an
38. Ian F. A. Bell has identified the unnamed author as Hudson Maxim, whose book
The Science of Poetry and the Philosophy of Language (1910) Pound cites. See Bell,
“Mauberley’s Barrier of Style,” in Philip Grover, ed., Ezra Pound: The London Tears,
1908-1920 (New York: AMS Press, 1978), pp. 107-108.
///// 28
object. Yet, to the “initiated,” who are capable of eliciting another

meaning from the “formula,” these signs point beyond the object. It
is this metaphysical reference that Pound associates not only with the
more exalted objectivity of science but with the art of poetry. Histor¬
ically speaking, however, this cryptic dimension of objectivity is not at
all metaphysical, but rather a restructuring of the object of perception
and of perception itself, in response to the modern proliferation of
visual signs.
Although Pound is inclined to draw upon analogies from the visual
arts to explain his evolving conception of the Image, a close look at
these comparisons reveals that the Image is increasingly resistant to
natural vision and acts as an enigmatic “key” to new perceptual orders.
In The Spirit of Romance, where one often finds frank discussion of
dimensions of the Image that later become submerged, Pound claims,
There are two kinds of beautiful painting and one may perhaps
illustrate by the works of Burne-Jones and Whistler; one looks at
the first kind of painting and is immediately delighted by its
beauty; the second kind of painting, when first seen, puzzles one,
but on leaving it, and going from the gallery one finds new beauty
in natural things—a Thames fog, to use the hackneyed example.
Thus, there are works of art which are beautiful objects and works
of art which are keys or pass-words admitting one to a deeper
knowledge, to a finer perception of beauty. (SR 154)
Although Pound makes the art of Burne-Jones stand for the qualities
of his own earliest poetry (which he has not yet entirely relinquished),
it is a painting by Whistler, whom Pound once called “the great gram¬
marian of the arts” (GB 122), that provides an example of art capable
of revising, and even creating, habits of perception. Yet this image is
remarkable for its opacity—it even depicts a phenomenon, fog, that
inhibits visibility while stimulating certain hallucinatory effects. As in
the cases of the Marxian fetish and Blanchot’s image-cadaver (as well
as the inscrutable painting in Moby-Dick), Whistler’s painting does not
reveal itself “when first seen.” The image yields its “puzzling” sig¬
nificance only through the blindness of second sight: only by not
looking at the image, by leaving the gallery, does the observer finally
“see” the image, not so much as a visual phenomenon in itself but as
an ideological form, a phantom, that haunts and eventually transforms
29 /////
Radio corpse
the habitual forms of nature. We should also note that the idea of the
Image as a “password” or “key” evokes a conception of visual per¬
ception as something akin to the art of cryptography, and a world that
is at once deciphered by, and captive to, certain cryptic images.
It is essential to emphasize Pound’s view that the ultimate aim of
Imagism is to transform vision or perception itself (and not merely the
art or medium of poetry). In his essay on Vorticism, Pound cites
approvingly a “Russian correspondent” on the nature of the Vorticist
Image: “I see, you wish to give people new eyes, not to make them
see some new particular thing” (GB 85).39 In addition, several com¬
ments Pound made about the vortoscope, a photographic apparatus
that he and Alvin Langdon Coburn invented, convey a similar aware¬
ness of the artifactuality of vision. In the catalogue essay for a show of
Coburn’s vortographs in 1917, Pound writes, “The tool called the
vortoscope was invented in late 1916. Mr. Coburn had been long
desiring to bring cubism or vorticism into photography. Only with
the invention of a suitable instrument was this possible” (EPVA 154).
It is significant that vortographic images can be produced only with
the invention of a new apparatus, a change that is internal to the per¬
ceptual mechanism (though this “tool” is, in fact, a technical medium
that externalizes the sense of sight). It is not sufficient merely to con¬
struct composite images, to use the technique of montage (which is
external to the mechanism); rather, vortographs are the integral prod¬
ucts of a new perceptual mechanism, one that is incapable of “seeing”
realistic images. Furthermore, Pound claims, “Vortography may have,
however, very much the same place in the coming aesthetic that the
anatomical studies of the Renaissance had in the aesthetics of the aca¬
demic school” (EPVA 156). In a remark that reminds us of Daston
and Galison’s thesis about the role of nineteenth-century scientific
atlases in the construction of the concept of objectivity, Pound sug-
39. A book by Nils Ake Nilsson on Russian “Imaginism” reveals the identity of this
anonymous correspondent and the surprising legacy of this interview: “The appearance
of Russian Imaginism is usually connected with an article in a literary collection, The
Archer (Strelec), published in 1915 ... The article in question was an interview by
Zinaida Vengerova with the American poet Ezra Pound under the title English Futurists
(Anglyskiefuturisty).” Nilsson goes on to explain how the Russian Imaginist movement
was founded in 1916 after the example of English Vorticism and, to no small degree,
following the tenets that Pound prescribed in the interview. See Nilsson, The Russian
Imaginists (Stockholm: Almquist and Wiksell, 1970), p. 7.
/////30
gests that vortography will provide a similar atlas of “objective” reality

(based on the analogy of Renaissance atlases that transformed percep¬
tion by incorporating new discoveries in anatomy and optical per¬
spective). The atlas of vortography, however, will provide the
perceptual standards for a nonrepresentational objectivity—a scopic
regime of invisibility and the negative image.
Though analogies from the visual arts, such as vortography, can help
us determine the nature or status of the object in Imagist poetics, such
analogies may be even more effective in enabling us to determine what
the Image is not, or what escapes the observer implied by the auton¬
omous Image. Pound claims in 1918, for example, that “literature”
(characterized presumably by the basic principles of Imagism) does
not share with the cinema a common subject matter: “It [cinema] is
an excellent medium for news. News is the antipodes of literature . . .
It should be an excellent medium for instructing children in botany,
physics, geography, zoology, the costume of foreign peoples, the
appearance of foreign cities, and the process of manufacturing. It
makes excellent ‘historic’ records . . . The cinema is the phonograph
of appearance” (EPVA 79). If we view the cinema as the “antipodes”
of the poetic Image, then we could say that the poetic Image, as a
medium, is inhospitable to representations of nature, of technology,
and of foreign peoples and places (the historical legacy of colonialism).
Indeed, as Pound sees it, the Image seems to be estranged from history
generally and from all “appearances.” The Image does not seek, then,
to make the world its object, or to record history or the visibility of
things; nor is it an expression of personal feelings, desire, or sentiment.
We must bear in mind May Sinclair’s observation that the Image “does
not stand for anything but itself.” The Image is strange, indeed—an
autonomous thing.
If we take the vortoscope as a mechanization of Imagist poetics, the
severing of the Image from its empirical object is quite unambiguous.
In a letter to John Quinn, Pound writes, “Don’t know that there is
much to report save that Coburn and I invented the vortescope [sic],
a simple device which frees the camera from reality and lets one take
Picasso direct from nature.”40 The idea that “objective” Images
should turn away from “reality,” from the empirical object, appears
40. From a letter to Quinn dated October 13, 1916, several months before Coburn’s
31 /////
Radio corpse
again and again in Pound’s statements about Imagism: “The image is

the poet’s pigment . . . He should depend, of course, on the creative,
not upon the mimetic or representational” (GB 86); “The hard stone
is not the live coney. Its beauty cannot be the same beauty” (GB 107).
In a letter to Alice Henderson and Harriet Monroe in 1917, protesting
their definition of Imagism in their anthology The New Poetry (1917),
Pound is emphatic about the nonempirical orientation of Imagism: “I
shall never accept the statement that ‘poetry, new or otherwise’ looks
outward rather than inward . . . Imagism of the first book ‘Des Imag-
istes’ NEVER, never looking out rather than in.”41 Furthermore,
Pound’s promotion of nonrepresentational art coincides with his skep¬
ticism concerning a purely visual aesthetic. Indeed, he criticizes Ford
Madox Ford, who is normally cited as an important influence on Ima¬
gism, for being excessively visual in his orientation: “I think Hueffer
goes wrong because he bases his criticism on the eye, and almost solely
on the eye.”42 If we correlate this observation with Pound’s earlier
judgment that “Mr. Hueffer is not an imagiste but an impressionist,”
it is clear that the principles of Imagism depart in some fundamental
sense from the realm of the visible.43 This perspective helps explain
Pound’s observations concerning Gaudier-Brzeska’s “hieratic” sculp¬
ture of him: “A kindly journalist ‘hopes’ that it does not look like me.
It does not. It was not intended to” (GB 49). The Vorticist Image
implies, therefore, that poets do not merely turn a blind eye to what
physically exists, but that they represent something invisible, some¬
thing that lacks a sensible basis in the natural world.
Several letters of Pound’s from the Vorticist period offer an index
of his anxieties about imagery in general, based on his comments about
the capacities of various types of imagery to capture his own likeness.
exhibit. The Selected Letters of Ezra Pound to John Quinn: 1915-1924, ed. Timothy
Materer (Durham: Duke University Press, 1991), p. 88.
41. The Letters of Ezra Pound to Alice Corbin Henderson, ed. Ira B. Nadel (Austin:
University ofTexas Press, 1993), p. 206. Pound’s correspondence to Henderson on the
subject of Imagism is among the most revealing material available on this period of his
career.
42. Pound, “On Criticism in General,” The Criterion 1, no. 2 (January 1923): 146.
43. Pound’s comment about Ford Madox Ford appears in a note that concludes his
review of Ford’s Collected Poems, in Poetry 2, no. 3 (June 1914): 120. This phrase does
not occur in the essay as it appears in Pound’s Literary Essays (LE 371-377).
///// 32
In these letters the tension between the visible and the invisible—a
tension that distinguishes Pound’s conception of the Image—comes
to focus on the problem of resemblance, especially when it is com¬
pounded by “distance.” In a letter to James Joyce in 1915, for
example, Pound goes on at some length about the inadequacy of var¬
ious images of himself:
Also I solemnly swear that I will someday send you a photograph;

at present I am torn between conflicting claims. I have an exces¬
sively youthful and deceptive photograph (very rare edition). I have
several copies of a photo of a portrait of me, painted by an amiable
jew who substituted a good deal of his own face for the gentile
parts of my own. I have the seductive and sinister photograph by
Coburn which I expect to have photograved in order to sell my
next book of bad poems. It is like a cinque, or quattrocento
painting. My father-in-law says “A sinister but very brilliant
italian.” My old landlady said “It is the only photograph that has
ever done you justice,” and then as she was sidling out of the
door, with increasing embarrassment: “ah, ah. I. I hope you won’t
be offended, sir, but it is rather like the good man of Nazareth,
isn’t it sir?”
Dante, you remember at the beginning of the episde to Can
Grande (at least I think it is there) mentions a similar predicament
about presenting oneself at a distance. It is my face, so I can not be
represented in your mind by that Semitic image alone (which I
enclose), it is my face as it may have been years ago, or my face
greatly beautified, or as I enclose, my face immortalized by vorticist
sculpture, which I enclose, this bust is monumental, but it will be
no use to the police, it is hieratic, phallic, even, if you will consider
the profiles not shown in the photograph.
No, I will either, get a new photo, or send you the photogravure
in good time. (P/J35)
On the basis of this letter, there can be little doubt that Pound’s inten¬
tions (and his ideas about the talismanic powers of photography) are
“torn by conflicting claims.”44 All of the images, according to Pound,
are “deceptive” in some fashion; each is susceptible to some form of
44. Pound expresses similar concerns about a photo of himself sent to Kate Buss in
1916: “It is the most recent, probably the most disagreeable, and slightly resembles Mr.
Shaw, which I do not” (L 72). Apparendy, Pound wishes to send a photo that accu¬
rately represents his present appearance (“the most recent”), even at the risk of sending
33 /////
M A D I O CORPSE
misrecognition or confused identity, which becomes implicated in the

problem of “representing oneself at a distance” (a problem, according
to Blanchot, that is characteristic of images in general). Pound’s solu¬
tion, apparently, is to send Joyce all of the images.
In his letter to Joyce, Pound mentions four photographs. The first
is a picture of him as a youth, which he labels “deceptive” (presumably
because he no longer resembles the photograph, but also, perhaps,
because of its archaic style). The second is a photograph of a portrait
painted by an “amiable jew who substituted a good deal of his own
face” for Pound’s—an instance of mimetic violence as well as mimetic
enchantment. The third image is a “vortograph” by Alvin Coburn,
which appeared as the frontispiece to Lustra.45 And the fourth image
is a photograph of Gaudier-Brzeska’s famous bust of Pound (which
manages to “immortalize” Pound’s features). It is interesting to note,
in view of Pound’s concern about distance and mediation, that he
tends to favor the more highly mediated images—the ones resistant
to visible evidence. The vortograph is a shadowy affair inspired by
cubism, and two of the other images are photographs of other works
of art. Only the photo taken in his youth is, we assume, “realistic,”
yet he rejects it as being “deceptive.” Pound’s dissatisfaction with this
portrait suggests that he does not regard the mimetic image as the
most authentic or revealing. Indeed, the most reliable image, to his
mind, is more likely to be a “vortograph,” or a photo of an abstract
sculpture. Yet this contradiction also reveals the degree to which
Pound views all images as unreliable, or inscrutable, in some fashion.
The visual image must somehow depict what cannot be seen.
Our characterization of the two images favored by Pound (the vor-
one that is “disagreeable.” The risk of misrepresentation seems, however, to be una¬

voidable, since the poet feels compelled to warn the reader that the photo resembles
George Bernard Shaw, though he himself does not. Other correspondence from the
years 1915 and 1916 confirms Pound’s inclination during this period to send photo¬
graphs of himself to friends, along with an expression of his concern about the reliability
of the image. In a letter to Pound in 1916, Alice Henderson reassures him: “I’m awfully
glad to have that little picture of you. It looks just like you to me!” (Letters to Alice
Henderson, p. 149).
45. This photograph is reproduced in Richard Humphrey, Pound’s Artists: Ezra
Pound and the Visual Arts in London, Paris, and Italy (Tondon: Tate Gallery, 1985),
p. 70.
/ / / / / 34
tograph and Gaudier’s sculpture) should not rely on categories such

as abstraction or formalism, unless we understand these concepts as
being resistant to the experience or constitution of “natural” vision.
Evidendy, Pound seeks an Image representing something that does
not appear, or that does not make an appearance in the world; yet it
is also specifically an Image of something that cannot be seen, of some¬
thing that exceeds the capacity of “natural” vision. In its simplest
aspect, this resistance to visuality informs a statement such as, “Don’t
be descriptive; remember that the painter can describe a landscape
much better than you can” (LE 6). In a bolder conception, the strange
visuality of the Image assumes a material or carnal density. It becomes
opaque: “There are two ways of thinking of a man: firstly, you may
think of him as that toward which perception moves, as the toy of
circumstance, as the plastic substance receiving impressions; secondly,
you may think of him as directing a certain fluid force against circum¬
stance, as conceiving instead of merely reflecting and observing” (GB
89). It is no longer sufficient to argue, as most critics do, that Pound’s
notion of perception is merely a figure of speech illustrating a poetics
of volition or action. Rather, following the work of Crary and others
on modern, physiological conceptions of vision, we must view it not
as an analogy at all but as a literal description of visual perception.
(The “literal” description remains figurative, of course, in its suscep¬
tibility to ideologies of gender and political domination.) Thus, the
transparency of visual experience, epitomized by reflection and obser¬
vation, has become a “fluid force,” a physiological process that shapes
not only perception but “circumstance” and the external object.
“Vision” collides with circumstance, engendering the Image from a
nonvisual or sightless encounter with the real.
Clearly, we are at the threshold of Crary’s conception of the
“visionary body” and the “carnal embodiment of sight.” In fact,
Pound’s reference to perception as a “fluid force” suggests that by
the date of this essay (1916) he was already aware of Re my de Gour-
mont’s ideas about physiological style and spermatozoic images.46 If
46. Pound’s first review of Gourmont’s work appears in 1915: “Remy de Gourmont:
A Distinction,” Fortnightly Review 98, no. 588 (December 1915): 1161. Moreover, in
a letter to his father in 1913, Pound indicates that he hopes to meet Gourmont person¬
ally in Paris (L 21).
35 /////
Radio corpse
I am correct about Pound’s familiarity with Gourmont’s Natural Phi¬

losophy of Love during the Vorticist period, then we can partly explain
the peculiar opacity of the modernist Image, as Crary suggests, by a
physiological theory of vision. But the question of dates, while signif¬
icant, is not decisive, since Pound’s ideas about poetry betrayed the
influence of physiology and biomedical discourse long before he pub¬
lished his translation of The Natural Philosophy of Love in 1922.
Pound makes it clear that the physiological model of perception
implied by the Image is “creative” or eonstitutive: “Our respect is not
for the subject matter, but for the creative power of the artist; for that
which he is capable of adding to his subject from himself; or, in fact,
his capability to dispense with external subjects altogether, to create
from himself” (GB 98). In work of this kind, there is no external
object to be seen or grasped; the Image derives from experience that
is essentially nonvisual. Or, rather, the “objective” or constitutive
nature of vision is conceived as dominating external things and facts.
Invoking once again the analogy of the Image as a mathematical equa¬
tion, Pound writes, “The statements of‘analytics’ are ‘lords’ over fact.
They are thrones and dominations that rule over form and recurrence.
And in like manner are great works of art lords over fact” (GB 92).
The idea that certain abstract forms of representation (or perception)
hold absolute power over “facts” suggests that Pound’s theories of
imagery and visuality aspire to rebuild not only subjective experience
(as something impersonal) but the “real” (the factual) itself. Thus,
the domination of Images over things and facts actually constitutes a
fabrication of things and facts—a poetics of revolutionary ideology,
which eventually finds a “cause” in fascism. The fetishistic objectivity
of the Image coincides therefore with its power to change things,
which starts with the entombment of subject and object, and which
elaborates, poetically, the spectral (and material) negativity of death.
The sudden indeterminacy of the cadaver—veering, like the fetish,
between mystery and inertia, between image and thing—becomes an
emblem of the lability of all things.
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C R 2
7////////////Z /
ortal Images
“He is knowledge’s lover,” as Glenway Wescott has said, “speaking of

it and to it an intimate idiom which is sometimes gibberish,” and if his
equivalents for that which is “dead” or foreign seem to some not
always perspicuous, his contagiously enjoyable enjoyment of and his
unpedantic rendering of “dead” language have done as much as have
his poems, one feels—to create an atmosphere in which poetry is likely
to be written.
—Marianne Moore, “ ‘New’ Poetry since 1912”
Many readers of modern poetry are familiar with the principles of

Imagism, or at least with the name of the movement, even if they have
never read Ezra Pound’s poetry. The general reader associates the
figure of the Image in modern poetry with empirical values—direct
observation of actual experience—and with a revival of the virtues of
a classical style: economy, precision, restraint.1 This popular formula¬
tion, which conveys, while also moderating, the essential negativity of
the project that Pound initiated in 1913 with “A Few Don’ts by an
Imagiste,” serves as an index for literary historians who describe Ima¬
gism as “the grammar school of modern poetry, the instruction and
drill of basic principles,” or as the center of a “revolution in the lit¬
erature of the English language as momentous as the Romantic one.”2
Stephen Spender makes a comparable claim about Imagism as it cor-
1. My decision to capitalize the term “Image” follows Pound’s practice—never

entirely consistent—-of distinguishing between his own conceptions of the Image and
general notions of verbal or graphic imagery.
2. The first view is cited by David Perkins in A History of Modern Poetry: From the
A D I O CORPSE
responds to the major developments of modernism in other artistic

media: “The aims of the imagist movement in poetry provide the
archetype of a modern creative procedure.”* * 3 Such views, though over¬
stated, are characteristic of inherited notions about the formalist ori¬
entation of Anglo-American modernism as it first emerged prior to
World War I. The actual conception of the Image, however, has been
all but eclipsed, garbled in successive revisions of the antipoetic plat¬
form that it helped construct.4 Reduced to a formulaic, all-too-obvious
position in modern poetry, the Image—as it is normally construed—
appears vaguely inauthentic, incommensurate with its foundational
role. How could a revival of values such as brevity and precision, even
if they were not widely appreciated at the time, have triggered a literary
revolt? In the course of its historical transmission, the Image seems to
have gained in stature what it has lost in substance.
Or perhaps the concept of the modernist Image has gained in sub¬
stance what it has lost in creative and critical efficacy—in the sense
that Pound originally launched Imagism as a movement against sub¬
stance in all of its various implications: gravity, authority, plenitude,
excess, intoxication. It is essential to recall that Pound explicitly iden¬
tified Imagism as a critical movement, distinguished by its negativity.
In his essay on Vorticism, published in 1914, Pound writes, “As a
‘critical’ movement, the ‘Imagisme’ of 1912 to ’14 set out ‘to bring
poetry up to the level of prose’ ” (GB 83). Furthermore, he explains,
“Imagisme, in so far as it has been known at all, has been known chiefly
as a stylistic movement, as a movement of criticism rather than of
creation. This is natural, for, despite all possible celerity of publication,
the public is always, and of necessity, years behind the artists’ actual
thought” (GB 82). In the case of Imagism, what remained years ahead
of public awareness was not so much specific poetic practice, or even
notions of poetic form, but, as Pound explains, critical “thought.” In
1890s to the High Modernist Mode (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1976),
p. 329. The second opinion is Graham Hough’s in Image as Experience (Lincoln: Uni¬
versity of Nebraska Press, 1960), p. 4.
3. Stephen Spender, The Struggle of the Modern (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1963), p. 110.
4. For a discussion oflmagism’s influence on the antipoetic thrust of modernism, and
on the Objectivist movement in particular, see Robert von Hallberg, Charles Olson: The
Scholar’s Art (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1978), pp. 116, 171-173.
///// 38
Mortal Images
this regard, we can compare Imagism to manifestations of the histor¬

ical avant-garde, such as Dada (with which Pound was later involved),
whose “works” are less important than the critical perspective that
informs the works (though Imagism’s critique does not extend to the
institution of art as such). Indeed, this is precisely how critics imme¬
diately involved in the historical context of Imagism have perceived
its significance. In his Criterion commentary of July 1937, T. S. Eliot
wrote, “The accomplishment of the Imagist movement in verse seems
to me, in retrospect, to have been critical rather than creative; and as
criticism, very important.” It is in this spirit that the concept of the
Image must be recovered from its historical substantiation and decline
into pure visuality. Though Pound’s conception of the Image was
constantly evolving, it retained its essential negativity, its resistance to
substantiation: what began as a critique of style and poetic language
developed into a broader cultural, economic, and political critique.
This implies, of course, that we must seek the roots of Pound’s fascist
cultural critique in the essential negativity of the Image. It also implies
that any attempt to reconstruct the antithetical character of the
Image—the basis of a movement without substance—must proceed by
focusing primarily on poetics rather than poems, theory rather than
practice (though such a division, in Pound’s case, is particularly
unstable).
The insubstantial character of the Image troubles critics who are
suspicious, understandably, of its status as a virtual icon of twentieth-
century poetics. Seeking to correct various distortions, some of
Pound’s best critics have challenged historical assumptions regarding
the importance of Imagism in Pound’s career and the development of
modern poetics. The skepticism of these critics has often proved more
effective—inadvertently—at disclosing the powerful tensions that sus¬
tain the figure of the Image than have the standard apologies for Imag¬
ism. R. P. Blackmur, for example, calls Imagism “a mere lively heresy
of the visual in the verbal,” a comment that alludes to historical con¬
troversies Uniting religious and verbal images, even as it dismisses
Imagism as nothing more than a witty transgression.5 In a more
polemical context, Hugh Kenner condemns Imagism as a “red her-
5.K P. Blackmur, cited in Hugh Witemeyer, The Poetry of Ezra Pound: Forms and
Renewal, 1908-1920 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969), p. 35.
39 /////
R A D I O CORPSE
ring” in the evolution of Pound’s ideas about poetry. This charge is

later echoed by Ronald Bush, who describes the ideogram (a promi¬
nent figure for the Image) as a “red herring” in the search for the
genesis of the Cantos.6 In both cases, the analogy of the red herring
implies not only that the Image means less than it signifies, but that
its appearance is deceptive, misleading. These charges, which attempt
to defuse the originary power attributed to the Image, are typical fea¬
tures of the rhetoric of iconoclasm—a strategy that often undermines
its own premises by emphasizing, negatively, the potency of the image.
For example, Kenner’s analogy of the red herring portrays the Image
as a kind of bait or decoy (a potentially dangerous kind of image).
Indeed, he disparages the Image by stressing its materiality and its
powers of deception. In a later work, he corroborates this etymological
subtext when he refers to the Image as an “enigmatic stone” that
“continues to create its distracting turbulence.”7 Once again, he
describes the Image tautologically, as a charm or a fetish, a source of
turbulence and distraction. Yet the Image, in this case, seems to mean
more, not less, than it signifies; the stone is mute, “enigmatic,” yet
surrounded by turbulence that it somehow creates. The Image is fun¬
damentally untrustworthy: a red herring lures the critic into irrele¬
vance—it’s a dead end, whereas the “enigmatic stone” harbors an
inscrutable meaning. The Image, as Kenner has it, always means either
more or less than it signifies. This would suggest that the figure of the
Image warrants greater scrutiny, yet the resistance of critics such as
Kenner and Bush does little to counter or correct the position of those
who emphasize the importance of Imagism without registering the
turbulence surrounding it.
To exhume the remains of Imagism (and, by implication, of mod¬
ernist poetics), we must begin by delineating three distinct tiers of
Imagist rhetoric. The first, or most prominent, is what Kenner calls
“technical hygiene”—the prohibitions enunciated by Pound in “A
Few Don’ts by an Imagiste” (the aspect of Imagism that is most
6. Hugh Kenner, The Poetry of Ezra Pound (New York: New Directions, 1951),p. 58.
Ronald Bush, The Genesis of Ezra Pound’s Cantos (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1976), pp. 13-15.
7. Hugh Kenner, The Pound Era (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971),
p. 173.
/////40
Mortal Images
familiar to readers). The second tier of Imagism encompasses the

ensemble of disparate figures that Pound employs to describe the
Image (mask, translation, Freudian complex, algebraic equation, ide¬
ogram, vortex, and so on). The heterogeneity of this ensemble has
historically resisted a coherent account of the Image, and continues
to act as a formidable barrier to understanding the broader implica¬
tions and affinities of the Image. A third dimension of Pound’s con¬
ception of the Image, beyond the rules of hygiene and beyond the
menagerie of figures, clearly controverts the first tier. This third
dimension belongs to the shadowy “Doctrine of the Image,” which
Pound alludes to, but declines to discuss, in the first public announce¬
ment of Imagism in 1913.8 He is reluctant to speak about it, in part
because it undermines the rigorous formalism of the Imagist mani¬
festo. This hidden dimension of the Image is a relic of Pound’s earliest
poetry, and is associated with visionary experience, dreams, and phan¬
toms. It survives covertly in a trio of cognate terms employed by
Pound in his poetry and criticism, which betray the phantasmic origin
of the modernist Image: “phanopoeia,” “phantastikon,” and “phan¬
tasmagoria.” In broader terms, what I am calling the cryptic dimen¬
sion of the Image is entangled with the problem of “beauty” in
modern art. More provocatively, beauty—from a modernist perspec¬
tive—becomes associated with kitsch, and thus we can view kitsch as
a foreign or cryptic body lodged in the discourse of modern formalism.
By situating the three divergent aspects of Imagism (its technique,
its figurative emblems, its cryptic “Doctrine”) within Pound’s nascent
poetics, we are obliged to regard literary positivism as conserving a
remnant of a Decadent interest in the occult, or to regard poetic
“technique” as a residual formation of “telepathy.” Restored to its
syncretic origins, the technological face of the Image is riddled with
ghosts, vortices, and ideograms. A certain binarism persists, however,
in some of the most important recent scholarship on Imagism—schol¬
arship that concerns the role and significance of H.D. in the founding
of poetic modernism. This revisionary work tends to argue that the
8. In “A Few Don’ts by an Imagiste” Pound remarks, “They held a certain ‘Doctrine

of the Image,’ which they had not committed to writing; they said that it did not concern
the public, and would provoke useless discussion.” Poetry 1, no. 6 (March 1913): 200-
206. When Pound reprinted portions of the Imagist manifesto in 1918, he deleted this
passage (LE 4-7).
41 /////
Radio corpse
primary (and often divergent) features of Imagism are to be associated

either with Pound or with H.D. This approach has helped clarify or
correct certain longstanding obscurities and misrepresentations in the
critical history of modern poetry. Cyrena Pondrom, for example,
argues persuasively that between Pound’s enunciation of the cryptic
“Doctrine of the Image” and his subsequent disfiguring of the Image
into vortex and ideogram, H.D.’s early poems intervene decisively in
the technical dimension of the Image concept.9 Thus, according to
Pondrom, the principles most commonly associated with Imagism (its
negativity, its “technical hygiene”) are indebted to the model of
H.D.’s poems. Although Pondrom’s essay accomplishes the important
work of restoring H.D. to her rightful place at the portal of Anglo-
American modernism, it also perpetuates the monological conception
of the Image as solely an instrument of positivism. Pondrom ignores
the difficulties posed by the figures of the vortex, the ideogram, or the
Freudian “complex,” as well as the cryptic dimension of Pound’s or
H.D.’s conception of the Image. For Pondrom, H.D.’s infatuation
with dead languages and cultures, with dreams and hieroglyphs, has
little bearing on her Active identity as an “imagiste.”
A very different characterization of H.D.’s significance emerges if
we regard her poetic mediation of death as the distinguishing feature
of her work with “images.” It is possible to construct a cryptic dimen¬
sion of the Image, as Elizabeth Hirsh does in a recent essay, from
H.D.’s fascination with antiquity (especially the Egyptian cult of the
dead) and from her engagement with cinema and psychoanalysis.10
Hirsh integrates these elements admirably into a hermeneutics of
seeing (or not seeing), which on one hand accounts for H.D’s
“veiled” images, yet remains incommensurable (so far as Hirsh is con¬
cerned) with their technical aspect. Hirsh makes no mention of the
extreme economy of H.D.’s images (the aspect emphasized by Pon¬
drom), an omission that permits her to construct an opposition
between two kinds of images (objective and mediumistic), between
9. Cyrena N. Pondrom, “H.D. and the Origins of Imagism,” in Susan Stanford

Friedman and Rachel Blau Duplessis, eds., Signets: Reading H.D. (Madison: University
of Wisconsin Press, 1990), p. 105.
10. Elizabeth A. Hirsh, “Imaginary Images: ‘H.D.,’ Modernism, and the Psycho¬
analysis of Seeing,” in Signets, pp. 430-451.
///// 42
Mortal Images
Pound and H.D., between positivism and hermeneutics.11 The gen¬

dering of this opposition derives from Hirsh’s claims, equally reduc¬
tive, that the concepts of the image and of femininity are historically
interchangeable, and that we must therefore seek the key to Imagism,
both historically and ideologically, in the Active identity of “H.D.”
The cult of mourning that attends Pound’s conception of the Image
does indeed entail a feminization of the poet, but not because of any
intrinsic link between imagery and femininity, and not in a manner
that displaces a rather volatile procedure performed by Pound on the
phantasms of masculine identity. Indeed, the instability of gender
associated with the Image serves more importandy in Pound’s case to
disclose the homoerotic dimension of some of his most influential
poetic and political positions.
Taking into account the revisions offered by Pondrom and Hirsh
(as well as the pioneering studies of Susan Stanford Friedman and
Rachel Blau Duplessis), we face the challenge of reconciling the tech¬
nical and phantasmic aspects of the Image in both H.D. and Pound
(a project that, given the extent of both poets’ careers, I must restrict
here to the example of Pound). We must in any case presen/e the
syncretism and the essential heterogeneity of the modernist Image.
Assigning one or another of the aspects of Imagism to either Pound
or to H.D. not only relieves the critic of a considerable burden, but
imputes a false coherence to the modern discourse of images (by iso¬
lating its most intractable qualities). In contrast, by acknowledging
the reciprocity of poetic effects between Pound and H.D. (the effects,
in part, of a teenage love affair), we preserve with greater fidelity the
haunting formation of the Image and modern poetry.
Once we move beyond the first tier of Imagism—the “technical
hygiene” of “A Few Don’ts by an Imagiste”—it is not at all surprising
to find terms such as “enigmatic” and “heresy” applied to the Image,
even by critics who wish to defuse its emblematic power. Beyond the
11. Hirsh writes, “For the illusion(ism) of referentiality, the illusion of the presence
of something actually absent, Pound sought to substitute the real presence of the
Image/ideogram as form, a form incarnate in the text as perfected through the poetic
regimen of‘Imagism.’ ‘H.D.’ the living doll, the spitting Image of Imagism, responds
with a ‘hieroglyphic’ text that, on the one hand, reinterprets the Image in light of
psychoanalysis, as a mode of hermeneutic veiling that restores the centrality of reading”
(p. 448).
43 /////
I i D / O CORPSE
simple prohibitions that founded the Imagist movement, we

encounter a bewildering ensemble of figures for the Image, which
seem to have little to do either with one another or with the technical
criteria they are meant to elucidate. The Image, Pound tells us, is the
centerpiece of “a revival of the sense of realism” (GB 113). This claim
apparendy supports the familiar emphasis on clarity, precision, and
objectivity. What Pound means by “realism,” however, begins to
recede, or to lose its explanatory value, when we discover that he traces
the origins of the Image to his use of literary masks in a “search for
the real” (GB 85). In a related analogy, the exchange that occurs in
translation—so important to Pound’s understanding of poetry—is
said to produce Images of the dead, memento mori (a formulation
which reminds us that the Image is implicated in a “revival of
realism”). The association of realism and the Image becomes even
more perplexing when Pound asks us to think of the Image as an
algebraic equation (with “variable significance”), or as a Freudian
“complex” (a moment in which an object or idea is possessed by
“subconscious energies”). One of Pound’s most celebrated figures for
the Image—the Chinese ideogram—removes the composite structure
of an equation or a Freudian complex to a more exotic and archaic
context. The erosion of the Image as an emblem of realism reaches its
most fertile and puzzling extremity in the figure of the Image as a
vortex. What is the relation between vortex and mask, vortex and
translation, vortex and ideogram, or vortex and Freudian complex?
More fundamentally, what sort of “realism” does the figure of a vortex
represent?
How are we to make sense of this ensemble of figures and evaluate
its bearing on the explicit aims of Imagism? In the first place, Pound’s
attempts to define the Image violate the basic principles of Imagism
(economy, precision, clarity). Not only is he unable to offer a literal
definition of the Image, but the figurative analogies multiply with
remarkable fecundity and obscurity. Given the irreconcilable nature of
the ensemble as a whole, we must ask whether it is susceptible to
thematic or inductive analysis. Is it possible to isolate a basic premise
from these disparate figures, one that would yield a general under¬
standing of the Image? Given the history of critical response to Imag¬
ism, we would have to say that the heterogeneity of these figures
///// 44
Mortal Images
presents a considerable obstacle to any rationalized account of the

Image. To understand what Pound means by the Image, we must
adopt a model of discourse that is essentially materialist, or, more
appropriately, atomist, following a regressive path toward the “atomic
facts” and “symptoms” revered by Pound—approximating, that is,
the ensorceled state of the positivist critic, the ethnographer, the phi¬
lologist.
The rhetoric of the Image establishes what Marcelin Pleynet calls
“an intelligible system of productive irrationalities.”12 Pleynet empha¬
sizes the role of historical and biographical materials in constructing
a “signifying space” that overcomes the limitations of purely formal
analysis. This is particularly relevant to a reading of the Image, which
formal analyses have frequently—and inadvertently—reduced to the
status of a decorative art. The historical and biographical materials I
incorporate into my reading of the Image—especially Pound’s relation
to Gaudier-Brzeska—should therefore be regarded as elements in an
“irrational system” that also includes Pound’s views on the formal
properties of the Image. Pound’s public mourning of Gaudier pro¬
vides what Jean-Franôis Lyotard calls a “libidinal apparatus”—an
empty form or structural matrix for the ideological permutations of
the Image. Biographical details in particular should be understood not
as causal or motivational but as elements in an expanded textual field,
as materials resistant to the political naivete of Pound’s own formalism
and that of his major critics. In this sense, certain biographical sources
(letters, the radio broadcasts, anecdotal evidence) can be read as his¬
torical texts that frequently subvert the explicit aims of Imagism (that
is, its emphasis on pure form), as well as a subtext that helps link the
disparate figures of the Image. What’s more, the political shadow cast
by the Image, which extends as far as Pound’s fascist radio broadcasts
during World War II, becomes visible only if we introduce those bio¬
graphical and historical materials into the discourse of Imagism.
Evidence of a third dimension of Imagism appears in the first public
announcement of Imagism (in the March 1913 issue of Poetry mag¬
azine). The article is not quite what it appears to be: Pound composed
an interview with himself, but asked F. S. Flint to sign it (the article
12. Marcelin Pleynet, Painting and System, trans. Sima N. Godfrey (Chicago: Uni¬
versity of Chicago Press, 1984), p. 35.
45 /////
Radio corpse
bears Flint’s name). The ghost author of the article claims to have
“sought out an imagiste,” an anonymous informant (Pound), who
spells out the “rules” of his poetic formula. In addition to the now
famous guidelines, the informant alludes to “a certain Doctrine of the
Image,” which he declines to discuss. A curious allusion to the veiled
“Doctrine” survives, however, in the original draft of the interview—
a phrase that Pound excised and that refers cryptically to the “penum-
bral” features of Imagism: “He [Pound] told me later that the school
consisted of three poets, one or two affiliated writers, and a . . .
penumbra!”13 Flint’s manuscript contains no explanation of this pecu¬
liar comment, nor should we seek any particular significance in the
reference to a “penumbra.” I do want to insist, though, that we not
ignore the suggestion of secrecy—for that is all it is—enshrouding the
principles of Imagism and the anonymous informant of the article.
From its inception, therefore, the figure of the Image appears to be
implicated in what Nicholas Rand calls a “poetics of hiding,” a cryptic
enunciation of forbidden values.14 The secrecy of the Image does not
concern any specific meaning it might harbor—the crypt, at this point,
is entirely vacant; rather, it concerns a hermeneutical model that will
later inform Pound’s cultural politics, and the occluded aspect of what
has been called an “inaugural moment in modern poetics.” Thus, on
one hand, the air of secrecy is something more than an illusion if we
understand that it refers to Pound’s conception of mythological expe¬
rience, a conception that is, as he explains it, not only visionary but
necessarily encrypted—a cultic substance that forms the basis of secret
societies (LE 431; SR 92). Hence, Pound does not fully enunciate
the principles of Imagism, because of the “mythological” character of
the Image. On the other hand, we must acknowledge that the cryptic
dimension of the Image is, at this point, probably empty: the odd
comment about the “penumbra” and the allusion to a hermetic
“Doctrine” are nothing more than suggestions.
Yet the idea of a vacant crypt reflects the character of the Imagist
movement itself, which at its founding was little more than a fiction.
13. Flint’s original draft of the interview is reproduced in Christopher Middleton,

“Documents on Imagism from the Papers of F. S. Flint,” The Review 15 (April 1965):
34-45.
14. Nicholas T. Rand, Le cryptajje et la vie des oeuvres (Paris: Aubier, 1989).
///// 46
Mortal Images
Martin Kayman has argued, “The movement sprang into being with
the stroke of a pen. Rather than avant la lettre, Imagisme is funda¬
mentally—and, I shall argue, definitively—avant la chose.”15 Thus, he
claims, “what Pound produced in Imagisme was a literary history—
or rather, a fiction of a literary history, and hence a history of quasi-
mythic character” (63). We must also bear in mind that the Active
origins of the Imagist movement coincide with the construction of a
fictional identity—“H.D.”—that holds one of the many keys to the
marginalization of women’s writing in the standard histories of literary
modernism.16 From this perspective, the empty crypt becomes a figure
for the avant-garde movement created ex nihilo, a peremptory gesture
that ensures the phantasmic disruption of its founding principles.
Indeed, by constructing the Imagist movement as an empty crypt,
Pound wrote into history the return of the phantom inhabiting that
empty place. In this regard, there is a fundamental correspondence
between the fictional character of the Imagist movement and the
phantasmagorical properties of the mythic Image.
James Longenbach traces the secret “Doctrine of the Image” to
Pound’s association with Yeats at Stone Cottage, where Pound
became interested in various occult traditions. Longenbach argues,
“From the start, though, Pound maintained a private conception of
Imagism, distinct from the publicized goals of ‘A Few Don’ts by an
Imagiste’ and further, “while Pound was compiling Des Imagistes
at Stone Cottage, the visionary ‘Doctrine of the Image’ was as impor¬
tant as the ‘Don’ts.’ ”17 Longenbach is right to emphasize an occult
theory of the Image (which is not, by any means, restricted to the
“supernatural”), but he does not go far enough in exposing this
unknown territory. Nor is he correct in assuming that the figure of
15. Martin A. Kayman, The Modernism of Ezra Pound: The Science of Poetry (London:
Macmillan, 1986), p. 53.
16. One is struck by the enigmatic quality of the contributor’s note on “H.D.” in
her first appearance as an “Imagiste” in Poetry: “ ‘H.D. Imagiste’ is an American lady
resident abroad, whose identity is unknown to the editor. Her sketches from the Greek
are not offered as exact translations, or as in any sense finalities, but as experiments in
delicate and elusive cadences, which attain sometimes a haunting beauty.” Poetry (Jan¬
uary 1913): 135.
17. James Longenbach, Stone Cottage: Pound, Teats, and Modernism (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1988), pp. 31, 54.
47 /////
Radio corpse
the Image mingles with the fetishized realm of the dead for the first
time as a result of Pound’s research at Stone Cottage.
In my assessment of Imagism, I am particularly concerned with
these hidden dimensions of early modernist poetics and with an adul¬
terated figure of the Image—a kind of radiological medium—which
later serves as the principle of unrestricted exchange (a vortex) in
Pound’s vision of fascist, totalitarian culture. For example, Pound, like
many writers and artists prior to World War I, was intrigued by the
idea of a submerged relation between primitive culture and advanced
technological society. This sort of speculation found an important ana¬
logue in the contemporary fascination with crowds and mass psy¬
chology (epitomized by the popular theories of LeBon, Tarde, and
others). Hence, while Pound conceived of the Image as an artifact that
linked the archaic and the modern (comparing the vortex to the “hor¬
rific energy” of African fetishes), he also cited, as counterparts to
Imagism, the Unanimiste movement and the writings of Jules
Romains on “crowd feeling.” In certain respects, then, Pound’s con¬
ception of the Image as a vortex is representative of the emerging
relation between fetishism and the new “science of crowds.” This
configuration becomes particularly important when we consider the
role of ethnography in Pound’s fascist cultural theory during the
1930s. In effect, Pound constructs a prehistory of the future (the
archaic dimension of a fascist utopia) on the basis of an epistemological
model (the ideogram) and a dynamic emblem (the vortex) that are
drawn from the principles of Imagism.
The “enigmatic” character of the modernist Image derives, in part,
from mistaken assumptions about its history. These historical distor¬
tions, which include the suppression of H.D.’s significance, are symp¬
tomatic of a more profound resistance to conceptual anomalies in the
rhetoric of the Image. Most critics limit Pound’s creative or theoretical
interest in the Image to his brief involvement with the Imagist move¬
ment. Typically (in Kenner’s account, for example), the influence of
the Image on Pound’s thinking emerges sometime in 1912, and
begins to wane prior to his break with Amy Lowell and Imagism in
July 1914. Accounts of why Pound suddenly abandons the figure of
the Image at this point in his career are generally unsatisfactory (a fact
that explains, in part, the “distracting turbulence” generated by the
///// 48
Mortal Images
Image). Pound, I suggest, appears suddenly to abandon the tenets of

Imagism (an uncharacteristic decision for him) for reasons that cor¬
respond obliquely, yet fatefully, to the traumatic effects of World
War I, including the loss of Gaudier-Brzeska. First, the Image is con¬
taminated by the necrophilia of Pound’s early poetry—a Decadent
countersign, a backwardness, that Gaudier’s death threatens to revive.
Second, the rules of “technical hygiene” jeopardize, even as they seek
to invigorate, the existence of “poetry” as it faces the prospect of
catastrophic martial violence in the Great War. The “objectivity” of
the Image is so extreme that it threatens to extinguish altogether what
passes for “poetry” in the year 1912—a danger that has been thor¬
oughly mediated by the ideology of “formalism” and now stands,
inscrutably, as the familiar—and benign—basis of the Imagist move¬
ment. Thus, what one may call the traumatic or apocalyptic dimension
of the Image—its negativity and its belligerent rhetoric—is arrested
by the appearance of its historical counterpart in the martial spectacle
of World War I and, more intimately, by the loss of Gaudier-Brzeska.
We could argue, therefore, that the “violence” characterizing
Pound’s sudden dissociation from the Imagist movement is already
implicit in the principles of Imagism.18 Distilled to a handful of sylla¬
bles, the Imagist poem derives its power from its resistance to lan¬
guage, from the perilous condition of its own medium—a form that
is inherently self-destructive. Thus, the influence of Japanese haiku on
Imagism, for example, can be understood as an exotic means of for¬
malizing and dignifying a poetic suicide. The remains of Victorian
poetry assume the haiku form as a cipher of ritual death (hence the
arduous and protracted deletion of “In a Station of the Metro”—
reduced over a period of six months from thirty lines to fourteen
words). As a counterpart to the Image, the haiku form permits Euro¬
pean (or Anglo-American) poetry to take its own life publicly, in a
manner that implicates other dimensions of Western culture but is not
fully intelligible (since it is foreign). Though it is articulated through
the Imagist movement as a public, discursive event, the suicide of
18. The destructive impulse inherent in Imagism is evident in a comment that Pound
made to Alice Henderson, the assistant editor of Poetry: “I had one brilliant inspiration.
I was about to declare the imagist movement over, when the first anthology came out.
Like a damn fool, I didn’t.” Letters to Alice Henderson, p. 142.
49 /////
A D I O CORPSE
poetry—which is not to be confused with its end—is never acknowl¬

edged as such, because that death is encrypted in the legitimizing
discourses of objectivity (the sponsor of the Image) and orientalism
(the belated fascination with haiku). Thus, Pound’s second thoughts
about Imagism are not so much disavowal as they are hesitation before
an abyss. Indeed, his construction of a poetic form—the Image—that
continually verges on silence can best be understood in relation to the
problems that Wittgenstein addresses contemporaneously in the pic¬
ture theory of the Tractatus. Furthermore, I would suggest, we cannot
isolate this retrenchment on Pound’s part from the general suppres¬
sion of the achievements and significance of positivism in the available
histories of modernism.
The historical uncertainty surrounding Imagism is not at all sur¬
prising, since there is considerable evidence to indicate that Pound
was thinking about the Image as early as 1908, and that it remained
a central focus of his poetics long after 1914. By his own admission,
his attraction to the Image began at least five years prior to the emer¬
gence of the Imagist movement in 1913. In his earliest public refer¬
ence to Imagism (in an appendix to Ripostes, published in October
1912), Pound suggests that the origins of Imagism lie in his earliest
writings and ideas about poetry: he calls the Imagist poets “the de¬
scendants of the forgotten school of 1909” (P 251). He confirms
this chronology in a letter to Rene Taupin in 1926, where he char¬
acterizes his literary activities before World War I as “l’inception de
l’imagisme a Tondres (1908-1914)” (P 218). The Image, so far as
Pound is concerned, emblematizes not only the movement that bears
its name but the period in which he published his first six books of
poetry (1908-1912).
The role of the Image in Pound’s thinking after he broke with Amy
Towell must be expanded in a similar fashion. In the first place, it is
important to recognize that Pound’s break with the Imagist move¬
ment in fuly 1914 did not coincide with a rejection of the figure of
the Image as such. In fact, he continued to develop his conception of
it in new contexts. His famous definition of the Image as a vortex, for
example, did not appear until September 1914, in an article titled
“Vorticism.” As the analogy suggests, Vorticism, from Pound’s stand¬
point, was essentially a revision and expansion of the Image concept;
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Mortal Images
his articles on Imagism for the “Affirmations” series in New Age do

not appear until January and February 1915. Moreover, the first public
reference to the Image as ideogram comes even later, in an article titled
“Imagisme and England,” published in T.PPs Weekly on February 20,
1915. During the same period, writing in the New Age of February
11, 1915, Pound offers an “Analysis of the Decade,” listing the most
important figures of the artistic movements with which he has been
associated, and the particular “donation” of each of those individuals.
When it comes to his own contribution, he identifies “the Image” as
his most important creative legacy (GB 115).
Another discrepancy emerges regarding the putative influence of the
visual arts on Imagist poetry. Most critics proceed from the thesis that
developments in painting and sculpture influenced Pound’s concep¬
tion of the Image, and that his interest in the visual arts coincides with
a visual orientation in his poetry (defined by Pound as “phano-
poeia”).19 Yet his first published review of modern painting did not
appear until April 1914 in The Egoist (shortly before he dissociated
himself from the Imagist movement). He wrote the majority of his art
criticism even later, when he was art critic for New Age, from 1917 to
1920. The dates of these activities suggest a flaw in the conventional
wisdom about the relation of graphic and verbal imagery in Pound’s
early poetry: either the analogy is misleading from the start, or we
must extend its range to a later date in his career—or, as I want to
suggest, a revision and combination of both possibilities is necessary.
Meanwhile, Pound’s most comprehensive treatment of the verbal
Image appeared in 1916, in the memoir of Gaudier-Brzeska (two years
after his break with Imagism). In addition, “Hugh Selwyn Mauber-
ley,” written in 1919 and 1920, offers a summation of Pound’s long
struggle with divergent conceptions of the Image. Indeed, looking
back on his career, Pound identifies the year 1920 as marking the end
of a period of “reform” that is clearly associated with the tenets of
Imagism: “The poetical reform between 1910 and 1920 coincided
with the scrutiny of the word, the cleaning-up of syntax” (SP 321).
19. Good source materials on Pound’s interest in the visual arts can be found in Ezra
Found and the Visual Arts, ed. Harriet Zinnes (New York: New Directions, 1980). See
also the exhibition catalogue Pounds Artists: Ezra Pound and the Visual Arts in London,
Paris, and Italy (London: Tate Gallery, 1985).
51 /////
A D I O CORPSE
Finally, there is evidence that the concept of the Image remains cru¬
cially important to the earliest versions of the Cantos. In a letter of
1917 to James Joyce, Pound writes, “I have begun an endless poem
of no known category. Phanopoeia or something or other, all about
everything” (P/J102). This revival of Pound’s interest in phanopoeia
is confirmed by a poem of the same title, which he published in the
Little Review in November 1918 (P 169-170). Moreover, in the
March 1918 issue of Future magazine, Pound published what he then
called “Images from the Second Canto of a Long Poem.”
The expanded historical field of the Image extends, therefore, from
the publication of Pound’s first book of poems in 1908 to the publi¬
cation of “Hugh Selwyn Mauberley” in 1920. The cohesiveness of
this period, viewed as an effect of the Image on Pound’s poetry and
thought, depends to a large extent on the hidden dimensions of the
Image that I mentioned above (and that I will define more clearly in
a moment). In other critical respects, the Image exceeds even these
historical limitations. Indeed, we can discern a second, distinct phase
of Imagist poetics, in which the Image incorporates the hermeneutical
dimension of meaning that had originally been the primary target of
Imagist poetics. During his engagement with Italian fascism, Pound
revived the Image under the guise of the ideogram, translating it into
a model of discourse that he called the “ideogrammic method.” Yet
the ideogram in its “totalitarian” phase is no longer simply a formal
paradigm but a hermeneutical instrument, a means of rendering and
disclosing “meaning” as if it were a kind of mythological substance.
What had been antithetical to the Image during the Vorticist period—
meaning, “literary content,” substance—becomes its dialectical
equivalent under fascism. Indeed, in 1937 Pound goes so far as to
suggest that the ideogram should be viewed as the unifying principle
for all of his work since 1905, culminating in his program of “totali¬
tarian” culture. He writes, “The choice and juxtaposition of items in
a given programme is the fruit of the IDEOGRAMMIC method
wherein are combined Fenollosa’s thought (and thirty years work) and
my own since 1905.”20
Expanding the historical field of the Image is only the first step in
20. Pound, “Totalitarian Scholarship and the New Paideuma,” Germany and Ton
(April 25, 1937): 96.
//// / 52
Mortal Images
exhuming the Imagistic remains of modern poetics. Revised in the

image of mass death dispatched from the battlefields of World War I
(including the loss of Gaudier), the modernist Image emerges as an
expression of aberrant cultural mourning, a cryptic figure that rede¬
fines, as I have indicated, relations between gender, loss, and pleasure
for the male poet. The object of mourning shifts historically for
Pound, but the figure of the Image remains a consistent focus for the
experience of loss—whether personal, creative, or political. The ele¬
giac Image revises, in its earliest manifestations, a fascination with
death that permeates the first six books of Pound’s poetry. The early
poems abound with references to cadavers, tombs, and the accoutre¬
ments of death. Occasionally, the poet assumes the voice of a dead
person, but more frequently he is visited, or haunted, by images of the
dead, by ghosts. Thus, Pound’s earliest conception of the Image not
only emerges from the grave but presupposes a profound state of pas¬
sivity. (One is visited by phantoms.) The Image, in this respect, is an
apparition, a phantom, because it represents the return of a lost or
dead object, a moment when the poet is haunted by reality. The spec¬
tral Image presents life imaged as death, a living death. If we take into
account the “prehistory” of the Image in Pound’s career, then we
must view the formal properties of the Image (the qualities conven¬
tionally associated with Imagism) as displacing an earlier spectral figure
of the Image—which continues to haunt Pound’s formalist agenda.
Thus, from the perspective of literary history, I am inclined to view
the Imagist movement as a largely unsuccessful attempt by Pound to
bury—that is, to modernize—his earlier and more archaic conceptions
of the Image.
Though Pound insists that the Image is neither mimetic nor rhe¬
torical, I want to suggest that his conception of the Image embodies
certain monstrous properties of these traditional figures; furthermore
the mimetic Image becomes a phantom and the rhetorical Image a
corpse under the regime of his infatuation with death. Indeed, the
Image assumes the uncanny properties of the living dead, thereby
serving as a legitimate object for a cryptic meditation on the process
of making and the limits of symbolization—a deconstruction of
“death” in poetic language. Although Pound attacked the “corpse
language” of late Victorian poetry, the Image, in its most uncompro-
53 /////
A D I O CORPSE
mising aspects, comes to embody the idea of language as a corpse.

Thus, the figure of the Image is highly ambiguous: it assumes the
despicable but alluring properties of “corpse language”—a dead lan¬
guage that is directed against the magical properties of the dead. In a
similar fashion, the spectral and homoerotic properties of the mimetic
Image are reawakened and held in reserve by the death of the sculptor
Gaudier- B rzeska.
Pound relegates to the “underworld” certain dimensions of lan¬
guage that can be revived only in the form of an Image. The idea of
a repression carried out against a word that can return to consciousness
only as an image is the basis of Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok’s
theory of cryptonymy. Their concept of “the crypt” calls to mind an
artificial unconscious, constructed according to the Hermetic and
atomistic principles of the Renaissance “art of memory.”21 According
to Abraham and Torok, what lies in the crypt is “nothing but a word
translated into an image” {Wolf Man 22). A word (or a language)
associated with certain ineffable pleasures is placed in a crypt, never to
be acknowledged again. A mechanism evolves, however, that allows
the so-called pleasure word, the lost language, to be revived if it is
disguised as an image. The crypt preserves and conceals “a word that
operates only from the Unconscious, that is as a word-thinjf. In con¬
scious life it can be recouped only as a visual image” {Wolf Man 46).
The object in the crypt is not a word for a thing, but a word-thing, a
fetish. From this perspective, the history of Imagism should be read
as a cryptonymous account of the disappearance (and revival) of a
language that is associated with the pleasures of the grave: blindness,
passivity, materiality, sentiment. Pound seals in a crypt the “corpse
language” of his youth and his illicit infatuation with the dead. Later,
the exquisite corpse that is preserved and concealed in the crypt revives
in the form of the Image (as an “atomic fact,” an apparition of the
dead, or a “symptom” of totalitarian culture).
21. Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok, The Wolf Mem’s Magic Word: A Cryptonymy,
trans. Nicholas Rand, foreword by Jacques Derrida (Minneapolis: University of Min¬
nesota Press, 1986). Important work on the problem of cryptology can also be found
in Giorgio Agamben, Stanzas: Word and Phantasm in Western Culture, trans. Ronald
L. Martinez (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993). Agamben constructs
a “topology of the unreal” that parallels in many respects Derrida’s formulation of the
crypt.
///// 54
Mortal Images
So far, I have addressed the problem of Imagism only in regard to

poetics and the peculiar veiling of the Image concept during the course
of its critical history. It is essential, however, to identify the poems
written by Pound that pertain specifically to the problem of Imagism
and to show precisely how these poems negotiate and embody the
cryptic properties of the Image. Any revisionary account of Pound’s
early work (poems written, for the most part, prior to 1917 and
reprinted in Personae in 1926) inevitably enters the historical debate
over the relative literary merits of the early poetry in contrast to the
Cantos. (“Hugh Selwyn Mauberley” can be considered a transitional
work.) When Marianne Moore, for example, reviews in 1931 A Draft
of XXX Cantos, she addresses herself partly to “those who object to
the Cantos’ obscurity—who prefer the earlier poems.”22 Much of
Pound’s early poetry, which earned him considerable popular success
as well as critical esteem, has slipped into obscurity, as a result of aca¬
demic emphasis on the Cantos. Thus, any reappraisal or theoretical
revision of the early work bears significantly not only on evaluations
of Pound’s overall career (including its political dimension) but on the
relative achievements of poetic modernism.
As to the relevant texts, the first intimations of Imagism emerge
through the medium of translation (a topic that I will discuss at length
in Chapter 5). Thus, Pound’s translations of Cavalcanti (produced in
1910) and of “The Seafarer” poem (published in 1911) evince for
the first time the cryptic properties of the Image, combined with an
impulse toward “objectivity.” Of Pound’s own compositions prior to
1917, we can discern two groupings of poems that pertain directly to
the Imagist movement and to the cryptic dimension of Imagist
poetics: first, the poems collected in Ripostes, which was published in
October 1912; and, second, poems published by Pound in Poetry
magazine (the official “organ” of the Imagist movement) during 1912
and 1913. Many of these poems would later be collected and pub¬
lished in Lustra (1916). Finally, among the texts directly pertinent to
Imagism, we would have to include Pound’s adaptations of Japanese
^nd Chinese sources, drawn from the papers of Fenollosa, which came
into his hands near the end of 1913. Pound’s celebrated “translations”
of Chinese poetry were actually executed after he had already finished
22. Marianne Moore, “The Cantos,” Poetry (October 1931); reprinted in The Com¬
plete Prose of Marianne Moore, ed. Patricia C. Willis (New York: Viking, 1986), p. 273.
55 /////
A D I O CORPSE
work on the Japanese materials, though the Chinese poems were pub¬
lished first in Cathay (1915). The Japanese translations appeared in
Certain Noble Plays of Japan (1916) and ccNoh” or Accomplishment
(1917).
The volume Ripostes (1912) contains the first public reference to
Imagism (P 251), as well as the two poems “Dona” and “The
Return,” which Pound selected as his contribution to the anthology
Des Imagistes, published in March 1914.23 Thus, the poems repre¬
senting Pound in the first Imagist anthology derive from a period in
his career prior to the announcement of the Imagist movement in
March 1913. Both poems, which Pound reprinted in Umbra (1920)
and Personae (1926), evoke a “dorian” or “crepuscular” mood. In
“Doria,” the speaker invokes “the eternal moods of the bleak wind”
and “the shadowy flowers of Orcus” (P 67)—that is, the shades of
the underworld. “The Return” is even more significant in the context
of Imagism, since Pound describes it in his “Vorticism” essay as
“impersonal” and as “an objective reality” (GB 85), and compares it
to “new sculpture” by Jacob Epstein and Gaudier-Brzeska. A quick
glance at the poem, however, indicates that we cannot possibly isolate
Pound’s grasp of the “impersonal,” or “objective reality,” from the
poem’s languid and justly celebrated rhythms, or from its subject
matter—the ghostly return of “the souls of blood,” who are at once
“inviolable” and “half-awakened” (P 74). Moreover, as the poem’s
refrain (“See, they return”) indicates, in the “objective reality” of this
particular “image,” seeing is remembering. The “objectivity” of the
poem corresponds to the “impersonality” of the dead, to their som¬
nambulistic quality.
The phantasmic, or cryptological, features of “Doria” and “The
Return”—poems that Pound designated as exemplars of Imagism—
appear in a number of other poems in the Ripostes volume. “Appa¬
rent,” for example, one of Pound’s most beautiful and sustained appa-
ritional poems, resembles “The Return” in its evocation of a phantom
presence. The poet glimpses “Half the graven shoulder” of a ghostly
image “casting a-loose the cloak of the body” (P68). At the moment
23. Pound’s contribution to the first Imagist anthology also included four brief adap¬
tations from an anthology of Chinese literature compiled by H. A. Giles in 1901. His
only original compositions, however, were “Doria” and “The Return.” Ezra Pound,
ed., Des Imagistes: An Anthology (New York: Boni, 1914), pp. 41-46.
///// 56
Mortal Images
of apparition, “Life died down in the lamp and flickered, / caught at

the wonder,” as “the stunned light / faded about thee.” The poet
describes the apparition as “a portent. . . swift in departing.” Another
poem, “Sub Mare,” evokes more distinctly a tomblike space, an ocean
grave, in which two lovers “grope” amid “things older than the names
they have” (P 69). The poem begins:
It is, and is not, I am sane enough,
Since you have come this place has hovered
round me,
This fabrication built of autumn roses. (P 69)
The opening phrase, “It is, and is not,” immediately establishes the
haunting terms of ephemerality, through a chance meeting or tryst
(“since you have come”). The ocean grave, with its “Pale slow green
surgings of the underwave,” becomes the site of ephemerality (and
silence), a sepulchral “fabrication built of autumn roses.” The themes
of chance, ephemerality, loss, and silence—so essential to Pound’s
crypt poetry and, by inference, to the poetics of Imagism—emerge in
a more reflective, or polemical, context in “Silet” (“He is Silent”),
the poem that opens Ripostes:
There is enough in what I chance to say. . . .
It is enough that we once came together. . . .
Time has seen this, and will not turn again;
And who are we, who know that last intent,
To plague tomorrow with a testament! (P 59)
This poem, which begins by mocking the “black, immortal ink” and
the writer’s “deathless pen,” not only embraces ephemerality and loss
as the basic premises of the “new” poetry, but suggests that it is best
not to speak at all of such ephemeral moments. Silence, then, is the
most appropriate witness to a lover who is “swift in departing.” Thus,
from its earliest impulses (“Silet” is dated “Verona 1911”), Imagism
displays a tendency to curtail language, which is somehow implicated
in the experience of loss; a movement, then, toward silence, toward
death.
The cryptological dimension of Ripostes does not, by any means,
vanish from Pound’s poetry with the formal announcement of Imag¬
ism in Poetry magazine in March 1913. Indeed, the first recorded
instance of Pound’s use of the term “imagist” occurs (in a letter of
August 1912 to Harriet Monroe) in relation to one of his most extrav-
57 /////
Radio corpse
agant crypt poems, “Middle-Aged,” which appeared in the October

1912 issue of Poetry (a poem that I will examine at greater length in
Chapter 3). Along with his public pronouncements on Imagism,
Pound published in Poetry during 1913 a number of poems that would
have been viewed by the magazine’s readers as representative of the
principles of Imagism. (These poems were later collected and pub¬
lished in Lustra in 1916.) Among these poems, so closely identified
with the “objective reality” of Imagism, one finds work that is clearly
cut from the same cloth as the crypt poetry published in Ripostes. The
poem “Dance Figure,” for example (published in Poetry in April
1913), originally carried the subtitle “A Thoroughly Sensuous
Image.” Like “Middle-Aged” and “The Tomb at Akr Qaar” (from
Ripostes), “Dance Figure” is a crypt poem set in an Egyptian tomb:
“Gilt turquoise and silver are in thy place of rest / O Nathat-Ikanaie
. . . Thine arms are as a young sapling under the bark; / Thy face as
a river with lights” (P 91). The apparitional theme emerges more
fully in the poem “Surgit Fama” (“There is a Rumor”), published in
Poetry in November 1913. Like the earlier poems (“The Return” and
“Apparuit”), “Surgit Fama” announces a return to an archaic dimen¬
sion of spirit. At the same time, it depicts an apparition that is under¬
stood to be expressive of that archaic realm:
Kore is seen in the North

skirting the blue-gray sea
in gilded and russet mantle. (P 90)
The poem gives voice (or vision) to a rumor that Kore (Persephone,
queen of the underworld), along with “the tricksome Hermes,” have
been sighted “in the North”—a vision that portends a return to
antiquity: “Once more are the never abandoned gardens / Full of
gossip and old tales” (P 90). Gossip, old tales, and rumor become
models of artistic expression in an age heralded by apparitional sight¬
ings of Persephone and Hermes. The new poetry (Imagism) will be
composed under the twin signs of death and hermeticism. The Imagist
poem is at once rumorous and precise. Its “objectivity” is guaranteed
by its impossibility (by its apparitional subject) and by its mediumistic
procedure: the Image always arrives from afar, from the realm of the
dead.
/////58
Mortal Images
The apparitional and nostalgic features of poems directly associated

with Imagism became more elegiac in Pound’s adaptations of Japanese
Noh dramas (which I will examine more closely in Chapter 6) and in
his “translations” of Chinese poetry. The poems in Cathay (1915) all
deal with the experience of exile, separation, and loss.24 The speaker
in “Song of the Bowman of Shu,” for example, observes, “When
anyone says ‘Return,’ the others are full of sorrow” (P 127); while
the voice in “Lament of the Frontier Guard” speaks of “sorrow, sor¬
row like rain. / Sorrow to go, and sorrow, sorrow returning” (P 133).
One of the most affecting sequences, “Four Poems of Departure,”
bears witness to “leave-taking”: “Here we must make separation /
And go out through a thousand miles of dead grass” (P 137). The
elegiac mood extends to the disappearance—always ambiguous—of
the “house” of culture:
The phoenix are at play on the terrace.

The phoenix are gone, the river flows on alone.
Flowers and grass
Cover over the dark path
where lay the dynastic house of the Go. (P138)
In a number of these poems, we also find the Imagist theme of silence

impinging on language, of voices forsaken or eclipsed: “Our mind is
full of sorrow, who will know of our grief?” (P127). Another speaker
confides, “however we long to speak / He cannot know of our
sorrow” (P 142). The loss of a beloved person, place, or thing is
signaled—indeed embodied—by words that long to return to silence:
“What is the use of talking, and there is no end of talking, / There is
no end of things in the heart” (P 136).
The poetic Image is never far removed from the “end of talking,”
which signals in turn its proximity to the “things of the heart.” Imag-
ism’s entanglement with the idea of death portrays allegorically the
mortality of poetry itself, as well as the essential negativity of the
Image: language is consistently deployed against itself in the name of
the Image. More precisely, the Image is implicated in a struggle
24. Some recent thoughts on elegy in Pound’s Cathay can be found in Ming Xie,
“Elegy and Personae in Ezra Pound’s ‘Cathay,} ” ELH 60, no. 1 (Spring 1993): 261-
281.
59 /////
M, A D I O CORPSE
between verbal and visual values—usually understood as a correspon¬

dence between poetry and the visual arts. We can grasp this struggle
more effectively, as I have already indicated, if we view it as occurring
between divergent symbolic economies at a given moment in the his¬
tory of modernism. This epochal moment witnesses a partial eclipse
of “the heyday of meaning” by a resurgence of empirical values, under
the rubric of positivism, which accompanies the rapid development of
new technical media. The modernist Image, an expression of this
resurgence of empiricism, is contaminated—and enriched—by the
decaying materials of late Romantic poetics and its philosophical coun¬
terpart, hermeneutics. Thus, when Pound remarks, “The Image is the
word beyond formulated language” (GB 88), we should understand
the Image as an emblem of positivism that positions itself outside the
hermeneutical concept of “meaning” as such. Yet the idea that the
Image is a word excluded from language also brings to mind a notion
of the image as the “plus of appearance,” the apparition of something
that does not exist, a phantasm that stands in contrast to the brute
fact of positivism. The modernist Image, like the fetish as Marx con¬
ceives it, occupies both of these positions at once: a material thing,
unmediated by any form of exchange or transference, and a meta¬
physical thing, imperceptible to the senses, which arises in the act of
exchange (or translation) to become the object of collective halluci¬
nation. The modernist Image is therefore essentially schismatic,
bearing the marks of a struggle between the symbolic economies of
positivism and hermeneutics.
To associate Imagism, a theory of poetics, with hermeneutics, a
theory of interpretation, may seem improbable, even puzzling at first.
Yet the most basic principles of Imagism were entangled with the
problem of meaning and its relation to the artifact or sign, a problem
that had been the special province, since the early nineteenth century,
of the philosophy of hermeneutics. Indeed, as the earliest and most
prominent standard of objectivity in Anglo-American poetics, the
Image was implicated in a fierce campaign against improper or inau¬
thentic meaning. In addition, Pound’s poetics always evolves in rela¬
tion to new models of discourse or criticism. The “method of the
luminous detail” in criticism, for example, becomes the “radiant
cluster” of the poetic Image. The direction of this correspondence is
/////60
Mortal Images
later reversed when the poetic ideogram evolves into the “ideo-
grammic method” of scholarship. Hence, much of Pound’s thinking
about poetics possesses an implicit epistemological or hermeneutical
dimension. His early preoccupation with the nature and limits of sym¬
bolism evolves into a general epistemology that reflects the economic
determinism governing both his poetry and his criticism in the latter
part of his career. This may explain, in part, why recent critical history
has treated Pound largely as a poet of ideas—an extremely hazardous,
though necessary, departure.
In the specifically literary context of Imagist polemics, Pound
addresses (and usually attacks) the problem of hermeneutical meaning
under the name “symbolism.” Although he usually characterizes the
Image as the antithesis of symbolism, there are similarities between
the two that tend to undermine their strict opposition. Pound asso¬
ciates the Image, for example, with what he calls “absolute meta¬
phor,” which may be understood in the context of his peculiar notion
of objectivity as the nonempirical referent of the Vorticist Image, the
object of sightless vision. Indeed, Pound makes a rather startling
admission about this feature of Imagism: “To hold a like belief in a
sort of permanent metaphor is, as I understand it, ‘symbolism’ in its
profoundest sense. It is not necessarily a belief in a permanent world,
but it is a belief in that direction” (GB 84). One might well ask
whether the “permanent world” implied by the symbolist features of
the Image does not eventually become the fascist utopia that Pound
sought to construct with the help of the ideogram.
Modern hermeneutics is a product of German Romanticism, and,
with a few important exceptions, has never fared very well as a disci¬
pline outside the German context. Its early associations with “divi¬
nation” and esoteric meaning, in particular, have not found a receptive
audience in American institutions. Yet we might ask whether the ele¬
ments of mysticism and fanaticism in Pound’s poetry, which are essen¬
tial to its modernity, have proved any less resistant to his
Anglo-American audience. Do Pound’s efforts to “screen” his belief
in visionary experience, esoteric knowledge, and the occult (all aspects
of symbolism) imply an effort to mask, but also to preserve, a concep¬
tion of “meaning” inimical to the constraints of Imagism—a concep¬
tion that is grounded in the general features of hermeneutics? If so,
61 /////
Radio corpse
does the relevance of hermeneutics in Pound’s poetry extend beyond

the problem of illicit or esoteric meaning? Does the modernist Image,
as an instrument of positivism, risk conversion to hermeneutics by
insisting that all meaning is illicit, excessive, and, hence, fetishistic?
Let me suggest, at least provisionally, several points: first, hermeneu¬
tics and the poetics of the Image share a fundamental belief in the
mortality of the artifact, and this mortality is a linguistic or discursive
condition. Second, the positivist reduction of meaning cannot be
addressed without reference to the influence of hermeneutics; third,
the figure of the Image as an ideogram, in particular, must be restored
to the hermeneutic context of nineteenth-century discourse on the
nature of hieroglyphic writing.
The figure of the crypt mediates the divergent symbolic economies
that lay claim to the modernist Image. On the one hand, the crypt is
the symbolic site of modern literary positivism, and the Image is what
lies within the crypt: corpse, fact, word-thing, symptom. The irreduc¬
ible materiality of the Image, in this case, poses a challenge to the
hermeneutical concept of meaning itself, which is based on a distinc¬
tion between surface and depth, the manifest and the latent, history
and divination. Yet the Image, like the figure of the crypt, harbors
figurative debts to this hermeneutical model, and must therefore also
be understood as reviving the phantom of meaning from the dead
letter of the crypt. That is, the Image, as an emblem of hermeneutical
understanding, is not an inscrutable yet all-too-obvious “thing” in
the crypt, but the crypt itself and its spiritual “content.” The problem
of hermeneutics and its relation to the crypt emerges most promi¬
nently, as I have indicated, in Pound’s conception of the Image as a
Chinese ideogram (which inherits the historical discourse on hiero¬
glyphics).
Historically speaking, and for the purposes of this study, the concept
of the fetish divides along lines similar to those fracturing the mod¬
ernist Image. On one hand, in its most familiar form, the fetish is an
object whose value or meaning is incommensurate with its “real”
material properties; it is dangerously overvalued and hence the object
of an irrational fixation. This conception of a trivial object charged
with phantasmic or surplus value, a conception that extends from colo¬
nial fetish discourse to Marx and Freud, informs the hermeneutical
//// / 62
Mortal Images
model of understanding (in which meaning exceeds the letter of the

word). On the other hand, from the perspective of the fetishist and, I
will argue, from that of the positivist (who subscribes to the discourse
of objectivity), the value or meaning of the fetish is indistinguishable
from the object itself. Thus, as William Pietz argues, “Marxism’s com¬
modity fetish, psychoanalysis’s sexual fetish, and modernism’s fetish
as art object all in an essential way involve the object’s untranscended
materiality.”25 Insofar as the fetish is characterized by its irreducible
materiality, then, it is an emblem of positivism; yet insofar as it is
characterized by surplus value and meaning, it is an emblem of her¬
meneutics. In other words, either the object falls under the spell of
meaning (from the standpoint of the “enlightened” critic of fet¬
ishism), or meaning falls under the spell of its object (from the stand¬
point of the fetishist and the positivist). On this account, Pietz
observes, “Fetish discourse always posits this double consciousness of
absorbed credulity and degraded or distanced incredulity” (14). The
practitioner and the observer of fetishism participate together in what
he calls a “primary and carnal rhetoric of identification and disavowal”
(14). We must bear in mind, however, that the iconoclastic critic of
fetishism often subscribes to the empirical values of positivism, thus
extolling the magical proximity of the object and initiating a transval¬
uation of the fetish (which has now become the object of science).
Pound endowed the Image with a redemptive power: he intended
it to restore—to poetry, to language in general, and eventually, in the
context of fascism, to the “symptoms” of culture—some measure of
representational authority. It must be remembered, however, that the
Image is the centerpiece of a “revival of realism.” The objective Image
emerges from the realm of the dead as the visual counterpart to the
dead languages that attracted Pound’s attention as a scholar and trans¬
lator. Its “scientific” materialism is recovered, in part, from the distant
past (from Baroque thinkers such as Bacon and Leibniz) and is there¬
fore troubled not only by the contrary values of the underworld but
by the syncretism of the Baroque model. Yet the fascination with death
that attends the atavistic prize of the Image is dialectical; for if the
Image can also be understood as “youthful language” (as Gaston
25. William Pietz, “The Problem of the Fetish: Part 1” Res 9 (Spring 1985): 7.
63 /////
A D I O CORPSE
Bachelard observes), then poetry’s attempt to revive its own dead past
in the Image is not simply anachronistic but an effort to tap the anar¬
chic and revolutionary vigor of the crowd.26 And indeed, Pound often
invokes the Image as a figure of revolutionary power, especially when
he associates it with the artistic and sociological project of the avant-
garde, or with fascism. In his view, the Image as a vortex marshals the
atavistic power of the crowd against “cliches,” against the magnetism
of dead thoughts anchoring the spell of realism. The Image summons
the “horrific energy” of the African fetish to counteract the fetishes
of the mind—all in the name of science.
26. Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon, 1969),
p. xv.
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€ H A P X E II 3
/ / / /
ryptaesthesia
Making and Unmaking
The imaging of death necessarily involves images not belonging to it.

—Kenneth Burke, “Thanatopsis”
In this terror before mass-produced death there is the sadness of the

artist who honors well-wrought things, who wants to make a work and
make of death his work. Death is thus from the start linked to the
movement, so difficult to bring to light, of the artistic experience.
—Maurice Blanchot, The Space of Literature
Death, in Ezra Pound’s poetry, is always an event migrating from its

immediate physical condition to other provinces of meaning, both
near and remote, and evoking, in the process, the problem of
“meaning” itself. Before we ask, therefore, what death means in the
context of Imagism, or modernism in general, we must first ask how
death means. Images of death always have the power to remind us
that death—to the living—can be nothing more than an image, the
rendering of an absence, of something that does not exist. Represen¬
tations of death invariably call into question the nature of represen¬
tation itself. One critic of modernism, for example, suggests that all
representations of death are, by nature, symbolic: “ ‘Real’ death is for
all of us rigorously unimaginable: the images and representations by
which we seem to have achieved some tangible certainty as to the
nature of death must from that standpoint be supposed, a priori, to
R A D I O CORPSE
be so many deflections. But if this is so, then representations of death

will always prove, under closer inspection, to be complex displace¬
ments of an indirect, symbolic meditation about something else.”J A
stronger way of saying this is to claim, with Elisabeth Bronfen and
Sarah Goodwin, that “every representation of death is a misrepresen¬
tation. Thus the analysis of it must show not only how it claims to
represent death, but also what else it in fact represents, however sup¬
pressed.”2 One must further assume, as will be evident in the present
study, that the gap between the ostensible meaninglessness of “real”
death and its symbolic significance is easily overlooked. Indeed, the
confusion in Pound’s writing between real death and death as it figures
in language produces a death that is language—a language captivated
by death, in its material and phantasmatic properties. Yet the idea that
death’s way of knowing (which manufactures, in a literary and socio¬
logical sense, our knowledge of death) is necessarily symbolic cannot
be helpful to us as a bridge between death and the Image unless we
acknowledge, first of all, that Pound’s theory of the Image placed this
kind of meaning in question. Fredric Jameson, whose views on sym¬
bolic representations of death I cited above, assumes that we must
look beyond the physical fact of death to find meaning at all: the
meaning of death is necessarily latent, metaphysical, discursive. Imag-
ism, however, contested assumptions of this kind, along with the her¬
meneutical model of understanding implied in Jameson’s speculation.
Yet we might still retain, at least for the moment, this transitive con¬
ception of the meaning of death, which implies an “afterlife” of
meaning, by emphasizing not its symbolic but its allegorical proper¬
ties. Reviewing Walter Benjamin’s theory of allegorical criticism, one
discovers a comment that illuminates the possibility of death’s
meaning as a construction, a rebuilding of the fact: “Birth is a ‘natural’
condition, death is a ‘social’ one.”3 This is not to say, of course, that
birth is a “natural” event, unmediated by social ideologies, but that
death, since it inaugurates nothing and is in itself nothing (except pure
1. Fredric Jameson, Fables of Aggression: Wyndham Lewis, the Modernist as Fascist

(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979), p. 160.
2. Sarah Webster Goodwin and Elisabeth Bronfen, eds.. Death and Representation
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), p. 10.
3. Walter Benjamin, cited in Susan Buck-Morss, The Dialectics of Seeing: Walter Ben¬
jamin and the Arcades Project (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1990), p. 101.
///// 66
Cryptaesthesia
negativity), can be made intelligible, emotionally or otherwise, only

as a reconstruction of “life.” Hence, any meditation about death must
be a register of social and cultural (as well as biographical) history,
which would explain Jameson’s “something else.” In his Trauerspiel
book, a work that establishes the image as the object of his most influ¬
ential and original thinking about aesthetics, Benjamin observes, “The
greater the meaning, the greater the subjection to death, because
death digs out most deeply the jagged line of demarcation between
physical nature and meaning.”4 This statement suggests not merely
that death is an especially meaningful event, but that the production
of “meaning” is implicated in the “social condition” of death. This
idea—that the meaning of death, as a surplus, is symptomatic of all
meaning—finds its most powerful expression in the discourse of
fetishism (a correspondence that helps explain Benjamin’s importance
as a theorist of modern fetishism).
It would not be misleading to understand death in Pound’s early
poetry as an articulation of “the infinitely suggestive word death,
which disrupts many systematic orders”—that is, as an instrument of
change.5 Yet it would be more accurate to characterize Pound’s use
of death as both stemming from and inciting revolutionary change, as
both symptomatic and instrumental. The necrophilic features of
Pound’s early poetry should not be understood, as they usually are,
merely as the belated trappings of Decadent literary fashion. Nor
should they be circumscribed by the thesis that “a desire for death is
perhaps the hidden telos of beauty and truth, ascetic ideals that pre¬
determine their own failure.”6 Rather, as Marx observed, a complex
relation to death can be a dialectical feature of revolution:
The tradition of all the dead generations weighs like a nightmare
on the brain of the living. And just when they seem engaged in
revolutionizing themselves and objects, in creating something that
has never yet existed, precisely in such epochs of revolutionary
crisis they anxiously conjure up the spirits of the past to their
4. Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama, trans. John Osborne
(London: NLB, 1977), p. 166.
5. Svetlana Boym, Death in Quotation Marks: Cultural Myths of the Modern Poet
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1991), p. 12.
6. Steven Shaviro, Passion and Excess: Blanchot, Bataille, and Literary Theory (Talla¬
hassee: Florida State University Press, 1990), p. 11.
67 /////
A D I O CORPSE
service and borrow from them names, battle slogans, and costumes
in order to present the new scene of world history in this time-
honored disguise and this borrowed language.7
Pound himself recognizes similar tendencies in the ‘‘revolution’’ of

Italian fascism, whose atavistic character he discerns as well in the
Imagist and Vorticist movements: “As in a new art movement, I think
the vitality shows first in a greater exigence and precision with regard
to antiquity” {J/M 84). He also notes that one of the first symptoms
of fascism in government is a larger budget for the restoration of antiq¬
uities.
When critics acknowledge Pound’s fascination with death in his
early poetry, and throughout his career as a translator and literary
critic, they usually see it as an expression of his complex relation to
the past, to his literary forebears, and to historical materials in general.
A recent critic, referring to the Malatesta cantos (VIII-XI), expands
this view to include all of literary modernism:
While writing the sequence, Pound came to view the church of

San Francesco—a sepulchral monument—as a symbol of his own
poetic and cultural enterprise. And insofar as the Cantos is, the
major experiment of Anglo-American modernism, a text that
embodies all its aspirations and contradictions, the sepulchre can
also epitomize the cultural monument of literary modernism—not
just its “texts” or works, but the whole field of agents, practices,
institutions, and ideological structures that have shaped its critical
reception.8
Though this claim is far too broad to be viable, its main tenet regarding
the sepulchral analogy of Pound’s enterprise is essentially correct. One
could argue, for example, that Pound’s lifelong project of rewriting
Dante’s Commediet never really leaves the Inferno. Yet this general con¬
ception of Pound’s poetry as a medium between present and past, the
living and the dead, tends to withdraw, theoretically, from the “pre-
7. Karl Marx, The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, no translator indicated

(New York: International Publishers, 1963), p. 15.
8. Lawrence S. Rainey, Ezra Pound and the Monument of Culture (Chicago: Univer¬
sity of Chicago Press, 1991), p. 2.
/////68
Cryptaesthesia
supposition of mediality” that it implies.9 Imagism emerges during a

historical period of unprecedented growth in the invention of new tech¬
nical media, and helps inaugurate for poetry the radical fetishizing of
means usually referred to as formalism. Although Pound conceives of
the modernist Image as a medium between past and present, the living
and the dead, he also presents it as revising not only the verbal medium
of poetry but the very concept of the medium itself. Thus, when con¬
sidering the mediality of the poetic Image, we must begin with Fried¬
rich Kittler’s dictum: “A medium is a medium is a medium. As the
sentence says, there is no difference between occult and technological
media. Their truth is fatality, their field the unconscious.”10
Pound’s necrophilia, quite obviously, has the poet facing backward,
staring into the past, conjuring the dead. Yet if we take Marx’s obser¬
vation seriously, the preoccupation with death must also be concerned
with something that has “never existed before.” Once again, Ben¬
jamin is helpful: “For people as they are today, there is only one radical
novelty—and that is always the same: Death.”11 Hence, Pound’s early
poetry, and the Image that emerges from it (which is not far removed,
at that point, from a poetics of translation), is a medium that registers
not only transmissions from the past but phenomena that are not yet
meaningful, because of their novelty. The Image and its latent nec¬
rophilia emerge during a transitional period in literary and cultural
history: not only the literary artifact and the domain of material culture
in general but the very concepts of representation and meaning are in
a state of crisis. Marx’s linkage of revolution and images of the dead
should therefore be focused more specifically on the Image as a force
in the development of the avant-garde. In a recent work, Paul Mann
has written that the avant-garde “was never distinct from its death,
indeed death was always its most abiding force,” and furthermore,
“the discourse of the avant-garde is its death and in death it continues
9. This is David Wellbery’s term for one of the basic tenets of Friedrich Kittler’s
“discourse analysis.” See Wellbery’s foreword to Friedrich A. Kittler, Discourse- Networks:
1800/1900, trans. Michael Metteer, with Chris Cullens (Stanford: Stanford University
Press, 1990), p. xiii.
10. Kittler, Discourse Networks, p. 229.
11. Walter Benjamin, cited in Buck-Morss, Dialectics of Seeing, p. 195.
69 /////
Radio corpse
to reproduce itself as a death-discourse.”12 If Mann is right that the

postmodern discourse on the death of the avant-garde can be traced
to the origin of the avant-garde itself, and that we must therefore
“write the whole history of the avant-garde as a death,” then the
necrophilic dimension of the Image must be regarded as an indication
of its role in the formation of the avant-garde. What one hears distantly
in the obituaries of the avant-garde are its Decadent foundations.
Insofar as Pound is a poet of the incipient avant-garde, his negoti¬
ation with death permits him to reflect obliquely, esoterically, on cer¬
tain absolutes—on the origins and limits of language, symbolization,
and poetry. On one hand, the cryptological dimension of the Image
is implicated in the hermeneutical construction of meaning, which
emerged with the poetics of Romanticism and has been characterized
as “a resuscitation of the living spirit from the tomb of the letter.”13
Yet the necrophilic Image, as I indicated in the previous chapter, is
also implicated, by its emphasis on materiality and its efforts to rid
poetry of meaning, in the symbolic economy that would supersede
hermeneutics: positivism. The attack on meaning carried out in the
name of the Image must be viewed as an attack not merely on certain
archaic dimensions of poetry but on poetry as such—at least as it
survived in the “crepuscular” spirit of Romanticism during the fin-de-
siecle period (hence the antipoetic character of Imagism). The Image
is therefore what I would like to call a “Janusian” object, looking both
forward and backward, a symptom of the turbulent and revolutionary
moment in which it was conceived. It is at once a late and barbarous
emblem of what JeanToseph Goux calls a “cryptophoric” economy
of signification (hermeneutics), as well as an early model of an “oper¬
ative” economy that continually moves toward the elimination of
meaning, as a realization of the “impossible” correspondence between
positivism and fetishism.14
12. Paul Mann, The Theory-Death of the Avant-Garde (Bloomington: Indiana Uni¬
versity Press, 1991), p. 40.
13. Hermeneutics inevitably “stylizes” itself in this manner, according to David Well-
bery (foreword to Kittler, Discourse Networks, p. x).
14. For the term “cryptophoric economy” and the less satisfactory designation “oper¬
ative sign,” see Jean-foseph Goux, Symbolic Economies, trans. Jennifer Gage (Ithaca:
Cornell University Press, 1990), p. 122.
///// 70
Cryptnesthesia
One aspect, in particular, of the modern crisis of representation finds

expression in the necrophilic dimension of the Image: the verbal arti¬
fact portends a crisis of reciprocation. It is a mistake, given the insistent
and graphic nature of his pronouncements about death and literature,
not to take Pound at his word when he attacks the “corpse language”
of late Victorian poetry. Pie means, quite literally, that poetic language
is no longer animate, sentient, or vital, and that the properties of the
Image, as he conceives it, will restore to the literary artifact an archaic
and thoroughly mundane vitality. It is difficult not to understand such
views figuratively, just as it is difficult to assess the animism of object
relations in modern culture. Yet we cannot overlook the fact that the
rhetoric of the Image is built on the assumption that an artifact fulfills
its function only when it is alive in some fashion, and that a useless
artifact is described as a corpse. From the perspective of Elaine Scarry’s
remarkable study of the animism of the made object, we would have
to argue that Pound’s views reflect broader cultural assumptions about
the awareness, the sentience, that is normally ascribed to objects:
“Object-awareness is the acceptable, expectable, and uncelebrated
condition of civilization, while object-unawareness is the unusual and
unacceptable condition.”15
Although Scarry attributes the usual and expectable sentience of the
artifact, in part, to projection—“artifacts are (in spite of their inert¬
ness) perhaps most accurately perceived as ‘a making sentient of the
external world’ ” (281)—she also attributes it, more importantly, to
the obligations that the artifact incurs to its maker: “Made things do
incur large responsibilities to their human makers (and their continued
existence depends on their ability to fulfill those responsibilities: a use¬
less artifact, whether a failed god or a failed table, will be discarded)”
(182). The obligation of the artifact is to alter, enhance, or transform
the powers of those who make it or use it, to refashion human beings
in order to relieve them of the burden of sentience. Thus, Scarry sees
the relation between human maker and artifact as one of “reciproca¬
tion,” emphasizing “the double consequence of creation, in which
simultaneously the body is projected out into artifice and the human
15. Elaine Scarry, The Body in Bain: The Making and Unmaking of the World (New
71 /////
U A D I O CORPSE
body itself becomes an artifact” (261). Hence, “the act of human

creating includes both the creating of the object and the object’s
recreating of the human being, and it is only because of the second
that the first is undertaken” (310).16 This chiasmic relation between
sentience and inertness, between the artifact and its maker, is an essen¬
tial feature of the discourse of fetishism (though it is usually con¬
demned as a sinister effect of the fetish).
As Scarry suggests, it is when this reciprocative relation breaks
down, when the artifact fails to “live up” to its obligation, that the
usual and unremarkable animateness of the object is thrown into
relief—precisely because that quality (the caritas of the artifact) is
missing. It is also at this moment of crisis, when the artifact is in need
of repair or revision, or when its mechanism must be abandoned
entirely, that its human construction, the madeness of the artifact,
emerges into prominence, often dominating our perception of it. With
the help of Scarry’s remarkable insights into animism and artifacts, I
think it is difficult not to conclude that Imagism, given its preoccu¬
pation with death, emerges as a response to a historical failure of
“reciprocation” in the literary artifact. Pound characterizes late Vic¬
torian poetry as dead precisely because it fails to reinvent its makers
and readers; it fails to enhance their powers or relieve the burden of
sentience in a modern world. In an essay written just prior to the
emergence of Imagism, Pound writes, “If a book reveals to us some¬
thing of which we were unconscious, it feeds us with energy; if it
reveals to us nothing but the fact that its author knew something
which we knew, it draws energy from us” (SP 30). This crisis of recip¬
rocation, in turn, places the artifactual quality of the poem in a par¬
ticularly harsh and critical light. Hence, Pound’s emphasis on
technique and construction (especially with the ideogram) is an
oblique reference to the crisis of the artifact that gives rise to the Image
in the first place. The activity of malting thus becomes the activity of
animating the external world, of restoring the reciprocative capacity
of the artifact.
16. Scarry eloquently describes the inscrutable transaction of reciprocation in this brief
passage: “The human being, troubled by weight, creates a chair; the chair recreates him
to be weightless; and now he projects this new weighdess self into new objects, the
image of an angel, the design for a flying machine” (The Body in Bain, p. 321).
///// 72
Cryptaesthesia
The main thesis of Scarry’s book concerns the inscrutable relation

between creation and activities that destroy the world and the human
body. In a highly original analysis, she argues that “torture and war
are not simply occurrences which incidentally deconstruct the made
world but occurrences which deconstruct the structure of making
itself’ (179). Torture, as a practice of unmaking the human body,
provides an inverted, one might even say cryptonymous, account of
the act of making. Furthermore, she writes, “physical pain always
mimes death and the infliction of physical pain is always a mock exe¬
cution” (31); hence, “the ‘unmaking’ of the human being is equally
characteristic of dying” (122). Death’s discourse, then, like pain, is a
hermetic index of creation. The importance of this insight to under¬
standing the necrophilic dimension of the Image cannot be overesti¬
mated. Pound’s early fascination with death must therefore be
understood as an oblique expression of concern for the act of making
(hence the Imagistic emphasis on technique and form), a concern that
stems from the animistic crisis of reciprocation in the literary artifact.
In Pound’s case, Decadent poems and theorizing about “death-in¬
life” bear witness to a catastrophic loss of vitality in poetic language
(eventually matched by the specter of mass death in World War I), as
well as to the poet’s desperate project to revive the corpse of poetry,
to reconstruct the artifact. Even the artifact magically invigorated,
however, retains its fundamental inertness and can never be more than
an emblem of the living dead. Thus, Pound’s necrophilic poetics
remain captive to the insidious logic that eventually produces the
dialectical equation of construction and destruction in the context of
fascist ideology.17 The instability of the distinction between “death”
17. The inverted allegorical relation between life and death, making and unmaking,
that I am proposing as the basis of Pound’s necrophilic poetics corresponds in a histor¬
ically significant (and perilous) manner to the dialectical equation of “life” and “death”
in fascist ideologies. Alice Yaeger Kaplan, for example, citing the observations of Walter
Benjamin, notes the influence of Decadent aesthetics on the fascist dialectic of “con¬
struction” and “destruction.” See her discussion of the “polarity machine” of fascist
ideology in Reproductions of Banality: Fascism, Literature, and French Intellectual Life
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), pp. 25-35. From a broader per¬
spective, Marcus Paul Bullock argues that the inversion or “re-creation” of death rou¬
tinely occurs in the context of political ideology, where death and violence sanctioned
by the State are made to signify acts of creation or edification: “An act of formalized or
institutionalized violence, in short, becomes a manifestation of something other than
73 /////
Hk A D I O CORPSE
and “life” that initially serves the interests of “life” in poetry ends by
serving the interests of “death” in the realm of politics.
x\lthough Scarry does not say as much, her anatomy of the artifact
is essentially an account of the role of fetishism in material culture.
Hence, her book is sustained at crucial moments by readings and
transformations of Marx, whom she regards as “our major philosopher
on the nature of material objects” (179). Likewise, my reflections on
the fetishistic transactions of the Image will coincide more frequently
with the concerns of Marx than with those of Freud (the other major
modern theorist of fetishism) for a very simple reason: the Marxian
fetish is a made object, whereas the Freudian fetish is essentially a
found object (hence the appeal of his theory of fetishism to the Sur¬
realists). Clearly, the Marxian conception is more relevant to the arti-
factual and technical priorities of Imagism, and to my concern with
literary fetishism as an expression of material culture. This configura¬
tion of interests will explain my recourse to Marx as a “philosopher
on the nature of material objects” rather than as an economist, as well
as my decision not to undertake a direct comparison of Pound’s
poetics and his economic theories.18 Having identified the special rel¬
evance of Marx to my project, I do not wish to imply that Marxian
and Freudian conceptions of fetishism can be separated so easily
(Freud refers to the sexual fetish as a “token” and a “monument,”
both made objects), or that Freud is not germane to my interests—
he makes an important reference, for example, to verbal fetishism.
itself. It stands in a dialectical opposition between building or constituting and destruc¬

tion. That which it constitutes, this other sphere or stratum to which it refers, endows
it with what we have already, in other areas of signification, called an aura.” Bullock,
The Violent Eye: Ernst JUnger’s Visions and Revisions on the European Right (Detroit:
Wayne State University Press, 1992), p. 61. A particularly chilling instance of this alle¬
gorizing of death emerged in the military briefings of the Persian Gulf War, where the
inflicting of enemy casualties was described as “making bodies”—hence, to kill is to
make bodies. In an entirely different sphere, Pound exploits the allegorical lability of
death to signal the creation of poetic bodies (and antibodies) in the form of images.
18. The best account of the relation between economics and poetics in Pound’s works
is the fifth chapter of Jean-Michel Rabate, Language, Sexuality, and Ideology in Ezra
Pound’s Cantos (Albany: SUNY Press, 1986), pp. 183-241. See also Peter Nicholls,
Ezra Pound: Politics, Economics, and Writing (London: Macmillan, 1984); and Richard
Sieburth, “In Pound We Trust: The Economy of Poetry / The Poetry of Economics,”
Critical Inquiry 14, no. 1 (Autumn 1987): 142-172.
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Cryptaesthesia
(The central illustration of Freud’s theory in his “Fetishism” essay of

1927 is an instance of verbal fetishism drawn from the Wolf Man case.
Recognition of the verbal disposition of Freud’s theory, however, has
not come easily. The major exception to this historical oversight is
Abraham and Torok’s theory of cryptonymy, a theory of verbal fet¬
ishism, which detonates Freud’s veiled reference to the Wolf Man in
the “Fetishism” essay.)19 This verbal disposition is not, as it might first
appear, unrelated to Freud’s notion of the fetish as a kind of image
(token, monument, and so on). Indeed, the theory of cryptonymy (a
“word translated into an image”) is built upon the tension between
the verbal and visual poles of the fetish.
It is the Marxian concept of the fetish, however, in its basic identity
as an artifact, that will serve as the context, at least initially, for my
thesis regarding the Image as a countersign of literary and cultural
fetishism. Yet this easy correspondence of Marxian fetish and mod¬
ernist Image, this artifactual affinity, masks certain questions con¬
cerning the relevance of Marx’s theory of commodity fetishism to a
literary device that has traditionally been viewed as a paradigm of for¬
malism. From the standpoint of Marx, the theory of commodity fet¬
ishism is embedded in a larger analytical project that is committed to
social, political, and economic revolution. Flow, then, are we to justify
extending the discourse of fetishism to a literary concept that has,
ostensibly, no political aims or values? A question of social and eco¬
nomic transformation risks becoming simply a question of poetic
form. Is the link between the Image and the discourse of fetishism no
more than a “figurative” resemblance? The answers to these difficult
questions are to be found in the rhetorical features of Marx’s theory
of commodity fetishism—a rhetoric that portrays the modern crisis of
representation (and artifactual reciprocation) in terms similar to
Pound’s theory of the Image. Indeed, Marx conceives of commodity
fetishism as a kind of “necromancy,” and constructs it according to a
chiasmic (and unstable) relation between living and dead matter. The
figurative correspondence between Pound’s and Marx’s conceptions
is substantial—and perhaps unavoidable—precisely because com-
19. Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok reveal the identity of the “disguised” patient
in Freud’s essay. See The Wolf Man’s Magic Word: A Cryptonomy, trans. Nicholas Rand,
foreword by Jacques Derrida (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), p. 32.
75 /////
Radio corpse
modity fetishism and poetic Imagism are discourses on the nature of

fijyuml representation. Thus, the peculiar animism of the modernist
Image reflects the basic and “enigmatic” condition of the commodity
fetish. It is not simply that the Image is fetishistic because it enacts a
deconstruction of death in poetic language, but that Marx’s analysis
of modern fetishism is motivated by a crisis of dead artifacts (which
turn out to be animate after all—enchanted by the projection of
human labor).
The process of malting is characterized by Marx as a revival of dead
matter: “Yarn with which we neither weave nor knit is cotton wasted.
Living labor must seize on these things, awaken them from the
dead.”20 The world populated with artifacts is a place enchanted by
things recalled from death. In the context of capitalism and com¬
modity fetishism, however, the animateness of the artifact becomes a
perversion or “monster,” as Marx explains in a discussion of com¬
modities integrated into the labor process: “By incorporating living
labor power into their dead substance, the capitalist transforms value,
i.e., past labor in its dead and objectified form, into capital, into self-
expanding value, a monster quick with life, which begins to ‘work’ as
if love were breeding in its body” (Capital 302). And when it is
placed in contrast to the lifelessness of its human maker, the “living”
artifact exposes the essential inversion of the fetishistic transaction.
W. J. T. Mitchell explains the sources and significance of this chiasmic
relation between the living and the dead:
The “horror” of fetishism was not just that it involved an “illu¬

sory,” figurative act of treating material objects as if they were
people but that this transfer of consciousness to “stocks and
stones” seemed to drain the humanity out of the idolater. As
stocks and stones come alive, the idolater is seen as falling into a
kind of living death ... in which the idol is more alive than the
idolater. Marx’s claim that commodity fetishism is a kind of per¬
verse “exchange,” producing “material relations between persons
and social relations between things” employs precisely the same
logic.21
20. Karl Marx, Capital: A Critique ofPolitical Economy, vol. l,introd. Ernest Mandel,
trans. Ben Fowkes (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1976), p. 289.
21. W. J. T. Mitchell, leonology: Image, Text, Ideology (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1986), p. 190.
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Cryptaesthesia
Whether we regard the sentience of the artifact as a perversion or a

restoration of the object to its proper state, the overriding concern in
Marx with the animation of inert matter is closely related to Pound’s
desire to revive the “corpse language” of poetry.
What Walter Benjamin calls the “rights of the corpse” (the logic of
fetishism) actually confuses, then, the distinction between the living
and the dead. As Marx conceives it, the appeal of the inorganic pertains
as well to divination and the problem of afterimages (or phantoms).
In his discussion of commodity fetishism, Marx refers to “all the magic
and necromancy that surrounds the products of labor on the basis of
commodity production” (Capital 169). Necromancy is the art of con¬
juring the spirits of the dead; Marx’s use of this trope suggests that
we are not far from the topography of the crypt, though it is not clear
from this statement alone what he means by linking fetishism and
necromancy. We can be sure, however, that the necromancy of fet¬
ishism is related to the “divinatory” practice of hermeneutics. More
specifically, our understanding of the term “necromancy” will depend
on an illustration of the fetish that is not often invoked in discussions
of Marx’s theory of fetishism: “The physical form of the linen counts
as the visible incarnation, the social chrysalis state, of all human labor”
(Capital 159). Here Marx compares the commodity fetish to a “chrys¬
alis,” a site of transformation which is also somehow a “visible incar¬
nation” of something that remains invisible, hidden. Moreover, the
fetish is at once a topos and the image deposited in that place, a con¬
ception that immediately calls to mind the Hermetic art of memory—
a concern of Renaissance philosophy that Pound invokes as informing
the poetics of Imagism.
We can clarify the ambiguity between the chrysalis as the site and
as the image of metamorphosis by considering more carefully the allu¬
sion (implied in the trope of the chrysalis) to an object, a living object,
that changes from one state of existence to another: from worm to
butterfly, from mundane to “sublime.” The metamorphic properties
of the fetish are evident from the start in Marx’s famous introduction
to this “enigmatic” object, with its “theological niceties.” More fun¬
damentally, as a symbol of metamorphosis or change, the chrysalis
reflects Marx’s view that the artifact becomes a fetish only in the act
of exchange: “It is only by being exchanged that the products of labor
77 /////
A D I O CORPSE
acquire a socially uniform objectivity as values, which is distinct from

their sensuously various objectivity as articles of utility” (Capital 166).
Thus, the Marxian fetish is distinguished not only by its artifactuality,
but by the transformation it undergoes in the act of exchange. The
trope of the chrysalis therefore represents the dynamic process of
exchange when the material “body” of the artifact is transformed into
the “sublime” spirit of value. The chrysalis is a place—a topos—dis¬
guising its character as an image, from which another image, a phan-
tasmic value, arises.
The trope of metamorphosis has a direct bearing on the Doppel-
charakter of the fetish. As I indicated in Chapter 1, Marx repeatedly
evokes the puzzling coexistence of physical and metaphysical qualities
in the fetish. He vividly describes the exclusivity of the half-lives of the
fetish: “So far no chemist has ever discovered exchange value either
in a pearl or a diamond” (Capital 177). And, conversely, “Not an
atom of matter enters into the objectivity of commodities as values;
in this it is the direct opposite of the coarsely sensuous objectivity of
commodities as physical objects” (Capital 138). More broadly
speaking, the problem of an object that is at once material and phan-
tasmic, perceptible and imperceptible, characterizes fetish discourse in
general. Much of Freud’s famous essay on fetishism, for example,
dwells on the problematic act which brings the fetish substitute into
existence, producing a phantasmic object (the material phallus) that
is both perceptible and imperceptible, present and absent. Freud
finally settles on the idea of “disavowal” as the proper term for this
sleight of hand, after rejecting notions of repression or “scotomiza-
tion.” The fetish object, he concludes, is a remarkable hybrid born of
illogic: “It is not true that, after the child has made his observation of
the woman, he has preserved unaltered his belief that women have a
phallus. He has retained that belief, but he has also given it up. In the
conflict between the weight of the unwelcome perception [it is absent]
and the force of his counter-wish [it is present], a compromise has
been reached.”22 This compromise is the hybrid form—part fantasy,
part object—of the fetish substitute. The double consciousness of the
22. Sigmund Freud, Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works, ed. James
Strachey (London: Hogarth Press, 1960), vol. 21, pp. 153-154. More recendy, Giorgio
Agamben understands fetishism as a “model of knowledge” characterized by “opera¬
tions in which desire simultaneously denies and affirms its object.” Agamben, moreover,
associates the fetish, which he describes as “the sign of an absence,” with melancholia
///// 78
Cryptaesthesia
object posited by Freud (at once present to the senses and impercep¬
tible) reiterates the basic features of the Marxian fetish as a perceptible
yet suprasensible object.
The modernist Image, as well, is “profoundly cracked” (to use a
phrase of Georges Bataille’s) in its antipoetic character and its resis¬
tance to visuality. Even Pound’s most familiar and accessible defini¬
tions of the Image allude to a profound schism that produces the crypt
effects of the Image. This is evident, to begin with, in the formal
properties of the Image, as Pound describes it: “The cone-image
poem’ is a form of super-position, that is to say it is one idea set on
top of another” (GB 89). Furthermore, Pound relates the schismatic
nature of the Image to a metamorphosis (something like the Marxian
chrysalis), since the Image is said to appear at “the precise instant when
a thing outward and objective transforms itself, or darts into a thing
inward and subjective” (GB 89). The tension between inner and
outer, subjective and objective, is so strong, in fact, that the Image
divides in two:
The Image can be of two sorts. It can arise within the mind. It is
then “subjective.” External causes play upon the mind, perhaps; if
so, they are drawn into the mind, fused, transmitted, and emerge
in the Image unlike themselves. Secondly, the Image can be objec¬
tive. Emotion seizing up some external scene or action carries it
intact to the mind; and that vortex purges it of all save the essential
or dominant or dramatic qualities, and it emerges like the external
original. (SP 374-375)
This surprising statement from Pound on the dual nature of the Image
(which alternately disguises and resembles its object) cannot be iso¬
lated from his more prominent descriptions of an Image that is frac¬
tured internally. This progressive dislocation of subjective and
objective, inner and outer, within the artifact, suggests that the mod¬
ernist Image displays the essential duplicity of the fetish, masquerading
alternately as spirit and thing, phantom and fact. The poet of radical
positivism gazes at the spot where the spectral Image is said to appear
and sees nothing, whereas the hermeneutical seer turns away from the
letter, from fact, to summon the phantom of meaning.
and the cryptic space of memory. See Agamben, Stanzas: Word and Phantasm in Western
Culture, trans. Ronald L. Martinez (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993),
pp. xvii, 31-33.
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R A D I O CORPSE
Though the two kinds of Images described by Pound diverge in

their relations to an external “original,” both are products of a trans¬
formative process. The terms “subjective” and “objective,” as Pound
uses them, appear to have undergone a semantic inversion. The
“objective” Image in particular raises interesting questions, since it
emerges from a state of possession, an emotional seizure that Pound
terms a “vortex.” It is important to emphasize that the “objectivity”
of the Image occurs not by purging emotion, but through the agency
of emotion. In this description, one can begin to grasp the correlation
between Pound’s conceptions of the Image as a vortex and as a
Freudian “complex” (LE 4). Clearly, the metamorphic character of
the vortex resembles the Marxian chrysalis.
Returning, finally, to the Marxian trope of “necromancy,” we can
see that the dynamic of metamorphosis pertains to the art of conjuring
the dead, as an emblem of fetishism. The chrysalis is the somatic crypt
from which emerges the phantom of value, a memory cell holding a
magically potent image. This can be understood in two ways. First, it
reiterates the moment of exchange when the simple artifact is trans¬
formed into a fetish. In this sense, the art of necromancy is an image
of the internal logic of the fetish itself. Yet we have seen that the trope
can also be understood as representing the relation between the mate¬
rialist critic or historian and the fetish object—that is to say, as the
emblem of a particular interpretive economy. In this regard, discourse
itself occupies the place of the fetish object. Marx says that the “met¬
aphysical and theological niceties” of the commodity fetish emerge
only through “analysis” of it, a process I have characterized as “sight¬
less vision.” Just as a phantom, or invisible object, emerges from the
artifact in the moment of exchange—a process Marx compares to nec¬
romancy—so the critic conjures meaning from an object that appears
to be meaningless. As an image of meaning retrieved from a dead
object, an image of the critic’s relation to the cryptic fetish, the trope
of necromancy evokes the “divinatory” practice of hermeneutics.
What’s more, it equates the phantasms of exchange value and
meaning, an equation that reveals the death discourse shared by fet¬
ishism and the Image to be the medium of a general crisis of repre¬
sentation.
///// 80
Cryptaesthesia
Memory Cells
Elegy presents everything as lost and gone, or absent and future.

—Samuel Coleridge, Biographia Literaria
I once said, perhaps rightly: The earlier culture will become a heap of
rubble and finally a heap of ashes, but spirits will hover over the ashes.
—Ludwig Wittgenstein, Culture and Value
What difference would it make to the history of Anglo-American

poetic modernism if we were to read Pound as a poet whose progress
begins and ends in the realm of the dead, the author (and protagonist)
of a literary odyssey culminating in a political inferno haunted by his
earliest poetic principles? What if we were to read Pound essentially as
a poet of mourning—not elegiac precisely, but fetishistic and trans¬
gressive in his failed resuscitation of the inanimate and, with regard to
politics, the nonexistent; a poet whose ideas about poetry, culture,
and politics are consistently informed by tropes of decomposing
objects and signs, reanimation, and violent states of “possession”?
Would it be necessary to revise altogether the genre of poetic elegy,
in order to accommodate a reverence for the dead that is distinguished
by infidelity, license, and abuse? Perhaps not. More broadly speaking,
does Pound’s poetic Decadence, which is epitomized by his fascination
with death, have any bearing on the conflation of art and life, aesthetics
and politics, represented by the figure of the dandy—a persona
adopted by Pound, at the very least, in his manner of dress?23 Fur¬
thermore, how does one begin to disentangle certain Decadent par¬
adigms subverting the categories of “art” and “fife” from similar
positions adopted by the avant-garde and fascist modernism? Finally,
23. Here is a description by Ford Madox Ford of Pound’s appearance during the early
years of their friendship (1909-1914): “Ezra had a forked red beard, luxuriant chestnut
hair, an aggressive lank figure; one long blue single stone earring dangled on his jawbone.
He wore a purple hat, a green shirt, a black velvet coat, vermillion socks, openwork
brilliant tanned sandals . . . and trousers of green billiard cloth, in addition to an immense
flowing tie that had been hand-painted by a Japanese Futurist artist.” Pound/Ford: The
Story of a Literary Friendship, ed. Brita Lindberg-Seyersted (New York: New Directions,
1982), p. 84.
R. A D I O CORPSE
is it possible that Decadent theorizing about “death-in-life” eventu¬

ally finds political expression in the dialectical equation of construction
and destruction that is characteristic of fascist ideologies?
I’d like to begin to consider the scope and significance of Pound’s
necrophilia by reviewing briefly one of the prevailing constructions of
elegiac modernism. In his celebrated 1936 essay “ ‘In Memoriam,’ ”
T. S. Eliot writes, “Tennyson is not only a minor Virgil, he is also
Virgil as Dante saw him, a Virgil among the Shades, the saddest of all
English poets, among the Great in Limbo, the most instinctive rebel
against the society in which he was the most perfect conformist.”24
Among historians and critics of literary modernism, it is customary to
view this passage (and the entire essay in which it appears) as cryptically
self-referential, as a description not so much of Tennyson but of
Eliot himself. Walton Litz, for example, claims that “in writing and
rewriting the 1936 ‘In Memoriam’ essay Eliot the poet-critic was
confessing himself.”25 And Carol Christ notes, “Eliot could well be
describing his own poetry when he remarks of Tennyson that he uses
narrative situation only as an occasion for ‘stating an elegiac
mood.’ ”26 As Christ’s orientation suggests, this comparison can be
made from the standpoint of a reader of Victorian as well as modern
literature. Indeed, it was a scholar of Victorian literature, Arthur J.
Carr, who first exploited Eliot’s essay on Tennyson to make a case for
the peculiar modernity of Tennyson’s melancholy and his fascination
with death. Citing Eliot’s “Preludes” and “Prufrock” as evidence of
Tennyson’s influence, and echoing a famous theme of “The Waste
Land,” Carr situates Tennyson’s modernity in “the interchanging play
of memory and desire.”27 If, as Carr suggests, the character of Eliot’s
24. T. S. Eliot, “ ‘In Memoriam, ” (1936), reprinted in Frank Kermode, ed., Selected
Prose ofT. S. Eliot (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1975), p. 246.
25. A. Walton Litz, “T. S. Eliot’s Victorian Inheritance,” in U. C. Knoepflmacher
and G. B. Tennyson, eds., Nature and the Victorian Imagination (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1977), p. 483.
26. Carol T. Christ, Victorian and Modern Poetics (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1984), p. 47.
27. Arthur J. Carr, “Tennyson as Modern Poet” (1950), reprinted in John Killham,
ed., Critical Essays on the Poetry of Tennyson (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul,
1960), p. 48. For reference to Carr’s essay, I am indebted to James R. Kincaid, “For¬
getting to Remember: Tennyson’s Happy Losses,” Victorian Poetry 30, nos. 3-4
(Autumn-Winter 1992): 197-209. The Eliot-Tennyson team, I should add, has
///// 82
Cryptaesthesia
modernity is indebted in some respects to the elegiac Tennyson, then

one must, Carr claims, recognize Tennyson as “our true precursor”
(42)—that is, as a protomodernist. In both poets, then, “the recurrent
pattern is a transition through death, loss, or dream” (63), and their
essential modernity is signaled by a preoccupation with death and loss.
While Carr’s influential essay succeeded in revising (and to some
extent reviving) interest in Tennyson’s poetry, it also produced a
residual (and revisionary) concept of elegiac modernism that would
prove useful to historians and critics of twentieth-century poetry.
Modernists such as Titz, for example, view Eliot’s ostensive identifi¬
cation with Tennyson as an indication of the traditionalism of modern
poetry, but also as evidence of its elegiac propensity. Eliot’s cryptic
confession of Tennysonian values becomes the basis not only for a
pattern of influence but for a powerful, if submerged, expression of
modernity. Thus, commenting on the “Little Gidding” sequence of
“Four Quartets,” Litz writes, “In this last and most moving drama¬
tization of Eliot’s primal theme, the meeting with a ghostly other self,
all the divisions of his early criticism and poetry are put aside, and
Tennyson joins Baudelaire as one of the dead masters of Eliot’s art”
(488).
Although the critical history of Eliot’s submerged relation to Ten¬
nyson is not a topic that will generate much excitement these days,
the conception of elegiac modernism is an idea eminently worth recov¬
ering. Yet the historical limitations of this conception, and its failure
to be more persuasive generally, are due in part to the exclusive focus
on Eliot and, to a lesser degree, Tennyson. In addition, the conception
of elegiac modernism adumbrated by Litz, Christ, and others is ham¬
pered by its debts to Victorian scholarship; it fails to respond to expe¬
riences that are essential to specifically modernist representations of
death, loss, absence, or mourning. A revised conception of elegiac
modernism would therefore have to take into account more fully the
catastrophic effects of World War I, the experience of exile, and the
emergence of new technical media as modes of distanciation as well
as preservation. These formative conditions resonate fully within the
remarkable staying power; it even makes a brief appearance in Kincaid’s witty, decon-
structive reading of Tennysonian remembrance (p. 200).
83 /////
U. A D I O CORPSE
rhetoric of death, decomposition, and reanimation in Pound’s writ¬

ings. Perhaps it is not Eliot’s but Pound’s work that best illuminates
the full scope of elegiac modernism—its preoccupation with loss but
also with materiality, animism, imagery, and political violence.
Though the connection to Tennyson need not be scrapped entirely,
the specific character of Pound’s necrophilia (as well as his aversion to
the dead) requires a shift of focus from the experience of melancholy
to an aberration of mourning that verges upon mania and recalls the
Image to its occluded origins as a cadaver and a ghost.28 We find an
important parallel to Pound’s aberrant mourning in the work of
Wyndham Lewis, whose fascination with death provides the key not
only to his early (and unpublished) Decadent sonnets, but to his con¬
ception of Vorticist art. For Lewis, as for Pound, the difficult transition
from aestheticism to the avant-garde occurs as a land of mutation or
sublimation of death.29 I want to stress, however, that the recession
28. Marshall McLuhan makes a case for Tennyson as a precursor to Pound and Eliot,
based on a fetishized conception of the image and on “the simultaneous order of a
cabinet picture” (which would become the paratactic structure of “The Waste Land”
and the Cantos): “It is precisely his fidelity to the vivisection of isolated moments that
links Tennyson to the greatest works of his time and ours ... It is to be related to the
tendency to abandon succession for simultaneity when our instruments of observation
acquired speed and precision.” As this last sentence indicates, McLuhan’s thesis about
a Tennysonian and modernist poetics of the Image serves as the basis for his later spec¬
ulations about the technical media. H. M. McLuhan, “Tennyson and the Romantic
Epic,” in Killham, ed., Critical Essays on the Poetry of Tennyson, pp. 93-94. On the
relation between Imagism and Victorian conceptions of the picturesque, see McLuhan,
“Tennyson and Picturesque Poetry,” ibid., p. 70.
29. The necrophilic dimension of Lewis’ early sonnets (written about 1910) is evident
in the concluding sestet of “To the Spirit of Poetry”:
Our minds are all some buried savior’s tomb,

But rarely woken from pollution’s gloom;
And nought but a low mourning sound more
Assails its depths,—no clamours of yore:
One night shall not the watchers of the door
Lind a white angel in corruption’s room?
Cited by Daniel Schenker, Wyndham Lewis: Religion and Modernism (Tuscaloosa: Uni¬
versity of Alabama Press, 1992), p. 21. Given that death appears in this poem in a
characteristically Decadent scene of “corruption,” it is surprising to find that the idea
of death remains central to Lewis’ conception of Vorticism, of which he claims, “Dead¬
ness is the first condition of art.” Wyndham Lewis, Tarr (Santa Barbara: Black Sparrow
Press, 1983; orig. pub. 1918), p. 299.
///// 84
Cryptaesthesia
of melancholy as the dominant feature of elegiac modernism does not

imply the overcoming of loss or fascination in Pound’s scopic regime
of the dead. On the contrary, the effects of loss only become more
recessive, more highly mediated (or mediumistic), and hence more
pervasive.
Lewis, not surprisingly, was the most perceptive and persistent wit¬
ness to Pound’s phantasmagorical sense of modernity. From the
beginning of their association, Lewis’ assessment of Pound was rooted
in the notion that “he [Pound] has never loved anything living as he
has loved the dead.”30 Near the end of his life, Lewis returned once
more to the issue of Pound’s possession by “spirits” and his suscep¬
tibility to things that disappear and return again, to things mediated
by “death.” In 1954, eight years after Pound’s incarceration for the
Rome Radio broadcasts, Lewis published a short story called “Dop¬
pelganger.” The main protagonist of the story, “Thaddeus Trunk” (a
pseudonym for Pound, whose paternal grandfather was named Thad¬
deus), is said to be “in love with the past.”31 He is also plagued by a
“Stranger” who resembles him and who claims to have a “telepathic
endowment” (216). In the end, the doppelganger turns out to be
“the real Thaddeus,” whereas the original “Uncle Thad” is revealed
to be “a bulky phantom of publicity” (222). In this story, Lewis
reflects upon the ineluctable character of Pound’s poetic investment
in the economy of death, which is seen as migrating from his work to
his life. Succumbing to the mimetic enchantment of the double and
its telepathic powers, “Uncle Thad” becomes an index of the insta¬
bility of the real and the chimerical, an effect of “publicity.” More
specifically, the doppelganger is an emblem of the real “ghosts,” the
living dead, that haunted Pound’s work and his cryptic enunciation of
elegiac modernism.
I would like to begin my search for Pound’s missing grave (and the
tomb of the Image) by interviewing a few ghosts and by reviewing the
books of the dead that Pound produced as monuments to their dis¬
appearance. In April 1916, almost four years after he coined the term
30. Wyndham Lewis, Time and Western Man (London: Chatto and Windus, 1927),
P- 71.
31. Wyndham Lewis, “Doppelganger,” in Unlucky for Pringle, ed. Robert T.
Chapman and C. J. Fox (London: Vision, 1973), p. 208.
85 /////
Radio corpse
“Imagism” and two years after he broke with Amy Lowell and the
Imagist movement, Pound published his most important collection of
writings on the subject of the Image. Gaudier-Brzeska: A Memoir
appeared at a moment when Imagism as a movement had already
faded from the memory of the London avant-garde, and when interest
and activity in the Vorticist movement was also beginning to wane.
(The last issue of Blast was published in July 1915.) The belated
appearance of the book is not the only aspect of its anachronism; many
of the essays in it are reprints of magazine articles that Pound pub¬
lished in 1913 and 1914, during the height of his involvement with
the Imagist and Vorticist movements. Although Pound insists that he
does not wish to revive the “journalistic squabbles” that accompanied
the emergence of Imagism and Vorticism several years earlier, the sec¬
tions of Gaudier-Brzeska written near the time of its publication are
as contentious as the manifestos reprinted from Blast. Why does
Pound, a brilliant strategist of the avant-garde, a man who is acutely
aware of the importance of timing in the promotion of new art, publish
a polemical work that is so obviously out of date? Is the memoir simply
a pretext for a historical account of these movements, from the stand¬
point of an insider? Or is the motivation more strategic than its date
would suggest? That is, is his memorial to Gaudier-Brzeska an attempt
to revive the figure of the Image and to regain control of it from Amy
Lowell, to whom he had relinquished it two years earlier?32
Uncertainty about the book’s purpose, which is manifest in its
belated appearance, is also evident in Pound’s own statements about
the book. On one hand, he says that the purpose of the book is to
make Gaudier’s work accessible to other artists, and, as the book’s title
suggests, “to leave as clear a record as possible of Gaudier’s work and
thought” (GB 19). Yet Pound later contradicts the need for such doc¬
umentation when he says, “Mr. Brzeska’s sculpture is so generally
recognized in all camps that one does not need to bring in a brief
32. The first Imagist anthology, Des Imagistes, was organized by Pound and published
in March 1914. Several months later Amy Lowell, a poet from Boston, arrived in London
and proposed to Pound a second anthology, which would be published with her support
and would also include some of her poetry. They quarreled over the content of the
anthology, but Lowell persisted, and Pound was powerless or unwilling to stop her from
pursuing the project. Lowell—without Pound’s involvement—published three subse¬
quent Imagist anthologies, in 1915, 1916, and 1917.
///// 86
Cryptaesthesia
concerning it” (GB 93). Pound employs a legal analogy here to sug¬
gest that a defense of Gaudier’s work would be superfluous. The end
result of these inconsistencies is, as Donald Davie observes, a work
that is “unfortunately the most incoherent though also one of the
most important of his prose works.”33 Although I would dispute the
implication that the work is important in spite of its incoherence, we
may still ask what it is that prompted Pound to write the book, and
how its curiously belated appearance and anachronistic materials are
linked to its twin subjects, the death of a young sculptor and the
“Image.”
One of the most powerful and revealing tensions in Gaudier-Brzeska
arises, as I have already suggested, from its disquieting mixture of elegy
and polemic.34 One moment Pound is reminiscing about an afternoon
spent in Gaudier’s studio, and the next he is revising the concept of
the Image, or redressing the public’s misunderstanding of Vorticism.
The book is, after all, intended to be a work of memory, a public
observance of the death of a young sculptor killed in World War I.
Indeed, despite the author’s forays into Vorticist polemics, we could
justifiably call the book a work of mourning. Pound makes it clear that
he does not intend to allow the memoir to become a manifesto: “I
am not particularly anxious to make this book cmy book’ about
Gaudier-Brzeska ... In so far as a knowledge of our [the Vorticists’]
agreement is likely to lead to a clearer understanding or a swifter com¬
prehension of Brzeska’s work, in just so far will the general topic of
vorticism be dragged into the present work” (GB 19). The proximity
of death, however, in the loss of his friend and in the war at large,
encourages Pound not only to review the controversies surrounding
the Vorticist movement, but, more importantly, to revive an archaic
figure of the Image that had been lost to him since his “conversion”
to modernity in 1911 or 1912. Through his remembrance of the dead
(and this is not the first time Pound dedicated a work to the memory
of a dead painter or sculptor), he recovers the figure of the Image as
33. Donald Davie, Ezra Pound: Poet as Sculptor (New York: Oxford University Press,
1964), p. 54.
34. This conflict was noted by the book’s earliest reviewers, including this critic from
the New York Times: “Mr. Pound diminishes the value of his memoir by including a
number of his own pronouncements on the subject of sculpture and of art in general.”
New York Times Review of Books (August 13, 1916): 314.
87 /////
Radio corpse
phantom or ghost. The convergence of elegy and Image (as well as

Imagist polemic) indicates, I believe, that we must view Gaudier-
Brzeska, which is essentially an encounter with the dead, as a vivid and
perilous restaging of the poetics of Imagism. Indeed, Pound’s puz¬
zling disengagement from the Imagist movement in July 1914 may
well have been precipitated by Gaudier’s military enlistment in the
previous month (June 1914).35 Thus, Pound may be said to have
revived the principles of Imagism by remembering the friend who,
more than any other, embodied for him the spirit of that movement.
Indeed, Pound is never closer to an illicit sense of the pleasure poetry
affords than when he is exhuming or receiving the dead, thereby
revealing a correlation between poetry, death, and pleasure that is
encrypted in the figure of the Image. The specific correspondence
between a recessive figure of the Image and Gaudier’s phantom
implies, therefore, certain important ramifications for an under¬
standing of Pound’s poetics. It suggests, first of all, that the rhetoric
of death we encounter so frequently in Pound’s work always refers
obliquely to the problem of the Image. Thus, for example, the per¬
mutations and fate of Gaudier’s phantom are those of the Image itself,
both historically and ideologically. This suggests, furthermore, that
Imagist poetics may be particularly susceptible to “psychological” (in
the archaic sense of the term), psychoanalytic, or post-psychoanalytic
readings.
Though it is not customary to think of Pound’s Image in terms of
dreams, ghosts, phantoms, and the underworld, it is precisely these
associations that Pound would have encountered in reading Swin¬
burne, Dowson, and other Victorian poets who influenced his earliest
poetry. In addition, Pound’s formalist agenda (the Image as a formal
structure, ideogram, constellation, and so on) shows the influence of
early psychological theory, a field that established itself on the basis of
35. It is possible that Pound’s dissociation from the Imagist movement may have been
influenced by Amy Lowell’s antipathy for Gaudier. In her biography of Lowell, Jean
Gould writes, “Amy could not abide Gaudier-Brzeska . . . He probably nurtured an
equal dislike for the regal, immaculate appearance and the ‘vivacious intelligence’ of
Amy Lowell. With his lank hair almost to his shoulders, his sparsely bearded cheeks,
pointed chin, oddly slanted eyes topping off his slovenly clothes (almost identical to
fellow artists of sixty years later), he was revolting to her.” Jean Gould, Amy: The World
of Amy Lowell and the Imagist Movement (New York: Dodd Mead, 1975), p. 127.
///// 88
Cryptaesthesia
a work (Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams) purporting to deal scien¬

tifically with phantoms of the mind. One of Pound’s most influential
definitions of the poetic Image is, in fact, specifically indebted to
Freudian terminology. In the March 1913 issue of Poetry, Pound
writes, “An ‘image’ is that which presents an intellectual and emo¬
tional complex in an instant of time. I use the term ‘complex’ rather
in the technical sense employed by the newer psychologists such as
Hart” (LE 4; Bernard Hart was one of the earliest and most sophis¬
ticated English proponents of psychoanalysis). Only rarely have critics
taken into account the significance of this and other related statements
Pound made—especially the challenge these statements pose to
received notions of modern formalism.36 Wallace Martin’s perspicuous
observation about the Image in this regard has gone largely unnoticed:
“For Pound, the image is a psychological concept. It involves not
sensation and ideation, but emotion and other unspecified psychic
‘energies’ . . . Hulme attempts to define the image philosophically;
Pound discusses its psychological causes and effects, and emphasizes
the fact that, like the ‘complex,’ it is endowed with energy. Hulme’s
concept of the image is derived from Bergson; Pound’s was derived
from Freud.”37 It is a measure of the power of Pound’s formalist rhet¬
oric that critics have almost entirely overlooked the psychological char¬
acter of the Image and the corresponding associations with ghosts and
phantoms. Yet it is crucial for a full understanding of Pound’s poetics
that these associations not be severed from the more prominent, for¬
malist aspect of the Image.
Pound’s memoir of Gaudier-Brzeska is, in effect, a literary crypt, a
place that is haunted by the return of the young sculptor (in the form
of images from the past), but also by the return of the spectral Image
to Pound’s thinking about poetry. A crypt is a place that preserves and
conceals, a place that preserves the unspeakable pleasure Pound takes
in the figure of death and the idea of being visited or haunted by
images. The crypt also conceals, and what it hides is not only the
36. Martin A. Kayman provides an excellent account of the historical and intellectual
context of Pound’s definition of the Image as a “complex.” See Kayman, “A Context
for Hart’s ‘Complex,’ ” Puideuma 12, nos. 2 and 3 (Fall-Winter 1983-1984): 223-
235.
37. Wallace Martin, “The New Age” under A. R. Oragre (Manchester: Manchester
University Press, 1967), p. 181.
89 /////
A D I O CORPSE
absence of the dead but the disfiguring absence of the Image as

phantom in Pound’s enunciation of modern formalism. For although
in Gaudier-Brzeska Pound offers a variety of figures for the Image
(complex, ideogram, vortex, mask, and so on), he never describes it
explicitly as a ghost or phantom. Yet it is precisely this figure of the
Image that accounts for the book’s anachronism and that impedes
Pound’s efforts to “modernize” his poetry. The book, like a crypt, is
constructed around the absence of the dead, but also around the
absence of a certain figure of the Image that is both ungraspable and
unavoidable. The Image is allowed to return as a phantom only as an
effect of mourning. Even then, it is forced to remain an inscrutable
presence, an unspeakable pleasure corresponding to an unpronounce¬
able word. These archaic associations continue to haunt Pound’s
formalist conception of the Image until he “buries” them—unsuc¬
cessfully—in 1920 in “Flugh Selwyn Mauberley.”
By “exhuming” these archaic associations in Pound’s work, we can
uncover a narrative concerning the Image as phantom. This narrative
is encrypted in a group of works that span Pound’s early career, from
1908 to 1920. As I mentioned earlier, Gaudier-Brzeska is not the first
work that Pound dedicates to the memory of a young painter or
sculptor. Pound’s first book of poems, A Lume Spento (1908), is ded¬
icated in memoriam to “William Brooke Smith, dreamer of dreams,”
a young artist whom Pound had known in Philadelphia. Other works
that develop explicitly the association of memory, Image, and
phantom include Pound’s translation of Book 11 of the Odyssey (the
journey to the underworld), his translation of Cavalcanti’s “Donna mi
prega” (which resurfaces in Cantos 36 and 74), and “Hugh Selwyn
Mauberley.” All of these works—and numerous others—document
various aspects of a struggle in Pound’s work between divergent con¬
ceptions of the Image as artifact and phantom, and between a formalist
agenda and what might be called the “desire” of the phantom that
Pound encounters, repeatedly, in his own “books of the dead.” One
either fashions images in a material sense, or one is visited, haunted,
by images. It is clear that the latter conception dominates Pound’s
earliest poetry. Nearly a third of the poems in A Lume Spento are
addressed to the dead, or are crowded with apparitions, ghosts, and
shades. The formalist rhetoric of the Image, which Pound hammered
///// 90
Cryp ta esthesi a
out between 1912 and 1914 and which is the basis of what most
people understand to be Imagism, thus displaces an earlier, spectral
figure of the Image.
Corresponding to the line of fracture in the Image is a rift that
separates the two types of Image makers that appear in Pound’s books
of the dead. The first type is a “dreamer,” a “hedonist,” a “somnam¬
bulistic medium” (GB 106); he is sensitive and passive. The second
type is active, energetic, irascible, phallic. The first type is haunted by
images; the second masters the medium through “technique.” The
painters, sculptors, and “outlaws” who appear in Pound’s books of
the dead often show traces of both types. These types correspond to
two kinds of memory. One is active, selective, transformational; it
shares certain features with Freud’s description of the “work” of
mourning. The other is passive, receptive; memories come upon the
mind as in a dream.
It is important to bear in mind that Gaudier-Brzeska is ostensibly a
book of reminiscence, and that memory, for Pound, is fundamentally
a question of remembering the dead, or at least dealing with images
in the mind—“resurgent EIKONES”—that function like ghosts (C
74: 460). This visualization almost always implies recollection: to see
is to remember, an equation that helps explain the ambiguous visuality
of the Image. Pound’s fascination with the powers of memory spans
his entire career, from his early interest in Cavalcanti’s neoplatonic
theory of memory, to the Pisan cantos, where Pound actually repeats
the adage, “The Muses are the daughters of memory” (C 74: 459).
The art of memory, understood as a revival of the dead, lies at the very
heart of Pound’s poetic agenda. A good example of the way in which
Pound’s conception of memory informs his poetics occurs in the cel¬
ebrated series of essays titled “I Gather the Limbs of Osiris,” pub¬
lished in 1911-1912 (the same period during which he was translating
Cavalcanti’s “Donna mi prega”). Pound uses the myth of Osiris
(which he borrows from the Egyptian Book of the Dead) as a meta¬
phor to illustrate the vocation of the poet. The poet’s essential task,
as Pound sees it, is to gather the scattered limbs of the slain god, to
reunite the disparate members of the dormant tradition: to re-member
the dead. In order to assume the role of the one who re-members (who
becomes the memory of the race), Pound must take the position of
91 /////
Radio corpse
Isis, the sister-lover of Osiris. (The female gendering of the one who
re-members the dead—of the Imagist poet—is rendered most con¬
spicuously in Pound’s nomination of H.D. as the prototypical “Imag-
iste.” Indeed, the fictitious “H.D.” is equivalent to the Image itself,
even as she is encrypted historically as an Imagist poet.)38 In the Osiris
articles, Pound announces a program for modern poetry based on the
idea of remembrance, and also articulates for the first time what he
calls “the method of the luminous detail” (SP 21-23), a concept that
prefigures the “radiant node or cluster” of the Image. The “radiant”
detail or Image is, in fact, an instrument of remembrance. By isolating
such details, which stand in a synecdochical relation to the lost tradi¬
tion they evoke, one can recover what has been lost or forgotten: the
past. In a quite literal sense, and in a manner that corresponds to a
long tradition of memory theory, the luminous detail—the forerunner
of the Image—is a mnemonic device.
A major influence on Pound’s understanding of memory came from
his reading and translations of Guido Cavalcanti, a medieval Italian
poet whose most famous poem is the canzone “Donna mi prega.”
Pound’s interest in Cavalcanti makes its first appearance in Pound’s
book of critical essays The Spirit of Romance (based on a series of
lectures he delivered in the summer of 1909). Later, between April
and November 1910, Pound translated nearly all of Cavalcanti’s
poetry; he published these translations in December 1912, along with
an introduction, under the title Sonnets and Ballate of Guido Caval¬
canti. Between 1910 and 1931, Pound expanded this introduction to
an essay of nearly sixty pages, which he published under the title
“Cavalcanti” in 1934.39
38. In her memoir of Pound, H.D. offers a double portrait of her former lover: “The
two men, diametrically opposed, set off each other, the London ‘opposite number’ of
my life-long Isis search, and Odysseus-Pound descended into the land of shades in the
Pisan Cantos.” H.D., End to Torment: A Memoir of Ezra Pound, ed. Norman Holmes
Pearson and Michael King (New York: New Directions, 1979), p. 32. In this passage,
H.D. describes Pound as the dismembered Osiris (to her Isis). Osiris and Odysseus (the
two personae H.D. ascribes to Pound) are “diametrically opposed” because Osiris is
one of the lost dead, whereas Odysseus, alive, journeys to Hades to recover the dead.
In this respect, the position of Odysseus is identical to that of Isis. Hence, by assuming
the Isis role in his “Osiris” articles, Pound anticipates his later persona as Odysseus.
39. For an exhaustive account of Pound’s many projects relating to Cavalcanti, see
David Anderson, Pound’s Cavalcanti (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983).
///// 92
Cryptaesthesia
Pound published a revised translation of “Donna mi prega” in The

Dial in 1928. He continued to rework this translation, and it appeared
in another revision as Canto 36 in 1934. Fragments of the poem are
also strewn throughout the Pisan cantos (a section of the Cantos that
is haunted by personal memories). Pound’s lifelong preoccupation
with “Donna mi prega” and his repeated renderings of it testify to his
belief that the poem contained an enigmatic key to a conception of
memory combining erotic love, death, and visual form. The poem
became, for Pound, a virtual fetish, its arcane terms recurring like
emblems in his work.
“Donna mi prega” is a philosophical poem steeped in neoplatonic
thought and the Provencal tradition—a poem that seeks to describe
the correlation of visuality and memory in erotic love. Pound’s first
translation of the poem begins with the following dedication: “To
Thomas Campion his ghost, and to the ghost of Henry Lawes, as
prayer for the revival of music.” These words suggest immediately the
relation of the poem’s subject (memory) to ghosts and the art of set¬
ting words to music (poetry). In his “Cavalcanti” essay, Pound pro¬
duces a critical anatomy of these features of the poem’s exposition.
According to his reading of the poem, the inscribing force of affection
carves a “formed trace” (un formato locho) in memory, which is the
“latent intellect” (possibile intelletto). Affection comes from visible
form (Vim da vedutaforma), and takes its place in memory (In quella
parte dove sta memoria prende suo state).
All of these ideas derive from classical and medieval conceptions of
memory. According to tradition, the “art of memory” was invented
by the Greek poet Simonides, who is also said to have initiated the
tradition of ut pictura poesis (the correspondence, or comparison, of
verbal and visual arts). As the story goes, the principles of the art of
memory occurred to Simonides after attending a banquet at which all
of the guests were killed when the roof over their heads collapsed.
Moments before the disaster occurred, Simonides was called outside
by two strangers—the twins Castor and Pollux in disguise—to whom
Simonides had just dedicated a song of praise. The bodies of the dead,
buried under the rubble, were mutilated beyond recognition, making
it impossible for friends and family to identify their remains. Simon¬
ides, however, was able to identify the bodies by recalling the places of
93 /////
Radio corpse
the dead. From this constellation of dead bodies emerged the art of
memory as a system of ordered places, equating remembrance and a
deferral of visuality. It is important to emphasize from the outset that
the art of memory is not a theory of “natural” memory but a mne¬
monic calculus, a system of artificial memory that is designed to sup¬
plement and extend the powers of natural memory. The art of memory
is an invisible tool, a technique that is said to endow its practitioners
with “divine” powers (hence Simonides’ debt to Castor and Pollux),
allowing them to retrieve words and things—in the form of images—
from a “secret place.” Furthermore, heavily influenced by medieval
theories of atomism, the art of memory is implicated historically in the
development of cryptography, mathematical calculus, and artificial—
especially graphic—languages (such as ideogrammic notation). As
such, the historical discourse on the art of memory anticipates in
remarkable ways the modern discourse on technology and the tech¬
nical media. The same kinds of magical—and destructive—powers are
ascribed to both phenomena. The art of memory, which discloses and
exploits the transitivity of a certain kind of “dwelling” place (the
locus), acts as a medium between word and image, oblivion and dis¬
figurement, between the realms of the living and the dead. Questions
of topography, and a confusion between place and image, trace the
art of memory forward to psychoanalytic theories of language and
technology conjured from the translational space of the crypt.40
According to ancient sources, which include Cicero, Quintillian,
and others, the “art of memory,” following Simonides’ method, is
based on a mnemonic system of places and images (loci and imagines)'.
“A locus is a place easily grasped by memory, such as a house, an
intercolumnar space, a corner, an arch, or the like. Images are forms,
marks, or simulacra of what we wish to remember.”41 In order to
expand the powers of natural memory, we must first visualize in our
40. The psychoanalytic concepts of the crypt and cryptonymy, to which my specula¬
tions on memory are indebted, originate in Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok, The Wolf
Man’s Magic Word: A Cryptonymy, trans. Nicholas Rand, foreword by Jacques Derrida
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986). A philosophical and historical
account of the cryptic space of memory can be found in Giorgio Agamben, Stanzas:
Word and Phantasm in Western Culture.
41. My account of the historical and practical features of the art of memory is entirely
dependent on Frances A. Yates, The Art of Memory (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1966), p. 6.
///// 94
Cryptaesthesia
mind a house or dwelling of many rooms (loci), each with a distinctive

character. This arrangement of places becomes a permanent setting in
which we can deposit, or from which we can withdraw, images that
stand for various ‘Things.” To recall a word or thing from memory,
we enter the dwelling of memory and seek out the locus where the
image for that word or thing has been deposited for safekeeping.
Frances Yates comments, “We have to try to imagine the memory of
a trained orator of that period as architecturally built up with orders
of memorized places stocked with images in a manner inconceivable
to us” (43).
The “theory of images,” like the theory of places, alludes to the
necrophilic origins of the art of memory. A text by Thomas Aquinas,
for example, refers to imagines as phantasmata, or ghosts (Art of
Memory 69-71). One should not, moreover, think of the images
deposited in the loci of memory as mere objects or still figures. Indeed,
the “fields and spacious palaces” (as Augustine refers to the loci of
memory) are thronged with imagines agentes (active images), which
bring to mind dreadful scenes from the underworld.42 Augustine’s
description of the imagines recalls Odysseus’ encounter with the
shades of the dead in Book 11 of the Odyssey: “Others rush out in
troops, and while one thing is desired and required, they all start forth,
as who should say, ‘Is it perchance I?’ These I drive away with the
hand of my heart from the face of remembrance” (Art ofMemory 46).
One is to imagine a palace of the dead, with innumerable rooms, pop¬
ulated by “the imagines agentes, fantastically gesticulating from their
places and arousing memory by their emotional appeal” (26). As in
the Odyssey, the phantasmata of memory clamor for attention, to be
remembered, to speak to (and for) the living.
The imagines of memory display “a love of the grotesque, the idi¬
osyncratic.” An anonymous source of the first century B.c. advises that
memory images will be more effective “if we assign to them excep¬
tional beauty or singular ugliness; if we ornament some of them, as
with crowns or purple cloaks; or if we somehow disfigure them by
42. It is interesting to note that the art of memory, as it is conceived by Latin sources,
often reflects the tastes of imperial Rome: “I came to the fields and spacious palaces of
memory, where are the treasures of innumerable images, brought into it from things of
all sorts perceived by the senses” (Yates, The Art of Memory, p. 46). Augustine’s descrip¬
tion suggests an analogy whereby the palace of memory is filled with exotic images
gathered from the distant provinces of the senses.
95 /////
Radio corpse
introducing one stained with blood or soiled with mud or smeared

with red paint” {Art of Memory 10). To produce memorable figures,
therefore, we must disfigure them; the familiar—that which is to be
remembered—must become unfamiliar, grotesque, strange, in order
to escape oblivion. The allure of disfigurement recalls the mutilated
corpses buried under the rubble of Simonides’ banquet. In this
respect, the innumerable loci of memory, each containing a disfigured
image, should be understood as a network of catacombs, or, in the
view of medieval theorists of memory, as the “places of Hell.”
Once it is marked or disfigured, the image itself becomes a field of
inscription, a characterization that is usually reserved for the locus or
setting of the memory image. Cicero compares the art of memory to
an inner writing: “We shall employ the places and images respectively
as a wax writing-tablet and the letters written on it” {Art of Memory
2). Indeed, hieroglyphs and other ciphers were used as memory
images, suggesting that the progression from spectral image to ideo¬
gram in Pound’s formulation of the Image may subscribe to a logic
similar to that of the art of memory. The crypt (or locus) holds an
image that is both phantom and cipher. According to the conception
of memory as a system of writing, it is the locus that receives the mark
of inscription. Yet the image, as we have seen, can also be marked or
disfigured in some fashion, suggesting that a firm distinction between
locus and imagines may not be tenable. A similar uncertainty under¬
mines even more basic distinctions between place and image: “The
same set of loci can be used again and again for remembering different
material. The images which we have placed on them for remembering
one set of things fade and are effaced when we make no further use
of them. But the loci remain in memory and can be used again by
placing another set of images for another set of material” {Art of
Memory 7). The art of memory therefore depends on the assumption
that the locus is permanent, whereas the image is fleeting, or transient.
Yet the imaginary locus, we must remember, is nothing more than an
image. Indeed, it is an image of considerably greater power than the
memory image itself, precisely because it disguises its identity as an
image—that is to say, it conceals its ephemerality, its susceptibility to
oblivion. (The obsessive power of the image—Marx’s conception of
the commodity fetish, for example—is always due to this sort of con-
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Cryptaesthesia
cealment.) Freed, however, from the illusion of permanence, the archi¬

tectural locus—the crypt—assumes the phantasmic properties of the
image. The art of memory is revealed to be a system of figures disfig¬
ured by other figures, images encrypted in images. The translatability
of image and place (of the image and its crypt) is evident in our current
usage of the term “topos” (or “topic”), which Aristotle and other
Greek sources used to denote the memory locus. As we use it, the
word “topic” refers to a general image or subject. Hence, the role of
the memory image has been transferred to its site: we use the word
meaning “place” when we wish to refer to the image it holds.43
The “theory of places,” as it was known for nearly two thousand
years, refers frequently and unmistakably, in its accumulation of prac¬
tical detail, to the necrophilic origins of Simonides’ invention. The
eccentric and even “grotesque” character of the memory places
(which are said to deform classical architecture) alludes to an expres¬
sive and thematic context that is often articulated in the form of advice
on the selection of loci. According to one classical rhetorician, “It is
better to form one’s memory loci in a deserted and solitary place, for
crowds of passing people tend to weaken the impressions. Therefore
the student intent on acquiring a sharp and well-defined set of loci will
choose an unfrequented building in which to memorize places” (Art
of Memory 7). Other authors reflect a similar bias: “Those wishing to
reminisce withdraw from the public light into private obscurity” (68).
A medieval commentator advises, “When memorizing, the matter
should not be read out in a loud voice, but meditated upon in a
murmur. And it is obviously better to exercise the memory by night,
rather than by day, when silence spreading far and wide aids us” (51).
Such evocations of dark and deserted places are concerned with
more than the pragmatics of memorization. Indeed, these silent, noc¬
turnal places are meant to evoke the cryptic space of memory itself,
and to refer, obliquely, to the places of the dead at Simonides’ ban¬
quet. These lonely places are not only empty but pervaded by a sense
of melancholy—an inducement, perhaps, to morbid recollection. We
might speculate that these associations of memory and wild, deserted
43. Yates observes, “Topics are the ‘things’ or subject matter of dialectic which came
to be known as topoi through the places in which they were stored” (The Art of Memory,
P- 31).
97 /////
Radio corpse
places contributed, distantly, to neoclassical and Romantic tastes for

ruins and graveyards. Indeed, if we were to put into practice the advice
of these commentators, we could find no better place to memorize a
set of loci than a cemetery. One medieval commentator, in fact, goes
a step further and compares the loci of memory to a map of the under¬
world: “The places of Hell, varied in accordance with the nature of
the sins punished in them, could be regarded as variegated memory
loci” (94). Lodged in these infernal cells would be images of the
damned.
There is another feature of the art of memory that confirms but also
complicates its association with the realm of the dead. Tending the
cryptic space of memory, as Quintillian describes it, is a guardian: “The
images by which the speech is to be remembered are then placed in
imagination on the places which have been memorized in the building
. . . All these places are visited in turn and the various deposits
demanded of the custodians” (3). Another commentator writes,
“When it is required to revive the memory, one begins from the first
place to run through all, demanding what has been entrusted to them,
of which one will be reminded by the image” (22). Little else is said
about the shadowy figure of the guardian, but we may compare him
to Charon, the ferryman who controls access to the underworld. We
may also compare the custodian of memory to the guardian that Freud
posts at the antechamber of the unconscious. In the art of memory,
the figure of the guardian introduces the problem of repression and,
by implication, desire. The image encrypted in the locus of memory
evokes desire, yet also, and more important, it is subject to certain
restrictions or resistance. Hence, there is a principle of negativity built
into the memory locus and its cryptic space—a complication that
recalls the problematic visuality of the modernist Image.
The translatability of place and image comes to light only with the
disclosure that the art of memory is founded on an omission: the archi¬
tectural locus, or crypt, like the fetish it preserves and conceals, is sub¬
ject to the laws of ephemerality and transference that govern the
phantasmic image. Something is missing; something has been lost; or,
rather, the place itself has been misplaced. We are inclined to take
seriously Cicero’s jest that the art of memory is a “science of forget¬
ting” (Art of Memory 17). Indeed, some critics of the art of memory
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Cryptaesthesia
express concern that “all those places and images would only bury
under a heap of rubble whatever little one does remember naturally”
(19). “Memory,” another skeptic warns, “is crushed beneath a weight
of images” (19). These passages, which allude to the ruins of Simon¬
ides’ banquet, remind us that the art of memory originates in a scene
of devastation. The faculty of “natural” memory is analogous to a
mutilated corpse buried under the weight of images. We may also view
the palace of artificial memory, built on the ruins of natural memory,
as a monument to the renunciation of memory.44 Thus, as a system of
visualization and remembrance that is founded on blindness and the
obliteration of memory, the art of memory prefigures in remarkable
ways not only the essential negativity of the modernist Image—its
resistance to visuality—but its cryptic relation to the dead. In this
regard, as in the discourse of scientific objectivity, to see is not to
remember but to forget.
To return to Pound’s efforts at translating Cavalcanti’s poetic trea¬
tise on memory, it is precisely the problematic distinction between
place and image that engages Pound in his diverse renderings of the
phrase formato locho (a variation on the Latin term locus). Initially, in
the 1912 edition, Pound chooses a textual variant, non formato locho,
which he renders as “unformed space.” Needless to say, this is exactly
contrary to his ultimate choice, in 1928, of “formed trace” (which
adheres closely to the traditional understanding of mnemonics as a
form of inscription). This dichotomy—the place (which is also an
image) as formed or unformed—is less puzzling if we acknowledge
that it replicates, in some fashion, the (non)distinction between locus
and image in the art of memory. Pound recognizes that the problems
of translating the phrase formato locho turn on this distinction. In the
textual notes to his translation, he writes, “The ‘formato locho’ is the
tract or locus marked out in the ‘possible intelletto’ ... I do not think
Egidio is sound in thinking the ‘formato locho* is a single image. Deter¬
mined locus or habitat would be nearer the mark” (LE 188). In
44. To the extent that artificial memory anticipates the cryptic effects of the technical
media, my view of the relation between “natural” memory and artificial memory echoes
the following statement by Laurence Rickels on the media in general: “Every point of
contact between a body and its media extensions marks the site of a secret burial.”
Rickels, Aberrations of Mourning: Writing on German Crypts (Detroit: Wayne State
99 /////
Radio corpse
making this decision, Pound authorizes, in the context of his own

poetics, the image that hides its identity as an image (the locus, the
crypt). The choice to translate formato locho (and hence to designate
the image) as place or “habitat” (as a crypt) must be understood as a
gesture in the struggle between the Image as artifact and the Image
as phantom.
Yet this gesture, which betrays Pound’s formalist agenda, is no more
stable than the distinction between place and image in the art of
memory. For when the phrase formato locho surfaces again, in the Pisan
Cantos, it is no longer identified as a “determined locus or habitat”
but has become an image and phantom. In a revealing passage from
Canto 74, the tropes of memory, imagery, and death converge:
and that certain images be formed in the mind

to remain there
formato locho
Arachne mi porta fortuna
to remain there, resurgent EIKONES
and still in Trastevere
for the deification of emperors. (C 74: 460)
Thc formato locho (formed trace) is associated here with images that
are described as “resurgent EIKONES.”45 The word eikon in Greek
means ghost or phantom, as well as image or likeness. A synonymous
term, eidolon (idol), is used by Homer to designate the “cadaverous
dead” in Book 11 of the Odyssey. Through his translation of this epi¬
sode in Canto 1, Pound was certainly aware of the double meaning
of both terms; what motivated him to choose one over the other is
explained by reference to “Trastevere.” The Santa Maria Basilica in
the Trastevere quarter of Rome contains Byzantine icons in the form
of mosaics.46 Hence, Pound’s choice of eikon rather than eidolon to
designate the ghostly images of memory suggests that these images
are comparable to mosaics. By associating the mosaic aspect of the
45. To give a complete account of Pound’s formato locho, it is important to note that
the following line occurs in Canto 70: “And in the mirror of memory, formato loco”
(C 70: 410). With the association of the mirror, Pound’s understanding of formato loco
treads specifically on the historical rhetoric of the Image.
46. Carroll F. Terrell, A Companion to the Cantos of Ezra Pound, 2 vols. (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1980), vol. 2, p. 385.
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Cryptaesthesia
Image, which emphasizes the tessellated or fragmentary nature of

memory, with the spectral “EIKONES,” Pound produces a dialectical
figure (the formato locho) that stages the differences between the
Image as artifact and phantom.
A similar dialectic emerges in Pound’s most famous Imagist poem,
“In a Station of the Metro,” and in his account of the poem’s com¬
position. Pound worked on the poem sporadically from 1911 to 1913,
a period of tremendous ferment and change in his poetry (and, inci¬
dentally, the period in which he produced his translations of Caval¬
canti). Pound reprints the poem in his memoir of Gaudier:
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:

Petals, on a wet, black bough. (GB 89)
Bearing in mind Pound’s affection for medieval concepts of memory,

the “station” of the metro can be compared to the locus of memory
in which the “apparitions” (imagines) appear. What’s more, Hugh
Kenner argues that the poem records a descent “underground,” and
recalls Odysseus’ encounter with the souls of the dead in Hades.47 The
“faces in the crowd,” like the “EIKONES” of memory, are “appari¬
tions”: they emerge into visibility (as images), yet they are also phan¬
toms. Obviously, this poem, which is cited by Pound (and everyone
else) as a paradigm of the modern, formalist Image in poetry, is
haunted by other conceptions of the Image. Indeed, Pound portrayed
the “Metro” poem as a crucial turning point in his career, a work that
forced him into an “impasse” (GB 89). He struggled during a period
of a year and a half to complete the poem, and cut it down from thirty
lines to a single sentence. Pound leaves no doubt that the “Image”
of the poem is ultimately a product of shaping and carving resistant
materials. The Image is made, not received. Yet the content of the
poem alludes to the Image as phantom, even as its mode of creation
identifies it as an artifact. Hence, we can understand the “Metro”
poem as the moment in Pound’s career when the Image as phantom
begins to assume the artifactual properties of the formalist Image.
Yet the metamorphosis of the Image never succeeds entirely;
Pound’s attempts during the teens to “modernize” his poetry and his
47. Hugh Kenner, The Pound Em (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971),
pp. 184-185.
101 /////
Radio corpse
conceptions of the Image are continually interrupted and garbled by

the return of archaic associations in the form of ghosts, burials, and
books or poems for the dead. This explains, in part, the curiously
belated appearance and anachronistic features of the memoir of
Gaudier-Brzeska. Even as Pound seeks to establish a formalist agenda,
these archaic associations assert themselves in ever more powerful
ways. In a letter of July 1916 (the year in which he published Gaudier-
Brzeska), Pound writes that he is working on an “adaptation” of Book
11 of the Odyssey (L 87). In the Nekuia (the journey to the under¬
world to question the dead), Pound discovers the “primal scene” of
his encounter with the phantoms of memory, and all the poetic values
associated with such an encounter.
In order to appreciate fully the crypt effects of Gaudier-Brzeska and
the poet’s recurrent desire to mourn but also to revive the figure of
the youthful sculptor or painter, we must take a closer look at the
character of Elpenor in the Odyssey, and his curious relationship to
Odysseus. Elpenor is a minor figure who makes a brief appearance at
the end of Book 10 and the beginning of Book 11. He is the youngest
of Odysseus’ crew, a position that recalls that of Gaudier in the Vor-
ticist group. Homer describes him as “neither very strong in combat
nor very well constructed in his thoughts” (Odyssey 10: 553); the term
he uses, arerds (ill-fitted, poorly constructed), is a metaphor drawn
from carpentry. Elpenor, then, is both less virile and less pragmatic
than his fellow warriors. His manner of thinking is unsound with
regard to its craft or teehne; he is a dreamer, and his character has a
distinctly feminine quality.
Near the end of Book 10, on the eve of Odysseus’ departure from
Circe’s island, Elpenor climbs up on Circe’s roof for a breath of fresh
air. There he falls asleep until dawn, when he is awakened by the sound
of the crew making preparations to leave. Startled, and anxious to join
his companions, he misses the ladder and tumbles off the roof,
breaking his neck (Odyssey 10: 552-560). He dies, and his soul
descends to Hades. Although Odysseus and his crew are aware of
Elpenor’s accidental death, they depart, for reasons that are never
explained, without burying him or observing his death properly. In
Pound’s translation (which is the opening segment of the Cantos),
Odysseus sails to a place where he finds “the ocean flowing backward”
(C 1: 3). The backwardness of Pound’s own journey to the under-
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Cryptaesthesia
world (through translation and memory) is clearly essential to his con¬

ception of poetry. To embark on the writing of the Cantos, Pound
must make a journey in reverse: he must return to a place he has never
been. This is why Tiresias greets Odysseus/Pound on the latter’s
arrival in Hades with the question, “A second time?” (This phrase
does not occur in the original Greek.)
The law of repetition that drives Odysseus/Pound to “return” to
the place of death becomes dramatically evident as he prepares to inter¬
view the dead. The first shade he encounters, among the hundreds
clamoring for his attention, is that of Elpenor. And Pound makes it
clear that this meeting is of no little importance, for in Canto 1 he
devotes twice as many lines to Odysseus’ meeting with Elpenor as he
does to the conversation with Tiresias. (This is not the case in the
original: Homer devotes considerably more attention to Tiresias.) On
seeing the shade of Elpenor, Odysseus breaks into tears and asks how
Elpenor could have arrived in Hades so quickly (Odyssey 11: 55-58).
Elpenor warns Odysseus that his journey home to Ithaca will be jeop¬
ardized if he does not make proper arrangements for Elpenor’s burial.
Odysseus agrees to all of Elpenor’s requests, including the one that
prefigures Odysseus’ own fate: Elpenor asks Odysseus to plant his
(Elpenor’s) oar on top of his burial mound. Only fifty lines later, Tire¬
sias instructs Odysseus to take a journey inland until he is stopped by
a stranger who mistakes his oar (that of Odysseus) for a winnowing
fan (Odyssey 11: 119-130). Though the oar serves here to mark the
difference between the living and the dead (Odysseus and Elpenor),
it is also an inscrutable implement that unites the two men. The
dreamy Elpenor is clearly an alter ego for Odysseus polymetis.
Carroll Terrell argues that Elpenor “stands for the luckless inci¬
dental companion of the hero (or poet) whose only fame after death
rests in the fact that the hero has placed his name on record.”48
Though it may be true that the Elpenor type survives for us only as
result of the poet’s words, it certainly is not the case that he is an
48. Terrell, A Companion to the Cantos of Ezra Pound, vol. 1, p. 2. A peculiar noto¬
riety continues, however, to shadow the figure of Elpenor: his name survives in what
neuropathologists call the “Elpenor Syndrome” or “incomplete awakening.” Paul
Virilio discusses the correlation between the Elpenor Syndrome and technologies of
“topographical amnesia” such as wireless telegraphy. See Virilio, The Vision Machine,
trans. Julie Rose (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), pp. 10, 11.
103 /////
Radio corpse
“incidental” figure for Pound (as the emphasis of his translation indi¬
cates). On the contrary, Pound is haunted by the Elpenor type as late
as the composition of “Hugh Selwyn Mauberley” (1919-1920). Just
as Odysseus was haunted by Elpenor, so Pound is haunted by the
phantoms of Will Smith, Gaudier-Brzeska, and Mauberley. Indeed
Pound draws an explicit connection between Elpenor and Mauberley
when he describes Mauberley’s grave on “the unforecasted beach”:
Then on an oar
Read this:
“I was
And I no more exist;
Here drifted
An Hedonist.” (P 203)
In this context, Elpenor’s oar not only marks the place of death, but
signifies the kind of Image that Mauberley creates (“an art in pro¬
file”)—a signifier on which Mauberley’s epitaph is inscribed.
Pound’s imaging of the Elpenor type in his work is complicated and
often contradictory. Obviously, not all of the figures, real or fictional,
who become Elpenor to Pound’s Odysseus resemble one another
closely, nor is their correspondence to Elpenor’s character ever precise.
Indeed, the Homeric Elpenor does not possess the most prominent
characteristic of the Elpenor types in Pound’s work: Will Smith,
Gaudier-Brzeska, and Mauberley are all creators of images. What’s
more, Gaudier’s forceful personality contrasts sharply with the femi¬
nine qualities of the dreamer, the hedonist, the aesthete. Yet he fulfills
the Elpenor type for Pound in certain essential ways; most important,
Gaudier’s sudden, premature death at the age of twenty-three—his
transformation into a restless phantom—nominates him as a double
of the Elpenor figure.
To understand fully Gaudier’s significance, we must return to the
first Elpenor figure in Pound’s life and work: the painter William
Brooke Smith, whom Pound described as a “Dreamer of dreams” and
who died, like Gaudier, a premature death. Pound first met Smith,
who was an art student in Philadelphia, at the age of fifteen or sixteen.
Smith died of tuberculosis in 1908, when he was twenty-five. In a
letter of 1921 to William Carlos Williams, Pound writes, “Auy studio
/////104
Cryptaesthesia
I was ever in was probably that of some friend or relative of Will Smith,
who avoided a very unpleasant era of American life by dying of con¬
sumption to the intimate grief of his friends. How in Christ’s name
he came to be in Phila.—and to know what he did know at the age
of 17-25—I don’t know. At any rate, thirteen years are gone; I
haven’t replaced him and shan’t and no longer hope to” (L 165). The
closeness of their friendship—and perhaps something more than
friendship—can be inferred from several recendy discovered letters
that Smith wrote to Pound in 1907.49 Much later, in one of the Pisan
Cantos, Pound remembers Smith as “the wraith of my first friend”
(C 77: 479), echoing Dante’s description of Cavalcanti. Pound pub¬
lished his first book of poetry, A Lume Spento, the year Smith died
(1908), and dedicated the book to him. The book was originally to
be tided La Lraisne (after the poem that opens the book), but Pound
changed it to its present title in observance of Smith’s death.
The phrase a lume spento, which Pound translates as “with tapers
quenched,” comes from Dante (Lurgatorio 3: 132). Although the
funereal connotations of the phrase are immediately evident, its deeper
revelations of Smith’s character and Pound’s intentions are available
only through Dante’s text and the scholarly apparatus attending it.
49. One of Smith’s letters addresses Pound as “My ever dear Boy” and closes with
the following:
“These days of awakening life and throbbing pulses ‘like veins swollen
with delight,’ have perhaps made me wish to see everything through a
golden veil, rather than through a violet mist. The whole world of jade and
sapphire is calling to me, and with God in his heaven surely there is a song
of joy and gladness. I can’t sing the song, so you must, because you are
part of me. ‘The wine must taste of its own grapes.’
Goodbye. You are very dear to me.
W.”
A second letter from Smith ends even more frankly:
“Don’t forget to write to me whenever you can. Dear boy, take the best
care of yourself, especially the part that isn’t seen, and believe that I am
with you always.
With love,
Will”
These letters were discovered in the Beinecke Collection by James J. Wilhelm, and
are reproduced in his article “The Letters of William Brooke Smith to Ezra Pound,”
Paideuma 19, nos. 1 and 2 (Spring-Fall 1990): 163-168.
105 /////
Radio corpse
The phrase a lume spento occurs in a passage in which the heretic

Manfredi speaks sadly of his unburied remains, which are exposed to
wind and rain (“Or le bajfna la piojfffia e move il ventoPurjyatorio 3:
130). This scene clearly recalls the circumstance of Elpenor’s death.
Concerning the phrase a lume spento, Charles Singleton writes: “It
was the custom to bury the bodies of the excommunicated and of
heretics with candles extinguished.”50 Furthermore, he writes, “it was
the custom to exhume [emphasis added] the bodies of those who had
been excommunicated and cast them outside the city” (63). Hence,
the title, A Lume Spento, referring to Smith, tells us that the young
painter was a heretic of sorts, a renegade, and that Pound’s elegiac
gesture corresponds to the exhumation and reburial of his corpse. By
dedicating the book to Smith as he does (with the phrase a lume
spento), Pound enacts a burial befitting a heretic (who, in this case, is
also the beloved) and identifies his own first book of poems as a literary
crypt. Out of this crypt, another phantom, named Gaudier-Brzeska,
will later arise.
In Pound’s writings, the figure of the painter or sculptor who dies
in his youth is both somehow oddly inaccessible (for it returns to him
from afar, with unavowable sentiments) and unavoidable. Maurice
Blanchot writes, “The act of haunting is not the unreal visitation of
the ideal: what haunts is the inaccessible which one cannot rid oneself
of, what one does not find and what, because of that, does not allow
one to avoid it. The ungraspable is what one does not escape.”51
Indeed, Pound’s encounters with the phantom in Gaudier-Brzeska
(whoever that phantom may be) have all the markings of the
uncanny—insofar as his recollections involve a familiar stranger. This
coincides with Nicolas Abraham’s observation that the phantom
“gives rise to endless repetition.”52 To begin with, the phantom
named Gaudier-Brzeska inherits from Will Smith a certain iconoclastic
nature; he is described as an “outlaw,” a renegade (GB 53, 141).
Pound goes so far as to suggest that Gaudier fled to London from
50. Charles S. Singleton, Purqatorio, Vol. 2: Commentary (Princeton: Princeton Uni¬

versity Press, 1982), p. 64.
51. Maurice Blanchot, The Gaze of Orpheus, trans. Lydia Davis (Barrytown, N.Y.:
Station Hill Press, 1981), p. 84.
52. Nicolas Abraham, “Notes on the Phantom: A Complement to Freud’s Metapsy¬
chology,” trans. Nicholas Rand, Critical Inquiry 13, no. 2 (Winter 1987): 289.
/////106
Cryptaesthesia
Paris after being involved in some kind of failed rebellion (GB 47).
Pound’s sense that Gaudier embodies a restless, atavistic force gives
rise to “an unverifiable fancy” that “an almost exact portrait of
Gaudier” is to be found “carved on some French cathedral facade”
(GB 76). The idea that Gaudier is a double of some lost figure, “a
return of what does not come back” (as Blanchot describes the image),
is felt even more keenly in the following statement by Pound: “He
[Gaudier] was, of course, indescribably like some one whom one had
met in the pages of Castiglione or Valla, or perhaps in a painting
forgotten” (GB 48). The forgotten painting in this case would be a
self-portrait of Pound at age twenty-three. For when Pound first met
Gaudier, it provoked in him an image of his own youth and thoughts
of mortality (at age twenty-nine):
I was interested and I was determined that he should be. I knew

that many things would bore or disgust him, particularly my rather
middle-aged point of view, my intellectual tiredness and exhaus¬
tion, my general scepticism and quietness, and I therefore opened
fire with “Altaforte” and “Piere Vidal,” and such poems as I had
written when about his own age . . . He even tried to persuade me
that I was not becoming middle-aged, but any man whose youth
has been worth anything, any man who has lived his life at all in
the sun, knows that he has seen the best of it when he finds thirty
approaching; knows that he is entering a quieter realm. (GB 45-46)
The tone of these reflections is uncharacteristic for Pound; his normal

vigor and confidence are undercut by a powerful sense of exhaustion,
resignation, and withdrawal. Though his words reveal an unmistakable
note of affection for Gaudier, the most important experience seems to
be a loss of some part of himself. Thus, even before his death, Gaudier
communicates to Pound a powerful sense of things forgotten and
buried. As his reading of “Altaforte” suggests, however, Pound is not
timid in his efforts to retrieve what is lost, or to revive the dead.
The combination of melancholy and bravado that we find in
Pound’s reminiscence is, I think, symptomatic of a more profound
sense of disorientation that Pound experiences in the cryptic space of
memory. At the close of Chapter 3 of the memoir, for example, Pound
comments on the haphazard nature of his recollections: “That is the
way memory serves us, details return ill assorted, pell mell, in confu-
107/////
Radio corpse
sion” (GB 40). Four pages later, however, at the beginning of Chap¬
ter 5, Pound is ready to apply a “method,” or discover some kind of
“order” in his memories: “To give the man as I knew him, there is
perhaps no better method, or no method wherein I can be more
faithful than to give the facts of acquaintance, in their order, as nearly
as I can remember them” (44). Yet this attempt to arrange things
gives way, once again, several pages later, to confusion. At the begin¬
ning of Chapter 6 he writes, “My memory of the order of events from
then on is rather confused” (51).
We find in these comments a record of a struggle to give order to
memory, to render it coherent, to prevent a deluge of images from
overwhelming both the one who remembers and the reader. The expe¬
rience of remembering and mourning is, from this perspective, an
active, transformative labor of separation. Yet this is not the limit of
Pound’s experience of remembrance, nor is it perhaps even the pri¬
mary one. For the process begins with the “return” of details, “ill
assorted, pell mell, in confusion.” From this perspective, the one who
remembers is profoundly passive; what he remembers is what is visited
upon him, what haunts him, and what he cannot avoid. At one point,
Pound acknowledges that even the memories he constructs with
words, in contrast to photographs, are destined to be no more than
phantoms: “The rest is perforce impressions and opinion, mine and
those of Mr. Bennington’s camera. And Mr. Bennington’s camera has
the better of me, for it gives the subject as if ready to move and to
speak, whereas I can give but diminished memories of past speech and
action” (GB 38). Pound’s impressions of Gaudier suggest a restless,
unpredictable spirit that is ruled by instinct. Pound tells us that
Gaudier liked “to feel as independent as the savage” (40), and
describes him as “a well-made young wolf or some soft-moving,
bright-eyed wild thing” (44). Apparently, Gaudier appeals to Pound
as a kind of primitive spirit—volatile, stealthy, and potentially dan¬
gerous. This impression is reinforced by Pound’s description of Gau-
dier’s sudden departure at their first meeting: “And he disappeared
like a Greek god in a vision” (44).
Pound first met Gaudier by chance at a gallery in London, at the
opening of an exhibition of the sculptor’s work. Their meeting was
precipitated by a peculiar incident involving Gaudier-Brzeska’s name.
/////108
Cryptaesthesia
Pound writes, “I turned to the catalogue and began to take liberties

with the appalling assemblage of consonants: ‘Brzxjk’—I began. I
tried again, ‘Burrzisskzk’—I drew back, breathed deeply and took
another run at the hurdle, sneezed, coughed, rumbled, got as far as
‘Burdidis’—when there was a dart from behind the pedestal and I
heard a voice speaking with the gentlest fury in the world: ‘Cela
s’appelle tout simplement Jaersh-ka. C’est moi qui les ai sculptes’ ”
(GB 44). Initially the phantom, who is heard but not seen, instructs
Pound with a kind of “fury” in the pronunciation of an unpronounce¬
able name. He then disappears “like a Greek god in a vision.” Pound
is duly intrigued by this apparition: “I wrote at once inviting him to
dinner, having found his address in the catalogue. He did not arrive
. . . The morning after my date I received a letter addressed to me as
Madame3 [emphasis added], inviting me to the studio. Then a
meeting was arranged through a mutual acquaintance” (44-45).
These words suggest, among other things, that Pound’s first
encounter with Gaudier-Brzeska was charged with sexual tension and
ambiguity.
Gaudier took the name Brzeska because he was living with Sophie
Brzeska, “a Polish woman much older than himself whom he referred
to as his sister.”53 The enigmatic character of their relationship and
Gaudier’s decision to take her name are reflected in the shadowy
nature of her presence in Gaudier-Brzeska. She is virtually absent from
the book; Pound refers to her only once or twice as “Miss Brzeska,”
and indicates that she provided him with some biographical infor¬
mation on Gaudier. This omission is surely not accidental. In addition,
Pound almost never refers to Gaudier-Brzeska by his full name, in spite
of the fact that Gaudier-Brzeska identified himself as such at least as
early as 1911. For Pound it is always simply “Gaudier.”
It is no coincidence that the unutterable (and not merely unpro¬
nounceable) half of Gaudier-Brzeska’s name is female. Gaudier-
Brzeska, as Pound remembers him, is a cryptic figure in a struggle
between divergent concepts of imagery and memory, and between the
artist as pragmatist and the artist as dreamer. These antithetical con¬
ceptions display, as we have discovered, distinct gender associations.
53. Noel Stock, The Life of Ezra Pound (San Francisco: North Point, 1982), p. 146.
109 /////
Radio corpse
The Image as artifact (as well as the artist who produces such Images)
is associated, implicidy, with the masculine; whereas the Image as
phantom (and the artist who receives such Images) is associated with
the feminine. By repressing the feminine name, as well as the woman
behind the name (Sophie Brzeska), Pound “motivates” the fracture
in Gaudier-Brzeska’s name, and forces it to become symptomatic of
the central struggle in the poetics of Imagism.
The phantom that is preserved and concealed in Pound’s literary
crypt is therefore also a “silent word” that gives rise to an “undeci¬
pherable fetish” (Wolf Man 81-83). According to Abraham and
Torok, the crypt is the place of the excluded word-thing, the unspeak¬
able name. Of the “silent word,” Derrida writes, “It is the very tomb¬
stone of the illicit, and marks the spot of an extreme pleasure, a
pleasure entirely real though walled up, buried alive in its own pro¬
hibitions.”54 Hence, the word hidden and preserved in the crypt is the
cipher of an unspeakable pleasure. Pound’s crypt holds such a word,
an unnameable feminine word, and this “pleasure word” leads us back
to the moment Pound receives a letter from the dead addressed to
him as “Madame.” In this moment, Pound becomes a woman and
takes the place of the unnameable word-thing: “Jaersh-ka.”
The name Gaudier-Brzeska is a broken symbol, half of which is
sealed within the crypt. The “silent word” in the crypt (which is
also a phantom) can become conscious only if it takes the form of
an “undecipherable fetish” (which Abraham and Torok call the
“Thing”; Wolf Man 81). The “Thing” is the visual image of a cryp-
tonym, a tableau of a variant meaning of the pleasure word. In essence,
it is a rebus or hieroglyph of the pleasure word. In Pound’s text, the
tableau-fetish of the silent word, Brzeska, is the moment Pound is ad¬
dressed as a woman by a dead man. This tableau corresponds to the
unspeakable pleasure that Pound takes (but cannot acknowledge) in
assuming a feminine role—the role of someone who is visited or
haunted by memories and images (rather than someone who makes
them). The fact that the pleasure of cross-dressing lies in the “inner
safe” of Pound’s crypt, sealed by a woman’s proper name, only con¬
firms the logic of cryptonymy. For, as Abraham and Torok observe,
54. Jacques Derrida, “Fors: The Anglish Words of Nicolas Abraham and Maria
Torok,” foreword to Abraham and Torok, The Wolf Man’s Magic Word, p. xxxiv.
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Cryptaesthesia
“the silent word” is “love disguised and dressed up in a ‘painting’ ”

(83). The Image is a transvestite of the word.
The exhumation and reburial of a single figure, which constitutes
the central focus of A Lume Spento and Gaudier-Brzeska, becomes, in
“Hugh Selwyn Mauberley,” a double burial of separate characters. In
1919 and 1920, three years after the publication of Gaudier-Brzeska,
Pound wrote “Hugh Selwyn Mauberley,” a poem that dramatizes the
central conflict in Pound’s aesthetic between the artist as pragmatist
and the artist as dreamer. The two main protagonists of the poem,
E.P. and Mauberley, personify the antithetical values that inhere sym¬
bolically in Gaudier-Brzeska’s fractured name. Traditionally, critics
have viewed the poem as Pound’s sardonic farewell to the London
scene and to the Decadent qualities of his own poetry. K. K. Ruthven
writes, “Ideally, Pound hoped to exorcise Mauberley and cultivate
E.P.”55 The evidence of the poem, however, is far more ambiguous.
Ruthven’s choice of the term exorcise is certainly apt, because Maub¬
erley is a return of the Elpenor type—the dreamer, the “hedonist.”
On the other side of the coin is E.P., the pragmatist, who “strove to
resuscitate the dead art of poetry” (P187) and whom Pound compares
to one of his favorite poet-outlaws, Villon.
The poem is constructed around a double burial and a dialogue
between the two protagonists that is carried on after death. E.P. and
Mauberley bury each other in the course of the poem, and each one
has a section in the poem that is spoken from the grave. Donald Davie
quotes Pound as saying, “Mauberley buries E.P. in the opening poem;
gets rid of all his troublesome energies.”56 Indeed, the opening poem
is an epitaph for E.P. titled, “Ode Pour L’Election de Son Sepulchre”
(after Ronsard’s poem), spoken, presumably, by Mauberley. What we
have is an exact reversal of the situation in Pound’s earlier “books of
the dead”: here, Mauberley the wraith buries E.P. the man. Yet E.P.
later delivers Mauberley’s epitaph from the grave (P203), and even
offers a beautiful pastiche of a Renaissance seduction poem, exploiting
the tropes of sexual love and death (“When our two dusts with Wal-
55. K. K. Ruthven, A Guide to Ezra Pound’s “Personae” (Berkeley: University of

California Press, 1969), p. 126.
56. Donald Davie, “Ezra Pound’s ‘Hugh Selwyn Mauberley,’ ” in B. Ford, ed., The
Modern Age (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1961), p. 320.
Ill /////
Radio corpse
ler’s shall be laid / Siftings on siftings in oblivion”). Pound also makes

an extremely important admission in the poem that serves to elide
certain differences between dreamer and pragmatist. He makes it clear
that the ultimate goals of E.P. and Mauberley are the same: “His true
Penelope was Flaubert.” This phrase first appears in relation to E.P.,
but it is also applied later to Mauberley (P 187, 198). Hence, the
question of the Image as phantom or artifact is displaced, finally, by a
teleological sleight of hand.
Whether or not the poet of the Cantos arose from the sublation of
these two figures, he certainly was never able to lay to rest the ghosts
of Elpenor, Will Smith, Gaudier-Brzeska, and Mauberley. (This phan-
tasmic and erotic lineage survives, for Pound, in the figure of another
young artist-heretic: George Antheil.) Quoting Apollinaire in
Gaudier-Brzeska, Pound writes, “On ne peut pas porter partout avec
soi le cadavre de son pere” (82). Yet that is precisely what occurs in
the book: Pound is unable to part with the “cadaverous dead,” to
complete the task of mourning. The poet’s lost male companions
become remote and inexorable fathers to his writing. In a very real
sense, death both quickens and captures Pound’s writing. “The work
of the phantom,” Nicolas Abraham writes, “coincides in every respect
with Freud’s description of the death-instinct” (“Phantom” 291).
Haunted by a series of ghosts, Pound continually seeks to return to a
place he has never been, to converse with the dead. His experience of
the dead (which is the experience of the unknown or the impossible)
and his conception of memory converge with the poetics of the Image.
If, indeed, Images and the phantoms of memory are analogous in
Pound’s mind (as in the phrase “resurgent EIKONES”), then we
should view the poetic Image as the return of a lost or dead object, a
moment in which the subject is haunted by reality. The Image is life
imaged as death, a living death, as the Egyptian Book of the Dead
taught Pound and others (including Yeats and Wyndham Lewis)
around the turn of the century.
Images pieced together like mosaics, “in little splotches of color”
(as Pound described the genesis of the “Metro” poem), arise from a
place that hides its identity as an Image, a place that is no place: the
crypt. The formato locho is Pound’s first important figuring of the
crypt, a place that is the site of the death of pleasure (the loss of the
/////112
Cryptaesthesia
beloved) but also a place that knows the word that says pleasure. Con¬
tradictory forces erect and sustain the crypt: to allow the dead, or the
beloved, or anything real, to return in the form of an Image, Pound
must lie in his own grave (the grave containing the pragmatist and the
formalist agenda of the Image). He must assume the place of the one
who bears the unutterable feminine name, the transvestite word. Only
then will she receive a letter from a dead man, and only then will she
remember the slain god who is her brother and her lover. For if Pound
assumes the name-place of Sophie Brzeska, who is the “sister” and
lover of Henri Gaudier, then he fulfills the role of Isis, who remembers
the god Osiris.
Corpse Language
To the readers of a journal called Aryan Path in 1939, Ezra Pound

offered his thoughts on the subject of sacrifice: “Animals are now
killed in abattoirs; the sight of killing can remind us, in the midst of
our normal semi-consciousness of all that goes on in our vile and
degraded mercantilist ambience, that life exists by destruction of other
life. The sight of one day’s hecatomb might even cause thought in the
midst of our democracy and usuriocracy” (SP 68). The main point
here, stated with characteristic circuity, is that in a so-called democracy
one segment of society inevitably lives at the expense of another; and
more specifically, that usurers feed off the vitality of society at large.
But there is a more insidious implication: the sight of ritual killing
might incite the masses to overcome their victimization—that is, to
destroy the usurers in order to preserve the life of the community.
One might therefore infer, especially in the context of Pound’s vehe¬
ment anti-Semitism, that the reference to the abattoir is merely a pre¬
text for the subject of human sacrifice. Given Pound’s obliquity with
regard to such matters, it is not implausible to identify this view of
sacrifice as a veiled fantasy of mass death.57
57. In his book on Pound’s anti-Semitism, Robert Casillo argues, “To ignore the
darker and concealed significance of Pound’s ritualism is to embrace the meconnaissance
which enables victimization to continue.” Casillo, The Genealogy of Demons (Evanston,
Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 1988), p. 276. Casillo also addresses the problem
of interpreting Pound’s many allusions to the desirability of political violence against
113 /////
A D I O CORPSE
Death’s ritual and figurative power, which Pound invokes quite

explicitly in his statement, first emerges in his poetry and criticism long
before his engagement with fascism and, indeed, before his remem¬
brance of Gaudier-Brzeska. Necrophilia emerges as an important fea¬
ture of Pound’s work with the publication of his earliest poetry. The
rhetoric of death attains its historical—and more sinister—form, how¬
ever, only when he begins to resist its power. Pound’s resistance to
his own fascination with death, and to the materiality of the dead in
particular, fuels the gradual emergence of the figure of the Image in
his poetics. Indeed, Pound fashions the Image as a kind of talisman
or charm that would lead him out of the realm of the dead, out of the
delirium and passivity of Decadence. Yet he fails, as often as he tries,
to lay the dead to rest, to resist their erotic and imaginative appeal.
Hence, the Image remains saturated with the very ideas about death
that it pretends to exclude. The Image emerges as both an embodi¬
ment of the dead and a weapon in Pound’s assault on the materiality
of the dead.
In an early poem, Pound proposes an inversion of the fundamental
values of life and death: “What . . . if? ’Tis out of death we come, /
And not thereto . . .” (CEP 254). If this inversion establishes the
inaugural terms of Pound’s poetic, then he can succeed in his “search
for the real”—which discloses the Image—only by singing of the dead
and what Mary Douglas calls the “sad wit of pollution.” Furthermore,
the Image that lies in the crypt, once it is summoned, inevitably engen¬
ders confusion over what is living and what is dead. In Pound’s mind,
the dead always display an alarming vitality, and the living, or the
works they produce, often resemble the dead. Indeed, we should view
the whole project of Imagism as a deconstruction of “death” in poetic
language. As Pound seeks more and more violently to isolate his early
poetry and its influences from his sense of modernity (a turning point
in his career that critics identify with Imagism), the distinction
the Jews and others: “Is Pound suggesting expulsion or extermination? Although tan¬
talized by political violence, Pound is often vague, tentative, equivocal in discussing the
subject, for the anti-Semitic propagandist usually knows that the open endorsement of
violence will in most cases get him nowhere. Like Pound, who offers his audience images
of Jewish sacrifice, he plants the seeds of vengeance in the listener’s mind, without
making clear what specific expression the vengeance is to take” (p. 265).
//114
Cryptaesthesia
between the living and the dead becomes increasingly incoherent, and
ripe for exploitation in the realm of politics. Indeed, I think it is essen¬
tial to regard Decadent theorizing about “death-in-life” (or a form of
death that is somehow magically alive) as the precursor of the fascist
equation of survival and sacrifice, construction and destruction.58
In a covert fashion, the rhetoric of the Image is embroiled in a
struggle for power over “dead language” and various other forms of
cultural filth and decay. Before we examine this struggle more closely,
however, we should establish conclusively the extent of Pound’s infat¬
uation with death prior to the Imagist movement. We must also dem¬
onstrate that this fascination continued long after his break with the
movement per se—indeed, for as long as the figure of the Image com¬
manded his attention. To begin with, the sheer quantity of his early
writing concerned with death is remarkable—even for a young poet
steeped in the necrophilic poetry of Ernest Dowson, Arthur Symons,
and Lionel Johnson. More than a third of the poems in his first six
books of poetry (including the 1912 edition of Ripostes) treat the
subject of death in some fashion (76 of 214 poems in the Collected
Early Poems). In addition, the poems printed in Lustra (which includes
work written or published from 1913 to 1915) displays a similar,
though diminished, affinity for the dead. References to ghosts, phan¬
toms, tombs, corpses, and the underworld are numerous; frequently,
the poet addresses the dead, or undergoes the experience of death
himself. As a graduate student at the University of Pennsylvania,
Pound’s tastes reflected a similar inclination. Initially, he hoped to do
his thesis on the Latin poets of the Renaissance, whom he praised as
“the men who were most persistent in their effort to bring the dead
to life” (SR 223). When the young Pound arrived in London and
registered at the British Library in 1908, he listed the Latin poets of
the Renaissance as his research topic (SC 99).
In one of his first letters home in 1908, Pound describes his morbid
tastes to William Carlos Williams in the following manner: “Perhaps
you like pictures painted in green and white and gold, and I paint in
58. Citing Walter Benjamin’s linkage of Decadence and fascism, Alice Yaeger Kaplan
discusses what she calls the “polarity machine” of fascist ideology, in which terms such
as “construction” and “destruction” become dialectically equivalent. Kaplan, Repro¬
ductions of Banality, pp. 28-30.
115 /////
1 A D I O CORPSE
black and crimson and purple” (L 6). Already the “colors” of death
and the making of images are paired in his mind. In 1912 Pound
writes, “It is a manner of speech among poets to chant of dead, half-
forgotten things, there seems no special harm in it; it has always been
done” (LE 8). This statement should be viewed as an apology for his
own inclinations as a young poet. In 1909 he wrote enthusiastically
to his father about Frederic Manning’s poem “Persephone,” and com¬
posed a poem in response to it entitled “Canzon: The Yearly Slain”
(CEP 133). In addition, one of Pound’s early collections of poetry
(Canzoni) bears an epigraph from Propertius which dedicates the
work to Persephone, queen of the underworld (CEP 130). Pound
translates the quote (which also appears in section 6 of “Homage to
Sextus Propertius”) as “My not unworthy gift to Persephone” (P
219). Furthermore, in Personae (1926), Pound appends the phrase to
his selection of poems from Ripostes, suggesting—through a kind of
back-formation—that the first examples of Imagism (the poems in
Ripostes) appeared under the sway of Persephone (P 57). In the poem
“Religio,” Pound notes the goddess of the underworld as one of his
tutelary figures (SP 48), and indeed she continues to fill that role
throughout the Cantos.
Pound’s necrophilia is also evident in his fondness for writing epi¬
taphs, three of which he selected for inclusion in Personae (1926). His
feelings are even more apparent, however, in the subject matter of
many of his early poems. The poem “Threnos,” for example, is
addressed “to the fair dead,” and celebrates, according to Hugh Wite-
meyer, “the Swinburnian ecstasy of death” (CEP 30).59 Pound’s tastes
are even more explicit in “Redondillas”:
They tell me to “Mirror my age’’

God pity the age if I do it,
Perhaps I myself would prefer
To sing of the dead and the buried . . .
I sing of risorgimenti
Of old things found that were hidden. (CEP 218)
Out of this desire “to sing of the dead and the buried” evolves a
conception of poetry which is articulated through a metaphorics of
59. Hugh Witemeyer, The Poetry of Ezra Pound: Forms and Renewal, 1908-1920
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969), p. 71.
/////116
Cryptaesthesia
death: writing and poetic composition are understood in terms of

decomposition, burial, exhumation, and demonic possession. In the
poem “Epilogue,” for example, Pound writes, “I who have labored
long in the tombs, / Am come back therefrom with riches” (CEP
209). The idea that the poet is a land of grave-robber can also be
inferred from the epigraph to the poem, “Sestina: Altaforte,” where
Pound poses a question to the reader that states the basic evaluative
criterion for his cryptaesthetic: “Have I dug him up again?” (He is
referring to the main protagonist of the poem, Bertrand de Born.) A
successful poem is one in which the poet digs up a corpse and sets it
out for the reader’s curiosity or pleasure. Ten years later, in a letter to
James Joyce, Pound reiterates his belief—this time with a note of des¬
peration—that his talents pertain to the dead: “Signore Sterlina [the
nickname that Joyce’s children had bestowed on Pound] is perhaps
better at digging up corpses of let us say Li Po, or more lately, Sextus
Propertius, than in preserving this bitched mess of modernity” (P/J
148).
Other early poems depict the poet as a figure who is inspired or
even possessed by the dead. “To E.B.B.,” for example, offers the fol¬
lowing portrait of the poet:
Poor wearied singer at the gates of death

Taking thy slender sweetness from the breath
Of the singers of old time. (CEP 262)
The poem “Histrion” provides a minor arspoetica on this inspirational

mode, which involves a form of possession and, ultimately, self-extinc¬
tion:
. . . the souls of all men great

At times pass through us,
And we are melted into them, and are not
Save reflexions of their souls . . .
So cease we from all being for the time,
And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on. (CEP 71)
The self-effacement implied in assuming a mask dignifies the poet, for

it rehearses the mysterium of death and incorporation.
As the following lines from “Und Drang” confirm, the writing of
poetry is associated, in Pound’s mind, with deliberate, repeated death:
“I have lived long, and died, / Yes I have been dead, right often”
117 /////
R A D I O CORPSE
(CEP 169). The idea that death is emblematic of the creative experi¬
ence gives rise to other poems in which the poet imagines his own
death in greater detail. A number of Pound’s early poems fall into this
category, including “The Tomb at Akr Qaar,” “Redivivus,” “And
Thus in Nineveh,” and “Anima Sola.” Often these poems are set in
the narrator’s tomb, the site of a dialogue with his ghost or corpse.
Pound’s exploration of this topos culminates in sections 3 and 6 of
“Homage to Sextus Propertius,” when the poet imagines his own
funeral.
With regard to style as well as subject matter, we cannot easily dis¬
tinguish Pound’s transition from his so-called early poetry to his Imag-
ist phase. It is important to emphasize that the earliest and least
understood aspect of Imagism (the cryptic “Doctrine of the Image”)
does not require Pound to abandon his literary necrophilia; rather, it
suggests an obscure development of this unavowable and aggressively
“poetic” economy. The best evidence for Imagism’s necrophilic
dimension is the anthology Des Imajyistes, which Pound compiled in
1913 but did not publish until 1914. The opening poem of the
anthology, “Choricos,” by Richard Aldington, had already appeared
(on Pound’s recommendation) in Poetry in November 1912, as one
of the earliest examples of Imagist poetry. The morbid qualities of
Aldington’s poem, and its verbal archaisms, are representative of a
number of the poems that Pound selected for the anthology:
The ancient songs

Pass deathward mournfully. . . .
O Death,
Thou art an healing wind . . .
Thou art the dusk and the fragrance;
Thou art the lips of love mournfully smiling;
Thou art pale peace of one
Satiate with old desires;
Thou art the silence of beauty. . . .
Thou sealest our eyes
Aid the illimitable quietude
Comes gently upon us.60
60. Ezra Pound, ed., Des Imagistes: An Anthology (New York: Boni, 1914), pp. 7-9.
The anthology was reprinted in 1917.
///// 118
Cryptaesthesia
Other poems in the anthology by Aldington, Skipwith Cannell, H.D.,

and Pound himself confirm the Decadent wellsprings of Imagism.
Quite obviously, at this stage, the concept of the Image has not yet
emerged from the crypt.
Furthermore, one of Pound’s crypt poems, tided ccMiddle-Aged,”
is the occasion for the earliest recorded usage of the term “Imagiste.”
In a letter to Harriet Monroe in August 1912, Pound describes the
poem as “an over-elaborate post-Browning Tmagiste’ affair” (L 10).
In his crypt poetry, Pound finds pleasure in gazing at the dead, or
conversing with them, or even allowing the dead to penetrate and
finally displace his own being. “Middle-Aged” teaches us that all of
these cryptic pleasures are bodily pleasures, for the poet’s infatuation
with death in this case is genuinely erotic. The pleasure of being dead
is not unequivocal, however, because the poem is prompted, as its title
indicates, by the poet’s awareness of his aging body, by the reign of
death in life. Nevertheless, by imagining himself as a “buried king” in
the tomb of a pyramid, the poet transforms his aging body into a
homoerotic spectacle:
As the fine dust, in the hid cell

Beneath their transitory step and merriment,
Drifts through the air, and the sarcophagus
Gains yet another crust
Of useless riches for the occupant,
So I, the fires that lit once dreams
Now over and spent,
Lie dead within four walls
And so now love
Rains down and so enriches some stiff case,
And strews a mind with precious metaphors,
And so the space
Of my still consciousness
Is full of gilded snow. (P 236)
Pound wrote this poem on “middle age” when he was only twenty-
$ix years old. A year or so later the question of middle age arose again
with great poignancy when Pound first met the sculptor Gaudier-
Brzeska. It is quite possible, therefore, that the experience of aging is
merely a conceit, a pretext for the pleasure he derives from placing
119 /////
Radio corpse
himself in a crypt that is also an Image. The pleasures afforded by

death and imagery are always intertwined in Pound’s mind, often
through the medium of the body.
The poem imagines a group of tourists “frolicking” on the roof of
a hidden burial cell. Their movement dislodges the “fine dust” that
drifts down onto the dead ruler. The poem is ambiguous, however,
as to the effect of the “gilded snow” on the inhabitant of the crypt.
On the one hand, the dead man is unaware of these “useless riches”;
yet the dust is also compared to love and to metaphors strewn upon
the mind. Indeed, the dirt that rains down on the corpse of the
pharaoh, which becomes the corpse of the poet, is also gold and semen
and figurative language. The dead man is “touched” by this protean
substance.
Pound’s infatuation with the dead was not lost on his contempo¬
raries, or on his later critics. Wyndham Tewis, for example, wrote of
Pound, “Life is not his true concern . . . His field is purely that of the
dead . . . whose life is preserved for us in books and pictures” (Lewis,
Time 87). Elsewhere, Lewis described Pound as “a bombastic gal¬
leon” with “a skull and crossbones” flying from its mast.61 Richard
Aldington’s parody of the famous “Metro” poem also registers
Pound’s necrophilic bias:
The apparitions of these poems in a crowd:

White faces in a dead black faint. (SC 191)
As for Pound’s critics, Hugh Witemeyer has described “Hugh Selwyn

Mauberley” as an “elaborate autopsy” (Poetry of Ezra Pound 162),
and Humphrey Carpenter describes Pound’s fifth volume of poetry,
Canzoni, as “the last twitch of a poetic corpse, the body being rec¬
ognizably that of the Pre-Raphaelites” (SC 157).
The foregoing summary has, I hope, demonstrated not only the
prominence of death in Pound’s early poetry and his thinking about
poetry, but the potency and desirability, in Pound’s view, of anything
associated with death. His frank and sometimes morbid relations with
“the dead and the buried” embody his sense of tradition, but they
also harbor an illicit pleasure. These attitudes reflect some of the most
61. Wyndham Lewis, Blasting and Bombardiering (London: Calder and Boyars,
1967; orig. pub. 1937), p. 272.
///// 120
Cryptaesthesia
powerful influences on his early poetry, including Swinburne’s enor¬

mously complex and eroticized conception of death. Pound also
admired poets of the 1890s such as Ernest Dowson and Lionel
Johnson, whose work included some striking examples of necrophilia
in verse. In a preface to Johnson’s poetry, for example, Pound notes
sympathetically Johnson’s “fear of life,” and singled out for praise the
following line from the poem “Nihilism”: “I shall be calm soon, with
the calm death brings” (LE 368). The languid eroticism of poems
such as “Morbidezza” by Arthur Symons—another poet whom
Pound admired—also made its mark on his early work, and survived
the upheaval in his poetics that occurred in the name of the Image.
Although death is often the bearer of whatever is most profound or
pleasurable to Pound in his early poetry, there are also signs that he
was becoming increasingly uneasy with his absorption in death and its
Decadent overtones. In 1911, in a poem titled “Canzon: The Vision,”
Pound asks, “Were jewelled tales / An opiate meet to quell the
malady / Of life unlived?” (CEP 145). The idea of the living dead,
which had formerly been the locus of various literary and erotic trans¬
ferences, was now a “malady.” A “life unlived” was now less likely to
be the source of poetic treasure.
As the rhetoric of the Image moved into the foreground of Pound’s
poetic discourse during the years 1912 to 1914, he began to associate
death more and more frequently with anything that he considered to
be evil or despicable. (And he did this despite the fact that death con¬
tinued to be the bearer of many positive values with regard to the
Image.) Indeed, the idea of death underwent a remarkable transval¬
uation in Pound’s writing during this period. With the emergence of
Imagism, Pound repudiated his first six books of poetry (he later
referred to them as “a collection of stale cream puffs”; CEP 314) and
many of the literary influences that had shaped his early poetry. He
attacked what he called “rhetoric” in poetry, equating it with “dead
language.” The aim of Imagism was to lay the dead to rest, to extin¬
guish dead language, dead poetry, and the influence of dead minds.
Pound described Lustra (1916), his first book of poems after
launching the Imagist movement, as “absolutely the /ôbsequies of
the Victorian period” (L 23). The underscoring of the word last sug¬
gests that Pound had already tried, unsuccessfully, to bury his illicit
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past; and indeed, he would go on making such attempts at least as late

as “Hugh Selwyn Mauberley.” This desire to shed his infatuation with
the dead helped unite his disparate interests; his review of Allen
Upward’s Divine Mystery in 1913, for example, yields the sublimating
logic of Imagism: “Primitive man turns from his worship of the dead
. . . to a worship of the life-giving Helios” (SP 404). There can be
little doubt that this “primitive” scenario depicts Pound’s own wishes.
Using the principles of Imagism as a land of litmus test, Pound
hoped to distinguish between the living and the dead in art. He wrote,
“We apply a loose-leaf system to book-keeping so as to have the live
items separated from the dead ones” (LE 18). Furthermore, Pound
was inclined to encourage “good criticism, chiefly in form of attacks
on dead language” (L 178). Elsewhere, he identified the object of
his criticism—and the antithesis of the Image—as “corpse language”
(L 296). Obviously, anything worthy of an attack is hardly dead or
inert; indeed, the necessity for such an attack confirms its potency—
hence the instability of the distinction, in Pound’s mind, between the
living and the dead.
In his attacks on literary or cultural stagnation, Pound frequently
deploys analogies emphasizing the materiality of death: “In England
the mental corpses lay about in the streets, no one desired to touch
them but the general feeling was they must be kept” (SP 54). As an
Imagist poet, Pound assumes the figurative role of a caste that not
only touches but eliminates the corpses infecting the streets. In the
context of Vorticism, the outcast begins to resemble an anarchist
seeking to rid literary culture of the highly charged matter of death.
Pound’s description of Wyndham Lewis, for example, offers a glimpse
of his own posturing at the time: “A volcanic and disordered mind
like Wyndham Lewis’s is of great value, especially in a dead, and for
the most part rotted, milieu” (SC 245). Later in his career, Pound
continues to view himself as “the last living Rhadamanthus” (L 274;
an allusion to the king who judged the dead in the underworld), yet
he grew weary of his role, and encouraged younger writers to carry
on his ambiguous campaign against dead things: “I don’t propose to
deal with dead matter and negations. In fact, the younger generation
ought to do the killing and carrying away of corpses” (L 328).
These comments leave little doubt that the rhetoric of Imagism
registers a virtual transformation in Pound’s attitudes toward death
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Crypt anesthesia
and the world of the dead. Death becomes, in part, a figure for any¬
thing despicable or malevolent. Yet it is never merely antithetical to
the brilliant figure of the Image, for Pound’s infatuation with death
persisted in spite of his newly discovered revulsion to it; indeed, revul¬
sion may have enhanced his infatuation. His old longing for the “life
unlived” continued to inform his work and tastes. His scholarly inter¬
ests, for example, still gravitated toward the macabre. In 1916 he
translated twelve dialogues from Fontenelle’s Dialogues des morts, and
published them in Pavannes and Divagations. He also became inter¬
ested about this time in Walter Savage Landor’s “interviews” with the
dead, Imaginary Conversations. Pound himself wrote a series of
“Imaginary Letters.” In 1917 his taste for the arcane surfaced in an
article praising a work by Thomas Lovell Beddoes titled Death’s Jest
Book (SP 378-383). We should also recall, of course, that during this
period Pound was translating material from the Odyssey that would
become the opening segment of the Cantos: the descent by Odysseus
to the underworld. Indeed, it could be argued that the idea of death
continued to dominate his later conceptions of the Cantos as a whole.
In 1927, for example, he identifies in the Cantos three primary struc¬
tural “moments”:
A. Live man goes down into the world of Dead
B. The “repeat in history”
C. The “magic moment” or moment of metamorphosis (L 210)
The three-part scheme of the poem that he provides here suggests that
the Cantos remains entirely captivated by the figure of death, though
it now embraces historical and mythological modalities that make it
compatible with the ideology of fascism.
The Vorticists, Pound writes, are “arrogant enough to dare to
intend to ‘wake the dead’ ” (GB 117). Indeed, Pound, despite his
inclination to label as deathlike anything he opposes, remains in thrall
to death. The Image, according to Pound, is “impersonal,” rigorous,
and hard as stone. It stands in opposition to the “caressabie in art”
(GB 97). These qualities adumbrate a poetic language made in the
image of death. When Pound describes the qualities he admires most
in poetry or prose, he often turns to adjectives such as “hard” and
“clear cut.” In his criticism, the reader repeatedly encounters expres-
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sions such as, “We can be thankful for clear, hard surfaces, for an
escape from softness and mushiness” (P/J 33). When Pound praises
Joyce’s early work, he writes, “It is a joy to find in Mr. Joyce a hard¬
ness and gauntness” (P/J 32). Surely the hard and gaunt qualities of
Joyce’s prose are not far removed from the rigor of death, which is
precisely why they are a source of “joy” to Pound. These are also the
essential qualities of Imagist poetry. Imagism emphasizes “tech¬
nique,” and is therefore “impersonal,” according to Pound (GB 85).
In certain respects, the poetic discourse of “objectivity,” with its
disdain for subjective and socially constructed meaning, may be
regarded as a more advanced symptom of cultural Decadence, insofar
as it resembles the hermeticism of its aesthetic counterpart, the Part
pour Fart movement. Hence, by espousing objectivity in the name of
the Image, Pound secretly retains the Decadent principles of his ear¬
liest poetry. Furthermore, the implications of “impersonality” have
not, perhaps, been thoroughly articulated: not only does it require, as
I discussed in Chapter 1, a mortification of the subject, but a more
puzzling and phantasmatic severance from the empirical object. The
peculiar and somehow potent deadness of the modernist Image is cap¬
tured most fully by Wyndham Lewis in his explication of the Vorticist
aesthetic:
Deadness is the first condition of art. The second is the absence of

the soulin the sentimental human sense. The lines and masses of
the statue are its soul. No restless, flame-like ego is imagined inside
of it. It has no inside. This is another condition of art; to have no
inside, nothing you cannot see. Instead then of being something
impelled like an independent machine by a little egoistic fire inside,
it lives soullessly and deadly by its frontal lines and masses.62
Pound thought this passage important enough to cite it, with explicit
approval, in his review of Tarr in 1920 (LE 430)—even going so far
as to suggest that the concept of deadness helps explain the epiphanic
moments in Joyce’s fiction.
It is hardly necessary to emphasize that Lewis’ notorious celebration
of “deadness” in art all but describes the sculpted image as a cadaver,
62. Wyndham Lewis, Tarr, pp. 299-300. Though published in 1918, Lewis’ novel
was written before 1914.
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Cryptaesthesia
and that its resistance to hermeneutic profundity is a cardinal feature

of modern positivism and its privileging of the image as the sign of
radical exteriority (that is, objectivity). Nevertheless, Lewis inadver¬
tently discloses a cryptological dimension of the Image that is keyed
to its implacable yet reductive visuality. For the proscription against
seeing into the interior of the artifact suggests a desire on the part of
the spectator to do just that. The “deadness” of the Vorticist Image
is intended, however, to obstruct, to resist the desire to glimpse some¬
thing inside the Image. Though Lewis claims there is “no inside” to
the Image, it’s clear that the potent negativity of the Image depends
on a resistance to visuality, on the assumption that there may, at least
in the spectator’s mind, be something to see inside the Image. Like
the cells of artificial memory that oscillate between locus and image,
the Vorticist Image is at once a cadaver and the crypt that conceals
the absent dead.
As an emblem of “impersonality,” the Image assumes the strange
autonomy of a corpse, estranged at once from any land of subjective
experience (except the task of mourning) and from its vanished ref¬
erent (the living “thing”). So extreme, however, is the autonomy—
the negativity—of the Image, that its deadness becomes the precon¬
dition for a kind of sinister animation, but also for “life” itself. Indeed,
we have seen that for Pound the material waste of the cadaver is decep¬
tively and dangerously alive. Indeed, Lewis concedes that the Vorti¬
cist Image “/fr^soullessly and deadly by its frontal lines and masses,”
that it must, therefore, be viewed as an emblem of the living dead.
Yet the strange “life” of the Image can be construed only in terms of
excess, since that vitality is borrowed not only from its human maker
(who must remain impassive, thinglike), but also somehow from its
estranged referent, the living “thing” that it disavows. It is precisely
in regard to the excessive and indeed “perverse” vitality of the Image
that the Vorticist aesthetic engages most directly the problem of the
fetish. For the discourse of fetishism has, from its historical origins in
the colonial period, been consistently associated with the “perversion”
of animism, with the “savage” attribution of vitality to inanimate
things, and with the erosion of the distinction between the living and
the dead that accompanies the regime of fetishism.
If we therefore take into consideration the entire spectrum of
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Pound’s attitudes about death, it is obvious that the rhetoric of Imag-

ism is fueled by tremendous ambivalence. On the one hand, anything
opposed to the Image is attacked as being corpselike, filthy, inert, or
bereft of vitality. Yet the most prominent features of the Image itself
are deathlike: its impersonality, its rigor, its severance from the empir¬
ical object, and its assertion of a polarity between art and life. This
ambivalence is clearest in the borderline poems that announce the
Imagist project, yet fail to rid themselves of “rhetoric,” sentimentality,
archaicism, “softness,” and other qualities the Imagist poet deplores.
“Revolt against the Crepuscular Spirit in Modern Poetry,” for
example, illustrates perfectly this formal contradiction of poetic prin¬
ciples. The first line of the poem, as well as its title, announces the
poet’s desire to put off his infatuation with death, both in spirit and
letter: “I would shake off the lethargy of this our time,” he writes
(CEP 96). The archaic diction of the line indicates, however, that
the poem is still under the spell of the “crepuscular spirit.” By the end
of the poem, all trace of revolt has departed, leaving a perfect specimen
of “corpse language”:
Great God, if these thy sons are grown such thin ephemera,
I bid thee grapple chaos and beget
Some new titanic spawn to pile the hills and
This earth again. (CEP 97)
What is it then that enables Pound to distinguish between the “corpse

language” of his early poetry and the supposedly vital language of
Imagism? Is the distinction that Pound draws between two kinds of
language—living and dead—purely figurative, as it must be in a poetic
doctrine concerned with the Image? Would that explain why the pre¬
history and the afterlife of the Image always inhabit, or dictate, its
immediate significance?
Pound sacrifices to “modernity” the language of his youth, which
is not only the language of the dead but a material embodiment of
the dead. Youthful language and dead language, once combined and
suppressed, become a “corpse language” so powerful that it must be
slain time and time again. Pound sacrifices a forbidden tongue, his
own “first” language and that of the dead, in order to preserve it. In
/////126
Cryptaesthesia
this discursive and poetic act of incorporation, all of the sinister and
erotic powers associated with death come to reside in the Image. Yet
at the heart of Pound’s “Doctrine of the Image” lies a confusion over
what is living and what is dead. This confusion is evident in the insta¬
bility of the term “dead,” as Pound employs it. He describes, for
example, his “research into something so dead as a complicated aes¬
thetic of sound . . . which ain’t dead in the least, though I dare to say
the canzone is too mummified to walk on its own pins again” (L 157-
158). Is the aural aesthetic of the canzone dead, or not? Exploiting a
similar kind of ambiguity, he writes of the Dadaists, “They have
expressed a desire to live and to die, preferring death to a sort of
moribund permanence” (P/J 186). Is the death chosen by the
Dadaists real, or not? This ambiguity suggests that Pound is well on
his way to losing track of this distinction (a path that leads to his veiled
threats of violence against the Jews during World War II).
The rhetorical play on the word “dead” points to uncertainties of
a more fundamental nature. One of Pound’s “Imaginary Tetters” con¬
tains a rather free translation of part of a sonnet by Baudelaire (“Le
Vampire”). The translation is the focus of an elaborate deconstruction
of death and vitality in language, executed by the persona who writes
the letter, Walter Villerant. Villerant is not entirely candid, however,
as to the origins of the sonnet, describing it merely as “Baudelarian.”
Hence, the discussion begins on a note of ambiguity. The poem
resembles, in many respects, Pound’s early crypt poetry. It concerns
an erotic encounter with a corpse—which turns out to be alive:
One night stretched out along a hebrew bitch—

Like two corpses at the undertakers—
This carcass, sold alike to jews and quakers,
Reminded me of beauty noble and rich.
Although she stank like bacon in the flitch,
I thought of her as though the ancient makers
Had shown her mistress of a thousand acres,
Casqued and Perfumed, so that my nerves ’gan
twitch . . . (PD 74)
Immediately shocking is the lurid necrophilia of the poem: the speaker

describes himself and the prostitute as “corpses,” and compares the
127 /////
Radio corpse
site of their coupling to a morgue. Her “carcass” reminds him of

“beauty noble and rich,” and he is aroused sexually by imagining her
stinking flesh as an embodiment of ancient splendor. Even more dis¬
turbing, considering Pound’s anti-Semitism, is the fact that the central
figure in this erotic tableau of the living dead is a Jewess.
The morbid sexuality of the poem is emblematic of the wider con¬
cern of the “imaginary letter,” which is the illusory nature of “vigor”
in language. Villerant introduces the poem by noting that in Baude¬
laire’s time “the poetic language had grown stiff’ (PD 75). This
observation, of course, sounds suspiciously like Pound’s assessment of
his own era. Faced with the impediment of dead language, Baudelaire
forged a new poetry that is praised generally for its vigor. A closer
look, however, convinces Villerant that “the Baudelaire Vigour’ seems
to me now too facile a mechanism. Any decayed cabbage, cast upon
any pale satin sofa will give one a sense of contrast” (PD 75). Hence
the vigor of Baudelaire’s language is illusory; it is facile, mechanistic;
it is, in fact, a dead language. The poem’s shock effect is derived not
from the vitality of its language but from its morbid subject matter,
which imagines a living body as dead. The language of the poem, on
the other hand, is an emblem of the living dead: it appears to be alive
but is actually dead.63 Villerant ends his commentary on the poem with
a crucial observation; he compares the illusory vigor of language to
the illusionistic properties of a graphic image: “The stuff looks more
vigorous than it is ... As indeed bad graphic art often looks more
skillful than it is” (PD 76). Thus, the realism of “bad graphic art,”
like Baudelaire’s appalling words, projects the uncanny effect of the
living dead.
The inscrutability of death in language, which Pound discovers in
the Baudelaire poem, signals a fundamental ambiguity in his own sense
of language. As Pound describes it, “corpse language” is often alive
63. It is interesting to note that a “corpse” turns up in the English version of the
poem. Something is rotten in this translation: the line “she stank like bacon in the flitch”
is an interpolation on Pound’s part. Nothing even resembling this line appears in the
original. What’s more, the entire line has a colloquial ring that is misplaced in the poem.
I would tend to view these curiosities as elements of a linguistic disturbance or rupture,
which takes place in a poem that is concerned with the “revival” of language.
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Cryptaesthesia
in an uncanny fashion; it seethes with hidden powers and invisible

vermin; it is truly menacing. The supposedly vital language of the
Image, on the other hand, is said to be purged of rhetoric and senti¬
ment, of any trace of desire; it is hard and stiff as a corpse. Hence, the
dead, for Pound, possess an alarming vitality, whereas the living are
often deathlike. When he condemns a poem as “dead” or corpselike,
the statement is therefore bound to be ambiguous, since he is also
infatuated with the dead and the past. The attack on “corpse lan¬
guage” is always underwritten by desire, and his infatuation with the
dead is always tinged with hostility.
Hyperaesthetics and the Cult of Mourning

The rhetoric of death articulated by modern Imagists such as Pound,
Lewis, Aldington, and H.D. often harbors an elegiac dimension, a
poetics of mourning, that translates the image-cadaver into a ghost,
into a phantasmic and mediumistic figure of transmission. In Pound’s
case, the “'translation” of an Image into the economy of mourning
almost always entails a “conversion” of the male poet’s gender. Earlier
in this chapter, I emphasized the role of Pound’s grief in his reappro¬
priation and revision of the Image, and indicated that he was capable
of mourning the dead only by assuming the place of the “unutterable
feminine name,” the position of the feminine. In doing so, Pound
may be said to share, or adopt, the Active identity of the prototypical
Imagiste: “H.D.” The disincarnation of the Image (as a ghost) is
mirrored by the transformation of the poet’s gender. This moment of
“conversion” evokes the images of metamorphosis that Pound (and
H.D.) used to characterize their youthful love affair between 1905
and 1907. Further, H.D.’s choice to sign her letters to Pound
throughout her life as “Dryad” (the name given to her by Pound)—a
spirit of the woods—evokes what she later calls the “incalculable ele¬
ment” in their relationship. Describing in 1958 the impetus for her
memoir of Pound, End to Torment, she writes, “Dr. Erich Heydt
[H.D.’s analyst] injected me with Ezra, jabbing a needle into my arm.
cYou know Ezra Pound, don’t you?’ This was almost five years ago.
It took a long time for the virus or the anti-virus to take effect. But
129 /////
Radio corpse
the hypodermic needle did its work, or didn’t it? There was an incal¬
culable element.”64
The element untouched by virulent memory almost certainly con¬
cerns the metamorphic character of “H.D.,” but also the reciprocity
of the identities of lover and beloved. In “Hilda’s Book,” the collec¬
tion of love poems that Pound presented to H.D., the beloved (that
is, H.D.) is repeatedly associated with the myth of metamorphosis and
described as a “tree-born spirit of the wood” (End to Torment 84).
The “madness” of the girl’s becoming a tree recurs throughout
Pound’s early poetry (P 3, 4, 62, 91), as an image not only of the
beloved but of the poet himself. Indeed, Pound chose “The Tree”—
a poem that originally appeared in “Hilda’s Book”—to open his
volume of selected poems, Personae (1926): “I stood still and was a
tree amid the wood, / Knowing the truth of things unseen before”
(P 3).
Pound’s preoccupation with metamorphosis, and with what he calls
the “transsentient” character of his relation to H.D. (CEP 8-9),
informs, implicitly, the important series of articles titled “I Gather the
Limbs of Osiris” (published in 1911 and 1912). In what is essentially
a manifesto of modern poetics and critical method, Pound places him¬
self in the position of Isis (sister and lover of Osiris), who re-members
the scattered limbs of the slain god. He adopts a similar strategy, as I
indicated earlier, in mourning the dead sculptor Gaudier-Brzeska.
Hence, in Pound’s view, the one who mourns, the one who gives voice
to the pain of loss and is therefore able to love the dead as part of
herself, is- always feminine (or at least a mimicry of femininity) and
usually adolescent. Indeed, most of the female figures in Pound’s
death cult are teenagers. The locus elassicus for Pound’s adolescent
figures (and their susceptibility to states of “possession”) can be found
in a line of Propertius, which Pound translates as “My genius is no
more than a girl” (P 217). Indeed, in the postscript to his transla¬
tion of Re my de Gourmont, Pound cites this line in relation to Fen-
ollosa on “image making” and the physiology of style (NPL 158). In
the twilight zone of Pound’s early poetry, young girls, by virtue of
their passivity and their absorption in the materiality of the body
64. H.D., End to Torment, pp. 20-21.
/ //// 130
Cryptaesthesia
(according to Pound), enjoy a privileged relation to the dead. In his

view, these girls are “linking objects” to a realm of poetry that is at
once intensely pleasurable, menacing, and forbidden (that is, the realm
of the dead, which is populated by shades or Images).65 The most
intensely erotic encounters with the dead, which occur in his crypt
poetry, are therefore nearly always enacted from the standpoint of a
young girl. Contrary to what one might expect, Pound’s views on
these subjects are not merely, or even primarily, psychological. They
reflect, as we shall discover, the influence of Victorian social codes
governing the role of gender in mourning.
Changing gender, as a poetic device, also exposes Pound to the illicit
pleasure of being visited or haunted by images (an experience that
always enacts the return of a dead or lost object). Hence, one is
“haunted” by reality when one receives images, instead of making
them. The pleasure of receiving images is illicit, in part, because Pound
associates feminine passivity with Decadent poetry. As he sees it, the
masculine values of “technique” and pragmatic action are constantly
threatened by the death-obsessed and hedonistic instincts of the fem¬
inine. Whenever the male poet assumes the voice and body of a young
girl, he succumbs not only to the passivity of death but to the passivity
of the Image (which institutes the servitude of idolatry). He denies,
on one hand, what Pound views as the active character of the male
body, and therefore allows himself to be inhabited by ghosts (a
pleasure that derives, essentially, from a denial of corporeality). Yet he
also extinguishes his intellectual powers, as Pound sees it, by mim¬
icking the girl’s absorption in materiality (a sacrificial pleasure that
transforms not only the Image, but the poet himself, into an eroticized
corpse). Thus, by assuming the place of the unutterable feminine
name, the poet runs the risk of becoming either a live dwelling for the
spirits of the dead, or a corpse. He succumbs to a force that is essen¬
tially passive and a pleasure that is not only irresistible but fatal to the
explicit aims of his poetry.
In an essay on Remy de Gourmont, a subject that inevitably elicits
65. On the concept of “linking objects” between the living and the dead, see Vamik
Volkan, Linking Objects and Linking Phenomena: A Study of the Forms, Symptoms, Meta¬
psychology, and Therapy of Complicated Mourning (New York: International Universities
Press, 1981).
131 /////
Radio corpse
from Pound his most uninhibited thoughts on the relation of poetry

to the body, Pound remarks, “Sex, in so far as it is not a purely phys¬
iological reproductive mechanism, lies in the domain of aesthetics”
(LE 341). We would rightfully assume, in an essay that refers to
Gourmont’s “sexual intelligence,” that this statement associates aes¬
thetic pleasure with bodily pleasure. After all, in his reflections on
Gourmont’s Natural Philosophy of Love, Pound compares the produc¬
tion of Images to an outburst of sexual energy (NPL 153). This poetic
absorption in the sensuality of the body is closely linked to Gour¬
mont’s “sense of beauty,” an aesthetic orientation that plays a decisive
role in Pound’s early poetry and persists in the rhetoric of the Image.
Pound describes Gourmont’s keen sensitivity to beauty as “hyper-
aesthesia,” comparing it to a kind of “genius” (NPL 155). Pound
writes in 1919, “I do not think it possible to overemphasize Gour¬
mont’s sense of beauty. The mist clings to the lacquer. His spirit was
the spirit of Omakitsu; his pays natal was near to the peach-blossom
fountain of the untranslatable poem” (LE 343). It is quite evident
from this passage that the pleasure derived from beauty and corpo¬
reality remains a powerful temptation for Pound.
In spite of his inclination to identify Imagism as an art that springs
from the body, Pound is just as likely to separate poetry and pleasure.
The Image is not a formation of pleasure but an object that fills the
empty space of pleasure. In the first issue of Blast, Pound writes,
“Hedonism is the vacant place of the vortex, without force, deprived
of past and future” (EPVA 151). This statement, echoing the anti-
hedonistic views of Sorel and Hulme, veers away from the Decadent
and corporeal origins of the Image, toward the values of rigor and
asceticism, which represent a mortification of the body. Pleasure is
conceived here as functioning in a temporal framework that responds
only to the immediate sensual requirements of the body. More impor¬
tant, pleasure is understood as a “vacant place” with no “force” of its
own. The site of pleasure is essentially passive; its true function is to
receive and hold the forceful impression made by the vortex. Indeed,
Pound’s rejection of “hedonism” is predicated on a distinction
between passive and active, or “receiving” and “conceiving”: “You
may think of man as that toward which perception moves. You may
think of him as the TOY of circumstance, as the plastic substance
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Cryptaesthesia
RECEIVING impressions. OR you may think of him as DIRECTING a

certain fluid force against circumstance, as CONCEIVING instead of
merely observing and reflecting” (EPVA 151). Pound views the
“phallic” poet as superior because such a poet shapes or sculpts the
raw matter of the body, of circumstance, of imagery. In contrast,
the poet who assumes the place of the young girl surrenders himself
to pleasure. He becomes a mere plaything, “the TOY of circum¬
stance,” a “plastic substance RECEIVING impressions.” Feminine pas¬
sivity is therefore associated in Pound’s mind with idleness, servitude,
and inert materiality. The danger that he associates with these qualities
is characteristic of what Blanchot calls “the immense passivity of death,
which escapes the logic of decisions, which can perfectly well speak
but remains secret, mysterious, and undecipherable because it bears
no relation to light.”66 The image, too, according to Blanchot, has “a
characteristic passivity: a passivity that makes us submit to it, even as
we are summoning it.”67 Hence, when Pound rejects the passivity of
the feminine, along with the passivity of death, yet places himself in
the position of an idolater before the figure of the Image, he exposes
himself to the dangers of materiality that haunt the “vacant” site of
pleasure.
We can further illuminate Pound’s reaction against pleasure and the
temptations of “beauty” by examining the character of Mauberley in
“Hugh Selwyn Mauberley.” Six years after condemning “hedonism”
in Blast, Pound is still trying to bury the figure of the hyperaesthetic,
pleasure-loving poet. Mauberley, who stands in contrast to the more
virile and pragmatic character of E.P., is an Imagist writer who prac¬
tices “an art in profile,” though he is “lacking the skill to forge
Achaia”—that is, to maintain the standards of classical engraving
(P 198). His “fundamental passion” is the “urge to convey the re¬
lation / of eye-lid to cheekbone / By verbal manifestation; / To
present the series / Of curious heads in Medallion—” (P 200). The
fact that his fundamental passion is aesthetic and not sexual is con¬
firmed by his deferred and thoroughly attenuated response to the
66. Maurice Blanchot, The Space of Literature, trans. Ann Smock (Lincoln: University
of Nebraska Press, 1982), p. 102.
67. Maurice Blanchot, The Gaze of Orpheus, trans. Lydia Davis (Barrytown, N.Y.:
Station Hill Press, 1981), p. 80.
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sexual overtures of a young woman (P 200). Mauberley’s aesthetic

vision is thus a form of blindness to “natural” pleasure; his pleasure
is self-absorbed and passive, “his desire for survival, / Faint in the
most strenuous moods” (P202). Ironically, Mauberley’s deferral or
mediation of carnal pleasure ensures its fatal influence. The desire for
pleasure, sufficiently abstracted, thus usurps the desire to live. Death
captures the poet who is captive to pleasure. Mauberley’s epitaph, we
should recall, reads: “I was / And I no more exist; / Here drifted /
An hedonist” (P 203).
The year that Pound composed “Hugh Selwyn Mauberley” (1919),
ridiculing the hyperaesthetic tastes of its central character, was also the
year that he praised Gourmont’s incomparable “sense of beauty.” The
date of this statement suggests that Pound’s own hyperaesthetic tastes
persisted in spite of his repeated attacks on hedonism. Rather than
abandon his pleasure-loving ways, which always lead back to the figure
of the Image, Pound routes his desires through a complex circuit of
idolatry and transsexuality. Access to the pleasures of the grave (pas¬
sivity, materiality, sentimentality) is secured initially through a fasci¬
nation with dead girls, or girls inhabited by death. (I must reiterate: I
say “girls” because most of the female figures in Pound’s death cult
are teenagers.) Pound situates his morbid idolatry in the context of
what he calls “the cult of the dead Beatrice,” modeled after Dante’s
reverence for his absent beloved. An early poem of Pound’s, “La
Nuvoletta,” begins with an explanatory note indicating that the
speaker of the poem is “Dante to an unknown lady, beseeching her
not to interrupt his cult of the dead Beatrice” (CEP 151).
Pound substitutes a number of candidates for the “dead Beatrice,”
including Ignez de Castro, a character from Camoens’ epic poem “Os
Lusiades.” In an essay on the Portuguese author, Pound contends,
“Modern interest in the poem centers in the stanzas of the third canto
which treat of Ignez de Castro” (SR 218). The “modern interest”
that Pound refers to is, of course, his own necrophilia. In the second
of the so-called Ur-cantos, he devotes twenty-five lines to the story of
“her dug-up corpse.”68 She also appears twice in the Cantos (C 3: 12
and 30: 148). As Pound tells her story, Ignez is a peasant girl loved
68. Pound, “Three Cantos II,” Poetry 10, no. 4 (July 1917): 180-188.
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Cryptaesthesia
by Pedro, the prince of Portugal. Conspirators at court have her mur¬

dered before she and the prince are able to marry. Years later, when
he becomes king, he digs up her corpse, crowns her, and forces the
courtiers to pay homage to the dead queen. As is the case with most
of the girls who figure in Pound’s cult of the dead, Ignez de Castro
functions quite literally as an idol. We should also note that the dead
idol serves as a weapon. The story involves a beloved figure that turns
to filth (a corpse) and is subsequently used as a weapon against the
king’s enemies. This scenario approximates the rise to power of the
Image in Pound’s career. The fetishized language of Swinburne, which
Pound adores, turns to “corpse language,” and he subsequently uses
it to attack his literary foes. Yet the despised “corpse language” is
transformed into a luminous Image, just as the corpse of Ignez
becomes a queen.
Sigismundo Malatesta, one of Pound’s most prominent alter egos
in the Cantos, likewise indulges in morbid idolatry (and is described
by Pound as a “necrophiliast”; C 10: 44). Malatesta built a mauso¬
leum, the Tempio, to house the remains of his third wife, Isotta.
Pound celebrates this fact by composing an epitaph for her crypt
(C 9: 40-41), and refers to her as “Divae Ixottae” (the Divine Isotta;
C 76: 473). His interest in epigraphy and images of the dead is also
evident from a poem by Giacomo Leopardi, which Pound translated
as “Her Monument, the Image Cut Thereon” (CEP 154-155).
Other graphic images mixing the themes of death and erotic love also
hold a prominent place in his “cult of the dead Beatrice.” The Pre-
Raphaelite portraits of women painted by Edward Burne-Jones, for
example, were a favorite of Pound’s. The ekphrastic poem “Yeux
Glauques,” which is based on a Burne-Jones sketch, reveals Pound’s
belief that the erotic appeal of these women survives in their eyes,
which “Became the pastime for / Painters and adulterers” (P 192).
Indeed, the entire epoch of Swinburne, Rossetti, and Ruskin, which
Pound recalls with such ambivalence, is preserved in the “vacant gaze”
that stares out from “the half-ruined face” (P 192).
The “vacant gaze” of a female icon, which arouses hostility as well
as desire, appears in two other brief ekphrastic poems by Pound, each
based on the painting “Venus Reclining,” by Jacopo del Sellaio (1442-
1493). The first one is titled “The Picture,” which I quote in full:
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The eyes of this dead lady speak to me,

For here was love, not to be drowned out,
And here desire, not to be kissed away.
The eyes of this dead lady speak to me. (CEP 197)
The second poem, titled “Of Jacopo dell Sellaio,” is scarcely longer
than the first and also ends with the line, “The eyes of this dead lady
speak to me” (CEP 197). As in the case of “Yeux Glauques,” the eyes
of the dead are eroticized because they turn the idolatrous gaze of the
viewer back upon himself. Not only the dead girl in “The Picture”
but the image itself returns the poet’s gaze, causing his voice to fall
silent (hence the brevity of the poem and the hint of incredulity in the
repeated line). Yet the poet knows that the gaze of the image is ter¬
rifying only so long as it remains mute or “vacant.” Hence, he
attempts to mitigate its power by lending his voice to the dead girl’s
eyes. In this respect, the poet’s fetishized relation to the image resem¬
bles a ventriloquist’s act. The secret desires of the poet issue from the
“vacant” eyes of a dead girl, as though they were her own. Yet her
gaze reveals nothing of herself—only Pound’s inexhaustible longing
for the dead. The image, like a cadaver, remains strangely mute and
impassive, even as the viewer succumbs to “the opaque meaning of a
thing that is being eaten and that also is eating, being swallowed up
and recreating itself in a vain effort to turn itself into nothing” (Blan-
chot, Orpheus 54).
The two poems on the Sellaio painting may also help us understand
what role the “cult of the dead Beatrice” played in Pound’s personal
life. We know from Dorothy Shakespear’s letters that Pound recom¬
mended the painting to her and that she did go to the National Gallery
“to interview the Sellaio” (P/S 120). It is not unlikely, therefore, that
Pound associated his “beautiful young wife” (as Yeats described
Dorothy) with the Sellaio painting. Ultimately, however, his marriage
revealed the consequences of extending his fascination with imagery
and death to real circumstances, for Pound once said of his wife: “I
fell in love with a beautiful picture that never came to life” (SC 241).
Pound’s correlation of certain archaic and eroticized images with a
land of adolescent death cult lends itself, of course, to a complex but
rather predictable reading from the standpoint of psychosexual poli¬
tics. I wish to point out only one aspect of such a critique: Pound’s
/ //// 136
Cryptaesthesia
willingness to adopt the ostensive passivity of his archaic and girlish

icons intersects quite obviously with the discourse of fetishism. For a
kind of'‘perverse” exchange takes place between the fetishist and his
inert object of desire: conventionally, the fetish object assumes a mag¬
ical potency as the fetishist surrenders reason, volition, and “vitality”
to the image, becoming more and more subservient and “slavish.”
(Hence, the practice of fetishism by Africans became, in the hands of
European intellectuals, a means of legitimating the slave trade.) The
loss of “vitality” suffered by the fetishist is often regarded, according
to W. J. T. Mitchell, as a “projection which results in the symbolic
castration or feminization of the fetishist.”69 In Pound’s case, the gaze
emanating from the fetishized portrait, a gaze that conveys the poet’s
voice even as it robs him of it, is also the gaze of Medusa, threatening
to rob him of his virility. I would also argue that Pound’s idolatrous
relation to the dead Beatrice is intended, surreptitiously, to transgress
the bounds of gender and to disrupt the poet’s sexual identity. By
surrendering his virility, his authority, to the fetish, Pound adopts the
young girl’s passivity, which grants him access to the illicit pleasures
of the grave. In a sense, he exchanges places with the idol: he becomes
the dead girl he adores.
Pound’s early poetry and certain aspects of his personal life offer
considerable evidence that he took interest in figures who disturbed
the ideological boundaries of gender, and also that he himself was
inclined to experiment with the sexual identity of his persona. In his
writing, Pound is never closer to the material and sentimental pleas¬
ures of poetry (which constitute the prehistory and the afterlife of the
Image) than when he assumes the voice of a girl who is wounded by
loss, a girl inhabited by death. The pleasure of mourning allows him
not only to acknowledge, at a distance, the shameful but intensely
pleasurable origins of his own poetry, but to revive these pleasures in
the clandestine form of the Image as a corpse or phantom. In order
to gain access to the dead, however, Pound finds it necessary to devise
a “subversive mourning art,” a strategy that allows him to cross the
“liminality of grief” by dismantling certain gender formations.70
69. Mitcheli offers a lengthy discussion of the problem of fetishism in Iconology,

p. 194.
70. I have borrowed these phrases from Neal Tolchin’s study of Victorian social codes
137 /////
A D I O CORPSE
Pound’s private life yields details which can be read as clues or symp¬
toms of a gender disorder that becomes fully “legible” only in his
crypt poetry. In his early correspondence to Dorothy, for example,
Pound frequently closes letters with the phrase, “I kiss your eyes” (P/S
94,114,136, 145, 175). On Pound’s lips, this quaint expression inev¬
itably recalls the “yeux glauques” of the beggar maid in Burne-Jones’s
painting. It also suggests that Pound’s obsession with a dead lover’s
eyes (who in this case happens to be alive) may have more in common
with Mauberley’s attenuated “passion” than with a frank expression
of sexuality. The words seem to convey a diffident, almost chaste affec¬
tion. Indeed, after expressing her own desires for sexual satisfaction,
Dorothy discreetly acknowledges Pound’s reluctance to consummate
their “friendship” (P/S 9). Their sexual roles are further compli¬
cated by Pound’s habit of referring to Dorothy, his fiancee, as “Little
Brother” and “Coz,” terms of affection usually reserved for a male
companion (P/S 6, 37, 114).
These “symptoms” would remain largely unintelligible were it not
for other, more explicit evidence that Pound took pleasure in
exploiting ambiguities of gender or sexuality in his personal life. Most
readers and critics of Pound know that in 1908 he was removed from
his position as an instructor at Wabash College in Indiana. The dis¬
missal occurred when it was discovered that he had shared his rooms
for a night with a young woman from out of town. Pound defended
himself against insinuations of sexual misconduct, but was swiftly
relieved of his position on the faculty. It is not widely known, however,
that the woman in his room that night was a transvestite—“a lady-
gent impersonator,” in Pound’s own words (SC 76). In addition,
Pound shared his rooms with the impersonator not once but twice,
and it was only after the second incident that the college felt compelled
to dismiss him (80). Whether or not any sexual impropriety occurred,
Pound was delighted by the notoriety gained from the incident. In a
letter to H.D., he wrote, “They say in Wyncote [Pound’s hometown
in Pennsylvania] that I am bi-sexual and given to unnatural lust” (81).
in the articulation of mourning. See Tolchin, Mourning, Gender, and Creativity in the
Art of Herman Melville (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988).
/////138
Cryptaesthesia
My point in drawing attention to this episode and other ambiguities

in Pound’s sexual character is not to establish a new biographical topos
but to furnish a textual locus with fresh images.71 I want simply to
emphasize that Pound’s imagination is drawn to the predicament, or
desire, of the transvestite, an affinity that has an oblique yet powerful
bearing on the elegiac dimension of the Image. The translation of
“corpse language” into the radiant figure of the Image may be under¬
stood as a form of “cross-dressing.” According to Abraham and
Torok, the “silent word” that inhabits a crypt is “love disguised and
dressed up in a painting” (Wolf Man 83). The cryptic place of the
Image preserves and conceals a transvestite word: not merely a corpse
made up to look as though it were alive, but a female word disguised
as a male Image.72 The “gender bending” required of the male poet
to grieve or to find pleasure in the body (acts that lead him to the
hidden ground of the Image) is an effect of gendering word and
Image. The male poet becomes a woman to counteract the “perver¬
sity” of Imagism, to restore the Image to its “original” gender.
We can track the anomalies of Pound’s sexual identity from his pri¬
vate life to his poetry and literary activities, a sphere that yields a more
substantial portrait of the transvestite or transsexual poet. At the
height of his involvement in the Imagist movement, for example,
Pound organized half of a new magazine titled The Cerebralist, of
which only a single issue appeared, in December 1913. The magazine
was a forum for the Cerebralist movement, founded by E. C. Grey,
whose book The Mysticism of Sex and Happiness (1914) provided the
“philosophical” basis for the movement. The magazine contained an
article by Grey describing the “uni-sex” philosophy of Cerebralism
and its central figure, the “modern Womb-Man.” The issue also con¬
tained an article on the “Imagistes” by “R.S.” (perhaps Richard
Aldington) and a piece called “Ikon” by Pound.
71. This is not to say that the biographical possibilities are entirely without substance.
In End to Torment, H.D. mentions rumors surrounding the Wabash incident, and mar¬
vels at Pound’s allusion to bisexuality as early as 1908 (pp. 14-15).
72. On the relation of fetishism and transvestitism, see Victor N. Smirnoff, “The
Fetishistic Transaction,” in Serge Lebovici and Daniel Widlocher, eds., Psychoanalysis in
France (New York: International Universities Press, 1980), pp. 309-310.
139 /////
Radio corpse
IKON
It is in art the highest business to create the beautiful image; to
create order and profusion of images that we may furnish the life of
our minds with a noble surrounding.
And if—as some say, the soul survives the body; if our con¬
sciousness is not an intermittent melody of strings that relapse
between whiles into silence, then more than ever should we put
forth images of beauty, that going out into tenantless spaces we
have with us all that is needful—an abundance of sounds and pat¬
terns to entertain us in that long dreaming; to strew our path to
Valhalla; to give rich gifts by the way.
To find Pound making such a statement in December 1913 is truly

astonishing. At a time when he is vigorously promoting the formalist
conception of the Image (and condemning the notion of the Image
as ornamentation), he is here situating the “beautiful image” in the
realm of the dead, and describing it in terms of “entertainment” and
“gifts” strewn along the path to the underworld (for whom? the mon¬
sters along the way?). More significant for our purposes, the notion
of the Image as an accoutrement of the dead arises in the context of
a magazine devoted to subverting traditional assumptions about
gender and sexuality. Hence, the “hyper-aesthetic” of the beautiful
Image is linked not only to the realm of the dead but to a disordering
of gender.
It is clear from Pound’s early poetry that female figures play a crucial
if mysterious role in the process of sublimation that I have linked to
the formation of the Image. In the poem “The Alchemist,” for
example, Pound induces the magical transubstantiation of base metal
into gold by chanting a long list of women’s names (CEP 225-229).
In the introduction to his translations of Cavalcanti, he explains, “The
equations of alchemy were apt to be written as women’s names and
the women so named endowed with the magical powers of the com¬
pounds” (T 18). This link suggests that the sublimation of corpse
language into imagery is precipitated by a transformation of gender in
the male poet, who must invoke the unutterable feminine name (as in
the case of Gaudier-Brzeska) in order to practice the alchemy of Imag-
ism. The male poet is thus possessed by the magical powers of the
feminine name, as if by a spirit or demon.
We know from Pound’s poetry and from his library that he was
/////140
Cryptaesthesia
interested in the subject of demonology, and especially in the sexual

figures of the incubus and succubus (evil spirits believed to descend
upon and have sexual intercourse with sleeping bodies). In a footnote
to the “Note Precedent to cLa Fraisne’ ” (1908), he refers to a work
titled De Daemonialitate, et Incubus et Succubus (translated in 1879
as Demonality; or Incubi and Succubi), by the seventeenth-century
theologian Lodovico Sinistrari. (This same footnote also contains a
reference to the Egyptian Book of the Dead.) Later, in 1913, when
Pound is living with Yeats at Stone Cottage, he writes home to his
father in Philadelphia, asking for his copy of the book. A letter of
January 22, 1914, from Dorothy to Ezra indicates that she, too, is
reading the book—on his recommendation, one would assume (P/S
305).
This resurgence of Pound’s interest in demonology during the
period of the Imagist movement has its origins in the preoccupation
with death that haunts his early poetry. Entering the realm of the dead
(the realm of Images) often coincides with a change of gender. In the
poem “Shalott,” for example, the ghost of Tennyson’s melancholy
Lady of Shalott becomes the “Lord of Shalott,” a spectral figure of
the poet who roams with the wind over the earth (CEP 252). Other
poems, some of which actually take place in a crypt, present a more
complex disordering of gender and sexuality. In these crypt poems,
the phantom is often engaged in some land of sexual liaison, though
its gender is usually not revealed, making it impossible to determine
whether the relation is heterosexual or homosexual. In the poem “I
Wait,” for example, the speaker declares,
As some pale-lidded ghost that calls

I wait secure until that other goes . . .
I wait secure and waiting know I not
A bite of anger at thy littleness, nor even envy
Of that other one that bindeth thee
Within the close-hewn shroud of womanhood. (CEP 251)
Not until the “other” departs, freeing the beloved from the “shroud”
of the body, can the “soul” find the satisfaction it desires. Who or
what is the “other”? The phantom’s pleasure awaits the departure
either of its own material body or of a rival lover who is still alive.
141 /////
Radio corpse
Hence, the speaker, who is already dead, awaits the death of the
beloved, an event that would allow their souls to mingle and “beget
mighty fantasies”; or, alternately, the departure of the rival lover,
which would permit the incubus to “descend” upon her sleeping
lover.
The most accomplished of Pound’s crypt poems is “The Tomb at
Akr (âar,” which recalls the poem “Middle-Aged” (as well as “Dance
Figure”) in its Egyptian setting, frank eroticism, and nostalgic tone.73
The speaker of the poem is the soul of Nikoptis, whose mummified
body has occupied the tomb for some five thousand years:
I am thy soul, Nikoptis, I have watched

These five millennia, and thy dead eyes
Moved not, nor ever answer my desire . . .
See, the light grass sprang up to pillow thee,
And kissed thee with a myriad grassy tongues;
But not thou me. (CEP 183)
The soul addresses its reminiscences, its longings, its complaints, to

the dead body. It claims never to have received an “answer” to its
desire, yet it also declares, “I have been intimate with thee, known
thy ways.” The soul takes its pleasure on the insensate body:
And three souls came upon Thee—

And I came.
And I flowed in upon thee, beat them off;
I have been intimate with thee, known thy ways.
Have I not touched thy palms and finger-tips,
Flowed in, and through thee and about thy heels? (CEP 183-184)
Although there is no clear indication as to the gender of the soul, the

tone of the poem and its treatment of sexual passion have a distinctly
Sapphic quality. The trope of “light grass” may be an allusion to frag¬
ment 2 of Sappho:
trembling shakes my body

and I turn paler than
73. One is surprised to discover a lengthy passage from “Akr £aar” cited by a Wash¬
ington reporter in 1945 as a description (or prefiguration) of Pound’s imprisonment on
charges of treason. This reference to the most prominent example of Pound’s crypt
poetry occurs in Austine Cassini’s column, “These Charming People,” in the Times-
Herald (Washington, D.C.), 11 December 1945.
/////142
Cryptaesthesia
dry grass. At such time

death isn’t far from me.74
As in the case of “I Wait,” the soul is preoccupied with the expe¬

rience of waiting, the muted pain of loss or separation, and deferred
longing. Indeed, the tomb, a place of utter darkness, is radiant with
desire:
And no sun comes to rest me in this place,

And I am torn against the jagged dark,
And no new light beats upon me, and you say
No word, day after day. (CEP 184)
The voice is plaintive, inconsolable, yet lucid in its powers of obser¬

vation. By assuming the place of the feminine, the poet discovers the
emotional resonance of human loss: something was there and is now
no longer there. Something has disappeared.
Yet the one who mourns also knows the pleasures of the body at
the limits of materiality. The soul deprived of its body becomes a
sexual outlaw, a succubus preying on a corpse. The soul discovers the
power residing in the margins of the body: a living body becomes a
corpse, and the entire body crowds into the margins of the body. As
a corpse, the body exists only marginally, thus attaining its most pow¬
erful and affective condition. Grieving at the death of pleasure and
consumed by the unspeakable pleasures of the body, the poet also
discovers the place of the Image. For the Image, too, signifies loss and
death: something was there and is no longer there. Something has
disappeared. Yet the Image, by virtue of its materiality, is what
“remains”; it is the refuge of pleasure, of the body: “What hope do I
have of attaining the thing I push away? My hope lies in the materiality
of language, in the fact that words are things, too” (Blanchot, Orpheus
46).
Deprivation and a keen sense of the impassioned materiality of exis¬
tence are united in the Sapphic voice that echoes in “The Tomb at
Akr £aar.” This voice is the matrix of what many readers and critics
regard as Pound’s most affecting poetry. The plaintive voice of “The
River Merchant’s Wife,” for example, has its origins in the neutered
voice of the crypt. The humility and tenderness that many critics
74. Mary Barnard, Sappho (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1958), p. 29.
143 /////
A D I O CORPSE
admire in the Pisan Cantos derive, I would argue, from a poetry

absorbed in loss and redeemed by materiality. Yet the mutation of
gender that often occurs in crypt poetry is shadowed by a more sinister
erotic transformation: a human takes the form of an animal. Indeed,
the metamorphosis of human into beast may be the ultimate reference
of any form of sexual mutation, as well as a terrifying metaphor for
representation itself. The Image, as such, would therefore be the
alluring monster produced by tampering with gender. In the poem
“Yeux Glauques,” for example, the ‘Vacant gaze” of the beggar maid
stares from a “half-ruined face” that becomes “that faun’s head of
hers” (P192). The title of the poem suggests that the eyes of the dead
girl are those of an owl (from the Greek word jylaux, meaning owl).
The themes of necrophilia and bestial transformation also converge
in striking fashion in the poem “Piere Vidal Old,” which reworks the
legend of a troubadour who turns into a wolf. The poet’s lust for blood
in battle is compared to the wolfs savage instincts, which are linked
in turn to sexual passion. The crucial turn in the poem occurs when
the poet is conquered by love and returns to human form:
Hot is such love and silent,

Silent as fate is, and as strong until
It faints in taking and in giving all.
Stark, keen, triumphant, till it plays at death.
God! she was white then, splendid as some tomb
High wrought of marble, and the panting breath
Ceased utterly. Well, then I waited, drew,
Half-sheathed, then naked from its saffron sheath
Drew full this dagger that doth tremble here.
Just then she woke and mocked the less keen blade.
Ah God, the Loba! and my only mate!
Was there such flesh made ever and unmade. (CEP 110-111)
In this extraordinary passage, the poet’s reversion from wolf to human

form, a reversion precipitated by love, coincides with his lover’s
apparent passage from life into death. Hence, bestial transformation
is linked to the inscrutable difference between life and death. The
curious thing is that the depravity of the poet’s necrophilia surfaces
only after he has reverted to human form, as if the human mind were
/////144
Cryptaesthesia
the soil of bestial desires. Yet the blood lust of the wolf in battle is
viewed as being entirely “natural.” The decisive moment comes as the
poet prepares to lower himself into the “white tomb” of his lover’s
dead body: she suddenly returns to life and mocks his state of arousal.
Just as the difference between life and death is always unstable for
Pound, so the erogenous fantasy of moving between human and bes¬
tial forms is fraught with danger.
There is yet another “wolf man” in Pound’s life, one who occupies
the cryptic place of the Image: Gaudier-Brzeska is “like a well-made
young wolf or some soft-moving, bright-eyed wild thing” (GB 44).
Indeed, in a “Praefatio” that appeared only in the first edition of the
memoir, Pound suggests that the incidents and individuals described
in his memoir somehow fulfill the mythical topos of “lycanthropy.”
In a brief discussion of the consequences for Germany of its belligerent
actions in the Great War, Pound observes, “Lycanthropy in the indi¬
vidual is, in the nation, a clinging to atavistic ideals. The nation which
breaks the peace of the unity of nations is on a par with the individual
who breaks peace within the nation. There is no reason why the
offending nation should not be treated as caput lupinum” (as a wolf¬
like individual).75 The young wolf of Pound’s fantasies can often be
found at the threshold of the Image-crypt: Pound cherished, for
example, the drawing (of a wolf) Gaudier made for “The Tomb at
Akr £aar” (GB 45). In “Villanelle: The Psychological Hour,” Pound
assumes the female voice of the crypt to mourn Gaudier’s absence and
to announce, even as he disguises, his illicit desire (P 158-159; SC
216). Yet werewolves eat children and are said to indulge in canni¬
balism.76 Cryptonymy is a “fantasy of incorporation.” Freud’s Wolf
Man is altered by devouring others. Lycanthropy is thus the silent
name of an encrypted desire that produces the monstrosity of the
Image. Consumed by the work of mourning, Pound devours the
corpse of Gaudier and is transformed into a wolf; yet he, in turn, is
75. Pound, Gaudier-Brzeska (London: John Lane, 1916), p. 1. For later editions of
the memoir, Pound made a number of changes in the text, as well as deleting the
“Praefatio.”
76. Caroline Oates, “Metamorphosis and Lycanthropy in Franche-Comte, 1521-
1643,” Zone: Fragments for a History of the Human Body, Part 1 (1989): 307, 322.
145 /////
Radio corpse
devoured by the wolf man at the threshold of the crypt (a disappear¬

ance that summons the Image and Pound’s most affecting poetry).
Should we then ask, with H.D., “Was it love of the incomparable
‘Lady Loba’ that lured him to Radio Rome and that, in the end, was
his undoing?” (End to Torment 27). To what degree does the lycan-
thropy of the avant-garde become, for Pound, the “lycanthropy” of
fascist Italy, as well as a figure for his postwar “madness”?77
77. In the late 1950s, following more than a decade of incarceration at St. Elizabeths,
Pound published a translation of a poem that finds the Wolf Man in asylum:
Werewolf in selvage I saw

In day’s dawn changing his shape,
Amid leaves he lay,
and in his face, sleeping, such pain
I fled agape.
The poem, by faime de Angulo, appears in Ezra Pound, Pavannes and Divagations
(London: Peter Owen, 1960), pp. 242-243.
/ ////146
CHAPTER 4
_///////////////,'
fknathemata
The Sad Wit of Pollution
The world decomposes into facts.

—Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
Imagism, we are often told, marks the origin of Anglo-American

poetic modernism. Yet the so-called modernist Image functions more
precisely as a medium between symbolic economies (Victorian and
modern) that were identified by the modernists, for strategic purposes,
as incommensurable. Through the figure of the Image, a substantial
body of Decadent theory and practice is translated into an incipient
formation of the avant-garde. As such, Imagism represents a moment
of conversion (in effect, a conversion experience) that is peculiar to
the origins of modernism in a variety of media. From the standpoint
of a critique of modernism, however, this conversion portends the
recovery of Decadence as an essential aspect of modernity.
In Pound’s case, as we have seen, this translation via the Image
(from Decadence to avant-garde, and vice versa) is permeated by the
rhetoric and economy of death. One of the most prominent features
of Pound’s necrophilia, and of his repudiation of death, is a concern
with materiality, both in terms of contamination and physical evi¬
dence. The corpse becomes an object of revulsion, even as it embodies
the poet’s most exalted desires. As an emblem of material objectivity,
A D I O CORPSE
the cadaverous Image is always in danger of reverting to a state of

ethical and aesthetic pollution. The danger of contamination therefore
haunts the exalted principles of literary positivism (with its emphasis
on empirical evidence). In this regard, the ambiguous character of
materiality reflects “death’s double position as anomalous, marginal,
repressed, and at the same time masterful, central, everywhere mani¬
fest.”1 In its most extreme aspect (which I will discuss in Chapter 6),
the Image deriving from material contamination becomes associated
with radioactivity, a form of waste that constitutes an invisible order
of fatality, as well as a medium of invisible images and images of the
unseen. With its telegraphic properties and a half-life that exceeds his¬
torical time, the radioactive Image is at once immortal and lethal in
its effects, an emblem of death and unending life.
We can make Pound’s conception of the Image reveal its back¬
wardness, its inscrutable desire, its apology for filth, if we examine
more closely what it endeavors to exclude. Between 1911 and 1912,
Pound’s taste in poetry underwent a dramatic reversal. He disavowed
most of his own early poetry, as well as poets such as Swinburne,
Ernest Dowson, and Lionel Johnson, whose work had partly inspired
it. According to these revisions, Pound claimed that Victorian poetry
was plagued by imitative, or mimetic, values and by what he called
“rhetoric.” In an effort to correct these distortions associated with the
materiality of language, Pound proposed the Image as an emblem of
representational authority and exactitude, endowing it with certain
redemptive powers. In more ominous terms—which Pound was not
afraid to use—the Image appears as a “totalitarian” structure, capable
of restoring to language and poetry a lost order of signification.
Richard Sieburth explains that the Image in this regard represents “a
fundamental attempt to get his poetry off the gold standard, to de-
fetishize the signifier.”2 The problem of this strategy, of course, is that
the verbal Image has been viewed historically, and is also viewed by
Pound, as a refuge of sensuality and materiality (in part because of its
1. Elisabeth Bronfen and Sarah Webster Goodwin, “Introduction,” in Bronfen and

Goodwin, eds., Death and Representation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1993), p. 19.
2. Richard Sieburth, “In Pound We Trust: The Economy of Poetry / The Poetry of
Economics,” Critical Inquiry 14, no. 1 (Autumn 1987): 146.
/////148
Anathemata
association with the graphic arts) but also, more prominently, as the
privileged medium of modern literary empiricism.3 The materiality of
the Image guarantees its “objectivity.” Thus, Pound turns to a
“modern” version of the fetish—the Image—in order to counteract
the fetishized language of Decadence. The perversity of this strategy
is fundamental to those hidden dimensions of the Image that are the
object of this study. We encounter the “crypt effect” of the Image
whenever this kind of “homeopathic” logic dominates Pound’s lit¬
erary or cultural conceptions.
The link between the materiality of late Victorian poetry (its “Deca¬
dent” properties) and the empiricism of the modernist Image suggests
a hidden continuity between the archaic values of Pound’s earliest
poetry and the “modernity” of the Image. Of course, he is obliged to
suppress any evidence that such a continuum exists, and it is precisely
this continuum that is submerged in the lost “Doctrine of the Image.”
When the turn in Pound’s career occurs around 1912, he begins to
attack poets in whose work language or poetry “goes rotten, i.e.,
becomes slushy and inexact, or excessive and bloated” (LE 21).
Armed with this scatological rhetoric, Pound launches his vision of
modern poetry. Imagism emerges out of this contempt for certain
dimensions of language, yet the Image, a verbal artifact, necessarily
emerges from the abomination of language—an icon recovered from
the putrid, excessive body of Victorian poetry.
The materialist poetics of the Image should therefore be understood
as an allegory of sublimation: the magical conversion of base matter
into gold, excrement into imagery. By elevating the Image, Pound
fashions an idol out of the contemptible material of language. Freud’s
3. The long tradition of viewing the image as a material simulacrum can be traced
back as far as the Judeo-Hellenic roots of Western culture. The material image usually
functions in a hierarchy that elevates the abstract over the sensory, or vice versa. The
god of the Old Testament, for example, inaugurates the long tradition of Western icon-
oclasm by forbidding the production of graven images. Likewise, Plato divides objects
of perception into images that are intelligible only to the mind’s eye and images that
can be perceived by the external eye. On the history of the distinction between images
of the mind and material images, see W. J. T. Mitchell, Iconology: Image, Text, Ideology
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986), pp. 5-52. Also, for an account of the
difference between Hebraic and Hellenic attitudes toward imagery, see Franyoise
Meltzer, Salome and the Dance of Writing {Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987),
pp. 73-111.
149 /////
Radio corpse
theories of sublimation and anality teach us that through a process of

negation and idealization what is lowest becomes highest. Yet the ideal
retains, in an altered state, all of the despicable qualities of its origins.
Pound’s Image is essentially (mathematic: its exalted character, which
looks forward to the ethical dimension of the “ideogrammic method,”
derives from its capacity to shock and repel. The forbidden tongue of
Swinburne is permitted to speak only through the perversely ideal
form of the Image.
The regime of negativity that I have associated with the Image
(which is the foundation of its “objectivity”) appears most forcefully
in Pound’s efforts to circumscribe a realm of material contamination
that is usually associated with the body. Thus, the material objectivity
of the Image is founded on a mortification of the body. This negation,
however, is dialectical; it always produces, as I have argued, a material
and political afterlife. Julia Kristeva writes, “The abject is edged with
the sublime,” a comment indicating the relevance of Freud’s theory
of sublimation to the necrophilic dimension of the Image and to its
particular rendering of the negative.4 Freud’s theory of sublimation
subscribes to a logic of dialectical negation: “The subject matter of a
repressed image or thought can make its way into consciousness on
the condition that it is denied. Negation is a way of taking account
of what is repressed; indeed, it is actually a removal of repression,
though not, of course, an acceptance of what is repressed.”5
Hence, sublimation, which views continuity as an effect of exclusion,
helps account for the persistence of necrophilia in the poetics of the
Image.
“Sublimations,” according to Norman O. Brown, “are negations
of the body which simultaneously affirm it.”6 Moreover, Pound’s
dialectical negations of materiality, which inaugurate the poetics of
Imagism, evince the representational economy of death: “Every rep¬
resentation of death necessarily represses what it purports to reveal. It
4. Julia Kristeva, The Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, trans. Leon S. Roudiez
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1982), p. 11.
5. Sigmund Freud, “Negation,” Collected Papers, ed. James Strachey (New York:
Basic Books, 1959), vol. 5, p. 182.
6. Norman O. Brown, Life against Death (New York: Random Flouse, 1969), p. 297.
/////150
Anathemata
also necessarily serves other purposes that may or may not be overtly
acknowledged . . . Representations of death, with their structural dia¬
lectic of revealing and concealing and their inevitable configurations
of power and powerlessness, are rich texts for studying the ways art
answers threats to its own powers of representation.”7 We could there¬
fore argue that the concept of sublimation shares with the rhetoric of
Imagism an emphasis on the body as a site of ideological struggle. The
repression of materiality in the name of the Image is always haunted
by the army of cadavers produced by World War I (and, more inti¬
mately, by the dead bodies in Pound’s early poetry).
In print, Pound’s formulations of Imagism, or of the approach to
Imagism, usually depend on a vigorous repudiation of Decadent cor¬
poreality: “For Milton and Victorianism and for the softness of the
‘nineties’ I have different degrees of antipathy or even contempt” (LE
362). In 1912 he explains:
As to twentieth-century poetry, and the poetry which I expect to

see written during the next decade or so, it will, I think, move
against poppy-cock, it will be harder and saner ... It will be as
much like granite as it can be, its force will lie in its truth ... I
mean it will not try to seem forcible by rhetorical din, and luxu¬
rious riot. We will have fewer painted adjectives impeding the
shock and stroke of it. At least for myself, I want it so, austere,
direct, free from emotional slither. (LE 12)
Statements such as these do not, however, usually appear without a

gesture of self-incrimination. In the same article, for example, Pound
observes, “As for the nineteenth century, with all respect to its
achievements, I think we shall look back upon it as a rather blurry,
messy sort of period, a rather sentimentalistic, mannerish sort of
period. I say this without any self-righteousness, with no sense of self-
satisfaction” (LE 11). The equivocation and blurriness of this state¬
ment about a supposedly blurry period of literature is frankly ironic,
and it ends on a note of humility for good reason: the first six volumes
of Pound’s own poetry provide many examples of the “blurry” poems
that he must condemn as an Imagist.
7. Bronfen and Goodwin, Death and Representation, p. 19.
151 /////
Radio corpse
Pound’s battle against a “riot” of luxury and decay in poetry often

focuses on the term “rhetoric.” He announces, for example, that “the
‘image’ is the furthest possible remove from rhetoric” (GB 83). Iron¬
ically, he borrowed the term “rhetoric,” and much of the polemic in
which it is embedded, from those writers he attacked in the name of
the Image. Arthur Symons, for example, describes the spirit of Deca¬
dence as “a revolt against exteriority, against rhetoric, against a mate¬
rialistic tradition.”8 Pound, having embodied in his own early poetry
what he now calls the “rhetoric” of late Victorian poetry, identifies
with the writers of Decadence even as he attacks them. His revolt
against materialism eventually comes to focus on what he calls “the
power of putrefaction,” which poses a threat to the Image and is there¬
fore to be associated with those whom he calls “The Iconoclasts”:
“The power of putrefaction aims at the obfuscation of history . . . The
power of putrefaction would destroy all intrinsic beauty. Whether this
power is borne by certain carriers, or by certain others, remains to be
determined. It is spread like the bacilli of typhus or bubonic plague,
carried by rats wholly unconscious of their role. Suspect anyone who
destroys an image, or wants to suppress a page of history” (SP 317).
Though Pound seeks to prevent the decomposition of images, he
seems to be entirely unaware of the possibility that his own conception
of the Image may be one of the unknown “carriers” of the “power
of putrefaction”—that the Image is itself an eroticized corpse, an
emblem of radical materiality.
The “power of putrefaction” is not restricted to the uncanny effects
of “corpse language” or the power of the dead. Indeed, it refers to
the dangers inherent in many forms of pollution and filth. In the name
of the Image, Pound attacks “the dung-minded, dung-beared, penny
a line, please the mediocre-at-all-cost doctrine” (P/J66). He deplores
“the washy rhetoricians, this back flush of dead symbolism, dead celti¬
cism, etc.” (PD 63), and condemns “the futurist diarrhea, rhetorical
slush” (L 78). He declares that “vomit, carefully labelled ‘Beauty,’ is
still in the literary market” (PD 74), and rages against “the London
Mercury or the Athenaeum or a dozen and one of these other mor¬
tuaries for the entombment of dead fecal mentality” (L 154). The
8. Arthur Symons, The Symbolist Movement in Literature (New York: Haskell, 1971;
orig. pub. 1899), pp. 8-9.
/////152
Anathemata
Imagist poet condemns Victorianism as “a bog, a marasmus, a great

putridity in place of a sane and active ebullience” (LE 21).
Pound’s obsession with various kinds of filth (including the corpse)
is a response to what Mary Douglas calls “pollution dangers.”9
Building upon “the old definition of dirt as matter out of place”
(.Purity and Danger 35), Douglas argues that “reflection on dirt
involves reflection on the relation of order to disorder, being to non-
being, life to death” (5). “Dirt,” she concludes, “is essentially dis¬
order” (2). Dirt offends against order, and makes correct definition
or discrimination impossible. “Pollution behavior,” Douglas explains,
“is the reaction that condemns any object or idea likely to confuse or
contradict cherished classifications” (36). Dirt, one might say, is the
residue of ambiguity. Given Pound’s abhorrence of ambiguity and his
equation of “intrinsic beauty” with order (embodied in the figure of
the Image), we should not be surprised that the rhetoric of the Image
resembles, at times, a pollution ritual. Pound’s efforts to rid poetry of
various kinds of filth are deeply concerned with questions of form and
the restoration or discovery of new forms in art. Douglas confirms this
link between pollution and form: “Pollution arises from the interplay
of form and surrounding formlessness. Pollution dangers strike when
form has been attacked” (104).
“The quest for purity,” Douglas writes, “is pursued by rejection”
(161). The idea of a subject that constitutes itself through exclusion
and repression is also, as I indicated in Chapter 1, the basis of Julia
Kristeva’s theory of “abjection.” Acknowledging her debt to Douglas
and to Bataille’s concept of heterogeneity, Kristeva contends that the
abject is founded on “the logic of prohibition”.10 The abject is what
every system excludes, a residue of otherness that remains, nonethe-
9. Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo
(London: Ark, 1966), p. 104.
10. Kristeva, The Powers of Horror, p. 64. Georges Bataille’s work on the cultural
dimensions of ritual pollution is an important precursor to that of Douglas and Kristeva.
I have chosen, however, not to pursue Bataille’s theories in detail, because of their
emphasis on sacrifice, laughter, sexuality, and other forms of ecstatic release. These
topics, it seems to me, are not directly relevant to Pound’s own excremental economy.
Bataille’s concept of heterogeneity, however, remains central to my understanding of
the image in Pound’s poetics. Georges Bataille, Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927-
1939, trans. Allan Stoekl (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1985).
153 /////
A D I O CORPSE
less, intrinsic to the system. In this regard, Pound’s conception of the

Image may be described as a formation of the abject. The Image is
constituted by what it excludes—by “corpse language” and by other
forms of pollution that are intrinsic to its nature. Pound fashions the
Image as he spews out abominations over the corpse of his own lan¬
guage. The expulsion of impurities is lined with the “glamor” of the
Image, as Kristeva explains: “The purification rite appears then as that
essential ridge, which, prohibiting the filthy object, extracts it from
the secular order and lines it at once with a sacred facet” (Powers of
Horror 65).
Considering Pound’s violent repudiation of cultural and poetic
decay, one would not expect him to insist on an intimate relation
between beauty and filth. Yet this is precisely what he does. “Kul-
chur,” he contends, “occurs in or above the stinking manure heap,
and cannot be honestly defined without recognition of the dung-
heap” (L 294). Furthermore, “Disgust with the sordid is but another
expression of a sensitiveness to the finer thing. There is no perception
of beauty without a corresponding disgust” (LE 415). These passages
articulate a thesis similar to Douglas’ understanding of pollution and
Kristeva’s theory of abjection: beauty and order depend on filth, on
the scorned presence of the other. A dialectical relation exists between
what Pound calls the “cult of beauty” (embodied by the Image) and
the “cult of ugliness” (enthralled by death and excess).11 “The cult
of beauty and the delineation of ugliness are not in mutual opposi¬
tion” (LE 45). The “power of putrefaction” engenders the fetishistic
appeal of the Image; the abject is lined with sublimity.
On several occasions, Pound takes the relation between beauty and
filth a step further: he implies that the seed of beauty or creativity is
embedded in the rotting corpse of materiality. The last of the Hell
Cantos, for example, depicts a scene in the Palux Laerna, the swamp
where Hercules confronted the Hydra:
11. Mary Douglas draws upon the topos of the image to illustrate the relation between
sacred beauty and filth: “In painting such dark themes, pollution symbols are as necessary
as the use of black in any depiction whatsoever. Therefore we find corruption enshrined
in sacred places and times” (Purity and Danger, p. 179). In this passage, pollution is
compared to the black color of delineation, without which (she argues) no image is
possible. All representation, or any system, thus depends upon some form of contami¬
nation for its legibility or meaningfulness.
/////154
Anathemata
Palux Laerna,
the lake of bodies, aqua morta,
of limbs fluid, and mingled, like fish heaped in a bin
and here an arm upward, clutching a fragment of marble.
And the embryos, in flux,
new inflow, submerging,
Here an arm upward, trout, submerged by eels;
and from the bank, the stiff herbage
and the dry nobbled path, many known, and unknown,
for an instant;
submerging,
The face gone, generation. (C 16: 69)
The scene depicts a watery death, a place where life is submerged,

disappearing. The swamp is a “lake of bodies,” either dead or dying,
their limbs mingled with one another and with the dead water (“aqua
morta”). In short, the scene is one of horrifying decay, viewed from
the safety of a “dry path” (which recalls the scene at the end of the
same canto, where the poet escapes from the bog with the help of
Medusa). There are certain details, however, that do not agree with
the prevailing atmosphere of death and decay—the arms thrust out of
the mire, for example, one of which is “clutching a fragment of
marble.” This defiant gesture, which suggests a remnant of classical
tradition, is surely nostalgic, if not hopeful. And there are also “the
embryos, in flux,” floating in the awful lake. The final two lines suggest
that these embryos will survive: “submerging, / The face gone, gen¬
eration.” The disappearance of life is therefore the occasion for “gen¬
eration,” for new life. The “lake of bodies,” which resembles a giant
corpse teeming with vermin, is also the source of new bodies, new
forms.
Mary Douglas, in her study of pollution symbols, discovers a similar
logic: “Granted that disorder spoils pattern, it also provides the mate¬
rials of pattern” (94). This insight leads her to question the
“problem” of sublimation: “We must therefore ask how dirt, which
is normally destructive, sometimes becomes creative” (Purity and
Danger 159). This question also confronts the most perverse features
of Pound’s conception of the Image. The erotic infatuation with the
dead in Pound’s early poetry is replaced by his fetishistic regard for
the Image. The swamp of “rhetoric” becomes the Image suffused with
155 /////
Radio corpse
light and the sun’s genius. The revolting materiality of “corpse lan¬
guage” survives in the elegant and articulate brush strokes of the ide¬
ogram. “Dead fecal mentality” informs the arcane Image associated
with science and mathematics.
One discovers in Pound’s “Metro” poem (the most famous of all
Imagist poems) a striking illustration of the principle of sublimation
informing the Image. In his “Vorticism” essay, published in the Fort¬
nightly Review in September 1914, Pound offers his readers a detailed
account of the origins and compositional history of the “Metro”
poem, as an exposition of Imagism in practice. He dates the genesis
of the poem to a moment three years prior to the writing of the “Vor¬
ticism” essay, which would be 1911—the same year he wrote “Silet,”
the opening poem of Ripostes. Following what Pound calls “the
impasse in which I had been left by my metro emotion” (GB 89), he
writes a series of drafts of the poem, each more condensed than the
previous one. By eliminating what he calls material of “second inten¬
sity,” Pound shrinks the poem from thirty lines to a single sentence.
Clearly this process, whose principles Pound formulates during the
“impasse” between 1911 and 1913, represents the essential negativity
of the Image—that is, the regime of elimination and prohibition that
I have described as fundamental to the “objectivity” of Imagist
poetics.
The sublime aspect of the Image derives from its irrepressible “sub¬
stance”; indeed, the negative practice of Imagism serves not to elim¬
inate but to preserve the “life” of the crypt: its elegiac feeling, its
eroticism, its fatality. The remains of language—the Image—render
the volatile materiality of the crypt; the ascetic mode of the Image
draws attention to the body by making it disappear. Though Pound
presents the “Metro” poem as a paradigm of modernist practice, its
reference to an apparitional event in an underground “station” quite
obviously links it, as I indicated in the previous chapter, to the Deca¬
dent properties of Pound’s crypt poetry. Indeed, the archaic dimen¬
sion of the “Metro” poem is more pronounced than Pound suggests.
He dates the origin of the poem to 1911, without indicating any
possible precedent in his earlier published poetry. K. K. Ruthven has
demonstrated, however, that the specific “image” of the “Metro”
poem derives from a very early poem of Pound’s, “Laudantes Decern
/////156
Anathemata
Pulchritudinis Johannae Templi,” published in Exultations (1909).12

One section of the poem, addressed to “my beloved of the peach
trees,” describes “the vision of the blossom”:
the perfect faces which I see at times

When my eyes are closed—
Faces fragile, pale, yet flushed a little,
like petals of roses:
these things have confused my memories of her. (CEP 119)
The essential features of this “vision” survive intact in the “Metro”

poem:
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:

Petals, on a wet, black bough. (GB 89)
It is essential to emphasize that the original “vision” occurs with eyes

closed, and that the visuality of the Imagist poem must therefore be
described as highly ambiguous, if not dependent on a kind of blind¬
ness.
By 1913 (if not from the outset) the “vision of the blossom”
becomes associated in Pound’s mind with Japanese poetry (haiku).
Indeed, the “vision of the blossom” continues to circulate in his work
in a manner that eventually discloses its specifically archaic, or nos¬
talgic, dimension. An early manuscript of Canto 4, composed in 1918,
contains the following lines: “the thousand-year peach trees shed their
flakes / into the stream, out of a former time.”13 These lines suggest
that the apparitional petals of the “Metro” poem should be viewed as
drifting “out of a former time,” as ghosts. The “peach trees in magical
blossom” appear in yet another context, in Pound’s essay on Remy
de Gourmont, published in March 1919: “I do not think it possible
to overemphasize Gourmont’s sense of beauty . . . His pays natal
was near to the peach-blossom fountain of the untranslatable poem”
(L 343). The “vision of the blossom,” which we now understand to
be an apparition of the dead, is described here by Pound as “an
untranslatable poem.” Indeed, we could argue that the “pays natal”
12. K. K. Ruthven, A Guide to Pound’s “Personae” (1926) (Berkeley: University of

13. Cited in Christine Froula, To Write Paradise: Style and Error in Pound’s Cantos
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1984), p. 40.
157 /////
R A D I O CORPSE
of the modernist Image is an “untranslatable poem”—a poem

encrypted in the Image, a vision preserved and concealed by the neg¬
ative praxis of Imagism. Yet the phantasmic “substance” of the
“Metro” poem differs not at all from its antecedent, its forgotten
ancestry, in Exultations. Thus, the “Metro” poem emerges as the
nucleus of a constellation of apparitional poems spanning the entire
Imagist period, from 1909 to 1919.
If we search for other traces of the “untranslatable poem,” or at
least intimations of the sublime logic of the Image, we discover in
several of Pound’s early poems an interest in alchemy and the idea of
the transmutation of metals, an archaic figure for the process of sub¬
limation. “The Alchemist,” for example, is a chant sung to Per¬
sephone, linking the themes of sublimation and death (CEP 227).
More revealing is the poem “Capilupus Sends Greeting to Grotus,”
in which the poet uses the figure of alchemy to illustrate his own
conception of poetry:
The test tubes of your alchemy give me the figure

For some fluid that you call a certain long equation,
Plus some new substance,
Is no longer the same fluid but a new,
Though all the elements thereof
Be known unto thy father’s father in thine art.
Yet as ever by some new combination of old elements
Ye do seek the gold, so seek I perfection. (CEP268)
Understood as a form of alchemy, poetry is essentially a process of

experimenting with various “fluids” in order to produce a precious
commodity. The gold of alchemy or poetry is produced not by intro¬
ducing a new element but “by some new combination of old ele¬
ments.” The basic materials of the alchemical “equation” are “known
unto thy father’s father”—that is, they are familiar to the dead and,
as possessions of the dead, can be understood as embodiments of the
dead. The crucial feature of this equation is that no new material is
required to produce the precious substance. The essence of gold is
latent in the base materials from which it is composed—as in the case
of the “Metro” poem. Something new is derived from something old,
and fluids harden into gold, yet there is no substantive difference
between the dead base and the living essence. The sublime logic of
///// 158
Anathemata
alchemy also governs, as we have seen, the transformation of “corpse

language” into the luminous Image. Pound’s naive appropriation of
the figure of alchemy masks the dialectical forces that would found his
poetry on the violence of abjection.
The essential alchemy of Pound’s poetry takes place in a crypt, a
vessel in which dead words are “translated” into vital Images. The
“rhetoric” and materiality of language (including its mimetic powers)
are sealed in a tomb, only to return under the guise of the Image. The
unspeakable pleasures of “corpse language” are accessible to Pound
only through the materiality of a modern fetish, the Image. By mur¬
dering the language of his youth (which is also the language of the
dead, his literary forebears), he unwittingly devours it in a manner that
fails to preserve the dead as living. This crisis signals a refusal to mourn,
or an aberration of mourning, that eventually produces the bulky cita¬
tions of the Cantos. The dead are indeed lodged within his work, but
as dead, as other. Consequently, “the place that shuns symbolization
and is the site of the death of pleasure, knows the word that says
pleasure.”14 This cryptic place harbors a word that has become a thing,
an “exquisite corpse” that is ravaged and yet somehow untouched by
the ancient rivalry of word and image.
Plastic Surgery
I have argued that the figure of the Image displaces the corpse in
Pound’s poetics and becomes, through a process of sublimation, a
legitimate object for his illicit infatuation with the dead body. The
rhetoric of the Image is thus best understood as a rite of purification
intended to rid poetry, and ultimately society, of various kinds of pol¬
lution. The inscrutable relation between the Image and the body is
not limited, however, to necrophilia and the repudiation of bodily
filth. The negative character of these obsessions is dialectical and there¬
fore affirmative of a larger concern with the status of the living body.
The erotic appeal of a corpse and the sensual pleasure historically asso¬
ciated with imagery of all kinds mask a deeper concern with hedonism
14. Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok, The Wolf Man’s Magic Word: A Cryptonymy,
trans. Nicholas Rand (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), p. 81.
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and sexual pleasure in Pound’s work. Similarly, his preoccupation with

decay and contamination in poetry and politics (or economics) shows
a concern with the body proper (a clean body, a body I call my own),
as distinguished from what is foreign or extrinsic to it.
In her analysis of the concept of pollution, Mary Douglas observes,
“The focus of all pollution symbolism is the body; the final problem
to which the perspective leads is bodily disintegration” (Purity and
Danger 173). The pollution dangers that threaten any structure, be it
social, religious, or aesthetic, are conceived therefore in corporeal
terms: “The body is a model which can stand for any bounded system.
Its boundaries can represent any boundaries which are threatened or
precarious” (115). The danger of pollution arises when the conven¬
tional boundaries of a system or concept come under attack and
become confused or ambiguous. Douglas writes, “Any structure of
ideas is vulnerable at its margins. We should expect the orifices of the
body to symbolize its specially vulnerable points . . . Spittle, blood,
milk, urine, feces, or tears by simply issuing forth have traversed the
boundary of the body . . . The mistake is to treat bodily margins in
isolation from all other margins” (121). Hence, “all margins are dan¬
gerous” (121). Pollution control therefore depends on establishing a
rigorous distinction between what is proper or intrinsic to the body
and what is extrinsic to it. Anything dirty or menacing belongs outside.
The difference between the inside and the outside is the basis of
somatic identity, or the identity of any stable element. Hence, those
activities that disturb the inside/outside distinction, such as eating,
excretion, or sex, or any invasive act such as surgery, are potentially
menacing and enormously powerful.
It is not a coincidence that the inside/outside distinction is called
into question by the major theoretical discourses I have brought to
bear on the rhetoric of the Image and Pound’s necrophilia. Kristeva,
for example, in her analysis of melancholy, combines a deconstructive
emphasis on marginality with Mary Douglas’s thesis that dirt is
“matter out of place,” to situate the violent uncertainty of abjection:
“It is thus not lack of cleanliness or health that causes abjection but
what disturbs identity, system, order. What does not respect borders,
positions, rules. The in-between, the ambiguous, the composite”
(Powers of Horror 4). Significandy, for our purposes, the abject shares
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its borderline existence with the “sublimating discourse” of aesthetics

(7). In other words, poetry is borderline speech, tainted by having
traversed the boundary of inside/outside.
Given the emphasis on marginality in the philosophy of deconstruc¬
tion, we should not be surprised to find that Derrida’s interest in
Abraham and Torok’s theory of cryptonymy focuses primarily on the
topography of the crypt. Through an act of incorporation, a lost object
(which may be a word) is encrypted within the subject. A secret vault
is constructed within the subject to preserve and conceal the ineffable
word that says “pleasure.” A thing that belongs on the outside is
brought within. Hence, according to Derrida, the crypt establishes
“an inside heterogenous to the inside of the self.”15 And further, “One
might go on indefinitely switching the place names around in this
dizzying topology (the inside as the outside of the outside, or of the
inside; the outside as the inside of the inside, or of the outside, etc.)”
(xix). What fascinates Derrida about the crypt is that it violates, inex¬
orably, the distinction between inside and outside. It is no longer
possible to designate what is proper or intrinsic to the body.
Pollution behavior, abjection, cryptonymy—each of these concep¬
tions is linked (by its reliance on the power of negation) to aesthetics
and to ideas about poetry such as Imagism. The “accursed share” (as
Bataille calls it) produces pleasure, though it is founded on a logic of
prohibition, by swallowing the other, by contaminating itself and tra¬
versing its own boundaries. A similar contradiction arises when we
compare the rhetoric of the Image to Pound’s appropriation of the
body and medical terminology. The rhetoric of the Image, as we have
seen, stems from a logic of prohibition: it resembles a kind of pollution
behavior; it is an expression of the abject; the language of Pound’s
youth is sealed in a crypt. Each of these formations, it must be stressed,
is articulated through a metaphorics of the body, a body that exists
only insofar as it observes the distinction between inside and outside.
Yet when Pound “handles” the living body, it is always with the inten¬
tion of transgressing this boundary, dissolving the difference between
inside and outside, altering the body, or inventing it anew. Why must
the body of the Image, which is a corpse in disguise, be protected
15. Jacques Derrida, “Tors: The Anglish Words of Nicolas Abraham and Maria
Torok,” trans. Barbara Johnson, The Wolf Man’s Magic Word, p. xvi.
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from every land of filth, including dead flesh, which is the most sick¬
ening of all wastes? And why must the poetic Image, which is neces¬
sarily composed of words, never be “degraded to the status of a
word”? Is it possible that Pound’s attempt to distinguish rigorously
between the inside and the outside of the Image is subverted by
attempts to violate this distinction in his work?
That the rhetoric of the Image sublimates various parts and func¬
tions of the human body is discernible from its emphasis on materi¬
ality. Yet Pound makes the link between Image and body in far more
explicit ways. For example, in the November 1918 issue of Little Re¬
viewj Pound published a rough translation of Voltaire’s anti-Semitic
essay “Genesis.” Fie does not identify Voltaire as the author, however,
and thus encourages the reader to view the anonymous author as a
medium for Pound’s own opinions. In one section, the Pound-
Voltaire figure states, “One cannot make images save of bodies. No
nation imagined a bodiless god, and it is impossible to picture him as
such” (PD 170). In all probability, Pound enjoyed this statement as
an affront to Hebraic sanctions against imagery and, hence, as an
expression of paganism and idolatry. Yet the indeterminacy of the
phrase “make images of bodies” suggests that the link between image
and body is something more than thematic. Indeed, the phrase admits
the possibility of images composed of bodies, and words made of flesh.
Pound identifies the latter figure (the word made flesh) as expressing
the qualities he admired most in the work of Remy de Gourmont,
who exerted a powerful influence on Pound’s ideas about sexuality
and the body. In an attempt to characterize the “sensual wisdom” of
Gourmont’s writing, Pound cites the following sentence from Phy¬
sique de PAmour: “My words are the unspoken words of my body”
(LE 341). As if to underscore the importance of these words to his
own understanding of poetry and materiality, Pound repeats a varia¬
tion of this statement in the same essay (written shortly after Gour¬
mont’s death): “My true life is in the unspoken words of my body”
(LE 342). Words encrypted in the body; the mute force of words that
continue to speak after death; words that return again and again pre¬
cisely because they are unspoken; haunting words. The unspoken
word of the body is nothing other than the Image.
The idea of mute words spoken from the body defines the act of
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Anathemata
ventriloquism, which has a special relevance to Pound’s poetics and,

more specifically, to his work as a translator. James Joyce, for example,
once described him as a “ventriloquist Agitator” (P/J 266). And
Pound himself linked his use of the persona, or mask, to Imagist po¬
etics (GB 85). Ventriloquism, from the Latin “to speak from the
belly,” involves a displacement within the body that appears to be a
displacement of the body. The speech of ventriloquism comes from
the “gut,” from the region of the intestines, with the implication that
such words are necessarily crude and materialistic. (“To speak from
the gut” also means to speak from one’s instincts, and perhaps from
the unconscious.) Words that are engendered in the belly of one body
issue from the mouth of another, from an image, a “dummy,” a mute.
Ventriloquism is therefore a means of invigorating the inanimate, or
making the dead speak. Words engendered in the labyrinth of the body
(the intestines) fill the empty mouth of an Image.
Invigorating a moribund body is a central aim not only of Imagist
poetics but of Pound’s interest in medical procedures. As a “physi¬
cian” he can draw upon a repertory of techniques to save the patient
(literature), but one of his favorites is the idea of “exotic injections.”
Pound characterizes a number of historical “revivals” in this fashion,
including the salutary effect on Victorian literature of Swinburne’s and
Rossetti’s translations. British literature, according to Pound, “was
kept alive during the last century by a series of exotic injections” (LE
33-34). His own work fulfills a similar role in twentieth-century let¬
ters. From Paris, he writes that he is seeking “a triple extract for export
purposes ... a poetic serum to save English letters from post-mature
and American letters from pre-mature suicide and decomposition.”16
Just as the ventriloquist plants his words in the lifeless dummy, so the
literary physician injects the moribund body with a “poetic serum.”
Yet the words that make up this serum are foreign or “exotic,” sug¬
gesting that such an injection might not only “quicken” the patient
but expose him to the dangers of a foreign substance. The propriety
of the body would therefore be violated: what belongs outside is dis¬
seminated within.
By examining more closely certain aspects of Pound’s desire to
16. Ezra Pound, “The Island of Paris: A Letter,” The Dial 69, no. 4 (October 1920):
406.
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“doctor” the features of poetry, we can gain a more articulate sense

of his understanding of the body. Frequently, the specific nature of
Pound’s medical interests coincides with his poetic agenda. As a grad¬
uate student at the University of Pennsylvania, for example, his eye¬
sight was impaired by astigmatism, and he consulted the Philadelphia
ophthalmologist George Milbry Gould (1848-1922). Later, during
the heyday of the Imagist movement, Pound became interested in
Gould’s theory about the effect of eyestrain on creativity (P/S ISO-
181). In a six-volume work titled Biographic Clinics, Gould analyzed
the personalities of various English authors in light of his optical the¬
ories. An awareness of Pound’s interest in Gould helps explain some
of his more eccentric practices and judgments. For example, Pound’s
use of abbreviation in his texts is notorious. When he makes a remark
such as “Abbreviations save eye effort” (L 322), we are in a better
position, knowing Gould’s influence, to interpret his motivations.
Pound’s extraordinarily harsh judgment of Milton, who went blind,
may also have been confirmed and thereby sharpened by Gould’s influ¬
ence.
The real significance of Pound’s interest in Gould’s eccentric science
is simply that it coincides with the problematic visuality of the Image.
A pathology of the eye is linked to a visual aesthetic. Anxiety over the
effect of eyestrain on creativity suggests that Pound is already com¬
mitted poetically to the sublimating power of visuality. Yet his aes¬
thetic and ideological investment stands on perilous ground, as several
of his letters to James Joyce reveal. Having become adept at diag¬
nosing his own visual ailments, Pound recommends Gould’s work to
Joyce when Joyce’s eyesight begins to deteriorate. What is remarkable
about Pound’s attempt to save Joyce’s eyes are the attempts to limit
the realm of the visible that accompany his medical advice. A discus¬
sion of the “realism” of Ulysses draws the following censure from
Pound: “Abnormal keenness of insight O.K. But obsessions arseore-
ial, cloacal, deist, aesthetic as opposed to arsethetic, any obsession or
tic shd. be very carefully considered before being turned loose” (P/J
158). Pound attempts to circumscribe the authority of Joyce’s visual
exactitude by limiting the realm of visibility. Celebration of the visible
is immediately confronted by a concern with the invisible, by a pro¬
hibition against looking and an account of what should remain unseen.
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Anathemata
According to the logic of sublimation, what must remain invisible in

a formation such as the Image is the “obsession” with bodily wastes
(and cadavers) lurking at its borders. The dialectical negativity of mod¬
ernist vision helps, in this regard, to explain the perversity of one of
Pound’s most famous anecdotes. Louis Agassiz, the story goes,
ordered a graduate student to stare at a dead fish for three weeks, as
a lesson in empirical observation: “At the end of three weeks the fish
was in an advanced state of decomposition, but the student knew
something about it” (ABC 17-18). In Pound’s narrative, the strange
correspondence between visuality and decomposition, though it is
presented as the very foundation of realism, somehow eludes the dis¬
embodied eye of positivism. The “power of putrefaction” remains
incidental even as the eye is engrossed (and instructed) by it.
Whatever the true sources of his interest in medicine, Pound
believed that he possessed an intuitive gift for medical diagnosis from
an early age. Indeed, he claimed in “Indiscretions,” a family history
and memoir of his childhood, that he was able to make a correct diag¬
nosis of his own ailments by the time he was two years of age! (PD
42). As a figure of speech, diagnosis is present in his earliest thinking
about poetry. In a letter of 1908 to his friend William Carlos Williams,
he writes, “As for preaching poetic anarchy or anything else: heaven
forbid. I record symptoms as I see ’em. I advise no remedy. I don’t
even draw the disease usually. Temperature 102 3/8, pulse 78, tongue
coated, etc., eyes yellow, etc.” (LA). Throughout his career, Pound
repeatedly describes the most effective sort of critical intelligence in
terms of medical diagnosis. To assess the condition of poetry accu¬
rately requires the intuition and skill of a physician interpreting the
symptoms of a sick patient. In his essay “The Serious Artist” Pound
remarks, “It takes a skillful physician to make certain diagnoses or to
discern the lurking disease beneath the appearance of vigor” (LE 48).
The possibility of misreading bodily symptoms, and mistaking sickness
for health, recalls Pound’s effort to discern the dead language lurking
in Baudelaire’s sonnet “Le Vampire.” The inscrutable difference
between the living and the dead in poetic language is ultimately
grounded in the body.
Pound compares the art of evaluating poetry to a hermeneutic of
the body. The aim of the physician is to penetrate to the secretive
165 /////
Radio corpse
interior of the body and determine its actual condition. This figurative
penetration is achieved through a process of diagnosis, which involves
reading bodily symptoms. But symptoms are ambiguous, and a doctor
may judge a body to be healthy when it is in fact close to death. Just
as the latent meaning of a symptom “lurks” beneath the surface (and
may therefore remain inaccessible), so the fate of the body depends
on its internal organs, which are hidden from the outside. Pound’s
desire to penetrate the body and discover its innermost secrets went
well beyond a figurative notion of literary criticism (although its sig¬
nificance should never be isolated from his literary agenda). For a time,
he was interested in the work of a Dr. Louis Berman in London, who
developed a theory of the glands as the seat of most illnesses, including
psychological disorders (SC414). Pound discussed Berman’s theories
in an article in New Age of March 1922, and later recommended him
to T. S. Eliot, whose wife Vivien was suffering from severe depression
at the time.
It is no coincidence that two areas of medical science claimed
Pound’s attention during the course of his career: endocrinology and
ophthalmology. These two fields, which treat the glands and the eyes,
replicate the arc of sublimation, which links the functions of the so-
called lower organs and the eyes. Moreover, Pound’s symptomology
and his curiosity about the internal organs are primarily concerned
with illegibility and with things that resist understanding. A symptom
that remains unintelligible draws the “physician” into the secret inte¬
rior of the body, and blurs the essential distinction between inside and
outside. Unless the doctor physically opens the body, however, the art
of diagnosis can be nothing more than surmise, a fabrication of what
remains hidden. Julia Kristeva links the formation of the abject to the
“symptom,” which she defines as “a language that gives up, a struc¬
ture within the body, a non-assimilable alien, a monster, a tumor, a
cancer that the listening devices of the unconscious do not hear, for
its strayed subject is huddled outside the paths of desire” (Powers of
Horror 11). “In the symptom,” she concludes, “the abject permeates
me. I become abject” (11). The symptom may therefore be described
as a cyst of meaning that makes interpretation difficult (but not impos¬
sible), a crypt lodged within the body. In order to identify the occu¬
pant of a crypt as living or dead, to make a good diagnosis, one must
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Anathemata
traverse the border between inside and outside. As readers, we must

disturb the sleep of the dead and unravel the body in order to mark
its fragile boundaries.
Through an anecdote that Pound once told to Charles Olson, we
discover that his interest in endocrinology was linked in his mind to a
literal penetration or incision of the body. Olson quotes Pound as
saying, “There was a Jew, in London, Obermeyer, a doctor of the
endocrines, and I used to ask him what is the effect of circumcision.
That’s the question that gets them sore . . . that sends them right up
the pole. Try it, don’t take my word for it, try it” (SC 362). The
association between “reading” glands and circumcision suggests a leap
from figurative to literal penetration of the body, from diagnosis to
surgery (which, in this case, is performed in order to mark the male
body—a mark of faith). With regard to the body’s integrity, the dif¬
ference between diagnosis and cure (or inscription) is essentially a
matter of degree: the cure is more invasive, more violent. Both pro¬
cedures, however, take place in an atmosphere of wondrous uncer¬
tainty and peril—precisely because the limits of the body are in flux.
Surgery is a favorite trope of Pound’s for the art of writing poetry.
Yet critics are more apt to note his fondness for speaking of poetry in
terms of sculpture—an art that Pound associates with the “daemonic”
energy of Gaudier-Brzeska (GB 39-40). Sculpture, according to
Pound, requires not only the capacity to conceive forms but the phys¬
ical strength to execute them in recalcitrant materials such as stone
and wood. More important, sculpture represents for Pound a process
of separation and excision that is fundamental, generally, to his sense
of artistic practice. In an interview in 1914, for example, he observes:
“There are two ways of presenting beauty—by satire, which clears
away the rubbish and allows the central loveliness to reveal itself; and
by direct presentation of beauty itself’ (P/S 324-325). Although
Pound is often inclined to think of the Image in terms of “direct
presentation,” it should also be evident that this “presentation” often
depends on a logic of exclusion. A poet makes an Image by carving
away various kinds of filth and “rubbish,” thereby allowing the essen¬
tial form to stand out clearly. By Pound’s definition, therefore, the
Image is a form of satire. Yet the sculptural techniques of satire, and
the satiric emphasis on materiality, derive not from chiseling stone but
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R A D I O CORPSE
from an encounter with the human body: “Satire is surgery, insertions

and amputations,” Pound writes (LE 45). The master trope is not
sculpture but surgery.
Pound liked to believe that his poetry continued the tradition of
writers who possessed a “surgical” intelligence. Thus, “Ovid, before
Browning, raises the dead and dissects their mental processes” (SR
16). Not only do we discover that Pound views his forbears as sur¬
geons, but surgery figures prominently in his relation to the dead, and
to cadavers in particular. The reference to “dissection” suggests that
the virtues of realism and exactitude are represented here as a kind of
anatomy lesson (a familiar event to medical students). Furthermore,
the rhetoric of medicine and surgery later came to occupy a prominent
place in Pound’s anti-Semitic attacks. He was intrigued, for example,
that Celine (a notorious anti-Semite) was trained as a physician. His
solutions for the problem of usury were often couched in medical
terms that recall his literary criticism: “USURY is the cancer of the
world, which only the surgeon’s knife of fascism can cut out of the
life of nations” (SP 300).
Kristeva compares the individual permeated by abjection to a sur¬
geon, and refers to “the scalpel that carries out his separations” (8).
Pound, too, employs the tools of the surgeon to carry out the sepa¬
rations upon which the rhetoric of the Image is founded. Carving an
Image in words is analogous to cutting away the diseased or rotting
portion of an ailing body. Walter Villerant, the persona of the “Imag¬
inary Letters,” contends that “Pound’s sterilized surgery” removes
the “decayed-lily verbiage” of the “Wilde school” (PH 73-74). Else¬
where, speaking in his own voice, Pound contrasts “the very cleanli¬
ness of the tools, the health of the very matter of thought itself” to
language that “goes rotten, i.e., becomes slushy and inexact, or exces¬
sive and bloated” (LE21). These statements reiterate in medical terms
the basic logic of Imagism: Pound takes up the scalpel to rid language
of impurities, thereby separating proper from improper and main¬
taining the “natural” boundaries of the body.
The work of the scalpel is undertaken in the name of “realism.”
Toward this end, Pound urges, “let an unknown man write clear and
clean realism; let a poet use the speech of his predecessors, either being
as antiseptic as the instruments of a surgeon” (PD 91). Yet surgery,
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Anathemata
as a metaphor for realism, is more than just pruning; it may, as Pound

indicated, require “incisions” and “amputations,” activities that
expose the inner organs and alter the body’s shape. Michael Fried has
argued that surgery, when it functions as an emblem of realism in
painting, is “an art of necessary violence.”17 Fried pursues his thesis
by examining The Gross Clinic, a painting by Thomas Eakins that
depicts the dissection of a cadaver (a subject we have already noted in
Pound’s reference to the “surgical” intelligence of Ovid and
Browning). Fried contends that Eakins’ “realism” produces an image
of the cadaver that is “disfigured” by foreshortening and other tech¬
niques. This aesthetic “disfiguration” corresponds to the mutilation
that is actually being performed on the cadaver in the painting. Ulti¬
mately, Fried wishes to identify Eakins’ disfiguration of the body as
one of those moments in the history of realism “when tactics of shock,
violence, perceptual distortion, and physical outrage were mobilized
against prevailing conventions of the representation of the human
body specifically in order to produce a new and stupefyingly powerful
experience of the ‘real’ ” (64).
Pound’s conception of the Image represents a similar moment in
the history of “absorptive realism.” Like Eakins, Pound employs the
figure of surgery to express the violent and invasive character of
“realism.” Surgery, in Pound’s hands, safeguards the body by ridding
it of contamination, but it also mutilates the flesh. Pound invades the
body of language by making “sterile” incisions, in order to probe
beneath the surface. By gaining access to the mysterious inner organs,
he breaks down the distinction between inside and outside. Not only
do the inner organs become visible or externalized, they become vul¬
nerable to contamination. As an Imagist poet, Pound also performs
“amputations”: piercing, cutting, shrinking, molding, or scraping the
body as realism requires. A new realism demands an alteration or “dis¬
figuration” of the body. For Pound, surgery means remalting the
body, reshaping it, inside and out, fashioning it to resemble his own
vision of what poetry should be.
Fried claims that the main concern of his essays on realism is “the
materiality of writing” (xi). The violence associated with writing,
17. Michael Fried, Realism, Writing, Disfiguration (Chicago: University of Chicago

Press, 1987), p. 62.
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R A D I O CORPSE
when it is conceived as a form of surgery, becomes the object of a

powerful ambivalence. Hence, in the representations that Fried exam¬
ines, “the materiality of writing turns out to be simultaneously elicited
and repressed” (xiv). The result is that “the definitive realist painting
would be one that the viewer could not bear to look at ... At this
extreme the enterprise of realism required an effacing of seeing in the
act of looking” (65). Pound’s conception of the Image displays, I have
argued, a similar resistance to visuality. On one hand, Imagism calls
for a surgical procedure that strips the body (language) of “glamor,”
filth, and contamination. This ensures not only the accuracy of the
Image but its visibility or legibility. Realism thus depends on estab¬
lishing a stable border between what belongs to the body and what is
foreign to it. Surgery, on the other hand, is necessarily a violent act;
it mutilates and alters the body. The fragile boundary between inside
and outside is destroyed. Once this occurs, the body can be “sculpted”
or revised to assume abstract or inhuman form. Thus, the very act that
secures the visibility and precision of the Image makes it unutterably
foreign and resistant to visuality. The realistic Image, in its most
extreme form, is always apotropaic, or simply unrecognizable. Surgery,
for Pound, is always plastic surgery, just as the “monstrous plasticity
of the dead” escapes recognition when it assumes the form of the
Image.
Pound’s most extreme revisions of the poetic body occur in a post¬
script to his translation of Remy de Gourmont’s Physique de PAmour,
a translation published in 1922. (The first signs of Pound’s interest in
Gourmont appear considerably earlier, during the Imagist period.)
Pound begins with the thesis that “the brain itself, is, in origin and
development, only a sort of great clot of genital fluid held in suspense
or reserve” (NPL 199). This thought sets the stage for an imaginary
account of what takes place inside the body, and, more important, a
bizarre speculation on “new organs” and the future of the body. Elab¬
orating on the idea of a “spermatozoic” brain, Pound contends that
“creative thought,” which includes the production of Images, is “a
sudden out-spurt of the mind” (NPL 153). This “power of exteri¬
orizing a form” (NPL 149) extends, in a mysterious fashion, to phys¬
iological changes in the body. “I believe,” writes Pound, “that the
species changes as suddenly as a man makes a song or a poem, or as
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Anathemata
suddenly as he starts making them, more suddenly than he can cut a

statue in stone, at most as slowly as a locust or long-tailed Sirmione
false mosquito emerges from its outgrown skin. It is not even proved
that man is at the end of his physical changes” (NPL 153). This leads
Pound to speculate on what new organs may be in store: “Let us
suppose man capable of exteriorizing a new organ, horn, halo, Eye of
Horns. Given a brain of power, comes the question, what organ, and
to what purpose? . . . The ‘next step,’ as in the case of the male organ
of the nautilus, is to grow a tool and detach it” (NPL 154). Analogous
to the exteriorization of Images from the body, the eruption of organs
that are at once archaic and unprecedented progresses from the eye of
Horns to what may be construed (in the nautilus image) as the missing
phallus of Osiris (the only member of the god that his sister Isis does
not recover). The eye is displaced by a “tool,” a fetish that apparendy
continues to elude the poet who had once outlined his poetic program
in a series of articles titled “I Gather the Limbs of Osiris.”
Pound’s speculations about the future of the body echo in remark¬
able ways his thinking about imagery. The hypothesis of externalized
organs and faculties, for example, corresponds to his conception of
the “phantastikon” (the image-making faculty), which exists outside
the body—like a “soap-bubble” (SR 92). As extensions of the human
sensorium, the new organs resemble the technical media. Not only is
the body transformed into a medium, but its new organs are analo¬
gous, Pound claims, to Images. At this point, Pound’s speculations on
the body converge with his theorization of the Image, revealing not
only the corporeal dimension of the Image but the mediumistic char¬
acter of the body.
Pound’s thinking about the body also reveals the degree to which
Image making imperils the corporeal distinction between interior and
exterior. Each time the body produces an Image, it turns itself inside
out, externalizing a fragment of its mysterious inner life. The Image
emerges from the body like a horn or a halo (or the lost phallus of a
god)—a feature of the body that is inhuman or even monstrous. One
thinks of Bataille’s figure of the “pineal eye,” a monstrous protuber¬
ance emerging from the top of the head.18 The pineal eye is a vestigial
18. Bataille, “The Pineal Eye,” Visions of Excess, pp. 79-80.
171 /////
Radio corpse
organ that Descartes associates with the soul, and Bataille with the
potency of the abject. As an “organ” of heterogeneity and visuality,
the pineal eye corresponds to the Images and new organs bursting
from a body that has been the subject of a sudden evolutionary change,
or of medical experimentation. Indeed, by practicing the arts of diag¬
nosis and “surgery,” the Imagist poet subjects the body of language
to unforeseen alterations.
Is there a link then in modernist poetics between Image making,
medical experimentation, and teratogenesis? The idea that the “sur¬
gical” techniques of Imagism could release from the (female) body an
exquisite monster does, in fact, find expression in an unpublished
poem that Pound sent T. S. Eliot after reworking “The Waste Land.”
The poem is entitled “Sage Homme” (a pun on the French word for
midwife, sage-femme):
These are the poems of Eliot

By the Uranian Muse begot;
A Man their Mother was,
A Muse their Sire.
How did the printed Infancies result
From Nuptials thus doubly difficult?
If you must need enquire
Know diligent Reader
That on each Occasion
Ezra performed the Caesarian Operation.
Cauls and grave clothes he brings,
Fortune’s outrageous stings,
About which odour clings,
Of putrefaction,
Bleichstein’s dank rotting clothes
Affect the dainty nose,
He speaks of common woes
Deploring action.
He writes of A.B.C.s
And flaxseed poultices,
Observing fate’s hard decrees
Sans satisfaction;
Breeding of animals,
Humans and cannibals,
But above all else of smells
///// 172
Anathemata
Without attraction.
Vates cum fistula. (L 170)
The poem treats the commonplace idea of giving birth to a work

of art from the standpoint of what Pound calls his “obstetric effort”
(L 171). The offspring (“The Waste Land”) is the result of a collab¬
oration between a Muse, its mother, and a midwife, who delivers Eliot
(its mother) of the anomalous creature that was incubated during
Eliot’s mental breakdown in London. (I believe I am fair in describing
“The Waste Land,” with its heteroclite structure and assortment of
voices, as an anomaly—especially when we consider the role of mad¬
ness in its conception.) The most problematic aspect of the poem is
its portrait of the sage-homme, or male midwife, whose first name is
“Ezra” and last name is “Bleichstein.” It is extremely odd that Pound,
who performs the “Caesarian Operation” that delivers the poem,
would cast himself in the role of Bleichstein (who revives the character
“Bleistein” from Eliot’s anti-Semitic poem “Burbank with Baedeker:
Bleistein with a Cigar”). Given Pound’s identification with the figure
of a decrepit Jewish physician (who is also the object of his anti-Semitic
fears), we may safely assume that Bleichstein is one of the “demonic
doubles” that haunt Pound’s anti-Semitic rhetoric.19
The figure of Bleichstein (whose real-life counterparts may be the
endocrinologists Berman and Overmeyer) seems to have risen from
the grave: he wears “dank rotting clothes” and gives off an odor of
“putrefaction.” He brings with him, as though he were also an under¬
taker, the accoutrements of death: “grave clothes” and “cauls.” The
word “caul,” which can mean either a “skull-cup” or the “membrane
surrounding a fetus,” unites the doctor’s two functions as obstetrician
and emissary of death. Like Pound, Bleichstein is therefore both a
medium for the dead and a midwife for the unborn.20 Clearly, then,
Pound views the figure of the Jewish doctor as an emissary from the
realm of the dead. Moreover, Bleichstein’s interest in the “breeding
19. Robert Casillo’s account of “mimetic violence” in Pound’s work appears in The
Genealogy of Demons: Anti-Semitism, Fascism, and the Myths of Ezra Pound (Evanston,
Ill: Northwestern University Press, 1988), pp. 250-252, 298-310.
20. The uncanny resemblance between Pound and Bleichstein is augmented by the
fact that Bleichstein “writes of A.B.C.s.” A decade or so after writing this poem, Pound
began to publish a series of articles and books with titles such as “ABC of Economics”
and ABC of Reading.
173 /////
Radio corpse
of animals, humans and cannibals” does indeed suggest a link between

poetry, surgery, and teratogenesis. The experimental procedures of the
sage-homme conform, in this respect, to the logic of the abject, which,
according to Kristeva, “kills in the name of life ... It lives at the behest
of death—an operator in genetic experimentations” (Powers of Horror
15). The Jewish physician, with whom Pound identifies, is thus an
extremely powerful figure that combines the “power of putrefaction”
with the arts of diagnosis and surgery. The corporeal rhetoric of the
Image and the rhetoric of Pound’s anti-Semitism converge in this
uncanny figure.
//// /174
mpossible Effigies
One can gauge the degree of the historical sensibility an age possesses
by the manner in which it translates texts and by the manner in which
it seeks to incorporate past epochs and books into its own being.
—Friedrich Nietzsche, “On the Problem of Translation”
It were as wise to cast a violet in a crucible that you might discover the
formal principle of its color and odor, as seek to transfuse from one
language into another the creations of a poet. The plant must spring
again from its seed, or it will bear no flower.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Defence of Poetry”
To declare its impossibility is not an argument against the possible

splendor of the translator’s task. On the contrary, this characterization
admits it to the highest rank and lets us infer that it is meaningful.
—Jose Ortega y Gasset, “The Misery and the Splendor of Translation”
Lingering over the sublime body of the Image, we are reminded of

the Doppelcharakter of the fetish: its entrancing, or merely inscrutable,
alternation between materiality and abstraction, body and spirit. In its
historical and technical aspects, the modernist Image is essentially a
medium, a form of exchange or translation in the service of memory,
negotiating the perilous relations between the living and the dead.
Indeed, the cryptological dimension of the Image receives its most
explicit formulation in Pound’s theory of translation; for Pound views
his translations not only as Images, but as images of the dead. In this
regard, Pound’s translation discourse is his most formidable contri-
Radio corpse
bution to the art of memory. Pound’s many translations, as well as his

thoughts on translation, are routinely cited by scholars from diverse
fields as being among the most original and influential in Western
literary history.1 Taking this broader spectrum of opinion into
account, we could argue that Pound occupies a more secure position
in literary history as a translator than as a poet, and—what is more
significant—that translation emerges in early modernist poetics as a
critical and creative mode equal to, and at times surpassing, poetry.
Yet gauging the significance of evaluations of this kind is fraught with
difficulties, for the internal contradictions of translation discourse are
so extreme as to border on a kind of madness. Since the late eighteenth
century, writing about translation repeatedly and inexplicably enters
into reflection, and departs from it, with the assumption that trans¬
lation—especially of poetry—is impossible. Given the absurdity (and
potency) of a discourse that starts from the premise of its own non¬
existence (what Paul Mann calls a “theory-death”), I hesitate even to
ask what bearing impossibility may have on Pound’s achievements as
a translator, or on the relation of translation to Imagism. Yet it may
be wise, before I consider the place of the Image in Pound’s discourse
of translation, to say a few words about impossibility, about what John
Dryden calls “the disease of translation.” (Can this be the same poet-
critic who neatly divides translation into the archetypal categories of
metaphrase, paraphrase, and imitation?)2 For the impossibility of
translation always evokes a possible, if inconceivable, exchange.
1. George Steiner, for example, writes, “List Saint Jerome, Luther, Dryden, Holder-
lin, Novalis, Schleiermacher, Nietzsche, Ezra Pound, Valery, MacKenna, Franz Rosen-
zweig, Walter Benjamin, Quine—and you have very nearly the sum total of those who
have said anything fundamental or new about translation.” Steiner, After Babel: Aspects
of Language and Translation (London: Oxford University Press, 1975), pp. 269. In
addition, any monograph, or major anthology of essays, on the subject of translation is
likely to contain references to Pound, by scholars who cite his views on translation in
relation to topics ranging from anthropology to German Romanticism. See the sources
cited in this chapter; also William Arrowsmith and Roger Shattuck, eds., The Craft and
Context of Translation (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1961).
2. Indeed, it is; Dryden’s crack about the “disease of translation” appears in his preface
to Sylvae: Or, the Second Part of Poetical Miscellanies (1685), five years after his cate¬
gorical description in the “Preface to the Translation of Ovid’s Epistles” (1680). One
assumes that the evolution from schematics to pathology is due to the burden of his
greater experience as a translator. See Essays of John Dryden, ed. W. P. Ker (New York:
Russell and Russell, 1961), vol. 1, pp. 237, 251.
///// 176
Impossible Effigies
This possible exchange is to be recovered, however, not from the

ineluctable activity of translation in a pragmatic sense (translation
occurs and will continue to do so), but from the veritable doctrine of
untranslatability that translation discourse has produced from the late
eighteenth century to the present. Indeed, given the eerie uniformity
of historical opinion regarding the impossibility of translation, it is
hard not to detect a trace of fanaticism, an overture to what exceeds
language and reasoning—a demonology, as though in defending the
idea of untranslatability one sought to maintain an impossible position.
In a recent historical anthology of writings on translation, the para¬
digm first appears historically in Schopenhauer’s comment that
“poems cannot be translated; they can only be transposed.”3 One can
then trace a direct line from Romantic Germany to Ortega y Gasset’s
superb essay on “the misery and the splendor of translation,” which
presents itself as a meditation on “the demon of the impossible.”4
Roman Jakobson, though ostensibly less “Romantic,” is likewise
given to absolutes on the subject of translation: “The pun, or to use
a more erudite, and perhaps more precise term—paronomasia, reigns
over poetic art, and whether its rule is absolute or limited, poetry by
definition is untranslatable. Only creative transposition is possible.”5
Octavio Paz summarizes these views admirably, “The greatest pessi¬
mism about the feasibility of translation has been concentrated in
poetry . . . The consensus is almost unanimous that the translation of
connotative meanings is impossible . . . Poetry is a fabric of connota-
tive meanings and, consequently, untranslatable.”6 In this particular
anthology, the “unanimity” of opinion culminates with Yves Bon-
nefoy’s peremptory dismissal of the question: “The answer to the
question, ‘Can one translate a poem?’ is of course no.”7
In a more philosophical context, we could argue that impossibility
3. Arthur Schopenhauer, “On Language and Words,” trans. Peter Mollenhauer, in

Rainer Schulte and John Biguenet, eds., Theories of Translation (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1992), p. 33.
4. Jose Ortega y Gasset, “The Misery and the Splendor of Translation,” trans. Eliz¬
abeth Gamble Miller, ibid., p. 99.
5. Roman Jakobson, “On Linguistic Aspects of Translation,” ibid., p. 151.
6. Octavio Paz, “Translation: Literature and Letters,” trans. Irene del Corral, ibid.,
p. 155.
7. Yves Bonnefoy, “Translating Poetry,” ibid., p. 191.
177 /////
A D I O CORPSE
also exercises a sovereign influence over recent poststructuralist revi¬

sions of translation theory. Derrida, for example, refers to “the nec¬
essary and impossible task of translation, its necessity împossibility”;
thus, “for a poetic text or a sacred text, communication is not the
essential.”8 Emphasizing at once the material and telegraphic nature
of the contact between original and translation, Derrida formulates
his position in response to an implicit question concerning the trans-
latability of a proper name, a signature, or, I would add, an image:
“Since no meaning bears detaching, transferring, transporting, or
translating into another tongue (as meaning), it commands right away
the translation that it seems to refuse. It is transferable and untrans¬
latable. There is only the letter” (“Babel” 204). Friedrich Kittler,
echoing Schopenhauer’s terms, makes a similar claim: “The transpo¬
sition of media is thus an exact correlate of untranslatability.”9 For
Kittler, modernism, with its emphasis on materials and particularity,
emerges from the deterioration of translatability implied in the posi¬
tivity of the new technical media. The triumph of difference and
untranslatability thus spells the decline of hermeneutics and a certain
conception of “poetry” that is modeled after translation.
Though untranslatability played a role in thinking about translation
prior to the nineteenth century, it was only with the emergence of
hermeneutics and the poetics of Romanticism (primarily in Germany)
that the impossibility of translation became a generative concept, a
positive value upon which a modern theory of translation (and poetics)
could be constructed. Antoine Berman associates the evolving relation
of translation and culture with what he calls “the experience of the
foreign,” a concept in which the strangeness of the original text—if
it is not entirely inaccessible—must be recovered and preserved at any
cost (including the destruction of the native tongue).10 Berman con¬
cludes, “The untranslatable, in reality, is not anything in particular,
but the totality of the foreign language in its strangeness and its dif-
8. Jacques Derrida, “Des Tours de Babel,” trans. Joseph F. Graham, in Joseph F.

Graham, ed., Difference in Translation (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985),
pp. 171, 180.
9. Friedrich Kittler, Discourse Networks 1800/1900, trans. Michael Metteer, with Chris
Cullens (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990), p. 274.
10. Antoine Berman, The Experience of the Foreign: Translation and Culture in
Romantic Germany, trans. S. Heyvaert (Albany: SUNY Press, 1992), p. 60.
///// 178
Impossible Effigies
ference” (Experience of the Foreign 60). Assuming the properties of

the ineffable and the unspeakable, untranslatability in the Romantic
period becomes the index of a certain conception of poetry, and poetry
becomes the measure, the limit, of translation.
The impossibility of translation suggests that translation subscribes
to the logic of the crypt: something is hidden, ineffable, remote,
unspeakable. Or is it that in light of the impossibility of translation,
the original becomes a crypt, a fact that would explain the untrans¬
latability of poetry? In any case, as Ortega y Gasset observes, the
“misery and the splendor of translation” refer, however obliquely, to
a reserve of secrecy and silence: “The stupendous reality, which is
language, will not be understood at its root if one doesn’t begin by
noticing that speech is composed above all of silences . . . From this
we deduce the enormous difficulty of translation: in it one tries to say
in a language precisely what that language tends to silence. But, at the
same time, one glimpses a possible marvelous aspect of the enterprise
of translating: the revelation of the mutual secrets that peoples and
epochs keep to themselves” (“Misery and Splendor” 110). In its
untranslatability, then, the original arrives from a distant realm of
secrecy and silence. Indeed, distance enchants and speaks through the
possible exchange that transpires in the impossibility of translation. All
translation, in this respect, is telegraphic; whatever reaches us does so
from afar. Translation, as Derrida observes, discloses what “distance
means in writing and the voice.”11 Yet the impossibility of translation
suggests more than distance; it implies forms of exchange that are
inexplicable, governed by unreason, illogic, or chance. Thus, Derrida
speaks of writing “in the trance of the trans—” (“Living On” 172),
and asks, “On what condition is this transferential magneticization
possible between what are called textual bodies?” (178) The impos¬
sibility of translation must therefore be understood as a refuge not
only for telegraphic but telepathic relations (if there is any distinction
between the two). We cannot dismiss the possibility (since the possible
is determined, in this case, by the impossible) that one text might
“read” or even “love” another, or that a text might “converse” with
the dead. Indeed, the law of the impossibility of translation dictates
11. Jacques Derrida, “Living on / Border Lines,” trans. James Hulbert, in H. Bloom
et al., Deconstruction and Criticism (New York: Continuum, 1979), p. 77.
179 /////
A D I O CORPSE
that translation can occur only outside the bounds of reason and nat¬
ural language. According to a logic that tolerates the possibility of
impossible exchange—a “mad hypothesis”—anything is possible.
Yves Bonnefoy intimates as much when he asks, “Under what circum¬
stances is this type of translation, the translation of poetry, not com¬
pletely mad?” (“Translating Poetry” 191).12
Untranslatability, then, becomes the distinguishing feature of poetic
texts, whether sacred, archaic, or Romantic; hence the abiding notion
that poetry is what is lost in translation. At the same time, however,
poetry (as Novalis observes) becomes equivalent to translation, or at
least to the form of exchange that survives the impossibility of trans¬
lation: “To translate is to write poetry as much as creating one’s own
works” (Novalis, cited in Berman, Experience of the Eoreipjn 105). All
meanings, all things, all discourses, are susceptible, convertible, to the
“pure speech” of poetry, so that it is not poetry but words and things
that are lost in translation. Poetry, as translation, shares the “phan-
tasmagorical modality of hermeneutics,” which “excludes all partic¬
ularities in favor of a general equivalent” (Kittler, Discourse Networks
115, 265). Exploiting the phantasmic effects of the impossibility of
translation, poetry exercises a principle of unrestricted exchange, in
which all things are translated into an afterlife (into meaning) and,
inadvertently, into history. Poetry, then, becomes the pivotal term in
a dialectic of untranslatability and absolute transferability, a dialectic
that is articulated most fully by the historical discourse on hiero¬
glyphics (which coincides with the Romantic interest in translation).
As Kittler’s use of the term “general equivalent” suggests, a pow¬
erful valence exists between translation discourse and the Marxian
vocabulary of political economy. Any reflection on the nature of trans¬
lation immediately gains historical and ethical dimensions by invoicing
certain analogous principles of Marxian economics. Yet it would be a
mistake to assume that this affinity is merely figurative or that it reveals
a deficiency in translation discourse, thereby confirming its inherently
subordinate character. On the contrary, just as Marx’s analogy of the
commodity as a hieroglyph can be understood as echoing and elabo¬
rating the great translational event of Champollion’s decipherment of
12. On the relation between translation and psychosis, see Louis Wolfson, Le schizo
et les langues (Paris: Gallimard, 1970).
/////180
Impossible Effigies
hieroglyphic characters in 1819, so his theory of exchange value—and

its discursive object, the commodity fetish—resonate with the great
debate on translation that emerged from German Romanticism and
the philosophy of hermeneutics. Recall, for example, Goethe’s incli¬
nation to speak of his concept of We It literatur in terms of a Weltmarkt,
a world market for material goods (Berman, Experience of the Foreign
55-57); or Friedrich SchlegePs comment that translation constitutes
a “market to which the most distant merchants come with their wares”
(cited in Kittler, Discourse Networks 71). According to Marx, the
simple artifact, which is characterized by its use value, assumes the
properties of a fetish only when it is exchanged.13 Yet the exchange of
objects that are fundamentally dissimilar in their use, origin, and mate¬
rial character can occur only through the mediation of a “general
equivalent.” Thus, the central “enigma” of the commodity fetish con¬
cerns the creation of exchange value as a medium that permits dispa¬
rate objects to be substituted for one another, and to enter into
“phantasmagorical” relations with one another. Indeed, as Thomas
Keenan observes of Marx’s analysis of commodity fetishism, “we can
say that Marx poses the Transformation problem,’ or that Marxism is
a theory7 of change”—that is, a theory of translation.14
It is essential, before I proceed any further with Marx, to note that
the correspondence between fetishism and translation does not orig¬
inate in the specific features of the Marxian analysis of capital; rather,
Marx inherits this correspondence from the colonial origins of fetish
discourse. Fetishism may thus be understood as an effect of translation,
not merely in the context of Marx’s theory of exchange value, but
according to the specific historical circumstances from which the con¬
cept of the fetish emerges. In his work on the history of fetish dis¬
course, William Pietz argues that the fetish concept “originated in the
13. Marx explains, “It is only by being exchanged that the products of labor acquire
a socially uniform objectivity as values.” See Marx, Capital: A Critique of Political
Economy, vol. 1, introd. Ernest Mandel, trans. Ben Fowkes (Harmondsworth: Penguin,
1976), p. 166. In addition, he writes, “A commodity’s simple form of value is contained
\n its value-relation with another commodity of a different kind, i.e., in its exchange
relation with the latter” (152).
14. Thomas Keenan, “The Point Is to (Ex)Change It: Reading Capital Rhetorically,”
in William Pietz and Emily Apter, eds., Fetishism as Cultural Discourse (Ithaca: Cornell
181 /////
1 A D I O CORPSE
cross-cultural spaces of the coast of West Africa during the sixteenth

and seventeenth centuries,” and, more broadly speaking, that the
fetish, as a discursive object, represents “a cross-cultural relation
formed by the on-going encounter of the value codes of radically dif¬
ferent social orders.”15 Pietz is quite explicit about the relevance of
translation to this milieu: “The pidgin word Fetisso . . . may be viewed
either as a failed translation of various African terms or as something
itself, a novel word responsive to an unprecedented type of situation”
(“Problem of the Fetish” 6). Whether the term fetish emerges histor¬
ically as a “failed translation” or as an instance of creative translation,
it is symptomatic of “cross-cultural spaces” whose function is to
“translate and transvalue objects between radically different social sys¬
tems” (6). The idea of the fetish can therefore be said to have arisen
from the essential condition of translation, from “the clash of incom¬
mensurable difference” (13).
One could argue quite plausibly that the Marxian theory of
exchange value resurrects (and is haunted by) the essential features of
colonial fetish discourse: the problem of “incommensurable differ¬
ence,” the effects of “mistranslation,” and the “transvaluation” of
disparate objects. Indeed, Thomas Keenan argues that Marx’s analysis
of the commodity fetish is dominated by questions that motivate the
history of translation discourse: “Flow is exchange possible? What
common terms could there be between different objects?” (“The
Point” 170). As to the possibility of exchange in the realm of objects,
Marx responds, according to Keenan, in a manner that echoes the
doctrine of untranslatability: “It remains impossible and it happens all
the time” (171). Thus, Marx’s theory of fetishism, like the history of
translation theory, remains transfixed by “the question of the possible
impossibility of exchange” (169).
For Marx, as for those who espouse a doctrine of untranslatability,
the act of exchange and the creation of exchange value is nothing short
of miraculous, since no common term can be found for things that
are intrinsically different: “This making alike can only be something
foreign to the true nature of things” (Capital 151). The foreignness
of exchange (which makes disparate things alike) is a countersign of
15. William Pietz, “The Problem of the Fetish, Part 1,” Res 9 (Spring 1985): 5, 11.
/////182
Impossible Effigies
its impossibility; indeed, the fetish is a “mystical” and “enigmatic”

object precisely because it is the residue of an impossible exchange.
Though there is no logical or material basis for it, the exchange of
objects, like the translation of texts, does in fact take place. This can
occur, however, only if a medium between things is created through
a process of “total abstraction.” Thus, Keenan explains, “In the face
of difference, abstraction is required, even if it is not necessarily pos¬
sible” (“The Point” 165). The strain of this incongruity is indicated
by the rhetorical extravagance that Marx displays in his attempt to
characterize the possibility and the effects of impossible exchange. For
Marx, the abstraction of translation that occurs in the moment of
exchange is nothing less than a loss of life. The Marxian view of
exchange is articulated fully by Adorno and Horkheimer: “Abstrac¬
tion, the tool of the Enlightenment, treats objects as did fate, the
notion of which it rejects: it liquidates them.”16 Abstracted from
the intrinsic properties of its use value in the moment of exchange,
the object undergoes a land of death, a decomposition, that results
in the creation of the “phantom objectivity” of exchange. Thus, in
the eyes of Marx, translation is equivalent to decomposition, to the
dematerialization of the object (a death that mysteriously reanimates
the object with a peculiar vitality). In this regard, Marx struggles in
his analysis of fetishism to defend the poetry of the object from the
mortification of exchange. Keenan, whose essay is superbly attentive
to the necrophilic dimension of Marx’s theory of fetishism, remarks
of exchange value, “This phantom makes possible the relation
between (or within) things or uses, grants the common axis of simi¬
larity hitherto unavailable, precisely because it is a ghost and no longer
a thing or labor” (“The Point” 168). Thus, he concludes, “Without
ghosts, no exchange” (168).
The rhetorical elaboration of death in the Marxian analysis of the
fetish is an immediate effect of the theoretical impossibility of
exchange, but it is also a residue of the tension between impossibility
and memory. For exchange value, according to Marx, depends on the
“disappearance,” or forgetting, of the material object—the basis of
its existence as a form of embodied labor {Capital 128). Further-
16. Theodor W. Adorno and Max Horkheimer, Dialectic of Enlightenment, trans.

John Cumming (New York: Continuum, 1970), p. 13.
183 /////
Radio corpse
more, according to W. J. T. Mitchell, modern fetishism envelops the

disembodied (and forgotten) artifact in the oblivion of rationalized
commerce:
The magic of the fetish depends on the projection of consciousness

into the object, and then a forgetting of that act of projection . . .
Commodity fetishism can be understood, then, as a kind of double
forgetting: first the capitalist forgets that it is he and his tribe who
have projected life and value into commodities in the ritual of
exchange ... But then, a second phase of amnesia sets in that is
quite unknown to primitive fetishism. The commodity veils itself in
familiarity and triviality, in the rationality of purely quantitative
relations.17
In what is ostensibly an entirely different context, Freud draws a sim¬

ilar conclusion regarding the origins of fetishism: “When the fetish is
instituted some process occurs which reminds one of the stopping of
memory in traumatic amnesia.”18 Hence, the most influential modern
theorizations of fetishism situate their elusive object in a dialectic of
forgetting and remembering that possesses all of the phantasmic prop¬
erties of the art of memory. The aim of Marxist cultural criticism is to
retrieve the material artifact from the crypt of exchange value, to
recover the lost object from death and oblivion. Given the correlation
in Marx between death, memory, and the possibility of impossible
exchange, it should come as no surprise that translation discourse
labors under a similar fascination with death. Indeed, the rhetoric of
death in Marx only confirms the degree to which the problem of trans¬
lation dominates his theory of fetishism. For the history of translation
discourse is extraordinarily morbid in its rhetorical coloring. As in the
case of Marx, this coloring must be viewed as an effect of the impos¬
sible. To cite Diyden, who has descended to us, erroneously, as a
paradigm of reasonableness and reticence: “A good poet is no more
like himself in a dull translation, than his carcass would be to a living
body.”19 Schopenhauer employs a similar figure to illustrate his in-
17. W. J. T. Mitchell, Iconology: Image, Text, Ideology (Chicago: University of Chicago

Press, 1986), p. 193.
18. Sigmund Freud, Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works, ed. James
Strachey (London: Hogarth Press, 1960), vol. 21, p. 155.
19. John Diyden, from his preface to Sylvae: Or the Second Part of Poetical Miscella-
/////184
Impossible Effigies
terdiction of poetic translation: “Every translation either remains

dead and its style appears forced, wooden, and unnatural, or it frees
itself of the constraints of adherence to language and therefore is sat¬
isfied with the notion of an a peu pres, which rings false. A library
of translations resembles a gallery with reproductions of paintings”
(“Language and Words” 33). (Schopenhauer’s correlation of dead
translations and images is not, as I will explain in a moment, without
significance.) Death also looms over Friedrich Schleiermacher’s reflec¬
tions on translation: “Paraphrase seeks to overcome the irrationality
of languages, but only in a mechanical way . . . Thus paraphrase labors
its way through an accumulation of loosely defined details . . . The
living speech has been irretrievably killed.”20 In the twentieth century,
we find Paul Valery troubled by the mortal danger of translation:
“Where poetry is concerned, fidelity to meaning alone is a kind of
betrayal. How many poetic works, reduced to prose, that is, to their
simple meaning, become literally nonexistent? They are anatomical
expressions, dead birds! Sometimes, indeed, untrammeled absurdity
swarms over these deplorable corpses . . . Verse is put into prose as
though into its coffin.”21 Finally, Vladimir Nabokov acknowledges the
risk of mortality in translation, but claims that it is inherent in the
original text: “I take literalism to mean ‘absolute accuracy.’ If such
accuracy sometimes results in the strange allegoric scene suggested by
the phrase The letter has lulled the spirit,’ only one reason can be
imagined: there must have been something wrong either with the
original letter or with the original spirit, and this is not really a tran¬
slator’s concern.”22
All of these accounts of death in translation evoke, as Antoine
Berman explains, a danger that is associated with translation conceived
in terms of mortality:
nies, p. 253. He also cites approvingly a comment by John Denham: “Poetry is of so

subtle a spirit, that, in pouring out of one language into another, it will evaporate; and
if a new spirit be not added in the transfusion, there will remain nothing but a caput
mortuum” Dryden remarks, “I confess this argument holds good against a literal trans¬
lation.” From his “Preface to the Translation of Ovid’s Epistles,“ p. 241.
20. Friedrich Schleiermacher, “On the Different Methods ofTranslating,” trans. WaT
traud Bartscht, in Schulte and Biguenet, eds., Theories of Translation, p. 40.
21. Paul Valery, “Variations on the Eclogues,” trans. Denise Folliot, ibid., p. 116.
22. Vladimir Nabokov, “Problems of Translation: Onegin in English,” ibid., p. 141.
185 /////
Radio corpse
Translation is situated precisely in that obscure and dangerous

region where the disproportionate strangeness of the foreign work
and its language runs the risk of striking down with all its force on
the translator’s text and his language, thus ruining his undertaking
and leaving the reader only with an inauthentic Fremdheit [strange¬
ness]. But if the translator refuses this danger, there is the risk of
falling immediately into another one: the danger of killing the
dimension of the foreign. (Experience of the Foreign 155)
Death, it would seem, is all but inescapable in translation; in its wake,

we are apt to be set upon by a ghost, or to discover a corpse (of the
original, of the translator’s text and her language, of meaning, and so
on). Nor should we assume that the historical obsession with death in
translation discourse merely illustrates certain pragmatic constraints;
rather, the mortality of translation, like that of the artifact in the
Marxian theory of exchange, stems directly from the theoretical
impossibility of translation. The whole spectacle of the living dead, of
cadavers and ghosts and “necromancy,” results directly from the
injunction against translation, from the transgression of this law, and
from the extravagant economy of the impossible.23 All translation,
according to Walter Benjamin, bears within it the force of transgres¬
sion: “Holderlin’s translations in particular are subject to the enor¬
mous danger inherent in all translations: the gates of a language thus
expanded and modified may slam shut and enclose the translator with
silence. Holderlin’s translations from Sophocles were his last work: in
them meaning plunges from abyss to abyss until it threatens to become
lost in the bottomless depths oflanguage.”24 Benjamin suggests that
the nihilism of translation, entertaining the impossible, delivers the
translator into an abyss of silence and meaninglessness. Yet one could
also argue that by enacting the impossible (translation), the transla-
23. In a fine essay titled “Gender and the Metaphorics of Translation,” Lori Cham¬
berlain suggests that the rhetoric of death in translation discourse can be attributed to
the danger of ideological transgression: “The reason translation is so overcoded, so
overregulated, is that it threatens to erase the difference between production and repro¬
duction which is essential to the establishment of power . . . That the difference is essen¬
tial is argued in terms of life and death.” In Lawrence Venuti, ed., Rethinking
Translation: Discourse, Subjectivity, Ideology (London: Routledge, 1992), pp. 66-67.
24. Walter Benjamin, “The Task of the Translator” (1923), in Illuminations, ed.
Hannah Arendt, trans. Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken, 1969), pp. 81-82.
///// 186
Impossible Ejfyies
tor enters the realms of magic, death, and madness. Thus, by evok¬
ing death, translation discourse (including the Marxian theory of
exchange) evokes the impossible, the unknowable, the ineffable.25 Yet
the impossible, as Georges Bataille observes, overwhelms utility, truth,
and meaning, and thus engenders through translation unspeakable
(and inconceivable) forms of exchange.26 Indeed, the impossibility
lodged within translation is itself death, madness—and originality.
T he epigraph to Pound’s first major translation project, Sonnets

and Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti (published in 1912), announces
an obligation, a compulsion, under which Pound will labor through¬
out his long career as a translator: “I have owned service to the death¬
less dead / Grudge not the gold I bear in livery.” Though it is
tempting, and perhaps entirely valid, to view Pound’s conception of
translation as symptomatic of the necrophilic orientation of his early
poetry (and therefore related to the Image), it may be more accurate,
though also more demanding, to view his entanglement with death as
an effect of the trance of translation, a trance that yields a mnemonic
conception of modern poetics. Such an interpretation would certainly
find encouragement in the formula I have just outlined, which derives
the death-discourse of translation from the extravagant economy of
the impossible.
It is no secret that Pound conceived of translation as the scene of
memory, evoked most prominently in his translation of a translation
of Book 11 of the Odyssey, a palimpsest that serves as the opening
sequence of the Cantos. Kenner, for example, views Pound’s transla-
25. The most important contemporary account of the doctrine of impossibility in

translation is Abraham and Torok’s theory of cryptonymy, which derives from an effort
to translate the multilingual puns of the Wolf Man. Although the logic of the crypt, as
it is constituted by the Wolf Man’s psychosis, admits, initially, only the possibility of
transposition (a “word translated into an image”), the success of Abraham and Torok’s
hermeneutic project—their ability to decipher the encrypted words—testifies eloquently
to the possibility of translation: that is, to the survival of meaning.
26. Georges Bataille, The Impossible, trans. Robert Hurley (San Francisco: City Lights,
1991), pp. 9-10, 157-164.
187 /////
Radio corpse
tions as “interchanges of voice and personality with the dead, the

handful of enduring dead, across centuries and millennia of snow¬
drifting events.”27 Moreover, he claims, “The Poundian homage con¬
sists in taking an earlier poet as guide to secret places of the
imagination” (“Introduction” 12). A more recent commentator char¬
acterizes Pound’s work as a translator in a similar manner: “Finding
something of value in a former age or different language, something
relegated as it were to the realms of Lethe, the translator ferries it into
modern English.”28 These descriptions, of course, are only echoes of
Pound, who repeatedly emphasizes the mediumistic and telegraphic
properties of translation. Explaining, for example, his aim in trans¬
lating Lope de Vega, he writes, “One seeks to resurrect the damaged
shade of the author” (SR 182). Variations and refinements of this
statement appear throughout Pound’s writings on translation.
The tenor of Pound’s comments (which I will explore more thor¬
oughly in a moment) suggests that it would be fruitful to think of
translation in terms of elegy and mnemonic ritual, an idea that
Rosanna Warren has recently explored. Regarding elegy as “a com¬
munion perpetually renewed in light of death,” she attempts “to
define a private ritual figure for translation, the perhaps Active origin
of elegy as the art associated with funerals, and thus with death.”29
Translation, she argues, enacts the rites of elegy:
Just as the work of mourning proceeds by rehearsal of the trauma

and ritual self-mutilation to detachment from the deceased and
acceptance of a symbolic substitute, so the work of translation
repeats the destruction of the original, dismembers and digests it as
in the Thracian sacrifice of Orpheus or the rites of Dionysus, and
finally offers a transubstantiated version as consolation for, and rec¬
ognition of, loss. (“Sappho” 206)
27. Hugh Kenner, “Introduction,” in The Translations of Ezra Pound (New York:
New Directions, 1963), p. 14.
28. David Anderson, Pound’s Cavalcanti (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1983), p. ix.
29. Rosanna Warren, “Sappho: Translation as Elegy,” in Rosanna Warren, ed., The
Art of Translation: Voices from the Field (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1989),
p. 202. Warren’s essay is also appealing in that it offers a “sketch of translation as an
elegiac genealogy,” a genealogy that leads from Sappho to Catullus to Baudelaire to
Swinburne. Pound, who translated Sappho under the influence of Swinburne, would
occupy the final position in this “elegiac genealogy.”
//// / 188
Impossible Effigies
Though we should retain the idea that translation is an elegiac mode,

and especially the possibility that as a ritual it may represent the origin
of elegy, we must also alter Warren’s paradigm to reflect more accu¬
rately the idiosyncrasies of Pound’s elegiac translations. We should
insist, for example, that his translations be understood as “aberrations
of mourning,” since they are always about a disavowal of loss.30 That
is, they enact what Derrida calls le deuil du deuil, the obstruction of
mourning that Freud first recognized in the “libidinal explosion of
the maniac.”31 In Pound’s elegiac translations, the manic inversion is
signaled above all by the virtual absence of melancholy in his obsession
with the dead (a distinctive feature, generally, of elegiac modernism).
His translations therefore witness the jubilant return of the original,
even as it remains sequestered, concealed from the one who gives voice
to it. Enacting a frenzied incorporation of the dead, the mania of
translation represents the primary economic effect of the doctrine of
untranslatability (the failure to remember, to recuperate what is lost).
Pound often declines to use the verb “to translate,” preferring
instead a caique from the Latin such as “to bring over” or “bring
across.” Such a concern for definition is symptomatic of the chronic
instability of translation, yet it also indicates Pound’s desire to convey
something of the “desolate undertaking” of translation, as well as its
transitivity. In a famous comment about “Homage to Sextus Proper¬
tius,” he writes, “There was never any question of translation . . . My
job was to bring a dead man to life” (L 149). Pound’s comment
almost certainly alludes to the character of the original poems (which
bear the title Elegies in Latin), but it also suggests that there is some¬
thing repellent or dreadful about the task of translation. Although
Pound took pleasure in the idea of circulating among the dead and
bringing them back to life, he is often reticent in his approach. Lor
30. For an ingenious discussion of this problem, see Laurence Rickels, Aberrations of
Mourning: Writings on German Crypts (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1989).
31. Derrida, “Living On,” pp. 115, 111. On the enigmatic relation between mel¬
ancholia and mania, Freud writes, “The most remarkable characteristic of melancholia,
and the one in most need of explanation, is its tendency to change round into mania—
a state which is the opposite of its symptoms.” Standard Edition of the Complete Psy¬
chological Works, ed. James Strachey (London: Hogarth Press, 1960), vol. 14, p. 253.
Further, he claims, “the content of mania is no different from that of melancholia . . .
Both disorders are wrestling with the same ‘complex’ ” (p. 254).
189 /////
A D I O CORPSE
the dead are often perceived as sublime figures of authority, who

inspire fear and hostility as well as veneration. Indeed, Pound often
experienced moments of reluctance and trepidation at the shrine of
the dead. Concerning his translations of Cavalcanti, he wrote, “That
there might be less interposed between the reader and Guido, it was
my first intention to print only his poems and an unrhymed gloze”
(T24). Here Pound discloses a fetishistic regard for the original that
would have precluded translation altogether. Yet the implications of
the term “gloze” suggest that even the most literal translation
threatens to obscure the original. For “gloze” can mean simply “com¬
mentary,” but also “flattery” or “specious talk.” Indeed, the paradox
of extreme literalism (that the most faithful translation is also unin¬
telligible) haunts not only Pound’s view of translation but the posi¬
tivism of the Image. Pound’s trepidation at exhuming the dead is
nowhere more evident than in the following quote from his essay on
the early translators of Homer: “But then all translation is a thankless,
or is at least most apt to be a thankless and desolate undertaking” (LE
268). The pun on the final word, whether intentional or not, is par¬
ticularly revealing. As we shall see, the sense of “desolation” that
Pound experiences cannot be isolated from the “atrocities” com¬
mitted in the act of translation.
Pound approaches the task of memory implied by translation with
extraordinary ambivalence; he wishes “to touch the untouchable”—
as Derrida describes the translator’s impulse (“Babel” 191). It is a
question of establishing contact with the dead through words, names,
or signatures that we can regard, following the precepts of the art of
memory, as disfigured images of what has been lost or forgotten. As
relics of the dead, the fetishized words enable the sensation of con¬
tact.32 Pound conceives his relation to literary tradition in a similar
fashion: “Besides knowing living artists I have come in touch with the
tradition of the dead . . . There is more in this sort of Apostolic Suc¬
cession than a ludicrous anecdote, for people whose minds have been
enriched by contact [emphasis added] with men of genius retain the
32. In Totem and Taboo, Freud describes such beliefs as the basis of what he calls the
“omnipotence of thoughts.” Totem and Taboo (1913), trans. James Strachey (New
York: Norton, 1950), p. 81.
/////190
Impossible Effigies
effects of it.”33 Elsewhere Pound writes of “the feeling of being in

contact with the force of a great original” (LE 271). The sensation of
contact, which is also the site of an exchange, can have various con¬
sequences. As this passage suggests, contact with a remote literature
from the past (which Pound calls the “tradition of the dead”) can,
paradoxically, result in a transfusion of vital energy from the original
to a moribund literature in the present. Pound asserts, for example,
that British literature in the nineteenth century was “kept alive” by
“exotic injections” of foreign literature through the translations of
Swinburne, Rossetti, and Fitzgerald (LE 33-34). Much more fre¬
quently, however, Pound alludes to a process whereby the original
author or text is brought to life, resurrected, through a depletion of
the translator’s vitality, or, more seriously, through a reification, a
deadening, of his native language.
There is a terrible risk, of course, in feeding the dead from the store
of one’s own vitality. As many writers on translation have warned, the
translator’s linguistic identity, and perhaps even certain features of his
native tongue, may be impaired or extinguished in the moment of
exchange, when his words become the property of the dead. Pound
not only acknowledges the “mortal” danger of translation, he
embraces it as the essential experience of the translator. In an early
poem called “Histrion,” he explains his theory of the persona, which
forms the basis of his early translational poetics:
Translucent, molten gold, that is the “I”

And into this some form projects itself:
Christus, John, or eke the Florentine;
And as the clear space is not if a form’s
Imposed thereon,
So cease we from all being for a time,
And these, the masters of the soul, live on. (CEP 71)
In this stanza, Pound describes the poet or translator as a “clear space”

that ceases to exist as it takes on the “form” of Dante or of some other
“master” in the moment of exchange. Translation, therefore, requires
sacrifice. In Pound’s translations, according to Daniel Hooley, this
33. Ezra Pound, “How I Began,” T.P.’s Weekly (June 6, 1913): 707.
191 /////
A D I O CORPSE
negative capability produces a “remarkable innovation.”34 “Homage

to Sextus Propertius,” in particular, shows the effects of a sacrificial
exchange between the translator and the imagined persona of the orig¬
inal author: “The tone of ennui and stupefying inertia is present not
only in the language and phrasing Pound uses, but even in the very
process of his translation—as if the jaded persona Pound infers from
the text were itself translating the poem” (“Pound’s Propertius”
1035). As Pound the translator merges with the personality of the
author, “the interpreted Propertius is, as it were, given the opportu¬
nity to re-compose his poem” (1041).
The voice of the translator, then, expires, while “the masters of the
soul live on.” The idea that the original survives through the afterlife
of translation is fundamental to some of the most influential thinking
about translation in the twentieth century. Waiter Benjamin, for
example, explains,
Just as the manifestations of life are intimately connected with the

phenomenon of life without being of importance to it, a transla¬
tion issues from the original—not so much from its life as from its
afterlife. For a translation comes later than the original, and since
the important works of world literature never find their chosen
translators at the time of their origin, their translation marks their
stage of continued life. The idea of life and afterlife in works of art
should be regarded with an entirely unmetaphorical objectivity . . .
The concept of life is given its due only if everything that has a his¬
tory of its own, and is not merely the setting for history, is credited
with life. In the final analysis, the range of life must be determined
by histoiy rather than by nature. (“Task of the Translator” 71)
If the concept of “life” is determined not by natural but by historical

longevity, then “death” merely initiates an afterlife that must be con¬
sidered part of the life of the object. Later, Benjamin will claim that
life is a natural fact whereas death is a social one, implying that the
death of an object or a text is equivalent to its afterlife, its true his¬
torical existence. Thus, for Benjamin as for Pound, translation falls
properly within death’s dominion, which is the domain of history and
its phantasmagorical modality.
34. Daniel Hooley, “Pound’s Propertius Again,” MLN100, no. 5 (December 1985):
1035.
///// 192
Impossible Effigies
Like Pound’s theory of personae (which is a theory of ghosts), one

of Derrida’s most substantial treatments of translation is built around
the concept of “living on.” (Derrida’s essay “Living On” responds
directly to Benjamin’s historiological conception of death.) Derrida
writes, “Translation is neither the life nor death of the text, only or
already its living on, its life after life, its life after death” (103). From
the phrase “living on” he extracts a sense of translation as afterlife, a
living death (life after life), but also as a text “living on” another text:
a parasite, a succubus, a ravenous ghost. Thus, the translation “lives
off and dies of the other, preserves the other and loses the other”
(167). Furthermore, Derrida observes, “the translation effect” incor¬
porates the “effects of transference, of superimposing, of textual
superimprinting” (91)—a conception that pertains directly to
Pound’s notion of translations as Images.
The figurative death of the translator described by so many theorists
(and by Pound) is, of course, a linguistic event. “Death” occurs via
the medium of language, and can therefore be conceived as a literary
historical phenomenon, as a land oflegacy. In this regard, Pound was
never coy about the influence of the great Victorian translators on his
own theory and practice of translation. Concerning his translations of
Cavalcanti, for example, he writes, “In the matter of these translations
. . . Rossetti is my father and my mother” (T 20). Much Victorian
translation, according to Susan Bassnet-McGuire, is based on “an
immense respect, verging on adulation, for the original. . . Moreover,
the original text is perceived as property, as an item of beauty to be
added to a collection . . . The translator appears as a skillful merchant
offering exotic wares to the discerning few.”35 The essential point, of
course, is that Victorian translation tends to produce a kind of com¬
modity steeped in nostalgia. One of the most obvious features of these
“exotic wares” is the use of archaisms. And archaism happens to be,
along with scholasticism, the feature of Victorian translation that most
influenced Pound’s work as a translator. Usually the “archaic” tone
of a translation by Swinburne or Morris, for example, derives not from
linguistic usage of an actual historical period but from the luster of
neologisms and historical oddities drawn from various periods. The
35. Susan Bassnet-McGuire, Translation Studies (London: Methuen, 1980), pp. 69,
71.
193 /////
A D I O CORPSE
result, which springs from a desire to preserve the historical otherness

of the original, is entirely ahistorical. In this sense, Pound conceived
of archaism simply as another material resource of the language.
Archaism is called for, according to Pound, when “there is not ready¬
made verbal pigment” to render the “fervour” of the original (LE
200). Archaism is therefore not a style or decorative reminder of the
past, but a verbal substance that magically embodies the original—
like the untranscended materiality of the fetish—because it is “pos¬
sessed” by the dead language of the original. The fetishistic appeal of
archaism may help explain Pound’s continued use of it, both in his
poetry and in his translations, long after archaism had fallen out of
literary fashion.
Archaism therefore has two functions: to recall magically a distant
time or place, and to catch the eye of the elite “consumer.” Both aims
are related to fetishism, although the effects of the former are less
obvious and more destructive. The use of archaism springs from a
fetishistic desire to serve the original, to preserve its historical differ¬
ence. Yet as George Steiner points out, archaism produces only “the
illusion of remembrance” (“After Babel” 347). Furthermore, Steiner
argues, “Archaism internalizes”; it incorporates the original in such a
manner that the original is effectively forgotten. What is ostensibly an
act of remembrance and fidelity therefore depends on a moment of
amnesia or betrayal. Just as the magical luster of the commodity
depends on the oblivion surrounding its material origins, so, too, the
effect of archaism in translation may make the original less rather than
more accessible to the reader (though this inaccessibility is also held
to be the sign of an authentic translation).
The larger question of the translator’s distance from an alien text,
and whether this distance may be conceived as productive, is especially
germane to Pound’s first volume of translations from the Chinese,
Cathay (published in 1915). For he completed these “translations”
without any knowledge of the Chinese language. What conception of
exchange between languages would allow us to call these poems
“translations”? In his essay on the Anaximander fragment, Heidegger
justifies an obscure rendering of a particular term with the following
explanation: “The translation of to Kpscov as ‘usage’ has not resulted
from a preoccupation with etymologies and dictionary meanings . . .
/////194
Impossible Effigies
The word "usage’ is dictated to thinking in the experience of Being’s

oblivion.”36 Although this passage can be fully elucidated only in the
context of Heidegger’s philosophical disclosure of “Being,” the asso¬
ciation of dictation and oblivion speaks generally to a fundamental
condition of translation, and, more specifically, to Pound’s oblivious
translations from the Chinese. According to Heidegger, genuine
translation is received only in “the experience of oblivion”; it is dic¬
tated out of forgetfulness—a forgetting of "‘dictionary meanings.” In
Pound’s translation, according to Massimo Bacigalupo, there is a sim¬
ilar dialectic of nearness and distance: “Pound’s translation is apoca¬
lyptic, as L. S. Dembo first suggested: it reveals an identity where one
saw only distances, and does so, I will add—by making that distance
absolute.”37 The notion of apocalyptic translation, which must be
viewed as yet another excessive formation stemming from the doctrine
of impossibility, necessarily evokes the phantasmagorical dimension of
translation. Derrida, for example, refers to “an apocalyptic superim¬
printing of texts: there is no paradigmatic text. Only relationships of
cryptic haunting from mark to mark” (“Living On” 137). Pound’s
oblivious relation to Chinese rules out the possibility of a “paradig¬
matic text” (which would depend on a matrix of “dictionary mean¬
ings”), so that apocalyptic translation, if it is to have any “contact”
with the original, must receive its instructions from the dead under
the veil and compulsion of mediation.
What would it mean for Pound’s translations to be “dictated” from
“oblivion”? We must emphasize, first of all, the essential passivity of
the translator, the one receiving “dictation.” But this passivity or sub¬
servience is also, I will argue, a license, a precondition for hermeneu¬
tical violence and abuse. The source of what is dictated, for Pound,
can be nothing other than “the tradition of the dead.” When Pound
writes of his attraction to Chinese literature, “I desire to hear the
music of a lost dynasty” (L 128), he intends to revive through his
translations not only the dead poets but the milieu of Chinese
antiquity. Pound’s translations are therefore a kind of “haunted
36. Martin Heidegger, “The Anaximander Fragment,” trans. David Knell and Frank
A. Capuzzi, Early Greek Thinking (New York: Harper and Row, 1975), p. 54.
37. Massimo Bacigalupo, The Formed Trace: The Later Poetry of Ezra Pound (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1980), p. 183.
195 /////
Radio corpse
writing,” in which a dead author dictates to the translator, out of the

oblivion of language or history—out of the impossibility of recovering
certain specific meanings. (This problem is most acute, and therefore
most revealing, in Pound’s translations of Cavalcanti.) Avital Ronell
has developed the concept of the “writing couple” to account for the
space in which a dead author subjects a living author or translator to
the “we position.”38 The essential feature of this telegraphic relation,
as I have indicated, is that it derives from “the experience of oblivion.”
Equating modern poetics with the art of memory, Pound’s translations
are efforts to “resurrect a forgotten mode” and “a forgotten speech”
(LE 11; SR 58). They are relics, fragments of a lost tradition, and the
words themselves are magical because they are thought to be part or
possession of the dead. The translator, by taking these words into his
“empty mouth,” acquires the qualities possessed by the dead and the
lost tradition they represent.
Although the necrophilic dimension of Pound’s translation theory
quite obviously sustains the traditional imagery of mortality in trans¬
lation, thereby engaging the problem of untranslatability, it is not clear
in Pound’s case what bearing the rhetorical cipher of death may have
on the traditional categories of translation, such as metaphrase, para¬
phrase, or imitation. Does this elaborate metaphoric of death help us
understand whether his translations correspond essentially to the
verbum de verbo (word for word) tradition or to the sensum de sensu
(sense for sense) tradition in translation? Is there a way of linking the
critical and speculative dimensions of translation discourse? We can
begin to formulate a response to these questions by observing that
Pound conceived of his translations not only as reanimating the dead
but as images—indeed, as images of the dead. Only by establishing a
correlation between Pound’s translation theory and his ideas about
poetry can we view the cryptic features of his translations as symptoms
of a larger crisis of representation in language and culture.
Though critics have noted an affinity between Imagism and the
development of Pound’s ideas about translation, neither the details
nor the larger significance of this correlation has been examined care-
38. Avital Ronell, Dictations: On Haunted Writings (Bloomington: Indiana Univer¬

sity Press, 1987). The phrase “we position” is from N. Christoph de Nagy, The Poetry
of Ezra Pound: The Pre-Imagist Stage (Bern: Francke, 1960), p. 145.
/////196
Impossible Effigies
fully. Hugh Kenner, for example, suggests that Pound’s principles as

a translator and the practice of Imagism display similar strategies in
meeting the “test” of representation: “Pound has always written as if
to meet a test of this kind, in a spirit of utter fidelity to his material,
whether a document or an intuition. He has told of working six
months to fix a complex instantaneous emotion in fourteen words”
(“Introduction” 10). In a recent article on Cathay, Ming Xie is some¬
what more specific when he suggests that there is a corresponding
development between Pound’s elegiac translations and his theory of
the Image:
Pound’s own gradual evolution from his experiments with “hokku-

like” sentences, the epigrams and epitaphs in the earlier poems, to
the longer Cathay poems in which the elegiac mood prevails, indi¬
cates his gradual generic modulation of the epigrammic into the
elegiac, paralleled by his developing theory of the Image. As a
result, Pound extended the repertoire of elegy by modulating it
into a mixture of styles and moods ... all to be unified in a cluster
of simple, natural, and distinct images.39
What remains implicit in Ming Xie’s thesis:—namely, the correlation

of images, translations, and ghosts—finds expression in Jackson
Mathews’ explanation of Pound’s “apocalyptic” rendering of Chinese
ideograms: “Pound has explored these written traces of the pictures
that went into their formation—an old Imagiste engaged in a kind of
etymological archaeology. What he has hunted for are the shadowy
images, the shades that may or may not haunt the penumbra of the
Chinese mind . . . He is doing what he has always believed to be the
business of poetry, taking care of language. Revivifying the faded
image, reviving the meaning lost in banality and dead usage.”40
Although Mathews’ comments are suggestive, they provide even less
specific evidence for the comparison of images and translation than do
the observations of Kenner and Xie.
To make a thorough comparison, we must return to the writings
of Pound which form the basis of these critics’ observations. In the
39. Ming Xie, “Elegy and Personae in Ezra Pound’s Cathay,“ ELH60, no. 1 (Spring
1993): 267-268.
40. Jackson Mathews, “Third Thoughts on Translating Poetry,” in Reuben Brower,
ed., On Translation (New York: Oxford University Press, 1959), p. 69.
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ft A D I O CORPSE
late 1920s Pound undertook an ambitious scholarly and creative pro¬

ject to publish in translation the complete works of Guido Cavalcanti.
This edition, which would have included photoreproductions of var¬
ious manuscripts (an unorthodox method at that time) was to have
been the culmination of Pound’s long interest in Cavalcanti’s poetry.
The project was never published in its entirety. Among the unpub¬
lished papers of the edition is an introductory note that includes the
following statement by Pound: “The translation of a poem having any
depth ends by being one of two things: Either it is the expression of
the translator, virtually a new poem, or it is as it were a photograph,
as exact as possible, of one side of the statue” (cited in Anderson,
Pound’s Cavalcanti 5). Although this passage is unusual for its refer¬
ence to photography, it is nevertheless representative of Pound’s incli¬
nation to speak of translation in terms of analogies drawn from the
graphic arts.
Indeed, this was not the first time Pound spoke of his translations
of Cavalcanti in relation to the graphic arts. The introduction to Son¬
nets and Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti, published in 1912, begins with
an epigraph from Dante that compares the relative values of Giotto
and Cimabue. Why Pound would begin an introduction to a set of
translations with a reference to painting becomes evident only when
he makes a more explicit appeal to the art of William Blake: “I would
liken Guido’s cadence to nothing less than line in Blake’s drawing . . .
The line is unbounded, it marks the passage of a force, it continues
beyond the frame” (T23). The fact that Guido’s “line” violates the
boundaries of the frame makes possible not only Pound’s interlingual
translations but the intermedial figures that he uses to describe trans¬
lation. When Pound revises the introduction for the “Complete
Works” project in 1927, he updates the analogy: Miro replaces Blake.
“And the mastery, a minor mastery, will lie in keeping this line
unbroken, as unbroken in sound as a line in one of Miro’s latest draw¬
ings on paper” (LE 197). Indeed, analogies drawn from the graphic
arts inform Pound’s most basic categories of translation. On the final
page of Umbra, a collection of poems and translations published in
1920, Pound offers a typology of his translations. His more literal
renderings fall under the heading of “etudes” or “portraits”—terms
drawn from the vocabulary of painting. In a review of Laurence
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Impossible Effigies
Binyon’s translation of Dante, Pound writes, “If Binyon has given us

an engraving, he has put the original color on the opposite page”
(LE 207). Elsewhere in the same review, Pound speculates on what
might be lost if a Giotto fresco were “translated into oils” by Joshua
Reynolds, and he cites the sculptor Brancusi to suggest the comparable
demands made by sculpture and translation (LE 194, 206).
I cite these analogies to demonstrate that the poetics of Imagism,
which Pound formulated during the period of his most intense
involvement with translation (1910-1918), plays an important role in
Pound’s ideas about translation. This should not be at all surprising,
since a theory of translation necessarily implies not only a theory of
literature but a theory of language. Indeed, Pound emphasizes the
“unity of intention” between his poetry and his translations (SP 41).
Discussing the origin of the concept of the Image, he writes, “I began
this search for the real in a book called Personae, casting off, as it were,
complete masks of the self in each poem. I continued in a long series
of translations, which were but more elaborate masks” (GB 85). In
this passage Pound indicates that the Image, which emerged as a pri¬
mary figure in his “search for the real,” originated with the use of
“masks” and that these two figures are contiguous. The aesthetic and
epistemological aims of the Image in poetry are therefore closely
related to Pound’s agenda as a translator.
Pound’s comparison of translation and the graphic arts is based in
part on certain powerful ideological assumptions regarding the nature
of graphic and verbal imagery. Traditionally, a realistic painting is
understood to share certain material properties with what it represents.
The relation of a pictorial sign to its referent is said to be “motivated”
or iconic. When language is employed as a verbal “image,” it takes
on, by implication, the qualities of painting or sculpture. Translation,
too, has traditionally been regarded as iconic: a word imitates a word;
the relation of the medium to its referent is somehow less arbitrary
than the relation between word and thing. As a result of these assump¬
tions about the iconicity of graphic imagery and translation, both are
conditioned by notions of debt, obligation, and fidelity to an original.
It is precisely these assumptions regarding the ostensibly natural
advantages of the image as a sign that predisposed the discourse of
positivism toward the image as the privileged sign of objectivity. Thus,
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as images, Pound’s translations labor under the same doctrine of

extreme literalism (and its phantasmagorical effects) as the literary pos¬
itivism of the poetic Image. What distinguishes translation discourse
historically—and what makes deconstructive theorists so enamored of
it—is its nihilism: its repeated admission that extreme literalism—the
very principles that condition translation itself—is impossible. In other
words, translation discourse proclaims with self-destructive candor
what is often forgotten or submerged in the history of aesthetic phi¬
losophy and literary criticism: a realistic image is no more possible than
an exact translation. The fact that the discourse of poetic objectivity
blinds itself to the possibility of the impossible does not, I have argued,
spare its images from the phantasmic effects of exchange. Indeed, the
sorting of images (and translations) into categories of literal and free,
proper and improper, should be read as a symptom, a residue of the
impossible—a degraded symbol of the phantasmatic powers of nega¬
tion. Such divisions, of course, invite impropriety, in that they refer
obliquely to the impossible. Thus, as Images, Pound’s translations
aspire to a land of “transparency” (a term in translation discourse that
is equivalent to “fidelity”), though they are more likely to obscure the
original, to become suddenly opaque, in their violent procedures and
their efforts to dislocate the “receiving medium” (the target language)
into the space of revelation. The opacity of Pound’s translations
exhibits the resistance to visuality (to transparency) that is character¬
istic of the modernist Image.
The modernist Image also reflects the unpredictable graft of trans¬
lation—one text “living on” another—in its duplicity, its Doppel-
chamkter: “The one-image poem is a form of super-position, that is
to say it is one idea set on top of another” (GB 89). The very word¬
ing of Pound’s definition recalls, once again, Derrida’s cryptological
reading of translation: “An effect of‘superimposing’ images inscribes
itself en abyme” (“Living On” 129). It is precisely the haunting of
one text by another, the obscene notion of live words “covering” a
dead text, that accounts for the apocalyptic character of Pound’s trans¬
lations. Furthermore, a translation is an Image by virtue of its com¬
posite nature. For an Image, according to Pound, is also a “radiant
node or cluster,” a dynamic structure composed of heterogeneous
elements (GB 92). Regarding his method of composing “Homage
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Impossible Effigies
to Sextus Propertius,” Pound writes, “I certainly omitted no means

of definition that I saw open to me, including shortenings, cross cuts,
and implications derived from other writings of Propertius” (L
231). These violent procedures would later serve as the basis for the
“ideogrammic” model of discourse; they also subscribe to the formal
logic of the fetish, which, according to William Pietz, always produces
a “composite fabrication” made up of “heterogenous elements”
(“Fetish: 1” 7).
The heterogeneity of Pound’s translations is also evident in the fact
that many of them are not freestanding, so to speak, but are embedded
in larger texts. From Pound’s first book of criticism, The Spirit of
Romance, published in 1910, to the drafts and fragments of the final
Cantos, the role and circumstance of translation in Pound’s work is
remarkably constant. Indeed, The Spirit of Romance, although it is a
work of prose criticism, offers a surprising precedent for the method
of the Cantos: translations interspersed with commentary. Pound calls
the translations in The Spirit of Romance “illustrations” (SR 154). Yet
the discursive structure that supports these illustrations groans under
the weight of evidentiary material. Indeed, the proportion of trans¬
lated material to commentary in The Spirit of Romance is over fifty
percent, suggesting that these “illustrations” have clearly exceeded
their ostensibly subordinate role in Pound’s argument. A similar dis¬
placement occurs in the Cantos where the poet’s own voice is fre¬
quently eclipsed entirely by translated material. Pound’s translations
begin as illustrations and end as hieroglyphs stripped of all explanatory
or discursive context. They are mounted and displayed like emblems
or precious amulets. Indeed, Pound makes it clear in The Spirit of
Romance that one of his primary impulses is to preserve certain texts
from extinction. These translations function therefore as memento
mori, cherished possessions of the dead that are displayed like charms
to guard against loss.
By viewing Pound’s translations as Images, as he intended we
should do, we see clearly that both these concepts in his work are
conditioned by notions of accuracy and fidelity, which figure promi¬
nently in the discourse of objectivity. Moreover, the fact that these
strictures produce in translation discourse a doctrine of impossibility
suggests that the modernist Image is functioning under a similar
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U A D I O CORPSE
regime of impossibility. The phantasmic or necrophilic dimension of

the Image would therefore signal, as it does in the case of Pound’s
translation theory, a kind of madness that follows from invoking,
and indeed practicing, the impossible. Exactitude in translation, how¬
ever, is not precisely the same thing as objectivity in the doctrine of
Image—or let us say, it is figured with considerably greater com¬
plexity. This is certainly the case with Pound. Indeed, we can learn a
great deal about the problem of extreme literalism in the poetic Image
(its positivity) by considering more carefully how Pound conceived of
literalism in translation.
Pound generally divides his translations into two groups that seem
to correspond, at first glance, to the conventional categories of para¬
phrase and imitation (that is, literal translations and free translations).
In a brief appendix to Umbra (1920), he offers a typology of his
translations to date. Under the heading “Major Personae” he lists
“Homage to Sextus Propertius” and the poems of Cathay, whereas
he describes his translations of Cavalcanti and Arnaut Daniel as
“Etudes.” Pound maintains this division throughout his writings and
uses a number of different terms to characterize the diff erences within
the ensemble of his own translations, or between his translations and
those of other writers. Most of these terms arise from the recurring
problem of how to characterize his translations of Cavalcanti. In a
letter of 1912, responding to a review of Sonnets and Ballate of Guido
Cavalcanti that appeared in the Times Literary Supplement, Pound
writes, “Surely Rossetti’s preface and mine show the reader that there
could be no possible clash or contention between the aesthetic method
and my scholastic one; he was avowedly intent on making beautiful
verses as I am on presenting an individual” (Anderson, Pound’s Cav¬
alcanti xviii). In another letter, Pound describes the contrast some¬
what differently: “I do not think, however, that homage has scholastic
value” (L 178). The use of the term “homage” is almost certainly
meant to refer to the specific qualities of “Homage to Sextus Proper¬
tius,” thereby confirming the typology sketched out in Umbra.
Varying his terms slightly in an essay from The Spirit of Romance,
Pound contrasts Rossetti’s translations in verse (“verse in one lan¬
guage for verse in another”) with his own “exegetical” translations
(SR 106). Later, in his unpublished notes for the Rime edition of
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Impossible Effigies
Cavalcanti translations (published in Genoa in 1932), the contrast

becomes one between Rossetti’s “poetic” translations and his own
“gloze” (cited in Pound’s Cavalcanti 5). In a related comment,
Pound describes his renderings of Cavalcanti and Arnaut as “diagram¬
matic translations” (L 179). Finally, in the long essay on Cavalcanti
that he prepared for the “Complete Works” edition, Pound speaks of
the difference between what he calls “interpretive translation” and
translation that falls “in the domain of original writing” (LE 200).
Taking all of these comments into account (including the contrast I
cited earlier between translation as a “photograph” and translation as
“original expression”), we can produce a fairly consistent and descrip¬
tive typology of Pound’s translations. Gathered together, these terms
display more readily their affinity for the historical categories of para¬
phrase and imitation.
Paraphrase (strict) Imitation (free)

scholastic aesthetic
exegetical verse
gloze poetic
interpretive original
photograph expression
etude persona
diagrammatic homage
Although this tabulation of Pound’s views is certainly helpful in

placing his translations in a traditional context, it tends to mask the
originality of Pound’s conceptions, as well as a certain tension between
his notion of literalism (indicated by terms such as “exegetical” and
“scholastic”) and more conventional notions of fidelity in translation.
We should note that it is the Cavalcanti translations in particular
which Pound consistently associates with the problem of exactitude,
and that it is therefore these translations (along with “The Seafarer”)
which reflect most effectively the principles and permutations of the
Image. In this regard David Anderson observes, “Writing for the
‘Complete Works’ in the late 1920s, Pound was to recall his early
labors in the Cavalcanti atelier, and strongly to suggest that his Flor¬
entine Master had been the immediate source of those aesthetic prin¬
ciples that revolutionized his poetry after 1912” (Pound’s Cavalcanti
xiv). It is not only the problem of exactitude, however, or its “impos-
203 /////
Radio corpse
sible” effects, that links the doctrine of the Image to Pound’s

translations of Cavalcanti. Indeed, Anderson argues that in the intro¬
duction to Sonnets and Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti (1912), “we find
pronouncements couched in as yet uncertain critical vocabulary that
look directly forward to Pound’s imagist period” (xiv). Anderson is
referring in part to the impact on Pound of Cavalcanti’s conceptual
precision (and his obscurity), but also to the obsessive visuality of
Cavalcanti’s love poems.41 Furthermore, visuality and the experience
of seeing in these poems (exemplified by the lover’s glance) inevitably
entail not only blindness but a kind of death. The correlation of vision
and death quite obviously dominates Cavalcanti’s imagination: of the
thirty-five sonnets and fourteen ballads translated by Pound, all but a
handful elaborate a persistent motif of death as a moment of vision
eclipsed (and fulfilled) by the fatality of love, an “impossible” fusion
of visibility and blindness. In Sonnet 22, for example, Pound trans¬
lates, “Love bore away thy heart, because in his sight / Was Death
grown clamorous for one thou lovest,”42 Sonnet 26 bears the title
“Of Love in a Dead Vision” (Sonnets and Ballate 53), and the lover
in Ballata 1 is made to observe, “Were not death turned pleasure in
my sight /Then Love would weep to see me so offended” (75).
Among many other examples, we might also note these lines from
Sonnet 4: “Then seems that on my mind there rains a clear / Image
of a lady, thoughtful, bound / Hither to keep death-watch upon that
heart” (9).
I think it is fair to say that this early volume of translations represents
41. The visuality of Cavalcanti’s poems has not been lost on Lowry Nelson, for ex¬
ample, who writes, “Intrinsically connected with the intensity of Cavalcantian love and
lyric drama is his vivid visuality. . . He seems more than other poets before him to register
the sharpness and immediacy of visual images: first comes the direct striking of the image
on the eye, then the psycho-physiological process of receiving it and contemplating it;
there is also the character and significance of his glance and her glance, in the sense that
a glance or a look is both receptive and also expressive.” The Poetry of Guido Cavalcanti
(New York: Garland, 1986), p. xl. According to Giorgio Agamben, who traces a cryp¬
tology of the lyric to its origins in troubadour and duecento poetry, Cavalcanti “con¬
ceived of love as an essentially phantasmatic process, involving both imagination and
memory in an assiduous, tormented circling around an image painted or reflected in the
deepest self.” See Agamben, Stanzas: Word and Phantasm in Western Culture, trans.
Ronald L. Martinez (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993), p. 81.
42. Pound, Sonnets and Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti (Westport, Conn.: Hyperion,
1983; orig. pub. 1912), p. 45.
/ ////204
Impossible Effijjies
a decisive, though largely underestimated, development in Pound’s

poetics. At a moment when he is formulating an aggressively modern
poetics of the Image that would require him to put aside or at least
disguise the necrophilia of his early poetry, Pound discovers in Cav¬
alcanti’s poems a conception of the Image that preserves the enigmatic
power of death. Indeed, we could argue that the disparate features of
the Image (intense feeling, problematic visuality, definitional rigor,
and a fascination with death) coalesce in Cavalcanti’s poetry—in the
translation of a remote and archaic vision. A passage from Pound’s
original introduction to the translations indicates that he views Cav¬
alcanti as the prototypical Imagist:
Than Guido Cavalcanti no psychologist of the emotions is more

keen in his understanding, more precise in his expression; we have
in him no rhetoric, but always true description, whether it be of
pain itself, or of the apathy that comes when the emotion and pos¬
sibilities of emotion are exhausted, or that stranger state when the
feeling by its intensity surpasses our powers of bearing and we
seem to stand aside and watch it surging across some thing or
being with whom we are no longer identified.43
It is important to note that Cavalcanti’s precision (the prototype of

the Imagist sensibility) tends toward melancholy, and toward a
“stranger state” that resembles a kind of aberrant mourning. The title
of Pound’s 1932 Italian edition of Cavalcanti indicates that this mel¬
ancholy association persisted in Pound’s mind throughout his many
revisions of the translations: the volume, Le Rime, is subtitled Edizione
mppezzata fra le rovine (“Edition patched together amid the ruins”).
In Pound’s earliest translations of Cavalcanti, then, we discover an
indispensable key to the necrophilic dimension of the Image, but also
to its problematic visuality. It is not simply that Pound conceives of
his Cavalcanti translations as images and as a means of resurrecting
the dead, but that he actually discovers in Cavalcanti’s poems (via the
impossibility of translation) a correlation between vision and death
that serves as the basis both for his conception of translation and for
his doctrine of the Image. Thus, it is through his translations of
43. Pound, “Introduction,” in Sonnets and Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti, p. xii. Pound
dates the introduction November 15, 1910—another indication that Imagist poetics
originated considerably earlier than the Imagist movement in 1913.
205 /////
H A D I O CORPSE
Cavalcanti that Pound first conceives of the Image that blinds and
annihilates, the Image that resists visuality and thereby invokes the
extravagant economy of the impossible.
Given the density and originality of this great translational event in
Pound’s career, it is not surprising if we find, on returning to Pound’s
reflections on translation, that most of his attempts at defining his own
practice were focused on his translations of Cavalcanti. Indeed, the
formal and imaginative resistance offered by Cavalcanti’s poems pro¬
voked what are generally regarded as his most original contributions
to the discourse of translation. (The “translations” of Cathay are justly
admired for their elegiac beauty, but they did not yield the kind of
formal and speculative innovations—in terms of translation—which
arose over the long course of Pound’s engagement with Cavalcanti.)
For Pound, such innovations arise only in response to the demands of
extreme literalism, to the textual resistance associated with an obli¬
gation to be faithful to the letter of an original (the same resistance
that conditions the doctrine of the Image). Though the nature of his
terminology sometimes suggests otherwise, these innovations are
almost always motivated by an impulse to greater fidelity—indeed, this
incongruity is the first clue to the originality of these conceptions.
Thus, Pound considers the “exegetical” translations of Cavalcanti (his
term for the kind of translation that is bound by certain obligations
to the letter of the original) to be examples of what he called “criticism
by translation” (LE 74).44 (One might also subject a text to “criticism
via music, meaning definitely the setting of a poet’s words”; LE 74.)
Elsewhere, Pound describes translation as a “contrast or cross-light”
that helps illuminate features of the original that might otherwise
remain submerged (LE 256). Thus, his translation of “Donna mi
prega” is not “an equivalent” but an “instrument” to probe the orig¬
inal (LE 172).45
44. The concept of “criticism by translation” has generated considerable interest

among theorists of translation. Antoine Berman, for example, writes, “Ezra Pound’s
translations and his reflection on poetry, criticism, and translation are of fundamental
importance here, and it would be interesting to confront the theory of criticism by
translation with the Romantic theories of translation by criticism.” Berman, The Expe¬
rience of the Foreign, p. 179.
45. Though Pound’s Cavalcanti translations have become the most prominent
example of “criticism by translation,” the concept pertains as well to other translations
/ ////206
Impossible Effigies
It must be remembered that these conceptions (which fall in the

categories of “exegetical,” “scholastic,” or “interpretive” translation)
are motivated by fidelity, by a kind of realism. The peculiarity of
Pound’s approach indicates, however, that poems as enigmatic, both
historically and semantically, as Cavalcanti’s require extreme and unor¬
thodox measures to produce an Image of the text. Realism can be
achieved only by employing certain violent or controversial proce¬
dures. Thus, in the introduction to Sonnets and Ballate, Pound
explains, “It is conceivable the poetry of a far-off time or place requires
a translation not only of word and spirit, but of‘accompaniment,’ that
is, that the modern audience must in some measure be made aware of
the mental content of the older audience, and of what these others
drew from certain fashions of thought and speech” (Sonnets and Bal¬
late xii). In order to resurrect not only the dead poet but the milieu
of a “far-off time or place,” Pound must employ a variety of practices.
The actual translation may therefore be “accompanied” by photore¬
productions of various historical manuscripts, by a list of textual var¬
iants, by historical and interpretive annotations, and perhaps even by
a musical performance of the original. (Only Pound’s “scholastic”
translations appeared with the original en face, unlike Cathay or
“Homage to Sextus Propertius.”) Thus, the translation itself is only
a single component in the larger work of “diagrammatic” translation.
This constellation of elements is the matrix of “criticism by transla¬
tion” and can be described as an Image because it resembles, and
almost certainly anticipates, the nondiscursive model of the ideogram.
All the same, the motivation behind the elaborate strategies of accom¬
paniment (and the complexity of the ideogram) is a simple one: greater
fidelity and accuracy. Indeed, concerning his Cavalcanti translations
Pound once claimed, “What we need now is not so much a commen-
by Pound. Indeed, the earliest correlation of translation and criticism occurs with
Pound’s publication of “The Seafarer,” which appeared in November 1911 as the first
installment of the series of articles titled “I Gather the Limbs of Osiris.” Pound describes
the translation of “The Seafarer” as an “illustration of‘The New Method’ in scholar¬
ship”; New Age 10, no. 5 (November 30, 1911): 107. The fact that Pound initiates his
twelve-part discursus on “the new method in scholarship” with a translation suggests
that translation is not merely an aspect of the “new method” but its foundation. The
new method in scholarship is, of course, a blueprint for the “new method” in poetry—
that is, Imagism.
207 /////
1 A D I O CORPSE
tator as a lexicon. It is the precise sense of certain terms as understood

at that particular epoch that one would like to have set before one”
(LE 162). Thus, Pound’s elaborate translations of accompaniment
(like the ideogram) aspire to the accuracy and transparency of a lexicon;
each translation, like a land of Rosetta stone, aims to decipher the
original (a conception that evokes the problem of hieroglyphics).
Just as the ideogrammic Image is prone to obscurity and hermeti-
cism, so it is often difficult to reconcile the procedures used in Pound’s
translations of accompaniment with a doctrine of literalism in trans¬
lation. Concerning his translations of Cavalcanti, Pound writes, “I
have found out what I have found out by concentration on the text”
(LE 162); and even more emphatically, “the essential fact is THERE
ON THE PAGE” (LE 208). Although this position represents an
extreme, quasi-mystical preoccupation with the letter of a text, it is by
no means restrictive, as Pound’s translations demonstrate. For he advo¬
cates what he calls a “violence of language,” albeit controlled (L 182).
Describing the language of his early Cavalcanti translations as “kata-
chrestical” (cited in Anderson, Pound’s Cavalcanti 4), Pound insists
that translation requires a “sacrifice of values” (LE 168). A radically
material translation, like the Image-vortex, is a violent “channel” that
transmits ideas and phantoms from a lost tradition, or from an inscru¬
table present, into the present. In Pound’s view, the materiality of a
foreign text, once it is cleared of static cultural “readings” and other
forms of mediation, transmits an array of signals, formerly unintelli¬
gible, from its original milieu. The improvisatory character of his trans¬
lations derives, paradoxically, from an ethic of extreme literalism.
Probably the most extreme example of Pound’s “katachrestical”
translations is his rendering of “The Seafarer,” a work closely associ¬
ated with the procedures of Imagism as a result of its publication in
late 1911 as an installment of “I Gather the Limbs of Osiris” and
because it appeared in Ripostes (1912). As we have seen, Pound pres¬
ents the “Seafarer” translation as an illustration of “the New Method
in Scholarship,” which he describes otherwise as “the method of the
Luminous Detail” (SP21). We should also note the poem’s elegiac
tone and its emphasis on the experience of exile, features that it shares
with the later translations of Cathay (1915). Yet “The Seafarer” cor-
/////208
Impossible Effigies
responds most closely, in its methodological concerns, to the Caval¬

canti translations, since Pound characterizes only these two projects
as instances of “criticism by translation.” Pound undertook both pro¬
jects during the same period in his career (1910-1911), and both
evolved as the result of his overriding concern with literalism—the key
term in the translational doctrine of impossibility. In the February 15,
1912, issue of New Age, for example, Pound says that his rendering
of “The Seafarer” is “as nearly literal, I think, as any translation can
be.” Like the Cavalcanti poems, “The Seafarer” evinces a preoccu¬
pation with death and materiality that bears significantly, from the
translator’s point of view, on the enchanted materiality of the text:
Waneth the watch, but the world holdeth.
Tomb hideth trouble. The blade is layed low.
Earthly glory ageth and seareth.
No man at all going the earth’s gait,
But age fares against him, his face paleth,
Grey-haired, he groaneth, knows gone companions,
Lordly men are to earth o’ergiven, . . .
And though he strew the grave with gold,
His born brothers, their buried bodies
Be an unlikely treasure hoard. (P 66)
In all likelihood, the poem’s preoccupation with exile and death

helped persuade Pound to adopt a variation of the poem’s Anglo-
Saxon rhythms in Canto 1, itself a translation of Book 11 of the
Odyssey, in which Odysseus descends to Hades.
The poet of “The Seafarer” describes the experience of exile as a
kind of living death: “My lord deems me to this dead life” (P 65).
Moreover, Pound equates exile and death in a more explicit fashion
in an early poem, “Epilogue,” composed in 1912, the year following
his work on “The Seafarer”:
I, who went out in exile,
Am returned to thee with gifts.
I, who have labored long in the tombs,
Am come back therefrom with riches. (CEP209)
These lines describe the poet’s “medieval studies, experiments, and

translations” in terms of an encounter with the dead, yet they also
209 /////
Radio corpse
introduce the experience of exile as a figure for translation. Exile,

according to “The Seafarer,” brings with it affliction, sorrow, and
bitterness, yet “the heart’s thought” in exile also seeks out “a foreign
fastness” (P 65)—a cryptic space that exceeds the dull life of “the
Burgher.” Moreover, although the poet of “The Seafarer” belies the
poem’s preoccupation with death by asserting that “buried bodies /
Be an unlikely treasure hoard,” the poem’s translator (Pound) insists
that the tomb—the “foreign fastness” sought in exile—yields abun¬
dant riches.
Exile, as a figure for translation, becomes equivalent in this context
to a kind of grave-robbing. More specifically, in the case of “The
Seafarer” (as well as Pound’s Cavalcanti translations), it is the effects
of extreme literalism in translation that bear comparison with grave¬
robbing, so that the ransacking of graves, even if it verges on the
romance of archaeology, demands to be read as an image of katachresis
in translation. Some of Pound’s techniques in translating “The Sea¬
farer” can indeed be described as katachrestical, even as they represent
a clandestine laboring “in the tombs,” a desecration of the crypt by
looting it of material “devices” associated with the dead. The most
striking examples of katachresis in “The Seafarer” occur when Pound
“translates” certain Anglo-Saxon terms or phrases by substituting
English homonyms. K. K. Ruthven has described this practice in
detail:
As a result he has given us “reckon” (1) for wrecan (“to make,

compose”); “stern” (23) for steam (“a tern”), “moaneth” (37)
for monad (“makes mindful of, urges”; in 1. 51 jyemoniad is trans¬
lated literally as “admonisheth”); “berries” (49) for byrijy (dative
of burh, “a town”); “twain” (70) for tweon (“to doubt”);
“mirth” for m&rpo (“glory”); and “blade” (90) for bUd (“glory,”
translated literally as “blast” in 1. 80). This technique can cope not
only with single words but also with phrases: on eorpan becomes
“on earth then” (33; “then” is superfluous); sumeres weard
(“guardian of summer”) becomes “summerward” (55); and
eorpan rices (“kingdom of the earth”) becomes “earthen riches”
(83).46
46. K. K. Ruthven, A Guide to Ezra Pound’s uPersonae” (1926) (Berkeley: University

of California Press, 1969), p. 213.
/ ////210
Impossible Effigies
With such practices the poet reaches the enchanted boundaries of lit¬
eralism in translation. In this case, the materiality of the archaic and
anonymous text is charged with a land of magical authenticity and
expressiveness that permits translation only as transposition—a gesture
that often implies a violation of the original’s meaning. Though Pound
paints this process in terms of recovering the “possessions” of the
dead—their “fashion,” their “craft,” their habits—the logic of “pos¬
session” encourages us to view the translator of “The Seafarer” as
someone enthralled by the enigmatic but often mutilated eorpus of the
text, conjuring a spirit from its enchanted substance in a manner that
violates its meaning.
The combination of reverence and abuse directed toward the
“dead” original evokes in the strongest possible manner not only the
latent animism of the artifact but the ephemeral character of the
object’s “vitality.” In her theory of artifactual reciprocity, Elaine
Scarry emphasizes that our magical attachment to made objects always
carries a threat of violence: “A useless artifact, whether a failed god,
or a failed table, will be discarded.”47 Furthermore, she explains, “Civ¬
ilization restructures the naturally existing external environment to be
laden with human awareness, and when a given object is empty of
such awareness, we routinely ask the garbage collector (himself a direct
emissary of the platonic realm of ideal civilization) to carry it away to
the frontier, beyond the gates of the beloved city” (Body in Fain 305).
A failure of reciprocity on the part of the artifact usually ensures its
disappearance (because it is no longer sentient), and indeed the vio¬
lence directed against the artifact simply reverses the power of life and
death exercised by the fetish over its maker.48 Accounts of fetishism
are ways of talking about images, and a theory of imagery is, inevitably,
also a theory about the fear and hostility aroused by images.49 Thus,
47. Elaine Scarry, The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World (New
48. According to William Pietz, Enlightenment theorists associated the essential
“delusion” of fetishism (and its social efficacy) with a fear of death: “The fetish would
supernaturally cause the physical death of those who broke faith. Fetishism thus repre¬
sented a principle of social order based on an irrational fear of supernaturally caused
death rather than a rational understanding of the impersonally just rule of law.” Pietz,
“The Problem of the Fetish: Part 3a,” p. 106.
49. W. J. T. Mitchell makes this argument in Iconology, pp. 3, 159.
211 /////
RADIO CORPSE
most accounts of fetishism, whether colonial, medical, or economic,

tend to emphasize the subservient and passive orientation of the fet¬
ishist. William Pietz, for example, summarizes the view of Enlight¬
enment theorists, inherited from colonial travel narratives: “The
slavishness of the situation of the fetish worshipper lay in the infantile
submission of his inner autonomous will to the random determina¬
tions of the mechanism of natural events” (“Fetish: 3a” 12). Similarly,
in his book on fetishism in nineteenth-century literature, David
Simpson summarizes the view of fetishism that Marx inherited from
ethnography and Romantic aesthetics: “Roughly speaking, fetishism
occurs when the mind ceases to realize that it has itself created the
outward images or things to which it subsequently posits itself as in
some sort of subservient relation.”50
These views, as I have suggested, fail to take into account the vio¬
lence and abuse characteristic of fetishism, which is evident in colonial
travel narratives. Writing in 1737, fohn Atkins, for example, observes
that a fetish may be kept “until the Proprietor could not observe any
of the usual effects, or was improsperous; and thus whether he im¬
putes it to the Age and Decay of the Fetish, I cannot tell; but takes a
newer and consequently a better.”51 Similarly, writing in 1699, the
Dutchman Willem Bosnian quotes an African, who explains, “If our
Design prove successful, we have discovered a new and assisting God,
which is daily presented with fresh Offerings. But if the contrary
happen, the new God is rejected as a useless Tool, and consequently
returns to his Primitive Estate . . . We make and break our Gods daily,
and consequently are the Masters and Inventors of what we Sacrifice
to.”52 From its earliest appearances in colonial discourse, then, the
idea of the fetish is associated with what Pietz calls a “primary and
carnal rhetoric of identification and disavowal” (“Fetish: 1” 14). The
animism of the artifact is signaled not only by the submissiveness of
the fetishist, but by the violence that may be directed toward the
object if it loses its powers of enchantment. Bosnian’s “informant”
50. David Simpson, Fetishism and Imagination (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1982), p. xiii.
51. John Atkins, A Voyage to Guinea, Brasil, and the West-Indies (London, 1737),
pp. 83-84.
52. Willem Bosnian, A Description of the Gold Coast of Guinea (London: Cass, 1967;
orig. pub. 1705), p. 368.
/ ////212
Impossible Effigies
also reveals the remarkable continuity between colonial fetish dis¬

course and the modernity of commodity fetishism: “We make and
break our Gods daily, and consequently are the Masters and Inventors
of what we sacrifice to.” Marx, of course, argues that modern fetishists
are less enlightened than their “primitive” counterparts, because they
remain ignorant of their creative role. Indeed, Marx’s analysis of the
commodity can be viewed as an exhortation to master the object, to
realize the destructive powers of the fetishist by disenchanting our
“possessions.” The Freudian analysis of fetishism, on the other hand,
echoes the colonial paradigm more clearly, since Freud argues that the
fetishist is never merely passive or subservient before the object of his
passion: “To point out that he reveres his fetish is not the whole story;
in many cases he treats it in a way which is obviously equivalent to a
representation of castration . . . Affection and hostility in the treatment
of the fetish—which run parallel with the disavowal and the acknowl¬
edgement of castration—are mixed in unequal proportions in different
cases” (Standard Edition 21: 157). Thus, the veneration convention¬
ally associated with sexual fetishism often entails a symbolic deletion
or mutilation of the fetish object. The Freudian correlation of fet¬
ishism and abuse also surfaces in the context of modern art in the
“sadistic literary and visual content” of the Surrealist “object.”53
The idea that affection and hostility, reverence and abuse, subser¬
vience and domination can be contained in a single perspective is
essential in explaining the contradictions in Pound’s achievement as a
translator. His entire poetic agenda is based on a profound reverence
for literary tradition, yet his translations are notoriously violent; orig¬
inals are frequently dismantled and willfully rearranged. “Take these
scraps, and the almost impossible conclusion, a tag of Provencal
rhythm, and make them a plenum” (LE 196). His tactics can produce
monstrosities of sense or diction. Yet he undertakes all of this in the
spirit of what Stephen MacKenna calls “a chaste freedom, a freedom
based rigidly on a preservitude” (cited in Steiner, After Babel 268).
If, indeed, we regard Pound’s translation practice as a highly influential
form of literary and cultural memory, then we must recall that the art
53. On fetishism and Surrealism, see Jack J. Spector, “The Avant-Garde Object: Form
and Fetish between World War I and World War II,” Res 12 (Autumn 1986): 130,131,
136.
213 /////
Radio corpse
of memory prized, as stimulants to “natural’’ memory, images that

had been disfigured in some manner. Thus, the monstrosities of
Pound’s translations signal not only the artificiality of translation as a
form of memory, but its technological aspect.
In those translations that are governed by the contradictory logic
of the Image, Pound offers the reader examples of what Phillip Lewis
calls “abusive translation,” a practice that belongs to “an experimental
order, an order of discovery.”54 Lewis contrasts the Marxist concept
of use value with abuse, arguing that great translation goes against the
grain of conventional “usage” (“Translation Effects” 58). Abusive
translation would therefore be associated with the figural properties
of exchange value. Following Lewis’ conception, Cynthia Chase calls
for “a strategy of rigorously abusive translation, which would counter
what is lost in the translation with an addition, a supplement. The
translator commits an excess, performs an abuse—but not just any¬
where.”55 For Pound, the seeds of abuse are embedded in the original;
certain “enigmas” or “obscurities” in the original text invite experi¬
mentation (LE 259, 268-269). Thus, as I have already indicated, he
acknowledges the need for a “violence of language,” and describes
his early Cavalcanti translations (and, by implication, his rendering of
“The Seafarer”) as “katachrestical.”
In response to charges that the “mistakes” in his translations are
inadvertent or unintentional, Pound writes, “As to the atrocities of
my translation, all that can be said in excuse is that they are, I hope,
for the most part intentional, and committed with the aim of driving
the reader’s perceptions further into the original than it would without
them have penetrated” (cited in Anderson, Pound’s Cavalcanti xxi-
xxii). Furthermore, he explains, “In some places I hope mistranslation
may serve to concentrate attention on a passage” (5). Here again* we
find the characteristic ambivalence of fetishism: the translator’s fidelity
is demonstrated by various “atrocities” committed against the orig¬
inal. If we recall the necrophilic dimension of Pound’s translations, we
might say (with Derrida) that translation “calls forth what it forbids:
54. Phillip Lewis, “The Measure of Translation Effects,” in Graham, ed., Difference
in Translation, p. 45.
55. Cynthia Chase, “Paragon, Perergon: Baudelaire Translates Rousseau,” ibid.,
p. 65.
/ ////214
Impossible Effigies
the death of the other whom it is supposed to preserve” (“Living On”

166). Intentional mistranslation (an effect of the impossibility of trans¬
lation) becomes a procedure that is at once solicitous of the original
and an instrument of originality. Conditioned by the metaphorics of
gender in translation, originality and the recovery of an original always
come at the expense of violence. (And this expenditure subscribes to
the logic of the crypt, as Antoine Berman notes: “Where there is rev¬
elation of something hidden there is violence”; Experience of the For¬
eign 171.)
The politics of originality also dictate Pound’s intolerance of vio¬
lence committed against the “organism” of the langue maternelleP6
He is quick to attack anyone who violates the “natural wording” of
English (LE 270). He condemns, for example, the “stilted unsayable
jargon” of Browning’s Agamemnon (LE 268). In the extreme case,
Pound’s loyalties are clearly defined: his fidelity to the syntax of Eng¬
lish is absolute. In contrast to this conservatism about English sentence
structure, however, are the wild fluctuations of diction in Pound’s
translations. The “pigment” of archaism, for example, is a resource
that Pound employs with surprising regularity in his translations. In
addition, the reader is occasionally startled to find Confucius speaking
African-American English or Cockney dialect. Along with these
“monstrosities” of diction, Pound is not afraid to produce lapses of
meaning in a text (a “sacrifice of values”). Unlike the syntactic mon¬
strosities generated in the target language by extreme literalism (which
Benjamin prized in Holderlin’s translations), Pound’s atrocities are
usually committed against what he perceives to be inherited or his¬
torical “sediment” that obscures the original meaning, a strategy that
produces a corresponding “enigma” in the sense or diction of the
translation.57 Thus, Pound explains, “What obfuscated me was not
the Italian but the crust of dead English, the sediment present in my
available vocabulary” (LE 193). In his Cavalcanti translations, then,
Pound anticipates the principles of Imagism, by pursuing a dream of
56. I would refer the reader once again to Lori Chamberlain’s superb essay “Gender
and the Metaphorics of Translation,” where she notes “the persistence of what I have
called the politics of originality and its logic of violence in contemporary translation
theory” (p. 64).
57. On Benjamin’s taste for such “monstrosities,” see Carol Jacobs, “The Mon¬
strosity of Translation,” MLN 90, no. 6 (1975): 762.
215 /////
U A D I O CORPSE
translation without remainder. Yet the dream, as we have seen in the

case of the Image, only produces another corpse.
The Freudian analysis of fetishism can be particularly helpful in iden¬
tifying the greater interests of a veneration that presupposes or requires
the mutilation of its object. To what end is fetishistic ambivalence
directed? Its function is essentially conservative: the fetishist aims to
preserve his fantasy of the maternal phallus (which would allay his fears
of castration). Alan Bass calls the fetish “a fantastic mistranslation of
sexual difference,” a thesis which derives from Freud’s reference to
the “indelible trace” left in the unconscious by the fantasy of the
maternal phallus.58 The fetishist “mistranslates” the “indelible trace”
of the maternal phallus in order to preserve it.59 A similar logic is at
work in Pound’s translations: not only do they betray contrary
impulses to preserve and to transform the “trace” of the original, but
Pound commits his “mistranslations” with the aim of preserving a
fantastic figure encrypted in the words of the original.
Bass extends the analogy of translation and fetishism further when
he describes the fetish as a “rewriting of history that reinterprets
indestructible pictures of early fantasies in terms of current needs”
(“History of Mistranslation” 128). As fetishes, Pound’s translations
fulfilled a similar revisionary function: to “rewrite” literary history in
accordance with the contemporary requirements of Pound’s larger
poetic project. Often, his work as a translator provided a laboratory
for his poetic experiments. Thus, Pound’s translations of a canzone
by Cavalcanti or a lyric by Ti Po tend to resemble atavistic shades of
his own mercurial diction, or the “costly” signatures of his ear. As
58. Alan Bass, “On the History of Mistranslation and the Psychoanalytic Movement,”
in Graham, ed., Difference in Translation, p. 137.
59. In a humorous parable about mistranslating proper names, Pound inadvertently
reveals the phallic dimension of translation. He writes, “The phonetic translation of my
name into the Japanese tongue is so indecorous that I am seriously advised not to use
it, lest it do me harm in Nippon. (Rendered back ad verbum into our maternal speech
it gives for its meaning, ‘This picture of a phallus costs ten yen.’ There is no surety in
shifting personal names from one idiom to another” (LE 259). While this anecdote is
obviously light-hearted, it is nevertheless brimming with significance. For it describes a
moment in which Pound’s own signature, his proper name, is disseminated into another
tongue, letter by letter, and returns to him in all of its foreignness, as an image. The
consequence, therefore, of utter fidelity to the materiality of a word is a monstrosity;
depravity is the outcome of chastity.
/ ////216
Impossible EJfyies
Victor Smirnoff remarks, “the fetish-object represents restoration of a

lost continuity.”60 And this is precisely the aim of Pound’s fetishized
translations: to resurrect a lost tradition, to rewrite literary history
through the reverential “abuse” of foreign texts. Translation in
Pound’s poetics is therefore not only a medium to resurrect the dead,
but a mediator of literary history.
A translation in which abuse becomes a technique of fidelity sum¬
mons a question that hovers persistently about Pound’s doctrine of
literalism in poetry and translation (a question, surely, that has already
troubled the reader): Is it reasonable to describe as accurate or faithful
a translation that depends on katachresis and mistranslation? Clearly,
Pound’s sense of exactitude in translation diverges sharply from con¬
ventional notions of metaphrase or paraphrase (hence the originality
of his conceptions). Yet surely it would be a mistake to suggest that
Pound is not motivated by a sense of obligation to an “original,” given
the extraordinary procedures he devised to ensure the greatest possible
accuracy. Perhaps we can trace the problem to assumptions regarding
the nature of the object of translation; perhaps we should ask a ques¬
tion that I have already posed in relation to the poetic Image, a ques¬
tion that is decisive in determining the nature of realism or objectivity
in Pound’s poetics: What, then, is the object of Pound’s translation
of a poem by Cavalcanti? I mean, what does it pretend to be faithful
to? Of what is it an Image? Is it a rendering of the letter of the poem
(as we might expect of a translator who is concerned with accuracy),
or the “spirit” of the poem (its “meaning”), or some other dimension
of the thing?
We know that the poetic Image (as I discussed in Chapter 1) dis¬
sociates itself almost entirely from the empirical object. The Image
presents not the physical object but something that resists appearing
altogether. The same is true of Pound’s “exegetical” translations: it is
quite clear that he is not concerned with rendering Cavalcanti’s poem
word by word, or even with reproducing its “music.” In the unpub¬
lished notes to his “Complete Works” project, for example, Pound
observes, “The ideal translation of G.C. [Guido Cavalcanti] will use
60. Victor Smirnoff, “The Fetishistic Transaction,” in Serge Lebovici and Daniel
Widlocher, eds., Psychoanalysis in France (New York: International Universities Press,
1980), p. 322.
21 7 /////
Radio corpse
a simpler language than either Rossetti or I have attained, and will

concentrate on the meaning and cut loose, a great deal looser from
the actual phrase” (cited in Anderson, Pound’s Cavalcanti 255).
This comment recalls the idea that his “scholastic” translations aspire
to the condition of a lexicon. From a historical standpoint, therefore,
he claims (in regard to translations of Homer), “The quality of trans¬
lations declined in measure as the translations ceased to be absorbed
in the subject matter of the original” (LE247). Given these comments
by Pound, it might seem plausible to argue that his “exegetical” trans¬
lations, strange as they may be, are examples of the “sense for sense”
tradition of translation: his translations are Images not of the letter of
the original but of its meaning. This characterization, however, is
untenable for a number of reasons (particularly in light of the tech¬
niques Pound used in “The Seafarer”). Borges once remarked of
Pound’s work as a translator, “Scholars accuse Pound of making gross
errors, demonstrating his ignorance of Anglo-Saxon, Latin, or Pro¬
vencal; they are unwilling to grasp that his translations reflect elusive
forms and not the substance of a work.”61
To understand Borges’ comment, we must recall Pound’s view that
his task as a translator is to “resurrect the damaged shade of the
author.” Discussing in 1926 the danger of revising his early Cavalcanti
translations, Pound offers a glimpse of the telepathic properties of
translation: “Even if I now managed to get back into Guido’s skin, or
into some skin that I for a moment hallucinate myself into thinking
of as the skin of Guido, it is a different me, and I enter the pelt from
a different angle” (cited in Anderson, Pound’s Cavalcanti 5). More
prosaically, he claims that he attempts in his translations “to embody
in the whole of my English some trace of that power which implies
the man” (T 24). In another context, Pound once made a peculiar
comment about what is missing in Rossetti’s translations of Cavalcanti.
What Rossetti fails to do, according to Pound, is to give the reader a
sense of “Euclid inside his cube” (LE 193). By this, Pound means the
61. Jorge Luis Borges, “Note sur Ezra Pound, traducteur,” L’Herne 6 (1965):
233 (my translation). The original reads, “Les erudits accusent Pound de tomber dans
les erreurs crasses, demontrant son ignorance du saxon, du latin ou du provenyal; ils ne
veulent pas comprendre que ses traductions reflechissent les formes insaisissables et non
le fond.”
///// 218
Impossible Effigies
force and mystery of “personality” that dwells within the form of a

great work—whether that form is in stone, in words, or in the laws of
geometry. What Pound seeks to do in his translations is to bring back
to life the force of a unique “personality,” and to feed it, if necessary,
with the vitality of his own tongue.62 He often speaks of an author’s
personality informing a work, of “Marlowe’s unbridled personality
moving behind the words” (SR 194), or Cavalcanti’s “lofty, austere
spirit moving behind the verse” (SR 113). Often, Pound loses sight
of the distinction between the force of personality and the actual words
of a text. Not only might an author’s words be understood as a pos¬
session, an extension, of his personality, but Pound actually conceives
of this personality as a land of text. About Villon, he says, “He is a
lurid canto of the Inferno, written too late to be included in the orig¬
inal text” (SR 177). When Pound writes, “My endeavor was not to
display skill in versification but to present the vivid personality of
Guido Cavalcanti” (Anderson, Pound’s Cavalcanti 5), we under¬
stand that this translation must be something like a verbal effigy,
rudely fashioned and charged with the “omnipotence of thoughts.”
This statement is similar to his disclaimer about translating Propertius:
his job is “to bring a dead man to life.” Pound seems to want to
emphasize the crudity and supernaturalism of his enterprise. His trans¬
lations are not quite texts, or objects, or phantoms, but are amalgams
of all three: verbal effigies of powerful literary figures from the past
whom he alternately reveres and abuses according to the present needs
of his own poetic project. We are reminded of Yeats’s description of
62. The idea of “translating” the personality of a dead author (who bears traces of a
lost “dynasty” of meaning) suggests that Pound, through his translations, wishes to
make “contact” with an entity (a lost time or place) that exists prior to the actual words
of the original text. A comment by Freud suggests that an image (or translation) of a
lost place comprises the oblivion of fetishism. Freud writes, “When the fetish is instituted
some process occurs which reminds one of the stopping of memory in traumatic amnesia
... It is as though the last impression before the uncanny and traumatic one is retained
as a fetish” (Standard Edition, 21:155). Although recognition of the missing object
“institutes” the fetish, the object or material translated into a fetish actually derives from
a moment in time that precedes the traumatic scene of recognition. Thus, in the realm
of fetishism, effect precedes cause. If applied to translation, this temporal inversion of
cause and effect would suggest that a translation may antedate the original that precip¬
itates it. This would help explain Pound’s insistence that a translation must resurrect the
author behind the original text. The translation therefore embodies a force that precedes
the original text, though it also necessarily derives from the original.
219 /////
A D I O CORPSE
Pound as a “brilliant improvisator translating at sight from an

unknown Greek masterpiece”—a comment that deftly conveys the
sense of a reckless and even perilous rendering of an original that is
not only “dead” but lost.
In the process of translating, as in the poetics of Imagism, Pound
seeks not so much to render the empirical object (the literal features
of the original) as something behind or within the object—a phantom
that appears reluctantly if at all. This does not imply, however, that
Pound is primarily concerned with meaning or content in a traditional
sense; rather, translation permits an exchange between languages that
is at once mnemonic, impossible, and nonrepresentational. It permits
one language to be possessed by the habits of another, in material and
stylistic terms, via the “person” of the dead author. If we take Pound’s
obsessive revisions of Cavalcanti’s “Donna mi prega” as emblematic
of his translations of accompaniment, then there can be little doubt
that the phantasmatic event of translation stems from its own impos¬
sibility. For the ingenious (and desolate) strategies of Pound’s trans¬
lations reveal nothing so much as the fact that the meaning of
Cavalcanti’s poem is truly forgotten, lost, unrecoverable. Since the
impossibility of translation can arise only as the consequence of an
excessive obligation to the original, we must conclude that Pound
conducts the seance of his imagistic translations according to the
demands of extreme literalism—though the object the seance sum¬
mons has disappeared. In their uncompromising fidelity to the dead,
Pound’s translations are faithful to nothing that exists. Conceived as
an art of memory, translation—which is then distinguished by its tech¬
nical aspect—threatens to submerge, even as it enhances, the powers
of “natural” memory.
///// 220
C H A P T E R 6
La Radia shall be
The reception amplification and transfiguration of vibrations emitted

by living beings living or dead spirits dramas of wordless noise-states.
The reception amplification and transfiguration of vibrations emitted

by matter.
—F. T. Marinetti and Pino Masnata, “La Radia” (1933), trans. Stephen Sartarelli
I go my way with the assurance of a somnambulist.

—Adolf Hitler, radio speech, March 14, 1936
Radium
Pound’s fascist radio broadcasts, delivered twice weekly over Rome

Radio from January 1940 to July 1943, provided the legal basis for
his indictment on charges of treason in 1945, as well as the motive,
ultimately, for his twelve-year confinement in a mental asylum.1 These
broadcasts are also rightly viewed as evidence of his mental instability
during the war and as the most virulent expression of his fascist and
anti-Semitic beliefs. In spite of the historical and symbolic significance
of these broadcasts in Pound’s career (and in the evolution of postwar
American poetry), critics have made little effort to correlate the mate¬
rials of these broadcasts, or the significance of Pound’s choice to use
1. For a brief historical sketch indicating how Pound’s radio speeches were written,
recorded, and broadcast, see Leonard Doob’s introduction to his compilation of the
radio scripts, “Ezra Pound Speaking”: Radio Speeches of World War II, ed. Leonard W.
Doob (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1978), pp. xi-xv.
Radio corpse
a technical medium, with his literary and cultural values. To be sure,

thinking about the medium of radio and its special relation to fascism
hardly seems an appropriate conclusion to a book about Pound’s con¬
ception of the Image. What possible bearing could radio, a medium
that is understood to be intrinsically nonvisual and phonocentric, have
on a theory of images? At best, on the surface of things, we might
expect a discussion of radio in the larger context of modern 4 ‘images”
to articulate in unexpected ways the dialectic of verbal and visual values
that finds expression in the history of the modernist Image. Yet the
terms of Pound’s earliest speculations on the nature of poetic imagery
require a much stronger claim concerning the relevance of radio (and
fascist radio in particular) to the principles of Imagism. Indeed, I
believe that we must regard Pound’s fascist radio broadcasts, if we take
into account his theories of material and translational images, as
marking the practical and theoretical horizons of Imagism. Further¬
more, if we view the medium of radio as a specific political formation
of the imaginary, then the imaginary (and ideological) correspon¬
dences between telegraphy and radiation, between broadcasting and
radiography, must be considered germane to the poetics of the mod¬
ernist Image.
These correspondences may be said to arise, in part, from Pound’s
dialectical concern with various kinds of waste and contamination, as
well as from the mediumistic conception of the body that issues from
his speculations on the relation between imagery and corporeality. The
waste material of the cadaver, which survives in the phantasmatic sub¬
stance of the Image, finds its most extreme expression in radioactive
materials such as radium. The corpse, as an Image, becomes radioac¬
tive, thereby representing a principle of nonorganic life and, at the
same time, assuming the properties of a medium. The radio corpse, as
such, transmits a cryptonymous account of the Image and its political
afterlife. A kind of “meaning” somehow emanates from the inert
materiality of the corpse, though the cadaverous Image may also be
regarded as an emblem of “objectivity” and of the eclipse of meaning
in modernist poetics.
We should therefore generally understand the radiological character
of the Image as an effect of “meaning”—that is, as signaling the mag¬
ical and perilous recuperation of subjective and socially constructed
///// 222
Radioactivity
meaning in the context of literary and philosophical positivism. Within

the discourse of objectivity, then—whether it pertains to “science” or
to fascist historiography—meaning becomes equivalent to radiation,
to a form of “energy” that is magically potent (in its capacity to carry
electrified speech or to “see through” objects) but also deadly. This
improbable discourse of radio images pertains to the superstitious
properties attributed to meaning by theorists ranging from Walter
Benjamin and Ernst Jiinger to Wittgenstein (who, for example, draws
a comparison between meaning and cursing).2 The telephonic order
of radio becomes equivalent, in this regard, to telepathy, but also to
the lethal effects of radioactivity.
By “radio images” I mean images whose invisibility corresponds
directly to the magical effects of transmission, translation, and
exchange (which stem from the “decay” of the body). In Pound’s
case, the discourse of radio images, which emerges fully only in the
context of fascism, can be traced directly to his earliest speculations
concerning the nature of poetic imagery. These early discussions of a
“mythological” conception of the Image draw heavily, as many critics
have noted, on the emerging science of electromagnetism.3 Pound
2. Several eminent theorists of modern imagery display a surprising configuration of

interests. Pound’s is not the only career that veers between a preoccupation with images
and a significant engagement with radio. Walter Benjamin’s programming for children
in the early years of German broadcasting is beginning to find a place in the critical
history of his work. See Jeffrey Mehlman, Walter Benjamin for Children: An Essay on
His Radio Tears (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). We should also consider
carefully the place of radio in the influential theories of E. H. Gombrich, who from 1939
to 1945 monitored German broadcasts for the B.B.C. Listening Post. Gombrich’s own
reflections on broadcasting can be found in his Myth and Reality in German War-Time
Broadcasts (London: Athlone, 1970). Finally, we should recall that Rudolf Arnheim,
another prominent theorist of modern visual culture, produced a book-length study of
the new medium titled Radio: An Art of Sound (London: Faber and Faber, 1936).
3. The influence of popular science on Pound’s poetics is the subject of two fine books:
Ian F. A. Bell, Critic as Scientist: The Modernist Poetics of Ezra Pound (London:
Methuen, 1981); and Martin Kayman, The Modernism of Ezra Pound: The Science of
Poetry (London: Macmillan, 1986). More specifically, Kayman’s essay “Ezra Pound: A
Model for His Use of Science,” Bihlos (Coimbra), vol. 57 (1981), provides a very helpful
sketch—to which I am indebted—of the scientific milieu around the turn of the century
and a chronology of the major discoveries and theoretical advances in the emerging
science of electromagnetism. He also describes the activities of the Society for Psychical
Research (founded in 1882), an influential group of scientists whose interests provide
the immediate context—via Yeats—for Pound’s alignment of science and mysticism.
223 /////
Radio corpse
views Cavalcanti’s visionary poetry, for example, as disclosing “the

radiant world ... a world of moving energies,” and more specifically,
as depicting “magnetisms that take form, that are seen, or that border
the visible” (LE 154). Furthermore, as he explains in his introduction
to his translations of Cavalcanti, “Modern science shows us radium
with a noble virtue of energy. Each thing or person was held to send
forth magnetisms of certain effect; in Sonnet xxxv, the image of his
lady has these powers. It is a spiritual chemistry, and modern science
and modern mysticism are both set to confirm it” (T 18). Later, in
relation to the mediumistic properties of the Noh drama, Pound con¬
tinues to emphasize the “magnetic” properties of the Image: “The
image has a sort of centripetal force, drawing in the mind upon beauty,
and in each case upon some particular beauty.”* * * 4
Pound’s early theorizing about radiant images (which “border the
visible”) also yields, not surprisingly, some of his earliest speculations
about atomic structures (which contribute to his conception of the
ideogram): “The Art of Poetry consists in combining these ‘essentials
to thought,’ these dynamic particles, si licet this radium” (SP 330).
This view of poetry as something like a radioactive substance informs
Pound’s most celebrated conceptions of the Image, as when he calls
the vortex a “radiant node or cluster” (GB 92) and writes in 1913
(the year in which he launched the Imagist movement), “The thing
that matters in art is a sort of energy, something more or less like
electricity or radioactivity, a force transfusing, welding, and unifying”
(LE 49). In the “unifying” power of “radioactive” images we dis¬
cover the origins of paideuma—the fascist “world-picture”—in which
the disparate features of history are fused into mythological coherence.
According to Kayman, members of the society included: William James (president of

the society in 1896), Sir Oliver Lodge (professor of physics and one of the inventors of
the wireless), Henri Bergson, Sir William Cookes (discoverer of Thallium and inventor
of the radiometer), Lord Rayleigh (Nobel physicist in 1904), and Sir J. J. Thompson
(discoverer of gamma rays). Corresponding members included Heinrich Hertz, Sig¬
mund Freud, Carl Jung, and Marie Curie. Among the phenomena investigated by the
society were “telepathy, automatic writing, clairvoyance, and the ‘survival of bodily
death.’ ” More generally, according to Kayman, it sought to foster “the production of
a scientific discourse of the mystical” (p. 518).
4. This comment occurs in a recendy discovered and unpublished essay that Pound
wrote in 1915: “Affirmations VI: The ‘Image’ and the Japanese Classical Stage,”
Princeton University Library Chronicle 53, no. 1 (Autumn 1991): 18.
///// 224
Radioactivity
More remotely, we also discover in Pound’s theory of radioactive art

the origins of a conception of radio as a medium that is capable of
unifying the “subconscious energies” of an entire population. Indeed,
at least provisionally, I will make a case for what Alice Yaeger Kaplan
calls “the insistence of the radio in the fascist unconscious.”5 That is
to say, fascism discovers in radio not only a technical medium that is
essential to its practical dissemination, but its proper ideological
medium as well. In Pound’s case, the ideological medium of radio has
its origins in his speculations about the Image—a trajectory that reca¬
pitulates the historical spectrum of radio waves: “Begin in a radio
dreamland, end in a radio war.”6
Pound found corroboration for his early theory of “radioactive”
images in Fenollosa’s conception of the ideogram. Fenollosa describes
the Chinese written character as enveloped by “a nimbus of mean¬
ings.”7 Furthermore, he explains, “a word is like a sun, with its corona
and chromosphere; words crowd upon words, and enwrap each other
in luminous envelopes” (Chinese Written Character 32). In the manu¬
script from which Pound constructed his revised version of Fenollosa’s
essay, Fenollosa refers to the “radiation” and “coronal” harmonies
produced by the ideogram.8 This conception of “radiant” meaning
appears as well in an earlier essay of Fenollosa’s titled “The Nature of
Fine Art.” There he writes that poetry “demands full words, charged
with intense meaning at the center, like a nucleus and radiating out
toward infinity, like a great nebula.”9 Quite clearly, the radioactive
properties of the ideogram must have appealed to Pound not merely
5. Alice Yaeger Kaplan, Reproductions of Banality: Fascism, Literature, and French

Intellectual Life (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), p. 138.
6. This characterization of radio history is Gregory Whitehead’s, from his essay “Out
of the Dark: Notes on the Nobodies of Radio Art,” in Douglas Kahn and Gregory
Whitehead, eds., Wireless Imagination: Sound, Radio, and the Avant-Garde (Cam¬
bridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1992), p. 256. Concerning the dialectic of the “radio dream¬
land,” he writes, “Just beneath the promise of a lightning connection to a world of
dreamy, invisible things, lurks a darker potential for spotlessly violent electrocution, for
going up in smoke, or going down with the ship” (p. 256).
7. Ernest Fenollosa, The Chinese Written Character as a Medium for Poetry, ed. Ezra
Pound (San Francisco: City Lights, 1936), p. 25.
8. From Fenollosa’s original manuscript, cited in Laszlo Gefin, Ideogram: History of
a Poetic Method (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1982), p. 23.
9. Fenollosa, cited in Lawrence W. Chisolm, Fenollosa: The Far East and American
Culture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963), p. 216.
225 /////
A D I O CORPSE
as a counterpart to the “magnetic” images of Cavalcanti but as a

means of “radicalizing,” so to speak, the electromagnetic spectrum.
At the figurative core of Pound’s (and Fenollosa’s) theory of
“radiant” images is the substance of radium, whose radioactive prop¬
erties were discovered in 1898, and which Poincare, the French math¬
ematician, called in 1905 “that grand revolutionist of the present
time.” In 1895, only three years prior to the discovery of radium’s
“mystical” energy, the German physicist Roentgen disclosed the rev¬
olutionary imaging effects of X-rays. Among the early names for the
negative images produced by these rays were “radiograms” and “ski¬
agrams” (shadow writing). Just as Pound had conceived of radium as
producing images “bordering the visible,” so the physical properties
of X-rays introduced dramatic new possibilities for penetrating and
imaging the unseen. With regard to the development of the modernist
Image, it is significant that the phenomena of radium and X-rays are
both identified in the public mind—not surprisingly, given the his¬
torical proximity of their discoveries—with the existence of a world
of hidden energies or forms, and with visual registrations of invisibility.
On one hand we have a substance whose radiant energy is invisible,
whereas on the other we have a form of radiant energy that produces
images of the unseen. In Pound’s theory of translational or visionary
images these categories collapse into each other: the Image is not
produced by radiation but rather is itself a radiant substance, trans¬
mitting yet also somehow depicting the hidden “world of energies.”
The translational Image is radioactive: it is at once a form and a trans¬
mission of the invisible, an ambiguity that recalls Pound’s antithetical
translations of the memory locus as the “formed trace” and “unformed
space.” This tension between inscription and transmission also
informs the development of sound reproduction from phonography
to radio broadcasting.
We can therefore view Pound’s fascination with radium and radio¬
activity as one of the essential sources of what I have called the neg¬
ativity of the modernist Image—a negativity that is signaled by the
Image’s resistance to visuality. Furthermore, as Torraine Daston and
Peter Galison have observed, the assimilation of X-ray technology to
emerging ideologies of vision and objectivity was immediate and pro¬
found: “In part the ability of X-rays to penetrate where ordinary vision
/ ////226
Radioactivity
could not bestowed on the medium an aura of superhuman power.

But in addition, by its very nature, X-ray technology was parasitic on
the widespread assumption that the photograph does not lie . . . The
image of the X-ray appeared (in court, at least) to preempt and displace
all other forms of knowledge.”10 Thus, the image produced by radi¬
ation—or, in Pound’s case, the radioactive Image—derives from its
objectivity powers that are “superhuman” (that is to say, “magical”).
As a powerful new index of objectivity, radiation—the medium of
invisible images—simply reinforces the negativity of the modernist
Image. More obscurely, the autonomy of the Image—an effect of its
essential negativity—is signaled by the interminable half-life of
radium, by its immortality. As a dialectical emblem of that which lulls
and cannot be killed, of mortality and immortality, radium must there¬
fore be regarded as one of the most fertile and puzzling figures in
Pound’s cryptology of the Image.
Conceived as a radioactive substance, the modernist Image appears
in a certain physical and ideological “frequency,” yet is continually
verging, from its inception, upon radiography (the art of radio images)
and the “tribal medium” of radio. What is more important, the phys¬
ical spectrum of the modernist Image is an ideological spectrum,
across which are distributed the historical distinctions between words
and pictures, or voices and images. The fact that this spectrum is, both
physically and ideologically, a continuum implies that light verges on
sound: pictures, under certain historical circumstances, become words
(and vice versa). In this regard, I am defining a nominalist position
similar to that articulated by W. J. T. Mitchell, who argues that “there
is no essential difference between poetry and painting,” but that
“there are always a number of differences in effect in a culture which
allow it to sort out the distinctive qualities of its ensemble of signs and
symbols.”11 From this perspective, it is possible for a medium
(painting, for example) to migrate or travel along an ideological spec¬
trum of historically determined values and to occupy the “frequency”
of another medium (such as poetry). Insofar as these categories (words
10. Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison, “The Image of Objectivity,” Representations
40 (Fall 1992): 111.
11. W. J. T. Mitchell, Iconology: Image, Text, Ideology (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1986), p. 49.
227 /////
A D I O CORPSE
and pictures) are inflected and indeed determined historically by con¬

figurations of race, class, and gender, then we must view the radio¬
logical properties of the modernist Image as a cryptic revelation of its
political life. Thus, in the course of its development, the Image is
displaced along a spectrum that is at once material and ideological:
the Image conceived as a “radiant” corpse becomes the voice of fas¬
cism, converted by the medium of radio into the ghost of a lost aes¬
thetic.
To deconstruct the medium of the Image in this way implies, of
course, that radio, its antithetical medium, is constructed according
to a similar series of oppositions and that radio, as a medium, is there¬
fore also susceptible to a kind of ideological migration. Gregory
Whitehead, a theorist and practitioner of radio art, subjects the
medium of radio to spectral analysis when he argues that
the material of radio art is not just sound. Radio happens in sound,
but sound is not really what matters about radio. What does matter
is the bisected heart of the infinite dreamland/ghostland, a heart
that beats through a series of highly pulsed and frictive opposi¬
tions: the radio signal as intimate but untouchable, sensually
charged but technically remote, reaching deep inside but from way
out there, seductive in its invitation but possibly lethal in its effects.
Shaping the play of these frictions, the radio artist must then enact
a kind of sacrificial autoelectrocution, performed in order to go
straight out of one’s mind and (who’s there?) then diffuse, in
search of a place to settle. Mostly, this involves staging an intricate
game of position, a game that unfolds among far-flung bodies, for
the most part unknown to each other. (“Out of the Dark” 254)
Whitehead’s sense of radio as an “intricate game of position” may be

extended to radio’s ideological construction as a medium. Thus,
although I have emphasized a dialectical relation between verbal and
visual values—between the radio broadcasts and the modernist
Image—it is essential to note that this dialectic operates within each
of these media. Pound’s conception of the graphic Image, as I have
emphasized repeatedly, is haunted by its spectral and phantasmatic
origins, and continually threatens to revert from a figure of inscription
to a figure of transmission. A similar dialectic informs not only Pound’s
radio speeches (which were prerecorded in batches of ten or twenty
/ ////228
Radioactivity
at a time), but the discourse of sound reproduction, which, according

to Douglas Kahn, is dominated by three figures: vibration, inscription,
transmission.12
As the names ‘‘gramophone” and “phonograph” indicate, the
“registration” and objectification of the voice (which converts sound
into a commodity) is conceived in graphic terms—that is to say, as a
mode of writing or inscription. In an essay on the history of phono¬
graphic media, Kahn describes “the protophonographic trends
leading to the birth of the phonographic voice, the writing technol¬
ogies embodied in the resurrection or animation of youth.”13 Among
the “writing technologies” contributing to the realization of phonog¬
raphy, Kahn cites the development of “universal languages and alpha¬
bets,” as well as “speech synthesis and automata in general” (85). The
phonographic media therefore descend, in part, from experimentation
with ideogrammic notation, suggesting that Pound’s formulation of
the ideogrammic method, as a “writing technology,” anticipates in
unexpected ways his political experiments with a disembodied voice
conveyed through the medium of radio. Moreover, the entire spec¬
trum of “writing technologies,” from ideogrammic writing to pho¬
nography, subscribes, as Kahn indicates, to a teleology that focuses on
“the resurrection or animation of youth.” The phonographic dimen¬
sion of radio therefore perfects the “divinatory” technique of the ide¬
ogram—without, however, sacrificing any of its graphic or “scientific”
properties. Indeed, the gramophone was frequently invoked during
the period of its initial penetration into public and private life as an
emblem of positivism. (For example, in his Tractatus, Wittgenstein
refers to the gramophone as being analogous to his picture-theory of
language—an analogy that Moholy-Nagy, in 1922, calls the “groove-
manuscript.”)
Transmission, on the other hand, dematerializes the mark, the
object of sound. Kahn explains, “Transmission was basically the return
and invigoration of objects and bodies that had been fixed by inscrip¬
tion to the space implied by vibration” (“Histories of Sound” 20).
Thus, transmission revives at a distance the object of inscription, the
12. Douglas Kahn, “Histories of Sound Once Removed,” in Kahn and Whitehead,
eds., Wireless Imagination, p. 14.
13. Douglas Kahn, “Death in Light of the Phonograph,” ibid., p. 85.
229 /////
A D I O CORPSE
image of the voice, recovering its lost or decayed origin, which returns
as a ghost. Moreover, Kahn observes,
Phonography established the objecthood of sound and the ability

to replicate a myriad of objects, but it did not strongly imply
sounds from a distance. Wirelessness immediately meant great dis¬
tances . . . This structure was anthropomorphized in several
accounts of radio and transmission in general to ideas of unme¬
diated communication, thought transference, and signal as corpo¬
real sensation. A technology that had already been heavily invested
with human fears and desires was elevated to vitalistic, prosthetic,
and necrotic tropes. (21)
Oscillating between inscription and transmission, phonography and

telephony, the production of Pound’s radio speeches replicates in a
technical medium the oscillation of the modernist Image between pos¬
itivism and hermeneutics, between direct “registration” and the mag¬
ical space of words at a distance. In this regard, it is probably helpful
to remember that the modern art of cryptology originates with the
military use of the wireless during World War I—also the burial site
of Pound’s cryptology of the Image.14 Moreover, when radio—the
medium that spawns the modern discipline of “cryptanalysis”—
emerges from its origins in counterespionage, it does so as the new
medium for poetry.15
To get a preview of Pound’s radiophonic enchantment (which
amounts to a performance of fascist ideology) as well as a glimpse of
the radio phantom rehearsing its lacerating effect, we must turn to
Pound’s music criticism, especially Antheil and the Treatise on Har¬
mony, published in Paris in 1924. It was during this period (or shortiy
afterward) that Pound was reading Frobenius and Leibniz for the first
time, and these readings in turn initiated his mythological reformu¬
lation of the ideogram. In addition, during the mid-1920s Pound took
a strong interest in three artists who were associated with Dada and
14. Manuel DeLanda discusses the military origins of wireless cryptology in his book
War in the Age of Intelligent Machines (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1989), pp. ISO-
212.
15. In his essay “Soundplay: The Polyphonous Tradition of German Radio Art,”
Mark E. Cory explains, “In Germany the earliest programming marking the transition
of radio from a military tool to a cultural medium included music and the recitation of
poetry.” In Kahn and Whitehead, eds., Wireless Imagination, p. 334.
///// 230
Radioactivity
Surrealism: Picabia, Cocteau, and the young American “composer”

George Antheil.16 Pound regarded Picabia as what we would now call
a “conceptual artist” (SP458), while he appreciated Cocteau primarily
for his radiophonic techniques (SP454). Pound’s infatuation with the
sonic art of Antheil was therefore in keeping with the provisional or
experimental nature of his (Pound’s) interest in Surrealism, which per¬
mitted him to explore the technologized spaces between traditional
media. The peculiar instability of medial boundaries in Pound’s Sur¬
realism almost certainly contributed to his speculations in 1928 about
“a new medium, a sort of expression half way between writing and
action” (SP217). Not only does Pound assimilate Surrealism primarily
as a sonic or “conceptual” art, but his ideas about music and telephony
are strongly colored by Surrealism. This orientation is quite obvious
in several passages of the Antheil book: “After the Tool in the outer
ear’ has been put to sleep by the rhythm; after the ear’s rebellion
against the first shock to its habit has worn off, the little whiskers of the
ear’s interior ‘miniature piano’ begin to wave quite nicely in the ebb
and flow of this different sort of sound current; a nostalgia of the sun
overtakes one; the music is, and is rightly, an enchantment.”17 Pound’s
views on music can be compared to those of the Belgian Surrealist
Paul Nouge, whose 1928 essay “Music is Dangerous” describes the
“haunting” character of sound: “It would reach us in its most per¬
vasive forms; the song rising from the lips of those about us, of such
and such a stranger, perhaps in the most haunting circumstances; that
mechanical music which floats our way from the background of
deserted places; and sly and most dangerous of all, the voice that sud¬
denly materializes from some forgotten corner of our memory.”18
Nouge’s idea of sound evoking “deserted places,” as well as his
references to oblivion and memory, articulate the implied topos of
Pound’s subliminal and “nostalgic” dimension of sound. The art of
16. The best account of Pound’s interest in Dada and Surrealism is Richard Sieburth,
“Dada Pound,” South Atlantic Quarterly 83, no. 1 (Winter 1984), pp. 44-68.
17. Pound, Antheil and the Treatise on Harmony (Chicago: Pascal Covici, 1927),
pp. 124-125. This first American edition of Pound’s text contains notes not included
in the original edition, published in Paris in 1924 by Bill Bird’s Three Mountains Press.
18. Paul Nouge, “Music is Dangerous” (1928), cited in Christopher Schiff, “Banging
on the Windowpane: Sound in Early Surrealism,” in Kahn and Whitehead, eds., Wireless
Imagination, p. 179.
231 /////
A D I O CORPSE
sound, especially as it becomes technologized, is clearly, in the views

of these writers, an art of memory. As such, Pound’s developing sense
of sonic and telephonic practice, which will culminate in the Rome
Radio broadcasts, represents the final stage in his ongoing reformu¬
lation of the concept of the medium—a process dominated by the
figure of the Image. The ostensibly visual medium of the Image real¬
izes fully its negativity by migrating into the “frequency” of radio-
graphic images and, ultimately, into the spectral medium of radio. In
Pound’s case, the question of the medium, whether one is speaking
of poetry or of the technical and occult media, is always a question of
memory, of reconfiguring death and reviving the dead.
Pound’s eccentric “treatise” on music anticipates, primarily by its
receptivity to Surrealist ideas, the nostalgic character of his radiophonic
practice. There is also, however, a personal and psychological “com¬
plex” embedded in the book that looks forward to the mediumistic
character of the radio broadcasts. For Pound’s music theory is insep¬
arable from his idolatrous regard for Antheil, the self-described “Bad
Boy of Music.”19 The scale of Pound’s infatuation stands in marked
contrast to the relative insignificance of Antheil’s compositions in the
history of twentieth-century music. Indeed, even Antheil admitted,
“Nobody could have been a tenth as good as Ezra made me” (Bad Boy
120). What is it, then, that fuels Pound’s enthusiasms for the scandalous
“concerts” staged by Antheil? In my opinion, Pound’s Treatise on
Antheil is enflamed by nostalgia, not only for his own youthful par¬
ticipation in the Vorticist movement, to which he compares the Sur¬
realist milieu, but for the “bad boy” whom Antheil resembles:
Gaudier-Brzeska.20 Indeed, Pound explicitly compares Antheil to
19. George AntheiPs memoir Bad Boy of Music was published in 1945 (Garden City:
Doubleday).
20. The resemblance between Gaudier and Antheil may have some physical basis, if
we compare the photo of Gaudier reproduced by Pound in his memoir of the sculptor
(an image showing Gaudier with longish hair) to Christopher Schiffs description of “a
Man Ray photo of Amtheil—taken after one of the pianist’s Berlin concerts—sporting
a Louise Brooks haircut. While this might not seem remarkable now, the image of a
male wearing a hairstyle that had been developed for women who wished to appear
androgynous was almost as shocking in its time as was either the star that Duchamp had
shaved on his head or Dali’s mohawk.” Schifif, “Banging on the Windowpane,” p. 188,
n. 100. Antheil’s androgyny is not without significance, if we recall Pound’s feminization
of Gaudier in the memoir. Furthermore, the cult surrounding Gaudier after his death
/////232
Radioactivity
Gaudier, referring to “An theirs criticism of other composers, the turns

of phrase, the abruptness recalling Gaudier’s manifestos” (Treatise
56-57). Both men, he concludes, have about them an air of “sav¬
agery.”21 Clearly, Pound has reopened Gaudier’s crypt (and the burial
site of the Image) by publicizing and theorizing his infatuation with
Antheil. His nostalgic revival of a dead Imagist (via the medium of
Antheil’s celebrity) is a harbinger of fascism’s nostalgic appeal.
What must be emphasized about Pound’s close encounter with Sur¬
realism is that his speculations on the subliminal and nostalgic char¬
acter of sound coincide with a celebrity figure (Antheil) whom he
charges with subliminal and nostalgic “energies.” Antheil is moreover
prominendy associated with the mechanization of sound, a profile that
aligns him with phonographic and telephonic media. These media
have historically been closely associated with a technology of memory,
but also with telepathy and reanimation, thus providing Pound with
a belated index of the mnemonic and cryptological features of the
“radiant” Image. Charles Cros, the inventor (with Edison in 1877)
of the gramophone, calls his machine a “paleograph,” instructing it,
“You will write what has (already) taken place . . . You will rewrite,
you will remember me.”22 Edison himself wrote of the phonograph,
“This tongueless, toothless instrument, without larynx or pharynx,
dumb, voiceless matter, nevertheless utters your words, and centuries
after you have crumbled to dust will repeat again and again to gen-
bears some resemblance to the largely male hysteria surrounding Antheil. Schiff writes,
“the Surrealists—particularly expatriate Americans such as Man Ray—attended his con¬
certs religiously, assaulting anyone who expressed displeasure with the performance”
(p. 176).
21. The “scene” of Pound’s first meeting with Gaudier in 1912 (GB 44-45) bears
an uncanny similarity to Antheil’s description of his first meeting with Pound in Margaret
Anderson’s apartment in 1923: “He [Pound] was unusually kind and gracious to me;
and as I left he asked for my address and said that he would someday come around to
see me. Ezra turned up early the next morning, in a green coat with blue square buttons;
and his red pointed goatee and kinky red hair above flew off from his face in all direc¬
tions” (Bad Boy of Music, p. 117). Pound’s eccentric attire recalls Ford Madox Ford’s
description of his Vorticist costume prior to World War I (see Chapter 3, note 23,
above), suggesting that Pound is literally replaying his role as a Vorticist impresario,
courting Antheil as he once did Gaudier.
22. Charles Cros, “Note au sujet du phonographe de M. Edison,” cited in Charles
Grivel, “The Phonograph’s Horned Mouth,” trans. Stephen Sartarelli, in Kahn and
Whitehead, eds., Wireless Imagination, p. 44.
233 /////
I i D / O CORPSE
erations that will never know you, every idle thought, every fond fancy,
every vain word that you choose to whisper against this thin iron dia¬
phragm.”23 Moreover, following the invention of the phonograph,
Edison became embroiled in public disputes about the afterlife, and
even worked for a time on a device intended to establish contact with
the “memory swarms” of the soul.24 A similar “outbreak of ancient
speculations”—to use Pound’s phrase—occurs with the invention of
telegraphy. In the Century magazine in 1902, for example, a writer
observes of the wireless, “It would be almost like dreamland and
ghostland, not the ghostland created by a heated imagination, but a
real communication from a distance based on true physical laws.”25
Views such as these—a mere sampling of a pervasive orientation—
suggest that Pound, by embracing radio in the context of fascism,
transposes into a technological and highly politicized realm his most
esoteric concerns with death, memory, and radioactive energies. The
nostalgic and fetishized properties of the Image—its cryptic dimen¬
sion—find direct material and technical expression in the medium of
radio as it develops under fascism. Indeed, given the associations hov¬
ering about the phonographic and telephonic media, I am inclined to
say that the ideological medium of radio is always present in the most
archaic configurations of the modernist Image, whether we have in
mind the magical and lethal effects of radiation, the ventriloquism of
Pound’s translations of the dead, the art of memory, or the genealog¬
ical tracing of the ideogram to primitive “drumming languages” (GK
98). This persistent emphasis on lost, dead, or forgotten phenomena
culminates, I would argue, in the fascist discourse of mythological
“possession,” in which the disparate features of political and economic
life are magically unified and frozen into an image of the past.
As an implement of what Michael Taussig calls “State fetishism,”
the radio is distinguished from the gramophone above all by its char¬
acter as a muss medium, and is therefore implicated historically in the
23. Edison, cited in Kahn, “Death in Light of the Phonograph,” p. 93. Kahn’s essay
probes the necrophilic dimension of the history of phonographic media.
24. Wyn Wachhorst discusses Edison’s interest in parapsychology in Thomas Alva
Edison: An American Myth (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1981), pp. 137-141. See
also Kahn, “Death in Light of the Phonograph,” for a more speculative reading of the
convergence of technology and spiritualism in Edison’s work.
25. P. T. McGrath, cited in Whitehead, “Out of the Dark,” p. 254.
/////234
Radioactivity
discourse of crowd psychology. In a paper on the relation between

crowd psychology and the avant-garde, Robert Nye observes, “Crowd
psychologists [such as Gustave LeBon] also paid homage in their
writings to the power of modern communications networks to create
vast crowds—"publics’—by the simultaneous generation of "mental
images’ and currents of opinion.”26 Hitler, who was a disciple of
LeBon’s theory of crowds, appears to have assimilated direcdy into
the radio practice of National Socialism these opinions regarding the
susceptibility of crowds to ‘"mythological” images.27 Alice Yaeger
Kaplan develops what she calls ""the concept of the radio crowd” in
relation to fascism, explaining, “The fascist position on radio was fig¬
uratively, not literally, collective: the ideal fascist broadcast, whether
monitored individually or in a crowd, should extend the listener into
an imaginary crowd spirit” (Reproductions of Banality 136). Pound’s
conception of radio is likewise permeated by the “crowd spirit”: he
repeatedly emphasizes its “democratic” properties, even as he con¬
demns its pernicious effects on the “herd.” From a broader perspec¬
tive, his “surrender” to the medium of radio can be viewed as
recuperating his interest in the “Unanimisme” of Jules Romains (a
proto-avant-garde movement that constitutes a shadowy dimension of
the earliest writings on Imagism).
In her essay on the fascist radio broadcasts of the French collabo¬
rator Lucien Rebatet, Kaplan writes, “The persuasive efficacy of radio
was not merely a historic factor in the success of fascism. A discourse
on radio, as well as a discourse miming radio, played an important
role in the versions of successful social reality propagated by fascist
intellectuals” (Reproductions of Banality 138). I want to make a similar
claim about Pound: long before radio became a significant element of
his cultural and political practice, Pound displayed in his theorization
of the Image an affinity for figures that are essential to the history of
phonographic and telephonic media (inscription, transmission, radi¬
ation, and reanimation). Having said this, I must emphasize, in
26. Robert A. Nye, “Savage Crowds, Modernism, and Modern Politics,” paper deliv¬
ered at a conference titled “Prehistories of the Future: Primitivism, Modernism, Poli¬
tics,” California Institute of Technology, 1992.
27. My source for the information concerning Hitler’s knowledge of LeBon’s crowd
theory is Gombrich, Myth and Reality in German War-Time Broadcasts, p. 4.
235 /////
ft A D I O CORPSE
Pound’s case, that his views about radio, and the technical media in
general, are not simply dialectical but antithetical. Thus, as I have
indicated, Pound views radio as a natural extension of fascism’s trans¬
formative, mythographic character, yet he also equates it with the
“subhuman transmissions” of Jewish influence (RB 159). Radio is at
once the essence of fascism and the mediumistic equivalent of the Jew.
A similar schism develops in his conception of radio as a medium that
both fosters and inhibits expression or thought. In 1940 Pound
declares, “Free speech without freedom of radio is a mere goldfish in
a bowl” (SP 303)—a view that he is fond of repeating in his broad¬
casts. Yet he also attacks radio as a “devil box” that pacifies the “herd”
of “goyim,” as a medium bearing “unconscious agents . . . poisonous
as the germs of the bubonic plague” (RB 100, 238). Radio is at once
the last refuge of “free speech” and a modern pestilence, a kind of
shock therapy that either electrifies or electrocutes the mind.
In certain respects, the contradictory nature of Pound’s position
merely reflects the ambiguity characterizing society’s response as a
whole to new technical media. Concerning the public reception of the
phonograph, for example, Charles Grivel writes, “Demand and sup¬
pression went together, the desire to preserve the voice and anxiety
generated by the spectacle of one’s own self (its excessive coherence,
its ‘eternity’)” (“Horned Mouth” 41). There is a special significance,
however, to the antithetical character of Pound’s response to radio,
since he recognizes, with some displeasure, a basic correspondence
between radiophonic practice and the ideogrammic technique of the
Cantos: “I anticipated the damn thing [radio] in first third of Cantos”
(L 343). When Pound talks about radio, therefore, he is also reflecting
upon the formal innovation that is most prominently associated with
the Cantos: the ideogrammic technique. He is also, more obliquely,
reflecting upon the political unconscious of the ideogrammic medium.
Pound’s antithetical discourse on radio offers a devastating anatomy—
a deconstruction—of the imagistic basis of the Cantos.
Phantom Transmissions
Two years before he died, Pound added a brief foreword to the 1970
edition of his memoir of the sculptor Gaudier-Brzeska. His final assess-
///// 236
Radioactivity
ment of the memoir, which was originally published in 1916, is almost

apologetic in tone: “It falls into place as a footnote on what was visible
to one spectator in 1913 and 14.”28 In retrospect, he claims, the
memoir is merely a “footnote” to an era he once called (in one of his
radio speeches) “the romantic period of my life” (RB 245). What’s
more, the memoir is said to be the work of a “spectator”—a modest
claim, indeed, for a work whose polemical vigor often disturbs the task
of mourning. The unassuming yet anomalous presence of this
stranger, who appears for the first time in the appended foreword,
alerts the reader to a silent breach, a schism, in the one who remembers
the dead.
According to views that Pound held during the time he compiled
the materials for the memoir, the passive figure of the spectator would
be harshly judged as a relic of antiquated poetic values, a counterpart
to the “sensitive” poet who is susceptible to ghosts. Clearly, the
“spectator” Pound refers to is not himself as he was in 1913, a militant
figure in the artistic developments of the period, but the Pound of
1970: an observer of the distant past, a man on the brink of his own
grave, who installs the passive figure of the spectator in a final attempt
to appease the vengeful ghosts of Gaudier’s crypt. The memoir is thus
a footnote to a “text” that can be deciphered—and suppressed—only
from the vantage point of the “spectator.” As “a footnote on what
was visible,” it also anchors and eventually betrays the invisible features
of an era dominated in Pound’s mind by the Image. That is to say,
the memoir of Gaudier-Brzeska harbors a traumatic figure (the Image)
that will appear only “in translation”—in the broadcast transmissions
of Radio Rome. Further, the belated foreword to this book of
mourning, so easily overlooked, is a Vor- text of passivity that threatens
to engulf the defiant voices of its narrator and its subject. Thus, even
as late as 1970, the memoir, and the doctrine of the Image that it
enunciates, are haunted by a passive regime of spectatorship and spir¬
itualism.
A footnote “falls into place” beneath a mound of words as a cadaver
falls away from itself into resemblance (Latin cadere, “to fall”). Pound
calls the memoir “a footnote on what was visible,” a garbled missive
28. The foreword appears on the unnumbered frontispiece to Gaudier-Brzeska: A

Memoir (New York: New Directions, 1970).
237 /////
U A D I O CORPSE
from the grave that falls outside the picture, so to speak—a blindspot
in the purview of the “spectator.” The memoir is, after all, a literary
crypt, a dwelling place for Gaudier’s restless phantom. Yet as a foot¬
note to a missing text, the memoir is a crypt of another sort: a place
that holds what must be sequestered from discourse, a place that is
the underworld of a text, the origin of certain unwelcome transmis¬
sions. Amplified by textual and biographical coincidence, these trans¬
missions eventually intercept the fascist radio broadcasts that Pound
makes during World War II. Swayed by the “tribal magic” of radio,
Pound automatically “translates” the signals emanating from Gau¬
dier’s crypt—a footnote broadcasting the garbled “text” to which it
will one day be appended, but only in retrospect. These phantom
transmissions must therefore be understood as effects of an unmourn-
able death: not only the loss of Gaudier, but the final interment of the
Image as corpse and phantom. In the radio broadcasts, the submerged
pattern of mourning that disfigures the memoir is projected into the
technical media (principally radio), which Pound views as extensions
of the artist’s hypersensitive faculties. Hence, the Image lying in Gau¬
dier’s crypt looms as a vengeful ghost in the radio broadcasts. Ulti¬
mately, Pound’s use of the radio should be understood as a media
seance with the dead—a final, devastating episode of Imagism.
Since the link between Gaudier’s crypt and the radio broadcasts is
not strictly one of influence, and since the remoteness of one voice
from the other is essential to their proximity, it may be useful to say
a few words about the unorthodox channels that sustain my reading
of the radio speeches. The broadcasts are the catastrophic end to a
period of aberrant mourning that coincides with the spell exerted by
the Image over Pound’s poetry and thought. Not surprisingly, the
phantom that wreaks vengeance on Pound through the broadcasts is
reluctant to identify itself. Although it is Gaudier’s crypt that transmits
the interference translated by Pound, the identity of the phantom
exceeds that of Gaudier alone; for Gaudier already displaces an earlier
figure, Will Smith (another dead Image-maker). The phantom
Gaudier is, moreover, both magnetized and contaminated by the dis¬
quieting celebrity of Antheil, as well as by various phantasmic relations
in Pound’s family history. Though the phantom’s identity remains
ambiguous, we can detect its disruptive presence in the panoply of
///// 238
Radioactivity
bizarre voices, the incoherence, and the vicious accusations repeated

obsessively in the broadcasts. Nor is Pound’s own account of his rela¬
tion to the phantom any more revealing, since his words are con¬
strained by his debt to a legendary—that is to say, phantasmic—figure
whose premature death in World War I shocked and saddened the
London avant-garde. As we shall see, Pound’s debt arises from a death
wish that inadvertently comes true. “Such a debt,” according to Avital
Ronell, “always falls due to a figure whose loss is as deeply desired as
it is regretted.”29
In certain limited respects, the phantom that disfigures Pound’s
voice in the radio broadcasts can be understood as a source of speech,
a cache of real words, vengefully conceived and later summoned by
the “medium” of radio to fulfill its disastrous end. The atrocious
enthusiasm of Pound’s views on race and economics, for example,
might be heard as an imitation of youth, a replay that is also a disfig¬
uring, an attempt to master Gaudier’s “Paleolithic Vortex” (“written
from the trenches”):
This war is a great remedy.

In the individual it kills arrogance, self-esteem, pride.
It takes away from the masses numbers upon numbers of
unimportant units, whose economic activities become noxious,
as the recent trade crises have shown us. (GB27)
Remembering his friend, Pound writes, “In undertaking this book I

am doing what little I can to carry out his desire” (GB 19). This
“undertaking” culminates in the radio broadcasts, where Pound min¬
gles his own desire with that of Gaudier. Authorized by twenty years
of silence, the words of the phantom surface unexpectedly, rising to a
question that is nothing more than a lure for ghosts, a question so
simple that Pound cannot answer it alone: “Well, why pick on the
Jew? I have heard the term ‘Jewish impertinence,’ in fact Gaudier-
Brzeska used to use it” (RB 53). This statement, which Pound made
during one of the broadcasts, evokes a passage that he excised from
later editions of his memoir of Gaudier. In the original edition of the
memoir, Pound cites a notebook of Gaudier’s, which includes, he
29. Avital Ronell, Dictations: On Haunted Writings (Bloomington: Indiana Univer¬

sity Press, 1986), pp. 4-5.
239 /////
A D I O CORPSE
claims, “a consideration of ‘La Question Juive,’ containing the state¬

ments that lUn Juif a tort d’abord parce-que Juifest un etre prati-
quant une religion absurde,’ and that Christ’s reform was ‘contre le
nationalisms. ’ ”30 (“ ‘A Jew is wrong first of all because Jew is a being
who practices an absurd religion’; Christ’s reform was ‘against nation¬
alism.’’ ”) This passage, absent from the current edition of the memoir,
not only confirms the importance of Gaudier as a source for Pound’s
anti-Semitism, but helps establish the actual character of Gaudier’s
phantasmatic influence on the radio broadcasts. The mingling of anti-
Semitism and nationalism in Gaudier’s views must surely have seemed
prescient to Pound in 1942. Aside from the question of whether Gau¬
dier’s influence is real or virtual, however, the phonographic aspect of
the radio speeches (which were prerecorded) establishes the idea of a
posthumous voice. Indeed, as Alice Kaplan notes, “It is the reproduced
voice, rather than the voice itself, that conveys the archaic values
demanded by so-called antimodernist fascist rhetoric” (Reproductions
of Banality 134). Recording technology allowed Pound to lay his own
voice—or that of a phantom—to rest, so that it might rise from the
tomb of the Image.
In spite of the paucity of direct evidence, the pressure exerted by
the phantom in the radio broadcasts is unmistakable. The source of
this pressure, according to Nicolas Abraham, is not words actually
spoken by the dead, but the unspeakable: “The words which the
phantom uses to carry out its return ... do not refer to a source of
speech . . . Instead, they point to a gap, that is, the unspeakable.”31
What haunts Pound, therefore, is not, by and large, Gaudier’s actual
words, but “the gaps left within us by the secrets of others” (“Notes
on the Phantom” 287). The radio speeches are haunted by the
unspeakable: not only by views and opinions that are unforgivable
among the living, but by words the dead never dared to utter. Pound
is forced to speak for the dead. During the broadcasts, for example,
he is continually alert to what he calls “the history of secret controls”
(RB 326) exerted over himself and others. “Roosevelt,” he declares,
“is MOVED by others; and does not act propio motu” (RB 94).
30. Pound, Gaudier-Brzeska (London: John Lane, 1916), p. 42.

31. Nicolas Abraham, “Notes on the Phantom: A Complement to Freud’s Metapsy¬
chology,” trans. Nicholas Rand, Critical Inquiry 13, no. 2 (Winter 1987): 290.
/////240
Radioactivity
Roosevelt is no more than a zombie, according to Pound—an autom¬

aton manipulated by forces beyond his control. Elsewhere, Pound
warns his audience of dangers that have a special bearing on his own
internal predicament: “Can you MEET one another? Your air isn’t free.
Open organizations have been ‘put inside’ . . . Nothing but SECRET
organization” (RB 68). Although Pound would not admit to external
controls operating within himself, he declared to the foreign minister
of the Salo government that his broadcasts were “guided by an interior
light” (SC 632).
At the other end of the line is Gaudier’s crypt, haunted not only by
the ravenous ghost of the young sculptor, but by the specter of mass
death rising from the battlefields of World War I. The correspondence
between Gaudier’s crypt and the radio broadcasts may be said to orig¬
inate in a common awareness of death, both public and private.
Beyond this rudimentary observation, however, the trail disappears.
The inscrutable link between one place of hiding and another,
between transmitter and receiver, can be recovered from the “ambient
air” only by coincidence, by circumstantial evidence, and by recon¬
structing the submerged relation between the Image, technology, and
the phantom in Pound’s poetics. Faced with a similar problem of
absent witnesses, Avital Ronell makes the following observation about
her cryptological analysis of Goethe and Freud: “Any gamble on a
type of intertextuality that would deal with telepathic channels
involves a risk, of course; for example, when one aims to exceed
Freud’s own calculations, the calculation at which one arrives could
amount to a seemingly extravagant reliance on coincidence and
chance” (Dictations 5). The risk, “of course,” is that an investigation
may prove to be interminable: “The calculation which takes into
account some apparent coincidences in order to unmask them might
turn out to be inexhaustible” (5).
The Imagist movement springs from a desire to eliminate the dan¬
gers of uncertainty and excess. Generally, Pound associates these dan¬
gers with passivity, or susceptibility to the pleasures of the grave:
ghosts, materiality, sentiment. In spite of the powerful taboos against
such dangers that Pound enunciates in the name of the Image, his
poetry frequently manages to circumvent these prohibitions without
actually violating them. His translations from the Noh theater, fol-
241 /////
A D I O CORPSE
lowing the example of his early crypt poems, allow the poet to yield
to the enchantment of the grave without abandoning the principles
of Imagism. Under these circumstances the Image becomes an
emblem of what I will call “magical realism” (borrowing a phrase from
Ernst Jimger).32 The tensions inherent in the concept of magical
realism culminate in the radio broadcasts, where the poet upholds the
prohibition against passively receiving the Image in the guise of a
phantom, even as he occupies the place of the phantom and therefore
carries out the work of a dictator (the one who does the talking, who
gives dictation, instead of receiving it). Like a somnambulist, the poet
speaking over the air walks a tightrope between technology and
unreason, science and mimetic enchantment, action and passivity.
Most critics take at face value Pound’s insistence on action and will
power in poetry as well as politics (a posture which takes shape in the
context of Imagism). Jean-Michel Rabate, however, argues that “pas¬
sivity is at work behind Pound’s often vehement praise of active, i.e.,
creative personalities.”33 Rabate views the structure of the ideo-
grammic Image as inherently passive: “Pound’s ideogrammic proce¬
dure of‘heaping up’ the components of thought” presupposes “the
profound passivity of the subject as he writes, which allows him to be
the recipient of quotations and other discourses” (Language, Sexu¬
ality, and Ideology 9). Rabate’s articulation of passivity is essentially
a theory of ghosts, which sees the poet as inhabited by “other” dis¬
courses, or by language itself. Combining elements of Heideggerian
and Lacanian thought, Rabate characterizes the speaking subject of
the Cantos as “a discontinuity in the real, a fading presence” (20),
whose susceptibility to other voices derives from the passivity of the
“ideogrammic method,” which depends on the reception of frag¬
ments charged with “subconscious energies.”
Pound’s resistance to passivity (a danger that is analogous to the
“power of putrefaction”) travels through a chain of figures that stand
for the most conventional trope of the Image: the mirror. Pound tar¬
gets the mirror through various figures of enchantment, including
32. For a discussion of the origins of the term “magical realism,” see Matthias Eberle,
World War I and the Weimar Artists (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985), p. 128.
33. Jean-Michel Rabate, Language, Sexuality, and Ideology in Ezra Pound’s Cantos
(Albany: SUNY Press, 1986), p. 10.
///// 242
Radioactivity
mimesis, the phantom, and technology, only to find that these figures
haunt his own conception of the Image. The mirror is a commonplace
trope for mimesis, but it may also be understood as a crude but com¬
pelling form of visual technology. In addition, we learn from an early
poem, “Und Drang,” that Pound conceives of the phantom as a
mirror:
If thou hast seen my shade sans character

If thou hast seen that mirror of all moments,
That glass to all things that o’ershadow it,
Call not that mirror me, for I have slipped
Your grasp, I have eluded. (CEP 172)
The association between ghost and mirror is not surprising, since a

ghost is a shade, a shadow—an Image of the dead. The passivity and
enchantment associated with the mirror are aspects of the Image that
Pound could accommodate in his poetry only surreptitiously. The ten¬
sions underlying this duplicity culminate in apocalyptic fashion in the
radio broadcasts, where Pound disappears into the “acoustic mirror”
of radio and assumes the place of the phantom.34 He thus resolves his
aversion to the specular properties of the Image by becoming an
Image, or a shade, himself: a disembodied voice that is visited upon
his listeners. He makes the distance between the living and the dead
absolute by eliminating it through the transmission of his own pos-
thumized voice.
Pound says that the Image heralds “a revival of the sense of realism”
(GB 113), yet has nothing to do with mimesis. We should not confuse
realism and mimesis, he warns. Mimetic art is mechanistic and passive:
“Works of art attract by a resembling unlikeness. Colloquial poetry is
to the real art as the barber’s wax dummy is to sculpture” (SP 43-
44). The Imagist poet, on the other hand, “should depend, of course,
on the creative, not the mimetic or representational part in his work”
(GB 86). In his work on the Japanese Noh theater—an important
arena for Imagist poetics—Pound discovers what he believes to be a
strongly antimimetic bias: “The common theater, the place of mimicry
34. The phrase “acoustic mirror” is from Kaja Silverman’s account of the posthum-
ized voice in the cinema. See Silverman, The Acoustic Mirror: The Female Voice in Psy¬
choanalysis and Cinema (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988).
243 /////
Radio corpse
and direct imitation of life, has always been looked down upon in
Japan” (T219). Furthermore, “The merely mimetic stage has been
despised . . . The Noh holds up a mirror to nature in a manner very
different from the Western convention” (T221). Even more emphat¬
ically, with regard to the state of affairs in London before the first
World War, Pound declares, “In every art I can think of we are clogged
and dammed by the mimetic” (SP42). According to the explicit aims
of his agenda, this statement suggests that mimetic values are blocking
the flow of new art. Yet another sort of blockage may be occurring
under the guise of mimesis. It is not, perhaps, a new wave of poetry
but the pressure of the supernatural that has accumulated behind the
wall of mimesis. Mimesis, according to Adorno, is a reservoir of
enchantment: “The immediate sensuous presence of art’s enchanting
quality, which is a vestige of the magical stage of history, is constantly
being repudiated by the demystification of the real world without
being entirely erased. It is this enchanting quality which preserves the
mimetic moment in art.”35 If Adorno is right, what Pound senses
behind the wall of mimesis is a horde of ghosts, a residue of the
enchanted world that appears in his early poetry. The figure of mimesis
itself becomes a crypt harboring ghosts that will later be released
through the radio broadcasts.
The power of passivity is almost always present as a subtext in
Pound’s discussions of the Image, which are generally critical of “a
fashion of passivity that has held since the romantic movement” (LE
433-434). The epigraph to the original edition of the memoir, which
appears on the same unnumbered page as the foreword, is attributed
to Machiavelli: “Gli uomini vivono in pochi e gli altri son pecorelle”
(“Men live through the existence of the few; the rest are sheep”). This
citation transmits a disdain for passivity that is both defensive and
readily convertible to its opposite by the time Pound commences the
radio broadcasts. It compares the majority of people to sheep who
blindly follow the members of an elite (“gli pochi”). The statement
also implies a kind of mental displacement or transference, a passivity
that allows the minds of many to be controlled, secretly, by the minds
of a few. Pound, of course, identifies himself as a member of the elect.
35. Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, trans. C. Lenhardt (London: Roudedge

Kegan Paul, 1984), p. 86.
///// 244
Radioactivity
Although Machiavelli’s (and Pound’s) scorn for the masses is evi¬

dent, there is no indication that reform is either possible or desirable.
The radio broadcasts, however, which also express disdain and con¬
demnation of “the herd,” are intent on altering the docile habits of
the public. The sheep that Machiavelli refers to become, in the radio
broadcasts, “Goyim or cattle” who are “milked, skinned alive, hog
tied, sent out to slaughter, or drowned like blind mice in the steerage”
(RB 339). Pound’s zeal to reform his listeners springs from his dis¬
covery of a counter-elite that challenges the hegemony of his own
artistic-intellectual cadre: the Jews, he believes, now secretly control
the lives of the herd. In the case of Machiavelli’s statement, Pound
condones the relation of shepherd and beast because he considers him¬
self to be one of the elite. In the case of the supposed Jewish domi¬
nation of the West, he deplores such influence. The vicious
anti-Semitism of many of the broadcasts does not seem to be affected,
however, by Pound’s recognition that he and the Jews share a
common role in relation to the herd. “The yidd,” Pound declares, “is
a stimulant, and the goyim are cattle in gt/proportion and go to sale¬
able slaughter with the maximum of docility” (C 74: 453). Pound,
like the Jew, is a “stimulant” or agitator. Both are locked in a struggle
for control over the life of the herd. We can therefore explain Pound’s
anti-Semitism, in part, as an effect of this imagined rivalry.
What is important for our purposes is that Pound associates Jewish
domination with control over the media, and over radio in particular.
In one speech, he asks, “What chance have the scattered [the artistic
and intellectual counter-elite] against the super-Zukor, sub-human
transmissions of EVERY radio station in your Jew ridden country?”
(RB 159). These transmissions, which supposedly emanate from a
domain that is both above (“super-Zukor”) and below (“sub¬
human”) the condition of most listeners, “paralyz[e] the nucleus of
will in the goyim victim” (RB 297). When Pound received his first
radio set as a gift from Natalie Barney in 1940, he speculated about
its effect on listeners: “Blasted friends left a goddam radio here yester.
Gift. God damn destructive and dispersive devil of an invention. But
got to be faced . . . Anybody who can survive may strengthen inner
life, but mass of apes and worms will be still further rejuiced to pas¬
sivity. Hell a state of passivity? Or limbo??” (L 342). Not only is the
245 /////
A D I O CORPSE
radio a source of “sub-human transmissions,” but it arrives like an

infernal gift from the underworld, transforming the mind of the public
into a living hell. The poor animals who listen undergo a kind of shock
therapy: subjected to waves of electrical current, they are eventually
“rejuiced to passivity.” Considering Pound’s fears about the associa¬
tion of radio technology with passivity and the underworld, we should
not be surprised that he later chooses to install himself in what he
believes to be a position of control: he seizes the microphone himself
in order to channel the dangerous power of the new medium. By
tapping into the tribal magic of radio, however, he puts himself on
the receiving end of transmissions emanating from Gaudier’s crypt, a
place that harbors a death wish transformed into a hungry ghost, a
vault of ineffable desire.
Pound views the technical media (radio, cinema, and so on) as dan¬
gerous forms of mediation that rob “true” art and its audience of
vitality. Indeed, he regards technology in general with profound mis¬
trust. In the radio broadcasts, he attributes the passivity of the goyim
(his listeners) in part to a subservient relation to technology: “AND if
you are more than cattle? If you rate yourselves above cows and sheep,
you will in defense of that rating have to ask YOURSELVES whether
men are more important than mere machinery. Whether you intend
to be slaves, lifelong slaves, hereditary slaves to machinery and whether
you propose to sell your children and your grandchildren into long-
lasting slavery to usurers and to machinery” (RB 49). The insidious
power of technology reaches deep into our hereditary past, the realm
of the dead, as well as into the future, the realm of the unborn. What’s
more, Pound’s fears about technology coincide with his condemna¬
tion of usury.
Pound’s uneasiness about the technical media comes to light long
before he encounters and finally surrenders to radio. He defines Ima-
gism, for example, in part by contrasting it with the “impressionism”
of the cinema. “Imagism is not Impressionism,” he declares. “The
logical end of impressionism is the cinematograph [the motion picture
camera]. The state of mind of the impressionist tends to become cine-
matographical” (GB 85, 89). Elsewhere, he states, “The cinema is
not an art . . . The cinema is the furthest possible remove from all
things which interest one as an art critic” (EPVA 79). He concludes
/ ////246
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his attack on the cinema by remarking, “The cinema is the phono¬

graph of appearance” (EPVA 79). A link between phonography and
the passivity associated with the “cinematographical” mind appears
again in “Hugh Selwyn Mauberley.” Deploring the vulgarity of the
modern era, the poet complains:
The “age demanded” chiefly a mould in plaster,

Made with no loss of time,
A prose kinema, not, not assuredly, alabaster
Or the “sculpture” of rhyme. (P 188)
Furthermore, he laments, the crude phonographic apparatus of the

“pianola” (player piano) replaces the lyre:
The tea-rose, tea-gown, etc.

Supplants the mousseline of Cos,
The pianola “replaces”
Sappho’s barbitos. (P189)
Pound relates the sensibility associated here with the new technical
media to the sensibility of kitsch. Moreover, the passivity of the “cin¬
ematograph” corresponds in the poem to the “mediumistic” sensi¬
bility of the character Mauberley. Thus, Pound’s resistance to the
technical media, and later to the medium of radio, must be understood
as a dimension of his anxiety about kitsch—not only its vulgarity and
its mass appeal, but its mythographic potency.
In an article on Arnold Dolmetsch, Pound writes, “Our ears are
passive before the onslaught of gramophones and pianolas.”36 A sim¬
ilar sense of the mesmerizing but also degenerative aspect of phonog¬
raphy emerges in a passage of Canto 29:
(Let us speak of the osmosis of persons)

The wail of the phonograph has penetrated their marrow
(Let us . . .
The wail of the pornograph. . . .). (C29: 134)
These statements suggest that listening to the gramophone, a device

related to the “devil box” of the radio, is akin to being mesmerized
by the noise of mechanical Sirens or the furious wailing of ghosts.
Pound also hated using the telephone, which he once referred to as
36. Pound, Pavannes and Divisions (New York: Knopf, 1918), p. 260.
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A D I O CORPSE
the “gorbloody tHellerfone” (SC 415), suggesting that it, too, like
the radio and gramophone, forced him to accept what Laurence
Rickels calls a “telepathic call from the phantom realm.”37 For Pound,
the technical media reopened lines of communication with the dead
and the illicit realm of mimetic enchantment. “The cult of the dead
in any given culture,” Rickels explains, “is coextensive with the media
extension of the senses current in that culture” (Aberrations of
Mourning 297).
It is precisely the supernatural aspect of the technical media that
produced a schism in Pound’s attitudes about technology. Although
he frequently condemned the media, as we have seen, he was also
remarkably sensitive and responsive to a number of technological
developments. Inspired perhaps by Marinetti’s concept of the “wire¬
less imagination,” which exploits the telepathic effects of the media,
Pound marvels at man’s ability to make “electricity carry language
through air” (ABC 19). As early as 1913, he shows an interest in
Marconi’s invention of “the wireless telegraph” (Lfj47), and imagines
radio technology from the standpoint of a medieval mind: “A medi¬
eval ‘natural philosopher’ would find this modern world full of
enchantments, not only the light in the electric bulb, but the thought
of the current hidden in air and in wire would give him a mind full of
forms” (LE 154-155). More important, Pound projects his fascina¬
tion with hidden currents of energy and with telecommunication into
a psychological model where “the charged surface is produced
between the predominant natural poles of two human mechanisms”
(SR 94). He compares consciousness to “a great telephone central”38
or a telegraphic device: “Man is—the sensitive part of him—a mech¬
anism, for the purposes of our further discussion, a mechanism rather
like an electric appliance, switches, wires, etc. ... In the telegraph we
have a charged surface attracting to it, or registering movements in
the invisible ether” (SR 92-93).
One of the remarkable things about Pound’s electromechanical
conceptions of the body is their close relation to what he calls the
37. Laurence A. Rickels, Aberrations of Mourning: Writings on German Crypts

(Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1989), p. 4.
38. Pound, cited in Max Nanny, Ezra Pound: Poetics for an Electric Age (Bern:
Francke, 1973), p. 20.
/ / ///248
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“mediumistic artist,” a figure he usually associates with kitsch and the

despised regime of passivity. Pound constructs the poetics of Imag-
ism—at least ostensibly—in opposition to this figure: “There are, as
often has been said, two sorts of artists: the artist who moves through
his art, to whom it is truly a ‘medium,’ or a means of expression; and
secondly, there is the mediumistic artist, the one who can only exist
in his art, who is passive to impulse, who approaches more or less
nearly to the ‘sensitive,’ or to the somnambulistic medium” (GB 105-
106). Alert to the “current hidden in air,” the “sensitive” artist moves
through the world like a sleepwalker, “registering movements in the
invisible ether.” Pound also compares practitioners of what he calls
“automatic painting” to “somnolents or mediumistic persons”
(EPVA 8). Furthermore, he remarks, “It is not surprising that the
human mind in a state of lassitude or passivity should take on the
faculties of the unconscious or sub-human energies” (EPVA 8). In
the context of medieval love poetry, however, the passivity of the
medium takes on a visionary quality that overcomes the pernicious
effect of passivity alone: “The senses at first seem to project for a few
yards beyond the body. Effect of a decent climate where a man leaves
his nerve-set open, or allows it to tune into its ambience” (LE 152).
Pound archaicizes the analogy of the body as a technical medium by
projecting it into a pseudo-medieval context: “Did this ‘chivalric love,’
this exotic, take on mediumistic properties? . . . Did it lead to an
‘exteriorization of the sensibility’?” (SR 94).
Clearly, Pound’s “conception of the body as perfect instrument of
increasing intelligence” (LE 152) must be considered in relation to
his thinking about technology. The technical media—especially
radio—should therefore be understood, from Pound’s perspective, as
new organs of the body that extend the perceptual and expressive
range of the mediumistic artist. The medium acts as both receiver and
transmitter, drawing ghosts from the “ambient air,” and translating,
in turn, the “movements in invisible ether.” These electrosomatic
analogies regarding chivalric love and new forms of intelligence antic¬
ipate the experience of telepathic mourning that governs the radio
broadcasts. Instead of pulling in erotic signals or new signs of life, the
radio poet picks up phantom transmissions from a forgotten crypt—
thus confirming Laurence Rickels’ observation that “every point of
249 /////
Radio corpse
contact between a body and its media extensions marks the site of
some secret burial” (Aberrations of Mourning 360).
Given the historical speculations about radio’s relation to spiritu¬
alism, we might usefully ask whether Pound’s conception of radio
doesn’t resemble a kind of ventriloquism originating with the dead—
a conception that also resembles, of course, his views on translation.
The exteriorization and projection of the voice that occurs on the
radio has obvious parallels with the act of ventriloquism, as well as
with the experience of haunting. Nicolas Abraham observes, “The
phantom’s periodic and compulsive return lies beyond the scope of
symptom-formation in the sense of a return of the repressed; it works
like a ventriloquist, like a stranger within the subject’s own mental
topography” (“Notes on the Phantom” 289-290). The unspoken
words of the body are also the inescapable words of an angry ghost
who taps into the radio broadcasts, confessing incoherently, “Belated.
I am belated. I am not an alarm clock” (RB 131). Pound defers the
scene of awakening over the air, even as the effects of a death long
forgotten signal a state of emergency (the fascist State).
The somnambulist eventually finds himself in a chair behind a
microphone, making radio broadcasts. Pound’s notion of the medi-
umistic artist prefigures the moment when he himself will occupy the
place of the phantom in the radio broadcasts. Spirits haunt the voice
of radio, yet it overcomes the dangerous regime of passivity by trans¬
mitting the interference from beyond and by controlling, in turn, the
thoughts of its stupefied listeners. The mediumistic poet, like the voice
of radio, is “the one who can only exist in his art, who is passive to
impulse” (GB 106); that is, he identifies with the dead—the subject
and source of his art. The extended sensorium of the medium—the
voice inside the radio—mimics the telepathic faculties of the dead,
who are able to communicate with the living. When Pound occupies
the place of the phantom in the radio broadcasts, his voice departs
from his body in a manner that reconstitutes the young poet described
by Dorothy Shakespear in 1909: “He has learned to live beside his
body. I see him as a double person—just held together by the flesh.
His spirit walks beside him, on the left-hand side—He has conquered
the needs of the flesh—He can starve; nay, is willing, to starve that
his spirit may bring forth the ‘highest of arts’—poetry” (P/S 5). The-
/////250
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disappearance of the body through starvation presents a phantasmic

spectacle among the living.39 The poet who becomes a phantom over
the radio brings to completion his life’s work as a “hunger artist.”
Magical Realism
How strange! That place, which seemed like a grave, is now lighted up
from within, and has become like a human dwelling, where people are
talking, and setting up looms for spinning, and painted sticks. It must
be an illusion.
—From Nishikigi, a Noh drama by Motokiyo, translated by Ezra Pound
Pound’s resistance to the technical media provides the essential

ground of his belated but enthusiastic participation in radio broad¬
casting. He surrenders for what are apparently pragmatic reasons, such
as his desire to communicate directly with as many people as possible
through the radio broadcasts (an impulse we can view as a revival of
his interest in crowd psychology), but he also, more importantly, sur¬
renders to the variety of enchantment encrypted in the media. He
defuses the threat of hyperrationality associated with the media (which
is also secretly attractive) by exploiting their atavistic spell. Taking a
cue from his earliest speculations about “radiant” Images, Pound
incorporates reason into the telepathic effects of radio. Hence, tech¬
nology, like the figure of the Image, becomes an occasion for the
reconciliation of reason and irrationality, science and the supernatural,
action and passivity. More specifically, as I mentioned earlier, Pound
views the antithetical medium of radio as either the essence of fascism
or the instrument of a Jewish “plague,” as the last refuge of free speech
or a menace to full speech. In this regard, Pound’s contradictory views
on radio are symptomatic of Jeffrey Herfs conception of “reactionary
modernism,” which establishes a framework for the “reconciliation of
technology and unreason.”40
39. See William R. La Fleur, “Hungry Ghosts and Hungry People: Somaticity and
Rationality in Medieval Japan,” Zone: Fragments for a History of the Human Body, Part
1 (1989): 270-303.
40. Jeffrey Herf, Reactionary Modernism: Technology, Culture, and Politics in Weimar
and the Third Reich (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), p. 2.
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Herf devotes considerable attention to Ernst Jiinger, whose vision

of technology’s role in society focuses on the concept of what he calls
“magical realism.” In 1927 Jiinger describes the rise of German
nationalism in the following terms: “It is the view which manifests
itself in our time in those images of magical realism in whose spaces
every line of the outer world is recorded with the precision of a math¬
ematical formula, and whose coldness, although in a fashion that is
both inexplicable and transparent, illuminates and warms a magical
background” (Herf, Reactionary Modernism 83). Jiinger’s strategy
calls for the use of oxymorons such as “magical realism” to naturalize
the integration of technology and unreason in fascist ideology. He
declares, for example, that the photographic camera produces images
of “mathematical demonism” (99)—a variation of the oxymoron
“magical realism.” Jiinger’s rhetoric is designed to awaken the public
to the supernatural effects of the media (thereby defusing the threat
of hyperrationality), even as it requires submission to the “realistic”
images produced by the media. To this end, Herf argues, Jiinger
“advocated a ‘heroic’ affirmation of passivity” (84). Thus, it is Jiing-
er’s protofascist conception of technology that effectively surmounts
the antinomy of heroism and passivity.
According to Herf, magical realism synthesizes “precision and pas¬
sion, rationality and magic, outer form and hidden will” (83). As we
have discovered, the qualities that Pound attributes to radio embody
similar dichotomies. Radio allows one to speak openly, directly,
without the intervention of “secret controls.” In other words, radio
is the only medium where “realism” is still possible. As for the medium
of print, Pound warns, “The press, your press, is a machine for
destroying the memory, the public memory” (RB 339). Thus, by
contrast, Pound implicates the medium of radio in the art of “public
memory”—though it also serves as a channel for personal memories,
thereby associating the mnemonic effects of radio with the occluded
origins of Imagism. Moreover, the radio is a “devil box,” a source of
“sub-human transmissions.” Radio’s memory broadcasts direct from
the underworld. Yet Pound occupies the place of the phantom in order
to speak frankly, to expose the reality of economic and cultural
bondage. The realism of radio is truly magical.
By reversing the historical projection of the radio phantom (which
///// 252
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moves forward in time), the incongruous features of magical realism

can be traced backward from Pound’s position on technology to the
inception of the Image. As an account of his torturous embrace of the
media, magical realism informs a constellation of terms that Pound
used to inflect the Image toward its spectral (and occluded) origins:
“phantastikon,” “phanopoeia,” and “phantasmagoria.” Pound’s use
of these terms in relation to Imagism anticipates the reconciliation
between action and passivity, reason and irrationality, that eventually
allows him to practice the medium of radio. All three words derive from
the Greek verb faino, meaning, in its active form, to bring to light, to
make to appear, to disclose, to reveal, or to give light. In its passive form,
the verb means to come to light, to be seen, to appear, or to come into
being. “Phantastikon” is the term Pound chooses to denote the Image¬
making faculty, which he claims extends several feet beyond the body,
enveloping it “like a soap-bubble reflecting sundry patches of the
macrocosmos” (SR 92). As Pound sees it, the phantastikon anticipates
historically the “new organs” of the technical media, which extend the
perceptual and expressive range of the poet’s body.
Although Pound insists that the concept of the phantastikon is rel¬
evant to the principles of Imagism (with its emphasis on the active
production of Images), the Greek term has distinctly passive conno¬
tations. Liddell and Scott define “phantastikon” as “the faculty of
being deluded by images,” while Ruthven has it meaning “receptive
of Images.”41 When Pound describes the term to Harriet Monroe, he
writes, “It has to do with the seeing of visions” (Ruthven, Round’s
Personae 56). In this sense, the phantastikon is a faculty that belongs
properly to the “mediumistic artist” who is “passive to impulse” and
susceptible to the presence of ghosts. By retaining the term “phan-
tasktikon,” Pound inserts a phantasmatic term, an element of the irra¬
tional, into the otherwise “realistic” orientation of Imagism.
A similar dichotomy animates the term “phanopoeia,” which Pound
uses as a synonym for Imagism. He defines “phanopoeia” as “a casting
of Images upon the visual imagination” (LE 25), and adds, “In Phan¬
opoeia we find the greatest drive toward utter precision of word” (LE
26). “Phanopoeia” thus denotes the aspect of Imagist poetics that is
41. K. K. Ruthven, A Guide to Pound’s ccPersonae33 (1926) (Berkeley: University of

253 /////
A D I O CORPSE
most familiar to readers—a concern with economy, precision, and

accuracy of representation. It is remarkable therefore to find that in
1918 Pound published a poem titled “Phanopoeia,” which depicts
visionary experience in a manner that recalls his earliest poetry (P
169-170). Moreover, reviewing the Others anthology in 1917, he links
the realist poetic of Imagism to “phantasmagoria” (a term that includes
the Greek word for ghost, phantasma). He makes reference to “Ima¬
gism, or poetry wherein the feelings of painting or sculpture are pre¬
dominant (certain men move in phantasmagoria; the images of their
gods, whole countrysides, stretches of hill, land, and forest, travel with
them)” (SP424). According to this statement, Imagism synthesizes
precise definition and magic, reason and the supernatural. This view is
echoed by Richard Aldington, who called Imagism “an accurate mys¬
tery.”42 In a passage from the essay “Psychology and Troubadours”
(which uses the term “psychology” in its archaic sense, as the study of
the soul-image), Pound explains, “In the Trecento the Tuscans are busy
with their phantastikon“ (SR 93). Later he adds, “The Tuscan poetry
is, however, of a time when the seeing of visions was considered respect¬
able, and the poet takes delight in definite portrayal of his visions” (SR
105).43 Pound implies here that his own age is one in which the seeing
of visions is not respectable (thus explaining, in part, his disavowal of
his early poetry, which is crowded with apparitions). If the contem¬
porary poet insists on representing such experience, he must find some
means to “screen himself from persecution” (SR 92). One way of
doing this is to emphasize the “definite portrayal of his visions.” To
some extent, the poet can legitimate the supernatural or magical char¬
acter of his subject by giving it a realistic “look”: the ghost must appear
to be real, and the landscape is precisely rendered. The poet fortifies the
42. Aldington, cited in Marianne Moore, “ ‘New’ Poetry since 1912,” The Complete
Prose of Marianne Moore, ed. Patricia C. Willis (New York: Viking, 1986), p. 120.
43. The notion that “the poet takes delight in definite portrayal of his visions” finds
its strongest proponent in Marianne Moore, who urges poets to become “literalists of
the imagination” and to “present for inspection ‘imaginary gardens with real toads in
them.1 ” This advice appears in her poem “Poetry.” The Complete Poems of Marianne
Moore (New York: Viking, 1967), p. 267. Regarding Pound’s influence on her writing,
Moore once wrote, “I have learned more from Ezra Pound about writing than from
anyone else—more that I value.” This statement appears in a blurb for The Letters of
Ezra Pound, 1907-1941, ed. D. D. Paige (London: Faber and Faber, 1951).
/ ////254
Radioactivity
rationality of his vision, and masks its phantasmatic origins, by empha¬

sizing technique. This scenario not only accounts for the emergence of
magical realism in Pound’s career; it describes how his early poetry,
which is haunted by the spirits of the dead, evolved into the rationalized
vision of Imagism.
During the years 1913-1915, Pound spent three winters with Wil¬
liam Butler Yeats at Stone Cottage, and became immersed, through
Yeats’s influence, in the occult. It was during this period that Pound
formulated the occult “Doctrine of the Image,” based in part on his
exposure to spiritualism. I have argued that Pound’s interest in ghosts
and the occult during these years should be read not as a new phe¬
nomenon, but rather as a revival of interests that played a major role
in his early poetry. The poem “Redondillas,” for example, written in
1910, reveals a familiarity with states of enchantment that not only
antedates his personal relationship with Yeats but looks ahead to the
psychology of the radio broadcasts:
I sing devils, thrones and dominions

At work in the air round about us,
Of powers ready to enter
And thrust our own being from us. (CEP219)
Four years later, having spent his second winter with Yeats at Stone
Cottage, Pound translates his early infatuation with the dead into a
Vorticist polemic: “We turn back, we artists, to the powers of the air,
to the djinn who were our allies aforetime, to the spirits of our ances¬
tors” (EPVA 182). Twenty-five years later, Pound’s use of the radio
and his conception of the technical media are still captive to the
“powers of the air”—a phrase that he borrows, probably through the
influence of Yeats, from William Blake.44
Pound’s letters during the period of his residence with Yeats reveal
that his reading material included works such as Lc Comte de Gablais,
on entretiens sur les sciences secretes (Paris, 1670), a work that deals
with “Rosicrucian philosophy” (P/S 293), and that served as the basis
of Alexander Pope’s system of gnomes and sylphs in The Rape of the
44. William Blake, “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell,” in The Poetry and Prose of
William Blake, ed. David V. Erdman, commentary by Harold Bloom (New York: Dou¬
bleday, 1965), p. 40.
255 /////
A D I O CORPSE
Lock. Pound also makes reference to Robert Kirk’s book The Secret
Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns, and Fairies: A Study in Folklore and
Psychical Research (P/S 277), as well as to Joseph Ennemosor’s History
of Magic, to Which is Added an Appendix of the Most Remarkable and
Best Authenticated Stories of Apparitions, Dreams, Second Sight, Som¬
nambulism, Predictions, Divinations, Witchcraft, Vampires, Fairies,
Table-Turning, and Spirit-Rapping (P/S 303).45 Moreover, as I noted
in Chapter 3, Pound wrote to his father during the winter of 1913-
1914 asking him to send a copy of De Daemonialitate, et Incubus et
Succubus (a work whose subject, the incubation of ghosts, has an
important bearing on the disturbed pattern of mourning that emerged
in Pound’s work with the death of Gaudier in 1915).
Dorothy Shakespear’s letters of the period reveal that she, too, was
taken with the idea of ghosts and may have drawn Pound even deeper
into the realm of spiritualism. In 1910, several months after meeting
him, she writes to Ezra, “we are both thin gray veils, having nothing
in common with humanity (or its physical properties)” (P/S 25).
Three years later, writing to him at Stone Cottage, she complains, “I
have heard a genuine story down here about a ghostly bloodstained
floor: The old woman said she couldn’t get it out—although she
scrubbed and scrubbed—and even had the carpenter in to plane the
boards” (P/S 108). Finally, growing more concerned about such inci¬
dents, she asks, “Please glean any thing you can for the suppression
of ghosts, or else the fear of them” (P/S 275). Pound responds by
letter almost immediately: “ ‘Intellectual Vision’ is, acc. Wm. Blake &
others, the surest cure for ghosts. You’d better begin by seeing fire,
or else by doing that visualization of points that I recommended. Fix
a point, colour it, or light it as you like, start it moving, multiply it,
etc. Make patterns, colours, pictures, whatever you like. You’ll end up
as a great magician and a prize exorcist” (P/S 276).
Pound’s use of the phrase “intellectual vision,” which he first
encountered in Yeats’s essays on Blake in Ideas of Good and Evil, is a
remarkable and fruitful misreading of Blake. By “intellectual vision,”
Blake means prophetic or imaginative vision, in contrast to the out¬
ward gaze of “the mortal perishing organ of sight” (Blake, Poetry and
45. In Canto 83, Pound recalls reading “Ennemosor on Witches” with Yeats (C 83:
548).
/ ////256
Radioactivity
Prose 532). Pound, on the other hand, conceives of intellectual vision

as an antidote to a more terrifying, irrational form of vision (a visitation
from a ghost). Both are forms of internalized, visionary experience,
but “intellectual vision’’ is self-induced and tempered by rationality.
(Note the emphasis on geometric patterns and points of light.) For
Pound, intellectual vision is a technique, a form of exorcism, a means
of defusing the irrational power of visionary experience while retaining
some measure of enchantment. In this sense, intellectual vision is an
oxymoron that synthesizes the intellectual and the irrational in a
manner similar to that of magical realism. Not only does Pound alter
the terms of Blake’s dialectic (internal versus external vision), but he
condenses the opposition of rational and irrational into a single phrase.
Pound and Blake do, however, agree on an important aspect of mag¬
ical realism: supernatural vision is always capable of greater precision
and “density” than the vision of the “Corporeal or Vegetative Eye.”
Blake declares, “A Spirit and a Vision are not, as the modern philos¬
ophy supposes, a cloudy vapour or a nothing; they are organized and
minutely articulated beyond all that the mortal and perishing nature
can produce” (532).
During the same period in which Pound was working closely with
Yeats (1913-1915), he began to translate “ghost plays” from the
Japanese Noh theater, a project that had an important impact on his
conception of the Image. It is important to emphasize that Pound
produced his adaptations of Chinese poems (published in Cathay)
after he had “translated” the Japanese plays (which, like the poems
in Cathay, were drawn from Fenollosa’s papers).46 Moreover, the
amount of material he translated from the Japanese is considerably
larger than his collection of Chinese poems—an indication, I believe,
of the special relevance of the “ghost plays” to Pound’s evolving sense
of the Image.47 Whereas the Chinese written character emerged as an
46. The priority of the Japanese adaptations in terms of execution is belied by the
order of publication. Cathay (1915) appeared prior to the volumes containing Pound’s
Noh translations. Four of his adaptations of Noh dramas appeared in Certain Noble
Plays of Japan: From the Manuscripts of Ernest Fenollosa, Chosen and Finished by Ezra
Pound, introd. W. B. Yeats (Churchtown: Cuola Press, 1916). These four plays, along
with eleven others, appeared a year later in Ezra Pound and Ernest Fenollosa, “Noh” or
Accomplishment: A Study of the Classical Staple ofJapan (London: Macmillan, 1917).
47. Regarding the priority of Pound’s Japanese adaptations in the earliest formulations
257 /////
A D I O CORPSE
important emblem of the ideogrammic method in poetry and criti¬

cism, the mediumistic qualities of the Noh dramas helped preserve (by
disguising) the Decadent features of Imagism.
Indeed, Pound’s quest for a rationalized form of visionary experi¬
ence (which is essentially a rationalized belief in ghosts) comes upon
fertile ground in the Japanese Noh theater. The remarkable thing
about the Noh dramas, from Pound’s standpoint, is their relevance to
both aspects of Imagism: the public concern with form and technique,
and the occult theory of the Image as an instance of possession, as a
psychological “complex.” In an introduction to his translations of the
Noh, Pound writes: “The Noh has its unity in emotion. It also has
what we may call Unity of Image . . . This intensification of the Image,
this manner of construction, is very interesting to me personally as an
Imagiste, for we Imagistes knew nothing of these plays when we set
out in our own manner. These plays are also an answer to the question
that has several times been put to me: ‘Could one do a long Imagiste
poem?’ ” (T237). A footnote in the memoir of Gaudier-Brzeska reit¬
erates Pound’s belief in the relevance of the Noh structure to Vorti-
cism and the Image: “In the best Noh the whole play may consist of
one Image. I mean it is gathered about one Image. Its unity consists
in one Image, enforced by movement and music. I see nothing against
a long vorticist poem” (GB 94).48 Moreover, as an extended “com¬
plex,” as an instance of form magnetized by subliminal “energies,”
the Noh Image migrates toward the supernatural, the phantasmic. The
crossover between material and spectral images in the Noh occurs
somewhat enigmatically in the uncertain space between “indefinite-
ness” and definition: “One must read or ‘examine’ these texts ‘as if
one were listening to music.’ One must build out of their indefinite¬
ness a definite Image. The plays are, at best, I think an Image; that is
of the Image, Marianne Moore once observed of Imagism: “The ‘new’ poetry seemed
to justify itself as a more robust form of Japanese poetry . . . although a specific and
more lasting interest in Chinese poetry came later.” Moore, “ ‘New’ Poetry since
1912,” p. 120.
48. A recently discovered and unpublished essay by Pound elaborates his views on the
relation between Imagism and the Noh. The essay, titled “The ‘Image’ and the Japanese
Classical Stage,” was apparently written as part of the “Affirmations” series, published
in New Ajje in 1915. The essay, with comments by Earl Miner and Walton Litz, appears
in Princeton University Library Chronicle 52, no. 1 (Autumn 1991): 17-30.
/////258
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to say their unity lies in the Image—they are built up about it as the
Greek plays are built up about a single moral conviction . . . The Greek
plays are troubled and solved by the gods; the Japanese are abounding
in ghosts and spirits” (T247). As Pound describes it here, the manner
of constructing a Noh Image bears a strong resemblance to the dia¬
lectic of magical realism: the poet builds a definite Image out of a
reservoir of indefiniteness; precise definition is reconciled with a state
of enchantment, reason with unreason.
It is important to bear in mind that Pound became absorbed in the
Noh theater at precisely the same time he was exploring various aspects
of the occult with Yeats at Stone Cottage. Both of these projects, in
turn, influenced his conception of the Image, which also took shape
during this period. Although Pound found the Noh to be a useful
analogy for the formal properties of the Image, it is the “psychology,”
or the ghostly aspects of the plays, which made the greatest impression
on him. Working from Fenollosa’s notes, Pound writes, for example,
“The most striking thing about these plays is their marvelously com¬
plete grasp of spiritual being. They deal more with heroes, or even we
might say ghosts, than with men clothed in flesh. Their creators were
great psychologists. In no other drama, does the supernatural play so
great, so intimate a part” (T 280). Concerning a particular drama,
Pound remarks, “Tsunemasa is gentle and melancholy. It is all at high
tension, but it is a psychological tension, the tension of the seance . . .
The spirit is invoked and appears” (T265). The tension of the seance,
which captures the appeal of a Noh drama, is a tension between the
desire to see the apparition and the need to verify its authenticity or
truthfulness. Discussing the play Nishikijyi, Pound singles out the char¬
acter of a priest who “only wants to see how things happened”:
Let it be a dream, or a vision,

Or what you will, I care not.
Only show me the old times over-past and snowed under;
Now, soon, while the night lasts. (PMN24)
Yet the priest also has “a passion for realism, he is anxious about the
facts” (PMN 23). Pound himself is deeply familiar with the tension
between a desire to surrender himself to the spirits of the dead and a
desire to know “the facts.”
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The Noh drama appeals to Pound because it offers a dignified means

of capturing the “tension of the seance,” which he scorns in its vulgar
or popular form. The most important feature of the Noh, according
to Pound, is its capacity to convey “a sense of past time in the
present.”49 The Noh may be said to provide a means of rationalizing
and legitimating his belief in ghosts, his desire to revive the dead.
Pound’s admiration of the “ghost psychology” of the Noh plays is
built on a spurious rejection of “spiritist doctrines”: “The lover of the
stage and the lover of drama and of poetry will find his chief interest
in the psychological pieces, or Plays of the Spirits . . . These plays are
frill of ghosts and the ghost psychology is amazing. The parallels with
Western spiritist doctrines are very curious. This is, however, an irrel¬
evant or extraneous interest, and one might set it aside if it were not
bound up with a dramatic and poetic interest of the very highest
order” (T 222). Pound’s rejection of spiritualism is disingenuous
because it masks the sublimating effect of the Noh on his own personal
cult of the dead. Explaining his position further, he writes, “Some will
be annoyed at a form of psychology which is, in the West, relegated
to spiritistic seances. There is, however, no doubt that such psychology
exists. All through the winter of 1914-15 I watched Mr. Yeats cor¬
relating folk-lore . . . and data of these occult writers, with the habits
of the charlatans of Bond Street. If the Japanese authors had not com¬
bined the psychology of such matters with what is to me a very fine
sort of poetry, I would not bother with it” (T 236). Once again
Pound’s rejection of spiritualism cannot be taken at face value, since
he is attracted to the Noh plays precisely because they rationalize and
legitimate his own infatuation with ghosts. By associating his personal
cult of the dead with the sublime tradition of the Noh theater, he
masks the sentimental and irrational character of his beliefs.
Following the publication of his Japanese translations (with an
introduction by Yeats) in 1916, Pound was inspired to write several
plays modeled on the Noh. One of the “ghost plays,” entitled De
49. This phrase occurs in the introduction to Pound’s translation of a Noh drama
entitled Takas ago. The translation and its brief introduction were recently discovered in
the papers of Alice Corbin Henderson, to whom Pound had sent the play in 1915.
Pound characterizes the play as “the very core of the ‘Noh’ ” and, in a latter to Harriet
Monroe, claims that his theme for the Cantos is “roughly the theme of ‘Takasago.’ ”
See The Letters of Ezra Pound to Alice Corbin Henderson, ed. Ira B. Nadel (Austin:
University of Texas Press, 1993), pp. xxii-xxiii, 110.
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Musset’s CA Supper at the House of Mademoiselle Rachel3 (May 29,

1839), takes its inspiration from a celebrated account of supernatural
experience published in 1911 by Anne Moberly. (Is her name the
source of the more famous “Mauberley”?) In the brief introduction
to De Musset, Pound quiedy establishes a dichotomy between ghosts
and rationality, as he jokes with his readers: “Ah no, you would not
complain about my giving you Japanese emotion, you would call it
European emotion. And then the rational continent always says you
English are mad about ghosts” (PMN 23). Pound also spells out his
debt to the Noh and indicates that his miniature plays, like their more
exalted models, depend on the contradictory impulses that engender
the “tension of the seance.” He advises his readers, “You will have to
be pilgrims, or something of that sort. These scenes can only be real
for those who desire to see them” (PMN23). While realism depends,
apparently, on the desire to see, it also requires that one know “exactly
or almost exactly what happened”: “You might well ask, why I have
chosen my subject. I wished to show for an instant an illusion. Yet an
illusion that should be not quite an illusion [emphasis added]. It so
happens that we really can know, in this case, exactly or almost exactly
what happened” (PMN 24). At the heart of this brief apology for a
play about ghosts, Pound discloses the object of magical realism: “an
illusion that should be not quite an illusion”; a state of enchantment
that is mediated by historical or critical intelligence; an instance of
“intellectual vision.”
Among the four plays modeled after the Noh is a six-page piece
titled Tristan, written in 1916 and based on the play Nishikipfi. The
main protagonist is a “keen-eyed” Sculptor who encounters the appa¬
ritions of Tristan and Yseult on a walking tour of Cornwall, England.
The character of the Sculptor brings to mind Pound’s friend Gaudier-
Brzeska, who had recently been killed in the war. On this basis, Tristan
also bears a resemblance to the play Tsunemasa, which Pound
describes as follows: “As to the quality of poetry in this work: there is
the favored youth, slain; the uneasy-bloodstained and thoughtless
spirit” (T264). Gaudier, like the Sculptor in Tristan, had once taken
a walking tour of southern England, which Pound refers to in his
memoir of the sculptor (GB 76).50 The most remarkable develop-
50. Horace Brodzky’s account of this trip includes several details that also appear in
261 /////
A D I O CORPSE
ment of Pound’s play occurs when Tristan begins to speak to Yseult

in the voice of the Sculptor (PMN 36). Eventually the Sculptor dis¬
places Tristan entirely in the affection of Yseult. Thus, the Sculptor,
who is alive in the play, functions as a phantasmic presence who taps
into and eventually submerges the voice of the central character. For
all intents and purposes, the young Sculptor becomes the ghost of
Tristan, a figure in a troubled love story. Given the secret identity of
the Sculptor (Gaudier), the play can be read as the first sign of Pound’s
aberrant mourning for Gaudier—and the first transmission of Gau-
dier’s phantom. The final lines of the play, spoken by the young
Sculptor, may be understood as a veiled warning to Pound himself:
“Knowing you and not knowing you, / There is too much between
us” (PMN 38.)
A year after writing the plays modeled on the Noh, Pound published
the first drafts of an “endless poem” combining dreamlike visions and
history, phantasmagoria and fact. Following the opening address to
Robert Browning, the narrator of the first canto declares, “Ghosts
move about me / Patched with histories.”51 Grafting historical fact
onto the enchanted personae of the dead, Pound carries the aesthetic
of magical realism into its final phase of development—a process that
ends catastrophically in the historical delusions of the radio broadcasts.
Erotic Casualties
And as for the love-grave, dyed like the leaves of maple with the tokens
of by-gone passion, and like the orchids and chrysanthemums which
hide the mouth of a fox-hole, they have slipped into the shadow of the
cave; this brave couple has vanished into the love-grave.
—From Nishikijji, a Noh drama by Motokiyo, translated by Ezra Pound
A ghost, according to primitive or popular beliefs, is a dead person

whose death resulted from some form of violence (murder, for
Pound’s play. See Brodzky, Henri Gaudier-Brzeska, 1891-1915 (London: Faber and
Faber, 1938), p. 22.
51. Pound, “Three Cantos: I,” Poetry 11 (June 1917): 116. The final version of the
Cantos opens with a seance, an invocation of spirits: Odysseus/Pound journeys to the
underworld to converse with the dead.
///// 262
Radioactivity
example), or a dead person who has been neglected in some fashion

through improper burial or mourning. A soldier lost in battle, for
instance, is a perennial source of psychic disturbance. Freud, applying
a psychoanalytic viewpoint to anthropological researches, remarks
upon these traditional beliefs: among primitive peoples, certain cate¬
gories of the dead are said to have “a particular right to feel resent¬
ment.”52 Yet dead persons who have not, ostensibly, been mistreated
in any way may also become phantoms. Freud accounts for this
anomaly by invoking what he calls “the omnipotence of thoughts,”
whereby “things become less important than ideas of things: whatever
is done to the latter will inevitably also occur to the former. Relations
which hold between the ideas of things are assumed to hold equally
between things themselves” (Totem 85). In other words, in the psy¬
chic realm of mourning, one need not actually murder someone; one
has only to wish a death for it to come true. Nor is it necessary that
the death wish be openly acknowledged: an unconscious wish may be
as powerful and effective as an open desire to see harm come to a
person. Furthermore, “according to primitive ideas a person only dies
if he is lolled—by magic if not by force—and such a death naturally
tends to make the soul revengeful and ill-tempered” (59). Hence, all
deaths are a result of foul play, whether physical or supernatural.
Freud argues that the principle of the omnipotence of thoughts
(which is the basis of telepathy) is necessary for understanding not
only the thought of primitive peoples, but the psychic operation of
mourning in general. The loss of a loved one can produce phantasmic
effects that differ only superficially from the experience of primitive
peoples. All relationships, Freud holds, are characterized by ambiva¬
lence: “In almost every case where there is an intense emotional
attachment to a particular person we find that behind the tender love
there is a concealed hostility in the unconscious” (Totem 60). Ob¬
serving the effect of ambivalence on a woman who had recently lost
her husband, he states, “There was something in her—a wish that was
unconscious to herself—which would not have been dissatisfied by
the occurrence of death and which might have actually brought it
about if it had had the power. And after the death has occurred, it is
52. Sigmund Freud, Totem and Taboo, trans. James Strachey (New York: Norton,
1950), p. 59.
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A D I O CORPSE
against this unconscious wish that the reproaches are a reaction” (60).
The hostility of the survivor, which cannot be openly acknowledged,
is projected onto the dead person, who then transmits the evil wish
back to the survivor. “The survivor thus denies that he ever harbored
any hostile feelings against the dead loved one; the soul of the dead
harbours them instead” (61). As a result of the secret death wish, “a
dearly loved relative at the moment of death changes into a demon,
from whom his survivors can expect nothing but hostility and against
whose evil desires they must protect themselves by all possible means”
(58).53 In general, then, we could say, with Laurence Rickels, that “the
death wish gives rise to ghosts” (Aberrations of Mourning 360).
Improper burial or mourning, which transforms the benevolent
dead person into a vengeful demon, may take the form of simple
neglect or an inability to mourn, which masks a secret reservoir of
hostility. Deferred mourning involves a period of “incubation” that
produces an endless cycle of visitations by the ghost of the deceased.
Translating the Noh drama Kinuta, Pound learns of the law of rep¬
etition that governs the phantom’s return:
The way a ghost returns

From the shadow of the grass—
We have heard the stories,
It is eight thousand times, they say,
Before regret runs in a smooth-worn grave. (T305)
The period of incubation may also be understood, however, in relation

to the figure of the incubus, who begets upon the sleeper a brood
of phantoms. Laurence Rickels explains, “The deep sleep that left
one pregnant, often with prophecy though most frequently with the
actual offspring of phantoms, was called incubation” (Aberrations
of Mourning 9). Pound’s own fascination with the figure of the in-
53. Adorno extends Freud’s theory of ghosts in a manner that is relevant to Pound’s
trouble with the dead. Adorno writes, “Freud’s theory that belief in ghosts stems from
evil thoughts of living people about the dead, and from the memory of old death wishes,
is too limited. Hatred of the dead is made up of envy no less than a feeling of guilt.”
Theodor W. Adorno and Max Horkheimer, Dialectic of Enlightenment, trans. John
Cumming (New York: Continuum, 1970), p. 215. Pound’s envy of the dead, which
figures so prominently in his early poetry, may indeed play a role in the disturbed char¬
acter of his mourning for Gaudier.
/ ////264
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cubus—a fascination that produces the early crypt poems and that is
also evident from the content of his library—betrays a period of incu¬
bation within himself. Engendered by ill will and neglect, the restless
occupants of Gaudier’s crypt eventually hatch in the radio broadcasts,
lending Pound’s voice its prophetic tone and crippling it with delu¬
sions.
By examining Pound’s account of the months leading up to
Gaudier-Brzeska’s death, we can expose the ground of “the phan-
tasmic consequences of improper burial” (Aberrations of Mourning
15). The materials of Chapter 3 establish the basis for such an inquiry,
namely that Gaudier stands in relation to Pound as Elpenor does to
Odysseus. Elpenor haunts Odysseus as a result of his premature death
and the failure of Odysseus to observe his death properly. In addition,
as we have seen, the character of Gaudier’s death resembles that of an
earlier friend in Pound’s life, Will Smith, who died at an early age and
who was deprived (as a “heretic”) of his right to proper burial
(according to the title of Pound’s first book of poetry, A Lume Spento).
These analogies invite us to examine more closely the circumstances
of Gaudier’s death, Pound’s response to the event, and his role in
shaping the public response to it.
The telepathic character of Pound’s relation to Gaudier-Brzeska after
the sculptor’s death actually emerged long before the event took place.
Indeed, soon after their first meeting, Pound began to take control of
Gaudier’s death. One could even go so far as to say that Pound staged,
telepathically, Gaudier’s death. The two men first met a year before
Gaudier enlisted in the French army in July 1914. Pound’s record of
their first rendezvous at Gaudier’s studio is entirely candid about his
attraction to the young sculptor: “I was interested and I was determined
that he should be” (GB 45). Yet Pound also reveals that his meeting
with Gaudier aroused feelings that have little to do with affection: “I
knew that many things would bore or disgust him, particularly my
rather middle-aged point of view, my intellectual tiredness and exhaus¬
tion, my general scepticism, and quietness, and I therefore opened fire
with ‘Altaforte’ and cPiere Vidal,’ and such poems as I had written when
about his age” (GB 45). At the time of this meeting, Pound was twenty -
nine and Gaudier twenty-one. The passage reveals, as I noted in
Chapter 3, Pound’s concern with growing older and a sense that his
265 /////
Radio corpse
own youth is behind him; it suggests a loss of vitality. Meeting Gaudier

brought Pound face to face with his own mortality, an experience that
would inevitably produce ambivalent feelings. Pound’s words suggest
that he views Gaudier as an image of his own youth, but also, more
importantly, as a rival. Hoping to establish some kind of authority over
the younger man, Pound “opens fire” with two poems that celebrate
a passion for soldiering and the violence of war—a demonstration,
apparently, of the older poet’s once vigorous youth. The poem “Ses-
tina: Altaforte,” which portrays the soldier-poet Bertans de Born, con¬
tains passages such as the following:
The man who fears war and squats opposing

My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace . . .
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill the air with my music. (CEP 109)
Addressed to a youth of twenty-one in a milieu that was becoming

increasingly aware of the possibility of war (London in 1913), this
poem can be interpreted as an oblique call to the younger man to
prove his virility (and his artistic integrity) by going to war. The figure
of “opening fire” must be taken seriously: by aiming these words at
Gaudier, Pound launches a death wish that culminates, from the
standpoint of the primitive mind, in Gaudier’s actual death.54 It is
entirely possible that in retrospect Pound believed unconsciously that
his readings had encouraged Gaudier to go to the front and were thus
obliquely responsible for his death. The event of his death precipitated
in Pound a psychological and political crisis in which he claimed some
measure of responsibility for the death.
The projection of hostility through the “Altaforte” reading is only
one point of access to a larger command structure that controls Gau¬
dier’s death from afar. In the memoir, for example, Pound reveals that
Gaudier anticipated his own death long before it occurred: “His sister
54. The ambivalence that would give rise to such a wish may have played a greater
role in Pound’s relationship with Gaudier than he allows in the memoir. According to
Jacob Epstein, Gaudier once rebuked Pound in an argument over Pound’s views of
modern sculpture, telling him, “Shut up, you understand nothing!” Jacob Epstein, Let
There Be Sculpture (London, 1940), p. 70.
///// 266
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tells me that years ago in Paris, when the war was undreamed of, he
insisted that he would die in the war” (GB 64). Pound’s telecommand
to go to war reactivates this early premonition and brings it to fulfill¬
ment. On July 5, 1914, Gaudier made out his will before joining the
French forces. Ezra and Dorothy Pound were present to witness and
sign the will.55 Thus, Pound formally documented his control over
Gaudier’s possible death, and the overt effects of his death, by acting
as signatory to his will. Witness to the possibility of Gaudier’s death,
Pound also participated in what amounts to a public presentiment of
the death (an event that coincides precisely with Pound’s disengage¬
ment from the Imagist movement in July 1914). It was not yet clear
to Pound, however, that his signature also bound him to a lifetime of
phantasmic consequences.
Once he arrived at the front, Gaudier indicated in a letter to
Dorothy that the reading of “Altaforte” continued to shape his per¬
ceptions of the war: “We shall pursue the boches [the Germans], it
will be hot but rather agreeable, same temperament as ‘Altaforte’ ”
(GB 67). Ultimately, Pound’s reading of “Altaforte” cast a spell over
Gaudier’s life that was destined to be broken only on June 5, 1915,
the day he was killed in battle.56 In the meantime, Pound ventured
deeper into the business of making Gaudier’s death his own by con¬
tinuing to send him war poems at the front. From among his Chinese
translations, Pound sent Gaudier “Song of the Bowmen of Shu” and
“Lament of the Frontier Guard.” Seeing the war through Pound’s
eyes, Gaudier was guided from afar through his final days by these
apparently benevolent but elegiac transmissions from London.
Gaudier writes back, “The poems depict our situation in a wonderful
way” (GB 58). (“Wonderful” because the distance between sixth-
century China and twentieth-century Europe, between Pound’s mind
and his own, vanishes in the act of “translation”?)
55. Roger Cole notes this detail in Burning to Speak: The Life and Art of Henri
Gaudier-Brzeska (Oxford: Phaidon, 1978), p. 40.
56. An early poem by Pound, “Mesmerism,” deals with the experience of hypnotic
suggestion. It exemplifies a moment when the poet is inhabited by the voice and
thoughts of another (Robert Browning, in this case). From this poem, we can infer that
the art of hypnosis has its place in Pound’s thinking about poetry, as well as his relation
to Gaudier (CEP 17-18).
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As Gaudier’s time at the front dragged on, intimations of his fate

began to arrive with greater frequency, advancing the premonition
noted by his sister and confirming the inadmissible portent of his last
will and testament. Uneasy about his role in prompting Gaudier’s
exposure to harm, Pound was sensitive to the slightest hint of mor¬
tality in Gaudier’s letters. He notes, for example, Gaudier’s description
of the hellish landscape of the trenches as “a sight worthy of Dante”
(GB 59; another instance of viewing the prospect of death through
Pound’s eyes). Pound also cites a letter from Gaudier which describes
an incident on the battlefield where Gaudier gave his comrades a scare
by feigning death and then miraculously coming back to life. The
morbid cast of trench humor is evident in Gaudier’s comment about
his mock death: “I have had the greatest fun this night of all my life”
(GB 57). Sifting Gaudier’s final letters for portents of his demise,
Pound discovered what he believed to be a “premonition of death”:
“His premonition of a head wound is curious, for this letter was
written I believe only two days before his death. His sister tells me
that years ago in Paris, when the war was undreamed of, he insisted
that he would die in the war” (GB 64). By juxtaposing the final pre¬
monition of death with the earliest one, Pound hints at the efficacy of
such forebodings, and hence at the efficacy of his own telepathic inter¬
vention in Gaudier’s life. (“Telepathy” means literally “pain at a dis¬
tance,” a secret suffering.)
The cumulative effect of these forebodings brought Pound to spec¬
ulate publicly about the possibility of Gaudier’s death in an article in
New Age in February 1915. Moreover, in early June 1915, several
days before Gaudier was lulled in battle, Pound writes cryptically to
his mother, “Gaudier is getting tired of the trenches, it’s time
someone came in and hurried matters” (SC 279). Pound’s response
to the actual death is curiously nonchalant: “Brzeska has been killed,
which is pretty disgusting, though I suppose it is a marvel it hasn’t
happened before” (SC 279). According to Carpenter, “This letter to
his father, written just after he had heard the news, continues with
mere gossip.” In Pound’s letter the phrase “pretty disgusting” has a
false ring about it, suggesting that he is unable to acknowledge, or
disclose, the full spectrum of his response to Gaudier’s death.
Indeed, Pound’s statements about the war in general have an air of
/////268
Radioactivity
detachment that does little to mask their eccentricity. He refers, for

example, to the war effort in England as “a very fine sight,” and dis¬
plays a similar nonchalance (and perhaps a note of defiance) when he
observes, “The arrival of Zeppelins seems to have filled London with
a quiet contentment.”57 James Longenbach says otherwise: “Most
Londoners were far from contented, but some found Pound’s com¬
posure talismanic. Violet Hunt and her circle considered Pound’s
presence to be a charm against German Zeppelins. Hunt kept Gaudier-
Brzeska’s bust of Pound in her garden, maintaining that the sculpture
warded off the airships” (Stone Cottage 179). To Pound’s friends, his
peculiar views on the war suggested—via Gaudier’s sculpture of
Pound—immunity from, but also an inscrutable relation to, the dis¬
tant events of the war. By ascribing to Pound these “talismanic”
powers, his friends confirmed, inadvertently, the bizarre conditions of
his telepathic relation to Gaudier. In spite of the ostensibly benign
character of the war (from Pound’s perspective), he acknowledges that
“the war is eating up all of everybody’s subconscious energy. One does
nothing but buy newspapers” (107). It is not merely a question of
being starved for information about an event that is unimaginable to
most people (as Pound seems to suggest); rather, his own “subcon¬
scious energy” is being devoured by a medium (the press) and by a
phantom that he cannot yet acknowledge.
Pound’s sympathies in the Great War, which anticipated his trea¬
sonous activities during World War II, disclosed yet another “tele¬
pathic” link to the front: “I feel strangely enough most for the young
Germans who are now being killed. These spectacled, dreamy faces,
or so I picture them, remind me more of men that I have known than
the strong-bodied young English football players” (Longenbach,
Stone Cottage 117). The “spectacled, dreamy faces” of the enemy call
to mind Pound’s conception of the sensitive “mediumistic artist,”
whom he alternately abhorred and admired. More important, how¬
ever, the young Germans who were about to die at the front should
be understood as displaced images of Gaudier’s fate—restless ghosts
who visited Pound and rehearsed the deadly scenario that he had set
in motion with an aberrant wish.
57. James Longenbach, Stone Cottage: Pound, Teats, and Modernism (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1988), pp. 106, 179.
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Pound’s fanciful resistance to the war and to Gaudier’s death

secretly describes a period of incubation that aims the death drive of
the Image in the direction of politics. The literal deferral of Pound’s
mourning for Gaudier, which was prefigured by the shadowy presence
of death in the poetics of Imagism, spawned a brood of hungry ghosts
that eventually, during the 1930s, devoured his poetic faculties and
held him hostage, on fascist radio, to the political afterlife of the
Image. As soon as he began to acknowledge the impact of Gaudier’s
death, it is obvious he had waited too long: the dead man had already
been transformed into a phantom. In his memoir of the young
sculptor, Pound often describes Gaudier in terms of a supernatural
presence. He writes of “the daemon of energy that possessed him”
(GB 39), and recalls from their first meeting “a voice speaking with
the gentlest fury in the world” (44). Later, after speaking briefly with
Pound, Gaudier “disappeared like a Greek god in a vision” (44).
Pound’s susceptibility to the ghosts of young soldiers killed in battle
is also evident from his response to several poems that Joyce and Yeats
wrote during this period. He praises, for example, what he calls the
“phantom vision” of a poem by Joyce (which appeared in the
anthology Des Imagistes):
I hear an army charging upon the land,

And the thunder of their horses plunging . . .
They cry unto the night their battle name;
I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter;
They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,
Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil. (LE414-415)
He also praises Yeats’s rendering of the spectral ranks of “the Magi”

(who resemble ill-tempered ghosts) as a superb example of imagisme:
. . . the pale unsatisfied ones

Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,
And all their helms of silver hovering side by side. (LE 380)
These martial images remind us of how many of the artists and writers
associated with Imagism actually became soldiers: Aldington, Flint,
Hulme, Gaudier-Brzeska. It may be wise, indeed, as Robert von Hall-
berg suggests, to begin to speak of “soldier-Imagists.” Furthermore,
/////270
Radioactivity
the motif of phantom soldiers, which secretly depicts Pound’s grief

over the inhabitants of Gaudier’s crypt, reappears later in the radio
broadcasts (RB 137).
In addition to describing Gaudier in terms that suggest the presence
of a ghost, Pound portrayed him as primitive, atavistic. Gaudier, he
recalls, liked “to feel as independent as the savage” (GB 40). He was
“like a well-made young wolf or some soft-moving, bright-eyed wild
thing” (GB 44). During the late 1930s Pound liked to trace his
interest in Leo Frobenius and primitive culture (though he acknowl¬
edged he couldn’t be sure of this source) to Gaudier-Brzeska (GB
142). If it is indeed true that Pound first learned of Frobenius through
Gaudier prior to 1915, or thought he did, then it is perhaps not coin¬
cidental that Gaudier’s ghost begins to show signs of restlessness—
after a long period of dormancy—about the time that Frobenius takes
center stage in Pound’s cultural criticism. Furthermore, Pound is not
alone in associating Gaudier with a sense of primitive or archaic
potency, both physical and spiritual. Indeed, his characterization of
Gaudier as a savage echoes a chorus of infatuated responses to Gau¬
dier’s death. H. S. Ede, for example, published a biography of Gaudier
titled Savage Messiah—an epithet that gives some idea of the hysterical
and inflationary aspects of the cult surrounding his death.58 Horace
Brodzky’s description of Gaudier resembles Pound’s in many respects:
“Henri Gaudier-Brzeska was a faun, a clown, and a demon for work”
(Henri Gaudier-Brzeska 55); he “moved like an animal, quick and
alert” (56). One reviewer cited by Brodzky calls Gaudier “a wild,
unkempt barbarian” (74), while he himself observes, “Brzeska pre¬
ferred not to shave, as he considered it expensive and a waste of val¬
uable time. He preferred to be a savage” (74). Even Ford Madox Ford
fell under the sway of the death cult (whose members were exclusively
male), claiming that Gaudier possessed “great personal beauty” (74).
Once Pound surrendered himself to the visitations of Gaudier’s
spirit (by compiling the materials of the memoir), there was no ques¬
tion of the impact on Pound of Gaudier’s death. In a letter of 1915
58. H. S. Ede, Savage Messiah (New York: Literary Guild, 1931). Ken Russell’s 1972
film Savage Messiah (which takes its title from Ede’s biography), is the latest installment
of Gaudier’s thriving (and manifestly homoerotic) afterlife. See also Gordon Daviot’s
1934 play The Laughing Woman.
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to Felix Schelling, he writes, “The arts will incur no worse loss from
the war than this is. One is rather obsessed with it” (L 61); to Alice
Henderson he observes, “Brzeska has been killed, so sculpture will
stick where it is for another half century.”59 Indeed, with the passage
of time, Pound became more rather than less preoccupied with the
death as a turning point in his thinking and his career. Three years
later, he writes of Gaudier’s death as “the gravest individual loss which
the arts have suffered during the war” (GB 136). And in 1934: “For
eighteen years the death of Henri Gaudier has been unremedied. The
work of two or three years remains, but the uncreated went with him.
There is no reason to pardon this either to the central powers or to
the allies or to ourselves” (GB 140). The significance of Pound’s
taking some measure of personal responsibility for the death remains
open to question. The phrasing of his sentiments suggests, however,
that his response to Gaudier’s death reenacts his grief over the loss of
Will Smith twenty-five years earlier. Of Gaudier he writes, “For eigh¬
teen years after Gaudier’s death no one has shown the least chance in
succeeding him” (GB 143). This sounds very much like a letter he
wrote to William Carlos Williams in 1921 on the death of Will Smith:
“Thirteen years are gone; I haven’t replaced him and shan’t and no
longer hope to” (L 167).
People who knew Pound noted the importance he assigned to Gau¬
dier’s death in the development of his political and economic interests.
After speaking with Pound in 1946, Charles Olson wondered whether
“Gaudier’s death is the source of his hate for contemporary England
and America,” and whether “in 1915 his attack on democracy got
mixed up with Gaudier’s death, and all his turn since has been revenge
for the boy’s death.”60 In a letter to Wyndham Lewis in 1949, Pound
confirms the gist of Olson’s speculation: “serious curiosity startin’ @
death of Gaudier re: why” (P/L 250). What Pound calls “serious
curiosity” led eventually, of course, to his commitment to fascism and
to the inflammation of his anti-Semitic views. Indeed, his “curiosity”
over Gaudier’s death gives rise, in the end, to the vengeful phantom
of the radio speeches.
59. Letters of Ezra. Pound to Alice Corbin Henderson, p. 110.

60. Charles Olson, Charles Olson and Ezra Pound: An Encounter at St. Elizabeths,
ed. Catherine Seelye (New York: Viking, 1975), p. 45.
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Dictation and Oblivion
I don’t think it has been sufficiently observed, if it has been observed,

how much his work is a structure of mnemonics raised on a reed, nos¬
talgia . . . I’m not sure that, precisely because of the use he has put
nostalgia to, and the way he has used himself, he has not made himself
the ultimate image of the end of the West.
—Charles Olson, Charles Olson and Ezra Pound: An Encounter at St. Elizabeths
The aim of the translator, according to Pound, is to “bring a dead

man to life” (L 149), “to resurrect the damaged shade of the author”
(SR 182). Moreover, as I indicated in Chapter 5, the impossibility of
translation marks all translation as telegraphic, as an event that is
nothing short of miraculous. Translation, like telegraphy, conjures
words at a distance. This view of translation subscribes, implicitly, to
an archaic usage of the verb “to translate,” meaning to “transport”
spiritually: “to convey or remove from one condition or place to
another.”61 Indeed, Pound’s theory of translation may owe something
explicitly to spiritualist doctrines that commonly use the verb “to
translate” in this fashion. More specifically, Pound would have been
familiar with this usage from his association with Yeats and from his
wife Dorothy’s interest in spiritualism.62
The idea that translation entails transporting a dead man into the
present, or being transported by words to the place of the dead, does
not originate with Pound, and he is not alone in holding such a view.
Heidegger, for example, whose theory of language has been compared
to Pound’s, says of translation: “We let ourselves be transported by
the poet to the distant shore of the matter spoken here.”63 The trans¬
lator’s destination is a “distant shore” of meaning—the place of
61. The Oxford English Dictionary also offers a more technical meaning of the verb
“to translate”: “To carry or convey to heaven without death, also, in later use, said of
the death of the righteous.”
62. Dorothy uses the verb “to translate” in this manner in a letter to Ezra in 1913:
“Georgie [Georgie Hyde-Lees, future wife ofW. B. Yeats] had an amusing dream about
you two nights ago. You were hanging to the top of a very straight pine tree—all stem-
and-a-burst-of-branches-at-the-top kind and had not climbed it—but got there by
‘translation’ as she says.” Cited in Longenbach, Stone Cottage, p. 5.
63. Martin Heidegger, “The Anaximander Fragment,” Early Greek Thinking, p. 32.
On the relation between Heidegger’s theories and Pound’s conception of language, see
Rabate, Language, Sexuality, and Ideology in Ezra Pound’s Cantos, pp. 1-11.
273 /////
Radio corpse
death—yet he can only reach his destination “by questioning from

within the matter” (“Anaximander Fragment” 43). Thus, to attain
the place where language and death intersect, the place of the other,
the translator must remain behind, subject to a voice from the “distant
shore.” Heidegger explains the manner in which one word “speaks
for” another: “The translation of to Kpscov as ‘usage’ has not resulted
from a preoccupation with etymologies and dictionary meanings . . .
The word ‘usage’ is dictated to thinking in the experience of Being’s
oblivion” (54; emphasis added). The translation or “transport” of
meaning is undertaken by means of “dictation,” yet a form of dicta¬
tion whose source is “oblivion.”
What does Heidegger mean by “dictation” in this context? To
begin with, the mode of dictation stands in contrast to a “preoccu¬
pation . . . with dictionary meanings,” with what he believes to be the
calculating, reductive system of lexicography. Thus, “dictation” pre¬
supposes a rejection of meaning in a conventional sense; it is, indeed,
a mode of translation founded upon the impossibility of translation.
What is received through “dictation” therefore discloses a meaning
that is unverifiable, yet more authoritative than the definitions offered
by a dictionary. Moreover, the fact that the appropriate meaning is
“dictated” suggests that translation is part of a larger command struc¬
ture, a means of thinking, or controlling thought, from a distant shore.
There is, in fact, as the phenomenon of dictatorial power suggests, no
choice in the matter: the word received is absolute, ineluctable. Yet
the source of authority—oblivion—is not only remote but unfath¬
omable. By “oblivion,” Heidegger surely intends to convey the idea
of forgetfulness: the source of dictation lies in what is long forgotten.
Evoking the “experience of Being’s oblivion,” the word also points
to a catastrophic loss that is sequestered in time yet which comes for¬
ward in translation.
Avital Ronell’s theory of “haunted writing” reiterates the essential
features of Heidegger’s understanding of translation as dictation
received from oblivion. Ronell’s idea of “dictation” accounts for “the
writing couple whose sustained encounter takes place on the grounds
of a catastrophe” {Dictations xv). Furthermore, “this writing takes as
its point of departure the remoteness of the original author, the incal¬
culable distance of the one who dictates. The resulting texts are bound
///// 274
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to assume the function of a double” (Dictations xvi). In addition,

she notes, “one discerns the playing out of a struggle and a shattering
effect that disfigures at once the origin and the copy” (xvi).
Pound’s radio speeches, like Ronell’s examples of haunted writing,
display a “shattering effect.” Under pressure of dictation, the inhab¬
itant of Gaudier’s crypt, personifying the “radiant” Image, becomes
a “savage messiah” that takes possession of Pound’s voice over the
air. Although the actual Gaudier bears a distant resemblance to the
legend that flourished after his death (which finds outlet in the radio
broadcasts), and although we may detect familiar traces of Pound’s
“character” in the broadcasts, the effect of dictation on both figures
is grotesque. Both are distorted nearly beyond recognition in the
course of their extended encounter in the subliminal echo chamber of
radio. But this mutilation of character (both linguistic and psycholog¬
ical) is precisely the mark of authentic translation and of the transport
of the soul (in the sense that extreme literalness produces “monstros¬
ities” of translation). In the greater economy of Pound’s poetics, his
radio broadcasts must therefore be understood as “translations” in a
Heideggerian sense, as instances of haunted writing. More specifically,
these garbled transmissions from the burial site of the Image emanate
from Gaudier’s crypt. The improbable origin of these transmissions—
the image-crypt—confirms Ronell’s insistence on “the incalculable
distance of the one who dictates.”
If we are correct in viewing the radio broadcasts as a “translation”
of Gaudier’s phantom (and of the poetics of Imagism), we should have
no trouble identifying the catastrophic basis of the “writing couple,”
or, in this case, the radio couple. The specter of mass death rising from
the battlefields of World War I (not to mention Gaudier’s descriptions
of the physical carnage) certainly provided a threshold adequate to the
devastation that was destined to occur between the beloved, a dead
sculptor, and the poet who had delivered him to a missing grave. It is
Gaudier’s individual death, however, that discloses the erotic, political,
and economic grounds of the catastrophe. Although Pound often
failed to recognize the phantasmic consequences of Gaudier’s death,
he did acknowledge years later that it marked a turning point in his
career. Ultimately, as Ronell argues, the “apparition exceeds a notion
of the other’s anxious receptivity, but is something of a trauma, a mark
275 /////
ft A D I O CORPSE
of devastation that is particularly visible” (Dictations xv). The loss of

Gaudier is an erotic casualty that marks the origin of Pound’s political
extremism.
The figure of the Image supplies a link between Pound’s politics
and the submerged erotics of his early poetry (his love for the dead,
which extends eventually to Gaudier). The experience of being
haunted by the inhabitants of Gaudier’s missing grave, which culmi¬
nated in the hysteria of the radio broadcasts, may appear at first glance
to be simply a biographical or psychological formation. A closer look,
however, reveals the interdependence of Pound’s belated mourning
for Gaudier and his fascination with the Image, which he originally
conceived as a means of legitimating or disguising his Decadent infat¬
uation with the dead in his early poetry. Thus, as I noted in Chapter
3, Pound’s mourning for Gaudier (which is recorded in the memoir)
should be viewed as a vivid and perilous staging of the poetics of
Imagism. While Gaudier, in Pound’s view, embodied the essential
values of the avant-garde Imagist, his death precipitated his metamor¬
phosis into an archaic figure of the Image—an exquisite corpse, a
vengeful phantom that had to be slain repeatedly. When Pound
appeared to relinquish his grief over the loss of Gaudier following
World War I, he also accomplished the “final” interment of the Image
in his poetics. Similarly, the translation of Gaudier’s “damaged shade”
into Pound’s radio personality constituted a revival of the Image in
the context of Pound’s idolatrous regard for fascism. The fact that the
Image returned to life as a disembodied voice alludes not only to the
“radiant” spectrum of the Image, but to the rivalry of verbal and visual
values that gave rise to the figure of the Image in the first place. Just
as the proximity of the dead originally forced Pound to encrypt the
verbal excess of his early poetry in the poetics of Imagism, so the
ideogrammic method produced a mythological and radiant substance
called meaning, which was eventually transformed by the visitation of
ghosts into the posthumous voice of the radio broadcasts.
Freud’s essay on mourning and melancholia helps explain the puz¬
zling relation between the resurgence of the Image, Pound’s aberrant
mourning, and the demonic fulfillment of his racial and political doc¬
trines in the radio speeches. Freud writes, “The most remarkable char¬
acteristic of melancholia [a condition associated with mourning], and
///// 276
Radioactivity
the one in most need of explanation, is its tendency to change round

into mania—a state which is the opposite of it in its symptoms.”64 In
contrast to the torpor and inactivity of melancholia, mania is charac¬
terized “by high spirits, by the signs of discharge of joyful emotion
and by increased readiness for all kinds of action” (254). Nevertheless,
Freud observes, “the content of mania is no different from that of
melancholia . . . both disorders are wrestling with the same ‘com¬
plex’ ” (254). Mania is thus the flip side of melancholia. Triggered by
an unknown mechanism, mania discharges the bounded energy of
mourning. The Oxford English Dictionary adds that mania is charac¬
terized by delusions and intense hallucination—that is, by what may
be described as a discharge of images. This recalls not only Freud’s
account of mania, but Pound’s theory of Images and “new organs”
erupting from the surface of the body. Pound’s figure of the Image as
a vortex also calls to mind the frenzied, boundless energy of mania.
In the context of his prolonged yet often submerged mourning for
Gaudier—which must be understood as an allegory of the poetics of
Imagism—the recurrent activity of the phantom would represent an
imagistic disturbance that is characteristic of mania. The erotic, polit¬
ical, or aesthetic energies tied up in repression of hostility or forbidden
desires for the dead are suddenly released in the form of a vengeful
ghost or imago. The survivor escapes persecution by assuming the
place of the phantom, by succumbing to what Pound calls “the more
difficult art in which we are half media and half creators” (P/S 76).
The vengeful ghost erupts therefore like an Image from the cryptic
body of the one who remains behind, preserver and destroyer of the
undead.
In Pound’s case, the manic Image erupting from his stubborn,
embittered grief falls under a technological spell—what Marshall
McLuhan will later call the “tribal magic” of radio. Desperate for
access to the airwaves after the fall of Rome in 1943, Pound exclaimed
to the station manager of Salo Radio, “Give me a bed, a bowl of soup,
and a microphone” (SC 633). Yet long before he had become “the
Shadow” in his own radio drama, Pound equated the work of the
“serious artist” with Marconi’s theory of radio waves: “The serious
64. Sigmund Freud, The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works, ed.
James Strachey (London: Hogarth, 1960), vol. 14, p. 253.
277 /////
A D I O CORPSE
artist is usually, or is often as far from the aepjrum vuljpus as is the

serious scientist. Nobody has heard of the abstract mathematicians
who worked out the determinants that Marconi made use of in his
computations for the wireless telegraph” (LE 47). Looking back on
the period when this essay was written, Pound claims that Western
civilization was “by 1918 entering the radio phase” (GK 258), a chro¬
nology whose only justification may be that it coincides with the dis¬
appearance of the Image and Gaudier’s memory from Pound’s work.
Elsewhere, he describes the modern era as “the age of Marconi.”65
Pound’s fascination with radio technology comes to light even ear¬
lier, as we have discovered, in the critical writings of The Spirit of
Romance. His conception of the “mediumistic artist,” whose faculties
are extended by the technical media, is based on the analogy of a radio
set. It is possible, in fact, to trace Pound’s fascination with undetected
beams or signals to a childhood nickname and, ultimately, to a phan-
tasmic relation with a dead relative. As a child, Pound was called “Ra”
(pronounced “Ray”) by his family, and occasionally signed his letters
“X-ray.”66 Young Ezra’s personal identification with radio images, and
with a “radiant” energy capable of imaging hidden regions of the
body, may help explain his memory of a story about an eccentric family
relation: “A sixteenth cousin named Loomis was said to have sent an
‘electric signal’ between ships, without wires, in the 1860s and was
thought to be crazy” (Stock, Life of Ezra Pound 2). In the mind of
the young Pound, radio communication would therefore have been
associated with a distant, deceased relative whose name he shares.
(Pound’s middle name is Loomis.) Indeed, throughout his career
Pound liked to think that he maintained what can only be described
as a telepathic relation to certain ancestors. Through pseudonyms and
various theoretical channels, Pound established contact with the dead,
a process that later found literary expression in his theory of transla¬
tion. His first published poem, for example, was published under the
pseudonym “Weston Llewmys,” which evokes his relation to his dis¬
tant cousin by mutilating their common name. Thus, Pound not only
communicates with the dead through this pseudonym but “trans-
65. Pound, Polite Essays (London: Faber and Faber, 1937), p. 106.
66. Noel Stock, The Life of Ezra Pound (San Francisco: North Point, 1982), p. 9.
///// 278
Radioactivity
lates” his own identity into that of a phantom.67 The fact that radio
communication and madness are linked in the figure of his ancestor
suggests an ominous relation to Pound’s wartime activities. Just as
Pound viewed the eccentric political career of his grandfather Thad-
deus as anticipating his own economic radicalism (SC 466), so the
figure of his cousin Loomis should be seen as a harbinger of the poet
possessed by the spirit of radio and later incarcerated as a madman.
Believing that technology had realized the “ancient dream of flight
and sejunct communication” (SP361), Pound associated the modern
medium of radio with an archaic dimension of thought or experience,
and notes this correspondence in Guide to Kulchur, his most compre¬
hensive formulation of fascist culture: “In our time the wireless tele¬
graph has produced a new outbreak of ancient speculations” (GK7 5).
The idea that radio is a “magical transformer” with the power “to
retribalize mankind” comes to mind more readily as a component of
Marshall McLuhan’s widely influential theory of media.68 The simi¬
larity between Pound’s ideas and McLuhan’s is no coincidence.
McLuhan began his career as a student of modern literature and, more
important, as an enthusiastic and perceptive reader of Pound’s work.
His earliest publications, which attempt to link the work of writers
such as Joyce and Pound to the effects of the modern technical media,
disclose the literary basis of his later theorizing about the media.69
Moreover, in his mature speculations on the technical media,
McLuhan argues that the manner of thinking fostered by the media
“revolution” is specifically ideojyrammie (Understanding Media vi,
18, 83). Indeed, so substantial is his debt to the ideogrammic model
67. A variation of this pseudonym, “Weston St. Llewmys,” appears as the signatory
of the epigraph to Pound’s second volume of poems, A Quinzaine for This Yule (1908).
The epigraph refers to the awakening character of the artist as “a figure in the mist,” a
phantom that secredy alludes to Pound’s dead relation (CEP 58).
68. Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (New York:
McGraw-Hill, 1964), p. 304.
69. In 1954, for example, McLuhan published an article dtled “Sight, Sound, and
Fury,” in which he argues, “The reader who approaches Pound, Eliot, and Joyce alike
as exploiters of the cinematic aspects of language will arrive at appreciation more quickly
than the one who unconsciously tries to make sense of them by reducing their use of
the new media of communications to the abstract linear forms of the book page.” In
Ideas in Process, ed. C. M. Babcock (Port Washington: Kennikat, 1971), p. 406.
279 /////
Radio corpse
that I think it is useful, and even necessary, to view his “understand¬

ing” of the media as reinscribing certain basic principles of Imagism.
Pound, as I have already indicated, views the medium of radio as a
kind of “public memory,” which is the site of an “outbreak of ancient
speculations.” McLuhan holds similar views: “Radio is a profound,
archaic force, a time bond with the most ancient past and long-
forgotten experience” (Understanding Media 301). Indeed, radio
evokes “archaic tribal ghosts of the most vigorous brand” (301).
Pound views radio as a technological effect of “tradition,” whereas
McLuhan, more provocatively, conceives of “tradition” as an effect
of radio: “Tradition, in a word, is the sense of the total past as now.
Its awakening is a natural result of radio impact” (301). The notion
of radio as tradition, as a technologized art of memory, helps explain
Pound’s view that the ideogrammic technique of the first thirty Cantos
produces an effect akin to that of radio: “I anticipated the damn thing
in first third of Cantos,” he remarks about radio in 1940 (L 343). In
this observation, Pound emphasizes the portion of the Cantos which
appeared prior to the emergence of public broadcasting in the mid-
1920s. Indeed, I think it is possible to argue, based on comments that
Pound made in 1937 about the Vorticist writings of Wyndham Lewis,
that he views radio not only as the technological realization of Vor-
ticism but more specifically as the ideal medium of the Cantos. Con¬
cerning Lewis’ Vorticist play, The Enemy of the Stars, Pound writes,
Here before the B.B.C. murmured at every fire-side WAS and IS

(mehercule) the RADIO DRAMA. Written, printed 1914, impos¬
sible of presentation by any medium save the human voice, carried
through the black air: a DRAMA. The play has awaited a tech¬
nique for its presentation. Cocteau has evolved the technique . . .
Cocteau in his fumoir with his discs and his radio, with his oracle
that speaks pure cipher, unsurpassable trouvaille; cleaving-stroke of
the spirit, moving as no human voice. (SP454)
Mediated by an idiosyncratic debt to Cocteau and Surrealism, Pound’s

panegyric to the “impossible” techniques of Vorticism ends by
evolving an “oracle that speaks pure cipher”—that is, by evoking the
radiophonic ghostland of the Cantos. In all probability, McLuhan’s
favorite analogy for radio—the tribal drum—is borrowed from
Pound, whose interest in primitive “drumming languages” develops
/ ////280
Radioactivity
in relation to the ideogrammic method. Discussing in 1934 the impact

of technology on forms of consciousness, Pound states, “Printed word
or drum telegraph are neither without bearing on the aggregate life
of the folk. As language becomes the most powerful instrument of
perfidy, so language alone can riddle and cut through the meshes”
(LE 77). This analogy, which addresses the correlation between tech¬
nology and the perversion (or redemption) of language (as well as a
link between modernity and the primitive mind), appears again three
years later in Guide to Kulchur:
“Gorgias debunks the logical process.”—Headline on Athenian

bill-board.
All knowledge is built up from a rain of factual atoms such as:
Frobenius forgets his notebook, ten miles from camp he
remembers it. Special African feast on, and no means of sketching
for the records. No time to return to camp. No matter. Black starts
drumming. Drum telegraph works and sketching materials arrive in
time for the beano.
Culture possessed and forgotten. (GK98)
In this ideogrammic passage, Pound associates the “drum telegraph”

(a precursor of radio) not only with primitive culture and the demys¬
tification of logic, but with the materiality of knowledge and a strategy
to counteract a failure of memory. Indeed, the ideogrammic method,
which accounts for the paratactic structure of this passage, must be
viewed as an extension of the “drumming language” that fulfills the
ancient dream of telepathy. Later, Pound would claim that the modern
incarnation of the tribal drum—radio—exerts spellbinding control
over the minds of its listeners.
McLuhan, following the example of Pound, seizes on the figure of
the tribal drum to emphasize the relation between radio and primitive
mentality. Yet he also gives this figure a specific political identity by
linking the emergence of radio to the rise of fascism. He claims that
the “tribal magic” of radio “began to resonate once more with the
note of fascism” ( Understanding Media 297). Describing those who
listened to Hitler’s radio speeches, he writes, “They danced entranced
to the tribal drum of the radio that extended their central nervous
system” (298). This passage not only situates the figure of the “drum
telegraph” in a specific political context, but calls to mind Pound’s
281 /////
A D I O CORPSE
conception of the mediumistic artist whose senses are extended by the

technical media. Indeed, Pound’s famous dictum “Artists are the
antennae of the race” (LE 297) provides the basis for McLuhan’s
notion of the artist as a kind of high priest of technology: “The serious
artist is the only person able to encounter technology with impunity,
just because he is an expert aware of the changes in sense perception”
( Understanding Media 18). McLuhan underscores the psychological
and radiophonic properties of the “drum telegraph” when he describes
radio as “a subliminal echo chamber of magical power to touch remote
and forgotten chords” (302). This passage calls to mind a number of
associations which have an important bearing on the crypt effects of
Pound’s radio broadcasts. First, the reference to radio’s “magical
power” evokes the equation of technology and unreason that under¬
writes the fascist ideology of magical realism. In addition, the idea that
radio elicits and broadcasts “subliminal echoes” corroborates the need
to locate a “remote” and improbable source for the phantasmic bearing
of Pound’s “on-air” personality. Finally, McLuhan’s speculation insists
on radio’s fundamental association with memory and oblivion. Indeed,
the “magical power” of radio derives precisely from its capacity to
“touch” and to expose that which has been long forgotten, to evoke
the “archaic tribal ghosts” of our past.
Whereas McLuhan’s theorizing about radio is essentially a ration¬
alized account of superstitious attitudes, Pound makes no effort to
abstract or qualify his superstitious feelings about the new medium.
As I noted earlier, these superstitions are fully exposed in a letter of
1940 describing his early impressions of radio: “Blasted friends left a
goddam radio here yester. Gift. God damn destructive and dispersive
devil of an invention” (L 342). In the same letter, Pound calls the
radio a “devil box” and compares it to a devouring serpent (L 342).
Several years later, in one of the radio broadcasts, he repeats the story,
emphasizing the memory of his first radio set as a mysterious gift
“planted” in his home by friends with malevolent intent: “Two friends
determined to break down my antipathy to radio had planted, that is
given me, a small sized medium wave apparatus, and then fled the
village” (RB 236). Although there is a trace of irony in this recollec¬
tion, Pound was entirely serious when in 1940 he called radio “the
cold, evil voice of mendacity and needless excitement” (SC 581).
///// 282
Radioactivity
The irony stems from Pound’s acknowledgment (in the same letter in
which he calls the radio a “devil box”) that the ideogrammic tech¬
nique of the Cantos somehow anticipated the new medium, that his
poetry is itself a kind of radiological ghostland (L 343). Nevertheless,
he regards the “devil box” as a cacophonous assortment of voices and
music that is riddled with falsehood and delusions—a view that per¬
tains not so much to the medium of radio as to the haunted space of
the Cantos. The only benefit to those listening would be the devel¬
opment of “a faculty for picking the fake in the voices,” a capacity to
detect the lie or the secret intent of a familiar voice (L 343).
In his radio speeches, Pound links the “fake in the voices” to a
network of malevolent forces that infiltrate society (and Pound’s own
mind) through radio (RB 326). According to Robert Casillo, “Pound
compares the effects of the radio, in his time the instrument of mass
communication, with those of infectious diseases; like radio waves,
germs travel on the air and work their greatest effects on crowds.”70
Just as Pound remembers his first radio (the “devil box”) being
“planted” in his home by friends, so he describes “how far the evil is
brought in by carriers. Unconscious agents, that bring an Anschauung,
an attitude towards life, poisonous as the germs of bubonic plague”
(RB 238). Phantoms, like germs, are “unconscious agents” that
plague the living. Indeed, the contamination spread through radio (“a
dispersive devil of an invention”) is nothing more than a biological
account of the phantasmic effects of radio. By overcoming his antip¬
athy to radio and joining the Babel of voices on the air, Pound
attempts to “vaccinate” himself against the “unconscious agents”
flooding the airwaves. As he does so, however, his own voice is sub¬
sumed by “the fake in the voices.”
Pound is drawn to the medium of radio because “radio is the only
free speech left” (RB 182). Yet radio is subject to infection, and to
hidden controls, precisely because it is “the ONLY medium still open
for free (if you call it free) communication with the outer world” (RB
281). The openness of radio provides access for a multiplicity of voices,
yet it also makes radio an easy target for manipulation. Pound’s views
reflect this contradiction: on one hand he extols radio’s immunity from
70. Robert Casillo, A Genealogy of Demons: Anti-Semitism, Fascism, and the Myths of
Ezra Pound (Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 1988), p. 296.
283 /////
Radio corpse
the evil forces that have infiltrated the medium of print, yet on the
other hand he asserts that radio has already fallen under the influence
of an insidious power. The threat of external control, however, is not
the only danger an “open” medium faces; it is also vulnerable to dan¬
gerous forces from within. At any given moment, the “free speech”
of radio is liable to give way to what Laurence Rickels calls the “primal
medium of rumor” (Aberrations of Mourning 269), a contagion of
speech that mimics the effects of the phantom in Pound’s radio broad¬
casts.71 Rumor spreads irresistibly, uncontrollably, because it thrives
on secrecy and because it is steeped in fantasy. The source of a rumor,
like that of the phantom who plagues the radio broadcasts, is shrouded
in uncertainty. Thus, the open medium of radio is vulnerable not only
to hidden controls from without but to the rumored voices of ghosts
from within. Indeed, in Pound’s radio broadcasts it is impossible to
distinguish between the phantasmic effects of rumor and the hidden
forces that control and disrupt the speaker’s voice.
According to Pound, the “fake in the voices” originates in the most
exotic—and improbable—locations. In one speech, for example, he
informs his listeners, “You might remember that during my last broad¬
casts I was guided from within America” (RB 246). On another occa¬
sion, he describes the effect of “4 to 8 million invaders, all part of a
widely distributed RACE, that has a radio out by San Diego or some¬
where” (RB 100). The unnamed race of “invaders” is the Jews, who
are seeking, Pound believes, to gain control over the technical media:
“All the means of intercommunication pass into the hands of the
secret and largely Semitic control” (RB 172). The trail of secret con¬
trols also leads, however, to an unlikely source in Pound’s early career.
Aestheticism—an amalgam of Decadence and the incipient avant-
garde—is implicated, it turns out, in the history of secret controls.
Pound suggests that there is an ominous link between the Decadent
orientation of his early poetry, which haunts the rhetoric of the Image,
and the peril that faces Europe during the time of the broadcasts: “The
aesthetic angle, that my whole generation grew up in, all LOOKING
harmless, so HARMLESS” (RB 75). The hidden danger of aestheti¬
cism—indeed, of the category of the aesthetic—concerns specifically
his involvement with the group of artists and writers that formed the
71. Rumor, according to Rickels, follows a “double trajectory charted by telepathic

prediction and advance surveillance.” Aberrations of Mourning, p. 289.
/////284
Radioactivity
basis of the Imagist and Vorticist movements. In an early broadcast,

Pound remembers,
Twenty-five, 26, 27 years ago night life, or night dance clubs

started in London. Looked diverting, nobody wondered WHY?
Ole Frida started the cave of the calf, nobody thought evil. Pos¬
sibly a little espionage, probably not even that. Wake up one
morning and find the spirit of England, immortal spirit of Eng¬
land’s May Day, chained in a brothel. Just another hat trick,
undermining, cutting away. Where did she get the money to do it?
(RB 57-58)
Pound is thinking about the Cave of the Golden Calf, London’s first
avant-garde night club, opened by Frida Strindberg (the third wife of
the playwright) in 1912.72 The club was not only a favorite haunt of
the Rebel Art Centre crowd (which included Gaudier-Brzeska), but
was decorated with murals by Wyndham Lewis, Jacob Epstein, and
other members of the group. The reference to the figure of the golden
calf, an emblem of idolatry, reminds us of the dangers inherent in
Pound’s theorization of the Image during this period. Moreover, he
suggests that the cultural plague disseminated by radio, and the
“secret controls” that go along with it, may be linked genealogically
to the milieu of the Cave of the Golden Calf, a cryptic place that is
associated not only with “night life” and the Image, but with the
“romance” of London—including Pound’s acquaintance with
Gaudier-Brzeska. Ultimately, then, one must conclude that the crypt
effects of Pound’s fascist radio broadcasts derive from the historical
translation of Decadence into the cultural poetics of an incipient avant-
garde.
In Pound’s mind, the events of this period in his life are mysteriously
linked to a scene of devastation in the future, as he reveals in a com¬
ment about the magazine Blast:
And the magazine or manifesto was in its way a harbinger. (I am

never quite sure about that word harbinger, but it does seem to be
generally accepted as meaning a sign of something to come.) Well
72. The brochure for the new club declared, “Our aims have the simplicity of a need:
We want a gaiety that does not have to count with midnight. We want surroundings,
which after the reality of daily life, reveal the reality of the unreal.” Cited in Richard
Cork, “The Cave of the Golden Calf,” Artforum (December 1982): 56-68.
285 /////
A D I O CORPSE
the other war came and prevented its being a periodical or annual
publication, got out a second number in 1915 and that ended it,
Gaudier-Brzeska the sculptor havin’ been killed in the interim.
(RB 107)
The fact that Pound stumbles over the meaning of the word “har¬
binger” in a speech that refers to Gaudier’s death signals a wave of
interference emanating from Gaudier’s crypt. Indeed, whenever
Pound mentions Gaudier in the broadcasts we are sure to find evidence
of historical disarray and garbled memories—evidence of the pressure
exerted by the phantom. In one speech, for example, Pound alludes
to Gaudier’s death and remembers rescuing his drawings from a
bombed-out studio in Genoa (RB 293). Apparently, the inhabitant
of Gaudier’s crypt has come forward in the radio broadcasts and
lodged himself in a scene of devastation that rehearses the legacy of
improper burial: Pound recounts a belated attempt to salvage Gau¬
dier’s artistic remains.
This phantasmic disturbance only confirms what Pound had learned
many years earlier from the “ghost psychology” of the Noh plays.
Shortly after Gaudier’s death, Pound observes, “There is nothing like
a ghost for holding to an idee fixe” (T 226). A phantom never lets
go; its sorrow, its anger, are inconsolable. In the broadcast of May 18,
1942, Pound all but acknowledges the constant presence of ghosts in
his radio speeches and their link to the earliest features of his poetic
development. By constructing a demonology for others, he reveals the
demons caged in his own mind. “With Phantoms” is the title of the
broadcast. It assails “the phantom that the Anglo-Jew world is
fighting,” a phantom “built out of lies” (RB 137). At the beginning
of the speech, Pound quotes a line from Tennyson’s “Idylls of the
King” (which gives the speech its tide): “Shall come to fight with
phantoms and to fall.” This citation anchors the broadcast in Pound’s
earliest poetic tastes: a weak spot for Tennysonian “rhetoric” coin¬
cides, we should recall, with his illegitimate affection for the dead. In
addition, the line evokes certain poems that Pound associated with
World War I and his commitment to Imagism: the poem by James
Joyce that begins with an image of a phantom army in the sky, and
Yeats’s poem “The Magi.” Regarding Tennyson’s line, Pound urges
his listeners, “Take it as a prophecy,” meaning we should expect the
///// 286
Radioactivity
German phantom to triumph over the delusions of the “Anglo-Jew”

(RB 137). We also have reason, however, to read Tennyson’s line as
prophetic of the outcome of Pound’s own struggle with the phan-
tasmic Image in Gaudier’s crypt.
Throughout the broadcasts, Pound worries about the intelligibility
of his speeches, on a variety of different levels. From the standpoint
of technology, for example, he is concerned about the clarity of the
signal and the receptivity of the apparatus. After listening to one of
his speeches over the radio (they were prerecorded in batches of four
or five at a time), he comments, “Excellent delivery last night. Voice
absolutely clear and every word ‘visible,’ except for a few ORful
KRRumpzzz! of static or atmospheric or whatever BLITZED out a few
phrases” (SC 592). In this report, we find Pound worrying that
“atmospheric” disturbance, or perhaps other signals—conceived as a
“BLITZ”—might obscure his delivery (a concern that touches the
basic problem of unknown or hostile sources of interference in the
broadcasts). It also reveals that he conceives of his broadcast voice in
visual terms, viewing it as an image projected through the radio, an
image that recalls the poetic Image of 1913 in its intangible, and thus
highly unstable, clarity. We should therefore understand the “acoustic
mirror” of his voice as an expression of the dominant analogy between
Image and phantom. The elision of voice and Image in the radio
broadcasts creates “a special medium for expressing emotion,” which
Pound first discovered in the ghost plays of the Noh theater (T241).
Pound’s concern about the clarity of the signal verges on the more
troubling question of whether or not anyone was listening—a fear
that he expressed repeatedly. Writing to William Joyce, a British cit¬
izen who broadcast for the Nazis under the pseudonym “Lord Haw
Haw” (and who was executed after the war), he complains, “I go it
blind, I have no idea if anyone listens” (SC 594). Once again, Pound
mixes verbal and visual elements in describing the sense of isolation
that he felt as he surrendered to the “tribal ghosts” of radio. Even as
late as 1945, Pound still wondered if anybody had been listening:
“What I am in absolute ignorance of is: whether anyone actually heard
my broadcasts” (SC 590). What are we to make of this sense of iso¬
lation? If it is true that Pound occupied the place of the phantom by
speaking on the radio, that he was broadcasting—according to the
287 /////
Radio corpse
cryptic economy of the Image—from the realm of the dead, then his
fears are not at all surprising; for the dead are jealous spirits, eager for
the solicitations of the living. Pound was troubled by the inattention
(or nonexistence) of his listeners just as the dead are embittered by
the neglect—the ill-will—of the living. Indeed, he communicated the
grievances of the dead because he had become one of them: radio
offered the means to realize his dream of the “mediumistic artist,”
whose senses the technical media extend to the realm of the dead. His
words issue from oblivion, from the Cave of the Golden Calf, the
underground “scene” that preserves and conceals the Image.
Pound’s fear that no one was listening coincided with a deeper fear
that his speeches were incoherent, riddled by interference from
beyond the grave. In either case, he risked being cut off from the
world, sealed in a crypt that evoked the prehistory of the Image—a
fate conjured by the medium of radio. At one point he says, “Some¬
times I try to tell you too much. I suspect I talk in a what is called
incoherent manner: ’cause I can’t (and I reckon nobody could) tell
where to begin ... I was wonderin’ if anybody listened to what I said
on Rome Radio” (RB 227). Pound’s concern about where to begin,
where to enter the maze of the past, echoes throughout the broad¬
casts: “And after a hundred broadcasts it is still hard to know where
to begin” (RB 192). What is it that he finds so daunting? The idea
that he was giving voice to the unspeakable (as Abraham suggests)
may help explain the massive case of stage fright that gripped the
whole undertaking. It may also be that he found radio disturbing
because it revealed, inexorably, the shattering effect of the Cantos: his
voice, on the air, was continually being interrupted, disguised, and
disfigured by other voices. Usually he found himself in the middle of
a “conversation,” as he says of one of his speeches (RB 367).
The impassioned voices of the dead simply won’t let him get a word
in edgewise. At one point, utterly distraught by the flood of words
and thoughts being dictatedto him out of “NECESSITY,” he exclaims,
“I am held up, enraged, by the delay needed to change a typing
ribbon, so much is there that OUGHT to be put into the young Amer¬
ican head. Don’t know which, what to put down, can’t write two
scripts at once. NECESSARY FACTS, ideas, come in pell-mell. I try to
get too much into ten minutes” (RB 192). The fact that Pound is
///// 288
Radioactivity
trying to transcribe “two scripts at once” reveals the effects of “dic¬

tation” and the presence of the phantom in the broadcasts. On
another occasion, he makes reference to a double source of speech
that eludes him: “Had I tongue of men and angels I should be unable
to make sure that even the most faithful listeners would be able to
hear and grasp the whole of a series of my talks” (RB 190). In fact,
Pound conversed throughout the broadcasts in the “tongue of men
and angels,” a torn, hybrid speech forced upon the living by the dead.
His indecipherable instructions to the “nobodies” who were listening
corroborates Gregory Whitehead’s observation that “radio is a
medium voiced by multiple personalities, perfect for pillow talk, useful
as an antidepressant, but also deployable as guiding beam for missile
systems” (“Out of the Dark” 257). In a lucid moment, Pound
acknowledges, “I am perfectly aware that I might as well be writing
Greek or talking Chinese with a foreign accent, so far as making this
statement clear to the hearer or reader is concerned” (RB 262). By
his own admission, Pound was speaking “in tongues” to his listeners,
performing a “translation” of the Image and Gaudier’s phantom into
the mythography of fascism. The transmissions remain necessarily gar¬
bled because they convey, even as they resist, the mutilated hopes and
achievements of Pound’s youth in London. Indeed, the opacity of his
translation is the mark of its fidelity.
The accusations that Pound leveled against his listeners during the
broadcasts offer the most telling portrait of his state of mind. The
ultimate target of the following indictment, for example, is Pound
himself: “You are in black darkness and confusion. You have been
hugger-muggered, and carom-shotted into a war, and you know
NOTHING about it. You know NOTHING about the forces that
caused it” (RB 202). These words paint a portrait of a mind baffled
and piloted by sinister forces—a mind, like Pound’s, that is ignorant
of the forces controlling it. At other times, the voice in the broadcasts
displays an astonishing, almost clairvoyant sense of the rivalry
(between word and Image, the living and the dead) that animated the
broadcasts: “An assault on mortal man, an assault on the exaggerated
privileges accorded to the whims and greeds of the dead was NEEDED.
It came” (RB 197). This pronouncement, uttered by the phantom, is
largely incoherent; yet it conveys with perfect fidelity the catastrophic
289 /////
Radio corpse
logic that underlies the magical realism of the broadcasts. It suggests

not only that mortal man and the dead are identical, but that the radio
broadcasts are the site of a monumental conflict between the living
dead and an unnamed race of immortals (who are led by the prophet
Ezra). Ultimately, the devastation recorded by the broadcasts extends
to events awaiting the prophet in the future: “Whom God would
destroy, he first sends to the bughouse” (RB 27).
It is poetic justice, if nothing else, that requires us to judge Pound’s
radio speeches either as the product of madness or as a record of
treason. Although he pleaded insanity at his trial, the guise of madness
only conceals the hidden grounds of treason. The word “treason”
derives from the same Latin verb that gives us the word “tradition”:
tmdere. Hence, the traitor is necessarily bound to the past, to the
substance of what he betrays. Conversely, the fascist art of memory
that Pound practiced on the air inevitably risked the obliteration of
“natural” memory, of history: it was indeed a “science of forgetting”
that became indistinguishable from the medium of radio. The
treachery of Pound’s behavior over the radio therefore revealed, but
also disfigured, what spoke through him—a submerged “tradition”
of idolatry and illicit affection for the dead. Through the “devil
box”—the new medium of radio—Pound fully realized the political
aesthetic of magical realism, which he first discovered in the ghost
plays of the Noh theater. The Image encrypted in Gaudier’s missing
grave came forward in the radio broadcasts as an emanation from the
past, a “radiant” substance that synthesized voice and image, ration¬
ality and magic, technology and unreason. Through the medium of
radio, the Image cast a political shadow that encompassed not only
Pound’s commitment to fascism but the hyperaesthetic qualities of his
earliest poems.
/////290
/ /
cknowledgments Index
/ /
/ / / /
cknowledemerits
“Every representation of death is a misrepresentation.” This statement

does not, of course, excuse the blurry vision that plagues this book.
Rather, it permits me to state what is obvious, but also inscrutable:
this book is itself a crypt, sustained by negation. As a crypt, it is “the
very tombstone of the illicit, and marks the spot of an extreme pleas¬
ure, a pleasure entirely real though walled up, buried alive in its own
prohibition.” As a crypt, this book is stored with images that do not
properly belong to its subject, death. These images serve, and serve to
encrypt, a pleasure denied the author (except in translation) and in¬
accessible to the reader. A book such as this is misleading, and worse:
it is the wrong book, a red herring. What can be acknowledged must
only help to conceal and preserve, at any cost, the unnameable word-
thing sealed in the tomb of this book.
It is also true, however, that the place of the excluded word-thing
looms as a monument—to artifice, to meaning, and, most surprisingly,
to tradition. The fanfare of resistance and negativity that sustains my
reading of Pound’s necrophilia is not only indebted, it is insolvent.
The tools of negation, however enigmatic, are acquired, and I am
happy to have the chance to give some small idea of my dependence
on other writers and scholars. This will be obvious from the text, but
my book could not have been written without the superb textual crit¬
icism produced by generations of Pound scholars. In a more imme¬
diate context, the problem of the image in general cannot be sepa¬
rated, in my mind, from the groundbreaking work of W. J. T. Mitchell
Acknowledgments
or from his generous guidance and support of this project. His re¬
markable ability to unveil the dialectical features of visual culture re¬
mains for me a model of critical thinking. I must also admit that my
poor judgment regarding the limits of speculative criticism would be
even more obvious than it already is had I not learned a thing or two
from Robert von Hallberg. Namely: facts can’t hurt; indeed, as Marx
reminds us, they have their own spectral qualities.
There are many other people who have contributed directly to this
book, by reading portions of it, or indirectly, by their support or ex¬
ample. My thanks is small repayment indeed for the gifts of these
friends, colleagues, and mentors: Leo Braudy, Ron Gottesman, James
Kincaid, Peter Manning, Franôise Meltzer, Carol Muske, Laurence
Rickels, Paul Ricoeur, Avital Ronell, and David St. John. In addition,
I could not have completed this book without the financial support
of the Mrs. Giles Whiting Foundation and the Zumberge Research
and Innovation Fund at the University of Southern California. I also
wish to thank Lindsay Waters for his editorial insight and Maria Ascher
for her vital adjustments and corrections of the text. Finally, I am
deeply grateful to Elaine Armour and Nancy Worth Tiffany, whose
long support and encouragement have helped guard this work from
irrelevance and estrangement.
//// 294
Abraham, Nicolas, 54, 75, 106, 110, Bell, Ian F. A., 28n, 223n
112, 139, 159, 161, 187n, 240, 288 Benda, Julien, 22
Adorno, Theodor, 14n, 183, 244, 264n Benjamin, Walter, 6, 12, 66-67, 69,
Agamben, Giorgio, 54n, 78n, 94n, 204n 186, 192, 215, 223
Agassiz, Louis, 165 Bergson, Henri, 89, 224n
Alchemy, 158-159. See also Sublimadon Berman, Antoine, 178-179, 180, 181,
Aldington, Richard, 118, 129, 139, 254, 185-186, 206n, 215
270 Berman, Louis, 166
Anaximander, 194 Berman, Russell A., 24
Anderson, David, 188, 202, 203 Binyon, Laurence, 198
Angulo, Jaime de, 146n Blackmur, R. P., 39
Antheil, George, 112, 231, 232-233 Blake, William, 198, 255, 256-257
Anti-Semitism, 168-170, 173-174, 221, Blanchot, Maurice, 1, 4-5, 7-9, 29, 65,
236, 239-240, 244, 251, 272, 284 106, 133, 143
Apollinaire, Guillaume, 112 Blindness. See Negation; Visuality,
Aquinas, Thomas, 95 modern conceptions of
Aristotle, 97 Body. See Corporeality; Materiality
Arnheim, Rudolf, 223n Bonnefoy, Yves, 177, 180
Atkins, John, 212 Borges, Jorge Luis, 218
Avant-garde. See Vorticism Born, Bertrand de, 117, 266
Bosnian, Willem, 212
Bachelard, Gaston, 63-64 Boym, Svetlana, 67
Bacigalupo, Massimo, 195 Brancusi, Constantin, 199
Bacon, Francis, 16, 63 Brodzky, Horace, 261n, 271
Barney, Natalie, 245 Bronfen, Elisabeth, 66, 148n, 150-151
Bass, Alan, 216 Brooks, Louise, 232n
Bassnet-McGuire, Susan, 193 Brown, Norman O., 150
Bataille, Georges, 78, 153n, 161, 171, Browning, Robert, 168, 169, 215, 262,
172,187 266n
Baudelaire, Charles, 127-128, 165, Brzeska, Sophie, 109-110, 113
188n Bullock, Marcus Paul, 15n, 74n
Beddoes, Thomas Lovell, 123 Burke, Kenneth, 65
Index
Burne-Jones, Edward, 29, 135, 138 Crypt, 11, 12, 20, 30, 36, 42, 46, 53,
Bush, Ronald, 40 54, 56-59, 62, 70, 75, 77, 80, 89, 94,
Buss, Kate, 33n 96, 97, 100, 110, 112-113, 125, 139,
141-143, 145-146, 156, 159, 161,
Cadaver. See Corporeality; Corpse; 166, 179, 210, 237, 238, 241-242,
Materiality 246, 249, 275, 285-286. See also
Camoens, Luis Vaz de, 134 Letishism; Medium; Memory;
Carpenter, Humphrey, 120, 268 Mourning; Negation; Places (topoi),
Carr, Arthur J., 82 theory of
Cartwright, Lisa, 16-18 Cryptology, 230. See also Crypt;
Casillo, Robert, 113n, 173n, 283 Hieroglyphics
Castiglione, Baldassarre, 107 Curie, Marie, 224n
Catullus, 188n
Cavalcanti, Guido, 26, 55, 90, 91, 92- Dali, Salvidor, 232n
93, 105, 140, 187, 190, 193, 196, Daniel, Arnaut, 202
198, 202-208, 209, 210, 214, 215, Dante Alighieri, 33, 68, 82, 105, 134,
216, 217-220, 224. See also Pound, 191,198, 199,268
Ezra, translations Daston, Lorraine, 13-15, 27, 30, 226-
Celine, Louis-Lerdinand, 168 227
Chamberlain, Lori, 186n, 215n Davie, Donald, 24, 87, 111
Champollion, Jean-Franyois, 180 Daviot, Gordon, 27In
Chase, Cynthia, 214 Decadence, 20, 26, 49, 70, 73, 81-82,
Christ, Carol T., 82 84, 114, 115, 121, 124, 126, 131,
Cicero, 94, 96 132, 147, 149, 151, 152, 156, 258,
Cimabue, 198 276, 284, 285. See also Necrophilia
Cinema, 31,42,246-247 DeLanda, Manuel, 230n
Coburn, Alvin Langdon, 30, 33, 34 Dembo, L. S., 195
Cocteau, Jean, 231, 280 Derrida, Jacques, 10-11, 12, 19, 161,
Cole, Roger, 267 178, 179, 189, 190, 193, 195, 200,
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 81 214-215
Cookes, Sir William, 224n Descartes, Rene, 16, 172
Cork, Richard, 285n Dolmetsch, Arnold, 247
Corporeality, 16, 18-20, 31, 35-36, Douglas, Mary, 114, 153-155, 160
119-120,130, 131-133, 137-139, Dowson, Ernest, 88, 115, 121, 148
143,150-151, 156, 159-174, 248- Dryden, John, 176, 184
250, 253, 277. See also Materiality; Duchamps, Marcel, 232n
Monstrosity Duplessis, Rachel Blau, 43
Corpse, 1, 4-12, 15, 20, 21, 25, 36, 53,
54, 62, 71, 84, 122, 124, 125, 126, Eakins, Thomas, 169
127-129, 131, 135, 136, 140, 142, Eberle, Mattias, 242n
147-148, 152, 156, 159, 169, 173, Ede, H. S., 271
184-186, 210, 216, 222, 228. See also Edison, Thomas Alva, 233-234
Corporeality; Materiality Elegy, poetic, 22, 81-85, 188-189, 197.
Cory, Mark E., 23On See also mourning
Crary, Jonathan, 15-19, 35-36 Eliot, T. S., 22, 39, 82, 166, 172-173,
Cros, Charles, 233 279n
Crowds, modern theories of, 48, 63, Epstein, Jacob, 266n, 285
235, 283 Exchange value. See Fetishism
///// 296
Index
Fascism, 17, 20, 24, 25, 36, 39, 45, 48, Goux, Jean-Joseph, 70
52, 61, 63, 64, 73, 146, 168, 222, Grey, E. C., 139
223, 224-225, 228, 230, 233, 234, Grivel, Charles, 236
235-236, 251, 252, 270, 276, 279,
281,282,287, 289,290 H.D., 41-13, 47, 92, 129-130, 138,
Feminization of the male poet, 43, 102, 139n, 146
109,110-111, 112, 129-131, 134, Hardy, Thomas, 22
136-139, 140, 143, 144. See also Hart, Bernard, 89
Monstrosity Heidegger, Martin, 194-195, 273-274
Fenollosa, Ernest, 55, 130, 225-226, Henderson, Alice, 32, 49n, 260n, 272
257,259 Herf, Jeffrey, 251-252
Fetishism: visuality and, 5-6, 9, 14, 17, Hermeneutics, 42, 43, 46, 52, 60-63,
21-22, 26, 54, 75, 77, 96, 110 (see 66, 70, 80, 125, 165-166, 178, 180,
also Phantom); material culture and, 4, 230
5-7, 9, 10, 17, 36, 48, 60, 62-63, 64, Hertz, Heinrich, 224n
70, 74-80, 125, 137, 148-149, 159, Hieroglyphics, 42, 43n, 180-181, 229.
181-182, 193-194, 201, 211-213 (see See also Hermeneutics
also Materiality); exchange and, 6, 26, Hirsh, Elizabeth A., 42-43
77-80, 175, 180-184, 187, 214, 223 Hitler, Adolf, 221,235,281
(see also Translation); sexual, 6, 63, Holderlin, Friedrich, 186, 215
74-75, 78, 137, 213, 216-217, 219n. Homer, 90, 92n, 95, 100, 102-104,
See also Marx, Karl 123, 187, 190, 209, 218, 265. See also
Flint, F. S., 45-46, 270 Pound, Ezra, translations
Fontenelle, M. de, 123 Homoeroticism, 43, 54, 81, 88, 103,
Ford, Ford Madox, 32, 8In, 233n, 271 105, 109, 112-113, 119, 120, 130,
Foucault, Michel, 17 131, 138, 141, 232-233, 262, 271,
Freud, Sigmund, 6, 62, 74-75, 112, 275-276. See also Gaudier-Brzeska,
145, 150, 184, 189, 190n, 213, 216, Henri
219n, 224n, 241, 263-264, 276-277 Hooley, Daniel, 191-192
Fried, Michael, 169-170 Horkheimer, Max, 14n, 183
Friedman, Susan Stanford, 43 Hough, Graham, 38n
Frobenius, Leo, 230, 271, 281 Hulme, T. E., 89, 132,270
Hunt, Violet, 269
Galison, Peter, 13-15, 27, 30, 226-227 Hyde-Lees, Georgie, 273
Gaudier-Brzeska, Henri, 26, 32, 34, 45,
49, 53, 54, 86-91, 102, 104, 106- Ideogram, image conceived as, 23, 41,
113, 114, 119, 130, 140, 145, 167, 44, 51, 52, 61, 62, 90, 94, 150, 156,
232-233, 236-241, 256, 261-262, 197, 201, 207, 208, 225-226, 229,
264n, 265-278, 285-287, 289, 290 230, 234, 236, 242, 276, 279-281,
Giotto, 198, 199 283
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 241 Incubus, figure of, 141-142, 193, 256,
Gombrich, E. H., 223n, 235n 264-265. See also Phantom
Goodwin, Sarah Webster, 66, 148n, Invisibility. See Negation; Phantom;
150-151 Radioactivity; Visuality, modern
Gorgias, 281 conceptions of
Gould, George Milbry, 164
Gourmont, Remy de, 35-36, 130, 131— Jacobs, Carol, 215n
132, 157, 162, 170 Jakobson, Roman, 177
297 /////
Index
James, William, 224n Marinetti, F. T., 221, 248

Jameson, Fredric, 66, 67 Martin, Wallace, 89
Jay, Martin, 2n, 16n, 20, 23 Marx, Karl, 5-9, 17, 29, 62, 67, 69, 74-
Johnson, Lionel, 115, 121, 148 80,96,180-184,213
Joyce, James, 33, 52, 117, 124, 163, Materiality, 4-8, 12, 13, 18-19, 25-26,
164, 270, 279, 286 35, 45, 54, 62-63, 70, 76, 84, 115,
Joyce, William, 287 120, 122, 143-144, 147-160, 167,
Jung, Carl, 224n 168, 169-170, 209, 211, 222. See also
Jiinger, Ernst, 223, 242, 252 Corporeality; Radioactivity
Mathematics, 23, 28-29, 41, 44, 94,
156
Kahn, Douglas, 229-230
Mathews, Jackson, 197
Kant, Immanuel, 9-10, 19
Maxim, Hudson, 28n
Kaplan, Alice Yaeger, 73n, 115n, 225,
McLuhan, Marshall, 84n, 277, 279-282
235, 240
Media, technical, 2, 15, 16-17, 20-21,
Kayman, Martin, 47, 223n
25, 28, 30, 42, 83, 171, 179, 221-
Keenan, Thomas, 6n, 181, 182, 183
236, 238, 242, 246-248, 249, 251,
Kenner, Hugh, 39-40, 48, 101, 187-
253,278-280, 282, 287
188, 197
Medium, concept of, 14-15, 18, 21, 23,
Kincaid, James R., 82n
25, 30, 48, 49, 58, 68-69, 129, 147,
Kittler, Friedrich, 69, 178, 180, 181
171, 175, 188, 217, 222, 225, 227-
Kristeva, Julia, 11-12, 150, 153-154,
230, 232, 236, 242, 249, 250, 253,
160, 166, 168, 174
273-275, 277, 280, 284, 287. See also
Fetishism; Translation
La Fleur, William R., 25n Mehlman, Jeffrey, 22 3n
Landor, Walter Savage, 123 Meltzer, Franyoise, 149
LeBon, Gustave, 22, 48, 235 Melville, Herman, 2-4, 29
Leibiz, Gottfried, 63, 230 Memory, 44, 54, 56, 77, 87-88, 91-99,
Lenin, V. I., 25n 100-101, 107-108, 175, 184, 187,
Leopardi, Giacomo, 135 190, 196, 213-214, 220, 226, 232,
Lewis, Phillip, 214 233, 234, 252, 280, 290. See also
Lewis, Wyndham, 84-85, 112, 120, Mourning; Places (topoi), theory of
122, 124-125, 129, 272, 280, 285 Mesmerism, 267n
Litz, A. Walton, 82 Metamorphosis. See Feminization of the
Lodge, Sir Oliver, 224n male poet; Fetishism and exchange;
Longenbach, James, 47, 269, 273n Monstrosity; Translation
Lowell, Amy, 48, 50, 86, 88n Milton, John, 151, 164
Lycanthropy, 144-146. See also Miro, Joan, 198
Monstrosity Mitchell, W. J. T., 2n, 21, 76, 137,
Lyotard, Jean-Franyois, 45 149n, 184, 211n, 227
Moholy-Nagy, Laszlo, 229
Machiavelli, Niccolo, 244, 245 Monroe, Harriet, 32, 57, 119, 260n
MacKenna, Stephen, 213 Monstrosity, 144-146, 166, 170-174,
Malatesta, Sigismundo, 68, 135 214, 215, 275. See also Corporeality
Mania, 277 Moore, Marianne, 37, 55, 254n, 258n
Mann, Paul, 69-70, 176 Mortality. See Necrophilia; Translation
Manning, Frederic, 116 Mourning, 11, 22, 26-27', 43, 53, 81,
Marconi, Guglielmo, 248, 277, 278 83, 87-88, 90, 92, 103, 106, 111-
/////298
Index
112,129-131, 134-135, 137, 142- Phantom, 5, 6, 8, 9, 12, 17, 18, 20, 21,
144,145-146,156, 188-189, 237- 26, 41, 46, 47, 53, 56-57, 77, 84, 85,
238, 249, 256, 262, 263, 264-265, 88-89, 90-91, 95, 100-101, 104,
267, 270-272, 275-277. See also 106, 129, 140-143, 157-158, 183,
Memory; Phantom 186, 219-220, 230, 237-241, 242,
243, 244, 248, 250, 254-265, 270-
Nabokov, Vladimir, 185 271, 273-277, 282, 283-284, 286-
Nagy, N. Christoph de, 196n 289. See also Fetishism; Medium;
Necrophilia, 10, 15, 22, 26, 44, 48, 49, Mourning; Radio
53, 54, 56-59, 63, 67, 68, 69, 73, 77, Phonography, 226, 229-230, 233-234,
81-85, 114, 115-121, 123-124, 127- 235, 240, 247. See also Radio
129, 134-135, 144-145, 147, 150, Photography, 15-16, 30-31, 33-35,
155, 196, 205, 214-215, 248, 276, 108, 198, 203, 252. See also Cinema
278, 290. See also Decadence; Picabia, Francis, 231
Mourning; Negation Pietz, William, 5n, 63, 181-182, 201,
Negation, 1-5, 9, 10-12, 14-16, 19, 25, 211n, 212
27, 35, 36, 38-39, 42, 49, 59, 66-67, Pineal eye, 171-172
98, 99, 110, 125, 126, 132, 150-151, Places (topoi), theory of, 93-102, 125,
153-154, 156, 161, 226-227. See also 160, 226, 250. See also Crypt;
Necrophilia; Objectivity; Visuality Memory
Nelson, Lowry, 204n Pleynet, Marcelin, 45
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 1, 175 Po, Li, 117,216
Nilsson, Nils Ake, 30n Polke, Sigmar, 16
Nostalgia. See Memory; Mourning; Pondrom, Cyrena N., 42-43
Necrophilia Pope, Alexander, 255
Nouge, Paul, 231 Positivism, 12, 13, 21, 42, 43, 50, 60,
Novalis, 180 62, 63, 70, 125, 148, 165, 178, 223,
Nye, Robert A., 235 230. See also Objectivity, discourse of
Pound, Ezra
Poems: “And Thus in Nineveh,”
Oates, Caroline, 145n 118; “Anima Sola,” 118;
Objectivity, discourse of, 5, 9, 11, 12, “Apparuit,” 56; Cantos as a
15, 19, 20, 21, 27-29, 30-31, 34, 36, whole, 40, 52, 55, 68, 84n, 102,
42, 49, 50, 55, 56, 58, 63, 124, 125, 112, 123, 135, 159, 187, 201,
147-148, 149, 150, 156, 199-200, 236, 242, 260n, 262, 280, 283,
201-202, 217, 222, 226-227. See also 288; Canto 1, 100, 103, 123,
Negation 209; Canto 3, 134; Canto 4, 157;
Oblivion. See Fetishism; Memory Canto 9, 135; Canto 10, 135;
Olson, Charles, 167, 272, 273 Canto 16, 155; Canto 29, 247;
Ophthalmology, 164-165, 166 Canto 30, 134; Canto 36, 90, 93;
Ortega y Gasset, Jose, 175, 177, 179 Canto 70, lOOn; Canto 74, 90,
Ovid, 168, 169 91, 100; Canto 76, 135; Canto
77, 105; Canto 83, 256n;
Passivity, 241-242, 244-246, 247, 249, “Canzon: The Vision,” 121;
250, 251, 252, 253. See also “Canzon: The Yearly Slain,” 116;
Feminization of the male poet Capilupus Sends Greetings to
Paz, Octavio, 177 Grotus,” 158; “Dance Figure,”
Perkins, David, 37n 58, 142; “Doria,” 56;
299 /////
Index
Pound, Ezra, poems (continued) Monument, the Image Cut

“Epilogue,” 117, 209; “For Thereon” (Leopardi), 135;
Italico Brass,” 114; “Histrion,” “Homage to Sextus Propertius,”
117, 191; “HughSelwyn 116, 118, 130, 189, 192, 200-
Mauberley,” 51, 52, 55, 90, 104, 201, 202, 207, 219; “Lament of
111-112, 120, 122,133-134, the Frontier Guard,” 59, 267;
247, 261; “I Wait,” 141, 143; “Le Vampire” (Baudelaire), 127-
“Ikon,” 139-140; “In a Station 128; Natural Philosophy of Love
of the Metro,” 49, 101, 112, (Gourmont), 36, 131, 162, 170-
120, 156-158, 197; “La 171; Noh plays, 55-56, 243-244,
Fraisne,” 105, 141; “La 251, 257-262, 264, 287, 290;
Nuvoletta,” 134; “Laudantes “Song of the Bowman of Shu,”
Decern Pulchritudinis Johannae 59, 267; Sonnets and Ballate of
Templi,” 157-158; “Lord of Guido Cavalcanti, 26, 55, 92,
Shalott,” 141; “Mesmerism,” 187, 190, 198, 202-208,210,
267n; “Middle-Aged,” 58, 119- 214,215,216,217-219,224;
120, 142; “Of Jacopo Sellaio,” “The River Merchant’s Wife,”
136; “Phanopoeia,” 254; “Piere 143; “The Seafarer,” 55, 207n,
Vidal Old,” 107, 144, 265; 208-211, 214, 218; “Werewolf
“Redivivus,” 118; “Redondillas,” in Selvage,” 146n
116, 255; “Religio,” 116; Primitivism, 48, 234, 263, 271, 280-
“Revolt against the Crepuscular 281
Spirit in Modern Poetry,” 126; Propertius, Sextus, 116, 117, 118, 130,
“Sage Homme,” 172-174; 189, 192, 201, 202, 207, 219. See also
“Sestina: Altaforte,” 107, 117, Pound, Ezra, translations
265, 266-267; “Silet,” 57, 156;
“Sub Mare,” 57; “Surgit Fama,” Quinn, John, 31
58; “The Alchemist,” 140, 158; Quintilian, 94, 98
“The Picture,” 135-136; “The
Return,” 56; “The Tomb at Akr Rabate, Jean-Michel, 74n, 242, 273n
Caar,” 58, 118, 142-143, 145; Radiation. See Radioactivity
“The Tree,” 130; “Threnos,” Radio, 20-21, 25, 28, 45, 146, 221-
116; “To E.B.B.,” 117; “Und 222, 223, 225, 228, 230, 232, 234-
Drang,” 117, 243; “Villanelle: 236, 237, 238, 240-241, 242, 245-
The Psychological Hour,” 145; 246, 250, 251, 252, 265, 270, 271,
“Yeux Glauques,” 135, 136, 138, 272, 275-276, 277, 279-290. See also
144; Medium; Phantom
Translations: Book XI of the Radioactivity, 16n, 21, 25-26, 148,
Odyssey, 90, 95, 100, 102-104, 222-228, 234, 276, 290. See also
123, 187, 209; Cathay, 55, 59, Materiality
194-195, 197, 202, 206, 207, Rainey, Lawrence, 68
208, 216, 257-258, 267; Chinese Rand, Nicholas, 46
adaptations, 56n; Confucius, 215; Ray, Man, 232n
Dialogues des morts (Fontenelle), Realism, magical, 242, 252-255, 257,
123; “Donna mi prega” 259,261,262,282,290
(Cavalcanti), 90, 91, 92-93, 99, Rebatet, Lucien, 235
206, 220; “Four Poems of Redman, Tim, 25n
Departure,” 59; “Her Reynolds, Joshua, 199
///// 300
Index
Rickels, Laurence, 99n, 189n, 248, 249- Sublimation, 149-151, 155-156, 158—
250, 264, 265, 284 159, 162, 166. See also Fetishism and
Roentgen, Wilhelm Konrad, 226 exchange; Materiality
Romains, Jules, 48, 235 Surgery, 167-170, 172-174. See also
Ronell, Avital, 196, 239, 241, 274-276 Corporeality
Roosevelt, Franklin D., 240 Surrealism, 231-233, 280
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 135, 163, 191, Swinburne, Algernon, 88, 135, 148,
193, 202, 218 163, 188n, 191
Ruskin, John, 135 Symons, Arthur, 115, 121, 152
Russell, Ken, 271n
Ruthven, K. K., Ill, 156-157, 210, 253 Tarde, Gabriel de, 48
Taupin, Rene, 50
Salo, Italian Fascist Republic of, 241, Taussig, Michael, 6, 12n, 234
277 Telegraphy. See Media, technical; Radio;
Sappho, 142-143, 188n Translation
Scarry, Elaine, 9, 25n, 71-74, 211 Tennyson, Alfred, 82-84, 141, 286-287
Schelling, Felix, 272 Terrell, Carroll F., 103
SchifF, Christopher, 232n Thompson, Sir J. J., 224n
Schlegel, Friedrich, 181 Tolchin, Neal, 137n
Schleiermacher, Friedrich, 185 Torok, Maria, 54, 75, 110, 139, 159,
Schneidau, Herbert, 2In 161, 187n
Schopenhauer, Arthur, 177, 178, 184- Translation, 26, 55, 69, 98, 129, 139,
185 147, 157-158, 159, 175-220, 223,
Science. See Objectivity, discourse of; 234, 237, 250, 267, 273-275, 278-
Positivism 279, 289. See also Fetishism and
Sellaio, Jacopo del, 135-136 exchange; Medium
Shakespear, Dorothy, 136, 137, 141,
250,256,266, 273 Upward, Allen, 122
Shaviro, Steven, 6
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 175 Valery, Paul, 185
Sherry, Vincent, 22-23, 24 Valla, Lorenzo, 107
Sieburth, Richard, 148, 23In Vega, Lope de, 188
Silverman, Kaja, 243n Ventriloquism, 162-163, 234, 250. See
Simonides, 93-94, 96, 97 also Translation
Simpson, David, 4n Villon, Francois, 111, 219
Sinclair, May, 27n, 31 Virilio, Paul, 103n
Singleton, Charles, 106 Visuality, modern conceptions of, 1-9,
Smirnoff, Victor, 217 12, 14, 15-20, 21-25, 26, 29-36, 99,
Smith, William Brooke, 90, 104-106, 125, 135-136, 147, 157, 165, 170-
112, 238, 265, 272 172, 200, 204-206, 222, 223-228,
Sophocles, 186 232. See also Fetishism; Medium;
Sorel, Georges, 22 Negation; Objectivity
Spector, Jack J., 213 Volkan, Vamik, 131
Spender, Stephen, 38 Voltaire, 162
Stafford, Barbara, 18n von Hallberg, Robert, 24, 38n, 270
Steiner, George, 176n, 194 Vortex, image conceived as, 23, 32, 44,
Stock, Noel, 278 46, 90, 132, 208, 277
Strindberg, Frida, 285 Vorticism, 22, 23, 30-31, 32-34, 50,
301 /////
Index
Vorticism (continued) Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 50, 81, 147, 223,

52, 68, 86, 87, 124-125, 232, 255, 229
280, 285 Wolfson, Louis, 180n
Wachhorst, Wyn, 234n

X-ray images, 16, 226-227, 278. See also
Warren, Rosanna, 188
Radioactivity
Wellbery, David, 69, 70
Xie, Ming, 59, 197
Whistler, James McNeill, 29
Whitehead, Gregory, 225, 228, 289
Wilde, Oscar, 168 Yates, Frances A., 94-99
Williams, William Carlos, 104, 115, 165, Yeats, William Butler, 47, 112, 141, 219,
272 223n, 255-257, 259, 260, 270, 273,
Witemeyer, Hugh, 116, 120 286
//// / 302
»
-
BOS 0 ’U 3L C L BRARY
3 9999 02956 751 6
No long** -he prop** *y of tfie

Boston Public Library,
Silt of Site material benefits the raif«|p
(contin ued from front flap)
historical discovery of radium and the develop¬
ment of radiography. Emphasizing the phantas-
mic effects of translation (and exchange) in
Pound’s poetry, Tiffany argues that the cadav¬
erous—and radiological—properties of the
image culminate, formally and ideologically, in
Pound’s fascist radio broadcasts during World
War II. Ultimately, the invisibility of these
“radiant1’ images places in question basic
assumptions regarding the optical character of
images—assumptions currently being chal¬
lenged by imageric technologies such as mag¬
netic resonance imaging and positron emission
tomography.
[Daniel Tiffany is Assistant Professor of
English, University of Southern California, Los
Angeles.
Harvard University Press

Cambridge, Massachusetts • London, England
Design: Gwen Frankfeldt
Photo: Alvin Langdon Coburn, Vortograph of Ezra Pound

(1916), courtesy George Eastman House
//■ ws
I am extremely impressed by Tiffany's revisionist reading of
Pound and the Image, a reading which moves Pound criticism into
some of ►f current literary theory,
Bringing as he does teutic contexts to his
analysis of Pound, narkably iconod as-
tic reading of the % id’s career. Indeed,
I think that Tiffany's icantlv change the
way Pound is going t has, in short, given
us a Pound for our own -a spectral ntpdernist whose deep-
^Pf, jiacis w
est and most unspeakable iures derive from the crypt, a poet whose
ecstatic immediacies are i haunted ^ ghostly dictation s of
, , ;:
the dead.”
. ..... '.m' : v.-\ : :K.
York University
//
Ihanks to Tiffany’s alert an dy, the modernist
poetics of the Image appears in all i ensions, and can be
linked forcefully with Blanchot’s theses g language and visu-
ality, for instance. This is a ‘gRRKeat’ b und would write.”
/lie
—Jean-Michel Rah a 'sity,pf Pen nsylvan in
m. . 7iyf|
££ m
. ■ '
rob no word is more widely ore poorly under-
stood today than the word ‘imaged Danie adio Corpse awak-
ens this ubiquitous and moribund word 1 f-life hv retracing
its trajectory in the work of Ezra Pound, from the nslations
of Cavalcanti to the poet's infamous radio broadcasts pport of
Mussolini's Italy during the Second World War. Info y recent
theoretical reflection upon the relation of image and Tiffany
explores the complex relations that link the ^radiology o age’ in
Pound's broadcasts to ‘modernist' aesthetics. Radio Corpse thuf opens
new avenues in exploring the interaction of literature, politics, and the
media. It constitutes a major work of literary and cultural criticism.”
Samuel Weber, University of California, Los Angeles
ISBN 0-b74~74bbE-7
90000
.
■
\
ail
9 780674 746626
■

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bout the origins of Anglo-

American poetic modernism, one thing is cer¬

tain: it started with a notion of the image,

described variously by Ezra Pound as an

ideogram and a vortex. We have reason to be

less confident, however, about the relation

between these puzzling conceptions of the

image and the doctrine of literary positivism

that is generally held to be the most important

legacy of Imagism. No satisfactory account

exists, moreover, of what bearing these founda¬

tional principles may have on Pound’s later

engagement with fascism. Nor is it clear how

figures such as the vortex and the ideogram

might contribute generally to our understand¬

ing of modern visual culture and its compulsive

Radio Corpse addresses these issues and offers a

fundamental revision of one of the most power¬

ful and persistent aesthetic ideologies of mod¬

ernism. Focusing on the necrophilic dimension

of Pound’s earliest poetry and on the

inflections of materiality authorized by the

modernist image, Daniel Tiffany establishes a

continuum between Decadent practice and the

incipient avant-garde, between the prehistory

of the image and its political afterlife, between

what Pound calls the “corpse language” of late

Victorian poetry and a “radioactive” image that

borrows an intuition of the invisible from the

(continued on back flap)

IMAG I SM AND THE

Permission has been kindly granted by New Directions Publishing

Earlier and shorter versions of Chapters 3 and 6 appeared, respectively, in

Library of Congress Catalogi ng-in -Publication Data

Designed by Gwen Frankfeldt

The Mystery of Negation 1

Making and Unmaking 65

The Sad Wit of Pollution 147

Impossible Effigies 175

GB Ezra Pound, Gaudier-Brzeska: A Memoir. New York: New Directions,

GK Ezra Pound, Guide to Kulchur. New York: New Directions, 1970;

L Ezra Pound, Selected Letters, 1907-1941. Ed. D. D. Paige. New York:

LE Literary Essays of Ezra Pound. Ed. T. S. Eliot. New York: New

NPL Ezra Pound, “Postscript.” Remy de Gourmont, Natural Philosophy of

P Ezra Pound, Personae (1926). New York: New Directions, 1971.

PD Ezra Pound, Pavannes and Divagations. London: Peter Owen, 1960.

P/L Pound/Lewis: Letters of Ezra Pound and Wyndham Lewis. Ed.

SC Humphrey Carpenter, A Serious Character: The Life of Ezra Pound.

SP Ezra Pound, Selected Prose, 1909-1965. Ed. William Cookson. New

SR Ezra Pound, The Spirit of Romance. New York: New Directions,

Few people would dispute the fundamental association between

existed. One could argue that all images display a general—that is to

On one side hung a very large oil-painting so thoroughly be-

dint of much earnest contemplation, and oft repeated ponderings,

Although the narrator, at once perplexed and fascinated by the image,

3. Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press,

others (though we should not forget the unexpected illumination

therefore depends on Blanchot’s precise conception of the image and,

Although Marx does not evince the “strangeness” of the com¬