Here is the reading JAMES E. PORTERΒ
Indiana University-Purdue University at Fort WayneΒ
Intertextuality and the Discourse CommunityΒ
At the conclusion of Eco's The Name of the Rose, the monk Adso of MelkΒ
returns to the burned abbey, where he finds in the ruins scraps of parchment, theΒ
only remnants from one of the great libraries in all Christendom. He spends aΒ
day collecting the charred fragments, hoping to discover some meaning in theΒ
scattered pieces of books. He assembles his own "lesser library .. . ofΒ
fragments, quotations, unfinished sentences, amputated stumps of books"Β
(500). To Adso, these random shards are "an immense acrostic that says andΒ
repeats nothing" (501). Yet they are significant to him as an attempt to orderΒ
experience.Β
We might well derive our own order from this scene. We might see Adso asΒ
representing the writer, and his desperate activity at the burned abbey as a mod-Β
el for the writing process. The writer in this image is a collector of fragments, an
archaeologist creating an order, building a framework, from remnants of theΒ
past. Insofar as the collected fragments help Adso recall other, lost texts, hisΒ
experience affirms a principle he learned from his master, William of Basker-Β
ville: "Not infrequently books speak of books" (286). Not infrequently, andΒ
perhaps ever and always, texts refer to other texts and in fact rely on them forΒ
their meaning. All texts are interdependent: We understand a text only insofarΒ
as we understand its precursors.Β
This is the principle we know as intertextuality, the principle that all writingΒ
and speech-indeed, all signs-arise from a single network: what VygotskyΒ
called "the web of meaning"; what poststructuralists label Text or WritingΒ
(Barthes, ecriture); and what a more distant age perhaps knew as logos. Exam-Β
ining texts "intertextually" means looking for "traces," the bits and pieces ofΒ
Text which writers or speakers borrow and sew together to create new dis-Β
course. ' The most mundane manifestationf intertextuality is explicit citation,Β
but intertextuality animates all discourse and goes beyond mere citation. For theΒ
intertextual critics, Intertext is Text-a great seamless textual fabric. And, asΒ
they like to intone solemnly, no text escapes intertext.Β
Intertextuality provides rhetoric with an important perspective, one currentlyΒ
neglected, I believe. The prevailing composition pedagogies by and large culti-Β
vate the romantic image of writer as free, uninhibited spirit, as independent,Β
creative genius. By identifying and stressing the intertextual nature of dis-Β
course, however, we shift our attention away from the writer as individual and Intertextuality and the Discourse Community 35Β
focus more on the sources and social contexts from which the writer's discourseΒ
arises. According to this view, authorial intention isless significant than socialΒ
context; the writer is simply apart of a discourse tradition, a member of a team,Β
and a participant in a community of discourse that creates its own collectiveΒ
meaning. Thus the intertext constrains writing.Β
My aim here is to demonstratehe significance of this theory to rhetoric, byΒ
explaining intertextuality, its connection to the notion of "discourse communi-Β
ty," and its pedagogical implications for composition.Β
The Presence of IntertextΒ
Intertextuality has been associated with both structuralism and poststruc-Β
turalism, with theorists like Roland Barthes, Julia Kristeva, Jacques Derrida,Β
Hayden White, Harold Bloom, Michel Foucault, and Michael Riffaterre. (OfΒ
course, the theory is most often applied in literary analysis.) The central as-Β
sumption of these critics has been described by Vincent Leitch: "The text is notΒ
an autonomous or unified object, but a set of relations with other texts. ItsΒ
system of language, its grammar, its lexicon, drag along numerous bits andΒ
pieces-traces--of history so that the text resembles a Cultural Salvation ArmyΒ
Outlet with unaccountable collections of incompatible ideas, beliefs, andΒ
sources" (59). It is these "unaccountable collections" that intertextual criticsΒ
focus on, not the text as autonomous entity. In fact, these critics have redefinedΒ
the notion of "text": Text is intertext, or simply Text. The traditional notion ofΒ
the text as the single work of a given author, and even the very notions of authorΒ
and reader, are regarded as simply convenient fictions for domesticating dis-Β
course. The old borders that we used to rope off discourse, proclaim theseΒ
critics, are no longer useful.Β
We can distinguish between two types of intertextuality: iterability andΒ
presupposition. Iterability refers to the "repeatability" of certain textualΒ
fragments, tocitation in its broadest sense to include not only explicit allusions,Β
references, and quotations within adiscourse, but also unannounced sourcesΒ
and influences, cliches, phrases in the air, and traditions. That is to say, everyΒ
discourse is composed of "traces," pieces of other texts that help constitute itsΒ
meaning. (I will discuss this aspect of intertextuality in my analysis of the Dec-Β
laration of Independence.) Presupposition refers to assumptions a text makesΒ
about its referent, its readers, and its context-to portions of the text which areΒ
read, but which are not explicitly "there." For example, as Jonathan CullerΒ
discusses, the phrase "John married Fred's sister" is an assertion that logicallyΒ
presupposes that John exists, that Fred exists, and that Fred has a sister. "OpenΒ
the door" contains apractical presupposition, assuming the presence of a de-Β
coder who is capable of being addressed and who is better able to open the door than the encoder. "Once upon a time" is a trace rich in rhetorical presupposition,Β
signaling to even the youngest reader the opening of a fictional narrative. TextsΒ
not only refer to but in fact contain other texts.2Β
An examination of three sample texts will illustrate the various facets ofΒ
intertextuality. The first, the Declaration of Independence, ispopularly viewedΒ
as the work of Thomas Jefferson. Yet if we examine the text closely in its rhetori-Β
cal milieu, we see that Jefferson was author only in the very loosest of senses. AΒ
number of historians and at least two composition researchers (Kinneavy, Theo-Β
ry 393-49; Maimon, Readings 6-32) have analyzed the Declaration, with inter-Β
esting results. Their work suggests that Jefferson was by no means an origi-Β
nal framer or a creative genius, as some like to suppose. Jefferson was a skilledΒ
writer, to be sure, but chiefly because he was an effective borrower of traces.Β
To produce his original draft of the Declaration, Jefferson seems to haveΒ
borrowed, either consciously or unconsciously, from his culture's Text. MuchΒ
has been made of Jefferson's reliance on Locke's social contract theoryΒ
(Becker). Locke's theory influenced colonial political philosophy, emerging inΒ
various pamphlets and newspaper articles of the times, and served as the foun-Β
dation for the opening section of the Declaration. The Declaration containsΒ
many traces that can be found in other, earlier documents. There are traces fromΒ
a First Continental Congress resolution, a Massachusetts Council declaration,Β
George Mason's "Declaration of Rights for Virginia," apolitical pamphlet ofΒ
James Otis, and a variety of other sources, including a colonial play. The over-Β
all form of the Declaration (theoretical argument followed by list of grievances)Β
strongly resembles, ironically, the English Bill of Rights of 1689, in whichΒ
Parliament lists the abuses of James II and declares new powers for itself. Sev-Β
eral of the abuses in the Declaration seem to have been taken, more or lessΒ
verbatim, from aPennsylvania Evening Post article. And the most memorableΒ
phrases in the Declaration seem to be least Jefferson's: "That all men are createdΒ
equal" is a sentiment from Euripides which Jefferson copied in his literary com-Β
monplace book as a boy; "Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness" was aΒ
cliche of the times, appearing in numerous political documents (Dumbauld).Β
Though Jefferson's draft of the Declaration can hardly be considered his inΒ
any exclusive sense of authorship, the document underwent sill more expropri-Β
ation at the hands of Congress, who made eighty-six changes (Kinneavy, Theo-Β
ry 438). They cut the draft from 21 1 lines to 147. They did considerable editingΒ
to temper what they saw as Jefferson's emotional style: For example,Β
Jefferson's phrase "sacred & undeniable" was changed to the more restrainedΒ
"self-evident." Congress excised controversial passages, such as Jefferson'sΒ
condemnation of slavery. Thus, we should find it instructive to note, Jefferson'sΒ
few attempts at original expression were those least acceptable to Congress. Intertextuality and the Discourse Community 37Β
If Jefferson submitted the Declaration for a college writing class as his ownΒ
writing, he might well be charged with plagiarism.3 The idea of Jefferson asΒ
author is but convenient shorthand. Actually, the Declaration arose out of aΒ
cultural and rhetorical milieu, was composed of traces and was, in effect,Β
team written. Jefferson deserves credit for bringing disparate traces together,Β
for helping to mold and articulate the milieu, for creating the all-importantΒ
draft. Jefferson's skill as a writer was his ability to borrow traces effectively andΒ
to find appropriate contexts for them. As Michael Halliday says,Β
"[C]reativeness does not consist in producing new sentences. The newness of aΒ
sentence is a quite unimportant and unascertainable property and 'creativi-Β
ty' in language lies in the speaker's ability to create new meanings: to realize theΒ
potentiality oflanguage for the indefinite extension of its resources to new con-Β
texts of situation. . . . Our most 'creative' acts may be precisely among thoseΒ
that are realized throughighly repetitive forms of behaviour" (ExplorationsΒ
42). The creative writer is the creative borrower, in other words.Β
Intertextuality can be seen working similarly in contemporary forums. Re-Β
call this scene from a recent Pepsi commercial: A young boy in jeans jacket,Β
accompanied by dog, stands in some desolate plains crossroads next to a gasΒ
station, next to which is a soft drink machine. An alien spacecraft, resemblingΒ
the one in Spielberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind, appears overhead.Β
To the boy's joyful amazement, the spaceship hovers over the vending machineΒ
and begins sucking Pepsi cans into the ship. It takes only Pepsi's, then eventual-Β
ly takes the entire machine. The ad closes with a graphic: "Pepsi. The Choice ofΒ
a New Generation."Β
Clearly, the commercial presupposes familiarity with Spielberg's movie or,Β
at least, with his pacific vision of alien spacecraft. We see several AmericanΒ
cliches, well-worn signs from the Depression era: the desolate plains, the gen-Β
eral store, the pop machine, the country boy with dog. These distinctivelyΒ
American traces are juxtaposed against images from science fiction and theΒ
sixties catchphrase "new generation" in the coda. In this array of signs, we haveΒ
tradition and counter-tradition harmonized. Pepsi squeezes itself in the middle,Β
and thus becomes the great American conciliator. The ad's use of irony mayΒ
serve to distract viewers momentarily from noticing how Pepsi achieves itsΒ
purpose by assigning itself an exalted role through use of the intertext.Β
We find an interesting example of practical presupposition iJohn Kifner'sΒ
New York Times headline article reporting on the Kent State incident of 1970:Β
Four students at Kent State University, two of them women,Β
were shot to death this afternoon by a volley of National GuardΒ
gunfire. At least 8 other students were wounded. The burst of gunfire came about 20 minutes after the guardsmenΒ
broke up a noon rally on the Commons, agrassy campus gatheringΒ
spot, by lobbing tear gas at a crowd of about 1,000 young people.Β
From one perspective, the phrase "two of them women" is a simple statementΒ
of fact; however, it presupposes acertain attitude-thathe event, horribleΒ
enough as it was, is more significant because two of the persons killed wereΒ
women. It might be going too far to say that the phrase presupposes a sexistΒ
attitude ("women aren't supposed to be killed in battles"), but can we imagineΒ
the phrase "two of them men" in this context? Though equally factual, thisΒ
wording would have been considered odd in 1970 (and probably today as well)Β
because it presupposes a cultural mindset alien from the one dominant at theΒ
time. "Two of them women" is shocking (and hence it was reported) because itΒ
upsets the sense of order of the readers, in this case the American public.Β
Additionally (and more than a little ironically), the text contains anumber ofΒ
traces which have the effect of blunting the shock of the event. Notice that theΒ
students were not shot by National Guardsmen, but were shot "by a volley ofΒ
. . . gunfire"; the tear gas was "lobbed"; and the event occurred at a "grassyΒ
campus gathering spot." "Volley" and "lobbed" are military terms, but withΒ
connections to sport as well; "grassy campus gathering spot" suggests apicnic;Β
"burst" can recall the gloriousight of bombs "bursting" in "The Star-SpangledΒ
Banner." This pastiche of signs casts the text into a certain context, making itΒ
distinctively American. We might say that the turbulent milieu of the sixtiesΒ
provided a distinctive array of signs from which John Kifner borrowed toΒ
produce his article.Β
Each of the three texts examined contains phrases or images familiar to itsΒ
audience or presupposes certain audience attitudes. Thus the intertext exerts itsΒ
influence partly in the form of audience expectation. We mighthen say that theΒ
audience of each of these texts is as responsible for its production as the writer.Β
That, in essence, readers, not writers, create discourse.Β
The Power of Discourse CommunityΒ
And, indeed, this is what some poststructuralist critics suggest, those whoΒ
prefer a broader conception of intertext or who look beyond the intertext totheΒ
social framework regulating textual production: to what Michel Foucault callsΒ
"the discursive formation," what Stanley Fish calls "the interpretive communi-Β
ty," and what Patricia Bizzell calls "the discourse community."Β
A "discourse community" isa group of individuals bound by a commonΒ
interest who communicate through approved channels and whose discourse is Intertextuality and the Discourse Community 39Β
regulated. An individual may belong to several professional, public, or person-Β
al discourse communities. Examples would include the community ofΒ
engineers whose research area is fluid mechanics; alumni of the University ofΒ
Michigan; Magnavox employees; the members of the Porter family; andΒ
members of the Indiana Teachers of Writing. The approved channels we canΒ
call "forums." Each forum has a distinct history and rules governing appropri-Β
ateness to which members are obliged to adhere. These rules may be more orΒ
less apparent, more or less institutionalized, more or less specific to each com-Β
munity. Examples of forums include professional publications like RhetoricΒ
Review, English Journal, and Creative Computing; public media likeΒ
Newsweek and Runner's World; professional conferences (the annual meetingΒ
of fluid power engineers, the 4C's); company board meetings; family dinnerΒ
tables; and the monthly meeting of the Indiana chapter of the Izaak WaltonΒ
League.Β
A discourse community shares assumptions about what objects are appropri-Β
ate for examination and discussion, what operating functions are performed onΒ
those objects, what constitutes "evidence" and "validity," and what formal con-Β
ventions are followed. A discourse community may have a well-establishedΒ
ethos; or it may have competing factions and indefinite boundaries. It may be inΒ
a "pre-paradigm" state (Kuhn), that is, having an ill-defined regulating systemΒ
and no clear leadership. Some discourse communities are firmly established,Β
such as the scientific community, the medical profession, and the justice sys-Β
tem, to cite a few from Foucault's list. In these discourse communities, asΒ
Leitch says, "a speaker must be 'qualified' to talk; he has to belong to a commu-Β
nity of scholarship; and he is required to possess a prescribed body of knowl-Β
edge (doctrine). . . . [This system] operates to constrain discourse; itΒ
establishes limits and regularities. . . . who may speak, what may be spoken,Β
and how it is to be said; in addition [rules] prescribe what is true and false, whatΒ
is reasonable and what foolish, and what is meant and what not. Finally, theyΒ
work to deny the material existence of discourse itself' (145).Β
A text is "acceptable" within a forum only insofar as it reflects the communi-Β
ty episteme (to use Foucault's term). On a simple level, this means that for aΒ
manuscript to be accepted for publication in the Journal of Applied Psychology,Β
it must follow certain formatting conventions: Itmust have the expected socialΒ
science sections (i.e., review of literature, methods, results, discussion), and itΒ
must use the journal's version of APA documentation. However, these are onlyΒ
superficial features of the forum. On a more essentialevel, the manuscriptΒ
must reveal certain characteristics, have an ethos (in the broadest possibleΒ
sense) conforming tothe standards of the discourse community: It must demon-Β
strate (or at least claim) that it contributes knowledge to the field, it must demonstrate familiarity with the work of previous researchers in the field, it mustΒ
use a scientific method in analyzing its results (showing acceptance of the truth-Β
value of statistical demonstration), it must meet standards for test design andΒ
analysis of results, it must adhere to standards determining degree of accuracy.Β
The expectations, conventions, and attitudes of this discourse community-theΒ
readers, writers, and publishers of Journal of Applied Psychology-will influ-Β
ence aspiring psychology researchers, shaping not only how they write but alsoΒ
their character within that discourse community.Β
The poststructuralist view challenges the classical assumption that writing is
a simple linear, one-way movement: The writer creates a text which producesΒ
some change in an audience. A poststructuralist rhetoric examines how audi-Β
ence (in the form of community expectations and standards) influences textualΒ
production and, in so doing, guides the development of the writer.Β
This view is of course open to criticism for its apparent determinism, forΒ
devaluing the contributionf individual writers and making them appear mere-Β
ly tools of the discourse community (charges which Foucault answers in "Dis-Β
course on Language"). If these regulating systems are so constraining, how canΒ
an individual merge? What happens to the idea of the lone inspired writer andΒ
the sacred autonomous text?Β
Both notions take a pretty hard knock. Genuine originality is difficult withinΒ
the confines of a well-regulated system. Genius is possible, but it may be con-Β
strained. Foucault cites the example of Gregor Mendel, whose work in theΒ
nineteenth century was excluded from the prevailing community of biologistsΒ
because he "spoke of objects, employed methods and placed himself within a
theoretical perspective totally alien to the biology of his time. . . . MendelΒ
spoke the truth, but he was not dans le vrai (within the true)" (224). FrankΒ
Lentricchia cites a similar example from the literary community: Robert FrostΒ
"achieved magazine publication only five times between 1895 and 1912, a peri-Β
od during which he wrote a number of poems later acclaimed .. . [because] inΒ
order to write within the dominant sense of the poetic in the United States in theΒ
last decade of the nineteenth century and the first decade of the twentieth, oneΒ
had to employ a diction, syntax, and prosody heavily favoring Shelley andΒ
Tennyson. One also had to assume a certain stance, a certain world-wearyΒ
idealism which took care not to refer too concretely to the world of which oneΒ
was weary" (197, 199).Β
Both examples point to the exclusionary power of discourse communitiesΒ
and raise serious questions about the freedom of the writer: chiefly, does theΒ
writer have any? Is any writer doomed to plagiarism? Can any text be said to beΒ
new? Are creativity and genius actually possible? Was Jefferson a creative gen-Β
ius or a blatant plagiaris Intertextuality and the Discourse Community 41Β
Certainly we want to avoid both extremes. Even if the writer is locked into aΒ
cultural matrix and is constrained by the intertext of the discourse community,Β
the writer has freedom within the immediate rhetorical context.4 Furthermore,Β
successful writing helps to redefine the matrix-and in that way becomes crea-Β
tive. (Jefferson's Declaration contributed todefining the notion of America forΒ
its discourse community.) Every new text has the potential to alter the Text inΒ
some way; in fact, every text admitted into a discourse community changes theΒ
constitution of the community-and discourse communities can revise theirΒ
discursive practices, as the Mendel and Frost examples suggest.Β
Writing is an attempt to exercise the will, to identify the self within the con-Β
straints of some discourse community. We are constrained insofar as we mustΒ
inevitably borrow the traces, codes, and signs which we inherit and which ourΒ
discourse community imposes. We are free insofar as we do what we can toΒ
encounter and learn new codes, to intertwine codes in new ways, and to expandΒ
our semiotic potential-with our goal being to effect change and establish ourΒ
identities within the discourse communities we choose to enter.Β
The Pedagogy of IntertextualityΒ
Intertextualitys not new. It may remind some of Eliot's notion of tradition,Β
though the parameters are certainly broader. It is an important concept, though.Β
It counters what I see as one prevailing composition pedagogy, one favoring aΒ
romantic image of the writer, offering asrole models the creativessayists, theΒ
Sunday Supplement freelancers, the Joan Didions, E. B. Whites, CalvinΒ
Trillins, and Russell Bakers. This dashing image appeals to our need for intel-Β
lectual heroes; but underlying it may be an anti-rhetorical view: that writers areΒ
born, not made; that writing is individual, isolated, and internal; not social butΒ
eccentric.Β
This view is firmly set in the intertext of our discipline. Our anthologiesΒ
glorify the individual essayists, whose work is valued for its timelessness andΒ
creativity. Freshman rhetorics announce as the writer's proper goals personalΒ
insight, originality, and personal voice, or tell students that motivations forΒ
writing come from "within." Generally, this pedagogy assumes that such aΒ
thing as the writer actually exists-an autonomous writer exercising afree,Β
creative will through the writing act-and that the writing process proceedsΒ
linearly from writer to text to reader. This partial picture of the process can allΒ
too readily become the picture, and our students can all too readily learn toΒ
overlook vital facets of discourse production.Β
When we romanticize composition by overemphasizing the autonomy of theΒ
writer, important questions are overlooked, the same questions an intertext view of writing would provoke: To what extent is the writer's product itself aΒ
part of a larger community writing process? How does the discourse communi-Β
ty influence writers and readers within it? These are essential questions, but areΒ
perhaps outside the prevailing episteme of composition pedagogy, whichΒ
presupposes the autonomous status of the writer as independent cogito. TalkingΒ
about writing in terms of "social forces influencing the writer" raises the specterΒ
of determinism, and so is anathema.Β
David Bartholomae summarizes this issue very nicely: "The struggle of theΒ
student writer is not the struggle to bring out that which is within; it is theΒ
struggle to carry out those ritual activities that grant our entrance into a closedΒ
society" (300). When we teach writing only as the act of "bringing out what isΒ
within," we risk undermining our own efforts. Intertextuality reminds us thatΒ
"carrying out ritual activities" is also part of the writing process. BarthesΒ
reminds us that "the 'I' which approaches the text is already itself aplurality ofΒ
other texts, of codes which are infinite" (10).Β
Intertextuality suggests that our goal should be to help students learn to writeΒ
for the discourse communities they choose to join. Students need help develop-Β
ing out of what Joseph Williams calls their "pre-socialized cognitive states."Β
According to Williams, pre-socialized writers are not sufficiently immersed inΒ
their discourse community to produce competent discourse: They do not knowΒ
what can be presupposed, are not conscious of the distinctive intertextuality ofΒ
the community, may be only superficially acquainted with explicit conventions.Β
(Williams cites the example of the freshman whose paper for the English teach-Β
er begins "Shakespeare is a famous Elizabethan dramatist.") Our immediateΒ
goal is to produce "socialized writers," who are full-fledged members of theirΒ
discourse community, producing competent, useful discourse within that com-Β
munity. Our long-range goal might be "post-socialized writers," those whoΒ
have achieved such a degree of confidence, authority, power, or achievement inΒ
the discourse community so as to become part of the regulating body. They areΒ
able to vary conventions and question assumptions-i.e., effect change inΒ
communities-without fear of exclusion.Β
Intertextuality has the potential to affect all facets of our composition peda-Β
gogy. Certainly it supports writing across the curriculum as a mechanism forΒ
introducing students to the regulating systems of discourse communities. ItΒ
raises questions about heuristics: Do different discourse communities applyΒ
different heuristics? It asserts the value of critical reading in the compositionΒ
classroom. It requires that we rethink our ideas about plagiarism: CertainlyΒ
imitatio is an important stage in the linguistic development of the writer.Β
The most significant application might be in the area of audience analysis.Β
Current pedagogies assume that when writers analyze audiences they should Intertextuality and the Discourse Community 43Β
focus on the expected flesh-and-blood readers. Intertextuality suggests that theΒ
proper focus of audience analysis is not the audience as receivers per se, but theΒ
intertext of the discourse community. Instead of collecting demographic dataΒ
about age, educationalevel, and social status, the writer might instead askΒ
questions about the intertext: What are the conventional presuppositions ofthisΒ
community? In what forums do they assemble? What are the methodologicalΒ
assumptions? What is considered "evidence,"valid argument," and "proof'?Β
A sample heuristic for such an analysis-what I term "forum analysis"-isΒ
included as an appendix.Β
A critical reading of the discourse of a community may be the best way toΒ
understand it. (We see a version of this message in the advice to examine aΒ
journal before submitting articles for publication.) Traditionally, anthologiesΒ
have provided students with reading material. However, the typical anthologiesΒ
have two serious problems: (1) limited range-generally they overemphasizeΒ
literary or expressive discourse; (2) unclear context-they frequently removeΒ
readings from their original contexts, thus disguising their intertextual nature.Β
Several recently published readers have attempted to provide a broader selec-Β
tion of readings in various forums, and actually discuss intertextuality.Β
Maimon's Readings in the Arts and Sciences, Kinneavy's Writing in the LiberalΒ
Arts Tradition, and Bazerman's The Informed Writer are especially noteworthy.Β
Writing assignments should be explicitly intertextual. If we regard each writ-Β
ten product as a stage in a larger process-the dialectic process within adis-Β
course community-then the individual writer's work is part of a web, part of aΒ
community search for truth and meaning. Writing assignments mightake theΒ
form of dialogue with other writers: Writing letters in response to articles is oneΒ
kind of dialectic (e.g., letters responding to Atlantic Monthly or ScienceΒ
articles). Research assignments might be more community oriented rather thanΒ
topic oriented; students might be asked to become involved in communities ofΒ
researchers (e.g., the sociologists examining changing religious attitudes inΒ
American college students). The assignments in Maimon's Writing in the ArtsΒ
and Sciences are excellent in this regard.Β
Intertextual theory suggests that the key criteria for evaluating writing shouldΒ
be "acceptability" within some discourse community. "Acceptability" in-Β
cludes, but goes well beyond, adherence to formal conventions. It includesΒ
choosing the "right" topic, applying the appropriate critical methodology, ad-Β
hering to standards for evidence and validity, and in general adopting theΒ
community's discourse values-and of course borrowing the appropriateΒ
traces. Success is measured by the writer's ability to know what can be presup-Β
posed and to borrow that community's traces effectively to create a text thatΒ
contributes to the maintenance or, possibly, the definition of the community The writer is constrained by the community, and by its intertextual preferencesΒ
and prejudices, but the effective writer works to assert the will against thoseΒ
community constraintso effect change.Β
The Pepsi commercial and the Kent State news article show effective uses ofΒ
the intertext. In the Kent State piece, John Kifner mixes picnic imageryΒ
("grassy campus gathering spot," "young people") with violent imagery ("burstΒ
of gunfire") to dramatize the event. The Pepsi ad writers combine two unlikelyΒ
sets of traces, linking folksy depression-era American imagery with sci-fim-Β
agery "stolen" from Spielberg. For this creative intertwining of traces, bothΒ
discourses can probably be measured successful in their respective forums.Β
CodaΒ
Clearly much of what intertextuality supports is already institutionalizedΒ
(e.g., writing-across-the-curriculum programs). And yet, in freshman compΒ
texts and anthologies especially, there is this tendency to see writing as individ-Β
ual, as isolated, as heroic. Even after demonstrating quite convincingly that theΒ
Declaration was written by a team freely borrowing from acultural intertext,Β
Elaine Maimon insists, against all the evidence she herself has collected, thatΒ
"Despite the additions, deletions, and changes in wording that it went through,Β
the Declaration is still Jefferson's writing" (Readings 26). Her saying thisΒ
presupposes that the reader has just concluded the opposite.Β
When we give our students romantic role models like E. B. White, JoanΒ
Didion, and Lewis Thomas, we create unrealistic expectations. This type ofΒ
writer has often achieved post-socialized status within some discourse commu-Β
nity (Thomas in the scientific community, for instance). Can we realisticallyΒ
expect our students to achieve this state without first becoming socialized, with-Β
out learning first what it means to write within asocial context? Their roleΒ
models ought not be only romantic heroes but also community writers likeΒ
Jefferson, the anonymous writers of the Pepsi commercial-the Adsos of theΒ
world, not just the Aristotles. They need to see writers whose products are moreΒ
evidently part of a larger process and whose work more clearly produces mean-Β
ing in social contexts.Β
now the questions! Guidelines: Respond to the following questions concerning James Porter's "Intertextuality and the Discourse Community"; the purpose of these questions is to get you thinking about the text's worth and how to understand it:
What does intertextuality mean to you?
What distinguishes assumption from iterability?
Why does Porter contend that most content is plagiarised and that originality is nearly impossible?
Writing is a "simple linear, one-way movement"; how is it not?
Why do you think it's necessary for you to read this in order to comprehend writing, and how may you use this essay to the composition of your formal essay?
