She Who Can’t Stop TalkingnSusan Sontag: Under the Sign ofnSaturn; Farrar, Straus & Giroux;nNew York.nby Joseph SchwartznIt was a happy accident to havenConstance Folger do the jacket designnfor this latest collection of Susan Sontag’snessays. Her inspired drawing ofna baobab tree is a wickedly accuratenimage of Sontag’s work. Everyone whonhas read Saint Exupery’s The LittlenPrince knows the trouble with the terriblenbaobab. It is “something you willnnever, never be able to get rid of if younattend to it too late. It spreads over thenentire planet. It bores clear through withnits roots. And if the planet is too small,nand the baobabs are too many, they splitnthe planet.” One must pull up regularlynall of the baobabs at the earliest possiblenmoment when they can be distinguishednfrom the rose bushes whichnthey so closely resemble. The littlenprince was quite correct, “it is a questionnof discipline.” Miss Sontag’s centralncritical problem is the absence of thenfirmness of mind needed to distinguishnbetween rose bushes and baobabs. Notnbeing able to do so, her mind, like thentiny planet, is fractured by the uncontrollablengrowth of the baobabs. It isnalso, curiously enough, this qualitynwhich makes her work so representativenof some contemporary trends in criticism:nprovincialism, the exhaustive (andnexhausting) pursuit of the trivial, thenworship of fashion, the studied determinationnto be new, to be “with it”n(while at the same time leading the way).nThis particular collection is characterizednby a number of valuable andnastute insights, albeit unwitting ones,ninto Sontag by Sontag. Many of herncomments on the figures in this volume,nserendipitously enough, are excellentnDr. Schwartz is professor of English atnMarquette University.ndescriptions of her own mind and work.nFor example, on Roland Barthes:nIt was not a question of knowledgen(he couldn’t have known much aboutnsome of the subjects he wrote about)nbut of alertness, a fastidious transcriptionnof what could be thoughtnabout something, once it swam intonthe stream of attention. There wasnalways some fine net of classificationninto which the phenomenon could bentipped.nAnd, again, of Barthes, “a profoundnlove of appearances… colors his work.”nHow apt both descriptions are of thenwriter who lives on the surface of hernsubjects. What a clever way of describingnthe thin, inquisitive mind. A taxonomistnof the trivial, Sontag makes anhabit of giving significance to the minor.nHer work reminds one of those tiresome,nendless reviews by Pauline Kaelnof soon-to-be-forgotten films. Why takenup all that space with concern for annattenuated object.” The answer can benfound in Sontag’s characterization ofnHans-Jurgen Syberberg: “he can’t stopntalking.” Long after Sontag has madenwhatever modest point could possiblynbe made in an essay, the “voice . . .ngoes on and on.” She is breathless notnfrom the excitement of discovery, butnfrom a compulsive desire to continue.nWhy a given essay ends remains a mystery;nthere is no logical closure. She hasnsuggested that there may be an ethicalndimension to structure, and if that cannbe considered as a possibility, her stylenwould suggest that she is at a loss becausenof some insecurity concerningnvalues. She must worry the subject likena cranky terrier does a bone, and, as annunintentional parody of academicnmethod, call for help from whatevernsources come to mind. For example, thensubject is grief, which reminds her ofnHeine’s poem, which reminds her ofnan essay by Freud, which reminds hernof a book by the Mitscherlichs, whichnnnreminds her of … and so it goes. As ancritic she finds herself far more interestingnthan any object she confronts.nBeing so confident of her own personality,nshe will of course be prodigal inndisplaying her mind. This habit may benexplained also in part by a passion fornshowing off. Yet it indicates somethingndeeper, a bondless relationship withnreality. “When it is a matter of baobabs,nthat always means a catastrophe.”nThe resulting nervous prose revealsnan effort to clarify when, secretly ornsubconsciously, one feels clarificationnmay be hopeless.nThe movement to disestablish then’author’ has been at work for over anhundred years. From the start, thenimpetus was—and still is—apocalyptic:nvivid with complaint and jubilationnat the convulsive decay of oldnsocial orders, borne up by that worldwidensense of living through a revolutionarynmovement which continuesnto animate most moral and intellectualnexcellence.nA structure of sense can be ferreted outnof something like this, but after doingnso a number of times and discoveringnlittle of consequence, the reader is notnaltogether unjustified iij letting his eyenpass over it with a weary sigh. If itnmeans that modern writers refuse tonbe “morally useful to the community,”nas she says later, the judgment is asnnondiscriminating as the prose is futile.nWhat modern writers? The way shengets into such difficulty is simplenenough. Antonin Artaud is for her thenrepresentative modern artist, “the purenvictim of his consciousness,” and, thatnbeing so, modern literature must be thenmedium by which “a singular personalitynheroically exposes itself.” Thus modernnauthors will not be morally usefulnto the community. What has she read ornnot read as the basis for such a generalization?nAnother comment on Barthesnis self-discerning: “He was not curiousn••^HIMIOnMay/Jttne 1981n