Speaking of Music:
Explorations in the Language of Music Criticism

Gregory Erickson

Enculturation, Vol. 2, No. 2, Spring 1999

About the Author
Table of Contents

Recently, musicologist Edward Lippman spoke of a "circle that has closed in the history of music theory." By this he refers to the return of a more philosophical mode of discourse in musicology. Philosophical language dominated writing about music beginning with the ancient Greeks and continuing until Schopenhauer. Since this time a strong analytical tradition, rising out of 19th century German culture, has dominated the field. If the circle is indeed closing, if we are experiencing a contemporary return to a more philosophical language in music criticism, why is this happening and what does it mean? What is happening in current musicology, and how does it reflect recent philosophical trends? Is there really a "new musicology"? If there is, what has it accomplished and what are its failings? Finally, can we say anything about the future of this merger of philosophy and musicology?

Anyone writing about music makes certain assumptions about how, if, and what music "means." In hopes of casting some sort of fresh angle on an age-old question let us ask: if music can mean, where does this meaning occur? One can concentrate on the meaning on the page, in the sound waves, in the response of the listener, or in the mind of the composer. For the purpose of this paper, I am trying to locate meaning in a mental space where there is an intersection of words and music, or perhaps in some sort of space between words and music. In this mental space, music necessarily mixes with language to create some form of meaning. As early as 1827 an anonymous essay asked, "Should One Think of Anything While Listening to Instrumental Music?" But perhaps it is impossible not to think of something, and just as impossible not to put words to those "somethings." For Schopenhauer, music was "an unconscious exercise in metaphysics in which the mind does not know it is philosophizing" (quoted in Goehr 209). Could we not also say that the mind "does not know it is talking?" Where do these words come from? Both Schopenhauer and Wittgenstein recommend listening to music with remarks about the music in mind. These remarks, these words that necessarily mix with the listening experience, must come from verbalizations about music that the listener has heard or read. In focusing specifically on the written word, we can look to Carolyn Abbate who says, "Our experience of musical works is, or course, conditioned by verbal codes . . . so that any attempt to separate writing about music from music itself is futile" (18).

Before continuing, we should ask what it is words can do when combined with the listening experience. Four areas (by no means comprehensive) to keep in mind are description, pointing, augmentation, and emulation. Each of these areas is obviously problematic as a category, but helpful in establishing some sort of ground for discussion. Description is a vague term in this context, but can be taken to mean any attempt to represent the activity of music in some written form. Whether we write of a group of tones as a "dominant seventh," or as "penultimate," or as "tension-filled," it is an attempt at a form of description. Pointing is a term borrowed from Wittgenstein and from art criticism to mean simply the place in the music that a text draws our attention to. The very nature of the relationship between critical prose and music determines that only a small percentage of the sound activities can be referred to. This changes the act of listening by making these moments seem more important or central because they have been pointed to. A critic can also augment a musical work by his text. The most obvious example is the supplying of words to an instrumental piece. Similar augmentative effects are given by labeling, for example, a specific double dotted Beethoven rhythm as "doom foretelling" (Gould 51). By emulation I mean language or a text that emulates, in some way, the effect of music. Proust's writing on music, with its repetitions and leitmotif style, would be an example of this, as would some of Adorno's more poetic music writing.

If there has been a theme to philosophy and criticism in the second half of this century it has been an attempt to try to view our society archaeologically, to focus on seeing the assumptions and biases traditional philosophy and criticism have held. These cultural blindnesses (in de Man's terminology) may be even more deeply buried in the language of music than in other arts. Recent studies in ethnomusicology have shown that even our assumptions about the concept or the term music are arbitrary. "Probably more languages in the world have no terminological equivalent for what the westerner calls 'music'" (Zemp 37). More to the point of this paper are assumptions of musical unity and of the scientific objectivity of music's critical language that until recently went unquestioned and still pervade the language. Even today, as Thomas Grey says, "a degree of analytical detail is generally thought necessary to provide some substantive base for the volatile nature of metaphorical impressions" (93).

While this analytical language is generally acknowledged as coming out of the tonal system, it can more specifically be seen coming out of a very specific nineteenth-century German Enlightenment culture, a culture that was enamored with logic and rational scientific thought and is the basis of our privileging of scientific thought and language. Joseph Kerman sees analysis as existing to "articulate the concept of organism, which in turn exists as the value system of an ideology" (1996, 44; emphasis mine). Despite the academic acceptance of this skepticism, even contemporary musicologists must repeatedly come to terms with traditional analysis, either using it, altering it, or defending their deviation from it. As Carl Dahlhaus explains, this perceived dichotomy between analytical language and a more interpretive language must "first be accepted as a historical fact; as an aesthetic form of thought created by music history" (5).

In dealing with these issues many musicology articles and books open with some kind of statement of the dualism or binary oppositions involved. Dahlhaus begins his article by defining and then questioning traditional and "narrow" assumptions about "hermeneutics and the aesthetics of feeling," on the one hand, and the "aesthetics of form and structural analysis" on the other (5-7). Edward Cone, in another example, begins by defining "hermeneutics" as the "art or science of interpretation," and contrasting this with more formalistic views of music. He then distinguishes between two types of musical meaning reached through these contrasting methods: congeneric and extrageneric. Similar binaries can be offered up between absolute and program music or syntactic and semiotic meaning.

While dissolving these binaries has lately become almost a cliché critical move, an awareness of them still appears to be a useful way of approaching musical arguments. Part of this may be because there is still a strong pull in both directions. Theoretically, what is happening is that the "production of increasingly rigorous and sophisticated systematic theories for structure continues, while a more recent and contentious turn to post-structuralist literary theory questions . . . the very assumption on which structuralist theories, in the widest sense of the term, are based " (Ayrey 127). When making the point of demonstrating how these dualisms dissolve upon close inspection, the problem is, as Richard Rorty says, "how to overcome authority without claiming authority" (1989, 105). Or, in other words, the problem is how to write about music without reappropriating the vocabulary and paradigms of thinking that have been discredited.

Looking at (and questioning) Hanslick's comment that "What is simply description in the other arts is already metaphor in music" is a place to start. Is Hanslick's statement true? Is there any kind of language that is "simply description"? How is writing about painting or poetry (or nuclear energy) different than writing about music? The perceived separation between a scientific formalist language and a more metaphorical, interpretive language is mirrored in discussion of language in other fields and in a general debate over metaphorical and literal language. The analysis of the workings of language can tell us something about the language of music criticism and even of the verbalizing of the music experience itself.

While the literature on metaphor is imposing, we can again start by establishing a familiar dualism and then by asking some important questions. There are, broadly speaking, two views of metaphor. Either (1) Metaphors are essential and characteristic of the creativity of language, or (2) Metaphors are secondary and, in a sense, parasitic to normal usage. While most theories of metaphor obviously fall in between these two statements they suggest some basic questions. Can we differentiate between literal language and metaphorical? What and where does a metaphor mean? Can a metaphor be paraphrased? Does the meaning of one or both of the terms change? Can a metaphor be taken literally? [1]

I. A. Richards emphasized the tension between the terms instead of the terms themselves; out of this thought come contemporary views of language and knowledge which see "cognition as the result of mental construction" (Ortony 1). This offers a whole new way of viewing knowledge and language. In this view there is no verifiable reality and "language, perception, and knowledge are inextricably intertwined" (Ortony 2). George Lakoff views language in a similar way, and furthermore shows how metaphor is central to how we understand the world. According to him, such concepts as states, change, causation, and purpose, are all understood metaphorically. [2] As he says, "The generalizations governing poetic metaphorical expressions are not in language, but in thought" (204). His list of traditional false assumptions is useful from both a lingual and a musicological perspective:

--All everyday conventional language is literal, and none is metaphorical.

--All subject matter can be comprehended literally without metaphor.

--Only literal language can be contingently true or false.

--All definitions given in the lexicon of a language are literal, not metaphorical.

--The concepts used in the grammar of a language are all literal; none are metaphorical. (204)

The acceptance of these statements as false is the basis of much current thought about metaphor as well as the dissolving of positivistic thinking about critical language. The term "literal" itself carries with it all of these false assumptions. By accepting this view we are left with no basis for a differentiation between scientific language and other kinds.

If there is no sharp distinction between literal and metaphorical then there is no core concept on either side of the metaphor. We are not comparing something "true" to something "poetic," but we are using language to create a meaning. Furthermore, a metaphor's meaning exists only in its metaphorical form and contains what Stanley Cavell calls "limitless paraphrasibility." For example, Edmond Jabes writes: "The word is a horse. Its gallop whirls up dust on the road. It forces the passers-by to lower their eyes." The main metaphor ("the word is a horse") is set running by Jabes himself and once we start to try and "explain" this metaphor it explodes; the issues of language's power, ineffability, deceitfulness, speed, and transitory nature keep growing larger and further away from our explanation. The metaphor is the idea.

Building on these ideas, we can understand the role of metaphor as helping to understand and to actually constitute thought. [3] According to these views something new is created when a metaphor is understood. This is expanded by Donald Davidson who understands metaphor as having no meaning other than the literal. This is an important idea in applying theories of metaphor to music. Metaphor does not represent, but is much more active. It actually causes and changes beliefs; it allows us to know; it creates a new literal meaning.

Much of this kind of thinking goes against traditional modes, and even as it is rationally accepted, it is resisted on a more visceral level. Musicologists reluctant to leave formalism behind can understand Rorty's comment: "we philosophers still tend to take 'cognition' as the highest compliment we can pay to discourse" (1989, 162). Yet rather than to try and understand or explain metaphors, we are better off focusing on their creative power. "If we knew how metaphors work they would be like the magician's illusions: matters of amusement, rather that indispensable instruments of moral and intellectual progress" (Rorty 1989, 172).

Debates among philosophers of language offer an analogy to dualities in music. Like traditional ideas of language, music criticism has been seen as having to choose between an analytical (scientific) language and a metaphorical one. Like contemporary language philosophers, many music critics are finding this distinction arbitrary. Marion Guck, for example, finds that contrary to her initial perception of musical metaphor as "hopelessly fuzzy and subjective" (1981, 29); it can offer a "physical structural interpretation," and needs to be "incorporated into effective musical description" (42). She finds what she calls "controlling metaphors" especially useful in interpretation. In the article "Musical Images as Musical Thoughts," her control group finds the metaphor "breathing laborer" suitable for their understanding of Chopin's B minor Prelude. Using this "scenario" helps them sections of the music in terms of a "much needed breath," a "final breath," a "climax of breath," and "constricted," "relaxed," and "labored" breathing (32).

Guck's controlling metaphor is comparable to Lakoff's theory of "mapping." Lakoff sees metaphor as "not a figure of speech but a mode of thought" (204). For example, the metaphorical idea that "Love is a journey" is the mode of thought for the mapping of such metaphorical expressions as "Our love is on the rocks," "this relationship is going nowhere," "spinning its wheels," etc. Both Lakoff and Guck see metaphor as crucial to understanding, and as more than just a rhetorical figure. Although while Guck sees the metaphor as an interpretive tool, Lakoff understands it as a source of knowledge.

This is a relevant idea in music. We find such mappings in writing on music; even the most formalistic criticism makes assumptions that can be seen as metaphorical. Musical metaphors support the idea of music as a single organism, or as an object to be decoded. [4] Guck discusses the underlying spatial metaphors that support much of music's technical language. For example, time is interpreted spatially: to "stretch" the beat. Tonality as well is expressed metaphorically. Does a sequence of notes actually rise and fall? What do we really mean by an interval? Spatial metaphors that are rooted in the most technical vocabulary present a problem of what we should do with the so-called "dead metaphor." Are these really empty of their earlier meanings? Davidson reminds us to always look to the original meaning. Doesn't some remnant or trace of that meaning always remain? Perhaps part of the role of a critic (like that of a poet) is to reawaken dead language. To see the metaphor in a scale, for example, is to reveal Western conceits that are often taken for granted (teleological nature of art). Doesn't labeling a series of notes as an "ascending scale" give it a relationship to heaven that lies in the language and not in the tones? We can again look to studies of other cultures for perspective, and ethnomusicologists point that even our thinking of music in terms of human thought and emotion would seem strange in many cultures. To use an old Russian Formalist idea, we need to "defamiliarize" concepts in order to understand them.

What is musicologically significant in these discussions of metaphor is not only how metaphorical language cannot be distinguished from a more scientific (analytic) language, but also how the creation and perception of a metaphor mirrors the reception of music. The creative process of understanding metaphor is crucial to the process of music criticism. If "understanding a metaphor is as much a creative process as making a metaphor" (Davidson 245), then the use and perception of metaphorical language can in itself be a musical experience. It is this creative process where music criticism should concentrate. It is not only in writing about these moments in listening, but in writing in a way that creates these moments in the reading of a text, that language makes its strongest contribution to musicology.

Whatever the future of music is, it seems certain that it will be something that is currently beyond our imaginations. If the language used in writing about music truly does affect what the music means, then the danger of a limited musical language is that it will also limit human imagination and possibilities of accepting and perceiving new music. Cavell, speaking as a philosopher, suggests that perhaps music, as the newest of the great arts, has "just not had the time to learn how to criticize itself." He also suggests that "perhaps [music] inherently resists verbal transcriptions" (187). The problem is, as he notes, that the "absence of a strong tradition of criticism leaves this art especially vulnerable to whatever criticism becomes established, and because the recent establishment of criticism is peculiarly invulnerable to control" (209).

Cavell wrote this in the 1960's in an influential article that many musicologists, as Kerman notes (1989), took as a direct challenge. Kerman himself remarks in the 1960's that "Criticism does not exist yet on the American music-academic scene" (39). Kerman, writing in 1981, asks for a criticism that "will explain, validate, or just illuminate . . . other musical traditions," and comments that "musicians in the academic orbit have always dragged their feet when it comes to developing alternate modes of criticism" (38).

It seems clear to me, writing in 1998, that alternate modes of criticism have been and are being developed. But although Rose Rosengard Subotnik suggests that the new young musicologists have "knocked the wall [of reason] down and run far beyond it" (xxvi), Kerman says "About the most that can be said is that the old orthodoxies have clearly been weakened. Beyond that no trend is discernible" (63). The new musicology clearly needs further inspection, definition, and development. As Abbate comments, "a broad interpretation of music's treatment at criticism's hands has yet to be undertaken" (16).

What I have been developing is a view of language and music that is interested in examining the gaps, ruptures, and irregularities before trying to smooth them over. I have tried to show how this view is applicable to the study of metaphor, music, and critical language. John Caputo refers to this as "radical hermeneutics" and recent musicology has begun exploring this type of criticism. Maynard Solemon, writing about Mozart, looks to find the "instabilities, tensions, and disequilibriums" that keeps the music "alive." These reveal to him a "trapdoor through which flood external, disturbing powers." Charles Fisk points to a trill in Schubert that seems "quietly to disrupt . . . the kind of musical continuity on which compositions of Schubert's time depend" (181). Yet while critics no longer claim to be searching for a structural unity, their criticism often leads back in this direction. As Caputo says, speaking of philosophy, "No sooner do things begin to waver a bit and look uncertain than the question is foreclosed. The disruptive force of the questioning is contained; the opening it created is closed; the wavering is stilled" (1). New modes of criticism still fall short on occasion, however, presenting their material in positivistic language, and frequently giving in to the temptation to resolve the very contradictions and ruptures that they reveal.

For example, although Susan McClary aligns herself with Jacques Derrida and deconstruction in her "dismantl[ing] the illusion of a prelapsarian moment of truth" (1993, 160), what she fails to do is to offer any free play in her analysis or in her style of analysis. Although her interpretation focuses on a characteristically deconstructive space, such as an "innocuous chromatic passing tone" that "turns out to unleash unexpected violence" (1997, 20), she constructs a very specific reading that seems to exclude other interpretations. [5] Her article proposes what feels like a "correct" single reading of the music. There is, as Kerman says, a "troubling literalness" to her analysis that "does not give the music enough credit for its complexity" (1991, 1).

In Guck's "Musical Images as Musical Thoughts," she acknowledges the usefulness of metaphor, but by creating her "controlling metaphor" she supports the illusion of organic unity. She sees the usefulness in metaphors not as opening up further possibilities, but as being able to "accommodate apparent contradictions" (35), and to "explain." Ignoring the creative "play" at the center of a metaphor, she falls back on the structural assumptions inherent in formalist criticism. To use the language of deconstruction, her metaphor "substitutes" for the tonal center; it becomes a controlling "origin" by which we can understand all aspects of the piece. Again here we can see the need to allow both the musical piece and the language surrounding it to unravel without feeling the need to explain, without creating a controlling center. [6]

Many of these ideas are not new, and as Lydia Goehr points out, Schopenhauer felt music could not be written about in a rational, conceptual language, but only indirectly (209). In returning to the closing of the circle that I began with, we can look towards contemporary relationships between philosophical language and music criticism.

One current trend in philosophy is represented by the skeptical pragmatism of Cavell, Rorty, and Davidson. Cavell writes in a style that he calls "ordinary language philosophy," and he includes in this category also Wittgenstein and J.L. Austin. Rather than trying to express or explain, what writing philosophy in this way does is to create moments of cognition or recognition in the reader's mind by writing in a way that forces readers to fill in gaps or indeterminacies in language. In different ways these philosophers regard ordinary-language philosophy as a response to the contemporary dissolution of positivism.

This offers a type of writing ideal for musicology for music's meaning is at least partly in these cracks or gaps. For Schopenhauer, music "shows its meaning transcendentally through revelation and intuition, and, therefore, cannot be translated to . . . language" (Goehr 209). By using these gaps in language to discuss music, the critic can encourage readers and listeners to think actively about language and about music. The questions arise within the language itself, giving the reader a more active creative role, just as in the process of metaphor outlined earlier. A characteristic act of an ordinary-language philosopher would be to ask readers to do something specific with language--to imagine games with language. As Cavell observes, Wittgenstein typically asks "something which can be answered by . . . trying out his own response to an imagined situation" (64). This can be applied to thinking about music. In Leo Treitler's seminar, for example, we were asked to consider the ramifications of substituting different words for the pointing term "articulates" in McClary's statement that "Music articulates social meaning" (1993, 131). What if she had written "embodies"? "represents"? "expresses"? "contains"? In this kind of Wittgensteinian game, this kind of critical writing, conclusions are not written down, but are reached; the text points not to answers but to ways of thinking. This is especially important in music criticism because it allows exploratory, experimental responses and conclusions outside the limitations of language.

A second philosophical response to skepticism is found in the area of French post-structuralism and deconstruction. Although we are now in what is being prematurely called a post-deconstruction era, its influence is far from over. Again here we can use Goehr's reading of Schopenhauer to lead us in. She shows how he uses silence to communicate about music: "Schopenhauer revealed more about music through silence than speech" (215). Post-structuralist writers have developed new ways of writing about or around art by focusing on issues of undecidability, absence, negativity, and silence.

This movement has of course not been ignored by music critics, and it is a rare work of musicology today that does not contain a gratuitous reference to Derrida, Paul de Man, or Roland Barthes. Craig Ayrey, for example, applies Derrida's system of differance to musical structure, and it seems at least superficially useful in the questioning of the unity of musical structure or of a tonal center. Beyond this, however, musicologists seem to have shied away from applying some of the more difficult ideas to the criticism itself. As Derrida says, "We have to question the form of questioning." In continuing his analysis of this Derrida creates a duality similar to the familiar analytic and hermeneutic issue in musicology:

There are thus two interpretations of interpretation. . . . The one seeks to decipher, dreams of deciphering a truth or an origin which escapes play. . . . The other, which is no longer turned toward the origin, affirms play. (1978, 292)
We can see the confrontation Derrida's idea presents to musicology by placing his essay "Paregon" next to Edward Cone's "The Picture and the Frame: The Nature of Musical Form." Cone claims that the purpose of a frame is to "protect the work from the encroachment of its external environment" (15). For Cone, silence in music provides the frame without which the "chaotic, indifferentiated flow of ordinary time will encroach on...the composition" (16). Although Derrida knows that "aesthetic judgment forever assumes that one can distinguish rigorously between the intrinsic and the extrinsic," he also knows that this kind of separation is impossible.
With respect to the work which can serve as ground for it, it merges into the wall, and then gradually into the general text. With respect to the background which the general text is, it merges into the work which stands out against the general background. . . . Where does the frame take place. Does it take place. Where does it begin. Where does it end. What is its internal limit. Its external limit And its surface between the two limits. (1987, 62-63)
For Lawrence Kramer, this realization is the defining moment for postmodern musicology: "music criticism becomes postmodernist when it proceeds by deconstructing the concept of the extra musical" (67).

While Derrida says very little about music or the language of musicology [7], his work and style can be applied across art and the humanities. In The Truth in Painting, Derrida says he is writing around painting to "make a disturbance in the philosophy (Plato, Kant, Hegel, Heidegger) which still dominates discourse on Painting." Looking at the famous Van Gogh painting of two shoes, Derrida asks "How do we know if it is a pair?" (259), a question that attacks the assumed unity of art in much the same way I have been suggesting we write about music. In works like this, Derrida's critical vocabulary is constantly slipping; his conceptual terminology defies definition. This is appropriate for his views on the free play of language, and it presents a model for a type of music criticism as well. A critical language without absolute definition is ideal for the "immaterial, enveloping, evanescent nature of musical sounds" (Guck 1994, 20).

Post-structuralist feminist theory offers another way to view relationships between philosophical language and music. In Fred Maus's view, alternative forms of musical discourse have been marginalized because they are construed as feminine by a masculine industry. In light of this, it is interesting to compare the language of musicology with Luce Irigaray's theories about women's language. She sees the need to resolve (solve) contradictions as being an inherently male one. For her, woman and woman's languages are more receptive and accepting of the existence of what can be seen as contradictions. A woman's pleasure in language (or music) is like her pleasure in sexuality, it is not direct, linear, or singular. Because, for example, a "woman's pleasure does not have to choose between clitoral activity and vaginal passivity" a woman's sexuality and therefore perception and language "always at least double, goes even further: it is plural" (353). [8]

Another model within French aesthetics is Maurice Blanchot. While much of his critical work predates Derrida and deconstruction, he creates a type of poetic criticism that captures the non-rational aspects of perception. Borrowing a technique from Harold Bloom, let me quote a passage from Blanchot, changing it only by substituting the word music for the word literature or language:

First, let us try to assemble some of the traits which the approach to [music's] space has enabled us to recognize. [Music], at this point, is not a power; it is not the power to tell. It is not at our disposal; there is in it nothing we can use. It is never the language I speak. I never express myself with it. . . . All these features are negative in form. But this negation only masks the more essential fact that in [music] at this point everything reverts to affirmation: in this language what denies affirms . . . listening comprises part of its very nature. (51)
Like listening to music, we return to his statement, feeling something, but not being able to isolate the meaning. In The Space of Literature, Blanchot creates a characteristically French approach to writing about writing. In this work he "is principally concerned with the drama of literature's self questioning" (Hill 115). The question of music's autonomy, which haunts musicology, can learn from Blanchot's depiction of literature questioning itself into existence. For Blanchot, as a work emerges into the world it recognizes its non-origin, its vulnerability, and how this "worklessness" to which it owes its existence will always ruin its own demand to exist (37).

As elliptical as his thinking is, Blanchot in some ways is more helpful to studying music than Derrida because his thought is less worked out. He creates a type of poetics that captures the non-rational aspects of perception. Paul de Man comments on this aspect of Blanchot's literary criticism:

Blanchot . . . never intended to perform a task of exegesis that would combine earlier acquired knowledge with new elucidations. The clarity of his critical writings is not due to exegetic power, they seem clear, not because they penetrate further into a dark and inaccessible domain but because they suspend the very act of comprehension. The light they cast on texts is of a different nature. Nothing in fact, could be more obscure than the nature of this light. (62-63)
To return to the questions I asked in the beginning: What does it mean to say that the circle is closes, that we have returned to a more philosophical mode of music criticism? Musicologists such as Lawrence Kramer and Leo Treitler have created exciting new ways of writing about music. They have developed a type of "philosophical criticism," as Geoffrey Hartman calls it, that "aim[s] at a hermeneutics of indeterminacy. It proposes a type of analysis that renounced the ambition to master or demystify its subject by technocratic, predictive, or authoritarian formulas" (41). The ideas I have examined in this essay, musicological and otherwise, point to more postmodern ways of approaching music. The philosophies I have written about--Lakoff's metaphor theory, Cavell's ordinary language, Derrida's deconstruction, Blanchot's "worklessness," and Irigaray's écriture féminine--offer ways in which musicology can continue to push writing in new creative directions. The musicologist of the future needs to write about music without definition or description, to see it not as an artifact, but as a mysterious and powerful cognitive process.


1. While these are common questions in linguistics, part of the intent here is that certain parallels between language theory and musicology start to emerge. It can be useful to try and adapt these questions to both writing about and perceiving music. (back)

2. It is suggestive to note that these are all concepts that modern art, music, and philosophy have cast doubt upon. (back)

3. Mary Hesse has done interesting work here in showing that metaphors are instrumental in creating new scientific theories . This further dissolves the perceived separation between scientific and metaphorical language. (back)

4. We can see these metaphorical assumptions in Maynard Solomon's psychoanalytic criticism (music as a psychic state), or in myth criticism (music as a journey), or Guck's (music as an living organism). (back)

5. Perhaps a more satisfactory style in this vein is Abatte's admitting of "multiple, decentered voices" (13), in her narrative structure described in Unsung Voices. (back)

6. To be fair to Guck, her later work, for example in "Analytical Fictions," makes steps in this direction as she encourages aiming the analytical focus away from the structural to the "fictional." (back)

7. One exception is pages 195-229 in of Grammatology where he deconstructs Rousseau's use of music in his theory of the origin of language. (back)

8. Current feminist theory may resist this essentialist tie to the biological, but it does present another interesting side of post-structuralist theory's relationship to musicology. (back)

Works Cited

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Cavell, Stanley. Must We Mean What We Say? New York: Scribner, 1969.

Cone, Edward T. "The Picture and the Frame: The Nature of Musical Form." Musical Form and Musical Performance. New York: W. W. Norton and Company, 1968. 11-56.

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- - - . Writing and Difference. Trans. Alan Bass. University of Chicago Press. Chicago, 1978.

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- - - . "Two Types of Metaphoric Transference." In Robinson, 57-73.

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Irigaray, Luce. "This Sex Which Is Not One." Feminisms: An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticism. Ed. Robyn R. Warhol and Diane Price Herndl. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1991. 404-412.

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- - - . "The State of Academic Music Criticsm." In Price, 38-54.

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