Response to Kermode's "What Precisely are the Facts?"

from The Genesis of Secrecy

The Torah, the Bible, and the Koran reveal a magnificent variety of stories by which they seek to prove the validity of religion and the revelation of truth. Systematically arranged theologies organize narratives from the creation of heaven and earth, to the Apocalyptic ending of the earth. Did the writers of the gospel intended the telling of these narratives to "deny [their] own opacity by claiming to be a transparent account" of the truth they were trying to convey (101)? Is the interpretation of religious truth beyond direct, straightforward statement? While metaphysical questions might "have no relevance to [Kermode's]. . . inquiry," the depth in which the reader applies his or herself to these questions might determine which direction the hermeneutical process takes (101).

In chapter five of The Secrecy of Genesis, Frank Kermode suggests that the reliability of some historical texts is based on the reader's ability to recognize the "between narratives which claim to be reliable records of fact, and narratives which simply go through the motions of being such a record" (101). Using John's gospel, Kermode traces genealogically the development of authentication of biblical narrative as history. The gospel's strengths, explains Kermode, is based on "its claim to be a report of something that actually happened" (102). Also, the intricate details included in the narrative provide for "the peculiarity of the situation," which makes John's word "achiev[e] an effect of the real" (102). This is reminiscent of Kermode's "On Reading Novels." Is the breaking of the legs as forgettable as "the elderbushes and the shavings" in Adam Bede? Kermode asserts it is not. The peculiar events surrounding the crucifixion of Jesus are a hermeneutical bridge, in Kermode's opinion, to the lineage of texts which authenticate this particularly important passage.

One example of close differentiation between reliability of fact and meaning of tale is Elie Wiesel's interpretation of "The Sacrifice of Issac." Wiesel begins by recognizing the Judaic "Midrash," which he explains as "a term that refers to a way of interpreting scripture and to the content of the accumulated stories and interpretations that the method has produced over the millennia" (Wiesel 895). On Genesis 22, Abraham is asked by God to sacrifice his son Issac at the top of mount Moriah as proof of his faith. In the last minute of the ordeal, an angel of God tells Abraham to put the knife down thus sparing Issac. How does a literary critic authenticates the tale of Abraham? Kermode asserts in his discussion of the gospel that John made indirect (or direct) references to prophetic passages from earlier texts in order to authenticate the details of the narrative. Wiesel credits "tradition" with differentiating which events to take into account: "Another text [Wiesel does not identify which one], even more cruel, goes further yet. . . . Yes, Abraham did return along from Mount Moriah. . . . [T]his hypothesis has been rejected by the tradition" (Wiesel pp 904-05). Is there selective judgment of historical facts in the process called "tradition" by Wiesel? Is the Midrash, perhaps the Jewish version of early hermeneutics, a programmed process of interpreting for posterity? Of course, to acknowledge the unidentified tragic and cruel text is to put an end to the lineage from which not only the Jewish faith but the entire Jewish race emerged. A further authentication is offered by Wiesel: "Issac survived; he had no choice. He had to make something of his memory, his experience, in order to force is [the Jews] to hope" (Wiesel 905 - bold mine). This is much different from the two details Kermode includes in his discussion of the crucifixion of Christ (not breaking the legs and the blood/water mixture). These details are corroborated by the use of other texts in the bible; this is the process of proof by prophesy. The genealogy of prophesy is the agent of biblical authority.

The definition of history, or the basis of its narrative reliability still eludes us. Kermode offers Herder's definition which sees history as "'the kind of consciousness represented by a specific kind of account. . . To be historical. . . an account need not be of any specific occurrence that has actually taken place'" (120). But in terms of the earlier argument, the reliability of the facts which make history an event need indeed to have taken place; otherwise, the reader might as well be engaged in reading fiction. Is history possible then? "Novels and news," as Terry Eagleton states, "[are] neither clearly factual nor clearly fictional: our own sharp discriminations between these categories simply [do] not apply" (Eagleton 2). Furthermore, Eagleton asserts: "Gibbon no doubt thought that he was writing the historical truth, and so perhaps the authors of Genesis, but the are now read as 'fact' by some and 'fiction' by others" (Eagleton 2). Nevertheless, other forces shape the historical accounts and their reliability. For example, upon completion of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Edward Gibbon wrote in his journal: "I will not dissemble the first emotion of joy on recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the establishment of my fame" (Sutherland ed. 139). How much of Gibbon's desire for fame shape the manner in which he composed his famous work? If fame was indeed part of Gibbon's plan, then the monumental task of presenting such an immense work in an enjoyable format might have tarnished the reliability of his account. Similarly, how did the impulse to create something which evoked faith in the masses and at the same time transcended the ages shape the work of the disciples? By virtue of coincidence, the Gospels appear like a close knit arrangement of a vast network of narrative connections; some passages refute others while some support the facts of another. Kermode attempts to "divorce meaning and truth" for the sake of hermeneutical examination and "the myth of transparency" creates a problem (122). Kermode's model assumes that the public would have cared little if Jesus legs were broken--in challenge of prophesy-- or, if for example, the landing on the moon had been filmed in a Hollywood studio.