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Laying Out the Narrative

As I have argued throughout, the spatializing tactics described in each of the preceding chapters are critical to texts’ political power and their ability to engage, in Jenny Edkins’ term, “trauma time” by simulating the experience of trauma. No text better exemplifies this process than Mark Z. Danielewski’s work of experimental fiction, House of Leaves. Comprised of multiple layers of narration—some of which, through radical experiments with textual layout, force the reader into disorienting, labyrinthine textual spaces—the book simulates the narrator, Johnny Truant’s, attempts to confront the repressed loss of his mother, which occurred early in his childhood but continues to haunt him into adulthood. Although the central narrative of the novel concerns the explication and analysis of a film, The Navidson Record, which documents the encounter with and exploration of the spatially-unstable “House on Ash Tree Lane,” Truant’s repressed trauma begins to infiltrate and overwhelm the novel’s entire textual apparatus; by its conclusion, the novel’s many layers of narrative are revealed to be psychological defenses erected by Truant as a means of concealing the absence of his lost mother. Inviting the reader to enter immersive textual spaces, Danielewski simulates the experience of trauma, giving readers the opportunity to

enter psychological zones that would otherwise be inaccessible through conventional narrative structures.

Danielewski employs a complex narrative arrangement to undercut the reader’s desire for a central, hegemonic narrative. The novel consists of the following: (1) an anonymous editor’s compiling of (2) Johnny Truant’s revisions and footnotes on (3) Zampanó’s interpretation of (4) The Navidson Record.

Sublevels exist within each narrative line, as well. For instance, The Navidson Record includes first-person accounts offered by Karen Navidson, Will Navidson, Tom Navidson, and Billy Reston, each providing a different perspective on the events occurring around and within the house. Within this textual milieu, the reader’s narrative bearings are destabilized; exposed to the “presence of absence” that emerges both in the textual layout and in the space between narratives, readers are forced to confront narrative as a dynamic, immersive spatial practice rather than a static object for consumption.

Through textual cues that only begin to reveal themselves late in the novel, Danielewski subtly indicates that the divergent narratives that comprise the novel are, in fact, textual creations that Truant manufactured in order to deal with repressed childhood trauma. The Navidson Record—a narrative twice-removed from Truant’s narration—depicts two vital events that indicate cross-narrative pollination in the text. First, the film contains a segment named “The Five and a Half Minute Hallway,” which describes one of the early video renderings of the house’s spatial instability. Second, during the multiple explorations of the house,

several characters report having heard a disembodied roar that echoes through the space of the house. Both occurrences reappear throughout The Navidson Record and become familiar points of reference for the reader. More importantly, though, these events emerge as evidence of Truant’s creative control over The Navidson Record and, more broadly, every narrative level that comprises House of Leaves. In the final pages of Truant’s narration, he directly confronts the traumatic moment in his childhood when his mother was taken from him and sent to a mental institution, where she would spend the remaining years of her life. This incident had a profound effect on Truant, as his damaged psyche and his failed relationships throughout the novel in many ways reveal the absence of a mother figure in his life. In the revealing passages that describe this critical moment, Truant writes, “[his mother] started to scream, screaming for me, not wanting to go at all but crying out my name—and there it was the roar, the one I’ve been remembering, in the end not a roar, but the saddest call of all—reaching for me, her voice sounding as if it would shatter the world, fill it with thunder and darkness, which I guess it finally did” (Danielewski 517). Later, he adds, “[In] my own dark hallway…like a bad dream, the details of those five and a half minutes just went and left me to my future” (517). These passages reveal that Truant has produced a textual space—the novel in which we find ourselves immersed—in order to indirectly confront the repressed trauma of his childhood.

Once Danielewski plays his hand, so to speak, the traumatic ruptures that infiltrate the text begin to reveal how Truant may approach, but never realize, an

encounter with the repressed loss of his mother. The novel contains several sections, appearing on a number of narrative levels, that emphasize absence both in a literal and a symbolic sense, and the presence of absence here, following Eisenman’s theories, indicates Truant’s attempts to cope with the absence of his mother. At one point, Truant notes how “some kind of ash landed on the following pages, in some places burning away small holes, in other places eradicating large chunks of text” (323). In other instances, the page layout contains brackets that enclose empty space (485). These sorts of textual devices appear throughout the novel and emphasize the ways in which Truant uses space to confront the absence of his mother embodied in the traumatic moment revealed later in the novel. Discussing the impossibility of representing or confronting trauma through straightforward narrative, Cathy Caruth writes, “[trauma] is always the story of a wound that cries out, that addresses us in the attempt to tell us of a reality or truth that is not otherwise available. This truth, in its delayed appearance and its belated address, cannot be linked only to what is known, but also to what remains unknown in our very actions and our language” (4). By inviting readers to experience traumatic absence through the novel’s textual layout, Danielewski removes us from language and invites us into the realm of the spatial, where trauma, which always exists beyond representation, resides.

Danielewski thus utilizes a spatially-defined textual apparatus and at the same time provides opportunities both for Truant to confront psychological trauma and for the reader to interactively engage the psychological processes that

make this confrontation possible. Like the House on Ash Tree Lane, whose unstable spatial coordinates demand a more complex understanding of space, the text of House of Leaves, too, reflects the spatial instability of narrative (insofar as narrative, like space, is dependent on discursive production). Danielewski’s textual presentation encourages the reader to regard the novel as a house or— extending the traditional metaphor of the gothic house for the human psyche—as a textual manifestation of Truant’s psyche. The labyrinth scenes, specifically, offer confusing textual arrangements that mirror the house’s unstable spatial layout. As Will Navidson continues to lose his spatial coordinates within the labyrinth, the reader, too, loses spatial coordinates within the unstable textual layout, which forces her to engage in a textual and, by extension, psychological exploration through the space of the novel. For example, in one instance, the text extends vertically, horizontally, and diagonally across the page, with no apparent pattern to follow (Danielewski 432). Much like Spiegelman’s nonlinear comic panels, the novel requires the reader constructs meaning by linking signs together, by locating coherent sentence fragments, and by piecing together a text with indistinct spatial boundaries.

This example illustrates the root of an interactive process that the reader engages on a broader level throughout the novel. Compiling fragments of narrative across the multiple levels of the text, the reader constructs boundaries for Truant’s psychological space. The anxieties that characters from The Navidson Record experience, for example, emerge as Truant’s own anxieties, and his

attempt to articulate them through textual layers creates a discursive space that is linked to traumatic repression. The predominant discourses that define this space concern family relationships and the construction of the self, and the reader’s encounter with these discourses yields, in Lefebvre’s terms, the production of meaning in the novel; by engaging these discourses, we come to terms with the repressed trauma of Truant’s past. As described above, the novel’s textual apparatus serves as a physical manifestation of Truant’s psyche, and this, in turn, affords the reader a space in which to engage directly the discourses that he represses throughout the novel. The narrative levels and the discourses within them function as a repository for memory, and the disorienting textual layout, which initially conceals meaning from the reader, ultimately reflects the psychological processes that prevent Truant’s confrontation with repressed trauma. Although readers of House of Leaves arguably remain trapped in Truant’s trauma narrative, the novel’s textual apparatus certainly offers the experience of space, which—in its distance from readerly narrative structures dependent on language—enables some form of writerly agency.⁴ Navigating the novel’s textual dimensions (with its extensive appendices and textual detours, House of Leaves




⁴ Barthes’ theories on “readerly” and “writerly” texts, though belabored by literary critics at this point, provide useful terminology for this discussion. For Barthes, conventional narrative is intimately tied to consumption; traditional narratives interpellate readers as complicit consumers of narrative action. A “readerly” text positions us as inactive participants in a textual space that denies creative, interpretive production. “Writerly” texts, on the other hand, position readers as producers of meaning within textual space and therefore open a space for production, which may occur in political, discursive, or psychological terms (Barthes 4-5).

lacks a prescriptive, linear narrative trajectory), readers enjoy (or perhaps are burdened with) a great deal of interpretive freedom and mobility.

The aim of Danielewski’s “textual tactics,” of course, is to allow readers to dwell in the moment of trauma and to simulate the experience of psychological dislocation endured by the victim of trauma. Although the book’s political dimensions are less clearly defined than, say, the 9/11 satires discussed in chapter one, its textual apparatus certainly enables spatial practices that remove us from hegemonic, prescriptive narrative structures. In this regard, Danielewski’s novel aligns itself with an emerging body of experimental fiction that utilizes textual layout to simulate the experience of space and trauma. Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, for instance, experiments with textual presentation to simulate the ineffability of trauma for survivors of Dresden; the novel’s at times confusing textual layout thrusts readers into the traumatized mind of its protagonist, a twelve-year-old boy attempting to come to terms with his father’s death in the World Trade Center. Steven Hall’s The Raw Shark Texts, a novel often situated alongside House of Leaves in conversations on experimental narrative form, similarly uses text to remove readers from a dangerous narrative space patrolled by a “conceptual shark.” Including thirty-six “un-chapters,” which appear online, and elsewhere, rather than in the print version of the novel, Hall literally removes readers from the space of his text. In her analysis of the novel,

N. Katherine Hayles writes, “Supremely conscious of itself as a print production, this book explores the linguistic pleasures and dangerous seductions of immersive

fictions, while at the same time exploring the possibilities of extending its narrative into transmedial productions at Internet sites, translations into other languages, and physical locations” (16). Using these strategies, Hall’s novel provides crucial opportunities for achieving distance from conventional narrative structures.

The critical and popular attention that House of Leaves has garnered over the past decade, due, no doubt, to its experiments with narrative form, has been remarkable. Blurring the boundaries between fiction and reality, the book boasts a devoted readership—a quick Google search offers a glimpse of its impressive online presence—that consistently seems drawn to the unsettling effect it has on its readers. This effect has much to do with the book’s ability to produce an uncanny textual space through its multiple layers of narration and its simulation of domestic space. Although my analysis of the book thus far has described the processes by which Danielewski uses textual layout to confront and simulate repressed trauma, the concept of the uncanny helps to explain the deeper psychological effect the book has on its readers. Freud’s writings on the uncanny, which I utilize more extensively in the following section, describe the process by which familiar domestic spaces become defamiliarized through complex psychological encounters that stem from a child’s traumatic separation from the womb. This movement from the “heimlich” to the “unheimlich,” the homely to the unhomely, destabilizes the individual’s psychological defenses, which are responsible for the repression of trauma. Through this lens, the unsettling

experience of reading House of Leaves owes itself in part to the book’s ability to induce an uncanny encounter through its manipulations of textual space.

Considering the book’s central narrative, which concerns Truant’s confrontation of his childhood trauma, this immersive textual tactic brings the reader in close psychological proximity to Truant as he unearths his past. Building from Danielewski’s use of the uncanny, the following section discusses adaptation as a formal strategy that, like House of Leaves’ textual machinery, provokes an uncanny experience as a means of simulating trauma.