En-vois.

“Doubtless, we are several, and I am not as alone as I sometimes say . . .”

— Jacques Derrida, Envois 


I

I will begin by identifying an interlocutor named “Jeremy Stewart”, whose book, I, Daniel: An Illegitimate Reading of Jacques Derrida's 'Envois', cites Derrida — “Doubtless, we are several, and I am not as alone as I sometimes say . . .”— page 107. I will begin with a name, a text, and a quotation while acknowledging that my “I” includes others. One of these others took a photo of the above passage a few years ago when poring through Derrida’s Envois, and perhaps it was she who recognized Jeremy’s quotation.

On the same day, a framed photograph fell off the wall and the glass shattered all over the hardwood. I took a photo of this as well, and worked it into a poem that will be published in a book at the end of next month. When coming across Jeremy’s quotation, “recognition” occurred as an immediate perceptual awareness of absence. I felt something was missing, and the feeling chased me into a lingering and somewhat corrosive curiosity. I took my dog for a walk and remembered the photo. Having admitted these coincidences (the photo of the quotation and the broken photo frame), I won’t “begin” again. There is no reason to convince you that beginnings must be rich and verbose. Nothing immaculate exists. No immaculate is actual. “I know what this costs.”


II

In writing about books I have read, or books I have written, or projected works in draft, it is easy to confuse what I have said publicly—- whether spoken or published— with what I have written and left unfinished. There are traces of such things, and it hurts (stings, smarts, burns) to discover that the words remain hidden in my notebooks, severaled in silence.

Uncertainty is where relationship possibilitizes itself, as such, every relationship of value alters its subjects irrevocably, giving them a knowledge that could not have been gained elsewhere. A knowledge about themselves. The touch deforms us, and thus makes us more real, laying the weight of the world in proximity to our bodies and our experience of embodiment. To be touched by another simultaneously wounds us and recreates us.

Derrida said something similar of poetry in a late essay: “No poem without accident, no poem that does not open itself like a wound, but no poem that is not also just as wounding. You will call the poem a silent incantation, the aphonic wound that, of you, from you, I want to learn by heart… The poem falls to me, benediction, coming of (of from) the other.”

Traces allude to the wound without speaking for the wound, or evidencing it. The trace is not a presence so much as “simulacrum of a presence that dislocates, displaces, and refers beyond itself.” A simulacrum is a representation or imitation of a person or thing.


III

Speaking of inheritance, Derrida: “In my anticipation of death, in my relation to a death to come, a death that I know will completely annihilate me and leave nothing of me behind, there is just below the surface a testamentary desire, a desire that something survive, get left behind or passed on—an  inheritance or something that I myself can lay no claim to, that will not return to me, but that will, perhaps, remain.”


IV

Dear reader, forget the photos. Pretend I didn’t mention them. But don’t forget that I lied to you when I scoffed at beginnings and repetition. And don’t forget how I defined recognition in relation to the secret I may have kept.


V

With dinner guests due to arrive in a few hours, I sat in my car in a parking lot where no one could find me and read Peggy Kamuf's essay, "A plus d'un titre," alongside Jeremy’s fabulous monograph, both of which led me to the uncanny moment on September 22, 2001, when Derrida was awarded the Theodore W. Adorno prize in Frankfurt, on this pseudo-date (since the prize was traditionally awarded on September 11 to coincide with Adorno's birthday, which, in this case, coincided with al Qaeda's attack on the World Trade Center in New York). 

It was cold in the car, cold enough to warrant gloves and earmuffs, an accessory situation that deranged my note-taking efforts, forcing me to consign some thoughts to memory, most of which did not make it through dinner and the evening. Awarded every three years, the Adorno Prize recognizes work ‘in the spirit of the Frankfurt school’ that spans philosophy, social sciences and the arts. None transgressed these boundaries as consistently and kookily as Jacques Derrida, who, in Tympan, insisted that "it is about this multiplicity, perhaps, that philosophy, being itself situated, inscribed and included there, has never been able to reason."

The multiplicity and polyvocality appears in countless texts, including the post-scriptum of On the Name, where Derrida amends his statement about speech, writing, "More than one, forgive me, one must always be more than one in order to speak, there must be several voices…"

On September 20, 2001, looking out at the audience in Frankfurt, Derrida began his speech, “The language of the foreigner” (as translated by Lucie Elvenin), by recounting a dream spoken by a different voice, a spectre that haunted his own work as well as that of the Frankfurt school. He does this for many reasons, but one of them involves language, particularly the connection between Derrida's French and Walter Benjamin's German. Both men, in this scenario, use languages that are not their 'first languages' in order to communicate an insight. Both men indirectly pose questions about fidelity to language in doing so. 

“To open this modest statement of my gratitude, I will read a phrase, which one day, one night, Walter Benjamin dreamt in French,” Derrida tells his audience, adding that Benjamin “entrusted it in French” to Gretel Adorno, who had become the wife of Theodor Adorno by the time this letter was addressed to her on 12 October 1939. Walter and Gretel carried on a lively correspondence prior to her marriage, and those letters to Gretel Karplus present us with a richer, more flirtatious slant of both persons. But when Benjamin wrote the quoted letter to Gretel, he was interned in what the French authorities called “a camp de travailleurs voluntaires (voluntary workers’ camp),” as Derrida says, and the banality of that arrangement might have lent the dream a more “euphoric” tone. 

In this dream, as described by Derrida, Benjamin said the following to himself in French: “Il s’agissait de changer en fichu une poésie” which Elvenin translates as “It was a case of turning poetry into a kerchief”. But Benjamin “translated this as: Es handelte sich darum, aus einem Gedicht ein Halstuch zu machen,” Derrida says, sharing this German translation with his audience, subtly shifting the terms of his address, while adding that “later we will touch on this ‘fichu’, this kerchief or scarf.” And then — notice how he continues with this plural pronoun— “We will discern in it the letter of the alphabet that Benjamin thought he recognised in his dream. And ‘fichu’, as we will come to, is not any old French word to denote a muffler, shawl or women’s scarf.” 

Briefly, Derrida discourses on the 'fichu', a word which “means different things according to whether it is being used as a noun or adjective”:

The fichu – and this is the most obvious meaning in Benjamin’s sentence – designates a shawl, the piece of material that a woman may put on in a hurry, around her head or neck. But the adjective fichu denotes evil: that which is bad, lost, condemned. One day in September 1970, seeing his death approaching, my sick father said to me, ‘I'm fichu.’

After drawing the correspondence between his father's use of the handkerchief to say, ‘I'm fed up with it,’ Derrida addresses his audience: “Do we always dream in bed, at night? Are we responsible for our dreams? Can we answer for them? Suppose I am dreaming now. My dream is a happy one, like Benjamin’s.” Using the plural pronoun gathers the audience into the questions, or makes them, so to speak, answerable for the response. The coincidences here are the name and the date, to quote Paul Celan, namely, that the Adorno Prize itself was to occur on Adorno's birthday, September 11th, which in that year coincided with the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center.

“I feel I am dreaming—” Derrida tells the audience. To 'feel' that one is dreaming plies the difference between dream and recognition: who am I when I see myself dreaming and what relationship can be said to exist between my dreaming and my personhood? In gently touching this sense of disbelief, Derrida insinuates that the affect isn't limited to the dream as such but related to the confusion between dream and reality, as he seems to suggest in the next line, “Even if the highwayman or the smuggler doesn’t deserve what is happening to him — like the poor student in a Kafka story who believes himself to be called, like Abraham, to the seat reserved for the first in the class — his dream seems happy. Like mine.”

[* These happy-seeming dreams remind me of a conversation between Ernest Bloch and Theodor Adorno about utopia. I'm making a note to come back to it later, if the right corridor appears.]

What is the difference between dreaming and believing that we are dreaming? And, anyway, who has the right to ask that question? The dreamer, plunged deep in his experience of the night, or the dreamer who has woken up? Would a dreamer be able to speak about his dream without waking? Would he know how to name the dream at all? Would he know how to analyse it fairly and even to use the word ‘dream’ knowingly without interrupting and betraying – yes, betraying – sleep?


V

Derrida in Archive Fever.

“A phantom can be thus sensitive to idiom,” Derrida said of the ghosted.

In a note to his Adorno Prize speech, Derrida mentions “an odd coincidence”, namely, the co-incidence of Adorno’s birthday with the September 11 attack by al-Quaeda, which meant that a ceremony honoring the anniversary of a birthday had been postponed due to the prize-winner (Derrida) being in Shanghai. The images of fear and mass murder would be permanently linked to this particular date, a date that connected Adorno to Derrida. “A coincidence of anniversary dates is nothing very odd at all, as Derrida points out in ‘Shibboleth’,” Kamuf writes. What stands out is “the coincidence of coincidences, the more than one coincidence that deserves remark and casts an uncanny shadow in ‘Fichus’.”

Derrida’s notes are notable for how they haunt his writings. One could write a book on less; paratext and punctuation (the asterisk, the footnote, the parenthetical, etc.) are the hauntological grammar of the text. They say what gets ghosted by post-Cartesian philosophy. The plurality of selfhood runs in tandem with the plurality of textual devices that memorialize what is missing, or what academic convention prefers to consign to the dustbin of history due to its overly-speculative nature.

Speculation, the speculative, is specular. It plays with light and mirrors. Physics tells us that specular reflection— the name for any ordinary reflection— is “the mirror-like reflection of waves, such as light, from a surface.”




VII

“By leaving this title in the plural and without article I was making a supplementary and still more equivocal use of the ‘s’ that could cover or include the three uses of the word and highlight the possible plurality of these uses, citing them in advance, as it were.” 

— Derrida, Memoirs for Paul de Man

The supplementary in Derrida’s explanation of his plural titling, or severaled titling, calls to mind a passage in Javier Marias' novel, The Man of Feeling, where the protagonist reproaches his live-in girlfriend for abandoning him as he sleeps, allowing him to sleep unmolested, unattended, open to dreams, at risk of dreaming and becoming subject to dreams— which, of course, is the conceit of the novel itself that opens as a dream in a train. The difference between the artist and the philosopher is their response to this question, for where the philosopher refuses the dream, the poet wavers, pauses, allowing the dream to speak, and risking its dangerous influence. 

Poets and artists “would acquiesce to the event, and to its exceptional singularity: yes, maybe we can believe and admit that we are dreaming without waking; yes, it is not impossible, sometimes, to say, while sleeping, with our eyes closed or wide open, something like a truth that issues from dreaming, a dream’s meaning and reason, which deserves not to sink into the night of nothingness,” Derrida tells us. Night, here, verges on the abyssal— a space that philosophy often consigns to metaphysics, or to the flaky side of life.  And here is where Derrida elects to name Adorno himself, drawing "that lucidity, that light, this Aufklärung of a dreamy discourse on dreams" towards the man whose birth is noted on this date: 

What I admire and love about Adorno is that he is someone who never stopped hesitating between the philosopher’s ‘no’ and the ‘yes, maybe, sometimes it happens’ of the poet, writer, essayist, musician, painter, writer of plays or films, and even psychoanalyst. By hesitating between ‘no’ and ‘yes, sometimes, maybe’, he was heir to both. He has taken into account that which the concept, the dialectic even, could not conceive in a singular event, and he has done everything to take on the responsibility of this dual heritage.

What is Adorno suggesting? The difference between dream and reality, that truth to which the ‘no’ of the philosopher calls us back with rigid severity, is what harms, hurts or ‘damages’ (beschädigt) the most beautiful dreams, and leaves instead a mark, a stain (Makel), like a signature. The ‘no’ — in other words, the negativity with which he sees philosophy as opposing the dream — is a wound of which the most beautiful dreams forever bear the scar.

“A passage from Minima Moralia reminds us of this,” Derrida continues, adding that he has chosen the passage for two reasons, the first being that “in it Adorno says that the most beautiful dreams are spoilt, harmed, mutilated, ‘damaged’ (besachädigt), hurt by the waking consciousness that tells us that they are pure-seeming (Schein) in the eyes of reality (Wirklichkeit).” And what stands out to Derrida is the coincidence of the hurt Adorno mentions, this beschädigt that also appears in the book's subtitle, Minima Moralia: Reflexionen aus dem beschädigten Leben.

Prying at this difference in use, this distance in signification, Derrida deconstructs the title to indicate “not ‘reflections on’ a life that has been hurt, harmed, damaged or mutilated, but ‘reflections from’ such a life, aus dem beschädigten Leben: reflections marked by pain, signed with a wound.” 

“Signed with a wound.” — this phrase lies at the center of everything Derrida does, as well as the parts of his language that get folded into lyrical works attempting to gloss his pain without addressing it directly. Like Jean Genet and Artaud, the wound is the site that language returns to as well as the fuel for creation. We are of course talking about circumcision, and his complicated relationship with sacrificial rituals that mark one as a ‘member’ of a group. To my knowledge, Derrida is the only cigar-smoking Parisian flaneur of the solitary attic to theorize his refusal to have his own son circumcised? Given the proper future anterior, Kierkegaard would have good reason to envy what Derrida dared.


VI

This series of thirteen en-vois will be continued, as soon as I get a chance to type my notes…


"Recommence"

Begin again.

Alternately: start it up, where “up” indicates a wheel-like structure that moves across terrain when fueled by gasoline and shut it down means stopping the cycle.

Additionally: surrealism’s “eroticism” dictionary of hand signals which ends by resuming, and using the sign to indicate both an action and a procedural motion.

The 27 expressions iconized above remind me of Erik Satie’s furniture music, but also of Fugazi’s furniture demo, and of the word, mobile, in French . . .

. . . or the possibilities that connect to immobilization, “mobila” (in Romanian, furniture), telephone mobile (mobile phone), and mobile phones in general… Because phones can walk now and what a shame that I only happened upon Satie’s prefiguration of this today.

Nefariously, it has come to my attention that I am very very behind on emails, a fact that I can only excuse by noting that it takes me a long time to figure out how to respond to the level of fluxus on display below:

What I admire about this poem is the use of mixed dictions and colloquialisms. What I rue is the “Wedding” that wants to be a gnosis. Thoughts and prayers to the nada! To thine own catalyzer, be true— even if it is number 15 on the surrealist chart.

Variations on Tzara's circus.

Others pick up words from the streets, from their bars, from their offices and display them proudly in their poems as if they were shouting, "See what I have collected from the American language. Look at my butterflies, my stamps, my old shoes!" What does one do with all this crap?

— Jack Spicer, Second Letter to Lorca

Reading Tristan Tzara’s “Circus,” as translated by Mary Ann Caws, and noticing how frequently he moves from sound to sound, riffing off the homophones and shared energies.

All the colors above are mine, a facet of my plays with language, a subset of looking for pulses that stretch through translations.

Some words cling to each other, and this attachment isn’t a relationship of correspondence so much as a friction that holds possibility to destabilize the separate meanings. One can hear the syllables inching towards each other, at which point the compositional question for the poet becomes one of proximity. Should you, for example, spread out the alliterative nouns across the stanza in order to let them call each other across the field? Or you should you put them in the same line and let them wreak a slight havoc on the senses?

Dada aimed to dissolve binaries.

Tzara’s existence in multiple languages often played into the misunderstanding of idioms and expressions. He kept lists of words and often started a poem from a word-list, looking for the sonic interaction between words, not quite “mining the gaps” (as Rosmarie Waldrop does) but exploding them.

To play with finding a triptych. To pretend that such things are “found”, and “founded.” To go for three as the foundational element.

Only my soul again, a studio of paper. Forgive me: uncontrolled drum beats, guilty hand. My heart lengthens with the subtlest inflection. Look for it. Here.

I have not forgotten my mother. It is you, in all the somewhere surging forth from the criticism. The velvet is that ringing.

Poster the tick-tock and the glory.

The surrealist "truth game".

A few excerpts from Walter Benjamin’s Arcades Project on games:

On gambling; the less a man is imprisoned in the bonds of fate, the less he is determined by what lies nearest at hand. [014,3]

The ideal of the shock-engendered experience <Erlebnis> is the catastrophe. This becomes very clear in gambling; by constantly raising the stakes, in hopes of getting back what is lost, the gambler steers toward absolute ruin. [014,4]

Benjamin relied heavily on surrealist games for his concept of the “dialectical image,” and I shall post something coherent about that soon (maybe tomorrow), though not without sharing this humorous excerpt from Andre Breton, Paul Eluard, Yves Tanguy, Benjamin Peret, Louis Aragon, etc playing the The Truth Game:

Technically, the surrealists never published any version of the Truth Game in their magazines or books. As Phillipe Audouin noted, the game wasn’t strictly ‘surrealist’, even though the surrealists played it constantly. The game “caused too many disagreements that were already too severe for anyone to consider worsening them by making them public,” Audouin said, adding that there was “a quasi-ritualistic stripping of those present, an ordeal to the symbolic death, and apparently, Levi-Strauss—several times called upon to participate in this awesome game — regarded it (according to Andre Breton) as equivalent to an initiation rite.” This sounds quite similar to the rituals that Georges Bataille would soon develop in the headless leadership and the events that occurred in the forest where the tree that had been struck by lightning waited for its secret society. Nevertheless, I include this next round of the truth game because it reads like a large cafe-scene of truth 0r dare, where the only dare is to answer honestly. . . even if the dare included be completely naked in an apartment elsewhere, a scene I leave to your imaginations.

Speaking of style as a means of expressing from within the given body, the brilliant Jeff Dolven noted that “a side effect of versatility, and sometimes of appetite, is caricatures, holding the other constant in order to be sure of escaping from yourself.” Consistency may be the “great lie of style,” the “constitutive . . . lie style always tells against the contradictions of desire.”

The contradictions of desire are always present in art; style has to be part of how that contradiction is expressed. I thought of a friend’s current project while reading Frank O’Hara’s “My Recess Self,” a poem that reveals the tension between asserting self-likeness and holding on to self-identity, which is lost. Identity is the slipperiest fish, perhaps because its performance is difficult to separate from the social games in which humans participate.

“A good game is one you can win,” Jeff Dolven quipped — but I beg to differ. A good game might be one for which the desire to win is replaced by love for the game as a reason for playing. (And one could argue about different modes of pleasure, comparing, for example, the pleasure of winning —which is a pleasure closely bound to identity, or how we see ourselves as seen by others— to the pleasure of getting lost in the playing of the game— a state bordering on the ecstasy of dancing in a crowd, where what we love and enjoy is that feeling of embodiment without the commitment and boundedness of identity.

Disco makes us feel free-ish, to paraphrase Richard Dyer’s “In Defense of Disco” (and to thank Nate Holdren and Jeff Melnick for leading me to it, and giving me a way to think about love of dancing). Embodiment is precisely what late capitalism refuses to grant us. In our perpetual alienation from the body, as socialized by market cultures that cultivate excessive self-consciousness and hyper-awareness of comparison, there are few opportunities for ecstasy in groups. College football, soccer, baseball, Olympics— the public events that provide opportunities for unbounded pleasure or ‘getting lost’ are not erotic. They are simply competitive and we celebrate the thrill of being on the winning side. But what do we feel, physically, in our bodies, when the desired team wins?

Dancing in a crowd isn’t competitive: there is no winner, no win, no game apart from the playing. Maybe there is a way to speak about style that narrows in on the particular shape that our love for the game (or our en-gamement) takes when we play it?

How to explain the affinity one feels when reading O’Hara’s “My Recess Self”? Part of it— the part that has little to do with the particulars of the “I” making such a claim— would be O’Hara’s style, or the way in which playfulness drives his turns and ripples through his syntax. He flirts, which is to say, he makes us feel that something relational is at stake in the unfolding of the poem. He calls us into that charged space where secrets get overheard or accidentally spoken, and that energy develops tension from his use of grandiose rhetorical gestures alongside the sheepish grin of his self-effacements. And yet, there are no “dialectical images” that looms through O’Hara’s poems, partly because the self-mockery (or that particular game of impersonation that he plays in both life and on paper) is, itself, dialectical.

I’m not sure how to phrase what I’m thinking. . . so I am leaving this note to myself and to the void in case words alight on the seat of my brain’s bicycle seat the way bees buttered the seat in Meret Oppenheim’s found object.

The Truth Game is excerpted from A Book of Surrealist Games published by Shambhala Press.

Mesmerized by Elias Khoury.

“Thinking about imperial violence in terms of a camera shutter means grasping its particular brevity and the spectrum of its rapidity. It means understanding how this brief operation can transform an individual rooted in her life-world into a refugee, a looted object into a work of art, a whole shared world into a thing of the past, and the past itself into a separate time zone, a tense that lies apart from both present and future.”

— Ariella Aïsha Azoulay, Potential History: Unlearning Imperialism (as quoted by Guy Mannes-Abbott)

“In the light of Spivak’s invocation of the ‘epistemic violence’ operating in colonialist subject production, the works of Akhter and Ferdous could arguably be read as not only refusing the voicelessness of the subaltern, but also as participating in a decolonial project of epistemic counterviolence.”

— Tom Holert, “Epistemic Violence and the Careful Photograph”

1

In cinematography, DIRECTING THE EYE refers to using frame composition, camera movement, or lighting to make clear what is most important in the frame.

I am thinking about Andrew Davies' translation of Elias Khoury's The Children of the Ghetto: II: Star of the Sea, a book which took my breath away. Sonorous language makes it easy to get lost in the lyric of the Lebanese-born Khoury's efforts to make literature a conduit for stories and lives deprived of archives, particularly those of Palestinian refugees in camps near his hometown, and I said as much— though not enough— in my thoughts on the Barrios Prize finalists. Alas, I did not have a chance to say there what I will say now, namely, that one of the particular gifts of the past year has involved reading almost a hundred books in translation that were possible contenders for the National Book Critics Circle’s Barrios Prize, as led by Mandana Chaffa.

The shutter blinks, stutters, tries to focus . . . multiple lacunae distract the pen. This is where the panorama comes in, as opportunity to step back from the thing evading definition. In Star of the Sea, Khoury leverages narrativity to reveal the voices disinherited from their history by the Nabka. Rather than 'tell' the story, he shows us how the story has 'been told', in fragments and broken shards, in shame and terror, in hope and desperation. Each story opens into other tales, voices, and places; every proper noun links to another noun that has gone missing.

Al-Tantura, occupied on May 23, 1948.

The novel’s fifteen-year-old protagonist, Adam Dannoun, is a child of "the ghetto", one of the strategic containment areas created by Israel's army to set Palestinians apart from Israeli citizens.  To be a child of the ghetto is to vanish before existing in the language of modernity and nation-state hegemony. 

What the poet Mahmoud Darwish called "the presence of absence" echoes through Adam's life, as well as Khoury's narration, where the speaker is both present and absent, there and not-there—- and yet one feels so deeply entangled in Adam's efforts to find an identity that enables him to live, to exist, to speak as an "I" with a history. The author takes the “present absentee” of apartheid into himself, and works this self-ghosting into the third person point-of-view.

To draw loosely on Paul Celan, the name and the date mark us. The name and the date situate the text and turn it into a memorial site, a ghost-citation. Star of the Sea takes place in the 1960's in Haifa, where the scent of the ocean reaches across the rocks and shapes the imaginary, the identities available to Palestinian youth were premised on non-existence, on subterfuge and lying. No part of life, whether food, travel, education, marriage, was safe from this. Adam must be whatever Israelis need in order to continue living, and it is literature, in the end, that sets him on a path of confrontation with the self he constructs, a self fashioned from self-identification with Israeli Jewish citizens. He knows this, consciously—just as the Israelis around him know him, subconsciously.


2

Pronouns in Arabic are extraordinarily supple, unmatched in any other language. The written letters that take a person’s place are called “consciences”, but since the conscience is also an invisible  moral compass, how can a novelist write using the conscience of one who is absent? And finally, what does its corollary—that the conscience must be absent in order for a person to tell their story really mean?

— Elias Khoury, My Name Is Adam (translated by Humphrey Davies)

Technically, one should begin with My Name Is Adam, the first book in Khoury’s “Children of the Ghetto” trilogy, which is precisely what my ever-insightful peer, Joseph Schreiber, does in a recent review. (I highly recommend reading it for a richer context.)

Once upon a time, there was a man. He opened his eyes and realized he lived in a garden. A god named him Adam. His author created a world that begins on the day of Adam’s birth in 1948. From the very beginning of My Name Is Adam, narration is problematized: the book consists of a scattered, unpolished manuscript written by Adam Dannoun, a Palestinian man in New York City who died before finishing his attempted novel. After Adam's death, Elias Khoury decides to publish the manuscript; he is, after all, implicated in its beginning. Adam never intended to write a book about his past in Palestine; he did everything to disconnect from what he had fled. He hides from history only to discover himself found by it. Adam changes his mind as a result of "two events—the screening of a film based on Khoury’s famous novel Gate of the Sun, and a conversation with a man he has not seen since he was seven years old," to quote Joseph.

A film and a conversation lead him Adam to commit to writing his life, a sort of self-narration that develops into a novel shaped by his relationship to the present. Archives and official history say little about the Palestinian experience in 1948, the year of Adam’s birth. Time, history, names, textbooks—- all conspire to erase the dispossessions that followed. The nature of narration is warped by what poet Mahmoud Darwish called “the presence of absence,” a way of seeing that inflects Adam's gaze when he looks back at his homeland. Memory mistrusts itself; the child cannot find words for the experience of the ongoing Nakba. 

The title of the trilogy foregrounds this disinheritance: Khoury's subject is the resident Arab children who experienced physical, linguistic, economic, and social containment in what Zionist soldiers named a “ghetto.” To be a child of the ghetto is to vanish before existing in the language of modernity and nation-state hegemony.

Who is the ‘author’ here? Is it Adam disinherited from telling his own history, or the well-established Arabic novelist who feels driven to get it published?

Joseph mentions that Khoury's custodial role in (and of) Adam's novel is "assumed to be understood, but not mentioned" in the trilogy's second volume, Star of the Sea. Since my experience with this trilogy began in a disorderly fashion, namely, by beginning with the second volume, I can honestly say that the book felt complete to me. Khoury's narrative strategy moved seamlessly through its self-ghosting, and nothing about the book necessitated a precursor, to my reading. There is no information that Star of the Sea lacks in order to succeed as literature. Having read the first volume late last year, part of me still wonders if the second volume isn't a better first volume for this trilogy whose third volume remains (as of yet, to my knowledge) untranslated?

3

An ASYNCHRONOUS situation occurs when audio tracks are out of unison with the visuals in the frame, whether intentional or accidental.

Palestinians leave Haifa after Zionist forces enter the city, April 21, 1948. Source.

Khoury named his maternal grandmother as "the most important person in his life"— for she was the one who storytold the family history and gave the young Khoury a sense of narrative lineage. He said this in an extraordinary “Art of Fiction” interview for The Paris Review, to which I owe much of this information, as well as the living description of Khoury as a conversationalist given to stories “told in a low rumble, textured by decades of smoking Marlboros—which frequently end with him slapping the table and laughing. His anecdotes, often about fellow Arab writers, show his love of the mildly scandalous or seriously blasphemous. Khoury also enjoys an argument. When posed with a question, his impulse is often to correct or disagree with its premises.”

After mentioning his grandmother, Khoury quotes from one of his own novels, namely, Gate of the Sun, the novel whose film version inspired ‘Adam’ to write the first book in this trilogy. “My grandmother used to tell me stories as though she were tearing them into shreds; instead of gathering them together, she’d rip them apart,” says the protagonist of Gate of the Sun. Perhaps this gestures towards an explanation for the haphazard shape of My Name Is Adam, a book relying on the memories of a child (whose own experience is frequently narrated to him by elders) to reconstitute a history. 

To add to the intertextual richness, Khoury titled Gate of the Sun after Ghassan Kanafani's Men of the Sun, a novel that consumed him in 1963, when it was first released. Later, while working in Beirut for the Palestine Research Center and its journal, Palestinian Affairs, Khoury met Kanafani, who was writing for the PFLP-associated paper, Al-Hadaf.  Kanafani wrote like one who knew he didn't have long for this world. "He smoked nonstop and drank coffee and whiskey and was always writing something—journalism, novels, essays, children’s books, plays," Khoury said. Ultimately, Mossad assassinated Kanafani in a 1982 car bomb attack which blew his body to bits, leaving his friends to "gather the limbs off the sidewalk," as Khoury said. 

Unlike Kanafani, whose novels condense and narrate, Khoury tended to work against brevity and clarity by expanding and drawing very close to the interior states of his characters. The most important part wasn’t the hero or narrative arc but rather the sidereal, Khoury said, in “the marginal detail or side story that we have to come to recognize as central.”

4

“The question keeping the writer of these stories awake at night is the following: how can the absentee write? Can they tell their own story using “I,” thereby writing as though remembering? Or should they employ the third person to write in their place?”

— Elias Khoury, My Name Is Adam (translated by Humphrey Davies)

Khoury’s novel, Little Mountain, was published in 1977, two years after the start of the Lebanese civil war. Although Khoury fought with the fedayeen during the first two years of the war, he insisted that the book was "not a memoir" but an act of imagination. The places may be real, but “the events are made up.” After he finished writing it, Khoury was mystified by genre and didn't know how to classify it. “I still have that feeling whenever I sit down to write that I don’t know how to do it, that I have to learn to write all over again,” he told an interviewer. What he knew—and continued to believe—was that Arabic literature needed to move away from its nineteenth century commitment to historical novels. “We needed to write things as they happened, to tell the story of the present.”

“I had no model,” Khoury said of Little Mountain, "I wrote like a blind man—”

5

There is a sensuousness that overtakes Khoury’s narratives—- the scent of the fruits, trees, salt on skin—- the particular enchantment of his phrasing. Khoury “writes about the scent of words, which take on such immaterial qualities that writing itself works like a sixth sense in his fiction,” Guy Mannes-Abbot said in his splendid review of As Though She Were Sleeping. I can’t think of a better way to describe Khoury’s structure of intersecting narrative circles than the one offered by Guy:

6

THE FOURTH WALL is the illusory, imaginary plane through which the audience is able to watch the film. The fourth wall is what gets broken when the audience is reminded that they are watching a film.

Elias Khoury’s experience with the fedayeen served as “a kind of training for life, and for death: which “required the utmost ethical commitment and the ability to see things critically, even at times ironically.” As he explained in the Paris Review interview, he did what felt necessary and what seemed clear based on the things he had witnessed. “For me the issue was straightforward— Palestinians have a right to their country and the refugees have a right to return to their land,” he said. The political specifics were tactical questions, but the conflict itself was “an ethical issue”: When you have a victim in front of you, you must identify yourself with the victim, not just show solidarity.”

What does identifying with the victim mean to Khoury? He considers himself an Arab, and thus refuses to identify 'as a 'Christian' minority in Lebanon, adding that “one’s religious heritage is essentially a literary heritage.” If he had been raised a Muslim, he would have written his books “in exactly the same way as I have,” Khoury told the interviewer.

What is the difference between identifying with and identifying as?

The question seems simple, but Khoury troubles the easy answer in Star of the Sea, which introduces us to a post-pubescent, fifteen-year-old Adam. It is now 1963, and Adam cannot bear watching his stepfather abuse his mother any longer. It is too much: he can hardly control his urge to defend her physically. He has to leave.

In a moving scene, Adam's mother seeks a goodbye from her son as he prepares to flee into the darkness. She gives him a parting deed: his father's will and testament. But which courts will acknowledge these documents? Who is in the position to judge or adjudicate the future of a disinherited teen?

As a runaway, or a human in exile from his family and community, Adam has no legible history. His future will involve creating a cover story that enables him to live safely, to become a person, to build his own home and future. But a cover story is not the same thing as a life.

Seeking work, Adam gets lucky when Gabriel, a Polish Jew who picks him up while hitchhiking, offers him a job as a mechanic in his garage. Gabriel is drawn to Adam because he resembles his fair-haired, light-skinned younger brother who is no longer living. He gives him a place to live, helps him get into a Jewish school, and Adam responds by changing himself to fit Gabriel's imaginary. Adam's survival depends on being what Gabriel needs him to be. Adam changes his name from Dannoun to Danon and learns Hebrew. In Khoury's words (which Joseph typed):

If the heroes of novels could break through the fourth wall (page) and speak without an intermediary, then Adam could very well have told his story not as the invisible man, but a man formed from his imagination. And indeed he had imagined an entire personality that both matched his true nature and was completely different. From the moment he left his mother’s house on the night of the rain, Adam realized that he could represent himself however he wanted by using certain true events to create a compelling background.

Open into room where Khoury is speaking with the interviewer again, parsing the distance between imagining the self as a writer and identifying as a writer. He names a book as transformative in his development.

Correction: he names the relationship he formed with this book as transformative. Khoury began thinking of himself as a writer after reading Albert Camus’s The Stranger and realizing that he had read it so closely and intensely, read it the way a lover reads the beloved's body, that he knew it "by heart." 

Like the poets I saw in a panel at NOLA, Khoury brought the poems he loved into his body, creating a repertoire of memorized poems: 

“I used to memorize huge amounts of modern poetry in Arabic—Adonis, al-Sayyab, Khalil Hawi. I didn’t study them, I memorized them. And after I memorized The Stranger, I felt like I was actually the author. The book became a part of me, it was inside me. This happened every time I read a book I really loved. My sense wasn’t that I wanted to write something similar to what I’d read—no, my sense was that the book had entered me and that I was its author. I became obsessed with literature. Even when I was training in Syria, I brought novels with me to read.”

When Emile Habibi asked why he chose to give his characters Christian or Muslim names, Khoury told him that was out of a fidelity to their society, where one can often recognize a person's religion by their name. Habibi gave his characters neutral names, and Khoury pointed out: "Your own name isn’t neutral, it’s Emile! Are you going to change that?"

7

Repetition is, I might say, a way of insisting that every story contains many stories inside it. The same story can be told in any number of different ways, of course. My novels try to suggest this richness, even though I can tell only a limited number of versions. In other words, I’m a student of Scheherazade—I don’t tell the story, I tell how the story has been told. There’s an important difference here. The whole tradition of Arabic literature teaches us how ­important it is. All classical texts tell us that there’s a prior authority or source for the story about to be told. There’s always a chain of transmitters, or translators, even though each version differs. And in Arabic, the word for “novel,” riwaya, also means “version.” In this sense, there’s no such thing as pure repetition. To write multiple versions of the same story is to suggest that every story is a form of potential, an opening onto other stories. 

Literature cannot be a compensation for history, but it can point to an ­absence. It’s a form of accusation, if you like. [ … ] The novel indicates what isn’t there.

— Elias Khoury, “The Art of Fiction Interview”

Dheisheh Refugee Camp, Bethlehem, West Bank.

A Palestinian girl carries her laptop as she walks past a mural of Ghassan Kanafani, the writer and leading member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, in Dheisheh Refugee Camp, Bethlehem, West Bank on May 12, 2018, as photographed by Anna Paq.

Red threads its way through this photograph, joining the Arabic inscription on the wall to the red laptop case carried by the girl and then climbing, quietly, towards the upper left corner of the frame where the evergreen magnolia bursts over the side of the wall, revealing two ruddy seed cones, poking upwards. I noticed it perhaps because the velour laptop case shares a velvety texture with that seed cone… and then catches the shirt of the boy riding the bike down the alley.

As part of his continuing effort to “write the present”, Khoury published an essay collection titled The Continuous Nakba in the year before his death . . .


8

While studying in Paris, Khoury attended some of Michel Foucault’s lectures at the Collège de France; several auditoriums had to be opened to accommodate the crowds. Like Gen X teens camping outside the box office to get teens for a rock concert, Khoury says he and friends would arrive “three or four hours early with our ­sandwiches” in the hopes of scoring good seats. “Foucault was like a wizard, so erudite. No one dared to ask him a question after he finished lecturing.”

9

“It’s not true that the dying don’t know; if they didn’t, death would lose its meaning and become like a dream. When death loses its meaning, life loses its meaning, and we enter a labyrinth from which there is no exit.”

— Elias Khoury, Gate of the Sun (translated by Humphrey Davies)

To return to The Star of the Sea— the man who gives Adam his job, the Polish Jew named Gabriel, has a daughter named Rivka. And perhaps there is an Eden in this, for she becomes Adam's first love. Both of them depend on the same man, the same god, as it were, the king of the garden. The rules were put in place before the birth of the lovers—and all that remains is for them to “sin,” or to upset the order of the garden where what is known is known solely by Gabriel.

Of course Khoury selects the name Gabriel to evoke to angel that appears that offers respite, and it is a testament to Khoury’s brilliance that he plays mythical characters and religious figures against each other continuously, complicating the scriptures themselves as part of the narrative strategy. In these religions of the book offered by monotheism, humans are given a world created by the authors. This is what good fiction does: it creates a believable world that sucks us into its topography and conventions. So Adam lives there, in Haifa, under an assumed Israeli identity, an existence that depends entirely on the goodwill and complete trust of Gabriel.

To Israel and the IDF, the Adam inherited from his father’s will and testament— the Adam on paper— is an Arab, a foreigner, a potential threat. In an effort to understand his oppressors, Adam becomes a student of Hebrew Literature and comes under the mentorship of a German-born professor, whose passion for literature inspires him. The class takes a trip to Warsaw, Poland, where the eighteen-year-old Adam finds himself so deeply embroiled in lies and disguise that every moment demands constant vigilance. Fear of exposure fuels his social interactions. The problem of recognition and identity returns in the tour of the Warsaw Ghetto— a tour that has become increasingly common for students in Israeli schools— where he hears the stories of the tour guide and other survivors narrated to the students, all of whom are listening, learning history, so to speak, a history that, for many Israeli students, is their history. His peers are proud to be Israeli; the future belongs to them. What sort of life is the “present absentee” allowed to imagine? What can he dream that isn’t a threat to the occupiers? What part of Adam’s breath isn’t a ‘danger’ to the mythos of the ethnonationalist state that punishes those who are born there for being born in the wrong religion?

10

“You and I and every human being on the face of the planet should have known and not stood by in silence, should have prevented that beast from destroying its victims in that barbaric unprecedented manner. Not because the victims were the Jews but because their death meant the death of humanity within us.”

— Elias Khoury, Gate of the Sun (translated by Humphrey Davies)

Lacuna. A thing held in brackets. A gap in the manuscript. A silence between pages that constitute a life narrative. A date inscribed upon the memory of every Palestinian. A date all the more painful for its absence from any public acknowledgement in the US, where much of the diaspora finds itself. April 9th, 1948. No camera in the US dares to touch it— and yet, the postcard of the depopulated al-Tantura connects to it, the two divided by a month and a small distance.

”Meanwhile, in the Black Sea near Crimea, there is a garden of dismantled Soviet statues deep beneath the water, a stunningly blue cathedral of water where Stalin and Lenin sit near the poet Sergei Esenin, while Yuri Gagarin, the first human to enter outer space, lives out eternity at the other extreme. I’d love to rent scuba gear and meet these monuments under the sea – I think of that song in The Little Mermaid, ‘Under the Sea’ – to bring that song to it, to combine these different realities in water, the juxtaposition of their solidity and permanence against my weightlessness. Reality is complicated; nothing is as binary or simple as we want it to be. And I’m very comfortable with something that doesn’t erase the past but interacts with it in a way that challenges the past. Changing the tense of history. Darwish does that or can give us a route into doing that. He can say we are present with absence. And we are responsible for imagining the next part.”

History may be owned by the victors, but truth is not. Truth waits for the day when the lies of the victors cause the victory to fall apart. Every child raised in a dictatorship or personality cult secretly knows that the lies will dissolve eventually: the only question is how long will it take for the adults to wake up?

The White Ribbon.

“The White Ribbon had to be in German because of the subject matter, that was clear.”

— Michael Haneke

“For love is ever filled with fear.”

— Letter from Penelope to Odysseus in Ovid’s Heroides


In an interview with Alexander Kluge, Michael Haneke said “the real topic” of his film, The White Ribbon, was “how people under pressure become receptive for ideology, i.e. how they even create their own ideology, how they absolutize an idea— and then, with the help of this absolutized idea, punish those who preached this idea to them— but who lived differently from the way demanded by that idea.”

The white ribbon isn’t a static figure in the film: it recurs and adapts to disciplinary tools (the riding crops used to whip the children) as well as the tools of violence and rupture (the rope the farmer uses to strangle himself, the wire that makes the doctor fall, etc.) so that the ribbon itself becomes a being of velocity, a particular kind of symbol or iconography linked to this idea of designating as as well as the possibility of protecting.

To designate and to protect: these are active verbs.

The father ties his son to the bed at night with white ribbons to protect him from masturbating.

Haneke took the white ribbon from Johann Gottlieb Heusinger's early 19th century text where a pastor ties white ribbons in his children’s hair or around their arms to remind them of “Umfeld und Reinhot,” as Martin Blumenthal-Barry observed. This didacticism at the level of symbol invokes the role of talismans and religious ritual, as well as the chosenness of being marked by signs that are exclusively legible. You can see this in the wrenching seventh scene, where the symbols are being established and explained:

The “wrongdoers”— this word that holds so much silence inside it — situates itself near the confession, or creates a longing for confession and expiation. There is an aura of moral hygiene that hovers, cloud-like, over the scene, where the awareness of such hygiene is internalized as feeling dirty.

Blumenthal-Barby’s interest in “aprioric state of guilt" of the children and parents meets us on the screen, as spectators of Haneke's film, where we are encouraged to ask about the nature of responsibility under conditions where guilt is inexorable and close to a first cause. Even sincerity is implicated in it, as Blumenthal-Barby points out: the father’s idea of the son telling the truth assumes his son’s guilt. To lie is to say you are not guilty, where the registers converge to make communication void.

The psychological degradation and suggestivity of the white ribbon are the tools used by the pastor to control his children. These sorts of disciplinary regimes resemble the gaze of the Panopticon that reports to be nonviolent, a technology of continuous surveillance and control through internalization of the gaze. This is what we call a modern education, and to learn it involves internalizing the jargon of particular discourses, becoming a subject of these discursive practices which the film presents as an instructive violence behind closed doors, rendered unavailable to the spectator.

The closed doors haunt me. I am referring to the scene in The White Ribbon where Haneke reasserts the border between the public and private (a border he collapses in other films) to leave us outside the door, in that 83-second acoustic rehearsal of pain, cries, and humiliation by the boy. Anyone who has stood outside the door hearing a sibling or nephew or friend being spanked will recognize the horror, the absolute helplessness, established by the authoritative exclusion from visibility.

In the interview with Kluge, Haneke said he initially thought to name the film “The Right Hand of God," playing on how the kids come to believe, as socialized, that they are representatives of divine  authority to judge and to punish. Those absolute standards absorb the panopticon's ontology and provide meaning and stability, a continuity of family life, through this act of assuming something like responsibility for disciplining those who fall short of propriety.

Judgement doesn't liberate so much as it commits one to standards that require continuous enforcement, defense, justification, and explication.

All value, as socialized, depends on this ability to judge and to protect—  to act as a God would act in a metaphysics of presence. The long-take that fixes us to that bedroom door imprints this moment on our minds as a sort of unspeakable terror, activating our imaginations in relation to what is visible. Because all parts of the visual field are rendered equal in this sort of take, we are forced to decide how to signify the relations and dimensions that are present. There is a particular cruelty to this, a nausea in in the way Haneke leads us to imagine the beating. And this is more horrible in some ways than the films where he forces us to reckon with our complicity as consumers of the violence displayed—- here, in this scene before the door, we are active in creating it. Or imagining it. I am rarely sure there is a difference.

"It ain't no big thing"

 

HE: So you’re going to Los Angeles next Tuesday?

ME: I am.

HE: Is this one of those writer things where you freak out and do karaoke?

ME: O! It might be!

HE: Ha. The only karaoke song you did really well was “Kiss Me Deadly” at that bar in Maryland…

ME: I thought that was Tennessee?

HE: Maryland. Annapolis. I’m sure of it.

ME: Just admit it’s the best first three lines of a song ever.

HE: If by best you mean cliche as hell and cringe—

ME: I went to a party last Saturday night. Beat. I didn't get laid. Beat. I got in a fight. Beat. Uh-HUH. No beat needed. It ain't no big thing.

HE: You really like that “uh-huh”, eh?

ME: It’s so emblematic of the late 80’s. Billy Idol. Pat Benatar. The strut that led straight into riot grrrl aesthetic.

HE: Are you nervous about AWP?

ME: Very.

“There is an old nursery rhyme that tells of Muhme Rehlen. Because the word Muhme meant nothing to me, this creature became for me a spirit: the Mummerehlen. The misunderstanding disarranged the world for me. But in a good way: it lit up paths to the world’s interior.”

— Walter Benjamin, “The Mummerehlen”

“In Benjamin’s characterization, melancholia is described as an emotional numbness that can increase ‘the distance between the self and the surrounding world to the point of alienation from the body.’”

“Arcades share a genealogy with planetariums, star-gazing architectures, and also with greenhouses.”

“Benjamin was far more attuned to the barbaric side that Engels had glimpsed in his walks around Manchester.”

“First, contemporary ‘poverty of experience’, Benjamin tells us, designates less a yearning for new experiences (Erfahrung) than a liberation from (our constantly having to make) them.”

“Benjamin gives another example of such a misunderstanding: the day after the child had overheard a conversation about a copper engraving (‘Kupferstich’), a concept unknown to him, he stuck his head out from underneath a chair, to enact what he had understood as a ‘head-stickout’ (‘Kopf-verstich’): ‘If, in this way, I distorted both myself and the world, I did only what I had to do to gain a foothold in life.’”

“I wander from ruins to village with my crystal monocle and an unsettling theory of painting. Turn by turn I have been a lionized author, a famous drawer of pornography, and a scandalous Cubist painter. Now I am going to stay at home and let others explain and debate my character in the light of the above particulars.” [Jacques Vaché]

"Engels told me that it was in Paris in 1848, at the Café de la Régence (one of the earliest centers of the Revolution of 1789), that Marx first laid out for him the economic determinism of his materialist theory of history." Paul Lafargue, "Persönliche Erinnerungen an Friedrich Engels," Die neue Zeit, 23, no. [Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project]

“The intensity is proportionate to the contrast.”

— Joel Sandelson

As one who frequently laughs when reading, alone, I have often wondered if this is something that others do as well. Apparently, laughter is primarily a social behavior, and this is due to frequency, or the fact that humans are much more likely to laugh in the presence of others rather than alone. Laughing alone and whistling in the dark both came to mind when reading a wonderful essay by conductor Joel Sandelson on contrastive valence. “According to psychology, musical emotion is most intense when our evaluation of something switches from negative to positive,” writes Sandelson. “Indeed, the intensity is proportionate to the contrast. Psychologists call this principle ‘contrastive valence’. Judging from the hundreds of millions of views it has since received on YouTube, contrastive valence on a global scale was elicited by the singer Susan Boyle’s first appearance on the TV show Britain’s Got Talent in 2009. The video is a test-case of social stereotyping, and has become a subject of learned academic studies.”

Sandelson then mentions “skin orgasm” as a possible term for music’s physical effect on us— a term that is new to me, and which I imagine landing somewhere between frisson and goosebumps and the Derrida-style shudder— before quickly dismissing it as “a euphemism for something even more fundamental than sexual arousal.” (If I wasn’t shuddering prior, the following three lines are where that begins.) “What is that?” you might ask. And Sandelson replies: “Pattern and anticipation are possible only because humans have a grasp of regular time intervals. Our ability to predict what comes next is linked to the evolution of walking on two feet, to bipedalism. Walking might have taught our brain its sense of time, and time is perhaps the brain’s internal simulation of the periodic motion of footsteps (averaging about one step every several 100 milliseconds). In other words, the first step towards human music happened 4 million years ago when Australopithecines got up on their hind legs and took their first step.”

Time, pattern, anticipation, disappointment—the energy of the fugue. “Although the pleasure provoked by music is intense, the cognitive and affective dimension build meaning into the experience of music in a way that shatters even sex,” Sandelson concludes.

“I only name what I love. I only name what’s worth naming.” 

— Roland Barthes, 30 March 1977

There is no reason to believe that it was March 30th when Lichtenberg scribbled the following in his Waste Books: “The ‘second sight’ possessed by the Highlanders in Scotland is actually a foreknowledge of future events. I believe they possess this gift because they don't wear trousers. That is also why in all countries women are more prone to utter prophecies.”

REPRISE (n.): “In music, a reprise is the repetition or reiteration of the opening material later in a composition as occurs in the recapitulation of sonata form, though—originally in the 18th century—was simply any repeated section, such as is indicated by beginning and ending repeat signs.”

In a poem, one line may hide another line,
As at a crossing, one train may hide another train.
That is, if you are waiting to cross
The tracks, wait to do it for one moment at
Least after the first train is gone. And so when you read
Wait until you have read the next line —
Then it is safe to go on reading.

—Kenneth Koch

REPRISAL (n.): an act of retaliation. Historically, a reprisal referred to “the forcible seizure of a foreign subject or their goods as an act of retaliation.”

“Over to the side, near the curtained doorway, my mother stands motionless in her tight bodice. As though attending to a tailor’s dummy, she scrutinizes my velvet suit, which for its part is laden with braid and other trimming and looks like something out of a fashion magazine. I, however, am distorted by similarity by all that surrounds me here. Thus, like a mollusk in its shell, I had my abode in the nineteenth century, which now lies hollow before me like an empty shell. I hold it to my ear.”

— Walter Benjamin, “The Mummerehlen”

"A une passante"

1

Found myself wandering through The Arcades Project today, looking for Napoleon’s Madeleine (or its ruinscape) only to wander off into a passageway that led me back to Baudelaire’s sonnet, "A une passante"— which Walter Benjamin discusses in “The Paris of the Second Empire in Baudelaire”, among other flaneuries . . .

Lightning . . .then darkness! Lovely fugitive
whose glance has brought me back to life! But where
is life—not this side of eternity?

2

Alberto Moravia made use of the epistolary form in a short story titled “The Thing" whose protagonist is a lesbian writing a letter to her longtime lover. Both are equestrians. The letter centers on a rejection, and a particular reading of Baudelaire’s poem “Femmes damnées”.

To the question of what damnation would involve for women, the speaker replies: “That of slavery to the male member.”

Oddly, the male member here is that of a stallion, a horse.

No worries! Moravia returns to this member-centric fold in a different story, “The Unknown God,” where he extols the apostatic penis.

3

The final verse of Baudelaire’s “Damned Women” sticks to the skull:

Vous que dans votre enfer mon âme a poursuivies,
Pauvres soeurs, je vous aime autant que je vous plains,
Pour vos mornes douleurs, vos soifs inassouvies,
Et les urnes d'amour dont vos grands coeurs sont pleins.

And since all of the translations included at the Fleurs du mal website felt a bit stuffy, I decided to wrangle my own:

You whom my soul has pursued into your hell,
My poor sisters, I adore you as I mourn you,
For your anguished sighs, your quenchless thirsts,
In your grandiose hearts, love’s urns are filled to brim.

4

A short history of tourism, gleaned from one of Anne Friedberg’s end-notes:

Thomas Cook, the British entrepreneur, began organizing tours in 1841. A collaborator with the temperance movement, he posed the tour as a substitute for alcohol. The tourist industry successfully commoditized a combination of voyeurism (sight-seeing) and narrative. The tourist, like the cinema spectator, is simultaneously present and absent, positioned both here and elsewhere. Work on travel has suggested productive analogies among shopping, tourism, and film viewing. Wolfgang Schivelbusch describes the connections between the railway journey and other forms of "panoramic travel"—- walking through city streets and shopping in department stores. (The moving walkway, the trottoir roulant, was introduced at the Paris exhibition of 1900.)

The idea of tourism as a teetotaling therapy amused me, although it explains a bit of what feels so labored about touring, and tourists. There is a certain kind of attention required, as well as an itinerary—-like going through an art museum with a guide rather than wandering. The nature of the “encounter” seems different?

5

SURREALIST INQUIRY: WOULD YOU OPEN THE DOOR?

Editor's note: This playful inquiry ("Ouvrez-vous?" in French) was featured on the first page of the first issue of Medium: Communication surrealiste (1953). Translated by Franklin Rosemont in Penelope Rosemont’s Surrealist Women.

EB = Elisa Breton
AS = Anne Seghers
T = Toyen

Would you open the door for

Baudelaire? EB: Yes, overwhelmed. AS: Yes, completely amazed. T: Yes, with affection.

Bettina? EB: No, too cunning for me. AS: Yes, she's a curiosity.

Cezanne? EB: No, he's too involved with his calculations. AS: No, because I love apples. T: No, enough still-lifes.

Chateaubriand? EB: Yes, with admiration. AS: No, with many excuses. T: No, devoid of interest.

Juliette Drouet? EB: Yes, with sympathy. AS: Yes, because of the sweetness of her face.

Fourier? EB: Yes, joyfully. AS: Yes, as one welcomes spring. T: Yes, with the greatest interest.

Freud? EB: Yes (a great miner). AS: Yes, but not very sure of myself. T: Yes, to make him psychoanalyze me.

Gauguin? EB: Yes, in his aura of light and refusal. AS: No, out of fear of being disappointed. T: Yes, in friendship.

Goya? EB: Yes (the magic eye). AS: Yes, saluting him with reverence. T: Yes, with joy.

Caroline von Gunderode? EB: Yes, deeply moved. AS: Yes, she's a good friend (AS).

Hegel? EB: Yes (the atmosphere of high peaks). AS: Yes, but with some confusion. T: Yes, with respect.

Huysmans? EB: Yes, trying to win him over. AS: Yes, hoping he would stay a long time. T: Yes, out of curiosity.

Lenin? EB: Yes (a human breach). AS: Yes, respectfully. T: Yes, I would be very pleased to see him.

Mallarme? EB: Yes, but distantly. AS: No, too glacial. T: No, I'm not ready to go to sleep.

Marx? EB: Yes, but silently. AS: No, we would be bored together. T: Yes, in the friendliest way.

Nerval? EB: Yes, but slowly. AS: Yes, after some hesitation. T: Yes, I hope to be able to stroll through Paris with him.

Novalis? EB: Yes, as in a dream. AS: Yes (night's great Emperor Moth). T: Yes, to enter into his strange light.

DeQuincey? EB: Yes, from elective affinities. AS: Yes, with my heart beating. T: Yes, to dream with him.

Henri Rousseau? EB: Yes, with love. AS: Yes, an intimate friend. T: Yes, with admiration.

Seurat? EB: Yes (rigor and charm). AS: Yes, as with a bird tapping at the window.

Van Gogh? EB: Yes, bounding toward the fire. AS: Yes (the sun). T: Yes, but with a fear of fatigue.

Verlaine? EB: No (too Jesuitical. AS: No, too weepy. T: No, he's had too much to drink.

"Distances from nebula to nebula"

WELL THEN!

From Collected Works of Paul Valery, Volume 15: Moi (edited by Jackson Mathews)

OOOF!

I found myself hopping through the cosmos today . . . by which I mean to imply that this “nebula to nebula” happened to coincide with another cosmos: an encounter with two cosmonauts dressed as characters in a projected novel. Paul Valery’s spirit hovers near the threshold of what is to follow, namely, a strange intersection between writers I love, an intersection based on a guess or an excessively-close reading on my part.

Yes. Earlier this year, I wrote a bit about Witold Gombrowicz while admiring Matthew Zapruder’s “Poem for Witold Gombrowicz”— and then spiraling into my Bruno Schulz obsession. Tonight, at 10:41 PM, I find myself mentioning Witold again. He seems to enjoy this sort of thing: bursting onto the page and being a source of consternation to his audience.

While reading Paul Zweig's Three Journeys: An Automythology, I think the aforementioned figure did it again. Like any mammal whose middle school teachers labeled “a little too sensitive,” I paused and re-read the section before finally picking up a pen to mark the spot in the second journey where I recognized Gombrowicz. Even though Zweig doesn't name him, it sounds like Gombrowicz: I recognize his silhouette in the pessimism that permits absurdity, though Zweig actually credits him with something more interesting.

In the interest of literature and not-sleeping, I will share my possible misreading here by excerpting some chunks (see the end for a lengthier PDF of this section should thee like a copy), and also noting that all italics belong to yours truly:

SIX YEARS LATER, sunk in a deep chair in the salon of the Abbaye of Royaumont near Paris, he would listen to the asthmatic breathing of an older man whose face he could hardly see. For minutes they had faced each other without talking. It was not his place to speak first, for the man, with cruel irony, had let him know that, as a mere boy, he possessed an attribute which the man loathed but was drawn to nonetheless, as to a vice and a humiliation: it was youth, which the older man, a great Polish novelist, had described provocatively as a sort of original sin which time and pain alone absolved, time and pain being one and the same.

The novelist seemed to be thinking the breath into and out of his lungs, trying to catch the discordant inner music which would mark the final cure of what the other day he had called, with something like self-hatred in his voice, the only antidote for youth.

From the first, he had been fascinated by a leathery, boyish quality in the novelist's face. They had taken long walks together in the park of the Abbaye. They had talked about narcissism and philosophy, above all they had talked about youth. The paradox of the novelist's cynicism was that, in a way, youth had been his only homeland for almost thirty years, during which time he had lived obscurely in South America, his only human connection being to groups of adolescent boys which he seemed to attract, becoming their elder guide and counselor, as he would say, their pied piper to nowhere. His pleasure, he said, had nor been to debauch the boys—bleak lines in the man's face made this believable— but to inject an element of vice into their simplest thoughts and feelings, so that even the most ordinary acts would come to seem, and would become, transgressions.

"I will tell you what I think of you," he said, breaking the silence, "and then, when I am finished, you will tell me what you think of me."

Immobilized by the novelist's passionate cynicism, and by a quality which he sensed, although he was far as yet from understanding Immobilized by the novelist's passionate cynicism, and by a quality which he sensed, although he was far as yet from understanding it, his vulnerability, he listened, as the man began to speak: "My impression, first of all, is that you speak French too well. Even the muscles in your face seem French, and the way you use certain words, 'alienation,' for example, when you mean unhappiness. Yet unhappiness is an ancient, lovely word. It has a patina which comes from many mouths forming themselves around it. God and the devil are enclosed in the word unhappiness. But as a French intellectual you say, 'alienation,' and you feel the march of history at your side. You imagine Karl Marx approving of your ingenuity in finding this new use for a word which was so much more limited in his time.

"I will tell you what I think: this Frenchness of yours is an impersonation caused by fear. You are afraid of being ridiculous. Have you noticed how childish foreigners always seem? When you hear them fumbling for words as I am doing now, or peering from under their eyelids to see how one peels an orange in this country, you can't help wondering if they're not a little stupid. By impersonating a French existence, you conceal your clumsiness from everyone as well as the fact that you feel a little blue most of the time, as if you were looking at people through a glass pane. When a smile or a caress is directed toward you, it stops short by the thickness of a skin, because you're a foreigner. Is it possible that you left America because you were a foreigner even there, and weren't ready to find it out yet?

"You're not so young that this innocence should be permitted you any more, therefore you ought to remember what I'm saying. a Polish Catholic as you know. I am also an anti-Semite. You smile, because you don't believe that an intelligent person can be an anti-Semite. Nonetheless, it's true, so you may consider that I'm telling you this through malice; that I'm simply trying to put some scratches on the pane in front of your face. Well, that may be true too. It is hard to see you, because the room is so dark. But even in daylight one doesn't see you very well. If I ignore the impersonation which, by the way, is more artistic than you know, and actually quite unusual, if I disregard it, I see a graceful boy slipping away, but glancing over his shoulder, coquettishly, as if he wanted to be found out.

"In my opinion, you're a wandering Jew, someone who is forbidden to have a home. No power forces him to move on, but the law is applied from within. His existence therefore is bitter. But don't forget, God is a wanderer too. That is why He appears mainly to wanderers, because wanderers exist principally among abstractions. They have given up so much that they have become light and unstable, like winged seedlings never touching the earth.

By the time the novelist stopped, the afterglow of the stained-glass windows had dulled into opaque strips of night. Again the two sat without speaking. During this pause, must we imagine the boy pensive and mute? At the novelist's prompting, if only for a moment, has he glimpsed the vitreous pour of his inner existence? Has he felt the stir of massive roots fishing for moisture in the parched underground, and the vertical pressure of sunlight crushing all movement but that of the wind which gnaws, sucks, and grinds without end? We must not. As yet only nameless hints had reached him of that portion of his destiny which would be compressed into the arc between Saint Anthony and the Beni Hillal, between the Thebiade and the voluminous quiet of the Tanezrouft. To tell the truth, he wasn't thinking at all. He was waiting, and he was intimidated. It embarrassed him that this famous person should consider him, vacant and speechless, not entirely at any given moment a presence, a sufficient subject of interest. It made him doubt ever so slightly the incisiveness of the man's genius. He was, one might say, disappointed.

Happily, the tinkle of the dinner bell enabled him to escape his half of the bargain, for he had no idea how to go about telling the Polish novelist what he thought of him.

With the detachment which characterized so much of his personal thinking, he was aware of how literary their conversation had been. As extraordinary as it may seem, the old man had fashioned the scene in the salon after a scene in one of his own novels. In the novel, however, the words had been more savage. The accents of cynicism and disdain had been sharper. The boy in the novel had been a malleable material, his self-awareness had been cushioned by his smooth and supple body. In the novel, too, he had been bored by the old man's abstractions, but he had also felt sorry for him, as if he had guessed that the novelist's disdain for youth was a form of love, was, in fact, an elegy.

As he walked down the broad wooden staircase and headed for the rectangle of light which marked the open door into the dining room, he was filled with a feeling of exaltation. He began, inexplicably, to giggle, and then to laugh out loud, despite all his efforts to hold back.

He turned and walked outside into the park under the bulky shadow of the linden trees. There too he giggled uncontrollably. He felt a mysterious elation, as if a wish he could no longer remember having made had been fulfilled against all expectation, and almost inconveniently. Long after the giggles subsided, a feeling of inner certainty approaching self-confidence remained, combined with an undercurrent of surprise. What surprises most of all in a person who had once made a proclamation of complete inner limpidity was his failure to remember the "wish," so to speak, or to grasp (it kept eluding him) the nature of the fulfillment.

And yet it was simple. It was, one might say, childishly simple. He was simply flattered to the point of giggles at the thought that a novelist might fashion a scene out of his life; that a common sure existed, however fleetingly, between a "character" in a book, and the peculiar bundle of existences which he was. In the dark of his psyche echoed the long-forgotten plaint: 'How can I be a writer when I don't have any biography?'

And here, in the old man's novel, even if only at second hand, was a biography. Here was the idea—it was really too much to encompass—that he too, from a certain point of view, might be a "character."

At this point, Gombrowicz’s novel sauntered into my head… and now I leave it to you to guess which novel I suspect Zweig was referencing.

Nevertheless, guess or no guess, several pages later, Zweig returns to this mythical moment while comparing the Polish novelist to a painting by Hieronymus Bosch, and to the queer heavens that seem to taunt us:

Maybe such heavens are not meant to be had at all, but precisely to be longed for. In longing, their mineral clarity is softened by something human, something which comes from us: a blending of fulfillment and elegy, of having (like water after a long thirst) and remoteness (like the liquid flow of the mirage), of self-abandonment and awareness of loss. Maybe this blend is the state of mind we associate with art. When we read a book or contemplate a painting; when, taking a walk, we become estheti-cally aware of nature's profusion, or of the patina on old buildings or, even more acutely, of objects which a moment before seemed ugly: a subway platform, newspapers blowing against a house; at such moments we are turning our eyes toward heaven and, simultaneously, sharpening our awareness of loss.

What the Polish novelist had offered him that evening at Royaumont (a "biography") was the possibility that one day he might become a poet. From his laughter under the linden trees would come a perception of bright shapes softened by distance, darkened by longing. These would be the images of poems; rather, they would be the medium the images were plunged in, through which they swam and reached their destination, their meaning. His "style" as a writer and as a man would be rooted in a soil composed of his laughter and the pitch black dome of the linden trees.

If anyone has knowledge about whether this is based on Gombrowicz — I say ‘knowledge’ to maintain a qualitative distinction between facts and my late-night speculation— please let me know!

O! And that final mention of the dome of the linden trees reminded of Paul Celan and Jean Daive strolling beneath the domes of Paris in the elsewhere of a different book, although perhaps in a similar tender timbre.

ZUT ALORS!

Reading has eaten my life, and colonized my nebulae and nebul-eye! But, as promised, voici le PDF of the longer excerpt from Zweig’s “Polish novelist” scene.

Buried with his fermata.

THE COMPOSER

The truth—like air and sun— costs nothing. It lends itself to an infinite number of compositions of equal likelihood. And this is how what was is indistinguishable from what might have been.

—- Paul Valery, "Remarks About Myself"

This is the gravestone of Soviet-German composer Alfred Schnittke (1934 - 1998), located in the famous repository of Russian artists, namely, Novodevichy Cemetery.

Sculptor Alexander Rukavishnikov created the gravestone itself (as well as the monument to Schnittke in Moscow), but the design for the gravestone came from one of the composer’s close friends, fellow composer and collaborator Sofia Gubaidulina. Irony, humor, passion, personality: these were the qualities Gubaidulina hoped to reflect in her tribute. She reached into musical notation itself, and selected markings indicate both silence and sound, life and death, eternity and temporality. 

As she described the design:

“On top of the stone, there is musical staff with a semibreve (the center bar) indicating a rest or pause in the music. The fermata (the half circle + dot at the top) indicates to hold the note (in this case the rest) as long as desired. The note should then be performed fortississimo (the three f's at the bottom), meaning it should be performed extremely loudly/strongly. So it's essentially an extremely loud/strong silence (rest) to be held as long as desired.”

THE MUSIC

I set down a beautiful chord on paper, and suddenly it rusts.

— Alfred Schnittke

Although influenced by the compositions of Shostakovich (who has been on my mind quite a bit since hearing his 10th performed recently), Schnittke’s music is sharper, a bit bleak, tighter at the throat somehow, like a vase with a very thin throat. One feels the inhibitions and limitations of space when listening to him. This intensified concentration of sound in Schnittke shows up in this arrangement of a piece from The Fairytale of Wanderings, which has been in my head often during the past week (and which I shared below).

Among the pieces by Alfred Schnittke that haunt me, or prefigure particular resonances:

“Declaration of Love” from The Fairytale of Wanderings

“Psalm 8” from Psalms of Repentance
performed by Tõnu Kaljuste and Swedish Radio Choir

“IV. Senza Tempo” from 5 Aphorisms for Piano
performed by Anna Gourari

Concerto Grosso no. 2
performed by Gennady Rozhdestvensky, USSR Ministry of Culture Symphony Orchestra, Oleg Kagan, Natalia Gutman

A Paganini
performed by Gidon Kremer

Agony Suite from Elem Klimov’s film, "Agony"

“III. The Faces, The Flights, Pyramids” from The Glass Harmonica Suite
arranged by F. Strobel

The final piece on this list is from “The Glass Harmonica Suite,” which Schnittke composed for The Glass Harmonica (1968), a short, animated film directed by Andrey Khrzhanovskiy. It sticks in my mind for the harrowing pitch that the strings interpose against the piano and percussion: you can almost hear the strings corkscew and swirl into a mad series of spirals. By the eighth minute, a chilling sensation of suspense and dread appears when the brass announces itself; one recognizes the dread had been building, simmering, waiting for release.

Alfred Schnittke considered his Ninth Symphony to be a work apart and completely dissimilar to his preceding symphonies. As Irina Schnittke expressed it, he wrote this symphony as it were ‘for his departure’.

— Alexander Raskatov, as quoted by William C. White

Alfred Schnittke, Autograph manuscript graphic score signed for Cantus perpetuus for keyboard, solo percussion and four percussionists, 1973/75—- with colored pencils on 18-stave paper

I found the graphic score for Cantus perpetuus at an auction site which claims that “this is the only written form for the work, and is intentionally open to differing interpretations by the performers.” Schnittke’s Cantus perpetuus was first performed in Moscow on 14 December 1975, “a performance which Schnittke himself regarded as definitive.” Additional notes translate the Russian color key to note “central rhombic figure with internal crossing lines also in five colors; a key in Russian at upper left noting that the red, green, blue and yellow lines represent 'polyphony', 'melody', 'rhythm' and 'harmony'.”

More rabbit-holes for those who are interested . . . the secret art of dedications in Schnittke’s compositions . . . more of the (rather brilliant) music Schnittke composed for films in order to support himself in the Soviet Union . . . excerpts from interviews and media (he mentions aleatory methods at the end) . . . a different view of Schnittke’s gravestone that is made of the same black stone as the fermata but has a large crucifix in the center?

A collage formed from lines of readings this week.

 

Eighty-two-year-old Pauline tortures herself over the selection of classical music in “Radio Station WISS.”

We only fight for our ideal, which ought to be everyone's ideal: free people on free land.

Where is love in Oarystis?

Urbanism is the ideological gridding and control of individuals and society by an economic system that exploits man and Earth and transforms life into a commodity.

We demand everything.

When your brain breaks, so does your future and your past.

A telephone is convenient, but sometimes it must be destroyed.

“I will repeat it in every way” wrote Georges Bataille, “the world is livable only under the condition that nothing be respected within it.”

My own radicality absolves me from any label.

I have always been fascinated by the long journey Hölderlin undertook following his break-up with Diotima.

Communard women who were rumored (probably falsely) to have burned down many Parisian buildings during the final days of the Commune by throwing bottles of petroleum.

And I remember that my wife was once a stranger.

If this question refers to the function of employees in the reigning spectacle, it is obvious that the number of jobs to be had there expands as the spectacle does.

If one is to believe power's fairy-tales, Jupiter and Jesus experienced fleshless couplings upon Olympus and Golgotha, and the pure abstraction of their celestial sexual satisfactions consoles us for having, here below in the valley, mere tears at pleasure cut short by production anxiety.

What is your favorite flower?

The idea that a party could constitute the “spearhead of the proletariat” reproduced in the proletariat the hierarchy that the denaturalising function of labour had established into the thinking brain – the “boss” – and the rest of the body.

DH Lawrence and Nietzsche both read Revelations as a fantastic revenge fantasy that bids people to sit and wait and bide their time as others laugh for they will be smited when the big ending comes.

Furthermore the poet Scutenaire said “There are things that one does not joke about. Not enough.”

Dante and Milton, hypothetically describing the infernal wastelands, proved that they were hyena of the first species. This proof is excellent. The result was bad. Their books didn't sell.

Rodin's Dante.

Through me the way into the suffering city,
Through me the way to the eternal pain,
Through me the way that runs among the lost.
Justice urged on my high artificer;
My Maker was Divine authority,
The highest Wisdom, and the primal Love.
Before me nothing but eternal things
Were made, and I endure eternally.
Abandon every hope, who enter here.

— DANTE, Inferno, 3.1–9

These are the lines Auguste Rodin supposedly chose to represent in his Dantean masterpiece, The Gates of Hell.

“For a whole year I lived with Dante, with him alone, drawing the eight circles of his inferno,” Rodin told Le Matin. “At the end of this year, I realized that while my drawing rendered my vision of Dante, they had become too remote from reality. So I started all over again, working from nature, with my models.”

The artist’s dream is officially realized with the stamp of a State commission in 1879, when the Under-Secretary for Fine Arts offered Auguste Rodin the opportunity to create a work for the public. Obsessed with his readings of Dante, Rodin asked for permission to create a doorway for the planned Museum of Decorative Arts, a threshold between interior and exterior based on the first section of Dante’s The Divine Comedy, from the Inferno.

For the next two decades, The Gate of Hell would consume Rodin’s thoughts and work. He missed the 1885 deadline for the commission. Even at his death, Rodin’s gate remained unfinished, its fragments scattered, quoted, reshaped into various sculptures and pieces that rest across the museums of the world.

The 186 figures and characters of The Gate of Hell never stop moving through fear, despair, erotic hunger, the lyric of horror and life.

Excruciating tenderness distinguishes my favorite detail from The Gate (pictured below).

— and the extraordinary hands, the way agony is carried in the curl in the fingers.

I remember sitting on the cold stone stairs outside a cathedral in Paris, smoking a cigarette and scribbling nonsense about Dante in my notebook. Who knows what became of those notes?

(Rodin published his cathedral-inspired sketches in Les Cathédrales de France in 1910.)

Rodin’s famous statue, The Thinker, was sourced from The Gate of Hell, where Rodin located him above the door panels, calling him “The Poet”, a god-like figure stationed at a central point, perched atop a rock looking down on the endless anguish of creation.

The Kiss also began as part of Rodin’s conception for the commission, intended to symbolize the pleasure prior to final damnation, but Rodin removed it, sensing something in that kiss that was alien to the suffering around it.

Other notable sculptures that first appeared in The Gates of Hell include: Ugolino and His Children (according to the story, Ugolino ate the corpses of his children after they died by starvation); The Three Shades, an over-life size group that originally pointed to the phrase “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here”; Fleeting Love, inspired by the story of Francesca da Rimini’s love affair with Paolo Malatesta, a medieval tale of adultery and murder; and Meditation, which appears on the rightmost part of the tympanum, later used for the celebrated Monument to Victor Hugo.

“Because of the complexity of art, or rather of the human souls who take art for a language, all classification runs the risk of being futile,” Rodin told Paul Gsell. Thus, “Rembrandt is often a sublime poet and Raphael often a vigorous realist.” But our efforts to “understand the masters” runs the risk of fetishizing the classification through we purport to know them. “Let us love them,” Rodin continues, “let us go to them for inspiration; but let us refrain from labelling them like drugs in a chemist’s shop.”

“[The artist] is, as Dante said of Virgil, ‘their guide, their master, and their friend,” Rodin told Paul Gsell.

"Imbiciles!"

“All hierarchy depends on the police.”

— Ratgeb

In June 1968, Raoul Vaneigem received a circular from the "Writers' Union" that inviting him to join them. In addition, they wanted to know if he wanted to "participate in the work of the professional commission (PC), the ideological commission (IC), or both," and if he would like to send thirty francs to his peer, Jean-Pierre Faye, a member of Tel Quel and founder of Change.

Vaneigem responded with the letter below, which was published under the title "Writers' Union" in the September 1969 issue of Internationale Situationniste #12:

I blame the absorbing intellectual histories of lettrism and situationism authored by Marcus Greil and McKenzie Wark for my recent explorations of Vaneigem—- whose books are difficult to procure, a reality that is slightly ameliorated by the availability of his work online— particularly, Contributions to The Revolutionary Struggle, Intended To Be Discussed, Corrected, And Principally, Put Into Practice Without Delay, which is also titled:

Behold the society we will build. Behold the reason that we seek your destruction.
Contributions to The Revolutionary Struggle,Intended To Be Discussed, Corrected, And Principally, Put Into Practice Without Delay
— Ratgeb (Raoul Vaneigem)

Whether authored by Ratgeb or Raoul, there is a line that sticks in my head at the present political moment, namely, “The best guarantee against any other (and, of necessity) oppressive power (i.e. parties, unions, hierarchical organizations, groups of intellectuals or of activists... all of them embryonic states) is the prompt construction of radically new living conditions.”

And so it begins...

The writer lights a candle lays a remaining fragment from Niobe by Aeschylus near its wick:

Alone of gods, Death has no use for gifts 
Libations don't help you, nor does sacrifice
He has no altar, and hears no hymns;
He is not amenable to persuasion.

The writer stares at the clock and checks herself for ticks.

The writer thinks about vampires and roadmaps and something Dimitris Lyacos once said in an interview: “The totality of our texts are mutually meta-fictional. They always reflect themselves and each other, they are parts, or aggregates, of other textual fields, and you have to cross those fields in order to get where you want to go.”

The writer presses PLAY.

All of this is just to say: Slicing up eyeballs I want you to know | | | I will be in Los Angeles for the anti-reading later this month, and likely doing a few book signings as well— which may appear on the trusty web calendar if I remember to update it. | | | I will be at the NOLA Poetry Festival in April and celebrate another year around the sun while I am there, which may or may not involve reading in a water fountain or a tree or ruinscape. | | | I will also be in NYC for almost a week at the end of April, where I get to read with some of my favorite humans and also possibly fork about and maybe read elsewhere as well. I don’t know enough about fountains and trees in NYC but there are some divine, rinky-dinky swan-shaped boats in Prospect Park that caught my eye as a wonderful locus for Swann-songs last time I visited and perhaps something will come of this. | | | On May 8th, in Birmingham, Alabama, I will be involved in officially launching My Heresies from a safe and well-loved indie bookstore aptly named Thank You Books, and located less than five miles away from home, which may or may not end with an after-party elsewhere. | | | If you would like for me to be somewhere, whether in the air, on a screen, or in a city, just send me an email at myheresies at gmail. It’s an honor to be emailed, read, considered, and imagined into existence by the reader. More on the book, itself, soon. Sarabande is currently hiring for a few positions, so thank you to everyone for their patience and here is a tiny skeleton, and my abundant gratitude to all who preorder this creature. For best or worse, til death or the book do us part.