The photos shimmer out their own blackness, framing day for night for day for the night of history overlaying these ordinary American scenes made sinister by the glimmering overlay of darkness visible. Lake Erie wears an ominous mask of trees and fronds, framing unknowable waters; white picket fences like gleaming rows of teeth smile out the boundaries of shadowed houses and farms. No faces, no bodies visible, save for the dim reflections of museumgoers, my own outline pricked out by the negative space of Bey’s American selfie, in which the best of us lies concealed, conducting a freedom nobody earns.
More bitter than sweet, more than a hint of the reality hunger characterizing other recent forays (Lisa Halliday’s Asymmetry, Rachel Cusk’s Outline trilogy) into the meta-literary: novels about novels, novels about what novels have become in the age of their diminishing clout, a diminishment tuned to diminished whiteness and maleness, a canny examination of what is left to fiction of authenticity in the form of Apollo, the Apollonian Great Dane at the heart of Nunez’s darkly funny negotiation of the razor’s edge between cynicism and sentimentality. Pull down thy vanity, dear dead author, and take your dog for a walk.
It begins in Montreux. Sculptural, possessed by a stillness that can’t quite conceal the intensity of the vibration deep within, bowed beside the piano, the swan of her. Later, dressed in white, that uncanny dance, snake or swan, wild with knowing. That dance, that voice, that face. The hands flying not over but into the piano keyboard, piloting time and space. Mad America hurt Eunice into Nina as her husband hurt her, as madness, as she hurt her daughter and herself. We say: we have the music, she had that, martyr-song, young gifted and. My baby just cares for. Still.
An inspector calls: intrepid eyebright Paul Celan stalks Herr Doktor Heidegger to his Hütte on the mountain named for death, where gnomically they rehash their lives. Celan presses the question, Heidegger evades him, falling back into steamy memories of Hannah Arendt and her green dress. All the actors are English and have English accents save Heidegger, played by the great Joss Ackland, man of White Mischief, who rolls his South African growl into the jocular menace of a German master. The play captures little or nothing of the poet’s anguish or his poetry, but consider the possibilities: Paul Celan, P.I.
Stagger the line between loneliness and sociability—back in Louisville, Ali’s town, prince of the Southern Rust Belt, for my turn in the bourbon barrel, hunched in streets or stretched between the interstate and the partial-brick purgatory of the Humanities building. In cinderblock classrooms casual brilliance on display, nearly spontaneous Festschriften in which the author is present, head bowed, smiling; or else dead, enigmatic, rescued (Jack Sharpless thy lovely lines). Snug with poets on hotel couches or encircling a table at that goddamn Persian place, hovering over the groaning board of dear Alan Golding’s, reading out poems and each other.
How did I fail you, how didn’t I fail you? Life accelerates and pulls away, redshifting friendship, car taillights burning out of sight. Fell into fatherhood then my own father fell. Entangled in webs of illness and loneliness, the call every half-year became too much or not enough. Unanswered texts, emails, my calls unreturned. There used to be more of you—still you move in the world. Others read you, speak of you, as the intimate thread stretches and slims without ever entirely snapping. Unfriended hollowed-out shape in my chest—you, the wound, so lovely a man—I hope, unhealed.
Is our journey westward back or forth? Swoon, Gabriel, swoon in tragic misapprehension of your wife’s nether regions, planting a pliant face there, while her heart and eyes fill with sentiment for the young man that’s dead. Screwed together upon the scaffold erected for us by the Misses Morkan whose name means in Danish darkness and in Welsh the sea. Chastened foolish Gabriel Conroy dreams his way to dissolution like us all—be it death or regeneration or a bit may be of both. “The Lass of Aughrim” grims its way through Gretta’s dreaming mind, tenor-born. That man could sing.
Ten degrees whirls eddies of shivery air over the black-and-white tile floor, curling around everybody’s ankles, mirroring the steam curling from the tops of lattes. A dozen years gone and the same green painting of the old man smiling down at us, same bearded barista serving up banter, same Brian, same John. Under the old man old men gather at their usual table with biographies and newspapers, talking through the times. The giveaway shelf: thrillers, Twilight, Arthur C. Clarke, Retire Rich! and Pamuk’s Snow. Heat climbs down the ceramic mug of my coffee-for-here. Voices fly to the ceiling. Stay warm.
Parties are what elude us, what join and separate the many bodies of Machado’s title, the procedural bodies, the queer bodies, the mother-bodies, all the violent and violated women stalked by Law & Order’s silver hammer, talking back now as they love and vanish and erupt in mysterious blemishes and fall, photographed as if dead, never more or less than alive. Strike through the mask of first-person, convulse into the scarred beauty of these sentences, lean into these pregnant words: pops, grapefruit, bottle, blades. Sick and scared with eros, entranced into dalliance, making love in the world they never made.
It’s the dialogical spirit of pluralism as embodied by a green-skirted Arendt versus the unitary monoculture of Being as represented by the Magus of Messkirch, from whom Hannah makes the most equivocal of her escapes. A slangy, nearly sexy Walter Benjamin steals the show with his life and death, while Krimstein’s pencil wavers between cartoony verisimilitude and something blankly visionary, as asterisked references pile up the wreckage of proper names for the benefit of readers insensible of their loss. No one’s fool, Heidegger’s femme fatale slips out of Dichtung into history with the key to all ideologies in her pocket.
What’s duller than two teams you don’t care about punting their way ingloriously for three hours while we put away nachos and Buffalo wings? Duller than a boy band past its sell-by date, duller than the edge of Outkast’s less interesting half puffed up in your great-aunt’s piss-yellow furs? At least we’ll always have Jørgen Leth’s Andy Warhol choking down a burger in blank silence, wondering why no one thought to provide him something to drink; we’ll always have ads for spectacle, ads for advertising, ads for no particular product but consumerism itself. Rally the team scorelessly. Go to bed.
Two corporate options on one block, the dreary mall snip-shop and the annoying hipster hotspot. The latter gets me a nervous noseringed woman for whom this is the first day on the job. She handles the clippers all right but takes forever with the scissors, sending her hands fluttering up behind my head like little chirping birds. A tattooed manager gripes about the radio: “I’m not having this remix.” My barber gets help for the beard from a bearded colleague and the two of them stare down the problem, looking at me but not at me. Half-price hair looks: okay.
I read it over my mother’s shoulder, or she mine—year upon year watching her read Christies in black hardcover with a little silver skull on the spine, curled into herself, cozy in this case with Poirot and his preposterous traveling den of vipers and coincidences, trapped between snowdrifts in the mountains of Eastern Europe, a vessel for dubious nostalgias—for Europe itself, for colonialism, for violence refined on this paperback’s cover to the degree of lamp, menu, lilies, plate, and knife. The solution matters less than our readerly sadism in the name of a justice that strips everyone bare.
For a long time I used to read without finishing the labyrinthine chain of labyrinthine sentences spiraling in and around and through Marcel’s innumerable false starts through aristocracy and eroticism and art—sinuous syntax the ontology of which imposes a simultaneity of selves each jostling for the prize of the present moment which eludes them every time; meantime we are all of us getting older and less recognizable to ourselves and the thirty-six chambers of childhood are receding ever further and farther yet liable until the very last page to be revived in the flesh, giving us back the world.
Fat flabby tongue of arctic air comes drooping down from the overheated north, displaced onto big shoulders putting my neighborhood on lockdown. Sirens throughout the day. Elegant frost patinas crawl up and down storm windows. Radiators knocking everybody’s home. Go for a walk to the lakeshore with a scarf over my face and too-thin jeans in prismatic sunshine, wind pushing me backwards, down to where a million snakes of smoke curl up from the simmering black broth of Lake Michigan giving up its stored heat a little at a time. Pretend it’s winter normal, hike home with legs on fire.
Can poetry compete with the Internet? Why try, drones Davis: “Click here to watch / a video of otters / floating, holding hands.” But he who once lived by flarf need not die by flarf, as the poems’ self-undermining snark gets inflected by a belated compassion traveling in the wake of ideologically poisoned heteroglossia (vis-à-vis “New Words 1939-1945”), on brightest display in plainspoken translations from the Turkish in “My Orhan Veli”: “When the sea tears / who do they get to sew it up? / Yours truly.” My twin the moral mosaic poet wears his Baudelairean borscht-belt halo with flair.
Doesn’t seem quite fair: the gloriously naïve narration in particles and sentence fragments mimicking the overlap of thought and speech of an 18-year-old Irishwoman and would-be actress come to early-90s London, who doesn’t just fall for an older man but yields up every last ounce of power to him—not the affectingly rendered power of sheer youth or the convincing presentation of the sexual act on both sides of the skin, but to a tired abuse narrative wielded by a narcissist with a bad mommy, healed however by the love of a good woman in prose unbegrudging and utterly uncliched.
Middle sister has a problem named Milkman: an IRA terrorist accosts her where she walks reading nineteenth-century novels on the street, striking a dark chord on the web of implication that entangles every member of her violently hyperpoliticized community lacking proper names. She’s passive every which way except for the strings of syntax that she unfolds into an enraging and beguiling narrative of which paranoia proves to be the best available interpreter. If this novel were a woman, and it is, it would tell its reader: this is what it’s like to be objectified and sustained by abjection’s dark laughter.
We begin with an opaque gray surface gone translucent with water, slicking a new pane of vision onto the parking slabs, through which we get a glimpse of the black-and-white sky with a jet streaming across it. We end with the almost-silent heroine climbing an exterior set of stairs up into that same sky, with likely the same jet marking the limits of the quasi-Proustian transcendence Cuarón imposes on this fantasia of his 1970s childhood in Mexico City, a politically vapid elegy for the lost kingship of the middle class. Only our heroine’s face, indigenous and all-absorptive, is no replica.
[These notes are circa 2014, the crucible of my Hannah Arendt book.]
Arendt as a means of inserting ethics into process ontology, or at least putting ethics into fruitful relation with same.
A renewed theory of the subject. Delusions of Greenness in the Avant-Garde: diminishing the subject is not the means to a green politics.
Forgiveness and the passage of love.
David Macaluey, ed. Minding Nature: The Philosophers of Ecology (Guilford Press, 1996), including his own essay, “Hannah Arendt and the Politics of Place: From Earth Alienation to Oikos” (pp. 102-133).
The earth vs. world distinction is from Heidegger, of course, and not original with Arendt; but where H. questions the authenticity of the modern world as it emerges from/enframes the earth, Arendt celebrates the public world and warns against its degradation without, so far as I can tell, much reference to the dangers presented to the world by the “conquest of nature”—a conquest that only fitfully enters politics and is much more the overwhelming program of “the social” and of capitalism.
Arendt in Macauley’s account a theorist of globalization (though he does not use this word) by which the world, in presenting itself for the first time as a totality (first through the discovery of America, later by discovery of the universe), causes distance to disappear. (What is far away appears closest to us in our media feeds, no? While our experience of “the local,” because unmediated, becomes wavery and insubstantial.)
One Arendtian insight that anticipates Latour, et al, is the political dimension of scientific organization—she points out that the Royal Society’s injunction not to take political stands may be the origin of the ethos of scientific objectivity, while at the same time noting that “where men organize they intend to act and to acquire power” (Human Condition 271 n. 26, my emphasis). “No scientific teamwork is pure science, whether its aim is to act upon society and secure its members a certain position within it or—as was and still is to a large extent the case of organized research in the natural sciences—to act together and in concert in order to conquer nature” (ibid, my emphasis). Interesting that there’s no distinction made here between political power and power over nature—both have their roots in our “age of organisation. Organised thought is the basis of organised action” (this is Arendt quoting Whitehead, The Aims of Education 106-7).
Acting into nature is Arendt’s phrase—and action is always political.
Scientific knowledge comes from action, not contemplation (Arendt 290); we intervene in nature rather than contemplate it. This of course harmonizes with the fundamental 20th century insight of Heisenberg/Bohr.
In footnote 8, Macauley notes that it is Descartes' “wandering (aberrare)” that “places him securely in the world,” as opposed to anchoring in the earthly (the cogito doubts the earth of the senses and places the thinker into the universe). This resonates with Whitehead’s affirmation that “Modern science has imposed on humanity the necessity for wandering… It is the business of the future to be dangerous” (SMW 207-8).
David Abram, “Merleau-Ponty and the Voice of the Earth,” also in Macauley. A crucial and interesting point from Macaluey’s fn. 10: “we live not on the earth as we are wont to think, but within it, since the earth includes the heavens (or sky and atmosphere) as well as the soil and the sea, a point brought out by the Gaia hypothesis and suggested in Merleau-Ponty’s later writings” (127). This is highly suggestive both in terms of climate disruption and Heidegger’s fourfold.
A cite of Arendt on the “alien” from Origins of Totalitarianism suggests a curious connection between otherness and necessity as that which human beings hate and fear: “the ‘alien’ is ‘a frightening symbol of the fact of difference as such, of individuality as such, and indicates those realms in which men cannot change and cannot act and in which, therefore, he has a distinct tendency to destroy’” (quoted in Macauley 107).
Alienation may be a bad thing, but is wandering? Is “rootedness” always to be valorized? We are dangerously close to Blut und Boden, no? Something in me always rises up in protest against this ecological argument. Part of me affirms science, affirms space travel, resists “the surly bonds of earth,” etc. Put another way, with Whitehead I wish to affirm adventure. (Another word for action in its inherent unpredictability.)
Macauley asserts that Arendt rejects Heidegger’s mythic earth in favor of earth as “planet,” and points out that the Greek planetes means “to wander” (108). The difficulty here is in recognizing the earth’s alienation without homogenizing it, “failing to provide an alternative conception which accounts for geographic difference and the uniqueness of living in particular places.” (Might this not be a task for poetry? It seems very difficult for philosophers such as Arendt and Whitehead not to homogenize and generalize—in fact, providing fresh generalizations is the entire point of philosophy, according to Whitehead.)
Misread “the infinitization of the universe” as “the infantalization of the universe.”
It’s hard to disagree with Macauley on, for example, the depredations of the automobile, but I dislike the Puritanical tone.
Macauley: “it is surprising how rarely she acknowledges her debt to” Heidegger (110). Not really: he is the philosophical planet whose gravity slingshots her onto her own political path.
Phenomenology and ecology—the combination gets mystical and “deep” pretty quickly. At this stage, I think the conflation of the two is ripe for critique. One of the reasons Arendt interests me is because she asserts the primacy of the world over the earth, while acknowledging the former’s dependence upon the latter. The argument to be extrapolated from Arendt, perhaps, is that the latter is now as dependent on the former—the earth can only be saved by the world, and by becoming part of the world, rather than functioning as the withdrawn ground of the world. This requires that the earth be represented in politics. I suppose I’m back to Latour and his “parliament of things.” (Arendt + Whitehead = Latour?)
Whitehead’s thought is not, after all, earth-bound, in spite of his instinctive sympathy for Wordsworth and Shelley. His ontology is just that: a universal theory of the universe.
Macauley is beginning to irritate me, but I can get on board with this: “Arendt is aware [of misuses of the term “natural”] and does not seek false homes, roots, or grounds, but attempts to think without the security of firm foundations” (116). Macauley mentions at the start of his essay but does not much mention Arendt’s own history as a displaced person and Jew here.
“Worldlessness” and “world alienation” are of course more central to Arendt’s thought than earth alienation, and much closer to her own historical experience.
Agriculture as “between earth and world,” the point of transition or metabolism “from the biological cycle to the human artifice” (116). But for Macauley it seems agriculture is a disaster and a violence.
Connection between what Arendt sees as the withdrawal of the stable and permanent human world and the Anthropocene, which puts the human/nonhuman boundary under erasure? The mutual absorption of technology and climate exposes us to the violence inherent in both.
Macaluey criticizes Arendt’s characterization of nature as the realm of necessity and her condoning artifice-as-violence against nature as the means of guaranteeing human freedom. He says she shows no sense of nature as free or spontaneous—“Contrary to Arendt’s claims, nature has been a source of freedom, value, and even objectivity” in the writing of Bookchin, Whitehead, and others (120). It’s true that Arendt’s thought wouldn’t seem to leave much of an opening for anarchism, which is the political movement most friendly to, and which imitates and participates, ecology.
Macauley: “The rift between necessity and freedom is of the same kind as the stultifying dualism which has been established between, for example, ‘objective’ and ‘subjective’ and which has been challenged only rarely with depth and creativity by thinkers in the critical utopian tradition, such as Charles Fourier and Ernst Bloch” (120).
Arendt certainly makes no room for the freedom of the nonhuman or any sense of the nonhuman as a social actor (for sure) or a political actor (potentially). She has too much confidence in the “inexhaustible and indefatigable earth” to recognize that it needs a world, too.
One of Arendt’s broadest claims is that human freedom is always based on domination, either of a class of humans (slaves), or of nature; otherwise one is in the grip of “necessity” and lacks freedom. But is it correct to see ourselves as dominated by nature just because we are in mortal bodies? Macauley says we need to get beyond this dualistic thinking but doesn’t offer a clear direction how.
Arendt: “the world of machines has become a substitute for the real world,” a “pseudo world [that] cannot fulfill the most important task of the human artifice, which is to offer mortals a dwelling place more permanent and more stable than themselves” (152). This begs to be recast in the light of the Internet, which certainly casts an illusion of, if not stability and permanence, a kind of public life largely divorced from politics that can seem more “real” or more significant (as public) than an embodied life felt to be entirely privatized.
The “repetitiveness” of labor—well, what is our Net existence but laborious and repetitive? If one does not participate the “news feed,” one might as well not exist, publicly speaking.
A useful footnote of Macauley’s (75): “in contrast to earlier historical representations of nature, a postmodern view appears to conceive of nature in nonanalogical, informational terms” (italics original). Nature as data, DNA, etc.
Apparently there’s been some work using Arendt to read Gary Snyder.
Arendt would presumably object to ecology as an oikos-discourse—if it were another manifestation of the imperial “social,” an attack on the polis and public.
What to call those spaces in which both human-human and human-nonhuman contacts are frequent and facilitated? Macauley calls them “areas generally outside or between the oikos and the polis which are neither strictly public nor private, but which often ground, embed, or even enclose the agonistic and cooperative public spaces…. they are already complex and diverse locations which offer us more than ‘raw materials,’ ‘resources,’ or a res publica, even if they are by nature nonpolitical (though the disposition we have toward such places is often very political)” (125).
I’m not impressed with his trite dismissal of Arendt’s cosmopolitan values.
Arendt speaks of "the essential worldly futility of the life process" (131), meaning that labor/life cannot create a world, but also seeming to suggest that values cannot emerge from labor or life. Value is presumably connected to appearing (as in the value of the person) and requires a world in which to manifest itself--registering aesthetically.
Clearly, Arendt deplores utilitarianism and is nostalgic for a Greek ethic of excellence (arête) achieved through action.
"World" for Arendt seems to be the monkey wrench in process, halting or slowing the cycle of labor and consumption. I must see what Whitehead has to say about endurance and duration to see whether he agrees, or if for him world-building is part of the universal process but on the scale of human societies.
The world for Arendt is the shelter of life but is in essence its opposite: the world's "very permanence stands in direct contrast to life" (135).
The processual in Arendt appears in her commitment to the uncertainties of politics and also of thinking--a commitment to perplexity and a renunciation of the comforts of ideology.
Rob Halpern on Oppen. And Bob Baker.
Object Oriented OlsoN!
The tension between process ontology and ethics is mirrored by the tension between objectivist and symbolist poetics. The one bring us closer to the world, but at the expense of ethical stance and motive action. The other puts the human mind at the center and so suffers from a precipitous loss of reality.
My intuition that Blake's "Human Form Divine" and Arendt's freedom of "men" are not as anthropocentric as they appear, but are openings into a "human universe" whereby the nonhuman discloses itself as meaningful and "human.”
Arendt and Whitehead are united in their fundamental pluralism.
Put another way, the task is to recover worldliness (“the recovery of the public world”) through a poetics that reveals the complex interactions of human and earthly processes; a sense of freedom that is not opposed to necessity but collaborates with and modifies necessity.
Man needs humility, but much more than this he needs to act. Without supporting his action by delusion; he must act in full knowledge of the Copernican revolution (the ecological thought) which paradoxically, by decentering the human, makes the human more necessary than ever. To collaborate with the vitality of the nonhuman and to influence it in pluralistic directions (an “earth ethic,” to extend Aldo Leopold’s “land ethic”).
The margin of the margin. My interest in pastoral began with my fascination with the persistence of this marginal mode within the marginal art of poetry.
Centrality of Arendt in tension with the projectivist or objectivist relinquishing of the “Man of Power.” What is the politics of “achievement”? There’s a degree of Heidegger’s Gelassenheit here, and an ecological stance. But Arendt is certainly for pluralism in the political sphere, which might be viewed as a proto-political ecology.
Literary politics and public politics—Alcalay argues they are intermingled. The comportment of poets who choose to publish with small presses or who circulate letters rather than publish essays is in his view more meaningful and can have greater impact than those who work within existing outlets. His example: an essay on Israel that he could have published in the NY Times but instead sent as a letter to Creeley. (Where is that letter now? In from the warring factions maybe?)
History of the earth/human—>process—>becoming