Hazelnut

And this same tyme that I sawe this bodyly syght, oure Lorde schewyd me a gastelye sight of his hamly lovynge. I sawe that he es to us alle thynge that is goode and comfortabylle to oure helpe. He es oure clethynge, for loove wappes us and wyndes us, halses us and alle beteches, hynges aboute us for tendyr loove, that he maye nevere leve us. And so in this sight Y sawe sothelye that he ys alle thynge that ys goode, as to myne understandynge.

And in this he schewyd me a lytille thynge, the qwantyte of a haselle nutte, lyggande in the palme of my hande, and to my undyrstandynge that, it was as rownde as any balle. I lokede theropon and thought, ‘Whate maye this be?’ And I was aunswerde generaly thus, ‘It is alle that ys made.’ I merveylede how that it myght laste, for me thought it myght falle sodaynlye to nought for litille. And I was aunswerde in myne undyrstandynge, ‘It lastes and ever schalle, for God loves it; and so hath alle thynge the beynge thorowe the love of God.’ In this lytille thynge I sawe thre partyes. The fyrste is that God made it, the seconde ys that he loves it, the thyrde ys that God kepes it. Botte whate is that to me? Sothelye the makere, the lovere, the kepere. For to I am substancyallye aned to hym, I may nevere have love, reste, ne varray blysse; that is to saye that I be so festenede to hym that thare be ryght nought that is made betwyxe my God and me. And wha schalle do this dede? Sothlye hymselfe, be his mercye and his grace, for he has made me thereto and blysfullye restoryd.

— Julian of Norwich (tr. Spearing)

Instants

Man only escapes from the laws of this world in lightning flashes. Instants when everything stands still, instants of contemplation, of pure intuition, of mental void, of acceptance of the moral void. It is through such instants that he is capable of the supernatural.

Whoever endures a moment of the void either receives the supernatural bread or falls. It is a terrible risk, but one that must be run — even during the instant when hope fails. But we must not throw ourselves into it.

— Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace (tr. Crawford)

We pretend that our present system is democratic, yet the people never have the chance or the means to express their views on any problem of public life. Any issue that does not pertain to particular interests is abandoned to collective passions, which are systematically and officially inflamed.

― Simone Weil, ‘On the Abolition of All Political Parties’ (tr. Leys)

I do not need any hope

I do not need any hope or any promise to believe that God is rich in mercy. I know this wealth of his with the certainty of experience; I have touched it. What I know of it through actual contact is so far beyond my capacity of understanding and gratitude that even the promise of future bliss could add nothing to it for me; since for human intelligence the addition of two infinites is not an addition.

— Weil, letter, 1942 (tr. Craufurd)

These ontological miracles

I guess there are just two things I wanted to talk about besides language. One is the emphasis on being. Let’s just start with this: here we are, you and I, together. What brought us here now? The most fundamental preconditions for each of us to be here now are, first, that anything is at all, second, that such beings as human beings exist, and third, that each of us here actually exists and is in this room right here now. These ontological miracles are required for you and I to be here together. Existential thought and practice counsels us to remember and hold near the awareness that it need not be so, and that that it is so is the wonder of all wonders. I consider this one of the greatest strengths of existential psychotherapy in general, and Daseinsanalysis in particular, namely their steady gaze at the miracle of being at all.

Barbaric Genius

The holy

I wonder whether we will recognize it once more?

Hölderlin’s poetry is a destiny for us. It is waiting for the moment when the mortals will respond to it.

What does Hölderlin’s poetry say? Its crucial word is: the holy.

This word speaks about the flight of the gods. It says that the gods, who have fled, are saving us until we are inclined and able to dwell near them. This site is the proper place of being at home. Therefore, it remains necessary to prepare for the sojourn in this nearness.  Thus we take the first step on the path that leads us there, where we respond properly to the destiny that is Hölderlin’s poetry. In this way we arrive only at the place of the poetic word [Wortort] in which ‘the god of gods’ perhaps appears.

For on its own, no human calculation and design [Machen] can bring forth a turning [Wende] in the world’s present condition. Especially not because human design is already formed by this very condition of the world and has fallen prey to it. How then could it still gain control over it?

Hölderlin’s poetry holds a destiny for us. It is waiting for the moment when we mortals will respond to it. The response leads the way towards a coming near the place of the gods, who have fled; that means into the place of light, which saves us.

Yet, how should we recognize and remember all this? By listening to Hölderlin’s poetry.

[…]

The first guiding word reads:

‘Everything is intimately interrelated [innig].’

This means: One is intimately appropriated [vereignet] to the other, but in such a way that each thereby remains in its own proper domain: gods and men, earth and heaven. Intimate interrelatedness [Innigkeit] does not mean a merging and effacing of differences. Intimate interrelatedness means the belonging together of the unfamiliar, the sway of strangeness, and the claim of reserve [Scheu].

The second guiding word is a question:

‘How do I render thanks?’

Thanking is the awe-inspiring, reverential, accepting remembrance [Andenken] of what was granted, and it is only a sign pointing towards the vicinity of the fleeing gods, who are saving us.

The third guiding word is:

‘It can be perceived by a deep testing.’

The testing must have been performed ‘on one’s knees’. Wilfulness has to humble itself and disappear. Only one thing is incumbent on thought and meditation: to think ahead of poetry in order to give way to it. By listening repeatedly, we become better at listening. […]

  • Heidegger, letter, 1963, Zollikon Seminars: Protocols, Conversations, Letters (tr. Mayr and Askay)

Perish and rise up again

It is one of the clichés of our time that we all have our stories to tell. But Kafka tells us here that such stories are always self-serving, created by us to protect ourselves from reality and out of the desire to “shine” […] In “The Judgment” he tells a story about the nature of stories and dramatizes a ritual of exorcism. […] By so doing he saves both himself and storytelling. Instead of seeing the excessive gestures of his youth as ridiculous and shameful, he builds a drama out of excessive gestures: “For everything, for the strangest fancies, there waits a great fire in which they perish and rise up again.” (Recall the fire he felt he had to find within himself because it would never be provided by the world, not even by his family.) He has discovered that while words are far more recalcitrant than drawing, it is only in the art of words that narrative can be produced and can then turn against itself and uncover its corrupt origins and motivations. By so doing it reveals its beneficent and healing power: the power to speak the truth about our desires and the world of others. By writing stories that dramatize writing and the fantasies of the imagination and then dramatizing their destruction, he escapes the realm of fantasy, of solipsism, and finds at last that “description in which every word would be linked to my life, which I would draw to my heart and which would transport me out of myself” for which the early diaries show him so feverishly searching. Of course the healing lasts only as long as the moment of writing, and so has to be fought for and found afresh every day. But that is the path that has opened itself up to him.

Josipovici (via here)

Ballade vom preussischen Ikarus

The costume of time

Katharina is waiting for Hans in the Cafe Arkade. Strange, she thinks, that time, which is invisible, becomes indirectly visible in the guise of unhappiness. As though unhappiness were the costume of time. But at the same time, this unhappiness isn’t just a wrapping, it has its own interior, a creature that, once it’s born, follows its own roads and has its own time.

— Erpenbeck, Kairos (tr. Hofmann)