A Path In The Dark



I remember him (I have no right to utter this sacred verb, only one man on earth had that right and he is dead) with a dark passion flower in his hand, seeing it as no one has ever seen it, though he might look at it from the twilight of dawn till that evening, a whole lifetime.[1]


So opens Borges’ Funes the Memorious. Remembering, the recollecting narrator tells us, is a sacred verb, a holy word of transcendent action. And he tells us that he remembers the remembering one—Ireneo Funes: The sacralizer of memory—“with a dark passion flower in his hand, seeing it as no one has ever seen it.” It becomes clear later why this verb has become sacred, or why it always was and only awaited recollection, and why the remembering one saw what he saw in a way which “no one ever has”: He could reconstruct all of his dreams, half-dreams, any day of his life (though, of course, it required a day to do so), he could, in fact, recall any and all information to which he was exposed—he remembered all that he experienced. But this peerless gift was born of tragedy, and it exacted a soaring price. Before Funes became the memorious, he road out on a grey horse into the rain. He was, at that time, as all are, blind, deaf, addle-brained and absent-minded. Then he was thrown and changed. He became paralyzed in his body, but “freed” in his memory—no, more than freed, divine. But mortals, we learn, if we had forgotten, only increase their sorrow when they find or receive gifts intended for gods: While the memorious one was perfected in his memory, he had lost the capacity to think dynamically, to do anything interesting or creative with the god-like remembering of events which he possessed …which possessed him.

What does this fable evoke for us? As the recollecting narrator tells us, “To think is to forget differences, generalize, make abstractions.” If we were to find ourselves with perfect memory we would find ourselves paralyzed, living in quiet darkness (as Funes until his final death). To be fair, on one hand, we have a truth that all learning is recollecting,[2] but, on the other hand, perfect recollection restricts acting, it binds the living one, it is death. How is this negotiated? All people desire to know[3] (at least a little about a little) and all people desire to act, to respond. What, if our memory became such a curse, would be our escape? Forgetting? If so, would not our lives be some tragic absurdity? Like unto the fate (not the sin) of Sisyphus: Compelled to push and struggle towards release and completion only to discover ever over again that there is no perfected mediation, no crowning synthesis—ever only strife. Thankfully, the strife (and all that it births and bears) is occasionally forgotten or mollified through the sensuous and the sublime… unless, frighteningly, our senses lose (or forget) their way and the sublime slips up over the lintel, over heaven’s gate, and into the abyssal ether, becoming, like ancient memories, lost to us.

If we were to set aside the fabulous, but embrace by appropriation its message—that is, possibly, that an event (or events) could be so inscribed upon our memory that we were never free of them—how would we be able to act? To think? To forget differences? To generalize? To make abstractions? And, if we did find a way, how would such thinking and acting look? And these questions only become more dire if we are speaking of poets—those who take measure, who communicate joinings, who find nature, life, and events as they stand (not how they are overly set up and upon by forerunners and the uncurious). If poets are able to find and give away the truth that “The Universe is the externization of the soul,”[4] but by an indelible mark upon their memory their soul has no interest in Beauty, sees no connection to a driving Spirit, then upon what and of what do they sing? Do they even sing? “It is dislocation and detachment from the life of God that makes things ugly.”[5] And this all, of course, begs us to ask if beauty is something to be taken into consideration at all these days? If we indeed live in an evening age of fled gods? What are we to do with poets who only feel air or absence above the lintel of their gates? What is it that we take into ourselves when we take in their work? Perhaps the role of poets has changed or is done? But “done” would mean completed, over, dead. Yet poets write, yet we find them, yet encounters occur.





…That would have been fine to say if madness were bad, pure and simple; but in fact the best things we have come from madness, when it is given as a gift of the god.[7]


Following this view, which we will see contradicted shortly, poets were gifted with a benign madness (manike). Such madness, Plato thought, arose from the belief that every soul was immortal and had enjoyed a previous heavenly existence. In that former “existence” some were fortunate (and maybe a little cursed) enough to have witnessed the utter awe of the realm of True Forms. Later, after they lost their wings and fell into mortal flesh, life was spent remembering that divine spectacle. And occasionally one of these remembering ones would witness something which reminded them of the Beauty of that immeasurable realm, and a divine madness would overtake them and drive the production of inspired (mania) art (techne) or incite love (eros). Poets, by this understanding of benevolent madness, spent their lives attuning themselves to Beauty. When poets were moved by earthly beauty—which pointed towards that eternal Beauty—they created beautiful works, which would in turn pass on the inspiring madness… It was a conspiracy of beauty. We could also say that poetizing was a contingent circle-drawing act[8] which attempted to make sense of life, to take the measure of it all; and this contingency was the recognition of Beauty in beauty, of being attuned, of being open to madness.

However, in his Republic, and in a manner difficult (but maybe only seemingly so) to reconcile with his views in Phaedrus,[9] Plato wondered what place the imitating (mimetic) arts—the offspring of something else considered more genuine and worthy of imitation—would have in his Beautiful City (Kallipolis), and his considerations resulted in heavy censorship: While imitation (mimesis), inspiration (mania), and recollection (anamnesis) were vital to the quest for truth and the task of poets, the poets, like poor rhetoricians, were susceptible to being wrong. They, unlike the dialectician, had not experienced a psychagogia—a soul turning, a breath turning, a conversion—and were thus merely technicians.[10] As such, their works could mislead the easily misled. Plato had to ensure that his citizens would be properly reminded and inspired, and philosophers, as he understood it, were the only ones to have “enjoyed the full vision of true Being upon the Plain of Truth.”[11]

Others, like Hölderlin, Emerson, Nietzsche, and Heidegger, would disagree. For Hölderlin, poets were demigods mediating between heaven and earth, bidding the gods to return; for Emerson, the work of poets repaired the decay of things; for Nietzsche, what was most profound and useful was born of a creative premonition; for Heidegger, poets stood before the fourfold and took the measure. (And we could always disinter the flattering things Plato said about poets so as to offset the difficult things he said.) And, if the vote of confidence by such illustrious figures were not enough, we ought not ignore the obvious: Poets, in Plato’s time, wielded a power worthy of fearing: They sang provocative praises, they memorialized

…But a question lingers: Are the memorializations by poets, however powerful and cosmetically pleasing, only mindless automatons? Childless creatures?[12] That is, was the more dogmatic Plato correct to fear poor mimetic craft? Or does such a thing as philosophical poetry—as understood by the likes of the aforementioned thinkers—transcend the purely mimetic arts?





He walked onward, caring little one way or another, to him the path mattered not, now up, now down. He felt no fatigue, except sometimes it annoyed him that he could not walk on his head. At first he felt a tightening in his chest when the rocks skittered away, the gray woods below him shook, and the fog now engulfed the shapes, now half-revealed their powerful limbs; things were building up inside him, he was searching for something, as if for lost dreams, but was finding nothing.[13]


Lenz, unlike Funes, was always searching for something he could not find. Phantom voices constantly misled him. We might wonder how poets, particularly Paul Celan, suffer simultaneously from both of these conditions: They cannot forget, they cannot remember, they are always in danger of being misled. It is a problem.

Every problem is an awaiting end. Every beginning is a solution. Or, every commencement commences from a loosening: A new year flows from a Saturnalia, from Saturn’s unbinding, from masters serving slaves, from a festive time of order inverted and gift-giving.[14] As the seasons come and problems arise and arise and arise, and we pray for a second chance, a solution comes, with an end, followed by another beginning. Problems beg solutions which are ends which are beginnings. Could we more simply state that problems beg beginnings? What happens when we remember that problems are only posed for the purpose of solution? That they do not naturally arise? They are only formulations of something else—unknowns. What then? Do we still believe that every unknown is an awaiting known? Or did that dream finally die in night and ash? And now we only await those still sleeping to awake and see…

(Aside: Evocation: Sacralize this hand o’     , so that the circle we draw around you is perfect, because you o’      are perfect. [And even if you are not, we will pretend.] Amen.)

How do poets poetize once they decide the fled gods have decided to stay fled, to always retreat from us? Worse, that the fled gods never fled—there was only ever fleeting, retreating, recessing emptiness into more emptiness: No gods. What is poetizing then? Does Heidegger’s question, taken up from Hölderlin,[15] become more or less pressing, more or less appropriate, more or less understood when, for poets, there are not only no gods, but there never were?[16] The absence of gods does not work against the “reality” of their past presence, but embracing their never having been weirdly welcomes a new, unfamiliar, strange, and nameless world, one with new questions (…or, maybe, questions so ancient and unfashionable and forgotten that they seem new).

When we ask, Wozu Dichter in durftiger Zeit? (Why poets in desolate time?), we can, post-metaphysics, post-Shoah, certainly embrace the darkening of the age, the desolation here with us in the very asking of the question—as we are each without true companions—but the why poets becomes increasingly, maddeningly, more difficult. What does it even mean to ask why poets when we no longer know whom poets are or what they do? And it only gets harder to discern their possible vocation when we find ourselves in a night which is not awaiting or passing into day, a night upon which morning never dawns. Do poets still desire to take the measure? If they did, could they? With the fourfold unfolded and set adrift, how and what and why measuring? Was Hölderlin correct in his assertion that a measure always exists?[17] Which, if he were, would place “it” here with us whether or not “it” was taken up—that is, there remains a possibility that we could have true companions, true bread fellows (that is, if there were a means of measuring, of encompassing, it would be a testimony to friends who, in a dark a-theistic world, provide the necessary relational points of reference upon which self movement through space and time relies.) Would this possibility necessitate the former view in which poets see themselves as liminal ones standing before the fourfold (or whatever we might want to call it) awaiting the god’s return? Does measure-taking end when divine ground is lost or exchanged for an abyss and no divine return or new beginning awaits us?  Would a poet wish to walk on her head?

Poets now, it seems, stand upon a thin and ever more imaginary meridian which covers an abyss. The covering is not ground—and obviously neither is the abyss (ab-grund). And it seems only a matter of time before the abyss reveals its nature as all perceiving,[18] as the un-measurable gatherer of measure-takers, testifying (only) to (itself that) these (are) desolate times: That all times were ever desolate, ever lean; it was only tragedy as a satyr song to Dionysus (and maybe irony as speaking at all) turned problem that hid truths from us: To be is inevitably not to be—existence is a crime and the gifted are the most guilty—and totalizing only denies, it never accepts: There is no truth in solutions. That those who take up the call of poetizing, like the spirit of God moving upon the face of the waters, as breathing ones, walk all about an abyss, all along the shores of nothing, that they do it at all places them in great danger: Walking the meridian over and through the abyss invites ancient daemons to take notice, daemons seldom recognized in these days, ones who work towards driving poets mad or dissemble within them a dysautonomous[19] state. These latter daemons of fatigue, not only disrupt the complexity of the inner self and law, but also of the interactions with outer selves and laws; and, if that were not difficult enough, these daemons hide themselves behind their symptoms and are often undetected or misdiagnosed—all that touches poets, all that comes into them, goes out from them, is made worse by these daemons abilities to present themselves as other daemons (perhaps ones thought to be more easily exorcized).

Poets are not sickly: They are open and thus overly susceptible to the ghosts in the system—the confusing, dysfunctional encounters with the reminders of the others and the events which come to all but stay with them.[20]

On one hand, the non-metaphysical daemons and ghosts of life plague poets; on the other hand, they are driven by a desire (for some reason…) to welcome them into their personal world. Why? Perhaps because the opening through which devils find entry is the same gate which allows for imaginary people, places, things, and events to enter and find a home where they become more real and compelling for poets (thus also for their audience). And the path of life arising from this openness is absurdly impossible: Celan notes that this impossible path leads poets to a place “like language—immaterial yet earthly, terrestrial, something circular, returning upon itself by way of both poles”:[21] A meridian—the imaginary line of a great imaginary circle. And, as various lives of poets have testified, when poets slip off this imaginary line they only fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and fall… Perhaps babel-ing all the way…





And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech. … And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth. And the LORD came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded. And the LORD said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do. Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech. So the LORD scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city. Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the LORD did there confound the language of all the earth.[23]


(If we close our eyes and take a fanciful step towards remembering the impossible, perhaps we might…) Hear words whispered to the air in the voice of a half-god, full of power and sun drenched, as his gaze takes in the raising of his mighty work: The tallest of dwellings joining heaven and earth—a gate. What does he whisper? Upon what does the half-god Nimrod, the mighty son of Kish—that city which first took kingship (a mastery by way of art [techne] and custom [nomos]) into mortal hands—reflect as he drinks in the unfolding of that tyrannical act of salvific construction, ending the maniacal rule of ethereal otherness (the dream of un-interpreted nature [physis] and reason [logos]). Perhaps, standing still with a stately swagger and running a hunter’s hand through his long full beard, he takes a heavenly glance and, drowning in that shadow, with an arched brow, he belies a secret unspoken fear of the cost of such striving: fallingbablebablefalling. (“A mad non-word.”)

Of course, the one sung language of angels and mortals (babel-ing glossolalia)—now a strange tongue of nonsensical stammering—bridging death and life without denying their opposing roles (for gods and men spoke face to face), would, in one barbarous event, fall, tumble, break apart, and scatter abroad: Ironically con-founding. (We now, as the rebel then, stand before otherness.)

But the non-word was never spoken or even whispered: What is not cannot be spoken, and not being spoken, having no words, makes nothing ever (more) elusive to thinking. Consider the mighty one, alone, watching his poured-together (con-fundere, con-founded) children dispersing, abandoning the tower-bridge conspiracy (perhaps in a manner not too dissimilar from the later abandonment of the conspiracy of beauty) which would take and join them to the gods, and what thoughts arose in his mind as he bore witness to the end of the beginning of the greatness of the unfinished work before him, that which would be the always escaping no-place of communion between heaven and earth… in which words drown and towers swim, so great is the cold chasm of the primally unfinished.

It was not an absent word which was not spoken by the builder—although, in our deepest hurts thornily crowned by injustice, his icy raging and utter isolation can still be felt—no, it was words. And this again begs questions of whether language moves towards or away from reason or non-reason, being or non-being: Is poetizing a singing for the wine god’s return? Or is it a calling out for aid to distant shores while treading water? A denying of reason by way of half-reason, which sounds mad, in order to say at all? A beautifully made space for language to do what it does without much interference from us? Like a tower-bridge in which one dwells? Who knows? Perhaps when gods and men stood face to face it was always in silence… and always maddening. And how much more dementia will threaten when we, like children of god, reflect on what remains unfinished, unsaid, un-sayable; yet, like the mind of an expecting mother glancing nowhere and rubbing her swollen womb, we find an image forming, indefinite and sure, and, at that instance, we bear only the trembling and hope of a truth unborn: Such times invert our prior reason and ever after life is a dream about them… like the angelic tongue which was sung and the mighty hunter king, dreams and visions place in a poetic space a maddening emptiness signaling so much for us—an entire history of that up there and whys

If now, for a moment, we return to our prompting verse from Genesis (origin) and remember that Babel means both gate of god and confusion, and that before the confusion of many tongues there was unity and oneness because there was a separation between the divine and the mortal, we might wonder what was at stake for those ancient bridge-builders? According to the account, as the mighty hunter king led the post-Noahidic peoples in bridging heaven and earth, God was moved to come down to and among them. The result of God’s presence among the people was confusion.[24] The tower-bridge conspiracy, the Beautiful City, the No-place, reaches towards heaven and heaven responds by crossing the bridge and coming down into the city; and in that act a problem arises: Confusion. The divine which comes to presence in the city deconstructs itself, it de-structures language, custom, law. Such powerful presence demonstrates to mortals the futility of being like God. But, why did this happen? And what does it say of poets and poetizing?

The rebel Nimrod attempted to draw a circle around his world and walk an impossible meridian. He wanted to gather heaven and earth about him to revel in the expanse, to conquer and commune in the same act. But the path was an impossible one. Only a babel-ing madness awaits those who convince themselves that the divine can come or return to them to set things aright, to sacralize their unity, their totalizing actions, their world. The eyes of ambitious Nimrod were too talked into blindness to see that he himself was only a bridge to another beginning: Abraham.

Poets ought to learn from the mighty hunter king—they ought to learn from any great one who failed in their folly: Humility is endless.[25] It is not that a poet should not attempt to take the measure, to encompass with a great circle-drawing act, to poetize—no, they should. But they should ever return to meditate upon their precarious position while doing so, they should ever calculate the risk and step anyways, they should ever remember and forget: Ultimate fulfillment requires cunning daring and ultimate risk.[26]

It is not that God, as the top of a metaphysical hierarchy, should be reframed for the evening age in which Celan (or any poet) finds himself so as to provide a defensible reason to poetize (or a reason why all seems as night); rather, poets should accept that they bridge meaning and non-meaning, history and future, same and different, and that they bridge these polarities (or the hints of difference at all) within a shared world, the poured into world, the confused world. It is for poets to aid us in our own negotiation of life by poetizing a found and shared middle path—a meridian. And the tragic irony lies in the fact that they, as the bridges of meaning, the living gates of god, are also, in testament to Plato’s concern, themselves con-fused with meaning and memories, with the speakable and the unspeakable. (The balance required of them is uncanny.) And yet they still find whatever is or is not above the lintel, they still reach for “it,” draw “it” into themselves, transubstantiate “it,” and share “it,” as something else and other (yet strangely familiar), with others.





Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your presence.[27]


We have spoken under the headings of memory, madness, meridian, and drowning. We have spoken of remembering, forgetting, beauty, totalizing acts, problems and solutions, bridges and gates, mad middle words, of an impossible line over an abyss. We have essayed towards having something to say about the work of Paul Celan. Many questions have arisen along the way. Most pressing or persistent, it would seem, would be what does it mean to poetize in this age? And how does the work of Paul Celan inform our meditations on poetizing? We have claimed that this age need not, or perhaps should not, wittily reframe God or metaphysics so as to allow an easier time of encompassing those who poetize. In doing so we have closed off a possibility while opening a new one: In the gods never having been, they cannot be blamed, appealed to, or reasoned by. At the same time, to speak of the unknown or of an abyss is to invert classical metaphysics, thereby still making use of the gods—through a destructuring and restructuring—by using the imaginary concepts which arise from an unordered world. There is no simple escape from history—however unreal or imagined. In any case, we must deal with our memory. And, unlike Funes the Memorious, we can, after a fashion, forget; further, as Nietzsche attests,[28] in purposeful forgetting lies our acting, ethical, and poetizing powers.

But it is not forgetting alone which grants this allowance: Remembering, as an intentional or inescapable act, must also occur. Poets must gather all experiences (actual and imagined) into themselves and transubstantiate them into a “work” which can be shared with others. Even if the giving away allows for possibilities through represented impossibilities (which it does), and the gathering together beforehand necessitates a totalizing act (which it does), and the work itself often seems hermetic (which it does), it is still something shared—just not easily. And contrary to Plato’s fears, this act of poetizing is not solely mimetic: “It” is a fully integrated act of memory, reason, courage, and madness for the exercise of a gift of an art which transgresses and bridges the boundaries of human being.

As Derrida testifies in his essay Majesties, Celan’s work,[29] however distant it is from gods and beauty, extols an untimely (unheimliche) majesty through its unforgetting of dates and events. Celan leans towards Funes with the tragedies he cannot forget; he leans towards Nimrod in his rebellious folly (—he constructs poems!); he leans towards Plato’s distrust of mimesis. And yet, impossibly, as part of the same path, he leans far enough away from them all, far enough away from the 20th of January, far enough away from interests bound up in solutions, far enough away from his father’s God, far enough away from all of “it” to find something: A meridian: An imaginary line of a great imaginary circle: This is the origin of the work of art.

There are no solutions or answers when reading Celan, or any great poet born after the onset of night, only questions to be asked and paths to be followed—perhaps ones better navigated on our heads. And the measure by which we might measure the greatness or profundity of Celan’s work might be the degree to which we, like him, were troubled or moved by what provoked, informed, or necessitated it. To be moved not towards delusive memories, beguiling beauties, or apocryphal bridges, but—however haunting and confounding—towards encounters made possible by unvarnished questions of recollected dark memories and absurdities and un-negotiable impossibilities, encounters occurring through a pure and paradoxical act of fully integrated sovereign majesty and of genuine humility—a taking in, transubstantiating, and sharing: “Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your presence.”


[1] Jorge Luis Borges’ “Funes the Memorious,” translated by James E. Irby.

[2] The notion of anamnesis—un-forgetting or re-collecting the truth—is common throughout Plato’s dialogues and central to his epistemology.

[3] As Aristotle tells us at the beginning of his “Metaphysics.”

[4] See Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Poets.”

[5] Ibid.

[6] While in many ways this section deserves a healthy amount of attention and articulation in its own right, it will, for the purposes of this essay, only be a brief delineation of the role of poets.

[7] Plato’s “Phaedrus,” translated by Alexander Nehamas and Paul Woodruff.

[8] I have in mind here Emerson’s essay “Circles.”

[9] While we might feel that “Phaedrus” is well cast as a palinode for Plato’s views on madness, poetry, and love, we will pretend that the “Republic” reveals Plato’s most authentic views and concerns.

[10] See Claud A. Thompson elucidates this understanding in his article, “Rhetorical Madness: An Ideal In The Phaedrus.”

[11] Ibid.

[12] See Celan’s “Meridian Speech.”

[13] Georg Büchner’s “Lenz,” translated by Richard Sieburth

[14] Saturnalia was an ancient Roman seven-day festival dedicated to Saturn, which began on December 17. It was a celebration marked by unrestrained revelry, gift exchanges, increased licentiousness, and symbolic acts of an inverted world order.

[15] First “asked” in Hölderlin’s “Bread and Wine,” then taken up in Heidegger’s “What Are Poets For?”

[16] This framing of the question does not do the consideration justice. We will need to indirectly address it a little differently a little later, as gods or the God can be so diversely understood, particularly if they become a way of talking about the problem of the unknown or the impossible.

[17] See Hölderlin’s “Bread and Wine.”

[18] See Hölderlin’s “Titans.”

[19] Dysautonomia (in “real life”) is a dysregulation of the autonomic nervous system. The autonomic nervous system is the master regulator of organ function throughout the body. It is involved in the control of heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, respiration, digestion and other vital functions. Dysregulation of the autonomic nervous system can produce the apparent malfunction of the organs it regulates. For this reason, dysautonomia patients often present with numerous, seemingly unrelated maladies. (This description of the condition is taken directly from the Dysautonomia Information Network, as found at http://www.dinet.org) We are using this medical condition here as a metaphor—one which sounds as though it could very well be a daughter of Eris—for a “spiritual” state pertaining to those who stand upon a meridian hovering over an abyss. This spiritual condition signals just how dangerous the poet’s vocation is: The meridian is grounded in the imagination, as is those laws, customs and views which (seem to) hold the self-world and shared-world together. If a daemon were to afflict the complex system which negotiates the self-world and the shared-world with a confusing dysfunction, then any negotiation which takes place runs a high risk of failing.

[20] Consider Celan’s “The Meridian,” as well as Derrida’s “Shibboleth: For Paul Celan.” Within these works we find an understanding of the importance of dates, of encounters, of remembering.

[21] See Celan’s “The Meridian,” translated by John Felstiner.

[22] The first four paragraphs of this section first appeared in a protokoll on Paul Celan’s poem, “Tübingen Jänner,” composed for Professor Bambach’s graduate seminar on the poetry of Celan in the fall of 2007. The protokoll was entitled, “Drowning…{ In the Gates of God } as Entry Into Celan’s Tübingen Jänner,” and is presented here in a modified form so as to better serve the aims of this essay.

[23] Genesis, 11.1-9. King James Version.

[24] Consider Derrida’s reading of this narrative in “Des Tours de Babel.”

[25] Consider T. S. Eliot’s “Four Quartets.”

[26] Consider Tillich’s articulation of God as ultimate concern.

[27] See the end of Celan’s “The Meridian.”

[28] See Nietzsche’s “On the Uses and Disadvantages of a History for Life,” section 10.

[29] Particularly, “Meridian Speech,” “Tübingen Jänner,” and “Shibboleth.”

One thought on “A Path In The Dark

  1. Pingback: When sadness Reigns! | Jacqui Senn

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