Looking back through these pages I see that seven years ago I wrote something about these two and, in particular, Levinas’ essay Being and the Other: on Paul Celan. I’ve just re-read my meandering and have decided that it needs updating and extending, mainly because it’s not very attentive and it needs to be.
First of all we need a note. Emanuel Levinas was an important 20th century French philosopher who many have seen as the successor and main proponent of the work of Martin Buber and his concern with our responsibility towards the Other. Celan was a keen admirer of Buber’s work and this idea is incorporated, if that’s the right word into his poetry.
Regular readers will be delighted to know that I’m not going to trundle out again the Heidegger v Buber argument in terms of their relative influence on the work. Instead I want to look at one of the late poems in terms of the encounter and the other.
As there’s a ‘you’ in the poem that follows, it may be as well to quote this from Celan’s preparatory notes for his Meridian Address:
In the poem something is said but, in effect, so that the said remains unsaid as long as the one who reads it will not let it be said to him. In other words; the poem is not topical but can be made topical, That too is, temporally the ‘cathexability’ of the poem: the You, to whom it is addressed, is given to it on the way to this You. The You is there even before it has come. (That too is a sketch-for-being.)
The poem is Gillyflowers from the Snowpart collection which was published posthumously in 1971;
on your right, this lawn.
Rod- and moonsickle-stalemate.
You shouldn't, thus, like you, behind bars, back then,
Maltese Jew, big-
the bone jumped, abrupter
than I, the bone
that someone already from tomorrow threw-,
look up to heaven, you left
him then, as he you,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sister chestnut, multifoliate,
with our blank overthither.
This is Pierre Joris’ translation and his notes explain ‘cat-franchised’ as being given ‘the freedom to express oneself’.
Here we have a your. a series of yous and a couple of hims. If we take all five of the yous to refer to a reader and an encounter with a reader then the poem becomes a bit too concerned with itself. As with most of Celan’s later work, we are given very few footholds but it would seem that there may be two addressees in this, as in You shouldn’t, thus, like you…… One addressee would appear to being warned off imitating the behaviour/actions of another. It’s tempting to assume that both of these are the poet simultaneously in the present and after an encounter has taken is the one who has read in the future. This mostly because I’ve just read Levinas’ take on the other and the nature of the encounter:
As if in going toward the other, I were reunited with myself and implanted myself in a soil that would, henceforth, be native; as if the distancing of the I drew me closer to myself, discharged of the full weight of my identity – a movement of which poetry would be the possibility itself, and a native land which owes nothing to rootedness, nothing to “prior occupation”: a native land that has no need to be a birthplace. Native land or promised land?
The ‘you shouldn’t’ instruction may relate to the constraints (bars) that were in place before the encounter occurred. Given Celan’s fondness for multiple ambiguities, it may also be about the experience of the Jews in the ghettos throughout European history and the death camps during the second world war. I’d risk a guess that this meeting is also felt as a setting free from the horrors of the past, the sense of being haunted by Nazi extermination permeates the later work.
I have to admit that I’ve never read any Christopher Marlowe but I’m happy to concur with the reliable Joris that ‘the / Maltese Jew’ is Barabas in Marlowe’s The Famous Tragedy of the Rich Jew of Malta, a play for many years seen as exclusively anti-semitic.
The bone is incredibly tricky, 30 minutes with the interweb reveals that the Jewish tradition has it that, at the Resurrection the dead will have either their merits or their faults written on their bones and will be judged accordingly. there is also the Luz bone which is the small bone at the top of the spine which is said to be indestructible;
……this is the bone from which the body will be rebuilt at the time of resurrection, and share the idea (with the Egyptian and Greek cultures) that this bone does not decay….
The book of Ezekiel also has the valley of dry bones, standing for the Jewish people in exile, encounters God.
Here we need a brief digression, I’ve been reading and consequently staggered by Celan’s poetry since 1970 and have been aware that many (many) thinkers of the past fifty years have seized, there is no other verb, on one or two of his many ‘threads’ in order to take the work to an ideological/theoretical point where it really doesn’t belong. As an agnostic in such matters, I have to point out that the ‘point’ of Celan’s many ambiguities is that he tells us and/or points to what it might mean to be a human on this planet. He does this with self lacerating honesty and incredible courage but this act is so packed with contrasting stuff that it must not be put into a single ‘box’. I digress thus because I’ve realised that, by attending to Levinas, I’m in danger of committing the same error.
One of the less remarked upon facts about Celan was that he was an enthusiastic and knowledgeable botanist. The poem in its original German begins with ‘LEVKOJEN’ in which Joris hears ‘Lev’ as the “Russian version of Celan’s father’s name, Leo, corresponding in Hebrew to the word “heart”. However, what Pierre doesn’t mention and I didn’t know is that, according to the exotic flowers blog, the gillyflower “remains historically as one of the original “romantic” plants for lovers” and:
The gillyflower can also stand for accepting and enjoying the life you have been given, endless beauty, purity, adoration, a religious connection and even as a sign for the zodiac, Taurus. In general, this flower represents a long lived life, luck and immense happiness so it’s a wonderful choice for weddings, births and special anniversaries.
If we take at least some of this as being pertinent then it contrasts with the closing many-leaved chestnut tree if, as I would, suggest it is echoing Orwell’s use of the Chestnut Tree nursery rhyme in 1984:
Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me:
There lie they, and here lie we
Under the spreading chestnut tree.
In the novel this is Winston’s betrayal of Julia, his lover, as a result of being tortured and is thus brought back under the control of the totalitarian state. This is bitterly ironic as the chestnut traditionally symbolises justice, honesty and chastity.
The inclusion of Barnabas throws up a number of possibilities. As with Buber and Levinas, Celan’s other is a universal figure and Barnabas would seem to epitomise many others at once, he is a Jew, he murders and betrays with impunity, he kills his own daughter he dies by a means of his own devising. The last of these is apparently a feature in a few Old Testament stories. My point is that even Barnabas is able to encounter and receive the gift of the poem.
I’m taking it that an encounter occurs with this grotesque invention and then ends (you left him), leaving both of these alone again. The lighting from the side may be about, a gesture towards, a face in profile. Marlowe’s play apparently makes frequents references to the bigness of Barabas’ nose.
The suggestion that the you should not look up to heaven may simply infer that we have to deal with life as it is for humans than look to any kind of spiritual reality. I’m never sure as to the nature of Celan’s mysticism although I do accept that it’s a major element in his work. On this occasion, I’m with Michael Hamburger in discerning a negative theology with an absent God who may or may not have abandoned us. To my mind, Levinas falls into the trap of over identification as in:
The act of the poem speaking to its neighbor precedes all evocation; but it is in poetic speaking outstretched toward the other that, as if by magic, things
assemble their qualities as things. The for-other precedes the perception of evidence. The poem thus leaves to the real the alterity which pure imagination erases.
The obvious response is “no it doesn’t” and the giveaway way is ‘as if by magic”. For me this is very disappointing because my admiration for Levinas’ work has grown over the last decade and it saddens me that he should appear to invest the brilliance of the poetry with his own predilections. As i indicated earlier, he’s by no means alone in this, Derrida captures the work for language, Steiner for Heidegger and Gadamer for both Heidegger and mysticism.
Over the years I don’t think I’ve written about staggeredness which is the Bebrowed technical term for the feeling you get when paying attention to Celan’s work, a sense of been knocked off your cognitive feet and returned to a different kind of world. To demonstrate this I’d simply point to the last line of the above poem and leave readers to give some consideration to the many connotations and dimensions that ‘blank overthither’ might provide.
DW, who is becoming a regular commentator tried unsuccessfully to post these useful insights with regard to Gillyflowers:
‘The You is there even before it has come.’
‘… the bone / that someone already from tomorrow threw-‘
Is this bone, with its religious connotations (religion so pervasive yet ambivalent in Celan), the “You”? The Luz bone is where the tefillin-knot rests. Luz in Hebrew means “almond” – ‘Render me bitter, / Number me among the almonds.’
‘… mit dienen blanken / Hierdrüben’ – literally, ‘with your blank / Here-over-there’. Blank passport, exilic wanderings-writings, empty book.
‘… you left / him then, as he you, / stranded …’ – Conflicting stories about the night Celan’s parents were taken. Who left whom? Did Celan storm out of the house after arguing with his father? Was Celan stranded somewhere that night, unable to return home? Did Celan clutch in vain through barbed wire for his father’s hand (‘like you, behind bars, back then’)?
Then there is the first stanza, which would seem to be obviously about Gisèle – Celan’s tragic Other, his (always-and-never) ‘approachable you’. The Gillyflowers are free to express the unspeakable, what is unsaid in the wedding bouquet full of promise, bearing witness to the ‘Rod- and moonsickle-stalemate’ of a shattered yet never renounced marriage.
I’m sure that others will also find this useful, I’ll endeavour to respond to this and the Blanchot comment once I’ve worked out which WP gremlin is messing around with the comments gizmo.
Still haven’t worked the comments gizmo problem out, will try again later As for DW’s insights, I think that he’s right with regard to Gisele although i would add that Joris’ notes concede that he has missed the word mund (to give speech’ from his cat-enfranchised translation of ‘katsenbemunidgt’.
With regard to Celan’s father, John Felstiner (a not-entirely-reliable scholar) tells us that Celan always blamed himself for failing to persuade his parents to leave their home before the Nazis came to arrest them. Celan’s time spent in a labour camp is less well recorded, the idea of the clutching through the wire is attractive. However, I’d like to add the above reference to the You in order to render things oriented towards the Buberian other as well.
I’m reluctant to hang an explanation on to the last line except to suggest the ‘blank’ can also stand for nothing and consequently nothingness- a recurring condition in the later work.
Sorry, I’m confused about the paragraph beginning “The inclusion of Barnabas throws up a number of possibilities”. I know of no such figure as appears here in your text. It does not conform to Paul of Tarsus’s side kick Barnabas. And then there is the alternate spelling (or character) ‘Barabas’ later in the paragraph which may refer to the Jewish insurrectionist Barabbas. ‘Stagggeredness’ certainly communicates the feeling one gets reading Celan and should be looked for in translation of which I find Pierre Joris the best.
Sorry Carlo, it’s a typo, should be Barnabas throughout. Thank you fot pointing this out. I’ll reply at greater length later, am travelling right now.
This passage from a piece on Blanchot by Jonathan Littell captures nicely the problem of encounter for Celan and his other:
‘Literary writing does not explain, does not teach: it simply offers the presence of its own mystery, its own experience, in its absence of explanation, thus inviting not some illusory “understanding” (“Reading either falls short of understanding or overshoots it,” writes Blanchot), but precisely a reading. “Reading is freedom,” Blanchot tells us, “a freedom that can only say yes.” Yes to what? To experience; to the experience, usually born in anguish, of the one who writes, which is answered by the experience – by turns casual and transfixed by “the rapture of plenitude” – of the reader. Two experiences thus facing each other or rather tangential to each other, in any case radically irreducible to one another. For the author, the writer (Blanchot continually shifts between these two terms, plays on them), precisely, is the one who cannot read.’
H’mm, I’m not familiar with Littell and have only paid attention to a couple of the Blanchot novels and ‘The Writing of the Disaster’ so what follows is even more tentative than normal. A remark from Celan’s Meridian Address is examined on pp 90-92 of the Anne Smock translation of ‘The Writing’. The remark relates to the poem attaining ‘vain death and mere Nothing’ Perhaps these two encounter infinitude and create this permanent but thithering blankness that the final line refers to? I’m an admirer of Blanchot but, as with Levinas and many others he does make use of Celan for his own ends which seem to flirt with an oblique nihilism.
Correction to my comment, umsonst is used only as an adverb according to Google Translate and my German dictionary. I’ve corrected my comment accordingly:
This web page provides the German original of Celan’s remark quoted by Blanchot, along with several English translations (I assume Smock’s translation is a translation of Blanchot’s translation?):
The Smock / Blanchot translation is the only one that translates “Umsonst” as a noun: “Nothing”. Google Translate and my German dictionary inform me that “umsonst” is normally used as an adverb, not a noun. Celan, by capitalizing “Umsonst”, appears to use it as a noun. The Smock / Blanchot translation is thus at least faithful to Celan’s idiosyncratic(?) usage. Interestingly, an adverbial possibility for translating “umsonst” is “for free”, “for nothing”, “free of charge”. Now, if we keep in mind that Celan’s Meridian speech is often dripping with sarcasm, a delicious possibility for translating “diese Unendlichsprechung von lauter Sterblichkeit und Umsonst!” is “this endless chatter about mortality, volume cranked up – and it’s free of charge!” (Talk of death – especially poetic talk – is cheap, meine Damen und Herren.)
The problem, though, is that I’m translating Celan’s “Umsonst” adverbially. More work to be done on this …
In 1940, Celan wrote a poem called “Drüben” (Over there). The first line of that poem reads:
Erst jenseits der Kastanien ist die Welt.
Only beyond the chestnuts is the world.
Did Celan remember that early poem when he wrote the final stanza of “Gillyflowers”?
Schwester Kastainie, Vielblatt,
mit dienen blanken
What is it about chestnuts and the (blank) (here) over there?
Between 1940 and 1970 (here-over-there), there is the ‘thousand darknesses of deathbringing speech’ through which passed the language of this poetry.
By the way, the blog linked from my name in the above comment is not mine. More perplexing behavior from WordPress.