Continents are hidden under the victorious sign of our rationality. Entire populations remained strangers to one another, supposedly speaking the same language. Where marriage in the western manner was prescribed as creating order, people ignored the fact that it was a privilege: unattainable, inachievable for those who worked the land, the people called farmhands and milkmaids, who simply didn't have the money even to buy a pair. And so they were left untouched in their illegitimacy; they produced kids anyway! From above and from the outside, everything seemed completely settled. Clear answers, clear questions, clear regulations, catechism as delusion. But please, no wonders, and poetry only as the sign of the supernatural, never the natural. And then people are surprised, even long for the old ways of life, when the disparaged and hidden provinces show signs of revolt, and then of course either the one party twist or the other must gain material and political profit from this revolt. Attempts have been made to bring order into the still unexplored continent called sexual love by means of regulations similar to those provided budding philatelists when they start their first album.
And what indeed could have revealed to them the Christian message - the new and joyous tidings - in this insane, hypocritical smugness with which on Sunday people served God, praising him as the saviour, and on Monday once again opened the banks right. For the poetry of water and wind, of buffalo and grass, in which their life found its form, there was only scorn - and now we civilised Westerners in our cities, the end product of our total rationality - for in all fairness it must. Did, or does, the tragedy of our churches perhaps indeed consist, not of what the Enlightenment might have designated as unreasonable matters, but in the despairing and desperately failed attempt to pursue or even overtake a reason that has never been and never can. Regulations, law texts, approval of experts, a figure-laden forest of numbered regulations, and the production of prejudices that have been hammered into us and set out along the tracks of history teaching, in order to make people ever more estranged from one another. Even in the extreme essay western reaches of Europe our rationality is in opposition to another, which we simply label irrational. The horrifying problem of Northern Ireland nevertheless consists of the fact that here two kinds of reason have been entangled and hopelessly attacked one another for centuries. How many provinces of disparagement and disdain has history bequeathed to us?
However, no successful currency policy is clear to those whose money is involved. Thirteen digits on my telephone bill, too, and a few on each of my various insurance policies, not to mention my tax, car and telephone numbers - i won't take the trouble to count all these numbers that i ought to have in my head. If we quite happily multiply these 32 digits and the numbers on my cheque by six, or let's give a discount and multiply them by four, add in the numbers of one's birthday, a few contractions for religious affiliation, civil status - have we then. Is this reason, as we perceive and accept it - and it is not only made enlightening for us, but actually enlightens us - perhaps merely an occidental arrogance that we have exported to the entire world, via colonialism or missions, or in a mixture. And for those affected, aren't or wouldn't the differences between Christian, socialist, communist, capitalistic outlooks be small, - and even if the poetry of this reason does at times enlighten them, yet doesn't the reason of their poetry remain the victor? What did the greatest crime of the Indians consist of, when they were confronted with European reason exported to America? They didn't know the value of gold - of money! And they fought against something, against that which we even now are fighting as the most recent product of our reason, against the destruction of their world and environment, against the total subjugation of their earth by profit, which was more alien to them than.
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Money is the incarnation of his work, and that book is clean. Between work and what it brings in there admittedly is an unexplained remainder, which vague formulas such as to earn well or to earn poorly are far less successful at filling than the gap left by the interpretation of a novel or poem. Compared to the unexplained gaps of money mysticism, the unexplained remainders of literature are strikingly harmless, and even so there are still people who with criminal frivolity let the word 'freedom' roll off their tongue, where submission to a myth and its claims to power. They then call for political australia insight, precisely when insight and perception about the problem are blocked. On the bottom line of my cheque i see four different groups of numbers, 32 characters in all, two of which resemble hieroglyphs.
Five of these thirty-two characters are meaningful to me: three for my account number, two for the branch of the bank - what do the other twenty-seven represent, including quite a few zeroes? I am certain that all of these characters have a rational, meaningful, or as that lovely phrase would have it, an enlightening explanation. It's just that in my brain and my consciousness there is no room for this enlightening explanation, and what remains is the cipher mysticism of a secret science which I have more trouble penetrating, whose poetry and symbolism remains more alien to me than Marcel. Remembrance of Things Past or the "Wessobrunn Prayer". What these 32 digits demand of me is trusting belief in the fact that everything is quite correct, that there remains no unclarity and, if i only were to make a slight effort, it all would be clear to me too; and yet for.
Politicians, ideologists, theologians and philosophers try time and again to provide solutions with nothing remaining, prefab solved problems. That is their duty - and it is ours, the writers' - since we know that we are not able to solve anything without remainders or resistance - to penetrate into the gaps. There are too many unexplained and inexplicable remainders, entire provinces of waste. Builders of bridges, bakers of rolls and writers of novels normally finish their jobs, and their remainders are not the most problematic areas. While we struggle over littérature pure and littérature engagée - one of the false dichotomies to which I shall return in a while - we are still not aware of - or are unawares diverted from - thoughts about l'argent pur and l'argent engagé. If one really observes and listens to politicians and economists talking about something as supposedly rational as money, then the mystical, or perhaps merely mysterious area within these three occupations already mentioned becomes less and less interesting and astonishingly harmless.
Let us take, merely as an example, the amazingly bold recent attack on the dollar (which was modestly called a dollar crisis). Naive layman that i am, something occurred to me that no one called by name: two countries were deeply affected, and most emphatically found it necessary - if we assume that the word 'freedom' is not merely a fiction - to do something so remarkable. E., were asked to open their coffers; and these two countries had something historic in common, namely their defeat in the second World War, and they are both spoken of as having something else in common: their industriousness and diligence. As for the person it concerns - the one who jingles his pocket money or flashes his tiny bankroll - can't it be made clear to him why, although he is by no means working less for his money, it fetches less bread, milk, coffee. How many gaps does the mysticism of money offer, and in which strongrooms is its poetry hidden away? Idealistic parents and educators have always tried to convince us that money is filthy. I have never understood that, because i only received money when I had worked (always excepting the large sum that I have been awarded by the. Swedish Academy and for anyone who has no choice other than to work, even the dirtiest job is clear. They provide a living for the those close to him, and for him, too.
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In this respect mattress there can be no successful literature, nor would there be any successful music or painting, because no one can already have seen the object it is striving to become, and in this respect everything that is superficially called make modern, but which. How will we survive without this gap, this remainder, which can be called irony, be called poetry, be called God, fiction, or resistance? Countries, too, are always only approaching what they claim to be, and there can be no state which does not leave this gap between the verbal expression of its constitution and its realisation, a space that remains, where poetry and resistance grow - and hopefully. And there exists no form of literature which can succeed without this gap. Even the most precise account do without the atmosphere, without the imagination of the reader, even if the person writing it refuses to use it; and even the most precise account must omit - why, it must omit the exact and detailed description of circumstances. It must compose, transpose elements, and even its interpretation and its working protocol are not communicable, if only because the material called language cannot be reduced to a reliable and generally comprehensible communicative currency: so much history and invented history, national and social history, and. And determining the range of the message is not only a problem of translation from one language to another, it is a much more weighty problem within languages, where definitions can entail world views, and world views can entail wars - i would merely remind. It is therefore, by the way, trivial to claim that after all, we do speak the same language, if we do not also demonstrate the load that each word can bear at the level of regional, and frequently even local history. For me, at least, much of the german I see and hear sounds stranger than Swedish, a language of which i unfortunately understand very little.
Not to mention the house, the space in which this table stands, the soil on which this house was built, especially not to mention the people who - probably for several centuries - lived in it, the living and the dead, not to mention those. And yet mustn't everything, from the table to the pencils, that lie there in their history in its entirety, be brought in, including those close, closer, closest to us? Will there not be enough remainders, gaps, resistances, poetry, god, fiction left - even more than in building bridges and baking rolls? It's true and it's easily said that language is material, and something does materialise as one writes. Yet how might one explain that - as is occasionally demonstrated - something like life appears, people, fates, actions; that this incarnation occurs on something so deathly pale as paper, where the imagination of the author is linked to that of the reader. There will always be a remainder, whether you call it the inexplicable secret' would also be fine there remains and will remain an area, however tiny, finale into which the reason of our origins will not penetrate, because it runs into the hitherto unexplained reason. Writing is - at least for me - movement forward, the conquest of a body that I do not know at all, away from something to something that I do not yet know; I never know what will happen - and here 'happen' is not.
the intellectual and mental, but also the sensory and material dimensions would have to be satisfied, mental and physical nourishment and metabolism, the mood and flashes of wit enlighteningly provided, the function of one's environment not only in its incarnation as such, but. For example, i often watch sports shows with my mind almost completely blank, in order to practise contemplation with a blank mind, admittedly a rather mystical exercise - yet all these programmes would have to be included in their entirety in the protocol, since after. Every telephone call, the weather, letters, each individual cigarette would have to be included, a passing car, a pneumatic drill, the cackling of a hen that disturbs a context. The table upon which i am writing this.5 cm high, its top.5 by 111. It has turned legs, a drawer, seems to be seventy to eighty years old, was a possession of a great-aunt of my mother's, who, after her husband had died in a madhouse and she herself had moved into a smaller flat, sold it to her. And so, after my wife's grandfather had died, it came into our possession, a despised and rather despicable piece of furniture of no value, knocking around somewhere, no one knows exactly where, until it surfaced during a move and proved to have been damaged. Not to mention the objects lying on this table; they are incidental and exchangeable, also accidental, with the possible exception of the remington typewriter, model "Travel Writer de luxe produced in 1957, to which i am also attached, this means of production that has long. On this instrument that any specialist would regard or touch only with disdain, i have written at a guess four novels and several hundred items, and even so i am attached to it not only for that reason, but again because of principles,. I mention the table and the typewriter in order to demonstrate to myself that not even these two necessary utensils are completely understandable to me, and were i to attempt to elucidate their origins with the necessary exact correctness, their precise material, industrial, social process.
How can we cope without it? Not to mention love. No one will ever know how many novels, poems, analyses, confessions, sufferings and joys have been piled up on this continent called love, without it ever having turned out to be totally investigated. When i am asked how or why i wrote this or that, i always find myself quite embarassed. I would gladly furnish not merely the questioner, but myself as well, with an exhaustive answer, but can never. I cannot recreate the context in its entirety, yet I wish that I could, so that at least the literature i myself make might be made slightly less of a mysterious process than bridge-building and bread-baking. And because literature in its incarnation as a whole, in its message and shape, can clearly have a liberating effect, it would after all be quite useful to tell people about the genesis of this incarnation, so that more people can share in this process. What is gpa it that I myself, although I demonstrably produce it, cannot even approximately explain? this something which from the first to the last line i myself set down on paper, vary repeatedly, rework, somewhat shift the emphasis of, yet which as it recedes in time grows alien to me, like something that is gone or past, retreating further.
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Nobel Lecture on (Translation an Essay on the reason of poetry. It is said by those who ought to know - and by others, who also ought to know, it is disputed - that in matters which best to all appearances are rational, calculable and achieved by the combined efforts of architects, draughtsmen, engineers, workers - accomplishments. This incalculability (tiny with regard to the masses being treated and shaped) may stem from the difficulty of calculating with the nicest precision a mass of complicated interlocking chemical and technical details and materials in all their possible reactions, including the effects of the four. The problem here seems not merely to be the design, the repeatedly recalculated and checked technical/chemical/statistical composition, but - let me call it this - their incarnation, which can also be called their realisation. This remainder of incalculability, be it only fractions of millimetres, which correspond to unforeseen tiny differences in extension - what shall we call them? What lies hidden in this gap? Is it what we usually call irony, is it poetry, god, resistance, or (to use a popular phrase nowadays) fiction? Someone who ought to know, a painter who had previously been a baker, once told me that even baking breakfast rolls, which is done early in the morning, almost in the night, was extremely dicey business; you had to stick your nose and your backside. Should we also call this almost incalculable element irony, poetry, god, resistance or fiction?