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The Space of Literature
Maurice Blanchot, the eminent literary and cultural critic, has had a vast influence on contemporary French writers鈥攁mong them Jean Paul Sartre and Jacques Derrida. From the 1930s through the present day, his writings have been shaping the international literary consciousness. The Space of Literature , first published in France in 1955, is central to the development of Blanchot's thought. In it he reflects on literature and the unique demand it makes upon our attention. Thus he explores the process of reading as well as the nature of artistic creativity, all the while considering the relation of the literary work to time, to history, and to death. This book consists not so much in the application of a critical method or the demonstration of a theory of literature as in a patiently deliberate meditation upon the literary experience, informed most notably by studies of Mallarm茅, Kafka, Rilke, and H枚lderlin. Blanchot's discussions of those writers are among the finest in any language.
279 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1955
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About the author
Maurice Blanchot
144听books567听followersMaurice Blanchot (September 22, 1907 鈥� February 20, 2003) was a French pre-war leader of the Young Right, philosopher, literary theorist and writer of fiction. Blanchot was a distinctly modern writer who broke down generic boundaries, particularly between literature and philosophy. He began his career on the political right, but the experience of fascism altered his thinking to the point that he supported the student protests of May 1968. Like so many members of his generation, Blanchot was influenced by Alexandre Kojeve's humanistic interpretation of Hegel and the rise of modern existentialism influenced by Heidegger and Sartre. His Literature and the Right to Death shows the influence that Heidegger had on a whole generation of French intellectuals.
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February 18, 2025
Even though this is a heartless and soulless book (mais sauve qui peut), it is a great summary of the postmodernist and woke philosophy of writing, for what it's worth, that thrives on our kids.
I have a love/hate relationship with Blanchot: he takes us to the brink of despair, yet never falls into it; he hopes against hopelessness for peace in his life; and he never gives up the struggle. But such is not ethical or reverent, but only woke, alas. He simply never shuts up.
I really like, however, the sense of incompleteness in this book on writing and writers. My friend Black Oxford is right in saying this book leaves us feeling incomplete, as our lives must necessarily always be. And yet, and yet. For isn't incompleteness the point at which God reaches down into the Dark Void - in the second Creation story of Genesis?
That was my overall impression after putting aside this author's amazing Writing Of The Disaster for a while, in favour of this book.
I say "putting aside" - for to me we are never "finished" with a Blanchot text. He demands constant rereading for his books to be seen as unfinished monuments to his perforce incomplete and often anguished memory. Incompleteness spells translucent Forgetfulness, and in Lost Memory we glimpse the sovereignty of God over our forgetful nonbeing. But to be woke is to will the loss of true hope.
So Disaster, I think, must be read alongside The Space of Literature.
But when he wrote this book, possibly because his writing has no heart, he was very fitfully asleep. And awakening is seeing the Terrible Face of God. Once you're awake, you see the combined Glory and Disaster of God. For He remains a Disaster for incomplete souls like Blanchot who have not yet awoken - and not a dispassionate one, either.
Look at it this way - no matter how we slice or dice up life it remains a duality, the two sides of which - the objective and the subjective sides - are very strange bedfellows, mutually exclusive and each continually vying to be top dog. We must bring their constant conflict to a boil.
So Space of Literature is top-dog transcendent and Disaster is low-dog immanent. Space takes the aphoristic aporias denoting the Primal Scream from Disaster and unobtrusively drapes the banal calico cloth of Time and Space overtop, blunting the screams and burying the pain in sheer tedium.
It's as if the author is finally exhaling in the former work. Space of Literature is a release. There is a some passive peace in seeing the equation represented by your life as a pure tautology. There are traces of meaning in nonbeing. But no firm foothold.
The conflictual world seeks value; the passive world seeks peace. But there is ultimately no rest in either attitude, if you're woke. Life is a dualistic thing. And there can be no letup until we are indifferent to our anxieties and inner conflicts. And outer events.
That, as Blanchot repeats, is patience. But Patience must not disown its heart.
Patience looks kindly on both defeat and victory. In the contentious weight of conflict - borne with patience - life is perennially reborn anew.
But for Blanchot, the important thing throughout is the patience of equanimity - the Stoic virtue of bearing up patiently through whatever circumstances life may deal you.
Anguish can be bleak, but the greater the inner conflict, the more easeful the release will be with patient equanimity carrying you through.
A rebirth in Grace, in spite of his naysaying, is ultimately a sharing in a universal release of isness. And it's wonderful. And eternally secure.
For me, personally, that is the meaning of the peace of our final years: for that is my final preference of the bland peace of a very ordinary sameness over the fractious combat of the workplace, if you will.
I'm now perfectly happy to blend in with the scenery rather than try to be a force to be reckoned with. The simple joys of life flow more freely now.
I am more ready - and thankfully, more likely - to be discounted as a harmless nonentity than to be discredited as anyone's pain in the posterior. Even to the woke.
With age comes easier acceptance of the ongoing battle, too.
Last night I had a happy dream about death. Oxymoronic, you say? Not at all - in fact, my state of nonexistence in the dream was infinitely encouraging. You see, my release into death's full stop was like an utter completion.
I think of Eliot鈥檚 poem The Dry Salvages, and I wonder whether these pessimistic woke writers will ever know such rest as I dreamt of:
We have to see them as forever bailing,
Perpetually setting and hauling, while the North East lowers鈥�
Not as making a trip that will be unpayable
For a haul that will not bear examination.
We must suspend our judgement forever -
For whether these others remain here, in the Hope of Resurrection,
Or there, in the Hopelessness of an Empty Vacuum of Hell,
It鈥檚 none of our business.
For as Ezekiel says we can only prophecy to the wind -
For only the wind will listen.
I have a love/hate relationship with Blanchot: he takes us to the brink of despair, yet never falls into it; he hopes against hopelessness for peace in his life; and he never gives up the struggle. But such is not ethical or reverent, but only woke, alas. He simply never shuts up.
I really like, however, the sense of incompleteness in this book on writing and writers. My friend Black Oxford is right in saying this book leaves us feeling incomplete, as our lives must necessarily always be. And yet, and yet. For isn't incompleteness the point at which God reaches down into the Dark Void - in the second Creation story of Genesis?
That was my overall impression after putting aside this author's amazing Writing Of The Disaster for a while, in favour of this book.
I say "putting aside" - for to me we are never "finished" with a Blanchot text. He demands constant rereading for his books to be seen as unfinished monuments to his perforce incomplete and often anguished memory. Incompleteness spells translucent Forgetfulness, and in Lost Memory we glimpse the sovereignty of God over our forgetful nonbeing. But to be woke is to will the loss of true hope.
So Disaster, I think, must be read alongside The Space of Literature.
But when he wrote this book, possibly because his writing has no heart, he was very fitfully asleep. And awakening is seeing the Terrible Face of God. Once you're awake, you see the combined Glory and Disaster of God. For He remains a Disaster for incomplete souls like Blanchot who have not yet awoken - and not a dispassionate one, either.
Look at it this way - no matter how we slice or dice up life it remains a duality, the two sides of which - the objective and the subjective sides - are very strange bedfellows, mutually exclusive and each continually vying to be top dog. We must bring their constant conflict to a boil.
So Space of Literature is top-dog transcendent and Disaster is low-dog immanent. Space takes the aphoristic aporias denoting the Primal Scream from Disaster and unobtrusively drapes the banal calico cloth of Time and Space overtop, blunting the screams and burying the pain in sheer tedium.
It's as if the author is finally exhaling in the former work. Space of Literature is a release. There is a some passive peace in seeing the equation represented by your life as a pure tautology. There are traces of meaning in nonbeing. But no firm foothold.
The conflictual world seeks value; the passive world seeks peace. But there is ultimately no rest in either attitude, if you're woke. Life is a dualistic thing. And there can be no letup until we are indifferent to our anxieties and inner conflicts. And outer events.
That, as Blanchot repeats, is patience. But Patience must not disown its heart.
Patience looks kindly on both defeat and victory. In the contentious weight of conflict - borne with patience - life is perennially reborn anew.
But for Blanchot, the important thing throughout is the patience of equanimity - the Stoic virtue of bearing up patiently through whatever circumstances life may deal you.
Anguish can be bleak, but the greater the inner conflict, the more easeful the release will be with patient equanimity carrying you through.
A rebirth in Grace, in spite of his naysaying, is ultimately a sharing in a universal release of isness. And it's wonderful. And eternally secure.
For me, personally, that is the meaning of the peace of our final years: for that is my final preference of the bland peace of a very ordinary sameness over the fractious combat of the workplace, if you will.
I'm now perfectly happy to blend in with the scenery rather than try to be a force to be reckoned with. The simple joys of life flow more freely now.
I am more ready - and thankfully, more likely - to be discounted as a harmless nonentity than to be discredited as anyone's pain in the posterior. Even to the woke.
With age comes easier acceptance of the ongoing battle, too.
Last night I had a happy dream about death. Oxymoronic, you say? Not at all - in fact, my state of nonexistence in the dream was infinitely encouraging. You see, my release into death's full stop was like an utter completion.
I think of Eliot鈥檚 poem The Dry Salvages, and I wonder whether these pessimistic woke writers will ever know such rest as I dreamt of:
We have to see them as forever bailing,
Perpetually setting and hauling, while the North East lowers鈥�
Not as making a trip that will be unpayable
For a haul that will not bear examination.
We must suspend our judgement forever -
For whether these others remain here, in the Hope of Resurrection,
Or there, in the Hopelessness of an Empty Vacuum of Hell,
It鈥檚 none of our business.
For as Ezekiel says we can only prophecy to the wind -
For only the wind will listen.
June 15, 2021
Meditations on Incompleteness
The only thing certain about any work of literature, indeed about writing of any kind, is that it is; it exists. But its being is of a certain kind. While essentially passive, writing is seditious. It promotes uncertainty about what is already known through both experience and other writing. It interrupts whatever intentions it encounters in the reader. It creates a space, a zone, of insecurity which paradoxically induces the need for more reading and hence more writing. Thus writing seduces both writers and readers into an obsessive state of permanent 鈥榰nfinishedness,鈥� of longing for more.
鈥淭o write is to break the bond that unites the word with myself,鈥� says Blanchot. In a sense this sterilises language. The word becomes independent once launched. On its own it has no effect. It is barely any thing at all. Language is not human but something alien per Blanchot: 鈥淭o write is, moreover, to withdraw language from the world, to detach it from what makes it a power.鈥�
And to read, one might add, is to break the bond that unites the world with the reader, replacing what is with what is written. What is read is doubly detached - from the writer and from the world. It is its own independent space, lurking, an alien reminder to the writer and a sort of fly-trap for any reader who happens to notice its existence.
Within this literary space anything is possible. Interpretations are potentially infinite. Like the physical universe, literary space, therefore, is expanding at an increasing rate. Writing breeds as it is fertilised through reading. It is not the gene that is selfish but the word that desires replication, translation, and re-definition.
Literary space is democratic in the same way that a dictionary is democratic. Individuals propose without constraint but only literary space disposes. This is the primary source of uncertainty. No one knows the physics of literary space. Its laws are its own, and hidden. Whenever these laws are in danger of being discovered, they change.
Religion is a small corner of literary space which is typically claimed by an authority which desires to limit local expansion and objects to incompleteness on principle. This sort of hubris has no effect on literary space but causes significant misery for readers and writers. The pen is not always mightier than the sword. But both are always subject to the dominance of literary space, and succumb to it eventually.
All activity inside literary space is useless. But it is where usefulness is defined. More to the point, it is where usefulness is re-defined, along with all other valuations. The revaluation of values occurs there more or less continuously in a way Nietzsche would approve, submitting himself to that very process. Since all authority relies on the stability of valuations to remain in power, there is a permanent tension between government - civil, social, religious, scientific, and institutional - and the activities of literary space.
Despite its density of population, literary space is a lonely place. Writing and reading are solitary activities. There is no consolation for this solitude except for the deeper penetration into literary space. Having entered into it, salvation is hopeless. Or rather, salvation is the very hopelessness of ever achieving a final understanding literary space. Incompleteness is our destiny, interrupted only by death.
The only thing certain about any work of literature, indeed about writing of any kind, is that it is; it exists. But its being is of a certain kind. While essentially passive, writing is seditious. It promotes uncertainty about what is already known through both experience and other writing. It interrupts whatever intentions it encounters in the reader. It creates a space, a zone, of insecurity which paradoxically induces the need for more reading and hence more writing. Thus writing seduces both writers and readers into an obsessive state of permanent 鈥榰nfinishedness,鈥� of longing for more.
鈥淭o write is to break the bond that unites the word with myself,鈥� says Blanchot. In a sense this sterilises language. The word becomes independent once launched. On its own it has no effect. It is barely any thing at all. Language is not human but something alien per Blanchot: 鈥淭o write is, moreover, to withdraw language from the world, to detach it from what makes it a power.鈥�
And to read, one might add, is to break the bond that unites the world with the reader, replacing what is with what is written. What is read is doubly detached - from the writer and from the world. It is its own independent space, lurking, an alien reminder to the writer and a sort of fly-trap for any reader who happens to notice its existence.
Within this literary space anything is possible. Interpretations are potentially infinite. Like the physical universe, literary space, therefore, is expanding at an increasing rate. Writing breeds as it is fertilised through reading. It is not the gene that is selfish but the word that desires replication, translation, and re-definition.
Literary space is democratic in the same way that a dictionary is democratic. Individuals propose without constraint but only literary space disposes. This is the primary source of uncertainty. No one knows the physics of literary space. Its laws are its own, and hidden. Whenever these laws are in danger of being discovered, they change.
Religion is a small corner of literary space which is typically claimed by an authority which desires to limit local expansion and objects to incompleteness on principle. This sort of hubris has no effect on literary space but causes significant misery for readers and writers. The pen is not always mightier than the sword. But both are always subject to the dominance of literary space, and succumb to it eventually.
All activity inside literary space is useless. But it is where usefulness is defined. More to the point, it is where usefulness is re-defined, along with all other valuations. The revaluation of values occurs there more or less continuously in a way Nietzsche would approve, submitting himself to that very process. Since all authority relies on the stability of valuations to remain in power, there is a permanent tension between government - civil, social, religious, scientific, and institutional - and the activities of literary space.
Despite its density of population, literary space is a lonely place. Writing and reading are solitary activities. There is no consolation for this solitude except for the deeper penetration into literary space. Having entered into it, salvation is hopeless. Or rather, salvation is the very hopelessness of ever achieving a final understanding literary space. Incompleteness is our destiny, interrupted only by death.
February 11, 2020
Tu traccia infinita!
鈥淟a terza persona significa che me stesso 猫 divenuto nessuno, che gli altri sono divenuti altro, che l脿 dove mi trovo non posso rivolgermi a me stesso e che chi si rivolge a me non pu貌 dire io e a sua volta 猫 altro da s茅鈥�.
Ho letto questo libro con impegno e mi ha restituito un pensiero complesso e raffinato che non so se sia accessibile a una sintesi. Le posizioni politiche dell'autore sono difficili e insicure tanto quanto si rivela polivalente e antinomica la sua riflessione filosofica e letteraria. Cercando di entrare nel discorso del testo, il lettore si trova vicino a s茅 come parole familiari i versi di Rilke e H枚lderlin, le speculazioni negative di Mallarm茅 e Nietzsche, la fenomenologia esistenziale di Kafka. Italo Calvino ricorda nel saggio L'ordinatore di desideri, contenuto in Una pietra sopra, l'opinione di Blanchot sulla felicit脿 misurata, secondo la quale La misura 猫 un'esigenza cos矛 smisurata che obbliga non solo tutto l'universo a modificarsi, ma non si contenta dell'universo e lo fa elemento d'un altro e cos矛 via, quasi senza fine, fino alla notte calma in cui tutto si ferma senza che nulla si disfaccia鈥�. Cos矛, 猫 evidente come sia notturno il discorso di Blanchot, originato dalla notte primaria che 猫 fonte di una notte altra. Stefano Agosti, in prefazione, nota con acutezza che questo testo 猫 in stretto legame con le idee di Saussure e Lacan, specie per il concetto di vuoto, assenza, mancanza, dai quali lasciar discendere le elaborazioni sulla natura del segno linguistico e della parola, sulla relazione tra le cose e il linguaggio, nel dialogo tra potenzialit脿 e oggettualit脿. Blanchot crede che l'opera d'arte, letteraria o in altra forma, tenda sempre a un vuoto dell'origine, sia in altri termini irraggiungibile persino alla scrittura, tormentata e sottomessa, perch茅 si presenta come 别蝉迟谤补苍别颈迟脿, incessante e intangibile. Questa caratteristica 猫 condivisa in Blanchot dalla neutralit脿 del testo artistico e dalla ineffabilit脿 conoscitiva della morte come evento e come impossibilit脿. La morte 猫 un aldil脿 che dobbiamo imparare a riconoscere e accogliere. L'arte e la sua tensione verso la morte tentano, dilatando l'io l'una verso l'altra, un'esposizione, un'incorporazione, una pienezza del vuoto, che naturalmente 猫 destinata al fallimento, nella ricerca di una verit脿 segreta sempre ineffabile e inconoscibile. Il poeta scava il verso e quindi deve disperare; lo scrittore appartiene a ci貌 che esiste prima dell'opera, a un'anteriorit脿 che egli non pu貌 mai convertire in dimora. La solitudine essenziale dello scrittore si rivolge all'intimit脿 con il tu del lettore, ricerca un movimento verso un oggetto (che 猫 transizione), divenuto la sua ombra, rendendolo pura passivit脿, laddove egli cerca di preservare, con una prensione persecutrice, quel che per lui non ha mai inizio, ed egli maledettamente ricomincia, volendo privare il linguaggio del mondo, del gigantesco mormor矛o del mondo. Ovvero: Se voglio diventare l'eco, devo imporgli il silenzio. Errare 猫 dunque il compito infinito dei soggetti della creazione letteraria, l'autore, il testo, il lettore, nella duplice accezione di movimento continuo ed errore, interruzione della pulsione alla verit脿; cos矛 nel mentre della ricerca, si crea quello che Blanchot definisce 鈥渓o spazio interiore del mondo鈥�. La malinconia di Kafka si compone di luce spaventosa e attraente, perch茅 lo inabissa; egli mette in narrazione l'impossibilit脿 di non vedere, per lui scrivere 猫 un'apertura su ci貌 che 猫, quando non c'猫 ancora un mondo. In ci貌 la letteratura manifesta una caratteristica unica, mettere in contatto con quel luogo impersonale e anonimo dove si invera la morte, quel nulla inafferrabile che non giunge mai, ma insieme la negazione possibile, la facolt脿 di morire. 脠 cos矛 che Blanchot arriva a definire anche il suicidio; prendere una morte per l'altra, sostituire l'ombra di qualcosa di neutro, il rifiuto al mondo, con l'oscurit脿 di una cessazione congiuntiva, spirituale e indicibile. 鈥漀on mi allontano dagli uomini per vivere in pace, bens矛 per poter morire in pace鈥�. Le cose hanno una profondit脿 naturale che sfugge al possesso della lingua; le parole non sono materia di verit脿. Da una parte c'猫 il mondo concreto, senza di noi; dall'altra un mondo ideale, falso, portatore di illusione. In questo senso l'ambiguit脿 si presenta nei suoi differenti livelli, tutto 猫 parola ma la parola stessa 猫 sparizione, dissoluzione, dissimulazione. Scrivere significa, sempre nel discorso letterario, trovare quel punto immaginario in cui nulla si rivela, non ci sia nulla che lavori dentro le parole. Rilke scrisse che 鈥渋 versi non sono sentimenti, sono esperienze鈥�. Siamo certi allora che la scrittura non appartenga al male, ci interroga Blanchot? Nessuno 猫 sicuro di esistere n茅 di morire e nessuno mette in dubbio la vita n茅 la morte, ci nascondiamo dalla vita e dalla morte, nascondendoci in esse. 脠 l'affermazione, l'appropriazione di Orfeo, l'oscura lotta per fuggire la necessit脿, l'indefinito, la negligenza. Scrive Blanchot che colui che viene raggiunto dall'invisibilit脿 non 猫 pi霉 l'io, 猫 un altro, che la morte ha trascurato e rifiutato. In questa contraddizione identitaria sta la nostra sofferenza, e l'impazienza che riserviamo al dolore; 猫 la nostra paura che crea quel che ci fa paura, lo spazio della fine 猫 quel lato della vita che non 猫 rivolto verso di noi. Non esiste un al di qua e un al di l脿, ma solo una grande unit脿, dove dimora la nostra esistenza, rendendo la nostra coscienza un ostacolo, perch茅 in essa il nostro destino 猫 essere sempre di fronte, presenze e separatezze simultanee. Ecco allora che lo spazio ci oltrepassa e traduce le cose, noi ci consumiamo felicemente nell'essere, continuando a muoverci, trasformarci, puro movimento, apprendiamo i dati dell'esistenza terrena e partecipiamo a significati superiori, in questa dualit脿 subordinati e insubordinati, all'eternit脿 e alla mortalit脿. Tutto risuona, tutto 猫 nel ritmo. Il canto 猫 assenza e presenza, 猫 trasfigurazione, dice cose finite che escludano l'infinito, che siano opera del cuore, dove le cose si convertono, si fanno interiori. Attraverso il canto, il soggetto non pensa al mondo, 猫 il mondo che pensa lui; scriveva Hofmannsthal che 猫 compito del poeta 鈥漬on impedire a nulla l'accesso alla sua anima鈥�. Attuale in questo il pensiero di Blanchot: il libro 猫 intimit脿, ma oggi l'intimit脿 猫 diventata una potenza esteriore; la psicoanalisi ci insegna che l'immagine sembra consegnarci profondamente a noi stessi; apparenza, appunto. Solide difese costruiamo contro il mondo superiore e cos矛 siamo vulnerabili ai rischi del mondo inferiore. La notte rinchiude nel canto quel che passa oltre il canto. Blanchot 猫 convinto quindi che l'opera sia una via che conduce all'ispirazione, e, a differenza di Wittgenstein, crede che quel che non pu貌 essere detto, debba comunque farsi sentire. Tutto quel che 猫 nascosto deve apparire. Bene, ho letto questo libro, e ancora rifletto sulle parole percorse: che ne 猫 di un libro che non viene letto? 脠 la leggerezza del lettore (ancora Calvino) a fare s矛 che l'opera diventi opera: il libro 猫 uno spazio in cui niente ha ancora senso, 猫 un'aperta violenza verso l'origine. Il lettore evocato scrive nell'autore; poetico vuol dire soggettivo, il testo ci rende deboli, ci annienta, designa una regione dove l'impossibilit脿 non 猫 pi霉 privazione ma affermazione, una regione dove possiamo vedere le cose nella loro trasparenza. E nel tempo dell'angoscia.
鈥溾€漁, dimmi poeta, quel che fai. - Io celebro.
Ma il mortale 猫 mostruoso,
come puoi sopportarlo, come puoi accoglierlo? - Io celebro.
Ma quel che non ha nome, l'anonimo,
come fai a invocarlo comunque? - Io celebro.
Donde trai il tuo diritto d'essere vero
in ogni costume, sotto ogni maschera? - Io celebro
E come possono il silenzio e il furore conoscerti,
cos矛 come la stella e la tempesta? - Perch茅 io celebro鈥�.
Rainer Maria Rilke, Per Leonie Zacharias, Poesie Sparse, 20 dicembre 1921
鈥淟a terza persona significa che me stesso 猫 divenuto nessuno, che gli altri sono divenuti altro, che l脿 dove mi trovo non posso rivolgermi a me stesso e che chi si rivolge a me non pu貌 dire io e a sua volta 猫 altro da s茅鈥�.
Ho letto questo libro con impegno e mi ha restituito un pensiero complesso e raffinato che non so se sia accessibile a una sintesi. Le posizioni politiche dell'autore sono difficili e insicure tanto quanto si rivela polivalente e antinomica la sua riflessione filosofica e letteraria. Cercando di entrare nel discorso del testo, il lettore si trova vicino a s茅 come parole familiari i versi di Rilke e H枚lderlin, le speculazioni negative di Mallarm茅 e Nietzsche, la fenomenologia esistenziale di Kafka. Italo Calvino ricorda nel saggio L'ordinatore di desideri, contenuto in Una pietra sopra, l'opinione di Blanchot sulla felicit脿 misurata, secondo la quale La misura 猫 un'esigenza cos矛 smisurata che obbliga non solo tutto l'universo a modificarsi, ma non si contenta dell'universo e lo fa elemento d'un altro e cos矛 via, quasi senza fine, fino alla notte calma in cui tutto si ferma senza che nulla si disfaccia鈥�. Cos矛, 猫 evidente come sia notturno il discorso di Blanchot, originato dalla notte primaria che 猫 fonte di una notte altra. Stefano Agosti, in prefazione, nota con acutezza che questo testo 猫 in stretto legame con le idee di Saussure e Lacan, specie per il concetto di vuoto, assenza, mancanza, dai quali lasciar discendere le elaborazioni sulla natura del segno linguistico e della parola, sulla relazione tra le cose e il linguaggio, nel dialogo tra potenzialit脿 e oggettualit脿. Blanchot crede che l'opera d'arte, letteraria o in altra forma, tenda sempre a un vuoto dell'origine, sia in altri termini irraggiungibile persino alla scrittura, tormentata e sottomessa, perch茅 si presenta come 别蝉迟谤补苍别颈迟脿, incessante e intangibile. Questa caratteristica 猫 condivisa in Blanchot dalla neutralit脿 del testo artistico e dalla ineffabilit脿 conoscitiva della morte come evento e come impossibilit脿. La morte 猫 un aldil脿 che dobbiamo imparare a riconoscere e accogliere. L'arte e la sua tensione verso la morte tentano, dilatando l'io l'una verso l'altra, un'esposizione, un'incorporazione, una pienezza del vuoto, che naturalmente 猫 destinata al fallimento, nella ricerca di una verit脿 segreta sempre ineffabile e inconoscibile. Il poeta scava il verso e quindi deve disperare; lo scrittore appartiene a ci貌 che esiste prima dell'opera, a un'anteriorit脿 che egli non pu貌 mai convertire in dimora. La solitudine essenziale dello scrittore si rivolge all'intimit脿 con il tu del lettore, ricerca un movimento verso un oggetto (che 猫 transizione), divenuto la sua ombra, rendendolo pura passivit脿, laddove egli cerca di preservare, con una prensione persecutrice, quel che per lui non ha mai inizio, ed egli maledettamente ricomincia, volendo privare il linguaggio del mondo, del gigantesco mormor矛o del mondo. Ovvero: Se voglio diventare l'eco, devo imporgli il silenzio. Errare 猫 dunque il compito infinito dei soggetti della creazione letteraria, l'autore, il testo, il lettore, nella duplice accezione di movimento continuo ed errore, interruzione della pulsione alla verit脿; cos矛 nel mentre della ricerca, si crea quello che Blanchot definisce 鈥渓o spazio interiore del mondo鈥�. La malinconia di Kafka si compone di luce spaventosa e attraente, perch茅 lo inabissa; egli mette in narrazione l'impossibilit脿 di non vedere, per lui scrivere 猫 un'apertura su ci貌 che 猫, quando non c'猫 ancora un mondo. In ci貌 la letteratura manifesta una caratteristica unica, mettere in contatto con quel luogo impersonale e anonimo dove si invera la morte, quel nulla inafferrabile che non giunge mai, ma insieme la negazione possibile, la facolt脿 di morire. 脠 cos矛 che Blanchot arriva a definire anche il suicidio; prendere una morte per l'altra, sostituire l'ombra di qualcosa di neutro, il rifiuto al mondo, con l'oscurit脿 di una cessazione congiuntiva, spirituale e indicibile. 鈥漀on mi allontano dagli uomini per vivere in pace, bens矛 per poter morire in pace鈥�. Le cose hanno una profondit脿 naturale che sfugge al possesso della lingua; le parole non sono materia di verit脿. Da una parte c'猫 il mondo concreto, senza di noi; dall'altra un mondo ideale, falso, portatore di illusione. In questo senso l'ambiguit脿 si presenta nei suoi differenti livelli, tutto 猫 parola ma la parola stessa 猫 sparizione, dissoluzione, dissimulazione. Scrivere significa, sempre nel discorso letterario, trovare quel punto immaginario in cui nulla si rivela, non ci sia nulla che lavori dentro le parole. Rilke scrisse che 鈥渋 versi non sono sentimenti, sono esperienze鈥�. Siamo certi allora che la scrittura non appartenga al male, ci interroga Blanchot? Nessuno 猫 sicuro di esistere n茅 di morire e nessuno mette in dubbio la vita n茅 la morte, ci nascondiamo dalla vita e dalla morte, nascondendoci in esse. 脠 l'affermazione, l'appropriazione di Orfeo, l'oscura lotta per fuggire la necessit脿, l'indefinito, la negligenza. Scrive Blanchot che colui che viene raggiunto dall'invisibilit脿 non 猫 pi霉 l'io, 猫 un altro, che la morte ha trascurato e rifiutato. In questa contraddizione identitaria sta la nostra sofferenza, e l'impazienza che riserviamo al dolore; 猫 la nostra paura che crea quel che ci fa paura, lo spazio della fine 猫 quel lato della vita che non 猫 rivolto verso di noi. Non esiste un al di qua e un al di l脿, ma solo una grande unit脿, dove dimora la nostra esistenza, rendendo la nostra coscienza un ostacolo, perch茅 in essa il nostro destino 猫 essere sempre di fronte, presenze e separatezze simultanee. Ecco allora che lo spazio ci oltrepassa e traduce le cose, noi ci consumiamo felicemente nell'essere, continuando a muoverci, trasformarci, puro movimento, apprendiamo i dati dell'esistenza terrena e partecipiamo a significati superiori, in questa dualit脿 subordinati e insubordinati, all'eternit脿 e alla mortalit脿. Tutto risuona, tutto 猫 nel ritmo. Il canto 猫 assenza e presenza, 猫 trasfigurazione, dice cose finite che escludano l'infinito, che siano opera del cuore, dove le cose si convertono, si fanno interiori. Attraverso il canto, il soggetto non pensa al mondo, 猫 il mondo che pensa lui; scriveva Hofmannsthal che 猫 compito del poeta 鈥漬on impedire a nulla l'accesso alla sua anima鈥�. Attuale in questo il pensiero di Blanchot: il libro 猫 intimit脿, ma oggi l'intimit脿 猫 diventata una potenza esteriore; la psicoanalisi ci insegna che l'immagine sembra consegnarci profondamente a noi stessi; apparenza, appunto. Solide difese costruiamo contro il mondo superiore e cos矛 siamo vulnerabili ai rischi del mondo inferiore. La notte rinchiude nel canto quel che passa oltre il canto. Blanchot 猫 convinto quindi che l'opera sia una via che conduce all'ispirazione, e, a differenza di Wittgenstein, crede che quel che non pu貌 essere detto, debba comunque farsi sentire. Tutto quel che 猫 nascosto deve apparire. Bene, ho letto questo libro, e ancora rifletto sulle parole percorse: che ne 猫 di un libro che non viene letto? 脠 la leggerezza del lettore (ancora Calvino) a fare s矛 che l'opera diventi opera: il libro 猫 uno spazio in cui niente ha ancora senso, 猫 un'aperta violenza verso l'origine. Il lettore evocato scrive nell'autore; poetico vuol dire soggettivo, il testo ci rende deboli, ci annienta, designa una regione dove l'impossibilit脿 non 猫 pi霉 privazione ma affermazione, una regione dove possiamo vedere le cose nella loro trasparenza. E nel tempo dell'angoscia.
鈥溾€漁, dimmi poeta, quel che fai. - Io celebro.
Ma il mortale 猫 mostruoso,
come puoi sopportarlo, come puoi accoglierlo? - Io celebro.
Ma quel che non ha nome, l'anonimo,
come fai a invocarlo comunque? - Io celebro.
Donde trai il tuo diritto d'essere vero
in ogni costume, sotto ogni maschera? - Io celebro
E come possono il silenzio e il furore conoscerti,
cos矛 come la stella e la tempesta? - Perch茅 io celebro鈥�.
Rainer Maria Rilke, Per Leonie Zacharias, Poesie Sparse, 20 dicembre 1921
August 15, 2007
In order to balance out the seven Harry Potter books I have on my page, I realized that I should probably start giving myself credit for all the smart-person reading I've done. It's just...who wants to read a review of theory when they can read a review of Harry Potter...besides Erez?
So, Blanchot is the intersection of the soul into the academy. He is that space that allows for irresonsibility, for anxiety, for the honest shadow that says we only half-know what we are doing. His concept of "Fascination" has burned in my brain for seven years and inspired poems, an experiemental novel, short stories...and even a literary magazine.
He is easier to digest that Deleuze and Guattari and more poetic than Benjamin...although they do both share a wonderful mystisism.
Some day I'll go back to grad school and maybe then I'll study B-dog in a structure way. For now, I read him on my own term and am probably better for it.
So, Blanchot is the intersection of the soul into the academy. He is that space that allows for irresonsibility, for anxiety, for the honest shadow that says we only half-know what we are doing. His concept of "Fascination" has burned in my brain for seven years and inspired poems, an experiemental novel, short stories...and even a literary magazine.
He is easier to digest that Deleuze and Guattari and more poetic than Benjamin...although they do both share a wonderful mystisism.
Some day I'll go back to grad school and maybe then I'll study B-dog in a structure way. For now, I read him on my own term and am probably better for it.
July 3, 2024
Ouf! Lecture tr猫s fascinante mais aussi tr猫s dense; surtout les parties th茅oriques, non-ax茅es sur des oeuvres concr猫tes. (J鈥檃vais l鈥檌mpression qu鈥檌l y en a plus ici que dans, par exemple, 鈥淟e livre 脿 venir.鈥�)
Le chapitre sur Kafka 茅tait peut-锚tre encore le plus accessible, mais ce sont les tout derniers (sur la lecture et la communication) qui m鈥檕nt le plus frapp茅.
Je vais devoir dig茅rer tout 莽a longtemps avant de pouvoir en dire quelque chose de tant soit peu intelligent.
Le chapitre sur Kafka 茅tait peut-锚tre encore le plus accessible, mais ce sont les tout derniers (sur la lecture et la communication) qui m鈥檕nt le plus frapp茅.
Je vais devoir dig茅rer tout 莽a longtemps avant de pouvoir en dire quelque chose de tant soit peu intelligent.
June 30, 2014
Anyone who writes or is interested in writing should read this work immediately. It shocks me how little Blanchot is known and discussed (even in academia(and especially outside of france)).
A figure of great thought and importance, dwelling on the margins of society (both physical and intellectual)
A figure of great thought and importance, dwelling on the margins of society (both physical and intellectual)
July 3, 2021
'Ecrire, c'est disposer le langage sous la fascination et, par lui, en lui, demeurer en contact avec le milieu absolu, l脿 o霉 la chose redevient image, o霉 l'image, d'allusion 脿 une figure, devient allusion 脿 ce qui est sans figure et, de forme dessin茅e sur l'absence, devient l'informe pr茅sence de cette absence, l'ouverture opaque et vide sur ce qui est quand il n'y a plus de monde, quand il n'y a pas encore de monde.'
Un livre magnifique sur l'art et le processus de sa cr茅ation.
Un livre magnifique sur l'art et le processus de sa cr茅ation.
August 5, 2007
Socrates, a man I deeply respect, hated sophists. But then again, he never read Blanchot.
December 30, 2024
este brilhante ensaio, necessariamente fragment谩rio, parece 脿 primeira vista uma reflex茫o sobre a cria莽茫o liter谩ria e art铆stica e o poder da palavra. por茅m, atrav茅s dos exemplos de algumas obras de mallarm茅, kafka, h枚lderlin e rilke, encontramos algo mais profundo: a obscuridade interior inerente ao artista, a solid茫o criativa do escritor, a experi锚ncia antecipada do fim da vida (o cap铆tulo dedicada a rilke e 脿 morte 茅 qualquer coisa...). uma medita莽茫o cr铆tica sem paralelo, que h谩 muito merecia uma tradu莽茫o moderna em portugu锚s s茫o e escorreito.
November 1, 2011
Art and Action (Political)
鈥淲hoever acknowledges effective action in the thick of history as his essential tak cannot prefer artistic action. Art acts poorly and little. It is clear that if Marx had followed the dreams of his youth and written the most beautiful novels in the world, he would have enchanted the world, but he would not have shaken it.鈥� (213)
This as opposed to a pre-enlightenment art which could participate in eternal or sacred time. Desacralized, art can only be utilitarian (part of the world of means and purposes) and in comparison to all other courses of action, pretty shitty at being utilitarian.
Usefulness in Refusal
And so art finds its place where 鈥渁rt withdraws into the most invisible and the most interior鈥攊nto the empty point of existence where it shelters its sovereignty in refusal and the superabundance of refusal鈥� (215).
In Glorifying the Self, Un-limiting the self, the Artist Affirms the Will, Power, and Useful Destiny of Man
鈥淚f he discloses the profundity of inner life, if he restores its richness, its free movement鈥he more this self becomes deep, insatiable, and empty, the more powerful is the advance of the human will, which already in the heart鈥檚 intimacy (but with a still unperceived intention) has posed the world as a set of objects that can be produced and are destined to usefulness鈥� (217)
The Poem as Making then Casting Out Its Author
鈥淚nspiration is not the gift of the poem to someone existing already, but the gift of existence to someone who does not yet exist鈥� (227)
The poem 鈥渄ispossesses鈥� the poet who writes it. 鈥淭he creator has no power over his work.鈥�
The Space of the Poem. Poem as other.
What the work creates is 鈥渘ot another world, but the other of all worlds, that which is always other than the world鈥� (228)
鈥淎lways it says, in one guise or another: beginning鈥�
Art Without the Gods. Art in a desacralized world.
鈥淲hat will become now of art, now that the gods and even their absence are gone, and now that man鈥檚 presence offers no support?鈥� (233)
Art as repetition (and repetition aligned with failure)
鈥淏eginning again, repetition, the fatal return鈥攅verything evoked by experiences where estrangement is allied with the strangely familiar, where the irremedial takes the form of an endless repetition, where the same is posed in the dizziness of redoubling, there is no cognition but only recognition.鈥� (243)
Art and the beginning, alpha
鈥淏ut where has art led us? To a time before the world, before the beginning.鈥� (244). Utopia.
Language and the Absence of the Sacred 鈥� the loss of the evoking word
鈥淚t seems that art owes the strangest of torments and the very grave passion that animate it to the disappearance of the historical forms of the divine. Art was the language of the gods. The gods having disappeared, it became the language in which their disappearance was expressed, then the language in which this disappearance itself ceased to appear. This forgetfulness now speaks all alone.鈥� (246)
鈥渢he double absence of the gods who are no longer and who are not yet. The poem鈥檚 space is entirely represented by this and, which indicates the double absence, the separation at its most tragic instant鈥� (247)
鈥淲hoever acknowledges effective action in the thick of history as his essential tak cannot prefer artistic action. Art acts poorly and little. It is clear that if Marx had followed the dreams of his youth and written the most beautiful novels in the world, he would have enchanted the world, but he would not have shaken it.鈥� (213)
This as opposed to a pre-enlightenment art which could participate in eternal or sacred time. Desacralized, art can only be utilitarian (part of the world of means and purposes) and in comparison to all other courses of action, pretty shitty at being utilitarian.
Usefulness in Refusal
And so art finds its place where 鈥渁rt withdraws into the most invisible and the most interior鈥攊nto the empty point of existence where it shelters its sovereignty in refusal and the superabundance of refusal鈥� (215).
In Glorifying the Self, Un-limiting the self, the Artist Affirms the Will, Power, and Useful Destiny of Man
鈥淚f he discloses the profundity of inner life, if he restores its richness, its free movement鈥he more this self becomes deep, insatiable, and empty, the more powerful is the advance of the human will, which already in the heart鈥檚 intimacy (but with a still unperceived intention) has posed the world as a set of objects that can be produced and are destined to usefulness鈥� (217)
The Poem as Making then Casting Out Its Author
鈥淚nspiration is not the gift of the poem to someone existing already, but the gift of existence to someone who does not yet exist鈥� (227)
The poem 鈥渄ispossesses鈥� the poet who writes it. 鈥淭he creator has no power over his work.鈥�
The Space of the Poem. Poem as other.
What the work creates is 鈥渘ot another world, but the other of all worlds, that which is always other than the world鈥� (228)
鈥淎lways it says, in one guise or another: beginning鈥�
Art Without the Gods. Art in a desacralized world.
鈥淲hat will become now of art, now that the gods and even their absence are gone, and now that man鈥檚 presence offers no support?鈥� (233)
Art as repetition (and repetition aligned with failure)
鈥淏eginning again, repetition, the fatal return鈥攅verything evoked by experiences where estrangement is allied with the strangely familiar, where the irremedial takes the form of an endless repetition, where the same is posed in the dizziness of redoubling, there is no cognition but only recognition.鈥� (243)
Art and the beginning, alpha
鈥淏ut where has art led us? To a time before the world, before the beginning.鈥� (244). Utopia.
Language and the Absence of the Sacred 鈥� the loss of the evoking word
鈥淚t seems that art owes the strangest of torments and the very grave passion that animate it to the disappearance of the historical forms of the divine. Art was the language of the gods. The gods having disappeared, it became the language in which their disappearance was expressed, then the language in which this disappearance itself ceased to appear. This forgetfulness now speaks all alone.鈥� (246)
鈥渢he double absence of the gods who are no longer and who are not yet. The poem鈥檚 space is entirely represented by this and, which indicates the double absence, the separation at its most tragic instant鈥� (247)
April 13, 2022
鈥淭he poet鈥檚 destiny is to expose himself to the force of the undetermined and to the pure violence of being from which nothing can be made, to endure this force courageously, but also to contain it by imposing upon it restraint and the perfection of a form.鈥�
Blanchot's analysis heaves out a bittersweet sense of nothingness. Sometimes crossing the sharp outline of literary paradox he goes on to touch the infinite realm of man's existential relation with his act writing. Words,space,thoughts and language find their own innermost contraction and relief when Blanchot describes ambiguously the ambiguous role of art in our life,and even in our death. Most of time grazing the soul of Kafka and Rilke,he describes what we can call the impossibility of all our possibility or in some more refined words: writing as the art of dissolving. There are paradoxes whenever Blanchot wrote a line..the very act of his writing clearly shows how much he loved to play with paradox鈥攖he glimmering nothingness of our being. The opening chapter asserts the 鈥榮olitude鈥� of the written work:听To write is to break the bond that unites the word with myself.听The work is even separate from the book, which we might see as a vessel borne on the surface of a submarine current:听Writing is the interminable, the incessant. This means that the space of the title is not a privileged realm for a few 鈥済reat writers鈥�; it does not have borders or features with rules to be learned but is at a remove from such power. Mallarm茅听felt the very disquieting symptoms caused by the sole act of writing.
鈥楤lanchot cites Kafka鈥檚 comment that he has entered literature when he replaces 鈥業鈥� with 鈥楬e鈥�, but adds that this metamorphosis is more profound: In doing this,听the writer belongs to a language which no one speaks, which is addressed to no one, which has no center, and which reveals nothing.听Mastery over words puts the writer in contact with a fundamental passivity that cannot be grasped:听To write is to make oneself the echo of what cannot cease speaking.听Instead, in a stirring paradox,听mastery consists in the power to stop writing, to interrupt what is being written. This a curious formulation. When we admire the tone of a particular writer, he says, it is not the writer鈥檚 voice we admire but the听intimacy of the silence he imposes on the word.
Blanchot's analysis heaves out a bittersweet sense of nothingness. Sometimes crossing the sharp outline of literary paradox he goes on to touch the infinite realm of man's existential relation with his act writing. Words,space,thoughts and language find their own innermost contraction and relief when Blanchot describes ambiguously the ambiguous role of art in our life,and even in our death. Most of time grazing the soul of Kafka and Rilke,he describes what we can call the impossibility of all our possibility or in some more refined words: writing as the art of dissolving. There are paradoxes whenever Blanchot wrote a line..the very act of his writing clearly shows how much he loved to play with paradox鈥攖he glimmering nothingness of our being. The opening chapter asserts the 鈥榮olitude鈥� of the written work:听To write is to break the bond that unites the word with myself.听The work is even separate from the book, which we might see as a vessel borne on the surface of a submarine current:听Writing is the interminable, the incessant. This means that the space of the title is not a privileged realm for a few 鈥済reat writers鈥�; it does not have borders or features with rules to be learned but is at a remove from such power. Mallarm茅听felt the very disquieting symptoms caused by the sole act of writing.
鈥楤lanchot cites Kafka鈥檚 comment that he has entered literature when he replaces 鈥業鈥� with 鈥楬e鈥�, but adds that this metamorphosis is more profound: In doing this,听the writer belongs to a language which no one speaks, which is addressed to no one, which has no center, and which reveals nothing.听Mastery over words puts the writer in contact with a fundamental passivity that cannot be grasped:听To write is to make oneself the echo of what cannot cease speaking.听Instead, in a stirring paradox,听mastery consists in the power to stop writing, to interrupt what is being written. This a curious formulation. When we admire the tone of a particular writer, he says, it is not the writer鈥檚 voice we admire but the听intimacy of the silence he imposes on the word.
October 8, 2018
I am always reading this book...the writing of the "constellations of doubt" - writing as close as possible to the desire for language itself.
December 8, 2017
challenging in more ways than one
January 5, 2025
"The poem is the answer鈥檚 absence. The poet is one who, through his sacrifice, keeps the question open in his work. At every time he lives the time of distress, and his time is always the empty time when what he must live is the double infidelity: that of men, that of the gods鈥攁nd also the double absence of the gods who are no longer and who are not yet. The poem鈥檚 space is entirely represented by this and, which indicates the double absence, the separation at its most tragic instant. But as for whether it is the and that unites and binds together, the pure word in which the void of the past and the void of the future become true presence, the 'now' of dawn鈥攖his question is reserved in the work. It is that which reveals itself in the work by returning to concealment, to the distress of forgetting."
January 8, 2024
"We do not write according to what we are; we are according to what we write."
Maurice Blanchot finds within writing an abyssal impulse: it's a practice of erasing oneself from the affirmational possibilities of "the real", even of life, aspiring instead to something like "mastery over death." My favorite section of the book might be the one devoted to Kafka, who writes that he does "not hide from men because [he wants] to live peacefully, but because [he wants] to perish peacefully." Blanchot clarifies this sentiment to mean that "Kafka cuts himself off from the world in order to write, and he writes in order to die in peace."
The Space of Literature is deliberately opaque theory, no doubt further complicated by the act of translation. Blanchot writes circuitously, swimming around theses without ever really settling on them. He gestures often to referents defined only in the most oblique terms, which frequently made me feel more like I was drowning than swimming alongside him.
I appreciate his emphasis on writing's endemic negation as opposed to its much more oft-discussed productivity/creativity. I also value his substantive analyses of writers' letters and diaries to clarify and complicate their own beliefs about the acts of reading and writing (in addition to Kafka, he devotes a lot of space to Mallarm茅, Rilke, and H枚lderlin).
Maurice Blanchot finds within writing an abyssal impulse: it's a practice of erasing oneself from the affirmational possibilities of "the real", even of life, aspiring instead to something like "mastery over death." My favorite section of the book might be the one devoted to Kafka, who writes that he does "not hide from men because [he wants] to live peacefully, but because [he wants] to perish peacefully." Blanchot clarifies this sentiment to mean that "Kafka cuts himself off from the world in order to write, and he writes in order to die in peace."
The Space of Literature is deliberately opaque theory, no doubt further complicated by the act of translation. Blanchot writes circuitously, swimming around theses without ever really settling on them. He gestures often to referents defined only in the most oblique terms, which frequently made me feel more like I was drowning than swimming alongside him.
I appreciate his emphasis on writing's endemic negation as opposed to its much more oft-discussed productivity/creativity. I also value his substantive analyses of writers' letters and diaries to clarify and complicate their own beliefs about the acts of reading and writing (in addition to Kafka, he devotes a lot of space to Mallarm茅, Rilke, and H枚lderlin).
June 14, 2022
Leer a Blanchot no es f谩cil, m谩s si delicioso. Muchos de sus apartes en este libro me resultaron caricias para mi ser. Su lenguaje merodea la 鈥榗osa鈥�, se va acercando a la 鈥榗osa鈥�, la acaricia, como el buen amante que va calentando el cuerpo del otre sin apuros, pero con un prop贸sito, un tanto oculto, que avanza y se pliega para que une suplique por m谩s. Blanchot es un delicioso amante del lenguaje. Su escritura es tal como su teorizaci贸n sobre la obra literaria: inacci贸n que profundiza en una acci贸n no revelada, avance hacia la no-verdad es decir hacia el vac铆o esencial, hacia el origen imposible pero a su vez anhelado, la palabra en su potencia m谩s errante porque nunca logra ser respuesta certera m谩s s铆 es lugar seguro para la pregunta inagotable por nosotres, ahora que 鈥渓os dioses nos han abandonado鈥�. Todes quienes estamos sumidos en el goce de leer, para quienes est谩n volcados a escribir, para quienes encontramos en el lenguaje 鈥榩o茅tico鈥� un lugar hermoso para estar en este mundo, seguro que este libro ser谩 una muy bella lectura. Leer a Blanchot es una experiencia altamente gozosa para los d铆as de zozobra siempre que uno est茅 dispuesto a encararlos鈥� eso si con gracia y dulzura.
Currently reading
May 15, 20192019 sudah hampir separuh berjalan. Belum ada satu pun buku yang selesai saya baca tahun ini. Di tahun lalu kira-kira saya hanya menamatkan sembilan atau sepuluh buku. Minat baca saya tidak berkurang, hanya rasanya membaca dan melihat-lihat timeline medsos lebih menghibur saat ini, alih-alih membaca buku. Agaknya tahun ini saya tidak akan menyelesaikan buku apa pun. Biarlah buku-buku yang sedang saya baca menjadi semacam unfinished business di hari-hari yang akan tiba.
Sekarang saya mengupdate goodreads ini di daftar panjang orang-orang yang membaca Blanchot. Saya tau Blanchot lewat tulisan Martin S. dan seketika itu langsung ingin tau lebih lanjut tentang filsuf satu ini. Beberapa bulan lalu saya iseng-iseng membaca tulisan Blanchot dan seketika itu langsung beliau masuk ke dalam daftar pendek kanditat filsuf yang akan saya gunakan sebagai pisau bedah di naskah skripsi saya, selain Giacomo Leopardi dan Emil Cioran.
Sekarang saya mengupdate goodreads ini di daftar panjang orang-orang yang membaca Blanchot. Saya tau Blanchot lewat tulisan Martin S. dan seketika itu langsung ingin tau lebih lanjut tentang filsuf satu ini. Beberapa bulan lalu saya iseng-iseng membaca tulisan Blanchot dan seketika itu langsung beliau masuk ke dalam daftar pendek kanditat filsuf yang akan saya gunakan sebagai pisau bedah di naskah skripsi saya, selain Giacomo Leopardi dan Emil Cioran.
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October 8, 2020" The image does not, at first glance, resemble the corpse, but the cadaver's strangeness is perhaps also that of the image. What we call mortal remains escapes common categories. Something is there before us which is not really the living person, nor is it any reality at all. It is neither the same as the person who was alive, nor is it another person, nor is it anything else. What is there, with the absolute calm of something that has found its place, does not, however, succeed in being convincingly here. Death suspends the relation to place, even though the deceased rests heavily in his spot as if upon the only basis that is left him. To be precise, this basis lacks, the place is missing, the corpse is not in its place."
October 20, 2020
Moments of truly heady thinking on the psychology and metaphysical significance of the writerly impulse, a probing of act and being that feels philosophically profound without ringing true for most writers, in any event. Blanchot's analysis of Kafka, however, is exceptional and insightful. And there, I suggest, we stop our reading. Blanchot then turns full tilt into the role of death and suicide in the creative impulse, and he never lets go. It is at this moment in the work where one wonders if we are reflecting on writing or upon the writer's personal obsession. Where does this reflection leave us? Nowhere (in)definite, no where (en)lightening, and no where satiated.
June 10, 2013
Very significant with regard to thoughts on Blas茅 or distinctions between words and things (See Foucault's _The Order of Things_.
March 18, 2024
"How is it possible to proceed with a firm step toward that which will not allow itself to be charted? It seems that both the artist and the suicide succeed in doing something only by deceiving themselves about what they do. The latter takes one death for another, the former takes a book for the work. They devote themselves to this misunderstanding as if blind, but their dim consciousness of it makes of their task a proud bet. For it is as if they were embarking upon a kind of action which could only reach its term at infinity."
Werkelijk een van de beste boeken die ik heb gelezen. Wat hier over de waarheid van kunst wordt gezegd, heeft een enorme kracht. Een onheilspellende kracht. Een ongemakkelijke kracht. Een waarschuwing, maar een welke de waarheid niet schuwt. En de waarheid van de kunst schuwt de waarheid, en is daarmee anders dan de ontvouwing van geschiedenis als de ontvouwing van waarheid, zin en doelmatigheid van de alledaagse wereld van de mensen.
Werkelijk een van de beste boeken die ik heb gelezen. Wat hier over de waarheid van kunst wordt gezegd, heeft een enorme kracht. Een onheilspellende kracht. Een ongemakkelijke kracht. Een waarschuwing, maar een welke de waarheid niet schuwt. En de waarheid van de kunst schuwt de waarheid, en is daarmee anders dan de ontvouwing van geschiedenis als de ontvouwing van waarheid, zin en doelmatigheid van de alledaagse wereld van de mensen.
January 5, 2025
Initial am perceput-o in mod perspectivist drept un manual de teorie literara care sa clarifice aspecte ale procesului de scriere. Am incheiat prin a realiza ca are o stilistica foarte greoaie, e incarcata de subcapitole carora nu le-am inteles sensul, iar intr-un final am reusit sa plec mai incetosat decat am intrat.
June 27, 2023
Lo que me cost贸 terminarlo. Voy a descorchar un vino para celebrar.
October 4, 2024
Light makes room for the pure truth of noises. But at night to suffer the attraction of a star; spiral unfurling, sidereal poison in which the dream fulgurates.
鈥渋l y a une nuit dans la nuit鈥�
鈥渋l y a une nuit dans la nuit鈥�
February 25, 2017
A ces jours, je n鈥檃i jamais lu un livre de critique litt茅raire qui se soit inspir茅 de fa莽on si profonde 脿 l鈥檈xistentialisme de Heidegger.
La po茅sie, c'est-脿-dire l鈥檃rt de cr茅er 脿 travers la langue, est en contact avec le n茅ant, donc la mort. Mais, cela n鈥檈st pas une chose n茅gative, parce que c鈥檈st dans le n茅ant que le po猫te peut 锚tre libre. En effet, n鈥檈tant plus li茅 aux contraintes du r茅el, l鈥檋omme peut fonder son propre monde. En plus, dans le monde n茅 de la reflexion de l鈥櫭ヽrivain les objets sont montr茅s hors de leur sens utilitaire, pour devenir leur propre essence. L鈥檕bjet, dans l鈥檃rt, est sa propre essence, parce qu鈥檌l s鈥櫭﹍oigne du r茅el.
La litt茅rature est l鈥檈xp茅rience de l鈥櫭﹖ernel commencement, parce que l鈥櫭猼re lu est la finalit茅 du texte et chaque lecture devient une nouvelle origine du sens contenu dans la langue du travail artistique. C鈥檈st pourquoi la po茅sie est 脿 la fois un 茅l茅ment li茅 脿 la morte et, mais aussi un 茅l茅ment situ茅 au-del脿 du temps : elle meurt 脿 la fin de chaque lecture, mais une outre lecture est toujours possible. L鈥橭bject litt茅raire est 茅ternel, mais son sens se renouvelle 脿 chaque lecture. Donc, la fin du texte, son contact avec la mort, ouvre toutes les possibilit茅s : la mort dit qu鈥檌l y a toujours la possibilit茅 d鈥檜ne n茅gation, donc de pouvoir choisir entre la pr茅sence et l鈥檃bsence. Sans la mort, il n鈥檡 a pas de choix : tout est sans fin, contraint 脿 锚tre uniquement sa propre essence.
Enfin, il y a toujours la n茅cessit茅 d鈥檜n final : sans la fin, le texte ne peut pas rejoindre son sens plus propre. Tandis que la lecture n鈥檈st pas finie, le r茅cit peut devenir ce que l鈥檕n veut : mais c鈥檈st le final qui dissipe chaque ambigu茂t茅, parce qu鈥檌l dit comment les choses sont pass茅.
June 21, 2019
Ainda que minha experi锚ncia lendo livros sobre teoria liter谩ria seja mediana, posso afirmar que O Espa莽o Liter谩rio 茅 o mais distinto de quantos passaram pela minhas m茫os. Imagine-se Clarice Lispector escrevendo uma obra de teoria liter谩ria? Pois bem, existe e se chama Maurice Blanchot.
Isto n茫o 茅 uma cr铆tica, ainda que, em algumas ocasi玫es senti que o autor se recria em excesso para, 脿s vezes, na minha opini茫o, s贸 dar mais preciosismo ao texto. Contudo, falar de poesia e de literatura sem se valer de alguns recursos estil铆sticos pr贸prios da l铆rica, 茅, em certa forma, justo.
Sendo assim, O Espa莽o Liter谩rio fala de morte, de inspira莽茫o, do processo de escrita, do leitor, da pouca import芒ncia que tem o autor na hora de interpretar a obra (segue a ideia inaugurada por Barthes e continuada por Foucault e Chartier), assim como tem谩ticas t铆picas da cr铆tica e teoria liter谩ria francesa, mas com um toque bastante interessante.
Ent茫o s贸 me resta recomend谩-lo 脿queles estudantes de literatura que queiram se aprofundar nos estudos sobre po茅tica, hermen锚utica e semi贸tica.
Isto n茫o 茅 uma cr铆tica, ainda que, em algumas ocasi玫es senti que o autor se recria em excesso para, 脿s vezes, na minha opini茫o, s贸 dar mais preciosismo ao texto. Contudo, falar de poesia e de literatura sem se valer de alguns recursos estil铆sticos pr贸prios da l铆rica, 茅, em certa forma, justo.
Sendo assim, O Espa莽o Liter谩rio fala de morte, de inspira莽茫o, do processo de escrita, do leitor, da pouca import芒ncia que tem o autor na hora de interpretar a obra (segue a ideia inaugurada por Barthes e continuada por Foucault e Chartier), assim como tem谩ticas t铆picas da cr铆tica e teoria liter谩ria francesa, mas com um toque bastante interessante.
Ent茫o s贸 me resta recomend谩-lo 脿queles estudantes de literatura que queiram se aprofundar nos estudos sobre po茅tica, hermen锚utica e semi贸tica.
July 8, 2015
This is not a book about literature as much as about life's challenges: loneliness, death, artmaking, etc. Blanchot's thoughts are dense, rambling and not so clear but a good exercise for the mind. Some of the writers examined here include Kafka, Mallarm茅, Dostoevsky, Rilke and H枚lderlin.
November 9, 2007
don't always agree w/ him.. but he is among the few that stirs me up
May 13, 2008
Blanchot meditates on literature. How can one recount or say what it is about?
August 7, 2011
Confuso no come莽o, esclarecedor no final.
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