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Bild und Leidenschaft
(2010)
This experience, listening to the radio version of "The Green Hills of Earth" was the first form in which I encountered a problem that in the following years continued to haunt much of the work I have done ever since. This problem has a double aspect, since it involves both 'the visibility of the invisible' and, inseparably linked to it, that of the 'invisibility of the visible'. Far from excluding each other, as opposites are commonly expected to do, 'visibility' and 'invisibility' seem here to be inextricably linked, although not simply the same. The prominence, in the story, of repetition and recurrence, indeed of doubling, suggests that another term should be introduced to describe this curious relationship of non-exclusive opposition, that of 'divisibility'. Visibility divides itself into what is visible and what is invisible. And given the fact that this is also a question of life and death, of living and dying, the process of divisibility can be said to produce not just appearances, but 'apparitions' (which in English, unlike its 'false friend' in French, signifies 'ghosts' and not just appearances). Listening to the radio in that darkened bedroom, I think what I experienced was something like the apparition of such divisibility, by which the invisible seemed to become visible, but only by making the visible invisible. Much later I learned that this was a phenomenon - if one can call it that - quite familiar to philosophers and aestheticians who generally tried to interpret it with the use of words such as "fantasy" and "imagination": what Kant, for example, in 'Kritik der reinen Vernunft' calls "productive" as distinct from "reproductive imagination", which does not merely reproduce what one sees but which produces representations of things that were never seen (and perhaps could never be seen). But I never felt that such concepts were capable of accounting for the strange capacity of those invisible 'images' to produce feelings whose intensity seemed in direct proportion to their indistinct and relatively indeterminate - non-objective - quality.
Although Walter Benjamin was never timid when it came to writing, one practice he consistently avoided was that of creating neologisms. It is therefore with all the more reluctance that I find myself compelled to resort to something similar, in order to sum up a motif that has imposed itself over the years in my reading of Benjamin. What is involved is, to be sure, not exactly a neologism, since it does not involve the creation of a new word, but rather the highlighting of a word-part, a suffix (eine Nachsilbe). In English, to be sure, this suffix, when spoken, is indistinguishable from a word: what distinguishes it from a word is not audible, but only legible: a hyphen, marking a separation that is also a joining, a 'Bindestrich' that does not bind it to anything in particular and yet that requires it to be bound to something else. The suffix in question thus sounds deceptively familiar, since it coincides, audibly, with the word "abilities". However, unlike that word, its first letter - which purely by accident happens to be the first letter of the alphabet--is preceded by a dash. When written in isolation, this gives it a somewhat bizarre appearance, to be sure, since suffixes are not usually encountered separately from the words they modify. But this bizarre appearance pales when compared to its German 'original'. If the book of essays to be published in English under the title, "Benjamin’s -abilities," is ever translated into German - "back" into German I was tempted to write, since German here is of course the language in which Benjamin wrote and in which I generally read him - then its title, were it to be entirely faithful to the English, would indeed have to involve the creation of a neologism. For translated back into German, the German title would require its readers to "read, what was never written", namely: "Benjamins -barkeiten" (written, "Bindestrich- b--kleingeschrieben").
Timothy Findley's "The Wars" is a very powerful and disturbing book. Despite the novel's historically distant setting, the events of "The Wars" do not seem distant at all: the reader is brought close to the horrible violence of World War I and its devastating impact on a young mind. The question is why? The topic is certainly not new — we are аll too familiar with the World War I period. The theme is also an old one — a young man's loss of innocence and baptism by fire on the battlefield. The novelty and vividness of Findley's work are attributable to another source: its form. I hope to show that one artistic device in particular — de-automatization — is largely responsible for the novel's powerful impact on the modern reader.
In 1937, when Bulgakov was working on Master i Margarita and suffering from rejection by the theatre community, an old friend appealed to him: "Вы ведь государство в государстве. Сколько это может продолжаться? Надо сдаваться, все сдались. Один вы остались. Это глупо." And indeed "государство в государстве" ("a state within a state") is an appropriate way of describing a man who was feverishly working on a modernist novel at the height of socialist realism. The very fact that Master i Margarita was written in the oppressive environment of the 1930s makes it a unique modernist work, for it emerges as a protest against socialist realism and a defense of artistic freedom. In this respect the modernist qualities of Bulgakov's novel acquire a new dimension because Master i Margarita becomes a kind of artistic devil, fulfilling the traditional diabolic role of opposing authority. This is why Woland, as a character, is the metonymic expression of the novel's revolt.
This essay deals with Stefan Heym's "King David Report" as a work of artistically-based biblical scholarship rather than a work of political allegory related to the writer's experience in the East Block during the Cold War. I consider Baruch Halpern's notion of complementary causation (the attribution of causes behind given biblical events to divine and human agency at the same time) in connection to King David's seduction of Bathsheba and the subsequent murder of Bathsheba's husband in 2 Samuel. I try to demonstrate Heym's refusal to attribute complementary causation to the biblical events in order to expose David and Solomon as Machiavellian autocrats rather than instruments of God. Given that (according to Baruch Halpern) the biblical story of David is an apologia of Solomon's illegitimate rule, Stefan Heym's novel undermines the traditional view of Solomon as a Christ type and a great Israelite monarch. Heym's position is contrasted with the deeply ingrained tradition in Judeo-Christian culture of seeing David's life in terms of complementary causation. The conclusion seeks to illustrates Heym's general philosophic stance that makes spirituality and power incompatible.
It is commonplace to assert that the Book of Genesis in the Old Testament is based on an androcentric position. Although critics have tried to introduce some sort of female empowerment by reassessing various biblical stories (cf. Savina Teubal, 1984), Genesis remains a man's realm with only a limited female perspective. The case of Dinah's rape by Shechem in Genesis 34 illustrates the marginality of womanhood in the biblical world and theology. The pericope tells us that, while the Israelites are settled near the Hivite city of Shechem in Canaan, Jacob's and Leah's daughter Dinah goes out of the Israelite camp. She is raped by Shechem, the prince of the eponymous city, who then abducts her and makes her one of his household. A deal is concluded by Jacob's sons and the Shechemites, according to which the situation can be made legitimate through marriage if the men of Shechem circumcise themselves. While the Shechemites are weak at er the surgery, the Israelites sack the city, kill all the males and take Dinah back.
Modern retellings of the Flood pericope (Genesis 6–8) depend on the age of the targeted audience. Writing for adults, Wolfdietrich Schnurre, Brigitte Schär, Timothy Findley, and Anne Provoost ask whether universal annihilation can be justified. Their criticism of the divine notion that evil is universal and indiscriminate collective punishment is therefore justified, reveals values that are incompatible with those informing the original biblical narrative. However much modernity is aware that myths are symbolic, it apparently cannot assimilate their ethics without a critical reassessment. In this, modern writers rely on the realistic premises of modern novelistic narration. In contrast, modern retellings of the Flood story for children appear to be far more prepared to accept the ancient value system underlying the biblical narrative. Books for younger audiences seem to be much more comfortable with the notion of generalized evil and global punishment than works for adults. This becomes particularly striking in a number of picture books about Noah's ark. The narrative stance of writers ultimately depends on the way they perceive adulthood and childhood.
Siegfried Lenz's novel "Deutschstunde" is analyzed on the basis of work conducted by two American psychologists: Stanley Milgram and Lawrence Kohlberg. The concept of duty and obedience to authority are considered as social phenomena that go beyond personal disposition. The article uses Milgram's famous obedience experiment in order to consider the literary depiction of psychological processes underlying compliance with orders to commit reprehensible acts. A comparison is made between Jens Jepsen, the fictional obedient policeman in "Deutschstunde", and Paul Grueninger, a real policeman in wartime Switzerland, who refused to follow orders and saved many refugees at the Swiss-Austrian border.
This essay deals with two retellings of Genesis: Thomas Mann's "Joseph and his brothers" and Anita Diamant's "The red tent". Both authors note the presence of implicit pagan tendencies among the women of Jacob's clan (Gen 31:19; 35:2) and develop this subtext for their respective ideological purposes. Thomas Mann creates a dichotomy between the backwardness of the pagan female realm and the progressive nature of the monotheistically-oriented patriarchs. The path toward modern humanist values comes from the likes of Jacob and Joseph rather than Rachel and Leah in Mann's novel. Anita Diamant, on the other hand, adopts the opposite attitude, namely, that the paganism of Rachel, Leah, as well as other women in Jacob's family, is a humane and natural form of spirituality in contrast to the bloodthirsty Yahwism of Jacob and his sons. The latter point is illustrated by the sacking of Shechem. In order to question the patriarchal stance of the Old Testament Diamant reverses the key values informing the theology of the Bible. Thus, in "The red tent" Jacob's wives venerate the Ashera in particular. The latter constitutes a challenge to the stance of the Deuteronomic History where the cult of the Ashera is viewed as a key reason behind God's decision to let the Babylonians destroy the Southern Kingdom of Judah. And since Mann's novel upholds the patriarchal spirit of the biblical text, Diamant enters into debate with the continuity of female disempowerment which reaches all the way from Genesis to "Joseph and his brothers".
One of the most striking and unsettling elements in Venedikt Erofeev's novel "Moskva-Petuški" is the ending where Venja, the protagonist-narrator, is murdered by four mysterious executioners in the stairway of a downtown Moscow building. [...] The last sentence turns the entire preceding narrative into a paradox: the narrator indicates that he could not have told his story, since he ceased to exist as a consciousness ("soznanie") as soon as the action stopped. The fact of Venja's death itself does not necessarily cancel out his ability to tell about the events leading up to his demise: literature knows a number of beyond-the-grave narrators, e.g., the murdered Olivia in Anne Hebert's "Les fous de Bassan" or the dead samurai Tekehiko in Akutagawa Riunosuke's "In a grove". What makes Venja's narrative paradoxic is his own reference to the end of his cogitative activity. at the moment of death the hero ceases to think and should, logically, lose the ability to narrate. Normally, a dead narrator acquires his/her ability to narrate by supernatural means, e.g., via life after death, as in "Les Fous de Bassan" or through a medium, as in "In a Grove". Such postmortem loquacity may also remain unexplained. In "Moskva-Petuški", however, the dead narrator seems to stress that his death appears as the ultimate end: a point where everything, including time and consciousness, stops.