Making Nothing Happen: Yeats, Heidegger, Pessoa, and the Emergence of Post-Romanticism
Abstract
:1. Introduction
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survivesIn the valley of its saying where executivesWould never want to tamper; it flows southFrom ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,A way of happening, a mouth. ([1], p. 82)
2. Early German Romanticism
3. Yeats’s and T.E. Hulme’s Rejection of the Romantic Aesthetics of Failure
My temptation is quiet.Here at life’s endNeither loose imagination,Nor the mill of the mindConsuming its rag and bone,Can make the truth known.
Picture and book remain,An acre of green grassFor air and exercise ([4], p. 419)
Players and painted stage took all my love,And not those things that they were emblems of. ([4], pp. 471–472)
Those masterful images because completeGrew in pure mind, but out of what began?A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slutWho keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone,I must lie down where all the ladders start,In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. ([4], p. 472)
A reviewer writing in the Saturday Review last week spoke of poetry as the means by which the soul soared in to higher regions, and as a means of expression by which it became merged into a higher kind of reality. Well, that is the kind of statement that I utterly detest. I want to speak of verse in a plain way as I would of pigs: that is the only honest way. ([25], p. 59)
W.B. Yeats attempts to ennoble his craft by strenuously believing in supernatural world, race-memory, magic, and saying that symbols can recall these where prose couldn’t. This is an attempt to bring in an infinity again. ([25], p. 57)
4. Deep Metaphysical Shift Hinging on Poiesis
Herewith we have arrived at the end of romantic art, at the standpoint of most recent times, the peculiarity of which we may find in the fact that the artist’s subjective skill surmounts his material and its production because he is no longer dominated by the given conditions of a range of content and form already inherently determined in advance, but retains entirely within his own power and choice both the subject-matter and the way of presenting it. ([27], p. 602)(Hiermit sind wir bei dem Schlüsse der romantischen Kunst angelangt, bei dem Standpunkte der neuesten Zeit, deren Eigentümlichkeit wir darin finden können, daß die Subjektivität des Künstlers über ihrem Stoffe und ihrer Produktion steht, indem sie nicht mehr von den gegebenen Bedingungen eines an sich selbst schon bestimmten Kreises des Inhalts wie der Form beherrscht ist, sondern sowohl den Inhalt als die Gestaltungsweise desselben ganz in ihrer Gewalt und Wahl behält. [28], p. 228)
According to current opinion, all of man’s doing—that of the artist and the craftsman as well as that of the workman and the politician—is praxis, that is, manifestation of a will that produces a concrete effect. ([29], p. 68)
5. The Origin of the Work of Art
The world is not the mere collection of the countable or uncountable, familiar and unfamiliar things that are just there. But neither is it a merely imagined framework added by our representation to the sum of such given things. The world worlds, and is more fully in being than the tangible and perceptible realm in which we believe ourselves to be at home. World is never an object that stands before us and can be seen. World is the ever-nonobjective to which we are subject…. ([33], p. 43)
It shows itself only when it remains undisclosed and unexplained. Earth thus shatters every attempt to penetrate it. […] The earth appears openly cleared as itself only when it is perceived and preserved as that which is by nature undisclosable, that which shrinks from every disclosure and constantly keeps itself closed up. […] To set forth the earth means to bring it into the Open as the self-secluding. ([33], pp. 45–46)
The self-seclusion of earth […] is not a uniform, inflexible staying under cover, but unfolds itself in an inexhaustible variety of simple modes and shapes. To be sure, the sculptor uses stone just as the mason uses it, in his own way. But he does not use it up. That happens in a certain way only where the work miscarries. To be sure, the painter also uses pigment, but in such a way that colour is not used up but rather only now comes to shine forth. To be sure, the poet also uses the word—not, however, like ordinary speakers and writers who have to use them up, but rather in such a way that the word only now becomes and remains truly a word. ([33], p. 46)
In the struggle, each opponent carries the other beyond itself. Thus the striving becomes ever more intense as striving, and more authentically what it is. The more the struggle overdoes itself on its own part, the more inflexibly do the opponents let themselves go into the intimacy of simple belonging to one another. The earth cannot dispense with the Open of the world if it itself is to appear as earth in the liberated surge of its self-seclusion. The world, again, cannot soar out of the earth’s sight if, as the governing breadth and path of all essential destiny, it is to ground itself on a resolute foundation. ([33], p. 48)
6. Pessoa’s Post-Romanticism
In addition to the three full-fledged heteronyms, the mature Pessoa gave birth to Bernardo Soares, a “semiheteronym” who authored the sprawling fictional diary known as The Book of Disquietude; António Mora, a prolific philosopher and sociologist; the Baron of Teive, an essayist; Thomas Crosse, whose critical writings in English promoted Portuguese literature in general and Alberto Caeiro’s work in particular; I.I. Crosse, Thomas’s brother and collaborator; Coelho Pacheco, a poet; Raphael Baldaya, astrologer; Maria José, a nineteen-year-old hunchback consumptive who wrote a desperate, unmailed love letter to a handsome metalworker who passed under her window on his way to work each day; and so on, and so on, and so on. At least seventy-two names besides Fernando Pessoa were “responsible” for the thousands of texts that were actually written and the many more that he only planned, and other names will probable turn up as scholars continue to explore the still not completely charted territory of his writings. ([37], p. 5)
6.1. Álvaro de Campos
I’m nothing.I’ll always be nothing.I can’t want to be something.But I have in me all the dreams of the world.Windows of my room,The room of one of the world’s millions nobody knows(And if they knew me, what would they know?),You open onto the mystery of a street continually crossed by people,A street inaccessible to any and every thought,Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain,With the mystery of things beneath the stones and beings,With death making the walls damp and the hair of men white,With Destiny driving the wagon of everything down the road of nothing.Today I’m defeated, as if I’d learned the truth.Today I’m lucid, as if I were about to dieAnd had no greater kinship with thingsThan to say farewell, this building and this side of the street becomingA row of train cars, with the whistle for departureBlowing in my headAnd my nerves jolting and bones creaking as we pull out.(Não sou nada.Nunca serei nada.Não posso querer ser nada.À parte isso, tenho em mim todos os sonhos do mundo.Janelas do meu quarto,Do meu quarto de um dos milhões do mundo que ninguém sabe quem é(E se soubessem quem é, o que saberiam?),Dais para o mistério de uma rua cruzada constantemente por gente,Para uma rua inacessível a todos os pensamentos,Real, impossivelmente real, certa, desconhecidamente certa,Com o mistério das coisas por baixo das pedras e dos seres,Com a morte a pôr humidade nas paredes e cabelos brancos nos homens,Com o Destino a conduzir a carroça de tudo pela estrada de nada.Estou hoje vencido, como se soubesse a verdade.Estou hoje lúcido, como se estivesse para morrer,E não tivesse mais irmandade com as coisasSenão uma despedida, tornando-se esta casa e este lado da ruaA fileira de carruagens de um comboio, e uma partida apitadaDe dentro da minha cabeça,E uma sacudidela dos meus nervos e um ranger de ossos na ida.)
Today I’m bewildered, like a man who wondered and discovered and forgot.Today I’m torn between the loyalty I oweTo the outward reality of the Tobacco Shop across the streetAnd to the inward reality of my feeling that everything’s a dream.(Estou hoje perplexo, como quem pensou e achou e esqueceu.Estou hoje dividido entre a lealdade que devoÀ Tabacaria do outro lado da rua, como coisa real por fora,E à sensação de que tudo é sonho, como coisa real por dentro.)
I failed in everything.Since I had no ambition, perhaps I failed in nothing.I left the education I was given,Climbing down from the window at the back of the house.I went to the country with big plans.But all I found was grass and trees,And when there were people they were just like others.I step back from the window and sit in a chair. What should I think about?(Falhei em tudo.Como não fiz propósito nenhum, talvez tudo fosse nada.A aprendizagem que me deram,Desci dela pela janela das traseiras da casa.Fui até ao campo com grandes propósitos.Mas lá encontrei só ervas e árvores,E quando havia gente era igual à outra.Saio da janela, sento-me numa cadeira. Em que hei-de pensar?)
But I am, and perhaps will always be, the man in the garret,Even though I don’t live in one.I’ll always be the one who wasn’t born for that;I’ll always be merely the one who had qualities;I’ll always be the one who waited for a door to open in a wall without doorsAnd sang the song of the Infinite in a chicken coopAnd heard the voice of God in a covered well.Believe in me? No, not in anything.(Mas sou, e talvez serei sempre, o da mansarda,Ainda que não more nela;Serei sempre o que não nasceu para isso;Serei sempre só o que tinha qualidades;Serei sempre o que esperou que lhe abrissem a porta ao pé de uma parede sem porta,E cantou a cantiga do Infinito numa capoeira,E ouviu a voz de Deus num poço tapado.Crer em mim? Não, nem em nada.)
([…] I go to the window and see the street with absolute clarity.I see the shops, I see the sidewalks, I see the passing cars,I see the clothed living beings who pass each other.I see the dogs that also exist,And all of this weighs on me like a sentence of exile,And all of this is foreign, like everything else.)(([…] Chego à janela e vejo a rua com uma nitidez absoluta.Vejo as lojas, vejo os passeios, vejo os carros que passam,Vejo os entes vivos vestidos que se cruzam,Vejo os cães que também existem,E tudo isto me pesa como uma condenação ao degredo,E tudo isto é estrangeiro, como tudo.))
Musical essence of my useless verses,If only I could look at you as something I had madeInstead of always looking at the Tobacco Shop across the street,Trampling on my consciousness of existing,Like a rug a drunkard stumbles onOr a doormat stolen by gypsies and it’s not worth a thing.(Essência musical dos meus versos inúteis,Quem me dera encontrar-te como coisa que eu fizesse,E não ficasse sempre defronte da Tabacaria de defronte,Calcando aos pés a consciência de estar existindo,Como um tapete em que um bêbado tropeçaOu um capacho que os ciganos roubaram e não valia nada.)
But the Tobacco Shop Owner has come to the door and is standing there.I look at him with the discomfort of a half-twisted neckCompounded by the discomfort of a half-grasping soul.He will die and I will die.He’ll leave his signboard, I’ll leave my poems.Eventually the street where the sign was will die,And so will the language in which my poems were written.Then the whirling planet where all of this happened will die.On other planets of other solar systems something like peopleWill continue to make things like poems and to live under things like signs,Always one thing facing the other,Always one thing as useless as the other,Always the impossible as stupid as reality,Always the inner mystery as true as the mystery sleeping on the surface.Always this thing or always that, or neither one thing nor the other.(Mas o Dono da Tabacaria chegou à porta e ficou à porta.Olho-o com o desconforto da cabeça mal voltadaE com o desconforto da alma mal-entendendo.Ele morrerá e eu morrerei.Ele deixará a tabuleta, eu deixarei os versos.A certa altura morrerá a tabuleta também, e os versos também.Depois de certa altura morrerá a rua onde esteve a tabuleta,E a língua em que foram escritos os versos.Morrerá depois o planeta girante em que tudo isto se deu.Em outros satélites de outros sistemas, qualquer coisa como genteContinuará fazendo coisas como versos e vivendo por baixo de coisas como tabuletas.Sempre uma coisa defronte da outra,Sempre uma coisa tão inútil como a outra,Sempre o impossível tão estúpido como o real,Sempre o mistério do fundo tão certo como o sono de mistério da superfície,Sempre isto ou sempre outra coisa ou nem uma coisa nem outra.)
But a man has entered the Tobacco Shop (to buy tobacco?),And plausible reality suddenly hits me.I half rise from my chair—energetic, convinced, human—And will try to write these verses in which I say the opposite.(Mas um homem entrou na Tabacaria (para comprar tabaco?),E a realidade plausível cai de repente em cima de mim.Semiergo-me enérgico, convencido, humano,E vou tencionar escrever estes versos em que digo o contrário.)
I light up a cigarette as I think about writing them,And in that cigarette I savour a freedom from all thought.My eyes follow the smoke as if it were my own trailAnd I enjoy, for a sensitive and fitting moment,A liberation from all speculationAnd an awareness that metaphysics is a consequence of not feeling very well.Then I lean back in the chairAnd keep smoking.As long as Destiny permits, I’ll keep smoking.(Acendo um cigarro ao pensar em escrevê-losE saboreio no cigarro a libertação de todos os pensamentos.Sigo o fumo como uma rota própria,E gozo, num momento sensitivo e competente,A libertação de todas as especulaçõesE a consciência de que a metafísica é uma consequência de estar mal disposto.Depois deito-me para trás na cadeiraE continuo fumando.Enquanto o Destino mo conceder, continuarei fumando.)
The man has come out of the Tobacco Shop (putting change into his pocket?).Ah, I know him: it’s unmetaphysical Esteves.(The Tobacco Shop Owner has come to the door.)As if by divine instinct, Esteves turns around and sees me.He waves hello, I shout back “Hello, Esteves!” and the universeFalls back into place without ideals or hopes, and the Owner of the Tobacco Shop smiles.(Ah, conheço-o: é o Esteves sem metafísica.(O Dono da Tabacaria chegou à porta.)Como por um instinto divino o Esteves voltou-se e viu-me.Acenou-me adeus, gritei-lhe Adeus ó Esteves!, e o universoReconstruiu-se-me sem ideal nem esperança, e o Dono da Tabacaria sorriu.)
6.2. Alberto Caeiro
If sense is, in a sense, still manifest insofar as it is the patency or openness [apérité] of the world, it is nonetheless not manifest in the mode of a placing-in-view or placing-in-the-light on a scene, display, or monstrance. The opening that it is or that it makes is not frontal: it is a passage through a narrow pass, praes-entia. ([49], p. 16)
“Hello, keeper of sheepThere on the side of the road.What does the blowing wind say to you?”“That it’s wind and that it blows,And that it has blown before,And that it will blow hereafter.And what does it say to you?”“Much more than that.It speaks to me of many other things:Of memories and nostalgias,And of things that never were.”“You’ve never heard the wind blow.The wind only speaks of the wind.What you heard was a lie,And the lie is in you.” ([37], p. 53)(“Olá, guardador de rebanhos,Aí à beira da estrada,Que te diz o vento que passa?”“Que é vento, e que passa,E que já passou antes,E que passará depois.E a ti o que te diz?”“Muita cousa mais do que isso.Fala-me de muitas outras cousas.De memórias e de saudadesE de cousas que nunca foram.”“Nunca ouviste passar o vento.O vento só fala do vento.O que lhe ouviste foi mentira,E a mentira está em ti.” [46])
Because mystic poets say that flowers feelAnd that stones have soulsAnd that rivers are filled with rapture in the moonlight.But flowers, if they felt, wouldn’t be flowers,They would be people;And if stones had souls, they would be living things, not stones;And if rivers were filled with rapture in the moonlight,Those rivers would be sick people. ([44], p. 31)(Porque os poetas místicos dizem que as flores sentemE dizem que as pedras têm almaE que os rios têm êxtases ao luar.Mas flores, se sentissem, não eram flores,Eram gente;E se as pedras tivessem alma, eram cousas vivas, não eram pedras;E se os rios tivessem êxtases ao luar,Os rios seriam homens doentes. [45])
The mystery of things—where is it?Why doesn’t it come outTo show us at least that it’s mystery?What do the river and the tree know about it?And what do I, who am no more than they, know about it?Whenever I look at things and think about what people think of them,I laugh like a brook cleanly plashing against a rock.For the only hidden meaning of thingsIs that they have no hidden meaning.It’s the strangest thing of all,Stranger than all poets’ dreamsAnd all philosophers’ thoughts,That things are really what they seem to beAnd there’s nothing to understand.Yes, this is what my senses learned on their own:Things have no meaning; they exist.Things are the only hidden meaning of things. ([37], p. 62)(O mistério das cousas, onde está ele?Onde está ele que não aparecePelo menos a mostrar-nos que é mistério?Que sabe o rio disso e que sabe a árvore?E eu, que não sou mais do que eles, que sei disso?Sempre que olho para as cousas e penso no que os homens pensam delas,Rio como um regato que soa fresco numa pedra.Porque o único sentido oculto das cousasÉ elas não terem sentido oculto nenhum,É mais estranho do que todas as estranhezasE do que os sonhos de todos os poetasE os pensamentos de todos os filósofos,Que as cousas sejam realmente o que parecem serE não haja nada que compreender.Sim, eis o que os meus sentidos aprenderam sozinhos:—As cousas não têm significação: têm existência.As cousas são o único sentido oculto das cousas. [46])
What we see of things are the things.Why would we see one thing when another thing is there?Why would seeing and hearing be to delude ourselvesWhen seeing and hearing are seeing and hearing?What matters is to know how to see,To know how to see without thinking,To know how to see when seeingAnd not think when seeingNor see when thinking. ([37], p. 57)(O que nós vemos das cousas são as cousas.Por que veríamos nós uma cousa se houvesse outra?Por que é que ver e ouvir seria iludirmo-nosSe ver e ouvir são ver e ouvir?O essencial é saber ver,Saber ver sem estar a pensar,Saber ver quando se vê,E nem pensar quando se vêNem ver quando se pensa. [46])
And what I see at each momentIs what I never saw before,And I’m very good at noticing things.I’m capable of having that sheer wonderThat a newborn child would haveIf he realised he’d just been born.I always feel that I’ve just been bornInto an endlessly new world. ([37], p. 48)(E o que vejo a cada momentoÉ aquilo que nunca antes eu tinha visto,E eu sei dar por isso muito bem...Sei ter o pasmo essencialQue tem uma criança se, ao nascer,Reparasse que nascera deveras...Sinto-me nascido a cada momentoPara a eterna novidade do Mundo... [46])
Before all representational grasp, before a consciousness and its subject, before science, and theology, and philosophy, there is that: the that of, precisely, there is. But “there is” is not itself a presence, to which our signs, our demonstrations, and our monstrations might refer. One cannot “refer” to it or “return” to it: it is always, already, there, but neither in the mode of “being” (as a substance) nor that of “there” (as a presence). It is there in the mode of being born…. ([51], p. 4)
At the heart of thought, there is some thing that defies all appropriation by thought (for example, its appropriation as “concept,” or as “idea,” as “philosophy” or as “meditation,” or even as “thought”). This thing is nothing other than the immanent immobility of the fact that there are things. ([51], p. 169)
- 1. Hegel, about whom I will say more later, thought that the reality of Romanticism was far more damning than these imagined risks.
- 2. The influence of the early German Romantics on Blanchot was very significant and a compelling case could be made for him to be considered the most important late-Romantic theorist of the twentieth century.
- 3. Schlegel writes: “Der Idealismus in jeder Form muß auf ein oder die andre Art aus sich herausgehn, um in sich zurückkehren zu können, und zu bleiben was er ist. Deswegen muß und wird sich aus seinem Schoß ein neuer ebenso grenzenloser Realismus erheben” ([21], p. 315).
- 4. However, for an excellent account of Hulme’s debt to Romanticism, see Frank Kermode’s The Romantic Image ([26], pp. 119-137).
- 5. This, of course, reduces the Romantic striving that hoped to gesture, through heroic failure, at a beyond of some kind, to a sort of subjective, wallowing self-pity that blindly endorses its impotence as its reward. In this light the Romantic artist is the famous “yearning and […] morbid beautiful soul” that Hegel holds in such contempt ([27], p. 67). The wider sociological and, indeed, political implications of Hegel’s critique of Romantic irony, though beyond the scope of this essay, are interesting. Romantic irony, for instance, on Hegel’s reading of it, leads to a psychological isolation that is incompatible with community. Discussing the Romantic ironist, Hegel remarks on “this concentration of the ego into itself, for which all bonds are snapped and which can live only in the bliss of self-enjoyment” ([27], p. 66).
- 6. Hegel writes: “Das Gebundensein an einen besonderen Gehalt und eine nur für diesen Stoff passende Art der Darstellung ist für den heutigen Künstler etwas Vergangenes und die Kunst dadurch ein freies Instrument geworden, das er nach Maßgabe seiner subjektiven Geschicklichkeit in bezug auf jeden Inhalt, welcher Art er auch sei, gleichmäßig handhaben kann” ([28], p. 232).
- 7. This is implied in the translation of Dono (in Dono da Tabaccaria) as “Owner.” In English, “lord” is a now archaic meaning of “owner.” Similarly, in Portuguese, Dono can mean both “owner” and “lord” (indeed, Jonathan Griffin translates the word as lord in the Penguin edition of Pessoa’s Selected Poems [41].
- 8. Hegel himself, of course, could not envisage any such prospect: “Uns gilt die Kunst nicht mehr als die höchste Weise, in welcher die Wahrheit sich Existenz verschafft” ([42], p. 132).
- 10. This joining of signification and sensation in the sense of things is also alluded to in a line by Reis: “I stick to facts. Just what I feel, I think” ([37], p. 102).
- 11. Lines such as the following seem written for Caeiro: “‘Reason’ is the cause of our falsification of the evidence of the senses. In so far as the senses show becoming, passing away, change, they do not lie…” ([52], p. 46).
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Corby, J. Making Nothing Happen: Yeats, Heidegger, Pessoa, and the Emergence of Post-Romanticism. Humanities 2012, 1, 117-144. https://doi.org/10.3390/h1030117
Corby J. Making Nothing Happen: Yeats, Heidegger, Pessoa, and the Emergence of Post-Romanticism. Humanities. 2012; 1(3):117-144. https://doi.org/10.3390/h1030117
Chicago/Turabian StyleCorby, James. 2012. "Making Nothing Happen: Yeats, Heidegger, Pessoa, and the Emergence of Post-Romanticism" Humanities 1, no. 3: 117-144. https://doi.org/10.3390/h1030117
APA StyleCorby, J. (2012). Making Nothing Happen: Yeats, Heidegger, Pessoa, and the Emergence of Post-Romanticism. Humanities, 1(3), 117-144. https://doi.org/10.3390/h1030117