There is no in-itself
about a thing:it's always in
another (whether the other is
us, or not, it hardly matters:
matter isn't separable
from energy). The lightning flashes
and (driven to supply their verbs with nouns)
the English suppose
a god or flasher;
if we made a language
up today, its
gram would lumen new.
sends the mind off
on an errand only
now and then (on holy days).
"Because of God's default,"
said Heidegger, "there fails
to appear for the world the ground
that grounds it."
O abyss, head
of my convent,
hole of inside,
idea, o abyss,
how content I
With regularity enough
to have intended it,
held opinions fervently at odds
with one another.
The lie of the ideal has been
the curse on what is real,
he warned; accuses Socrates and yet
is nothing short of Socrates himself,
full of the malice of justice,
fierce about unfairness,
wanting life's unfairness first
acknowledged, then (faute
de mieux) loved. The mother
of M. Teste is Nietzsche (who quite
detested women as himself):one
sentence from Valery calls all
the othernesses in: "We give up
our separate ideas and together
watch the mild and incomprehensible
flow of the street, bearing
shadows, circles, fluid constructions, slight acts,
and now and then bringing us some
purer and exquisite
one:a being, an eye, or some delicate
animal making a thousand gold forms,
playing with the ground. . . "Ahhh
what a figure he cuts, and dissolves
in the salts of a glance. . .
What Valery calls life is "water organized";
what Nietzsche calls true is
the apparent; what Heidegger calls poetry
is how we come to the unspoken; everywhere I look
the ground is moving. . .