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Translating Nishiwaki : beyond reading Hirata, Hosea 1987

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TRANSLATING NISHIWAKI: BEYOND READING by HO SEA HIRATA B.A., McGill U n i v e r s i t y , 1979 M.F.A., The U n i v e r s i t y of B r i t i s h Columbia, 1981 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES PROGRAMME IN COMPARATIVE LITERATURE We accept t h i s t hesis as conforming to the required standard THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA August 1987 (c) Hosea Hirata, 1987 In p resen t i ng this thesis in part ia l fu l f i lment o f the requ i remen ts for an a d v a n c e d d e g r e e at the Univers i ty o f Br i t ish C o l u m b i a , I agree that the Library shal l m a k e it f reely avai lable for re fe rence a n d s tudy . I fur ther agree that pe rm iss i on for ex tens i ve c o p y i n g o f th is thesis for scho la r l y p u r p o s e s may b e g ran ted by the h e a d of m y depa r tmen t o r by his o r her represen ta t i ves . It is u n d e r s t o o d that c o p y i n g o r pub l i ca t i on o f this thesis fo r f inanc ia l ga in shal l no t b e a l l o w e d w i t hou t m y wr i t t en p e r m i s s i o n . ^ - B e p a r i r n e n T o f O g m v ^ g y , ' / C T h e Un ivers i t y o f Bri t ish C o l u m b i a 1956 M a i n M a l l V a n c o u v e r , C a n a d a V 6 T 1Y3 Da te / 4 t A ^ . JO j ^7 DE-6(3 /81 ) Abstract This d i s s e r t a t i o n i s divided into two parts. Part Two contains my translations of Japanese texts by Nishiwaki Junzaburo (1894-1982): three essays from Chogenjitsushugi shiron ( S u r r e a l i s t Poetics) (1929), his f i r s t and second c o l l e c t i o n s of poems written i n Japanese, Ambarvalia (1933) and Tabibito kaerazu (No Traveller Returns) (1947), as well as a long poem from his "middle period," e n t i t l e d "Eterunitas" (1962). Part One, consisting of three chapters, attempts to expose various theoretical issues that these translations bring forth. Through t h i s "expose," several major issues surface, namely, the concepts of Language, Poetry, and Translation. Further, these concepts are interrelated by a "paradisal" c e n t r e — t h e notion of "non-meaning." Chapter One presents a deconstructive examination of the notion of translation. Two opposing manifestations of Language, writing and reading, are set forth by way of Roland Barthes's textual concepts, "l£ s c r i p t i b l e " and "le_ l i s i b l e . " "Writing" i s here defined as a language-movement of production that opposes "knowledge," while "reading" i s regarded as the consumption of codes, that i s , "knowing." The question posed at t h i s point i s : what status does " t r a n s l a t i o n " possess i n terms of these two opposing language-movements? Is i t writing or reading? Through Walter Benjamin's essay on tr a n s l a t i o n , "Die Aufgabe des Ubersetzers" (The Task of the Translator), as well as through Jacques Derrida's reading of i t in his "Des Tours de Babel," t r a n s l a t i o n i s revealed to hold an e s s e n t i a l l y paradoxical function: a t r a n s l a t i o n i s secondary to the o r i g i n a l in i t s status, yet i t deconstructs the o r i g i n a l and triggers the survival movement of Language towards i t s paradisal state of non-meaning. Thus translation i s seen as partaking of an originary movement of writing, which Derrida elsewhere names "differance." In Chapter Two, Nishiwaki's notion of Poetry presented i n his Surr e a l i s t Poetics i s discussed along with Georges B a t a i l l e ' s notions of "depense" and "non-savoir," as well as with Derrida's grammatology. Nishiwaki proposes a negative evolution of poetry whose ultimate end i s the ( s e l f - ) e x t i n c t i o n of poetry. S i m i l a r l y , B a t a i l l e locates Poetry i n the s e l f - s a c r i f i c i a l "jouissance," beyond id e n t i t y , beyond knowledge. Derrida*s notion of "arche-writing" in turn exposes the "always-already" existence of the e s s e n t i a l l y transgressive movement of "writing" everywhere in our logocentric universe. Through these discourses, then, Poetry i s envisioned as the death of writing, located outside of Language, in the paradise of non-meaning. Every writing s t r i v e s towards this paradisal goal. At the same time, for Nishiwaki, this paradise includes an o r i g i n (the o r i g i n of poetry) which he names "tsumaranasa (boredom, insignificance) of r e a l i t y . " Poetry thus begins and ends in this fundamental loss of language, meaning, and knowledge. In Chapter Three, the translated poems of Nishiwaki are discussed as representing not " r e a l i t y " but a certain movement of Language, be i t Benjamin's " t r a n s l a t i o n " or Derrida*s "arche-writing." The text of Ambarvalia e s s e n t i a l l y presents fissures in the Japanese language caused by the invasion of foreign tongues. Thus i t i s Nishiwaki's translatory textual strategy that produces a "new" poetic language. In No Tra v e l l e r  Returns, Nishiwaki's w i l l f u l appropriation of past tr a d i t i o n s i s brought forth. In "Eterunitas," we witness the f a i l u r e of silence, Language's f a i l u r e to at t a i n Poetry, i n i t i a t i n g the incessant flow of writing, poetry, and translation, beyond reading. Contents Abstract i i Introduction 1 Part One: Translating Nishiwaki, Beyond Reading Chapter One: Translation and Paradise 7 Chapter Two: Poetry of Sovereignty, Pure Poetry 39 Chapter Three: Ambarvalia to Eternity 79 • Part Two: Translations of Works by Nishiwaki Junzaburo I. S u r r e a l i s t Poetics Profanus 124 The Extinction of Poetry 151 Esthetique Foraine 165 II. Poetry Ambarvalia 189 No Traveller Returns 230 Eterunitas 325 Works Cited 344 1 Introduction This d i s s e r t a t i o n i s divided into two parts. Part One contains materials "introductory" to Part Two. Yet the reader w i l l be well-advised to begin with Part Two, which contains my translations of Japanese texts by Nishiwaki Junzaburo. Nishiwaki Junzaburo was born in 1894 and died in 1982. He i s commonly regarded as the father of l i t e r a r y modernism in Japan. By profession he was a professor of English and l i n g u i s t i c s at Keio University in Tokyo. His main scholarly interest was in Medieval English l i t e r a t u r e ; but his a r t i s t i c interest was c l e a r l y drawn towards modernism, which he absorbed during his three-year stay in England. His l i n g u i s t i c a b i l i t i e s were quite exceptional. He knew Latin, Greek, German, French, and English very well. In fact he began writing poetry in foreign languages and did not even attempt to write poetry in Japanese t i l l he was in his late t h i r t i e s . My translations consist of his f i r s t c o l l e c t i o n of Japanese poems e n t i t l e d Ambarvalia published in 1933, his second c o l l e c t i o n Tabibito kaerazu (No Traveller Returns) published in 1947, and a long poem "Eterunitas" ("Eternity" in L a t i n t r a n s l i t e r a t e d ) published in 1962, as well as a selection from his t h e o r e t i c a l writings published as Chogenj itsushugi shiron, translated here as S u r r e a l i s t Poetics. Part One, consisting of three chapters, attempts to expose various issues that these translated Nishiwaki-texts bring out. There are several central issues that are interrelated and woven through the text: Language, Poetry, and Translation. And i f there must be a centre, a unifying focus, the notion of "non-meaning" should be named. This is a study of the "non-meaning" toward which Language, Poetry, and Translation a l l aspire. 2 F i r s t , three textual movements of language are distinguished. They are writing, reading, and translation. The d i s t i n c t i o n between writing and reading i s drawn from the notions of the w r i t e r l y and readerly texts presented in Roland Barthes's S/Z. According to Barthes, reading i s an a c t i v i t y of consumption, that i s , consuming of established codes. Writing is an act of pure production in which reading of codes becomes impossible. This notion of writing i s very similar to Georges B a t a i l l e ' s notion of / "depense," designating an extreme expenditure whose only goal i s to lose. In this sense, writing becomes paradoxically an act of production without products, production to the point of losing. Reading can be thought of as an act of knowing. Writing, on the other hand, moves in the opposite d i r e c t i o n from knowing, towards what B a t a i l l e c a l l s "non-savoir," the s a c r i f i c e of knowledge. Writing thus becomes an act of unknowing. What i s t r a n s l a t i o n in r e l a t i o n to these opposing notions of writing and reading? Is t r a n s l a t i o n reading or writing? In order to respond to these questions, the notion of translation expounded in Walter Benjamin's "Task of the Translator" becomes the focal point in Chapter One. According to Benjamin, a l l languages s t r i v e to become one in what he c a l l s "pure language." Pure language i s a certain absolute state of language in which the separation between s i g n i f i e r and s i g n i f i e d ceases, where meaning i s no longer necessary, where the word i s i n s t a n t l y truth. Benjamin thinks that translation i s the only means to achieve t h i s paradisal unity of languages. Translation for Benjamin, however, i s not a simple means to transmit the content or the meaning of the o r i g i n a l text. The paradisal state of non-meaning, of pure language, i s already in the o r i g i n a l text, in a poem. Benjamin says "No poem is intended for the reader, no picture for the beholder, no symphony for the l i s t e n e r " (69). Therefore, the task of 3 translation i s to carry the incommunicable elements, the very non-meaning, across languages so that the languages w i l l be united in pure language, in the paradisal non-meaning. What emerges from these notions of writing, reading, and tr a n s l a t i o n is a certain drive towards non-meaning seemingly inherent in language i t s e l f . This drive towards non-meaning or non-savoir is also c l e a r l y v i s i b l e i n Nishiwaki's theoretical writings. In an attempt to define poetry, Nishiwaki posits a negative evolution of poetry unto i t s own death. He claims that poetry i s e s s e n t i a l l y an anti-expressive act. That i s , poetry i s an e f f o r t not to express. It i s indeed an e f f o r t to abolish i t s e l f . He writes that the most advanced mode of poetry is that which i s closest to i t s own extinction. Nishiwaki also claims that poetry must be founded upon r e a l i t y , despite his ostensible endorsement of surrealism. But r e a l i t y , he says, i s "boring/tsumaranai." Tsumaranai is a very d i f f i c u l t word to translate. It can mean, t r i v i a l , i n s i g n i f i c a n t , t r i f l i n g , unexciting, or boring. Nishiwaki writes, "To f e e l this supreme tsumaranasa i s the motivation of poetry" ( 4 : 8 ) . That i s , poetry by i t s work of de f a m i l i a r i z a t i o n , makes "familiar/tsumaranai" r e a l i t y i n t e r e s t i n g . But at the same time, paradoxically, poetry must return to this tsumaranasa, to the fundamental non-meaning of r e a l i t y . Thus Barthes's notion of writing, B a t a i l l e ' s notion of depense ; Benjamin's notion of pure language by way of translation, and Nishiwaki's notion of "extinction of poetry," as well as the notion of tsumaranasa a l l coincide i n t h e i r drive towards non-meaning. Yet we must read, as long as we speak to one another. What about these poems printed on a page? Are they the ruins of pure language, traces of pure writing? Jacques Derrida's theory of differance or of 4 supplementary trace becomes helpful here, as well as Michel Foucault's notion of language's s e l f - r e f e r e n t i a l i t y , that i s , language's own su r v i v a l movement towards eternity. Derrida's grammatology posits a notion of writing that i s more originary than the o r i g i n , presence, or being. Writing is an i n d e f i n i t e play of traces, a chain of supplements, that reverses the order of mimesis. Writing (text) does not re f e r back to the o r i g i n , being, or presence which i s commonly considered the s o l i d foundation of a text through which we communicate, exchange truths. The movement of writing i s always already at the s i t e of the o r i g i n . In Chapter Three, Nishiwaki's poems are shown to be exemplary i n manifesting this movement of arche-writing. Nishiwaki's poems attempt to become, without much hesitation but with much d u p l i c i t y , t h i s pure movement of writing i t s e l f . Due to the limited scope of the "introductory" Part One, i t was impossible to include an analysis of every Nishiwaki-text translated here. The present study l i m i t s i t s task to the o u t l i n i n g of my approach to the Nishiwaki-text. It i s hoped that certain methodological directions indicated i n the present text w i l l produce a more expanded study of Nishiwaki*s writings i n the near future. Translation i s to trace a certain paradise. The introduction (Part One) traces this tracing of paradise. The originary paradise i s always far removed from any beginning of writing. The present writing attempts to approach t h i s paradise of the o r i g i n a l . The ecstasy of tr a n s l a t i o n , however f i c t i v e , i s revealed only at the very end of this approach, of this writing, where the o r i g i n a l becomes almost touchable, waiting with unprecedented c l a r i t y , illuminated, yet e s s e n t i a l l y remaining an elusive dream. 5 Chogenjitsushugi shiron consists of f i v e essays. I have omitted the last two, "Choshizenshugi" and "Choshizenshi no kachi," from my translation, for they seem to contain much that has been already stated in the f i r s t three chapters. The language of Chogenjitsushugi shiron i s a far cry from the common scholarly discourse which i s supposed to display seriousness and c l a r i t y . Nishiwaki's language i s often highly p l a y f u l and seductive, and does not hesitate to bring in "non-serious" discourse. To the dismay of any translator, his style i s often extremely e l l i p t i c a l and thus demands much interpretation. Although my aim was to translate the text as l i t e r a l l y as possible, so as to preserve the "flavour" of the o r i g i n a l text, often I was forced to supplement i t s f r u g a l i t y with interpreted "meanings" for the sake of c l a r i t y . There are some notes provided with the o r i g i n a l text, i d e n t i f y i n g the sources of quotations. I have added more s p e c i f i c b i b l i o g r a p h i c a l information to them. My translations of Nishiwaki's poems as well as my notes on them are much indebted to the information provided by Niikura Toshikazu's Nishiwaki  Junzaburo zenshi inyu shusei (Collection of allusions in the entire poetry of Nishiwaki Junzaburo). Without Niikura's study, my translations of Nishiwaki's poetry would have been almost impossible to carry out. One of the d i f f i c u l t i e s that a translator encounters in Nishiwaki's text involves the deciphering of foreign words t r a n s l i t e r a t e d into Japanese. How could one know, for example, by reading the Japanese text written "hera hera  hera," that the word "hera" derives from the French "helas," or in another example, "sasuperu" from an old s p e l l i n g of "Shakespeare," "Saxpere"? In my notes, again I have attempted to give more detailed b i b l i o g r a p h i c a l data than i s given i n Niikura*s book. As discussed in Chapter Three, katakana plays an important role in 6 Nishiwaki's poetry, espec i a l l y in Ambarvalia. Thus I have underlined every word written i n katakana that appears in Ambarvalia. A l l c i t a t i o n s from Chogenjitsushugi shiron are given page numbers from the fourth volume of Nishiwaki Junzaburo zenshu. A l l c i t a t i o n s from Nishiwaki's poetry are from his Zenshishu. A l l Japanese authors* names are written i n the customary Japanese order, that i s , the family name f i r s t . 7 Part One: Trans la t ing Nishiwaki , Beyond Reading Chapter One: Trans la t ion and Paradise Comment t raduir iez -vous une signature? Et comment vous en abst iendriez-vous , q u ' i l s 'agisse de Iahweh, de Babel, de Benjamin quand i l signe tout pres de son dernier mot? —Jacques Derrida from "Des Tours de Babel" i« i?) . !_• :±\ ^ !). R Rh la? Weather On a morning of an upturned gem Someone whispers to somebody at the doorway. This i s the day gods are born. —Nishiwaki Junzaburo from Ambarvalia Paradise Beginning Nishiwaki i s p a r a d i s a l . Admittedly an awkward and remote expression, yet i t marks the beginning of th is wr i t ing as no other expression could . The paradi sa l i s necessar i ly remote. Wri t ing begins only from the knowledge of th i s remoteness and moves towards what has c l a s s i c a l l y been 8 termed t e lo s , or the eschatos, which, in turn , th i s distance simultaneously shows and hides. This paradox s i tuated at the very end of our des ire to write can also be described as the "end" of w r i t i n g ; that i s , the death of a cer ta in language-movement. Writ ing i s seduced by i t s own end—paradise. But paradise must stand u t t e r l y alone, as the absolute, sovereign region of language i n order to ex i s t as such. That i s , i t must refuse w r i t i n g ' s entry i n order to protect i t s very s tatus . Unless wr i t ing d ies , unless wri t ing reaches i t s end, th i s paradise w i l l never appear as such. Nishiwaki has wri t ten a paradise. That i s quite poss ib le . Otherwise there i s e s s e n t i a l l y no other explanation as to the coming-into-being of th is w r i t i n g . Nishiwaki i s p a r a d i s a l . More p r e c i s e l y , the Nishiwaki- text i s p a r a d i s a l . This statement, however, be la ted ly announces a death. Nishiwaki's wr i t ing has already died, entombed i n his canonized texts , only to be read from a far . When does wr i t ing die? And when does reading begin? What are the e s sent ia l functions of these two seemingly contrary language-movements? And f i n a l l y , what i s the status of t r a n s l a t i o n i n r e l a t i o n to those two dominantly va lor i zed language-movements, reading and writ ing? Writing/Reading In S/Z Roland Barthes delineates the notions of reading and wr i t ing in terms of an evaluat ive schema in which two opposing textual values are introduced: "le l i s i b l e " (the reader ly) and "l_e s c r i p t i b l e " (the w r i t e r l y ) . These notions of reading and wr i t ing discussed in S/Z are described in r e l a t i o n to an already establ ished (written) text . Barthes addresses the issue of reading and wr i t ing from the viewpoint of a textual 9 late-comer. Thus the question i s : what are the nature and name of the a c t i v i t y in which we involve ourselves when deal ing with an anter ior text? In short , are we reading or wr i t ing when we are involved i n the prac t i ce named l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m ? Maurice Blanchot quips: "La c r i t i q u e : ce mechant hybride de lec ture et d ' ecr i ture" (Lautreamont 11). Barthes attempts to untangle th i s "mechant hybr ide ." Barthes regards reading e s s e n t i a l l y as an a c t i v i t y of capturing the meaning of the text , in other words, as consumption. But wr i t ing (about the anter ior text) remains as pure p r o d u c t i v i t y . No doubt, Barthes's c l a s s i f i c a t i o n s of the readerly and the w r i t e r l y point to cer ta in absolute states at both poles . In a c t u a l i t y , c e r t a i n texts may simply appear more or less readerly or w r i t e r l y than others. The more-readerly-text , then, inv i te s reading—a search for the s t a b i l i z e d meaning of the text . The more-wri ter ly- text , on the contrary, inv i t e s writ ing—product ion of "the i n f i n i t y of language." Barthes explains: Le texte s c r i p t i b l e est un present perpetuel , sur lequel ne peut se poser aucune parole consequente (qui le transformerait , fatalement, en passe); le texte s c r i p t i b l e , c 'est nous en t r a i n  d ' e c r i r e , avant que le jeu i n f i n i du monde ( le monde comme jeu) ne so i t traverse , coupe, arre te , p l a s t i f i e par quelque systeme s i n g u l i e r (Ideologie , Genre, C r i t i q u e ) qui en rabatte sur l a p l u r a l i t e des entrees, l 'ouverture des reseaux, 1 ' i n f i n i des langages. (11) Thus the w r i t e r l y text i s more l i k e an arche-movement of production i t s e l f without any r e f e r e n t i a l or representat ive l i m i t imposed by i l l u s o r y 1 0 unifying p r i n c i p l e s such as "Ideology, Genus, C r i t i c i s m . " We may say that i t i s a monstrous production of i n f i n i t e meanings (or non-meaning), a construction of an u t t e r l y heterogeneous paradise. It simply i n v i t e s more writing, more dissemination of language i n difference. As opposed to t h i s prodigious movement of pure production of difference, the readerly text invites reading, which i n turn attempts to delimit (to close the gate upon) the violent current of writing in the name of Meaning motivated and sa n c t i f i e d by certain i l l u s o r y systems. Reading thus reveals i t s e l f as an e s s e n t i a l l y theological operation searching for the f i n a l and securely singular ground where the s i g n i f i e r and the s i g n i f i e d coincide i n a perfect enclosure of the Same—the homogeneous paradise. Then where does t r a n s l a t i o n figure i t s e l f i n th i s polarized schema of reading and writing? Again l e t us go back to the very beginning. Nishiwaki i s paradisal. The Nishiwaki-text seduces and c a l l s forth my writing's coming-into-being. It prompts my writing to approach i t , to approximate i t , to appropriate i t . The ideal language to carry out such an ambition (to capture the anterior, o r i g i n a l text) must employ something close to a perfect tautology: Nishiwaki i s Nishiwaki. Indeed, t r a n s l a t i o n , more than any other mode of secondary writing ( l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m , commentary), " l i t e r a l l y " s trives for this ideal tautological state. Of course, since translation attempts to transfer an anterior text into a d i f f e r e n t material, that i s , a foreign language, i t resembles more the process of simulation than that of commentary. In a story recounted by Jorge Louis Borges, we meet the image of an ideal simulacrum and i t s consequent decline. It i s a story of an ideal map, which covers the whole Empire exactly point by point, then i s abandoned by succeeding generations 11 as useless . Exposed to natura l elements, i t s ruins were to be seen only in the deserts inhabited by beasts and beggars (90).''' Is the idea l t r a n s l a t i o n also doomed p r e c i s e l y by the g lory of the Empire, of the o r i g i n a l text? The Empire of the O r i g i n a l Even i n th i s age of mechanical reproduct ion, there in fact seems to be no other language-movement that so emphatically brings out the notion of the o r i g i n a l text than t r a n s l a t i o n . A t r a n s l a t i o n i s always designated as secondary to the o r i g i n a l in i t s "truthfulness ." The idea l tautology of "Nishiwaki i s Nishiwaki" i s never poss ib le in t r a n s l a t i o n . Only as a simulacrum destined to decay, t r a n s l a t i o n emerges. " (SIB i s Nish iwaki ." The copula, the v i r t u a l t r a n s l a t o r , the f e r r y , "unnaturally" s tra ins beneath the weight of such an a l i e n invas ion. -As the readerly value of the text shows i t s theo log ica l l inkage to what Barthes c a l l s " la fermeture du discours occ idental" (13), t r a n s l a t i o n also reveals a ghost of theology in i t s subordinate r e l a t i o n to the o r i g i n a l . Reading a t r a n s l a t i o n , we are as sa i l ed by a strange sense of anxiety of not fac ing the o r i g i n a l d i r e c t l y . The uncertainty created by the detour of t r a n s l a t i o n in turn i n t e n s i f i e s our longing for the o r i g i n a l , for the cer ta in ty of meaning which is the predetermined goal of reading. Thus the o r i g i n a l text gains the status of inhabi t ing the House of Truth by  way of a t r a n s l a t i o n . Does the o r i g i n a l then require t r a n s l a t i o n so as to gain the very status of or ig in? Is t r a n s l a t i o n merely a readerly reading of the anter ior text? Or, on the contrary, does i t p a r t i c i p a t e i n the dissemination of the o r i g i n a l text in an i n f i n i t e f i e l d of the w r i t e r l y 12 text (arche-writ ing)? Is t r a n s l a t i o n reading or writ ing? Is i t a f a i t h f u l transmitter or a covert deconstructor of an or ig in? The ending of the story by Borges i s suggestive. The frayed ru ins of the map return to dust, become ind i s t inguishable from the desert to which perhaps the Empire i t s e l f w i l l re turn . The simulacrum and the o r i g i n a l are both transformed into the desert—the e v e r - s h i f t i n g movements of sand. Trans Latus The L a t i n etyma of the verb "trans la te ," "trans l a tus ," suggest the meaning "carried across ." The o r i g i n a l text thus i s carr i ed across a cer ta in space, a d i f f erence . What is th i s space of dif ference then? The obvious answer i s the di f ference between the language of the o r i g i n a l text and that of the t r a n s l a t i o n . But i t a lso seems poss ible to detect th i s e s sent ia l operation of t r a n s l a t i o n i n the fundamental movement of language i t s e l f , that i s , i n the process of f i g u r a l t ranspos i t ion within Language, in the process of " troping ," of "turning" an o r i g i n , a presence. In h i s c r i t i q u e of " o r i g i n , " Jacques Derrida has introduced the term "differance" to designate an endless supplementary movement at the s i t e of o r i g i n . It not only marks the s p a t i a l di f ference but also the temporal detour of d e f e r r a l . Thus according to Derr ida , o r i g i n (or presence) i s always already d i f f e r e d and deferred ("Differance" 14). Is i t poss ib le , then, to regard the "carrying-across" operation of t r a n s l a t i o n as something very s imi lar to the o r i g i n a r y a c t i v i t y named dif ferance? Or perhaps, t r a n s l a t i o n can be regarded as a s i t e where the movement of d i f ferance becomes most v i s i b l e , most emphatically enacted. It i s a s i t e where a cer ta in sl ippage from the o r i g i n occurs. But the o r i g i n i s already s l i p p i n g from i t s throne. 13 The sentence "Nishiwaki i s parad i sa l" i s thus already traversed by such a movement of t r a n s l a t i o n , although i n complex ways. Carr ied across by the copula, Nishiwaki (a name) is transposed into a q u a l i t y . But even before t h i s t ranspos i t i on , the status and the d e f i n i t i o n of Nishiwaki are already i n f l u x . Of course "Nishiwaki" is the t r a n s l i t e r a t i o n of a Japanese name. Moreover, within the intended context, "Nishiwaki" functions as a kind of synecdoche, representing a larger u n i t , namely the Nishiwaki-text (Nishiwaki as a text; texts wri t ten by Nishiwaki) . Trans la t ion i s also already involved in the "parad i sa l ." Carr ied across from the Greek etymon "paradeisos," c a r r i e d across from the parent-noun "paradise," and furthermore transferred from the l i t e r a l (pure) paradise to th is earthly language, across i t s unbridgeable distance from the pure paradise , from the pure tongue, but at the same time reveal ing i t s e l f as a mark of seduction, the parad i sa l induces our des ire for the l i t e r a l paradise , causing the coming-into-being of th i s wri t ing- f low, carry ing across the distance pos i ted by the paradise i t s e l f , weaving a new text , re-naming Nishiwaki , t r a n s l a t i n g Nishiwaki , transplant ing Nishiwaki i n the most fore ign of gardens, paradise . 2 Trans latory Mise-en-abyme In h i s "Die Aufgabe des Ubersetzers" (The Task of the Trans la tor ) Walter Benjamin pos i t s a type of paradise as a messianic des t inat ion of languages, intimated by the operation of t r a n s l a t i o n . He c a l l s th i s paradise "pure language." Benjamin's text deserves spec ia l a t tent ion here because i t addresses the issue of the very nature and funct ion of language, which we have been o u t l i n i n g with the notions of reading, w r i t i n g , and 14 t r a n s l a t i o n . However, l i k e many other texts by Benjamin, th i s text on t r a n s l a t i o n shows a p e c u l i a r l y e lusive textual density which makes i t very d i f f i c u l t for readers simply to understand what the text says. Indeed the text borders on being scandalous i n terms of i t s s ty le as well as of i t s content. It singlehandedly abandons the common notion of t r a n s l a t i o n as the t r a n s f e r r i n g of the content from the o r i g i n a l language to another one. Instead i t promotes an absolutely l i t e r a l ' ( w o r d by word) t r a n s l a t i o n . In a strange sense, the text seems to be advocating a pure meaning-less text , of which the text i t s e l f i s attempting to be an example by making two contradictory statements at once: t r a n s l a t i o n i s and i s not poss ib le . I r o n i c a l l y enough, for the student of t r a n s l a t i o n , th i s p e c u l i a r textual d i f f i c u l t y becomes most v i s i b l e in the t rans la t ions of th i s text on t r a n s l a t i o n . Paul de Man f inds that the scandalousness of the text i s such that even the most admired trans la tors of the text (Harry Zohn i n Engl i sh and Maurice de Gandi l lac in French) seem to have been led astray into making some blatant mis trans la t ions : We now then ask the s implest , the most naive, the most l i t e r a l of poss ible questions in r e l a t i o n to Benjamin's text . . . what does Benjamin say? . . . But i t seems that , in the case of th i s text , th i s i s very d i f f i c u l t to e s t a b l i s h . Even the t r a n s l a t o r s , who c e r t a i n l y are close to the text , who had to read i t c lo se ly to some extent, don't seem to have the s l i gh te s t idea of what Benjamin i s saying; so much so that when Benjamin says c e r t a i n things rather simply in one way—for example he says that something i s not—the t r a n s l a t o r s , who at least know German wel l enough to know the di f ference between something _is and something is not, don't see i t ! and put absolute ly and l i t e r a l l y the 15 opposite of what Benjamin has sa id . (79) De Man elaborates further with an example: The asser t ion i s so s t r i k i n g , so shocking in a way, that here again the t rans la tor (Maurice de Gandi l lac ) does not see i t . Benjamin says ( in Zohn's t r a n s l a t i o n ) : "Although t r a n s l a t i o n , unl ike a r t , cannot c laim permanence for i t s products . . . " ; G a n d i l l a c , the same passage: "Ains i l a traduct ion , encore q u ' e l l e ne puisse C l e v e r une pretent ion a l a duree de ses ouvrages, et en ce la e l l e n'est pas sans ressemblance avec l ' a r t . . . . " The o r i g i n a l i s absolutely unambiguous: "Ubersetzung a l so , wiewohl s ie auf Dauer i h r e r Gebilde nicht Anspruch erheben kann and h i e r i n unahnlich der Kunst. . . . " As you come upon i t i n a text , the statement is so s u r p r i s i n g , goes so much against common sense, that an i n t e l l i g e n t , learned, and care fu l t rans la tor cannot see i t , cannot see what Benjamin says. It i s remarkable. Zohn saw i t—don' t get the impression that Zohn gets i t a l l r i g h t and Gandi l lac gets i t a l l wrong—basical ly Gandi l lac i s a l i t t l e ahead of Zohn, I think, in the f i n a l ana lys i s . (81) Are we not seeing a mise-en-abyme of sorts here, the uncovering of a cer ta in play of forces between the o r i g i n a l and the t r a n s l a t i o n in a t r a n s l a t i o n of a text on trans la t ion? A t r a n s l a t i o n thus presents a theatre of d i f f erance , of arche-writ ing—a mise-en-abyme of traces . In order to see the operations that t r a n s l a t i o n performs in the theatre of language, i t becomes more p r o f i t a b l e to examine such a 16 mise-en-abyme of t r a n s l a t i o n , rather than staying only with the o r i g i n a l where any "originary" f i s s u r e may be wel l hidden i n the name of "or ig in" i t s e l f . Derr ida ' s study of "The Task of the T r a n s l a t o r , " e n t i t l e d "Des Tours de Babel ," despite h i s excel lent knowledge of German, also exp lo i t s th i s t rans la tory mise-en-abyme s i t u a t i o n provided by G a n d i l l a c ' s French t r a n s l a t i o n . In f a c t , he goes one step fur ther . He says that he translates the t r a n s l a t i o n of a text on t r a n s l a t i o n : Cet example s i n g u l i e r , a l a f o i s archetypique et a l l egor ique , pourrai t in trodu ire a tous les problemes d i t s theoriques de l a t raduct ion . Mais aucune t h e o r i s a t i o n , des l o r s q u ' e l l e se produit dans une langue, ne pourra dominer l a performance babelienne. C'est une des raisons pour lesquel les je prefere i c i , au l i e u d'en t r a i t e r sur le mode theorique, tenter de traduire a ma maniere l a traduct ion d'un autre texte sur l a t raduct ion . (219) Cer ta in ly the t r a n s l a t i o n of a t r a n s l a t i o n becomes a r a d i c a l l y v i o l e n t performance, as we w i l l see in Benjamin's thes i s . It pos i ts a p a r t i c u l a r l y dangerous method of producing a discourse whose r e l a t i o n to the o r i g i n a l text becomes unstable, to say the l eas t . But in so doing, the o r i g i n a r y status of the o r i g i n a l becomes decayed and in i t s ruined s i t e , what Derrida c a l l s "the Babelian performance," the m u l t i p l i c a t i o n of languages o r i g i n a l l y signed by God, begins to res ide . Trans la t ion thus p a r t i c i p a t e s in the Babelian performance so as to serve, perhaps unknowingly, in the form of m i s - t r a n s l a t i o n , not the Same, but d i f f erance . De Man re la tes an anecdote about how a mis trans la t ion by Gandi l lac has and has not affected Derr ida 's discourse on Benjamin's text: 17 An example which has become famous and has an anecdote in the passage near the end of Benjamin's essay, where Benjamin says the fo l lowing: "Wo der Text unmittelbar, ohne vermittelnden S i n n , " and so on, "der Wahrheit oder der Lehre angeh'drt, i s t er ubersetzbar sch lechth in ." "Where the text pertains d i r e c t l y , without mediation, to the realm of the truth and of dogma, i t i s , without further ado, translatable"—the text can be t rans la t ed , sch lechthin , so there is no problem about t r a n s l a t i n g i t . G a n d i l l a c — I won't comment on th i s—trans la te s th i s r e l a t i v e l y simple, enunciatory sentence: "La ou le texte, immediatement, sans l 'entremise d'un sens . . . r e l i v e de l a v e r i t e ou de l a doctr ine , i l est purement et simplement i n t r a d u i s i b l e " — u n -t r a n s l a t a b l e . What adds some comedy to th is p a r t i c u l a r instance is that Jacques Derrida was doing a seminar with th i s p a r t i c u l a r text i n P a r i s , using the French—Derrida's German i s pre t ty good, but he prefers to use the French, and when you are a philosopher in France you take Gandi l lac more or less s er ious ly . So Derr ida was basing part of h i s reading on the " i n t r a d u i s i b l e , " on the u n t r a n s l a t a b i l i t y , u n t i l somebody i n h i s seminar (so I'm t o l d ) pointed out to him that the correct word was " trans la tab le ." I'm sure Derr ida could explain that i t was the same . . . and I mean that in a p o s i t i v e sense, i t _is the same. . . . (79-80) The untranslatable and the trans latable are the same in d i f f erance . This i s the trace we must begin to re-cover within the density of Benjamin's text . 18 Supra-human Language Benjamin begins h i s essay with th i s premise: "No poem i s intended for the reader, no p ic ture for the beholder, no symphony for the l i s t e n e r " (69). Thus the reader is r a d i c a l l y expelled from th i s text . With the banishment of the reader comes the a b o l i t i o n of communicable meaning, or of the semantical ly or iented re la t ionsh ip between languages. Even the f igure of the author barely surfaces i n th i s text . There are only the doomed trans la tor and the sacred anter ior text—either Holy Writ or poetry. The t r a n s l a t o r ' s doom i s already inscr ibed in the t i t l e of the essay "Die Aufgabe des Ubersetzers ," as Carol Jacobs points out in her study "The Monstrosity of Trans la t ion": The t r a n s l a t a b i l i t y of the text excludes the realm of man and with him the t r a n s l a t o r , the f igure to which Benjamin's essay i s devoted. The "Aufgabe" of the t r a n s l a t o r is less his task than his surrender: he i s "aufgegeben," given up, abandoned. (765) What i s th i s supra-human, supra-meaning movement of language named here " t r a n s l a t a b i l i t y " ? Let us fol low Benjamin's text c l o s e l y . We have seen that the anter ior text ignores recept ion. Benjamin reasons that since the o r i g i n a l text i s not wri t ten for the reader, nei ther should t r a n s l a t i o n attempt to serve the reader. Here Benjamin i s not even concerned with the transmission of a so - ca l l ed poet ic ef fect ("the unfathomable, the mysterious, the poetic") in t r a n s l a t i o n . He simply dismisses such an attempt as "the inaccurate transmission of an i n e s s e n t i a l content" (70). Then what are the funct ion and nature of a poem, of a t rans la t ion? 19 Benjamin de l imi t s t r a n s l a t i o n s u c c i n c t l y : "Translat ion i s a mode," and poses a question with regard to the o r i g i n a l : "Does i t s nature lend i t s e l f to t r a n s l a t i o n and, therefore, in view of the s ign i f i cance of the mode, c a l l for i t ? " (70). In order to explain th i s strange c a l l i n g for th of t r a n s l a t i o n by the o r i g i n a l , Benjamin introduces a supra-human realm: It should be pointed out that c e r t a i n c o r r e l a t i v e concepts r e t a i n t h e i r meaning, and poss ib ly t h e i r foremost s i gn i f i cance , i f they are re ferred exc lus ive ly to man. One might, for example, speak of an unforgettable l i f e or moment even i f a l l men had forgotten i t . I f the nature of such a l i f e or moment required that i t be unforgotten, that predicate would not imply a falsehood but merely a c la im not f u l f i l l e d by men, and probably also a reference to a realm i n which i t _is_ f u l f i l l e d : God's remembrance. Analogously, the t r a n s l a t a b i l i t y of l i n g u i s t i c creations ought to be considered even i f men should prove unable to trans late them. (70) In the f i r s t sentence quoted above, we see a case of "s ign i f i cant" mis-t r a n s l a t i o n which de Man has pointed out. "If they are re ferred exc lus ive ly to man," i s indeed the opposite of what the o r i g i n a l says, "Wenn s ie nicht . . . auf den Menschen bezogen werden" (10), " i f you do not re la te them to man" (de Man 85). The marked s ign i f i cance of th i s lapse in the t r a n s l a t i o n emerges when we consider the moment of i t s occurrence. It occurs exact ly when language supersedes man. The scandalousness of. Benjamin's asser t ion momentarily b l inds the t r a n s l a t o r . The t rans la tor 3 f ights against h is own death by m i s - t r a n s l a t i n g the death sentence. 20 Nonetheless, the stress-mark imprinted upon his doom, upon his "Aufgabe," remains. Babel Derrida sees i n the above passage a fundamental " s u r - v i v a l " force inherent i n language, or in the very cons t i tu t ive structure of the o r i g i n a l , which f i r s t appears as a supra-human demand for t r a n s l a t i o n : C e l u i - c i exige l a traduct ion meme s i aucun traducteur n'est l a , en mesure de repondre a cette in jonc t ion qui est en meme temps demande et des ir dans l a s tructure me*me de 1 ' o r i g i n a l . Cette s tructure est l e rapport de l a v ie a l a surv ie . Cette exigence de 1*autre comme traducteur, Benjamin l a compare a t e l instant inoubl iab le de l a v i e : i l est vecu comme inoubl iab le , i l est inoubl iab le meme s i en f a i t l ' o u b l i f i n i t par l 'emporter. II aura ete inoub l iab l e , c'est l a sa s i g n i f i c a t i o n e s s e n t i e l l e , son essence apodict ique. . . . L'exigence de 1 ' inoubl iab le—qui est i c i cons t i tu t ive—n'es t pas le moins du monde entamee par l a f in i tude de l a memoire. . . . En ce sens l a dimension survivante est un a p r i o r i — e t l a mort n'y changerait r i e n . (225-226) According to Derr ida , th i s surv iva l force , which surfaces through the r e l a t i o n s h i p between the o r i g i n a l and the t r a n s l a t i o n , deploys a strategy involv ing a contractual indebting of the t rans la tor as wel l as of the o r i g i n a l i t s e l f : Car s i l a s tructure de 1 ' o r i g i n a l est marquee par 1'exigence 21 d'etre t r a d u i t , c 'est qu'en fa i sant l a l o i l ' o r i g i n a l commence par s 'endetter aussi a l ' egard du traducteur. L ' o r i g i n a l est le premier debiteur , le premier demandeur, i l commence par manquer et par p leurer apres l a t raduct ion . (227-228) How should we mark th i s or ig inary lack within the o r i g i n a l ? Derrida now r e c a l l s the story of the tower of Babel where the o r i g i n a l need for t r a n s l a t i o n i s i n s c r i b e d . F i r s t he points out that th is myth i s involved with the problem of naming. The story t e l l s us that the people wanted to make a name for themselves. But they ended up rece iv ing a name from God: Babel. The name "Babel" given to th i s s i t e has two dimensions, one a common noun, the other a proper noun. Derrida c i tes V o l t a i r e : Je ne sais pas pourquoi i l est d i t dans l a Genlse que Babel s i g n i f i e confusion, car Ba s i g n i f i e pere dans les langues o r i e n ta l e s , et Bel s i g n i f i e Dieu; Babel s i g n i f i e l a v i l l e de Dieu, l a v i l l e sa inte . (210) Thus confusion and the name of God are both inscr ibed in Babel. This double signature of God i n i t i a t e s the contractual movement of language, the c a l l i n g for th of t r a n s l a t i o n . Derrida continues: Cette demande n'est pas seulement du c&te des constructeurs de l a tour qui veulent se f a i r e un nom et fonder une langue u n i v e r s e l l e se traduisant d'elle-me*me; e l l e contra int aussi le deconstructeur de l a tour: en donnant son nom, Dieu en a aussi appele a l a t raduct ion , non seulement entre les langues devenues tout a coup mult ip les et confuses, mais d'abord de son nom, du nom q u ' i l a 22 clame, donn&, et qui doit se t raduire par confusion pour e*tre entendu, done pour l a i s s e r entendre q u ' i l est d i f f i c i l e de le traduire et a i n s i de 1'entendre. Au moment ou i l impose et oppose sa l o i a c e l l e de l a t r i b u , i l est aussi demandeur de traduct ion . II est aussi endette. II n'a pas f i n i de p leurer apres l a traduct ion de son nom alors meme q u ' i l l ' i n t e r d i t . Car Babel est i n t r a d u i s i b l e . Dieu pleure sur son nom. (228) What Derrida attempts to describe here i s a very complex s i tua t ion of "the very beginning" where, in an absolutely paradoxical way, God (the O r i g i n ) separates "His Name" (Language) from Himself , gives i t an absolute status by i n s c r i b i n g "confusion" (that i s , incomprehensibi l i ty) on i t , but in so doing, creates the f i r s t demand for "trans la t ion" because of the very "confusion of tongues" now inscr ibed within "His Name," Babel. God must be kept "incomprehensible." But in order for "His Name" (Language) to "sur-v ive ," i t must be transported in a c e r t a i n movement of transference, namely t r a n s l a t i o n . Babel reveals a demand for "confusion" and at the same time an or ig inary want of t r a n s l a t i o n . The des ire for an absolute separation and that for t ranspor ta t ion / t rans ference / t rans la t ion c o l l i d e at th is "very beginning." What is meant by " t r a n s l a t a b i l i t y of the o r i g i n a l " in Benjamin i s thus l inked to th i s paradoxical "weeping of God over his name." From the moment the "untranslatable Babel" demands i t s own t r a n s l a t i o n , Language begins i t s hidden l i f e , drawing in languages through the gate of t r a n s l a t i o n to I t s e l f . 23 S u r - v i v a l (Uberleben) and Trans la t ion (Ubersetzen) Benjamin c a l l s th i s s u r v i v a l movement "hallowed growth of language" (74) with i t s des t inat ion in the seemingly messianic end of "pure language." This pure language, according to Benjamin, i s the ult imate "harmony" or " r e c o n c i l i a t i o n " of d i f f erent languages attained through the operation of t r a n s l a t i o n . Is the s u r v i v a l movement of language, then, instead of heading towards "confusion"—the Babelian dissemination of difference—growing i n the d i r e c t i o n of the promised land of the Same, towards the pre-Babel ian name of God? Let us fol low Benjamin's text again. F i r s t , Benjamin points to a "natural" or " v i t a l " connection between the o r i g i n a l and the t r a n s l a t i o n : It i s p l a u s i b l e that no t r a n s l a t i o n , however good i t may be, can have any s ign i f i cance as regards the o r i g i n a l . Yet, by v i r t u e of i t s t r a n s l a t a b i l i t y the o r i g i n a l i s c l o s e l y connected with the t r a n s l a t i o n ; in f a c t , th is connection i s a l l the c loser since i t is no longer of importance to the o r i g i n a l . We may c a l l th i s connection a natural one, or , more p r e c i s e l y , a v i t a l connection. Just as the manifestations of l i f e are int imately connected with the phenomenon of l i f e without being of importance to i t , a t r a n s l a t i o n issues from the or ig ina l—not so much from i t s l i f e as from i t s a f t e r l i f e [Uberleben]. (71) Zohn's rendering of "Uberleben" as " a f t e r l i f e " here reveals an i n t e r e s t i n g (unconscious?) i n t e r l i n g u a l s h i f t i n g of meaning. "Uberleben" is usua l ly trans lated as "surv iva l" or more l i t e r a l l y " ( o v e r ) / o u t - l i v i n g . " 24 " A f t e r l i f e " in turn should be trans lated as "zuk'tinftiges Leben" in the sense of " la t er / fu ture l i f e , " or as "Leben nach dem Tode" in the sense of " l i f e af ter death." But the French equivalent of "Uberleben," "surv ie ," does mean "surv iva l" as well as " a f t e r l i f e , " that i s , "more l i f e " and "more than l i f e . " Then, what does th i s " s u r - v i v a l / a f t e r - l i f e " of the o r i g i n a l reveal here? A t r a n s l a t i o n issues from i t . Both are connected " v i t a l l y . " But strangely, the t r a n s l a t i o n does not hold any importance or s ign i f i cance for the o r i g i n a l . Why? Benjamin seems to answer, "precise ly because the bond between them i s n a t u r a l . " There i s no room for "s ignif icance" in the " s u r - v i v a l " within nature. Or, we may put more emphasis on the " a f t e r l i f e " of the o r i g i n a l . That i s , the o r i g i n a l does not see any s ign i f i cance i n the t r a n s l a t i o n because the o r i g i n a l i t s e l f i s already dead. A t r a n s l a t i o n issues from the o r i g i n a l ' s " a f t e r l i f e . " Trans la t ion announces the death of the o r i g i n a l . The s u r v i v a l of language from the o r i g i n a l to a t r a n s l a t i o n , therefore, i s not that the o r i g i n a l i t s e l f survives through the t r a n s l a t i o n . Benjamin wri tes: Trans la t ion i s so far removed from being the s t e r i l e equation of two dead languages that of a l l l i t e r a r y forms i t i s the one charged with the spec ia l mission of watching over the maturing process [Nachreife] of the o r i g i n a l language and the b i r t h pangs of i t s own. (73) De Man argues that "maturing process" i s not the r ight t r a n s l a t i o n of "Nachreife": " i t i s by no means a maturing process, i t i s a looking back on a process of maturity that i s f i n i s h e d , and that i s no longer taking place" (85). Thus "Nachreife" becomes synonymous with "Uberleben," survie• Trans la t ion i s at the wake of the o r i g i n a l . 25 Yet Benjamin says: "The l i f e of the or ig ina l s"a t ta ins in them [ t rans la t ions ] to i t s ever-renewed la t e s t and most abundant flowering" (72). Then what survives through trans la t ion? It i s not the o r i g i n a l i t s e l f but i t s " l i f e " that survives . What i s t h i s "l i fe"? Benjamin l i t e r a l l y "translates" th i s " l i f e " as a c e r t a i n purposiveness: Being a spec ia l and high form of l i f e , th i s f lowering i s governed by a s p e c i a l , high purposiveness. The r e l a t i o n s h i p between l i f e and purposefulness, seemingly obvious yet almost beyond the grasp of the i n t e l l e c t , reveals i t s e l f only i f the ult imate purpose toward which a l l s ingle functions tend is sought not i n i t s own sphere but in a higher one. A l l purposeful manifestations of l i f e , inc lud ing t h e i r very purposiveness, in the f i n a l analys is have t h e i r end not i n l i f e , but in the expression of i t s nature, in the representat ion of i t s s i g n i f i c a n c e . Trans la t ion thus u l t imate ly serves the purpose of expressing the centra l r e c i p r o c a l r e l a t i o n s h i p between languages. (72) The purposiveness of l i f e becomes v i s i b l e only when a transcendental s tate , towards which every purposeful manifestation of l i f e moves, i s considered. This transcendental state i s s i tuated af ter l i f e . The "Uberleben" of the o r i g i n a l appears only when th i s transcendental f i n a l goal i s taken into account. But the goal 's very transcendence requires an incommensurable distance from mere " l i f e . " That i s why "Uberleben" becomes " a f t e r l i f e . " What survives i s the "purposiveness," or the dr ive towards the f i n a l expression of the purpose of Language. Benjamin names th i s transcendental goal of languages "pure language": 26 Wherein res ides the relatedness of two languages, apart from h i s t o r i c a l considerations? C e r t a i n l y not in the s i m i l a r i t y between works of l i t e r a t u r e or words. Rather, a l l s u p r a h i s t o r i c a l k inship of languages rests in the in tent ion underlying each language as a whole—an in tent ion , however; which no s ingle language can a t t a i n by i t s e l f but which i s r e a l i z e d only by the t o t a l i t y of t h e i r intent ions supplementing each other: pure language. (74) Here we must note that the "or ig in" of the k inship of languages does not rest with the o r i g i n a r y being, the author, who intends a cer ta in meaning. Rather, th i s "intention" belongs to Language—a t o t a l i t y in which the u n f u l f i l l e d intent ions of actual languages supplement each other. And th i s supplementary movement towards pure language i s ins t igated only by the workings of t r a n s l a t i o n . Benjamin envisions th i s l i n g u i s t i c paradise as fol lows: Although t r a n s l a t i o n , unl ike a r t , cannot claim permanence for i t s products, i t s goal i s undeniably a f i n a l , conclusive , dec i s ive stage of a l l l i n g u i s t i c crea t ion . In t r a n s l a t i o n the o r i g i n a l r i s e s into a higher and purer l i n g u i s t i c a i r , as i t were. It cannot l i v e there permanently, to be sure, and i t c e r t a i n l y does not reach i t i n i t s en t i re ty . Yet, in a s ingu lar ly impressive manner, at l east i t points the way to th i s region: the predest ined, h i therto inaccess ib le realm of r e c o n c i l i a t i o n and f u l f i l l m e n t of languages. (75) 27 The Untranslatable What, then, s p e c i f i c a l l y reaches th i s paradise? Benjamin r e i t e r a t e s that i t i s not the semantic dimensions (the s i g n i f i e d s ) transmitted through a t r a n s l a t i o n that reaches there. Rather, i t i s , i r o n i c a l l y yet p r e c i s e l y , that which remains as untranslatable i n a t r a n s l a t i o n : The t rans fer can never be t o t a l , but what reaches th is region i s that element in a t r a n s l a t i o n which goes beyond transmit ta l of subject matter. This nucleus i s best defined as the element that does not lend i t s e l f to t r a n s l a t i o n . Even when a l l the surface content has been extracted and transmitted, the primary concern of the genuine t rans la tor remains e lus ive . (75) This i s a p a r t i c u l a r l y perplexing passage. Is Benjamin saying that though the task of the t r a n s l a t o r has nothing to do with the transmit ta l of content, nonetheless the content i s transmitted through t r a n s l a t i o n ; but at the same time, s trangely enough, the untranslatable appears not in the o r i g i n a l but rather in a trans la t ion? In th i s sense, t r a n s l a t i o n becomes a doubly negative, impossible operation. It does what i s not i t s primary task: transmission of content. And i t announces i t s profound f a i l u r e by somehow manifesting that which cannot be t rans la ted . Indeed, at th i s po int , t r a n s l a t i o n becomes impossible and poss ible—poss ible only in announcing i t s ult imate f a i l u r e , the untrans latable . By manifesting th i s nucleus as the untranslatable i n a t r a n s l a t i o n , the nucleus becomes an in junct ion against further operations of t r a n s l a t i o n upon i t s e l f . In other words, i t forbids the t r a n s l a t i o n of t r a n s l a t i o n . 28 Derrida reads th i s nucleus as "the o r i g i n a l as such" and brings out a d i a l e c t i c a l r e l a t i o n s h i p between the o r i g i n a l and the t r a n s l a t i o n : On reconnalt un noyau ( 1 ' o r i g i n a l en tant que t e l ) a c e c i q u ' i l peut se l a i s s e r de nouveau traduire et r e t radu ire . Une traduct ion , e l l e , ne le peut pas en tant que t e l l e . Seul un noyau, parce q u ' i l r l s i s t e a l a traduct ion q u ' i l aimante, peut s ' o f f r i r a une nouvelle operation t raductr ice sans se l a i s s e r epuiser . (236) This indicates a la tent power-structure susta ining the r e l a t i o n s h i p between the o r i g i n a l and the t r a n s l a t i o n . The nucleus as the o r i g i n a l as such (not the o r i g i n a l text i t s e l f but i t s very status of being o r i g i n a l ) bears a fundamentally paradoxical r e la t ionsh ip to the t r a n s l a t i o n . At once i t a t tracts and r e s i s t s t r a n s l a t i o n . This i s because the nucleus, the untranslatable , requires t r a n s l a t i o n to protect i t s inef fable s tatus . It needs t r a n s l a t i o n to declare that i t i s untrans latable . In other words, unless "translated" the untranslatable cannot ex is t as such. Benjamin speaks of th i s e s sent ia l dilemma of t r a n s l a t i o n in s imi l e s : Unlike the words of the o r i g i n a l , i t [the nucleus] is not t rans la tab le , because the r e l a t i o n s h i p between content and language i s quite d i f f erent in the o r i g i n a l and the t r a n s l a t i o n . While content and language form a c e r t a i n unity in the o r i g i n a l , l i k e a f r u i t and i t s sk in , the language of the t r a n s l a t i o n envelops i t s content l i k e a roya l robe with ample fo lds . For i t s i g n i f i e s a more exalted language than i t s own and thus remains unsuited to i t s content, overpowering and a l i e n . This 29 d i s junc t ion prevents t r a n s l a t i o n and at the same time makes i t superfluous. (75) The nucleus, therefore, is the Sovereign, the untouchable. It i s ne i ther the f r u i t (content) nor the skin (language). Derrida sees th i s nucleus as the space between the tenor and the language. And for him th i s space, th i s Saussurian d i f ference , i s magnetic: "La noyau e s sent i e l , ce qui n'est pas, dans l a t raduct ion , a nouveau t r a d u i s i b l e , ce n'est pas l a teneur mais cette adherence entre l a teneur et l a langue, entre le f r u i t et l 'enveloppe" (237). This magnetic di f ference i t s e l f , un i t ing the skin to the f r u i t , mobil izes the operation of guaranteeing the status of the o r i g i n a l to i t s e l f by demanding a "royal robe"—the language of t r a n s l a t i o n . We not ice that th i s roya l robe does not c l i n g t i g h t l y to the naked body of the Sovereign. By the luxury of th i s very superfluousness of "ample folds" the Sovereign comes to be s i g n i f i e d as_ such. True Language The nucleus, the attachment between the skin and the f r u i t , the very status of the o r i g i n a l , the untranslatable in a t r a n s l a t i o n , that which reaches the messianic end of a l l languages, is the true language. It i s , however as Jacob points out, not "the apotheosis of an ultimate language, but rather that which is purely language—nothing but language" (761). Benjamin quotes Mallarme in the o r i g i n a l : Les langues imparfaites en ce la que p lus i eurs , manque l a supreme: penser etant e c r i r e sans accessoires , n i chuchotement mais t a c i t e encore 1'immortelle parole , l a d i v e r s i t e , sur t erre , des idiomes 30 empeche personne de proferer les mots qui, sinon se trouveraient, par une frappe unique, elle-me*me matiriellement l a v e r i t e . (77) Mallarme here longs for the true language in which there i s no d i v i s i o n between content and language, between the s i g n i f i e r and the s i g n i f i e d . The Word becomes Truth instantaneously. Thus within the true language there i s no opening where meaning can appear. Neither i s there space nor time i n i t . It i s the eternal present. It i s both the absolutely readerly and wr i t e r l y text at once. And the p o s s i b i l i t y of this language i s glimpsed only through t r a n s l a t i o n : If there i s such a thing as a language of truth, the tensionless and even s i l e n t depository of the ultimate truth which a l l thought s t r i v e s for, then this language of truth i s — t h e true language. And this very language, whose divination and description i s the only perfection a philosopher can hope for, i s concealed in concentrated fashion in translations. (77) Loss of Meaning The truth of language i s the purity of language i t s e l f devoid of i t s r e f e r e n t i a l or representative function. Translation thus aids i n p u r i f y i n g the o r i g i n a l text of i t s meaning: And that which seeks to represent, to produce i t s e l f i n the evolving of languages, is the very nucleus of pure language. Though concealed and fragmentary, i t i s an active force in l i f e 31 as the symbolized thing i t s e l f , whereas i t inhabits l i n g u i s t i c creations only in symbolized form. While that ultimate essence, pure language, in the various tongues i s t i e d only to l i n g u i s t i c elements and th e i r changes, in l i n g u i s t i c creations i t i s weighted with a heavy, a l i e n meaning. To r e l i e v e i t of t h i s , to turn the symbolizing into the symbolized, to regain pure language f u l l y formed i n the l i n g u i s t i c flux, i s the tremendous and only capacity of translation. In t h i s pure language—which no longer means or expresses anything but i s , as expressionless and creative Word, that which i s meant in a l l l a n g u a g e s — a l l information, a l l sense, and a l l intention f i n a l l y encounter a stratum in which they are destined to be extinguished. (79-80) The only possible method of tr a n s l a t i o n to achieve this end can be seen in the absolutely l i t e r a l rendering of syntax, word by word, which Holderlin performs in his "monstrous" translations of Sophocles. The result i s of course beyond comprehensibility. What we see in them i s the violent intrusion of a foreign syntax into Holderlin's mother tongue. Translation thus r a d i c a l l y destabilizes our own tongue as well as depriving the " a l i e n meaning" of the o r i g i n a l text. The meaning i s a l i e n not to the o r i g i n a l text i t s e l f but to this supra-human movement of language, the sur-vival of language, pure language. The symbolizing (the l i t e r a r y e ffecting of meaning—the poetic, the mysterious) has i t s end not in the al i e n meaning but i n the f i n a l symbolized—pure language. 4 Language symbolizes i t s e l f within i t s e l f so as not to die. This monstrous language to i n f i n i t y becomes manifest only through t r a n s l a t i o n . But the enormous danger that the translator encounters through t h i s teratogenesis of language cannot be forgotten: 32 For t his very reason Holderlin's translations in p a r t i c u l a r are subject to the enormous danger inherent in a l l translations: the gates of a language thus expanded and modified may slam shut and enclose the translator with silence. Holderlin's translations from Sophocles were his l a s t work: in them meaning plunges from abyss to abyss u n t i l i t threatens to become lo s t i n the bottomless depths of language. (81-82) Man i s definable only through meaning, that i s , through reading. When man ceases reading and thus loses meaning, there i s only one thing l e f t to do. He begins to translate language i t s e l f . Pure w r i t e r l y production does not belong to man but to language i t s e l f . Language writes i t s e l f . We only translate. We ourselves are s i l e n t . At the moment when this overcoming of man by language becomes manifest, the translator (Zohn) attempts again to stop the threatening current of language: Benjamin writes: Aber es gibt ein Halten. Es gew'ahrt es jedoch kein Text aufer dem h e i l i g e n , in dem der Sinn aufgehort hat, die Wasserscheide fur die stromende Sprache und die strbmende Offenbarung zu sein. (21) Zohn translates: There i s , however, a stop. It i s vouchsafed to Holy Writ alone, in which meaning has ceased to be the watershed for the flow of 33 language and the flow of revelation. (82) The c r u c i a l word here i s "Halten," which can mean "holding" or "ret a i n i n g " as well as " h a l t . " Is the precipitous loss of meaning (thus of man) stopped i n the sacred text? Or i s the supra-human movement of language o r i g i n a l l y retained i n the true language of Holy Writ? Benjamin concludes his essay: Where a text i s i d e n t i c a l with truth or dogma, where i t i s supposed to be "the true language" i n a l l i t s l i t e r a l n e s s and without the mediation of meaning, t h i s text i s unconditionally translatable. In such case [ s i c ] translations are c a l l e d f o r only because of the p l u r a l i t y of languages. For to some degree a l l great texts contain t h e i r potential translation between the l i n e s ; t his i s true to the highest degree of sacred writings. The i n t e r l i n e a r version of the Scriptures i s the prototype or ideal of a l l t r a n s l a t i o n . (82) Babel Revisited The sacred text's c a l l i n g forth of tra n s l a t i o n "because of the p l u r a l i t y of languages" again reminds us of the story of Babel. The tower of Babel marks a cer t a i n originary loss of communicable meaning. But then, did the pre-Babelian language " r e t a i n " the germ of such a loss? The sacred text, being the absolutely l i t e r a l text, does not lose i t s meaning ( i t s l i t e r a l i t y i t s e l f ) through a l i t e r a l t r a n s l a t i o n . In a sense, i t says 34 nothing to us. It simply i s . Was the pre-Babel ian language th i s l i t e r a l i t y i t s e l f also? We know only what happened at Babel . Af ter Babel, t r a n s l a t i o n became necessary."* But at Babel, God's ostensible aim was to "confuse" our tongue, to p l u r a l i z e the pre-Babel ian language, to force the loss of meaning within Language, between languages. The re su l t was the emergence of t r a n s l a t i o n as a remedy for the loss of meaning, to f i l l the gap between languages. But again, God's command was e x p l i c i t l y d irected at the loss of meaning. What was God jealous of? Let us look at the story as recounted in Genesis: Then they s a i d , "Come, l e t us b u i l d ourselves a c i t y , with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves and not be scattered over the face of the whole ear th ." But the Lord came down to see the c i t y and the tower that the men were b u i l d i n g . The Lord s a i d , "If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do t h i s , then nothing they plan to do w i l l be impossible for them. Come, l e t us go down and confuse t h e i r language so they w i l l not understand each other ." So the Lord scattered them from there over a l l the earth , and they stopped b u i l d i n g the c i t y . That i s why i t was c a l l e d Babel—because there the Lord confused the language of the whole world. (11. 3-9) In the motivation for b u i l d i n g the tower, we see a curious causal connection between the self-naming of the people (the Sem) and the prevention of t h e i r dissemination. Why is the erect ing of the self-name 35 equated with the r a i s i n g of the tower? And how do the self-naming and the building of the tower prevent dissemination of the people? God sees that the sameness of the people and the i r language, consequently th e i r "understanding" proper, w i l l grant them the status of an omnipotent god. In the sameness the tower grows higher. The very presence of the tower i t s e l f was to become the name of the people. The ever increasing "presence" i n the perfect sameness was to become our name. God deconstructs t h i s presence, disseminates the Sem and i t s language, and then gives a name to the ruins of the "presence": Babel. The O.E.D. gives the following etymological information: Babel: Heb. babel Associated i n Genesis with the idea of 'confusion,' but not referable to any known Semic root; according to Prof. Sayce, for Assyrian bab-ilu gate of God, or b a b - i l i gate of the gods. God translates the self-name, the tower, and opens the gate which has been enclosing the Same. Meaning i s always a nostalgic return to the tower of the Same. Thus the loss of meaning that God willed manifests i t s e l f as the o r i g i n a l deconstruction of the self-name and of the self-presence within the order of the Same. The loss of meaning within tr a n s l a t i o n , to use Benjamin's simile, can be located i n the empty space between the naked body of the Sovereign and the royal robe that covers i t with ample fo l d s . Translation thus performs two contradictory operations with regard to meaning. Translation attempts to restore the pre-Babelian Sameness by bridging the difference between languages. At the same time, i t preserves the loss of meaning within i t s ample folds. Moreover, i t protects the 36 naked body of the Sovereign and proclaims his originary status with the very space of the loss of meaning (ample f o l d s ) . God requires the loss of meaning. God i s the loss of meaning. God i s jealous of any other presence. For he must be the only presence. And presence i n the Same has no meaning. It becomes the absolute proper name (the self-name) without any etymon. A proper name i s untranslatable but can be t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . What about a signature, then? Derrida asks: Comment traduiriez-vous une signature? Et comment vous en abstiendriez-vous, q u ' i l s'agisse de Iahweh, de Babel, de Benjamin quand i l signe tout pres de son dernier mot? (248) Now we may r e c a l l how Barthes defined l i t e r a t u r e i n S/Z: " ( l a L i t t l r a t u r e est une cacographie i n t e n t i o n n e l l e ) " (15). Translation may be a worse, more dangerous handwriting that unknowingly attempts to trace exactly, turn by turn (des tours de Babel), the lo s t signature, the absolute untranslatable, pure language, presence. We are contracted, signed, to be translators. Weather On a morning of an upturned gem Someone whispers to somebody at the doorway. This i s the day gods are born. This i s l i t e r a l l y the morning of tr a n s l a t i o n . Nishiwaki has borrowed the phrase " l i k e an upturn'd gem" from Keats and translated i t into Japanese. Nanpito ("Someone," an archaic, l i t e r a r y expression) i s whispering to dareka ("somebody," a c o l l o q u i a l expression). There i s a tran s l a t i o n occurring between these two synonyms. We cannot hear t h e i r whispered words. They are meaning-less. Who i s whispering to whom at the gate of the gods? 38 Notes to Chapter One 1. For further study of t h i s story of simulation, see Jean Baudrillard, Simulacres et simulation (Paris: Editions G a l i l e e , 1981). 2. On the notion of "mise-en-abyme," see Lucien Dallenbach, Le r£cit  speculaire: Essai sur l a mise en abyme (Paris: Editions du Se u i l , 1977). 3. The close relationship between "mis-reading/translation" and the " s u r v i v a l " of language/poetry i s also investigated i n Harold Bloom's The  Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry (New York: Oxford University Press, 1973). 4. For an account of this survival movement inherent i n language, see Michel Foucault, "Language to I n f i n i t y , " i n Language, Counter-Memory,  Practice, trans. Donald F. Bouchard and Sherry Simon (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977) 53-67. 5. Regarding "Babel" i n r e l a t i o n to language and translation, we must not overlook George Steiner's monumental work, After Babel: Aspects of  Language and Translation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977). 39 Chapter Two: Poetry of Sovereignty, Pure Poetry As he traveled alone, l i k e a man lured on by a s y l l a b l e without any meaning, A s y l l a b l e of which he f e l t , with an appointed sureness, That i t contained the meaning into which he wanted to enter, A meaning which, as he entered i t , would shatter the boat and leave the oarsmen quiet As at a point of central a r r i v a l , an instant moment, much or l i t t l e , Removed from any shore, from any man or woman, and needing none. —Wallace Stevens from "Prologues to What i s Possible" . . . le blaspheme pour forcer Dieu a s o r t i r de son silence. —Maurice Blanchot from Lautreamont et Sade When poetic language, i n a drive towards i t s own purity, loses external meaning, that i s , the mediating function of language, silence f a l l s . But then how can writing begin from t h i s encased purity of silence, from t h i s central, most immediate Poetry? Writing must come into being as a certain f a i l u r e of t h i s essential silence. What follows i n t h i s chapter i s an attempt to trace this primordial struggle between silence and communicative w r i t i n g — w r i t i n g as a means to transport "truth" or "meaning"—manifested i n theo r e t i c a l writings of 40 Nishiwaki, Georges B a t a i l l e , and Jacques Derrida. A central, and most paradoxical problem concerning "writing" emerges here. Where does the notion of writing "pure poetry," or of writing the "writerly text" stand in r e l a t i o n to the struggle between communication and silence? What Nishiwaki and B a t a i l l e have in common i s t h e i r e f f o r t to place "poetry" outside the ordinary economy of communication where the order of mimesis, i t s " t r u t h " and "meaning," dominates. In fact, both the notion of "pure poetry" pursued by Nishiwaki and the "supreme moment of non-savoir" envisioned by B a t a i l l e are located i n f i n i t e l y close to the realm of silence ( s e l f - e x t i n c t i o n ) . S i m i l a r l y , Derrida*s deconstructive c r i t i q u e i s directed at the language of metaphysics in which, again, the recovery of "truth" and "meaning" plays the cardinal r o l e . Derrida*s grammatology attempts to open a f i e l d of writing that i s free from the r e s t r i c t e d economy of communication (reading). Writing i s thus released from the burden of closed communication and returns to a certain silence, not an utter p a s s i v i t y of muteness, but a supplementary textual production that always precedes the o r i g i n , the "recovery" (reading) of the o r i g i n , beyond communication. Profanus In 1929, Nishiwaki broke his silence with these words: "To discourse upon poetry i s as dangerous as to discourse upon God" (4: 8). At the end of the essay thus begun, we are reminded of the danger again: " I t i s dangerous to discuss poetry. I have already f a l l e n off the c l i f f " (4: 26). Nishiwaki's f i r s t published writing on poetry was thus appropriately e n t i t l e d , "Profanus." What danger does poetry contain? What danger does God contain? The name we may give to the danger could be either "Sovereignty," or "Purity." For Nishiwaki, "poetry" s i g n i f i e d a cer t a i n absolute state of s i g n i f i c a t i o n (or of non - s i g n i f i c a t i o n ) , just as for Benjamin "pure language" s i g n i f i e d a certain absolute state of language. The metalanguage of poetics that Nishiwaki had to engage in was a profane, that i s , e s s e n t i a l l y blasphemous language doomed to f a i l u r e ( f a i l u r e of Poetry, f a i l u r e of silence) from the st a r t . The metalanguage may speak of Poetry, but i t cannot speak Poetry. (But again, what danger, what blasphemy?) Nishiwaki was about to describe not the murdering of God but the suicide, the s e l f - e x t i n c t i o n of poetry. Nishiwaki's f i r s t book published in Japan''' Chogenjitsushugi shiron (Su r r e a l i s t Poetics) (1929) consists of f i v e chapters: "Profanus," "Shi no shometsu" (Extinction of Poetry), "Esth£tique foraine," "Choshizenshugi" (Supernaturalism), "Choshizenshi no kachi" (The Value of Supernatural Poetry). In "Profanus," however, Nishiwaki was yet to push his notion of poetry to i t s l i m i t s . Through his more or less h i s t o r i c a l charting of "what poetry i s , " Nishiwaki reinstates a Romantic thesis that poetry i s an ever-renewing method of cognizing r e a l i t y . As for the method of poetical creation, Nishiwaki endorses the s u r r e a l i s t technique of conjoining two distant elements to create a new " r e a l i t y . " Yet Nishiwaki's intention i n "Profanus" seems not merely to define this method as one peculiar to the su r r e a l i s t strategy but rather to regard i t as the h i s t o r i c a l l y developed, thus universally acceptable essence of poetry. Commenting on Pierre Reverdy's notion of image ("Elle ne peut nattre d'une comparison mais du rapprochement de deux r e a l i t e s plus ou moins eloigners"), Nishiwaki writes "In short, this idea of supernaturalist poetry has always been present i n the works of great poets since antiquity and in fact is not p a r t i c u l a r l y a new mode of poetry" (4: 13). 42 Nishiwaki celebrates Francis Bacon as the f i r s t c r i t i c to discover this modernist method of poetical creation. In The Twoo Bookes of the Froficience and Advancement of Learning, Divine and Hvmane (1605) Bacon offers the following d e f i n i t i o n of poetry: Poesie i s a part of Learning i n measure of words for the most part restrained, but in a l l other points extreamely licensed, and doth t r u l y referre to the Imagination, which, beeing not tyed to the Lawes of Matter, may at pleasure ioyne that which Nature hath seuered, & seuer that which Nature hath ioyned, and so make vnlawfull Matches & divorses of things. (5) Nishiwaki i s intrigued to fi n d that this insight into the nature of poetry displayed by a seventeenth-century thinker i s actualized by the hands of his contemporary dadaists and s u r r e a l i s t s in Europe. Throughout his l i f e Nishiwaki maintained that the most fundamental method of generating Poetry is to juxtapose two distant elements, indeed to "make unlawful matches and divorces of things." French s u r r e a l i s t s led by Andre Breton were seeking new relationships between those "distant elements" at that time. For the French s u r r e a l i s t s , the juxtaposition could not end up in a mere comparison; i t had to generate a poetic energy. Distance was needed. In his f i r s t Manifeste du surrealisme (1924) Breton writes: II est faux, selon moi, de pretendre que "1'esprit a s a i s i les rapports" des deux r e a l i t e s en presence. II n'a, pour commencer, ri e n s a i s i consciemment. C'est du rapprochement en quelque sorte f o r t u i t des deux termes qu'a j a i l l i une lumiere p a r t i c u l i e r e , lumiere de 1'image, a laquelle nous nous 43 montrons infiniment sensibles. La valeur de 1'image depend de l a beaute de l ' e t i n c e l l e obtenue; e l l e est, par consequent, fonction de l a difference de pot e n t i e l entre les deux conducteurs. Lorsque cette difference existe a peine comme dans l a comparaison, l ' e t i n c e l l e ne se produit pas. (62-63) Tsumaranasa Nishiwaki, however, c r i t i c i z e s s u r r e a l i s t poetry for being s o l e l y concerned with transformation of r e a l i t y and consequently "forgetting r e a l i t y . " For Nishiwaki, poetry must not and cannot forego what he c a l l s "tsumaranasa" (banality) of r e a l i t y . Thus he claims: "Poetry must be founded i n r e a l i t y . But i t i s also necessary to f e e l the banality of r e a l i t y " (4: 21). Also, at the beginning of "Profanus," he writes: The r e a l i t y of human existence i t s e l f i s banal (tsumaranai)• To sense t h i s fundamental yet supreme banality (tsumaranasa) constitutes the motivation for poetry. (4: 8) "Tsumaranai" can be translated as t r i f l i n g , i n s i g n i f i c a n t , worthless, s i l l y , d u l l , common, etc., but i s usually used i n the much l i g h t e r sense of "boring." What we see here in fact i s a unique transplanting of a key term employed i n Romantic poetics onto Japanese S o i l . The key term i s " f a m i l i a r i t y , " used both by Coleridge and Shelley. In the Biographia  L i t e r a r i a Coleridge notes: [The purposes of poetry are] to give the charm of novelty to 44 things of every day, and to excite a f e e l i n g analogous to the supernatural, by awakening the mind's attention from the lethargy of custom, and d i r e c t i n g i t to the loveliness and the wonders of the world before us; an inexhaustible treasure, but for which i n consequence of the f i l m of f a m i l i a r i t y and s e l f i s h s o l i c i t u d e we have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither f e e l nor understand. (7; ch.14) And Shelley, who was evidently influenced by Coleridge, writes in his "Defense of Poetry": [Poetry] reproduces the common universe of which we are portions and percipients, and i t purges from our inward sight the f i l m of f a m i l i a r i t y which obscures from us the wonder of our being. It compels us to f e e l that which we perceive, and to imagine that which we know. It creates anew the universe, after i t has been annihilated i n our minds by the recurrence of impressions blunted by r e i t e r a t i o n . (512) Nishiwaki i n fact translates Shelley's famous sentence, "[Poetry] makes f a m i l i a r objects be as i f they were not f a m i l i a r " (503), using the word "tsumaranai" for " f a m i l i a r " (4: 12). Also, once juxtaposed to the above passages of Coleridge and Shelley, the following assertion by Nishiwaki begins to appear as a more or less f a i t h f u l t r a n s l a t i o n of t h e i r ideas: Custom d u l l s the awareness of r e a l i t y , awareness s l i p into hibernation. Thus Conventions l e t t h i s our r e a l i t y becomes 45 banal. Then i t follows that the break with custom makes reality-e xciting. For our awareness i s refreshed. (4: 8) Yet the significance of "tsumaranasa" cannot simply be contained by " f a m i l i a r i t y . " In fact i n Nishiwaki's poetry "tsumaranasa" begins to take a central position, often carrying a f e e l i n g of time-less weariness hovering around a forgotten object. For example, in 82 of No Tra v e l l e r  Returns we read: In an old garden where t i g e r l i l i e s bloom a forgotten broken watering can l y i n g . . . (Zenshishu 207) In Eterunitas this "tsumaranasa" becomes a r t i c u l a t e d as the non-symbolic which the poet ultimately seeks: A teacup abandoned i n a puddle, a trace of children's play, a crest imprinted upon the back of a loach, a madman crossing a bridge, the nervous f l u r r y of a stone struck by a plow, a louse l e f t on a t r a v e l l e r ' s hat, the movement of Pound's Adam's apple, a man on the run while chewing a b i t t e r root 46 of nipplewort . . . these things do not symbolize. Things that do not symbolize attract us more. (Zenshishu 621) The non-symbolic, something that does not symbolize anything, i s l i t e r a l l y i n s i g n i f i c a n t , meaning-less. An object stripped of meaning, of i t s own name, of i t s function, cannot re g i s t e r i t s e l f i n our consciousness (language) except as a tear in the f a b r i c . The forgotten, broken watering can l y i n g on the ground has l o s t i t s function (to water plants) and has returned to i t s own mute being. In a sense, i t has gained the weight of i t s own presence by asserting i t s pure object-ness. But at the same time, i t s i g n i f i e s a c e r t a i n absence, a gap i n the exquisite order of the ancient garden. The broken watering can has no formal place i n the garden. It i s a negative-code of the garden. It must be buried and forgotten. Otherwise i t w i l l erode the whole garden with i t s "absence" (negative-code). But perhaps the garden i s already ruined, devoid of human voice, ancient, and forgotten. In such a strange s i l e n t vividness, how do the t i g e r l i l i e s survive the ruins! Nishiwaki*s blasphemy i s thus directed against the world of cod i f i e d functions and meanings. Once deprived of i t s code, the object manifests the "supreme banality" (idaina tsumaranasa) of i t s being. Despite his endorsement of d e f a m i l i a r i z a t i o n as the primary function of poetry, Nishiwaki repeatedly warns against losing sight of what i s f a m i l i a r , that i s , r e a l i t y i t s e l f . For, indeed, when the most f a m i l i a r i s defamiliarized, the r e s u l t i n g effect becomes, p o e t i c a l l y speaking, strongest. But also, for Nishiwaki, we must note, poetry provided a method of returning to the fundamental tsumaranasa, the loss of meaning, which ijs the primal r e a l i t y . 47 Anti-expression If we take "Profanus" as Nishiwaki's attempt to delineate a poetics of the past, the next chapter "Shi no shometsu" (Extinction of Poetry) can be regarded as his bold hypothesis about the poetics of the future. After being duly warned by the words of Lautreamont against the horror the text is to reveal, the reader encounters the following postulate: The realm of poetry expands i n f i n i t e l y and f i n a l l y disappears. As a c o r o l l a r y (ipso facto) of th i s hypothesis the following rule is set f o r t h : "The most expanded, the most advanced mode of poetry i s that which i s closest to i t s own ext i n c t i o n . " (4: 27) This hypothesis on the s e l f - e x t i n c t i o n of poetry can be seen as a l o g i c a l extension of the anti-mimetic theory of poetry traced back to Bacon in "Profanus." Consequently, i n "Profanus," Nishiwaki divided the poetic modality into two d i s t i n c t categories: 1) poetry that i s closely related to human emotions, 2) poetry that breaks away from common sense, emotion, custom, etc. Now in the "Extinction of Poetry" this schema i s further elaborated i n terms of expression (hyogen). F i r s t of a l l , nature and art are c l e a r l y distinguished. Nishiwaki claims that any expression (or we may say "textual manifestation") that pertains to nature cannot be legitimately art. What Nishiwaki means by "nature" includes natural phenomena as well as human expressions of emotions, of dreams, etc. In other words, a "natural expression" belongs to the order of mimesis. In the mimetic 48 order, a writer attempts to represent an extra-lingual truth or presence through the ideal transparency of language. Nishiwaki writes: Moreover, just as conscientious objectors are sometimes exonerated from the usual le g a l obligations, in the poetic l e g a l system, when an author believes that what he has thought or f e l t i s true, he w i l l be exonerated from the obligations of art. In other words, his work w i l l not be considered art. (4: 23) If one believes that he i s f a i t h f u l l y representing what he " t r u l y " f e l t or thought, then his mimetic work cannot gain the status of art. This indeed shows Nishiwaki's r a d i c a l r e j e c t i o n of the mimetic order in art. In Nishiwaki's view, a r t i s t i c expression must be absolutely deliberate, a r t i f i c i a l , non-natural, that i s , e s s e n t i a l l y i r o n i c a l . In this l i g h t , for Nishiwaki, Baudelaire becomes the f i r s t and primary exponent of what he c a l l s the " l e g a l " (legitimate) a r t i s t . In "Esthetique Foraine" Nishiwaki quotes Baudelaire: "Deux qualites l i t t e r a i r e s fondamentales: surnaturalisme et i r o n i e " (4: 42). This dictum thus constitutes the p r i n c i p a l law of poetry. A poem, then, must be an int e n t i o n a l l y a r t i f i c i a l expression, disrupting man's natural flow of feelings and thoughts, which constantly seeks to be represented most " t r u t h f u l l y . " This type of poetry thus constitutes a movement against what Derrida c a l l s "logocentrism"—the monolith of "Truth." The negative movement of poetry, when developed to i t s f u l l e s t consequence, w i l l lead i t s e l f to i t s own extinction. What i s excluded from this negative order of poetry then constitutes the world of p o s i t i v i t y — n a t u r e , r e a l i t y , truth, 49 identi t y , in other words any objects of mimetic expression. Then, what i s l e f t to be expressed? Nishiwaki further divides the second mode of poetry (the " l e g a l " poetry) into three periods. The f i r s t period i s call e d "the era of expression," the second, "the era of anti-expression," the l a s t , simply "extinction." To the f i r s t period belongs most of modern poetry from Baudelaire to dadaist and s u r r e a l i s t poetry. Nishiwaki claims that even the r a d i c a l a n t i - a r t movement of dadaism has f a i l e d to reach the second period, though i t predicted the a r r i v a l of a new mode of poetry. On the anti-expressive era, he writes: In t h i s period, the poet manifests a w i l l that shows his deliberate wish that he does not want to express. In the F i r s t Period, poetry was s t i l l an e f f o r t to express. Whereas, i n the Second Period, i t i s to make an e f f o r t not to express. (4: 32) Such an anti-expressive e f f o r t c e r t a i n l y marks the l i m i t of poetry as a mode of expression. And for Nishiwaki, t h i s anti-expressive mode becomes "the most advanced mode of poetry." Although Nishiwaki writes that he cannot think of any examples of this poetic mode, we may proceed i n thinking about t h i s mode in terms of " l e  texte s c r i p t i b l e " as Barthes defines t h i s "impossible" concept. "Hyogen" (expression, presentation, representation, manifestation) i s an a c t i v i t y that postulates the necessity of reception. The products of the "era of expression" are thus necessarily readerly. Whereas in the anti-expressive era, what becomes manifested on the textual surface i s nothing but the refusal of the reader. Just as Benjamin asserted, "no poem i s intended for 50 the reader," so the anti-expressive text disregards the p o s s i b i l i t y of "reading" by refusing to express anything save the very act of th i s r e f u s a l . When log i c i s pushed to i t s l i m i t s , only an absurd end i s possible. In the f i n a l hypothetical stage of poetry, even the act of ref u s a l to express i s erased. What remains then? We may remember a prose poem by Hagiwara Sakutaro which depicts a starving octopus i n an aquarium eating 2 away i t s own body l i t t l e by l i t t l e t i l l i t completely disappears. Yet something s t i l l remains in the dark, forgotten aquarium. A trace of being? A trace of desire? The Impossible Object of Expression In section two, "the Limits of the Object of Expression," Nishiwaki attempts to i l l u s t r a t e the l i m i t s of poetry i n terms of the object of expression, that i s , what i s to be expressed. After r e j e c t i n g anything that relates to humanity, s u b j e c t i v i t y , or r e a l i t y as a legitimate object of expression, Nishiwaki develops a certain negative d i a l e c t i c employing the Kantian notion of "objective w i l l . " According to Nishiwaki, the a p r i o r i objective w i l l i t s e l f becomes the object of expression i n the " l e g a l l y " expressive period. The objective w i l l comes into being as the result of a purify i n g process that the human w i l l undergoes by transgressing the bounds of individual s u b j e c t i v i t y . It i s , in a sense, a self-hypostatization of man's w i l l to express. The w i l l to express f i n a l l y becomes i t s e l f (thus, "kanzen," perfect) by eliminating a l l the other elements that may be the object of expression (4: 36). Nishiwaki furthermore connects t h i s movement of w i l l to the desire to 51 l i v e . For Nishiwaki , the w i l l to l i v e marks a movement that i s uncontro l lab le , something beyond mere s u b j e c t i v i t y . This f i erce movement of the w i l l to l i v e also attempts to reach i t s own pure hypostat izat ion by transgressing the bounds of r e a l i t y . According to Nishiwaki , th is movement of the w i l l to l i v e defines the poetry of surreal i sm. Now, against th i s s e l f - o b j e c t i f y i n g movement of the w i l l to l i v e , the f i n a l r e b e l l i o n of the subject takes p lace . Nishiwaki writes: The w i l l to l i v e i s the w i l l of a creator . Man is helpless to deal with th i s b l i n d w i l l . This absolutely unmanageable w i l l exists ob jec t ive ly in man. The mere existence of such a w i l l , which is so u t t e r l y beneath contempt, i s a subject of a helpless rage. At times one may fee l p h y s i c a l l y throughout one's bra in a s t a r t l i n g j o l t of an espr i t which attempts to r e s i s t th i s b l i n d w i l l . This i s a strange phenomenon in which an attempt of r e b e l l i o n against a w i l l that created the human race is manifested. It i s a r e b e l l i o n against the creator 's w i l l . Or i t can be said that in fact the creator is th is creator ' s w i l l that seeks to oppose his own creat ive w i l l . A creator is a s e l f -dece iver . The poetry which attempts to present the energy of an e spr i t r e b e l l i n g against the very e f fort to l i v e , that i s , the e f for t to break down r e a l i t y , creates the next poetic region. (4: 37) The " a n t i - s u r r e a l " mode thus predicted is based upon i t s denia l of the w i l l to l i v e , or of the w i l l to express. Moreover, i t i s based upon the denial of the transgress ive , that i s , e s s e n t i a l l y exclus ive , p u r i f y i n g movement of the w i l l towards i t s e l f . Thus what th is f i n a l mode of poetry 52 accomplishes i s the re l en t l e s s and absolute deconstruction of the a p r i o r i , inc luding such s t a b i l i z i n g notions as Man, R e a l i t y , Se l f , L i f e , as wel l as the s e l f - p u r i f i c a t i o n of the w i l l . At th i s point poetry as expression commits su i c ide . Also mankind perishes . What remains now? A grotesque laughter? A trace of spent jouissance? Nishiwaki 's words turn t ra g i - co mi ca l : Poetry dies as mankind d ies . The lamp is turned o f f . But things l i k e kangaroos or c a c t i may be s t i l l t r y i n g to survive , f idge t ing here and there. How p i t i f u l . (4: 37) Esthetique Foraine In "Esthetique Foraine" the loss of meaning revealed through the movement of poet ic s e l f - e x t i n c t i o n receives another Kantian e laborat ion . This time Nishiwaki establ ishes a binary schema drawing on the Kantian opposit ion between pure and empir ical (impure) consciousness. A work of art that reg i s t er s in the pure consciousness i s to be categorized as pure a r t , while a work of art that "excites" our empir ica l consciousness i s to be c a l l e d impure a r t . The pure consciousness i s to be taken as a c e r t a i n lapse in our (necessar i ly empir ical ) consciousness. A work of pure art i s defined as a c e r t a i n mechanism that causes th i s lapse. In other words, there i s nothing "pure" about the work ( text) i t s e l f . A pure poem does not mean that i t i s const i tuted by exc lus ive ly and purely "poetic" elements. Rather, i t i s merely a device to create an abyss i n our readerly consciousness. 53 Nishiwaki's anti-Romantic stance that negates " e s s e n t i a l l y poetic" elements and emphasizes the "mechanism" of the poem seems to be congenial with the formalism of the New C r i t i c s , who put the primary emphasis upon what they c a l l e d " i r o n y " — a st r u c t u r a l drama of tensions and resistances. Yet the New C r i t i c s ' notion of poetry a r i s i n g out of i r o n i c tensions did not go as far as to envisage the p o s s i b i l i t y of unreadable, unknowable "non-relation" as the central s t r u c t u r a l (or deconstructive) p r i n c i p l e of pure poetry. Perhaps t h i s was caused by t h e i r general neglect of s u r r e a l i s t theories of poetry. For example, Robert Penn Warren i n his "Pure and Impure Poetry," written almost two decades after Breton's f i r s t manifesto, completely ignores the s u r r e a l i s t strategy of juxtaposing two distant r e a l i t i e s , while mentioning Poe, Shelley, the Symbolists, the Abbe Brlmond, Pater, George Moore and the Imagists as the pioneers i n the theory of pure poetry (981-992). The New C r i t i c s ' p o s i t i o n on poetry can be c l e a r l y shown by the following passage from "Irony as a P r i n c i p l e of Structure" by Cleanth Brooks: . . . the poem i s not a c o l l e c t i o n of beautiful or "poetic" images. If there r e a l l y existed objects which were somehow i n t r i n s i c a l l y "poetic," s t i l l the mere assemblage of these would not give us a poem. For in that case, one might arrange bouquets of these poetic images and thus create poems by formula. But the elements of a poem are related to each other, not as blossoms juxtaposed i n a bouquet, but as the blossoms are related to the other parts of a growing plant. The beauty of the poem i s the flowering of the whole plant, and needs the stalk, the lea f , and the hidden roots. (1042) 54 Both Nishiwaki and the New C r i t i c s would agree that the essence of poetry (pure poetry) is not to be found in the actual elements of the poem, such as imagery, d i c t i o n , or ideas. But the i r agreement ends there. For the New C r i t i c s , evaluative attention i s focused upon the "p o s i t i v e " contextual relatedness among the elements. This relatedness can be " i r o n i c a l , " that i s , exhibiting tensions and resistances. But the sum of these i r o n i c a l effects i s to establish the f i n a l , i n t e l l i g i b l e , u n i f i e d meaning of the poem as a whole. Contrary to th i s movement towards the closed f u l l n e s s of meaning, Nishiwaki's strategy i s directed towards non-meaning, the loss of meaning, a tear i n the fa b r i c of our consciousness. For Nishiwaki, Baudelairian "irony" i s not merely a mechanism for the creation of tension. Rather, i t i s a device which disrupts closure of meaning, knowledge, and consciousness. B a t a i l l e In order to illuminate further the esse n t i a l negativity inherent in Nishiwaki's discourse on poetry, we must now turn our attention from the positivism of the New C r i t i c s to those who have confronted the "fetishism of the p o s i t i v e " (to use Theodor Adorno's term) with a profound awareness that the negative i s the primary moving force behind our desire for jouissance, poetry, and laughter. Georges B a t a i l l e was such an exemplary thinker of the negative. B a t a i l l e c a l l s "eroticism" what Nishiwaki describes as "man's b l i n d w i l l to l i v e " which eventually "seeks i t s own perfection by transgressing the bounds of r e a l i t y " (4: 36-37). For B a t a i l l e , eroticism s i g n i f i e s an 55 absolute affirmation of l i f e "up to the point of death." It i s the unlimited quest of the discontinuous being (the individual) for continuity even at the cost of i t s own disappearance (death) to merge into another being. This s e l f - s a c r i f i c i a l or murderous movement of eroticism can also be traced i n Nishiwaki's notion of "l e g a l poetry," i n which the p o s s i b i l i t y of s u b j e c t i v i t y (the s e l f ) i s dismissed, as well as in his idea of the development of poetry towards i t s own extinction. What surfaces through Nishiwaki's discourse on poetry i s a movement of language named "pure poetry" which reveals an endless d i a l e c t i c a l structure of effacement of the s e l f and i t s w i l l . It i s a negative d i a l e c t i c without reserve. The moment of pure poetry thus holds an undeniable a f f i n i t y with what B a t a i l l e c a l l s the "supreme moment" when Eros, the l i f e force, carrying i t s l o g i c a l consequence to the extreme l i m i t , transgresses i t s own boundary to death. B a t a i l l e writes: II existe un domaine ou l a mort ne s i g n i f i e plus seulement l a d i s p a r i t i o n , mais l e mouvement intolerable ou nous disparaissons malgre nous, alors qu'a tout prix, i l ne faudrait pas disparattre. C'est justement cet a tout prix, ce malgre nous, qui distinguent l e moment de 1'extreme j o i e et de l'extase innommable mais merveilleuse. S ' i l n'est r i e n qui ne nous depasse, qui ne nous depasse malgre nous, devant a tout p r i x ne pas £tre, nous n'atteignons pas le moment insense auquel nous tendons de toutes nos forces et qu'en meme temps nous repoussons de toutes nos forces. (3: 11) In order to demonstrate man's ultimate need for self-transgression, 56 B a t a i l l e presents a theory of general economy based on anthropological evidence of such ceremonies as the potlatch, practiced by Northwest coast Indians, in which what he c a l l s "Part maudite"—the excess destined for 3 destruction—becomes evident. Potlatch ceremonies consist in the s a c r i f i c e of vast quantities of amassed goods, usually blankets and copper blazons, where one in d i v i d u a l representing a clan or phratry must crush a r i v a l by his superior a b i l i t y to dispose of precious objects. For B a t a i l l e , this indicates an extreme case of g i f t giving where man's economical u t i l i t a r i a n egoism i s denied. The giver does not expect an equalizing return i n the order of l i m i t e d values, for his desire i s fastened to the sacred. And the sacred c a l l s f o r his s e l f - s a c r i f i c e , his need for an excessive expenditure, which B a t a i l l e c a l l s "depense": En e f f e t les echanges, au moins dans les societes primitives, ne sont pas soumis a d'autres l o i s que c e l l e s de l a depense et, dans les societes actuelles elles-memes, l a depense conserve un r o l e d e c i s i f . S i l a necessite c o n s i s t a i t dans l a conservation mesquine et reguliere de l a vie, i l est v r a i que l a science economique pourrait se contenter de representer les modes d'acquisition et de production, mais, en f a i t , cette n e c e s s i t i consiste dans une decharge continuelle de forces vives, dans une immense destruction de vies et de richesses, dans un holocauste hideux et presque continuel, maintenant 1'existence ii une l i m i t e voisine de 1'angoisse ou de l a nausee et l a portant parfois insensiblement aux transes et a l'orgasme. (2: 158) In what B a t a i l l e c a l l s "general economy" (as opposed to " r e s t r i c t e d 57 economy") the sum always transcends i t s accumulated parts, thus making the "depense" necessary. This excessive expenditure, however, i s not aimed at restoring the equilibrium in the economy; the aim of depense i s depense i t s e l f . One gives so as to lose. It v i r t u a l l y makes a puncture i n the sphere of the r e s t r i c t e d economy, through which we may glimpse the incommensurable, the impossible, jouissance. Dfepense i t s e l f i s t h i s continual movement of opening a gap in the world of p o s i t i v i t y , that i s , in the r e s t r i c t e d economy where u t i l i t a r i a n i s m with i t s appropriative ethics governs the exchange systems. In the r e s t r i c t e d economy, man's only possible r e l a t i o n s h i p to things i s to possess them so as to use them for some r e s t r i c t e d purpose. There, the movement of a question must be terminated by an answer. A s i g n i f i e r must have i t s corresponding s i g n i f i e d (or referent). Each being i s singular and f u l l in i t s i s o l a t i o n . B a t a i l l e c a l l s t h i s s o c i a l ( r e l a t i o n a l ) mode "homogeneity." Along with the r e s t r i c t e d economy, B a t a i l l e regards "homogeneity" as a product of rationalism with i t s a n a l y t i c a l strategies for knowledge—abstraction, s p e c i a l i z a t i o n , categorization, etc. In homogeneity things are appropriated in commensurability. And man's concern centres on the preservation of s e l f and things. In homogeneity, B a t a i l l e writes, "les rapports humains peuvent etre maintenus par une reduction a des regies fixes basles sur l a conscience de l ' i d e n t i t e possible de personnes et de situations d ^ f i n i e s ; en principe, toute violence est exclue du cours d'existence a i n s i implique" (1: 340). What could possibly escape this u t i l i t a r i a n value system except n e g a t i v i t i e s — t h e violence of depense, the non-communication of non-representational poetry? Against t h i s closed homogeneity, B a t a i l l e presents heterogeneity which s h i f t s the emphasis from appropriation to 58 excretion. Now heterology becomes " l e renversement complet du processus philosohique qui d'instrument d'appropriation q u ' i l e t a i t passe au service de 1'excretion et i n t r o d u i t l a revendication des s a t i s f a c t i o n s violentes impliquees par 1'existence s o c i a l e " (2: 63). Thus the use-value of homogeneity having being abandoned, excretion or the "useless" depense appears as an end in i t s e l f . B a t a i l l e continues: Dans l a mesure ou l'homme ne songe plus a facraser ses camarades sous le joug de l a morale, i l acquiert l a p o s s i b i l i t e de l i e r ouvertement non seulement son i n t e l l i g e n c e et sa vertu mais sa raison d ' e t r e a l a violence et a 1'incongruite de ses organes excreteurs, comme a l a faculte q u ' i l a d'etre excite jusqu'aux transes par des elements hlterogenes, a commencer vulgairement dans l a debauche. (2: 65) The one who achieves t h i s state of debauchery i s the Sovereign. And Pure Poetry i s possible only in the land of Sovereignty. Language of Sovereignty B a t a i l l e ' s notion of sovereignty has i t s origins i n the Hegelian 4 d i a l e c t i c of master and slave. The master i s the one who has risked his l i f e to gain status. The slave, on the other hand, i s the one who has preferred to work rather than to r i s k his l i f e . But in Hegelian d i a l e c t i c s the opposites require each other and also pass into each other. The master s a t i s f i e s his desires but becomes dependent upon the labour of the slave i n order to do so. And the slave, by working, controls his desires and 59 develops a r a t i o n a l w i l l . The master, however, by d e f i n i t i o n , must either ruin himself or die on the b a t t l e f i e l d . Yet, following the p r i n c i p l e of Aufhebung,^ Hegel opts for the preservation of the master's l i f e . Thus the slave's cu l t i v a t e d r a t i o n a l w i l l passes into the master. For Hegel, without this economy of l i f e the f i n a l proof of s e l f — t h e consciousness-of-self—would be eliminated. This i s where B a t a i l l e d i f f e r s from and exceeds Hegel. For B a t a i l l e , the master must either die or engage in a pure depense, an i n f i n i t e consumption. The consciousness-of-self, the ultimately stable singular subject, s i g n i f i e s only what B a t a i l l e c a l l s the "discontinuous being." In order to merge into "continuity," one must move from the "mastery" of Absolute Knowledge into "Sovereignty" where laughter, poetry, and ecstasy reign. B a t a i l l e writes on Hegel: Mime a 1'interieur du cercle acheve (incessant), le non-savoir est f i n et l e savoir moyen. Dans l a mesure ou i l se prend lui-meme pour f i n , i l sombre dans l a tache aveugle. Mais l a poesie, le r i r e , l'extase ne sont pas les moyens d'autre chose. Dans le "systeme," poesie, r i r e , extase ne sont r i e n , Hegel s'en debarrasse a l a hate: i l ne connalt de f i n que le savoir. Son immense fatigue se l i e a mes yeux a l'horreur de l a tache aveugle. (5: 130) Thus the movement of the d i a l e c t i c i s suspended. And the s t a b i l i z i n g synthesis (knowledge, that which f i l l s i n the open space of "non-savoir") is cancelled. Instead, a dark bli n d spot of "non-savoir" opens. And this is where the language of Sovereignty, laughter, poetry, ecstasy, appears. Poetry, for B a t a i l l e , marks the l i m i t s of existing systems of 60 representation. Thus a mode of communication other than that of r e s t r i c t e d exchanges becomes necessary. In this mode, a depense of the s e l f i n union with the other must occur. Just as Nishiwaki excludes any "representative" trace from his " l e g a l " poetry, B a t a i l l e locates poetry in his notion of sovereignty in which actual, communicative discourses disappear. There remains only the confrontation with the impossible. In B a t a i l l e , the movement of poetry i s again, just as in Nishiwaki*s notion of i t , directed towards death and disappearance, away from the world of the r e a l and the useful. In order to reach this height of sovereign poetry, the poet must be v i o l e n t l y seduced, that i s , he must b l i n d l y throw himself into the drawing force of the seduction without any regard for the preservation of the s e l f or for the appropriation of objects. B a t a i l l e writes: II y a devant l'espece humaine une double perspective: d'une part, c e l l e du p l a i s i r v i o l e n t , de l'horreur et de l a mort—exactement c e l l e de l a p o e s i e — e t , en sens oppose, c e l l e de l a science ou du monde r e e l de l ' u t i l i t i . Seuls 1'utile, l e r e e l , ont un caractere serieux. Nous ne sommes jamais en dr o i t de l u i preferer l a seduction: l a v e r i t e a des droits sur nous. E l l e a meme sur nous tous les d r o i t s . Pourtant nous pouvons, et me*me nous devons repondre a quelque chose qui, n'etant pas Dieu, est plus forte que tous les d r o i t s : cet impossible auquel nous n'accedons qu'oubliant l a verite" de tous ces d r o i t s , qu'acceptant l a d i s p a r i t i o n . (3: 102) F i r s t of a l l , then, the communicative modes of language (mimesis, philosophy, science, c r i t i c i s m ) must be disrupted, for these modes of language are ultimately subordinate to the order of identity and meaning: 61 Le langage manque parce que le langage est f a i t de propositions qui font intervenir des identites et a p a r t i r du moment ou, du f a i t du trop-plein de sommes a depenser, on est oblige de ne plus depenser pour le gain, mais de depenser pour dejpenser, on ne peut se t e n i r sur l e plan de l ' i d e n t i t e . On est oblige d'ouvrir les notions au-dela d' elles-me^nes. (6: 35) Thus, i n the f i n a l analysis, any communicative writing founded upon the order of mimesis or of truth f a i l s to capture the sovereign moment, the moment of "depense pour depense," for this moment i s the "blind spot" and is s i l e n t . Philosophy w i l l remain only as a questioning without an audible ( l e g i b l e ) answer. B a t a i l l e writes i n L'Erotisme: La philosophie ne sort pas d*elle-irfeme, e l l e ne peut s o r t i r du langage. E l l e u t i l i s e l e langage de t e l l e maniere que jamais l e silence ne l u i succede. S i bien que le moment supreme excede necessairement 1'interrogation philosophique. . . . L'interrogation n'a de sens qu'elaboree par l a philosophie: c'est 1'interrogation supreme a laquelle l a reponse est le moment supreme de l ' e r o t i s m e — l e silence de l'erotisme. (304-305) En e f f e t , l e moment supreme est dans le silence et, dans l e silence, l a conscience se d^robe. (306) Yet we must ask: i s a poem capable of "expressing" the supreme moment? We seem to be trapped i n a strange t a u t o l o g i c a l s i t u a t i o n here. For the 62 supreme moment, as we have seen, i s Poetry. Is a poem capable of expressing Poetry? I f not, can i t be c a l l e d a poem? B a t a i l l e places the l i m i t of communicative poetry (that which i s able to carry meanings) in the category of minor sovereignty, i n which a poem provides only an ind i c a t i o n of the lack of meaning: Si l a poesie n'etait accompagn^e d'une affirmation de souverainet& (donnant le commentaire de son absence de sens), e l l e s e r a i t comme le r i r e et l e s a c r i f i c e , ou comme l'eVotisme et l'i v r e s s e , inseree dans l a sphere de l ' a c t i v i t e . Insere n'est pas tout a f a i t subordonne: l e r i r e , l ' i v r e s s e , l e s a c r i f i c e ou l a poesie, l'erotisme lui-meme, subsistent dans une rls e r v e , autonomes, inseres dans l a sphere, comme des enfants dans l a maison. Ce sont dans leur li m i t e s des souverains mineurs, qui ne peuvent contester 1'empire de l ' a c t i v i t e . (5: 220) We r e c a l l that this mode of poetry corresponds to that in the "era of anti-expression" i n Nishiwaki's c l a s s i f i c a t i o n . In the condition of major sovereignty, then, communication i n the ordinary sense becomes impossible. This i s because by d e f i n i t i o n the sovereign i s absolutely independent; i t does not require others to claim i t s own being. The sovereign i s the absolute s i g n i f i e r without any need for the s i g n i f i e d . Referring to Genet, B a t a i l l e writes: "c'est dans l a mesure ou i l s'abandonne sans l i m i t e au Mai que l a communication l u i echappe" (9: 315). This i s the stage which Nishiwaki c a l l s "extinction of poetry." This i s indeed where "the truth of death, of disappearance" i s established. The mode of communication i n sovereignty i s thus based on the 63 absence rather than on the presence of two discontinuous beings. There, two effaced beings unite instantaneously, abandoning the consciousness that r e f l e c t s each other. Referring to Sartre commenting on Mallarme, B a t a i l l e writes: '"Chez Mallarmi, d i t Sartre, lecteur et auteur s'annulent en meme temps, s'eteignent reciproquement pour que, finalement, l e Verbe seul existe.' Je ne d i r a i pas: 'chez Mallarme'; je d i r a i : 'partout ou l a l i t t e r a t u r e est manifeste'" (9: 301). In the sovereign mode of communication, both the author and the reader lose t h e i r s u b j e c t i v i t y and become united i n an anonymous movement of language. This movement i s after a l l what Barthes c a l l s " l e s c r i b i b l e . " Poetry, for Nishiwaki as well as for B a t a i l l e , exists only i n this mode of " l e  s c r i p t i b l e . " It i s indeed without the poem. A poem remains ultimately the f a i l u r e of Poetry (non-savoir). The h i s t o r i c a l l y accumulated heaps of poems merely record the countless repeated f a i l u r e s of language to achieve Poetry. B a t a i l l e s u c c i n c t l y states: "A v r a i dire d ' a i l l e u r s , du non-savoir lui-meme, i l y aurait en somme imposs i b i l i t e de parler, tandis que nous pouvons parler de ses e f f e t s s ' i l s sont le r i r e , les larmes, etc." (Conference 5). The l e g i b l e (positive) poem i s capable only of producing receivable e f f e c t s . Poetry as a movement of non-savoir i s a negativity that seduces, just as a black hole attracts l i g h t . It i s the seduction of jpuissance and death. Poetry ultimately escapes the f i e l d of knowledge into the f i e l d of the naked experience of death, where the protective shield of the appropriative consciousness, with i t s language's naming operation, f a i l s . Poetry, thus, can be manifested only in the d i r e c t i o n (never at the destination) of the movement of depense, i n i t s i l l e g i b i l i t y , i n i t s s i l e n c e . 64 Derr ida 's Trace Susan Sontag remarks on the s e l f - s a c r i f i c i a l tendency of modern l i t e r a t u r e in her preface to Barthes's Writ ing Degree Zero: "As modern l i t e r a t u r e is the h i s t o r y of al ienated ' w r i t i n g ' or personal utterance, l i t e r a t u r e aims inexorably at i t s own self-transcendence—at the a b o l i t i o n of l i t e r a t u r e " ( x v i i ) . Indeed th is negative movement of l i t e r a t u r e / p o e t r y (a l i t e r a r y depense) a r t i c u l a t e d by Nishiwaki as well as by B a t a i l l e f inds i t s common ground in the theory of wr i t ing (grammatology) proposed by Jacques Derr ida , though t h e i r s trateg ic t e r r i t o r i e s may d i f f e r s l i g h t l y . Nishiwaki elaborated his poetics by se t t ing up the binary oppositions of the natura l / the i n t e n t i o n a l , the rea l / the s u r r e a l , the expressive/the non-expressive, e t c . ; in so doing, he l imi ted his inves t igat ion to the f i e l d of "poetry" as the l i m i t of expression. On the other hand, B a t a i l l e presented the opposit ions of the r e s t r i c t e d economy/the general economy, appropr ia t ion /excre t ion , preservation of identi ty/depense, philosophy/poetry, sovereignty, laughter, e t c . , and thus attempted to approach his subject from an e thno-soc io log ica l angle. Now Derr ida 's f i e l d of inves t igat ion i s the language of metaphysics imbued with logocentrism. What he champions in h is c r i t i c i s m is "writ ing" (as opposed to "speech") which, he c laims, forces a rupture within the closure of metaphysics. Under Derr ida's keen c r i t i c a l gaze, any trace of logocentrism is r igorous ly made manifest and r e - s i t u a t e d in the f i e l d of what he c a l l s "di f ferance ," or the "chain of supplements." In a sense, B a t a i l l e ' s notion of "non-savoir," or Nishiwaki's observation of poetry as a negative movement, can be s a i d , according to Derr ida ' s grammatology, to have existed from the very beginning of any movement of s i g n i f i c a t i o n , provided that we are aware that in the Derr id ian universe there is no "very beginning" as such. 65 Then, what can be thought of being at the very beginning? What i s at the o r i g i n of a text, or "writing"? Derrida's answer i s a trace, an arche-trace, though he takes great pains not to re-establish this "arche," this beginning, as a theological, originary point of departure: La trace n'est pas seulement l a disparition;de l ' o r i g i n e , e l l e veut dire i c i — d a n s le discours que nous tenons et selon le parcours que nous suivons—que l ' o r i g i n e n'a me^ ne pas disparu, qu'elle n'a jamais ete constitute qu'en retour par une non-origine, l a trace, qui devient a i n s i l ' o r i g i n e de l ' o r i g i n e . Des l o r s , pour arracher le concept de trace au schema classique qui l a f e r a i t deriver d'une presence ou d'une non-trace o r i g i n a i r e et qui en f e r a i t une marque empirique, i l faut bien parler de trace o r i g i n a i r e ou d*archi-trace. Et pourtant nous savons que ce concept detruit son nom et que, s i tout commence par l a trace, i l n'y a surtout pas de trace o r i g i n a i r e . (90) This para-logical replacement of " o r i g i n " with "trace" must be considered an extension of a thesis ( a r b i t r a r i n e s s of the sign) posited by Ferdinand de Saussure in his Cours de linguistique generale. Saussure states, as the f i r s t l i n g u i s t i c p r i n c i p l e : "Le l i e n unissant le s i g n i f i a n t au s i g n i f i e est a r b i t r a i r e " (100). That i s , there i s no natural connection between the "sound-image" of a word and the concept s i g n i f i e d by i t . This arbitrary nature of the sign does not, however, mean that the regulation of a sign-system i s u t t e r l y capricious. In order to c l a r i f y this point Saussure replaces the word " a r b i t r a r y " with "unmotivated": Le mot a r b i t r a i r e appelle aussi une remarque. II ne doit pas 66 donner l'idee que le s i g n i f i a n t depend du l i b r e choix du sujet parlant . . . nous voulons dire q u ' i l est immotive, c'est-a-dire a r b i t r a i r e par rapport au s i g n i f i e , avec lequel i l n'a aucune attache naturelle dans l a r e a l i t e . (101) When there i s no "natural" l i n k between the s i g n i f i e r and s i g n i f i e d , then what determines the link? It i s not "nature" but " i n s t i t u t i o n " that makes the sign possible. Every sign i s thus purely " i n s t i t u t e d . " And this " i n s t i t u t i o n " i s grounded upon a system of differences and not of plenitudes. Saussure writes: Tout ce qui precede revient a dire que dans l a langue i l n'y a_ que des differences. Bien plus: une difference suppose en general des termes p o s i t i f s entre lesquels e l l e s ' e t a b l i t ; mais dans l a langue i l n'y a que des differences sans termes p o s i t i f s . (166) Derrida*s description of the "trace" i s a re-writing of this Saussurian notion of sign in a system of difference. Though Derrida endorses the notion of " i n s t i t u t e d sign," he warns that the very idea of i n s t i t u t i o n must not be u n c r i t i c a l l y derived from the c l a s s i c a l oppositional scheme of nature versus i n s t i t u t i o n , in which he sees Saussure s t i l l being caught. For the very notion of "naturalness" must be deconstructed. Now the i n s t i t u t e d sign, the "immotivation" of the sign, must be seen, rigorously and r e l e n t l e s s l y , from the perspective of "difference" which Saussure himself indicates as the very foundation of language. Derrida replaces the Saussurian sign, the synthesis of the 67 s i g n i f i e r and s i g n i f i e d , with the word " i n s t i t u t e d trace" in which the synthesis appears as that of a trace and a difference, where an i n d e f i n i t e play of absence and presence i s enacted: On ne peut penser l a trace i n s t i t u t e sans penser l a retention de l a difference dans une structure de renvoi ou l a difference appara'rt comme t e l l e et permet a i n s i une certaine l i b e r t e de var i a t i o n entre les termes ple i n s . L'absence d'une autre origine du monde apparaissant comme t e l l e , se presentant comme absence i r r e d u c t i b l e dans l a presence de l a trace, ce n'est pas une formule metaphysique substitute a un concept s c i e n t i f i q u e de l ' e c r i t u r e . . . . L"'immotivation" du signe requiert une synthese dans laquelle le tout autre s'annonce comme t e l — s a n s aucune s i m p l i c i t e , aucune i d e n t i t e , aucune ressemblance ou continuite—dans ce qui n'est pas l u i . (68-69) The structure (or better, the movement) of the trace i s this i n d e f i n i t e announcing of the completely other within what i s not i t . This announcing of a l t e r i t y cannot stop at a determined point that would establish i t s e l f as a "theological" presence/origin. Thus the notion of " i n s t i t u t i o n " i t s e l f cannot be thought of as a s o l i d , permanent "structure" as seen i n the notion of "langue" proposed by Saussure. Rather, i t must be thought of as already permeated with this "originary" movement of trace. In this Derridian formula, the "trace" resembles what Saussure c a l l s the " s i g n i f i e r " and the "other" p a r a l l e l s the " s i g n i f i e d . " But Derrida's logic of trace takes us beyond (or before) the c l a r i t y of the t r i p a r t i t e structure of the Saussurian sign in that on both levels ( s i g n i f i e r and 68 s i g n i f i e d ) of the sign, the movement of differance i s always already at work. The t r a c e / s i g n i f i e r "produces i t s e l f as s e l f - o c c u l t a t i o n " and the othe r / s i g n i f i e d "presents i t s e l f i n the dissimulation of i t s e l f " : La trace, ou se marque le rapport a 1*autre a r t i c u l e sa p o s s i b i l i t e sur tout l e champ de 1'etant, que l a metaphysique a determine comme etant-present a" p a r t i r du mouvement occulte de l a trace. II faut penser l a trace avant 1'etant. Mais l e mouvement de l a trace est necessairement occulte, i l se produit comme occultation de s o i . Quand 1'autre s'annonce comme t e l , i l se pre"sente dans l a dissimulation de s o i . . . . La presentation de 1'autre comme t e l , c*est-a-dire l a dissimulation de son "comme t e l , " a toujours d£ja commence et aucune structure de 1'etant n'y echappe. (69) Thus the notion of "unmotivatedness" i t s e l f must be deconstructed: "Sans renvoyer a une 'nature,' 1'immotivation de l a trace est t°ujours devenue. II n'y a pas, a v r a i d i r e , de trace immotivee: l a trace est indefiniment son propre devenir-immotivee" (69). Not only at the s i t e of the o r i g i n but at the s i t e of a seemingly unmotivated sign, a certain movement of slippage from i t s e l f , a subtle dissimulation of as such i s at work. For Derrida, this general movement of trace i s none other than "writing." This peculiar notion of "writing" emerges out of the h i e r a r c h i c a l interplay between writing and speech that Derrida finds in many philosophical texts, including that of Saussure. Derrida points out i n them a continuous p r i v i l e g i n g of speech over writing. For example, i n Plato's Phaedrus, writing i s condemned because, i n the absence of the 69 speaker (the s i g n i f y i n g intention), i t can give r i s e to various misunderstandings. Also in Saussure's otherwise fundamentally deconstructive discourse on language, Derrida finds a logocentric p r i v i l e g i n g of speech over writing. In fact Saussure attempts to reinstate the p r i n c i p a l status he sees as "usurped" by writing to i t s true i n h e r i t o r , speech: Langue et ecriture sont deux systemes de signes d i s t i n c t s ; l'unique raison d'etre du second est de representer le premier; l'objet l i n g u i s t i q u e n'est pas d e f i n i par l a combinaison du mot e c r i t et du mot parle; ce dernier constitue a l u i seul cet objet. Mais le mot e c r i t se m&le s i intimement au mot parle dont i l est 1'image, q u ' i l f i n i t par usurper le ro*le p r i n c i p a l ; on en vient a donner autant et plus d'importance a l a representation du signe vocal qu'a ce signe lui-meme. (45) Derrida connects t h i s p r i v i l e g i n g of speech to the logocentric notion of truth, which in turn derives from the sense of proximity. A vocal sign i s more "natural" than a written one. A written sign i s merely a representation of a vocal sign which i s "closer" to the o r i g i n , the meaning present i n the speaker's consciousness. But, Derrida argues, the very notion of "naturalness" must f i r s t be c a l l e d into question. Nature i s after a l l a structure of proximity to i t s e l f . The perfect understanding that the speaker i s supposed to possess over what he speaks reveals a structure of auto-affection. The French phrase "s'entendre p a r l e r " e f f e c t i v e l y fuses the acts of hearing oneself and understanding oneself. In the system of "s'entendre p a r l e r " the s i g n i f i e r effaces i t s e l f before 70 the s i g n i f i e d , while the s i l e n t ruin of the written remains foreign and exterior to this l i v i n g speech. But as we have seen in Derrida's discourse on trace, the very derivative status to which writing has been relegated must be thought of as already inherent in any sign, be i t vocal or written, or, for that matter, in any o r i g i n . The proximity to i t s e l f can never become equivalent to I t s e l f . Proximity already contains within i t a sense of separation, of distance. Dangerous Supplements Derrida finds a similar p r i v i l e g i n g of speech in Rousseau who writes: Les langues sont f a i t e s pour etre p a r l i e s , l ' e c r i t u r e ne sert que de supplement a l a parole. . . . La parole represente l a pensee par des signes conventionnels, et l ' e c r i t u r e represente de m^ rne l a parole. A i n s i l ' a r t d'ecrire n'est qu'une representation mediate de l a pensee. (qtd. in Grammatologie 207) By according the status of "supplement" to writing, Rousseau provides Derrida with an e f f e c t i v e tool of deconstruction. Derrida deploys t h i s very notion of supplement in order to reveal an originary lack in the seemingly complete plenitude of the o r i g i n . A supplement i s added i n order to compensate for a lack in what was supposed to be complete in i t s e l f . Thus as we have seen i n Chapter One, a t r a n s l a t i o n i s added to the o r i g i n a l in order to "supplement" a certain lack in the o r i g i n a l . If this l o g i c of supplement i s applied to the argument of Rousseau quoted above, we must conclude that there i s a lack in speech that c a l l s for writing, and, 71 s i m i l a r l y , there i s a lack i n the originary thought/meaning. Thus what inaugurates "meaning" and language i s not presence but rather a cer t a i n "absence" (lack) that c a l l s for a chain of supplements, that i s , writing. From the standpoint of logocentrism, t h i s operation of supplement i s not merely an extension that i s foreign to the essential nature. J_t jLs: a dangerous operation. Writing i s a parasite that eats away at the o r i g i n . It "usurps" the throne of l i v i n g speech. It threatens the very notion of nature where ultimate goodness should reside. The supplement not only (innocently) adds to the o r i g i n , but also replaces i t . Hence the danger. It i s the case i n which an image overtakes the place of the " r e a l " thing. For example, Rousseau talks of masturbation as a dangerous supplement. In onanism the image of a woman replaces the "actual" woman. And moreover onanism threatens a young man with the punishment of castration and death. It replaces a "natural" order of normal sexuality with an " a r t i f i c i a l , " imaginary order even at the r i s k of death. Why? The answer must be de f i n i t e : because the secondary order of imagery (writing) i s so intensely seductive. Derrida quotes a famous passage from Les Confessions in which Rousseau describes the seductive power of t h i s secondary order: "Je ne f i n i r a i s pas s i j'entrais dans l e d e t a i l de toutes les f o l i e s que le souvenir de cette chere Maman me f a i s a i t f a i r e , quand je n'etais plus sous ses yeux. Combien de f o i s j ' a i baise mon l i t en songeant qu'elle y avait couche, mes rideaux, tous les meubles de ma chambre en songeant q u ' i l s etaient a e l l e , que sa be l l e main les avait touches, l e plancher meme sur lequel je me prosternais en songeant qu'elle y avait marche. Quelquefois meme en sa presence i l m'echappait des extravagances que le plus vi o l e n t amour seul semblait pouvoir i n s p i r e r . Un jour a table, 72 au moment qu'elle avait mis un morceau dans sa bouche, je m'eerie que j'y vois un cheveu: e l l e r e j e t t e le morceau sur son a s s i e t t e , je m'en s a i s i s avidement et 1'avale. En un mot, de moi a l'amant le plus passionne, i l n'y avait qu'une difference unique, mais e s s e n t i e l l e , et qui rend mon etat presque inconcevable a l a raison" etc. . ., Un peu plus haut, on pouvait l i r e : "Je ne sentais toute l a force de mon attachement pour e l l e que quand je ne l a voyais pas." (qtd. Grammatologie 217-218) What th i s structure of fetishism discloses i s that not only the p r i o r term, "Mother-Nature," i s usurped by i t s supplements but also the secondary order, the imaginary, has gained the status and force of "presence." And only through t h i s i l l u s o r y presence does pleasure appear. But t h i s pleasure i s not a simple one of possessing the desired object. Rather, in i t , desire and fear are fused. Pleasure becomes possible only through a certain distance between the image and the actual. And this distance nurtures desire as well as fear. But what happens i f this distance of i l l u s i o n collapses, i f the primary and the secondary orders merge into each other, i f "pure presence" appears? The ultimate joy, jouissance, w i l l greet t h i s pure presence at the price of death. Derrida remarks: A i n s i , l e supplement est dangereux en ce q u ' i l nous menace de mort, mais i l ne 1'est point autant, pense i c i Jean-Jacques Rousseau, que 1'"habitation des femmes." La jouissance elle-me'me, sans symbole n i suppletif, c e l l e qui nous accorderait (a) l a presence pure elle-meme, s i quelque chose de t e l e t a i t possible, ne s e r a i t qu'un autre nom de l a mort. Rousseau le d i t : 73 "Jouir! Ce sort e s t - i l f a i t pour l'homme? Ah! s i jamais une seule f o i s en ma vie j'avais goute dans leur plenitude toutes les d elices de 1'amour, je n'imagine pas que ma f r e l e existence y eut pu s u f f i r e , je serais mort sur le f a i t " (Confessions L. 8). (223) Towards the Negative Paradise From t h i s moment of "pure presence" we may return to the notions of sovereignty and pure poetry which we have discussed in r e l a t i o n to B a t a i l l e and Nishiwaki. In Derrida's language of differance, sovereignty appears as that which cancels the movement of diffFrance with absolute authority. Indeed i t i s " l a presence, et l a jouissance de l a presence" (418). The sovereign presence in i t s absolute completeness does not require any supplement, does not reveal any originary lack within. It i s " l a jouissance de s o i , dans le moment de 1'impossible representation" (419). The sovereign presence cannot be determined merely by "what i t i s not" as a sign i s so defined. It must be something absolutely not ( l i k e ) anything in this world. It must be the absolutely unknown, absolutely new, that i s , pure poetry. And moreover, i t must escape the order of representation, or expression. Indeed sovereignty s i g n i f i e s the death of s i g n i f i c a t i o n , that i s , the absolute independency from the other. Derrida connects t h i s sovereign state to his (and Mallarme's) notion of game—"un coup de des": Loin de supprimer l a synthese dialectique, e l l e l ' i n s c r i t et l a f a i t fonctionner dans le s a c r i f i c e du sens. Risquer l a mort ne s u f f i t pas s i l a mise en jeu ne se lance pas, comme chance ou 74 hasard, mais s ' i n v e s t i t comme t r a v a i l du n t g a t i f . La souverainete done s a c r i f i e encore l a maltrise, l a presentation du sens de l a mort. . . . Le poetique ou l'extatique est ce qui dans tout discours peut s'ouvrir a l a perte absolue de son sens, au (sans) fond de sacre, de non-sens, de non-savoir ou de jeu, a l a perte de connaissance dont i l se r e v e i l l e par un coup de des. (L'Ecriture et l a difference 382-383) One must go further down the abyss of s i g n i f i c a t i o n , even to the negation of the "presentation of the meaning of death." If the sovereignty s t i l l s i g n i f i e d even the loss of s i g n i f i c a t i o n , i t would s t i l l be subordinate to the supplementary system. We may follow the agonizing footsteps of de Sade. He sought sovereignty to the extent that i t would become a pure destructive force, a pure depense, which would even free i t s e l f from i t s dependency on the pre-existence of what i t destroys. Maurice Blanchot observes: Cependant, 1 ' o r i g i n a l i t e de Sade nous semble dans l a pretention extremement ferme de fonder l a souverainete de l'homme sur un pouvoir transcendent de negation, pouvoir qui ne depend en r i e n des objets q u ' i l d etruit, qui, pour les detruire, ne suppose irfeme pas leur existence anterieure, parce que, au moment ou i l les detr u i t , i l les a toujours, deja., anterieurement, tenus pour nuls. (Lautreamont et Sade 36) If we remain i n the r e s t r i c t e d logic of p o s i t i v i t y , the im p o s s i b i l i t y of the absolute sovereignty i s evident. We could only name th i s i m p o s s i b i l i t y 75 "the impossible ." How can a master be a master without depending upon the existence of a slave? But in the sovereign moment even naming must disappear. In the negative theology of sovereignty, one must suspend the movement of Hegelian d i a l e c t i c s , and must a f f i rm one's presence by an immense negation. And th i s negation must be pushed to i t s l i m i t s , or beyond them, to i t s own death. Blanchot writes on Sade's negative heroes: "Tous ces grands l i b e r t i n s qui ne vivent que pour le p l a i s i r , ne sont grands que parce q u ' i l s ont annihi le en eux toute capacite de p l a i s i r " (45). How can we name the consequence of th i s absolute negation? Does the death of negation s i g n i f y a new p o s i t i v i t y ? Pure Poetry? Jouissance? The Sovereign Moment? Nishiwaki compared the danger of d iscours ing upon (naming) poetry to that of d iscours ing upon God. We remember that the Jews fear to pronounce the name of t h e i r ine f fab le God. It i s a br ight s i l e n c e . Language f a i l s by d e f i n i t i o n . Nishiwaki's impulse towards Derr id ian "supplement" i s evident in h i s ins is tence on the a r t i f i c i a l mode of expression which consequently negates "nature" within the Text. But what Nishiwaki 's method towards pure poetry shows i s that the supplement, the a r t i f i c i a l , e x t e r i o r i t y , w r i t i n g , must transgress i t s own mise-en-abyme, must break the chain of supplements, must return to the deathly pure presence. Poetry, thus, i s an e f for t to re-enter the realm of the l o s t presence. Of course th i s must be r e a l i z e d af ter the c l a s s i c a l presence has been deconstructed and effaced from the f i e l d of language. What remains may be merely the ruins of things, a l l egor i e s of meanings. Susan Sontag observes that for Walter Benjamin ideas and experiences appeared as r u i n s : Benjamin's recurrent themes are, c h a r a c t e r i s t i c a l l y , means of s p a t i a l i z i n g the world: for example, h is notion of ideas and 76 experiences as ruins. To understand something i s to understand i t s topography, to know how to chart i t . And to know how to get l o s t . (Under the Sign of Saturn 116) Indeed Derrida has charted the map; but poetry invites us to get l o s t i n i t . The world, the r e a l , i s th i s map of f i c t i o n a l i t y (supplementarity) where the i n f i n i t e movement of differance operates. Literature, as opposed to philosophy or science, from the beginning has s i g n i f i e d i t s e l f as th i s fundamental f i c t i o n a l i t y of the world. (Everything i s sl i p p i n g from i t s e l f everywhere.) C l a s s i c a l l i t e r a t u r e ( i n Barthes's terminology) with i t s f a i t h i n the transparency of language may not have f u l l y manifested t h i s f i c t i o n a l i t y . Modern l i t e r a t u r e ( le texte s c r i p t i b l e ) , however, has begun revealing i t s own inevitable destiny by c r y s t a l l i z i n g the f i c t i o n a l i t y of the world and begun moving forward with i t s inherent negativity. Nishiwaki writes: "The adage, 'Ars longa,' i s merely a children's song. It only appears on the surface that art creates. In fa c t , art i s an e f f o r t at s e l f - e x t i n c t i o n " (4: 37-38). Through this negative movement, paradoxically, poetry st r i v e s to transgress the boundaries of f i c t i o n a l i t y and regain presence, i t s sovereignty, i t s absolute loss of meaning. Representation serves only the perpetuation of f i c t i o n a l i t y . Poetry must move, instead, through a gap, an interruption within the f i e l d of representation, a difference, created by the confusion of distant elements which appear on the white page. Words serve as pos i t i v e nodes, as a guide ( V i r g i l ) into the Inferno, as the walls of a fathomless abyss of s i g n i f i c a t i o n into which we f a l l . But why do we step into the abyss i n the f i r s t place? Because we are seduced? Are we seduced by the strip-tease of dissimulation, by the play of presence and absence on the surface of the text? So we f a l l , l i k e b l i n d lovers. This must be a reversed f a l l into the Garden of Eden. We f a l l losing our ide n t i t y and e x t e r i o r i t y , reversed as i f in a photo negative. When the la s t p o s i t i v i t y of a poem, the walls of language, disappears, only the movement of the f a l l i n i t s absolute negativity remains. And this i s the state/movement of Pure Poetry. 78 Notes to Chapter Two 1. Nishiwaki's f i r s t publication was a c o l l e c t i o n of his English poems: Spectrum (London: Cayme Press, 1925). 2. See Hagiwara Sakutaro, "The Undying Octopus," trans. Lane Dunlop in The Prose Poem: An International Anthology, ed. Michael Benedikt,(New York: i • A Laurel Edition, D e l l Publishing Co., Inc., 1976) 439. 3. B a t a i l l e ' s indebtedness to Marcel Mauss in developing his theory of "part maudite" is unquestionable. See Marcel Mauss, Sociologie et  anthropologie (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1950). See also Michele H. Richman, Reading Georges B a t a i l l e : Beyond the G i f t (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1982). 4. The interest i n the Hegelian master/slave d i a l e c t i c found in many contemporary French thinkers must be attributed to the legendary lectures on Hegel given by Alexandre Kojeve during the years 1933-1939 at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes. See Alexandre Kojeve, Introduction a l a lecture de  Hegel, ed. Raymond Queneau (Paris: Gallimard, 1947). See also G. W. F. Hegel, Phenomenology of S p i r i t , trans. A. V. M i l l e r (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), chap. 4, sec. A. 5. One of the key terms in the philosophy of Hegel, usually translated as either "sublation" or "supression." It can mean both a b o l i t i o n and " l i f t i n g up into a higher sphere" at the same time. B a t a i l l e remarks on the term: "In u t i l e d ' i n s i s t e r sur le caractere hegelien de cette operation [transgression], qui repond au moment de l a dialectique exprime par le verbe allemand i n t r a d u i s i b l e aufheben (depasser en maintenant) (L'Erotisme 42, n.). 79 Chapter Three: Ambarvalia to Eternity Des meubles luisants Polis par les ans, Decoreraient notre chambre; Les plus rares f l e u r s MeT. ant leurs odeurs Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre, Les riches plafonds, Les miroirs profonds, La splendeur orientale, Tout y p a r l e r a i t A l'ame en secret Sa douce langue natale. —Baudelaire from "L'Invitation au voyage" Vi o l a t i o n of the Mother Tongue What i f the text to be translated i s already a translation? What i f the "sweet mother tongue" of the o r i g i n a l text i s already violated by the invasions of foreign tongues? How can a translation of such an " o r i g i n a l " text begin? Must we, then, "un-translate" such a text, uncovering the invasions and the tattered ruins of the mother tongue? The tra n s l a t i o n of the Nishiwaki-text begins with such anxieties. In promoting " l i t e r a l " translation, Walter Benjamin, towards the end of his "Task of the Translator," quotes Rudolf Pannwitz: 80 Our translations, even the best ones, proceed from a wrong premise. They want to turn Hindi, Greek, English into German instead of turning German into Hindi, Greek, English. Our translators have a far greater reverence for the usage of t h e i r own language than for the s p i r i t of the foreign works. . . . The basic error of the translator is that he preserves the state in which his own language happens to be instead of allowing his language to be powerfully affected by the foreign tongue. (80-81) Nishiwaki's language i n Ambarvalia presents i t s e l f precisely as this surrendering of the mother tongue to the invasions of foreign tongues. It i s true that modern Japanese poetry in general began by t r a n s l a t i n g Western poetry. In order for Japanese poetry to become "modern," i t was necessary to free i t s e l f from the r e s t r i c t i o n s of t r a d i t i o n a l forms (of waka and haiku) and adopt freer expressive imagery and styles from Western poetry. Soon after the M e i j i restoration in 1868, pioneering c o l l e c t i o n s of translations began to appear in succession: Shintaishisho (A Selection  of New Style Verse) in 1882, Omokage (Vestiges) in 1889, Kaichbon (Sound of  Ocean Tides.) in 1905.''" The language of these translations remained, however, "authentically" Japanese, for the translators were mainly concerned with rendering Western poetry into the elegant l i t e r a r y style of the Japanese language. Nonetheless, these pioneering translations did nurture the growth of o r i g i n a l modern Japanese poetry during kindai (modern period, usually from 1868 to the end of World War I I ) . Especially prominent among kindai poets was Hagiwara Sakutaro (1886-1942), whose Tsuki n i hoeru (Howling at the 81 Moon) published in 1917 presented his unprecedented s k i l l and o r i g i n a l i t y in using the modern vernacular language as well as the style of the 2 so-called " j i y u s h i " (free verse). In f a c t , i t was Hagiwara's new poetic language that made Nishiwaki envision the p o s s i b i l i t y of writing poetry in Japanese for the f i r s t time. However, the t r a n s i t i o n from the elegant l i t e r a r y language to the vernacular as the vehicle of poetry was by no means easy. Even Hagiwara, abandoning the f l e x i b l e vernacular language of Tsuki n i hoeru, had to resort to the c l a s s i c a l l i t e r a r y language in his l a s t poetical work, Hyoto* (Ice Land) (1934). Hagiwara acknowledges his f a i l u r e : After desperate attempts to discover a new language for Japanese poetry, I ended up returning to the age-old l i t e r a r y language. In doing so I abandoned my c u l t u r a l mission as a poet. I have aged. May new poets emerge and open a new road, a road I f a i l e d to b u i l d i n my time! (qtd. in Ueda 179-180) A c o l l e c t i o n of poems with an unfamiliar foreign t i t l e Ambarvalia was published in 1933, a year before the publication of Hagiwara's Hyoto. With Ambarvalia, a new poetic language appeared in the Japanese poetic scene. Its newness, however, did not reside simply in the innovative employment of the existing Japanese language, whether c o l l o q u i a l or l i t e r a r y , but more importantly in the f o r c e f u l invasion of foreign languages. Ambarvalia was Nishiwaki's f i r s t c o l l e c t i o n of poems written in Japanese. Prior to Ambarvalia, he had published a c o l l e c t i o n of English poems, Spectrum, in London i n 1925, p r i v a t e l y published another c o l l e c t i o n of English poems, Poems Barbarous, in Tokyo in 1930, attempted to publish a volume of French 82 poems, Une montre sentimentale, in Paris, and also had an unpublished 3 c o l l e c t i o n of English, poems, e n t i t l e d Exclamations: Music of the Soul. It i s now evident that some of the poems included in Ambarvalia are more or less d i r e c t translations of poems o r i g i n a l l y written in foreign 4 languages by Nishiwaki. Consequently, the text reveals a peculiar Japanese language w i l l f u l l y affected by Nishiwaki's sometimes extremely " l i t e r a l " translations. In fact, the language of Ambarvalia shows some t y p i c a l l y awkward expressions and mistakes commonly found in l i t e r a l translations attempted by foreign students who have just begun studying the language with a dictionary. Such problems include the excessive use of Chinese expressions where simpler Japanese expressions would s u f f i c e , the incorrect usage of counters, or the usage of grammatical constructions which are not "natural" in Japanese but possible in foreign languages. For example, there i s a l i n e in a poem e n t i t l e d "Shitsurakuen" that reads: "Ikko no tari p o t t o no k i ga onkyo o hassuru koto naku seicho shite i r u " (46). Its " o r i g i n a l " version i s found in a French poem written by Nishiwaki e n t i t l e d "Paradis Perdu." The French simply reads: "Un palmier se grandit sans b r u i t . " The f i r s t word in the Japanese l i n e "Ikko no" must be the translation of the French a r t i c l e "Un." But "ikko no" is not the correct counter to use for a tree. It should be rather "ippon no." "Onkyo o hassuru" i s an awkward expression displaying a somewhat forced use of Chinese words where simpler Japanese words "oto o dasu" would have sufficed. As an example of foreign grammar invading the Japanese language, the following i s i l l u m i n a t i n g : "Ore no yujin no h i t o r i ga kekkon shitsutsu aru." L i t e r a l l y translated into English, i t becomes: "One of my friends is getting married." This sounds natural enough. In fact, the o r i g i n a l 83 French simply reads: "Un de mes amis va se marier." But Nishiwaki w i l l f u l l y takes advantage of the ambiguous English construction—the copula followed by a present p a r t i c i p l e , indicating an action either in the present progressive or in the near future—and translates the English sentence i n the sense of the present progressive into, again, a very "unnatural" Japanese sentence. Nishiwaki's experiment with this peculiar style of l i t e r a l t r a n s l a t i o n can be already seen i n his translations of European poems quoted in Chogenjitsushugi shiron. His eccentric style can be best i l l u s t r a t e d when we compare his translations with the elegantly "Japanized" renditions collected i n Kaichoon by Ueda Bin, or in Gekka no ichigun (A Moonlit  Gathering) (1925) by Horiguchi Daigaku. Horiguchi translates Jean Cocteau's l i n e s , "Mon o r e i l l e est un coquillage/ Qui aime le bruit de l a mer" (259), as "Watashi no mimi wa kai no kara/ Umi no h i b i k i o natsukashimu" (230). Nishiwaki's version i s more l i t e r a l , more "kanbun  chio" (Chinese s t y l e ) : "Ore no mimi wa hitotsu no kaigara de aru/ Umi no onkyo o aisu" (13) Paul Verlaine's "Chanson d'automne" may be considered the best known foreign poem in Japan thanks to the beautiful translation by Ueda Bin: Les sanglots longs Des violons De l'automne Blessent mon coeur D'une langueur Monotone (58) Ueda's tr a n s l a t i o n : 8 4 fX co B co 4**^ f n y ^ £ co Nishiwaki's t r a n s l a t i o n : J t D > <7) ^ ^ -V ? U -f- .-Jf te Aki no vioron no nagai shakurinaki wa Ore no tamashii o hitotsu no tancho na darusa o motte kizutsukeru (29) The violence of Nishiwaki's l i t e r a l t r a n s l a t i o n may appear simply grotesque at f i r s t . For a moment we seem to lose our long cherished faculty of judgment. We do not know whether to grimace or burst out laughing. Yet the v i t a l i t y of this new "poetic" language freed from the established Japanese l i t e r a r y styles was to greatly influence new generations of gendai (contemporary) poetry. Disappearance of the Author Aki no h i no Vioron no Tameiki no Mi n i shimite Hitaburuni Uraganashi (33) Ambarvalia is invaded not only by l i t e r a l translations but also by "actual" translations. Now we know that some poems in Ambarvalia are 85 Nishiwaki's translations of poems written by other poets. But the book i t s e l f does not reveal any indication that these poems are in fact not Nishiwaki's o r i g i n a l s . The "actual" translations include a l l the poems in the "Raten aika" (Latin Elegies) section as well as "Renka" (Love Song) in the "Le Monde Moderne" section. "Latin Elegies" consists of four poems: "Catullus," "Ambarvalia," "Vinus sai no zenban" (Eve of the Venus Festival) 1, and "Aika" (Elegy). "Catullus" is the translation of a poem by the Roman poet, Catullus. "Ambarvalia" is the translation of an elegy written by a Roman poet of the Augustan age, most l i k e l y T i b u l l u s . "Vinus sai no zenban" is the translation of a Latin poem probably written by several anonymous poets around the second or t h i r d century. "Aika" is composed of a " l i t e r a r y " translation of Nishiwaki's own poem o r i g i n a l l y written i n Latin, followed by the o r i g i n a l Latin text, and concluded by a " l i t e r a l " t r a n s l a t i o n of the Latin text. "Renka" is Nishiwaki's translation of "Poemes d'amour" by the French/German poet Yvan G o l l . These translations were well hidden i n Ambarvalia.^ Perhaps Nishiwaki did not f e e l that i t was important to note the authorial sources, for, after a l l , Ambarvalia was meant to be a small publication. Only three hundred copies were printed. Many readers discovered the existence of Ambarvalia after the war, by reading the revised version, Amubaruwaria (the Latin word t r a n s l i t e r a t e d into hiragana). Nonetheless, just as Ezra Pound's translations are highly regarded on t h e i r own, Nishiwaki's translations are very much esteemed by c r i t i c s . In fact, when the editors of Gendaishi tokuhon (Modern Poetry Reader)—Kagiya Koshin, Shinoda Kazushi, and one of the most important poets since Nishiwaki, Tamura Ryuichi—were put to the task of selecting t h i r t y poems out of Nishiwaki's enormous corpus, they selected three translations from Ambarvalia: "Vinus sai no zenban," "Aika," and "Renka." 86 Was Nishiwaki concerned with authorship as much as our "conscientious" modern scholarship concerns i t s e l f with issues of copyrights and plagiarism? Perhaps, no. Could we then suspect that something else was working behind these "author-less" translations? Here we must s h i f t our c r i t i c a l attention from Nishiwaki's reason for not revealing the authors to a more s t r i c t l y textual question: what made the authors disappear from the text? Our answer i s that i t i s the modern text i t s e l f that demands that the author disappear. Ambarvalia, then, could be regarded as an exemplary text in which the disappearance of the author i s c l e a r l y enacted. Michel Foucault i n his essay "What i s an Author?" aptly describes the s i t u a t i o n : The writing of our day has freed i t s e l f from the necessity of "expression"; i t only refers to i t s e l f . . . . [T]he essential basis of t h i s writing i s not the exalted emotions related to the act of composition or the ins e r t i o n of the subject into language. Rather, i t i s primarily concerned with creating an opening where the writing subject endlessly disappears. (116) Accordingly, Nishiwaki's writing of Ambarvalia can be seen as an e f f o r t to lose his a u t h o r i a l - s e l f as well as other's authorship by staging a r a d i c a l v i o l a t i o n of the mother tongue by means of his translatory textual strategies. Nishiwaki, in his rare autobiographical note, "Nozui no n i k k i " (Journal of a Brain), comments on his attitude towards the Japanese language: The reason I did not write poems in Japanese was that I was convinced that, in order to write poems in Japanese, one had to employ such an out-dated " l i t e r a r y " language (bungakugo) or 87 "elegant" style (gabuntai). By writing poems in English, I could evade t h i s problem. It was Hagiwara Sakutaro who taught me that we did not necessarily have to use elegant style to write poetry. I t o t a l l y supported not only his use of language but also his naturalism. Before Hagiwara, Japanese poetry had been steeped in sentimental romanticism. Maybe my enthusiasm for Hagiwara came from my reaction against such poetry. Since I was in junior high school, I f e l t embarassed (terekusai) about such poetry. . . . I was already over t h i r t y when I f i n a l l y began writing poems in Japanese for the per i o d i c a l Mitabungaku. But that was also accompanied by a fe e l i n g of embarrassment. (Zenshishu 1240) Nishiwaki's shyness with regard to the mother tongue reveals an e s s e n t i a l l y elusive subject. The subject refuses to use the mother tongue. By doing so, the subject eludes the r i s k of being constituted solely by the mother tongue. The subject must r e s i s t the sweet mother tongue that has always already nestled at i t s core. Nishiwaki, the author subject, re c o i l e d from the mother tongue, from his centre. The text he was to produce was not to be the vehicle of the expression of the subject, as both Nishiwaki ( in Chogenjitsushugi shiron) and Foucault strongly assert this point. Rather, as Foucault points out, Ambarvalia became the text into which "the writing subject endlessly disappears." The textual openings which Foucault talks about are, in the case of Ambarvalia, seen i n the gaps created by translation, between the i n v i s i b l e o r i g i n a l s and Nishiwaki's translations, between the foreign tongues and the mother tongue. By employing translation as the primary means of deconstructing the established language of poetry, Nishiwaki thus succeeds not only in creating a new "poetic" 88 language but also i n making the author-subject disappear into the "porous" text. Catullus disappears, Tibullus disappears, Goll disappears, and es s e n t i a l l y so does H B Hinjaku na mado o hirakeba Ore no roka no gotoku hosoi ikko no niwa ga mieru Yokeijo kara tareru shabon no mizu ga Ore no sozo shita saboten no hana o ansatsu suru Soko n i funsui mo nashi Misosazai mo bengoshi mo shiga mo nashi Rukaderarobia no wakaki shokatai no ukibori mo naku Tenku n i wa nanpito mo i n a i (48-49) (When I open a shabby window I see a single garden as narrow as my hallway. The soapy water dripping from the chicken-coop assassinates my imagined cactus flowers. No springs exist there. No wrens, no lawyers, no cigars. Neither are there the r e l i e f s of choir boys by Luca d e l l a Robbia. There i s nobody in the heavens.) What remains, therefore, i s this subject-less textual surface "hardened" by the invasions of foreign languages. The expressions of the se l f , "the cactus flowers of my imagination," are "assassinated." The garden i s unnaturally o b j e c t i f i e d and s o l i d i f i e d by i t s strange modifiers: ore no roka no gotoku hosoi ikko no (as narrow as my hallway, a singular 89 object . . . ) • "Ikko" (a s ingular object) i s a grammatically incorrec t counter for "garden." It should be "hi to tsu ." "Ikko" is o r i g i n a l l y a Chinese word with a Chinese pronounciat ion, which sounds "harder" than the Japanese word "h i to t su ." Thus by putt ing "ikko" in place of "h i to t su ," the garden acquires an "unnatural" sense of s o l i d i f i c a t i o n . The word "niwa" no longer re fers to a garden i n r e a l i t y . It becomes a purely l i n g u i s t i c a l l y constructed new image, a piece of a s o l i d i f i e d and o b j e c t i f i e d "garden." In th i s l i n g u i s t i c a l y "unnatural" garden, no presence i s allowed. "No springs ex is t t h e r e . / No wrens, no lawyers, no c i g a r s . / Neither are there the r e l i e f s of cho ir boys by Luca d e l l a R o b b i a . / There i s nobody in the heavens." Katakana Instances of the v i o l a t i o n of the mother tongue can be also seen on the orthographical l e v e l . The Japanese wr i t ing system involves three kinds of wr i t ing symbols: two kana sy l l abar i e s (hiragana and katakana) and k a n j i (Chinese characters ) . Katakana i s mainly used for wr i t ing t r a n s l i t e r a t i o n s of fore ign words as wel l as instances of onomatopoeia. Therefore, whenever one sees a word in katakana, the instant impression one receives is that of "foreignness." Nishiwaki explo i ts th i s pecu l iar funct ion of katakana to an extreme degree. Not only does he use t r a n s l i t e r a t e d foreign words of ten, but he even uses katakana for Japanese words commonly written in hiragana or in k a n j i . For example: h W 7% CO % j£ Ji ? X ? V tz ^  7 y m Waga tamashii no kegawa wa kusuguttai manto o k i t a (53) 90 Yawaraka n i nemuru made j ibun no uchi n i i r u yoni sukoyaka n i nemuru (53) T$ ^ T<om& Z is v h Akashia no k i no soba de j i t t o n o k o r i t a i to omou (57) (katakana underlined) The effect of th is p e c u l i a r use of katakana is twofold: the f o r e i g n i z a t i o n of the word and the rendering of the word into a kind of onomatopoeia. In the case of "kusuguttai ," one adject ive " t i c k l i s h " is separated into two orthographical components—"kusugut" writ ten in katakana and " ta i" in hiragana, thus the "skipping" sound (double consonant) "gutt" becomes emphasized and then i s released into the softer sound and l e t t e r s of " t a i " in hiragana. An ordinary word is thus made into an onomatopoeia of i t s own  sound. The s i g n i f i e d of the word recedes into the background and the word's sound ( s i g n i f i e r ) i s pushed forward. Let us look at another example. The fo l lowing is a poem from the "Gir isha t e k i j o j o s h i " (Greek l y r i c s ) sect ion in Ambarvalia. £ tz x ^ ^ <nM^ik,ts . 91 'J? 4f= H /JN Jl[ t H / ^ O J I U t ^ o f t . Taiyo Karumoj i i n no inaka wa d a i r i s e k i no sanchi de Soko de watashi wa natsu o sugoshita koto ga atta. Hibari mo i n a i s h i , hebi mo denai. Tada aoi sumomo no yabu kara taiyo ga dete mata sumomo no yabu e shizumu. Shonen wa ogawa de dorufin o toraete waratta. (9) (The Sun The countryside of Karumojin produces marble. Once I spent a summer there. There are no skylarks, and no snakes come out. Only the sun comes up from bushes of blue damson And goes down into bushes of damson. The boy laughed as he seized a dolphin i n a brook.) "Karumojiin" written i n katakana receives our f i r s t attention. By i t s context as well as by the fact that i t i s written i n katakana, we i n f e r that i t i s the name of a foreign location. Since the poem i s in the section c a l l e d "Greek L y r i c s , " the location i s very l i k e l y in Greece or i t s surrounding Mediterranean area. The mentioning of "marble" confirms t h i s inference. But "Karumojiin" was actually Nishiwaki's pure f a b r i c a t i o n . There i s no existing location named "Karumojiin." Reportedly, Nishiwaki 92 coined the name by association from the brand-name of a certain sleeping g medicine made in Germany ca l l e d "Calmotin." Of course this information i s not provided with the text. What we see i s the katakana and the "sound" of "Karumojiin." There we f a l l into a beautiful vessel of f i c t i o n a l i t y , induced by a proper noun without "property," without a r e a l referent. The katakana for " h i b a r i " (skylarks) may not seem so unnatural, for often names of animals and birds are written i n katakana. But at the same time, " h i b a r i " is not a foreign word l i k e , say, "flamingo." Nishiwaki could have used hiragana or kanji for i t . In fact i n the revised version of the same poem in Amubaruwaria, " h i b a r i " i s written i n hiragana• The katakana here foreignizes the b i r d . The images of "skylarks" and "snakes" are negatively presented: "There are no skylarks, and no snakes come out." They are in fact presented as absences. This type of presentation of absence must be very d i f f i c u l t to make in the v i s u a l a r t s . Only verbal language seems to be capable of this paradoxical image-production. Then, " h i b a r i " i n katakana is many times removed from the r e a l referent, the r e a l b i r d . F i r s t of a l l , as we have seen, i t i s "foreignized" by the katakana. Secondly, i t does not exist i n Karumojiin. Thirdly, Karumojiin does not actually exist. What exactly do we have l e f t here? A ghostly trace of a trace of a trace? Of course, " h i b a r i " i s a very common bi r d i n Japan and at the same time both "skylarks" and "snakes" are heavily allegorized, f a m i l i a r figures in Western l i t e r a t u r e . This i s again a strangely paradoxical case i n which such a " f a m i l i a r " object i s presented as an absence, but which i n turn i s already "foreignized" (defamiliarized) before i t i s even announced as an 9 absence. (In the o r i g i n a l Japanese syntax, the subject " h i b a r i " comes before the negative verb " i n a i . " ) The absence of skylarks i s not simply 93 the absence of a f a m i l i a r presence. The presence of " h i b a r i " has been already turned into an orthographically induced "trace." Here we may see a case of differance at work in the process of writing. We also see a s i m i l a r l y unusual employment of katakana for the word "sumomo" (a type of damson). Sumomo is a s p e c i f i c a l l y Oriental plant, imported to Japan from China in ancient times. Therefore, i t i s usually written in hiragana or kanj i . In the revised version in Amubaruwaria, Nishiwaki uses the kanji for i t . In any case, i t i s most unlikely to see this Oriental plant in this putatively Mediterranean scene. But one may also point out that i t i s so "foreignized" by the use of katakana that i t should f i t in this "foreign" scene. A gap opens up between the "Japaneseness" of the plant (the s i g n i f i e d of the word) and the "foreignness" of the katakana (the s i g n i f i e d of the s c r i p t ) . Thus appears a certain negative space of f i c t i o n a l i t y on the very surface of the text. "Only the sun comes up from bushes of blue damson/ And goes down into bushes of damson." A slow c y c l i c movement of the cosmos is suggested. There are no animals. A hard landscape of marble is established. Then suddenly, "Shonen wa ogawa de dorufin o toraete waratta (The boy laughed as he seized a dolphin in a brook)." "A boy" instead of "The boy" seems more natural in English because he has not been introduced. But in the o r i g i n a l , his sudden appearance and the apparent s h i f t i n the narrative perspective make us f e e l that we have known him a l l along, that he has been the main character of this l i t t l e story. For example, i f the author was to keep the f i r s t person narrative as he began ("Once I spent a summer there"), the l a s t sentence should be, say, " H i t o r i no shonen ga ogawa de dorufin o toraete waratte i t a (A boy was laughing as he seized a dolphin in a brook)." This gives a sense of observation by the speaker. But, from the 94 o r i g i n a l l i n e , we sense that suddenly the centre of the perspective has shifted to the boy from the f i r s t person narrator. The narration i s now performed by the omnipresent t h i r d person for whom the boy i s (has been) the main character. This effect must be due to the use of the p a r t i c l e "wa" instead of "g_a." Wa i s generally considered to be the topic-marker as opposed to g_a which i s the subject-marker. As the topic-marker, wa can be rendered as "as f o r . " Thus, l i t e r a l l y , the l i n e can be translated as "As for the boy, he laughed as he seized a dolphin in a brook." There are of course more factors i n this l i n e that make us f e e l strangely disoriented. F i r s t of a l l , dolphins cannot inhabit a small brook! And again "dolphin" i s presented by the t r a n s l i t e r a t i o n of the English word "dolphin" in katakana. The usual Japanese word for "dolphin" i s "iruka." Elsewhere ( i n "Sara") Nishiwaki uses the kanji " }f£)$c " ( l i t e r a l l y , "sea-pig"). As a whole, "The Sun" presents i t s e l f as an exemplary space of l i t e r a t u r e which i s constituted by the strata of various f i c t i o n a l i z i n g strategies. After the " r e a l " r e f e r e n t i a l sphere i s disrupted by various purely l i n g u i s t i c displacements, what remains i s a b e a u t i f u l l y concerted movement of evocative images, traces, s i g n i f i e r s that refuse to be mere transparent media of meanings but rather fasten themselves to the very surface and movement of "pure language" (in Benjamin's sense). Pure language i s neither a mother tongue nor a foreign tongue. Rather, i t i s an absolute state of language, where "meaning" becomes unnecessary, where the separation of s i g n i f i e r and s i g n i f i e d ceases. According to Benjamin, we r e c a l l , this absolute state can be intimated only by means of a violent t r a n s l a t i o n which allows a r a d i c a l v i o l a t i o n of the mother tongue by foreign tongues. Nishiwaki's text in Ambarvalia indeed 95 presents i t s e l f as a gateway to this pure language. It i s a porous text. Many gaps are opened by the force of tr a n s l a t i o n . Into these openings the author-subject f a l l s , along with "sa douce langue natale." This w r i t i n g -subject's surrender to the flow of the "translatory" writing or to the c a l l i n g of pure language i s also an obsessive subject-matter for Maurice Blanchot. In his essay e n t i t l e d "La solitude e s s e n t i e l l e " included in L'Espace l i t t e r a i r e , Blanchot b e a u t i f u l l y describes how "writing" makes the writer disappear: Ecrire est 1'interminable, 1'incessant. . . . L'£crivain appartient a un langage que personne ne parle, qui ne s'adresse a personne, qui n'a pas de centre, qui ne revele ri e n . II peut croire q u ' i l s'affirme en ce langage, mais ce q u ' i l affirme est tout a f a i t prive de s o i . Dans l a mesure ou, ecrivain, i l f a i t droit a ce qui s ' e c r i t , i l ne peut plus jamais s'exprimer et i l ne peut pas davantage en appeler a t o i , n i encore donner l a parole a autru i . La ou i l est, seul parle l ' e t r e , — c e qui s i g n i f i e que l a parole ne parle plus, mais est, mais se voue a l a pure pa s s i v i t e de l 'etre. Quand e c r i r e , c'est se l i v r e r a 1'interminable. 1'ecrivain qui accepte d'en soutenir l'essence, perd le pouvoir de dire "Je". II perd alors le pouvoir de f a i r e dire "Je" a d'autres que l u i . . E c r i r e , c'est se f a i r e l'echo de ce qui ne peut cesser de p a r l e r , — e t , a cause de cela, pour en devenir l'echo, je dois d'une certaine maniere l u i imposer silence. J'apporte a cette parole incessante l a decision, l ' a u t o r i t e de mon silence propre. Je rends sensible, par ma meditation silencieuse, 1'affirmation 96 ininterrompue, le murmure geant sur lequel l e langage en s'ouvrant devient image, devient imaginaire, profondeur parlante, i n d i s t i n c t e , plenitude qui est vide. Ce silence a sa source dans l'effacement auquel c e l u i qui e c r i t est i n v i t e . (17) Writing i s to surrender oneself to this incessant murmur of pure language/silence. Then there i s no more ide n t i t y , no more reading, but what we can only c a l l "poetry." Return or No Return Silence f a l l s . Occasioned by the onset of World War II, after the publication of Ambarvalia in 1933, there follows a fourteen-year period of silence u n t i l 1947, when Nishiwaki published Tabibito kaerazu (No Tra v e l l e r Returns) along with Amubaruwaria ( t i t l e in hiragana), a revised version of the o r i g i n a l Ambarvalia. There i s now almost a consensus among c r i t i c s that Amubaruwaria is an i n f e r i o r revision, which took away the raw edges and surprising "unnaturalness" from the o r i g i n a l work. In the epilogue of Amubaruwaria Nishiwaki wrote: "When I re-read the poems [of Ambarvalia], now I understand how my mental state has changed" (Zenshishu 168). Tabibito kaerazu also appeared as a product of this change in Nishiwaki. Reviewing the book, the prominent avant-garde poet Kitazono Katsuei sharply c r i t i c i z e d Nishiwaki's loss of modernist energy and his decline into a weakened, decadent poetic s e n s i b i l i t y . ^ Indeed Tabibito kaerazu was a shocking surprise to those who had been f a m i l i a r with Nishiwaki's pre-war modernist radicalism. Another prominent poet, Miyoshi T a t s u j i , observed: "In Tabibito kaerazu the previous incomprehensibility of Nishiwaki's poetic 97 language has almost vanished. And his s u r r e a l i s t ideas have become nothing but ruins."'''''" What in fact bewildered readers at that time was Nishiwaki's seemingly complete return to the East, to i t s "philosophy" of mujo or 12 hakanasa, and to the tra d i t i o n s of Japanese c l a s s i c a l l i t e r a t u r e . Nishiwaki's insistence on mujo may be traced back to "Profanus" i n which he stressed the "tsumaranasa" (banality) of r e a l i t y . But in Tabibito  kaerazu, the refreshingly c o l l o q u i a l expression of "tsumaranasa" i s replaced by more c l a s s i c a l l y coded l i t e r a r y expressions, such as "samishiki" (lonely, desolate), "nagekawashiki" ( p i t i f u l , lamentable), " k o i s h i k i " (longing f o r something, someone), and so on. Especially the word "samishiki" (including i t s variations "samishi" and "samishisa," etc.) appears over f o r t y times throughout the one hundred and sixty-eight sections that comprise the work. The r e s u l t i n g textual matrix c l e a r l y manifests a strong l i n k to the t r a d i t i o n a l Japanese l i t e r a t u r e of hakanasa, mujo, and sabi. Not only the tone set by the r e p e t i t i o n of "samishiki" but also the form of the poem suggests a return to t r a d i t i o n . Tabibito kaerazu i s , as already mentioned, divided into one hundred and sixty-eight sections. There i s no apparent l i n e a l development or narrative progression from one section to the next. Thus each section can be considered an independent poem, though i t i s f a r more int r i g u i n g to regard each section as a part of a more or less loosely orchestrated whole, which reminds us of a renga 14 sequence. In some shorter sections, the trace of haikai i s undeniable, though Nishiwaki does not conform to the metrical r e s t r i c t i o n of 5-7-5 s y l l a b i c format. For example: 98 14 Kureru tomo naku kureru Kokoro no haru (Dusk f a l l i n g as i f not f a l l i n g , Heart's spring.) 15 Yuku michi no kasuka naru Uguisu no oto (Faint, this road, a sound of a bush warbler.) 16 Hisui no jonen Onna no yo no kasumu (The passion of jade The world of woman fading.) (179-180) 99 Yet as the recent source-study by Niikura Toshikazu, Nishiwaki  JunzaburS zenshi inyu shusei (Collection of Allusions in the Entire Poetry  of Nishiwaki Junzaburo), reveals, the i n t e r t e x t u a l i t y of Tabibito kaerazu is f ar from a simple return to a c l a s s i c a l mode of l i t e r a t u r e . It i s now evident that the text of Tabibito kaerazu i s traversed by not one but many dif f e r e n t t r a d i t i o n s within Japanese l i t e r a t u r e and, moreover, by many Western "pre-texts" as well. F i r s t of a l l , the t i t l e , Tabibito kaerazu i s very l i k e l y to be the translation of the phrase "No t r a v e l l e r returns" uttered by Hamlet.^ But at the same time i t points to the Japanese (and Chinese) t r a d i t i o n of "hyShaku no bungaku" ( l i t e r a t u r e of vagabondage) whose most prominent spokesman was Matsuo Basho, the famous haikai poet of the seventeenth century."^ At the beginning of Oku no hosomichi (The Narrow Road to the  Deep North), Basho wrote: Days and months are t r a v e l l e r s of eternity. So are the years that pass by. Those who steer a boat across the sea, or drive a horse over the earth t i l l they succumb to the weight of years, spend every minute of their l i v e s t r a v e l i n g . There are a great number of ancients, too, who died on the road. I myself have been tempted for a long time by the cloud-moving w i n d — f i l l e d with a strong desire to wander. ( 9 7 ) ^ As mentioned before, the Japanese sources are not r e s t r i c t e d to one t r a d i t i o n such as hai k a i . There can be seen l y r i c a l moments of the Heian waka t r a d i t i o n , primitive sentiments of the Man'yo era, and the Medieval 18 gloom of mujo. But far more intr i g u i n g than the ostensible "Japanese moods'* created by Japanese pretexts are the well hidden foreign sources. For example, reading the following, who would have thought of Sartor  Resartus by Thomas Carlyle? 131 Isho tesugaku koso . Onna no tesugaku nare Onna no maruobi no Uraganashi (231) (The philosophy of clothes is the philosophy of women. How sorrowful, a woman's one-piece sash...) or of Remy de Gourmont? 156 Futokoro n i panko o i r e Hyotan n i cha o i r e Kaki no k i no tsue o tsuki Saka o nobotte iku (241) (Putting bread crumbs in my bosom tea i n a gourd walking up a h i l l 1 0 1 with a persimmon cane) Intertextuality Contemporary studies of " i n t e r t e x t u a l i t y " instigated by the pioneering work of J u l i a Kristeva, Semeiotike, propose an alternative method of textual c r i t i c i s m to t r a d i t i o n a l "source-studies" which after a l l merely designated c i t a t i o n a l sources or "inter-subjective" influences, and f a i l e d to discard the long-cherished presupposition of the autonomy of the text as well as of the author-subject. Intertextuality, on the other hand, attempts to present a methodology which escapes the organic closure of the "work" as well as of the "author." It i s , in other words, a transposing of various semiotic systems, as Kristeva defines the term in her La Revolution  du langage poetique: Le terme d'i n t e r - t e x t u a l i t e designe cette transposition d'un (ou de plusieurs) systeme(s) de signes en un autre; mais puisque ce terme a ete souvent entendu dans le sens banal de "c r i t i q u e des sources" d'un texte, nous l u i prefererions c e l u i de transposition, qui a l'avantage de preciser que le passage d'un systeme s i g n i f i a n t a un autre exige une nouvelle a r t i c u l a t i o n du thetique—de l a posi t i o n n a l i t e enonciative et denotative. Si on admet que toute pratique s i g n i f i a n t e est un champ de transpositions de divers systemes s i g n i f i a n t s (une i n t e r - t e x t u a l i t e ) , on comprend que son " l i e u " d'enonciation et son "objet" denote ne sont jamais uniques, pleins et identiques a eux-memes, mais toujours p l u r i e l s , eclates, susceptibles de 102 modeles tabulaires. (59-60) Similar to Kristeva's e f f o r t to mark the essential polysemy of the text, Roland Barthes speaks of the Text as a "methodological f i e l d " whose movement i s incessant, which "cuts across the work, several works," and i s an "i r r e d u c i b l e p l u r a l . " The following passage from his "De l'oeuvre au texte" may best describe the sit u a t i o n of Tabibito kaerazu: Le Texte, au contraire, pratique l e recul i n f i n i du s i g n i f i e , le texte est d i l a t o i r e ; son champ est c e l u i du s i g n i f i a n t ; le s i g n i f i a n t ne doit pas etre imagine comme " l a premiere p a r t i e du sens," son vestibule materiel, mais bien au contraire comme son apres-coup; de meme, 1 ' i n f i n i du s i g n i f i a n t ne renvoie pas a quelqu'idee d'ineffable (de s i g n i f i e innommable), mais a c e l l e de jeu: 1 *engendrement du s i g n i f i a n t perpetuel (a l a facon d'un calendrier du meme nom) dans l e champ du texte (ou plutot: dont le texte est l e champ) ne se f a i t pas selon une voie organique de maturation, ou selon une voie hermeneutique d*approfondissement, mais plutot selon un mouvement s e r i e l de decrochements, de chevauchements, de variations. . . . (227-228) It i s true that within the t r a d i t i o n of c l a s s i c a l Japanese l i t e r a t u r e , various methods of a r t f u l c i t a t i o n were firm l y established conventions. 19 They include hommondori, honkadori, honzetsu, and hikiu t a . One may therefore claim that the c i t a t i o n a l strategy of Tabibito kaerazu i s aft e r a l l a return to the well-established Japanese t r a d i t i o n . Yet i t i s now evident that the i n t e r t e x t u a l i t y of Tabibito kaerazu cannot be dealt with by 103 merely uncovering the sources and thus restoring the text to the s t a b i l i z e d pre-textual points ( o r i g i n s ) . Nor should i t s i n t e r t e x t u a l i t y be s o l e l y regarded as a background prerequisite for the text's f i n a l 20 " i n t e l l i g i b i l i t y , " which Jonathan Culler seems to endorse. As Barthes would argue, the text i s an incessant production whose end is not the f i n a l "meaning," not "comprehension." The text as a f i e l d of s i g n i f i e r s participates i n the movement of differance by d i f f e r i n g from and deferring the s i g n i f i e d . Thus eventually the text must announce i t s e l f as "writing." Of course Tabibito kaerazu is a "work," thus a trace of this "writing." Yet facing this "work," the reader must move beyond mere "reading." The Text of Tabibito kaerazu demands (seduces) the reader to do so. We must surrender ourselves to the current of differance, where the in t e r t e x t u a l i t y disseminates our "reading," our subjec t i v i t y , a l l over the polysemy of the intertextual network. We expire and merge with the text. Intertextuality presents (and hides) such openings into the text, into "writing", and eventually into poetry. 168 Touching the roots of eternity, passing the f i e l d ' s end where the heart's quail cry, where wild roses burst into bloom, passing a v i l l a g e where a f u l l i n g block echoes, passing a country where a woodman's path crosses, passing a town where whitewashed walls crumble, v i s i t i n g a temple by the road, viewing a mandala tapestry with reverence, 104 walking over crumbled mountains of dead twigs, crossing a fe r r y where reed stalks are refl e c t e d in long shadows, passing a bush where seeds hang from grass leaves, the phantasmal man departs. The eternal t r a v e l l e r never returns. (255) The t r a v e l l e r i s the figure of "writing." He moves i n t r a n s i t i v e l y , towards the non-destination, taking detours (michi kusa), picking disseminated names of roadside weeds, writing again, writing again. Proper Names An unusually great number of proper names, especially of plants, stud the text of Tabibito kaerazu. No doubt, the plant names contribute to the establishment of a clear l i n k with t r a d i t i o n a l Japanese l i t e r a t u r e i n which seasonal changes manifested i n nature and the strong bond the poet established with nature were the cardinal motifs. Although some of the plants mentioned i n the poem seem to be " c l a s s i c a l l y coded" (such as, yugao, ominaeshi, tsuyukusa, etc.), the majority of plants are l i t t l e known "non-literary" names (such as, akanomanma, enokorogusa, yabukoji, e t c . ) . The s p e c i f i c i t y that Nishiwaki brings forth by employing such "non-literary" names seems to point to the tsumaranasa, the "in s i g n i f i c a n c e " of the plants thus referred to. For example: 105 56 Green acorns of an oak tree Loneliness... (197) A more peculiar emptiness can be seen in the following: 5 Yabugarashi (175) (Sorrel. ) What i s behind "Yabugarashi"? "Yabugarashi" only refers to a species of plant, nothing more, nothing less. It does not refer to a s p e c i f i c object at a p a r t i c u l a r time and space. It i s merely a name. Yet i t i s a proper name, more s p e c i f i c than, say, "grass." Again, i t i s not l i t e r a r i l y coded enough to be symbolic or a l l e g o r i c a l . Then, what i s the semiotic status of this text, save the emptiness of the sign, save the peculiar s p e c i f i c i t y of the s i g n i f i e r whose destination ( s i g n i f i e d ) is after a l l not grounded in " r e a l " s p e c i f i c i t y ? Thus "yabugarashi" appears only as a certain negative code, which " f l o a t s " over the f i e l d of s i g n i f i e r s . It i s simply and purely language (name). It i s an i n s i g n i f i c a n t noise which paradoxically poses as a s p e c i f i c i t y . We touch the very being of language here, al b e i t bewilderingly. The inclusion of proper nouns brings an autobiographical s p e c i f i c i t y to the text. Certainly Niikura's study suggests that the people and events described in some sections are based on a c t u a l i t y . For example: 106 41 Kotoshihan no sensei to isshoni Koma no yama e yuzan n i i t t a Kaido no kajiya no niwasaki n i Hokori n i mamireta umemodoki Sono mi o nisan tsumitotte Tabeta "Kodomo no toki n i yoku tabeta" To i t t e mukuchi no sensei ga hajimete Sono h i shabetta (190-191) (I went for a hike to Koma mountain with a high school teacher. In a blacksmith's garden by the road, a dusty h o l l y . Taking a few berries from the tree we ate them. "I used to eat these a l o t when I was a c h i l d , " said this t a c i t u r n teacher. For the f i r s t time that day he spoke.) This section can ce r t a i n l y be taken as an autobiographical sketch. S p e c i f i c i t i e s established i n this text include "kotoshihan no sensei" (high 21 school teacher) (as opposed to simply saying sensei), a proper noun, "Koma 107 no yama" (Koma mountain) which i s not a very famous mountain, thus yet to be "coded," and another proper noun "umemodoki" (a type of holl y ) curiously spe c i f i e d by i t s introductory modifying phrase "kaido no kaj iya no  niwasakini hokorini mamireta" (In a blacksmith's garden by the road, a dusty). What i s peculiar in this modifying phrase for "umemodoki" i s the mentioning of "blacksmith," whose s p e c i f i c i t y (as opposed to saying "someone") seems u t t e r l y irrelevant in r e l a t i o n to the holly , except that i t s fortuitous irrelevance i t s e l f , in a strange way, enhances the s p e c i f i c i t y of i t s modified, the holl y . The sentence involving the h o l l y i s not complete; i t ends with the proper noun, "umemodoki," without a verb following to complete the sentence. .The reader's attention stops at th i s proper noun, "umemodoki." There seems to be a subtle stratagem of f i c t i o n a l i z a t i o n (away from the autobiographical, that i s , n o n - f i c t i o n a l mode) hidden i n th i s peculiar proper noun. Umemodoki means, l i t e r a l l y translated, "something that i s l i k e ume (Japanese plum)." Modoki, a s u f f i x , functions as a simile-marker ( l i k e ) . Thus umemodoki i s a tree that looks l i k e the famous (heavily coded) ume but is not r e a l l y i t (the o r i g i n ) . Something extraordinary (though well hidden) happens after this strange proper name i s specified and put under focus. Someone (presumably "we," though in the Japanese text the subject is omitted) eats the berries of the umemodoki. Anyone who i s f a m i l i a r with this tree knows well that i t s berries are inedible. Umemodoki's leaves look l i k e those of ume, but i t s f r u i t i s a far cry from the ume-fruit (not edible fresh but treasured for p i c k l i n g ) . Nonetheless, the teacher's childhood memory i s evoked. The teacher speaks for the f i r s t time. But he speaks " f i c t i o n . " For he couldn't have eaten these inedible berries when he was a c h i l d . Language i s born for the f i r s t time when he eats this 108 inedible f r u i t of umemodoki, which in turn i s a mere v e r i s i m i l i t u d e of the c l a s s i c a l l y coded ume. But at the same time, this v e r i s i m i l i t u d e i s well hidden under the cover of "proper name." And this "proper name" has gained, as we have seen, more s p e c i f i c i t y (sense of presence) from i t s introductory modifying phrase. In order to deconstruct this s p e c i f i c i t y , a violent operation (eating of the inedible) is required. The s p e c i f i c i t y , the absolute uniqueness indicated by the proper noun thus opens up i t s e l f to the invasions of otherness. The umemodoki is eaten despite i t s defense of being inedible, of not being ume, thus being s p e c i f i c , unique, proper, and " i n s i g n i f i c a n t " (not coded). From this violence against the proper, the text suggests, language i s born, f i c t i o n i s born, and the incessant 22 movement of differance begins to flow. Aporia and the Incessant Voice The abrupt leaps of imagery seen in Ambarvalia have not e n t i r e l y disappeared in Tabibito kaerazu. Perhaps one of the most memorable instances can be seen in section thirty-nine, though what "leaps" here i s not imagery but voice: 39 Kugatsu no hajime Kaido no iwakake kara Aoi donguri no sagaru Mado no samishiki Naka kara hito no koe ga suru Ningen no hanasu oto no samishiki "Danna konotabiwa Konpira mairi Ni dekakerute kotodaga Kore wa tsumanne monodaga senbetsuda Totte kunne" "Mohaya shi ga kakenai Shi no nai tokoro n i shi ga aru Utsutsu no danpen nomi shi to naru Utsutsu wa samishii Samishiku kanzuru ga yue n i ware a r i Samishimi wa sonzai no konpon Samishimi wa b i no hongan nari Bi wa eigo no shocho" (189-190) (Early September from a rock by the avenue a green acorn hanging... Desolate i s the window. Inside, there i s someone's voice. How desolate, the sound of human speech, "Hey, mistah, dis time I hear you goin' a pilgrimage to Konpira, eh? Please take dis wid ya. No, no, i t ' s nothin' mistah, just a partin' token. Take i t , take i t . " 110 "I can no longer write poetry. Poetry exists where there i s no poetry. Only a shred of r e a l i t y becomes poetry. Reality i s desolate. I f e e l loneliness, therefore I am. Loneliness i s the root of existence. Loneliness i s the ultimate desire for Beauty. Beauty i s the symbol of eternity.") The sudden appearance of the human voice, made more vibrant, more " r e a l " by the use of a r u r a l d i a l e c t , disrupts the "samishisa" (desolateness/ loneliness) which has been established by the previous l i n e s . The man behind the voice must be what Nishiwaki often c a l l s " d o j i n " (native, l i t e r a l l y translated, man of s o i l ) . This conjecture i s further confirmed by the second contrasting v o i c e — t h e voice of aporia, an i n t e r n a l soliloquy on loneliness and Beauty. The stark contrast between the two voices i s , to say the least, stunning. Their r e l a t i o n seems to be exactly that of "non-relation" (kankei ga n a i ) , which Nishiwaki promoted i n his theoretical writings. Yet, at the same time, there i s a certain incessant movement that traverses the whole section. The f i r s t stanza i s not a complete sentence. The l a s t l i n e "Aoi donguri no sagaru" (A green acorn hanging) may be considered to be modifying the f i r s t l i n e "Kugatsu no hajime" (The beginning of September) 23 though belatedly. Or i t may be even modifying the f i r s t word of the second stanza "mado" (window). (This f l u i d i t y i s also aided by the elimination of punctuation from the entire text of Tabibito kaerazu.) Or again, i t may be modifying a certain vacuum created by the elimination of I l l the possible f i n a l modified, (for example, i t can be h i , day). The o v e r a l l effect we receive from the syntax of the f i r s t stanza i s a sense of s l i g h t i n s t a b i l i t y . On one hand, the haiku-like completed image of early autumn is c l e a r l y stressed by the c y c l i c movement of the syntax (the l a s t l i n e returning to the f i r s t l i n e ) . On the other hand, the elimination of the expected modified brings out a certain empty space in the text. We do read this otherwise non-marked sign of vacuum. (Is the white space of the stanza- break the sign of this vacuum?) And f i n a l l y , there i s a sense of continuation, the imagery of the f i r s t stanza spreading out to the next. As a r e s u l t of a l l these d i f f e r e n t s y n t a c t i c a l movements within the stanza, the text begins to "quaver," as i t were, in i t s incompleteness. This i s where the incessant murmuring of language begins to be heard. In the next stanza, "samishiki" i s repeated twice, modifying f i r s t , "mado" and then "ningen no hanasu oto" (the sound of humans speaking). As mentioned before, "samishiki" i s the central sign of the whole Tabibito  kaerazu, establishing such a status by i t s seemingly excessively repeated appearances. What i s the function of such an excessive repetition? No doubt i t creates an ostensibly dominant mood. But what we could suspect here i s that t h i s excessive r e p e t i t i o n may be a device to " t i r e " the repeated sign so that the s i g n i f i e d (the sentiment of desolation) becomes " i n s i g n i f i c a n t " l i k e a c l i c h e , too " f a m i l i a r " l i k e the sight of a window. The s i g n i f i e r , however, remains l i k e an empty s h e l l on the surface of language. It becomes in turn the sign of this loss of meaning from the s i g n i f i e d . Various subjects of the repeated "samishi" also begin to lose th e i r sentimental attachment to the s i g n i f i e d of "samishi." So the window i s modified by an empty modifier, the non-significant s i g n i f i e r "samishi." But we notice that we are going around in a c i r c l e . 112 Does "samishi" not s i g n i f y from the beginning this state and f e e l i n g of loss, of "insignificance"? According to the Kojien, " s a b i s h i " (same as samishi) means: 1) a sense of lacking the object of desire, not being content; 2) not merry, sad; 3) quiet and f o r l o r n , not l i v e l y . In "Profanus," we remember, Nishiwaki endorsed the Romantic notion of d e f a m i l i a r i z a t i o n as the purpose of poetry. The l i n e , "Mado no samishiki" in a sense achieves this d e f a m i l i a r i z a t i o n because not too many people would customarily associate "samishiki" (note that i t i s in bungo, c l a s s i c a l l i t e r a r y s t y l e ) with such a " f a m i l i a r " d a i l y object as a window. But now, because of the excessive r e p e t i t i o n , "samishiki" has become as " f a m i l i a r " and as "tsumaranai" as the window. At this point, therefore, the subject (window), the s i g n i f i e r (samishiki) and the s i g n i f i e d ( f e e l i n g of lack, desolation, loneliness) become curiously i d e n t i c a l . They a l l become one in " f a m i l i a r i t y , " in "tsumaranasa." The subject of the next "samishiki" i s "ningen no hanasu oto" (the sound of humans speaking). We must note here that what i s samishiki i s not "hito no koe" (human voice) of the preceding l i n e , but "oto"(sound). The t r a n s i t i o n that occurs between these two l i n e s i s that from the man-centred "logocentric" voice to the neutral "sound," which i s in fact, as Saussure indicated, a s i g n i f i e r par excellence. Thus what is to come as a quoted speech i s defined not as a "voice" but as a s i g n i f i e r — a "sound" (oto) yet to be attached to any s i g n i f i e d . The sound comes abruptly, carrying an irrelevant content. It has to be irrelevant because, dictated by the preceding t r a n s i t i o n from voice to sound, the a r b i t r a r y r e l a t i o n between the s i g n i f i e r and the s i g n i f i e d i s c l e a r l y underlined. Here the s i g n i f i e d i s cut o f f , f l o a t i n g . The content could have been anything, a s l i c e of any human speech. Being stressed by 113 the word "oto," the speech's sound i s emphasized and isolated by the use of a d i a l e c t . Thus both the s i g n i f i e r and the s i g n i f i e d are isolated from each other as well as from the main text (context). This is where, so cunningly again, samishiki sneaks i n . What i s indeed samishi i s this i s o l a t i o n of the s i g n i f i e r and the s i g n i f i e d . And this i s where the poet reaches his poetic aporia, trapped in this samishisa, in the "meaninglessness" of the sound and speech: "I can no longer write poetry/ Poetry exists where there i s no poetry." Poetic d e f a m i l i a r i z a t i o n must eventually return to the " f a m i l i a r " (tsumaranai/samishii) r e a l i t y (utsutsu). For there, and there only, one finds the true loss of "meaning," the sudden departure of the s i g n i f i e d . How could language, being an exemplary s i g n i f y i n g system, capture the moment of t h i s departure, unless i t became poetry? The ultimate poetry keeps tran s l a t i n g i t s e l f — f r o m "September" to "a green acorn" to a "window" to a "human voice" to "the sound" to the paradoxical non-poetry to "utsutsu" (reality/dream) to "Beauty" to "eternity." This is the incessant murmur of language flowing out of the very gap opened between the s i g n i f i e r and the s i g n i f i e d . It car r i e s so much "desolation/samishimi" that we burst out laughing. Aeternitas "Eterunitas" was published in 1962 as one of the three poems included in a volume of the same t i t l e . There i s an epilogue to the book: I hear that Muro Collected Poetry wrote this text, Saisei eliminated the word "eternity" from his of Muro S a i s e i . In dedication to his s p i r i t I picking up what he had discarded, using the word "eternity" as many times as possible. (Zenshishu 640) For Muro, the word "eien" (eternity) must have appeared as a p o e t i c a l l y exhausted word. Whereas Nishiwaki, just as he overcoded the word "samishiki" in Tabibito kaerazu, uses the very exhaustion of the sign, "eternity," to a p o e t i c a l advantage. conversations I hear in the streets, a stone on which the shadows of grass are cast, the weight of a f i s h , the shape and colour of corn, the thickness of a column. I would prefer things that do not symbolize. Upon the banal existence i n f i n i t e loneliness is r e f l e c t e d . Loneliness i s the l a s t symbol of eternity. I want to abandon even this symbol. Not to think of eternity i s to think of eternity. Not to think i s the symbol of eternity. I want to abandon even this symbol. To want to abandon i t is the ultimate symbol of eternity. (629-630) 1 1 5 "Eternity" i s here conceived as an impossible concept that cannot even be thought of with our symbolic language. The putative poetical exhaustion of the sign, " e t e r n i t y , " comes about because i t s s i g n i f i e d (however distant) becomes too f a m i l i a r within the poetry-code. What Nishiwaki does in "Eterunitas" i s to exhibit this overcoded sign so r e p e t i t i o u s l y that the fam i l i a r s i g n i f i e d i s shaken off of the sign, so that only the s i g n i f i e r remains as the sign of i t s own emptiness. The negative d i a l e c t i c inherent in the above lin e s again directs the language of "Eterunitas" to i t s own l i m i t s , to non-meaning, to non-savoir. We may, therefore, locate B a t a i l l e * s "non-savoir" in Nishiwaki's resistance to symbolization of language, i n his insistence on fa m i l i a r , i n s i g n i f i c a n t objects. Isolated from the usual network of c o d i f i c a t i o n , these objects achieve the state of "non-savoir," of non-meaning, within the text. In L'Erotisme B a t a i l l e quotes Rimbaud: E l l e est retrouvee. Quoi? L'eternite. C'est l a mer al l e e Avec l e s o l e i l . B a t a i l l e continues: [La poesie] nous mene a l ' e t e r n i t e , e l l e nous mene a l a mort, et par l a mort, a l a continuity: l a poesie est l ' e t e r n i t e . (32) Also, for Nishiwaki, "poetry i s ete r n i t y . " His language takes us to a death, the death of "meaning," and through t h i s non-meaning (tsumaranasa) to 116 the continuity within the s i g n — t h e s i g n i f i e r and the s i g n i f i e d linked by this very loss of meaning. Eternity i s this state of pure language. Towards t h i s paradise of "non-meaning," the t r a v e l l e r walks along meandering paths. His walk i s always e s s e n t i a l l y a detour (michikusa), to defer the f i n a l destination. Gazing into eternity, he stumbles over "boring" things. His twists and turns of language thus come into being as repeated f a i l u r e s to reach this f i n a l paradisal state of language. But "boring" things are always already there, defying and at the same time i n v i t i n g the incessant flow of writing. Again I stumbled over a stone. Again the hal f of the dream was severed. Oh, Cynara! I r e c a l l e d something about sesame and l i l i e s . Like Ruskin, l i k e Hopkins I must begin to study clouds again, I must begin to love stones again: that stone j u t t i n g out from the tea plantation, that stone I found under a Japanese pepper tree by the Tama River, that milestone buried i n a bamboo thicket, and that stone of Venus in the waning l i g h t . . . Ah, again I stumble over a stone. Ah, again 117 without knowing I am using tie luxe words of man. . . (637-638) How should we begin an e tern i ty , e tern i ty of language, e tern i ty of writ ing? F i r s t , we must hear a murmuring, an incessant flow of language, the movement of arche-wri t ing t rans la t ing i t s e l f , t rans la t ing i t s e l f into an abyss. Our actual wr i t ing , be i t a poem or a c r i t i q u e , appears only as a re su l t of some "turning" ("displacement," "sl ippage," "supplementing") of the o r i g i n . Inevi tably our wri t ing confesses i t s f a i l u r e to be the very o r i g i n of i t s e l f . What a poem attempts to convey is not the "meaning" of the o r i g i n of the poem, but the "non-meaning" of the o r i g i n , that i s , the o r i g i n i t s e l f before the movement of supplements begins to operate. We have named th is o r i g i n of a poem "Pure Poetry." In fac t , Pure Poetry escapes the domain of Text. It i s a puncture in the Text. It i s beyond our earthly languages. Our nosta lg ia for the o r i g i n (what we u l t imate ly want to communicate through our wri t ing) is always intense. Nishiwaki's notion of Poetry t i r e l e s s l y re i t era ted in his essays on poetics as well as in his poems reveals th is intense nosta lg ia for the origin/non-meaning. The in tens i ty is such that the actual existence of language i t s e l f is threatened. Yet instead of returning to the or ig inary s i l ence , to the aporia of poetry, Nishiwaki's poet ic language never ceased to expand. Much insp ired by James Joyce's Finegan's Wake, after Tabibi to kaerazu, Nishiwaki began to write increas ing ly longer poems: Ushinawareta tok i (Lost Time) in 1960, Eterunitas in 1962, and his longest (two thousand l ines ) Joka (Earth Song) in 1969. i What does this colossus expansion of language signify? Eternity invites writing. Poetry i s language, though i t may be the f i n a l mode language on the verge of disappearance. At the moment of this paradox Nishiwaki's language touches, not the mute, but the incessant. Poetry i s writing merged with the incessant laj^ w^e. 119 Notes to Chapter Three 1. For a discussion of these translations, see "Toward a Modern Japanese Poetry," ed. Eugene Soviak, et a l . , Literature East West 19 (1975): 7-120. Also, for a comprehensive study of the history of Japanese modern poetry, see Donald Keene, Dawn to the West: Japanese Literature of  the Modern Era, Poetry, Drama, C r i t i c i s m (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1984). 2. On Hagiwara Sakutaro, see Makoto Ueda, Modern Japanese Poets: and  the Nature of Literature (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1983) 137-183, also Keene 260-277. 3. These foreign texts are now included i n Nishiwaki Junzaburo zenshu, ed. Kagiya Koshin, et a l . , 12 vols. (Tokyo: Chikuma shobo, 1982-83): "Paradis Perdu" 9: 688-699, Une Montre sentimentale 3: 590-530, Spectrum 3: 544-486, Poems Barbarous 3: 482-475, Excalamations 11: 610-562. 4. Poems in Ambarvalia that appear to be based on poems previously written in foreign languages are the following: "Fukuikutarukafu (Fragrant Stoker), some parts based on "Suicide in a Gallery," "By the Fountain," and "A Dorian Lyre" in Poems Barbarous; "Shitsurakuen (Paradis Perdu)" based on "Paradis Perdu," some parts based on "Youth" in Exclamations ("Jeunesse" in Une Montre sentimentale), and on "Demeter" in Exclamations ("Demeter" in Une Montre); "Gogatsu (May)" based on "Ode to the Vase" in Poems Barbarous; "Koppu no genshisei (The Primitiveness of a Cup)" based on "On a Primitive Painter" in Poems Barbarous; "Rihatsu (Barber)" based on "The Zink Mine" in Exclamations. 5. Contemporary poets influenced by Nishiwaki include Yoshioka Minoru, S h i r a i s h i Kazuko, Yoshimasu Gozo, among others. 120 6. The revelation of this fact most l i k e l y came from Nishiwaki himself. One of the e a r l i e s t source studies was Kinoshita Tsunetaro, "Amubaruwaria, Nishiwaki Junzaburo," Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kansho Jan. 1966: 95-103. 7. For example, the modernist poet Kitagawa Fuyuhiko praised the poem "Ambarvalia" i n his essay "Nishiwaki Junzaburo" (1957) without knowing that the poem was actually Nishiwaki's tr a n s l a t i o n , and wondered why nobody had yet written on this poem. When the essay was reprinted in Gendaishi kansho (Tokyo: Yushindo, 1970), he added a note: "I must add here that when I was informed by Kinoshita Tsunetaro that Nishiwaki Junzaburo's "Ambarvalia" was, except the l a s t f i v e l i n e s , e n t i r e l y his translation of a Latin poem, I f e l t my soul expiring." 8. Yura Kimiyoshi recounts the scene when he learned the o r i g i n of "Karumoj i i n " : "About the 'Karumojiin' at the beginning of the poem, once I heard this from Nishiwaki's own mouth. 'Well, I just made a parody out of Calmotin.' The revelation made me jump out of my chair. Nishiwaki put down his cigarette. But his look immediately turned from that of mischievousness to boredom. He asked, 'Have you ever taken Calmotin?'" See "Nishiwaki Junzaburo: Ambarvalia," Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kyozai no  kenkyu Dec. 1984: 47. 9. My usage of the term " f o r e i g n i z a t i o n " can be considered a special case of the Russian Formalist term " d e f a m i l i a r i z a t i o n . " Its usage here i s r e s t r i c t e d to the orthographical " e f f e c t " of katakana. 10. See Kitazono Katsuei, "Tabibito kaerazu e no tegami—kaze o h i i t a makibito," o r i g i n a l l y published in Arechi (February 1947), reprinted i n Nishiwaki Junzaburo kenkyu, ed. Kagiya Koshin, et a l . (Tokyo: Yubun shoin, 1971) 113-122. 121 11. Quoted i n Kitagawa Fuyuhiko, "Nishiwaki Junzaburo," Nishiwaki  Junzaburo kenkyu 138. 12. Muj o: The inconsistency, transience of the phenomenal word; Skt. anityata. The three c h a r a c t e r i s t i c marks of the Buddhist teachings (samboin) are (1) that a l l conditioned things are impermanent (shogyo mujo, as i t i s stated i n the opening lines of the Heike Monogatari and i n the Nirvana Sutra, Daihatsunehangyo); (2) that a l l phenomena are without s e l f or substance (shoho muga) and (3) that the r e l i g i o u s goal i s the peace of nirvana (nehan jakujo). Although Buddhism proposes a solution to the problem of worldly suffering, i t s formulations often emphasize the desolation of the unenlightened state and the dangers of attachment to what is transient. This outlook gave deep seriousness to writing between the Heian and Edo periods. (The e a r l i e r court l i t e r a t u r e had i t s counterpart also i n hakanasa.) The Princeton Companion to C l a s s i c a l Japanese  Literature, ed. Earl Miner, et a l . (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985)- 290. 13. Sabi: The desolation and beauty of loneliness; solitude, quiet. It was introduced as a positive ideal for waka by Fujiwara Shunzei, and thereafter developed variously by subsequent writers, notably Matsuo Basho. Some posit s t i l l n e s s as the basis, others deprivation and a t t r i t i o n . There is usually one or the other to a s t r i k i n g degree, but also the presence of an added element to i n t e n s i f y and qua l i f y the experience. The Princeton  Companion 295. 14. Renga: Linked poetry. It developed from a pastime in the twelfth century into serious art. In effe c t , successive kami no ku (5-7-5 s y l l a b l e stanzas) and shimo no ku (7-7 sy l l a b l e stanzas) of tanka were joined i n sequence so that each made an integral poetic unit with i t s predecessor 122 (and therefore i t s successor) but without semantic connection with any-other stanza i n the sequence made of such alternations). The Princeton  Companion 294. 15. See note 1 on No Traveller Returns for more d e t a i l s . Apparently without the knowledge of this textual source, Donald Keene, in a section on Nishiwaki in his Dawn to the West (most l i k e l y the only published essay on Nishiwaki in English), translates Tabibito kaerazu as The Traveler Does Not  Return. See Keene 328. 16. See Hyohaku no tamashii: Basho no hon 6, ed. Imoto Noichi (Tokyo: Kadokawa shoten 1970). 17. This introductory passage by Basho i s i n turn based on a text by the famous Chinese poet L i Po (701-762). See Abe Kimio, Shoko  Okunohosomichi (Tokyo: Nichieisha, 1979) 77. 18. I am aware that these are oversimplified descriptions of Japanese l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n s . Further intertextual studies connecting Tabibito  kaerazu with Japanese l i t e r a r y t r a d i t i o n s are c a l l e d f or. 19. Hommondori: Borrowing or taking over more or less as i t i s a passage from an older work. Chiefly used for Edo levies on older stories in prose narrative. It i s distinguished from honkadori (which involves allusions in a poem to an older poem), and honzetsu (which i s poetic use, al l u s i o n to a motif or episode in an e a r l i e r narrative). Hikiuta: Recollection, e s p e c i a l l y i n monogatari, of a famous poem. The quotation or al l u s i o n i s normally of a small part, perhaps of a part preceding the actual a l l u s i o n . Also such a re c a l l e d poem. The Princeton Companion 277. 20. See Jonathan Culler, "Presupposition and Int e r t e x t u a l i t y , " The  Pursuit of Signs: Semiotics, Literature, Deconstruction (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1981) 100-118. 123 21. Niikura states that the teacher in this section refers to an actual acquaintance of Nishiwaki, Otsuka Takenobu. See Niikura 175. 22. For a deconstructive c r i t i q u e of "proper name," see Jacques Derrida, "La Guerre des noms propres," De l a grammatologie 157-173. 23. In Japanese, unlike English, the modifier must come before the modified. Here again we may detect an invasion of the English syntax. In English, of course, a modifying clause comes after the main clause with the use of a r e l a t i v e pronoun. 24. Muro Sa i s e i (1889-1962), an important modern poet, a close f r i e n d of Hagiwara Sakutaro. See Keene 277-281. 124 Part Two: Translat ions of Works by Nishiwaki Junzaburo I . S u r r e a l i s t Poetics' 1' Profanus I To discourse upon poetry is as dangerous as to discourse upon God. A l l poet ic theory i s dogma. Even that famous lec ture Mallarme de l ivered to 2 some Engl i sh students has become another t r i f l i n g dogma now. 3 The r e a l i t y of human existence i t s e l f i s banal . To sense th i s fundamental yet supreme bana l i ty const i tutes the motivation for poetry. Poetry i s a method of c a l l i n g one's at tent ion to th i s banal r e a l i t y by means of a cer ta in unique interes t (a mysterious sense of exa l ta t i on ) . An everyday name for th i s i s a r t . Custom du l l s the awareness of r e a l i t y . Conventions l e t th i s awareness s l i p into h ibernat ion . Thus our r e a l i t y becomes banal . Then i t follows that the break with custom makes r e a l i t y e x c i t i n g . For our awareness i s refreshed. What we must note here, however, i s that we are to break down the bonds of habits and conventions not for the sake of destruct ion i t s e l f but for the sake of poet ic expression. In other words, th is act of des truct ion , with i t s consequential process of making r e a l i t y e x c i t i n g , must be committed in order to f u l f i l l the aim of poetry. Poetry w i l l not appear i f in fact one ac tua l ly breaks with custom and t r a d i t i o n . Such an act , then, w i l l belong to the f i e l d of e th ic s , of philosophy. Our habi tua l way of recognizing r e a l i t y i s through our ordinary fee l ings and reason. 125 When we break down this ordinary order of feelings and i n t e l l e c t , our consciousness, sloughing off custom and t r a d i t i o n , succeeds in recognizing r e a l i t y on a t o t a l l y new plane. We a l l know that many c r i t i c s have c r i t i c i z e d t his destructive attitude saying that modern poetry i s keen only on destruction and never on construction of poetry. This destruction is in fact poetic construction. Without this destruction, however, poetry would not gain c r e a t i v i t y . I n t e l l e c t recognizes r e a l i t y through reason, whereas poetry recognizes r e a l i t y by transgressing reason or even by disdaining i t . Pascal says, "The one who despises philosophy is the true 4 philosopher." This philosophy is Nietzsche's. Nietzsche thinks that any tr a d i t i o n , no matter what great authority i t may hold, should not be accepted. Poetic form i s also a t r a d i t i o n . In the nineteenth century, modern consciousness witnessed a conspicuous d i s s o l u t i o n of poetic t r a d i t i o n s . Baudelaire despised even ordinary people's sense of beauty or morality. Je m'enivre ardemment des senteurs confondues De l ' h u i l e de coco, du muse et du goudron.^ Such an expression used to astonish ordinary readers. But today an ordinary poet could e a s i l y come up with such an expression. Heine's poetry has become children's songs. Si m i l a r l y , Verlaine's "II pleure dans mon coeur" has come to represent a banal s e n s i b i l i t y . Human emotions possess a power to harmonize themselves. They move and act l i k e weather. Then they vanish into nothingness. They harmonize with the existence of God. "Dieu est seul 'etre qui, pour regner, n'ait meme pas 126 besoin d'exister." We may discern here two types of this harmonizing movement. At times one type moves c e n t r i f u g a l l y . It becomes scattered l i k e autumn leaves, tattered l i k e waste paper, and f i n a l l y returns to nothingness. At times the other type moves c e n t r i p e t a l l y . Like a lens, i t gathers the sunlight on a f o c a l point and burns i t s e l f out. The former can be seen in decadent poetry. The l a t t e r i s exemplified in King Lear or in Baudelaire as the explosion of the s p i r i t . In short, this explosion is what Baudelaire c a l l s emotion. "Ainsi le principe de l a poesie est, strictement et simplement, 1'aspiration humaine vers une beaut! superieure, et l a manifestation de ce principe est dans un enthousiasme, une e x c i t a t i o n de l'ame."^ What i s meant by this "superior beauty" i s a certain state that absolutely s a t i s f i e s the human s p i r i t . Thus, i t indicates a d i f f e r e n t notion of beauty from that which " l a passion" seeks. It i s d i f f e r e n t from Catullus's outburst, "Vivamus, mea Lesbia!" Baudelaire says, "L'amour, c'est le gout g de l a p r o s t i t u t i o n . " He also writes: Car l a passion est naturelle, trop naturelle pour ne pas introduire un ton blessant, discordant, dans le domaine de l a beaute pure, trop familiere et trop violente pour ne pas scandaliser les purs Desirs, les gracieuses Melancolies et les nobles Disespoirs qui habitent les regions surnaturelles de l a , . 9 poesie. II faut etre toujours ivre. Tout est l a : c'est l'unique question. . . . Mais de quoi? De v i n , de poe'sie ou de vertu, a 10 votre guise. 127 Baudelaire knew that poetry had already l o s t i t s primitive significance, which was merely to sing out thoughts and feelings. This awareness marks the s p i r i t of modern poetry. Poetry is primitive. The nature of primitive language is poetry. Humboldt says, "[Man] i s a singing creature."'''''" This notion of poetry may be useful i n discussing the o r i g i n of language but i s not the most distinguished idea where poetry i s concerned. This i s what Lessing c a l l e d , "Liebhaber." Mr. Garrod, Professor o f Poetry at Oxford, once said, " I t has become extremely d i f f i c u l t to compose a poem. A long time ago, when people 12 wore the i r hair long, any utterance became poetry immediately." To re-present l i f e i s poetry. Plato argues against this notion in his Republic. In terms of his expression of human nature, the f i r s t n a t u r a l i s t may well have been Homer: his heroes wail i n the sand; the hairy Odysseus weeps on an isolated island, longing for his homeland. But this type of poetry, which i s a mere copy of human l i f e , did not please Plato. In a l l l i k e l i h o o d , i t i s as an attack on Plato's attitude that A r i s t o t l e wrote his Poetics. A r i s t o t l e argues that poetry is not merely a copy of human l i f e , but rather i t expresses man's universal c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s and tendencies. This theory delimits the mimesis of human nature and emphasizes human "pro b a b i l i t y , " or "necessity." Plato complained about the lack of c r i t i c a l function in poetry. Baudelaire, who l a t e r said, "tous les grands poetes deviennent naturellement, fatalement, c r i t i q u e s . Je plains les poetes que guide le 13 seul i n s t i n c t , " was a "moraliste" l i k e Plato. In general, A r i s t o t l e can be regarded as an i n s t i n c t i v i s t , who shared similar ideas with the I t a l i a n Renaissance thinkers or even with the n a t u r a l i s t s of nineteenth-century France. 128 A r i s t o t l e located the o r i g i n of poetry i n man's natural propensity towards imitation and the pleasure he takes i n imitated products. This theory of poetic o r i g i n i n fact encompasses a f i e l d too broad to elucidate the c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s unique to poetry. Other forms of art can e a s i l y be subsumed under i t . His theory merely shows that poetry i s a part of art. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, Francis Bacon wrote The  Two Bookes of the Proficience and Advancement of Learning, Divine and  Hvmane and offered i t to the king. We fi n d some elements of poetics i n i t . It i s t r u l y bizarre that his simple theory of poetry i s in fact p e r f e c t l y represented i n modern (twentieth-century) poetry (dada or surrealism). To be sure, i t was a theory that was evident i n the metaphysical poets (to use Dr. Johnson's phrase) of the seventeenth century or even i n Shakespeare. Bacon was a poet. If not, he would never have been able to say such i n s i g h t f u l things concerning poetry. It i s true, as Poe said, that only poets can write poetics. Bacon himself was a poet. By the way, I would l i k e to support the theory which conjectures that Bacon was in fact Shakespeare. As a writer of theoretical prose, Bacon—more than Montaigne—was thoroughly l o g i c a l , and there was nothing poetical about him. It i s , however, impossible to even imagine an age in which Bacon's 14 work w i l l be forgotten. Poetry belongs to a mental process c a l l e d imagination. This c l a s s i f i c a t i o n made by a Spaniard, Huarte, has been recognized as v a l i d since a n t i q u i t y . ^ But before Bacon, imagination was regarded as representing the abnormal side of poetry. Bacon, however, recognized i t as the creative force of poetry. In this sense, he was a modern thinker. The same force was recognized by Coleridge, Baudelaire, as well as by Max Jacob. 129 Jacob states, "L'imagination n'est pas autre chose que 1'association des i d e e s . " ^ This fact i s also noted in Dr. Johnson's c r i t i c i s m of "metaphysical poets": "the most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together."^ Fundamentally, therefore, imagination opposes what i s c a l l e d " l e bon sens" or "common sense." The figure of conceit that appears i n Shakespeare, Marvell, or Donne, i s the manifestation of a certain disdain for l o g i c a l attitude. In the old days, imagination was ca l l e d madness. Recent French poetry by Tristan Tzara, Jean Cocteau, and Ivan Goll demonstrates this technique of imagination. In order to create a metaphor or an association through this kind of imagination, a poet must j o i n elements that are s c i e n t i f i c a l l y d i f f e r e n t i n nature, or elements that are usually placed at the greatest distance from each other, temporally as well as s p a t i a l l y . Thus what he produces i s an association absolutely impossible in terms of common sense. What Gourmont means by "d i s s s o c i a t i o n " i s t h i s type of "association." Such eighteenth-century English poets as Dryden or Pope, who esteemed the common man, as well as poets l i k e Horace or Boileau, taught ordinary f o l k to select and j o i n images that are s i m i l a r in nature. Although Dr. Johnson's words "the most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together" were i r o n i c a l l y directed against some seventeenth-century poets, in fact they now appear to describe n i c e l y a dominant technique of modern poetry. This very "violence" was what nineteenth-century poets c a l l e d "emotion" or "passion," and became an important element in the creation of poetry. Mr. Garrod ca l l e d the mood of t h i s type 18 of poetic creation "a storm of association." Coleridge, influenced by the philosopher of association, Hartley, c l e a r l y regarded the act of imagination as the logic of poetry. In short, 130 the force of poetic creation manifests i t s e l f at the point where two opposing images are juxtaposed, harmonized and balanced. It i s l i k e the similar balanced against the d i s s i m i l a r , the general against the p a r t i c u l a r , image against matter, the new against the old, ordinary reason against profound passion. After Coleridge, Shelley wrote, "[Poetry] makes 19 f a m i l i a r objects be as i f they were not f a m i l i a r . . . . " For example, a fa m i l i a r r e a l i t y such as the mere sight of water flowing through a fountain is rendered by Marvell: . . . a fountaines l i q u i d B e l l 20 Tinkles within the concave S h e l l . S i m i l a r l y , Cocteau writes of the banal existence of the human ear: Mon o r e i l l e est un coquillage 21 Qui aime le b r u i t de l a mer. Presently in France there i s a movement c a l l e d "surrealisme." This rather inclusive name subsumes members of what used to be c a l l e d cubism or dada, who are now content to be under t h i s name. Also there seem to be subdivisions within the group. Andrt Breton, representing one f a c t i o n , i r o n i c a l l y c r i t i c i z e s Pierre Reverdy of another fact i o n . He claims that 22 Reverdy's imagination i s a p o s t e r i o r i . In other words, Reverdy*s poetry is formed by associations of s t i l l homogeneous images. Of course, as a matter of theory, Reverdy says: L'Image est une creation pure de 1'esprit. E l l e ne peut naltre d'une comparison mais du rapprochement de deux r e a l i t e s plus ou 131 moins eloignees. Plus les rapports des deux r e a l i t e s rapprochees seront l o i n t a i n s et justes, plus 1'image sera f o r t e — p l u s e l l e aura / 23 de puissance emotive et de r l a l i t e poe"tique. What Reverdy means by "juste" and what Coleridge means by "balance" are the same. Breton i s more r a d i c a l than Reverdy. He does not think much about balance. Consequently, his poetic effects are indeed destructive. In short, t h i s idea of supernaturalist poetry has always been present in the works of great poets since antiquity and in fact i s not p a r t i c u l a r l y a new mode of poetry. Imagination, however, i s not poetry i t s e l f , but only a means to create poetry. People l i k e Baudelaire assert that the aim of poetry i s poetry i t s e l f . A B r i t i s h writer, Wilde, propagating the poetry of "1'art pour  1'art" handed down from Gautier, actually believed i n i t t i l l he died. "Poetry i s a r t " simply means that poetry possesses a means to achieve i t s own end, and this means i s commonly ca l l e d a r t. The previously mentioned importance of imagination for poetry s i m i l a r l y indicates that poetry needs imagination as a means to a t t a i n i t s own end. What i s the aim of poetry, then? F i r s t l y , i n primitive times, i t was to express human thoughts and feelings through a "singing mode." Even now, some amateur poets believe this to be the aim of poetry. A r i s t o t l e thought that poetry must contain human u n i v e r s a l i t i e s . It w i l l not be poetry, then, i f a doctor writes his medical journal i n a "singing mode." At that rate, Lucretius could probably not have been c a l l e d a poet. Theodore de Banville says that neither i s there poesie nor vers except i n singing, and emphasizes the 132 importance of m e t r i c a l composition. It i s A r i s t o t l e who judges the appropriateness of poetry i n terms of the material presented. These t r a d i t i o n s s t i l l l i n g e r on whenever we attempt to discuss poetry today. In short, the purpose of p r i m i t i v e poetry i s to express human thoughts and f e e l i n g s . Secondly, there are points on which Francis Bacon's ideas on poetry coincide with those of modern poets. He writes: The vse of t h i s FAINED HISTORIE hath beene to giue some shadowe of s a t i s f a c t i o n to the minde of Man i n those points wherein the Nature of things doth denie i t , the world being i n pro-portion i n f e r i o u r to the soule; by reason whereof there i s agreeable to the s p i r i t of Man a more ample Greatnesse, a more exact Goodnesse, and a more absolute v a r i e t i e then can bee 25 found i n the Nature of things. And i t s method i s to submit "the shewes of things to the desires of the 26 Mind." To t r a n s l a t e the above into modern terms, poetry i s the desire of man, d i s s a t i s f i e d with actual l i f e , "to transmute i t into forms more 27 s a t i s f a c t o r y to the mind." This poetic s p i r i t i s well elucidated i n the works of Rimbaud, who i s regarded as the legitimate ancestor of the present-day s u r r e a l i s t s . His poetry lacks the sense of existence of actual things. Only desire springs out from somewhere. Compared with t h i s idea of poetry, A r i s t o t l e ' s theory seems l i k e a photographic technique. Laoc'don by Lessing i s s i m i l a r l y a theory of a r t i s t i c photography: Je n'aher der Schauspieler der Natur kommt, desto empfindlicher 28 miissen unsere Augen und Ohren b e l e i d i g t werden. 133 So h i s theory claims: i t i s better to be a l i t t l e b l u r r e d . Rimbaud i s now c a l l e d by s u r r e a l i s t poets " apS t re" or "ange." I t i s t r u l y a curious phenomenon that Bacon's theory i s explicated i n Paris today. Poetry i s such a desire [as manifested i n Rimbaud's poetry]. Bacon's words "[to submit] the shewes of things to the desires of the Mind" point to the pre v i o u s l y mentioned process of "imagination." In short, i t i s the conjoining of idees. To imagine i s not merely to fant a s i z e or to dream; rather, the act of imagination must be performed by force of i n t e l l e c t . The majority of commentators on Rimbaud i n s i s t that h i s poetry i s born out of the unconscious or out of dreams. I b e l i e v e , however, that they are grossly mistaken. I t i s true that the s u r r e a l i s t technique of the j o i n i n g of idees creates the extraordinary and pro j e c t s o n e i r i c forms of the unconscious. But poetry i s not a dream. I t i s the j o i n i n g of u t t e r l y conscious images. I t has been said that poetry i s to think with 1'esprit . II Poetry must be founded i n r e a l i t y . But i t i s also necessary to f e e l the b a n a l i t y of r e a l i t y . Why does the human s p i r i t f e e l the b a n a l i t y of r e a l i t y ? Human existence i t s e l f i s desolate. I wonder i f those dogs running around over there are f e e l i n g t h i s b a n a l i t y . As one d i s s e c t s the human s p i r i t and reaches i t s very bottom, one fi n d s the e s s e n t i a l existence of t h i s desolate f e e l i n g . We s u f f e r , f o r we think. Poetry somehow transforms t h i s banal r e a l i t y f o r us. But i n f a c t i t 1 3 4 i s a very passive act, merely a make-believe. There i s no t r u l y a c t i v e being except God. R e l i g i o n postulates a happiness of a f t e r l i f e i n order to console the b a n a l i t y of r e a l i t y . This, however, i s not poetry. Death or sleep would eliminate r e a l i t y from our mind. But again t h i s i s not poetry. It i s pleasant to immerse oneself i n the world of Idea as Plato suggested. But n e i t h e r i s t h i s poetry. Like some poets of the past, who indulged i n alcohol or i n opium, we may elude r e a l i t y . But t h i s i s merely a matter of physics, not of poetry. Like Petrarch, we may grow peaches i n the mountains and enjoy n a t u r a l beauties. But t h i s sort of l i f e i t s e l f i s r e a l i t y and does not c o n s t i t u t e poetry. Also poetry i s not created by r e b e l l i n g against r e a l i t y , or conversely, by being enslaved and exhausted by r e a l i t y . The consequence of t h i s sort of act i s , l i k e Baudelaire, to end up r e c k l e s s l y f e e l i n g ennui, or, l i k e a very l e t h a r g i c dyspeptic, to end up announcing one's own end i n a very l i s t l e s s manner. These acts do not c o n s t i t u t e poetry. A f t e r a l l , poetry appears when we transform r e a l i t y with our imagination and, as Bacon wrote, receive some "shadow of s a t i s f a c t i o n . " R e a l i t y overwhelms us endlessly. Even when we escape to the mountains, we are encountered by the s o f t eyes of a Japanese antelope or r o s e - l i k e snow that tortures our senses. Or, a f t e r managing a business i n a desert f o r t h i r t y odd years, one may abandon h i s wife and go to a d i s t a n t land. But he s t i l l encounters r e a l i t y t h e r e — t h i n g s l i k e c i t r o n flowers blooming. Here we f i n d the psychological bankruptcy of those who long f o r f o r e i g n climes. We also know of c l a s s i c i s m which, fed up with the present r e a l i t y , longs f o r the r e a l i t y of the past. There are f u t u r i s t s who set t h e i r aims i n the future as r e l i g i o n s do. There i s also demolitionism that negates a l l and eventually collaborates with death i n i t s own d e s t r u c t i o n . 135 Yet poetry must acknowledge r e a l i t y . It must p e r s i s t e n t l y accept r e a l i t y . Poetry i s realism. Naturally, r e a l i t y becomes unexciting by force of habit. It i s as unexciting as dust. But poetry must keep t h i s unexciting r e a l i t y always refreshed. This i s the task of poetry. Otherwise the human s p i r i t would never be able to accept r e a l i t y . Poetry must also acknowledge Truth. But poetry i s what transforms t h i s " t r u t h " by the power of imagination and then absorbs i t into the s p i r i t . Poetry, therefore, i s a method of cognition. By changing r e a l i t y into u n r e a l i t y , truth into untruth, poetry i s what absorbs r e a l i t y and tr u t h into the s p i r i t . Poetry i n Bacon's c l a s s i f i c a t i o n i s one f i e l d of learning. In modern terms, poetry i s a method of cognition. It i s to recognize truth and r e a l i t y by f i r s t transforming them to f i t e a s i l y into the human s p i r i t . There are things of nature that seem to get absorbed smoothly by the s p i r i t without f i r s t being transformed. We read i n The Odyssey of a breeze that "bears and r i p e n s . " This expression was simply brought about from a ce r t a i n actual f a c t : that the Mediterranean islands grow f r u i t s i n abundance. But f o r the northern people, the expression appears p o e t i c . Or romantic l o v e — a fragment of man's i n t e r n a l being—becomes a wholly absorbable form. In terms of poetic production, however, i t i s dangerous to turn such an e a s i l y absorbable piece of r e a l i t y into poetry. This sort of act i s l i k e swallowing food whole. Eventually i t w i l l cause i n d i g e s t i o n or some defect i n one's poetic cognition. On the other hand, as one can see i n some of today's dada or s u r r e a l i s t poetry, a contrary tendency can be noted: a poetry that s o l e l y emphasizes the transforming of r e a l i t y and consequently forgets r e a l i t y i t s e l f . This can eventuate i n what Coleridge 136 c a l l e d "fancy." I t tends towards a s i m i l a r i t y to Poe's t a l e s of mystery and imagination or to adventure s t o r i e s one finds i n children's l i t e r a t u r e . The orthodox mode of poetry expresses r e a l i t y through imagination by transforming i t f o r the moment into a form e a s i l y absorbable by the s p i r i t . For example, i n order to make a p o e t i c a l r e c o g n i t i o n of the p h y s i c a l f a c t that the sky appears blue to the eye (a very ordinary f a c t , a banal 29 r e a l i t y ) , a poet would say, "Your eyes of sky." Whereas a p r i m i t i v e poet would have said simply, "The sky i s blue," as a representation of the r e a l i t y i t s e l f . The former i s of a poetic transformation by a modern poet. H i s t o r i c a l l y , t h i s method of poetic transformation has changed i t s modality through the ages and through i n d i v i d u a l poets. It can, however, generally be divided into two categories. In the f i r s t category, i t takes a form that accords with the flow of human emotions. In t h i s category, aesthetic sense becomes c a r d i n a l . In The Golden Ass by the Roman n o v e l i s t , Apuleius, the golden ass, wanting to become human again, picks a rose. I t i s impossible to neglect man's quest for beauty. Grandpa Gourmont says that i t stems from the p r i n c i p l e of preservation of the species. This i s the most common mode of poetic transformation. This mode includes Verlaine's beauty of the sunset, Shelley's beauty of dawn, Keats's shadow of s a f f r o n , Paul Valery's beauty l i k e that of a r i p e f r u i t , Cocteau's beauty as of a golden watch, V e r g i l ' s beauty of the smell of a pasture, Baudelaire's beauty of perfume, Wilde's beauty of a r t i f i c i a l flowers. The instances of t h i s mode are simply as innumerable as are the number of shiatsu-points of a l l the human beings i n the world. Or, there i s a mode that kindles mono no aware (sorrowfulness of 30 th i n g s ) . It i s to transform r e a l i t y into a c e r t a i n emotional 137 fluid—somehow sad and lonely. A poet would sigh, "Ah, l i f e i s short," or "Love i s v a i n . " We can see t h i s mode i n many sonnets written r i g h t a f t e r the Renaissance. There are Michelangelo's sonnets, h a l f r e l i g i o u s , h a l f sensual. There are poets such as Musset and Lamartine who are themselves as f l u i d as a tragedy of the lachrymal glands. Poor but noble Francis Thompson blows dandelion f l u f f by the road. There was V i l l o n as a great precursor. C a l l i n g r u r a l areas so i n a r t i s t i c , i n a b i g c i t y , by a f i r e p l a c e i n a cafe, one reads aloud i n a melancholy tone a swan song i n L a t i n i n the rhythm of the-moon-light-flowing. This type can be seen i n many Engli s h v e r s i f i e r s of the turn of the century. Next, the most powerful mode of poetic transformation i n t h i s category i s the f l u i d of love. This f l u i d of love was instrumental i n producing works of the greatest poets of the past, i n c l u d i n g Dante. For a l l i t s powerfulness, however, i t exerted a bad influence upon late-comers. When a poet was l o s t f o r words, he would immediately have recourse to the adjective "amoureux" i n order to produce a poeti c e f f e c t : Ha que nous t'estimons heureuse 31 G e n t i l l e c i g a l e amoureuse! Next, a s i c k person's f e e l i n g of l i s t l e s s n e s s c a l l s f o r a flow of emotion with a c e r t a i n pleasant f e e l i n g of convalescence. The examples abound i n decadent poetry. Next, the overflow of f e v e r i s h emotions i s seen i n such works as Shelley's. In h i s case, i t i s f o r the most part a f e e l i n g of s u p e r i o r i t y . 138 Next, there i s a v i o l e n t passion that i s l i k e an explosion of the soul. A moment a f t e r the immense torrent has disappeared, only a c l e a r and serene resonance i s l e f t . Together with i t , our f e e l i n g s also flow away into e t e r n i t y . This mode i s well exemplified i n Baudelaire's poetry. Next, Wilde's search f o r the beauty of a r t i f i c i a l flowers, rather than that of natural flowers, deserves our a t t e n t i o n , along with Gautier's aesthetic notions, such as the beauty of geometrical l i n e s , or the c r y s t a l l i z a t i o n of the f l u i d beauty of colours. The foregoing has l i s t e d the major modes of image transformation. Next, poetry, being e s s e n t i a l l y a mode of singing, or being t r a d i t i o n a l l y thought of as a mode of singing, has established musical rules of voice. This f a c t merely aids the mechanism of poetic transformation. It i s , therefore, by no means necessary f o r the production of poetry. Bacon says that i t i s no more than " e l o c u t i o n . " Many other c r i t i c s also generally do not regard "vers" as the fundamental essence of poetry. Of course, the melody inherent i n words becomes h e l p f u l . In short, v e r s i f i c a t i o n i s merely a means to help poetic function. (In f a c t , r e c ently the status of t h i s old s t y l e of poetry-writing has f a l l e n apart. F i n a l l y , there are even many poets now who f l a t l y disregard i t , claiming that i t i s rather an obstacle to poetry-writing.) Also sentence structure and phraseology are important elements in poetic expression. The E n g l i s h term "poetic d i c t i o n " i ndicates a phraseological convention. Once I heard an anecdote i n which a grade school p u p i l was asked to state the d i f f e r e n c e between poetry and prose. His answer was that "blue v i o l e t s " i s prose, and " v i o l e t s blue" poetry. In general, poetry has been written in a l i t e r a r y s t y l e . In England, Milton's d i c t i o n l a s t e d up to the nineteenth century as a t r a d i t i o n . Wordsworth attempted the use of "farmer's language," that i s , 139 c o l l o q u i a l i s m . But at that time, of course, h i s attempt f a i l e d . Verlaine s i m p l i f i e d the l i t e r a r y language. He put an end to embellishing words. Later A p o l l i n a i r e undertook the use of language of the s t r e e t s . Osbert S i t w e l l , d i s d a i n i n g the t r a d i t i o n , published a pamphlet propagating the use 32 of "today's language" i n poetry. But there are also people who think that i t i s wrong to use language of the st r e e t s or the language of today but think that a conversational s t y l e r a r e l y used by ordinary people should be employed. A poem i s no school composition. In short, a f t e r a l l , r h e t o r i c as a t r a d i t i o n has been completely explained by Demetrios, who said that i t i s also good to use " b e a u t i f u l words" that "appeal to the eye and the ear." At the.end of the f i r s t h a l f of the nineteenth century, Hunt complained that the young f e l l o w s ' d i c t i o n had become prosaic because of t h e i r 33 indolence. This i n d i c a t e s that the breakdown of t r a d i t i o n a l d i c t i o n was showing i t s symptoms around that time. The foregoing has o u t l i n e d the t r a d i t i o n of poetic transformation up to the nineteenth century, subsumed under the f i r s t category. Of course, there are many outstanding exceptions. The second category p o s i t s a transformational method contrary to that of the f i r s t category. In the f i r s t category, as we have seen, poetry i s an attempt to transform r e a l i t y i n harmony with the flow of innate human emotions. In the second category, however, poet i c methodology c a l l s f o r a r a d i c a l break from harmonization with our natural f e e l i n g s . Since man's i n t e l l e c t hibernates i n custom, what the second category c a l l s f o r i s to rouse i t from hibernation by s t a r t l i n g i t (even by i n t i m i d a t i n g i t ) thus to monopolize the a t t e n t i o n of the i n t e l l e c t . Since ancient times i t has been said that a r t means "to s t a r t l e . " This statement i s a most powerful type of poetic cognition. Its method i s f i r s t of a l l to break away from customs, that i s , man's psychological, i n t e l l e c t u a l , and formal conventions. Many of today's poets employ t h i s method. There are c r i t i c s who c a l l them mere destroyers. This very d e s t r u c t i o n i s , to the contrary, the construction of poetic cognition. Now I w i l l attempt to o u t l i n e the major methods of t h i s poetic d e s t r u c t i o n . F i r s t , to smash the h a b i t u a l consciousness kept as man's common sense or l o g i c . In order to achieve t h i s , one must j o i n concepts that keep the f a r t h e s t a s s o c i a t i o n a l distance from each other. This i s what Bacon meant by s u r p r i s i n g with the unexpected. This i s also Rimbaud's s o - c a l l e d "unconscious" method. One can see t h i s method employed abundantly i n the works of today's dadaists and s u r r e a l i s t s . Many of them, however, are inter e s t e d only i n t h i s method and tend to forget the more important cognition of r e a l i t y . They are confusing ends with means. Works of a group represented by Breton and Paul Eluard, together with the German expressionism have t h i s f a u l t . l e monde une bague f a i t e pour une f l e u r une f l e u r f l e u r pour le bouquet de f l e u r s f l e u r s un p o r t e - c i g a r e t t e rempli de f l e u r s une p e t i t e locomotive aux yeux de f l e u r s une paire de gants pour des f l e u r s en peau de f l e u r s comme nos f l e u r s f l e u r s f l e u r s de f l e u r s et un oeuf This i s a section of Tzara's poem. The l a s t l i n e astonishes us by i t s abruptness. Reverdy, who was c a l l e d a cubist some time ago, wrote: "Dans l e 35 ruisseau i l y a une chanson qui coule." Regarding t h i s l i n e , Breton ^ 36 writes that i t shows " l e moindre degre de premeditation." I t can be assumed that the l i n e i n d i c a t e s a type of unconscious state. Second, to break down man's conventional f e e l i n g s and ideas (ordinary-aesth e t i c s e n s i b i l i t y , morality, l o g i c , e t c . ) , or to d i s d a i n them, and to present an i r o n i c c r i t i q u e of them. Baudelaire's poetry represents t h i s type of poetic method. Also Rimbaud o f f e r s a good example: Doux comme l e Seigneur du cedre et des hysopes, Je pisse vers les cieux bruns, tr£s haut et tres l o i n , 37 Avec 1'assentiment des grands h e l i o t r o p e s . He i s showing h i s d i s d a i n not only of our ordinary moral sense towards God but also of our h a b i t u a l aesthetic s e n s i b i l i t y . This e x h i b i t i o n of h i s d i s d a i n i s , however, merely a device of expression. F i r s t i t s t a r t l e s man's hibernatory i n t e l l e c t and makes i t aware and then d i r e c t s i t s a t t e n t i o n to the e x i s t i n g beauty of r e a l i t y . By using, as i t were, a " b l u f f " of p i s s i n g i n t o a flower, i t p o e t i c a l l y d i r e c t s our a t t e n t i o n to the r e a l i t y of the b e a u t i f u l evening sky and the blossoming h e l i o t r o p s i n the f o r e s t . Unlike n a t u r a l i s t s , Rimbaud i s not i n t e r e s t e d i n the f a c t of p i s s i n g i t s e l f . A few years ago, James Joyce wrote a book c a l l e d Ulysses. It was also another example of t h i s type of " b l u f f . " In short, the breaking down of conventions i s not the end of t h i s method of poetic expression. Rather, i t i s i t s means. We f i n d very few examples of t h i s type of poetic expression i n modern English poetry. Such examples tend to lack serious g r a v i t y . In one of 142 Rupert Brooke's pre-war poems, we may f i n d a trace of t h i s poetic expression, though s t i l l not one i n t e n t i o n a l l y produced (as an expressive method): Just now the l i l a c i s i n bloom, A l l before my l i t t l e room; And i n my flower-beds, I think, Smile the carnation and the pink And down the borders, well I know, The poppy and the pansy blow. . . Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through, Beside the r i v e r make f o r you A tunnel of green gloom, and sleep Deeply above; and green and deep The stream mysterious g l i d e s beneath, Green as a dream and deep as death. 38 —Oh, damn! I know i t ! and I know So he c r i e d out i n a cafe i n B e r l i n , May, 1912. In "The Poetic P r i n c i p l e , " c i t i n g h i s own poem "The Raven," Poe argued 39 f o r the v a l i d i t y of mysticism as a mode of poetic expression. But h i s kind of mysticism s t i l l belongs to the pre v i o u s l y discussed f i r s t category. It merely e x p l o i t s man's c u r i o s i t y i n order to draw his at t e n t i o n . It i s jus t l i k e Dante's use of human l u s t . This mysticism, handed down from Dante to Blake, eventually died i n Maeterlinck. There are, however, instances i n which t h i s mysticism grows extremely intense and eventually turns into almost l i k e the "grotesque" as seen i n Baudelaire or i n Stramm. Jean de Bosschere's work generally labeled as "symbolisme malsain" shows t h i s tendency: J ' e t a i s un enfant vert Et aigre comme du brou. Le chapeau du pere e t a i t sacre. Certes i l y avait d'autres peres Mais c e l u i - c i e t a i t l e seul Qui f u t t e l et t e l . II fumait sa pipe avec i n t e g r i t e . On se c o l l a i t pres de l u i Pour t i r e r par l e nez son odeur d'homme. Et l a mere e t a i t l e pain et l e beurre La rosee f r o i d e de s i x heures et l a c e r i s e , ^ It seems appropriate to place T. S. E l i o t i n t h i s group also. In his "Wasteland" t h i s type of mysticism has become more conspicuous than i n the poems of his BLAST era. In "Death by Water" we read: Phlebas the Phoenician, a f o r t n i g h t dead, Forgot the cry of g u l l s , and the deep sea swell And the p r o f i t and l o s s . A current under sea Picked h i s bones i n whispers. As he rose and f e l l He passed the stages of his age and your Entering the whirlpool. 144 G e n t i l e or Jew 0 you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 42 Consider Phlebas , who was once handsome and t a l l as you. To show contempt f o r formal conventions a l so belongs to the second category of poe t i c express ive methods. In France "vers l i b r e " has ex i s t ed s ince the time of La Fonta ine . It became rampant i n the symbolist e r a . This "free v e r s e , " however, has not yet outgrown the convent ional "s inging" mode. I t has merely lessened to a minimum the r e s t r i c t i o n s imposed by the 43 t r a d i t i o n a l metr ic convent ions . Therefore , many of today's poets do not use any regu lar m e t r i c a l systems at a l l . T h e i r works have become prose , so to speak. It i s a great mistake to apply the term "free verse" to t h i s type of w r i t i n g . On the other hand, t h e i r s i s a s i g n i f i c a n t e f f o r t to wri te poetry without having recourse to any e s tab l i shed prosody. For i t shows a conscious e f f o r t to go against man's n a t u r a l tendency to s ing out , or against h i s n a t u r a l emotional rhythm, and to create an e f f e c t of " b l u f f . " Today, those who c r i t i c i z e prose poetry are the ones who do not understand what true poe t i c express ion i s . There were times when we c a l l e d poems without punctuat ion "cubism." The e l i m i n a t i o n of punctuat ion i s again another instance of " b l u f f . " Today, most of the young French poets employ t h i s poe t i c s t y l e . In the f i r s t i ssue of a s u r r e a l i s t p e r i o d i c a l ed i ted by Ivan G o l l , we read: "Jusqu'au debut du XXe s i e c l e , c ' e t a i t 1'OREILLE qui d e c i d a i t de l a q u a l i t e d'une poes ie : rhthme, s o n o r i t e , cadence, a l l i t e r a t i o n , r ime: tout pour 1 ' o r e i l l e . Depuis une v i n g t a i n e 44 d'annees, l ' O E I L prend sa revanche." What so c a l l e d "imagists" have done i s nothing but to d i s r e g a r d t h i s "ear ." A l l poe t i c expressions belong to " imaginat ion ." Thus, the name "imagist" i s i n a p p r o p r i a t e . By p o s t u l a t i n g two categories, I have t r i e d to elucidate the psychological motives of poetry. The second category was mainly applied to explicate psychological operations of poetic cognition unique to twentieth-century poetry. Of course, t h i s does not include the future. I t includes only up to about 1920. In Hermann Bahr's Expressionism, we f i n d a discourse upon expressionist painters and poets who seek the unprecedented i n t h e i r 45 works. But when the past has gained enough distance from the present, i t returns as something new. It i s possible that the ear may again take the place of the eye. The mode of poetic c o g n i t i o n belonging to the f i r s t category may someday regain i t s power over that of the second category. Poetry i s c o g n i t i o n . I t s method changes with the development of man's i n t e l l e c t . Man's soul i s prone to hibernate i n conventions. The noble e f f o r t of poets c o n s i s t s i n c a l l i n g back t h i s soul to the realm of consciousness by means of an ever-new method. A kind of absolute existence, be i t expressed as God or i n f i n i t y , flashes through our consciousness f o r an i n s t a n t . This absolute existence, by r e f l e c t i o n , makes man's existence i n s i g n i f i c a n t . This i s when the petty soul of man explodes against t h i s i n s i g n i f i c a n t , boring r e a l i t y i n anger. This i s the p o e t i c a l s p i r i t , elsewhere named "emotion." This spasm of temper disdains reason and becomes "imagination." Through t h i s imagination the banal r e a l i t y becomes i n t e r e s t i n g . For our consciousness of r e a l i t y has been renewed. This i s the purpose of poetry. It i s dangerous to discuss poetry. I have already f a l l e n o f f my c l i f f . 146 Notes to Profanus 1. ChSgenjitsushugi shiron (Tokyo: Koseikaku shoten, 1927). When t h i s book was reissued from Arechi shuppansha i n 1954, Nishiwaki added the following i n t r o d u c t i o n : On the occasion of the r e i s s u i n g of Chogenjitsushugi shiron ( S u r r e a l i s t P o e t i c s ) , which I wrote a long time ago, they t e l l me to add some kind of int r o d u c t i o n . When I was s t i l l abroad, people l i k e Reverdy and Ivan G o l l published a small magazine c a l l e d Le surrealisme i n P a r i s . I encountered t h i s term "surrealism" f o r the f i r s t time when I read the magazine. As a matter of f a c t , since I had already known Baudelaire's remark that the two primary f a c t o r s of l i t e r a t u r e are irony and the supernatural, I wanted to use the word "supernatural" f o r the t i t l e . But the e d i t o r at that time chose the newly coined term " s u r r e a l . " In short, t h i s book attempts to introduce a poeti c theory which has been existent f o r a long time i n Europe: "The essence of poetry i s what becomes harmonized by l i n k i n g contrary elements." I s t i l l b e lieve i n t h i s theory. The way to poetry i s long. We must wander around a hedge i n the country and seek a delectable woman. Moreover, i t i s d i f f i c u l t to meet a man who weeps at a f e s t i v a l . (4: 678-679) 2. Mallarme gave a lec t u r e at Oxford on March 1st, 1894. See Stephane Mallarme, "La Musique et l e s L e t t r e s " i n OEuvres completes, eds. Henri Mondor and G. Jean-Aubry ( P a r i s : Bibliotheque de l a Pleiade, Gallimard, 1945) 635. 147 3. 'Banal': tsumaranai. A key word i n Nishiwaki's poetics and poetry. The Japanese word can mean i n s i g n i f i c a n t , f a m i l i a r , i n s i p i d , etc. But i t i s u s u a l l y used i n the much l i g h t e r sense of "boring." 4. Source not in d i c a t e d i n the text. 5. Charles Baudelaire, "La Chevelure" from Les Fleurs du mal i n OEuvres completes, ed. Claude Pichots, 2 v o l s . ( P a r i s : Bibliotheque de l a Pleiade, Gallimard, 1975) 1: 27. 6. Baudelaire, "Journaux intimes, Fusees, I" i n OEuvres 1: 649. 7. Baudelaire, "Notes Nouvelles sur Edgar Poe" i n OEuvres 2: 334. 8. Baudelaire 1: 649. 9. Baudelaire 1: 334. 10. Baudelaire, "Enivrez-vous" from Le Spleen de Paris i n OEuvres 1: 337. 11. Quoted i n Otto Jespersen, Progress i n Language: with S p e c i a l  Reference to E n g l i s h (1894; London: Swan Sonnenschein & Co., Ltd., 1909) 361. 12. See H. G. Garrod, The Profession of Poetry: An Inaugural Lecture (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1924), i n which we read: . . . I say that the race of long-haired poets i s dead (6). Poetry seems i l l - p a i d , indeed, but easy. Yet never, I fancy, was i t harder. Easy, no doubt, i t was, once upon a time. Once upon a time, the world was fre s h , to speak was to be a poet, to name objects an i n s p i r a t i o n ; and metaphor dropped from the inventive mouths of men l i k e some natural exudation of the v i v i f i e d senses (8). 148 13. Baudelaire, "Richard Wagner et Tannhauser a P a r i s " i n OEuvres 2: 793. 14. See F. G. Selby, "Bacon and Montaigne," The C r i t e r i o n 3. 10 (1925): 258-277. 15. See J . E. Spingarn, Introd., ed., C r i t i c a l Essays of the  Seventeenth Century, 3 v o l s . , v o l . 1 (1605-1650) (London: Oxford U n i v e r s i t y Press, 1908), x. 16. Max Jacob, Art poetique ( P a r i s ; Chez Emile-Paul, n.d.) 34. 17. Samuel Johnson, "Cowley" i n The Lives of the Most Eminent E n g l i s h  Poets with C r i t i c a l Observations on Their Works (1783), ed. Mrs. Alexander Napier, 3 v o l s . (London: George B e l l and Sons, 1890) 1: 25. 18. Garrod 16. 19. "A Defence of Poetry" (1840) i n Hazard Adams, ed. C r i t i c a l Theory  Since Plato (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 1971) 499-513. 20. "Clorinda and Damon" i n Poems of Andrew Marvell, ed. G. A. Aitken (London: Lawrence & Bullen, Ltd., 1898) 41. 21. Jean Cocteau, "Cannes" i n Poesie 1916-1923 ( P a r i s : L i b r a i r i e Gallimard, 1925) 259. 22. See Andre Breton, "Manifeste du Surrealisme (1924)" i n Manifestes  du Surrealisme, ed. Jean-Jacque Pauvert (Montreuil: Ed i t i o n s J . - J . Pauvert, 1962) 34. 23. Pierre Reverdy, Nord-Sud: S e l f Defence et autres e c r i t s sur l ' a r t  et l a poesie, 1917-1926 ( P a r i s : Flammarion Editeur, 1975) 73. 24. See Theodore de B a n v i l l e , P e t i t t r a i t e de poesie f r a n c a i s e ( P a r i s : Bibliotheque de L'Echo de l a Sorbonne, 1872) 3. 25. Francis Bacon, "Advancement of Learning" i n C r i t i c a l Essays of the  Seventeenth Century, ed., i n t r o . , J . E. Spingarn 1: 6. 26. Spingarn 1: 6. 149 27. Spingarn, x i . 28. Source not indic a t e d i n the text. 29. See Surrealisme I ( P a r i s : October 1924), ed. Yvan G o l l , i n Yvan G o l l , OEuvres, eds. C l a i r e G o l l and Francois Xavier Jaujard, 2 v o l s . ( P a r i s : E d i t i o n s Emile-Paul, 1968) 1: 87-88, i n which we read: Le premier poete au monde constata: "Le c i e l est bleu." Plus tard, un autre trouva: "Tes yeux sont bleus comme le c i e l . " Long temps apres, on se hasarda a d i r e : "Tu as du c i e l dans l e s yeux." Un moderne s ' e c r i e r a : "Tes yeux de c i e l ! " 30. mono no aware: A l i t e r a r y and aesthe t i c i d e a l c u l t i v a t e d during the Heian period (794-1185). At i t s core i s a deep empathetic appreciation of the ephemeral beauty manifest i n nature and human l i f e , and i t i s therefore u s u a l l y tinged with a hint of sadness; under c e r t a i n circumstances i t can be accompanied by admiration, awe, or even joy. The word was revived as part of the vocabulary of Japanese l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m through the writings of Motoori Norinaga (1730-1801). (Makoto Ueda, "mono no aware," Kodansha Encyclopedia of Japan, 1983.) 31. Source not in d i c a t e d i n the text. 32. Osbert S i t w e l l , Who K i l l e d Cock Robin? (London: C. W. Daniel, Ltd., 1921). 33. Quoted i n Garrod, i n which we read: As to prosaicalness i n general, i t i s sometimes indulged i n by young w r i t e r s on the plea of i t s being n a t u r a l ; but t h i s i s a mere confusion of t r i v i a l i t y with propriety; and i s sometimes the r e s u l t of indolence (6). 150 34. T r i s t a n Tzara, "Sur une r i d e du s o l e i l " from De nos oiseaux ( P a r i s : E d i t i o n s Kra, 1929) i n OEuvres completes, ed. Henri Behar, 5 v o l s . , v o l . 1 (1912-1924) ( P a r i s : Flammarion, 1975) 238. 35. Quoted i n Breton 52. 36. Breton 52. 37. Arthur Rimbaud, "Oraison du S o i r " i n OEuvres completes, ed. Antoine Adam ( P a r i s : Bibliotheque de l a Pleiade, Gallimard, 1972) 39. 38. "The Old Vicarage, Grantchester" i n The Col l e c t e d Poems of Rupert  Brooke: with a Memoir (London: Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd., 1918) 53. 39. Poe does not c i t e "The Raven" i n "The Poetic P r i n c i p l e " but does so extensively i n "The Philosophy of Composition." Also, Poe does not mention "mysticism" s p e c i f i c a l l y i n e i t h e r of the above essays. 40. See May S i n c l a i r , Introd., The Closed Door, trans. F. S. F l i n t , by Jean de Bosschere (London: John Lane, The Bodley Head, 1917) 2. 41. de Bosschere, "Doutes" 72, 74. 42. T. S. E l i o t , The Waste Land (1922), i n The Complete Poems and  Plays 1909-1950 (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., 1971) 46. 43. See Jules Romains and G. Chenneviere, P e t i t t r a i t e de  v e r s i f i c a t i o n ( P a r i s : L i b r a i r i e Gallimard, 1924) 23. 44. G o l l , 87-88. 45. Hermann Bahr, Expressionism, trans. R. T. Gribble (London: Frank Henderson, 1925). The E x t i n c t i o n of Poetry A n o t i f i c a t i o n from my f r i e n d s , Judge Gontomen and the c e l l i s t , Dobron II n'est pas bon que tout l e monde l i s e l e s pages qui vont suivr e : quelques-uns seuls savoureront ce f r u i t amer sans danger. Par consequant, ame timide, avant de pen£trer plus l o i n dans de p a r e i l l e s landes inexplorees, d i r i g e tes talons en a r r i e r e et non en avant. — I s i d o r e Ducasse^ Chapter One: The Limits of Expression I. I t becomes merely subjective and eudaemonic to evaluate poetry s o l e l y by i t s c o n t r i b u t i o n to the pleasure of the soul ( c f . C r i t i q u e of  P r a c t i c a l Reason by Kant). I t becomes necessary, therefore, to postulate theory, or a hypothesis, i f one wishes a more r a t i o n a l evaluation of poetry. One may, then, l i k e a l e g i s l a t o r , t r e a t i n g t h i s hypothesis as a guiding p r i n c i p l e of j u s t i c e , take the l i b e r t y of i n s t i t u t i n g laws one  a f t e r another. I I . A hypothesis: The realm of poetry expands i n f i n i t e l y and f i n a l l y disappears. As a c o r o l l a r y (ipso facto) of t h i s hypothesis the following r u l e i s set f o r t h : "The most expanded, the most advanced mode of poetry i s that which i s clo s e s t to i t s e x t i n c t i o n . " 152 I I I . The e x t i n c t i o n of poetry as a r t occurs when there i s no longer any i n d i c a t i o n of a w i l l to express. " I n d i c a t i o n , " i n turn, means an act of expression. When there i s an act of expression but no w i l l to express, the r e s u l t w i l l not be an a r t i s t i c expression. Therefore, natural expression i s not a r t . For instance, the f o l l o w i n g acts of expression themselves are not a r t i s t i c expressions. They are nature i t s e l f : A. The act of expression as the sound caused by the f r i c t i o n of leaves i n a breeze. B. The "expressive a c t " of the sun emitting strong colours and rays of l i g h t . C. The "expression" of a dog emitting a cry when beaten. D. The act of bursting into song due to man's overflowing emotion of love. Note: s i m i l a r l y , the "expression" of a l l other emotions belongs to nature. It i s a kind of excretion (the same as the European euphemism "Nature c a l l s " ) . E. Such an expression as "Oh, Good Heavens!" uttered by Indo-Europeans when they are i n trouble. (This shows a case i n which a custom has gained the same status as a natural phenomenon.) F. Expressions manifested i n a dream. Such dreams as we read i n Baudelaire's Les Paradis a r t i f i c i e l s show a r e l a t i v e l y w e l l -developed a r t i s t i c mode of expression. In other words, i t says that i f you eat that green jam, you can dream anything you want. A l l other expressive acts belonging to any of the above categories are not to be acknowledged as a r t i s t i c . In f l a t terms, expressive acts become " l e g a l l y " a r t i s t i c only when they are i n t e n t i o n a l l y c a r r i e d out. 153 Therefore, unconscious expression cannot be a r t . I t i s merely a b l i n d , unconscious emotion i t s e l f . Moreover, j u s t as conscientious objectors are sometimes exonerated from the usual l e g a l o b l i g a t i o n s , i n the poetic l e g a l system, when an author believes that what he has thought or f e l t i s true, he would be exonerated from the o b l i g a t i o n s of a r t . In other words, his work would not be considered a r t . Les sanglots longs Des v i o l o n s De l'automne Blessent mon coeur D'une langueur Monotone — V e r l a i n e ^ This i s a natural expression and lacks deliberateness. Verlaine i s an extremely "conscientious" expresser. His work cannot be " l e g a l . " His expressive act l i e s outside the laws of art which we have established. Neither Goethe, V e r l a i n e , nor Valery can be c l a s s i f i e d as a " l e g a l " a r t i s t . Un s o i r , l'ame du v i n chantait dans le s b o u t e i l l e s : "Homme, vers t o i je pousse, o cher d e s h e r i t l , Sous ma p r i s o n de verre et mes c i r e s v ermeilles, Un chant p l e i n de lumiere et de f r a t e r n i t e ! "Je sais combien i l faut, sur l a c o l l i n e en flamme, De peine, de sueur et de s o l e i l cuisant Pour engendrer ma v i e et pour me donner l'stme; Mais je ne s e r a i point ingrat n i malfaisant, "Car j'eprouve une j o i e immense quand je tombe Dans l e gosier d'un homme use par ses travaux, Et sa chaude p o i t r i n e est une douce tombe 3 Ou je me p l a i s bien mieux que dans mes f r o i d s caveaux. This i s from a poem by Baudelaire, f i r s t published i n Le Magasin des f a m i l i e s , June, 1850. Probably, readers at that time must have f e l t much stranger reading t h i s poem than today's readers would. This expression i not one that came f o r t h n a t u r a l l y . Even the t i t l e ("Le Vin des honnetes 4 gens") sounds contrived and e x h i b i t s an act of expression d e l i b e r a t e l y performed rather than a c t u a l l y f e l t or thought as expressed. It i s a d e l i b e r a t e act of expression. I f the author a c t u a l l y has f e l t or thought what he depicts, he would no longer be c l a s s i f e d as a " l e g a l " a r t i s t . He would end up being merely one who expresses natural f e e l i n g s and thoughts Today, we may no longer f e e l any "deliberateness" and may f i n d only " n a t u r a l " f e e l i n g s and thoughts i n t h i s poem. But i f we go back to the time of i t s f i r s t p u b l i c a t i o n , we can see h i s " d e l i b e r a t e " mode of expression. A few more examples: Lace and roses i n the f o r e s t morning shine, Shrewdly the small spider climbs h i s cobweb l i n e . Dews are diamonding and blooming f a e r y - b r i g h t . What a golden a i r ! What beauty! Oh, what l i g h t ! 155 I t i s good to wander through the dawn-shot rye, Good to see a b i r d , a toad, a dragon-fly;^ I f the poet thinks that i t i s a c t u a l l y good to do the things described above, h i s expressions cannot be a r t i s t i c a l l y " l e g a l . " Since he says them d e l i b e r a t e l y , they become " l e g a l . " In Rimbaud's poetry one can f i n d many instances of t h i s " l e g a l " expressive act. In a poem by Soupault we read: S i tu savais s i tu savais Les murs se resserrent Ma tete devient enorme Ou sont done p a r t i e s l e s l i g n e s de mon papier Je voudrais allonger mes bras pour secouer l a tour E i f f e l et l e Sacre-Coeur de Montmartre Mes idees comme des microbes dansent sur mes meninges au rhythme de 1'exasperante pendule • 6 Un coup de revolver s e r a i t une s i douce melodie When the resounding noise of the p i s t o l of t h i s poem can be a c t u a l l y f e l t and thought as a gentle melody, the expression becomes sentimental, thus not a r t i s t i c . To say such a thing i n t e n t i o n a l l y becomes the reason whereby the expression can be, a r t i s t i c a l l y speaking, " l e g a l . " In sum, a r t i s t i c expression i s a demonstration of the w i l l to express d e l i b e r a t e l y . IV. Poetry takes various modes from i t s b i r t h (the manifestation of a w i l l to express i n t e n t i o n a l l y ) to i t s e x t i n c t i o n . They can be categorized as follows. 156 The F i r s t Period: The Era of Expression The poetic mode of t h i s era probably includes the range of poetry from Baudelaire to cubism, metaphorism, and surrealism. Dadaism merely a n t i c i p a t e d the oncoming Second Period before being submerged. Futurism d e f i n i t e l y belongs to the F i r s t Period. The Second Period: The Era of Anti-Expression In t h i s period, the poet manifests a w i l l that shows h i s d e l i b e r a t e wish that he_ does not want to express. In the F i r s t Period, poetry was s t i l l an e f f o r t to express. Whereas, i n the Second Period, i t i s to make  an e f f o r t not to express. Good examples of t h i s poetic mode have not yet appeared. But I be l i e v e that they w i l l soon come out. In terms of expression, t h i s season shows the extreme l i m i t and the most expanded, most advanced mode of poetry. ( T r i s t a n Tzara's work s t i l l belongs to the F i r s t Period. Obviously h i s poetic s p i r i t has not been f i r m l y established consciously. But i n the future, h i s t o r i a n s w i l l regard him as a prophet. He published La Premiere aventure celeste de Monsieur Antipyrine i n 1916 and Manifeste dada i n 1918. He has also published several books of poetry. You, young Rumanian, who wear a conspicuously c o l o u r f u l t i e , behold John, whose head has been made a plaything of by Salome.) The Third Period: E x t i n c t i o n It i s the case i n which one does not make any manifestation i n the 157 form of the F i r s t Period or the Second Period. Consequently, the " l e g a l " expression of art disappears. This e x t i n c t i o n , however, must always be preceded by a b i r t h . In other words, i t must be born before i t d i e s . It should not be. confused with those which do not come into existence i n the f i r s t place ( f o r example, poetry of V e r l a i n e , or Maeterlinck). Another thing that should be noted with regard to t h i s T hird Period i s "La Soiree avec Monsieur Teste" written by Paul Valery i n 1896. At a f i r s t glance, t h i s t r e a t i s e - l i k e work may appear to be promoting the e x t i n c t i o n of a r t i s t i c expression. But i n f a c t i t i s merely saying " i t i s i l l o g i c a l to express f e e l i n g s . " In short, he wants poets to express a mature i n t e l l e c t . Thus, the mode of poetry he promotes does not belong even to the F i r s t Period. (Since he i s at any rate such a p e r f e c t symbolist poet.) Let us read what he writes: M. Teste a v a i t peut-e"tre quarante ans. Sa parole e t a i t extraordinairement rapide, et sa voix sourde. Tout s ' e f f a c a i t en l u i , l e s yeux, les mains. II a v a i t pourtant l e s Ipau les m i l i t a i r e s , et l e pas d'une r e g u l a r i t e qui etonnait. Quand i l p a r l a i t , i l ne l e v a i t jamais un bras n i un doigt: i l a v a i t tue l a marionnette. II ne s o u r i a i t pas, ne d i s a i t n i bonjour n i bonsoir; i l semblait ne pas entendre le "Comment allez-vous?"^ So he writes. But he has not even a r r i v e d at the b i r t h of the " l e g a l " act, not to mention the e x t i n c t i o n of poetry according to the "law." With regard to the l e g a l system i n the a r t i s t i c sense discussed above, the f o l l o w i n g summary can be drawn: A. P r e - l e g i s l a t i v e e r a — d e s c r i p t i o n — ( G o e t h e — e x p r e s s i o n i s m ) B. L e g i s l a t i v e era: 1. Expressive p e r i o d — ( d a d a i s t — s u r r e a l i s t ) 158 2. Anti-expressive period (X) Chapter Two: The Limits of the Object of Expression 1. R e a l i t y as an Object of Expression Any phenomenon r e l a t e d to any desire associated with human nature, whether innate or acquired, may become an object of expression. In t h i s case, one may say that humanity i s the object of poetic expression. But t h i s i s not a " l e g a l " expression. Such an expressive act i s subjective and r e l a t e s to the notion of happiness. I t i s t o t a l l y i l l o g i c a l . Humanity i s the object of expression i n the p r e - l e g a l era. Here are some examples: A. To have matters of aesthetics ( f e e l i n g s or thoughts that seek e i t h e r beauty or non-beauty) as the object of poetic expression. The material that manifests them merely expresses the r e a l i t y of beauty or of non-beauty. When i t comes to a poet l i k e Gautier, the material of expression was c o n s t i t u t e d s o l e l y by l i n e s and colours of objects. Jean Cocteau uses metaphoric expressions as the material of h i s poetry. Expressionists employ any material that i s new, such as dynamics, geometry, p h i l o s o p h i c a l mathematics, etc. However new the material may be, as long as the poetic expression s t i l l seeks e i t h e r beauty or non-beauty, i t belongs to the p r e - l e g a l era. Beauty or non-beauty simply belongs to r e a l i t y . R e a l i t y i s subjective, thus i l l o g i c a l . B. The d e s i r e to become human or a flounder, or the desire to become machine or super-man, i s subjective, thus belongs 159 to r e a l i t y . C. The d e s i r e to l i v e as i n t u i t i v e l y as p o s s i b l e . The d e s i r e to do only i n s t i n c t i v e work l i k e a p l a n t . Or, to oppose such a d e s i r e . D. The d e s i r e to express musical moods, or the beauty of noises, or the s p i r i t of s i l e n c e , or a j a z z - l i k e soul. E. Feelings and thoughts that seek truths, l i e s , e t e r n i t i e s , or moments. F. The d e s i r e to break down r e a l i t y , or the desire to be immersed in r e a l i t y . G. To have the desire to express or not to express as the object of expression. A l l other human subjective thoughts and f e e l i n g s belong to r e a l i t y . Thus, to have them as the objects of expression belongs to the " i l l e g a l " era. It i s not good at a l l to confuse the object and the material of expression. The object of expression i t s e l f does not change, while the material changes with the progress of the human i n t e l l e c t . Goethe, exp r e s s i o n i s t s , c u b i s t s , s u r r e a l i s t s of the bad sort, a f t e r a l l , are a l l r e a l i s t s . The only d i f f e r e n c e i s i n the material of expression, namely the mode of expression. Their objects of expression are homogeneous. Today, being epigones of realism, most of the s u r r e a l i s t poets i n f a c t s t i l l remain r e a l i s t s despite t h e i r l a b e l . For example, Ivan G o l l ' s recent work, not to mention h i s "Die Unterwelt" period, s t i l l belongs to realism despite i t s l a b e l of surrealism. Poets l i k e P i c a b i a and Eluard are also epigones of realism. They are i n a t r a n s i t i o n a l period leading to true surrealism. This t r a n s i t i o n a l period has developed from Baudelaire through A p o l l i n a i r e , Reverdy, and to poets l i k e Soupault. The recent poets i n c l u d i n g Soupault s t i l l seem to belong to the t r a n s i t i o n a l period, although t h e i r poetry lacks such d i r e c t expressions of despair or of ennui which we f i n d so abundantly i n the poetry of Baudelaire. At' l e a s t , Soupault's object of expression i s s u r r e a l . Reverdy used to be labeled a cubist. But r e c e n t l y one frequently sees him w r i t i n g f o r magazines of s e l f - s t y l e d s u r r e a l i s t s . His poetry seems to l i q u e f y r e a l i t y and l e t i t flow into the a i r abundantly. In h i s Les Epaves du c i e l and Ecumes de l a mer we read: Adieu j e tombe Dans 1'angle doux des bras qui me recoivent Du coin de l ' o e i l je vois tous ceux qui boivent Je n'ose pas bouger l i s sont a s s i s La table est ronde Et ma memoire aussi Je me souviens de tout l e monde Meme de ceux qui sont p a r t i s ^ or Au coin du bois Quelqu'un se cache On p o u r r a i t approcher sans b r u i t Vers l e vide ou vers l'ennemi^ As f o r Valery, the l a s t symbolist, one finds a s u r r e a l i s t demand i n h 161 a t t i t u d e towards realism. His "Introduction a l a methode de Leonard de V i n c i " i s an a r t i s t i c pronouncement deserving our a t t e n t i o n . I t manifests a kind of s p i r i t u a l struggle d i s t i n c t from Maeterlinck's s i l e n t i s m . The expressive a t t i t u d e that holds r e a l i t y as the object of p o e t i c expression i s subjective, thus i l l o g i c a l . This a t t i t u d e i s i n f a c t very d e s t r u c t i v e . In order to have a more constructive a t t i t u d e , one must reach f o r more objective l o g i c a l p r i n c i p l e s of a r t . I I I . S u r r e a l i t y To p o s i t the o b j e c t i v e (a p r i o r i ) w i l l i t s e l f as the object of expression. The o b j e c t i v e w i l l ( c f . C r i t i q u e of P r a c t i c a l Reason by Kant) i s the force of man's w i l l that aspires a f t e r i t s own p e r f e c t i o n by breaking down the subjective world (that i s , r e a l i t y ) . I t i s l i k e assuming the mode of God. I t i s to be free from the subjective world ( r e a l i t y ) . This type of expressive method of art (that i s , the material to be used i n expression) i s to manifest an expression that i s contrary to (or, a l i e n to) our r e a l i s t i c f e e l i n g s and thoughts. Since such an expression as "Un coup de revolver s e r a i t une s i douce melodie" opposes our ordinary actual f e e l i n g s , i t can be a s u i t a b l e material f o r expressing the force wherewith the o b j e c t i v e w i l l destroys s u b j e c t i v i t y . But once t h i s phrase begins to express any actual f e e l i n g s , i t i s no longer s u i t a b l e as material to manifest the o b j e c t i v e w i l l . In December, 1924, a magazine c a l l e d La  Revolution s u r r e a l i s t e appeared i n P a r i s . In i t s introduction, the e d i t o r urges us to use dreams as the material f o r poetry. This may be p l a u s i b l e because, i n short, dreams are f o r e i g n to our actual f e e l i n g s and thoughts. One may simply argue that by s u r r e a l i s t poetry i t i s meant a poetry that 162 s t r i v e s to manifest an energy whereby a b l i n d w i l l to be a l i v e forever attempts to become perfect by demolishing the actual world. The w i l l to l i v e i s the w i l l of a creator. Man i s h e l p l e s s to deal with t h i s b l i n d w i l l . This absolutely unmanageable w i l l e x i s t s o b j e c t i v e l y i n man. The mere existence of such a w i l l , which i s so u t t e r l y beneath contempt, i s a subject of a h e l p l e s s rage. At times one may f e e l p h y s i c a l l y throughout one's b r a i n a s t a r t l i n g j o l t of an e s p r i t which attempts to r e s i s t t h i s b l i n d w i l l . This i s a strange phenomenon i n which an attempt of r e b e l l i o n against the w i l l that created the human race i s manifested. I t i s a r e b e l l i o n against the creator's w i l l . Or i t can be said that i n f a c t the creator i s t h i s creator's w i l l that seeks to oppose his own c r e a t i v e w i l l . A creator i s a s e l f - d e c e i v e r . The poetry which attempts to present the energy of an e s p r i t r e b e l l i n g against the very e f f o r t of t h i s w i l l to l i v e , that i s , the e f f o r t to break down r e a l i t y , creates the next poetic region. I I I . A n t i - S u r r e a l i t y Poetry of t h i s category i s c l o s e s t to i t s own e x t i n c t i o n . It i s also a very advanced and expanded mode. When man's w i l l to l i v e i s destroyed in a c t u a l i t y (not i n poetry), mankind w i l l p e r i s h . It w i l l also mark the e x t i n c t i o n of poetry. IV. The E x t i n c t i o n of Poetry Poetry dies as mankind dies. The lamp i s turned o f f . But things l i k e kangaroos or c a c t i may be s t i l l t r y i n g to survive, f i d g e t i n g here and there. How p i t i f u l . 163 Chapter Three: A C r i t i q u e of Poetics The adage, "Ars Tonga," i s merely a ch i l d r e n ' s song. Only on the surface art appears as an act of c r e a t i o n . In f a c t , art i s an e f f o r t at s e l f - e x t i n c t i o n . So they s c r i b b l e d down such simple remarks on the corner of a postcard and mailed i t to me from an express t r a i n between Paris and Budapest. Every Sunday they go to Budapest f o r a walk. Such an ordinary custom i s boring. 164 Notes to The E x t i n c t i o n of Poetry 1. Comte de Lautreamont [Isidore Ducasse], Les Chants de Maldoror (1869) i n Oeuvres completes ( P a r i s : L i b r a i r i e Jose C o r t i , 1963) 123. 2. Paul V e r l a i n e , "Chanson d'Automne" from Poemes saturniens i n Fetes  galantes, Romances sans paroles: precede de Poemes saturniens, ed. Jacques Borel ( P a r i s : E d i t i o n s Messein 1890; E d i t i o n s Gallimard, 1973) 58. 3. Baudelaire, "L'Ame du v i n " from Les Fleurs du mal i n OEuvres 1: 105. 4. The o r i g i n a l t i t l e as published i n Le Magasin des f a m i l i e s . 5. Babette Deutsch and Avrahm Yarmolinsky, trans., "A Russian Song," by Igor Severyanin, i n Russian Poetry: An Anthology (New York: Int e r n a t i o n a l Publishers, 1927) 160. 6. P h i l i p p e Soupault, "Souffrance" i n Rose des vents ( P a r i s : Au Sans P a r e i l , 1920), r p t . i n Poemes et poesie, 1917-1973 ( P a r i s : Bernard Grasset, 1973) 28. 7. Paul Valery, "La Soiree avec Monsieur Teste" i n OEuvres completes, ed. Jean Hytier, 2 v o l s . ( P a r i s : Bibliotheque de l a Pleiade, Gallimard, 1960) 2: 17. 8. In 1919, i n P a r i s , G o l l published a volume of poems e n t i t l e d Die  Unterwelt. 9. P i e r r e Reverdy, "Pointe" i n Les Ardoises du t o i t ( P a r i s : Chez Paul B r i r a u l t , 1918), r p t . i n Plupart du temps, 2 v o l s . , v o l . 1 (1915-1922), ( P a r i s : E d i t i o n s Gallimard, 1969) 190. 10. Reverdy, "Tard dans l a n u i t . . . " 174. 165 Esthetique Foraine A C r i t i q u e of Pure Art I. Preparation f o r the C r i t i q u e The t w i l i g h t of anemones descends. Under a purple opera lamp, a di s t r e s s e d racketeer leans against the marble Aphrodite and grieves. Sometimes he f e e l s a t h i r s t f o r some soda but does not move. He ju s t grieves i n l o n e l i n e s s . A. D i v i s i o n s w i t h i n our consciousness (Bewusstsein) with regard to a r t : 1. The world of empirical consciousness. 2. The world of pure consciousness. Art belonging to the f i r s t d i v i s i o n i s here defined as impure a r t , and that which belongs to the second d i v i s i o n as pure a r t . The former i s a method to construct the world of empirical consciousness. The l a t t e r i s a method to construct the world of pure consciousness. B. E p i s t e m o l o g i c a l l y speaking, impure art e m p i r i c a l l y operates with sensory i n t u i t i o n (Anschauung) and so creates a world of actual sensation which holds an inte n s i v e magnitude within.''" In short, i t creates a world of actual sensation, that i s , r e a l i t y . Whereas pure art operates Anschauung purely, thus creating a world i n which the degree of actual sensation i s zero. C. "Art i s expression" means that art expresses methodological mechanisms of cr e a t i n g the worlds stated above. D. Impure art creates an empirical consciousness of the s e l f . Whereas pure art creates a world born at the instant when the empirical conscious-166 ness expands i t s e l f to i t s own e x t i n c t i o n . In other words, i t i s to create the i n s t a n t when the consciousness of the s e l f disappears. Baudelaire somewhere described t h i s state as divine and sublime " i n s e n s i b i l i t e . " Or, i t can be described as the joy of the s e l f merged with the universe, or that of being d i v i n e , or that which Poe fi n d s i n h i s cosmology, or that of neo-platonism found i n Claudel's p o e t i c s . Of course the pleasure of t h i s state i s only p o e t i c a l l y s ensible. Viewed from a psychological standpoint, when the consciousness of the s e l f disappears, one becomes devoid of senses. This state i t s e l f , therefore, cannot be sensed as e i t h e r pleasant or unpleasant. One may, however, a c t u a l l y sense the joy a moment a f t e r t h i s state has passed. In short, pure art i s a method of creating the joy or the beauty of t h i s s t a t e . E. Art i s a method whose purpose i s the cr e a t i o n of beauty. In terms of impure a r t , then, one creates a state s i m i l a r to the world of actu a l sensation, i n which he f e e l s the beauty of actual sensation. In terms of pure a r t , one creates a state i n which the world of actual sensation has vanished. This state l a s t s only f o r a moment. The next moment w i l l bring back the world of actu a l sensation. And i n t h i s world of actual sensation, one f e e l s the beauty of the state that existed a moment ago. In short, i n pure a r t , one creates a state i n which the world of actual sensation has vanished. Paradoxically, however, one does so i n order to f e e l t h i s type of beauty that must be perceived by the actual senses. What Baudelaire meant by "sublime beauty" i s probably t h i s type of beauty of actual sensation. F. It i s an epistemological mistake to t a l k about the beauty of actual sensation, or the beauty i n which there i s no actual sensation. Since beauty i s nothing but a sensation, i t always belongs to the world of actual 167 sensation. Aesthetics studies the world of actual sensation as i t s subject. I t i s absurd f o r an a e s t h e t i c i a n to say "pure beauty" or "the pure mode of beauty." P u r i t y of beauty requires the disappearance of the actual sensation of beauty. Yet, i t may be po s s i b l e to admit t h i s concept of p u r i t y as a p r i n c i p a l formula to construct beauty, or as a state i n which the intensive magnitude of beauty has increased to i t s maximum l i m i t . Also, i t i s absurd to say "to purely anschauen beauty," f o r beauty i s produced through the operation of empirical Anschauung. I t i s p o s s i b l e , however, to anschauen a material phenomenon or a mental phenomenon e i t h e r purely or e m p i r i c a l l y . G. T e l e o l o g i c a l l y speaking, art has the aim of arousing a e s t h e t i c sensations. One cannot create art by merely announcing h i s ideas and f e e l i n g s . The aim of both pure and impure a r t i s to arouse aesth e t i c sensations. I f a n a t u r a l phenomenon arouses an aesthetic sensation, then i t i s a "divine a r t " ( C o l e r i d g e ) . A b e a u t i f u l apple i s a work of art by God. I f man himself i s God's work of a r t , then a work of art created by man i s a c e r t a i n development from i t . B e a u t i f u l aspects of s o c i a l phenomena are, then, s o c i a l a r t . Macaulay says that art declines as c i v i l i z a t i o n progresses. Ruskin d i s l i k e d locomotives. Prudhomme s a i d something to the e f f e c t that the beauty of windmills and s a i l b o a t s i s good because the force of nature i s associated with i t (Guyau). But as long as a product makes the beholder sense beauty through i t s expressive method, i t deserves to be c a l l e d a work of art (according to Croce's theory). H. What fundamentally d i s t i n g u i s h e s pure art from impure art i s t h e i r mechanisms. In impure a r t , a mechanism to construct aesthetic sensations e x i s t s i n the object expressed i n the work. Whereas i n the object expressed i n a work of pure a r t , there e x i s t s a mechanism that does not 168 al low any c o n s t r u c t i o n of aes the t i c sensat ions . In other words, the mechanism to cons truct ae s the t i c sensat ions does not ex i s t i n pure a r t . Let us suppose "A i s B" i s a poem that e x h i b i t s a theory of pure a r t . In t h i s case, the f o l l o w i n g c r i t i q u e becomes p o s s i b l e : 1. Viewed from the standpoint of impure a r t , the poem appears c o m i c a l . There i s no ae s the t i c value i n i t . In terms of a e s t h e t i c s , i t can be s a i d that i t f a i l s to construct beauty, f o r ae s the t i c s most of ten deals only with impure a r t . 2. Viewed from the standpoint of pure a r t , i t appears to express n e i t h e r a thought nor a f e e l i n g that i s "A i s B . " There fore , i t can be sa id that i t belongs to the a n t i - e x p r e s s i v e e r a . 3. I t i s not a metaphorical express ion i n which A i s compared to B. 4. I t i s n e i t h e r comical nor i r o n i c a l . But i t i s an attempt to construct a mechanism to break down the world of r e a l i t y and to enter momentarily in to the world of pure consciousness . I t shows a theory expounding that e m p i r i c a l consciousness i s destroyed by means of the c o n j o i n i n g of two objects which stand at the f a r t h e s t d i s tance from each other on the axis of a s s o c i a t i o n a l r e l a t i o n . In a poem i n which Baudela ire worships Satan: 1) he does not express thoughts or f e e l i n g s of a c t u a l l y worshipping Satan; 2) he does not present sarcasm f o r the sake of sarcasm. But he worships Satan s imply i n order to cons truct a mechanism for transcending r e a l i t y . When he says that the e s s e n t i a l nature of ar t i s the supernatural and i r o n y , we are given an ex terna l e x p l i c a t i o n of t h i s 2 mechanism. In a c t u a l i t y , our f e e l i n g s towards Satan and towards worship 169 tend to form two opposing o b j e c t s . Thus, by c o n j o i n i n g these two, i t i s p o s s i b l e to cons truct a mechanism to break down the world of a c t u a l s ensat ion . But viewed from the standpoint of impure a r t , pure ar t may appear not b e a u t i f u l , s a r c a s t i c , or comica l . Champfleury says, "Since Baudela ire knew from the beginning that so few souls would understand t h i s per fec t comedian, he kept Les F l eurs du mal from p u b l i c a t i o n f o r f i f t e e n ,.3 y e a r s . " I . Thus, pure ar t turns an a p o s t e r i o r i a e s t h e t i c a l world in to an a_ p r i o r i wor ld . In t h i s sense, t h i s type of ar t i s pure ly a p r i o r i . J . In the r e l a t i o n between the beauty aroused by pure ar t and that aroused by impure a r t , the former becomes the f i r s t cause of the l a t t e r . Thus, the former i s the fundamental beauty ( c f . Kant 's C r i t i q u e of Pure  Reason). Th i s type of beauty i s d i f f i c u l t to f i n d i n m a t e r i a l phenomena. I t may be something l i k e "an i n f i n i t e , s t i l l unconstructed p leasure" as Poe descr ibes i t i n Eureka . I t may be descr ibed as an unknown beauty or a minimum beauty. A l s o i t i s almost imposs ible to express t h i s type of beauty through the mechanism of impure a r t . Moreover, t h i s type of beauty has been r a r e l y dea l t with i n a e s t h e t i c s . In modern t imes, probably Poe's Eureka and C l a u d e l ' s A r t poetique are among the few aes the t i c theor ie s dea l ing with t h i s fundamental beauty. (A d i g r e s s i o n : I wonder i f P l a t o ' s phi losophy presents not an epistemology, as i s commonly thought, but r a t h e r a mechanism to cons truct t h i s type of beauty. I t may w e l l be so . ) K. L i k e c r i t i c i s m s i n other a r t s , the p r i n c i p l e s of l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m hold the f o l l o w i n g d u t i e s : 1. To d i s t i n g u i s h between pure and impure a r t . 2. To e s t a b l i s h a value system as a standard of c r i t i c i s m . a. The value of pure consciousness: as a work of ar t makes the s tate of our consciousness approach more c l o s e l y the 170 e x t i n c t i o n of i t s empiricalness, the work of art increases i t s value of pure a r t . I t i s a value i n a negative mode, b. The value of impure a r t : as a work of a r t moves the state of our consciousness f a r t h e r away from the e x t i n c t i o n of i t s empiricalness, the work of art increases i t s value of impure a r t . L. The e x t i n c t i o n of poetry i s merely a f i g u r e of speech intimating a method of p u r i f y i n g poetry. Pure poetry i s a mechanism that aims to construct fundamental beauty by making the world of actual sensation e x t i n c t . The vanishing of the world of actual sensation i s , therefore, only i t s method. M. The c o n s t i t u t i v e elements of the mechanism of pure a r t : 1. In the a e s t h e t i c realm, to conjoin two d i s t a n t elements of empirical consciousness. 2. A powerful s u r v i v a l f o r c e . An excessive force that seeks beauty i s required. Without t h i s force the mechanism of pure art merely ends up having a comical e f f e c t . N. By means of the above methods, empirical consciousness vanishes. At the moment of i t s disappearance, what Poe c a l l s "an i n f i n i t e , imperfect sense of pleasure" appears."* This q u a l i f i c a t i o n "imperfect" i n d i c a t e s the existence of an e m pirical consciousness that i s unclear and impossible to express. I f , however, t h i s sense of pleasure should become p e r f e c t , the consciousness becomes no longer pure but e m p i r i c a l . In a word, i t i s j o i e . This j o i e i s of course an ordinary sense of pleasure. Thus Baudelaire says somewhere that a sense of pleasure does not belong to beauty. For, of course, Baudelaire's beauty i s that of pure a r t . The d e f i n i t i o n of a r t as a sense of pleasure i s v a l i d . But the sense of pleasure evoked by pure art i s d i f f e r e n t i n nature from that evoked by impure a r t . 171 0. This " i n f i n i t e and imperfect sense of p leasure" may be the sense of beauty one f inds i n the Buddhist world of n i rvana or i n the C h r i s t i a n heaven. In t h i s sense, pure ar t becomes i d e n t i c a l with what r e l i g i o n seeks. Although one may admit that pure ar t and r e l i g i o n have an i d e n t i c a l end, he w i l l f i n d that they possess d i f f e r e n t mechanisms. R e l i g i o n i s nothing but a mechanism, j u s t as ar t i s a mechanism. Then what i s the mechanism of r e l i g i o n ? I t i s " f a i t h . " But with the development of sc ience t h i s important mechanism of r e l i g i o n has become fundamentally i n v a l i d . Th i s op in ion forms an important f a c t o r i n the l i t e r a r y c r i t i c i s m of Professor Richards at Cambridge. Only ar t i s s t i l l p o s s i b l e . Of course , from Rusk in ' s s tandpoint , ar t becomes imposs ible with the progress of s c i ence . It may seem that ar t i s a l so f o l l o w i n g the demise of r e l i g i o n . But pure ar t holds abso lu te ly no r e l a t i o n to sc ience; thus , i t i s not to be persecuted by sc i ence . P. To sum up, pure ar t i s a mechanism that abol i shes the world of e m p i r i c a l consciousness , o r , the world of "moi." The e x t i n c t i o n of the world of "moi" i n o r d i n a r y terms can be t r a n s l a t e d as the e x t i n c t i o n of the s e l f , that i s , the i n f i n i t e expansion of the s e l f . It i s the s e l f merging with the u n i v e r s e , thus forming an i n f i n i t e mode of i t s e l f ( c f . C l a u d e l ' s cosmology as p o e t i c s i n A r t poe t ique) . The p s y c h o l o g i c a l impression of t h i s e x t i n c t i o n may be a f a i n t sensat ion of an obscurely i n f i n i t e p leasure as one momentarily loses h i s e m p i r i c a l consciousness , o r , h i s own sense of ex i s tence . We may experience t h i s type of s tate of mind when we look at some exce l l en t Buddhist pa in t ings and s ta tues . In my o p i n i o n , they d e f i n i t e l y belong to pure a r t . Q. Going back to the f i e l d of l i t e r a r y and art c r i t i c i s m , we may observe that the recent trend i n European art c r i t i c i s m has begun to see 172 the value of pure a r t as the true value of a r t . Looking at works of art themselves, more s p e c i f i c a l l y i n the f i e l d of poetry, we f i n d Baudelaire's poetry as a forerunner of pure a r t . Of course i t i s p l a u s i b l e to see at the l e v e l of ideas the influence of Poe and Sainte-Beuve on Baudelaire. But, f o r example, we see that Poe's poetry d i d not develop into pure a r t . Also, though Baudelaire's poetics i n h i s "Theophile Gautier" seems almost a copy of Poe's p o e t i c s , h i s thoughts found i n "Journaux intimes" form a true manifesto of pure a r t . Poe's poetics i s so s i m i l a r to that of Coleridge, the leader of the E n g l i s h Romantic movement, that i t cannot escape being regarded as a case of plagiarism. R. Pure art i s a mode of art that i n e v i t a b l y develops from impure a r t . Impure art generates the world of empirical consciousness and deepens i t by stimulating i t . I t i s commonly thought that art makes us appreciate our l i f e more profoundly. This merely r e f l e c t s a view from the standpoint of impure a r t . I t i s a l o g i c a l consequence f o r impure art to hold that i t s ultimate goal i s to stimulate our empirical consciousness as much as p o s s i b l e . But i f our mind, receives too much stimulation on i t s empirical side, we w i l l , i n f a c t , f e e l melancholic or l o n e l y . In other words, the psychological state of melancholy or l o n e l i n e s s i s the state i n which our empirical consciousness i s stimulated to an extreme degree. I t i s the case i n which the world of empirical consciousness i s l o s i n g i t s e q u i l i b r i u m . In order to c o n t r o l t h i s imbalance b i o l o g i c a l l y , we cry, shedding tears. When we see or f e e l something b e a u t i f u l , we c e r t a i n l y f e e l a c e r t a i n sense of l o n e l i n e s s . Sometimes t h i s even leads us to tears. A work of a r t that controls t h i s imbalance can be regarded as an instance that shows a b i o l o g i c a l genesis of pure a r t . This i s what Baudelaire c a l l s "hygiene. As a c l i n i c a l psychology, i t establishes pure a r t . In the case of 173 Baudelaire, i t i s l i k e suppressing a poison with another poison. I t i s a type of b a c i l l u s therapy. Therefore, pure art i s e f f e c t i v e only on those who possess the world of moi that has become unbalanced due to a h i g h l y developed s e n s i t i v i t y . Conversely, impure a r t i s e f f e c t i v e f o r those who seek stimulation because of the dullness of t h e i r s e n s i t i v i t y . In short, t h i s i s the b i o l o g i c a l o r i g i n of impure a r t . For these reasons, i t must be t h e o r e t i c a l l y recognized that pure art holds a greater s e n s i t i v i t y than impure a r t does. This i s a fur t h e r explanation of the section M above. A. In order to explain the mechanism of pure a r t , I s h a l l f i r s t discuss the world of empirical consciousness as a possible aesthetic realm. Let us look at the diagram drawn by Ze i s i n g (?) (based on Hartmann's h i s t o r y of German a e s t h e t i c s ) . ^ I I . The Mechanism of Pure Art The upper and lower hemispheres represent the two opposing empirical realms. I f we use algebraic terms, they can be said to represent the 174 realms of plus and minus. In terms of dynamics, they represent the p o s i t i v e and the negative energy f o r c e s . When these two forces are joined, a c e r t a i n harmony i s created. In terms of algebra, i t can be demonstrated as (+) + (-) = 0. T h e o r e t i c a l l y the mechanism of pure a r t suggests t h i s synthetic p r i n c i p l e . I t creates a harmony i n the realm of s e n s i b i l i t y . In other words, i t postulates a state i n which the realm of senses has vanished. Baudelaire c a l l s t h i s state "divine numbness," or more sentimentally, "supreme beauty." Baudelaire's aesthetic system postulates the following t h e o r e t i c a l f a c t o r s . To the p o s i t i v e realm belong such elements as God and Beauty. To the negative realm belong Satan, E v i l , P r o s t i t u t i o n , and other grotesque elements. By j o i n i n g two opposing elements, one constructs the f i r s t mechanism previously discussed i n Chapter One, section M. E v i l becomes simply a constituent of t h i s mechanism. By means of the workings of these elements, one constructs "the e x t i n c t i o n of empirical consciousness," which i s the aim of pure poetry. In other words, i t i s a construction of an i n f i n i t e s e l f . "The taste of i n f i n i t y i s a l l manifested i n E v i l i t s e l f , " g says Baudelaire. The meaning of t h i s saying i s well explained i n h i s poetry. He was i n t e r e s t e d neither i n representing " E v i l " nor i n enjoying i t as an actual sensation. He simply incorporated " E v i l " as a constituent into the mechanism so as to create an i n f i n i t y of the s e l f . Let us c a l l t h i s i n f i n i t e s e l f "God" f o r the moment and define i t as a metaphor representing the zero degree of the empirical consciousness. God i s a world devoid of e m p i r i c a l consciousness. Spinoza explained the notion of God i n terms of geometry: "God does not possess passion. Therefore, He i s 9 not a f f e c t e d by e i t h e r pleasant or unpleasant emotions." Baudelaire names t h i s nature of God " i n s e n s i b i l i t e . " He also says somewhere that poetry i s 175 an emotion that does not ho ld pass ion as i t s aim. This i s a c l e a r i n d i c a t i o n that h i s poetry belongs to pure a r t . B. We have seen that the mechanism of pure ar t involves the j o i n i n g of two d i s t a n t elements. In geometrical terms t h i s mechanism can be i n d i c a t e d by the summit of a t r i a n g l e . 0 A B In aes the t i c s g e n e r a l l y , t h i s form i s used to demonstrate a cons truc t ive p r i n c i p l e of beauty. It i s , however, necessary to d i s t i n g u i s h here t h i s t r i a n g l e from that which i s employed i n aes thet ics to i l l u s t r a t e forms and rhythms of m a t e r i a l phenomena. In s h o r t , t h i s t r i a n g l e does not represent a u n i f y i n g p r i n c i p l e of manifo ldness . In genera l , a e s t h e t i c i a n s apply t h i s form only to the world of e m p i r i c a l consciousness . Th i s diagram here, however, i s s imply intended as a metaphysical symbol. 1. Th i s n o t i o n (diagram) of pure ar t concurs with Pythagoras's ae s the t i c theorem. 2. A f t e r Pythagoras, A lexandr ian phi losophers showed t h e i r b e l i e f i n the n o t i o n . 3. Then, S c h o l a s t i c i s m i n h e r i t e d the n o t i o n . 4. F r a n c i s Bacon, a f t e r p r a i s i n g Seneca's words, "Bona rerum secundarum o p t a b i l i a ; adversarum m i r a b i l i a , " wrote: "We see i n needle works and embroider ies , i t i s more p l eas ing to have a l i v e l y work upon a sad and solemn ground. . . . C e r t a i n l y v i r t u e i s l i k e prec ious odors, most f ragrant when they are 176 incensed or crushed. . . . " 5. Co ler idge says that imaginat ion r e c o n c i l e s opposing and d i scordant q u a l i t e s . ^ 6. The p o e t i c mechanism found i n seventeenth-century E n g l i s h metaphysica l poetry employs such imaginat ion . 7. Shakespeare's poe t i c genius i s a l so based on the same mechanism of imaginat ion ( c f . The Background of E n g l i s h  L i t e r a t u r e by H. J . C. G r i e r s o n ) . 8. Paul C l a u d e l i n h i s A r t poet ique , says that i n a pine f o r e s t he thought of a new theory of cosmic c o n s t r u c t i o n , which i s the very operat ion of two opposing elements conjoined and e x i s t i n g s imultaneous ly . So he shouted out that the s h i n i n g sun was the apex of a t r i a n g l e . He w r i t e s , "Vraiment l e b l eu connait l a couleur d'orange, . . vraiment et reel lement 1 'angle d'un t r i a n g l e connait l e s deux autres au meme sens 12 qu'Issac a connu Rebecca." Thi s i l l u s t r a t e s the mechanism of pure a r t by us ing two opposing primary c o l o u r s . A f t e r a l l , C laude l wrote h i s cosmology as a t r e a t i s e on pure a r t . As the above examples show, the not ion of pure a r t has come down to us from the ancient pas t . From t h i s po int of view, t h e r e f o r e , one must c l a i m that today's dadaism i s f i r m l y founded upon a c l a s s i c a l ae s the t i c theory . C. The c o n s t r u c t i o n of the mechanism of pure a r t : the j o i n i n g of the negative and p o s i t i v e worlds . 1 . The j o i n i n g of two d i scordant q u a l i t i e s — C o l e r i d g e . 2 . Co ler idge s p e c i f i e s imaginat ion as the j o i n i n g of the two most a s s o c i a t i o n a l l y d i s t a n t elements. Poe, i n h i s "Marg ina l ia" w r i t e s , "The pure imaginat ion chooses, from e i t h e r Beauty or Deformity , only the most combinable things h i t h e r t o 177 uncombined." But Poe's theory i s s t i l l vulnerable. He had to say "combinable," f o r he was s t i l l dealing with the art of an expressive era, an art that attempts to express a c e r t a i n object. A Greek teacher of r h e t o r i c i n h i s t r e a t i s e on metaphor posited a s i m i l a r theory to Poe's. 3. The construction of the mechanism of pure art involves the breaking down of the world of experience. In other words, i t involves the act of astonishing j u s t as i t i s manifested as an important aspect of Baudelairean a r t . Of course t h i s act of astonishing i s not c a r r i e d out f o r the sake of simply astonishing; i t i s produced merely as a r e s u l t of the mechanism of pure a r t . Why does the breaking down of the world of experience construct the mechanism of pure art? Because experience belongs to the world of empirical consciousness. 4. The constr u c t i o n of the mechanism of pure art involves the breaking down of the world of common asso c i a t i o n s . This breakdown i s accomplished by the method of j o i n i n g two dist a n t q u a l i t i e s . 5. Bacon named the e f f e c t of t h i s mechanism "unexpected." 6 . The unexpected, i n turn, produces m y s t i f i c a t i o n . In f a c t , m y s t i f i c a t i o n i s an impression of the unexpected. 7. In Baudelaire's poetry, both h i s Satanism and irony contribute to the construction of the mechanism of pure a r t . 8. Contrary to Poe's theory, the construction of the mechanism of pure a r t involves the j u x t a p o s i t i o n of "uncombinable" things, without any regard to t h e i r i n t e r r e l a t i o n s . In "The Philosophy of Composition," Poe writes: "Beauty of whatever 178 kind, i n i t s supreme development, i n v a r i a b l y excites the s e n s i t i v e soul to tears. Melancholy i s thus the most 14 legi t i m a t e of a l l the p o e t i c a l tones." Thus he concludes: "When i t most c l o s e l y a l l i e s i t s e l f to Beauty: the death, then, of a b e a u t i f u l woman i s , unquestionably, the most p o e t i c a l t o p i c i n the w o r l d . A m o n g s t i l l "combinable" q u a l i t i e s , Beauty and Melancholy may be considered comparatively " d i s t a n t " ones. But seen as elements of the mechanism of pure a r t , they are s t i l l imperfect. Today, such subjects as beauty and melancholy seem cheap and banal to us. Poe's aes t h e t i c s s t i l l belongs to impure a r t ; i t merely explains a mechanism of stimulating the world of empirical consciousness. We have already discussed how melancholy i s produced by gi v i n g aesthetic s t i m u l a t i o n to the world of empirical consciousness. In short, Poe's poetic world i s that of a c t u a l sensation. With Baudelaire, therefore, the modality of a rt f o r the f i r s t time s h i f t e d from the old mode of a r t that Poe s t i l l clung to. In Baudelaire's aes t h e t i c s , a r t no longer aims to present the world of actual sensation. Separated from a c t u a l i t y , he presents a mechanism that j o i n s u t t e r l y "uncombinable" elements. This mechanism of pure a r t can be compared to p a r a l l e l l i n e s that i n t e r s e c t at an i n f i n i t e point. In elementary geometry, when two s t r a i g h t l i n e s do not i n t e r s e c t on a plane [ f o r they keep the same distance from each other], they are said to be p a r a l l e l . But when we introduce the notion of i n f i n i t y to our consideration, i t may become poss i b l e to think of p a r a l l e l l i n e s i n t e r s e c t i n g at an i n f i n i t e point. Thus, pure a r t holds i n f i n i t y as i t s 179 object. Poe's poetry i s s t i l l f i n i t e . (Although he c r i e s out the word " i n f i n i t e " often, when we look at h i s poems, i t becomes c l e a r that h i s poetry s t i l l stands i n the world of empirical consciousness.) In contrast with Poe's, Baudelaire's aesthetics belongs to higher mathematics. Poe's i s that of j u n i o r high school. Pure a r t i s to impure a r t as higher mathematics i s to elementary mathematics. In sum, one must recognize pure art as a higher mode of a r t . Next, one must note that i t i s poss i b l e to suggest p a r a l l e l l i n e s that i n t e r s e c t i n i n f i n i t y by using the p a r a l l e l l i n e s of elementary geometry. The j u x t a p o s i t i o n of two elements that never meet presents the mode of a r t that has developed from Baudelaire to dadaism. D. Pure a r t i s supernaturalism. This, however, does not mean that supernaturalism opposes s c i e n t i f i c n atural phenomena or human nature. I t simply means that pure a r t as an a r t i s t i c mechanism transcends empirical consciousness. By means of t h i s transcendence pure art f u l f i l l s i t s aim. In the f i n a l a n a l y s i s , what i s meant by supernaturalism i s the construction of a mechanism that breaks down the world of experience or of actual sensation. In terms of the e t h i c a l concepts that Baudelaire so h a b i t u a l l y uses, the nat u r a l becomes "vulgar." Thus, passion, which belongs to the natural w o r l d — t h e world of actual sensation—becomes vulgar. A concept that opposes the n a t u r a l i s what Baudelaire c a l l s " a r t i f i c i a l . " I t follows that the a r t i f i c i a l i s noble and a r i s t o c r a t i c . Baudelaire c a l l s the a r t i f i c i a l "Dandy," and the natural "woman." Woman i s vulgar and Dandy a r i s t o c r a t i c . We must, however, note here that Baudelaire praises Dandy not because he a c t u a l l y f e e l s that Dandy i s praise-worthy but merely i n 180 order to e x p l i c a t e the mechanism of pure a r t . A f t e r a l l , any poem that expresses actual and natural f e e l i n g s i s vulgar ( c f . Baudelaire's essay on Heine). I t i s as an i n e v i t a b l e development from Baudelaire that surrealism has become a prevalent mode of art i n recent years. In the f i n a l a n a l y s i s , surrealism and supernaturalism are the same and share a c l a s s i c a l t r a d i t i o n of a r t . Surrealism transcends r e a l i t y defined as "Empfindung" i n terms of empirical "Anschauung." In other words, surrealism reduces the degree of empirical consciousness to zero. Surrealism, therefore, must share the same aesthe t i c operation and purpose with Baudelaire's a e s t h e t i c s . Although, i n the f i r s t issue of Surrealisme edited by Ivan G o l l , someone claims that the term "surrealism" was invented by A p o l l i n a i r e and himself, the s p i r i t of t h i s pure art i s a very c l a s s i c a l one. The following i s an o u t l i n e of t h i s t r a d i t i o n of pure a r t : 1. P l a t o : ( c f . Phaedrus, Symposium, e t c . ) — h i s notion of poetry as madness. 2. Horace: with regard to madness r e f e r to h i s Ars Poetica. 3. Bacon: Poetry r e c i t e s things that are manifold, f u l l of changes, and sudden (that i s , unexpected). He also says, "There i s no e x c e l l e n t beauty that hath not some strangeness i n the proportion."''"^ 4. Baudelaire: (See h i s ideas on poetry found i n various parts of "Journaux intimes.") a. Le melange du grotesque et du tragique est agreable a 1'esprit comme les discordances aux o r e i l l e s b l a s e e s . ^ b. Deux q u a l i t e s l i t t e r a i r e s fondamentales: surnaturalisme . 1 8 et i r o n i e . c. Moliere. Mon opinion sur T a r t u f f e est que ce n'est pas une comedie, mais un pamphlet.^ 181 l a g l o i r e duyjcomedien. . . . ^ d. Je ne pretends pas que l a J o i e ne puisse pas s'associer avec l a Beaute, mais je d i s que l a Joie [en] est un des ornements l e s plus v u l g a i r e s . . . ^ e. Ce qui n'est pas legerement difforme a l ' a i r i n s e n s i b l e ; — d ' o u i l s u i t que 1 ' i r r e g u l a r i t e , c'est-a-dire l'inattendu, l a su r p r i s e , l'etonnement sont une p a r t i e 22 e s s e n t i e l l e et l a c a r a c t e r i s t i q u e de l a beaute. 23 5. Mallarme: Art i s a hyperbole. 6. Tzara's dadaist method. 7. Breton's group: surrealism,, dream. 8. A r i s t o t l e : One should avoid using idiomatic expressions as much as po s s i b l e and should adopt, as i t were, the s t y l e of a for e i g n language ( i n R h e t o r i c ) . (In general, I beli e v e that the ancient Greeks produced an ex c e l l e n t l i t e r a t u r e . Your w r i t i n g should never become l i k e a composition. School teachers' writings would never do.) In simple terms, these p r o v e r b i a l words suggest methods of constructing the mechanism of a r t , as well as actual sense impressions that one receives from the mechanism. They are not expressing, however, the authors' emotional or i d e a l t r u t h s . • E. Pure art and a e s t h e t i c s . Aesthetic theories i n general have dealt almost e x c l u s i v e l y with empirical consciousness. Thus, i t follows that the mechanism of pure a r t blocks the operation of such an empirical a e s t h e t i c notion as empathy as defined by the a e s t h e t i c i a n , Lipps. F. Pure a r t and the theory of rhythm. 182 Pure art r e j e c t s rhythm. I t does so not because rhythm i s not b e a u t i f u l , but rather because i t i s b e a u t i f u l . Due to i t s beauty, thus, i t becomes an inappropriate material with which to construct the mechanism of pure a r t . Poe, being an elementary a r t i s t i n h i s poetry, of course valued rhythm. At f i r s t glance, Baudelaire's poetry may seem to value rhythm highly. But compared with works of l a t e r symbolists, Baudelaire's poetry e x h i b i t s a lack of the desire to " s i n g . " His poetic rhythm i s , thus, rather p r o s a i c . He had the throat of a medieval monk. G. Expressionism (impure a r t ) requires a mechanism that asserts the subjective s e l f . Whereas supernaturalism must possess a mechanism that abolishes the s e l f . Supernaturalism does not merely express supernatural phenomena, nor does i t express Deus ex machina ( c f . The Homer of A r i s t o t l e by David Samuel Margoliouth). Next, i n order to abolish the s e l f , one must abo l i s h the constructive elements of the s e l f . "Cogito, ergo sum" can become "P e r c i p i o , ergo sum." Thus, one must construct a mechanism that does not allow " p e r c i p i o . " Since "Wahrnehmung" belongs to empirical consciousness, i n order to avoid "percipere," one must transform empirical consciousness into pure consciousness. H. The object of expression i n pure art i s nothing but the very mechanism that generates pure consciousness. Only the mechanism has to be expressed. Pure consciousness i t s e l f cannot be d i r e c t l y expressed, f o r i t ex i s t s i n our psyche. Once i t i s expressed, i t i s no longer pure consciousness i t s e l f . On the other hand, impure art i s able to express empirical consciousness d i r e c t l y . Thus, i t i s possible to d i s t i n g u i s h pure art from impure art by the nature of the object of expression. Although the objects expressed i n Baudelaire's poems are elements, or mental phenomena, that belong to empirical consciousness, we must t r e a t them as 183 constituents of the mechanism of pure art i n order to form a v a l i d i a e s t h e t i c c r i t i c i s m . Someone l i k e Anatole France seems to lack so thoroughly any sense of pure art that h i s c r i t i c i s m becomes a laughable joke. For example, France says, "Baudelaire i s a very bad C h r i s t i a n , " or 24 "As a human being, he i s despicable." These words e x h i b i t a c r i t i c i s m d i r e c t e d at the e x t e r i o r of Baudelaire's poetry, or at h i s l i f e . But Baudelaire's l i f e was almost s o l e l y c o n s t i t u t e d by an a c t i v i t y c a l l e d poetry. In short, h i s poetry and l i f e simply formed a c e r t a i n a e s t h e t i c mechanism. His " l i f e " and "poetry" are by no means the true representations of h i s true s e l f . This becomes c l e a r when he says, "They 25 condemn me f o r a l l the sms I merely wrote about." S i m i l a r l y , i n an appendix to "Marginalia," Poe makes fun of some Shakespearian c r i t i c s . Poe argues that they do not take Hamlet as a mechanism within a play, but take him as an a c t u a l l y e x i s t i n g e t h i c a l being separate from the play i t s e l f . France's c r i t i c i s m of Baudelaire ends up being a c r i t i c i s m of l i f e s i m i l a r to the c r i t i c i s m of Hamlet above. A c r i t i c named Seche says, "Baudelaire had a f i c t i t i o u s Baudelaire on the surface of the true Baudelaire. He 26 hides behind the former." This f i c t i t i o u s Baudelaire was indeed h i s art and h i s mechanism of pure a r t . I. Works of pure a r t . Works of s u p e r n a t u r a l i s t art do not d i r e c t l y express the "joy of s p i r i t " that i s born out of pure consciousness. They merely possess a mechanism that generates pure consciousness. A work i s a mechanism—a machine. In l i t e r a t u r e , i f the reader does not know how to operate t h i s machine, he w i l l not be able to appreciate the work. A producer of pure art simply e x h i b i t s t h i s machine. The reader operates i t as he w i l l s and categorizes i t as decadent, comic, or non-sense. This machine i s so 184 d e l i c a t e l y b u i l t that even i t s manufacturer i s not able to explain how to operate i t . A f t e r a l l , only the manufacturer i s able to use i t . Thus, there i s no other way of appreciating pure art than to become i t s manufacturer. I t i s impossible to comprehend i t f u l l y unless one constructs i t . Pure a r t manufactures t h i s mysterious pipe organ. I I I . Rhetoric A. I t i s not an animal with lanky legs. A blond man runs, holding the b e l l y of a crucian carp, grazing the side of an angelic sergeant who holds an apple and a saber i n a f i e l d where pansies bloom. We define a lady who comes out of a lump of cheese with her shoulders bared as allanpoepoepoe-poe. A dragoon cavalry s o l d i e r , who i s cooling o f f h i s back ins i d e a sponge, taking an unused smooth pipe out of h i s t i g h t l y sealed palate, with h i s party shoe smashes h i s temple where melancholy i s p r e c i p i t a t e d . This becomes l i k e a seven-string harp. Outside a cafe, a gluteus maximus breathes l i k e a p e a r l . A p a i r of narrow glasses, a f o r e s t , and two hands guide h i s vest and comb by i n s e r t i n g a tube into a transparent stratum that has accumulated on a piece of stake. S t u f f i n g a petunia i n the ear, pointing at the centre of heavens, I l e t people take a p i c t u r e of me as I was coming out to a f r u i t orchard, a f t e r l i f t i n g a handle of the backgate of the Vatican, but I found myself i n the yard of a b o t t l e c o l l e c t o r . Courbet. A f t e r s t u f f i n g a b o t t l e with bread and c i g a r e t t e s and p u l l i n g i t up to the l i b r a r y clock using a p u l l e y , we do not pass under i t . But I put my head through a hole I made by breaking the stained glass with my head, and look out. There i s no one to blow a steam-whistle. Only a chef i s 1 8 5 running, holding an ornamental h a i r p i n . A barber, who was l a t e f o r the f i n a l judgment, i s kicked out of the cathedral with the resounding sound of the pipe organ, and jumps onto the t w i l i g h t . But he l e f t h i s wool vest behind, so he goes back i n there to r e t r i e v e i t . As I move to the beach on foot, I f i n d i t boring to see s a i l o r ' s pink eyebrows or coal t a r r e f l e c t e d on my s i l k hat. So I give i t away to a woman. The sky i s s t i l l pagodite. The s k u l l s of trees are not as a l i v e as you should t r y dropping God's col o u r l e s s boots upon them. Gilded breasts of Aphrodite. Upon a goldenrain tree, I p i t c h a tent and pretend to be an i c t e r i c . Since there i s n ' t a barber nearby, i t f e e l s weird to have s a f f r o n growing down my temple. As I run i n t o a house, a gentle man i s sleeping soundly on a b i l l i a r d t a b l e . He doesn't know that the earth has become a grape seed, or that h i s f r i e n d with golden buttons i s waiting f o r him outside with h i s s a i l boat. Dawn i s a wanderer. The sun i s not the job of r a i s i n bread. Although i t i s an afternoon of a spring f i e l d as b e a u t i f u l as the l a b e l of vermouth, as Anacreon blows his horn, a f a t torso of evening descends. And Mephistopheles was a c t u a l l y a champagne cork. Water flows through a marshmallow flower. I l i e down wearing a p a i r of narrow black s a t i n pants and enamel shoes. A b i r d neck i s unloosed. Dolben. B. Greek r h e t o r i c had an amazing development. 186 Notes to Esthetique Foraine 1. See Immanuel Kant's C r i t i q u e of Pure Reason, trans. Norman Kemp Smith (New York: The Humanities Press, 1929) 202. Also see Biographia  L i t e r a r i a , eds. James Engell and W. Jackson Bate, i n The C o l l e c t e d Works of  Samuel Taylor Coleridge, eds. Kathleen Coburn and Bart Winer, B o l l i n g e n Series, no. 75, 2 v o l s , i n one (Princeton: Princeton U n i v e r s i t y Press, 1983) 1: 289, i n which we read: I take t h i s occasion to observe, that here and elsewhere Kant uses the terms i n t u i t i o n , and the verb active ( I n t u e r i , germanice Anschauen) f o r which we have unfortunately no correspondent word, e x c l u s i v e l y f o r that which can be represented i n space and time. He therefore c o n s i s t e n t l y and r i g h t l y denies the p o s s i b i l i t y of i n t e l l e c t u a l i n t u i t i o n s . But as I see no adequate reason f o r t h i s exclusive sense of the term, I have reverted to i t s wider s i g n i f i c a t i o n authorized by our elder theologians and metaphysicians, according to whom the term comprehends a l l truths known to us without a medium. 2. See Baudelaire, "Journaux intimes" i n OEuvres 1: 658. 3. Nishiwaki's note l i s t s the source as " H i s t o i r e des Fleurs du Mai et des Epaves" par M. J . Crepet. Other p u b l i c a t i o n d e t a i l s are not i n d i c a t e d and have not been located by the t r a n s l a t o r . 4. See Edgar A l l a n Poe, Eureka (New York: Geo P. Putham, 1848), r p t . i n The Complete Works, ed. James A. Harrison, 17 v o l s . (1902; r p t . New York: AMS Press Inc, 1965) 16: 314, i n which we read: 187 What you c a l l The Universe i s but h i s present expansive existence. He now f e e l s h i s l i f e through an i n f i n i t y of imperfect p l e a s u r e s — t h e p a r t i a l and p a i n - i n t e r t a n g l e d pleasures of those inconceivably numerous things which you designate as h i s creatures, but which are r e a l l y but i n f i n i t e i n d i v i d u a l -i z a t i o n s of Himself. 5. Poe 16: 314. 6. See Baudelaire, "Journaux intimes" i n OEuvres 1: 668-675. 7. Source not i n d i c a t e d i n the text. 8. Source not i n d i c a t e d i n the text. 9. Source not i n d i c a t e d i n the text. 10. "Of A d v e r s i t y " i n The Essays of Francis Bacon, ed. Clark Sutherland Northup (1908; Boston: Houghton M i f f l i n Company, 1936) 16-17. 11. See Coleridge, Biographia L i t e r a r i a 2: 15-17, i n which we read: [The poet] d i f f u s e s a tone, and s p i r i t of unity, that blends, and (as i t were) fuses, each i n t o each, by that synthetic and magical power, to which we have e x c l u s i v e l y appropriated the name of imagination. This power, f i r s t put i n a c t i o n by the w i l l and understanding, and retained under t h e i r i r r e m i s s i v e , though gentle and unnoticed, controul ( l a x i s e f f e r t u r habenis) reveals i t s e l f i n the balance or r e c o n c i l i a t i o n of opposite or discordant q u a l i t i e s : of sameness, with d i f f e r e n c e ; of the general, with the concrete; the idea, with the image; the i n d i v i d u a l , with the representative; the sense of novelty and freshness, with old and f a m i l i a r objects; a more than usual state of emotion, with more than usual order; judgement ever awake and steady s e l f - p o s s e s s i o n , with enthusiasm and f e e l i n g profound or vehement; and while i t blends and harmonizes the natural and the a r t i f i c i a l , s t i l l subordinates a r t to nature; the manner to the matter; and our admiration of the poet to our sympathy with the poetry. 12. Paul Claudel, Art poetique ( P a r i s : Mercure de France, 1929) 64. 13. Poe, "Marginalia" i n The Complete Works 16: 155-156. 14. Poe, "The Philosophy of Composition" i n The Complete Works 14: 198. 15. Poe 14: 201. 16. "On Beauty" i n The Essays of Francis Bacon 134. 17. Baudelaire, "Journaux intimes" i n OEuvres 1: 661. 18. Baudelaire 1: 658. 19. Baudelaire 1: 701. 20. Baudelaire 1: 703. 21. Baudelaire 1: 657. 22. Baudelaire 1: 656. 23. The t r a n s l a t o r has not been able to locate Mallarme's words d i r e c t l y a s s e r t i n g art as a hyperbole. In A l b e r t Thibaudet's book on Mallarme, however, one f i n d s the following phrase "hyperbole de poesie pure." Cf. Albert Thibaudet, La Poesie de Stephane Mallarme ( P a r i s : L i b r a i r i e Gallimard, 1926) 164. 24. Source not ind i c a t e d i n the text. 25. Source not ind i c a t e d i n the text. 26. Source not ind i c a t e d i n the text. 189 I I . Poetry Ambarvalia''" Le Monde Ancien 2 The Song of Choricos 0 Muse, a r i s e . Of l a t e thou hast been submerged too deeply i n Poesy. 3 The music thou blowest f o r t h reaches not the Abydos. May the curve of thy throat be the heart of the Abydos. Greek L y r i c s Weather On a morning ( l i k e an upturn'd gem)^ Someone whispers to somebody"* at the doorway. This i s the day gods are born. Shepherd i n Capri Even on a spring morning (continued) I hear the noise of autumn In my S i c i l i a n pipe, r e t r a c i n g The longings of thousands of years. Rain The south wind brought a soft goddess, moistened the bronze, moistened the fountain, moistened the wings of swallows and the golden h a i r moistened the t i d e , moistened the sand, moistened the f i s h . It q u i e t l y moistened the temple, the bath, and the theatre. This serene procession of the s o f t goddess Moistened my tongue. V i o l e t Though the cocktail-maker i s a poor penny-shaker, The Greek mix makes a golden noise. Try a bar c a l l e d "The Grey V i o l e t . " As the blood of Bacchus and the nymphs' new tears are mixed A l i f e , dark and immortal, f r o t h i n g , Emits an aroma With a flounder as large as a wheel. The Sun The countryside of Karumoj i n produces marble. Once I spent a summer there. There are no skylarks and no snakes come out. Only the sun comes up from bushes of blue damson^ And goes down into bushes of damson. g The boy laughed as he seized a dolphin i n a brook. Hand The s p i r i t ' s artery snapped, God's f i l m snapped— When I grope f o r the darkness of l i p s , taking the hand of ghostly ether dreaming through withered timber, A honeysuckle reaches out spreading fragrance on rock, k i l l i n g a f o r e s t . A hand reaching f o r a bird's neck and f o r the t w i l i g h t of 9 gems— In t h i s dreaming hand , 10 , l i e s Smyrna's dream. A rose bush f l a r i n g . . . 192 Eye July, when white waves pounce upon our heads, We pass through a l o v e l y town i n the south. A quiet garden l i e s asleep f o r t r a v e l l e r s . Roses, sand, and water. . . Heart misty i n the roses. Hair engraved i n a stone. Sound engraved i n a stone. The eye engraved i n a stone opens to e t e r n i t y . P l a t t e r Long ago when yellow v i o l e t s bloomed, As dolphins l i f t e d t h e i r heads toward the heavens and toward the sea, Dionysus s a i l e d , dreaming On a sharp-pointed ship adorned with flowers, Washed h i s face i n a decorated p l a t t e r And crossed the Mediterranean Sea with a gem merchant. That youth's name has been forgotten. Oblivion's glorious morning. 193 Chestnut Leaves As pea-flowers blossomed Our eyes grew narrower. The night came. Fish and I, a l l s l e p t . In the whispers of chestnut leaves I hear Maud's^ voice. A nigh t i n g a l e i s singing. The day i s dawning. My head becomes the shadow of a rose upon marble. A Glass Goblet The luminescence of a white v i o l e t — The l i g h t t r a v e l s around a peninsula And the world of my r i n g sinks i n t o the darkness. Laughter from a wooden cup. A pointed flower opens between the toes, And the white hand held o u t — Now hidden within a ray of l i g h t from a pansy— Embracing a goddess, Image s h i f t i n g into image, Her cheek i n the spring of glorious mirror r e f l e c t e d On a glass sycamore leaves r e f l e c t e d (continued) On her blue shaven eyebrows Polyanthus flowers r e f l e c t e d On a gem tears r e f l e c t e d . When the day goes out to the ocean And the night enters the land, Thy h a i r turns i n v i s i b l e . Thy hand i s r e f l e c t e d on every window. B l i s s , Carman. 13 The woman of b l i s s s t r o l l s Within thy words. They are the closed mornings i n May. The Head of Callimachus and Voyage Pittoresque I To the sea, to the sea, to the land of Tanagra,^ But exhausted, S t e a l t h i l y l i k e a jewelry t h i e f I landed on an unknown land and took a r e s t . My smoke rose And wafted into a garden where amaryllis bloomed. (continued) 195 An aborigine's dog shook i t s ears v i o l e n t l y . This i s the land where The c r i e s of plovers and dogs echo l o n e l i n e s s . Water splashes over gem stones. Reminiscence and sand undulate. 16 Let i t be known that t h i s i s a t e r r a c o t t a dream. II I was f o l l o w i n g a f t e r an et e r n a l l i g h t That ran along the angles of a gem stone, or Reading Aeschylus i n search of gods and heroes, Forgetting the cycles of time, Playing n e i t h e r a f l u t e nor pipes f o r a long time, I climbed up the tree of knowledge i n a class room f i l l e d with a worldly smell. I went out to a town, went through a town, Into a f o r e s t where Japanese bush warblers used to sing. My heavy heart and legs wandered afa r . Leaves awoke l i k e a m a r y l l i s, Put t h e i r f i n g e r s on my shoulder, as i f to whisper. My heart pounded smoothly l i k e a t i g e r . 0, ' t i s autumn, Callimachus! Being a woman of candle, (continued) Thou makest swell the hazelnuts and the cheeks of shepherds With thy flame and fragrance. When a golden wind rocks thy stone, Bless me. Le Monde Moderne A Fragrant Stoker David's duty and h i s jewels pass through between Adonis and legumina and rush toward t h e i r i n f i n i t e e x t i n c t i o n . Thus, behold! How the smooth Quercus i n f e c t o r i a ^ f r o l i c s , leaning against the magi who generally came from the east. In a c o l l e c t i v e sense approximately very purple and 18 extremely j u s t i f i a b l e postponement! Velasquez and game bir d s and a l l the other things. In an e f f e c t i v e era when k i n g f i s h e r s gabble, viewing the 19 Acropolis i n the f a r distance, what refreshes the n a i l s and stretches the i n f a n t i l e legs i s not i n a si n g l e walnut but i s above a s i n g l e ragman's head. Continuously bless the water-buffalo that attempts to climb up a maple tree ! When someone t r i e s to c a l l out to me by h i t t i n g the palate, (continued) I t r y to leave the scene f u r t i v e l y . But again there are some people who throw coins into the mouth. I t r y to shout, but my 20 voice i s merely a v i s i t by Angelico. I kneel down, yet e t e r n i t y i s too noisy. I saw someone showing h i s ankles from the gable. I c a l l e d out and asked h i s name. As expected, he was a cook from S i c i l y . As I descend the embankment, there i s someone who blows my neck l i k e a f l u t e . It i s my servant. Thou must immediately return home and love thy wife! There i s someone walking under the w i s t e r i a t r e l l i s . Hey, that's not a passageway. Or, there i s someone holding up h i s hand behind the c u r t a i n , but sleep i s rosy and merely something l i k e a vine. I put on my necklace, v i o l e n t l y l i g h t my pipe and run to a whea t - f e s t i v a l . For I solemnly push my chin out of the water. I hide the k a r i r o k u . ^ The man who holds a wild pink within a c y l i n d r i c a l house! It i s not to make a p u b l i c speech about a lamp-shade, but i t i s an attempt to write a note with regard to an envoy. I t i s 22 to p u l l the legs of an atrophy patient as a g i l l y flower, who i s taking a r e s t leaning against a window as music. 0, god of procreation! May you create a c l i f f i n front of a somnambulist! The f i r e of oleander flowers. Smothered by pink e t e r n i t y , one i s about to f i s h . When the 23 bishop Benbo whispers l i k e a woman, a gondola g l i d e s . (continued) 198 Thou, sudden flower of acacia! I drank eau de cologne. Farewell death! On a Friday that possesses a virtuous c o n t i n u i t y , when I am about to go to a view-point a f t e r o f f e r i n g a water-pipe, since there i s someone up on the bridge c a l l i n g me, h u r r i e d l y I r a i s e my legs completely upon the ambrosia. A l l i s a chin. Man attempts to be perfect j u s t l i k e a chin. I wrap a forehead that smiles without r e s t i n v e l v e t . I c a l l the servant as soon as the melted cosmetic gets i n the eyes. From the tower toward a chicken c u t l e t the brain shudders e t e r n a l l y . Soon again someone knocks on my head with an ap r i c o t . There i s someone r e f l e c t e d on a vase. That's the heel of P i e t r o who j u s t came back from dinner. I t r y to see t h i s 24 with some p i t y , but my eyes are too amarante. Come, f i r e . 25 A P i c t u r e Card Show, Shylockiade Prologus Whispers from my eyes r e f l e c t e d upon a hazelnut, are they known as the shadow of the evening sun blowing at a (continued) spring i n h e l l ? A woman l i e s down i n the grass, burning. W i l l her tears reach the d i s t a n t land, dripping? My two eyes are two Apollos. The g r i e f of Apollo has disappeared into the grass. Ye, begone. The play has ended. This morning I kindled some v i o l e t s and warmed my cold necklace. The warm c r y s t a l i s the dream that longs f o r thee. Ye, return. The play has begun again. 26 The northern Saxpere misunderstands mine h i s t o r y . I am the one who attempts to t e l l the true mythos. But, A r i s t o t l e and Plato, ye begone. Dionysus also i s no more than a dream in the f i e l d s . Behold my golden tongue that swears by Sphinx and Aristophanes. Shepherd, thou shalt also f l y over the sea. Be the dream of E l Greco's s a i n t , together with Sappho and purple seaweeds. Both the Renaissance and a C e l t i c milk-maid are merely 27 d i g i t a l i s and a will-o'-the-wisp. Or, there i s the story of Troy, but i t i s no more than a b l i n d man's l i g h t r e f l e c t e d on a sycamore l e a f . My musicians do not know people l i k e David or c e l e s t i a l musicians or Orpheus or Scheherezade or Stravinsky. My dancer i s a Tartary i l l u s i o n i s t , and someone l i k e the northerner Mars i s merely a drunken beggar. My t h e a t r e - c u r t a i n i s heavier than St. Peter's cathedral, but (continued) 200 i t s movement i s l i g h t e r than the breath of the s l eep ing Adonis , and i t s f ragrant beauty i s super ior to the dusk that envelops the c i t y of C a i r o . Ye, who blow out d a n d e l i o n - f l u f f that grows at the wharf of Carthage, 28 ye i d l e r s , throw away your roasted chestnuts and a p p l i s and hurry to my thea tre . My memories sh iver l i k e anemone i n my hear t . My language i s not Dorian but A l t a i c and has a mixture of c o l l o q u i a l and l i t e r a r y s t y l e s j u s t l i k e the poisonous monkshood 29 herb . Ye, c lassroom-composi t ions , take f l i g h t . But the f a c t that l a d i e s , l i k e wi ldboars , love t h i s poisonous herb i s an e t e r n a l custom. Shylock: Accursed Venice , yet as a storm i s gradua l ly calmed, my mind has become quie t now. Rather , I can send o f f my breath to Venice with a smi l e . I can even p lay a gondola, as i f p l a y i n g a mandolin. Those who f r o l i c with economics are a l so f a r away now. 30 Legenda Aurea i s a l l a l i e . I am the one who murdered Antonio• Taking J e s s i c a with her jewels , I escaped to t h i s c i t y of Carthage that resembles one large gem stone. (continued) "Sin i s born out of embracing a woman." This saying soaks my heart l i k e A p r i l r a i n . There was a time when I threw away a l l my treasures l i k e beer-lees i n t o the ocean, s a i l e d up the N i l e and c r i e d with J e s s i c a as we leaned against a pyramid. 3 Or I worshipped the Sphinx with the sun. Its etern a l r i d d l e turned out to be water. I intend to throw away a gem named J e s s i c a also into the ocean someday. My "Punch and Judy" play that c o l l e c t s money from the s a i l o r s of Carthage i s my l i f e ' s sustenance, but t h i s also I intend to throw away in t o the water. 32 33 Helas, helas, h l l a s ! Now the tragedy of King Oedipus i s about to begin. J e s s i c a , blow thy horn. J e s s i c a ( v e n t r i l o q u y ) : 34 (Oedipus) Antigone, c h i l d of the b l i n d man. What land i s t h i s ? What people, what c i t y ' s gate have we reached? (Antigone) Oedipus, my father, I see a b e a u t i f u l c i t y i n the distance. This must be the place to worship the gods. There are blossoms on the l a u r e l trees, on the o l i v e trees, and on the grape vines. Among them, many nightingales are f l y i n g and singing. As you have trodden such a long way to reach here, you have aged much. Upon t h i s rugged rock, s t r e t c h your legs and take a r e s t . — The Ghost of Antonio: I was l i s t e n i n g i n t e n t l y to the whispering sound that came from here, thinking that i t was from the N i l e ; but i t was thee, Shylock. Hast thou f l e d the Venetian laws and survived? Thou, accursed Shylock. Shylock: 0, methought, around here, 'twas the shadow of an ephemera, the wings of a swallow; but then, ' t i s the ghost of Antonio• Thou, the enemy of Jews, dost thou s t i l l desire a piece of fl e s h ? I have already dr i e d out thy f l e s h l i k e sugared dates and t r i c k e d a S i c i l i a n shepherd i n t o eating i t . The Ghost of Antonio: I d i d not come here to claim my f l e s h . Hand me thy daughter J e s s i c a . I was the f i r s t to have an eye on her, e a r l i e r than that youth Lorenzo. My melancholy was not born out of the o r i e n t a l trade but out of thy daughter. Shylock: Thou, N a t u r a l i s t . I had no idea that thou possessed such a (continued) sweet s o u l . But I s t i l l i n t e n d to throw a l l my t r e a s u r e s i n t o the water, r a t h e r than o f f e r i n g them to thee. Helas, h e l a s , a r t thou the one who i s f o l l o w e d by an ephemera? 35 The God J u p i t e r (as Deus ex machina ); Shylock, thou s h a l t be an abalone. (Shylock d i e s . ) J e s s i c a , thou s h a l t be a breeze and v i s i t my garden. .36 ( J e s s i c a d i e s . ) ' 37 Paradis Perdu Genesis Behind the chemistry classroom 38 39 a s i n g u l a r o b j e c t , a t a l i p o t palm, i s growing without e m i t t i n g any resounding n o i s e . The c h a l k and the c o r n - f l o s s v i b r a t e . 40 As i f midnight, every s p r i n g i s b o i l i n g . Everyone prays that h i s own so u l won't be l i k e t h a t . He passes across a wooden b r i d g e , 41 smoking a Golden Bat. (stanza break) S t i l l an o l d p e n c i l i s l e f t . 42 By a s i n g l e large r i v e r teeming with salmon, we, Fouquet and I, lay down l i k e two snakes. A lone poplar tree was clamorous l i k e a woman. A mountain made f l a c c i d by a mulberry f o r e s t flowed in t o our eye b a l l s , as i t played on a pipe about the love i n our hearts. We talked about France, and again returned i n the d i r e c t i o n of our European lamp. 0, what a b e a u t i f u l old brush! Further from the honeysuckle-covered house of Miss Aeschylus, but near my house, an honest man sounds h i s steam i n order to pursue a smoke-pipe that i s to b repaired. A l l my f r i e n d s have moved beyond the r a i l r o a d crossing. 43 There you w i l l f i n d a photograph of Thomas Caldy. There i s a very large muslin f l o o r - c u s h i o n . There i s a kerosene heater. 44 And on the desk, there i s a perennial blue and a p r a c t i c a l l y CRUSHED pocket watch. But I w i l l purchase the surface r i g h t s on the slope of a l i t t l e h i l l (continued) which i s p u l l e d by various mechanics and kindergartens, and I w i l l construct f o r myself a dangerous r a t t a n c h a i r . It i s s t i l l p i tch-black. Toes bump against my trunk. The i c y c h i l l of the a i r knocks against the trees. Turkeys announce the a r r i v a l of the sun. Wearing a woolen s h i r t , a turkey farmer chops wood. Extremely f r u g a l . An old-fashioned aurora opens i t s rosy f i n g e r s . When I open a shabby window, 45 I see a si n g u l a r garden as narrow as my hallway. The soapy water dripping from the chicken-coop assassinates my imagined cactus flowers. No springs e x i s t there. No wrens, no lawyers, no c i g a r s . Neither are there the r e l i e f s of choir boys by Luca d e l l . . . . 46 Robbia. There i s nobody i n the heavens. The c i t y of l i l i e s i s also f a r . I only close my eyes before a mirror. 48 Journal of a Deep I n t e r i o r There i s one fr e s h b i c y c l e . * • -i 49 _ 50 . . A s i n g u l a r Isarago man has become a commission salesman of soap. Soap that i s soft and has a r t e r i e s and speckles and i s scented. In order to advertise t h i s , he s t r i k e s a gong. This ding-ding-dong-dong i s the afternoon of shepherds"* 1 l i v i n g i n my b i r t h - p l a c e . 52 Within a piece of sweet bread, my soul forms a Persian carpet, one p r o f i l e , and one mint l e a f . I t i s bad to be so BAGGY and b l u i s h because i t doesn't have creases l i k e the trousers of the young man i n M i l l e t ' s Angelus. When the evening comes trees breathe s o f t l y , 53 or we see a garance-rose horizon from the balcon, or things l i k e stars cast warm words upon us. One of my fr i e n d s i s marrying at t h i s moment. He revealed a double-cased gold watch to me. When you p u l l out a button, within i t , (continued) r i n g the b e l l s of the Angelus. The desire to possess i t r i s e s l i k e the sun. The b e l l s of the abbey r i n g ting-kang, ting-kang, toward Rome. This makes men blow whistles. The evening sun i s i n my breakfast. 54 A s c a r l e t toy-Daruma. Upon my own slope I alone stand p e r p e n d i c u l a r l y . Beyond many worthless roofs I see a si n g u l a r , yellow house with a strange aura about upon a very chic f o r e s t gaudily decorated. Such a f o r e s t makes me think of a l i f e f a r away. But the s o f t s o i l , i n order to grow a plant which resembles sorrowful thought, l e t s the g r a c e f u l orange-coloured cows transport feces from beneath the c i t i e s to the a g r i c u l t u r a l regions. How p i t i f u l i t i s to grow salad with man's decomposed melancholy. However, around here, a youth, who i s fond of love, i s walking alone. Blow the trombone! (stanza break) 208 I bought a p a i r of extremely c o l o u r f u l suspenders and l e f t the c a p i t o l , and i n three days I saw myself i n a sandy isthmus. A l l day looking at the lighthouse, I smoked l o t s of c i g a r e t t e s i n blue legumes. So, moving away from those lovers of arts and culture as f a r as p o s s i b l e , I f u r i o u s l y struck a match i n a c i t y famous f o r cucumbers and cockscomb flowers. Again the church announces a quarter of an hour. Giaconda. Strawberry. Behind a painted hotel b u i l d i n g , I breathe and enter i n t o an autumn that i s cold as well as extremely p i t i f u l . F l e s h l e s s evergreens l o i t e r about within the horizon. Things l i k e spinach are quiet. I f e e l a l l has turned into the bedroom s l i p p e r s . F eeling some chocolate inside my s p i n a l cord, p u t t i n g dandelions and v i o l e t s i n my lungs, I read Mme Guyau's school book. Where are the s i l e n t double l i p s ? The shooting range i s nearby. Apples and Snakes My s p i r i t ' s f u r wore a cloak that was r e a l l y t i c k l i s h . My shadow pours phlegm onto the roadside. My shadow upon d a i s i e s seems t r u l y impoverished. On a t r a i n , a merchant sleeps soundly as i f being at home u n t i l he f a l l s into a soft sleep. What an i r r e g u l a r begonia flower! On a shaky balcony i n deathly t w i l i g h t i 56 a s i n g u l a r cook shudders i n awe l i k e a mimosa tre e . What sort of grove my childhood i s ! At 12 p.m. the t r a i n turns around along the cemetery. In the i n t e r i o r there i s a greenhouse. Those mouths that gobble up our sleep are Venus's-flytraps They are dreaming of a great syringe s p r i n k l i n g perfume. People love cherry blossoms more than dandelions and eat tempura sea-eels resplendent l i k e f a l s e teeth. Tooth powder i s the halo of an icon. (continued) 2 1 0 The e y e b a l l crawls up the demolished church s p i r e and fo l lows the sun running across a green f i e l d that spreads out beyond the t i n - r o o f . What m o r t i f i c a t i o n ! Lonely people put on t h e i r embroidered shoes and go out to see trees r o t l i k e m i l k . However, t h e i r watches d ig the s t r a t a of time a c c u r a t e l y . Hanging s h i r t s i n a c i t r o n f o r e s t people bathe i n hot water and without r i s k i n g death roast t h e i r f a t i g u e . Thou, extremely good natured prawn! God b le s s thee. The chorus of goats! Me? I'm the god of wine. Since I 've got no goats with eyeba l l s l i k e r a i s i n b r e a d , ^ please do eat an antelope born i n A f r i c a . Send up a f l a r e w i t h i n my poor l o n e l y b r a i n , and j u s t to please i t , give me an a lcarazas water j u g . 0, i n a d i s t a n t co l l ege town, thrushes are s i n g i n g . Adorning my c u r l y locks with mar igo lds , 58 I see the f e s t i v a l of Comellon, but (continued) 2 1 1 the glory of my br a i n i s heavy. 59 Browning's pomegranates and b e l l s . The black h a i r g l i t t e r i n g with so much camellia o i l belongs to a woman f o r t y - f i v e years of age. Her pipe i s as t h i n and as long as a pen-shaft. Her t r a i n i s crossing an i r o n bridge. The basin i s i c y and cold. When she smiles, her gums f e e l c h i l l y . These people are a l l boring. I s h a l l hang my seven-string z i t h e r on an almond tree growing on a slope i n paradise. F i f t e e n o'clock was rung. S h a l l we run? Rose of Winds Putting a hat on l i g h t l y I walk on a s t r e e t of the L a t i n races beneath the leaves, over the leaves. Within the p u p i l that grows a l l confused and scared behold the fu c h s i a flowers that m u l t i p l y i n v i o l e n t profusion. That young P a r i s i a n (continued) bends h i s f i n g e r strangely i n h i s s t r i p e d hat. There are only a post o f f i c e and tr e e s . The ramune^ b o t t l e i s blue. In f r o n t of my face 62 the master of a bookstore on Kleber i s g r i e v i n g quite n i c e l y Then p u t t i n g an alcohol lamp i n Central Europe, I heat up some cafe au l a i t while l i s t e n i n g to the beggar's accordion i n a pasture. An orange-coloured roof and blue trees i n the distance spur on my mind. 6 3 And yet the sea i s dead wine. Humans climbed up a h i l l and possessed a great green shadow. Beside an acacia tree I want to remain d e a d - s t i l l . The sun, gum trees, a l i g h t railway, t i g e r s , money construct a r e p u b l i c of music. Without a doubt, I r a i s e my hat (continued) 213 64 i n f r o n t of London's Demeter. You, b e a u t i f u l octopus, f i s h f o r the shimmerings of a cod f i s h i n the l e t h a r g i c afternoon that never flows away. But occupation-wise, you were a god. The goddess of coquelicot. ^ The goddess of wheat. The manicurist of pears. But now you imbibe f a t out of the l o c a l female students and dust. Beyond the playground i n the f o r e s t of ships, flowers bloom. It i s a l l the stockholders' d e l i g h t . At the g l o b a l noon, merchants s t a r t to walk toward a h o t e l . In the sun, a man wearing a bulky vest and an a p r i c o t l o i n c l o t h eats a c i g a r marinated i n vinegar and extremely passionately thinks of the god of Brahman, of the decoration medal, and of the snake, and laughs. And then he makes a c l a r i n e t out of a coconut that i s as b i g as h i s s k u l l by p u t t i n g a mouthpiece i n i t . (continued) i 214 And when he plays i t crouching on the ground, there comes the head of a cobra dancing out from a basket. What a b e a u t i f u l cactus! It o s c i l l a t e s l i k e a metronome. Yet people walk on the shady side. One of h i s f r i e n d s has become the manager of a branch o f f i c e . Wearing a r e a l l y nice hat he i s walking on a peninsula very very vigorously. 66 Under ravenalas trees, they are playing v i o l i n s , waiting f o r the r a i n to f a l l from love. People are s t i c k i n g t h e i r smiling chins out of the window of a mosque. Beneath that, t r a n q u i l lake-water r e f l e c t s d i s t a n t mountains that look l i k e large rice-bowls. ( A c t u a l l y these bowls were your backs. In short, l o i n c l o t h s dry r e a l l y w e l l . Acacia flowers are so b e a u t i f u l that they make me s i c k , ) says a t r a v e l l e r . In the Suez Canal j e l l y f i s h are running b e a u t i f u l l y . The horizon i s f u l l of sand. There i s a tent dogs are playing with. A Moor pursues the evening sun and some change. And there i s a st a r r y night. (continued) But things l i k e v o c a t i o n a l schools are not here. Crouching on the banks, the e x i l e d people keep watch on t h e i r burned f i n g e r s i n a cool s i l e n c e . There i s n ' t anybody l i k e a guarantor. The r e c k l e s s workers are t a l k i n g within the night t i g h t l y sealed. Here i s a f l e x i b l e and t a c i t u r n c i t y . At the s t o r e f r o n t a plover and a gem stone can engage i n a conversation. In the yard of the p o l i c e s t a t i o n , h i b i s c u s are flowering l i k e your blood-congested hearts. The l o c a l people walk barefoot l i k e cats. The two men who were j u s t now t a l k i n g anxiously while chewing some unknown leaves and lime are gone somewhere. When the ships a r r i v e , they grab gold coins under the sea l i k e f i s h . Putting those coins behind the ear or i n the mouth, again they are gone somewhere t r a v e l i n g along the railway-track. Without seeing the destiny, u n t i l the path disappears i n t o the bush of bergamot,^ I think of extremely sublime matters. (stanza break) Like a camel I want to crawl into the sand and t r y some algebra with passion. And when I turn f o r t y , I w i l l search out l o c a l markets and eat some dusty grapes. And j u s t one more time as I s t a r t e d to run toward my soul, I l o i t e r e d along a sycamore avenue with a medical doctor whom I met i n Cairo, and together we grieved at our lack of sleep the night before 68 due to the exc r u c i a t i n g noise from the fountain. Leaning against a pyramid we f a l l asleep into the most b e a u t i f u l dawn i n the world. Meanwhile the camel-rider gets excited by the sound of s i l v e r . What a supple and smooth r e a l i t y ! Roman de l a Rose It was ten years ago at noon when I parted with J o h n . ^ In October I was to go to u n i v e r s i t y , and John went to h e l l . The two ran through the foggy London, got scolded f o r climbing up on the roof of the B r i t i s h Museum. (continued) Later John's p i c t u r e appeared i n a l i t e r a r y magazine. Within a p e n c i l he ju t t e d out h i s cheek bones with a grand a i r . When crocuses burst out from rocks i n the park, when trees bear crooked yellow pears, everyday we talked i n bars, i n cafes, and among I t a l i a n s . John s l e p t i n an a t t i c i n a d i r t y town south of the River Thames. Since there was no e l e c t r i c i t y , we put candles into f i v e or s i x beer-bottles l i k e flowers and l i g h t e d up our faces a l i t t l e . Then we put Donne's poetry and Lewis' p i c t u r e s into the beer-box. Around that time I was l i v i n g i n a h o t e l with a rose-patterned carpet on Brompton i n South Kensington. We c a l l e d t h i s hotel Roman de l a rose. Sometimes we bought some roasted chestnuts under the moon and went in t o the Roman de l a rose. Together we grieved, turning on the l i g h t . We sometimes v i s i t e d a b l i n d young man who was w r i t i n g a novel f o r a p r o l e t a r i a n magazine. He was the brave man who burned h i s beard and eyes l i g h t i n g fireworks at a c e l e b r a t i o n party f o r the armi s t i c e treaty. His wife was r e a l l y nice and always hospitable to us. There was a pub under t h e i r apartment. A f t e r ten o'clock, a f l a u t i s t would appear and play some popular songs, pyuko, pyuko, (continued) pyuko• . . . One night we i n v i t e d was planning to play h i s f l u t e but beer and munching on some sausage, he couldn't make much money, f o r t the war. 218 him i n and had a t a l k . (He ended up t a l k i n g . ) Sipping he complained that imes had changed so much since Adorned with a garland of marigold my h a i r c u r l s and waves i n gold i n a May breeze. 72 I see Themistokles's procession of death. My white s u r p l i c e i s also b i l l o w i n g . Is i t the b i r d - s i n g i n g sea? the shadow of a f r u i t ? the explosion of a necklace? T r a v e l l e r Thou, t r a v e l l e r of explosive temper, thy feces have flowed f o r t h and p o l l u t e d the sea of Hibernia, the North Sea, A t l a n t i s , and the Mediterranean. (continued) 219 Get thee back to thine own v i l l a g e . Bless the c l i f f of thy homeland. That naked s o i l i s thy dawn. 7 3 An a k e b i - f r u i t hangs l i k e thy s p i r i t a l l summer long. The Primitiveness of a Cup Along a luminous riverbank where flowers of Daphne blossom, a blond boy runs passing by an angel holding an apple and a sabre. His f i n g e r s f i r m l y grasping a f i s h named red-belly^"* j u s t above i t s eyes of milky l i g h t , a golden dream curves. Barber The smoke from the mine looks v o l c a n i c . Above a mountain stream, at the foot of a c l i f f where gold-banded l i l i e s bloom, a barber opened an a r t - s t u d i o . (continued) 220 On the bed a labourer's beard and p o l l e n of l i l i e s are mixed and p i l e d up. Beneath the p o r t r a i t of an actress posing f o r a beer commercial, between newspaper and a bamboo-flute, t h i s a r t i s t smiles l i k e the god of b e r i b e r i . Ceylon Natives are a l l inside the houses. In the hot sun I walked alone. A l i z a r d on a drainage t i l e . Shining eggplants. Burning v i o l e t s . The hot sand on a v i o l e t - l e a f pours onto the back of my hand. Ceylon's ancient past. Dentist The beard of C o r b i e r e . ^ To chase out snakes by burning rubber. Water flows into the heavens. (continued) This autumn of Penang. I was only a boy wearing a Lamaite robe i n joy. The lama peeped into the mouth of my heaven from the t i p of an i r i s l e a f . A Mam Reading Homer S i l e n t l y , dawn and dusk l i k e two sides of a gold coin reached h i s throat everyday through a tamarind tree. Around that time, he was lodging at a dyehouse on the second f l o o r and reading Homer. Around that time, he had a c o r a l pipe with a p i c t u r e of a pansy. A l l the G a l l i c s laughed (Your pipe i s l i k e a g i r l ' s l e t t e r , or a Byzantine romance n o v e l — ouuu aeee. . . ) . Yet i t s phosphorescent smoke t r a v e l s around a cockscomb or the nose and the hips of a goddess. 222 Notes to Ambarvalia 1. Ambarvalia (Tokyo: S h i i n o k i sha, 1933). The t i t l e i s i n L a t i n and not t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . Ambarvalia denotes a Roman f e s t i v i t y , a j o y f u l procession round the ploughed f i e l d s i n honour of Ceres, the goddess of corn. Nishiwaki most l i k e l y found the word i n Marius the Epicurean by Walter Pater (1834-94), one of h i s f a v o r i t e w r i t e r s . Also, a d e s c r i p t i o n of ambarvalia appears i n an elegy written by T i b u l l u s , a Roman poet of the Augustan age contemporary with Ovid. Nishiwaki t r a n s l a t e s the elegy i n the " L a t i n E l e g i e s " s e c t i o n of Ambarvalia, e n t i t l i n g i t "Ambarvalia." I have omitted from my t r a n s l a t i o n s the e n t i r e " L a t i n E l e g i e s " section, f o r i t consists of Nishiwaki's t r a n s l a t i o n s of L a t i n poetry by Catul l u s , T i b u l l u s , and other anonymous poets. The l a s t poem i n the section, "Aika," i s composed of a " l i t e r a r y " t r a n s l a t i o n of Nishiwaki's own poem written i n L a t i n , followed by the o r i g i n a l L a t i n text, and concluded by a " l i t e r a l " t r a n s l a t i o n of the L a t i n text. I have also omitted from my t r a n s l a t i o n s "Renka" which appears i n the "Le Monde Moderne" section. "Renka" i s Nishiwaki's t r a n s l a t i o n of "Poemes d'amour" by Yvan G o l l . None of Nishiwaki's t r a n s l a t i o n s i n Ambarvalia are ind i c a t e d as such i n the text. Thus, an ordinary reader would have no way of knowing that they are a c t u a l l y not Nishiwaki's o r i g i n a l w r i t i n g s . S i m i l a r l y , there are no notes provided with the text to explicate the numerous a l l u s i o n s Nishiwaki employs throughout the text. Therefore, these notes assembled here may create a new mode of reading Nishiwaki's poetry. Whether i t w i l l be a better reading than the reading without the knowledge of a u t h o r i a l as well as i n t e r - t e x t u a l o r i g i n s should remain debatable. 2. 'The Song of Choricos': korikosu ( t r a n s l i t e r a t e d i n katakana) no 223 uta. The word "Choricos" appears i n the t i t l e of a poem by Richard Aldington (1892-1962), "Choricos" (Niikura 157). See Richard Aldington, Images (London: The Egoist Ltd., 1919) 7. The L a t i n word "choricus" i s an adje c t i v e , p e r t a i n i n g to chorus. 3. 'The Abydos': abidosu j i n . The people of Abydos. Abydos i s an ancient c i t y of Egypt. There i s a poem by George Gordon Byron (1788-1824) e n t i t l e d "The Bride of Abydos" (Niikura 157). 4. 'Like an upturn'd gem': kutsugaesareta hoseki no yona. A t r a n s l a t i o n of a phrase " l i k e an upturn'd gem" i n Endymion, bk. 3, l i n e 777, by John Keats (1795-1821). (Niikura 157) 5. Nishiwaki uses two d i f f e r e n t words f o r "someone" and "somebody." The f i r s t one, "nanibito, or nanpito" i s an archaic, l i t e r a r y word, whereas the second one, "dareka," i s a c o l l o q u i a l word. 6. 'Karumojin': karumoj i i n ( i n katakana). A f a b r i c a t e d name. (Niikura 158) 7. 'Damson': sumomo ( i n katakana). A Japanese plum (Prunus s a l i c i n a ) . Usually i t i s wr i t t e n e i t h e r i n hiragana or i n k a n j i , i n d i c a t i n g the word's native o r i g i n . 8. 'Dolphin': d o r u f i n , English t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . 9. 'The t w i l i g h t of gems': hoseki no tasogare. An echo of Keats's l i n e , "One f a i n t e t e r n a l eventide of gems," i n Endymion, bk. 2, l i n e 225. (Niikura 158) 10. 'Smyrna': sumiruna ( i n katakana). A seaport town of Ionia i n Asia Minor. In mythology, the daughter of Cinyras, king of Cyprus, who gives b i r t h to Adonis by an incestuous union with Cinyras. 11. 'Maud': written i n English, not t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . I t i s taken from the poem Maud (1855) by A l f r e d Tennyson (1809-92). (Niikura 158) 224 12. ' B l i s s , Carman': b u r i s , kamen ( i n katakana). B l i s s Carman • (1861-1929), Canadian poet. (Niikura 159) 13. ' B l i s s ' : yorokobi. The correspondence with the above " B l i s s " i s not so conspicuous as i n the t r a n s l a t i o n . 14. 'The Head of Callimachus and Voyage Pittoresque': karimakosu no  atama to Voyage Pittoresque. Callimachus was an ancient Greek poet (c.305-c.240 B.C.). 15. 'Tanagura': c i t y of ancient Boeotia, Greece. 16. 'Terra c o t t a dream': terakota ( i n katakana) no yume. Tanagra i s known f o r the l i v e l y H e l l e n i s t i c t e r r a c o t t a f i g u r e s , women and groups from d a i l y l i f e , found i n i t s graves. 17. 'Quercus i n f e c t o r i a ' : mosshokushi. A type of g a l l that i n f e c t s beech trees. 18. 'Velasquez and game b i r d s ' : a l l u s i o n s to Diego Velasquez (?-1660), major Spanish painter, and to h i s pai n t i n g , P h i l i p IV at Fraga (1644). (Niikura 161) 19. 'Viewing the Acropolis i n the f a r distance': a l l u s i o n to "P r i e r e que je f i s sur l'Acropole quand je fus a r r i v e a en comprendre l a p a r f a i t e beaute" i n Souvenirs d'enfance et de jeunesse (1883) by Ernest Renan (1823 -92). (Niikura 161) 20. 'A v i s i t by Angelico': a l l u s i o n to The Annunciation, fresco by the I t a l i a n a r t i s t Fra Angelico (c.1400-1455). (Niikura 161) 21. 'Kariroku': an East Indian tree (Terminalia Chebula r e t z ) from which myrobalan i s produced. 22. ' G i l l y flower': a r a s e i t o (Matthiola incana). 23. 'The bishop Benbo': P i e t r o Benbo (1470-1547), I t a l i a n poet. (Niikura 162) 225 24. 'Amarante': amarante, French t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . I t denotes amaranth or i t s v i o l e t colour. I t appears i n a poem, "Br u x e l l e s , " by Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891), and used by Nishiwaki as an epithet to Nishiwaki's Chogenjitsushugi shiron ( S u r r e a l i s t P o e t i c s ) : "Plates-bandes d'amarantes jusqu'a / L'agreable p a l a i s de J u p i t e r . " 25. 'A Pic t u r e Card Show, Shylockiade': kamishibai Shylockiade (written i n Eng l i s h , not t r a n s l i t e r a t e d ) . A parody of Shakespeare's The  Merchant of Venice. ( N i i k u r a 162) 26. 'Saxpere': sasuperu ( i n katakana). An old s p e l l i n g of "Shakespear." ( N i i k u r a 162) 27. ' D i g i t a l i s ' : j i k i t a r i s u ( i n katakana). B e l l flower ( D i g i t a l i s  purpurea), kitsune no tebukuro i n Japanese. 28. 'Applis': apuri ( i n katakana), Middle English f o r "apples." (Niikura 163) 29. 'Monkshood': torikabuto ( i n katakana) (Aconitum chinense). 30. 'Legenda Aurea*: not t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . A thirteenth-century hagiology compiled by Jacobus de Voragine (1230-98). Also c a l l e d Golden  Legend. 31. 'Its e t e r n a l r i d d l e ' : Sphinx's r i d d l e was as follows: "What creature walks on four legs i n the morning, two at noon, and three i n the evening?" Oedipus solved the r i d d l e with t h i s answer: "Man walked on h i s hands and fee t when he was young, at noon i n middle l i f e he walked erect, and i n the afternoon of l i f e he walked with the a i d of a walking s t i c k . " Water as a metaphor of man's l i f e repeatedly appears throughout Nishiwaki's l a t e r poetry. For example, see the f i r s t poem i n No T r a v e l l e r Returns. 32. 'Helas, h4las, hulas': hera, hera, hera ( i n katakana). N i i k u r a states that "h5ra" was a coinage from the French word "helas" (163). I t 226 may be also r e l a t e d to the Greek goddess Hera, Queen of the gods and of heaven. 33. 'The tragedy of King Oedipus': a parody of Oedipus Coloneus by Sophocles (496-406 B.C.) i s to follow. 34. The beginning scene of Oedipus Coloneus t r a n s l a t e d into Japanese by Nishiwaki. 35. 'Deus ex machina': written i n L a t i n , not t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . N i i k u r a informs us that i t denotes a mechanical appearance of a d i v i n i t y which concludes the play i n Greek theatre. (164) 36. 'Thou sh a l t be a breeze': c f . Iphigenia i n A u l i s by Euripides (480-406 B.C.), i n which Artemis transforms Iphigenia into a breeze and brings her to the country of the T a u r i . ( N i i k u r a 164) 37. 'Paradis Perdu': shitsurakuen. The t i t l e i s based on Paradise  Lost (1667) by John M i l t o n (1608-1674). Shitsurakuen i s a c t u a l l y Nishiwaki's r e - w r i t i n g of h i s own poem written i n French e n t i t l e d "Paradis Perdu." The o r i g i n a l poem was published i n the l i t e r a r y p e r i o d i c a l Mita  bungaku (June, 1925) published by Keio U n i v e r s i t y . 38. *A s i n g u l a r object': ikko no. Nishiwaki replaces the counter f o r trees (hon, pon, or bon: counter f o r long c y l i n d r i c a l objects) with the counter f o r pieces of s o l i d objects (ko). Thus modified, the tree gains a sense of a s i n g u l a r , s o l i d object, such as a rock. 39. 'T a l i p o t palm': a type of palm tree (Corypha umbraculifera). 40. According to N i i k u r a (164), t h i s i s a parody of "The Night Song" i n Thus Spoke Zarathustra by F r i e d e r i c h Nietzsche (1844-1900): "Night has come; now a l l fountains speak more loudly. And my soul too i s a f o u n t a i n . " The Portable Nietzsche, trans. Walter Kaufmann (1954; New York: Penguin Books, 1959) 217. 41. 'Golden Bat': a c i g a r e t t e brand. 227 42. 'A': ikko no. See note 38. 43. 'Thomas Caldy': play on Thomas Hardy (1840-1928). (Niikura 165) 44. 'Perennial blue': omoto, a type of l i l y (Rhodea japonica). 45. 'Singular': ikko no. See note 38. 46. 'Luca d e l l a Robbia*: I t a l i a n s c ulptor (1399-1482). Here Nishiwaki r e f e r s to the c a n t o r i a , "singing g a l l e r y , " i n Museo d e l l * Opera del Duomo. It c onsists of ten f i g u r e d r e l i e f s . Walter Pater has a chapter on him i n The Renaissance. 47. A l l u s i o n to Baudelaire's "Mon coeur mis a nu": "Le Dandy d o i t a s p i r e r a etre sublime sans i n t e r r u p t i o n ; i l d o i t v i v r e et dormir devant un m i r o i r . " OEuvres 1: 678. (Niikura 165) 48. 'Journal of a Deep I n t e r i o r ' : naimenteki n i fukaki n i k k i . A curious t r a n s l a t i o n of the t i t l e "Journaux intimes" of Baudelaire. 49. 'Singular': ikko no. See note 38. 50. 'Isarago': a d i s t r i c t i n Tokyo. 51. 'The afternoon of shepherds': echo of "Apres-midi d'un faune" by Stephane Mallarme (1842-98). 52. 'Within a piece of sweet bread': Amaki pan no naka. A p o s s i b l e pun on "pan." I t can be e i t h e r Pan, the god, or pan, bread. 53. Echo of "Le Balcon" by Baudelaire: "Et l e s s o i r s au balcon, v o i l e s de vapeurs roses." OEuvres 1: 36. (Niikura 165) 54. 'Scarlet toy-Daruma': okiagarikoboshi. A toy f i g u r e so contrived as to r i g h t i t s e l f when knocked down. 55. 'Singular': ikko no. The ususal counter f o r houses i s "ken." See note 38. 56. 'Singular': ikko no. See note 38. 57. 'Bread': pan. Again t h i s might r e f e r to the Greek god Pan. See note 52. 228 58. 'Comelion': komeron i n katakana. N i i k u r a states that "komeron" i s a play on "Solomon" and t h i s passage i s a parody of The Gospel According to Matthew, 6: 29, "yet I t e l l you, even Solomon i n a l l h i s glory was not arrayed l i k e one of these." (166) 59. A l l u s i o n to B e l l s and Pomegranates by Robert Browning (1812-89). (Niikura 166) 60. 'Rose of Winds': kaze no bara. In the o r i g i n a l French, of course, "Rose des Vents." 61. 'Ramune': Japanese soda drink. 62. 'Kleber': s t r e e t i n P a r i s . 63. 'Dead wine': play on the Homeric epithet "winedark sea." (Niikura 166) 64. 'Demeter': the earth-mother goddess of the Greeks. The subject of Ambarvalia r i t e s . Here Nishiwaki r e f e r s to i t s statue i n the B r i t i s h Museum. (Niikura 167) 65. 'Coquelicot': kokuriko, French t r a n s l i t e r a t e d , meaning "poppy." 66. 'Ravenalas*: ravunarasu ( i n katakana). "Ravenala" i s the French fo r " t r a v e l l e r ' s palm." But when t r a n s l i t e r a t e d into Japanese (with the f i n a l p l u r a l " s " t r a n s l i t e r a t e d as "su"), a po s s i b l e word-play seems to occur. "Ravu" can be read as a t r a n s l i t e r a t i o n of "love." "Narasu" means "to bear ( f r u i t ) . " Thus i t can be read as "love-bearing t r e e , " which connects n i c e l y to the next l i n e . This word-play does not occur i n Nishiwaki's o r i g i n a l version i n French. In "Gerontion" by T. S. E l i o t , we f i n d the word "the wrath-bearing t r e e . " 67. 'Bergamot': kunenbo (Citrus Bergamia). 68. A l l u s i o n to "The Night Song" i n Zarathustra. See note 40. 69. 'Roman de l a Rose': bara monogatari. The t i t l e i s based on a medieval French poem Roman de l a rose. 229 70. 'John': John C o l l i e r (b.1901), English n o v e l i s t whom Nishiwaki befriended during Nishiwaki's sojourn i n London. (Niikura 167) This poem i s p a r t l y autobiographical. 71. 'May': go gatsu. This poem i s based on Nishiwaki's E n g l i s h poem "Ode to the Vase" i n Poems Barbarous. 72. 'Themistokles': Athenian p o l i t i c i a n and naval s t r a t e g i s t (c.524-c.460 B.C.). 73. 'Akebi': akebi (Akebia quinata). 74. 'The Primitiveness of a Cup': koppu no genshisei. N i i k u r a states that t h i s poem i s based on a painting "Tobi" ( t r a n s l i t e r a t e d ) by B o t t i c e l l i . (168) However, there i s no such p a i n t i n g e n t i t l e d "Tobias" or dealing with the subject of "Tobias and the Angel" a t t r i b u t e d to B o t t i c e l l i ' s authorship, except a free i m i t a t i o n by B o t t i c e l l i of Tobias  and the Angel by Andrea Verrocchio (1435-88). Cf. Wilhelm Bode, Sandro  B o t t i c e l l i , trans. F. Re n f i e l d and F. L. Rerdston Brown (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1925), 107. Walter Pater i n h i s Renaissance also mentions a pa i n t i n g by B o t t i c e l l i d e p i c t i n g Raphael walking with " T o b i t . " See The Renaissance (1893; Chicago: Academy Press, 1977) 37. This poem i s based on Nishiwaki's E n g l i s h poem "On a P r i m i t i v e - P a i n t e r " i n Poems  Barbarous. 75. 'Red-belly': akahara, a kind of dace (Tribolodon hakonensis). 76. 'Barber': r i h a t s u . This poem i s based on Nishiwaki's English poem "The Zinc Mine" i n Exclamations. 77. 'Corbiere': T r i s t a n Corbiere (1845-75), French poet. 78. 'Penang': penan, i n katakana. A leading port of Malaysia. Or, Betel nut, the f r u i t of the areca palm. 230 No T r a v e l l e r Returns • Foreword Woman and the Phantasmal Man When I analyze myself, I f i n d four worlds within: the world of i n t e l l e c t , of emotion, of senses, and of f l e s h . These may be approximately d i v i d e d into two worlds: that of i n t e l l e c t and that of nature. Next, I f i n d various kinds of people l u r k i n g i n myself. F i r s t , there i s the modern man and the p r i m i t i v e man. The former i s expressed through modern science, philosophy, and l e t t e r s . The l a t t e r i s expressed through the study of p r i m i t i v e c u l t u r e s , p r i m i t i v e psychology, anthropology, etc. However, there i s s t i l l another one l u r k i n g i n me. Does he belong to the mysteries of l i f e , to the eternal mysteries of the universe? Anyway, there i s t h i s person who cannot be resolved or comprehended by common l o g i c or sentiments. I c a l l t h i s person "the phantasmal man" and think of him as the eternal t r a v e l l e r . This "phantasmal man" comes and goes at various moments of my l i f e . Perhaps t h i s one i s a memory of pre- p r i m i t i v e men miraculously retained. It must be the memory of the people who were c l o s e r to the eternal realm. By e t e r n i t y I do not mean the conventional concept that r i s e s from our longing f o r a c e r t a i n state which i s located at the opposite end of what we c a l l nothingness or e x t i n c t i o n , but I mean the eternal thought which n e c e s s a r i l y acknowledges nothingness or e x t i n c t i o n . 231 It seems that what makes me f e e l something l i k e an i n f i n i t e memory i n the seeds of grass by the roadside i s the workings of t h i s "phantasmal man" l u r k i n g within myself. In the realm of nature within myself, there i s male and female. In the realm of nature, humanity's ra i s o n d'etre i s the continuation of the species. Since a p i s t i l i s female, and also f r u i t that nurtures the seed i s female, Woman should be the centre of nature's human realm. Man i s only a stamen, a bee, a wind of love. In t h i s sense, Woman i s c l o s e r to "the phantasmal man" than the male. These views are contrary to such notions as "super-man" or "woman-as-organ" theory. This book of poems c o l l e c t s records of l i f e viewed from the standpoint of such a notion of "the phantasmal man" or of "Woman." 1 0, T r a v e l l e r , await-Before thou wettest thy tongue in t h i s f a i n t spring-water, 2 0, think, t r a v e l l e r of l i f e . Thou art also merely a w a t e r - s p i r i t that oozed out from the chinks of a rock. This thinking-water also does not flow into e t e r n i t y . At a c e r t a i n moment i n e t e r n i t y i t d r i e s up. Ah! jays are too noisy! Sometimes out of t h i s water the phantasmal man comes out holding up flowers. 'Tis only a dream to seek l i f e e t e r n a l . Abandoning thy longings into the stream of l i f e ever-flowing and f i n a l l y to wish to f a l l o f f the p r e c i p i c e of e t e r n i t y and to disappear, 3 0, ' t i s merely i l l u s i o n . 4 Thus says t h i s phantom water-sprite who comes out of the water to towns and v i l l a g e s when water plants reach f o r the shadows of f l o a t i n g clouds. On the window, a dim l i g h t — how desolate, the human world. 3 Desolate, the world of nature. Desolate, our sleep. 4 A hardened garden. 5 S o r r e l vine. Plum-resin. O i l of l i f e . O i l of love. The pointed t i p of a b i t t e r o ld tree On a summer evening, p r o j e c t i n g my soul onto the lotus-pen, onto the sky of shimmering s t a r s , I write a sorrowful l e t t e r . The thought of e t e r n i t y l i n g e r s . 7 S t i c k i n g her head out of the window of. a house adorned with autumn b e l l f l o w e r s , ^ a lady frowning ponders on something. How desolate, the one who l i v e s at the deep end of the a l l e y where zelkova^ leaves f a l l . 8 That whisper, that darkness of a honey-nest. Lamentable, the realm of women. 9 It i s already December Along a path that curves around g the foot of Nagoe mountain, upon the edge 'of a pale protruding rock, a seafern-grey green trembles. A dandelion bud. 9 A t h i s t l e bud. Buried i n sand, roots of a spearflower barely holding i t s few b e r r i e s , trembling among f a l l e n leaves and moss. This s t i l l n e s s of mountains. . . I pay reverence to the ea r l y s e t t i n g sun. 2 3 6 10 Late December I wander in t o a copse of f a l l e n leaves. On bare branches already I see leaf-buds of many shapes and colours. No one i n the c a p i t a l knows about t h i s . On a vine entwined around a bare tree, b i l l i o n s of years' longings r i p e n ; there, numerous n u t l e t s are growing, there, a seed more ancient than human l i f e i s buried. In t h i s l i t t l e n u t l e t lurks the maximum beauty po s s i b l e to human senses, the ultimate l o n e l i n e s s , grows misty, trembling f a i n t l y . Is t h i s trembling poem the true poetry? This n u t l e t must be poetry. Even the story of the l a r k singing at a c a s t l e i s n ' t poetry. 11 I j u s t cannot remember how to write "rose." How lonely, (continued) 237 t h i s window through which I s t i c k out my sorrowful head at p i t i f u l dawn whenever I t r y to write "rose" and have to look i t up. 12 At night when flowers bloom on f l o a t i n g weeds, I put a boat on the water. A cloud covers the moon. 13 Around the time when pear blossoms s c a t t e r away, pushing aside pine branches I went to v i s i t a monk i n a mountain temple. He was gone to see a woman i n the c a p i t a l . I drank some sweet-sake that a sexton gave me. 12 Lonely i s my l i f e . 14 Dusk f a l l i n g as i f not Spring i n my f a l l i n g . . . heart. 15 Faint, t h i s road, a sound of a bush warbler. 16 The passion of jade. The world of women fading. 17 An autumn day fading into a c o r a l bead. . . 18 Clad i n white Chinese robes those pine branches. . . among them sing bulbuls. How desolate, the night. 19 The night of cherry blossoms dawning, roosters crying, a departing t r a v e l l e r shedding tears. . . 20 Around the time when flowers bloom i n bushes, my heart grows misty. 21 Ancient days. (continued) 240 A wild rose attached to a p l a t e . Lunch i n a ruined garden. Black gloves. 13 Mallarme's spring ode. The memory of a white dew-drop f l o a t i n g on a t i p of grass. An i n f i n i t e sentiment. 22 Around that time to view cherry blossoms, I was i n a boat on the upper waters of the Ara River. 14 I read Maupassant. L o n e l i n e s s — a clog f l o a t i n g among reeds i n the evening sun. 23 A three-inch clay pipe i n h i s mouth a hoarse-voiced l y r i c i s t said,''""' 16 "Eventide of gems" and gave a glass b a l l - c a p of ramune-drink to a woman. 241 24 Holding r a i n drops i n a peony. It w i l l be food f o r the d e v i l s . An ancient story s a y s ^ women should not eat i t . 25 "Much of the country we passed through, j u s t touched with the beginning of i t s autumn beauty, was very l o v e l y . Having lunched at Fontainebleau we did not a r r i v e i n Paris t i l l noon." 18 So reads a passage from a novel. I f I had read t h i s to a dead f r i e n d of mine, he would have been very pleased and might have babbled something. 26 Is the v i o l e t the heart's shadow? Loneliness of s o i l . 27 An anc ien t p l edge . . . Around the t ime when the r a i n f a l l s upon cockscomb f l o w e r s , 1 ^ p a s s i n g through some o l d gardens, through a h a l f - r o t t e n temple ga te , I approached the c a p i t a l . 2 8 Being unable to s tudy , unable to p a i n t , 20 i n the depths of Kamakura, I spent a l o n e l y summer wa l k i ng up a s lope to the Buddha Temple In t ha t r ock t u n n e l , I was p i c k i n g up the head of a stone j_i or p i c k i n g weeds. Near the t u n n e l , of a l l p l a c e s , up on such a mountain I met two men who had f o l l o w e d e e l s upstream from f a r be low. 29 Pale things. 22 The apples of Cezanne. The b e l l y of a snake. Eternal time. A chipped plate remaining i n an abandoned paradise. 30 A garden 23 where deutzia flowers bloom i n spring, 24 where horse chestnuts f a l l i n autumn. A garden where one f i n d s a small waterwheel by a stream from a pond. Nobody l i v e s there. Wagtails l i v e i n an ancient plum tree that, a f t e r a l l , never blooms. Its bark caved i n deep with moss, dampened by eternal d e s o l a t i o n . 2 4 4 31 Under a b r i g h t autumn sky dogs are pl a y i n g happily on the Koshu Highway that runs f a r into the distance. 32 A rock caved i n . A mind disconsolate. Brightness of an autumn day. 33 On a day when oak trees stand crooked, when t h i n clouds d r i f t f a s t , how desolate they appear, those woman's socks, to the l o v e r s ' whispers wandering through a f i e l d . 34 Longings tremble i n autumn f i e l d s . To the people i n the c a p i t a l my longings run. 26 Spikenard blossoms are blooming. They do not know about these blossoms. 35 The t i p of a green acorn i s turning copper-coloured. My disconsolate mind l o s t . 36 Around the time when the hazel eyes grow moist with dew. . . How p i t i a b l e , the day of t r u t h . 37 A heart l o v e - s t r i c k e n on a day when the night seems never to a r r i v e . On a slope i n a mountain v i l l a g e , a longing f o r acorns. . . 38 Around the time when dead leaves of zelkova gathered on window s i l l s I l e f t f o r a journey; around the time when 28 the n e t t l e - f l o w e r by the road bloomed, I came back. A razor blade had rusted. 39 E a r l y September from a rock by the avenue a green acorn hanging. (stanza break) 247 Desolate i s the window. Inside there i s someone's voice. How desolate, the sound of human speech, "Hey, mistah, d i s time I hear you goin' a pilgrimage 29 to Konpira, eh? Please take d i s wid ya. No, no, i t ' s nothin' mistah, j u s t a p a r t i n ' token. Take i t , take i t . " "I can no longer write poetry. Poetry e x i s t s where there i s no poetry. 30 Only a shred of r e a l i t y becomes poetry. 31 R e a l i t y i s l o n e l i n e s s . I f e e l l o n e l i n e s s , therefore I am. Loneliness i s the root of existence. Loneliness i s the ultimate d e s i r e f o r Beauty. Beauty i s the symbol of e t e r n i t y . " 40 A flowering Indian l i l a c holding out i t s crooked bark, as i f f a l l i n g onto a window. . Someone i s boring a hole i n i t , something i s being enacted. . . 248 41 I went f o r a hike to Koma mountain with a high school teacher. In a blacksmith's garden by the road, 33 a dusty h o l l y . Taking a few b e r r i e s from the tree we ate them. "I used to eat these a l o t when I was a c h i l d , " said t h i s t a c i t u r n teacher. For the f i r s t time that day he spoke. 42 I go up the Tama River 34 35 from Noborito towards Chofu. For ten years I have abandoned my studies. I have walked around 36 the Musashi P l a i n near the c a p i t a l 37 or the land of Sagami, looking at zelkova trees. I have enjoyed the winter also, fascinated by the crooks of those trees or by the co n f i g u r a t i o n of the branches. 249 43 One autumn afternoon 38 i n the hallway of an English school i n Kodaira, 39 an unbelievably impertinent woman from my hometown asked me, "Professor, could you please write something 40 f o r Tsuda bungaku?" Later when I met her again, she sa i d to me, "Professor, why did you give me such a boring piece? How mean of you!" I was quite disappointed. But i t couldn't have been helped, because from around that time I was i n t e r e s t e d i n boring things. When autumn comes to the Musashi P l a i n , t h i c k e t s make the noise of l o v e r s ' ghosts. Oak trees are bending t h e i r gnarled b r a n c h e s — how desolate. . . Coloured i n patinated gold those deeply serrated, long leaves emit a s o f t r u s t l i n g sound. 44 Crossing Kodaira v i l l a g e (continued) 250 a road runs l i k e a self-absorbed runner i white and s t r a i g h t . On a nice sunny day wearing western clothes and Japanese clogs, c a r r y i n g a black umbrella, an East Indian walks alone; 41 sometimes buys a pack of Bats i n a lone house by the roadside. 45 How desolate, an open window. 46 Around the time when I was wandering about i n the Musashi P l a i n . . . Every time autumn came, a yellow, aged s i g h — 42 the noise of withered kunugi leaves under my f e e t — taking t h i s as a pledge f o r tomorrow I thought of the ancient days. There were times (continued) 251 43 when I took home a few leaves of nara and kunugi and put them on my desk, j u s t to reminisce about the f i e l d s . Or when I looked at a dry twig c l o s e l y , I could see a reddish sprout cowering out. Spring i s already l y i n g deep in e a r l y winter. Loneliness of a sprout. . . 47 I wonder how Mr. Umanosuke of Mogusaen i s doing. It was s t i l l e a r l y spring. Nuptials took place i n a house at the foot of a mountain. As I walked up a slope, 45 I saw white magnolias blooming. The Buddha clouds tattered, the sunlight on the western mountain. 48 About something that happened around that time: along the road which runs from the edge of Musashi to ChSfu, a narrow face, a knotweed,^ a f o x t a i l . . . 49 Sounds of grasshoppers. Astonished, my heart i s hur r i e d . I dream of an ancient woman. 50 Tenderness of an acorn. 51 I desire a bronze, a f i v e - i n c h bronze of Neptune wet and g l i s t e n i n g with ocean-drips, s t r e t c h i n g i t s arms wide, standing with i t s legs apart. It i s about to throw something. 52 An Indian l i l a c blooming under the b l a z i n g sun. Its naked trunk. A heart curving, leaning. A s c a r l e t hair-comb. Losing my way i n the darkness of the road ahead, beneath t h i s t r a v e l l e r ' s bamboo hat. . . 53 Loneliness of rocks. 54 49 On a night when lady-flowers bloom, I s i t i n the l i g h t from a paper-lantern at an autumn night inn. Crickets* echoes r i s e . I read a l e t t e r . Loneliness i n the f i e l d s . 55 I peek i n t o a t h i c k e t f u l l of spider webs. 56 Green acorns of an oak tree. Loneliness. . . 57 I lose my way in an a l l e y where honey locusts"^ bloom. 58 A phantom of s o i l , unable to bear the thought of leaving leans against the parapet of a bridge 59 A shriek of a k i t e echoes in my heart . Unnoticed, cherry blossoms bloom in the mountains. 60 The smil ing face of a sleeping woman. 52 The colour of a day-flower. Loneliness of the Man'yo people. 61 One day i n September my mind wandering o f f . . . The morning after a typhoon had passed I tottered out. Autumn had arrived overnight. 53 In the evening I reached Chitose v i l l a g e . Branches, leaves, and berries had a l l f a l l e n . I v i s i t e d an old garden. A guest in the tea-house. 62 My disquieted heart. In the mountains upon a red-clay c l i f f l i e s a pinecone. 63 Abundant black hair hanging over his forehead, this worker of h e l l waits desolately in the dreaming r a i n . 54 The ancient god's spring . . . 55 in a ginger f i e l d . . . 64 On an u p h i l l path, a cry of a pheasant. 65 From Yose I walk down the road by the Sagami River, I think of the ancient s o i l on which someone asked a c h i l d carrying a heavy load on his back for d i r e c t i o n s . 66 Out in the f i e l d s desolate winds— only the noise of a waterwheel. . . 67 The crying of crickets has ceased. (continued) 258 58 The haunted tune from hautboys seducing e v i l s p i r i t s traverses the f i e l d s and flows away. 68 In a crooked tree growing out of a rock there are no longer tsukutsuku-boshi cicadas. A woodpecker knocks on i t , imbibing the sweetness out of the ancient trees. 69 A fan with the l i g h t green . . 60 of an evening-face hiding a face whose eyes l i e in the crevice of a damson**1 where the waves of an autumn day r i p p l e . 259 70 One morning I was walking down a street in the c a p i t a l . A woman passed by leaving the aroma of bay rum. 62 This was in a novel. I forgot who wrote i t , though i t wasn't long ago. 71 Upon a purple-willow leaf a long-horned beetle walks. Loneliness of summer. . . 72 Long ago a katsura tree was praised in a book a Buddhist pr i e s t wrote.^ For I wanted to see that tree, I wandered around the Musashi P l a i n but could not f i n d even one. However, beside a school l a t r i n e this poor tree was standing alone, crooked. Loneliness of such comedy. . . 260 73 On the sandy shore of a r i v e r thousands of unknown grass stalks are growing, hiding the nests of reed-warblers and larks. Those hearts' shadows. . . 74 A long time ago on an autumn day I was walking down a v i l l a g e road i n the Musashi Plain. An evening shower started. I took shelter in the doorway of a farmer's house. In i t s hedge I saw some red berries that looked l i k e the sweets c a l l e d kanoko. "Eureka!" I thought. 66 They are c a l l e d sane-kazura or binan-kazura. They often appear i n our ancestor's books. I asked a woman of the house to give me a branch. The woman laughed, "Such a worthless thing." But the heart i s far and near. 75 Who forgot i t here this precious stone, this auroral love? 76 Those were the days! when we could watch baseball climbing up a tree 77 Traveller, who goes across the Musashi Plain, do you know the land „67 where green walnuts grow? 78 Towards the end of summer in the Koma station, I bought some pears from a peasant woman. Instead of thanking me, she made me (continued) laugh doing some funny things hoping that would please her customer. I wonder i f there i s a scholar of the l o c a l history around here. . . Myths remain, how desolate. . . 79 When i t becomes September a wild chestnut tree extends i t s long l i t h e branches from a bush. How desolate, the chestnut tree. How lonely, the nuts. Peeling i t s white soft skin I eat t h i s yellow watery nut, uncooked, tasting t h i s sorrow lurking within the mountain chestnut. 80 Alone on an autumn day I stand i n the Musashi Plain under a sumac. 81 Sorrow of ancient days. A dusty knotweed.^ Smoking a Bat on a wooden bridge. A l i l y l e f t i n a tea-house. 82 In an old garden where t i g e r l i l i e s bloom a forgotten broken watering can ly i n g . . . 83 Around the time when waters r e f l e c t clouds 72 I walked up a slope to Yogo Temple. 73 Autumn counting the curls of Yakushi. I ate some cakes in a f i e l d of pampas gra On the way home I bought a talisman for a safe c h i l d b i r t h from a temple (continued) and gave i t to a graduate student of art history By what curse I don't know, but I caught a cold. 84 I put a s i l v e r coin behind my ear, put a h a l f - f i n i s h e d butt behind my ear, put on k a s u r i ^ underpants and then boots, hold a t i n box when cherry blossoms bloom in the people's ancient c a p i t a l . 85 At daybreak when l i t t l e bindweeds^ blossom in a bush of mugwort,^ invited, I hurry to a breakfast of soba-noodles. A dewy t r a v e l through a heartless cosmos. Our l i v i n g time 79 gathered between the Sun and the Moon passes on again today. 86 I walked curving along that narrow landscape 80 where red knotweeds t i l t e d at the bend of a rotten bridge. 87 I r r e a l i t y . A yellow v i o l e t blooming in the hollow of an old tree. A spring morning. 88 A Chinese painting of a harlot-goddess resembling the p o r t r a i t of an Edo actor. Hundreds of autumns accumulating within t h i s silk-bound book. . . 82 Memories of autumn in Shiba. 89 On a path i n the Musashi Plain where bamboo blades droop, I meet a slant-eyed woman who may have been drawn by Kunisada, I dream of the sentiments of autumn leaves t o n i g h t — on a mouldering bridge red knotweeds**^ fading. . . 90 How desolate, a woman crouching at a fe r r y . 91 A woman brought a painting by Gauguin 85 and a Chinese bellflower for me— an autumn day. 267 92 On an autumn day around then, I was learning Latin from a Jes u i t p r i e s t who had renounced the cloth in order to marry his lover. Dante's De Monarchia i n my pocket 86 I walked towards Sangen Tea-house. Those noodles smelling too much of soy-sauce. A glass b o t t l e , broken, patched up with paper. Cigarettes sold from that b o t t l e . Cosmos blooming around a j e r r y - b u i l t rented house. . . 93 With three poets I ate trout from the Futagotama River on the second f l o o r of a dark inn. That was the inn 87 which appears in a novel by Doppo. It had an entrance on Oyama highway. 94 Jodo Lost i s a h e l l described by a blind man. Even the l i g h t damask of stinking bark is i n v i s i b l e , but only a grape vine, gourds, barley are the ornaments of this garden, trembling. 95 A Rococo woman— i f she finds any space l e f t she w i l l f i l l i t with more gold. Tears drop between the roses and the l i l i e s . The mist of a heart i s that of a gem. 96 It was s t i l l early spring. When the mountains appeared l i g h t yellow, (continued) pine forests dark and hazy, 91 I walked around the h i l l s of Tama with my teacher Mr. Ishikawa. In a dale, a waterwheel was revolving. "It's b e a u t i f u l to paint such a landscape or describe i t in a l i t e r a r y work. But, boy, who could a c t u a l l y l i v e i n a place l i k e that?" said he, opening his lunch of cheese. We went down a h i l l and walked through vegetable f i e l d s . 92 "When I was hiking i n the Kiso mountains I found a house that looked perfect for a lunch-rest. I went up to the house and c a l l e d . Nobody came out. So, I just opened the shoj i-screen, climbed into the room and took a nap on the tatami-mats. Later I found out that i t was a quarantine hospital f o r the v i l l a g e , " said he, laughing. A Japanese bush warbler was singing by the road. "That warbler's singing is worse than the imitation of warbler-singing by the errand-boy from my neighbourhood green grocer, whistling on his bike." (continued) We went home without even seeing the Fud It was desolate 94 l i k e the day when quails cry. 97 There was a time when a wind going around the garden, shaking crooked yellow pears, entering through a small window, extinguished a candle flame. 98 Moist with dew a black stone, c o l d — a summer dawn. 99 Loneliness of the Gobelin tapestry. Loneliness of the female nude woven in the tapestry. 100 A spring hedge— loneliness. 101 A town where sky-blue gourds hang. . . This townsman's c r a f t , this three-inch i v o r y — carved so shyly the naked women are a l l associated with the bath, hanging a basket f u l l of t o i l e t a r t i c l e s for the shimada c o i f f u r e . 95 This water fowl. . . The mandala of this public bath. 102 Grass seeds (continued) 272 in a puddle that r e f l e c t s the crook of a dried stem. . . A loner leaving. . . 103 In the garden an empty cicada s h e l l — this summer night's shell's morning, sadness. . . 104 At the end of August already pampas grasses comb th e i r s i l v e r hair in the mountains. Lady-flowers sprouting from rocks curve in gold. They are the signposts of my native land. A t r a v e l l e r hurries homeward. 105 Crickets' songs f i l l the p l a i n . I stand alone on a rock in the autumn of this short eternity that hurries towards a l i n k between l i v e s where neither stars nor night e x i s t — the sadness of my heart l i s t e n i n g in t his i n f i n i t e f i e l d . . . 106 Above a grain f i e l d where desolation grows, a p i t i a b l e c r u c i f i e d man wearing the straw-hat from 96 Van Gogh's s e l f - p o r t r a i t , and a blue s h i r t , t h i s suspended Ecce Homo— the colour of l i f e ' s twilight pierces him. . . Here, a man i s attempting to say something. 107 Beneath the shop-curtain patterned with fringed pinks, I see garden stones, clogs l y i n g upside down. . . Nobody i s there. Something is happening. 108 Around the time 98 when muku-nuts r a m down on a slope I open a Gobelin tapestry, open a sorrowful window and watch waterfowls f l y i n g towards the fading distant mountains, or a ferryman smoking a cigarette. Then the characters from the novels I read a long time ago begin to appear l i k e l i v i n g s p i r i t s : they get together and again they part, avoid e v i l s p i r i t s , (continued) 275 d i f f i c u l t predicament,''"^''' * 102 lemon farm, razor teeth, his monkey wife. So they come one after another. Real people around there begin to look l i k e ghosts. 109 An old man burning acacia wood in a hearth - 105 forgetting. . . 110 Around the end of August coming ashore I walked through a town. Yellow sycamore leaves were on the ground. A traveling actor was resting in a cafe leaning against the back of a chair without ordering anything. As I walked down a back street (continued) 276 I saw people s e l l i n g patterned handkerchiefs that were just becoming fashionable. A p o r t r a i t of Chaplin was hanging. I bought a French novel for the f i r s t time in France. As I walked up a h i l l the sea shone in l i g h t green. At the top of the h i l l I saw a house with blooming canna flowers. I entered the house and found a middle-aged woman quietl y reading a book by M a e t e r l i n c k 1 ^ c a l l e d something l i k e "The S p i r i t of a Bee-hive." I suspect that this i s incorrect. There wasn't much time l e f t . So I returned to the ship, taking a coach. His face looking l i k e a p i n k 1 ^ standing in a Buddha's cinerary urn, a young Greek laughed. He had promised to give me an old coin with the head of Venus imprinted. I l l The beauty of a woman lurking , 108 in oak. How b i t t e r , that powder. How b i t t e r , the passion of c r u c i f i x i o n redeeming mankind from sin. 112 A l i g h t pink phantom ref l e c t e d on a t h i s t l e flower on a mountain— eternity flowing away, loneliness in the misty silhouette of a man, i s i r r e a l i t y . . . On this mountain shadow too far away, on this swelling of s o i l trembles a colour. 113 I become stranded on a muddy street where red knotweeds 1 1^ bloom— the beginning of a new Divine Comedy.1''"''' 114 A 4T , , 112 A few oak leaves. The ghost of a past lover. A shaft of l i g h t from a distant past. 115 He wondered whether he should go to hotsprings i n the eastern land or in the western land. The man at the Mugiwara Inn 113 f i n a l l y decided on Shuzenji. This man often v i s i t e d with me at the inn Around the time when the temple b e l l rang when pine leaves shone i n gold, we took a bath together (continued) watching a toy waterwheel turning in a stream from a pond. 116 When I was weary of tr a v e l , resting under a tree which v i l l a g e r s c a l l e d yosozome, I began thinking. I thought of a monster-dipper. We c e r t a i n l y had some great myth makers 114 among our ancestors. When I stood up the autumn was already almost gone. 117 Watching the rainy heavens I thought. I l i k e that "man of ocean" in The Thousand and One Nights. Somehow, suddenly I stopped my walk then again began to think. I crossed a bridge and went to a town. There, summer had already come. 280 118 Somebody said that there were some great novels 1 1"* that were started i n children's notebooks written i n p e n c i l . I r e c a l l e d i t lyi n g i n a f i e l d of goldenrods. l l f* 119 The sound of musical instruments flows into the human voice. This moment is the swooning of autumn. 120 How desolate, the world of c o l o u r s — the colour of the leaf-edge, small flowers blooming i n a nameless f i e l d . . . The biology of colour, the evolutionary theory of colour. Colours flow ceaselessly. His feet not to be washed by the same current, the H e r a c l i t u s 1 1 ^ of colours, (continued) the Bergson of colours. . . 119 Through Chavannes's landscape, through the cover of an old book, through a pack of Golden Bat, through a woman's l i p s , through the apples of Cezanne, eternity flows within colours. 121 In a narrow landscape of a female s p i r i t thinking of something, a windmill turns. 122 In early December f o x t a i l s already withered, golden dreams gone, only the shells of dreams tremble. 1 2 3 Camellias in the mountains never bloom a l l year. Those white buds at the ti p s of branches are leaf-buds. Rather than flowers, the beauty of leaves heightened in t h e i r blackening green. . . Someone takes a leaf that emits a hard gleam, r o l l s i t and w h i s t l e s — those round cheeks. . . This sorrowful noise echoing through the mountain s p i r i t — this s t i l l n e s s of the winter mountains. 124 Shadowless mandala's grass seeds' sc a r l e t , transience. . . Loneliness of the purple. Desolate shapes (continued) hanging from dried twigs, s p i l t into a winter day. 125 From over there a man comes r i d i n g on a cow 121 looking l i k e a Tenjin-sama. 126 One day I was walking along a r i v e r bank where honey locusts bloomed. A woman was squatting, f i s h i n g in silence. What a rare sight that was! 127 Through the twilight of lovers bats f l y . 128 A gem thrown by someone hi t s a harp, becomes an ancient song. 129 Amethyst— a f o s s i l of love? 130 Carved on a peach tree, a child's smiling head. Lonely i s the sweet tea of our sorrowful l i f e . 131 122 The philosophy of clothes is the philosophy of women. (continued) 285 How sorrowful, a woman's one-piece sash. . . 132 The roundness of a teacup, that desolate curve, karma turning, r e f l e c t s an autumn day. 133 Brocade, how sorrowful. 134 123 An old net t l e tree crumbling i n decay on this b e a u t i f u l spring day. 135 . 124 Flowers i n a thorn hedge. Who dwells. 136 With wild chrysanthemums I adorn an unknown phantom of stone. 137 Into goldenrods recedes the back of an angler. 138 The darkness of a wild flower shadows her heart. No one knows (continued) 287 the longing for her husband flowering in this f i e l d of mind. 139 In a garden where peonies bloom, the water r e f l e c t s a lover's l i p s pouting with the thought of waterfowls leaving. 140 P u l l i n g nearer the sorrowful hand of autumn night, l e t t i n g oak leaves make f l u t t e r i n g music, a f r a g i l e heart makes haste. Goblets are raised high to dip the s t a r l i g h t — 126 they are althea flowers blooming in the hedge. Loneliness of the one (continued) who waits f o r a serene v i s i t , leaving the hedge gate open. 141 The shadow of a heart r e f l e c t e d on a wild f l o w e r — of i t s l i g h t purple. . . 142 Dyeing my clothes in t w i l i g h t colours, tomorrow I depart. 143 Someone casts a shadow over my heart, looking back— a woman of autumn day, a dragonfly, (continued) a l i g h t i n g on a bamboo hat. 144 On an autumn day, swooning, hanging from a corner of a rock, a luscious s p i r i t dreams. F l u f f of a dandelion: half disappeared crescent moon— i t s dream glorious. 145 A v i l l a g e madman a l l naked gobbles up lady-flowers and crickets. 146 How lonely, the ancient r i t u a l , boring a hole through an eggplant (continued) 290 to look at the harvest moon. 147 An autumn day, in a corner of a garden imperceptibly a stone mouldering. . . 128 Hanging a horizontal s c r o l l by Mokkei, setting a wild flower in a vase, I wait in silence for the one who does not come. On a water-mirror studded with long stemmed reeds, the heart of woman i s ref l e c t e d . Man i s only the shadow of woman. S o i l dreams of eternity. We are a vine on a journey temporarily growing over that s o i l . Only the evening sun remains on the stem. A grass seed i s the heart of woman. The heart's shadow is the f i e l d ' s shadow. 291 148 His golden hair waving in the wind a boy holds a f i s h i n one hand, an apple i n the other, 129 and runs among angels over the clouds. I wonder i f i t was a painting hung on some restaurant wall. . . 149 Summer d a y s — sadness i n blue plums. . . Born i n the land of knotweed, I lose my way on a path f u l l of thicket. I go on t o t t e r i n g through the grounds of a b e l l - l e s s temple, passing by a hedge of blooming morning-glories, through a v i l l a g e where shrikes sing, taking a rest in a rainy town. . . In the country of t r a i l i n g plants we drink tea together— a murmuring brooklet woman's (continued) 292 sentiments flowing on. 150 Facing the glowing sun d i r e c t l y I hurried along a road where tigerbeetles crawl around. It seemed that I would never reach the town with a steeple. 131 Only hedges of tea-leaves and mandin berries continued. Later I asked a woman for directions, who stuck out her head from a roughly woven wood fence. I had walked in completely the opposite d i r e c t i o n ! "Thou must go straight back." 151 The barbed tongues of a husband and a wife quarreling often, unnoticed by others return to eternal darkness. (continued) A thought of ancient s o i l . Uttering not a word, treading on f a l l e n leaves. A bulbul sings i n the garden which both have nurtured. 152 132 Plucking f i e l d horsetails the one who l i v e s i n this v i l l a g e -loneliness . 153 A glorious sentiment's curve. 154 Down the hallway, (continued) in a dim l i g h t , on a closed shoji-screen, 133 the shadow of a camellia set in a v a s e — loneliness. 155 Saying something, a p i t i a b l e but curiously funny female carpenter's whisper which i s so amer somehow pierces my mind. When wandering among withered trees, thoughts of moss I touch, lonely. . . 156 Putting bread crumbs in my bosom, (continued) 295 tea in a gourd, I was walking up a h i l l with a persimmon cane. A woman t r a v e l l e r suddenly looked back stic k i n g out her s l i c k tongue. "This i s s t i l l a theatre of l i f e . Our l i v e s belong to that hazel. Oh, c'mon, poetry? painting? They don't mean nothin'," so saying she stuck out her scarlet tongue again. 157 When we set out on a journey we take something in our bosom, not for reading but as a charm to ward off e v i l s p i r i t s . One man, a long time ago, 136 carried Une Vie to Joshu. A revolutionary in a certain country took Paradise Lost with him (continued) to work in the f i e l d s . A maid from Shimousa hides in her wicker trunk a picture of Greta Garbo. When I set out on a journey in order not to f a l l in love nor to starve, putting a f o x t a i l between the pages of Dante's "Inferno". There i s l o t s of food in the mountains. 158 Journey returning to journey, dust to dust. . . Once this urn i s broken i t becomes a piece of eternity. The journey flows away. If I try to scoop i t up with my hands i t becomes dreams and bubbles. Beneath t h i s bamboo hat wet with dreams, an autumn l i g h t s p i l l s i n . 159 For the one whose eyes grow misty at the sight of nuts gathered in a hollow of the mountain s o i l , transience i s not that of antiquity. 160 The colour of grass. The crook of a stem. The crumbling of a rock. A chipped bowl. The dozing of s o i l l y i n g i n the crack of a heart. How sorrowful, an autumn day. 161 On an autumn night, the shadow of a flower on the bed. (continued) 298 Our conversation never ending. My heart growing pale, how lonely. . . "What remains i n my mind about that genre painting on an old fo l d i n g screen i s the f o x - l i k e dog, the eyes of a woman v i s i t i n g a mountain, the roofs of temples and shrines h a l f - v i s i b l e above cherry blossoms and clouds, the grass leaves looking l i k e autumn eyelashes. . ." "There i s a woman who said she wanted to see a woman's b e l l y button in the age when people wore Chinese robes. The sadness of an autumn day. . ." Somebody i s eavesdropping. 139 "As f or the p o r t r a i t of a poet who l e f t a poem call e d "Ode to the West Wind". . . I had long d i s l i k e d him for his too feminine look. But l a t e r I found out that that p o r t r a i t had been painted by a woman. Oh, I see. Woman was coming out of i t . (continued) Seeping out of a rock, a woman's h e a r t — a dandelion." "Who painted the p o r t r a i t of a c h i l d with a page-boy hair cut, holding a camellia?" "Once a stockbroker but now a farmer, this guy bought some radish seeds beneath a bridge, holding some change he laughed "Hee, hee, hee. . ." and said "People say that women give a shelter to men's seed But that's a myth. Seeds are in women, don't ya see? Men? Yes, s i r , we men are merely a ray of l i g h t or somethin' l i k e that, you know. Like bees and wind!" 162 An autumn night r a i n forming a puddle on a stepping s t o n e — a scent of chrysanthemum in the a i r , (continued) this scent of the distant past. . 163 To witness the revelation of a miracle I went up to the c a p i t a l , 14 hiding i n the shadow of a shepherd's wrinkled robe. I dozed o ff in a forest of z e l k o v a — desolate, withered. I dreamed of a woman of dawn among the whispers of f a l l i n g leaves and twigs. Reflected on the plaster, the gap of Orion turning pale i n the morning g r e y — the condensation of a morning wind? the joy of breaking out of darkness? wood-spirits awakening from the deep embrace of Saturn? one afternoon? The f i s s i o n of a s p i r i t . A glorious space. The severance of a sexless holy tree. However, since you are the f l e s h of the planet Venus, (continued) you are the goddess of human procreation, the l i g h t that presides over the f e s t i v a l of l i f e . 142 Even that i r r e a l i t y between a husband and a wife is r e a d i l y included. That instant when a woman turns into a d o l l . That instant when a d o l l becomes a woman. A s p i r i t at the instant of coming out of a body. That instant when a rose-crept window opens at dawn. That curve of a finger. Her foot about to walk but not yet leaving the ground, a woman's s p i r i t thinks something. A water-spirit r i s e s , i t s heart stepping into a blooming f i e l d , f a i n t l y i n a stone, dawn passing. . . 164 Just l i k e a man who dreams of awakening, I could not sleep. Before the daybreak I set out on a dewy journey. I did not know whose mountain house i t was. I went through i t s white painted gate (continued) and went up a slope. I could see a mountain leaning towards the southeast, celadon-green mountains looking small forming a l i n e on the horizon. On the terrace I found a dried-out fountain, in i t s middle, an old rusty Triton crouching alone, l i k e a waterless gourd, l i k e an empty perfume bottle. 143 It was a May morning when spears rusted. . . A l l the windows of the house were closed except one upstairs. It opened outward from a blooming thorn bush. I could see the back of a mirror-stand. Who l i v e s there? Is this the dwelling of a woman who t i e s her dreams to the spire of skylarks when a t h i s t l e - c o l o u r trembles at dawn? In this ruined house she was combing her hair, awakened so e a r l y — after a j o y f u l dream? or not being able to sleep? If I could know her. . . (continued) 303 Perhaps i t was a honeymoon bed so long ago. . . By the entrance steps I saw young lovers carved in s t o n e — moss hanging from th e i r embrace. . . Yellow v i o l e t s blooming, this heart-rending spring. A sorrowful sight, panting on a h i l l a woman picks f i e l d h o r s e t a i l s . She does not say a word. Its b i r t h near a r o s e - f r u i t ' s , this beloved l i f e ' s f r u i t ' s , whispers' whispers knocking on the l e a v e s — a thought of eternity. 165 The heart's roots entwined, the s o i l ' s dark distant eternity sleeps in silence. Again seed returns to seed through flowers, (continued) through f r u i t . Man's seed also returns to man's seed through the flower of a maiden, 144 through the ovarian orchid f r u i t . Sadly this eternal watermill turns. The water flows, the wheel turns, again the water flows away. The journey of our l i v e s begins at a certain time i n the i n f i n i t y of the past and ends at a certain time in the i n f i n i t y of the future Every moment in this world is also a part of the eternal time. A seed of grass i s also a part of the eternal space. The f i n i t e existence i s a part of the i n f i n i t e existence In this small garden I see an old plum tree, an Indian l i l a c , an oak tree, a camellia, bamboo grass. . . The succession of birds's memories? of bush warblers', of Siberian meadow buntings', those birds that v i s i t here a l l through the year? (continued) This place used to he Hiroo F i e l d where pampas grasses pushed forth t h e i r whitest tufts Next to the watermill there was a tea-house where they used to r o l l bean-paste dumplings. In this mandala v i l l a g e young waterfowls r i s e i n the a i r , seeking not f r u i t but flowers. Yet flowers seek f r u i t . Flowers exist only for f r u i t . 166 A country of young leaves. A world of scarlet weakens. Fading damask coloured luscious thoughts. . . The sorrowful look of the phantasmal man. . . 167 Around the time (continued) 306 when I came near a v i l l a g e ' after coming down a mountain and crossing a mountain stream, I saw at a road bend. . . What! Is i t spring, now? A big white rhododendron tree was in f u l l bloom. As I picked a branch to see, I found that i t was just frozen snow. This i s a dream of r e a l i t y , not a dream of a poet. Even in a dream seasons occupy my mind. Loneliness of the phantasmal man. . . 168 Touching the roots of eternity, passing the f i e l d ' s end 147 where the heart's quail cry, where wild roses burst into bloom, passing a v i l l a g e where a f u l l i n g block echoes, passing a country where a woodman's path crosses, (continued) passing a town where whitewashed walls crumble, v i s i t i n g a temple by the road, viewing a mandala tapestry with reverence, walking over crumbled mountains of dead twigs, crossing a ferry where reed stalks are r e f l e c t e d i n long shadows, passing a bush-where seeds hang from grass leaves, the phantasmal man departs. The eternal t r a v e l l e r never returns. 308 Notes to No Tra v e l l e r Returns 1. 'No Tra v e l l e r Returns': Tabibito kaerazu (Tokyo: Tokyo shuppan, 1947). The English t i t l e "No Traveller Returns" had appeared as the t i t l e of an essay Nishiwaki published in the p e r i o d i c a l Tsuda bungaku (February, 1930). It i s o r i g i n a l l y taken from Shakespeare's Hamlet, act 3, sc. 1, li n e 80: "The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn/ No t r a v e l l e r returns . . ." Also, Nishiwaki's friend, John C o l l i e r , wrote a novella e n t i t l e d No  Traveller Returns, published i n 1931. 2. According to Niikura (173), the beginning of this poem i s based on a poem by the seventeenth-century English poet, S i r Edward Sherburn: The Fountain Stranger, whoe'r thou art, that stoop'st to taste These sweeter streams, l e t me arrest thy haste; Nor of t h e i r f a l l The Murmurs, (though the Lyre Less sweet be) stand t'admire: But as you s h a l l See from t h i s Marble tun The l i q u i d C h r i s t a l l run; And mark w i t h a l l , How f i x t the one abides, How fast the other glides; Instructed thus the Difference learn to see, 'Twixt Mortall L i f e , and Immortality. 309 Poems and Translations (1651) in The Poems and Translations of S i r Edward  Sherburne, ed. F. J. Van Beeck (Assen: Van Gorcum & Comp., 1961) 101. Also, there may be an echo of "What the Thunder Said" in The Waste Land by T. S. E l i o t : Here i s no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think The Complete Poems and Plays 47. 3. ' I l l u s i o n ' : utsutsu. A c l a s s i c a l , l i t e r a r y word o r i g i n a l l y meaning " r e a l i t y . " It has, however, gained the opposite meaning of "unreality," al b e i t mistakenly, through i t s connected usage with the word "yume" (dream) as "yume utsutsu." Therefore, i t presents an unusually a n t i t h e t i c a l ambiguity to the reader. The reader must decide i t s meaning by the context or allow the indeterminacy of i t s meaning. 4. 'Water-sprite': kappa. An amphibious supernatural creature said to inhabit Japan's waters. Thought to be a transformation of a water deity. 5. 'Sorrel vine': yabugarashi (Cayratita japonica). 6. 'Autumn bellflower': rindo (Gentiana scabra). 7. 'Zelkova': keyaki (Zelkova serrata). 8. 'Nagoe mountain': a small mountain in Kamakura c i t y , where Nishiwaki spent a few years during the war. 9. ' T h i s t l e ' : azami (Cirsium). 10. 'Spearflower': yabukoji (Ardisia japonica). 310 11. 'Floating weed': ukikusa (Spirodela polyrhiza). 12. 'Lonely i s my l i f e ' : samishiki mono wa wagami n a r i k e r i . According to Niikura (174), t h i s phrase comes from a famous waka by Fujiwara no Kintsune (1171-1244), no. 96 of Hyakunin isshu, compiled by Fujiwara no Sadaie (1162-1241): Hana sasou What i s f a l l i n g now Arashi no niwa no Is not the blossom harvest Yuki narade The storm turns to snow Furi yuku mono wa Here in t h i s sheltered garden Waga mi n a r i k e r i • But myself, the most secure. Tom Gait, trans., The L i t t l e Treasury of One Hundred People One Poem Each, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982) 96. 13. A l l u s i o n to "Renouveau" by Mallarme. (Niikura 174) 14. 'Maupassant': Guy de Maupassant (1850-93), famous French short-story writer, novelist and l i t e r a r y j o u r n a l i s t . Here Nishiwaki refers to Maupassant's c o l l e c t i o n of t r a v e l sketches Sur l'eau (1888). 15. According to Niikura (174), this refers to Yoshida Kazuho (1898-1973), a Japanese poet. 16. 'Eventide of gems': yugure no yona hoseki, a phrase by Keats from Endymion, bk. 2, l i n e 225. (Niikura 174) 17. According to Niikura (174), t h i s i s a p l a y f u l a l l u s i o n to a story "Azuma no kata n i yuku mono kabura o totsugite ko o shozuru koto dai n i " in Konjaku monogatari, v o l . 26, no. 2 (compiled i n the early twelfth century). The story i s as follows. A man i s suddenly assailed by an uncontrollable sexual desire on his way to the eastern countries. He finds a large radish 311 in the f i e l d s , bores a hole, and uses i t as a supplement for a woman. After he has l e f t , a young maiden finds i t and eats i t . Consequently she becomes pregnant and gives b i r t h to a b e a u t i f u l boy. The man comes back and finds out what has happened, and happily marries the g i r l . Cf. Konjaku  monogatari shu 3, i n Akiyama Ken, et a l . eds, Nihon koten bungaku zenshu, 51 vols. (Tokyo: Shogakkan, 1970-1973) 23: 513. 18. Reference to The Razor's Edge (1944) by William Somerset Maugham (1874-1965). (Niikura 175) 19. 'Cockscomb': keito (Celosia c r i s t a t a ) . 20. 'Kamakura': c i t y i n southeastern Kanagawa Prefecture, 45 km southwest of Tokyo. Its h i s t o r i c a l importance dates to the twelfth century, when i t became the seat of the Kamakura shogunate. Nishiwaki l i v e d in Kamakura for two years (1943-45) in order to evade the bombings of Tokyo during the war. 21. 'Jizo': one of the most popular Bodhisattvas in Japanese Buddhism. Jizo i s usually represented as a monk with a jewel in one hand and a s t a f f in the other. Its images are often placed along roadsides. 22. 'Cezanne': Paul Cezanne (1839-1906), French painter. Here Nishiwaki refers to Cezanne's S t i l l L i f e with Apples and Oranges. 21. 'Deutzia': u no hana (Deutzia crenata). Since "u" s i g n i f i e s the fourth lunar month, i t can be translated as " A p r i l flower." 24. 'Horse chestnuts': tochi (Aesculus turbinata). 25. 'Oak': kunugi (Quercus acutissima). 26. 'Spikenard': udo ( A r a l i a cordata). 27. 'Hazel eyes': hashibami no me. According to Niikura (175), the English essayist William H a z l i t t (1778-1830) c a l l e d the eyes of John Keats "hazel eyes." Niikura, however, does not state the source. "The day of 312 truth" (makoto no hi) i n the l a s t l i n e , then, reminds us of Keats*s famous l i n e from "Ode on a Grecian Urn": "Beauty i s truth, truth beauty. . ." The  Selected Poetry of Keats, ed. Paul de Man (New York: A Signet C l a s s i c , New American Library, 1966) 253. 28. 'Nettle-flower': irakusa (Urtica thunbergiana). 29. 'Konpira': the guardian deity of seafarers. 30. 'Reality': utsutsu. See note 3. 31. 'Reality': utsutsu. 32. 'Indian l i l a c ' : sarusuberi (Lager stroemia indica). 33. 'Holly': umemodoki (Ilex serrata). 34. 'Noborito': a d i s t r i c t i n Kawasaki c i t y , Kanagawa Prefecture. 35. 'Chofu': a c i t y i n Tokyo. 36. 'The Musashi P l a i n ' : i t extends from Tokyo to Saitama Prefecture, southwestern Kanto P l a i n , surrounded by the three r i v e r s , the Tama River, the Irama River, and the Ara River and by Tokyo Bay. 37. 'Sagami': old name of a land, now Kanagawa Prefecture. 38. 'Kodaira': a small town i n Tokyo. Nishiwaki taught at Tsuda Eigaku Juku (now Tsuda Women's University) i n Kodaira from 1934 to 1942. 39. 'An unbelievably impertinent woman': i t o hashitanaki onna. A parody of a l i n e from Ise monogatari (Tales of Ise): "sono sato n i , i t o  namameitaru onna harakara sumi k e r i . " Ise monogatari i n Nihon koten  bungaku zenshu 8: 133. (Niikura 175) 40. 'Tsuda bungaku': l i t e r a r y p e r i o d i c a l published through Tsuda Eigaku Juku. 41. 'Bats': batto (English t r a n s l i t e r a t e d ) . A brand name of cigarettes, "Golden Bat." 42. 'Kunugi': a type of oak (Quercus acutissima). 43. 'Nara': a type of oak (Quercus serrata). 313 44. 'Mogusaen': a town and a park i n Hino c i t y , Tokyo. 45. 'White magnolia': kobushi (Magnolia kobus). 46. 'Knotweed': inutade (Polygnum Blumei). 47. ' F o x t a i l ' : enokorogusa (Setaria v i r i d i s ) . 48. 'Grasshopper': k i r i g i r i s u (Gampsocleis buergeri). This poem i s based on a famous waka by Fujiwara no Yoshitsune (1169-1206), no. 91 of Hyakunin isshu: K i r i g i r i s u  Naku ya shimo yo no  Samushiro n i Koromo katashiki H i t o r i kamo nen On your sleeping mat This night when the c r i c k e t s ' cry Is predicting f r o s t Must you spread only one side Of your robe for you alone? Gait 91. (Niikura 176) 49. 'Lady-flower': ominaeshi ( P a t r i n i a scabiosaefolia). "Lady-flower" i s a d i r e c t t r a n s l a t i o n of kanj i adopted for "ominaeshi." 50. 'Honey locust': saikachi (Gleditschia japonica). 51. According to Niikura (176), t h i s poem i s based on a poem in Man'yoshu (vol. 12, no. 3137), the e a r l i e s t surviving anthology of Japanese poetry, compiled i n the eighth century: Toku areba  Katachi wa miezu  Tsune no goto  Imo ga emai wa  Omokage n i shite. 314 "I am away from home, and for. some while Save i n my mind, I can not see you smile." H. H. Honda, The Manyoshu: A New and Complete Translation (Tokyo: The Hokuseido Press, 1967) 231. 52. 'Day-flower': tsuyukusa (Commelina communis). 53. 'Chitose': a v i l l a g e i n Tokyo. "Chitose" means "one thousand years o l d . " 54. 'The ancient god': i n i s h i e no Kojin. Kojin (violent god) i s a category of f o l k d e i t i e s . It i s said to cast e v i l s p ells on people and expose them to danger unless properly revered. 55. 'Ginger': myoga. There i s a pun on myoga (Japanese ginger) and myoga (divine protection by K5j i n ) . 56. 'Yose': town in Kanagawa Prefecture, now ca l l e d Sagamiko machi. 57. According to Niikura (176), this poem i s based on Shakespeare's Macbeth. See act 2, scene 2, l i n e 17: "Lady Macbeth: I heard the owl scream and crickets cry." 58. See the beginning of Macbeth, act 1, scene 7: "Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over the stage, a Sewer, and divers Servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth [who i s now determined to assassinate the king, Duncan]." 59. Niikura sees an echo of "Autre e v e n t a i l " by Mallarme. (176) The second stanza: Une fraicheur de crepuscule Te vient a. chaque battement Dont le coup prisonnier recule L'horizon deiicatement. 315 OEuvres 58. 60. 'Evening-face': yugao (Lagenaria leucantha). "Evening-face" i s a direct t r a n s l a t i o n of "yugao." It i s a type of bottle-gourd. It i s also a prominent flower (associated with a lady) in The Tales of Genji, the celebrated Japanese c l a s s i c , written by Murasaki Shikibu i n the early eleventh century. See chapter four of The Tales of Genji, trans. Edward G. Seidensticker (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1977). 61. 'Damson': sumomo ( i n k a n j i ) . See note 17. 62. 'Novel': According to Niikura (177), this refers to Eyeless i n  Gaza (1936) by Aldous Huxley (1894-1963). 63. 'Purple-willow': kawayanagi (S a l i x g r a c i l i s t y l a ) . 64. 'Katsura': Cercidiphyllum japonicum. 65. 'Book': According to Niikura (177), this refers to the section 139 of Tsurezuregusa (c.1330) by Yoshida Kenko (1283-1350). Cf. Essays i n  Idleness, trans. Donald Keene (New York: Columbia University Press, 1967). 66. 'Sane-kazura': Kadsura japonica. 67. According to Niikura (177), this poem is based on a poem by Johan Wolfgang Goethe (1749-1832). The poem appears as an epigraph to Book Three of his novel Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre. The following i s an English translation by Michael Hamburger: Do you know the land where the lemon trees flower, Golden oranges glow in the dark-leaved bower, Where a gentle wind blows from an azure sky, Unruffled the myrtle grows and the laurel s r i s e h i g h — Do you know the land? There, only there With you, my beloved, I long to go. Do you know the house? P i l l a r e d , i t s roof r e c l i n e s , The great h a l l gleams and b r i g h t l y the white room shines, And marble statues look down, the i r gaze i s mild: 'What have they done to you, t e l l me, my poor c h i l d ! ' — Do you know the house? There, only there With you, my protector, I long to go. Do you know the mountain and i t s cloudy track? Slowly in the mist the mute gropes i t s way back, In caves the ancient brood of the dragons teems, Rocks come tumbling down, above them roaring streams— Do you know the rocks? There, only there Our way can lead; 0 Father, l e t us go! Goethe, Poems and Epigrams, trans. Michael Hamburger (London: Anvil Pre Poetry, 1983) 29. 68. 'Koma': a town in Saitam Prefecture. 69. 'Sumac': nurude (Rhus javanica). 70. 'Knotweed': i t a d o r i (Polygonum cuspidatum). 71. 'Tiger l i l i e s ' : oniyuri (Lilium lancifolium)• 72. 'Yogo Temple': a temple i n Kawasaki c i t y , Kanagawa Prefecture. 73. 'Yakushi': the Buddha of healing. 74. 'Pampas grass': susuki (Miscanthus sinensis). 317 75. 'Kasuri': a kind of cloth, t y p i c a l l y of hemp, ramie, or cotton, with hazed patterns of reserved white against a deep indigo-blue ground, popular for farmers' and merchants' clothing from the mid-eighteenth to the beginning of the twentieth centuries. 76. 'Bindweed': kohirugao (Calystegia hederacea). 77. 'Mugwort': yomogi (Artemisia v u l g a r i s ) . 78. 'Soba': Japanese buckwheat noodles. 79. 'The Sun and the Moon': nitte n getten, Buddhist terms for the dei t i e s of the sun and the moon. 80. 'Red knotweeds': akanomanma, same as inutade (note 46). "Akano  manma" means "red r i c e . " 81. ' I r r e a l i t y ' : utsutsu. See note 3. 82. 'Shiba': a d i s t r i c t in Tokyo. 83. 'Kunisada': Utagawa Kunisada (1786-1864), an ukiyo-e woodblock print designer and book i l l u s t r a t o r , s p e c i a l i z i n g i n figures of women and port r a i t s of kabuki actors. 84. 'Red knotweed': akanomanma. 85. 'Chinese bellflower': kikyo (Platycodon grandiflorum). 86. 'Sangen Tea-house': Sangen jya ya, a d i s t r i c t i n Tokyo. 87. 'Doppo': Kunikida Doppo (1871-1908). Here, Nishiwaki refers to Doppo's novel Musashino (the Musashi P l a i n ) . 88. 'Jodo Lost': play on Paradise Lost by Milton, who became b l i n d . "Jodo" means "Pure Lands" i n Buddhism. They are realms of purity, the residence of Buddhas and bodhisattvas. 89. 'Stinking bark': hekusokazura (Paederia scandens). 90. According to Niikura (178), there i s an echo of "Astrophel" by Edmund Spenser (15527-99): 318 Her yellow locks that shone so bright and long, As Sunny beames in f a i r e s t somers day; She f i e r s l y tore, and with outragious wrong From her red cheeks the roses rent away. And her f a i r e brest the threasury of joy, She spoyld thereof, and f i l l e d with annoy. His palled face impictured with death, She bathed o f t with teares and dried o f t : And with sweet kisses suckt the wasting breath, Out of his l i p s l i k e l i l l i e s pale and soft. The Minor Poems, v o l . 1, eds. Charles Grosvenor Osgood and Henry Gibbons Lotspeich, in The Works of Edmund Spenser, eds. Edwin Greenlaw, et a l . , (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press, 1943) 183. 91. ' H i l l s of Tama': h i l l y area in southern Tokyo. It used to be a natural forest area, now a r e s i d e n t i a l area. 92. 'Kiso*: a d i s t r i c t i n southwestern Nagano Prefecture, famous for i t s mountains and fo r e s t s . 93. 'Fudo*: (Skt. Acalanatha) a type of myo5. The God of f i r e . The t h i r d ranking category in Japanese Buddhist iconography. 94. A l l u s i o n to a waka by Fujiwara no Toshinari (114-1204): Yu sare ba As evening comes Nobe no akikaze autumn wind from the meadows Mini shimite strikes with a c h i l l — Uzura nakunari quails cry Fukakusa no sato in the v i l l a g e of Fukakusa 319 translated by Burton Watson in Hiroaki Sato and Buton Watson, trans., eds., From the Country of Eight Islands: An Anthology of Japanese Poetry (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1981) 165. The Japanese text i n Senzaiwakashu 258, in Matsushita Daizaburo and Watanabe Fumio, eds., Kokka  taikan: ka shu (Tokyo: Kadokawa shoten, 1951) 147. 95. 'Shimada c o i f f u r e * : shimada, a type of chignon usually f or unmarried women. 96. 'Van Gogh*: Vincent van Gogh (1853-1859), Dutch painter. Here Nishiwaki refers to S e l f - p o r t r a i t (1889). 97. 'Fringed pink': nadeshiko (Dianthus superbus). 98. 'Muku*: (Aphananthe aspera), a type of elm. 99. 'They get together and again they part': issho n i nari mata wakareru. A Japanese tr a n s l a t i o n of the t i t l e of a novel, Together and  Apart (1937), by Margaret Kennedy (b. 1896). I have re-translated the Japanese, for i t creates an effect that i t i s not the t i t l e of a novel but a part of the on-going narrative. 100. 'Avoid e v i l s p i r i t s ' : akurei o sakeyo. Re-translation of The  Devil and A l l (1934) by John C o l l i e r . 101. ' D i f f i c u l t predicament': kurushiki tachiba. Re-translation of Of  Human Bondage (1915) by William Somerset Maugham. 102. 'Lemon farm': remon batake, a novel by Martin Boyd (b. 1893). 103. 'Razor teeth': kamisori no ha, play on The Razor's Edge by Maugham. 104. 'His monkey wife': saru nyobo, a novel (1932) by C o l l i e r . 105. According to Niikura (179), this poem i s based on a passage from a novel by Richard Aldington, A l l Men Are Enemies (London: Chatto & Windus, 1933) 152: 320 To his surprise, Scrope was not in his favourite eighteenth-century room, but in the tapestried Elizabethan h a l l , s i t t i n g i n front of a f i r e of smouldering elm-logs, a p l a i d over his knees and a screen behind his back. Only l a t e r did Tony discover the reason for this change of h a b i t s — c o a l was almost unobtainable, and the small grates would not burn these long rough branches which rested on the iron dogs in the huge f i r e p l a c e . Yet even as he entered the door, Tony was seduced by the charm of this ordered, seemingly untroubled l i f e — h e r e , at least, was something uncrushed by the tanks of war. But that happy f e e l i n g lasted only the time from the door to the fi r e p l a c e . It was as soon as he saw his old friend, and t r i e d to keep from his own face any expression of his s t a r t l e d p i t y . Scrope's body seemed to have shrunk inside his tweeds, his face was sunk and wrinkled, his voice had developed the s l i g h t quaver of age, and as he looked up with the pathetic try-not-to-hurt-me expression of very old people, Tony saw in his eyes for a second the strange d u l l gleam he knew only too w e l l — t h e eyes of those about to die. Antony was so much shocked that at f i r s t he had some d i f f i c u l t y in talking coherently, and was glad when lunch was announced. 106. 'Maeterlinck': Maurice Maeterlinck (1862-1949), Belgian poet, dramatist, and essayist. Here, Nishiwaki presumably refers to Maeterlinck's La Vie des abe i l l e s (1901). 107. 'Pink*: nadeshiko. See note 234. 108. 'Oak': tsurubami, archaic word for kunugi. See note 25. 321 109. ' I r r e a l i t y ' : utsutsu. See note 3. 110. 'Red knotweed': akanomanma. 111. This poem i s based on the beginning of Divine Comedy by Dante A l i g h i e r i (1265-1321): Midway the journey of this l i f e I was 'ware That I had strayed into a dark forest, And the ri g h t path appeared not anywhere. Translated by Lawrence Binyon i n The Portable Dante (New York: The Viking Press, 1947) 3. (Niikura 180) 112. 'Oak': kunugi. 113. 'Shuzenji': Izushuzenji, town in eastern Shizuoka Prefecture. Situated on the Kano River, i t developed as a hot spring resort i n the Edo period (1600-1868). 114. Niikura informs us that there i s a story about a monster-dipper from the Muromachi period (1338-1573), but does not specify the source. (180) 115. According to Niikura (180), this refers to D. H. Lawrence (1885-1930). 116. 'Goldenrod': k i r i n s o (Sedum kamtschaticum)• 117. Heraclitus (540-475 B.C.), Greek philosopher of Ephesus, who maintained that everything i s in a state of flux; change i s the only r e a l i t y ; f i r e i s the o r i g i n of a l l things: nothing i s born and nothing dies; b i r t h and death are but rearrangements. 118. 'Bergson': Henri-Louis Bergson (1859-1941), French philosopher. Presumably, here, Nishiwaki refers to Bergson's L'Evolution creatrice 322 (1907) in which biology, theories of evolution, and the notion of ' l a duree r e e l l e ' are discussed. 119. 'Chavannes': Pierre Puvis de Chavannes (1824-1898), French painter. 120. 'Camellia': tsubaki (Camellia japonica). 121. 'Tenjin-sama': l i t e r a l l y , "the heavenly god(s)." Usually, i t refers to the d e i f i e d s p i r i t of Sugawara Michizane (845-903), leading court scholar and p o l i t i c a l figure of the Heian period (794-1185). 122. 'The philosophy of clothes': a l l u s i o n to Sartor Resartus (1837) by Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881). 123. 'Nettle': enoki ( C e l t i s s i n e n s i s ) . 124. According to Niikura (181), this poem refers to a waka by Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902): In the hedge Of my garden A rose bud Swelling Summer i s here. From Take no sato uta (1904) in Masaoka Shiki, Takahama Kyoshi in Nihon  s h i j i n zenshu, eds. Kamei Katsuichiro, et a l . , 34 vols. (Tokyo: Shincho sha, 1969) 2: 21. Translation mine. 125. 'Peonie': shakuyaku (Paeonia a l b i f l o r a ) . 126. 'Althea': mukuge (Hibiscus syriacus). 127. Niikura suggests a possible a l l u s i o n to the ending of "Lycidas" waga niwa no  kakine n i ouru  bara no me no  tsubomi fukurete natsu wa k i n i k e r i 323 by Milton: "At l a s t he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew:/ To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new." Complete Poetry and Selected Prose of John  Milton, ed. Cleanth Brooks (New York: The Modern Library, 1950) 80. (181) 128. 'Mokkei': (Ch. Muqui or Mu-ch'i), a thirteenth-century Chinese Zen monk-painter. 129. Cf. "The Primitiveness of a cup" in Ambarvalia. 130. 'Morning-glory': asagao (Pharbitis N i l ) . 131. 'Mandin': nanten (Nandina domestica). 132. ' F i e l d h o r s e t a i l ' : sugina (Equistetum arvense). 133. 'Camellia': sazanka (Camellia Sasanqua). 134. 'Amer': French, t r a n s l i t e r a t e d i n katakana. 135. According to Niikura (181), this i s a parody of a section i n La  Culture des idees (1901) by Remy de Gourmont (1858-1915): L'homme malgre sa tendance au mensonge, a un grand respect pour ce q u ' i l appelle l a v e r i t e ; c'est que l a v e r i t e est son baton de voyage a travers l a vie, c'est que les lieux communs sont l e pain de sa besace et le vin de sa gourde. "La Dissociation des idees" in La Culture des idees (1900; Paris: Mercure de France, 1964) 66. 136. Niikura informs us that this refers to the Japanese novelist Tayama Katai (1872-1930) carrying around Une Vie (Onna no issho in Japanese translation) by Maupassant as the bible of n a t u r a l i s t novels. (182) "Joshu" i s the old name of the land now Gunma Prefecture. 137. 'Revolutionary': Oliver Cromwell (1595-1658). (Niikura 182) 138. 'Shimousa': old name for a land that occupied the area now northern Chiba Prefecture and southwestern Ibaragi Prefecture. 324 139. 'Poet': Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822). (Niikura 182) 140. ' P o r t r a i t ' : Dojo zo by the Japanese painter, Kishida Ryusei (1891-1929). 141. According to Niikura (182), the f i r s t three lines of this poem are based on "The Prologue" of The Vision Concerning Piers the Plowman presumably written by William Langland (13307-1400?): In a summer season, when soft was the sunlight, I shook on some shreds of shepherd clothing, And habited l i k e a hermit, but not a holy one, Went wide in th i s world, watching for wonders. Visions From Piers Plowman, trans. N e v i l l C o g h i l l (London: Phoenix House, 1949) 1. 142. ' I r r e a l i t y ' : utsutsu. See note 3. 143. 'Spears rusted': y a r i sabi. "Yari sabi" may denote a type of d i t t y , a short love song. 144. 'Ovarian orchid': ranso. Play on the word ranso written i n the kanji for orchid-plant, but the trace of i t s homophone meaning "ovary" i s undeniable. 145. 'Hiroo F i e l d ' : reference to a landscape Hiroo depicted i n Edo  meisho zue ( P i c t o r i a l descriptions of noted places i n Edo) (1829) by Saito Yukio, Yukitaka, and Yukinari. See Edo meisho zue, eds. Suzuki Tozo and Asakura Haruhiko, 6 vols. (Tokyo: Kadokawa shoten, 1967), 3: 58-67. 146. 'Reality': utsutsu. See note 3. 147. See note 94. Eterunitas I Symbols are desolate. Words are symbols. When I use words my brain turns symbol-coloured and leans toward eternity. Let me return to the season of no symbols I must think within the fr o s t of broken glass, must move into a season wherein one i s obliged to seek 2 a woman's autumnal face inside a piece of concrete. Every being leans toward the world of quivering r e f l e c t i o n s 3 The temple b e l l resounds i n the water. Along the upside down spire runs a dace. A f i e l d of clouds moves qu i e t l y where w a t e r l i l i e s bloom. (stanza break) 326 The autumn-grey of a table i s mirrored within a summer apple. 4 Only words' seven lamps of ambiguity l i g h t the human b r a i n . From the top of a stone wall a s ta lk of yucca juts out. The past juts out onto the future passing the present. "Oh dear, what s h a l l we do?" A f i s h keeps i t s eyes open under a rock. S t i l l more t e r r i b l e things are happening. A woman's surprised words sound l i k e a re f lex— an utterance from f l a t t e r e d Cleopatra serving more wine. A teacup abandoned in a puddle, a trace of ch i ldren ' s play, a crest imprinted upon the back of a loach, a madman cross ing a bridge, the nervous f l u r r y of a stone thrown into a bamboo th i cke t , the scream of a meteorite struck by a plow, a louse l e f t on a t r a v e l l e r ' s hat, the movement of Pound's"' Adam's apple, (continued) 327 a man on the run chewing a soil-crusted b i t t e r root of nipplewort—^ these things do not symbolize. Things that do not symbolize attract us more. To be a l i v e i s to l i s t e n to something one cannot hear well, to eat something one cannot eat well. Only to run toward the ultimate X. Existence i s destiny. Symbols are t r a g i c . "Oh dear, what s h a l l we do?" S t i l l n e s s within a penny. The evening sun transgressing the boundaries of a cup recedes into i n f i n i t y . The contour of a black cup i s l e f t . The contour of a goddess wanders round inside a cat's p u p i l . To the eye (continued) of a man pouring wine into the t w i l i g h t , the goddess's blue returns. They are here again: l i k e vine leaves the whispers of Jacques Bonhomme, "Please forgive me, won't you?" a l e t t e r from the blonde of the century. The p o r t r a i t of Dorothy Osborn^ in the t r a v e l l e r ' s notebook is enough to bring a summer to an end. In the sesame-coloured background decayed leaves are hiding gems. The yellow l e t t e r from the woman turns toward the progress into the t r a n s i t i o n into the ultimate end, into E l Greco's magenta. The only orbi t toward eternity i s marked by the foot prints of a somnambulist who, walking along a r i v e r , (continued) dreams a dream in which he has awakened from a dream in a dream. It's getting a l i t t l e hot. Let's go inside. A breeze passes the purple of an eggplant shimmering black on a table. An open window i s mirrored, g Poussin's landscape i s mirrored. 9 And Phocion's funeral i s . . . . It seems autumn i s already here. Like a woman gathering firewood, i t is c o l l e c t i n g bones.^ l e t me hang the crown of bindweed on the thumb of a man who hanged himself. "Oh dear, how t e r r i b l e ! " 12 The s o r r e l vine i s the l i n k between man and ape which Darwin overlooked. By i n j e c t i n g past memories into the present, (continued) we make a comedy of the present, make the past present. It i s the "Fearful J o y . " 1 3 14 This cotton-weed also i s the instant laugh of God within our endless reminiscence. This inkstone also is l e f t l y i n g in the i n f i n i t e wasteland of reminiscence. Consciousness i s the past. The flow of consciousness i s the murmuring stream of reminiscence. The flow of time i s the flow of consciousness. It never progresses nor regresses but only changes. The consciousness of existence i s the consciousness of reminiscence. "The present" i s merely an i l l u s i o n discovered by grammarians. It i s the location of the "speaker." Eternity i s not time. Time i s merely the consciousness of man. That which man i s unable to conceive i s eternity. "The more cultured you get, the less you are able get i t up." (continued) Voluptuous impotence. That much we approach eternity; that much we recede from dogs. I want to depart from the time c a l l e d man. Thinking does not produce eternity. The more one thinks the further one recedes from eternity. Eternity denies every existence. Not to think of eternity is the only mode in which eternity can be expressed. There i s no other way to merge into eternity, but to destroy the brain Eternity i s an i n f i n i t e space. Nature i s only renting that space through the power of love. Nature i s not a part of eternity. "Oh dear, what s h a l l we do?" Just don't think. Let us go to Lady Ormond's''"^  party. Lady C h a t t e r l e y ^ w i l l be there, too. A white i r i s also w i l l be a husk (continued) 332 beside a grey stone. The lover's path may seem a short cut, but you should avoid i t . Sometimes you f i n d the corpse of a dog there. I do not want to construct an enigma 18 with ambiguous objets and think what i t symbolizes. To wander around the world of symbols i s Odysseus's Penelope's epos s Homer. It i s time to return somewhere. On my way back I want to land on an island hidden by the grey winedark sea, watch the rosyfingered dawn and eat pomegranates. What I would seek wouldn't be Mallarme's objets, but something more banal. I would seek loneliness: conversations I hear in the streets, a stone on which the shadows of grass are cast, the weight of a f i s h , (continued) the shape and colour of corn, the thickness of a column. I would prefer things that do not symbol Upon the banal existence i n f i n i t e loneliness is r e f l e c t e d . Loneliness i s the l a s t symbol of eternity. I want to abandon even this symbol. Not to think of eternity is to think of eternity. Not to think i s the symbol of eternity. I want to abandon even this symbol. To want to abandon i t is the ultimate symbol of eternity. We cannot see this symbol. It i s the cosmic ray that pierces the brain. Such taranbo's blue thorn s h a l l be black. II When one t r i e s not to symbolize eternity, eternity w i l l be symbolized for the f i r s t time. The young man's face I see past the man wearing a Panama hat and talking there conjures up eternity. The less one pursues eternity, the closer eternity approaches. I send o ff a man leaving f o r the meadow, ra i s i n g a goblet high for the ann i h i l a t i o n of symbols. When the sun nears the horizon, I s h a l l go back somewhere, 21 putting on a blue mantle, stepping on the long shadow of a gastank. Tomorrow also I must discover a new c l i f f , a new puddle. Man's l a s t desire is that of e t e r n i t e • ^ 23 I want to see the blueness of an akebi. 24 How much Priapus resembles (continued) 335 the sunken blue cup! Desire does not exist in eternity. The wish to abandon desire is another desire. A potato l y i n g under the s t a r l i g h t i s also the goddess of desire. A potato s t r i v i n g to become a potato 25 i s again the tragedy of desire. As for glory, not to wish f o r glory i s glory. Glory does not attempt to become glory. To abandon glory i s glory. Truly, why must man propagate? The more we pursue eternity, 26 the more i t flees l i k e Amanda. Why i s the preservation of the seed necessary? The more we pursue eternity, the more the animal i n us disappears. 27 Animal's "only l y r i c i s m i s 28 copulation•" Cultured men are as ambiguous as animals in the jungle. 29 Even a table manifests the desire of the carpenter in i t s form and colour. (continued) 336 Beauty appears where there i s no desire. The i n v i s i b l e table i s 30 more beautiful than the v i s i b l e table. To break existence i s the beginning of beauty. Where there i s no beauty stands a goddess. An existence that i s neither beautiful nor ugly l i k e the moisture on a lead pipe i s "Oh, how b e a u t i f u l ! " The brain of a t r a v e l l e r treading on acorns i s b e a u t i f u l . It i s the joy of eternite. The consciousness of the goddess walking far from eternity walking eternally distant from eternity i s the consciousness of an i n f i n i t e space. A brain drawn to the centre of the earth i s the weight of an apple. (stanza break) 337 The sound of b e l l s echoing through the v i l l a g e s : "Do not forget to turn off the gas-cock before you go to bed," so announces the transience of l i f e . It i s the sound of water from a gourd shared by tormented mankind. It i s the joyous covenant wherein we a l l cry out: 31 veritebontebeaute. . . The b e l l s t o l l i n the p l a i n . I wonder 32 what Toynbee i s thinking now. Is he s t i l l on the journey, wearing that wonderful tweed cap? He sent me A Study of History. Yes, a l l i s history. History repeats. Eternity has no history. It alone holds both plus one and minus one— an existence that i s w i l l i n g to contain existence. I talked a l l day in the t r a i n . Mulberries, wheat, and peaches reminded me of northern I t a l y . (continued) 338 • I thought of the poet of Tang who lamented the past splendor of a vanquished people whenever he heard the whispers of corn. . A dog i s t o t t e r i n g after a t r a v e l l e r . The evening sun colours his s h i r t rosy. At the end of the town I bought a pastry and a dried c u t t l e f i s h . The c l i c k of my purse vanished into the f i e l d s 33 with a wind. Again I stumbled over a stone. Again half of the dream was severed. 34 Oh, Cynara! 35 I r e c a l l e d something about sesame and l i l i e s . Like Ruskin, l i k e Hopkins I must begin to study clouds again, 36 I must begin to love stones again: that stone j u t t i n g out from the tea plantation, 37 that stone I found under a Japanese pepper tree by the Tama (continued) River, that milestone buried in a bamboo thicket, 38 and that stone of Venus in the waning l i g h t . Ah, again I stumble over a stone. Ah, again without knowing 39 I am using d_e luxe words of man. . . Already there are no more Chinese milk-vetches, 4 1 no more rape blossoms. Again I have come to the r i v e r s i d e . A bus i s running in the distance. A man i s f i s h i n g wearing a cat-coloured cap. The face of a man watching him is green l i k e a s o r r e l . 43 From beneath a c o l l a r of b r i a r , Ecce! H 0 M 340 Notes to Eterunitas 1. 'Eterunitas*: t r a n s l i t e r a t i o n of "aeternitas" (Latin for 'eternity') i n hiragana. Usually t r a n s l i t e r a t i o n i s done in katakana. Thus, the t i t l e appears to be doubly removed from the o r i g i n a l L a t i n . This poem i s taken from Nishiwaki's eighth book of Japanese poetry, Eterunitas (Tokyo: Shoshin sha, 1962). 2. 'Autumnal face': According to Niikura (265), this i s an a l l u s i o n to an elegy "The Autumnall" by John Donne: "No spring, nor Summer Beauty hath such grace,/ As I have seen in one Autumnall face." The Complete Poetry of  John Donne, ed. John T. Shawcross (New York: New York University Press, 1968) 113. 3. According to Niikura (265), this alludes to a haiku by Matsuo Basho (1644-94): Where i s the moon? The b e l l i s sunk To the bottom of the sea. Matsuo Basho shu, i n Nihon koten bungaku zenshu 41: 186. Translation mine. 4. 'Seven lamps of ambiguity': play on the t i t l e of a book of c r i t i c i s m Seven Types of Ambiguity (1930) by William Empson (b. 1906). 5. 'Pound*: American poet, Ezra Pound (1885-1972). 6. 'Nipplewort': tabirako (Trigonotis peduncularis). 7. 'Dorothy Osborn*: wife of S i r William Temple (1628-99). (Niikura 266) Dorothy's l e t t e r s to Temple were published in 1888. 8. 'Poussin': Nicolas Poussin (1594-1665), French painter. 9. 'Phocion's funeral': Funeral of Phocion by Poussin. Tsuki lzuko kane wa shizumite umi no soko 10. Al l u s i o n to the painting above. 11. 'Bindweed': sankirai (Smilax glabra). 12. 'Sorrel vine*: yabugarashi. 13. 'Fearful joy': kyofu no yorokobi, t i t l e of a novel by Joyce Cary (1888-1957). (Niikura 266) 14. 'Cotton-weed': hahakogusa (Gnaphalium multiceps). 15. According to Niikura (266), t h i s alludes to Baudelaire's "Mon coeur mis a nu": Plus l'homme cu l t i v e les arts, moins i l bande. II se f a i t un divorce de plus sensible entre 1'esprit et l a brute. La brute seule bande bien, et l a fouterie est le lyrisme du peuple. OEuvres 1: 702. 16. 'Lady Ormond': taken from the t i t l e of a poem by John Dryden (1631-1700), "To Her Grace the Dutchess of Ormond." (Niikura 266) 17. 'Lady Chatterley': main character i n Lady Chatterley's Lover (1929) by David Herbert Lawrence (1885-1930). 18. 'Objet': obuje, French t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . 19. 'Epos': eposu, Greek t r a n s l i t e r a t e d , meaning "heroic poem." 20. 'Taranbo': written in katakana. Its meaning unknown. 21. According to Niikura (267), this i s a parody of the ending of "Lycidas." See note 127 on No Tra v e l l e r Returns. 22. 'Eternite': eterunite, French t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . 23. 'Akebi*: see note 73 on Ambarvalia. 24. 'Priapus': i n mythology, the god of procreation. 25. Niikura suggests that this passage i s a parody of Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung (1819) by Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860) but does not elaborate on the d e t a i l s . (267) 26. 'Amanda': amanda, written i n katakana. Niikura suggests that t h i is Nishiwaki's neologism coined from the Latin "amando." (267) 27. 'Lyricism': ririsisumu, English t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . 28. 'Copulation': kopyurashon, French t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . This alludes to Baudelaire's passage i n "Mon coeur mis a nu." See note 15. 29. 'Table': teburu, English t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . This passage alludes to Plato's Republic 10: 596, b. 30. Play on the following l i n e s i n Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn": "Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard/ Are sweeter. . ." Keats 252. (Niikura 267) 31. 'Veritebontebeaute': veritebontebotte, French t r a n s l i t e r a t e d , use as onomatopoeia. 32. 'Toynbee*: Arnold Joseph Toynbee (1889-1975), h i s t o r i a n . 33. Play on the t i t l e of Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mi t c h e l l (1900-49). (Niikura 268) 34. 'Cynara': taken from a poem, "Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae," by Ernest Dowson (1867-1900): "I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind." The Poetical Works of Ernest Dowson, ed. Desmond Flower (1934; London: Cas e l l and Company Ltd., 1967) 52. The t i t l e of Mitchell's novel also derives from this l i n e . 35. 'Sesame and l i l i e s ' : the t i t l e of a book by John Ruskin (1819-1900). (Niikura 268) 36. Allusions to Ruskin's Stones of Venice (1851-53) and to the descriptions of clouds i n the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-89), such as i n "Pied Beauty." (Niikura 268) 37. 'Japanese pepper': sansho (Xanthoxyum piperitum). 343 38. A l l u s i o n to Baudelaire's "La Beaute": "Je suis b e l l e , o mortels! connne un reve de p i e r r e . " OEuvres 1: 21. (Niikura 268) 39. 'De luxe': do . ryukkusu, French t r a n s l i t e r a t e d . 40. 'Chinese milk-vetch': rengeso (Astragalus s i n i c u s ) . 41. 'Rape blossoms': nanohana (Brassica campestris). 42. 'Sorrel': sukanpo (Rumex Acetosa). 43. 'Briar': noibara (Rosa m u l t i f l o r a ) • 344 Works Cited Abe Kimio. ShokS: Oku no hosomichi. Tokyo: N i c h i e i sha, 1979. Adams, Hazard, ed. C r i t i c a l Theory Since Plato. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 1971. Akiyama Ken, et a l . eds. Nihon koten bungaku zenshu. 51 vols. Tokyo: Shogakkan, 1970-1973. Aldington, Richard. A l l Men Are Enemies. London: Chatto & Windus, 1933. — — — . Images. London: The Egoist Ltd., 1919. Bacon, Francis. The Essays of Francis Bacon. Ed. Clark Southerland Northup. 1908. Boston: Houghton M i f f l i n Company, 1936. — — — . "The Two Bookes of the Proficience and Advancement of Learning Divine and Hvmane." 1605. C r i t i c a l Essays of the Seventeenth  Century. Ed. J . E. Spingarn. Vol. 1 (1605-1650). 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