Martin Buber

Genau, schau mal ganz genau hin, was für ein unendlich kostbarer, wertvoller Schatz DA steht, wo DU stehst!!! *lächel*
Wusstest du das? Weißt du es? Spürst du es?
Der Schatz bist DU - sei dir deiner Einzigartigkeit bewusst, wann immer du kannst.
Ich weiß, dass es nicht immer geht - aber du wirst Wege und Mittel finden, dir dessen wieder und immer wieder bewusst zu werden!
Fühl dich ♥-lichst umarmt von Elisabeth

După naştere cel mai important moment este cel al morţii. Naşterea şi moartea stau faţă în faţă, nici una nu o poate exclude pe cealaltă. De îndată ce ne-am născut, suntem datori să murim: „Din clipa în care se naşte, omul este destul de bătrîn ca să moară.”[1] Moartea stă mereu în faţa noastră ca posibilitate, ca şi continuare a vieţii - nu putem fi vii, dacă nu vom fi şi morţi - sau cum ar spune un personaj al lui David Lodge: „Pot muri, deci exist”.

Punctul de referinţă al lucrării noastre este lectura lui Eminescu prin intermediul interpretării pe care a dat-o Heidegger fenomenului morţii. De ce anume Heidegger? Pentru că Heidegger a reuşit să impună fenomenul morţii ca temă centrală în filosofia contemporană, l-a scos din arealul patetic, conferindu-i o deschidere ontologică. Fiind una dintre temele centrale din Fiinţă şi timp, fenomenul morţii a reuşit să pătrundă în aria fenomenologiei: „Fenomenologia heideggeriană a morţii va rămîne un reper la care se vor raporta, de cele mai multe ori critic, vocile fenomenologiei contemporane.”[2] Întrebarea la care vom încerca să răspundem este dacă a fost sau nu Eminescu o fiinţă autentică întru moarte, dacă a avut un mod de a fi sine autentic sau s-a aflat sub dominaţia lui das Man, a impersonalului „se”. Mai mulţi exegeţi au încercat să-l înţeleagă pe Heidegger, pornind de la texte ale autorilor români. Abia citindu-l pe Eminescu, l-am înţeles pe Heidegger, spune Svetlana Paleologu – Matta, iar Lucia Cifor a încercat (şi a reuşit) să-l înţeleagă mai bine pe Heidegger însuşi „citindu-l”...în creaţiile poeţilor români”[3] (Eminescu, Blaga, Barbu – n.n.). Au mai abordat problema mortii din perspectivă heideggeriană autorii: Ioana Em. Petrescu, Svetlana Paleologu – Matta, Rosa del Conte, Livia Cotorcea, Marin Tarangul, Theodor Codreanu ş.a. Unii autori atribuie, conştient sau nu, propriile reflecţii, lui Heidegger. Pentru a evita acest lucru, vom încerca să ne ancorăm cît mai bine în textul filosofului. Pornind de la textul heideggerian vom încerca să descoperim specificul fenomenologic al morţii în opera eminesciană.

Pentru a fi autentici, adică pentru a fi noi înşine, trebuie sa acceptăm moartea ca fiind a noastră. Eminescu înţelege în mod autentic moartea, nu vorbeşte despre moartea celorlalţi, ci despre propria moarte. Nu spune “se moare” sau “pînă la urmă, cîndva, o să murim şi noi, dar pînă una-alta asta nu ni se întîmplă nouă”[4] ci “eu mor”. Moartea este posibilitatea mea cea mai proprie, este situată “undeva”, “în viitor”, într-un “cînd” pe care nu-l cunoaştem. Heidegger, la rîndul lui, nu se întreabă dacă există ceva după moarte, nu aceasta este întrebarea la care răspunde fenomenologia morţii. Momentele în care Eminescu doreşte să afle ce este după moarte („Că la finea veciniciei te-aştept stelele cereşti?”)[5] sunt inspirate din textele lui Scheler, ale cărui reflecţii despre „lumea de dincolo” sunt atacate de Heidegger în Fiinţă şi Timp. Fenomenologia concepe moartea ca o determinare ce intră în conştiinţa fiinţei Dasein-ului. Nu se ia în calcul nici moartea ca distrugere, ca pierdere a unor fiinţe iubite sau felul în care ar trebui să se comporte fiinţele atunci cînd mor. Fenomenologia nu descrie modurile posibile ale faptului-de-a-muri sau cum ar trebui să ne raportăm la moarte. Moartea este o certitudine, ştim sigur că vom muri, mai bine chiar decît că existăm. „Moarte în general nu există”[6], moartea mea înseamnă a fi eu însumi: „această posibilitate – moartea ca moarte a mea – sunt eu însumi”[7]. Fiinţa trebuie să devină ceea ce nu este încă, iar pentru aceasta este nevoie de moarte. Heidegger dă exemplul fructului necopt care merge către coacere: “pe măsură ce se coace, el este ceea ce încă nu s-a copt în el”[8]. A fi întru moarte înseamnă a te alege pe tine însuţi. Moartea stă permanent în faţa Dasein-ului şi locuieşte în el.

Aducerea lui Eminescu în cotidian, atacul la inteligenţa acestuia, la viziunea lui despre lume şi la autenticitatea sa vin de la ceea ce tinde să devină un curent în literatura română: pesimismul schopenhauerian. Acest lucru îl menţionează V. Gherasim, citat de Tudor Vianu:

„Mulţi l-au văzut numai zdrobind, din întîmplare numai puţini l-au aflat şi clădind. Glasul celor puţini a fost prea slab, pentru ca să poată întrece strigătul celor mulţi: iată, cum s-a format legenda despre Eminescu ca pesimist; nu numai ca pesimist, chiar ca pesimist schopenhauerian”[9].

A nu-i oferi lui Eminescu posibilitatea de a fi o fiinţă autentică este o greşală, prezenţa morţii în noi este dovada inteligenţei.[10] Lucia Cifor are dreptate atunci cînd afirmă că la Eminescu „raportarea la sine este mereu adîncită de raportarea la moarte”[11]. A te gîndi la moarte nu înseamnă laşitate, evadare din lume, cum este perceput de spaţiul public. Impersonalul „se” nu lasă curajul să „înfrunte angoasa în faţa morţii”[12] , el transformă angoasa în frica lucrului care urmează să se petreacă, iar frica este slăbiciune. Lucia Cifor găseşte şi locul unde viziunea lui Eminescu se desparte de cea a lui Heidegger:

„Sensul morţii şi moartea biruită (“ca să pot muri liniştit”) nu mai sînt idei heideggeriene, ci temele cele mai grave ale existenţialismului. În spaţiul acestuia din urmă, există nu doar o viaţă alienată şi alienantă, ci şi o moarte care posedă aceste atribute. Numai unui creştin moartea îi poate apărea ca fiind bună (şi atunci ea echivalează cu o moarte a morţii ori cu o înviere) şi rea (cînd ea înseamnă pierderea definitivă a sensului Fiinţei, care este Dumnezeu). Limanul morţii liniştite, liman de înviere, rămîne îndoielnic atîta timp cît omul petrece în amestec cu lumea şi cu patimile ei. Despărţirea de lume şi de cele ale lumii este de aceea tranşantă: “Piară-mi ochii turburători din cale”.[13]

Fenomenologia morţii la Heidegger se fundamentează însă pe principiile creştine, Heidegger însuşi avînd o bună educaţie teologică. Gabriel Liiceanu în anexa „Excurs asupra cîtorva termeni heideggerieni din Fiinţă şi timp”[14] explică „geneza paulină a pre-mergerii în moarte”[15] şi spune că:

„În capitolul III din cursul ţinut la Freiburg în 1920-21, Einführung in die Phänomenologie der Religion/ Introducere în fenomenologia religiei (GA 60), intitulat “Explicarea fenomenologică a Primei epistole către Tesalonicieni”, Heidegger explică ce anume deosebeşte viaţa creştinului primitiv de aceea a unui om obişnuit.”

Aşteptarea parusiei (a venirii lui Dumnezeu) este specifică creştinilor, este ceea ce dă sens vieţii lor. Aceasta nu are cînd, ea nu constă în existenţa unui moment viitor, ci în modul în care mă comport în orizontul acestei veniri. Nu este importantă venirea lui Dumnezeu, ci cum aceasta mă obligă să trăiesc. Ideile pre-mergerii, a certitudinii morţii, care va veni, dar nu ştim cînd şi nici nu trebuie sa ne intereseze, din moment ce ştim foarte bine, au surse teologice, deoarece nu se spune „cînd” are loc revenirea lui Dumnezeu, ci se raportează la „cum mă port eu în perspectiva acestei reveniri”[16]:

„Aşteptarea a ceva fără “cînd” îmi modelează viaţa altfel şi mă obligă să trăiesc şi să împlinesc fiecare clipă a acestei vieţi într-o lumină care vine înspre mine din faţa mea.”[17]

Pavel nu spune cînd, ci ştiţi foarte bine, nu spune nu ştiu cînd se întoarce:

„Ştiţi foarte bine...”. acest fel de a şti este unul specific, căci Pavel îi trimite pe tesalonicieni la ei înşişi şi la felul de a şti pe care ei îl au în lumina a ceea ce au devenit.[18]”.

Centrarea religiei pe moartea lui Hristos reprezintă ceea ce Nietzsche şi Chateubriand numeau geniul creştinismului:

“Căci voi înşivă ştiţi bine că ziua Domnului vine aşa, ca un fur noaptea. Atunci cînd vor zice: pace şi linişte, atunci, fără de veste, va veni peste ei pieirea (...) Voi însă, fraţilor, nu sunteţi în întuneric, ca să vă apuce ziua aceea ca un fur (...) Noi nu suntem ai nopţii, nici ai întunericului. De aceea să nu dormim ca ceilalţi, ci să priveghem şi să fim treji.”[19]

Poemul Odă, în metru antic este profund creştin şi profund heideggerian în acelaşi timp. În versul Nu credeam să-nvăţ a muri vreodată se află concentrată o parte din filosofia despre moarte a lui Heidegger. Experienţa morţii poate fi învăţată, există o ştiinţă a morţii, sintagmă nu rareori întîlnită la Eminescu. “Trebuie să învăţăm să murim”[20], spune Landsberg. A învăţa să mori nu înseamnă să te gîndeşti cum vei reacţiona, ce vei face în momentul sosirii acesteia, moartea apare într-o clipă şi e doar moartea mea, o singură dată, nu avem de unde să ştim cum ne va surprinde. A învăţa să mori este traducerea pre-mergerii heideggeriene, este imaginea morţii ca moarte a noastră, care ne redă nouă înşine, care ne determină să fim fiinţe autentice, idei pe care le găsim reprezentate în ultimele două versuri: Ca să pot muri liniştit/ Pe mine mie redă-mă. Acestea vorbesc despre posibilitatea heideggeriană de a fi tu însuţi dată de pre-mergere, este libertatea întru moarte, este putinţa-de-a-fi proprie Dasein-ului, o recăpătare a sinelui şi o reîntoarcere în sine. Întregul poem este “expresia condiţiei umane”:

“Eroul liric al acestei ode-rugăciune nu mai e nici Napoleon Cezarul, nici Poetul, adică nu mai e nici o fiinţă cu destin romantic de excepţie; în varianta definitivă, Odă nu mai e expresia condiţiei eroului sau a geniului, ci expresia pură a condiţiei umane. Şi, poate de aceea, deşi pare o rugăciune de intrare în nefiinţă, ea rămîn, de fapt, o Odă fiinţei, celebrată prin destinul de pasăre al existentului.”[21]

Pre-mergerea se constituie prin venirea-sinelui-la-sine, astfel realizîndu-se împlinirea. Celelalte versuri, care după opinia unor critici, ar putea fi considerate în plus, sunt opusul celor citate mai sus, ele ilustrează viaţa mistuită de vise, suferinţă, arderi interioare fără posibilitatea reînvierii, toate sfîşierile de pînă la cunoaşterea voluptăţii morţii şi a liniştii pe care aceasta ţi-o poate oferi. Predominantă este ideea focului, a arderii, or focul, după Pseudo - Denys Areopagitul, este considerat imaginea lui Dumnezeu. Există o dramă a disperării la Kierkegaard, ilustrată şi în poemul Odă, în metru antic. Omul se zbate între alternativa să fie sau să nu fie el, se caută cu disperare atunci cînd realizează că totul se află în umbra morţii, încearcă să răspundă poruncii: “Alege-te pe tine însuţi”[22]. Această problemă este văzută de Kierkegaard şi Eminescu prin prisma focului: “focul s-a aprins în ceva ce nu poate să ardă, în eu”[23] şi “jalnic ard de viu”.

Pasărea Phoenix însăşi este considerată simbol al nemuririi şi al învierii, al morţii şi al renaşterii naturii. Încă din Evul Mediu creştinii o consideră simbolul Învierii lui Hristos în mormînt, după trei zile, iar la Origen o întîlnim ca fiind simbol al voinţei de supravieţuire şi al triumfului vieţii asupra morţii. Eminescu se întreabă, de fapt, dacă va putea reînvia asemeni lui Hristos, dacă se va putea reda sieşi prin Înviere, fiindcă moartea înseamnă despărţirea trupului de suflet, iar Învierea uniunea acestora. La fel şi Paştile, cu solemnitatea Învierii lui Hristos, îl inspiră pe Eminescu:

„Christos au înviat din morţi,
Cu cetele sfinte,
Cu moartea pre moarte călcând-o,
Lumina ducând-o
Celor din morminte!”(Învierea)[24]

Eminescu visa la steaua singurătăţii pînă în momentul în care a descoperit voluptatea morţii. Este Singurătatea pe care o încearcă Iisus atunci cînd strigă: “Dumnezeule, Dumnezeule, de ce m-ai părăsit!”(Matei 27, 46). Cu toate acestea, nu cade în disperare, nu-şi pierde credinţa, El se lasă în mîinile morţii, în mîinile Tatălui Său: “Părinte, în mîinile Tale imi dau sufletul Meu” (Luca 23, 46). Liniştea (“ca să pot muri liniştit”) o găsim doar în Dumnezeu. Acelaşi vers” (“ca să pot muri liniştit”) este interpretat de Lucia Cifor ca fiind “o variaţie liberă a motivului psalmic”: “Lasă-mă ca să mă odihnesc înainte de a mă duce şi de a nu mai fi” (Psalmul 38/ 18)”[25].

De la Heidegger ştim că o caracteristică importantă a morţii este singurătatea Dasein-ului în faţa propriei morţi. Singurătatea sau solitudinea este o condiţie fundamentală a autenticităţii. Spaţiul public, dominat de impersonalul “se”, ţine de un fapt neautentic de a fi întru moarte. Avem un raport intim cu propria moarte, cînd oricare alte relaţii sunt suspendate, “în această linişte din faţa morţii, în care ceilalţi nu se mai aud şi nu mai au nici un sens”[26]. În momentul în care Dasein-ul se situează singur în faţa fiinţei sale finite, îşi atinge autenticitatea sa posibilă. Unde se află Eminescu? Alături de sine sau alături de ceilalţi? Cum putem fi fiinţe autentice atunci cînd pierdem pe cineva foarte drag? Eminescu acceptă moartea fiinţei iubite:

“Şi totuşi, ţărînă frumoasă şi moartă,

De racla ta razim eu harfa mea spartă

Şi moartea ta n-o plîng, ci mai fericesc

O rază fugită din chaos lumesc” (Mortua est)[27]

Eminescu nu cere socoteală morţii ca şi Plugarul lui Johannes von Tepl[28], nu o cheamă la judecată, nu încearcă s-o înfrunte, nu-şi plînge iubita şi nu blestemă moartea. Eminescu încearcă să înţeleagă moartea în mod autentic:

“Ş-apoi, cine ştie de este mai bine

A fi sau a nu fi...dar ştie oricine

Că ceea ce nu e...nu simte dureri,

Şi multe dureri-s, puţine plăceri.” (Mortua est)[29]

O condiţie fundamentală a autenticităţii Dasein-ului este angoasa. Aceasta apare în faţa a ceva indeterminat şi vizează ceva la fel de indeterminat: „faptul de a fi în lume a Dasein-ului ca atare”[30]. Spre deosebire de aceasta, frica se naşte în faţa a ceva determinat, care vine dintr-o direcţie determinată şi se apropie ameninţînd. La Eminescu moartea vizează ceva nedeterminat, „un chaos”, „un secul cu sori înflorit”, apare de „nicaieri” şi nu ne sperie, nu ne înfricoşează:

„Ai ştiut tu, scumpe frate, că pămîntu-i o ruină?

Că-i o sarcină viaţa? Că-i martiriu să trăieşti?

Ai ştiut tu cum că moartea e un caos de lumină,

Că la finea veciniciei te-aştept stelele cereşti?” (La moartea lui Neamţu)[31]

Poziţie tranşantă faţă de problema autenticităţii şi a angoasei ia Sartre, refuzînd moartea şi luptînd împotriva ei. Sartre consideră că moartea nu poate restitui propria fiinţă, nu mă redă mie însămi. Priveşte autenticitatea ca luptă împotriva morţii, ca asumare a destinului şi ca libertate, considerînd că suntem liberi împotriva morţii. Moartea, în viziunea lui Sartre, nu poate fi aşteptată, nu aparţine nici vieţii şi nici fiinţei umane, ea apare brusc şi îmi suspendă viaţa. Eminescu este o fiinţă autentică, dar în interpretarea pe care o dă Heidegger.

Mihai Eminescu realizează o interpretare fenomenologică autentică a fenomenului morţii, fiindcă doar astfel ajungem să vedem moartea ca fiind un caracter al fiinţei Dasein-ului, „ea este ceva care îi stă în faţă, care îi stă permanent în faţă, atîta vreme cît Dasein-ul este”[32]. O fiinţă autentică întru moarte, cum este Mihai Eminescu, nu poate fugi din faţa morţii, nu se poate eschiva în faţa posibilităţii sale celei mai proprii. „Moartea are ultimul cuvînt. De aceea lumea e absurdă”[33].

*Lucrarea a obtinut Premiul Special al Asociatiei Scriitorilor din Cluj la Colocviul National "Mihai Eminescu", Iasi.

Even when it is not only a matter of ontic experience, but of ontological understanding, the interpretation of being initially orients itself toward the being of innerworldly beings. Here the being of things initially at hand is passed over and beings are first conceived as a context of things (res) objectively present. Being acquires the meaning of reality. Substantiality becomes the basic of characteristic of being.... like other beings, Da-sein is also objectively present as real. (Heidegger, Being and Time I.vi 43)

At the backend of human existence, there is always the haunting spirit of our own desire. Psychoanalysis tells us about desire - originated from primitive lack which is our memory of primitive love toward parental unity.  What is it? The parental unity is what exists before we are (being). The lack is what haunting us since the day we acquire the partial characteristic of being - materiality of being, the body, the sense, the Real. The haunting spirit constitutes our primitive fear; its basic is our drive to transpass the symbolic borderline and gain access to the unspeakable jouissance to the Real. In the Realm of the Real, there is nothing being "objectively presented" as the lack, desire, love, fear is a question posed to itself and is never have an answer except we see our own death face to face.  That is the impossibility of being as object, for object is not a priori knowledge and it is an impossible agent.  For an object can never be an object without already being assigned the position of the Subject as a subject. But the argument is who authorizes the Subject as a subject while the position of being as being has to be worked through the background of the lack as the Real.  If at the end of our human existence, we see only lack and emptiness, what is the value of being if put into the framework of a universal truth.

We could say that Heidegger’s introduction to Being and Time is rigorous and formalized to the extreme, like any other great (self-satisfied) German philosopher. Yet Heidegger also denounces any smack of self-satisfaction that would creep up in a philosophico-ontological investigation. What I want to do here in this short essay is to illuminate how Heidegger formulates the question of Being through Dasein, what this has to do with the ontological tradition and its destruction, and also what Heidegger thinks this has to do with the foundations of any science whatsoever. Due to the shortness of this essay, I will attempt to articulate these concerns simultaneously (bear with me).

Heidegger mentions that the structure of an explicit questioning does not become explicit until all the constitutive factors have become transparent (5). It is in this sense that Heidegger analyzes the Being of Dasein insofar as the latter is equivalent with the inquirer par excellence. Thus the elucidation of Being requires that the entity with a pre-ontological understanding of Being (Dasein) be analyzed explicitly. Heidegger will also talk about this as the existential analytic of Dasein or as the hermeneutic of Dasein, since this hermeneutic is the possibility for any ontology or any analytic of the existentiality of existence (38).

However, this question cannot become explicit until a few fundamental concerns are addressed. For example, Dasein’s pre-ontological understanding of Being is only possible because of the former’s being-in-the-world. In other words, for the existential analytic of existence to become fully transparent, Dasein’s ontical constitution (i.e. it’s being in a world) must be taken as the standpoint from which any ontological relevance is to be fathomed. This is why he claims that the roots of the existential analytic of Dasein are existentiell/ontical. Only through existence itself (our existentiell belonging to a world) can existentiality be analyzed into existential data (suitable for the foundation of a real ontology).

Some of Heidegger’s claims become more understandable when we present them in this way. For example, he argues that this analytic of Dasein is only possible through a “radicalization…of the pre-ontological understanding of Being” (15). In other words, since the world is reflected ontologically in Dasein, the latter’s everyday experiences in the former (its ontical constitution) must be taken as data from which to set out upon our quest to rigorously found an ontology. Another way of saying this is to claim that the question of Being must become historiological (42).

What does historicity/historiology imply though? In a sense, if historicality is the basis of any history whatsoever, historiology is involved with the way in which history is passed down through tradition along with the way in which this passing becomes concealed or self-evident in its movement from generation to generation. This is precisely where the question of the destruction of the ontological tradition comes to bear its philosophical fruits. For example, when Heidegger claims that ontology must be self-critical, he is not saying this in an arbitrary way, but he means that for any science whatsoever to evolve in its field, it must takes its problematic historiologically, i.e. it must become suspicious about the traditions that promote it so as not to lose sight of the fundamental question of Being that gets so easily concealed (36). Another example—which is really not an example but a way of reading Heidegger’s project through his reading of others, here Kant—becomes more clear when we read that Heidegger faults Kant for merely presupposing the relations between time and the “I think,” which he has inherited from Descartes. Kant’s procedure is not historiological since it doesn’t question the sources from which he obtains his arguments about the subject, nor does he make Being into a question (this is obvious). Where we see Heidegger actually formulating his own project is when he argues: “[Kant] failed to provide an ontology with Dasein as its theme or (to put this in Kantian language) to give a preliminary ontological analytic of the subjectivity of the subject” (24). If we look at the Kantian exposition of Heidegger’s task, we will see that he relates the problem at hand as one of the analytic of the subjectivity of the subject. This may be another reason why Heidegger begins with being-in-the-world.

What does this tell us about Heidegger’s stance on science? When we quoted the passage where he claims ontology must be self-critical, we were not arbitrarily providing an assertion out of context. Heidegger argues that the basic concepts undergirding any science whatsoever have to be taken as clues from which these sciences can be founded. He argues that the “real ‘movement’” of the sciences is determined by “how far it is capable of a crisis in its basic concepts” (9). It is in this strict sense that Heidegger envisions the destruction of the ontological tradition to be productive and positive, not simply negative. For as a science, ontology must be able to treat its own fundamental concepts—res cogitans, cogito ergo sum, etc.—as material to be reworked in order to make the real problem of Being transparent. It is also in this vein that Heidegger asserts that “ontological science is primary to ontical science” (11). This is why he claims that ontology is fundamental, whereas physics or biology deal with regional, ontical questions, i.e. questions concerning particular entities. However, since the Being of these entities has not become transparent until the advent of universal phenomenological ontology, science has to be subordinated to philosophy (in Heidegger’s view of things). My question is: does this not perpetuate the perennial struggle between science and philosophy? How is it that philosophy can have the pretentiousness to claim to ground real science, when, from the scientists’ point of view, philosophy is the mere recycling of concepts that do not have any factual basis in scientific inquiry? In other words, Heidegger continues the war between science and philosophy, even if he claims the latter is the most universal of sciences. How can we introduce democracy into thought and put science and philosophy on the same footing without claiming to give one or the other any sort of precedence? How can we break down the hierarchy that establishes itself in thought, i.e. how do we establish a peace treaty between philosophy and science, especially from the former to the latter?

Trinity: I know why you're here, Neo. I know what you've been doing... why you hardly sleep, why you live alone, and why night after night, you sit by your computer. You're looking for him. I know because I was once looking for the same thing. And when he found me, he told me I wasn't really looking for him. I was looking for an answer. It's the question that drives us, Neo. It's the question that brought you here. You know the question, just as I did.
Neo: What is the Matrix?
Trinity: The answer is out there, Neo, and it's looking for you, and it will find you if you want it to.

I've embarked on a re-watching of the Matrix trilogy. No amount of information on its progenitors, no greater degree of subsequent bullet time finesse, and no matter the perhaps irreconcilable tension between Platonism and Existentialism--I love it. I love the fusion between systems of thought, and of conjecture; I love its bleakness and the surreal, aggressive music; I love the mish-mash mythic and techie allusions. I love the choreography, and the S & M underworld of rogue sentient programs; I love the eloquence of the script and the stylized gothic panache of its cinematography.

I could write a long post on wuxia pian and Chinese opera (and the reason Trinity died) as influences on the Matrix but I won't. Because really, does it get any better than simply contemplating the beauty of its verbiage, its violence?

It was published in 1978. In 1972 Byatt's son Charles was killed by a drunk driver. He was eleven. It is suggested that she found it very difficulty to write for some length of time after this.

This novel strikes me so far as being full of pain. Its narrative style is clunky and visceral and tortuously detailed. It is full of dense representations of perception and worldview, of literary musings and the musings of its many very isolated, alienated characters who nevertheless relate to one another in highly intensified, internally agonized ways.

It is a very inward gazing book, even while it addresses the dynamics of small communities. Its characters, often tormented by loneliness or emotional paralysis--'paralysis'--or the unhappiness of others, especially via a massive play that is in the course of the book put on in honor of the Queens Elizabeth, seem utterly strange and yet somehow familiar.

It's full of frustrated, energetic, fierce women mewed in by their domestic and provincial lives. It's full of sublimated homoerotic passion and of emotional and intellectual savants.

It's full of despair: 'Human beings need what they already know, even horrors.'

The novel feels like it was written very much from the gut--from that maelstrom hollow of loss which Byatt must have felt. Not strictly autobiographical, but felt. Informed by.

And those words, 'Human beings need what they already know, even horrors', suggest an intimate familiarity with struggle and with failure.

In any event, Frederica Potter rejects all this and with a great deal of incendiary energy tries for a less restrictive life. In many ways, with her ginger hair and lack of sentimentality and blazing looks she reminds me of JK Rowling's character Ginny.

It's not easy reading but I like very much that Byatt does not try to dim her style to make it more accessible and therefore (sic) more appealing. Its complexity is almost a f**k you in itself--though who could say to whom--as if she herself is emergent into a world not of restriction but of her own design. I like how interdisciplinary and comparative, in both a synchronic and diachronic sense, her weltanschauung is. In fact, I think I'm in love.

Here's a good review of the quartet. And here's a picture and description of her writing room. There is a notable progression from social to natural history in it.

Perhaps it's wrong to look at the story of the writer along with the story they write. But I suspect that memoir, or some sort of authorial abnarrative, in its acting out and in its construction and its interception by others, is in itself an indispensable interstice between the reader and writer. It is, and so it exerts its own gravitational influence on the the fiction and its life in the imagination.

While one can never represent anything in its whole self, neither can one separate a thing from its generative matrix. Dasein, dasein.

So I as I read this novel I'm moved by the juggernautian effort it must have taken to write it.

aus dem Sanskrit

Lebe. Jetzt. Hier. Im Hier und Jetzt. Genieße jeden Augenblick deines Seins.
Nimm dich wahr, voll und ganz, bis in die Zehenspitzen, bis in jede einzelne Zelle deines Körpers.
Genieße, dass du DU bist, genieße das Gefühl des Seins - nimm dich einfach wahr, ohne zu denken.
Werde dir der Kostbarkeit jeder Sekunde bewusst, und verschieb nichts auf morgen...
Ich denke an DICH - herz-lichst Elisabeth  

I found another set of words I like by CS Lewis, in a letter to Arthur Greaves:

'To enjoy a book like that thoroughly I find I have to treat it as a sort of hobby and set about it seriously. I begin by making a map on one of the end leafs: then I put a running headline at the top of each page: finally I index at the end all the passages I have for any reason underlined. I often wonder--considering how people enjoy themselves developing photos or making scrapbooks--why so few people make a hobby of their reading in this way. Many an otherwise dull book which I had to read have I enjoyed in this way, with a fine-nibbed pen in my hand: one is making something all the time and a book so read acquires the charm of a toy without losing that of a book.'

Well. I s'pose this blog is somewhat in the same vein. And hypertext is a sort of nested marginalia, isn't it. CS Lewis is one of the many dead men I love, along with Tolkien and Hopkins and Freddie Mercury and Pascal and perhaps poor grumpy Thomas Hardy. Lost boys, mostly. Most of the women artists I love are still alive, interestingly, although I often feel I'd like to watch Emily Dickinson from my own window across the way, or get into a lovely shouting match with Emily Bronte. And the women artists I love are more curmudgeons, on the whole, than lost girls. Why is this? Perhaps it takes force, even anger, at times, however contained, for women to produce and publicly share their work. Even now.

And men too, often. Okay, let's just say people in general. Don't want to be discriminatory.

Anyway. I like the above quote because what Lewis describes, interacting with books, world-building (or at least making little nests in other peoples' worlds) is something I like doing myself, although I have never taken it to the lengths of creating an index.

I did create family trees for the Earnshaws and the Lintons, the first time I read Wuthering Heights, as well as a chart showing the loves and relations of the members thereof. Also as a kid I wrote and bound into a chapbook my own biography of Jane Austen based on my own 'research' (reading the preface of every novel she ever wrote)--I painted the 'chapbook' a cover of waterlilies. And I added, at the end of the last Borrowers book, an extension of the story in which Arrietty and Spiller got married and had a garden house and lots of adventures in the outer world. In a library book. What was I thinking? Was this my first foray into the odd liminal world of fan fiction?? I suspect that those penciled words are still lurking in that dusty old copy of The Borrowers Avenged in that dusty old public library. I like to think so.

There's this marvelous quote floating around on the internet right now, by Michael Chabon:

'...There is a degree to which... all literature highbrow or low, from the Aeneid onward, is fan fiction... Through parody and pastiche, allusion and homage, retelling and reimagining the stories that we were told before us and that we have come of age loving--amateurs---we proceed, seeking out the blank places in the map that our favorite writers, in their greatness and negligence, have left for us, hoping to pass on to our own readers--should we be lucky enough to find any--some of the pleasure that we ourselves have taken in the stuff we love: to get in on the game. All novels are sequels; influence is bliss.'

So there.

I still think the Borrowers a masterful and involving series, by the way; Mary Norton manages to infuse into Arrietty's world such an air of melancholy, existential angst and general Victorian decay, abandoned gardens etc.

Perhaps my favourite--that is to say, most ridiculous--juvenile elaboration in a book was the pictographic code I created for my childrens' poetry anthology Favourite Poems Old and New. Little symbols in the shape of teardrops, tongues of fire, lightning bolts, hearts, drawn by the titles of the poems in the table of contents, by the poems themselves, and in the index.

I then created a master chart decoding these symbols: teardrops=sad poems; tongues of flame=searing poems!; lightning bolts=poems of learning; there were other symbols representing quite abstract values, such as 'smoky, 'tangy' or 'bittersweet'. And so on and so on. Why I didn't just write an adjective or a comment, I don't know. Some sort of desire to generate a meta-semiosis all my own, I guess.

Nowadays my marginalia often seems to consist of lists, odd analogous references to string theory which I look back on later and no longer understand, or simply underlinings and frames around fine passages. My copy of Possession is full of frames and brackets; I think AS Byatt is one of my living heroes, even if some of her novels are far better than others. Her short stories are delicious. Her writing room is quite cool; I like the objects of natural history and her rock collection. I like how she takes factual curiosities and embroiders them into her stories.

Just today I've attempted to implement Lewis' method of indexing, using the collection of Virgina Woolf's essays on Women and Writing. There are a good many entries under the heading 'a room of one's own'--the which room of one's own being a synechdochic indication of freedom to create, of course--an idea I often struggle with.

Theodora Goss has lately written much on this topic. That 'money is another word for mental space'. And that:

'Part of the problem with being a writer, or maybe just with being me, is living partly in the world and partly out of it. Out of it is where the stories are written. In it is where dinner is cooked, the syllabus is drafted, the bills are paid. But being always in it, being faced all the time with the inescapable reality of it, leaves me feeling anxious and disconnected. Makes me feel as though I'm losing touch with another kind of reality that is, at some level, deeper and more authentic.'

Which is all terribly true. Mark says, when I'm absorbed in some other world, that my ears are growing pointed; it takes me forever to respond to his questions, like an old computer whose processes are all backed up and delayed.

And I think two things. One is, that time and money seem always to be an inverse ratio. Right now I have a lot of time, because I'm no longer nannying; just sort of trolling the internet looking for work that doesn't involve cleaning houses, or working at a bed and breakfast, or serving mayonnaise sandwiches to construction workers, or even caring for other peoples' children, however delightful those children might (or might not) be. This could take a long time. Heh.

Two, the thing about having a room of one's own, I think, is that it takes a great deal of pig-headed courage to claim one's own resources for writing, including time to do things that might not seem practical--like blogging, or yoga, or creating a rock collection, or writing millions of little thoughts on yellow posts-its and putting them up all over the wall. All of which I've done. To what end I still don't know. It feels terribly egoistical to assume that whatever creative efforts one might undertake are worth not making billions of dollars. It feels miserable to not.

In truth, I think that all artistic or creative or representational pursuits are as significant as their Real Life context, a part of our overall dasein which is, however mewed about with the isolation required to generate these visions, necessary, significant, valuable, and of a piece with the larger world. Woolf writes,

'for a novel, after all, is a statement about a thousand different objects--human, natural, divine; it is an attempt to relate them to each other. In every novel of merit these different elements are held in place by the force of the writer's vision.'

And I agree. Where would we be without all our efforts to transmute whatever it is that is external reality, meta-reality, all that is or might be or seems to be or was or shall be, into experience, that is, into a form which we have seen and shaped and share, that others might see it, in some way, too? Take a picture, and it becomes a lasting and uniquely slanted representation of a transitory space and time, becomes something others can participate in, in whatever unpredictable and inimitable ways, for a duration. And then there is simply the pleasure of one's own visions. It is the act which counts.

About.com of all places offers the following comment about existentialism:

'Arguably, the world itself is a work of art from the existentialist perspective. It is, after all, a product of human imagination and full of symbols communicating meaning. Unlike traditional works of art, however, the world is never "finished" or completed. It is forever a "work in progress," something which calls out for us to improve. Traditional art is supposed to get us to wake up and doing something in the world around us; seeing the world for what it is should also do the same.'

'Wake up.' For me that's it. And waking up can't just mean reading the BBC every morning and making money and keeping the shirts ironed (although these things are very important indeed); it must mean allowing or forcing oneself to see, participate in, create, other layers and possibilities within the world. Even within worlds that are outside this world; for it seems to me the most fantastical fiction is but a marvelously enhanced vision, or experience, of reality. Sometimes highly shitty and inaccessible. Sometimes transcendental, disturbing, transformative, or sheerly delightful.

I'd like to think that however I spend my time, either in contemplation of other people's writing or in trying my own hand at it, all is well. Wake up and write a world. Or diddle with one, at least.

Sie lebte in der Ungewissheit, ob das, was sie als Leben bezeichnet hätte, auch wirklich etwas sein könnte, was vorbehaltlos als lebenswert bezeichnet werden könnte.

Irgendwann war es so weit, dass sie so nicht mehr weiter machen wollte. Sie wollte dieses Da‑Sein auf Erden wieder beenden und heimkehren zu etwas, was tiefe Sehnsüchte wahr werden ließ in ihr.

Aber irgendwie klappte es nicht gleich und sie fand sich in einem ihr bekannten Raum wieder, sich daran erinnernd, wie es damals war, als sie ganz ungeduldig in der Schlange anstand, um endlich geboren zu werden.

Und sie sah ihr bisheriges Leben an ihr vorüberziehen, allerdings nicht linear, sondern wie ein Puzzle, jedoch Teil für Teil sich selbst zusammen bauend.

Da waren alle Situationen, in welchem unsere kleine Seele immer nur gegeben hat, ohne etwas zurück zu bekommen.

Und jene Situationen, in welchen sie genommen hatte. Und danach ein schlechtes Gewissen hatte, weil sie keine entsprechende Gegenleistung erbracht hatte.

Und sie stellte mit Erstaunen fest, dass ihr Nehmen überwiegend darin bestand, Lasten von Menschen zu übernehmen, die ihr diese gar nicht geben wollten.

Diese Vorfahren standen alle vor ihr und fragten sie ernsthaft, warum sie die ganzen Jahre hinweg dachte, ihnen einen Teil ihrer Last ab zu nehmen.

Durch dieses Tragen der Last für andere hatte sich unsere kleine Seele auch einiges aufgebürdet, was zur Ehre desjenigen gehört hätte, dem diese Last zustand.

Und diese Vorfahren machten unserer kleinen Seele bewusst, dass es nicht ihre Aufgabe sei, das Leid von anderen Menschen zu tragen, sondern dass sie es sich Wert sein darf, sich selbst zu leben und zu verwirklichen.

Jetzt stand unsere kleine Seele da und hatte tonnenschwere Rucksäcke mit sich herum geschleppt, Jahre, ja Jahrzehnte lang, fast erdrückt von der Last dessen, was sie trug.

Unserer kleinen Seele wurde es zum ersten Mal in dieser Inkarnation richtig bewusst, was sie sich einerseits aufgebürdet hatte und andererseits, was sie anderen weg zu nehmen versucht hatte, allerdings beides vollkommen unbewusst.

Sie wünschte sich nichts sehnlicher, als den Teil der Last zurück geben zu können, welche nicht zu ihrem Karma gehörte.

Alle Betroffenen blickten liebevoll auf unsere kleine Seele und sie wagte es, das erste Wesen zu fragen, ob es ihm die übernommene Last zurück geben dürfe.

War das eine Erleichterung, als jeder einzelne ihrer Vorfahren freudig zustimmte, als sie jene bat, die Lasten zurückgeben zu dürfen.

Und sie gab alles zurück, stellte sich jeweils mit dem entsprechenden Rucksack vor ihre Vorfahrin, bzw. ihrem Vorfahren und bat diese/n, die Last zurück geben zu dürfen.

Sie stellte jeden einzelnen ihrer zwischenzeitlich überschweren Rucksäcke vor die Beine derer, denen sie gehörten und konnte sich gar nicht erinnern, sich jemals so leicht und unbeschwert gefühlt zu haben.

Nachdem sie ihre Last abgegeben hatte, jeweils dorthin, wo sie diese übernommen hatte, fühlte sich unsere kleine Seele zwar erleichtert, aber ganz stimmig war es für sie noch nicht.

Bisher hatte sie nur auf ihre Vorfahren geschaut, zu denen, die sich bereits aus diesem Leben verabschiedet hatten.

Jetzt wandert ihr Blick noch zu ihren leiblichen und lebenden Eltern und ihren Geschwister und das erste Mal nahm sie bewusst wahr, dass sie kein Einzelkind ist, sondern dass sie die Jüngste in einer Reihe von zahlreichen Geschwistern ist.

Sie beschlossen, sich einfach mal auf zu stellen, wie sie zusammen gehörten, also Mutters Kinder standen an Mutters Seite und Vaters Kinder an Vaters Seite.

Automatisch stellte sie sich vor ihre leiblichen Eltern, da sie ja das einzige Kind aus dieser Beziehung war. Doch dieser Platz passte irgendwie nicht wirklich. Keiner fühlte sich richtig wohl dabei, weder sie noch ihre Geschwister.

Daraufhin bat unsere kleine Seele ihre Geschwister, sich in der Reihenfolge ihres Alters hin zu stellen, damit sie den ihr zustehenden Platz einnehmen konnte.

Es war unbeschreiblich, ein noch nie zuvor da gewesenes Gefühl des „Ankommens“, endlich bewusst an der richtigen Stelle in der Geburtsreihenfolge zu stehen und vor allem auch zu sehen, dass sie in Bezug auf Geschwister nicht allein war.

Doch ihre Eltern blickten irgendwie besorgt und veranlassten dadurch unsere kleine Seele, doch wieder zu ihnen zu gehen. Stolz aufgerichtet, wie es ihre Art war, stellte sie sich vor ihren Eltern auf.

„Was stört euch jetzt schon wieder?“ war die sehr selbstbewusste und auch irgendwie selbstgefällige Frage unserer kleinen Seele an ihre leiblichen Eltern.

Sie schauten nur traurig auf unsere kleine Seele und antworteten: „Dass du glaubst, immer alles selbst regeln zu müssen und auch zu können. Warum kannst du nicht einfach mal unsere Liebe annehmen?“

Sie wusste irgendwie nicht, wie ihr geschah, war total überrascht davon, dass ihre Eltern dachten, dass sie irgend etwas von ihnen nicht würde annehmen wollen.

Ganz im Gegenteil, über Jahre hinweg hätte sie gerne genommen, aber immer, wenn sie ihnen zu Nahe kam, waren sie nicht da, entweder in der Arbeit oder manchmal auch länger im Krankenhaus.

Jetzt stand sie hier und blickte ganz verdutzt auf ihre Eltern, welche da fast wie ein Häufchen Elend vor ihr standen. Dabei standen sie gar nicht so da, nachdem sie ein zweites Mal hingeschaut hatte, merkte sie, dass sie eigentlich sogar größer als sie waren und freundlich lächelten.

Das verwirrte jetzt unsere kleine Seele noch viel mehr. Sollte es zu ihrem Karma, zu ihrer Lernerfahrung gehören, dass sie ihren Eltern bisher unterstellt hatte, dass sie ihnen egal war?

Eigentlich konnte sie sich das nicht vorstellen, aber sie beschloss, etwas intensiver über ihre Beziehung zu ihren leiblichen Eltern nach zu denken.

Diese freundlichen Blicke machten unsere kleine Seele ganz wirr, sie empfand eine angenehme, bisher noch nie gekannte Wärme, in sich hoch steigen und verspürte das unbändige Verlangen, sich einfach in deren Arme fallen zu lassen.

Als sie dann auch noch merkte, dass sich ihre Ahnen hinter ihren Eltern versammelten traten ihr Tränen in die Augen. Sie war berührt von diesem Bild.

Sie war gerührt von dieser Kraft und Energie, welche von ihren Ahnen auf ihre Eltern und von denen auf sie überging. Ihre Knie gaben nach und sie sank vor ihren Eltern zu Boden, saß wie ein kleines Kind auf ihren Fersen und blickte hoch.

Die kindliche Neugier war wieder gekehrt, diese Neugier, welche unsere kleine Seele bereits vor Jahren irgendwo tief in ihr vergraben hatte, weil das Leben eben nur schwer und herausfordernd sein durfte.

Und mit einem Schlag fiel noch eine gehörige Portion Schwere von ihr ab, floss Härte aus ihrem Denken und ihren Gefühlen, stürzte eine Mauer ein, welche sie in all den Jahren erbaut hatte.

Noch während sie so am Boden saß und den Tränen freien Lauf ließ, merkte sie zum ersten Mal, dass sie wirklich nicht allein auf Mutter Erde war.

Da waren noch so viele mehr, von denen sie ein Teil war, ein winziges Teilchen eines riesigen und jahrzehntelangen Systems unterschiedlichster Familien, die sich in jeder Generation wieder zu neuen Systemen zusammen schlossen.

Es gab nicht nur ihre leiblichen Eltern, es gab auch noch deren Eltern und auch die Eltern der Eltern ihrer Eltern und je weiter sie zurück blickte, desto zahlreicher wurde das Meer an Ahnen, deren Mittelpunkt sie war.

Diese Wärme und Geborgenheit erinnerte sie an etwas, was sie schon lange vergessen dachte. Es war wie die Geborgenheit im Schoss der Mutter, das Eingebettetsein in die Plazenta, bevor man geboren wird.

Sie blieb einfach sitzen und genoss es, als alle Dämme in ihr brachen und all die aufgestauten Gefühle über unsere kleine Seele hinweg schwappten, um sich teilweise in der Ewigkeit zu verlieren, teilweise aber auch in ihrem Herzen wieder Platz zu finden.

Noch schöner wurde es, als ihr ihre Eltern halfen, wieder auf zu stehen und sie gemeinsam in die Arme schlossen und sie herzten und küssten.

Sie konnte auch förmlich spüren, dass die Eltern ihrer Mutter hinter dieser standen und ihre Hände auf deren Schulter legten, um sie zu unterstützen und ihre eigene Liebe weiter fließen zu lassen.

Und die Eltern ihres Vater standen hinter diesem und verfuhren ebenso. Genauso standen deren Eltern jeweils hinter den Großeltern unserer kleinen Seele und gaben durch ihre Kinder die Liebe weiter auf deren Kind, sprich den Vater unserer kleinen Seele.

Auch alle Generationen vor ihrer Mutter standen hinter ihr und unterstützen ihre Mutter darin, unserer kleinen Seele endlich die Liebe geben zu können, welche sie zu einem Überleben brauchen könnte.

Sie saugte diese Liebe förmlich auf, würdigte niemanden sonst eines Blickes und holte Jahre der emotionalen Enthaltsamkeit nach im Hier und Jetzt.

Es war ein Bild der Harmonie und Geborgenheit, unsere kleine Seele in den Armen ihrer Eltern zu sehen. Dahinter scharten sich Generation um Generation, alle bereit und willens, diese unsere kleine Seele auf ihren weiteren Lebensweg zu unterstützen.

Es dauerte lange, bis sie sich aus den Armen ihrer Eltern löste und auch weiter nach hinten blickte, um auch direkt etwas von ihren Vorfahren aufnehmen zu können.

Danach trat sie einen Schritt zurück, um auch den Halbkreis ihrer Geschwister wieder bewusst wahr zu nehmen. Sie wollte nicht wieder an das Ende der Schlange, was so viel hieß wie weg von den Eltern.

Aber es war auch gar nicht mehr nötig, sie hatte ja bereits ihren Platz in der Geschwisterfolge eingenommen und bewusst wahr genommen, wie gut ihr dieser ihr ureigenster angestammter Platz tut.

Also blieb sie jetzt einfach vor ihren Eltern stehen und blickte weiterhin auf diese Massen von Ahnen, während sich auch ihre Geschwister um sie scharten und sie mit ihrer Liebe und Fürsorge umarmten.

Unsere kleine Seele war endlich zu Hause angekommen. Angekommen im Schosse ihres Familiensystems. Angekommen auf ihrem Platz, den ihr niemand jemals streitig hätte machen wollen, den sie aber bis jetzt auch noch nicht gefunden hatte.

Im Wissen um diesen ihren Platz und mit dieser ihre wiederentdeckte Bereitschaft, sich helfen zu lassen und das Einzelkämpfertum ab zu legen, kam sie auch wirklich wieder zurück. Zurück in ihr Leben.

_________________________________________________________________________

ENDE

Das zweite Sachbuch der österreichischen Autorin und Trainerin ChrisTina Maywald beschäftigt sich eigentlich mit einem Paradoxon: Wie können wir uns bewusst mit etwas beschäftigen, was normalerweise unbewusst ist?

Basierend auf den philosophischen Erkenntnissen der hawaiianischen Kahunas führt die Autorin in ihrem Buch einige Techniken und Übungen an, mit welchen wir diesen Zugang sowohl wiederfinden als auch gezielt einsetzen können.

Es ist mehr, als sich beim Universum etwas zu bestellen. Huna ist eine Lebenseinstellung und gleichzeitig eines von vielen Denkmodellen. Das Buch kann den Leser dabei begleiten, seine innerste Lebenseinstellung nachhaltig und bewusst zu verändern.

Dieses Buch richtet sich an

- alle Menschen, welche etwas in ihrem Da-Sein verändern wollen und zwar mit relativ einfachen Mitteln.

- alle Menschen, welche sich auf den Weg machen wollen zu eine wesentlich positiveren Lebenseinstellung.

- alle Menschen, welche sich in ihrer Ent-Wicklung und Ent-Faltung behindert fühlen, jedoch keinen Grund dafür finden.

- alle Menschen, welche sich nicht nur das Lernen, sondern das Leben an sich, leichter machen wollen.

- alle Menschen, welche sich einen ersten Überblick über die Inhalte von Huna, der Philosophie der hawaiianischen Kahunas schaffen wollen.

- alle Menschen, welche sich mit der Thematik der Zieldefinitionen und Zielerreichung beschäftigen und/oder ev. nicht die erwarteten Erfolge erzielt haben.

- alle Menschen, welche mit ihrem Unbewussten effektiv(er) kommunizieren wollen.

ChrisTina Maywald zu den Inhalten des Buches:

„Zu Beginn beschäftigen wir uns mit einigen der wichtigsten Begriffe, um eine gemeinsame Basis für die weitere Arbeit zu schaffen.
Der Hauptbereich sind die Grundlagen von Huna: die 3 Bewusstseinsebenen, die 4 Entwicklungsmodelle, die 7 Prinzipien.
Darüber hinaus und basierend auf den Grundlagen von Huna beschäftigen wir uns im zweiten Teil des Buches intensiv mit unserem Unbewussten, den Möglichkeiten des lustvollen Lernens und Hilfe zur Selbsthilfe, u.a. in Form von schamanischen Ritualen, NLP-Prozessen und Fantasie-Reisen.“

Das Buch (207 Seiten, Hardcover, farbig illustriert) ist ab sofort beim Verlag „Edition Zaunreiter“ edition@zaunreiter.at und in jeder Buchhandlung zum Preis von € 17,90 erhältlich. Mehr Informationen darüber finden Sie auf den Internetseiten des Verlages www.edition.zaunreiter.at.

Dieses Buch richtet sich an alle Menschen,

- welche etwas in ihrem Da-Sein verändern wollen und zwar mit relativ einfachen Mitteln,
- welche sich auf den Weg machen wollen zu eine wesentlich positiveren Lebenseinstellung,
- welche sich in ihrer Ent-Wicklung und Ent-Faltung behindert fühlen, jedoch keinen Grund dafür finden,
- welche sich nicht nur das Lernen, sondern das Leben an sich, leichter machen wollen.
- welche sich einen ersten Überblick über die Inhalte von Huna, der Philosophie der hawaiianischen Kahunas schaffen wollen,
- welche sich mit der Thematik der Zieldefinitionen und Zielerreichung beschäftigen und/oder ev. nicht die erwarteten Erfolge erzielt haben,
- welche mit ihrem Unbewussten effektiv(er) kommunizieren wollen.

Der Hauptbereich sind die Grundlagen von Huna: die 3 Bewusstseinsebenen, die 4 Entwicklungsmodelle, die 7 Prinzipien.
Danach beschäftigen wir uns mit der Funktionsweise des Gehirns, den Möglichkeiten, unsere Aufmerksamkeit zu erhöhen und dadurch zusätzlich unser Unbewusstes unseren Wünschen entsprechend zu beeinflussen.

Alle diese Fragen stürzen über die junge Juristin Agnes Feder plötzlich herein, die mit einem uneinsichtigen Ex-Geliebten und mit ungeklärten Todesfällen an ihrem Arbeitsplatz,
einem Institut für künstliche Befruchtung, zu kämpfen hat.
Doch just in dieser für Agnes so schwierigen Zeit wird sie mit einer mystischen Seite des Lebens konfrontiert, die sie bislang nicht kannte.
Eine Traumwelt beginnt von ihr Besitz zu ergreifen, die sie immer tiefer in ein scheinbar irreales Dasein zieht. Traum und Wirklichkeit verschwimmen zu einem Ganzen, alte Weisheiten und geheimes Wissen offenbaren sich ihr, ziehen sie in ihren Bann...

"Die Autorin zeigt mit Weisheit, spannend und humorvoll die dunklen und hellen Seiten unseres Wesens, eben Leben!"
Genro Laoshi, Ch'anmeister

Was weißt du Narr denn schon von dem Leben.
Vom Dasein füreinander und
vom Atmen, Lachen, Weinen, Sehnen
und von des Lebens tiefstem Grund.

Was glaubst du Narr vom Sein zu wissen,
von Ewigkeit und Blut und Tod,
von Existenz, Not, Niedertrachten
und all dem Kram wie Lohn und Brot.

Und wie, mein lieber Narr, meinst du
sagen zu können, wann es reicht.
Wann es genug ist und du geh’n kannst
sonst wohin über den Teich.

Mein Narr, du glaubst dich fest gespickt
mit Wissen und Erfahrungen,
mit allem was der Mensch so braucht
und endlos Seelennahrung.

Doch lieber Narr, sei Dir gewiss,
du hast gar keine Ahnung
was Leben, Lieben, Leiden ist.
Nimm es einfach als Warnung.

Und anzunehm’n, ich wär’ kein Narr,
wüsst alles, was ich schreib’
und stünde über all den Dingen
ist wohl die größte Narretei!

© skriptum

http://news.haverford.edu/blogs/haverblog/2008/05/18/commencement-2008/

THE FIRST SETTING

It was the night before President Steve Emerson, ’74, was to utter the words of this title to the Class of 2008.  My husband and I were visiting Haverford College as the guest of our young friend, “Grant.”  We have known Grant almost forever, and he had invited us to Commencement Weekend.  His parents were due to arrive the next morning.  It was 8:45 p.m., Saturday.  

We had dined well and merrily at a place called The Blue Horse, toasting Grant’s accomplishments with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.  Perhaps the bubbly went to our heads, because we took a wrong turn on the ten-mile drive back to campus.  By the time we descended the marble staircase of Marshall Auditorium, we were too late to be admitted to the forum for the recipients of honorary degrees.

At that point, we had two obvious courses of action.  We could join the other latecomers listening to the forum over the outside PA system, or we could walk around campus until it was time for a reception in the Dining Center.  The night was warm; our choice to walk was unanimous.  

We strolled under tall trees, the sidewalk dappled with the light of a full moon (really).  Grant pointed out campus landmarks and explained why Magill Library looks like a church.  A pre-med student with a major in mathematics, our host understandably wanted us to see the biology department and the math lounge--with sofas so welcoming that non-majors come just to nap.  We paused in a cloistered courtyard and imagined chamber music echoing off pale stone.  We consulted our watches:  twenty minutes until the reception.  It was probably I who made the suggestion.

THE FIRST ROOM

“You’re sure you want to see this?” Grant asked, opening the white door?

“Yeah!  I know you’re in the middle of moving out.  And, it’s not like I’ve never seen a dorm room before,” I answered in reassuring tones. 

My husband stepped gingerly through the doorway, and I followed, smugly secure in my knowledge of what lay ahead.  The security was grounded in my familiarity with university residence halls, tower suites and on-campus apartments.  As for my smugness, well, it crashed and burned at Grant’s second-floor single in Leeds Hall.  

The pale blue room had an appealing austerity.  It was so small that a careless visitor, upon entering, could bruise his shin on the frame of the (unmade) twin bed.  A desk stood below the narrow, multi-lit window.  A bookcase and a stand with a microwave were the other furnishings.  A knob-less door to an adjoining room required that the respective occupants go out into the hall (and risk their shins), should they wish to converse without texting.

The door without a knob served as support for Grant’s guitar.  A Picasso poster of a similar cubist instrument (Still Life) hung on the adjacent wall.  To my young friend’s credit, he hadn’t picked that depressing guitarist print from the Blue Period.  Also to his credit, there wasn’t an aluminum can or a carton of moldering fast food to be seen or smelled.  The mess he had feared revealing was well below par for contemporary undergraduates.  

What the little, pastel room did contain were rich traces of the academic life.  Typical for a pre-med student was the oversized MCAT guide that Grant had pre-cycled into a coffee table.  Everywhere in evidence, the texts in biology and advanced mathematics were equally to be expected for one with his major interests.  

Looking closer, I took greater interest in the academic artifacts.  The door behind the guitar was plastered with lists of declensions for Greek nouns.  Being and Time, the 1927 opus of Martin Heidegger, lay beside the bed, accompanied by commentaries on “the being for whom being is in question” (Dasein) and other matters of Continental philosophy.  From the bookcase spilled illustrated volumes on the subject of seventeenth-century Dutch painting.  With unstudied irony, works in cultural anthropology vied for space with organic chemistry books by the microwave.     

Although not a habitat of the common premedicalis studentii, the room certainly befitted someone on the path to Dasein.  

THE SECOND SETTING

The sounds of mid-century jazz filled the air, and the taste of dark chocolate lingered on my tongue.  A dozen steps beyond the predictably pleasant and proper reception in the Dining Center, we were discussing plans for the morning.  Where and when to meet Grant’s parents were paramount concerns, but I had a strong inclination to attend an event before Commencement.  It was definitely I who posed the question.

“Are you sure you want to get up that early?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.  Are you guys sure?” Grant answered, checking his cell for unread texts.

“Yeah, we’re sure,” my husband said, in the resigned tone of a man who prefers to sleep late but knows he’ll be rising early.

“Okay.  See you there, then,” Grant answered a second time, his head angled downward to the message glowing on his phone.

THE SECOND ROOM

It was farther from the parking lot to the Haverford Friends Meeting House (circa 1834) than either of us had expected.  A sign at the wooden footbridge gave the distance:  two hundred-odd yards.  The paved path ran straight, passed gardens in bloom and a stately Victorian home.  It was a beautiful, peaceful walk on an early May morning.   

A gentleman in a black suit greeted newcomers at the end of the long sidewalk.  He directed us around a small graveyard and to the meeting house.  We arrived before Grant and waited on the cobblestones by the burial ground.  Lilies-of-the-valley clung to its stone wall; dark green ivy covered the graves.  Between the simple headstones, the lawn was well-tended.  I had the sense that the ancestral bodies entombed here receive personal attention in all seasons of the year, down through the centuries.  

Grant arrived wearing dark slacks, a starched white shirt and tie.  We hugged; he shut off his cell phone.  On the porch of the meeting house, we were greeted by members of the local community of Friends.  In the doorway between the foyer and the meeting hall, an attractive, middle-aged woman in a soft, floral print dress handed me a pamphlet.  The title was “An Invitation to Quaker Worship.”  The woman asked us to sit on the opposite side of the quadrangle of facing benches.  We took seats in an otherwise empty pew, with Grant between my husband and me.  

I looked around the two-story hall, which was a study in neutral hues.  Flat panels in the softest shade of granite were mounted on interior walls, tinted a pale, buttery color.  Light filtered from high windows, with clear multiple panes like the ones in Leeds Hall.  The wooden benches were worn smooth with age.  No ornaments or decorations marred the purity of this space.  Its estimated capacity was comparable to the 301 students in the graduating class.   

When the hall was half full, the woman in the floral print opened the service.  She welcomed everyone to this special Meeting for Worship for the graduating class, their families and friends and the college faculty.  She briefly explained the centering of concentration and the spoken ministries at the core of the Quaker meeting.  

The hall fell silent.  Coughs of older men could be heard at random intervals.  I recrossed my legs.  Grant shuffled his feet.  I hoped my husband was not nodding back to sleep.  The silence grew, but it was not the deep quiet of a Buddhist meditation hall.  There was a growing tension, an expectation of something about to happen.  

A man rose and spoke—his quotation memorized, his practiced message harkening back to the Quaker past.  Minutes for silent reflection passed.  I thought about the ivy growing on the graves.  A second man rose and spoke, his words, too, prepared in advance, although his message pointed to the future.  More minutes for reflection followed.  I wondered how we would manage to connect with Grant’s parents.  

Other men spoke, more candidly.  Women spoke, candidly.  One woman sang an exquisite a capella hymn.  Moments of silence surrounded each expression of worship.  I let myself feel the slow, steady rhythm of the meeting.  I stopped weaving the words of others into the fabric of my own anxieties.  I began to hear sincerity.  It was difficult at first.  Sincerity is not what I am accustomed to hearing in public places.  The balance of plain speech and receptive silence lifted me into an elusive state of calm and well-being.

The woman in the floral print closed the meeting by shaking hands with the individuals sitting beside her.  Grant and I shook hands.  Grant and my husband shook hands.  There was no one else in the pew with whom to shake hands.  People filed from the hall, through the foyer and onto the porch.  Rain was predicted for the afternoon, but I paused to put on my sunglasses before stepping into the bright light.  Grant checked his messages.  My husband waited patiently.

Back in the world again, I recalled the books on the floor by my young friend’s bed—no doubt, still unmade.  I thought about Martin Heidegger, who, to my knowledge, never made a public pronouncement on the Religious Society of Friends. Nonetheless, it struck me that Dasein may not be so very far from the Quaker quest.

THE BIGGER PICTURE

Later that morning, my husband and I sat on folding chairs beside Grant’s parents in the shade of a big tree.  A chill wind had come up, but the rain still held off.  Together, we listened as President Emerson said, “...Go forward and find your life’s work.”  He was addressing a graduating class singularly prepared for that undertaking.

cheers,

dkb

www.beckeracademic.com

Is philosophy a valid theoretical framework for the access to Universal truth?

Psychoanalysis is not the philosophy of human psyche for it tells us nothing about the truth that a philosopher would be interested in. Upon the couch, Freud has opened up the space for imagination, fantasy, lie and joke, but he has never required his patient to tell the truth.  Truth is not the imperative, for what psychoanalyst interests is the unconscious truth which may always be beyond the daily articulation.

But what could be the truth in psychoanalysis if it could not within the discourse of the patient. Lacan says the truth in psychoanalysis can only be found in jouissance, in lack, in the place where we are not present.  This truth is possible only within the larger framework of the Universal truth as lack.

Living in the world (in Heidegger’s sense) that we are trained to play the role as a subject or an object (master or slave) and we have no idea this only reflects what would be our misconception of the inwardly circumcised mediation (logics) of our status as an unified order. If the master/slave dialectics is put onto the larger background of a Universal truth, (i.e. the order of physical existence puts into interaction with the order of human existence, either in the form psycho-theological way or as a Kantian transcendental) the interface can only be the field of the freudian. The Freudian field opens up the internal world that enables the human psychoanalytic field interact, reflect, change, engage or restructure the substantiality of the Real.

Even when it is not only a matter of ontic experience, but of ontological understanding, the interpretation of being initially orients itself toward the being of innerworldly beings. Here the being of things initially at hand is passed over and beings are first conceived as a context of things (res) objectively present. Being acquires the meaning of reality. Substantiality becomes the basic of characteristic of being…. like other beings, Da-sein is also objectively present as real. (Heidegger, Being and Time I.vi 43)

This is what Heidegger taught us about the real and how it validates Da-sein as “objectively present”, as the basic of being.  And it also show us the importance of being “seen” or “discovered” as the basic of being/truth. Being as truth while it validates the connection between subject and object in discoveredness.

To say that a statement is true means that it discovers the beings in themselves. It asserts, it shows, it lets beings “be seen”in their discoveredness. The being true (truth) of the statement must be understood as discovering. Thus, truth by no means has the structure of an agreement between knowing and the object in the sense of a correspondence of one being (subject) to another (object). (Heidegger, Being and Time I vi 44)

However at the backend of human existence, there is always the haunting spirit of our own desire. Psychoanalysis tells us about desire - originated from primitive lack which is our memory of primitive love toward parental unity.  What is it? The parental unity is what exists before we are (being). The lack is what haunting us since the day we acquire the partial characteristic of being - the materiality of being, the body, the sense, the Real (for this partial being has not yet fulfilled the validation of the symbolic which is the structuration of language). That is when being is not yet being, or not yet full validated as being, as in the stage of pre-being, in the stage when lack, fear and jouissance embody yet hinder the awareness of beingness. This is also the time when being as being is still unthinkable or only partial. This is also the time when the haunting spirit of the Real constitutes the basi