I have always been a great admirer of the novels of Henry James. What I admire most about them is that the author brings out that we humans are not isolated individuals, but a nucleus of relationships. We are in fact made up of a complex of relationships. This multidimensional confluence of people who make up what we are is really beyond the reach of historians, for the most part. Nevertheless, through the reading of diaries and letters, if extant, as well as an author's more public or official writings, it is sometimes possible to see historical figures more in the round. And although I am very much opposed to the notion that we can spare ourselves the effort of reading an author's works, and somehow get to the essential by perusing incidental "notes to the maid" that happen to be penned by an author, it is in some cases extremely helpful, due perhaps in part to our own frailty, to approach an author from his or her less formal side--particularly when we are dealing with a writer whose works are devoted to an area that has its own protocol, so to speak. I am thinking, not just of writers in the sciences, but also of writers of philosophy, social analysis or history, whose minds have been trained in framing the results of their research in a form with which the general reader is less comforatable than are their academic colleagues.
The theme of this evening's discussion is Gershom Scholem's relationship to his closest friend, Walter Benjamin. I will also comment to a lesser extent on Scholem's relationship with Franz Kafka, which, though not as close as the former, was characterized by controversial insights and puzzled admiration.
Gershom Scholem kept copious notes of that mixed experiential milieu, his personal and intellectual life, beginning at least as early as 1915 (age 18). He drew on them specifically in writing three works of a personal nature: Walter Benjamin: The Story of a Friendship (New York: The NYRB, 1981), Lamentations of Youth: The Diaries of Gershom Scholem, 1913-1919 (Cambridge, Mass. : The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2007), and From Berlin to Jerusalem: Memories of My Youth (1980). (By the way, this way of working from notes is common to all Scholem's works, including those on Kabbalah). He also drew on extensive correspondence, particularly in the case of Benjamin: cf. The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin and Gershom Scholem, 1932-1940 (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1992). The Story of a Friendship (which grew out of a 1965 manuscript, now at the Leo Baeck Institute here in New York): in Hebrew, Sipurah shel yedidut (סיפורה של ידידות).
The two men met in 1915 in Berlin. The friendship, which went through numerous periods of tension, ended 25 years later, when Benjamin committed suicide in 1940, after being turned back by the Spanish border patrol as he fled the Holocaust. The general orientation of the Benjamin/Scholem intellectual exchange concerned the nature of Judaism, the nature of language, Marxism and Zionism. More specifically, Scholem wanted to convince Benjamin to leave Europe and come to Jerusalem, where he himself had lived since 1923. Secondly, Scholem wished to demonstrate to Benjamin that Bertold Brecht, as well the the Institute for Social Research (which became the New School for Social Research in New York during the Hitler years), were distorting his thought, which was fundamentally that of a renewal of Jewish spirituality. Scholem interpreted the work of both Benjamin and Kafka as that of the only honest form of Judaism that could exist in their time: a Judaism in which messianism took the form of a revelation through nihilism, that is, through absence. Formerly, Scholem had suggested to his friend that it was impossible to explain to the goyim how Kafka describes “the universe in which the redemption cannot be anticipated,” even if “the light of revelation never burned as unmercifully as it does here.” Now he writes, in the fourth quatrain of a didactic poem annexed to a letter to Benjamin of July 1934: "Only thus does revelation appear to an age that has rejected you; only in this, your nothingness, may it apprehend you." In the original German: "So allein strahlt Offenbarung / in die Zeit, die dich verwarf. / Nur dein Nichts ist die Erfahrung, /die sie von dir haben darf."
That train of thought should doubtless be coupled with the last sentences of The Name of God or the Theory of Language in the Kabbalah, a lecture given by Scholem in 1970, and published in Diogenes 79 and 80 (1972).
What we learn from creation and revelation, the
word of God, is infinitely liable to interpretation, and it is
reflected in our own language. Its radiation or sounds, which we
catch, are not so much communications as appeals. That which
has meaning-sense and form-is not this word itself, but the
tradition behind this word, its communication and reflection in
time. This tradition, which has its own dialectic, goes through
certain changes and is eventually delivered in a soft, panting
whisper; and there may be times, like our own, in which it can
no longer be handed down, in which this tradition falls silent.
This, then, is the great crisis of language in which we find ourselves.
We are no longer able to grasp the last summit of that
mystery that once dwelt in it. The fact that language can be
spoken is, in the opinion of the Kabbalists, owed to the name,
which is present in language. What the value and worth of
language will be - the language from which God will have
withdrawn-is the question which must be posed by those who
still believe that they can hear the echo of the vanished word
of the creation in the immanence of the world. This is a question
to which, in our times, only the poets presumably have the answer.
For poets do not share the doubt that most mystics have in
regard to language. And poets have one link with the masters
of the Kabbala, even when they reject Kabbalistic theological
formulation as being still too emphatic. This link is their belief
in language as an absolute, which is as if constantly flung open
by dialectics. It is their belief in the mystery of language which
has become audible.
I would like to conclude this evening's thoughts by developing a saying that Gershom Scholem was fond of quoting from the art historian Aby Warburg: "Der liebe Gott lebt im Detail." The dear God lives in the details. This was evident to the art historian, since in esthetics the breadth of a line or the shade of a color can make all the difference. And it applies to the philologist that Gershom Scholem was as well--a man who knew the texts of the Kabbalah better, perhaps, than anyone of his time, and was cognizant of word choice and nuance. But I would like to apply the concept to a broader domain. We know that there is more than one religion in the world, and yet we are grateful for our own. We are familiar with it as with our own family. Similarly, we know that there are many languages, but we are grateful to know our own so well that we can express nuances of feeling, differentiate between intersecting ideas. This differentiation, this endless richness of detail, this infinite finiteness, if I may so express myself, makes it possible, in my view, to use the material, limited sphere in which we live to approximate certain linguistic gestures that carry us a bit beyond it. Through espousing the accidental etymologies of words, through knowing and loving our tradition as a child knows the delineations of his mother's face, we allow ourselves to enter a realm of values Edmund Husserl expressed as being "the universal particular." Marcel Proust said that he knew there were more beautiful mothers in the world, but as a child he wanted none other than his own. We are not wrong, then, to cherish our "particularism." I will go so far as to say that, as far as we are given to see, it is in such details that God lives.
Religion brings the crisis implied in the oxymoron, the "universal particular" to a head. The apt and accurate formulation "universal particular" is a philosophically successful and accurate one. But as a form of expression, it is philosophical, i.e. abstract. Can the particular truly be expressed, accomplished or realized in the abstract? In other words, can philsophy do more than merely formulate the problem? The particular can be stated, or enunciated, in the abstract, but by its very nature it seeks more than that. The ecumenical pays a heavy price for its ecumenicalism: it allows itself to drop its unacceptable specificity. It is the philosophical use of language itself that stands as a barrier here. Here we have, perhaps, the link to the poetic use of language to which Scholem alludes in the passage quoted above. And it may not be insignificant that Scholem has a penchant for a poet one could hardly have expected: the great American poet Walt Whitman. "By God," he quotes from "Leaves of Grass," I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms." My surprise is shared by Boaz Huss, in the recent article (2005) published by Oxford University Press.
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Scholem concludes his reflections on the possibility of Jewish mysticism in his day with a reference to none other than Walt Whitman—who represents, in his words, “a sense of absolute sanctity within absolute secularity”—as an example indicating hope for a renewed appearance of Jewish mysticism. Scholem elsewhere expresses this neo-romantic concept, which sees literature and art as the heirs of religiosity in a secular age, in his presentation of Kafka as a modern bearer of the Jewish mystical spirit. He concludes his essay “Ten Non-historical Statements about the Kabbalah” as follows: “For in a uniquely lofty way, Kafka gave expression to the boundary between religion and nihilism. For that reason, certain readers in our day see in his writings—which are representations in secular terms of a kabbalistic sense of the world (which he himself did not know)—something of the demanding light of the canonical, of the variegated whole.”(Boaz Huss, ASK NO QUESTIONS: GERSHOM SCHOLEM AND THE STUDY OF CONTEMPORARY JEWISH MYSTICISM, 144-45, Project Muse).
We have opened up more vistas here than we have time to explore. Let me simply conclude that what the philosopher expresses as the universal in the particular tends to be actually pursued and to some degree realized, perhaps, by the lover, not of knowledge (philo-sopher) but of words (philo-logist). The two figures closest to Scholem, Benjamin and Kafka, both lived in and through the signifiers (the concrete elements) of language, the former as a thinker of literary and cultural manifestations, the latter as a writer whose stories seem to renew a mysticism through an unsettlingly new sense of the the mysterious, the strange, the singular, which German calls the "unheimlich." And what is fiction, if not the acceptance of the the fact that the the essential (i.e. God) cannot live without the details?