says W., ‘we won’t’.
But what we do have, says W., is joy. We are essentially joyful. I agree.—‘We are content with very little’, W. says, ‘it doesn’t take much to keep us happy’. The inane are happy, we agree. We are quite content, as idiots are.—‘I think that’s what you’ve given me’, says W., ‘idiocy’.
We’ve always known our limitations, W. and I agree, which is very different from accepting them. In fact, our entire lives have been concerned with not accepting our limitations, and battering ourselves against them like moths against a window.
Our limitations fascinate us, we agree. From the first, we aimed ourselves against them, in defiance not of the world that expected something from us, but of our own expectations.
Of what did we think we were capable? From whence came that ferocity of hope? Ours is a very pure kind of idiocy, we agree. We’re idiots, we agree, idiots who do not quite understand the depths of their idiocy. We’re mystics of the idiotic, we agree, mystical idiots, lost in our cloud of unknowing.
Idiocy, that’s what we have in common. Our friendship is founded upon our limitations, we agree, and doesn’t travel far from them.
We’re full of joy, W. says as we walk back from the supermarket, that’s what saves us. Why do we find our failings so amusing? But it does save us, we agree on that; it’s our gift to the world. We are content with very little: look at us, with a frozen chicken in a bag, and some herbs and spices, walking home in the sun. The gift of laughter, I say.—‘The gift of idiocy’, says W.
‘These are truly the last days …’ W. is making me listen to Godspeed’s Dead Flag Blues again. ‘Shut up and listen’. He plays this to the students, he says. And he makes them watch Béla Tarr. That’s what he calls teaching, he says.
The last days! What are we going to do?—‘We’ll be the first to go under’, says W., ‘we’re weak. Gin?’ Yes to gin, no to the apocalypse. What time is it? Already late, though you can never be sure in the shuttered living room.
Rosenzweig wrote the entirety of The Star of Redemption on postcards to his mother, W. says. All of it, every line, from the Macedonian front, where he was fighting. Admittedly, there wasn’t much to do at the Macedonian front—that’s not where the big battles were, but nevertheless. An entire book! Written on postcards! One after another! To his mother!, W says.
Rosenzweig! He’s the measure of all things to us. The measure of commitment (he meant every word!). The measure of religiosity. The measure of integrity. He turned his back on the university!, says W. He devised a new form of educational institution! He taught young Jews … He lived what he thought. He acted on what he thought, which is inconceivable to us now (as is even the capacity to think).
Rosenzweig is our guiding star, burning brightly above everything. He’s our inspiration. Ah, if only we could write like him, wholly in declamations! If only we could let our thought flash out in sentences like bolts of lightning!
Imagine him, Rosenzweig, at the Macedonian front, says W., shells falling around him. Imagine him in the trenches (were there any trenches in Macedonia?) propped up against a dirt wall, writing another postcard to his mother.
Dear mother , he would write, and then off he’d go, W. says. Dear mother , and then he’d write his thoughts about God or death or Judaism horizontally, in the space left for you to write, and then vertically, as they used to do in the nineteenth century.
He might die at any moment! A shell might fall and explode then and there! But he’s writing horizontally, then vertically and then slantwise across his postcard. Death was very close to him. And not just his death, but the death of everyone and everything, the death of old Europe. Didn’t Rosenzweig above all understand the apocalypse? And didn’t he understand how the messianic idea must be thought
But what we do have, says W., is joy. We are essentially joyful. I agree.—‘We are content with very little’, W. says, ‘it doesn’t take much to keep us happy’. The inane are happy, we agree. We are quite content, as idiots are.—‘I think that’s what you’ve given me’, says W., ‘idiocy’.
We’ve always known our limitations, W. and I agree, which is very different from accepting them. In fact, our entire lives have been concerned with not accepting our limitations, and battering ourselves against them like moths against a window.
Our limitations fascinate us, we agree. From the first, we aimed ourselves against them, in defiance not of the world that expected something from us, but of our own expectations.
Of what did we think we were capable? From whence came that ferocity of hope? Ours is a very pure kind of idiocy, we agree. We’re idiots, we agree, idiots who do not quite understand the depths of their idiocy. We’re mystics of the idiotic, we agree, mystical idiots, lost in our cloud of unknowing.
Idiocy, that’s what we have in common. Our friendship is founded upon our limitations, we agree, and doesn’t travel far from them.
We’re full of joy, W. says as we walk back from the supermarket, that’s what saves us. Why do we find our failings so amusing? But it does save us, we agree on that; it’s our gift to the world. We are content with very little: look at us, with a frozen chicken in a bag, and some herbs and spices, walking home in the sun. The gift of laughter, I say.—‘The gift of idiocy’, says W.
‘These are truly the last days …’ W. is making me listen to Godspeed’s Dead Flag Blues again. ‘Shut up and listen’. He plays this to the students, he says. And he makes them watch Béla Tarr. That’s what he calls teaching, he says.
The last days! What are we going to do?—‘We’ll be the first to go under’, says W., ‘we’re weak. Gin?’ Yes to gin, no to the apocalypse. What time is it? Already late, though you can never be sure in the shuttered living room.
Rosenzweig wrote the entirety of The Star of Redemption on postcards to his mother, W. says. All of it, every line, from the Macedonian front, where he was fighting. Admittedly, there wasn’t much to do at the Macedonian front—that’s not where the big battles were, but nevertheless. An entire book! Written on postcards! One after another! To his mother!, W says.
Rosenzweig! He’s the measure of all things to us. The measure of commitment (he meant every word!). The measure of religiosity. The measure of integrity. He turned his back on the university!, says W. He devised a new form of educational institution! He taught young Jews … He lived what he thought. He acted on what he thought, which is inconceivable to us now (as is even the capacity to think).
Rosenzweig is our guiding star, burning brightly above everything. He’s our inspiration. Ah, if only we could write like him, wholly in declamations! If only we could let our thought flash out in sentences like bolts of lightning!
Imagine him, Rosenzweig, at the Macedonian front, says W., shells falling around him. Imagine him in the trenches (were there any trenches in Macedonia?) propped up against a dirt wall, writing another postcard to his mother.
Dear mother , he would write, and then off he’d go, W. says. Dear mother , and then he’d write his thoughts about God or death or Judaism horizontally, in the space left for you to write, and then vertically, as they used to do in the nineteenth century.
He might die at any moment! A shell might fall and explode then and there! But he’s writing horizontally, then vertically and then slantwise across his postcard. Death was very close to him. And not just his death, but the death of everyone and everything, the death of old Europe. Didn’t Rosenzweig above all understand the apocalypse? And didn’t he understand how the messianic idea must be thought
Similar Books
