The Ritual of New Creation (26 page)

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Authors: Norman Finkelstein

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BOOK: The Ritual of New Creation
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Page 90
To define
defiles the dress, the nakedness,
the black surtout, the gold soutache,
the gaze of eye, the gaze of flesh,
the patient passacaglia and
the calculating saraband,
the turbulence, the calm caress,
the thraws and throes, the helplessness
of man and woman, breast on breast(14344)
And here, despite such loss, is the other:
Do not defend the ways of men
to God and not the ways of God
to men for each of them has turned
aside and each has found it hard
to listen when the other was
the one who was in question and
for each the one atonement is
begin again. (87)
An Object Which is Somehow Like a Text
But what does it mean to begin again? However one longs for atonement, making whole that which was rent, repairing the botched job, the task involves an investment in psychic energy which can prove unbearably daunting. In the past there was a basic failure of attention: according to Mandelbaum, God and man turned aside from each other, did not listen to each other and went their separate ways. As in the Kabbalah, creation could not be sustained; the vessels broke, the light spilled over and all was scattered. The lamp was lost, the community went into exile, the poem could not achieve resolution.
Beginning again, therefore, does not mean starting from nothing. It means searching and gathering in a landscape littered with ruins, painful reminders of past inadequacies and failures. What is called for is a kind of spiritual demolition, in which the past is remembered, revised and cleared away. The new poem must do all this at once. And as both the site of this activity and the activity itself, the poem must be experienced as a place through which one moves
 
Page 91
and a time in which creation is enacted. The result, as Bloom says of psychoanalysis, is "another parable of a people always homeless or at least uneasy in space, who must seek a perpetually deferred fulfillment in time."
18
There is a prose passage in
Spectral Emanations
in which these ideas are embodied in an odd but revealing way. A voice both comic and frighteningly portentous instructs the questing poet (or is it the poet who instructs his readers?) in the building of a sort of infernal machine, for "when bought already assembled, these things work very badly, and may leave dangerous residues" (33). Dissatisfied with what has been "already assembled," the text / machine builds itself, an assembly in time and space which finally presents itself as a parable of the state of contemporary literary creation. We are told that "There can be great variation in the exterior design. But it is the circuits alone which are terrifying, and the interior spaces where tolerances are so minute" (33). As is always the case with parabolic writing, we must pay heed to the interiority of the text; the parable insists upon its exacting, meaningful depths, however variously it may present its exterior. Furthermore, the writing (or reading) of such a work puts us at psychic risk: "The energy it consumes is enormous; it is almost too expensive to operate. But of course, one must" (34).
As Hollander and Bloom understand, writing of this sort is a ritualized struggle with the past, an acknowledgment of an original failure (Bloom's "catastrophe creation") which still has great power over the present. Thus we are warned that "After the red light goes off, there will be a period of waiting; do not disintegrate them at this stage, or you too will never have existed." Nevertheless, as the passage concludes, "If you get it to work properly, it will put an end to them, your predecessors" (34). Presumably, the successful writing of the present rectifies the past. The predecessors are laid to rest in a text that self-consciously realizes itself in time and space.
In the larger schema of
Spectral Emanations
(and in this sense, he text/machine is a parable within a parable), the task of putting an end to one's predecessors is equivalent to that of finding the lost menorah, making this a Bloomian (perhaps overly Bloomian) poem indeed. This leads in turn to a basic question: as a modern Jewish quest, what does the search for the lamp really signify? In the Prologue, "The Way to the Throne Room," the poet first appears among a company of questers who fail to reach "what we might read as the seat of vision in the
merkabah
or throne-chariot of Ezekial."
19
As the poet explains,
 
Page 92
On the way to the seventh chamber, the amethyst and sapphire light ceased and there were glimmering marble slabs. They dazzled mine eyes, and it was not at my own tears that I cried out
O water! Water!
Thus I was never to enter. (7)
The light from the marble slabs (perhaps the tables of the law) blinds him, and he is no longer able to make his way on what could be understood as a search for halakhic truth. He is unable to go (or see) beyond the bounds of the human spectrum, and the aggadic journey through the colors which constitutes the rest of the poem must compensate for the lost chance at halakhic certainty. The poet is launched immediately on this trip, for the tears that are not his own and the cry of "Water!" are those of the Israeli soldier whose death is depicted in "Red," which follows directly after. Thus the human scale of the search for the menorah, with its seven differently colored branches, substitutes for the pure light which no mortal eye could bear. Yet in the rainbow of the text, the promise of the original quest remains: as Hilda says in the passage from
The Marble Faun
which serves as Hollander's epigraph, "when all seven are kindled, this radiance shall combine into the white light of truth" (1).
So the wandering text of
Spectral Emanations,
the passage through the limited range of human vision, is awash in a succession of colored lights with flickering glimpses of a purer radiance: in Walter Benjamin's terms, the poem "is shot through with chips of Messianic time." In "Yellow," amidst Hollander's puns and scholarly games, the pathos of this situation is given voice,
an interpretation
Of the flimsy text, half unremembered,
Dimming evermore and diminishing.
Like gold afire in the yellow candles'
Flame, steady with remembrances and now
And then only wavering in regret,
What might have been burns up and the bright fruit
Of what we after all have ever ripens. (1314)
Yet even as the poet recognizes these diminished circumstances, he also sees, in a beautiful representation of Benjamin's mystical
Jetztzeit
, the present as the "time of the now," how he will be compensated for his devotion to the aggadic quest:

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