A new-materialist meditation following Valentine’s Day: Time-scissored work—the meaning-full nature of fragments

“Sappho of Eressos”—Roman copy of a the 5th C. BCE Greek original
READINGS

Two Fragments by Sappho trans. Willis Barnstone

Afroditi and Desire

It is not easy for us to equal
the goddess
in beauty of form   Adonis

desire
and
Afroditi

poured nectar from
a gold pitcher
with hands Persuasion

the Geraistion shrine
lovers
of no one

I shall enter desire


Return, Gongyla

A deed
your lovely face

if not, winter
and no pain

I bid you, Abanthis,
take up the lyre
and sing of Gongyla as again desire
floats around you

the beautiful. When you saw her dress
it excited you. I'm happy.
The Kypros-born once
blamed me

for praying
this word:
I want

Papyrus by Ezra Pound

Spring . . .
Too long . . .
Gongula . . .

Song by Robert Creeley

What do you
want, love. To be
loved. What,

what, wanted,
love, wanted
so much as love

like nothing
considered, no
feeling but

a simple
recognition
forgotten sits

in its feeling,
two things,
one and one.

John 6:1-13 trans. David Bentley Hart

Thereafter Jesus went away across the Sea of Galilee, which is to say the Sea of Tiberias, and a large crowd followed him because they saw the signs he had performed upon those who were ill. And Jesus went up upon the mountain and sat down there with his disciples. And the Passover, the feast of the Judaeans, was near. Raising his eyes, therefore, and seeing a large crowd approaching him, Jesus says to Philip, “Where might we buy loaves of bread, so that they might eat?” But this he said to test him; for he knew what he was about to do. Philip replied to him, “Two hundred denarii’s worth of bread is not enough for them, even if each take only a morsel.” One of his disciples, Andrew the brother of Simon Peter, says to him, “There is a lad here who has five barley loaves and two dried fish; but what is that among so many?” Jesus said, “Make the people settle themselves.” Now there was plenty of grass in that place. So the men, numbering about five thousand, reclined. Jesus, therefore, took the loaves and, having given thanks, distributed them to those reclining, and the fish in the same manner, as much as they desired. And when they were sated, he tells his disciples, “Gather up the fragments left over, so that nothing is lost.” So they gathered them up and filled twelve baskets with the fragments of the five barley loaves left over by those who had eaten.

—o0o—

ADDRESS
A new-materialist meditation following Valentine’s Day: 
Time-scissored work—the meaning-full nature of fragments

St Valentine’s Day fell on Friday last week. It’s a day which, since the late fourteenth- and early fifteenth-century and to the delight of florists, restauranteurs, sparkling-wine, card and chocolate manufacturers everywhere, has become ever more indelibly associated in the public imagination with romantic love. But despite the day’s pervasiveness in our culture its origins are extremely obscure. For a while some scholars thought that the day’s roots might be found in an attempt to Christianise the pagan fertility festival of Lupercalia which was celebrated in ancient Rome between 13th and 15th February but, despite the attractiveness of the idea, no real evidence to support this has ever been found. As to St Valentine himself the situation is hardly any better and it remains unclear whether he is to be identified as one saint or the conflation of two saints of the same name.

But what we do know for sure is that time has cut-up all the day’s sources into all sorts of fragments which, over the centuries, have slowly been woven and rewoven together in many complex and utterly contingent, ad hoc (‘to this’) ways. As it is celebrated today, like all our ancient festival days such as Christmas and Easter, St Valentine’s Day is a rich, sometimes beautiful, sometimes grotesque, weave of incomplete and endlessly recycled and transformed fragments. However, for all that, it remains a festival day clearly full of current and potential meanings — in this sense it is incredibly meaning-full; but within it we find there is no abiding, simple, essential, complete, single, central meaning.

For many people this recognition is tantamount to saying that, in truth, a festivals such as Valentine’s Day are deeply meaning-less. The thought silently in play here is that true meaning, that which is truly meaning-full, can only be found in something that is, from the beginning through-designed, wholly-planned, coherent, complete and in order. In this idea I think we are encountering the ghost of the god of monotheism who still haunts so many of our thought patterns and, in turn, at least from time to time, this ghost still prompts us to believe that, somehow, the world is in order — an order ordained, if no longer by a supernatural god, then perhaps at least by certain fully knowable and calculable universal physical and, perhaps even, moral laws.

However, following the lead of the Cambridge political philosopher Raymond Geuss, it has long seemed to me that the world in which we live ‘does not on the whole conform to the patterns, which we think it would be good for it to instantiate. There is a discrepancy between how we perceive the world to be and how we think it would be good for it to be’.

Indeed, as we, through the natural and social sciences, have continued to explore the question of how our world is and our place in it we have found, again and again, that ours is a world which seems characterized, ‘all the way down’, by instability, insecurity, indeterminacy and uncertainty. This means that whatever meaning we do find in the world it has to be dependent upon, not some underlying stable, universal, complete, independent grid-like structure against which everything can (in principle if not always in practice) always be accurately measured, but a reality that is characterized by constant, creative motion.

It is to a recognition of this that the words with which we finish our time of conversation together each Sunday are explicitly designed to point:

‘We receive fragments of holiness, glimpses of eternity, brief moments of insight. Let us gather them up for the precious gifts that they are, and, renewed by their grace, move boldly into the unknown’ (Sarah York).

In connection with this, as many of you know, my own ‘vade mecum’ guide (i.e. the ‘go-with-me’ guide which I constantly keep by me in my pocket for consultation, my basic ‘gospel’ if you like) is found in A. R. Ammons’ poem, ‘Dunes’:

Taking root in windy sand
  is not an easy
way
to go about
    finding a place to stay.

A ditch bank or wood’s-edge
    has firmer ground.

In a loose world though
    something can be started—
a root touch water,
    a tip break sand—

Mounds from that can rise
    on held mounds,
a gesture of building, keeping,
    a trapping
into shape.

Firm ground is not available ground.

As I was thinking these thoughts on and around Valentine’s Day I couldn’t but help recall the strange story about how many of the fragments of the sensuous and lyrical love poems of Sappho who lived on the Greek island of Lesbos in the seventh century BCE and which survived into our own time to beguile, intrigue and, occasionally, scandalise us.

As with St Valentine (or the St Valentines), very little is known about Sappho’s life, but what we do know is that her poetry was admired throughout antiquity and was included in the later Greek’s definitive list of lyric poets. However, despite her fame, like so many other ancient authors, nearly all of her poetry has been lost to us and of the more than five hundred poems that she wrote only about two thousand lines which fit into intelligible fragments have survived into our own day.

Although a few fragments survived in Greece itself, in 1879 in the Egyptian oasis of Fayum in the Nile valley, a great deal of new material was discovered. Now, as you might expect, in Egypt Sappho’s poetry was written on papyri and papyrus was also the material used to make the papier-mâché with which they wrapped their iconic mummies. When the archeologists working on this site came carefully to unwrap these mummies, to their amazement and delight, they discovered that Sappho’s poetry (and of course the work of other ancient authors) had provided the raw material. As Willis Barnstone (one of Sappho’s modern translators) puts it, by cutting the papyri upon which the poems had been written into thin strips:

The mummy makers of Egypt transformed much of Sappho into columns of words, syllables, or single letters, and so made her poems look, at least typographically, like Apollinaire’s or e. e. cummings’ shaped poems. The miserable state of many of the texts has produced surprising qualities. So many words and phrases are elliptically connected in a montage structure that chance destruction has delivered pieces of strophes that breathe experimental verse. Her time-scissored work is not quite language poetry, but a more joyful cousin of the eternal avant-garde, which is always and ever new. So Sappho is ancient and, for a hundred reasons, modern (Sweetbitter Love by Sappho, trans. Willis Barnstone, Shambhala, 2006,  p. xxix)

In our readings we got a sense of how this time-scissored shaping of Sappho has directly and indirectly inspired the work of two important modern poets, Ezra Pound and Robert Creeley who were amongst those who helped give us in the twentieth-century a whole new poetic aesthetic. In passing, but not unimportantly given the background St Valentine’s theme, I included Creeley’s very Sappho-esque poem ‘Song’ because I first meditated upon it one halcyon summer in the mind-1980s during which I realized I had fallen in love with Susanna, the woman whose husband I eventually became. Anyway, today, there is no doubt that Sappho’s body of work, though fragmentary and allusive, forms one of our culture’s great texts — a text that is full of meaning, that is meaning-full.

Now, in relation to the greatness of texts and their possible meanings, you may remember something I occasionally bring before you that was said by the philosopher Iain Thomson. He feels (and I agree with him in this feeling) that:

. . . what makes the great texts ‘great’ is not that they continually offer the same ‘eternal truths’ for each generation to discover but, rather, that they remain deep enough — meaning-full enough — to continue to generate new readings, even revolutionary re-readings which radically reorient the sense of the work that previously guided us (Figure/Ground Communication interview).

What I’d like us to think about today is that the greatness of Sappho’s texts is dependent, not on their completeness, but on their very incompleteness, on their fragmentary nature, and that this greatness — their meaning-full-ness — is something that is made possible precisely because of a creative, material reality in which ‘firm ground is not available ground’.

And when you come to think about it isn’t all of human love and life itself just like this too? We know in our heart of hearts that we can never completely know either ourselves or another person. This is because we are all ourselves always-already creatures made up of contingent, entangled fragments constantly being woven, unwoven and rewoven together through our intra-actions to create all kinds of meanings (old and new). In other words we are not so much ‘be-ings’ as ‘be-come-ings’ and this is only possible because of a creative, material reality in which, thank heavens, ‘firm ground is not available ground’.

And even at the moment of death, when a life might be said to be as finished and complete as it can be, this same life’s story can still only ever be known by us incompletely. At the death of a loved one we carefully try to gather up the fragments so that nothing is lost because we know that these fragments, like Sappho’s words, can always go on to feed our present and future imaginations with new insights, new stories and poems and, indeed, whole new, meaning-full worlds of possibility.

Anyway, for what it’s worth, it strikes me that one lesson we might take from celebrating St Valentine’s day with these dynamic, kinetic thoughts in play is that we need not be frightened of the fragmentary ever moving nature of ourselves, our stories, or of reality itself, because it is precisely thanks to this endless time-scissoring reality that we are always being gifted with the freedom to be tomorrow what we are not today.

Comments

Lucy Ann said…
For millennia people have found comfort in the idea that there is a set of rules to follow -- a contract with God -- that will ease us through life and minimise difficulty; rules that perhaps make little sense to us (or at least which occasionally run contrary to our animal instincts), but which seem to work.

In this piece you remind us of what we have begun to perceive using the methods of science: that the order we may have thought we knew, or perhaps were beginning to come to know, is shifting constantly.

Two thoughts come to me from this.

1. In order that a shift, shear, re-configuration or transformation can even be identified, there must be some underlying metric, rule, relationship that can be used against which a change can be registered or described -- for without that, "change" as a concept cannot exist. For me, the mystery of that: the "what is true everywhere": is what I am facing, seeking and in my own way, addressing; in full knowledge I will never perceive, find, or get a response from it.

2. Perhaps this long era of religion as a book of rules, a contract-based order, without the presumption that we can, by our own volition and behaviour, have some effect on our experience and even our destiny, is thus coming to an end. Perhaps our understanding of God should now renew itself along the old, prehistoric lines: that creation is governed by the capricious, unpredictable whims of gods and spirits doing just what they please with us -- as we have no better way of describing what is going on.
Greetings Lucy Ann, thanks for your comments which I enjoyed reading. With regard to your two thoughts my own perspective is somewhat different to your own.

With regard to 1) I am suggesting - and of the opinion - that there is no underlying, static metric, rule, relationship AGAINST which change can be measure. Any measures we have are, themselves, characterised by the same change. The material conditions for nature as it appears are conditions characterised by flowing, folding and fielding all of which ensures there is no such stable, one-time grid -- i.e. "firm ground is not available ground". To reverse the teaching of Jesus, I'm suggesting wise women and men know they are always building on (and with) moving sand and not upon (and with) eternally stable rock.

With regard to 2) I'm suggesting - and also of the opinion -- that if we choose to continue to use the language of god/gods (and, of course, we need not so choose) then my preferred language is Epicurean/Lucretian in flavour -- i.e. talking about the gods as entities (whether physical or purely symbolic) who simply don't get involved in the world. The only positive influence they can have upon us is to encourage us to cultivate a life of beauty and imperturbability (ataraxia) which is, according to Epicurus/Lucretius anyway, the true nature of the gods. Both Epicurus/Lucretius thought that their own Greek/Roman understanding of the gods as capricious and unpredictable was simply ancient superstition that should be abandoned as profoundly wrong and unhelpful. As Epicurus wrote (in the first of his "Principle Doctrines"): "A blessed and imperishable being neither has trouble itself nor does it cause trouble for anyone else; therefore, it does not experience feelings of anger or indebtedness, for such feelings signify weakness."

I realise my compressed reply may confuse more than it enlightens but a lot of it comes into focus if one adopts an "ontology of motion" and the best introduction to this is found in the work of Thomas Nail, especially his recent book from OUP called "Being and Motion".

Thanks again for writing. It's much appreciated. Good luck with all your own explorations and work.

All the best,

Andrew

Lucy Ann said…
Thanks for the reply, which I will think about.

I also need to reply to my own previous reply. An error crept in, in my point 2. I meant to write "WITH the presumption that we can" and it came out as "WITHOUT the presumption that we can".

Finally from me, on this, as follows. "Change" is of course a human construct.
Thanks for your reply and for adding your correction which makes a significant difference to your second point.

It helps me see that despite the differences in the way we seem to be thinking it seems we do overlap in our desire to challenge the basic, hubristic idea that humankind is (in principle if not always in practice) able to control most things. We can't because we're wholly entangled in the world and that world is characterised by change (motion). This means change is something that is most certainly not a human construct since everything, everywhere, experiences change. To be sure we have "constructed" particularly human ways of understanding and talking about change but, change qua change, being fundamental to all things, applies across the board; it's what everything shares and, in a poetic sense, is the "sand" upon (and with) which we must all build. And here we are back to Ammons' poem "Dunes" that I cite in the address.

Naturally, should you wish to share them, I very much look forward to hearing any further thoughts you may have.

Best wishes,

Andrew

Popular posts