| Title | : | The Space of Literature |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 080326092X |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780803260924 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 279 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1955 |
The Space of Literature Reviews
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Meditations on Incompleteness
The only thing certain about any work of literature, indeed about writing of any kind, is that it is; it exists. But its being is of a certain kind. While essentially passive, writing is seditious. It promotes uncertainty about what is already known through both experience and other writing. It interrupts whatever intentions it encounters in the reader. It creates a space, a zone, of insecurity which paradoxically induces the need for more reading and hence more writing. Thus writing seduces both writers and readers into an obsessive state of permanent ‘unfinishedness,’ of longing for more.
“To write is to break the bond that unites the word with myself,” says Blanchot. In a sense this sterilises language. The word becomes independent once launched. On its own it has no effect. It is barely any thing at all. Language is not human but something alien per Blanchot: “To write is, moreover, to withdraw language from the world, to detach it from what makes it a power.”
And to read, one might add, is to break the bond that unites the world with the reader, replacing what is with what is written. What is read is doubly detached - from the writer and from the world. It is its own independent space, lurking, an alien reminder to the writer and a sort of fly-trap for any reader who happens to notice its existence.
Within this literary space anything is possible. Interpretations are potentially infinite. Like the physical universe, literary space, therefore, is expanding at an increasing rate. Writing breeds as it is fertilised through reading. It is not the gene that is selfish but the word that desires replication, translation, and re-definition.
Literary space is democratic in the same way that a dictionary is democratic. Individuals propose without constraint but only literary space disposes. This is the primary source of uncertainty. No one knows the physics of literary space. Its laws are its own, and hidden. Whenever these laws are in danger of being discovered, they change.
Religion is a small corner of literary space which is typically claimed by an authority which desires to limit local expansion and objects to incompleteness on principle. This sort of hubris has no effect on literary space but causes significant misery for readers and writers. The pen is not always mightier than the sword. But both are always subject to the dominance of literary space, and succumb to it eventually.
All activity inside literary space is useless. But it is where usefulness is defined. More to the point, it is where usefulness is re-defined, along with all other valuations. The revaluation of values occurs there more or less continuously in a way Nietzsche would approve, submitting himself to that very process. Since all authority relies on the stability of valuations to remain in power, there is a permanent tension between government - civil, social, religious, scientific, and institutional - and the activities of literary space.
Despite its density of population, literary space is a lonely place. Writing and reading are solitary activities. There is no consolation for this solitude except for the deeper penetration into literary space. Having entered into it, salvation is hopeless. Or rather, salvation is the very hopelessness of ever achieving a final understanding literary space. Incompleteness is our destiny, interrupted only by death. -
Even though this is a heartless and soulless book (mais sauve qui peut), it is a great summary of the postmodernist and woke philosophy of writing, for what it's worth, that thrives on our kids.
I have a love/hate relationship with Blanchot: he takes us to the brink of despair, yet never falls into it; he hopes against hopelessness for peace in his life; and he never gives up the struggle. But such is not ethical or reverent, but only woke, alas. He simply never shuts up.
I really like, however, the sense of incompleteness in this book on writing and writers. My friend Black Oxford is right in saying this book leaves us feeling incomplete, as our lives must necessarily always be. And yet, and yet. For isn't incompleteness the point at which God reaches down into the Dark Void - in the second Creation story of Genesis?
That was my overall impression after putting aside this author's amazing Writing Of The Disaster for a while, in favour of this book.
I say "putting aside" - for to me we are never "finished" with a Blanchot text. He demands constant rereading for his books to be seen as unfinished monuments to his perforce incomplete and often anguished memory. Incompleteness spells translucent Forgetfulness, and in Lost Memory we glimpse the sovereignty of God over our forgetful nonbeing. But to be woke is to will the loss of true hope.
So Disaster, I think, must be read alongside The Space of Literature.
But when he wrote this book, possibly because his writing has no heart, he was very fitfully asleep. And awakening is seeing the Terrible Face of God. Once you're awake, you see the combined Glory and Disaster of God. For He remains a Disaster for incomplete souls like Blanchot who have not yet awoken - and not a dispassionate one, either.
Look at it this way - no matter how we slice or dice up life it remains a duality, the two sides of which - the objective and the subjective sides - are very strange bedfellows, mutually exclusive and each continually vying to be top dog. We must bring their constant conflict to a boil.
So Space of Literature is top-dog transcendent and Disaster is low-dog immanent. Space takes the aphoristic aporias denoting the Primal Scream from Disaster and unobtrusively drapes the banal calico cloth of Time and Space overtop, blunting the screams and burying the pain in sheer tedium.
It's as if the author is finally exhaling in the former work. Space of Literature is a release. There is a some passive peace in seeing the equation represented by your life as a pure tautology. There are traces of meaning in nonbeing. But no firm foothold.
The conflictual world seeks value; the passive world seeks peace. But there is ultimately no rest in either attitude, if you're woke. Life is a dualistic thing. And there can be no letup until we are indifferent to our anxieties and inner conflicts. And outer events.
That, as Blanchot repeats, is patience. But Patience must not disown its heart.
Patience looks kindly on both defeat and victory. In the contentious weight of conflict - borne with patience - life is perennially reborn anew.
But for Blanchot, the important thing throughout is the patience of equanimity - the Stoic virtue of bearing up patiently through whatever circumstances life may deal you.
Anguish can be bleak, but the greater the inner conflict, the more easeful the release will be with patient equanimity carrying you through.
A rebirth in Grace, in spite of his naysaying, is ultimately a sharing in a universal release of isness. And it's wonderful. And eternally secure.
For me, personally, that is the meaning of the peace of our final years: for that is my final preference of the bland peace of a very ordinary sameness over the fractious combat of the workplace, if you will.
I'm now perfectly happy to blend in with the scenery rather than try to be a force to be reckoned with. The simple joys of life flow more freely now.
I am more ready - and thankfully, more likely - to be discounted as a harmless nonentity than to be discredited as anyone's pain in the posterior. Even to the woke.
With age comes easier acceptance of the ongoing battle, too.
Last night I had a happy dream about death. Oxymoronic, you say? Not at all - in fact, my state of nonexistence in the dream was infinitely encouraging. You see, my release into death's full stop was like an utter completion.
I think of Eliot’s poem The Dry Salvages, and I wonder whether these pessimistic woke writers will ever know such rest as I dreamt of:
We have to see them as forever bailing,
Perpetually setting and hauling, while the North East lowers…
Not as making a trip that will be unpayable
For a haul that will not bear examination.
We must suspend our judgement forever -
For whether these others remain here, in the Hope of Resurrection,
Or there, in the Hopelessness of an Empty Vacuum of Hell,
It’s none of our business.
For as Ezekiel says we can only prophecy to the wind -
For only the wind will listen. -
Tu traccia infinita!
“La terza persona significa che me stesso è divenuto nessuno, che gli altri sono divenuti altro, che là dove mi trovo non posso rivolgermi a me stesso e che chi si rivolge a me non può dire io e a sua volta è altro da sé”.
Ho letto questo libro con impegno e mi ha restituito un pensiero complesso e raffinato che non so se sia accessibile a una sintesi. Le posizioni politiche dell'autore sono difficili e insicure tanto quanto si rivela polivalente e antinomica la sua riflessione filosofica e letteraria. Cercando di entrare nel discorso del testo, il lettore si trova vicino a sé come parole familiari i versi di Rilke e Hölderlin, le speculazioni negative di Mallarmé e Nietzsche, la fenomenologia esistenziale di Kafka. Italo Calvino ricorda nel saggio L'ordinatore di desideri, contenuto in Una pietra sopra, l'opinione di Blanchot sulla felicità misurata, secondo la quale La misura è un'esigenza così smisurata che obbliga non solo tutto l'universo a modificarsi, ma non si contenta dell'universo e lo fa elemento d'un altro e così via, quasi senza fine, fino alla notte calma in cui tutto si ferma senza che nulla si disfaccia”. Così, è evidente come sia notturno il discorso di Blanchot, originato dalla notte primaria che è fonte di una notte altra. Stefano Agosti, in prefazione, nota con acutezza che questo testo è in stretto legame con le idee di Saussure e Lacan, specie per il concetto di vuoto, assenza, mancanza, dai quali lasciar discendere le elaborazioni sulla natura del segno linguistico e della parola, sulla relazione tra le cose e il linguaggio, nel dialogo tra potenzialità e oggettualità. Blanchot crede che l'opera d'arte, letteraria o in altra forma, tenda sempre a un vuoto dell'origine, sia in altri termini irraggiungibile persino alla scrittura, tormentata e sottomessa, perché si presenta come estraneità, incessante e intangibile. Questa caratteristica è condivisa in Blanchot dalla neutralità del testo artistico e dalla ineffabilità conoscitiva della morte come evento e come impossibilità. La morte è un aldilà che dobbiamo imparare a riconoscere e accogliere. L'arte e la sua tensione verso la morte tentano, dilatando l'io l'una verso l'altra, un'esposizione, un'incorporazione, una pienezza del vuoto, che naturalmente è destinata al fallimento, nella ricerca di una verità segreta sempre ineffabile e inconoscibile. Il poeta scava il verso e quindi deve disperare; lo scrittore appartiene a ciò che esiste prima dell'opera, a un'anteriorità che egli non può mai convertire in dimora. La solitudine essenziale dello scrittore si rivolge all'intimità con il tu del lettore, ricerca un movimento verso un oggetto (che è transizione), divenuto la sua ombra, rendendolo pura passività, laddove egli cerca di preservare, con una prensione persecutrice, quel che per lui non ha mai inizio, ed egli maledettamente ricomincia, volendo privare il linguaggio del mondo, del gigantesco mormorìo del mondo. Ovvero: Se voglio diventare l'eco, devo imporgli il silenzio. Errare è dunque il compito infinito dei soggetti della creazione letteraria, l'autore, il testo, il lettore, nella duplice accezione di movimento continuo ed errore, interruzione della pulsione alla verità; così nel mentre della ricerca, si crea quello che Blanchot definisce “lo spazio interiore del mondo”. La malinconia di Kafka si compone di luce spaventosa e attraente, perché lo inabissa; egli mette in narrazione l'impossibilità di non vedere, per lui scrivere è un'apertura su ciò che è, quando non c'è ancora un mondo. In ciò la letteratura manifesta una caratteristica unica, mettere in contatto con quel luogo impersonale e anonimo dove si invera la morte, quel nulla inafferrabile che non giunge mai, ma insieme la negazione possibile, la facoltà di morire. È così che Blanchot arriva a definire anche il suicidio; prendere una morte per l'altra, sostituire l'ombra di qualcosa di neutro, il rifiuto al mondo, con l'oscurità di una cessazione congiuntiva, spirituale e indicibile. ”Non mi allontano dagli uomini per vivere in pace, bensì per poter morire in pace”. Le cose hanno una profondità naturale che sfugge al possesso della lingua; le parole non sono materia di verità. Da una parte c'è il mondo concreto, senza di noi; dall'altra un mondo ideale, falso, portatore di illusione. In questo senso l'ambiguità si presenta nei suoi differenti livelli, tutto è parola ma la parola stessa è sparizione, dissoluzione, dissimulazione. Scrivere significa, sempre nel discorso letterario, trovare quel punto immaginario in cui nulla si rivela, non ci sia nulla che lavori dentro le parole. Rilke scrisse che “i versi non sono sentimenti, sono esperienze”. Siamo certi allora che la scrittura non appartenga al male, ci interroga Blanchot? Nessuno è sicuro di esistere né di morire e nessuno mette in dubbio la vita né la morte, ci nascondiamo dalla vita e dalla morte, nascondendoci in esse. È l'affermazione, l'appropriazione di Orfeo, l'oscura lotta per fuggire la necessità, l'indefinito, la negligenza. Scrive Blanchot che colui che viene raggiunto dall'invisibilità non è più l'io, è un altro, che la morte ha trascurato e rifiutato. In questa contraddizione identitaria sta la nostra sofferenza, e l'impazienza che riserviamo al dolore; è la nostra paura che crea quel che ci fa paura, lo spazio della fine è quel lato della vita che non è rivolto verso di noi. Non esiste un al di qua e un al di là, ma solo una grande unità, dove dimora la nostra esistenza, rendendo la nostra coscienza un ostacolo, perché in essa il nostro destino è essere sempre di fronte, presenze e separatezze simultanee. Ecco allora che lo spazio ci oltrepassa e traduce le cose, noi ci consumiamo felicemente nell'essere, continuando a muoverci, trasformarci, puro movimento, apprendiamo i dati dell'esistenza terrena e partecipiamo a significati superiori, in questa dualità subordinati e insubordinati, all'eternità e alla mortalità. Tutto risuona, tutto è nel ritmo. Il canto è assenza e presenza, è trasfigurazione, dice cose finite che escludano l'infinito, che siano opera del cuore, dove le cose si convertono, si fanno interiori. Attraverso il canto, il soggetto non pensa al mondo, è il mondo che pensa lui; scriveva Hofmannsthal che è compito del poeta ”non impedire a nulla l'accesso alla sua anima”. Attuale in questo il pensiero di Blanchot: il libro è intimità, ma oggi l'intimità è diventata una potenza esteriore; la psicoanalisi ci insegna che l'immagine sembra consegnarci profondamente a noi stessi; apparenza, appunto. Solide difese costruiamo contro il mondo superiore e così siamo vulnerabili ai rischi del mondo inferiore. La notte rinchiude nel canto quel che passa oltre il canto. Blanchot è convinto quindi che l'opera sia una via che conduce all'ispirazione, e, a differenza di Wittgenstein, crede che quel che non può essere detto, debba comunque farsi sentire. Tutto quel che è nascosto deve apparire. Bene, ho letto questo libro, e ancora rifletto sulle parole percorse: che ne è di un libro che non viene letto? È la leggerezza del lettore (ancora Calvino) a fare sì che l'opera diventi opera: il libro è uno spazio in cui niente ha ancora senso, è un'aperta violenza verso l'origine. Il lettore evocato scrive nell'autore; poetico vuol dire soggettivo, il testo ci rende deboli, ci annienta, designa una regione dove l'impossibilità non è più privazione ma affermazione, una regione dove possiamo vedere le cose nella loro trasparenza. E nel tempo dell'angoscia.
“”O, dimmi poeta, quel che fai. - Io celebro.
Ma il mortale è mostruoso,
come puoi sopportarlo, come puoi accoglierlo? - Io celebro.
Ma quel che non ha nome, l'anonimo,
come fai a invocarlo comunque? - Io celebro.
Donde trai il tuo diritto d'essere vero
in ogni costume, sotto ogni maschera? - Io celebro
E come possono il silenzio e il furore conoscerti,
così come la stella e la tempesta? - Perché io celebro”.
Rainer Maria Rilke, Per Leonie Zacharias, Poesie Sparse, 20 dicembre 1921 -
In order to balance out the seven Harry Potter books I have on my page, I realized that I should probably start giving myself credit for all the smart-person reading I've done. It's just...who wants to read a review of theory when they can read a review of Harry Potter...besides Erez?
So, Blanchot is the intersection of the soul into the academy. He is that space that allows for irresonsibility, for anxiety, for the honest shadow that says we only half-know what we are doing. His concept of "Fascination" has burned in my brain for seven years and inspired poems, an experiemental novel, short stories...and even a literary magazine.
He is easier to digest that Deleuze and Guattari and more poetic than Benjamin...although they do both share a wonderful mystisism.
Some day I'll go back to grad school and maybe then I'll study B-dog in a structure way. For now, I read him on my own term and am probably better for it. -
Anyone who writes or is interested in writing should read this work immediately. It shocks me how little Blanchot is known and discussed (even in academia(and especially outside of france)).
A figure of great thought and importance, dwelling on the margins of society (both physical and intellectual) -
'Ecrire, c'est disposer le langage sous la fascination et, par lui, en lui, demeurer en contact avec le milieu absolu, là où la chose redevient image, où l'image, d'allusion à une figure, devient allusion à ce qui est sans figure et, de forme dessinée sur l'absence, devient l'informe présence de cette absence, l'ouverture opaque et vide sur ce qui est quand il n'y a plus de monde, quand il n'y a pas encore de monde.'
Un livre magnifique sur l'art et le processus de sa création. -
Socrates, a man I deeply respect, hated sophists. But then again, he never read Blanchot.
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Art and Action (Political)
“Whoever acknowledges effective action in the thick of history as his essential tak cannot prefer artistic action. Art acts poorly and little. It is clear that if Marx had followed the dreams of his youth and written the most beautiful novels in the world, he would have enchanted the world, but he would not have shaken it.” (213)
This as opposed to a pre-enlightenment art which could participate in eternal or sacred time. Desacralized, art can only be utilitarian (part of the world of means and purposes) and in comparison to all other courses of action, pretty shitty at being utilitarian.
Usefulness in Refusal
And so art finds its place where “art withdraws into the most invisible and the most interior—into the empty point of existence where it shelters its sovereignty in refusal and the superabundance of refusal” (215).
In Glorifying the Self, Un-limiting the self, the Artist Affirms the Will, Power, and Useful Destiny of Man
“If he discloses the profundity of inner life, if he restores its richness, its free movement…the more this self becomes deep, insatiable, and empty, the more powerful is the advance of the human will, which already in the heart’s intimacy (but with a still unperceived intention) has posed the world as a set of objects that can be produced and are destined to usefulness” (217)
The Poem as Making then Casting Out Its Author
“Inspiration is not the gift of the poem to someone existing already, but the gift of existence to someone who does not yet exist” (227)
The poem “dispossesses” the poet who writes it. “The creator has no power over his work.”
The Space of the Poem. Poem as other.
What the work creates is “not another world, but the other of all worlds, that which is always other than the world” (228)
“Always it says, in one guise or another: beginning”
Art Without the Gods. Art in a desacralized world.
“What will become now of art, now that the gods and even their absence are gone, and now that man’s presence offers no support?” (233)
Art as repetition (and repetition aligned with failure)
“Beginning again, repetition, the fatal return—everything evoked by experiences where estrangement is allied with the strangely familiar, where the irremedial takes the form of an endless repetition, where the same is posed in the dizziness of redoubling, there is no cognition but only recognition.” (243)
Art and the beginning, alpha
“But where has art led us? To a time before the world, before the beginning.” (244). Utopia.
Language and the Absence of the Sacred – the loss of the evoking word
“It seems that art owes the strangest of torments and the very grave passion that animate it to the disappearance of the historical forms of the divine. Art was the language of the gods. The gods having disappeared, it became the language in which their disappearance was expressed, then the language in which this disappearance itself ceased to appear. This forgetfulness now speaks all alone.” (246)
“the double absence of the gods who are no longer and who are not yet. The poem’s space is entirely represented by this and, which indicates the double absence, the separation at its most tragic instant” (247) -
I am always reading this book...the writing of the "constellations of doubt" - writing as close as possible to the desire for language itself.
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challenging in more ways than one
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“The poet’s destiny is to expose himself to the force of the undetermined and to the pure violence of being from which nothing can be made, to endure this force courageously, but also to contain it by imposing upon it restraint and the perfection of a form.”
Blanchot's analysis heaves out a bittersweet sense of nothingness. Sometimes crossing the sharp outline of literary paradox he goes on to touch the infinite realm of man's existential relation with his act writing. Words,space,thoughts and language find their own innermost contraction and relief when Blanchot describes ambiguously the ambiguous role of art in our life,and even in our death. Most of time grazing the soul of Kafka and Rilke,he describes what we can call the impossibility of all our possibility or in some more refined words: writing as the art of dissolving. There are paradoxes whenever Blanchot wrote a line..the very act of his writing clearly shows how much he loved to play with paradox—the glimmering nothingness of our being. The opening chapter asserts the ‘solitude’ of the written work: To write is to break the bond that unites the word with myself. The work is even separate from the book, which we might see as a vessel borne on the surface of a submarine current: Writing is the interminable, the incessant. This means that the space of the title is not a privileged realm for a few “great writers”; it does not have borders or features with rules to be learned but is at a remove from such power. Mallarmé felt the very disquieting symptoms caused by the sole act of writing.
‘Blanchot cites Kafka’s comment that he has entered literature when he replaces ‘I’ with ‘He’, but adds that this metamorphosis is more profound: In doing this, the writer belongs to a language which no one speaks, which is addressed to no one, which has no center, and which reveals nothing. Mastery over words puts the writer in contact with a fundamental passivity that cannot be grasped: To write is to make oneself the echo of what cannot cease speaking. Instead, in a stirring paradox, mastery consists in the power to stop writing, to interrupt what is being written. This a curious formulation. When we admire the tone of a particular writer, he says, it is not the writer’s voice we admire but the intimacy of the silence he imposes on the word. -
2019 sudah hampir separuh berjalan. Belum ada satu pun buku yang selesai saya baca tahun ini. Di tahun lalu kira-kira saya hanya menamatkan sembilan atau sepuluh buku. Minat baca saya tidak berkurang, hanya rasanya membaca dan melihat-lihat timeline medsos lebih menghibur saat ini, alih-alih membaca buku. Agaknya tahun ini saya tidak akan menyelesaikan buku apa pun. Biarlah buku-buku yang sedang saya baca menjadi semacam unfinished business di hari-hari yang akan tiba.
Sekarang saya mengupdate goodreads ini di daftar panjang orang-orang yang membaca Blanchot. Saya tau Blanchot lewat tulisan Martin S. dan seketika itu langsung ingin tau lebih lanjut tentang filsuf satu ini. Beberapa bulan lalu saya iseng-iseng membaca tulisan Blanchot dan seketika itu langsung beliau masuk ke dalam daftar pendek kanditat filsuf yang akan saya gunakan sebagai pisau bedah di naskah skripsi saya, selain Giacomo Leopardi dan Emil Cioran. -
Moments of truly heady thinking on the psychology and metaphysical significance of the writerly impulse, a probing of act and being that feels philosophically profound without ringing true for most writers, in any event. Blanchot's analysis of Kafka, however, is exceptional and insightful. And there, I suggest, we stop our reading. Blanchot then turns full tilt into the role of death and suicide in the creative impulse, and he never lets go. It is at this moment in the work where one wonders if we are reflecting on writing or upon the writer's personal obsession. Where does this reflection leave us? Nowhere (in)definite, no where (en)lightening, and no where satiated.
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Very significant with regard to thoughts on Blasé or distinctions between words and things (See Foucault's _The Order of Things_.
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A ces jours, je n’ai jamais lu un livre de critique littéraire qui se soit inspiré de façon si profonde à l’existentialisme de Heidegger.
La poésie, c'est-à-dire l’art de créer à travers la langue, est en contact avec le néant, donc la mort. Mais, cela n’est pas une chose négative, parce que c’est dans le néant que le poète peut être libre. En effet, n’etant plus lié aux contraintes du réel, l’homme peut fonder son propre monde. En plus, dans le monde né de la reflexion de l’écrivain les objets sont montrés hors de leur sens utilitaire, pour devenir leur propre essence. L’objet, dans l’art, est sa propre essence, parce qu’il s’éloigne du réel.
La littérature est l’expérience de l’éternel commencement, parce que l’être lu est la finalité du texte et chaque lecture devient une nouvelle origine du sens contenu dans la langue du travail artistique. C’est pourquoi la poésie est à la fois un élément lié à la morte et, mais aussi un élément situé au-delà du temps : elle meurt à la fin de chaque lecture, mais une outre lecture est toujours possible. L’Object littéraire est éternel, mais son sens se renouvelle à chaque lecture. Donc, la fin du texte, son contact avec la mort, ouvre toutes les possibilités : la mort dit qu’il y a toujours la possibilité d’une négation, donc de pouvoir choisir entre la présence et l’absence. Sans la mort, il n’y a pas de choix : tout est sans fin, contraint à être uniquement sa propre essence.
Enfin, il y a toujours la nécessité d’un final : sans la fin, le texte ne peut pas rejoindre son sens plus propre. Tandis que la lecture n’est pas finie, le récit peut devenir ce que l’on veut : mais c’est le final qui dissipe chaque ambiguïté, parce qu’il dit comment les choses sont passé. -
Ainda que minha experiência lendo livros sobre teoria literária seja mediana, posso afirmar que O Espaço Literário é o mais distinto de quantos passaram pela minhas mãos. Imagine-se Clarice Lispector escrevendo uma obra de teoria literária? Pois bem, existe e se chama Maurice Blanchot.
Isto não é uma crítica, ainda que, em algumas ocasiões senti que o autor se recria em excesso para, às vezes, na minha opinião, só dar mais preciosismo ao texto. Contudo, falar de poesia e de literatura sem se valer de alguns recursos estilísticos próprios da lírica, é, em certa forma, justo.
Sendo assim, O Espaço Literário fala de morte, de inspiração, do processo de escrita, do leitor, da pouca importância que tem o autor na hora de interpretar a obra (segue a ideia inaugurada por Barthes e continuada por Foucault e Chartier), assim como temáticas típicas da crítica e teoria literária francesa, mas com um toque bastante interessante.
Então só me resta recomendá-lo àqueles estudantes de literatura que queiram se aprofundar nos estudos sobre poética, hermenêutica e semiótica. -
This is not a book about literature as much as about life's challenges: loneliness, death, artmaking, etc. Blanchot's thoughts are dense, rambling and not so clear but a good exercise for the mind. Some of the writers examined here include Kafka, Mallarmé, Dostoevsky, Rilke and Hölderlin.
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don't always agree w/ him.. but he is among the few that stirs me up
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Blanchot meditates on literature. How can one recount or say what it is about?
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Confuso no começo, esclarecedor no final.
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This book, The Space of Literature, did me the great favor of giving me insight into this book: On Wonderland & Waste, by Sandy Florian.
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http://www.bookcrossing.com/journal/1... -
A beautifully written analysis of the phenomenon that is so important to all of us here.
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Blanchot et moi: une nouvelle histoire d'amour!
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"Reading makes of the book what the sea and the wind make of objects fashioned by men: a smoother stone, a fragment fallen from the sky without a past, without a future, the sight of which silences questions. Reading gives to the book the abrupt existence which the statue "seems" to get from the chisel alone. From its reading the book acquires the isolation which witholds the statue from the eyes that see it - the haughty remove, the orphan wisdom which dismisses the sculptor along with the gaze wishing to sculpt it still. Somehow the book needs the reader in order to become a statue. It needs the reader if it is to declare itself a thing without an author and hence without a reader. It is not primarily a more human truth that reading brings to the book; but neither does reading make the book something inhuman - an "object," a pure compact presence, the fruit of the deep which our sun did not ripen. Reading simply "makes" the book, the work, become a work beyond the man who produced it, the experience that is expressed in it and even beyond all the artistic resources which tradition has made available. The singular property of reading demonstrates the singular sense of the verb "to make" in the expression "it makes the work become a work." The word make here does not designate a productive activity. Reading does not produce anything, does not add anything. It lets be what is. It is freedom: not the freedom that produces being or grasps it, but freedom that welcomes, consents, says yes, can say only yes, and, in the space opened by this yes, lets the work's overwhelming decisiveness affirm itself, lets be its affirmation that it is - and nothing more.:
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Leer a Blanchot no es fácil, más si delicioso. Muchos de sus apartes en este libro me resultaron caricias para mi ser. Su lenguaje merodea la ‘cosa’, se va acercando a la ‘cosa’, la acaricia, como el buen amante que va calentando el cuerpo del otre sin apuros, pero con un propósito, un tanto oculto, que avanza y se pliega para que une suplique por más. Blanchot es un delicioso amante del lenguaje. Su escritura es tal como su teorización sobre la obra literaria: inacción que profundiza en una acción no revelada, avance hacia la no-verdad es decir hacia el vacío esencial, hacia el origen imposible pero a su vez anhelado, la palabra en su potencia más errante porque nunca logra ser respuesta certera más sí es lugar seguro para la pregunta inagotable por nosotres, ahora que “los dioses nos han abandonado”. Todes quienes estamos sumidos en el goce de leer, para quienes están volcados a escribir, para quienes encontramos en el lenguaje ‘poético’ un lugar hermoso para estar en este mundo, seguro que este libro será una muy bella lectura. Leer a Blanchot es una experiencia altamente gozosa para los días de zozobra siempre que uno esté dispuesto a encararlos… eso si con gracia y dulzura.
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This is a challenging book. It has plenty of paradoxes, poetic constructions, contradictions, strange insights and emptiness. Sometimes it seems nothing is really being said. I really tried, but I could not feel synchronized with the style, I felt like a waste of my time. Clearly, it was written with passion and it should be valuable for those studying literature in a deeper level, specially for understanding influences on Derrida, Deleuze and Foucault. 2/5
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Lo he leído regular porque fue con un propósito específico (bibliografía TFG), pero se me hace tan brillante como complicado, para ser sincera.
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Figo. Anche se quanto mi ha fatto penare questo libro Dio solo lo sa
