A Lesson in Linguistics from Heinrich von Ofterdingen

»Die Sprache«, sagte Heinrich, »ist wirklich eine kleine Welt in Zeichen und Tönen. Wie der Mensch sie beherrscht, so möchte er gern die große Welt beherrschen, und sich frei darin ausdrücken können. Und eben in dieser Freude, das, was außer der Welt ist, in ihr zu offenbaren, das tun zu können, was eigentlich der ursprüngliche Trieb unsers Daseins ist, liegt der Ursprung der Poesie.«

                                                                                  --Novalis, Heinrich von Ofterdingen

A lesson in linguistics from Heinrich von Ofterdingen.  Poetic language not only allows us to describe reality, but also to create reality.  Poetic language surpasses logical language by not only making possible the description of concepts, people, and things—as well as revealing the relationships between them—but by also allowing those descriptions and relations to become infinitely malleable, infinitely configurable, like musical notes.  Poetic language allows the impossible to be possible and, even more importantly, grants the possibility of independence from so-called “reality” itself (so-called because our understanding of “reality” is limited in so many ways).  Yielding to the possibility does not mean choosing falsity over truth, but rather, represents the opening of a door to different levels of truth.  Poetic language also allows for the translation of those truths into apprehensible meaning, as it is capable of genuinely expressing what is inexpressible in ordinary language.

Swami Vivekananda, January 12, 1863—July 4, 1902

That is the one cause of misery: we are attached, we are being caught. Therefore, says the Gita: Work constantly; work, but be not attached; be not caught. Reserve unto yourself the power of detaching yourself from everything, however beloved, however much the soul might yearn for it, however great the pangs of misery you feel if you were going to leave it; still, reserve the power of leaving it whenever you want. The weak have no place here, in this life or in any other life. Weakness leads to slavery. Weakness leads to all kinds of misery, physical and mental. Weakness is death. There are hundreds of thousands of microbes surrounding us, but they cannot harm us unless we become weak, until the body is ready and predisposed to receive them. There may be a million microbes of misery floating about us. Never mind! They dare not approach us, they have no power to get a hold on us, until the mind is weakened. This is the great fact: strength is life, weakness is death. Strength is felicity, life eternal, immortal; weakness is constant strain and misery: weakness is death.

                                                                                              —Swami Vivekananda

Handouts

 Les Saints donnent l’Aumône, les Bourgeois seuls font la Charité.

                                               --Léon Bloy, Exégèse des Lieux Communs (nouvelle série)

I remember when our kids were in Head Start—and how it entitled them to a series of rather random charitable giveways.  One of them was a free jacket, courtesy of “Operation Noel,” a charity drive sponsored by one of the local television stations.  The jackets were cheaply made, not really warm at all, and worst of all, they were all the same garish color and design.  That meant wearing one was like wearing a scarlet ‘A’.  You were immediately identified as a “poor kid.”  Needless to say, you never saw a child wearing one at Head Start, or later at our kids’ elementary school, but that wasn’t the strangest part.  What was really weird was that you never saw them in any of the local thrift stores, either.  I really have no idea how, year after year, those tons of shoddy coats, including the ones given to our children, just disappeared.

     Another freebee they were entitled to was a ticket to a toy giveaway held before Christmas every year.  Unlike the jacket giveaway, participation was voluntary.  The toys were of pretty poor quality, but were good as “supplementary toys,” especially as our kids were still small and not particularly discerning.  The giveaway was held at a local Boy’s Club and involved my wife or I standing in line outside for a couple of hours in the cold.  (I remember that a friend of my wife was visiting one year and seemed a little shocked by the wait.  And she was living in Nicaragua just after the revolution.)  For some reason, enormous quantities of two toys kept showing up at the giveaway every year: plastic batmobiles, and pillows crudely printed with Hulk Hogan and other professional wrestlers.  There were also bikes, but when we asked if our kids could have one of them, we were told that they were for “other kids.”

     “However, we do have these lovely Hulk Hogan pillows . . .”

It is by Loving, and Not by Being Loved

It was evening. The sun was below the horizon; but his rosy beams yet illuminated a feathery cloud, that floated high above the world. I arose, I reached the cloud; and, throwing myself upon it, floated with it in sight of the sinking sun. He sank, and the cloud grew gray; but the grayness touched not my heart. It carried its rose-hue within; for now I could love without needing to be loved again. The moon came gliding up with all the past in her wan face. She changed my couch into a ghostly pallor, and threw all the earth below as to the bottom of a pale sea of dreams. But she could not make me sad. I knew now, that it is by loving, and not by being loved, that one can come nearest the soul of another; yea, that, where two love, it is the loving of each other, and not the being loved by each other, that originates and perfects and assures their blessedness. I knew that love gives to him that loveth, power over any soul beloved, even if that soul know him not, bringing him inwardly close to that spirit; a power that cannot be but for good; for in proportion as selfishness intrudes, the love ceases, and the power which springs therefrom dies. Yet all love will, one day, meet with its return. All true love will, one day, behold its own image in the eyes of the beloved, and be humbly glad.

                                                                                                     --Phantastes, George Macdonald