Для чего нам русский язык?

Многие студенты нашего университета изучают иностранные языки. Некоторые из них увлекаются соответствующими культурами и их искусством. Другие заботятся о своём будущем, представляя себе, что знание стратегический важных языков пригодится когда наступит время продавать себя на рынке рабочих мест. Это всё весьма логично, но в обоих этих сценариях, сам язык служит лишь свойством для достижение кокой-то цели. Не кажется ли вам, ребята, что такое отношение не очень благодарное?

При током отношении к языку, мы что-то теряем. Ведь язык – это не просто способ коммуникации мыслей, а скорее, это то, из чего наши мысли состоят. Мысли не передвигаются в языке. Они из него сделаны. И поскольку наши мысли только существуют благодаря тому языку в котором они рождаются, содержание и форма тех же мыслей зависят тоже от него. В этом смысле, каждый язык уникален, и мысли выраженные в одном языке не могут существовать в другом. Всё это значит, что каждый язык, на котором мы умеем говорить, дает нам возможность мыслить по новому.

Конечно, «я голоден», «I am hungry», и «ich habe Hunger» выражают одну и ту же идею. С другой стороны, я сейчас оставлю вас с двумя предложениями написанными Иссаком Бабелем в рассказе «Переход через Збруч». Попробуйте перевести их:

Оранжевое солнце катится по небу, как отрубленная голова, нежный свет загорается в ущельях туч, штандарты заката веют над нашими головами. Запах вчерашней крови и убитых лошадей каплет в вечернюю прохладу.

Apologies to anglophone readers.

The Adorno Monument in Frankfurt

The best mode of conduct, in face of all this, still seems an uncommitted, suspended one: to lead a private life, as far as the social order and one's own needs will tolerate nothing else, but not to attach weight to it as something still socially substantial and individually appropriate -Minima Moralia, p. 39

Tragic Pessimism

There is nothing innocuous left. The little pleasures, expressions of life that seemed exempt from the responsibility of thought, not only have an element of defiant silliness, of callous refusal to see, but directly serve their diametrical opposite. Even the blossoming tree lies the moment its bloom is seen without the shadow of terror; even the innocent 'How lovely!' becomes an excuse for an existence outrageously unlovely, and there is no longer beauty or consolation except in the gaze falling on horror, withstanding it, and in unalleviated consciousness of negativity holding fast to the possibility of what is better [. . .] It is the sufferings of men that should be shared; the smallest step towards their pleasures is one towards the hardening of their pains.

-Theodor W. Adorno, Minima Moralia, trans. Edmund Jephcott, pp. 25-26

There is something profoundly heroic in the refusal to be reconciled, in the insistence that one be allowed to remain inconsolable in the face of unspeakable horror. But the question that has been occupying me recently is whether this stance leaves any room for praxis, for emancipatory struggle. I fear that Adorno's stance is mere (if such a thing can be mere) dignified dying.

Insolubility

What does one do when confronted with a problem which brooks no response? Cope? But coping is absurd. If I cannot respond to a problem with praxis, or at least with the possibility of praxis, then it returns to face me with my own impotence in tow.

One of the lesser-known Freudian defense mechanisms is called intellectualization. I have relied heavily on it, as I continue to do now.

Fuck you, philosophy. You cannot offer me consolation now.

Herbsttag

Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren laß die Winde los.

Befiehl den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gieb ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte süße in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

-Ranier Maria Rilke, 1902

Carnival

I am amazed at the orgiastic outpouring of popular sentiment that is taking place outside my window. Who could imagine that our indifferent, distracted, hopelessly self-absorbed young people could care about something as abstract as politics? But that is just the issue - how is it possible to care this much about the victory of one candidate over another when the actual differences between them are so slight?

Doubtless, it is good that Obama has become the president of the United States. The alternative was far worse, and perhaps he really will infuse some remnant of youthful (since when is one young at 47?) idealism into American politics. But all the same, what explains this "shrieking into the heart of the night" that I have just heard outside my window? Surely it is not the shriek of implacable life, rending apart the bonds of all lifelessness and annihilating the dead world's blind resistance, as in Rilke's letter?

No, the title of my post is misleading: this eruption of mass feeling is utterly monological. There is no equivocation, no sideward glances, no travesty, no duality of creation and destruction. It is as if scripted - the mass voicing, on cue, of the masses' support of the status quo; the cathartic release of formerly undirected energy in a form perfectly safe from censure. This transgression is allowed, and we can transgress with a good conscience. That is, after all, the problem with Bakhtin's carnival. The authorities allowed the stupid peasants to have their fun a few times a year because the moment of anarchy merely perpetuated the permanent rule of king and pope.

In the Wake of a Long Absence

Can it really be that I have not written anything in this space in nearly three months? The state-dependence of memory never ceases to amaze me. A return to a place from which one has been absent is also a return to the time at which one saw that place last. In an instant, three months vanish, and I find myself in the same place. But where was I on the 9th of August? My imagination fails to construct a location in time, and I realize the falsehood of my impression. It was only a brief moment of nostalgia. In a 21-year-old life, three months cannot simply be ignored.

I've read a great many things in these last three months, although there always remains an element of doubt regarding the benefit of much of that reading. I fear that most of what I imagine is the benefit of reading a difficult book is merely the aesthetic experience of reading a difficult book. Even if an essay by Benjamin seems fascinating and provocative, I find it impossible to summarize it or even comment on it articulately to a friend. What did I gain from reading it? Some secret insight to which I will only be granted access later? Perhaps I will have an idea at some point in the future, and at that moment I will suddenly understand the essay "On Language as Such and the Language of Man?" - The thought working retroactively to make my memory of Benjamin's essay far richer and more significant.

I have to admit that it's happened before. It's an experience that has made me reflect on the nature of understanding - on the difference between understanding the semantic content of the words, clauses, and sentences that one has read and the greater meaning - implicit, holistic, ghostly in the way that it exists above and between the words - the meaning that strikes one in a moment of insight, sometimes months after putting down the text. If I try to remember the content of Beyond Good and Evil, nothing comes forth from the inscrutable, formless structure of my memory. But then I read a passage in Heidegger that denies our agency in the origination of thoughts, and I immediately recall the similar idea in Nietzsche. It's a hopeful thought - and I am wont to cling to any believable hopeful thought that - that nothing is ever actually lost in our memories.

But the two preceding paragraphs were utterly tangential, and so they owe their survival only to my permissiveness towards my proclivity for digressions. I am twenty-one years old - this is a fact which my conscience will not allow me to escape during my flights into abstraction and theory. There is a temporal core to truth, say Horkheimer and Adorno, and I agree with them totally (the time for that truth has not passed). This applies not only to epochs, but to individuals as well. Everything I write and everything I think is colored by my context. Nietzsche reminds us that every work of philosophy rests upon the psychology of its writer (usually a lonely, eccentric bachelor), and that all ethical systems aim for the legitimation of the ethicist's prejudices. To recall my earlier remark, then: when we cite individuals to quote "their" ideas - despite our skepticism towards outmoded Romantic notions of genius (that is, the ability to think in a way radically different from one's cultural and chronological compatriots) - all we are doing is uniting an idea presumably created by the discourse of many people with each other (even if that discourse coalesces inside an individual's head) with the prejudices and weaknesses of an individual author (but those are also not just his own - there is a temporal core to pathology as well).

The preceding was an appallingly byzantine sentence. I apologize to anyone who tries to parse it. I experience the desire to add footnotes to this entry, which suggests that academic stylistics are taking over my informal style, which I had thought impervious to the depredations of the Modern Language Association and the like. But I'm not going to pontificate on the stiltedness of academic prose or anything of the sort. One should consider one's critiques in context. It is all-too-easy to join in with a mob venting its bile at a target far less guilty than it presently seems. As a general ethical attitude, I should, with a few necessary exceptions, avoid condemning what is already commonly condemned. - This not to be contrary, but to discourage myself from joining into those terrible feedback loops in which one feels both righteous and comfortable in attacking someone/thing from within a mob. This is why, living in the United States, I tend to argue for Russia's perspective in discussions of geopolitics. There is, of course, not a little emotional attachment to the mythical lost garden of my childhood mixed into that as well, but I think that my rationalization, however divergent from my personal realities, is a useful ethical consideration.

If philosophers can shape profound ideas out of their longings and privations, then why can't I attempt something of the same - albeit more consciously. That an idea is borne in deception, or even that it is false as regards its explicit object, is not enough to invalidate it for other applications.

I will return now to the issue of my age, if only out of formal considerations. Why is it that I continue to think, despite knowing better, that loving someone confers a debt upon that person? The answer, I think, is that this applies validly to considerations of other "positive" relationships. In committing an act of kindness (permit me to rehabilitate the word commit), one is within one's rights to expect gratitude. If I want to become friends with someone, it is perfectly reasonable to expect that person to want to become friends with me. After all, I would not choose a totally incompatible person for friendship, and most people are only happy to make another friend. Romantic feelings are obviously different. Not only are they exclusive, but they are also not unequivocally positive, although they stubbornly continue to seem that way.

Thoughts on this issue continue to follow an economic logic: if I invest energy in having "positive" feelings for λ, then shouldn't I expect something in return - the other end of the transaction? But "positive" feelings are incommensurable. Although I can expect a person to be nicer to me because I have advanced the offer of friendship, I cannot do the same following an offer of romantic attachment. In fact, I can expect to be rather rudely spurned, or ignored, or, perhaps, laughed at.

Most people are perfectly willing to be friends with their inferiors (my fellow students do not seem to fear any effect on their reputation by taking on unflattering friends - perhaps because of the meaninglessness of most friendships). A lover, however, has to be good enough. If it is the comparative insignificance of gratitude or friendliness compared to the commitment involved in even the typically abortive romantic relationship, then I have found the answer to my question, and I must admit that any fool could have told me that. Indeed, this is a perfectly adequate answer, if not a satisfying one. Loving does not entitle one to recompense, either from the object of love or from the universe as a whole. Put frankly, no one gives a fuck. Unrequited love is an absurd screaming into a vacuum.


And so we seek the consolation of philosophy.