[I presented this text
as part of a lecture in the first week of my upper-level undergraduate course
on “Denatured Reading,” taking a cue from – among many others – Graham Harman’s claim that “[n]ature
is not natural and can never be naturalized.” What kind of writing do such
claims ask for?]
I’m looking for a way
to frame a set of concerns for this class, to
trace some kind of conceptual architecture. By beginning with what must seem
like arbitrarily compiling a handful of poems—some from writers on the course
syllabus, some not—I haven’t made it too easy to see anything like a focus, and
the syllabus itself, revised from an earlier version of the course, still
appears to me a bit cobbled and unkempt—heterotopic, perhaps, to borrow a term
from the introduction to Michel Foucault’s The
Order of Things, an
idea he develops from reading Jorge Luis Borges. Maybe this amorphousness,
this assemblage, is appropriate to the course, too, given the unruliness of the
subject matter—the decomposition of contemporary concepts of the natural—and
its attendant image-pool—flotsam, junkyards, scrapheaps, wastelands, yardsales,
edgelands, cyborgs, plastics, stuff. But I still feel like I need to offer you,
and myself, some means of holding the material together, some imperative that
drives me, and you along with me, through this slice of the contemporary, of
the work of those who live with us, now.
I need, I think, to pose a question—and what comes to mind is a question posed
a good seventy years ago, but which has a way of lingering, of insinuating
itself into our present.
Ventriloquizing
a key half-line from Friedrich
Hölderlin’s 1801 elegy “Brod und Wein,”
a disgraced Martin
Heidegger asks, in 1946, “und wozu
Dichter in dürftiger Zeit?”—"and what are poets for in a destitute
time?" or “and why poets in [a] paltry time?” Following on the material
and cultural desolation of Western Europe in the aftermath of the Second World
War, Heidegger inclines toward a version of the religiosity of the late and
last Romantics, linking Hölderlin to Rainer Maria
Rilke’s orphic vestiges, to discover some remainder of a saving grace for
humanity, some reason for our collective persistence as a species, some scrap
of holiness:
To be a poet in a
destitute time means: to attend, singing, to the trace of the fugitive gods.
This is why the poet in the time of the world's night utters the holy.
Theodor
Adorno notoriously excoriates this poetical onto-theology as barbaric,
consigning the lyric—except, perhaps, that it makes room in these latter days
for the voices of suffering—to bathos and redaction. Even if we remain justly
suspicious of Heidegger’s cult of Being, it feels too desolate, too hopeless,
to abandon altogether the poetic imperative he articulates. At least, it does
to me. How can writing, poetic or otherwise, still manage somehow to face the
hard fact of our looming destitution, the tenor of our catastrophic times, what
Maurice Blanchot names our “disaster”? “We
others,” Heidegger continues, by which he seems to me to mean we readers, “must
learn to listen to what these poets say.” Poetry, in our time, emerges around
the recalibration of attention. We have missed hearing something, have been
less than perfect listeners, poor students. Hölderlin’s poetry, though a bit
dire and over-serious, presents an imperative to attend to what persists and
insists beyond its human limits: “But there would be, and there is, the sole
necessity, by thinking our way soberly into what his poetry says, to come to
learn what is unspoken.” Poetry, in fits and starts, still gestures sometimes
toward a refiguration of the encounter with the non-human world, the obscurity
into which those fugitive gods appear to have retreated, and is still impelled
by creative effort. Hölderlin’s adjective dürftiger—needy,
meager, scanty, sparse, paltry, destitute—has at its root the verb dürfen—can or may—which suggests both
capacity and possibility, a trace of this ontological imperative. When I
quoted, a little abruptly last class, a line from Isabelle Stengers’s In Catastrophic Times remarking on “the felt necessity of
trying to listen to that which insists, obscurely,” it was with an eye (and
an ear) toward framing this poetic imperative. Following James Lovelock, Stengers names “that
which insists” Gaia, the inhuman earth, and argues that if we mean to resist
barbarism (deriving for her more from Rosa Luxemburg’s critique of capitalism
than from Adorno), we need to try—notice how qualified her imperative
remains—to think creatively and experimentally, and I would say poetically
around and with this imperative. Pervasive anxieties these days around climate
change, displaced populations, pharmacology, genomic modification and other environmental
and biological incursions of human progress have become shared hallmarks of our
human condition. Biotechnologies both reactivate and intensify an unease around
what feels like an unspoken and unspeakable ontological threat. What poetry,
what creative writing, might be for in our times is to broach the question of
how to voice what’s unspeakable, to begin, again, to trace the boundaries, the
contact zones, the edges, the membranes between humanity and its others,
between the made and the given, between the natural and the denatured.
The
philosopher Alain
Badiou declared in a fairly recent interview that "[i]t must be clearly affirmed that humanity is an animal species
that attempts to overcome its animality, a natural set that attempts to
denaturalise itself." Badiou is not only reframing an enlightenment rationalism
embedded in myths of human progress—what remains to us today, maybe, of liberal
humanism—but also pointing up an irony inherent in deep ecology and human
concern with the environment: an untenable separation of the human and the
non-human in the guise of the “natural.”
Just yesterday, an article in The
Guardian reiterated that human technologies have fundamentally altered the
geological record, that we have inscribed ourselves into the planet such that
we have ashifted the narrative of the history of being itself, and hardly for
the better. The anthropocene has arrived. “The history of life on earth,” Rachel Carson
writes in Silent Spring (1962),
“has been a history of interaction between living things and their
surroundings,” but those interactions, particularly from the human side of
things, have been characterized not so much by reciprocity as by
“irrecoverable” contamination. The three poets we have touched on so far
address this contamination, directly. Tom Raworth’s “Beautiful
Habit” concatenates the fragmented discursive remainders of those contaminants,
and attempts to siphon some form of last-ditch, vestigial beauty from them, the
leftover possibility of close listening: “it’s us / or rust / listener.” Paul Farley, by
contrast, calls the creative intellect’s bluff, shuffling through the greasy,
porous surfaces of man-made objects—a deck of cards, a microwave—trying to make
contact with the nothingness—the withdrawn guarantees of meaning or of
surety—behind his own crafted and crafty words, his tells and his tellings. Kathleen
Jamie wants to attend to the “seed-small notes” along a remote shoreline
scattered with natural detritus, to begin to listen to what’s left to her brief
attention.
