My Nodebook for December

for Ihab Hassan 1 Closing the door is supposed to open some inward source—as with, for example, the prayer- closet: the text says go in and “shut thy door.” It's a stroke of luck when traditional wisdom so matches the turning of the season. 2 I've ofen thought of writing a poem of grotesque length (an epic, yes) and setting the entire argument the instant after Gautama's enlightenment, while it seemed to him he would pass directly into Nirvana, while the powers of good trembled thinking man was lost. It was only an instant, because of course the Buddha reconsidered. 3 Bulls for the bull-fight must (this is absolutely essential) be innocent. The very brightest are certainly, by human standards, stupid, but after a few fights the dullest among them would learn not to charge an empty cape but turn and massacre the fancy-pants who dances there for a bloody crowd. But, as Hemingway noted, the bull never survives. I can't, myself, get excited about “life and death, i.e., violent death,” and have never been able to work up much sympathy for the brute who runs with his head down or for the show-off, who has it coming. I'll probably never develop a taste for battle or get seven novels written or kill myself. 4 History is hard for me. I’ve no sense for it. 5 The world—and if ever there was a self-evident proposition, here it is—the world is a big fish. I've caught it in my net. And now, long into the winter nights, wearily, I study my net. The fish stinks. 6 A friend talks passionately in favor of silence. I listen to him. He says, “Silence dissolves the categories” and “Silence renews the potential of consciousness.” And it strikes me that I should say something. But I've never been able to argue. And whenever there’s been a choice between speaking and keeping still, I’ve kept my mouth shut. Well, usually. And only after a certain amount of prodding I’ve produced the necessary conventional sounds, feeling the thread of words I spew inordinately fragile, certainly nothing to depend on. Whereas the craw of silence is vast and, anyway, already has us—it’s the scorching sunlight of a Nilescape or the wind across the Great Plains, burying us. Friend, waist deep in dust or sand, maybe we’d contrive a gesture. 7 I passed the peak of my energy at the age of—it's hard to believe— twelve. Since then, little by little, I've collected the furniture of my house. I teach meanwhile, and I study, but no one knows my specialty. 8 XMAS [after Pessoa] A God is born. Some other Gods die. Truth has neither come nor gone, only the Error has changed. We have now another Eternity, and the world is no better off than it was. Blind Knowing plows a sterile plain Lunatic Faith lives a dream of worship. A new God is nothing but a word. Seek not. Nor believe. All is occult. 9 Time is molecular—so much for Zeno—and each moment brings everything out of nothing. In the beginning (each beginning) the universe is only a point—no dimension—and then it’s a world, for a moment, and each moment is apocalypse.Continuous creation it used to be called, and now we say expanding universe because (I forgot to say) each moment is more. Whatever else it may be, it's always more. No wonder the poet cries “Oh,Oh,” or, on a higher level, lyrical verses. But don’t worry. I’m not violent. We all live in a residue of bright pulsations, a gob of time, an after-image. 10 How naive can you get?—I was wondering, when the Great Year comes around to this point again and the next me sits signing his poems Keith Waldrop, will he remember back across the void of Decembers to where I drift into these speculations? And a moment’s thought answers my stupid question: I remember nothing. 11 When I think of the books you could fill with what I don’t know,oof. The pressing need’s for a phenomenology of ignorance. Everything has horizons, and they’re not just out of sight, they loom. Yes, and they beckon. An open door is plain and simple, like a wall. A closed door is an invitation. But if the knob is turning . . . ? Well, I’m closing in, or opening up. I’ve been so bloody finicky the mysteries catch me sometimes with my lids down. But I’m preparing. I need many voices for my revenge.