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Clothes and Cognitions {December 6, 2010 , 10:35 PM} Traveling abroad (in the Continental style) seems to me a decent method to reduce oneself to an essential shape, or something close to it. To remove those things that constitute routine life; to whittle reality down to one's clothes and cognitions.
For this reason, I have a serious bone to pick with my temporal ancestor, Brendan of Saturday, December 4th 2010, who had no inclination to stop and consider the dragging, hoisting, slinging and grunting that his progeny would suffer due to this irresponsible move. I worry that the situation will reach an impasse. Eventually I may rid myself of the monster slug and buy a more manageable piece of luggage in which I will compress all these belongings. The train rides—first from Oxford to London and then from London to Brussels—have begged for the accompaniment of Brahms's organ works, and I've obliged. Every so often I do hear some sort of awful clacking noise emanating from my iPod and that makes me think it's been infiltrated by a cockroach. Traveling whittles you down. The idea that life is some kind of vague, ill-advised expedition becomes more apparent. Around my arrival in Brussels I began to feel this.
In his Theory of the Novel Georg Lukács tries to get at the essential differences between the epic hero and the modern hero. One figure proves the totality of the world while the other despairs at its endlessness. The Greek hero vs. the tragic hero. Claiming vs. seeking. Ulysses vs. Hamlet. While I don't have my copy handy (one of the few volumes Brendan of Dec. 4 didn't choke his bags with), I can call to mind Luckás's observation that the epic hero doesn't know the tragedy of seeking his soul, or the potential horror of finding it. This is the terrain of the modern hero. When traveling, that potential can increase dramatically. Here, I'm not on any assignment, so there's no boon to achieve. What I'm left with is a very sprawling, merciless reality that nevertheless demands my participation. I'm no Ulysses. I'm no Achilles. (The heavy bags give me a shot at being Sisyphus, but even the Greeks thought he was a bit of a div.) Belgium isn't a terrible place to risk the 'horror of finding.' Every place smells at least faintly delicious, and Bruges, the Venice of the North, has much over its southern model, according to my friend Robyn. Today I was denied access to the top of the Belfry but was allowed into the Chapel of the Holy Blood. I couldn't stick around for the ceremony in which Christ's blood, contained in a vial, is removed from hiding and placed upon a regal pillow; I was able to admire the much more captivating trappings of the Chapel that have been with us since the aftermath of the French Revolution. (Photos of all this should be available soon.) But soon we move on to Prague. And then Berlin. I'm not sure how the change of scenery will impact my sense of Lukács's expedition. If I had my own guess at what we, the modern heroes, are looking for, it believe it would be something found in the imagination of the young Stephen Dedalus: He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. He did not know where to seek it or how, but a premonition which led him on told him that this image would, without any overt act of his, encounter him. They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst, perhaps at one of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness he would be transfigured. He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then, in a moment, he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment.That sounds about right. ----------
Socra-teases. Socrates's.
http://ngc.dukejournals.org/cgi/content/abstract/37/3_111/97
B, I lost this one months ago. I am simply reiterating your victory.
Statements like that are why this site was drawn up.
I'm sure.
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