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Ode to Man
Tho’ many are the terrors,
not one more terrible than man goes.
This one beyond the grizzled sea
in winter storming to the south
He crosses, all-engulfed,
cutting through, up from under swells.
& of the gods She the Eldest, Earth
un-withering, un-toiling, is worn down,
As the Twisting Plough’s year
into Twisting Plough’s year,
Through the breeding of horse, he turns.
& the lighthearted race of birds
all-snaring he drives them
& savage beasts, their clan, & of the sea,
marine in kind
With tightly-wound meshes spun
from all-seeing is Man.
Yet too, he masters by means of pastoral
beast, mountain-trodding,
The unruly-maned horse holding fast,
‘round the neck yoked,
& the mountain’s
ceaseless bull.
& the voice & wind-fast thought
& the passion for civic ways
He has taught, so from crag’s poor court
from under the ether’s hard-tossed arrows
To flee, this all-crossing one. Blocked, he comes
upon nothing so fated.
From Hades alone escape he’ll not bring.
Tho’ from sickness impossible
Flight he has pondered.
A skilled one, devising of arts beyond hope,
Holding at times an evil,
But then to the noble he crawls,
honoring the laws of the Earth, &
Of gods the oath so just,
high-citied.
Citiless is the one who with the un-beautiful
dwells, boldly in grace.
Never for me a hearth-mate
may he have been, never equal in mind
He who offers this.
Ode to Man
A BwO is made in such a way that it can be occupied, populated only by intensities. Only intensities pass and circulate. Still, the BwO is not a scene, a place, or even a support upon which something comes to pass. It has nothing to do with phantasy, there is nothing to interpret. The BwO causes intensities to pass; it produces and distributes them in a spatium that is itself intensive, lacking extension. It is not space, nor is it in space; it is matter that occupies space to a given degree—to the degree corresponding to
the intensities produced. It is nonstratified, unformed, intense matter, the matrix of intensity, intensity = 0; but there is nothing negative about that zero, there are no negative or opposite intensities. Matter equals energy. Production of the real as an intensive magnitude starting at zero. That is why we treat the BwO as the full egg before the extension of the organism and the organization of the organs, before the formation of the strata; as the intense egg defined by axes and vectors, gradients and thresholds, by dynamic tendencies involving energy transformation and kinematic movements involving group displacement, by migrations: all independent
of accessory forms because the organs appear and function here only as pure intensities. The organ changes when it crosses a threshold, when it
changes gradient. "No organ is constant as regards either function or position, . . . sex organs sprout anywhere,... rectums open, defecate and close, . . . the entire organism changes color and consistency in split-second adjustments." The tantric egg. After all, is not Spinoza's Ethics the great book of the BwO?
Ode to Man
But human power is extremely limited, and is infinitely surpassed by the power of external causes; we have not, therefore, an absolute power of shaping to our use those things which are without us. Nevertheless, we shall bear with an equal mind all that happens to us in contravention to the claims of our own advantage, so long as we are conscious, that we have done our duty, and that the power which we possess is not sufficient to enable us to protect ourselves completely; remembering that we are a part of universal nature, and that we follow her order. If we have a clear and distinct understanding of this, that part of our nature which is defined by intelligence, in other words the better part of ourselves, will assuredly acquiesce in what befalls us, and in such acquiescence will endeavour to persist. For, in so far as we are intelligent beings, we cannot desire anything save that which is necessary, nor yield absolute acquiescence to anything, save to that which is true: wherefore, in so far as we have a right understanding of these things, the endeavour of the better part of ourselves is in harmony with the order of nature as a whole.





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kvond: what a lovely meditation on the roundtable discussion that concluded the “Glossing is Glorious” conference; this gives me much food for thought, and as an avid gardener, too, I really appreciated the idea of text as a garden. It was fun for me, personally, to “be” David Greetham; I actually liked his comments the best, and not just because I was speaking them. Cheers.
EJ,
I would say that your “be” confuses me, but then that would put a negative connotation on it. (I was never sure who was speaking, when.) I’ll let it lay in the ungardened.
I liked all the commentators, for their own sharpeness of mind, the third of which seemed the most playful and thought provoking. The Derridean though made me cringe, not because what she had to say wasn’t of some interest, but it was “unwilling”.
I’m glad that the notion of text as Gardener had some resonance for you, especially as a gardener yourself. I it something I would love to see developed, perhaps you could write something on it if it germinates. I think I had in mind a line from the Eumenides, where Athena invokes something of a “gardener’s justice”, often taken to mean somethng like “killing off (weeds) is necessary for gardens” (wait, let me look it up)…:
…In a sunny breath approach the land;
καρπόν τε γαίας καὶ βοτῶν ἐπίρρυτον
And fruits of earth and herds astream
ἀστοῖσιν εὐθενοῦτα μὴ κάμνειν χρόνῳ,
With citizens prospering to tire not in time,
καὶ τῶν βροτείων σπερμάτων σωτηρίαν.
And that the mortal seeds are saved.
τῶν εὐσεβούντων δ’ ἐκφορωτέρα πέλοις.
Of the pious tho’ bearing out more, come.
στέργω γάρ, ἀνδρὸς φιτυποίμενος δίκην,
For I cherish, with a vinemaker’s justice,
τὸ τῶν δικαίων τῶνδ’ ἀπένθητον γένος.
These just one’s griefless race.
τοιαῦτα σοὔστι τῶν ἀρειφάτων δ’ ἐγὼ
Such is of the Ares-slain, tho’ I
πρεπτῶν ἀγώνων οὐκ ἀνέξομαι τὸ μὴ οὐ
Of the Bright Fight will not endure it nea not
τήνδ’ ἀστύνικον ἐν βροτοῖς τιμᾶν πόλιν.
Honoring this victorytown with men.
(This was my experimental translation). I always felt that the usual phrase “a gardener’s justice” held too skewed a meaning, and sensed that Athena was thinking more of a “vinemaker” wherein the “justice” of the slain was not only that of clearing the land for growth, but also the way in which vines are cut off (Ares-slain) and planted in the earth to grow anew. In this way, commentary perhaps forms a kind of growing of the vineyard.
At least that was the impetus of the thought, though I think much more it is that it is part of the small “ecosystem” of a garden, the full-rhythms and pollinations.
kvond: the passage from Eumenides [one of my all-time favorite works] is lovely. When I said it was fun to “be” David Greetham, what I meant was: he could not make it to the conference, so I read his remarks. I completely share your reaction, by the way, to the Derridean’s comments [somehow, their "spirit" was way off, and to be frank, she was bit mean to some who asked her questions; oh well]. I love the idea of commentary as the growing of the vineyard [which includes clearing, of course, but also this wonderful tendril-like growth].
Ah. I should have listened closer, as I was only using the recording as a kind of sub/conscious communication. Yes, I recall in particular the harrowing adventure of one of the audience questioner who was rather harassed into confessing an apparently disqualifying Habermas influence.
If David was not there, then who was it (male) that said the wonderful line about “dialectically” that I mentioned?
In short, we’re not allowed to say these things generally, but the Derridean [I love that we're calling her that] was a bitch: ungracious and unkind. I think that was me, *as* David, that said that line about “dialectically.” I have a deep voice.
How interesting that that was a “read” line. You read quite well. But perhaps that explains a certain condensed quality of the thoughts, a crispness of intellectual force.Written and considered, but still performed.
The Derridean reminded me very much of a Wittgensteinian I had studied under (sigh). I think sometimes it is very hard to – once having emmersed yourself into School of Thought that was all-the-rage at a certain point in history, and having the privilege of having come very close to the “Master,” (in Derrida’s case, a chance even of sleeping with the Master) – very hard to let go of this special sphere, and to continue learning. It probably is intimidating to be surrounded by others that may not share your once-dominant conceptual jargon. I have empathy, but not sympathy.