To whom is the word addressed?
Giorgio Agamben,
Quodlibet, August 23, 2022
In any epoch, poets, philosophers and prophets lamented and denounced without reservation the vices and shortcomings of their time. However, they who thus groaned and blamed, did address themselves to their fellows and spoke in the name of something common or at least shareable. It has been said, in this sense, that poets and philosophers always spoke in the name of an absent people. Absent in the sense of being missing, of something that was missed and was therefore somehow still present. Albeit in this negative and purely ideal mode, their words still supposed an addressee.
Today, perhaps for the first time, poets and philosophers speak — if they speak — without having any possible addressee in mind. The philosopher’s traditional extraneousness to the world in which he lives has changed its sense, it is no longer just isolation or persecution by hostile or enemy forces. The word must now deal with an absence of addressee that is not episodic but constitutive, so to say. It has neither destination nor destiny. This can also be expressed by saying, as many do, that humanity — or at least its wealthier and more powerful part — has come to the end of its history and that therefore the very idea of transmitting and passing on something no longer makes any sense. When
Averroes in 12th century Andalusia claimed that the purpose of thought is not to communicate with others, but to join in the single intellect, he took it, however, for granted that the human species were eternal. We are the first generation of modernity for which this certainty has been revoked into doubt, for which, indeed, it appears probable that the human genre — at least what we meant by this name — could cease to exist.
If, however — as I am doing right now — we continue to write, we cannot but ask ourselves what may be a word that in no case will be shared and heard by others, we cannot escape this extreme test of our condition as writers in a condition of absolute non-belonging. Of course the poet has always been alone with his language, but this language was by definition shared, which is no longer so obvious to us now. In any event, it is the very meaning of what we do that is being transformed, perhaps it has already been completely transmuted. But this means the we have to rethink our mandate in the word over again — in a word that no longer has an addressee, which no longer knows to whom it is addressed. The word becomes here similar to a letter which was sent back to the sender because the addressee is unknown. And we cannot reject it, we must hold it in our hands, perhaps because we, ourselves, are that addressee unknown.
Some years ago, an English-language magazine asked me to answer the question “To whom is poetry addressed”. I give here the Italian text
(*), still unpublished.
To whom is poetry addressed?
It is only possible to answer this question if one understands that the addressee of poetry is not a real person, but an exigency.
This exigency does not coincide with any of the modal categories with which we are familiar: the object of an exigency is neither necessary nor contingent, neither possible nor impossible .
Rather, it will be said, that one thing demands another, when, if the first thing is, the other too will be, without the first thing’s either logically implying the second or forcing it to exist on the level of facts. It is, simply, beyond any necessity and beyond any possibility. Like a promise that can be fulfilled only by the one who receives it.
Benjamin wrote that the life of Prince Myshkin demands to remain unforgettable, even if everyone forgets it. In the same way, a poem needs to be read, even if no one reads it.
This can also be expressed by saying that, insofar as it demands to be read, poetry must remain illegible. Properly speaking, there is no reader of poetry.
This is perhaps what César Vallejo, has in mind when, upon defining the ultimate intention and the dedication of all his poetry, he found no other words but por el analfabeto a quien escribo
. Just do consider the apparently redundant formulation: “for the illiterate person, to whom I write”. Here Por
means less “to” than “in place of”, just as Primo Levi said he was bearing witness for — that is, “in place of” — those called “Muslims” in the jargon of Auschwitz, who could not in any case have borne witness. The true addressee of poetry is the one who is not able to read it. But this also means that the book, which is destined to the one who cannot read it — the illiterate — has been written with a hand that, in a way, does not know how to write — an illiterate hand. Poetry gives all writing back to the illegible from which it comes and towards which it keeps on travelling.
(*) A chi si rivolge la poesia?
È possibile rispondere a questa domanda, solo se si comprende che il destinatario di una poesia non è una persona reale, ma un’esigenza.
L’esigenza non coincide con nessuna delle categorie modali che ci sono familiari: ciò che è oggetto di un’esigenza non è né necessario né contingente, né possibile né impossibile.
Si dirà, piuttosto, che una cosa ne esige un’altra, quando, se la prima è, anche l’altra sarà, senza che la prima la implichi logicamente né la obblighi a esistere sul piano dei fatti. Essa è, semplicemente, al di là di ogni necessità e di ogni possibilità. Come una promessa che può essere adempiuta soltanto da colui che la riceve.
Benjamin ha scritto che la vita del principe Myškin esige di restare indimenticabile, quand’anche tutti l’avessero dimenticata. Allo stesso modo, una poesia esige di essere letta, anche se nessuno la legge.
Ciò si può anche esprimere dicendo che, in quanto esige di essere letta, la poesia deve restare illeggibile, che non vi è propriamente un lettore della poesia.
È quello che aveva forse in mente César Vallejo, quando, per definire l’intenzione ultima e quasi la dedica di tutta la sua poesia, non trovava altre parole che por el analfabeto a quien escribo. Si consideri la formulazione apparentemente ridondante: “per l’analfabeta a cui scrivo”. Por non vale qui tanto “a”, quanto “al suo posto”, come Primo Levi diceva di testimoniare per — cioè “in luogo di” — quelli che nel gergo di Auschwitz si chiamavano i “musulmani”, cioè coloro che in nessun caso avrebbero potuto testimoniare. Il vero destinatario della poesia è colui che non è in grado di leggerla. Ma ciò significa anche che il libro, che è destinato a colui che non può leggerlo — l’analfabeta — è stato scritto con una mano che, in un certo senso, non sa scrivere, con una mano analfabeta. La poesia restituisce ogni scrittura all’illeggibile da cui proviene e verso cui si mantiene in viaggio.
(English translation by I, Robot)
.jpg)
.jpg)
