Fark Yaraları = Scars of Différance: Lyotard - Lessons on the Analytic of the Sublime

Friday, May 9, 2008

Lyotard - Lessons on the Analytic of the Sublime

Lessons on the Analytic of the Sublime
(Meridian: Crossing Aesthetics)
by Jean-Francois Lyotard

# Paperback: 264 pages
# Publisher: Stanford University Press; 1 edition (March 1, 1994)

Over the past decade, radical questioning of the grounds of Western epistemology has revealed that some antinomies of the aesthetic experience can be viewed as a general, yet necessarily open, model for human understanding. This book is a rigorous explication de texte of a central text for this thesis, Kant’s Analytic of the Sublime.

mink

No comments:

Channel Crossing - Sylvia Plath

On storm-struck deck, wind sirens caterwaul;
With each tilt, shock and shudder, our blunt ship
Cleaves forward into fury; dark as anger,
Waves wallop, assaulting the stubborn hull.
Flayed by spray, we take the challenge up,
Grip the rail, squint ahead, and wonder how much longer

Such force can last; but beyond, the neutral view
Shows, rank on rank, the hungry seas advancing.
Below, rocked havoc-sick, voyagers lie
Retching in bright orange basins; a refugee
Sprawls, hunched in black, among baggage, wincing
Under the strict mask of his agony.

Far from the sweet stench of that perilous air
In which our comrades are betrayed, we freeze
And marvel at the smashing nonchalance
Of nature : what better way to test taut fiber
Than against this onslaught, these casual blasts of ice
That wrestle with us like angels; the mere chance

Of making harbor through this racketing flux
Taunts us to valor. Blue sailors sang that our journey
Would be full of sun, white gulls, and water drenched
With radiance, peacock-colored; instead, bleak rocks
Jutted early to mark our going, while sky
Curded over with clouds and chalk cliffs blanched

In sullen light of the inauspicious day.
Now, free, by hazard's quirk, from the common ill
Knocking our brothers down, we strike a stance
Most mock-heroic, to cloak our waking awe
At this rare rumpus which no man can control :
Meek and proud both fall; stark violence

Lays all walls waste; private estates are torn,
Ransacked in the public eye. We forsake
Our lone luck now, compelled by bond, by blood,
To keep some unsaid pact; perhaps concern
Is helpless here, quite extra, yet we must make
The gesture, bend and hold the prone man's head.

And so we sail toward cities, streets and homes
Of other men, where statues celebrate
Brave acts played out in peace, in war; all dangers
End : green shores appear; we assume our names,
Our luggage, as docks halt our brief epic; no debt
Survives arrival; we walk the plank with strangers.

"I’ll never paint again. Because it’s of no use to anyone... I shall offer the Lord a vow of silence." Andrei Rublev

" The thinking of the truth of Being has its basic character in that silence which lets concealment expressly be concealment.thinking does not discuss one thing in order to be silent about what one in a strict manner cannot discuss; rather, its silence is eloquent, its discourse is silent; that is, it gives revealment back to concealment. silence is a making sielnt of concealment as the msytery which shelters everything. the "logic" of the the thinking of the truth of Being is making silent, "Sigetics" [Sigetik]. "silence is the prudent lawfullness of making silent. silence is the logic of philosophy in sofar as it asks the basic question from another beginning. It seeks the the truth of the essencing of Being [Seyn]-and this truth is the beckoning-suggestive concealment (the mystery) of the appropriative event [Ereignis]" (Beitrage; cf. also Nietszche 1, 471f). " Otto Pöggeler, Martin Heidegger's path of thinking; mütercim: daniel magurshak & sigmund barber, NJ: Humanities Press Intl.

Fark Yaraları = Scars of Différance

easy find:

mehâsinu'l asar ve hakaiku'l ahbâr

Hyperion's Joy!

Writing of the Disaster

buyur burdan yak

touch

Bilim Bilenle Bilinir

Friday, May 9, 2008

Lyotard - Lessons on the Analytic of the Sublime

No comments:

Channel Crossing - Sylvia Plath