In whose words language breathes

I felt defenseless in a thoroughly inspiring way when I read this post:


It takes me back to my former somewhat delirious fascination with Heidegger, and yet, and perhaps this is what a homecoming feels like after a long difficult attempt to mature into a self-image I always wanted to become, it touches me in a way that I felt I am killing him wrongly.

This Heidegger, the equivalent of an obsession that never has once faltered even as I take shelter in newfound theories announcing the truths of the times–truths that announce their breaks with the past, with master frames like his–despite my attempts to renounce the youth that he claimed;

Least to say, its propensity for abyssal thinking, no less its desire to mimic his voice, his enviable life of contemplation, at the expense of ignoring the disturbances of history in whose belly his name resonates in echoes of praise and contempt;

Seemingly this Heidegger–this flicker of a shadow that refuses to be outshone by anyone who takes advantage of the ‘unvoiced’ that only the dead have the right to consign to anywhere but the living tongue, just so to protect the tranquility of their unrepeatable echoes, the utter contingency of their rhythms,  the way they threw themselves into the pit of becoming without guarantee of rescue–even now wishes to see that “the greatest danger” lies behind him.

Like Zarathustra he envisions the poetic nobility of “listening to the promise,” the promise of the destining of Being without history to tamper with its path.

But, as he once rued in light of Holderlin, “Hard it is, For what dwells near the origin, to leave its place”

(from Heidegger’s translation of Holderlin’s Die Wanderung).


Of the gravest danger I can say, it is the earth like the dead leaving its place to us.


As I complete this post Jeremy Schmidt made me feel like he never wanted me to recover from Steven’s fascinating post. See

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