Heidegger on Holderlin- Part I

 Holderlin's ' "Homecoming/And the kindred ones' invokes Alpine scenery to describe a rapturous homecoming down the mountains to one's home in a little island town on a beautiful lake. It begins with a 'cloud composing poetry full of joy' and ends with the singer himself who must take much care with his art though those he has returned to need not bother. Part of that careful Art has to do with converse with the 'Blissful god rejoicing' on high, who 'seems inclined to create joy', sending true good fortune to towns and houses. This is done through knowledge of creatures as well as skill in measure- in other words, the poet is like God when his care is to endow joy- more particularly in the context of returning home to one's kindred.

What does Heidegger make of this simple and heartfelt poem?

those who "have cares in the fatherland" are not yet ready to receive the homeland's very own peculiar character, "the German," as their own possession. Therefore what constitutes the homecoming is that the countrymen must first become at home in the still withheld essence of their homeland—indeed; even prior to this, that the "dear ones" at home must first learn how to become at home. For this it is necessary to know in advance what is the homeland's own specific nature and what is best in it. But how should we ever find this, unless a seeker is there for us, and the sought-for essence of the homeland shows itself to him?

This is nonsense. God does the needful at the appointed time and in the proper measure.  When he renews the seasons, the creative one, refreshes And seizes the silent hearts of aging men, And works down to the depths, and opens and brightens up, As he loves to do, and now once again a life begins, Grace blooms, as once, and present spirit comes, And a joyous courage spreads its wings once more.
The poet speaks with God, asking grace for his loved ones and his fatherland because that is what poets do. It is their special care.
Much I spoke to him, for whatever poets meditate Or sing", it mostly concerns the angels and him; Much I asked for, for love of the fatherland, lest Unbidden one day the spirit might suddenly fall upon us; Much also for you, who have cares in the fatherland, To whom holy thanks, smiling, brings the fugitives, Countrymen! for you, meanwhile the lake rocked me, And the boatman sat calmly and praised the journey.
No doubt, there are Kings or even just Heads of households who 'have cares in the fatherland' but they are of a different sort from the cares of the poet. Running the economy of Lindau represents one type of labor. Finding beautiful words to praise it requires a different type of worry and preoccupation. Holderlin effectively showcases Lindau as a gateway along a beautiful and romantic trade route of great antiquity. But he also speaks of sharing what he has learnt of God with the stay-at-home Mother.
. O voice of the town, of my mother! O you touch me, you stir up what I learned long ago! Yet they are still the same! Still the sun and joy blossom for you, 0 you dearest ones! And almost more brightly in your eyes than before. Yes! Old things are still the same! They thrive and ripen, yet nothing Which lives and loves there abandons its faithfulness. But the best, the real find, which lies beneath the rainbow Of holy peace, is reserved for young and old. 1 talk like a fool. It is joy. Yet tomorrow and in the future When we go outside and look at the living fields, Beneath the tree's blossoms, in the holidays of spring, Much shall I talk and hope with you about this, dear ones! Much have I heard about the great father and have Long kept silent about him, who refreshes wandering time In the heights above, and reigns over mountain ranges, Who will soon grant us heavenly gifts and call For brighter song and send many good spirits. 

The poet, looking forward to the joyful family supper, is humbled by the imitatio Dei of his own calling- When we bless the meal, whom shall I name and when we Rest from the life of day, tell me, how shall I give thanks? Shall I name the high one then? A god does not love what is unfitting, To grasp him, our joy is almost too small. Often we must be silent; holy names are lacking, Hearts beat and yet talk holds back?
But these are the small cares of the poet. We know he will give joy. Yet it is delightful that, like his kindred, he is abashed by the thought of what a great joy it is that he imparts and he but a humble vessel. This is a reverse theodicy. Human joy- even such joy as characterizes a humble homecoming- is so great it justifies Man's creation of Gods with such profound depths that, of such overbrimming joy that is poured out, nothing goes to waste.

Heidegger takes a very different view. He does not see a poet doing what poets do- viz. attribute their own actions to what they observe- e.g. seeing a cloud as composing joyful poetry-

Within the Alps it is still bright night and the cloud,

Composing poems full of joy, covers the yawning valley within.

Instead he sees something stupid and pedantic which he put there himself. 

Joyfulness is composed into a poem.

No it isn't. Where in the world will you find a poem which has the property of making you joyful at the very moment you observe your Mommy or your Baby dying in horrible pain?
We are dealing with a poetic conceit- that is all.

The joyful is tuned by joy into joy.

No. Bullshit is tuned into bullshit by bullshit on Wednesday afternoons between 2 and 4 p.m in the Old Lecture Hall during this semester.

In this way it is what is rejoiced in, and equally what rejoices. And this again can bring joy to others. So the joyful is at the same time that which brings joy. The cloud "within the Alps" drifts upward toward the "silvery heights." It opens itself up to the lofty brightness of the heavens, while at the same time it "covers" "the yawning valley." The cloud lets itself be seen from the open brightness. The cloud composes poetry.

Why? Fuck is wrong with it? Why not compose music or do Trigonometry or write some worthless pseudo Mystic shite?

Because it looks straight into that which gazes upon it in return, its poem is not idly invented or contrived.

Which great poem was composed while 'looking straight into that which gazes upon it in return'? None I know of. Love poems call to mind the beloved. No lover ever said 'hold still dear. Look directly at me while I compose a poem about how sexy you are.' That's not how romance works.

To compose is to find.

No. It is to compose. Did Heidegger never lose his keys or his spectacles? Fuck was his major malfunction?

Accordingly, the cloud must reach out beyond itself toward something other than itself.

But composing a poem does not involve finding anything. It is merely '...Nature to advantage dress'd. What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd; Something whose truth convinced at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind
So, in the opinion of a genuine poet- one whom Kant knew long passages of by heart- there is no seeking anterior to the 'finding'. The thing is simultaneous. No 'chorismos' obtains.

It does not generate the theme of its poem.

But only because clouds don't actually generate poems either.

The theme does not come out of the cloud.

It came out of a pedant's pedantic brain.

It comes over the cloud, as something that the cloud awaits.

But that's not what Holderlin said. Heidegger is composing his own poem about a cloud which wants to be a poet but can't coz of Existentialism or because Germans haven't yet grasped their historic destiny or some other such shite. It then decides to switch to basket-weaving as its Major. But, basket-weaving is over-subscribed.

The cloud waits in an open brightness that gladdens the waiting. The cloud is cheered in this gladness. What it composes, the joyful, is gaiety. We also call it the cheerful, but from now on we have to use this word in a strict sense: what has been cleared and brightened up. What has been cleared in this way has had a space freely made for it, illuminated and put in order.

Husserl started off as the protege of a quite good Mathematician. Everyone was talking about Hilbert Spaces and Banach spaces and Finsler spaces and so Phenomenology got stuck with the idea that Spaces are real important. To this day, cretins talk of creating a space for some shite or the other. But absent topological 'holes' or unless an 'inner product' is lacking, Spaces don't matter. We can just collapse them back into a time series.

Look at the following shite-

Only gaiety, that which has been cleared and brightened up in this
manner, is able to place everything in its proper place.

Fuck off! When was the last time 'gaiety' occurred after 'clearing and brightening and putting everything in its proper place'? On the contrary, plenty of gaiety occurs when a mess is made and everybody ends up wearing each other's underwear.

The joyful has its being in the gaiety that brightens.

No. The joyful has its being in being very very fucking happy. Mary Poppins may be very gay as the darts around the place brightening things and the kids may say 'that was fun', but fun is not joyfulness.

But gaiety itself appears only in that which gives joy, that which delights.

No. Gaiety may contribute to the feeling that one is having a good time. It may distract one from worries. But joyfulness is something qualitatively different. We can imagine Churchill being entertained by the spontaneous gaiety of a witty young debutante. For a moment he forgets his cares and worries. But he is only joyful when he hears that Heidegger's Fuhrer has been annihilated.

Gaiety is not joy. The Angels- the word means messenger in Greek- bring tidings of joy. They don't foster gaiety or mirth or recreation.

Heidegger, stupid pedant that he is, has convinced himself that first you have to have gay angels, then a space is decluttered, then joy occurs. Sadness is verboten! It is your duty to be joyful for- Kraft durch Freude- Strength comes through Joy. Then that Strength should be used to fuck up everybody else's happiness.

 Those who offer the greeting of gaiety are the messengers, the "angels." That is why the poet, while greeting what is joyful in the homeland and comes to meet him, invokes in "Homecoming" the "angels of the house" and the "angels of the year."

One's little town may not afford much in the way of gaiety. Mum and Dad may not exactly rival the Algonquin Club in their wit. But there is joy in coming home. Not gaiety. Joy.

 Here "the house" means the space opened up for a people as a place in which they can be "at home," and thereby fulfill their proper destiny.

Well, we know what the proper destiny for Germany turned out to be. Nothing wrong with gemutlich comforts and kissing Mum and hugging Dad and playing with Rover and then going across town to see big Sister who, joy beyond joy!, has a little baby. What's more her husband turns out to be a thoroughly decent fellow who lends you a couple of quid to get in a round.

This space is bestowed by the inviolate earth.

No it isn't. The earth does not care who resides where. It is not the case that an earthquake is bound to swallow up the armies of a foreign invader.

The earth houses the peoples in their historical space.

No. People build houses on the Earth. History is a time series, not a space.

The earth brightens up "the house." Thus the brightening earth is the first angel "of the house

Wow! Heidegger didn't know that it is the Sun that 'brightens' the Earth. He thought it lights itself up so as to enable its tenants to get to work coz Arbeit macht Frei right?

The truth is quite different. Everybody knows Mummy is the first angel of the house. Except Mummy who thinks it is Baby. This is a delicious disputation with tidings of comfort and joy for all who call it to mind though wearily trudging towards a home which is where but night falls on the path.