Chthonic Restitutions: Madness and Oblivion
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Chthonic Restitutions: Madness and Oblivion Javier Berzal de Dios Abstract This essay theorizes madness as a chthonic emplacement to dishevel existentially insufcient and detached interpretations of disorder. Refecting on Nietzsche’s emphasis on poetry over systematic thought, I take up Lorca and Baudelaire’s visceral language on death and the earthly to revisit chthonic myths as expressing an underworld uncontrollable sphere beyond systematicity. Written from the phenomenologically precarious position of my own mental illness, this essay develops a sincere rhetoric to approach the chthonic from within rather than at sterilized distance. This positioning retains the indexicality of the intense and disorganized as a critical facet, in turn exploring the nuances of the experience without discursive reductions or romantic musings, from the ground down. Cassandra: ototototoi popoi da. – Aeschylus, Agamemnon 1072 Following the social turn of the 1960s, administrators and teachers of academic discourse began to replace “reason” and “rationality” with “critically,” or “critical thinking,” as their highest aim; however, the presumption of a rational subject remained stable. – Margaret Price, Mad at School 39 Am I mad now? In truth, the question of madness calls forth to a future memory: will I have been mad? Or really: how mad will I think I had been? Lucidity is anachronistic, an ex post facto verdict, casting out to madness what thought itself on mark… Madness itself voices the lan- guage of truth—this madness of mine—an eternally rational utterance, charts and graphs at hand. I picture philosophers terribly sane, so much they take for granted, so restrained and hygienic their connections… so reliable a language. Jacques Derrida thinks Michel Foucault imprecise, and argues that René Descartes actually gives weight to the possibility of madness when wondering if he may be possessed (Writing 56). And maybe Derrida is right, and Descartes asks in good faith. But does he understand what he is asking? © 2020 Johns Hopkins University Press and SubStance, Inc. SubStance #153, Vol. 49, no. 3, 2020 SubStance #153, Vol. 49, no. 3, 2020 3 4 Javier Berzal de Dios Nosotros ignoramos que el pensamiento tiene arrabales donde el flósofo es devorado por los chinos y las orugas [We ignore that thought has outskirt neighborhoods where the philosopher is devoured by Chinese men and caterpillars] (Lorca, “Panorama ciego de Nueva York,” Poet 66) 1 Am I mad now? The question of madness is ubiquitous, manda- tory—especially in writing, where one cannot even read the room. In face of the actual implications of the prospect, to cogitate oneself mad unearths a ravenous, autophagic rationality. How I wish to write about madness as judiciously as Descartes and Foucault and Derrida: the dis- playing of madness in an epistemic orrery—the becoming-concept of madness, whatever boundaries it may have, that can be charted or even rejected. “It is not a theme, a subject matter, but a word,” Shoshana Fel- man discloses, “I told myself that I had no idea, a priori, what ‘madness’ may be” (264). From this madness of mine (a priori flter of experience) to “madness,” the word: quotation marks’ shadow is almost cruciform, an expiatory denouement. How I wish to theorize madness and evalu- ate—that is value out (ex-, from/to the outside)—the likes of Foucault’s “mental illness and madness, merged with and mistaken for each other from the seventeenth century on, are now becoming separated under our very eyes or, rather, in our language” (“Madness” 293). A “madness” bereft of incessant ligatures—philosophers never get disoriented in the cave’s entrails, reminiscing about the days of sheltered shadow puppetry and secure shackling. No nos salvan las solitarias en los vidrios, ni los herbolarios donde el metafísico encuentra las otras vertientes del cielo. Son mentiras las formas. Sólo existe el círculo de bocas del oxigeno. Y la luna… [The tapeworms in the glass do not save us, nor the herbal shop where the metaphysician fnds the other sky slopes. The forms are lies. All that exists is the circle of mouths of the oxygen. And the moon…] (Lorca, “Luna y panorama de insectos,” Poet 116) But it is hospitium that is needed: xenia, not salvation. Hospitium, a tesserae that establishes a pact—concessit ut eodem iure… to speak, in madness, even… Cassandra’s “ototototoi,” the truest words I know. How raw madness is, how sincere and ante-sophisticated: afective, social, intersubjective… sincerity is “the intensities that circulate among subjects” (Alphen and Bal 5)… if allowed to, one may add—the mimesis of “composed” so exhausting. SubStance #153, Vol. 49, no. 3, 2020 SubStance #153, Vol. 49, no. 3, 2020 Chthonic Restitutions 5 So maybe Descartes is frank in pondering whether an evil genius or demon (genium malignum) has possessed his mind. Still, consider his reaction: he optimistically thinks he can do much to guard against the spirit, who “will be unable to impose on me in the slightest degree… But this is an arduous undertaking, and a kind of laziness brings me back to normal life” (19). Descartes envisions his demon a nuisance that goes away when you ignore it. A pet demon. Derrida imagines madness a silence approachable from fction alone, “the silence of madness is not said, can- not be said in the logos of this book, but is indirectly made present… in the pathos” (Writing 37). This is Descartes, too: only in fction a demon ceases to be mercurial; only in fction laziness generates its banishment. Do you know doubt, René? Could it be that your genius malignus was a protective genius loci? The author of Luke: the Devil takes Jesus to the pinnacle of the temple and says, “throw yourself from here.” Now, that sounds more like a demon to me. Am I mad now? Doubt implies distance from chthonic points of no return, those most stable deterritorializations of a black hole. We must ingrain doubt (ingrain, from en graine, a red dye made with crushed insects, a most chthonic material) while having some type of faith in the self—that is, faith that there is a self around the ofal sinkhole. From here, peak mo- ments of rationality are most suspect: a fatal spiraling rationality armed with nothing but logic and irrefutable evidence, that’s the danger. We must doubt, always. But doubt is a double-edged, self-opening spatiality where chthonic emplacements also materialize—or better, dematerialize—the further you run from them... Los insectos, los muertos diminutos por las riberas. Dolor en longitud… [The insects, The tiny dead by the shores. Pain in longitude…] (Lorca, “Luna y panorama de insectos,” Poet 116) Amidst recrudescing chthonic sieges, how sweet the prospect of a Cartesian “I” seems, how desirable. It may be easier to follow Blaise Pas- cal and doubt everything to the point of unburdening: “I do not know… what the world is, nor what I myself am. I am in terrible ignorance of everything. I do not know what my body is, nor my senses, nor my soul” (218). It is from Pascal that we get to Louis Aragon’s “I no longer wish to refrain from the errors of my fngers, the errors of my eyes,” errors that lead to “admirable gardens of absurd beliefs, forebodings, obses- sions and frenzies” (10). And yet, we cannot imagine Persephone happy amidst volcanic intimacies, to borrow Lorca’s words. Even in the middle SubStance #153, Vol. 49, no. 3, 2020 SubStance #153, Vol. 49, no. 3, 2020 6 Javier Berzal de Dios of summer: twilight breeze lacerations, fallen buttons invoking ennosigaios (earth-shaker) Poseidon… Madness—this madness of mine—an excess of language, an excess of rationality. Where can I fnd, enjoy really, this “fundamental absence of language,” Foucault writes about? (Madness 286). Claudia Crawford rightly responds: “Madness rages around us and in us day and night. We hear it in the hushed growth of a blade of grass… Madness is not silent… I think, rather, that our philosophers lack ears” (19). This restless flter-projector of meaning, a relentless montage ap- paratus, conceptual heir to Sergei Eisenstein imposing a reiterative past. “Never believe that a smooth space will sufce to save us” (Deleuze and Guattari 500); indeed, smooth spaces generate the most intense striations. The interviewer asks, “How do you see the threat of madness that has afected you?” Hélène Cixous’s answer invokes the chthonic depths: I hurry and fee when I see it again: there’s nothing more terrifying. Madness and terror are the same thing. It’s as if I lost sight of the reason for living. Why live? Life then appears to be on the threshold of death. It’s a temptation that happens when death, in its endless fght with the angel, gets the better of life. Then one drops the key to life. It is a fall, terrifying. It is a hole dug into the self, but which is, in general, caused by an accident. I am not speaking of the madness that condemns one to the asylum… I am speaking here of what touch us [frôler] and resolve itself in attenuated forms… But when it comes down upon you, you lose control.” (29) A chthonic, intimate frôlement—the madness that brushes against you, that touches you with familiarity in the most unexpected moments. Chthonic glimpses on a sunny spring day—I know I should be happy, I know—a thought crossing Persephone’s mind that cannot be shaken. Not a brush- ing aside that puts you on the verge, but a touch made possible because the volcanic edge is at arm’s distance. Grounding, a sinkhole in waiting. In the chthonic depths, nothing is made of stars, just volcanic shadows.