Memoir of a Friend: LOUIS MASSIGNON by Herbert Mason
DUQUESNE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
MEMOIR OF A FRIEND
BOOKS BY HERBERT MASON
A Legend of
Alexander and The Merchant and the Parrot, Dramatic Poems
The Death of al-Hallaj, a Dramatic
Narrative
Gilgamesh, a Verse Narrative
Summer Light, a Novel
Moments in Passage, a Memoir
The Passion of
al-Hallaj by Louis Massignon, 4 vols, (translator)
Two Statesmen of
Mediaeval Islam, a Study
Reflections on the Middle
East Crisis (editor)
LOUIS
MASSIGNON
University
of Notre Dame Press
Notre Dame, Indiana
Copyright © 1988 by
Herbert Mason
All Rights Reserved
Quotations from letters
of Thomas Merton to the author
are used with the permission of the Merton Legacy Trust.
Library of Congress
Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Mason, Herbert, 1932-
Memoir of a
friend, Louis Massignon.
Includes
bibliographical references.
1. Massignon,
Louis, 1883-1962.
2.
Orientalists-France-Biography. 3. Mason, Herbert, 1932- -Diaries. 4. Scholars,
Muslim—France-Biography. 5. Orientalists— United States —Diaries I. Title.
In appreciation of John D. Barrett,
Jr.
1905-1981,
whose devotion to Louis
Massignon and
determination to publish his La Passion d'al-Hallaj
made possible the transmission of his thought
and work in America.
CONTENTS
Foreword 1
Part One: Massignon, an Introduction with
Commentary on His Major Themes and
Thought 5
Foreword to
Part Two 55
Part Two:
Diary, 1959-1960 57
Afterword 169
FOREWORD
The two years of 1959 and
I960, when I knew Louis Massignon on an almost daily basis, were my most attentive,
impressionable, and receptive years. A year before, in 1958, at the age of
twenty-six, I had converted formally to Roman Catholicism from the
Episcopalianism of my family heritage; never before or since have I been so
open to new people and new ideas. Our meeting and ensuing friendship, which
continued through letters until his death, October 31, 1962, and to the
present day through my work of translation of his magnum opus, La Passion
d'al-Hallaj, and my own writing on themes of mutual interest, nevertheless
served no useful purpose in an ordinary mundane sense. Our association led to
no job and promised no rewards. In a truly Taoist sense it was outside the
realm of usefulness.
Louis Massignon, however,
was not esoteric or ethereal and bore no aura of the mystical or magical guru
about him. To those who knew him at his height he was an august, disciplined,
and intense scholar of the Collège de France. Even though he had retired by the
time I met him, I had been apprised of his distinguished position
‘Published as The
Passion of al-Hallaj in the Bollingen Series, Princeton University Press, 4
vols., 1982.
in French learning and
warned by a few friends of his power to influence and possess. But I had no
intention of studying any of the fields of his expertise and no qualifications
for doing so had the intent been there. I was protected, I believed, by a
mixture of ignorance and lack of fear at my vulnerability.
Recently, after reviewing for the first time the
diary I kept of the years 1958 through 1968, when I began to edit and translate
his great work on al-Hallaj, I realized the kind of learning I gained from
those two years of our meetings and friendship. What emerged primarily is an informal
portrait of the teacher himself.
Since the present book is in one sense a dialogue
between Louis Massignon and myself, it may be appropriate to digress for a
moment to introduce myself. I was born in 1932 in Wilmington, Delaware, of
parents of some artistic and religious temperament but whose occupations —
both my father's and, following his death, my mother's — were that of paper
manufacturer, mill owner, in a word, business. I was the younger of two
children. My sister is an artist and book illustrator. The scenery of our childhood
was principally that of Maryland's Eastern Shore. Our property included an old
riverboat docking point jutting out into the convergence of the Choptank and
Tuckahoe Rivers. The scenery was alive with many species of animals, birds,
flowers, trees, sunsets, and always the rivers. Because of my early experience
and parental tutelage I was at home in the world of nature, not of ideas or of
sophisticated conceptualized learning. Still, I did go to fairly conventional
schools, attended my father's and his brothers' college, Harvard, where I
majored in English. I read widely in literature, history, philosophy, and art
of different cultures, and I discovered that I liked to write and that I
intended to write narrative poetry, that is, not long fragmentary
autobiographical poems or sequences of short poems, but stories with plots
told in rhythmic verse rather than prose. I lived more intimately at college
with Homer's Iliad and Odyssey than with my roommates. The power
and economy of the metrics and the structuring of the story lines absorbed and
spoiled my taste for prose forms that took needless time and words to unfold
and be resolved. The classical epic's intense sense of timing and of condensed
time was right to my ear. My greatest excitement was the discovery of the story
of Gilgamesh. Though it survives only in fragments of ancient adaptations and
retellings of still more ancient lost sources, it seemed to me instantly whole
and corresponded to my sense of kindredness with nature, my experience of loss
caused by my father's death, and my appreciation of the friendships that, with
time, restored my affection for life.
Gilgamesh captivated me and I came away wanting
more than anything to retell the story. This wish took form in me as a
narrative quest. And with nothing more than this to guide me, I went abroad, as
if under the guiding form and spell of the narrative itself, to meet a strange
and distant wise man who, as the fragments indicate, "had seen all
things," the Utnapishtim of the story, who might give me the secret of
eternal life, or failing that, of accepting my life as it had come to be.
I have postponed the present book for many years,
perhaps because it is so personal, perhaps because I needed time to complete
the cycle of Massignon's prodigious research into the life, martyrdom, and
teaching of the tenth-century poet and mystic, al-Hallaj. My work on the
translation of Massignon's study not only allowed me to know Massignon as the
teacher of my quest but also brought me to al-Hallaj, who had been the teacher
of his.
In those two years of 1959 and 1960 most of the
writing that I did was in the form of a diary. The energy and person of Louis
Massignon consumed my creativity and postponed the work I had gone there to do.
Friendship can risk the postponement and even the loss of one's plans, but it
can also open up new worlds which exceed our undertaking and possession. Such
was the effect of Massignon's influence and friendship on me and it is with a
sense of his continuing presence that I write now of that friend and that time.
PART ONE
Massignon, an
Introduction
with Commentary on His
Major Themes and Thought
There are many accounts
of the life of Louis Massignon, and studies of his thought continue to be
written. Portions of his wide and varied correspondence have been published.
Expressions of admiration for, and criticism of, his scholarship abound. He was
honored richly during his lifetime and the centenary of his birth has been
commemorated by his country. Medal engravings of his face have been struck;
schools and streets have been named for him at home and abroad; his disciples
and his detractors carry on their respective supererogations of devotion and
dismantling. He is officially dead. I do not wish to add to this post mortem
process.
If the process could be
reversed and he could be brought magically back to life, I would want him to be
as scrappy, unpredictable, indefinable, elusive, and outrageous as he was in
life, at least as he was when I knew him. But my fear about such reversals is
that he would return as a subject for study, as "a body, not a life,"
to quote Shakespeare. In life it was his passion for love itself that made his
"immortal longings" ring true and defy others' comprehension. He was
not a saint, prophet, or a hero, but he was not simply an ordinary person
either. Some have called him a "genius," based on his early mastery
of foreign and especially oriental languages, his amazing knack for
discovering texts in remote places where others never bothered or dared to go
and that others declared never existed or were no longer ex- tant, and his rare
gifts of deciphering, interpreting, and translating these elusive texts.
He was declared “original"
while barely twenty and had received all imaginable academic and professional
accolades by thirty. By then he had already made significant discoveries
during numerous “missions" abroad, in Islamic lands especially. He had
undergone a religious conversion (some say, mistakenly, from disbelief to
Islam, then later from Islam to his maternal tradition, Roman Catholicism),
published the kernals of his major researches and ideas, established his
important lifelong friendships, become a professor of Arabic in Egypt, and was
about to be married to his cousin, Marcelle Dansaert- Testelin, by whom there
would be two sons and a daughter (Yves, 1915-1935; Daniel, 1919; and Geneviève,
1921-1966), each destined for distinction in his or her own field of scientific
research. After the war, in which he served first in the service de presse
and afterwards by his own request as a frontlines officer (in the Dardanelles,
Macedonia, and Serbia), he worked for George Picot, the French High
Commissioner for the Occupied Territories of Palestine and Syria. It was then
too that he met the already fabled T. E. Lawrence.[*]
It appears to have been a meeting of contrasts: Massignon, at age thirty-four,
the established Arabic scholar of exceptional gifts, Lawrence, at age
twenty-nine, the ambiguous but celebrated adventurer. The former referred to
the latter in an article as “almost an outlaw." Lawrence makes no mention
of the meeting in his writings.
After a brief period, in 1919, of serving the
French government under Clemenceau as representative of the Middle East, he
became “professeur": first, from 1919 to 1924, "Professeur
suppléant" to the chair in Islamic Sociology at the Collège de France,
and thereafter, in 1926, the chair holder himself. The assortment of honors,
directorships, editorships, memberships, to say nothing of his list of
pioneering scholarly books, articles, translations, editions, reviews, and his
worldwide correspondence from 1926 until his retirement in 1954, justified his
early acclaim and indeed exceeded it. This is the period of his widest
recognition, the basis of his becoming officially established in the
professionally and generally learned worlds. The American philanthropist Paul
Mellon (who along with his first wife, Mary, "discovered" Massignon
through their participation during the 1930s in the Eranos Conferences at
Ascona, Switzerland) has remarked "I have always thought of him as the
ideal of the scholarphilosopher." At Ascona he was considered a
"spellbinder." The late John D. Barrett, a close friend of the
Mellons and their choice for director of the Bollingen Series, was wholly
devoted to him, recounting often the evenings when Massignon held his audiences
"entranced with the range of his learning and the depth of his religious
understanding." Those who "knew him then," as I did not,
except as I came to later and indirectly through his works, say that was
"the real Massignon," the Massignon whose mind and presence were
awesome, indeed peerless. Certainly no one in France or perhaps even in Europe
or abroad equaled his mastery in Arabic research and, among non-Muslims in
particular, his penetration and affirmation of the sources of Islam. He contributed
greatly to the Western recognition of the Qur'an's authenticity as a religious
text, however presumptive that claim should sound to us now. Considering the
general European contrary view reflected by popes, crusaders, common folk,
Dante, Voltaire, and many others, his was a daring position to take and to
stand by to the end of his life. Still, this was the Massignon of
"genius," not the Massignon of the late period that I knew who was
often dismissed and reviled for his "political engagements." I must
add that Jack Barrett, to his great credit, tolerated this latter phase of Massignon's
life as several others did not, partly because of his own admiration for the
man's consistently unpredictable "curve of life."
What was the nature and range of his thought that
became so immediately and widely noted? This question has begun to elicit
responses from students of the history of ideas, sociology, religion,
psychology, comparative oriental and occidental studies, comparative Semitic
studies, Islamic and Arabic studies, and it is certain to elicit more. I shall
suggest only a few lines of inquiry and draw very few conclusions here. I have
both the advantage and disadvantage of having known him, though not in his
most celebrated years, and it is therefore difficult for me to analyze him.
Nevertheless, I shall consider first what was evident throughout his life: his
native gifts, the tools at his command.
He had extraordinary linguistic abilities: he
read several dozen languages, spoke perhaps ten of these fluently, and knew the
classical roots and contemporary idioms of each. He could communicate in the
style of aristocrats or laborers, and was in effect a linguistic chameleon,
though not out of desire to hide in the costumes of foreigners but because of
his genuine interest in languages for their own sake and in language itself as
the source of a people's formulations of ideas and understanding of experience.
His primary concentration was on the Semitic family of languages, especially
Arabic, which he believed had preserved the most archaic elements of the
Semitic syntactical structure and therefore, though historically the youngest
of the major Semitic languages, was the one preserving the earliest
formulations of Semitic thought. In Arabic especially, he studied the Semitic
origins of root forms, conceptions of time in rhythmic and metrical patterns,
and balance of the Semitic fixed grammatical principles with the flexibility
needed to assimilate new and foreign linguistic materials.
If Massignon had confined
himself to the realm of Semitic language study alone, his place in scholarship
would have been secure; and some believe, in any case, it is the realm of his
major contribution. However, it was from this primary source and textual medium
of study that he became intrigued by the evolution of ritual from language and
the assimilation of religious phenomena by linguistic structures. Some
linguistic structures re-formed phenomena into general philosophical concepts,
others into intimate and popular proverbs. For him both were expressions of
historical development and social understanding. His own taste ran to the
proverbial, folkloric, and mythic formulations found in the earliest cultures
of the Near East.
His personal sense of
"correspondences" led him to remarkable instances of archetypal
recurrences found in ancient non-Semitic cultures, such as Iranian, Greek, and
Celtic. Though such comparative studies were not his main concern, they
revealed his dazzling ability to ground himself in sources and yet retain a
flexibility of inquiry into almost anything. He himself was immediately alive
to new information, yet was inwardly cautious. He had simultaneously the
imagination of a poet and the authority of a scientist. Such a combination
seems impossible, perhaps even an irreconcilable contradiction. His ignoring
of the contradiction, his defiant presence in exciting fusion, was what I
believe gave him his special aura among poets and scholars and their amateur
appreciators and patrons. Among common people who met him as an inquiring guest
and listened as he spoke appreciatively of their distinct and rich traditions
and ways, whether in Turkey, Iraq, Morocco, Uganda, Russia, Japan, or Brittany,
his personal blend of scientist and poet was not as apparent as his ease in
honoring their hospitality. When he addressed small circles of intellectuals in
Paris or in other centers of European, Soviet, or American civilization, he
communicated his sources evocatively and respectfully as if still in situ
and thus conveyed the experience of being there to others. His rhetorical
power grounded in firsthand learning, his wit and playfulness with the rich
and established, made him an instant "spellbinder."
He had exceptional gifts in the French language,
which he expressed most poetically in his interpretive prosepoem translations
of Arabic mystical poetry and accounts of the mystics' lives. Students have
begun to diagnose Massignon's contribution to modem French literature and
anthologists have included him among their lyric selections. He used the word literary,
however, in a pejorative sense and considered literary people, in general,
derivative and of only secondary interest. He wrote poems as a young man, but
as he told me once, he "destroyed them all" in his twenties. The few
poems he did write later were eloquent "imitations" in the Persian
mystical vein. His early act of renouncing any "absorption" with his
own poetry or fiction bore the stamp of a moral and vocational obligation and
was indeed a real sacrifice that caused him pain. For poets, however, he
retained a certain admiration and quoted generously from the works of those
contemporaries he knew personally and of those “classics" he revered.
He was clearly learned in Western as well as in
Islamic and other Eastern literatures, again a chameleon absorbed by and
absorbing of the color tones and rhythms of each. He appreciated writers for
their linguistic gifts, not for effete inclinations or forays into political or
religious prophethood. Renunciation was aimed at his own erroneousness, not at
his or others' particular and diverse origins. He also believed one's critics
and enemies were often more insightful in their ongoing and concentrated
evaluations than were one's supporters and friends. Hence, one of his modes of
historical re-creation was to rely heavily on the testimonies of the enemies of
those persons whose writings or lives attracted him. He startled with such
accounts that seemed to put his own subjects and theses about them in jeopardy.
I think he had a predisposition, at a level much deeper than Lawrence's, for
the dangerous and forbidden and was not afraid of the risks and self-sacrifices
required to cross frontiers.
In addition to his linguistic gifts and knowledge
of languages, he had a remarkable memory: a seemingly limitless storehouse of
major and minor information, and a breathless power of multi-digressive recall.
For one thing, Massignon never seemed physically or intellectually tired. He
also never appeared bored. Others were always primary sources of knowledge to
him—at least about themselves. Students were bearers of exciting new perspectives—that
educated him. With this consuming and sometimes naive enthusiasm he
could be overwhelming to some people. Just as one sensed a pause coming and a
relief from intensity, he drew on a hidden reserve and began an entire new
exploration. He could leave listeners limp.
My first view of Massignon was in just such a
state, for the audience —which on that occasion was large, crowded into Salle
Richelieu of the Sorbonne on the evening of March 18, 1959 for a kind of
celebration of the friendship of Charles de Foucauld and Louis Massignon and,
to be sure, a call for an end to the war in Algeria. The speakers included a
number of French and Algerian notables, only two of whom—the philosopher
Gabriel Marcel and the novelist Julien Green—were familiar names to me. The
occasion was billed as a commemoration of the life and thought of the French
ascetic Charles de Foucauld, who was assassinated in the Moroccan desert near
Tamanrasset on December 1, 1916. Foucauld had left a "rule of life,"
which his friend Louis Massignon edited in 1928, for a possible new religious
order of brothers and sisters who would work and live side by side with the
poorest and most overlooked of society's people. Foucauld's writings were
excerpted for the occasion but were read in an unfortunately stilted manner by
an actor of the Comédie Française, who could not give feelings to the words.
Nor could most who followed in their varied callings for an end to the
"fratricidal war" — the French Ministre de Justice Michelet, a
black-robed Muslim shaykh from Algeria, a white-robed Christian White Father
from Morocco, Marcel, and Green—until the last speaker, a retired professeur
of the Collège de France dressed in a black three-piece academic suit, Louis
Massignon, who clearly felt the words. This last speaker addressed the already
exhausted audience for over an hour. A Franciscan friar seated to my left, who
had slept through the preliminaries, sat wide awake, his eyes riveted to the
speaker's platform. We were collectively carried through states of laughter and
sorrow by the speaker's animated facial expressions, hand gestures, words of
recollection, and above all vivid evocations of Foucauld himself, whom he alone
of the speakers had personally known and visited in the desert. Indeed, he alone
knew Algeria, North Africa, the Muslim world. His was the presence of a
learned man, but more important, also a compassionate man.
The evening showed a man
of vivid memories but also of powerful understandings, whose passion for
justice lacked any hint of cliché. On this and later occasions at which I was
present and in his written works involving the subject of justice, he was
consistent: first, in his adherence to sources: to a people's particular modes
of thinking and characteristic cultural formulations; second, in his avoidance
of imposing general principles from without. He was perhaps the only man at
that time who could speak with equal knowledge of both French and Algerian
values and guide his listeners' concentration respectfully to each. Perhaps
others could, but he actually did.
On the one hand, the
position he took was instinctive: he recognized suffering and wanted most to
end it wherever and to whomever it occurred. On the other hand, both his
courage and his understanding evolved over many years through painstaking work
and devotion to sources beyond himself. The man on the platform was not an
enshrined genius but a man like other men, a witness denuded, frustrated, and
saddened by the times. He was exceptional in that he spoke the languages, he
knew the sources, of both people's mythical and historical consciousness and of
their specific formulations of ideals. He shared their frustrations in being
thwarted, internally and externally, in the realization of those ideals. When
he spoke of justice, he spoke first and in rare detail of the people and
society who were seeking it. He distrusted talks "on justice" as a
subject transcending and indifferent to historical context, for these served
only to keep justice itself from becoming palpably accessible. Such talks nurtured
doubt about the practicality of justice. Such doubt was the disposition and
practice of the French majority of his time.
His initial position on France vis-à-vis
Algeria, dating from the period after World War II when he was also an emissary
of the provisional government of the French Republic to the Near East, was that
of host to guest, calling for "respect as a human right" and for the
redressing of Algerian Muslim grievances. He also recognized France's long
presence in Algeria and the humanly understandable claims of the pied-noirs.
Only much later, and then only after the outbreak of the war in 1954, did he
recognize sadly the inevitability of Algerian independence.[†]
That same year he retired from the Collège de France and gave up all forms of
officialdom once and for all. He lectured for the last time at Ascona in 1955,
when he violated his director's, Olga Froebe's, ban on politics by discussing
the Algerian Crisis, one among many world crises which the Eranos conferences
were not designed to discuss.[‡]
Thus began the period of "the later Massignon."
From 1954 until the Algerian war's conclusion in
1962, he was immersed in unofficial teaching and in actions designed to make
both sides recognize the humanity of each other and in witnessing justice and
compassion for both. His efforts consumed and finally exhausted him. Indeed, he
died shortly after the war's conclusion.
His earlier period of "Massignon the
genius" or "the real Massignon" is not "another
Massignon," but rather his later period marks the assent to action by a
man whose ideas held the seeds of that action long before at a level of risk
not realized by his early admirers. Among his unofficial actions for fraternal
peace was the founding of the prayer sodality of "substitutes," the Badaliya,
in Da- mietta, Egypt, as early as 1934. It was with this group in the fall of
1961 that he made "the cry of Antigone,"[§]
following an incident in which French police in Paris had shot some Algerian
"suspects" and thrown their bodies in the Seine. He and his fellow Badaliya
members attempted to recover the bodies from the river in order to give them a
proper Muslim rite of burial. He also had become drawn to the teachings of
Gandhi prior to World War II, visited the site of his "last
pilgrimage" at Meh- rauli, India, in 1953, and presided over the Amis
de Gandhi Society from 1954 until his death. Although he was a weekly
visitor to North Africans detained in prisons from 1955 until 1962, he had
already been visiting prisons for many years before the Algerian War to teach
basic French and economics to immigrant Muslim workers. And of course there was
the teaching of al-Hallaj, whose works he had come to know as early as 1907.
Clearly he was not the Massignon of old — except to those who knew him well
from the beginning. His life was an unfolding itinerary or, in his own word, a
"curve" (une courbe), not a fixed or static position he
himself had achieved. Like the Arabic verb, his root was a specific invariable
structure whose potential for elaboration awaited only certain syntactical
additions and for animation only the subtle inbreathing of certain spiritually
informed vowels. When called to by the sufferings of others, the word he
enacted was compassion. The turning of an indifferent ear by one not
deaf was to him an act of falsehood. Cultivation of falsehood in defense of
national security was an act of dishonor. Draining the resources of another's
community to enhance one's own was an act of injustice. And the use of any language
to deceive was a betrayal of the essence of human intercourse. Language itself
reveals what is in the heart.
The gift of language was for Massignon his
primary subject, theme, and tool of inquiry. More than any other force in his
life, it led him to the study of Islam and its traditions, to experientially
explore the Qur'an, to study, collect, and comment on the lexicon of technical
words used by adepts of Islam's mystical tradition, especially in its earliest
development, and most notably to investigate the biographical and legal
sources involved in the
life, teaching, trial,
and martyrdom of Husayn ibn Mansur, known as al-Hallaj or "the
reader of hearts." The gift of language for Massignon was also the gift of
spiritual insight. The two were virtually synonymous for him, though each
possessed distinct qualities, and language of itself did not mean wisdom or
prophetic power. He believed that only some —the Semitic—languages had received
the latter historically. Others at their best had only the wisdom of poetry. In
defending this view he could be very dogmatic as well as insightful. And given
the nineteenth-century legacy, especially in scholarship, whether Christian or
agnostic, of anti-Semitism as regards language as well as tradition and people,
his dogmatism was as necessary as it was to some bizarre. He encountered
hostility to his chosen research within his own family — his father supported
Egyptology, not Arabic studies, for a career; and he discovered it among
scholars, though fortunately not among his major teachers, notably Hartwig
Derenbourg and Ignace Goldziher, his chief school friend the great Sinologist
Henri Maspero, and his French Catholic compatriot Jacques Maritain. It was his
dogmatic linguistic Semitism that led him to declare the authenticity of the
Arabic Qur'an as an inspired religious source and this permitted him to
believe in and explore the civilization of Islam and its varied peoples as
having genuine importance to the history of humankind, indeed to the salvation
of the world. Since most Western scholars of Islam approached their subjects
without any thought of personal belief exceeding their scientific research, he
was left virtually free and alone to explore at risk and at any level he wished
or, as many Muslim admirers of his believe, at a level deeper than any Westerner
before him had gone. It is as a reverent witness thus, not merely as a scholar
per se, that he is most admired still in the Islamic world; indeed, he became
for many Muslims in North Africa and the Near East, a native teacher, a shaykh,
a Muslim at heart.
His work on al-Hallaj is the major fruit of his
investigations, and it is perhaps appropriate for me, its English translator,
to comment on it in this context.
It is, first of all, a work that employed most
fully all of Massignon's gifts and techniques of investigation. While in the
form of meticulous research, it is nevertheless a work that could not have been
undertaken and sustained, except on a very small and pedantic scale, without
Massignon's profound belief in the authenticity and originality of its
subject. In fact, without some comparable belief, few Westerners beyond those
drawn to contemporary strategic policy studies, pure pedants, transcendental
ecumenicists, crackpot adventurers, literary fantasists, or religious
missionaries have been aroused to study Islam at all. Al-Hallaj was more to
Massignon than the subject of a doctoral dissertation and he seemed to
represent no threat to the security of modern France. He was a living (not to
be read ethereally as a "timeless") person whose civilization also
came to life with him, and from the moment of their first encounter until his
death, Massignon devoted his gifts, energy, and personal resources to the
presentation of this other's life. To some political opponents the other
absorbed him so deeply that through him the radical al-Hallaj did eventually
become an enemy of France and of the authority of the church.
Always putting aside any
such considerations, he began to publish the first outlines of his work in 1909
and thereafter appeared a series of expanded versions and relevant editions of
supportive texts. The process was interrupted before the Great War, and then
resumed in 1919, culminating in its presentation in two volumes as his doctoral
thèse principale in 1922. It was the publication of this work plus that
of his critically important thèse complémentaire, his famous Essai
on the origins of the technical vocabulary of Islamic mysticism, that fulfilled
his earlier promise and recognition as a genius. While many believe this first
edition to be the more eloquent and definitive of the two editions, [**]
he considered it incomplete and not ready for translation or wider dissemination
when Mary Mellon first approached him at Ascona in 1939. He devoted the period
of 1922-1962 to its completion, with the final task of editing left to his
surviving son and daughter, to two Arabist colleagues, Henri Laoust and Louis
Gardet, and, as it so happened, to me. The work is now available to be examined
with my accompanying biographical introduction to Massignon himself. The
present book, I feel certain, represents the last time I shall dare to intrude
upon the life of one who shied even from having his photograph taken; and it is
not a biography but a memoir with these few strokes of commentary. The one he
felt was to be made known was al-Hallaj, not himself. And he hoped new studies
of al- Hallaj would succeed his own.
To know al-Hallaj as Massignon knew him, we must
keep in mind the latter's particular gifts and inclinations, notably his
concern with Semitism: with Arabic language, with texts, with Qur'an, with
traditions, with Sacred Law. He believed in the Qur'anic opening to Christ—or
what Seyyed Hossein Nasr has called the "Christie" dimension of the
Qur'an, comparable to its "Judaic" and "Islamic"
dimensions—with whose martyrdom al-Hallaj identified his own.* This was the
source of the Persian al-Hallaj's own Semitism and of his own acceptance of its
spiritual language and its laws to the very end. He was influenced by the
Hellenism dominant in the intellectual circles of his day, but to Massignon he
was not inspired by it and, in many respects, stood in opposition to the
aestheticism and neo-gnosticism of its Muslim literary and philosophical
exponents gathered in the Baghdad of his day (the late tenth century A.D.).
Al-Hallaj's insistence on bearing witness publicly to one's love of God and to
the teachings and law of God, even at the cost of one's own life, separated him
from both the more worldly wise and prudent as well as the more esoteric
Hellenists.
In many ways, as historians of early Islam can
readily perceive, the opposition between the philosophical Hellenists and the
Qur'an-based traditionalists in al-Hallaj's time was not new. It represented a
further stage in the characteristic and ongoing internal tension of Islam that
began following the Prophet Muhammad's death (in 632 A.D.), when the Arab
tribes encountered Zoroastrian Iran and Byzantine Christian Syria and Egypt.
The tension reached its first dramatic intellectual clarification with the
establishment in the early 800s by the half-Persian Hellenist Caliph al-Ma'mum
of the celebrated translation center, Bait al-Hikma (“the House of
Wisdom") in the recently created (in 762 A.D.) and increasingly cosmopolitan
city of Baghdad. It was the feverish activity of translation, primarily of
Greek learning into Arabic, that led to the permanent clash in Islam between
the speculative philosophers and the old entrenched apologists for the primacy
of the Qur'an and its literal acceptance by Muslims. This fever culminated in
the Hellenists' unprecedented creation of an inquisitional court to impose a
new orthodoxy on the community and the traditionalists' subsequent use of the
court to rid the community of the speculatists once their political power was
broken. Al-Hallaj's execution, in many ways, stands as a further stage in that
ongoing crisis that continues today in a struggle between the Qur'anic
revivalists and those open to foreign influences, both arguing from contrary
premises for the renewal of Islamic society. Most Westerners, out of
self-interest, tend to simplify the opposition as between the good,
open-minded, speculative, outward-looking liberal thinkers and the bad, closed-minded,
dogged adherents to tradition and conformism. Massignon's reading was not so
simplified.
First, he noted that the
ultra-traditionalist Hanbalite school, which was responsible in Iraq for, among
other things, the rote teaching of the Qur'an to the young, included the
staunchest defenders of al-Hallaj, the supposed radical revolutionary and
crypto-anthropomorphist heretic. Further, he found al-Hallaj's perception of
the true condition of his times (858 to 922 A.D.) drawn like that of many of
the traditionalists from the plight of its victims. The blacks and bedouins
were the despised and exploited, and al-Hallaj was outspoken on behalf of both.
Through his gradual discovery of the sources of their exploitation, he
perceived that the community of Islam itself was the victim—not of philosophic
Hellenism surely, but of the simple greed and self-indulgence of public
officials, judges, lawyers, bankers, and more mundane speculators and betrayers
of the community's resources and the public trust. This dichotomy of the few
elite wealthy versus the many poor was unjust according to the teachings of the
Qur'an, but was accommodated by the community's growing passivity. As the late
Egyptian poet Salah 'Abd al- Sabur[††]
dramatized in his 1965 play Ma'sat al-Hallâ] ("The Tragedy of
al-Hallaj"), Hallaj was an awakener of his community by the call to
justice and truth, the sayha bi'l-Haqq, and he died a martyr, according
to this modern poet, for that genuinely Islamic cause. While this is certainly
a dimension of al-Hallaj's story, noted fully by Massignon in his magnum opus,
the story is also more complex.
The Hellenists undoubtedly benefited from the
patronage of the "bankers" and contributed to the cultural efflorescence
of the age. They also, like the traditionalists, had to safeguard and enhance
their own position of intellectual leadership in the community. The majority
of both camps, in this regard, were united in assuming the position of prudence
against the growing public unrest that attended the person and preaching of
al-Hallaj and his cry for "Truth" (one of the Qur'anic Holy Names for
God). Furthermore, the majority of both groups could unite in opposition to one
of his alleged utterances, which he himself did not deny, the famous Anâ'1-Haqq
(literally "I am the truth" or figuratively "God is in me as the
Truth"). They could do so on Qur'anic grounds, specifically condemning
the identifying of any thing, including oneself, with God; and on
neo-gnostic grounds, opposing the notion of the transcendent God's being
accessible to lowly and impure man. Al-Hallaj violated, it would seem, both
Semitism and Hellenism, and he was proclaimed by scholars and public officials
a zindiq (a "heretic," a dualist) guilty of shirk
("associationism," idolatry) and of preaching the breaking of the
Sacred Law that calls for the duty of pilgrimage to Mecca (when he, a threetime
pilgrim to the Holy City, spoke of the spiritual efficacy and legitimacy of
symbolic pilgrimage in one's own home). It was judged lawful by a court of
eighty-four legal signatories to spill his blood. He himself believed he was
uniting his beloved God and His community of Muslims against himself and
thereby bore witness in extremis to the tawhïd (the
"oneness") of both. He was castigated by many as a crypto-Christian
for "distorting" the monotheistic revelation "in the Christian
way," and he called upon Jesus in his suffering. To Massignon, al-Hallaj
was first and last a Muslim, and a witness of the Qur'an's spiritual treasury
of inspiration.
To Massignon the experience of al-Hallaj's union
with al-Haqq had been "real," not theoretical, and for that
reason had been impossible to contain through prudence. He and even his more
timorous disciples believed he had been singled out by God for special (not
esoteric) conversation with Himself and humiliation in public. Massignon
believed that this conversation (shath) was the essential oddity and
uniqueness of al-Hallaj's position in the history of Islamic mysticism: the
personal exchange of words and in public. He and God spoke together, so much so
that al-Hallaj was considered mad by many but listened to by many more,
especially by both the traditionally educated and the common people, as well
as by some of the curious elite, whose true conditions and hearts he
"read." He spoke of his "Beloved," his "Friend,"
"You," as filling him with His presence to the point where his only
self was Himself and he could no longer even remember his own name. For such
utterances and those other indiscretions for justice, he was pursued by the
authorities, who cited the danger to law and order and imprisoned him. Through
the intervention of certain of his disciples in high places, including the
current caliph's own mother, he was kept in prison rather than executed. But
the postponement ended after nine years, when their support was weakened by
even less favorable political conditions, and he was finally put to death March
26, 922.
Massignon, struck deeply in 1907 by the accounts
of al-Hallaj's death, set himself the task of understanding the man and the
civilization in which such a story occurred. It was a story not unfamiliar in
the West, where accounts of the martyrdom of Joan of Arc, of Sir Thomas More,
or indeed of Socrates in Athens, and of Jesus in Jerusalem were constantly
retold. But Islam has few such examples. Massignon's sense of
"correspondences" seized him. He was himself at the time
non-religious, certainly a non-practitioner of any religion. His initial
inquiries were therefore not religiously and certainly not ecumenically
motivated. The "correspondence" aspect, which appears undeniably in
his 1922 edition of La Passion d'al- Hallaj, became crystalized
religiously only after a dramatic experience of his own in May of 1908 during
an archaeological "mission en Mésopotamie"[‡‡]
when he was captured by Turkish soldiers on suspicion of spying for the
French. He was imprisoned, sick with malaria, and attempted to take his own
life, an act thwarted, he believed, by an intervention of God. It is a subject
of which he spoke often and in public and which I include in the “diary"
portion of this book. Whatever the nature of this experience, Massignon
subsequently combined his powerful scholarly gifts with an equally powerful
belief in the Unique, Transcendent, and Absolute God. Muslims consider his
“conversion" an authentic testimony of Islam.
Setting aside his twelve
books on Islamic studies and editions of Arabic texts, a careful reading of the
three volumes of Massignon's Opera minora and the selected essays of Parole
donnée reveals not only the startling range of his subjects but also the
specific depth of his religious vocations in Roman Catholicism.
Just as there are many
dimensions to Massignon the Islamist, of which I have shown but a few here, so
are there many dimensions to Massignon the Roman Catholic, of which I shall
explore a few now, hoping my remarks may direct readers to a fuller examination
of his thought through his own works.
Those close to the family
insist that the earliest and foremost religious influence on Louis was his
mother, Marie Hovyn Massignon, and what he described to me as her “secret
practice of her faith." His father, Fernand Massignon, a physician as well
as a painter and sculptor known by the pseudonym of “Pierre Roche," was a
skeptic and preferred his son to be raised the same.[§§]
Louis's mother's faith was traditionally Catholic. Her very deep prayer life
contained a special devotion to the Virgin Mary.
His father's only Christian friend was the
novelist and Catholic convert Joris Karl Huysmans. Though I have written
elsewhere in the Foreword to the English edition of the Passion
[xxv-xxvii] of the varied influence of Huysmans' writing and thought upon
Louis, it is appropriate to concentrate further in this context on one aspect
of it: his view of substitutive suffering, which is an essential part of
Louis's faith and also of his understanding of al- Hallaj's acceptance of
martyrdom. The two Christian themes that early on attracted Louis Massignon
were reverence for the Virgin Mary and belief in the spiritual power of
suffering. Though they both assume the form of doctrines in many believing
minds, Louis approached them concretely and experientially at their sources,
not through dogmatic formulations. The Virgin Mary is the Semitic mother of
Jesus, the emblem of humility and purity in the Gospels and in the Qur'an; and
while ignoring the preference of many ecclesiastics for her assumption and
glory, Massignon nevertheless, through his own reverential process of
glorification, transformed her into a symbolic prism reflecting the hearts of all
women, whom he believed to retain virginal centers regardless of their
exploitations and violations by men.
In regard to his celebrated chivalric respect for
women he was considered by many to be quaint. But this respect accounts for his
body of writing on women and the “correspondences" with the Virgin he
found in such disparate figures as Fatima, the daughter of the Prophet Muhammad,
and Marie Antoinette, the martyred Queen of France. His interest in Fatima
yielded more fruitful results for scholarship, especially as it led him to a
deeper appreciation of the Muslim Shi'ite tradition both in its reverence for
the Prophet's family and, through its ritualization of the martyrdom of
Muhammad's grandson Husayn, in its concern with the value of suffering. To some
these interests were marginal and eccentric. To the indefatigable investigative
Massignon what was eccentric or irrelevant to one man was another's passage to
discoveries and illuminations. The result, in his written work, is often a
network of multi-channeled pursuits which make sense only at the end, when the
whole is apparent.
Massignon was always fascinated with beginnings,
with roots. The roots of Christianity were found in the Virgin's humility, in
the presence of the divine fiat, in her patient fidelity to her vow, and
in the fruit of her womb, her child, the human person and the martyr Jesus,
whom a woman, Mary Magdalen, was chosen to witness first as the resurrected
Christ Who through His suffering at the hands of men had ended substitutively
and for all time humanity's enslavement to sin and death.
Huysmans, the sophisticated author of ''the first
decadent novel'' A rebours (translated in various English editions as Against
Nature or Against the Grain), noted for his self-absorption rather
than simple faith or sincerity, underwent a conversion and then immersed
himself in piety. This culminated in his hagiographical study[***]
of Blessed Lydwine of Schiedam, a little-known Dutch saint of the early
fifteenth century, with whose physical sufferings he identified his own cancer
of the throat and who, he believed, transferred mystically to him through substitution
the spiritual power to reach "a level beyond" the self that enabled
him to endure and find more than mere intellectual meaning—indeed, salvation—in
his own suffering. The idea of mystical substitution was studied thoroughly by
Massignon in his investigations of al- Hallaj, for whom he always regarded
Huysmans a corresponding source of understanding.
Despite Massignon's exhaustive explanations of
the mystical substitution "thesis," there are reviewers who quite
reasonably dismiss the idea and call the explanations inadequate. It is one
instance in which sources do not guarantee understanding. The notion of
mystical substitution, by its very nature, can only be rooted in experience,
not explanation, and is verifiable even then only at the extremes of personal
suffering when rationality, as normally understood, ceases to be definitive as
a guide. For this reason Massignon himself wanted always, in every aspect of
his life and work, to go as far as possible "to the limit," as one of
his most penetrating and personal essays is entitled.[†††]
He did not accept secondary source information any more than would his most
serious critics, and he expected them to question and, if appropriate, amend
his readings of primary sources. But as a person of relentless self-discipline
and physical prowess who enjoyed excellent health throughout his life, he did
not until the very end—and then he communicated nothing about it—experience
the limit of physical suffering unto death.
For this
"failure," as he often put it, he felt a curious guilt. A Muslim
colleague who enjoyed playing devil's advocate reminded him on occasion that he
would not die a martyr's death like Jesus or al-Hallaj. On an unusual level it
was the familiar problem of researching, feeling, and even understanding
without being chosen to actually do: the scholar's paradox, one that gave him
"spiritual worry" throughout his life. More timid or prudent—most
would say, wiser—scholars never know this worry. But Massignon was by nature a
risk-taker, and following his own "conversion," he became by belief a
Christian risktaker. It was unquestionably through al-Hallaj that he was
"reminded" of his religious roots and by whom he was turned back to
discover, as if for the first time, his French and Catholic origins.
In both al-Hallaj's and
Christian testimonies, as he believed, substitution is not willed by the
receiver of its power. Rather, in suffering one is moving paradoxically through
an act of suspension of personal will, in the recognition of its limitation for
achieving what it ultimately seeks: the end of suffering—and eternal life. One
wills nothing but rather surrenders everything, through utter nakedness of self
and soul and awaits the unexpected, the gratuitous, the mysterious power
beyond the will. One moves to the desert to offer one's nakedness, however, not
to test the existence of the gratuitous. And there, if one's suffering is real
and one is sincere, it appears; but even then only to a very few
"witnesses" or "substitutes" (in Arabic abdâï), to a
spiritual "elite," through whom substitution is the raising to
another level of the soul by the power of the source of grace.
The danger to the human self from such a notion
would seem to be the subtle cultivation of spiritual arrogance on the one hand,
of passivity and dependence on the other. In the hyper-intelligent as well as
self-willed, action-oriented Massignon, his friend Charles de Fou- cauld, the
tireless self-analyzing and self-documenting Huysmans, or indeed the
ceaselessly journeying abroad al-Hallaj, the danger was the first not the
second of these commonest of civilization's malaises. Each in his own way
"wrestled with the angel," each was a witness on the frontier of
experience, and each became sources for others, like the sources whose intimacy
they knew themselves. They believed that substitution was efficacious as a homeopathic
process of renewal extending from person to person, beginning from God to
humanity, and was likened to the process of faith itself extending to unite
members of a community in the belief in One Source of all things. The process
of substitution extended through an elite of chosen individuals across time,
infusing into the larger community through their "life sufferings"
the restorative power of grace and thereby renewal of faith. Identification of
these individuals was the crux of Massignon's postconversion research and the
source of much scholarly criticism raised against him. Indeed, he spoke
unabashedly on occasion of being a donkey carrying the relics of those
"who made it," particularly Huysmans, Foucauld, the Jewish convert
nun Violet Sussman, and al-Hallaj. What he meant was that he thought each of
these had attained the first stage of authentic nakedness of self and soul, and
had left to him to carry to others relics that testified to the efficacy of
mystical substitution. He never believed he himself was "a
substitute" or that he had known more than "a hint" of
the divine source.
He made pious visitations
to numerous saints' tombs, both Islamic and Christian, and to sites holy to
Judaism, Hinduism, Buddism, and Shintoism, [‡‡‡]
noting each in his letters to friends and in his penetrating articles mislabelled
by his editors "minor" works. The sheer physical effort of going from
place to place around the globe, employing every and any means from airplane
to burro to get to them, is unimaginable to most of us. Yet he had both energy
and interest in learning from others whom he met of the usually more modest
routes they had taken, in which he was able to see astonishing connections and
significances unknown to themselves.
Unlike the traditional
English parodies of lofty encyclopedic minds, Massignon's mind was never
boring; if he frequently exhausted his listeners, he did so while keeping them
thoroughly awake. His expectation, I believe, was that they shared at some
level his enthusiasm for even the smallest of life's details, not that they
believed everything he said.
He had a rare devotion to
relics, as his acquaintances knew. He kept several in his study among his books
and papers, and the combination conveyed the atmosphere of ongoing
investigation and, from a distance, of imaginative confusion. There were
relics of places and persons unfamiliar to me when I met him, of La Salette,
of Catherine Emmerich, of Soeur Mélanie, to mention but three of the striking
ones he carried emblematically on or around his person. He had, like Huysmans,
the European fascination with holy bones and hair and the like, not shared by
most Muslims or Americans. In fact, he is, despite his rare breadth of
experience beyond Europe, only explicable dressed in his black academic suit,
seated in his particular French cultural context, which seemed at times an
expression of conscious archaism, though never offered by him without a wink or
an ironic smile. Yet having said this, I realize he is also not explicable outside
the context of his Arabic text-lined shelves in his Cairo study circa 1912,
attired in his black wool jalaba, or traveling at a fast pace through oases and
covered markets pursuing evidence of spiritual and human value between and
beyond both worlds.
He also had an exceptional knowledge of the
rituals of his own and other religions. Memory served him admirably in this
realm, too. There is a story of his being on a Turkish ship on the Sea of
Marmara, just prior to World War I, when death struck one of the crew members,
a Muslim. The captain and crew knew nothing of the proper ritual prayers to
offer for the dead man prior to burial at sea, yet felt obliged to inquire
among the passengers to see if anyone knew. Only one young Frenchman traveling
to Istanbul knew them and performed them reverently.
His yearly visits to Jerusalem, with his pious
recitation from memory of the one hundred and fifty psalms at the Wailing Wall
and his lying stretched out on the floor in extended prayer inside the Holy
Sepulchre, were recorded by many eyewitnesses despite his effort at privacy.
His capacity for prayers was as enormous as his capacity for words.
One of Massignon's secrets in collecting relics,
making pious visitations, and communicating his findings and experience to
students, colleagues, friends, enemies, and anonymous audiences, was his
ability to concentrate himself in the immediate present into which he brought
his many encounters from the past. He always listened in the present or at
least seemed to by the evidence of his attentiveness and responses. He never
looked at his watch for verification or prompting or escape. Indeed, be
believed time was another subject for investigation whose primary source
readers were not the grand philosophers such as Kant or Hegel, but physicians
who took pulses and knew, as did mediaeval Muslim physicians, the circulation
of the blood, or dancers and poets who knew rhythm and meter. And he wrote of
mystics, both Christian and Muslim, whose sense of time was in "instants,”
"divine touches," or what Joyce, his natural correspondent in
fiction, whom he quoted on occasion, called "epiphanous moments" and
Eliot "still points" that formed "a constellation" (which
the latter in his Four Quartets made almost a cliché among the learned)
of experimental wujüd or "ecstatic moments" extending and
altering our consciousness of time beyond our sense of its merely being the
fourth dimension of space in an expanding universe.[§§§]
He was intensely interested in modern science, perhaps more than in modern
literature, and accepted proudly the tutoring given him by his physicist son
Daniel, for he believed science more than literature revealed the nature of
things and clarified knowledge. But he was vigilant as to the fictionalizing by
scientists as well, especially in their presumptive hypotheses that often
exceeded their evidence. He rejected both poets and scientists as prophets,
excluding them from what he considered a more seminal and selfless calling.
But he believed that the progress of science was in closer correspondence
with the progress of religious wisdom and served it ultimately better than did
literature. I came to him believing the opposite.[****]
His various positions and themes were arrived at
systematically but also idiosyncratically. His Catholic friends who recognized
him as a "genius" with "esoteric sources" and a spiritual
brother following his conversion that was matched by theirs—I refer principally
to his contemporary friends, Maritain, Claudel, Chardin, Marcel, Mauriac, and
Bernanos, and the somewhat younger Jean Daniélou, to mention just a few—all
belonged to the modern French Catholic renascence and all in their various
individual ways produced its interesting diversity. He wrote volumes of
letters to them all as well as to many non- or anti-Catholic thinkers and
writers, some of which have begun to be published in separate volumes.[††††]
But one of the few whose works he actually quoted was the radical Catholic
novelist Léon Bloy, whose interest in the Jewish origins of Christianity
corresponded to his own and whose sense of the poor and the despised exceeded
his knowledge and informed him. Massignon enjoyed, like Gide, needling Claudel
for his missionary zeal and pomposity, but he also quoted his views frequently
and chose him as his daughter Geneviève's godfather. The one who clearly held
his deepest affection was Jacques Maritain, who he believed was a saint, but he
didn't identify with Maritain's thought beyond the level of appreciation. He
was no more a Thomist than he was a writer of fiction, and somehow in his mind
the two were assigned approximately the same place in importance. In his view
none of the Catholic writers prior to or during his time —that is, in late
nineteenth- and twentieth-century France — exceeded or went to the limits of
existing knowledge, except Huysmans on the mystical level, and Bloy on the
radical Christian level.[‡‡‡‡]
The others were admirable but essentially reseeded and harvested the old ground
of Catholic subject material and thought. Chardin and Daniélou, both of whose
scientific expertise he respected, were not especially convincing as
visionaries or historians of God's plan, their work being too theoretical in
sum- mary to intrigue him even in the realm of ideas. To a great extent he
stood apart as "a Catholic thinker" and almost cannot be called one,
certainly not in any conventional or parochial sense. Yet of all the
aforementioned he was the only one whose "vocation," not resolved at
an early time by "conversion," evolved further as "a curve"
through a surprising and seemingly endless series of turns and twists,
culminating at the end in priesthood.[§§§§]
He was the only one who remained elusive and unpredictable, virtually
religiously "free," yet bound to his sources.
As has been noted, he was equally at home among
Muslims as among Catholics, respecting and to some extent practicing the
rituals of each. His religious consciousness was rooted in ritual, not in
theological speculation, dogma, or world-building. However, on the Islamic
side, while he was most learned and affirmative of Islam's Arabic and Sunni
ritual and traditional orthodoxy (he often said "one must be orthodox, of
course"), he was more than a little open to Iranian Shi'ite ritual and mystical
heterodoxy and was a pathfinder by his research in the latter as he was in the
former. Similarly, in Christianity, while being "orthodox," he was
nevertheless drawn increasingly in his later years to certain positions taken
by Christian sects, notably to those of the traditional "peace sects"
on the power of non-violent action and resistance, which corresponded to the
views of Gandhi. He measured sectarian positions carefully against orthodoxy's
responses, however, just as he measured radical stances on justice against
respect for law. One of his most consistent underlying arguments, presented in
his monthly "bulletins" of the Amis de Gandhi and Badaliya sodalities,
and aimed at the members of each, was one informed by both al-Hallaj's and
Catholic tradition's acceptance of law; namely, that change could be brought
about most creatively and effectively when those seeking it for just reasons
recognized three things first before assuming positions of concerted action:
(1) the sources of possible injustice in themselves, (2) the humanity of their
opponents, (3) the real state of things existing then as distinguished from the
state their dreams hoped to bring about. If such were fully recognized,
erroneous enthusiasms and faulty thinking could be challenged from within
rather than demolished, along with the good intent, from without. By such
circumspection one's cause itself could be clarified, articulated, and fought
for more persuasively. But he also realized that opportunities for
circumspection could run out and opposition could be immovable. In one such
bulletin he wrote a passage which needs to be cited at length:[*****]
In bulletin
number 10, we recalled the profound words of Pascal on "the long strange
war" that violence wages against truth. "All efforts of violence
cannot enfeeble the truth nor serve any other purpose than to heighten it. And
all the lights of truth can do nothing to stop violence and only serve to
irritate it further." (Prov. Lett. XII)
We have not
hesitated to witness in public, before law courts and even in the streets, in
silence and non-violence, against official illegalities, especially regarding the
many crimes committed against Muslims. In this contradictory age, of the
"possessed," which we are passing through, I can only echo Pascal
that the affirmation of truth, even in nonviolence, serves only to irritate
our blinded adversaries and to render them even worse (as for the victims, they
consider us lukewarm). What we wish is not to bring on reprisals by enflaming
the victims to vengeance, but to convert the persecutors, who are also our
brothers.
Why this apparent flaw in
non-violence for witnessing truth (and, what is indispensable, all truth)?
Gandhi explained it by observing that a brutal witnessing in favor of truth,
using apparent physical non-violence, opens the way to a spiritual violence, to
a weapon more menacing than the worst material weapons. When we use truth as a
privilege and monopoly to force an adversary to humiliate himself as a liar,
then the flickering conscience which he has even in his most indefensible
physical violences is unable to submit to our truth, because we have refused
to recognize that he has a conscience at all.
The desire for martyrdom
(the danger of pride in noble souls) discloses through physical non-violence a
spiritual violence that wishes to wound the soul of the sinner while breaking
his sin.
What can we therefore do
when the menace of civil war (and even religious war, due to the blind hatred
of certain missionaries who are writing against "the Mohammedan imposter
allied to communism") threatens us more and more in both France and
Algeria.
We must be more meek and
humble in defending the truth when we are called to do so. (What is more
disarming and persuasive than the humility of a living crucifix?) We must not
defend the truth as a personal possession, but agree to be wounded for it, and
even by it, just as our dissenting brothers are: for we wish to die accursed
for our brothers who are lost. And we do not wish our country torn in two by
civil war.
The time has passed for
recourse to legal justice as a means of settling a conflict as profound as this
between our brothers of both sides. In the community life that Charles de
Foucauld envisioned {Directoire, 3rd ed., Paris, 1961, p. 65.) there is
this: All those who hate evil will love men. They will be universal
saviours. They will avoid legal trials, not debating before courts,
surrendering their rights rather than disputing them, "accepting
humiliation."
There is no other way for
truth to overcome violence.
Only Massignon among his
distinguished friends was prepared to go to the political limits, to take to
the streets, yet only as a man who respected law more deeply than did those
officials betraying its trust, not as a political insurgent. If the law
arrested him, he obeyed. If it put him to death, he hoped he would accept like
al-Hallaj its rightness. Though he was mercifully not pressed to the limit,
despite physical attacks on his person during the Algerian war years, one made
by a fellow Catholic who struck him on the head with a chair while he was
delivering a talk at the Centre Universitaire des Intellectuels Catholiques
(in 1958), he was prepared to accept it if indicated. It should be added, of
course, that he, among all his Catholic friends, was the only one who had some
official government status (he carried an ambassador-at- large passport throughout
his life, following World War I), and this made him a public figure, as the
others (except for Claudel, who served terms as Ambassador to the United
States and to Japan) were not. Such status also gave him free passage on
airplanes flying abroad, which accounted for the vast travel possibilities open
to him.
If his Catholicism was
orthodox and law-abiding (obedient to church and respectful to state), it was
also direct and radical in its criticism of unjust social conditions and the
abuses of power that created injustices. This apparent dichotomy has since his
time become easier (at least theoretically) to unify in thought and action and
indeed more commonplace as a phenomenon even among the clergy. Mention nowadays
of all these themes and positions is hardly news. Yet in
Massignon the tension between the two moved him into "actions" and
he made news. What was not expected, even by his friends, though it should have
been, was the further turns of his Catholic vocation. First, he became a
Franciscan tertiary, which was hardly scandalous; and second, he became a
priest in the Melikite rite and offered mass in Arabic according to the Greek
liturgy of St. John Chrysostom (circa 347 to 407) at the Church of St. Julien
le Pauvre in Paris on special occasions though regularly in a chapel created in
his own home and attended by communicants. He seldom spoke of his priesthood
and then only prudently. It was only by rare and special dispensation directly
from the conservative Pope Pius XII that such ordination had been possible.
His priesthood was a fact difficult for many to
accept or understand, yet it became the spiritual mainstay of the last period
of his life. Without it, I am sure, he could not have found the strength and
resourcefulness to endure what he had to undergo during France's
"fratricidal war" in Algeria. This period was in numerous ways the
climax of his life as an Islamicist and as a Frenchman, as one whose two sides
were divided violently against themselves. He was perceived by many as one in
whom the drama was most intensely contained and in whom both nations' terror
and pity for suffering humankind could find its most resounding cries for
sanity and mercy. He surrendered himself wholly to those cries and by the war's
termination in mid-1962 he was exhausted and within a few months died.
Without exploring his Catholicism further, a task
for others than myself who knew it in him as a living, animating, and
evocative source, not as a subject for study, I would be remiss if I did not
acknowledge what may be its most important legacy for others now or in the
future: its ecumenical dimension, which was founded solidly on his belief in
the authenticity of Islam and on his own participative evolution as a
Christian, both the result of experiential knowledge and ritual practice. Pope
John XXIII "blessed” his vocation to the priesthood and also
"blessed” the Muslim-Christian pilgrimage at the Seven Sleepers shrine in
Vieux Marché, Bretagne, which he had helped organize. This witnessing of
fraternity in time of war Massignon believed was his most important work as a
Christian. His "dialogue” was built from real walls and windows and with
respect for each one's architecture of belief and devotion. It was never
formless or sentimental. At that time it was undertaken with considerable
risk—to him, his family, the Muslims, the Christians, the Bretons, and the
foreigners who participated. All who celebrated with him the rite of
hospitality, "the rite of Abraham” as he called the rituals and the spiritual
friendship, accepted the risk with which the atmosphere was charged. The fruit
of the reunion each year, from 1954 until his death in 1962 and all the years
following to the present, has been that of continuing and new friendships
entered into without fear of risks. Along with his scholarship, this spiritual
reunion remains his legacy.
One of Massignon's dominant themes, both in his
Christian and in his Islamic work, is that of friendship. Like mystical
substitution, it had its origins in early experience. Suffice it to say
that his boyhood and school friendships were deep, intense, and demanding. The
closest, into his early twenties, were those with Henri Maspero, Paul Kraus,
and a Spanish grandee, the first two sharing his scholarly interests and the
latter two his travels. They were each tirelessly inquisitive, voluminous
readers, and enthusiastic sharers of ideas and experiences. Henri's father,
the Egyptologist Gaston Maspero, was especially generous with the use of his
library for the two friends, and it was there no doubt that both of their
interests in the Orient were stirred. The demands of one friend upon the other,
in the cases of the Spaniard and of Kraus, reached the intensity of love. Their
premature deaths were referred to on several occasions by Massignon to the end
of his life.
He himself could be very demanding, seductive,
and controlling of friends. He was never neutral about anything and was often,
no doubt also as a parent, overwhelming. He was a large presence whom one
could not ignore or resist or at times escape. At times he was too large. His
presence, learning, and courage fostered in some dependence and discipleship.
In this his greatest human-relational capacity he was himself most vulnerable
and capable of self-deception. Often he was disappointed and hurt by friends,
especially in the latter period of his life when he thought they failed him
through their lack of courage to support his humanitarian causes.
He felt the pain of increasing solitude in old
age and feared the diminution of his powers and interest to others. He was
human and his latent human feelings bothered him deeply. He struggled visibly
against his own attractions, suspicions, and rages, at times without success.
If unleashed, his temper could be as fearsome as his courtesy could be gentle.
He seemed to many an outrageous clash of contradictory states. Nothing about
him was lukewarm and nothing he did was in halves. He was at times excessively
trusting and gullible. At others, impatient and judgmental. All of these
states were known by his family and his friends. Officialdom and the public
encountered both his wrath and his self-control, prudence, and moral
insightfulness. In 1983 at the time of the national commemoration of the
centenary of his birth, the dignitaries of the church, state, university, and
French Academy preferred to enshrine a benign official Mas- signon. The veiling
of his complex personal characteristics, however, meant the loss of an
important ingredient in his thought: the meaning of friendship.
To Massignon the word was many-layered and had
evolved those layers over a long period of time, not merely the period of his
own lifetime. Friendship was not merely the naming of boyhood and adult friends
with whom he intimately shared the world; it was a way of life and a world
view. It began not with the shy Henri in the lycées Montaigne and
Louis-le-Grand but with the sources they both found there. It was particularly
Massignon's predisposition for friendship that found in the sources a world of
interlacing itineraries beginning as far back as the tales of Gilgamesh and
Enkidu, of Achilles and Patroclus; it was assimilated in the medieval tales of
the knights errant, the accounts of Roland and Oliver, of Amis and Amile, and
echoed in the Franciscan order of mendicant Friars and in the Islamic mystical
orders of brotherhoods; all were based on belief in the vow and perpetuated
through spiritual values of bravery, fidelity, and honor. A further dimension
of Massignon's thought was thus mythic, grounded in ancient pre-mono- theistic
wisdom and fable. There were aspects even of his appearance that, if prophetic
in message and tone, seemed older, more primitive than biblical, more of the
angry and downcast Utnapishtim's spirit than that of Noah or Abraham, yet
anticipating the latter's devotion and readiness to sacrifice to the Lord.
His instinct for the presence of holy places,
like that for discovering hidden texts, was more of a diviner's or a sorcerer's
gift than a modern academic scholar's, and his power to evoke the story of each
one's origins and to revive the lost or forgotten ritual, locate the abandoned
site, and read the revealing passage, as if he were himself personally its old
interpreter restored momentarily to life, carried in itself the aura of ageless
mystery. In his hands each ritual or passage seemed incredibly old, yet alive
and speaking the language of today. His sense of the global and the ecumenical
was organic rather than transcendental. Such transcendent meaning as there may
be in each had a beginning and was therefore to be found implanted in the
earth. The source was a hidden spring to be divined and drunk from, as the
desert nomad drinks from his well.
It was this organic sense of the
"desert" that motivated the Irish monks, whom he admired, to build
their hermitages in crags on uninhabited islands overlooking the sea and
Foucauld to "disappear" on the Moroccan wastelands in God. That was
the divined "communion," the true source of "dialogue," the
"meaning" of pilgrimage. And the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus,
especially with its Qur'anic concept of futuwwa or spiritual brotherhood
calling for the surrender, the islam, of its members' individual wills
in obedience to the Merciful and the Compassionate God and thereby destroying
the idols of themselves- calling, that is, for them to "sleep" in the
cave —formed in his mind the quintessential fusion of myth and doctrine
centered on the notion of human friendship and the friendship between God and
men. Preserved as a didactic tale in the Legenda Aurea of the
thirteenth-century Italian hagiographer Jacobus de Voragine, as well as in the
Qur'an, it was also found to exist in the Breton Gwerz literature
accounts of the founding of the chapel at Vieux Marché on the site of a Dolmen crypt,
and it had been spread by similar fusions through other parts of Europe, North
Africa, and the Near East to various "divined" sites. Such a site was
located by him in his ancestral Brittany as the fitting place for the fraternal
Muslim-Christian pilgrimage in 1954. His curiously gathered knowledge revealed
itself of a piece in the continuing "curve" of his life.
Furthermore, the focus of
al-Hallaj's mystical love poetry was centered on the lover's relationship with
his beloved Friend, which was the highest expression Mas- signon knew by any
poet of this theme of friendship. As such it pointed him also to a deeper
understanding of Jesus Christ, not as the flying superman of Latin church
ceilings, but as the intimate and self-abnegating friend of mankind.
The question raised by
his continuing "Hellenistic" cultural background, which after all
detached him sufficiently to systematically investigate the sources stimulating
such curiosity, was whether friendship itself was essential to or obstructing
of one's pursuit of personal achievement and intellectual enlightenment. It was
supportive but was it fundamental to the realization of one's own true
excellence or arete? Was it basic to his eloquence, courtesy,
generosity, counsel, honor, and power expressed by his early teachers, his
peers, and himself? What was the true place of friendship in the overall scheme
of things, especially as revealed to a "genius"?
His father wanted him to be an Egyptologist, the
favorite adventure for the overeducated and rationalist European intellectual
explorer of the late nineteenth century, which combined, as Ancient Egypt was
undoubtedly supposed to do for one, the mytho-religious consciousness of
oriental romance with scientific inquiry, an acceptable fatalism with a
philosophic skepticism. Mas- signon the son went forth with his reputed
"genius" onto the spiritual precipice of a bizarre anthropoidal
nihilism, and it was his predisposition for making friends with living people,
creatures, nature, sources beyond himself, and for friendship at its highest
and most intimate level that kept him on real ground and on his feet. At times,
especially after his conversion experience, he may have believed Hellenism was
the enemy. He especially scored the neo-gnosticism of later post-Hallajian
Islamic mysticism and Christian Deism, or indeed any position that tended to
abandon textual tradition and ritual for philosophic speculation, whether
transcendentalist, theos- ophist, materialist, or formalist.
He believed in the present, active, responsive,
personal God of wisdom, not in the inaccessible, unresponding, and impersonal
Idea of wisdom. The political scenario for al-Hallaj's execution had been
conceived and instigated by jurisconsults and mystics of the latter view.
Still, like al-Hallaj himself, Massignon was undeniably influenced, culturally
at least, by both and understood the language and thought of both. What the
neo-gnostic Hellenistic position considered irrelevant was the reality and
practice of friendship, the journey of two, not one alone; and it rejected the
idea of the accessibility of God Himself to man. The tension was between the
"universalizing” Hellenism and the "particularizing" Semitism,
once again, to the end of both Massignon's and al-Hallaj's lives. The tension
of opposites in each was, of course, crucial to their creativity. Had either
strain been isolated within the consciousness of either man, the result would
have been clever aestheticism or relentless pedantry.
A text written by
al-Hallaj during his long imprisonment, the Tawasin[†††††]
or so-called "dialogue with Satan," bears excerpting here as it shows
the power and almost thespian detachment of al-Hallaj's mind, yet also his
ritual piety and reverent belief. It represents a further correspondence for
Massignon's own thought and gradually became indistinguishable from it,
especially as regards the dangers of ascetic solitude, spiritual
possessiveness, and anti-humanistic affirmations of transcendence.
Properly speaking,
al-Hallaj assumes the mask of Satan articulating to God the fallen angel's
point of view. He says, by way of introduction, that "there had been no
monotheist comparable to Satan among the inhabitants of heaven: the Essence
appeared to him in all its purity; he forbade himself out of shyness even to
wink at it and began to venerate the Beloved in ascetic solitude.
"He was cursed when
he attained absolute aloneness and was challenged when, protesting further, he
demanded solitariness.
"God said to him:
'Bow down before Adam.'
"And he said: 'Not before another than You.'
" 'Even if my curse falls upon you?'
" 'It will not hurt me/ Satan said. 'I
refuse your command in order to affirm You in your utmost holiness! I am going
mad because of You! What is Adam? Nothing but for You! Who am I then, I Satan,
to distinguish him or any creature apart from You? I who want no other way to
You than through You Yourself, am I to be a scorned lover? If there had been
only a glance between us, it would have been right for me to be proud and
angry, but I am he who has known You from before eternity itself; I am worth
more than Adam, for I have loved You for the longest time! No one, of any of
Your creatures, knowns You better than I! My every intention touches You, Your
every intention touches me; both existed before Adam. Whether I bow down before
another than You or bow down at all, I must return to my source: You created me
of fire, and fire returns to fire, according to a balance and a choice that is
Your own.
"There is no longer any estrangement for me
since I discovered that reconciliation and estrangement are one and the same.
As far as I am concerned, if I am forsaken it is Your abandonment which keeps
me company. Besides, how could this abandonment occur, since love always
rediscovers its Beloved. Glory be to You! In your providence! In the essence of
Your inaccessibility for this pious servant, I myself, who bows down before no
other than You!
"What keeps me from bowing down is my
fidelity to the Single Adored One. I have to uphold the intention that was
uttered first to me. To those who say I have distorted this intention by
refusing Your commandment, I say I am not distorted: the consciousness of Your
favored
creature, even when
stricken with deception, remains unchanged. Acquired wisdom continues just as
it was when it began, even if the individual who receives it becomes deformed.
"I remember You, even now. Pure thought does
not need to remember. By it I am commemorated just as You are commemorated.
Your commemoration is mine, mine is Yours. How, remembering both, could we both
not be together?
"1 serve You more purely, in a
more empty moment, in a more glorious commemoration, for I served You absolutely
for my own happiness, and now I serve You only for Yours.
"We have both withdrawn desire from
everything which defends or preserves. You separated, dazzled, and expelled me
so I would not confuse myself with You. You cast me far away from others in my
zeal for You alone. You deformed me because I was dazzled. You dazzled me
because I was exiled. You exiled me because I was Your servant. You judged me
because I was Your companion. You displayed my unworthiness because I praised
Your glory. You reduced me to a single garment of a pilgrim because of my
flight to You. You forsook me because You revealed Yourself to me. You stripped
me naked because You clothed me with foreknowledge of You. You gave me
foreknowledge of You. You gave me foreknowledge of You because You
distinguished me from others. You distinguished me because You had afflicted my
desire with weakness for You Yourself.
“So, I have not sinned, no, not against Your
commandment. I have not challenged destiny! And I am not disturbed by any
distortion of my form. I preserve my balance through these maxims. Were You to
punish me with Your fire for all eternity of eternities, I would not bow down
before anyone; I would not humble myself before anything, neither immaterial or
material, for I recognize neither father nor son to You. My declaration is
sincere. I myself am sincere in love! You Yourself are the cause of my not
bowing down, You my inventor! If I had failed You in responding to You with
less than total love, I would have been a poor lover. No one loves You more
totally than I for Yourself alone. To me You have proven Your uniqueness, to
You I have proven my fidelity.' "
Al-Hallaj, in his summary, detaches the mask from
his own face and calls Satan, as if in a direct challenge, not "a true
martyr of love." "You are bitter and desolate, for you were dismissed
from your early holiness. You did not return from your origin to your end. You
left your origin cursed, and in the end, unlike the saints, who did not curse
their origins but gave themselves totally to their Beloved in love, you were
damned. The spring you drew from is a stagnating pool, sucked dry; you suffer
from paucity even where abundance flows; the verdant shade that you covet is
only the film that coats your eyes; your leonine fury is only the
immobilization of your tamed look; your cutting swords are imaginary; the dark
night is a yawning emptiness in which your mannerisms and vanities, ruses and
falsehoods, fall away irretrievably into nothing. Ah! there 'it' is!"
He concludes, as if addressing himself: "O
brother! If you have understood, you have pondered the narrow pass in its very
narrowness; you have shown the imagination in its very unreality, and you have
returned from it to reality through sorrow, filled with anxiety.
"The most eloquent of sages keep silent
about Satan, lacking the strength to utter what they learn about him: Satan is
more informed than they about worship; he is closer than they to the Being; he
has devoted himself more zealously than they to serve Him; he has kept more to
his vow than they; he has drawn nearer than they to the Beloved.
"The other angels
bowed down before Adam because they were no longer standing, and Satan refused
to bow down because he had been in contemplation a long time.
"And yet, alas, he
was muddled. He ceased to trust in God. He said "I am worth more than he,
Adam!' He remained on this side of the veil, he wallowed in mud and embraced
damnation for his eternity of eternities."
The underlying issue to
all this is whether humanity has the capacity or incapacity to experience union
with God. Massignon's initial assumption, prior to his dramatic experience in
the Turkish prison in Iraq, was that man had virtually infinite capacity to
discover, but not to unite with, any personal or impersonal God or gods. After
that experience he was sure of the existence of "the Absolute," and
after his "conversion" to Catholicism, he believed in the
accessibility of the personal God and, through those whose relics he carried,
in direct union with God. Through his own sacerdotal offering of "sacrifice"
he knew intimacy with God. But he did not claim the experience of union for
himself, only his recognition of it in a few others. Further, he believed there
were two causes among the religiously minded for disbelief in union: personal
shyness and fear of presumption, and the predisposition of some minds for
philosophical and impersonal detachment. There are different kinds of people
and they view transcendence differently, not one good and the other malevolent,
however much they may compete against each other for worldly power and
influence. He clearly mellowed over the years on this point without
surrendering his own belief in God's accessibility. Indeed, it formed the
cornerstone of his religious life and his stance on other religions and
positions. It represented "orthodoxy," and "heterodoxy"
was measured against this doctrine.
To him and to al-Hallaj the presence of God was
that of Friend and the spirit of love in the world expressed itself spiritually
among people as friendship. This, I believe, was the core uniting them: the
secret of al-Hallaj's soubriquet "the reader of hearts" and of
Massignon's wide-ranging world of "correspondences."
FOREWORD TO PART TWO
From 1959, when I first
came to know Louis Massignon, until 1968, when I began to edit and translate
his La Passion d'al-Hallaj, I kept a diary of accounts of our meetings
and, subsequent to his death, of meetings with others who were directly or
indirectly associated with him or with the concerns of his life. The diary
consists of seven notebooks of entries, letters transcribed, and
personal reflections on Massignon's thought, on al-Hallaj and his teaching, on
Catholicism, on Islam, on personal friendship, on the story of Gilgamesh. They
include my various rough sketches and crude preparations for a poetic retelling
of the latter story, which I was able to write more simply and fluently when I
closed the diary for good. 1968 was also the year Thomas Merton died on his
Asian journey and our correspondence, which continued after Massignon's death,
came to an abrupt end. I returned to Paris for the first time since Massignon's
death in January of that year and traveled beyond to the Near East to acquire
Arabic books essential to my translation work. In Ephesus, Turkey, I visited
the Cave of the Seven Sleepers, with which account I ended my diary. In 1968
also, my friend the painter Dino Cavallari began to create his own retelling of
Gilgamesh, which influenced mine that appeared two years later, in 1970.
The following pages represent an edited selection
of entries from the years 1959 and I960, when I became a regular visitor to
Massignon's study at 21 rue Monsieur in the seventh arrondissement. When we met
in 1959 I was almost twenty-seven years old, he was seventy-six. I was living
abroad in obscurity, writing and translating. He was a retired distinguished
professor of the Collège de France and a celebrated activist against the war in
Algeria whose name appeared in the newspapers daily and whose acquaintances
included those in positions of power. The differences in our backgrounds, ages,
and positions in life never seemed an obstacle to our friendship.
The following selections include no accounts of
our separate personal lives, families, places of employment, sources of income,
and the like, especially in my case inasmuch as I am not the focus of this
book. My selection process was guided by respect for the people I knew those
years and by my desire to avoid repetition of content and effect in my
accounts. My aim was to present an immediate and evocative portrait of Louis
Massignon.
PART TWO
Diary, 1959-1960
April 19, 1959—My work of translating
Pierre Gabrier's book on St. John of the Cross has me dreaming and waking bolt
up in my bed at night. I am not natively a mystic, but I am filled with
"considerations." I wonder of the soul as it first discovers the
darkness of prayer. I consider introspectively the walls around which voices
reverberate, pictures are painted, self-improvised lights turn on: depictions
of possible precipices: intensified arguments, partial insights into others'
states, judgments of others, hatred of falseness (not yet of one's own),
disillusionment with human values, anger at phantoms of beauty or success that
vanish leaving one in the bitterness and fatigue of inexperience: hatred which
is met and dissolved only by prayer for mercy and patience, by obedience to
whatever is given, not imagined, and by humility in the dark places of the
soul. The desire for manifestations of freedom, if not calmed within by wisdom,
leads the soul pathetically into empty retrievals of lost pasts, into
oppressions of others, into disaster for oneself. To such a precipice all the
elements and forces lead one to recognize one's irreversible situation, to
sensing the fullness of the danger into which one by his own mishandling can
plunge himself. Prayer is drawn to but does not love the darkness or the prison
in which one waits and hears other's voices, sometimes beautiful and poignant,
sometimes delusively heroic, sometimes baleful and sad. What the soul craves
from the promised balancing of wisdom with love —conceived in the darkness of
prayer-is first the power to embrace the justice of its condition. Such is the
necessary stability that still eludes.
I consider writing itself a voluntary fatal
engagement, a willful strengthening of the mortal double in one's life. I have
been renouncing, even as I have been embracing, it. What is its line of taboo,
its threshold of danger, its sacred forest beyond that is mysterious and
threatening? The double tries with his fearful life to guard that one thing in
us that both makes us human and that we leave invariably unguarded. I begin to
sense mortality in my double's trembling as we both, like two friends
strengthened by each other to risk danger, run headlong to the threshold.
Beyond that doorway the soul rushes, with dangerous presumption and impatience,
crying out in fatal joy at the feeling of freedom born of the violation of
taboo. The mortal double teaches by his death what it is he guards. What is
left when, after a long and solitary journey to wisdom, the truth is finally
known? One falls to the ground and weeps in silent sobriety at fate for want of
an articulate companion.
I consider the fall of man. As Melville said, it
is the most apparent of truths. All else is cloaked in mystery. That fall is
revealed to us entirely. Nothing apparently needs to be held back concerning it
for our protection. We can make what we want of it; it's ours. Yet alone as a
fact it is meaningless. Once fallen as we are, we ourselves are obvious. Satan
is disguised in mystery. But Satan also, as fallen angel, is
subject to the obvious,
to self-delusion; to the error of thinking his own thought is luminous, his inspiration
divine and not merely his own; to the disappointment of discovering himself
capable of selfdeception; and, finally, to turning that disappointment into
rage at God whose light he doesn't love but envies for its freedom from
self-deception. He tells us then that we have no light, only an abandoned
darkness in which he mocks the pathetic beginnings of our tries at prayer. By
inventing our prayer out of nothing, as Satan insists we are doing, he shows us
by his example that we are paralleling his own invention of disbelief. We are
linked in our inferiorities, and the partnership built on erroneous sharing of
unhappiness is deadly. The soul runs on in this satanic friendship, the
underside of liberating human friendship based on the acceptance and fruitfulness
of truth, but satanic creativity craves only destruction, the liberation from
itself. Is the mortification of this erroneous creativity what St. John of the
Cross in his dark humorless way, is trying to teach? Even to the point of
mortifying the prophetic glance of one's salvation? Is the saint
quasi-paranoid, not without reason, about the soul's capacity for erroneous
attachments? Reading and translating him now, at least in Pierre Gabrier's
personalized study of him, especially after dark, gives me chills. Yet he knows
prayer of which I know nothing. I think he has dialogued in his prison with
God's proud, fallen contemplative Satan, his awesome and frightening teacher of
the negative path of life. Otherwise he would not know how the law of
contradiction is necessary to salvation.
April 27-1 visited Père Jean
Daniélou at the Jesuit house, 15 rue Monsieur; about my third or fourth
conversation with him since we met a year ago through Madame Abeille, the
amiable and peoplecollecting friend of Pierre Gabrier, who recently suggested
I write Thomas Merton in Kentucky for ideas regarding eventual dissemination of
our St. John of the Cross enterprise. All these people seem immersed in their
religious paths, so to speak, which include — and not in a peripheral
way—connecting people with people. This latter "art" may be what makes
them seem anxious, if not superficial. Daniélou particularly seems always ready
to move on, restless in the present; he sizes things up quickly and has no
small talk. It may be uncharitable of me to describe him thus, but while I am
considering the efficacy of prayer and looking into its friendships, I neither
demand nor pretend that everyone involved in it be saintly or even moderately
wonderful. Being human is enough to celebrate.
Daniélou is a small, wiry man. He hunches over
the table as he talks. His fingers beat little discordant tunes on the wooden
surface. I don't know him well enough to ask him to stop. His eyes, hidden
partially behind horn-rimmed glasses, are intense, bright, not simple in terms
of what they see, perhaps not clear. His mouth twists a little when he speaks.
He smiles, ironically, wittily; he obeys his restlessness, watching some
invisible clock. I've learned that his book production has multiplied the
further he has strayed from his actual expertise (the Patristic period of
church history) and he has succumbed at least on one occasion (that of his
celebrated Lord of History) to
explain God's work in the
world through time. I looked into the latter work and found it folly. He spoke
on this occasion of Thomas Merton, whom I have recently written at Gabrier's
anxious prodding, and with whom he exchanges letters regularly, and who he said
"lacks patience." He's "very young," he said, " and a
little too detached." I think he brought him up to me because of our both
being Americans. Apparently both irony and the obvious abound. He also
mentioned a few more persons he wants me to meet —partly as my spiritual agent,
partly to move me on beyond himself. One problem for him may be my own
uncertainty as to what I am seeking of him. The answer is nothing, but I cannot
declare nothing and expect any communication on his part. He is a customs
officer perhaps, one who lets me through on trust without questioning or
becoming involved himself. This time he spoke of Jean-Paul Sartre, Stanislas
Fumet, François Mauriac, and Julien Green, all literary personages, thinking
that might be my way. All I seek really is patience myself, not continuous
mobility or collection. One day I might hold patience in my hands in wonder
and awe, delicately, as one cups in one's hands and looks through one's fingers
at a firefly.
We spoke of dear Madame Abeille, our mutual acquaintance
who holds spiritual salons in her home, arranges for persons she likes to meet
one another in other people's houses or remote chapels; "a charming
lady," he said, his face lighting up and remaining still for a moment like
my firefly. The charm of Daniélou is that he doesn't mind being cupped momentarily
in another's hands while being utterly in-
capable of containing
himself, it seems, even for a second in his own.
May 23 — Daniélou
wrote a letter of introduction to Mauriac, which I haven't followed up on.
May 31-A gathering at
the home of Pierre Gabrier on the occasion of his son's Communion
Solennelle. Madame Abeille was present and made a point of introducing me
to a Dominican priest dressed in a white wool robe—"Oxford education,
Egyptian Jew by birth, master of thirty-six languages, a very learned
man," she said—named Jean de Menasce, who had recently arrived from the
United States, where he had been in residence at the Advanced Institute in
Princeton. "He's a friend of the Maritains," she said with awe. His
face lighted up at the unexpected appearance of an American at such a private,
familial, and French occasion. We spoke of mutual acquaintances at Princeton
and Harvard briefly, then of mutual friends in Paris. For some reason, all of a
sudden, we began to laugh and couldn't stop. We walked out of the crowded
living room and into Pierre's small study and sat down relaxedly, he in
Pierre's desk chair and I on his couch, to talk. He asked me if I had
encountered Louis Massignon yet, suggesting by his tone and wide-open eyes that
this was an original. "I've seen him," I said quietly, knowing that
Gabrier and Massignon differed vehemently on the Algerian war and this was
Gabrier's home and his son's day. De Menasce understood my prudence, yet I
could tell he wanted anxiously to know my impression of Massignon. I
wanted to speak at length
with this new and sympathique person, but another occasion would come
one day I knew.
I had a chance on this
occasion to speak with Madame Abeille when we found ourselves seated together
on a small sofa in one corner of the living room by a window. She said, looking
through the thin transparent beige curtain at the boulevard below, "It is
all too simple, isn't it?" Her gaze included the guests and the occasion
itself
"What is?" I
asked, without meaning to be contentious.
"Can you really
believe in God?" she asked me, turning her plumpish, matronly, but quite
feminine face as if to study—or "collect"—my response.
"I am trying to
understand prayer," I said.
"Ah, but that's
quite different," she said, and turned away again. Perhaps I was not to be
collected after all, I assumed.
Later, photographs were
taken of Pierre, his son, and the other family members, including Pierre's
elderly parents, dignified and disapproving-looking Protestants who had arrived
by train from their home in Bordeaux. At the end he asked that a photograph be
taken of himself with me, his "American translator and friend."
June 3—My Turkish
tutee in English, Erten, this morning during this the third of our projected
eight sessions preparing her for college entrance examinations in America,
called me a materialist and herself a fatalist. She said by
"materialist" she meant someone who has lost something of his
anonymity to the force
of individual will, to
putting motion into matter outside himself and therewith and thereby becomes
identified with and by what he has moved. Whereas she remains anonymous,
unidentified with or by anything, part of the unformed immobilized spirit, included
in no action in any mass. I was more than a little unclear as to what she was
talking about, but I told her, briefly, that if this was so, she was freer of
self-deception than I, who might imagine my action of will has actually
accomplished something of consequence. She laughed without the usual irony of
fatalists. She spoke to me again, as she has a little before, about her Muslim
faith. I am curious but not intrusive.
June 4—Lunch at the elegant rue Corneille
apartment of Arnold Smit, the South African diplomat who went through the
process of converting to Catholicism (in his case, from Calvinism) and whom I
met during my own seemingly less drastic process over a year ago. He is six
feet four or five inches and grotesquely bony with extremely long fingers and
long crossed legs, two unmistakable signs of the very rich, which he is. He
invited me and the secretary to Cardinal Marella (the Papal Nunzio in Paris who
confirmed us together), a Mgr Binelli from Florence. Arnold's usual sidekick
from his embassy, Jeremy, and Jeremy's friend from Oxford days, Peter, a
painter, were not included on this occasion. Just the three of us, served by
Arnold's live-in Spanish maid. Arnold is reading the classical Jesuits and
doing the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. He's very enthusiastic. After
lunch he played for us on his grand piano, which stands against the even
grander background of an
only slightly faded
eighteenth-century floral and hunting tapestry, a composition in honor of his
conversion. He said it was inspired in part by a prayer of Claudel's from the
play Le Soulier de satin and was written as a variation on two themes:
the bells at Burgos and a Gregorian chant from the Angelus. It was brief,
lyrical, enchantingly danced, as it were, by his faerylike fingers across the
keys. Afterwards we had a conversation about art and the Devil. It was like a
scene from Huysman's A rebours or perhaps En route. Perhaps it
will float back to me sometime. At present I've forgotten what we said. I
remember only Mgr Binelli clapping his little hands in glee.
June 5—Received this morning an ebullient
letter from Yvonne Chauffin. She mentioned me to Professor Massignon. His
address is 21 rue Monsieur; his phone SUF 36-69. Daniélou's street. This week
my correspondents, les Mesdames Chauffin et Abeille et le Père Daniélou, have
thus far arranged for me to meet in violent succession Mauriac, Massignon, a
Benedictine Dom Masabke, and Gabriel Marcel, to what end I'm not sure. If
someone asked me what I want in such interviews, I would have no answer. Meetings
of this kind may be reassuring to some, useless to others.
Yvonne is sending me from her Breton home Berluhec
her new novel La Brûlure via her publisher in Paris. She hopes I can
attend the Muslim-Christian pilgrimage in Brittany in July. She invites me to
her house near Quimperlé on that occasion. We met originally through Pierre
Gabrier, to whom she tells me she can't write anymore because of his extremist
views on Algeria. And he can no longer write to her
because of her extremist
views on Algeria. She wrote that Massignon once told her, "Laissez les mondanités
littéraires. Nous sommes faits pour ressusciter les morts."
If I were to burn bridges the way my French
friends do, I would have no friends. Somehow they both do and do not
believe in their renunciations.
June 10—A letter came from Thomas
Merton this morning. I forget what I wrote in my last letter to him, following
my inquiries about St. John of the Cross, that is. From his I gather that I
wrote of his booklet on Prometheus, his poem Landfall, and on spiritual
journey in general. His was dated June 6 and sent from his abbey, Our Lady of
Gethsemani, Trappist, Kentucky.
Dear Herbert:
Your paragraph
on Prometheus echoes very exactly and sums up what I have been driving at. I am
glad P. Daniélou gave you the booklet. It is true that there is a certain
nobility in fighting for what we already have, because if we fail to do this we
do not really have it. But it is best to remember that we already have it and
that everything does not depend on the fighting. It is the great mystery of
grace. Not grace in the sense of a kind of theological gasoline that you get by
performing virtuous actions (that is the sin we commit!) but grace in the fact
that God has given Himself completely to us already. Completely. But we have
to enter into the darkness of His presence. Not tragic darkness, just
ordinariness: but above all what does not appear to be religion.
I tell you frankly that my present struggle with
the institutional aspect of religion is enormous and almost overwhelming. It is
tempting to ruin the whole thing by dramatizing it as something Promethean, as
if truth were something I had to conquer and bring back into the ruins. They
are cold and without fire, really. The fire that is there has nothing to do
with the external forms which people so carefully preserve. (Perhaps here I
exaggerate, through excessive reaction.) The only issue is in a paradox of
great humility, a small door through which one goes out, appearing to be
nothing: and having become nothing—that is the liberation.
The journey goes with this. No, I have not read
Melville for years and years. And the Landfall goes back ten years. The
journey is present every day. Better, the voyage. The nothing which happens
every day has to be an adventure, and it is. To be Prometheus and to be on a
voyage is almost the same thing. It is out of the nothing, the void, of our own
self that we freely create the paradise in which we walk with God. This act of
creation is —grace. It is all a gift. Grace out of nothingness. The image of a
landfall is one of the obvious ones for this daily awakening. I especially
like P. Daniélou's chapter on epectasis in the book on Gregory of Nyssa
(still his best).
I am glad you know P. Daniélou. Give him my
regards, please, and remind him that he owes me a letter.
With very best wishes— God bless you,
Fr. Louis
June 8-1 met Professor Massignon
this morning in his study at 21 rue Monsieur for two hours. He is a specialist
on the Near East and in particular on the Muslim faith. He knows Gilgamesh's
story well, which he said is also enclosed in the Qur'an. I did not know this.
He referred to sura 18, "The Cave." I have been aware dimly of
the Qur'an's enclosure of Christ and the Judaic law and prophetic tradition.
But Massignon's and my conversation about Gilgamesh and, later, his
introduction of a Muslim mystic named al-Hallaj deepened immeasurably my sense
of the epic as the dramatic structure of spiritual experience. I felt relief in
his presence, the relief that comes from someone older who knows who one is and
asks no questions for accreditation.
He told me of his life in the Near East, his
living as a Muslim (I supposed in disguise)—in Iraq, I believe; his
imprisonment as a suspected French spy— by the Turks, I believe; his three days
of spiritual trial ("épreuve"). He was chained and interrogated. He
believed these physicial chains, however, were nothing in comparison to the
chains of his own sins. For the first time in his life he realized he was being
judged, not by man alone, but by God. It was in 1907 or 08, I think he said; he
spoke fast in a flood of words and images. My attentive, no, enrapt ear was a
little rowboat at best against the overwhelming waves. I think he was
twenty-four or twenty-five years old at the time of his imprisonment, more or
less my own age (now twenty-seven). His interrogators twisted truths into
useless lies trying to get confession from him, and he realized for the first
time that there was such a thing as truth. He used
the expression the
snows and ice of sin; he spoke of walking across those, of being lost on a
frozen lake without any markers; and he called out, believing that if there was
a rock anywhere, the echo would come back; and it came back. He realized in
himself the totality of impurity —and the presence of purity — and he tried to
commit suicide to clear the air of himself for the sake of this purity.
Christians do not believe in suicide, yet he said this was his offering to God;
this was his entrance to the Land of Vision. In abject poverty and filth he was
God's witness. He was the discoverer at that moment, for those three days, of
the fact that we are "condemned” to immortality. We discover that all our
desires go out to dying things, to multiplications of ideas that are doomed
already. That God's allness is, in fact, an endless multiplicity of ideas we
will never discover through any of our desires. That we are, however, set in
existence, to live with this existence and, as Christians, to be bound by love
to Christ and to use our bond to free others. At the core of God is liberty, he
said, and His gift of love to man is this liberty. It is our calling to return
this love to God. He says the Indian Hindu believes too much that existence is
an illusion —it is not. He said he has no solution to make the world all right.
He knows rather that man must suffer, that man must atone. That heaven and hell
are creations and that the human person lives somewhere between—between —when
all is God.
He said he is a tertiary Franciscan and told me
of the shame of many Franciscans in Paris for building with American money a
palace when many people could be "freed” with that money.
He (meaning humanity, Christ, all of us?) lives
with the poor; he lives in humiliation—by his friends, by his relatives—and he
knows what the poor know, the emptiness and impurity. He knows God. Forty- two
years a Catholic and two hours every morning, he said,he is with God. (I did
not understand these references, which he chose not to explain.) When one knows
God in humiliation and poverty one wants no crown, one needs no crown.
He told me of the “dishonesty" of Cardinal
Spellman and Tammany Hall in New York, yet, he said, "I'm sure he
prays." His smile was sardonic and bitter.
He told me, above all, of his intellectual apprehension
during those three days (in Iraq?), of the persons who were praying for him:
his mother, Sister Violet Sussman, Léon Bloy, Huysmans, Père Charles de
Foucauld, and al-Hallaj who had been dead for 1000 years, and another person
whose name I forget. (I'm not sure now if all of these prayed then or at
other times, there were so many names and overlappings of times). He
apprehended them in their prayers for him. And when he was freed and returned
to Paris he met his mother, who had been at Lourdes, and Huysmans, who was
suffering with cancer of the throat, yet who had prayed for him upon his
mother's request, and others as well.
When I stepped back, internally so to speak, from
these accounts, I found myself tossed about between fascination and skepticism;
but in the midst of the flood itself I could only hold to the sides of my inexperienced
skiff. I had never met any narrator like Massignon, who was instantly wild and
exaggerative,
sharp and believable.
Part of his credibility was in his eyes, his face, his hands, his book-lined
study surrounding him, the books themselves, especially those that dealt with
remote subjects and places written in (to me) unreadable languages. His eyes
were deep- socketted, wide open, clear, yet often burning with intense fire,
then suddenly cooling, calm, compassionate, kindly, uninvasive. His cheeks
were sunken in, lined with little cross walks, weathered deeply, toughened like
parchment. His little hair was white, tussled. His hands were moving
constantly, illustrating, orchestrating memories that were still live events
to him. He as a living person seemed apart from time yet showed its pains and
ravages in his eyes and face and the wild rhythms of his hands. He had been, I
knew, where I had never gone. I didn't doubt for a moment that he was the
person I had come to meet.
At a pause in this our first meeting he asked me
to pray for him and I asked him to pray for me.
He told me of his trip last year to Japan. He
went to pay his debt of love to Violet Sussman. He saw in the poverty of Tokin
(?) the living seed of her work. He visited her grave, fixing a paper cross on
it.
One instant only, he said, one instant is enough
to spend the rest of one's life in love, wanting nothing else.
He told me of an army colonel who came to his
home recently, a believer in "the modern illness, technocracy,"
wanting to tear God out of these Muslims' hearts by machinery. The colonel
ended his visit in tears. "He may hold it against me because I made him
wet." He said this with a look of sadness,
not delight. I think I
know very little about compassion.
He spoke of his sin of pride, its paralyzing
moments in his life. He closed his eyes, struggling for a passage of a text he
wanted me to know. Then he seemed to yield and said 'Tn the Annunciation the
Virgin is most conscious of her unworthiness. It is incautious of us to think
only of her Assumption, her crown." I noticed tears in his eyes.
He spoke of his meeting and correspondence with
Gandhi and some yogis of India, of their basic desire to be free. They fear the
Occident enslaves, he said. "Yet men and women are occasioned by God's
love; this freedom is neither East nor West."
He told me he has had to ask God twice:
"Enough! Enough!" He said he is not able to suffer actively too much.
More and more he is becoming pacific, like Gandhi, who he said sometimes
however "played tricks."
He gave me a Huysmans biography by an Englishman
to read and an article of his own published 20 Mai in Les Lettres nouvelles:
"La Guerre Sainte suprême de l'Islam."
He shared with me a qissa Husayn al-Hallaj
in which a mystic threw a rose at the gibbet of the dying saint. In his rendering:
"cette pauvre herbe n'est qu'un jeu pour moi, je ne puis me contenter
qu'en le contemplant."
Hours later I was interrupted frequently in my
reading by the recollection of Massignon's face, his sudden bursts of joy, his
gaze of pity and remorse. The contrasts, especially his joy, makes him seem a
little mad, a little inebriated, like that
madness of which St. Paul
in his best moments speaks.
The qissa remained with me through the
night and I knew that I had not only met Massignon but also al-Hallaj:
"Je ne cessais de nager sur les mers de
l'amour, montant avec le vague, et puis redescendant . . . . "
"Husayn, when they threw stones at you, you
laughed; when one throws a rose, you weep. He answers: don't you know how hard
it is for the lover to feel the injustice of his beloved?"
I woke up in the night alarmed by Massignon's
word "atone."
June 9—1 met Mauriac at his home today—for approximately
five minutes, all he could spare. He asked me to return next Wednesday, I'm not
sure why. He spoke quickly and briefly about "the Catholic literary
tradition" of France, one among several mutually respecting and respected
French traditions, which I assume he thought I was inquiring about. He spoke
obliquely about the general outlook of American Catholics, about which I know
virtually nothing. Odd, his presuppositions. He was cordial, correct. It was
this visit that unearthed the word tradition. I felt on trial as a
foreigner. He sat in a large armchair in his receiving room beside a sculptured
bust of himself atop a handsome teak stand. I sat on the visitors couch. It was
clear, I'm sure, to us both that neither of us had any interest in or curiosity
about the other. He made a reference of Camus, for public consumption through
me, I guessed: "He is not a very important writer. Sartre's
much more
important." I'm afraid such Literary business fell on deaf ears.
All afternoon, following this rather awkward
visit, I was haunted by the memory of Massignon, by his strong, distinct
character, and by his joy. I knew that a year before, or even a few weeks
before, I would have been much more impressed and absorbed by Mauriac or other
notable writers. Perhaps not. In any case, Massignon has changed all that. I
wrote a note to Yvonne Chauffin thanking her for her introduction. I may have
mentioned Massignon to Mauriac, I don't recall now; if so, it may be for this
reason that he invited me back. I think they have some political affinities on
Algeria; or it's something else.
June 10-Madame Abeille phoned to say she would
accompany me to Gabriel Marcel's apartment on rue de Tournon, a stone's throw
from Arnold Smit's near the Théâtre Odéon, Place de Claudel. Pierre Gabrier
calls her a connoiseur of great men. He says I should be flattered, especially
as a foreigner, to be so favored by her. (And to think, all this just because I
walked into a bookstore on rue de Vieux Colombier and happen to be struck by
the painting of St. John of the Cross on the cover of one Pierre Gabrier's
book.) He said she delights in such men's "victoires d'ésprit et
d'intellect." Recently she featured a famous Protestant theologian at one
of her salons. He spoke of his dramatic conversion from atheistic materialism.
When I spoke to her of meeting Massignon, she told me of the celebrated
demonstration in the Palais Royale against the war led by Mauriac, Sartre, and
Massignon walking arm in arm.
The mob was angry, she
said, over the deplorable conditions in Algeria. Only Massignon of the three,
she said with light irony, has ever seen them firsthand. He's the only one
whose "fierceness," as she put it, is deeply rooted. "Did you
like him?" she asked.
Pierre Gabrier phoned me
soon after. He was upset when I mentioned Massignon. I felt from his reaction
that he considered I had betrayed our friendship by meeting this
"radical." Algeria is (between them, it appears) one of those
cataclysmic affairs that divides a nation regardless of common belief and
tradition. It allows no compromise, apparently. Gabrier and Massignon,
unbeknown to me, have not spoken to one another since the Palais Royale incident.
Gabrier, also unknown to me until this morning, had been Minister of Algerian
Affairs at the time, and rang up Massignon the next day and demanded:
"Qu'est-ce que tu fait?" They fought. Massignon accused Gabrier of
closing his eyes to the truth of political imprisonments without cause, of torture
of prisoners, of immoral actions not acceptable to France. Gabrier accused
Massignon of inciting to riot by his so-called "moral demonstration"
by, in Gabrier's word, "immoralists." He said he can accept Mauriac
because he's at least behind deGaulle, whom Gabrier served with in the
Resistance and who he hopes will be strong toward "the enemy"; but he
can't forgive the "unruliness" of a man of Massignon's knowledge and
stature, of his willful association with disorder in the streets. He dismissed
Sartre out-of-hand as "a failed member of the bourgeoisie, an
atheist" whose "sarcasm is as well
known as the ugliness of
his face.” When Gabrier hung up I sat shivering, wondering what I had stumbled
into. Gabrier's wrath sounded more like jealousy than politics. But of whom?
June 12 — Madame Abeille phoned
and said G. Marcel is due back in Paris soon. She told me she had seen Père
Jean de Menasce again and he told her L. Massignon is the "génie du
siècle."
June 23 —Gabrier phoned. This time I let slip
that Madame Abeille was taking me soon to meet Marcel. He said Marcel "is
a fool. He believes in seances and palm readers, and so does Madame
Abeille!" Pierre Gabrier, the pseudonym by which my original introducer
prefers to be known, writes articles for Catholic papers, gives speeches on
behalf of "Algérie française" groups, holds now a rather lowly functionary
job in the government, and is nearly exhausted in his eyes and voice by the
burden of his fanaticism.
June 17—The second visit with
Mauriac today was longer than last week's. Again, he instructed me in
"tradition.” "In letters,” he said, "I'm afraid I'm the last [Ze
dernier]. The Lord has no need of men of letters now, only saints.” He
attacked the American church for being only political. He described deGaulle as
a man with a dynamic gift of remaining open to possibilities with his
storehouse of ideas. (I thought of Massignon's words about God's infinity of
ideas and man's limitations for realizing them —in contrast.) He described
reunification of Germany as
dangerous. (I suspected
this purely literary man had lost a sense of his limitations on a number of
fronts. He referred to a few noted Catholic figures as "imbeciles.” He
omitted mention of Massignon altogether.) He asked me if I had met Dom Masabke
at the rue de la Source abbey, in his own Passy district, yet. I said no but
that it was to be arranged. He said "good. I'm very close to him. He's my
confessor." He paused and gazed in silence for a few seconds, then added:
"He's a saint.”
June 19—21 rue de Tournon, Gabriel
Marcel's apartment. Madame Abeille met me downstairs in the hallway. I truly
had no interest in any further meetings with "great men” but could not
escape this prearranged rendezvous. It was a kind of salon in Marcel's very
sparsely furnished and drab living room. Several people surrounded "le
maître" while he spoke, all attentive to his pauses and silences. I have
little patience for such occasions, I realize. Marcel himself was friendly. He
let himself be waited on by everyone. Someone volunteered to drive him across
town for a later rendezvous. He seems very soft, a pudgy aesthete of sorts with
soft gray bangs over his forehead and a fluffy gray moustache that is too long
and makes him sneeze every so often. Quite a contrast to the aquiline face,
the lean and arched body, and mean inclining look of his co-religionist
Mauriac. Marcel, though noted as a Catholic existentialist philosopher, spoke
mostly of the theatre on this occasion and was droll about his own unsuccessful
attempts to write for it. He said without any apparent bitterness or envy that
he hated Claudel's L'Otage
("an affront to
human nature as it is") and told with remarkable modesty and reverence of
being instrumental in persuading an editor to publish Bernanos' Diary of a
Country Priest ("one of France's great novels"). All the while he
was commenting and reminiscing I was feeling reconfirmed in my sense of being
at the end of the Catholic literary renascence, and it did not feel especially
fruitful to witness ends.
He had been to Michigan recently, he said, to attend
a World Conference on Moral Rearmament (which Mauriac had included among things
"imbe- cilic"). He said he enjoyed his visit to America and Americans
in general. In contrast to his Catholic colleagues he seemed lacking in
judgmentalism, perhaps also in judgment. He moved more leisurely than some from
subject to subject, being perhaps more cognizant of his audience's varied
intelligences and nationalities. One Swiss student told me aside that Marcel is
very generous with his time. "He helps a lot of us in philosophy at the
Sorbonne, though he is not appointed there." How does he live? I wondered.
Another said "through patronage." Marcel praised Julien Green
generously, closed his eyes prudently when a student injected the name
"Massignon" into a brief discussion of "contemporary
politics," and chased his enormous white angora cat across the living
room and scolded it after it bit my hand.
Madame Abeille took particular care of a rather shy
Moroccan student and wrote down her phone number for him to call in case of
need or if, as she put it, he just wanted a good meal or conversation.
Marcel summed up by noting the evening's absence
of philosophical questions of him, but
praised sociability and
hoped his American guest would forgive his cat.
June 20—Gabrier phoned and railed
coincidentally at Marcel for not attacking communism more vigorously in print.
He said the world is overtaken already by evil forces and France stands alone
as the last hope against them all. His is another—the unhealthy—kind of
madness. I think he does not know how to deal with ends. But do I know enough
to say that?
June 21—This morning with Professor Massignon
again in his study. I tried at first to detach a little in order to understand
him or at least to place him in the proverbial scheme of things: as a provocateur,
an avocat du diable, a cracker of shells that encrust themselves on
human souls, most surprisingly his own before he assaults others'. His
particular bête- noir, like Dante's, seems to be professional churchmen,
Christians who behave possessively of Christ— that is, uncharitably toward
others and thereby contradicting Christ's offering of himself selflessly to
others. I hear him automatically and spontaneously defining Christianity in
terms of compassion, not theological speculation. One of his verbal salvos
whizzed thus: "Maritain is the only theologian whose writing doesn't make
me sick to read." I hadn't indicated that even Maritain's theology itself
turned me off. The salvo was quite gratuitous. Apparently they are very old
friends. They met, he said, many years ago at the front door of Massignon's
present home when they both coincidentally were following separate leads of
an apartment for rent. I
suspect Maritain is one of the few whom Massignon will not criticize on some
level. Whereas Claudel as a friend was not immune, on this occasion, from such
epithets as "pompous ass."
I composed myself by recognizing that friendship
among Christians, as among any other group, is not to be confused with niceness
or even civility. Massignon this morning bit into a few prominent church
officials savagely. He devoured their abuses of innocence, betrayals of trust,
arrogance of position, manipulations of power at the expense of the powerless.
It's a bit tough on the outsider or the newcomer who wants to believe in the
purity of the church and faces the visible church before entering the invisible
church. Indeed, his rage seems almost satanic, or at the very least Voltairian,
in the disguise of a believer, as if Massignon among all the French Catholic
circle of friends was the one in whom the Pascalian and Voltairian traditions
were actually combined. The result of this paradoxical fusion on this occasion
was a guided brief descent past the vestibule of commonplace faults into a few
bolgias of our contemporary inferno. As a guide he threw light like a holy man
on the devilish, though both the Devil's and the saint's faces were merged as
masks covering his own. Indeed, what his strange holiness begins to reveal to
me, intentionally or unintentionally, is that Satan's face by contrast with the
saint's is devoid of passion—is detached, cold, ironic, recoiling smugly at any
suggestion of passionate concern or care to which, on the other extreme, the
conventional saint too readily and simply succumbs. To the holy lover
of God, I begin to
believe, God is passion itself; his rage is his Beloved's rage; his care is
Love's care; there is nothing detached or clever about it; passion exceeds both
the coolly rejecting angel's and the humbly accepting saint's comprehension,
defying the one's ironic detachment and the other's sentimentality. Massignon
is explosive. He is consistent without being predictable. I had no idea before
meeting him that holiness was something other than clever intellect or pious
civility. In him it is struggle — wrestling—as if to the death with each. But more,
it is passionate Love of the Beloved neither truly knows and whom each would
have us believe by their mockingly dispirited attitudes is inaccessible to us
humans. At that Massignon explodes —in his heart, in his flesh.
I begin to pick up through others and readings
here and there certain facts about his Life; but while such facts seem
significant, I'm not sure of their relevance to what moves him. He was
apparently a frontline lieutenant and an intelligence officer during and
following the First World War. He knew Lawrence of Arabia. Both were involved
in some way in the execution of the Sykes-Picot plan for the control of
Palestine. Massignon referred today two or three times to himself as "an
outlaw," a Melkite, not a Latin Catholic; a Muslim among Muslims. Madame
Abeille told me of his voluntary teaching of math and basic French to North
African immigrant laborers. And, of course, he's retired as a professor of the
Collège de France. He earned his money from his professional academic
position, but she also informed me that he came from an upper middle-class
Parisian
family that left him some
inheritance, most of which he "has given foolishly away to needy
relatives, friends, and strangers." He travels so frequently and freely,
she said, because he enjoys diplomatic status dating from his days as cultural
ambassador of France to the Near East after 1918. All of which is fascinating
but reveals nothing of his spirit and its explosiveness.
We talked about the Gilgamesh story again and
about pilgrimage: what it means to leave the place where one belongs for a
place hidden beyond where the rivers meet. What it means to seek freedom from
one's mortality, this terrible thing we can't escape and which we try to
externalize and transfer to others and to nature, both of which we objectify as
evil because of their unwillingness to assume for us what is our fate. We
strike down the forest of Humbaba, but we do not escape. Only with the death
of a friend. Enkidu, do we begin to bear with loss and desire to live more
fully, more humanely, not merely for the moment for ourselves. Pilgrimage
reveals the soul's "immortal longings" and transforms living into
quest for eternal life.
The journey is long. The darkness is deep. There
are miles and miles of trees and hills. There is a welcomer at a house, a face
of the dying memory, and others the mad mind sees as scorpions, a man and a
woman guarding the path beyond themselves and bickering, while the soul lowers
the eyes and passes under their gaze, which is death. The dark water is filled
with the current of gliding snakes. The boat eases out from the shore. The oars
dissolve and the boat drifts across the water with the dark cur-
rents at night. One hears
a voice on the other shore. One rests and then wakes to the other's explanation
of the flood—the other's outcry for justice.
The journeyer has been warned by dreams but now
craves only freedom, hinted of in the other's words, and seeks only ecstasy. He
runs to the water where the sacred plant was found, dives down, and seizes it.
He rises in ecstasy, holding his desired life. And carrying it home for himself
or his friend or both —no matter which or whom, since it is of himself he is
thinking—he leaves it unguarded by a pool in which he bathes. A serpent comes
and devours the plant, leaving it behind as slough.
When he arises from the pool he sees the slough
and he sits on the bank and weeps: in emptiness, in nothing; that is the
liberation.
Massignon shared with me the memory of his eldest
son Yves's death. "When I became a tertiary," he said in English
suddenly, "I took the name Abraham. But God did not give me back my son,
who died in my arms."
He also shared with me the memory of a close Spanish
friend's suicide. He said he based his faith on the hope of his friend's
salvation. He said he adopted his friend's father as his own, his friend's
father who had suffered so much over his son's suicide. He said he offered his
own skeptic father to God for this other's salvation. Two days later his father
died in perfect health while at work on a statue of his only Christian friend,
Huysmans. To him and, he said, to Maritain, this revealed the salvation of
these cherished disbelieving and despairing souls.
I can't say this left me in a state of complete
credulity but it mesmerized me as a narrative, as had our sharing of Gilgamesh
together.
Once, he continued, seemingly inexhaustible, he
had wanted to join Charles de Foucauld in his hermitage in the desert (he said
Foucauld believed you could will the soul toward love, "but what has the
soul to give?" he paused as if asking me, then answered:
"Nothing"). He jerked suddenly to a halt and said angrily that his
own biography meant nothing to him, at least nothing he wanted to order for
anyone's consumption. I sensed that what he may have been doing by this
scattering of bits of it here and there through his flood of words was to throw
it away like his inheritance, seeing in it no utility for himself and little of
interest to others. None of it seemed graspable or noteworthy to him, I could
see by the surrender in his face. I expected any moment a lament, but then,
without any warning, I saw a strange smile of joy and I couldn't control my own
eyes which had become unpredictably moist. We began simultaneously to laugh and
cry. Could anyone fathom this man? Could Maritain?
He spoke in calm of the hardship his wife and surviving
son and daughter endured living with his "madness," "with one
who loves God Who is invisible more even than those visible who need my
help." He spoke of the pleasure of his wife now that he is old and has to
spend more time at home. He spoke of the prayers—the deep prayers—he offered
during a voyage to Moscow years before when the Russian secret police sent a
prostitute into his train compartment, to the upper bunk, and of "the
pricking brace-
let" he had on his
arm that a nun had given him—a Franciscan bracelet-that got him out of that
compartment and led to his actually becoming a tertiary. He had French
government permission to visit Moscow as an official, though he was going there
as a scholar. And the secret police knew the only way they could hold him up
was on a disorderly conduct charge. The way the story unfolded accompanied by a
wild array of facial and finger illustrations was terribly funny and had me
weeping with laughter.
One person he and the others I have met in France
mention off and on is the Ministre de Justice Michelet (most names seem
to begin with M; just kidding), who was a great Resistance fighter, who
also spoke at the Charles de Foucauld night at the Sorbonne when I first saw
Massignon's face, as it were, on stage, before I imagined meeting him could be
possible. Marcel refers to him as "the most Christian man he has
known." Massignon, when I entered his study this morning, was shouting at
him over the telephone to "put an end to this infernal practise of
detaining political suspects without cause and to the torture which
follows!" Massignon seems unimpressed by reputations, which makes me glad
in his presence that I have none and no reason for calling on him other than to
know him.
He seemed very tired on this occasion, though
this didn't deter him from speaking on. At one point he said, "DeGaulle is
a very proud but an honest man; unfortunately the circumstances surrounding him
are so very grave." He decried the misuse by so many of the name of St.
Joan, whom he holds dear but also "unworthily," he said. He said he
is very sick at
heart over the
"rottenness" in both the church and state. "Our ideologies and
technologies will condemn man to a pathetic idealism of a terrestrial dying
paradise, perhaps only because of the failure of Christians to release their charity."
"Have you clothed the naked, fed the hungry,
nursed the sick, visited prisoners ... ? These are the words," he said,
"Christ has a right to ask us now and at the Final Judgment."
He spoke of addressing a group of government officials
and military men among whom he had status on the issue of conscientious
objectors, of opponents to war and to particular wars. He said to them,
"They are not cowards." He repeated loudly in my presence, "They
are not cowards!"
He told of an Arab boy who stayed with him once
at a certain desert ruin (in Morocco? in Iraq?) when hostile Arab soldiers
came, forty in all, he said, surrounding his party of seven, most of whom,
save for himself and the boy, ran away. He looked around and saw that this boy
had waited.
He said he believes friendship, like this boy's
who was willing to die, is the cornerstone of human spiritual life, not family.
One surprise to me, in retrospect, is to realize
that these accounts, bearable on the lips only of someone like him, are devoid
of cliché. His secret thus far eludes me. At a conference held recently by the
military chiefs of staff, including deGaulle, he was invited, as the
newspapers reported, to tell what he thought could be the solution of the
country's grave problems (especially with regard to Muslim Algeria). He said
quite matter-of-factly that if the conference
ignores God in its very
essence, meaning, and reason for being and as to its total hope, then the
results will be meaningless; and hopes in the heart, not merely on the lips! If
we cannot share another's sufferings and hopes, then we cannot share; we are
then hypocrites.
He talked now of standing between two men who
were fighting—neither is right exclusively. War is not right exclusively, but
some things are known only in war. You must stand between them, because it will
be evident to both that to hit a third is absurd.
Slap the cheek that is right and the cheek that
is wrong for both create crime.
He spoke finally in a quiet voice, with tears
filling his eyes, of the sexually tortured Algerian girl whom he and Sartre had
managed to free from her French captors and hide secretly outside Paris.
"I do not understand the pleasure some men get from torturing."
June 24—This morning I woke early and through
my window watched men cleaning the street below while pigeons weaved overhead.
The strange and terrible mundaneness of this task, this push at dawn along the
gutters toward a little flowing clarity, awed me.
Coming back to me, juxtaposed, was one of Massignon's
statements: "To understand the other, one does not need to annex him but
to become his guest."
Later I went to Gabrier's apartment in Neuilly to
go over some aspects of my translation of his book. His ten-year-old daughter,
Patrice, ran into his study
where we were working and
threw her arms around his neck. His whole face lit up. She ran out and
afterwards he sat for a minute or two in silence, very calm and happy seeming.
After awhile, alas, he succumbed to his obsession
with the Palais Royale: Massignon, Mauriac, and Sartre. Underneath it all I
think he is trying to utter his own cry.
Late in the day I met Arnold Smit in a café on He
de St. Louis, a favorite one jusf at the Pont Louis Philippe. He was with
Jeremy and Peter and someone I didn't know, whom Arnold introduced as John, a
newcomer from South Africa. John was explaining his idea about Europeanizing
Africa under a strict Christian segregation in order to oppose the dangers of
communism and black nationalism. The argument was so stale as to be silly and I
thought at first he was playing a lame and idle devil's advocate. Arnold,
despite Jeremy's and Peter's not too subtle glances of embarrassment, took him
quite seriously and said in his gravest Undersecretary tone, "How can you
use the word Christian in connection with segregation?" The man's
silent sneer suggested he was more mad than silly. Evidently he was an
unexpected "embassy guest" and they were showing him a little corner
of Paris. After the present round of drinks were finished Arnold rose like a
gaunt specter in diplomatic livery and suggested he and John stroll to Notre
Dame for a brief tour. He managed to look correct while exuding distaste. They
departed and we three remained for another round. Jeremy, a more graceful and
intelligent devil's advocate, baited me and Arnold (in absentia) gently
for our religious enthusiasm,
adding by way of a
compliment that I seemed the more relaxed of the two of us. I said it was my
familial tradition of deceptive calm and he shouldn't be fooled by it. He
smiled and said it was a good response. "I think Arnold's about to
bolt," he said. "From what?" I asked. "His career. He no
longer cares what he says to spies." Our eyebrows lifted simultaneously,
then we sat in silence drinking and gazing at the bridge in the late afternoon
light. Peter said he wanted us all to come to a party at his flat on rue Jacob
in about three weeks. He was doing some new and for him quite different
still-life painting and wanted us to see the results. His mother was coming
from England. I said I would like to come. After awhile we left the café,
Jeremy for his flat in the Marais off place des Vosges, Peter and I toward our
respective burrows on the Rive Gauche. Peter, more than Jeremy or Arnold,
though all are tall, thin, and handsome, has the air of the classic boy hero,
the knightly journeyer, the puer aeternus about him: the long pensive
look, the graceful stride, the ease of manner; yet he seems also wounded in
some indefinable way or perhaps, despite his air of natural charm and talent,
believes too little in himself. He's selfenclosed, so our walk through the web
of narrow streets to his own of rue Jacob, where we diverged, was quiet.
A few streets away I saw in the window of a curio
shop a good copy of a Chinese statue in the Louvre of a father and a son
laughing together into the funny look each sees in the other's face.
At home again, I closed my door, looked at the
walls, and realized what the day was really all about
for me. I need to draw
back. Massignon reads my heart, and St. John of the Cross's word annihilation
is too much for me to bear just now. The poet may be a tertiary in his heart
but religion may destroy his nature. The aesthetics of it, not the spirit, is
oppressive. I have not yet found my own release in nakedness. I cannot be
clothed in others' dress. I crave a few days, alone and anonymous, just walking
in my quartier or anywhere.
June 25—This
morning a pneumatique letter was pushed under my door by the concièrge.
It was from Gabrier. It included a kind of veiled apology for his talking
politics so much and expressed his pleasure at the meetings we have. He said
friendship with its laughter of the heart is, quoting Bernanos, "comme le
prelude à la musique du ciel" (like the prelude to the music of Heaven).
June 29—After four
days and nights of complete seclusion I was ferreted out and taken to lunch by
Yvonne Chauffin, in from Brittany for a few days of publisher's parties and
book signings. She spoke of La Brûlure and of the actual burning of her
dead child's clothes and possessions twenty years after the child's death. She
said grief had become, as her husband perceived, "a duty." We must
release our deepest attachments, she said, because of their intrusion on
others. She told me for my better understanding of Pierre Gabrier that he had
lost his eldest son, his first-born, in a drowning accident on Lake Geneva. He
was France's emissary there after the war and his family was together again and
happy for the first
time since the war had
forced their separation. He cannot release his son's things, she said simply.
He is still filled with grief.
July 3 — 1 attended a mass and a Muslim
recitation of the Qur'an, both in a church off boulevard Mon- parnasse, and
afterwards a meeting in an adjacent hall attended by Madame Abeille, Yvonne, a
few Algerians, others, at which Professor Massignon spoke. Only about fifteen
or twenty people were present. He spoke at the end of visiting the Shinto
shrine of Isé in Kyoto, "an old lonely mind, overflowed with
shyness."
At the time, before he began to speak, I wondered
why so few were there for such an important person. Is this the neglect that
comes with age? We are interested in a demonstration, but perhaps we run off a
distance when threatened with too much knowledge or intimacy.
There is an Arab saying I heard somewhere:
"Oh let him die; then we shall know how to aid him."
It was a painful occasion for me, for one does
not meet such a man and not love deeply.
When we entered the church for the mass he took
blessed water on his fingers and then touched mine with his.
From time to time I have wondered why I am
present at these occasions, invited into these friendships, feeling like an
eavesdropper, someone not sharing their memories of the German Occupation, the
debacle in Indochina, the Algerian war, the personal losses, or their age and
longevity. I am not a student in any formal sense, yet I am witnessing
their sufferings and
their wisdoms surely not as a passing observer.
One of the Muslims present invited me afterwards
to visit his mosque and to share dinner with him and his friends. Massignon
overheard the invitation and told me it was a good thing. These people, he
said, are despised here and so few will sit with them—at a loss to
themselves—for they have such a rich spiritual treasury. I accepted.
July 10-This morning I set forth from memory a
bare outline with commentary for myself of a retelling of the Gilgamesh story.
i
1. Gilgamesh — the soul, experienced in a worldly sense but suffering
from the fatigue of inexperience in the spiritual sense.
The people want to arouse
him from his state of self-indulgence, lethargy, and insensitivity in the city
of Uruk he is allowing to fall into ruin, he their king.
2. Creation of Enkidu —the animal-man, discovered by hunters among
the animals at the watering
place —he delights in
their companionship.
3. Hunter, whose traps Enkidu opens, thus freeing his brothers the
animals, reports to his father, who fears the loss of their livelihood, their
way of life.
The son is sent to
Gilgamesh in Uruk, who tells him, as the father suggested, to send a harlot (a
courtesan) to Enkidu who will separate him from the wild animals of the
steppe.
4. The seduction of Enkidu by the harlot. The wild animals are
estranged and withdraw from him as predicted, leaving him afraid. The harlot
tries to build up his courage, to make him a man, to exercise the power he has.
She portrays Gilgamesh as an unjust ruler, a rival.
5. In Uruk, Gilgamesh lives in the temple, the inner sacred
enclosure, unaware as yet of the rivalry.
6. Enkidu becomes the protector of the hunters, killing the lion. He
presumes to conquer his rival Gilgamesh. The harlot now pretends to warn the
innocent-seduced one.
7. Gilgamesh dreams—the fallen star. His mother, Ninsun, explains the
coming of the stranger. A second dream heightens the apprehension.
ii
1.
Gilgamesh dreams of a
vying.
2. Enkidu blocks his passage into the Family House.
4. Enkidu wins Gilgamesh's consent to a draw.
iii
1. Gilgamesh craves adventure —to seek out and destroy Humbaba in the
forest of evil. The beginning for the two rivals —now friends —of entering the
forbidden, the threshold (marked by the possessive gods) of the quest for
immortality. Enkidu tries to
dissuade him, sensing its
danger —the danger of tampering with nature itself.
Enkidu encountered Humbaba before —his roaring is
the flood-storm.
Enkidu tries to keep Gilgamesh from the adventure
which will cause his own death.
2.
The elders and the people
encourage the fight with Humbaba, craving heroic action they lack.
3.
The two friends visit
Ninsun and hear her warning. Ninsun prays to the gods. She adopts Enkidu. She
warns each to guard the other, tries in vain to tell her son of his friend's
fate. The two vow loyalty.
iv
1.
The journey into night
(". . . the evening will find its way into me without me . . echoes in
Joyce).
3.
Enkidu encourages
Gilgamesh, who is weakening. (The animal will.)
4.
They arrive at the
forest. Enkidu shrinks.
Gilgamesh encourages him
onward.
5.
They arrive at the
mountain. All is hushed.
1.
Still, deep in their
consciousness the mountain is familiar.
2.
Gilgamesh awakes from a
dream-of a mountain falling.
3.
Enkidu thinks the dream
of "the graceful man" is favorable.
4.
In the morning Gilgamesh
begins clearing the forest —the sacred trees. The enraged Humbaba comes. They
fight. The monster-guardian is killed. Yet Enkidu warns it is not over.
vi
1.
Gilgamesh's victory,
bathing in the stream.
2.
The goddess Ishtar,
comes. She offers marriage and power ... to Gilgamesh. He knows marriage with
her would mean death and rule among the dead. He cites her victims to her face—animals,
men. . . . He rejects her mortal diadems. She flies to her father, Anu (benign,
detached), who agrees to let her inflict humankind with the Bull of Heaven (suffering,
drought) for this insult, but asks that a little be stored by for the survival of
these human servants to the gods. . . . The two friends have clearly gone
astray and need the lesson.
3.
Enkidu has a vision of
the gods in council deciding one of them must die because they cut down the
sacred cedars of the forest. Enkidu knows it will be he, not Gilgamesh, who is
part god, the son of Ninsun, a goddess.
4.
The gods decide. It is
Enkidu. He recalls the "door" of the forest that was death itself,
that lamed his hand, that gave the warning he disobeyed. It is now suspended
before him.
He curses the harlot for making him come to this
end. Gilgamesh says, "why do you curse? She made you like a man."
—"What is that?" Enkidu in his anger and despair asks. —"The
world will mourn you," Gilgamesh promises.-"What is that?"
Gilgamesh will wander over the steppe in search
of his friend's soul and bring it to peace, he promises. Enkidu recalls an old
homeless man and weeps.
5.
Enkidu dreams of his
rival-friend's power over him. He visits the underworld of the dead, the sought
for (in vain).
vii
1.
Enkidu tells his
already-grieving friend Gilgamesh he is a coward, that he can't bear this
suffering.
2.
Gilgamesh tells his
friend he is brave, and reminds him of their vows to safeguard each other,
always.
3.
Gilgamesh sees Enkidu
dying, cannot bear the evil that has risen from their victory to rob him of his
friend, falls into hysteria.
viii
An interlude. Out of each death there is another
movement-a further life —a quest renewed. The soul that is broken once by life
may fear but cannot grieve its own death. (Echoes in Thomas's " . . .
after the first death there is no other.")
Gilgamesh is terrified by shadows, the sight of
an animal, and yet in grief he puts on the skins of animals to be closer to his
friend. He enters the road toward the mountains of Mashu. He encounters the
scorpions (those at the end of the world, cf. Apocalypse) whose glance is
death. Scorpion man and wife, deniers of what is beyond them of hope.
He journeys to find his (spiritual) father in his
search for eternal life. He is always at thresholds of the forbidden.
Gilgamesh is told "go back to your
city." He sees in the scorpion man only a guard whose heart is bitter and
for whom he weeps but looks away. He must go on. It is his vow.
He enters the valley of tempting jewels he might
have shared with his friend Enkidu. He speaks his name —"Enkidu." The
loneliness now breaks his heart.
ix
1.
"Why do you
wander?" he hears from the ale wife, whose cottage is by the sea. She
takes him in though he is ravaged and wild with grief. Her offering is
guileless and wise, but it threatens to separate him from the sorrow which
binds him to his friend. (A woman first brought the friends together; a goddess
bound them by vows; Ishtar took away his friend's life; now Sidhuri, the
alewife, would separate him from his grief. He is wary of further loss.) She
detects in his despair his deeper longing, though she says "you are in
search of the wind." She tells him it is fruitful to stay with her and
raise a family, sterile and useless to go on: man's fate is death; only the gods
have life. He must go on.
2.
In mercy she tells him of
the boatman Ur- shanabi and the waters of death that only he can cross.
3.
He finds Urshanabi, who
tells him: "I have lost all my care for the living." But he takes
pity. He gives him a boat and poles. When the poles break, the boatman warns,
he mustn't touch the water, but use only his mind —nothing will help.
4.
The poles break on the
hidden reefs. He makes a sail of his clothes. He drifts across the sea of
death, arrives exhausted, weeps with his father.
5.
The father tells him the
truth.
1.
The narration of the
flood of Utnapishtim, his spiritual father —"The gods had chosen me; I did
not know why."
2.
The test of the loaves,
of Gilgamesh's capacity to stay awake.
3.
The old man Utnapishtim
tells the weary journeyer-that is, under the prodding of his sympathizing
wife-of the plant deep in the sea's garden.
4.
Gilgamesh returns to the
boatman; ties stones to his feet; descends into the water; seizes the plant;
his hands are cut by its barbs.
5.
He cuts loose the stones;
the sea casts him up on the shore.
6.
He tells the boatman he
is going to take the plant to Uruk to bring Enkidu back to life (or, to give to
Uruk all that it asked him to bring: eternal life in its soul).
7. He journeys homeword and rests, sees a well whose water is fresh
and cool. He strips and descends into it to bathe. A serpent comes and carries
the unguarded plant away, leaving behind only its slough.
I would be a fool if I
were unable to confess the spiritual crisis under which I grope toward this
retelling and its final internal resolution. Throughout the day. Until finally
it became intolerable to bear alone. I went out to a café in the early evening.
I sat alone at a small circular table sipping a cognac. At first I barely saw
the clochard begging a few tables away from the sidewalk. Some young punk
mocked him and then the clochard pulled up his sleeves and showed the brand
marks of a German concentration camp on his wrist. The young French punk mocked
him again and sarcastically scolded him for making a poor showing against the
Germans. The clochard in a sudden burst of sober defiance and wrath, spat out
"Merci! Merci!" and walked off.
Late that night I woke,
having dreamt that Gilgamesh and Enkidu were branded on my
wrists, though I knew immediately the clochard's suffering was of another order
far greater than my own. I remembered my own early experience of loss at my
father's death and the bankruptcy that followed, two brands never left behind,
anticipating others, but none of the same atrocious order.
In the morning (July 11)
I read a bit of the Iliad. The poet's cry: "Sing Goddess wrath
..." to pierce one's heart and then the others' violently before attaining
serenity. I felt defeated. I feel defeated still. There is a madness in
storytelling and retelling and a cry that is thrown out at the sea. If the cry
is not torn from one's own heart by what one sees and feels, it is not a cry at
all. My legs have been like jelly for hours. I leaned out my window for a
glimpse of something else and I looked minutely at the vines clinging with tiny
sucking shoots to the stone, each bearing the enormous weight unto itself,
their pale green leaves hanging breathless in the warm still air.
July 12 —Visit with Louis Massignon in his
study. I waited in his living room for forty-five minutes while he spoke first
with two other visitors, one a Moroccan communist, he later told me, the other
a young priest-to-be. The concierge told me on my way in (I have become
familiar enough for her confidences apparently) that many come to her door
asking to see the professor but few have the courage to go up. When we were at
last together he railed against injustice, particularly injustice against the
lowly. He told me he has made a vow —at seventy-six—that if a certain Algerian
who is wanted by both the French police and the Algerian terrorists comes to
the Muslim-Christian pilgrimage in Brittany later this month and is arrested,
he will enter prison with him. It is incredible, I thought; it is mad.
At times I feel like Melville's Ishmael signed on
the Pequod, yet the captain's wound is internal, his motivating power is not
revenge; he is hostly, he is not reclusive; he is open, he is not secretive; he
seeks the overthrow of every evil, one by one, not merely in general. ... He told
me today that he feels sometimes he is Don Quixote.
July 13—Brief visit with Pierre Gabrier to go
over some more of my translation. He was in a foul mood because his son Jean
accidentally broke an antique chair that belonged to a grandmother. He said bitterly
to his son, "Your dead brother was never so clumsy!"
I believe his immediate family members—his wife,
son, two daughters—have such dark circles under their eyes from his loving only
his dead son and their having to enter the world of the dead in order to find
his love. His wife, a blunt and normally happy, unbrooding woman, I think,
tells him off and on, "You are a beast, Pierre." It mellows him for a
moment. I know he'll turn full force on me when he discovers my continuing
friendship with Massignon.
Pierre quoted Claudel sensitively, saying that
"the first kiss is not a thing rehearsed but awkward and pure—the kiss of
God the same."
A touching line, but too much obsession with innocence
and purity for me. Pierre lapsed into another obsession, railing about
"the Russian and Chinese overruning my beloved violated and virginal
France, destroying the church and killing my wife and children." His eyes
blazed forth with his pseudo- prophetic nightmare. "The Algerians are
their agents - torturers, rapists, murderers, heathen forerunners of
Satan!"
If St. Bernard were to arise and preach his
Second Crusade all over again, Pierre would go with all his venom on his sword.
He's a lunatic. Yet he's also so gifted. In him there seems no correlation, no
way of linking to the world but through rage.
Later in my local café, just off rue Guynemer, I
read some pages of Gertrude Stein, who owed much, she said, to children, to
their fundamentally honest, astonished minds: Why does John's dog refuse to
eat? Yes, why, indeed? Ignazio doesn't like to study and when others read he
hides under the table. Yes, he does.
I felt freed.
What is a mosquito doing above the light?
Why does Erten have a birthmark on her cheek and
neck?
Why did Charlotte Jones die so young that no one has
remembered her until they're older and have their own grief?
Do only the aged's deaths "release us a
little," as said Santayana, whom Gertrude Stein commemorated once at his
birthplace in Avila?
Brittany, July 24—Early today, at
Binic, in Professor Massignon's summer house, he sat me down at his writing
table beside him and said "let's to work. We have a long road to go
together, though mine is nearly over." He told me various languages I must
learn, a fellowship I should seek, a university position I should have. ... I
knew he was seeking a disciple at this point and I knew I was not a disciple,
if for no other reason than my age and my lack heretofore of linguistic
preparation. He sensed my chagrin and embarrassment, leaned back a little in
his chair, and said "You are a poet. You understand the transpositions
from one language to another that the illiterate doesn't understand." It
seemed a veiled insult or, at least, a shy admission of disappointment. I recalled
Don Quixote's sidekick Sancho Panza. Am I the only fool available for this mad
journey together? He will have to tell me how to do everything, since I know
nothing about what he's doing, and he will have to repeat it, because a fool
is stupid even about what he knows. On the other hand, if I am foolish enough
to go along, I am also perhaps wise enough in my skepticism to keep him tied to
the earth a little while longer and detached enough to find my way alone when
his has ended. What else have I planned for my time anyway?
Paris, July 31—The
Muslim-Christian pilgrimage in Vieux Marché, near Plouaret, came and went July
25-26, without incident. Quiet, serene. Recitation of the Fatiha verses
of the Qur'an in the small Dolmen crypt beneath the Chapel of the Seven Saints.
Mel- kite Rite mass in the chapel above, the Muslim guests in the first two
rows, the mass conducted by Mgr Nasrallah and his assistant priest from St.
Julien le Pauvre in Paris. Night procession to the tantad (bonfire)
around which was recited a Breton Gwerz ("epic poem") about
the building of the chapel "before the world began." The next day:
visit to the "holy spring" with its "seven sources," once
known for its cure of blindness. Afterwards a "meal of Abraham," lamb
and couscous, with dancing and singing and storytelling, a grand occasion of
reunion. Bretons, North Africans, Parisians, others. The
Breton women's white
coiffs rocked like sails in the anonymous darkness toward the tantad.
August 2-Visit to St. Julien le
Pauvre. Mgr Nasrallah was conducting a mass with his assistant. Afterwards I
ate some breakfast in a salon du thé near Notre Dame. An exhibition of
paintings in the salon attracted my eye. Some were woodcut in quality—
primitive, simple, strong. Dino Cavallari, the painter's name. Strong deep
earth colors. Evoked the Breton mood again. I asked the proprietor his address
and immediately (audaciously) wrote a card asking to meet him and see more of
his paintings. I never did anything like that before. For some reason I believed
he would be interested in Gilgamesh.
Received a letter from Professor Massignon with a
press cutting about the pilgrimage, a response to my note of gratitude
following those three days. He wrote in English, a mixture of pen and type. (I
had mentioned Gilgamesh; my father's older brother who was blind; the death of
a college friend.)
[hand] My dear friend,
Your letter
alone would help me to hope, in this dark hour of my dear country, so fearfully
heartless. Two things, - the pilgrimage for the sake of a friend's resurrection,—and
light borrowed from blinds.
(as for
blind,-my right eye has lost 9/10 of its strength,—and my left is daily
decaying)
Friendship is
vowing towards immortality, it doesn't know the passing away of beauty (take
care), — because it aims towards the Spirit.
51 years ago I built my new life of Faith in
urging Our Lord to take out of Death (of sin) the friend who had led me
(indirectly) through his sin,—to eternal Love: teaching me in a crooked
way,—that love was to surrender, to be wrung from our inmost heart, — so as to
have only in mind His will, not mine.
[type] You have understood that what interests me
in this life, is to find the Well of Immortality, as your Gilgamesh; and, in a
rather extraordinary way, the VII Sleepers were shown to me by this
extraordinary mystic, Hallâj (crucified for love in Baghdad, in 922 of our era
= in 309 of the hegira) by the year of his death, 309 h., which is exactly
the number of the Sleep of the Seven in Ephesus according to the Qur'ân
(chapter 18). Hallâj said he would quicken the Seven from their sleep by his
crucifixion, — and it seems he left me that task after 1000 years; because I
published his "Tâsîn" (which, in arithmology is 300 + 9 = 309) in
1913, and had my main work (“Passion d'al-Hallâj") received in the
Sorbonne in 1922, the trial of Hallâj having begun in 913, and ended in 922. (I
am joking.)
The only goal: is to make the Dead get out of the
grave, and this implies taking prisoners out of their jail, and sinners out of
their sin. I think that love's kiss kills our heart of flesh, — it is the only
way to eternal life, which should be unbearable if among the dying
flowers, and the shrieking farewells of the overstretched arms of our spoiled
hopes. I think Compassion is God's pure act which burns forever, and be it in
Heaven or in Hell doesn't matter for me; because Hell is the everlasting gift
of His presence to the lonely heart who is longing amidst perishing fantoms,
and doesn't care to find any immortality if not in the pure loneliness of the
Holy One, this loneliness which the Holy Trinity enjoys forever, inside (and outside)
of the glory of His attributes, and of His creation. Hallâj said, on the cross:
"it is enough for the ecstatic to find his Only-One singled in
Himself." And that is the cup of immortality.
Brotherly to you, [hand] Louis Massignon
August 3 —One of my young
tutees, Eliso, from Madrid, age nine, said today in an alert moment that
Gertrude Stein would've admired: "the Siamese kitten never forgets those
he loves." Eliso otherwise yawns when I try to get him to study.
I wrote Thomas Merton about Massignon, the Breton
pilgrimage, other things.
The American army officer who lives across the
street erupted in the night, screaming, smashing glass. A French woman lives
with him. They have a little girl, five or six years old. I think they've left
him. He's been screaming and cursing for several days and nights,
intermittently. His voice echoes up and down the street and draws people to
their windows. Tonight the police came, six in a black van; two with machine
guns slung over their shoulders. Everything became silent. They went into the
building, then came out again and left. His cries resumed, low moans like a
wounded animal's then intensified, followed about an hour later by silence.
Unable to sleep I read some St. John of the
Cross—himself. I was reading, as always, for his "path," comparable
in some sense to the Buddhist, the Taoist, the Sufi "paths of Life,"
seeking from him an answer to "how to live?" after asking laboriously
"who am I?" and "what do I really want?" Is there a
Christian mystical "path"-a serious and sound one, that is—that is
not reserved only for clerical experts?
I considered "the ten steps of the mystic
ladder of Divine Love" ("this ladder of contemplative purgation")
(contrast the Buddhist Eightfold Path):
1.
Causes the soul to
languish ("if you find my Beloved, tell Him I am sick with love").
"In this sickness
the soul swoons as to sin and as to all things that are not from God, for the
sake of God Himself."
The soul "finds not
pleasure, support, consolation or abiding-place in anything whatsoever."
2.
Causes the soul to seek
God without ceasing. ("I will rise and seek the One Whom my soul
loves.")
3.
Causes the soul to work
and gives it fervor so it will not fail. ("Love teaches one how much is
due the Beloved.")
4.
Causes in the soul
habitual suffering because of the Beloved, yet without weariness.
Christ grants the soul
"joy" here and visits it, succouring it.
Jeremiah: "I have
rmembered you, pitying your youth and tenderness, when you went after me in the
wilderness."
In the absence of rest
and quiet, desire burns to ascend further.
5.
Causes the soul to desire
and long for God impatiently. The step of "hunger."
Every delay
becomes very long, amidst delusions of finding the Beloved before He is found.
The lover believes he must see the Beloved or die.
6. Causes the soul to run swiftly to God and touch Him again and
again; it runs without fainting to reason of its hope. The heart (charity) is
greatly enlarged within it.
7. Causes the soul to become vehement in its boldness and daring.
“Delight" in the Beloved.
8. Causes the soul to seize Him and hold Him fast without letting Him
go—for short periods of time only.
9. Causes the soul to burn with sweetness. The purified, the perfect
union with God.
10.
Causes the soul to become
wholly assimilated to God by reason of the clear and immediate vision of God
which it now possesses; the soul passes beyond the flesh.
In this last step of the secret ladder nothing remains
hidden. The Divine Essence consumes the soul. “For love is like fire. . .
" The soul wears the white of faith, the green of hope, the purple of charity
to protect it on its journey from its adversaries and enemies, the world, the
Devil, and the flesh.
In white the soul journeys invisible to Satan. In
green the soul sees the things of the world as dry and faded, dead and
valueless, drawn only to external life. In purple the soul goes forth from
itself in the dark night and from all things created “kindled in love with
yearnings. ..."
Above all, the soul desires union with God. That
is the secret in the heart.
The last chapter of the Dark Night evoked
a childhood house of terror: the living room where disembodied hands lifted
drinks and mouths opened to overabundant meals; the bedrooms where souls lay on
feather beds awaiting everything to come casually into them; the kitchen where
the cleavers hung; the attic where the child hid from abandoned mirrors, naked,
knowing nothing of the three garments and the threatening unholy disguises,
desiring nothing, performing childish perversities to himself. The house of my
sins, neo-Victorian, pseudo-Colonial, a mishmash of misunderstood designs, in
which I discovered the truth could be empty. Where I once broke a swinging crystal
chandelier to gain attention when the house was completely empty. Where my
father once lay in state. And the river: the soul walked from the house to the
river's edge, to the waters of the dead, where the mysterious darkness like a
giant anaconda up from its ledges at night, lay its head on the shore, watching
the wanderings of the spiritual child as he rushed to carry life down to the
dead.
The secret path is a path of terror unless there
is a blind guide to note the colors.
I thought of Gilgamesh and the alewife Sidhuri,
their "duet": she saying "O you are chasing the wind" and
he, unaware she is prefiguring the spiritual truth that is to come, "I
will go on."
Such an epic must take form in the circular movement
of one's spiritual life. One must pray with it to attain its spontaneity and
simplicity-until it will begin and return of itself.
August 4-Some misgivings the
morning after due to my uncertainty about two things: both the Eightfold Path
and the Ten Steps: the one encouraging the cooling down, the other the
heightening of desire; the one aiming at serenity, the other ecstasy, result
ideally in compassion (I'm not sure how). Both, the one believing in the
absence of union, the other in the totality of union, lay claim, as it were
subtex- tually, to the virtue of balance (how is it achieved?). The way to the
goals of compassion and balance in both cases, however opposite they seem, lies
in the absence of obsession about either and in the overcoming of the
erroneous self, the one through immersion in nothingness, the other in God.
But what do I know?
Nemo scit utrum amore an odio dignus sit.
Furthermore, time seems to hang on the poet, as
Yeats says, like a tattered robe, only on the saint like nakedness.
August 17—A letter from Massignon in
Binic dated August 13, written after his return from an International Congress
in Denmark. He refers to August 13 as the “Ninth of Ab among pious Jews who
mourn and fast for the two destructions of Jerusalem (Nebuchadnezzar's and
Titus's) and recite the CL Psalms.''
Today I have
said the CL Psalms turned by the spiritual glance towards the Wall of Tears,
where I have so often prayed (for the last time on Jan. 28, 1959). Strangely
enough the very ground on which you must stand to pray before the Wall (ouside
the Haram of the El-Aksa Mosque) belongs to a "waqf" (pious Muslim
foundation) of Tlemcenian Algerians (refugees from Spain since the XIVth
Century), and since 1948 I have induced the French government, responsible for
this foundation for poor Maghribi pilgrims, to pay (between 2 and 6 million
francs annually) for maintaining the waqf. I inspect it personally every year,
with an Inspector, an Algerian Muslim; in 1955 and 1956, he was this professor
from Setif, my friend Hajj Lounis Mahfoud, who founded (or renewed) with me the
devotion to the VII Sleepers, and who was killed on June 5th, 1957. I strongly
believe that this waqf being “indivisible" from the Wall of Tears, is the
cornerstone for the Jewish- Muslim reconciliation; and as soon as 1949, with the
French Consul General in Jerusalem, we had begun to try to enable (but the
Jordanian Govt, was obdurate and unjust) the Jews to come and pray at the Wall
on the Ninth of Ab. Next year do say the CL Psalms on that day as I did this
very year.
Yours brotherly, Louis Massignon
I wrote a letter to Gabrier, who is vacationing
in Brittany (not near Binic). I was responding to a pious poem called
"Flagellation" he wrote and sent me:
"un poème est une petite voie à la liberté
d'ésprit—surtout quand sa source est cachée et il y révèle beaucoup des portes
d'entrée, dans les images. . . .
"Votre poème a une porte cachée, une prière
d'une âme tendre et fragile qui voudrait faire un mot simple et spontané
(comme on fait à la bien-aimée), mais il y a seulement un cri répété. C'est le
sens de l'ennemi que 1' empêche et l'attachment à la pureté (l'absence
d'image) que fait la liberté impossible."
But I didn't send it, of course.
We ask who we are, what are our gifts, where
should we be, how should we live, incessantly until we are chosen to do
something we know, are inspired to do it, right where we are with the means at
our disposal.
Through Arnold Smit a visit with a chubby, bouncy
Dutch priest, Father Thiessen, who was on a brief stopover in Paris on his way
to Rome. He is a Passionist father, a linguist (Latin, Greek, Hebrew, French,
English, German, Spanish, Italian, Dutch), and a swift judge of people's
concerns and interests. We met on a street near l'Odéon and talked exhaustively
in situ. He had a book by Newman, whom he praised for
"balance." He was pleased I knew his friend Daniélou ("he's
daring"). He said Mauriac and Bernanos had too many traces of Jansenism
and obsessed too much about sin. He said Massignon was "a genius"
("absolutely amazing gifts once for discovering and reading texts").
At the end he said to me in parting, "so, be yourself," and hurried
off.
August 27—A conversation with Père
Henri Gazelles, Massignon's nephew, in his study at the Institute Catholique
on rue de Vaugirard. Mostly about Gilgamesh and what he called "the
effortless vision of human civilization running through the story: the anger at
his corruption by the people of Uruk-their need for heroism—their sending their
king out on a hopeless voyage to conquer evil —their king being
heroic but tragically
unequipped to carry the plant back to them: in a deep sense their fool."
And a bit about Indian philosophy ("the essence of intuition") seeing
human life directly, its nature—as opposed to its dialectic. He spoke of the
Chinese and Mexican civilizations — "their aged wisdom." He came back
to Gilgamesh: "it is a real picture of life before death, not a prophesy
of purgatory. This unknowing of what's to come is very deep and crucial in the
story."
This sense of unknowing of Utnapishtim given immortality
without knowing why; Gilgamesh given impatience, a tragic gift for him, for
there is in it no sense of hope, only heroic determination; he loses the plant,
and we are never told why. Intuitively we know he must, but what do we know? It
may be, it may not be. The ambiguity is not our typical professional
intellectual's playfulness with options. It is much deeper. It is the depth we
must fathom and where the secret of the story and its inspiration for retelling
lies. And once seized, it will be lost again. "You must know that depth to
tell of it."
I walked alone afterwards for hours through the
Paris streets, noticing nothing of the city, seeing only the story unfolding
scene by scene, feeling the terrible sorrow of Gilgamesh for his friend Enkidu,
hearing Gilgamesh's promise to give his friend a royal funeral; feeling tears
burst from his eyes and, deeper, feeling the knot inside his stomach, his guts,
at the inexplicable death of friendship, and the desperate desire and vow to
keep his friend alive; crying out to Utnapishtim to give the secret, hearing
the old man's wife say "Give him the secret—he has suffered so."
August 29-I visited Mlle David, a
French scholar who has worked on Gilgamesh, in her small apartment near the
Sorbonne. Père Gazelles had insisted that one must not use this epic in a
polemical way, and now I am reminded why. Mlle David finds in the story not a
tragic poet's vision but the affirmation of the perfect man who through his own
heroism overcomes the animal in man. She attaches much polemical (even
political) hope to this: to his ability to create his own destiny. My own
contrasting perspective dates to my own first reading, in 1954, when I was
struck deeply by the poet's vision of the irony of human life, the faultiness of
human thinking, and the piercing attachment of the human heart. It is a heroic
epic in the formal sense of the hero's bombast, fighting scenes, impossible
undertakings, and the rest; but the hero's flaws are always apparent and the
poet has no illusions drawn from a more glorious past to feed his audience. The
human tragedy is paramount as it is in Sophocles and Shakespeare, stripped even
more in its basic nobility of spirit than theirs. For Mlle David, if I
understand her in conversation and in her published article correctly, the
Gilgamesh idea is a dialectic, not a story. But, then, she also believes
that Bacon authored Shakespeare's plays.
August 30—There is a tradition
that an epic precedes a drama: the epic is the real vision of a civilization's
interior condition projected whole; the drama is the crisis of that
civilization lived in each man's heart. Perhaps the sequence is reversed for us
now, given our quite proper insistence on particulars and, as a consequence,
our quite natural anxiety in the face of universalizing metaphors. Yet metaphor
there will be, and it will not come merely as the result of accumulation of
particulars. It will come, as it has for every civilization, through deep
feeling and simple grasp of what evokes that feeling most profoundly.
August 31 —Notes arrived today
from T. Merton and L. Massignon, both in anguish:
(excerpt) Merton: "When it is dark, it is
dark, and you go in the dark as if it were light. Nox illuminatio mea.
The darkness itself is our light, and that is all. The light remains, simply,
our every day mind, such as it is, floating on a sea of darkness. . . . Tell
your friends there to pray for me because I need prayers at the moment."
(excerpt) Massignon: "Mme Chauffin is in a
great trial. Pray for her. . . . The 'rescue' of our ultras by the racists of
Australia, South Africa, etc., in the Algerian question, makes me shudder.
Sodom has been doomed, not for unnatural crime, but when they asked of their
guest Lot to surrender his Guests, so as to abuse God's Angels. What are we
doing with the 'regrouped Muslim women and children,' graciously put under the
care of our soldiers, to 'mend their morals' and induce them to love our stick
and whip? My dear country is getting 'possessed' by evil spirits. And the
cowardice of our Cardinals and Bishops keeps me awfully in AWE."
September 2—On the positive side
Merton also said (excerpt): "One of the most fascinating things I have had
my hands on in a long time is that offprint of Louis Massignon about the Seven
Sleepers. It is tremendous, and I want to know more about all those places and
things. Especially the dolmen. . . . How would you like sometime at your
leisure to do into English the Breton Gwerz?"
Which I mentioned to L.M. on the phone late
yesterday and to which he responds in a note just received today (excerpt):
"Dear Friend, Henri Gazelles is not only an exegete but a man. As for
Thomas Merton, I must provide him with all four parts of my technical study of
the Seven Sleepers printed by Geuthner. Give me his address, which I need to
thank him. I think Mme Chauffin has given to the VII two very high supporters,
your friend Merton, through you, and Cardinal Ko nig of Vienna" Signed,
"Yours friendly (in Gilgamesh and Enkidu)."
September 3—A montage: Monique, a
secretary who lives across the hall, came back from vacation in Spain with a
rash on her chin which she has painted with a pink powder. She is usually
smiling and now she is forced to be serious. Unlike the woman in the
boulangerie with the enormous set of false teeth who is grumpy but is forced to
always smile. I smell baked potatoes and hear the glass cutter in the street
below —a sharp, almost squealing call; several panes of glass in a case
strapped to his back and bending him over, like Atlas holding up a transparent
building. There is a small boy across the street on a very high balcony that
has chicken wire around it. He's looking down at me and I'm waving up. When I
stop reading poetry, I forget everything but the spirits of poets. Even less
than do Lot's angels, they have nothing hostly then enabling them to enter the
city. Thoughts in the boat, drifting on the waters of the dead, on a voyage
that knows no other side. The wind has ceased. Becalmed. The shirt I've tied to
the remains of an oar hangs down like half an empty body clung to wood. He who
dreamed of stars to be read and of mountains to be scaled, silent and immobilized.
Who bathed at the sacred wells that cure the blind, tired of the boat's
stillness on the stagnant sea inside himself. The broken oars, the dry eyes,
the dip upward of the green liquid in an absinthe glass touching an old
concierge's lips.
September 6—Pierre
Gabrier appeared at my door unexpectedly this evening. He sat down in the
"living room" part of my small flat. I fixed some coffee and offered
some pastry, which he refused. He seemed very agitated and his first words
—since he has no small talk like "how are you"—were a harangue
against the modern world, the materialism of Americans, all the familiar and
obvious things I knew were not what brought him to visit me. Slowly he began to
inquire about my friendship with Massignon. With alarm in his face more than
words on his lips he conveyed an attachment to me I had not suspected. I think
I had actually come to be something of a poor replacement for his dead son. He
told me that he had gone to Massignon after his son's drowning and asked him if
his son was in Heaven. Massignon, he said, told him "no one can be sure
where the soul goes or if it has any value at all or exists. ..." Even the
diction (in French) was uncharacteristic of Massignon's sometimes herky- jerky,
elaborative, digressive style, but I said nothing. My silence disturbed him
greatly. He said suddenly, "1 want to warn you against him. He told
me himself that he had once committed the sin of Sodom." I said nothing.
It seemed to me none of my business. He stood up and walked to the door. His
eyes were at the point of bursting into tears, of humiliation and rage, not
grief, and I wanted to tell him none of it mattered to me and we were still
friends, but he left with neither of us saying anything more.
After he left I felt heaviness all around. Grief.
Unnaturalness. Death. Loss. The weight of his son's loss upon him. His
terrible yearning for purity.
I hated being placed between these two men. I
could feel time running out for me in France, regardless of how long I actually
stay. I feel indebted to Pierre for introducing me through his book to St. John
of the Cross. I feel indebted to Massignon for a generosity not so clearly
determined.
News earlier that Père Jean de Menasce has
suffered a paralytic stroke in Geneva and has not regained his speech. Yvonne
Chauffin phoned me. She also said she's trying to find me "une
situation" in Paris with a publishing friend. But I know all this must
come to an end, if I believe the poem of "the reader of hearts"
(al-Hallaj), that the Secret of my Friend I came to find must be buried with me
in my inmost soil, watered from the cups of serving maids in order for a new
and sacred plant to grow in seven days.
September 7—1 made a rather bizarre
configuration of the "secret steps" and the cliché "house of
cards" stimulated by Mlle David's note this morning about the serpent's
eating the plant that Gilgamesh left unguarded “comme il faut." It
suggests, I'm not sure to what end, a negative "path of life" through
necessary losses.
The first room of the house of cards is Sodom and
the tendency toward any inward perversity derived from excess or loss of
personal attachment.
The second room is the seemingly inextricable
fear of death for oneself, an animal fear.
The third room is the readiness of argument born
of cowardice, a deprivation of spiritual liberty in oneself and its denial to
others: a need of patience in the rooms.
The fourth room holds one in fear of darkness,
fear to descend the stairway to the room below that is filled with moonlight
and a black shadow around its edges.
The fifth room is the fear of invasions of what
one holds delusively in private. It is the room of perpetual introspection.
The sixth room is the room of isolation and
manufacture of false lights.
The seventh room is the room of entertainment of
Satan in a danse macabre, the handholding of the living with the dead,
the sensual grasp of the fragile fingers on one's spoiled hopes, the
penultimate perversion.
The eighth room, which few experience, is the
room of emptiness, where we scramble up through the antennae on the roofs of
our hellish cities and we begin to fly out of our tangled metal forests, out of
all false communication.
I recall Baudelaire's Benediction
(excerpt): "Et dont les yeux mortels, dans leur splendeur entière,/ Ne
sont que des mirois obscurcis et plaintifs!"
I think I am not in Paris but Uruk, at least in
my mind.
Yvonne phoned late. I confided my being put in
the middle by Gabrier's jealousy. She said she learned painfully that
"death is death; it demands a release." She said Pierre risks loss of
his faith and his reason by refusing to release his son's death. She said that
his crisis which colors his whole worldview stems from the fact that before his
son drowned in Lake Geneva they had quarreled over something quite banal and he
doesn't to this day know if his son drowned from despair or by accident, since
he was an excellent boatsman and swimmer.
She spoke again of my "situation."
"Bifteck, sans crise, est très bon pour l'inspiration."
I wrote a brief note of appreciation to Mlle
David for sharing her article. I reaffirmed what Eliot has made clear, that
there is a vast region of interdependence between the poet and the scholar,
especially as long as each resists the temptation to draw the other's
conclusion.
September 9—A letter from T. Merton
dated Sept. 3 arrived this morning (excerpt):
The main
purpose of this immediate reply is that I want to say how deeply moved I am at
this idea of Louis Massignon's that salvation is coming from the most afflicted
and despised. This of course is the only idea that makes any sense in our time.
It is the key to our time or to any other time. It is the great idea of the
Bible, the Prophets, everything. I have been obsessed with it for a long time,
and this picture has something to do with it. It is not a very good photograph,
lacks all contrast and all light-and-shadow. It is of a statue of the Bl.
Virgin I had done for the novitiate by a sculptor in Ecuador. The idea is
precisely that of Louis M. The Holy Mother is the Indian woman of the Andes,
the representative of all that is most abject, forgotten, despised and put
aside. The artist, who is a bit of a leftist if not a red, caught on to the
idea very well, and the face of the Mother is terrific. It has precisely the
kind of blindness, the withdrawnness in a great mystery of poverty and darkness
and strength. There are barely any eyes at all. It is like a rock, and yet warm
and full of life. As for the child, however— the Christ, the Resurrection to be
born from the despised peoples of Mexico and the Andes—He is full of joy and
triumph and holds in His hand a completely mystical bit of fruit invented by
the sculptor, which is the only lively and ornate thing in the whole work and
is very effective: it is salvation.
I wanted you to see this
thing, beautifully done in mahogany from the jungles of South America, and
carved in the Andes, with the spirit of the Andes and of the peoples who live
here. It expresses something with which I am very much concerned and for which
I ask many prayers. It makes me able to tell you that I am in complete
solidarity with you and Louis Mas- signon on this point and that I want badly
to go ahead, as God may permit, in somewhat the same direction, but over here.
Your account
of Gilgamesh is tremendous. I will have to get the epic. I had heard of it of
course in connection with Genesis. I will be rereading your poem in the light
of the summary you send and will write more about it later. I just wanted to
get this picture into the mail for you and Massignon. By the way, I want to put
something about Hallaj in the book I am writing, and have nothing at hand. Can
you lend or send me anything? The book is all about inner experience,
intuition, the inmost self that sees in and through our whole being, and not
just through intellectual constructions—which too often are a veil between us
and experience, deliberately woven to frustrate immediate experience . . .
God bless both
you and Louis—thank you for your words on my Pasternak article. Here is another
offprint that just came in.
Faithfully and
affectionately in Christ,
Tom
September 13 —Liberty may finally
be the effortless ability to listen and be joyous at the discoveries of
another.
September 23—A visit with
Massignon in his study. He looked old, his eyes looked weak, tonight. He said
cryptically: Claudel said there is one thing worse than being deceived: having
the self given the things it wants.
He talked about the desert—the coldness at night;
the possibility of being drowned suddenly in a downpour; the prayer of a
downpour; the solitude. He spoke of the Seven Sleepers' wells south of Vieux
Marché; the madman hallucinating mirrors around himself in the desert; the end
of matter by thought. "We are such weak creatures," he said in an
old, almost tinny voice. I think he is a bit of an actor, an exaggerator, like
us all. "We feel the terror of truth - that it comes in a destruction of
ourselves —and we desire it by loving it before we know the price it is going
to exact from us. It exacts from us the strangest of things, which we cannot
exact from one another and expect to live: that we cease thinking of the world
through the eyes of those we love—that we literally 'aim' towards the Spirit,
the 'shadow' behind the candle (which is suffering). That we cease indulging
our sorrow over a world devoid of someone we love. The Father, for the sake of
man, forgot His Only Son, so that man could take Him in his heart and carry
that transfusion into others, throughout the intricate veins of humanity. The
very form of man is strange —and the weak, weak spirit inside him is only
weakened more by sudden fires. The secret of humanity is found in the
silent," he said, "especially silent women."
He paused and we sat for awhile without speaking.
Then he said. "You must not think our suffering that comes when we are old
and sick of ourselves is the same as that of children or of Christ Himself,
God's only Son." He was silent again. Then he said, "Because there
are things we can't endure, why does God prolong us so?"
Late at night, long after the visit, I realized
that in sharing another's depth, I may understand, but it remains his. I
wonder if friendship is born of each one's glimpse in the other of his own
yearnings for joy.
October I-Gabrier paid me
another surprise visit but this time he came with the sole intent, he said, to
read me several poems of Baudelaire, which he read beautifully from an
elegantly bound volume, leaning back in the couch, seemingly calm. At the end,
just before he left, he asked me if I'd seen Massignon again. I said yes. His
lips trembled and he tried to hide his anguish in a smile. He embraced me in
the doorway and said he hoped I liked his reading. I did. Earlier in the day I
was handed bread in a boulangerie by a dwarf. Now, when life is strange, how
else can we understand but to cry?
November I—Books arrived in the
mail from Massignon, his edited Akhbâr al-Hallâj full of accounts of the
mystic's life, the Diwan of al-Hallaj's poems, and the tomes dealing
with the Seven Sleepers. I read for hours.
The fog in Paris was thick today. Cold drizzles
of rain. Late in the day I attended the opening of the exhibition of Sacred Art
at the Musée Moderne with the artist Dino Cavallari, who told me "blue is
the evocation of spirit - simple, pure-amidst the architectures of new
harmonies." We walked among the works in silence, without needing to say
anything or prove agreement or justify disagreement.
Late at night I thought Massignon was speaking,
or did I dream his words that man might not be damned for sin but for his
refusal to live with a broken heart-and Al-Hallaj's words that the Devil is
damned for all the sufferings, watching suffering evolve salvation unable to
drink of it. I sat up in bed seeing al-Hallaj dancing in his chains.
December 3—A note from Massignon
written December 1, the anniversary of Charles de Foucauld's assassination (in
1916). He wrote: "the Fascists in France have tried to trick me by sending
me a Catholic bishop who was with Juin and the others. Juin has sent a letter
to deGaulle threatening him. These men are desperate. And the worst thing, they
are trying to keep colonialism alive by wearing the insignia (the cross and
heart) of Charles de Foucauld, trying to make him stand as the saint of
colonialism." The note was waiting for me on my return from a few days in
Vézelay. He wishes to see me before he leaves for Cairo, Damascus, and
Jerusalem December 13. He has gotten a letter from Merton he wants to share. He
recalled two days he spent in Vézelay in 1911 "meditating in
solitude."
December 5—A brief visit with
Daniélou and afterwards, a few doors down, with Massignon. Both had received
letters from Merton, the latter's with an enclosed sort of Indian poem on
wisdom (one of Merton's "transformations," so to speak, not a
translation). Massignon gave me two more of his own offprints. He also suggested
I call on an old friend of his in his absence, a Jesuit, Père d'Ouince, who he
said was his spiritual guide during the Occupation.
He spoke of two friends: first, Claudel,
referring to his description of the universe as a rose whose petals are still opening
and beyond the edges of which there is nothing, not even the scent. He said
Claudel was a sculptural poet who began in prose but rarely, unlike Baudelaire,
reached the inner rhythm that is true poetry. Claudel, he said, like a sculptor
could not consider things infinite, but was a finitist, seeing only the ends,
the limits, the fixities.
Second, Chardin, referring to a visit together
once in New York when Chardin was gravely ill and fearful of dying away from
France and of his, Massig- non's, telling him it was his vocation to die in New
York. Chardin, he said, was an optimist; he believed deeply in a movement
toward Omega, which was for him the heart of Christ. Chardin felt we were
moving on, constantly on—that the present was an unmeasurable time. That is
very metaphysical, he said; perhaps not so human or mystical, though harmonizing
in its way. On the other hand, Einstein showed that a straight line curves and
returns to itself.
He told me he has found it difficult waking or
rising, yet suddenly he simply gets up; he wonders if he can get up, then he
does. "It shall be that way after death. And we shall return into His
body.
"Matter is important, just as numbers are.
Everything is built on numbers, as we know since Mendeleev's series and Planck's
constant. But," he said, after mentioning Fibonaccis' series and Cantor's
transfinite numbers and his Aleph, "I am not an arithmetic Teilhard de
Chardin to attempt the 'reconstitution' of the cosmos on Cantorian theorems,
and I humbly use whole (I mean 'integer') numbers, God's given numbers, as said
Dedekind-the others are merely our human invention.
"We are corrupt in
body, but Our Lord took our body and it was pure. The incarnation tells us
nothing is to be despised. Despising echoes in despair. God is liberty. We know
it in His love. We know it especially when we know our prison. At times when we
are ignorant of the prison, we think we are free and we despise love; we mock;
we are like those who have grown old inside, losing joy, risking something worse
than death: the kiss of death and damnation is for one to think anyone, no
matter who or what, is unworthy of liberation."
In the silence that
followed I thought of something Yvonne Chauffin told me once: of his visit to a
young woman dying in a Paris hospital. He pierced through the visiting hours
screen and sat with her. She came out of unconsciousness to recognize him and tried
to raise her hand to him (he kissed it) and said "au revoir."
"Oui," he replied, "au revoir." In the grayness of
hospitals I know there is no sentimentality in that.
He speaks of others as if
he himself were a stranger. He says this is the strange joy one knows as one
grows older.
He spoke of steps or
rather "hops": that somehow life was taking jumps for him —sudden
thrusts, instantaneous movements forward: "we note changes
suddenly."
"I feel old and weak
yet lighter," he said.
When I stood up to leave
he embraced me. His hands felt like what I imagine Abraham's hands must have
felt like to those he received as guests.
"Visit Père
d'Ouince," he told me, "with the same simplicity."
December 12 —Visit with Père
d'Ouince. Tall, thin, calm. Massignon had told me this priest had been
imprisoned and tortured by the Germans. His eyes are dark and deeply lined,
seeming to look out through shadows into light. He asked me of my
"itinéraire" (meaning experience). I had nothing similar to offer.
His patience and attentiveness seemed almost unnatural (I am hesitant to say
supernatural, for I don't know what this means) or other than normal. He
seemed to absorb and harmonize the apparent plainness of the receiving room—the
wooden table, the two straight chairs, the colorless walls—with his very
fragility.
In contrast I discovered I harmonized little,
perhaps nothing. I remember reading Ste. Thérèse's way of encountering the
terrible grating of another's prayers, "harmonisé" somehow. But I was
horrified by the cruel effects of his experience still visible upon his face
and hands.
He stared at me a moment of extraordinary stillness
after I had had a rush of words. He said, "Perhaps you will write in
solitude something that will touch the interior of the public. Maybe two or
three things. Then gradually stop, for the most profound work will not be
popular nor will you know its reward."
I asked him if he knew Gabrier's book on St. John
of the Cross I had been translating now for over a year. He said quietly
"it is a vulgarisation of St. John of the Cross." Painfully I
had come more and more to the same conclusion. Mystical love seen under the
tortured eyes of personal grief can be made monstrous, can in fact select only
what is monstrous to explore and exploit. This is one realm—mystical love—that
must be hidden from "use." For in personal grief, for instance, the
"épreuve" is indeed unbearable and the mortification of self can be
almost enjoyed. It is a poet's, not a mystic's, book. Perhaps poets have less
courage and discipline than mystics when they encounter truisms in actual
experience. The poet seeks to build a bridge to an audience for his discovery,
the mystic accepts the chasm in obscurity as it is.
I learned much from Père
d'Ouince's words and from his silence.
December 15—Gabrier
phoned and asked me to meet him in a café, not in either of our homes. I had to
do some research at the Bibliothèque Nationale for a new translation I was
undertaking and we agreed to meet in a small café we both knew in the Marais
district. We had coffee and some pastry and he told me of a new novella he is
working on which, he said, is a kind of synthesis for him: a dialogue in a
church between a young intellectual "penseur" priest and a clochard
who has come in to sleep after having hurt his leg in a fall. The clochard was
the rich man who could not follow Christ and who, in fact, "killed"
his son who had intentions toward the priesthood. The drama is one in which the
priest is forced to encounter despair: the profound theme of a father's
"murdering" a son who is "poorer" than he. The priest is
poor; he has no history, no complication; he is empty, charitable, at peace
with himself. The clochard brings his exhaustion into the church as his only
offering.
He stopped. He said he goes from optimism to
pessimism about the work. We said little more apart from — something new for
us—pleasantries. Later on my walk home I went into the church of St. Séverin,
Huysmans' church, and sat in the shadows for awhile along with two nuns
(Sisters of Charity).
I suppressed until the evening what Gabrier had
said to me apart from pleasantries and the account of his novella; that is, his
droning again about Mauriac and Sartre (leaving Massignon out of the
triumvirate for a change): more like literary gossip than criticism, though the
line between the two is not clear to me. He said both are "méchants."
He said (without personally knowing either) that Sartre is not friendly and
can be dangerous with certain persons for he is deeply perverse; Mauriac is
contradictory in other ways. I commented only on Mauriac's praise of Sartre to
me. He laughed and recounted some of the negative things M. had said about S.
in print. What strikes me as important in S., especially in the present-day
context of France in which I find myself, is his focus "en bas."
Besides, in this context who isn't in some way perverse? Gabrier confided that
what he fears most for himself is "solitude sans fin."
What is the source of this ubiquitous perversity
of which everyone speaks, writes, murmurs, indulges? The wars, occupations,
displacements, forced exiles, murders-have they collectively left humanity
twisted out of any normal shape, incapable of communicating with one another
except unnaturally and illicitly? Is the answer that clear? Can we find company
only in perverseness? Does perversity have its ecstatic moments that leave
shadows after it imprisons, terrible nights of terror in unnaturalness until
for awhile it seems normality? No wonder poets find in mystical writings the
guides through their dark nights without considering-without being able to
consider-the distinction between authenticity and vulgarization of experience?
Are only negative transformations occurring under the self-guidance of faulty
thinking? Of course, it could occur also perhaps had there been no such wars,
occupations, atrocities, etc., by anyone's simply replacing the guide with the
self. Who is the guide? and when has the human context ever been devoid of the
possibility of perversity under the guidance of faulty thinking? Somehow the
beginning of the quest for true guidance must start with the questioning of
contextual evidence for the possibility of its subtle transformation into
personal excuse.
And what is true poverty of spirit? Certainly not
propaganda.
December 24 —St. Anselm says
"I will not turn my eyes even if a whole creation cries."
But the poet turns his eyes at every florescence
the world ignites, however artificial or strange or ugly or untimely or
irrelevant it proves to be.
We know who we are by what compassion, not mere
curiosity, guides us to see.
Merton sent me a recent book of his for Christmas
called Nativity Kerygma, an odd-shaped book, four inches wide, about
eighteen inches long: from nativity to resurrection.
Perhaps I am not overly "religious" if
my main consideration after reading it on Christmas eve is not its celebration
of the idea of transcendent oneness and the joy one feels in the diversity of
creation, in each tiny birth, but rather the world as it is, the repugnance of
nationalism, and the sentimentality of internationalism.
The serpent devours the plant. For us it is the
only way to understanding.
December 27—Reading Racine's Phèdre
(roughly translated "Your grace makes me a criminal." "O my son,
what hope have I killed in you!"). The scene between Phèdre and Hippolyte,
just after the news of Theseus' death, is indeed unbearable.
As I am an amateur, my thoughts written here are
idle and of no importance beyond companionship in solitude. To me, the play's
passion and irony unfold like a trick of architectural perspective (like the
coolly conceived ceiling in Rome's San Ignazio basilica, not through a
multiplicity of conflicting characters and relationships, as in Shakespeare):
through interiorly constructed dimensions, mathematically correct, along long
alley ways through arches: suddenly each dimension reveals itself, but somehow
without surprise. At times I find myself bending it, deliberately moving
something out of place, vulgarizing it imaginally, just to endure it.
The Greek consciousness washes more vitally on my
shore directly than through Racine's siphon. I need to look out again at its
sea to understand the land with its suffering humanity, its fallible leaders,
its wasted seed. It makes the "nuit obscure" plausible as an
auditorium in which a poet can call upon Calliope to help him sing the story he
is given.
December 30—Late afternoon with
Dino and Francesco in their studio. Francesco, now six, was drawing on a pad on
the floor around the feet of his father, who was working on a large oil of the
Last Judgment. Dino has made a four-paneled frame for his son's bed covered
with frescoes—blendings of abstract forms, line drawings of primitive animals,
and strong naturalistic human figures with arched backs, suggesting Noah's Ark.
There is a mixture of quiet compulsion and dramatic simplicity moving through
all the work of his I've seen thus far.
Over an Italian aperitif he told me he had become
"calme" in character following the war, his release from confinement
by the Germans first and, later, the Americans as a prisoner of war and
prisoner-of- war suspect respectively, and, finally, after two operations for
injuries. He told me that a medium said he would nearly die twice but would
recover. He has six boxes of sculpture in the sous-sol, but his health
and the size of the apartment won't permit him to do any more. One day maybe
they will have a larger place, he hoped. Meanwhile, he is not anxious.
The entrance downstairs —19 rue Malte-Brun—is
dark. Impossible to find the light button and, if you do, the light stays on
about three seconds. Same on the winding stairway. The building smells of the
old concierge's cats no longer cleaning themselves. Once you enter the
Cavallari's two small rooms, however, the world becomes illuminated and large.
Two small paintings on wood caught my eye: One of
a man bent over looking at his hunting dog, the other of a peasant woman
walking past a tree. The red of the hunter's coat and the faded red of the
woman's apron, the brighter red of a bird's wing barely visible in the tree,
the browns of the earth, the humor in the hunter's sinister black hat. He said
an American woman from New York had recently asked him to paint two larger oils
of these studies for her penthouse studio collection.
Being even less an art critic than I am a
literary critic, I thus declare Picasso a thematic artist, Rouault an apocalyptic,
Cavallari a naturistic. Picasso religious aesthetically, Rouault
devotionally, Cavallari organically. Cavallari finds religion in nature
(animals, trees, rivers, buildings, clay, soil, hats, fingers): everything is
animate. He is not an ideologue or message giver like the other two nor an
experimentalist like Picasso. He is in touch with forces moving in things; a
kind of geologist who works in pigments mixed with water and oil and any other
metals or minerals he can get his hands on. He is genuinely pagan, I believe,
like a Breton druid out of the dolmen past. It will take time for him to be
"discovered," because he is not easily recognizable like the other
two; but he seems to have time even if he exists, for want of being
"discovered," in an everdiminishing space. The more he paints, the
more he diminishes himself in his manageable space. He witnesses something rare
in art: the calmness of the earth, the possibility of life without anxiety, the
existence of a "way" outside time through communion with nature
before time began. Yet his work is dramatic, more naturally so than that of
the politically or theologically conscious dramas of the other two—to me. But
the other two's very prominence in setting the taste for our generation in
aesthetics and theology of religious art will delay the discovery of Dino's
work for a long time, I believe, because one has to see with more than
the eye and the text to recognize his art; one has to see the movement of
stones.
He told me, quite apart
from the above, that he didn't like to paint men and women until they become
fathers and mothers. The look in the eyes between his son and his wife, he
said, was pure, simple, profound.
He doesn't talk about art
in theories; he prefers to talk about family or nature. Things must exist
before he can talk of them, and then for the most part he prefers to
contemplate them, not to talk.
He likes painting
animals, especially birds, butterflies, bison, dogs. One painting of Moses
suggests by the strength of the head and upper body, even the arch of the back,
the existence and familiarity of the "paradise" of animals, their
kindredness, and their natural grace of movement, surrounding him.
I feel with Dino that I see
"the universe" of woods and stars and light. One painting of Christ,
a small figure standing with his companion John the Baptist at a stream with
birds in a tree and a dog at their feet, is alive through kindredness;
quieting, conclusive. The rhythm and simplicity owes much to Giotto perhaps,
at least to pre-Renaissance painters, but is clearly his own contemplation. His
self and times disappear before his art, which of course makes him less
accessible than most contemporaries. He is hidden, perhaps even intimidated by
the times that have confined and impoverished him. Perhaps these are the
"operations" (of self and times) he has undergone that have made him
both reclusive and "calme." Though his is a vision, a sensibility, a
fathoming of life beneath the surface, not an escape from himself and the
times. He teaches me much, in a different way from Massignon, about Gilgamesh:
especially the need to de-aestheticize and de-theologize it; to see it moving
before "time" in its own ageless simplicity of rhythm through earth.
He told me he knows of Massignon and may do a
painting of him in a mantle one day. He has read in the papers of the
Muslim-Christian pilgrimage and has begun a few small studies of the Sleepers
with their dog in the Cave.
Dino's hands are strong; has a strong build;
quiet forceful features in his face; dark glimmering eyes; a relaxed squinting,
crinkling smile like his son's; tan skin. His Italian egg and cream liqueur is
powerful in a subtly overtaking way: when I left I nearly toppled down the
stairs each time the light went off.
He teaches me that to do Gilgamesh I must
find/embrace at least one primary virtue and surrender to it—patience.
Later, I saw an aged woman on the street pushing
a child in a carriage: a blue kerchief on her head, bent ankles, brown shawl,
arched forward, looking at the child. Dino's people.
December 31—A letter arrived this
morning from Merton dated Christmas eve (excerpt):
The other day I happened
to have a chance to see the old Shaker settlement near Lexington. Only buildings,
of course, nobody there since 1910. It was sad and moving. It was once an
intense and rather wacky spiritual center, but I think it was very significant.
The truth and simplicity of their handiwork remains to bear witness to
something tremendously genuine in their spirit. For some reason it made a
similar intuitive impression on me to that made by the story of the Seven
Sleepers. The spirit of these people was very alive in their building—the one I
went into, the only one I could get into-had a marvelous double winding stair
coming out in the mysterious pale light of a small dome at the top of the house.
The silence, light and effect were extraordinary. There were some empty rooms
at the top of the house, and I went into them to taste the silence — sunlity
windows, looking out on bleak fields and a huge lebanon cedar, with the wind in
it. You would like the place.
January 2, 1960—Visit with
Gabriel Marcel. He is having to buy or vacate his apartment. He both laments
and is grateful for Mme. Abeille's raising the money for this. He hopes I have
not been "pressed to contribute." I hadn't. He spoke of the pain in
his legs, of age. . . . He seems to sleep when he listens; his eyes close, but
he hears: a contrast to Massignon's open piercing eyes and tendency to foresee
what one is going to say.
Gabrier phoned, said his novella is finished and
now he must go to the south of France on his government inspection business. He
voluntarily assured me Massignon was "completely mad," that he knew
from his own inspection of prisons that no Algerians were held as prisoners who
were not out- and-out criminals and that there was absolutely no truth to the
accusation of torture against those held legitimately. Only the Algerians
commit atrocities, he said.
January 25—A postcard from Massignon
in Jerusalem dated 1/20/60, saying "coming back. I pray with you
here." The photo was of the ruins of the church of St. Anne.
January 30—Upon his return I saw
immediately that his eye has had a blood vessel break. Nearly a third of one
side of his face is purple and he seems weary. He said he is trying to choose
the right time for an operation that he knows may leave him blind in one eye.
He told me of his days in Cairo: in his old archaeological building which had
been taken over by Egypt during the Suez crisis of three years ago. He stayed
in his old rooms and study which he had fifty-two years ago, and roamed the
building alone. He was the only Christian at the conference of Orientalists
(Sir Hamilton Gibb, he said, was not asked, though he, Louis, asked them to
invite him next year). He went on to Jerusalem, where he had a cell in a
convent. One day he felt life nearly leave him— "the intoxication of
age"—and cancelled his meetings. He felt he was dying—that it was the
place selected. He had not visited the Holy Sepulchre yet, only the Wall of
Tears and the place of the three angels and the place where Lot is believed to
have been buried. A brother of the Charles de Foucauld order brought him pills
and injections of vitamin C, and in a few days he was better.
He talked about death. He has often talked about
death since I have known him. And of atoning. Of Heaven being without banquets
for him, and then (if there are) only an "instant” after unconditional surrender
of his will; for he could not stand an eternity of himself. He quoted al-Hallaj
again, saying that in love one stands beside the beloved taking on His very
form, having no form of oneself left. He read me a passage from the sermons of
Meister Eckhart that echoed this thought of al-Hallaj's.
He said deGaulle's recent speech on behalf of
Algerian independence is providential. I could see in his face a certain weight
beginning to be lifted, but at the same time a fatigue accompanying his return
from the world to himself. "Of course," he said, "when the
wealthy bankers in Paris realize they are losing Algeria and its oil, there
will be a last surge of violence in the streets and it will cause much
suffering."
He said in a whisper that Eckhart had written of
"a love as strong as death." He said, "We have to go to the
certitude of our defeat. Our Lord was defeated, yet triumphant. And we have to
go in exhaustion."
At the door he gave me a personal copy of
Huysmans' book on Ste. Lydwine. He said it is the deepest book he has ever read
and certainly Huysmans' most profound work. He said Huysmans was not a man of
prayer, but he was writing this book inside his own suffering and it is deep.
February 1 —Car horns everywhere
in Paris, some protesting, some supporting deGaulle's recent speech.
I thought of Massignon's saying to me once about
joy: a single possessiveness of it brings a "douleur" that can be met
with prayer and love only. I thought of Yvonne's "la brûlure."
February 5—An unexpected person,
David Ottoway, phoned at the suggestion of a mutual friend in Boston. He's a
Harvard undergraduate. We met and walked around the He de St. Louis. He's a
devouring listener. His interest is the global political scene, especially
meetings of statesmen—deGaulle, Khrushchev, Ike, the rest. He's very clear in
his presentation of the stage settings and the implications of such encounters.
The walk was very relieving and hopeful. Ottoway may be only twenty-one (I'm
not sure of his age), but he's very sharp, not arrogant, perceiving, not
fearful, wise.
When we parted, I walked toward my quartier
feeling drawn away by Gilgamesh's remorse over his own involvement in his
friend Enkidu's death.
In the evening, reading Ste. Lydwine, I
found a postcard from Maritain to Massignon sent from Belgium in 1924, and a
death notice of Huymans (1907) including a quote from his book En route:
"Seulement, ne vous y trompez pas, la conversion du pêcheur n'est pas sa
guérison, mais seulement sa convalescence." (p. 285).
February 12—An extended phone
conversation with Massignon, who phoned he said because he was too ill for a
visit just now yet wanted to be in touch. He said he is losing interest in
material things more and more—"except for this connecting phone," he
laughed. He said he finds life narrowing, but that he has been asked to go on a
“desperate call" to aid someone in Damascus, an old Muslim historian friend
who had a son by a French woman—with whom the man briefly lived. He believes
the son to be living in France and asks Louis to go to him in a certain place.
He said he can only go now on such seemingly hopeless and unlikely errands of
mercy. He spoke of his own depression and remorse years before over his
continued sinning after his conversion, and of Claudel's letter to him telling
him not to torment his heart, for it is a heart that will belong to others. He
said he had been in touch recently with deGaulle, who he said feelingly is a
solitary man whose daughter went mad and died in Colombey- des-Deux Églises,
where he now lives. This daughter is the sole light of his life and he has
given the money from his books for a hospital in her memory there and prays
solitarily by her grave. He is close to nearly no one.
I felt the tiredness in his voice but he assured
me he wanted to talk. He said he had just received from Merton his Selected
Poems. He said he couldn't judge the verses' merit but they showed he was a
poet rather than a dry theologian. He said he had misunderstood him from some
of the latter kind of tracts he wrote. "One day God will take poetry from
him for he enjoys it so, though safely," he added. "For Claudel
poetry was dangerous, for he was in the world writing of holy things and he
came to think too much of himself."
I had been reading earlier in Ste. Lydwine: "Comprenez-le,
vous souffrez parce que vous ne voulez pas souffrir; le secret de votre
détresse est là" (82). Surprisingly he quoted this passage then.
Many Muslims, like many Christians, and others,
he said, are too high for Christ's humanity.
"L'exemple de la substitution
mystique," he said, quoting Ste. Lydwine (80-81), "de la
suppléance de celui qui ne doit rien à celui qui doit tout. . .
"We save one another through our
hearts," he said.
February 14—Gabrier phoned and
insisted I take him to see the painting of Dino Cavallari, about whom I had
spoken sometime ago. He said he would drive, though he detested driving through
"those areas" of Paris. I considered the opportunity beneficial to
Dino. Mistake: to presume to know what might benefit another.
Pierre was in a foul mood. I wondered as he
ranted and raved against the communists and prostitutes who inhabited Pigalle
and the adjacent quartiers through which we sped, if the impoverished
radical Léon Bloy had been, as many had testified in that earlier time, as
hostile to his caring friends as the bourgeois reactionary Gabrier was now to
his.
He turned his gaze from the desolate streets
through which he drove as quickly as he could to faraway rich, immoral or
amoral America, which he identified inevitably and obviously with me. He cited
a "case" pending in California as "very symbolic": that of
Caryl Chessman, about whom I knew little or nothing. My ignorance of my country
shocked him. He said Chessman is the latest Kafkaesque beetle. Chessman is a
victim, like Joseph K. and other Kafka figures, of good intentions, official
indecisions, and the inability or refusal of society to bear his crime (he was
convicted, I believe, of abduction, rape, and murder of a young woman, though I
guessed this only from bits of information barely alluded to during our ride).
American society, in this case, wishes to have Chessman take on the guilt of
his capital punishment, which Pierre believed was the correct punishment but
which he said the society out of sentimentality doesn't wish to believe in.
So, it has kept him cruelly and inhumanly on Death Row for thirteen years,
setting dates and postponing them, until now the case has entered national
politics and, ironically, raises the ghost, Pierre said, of another victim of
the same moral refusal, Eddie Slovik, whom Eisenhower waited for
"channels" to assume the guilt before he could execute him for the
crime of desertion in time in war. Then, he persisted, there's the case of the
man who dropped the atomic bomb on Nagasaki, who is going around committing
petty and larger crimes to be arrested, found guilty, and punished by a society
which finds he did nothing wrong in dropping the bomb but which he finds wrong.
Each of these cases, he concluded, points up a certain human sickness, a moral
cancer, clinging to America, evasively sentimentalizing certain wilderness and
space and other simplistic myths while heading a global machinery of political
propaganda based on moral vacuity. He stared at me. I stared back. We drove
alongside the giant cemetery of Père Lachaise up the hill toward Place Gambetta
and Dino's tiny flat.
Inside, Pierre was
exceedingly reserved and formal, posing a little as an art critic (grotesquely
philistine, Dino perceived immediately by the screwed up look on the newcomer's
face which suggested both imprecise admiration for the paintings and disgust
with the smallness of the flat). He selected two small paintings he had to
have, rather sentimental ones I thought, one a "Descent from the
Cross," the other a somewhat more natural "Flight into Egypt"
with a strong undemarcated flow between Virgin and the donkey on which she
sat. "Admirably primitive," he said patronizingly; "a genuine
interior green," he added authoritatively. He gave the money for both,
snatched the paintings to his chest, and said loudly to me "let's go
now." Dino offered some aperitif. Pierre refused, saying he had "an
appointment." I looked silently at Dino. Francesco was seated quietly at
his piano, not playing but rather assessing the stranger with stark, cautious,
distant eyes. Pierre hadn't even said hello upon entering, nor did he recognize
Francesco's presence and only cursorily Dino's. I felt Dino's look of being
invaded, imprisoned, and I realized I could serve our friendship best by
getting Pierre out as quickly as possible.
On the way back Pierre told me of a new novella
he was writing. It was set in a cemetery. The hero was a prisoner of war
returning from Germany to find a twenty-storey building erected on the site
where his home had been. No one knew the whereabouts of his wife. He had
received notice from her during the war that their daughter had died, and he
had nearly despaired. He decides now upon his return to kill himself. Yet he
re-reads this letter and learns that the anniversary of his daughter's death is
coming due, and so he
goes to her grave, one amidst thousands, in the faint hope that his wife will
also come. He sees around him on the graves little bouquets of plastic flowers
and he realizes his despair. An old woman, wife of the guardian, walks through
the rows and finds him down against the graves crying. She talks to him, to a
despairing man, of resurrection, but in a very oblique way. The books ends
with him seeing flowers growing in the earth, from a grave.
As we crossed the Seine I
asked him to let me out there rather than to drop me at home. I wanted to walk
alone along the quays for awhile. He said, "But the rain, you'll get
wet." I said it was not a cold rain, and I wished him good luck with his
novella.
In the evening David
Ottoway came over to my flat and we talked a great deal, mostly about America
as an "anonymous power," more his subject than mine. Listening to him
I feel old though not wise. My mind was still partly divided between Gabrier's
obsession with purifying himself of guilt as an imperfect Christian and
Massignon's offering of hospitality, two things happening and shared with me in
faraway but very real Paris of 1959-1960 and having little or no relevance to
America and its ballooning "global consciousness." But David has
humility to a degree I lack and I wondered at times why we hadn't changed
places, he the guest, I the journalist. Perhaps we had at times, or shared more
in common as foreign travelers, witnesses, and friends than either of us then
could know. He says he can't imagine bothering important people like Massignon,
for he says he has nothing to say. I said I guessed I didn't think about that
beforehand, yet I too have nothing to say. I just listen, I said, We agreed
maybe that was what it took to enter as guests anywhere.
David's visit was a happy one for me, though I was
not used to my own voice and became tired of it quickly. Since we both prefer
to listen, we probably won't see that much of each other as things unfold.
He spoke of deGaulle, who interests him very
much, he says, as a study in the democratic process at work around a leader:
the left moves him in the direction that is moral, he having first the elements
of conscience and the courage to be moved or the pressure would only result in
violence. Coercion is needed to utilize such a leader's strength, and he must
allow the process to proceed, in order to make it work. This fascinates David.
He said of wisdom that it was strange society
could not find a similar process of coercion and potentially conscientious
leadership to make it more creative in its thinking. For instance, a people
ostensibly fond of medicines and idealizing the long life span, instead
passively accept retiring their learned men at their first sign of
self-awareness, at their first sign of eyelines, at their first fear of
becoming "old." He concluded, "that is horrible."
We took a walk together late, rain regardless,
and had two hot chocolates in a café.
February 26—Visit with Père Jean
de Menasce, convalescent in his pavillion in Neuilly, cared for by
Dominican nuns. A remarkable man whom Massig- non calls very deep, and loves
very much. They are Semitists together, both also now priests through that
Semitism, through roots, consonants, texts, tradition, ritual, reverence,
worship, prodigious learning. They share a "sense of shame" at
uttering vowels, for instance, in the name of G-D, and the experience of being
child prodigies with regard to their early grasp of and facility with
languages. They also share an attraction to anecdotal histories and a tendency
to gossip. Now, following his stroke, Père de Menasce's right side is
paralyzed, he drags his right leg as he walks, his right arm hangs down limply,
the right side of his face sags, he has lost weight, he speaks with a slur
haltingly, but his eyes are keen. He told me Pierre Gabrier comes to see him
regularly and he speaks of Massignon and me. He is a man, de Menasce confided
without betraying any trust, who suffers greatly from his jealousies and hates
himself for what he believes is his moral mediocrity. Read his heart, de
Menasce said, not his rhetoric. He is a man in constant pain.
He reminisced a little about his friendship with
Maritain and Oppenheimer in Princeton, saying of the latter he was very
chagrined ("remorseful," he believed) much of the time, for which he,
de Menasce, felt deep compassion with him.
We embraced when we parted in the presence of an
old and partially lame but very officious nun who brought him a tray of food
and scolded him for letting the last food she brought get cold.
Later, in the evening, Louis telephone me and his
"flood of words" included some passing remarks about certain French
novelists who try to make romantic heroes out of saints, of Goethe talking of
suicide in Werther, all of which is divorced from the acts they
themselves could commit. He is tired, he said, of romanticism.
He said the actual papers on the dialogues of the
Carmelities are far more striking than anything in Bernanos' work: sanctity is
not a stage play; not a "performance" or an "acting out of mere
ideas." It is devoid of any self-glorification. For a person, he said, to
truly illuminate sanctity, he must put his life at every moment in jeopardy and
on a fatal call.
These words left me with anxiety, not peace, for
I thought I already knew that poetry cannot be molded (at least not by me) only
in the service of faith, anymore than faith can be fictionalized, without
violence to both.
He spoke more calmly of his daughter, who has
collected stories from aged Bretons and Provençals and Acadians in Maine (USA),
about which she recently gave a lecture with films before four hundred people.
He was unabashedly proud.
February 20—1 had lost touch with
Arnold Smit, from whom a note just arrived saying that he is entering the Beda
College in Rome to become a priest. Cardinal Marella is helping him. He says he
is impatient to begin. He is presently living as an oblate (new name: Brother
Sebastian) in the Abbaye N.D. du Bec Hellouin (Eure).
February 21-There was a lynching
in Paris yesterday. An Algerian killed two policemen and a mob chased and strung
up a rope on a lamp post and hung him. He was cut down by policemen but died
shortly after.
Cardinal Feltin refused to meet Khrushchev in
Notre Dame, choosing to leave the city during the Russian's visit and to leave
the hostly duty to deGaulle.
March 3 —Note from L.M. dated
2/29/60 (excerpt):
"I agree with you on Cardinals' 'shyness.'
You will enjoy at the end of your life the awful 'loneliness' of those who
'weep because they understand.'
"My only living hours are the two hours of
Sacrifice, every morning, with its Cross."
He telephoned me late. He told me of some upcoming
manifestations for justice in Algeria. But I think he really wanted to tell me
something about myself in our ongoing journey together. He said that I was not
"a literary man," that he was interested from the beginning in
"the spiritual man" in me. Since he often uses the word literary
in a pejorative way, I took this as a compliment that I don't yet and perhaps
never will understand.
He said, as if in a non-sequitur, one must show children
their first communion as "a slight breeze," not "a glorious
wind."
Then he reverted to the literary theme by
mentioning an Englishman more or less my age from Oxford who had come to him
recently concerning some Huysmans' materials and whom he wanted me to meet. He
said the young man at the thought of meeting an American had asked if I was a
member of Moral Rearmament, which he dubbed "the crowning sorrow of
American thought." He told me the man spoke to him entirely in French,
which shows him he came to Christianity through French literature, not prayer.
Louis finds this folly, but he liked him nevertheless. He said at the end he
doubted he'd keep any rendez-vous with me, for he spoke of "a tennis date that
day” and he, Louis, hadn't yet proposed a day.
March 17—Mme Abeille phoned.
She said she would miss me if I left France. She liked thinking of me as being
a friend in Paris even if she didn't see me often. She said her goal of buying
M. Marcel's apartment discreetly for him is proceeding slowly. She doesn't know
he knows she's doing this. Her call was her way of not asking me for a
contribution. She said "sometimes it is harder for some men not to be a
priest. Everyone knows what that priest is and either kills him or helps him by
hidden sacrifices. For some there is only invisibility.”
April 8—Letter from L.M. dated
4/6/60 (excerpt):
"Tom Merton has written me a letter which
shows that Akhbàr al-Hallaj has shaken him. I would like to have sent
him first the Diwan, which is more serene in its tonalité majeure
and which better shows the Hallajian position and my own. But Tom is not mistaken
in believing that my thought can be found through the curve of my life
substituted by the Hallajian thought. That is why in order to avoid receiving
too profound an impact from it, I have ceased for some years writing on this
exceptional personality whose unexpected encounter, fifty years ago, bent my
entire life.
Wednesday before Easter-Visit with
Louis in his study. He said on April 30 there is to be a demonstration outside
the prison at Vincennes where political prisoners are kept illegally and
tortured by the government. He has spoken directly with deGaulle, who says he
issues orders to stop it and the orders are countermanded by disloyal subordinates.
Louis wants to believe him but retains his right of skepticism. The
demonstrators (Marcel will join him this time despite his phlebitis) will kneel
and pray outside (no one is allowed inside to visit; Louis has a friend in
there). I said without hesitation I would join them. He shook his head
violently; he said my passport would be taken and I would be deported. He said.
"Join us spiritually only. We do not want to send you home nor give any
appearance of 'America being involved.' " I understood, but intended to
be there in body as well with or without his approval.
April 28 — Letter from L.M: dated
4/26/60 in response to a note of my own in which I confided my decision to
leave France in June (excerpt):
Dear Friend,
I understand your anguish
before this return to the USA, and I could share it, if I hadn't found for you
that you have to end your Gilgamesh (did you see what Bowra says of him?), and
that is an internal remedy: anywhere.
In the afternoon (of the
30th) I shall be at the meeting, and afterwards . . . well, I don't think my
freedom shall be caught. Alas, G. Marcel writes that on Saturday he shall be in
the south for the "Réarma- ment Moral," but that
"spiritually" he shall be at Vincennes.
We have been singled for
loneliness by Our Lord, for "soledad": even after death?
Fraternally,
Louis M.
April 29 — 1 am not sure why these
discontinuous thoughts: I have to make "anywhere" a place where I am
afraid to go. This old companion fear returns. A poet can respond to birds but
cannot fly. The cycle of Gilgamesh includes the watering place among the
animals, the opening of the traps, the final bathing at the serpent's pool,
where there are tears at the vision of mortality, not tears at the vision of
immortality.
Why does Utnapishtim look downcast? Why is immortality
so mournful?
"We must raise the dead out of their graves.
. . . "
I remember Louis's appearance at the Sorbonne
that first time I saw him, at the forum for peace in Algeria. He was the
dynamic one, the one who spoke last, who shied away from having his photograph
taken afterwards: deep creases in his face, white hair, a stern, heroic
profile; and when he laughed during his speech, which was the most alive,
longest, and least pretentious or literary of all the speeches, it was
the laughter of someone who had cried at both visions.
Now that evening comes back to me. I'm afraid I
am collecting memories. Now I know I am leaving.
April 30—Gabrier came to see me as
I was leaving my flat to join the demonstration at Vincennes. I didn't
understand why he was there and became anxiously aware of time.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
In my confusion I said "no" first, then
"yes."
We sat facing each other in the living room, he
on the couch, I on a chair. For a long time we didn't speak. I struggled not to
look at my watch.
Gradually the meaning of the unexpected visit,
like so many things I experienced in France, became clear.
If like Gabrier himself I had been engaged in a
series of fictionalizations of my states of anxiety, I might have imagined him
saying something horrifying about why the French are justified in torturing
Algerians—thus making my anxiety intensify even further, irony run rampant, the
rest. But he said nothing. His silence was more terrible. I knew I couldn't
leave him alone.
May I—Louis phoned this morning. He asked me
if I knew of a translator (even I myself) who might translate "an
important book" on Maritain. I wanted only news of yesterday. He said, as
if incidentally, that the "meeting" was a success and an "anniversary"
for him (of his imprisonment in Iraq). But he gave few details. He said he
"knew" I was there in spirit. He said when they were in prison (in
prison?) a woman brought them lilies of the valley. Outside when they were on
the sidewalk, policemen took their names. Among them was a Danish journalist
who was deported.
May 2 —Caryl Chessman was executed today.
May 10—A visit to a
church: St. Antoine des Quinze-vingts, 57 rue Traversière, Paris 12.
In a workers' area, near
Gare de Lyon, and an overpass, opposite a garage. The interior choir of the
church was locked, but behind the closed grate I could see the altar, not an
unusual one perhaps but to my present state strangely beautiful. There was a
young woman sitting to my left on one of the benches. I steadied my eyes on the
altar and the arches over the side chapels and said the prayer that had welled
up in me over the past three years in France—prayers for friends and, today, of
personal surrender.
The sound of trains
passing nearby overhead was deafening.
May II—Received a
note from Jean de Menasce dated May 9 from Kantonsspital, Lucerne. He will come
back to Neuilly in autumn. "Remember me in your prayers as I do you in
mine." He also mentioned the Maritain book (by Bars: M. in his Time) and
offered to look for a USA publisher.
I was shocked by this
letter—l'esprit bouleversé. . . . I thought I was losing my mind. I
could not have visited Jean in his pavilion in February for he hadn't
returned to Paris and wouldn't until autumn. Somehow I had combined my concern
for his health, my imagining of what his condition must be after his stroke,
and my recollection of a visit to the pavilion once when the old nun
came in with a tray, to form another visit that didn't take place. I remember
him saying those things about Gabrier, Maritain, and Oppenheimer. But mostly,
at this moment, I realize my gross credulity and it frightens me.
May 22—The annual Huysmans Society mass at
St. Séverin, 8:45 a.m. Daniel-Rops pronounced the discours d'usage in
the garden afterwards: near the medallion of Huysmans made by Massignon's
father, Pierre Roche (pseudonym). Other of his works — sculptures — are found
in the Luxembourg gardens and other parks in Paris. It is an old family that
has given much of itself to France since before the Revolution. Many gathered
at the mass, some I knew, including Louis, some I didn't. They are mostly old,
several enfeebled, a few younger; French and foreign; some agnostics, some
esthetes, some believers. Everyone seems to have his or her private link to
some stage in Huysmans' itinerary, which was long and complex and carefully
documented: from naturalism and discipleship to Zola, to self-exploration, absorption
with the senses, decadence, Satanism and the black mass, despair, conversion,
convalescence, the vocation of oblate, historian and critic of Gregorian chant,
monastic discipline, church art and architecture, of pilgrim to Lourdes, of
hagiographer and witness of mystical substitution, unto his own final
suffering—an itinerary which he himself said was a lifelong quest for spiritual
honesty and sincerity, shared at different points by those present but which
his critics believe he never achieved. One book of his I especially admired was
his early Croquis Parisiens, sketches of corners of Paris made with a
painter's eye for color, mood, detail, the book that the Englishman with the
tennis date is translating.
June 7-K long letter from Merton
dated June 1 (excerpt):
I have written to
Maritain to put in a word for you as translator. But still if you do not want
to do the job I see no reason why you should have to. . . . Your own creative
work is more important and should come first, unless you need money badly or
something like that.
Louis asked me to pray on
some special day, for he intends to begin something to do with Africa. ... I
picked June 3 as a day to say a mass for him. . . . My heart is very much in
Africa.
Poor Pasternak has died.
His story has ended and remains to be understood. ...
Let us think more about
the role of America in all this. I have been feeling rather negative and
discouraged, but I realize how little I see and understand. All I know is that
I have an overwhelming feeling that we are missing the boat because we have
been blinded by money and love of material things. Yet there is always the blank,
innocent, patient, absurd good will. How good is it, that is the question? I
wonder if the answer is not just that we have always rather humbly imagined
that we were good because we suspected we might be fools. But now that we are
convinced we are perhaps not fools but very smart people are we going to commit
the sin of deducing goodness from our supposed wisdom? If so. . . .
June 9 —Last visit with Gabrier. We had dinner
out. We ate and talked uncomfortably. We could not reconcile. He has built a personal
"politique" out of loss into an isolation in which he is terrified of
the next event whatever it is: he is haunted by the martyrdom of France. He
recited the Occupation, Indochina, Algeria, crime in the streets, a photograph
of Brigitte Bardot's bust on the Champs-Elysées . . . and then accused me, the
representative of "America," of isolationism. If "I" were
to come in on France's side now, instead of supporting Massignon's position,
France would keep Algeria and Europe would be more secure with its own oil
pipeline. He was upset over recent "pacifist" statements made by
Senator Kennedy on Algeria. "Massignon," he said, "is a traitor
to France. He cites Muslims, Gandhi, known decadents like Huysmans as friends
and authorities. Huysmans was not a saint," he said. "Massignon's a
fool!" It was a dinner that became increasingly indigestible with each
bite.
When we left the restaurant we walked out along
the Quai de Montebello and stood for a few minutes in silence looking at the
Seine and across at Notre- Dame. His eyes glistened and he had the frightened
look he had in my flat on the day of the Vincennes demonstration. When he
turned he said in his worst broken English (which he rarely used), "I hope
we are friends."
I said, "Yes, I too."
June 10—Brief note from Louis dated June 8:
My dear friend,
the date of
your departure is near and we did not meet as planned June 3. Telephone me so
we may meet again before you leave.
Affectionately,
Louis
No sleep for three nights. Now I shall fail the
test of Utnapishtim: I shall be unable to keep awake for eternal life.
June 11—Yvonne came in from Brittany to see
me. She came from seeing Louis at his place. She said he enters others'
universes ("the true fullness of love") without ever forgetting a
detail of each. Whereas poor Gabrier refuses others' universes. She said sadly
that publishers are refusing to consider Gabrier's work because of his
political fanaticism, which has ruined its quality. He is near Oedipus'
despair, accusing others of his blindness. She said she can't visit him now
without having a priest along. People are withdrawing from him ... as people
are beginning to admit the tortures of Algerians, which he denied officially as
Inspector of Prisons. She said bitterly, "They admit the tortures but they
still insist they are necessary. Pierre's position is still popular, though he
is not. They have left him, the Inspector who denied the truth and now he is
terrified of the truth everybody knows."
I believe she told me this to bring cloture to an
old friendship of her own with Gabrier that she feared might be our only link.
Or she wanted me, as I leave, to know where she stands definitively between
Gabrier and Massignon. She told me of two abbeys that were racist centers in
her country, and told me many other things so rapidly that I can't remember. It
was all too much to absorb and, in any case, she said "The salvation of
the world does not depend on 'La France.' "
She asked me to pray for her son who has three
months left in Algerian service, then he is to marry. She said he is ready
spiritually for whatever might happen to him in Algeria, but she is afraid for
his body.
She said she believed, though it was a hard
belief to always support, in forgiveness. "Never under any circumstances
can revenge be justified. Never," she repeated, "or one fails to
remain in the moment of one's calling."
We embraced in silence and I began in her arms to
feel the first real pain of leaving.
Later I went to Mme Abeille's grand apartment to
say good-bye. She was sitting with a cat in her lap in the antique-filled,
sunless living room. She spoke of the voices she could still hear in the room,
the diminishing numbers of "grands orateurs" these days, and her
desire at times to clear away the past. . . . She fears her dear "maître
Gabriel Marcel" will be kicked out of his apartment if he can't buy it—and
he has no money, but he will be hurt and humiliated if she buys it alone for
him —and so few have contributed. She cried a little, barely audibly.
I thought to myself: I will be useless to my
friends if I remain to admire them. But is it possible to think of never seeing
them again?
After a shy but warm parting, I left her place
and walked through the Jardin du Luxembourg past the bust of Charles
Baudelaire:
Oh c'est
vraiment, Seigneur Le meilleur témoignage Que nous puissons donner de croire
digne
Que cet ardent
sanglot
Qui roule
d'âge en âge Et vient mourir au bord de votre éternité. . . .
June 16 —Last visit with Louis Massignon
It was after a day spent at the station, paying
bills, leaving off books, tiring and sad. I am pretending it does not hurt to
leave one's friends. I could not see Dino, Julienne, and Francesco, for they
are on a visit to Dino's ailing mother in Italy. I spoke on the phone with
Daniélou, who said he would be coming to America soon. Whether true or not, it
made the ocean seem smaller than I know it is.
Louis sat in his chair behind his desk, as
always, and I sat on the couch by the window. Papers were strewn over the desk
and he had been typing one of his "Bulletins" when I arrived. He
handed me a book that had just been delivered to his door—Fishbelly by
the American writer-in-exile Richard Wright with the author's handwritten
inscription inside "To Louis Massignon, a friend."
Louis seemed to study me very carefully, then
said "Your Gilgamesh is the way for you. It is the most profound
expression of the human soul, for it is of immortality. But condense it,"
he warned, "don't make it a great epic, which is past, but tell it
as a simple truth, which does not age in time." I realized he had helped
me find the great secret in it, which could not be written or divulged in so
many words: the sudden instant of Gilgamesh's losing of the plant is the
simultaneous gift of immortality to the dead friend he prayed for. It is the
new (unwritten) voyage into suffering and selflessness.
"For some reason/'
he said, "it has fallen to you to make these voyages: out of your country
to another, into suffering, to immortality. And this is the union of friendship
that reaches also," he particularized, "through many Semitic and
Oriental souls."
He said many things,
prophetic things about the world, and spoke of God being beside and away, high
and low, not only small but also large, uncon- finable yet intimate. . . . He
said for him memory supports continuing moments of divine relation. Yet he does
not wish for joy that he knows will end. He read me a passage from a 1940
notebook he kept on a visit to Yugoslavia. He spoke of the dangers he saw then.
He recalled a visit to La Salette where he sought for himself a deeper gift of
compassion for others. "Even from Heaven she gives tears."
He spoke of poor Gabrier
as a Shakespearean tragic figure, a man so intelligent yet caught in the
occasional lies of hierarchy, where lies are more horrible.
He read me a mocking
press clipping about a recent demonstration: "Even a Collège de France
professor got down in the sidewalk dirt with those non- violents." He
smiled as if he'd received an honorary degree. He said he recently went to
court at the request of the wife of a Jewish communist who had the courage to
write about those who tortured him. He, Louis, was there with the head of the
Communist Party, a radical socialist, and a member of deGaulle's intimates—four
witnesses on the man's behalf. DeGaulle, he says, has told him of their
closeness now in thought. Yesterday he spoke again in public for Algerian
independence.
He stopped talking and sat back in his chair looking
at me. He seemed to be very tired suddenly, yet his eyes were wide and alert
and attentive. Perhaps he was tired of France, the world, or just talking about
it all and knew it was not what had drawn us together before or now.
It was late in the afternoon, but not one of our
long visits. I sensed he would like to have it last longer, as would I have,
but he stood up and I stood up. We laughed awkwardly together and then he
embraced me and kissed me on either cheek. I felt pain in my heart then and was
struggling for composure.
We walked together through the hallway to the front
door of his apartment. Outside by the elevator, after I pushed the call button,
he leaned back with his hands behind him holding the stair railing. When the
elevator came I turned to face him but he continued to look down. Our eyes met
only when I was inside and the doors were closing.
Afterwards I found myself in the old Quartier
Latin again but I did not know how, nor how such affection of my friends
could make me forget where I was going. Oldness of surroundings no longer made
me dream. I had the passage home on a ship and, by adoption of a familiar myth,
I knew seductive voices would be heard on the sea and already I had to be tied
to a mast to resist their sounds.
When I returned to my flat I sat down with one of
the offprints Louis had given me months before entitled "Voyelles
Sémitiques et Sémantique Musicale." It was formal and forbidding. But
it carried his voice.
It included reproductions of two paintings by
Arab painters, each in the form of musical notations but in fact they were
calligraphies of Arabic texts, representing abstract silhouettes of the sacred
name of Godin black for the unpronounced Arabic consonants, as if skeletal; in
red for the vocalizing and vivifying vowels, representing the spirit of the
words. Together they formed a rhythmic contour of successive varied waves
across the light sand-colored page, moving from right to left, creating a
melodic atmosphere.
Louis wrote in this
article of the darkness one encounters in approaching the past. The only light
one has is given by words intoned from it. The intonation reveals their
intentions. There is a music that both precedes and follows the words emerging
from silence.
It is not in our own
culture cherished in isolation that we can realize this phenomenon, he wrote,
but only in crossing over to another that forces us to listen, to understand
through hearing and, only then, translating. When we hear no longer only our
own masters but the sounds of a distant city, the rhythmic refrains issuing
from the depths of the unrefined and unrecorded masses, revealing their sounds,
their cries, their proverbs, we are at the source of language, the origin of
the idea, the creative intent, which colors and gives life to form.
I set down the offprint
and thought back to my own childhood when I sought, as if from a distant
country, the lost sound of my deceased father's voice. At age seven I sought
but I could not cross over to it. The only light providing life and harmony to
form crossed over naturally instead to me: in the sun's slow descent along the
river near our Maryland home and across it through the flat reed beds on the
other side, lingering in a reddish orange afterglow spread wide at the edge of
the horizon where two rivers met leaving a residue of violet and rose at the
center of my vision, where it seemed to remain a moment longer as if to form
an unspoken word in the incoming darkness.
Sacred texts, I resumed reading, are music
written; lives of saints are music sung. It is on the threshold of death, of
absolute silence, of total poverty of self, that language and music are
reunited in the simplest, briefest of words, of outcries. . . .
For a few moments I lapsed into my memories. I
remembered many of the occasions when we were together. Now I wanted him to
talk again without any pre-planned subject or reason for talking apart from
sharing his learning and his presence with a friend.
I imagined we were together. He was in his chair
in the windowlight that flowed to the center of the narrow high-ceilinged room.
I stared at him shyly, as always, for I did not feel I could presume on his
friendship. Would he speak about the Algerian laborer whose hands had been
crushed? The silence of my flat was overwhelming to me as I looked for
presences in vain. I even asked a question, as if to begin the conversation. It
was about al-Hallaj, the subject and "friend" of his lifework from
whom he had often drawn his thoughts and point of view. "Did he desire
martyrdom?" I wanted to hear him explain.
"He was willing to die for love," I
heard his voice or the voice of his writings accompanying me in solitude,
"and in that sense he desired death for himself or for that part of the
self that created distance between himself and his Beloved. He wished to end
the idol of himself, the self he was looking at in his solitude instead of
looking at his loved One. He was tired of false love, of loving falsehood, of
seeming lovable to anyone. He longed to be beyond the world of himself. But his
love was also of justice, of truth, and for this his death was made as an offering
for others who hungered after both. It was a substitution for them, uniting
enemies together against him whom they did not understand and despised. He even
risked damnation for such love: damned in this world surely, and willing to be
damned in the next if it would end division and injustice between men by
serving as an object for their common wrath. That is substitution: the taking
on of suffering for others' liberation from themselves. Only a few are lovers
at such extremes of love."
AFTERWORD
As was mentioned in the
Foreword to Part Two, I have included here only a selection of entries from the
diary. My association with Louis Massignon and his work did not end with my
leaving Paris in 1960. And though I never saw him again, our friendship
continued through letters and interest in each other sustained through less
overt means, and indeed survived his death on October 31, 1962. At the time of
his death, I was beginning in America a graduate program of studies in the civilization
of the Islam that had nurtured al-Hallaj, with the purpose of one day
translating my friend's lifework. Later in the same year, I met Jack Barrett,
from whom I learned of Bollingen Foundation's long-standing commitment to
publish a translation of the awaited second edition of La Passion in
English. Our mutual goals merged in 1968 when Barrett contracted me to
undertake the project and came to fruition with the publication of the four
volumes in 1983, regrettably after Barrett's own death. In the early years of
labor on these volumes I also completed my retelling of the Gilgamesh story,
which was published in 1970 with one of Dino Cavallari's paintings on the
cover.
Completion of these works was possible only
through the impetus of friendship as recalled in the present volume.
The correspondence between the two figures of
Gilgamesh and al-Hallaj, the one mythical, the other historical, comes from the
figure of the older sage whom in the one the journeyer seeks, who in the other
the journeyer is. In the end, however, such narrative testimonies perhaps have
only the simplicity of this theme in common. It was not my intent to make
distinct civilizations appear comparable or blurred into vapid "universal"
similarity, but to respond to certain human values reverberating from specific
sources, perhaps only coincidentally, in each. It may also have been merely
chance that Massignon and I met. What matters in any case to me is that we did
meet and that our meeting has borne fruit that we believed from the beginning
would be of value to others.
My intent in the present "memoir" was
to recount the beginning of the friendship that bore this fruit, and thereby to
evoke and extend to others simply and directly the person and presence of Louis
Massignon.
STACKS BP49.S.M3 M37
Mson, Herbert,
[*]See Albert Hourani, "T.E. Lawrence and
Louis Massignon," TLS, July 8, 1983, 733-734; and Presence de
Louis Massignon (Paris, 1987), pp. 167-176.
[†]In the period of 1945-46 with Kabylie revolts,
which left 10,000 Algerians dead, Massignon went to the government to protest
the French reaction. Subsequent revolts and reactions were all met with
statements against French violence by Massignon published in Le Monde.
His action was always for "respect as a human right" rather than a
call for Algerian independence. He was not a political insurgent. He was
arguing in that period for Algerian Muslims' rights as Frenchmen. After
Mendes-France granted independence to Tunisia in 1954, extremist groups of
French settlers gained increasing power in Algeria. In France, Robert Schuman,
as Ministre de Justice, rejected negotiations to resolve matters of injustice
and called for European support of a French Algeria, which spirit Massignon
decried. (Pierre Gabrier of Part Two was closely associated with Robert
Schuman.)
[‡]See W. McGuire, Bollingen, An Adventure in
Collecting the Past (Princeton, 1982), p. 154.
[§]Le Monde, October 18, 1961. The event occurred the previous day.
[**]La Passion d'al-Hallaj, 1st ed., 2 vols. (Paris: Geuthner, 1922); 2nd
ed., 4 vols. (Paris: Gallimard, 1975).
★Presence de Louis Massignon, Hommages et témoignages (Paris, 1987), p. 51.
[††]Died August 15, 1981.
[‡‡]His own account was published under this title,
vol. I, Cairo, 1910; vol. II, Cairo, 1912, by Institut Français d'Archéologie
Orientale.
[§§]Pierre Roche" was active in the Société des
Droits de 1'Homme with Emile Zola, was of the left and against the church but
liberal, that is, against its destruction, and was also a supporter of the
Impressionists along with Joris Karl Huysmans. His son derived from him a deep
belief in "the integrity of ideas."
[***]Reprinted in English translation by Tan Books
and Publishers, Inc., Rockford, Ill. 1979.
[†††]Included in Parole donnée, ed. V. Monteil
(Paris: Julliard, 1962).
[‡‡‡]Note especially the remarkable 1960 account
"Meditations d'un passant aux bois sacrées d'Isé," included in Parole
donnée.
[§§§]See “Le Temps dans la pensée islamique,"
included in Parole donnée.
[****]Our difference in this respect was not absolute,
but reflected entirely historical developments and cultural changes affecting
our different periods of formation. As a young man in the late nineteenth
century he had been exposed thoroughly to the decadence and shallow aetheticism
of the Parisian litterati. In the mid-twentieth century my contemporaries had
all been exposed thoroughly to the arrogant elitism and self-indulgence of
scientism of American academic circles. Literary people, even the ubiquitous
critics, were no longer celebrated or important enough to be considered either
culturally beneficial or threatening. I was therefore more hopeful about
writers whose abuses of power didn't affect anyone, and less so about
scientists, who were, after all, the mandarins of destruction in every post
World War II person's youth. It was an inevitable difference of context,
experience, and time that made us both insist all the more on simplicity, at
least of language, in our communications.
[††††]Note especially Claudel et Massignon, ed.
M. Malicet (Paris, 1973); Max Van Berchem et Louis Massignon, ed. W.
Vycichl (Leiden, 1980); and Charles de Foucauld by Denise and Robert
Barrat (Paris, 1958).
[‡‡‡‡]To these he added Charles de Foucauld. These
three "in their return to God, were distinguished by a discipline of
fasting and prayer." Parole donnée, p. 277.
[§§§§]Daniélou was, of course, like Chardin, a Jesuit
and was, finally, a Cardinal of the Church.
[*****]My translation published by Dorothy Day in The
Catholic Worker, November 1961.
[†††††]Louis Massignon, The Passion of al-Hallaj:
Mystic and Martyr of Islam, trans. Herbert Mason, Bollingen Series 98, Vol.
3: The Teaching of al- Hallâj. Copyright ® 1982 by Princeton University
Press. Excerpts reprinted with permission of Princeton University Press.
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