The Wayfarer of Being

Manash Bhattacharjee [This obituary piece was written on the night of 19 April 1998, in Poorvanchal, JNU, on receiving the news of Octavio Paz’s death. It was handwritten in a ruled class register, and typed in a manual typewriter in Munirka by a vexed typewriter. He was placated by tea and cigarettes. The article, published in Literary Review of The Hindu, on 17 May 1998, has been retrieved from the physical archives of the newspaper, in Chennai. I would like to render my gratitude to Amit Sengupta, who had read this piece in the journal section of JNU’s library and encouraged me to send it to Nirmala Lakshman. I am also indebted to Kaustabh Deka, who currently works at The Hindu Centre for Politics and Public Policy, for retrieving the piece for me.] ———————————————————————————————— The Buddha did not teach me how to die. He tells us that faces dissolve, that names are empty sounds. But at death we have a face, and we die with a name. In the borderland of ashes, who will open my eyes? ~ ‘Remembrance’ For Octavio Paz, to die meant ‘to return / to the place we don’t know’. Like most experiences, death for Paz for also a paradoxical event: to leave a place and move into another. Loss and recovery. But to this world, for us who cannot travel with him to that unknown frontier of self-experience, his death can only mean a loss. Indeed, it is hard to believe that Paz (1914–1998) will now be addressed in the past tense. At 84, he was still referred to as ‘a youthful man’. As a poet and essayist he was, till recently, pouring out his enormous wealth of creativity with impatient regularity and a furious sense of life. For Paz, poetry itself was a suspension between two paradoxical statuses of being: a bridge between solitude and communion. Poetry is born in the womb of solitude, but to Paz, solitude is never absolute. It is always populated by the presence of the other, which can even be ‘our shadow’. ‘I am never alone’, he wrote, ‘I speak with you always / you speak with me always’. Paz glimpsed reality always through the paradoxical nature of time. The ‘present’ for Paz was both motionless and fleeting. It cannot be touched. It is real in its clarity and unreal in the excess of its apparitions. The present is also a ‘presence’: ‘a fountain of reality’. Through time, poetry becomes a search for presences where you lose what you receive and retrieve what you lose. The day is short, the hour immense hour without my I and its sorrow the hour goes by without going by and escapes within me and is enchained. ~ ‘Constraint’ The antimony of this experience reveals a ‘third-state’ between what passes and what stays. This, says Paz, is the state of ‘empty plenitude’. Here, being inhabits a transparency and poetry slips between the affirmation and negation of its impulses: a bridge in the interstices between the ‘tangible’ and the ‘intangible’. By interpreting reality, poetry, however, alters it and leaves behind a residue of beauty. This aesthetic quest in Paz’s case was surrealistic in nature. Contrary impulses and meanings collapsed into each other, and a subversive and playful interaction occurred between language and experience. A turbulent imagery resulted along with the slippage of being between dream (past) and vision (present). In this way, Paz fuses different levels of being and reality into a rich and complex unity of poetic experience. His long poems like ‘Sunstone’ and ‘A Draft of Shadows’ are expressions of such kinds. Paz’s long poems are like spiral staircases through which the soul passes through different states of emotions, bordering on ‘vertigo’, and at last descending to the tranquil emptiness of clarity. Paz’s poems reveal his mixed inheritance. He drew together the Spanish and Nahuatl strands of Mexican poetry. Wordsworth particularly influenced ‘The Draft of Shadows’. His love poems had the fury of Breton, and the intensity of Eluard. He was also influenced by Freud, Sade, Bataille, and the Tantric and Zen Buddhism. All these disparate influences make Paz an interesting poet. Philosophically, Paz, like Eliot, suffered the modern dilemmas of communion. To counter this despair, Paz searched for the moment of experience outside time, which is also Eliot’s preoccupation in ‘Four Quartets’. But through the maze of dream and vision, such an escape for Paz ended with an affirmative negation. Manuel Duran calls Paz a ‘philosophical poet’ like Eliot, but ‘more intimate, more erotic, warmer than Eliot’. He says this because Paz always probed the alienated relationships of life with lyricism and a profound sympathy. Also Paz, as Duran rightly points out, opened ‘the windows of Mexican culture to all influences’. He was as much at home in the Orient as he was in Paris, in America or in his native Mexico. It makes Paz a true pluralist. He believed that the ethical foundations of the ‘new civilization’ would be ‘the plurality of different times and the presence of the other’ where ‘we would live in the full freedom of our diversity and sensuality in the certain knowledge of death’. The politics of this new world would be ‘a dialogue of culture’. Yet, in order to avoid nihilism, Paz desired ‘a higher unity’ as a guide. To Octavio Paz, it was not possible in the modern era to disengage from politics. He felt is his duty to intervene in the moral conflicts and errors of present-day politics. Stalinist rule and the Russian totalitarian state disenchanted him from communism and he pressed for the necessity of liberal values within socialism. This caused him to be dubbed as a ‘traitor’ and a reactionary among Leftist intellectuals, and it distanced him from his famous friends like Marquez and Fuentes. But Paz refused to be silent on the crimes of the communist states. He called the Soviet state ‘the first soulless state in human history’, as he felt that the millions who died
A MargHumanities-NMML Conference – Vernaculars Underground: Histories, Politics, Aesthetics

March 7th and 8th, 2014, at Teen Murti House, New Delhi Is it possible to create something of a larger platform for humanities studies by stepping outside of academia to think about it more rigorously, clearly, reflexively? Can we think about arts and literature through ways and means that are calm and raw, capricious and angry, and yet deeply analytical and sensual? Can we ponder and underline afresh the visceral and expansive political core that the humanities bequeath us along with an edgy sense of aesthetics, in these times of grandstanding, networking and spinning fashions? Is it at all possible to talk about literary movements in times of globalization, or are people who are passionate about the humanities destined to remain independent, sectarian and fractious? There are remainders and reminders. Around us. We just choose not to see them. Or we may be unaware of them, but certain people do exist in our part of the world—those who have been able to keep out of circuits of power and influence and be invested in local causes and commitments, and given their lives to full blooded love of literature. Not naively, but sometimes with a detached zeal. And sometimes with a sense of immediacy and urgency. On the one hand, they have kept their eyes and minds open so that they do not turn into provincial nativists. On the other, such people – and the movements or platforms that they represent – have also been able to keep their subtle, robust sense of internationalism outside of the cosmopolitan lure. These are expansive souls, who prefer working in little ways. They have paid a price for their convictions. Our academia and our festivals have been successfully able to keep them out of important venues and podiums. Political parties have been wary of their ways and methods. They have been persecuted and ostracised. Often they have lived strange lives—suspended. But indomitable souls that they are, they have been able to channel their endless energy into creative pursuits, in ventures hitherto un-thought of. Their silent commitment to the humanities is easily revealed when they wield pens to create poems touched by magic, when they talk and walk, when they come together to write a collective manifesto. They still believe in humour and tragedy. They meet personal and social conflict and antagonism headlong. They detest civility. They affirm life, above all. Small publications and committed people have their own politics and issues. It is a world of conflict. People who inhabit this world are canny and common, as everywhere. Coteries and groups, strategies and stratagems also mark this world. So, any such meeting about the humanities cannot be under the romantic assumption of a search for the alternative or end up being a misguided venture to seek authenticity of some sort. And that is the strength of the humanities. Literature, unlike the social sciences, takes into account our ‘wrong’ impulses and does not look for mukti or prematurely idealise any one form of representation. That route seems boring and self righteous to those who love literature. For them, it is important to mark out and seek passion, risk, conflict – and it is important to ask the difficult, sometimes incorrect questions. We have a lot to learn from people and groups who have tenaciously and tendentiously been hanging in there! Wryly, with wit, grit and zeal. Therefore we shall shun all forms of goodness. And eschew the podium and arc-light culture on March 7th & 8th at the NMML. We shall expend our energies instead on thrashing out some difficult questions about the world of little magazines, blogs and other minimal literary practices in contemporary South Asia. And drawing upon those debates, try and find entry points into larger questions of and about the humanities. We will have two days of literary and political adda —on the very nature and idea of underground literature in India and its prospects. As hinted above, one way to talk about the issue is to address the relevance and importance of little magazines and blogs that deal in literature and politics. The whole little magazine movement in various parts of the nation had a certain kind of approach: that of literary and political engagement. There were formal experiments in styling too; there is a serious aesthetic component in these ventures. Some print magazines from the 1960s and the ’70s continue to have a powerful impact on our lives. New forums and blogs have developed too with changing times. What has changed since the second half of the last century in small publications? What are the significant political-literary questions of our time for serious non-academic magazines? Often the editors and writers and practitioners of such ventures do not have a forum to reflect upon their craft and approach, at least not at the national level. Often their regional motivations are not discussed with their co-practitioners from other parts of South Asia. We hope to provide a little platform where we can exchange notes and tactics for future directions in the humanities, where we can have a serious give and take about our craft and job, but by looking outside of institutionalized academia for our concerns. We shall de-academize academia as we know it and as most of us practice it. We shall have editors, writers and bloggers from Uttaranchal, Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, West Bengal, Gujarat, Maharashtra, Assam, Kerala, Delhi and Bangladesh at Vernaculars Underground: Histories, Politics, Aesthetics organized by MargHumanities in collaboration with the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library, New Delhi on March 7 and 8, 2014. Although we believe ideas and issues and fresh contours of literature and politics will emerge and develop over the two days through discussions and talks, MargHumanities hopes that some of the following issues will be addressed in the course of those conversations: How to bring back a sense of stout antagonism and desolation into literature and enthuse a generation. Without sloganeering. Consequently, what are the ways to embark upon and take on