As a rule, careful writers are careful readers and vice versa. A careful writer wants to be read carefully. He cannot know what it means to be read carefully but by having done careful reading himself. Reader precedes writer. We read before we write. We learn to write by reading. –Leo Strauss, Persecution and the Art of Writing
When you’re in on a joke, don’t forget to wink.
When you wink, you imply that there is something that only some people can see. Winking is not a straightforward gesture. It is oblique. And it is immediate, like a blink of the eye. The wink indicates that the person you shared your secret with now knows something that only you know.
The esoteric, hidden meaning, is esoteric precisely because it signifies by way of an oblique gesture. The conveyance of the esoteric (secret) message is gestural – like a wink. There are esoteric writers and readers. The esoteric writer winks at the reader. But the reader must be looking for the wink, in advance. To be sure, if the esoteric reader is to find a secret (or secrets, plural) she must “read between the lines.”
Throughout their work, Walter Benjamin and Leo Strauss were attentive in their readings of texts. There eyes were either looking for the wink or winking at their readers. And from such reading practices, they learned how to wink too.
For both, the good reader and the good writer knows how to wink and be winked at.
One winks at the reader, so to speak, through writing. But one must be able to see the wink. And that takes practice. One must learn to read for “allusions” – for things that are said obliquely.
But this is not simply a willed activity. To be sure, both knew that inherent in language is the power to allude and hint at things. This force astonished Benjamin and Strauss. Built into language, there is a revelatory aspect. But the revelation of language is not simply a revelation of something outside language.
They knew that their allusive writing style didn’t simply allude to something other than themselves. Although they would never say it directly (since that is the point of the esoteric), they believed that their allusions referred, in some way, to themselves.
What Benjamin and Strauss desired most was to read and to write: to wink and be winked at. They wanted to share their secrets.
Leo Strauss’s language is thick with such implication – it winks at his readers. When he says that “a careful writer wants to be read carefully,” he is obliquely telling his readers his desire which, ultimately, comes from careful reading. After all, as Strauss says in the epigram: “Reader precedes writer.” When Strauss writes these words about Baruch Spinoza, he is speaking about himself and his deepest desire as a writer. His words are autobiographical.
Strauss wants to be read well. But this is not for his own sake. He wants to read well so that he can write well. Writing is not for himself; writing, for Strauss, is shared (partage, as Derrida would say); writing is for a community of careful readers and writers. What Strauss calls “persecuted writers.” (Derrida, in his essay on Emmanuel Levinas entitled “Violence and Metaphysics” calls it the “community of the question.”)
To get into the community, you simply need to know how to read the wink when-it-happens and how to write-slash-wink. We can have no doubt that Benjamin saw himself as a part of such an esoteric community of readers and writers. He knew that the wink signifies that we know something that many people don’t. He knows that his knowledge, because it is esoteric and hidden from society, might be dangerous. This is why Strauss would call it “persecuted”: the author cannot, under certain societal circumstances, reveal this knowledge directly. S/he must wink.
But the wink doesn’t simply reveal a secret that may endanger society; it also tells us something about the writer that we may not know. After all, a wink tells us one thing: you’re in on my secret.
Yesterday, in my cursory reading of the childhood section Benjamin’s book One Way Street, I pointed out how Benjamin’s sections on children are autobiographical. The section begins with reading but ends with hiding. I explained how Benjamin was identifying with the child and, in effect, becoming-child. Most importantly, we must remember that this becoming happens in a world or micro-world.
One doesn’t become in a vacuum. This means that Benjamin’s reading practices are ways of opening up and hiding in microworlds. But he didn’t just go into these worlds for no reason. No, as I pointed out, Benjamin was running away from terror as the child runs from a “demon.” We can say that he was persecuted. His words on The Idiot (and on hiding) tell us that he knows that his terror comes from childhood damage. But this is not simply knowledge. In writing about this terror, it is practiced: Benjamin, in the two aphorisms we read yesterday, demonstrates that he must live the life of a child if he is to be safe or as Jacques Derrida would say in his essay “Faith and Religion,” sacred, that is, removed from danger, “autoimmune.”
At the beginning of One Way Street, Benjamin prepares us for his venture into childhood and its safe havens. We see this in an aphorism entitled “Vestibule.” Here he gives the reader his prophesy of childhood and his calling.
In the aphorism, Benjamin notes how, in a dream, he “visits” the home of the famed German writer, thinker, and poet: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. He notes that even though he was in Goethe’s house, “he didn’t see any rooms.”
Benjamin tells us how the interior of his dream space appears to him from his angle-slash-perspective: “that it was a perspective of whitewashed corridors like those in a school.” This implies that he feels like a young student in Goethe’s house (or, rather, school of thought). In the house-slash-school, there are “two elderly English lady visitors and a curator.” They are only “extras.” They lead him to the secret, which, we must underscore, is to be read and written. The curator asks that he and the two elderly ladies “sign the visitors’ book lying open on the desk at the end of the passage.”
When he opens the book to sign, he has a revelation about his name and his prophetic calling:
On reaching it, I find as I turn the pages my name already entered in big, unruly, childish characters.
He realizes that he doesn’t have to sign!
This is the prophetic calling of the schlemiel. To be sure, his name is “already” written in “big, unruly, childish characters.” The words literally wink at him: Benjamin is in on a big joke. This passage suggests that we all know that Benjamin was always meant to be a fool. Moreover, it is written in the book of Goethe: the prophet, so to speak, of all German scholarship.
But this revelation, lest we not forget, comes through a dream. This is significant since one of the ways prophesy comes to man, in Judaism, is through dreams. In exile, it is through the oblique and indirect way – the way of the dream – that God communicates with man. In Benjamin’s prophetic dream, he realizes that he is a man-child. His name is, after all, written in “big, unruly childish characters.”
His name, his essence, is childish. Yet, at the same time, Benjamin is a man hiding in Goethe’s imaginary schoolhouse. Most importantly, he didn’t name himself a child or schlemiel. He didn’t sign his name in a childlike manner, someone else did!