In the last two blog entries, I have been looking into Benjamin’s “Vestibule” aphorism in which he recounts a dream where he discovers his name inscribed in Goethe’s guestbook. To understand what this meant to Benjamin, I discussed Benjamin’s understanding of what a name is and why it is significant. As I noted, Benjamin saw the name as revelatory. For him, it constitutes a link between God and man. And, as I pointed out, the name is more about relation and less about content. But there is a twist.
Although Benjamin is asked to sign his name, he realizes it has already been signed. In other words, a trick has been played on him
But the shock is not simply that his name was already written but that it was written “in big, unruly, childish letters.” Benjamin is, as I said yesterday, S(c)h(l)ocked by this prank. To be sure, Benjamin saw something very deep in this prank. As I noted, he discovered his calling to Schlemieldom. In a “man’s world” (literally, in Goethe’s world, his house) it seems Benjamin is a child. He is doomed to being a man who is thought of as a child. The ‘shape’ of his name, so to speak, indicates this.
It’s interesting to note that the Zohar, one of the greatest books of the Kabbalah, which Gershom Scholem, in part, translated into German, has many sections which analyze the shapes of letters. From these shapes, from the way they are written, we can learn secrets.
Elliot Wolfson, in his book Aleph, Mem, Tau: Kabbalistic Musings on Time, Truth, and Death, notes the passage in the Zohar in which “each of the letters presents itself before God in an effort to be chosen as the primary instrument through which the world would be created”(159). Wolfson delicately unpacks this passage from the Zohar so as to show that each letter deals with time, truth, and death.
Aleph says it is the first letter of the word Emet (which in Hebrew means truth), but Tav says it is the last letter of Emet (and the Hebrew alphabet) and should be granted the privilege of being the letter through which the world is created (160). But, Wolfson notes, Tav is disqualified because it is the last letter of the word Met (death).
However, as Wolfson argues, the letters taken together are the beginning (Aleph), middle (Mem), and the End (Tav). Together, they designate time and together (the past, present, and future) make the truth. The word, truth contains the word death, but it also opens up to the future as the truth-to-come. Wolfson correctly notes, resonating the Apocalyptic elements in the Kabbalah, that the first letter of the Torah is Bet not Aleph. And this reflection opens us up to a question: if the world was created with an Aleph (of the word Emet – truth) why isn’t the first letter of the Torah an Aleph?
This is the rub: the Aleph and the truth are concealed and will be revealed in the future, in the messianic age. Meanwhile, we live in the world of the second letter which conceals the first. In this world, truth (or for Wolfson, the truth of time) is distorted.
Walter Benjamin was quite aware of this teaching from the Zohar. From Scholem and his own studies, he learned how the letters of the name, their shape and arrangement, disclose a secret that can be glimpsed in the present and seen to be coming from the future. Building on Wolfson’s work, I would call this a truth-to-come.
Knowing this, how do we interpret Benjamin’s revelation of a name (his name) that was already written in clumsly children’s letters. Was the disclosure of this prank a revelation of the truth-to-come or, rather, a distortion of the truth-to-come? To be sure, this was the disclosure of Benjamin as a man-child (as a schlemiel). But what does the shape of the schlemiel’s name have to do with the truth-to-come?
In the very beginning of Benjamin’s essay on Kafka, he returns to this question.
In the beginning of the essay, entitled “Potemkin,” Benjamin recounts a story of how Grigory Potemkin, the 18th century Russian military ruler, statesman, and beloved of Catherine the Great, went into a great depression. (As a side note, Catherine gave Potemkin the title of the Prince of the Holy Roman Empire.)
As Benjamin recounts, Potemkin’s depression “lasted form an extraordinary length of time and brought about serious difficulties; in the offices documents piled up that required Potemkin’s signature”(112, Illuminations).
Who could get him to sign his name?
Benjamin notes that “an unimportant little clerk named Shuvalkin” comes to the rescue. In other words, a simpleton (that is, a schlemiel of sorts) comes to their aid. He doesn’t try to reason with Potemkin; rather, he acts: “Shuvalkin stepped up to writing desk, dipped a pen and ink, and without saying a word pressed it into Potemkin’s hands while putting the documents on his knees”(112).
Potemkin signs all of them. And Shuvalkin walks into the anteroom, “waving the papers triumphantly,” as the councilors gather around to see. And what happens is astounding: “Breathlessly they bent over them. No one spoke a word; the whole group seemed paralyzed.”
When Shuvalkin looked in to see what happened – to see what had “upset” them and put them into a stupor, he sees that every one of the signatures has his name signed on it: “Shuvalkin…Shuvalkin…Shuvalkin.”
Benjamin sees this story as a “herald racing two hundred years ahead of Kafka’s work.” And then he adds that “the enigma which beclouds it is Kafka’s enigma.”
Benjamin then goes on to substitute Kafka’s character K for Shuvalkin.
These rhetorical movements are very hasty and to simply go along with them, without prying into the esoteric, would be clumsy. Benjamin is telling us that Shuvalkin is a herald who goes “ahead of Kafka’s work.” To be sure, this implies that Shuvalkin, a schlemiel, may even be (temporally) ahead of Benjamin’s work. Moreover, he says that it is Kafka’s enigma but, in truth, it is also his. In fact, he and Kafka share the enigma of Shuvalkin, which is the enigma of having one’s name already signed by the Other. Signed in such a way that the shape of the letters and their arrangement indicate that the bearer of the signature is a fool.
After the last three blog entries on Benjamin and the name, I hope that by now it will become evident to the blog-readers out there that a name is taking shape. And that name, Benjamin and Kafka’s secret name, is a name that they are signed with and that name is the name of the man-child or the schlemiel.
There are many questions which come with this enigma and with this parable. What does it mean that Kafka and Benjamin are the subjects of a prank? And what does it mean that the “herald” has gone on ahead of Kafka? Is he ahead of “us” as well? I say “us” because everyone in the community, as is evidenced by the Potemkin parable, may be affected by the prank – that is, by the signature Shuvlakin. But to say this, as Benjamin seems to suggest, wouldn’t we be entering the realms of ontology, politics, and religion?
Given this suggestion, can we say that we all share the same childishly written (and childish) name? And instead of the name of God, as the name we all share (or the name Emet – truth, which Wolfson ventures in his reading of the Zohar), why is the name we share a name whose letters are childishly written? Why is “our” name the name of a man-child? Is this, as the Kabbalah might say, the “truth” (Emet) to come? Or is it a prank?
All of these questions have not, in the history of Benjamin studies, been posed or discussed. They are questions that come up if you read Benjamin (or Kafka for that matter) as he wanted to be read – as one would read a parable, midrashically. I will be developing these ideas further in my book on the Schlemiel. Nonetheless, I have decided to share some of these childish ‘secrets’ on this blog before my book makes the light of the day. To be sure, there are a few more secrets about Benjamin and the Schlemiel that I may tell in this blog before I pass on to other schlemiels and schlemiel-topics, but I may have to withhold them or encode them in the very near future. Wink Wink!
Remember, you heard it here first – at SchlemielTheory! More fun-to-come!