i think Bible and Kabbalah have historical weight behind them as far as encouraging literary creativity via expansion on a set text/being taken as models for emulation and also for successfully insisting on their own extra-textual value ('faith without works is dead' 'we shall do and we shall hear' - 'you must do it first before it can be interpreted for you' 'it is good to study, but much better to study and practice')
it would absolutely be eurocentric to claim that in this they are Revealed and Unique, but as english speakers it is what we have to hand, its legacy is going to confront us in any direction we can turn in our native languages. it's that or the Greeks, and i just personally have more resonance with the direction Midrash developed in than i do the directions Philosophy has gone.
if we can successfully -do this- with Torah, and integrate it into ourselves, so that -we- are saturated with its root-words at the level of our nerves, think in its grammar at every turn and with every action, see for ourselves the resonances and conjunctions it points away from itself towards, then nature may sooner be an open book to us. who knows what we would be able to do?
He it is Who hath revealed unto thee (Muhammad) the Scripture wherein are clear revelations - they are the substance of the Book - and others (which are) allegorical. But those in whose hearts is doubt pursue, forsooth, that which is allegorical seeking (to cause) dissension by seeking to explain it. None knoweth its explanation save Allah. And those who are of sound instruction say: We believe therein; the whole is from our Lord; but only men of understanding really heed.
— Pickthall
Shakir: He it is Who has revealed the Book to you; some of its verses are decisive, they are the basis of the Book, and others are allegorical; then as for those in whose hearts there is perversity they follow the part of it which is allegorical, seeking to mislead and seeking to give it (their own) interpretation. but none knows its interpretation except Allah, and those who are firmly rooted in knowledge say: We believe in it, it is all from our Lord; and none do mind except those having understanding.
Arberry: It is He who sent down upon thee the Book, wherein are verses clear that are the Essence of the Book, and others ambiguous. As for those in whose hearts is swerving, they follow the ambiguous part, desiring dissension, and desiring its interpretation; and none knows its interpretation, save only God. And those firmly rooted in knowledge say, 'We believe in it; all is from our Lord'; yet none remembers, but men possessed of minds.
i read that over dinner and my first instinct was to flip out over it/do my much promised Takedown of the Dissensus Consensus but i'm glad i had space from it.
what i will say is that I take not only exegesis of Torah but language in general very seriously as a spiritual reality and would not go to church every week if i believed otherwise. there is a way of doing it that is merely busywork (because not centered on the Mystery) but i have been able to derive insights (or rather have things show to me by Another) from the practice that have served to reconcile me to the world (by stages)
it would be dishonest of me to give a full throated defense of 'Tradition' a la Congar or the Habadniks because i live in some sense outside of it but i don't think it's something to be trifled with, either. it's something i am in the process of making peace with in spite of how deeply embedded i am in the secular - because i am convinced of the authority of its claims on me, in terms of the ethics i must live by and my connection to a deeper chain in history, a familial belonging to the line of prophets that is 'the Israel of God'.
Is this thing about the actual word of God connected to the intellectual/anti intellectual thing?
Like, if you ponder the meaning of the word and understand what it's saying, are you rather missing the point of the revelatory power of simply the word.
In this searing polemic, Lee Edelman outlines a radically uncompromising new ethics of queer theory. His main target is the all-pervasive figure of the child, which he reads as the linchpin of our universal politics of “reproductive futurism.” Edelman argues that the child, understood as innocence in need of protection, represents the possibility of the future against which the queer is positioned as the embodiment of a relentlessly narcissistic, antisocial, and future-negating drive. He boldly insists that the efficacy of queerness lies in its very willingness to embrace this refusal of the social and political order. In No Future, Edelman urges queers to abandon the stance of accommodation and accede to their status as figures for the force of a negativity that he links with irony, jouissance, and, ultimately, the death drive itself.
Closely engaging with literary texts, Edelman makes a compelling case for imagining Scrooge without Tiny Tim and Silas Marner without little Eppie.
Like Pius XII, we too (in contrast to the existentialist bourgeois – these hunters after ever new showers on the epidermis[1] of their nascent corpses) see in love a means of producing people. However, as we are not guided by mystical or ethical notions, we can see that, like the child is playing in order to one day be able to follow the predator in the forest or the… trolleybus in the thicket of cities and a motor is “retracted” by millions of revolutions before it releases useful energy on the road, sexuality also has a much broader field of activity than at the moment of the useful meeting of two germ cells.
“He couldn’t stop,” Brub denied. “He was a murderer.”
Dix lifted his eyebrows. “You mean a murderer is a murderer? As a detective is a detective? A waiter a waiter?”
“No. Those are selected professions. A detective or a waiter can change to another field. I mean a murderer is a murderer as . . . an actor is an actor. He can stop acting professionally but he’s still an actor. He acts. Or an artist. If he never picks up another brush, he will still see and think and react as an artist.”
“I believe,” Dix said slowly, “you could get some arguments on that.”
“Plenty,” Brub agreed cheerfully. “But that’s the way I see it.”
The phone hadn’t rung all day. It wasn’t going to ring now, not while he stood here in the bedroom looking at it. There wasn’t any girl worth getting upset over. They were all alike, cheats, liars, whores. Even the pious ones were only waiting for a chance to cheat and lie and whore. He’d proved it. he’d proved it over and again. There wasn’t a decent one among them. There’d only been one decent one and she was dead. Brucie was dead.
Laurel couldn’t disappoint him. He’d known what she was the first time he’d looked at her. Known he couldn’t trust her, known she was a bitchy dame, cruel as her eyes and her taloned nails. Cruel as her cat body and her sullen tongue. Known he couldn’t hurt her and she couldn’t hurt him. Because neither of them gave a damn about anyone or anything except their own skins.
Lochner said, “I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Mel Terriss.”
He laughed. He said, “Mel’s in Rio.”
Lochner went on, “And suspicion of the murder of Mildred Atkinson.”
He laughed again.
“And suspicion of the murder of Elizabeth Banning.”
They didn’t have anything on him. Not a thing.
“And the attempted murder of Sylvia Nicolai.”
He hadn’t hurt Sylvia. He’d lost his temper over her vicious taunts but he hadn’t done anything to her. A good lawyer would take care of that one.
“Have you anything to say?”
He looked straight at Lochner. “Yes. I think you’re crazy.”
The shapeless man said, “The girls were safe in August. You killed Mel Terriss in August, didn’t you?”
“Mel Terriss is in Rio,” Dix sneered.
It was Brub who began talking to him as if he were a human being. “It’s no use. Dix. We have Mildred Atkinson’s fingerprints in your car. There’s only one way they could get there.”
Brub was lying, trying to trap him. They hadn’t had time to take all the fingerprints out of that car while they talked with him today. They had time to take them while the car stood in the garage or at the curb, while a gardener guarded each door of the apartment by day, while men in the shadows watched the doors at night. “We have the dust—”
He’d covered the dust. His lawyer would make a monkey of the dust expert.
“—lint from the Atkinson girl’s coat—”
His eyes lifted too quickly to Brub’s impassive face.
“—hairs from the Banning’s Kerry Blue on the suit you took to the cleaners this morning—”
You couldn’t think of everything. When you were rushed. When your luck had run out.
For one moment the old Brub broke through the deadly, grim-visaged cop. The old Brub cried out in agony, “For God’s sake, why did you do it, Dix?”
He sat there very quietly, trying not to hear, not to speak, not to feel. But the tears rose in his throat, matted his eyes, he could not withhold them longer.
He wept, “I killed Brucie.”
all the way up to the divine right of kings, but, as we all know, to the point of banality, mammon is the ruler now, which is why skyscrapers are taller than st paul'sWell yes, religion in its older form doesn't exist now. What you have is esoteric mysticism. But religion back in the day was not merely a belief system but a way of thinking about the world and legitimising the economic base.