Mu' in the Art of Haiku--Some Aesthetic Remarks on Nothing

Public Seminar/Occasional Paper presented to
The Curriculum and Pedagogy Institute of the University of Alberta
2 March 1998

by Dr. Gunter Wohlfart
Chair of Philosophy, Wuppertal University, Germany

Editor's note:

The Curriculum and Pedagogy Institute is grateful to Dr. Wohlfart for providing us with this draft version of his talk. It should be noted, however, that this paper was scanned from hardcopy; in consequence of the difficulty in attaining accuracy when using OCR with documents containing multiple fonts and languages, we resolved to omit an extensive series of footnotes. Further, we have not included a number of handouts and a further series of notes to which Dr. Wohlfart alluded in his talk. What is presented here, then, is a sketch of the content of his lecture devoid of its various supporting documents. We recommend that interested readers contact Dr. Wohlfart directly through the University of Wuppertal should they wish to obtain the complete version of this paper. We are sorry that we cannot provide an email contact for this purpose at this time.

tmd

Nothing but reeds in the wind
reminding us of nothing

The following lecture can be divided into three sections. In the first part I want to make some introductory remarks on the use of metaphor in language and on poetic metaphor. Second, I will talk about the Haiku or the art of the non-metaphorical. With this aim in view I'll take a look at a famous Haiku by the greatest Japanese Haiku-master Basho. The last part contains some concluding remarks on non-metaphorics, non-poetics and non-verbalisation.

1. Introductory remarks: The use of metaphor in language and poetic metaphor

According to Vico the greater part of the language of almost all ethnic groups is made up of metaphor. Every language is a "dictionary of faded metaphors" as Jean Paul so aptly--and metaphorically--expressed it. For Nietzsche we are driven to create metaphors by "a fundamental human instinct," and a concept is merely the "remains of a metaphor." "When we take a closer look at the figure of speech that we term "metaphor," we realise that human expression is made up of as many metaphors as the Black Forest is made up of trees." As B. Liebrucks, one of my professors, once put it: "The metaphor is a reflection within language on language activity itself." In so far as all language is translation, metaphora, translatio, it is the trans-lation of meaning. The metaphor is the figurative translation of meaning. By means of analogy the metaphor transmits meaning from the sensual-visual (physical) level to the abstract-conceptual (spiritual) level. The metaphor is one of the main components of human language in so far as it is poiesis of sense, that is, in so far as it "makes sense," or transmits meaning.

But the metaphor, as we know, is also one of the most significant elements of poetic language in so far as it "creates meaning," or communicates an idea in a figurative way. It is primarily because of the use of metaphor that poetry can be referred to as the "mother tongue of the human race." It is evident that the essential metaphorical, figurative character of language in general is expressed in poetic metaphor "in a figurative way." To sum up, the metaphor, the short simile, is one of the main component parts of language in general and of poetic language in particular.

Yet on the other hand has it not always been the aim of great poetry to present things in their uniqueness, in their incomparable individuality, or in other words: to compare things only with themselves? Is not great poetry, whose aim is to "call a spade a spade," essentially at odds with the metaphor? I should like to offer the proposition that the great art of language--just like all great art--is artless. Great poetry does not aim to be "poetical"--and in this sense is essentially non-metaphorical. In short: Great poetry contains its own counterthrust--the anti-metaphorical the anti-poetical and the antiverbal. I'll try to demonstrate this by an example from Japanese poetry.

2. The Haiku or the art of the non-metaphorical

As we know, the Haiku is a Japanese short poem which generally, though by no means always (not even in its traditional form), consists of 5 + 7 + 5 = 17 onji. The Haiku was perfected by the great Japanese poet Matsuo Basho. One of his most famous Haiku is to be found at the end of the 34th chapter of his "Oku no hosomichi" ("Narrow Road to a Far Province" or "Narrow Road to the Interior"). This work, which was written in 1689, is the poetical chronicle of a journey to the northern part of Honshu. Chapter 34 tells of the mountain temple Ryushakuji. Generally speaking the Haiku avoids metaphors and is essentially non-metaphorical. I have chosen this particular Haiku because it contains what we would normally term a metaphor. In the first moment it seems to contradict what has been said about the non-metaphorical character of the Haiku; however when we examine it more closely we become aware of an astonishing transformation in which the metaphor appears to cancel itself out. Let us take a closer look. The Haiku reads as follows:

Shizukasa ya
iwa ni shimiiru
semi no koe

In "Basho and his Interpreters," M. Ueda offers the following literal translation: "stillness / : / rock / to / permeate / cicada / 's / cry." For hermeneutic reasons, and for the sake of convenience, I shall divide the approach to the Haiku into three phases: the first phase, which we can refer to as the pre-metaphorical, pre-poetical phase, represents the phase of entry into the realm of the Haiku; the second phase, which can be referred to as the metaphorical or poetical phase; and finally the third phase, which is the post-metaphorical, post-poetical phase. This artificial distinction should provide a better understanding of the different moments of the Haiku. The interaction of these moments is the dynamic of the poem.

On the basis of the triadic versification the first phase could be characterised thus:

a / b / c: silence / rock / the chirping of the cicada; nothing more.

The second phase is the phase in which everything seems to centre on the metaphorical use of the word "penetrate" in the middle of the Haiku. To make it clearer we could distinguish another three moments within the second phase which are of course only moments of movement in the development of the Haiku:

2.1 Prima vista: The metaphorical transitus c --> b

The metaphor is a short analogy: the cry of the cicada penetrates the rock like a (horrible dictu) drill. The meaning is approximately this: silence--then suddenly the cry of the cicada which penetrates even the rock!

2.2 Seconda vista: The metaphorical transitus a --> b

There is a semantic ambiguity, a shift of perspective: silence (i.e. the not-crying before or after the cry of the cicada, penetrates the rock). The meaning would then be: silence penetrating everything, even the rock--and then suddenly, the cry of the cicada! The metaphor: (the cry of the cicada--[rock] drill) is revised, even negated to a certain extent. Now it is the not-crying of the cicada that has something "penetrating." The motif of the Haiku is silence and we only do justice to the semantic ambiguity of the metaphor with a translation in which the middle "verse" is related not only to the final "verse" but also to the opening "verse"--in spite of the cuffing word which "breaks" or "interrupts" the poem at the end of the first "verse." M. Ueda takes this into account in his translation: "Quietness-- / sinking into the rocks, / A cicada's cry," as does W. J. Higginson: "the stillness-- / soaking into stones / cicada's cry." G. S. Dombrady ignores the decisive "shift of perspective" and, with it, the crucial point. Although his translation sounds more "poetic" it is less convincing: "Stille ...! / Tief bohrt sich in den Fels / das Sirren der Zikaden." Moreover Dombrady's translation contains several free additions which, in my opinion, do not correspond to the austere spirit of the Haiku. The same applies to the translation by D. Britton: "In this hush profound, / Into the very rocks it seeps -- / The cicada sound," and to the translation of Sam Hamill: "Lonely silence / a single cicada's cry / sinking into stone."

2.3 Terza vista: the interdependence a <-- --> c

The change of perspective from c --> b (the cry of the cicada --> rock) to a --> b (silence --> rock) and back again indicates that not only do the cicada's cry and the silence penetrate the rock, but that the cicada's cry and the silence penetrate each other. "Silence falls even as the cicadas cry." Those who have heard the cry of the cicadas -- as for example in Matsushima -- know that when the cry stops, then we stop and are aware of the silence. We hear the silence only when the cry of the cicadas ceases. We hear pure silence. Taizo Ebara comments: "In the word "shimiiru" we sense motion in stillness, and stillness in motion. Basho, with his consummate art, captured this oneness of motion and stillness in a short poem. " The cry suddenly stops, or is suspended, but in stopping seems to continue in the ensuing silence, in fact seems to permeate it. Just as stillness appears to pervade the cicada's cry so the cry of the cicada resounds in the stillness, the stillness is permeated by it. Silence pervades the cicada's cry, silence is pervaded by the cicada's cry.

In the interdependence of a < -- > c (stillness < -- > cicada's cry) the metaphor is suspended in the Hegelian sense. It is preserved in as much as we are talking about a mutual permeation -- although this is not referred to directly in 'verses' a + c. At the same time the metaphor is negated, because by disregarding the rocks in verse b we lose the analogy with the drill as it appears in the relations c -- > b and a -- > b. In this sense we can speak of a "metaphor without metaphor."

When we look back at the three moments of the second phase we see that there is a mediation between the three 'verses' or phrases within which the main metaphor (2.1) is first negated (2.2) and then included (2.3). This brings us to the 3rd phase-I hope, for the sake of clarity, I may be forgiven for using such unpoetical terminology.

The third phase may be characterised as follows: a - b - c: stillness -- rock -- the cicadas' cry, nothing more. Everything is almost the same as in the first phase, but only almost, because in between there is a 'poetic turn' of 360 degrees. Because each moment relates to the other, it follows that each relates also to itself. The stillness, for example, recalls the cicada's cry, and at the same time the cicada's cry gives expression to the stillness (stillness -- > cry; cry -- > stillness); by way of the cicada's cry the stillness comes back to itself, and becomes what it in fact is. The transference of meaning to other things is altered by the gentle movement of the Haiku and it becomes the transference of meaning to itself The metaphor is taken back or withdrawn insofar as stillness, rock and the cicada's cry are metaphors of themselves. When the metaphor is a short analogy, it becomes an analogy of itself. Through a kind of immanent transubstantiation, stillness becomes stillness, rock becomes rock. Each thing is incorporated in its own inimitable self-so, in its 'haecceitas' (Duns Scotus), in its 'uniqueness'. It is nothing other than itself, whereby 'itself' is also the 'other' thing. It is a matter of their 'non-two-ness'. They are different and yet as always. Finally we return to where we were before and yet -- being absent, being present -- were not. "The river flows boundlessly, as it flows. The flower blossoms red, as it blossoms." It recalls nothing but itself. It reveals itself, it speaks of itself. What you see is what you see: rocks. What you hear is what you hear: cicada's cry. The essence of this cry is the cry itself -- no more. In what I have referred to as the third phase, at the end of the 'metaphorical process,' the stillness is once again mere stillness, the rock is once again but a rock and the cicada's cry once again but the cry of the cicada.

The spirit of the haiku is the spirit of Zen, as R. H. Blyth has so convincingly indicated. "Haiku are to be understood from the Zen point of view." He says of Basho's great haiku: "Haiku is a kind of satori . . . the poem's meaning goes beyond its words and points toward the profound secrets of Zen." A good haiku does not speak of the moment of revelation "it is that moment itself, frozen to crystal . . . "

In order to make clear what I have referred to as being a metaphor of itself, let me recount the following well-known story:

For those who know nothing about Zen, mountains are but mountains, trees are but trees and people are but people. When one has studied Zen for a short time, one becomes aware of the invalidity and of the transitoriness of all forms, and mountains are no longer mountains, trees are no longer trees and people are no longer people. For while the ignorant believe in the reality of material things, those who are even partly enlightened can see that they are mere apparitions, that they have no lasting reality, and that they disappear like fleeting clouds. Whereas -- as the parable concludes -- he who has gained full understanding of Zen knows that mountains are once again mountains, trees are once again trees and people are once again people.

3. Concluding Remarks: Non-metaphorics, Non-poetics, Non-verbalisation

Referring to the haiku in 'L'empire des Signes', Roland Barthes speaks about the 'liberation from meaning'. I should like to put it in a more paradoxical way: the haiku deals with the presentation (showing, not describing) of a moment of meaning without meaning. In the haiku there is no given meaning; there is a giving of meaning. It deals not with the looking at things, but with the looking of things. The 'metaphorics' of the haiku-if there is such a thing-is metaphorics without metaphor. There is indeed a 'transference,' that is a 'transfer' from one word to the other, but not a transference of a given sense. The haiku never speaks of something: "There is . . . no time to talk about something; there is only time to present something." The linguistic representation of the haiku does not re-present something to which the metaphor refers or transfers; rather, it presents something as being something else and ultimately as being itself. To be precise, it shows nothing but this, and nothing as (qua) this. "The haiku presents the event in an image, shows us what happened, does not tell us about it or tell us what emotion to feel." The haiku does not speak about things, it speaks for them, so that they speak for themselves. The haiku translates things into their own wordless language. In the haiku, meaning is transferred to itself. The search for a meaning, which might be found elsewhere, is disappointed; without having found another meaning it leads back to the thing itself The course of meaning runs through what is similar, back again to the same, to itself. The 'meaning' of the thing reveals itself when it is understood to be a metaphor of itself.

Insofar as the haiku is auto-metaphorical, non-metaphorical, it is non-poetical, and in the end non-verbal. But what does this mean? The haiku is auto-poetical, non-poetical; its greatest poetry is almost prosaic, which means originally 'straightforward language'; its greatest art is not the artificial, but rather the artistically artless, art without art. Basho's own words have been passed on to us:

The Master said: 'Learn about a pine tree from a pine tree, and about a bamboo plant from a bamboo plant.' What he meant was that a poet should detach the mind from his own personal self. Nevertheless some poets interpret the word 'learn' in their own ways and never really 'learn'. For 'learn' means to enter into the object, perceive its delicate life and feel its feelings, whereupon a poem forms itself. A lucid description of the object is not enough; unless the poem contains feelings which have spontaneously emerged from the object, it will show the object and the poet's self as two separate entities, making it impossible to attain a true poetic sentiment. The poem will be artificial, for it is composed by the poet's personal self.

The haiku is non-verbal, sigetical, tends towards silence. 'Xi Yan Zi-Ran', 'austere words of self-so' -- this could be applied to the work of the haiku poet. He is not a maker of words, he is sparing with words. The austere words of the haiku almost revert to wordlessness; in the form of vivid words, things, 'being-so,' are allowed to speak for themselves without words. Those who can hear the silence of haiku poetry are able to understand it. The silence of the haiku is a silence about nothing. The metaphor of the haiku -- if indeed it contains one -- does not point to something which is comparable to it, it points to the thing itself. The wordless word of the haiku crosses itself out, points through itself, is nothing but the empty mirror of things. It lets us see. The haiku poet expresses the inexpressible by what is unexpressed. He speaks without speaking. His words are silent; his silence is eloquent. It is silence without being silent. In his silence he speaks. When he speaks he is silent and points to the face of things. The finest words of the poet are those which are submerged in the most profound silence.

What the haiku has in common with all great poetry is its non-metaphorical non--poetical non-verbal character. It is characterised by the 'fasting of the heart,' by silence. It halts language. Great poetry, poetry which illuminates, reverts to silence. As Beckett put it, words are "a desecration of silence." The purest form of poetic eloquence is the "eloquence de silence" (Pascal). To adapt an old saying -- "Be silent in your words that I may see you!" These are the words the poet should heed. Great poetry is a 'setting' of stillness, a vessel of silence; it is suspended silence, it defines and is defined by silence, it penetrates and is penetrated by silence: it is a metaphor of silence.

At the end of the 26th book of the Dschuangdse -- a work which was of great importance for Basho -- there is a well-known simile, which expresses Dschuangdse's attitude to language. The salient point of this easily-misunderstood aphorism lies in the final question, which is 'beyond speaking and being silent':

The fish trap exists because of the fish; once you've got the fish, you can forget the trap. The rabbit snare exists because of the rabbit; once you've got the rabbit, you can forget the snare. Words exist because of meaning; once you've got the meaning, you can forget the words. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so I can have a word with him?