(German, 15 July 1892 – 27 September 1940)
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The Reading Box
[DER LESEKASTEN]
We can never entirely recover what has been forgotten. And this is perhaps a good thing. The shock of repossession would be so devastating that we would immediately cease to understand our longing. But we do understand it; and the more deeply what has been forgotten lies buried within us, the better we understand this longing. Just as the lost word that was on the tip of our tongue would have triggered flights of eloquence worthy of Demosthenes, so what is forgotten seems to us laden with all the lived life it promises us. It may be that what makes the forgotten so weighty and so pregnant is nothing but the trace of misplaced habits in which we could no longer find ourselves. Perhaps the mingling of the forgotten with the dust of our vanished dwellings is the secret of its survival. However that may be, everyone has encountered certain things which occasioned more lasting habits than other things. Through them, each person developed those capabilities which helped to determine the course of his life. And because — so far as as my own life is concerned — it was reading and writing that were decisive, none of the things that surrounded me in my early years arouses greater longing than the reading box. It contained, on little tablets, the various letters of the alphabet inscribed in cursive, which made them seem younger and more virginal than they would have been in roman style. Those slender figures reposed on their slanting bed, each one perfect, and were unified in their succession through the rule of their order — the word — to which they were wedded like nuns. I marveled at the sight of so much modesty allied to so much splendor. It was a state of grace. Yet my right hand, which sought obediently to reproduce this word, could never find the way. It had to remain on the outside, like a gatekeeper whose job was to admit only the elect. Hence, its commerce with the letters was full of renunciation. The longing which the reading box arouses in me proves how thoroughly bound up it was with my childhood. Indeed, what I seek in it is just that: my entire childhood, as concentrated in the movement [Griff] by which my hand slid the letters into the groove, where they would be arranged to form words. My hand can still dream of this mevement, but it can no longer awaken so as actually to perform it. By the same token, I can dream of the way I once learned to walk. But that doesn't help. I now know how to walk; there is no more learning to walk.
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[Walter Benjamin, Berlin Childhood around 1900]
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A BETŰDOBOZ
[DER LESEKASTEN]
.
The Reading Box
[DER LESEKASTEN]
We can never entirely recover what has been forgotten. And this is perhaps a good thing. The shock of repossession would be so devastating that we would immediately cease to understand our longing. But we do understand it; and the more deeply what has been forgotten lies buried within us, the better we understand this longing. Just as the lost word that was on the tip of our tongue would have triggered flights of eloquence worthy of Demosthenes, so what is forgotten seems to us laden with all the lived life it promises us. It may be that what makes the forgotten so weighty and so pregnant is nothing but the trace of misplaced habits in which we could no longer find ourselves. Perhaps the mingling of the forgotten with the dust of our vanished dwellings is the secret of its survival. However that may be, everyone has encountered certain things which occasioned more lasting habits than other things. Through them, each person developed those capabilities which helped to determine the course of his life. And because — so far as as my own life is concerned — it was reading and writing that were decisive, none of the things that surrounded me in my early years arouses greater longing than the reading box. It contained, on little tablets, the various letters of the alphabet inscribed in cursive, which made them seem younger and more virginal than they would have been in roman style. Those slender figures reposed on their slanting bed, each one perfect, and were unified in their succession through the rule of their order — the word — to which they were wedded like nuns. I marveled at the sight of so much modesty allied to so much splendor. It was a state of grace. Yet my right hand, which sought obediently to reproduce this word, could never find the way. It had to remain on the outside, like a gatekeeper whose job was to admit only the elect. Hence, its commerce with the letters was full of renunciation. The longing which the reading box arouses in me proves how thoroughly bound up it was with my childhood. Indeed, what I seek in it is just that: my entire childhood, as concentrated in the movement [Griff] by which my hand slid the letters into the groove, where they would be arranged to form words. My hand can still dream of this mevement, but it can no longer awaken so as actually to perform it. By the same token, I can dream of the way I once learned to walk. But that doesn't help. I now know how to walk; there is no more learning to walk.
_____________
[Walter Benjamin, Berlin Childhood around 1900]
*
A BETŰDOBOZ
[DER LESEKASTEN]
Amit elfelejtettünk, azt sohasem tudjuk többé maradéktalanul visszanyerni. De ez talán jó is. Az újrabirtoklás megrázkódtatása oly romboló lenne, hogy abban a pillanatban óhatatlanul megszűnnénk megérteni vágyainkat. Így azonban megértjük őket, éspedig annál jobban, minél mélyebbre ülepednek bennünk az elfeledettek. Ahogy az imént még nyelvünkön lebegő, de elkallódott szó démoszthenészi ékesszólásra buzdíthat, úgy az elfelejtettek, úgy tűnik, az egész eleven élettől súlyosak, melyet számunkra ígérnek. Ami az elfeledetteket ilyen súlyossá és élettől viselőssé teszi, az talán nem más, mint elkallódott szokásaink maradványa, amelyekhez már nem találjuk a visszautat. Talán széthullott burkaink porszemcséivel való keveredésük az a titok, melynek erejéből az elfeledettek fennmaradnak. Bárhogy legyen is, mindenki számára vannak olyan dolgok, amelyek tartósabb szokásokat fejlesztenek ki benne, mint bármi egyéb. E szokásokon formálódnak képességeink, amelyek meghatározzák létünket. S mivel ami engem illet, az én képességeim írásban és olvasásban jelentkeznek, ezért mindabból, amivel korai éveimben találkoztam, semmi sem kelt bennem forróbb vágyat, mint a betűdobozom. Benne apró táblácskákon ott találtam egyenként a gót betűket, amelyek így fiatalosabbnak és leányosabbnak tűntek, mint nyomtatásban. Karcsún hevertek ferde nyoszolyájukon, mindegyik önmagában is tökéletesen; sorrendjüket megkötötte rendjük szabálya, a szó, amelyhez úgy tartoztak hozzá, mintha nővérei lettek volna. Ámulattal töltött el, miképpen létezhet ennyi igénytelenség ennyi nagyszerűséggel egyesítve. Ez valóban kegyelmi állapot volt. És jobb kezem, amely engedelmesen foglalatoskodott velük, nem részesült ebben az állapotban. Kívül kellett maradnia, mint a portásnak, aki bebocsátja a kiválasztottakat. Így a betűkkel való foglalatosság tele volt lemondással. A sóvárgás, amelyet felébresztett bennem, bizonyítja, mennyire egybeforrott betűdobozom gyermekkorommal. Amit most keresek benne, az ő maga: az egész gyermekkor, ahogy benne volt abban a fogásban, amellyel kezem a betűket becsúsztatta a rendezőlécbe, ahol azután szavakká fűződtek. Ezt a fogást a kéz még meg tudja álmodni, de többé soha nem ébredhet fel úgy, hogy a valóságban meg is tudja ismételni. Így álmodhatunk arról, hogyan is tanultunk meg járni. Ez azonban már nem segít rajtunk. Járni most már tudok, járni tanulni soha többé.
Berczik Árpád fordítása
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[Walter Benjamin, Egyirányú utca - Berlini gyermekkor a századforduló táján, ATLANTISZ, 2005]
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