WAYS OF WRITING ABOUT ONESELF
65
In another kind of personal revelation, you see a painting you've never
seen before and you say: "Hokusai," or "Guercino," or "Cranach."
With the names you announce that you have recognized a unique pres–
ence or personal being. The existence of any human being or personal
presence tends
to
be an announcement, virtually a name, and this is just
as true of my uncelebrated and obscure Aunt Molly as the very great and
famous Hokusai. Adam was required
to
name the animals, but how
could he have done that unless their names were already implicit in their
individual being? "Obviously, this beast is Lion, and this can only be
Pig." In regard to animals, the case is more individual than personal, as
far as we know. If an animal could spell its name, it would be spelled the
same way every time. Existence moves in the direction of names.
Diction, grammar, imagery, the sound of a person's voice on the
phone, the wayan animal looks-if a thing has any sort of sensational
existence, a name is being announced, and this is true even if it goes
unrecognized. It is only God who can say "I am that I am" and remain
nameless, accessible only through the
via l1egativa.
As Spinoza puts it,
substance is conceived only in and through itself; that is, only in terms
of itself. As for us folks, or any other finite individual entity, we are
among the modes of substance and, ultimately, "Rolled round in earth's
diurnal course with rocks and stones and trees." This mournful line is
from Wordsworth's profoundly personal poem "A Slumber Did My
Spirit Seal" about a woman who is never named. In fact, what makes
the poem so haunting in its desperation is that it is almost entirely about
Wordsworth himself. Inevitably, we are names. To say Henry IV or John
Smith
III
is to say a name that precedes the being it names-the fourth
Henry, the third John Smith.
In a story 1 wrote long ago, I quoted a freshman paper that had been
submitted to my class. The student wrote: "Karl Marx, for that was his
name.... " It's as if Marx's father had said
to
his wife, "I've decided
to
name our boy Karl," and his wife said, "No, no, anything but Karl,"
and the father sa id, "I'm a fra id I ha ve no choice, for tha t is his name."
ror reasons I understand very imperfectly, though I suppose they
might be obvious to anyone else by this point, it has always been more
difficult for me to write about myself than any other subject. What I
know for sure is that writing about myself always entails writing about
other people, and there is a chance someone will be embarrassed or hurt
even if my intentions are innocent.
One of my brightest and most likeable students was named Canter–
bury. He wanted me to direct his dissertation. I told him that wasn't a
good idea, and that he ought to ask one of my colleagues who is well
