From Taxonomy or Definition to Augenblick

More along the lines pursed in Steve’s response to my last post.  A late entry  from Thoreau’s Journal — one of the last before his death, dated 1861 —“ All this is perfectly distinct to an observant eye, and yet could easily pass unnoticed by most. Thus each wind is self-registering” (J XIV: 346).

Each die that is cast (in Steve’s imagery), or each ‘egg laid in its nest,’ or each ‘wind passing through’ (to use Thoreau’s images)  is self-registering, sufficient unto itself, in no need of explanation, definition, transcendental deduction or taxonomical file-name.  It doesn’t need these because it contains its own intelligibility intrinsically in its act of coming-to-be.

Of course at times Thoreau does give us plant taxonomy, by the Latinate bushel.  But I think his hope is that a biologist’s label and classification and ordering will intensify our perception of the radiant import and glory of this moment of time, of kairos — that moment when chronological time holds still or evaporates, and is occupied by a ‘moment of vision’ [Kierkegaard’s Oieblikket (Augenblick)].  This is a moment of indeterminate, indefinite, infinite time in which something special happens — we get an infinite intensification of the presence of the thing (or the event of its coming-to-be).

After all is said and done, for Thoreau the point of taxonomic identification is not to increase scientific knowledge for its own sake.  (If science progresses as a side effect, that’s OK.)  He wants to increase Sympathy with Intelligence (as he says in “Walking”).  As I’d translate, he wants Intelligibility, and sympathetic immersion in the moment of its radiance.  He wants to acknowledge, or perhaps to induce, yet another Augenblick.

Revelation

Galileo gives us dead matter (the atom or the billiard ball) that neither grieves nor disowns grief, is gloriously free of pathos, a teeming, spinning whirl of stuff without meanings to share.

Thoreau awakens to a dawn that inspires, instructs, heartens.  He abjures spinning stuff and embraces swirling, fining fish — works to join them, his swimming totem creatures.

Thoreau delivers revelation through the mist, and invites conversion.  If my muse hears his, if his revelation becomes ours, we together behold. 

We are shattered to behold what we had hitherto only peered at or scanned or scrutinized in an ocular squint.  Revelations shatter, crush, and restore.

Something gets poetically accomplished.  These are moments to revel in.