Hannah Arendt, “Walter Benjamin”, Men In Dark Times

To put it bluntly, it would be as misleading today to recommend Walter Benjamin as a literary critic and essayist as it would have been misleading to recommend Kafka of 1924 as a short-story writer and novelist. The describe adequately his work and him as an author within our usual framework of reference, one would have to make a great many negative statements, such as: his erudition was great, but he was no scholar; his subject matter comprised texts and their interpretation, but he was no philologist; he was greatly attracted not by religion but, “Walter Benjamin by theology and the theological type of interpretation for which the text itself is sacred, but he was no theologian and he was not particularly interested in the Bible; he was a born writer, but his greatest ambition was to produce a work consisting entirely of quotiations; he was the was the first Germ to translate Proust (together with Franz Hess) and St.-John Perse, and before that he had translated Baudelaire’s Tablueax Parisiens, but he was no translator; he reviewed books and wrote a number of essays on living and dead writers, but he was no literary critic; he wrote a book about the German baroque and left behind a huge unfinished study of the French nineteenth century, but he as no historian, literary or otherwise; I shall try to show that he thought poetically, but he was neither a poet nor a philosopher. – Hannah Arendt, “Walter Benjamin”, Men In Dark Times, pp.155-156


The themes which monastic discipline assigned to friars for meditation were designed to turn them away from the world and its affairs.  The thoughts which we are developing here originate from similar considerations.  At a moment when the politicians in whom the opponents of Fascism had placed their hopes are prostrate and confirm their defeat by betraying their own cause, these observations are intended to disentangle the political worldlings from the snares in which the traitors have entrapped them.  Our consideration proceeds from the insight the the politicians’ stubborn faith in progress, their confidence in their “mass basis,” and, finally, their servile integration in an uncontrollable apparatus have been three aspects of the same thing.   It seeks to convey an idea of the high price our accustomed thinking will have to pay for a conception of history that avoids any complicity with the thinking to which these politicians continue to adhere. – Walter Benjamin, “Theses On The Philosophy Of History”, in Illuminations, ed. by Hannah Arendt, trans. by Harry Zohn, p. 258

Walter Benjamin at work

Walter Benjamin at work

Georg Lukacs wrote of some members of the Frankfurt School, Adorno in particular:

A considerable part of the leading German intelligentsia, including Adorno, have taken up residence in the “Grand Hotel Abyss” which I described […] as “a beautiful hotel, equipped with every comfort, on the edge of an abyss, of nothingness, of absurdity. And the daily contemplation of the abyss between excellent meals or artistic entertainments, can only heighten the enjoyment of the subtle comforts offered.

In much the same way, Adorno was critical of his mentor and friend Walter Benjamin’s “Art in the Age of Mechanical Production”, “I am all too aware of the weakness of the work. And this consists, to put it crudely, in the tendency to engage in Jeremiads and polemics” (Quoted in Richard Leppert, ed., Theodor Adorno: Selected With Introduction, Commentary, and Notes, p.249n78), a charge I find all the more fascinating and lacking in ironic self-awareness considering Adorno’s tendency toward the exaggerated statement for elucidating a far more mundane point (something Lepper, the editor of the above volume of Adorno’s writings on music, notes early and often as part of Adorno’s “style”). Indeed, “Art In The Age Of Mechanical Production” may well be one of the most positive statements regarding the revolutionary potential of popular art (film in this case) from a leftist perspective written in the 20th century.

Just as Lukacs became contemptuous of the kind of too-comfortable armchair dialectics of Adorno and his circle, Adorno’s rejection of Benjamin precisely because he was “undialectic” (quoted in Arendt, p.162) and spoke scathingly of Benjamin’s “attempt to capture the portrait of history in the most insignificant representations of reality, its scraps, as it were.” (Arendt, p.163), sprung both from a fairly meritorious critical eye which nevertheless missed the deeper heart of the one being criticized. While it may well have been the case that Adorno’s life was just a tad too comfortable for one claiming a mantle as a revolutionary, so, too, were Benjamin’s works, in Arendt’s words, the strangest kind of Marxism. For Benjamin, however, his dedication to the revolutionary cause, while certainly a vital part of the intellectual toolkit he brought to every task – he came very close to joining the party in the mid-1920’s – was nevertheless uncomfortable enough with Marxist dialectics and a materialism stripped of its spiritual dimension that even to call him a Marxist (Lukacs mentions Benjamin as among his circle of “comrades” for which he grew contemptuous) is a fundamental misunderstanding of the man and his work.

Born in 1892, coming of age just prior to World War I, seeing little in Weimar Germany to recommend itself either to himself as critic or to others as a writer, finally trapped within the maelstrom of history in western Europe in the 1930’s, Benjamin took his own life after, having already made an arduous trek through southwestern France, precious papers in hand to allow him passage, he arrived at the Spanish border the day Spain closed its doors (albeit temporarily; no one, of course, could have known this at the time) to refugees from unoccupied France. His decision to end his own life, while certainly tragic (Berthold Brecht wrote that Benjamin’s death was the first real victory for the Nazi’s against German literature), was, given the circumstances, easily understandable. Not well known in his own time, his closest friends and supporters long since gone to the United States, and his physical, emotional, financial, and probably psychological resources spent, how is one person suppose to stand against the juggernaut of that moment in European history?

All the same, I think Arendt’s inclusion of Benjamin in a volume dedicated to extraordinary people living through extraordinary times (essay subjects include Lessing, Pope John XXIII, Brecht, and Karl Jaspers along with Benjamin and a couple others) is more than a little misleading. Benjamin was, alas, no more a product and commentator upon his times than he was a “simple” literary critic or historian or theologian. Indeed, paying attention to Arendt’s descriptions of Benjamin’s work, the themes she emphasizes, and the examples she cites, it becomes clear that Walter Benjamin was far more a man of the 19th century, particularly 19th century Paris with its rich bohemian subculture, than of the 20th. He was well educated yet could not bear the thought of academe. Like many children of that first generation of German Jews to succeed at assimilation, Benjamin neither considered himself “Jewish” nor did he wish so to be perceived, yet he ran up against official and cultural and social anti-Semitism throughout his life, policies that restricted what he as an unbaptized yet also unpracticing Jew could achieve. Despite this, throughout his adult life, he flirted (at the very least) with Zionism, having made friends with Gerhard Scholem before the First World War broke out. He was constantly writing Scholem that he was considering emigration to Jerusalem, yet he could never quite make the leap precisely because it involved labeling both his person and his work indelibly as “Jewish”, something he didn’t care to do.

Like the description Arendt gives in the epigrammatic quote concerning Benjamin’s literary interests and output, Benjamin was also jealous of his own prerogative concerning the kind of man, the individual, he wished to be. Arendt uses a the French word flâneur as what best suits Benjamin. It is no surprise that part of his never-completed Arcades project saw light under the title “Die flâneur”. The flâneur were a type, not quite a class and certainly not a “community” as we would understand it, who had a certain presence in 19th century Paris. Often derided as bums, they were children of wealthy bourgeois homes who, having no responsibilities to themselves or others, would wander through the streets and arcades and boulevards of Paris, taking in what there was to see and hear, experiencing what there was to experience, without any particular rhyme or reason. Obviously there is something more than a little decadent (both in literal and political uses of the word) about such living. At the same time, there’s an attractiveness to the kind of freedom – freedom from financial worry; freedom from interpersonal responsibility; freedom from the any sense of a purpose or end to such activities – that still appeals. They were, in a word, bohemians, although perhaps without the aesthetic self-consciousness of some such.

Benjamin was comfortable in academic work (his Habilitationschrift was a study of German Baroque Tragedy), with the popular essay (“Unpacking My Library”), critical appreciation (essays on Brecht and Kafka), and even venturing a typically Marxist style and subject matter (“Theses On History”). He both desired the approval of academics, yet because of the demand that he be baptized before he could serve on a University faculty (that would have required him acknowledging his Jewishness as definitive, something he never wanted to do), was never really desirous of such a position. He could play with a variety of vocabularies – Marxist, theological, aesthetic, poetic – without either losing his distinctive voice; he could use these styles without ever becoming so immersed in them he lost his particularity. That particularly after the First World War Benjamin always kept his options open both with Zionism and Communism (two ideologies that vocally detested one another), he never concerned himself even with having to make a choice. He faced the criticisms of friends (Adorno) and mentors (Scholem) with a kind of equanimity borne, I think, from a kind of self-awareness that allowed him to know they just didn’t get him.

What to many might seem the inconsequential, perhaps even dilettante, concerns – his bibliomania, for one; an incident, highlighted by Arendt, of Benjamin becoming enthralled by two grains of wheat upon which a prayerful soul had inscribed the entire Shema Israel – and see in them an importance that others, far more concerned with the scope and sweep of History, not only wouldn’t see, but couldn’t see. This, too, is a kind of aestheticism, a very 19th century attitude toward life and the world that was very much out of place in a world riven first by tragedy in Benjamin’s early adulthood, soon to be destroyed completely. Most intellectuals considered the First World War, with its destruction of a species of European cosmopolitanism, a “turning point” in the most literal way: historical reality had invalidated the best hopes of the previous century and there was, thus, no going back. Yet it was Benjamin who wrote in his “Theses on History” that history was an Angel, her eyes turned toward the wreckage of the past, always being pulled backwards with the present moment. For Benjamin, that wreckage was both very real yet also still held the truth of what had constituted it in the very piles of dust and brick and bone and blood. Far happier in Paris than he ever had been in his native Berlin, far more attracted to the minutiae of life than to the grand sweep of History, quite happy to write quasi-Marxist cultural criticism or an appreciation of Brecht’s early works, Benjamin was far more a creature of an irretrievable past than he was the historical moments through which he lived.

We usually consider people to be products primarily of the social, political, economic, and cultural conditions within which they live. Benjamin, however, while never rejecting his own times, was nevertheless a half-conscious throwback. His “No” to his times – exemplified in his adoption of a Marxist vocabulary while never fully embracing either Marxism or the Communist Party – was as much a desire to reclaim a better past as it was a hope in a future no longer touched by the desolation of his own particular times.

There is something tragically heroic in such a stance, one which understands one’s own time only as a negation both of what has been and what will be. As long as life promises possibilities, it is easy enough to face adversity and continue to struggle on. Facing the full wrath of Historical forces beyond anyone’s ability either to withstand or even comprehend, however, that ghostly past and evanescent future can be crushed along with everything else. Thus was Benjamin’s end, death by his own hand, comprehensible. The gigantic machinery of mass death was pushing hard upon him, resisted by the equally strong forces of those who, acting out of fear, became its unwitting agents, would leave few of us the wherewithal to carry on. If the First World War had destroyed the 19th century, it is not hard to imagine one such as Walter Benjamin, believing the Gestapo was close on his heels and his only escape route now closed, to understand this new war, waged by demonic forces of anti-culture and anti-humanity, might well destroy not only the 20th, but perhaps the 21st as well.

It has been the work of many to resurrect Benjamin’s life and work, reconstitute his correspondence, and try  best to explain this one individual, lost in his own time, to those who have come after who, perhaps, feel more than a little affinity for one who just wasn’t completely at home in his own times. His subject matter might seem to be inconsequential. His style might seem eclectic, even precious on occasion. His scope of interests  are not quite as clear if we consider only what was published in his lifetime. All the same, this incomplete life (Benjamin was three years younger than I am now when he died) and his incomplete work together demonstrate that even fragments can be meaningful.

After all, someone once wrote the Shema Israel on two grains of wheat. In the scraps of life we might yet find the whole of history, if we are willing to look with enough care.

Theodor W Adorno, “Difficulties”

Perhaps only that music is still possible which measures itself against the greatest extreme, its own falling silent. – Theodor W. Adorno, “Difficulties”, in Richard Leppert, ed. Theodor W. Adorno: Essays on Music, p.660.

If you’ve journeyed with me through this long, occasionally arduous, always enlightening collection of essays, I’m guessing you are probably as thrilled as I am to have reached the end.  Not that ending a long work is an occasion either for relief or simple celebration.  It is, rather, celebration of an accomplishment.  This first real exposure to the thought, and writings, of Theodor Adorno has been eye-opening, thought provoking, and offered fodder for moving forward in my much larger personal project of thinking about and through music in the context of Christian liturgy, theology, and life.

Much of my “reflection” has consisted of putting in my own words what I gleaned from Adorno’s writings.  I have occasionally been critical, but by and large, since this is my first time both through Adorno and through this particular selection of essays, I wanted only to engage with what I received, rather than start an argument with a man dead forty-five years.  Which is a long way of saying that while there is much in here with which I agree, there is also much I find troubling.  In the long “Introduction”, Leppert quotes Georg Lukacs’ criticism of Adorno’s work on music:

A considerable part of the leading German intelligentsia, including Adorno, have taken up residence in the ‘Grand Hotel Abyss,’ which I described ni connection with my critique of Schopenhauer as ‘a beautiful hotel, equipped with every comfort, on the edge of an abyss, of nothingness, of absurdity.  And the daily contemplation of the abyss between excellent meals or artistic entertainments can only heighten the enjoyment of the subtle comforts offered.'” (pp.67-68)

This is more than just an accusation of dilettantism.  It is, in fact, an accusation of elitism; of sitting around, pronouncing judgment on the suffering of the world from a distance, then making sure they aren’t late for the latest art opening or philharmonic concert.  Lukacs’s barb was aimed not just at Adorno’s approach to music; it was, in fact, an attack on the Frankfurt School as a whole, with its “negative dialectic”, its acknowledgment of the horrors of the world without a single word about how it might be possible to alleviate it.  Indeed, an honest reading of the idea of “ideology” as Adorno constructs it would seem to negate the very project in which he is engaged.

So it wasn’t just about music; it was about dallying with aesthetics while millions died, shrugging one’s shoulders and asking, “What can I do about it?”  In Adorno’s defense, his position was realistic enough.  He was a professor of sociology.  He did what he could, which was to write works that demonstrated the thoroughgoing capture of society and culture by late capitalism, which included him and his work, insisting that the Stalinist left was little different from the capitalist right in their insistence that society and culture work together to support the political regime.  It was just that the capitalist countries were more subtle about their methods of control (with the exception of the McCarthyites, of course, you wouldn’t find any western counterparts to the Zhdanovites in Europe or America).

More to the point, in these two final essays joined due to their similar theme, Adorno yet again insists that the “difficulties” are multi-faceted, confronting both composer and the society in which and for which they compose with nearly insurmountable obstacles.  On the one hand, composers are, Adorno insists, faced with the need to present the truth.  The public, however, conditioned by a Culture Industry that has no desire for thought, preferring instead thoughtless entertainment, can neither understand nor use the music emerging as “new”, and therefore rejects it.  Not because it offers nothing; rather because it offers everything needed.

Adorno’s disdain not only for the masses inoculated against the new music through the machinations of the Culture Industry but also for a preference for what he considers “museum pieces”, such as the opera-going public or those who attend symphony concerts that rest heavily on tonal music of the past, is thoroughgoing.  Yet, it begs the question which Adorno continue to sidestep through his ideological descriptions, that if the new music were so rooted in the times and reflected those times to the public, at least some of the public outside the musicological academy and aesthetes would react positively to it.  That both atonality and 12-tone and serial music fell largely on deaf ears, with the summer institutes at Darmstadt not only reducing 12-tone method to mathematical formulas but creating countless pieces of music to which no one listened should at the very least given Adorno pause.  That it did not demonstrates a serious blind spot on his part.

The avante garde jazz pianist Cecil Taylor allegedly claimed that, since he had to practice and study in order to play his music, there is no reason his audience should not be required to do the same.  Adorno offers much the same argument; real listening requires work, thought, and even study if the music is to be more than “mere” entertainment, or worse, pure ideology.  In Ken Burns’s Jazz, Branford Marsalis called this “self-indulgent bullshit,” a sentiment with which I tend to agree.  Yet, Adorno defends his position:

The ideal that music should or must be generally understood, which is frequently assumed as unproblematic, has its own socio-historical index.  It is democratic; it was scarcely in force under feudalism.  At that time, what one might call the disciplinary function of mus, in the sense of Plato and Augustine, was foregrounded, as opposed to universal understanding or purported enjoyment.  At that time, consequently, music was also characteristically regarded as a kind of secret science.  No scores, but only voices have come down to us, presumably in order to keep the misera plebs far away from the alchemist’s kitchen of counterpoint. (p.662)

Which is as unreflective, and I might add unhistorical a position to take, particularly for someone for whom history was the category sine qua non for truly understanding music.  Because the Middle Ages did not assume clarity of understanding, we in our bourgeois, democratic age – for all its contradictions and trends toward totalitarianisms of various kinds – should not assume it, either; this isn’t so much an argument as an observation without an ear tuned to the multifaceted ways music of all kinds presents our modern age with its inherent contradictions while simultaneously being listenable and comprehensible.  To argue that the difficulty of the New Music is a hallmark of its timeliness, and that one shouldn’t assume listenability because historically that hasn’t been the case is even more elitist a position than the ignorant dismissal of jazz, based upon European imports and Paul Whiteman’s Orchestra.

None of which is to say there is nothing of value in Adorno’s work.  On the contrary, the simple fact that this massive volume of nearly 700 pages of text and commentary represents a small part of Adorno’s work on music is testimony to the importance he gave to this most illusive and enigmatic art form.  I would not have wasted so much time and intellectual effort working my way through such a volume if I saw no value in it.  His observations about the social function of music; about the role of what he calls the Culture Industry; of the social tensions between music presented as something more than simple entertainment and the creations of record company A&R people and management teams; the way marketing has replaced aesthetic appreciation in the creation and dissemination of music; these are all on-going issues that all those concerned not only about music, but our society in general, should think about.

Viewing the individual, however, as a surd, a creature of larger social forces ignores the reality that, as much truth as that view has, viz., that human individuals are only partially complete viewed outside a social context, there is still an individual who either likes or dislikes, can understand or not understand, music played.  That we now have the ability to understand more clearly how these mechanisms work, and how the conglomeration of individual preferences and brain functions coalesce in to this thing we call “music” needs to be integrated more thoroughly in to any social understanding and criticism of music.

I would add, as a final note, that, theologically speaking – and this is in harmony (no pun intended) with the dismissive attitude Adorno takes toward the democratic preference for comprehensibility – unless music is something human beings can understand, unless it serves particular functions positively rather than as a negation of any social function, we aren’t dealing with a human creation at all.  As my personal goal is understanding music more clearly so as to be able to bring people to hear in all sorts of music the song God is singing to creation, as well as the song creation sings to God, while there I have learned much from Adorno about taking care of stumbling blocks and hidden pitfalls, there is also the need to be clear – in our song, about our song, and through our song.  Otherwise, it is, yet again, self-indulgent bullshit.