Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself within a dark forest, for the straight way had been lost.

Ah, how hard it is to speak of what that forest was, so savage and harsh and strong, that the mere thought of it renews my fear!

It is so bitter that death is scarcely more so; yet, to speak of the good that I found there, I shall tell of the other things I saw there.

Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Canto I

 

A great admonition is often repeated in Plato: “Do your own work and know yourself.” Each of these two parts encompasses, in general, the whole of our duty—and at the same time each contains the other. Whoever would do his own work would see that his first lesson is to know who he is and what is properly his; and whoever knows himself will not take another’s task for his own; he will care for and cultivate himself before all else; he will avoid superfluous occupations, unprofitable thoughts, and vain pursuits. Just as it would be madness to grant him whatever he desires, since he would not be satisfied, so wisdom is content with what is, and is never displeased with itself.

Michel de Montaigne, Essays, Book I

 

In the forest there are paths that often grow over and suddenly end in thickets where no human foot has trodden. These are the forest’s paths. Each runs separately, yet within the same forest. Often one seems like another—but this is only an appearance.

Martin Heidegger, Forest Paths

 

A “limit” is called the extremity of each thing—that is, the last point beyond which no part can be found, and the first point within which every part is contained. It is also the form of spatial magnitude, or of that which has magnitude; likewise the end of each thing, toward which motion and action are directed (terminus ad quem), and not that from which they proceed (terminus a quo), although sometimes the name is given to both—the point from which and the point toward which motion tends, that is, the final cause. A limit is also the substance and essence of each thing; for it is the limit of knowledge, and if of knowledge, then also of the object. It is therefore clear that “limit” has as many meanings as “principle,” and even more, for a principle is also a kind of limit, but not every limit is a principle.

Aristotle, Metaphysics

 

A few preliminary remarks

I entered the forest. Or rather, I woke up in the forest and do not remember how I came to be here. Perhaps I was always here. In any case, I am in the forest, and I wander through it. At times I find traces and follow them, but soon lose them again. Sometimes I have the feeling that I am on the right path—but a moment later I no longer remember what it was supposed to mean that the path was “right.” I am probably moving in circles; sometimes it seems to me that I recognize places I have already been. Weeping, curses, desperate dashes forward just to get out of here, and pretending that this is not a wild forest but a friendly grove or a garden—I have all that behind me. I have grown somewhat weathered. I have fashioned basic tools from sticks and bark; sometimes I manage to light a fire. I sense wolves from afar and avoid them.

 

I will try to describe what I see here. I will try to make a map. Although there are good maps. I have seen some. Many I cannot read. From some I understand something—perhaps even more and more. Some are magnificent, astonishing, beautiful. Bold and complete, though none seems final. I sometimes consult them. But I need my own map, however poor and incomplete it may turn out to be. From others I will steal.

 

I will try to maintain some order. I have a rough sense of where north is and where west is. But I will not conduct overly systematic triangulation; I will not record azimuths nor guard them too scrupulously. I will not concern myself with scale or cartographic grids. Nor will I look under every stone or swing at every monster’s head. This will not be a universal map. I have neither the time nor—above all—the intellect for that. I have rid myself of such illusions. Of many illusions. Though wanting to rid oneself of all illusions is itself just another fantasy. I cannot step outside my own point of view. So I push through the thickets and look and listen and jot things down a little. What will come of it, I do not know. But if I am to be completely honest, I believe something important will. I sense certain connections and conclusions, certain knots to be untied. Certain widening circles of understanding, certain revelations. I hope to clarify a thing or two for myself—perhaps for good. Perhaps it will be a kind of credo, though rather a spero—a map not so much of convictions and beliefs but rather of suppositions and hopes that things are somewhat more as they have long seemed to me than entirely otherwise. And if it should be of use to someone else, then please—by all means.

 

 

Theme

I think, I feel, or perhaps above all I hear—thematically. Theme seems to me to be a key, in a certain sense, to everything. Not symbol, not myth, nor metaphor, but precisely theme (though it has something of all of the above). I recognize themes around me like regularities in noise. As if I were remembering them. As if they were gradually revealing themselves, allowing themselves to be identified and followed. They are like traces left by someone or something, deliberately or by accident. And they are like a call—which one can, and perhaps even should, answer. This gives no guarantee of any reward, but it opens a path that promises a destination.

 

There is a countless multitude of themes. A chaos. In fact, at any moment, if one looks into it, listens to it, infinitely many reveal themselves. They boil and steam. They appear and disappear. And if one turns one’s attention away from them and allows them to remain on the periphery, after some time some become clearer. As if more one’s own. They stay longer and allow themselves to be grasped. And once grasped, they allow themselves to be preserved even for a very long time. I assume that themes reveal themselves to everyone, and that everyone has their own set of them—over time gaining a certain coherence within itself. As if from mist and dew small and then larger streams were forming, eventually a river. Through stickiness, gravity, and erosive force carving out a channel. Though how gravity works in this image is hard to say, because the river actually runs uphill, as if toward its source. And one does not float on this river, nor enter it—one is it.

 

If I were to be more precise about what I mean, I could invoke several concepts. One should not underestimate what a word can suggest. Let the first be the old (as old as the world) concept of metaxu—the between. Between extremes, between worlds (for example, those of gods and humans), between yes and no, between 0 and 1. A dark zone that is neither pole, yet contains something of both. Much of what what I am thinking about here exists in just such suspension and indecision. If one were to specify theme as topos, it could be seen as a sphere between mythos and logos—not as a historical stage in a transition from storytelling to observation and precise argumentation, but as a mode of thinking that contains elements of both free narrative and strict logic. One that does not deny mythos its claim to truth, nor grant logos a monopoly on it. One not overly attached to the very idea of truth. Topos as an object of reasoning or a schema of inquiry—posing questions, weighing opposing arguments, and proposing answers that are not unambiguous resolutions but spectra of possibilities. Reasoning as the building of bridges between different possibilities that can be considered legitimate. Partly syllogism and partly dialectic. A connective way of seeing. Noticing differences, yet locating meaning in the space between them.

 

One might also invoke another old concept: hypokeimenon—the essence, or its deepest core, preserved through time despite the metamorphoses to which everything is subject. Identity—which as a concept reveals another important “between”: between unambiguity and distinction. Identity means, on the one hand, “one and the same,” and on the other, it denotes the uniqueness that allows one thing to be distinguished from another. Following this path further, from hypokeimenon there later emerged a particular meaning: the subject (incidentally, in its original sense meaning something like a refuse heap—a pile of odds and ends)—that is, the foundation, what lies beneath, the common denominator. And further still, another between: ipse and idem. The individual subject—historical, undergoing change, forming over time—and the universal subject, independent of personal traits and personal history, a potential point of perception. The self that feels, thinks, and remembers, and the impersonal self.

 

And yet another way: theme as locus—a place. A point from which seeing and speaking are possible. Theme as a unit or atom of a subjective worldview (one of the meanings of the word subiectum—theme). Thus theme has much in common with the person. It gives form to a fragment of content, provides an anchoring point for identity so that it can act. It reveals itself, uncovers itself gradually, allows itself to be known and to be entered into relation with.

 

Incidentally, themes reveal themselves with particular clarity in frequency relations—for example, audible ones. As successive sequences and as coexisting combinations. And as infinite intermediate possibilities. As gestures, cells, motifs, melodies, figures, and forms; and as intervals, chords, and textures. As pitches and colors. Audible themes have identities. They can be discreet or intrusive; they can intrigue or irritate; one can like them and even love them, and one can grow bored of them. They can constitute a riddle that cannot be fully solved. One can live with them for a long time; one can also lose them and long for them.

 

Summing up and extracting the essence: theme is a tool of reasoning. It is a vehicle of content for reason—something that allows a fragment of that content to be singled out and given size and shape—a recognizable identity—something that can be stored in memory and used. Thought and spoken. It is for that fragment a limit.

 

Returning to ground (aptly named) more proper to my common sense: if the world were a sandbox, the theme would be a mold. Reason the child, and identity a sandcastle.

 

In the further parts I will describe my selected molds.

 

 

Some of the maps I have looked into

Aristotle, Topics, Poetics, Metaphysics

Dante Aligheri, Divine Comedy

Decartes, Discourse on the Method

Hans-Georg Gadamer, The Relevance of the Beautiful

Martin Heidegger, Identity and Difference, Forest Paths

Heraclitus, Fragments

Michel de Montaigne, Essays

Parmenides, On Nature

Plato, Phaedrus

Paul Ricoeur, The Course of Recognition

George Steiner, The Poetry of Thought

Władysław Stróżewski, Dialectics of Creativity