One of my projects this summer will be to read and compare the major works of Erasmus Darwin and his grandson, Charles Darwin. Erasmus Darwin was a man with a very open mind—he had lots of illegitimate children and lots of crazy ideas. He wrote poetry, and in some of this poetry he praised evolution as if it were the new God, the future of the absolute, something like a secular form of Meister Eckhart's grund. Eramus was not like Darwin. But what interests me is not their differences but the fact that a truth took the form of poetry (Eramus) before it took the form of scientific prose (Charles). Meaning, there was more science in Erasmus's poetry than in much of the scholarly prose produced by the major universities of his time. My goal in all of this is to rethink poetry and its relationship with the actual world and also the future that becomes actual. With poetry, what can not be proved with tests and evidence can still be said, expressed in words. The purpose of this project is to imagine poetry as the necessary condition for expressing new thinking of any kind. What is new pressures the language into a state of poetry. And this means art is not something that is solely situated for reflection (consideration—art as the ultimate owl of Minerva) or recreation but is the natural state of invention itself. It is like that area in the mind's idea of the body that dissolves the point-by-point map into a fuzziness that allows you to connect anything with anything else—meaning, experience the new.
A nice accident happened will preparing my reading of the first volume of Erasmus Darwin's, Zoonomia. I found this:
Would it be too bold to imagine that, in the great length of time since the earth began to exist, perhaps millions of ages before the commencement of the history of mankind, — would it be too bold to imagine that all warm-blooded animals have arisen from one living filament, which the great First Cause endued with animality, with the power of acquiring new parts, attended with new propensities, directed by irritations, sensations, volitions and associations, and thus possessing the faculty of continuing to improve by its own inherent activity, and of delivering down these improvements by generation to its posterity, world without end!Where else are the last three words of that passage?
A hundred and so years later, they make an appearance in Joyce's Ulysses, in the Proteus episode, which happens on the beach, with Stephen walking with his eyes closed:
Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end.
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With poetry, what can not be proved with tests and evidence can still be said, expressed in words.
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