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Sleep, Night
What happens at night? Generally we sleep. By means of sleep, day uses night to blot out the
night. Sleep belongs to the world; it is a task. We sleep in accord with the general law which
makes our daytime activity depend on our nightly repose. We call upon sleep and it comes.
There is between sleep and us something like a pact, a treaty with no secret clauses, and
according to this convention it is agreed that, far from being a dangerous, bewitching force, sleep
will become domesticated and serve as the instrument of our power to act. We surrender to sleep,
but in the way that the master entrusts himself to the slave who serves him. Sleeping is the clear
action which promises us to the day. To sleep: admire this remarkable act of vigilance. Only
deep sleep lets us escape what there is in the deep of sleep. Where is night? There is no longer
any night.
Sleeping is an event which belongs to history, just as rest on the seventh day belongs to creation.
Night, when men transform it into pure sleep, is not a nocturnal affirmation. I sleep. The
sovereignty of the "I" dominates this absence which it grants itself and which is its doing. I sleep:
it is I who sleep and none other -- and men of action, the great men of history, are proud of their
perfect sleep from which they
____________________
So ambiguity does not consist only in the incessant movement by which being returns to
nothingness and nothingness refers back to being. Ambiguity is no longer the primordial Yes
and No in which being and nothingness would be pure identity. The essential ambiguity
would lie, rather, in this: that before the beginning, nothingness is not on equal standing with
being, but is only the appearance of being's concealment, or again, that dissimulation is more
"original" than negation. So, one could say: ambiguity is all the more essential because
dissimulation cannot quite be captured in negation.
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arise intact. This is why the sleep which in the normal pursuits of our life sometimes takes us by
surprise is by no means a scandal. Our capacity to withdraw from everyday bustle, from daily
concerns, from everything, from ourselves and even from the void is the sign of our mastery, an
entirely human proof of our sangfroid. You must sleep: this is the watchword which
consciousness assigns itself, and this commandment to renounce the day is one of day's first
rules.
Sleep transforms night into possibility. Vigilance is sleep when night falls. Whoever does not
sleep cannot stay awake. Vigilance consists in not always keeping watch, for it seeks awakening
as its essence. Nocturnal wandering, the tendency to stray when the world is attenuated and
grows distant, and even the honest professions which are necessarily practiced at night attract
suspicions. To sleep with open eyes is an anomaly symbolically indicating something which the
general consciousness does not approve of. People who sleep badly always appear more or less
guilty. What do they do? They make night present.
Bergson said that sleep is disinterestedness. Perhaps sleep is inattention to the world, but this
negation of the world conserves us for the world and affirms the world. Sleep is an act of fidelity
and of union. I entrust myself to the great natural rhythms, to the laws, to the stability of order.
My sleep is the realization of this trust, the affirmation of this faith. It is an attachment, in the
affective sense of this term: I attach myself, not like Ulysses to the mast with bonds from which
later I would like to free myself, but through an agreement expressed by the sensual accord of
my head with the pillow, of my body with the peace and happiness of the bed. I retire from the
world's immensity and its disquietude, but in order to give myself to the world, which is
maintained, thanks to my "attachment," in the sure truth of a limited and firmly circumscribed
place. Sleep is my absolute interest in assuring myself of the world. From this limit which sleep
provides, I take hold of the world by its finite side; I grasp it firmly enough so that it stays, puts
me in place, puts me to rest. To sleep badly is precisely to be unable to find one's position. The
bad sleeper tosses and turns in search of that genuine place which he knows is unique. He knows
that only in that spot will the world give up its errant immensity. The sleepwalker is suspect, for
he is the man who does not find repose in sleep. Asleep, he is nevertheless without a place and, it
may be said, without faith. He lacks fundamental sincerity, or, more precisely, his sincerity lacks
a foundation. It lacks that position he seeks, which is also repose, where he would affirm himself
in the stable fixity of his absence, which would be his support.
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Bergson saw behind sleep the totality of conscious life minus the effort of concentration. On the
contrary, sleep is intimacy with the center. I am, not dispersed, but entirely gathered together
where I am, in this spot which is my position and where the world, because of the firmness of my
attachment, localizes itself. Where I sleep, I fix myself and I fix the world. My person is there,
prevented from erring, no longer unstable, scattered and distracted, but concentrated in the
narrowness of this place where the world recollects itself, which I affirm and which affirms me.
Here the place is present in me and I absent in it through an essentially ecstatic union. My person
is not simply situated where I sleep; it is this very site, and my sleeping is the fact that now my
abode is my being. 1
It is true that in sleep I seem to close in upon myself, in an attitude which recalls the ignorant
bliss of early childhood. This may be; and yet it is not to myself alone that I entrust myself. I do
not find support in myself, but in the world which has become in me the narrowness and the limit
of my repose. Sleep is not normally a moment of weakness; it is not that I despondently abandon
my resolute point of view. Sleep signifies that at a certain moment, in order to act it is necessary
to cease acting -- that at a certain moment, lest I lose my way in aimless roving, I must stop and
manfully transform the instability of myriad possibilities into a single stopping point upon which
I establish and reestablish myself.
Vigilant existence does not dissipate in the sleeping body near which things remain; it withdraws
from the remove which is its temptation. It returns from there to the primordial affirmation which
is the authority of the body when the body is not separated but fully in agreement with the truth
of place. To be surprised at finding everything still there in the morning is to forget that nothing
is surer than sleep and that the meaning of sleep lies precisely in its being vigilant existence
concentrating upon certitude, linking up all errant possibilities to the fixity of a principle and
satiating itself with this certitude, so that the morning's newness can welcome it and a new day
can begin.
The Dream
Night, the essence of night, does not let us sleep. In the night no refuge is to be found in sleep.
And if you fail sleep, exhaustion finally sickens you, and this sickness prevents sleeping; it is
expressed by insomnia,
____________________
1
This is strongly expressed by Emmanuel Levinas ( From Existence to Existences).
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by the impossibility of making sleep a free zone, a clear and true resolution. In the night one
cannot sleep.
One does not proceed from day to night. Whoever follows this route finds only sleep -- sleep
which ends the day but in order to make the next day possible; sleep which is the downward
bending that verifies the rising curve; sleep which is, granted, a lack, a silence, but one imbued
with intentions and through which duties, goals, and real action speak for us. In this sense the
dream is closer than sleep to the nocturnal region. If day survives itself in the night, if it exceeds
its term, if it becomes that which cannot be interrupted, then already it is no longer the day. It is
the uninterrupted and the incessant. Notwithstanding events that seem to belong to time, and
even though it is peopled with beings that seem to be those of the world, this interminable "day"
is the approach of time's absence, the threat of the outside where the world lacks.
The dream is the reawakening of the interminable. It is an allusion at least, and something like a
dangerous call -- through the persistence of what cannot finish -- to the neutrality that presses up
behind the beginning. Hence the fact that the dream seems to bring up in each of us the being of
earliest times -- and not only the child, but still further back, the most remote, the mythic, the
emptiness and vagueness of the anterior. He who dreams sleeps, but already he who dreams is he
who sleeps no longer. He is not another, some other person, but the premonition of the other, of
that which cannot say "I" any more, which recognizes itself neither in itself nor in others.
Doubtless the force of vigilant existence and the fidelity of sleep, and still more the interpretation
that gives meaning to a semblance of meaning, safeguard the outlines and forms of a personal
reality: that which becomes other is reincarnated in another, the double is still somebody. The
dreamer believes he knows that he is dreaming and that he is asleep, precisely at the moment
when the schism between the two is effected. He dreams that he is dreaming. And this flight
from the dream which plunges him back into the dream, into the dream which is an eternal fall
into the same dream -- this repetition whereby personal truth wanting to rescue itself loses itself
more and more, and which is like the return of the same dreams or the unspeakable harassment
of a reality which always escapes and which one cannot escape -- all this is like a dream of the
night, a dream where the form of the dream becomes its sole content. Perhaps one could say that
the dream is all the more nocturnal in that it turns around itself, that it dreams itself, that it has
for its content its possibility.
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Perhaps there is no dream except of the dream. Valéry doubted the existence of dreams. The
dream is like the reason for this doubt, and indeed its indubitable confirmation. The dream is that
which cannot "really" be.
The dream touches the region where pure resemblance reigns. Everything there is similar; each
figure is another one, is similar to another and to yet another, and this last to still another. One
seeks the original model, wanting to be referred to a point of departure, an initial revelation, but
there is none. The dream is the likeness that refers eternally to likeness.
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Hölderlin's Itinerary
The young Hölderlin, the author of Hyperion, yearns to take leave of his form, escape his limits,
and be united with nature. "To be one with all that lives, and to return in blessed self-
forgetfulness into the All of Nature -- that is man's heaven." This aspiration to return into life's
unity, into its eternal ardor, unreserved and immeasurable, seems to be the joyful movement
which we are tempted to associate with inspiration. This movement is also desire for death.
Diotima dies through the very impluse that makes her live in familiarity with all. But, she says,
"we will part only to live more closely united, in a holier peace with all things, with ourselves."
Empedocles, in the tragedy which is the work of Hölderlin's first maturity, represents the will to
burst into the world of the Invisible Ones by dying. The motifs of this unfinished work vary
according to its different versions, but the wish remains the same: to be united with the fiery
element, the sign and presence of inspiration, in order to attain the intimacy of the divine
relation.
The great hymns no longer have the undisciplined or violent character of Empedocles. But the
poet is still essentially the mediator. In So on a festival day (one of the best known of Hölderlin's
hymns in France, through the various translations that have been made of it and Heidegger's
commentaries), the poet stands before the god. He is as if in contact with the highest power, and
thus he is exposed to the greatest danger -- danger of being burned by the fire, of being destroyed
by the upheaval. It is his task to tame this danger by silently, intimately welcoming it into
himself so that in him glad words might be born which the sons of the earth can hear without
peril. This task of mediation, to which we often attach Hölderlin's name, is perhaps never
expressed
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so boldly by him as in this single passage.1 The hymn probably dates from 1800, but the lines of
this stanza may go back to an earlier period. In the same hymn, nature is again celebrated as the
intimacy of the divine. Yet here nature is no longer the force to which one must surrender in an
unrestrained movement of abandon. It "educates" the poet, but through his sleep, and in the calm
time when the commotion is suspended, in the quiet that follows the storm (the fire). The hour
that follows the storm: this is the favorable hour, the hour of grace and of inspiration.
random and necessary—at the same time that is defers till an undes- does not illuminate with an increase of visibility, of reflecting bril-
ignated day. But dying is un-power. It wrests from the present, it is liance. Who watches? The question is obviated by the neutrality of
always a step over the edge, it rules out every conclusion and all the watch: no one watches. Watching is not the power to keep
ends, it does not free nor does it shelter. In death, one can find an watch— i n the first person; it is not a power, but the touch of the
illusory refuge: the grave is as far as gravity can pull, it marks the powerless infinite, exposure to the other of the night, where thought
end of the fall; the mortuary is the loophole in the impasse. But renounces the vigor of vigilance, gives up worldly clearsightedness,
dying flees and pulls indefinitely, impassibly and intensively in the perspicacious mastery, in order to deliver itself to the limitless defer-
flight. ral of insomnia, the wake that does not waken, nocturnal intensity.
• The disappointment of the disaster: not answering to expectations, • I t might be said that within the disaster there occurs a falling
not allowing the point to be made or the appointed sum paid in short, if it were not also characteristic of the disaster to be a trance:
full—foreign to orientation, even to orientation as disorientation or the motionless fall and flight of the outside. Deficiency does not let
simple straying. the exception rest on high, but causes a ceaseless fall (without form
or content), outside the attainable and the possible. The exceptional
• Desire remains in a relation to the distantness of the star, entreat- escapes, deficiency dissimulates. Consciousness can be catastrophic
ing the sky, appealing to the universe. In this sense, the disaster without ceasing to be consciousness; it does not reverse itself, turn-
would turn us away from desire with the intense attraction of the ing into its opposite, but welcomes into itself this overturning.
undesirable impossible. Only such re-turning, that wrests from the present, detours con-
• Lucidity, ray of the star, response to the day that questions, and sciousness-unconsciousness.11
sleep when night comes. "But who will hide from the star that never • I n the night, insomnia is dis-cussion: not the work of arguments
sets?" Wakefulness is without beginning or end. To wake is neutral. bumping against other arguments, but the extreme shuddering of
"I" do not wake: someone does, the night does, always and inces- no thoughts, percussive stillness (the exegeses that come and go in
santly, hollowing the night out into the other night where there can The Castle, story of insomnia).
be no question of sleeping. There is no waking save at night. Night
is foreign to the vigilance which is exercised, carned out, and which • To give is not to give something, or even oneself, for then—in-
conveys lucid reason toward what it must maintain in reflection— in asmuch as what one gives has as its characteristic feature that no one
the preservation, that is, of its own identity. Wakefulness is can take it from you (retrieve it from you and withhold it)—to give
estrangement: it does not waken, as if emerging from a sleep that would be to keep and to preserve. Summit of egotism, ruse of pos-
would precede it, yet it reawakens: constant and instant return to session. Since the gift is not the power of any freedom, or the sub-
the immobility of the wake. Something wakes: something keeps lime act of a free subject, there would be no gift at all if not the gift
watch without lying in wait or spying. The disaster watches. When of what one does not have, under duress and beyond duress, in
there is such watching—when sleeping consciousness, opening into answer to the entreaty which strips and flays me and destroys my
unconsciousness, lets the light of the dream play—then what ability to answer, outside the world, where there is nothing save the
watches (the wake, or the impossibility of sleep at the heart of sleep) attraction and the pressure of the other. Gift of the disaster, of that
Crary, Jonathan. (2013) 24/7: Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep. London; New
York: Verso. (pp. 1-3, 8-14, 16-17, 19-21 (13 pages). If possible read the whole
chapter.)
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