Russian Literature LXIII (2008) II/III/IV

www.elsevier.com/locate/ruslit

KILLING TIME:
WALTER BENJAMIN, OSIP MANDEL’ŠTAM AND THE
STALINIST METAPHYSICS OF HISTORY

EVGENY PAVLOV

Abstract
The article discusses Osip Mandel’shtam’s understanding of time and temporality in
relation to the primitive ahistorical visions of the Stalinist age. In order to trace this
complex relationship in Mandel’shtam’s poetics, the article first looks at Walter
Benjamin’s incisive critique of historicism with which Mandel’shtam’s quintes-
sentially modernist poetics of time shares many affinities. Like Benjamin, Mandel’-
shtam was sympathetic to the revolution’s utopian promise of temporal trans-
formation and release from the empty time of linear history. It did not take him long,
however, to realize a radical difference between his own and the Bolsheviks’ view
of history; much as he tried throughout the 1920s, he failed to bring the two into any
kind of alignment. The article argues that passages where Mandel’shtam is at his
most revealing about temporality and history also implicitly critique the official
pretension of mastery over time: time always strikes back with a vengeance, and it is
only through its momentary suspension in shocks that one can begin to comprehend
its structure.
Keywords: Walter Benjamin; Mandel’shtam; Stalinism

Marx said that revolutions are the locomotives of world

history. But perhaps they are something quite different.

0304-3479/$ – see front matter © 2008 Elsevier B.V. All rights reserved.
doi:10.1016/j.ruslit.2008.04.012
444 Evgeny Pavlov

Perhaps revolutions are the hand of the human species

travelling in this train pulling the emergency brakes.
1
(Walter Benjamin)

Reflecting, in the late 1960s, on the variable relation of social praxis and art
in the 20th century, Theodor Adorno points out that “during World War I and
prior to Stalin, artistic and politically advanced thought went in tandem;
whoever came of age in those years took art to be what it in no way
historically had been: a priori politically on the left” (Adorno 1997: 254).
This is first and foremost true when applied to the art of the Russian avant-
garde whose wholehearted acceptance of the Bolshevik revolution was
entirely predetermined. As Boris Groys persuasively demonstrates in The
Total Art of Stalinism, not only did the revolution confirm avant-garde artists’
and writers’ “theoretical constructs and aesthetic intuition”, but it also pre-
sented to them a unique opportunity for translating the latter into reality
(Groys 1992: 20). Groys further claims that because of this, aesthetic ideo-
logy dominated the organization of social and political life in the first post-
revolutionary decade, and as aesthetic and political choices became
inextricably linked, the rise of Stalinism could not but lead to the destruction
of the avant-garde itself. To Adorno the aesthetic regression that took place
under “the Zhdanovs and Ulbrichts” is socially transparent as “a petty bour-
geois fixation” (Adorno 1997: 254). Groys, on the other hand, implies that
this regression was never perceived as such by the practitioners of Socialist
Realism because of a certain understanding of history that the avant-garde
and the art of Stalinism intimately shared. According to him, “to the
Bolshevik ideologists […], point zero was the ultimate reality. The art of the
past was not living history that could serve as a guide to the present, but a
storehouse of inert things from among which anything that seemed appealing
or useful could be removed at will” (Groys 1992: 41). This inevitably bred a
similar attitude in later years, with the Stalinist aesthetics assuming that
history has ended and the post-historical age has begun, which in turn, ex-
plains the nature of the “petty bourgeois fixation”: “According to the Stalinist
aesthetics, everything is new in the new posthistorical reality – even the
classics are new, and these it had indeed reworked beyond recognition. There
is thus no reason to strive for formal innovation, since novelty is
automatically guaranteed by the total novelty of superhistorical content and
significance” (49). Thus the quintessentially modernist desire to break
through the confines of traditional historicism and out of linear time first
went hand in hand with the zero-degree ethos of the Bolshevik Revolution
but then collided with the primitive ahistorical visions of the Stalinist age that
the modernists themselves helped prepare. As Osip Mandel’štam prophe-
tically writes in 1921 in ‘Slovo i kul’tura’:
 Benjamin, Mandel’štam and the Stalinist Metaphysics of History 445

ȼɧɟɩɨɥɨɠɧɨɫɬɶ ɝɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɚ ɩɨ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɸ ɤ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɵɦ ɰɟɧɧɨɫ-

ɬɹɦ ɫɬɚɜɢɬ ɟɝɨ ɜ ɩɨɥɧɭɸ ɡɚɜɢɫɢɦɨɫɬɶ ɨɬ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ. Ʉɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɵɟ
ɰɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɨɤɪɚɲɢɜɚɸɬ ɝɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ, ɫɨɨɛɳɚɸɬ ɟɣ ɰɜɟɬ,
ɮɨɪɦɭ ɢ, ɟɫɥɢ ɯɨɬɢɬɟ, ɞɚɠɟ ɩɨɥ. (Mandel’štam 1993, I: 213)

The collision I have described produced many fascinating products, but few
are as remarkable as the poetics of Mandel’štam with which we will be
concerned here. A poet of time par excellence, Mandel’štam embraced the
revolution’s utopian promise of temporal transformation and release from the
empty time of linear history. It did not take him long to realize a radical
difference between his own and the Bolsheviks’ view of history, and much as
he tried throughout the 1920s, he failed to bring the two into any kind of
alignment. His few poetic statements from the 1930s – above all, ‘Razgovor
o Dante’ – diverge even further from the official line of the new regime as
they present a very different concept of time from the one that Stalinism
adopted. In order to tease out this difference, as will be my objective in what
follows, I would like to turn first to Mandel’štam’s contemporary Walter
Benjamin with whom the Russian poet shares more than a few biographical
affinities. Benjamin’s incisive critique of historicism and telling observations
on nascent Stalinism’s relationship with time will help us put things into per-
spective.

1. The question of time dominates the aesthetics and poetics of mo-

dernism. Peter Szondi, among others, points out that works of modernism are
marked by a resolute shift whereby their constitutive immanent temporality
has become explicit (Szondi 1975: 17). As time moves to the foreground, the
traditional understanding of it as a homogeneous flow, causal connection
between moments in history gives way to radically new conceptions of
historical unfolding in which time no longer flows from the past into the
present but emerges as a configuration of fragmentary moments. Such theore-
ticians of literary and cultural modernism as Benjamin, Adorno, Krakauer,
and early Lukács launched similarly grounded critiques of the notion of
progress through the homogeneous time of historicism, and significantly, all
of them, albeit to varying degrees, aligned their critiques with the Marxist
philosophy of history. Their use of the Marxist idiom, however, did not ne-
cessarily indicate their identification with “Orthodox” Marxism. Walter Ben-
jamin’s use of historical materialism is an exemplary case in point. As he
writes in his Theses on the Philosophy of History:

The concept of the historical progress of mankind cannot be sundered

from the concept of its progression through a homogeneous, empty
time. A critique of the concept of such a progression must be the basis
446 Evgeny Pavlov

of any criticism of the concept of progress itself. […] History is the

subject of a structure whose site is not homogeneous, empty time, but
time filled by the presence of the now [Jetztzeit]. Thus to Robespierre
ancient Rome was a past charged with the time of the now which he
blasted out of the continuum of history. […] This leap […] in the open
air of history is the dialectical one, which is how Marx understood the
revolutions. (Benjamin 1968: 261)

Much has been written on Benjamin’s uneasy relationship with Marx-

ism in general and on the “historical materialist” tenor of his Theses in
particular, but no matter from what angle one approaches this relationship, it
is hard to overlook an obvious difference between Benjamin and Marx. For
Marx, the coming revolution is of course a dialectical leap that does explode
the continuum of the past, yet that past is a linear and essentially monolithic
process of successive modes of production and their corresponding modes of
social relations. In classical Marxist philosophy of history, the linearity of the
past is not in question, nor is the idea of a progression toward the liberated
future. For Benjamin, however, blasting the continuum of history means not
breaking the momentum of historical linearity as such but rather seeing the
past not as a continuum. His critique of historicism postulates a nonlinear
historical temporality, and where Marx sees a successive chain of events
spiralling into the radiant future, Benjamin’s celebrated angel of history sees
“one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage”. Ac-
cording to Benjamin, progress is a name for the storm that irresistibly propels
the angel into the future to which his back is turned (257 f.). This is not the
place to elaborate any further on the difference between Benjamin’s and
Marx’s respective views of history, but I would argue that Marxism’s in-
strumental view of the past is part of the reason why Benjamin, despite his
leanings, never fully converted to the Communist cause. As I have argued
elsewhere, his strategy of reading always aims to lay bare the violence of
auratic presence – be it that of an epistemological certainty, a “timeless
truth”, or of a timeless image of the past. 2 This is why during his brief stay in
the Soviet capital in 1926-1927 he was able to discern newly minted mytho-
logies of time and history. Hoping to make his final decision on the member-
ship in the German Communist Party, Benjamin spent two winter months
trying to read the hectic and confusing life in the land of the Revolution. His
Moscow Diary and essay ‘Moscow’ contain seismographically accurate ob-
servations on the cultural politics of coming Stalinism that betray a very
peculiar relationship with time. Astonishingly, he could see the suprahistoric
pretensions of the new Soviet regime years before the culture of high Sta-
linism made it apparent. Let us consider a few key passages from his
Moscow material. Much of what Benjamin notes in this regard enters into a
most remarkable constellation with the poetics of Mandel’štam.
 Benjamin, Mandel’štam and the Stalinist Metaphysics of History 447

In a letter to Hugo von Hofmannsthal written from Berlin after Benja-

min completed ‘Moscow’ (commissioned by Martin Buber for his journal
Kreatur), Benjamin admits that his experience of the Soviet capital was so
foreign and overwhelming that the article describing it could not have treated
“more than a narrow slice of life”. While working on the text for Buber, the
letter continues, he concentrated “less on visual than on rhythmic experience,
an experience in which an archaic Russian tempo blends into a whole with
the new rhythms of the Revolution, an experience which, by Western
standards, [he] discovered to be far more incommensurable than [he] had
expected” (134). The “incommensurability” of Benjamin’s experience is first
and foremost due to an extreme saturation of daily life with activity, endless
experimentation that bears more resemblance to collective alchemy than to
science:

Each thought, each day, each life lies here as on a laboratory table. And
as if it were a metal from which an unknown substance is by every
means to be extracted, it must endure experimentation to the point of
exhaustion. No organism, no organization, can escape this process. [...]
Regulations are changed from day to day, but streetcar stops migrate,
too, shops turn into restaurants and a few weeks later into offices. This
astonishing experimentation – it is here called remonte – affects not
only Moscow, it is Russian […] Few things are shaping Russia more
powerfully today. The country is mobilized day and night, most of all,
of course, the Party. (Benjamin 1978: 106)

And nowhere does this consuming quest manifest itself stronger than in the
kind of mobilization the Party leads in literature and intellectual life. While
during the civil war formal controversies “still played not inconsiderable
part” (120), by the time of Benjamin’s visit, “Message and subject matter are
declared of primary importance [...] Today it is official doctrine that subject
matter, not form decides the revolutionary or counterrevolutionary attitude of
a work” (ibid.). Even as the Party rigidifies its cultural policy borrowing the
worst institutional clichés of bourgeois Europe, 3 it also declares formless
matter supreme form, the only form there is. Benjamin has one word for this
process: “Größenrausch” (Benjamin 1974, IV: 337), intoxication with gran-
deur. And, as always for him, any kind of imagination’s intoxication with its
own powers eventually comes down to the self-assurance of its mastery over
time. Time itself becomes an intoxicant, and Russia’s temporal inebriation
assumes cosmic dimensions. Time is squandered away in the multitude of
meaningless daily ventures all of which aim to create the illusion of inhuman
productivity. Meetings, committees, “are fixed at all hours” in just about
every sphere of life: offices, clubs, factories, canteens. A great deal of plan-
ning and projection goes into these, but only a handful succeed in accom-
plishing their goal. “That nothing comes out as it was intended and expected
448 Evgeny Pavlov

– this banal expression of the reality of life here asserts itself in each
individual case so inviolably and intensely that Russian fatalism becomes
comprehensible” (Benjamin 1978: 110). Time-thirsty Genossen push time
forward, drink it with abandon, fill their days to the brim – but in the end,
nothing comes out right, chaos presides over the bustle of busy work, and the
perpetual present of the remonte is the form in which time is suspended for
eternity.

A feeling for the value of time, notwithstanding all “rationalization”, is

not met with even in the capital of Russia [...] From earliest times a
large number of clockmakers have been settled in Moscow [...] One
wonders who actually needs them. “Time is money” – for this
astonishing statement posters claim the authority of Lenin, so alien is
the idea to the Russians. They fritter everything away. (One is tempted
to say that minutes are a cheap liquor of which they can never get
enough, that they are tipsy with time.) […] The real unit of time is the
seichas. That means “at once” [sofort]. You can hear it ten, twenty,
thirty times, and wait hours, days, or weeks until the promise is carried
out […] Time catastrophes, time collisions are therefore as much the
order of the day as the remonte. They make each hour superabundant,
each day exhausting, each life a moment. (110 f.)

This is imagination’s sejþas, its violent maintenance of the now. That

Benjamin translates the Russian word not as jetzt, its primary meaning, but
sofort, “presently, in a moment” makes it the now of a promise whose rea-
lization is indefinitely deferred. One might say, it is the evil twin of Benja-
min’s Messianic Jetztzeit. He tries this drug on himself. Amidst the temporal
chaos of daily life to which he is subjected, he begins to look forward to the
comfort of repeated activities: meals and theatre performances to which his
guide Bernhard Reich drags him almost every night: “Even the most labo-
rious Moscow day has two coordinates that define each of its moments
sensuously as expectation and fulfillment. One is the vertical coordinate of
mealtimes, crossed by the evening horizontal of the theatre” (128). It is
unimportant that the food described there is for the most part unspectacular
and the theatre spectacles tedious and indigestible for someone who does not
understand the language. Essential is the repeatability of “expectation and
fulfillment”. The schematic representation of these little pleasures in the
essay then brings the two coordinates together in an image as conspicuously
different from the overall confusing topography as it is beautiful. In a dreamy
fashion, Benjamin describes a tearoom, a beerhouse, or a tavern where in
addition to food a primitive inscenirovka can be enjoyed.

People live on the street as if in a frosty chamber of mirrors, each pause

to think is unbelievably difficult [...] Yet when you finally found a
 Benjamin, Mandel’štam and the Stalinist Metaphysics of History 449

restaurant, no matter what is put on the table – vodka [...], cakes, or a

cup of tea – warmth makes the passing time itself an intoxicant. It flows
into the weary guest like honey. (129)

This sweet intoxicant makes one oblivious to the passing seconds. As it

flows through the veins, it stretches the present, maintaining the now that
becomes synonymous with time’s continuum. This “archaic” temporality is
ostensibly at odds with the frenetic rhythms of the Revolution whose ideo-
logists have celebrated the end of history and victory over time. And yet no-
thing could be more compatible: in both cases you aim to kill time – figura-
tively in the first and literally in the second. Thus the late 1920s are already
characterized by a profound change in the temporal attitude: the underlying
“archaic Russian tempo” blends with the dizzying rhythm of change in order
to produce a temporality based in eternal truth. In the essay ‘Surrealism’ the
work on which Benjamin started shortly on return from the Soviet Union, the
critic recalls Lenin’s dictum on religion being the opium for the people. The
Bolshevik leader, writes Benjamin, “brought the two things closer together
than the Surrealists could have liked” (179). This, to be sure, is said not
without sarcasm, for the iconic cult of Lenin is explicitly present everywhere
in “Moskau” and is indistinguishable from the collective Größenrausch.
In a famous footnote to the Analytic of the Sublime of his third Cri-
tique, Kant illustrates the ungraspability of pure time by citing the sublime
image of veiled Isis: “Perhaps nothing more sublime has ever been said, or a
thought ever been expressed more sublimely, than in that inscription above
the temple of Isis (Mother Nature): ‘I am all that is, that was, and that will be,
and no mortal has lifted my veil’” (Kant 1985: 187). It appears that centuries
later the veil has been successfully lifted, and the deity is none other than
Lenin himself: after all, it is he who lived, is alive, and will live forever – not
only is he able to defy time but somehow becomes synonymous with time
itself. In the final section of the essay, Benjamin presents us with the image
of Lenin’s tomb, the site of fervent religious worship. Even though dead for
just three years, the venerated leader has become a colossal idol, due of
course to the temporal acceleration he initiated. His real image recedes
swiftly into the past and grows quite remote. “Nevertheless, in the optics of
history – opposite in this to that of space – movement in the distance means
enlargement” (Benjamin 1978: 130): the further away one steps in time the
larger certain images become. “His name grows and grows. Even today the
cult of his picture has assumed immeasurable proportions” (ibid.). It hangs
everywhere, “as in formerly godless places the cross was erected by con-
verted heathens” (ibid.). In conclusion, out of the established canon of icons,
Benjamin picks a truly dialectical image: “Lenin at a table bent over a copy
of Pravda. When he is thus immersed in an ephemeral newspaper, the
dialectical tension of his nature appears: his gaze turned, certainly, to the far
450 Evgeny Pavlov

horizon, but the tireless care of his heart to the moment” (ibid.). The cult of
this latter-day Janus indeed epitomizes a break with any historicism and a
dialectical leap out of history into a temporality as archaic as pre-Christian
beliefs. Ten years later, Stalin’s present would become a timeless continuum
embracing the entirety of the past and all of the future. As Michail Vajskopf
comments in Pisatel’ Stalin:

ɇɟɞɜɢɠɧɚɹ ɜɟɱɧɨɫɬɶ ɜɟɪɯɨɜɧɨɣ ɢɫɬɢɧɵ ɞɨɩɨɥɧɟɧɚ ɭ ɧɟɝɨ ɚɬɟɦ-

ɩɨɪɚɥɶɧɵɦɢ ɢ ɚɧɚɯɪɨɧɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɦɢ ɦɨɞɟɥɹɦɢ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɨɝɨ ɦɢɪɨ-
ɫɨɡɟɪɰɚɧɢɹ, ɤɨɬɨɪɨɟ ɛɟɡɦɹɬɟɠɧɨ ɩɪɢɫɩɨɫɚɛɥɢɜɚɥɨ ɤ ɩɨɧɹɬɢɹɦ
ɫɟɝɨɞɧɹɲɧɟɝɨ ɞɧɹ ɥɸɛɵɟ ɷɩɨɯɢ. (Vajskopf 2002: 122)

Despite Benjamin’s deep-rooted sympathy for Russian Communism,

his subtle reading of Soviet reality at the end of the NEP era follows his own
conviction that anyone who attempts to master time is eventually caught in its
snares. Time always strikes back with a vengeance, and it is only through its
momentary suspension in shocks that one can begin to comprehend its
structure: “Where thinking suddenly stops in a configuration pregnant with
tensions, it gives that configuration a shock, by which it crystallizes into a
monad” (Benjamin 1968: 262 f.).

2. Mandel’štam’s aversion to the idea of progress is just as strong as

Benjamin’s, and one could hardly overstate the significance of his interest in
the sudden suspension of living movement. Registering the fugitive images
that a temporal “out-of-jointness” conjures up, I would submit, is at the core
of his Acmeist poetics and general world view. As his wife Nadežda attests,
little Osip burst into tears on first hearing the word “progress”, even though
at the time he obviously had no idea what it meant. She writes:

ɍ Ɉ. Ɇ. ɛɵɥɨ ɞɜɚ ɪɹɞɚ ɹɜɥɟɧɢɣ – ɭ ɧɟɝɨ ɛɵɥ ɤɚɤ ɩɨɥɨɠɢɬɟɥɶɧɵɣ

ɪɹɞ, ɬɚɤ ɢ ɨɬɪɢɰɚɬɟɥɶɧɵɣ. Ʉ ɩɨɥɨɠɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɦɭ ɪɹɞɭ ɨɬɧɨɫɹɬɫɹ: ɝɪɨ-
ɡɚ, ɫɨɛɵɬɢɟ, ɤɪɢɫɬɚɥɥɨɨɛɪɚɡɨɜɚɧɢɟ [...] Ɉɬɪɢɰɚɬɟɥɶɧɵɣ ɪɹɞ – ɜɫɟ
ɜɢɞɵ ɦɟɯɚɧɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɞɜɢɠɟɧɢɹ: ɛɟɝ ɱɚɫɨɜɨɣ ɫɬɪɟɥɤɢ, ɪɚɡɜɢɬɢɟ,
ɩɪɨɝɪɟɫɫ. (N. Mandel’štam 1970: 265) 4

In ‘O prirode slova’, Mandel’štam declares any theory of evolutionary

progress – be it with regard to nature, culture, or worse still, literature – the
Hegelian bad infinity “that says nothing to a mind in search of unity and
connection” (Mandel’štam 1993, II: 284). His poetics relies on scrutinizing
the crystallized, monadic instance in which it detaches from the deceptively
linear sequence of historical unfolding. For the poetic word, the instance of
such detachment is the momentary petrifaction of its sound.
 Benjamin, Mandel’štam and the Stalinist Metaphysics of History 451

His is the attention to the particularity and finitude of the verbal image,
the palpability of its sharply defined stony flesh. Only then does a stone
acquire the fullness of meaning when in its shape one recognizes one out of
the infinite number of signifying possibilities. In this sense, Mandel’štam’s
poetics is that of recognition, that of the momentary epiphany in which stone
comes to life and life is frozen in stone. Consider a well-known passage from
‘Slovo i kul’tura’:

ɉɢɲɢ ɛɟɡóɛɪɚɡɧɵɟ ɫɬɢɯɢ, ɟɫɥɢ ɫɦɨɠɟɲɶ, ɟɫɥɢ ɫɭɦɟɟɲɶ. ɋɥɟɩɨɣ

ɭɡɧɚɟɬ ɦɢɥɨɟ ɥɢɰɨ, ɟɞɜɚ ɩɪɢɤɨɫɧɭɜɲɢɫɶ ɤ ɧɟɦɭ ɡɪɹɱɢɦɢ ɩɟɪɫɬɚɦɢ,
ɢ ɫɥɟɡɵ ɪɚɞɨɫɬɢ ɛɪɵɡɧɭɬ ɢɡ ɝɥɚɡ ɟɝɨ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɞɨɥɝɨɣ ɪɚɡɥɭɤɢ. ɋɬɢ-
ɯɨɬɜɨɪɟɧɢɟ ɠɢɜɨ ɜɧɭɬɪɟɧɧɢɦ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ, ɬɟɦ ɡɜɭɱɚɳɢɦ ɫɥɟɩɤɨɦ
ɮɨɪɦɵ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɣ ɩɪɟɞɜɚɪɹɟɬ ɧɚɩɢɫɚɧɧɨɟ ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɟɧɢɟ. ɇɢ ɨɞɧɨɝɨ
ɫɥɨɜɚ ɟɳɟ ɧɟɬ, ɚ ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɟɧɢɟ ɭɠɟ ɡɜɭɱɢɬ. ɗɬɨ ɡɜɭɱɢɬ ɜɧɭɬɪɟɧɧɢɣ
ɨɛɪɚɡ, ɷɬɨ ɟɝɨ ɨɫɹɡɚɟɬ ɫɥɭɯ ɩɨɷɬɚ.
5
ɂ ɫɥɚɞɨɤ ɧɚɦ ɥɢɲɶ ɭɡɧɚɜɚɧɶɹ ɦɢɝ! (Mandel’štam 1993, I: 215)

And so it is with poetic sound for Mandel’štam. As a salient cast (“slepok”),

the articulated word is, as put in ‘O prirode slova’, a “sealed-up image”
(“obraz zapeþatannyj”; 227) whose overpowering interiority is accessible
only indirectly, at the instant of recognizing, by hearing, its outward con-
figuration. What interests us most here is, of course, the temporal moment
that comes with the insistence on shape. Fused in the moment of recognition
is the experience of both subjectivity and history.
The entire corpus of what habitually goes by the name of the Russian
“Silver Age” is nothing if not a powerful push against 19th-century canons,
both literary and philosophical. Russian Symbolism was the first to raise its
paw against the dying age. As Andrej Belyj, the foremost theoretician of
Symbolism, writes looking back at his childhood and early youth in Na
rubeže dvuch stoletij:

ɉɪɚɜɨɬɚ ɧɚɲɟɣ ɬɜɟɪɞɨɫɬɢ ɜɢɞɢɬɫɹ ɦɧɟ ɢɡ ɞɜɚɞɰɚɬɶ ɞɟɜɹɬɨɝɨ ɝɨɞɚ

ɫɤɨɪɟɟ ɜ ɪɟɲɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɦ “ɧɟɬ”, ɫɤɚɡɚɧɧɨɦ ɞɟɜɹɬɧɚɞɰɚɬɨɦɭ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɸ,
ɱɟɦ “ɞɚ”, ɫɤɚɡɚɧɧɨɦɭ ɞɜɚɞɰɚɬɨɦɭ ɜɟɤɭ. (Belyj 1966: 3)

To Belyj, this “decisive no” was a crusade against mechanistic empiricism,

against stale positivist dogmas and clichés of philosophy based on pure
science. Mandel’štam, for all his Acmeist objections to the Symbolists, is
Belyj’s ally in this crusade. And more than anything else, he levelled his
charge against the 19th century’s understanding of history as a progression
through empty time. Mandel’štam’s critique of traditional historicism is just
as potent as Benjamin’s:
452 Evgeny Pavlov

ɋɜɨɟɣ ɛɟɫɫɨɧɧɨɣ ɦɵɫɥɶɸ, ɤɚɤ ɨɝɪɨɦɧɵɦ ɲɚɥɵɦ ɩɪɨɠɟɤɬɨɪɨɦ,

[ɦɢɧɭɜɲɢɣ ɜɟɤ] ɪɚɫɤɚɬɵɜɚɥ ɩɨ ɱɟɪɧɨɦɭ ɧɟɛɭ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ; ɝɢɝɚɧɬ-
ɫɤɢɦɢ ɫɜɟɬɨɜɵɦɢ ɳɭɩɚɥɶɰɚɦɢ ɲɚɪɢɥ ɜ ɩɭɫɬɨɬɟ ɜɪɟɦɟɧ; ɜɵɯɜɚ-
ɬɵɜɚɥ ɢɡ ɦɪɚɤɚ ɬɨɬ ɢɥɢ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ ɤɭɫɨɤ, ɫɠɢɝɚɥ ɟɝɨ ɨɫɥɟɩɢɬɟɥɶɧɵɦ
ɛɥɟɫɤɨɦ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɡɚɤɨɧɨɜ ɢ ɪɚɜɧɨɞɭɲɧɨ ɩɪɟɞɨɫɬɚɜɥɹɥ ɟɦɭ
ɫɧɨɜɚ ɨɤɭɧɭɬɶɫɹ ɜ ɧɢɱɬɨɠɟɫɬɜɨ, ɤɚɤ ɛɭɞɬɨ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɧɟ ɫɥɭɱɢɥɨɫɶ.
(‘Ⱦɟɜɹɬɧɚɞɰɚɬɵɣ ɜɟɤ’; Mandel’štam 1993, II: 266)

It is hardly surprising that the revolution opened new horizons for the poet.
Already the 1918 article ‘Gosudarstvo i ritm’ indicates the direction of rap-
prochement that Mandel’štam sought with the new regime. Three years later,
‘Slovo i kul’tura’ goes much further in its embrace of revolutionary time. If
Benjamin claims that to “Robespierre ancient Rome was a past charged with
the time of the now which he blasted out of the continuum of history”,
Mandel’štam applies this very same example to poetry which to him is the
only tool that can explode time:

ɉɨɷɡɢɹ – ɩɥɭɝ, ɜɡɪɵɜɚɸɳɢɣ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɬɚɤ, ɱɬɨ ɝɥɭɛɢɧɧɵɟ ɫɥɨɢ ɜɪɟ-

ɦɟɧɢ, ɟɝɨ ɱɟɪɧɨɡɟɦ, ɨɤɚɡɵɜɚɸɬɫɹ ɫɜɟɪɯɭ [...] Ɋɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɹ ɜ ɢɫɤɭɫ-
ɫɬɜɟ ɧɟɢɡɛɟɠɧɨ ɩɪɢɜɨɞɢɬ ɤ ɤɥɚɫɫɢɰɢɡɦɭ, ɧɟ ɩɨɬɨɦɭ ɱɬɨ Ⱦɚɜɢɞ
ɫɧɹɥ ɠɚɬɜɭ Ɋɨɛɟɫɩɶɟɪɚ, ɚ ɩɨɬɨɦɭ ɱɬɨ ɬɚɤ ɯɨɱɟɬ ɡɟɦɥɹ. (Mandel’štam
1993: 213)

Revolutionary poetry is classical because in it the present is fused with

unfulfilled potentialities of the past whose poets, Ovid, Puškin, and Catullus,
are yet to come. 6 These optimistic pronouncements are very much in keeping
with the spirit of the time, and Mandel’štam’s assertion that the state has
separated itself from culture and is tolerant of the latter still reflects the actual
state of affairs. Even as he predicts the monumental forms of the coming
social architecture in ‘Gumanizm i sovremennost’’, he expects humanistic
values to resurface in order to help this architecture organize world economy
in accordance with human needs (Mandel’štam 1993, II: 288).
Yet only two years later, this optimism gives way to a most profound
crisis that results in five years of “poetic silence” and groping experiment-
ation with prose in order to renegotiate his relationship with time and the
revolution. The most eloquent formulation of this relationship is found in the
chapter “Kommisarževskaja” of his first autobiography Šum vremeni:

Ɇɧɟ ɯɨɱɟɬɫɹ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɬɶ ɧɟ ɨ ɫɟɛɟ, ɚ ɫɥɟɞɢɬɶ ɡɚ ɜɟɤɨɦ, ɡɚ ɲɭɦɨɦ ɢ

ɩɪɨɪɚɫɬɚɧɢɟɦ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɢ. ɉɚɦɹɬɶ ɦɨɹ ɜɪɚɠɞɟɛɧɚ ɜɫɟɦɭ ɥɢɱɧɨɦɭ.
ȿɫɥɢ ɛɵ ɨɬ ɦɟɧɹ ɡɚɜɢɫɟɥɨ, ɹ ɛɵ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɦɨɪɳɢɥɫɹ, ɩɪɢɩɨɦɢɧɚɹ
ɩɪɨɲɥɨɟ. ɇɢɤɨɝɞɚ ɹ ɧɟ ɦɨɝ ɩɨɧɹɬɶ Ɍɨɥɫɬɵɯ ɢ Ⱥɤɫɚɤɨɜɵɯ, Ȼɚɝɪɨ-
ɜɵɯ-ɜɧɭɤɨɜ, ɜɥɸɛɥɟɧɧɵɯ ɜ ɫɟɦɟɣɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɟ ɚɪɯɢɜɵ ɫ ɷɩɢɱɟɫɤɢɦɢ
ɞɨɦɚɲɧɢɦɢ ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹɦɢ. ɉɨɜɬɨɪɹɸ – ɩɚɦɹɬɶ ɦɨɹ ɧɟ ɥɸɛɨɜɧɚ,
 Benjamin, Mandel’štam and the Stalinist Metaphysics of History 453

ɚ ɜɪɚɠɞɟɛɧɚ, ɢ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɟɬ ɨɧɚ ɧɟ ɧɚɞ ɜɨɫɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɶɟɦ, ɚ ɧɚɞ ɨɬ-

ɫɬɪɚɧɟɧɢɟɦ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɝɨ. Ɋɚɡɧɨɱɢɧɰɭ ɧɟ ɧɭɠɧɚ ɩɚɦɹɬɶ, ɟɦɭ ɞɨɫɬɚ-
ɬɨɱɧɨ ɪɚɫɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ ɨ ɤɧɢɝɚɯ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɨɧ ɩɪɨɱɟɥ, – ɢ ɛɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ ɝɨ-
ɬɨɜɚ. Ɍɚɦ, ɝɞɟ ɭ ɫɱɚɫɬɥɢɜɵɯ ɩɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɣ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɬ ɷɩɨɫ ɝɟɤɡɚɦɟɬɪɚɦɢ
ɢ ɯɪɨɧɢɤɨɣ, ɬɚɦ ɭ ɦɟɧɹ ɫɬɨɢɬ ɡɧɚɤ ɡɢɹɧɢɹ, ɢ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɦɧɨɸ ɢ ɜɟɤɨɦ
ɩɪɨɜɚɥ, ɪɨɜ, ɧɚɩɨɥɧɟɧɧɵɣ ɲɭɦɹɳɢɦ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɟɦ, ɦɟɫɬɨ, ɨɬɜɟɞɟɧɧɨɟ
ɞɥɹ ɫɟɦɶɢ ɢ ɞɨɦɚɲɧɟɝɨ ɚɪɯɢɜɚ. ɑɬɨ ɯɨɬɟɥɚ ɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ ɫɟɦɶɹ? ə ɧɟ
ɡɧɚɸ. Ɉɧɚ ɛɵɥɚ ɤɨɫɧɨɹɡɵɱɧɚ ɨɬ ɪɨɠɞɟɧɢɹ, – ɚ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɬɟɦ ɭ ɧɟɣ
ɛɵɥɨ ɱɬɨ ɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ. ɇɚɞɨ ɦɧɨɣ ɢ ɧɚɞ ɦɧɨɝɢɦɢ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɢɤɚɦɢ ɬɹ-
ɝɨɬɟɟɬ ɤɨɫɧɨɹɡɵɱɶɟ ɪɨɠɞɟɧɢɹ. Ɇɵ ɭɱɢɥɢɫɶ ɧɟ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɬɶ, ɚ ɥɟɩɟɬɚɬɶ
– ɢ ɥɢɲɶ ɩɪɢɫɥɭɲɢɜɚɹɫɶ ɤ ɧɚɪɚɫɬɚɸɳɟɦɭ ɲɭɦɭ ɜɟɤɚ ɢ ɜɵɛɟ-
ɥɟɧɧɵɟ ɩɟɧɨɣ ɟɝɨ ɝɪɟɛɧɹ, ɦɵ ɨɛɪɟɥɢ ɹɡɵɤ.
Ɋɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɹ – ɫɚɦɚ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɢ ɫɦɟɪɬɶ, ɢ ɬɟɪɩɟɬɶ ɧɟ ɦɨɠɟɬ, ɤɨɝɞɚ
ɩɪɢ ɧɟɣ ɫɭɞɚɱɚɬ ɨ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɢ ɫɦɟɪɬɢ. ɍ ɧɟɟ ɩɟɪɟɫɨɯɲɟɟ ɨɬ ɠɚɠɞɵ
ɝɨɪɥɨ, ɧɨ ɨɧɚ ɧɟ ɩɪɢɦɟɬ ɧɢ ɨɞɧɨɣ ɤɚɩɥɢ ɜɥɚɝɢ ɢɡ ɱɭɠɢɯ ɪɭɤ. ɉɪɢ-
ɪɨɞɚ – ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɹ – ɜɟɱɧɚɹ ɠɚɠɞɚ, ɜɨɫɩɚɥɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ (ɛɵɬɶ ɦɨɠɟɬ, ɨɧɚ
ɡɚɜɢɞɭɟɬ ɜɟɤɚɦ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɩɨ-ɞɨɦɚɲɧɟɦɭ ɫɦɢɪɟɧɧɨ ɭɬɨɥɹɥɢ ɫɜɨɸ
ɠɚɠɞɭ, ɨɬɩɪɚɜɥɹɹɫɶ ɧɚ ɨɜɟɱɢɣ ɜɨɞɨɩɨɣ. Ⱦɥɹ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɢ ɯɚɪɚɤ-
ɬɟɪɧɚ ɷɬɚ ɛɨɹɡɧɶ, ɷɬɨɬ ɫɬɪɚɯ ɩɨɥɭɱɢɬɶ ɱɬɨ-ɧɢɛɭɞɶ ɢɡ ɱɭɠɢɯ ɪɭɤ,
ɨɧɚ ɧɟ ɫɦɟɟɬ, ɨɧɚ ɛɨɢɬɫɹ ɩɨɞɨɣɬɢ ɤ ɢɫɬɨɱɧɢɤɚɦ ɛɵɬɢɹ). (384)

First of all, there is, of course, in the rich imagery of this lengthy citation a
clear challenge to the author’s literary precursors, both in the epic, 19th-cen-
tury memoiristic tradition (as epitomized by Aksakov’s bulky family chro-
nicle Detskie gody Bagrova-vnuka). The age of the revolution, he claims, the
swelling noise of its time does not allow for any easy linear connection to the
“sources of being” via family archives and picture albums with all their
attendant mythology. Mandel’štam’s memory, “inimical” to everything per-
sonal, works in different categories: as it perpetually distances, or, as Clare
Cavanagh suggests, displaces the past, 7 it obsessively searches for those
particular traces that would account for the language of a self radically
separated from family origins by a “pit filled with clamorous time”. Yet
much as he wants to de-personalize the personal, the subject of his auto-
biography has to work on the objectification of personal experience. The
complex allegorical figurations of his own memory are thus tightly woven
into those of textually represented memory of culture, “age”, and as such
reveal a certain equivocity about the very language of this age which the self
of the autobiography claims to speak, and indeed, embody.
The language of the self, and of others born under the sign of the hiatus,
is determined by the ambiguously configured visual mediation of the audi-
tory: “We were not taught to speak, but to babble – and only by listening to
the swelling noise of the age and bleached by the foam on the crest of its
wave did we acquire a language.” The noise of the age to which one listens
effaces everything personal and turns the babble of a “congenital tongue-tie”
454 Evgeny Pavlov

into “language”. Remembrance is thus a recounting, in the language taught

by the age, of how one has acquired this language; and the process, in turn,
seems contingent upon the disappearance of personal identity in the noise of
time. At the same time the configuration of the self’s relationship with time is
most puzzling. White-washed by the foam of the age, the self attempts to
render present the organic wholeness of time’s acoustics from the standpoint
of a radical separation from temporal continuity, a dislocation that seems to
allow it at once to be an outside observer visually tracing the growth, pro-
gression of the age across the hiatus that it fills as well as the voice telling
time in a language informed by its noise.
At a point in history when time is out of joint, he aligns himself with
the revolution that, although eternally thirsty, refuses to resort to the “sources
of being” for soothing moisture: it forbids itself the fountain of Mnemosyne.
“Idle chatter of life and death” can no longer perform the analgesic function
of restoring continuity and coherence. Moreover, even in equating revolution
with nature, Mandel’štam does the exact opposite of what such a gesture
would hope to achieve in the ages bygone. Whereas the 19th-century autobio-
graphical tradition to which “domestic memoirs” undoubtedly belong would
thus re-establish immanent harmony and fullness, nature here is experiencing
a painful lack; it no longer incorporates, or is connected to, the sources of
being. Revolution’s organic vitality is inflammation. This, to be sure, also
goes against the grain of what the revolution came to signify in the official
mythologies of the time that most certainly equate the revolution with the
sources of being. As far as the Soviet ideology is concerned, the revolution is
of course the ultimate historical event that heals all and any inflammation
once and for all.
Šum vremeni attempts to tell time as it is, without resorting to the
mediation of any biographical devices, or even simple “once-upon-a-time”
narrative conventions. 8 As a result, the “new”, impersonal language of the
autobiographical self can only articulate the noise of time as an allegorical
series of frozen frames. The visual in the impersonal remembrance of Man-
del’štam’s text is thus effected by confronting the supersensible magnitude of
the aural that guides his memory, while the constellation of the ear and eye
bears witness not only to the impossibility of detachment in representing the
past, but also to something that threatens the very possibility of representa-
tion.
One particular frame out of the sequence presented in Šum vremeni is
noteworthy: Hofmann and Kubelik’s performances in St. Petersburg.

[ɗ]ɬɢ ɦɚɥɟɧɶɤɢɟ ɝɟɧɢɢ [...] ɜɫɟɦ ɫɩɨɫɨɛɨɦ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɢɝɪɵ, ɜɫɟɣ ɥɨɝɢ-
ɤɨɣ ɢ ɩɪɟɥɟɫɬɶɸ ɡɜɭɤɚ ɞɟɥɚɥɢ ɜɫɟ, ɱɬɨɛɵ ɫɤɨɜɚɬɶ ɢ ɨɫɬɭɞɢɬɶ ɪɚɡ-
ɧɭɡɞɚɧɧɭɸ ɫɜɨɟɨɛɪɚɡɧɨ-ɞɢɨɧɢɫɢɣɫɤɭɸ ɫɬɢɯɢɸ. ə ɧɢɤɨɝɞɚ ɧɢ ɭ
ɤɨɝɨ ɧɟ ɫɥɵɯɚɥ ɬɚɤɨɝɨ ɱɢɫɬɨɝɨ, ɩɟɪɜɨɪɨɞɧɨ-ɹɫɧɨɝɨ ɢ ɩɪɨɡɪɚɱɧɨɝɨ
 Benjamin, Mandel’štam and the Stalinist Metaphysics of History 455

ɡɜɭɤɚ, ɬɪɟɡɜɨɝɨ ɜ ɪɨɹɥɢ ɤɚɤ ɤɥɸɱɟɜɚɹ ɜɨɞɚ, ɢ ɞɨɜɨɞɹɳɟɝɨ ɫɤɪɢɩɤɭ

ɞɨ ɩɪɨɫɬɟɣɲɟɝɨ, ɧɟɪɚɡɥɨɠɢɦɨɝɨ ɧɚ ɫɨɫɬɚɜɧɵɟ ɜɨɥɨɤɧɚ ɝɨɥɨɫɚ: ɹ
ɧɢɤɨɝɞɚ ɧɟ ɫɥɵɲɚɥ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ ɬɚɤɨɝɨ ɜɢɪɬɭɨɡɧɨɝɨ, ɚɥɶɩɢɣɫɤɨɝɨ ɯɨɥɨ-
ɞɚ, ɤɚɤ ɜ ɫɤɭɩɨɫɬɢ, ɬɪɟɡɜɨɫɬɢ ɢ ɮɨɪɦɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɹɫɧɨɫɬɢ ɷɬɢɯ ɞɜɭɯ
ɡɚɤɨɧɧɢɤɨɜ ɫɤɪɢɩɤɢ ɢ ɪɨɹɥɹ. [...] Ɍɚɤɚɹ ɫɢɥɚ ɛɵɥɚ ɜ ɪɚɫɫɭɞɨɱɧɨɣ ɢ
ɱɢɫɬɨɣ ɢɝɪɟ ɷɬɢɯ ɞɜɭɯ ɜɢɪɬɭɨɡɨɜ. (366)

The verbs chosen to characterize the manner in which the pure, primordial
sound masters the Dionysian element are peculiar to say the least. “Skovat’ i
ostudit’” is in direct conflict with the free-flowing spring water to which the
piano voice is likened: it suggests sudden freezing, crystallization, and there-
fore, a certain rupture. The implicit image of the crystal arrests the swarming
of overwhelming phonic memories. Just as in the early essay ‘Skrjabin i
christianstvo’, voice, pure and primordial, dissects time’s “unbridled” cla-
mour by conjoining movement and standstill in order to reveal a different
kind of unbounded magnitude which, although outside of temporal progres-
sion, cannot be thought separately from it – that of unfigurable pure time.
The structure of Šum vremeni is then best described as mineralogical.
Chapter by chapter multifaceted fragments construct a crystalline whole. And
like a crystal, the opacity of acoustic memories manifests its depths indirect-
ly, by virtue of the surface that both confers and protects the weight through
the elemental density of prose. Mandel’štam’s memory is driven by the desire
to relive the primordial purity of the vocal performance that not only points to
the timeless sources of memory but also determines the language of re-
membrance. Yet the predicament of belatedness forbids the presence of re-
membered sounds to the autobiographer’s consciousness; such presence can
only be signified by the visual image of what once crystallized in memory.
He who subjects his self to the overwhelming presence of time’s roar is all of
a sudden confronted with an absence made manifest by the hollowness of a
dead shell into which living voices have been transformed. The painful
realization comes in the final chapter of the cycle, “V ne po þinu barstvennoj
šube” where the absence of living fullness in the materiality of mnemonic
representation entails the loss of vision:

ȼɦɟɫɬɨ ɠɢɜɵɯ ɥɢɰ ɜɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɬɶ ɫɥɟɩɤɢ ɝɨɥɨɫɨɜ. Ɉɫɥɟɩɧɭɬɶ. Ɉɫɹ-

ɡɚɬɶ ɢ ɭɡɧɚɜɚɬɶ ɫɥɭɯɨɦ. ɉɟɱɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɭɞɟɥ! Ɍɚɤ ɜɯɨɞɢɲɶ ɜ ɧɚɫɬɨɹ-
ɳɟɟ, ɜ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ, ɤɚɤ ɜ ɪɭɫɥɨ ɜɵɫɨɯɲɟɣ ɪɟɤɢ.
Ⱥ ɜɟɞɶ ɬɨ ɛɵɥɢ ɧɟ ɞɪɭɡɶɹ, ɧɟ ɛɥɢɡɤɢɟ, ɚ ɱɭɠɢɟ, ɞɚɥɟɤɢɟ ɥɸɞɢ! ɂ
ɜɫɟ ɠɟ, ɥɢɲɶ ɦɚɫɤɚɦɢ ɱɭɠɢɯ ɝɨɥɨɫɨɜ ɭɤɪɚɲɟɧɵ ɩɭɫɬɵɟ ɫɬɟɧɵ
ɦɨɟɝɨ ɠɢɥɢɳɚ. ȼɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɬɶ – ɢɞɬɢ ɨɞɧɨɦɭ ɩɨ ɪɭɫɥɭ ɜɵɫɨɯɲɟɣ
ɪɟɤɢ. (387)

The striking linkage of “slepota”, “slepok”, and implicitly “lepet” upon

entering the present as a dry riverbed is a direct consequence of allowing
456 Evgeny Pavlov

one’s self to be consumed by the temporal flow that allows for no moisture to
ease the representational thirst. Yet what the blindness of the poetic sacrifice
makes visible is the cast of time’s very structure.
The structure of time is the central theme of ‘Razgovor o Dante’
(1933), his last and most extensive critical text in which an argument is made
for mineralogy as “a wonderful organic commentary” to Divina Commedia
(1993, III: 256). His reading of the great Italian proceeds from the recog-
nition of a certain anachronicity in Dante, a certain temporal standstill
(“stojanie vremeni”) in which individual frames of historical experience are
frozen and arranged in a new, unexpected constellation:

ɋɨɟɞɢɧɢɜ ɧɟɫɨɟɞɢɧɢɦɨɟ, Ⱦɚɧɬ ɢɡɦɟɧɢɥ ɫɬɪɭɤɬɭɪɭ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɢ, ɚ, ɦɨ-

ɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ, ɢ ɧɚɨɛɨɪɨɬ: ɜɵɧɭɠɞɟɧ ɛɵɥ ɩɨɣɬɢ ɧɚ ɝɥɨɫɫɨɥɚɥɢɸ ɮɚɤ-
ɬɨɜ, ɧɚ ɫɢɧɯɪɨɧɢɡɦ ɪɚɡɨɪɜɚɧɧɵɯ ɜɟɤɚɦɢ ɫɨɛɵɬɢɣ, ɢɦɟɧ ɢ ɩɪɟɞɚɧɢɣ
ɢɦɟɧɧɨ ɩɨɬɨɦɭ, ɱɬɨ ɫɥɵɲɚɥ ɨɛɟɪɬɨɧɚ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɢ. (256)

According to Mandel’štam, Dante’s poetry gave time the salience and

geological periodicity of stone. Encoded in its frozen matter – “calligraphy” –
is the furious roar in which all times past and present suddenly unfold within
the framework of the static moment:

ɉɨɷɡɢɹ ɬɟɦ ɢ ɨɬɥɢɱɚɟɬɫɹ ɨɬ ɚɜɬɨɦɚɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɪɟɱɢ, ɱɬɨ ɛɭɞɢɬ ɧɚɫ ɢ

ɜɫɬɪɹɯɢɜɚɟɬ ɧɚ ɫɟɪɟɞɢɧɟ ɫɥɨɜɚ. Ɍɨɝɞɚ ɨɧɨ ɨɤɚɡɵɜɚɟɬɫɹ ɝɨɪɚɡɞɨ
ɞɥɢɧɧɟɟ, ɱɟɦ ɦɵ ɞɭɦɚɥɢ, ɢ ɦɵ ɩɪɢɩɨɦɢɧɚɟɦ, ɱɬɨ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɬɶ – ɡɧɚ-
ɱɢɬ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɧɚɯɨɞɢɬɶɫɹ ɜ ɞɨɪɨɝɟ. (226)

In other words, Dante’s poetry makes us aware of its time:

‘Divina Commedia’ ɧɟ ɫɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɨɬɧɢɦɚɟɬ ɭ ɱɢɬɚɬɟɥɹ ɜɪɟɦɹ, ɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ

ɧɚɪɚɳɢɜɚɟɬ ɟɝɨ, ɩɨɞɨɛɧɨ ɢɫɩɨɥɧɹɟɦɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɜɟɳɢ. ɍɞɥɢ-
ɧɹɹɫɶ, ɩɨɷɦɚ ɭɞɚɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɨɬ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɤɨɧɰɚ, ɚ ɫɚɦɵɣ ɤɨɧɟɰ ɧɚɫɬɭɩɚɟɬ
ɧɟɱɚɹɧɧɨ ɢ ɡɜɭɱɢɬ ɤɚɤ ɧɚɱɚɥɨ. (225)

And as we tune into this stretchable temporality, we become aware of the

switch, which is precisely what it takes for time to become palpable. But in
order for this to happen, in order indeed for poetry to be recognized as a
crystalline outcropping, it needs to be performed, articulated, given voice:

ɉɨɷɬɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɹ ɧɟ ɢɦɟɟɬ ɝɨɥɨɫɚ. Ɉɧɚ ɧɟ ɩɢɲɟɬ ɤɪɚɫɤɚɦɢ ɢ ɧɟ

ɢɡɴɹɫɧɹɟɬɫɹ ɫɥɨɜɚɦɢ. Ɉɧɚ ɧɟ ɢɦɟɟɬ ɮɨɪɦɵ ɬɨɱɧɨ ɬɚɤ ɠɟ, ɤɚɤ
ɥɢɲɟɧɚ ɫɨɞɟɪɠɚɧɢɹ, ɩɨ ɬɨɣ ɩɪɨɫɬɨɣ ɩɪɢɱɢɧɟ, ɱɬɨ ɨɧɚ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɟɬ
ɥɢɲɶ ɜ ɢɫɩɨɥɧɟɧɢɢ. (259)
 Benjamin, Mandel’štam and the Stalinist Metaphysics of History 457

As a mute piece of writing, it is the absence of voice. As well as a pre-

sentation of this absence.
In a society postulated on total presence, Mandel’štam’s Dante essay
fell on deaf ears. Not only was its tenor completely alien to the cultural esta-
blishment, but also utterly incomprehensible. As Emma Gerštejn testifies, the
manuscript returned from the editors at Gosizdat without a single comment
but with a great number of question marks in the margins (445). Somehow, it
is doubtful that Mandel’štam expected a different outcome. Much as he
continued to try and make himself heard, he most certainly knew that his
voice would not be listened to by the contemporaries most of whom at this
point were receptive only to one kind of poetry and indeed, one kind of
temporality. Like Benjamin who was somewhat responsible for getting him-
self into the situation that drove him to suicide, Mandel’štam too consciously
made many of the steps that doomed him to death in the Gulags. In a sense,
he entered the pit filled with clamorous time, this time literally.

In conclusion, I would like to turn to Gilles Deleuze who in his last collection
of essays, Critique et clinique, cites Mandel’štam’s above programmatic
passage from “Kommisarževskaja” which to him epitomizes the movement to
the outside of language:

When it is a matter of digging under the stories […], and reaching

regions without memories, when the self must be destroyed, it is
certainly not enough to be a “great” writer […] One’s language lets an
unknown foreign language escape from it, so that one can reach the
limits of language itself and become something other than a writer,
conquering fragmented visions that pass through the words of a poet,
the colours of a painter, or the sounds of a musician. (Deleuze 1997:
113)

Mandel’štam’s “lepet” in which his language begins and to which it ulti-

mately aspires is literature at its most forceful: like in Dante’s Commedia, in
Mandel’štam’s poetry all moments of time are virtually present at once and
can be actualized by the voice. They show us time and thereby release us
from its tragic, linear progression, if only for a split second, in order to show
us what time is really all about.
458 Evgeny Pavlov

NOTES

1
See Benjamin’s preparatory notes for Theses on the Philosophy of History
(Benjamin 1974, 1: 1232).
2
See Evgenij Pavlov (2005).
3
Cf., for example, Benjamin’s letter to Hofmannsthal where he complains
about the editors of Bol’šaja sovetskaja ơnciklopedija who commissioned him
to write an article on Goethe. The article was rejected by Lunaþarskij, as
inappropriate and inconclusive, notwithstanding “occasional insights that are
surprisingly acute” because it fails to explain Goethe’s place “within Euro-
pean cultural history” and “his place for us in – so to speak – our cultural
pantheon” (Benjamin 1986: 131). As Benjamin writes to Hofmannsthal:

The editors of the Soviet Encyclopedia intend to bring the work out in
five stages, but very few competent researchers are available for the
project and they are in no position to be able to carry out their gigantic
enterprise. I myself was able to observe how opportunistically they
vacillated between their Marxist programme of science and their
desire to gain some sort of European prestige. (Benjamin 1986: 135)
4
Cf. the following fragment of a lost article:

ɉɪɨɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɨɛɵɬɢɹ ɜ ɩɪɢɪɨɞɟ ɫɥɭɠɢɬ ɝɪɨɡɚ.

ɉɪɨɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ ɠɟ ɨɬɫɭɬɫɬɜɢɹ ɫɨɛɵɬɢɹ ɦɨɠɧɨ ɫɱɢɬɚɬɶ ɞɜɢɠɟɧɢɟ
ɱɚɫɨɜɨɣ ɫɬɪɟɥɤɢ ɩɨ ɰɢɮɟɪɛɥɚɬɭ. Ȼɵɥɨ ɩɹɬɶ ɦɢɧɭɬ ɲɟɫɬɨɝɨ, ɫɬɚɥɨ
ɞɜɚɞɰɚɬɶ ɦɢɧɭɬ. ɋɯɟɦɚ ɢɡɦɟɧɟɧɢɹ ɤɚɤ ɛɭɞɬɨ ɟɫɬɶ – ɧɚ ɫɚɦɨɦ ɞɟɥɟ
ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɧɟ ɩɪɨɢɡɨɲɥɨ. Ʉɚɤ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɹ ɪɨɞɢɥɚɫɶ, ɬɚɤ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɨɧɚ ɢ
ɭɦɟɪɟɬɶ, ɢ ɞɟɣɫɬɜɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ: ɱɬɨ ɬɚɤɨɟ, ɤɚɤ ɧɟ ɭɦɢɪɚɧɢɟ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ,
ɩɪɢ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɦ ɭɥɟɬɭɱɢɜɚɟɬɫɹ ɞɭɯ ɫɨɛɵɬɢɹ, – ɩɪɨɝɪɟɫɫ, ɞɟɬɢɳɟ
ɞɟɜɹɬɧɚɞɰɚɬɨɝɨ ɜɟɤɚ? ɉɪɨɝɪɟɫɫ – ɷɬɨ ɞɜɢɠɟɧɢɟ ɱɚɫɨɜɨɣ ɫɬɪɟɥɤɢ,
ɢ ɩɪɢ ɜɫɟɣ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɛɟɫɫɨɞɟɪɠɚɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ ɷɬɨ ɨɛɳɟɟ ɦɟɫɬɨ ɩɪɟɞ-
ɫɬɚɜɥɹɟɬ ɨɝɪɨɦɧɭɸ ɨɩɚɫɧɨɫɬɶ ɞɥɹ ɫɚɦɨɝɨ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɹ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ.
(Mandel’štam 1993, I: 276)
5
Cf. Nadežda Mandel’štam’s testimony on the importance of recognition in her
husband’s poetics:

He heard that recognition is psychologically unexplainable, but to him

the question was broader. He thought not about the process, that is,
about how we recognize what we have heard or seen, but about the
flash that accompanies the recognition of what has hitherto been
hidden from us, of what is yet unknown, emerges at the only right
moment, like destiny. (N. Mandel’štam 1990: 383)
 Benjamin, Mandel’štam and the Stalinist Metaphysics of History 459

6
Puškin did come in 1937, with the grand celebration of the centenary of his
death, with Krest’janskaja gazeta resolutely claiming him for the Soviet
people:

He is alive, he is ours, he is with us now. Is it really possible to

consider him a man of that dark and evil time in which he lived? He is
our person, our contemporary, our comrade and friend, our shining
singer. His burning truthful words about freedom and reason are our
Soviet words, bolstering a living cause.
(Cited in Brooks 2000: 78)
7
See Cavanagh’s Osip Mandelstam and the Modernist Creation of Tradition.
Calling this passage the poet’s “literary declaration of independence”, she
writes:

Mandel’štam does not so much distance the past as displace it [...] The
master plot that informs this passage and other of Mandel’štam’s
works might be summarized as follows: the poet, or one of his many
surrogates, must struggle to re-form or outrun a chaotic past that can
only be mastered by language. This language, in turn, provides the
entryway into the society and culture that Mandel’štam requires.
(1995: 31)
8
The impossibility of such narratives in revolutionary times is already dis-
cussed in the 1922 ‘Konec romana’ where “katastrofiþeskaja gibel’ biografii”
is predicted.

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