Monday, April 16, 2012
Purchased online. This, like many of the books on my shelves, could be filed under Paul Celan. It was one of so many that I read under the influence of his poetry and thought.
I can picture myself reading it in bed at night at our old house in the Black Rock section of Buffalo The word "seraphim" keeps popping into my head, but when I look into the book I realize that the word I am probably remembering is "sefirot." I recall that the sefirot are some kind of emanation or some such.
While my catholic upbringing definitely formed in my consciousness a melancholy disposition constantly searching for a god that will never return, I have to say that mysticism is pretty much lost on me.
I recall this book getting very blurry in my imagination at some point as I tried to visualize all these "emanations" and so forth. The same thing occurred when I read Dante. The first two books made perfect sense to me, but when I got to all the seraphic visions of the Paradiso, I began to doze off.
So, let me say here and now that I am not a mystic. I know. Shocking!