{"id":168676,"date":"2024-09-27T10:00:20","date_gmt":"2024-09-27T14:00:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=168676"},"modified":"2024-11-22T13:23:16","modified_gmt":"2024-11-22T18:23:16","slug":"hannah-arendt-poet","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/27\/hannah-arendt-poet\/","title":{"rendered":"Hannah Arendt, Poet"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Hannah Arendt, 1958. Photograph by Barbara Niggl Radloff. M\u00fcnchner Stadtmuseum, Sammlung Fotografie, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons<\/a>. Licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0<\/a>.<\/p><\/div>\n

For a while there in the late nineties, it seemed to me like every other book of poetry that I flipped open in the bookstore was prefaced by an austere epigraph from the writings of Ludwig Wittgenstein. Plato, Rousseau, Nietzsche, Sartre, and Wittgenstein\u2014for all their many differences\u2014enjoy a special status as \u201cpoets’ philosophers\u201d in the annals of literary history. Other lofty thinkers fly under poets\u2019 collective radar; I have yet to come across a volume of verse prefaced by a quotation from David Hume. What makes some philosophers, and not others, into poets\u2019<\/em> philosophers remains a mystery to me. But I\u2019ve never really thought of Hannah Arendt as one of them.<\/p>\n

Unemotional, anti-Romantic, and doggedly insistent on expunging unruly feelings from collective life, Arendt may seem to possess the least lyrical of temperaments, but a new volume of her poetry reveals that the author of sobering works like The <\/em>Origins of Totalitarianism<\/em> and The Human Condition<\/em> was writing ardent and intimate verse in her off-hours. We\u2019re pleased to feature Samantha Rose Hill\u2019s new translation, with Genese Grill, of an untitled poem<\/a> from Arendt\u2019s manuscripts\u00a0in our Fall 2024 issue.<\/p>\n

Now housed in Arendt\u2019s archive at the Library of Congress, the poem is dated to September 1947, six years after the philosopher\u2019s arrival in the United States. Though she had by then settled on New York\u2019s Upper West Side, Arendt reflects upon what she\u2019d left behind on her life\u2019s journey in this wistful poem:<\/p>\n

This was the farewell:
\nMany friends came with us
\nAnd whoever did not come was no longer a friend.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The bracing conclusion of Arendt\u2019s opening stanza lands with the impact of a practical realist\u2019s rebuke to a sentimental fool: Friendship is companionship; therefore, whoever is not a companion cannot be considered a friend. (There\u2019s something syllogistic to the philosopher\u2019s adoption of tercets for this poem\u2019s form.) In her introduction to What Remains: The Collected Poems of Hannah Arendt<\/em><\/a>, which will be published later in December, Hill chronicles how Arendt\u2019s notebook of poems accompanied her through a succession of farewells: when she fled Germany after her release from the Gestapo prison in Alexanderplatz in the spring of 1933; when she left her second life in Paris to report to the internment camp at Gurs seven years later; and when she escaped on foot and by bicycle to Lisbon, where she boarded the SS Guinee<\/em> for Ellis Island on May 22, 1941. \u201cThis was the train: \/ Measuring the country in flight,\u201d Arendt writes, \u201cand slowing as it passed through many cities.\u201d<\/p>\n

From its melancholy opening to its bemused conclusion, Arendt\u2019s poem reflects the emotional passage of many who leave home to take up residence in a foreign land. It begins as an aubade, or song of parting, and it ends with the enigma of arrival:<\/p>\n

This is the arrival:
\nBread is no longer called bread
\nand wine in a foreign language changes the conversation.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

For the German speaker newly arrived in America, bread is no longer Brot<\/em>. One irony of Arendt\u2019s historical displacements lies in how her original German word for bread<\/em> is now effaced by \u201cbread\u201d in the English translation. A further irony is to be found in the poem\u2019s final line, where \u201ca foreign language\u201d intrudes on what would otherwise read: \u201cand wine changes the conversation.\u201d The essential purpose of wine\u2014at a dinner party, for instance\u2014is to change the conversation. But what is wine in a foreign language? When many of your dinner guests are, like you, serial \u00e9migr\u00e9s who\u2019ve fled Europe in the political wake of World War II, wine serves an additional purpose; anyone who\u2019s found themselves a little more tipsily fluent at a dinner party abroad will understand how \u201cwine in a foreign language<\/em> changes the conversation.\u201d Arendt made a home away from home for herself\u2014and for others\u2014in New York at 317 West Ninety-Fifth Street and, later, at 370 Riverside Drive, where she entertained fellow expatriates like Hermann Broch, Lotte Kohler, Helen and Kurt Wolff, Paul Tillich, and Hans Morgenthau. The slightly slanted rhyme of \u201cStadt\u201d with \u201cGespr\u00e4ch\u201d that concludes the poem in Arendt\u2019s original German links the author\u2019s mid-century Manhattan to the bonhomie <\/em>of intellectual exchange; \u201ccity\u201d sounds a little like \u201cconversation\u201d in the poet\u2019s mother tongue.<\/p>\n

Arendt\u2019s poem, then, tells the story of her farewell to Europe and her arrival in the United States in a dozen lines of verse. But it\u2019s also a self-aware work of art that quietly asserts its own place in the German poetic tradition\u2014the bread and wine invoke the literary sacraments of Friedrich H\u00f6lderlin\u2019s celebrated poem \u201cBrod und Wein.\u201d (\u201cBread is the fruit of the earth, yet it’s blessed also by light,\u201d writes H\u00f6lderlin. \u201cThe pleasure of wine comes from the thundering god.\u201d) German poetry, for Arendt, was a constant presence in both heart and mind. \u201cI know a rather large part of German poetry by heart,\u201d she said in a 1964 interview on German national television. \u201cThe poems are always somehow in the back of my mind.\u201d She wrote her first poems when she was a teenager; some of these early literary efforts were addressed to her teacher\u2014and lover\u2014at the University of Marburg, Martin Heidegger. Those early love poems remained secret, like the affair that produced them, until after her death. Reading them now, we can see the intimate association of poetry and philosophy during this formative period in Arendt\u2019s life. Yet her poems, unlike her philosophy, remained a private affair for Arendt to the end. We don\u2019t know if she ever showed her poems to her close friends Robert Lowell, Randall Jarrell, and W. H. Auden in New York; to our knowledge, only her second husband, the poet and philosopher Heinrich Bl\u00fccher, read her verse. The final poem to be found in the Library of Congress archive is labeled \u201cJanuary 1961, Evanston.\u201d Its author was about to depart from a residency at Northwestern University to attend Adolf Eichmann\u2019s trial in Jerusalem. What she saw there may have marked the end of poetry for Hannah Arendt.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Srikanth Reddy is the poetry editor of<\/em> The Paris Review.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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