Hölderlin's Hymns

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commencement centuries ago in the political and spiritual history of the Western world. The World War began with skirmishes at the outposts. The beginning is immediately left behind; it vanishes as an event proceeds. The commencement—the origin—by contrast, first appears and comes to the fore in the course of an event and is fully there only at its end. Whoever begins many things often never attains a commencement. Of course, we human beings can never commence with the commencement—only a god can do that. Rather, we must begin with—that is, set out from—something that will first lead into or point to the origin. Such is the nature of our beginning in this lecture course.

      We place the poem “Germania” at the beginning in order to point ahead to the commencement. That means: This poem points toward the origin—to what is most remote and most difficult, to that which we ultimately encounter under the name Hölderlin. A word of Hölderlin’s passed down to us as a fragment from a late poem tells us where the poem “Germania” belongs, and provides a pointer with which we may begin:

      Vom Höchsten will ich schweigen.

      Verbotene Frucht, wie der Lorbeer, ist aber

      Am meisten das Vaterland. Die aber kost’

      Ein jeder zulezt.

      Concerning what is highest, I will be silent.

      Forbidden fruit, like the laurel, is, however,

      Above all the fatherland. Such, however, each

      Shall taste last.

      (Fragment 17, IV, 249, lines 4ff.)

      The fatherland, our fatherland Germania—most forbidden, withdrawn from the haste of the everyday and the bustle of activity. The highest and therefore most difficult, that which comes last, because fundamentally first—the origin withheld in silence. This also tells us what our beginning with “Germania” does not mean. It is not our intention to offer something useful or practicable for the needs of the day or even to recommend the lecture course by so doing, thereby giving rise to the pernicious view that we wish to bring Hölderlin into line with the times. We have no desire to bring Hölderlin into line with our times. On the contrary: We wish to bring ourselves, and those who are to come, under the measure of the poet.

      b) Concerning Our Manner of Proceeding in General. Poetizing and Thinking

      When we turn to Hölderlin in the context of a lecture course, it remains inevitable that we must speak of this poet and of his poetic work. However—to ‘talk’ ‘about’ poetry is always in bad taste, since of necessity a poem surely says on its own whatever it has to say. Talking it to death only destroys our ‘aesthetic pleasure.’ So people say, and thereby imply that our fundamental relationship to a work of art is one of ‘enjoyment’: the savoring of ‘stirrings in the soul’ and dabbling in nice feelings. Yet if this orientation toward ‘aesthetic pleasure’ is in fact a misunderstanding of art, and if we cannot use the criterion of enjoyment with regard to poetry, then there is nothing there that could in all seriousness be talked to death or endangered by such talk. And this quite apart from the fact that in the end there can be a discourse concerning poetry, and that such a thing is not only appropriate, but indeed demanded by poetry. Perhaps we can talk poetically concerning poetry, which certainly does not mean we should talk in verses and rhymes. Thus a discourse that takes its lead from a poetic work need not necessarily be an idle talking ‘around’ or ‘about’ poems.

      There is something else, however, that is more problematic and suspect: that philosophy should now launch an assault upon a poetic work. The weapon and defense of philosophy is, after all—or at least ought to be—the icy boldness of the concept. In place of the danger of talking something to death there now arises the danger of thinking it to death, to say nothing of the fact that it appears as though thinking could shortly be abolished altogether. There arises the danger of our dissecting the poetic work into concepts, of our examining a poem merely for the poet’s philosophical views or for doctrines on the basis of which we could construct Hölderlin’s philosophical system, and from this ‘explain’ the poetry—this being what one calls ‘explaining.’ We wish to spare ourselves such a manner of proceeding, not because we are of the opinion that philosophy has to be kept well away from Hölderlin’s poetry, but because this widespread and customary way of proceeding has nothing to do with philosophy.

      Yet if ever a poet demanded a thoughtful coming to terms with his poetry, it is Hölderlin, and this is not at all because as a poet he happened to be ‘also a philosopher,’ indeed one that we may without hesitation place alongside Schelling and Hegel. Rather, this is so because Hölderlin is one of our greatest—that is, one of our most futural—thinkers, because he is our greatest poet. A poetic turning toward his poetry is possible only as a thoughtful encounter with the revelation of beyng that is achieved in this poetry.

      That said, the semblance and even the danger of talking and thinking the poetry to death will constantly accompany our work, all the more so, the less we know concerning poetizing, thinking, and saying, and the less we have experienced with regard to how and why these three powers belong most intimately to our original, historical Dasein. Our manner of proceeding in general thus stands entirely under the unique law of Hölderlin’s work.

      c) Concerning Our Particular Approach. The Poetic Dasein of the Poet

      We are beginning immediately with a poem and are thus neglecting to mention: Hölderlin was born on March 20, 1770, in Lauffen on the Neckar as the son of . . . and so forth. He published something like a novel, and in addition wrote this and that. From the nineteenth century to the present, his poetic work has been assessed in such and such a way. ‘Life and work,’ as they are called, and the history of their treatment are not something we wish to slight—quite to the contrary. In no other case are the historical Dasein of the poet, his need to create, and the destiny of his work so intimately one as they are with Hölderlin. Yet for this very reason we must not start by just giving a report that deals with his life, work, and history of his reception, so that we may then concentrate exclusively on ‘just the poetry.’ We shall encounter the Dasein of the poet in his own time and in each case from his own locale, and do so directly from out of the magnificent treasure of his letters, this Dasein without official position, without hearth and home, without success or renown—that is, without that entire sum of misconceptions that can accrue to a name; ‘mentally ill,’ as they say, at the age of thirty-five: dementia praecox catatonica, as medicine astutely diagnoses it. We shall also have to ponder the fact that the poet himself never published his real and greatest poetic works. We must come to terms with the fact that the Germans took a full hundred years to bring Hölderlin’s work before us in a form that forces us to admit that we today are in no way equal to its greatness and futural power.

      The purely material aspects of all this—life and works and the history of their treatment—that we have to take note of, learn, and work through, are readily accessible everywhere. However, the most industrious compiling and weighing up of circumstances, influences, precedents, and rules that contribute to the genesis of a poetic work are of no help to us unless we have first thoroughly comprehended the poetic work itself and the poetic Dasein of the poet within and for that work. And this is the point of our undertaking.

      A word of Hölderlin’s concerning the essence of poetry may serve to conclude these preliminary remarks. We cite from the letter that he wrote to his brother on New Year’s day 1799, the last year of the eighteenth century that was then drawing to a close (III, 368ff.):

      So much has already been said about the influence of the fine arts on the education of the human being, but it has always sounded as though no one took it seriously, and this was natural, for no one gave any thought to what art, and in particular poetry [Poësie], is according to its nature. One simply viewed it in terms of its undemanding exterior, which admittedly cannot be separated from its essence, but is taken to constitute nothing less than the entire character of poetry; it was regarded as play, because it appears in the modest guise of play, and thus, consequentially enough, no other effect could arise from it than that of play, namely,

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