8/29/2009

Lenz von Georg Büchner

A breath of fresh air, a relationship with the outside world.
Lenz's stroll, for example, as reconstructed by Buchner.


This walk outdoors is
different from the moments when Lenz finds himself closeted with his pastor,
who forces him to situate himself socially, in relationship to the God of
established religion, in relationship to his father, to his mother. While taking a
stroll outdoors, on the other hand, he is in the mountains, amid falling
snowfiakes, with other gods or without any gods at all, without a family, without
a father or a mother, with nature.


"What does my father want? Can he offer me
more than that? Impossible. Leave me in peace."1



Everything is a machine.
Celestial machines, the stars or rainbows in the sky, alpine machines— all of
them connected to those of his body.


The continual whirr of machines.


"He
thought that it must be a feeling of endless bliss to be in contact with the
profound life of every form, to have a soul for rocks, metals, water, and plants, to
take into himself, as in a dream, every element of nature, like flowers that breathe
with the waxing and waning of the moon."


To be a chlorophyll- or a
photosynthesis-machine, or at least slip his body into such machines as one part
among the others.



Lenz has projected himself back to a time before the



man-nature dichotomy, before all the co-ordinates based on this fundamental
dichotomy have been laid down.


He does not live nature as nature, but as a
process o
f production. There is no such thing as either man or nature now, only a
process that produces the one within the other and couples the machines together.


Producing-machines, desiring-machines everywhere, schizophrenic machines, all
of species life: the self and the non-self, outside and inside, no longer have any
meaning whatsoever.