Monday, August 30, 2004
(2:25 AM) | Adam R:
The Impossible
In The Brothers Karamazov, Alyosha entreats Katerina to visit his brother, but she tells him that "it's impossible." He responds majestically: "Let it be impossible, but do it."I don't know the Russian word for "impossible,” but I hope that it's very close to Constance Garnett’s translation. It suggests that our concept of the word is fundamentally skewed. Considering the seeds of futility that are growing in the western zeitgeist, the problem is more than academic.
For instance, listening to (some very bizarre) Chicago public radio Sunday evening, I heard a testimony claiming that it is, in fact, possible to become immortal. I tuned in late and back out immediately, so I’m not sure if the speakers were talking about orthodox Catholic theology here—they made continual reference to the Ascension—or if this was something more akin to Heaven’s Gate. My reaction, however, was:
Bullfuckin’shit.
It’s not possible to become immortal. It’s impossible. Can’t we resign ourselves to that? I’m not saying that these people, Catholics or whatever, are lying or nuts or even that they can’t become immortal. In fact, why not? I believe they can and I’m happy for them, but I take semantic exception to their word choice. It’s not possible to become immortal. It’s impossible to live forever, and if I lived forever I would say it everyday. It’s impossible, but maybe it can happen. Let it be impossible, but do it.
We are meant to revere the impossible, to gape at it in awe, and to fear it. Instead, we decide a thing is impossible and turn our backs. That which is possible is mundane and, while we should accept it respectfully, it should hold nothing for us. We should certainly not condemn something gloriously impossible to the realm of the possible. World peace is impossible, of course, and we ought to participate in it everyday. Somehow justice, which is not only impossible but also a meaningless tomb, has been sought like something possible, and as such it is defecated on without ceasing.
I got it from John Caputo that Derrida speaks of two futures: the future present and the absolute future. The future present is what we plan for: the realm of credit card bills and cause/effect; when I don’t pay for my cell phone usage I can expect it to be turned off, and when the US continues its tyrannical global posturing it can expect to be a target for terrorists.
The absolute future is the realm of the of the impossible, of the event that cannot be foreseen. We’re talking three-party systems here, we’re talking virgin births. We’re talking Rumsfeld and not knowing we don’t know what we don’t know.
As we head tepidly into the future present we need to stay attuned to the absolute future. We need to rethink what it means for a thing to be possible or impossible. Katerina tells Alyosha that for her to go to Dmitri would be an impossibility, as if that’s the final thing to say, the end of the path. Alyosha’s response denies this and he strips the word of it’s intended meaning. “Let it be,” Alyosha says, just as Heidegger marks the thingness of the thing. Let the impossible be impossible; that’s a matter for itself. For Katerina, she must see Dmitri. By creating a realm for the impossible, he simultaneously creates a world for Katerina, for forgiveness, and somehow, justice.
