Sufism and Transcendentalism: A Poststructuralist Dialogue Between Rumi and Whitman 1793616019, 9781793616012

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Sufism and Transcendentalism

Sufism and Transcendentalism A Poststructuralist Dialogue Between Rumi and Whitman Elham Shayegh

LEXINGTON BOOKS Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com 6 Tinworth Street, London SE11 5AL Copyright © 2020 by The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Shayegh, Elham, 1980- author. Title: Sufism and transcendentalism : a poststructuralist dialogue between Rumi and Whitman / Elham Shayegh. Description: Lanham : Lexington Books, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: "Sufism And Transcendentalism is a comparative study of Rumi and Whitman in which the parallelism of poetic style and content goes further to find common ground in challenging the conventional definitions of self and other"-- Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2019058464 (print) | LCCN 2019058465 (ebook) | ISBN 9781793616012 (cloth) | ISBN 9781793616029 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Jalā l ʾal-Dī n Rū mī , Maulana, 1207-1273--Criticism and interpretation. | Sufism. | Whitman, Walt, 1819-1892--Criticism and interpretation. | Transcendentalism. Classification: LCC PK6482 .S43 2020 (print) | LCC PK6482 (ebook) | DDC 811/.3--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019058464 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019058465 TM

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

To my mother and her dream of personal growth and academic progress, to her passion and determination in life that always inspire me. To my father and his dream of intellectual growth and passion for discovery. To my brothers who never stopped supporting me. To my uncle who dearly walked the first steps of this intellectual journey with me and who is no more here to commemorate the end of this stage with me. And to my grandfather whose stories of living abroad never stopped to amaze me, to his dream of change and his hope for cultural cultivation and political betterment.

Contents

Acknowledgments Introduction

ix 1

1

The Postcolonial Identity and Alterity

2 3 4 5

Logocentrism Cultural Dialogue Compromising Binaries On Hospitality

5 13 27 61 91

Conclusion Works Cited Index About the Author

105 121 127 129

vii

Acknowledgments

It was a great privilege for me to work with a team of most dedicated professors. The process of dialogue as the main theme of this dissertation emerged from my own ongoing intellectual dialogue with college professors since undergraduate program. Having the members of this team as the immediate readers of my work continually gave me motivation to write more, more clearly, and more confidently. I owe special thanks to Dr. Keith Tuma particularly for his patience in dealing with the very rough drafts of this work, for pointing out the strengths and weaknesses of each argument, and for intellectually and linguistically improving this work. His organized method of reading and detailed commentary made the progress of this work possible. Without his disciplined approach the completion of this work would be out of sight. I extend my acknowledgment to Dr. Andrew Hebard whose inspiring comments and constant criticism shed light on the theoretical problematic of this work. The theoretical mapping of the project is indebted to his insightful commentary and his readings that constantly encouraged me to go back and refresh the arguments by accurately situating them within related scholarship. I am thankful to my external readers Dr. Jonathan Strauss and Dr. Maria Alvarez whose presence gave me mental support and enthusiasm. I thank them for their detailed readings and final extensive commentary. Thanks for the experience, wisdom, and scholarly manner that you brought to this project. The diverse commentary that I received from these professors made me more aware of the contributions of readers to the work of authors. The present piece is not a finished text and further criticism or suggestion from all readers is welcomed and appreciated.

ix

Introduction

My interest in Rumi began when I was a student in secondary school in Iran and started to read his poetry and learn about his worldview. My teenage years followed the Iran-Iraq War (1980–1988) in a period that was rather tragic and appalling. People were struggling to restore the country to its better time, and poetry would help them try to do this. From figures such as Rostam in Shahnameh to Shakh-e Nabat in Hafez and Shams Tabrizi in Rumi they sought inspiration and spiritual guidance. Poetry offered a world more sympathetic, more serene than the political reality of the time. However, the world of whirling dervishes, in Rumi, has become something more for me. His poetry presented unconventional beliefs, unrestricted language, and unconditional love, combined with a common lifestyle, a humble personality, and an enthusiastic worldview. Rumi writes with his “id” as Hélène Cixous would say. “Id knows. Otherwise, I wouldn’t go off to write. It’s a mystery: where it is that id takes, where id grows, where id gathers like rainwater. . . . I count on it . . . ego is blind, id is eager” (Stigmata 48, 87). Another poet who writes freely and perhaps with “id” is Walt Whitman. He does not follow the didactic, socio-ethical methods of many of his predecessors, and while he expresses humanistic concerns he usually favors the unconventional. As more and more non-native English speakers dedicate time and energy to write dissertations and conduct research on the works of the English literary figures, the educational institutions should be able to encourage the scholars to incorporate more of their cultural background into literary analysis. Comparative literary studies would introduce a more consistent and less exclusive worldview, with the opportunity to see the multidimensionality of what we call reality. The traditional syllabus of literary studies is limited primarily to one national literature or, sometimes, to studies of several traditions for the most part in isolation from one another and is structured mainly by reference to chronology. Comparative studies, however, are mostly concerned with the impingement of ideas upon one another, and the creation of a literary history that is more global and collective than the traditional approach. Comparative literary approaches create opportunities for the observation of texts beyond context, extending texts beyond their national milieu to discuss them in conversation with broader literary frameworks, and allowing for the possibility of dialogue among nations. My desire to bring together Rumi and Whitman has to do with hoping for the possibility of such 1

2

Introduction

dialogue between worldviews that belong to different cultural-historical contexts, and perhaps also with the revival of a residual teenage will against the impasse of war. As a part of my interest in bridging cultures, I hope to identify the human bond that the poetry of Rumi and Whitman can be said to forge against the context of political conflict. According to Jacques Rancière, “literature does politics simply by being literature. . . . It assumes that there is an essential connection between politics as a specific form of collective practice and literature as a well-defined practice of the art of writing” (Rancière 3). Unlike historical or political discourses, which are dependent on contexts in different ways, the possibility of existence beyond socio-historical contexts through language and writing makes literature more potent than both politics and history. Although it is usually considered as secondary (as derivative of history), literature is, rather, one of the main components and determining elements of history. In New Historicist readings there is no history and politics in isolation from people and their languages and literatures. Literature (poetry, short stories, novels, critical essays) can survive and make people survive at a time of conflict. Literature makes societies improve through constructive self-criticism and genuine self-presentation. Intolerable social conditions are portrayed with the aim of exposing hidden sores on the body politic; by drawing attention to specific social problems, writers intend to contribute to their interpretation. Literature questions the moral values of societies, observing bigotry and spiritual emptiness. The right of literature is to say everything, no matter what the consequences are. My project envisages political conflict against the hermeneutics of identity and alterity by reading them as ongoing processes whose recognition requires responsibility. As a medium of expression that incorporates the complexities of identity and alterity, literature often does not function based on borders and distinctions. In the face of thirty-nine years of Iranian-American political conflict, I chose Rumi and Whitman as two Iranian and American literary figures whose heritages offer ethical responses to the issues of cultural otherness. I will show that their literary responses to the problem of alterity are stronger and more realistic than the existing political propaganda. The connectivity between cultures occurring beyond cultural-historical contexts and at the individual level is not restricted by political and national discourses, and in Rumi and Whitman, one can observe how language and writing break the logocentric structures of cognition to envisage dialogue with alterity. Likewise, their respect for the open-endedness of ideas improves individual understanding and reevaluates its perception as a non-dialectical process. Writing at the time of war—the Mongol invasion (1206–1337) and the American Civil War (1861–1865)—both Rumi and Whitman emphasize the connections that exist between human beings despite conflicts. They are both the founders of new schools: Rumi of a specific branch of Sufism

Introduction

3

called Mawlawiyah after Mawlana Jalaluddin Rumi, and Whitman as the father of free verse, the innovative style that is among the first forms of American liberal expression. They enrich the scope of identity and dialogue in different ways, and each chapter of my book will address one of them. Chapter 1 provides an overview of identity and alterity in a postcolonial context. Chapter 2 analyzes religious and socio-political logocentrism at the time of the poets. This chapter addresses three questions: What is logocentrism? What are its instances at the time of Rumi and Whitman? How did the poets respond to it? Chapter 3 addresses the concept of dialogue and its various forms in Persian/American language and literature. It addresses questions such as the following: What is dialogue? Do Rumi and Whitman directly discuss dialogue in their works or is the term used here as a metaphor? The chapter further focuses on the importance of individuality in the emergence of an authentic relationship with the other. Chapter 4 challenges a binary system of thinking through examining the poets’ approaches to binary pairs such as male/ female. How do the poetical texts refuse to submit to binary thinking? I will explore the answer to this question while examining the similarities of Sufi and Transcendentalist poetry and Impressionist painting. A discussion of good/evil then emphasizes the ethical implications of challenging binaries. Observing that both Rumi and Whitman wrote at the time of war and conflict, chapter 5 examines the influence of war on the creation of hospitality. Does war that usually displaces and re-places people make them more understanding of cultural alterity? Was war more destructive or constructive in their contexts? The sympathetic responses of Whitman to the madness of his brother inspire a final section on the meaning of madness and sympathy in the works of the poet. The concluding chapter then discusses the connection of literature and politics. It looks at the ways in which the texts of Rumi and Whitman reexamine the significances of cultural/national differences and similarities. Do the poets consider differences as sources of conflict and struggle? What are the meanings and significance of differences?

ONE The Postcolonial Identity and Alterity

As the number of the Middle Eastern scholars in the American academy increases, it is crucial to envisage the implication of what we learn for both the United States and the Middle East. The humanities teach students to become cultural critics, but this criticism remains inside the frameworks of American culture, addressing issues of politics, race, gender, or imperialism from an American point of view. Humanities majors from the Middle East acquire this knowledge either to stay in America and criticize American/Western culture, or to return to their countries and criticize American/Western culture. In other words, American education does not provide worldwide knowledge, and students usually remain ignorant about this problem. The double-edged sword of the lack of context-based knowledge about the rest of the world on the part of the American academy and the lack of practical knowledge and skills for constructing their own societies on the part of the Middle Eastern scholars makes the earned knowledge limited or dysfunctional. Staying in an ivory tower and observing the rest of the world creates the illusion of knowledge. It is only through confirmation of our ignorance that we can face the other and ethically improve our condition. One of our central problems in communicating with one another is our contemporary understanding of self and other. The external structures (culture, nationality, race, ethnicity, gender, etc.) are necessary for the external world to function, but they are not enough to define individuality. It is mainly at this individual level that Rumi and Whitman create a space for uncertainty and dialogue. Their ideas of self and other help lessen the importance of distinctions between cultures to support dialogue between people and nations regardless of their alienations. The alienation that I have in mind is the sort that exists in the works of theorists such as Edward Said or Samuel Huntington. Their works, cate5

6

Chapter 1

gorized as post/colonial texts, endorse and rely on cultural differences and conflict as a way of individual identification. They see the East and the West as two sides of a problem that, although responsible for shaping the same reality, can never be solved. Said (1935–2003) sees the Middle East as the marginalized element in a colonial binary, which is to say as suppressed by Western interests. But does the depiction of the West as a manipulative superpower uplift the human community? Doesn’t it overlook the equally manipulative superpowers in the non-Western world? By blaming the backwardness of those societies on the Western imperialist plan, do not we allow the totalitarian regimes of the East to brainwash their citizens and to divert attention from their own corruption and mismanagement of resources? Another scholar whose ideas are closely connected to those of Said is Dr. Ali Shariati (1933–1977), an Iranian sociologist often described as the ideologist of the Iranian revolution. Shariati is the leading translator of the works of Frantz Fanon into Farsi. His works largely introduced the concepts of Third Worldism and Westernization. Shariati believes that class war and revolution will bring about a just and classless society. Drawing on religious texts he sees the importance of shahadat (martyrdom in the way of Allah) and fighting the influence of the West as a return to one’s genuine self. Shariati studied in Paris, and his teachings, influenced by 1960s and 1970s Western philosophy, criticize enlightenment and modernity in favor of tradition and the voice of the marginalized. The fight against Westernization and for the rights of the voiceless became two watchwords of the Iranian government after the Islamic revolution. However, one can see that both in Shariati and in the Iranian current regime even this traditional self is not defined and is unrecognizable without its opposites (i.e., the Western other or the Westernizing power). The Eastern self is, therefore, meaningless in the absence of an East-West binary. Too often, the first thing that a return to the self reminds a Muslim population of is a return to orthodox Islamic traditions. The life of the Middle Eastern people is closely connected to religion and traditions and their many representatives (mosque, cleric), so much so that it is not difficult to think of orthodox Islamism as a basic Middle Eastern identity. While this orthodox self might sound clearer and simpler, the individual self, the philosophical self, the historical self, and the mystical self of the Middle East are fading and hard to identify with. Unfortunately, anti-imperialism scholars do not help with this situation. Their definitions of the colonized self via references to native figures, texts, and events, is narrow, and they are more focused on the depiction of the dangerous other than clarification of self. The worldviews of Said and Shariati are instances of misplaced thinking. They do not live in their countries while trying to explain their local culture by applying non-local theories to them. In a world where the Eastern countries cannot provide opportunities for study and freedom of

The Postcolonial Identity and Alterity

7

thought, scholars like Said and Shariati move to the West and learn Western theories that have as their main emphasis analysis and criticism of the West. These scholars thus miss half of the picture that involves the knowledge and criticism of self. Meanwhile the West remains at the center through discourses such as the discourse concerning Western imperialism, the centrality of which most Eastern scholars accept and follow. This leads to the process of self-censorship that we see in Said and Shariati, and to their recurring references to a self in which self is absent. This lack of a clear image—of knowing one’s cultural shortcomings and being able to analyze them without reference to the other— creates a double consciousness. The other is the reason for failure, but our self is too vague to be able to redeem us. The self is defended, idealized, and idolized in many different ways while clearly losing its individual significance compared to the Western other and its imagined sovereignty. The anti-imperialist discourses, furthermore, cause emotional reactions in both Eastern and Western audience. For Middle Easterners it creates rage at their status as victims of the Western imperialism, and among Westerners it creates feelings of guilt and sympathy. Neither outcome is constructive enough to originate change and progress. If we say that imperialism is a Western phenomenon, we ratify Eurocentrism. In A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, Spivak writes, “there is something Eurocentric about assuming that imperialism began in Europe” (37). Imperialism exists in more than one form, and as it changes in time and space, so that what was known as a marginalized voice—for example, in Iran during the 1970s—might no longer be marginalized in 2013. As Spivak in her analysis of the sati tradition in India shows, power existed long before British colonialism, and instances of it structure every society. Similarly, Homi Bhabha, in his article “Signs Taken for Wonders,” argues for the multiple meanings of colonialism: “[It is] ambivalence that makes the boundaries of colonial ‘positionality’—the division of self/other—and the question of colonial power—the differentiation of colonizer/colonized” (169). Bhabha uses the term “ambivalence” to show that the structure of colonial power is not as obvious as the structuralist tradition suggests. So it seems that the terms colonial and colonialism have conflicting meanings, which makes their definition uncertain if not ungrounded. There are instances where Said’s own reflections on colonialism suggest ambivalence. In the former colonies, some of the imperial Governor-Generals were educated to learn about various religious, social, and legal customs and precedents in the colonized culture; some were practicing native rituals as altruistically as natives. Said mentions Warren Hastings (1732–1818), a governor who “decided that Indians were to be ruled by their own laws” (Said, Orientalism 78). Hastings was the first Governor-General of India, from 1773 to 1785. He is an example of a colonizer who knows everything

8

Chapter 1

about the people he rules. In this example, the line between self and other is blurred in the colonial moment of ruling the other through becoming (or performing) the other. In order to rule the colonized, the colonizer follows the culture of the colonized. The colonial authority, us, in this sense, is not a pure central self, but a fusion of self and the colonized other. Similarly, there is an ambivalence of the colonized. There are moments when its subjectivity is characterized by the same uncertainty. We can consider the “oriental” undefined subjectivity of Said himself. Does Said address issues of the representation of Muslim societies as a Muslim Arab himself, or as the Christian Arab that he is? While he considers himself as an “oriental subject,” his life away from the Middle East (he departed at the age of seventeen) challenges the authenticity of his argument about the presentation of self as a resident of the region. This ambiguity is evident in his writings. For instance, in the introduction to Orientalism, he writes: Much of the personal investment in this study derives from my awareness of being an “Oriental” as a child growing up in two British colonies. All of my education, in those colonies (Palestine and Egypt) and in the United States, has been Western, and yet that deep early awareness has persisted. In many ways my study of Orientalism has been an attempt to inventory the traces upon me, the Oriental subject, of the culture whose domination has been so powerful a factor in the life of all Orientals. This is why for me the Islamic Orient has had to be the center of attention. . . . In none of that, however, have I ever lost hold of the cultural reality of, the personal involvement in having been constituted “as Oriental.” (Said, Orientalism 25–26)

Said’s subjectivity as an “oriental” that is Christian and identifies with Muslims opens a gap within his project in Orientalism and shows the ambivalence of the terms “colonized” and “orient” as he uses them. Abdelmajid Hannoum writes, “[the] French translation of Ibn Khaldun formed the foundation of French historical knowledge of North Africa” (Hannoum 62). In other words, the huge body of works written by the Middle Eastern writers about themselves became later sources for the European orientalists. To overlook the important body of scholarship created by the Arab writers about their culture while discussing the meaning of orientalism is to perpetuate a distorted reality and present academic selectiveness in keeping native Arabs and their expressions at a distance. The Arabs’ active role in creating their own presentation is underestimated by thinkers who generalize those presentations as a European phenomenon. 1 Hybridization is a term used by Bhabha to refer to the consequences of the ambivalence in a cultural discourse. For Bhabha hybridity is the sign of the productivity of the colonial system as it reinvents the culture of the colonizer. When, for instance, instead of reading the English Bible the

The Postcolonial Identity and Alterity

9

native Indians demand an “Indianized Gospel,” they address the boundaries of power by subtly challenging its terms and setting up “another space of power/knowledge” (Bhabha 160). These are the moments of “civil disobedience within the discipline of civility.” The “native bible” challenges the centrality of the colonial power, turns “the eye of power” into “a mask, a mockery” (162). While in Bhabha the presence of authority is no more immediately visible, the culture itself can no longer be identified or evaluated as an object of “epistemological or moral contemplation”: it is not simply there to be seen or appropriated (156). As hybridization comes into the picture to allow us to examine the boundaries of colonialism, it equally challenges the notion of power as a fixed and central reality. The structure of power is usually pictured as a panoptic center with some schemer (the state) behind it. In “Panopticism,” Michel Foucault writes, “Power has its principle not so much in a person as in a certain concerted distribution of bodies, surfaces, lights, gazes; in an arrangement whose internal mechanisms produce the relation in which individuals are caught up” (Foucault 202). The position of the people subjected to power is marginalized in this reading. Michel de Certeau sees this sense of confinement through power as a sign of the exclusion of subjectivity of the individual citizen. And while panopticism in Foucault’s definition constitutes “the technique, universally widespread, of coercion” (Foucault 221), Certeau sees it as an observation deck from which one can perceive a “great empty space” waiting to be filled by individual citizens, since the structure of power is always renovated in each individual move of the citizens (“Micro” 330). As the individual citizens participate in the act of composing the structure of power, the panoptic point becomes a “text.” Citizens compose the city as “a manifold story that has neither author nor spectator” (Certeau, “Walking” 93) and the “mobile city” or the “Concept-city” of each individual slips into the “clear text of the planned and readable city” [created by the state] which is “stable, and isolatable” (ibid. 93–95). The “Concept-city” is a place of “transformations and appropriations, the objects of various kinds of interference but also a subject that is constantly enriched by new attributes.” The city “is left prey to contradictory movements that counter-balance and combine themselves outside the reach of panoptic power” (ibid. 95). Imagining power as a final structure with absolute functions, Foucault’s statement relatively underestimates the individuality of citizens. His interpretation discloses a determined condition in which one is controlled by transcendent structures the ultimate result of which is criticism and blame of the other (state, politics). Breaking down power structures into their components and seeing them functioning between panoptic points and their subjects, one can envisage power as a constant flow or circulation of responses between opposite forces.

10

Chapter 1

It is only by stepping out of historical-geographical gaps between nations and seeing problems not as the consequences of extended plots against specific people but as the consequences of our dysfunctional worldview that our ethical standpoint toward a global alterity will be guaranteed. Anti-imperialism is a valuable watchdog in policing extreme cases of international abuse and profit making; however, when it comes to understanding and learning about the other in a world of cultural differences, it doesn’t offer much. 2 NOTES 1. Through their desire to imagine a Western super-power, the anti-imperialist thinkers blend Western personal/political narcissism with an Eastern sense of victimization to create political pity or sympathy. 2. It is true that anti-imperialist discourses usually generate and depend upon sympathy as their apparatus. However, theirs is a sympathy that further cripples the victims. The developed countries usually use the term sympathy in a way that the developing countries are ready to take advantage of. The reality is that the desire for sympathy on the West’s part ends in a claim for the right to sympathy on the Middle East’s part. For instance, Islamist extremists expect the West to sympathize with their beliefs and not criticize them in any form. An example of this is the 2004 Dutch short film Submission (10 min.) whose director Theo van Gogh was assassinated by a Muslim fundamentalist one month after the broadcasting of the film. Submission plays on the religious concept of submission of wives to their husbands by referring to the same concept in the Islamic tradition. In the film the Quranic verses are written on the naked bodies of the women. While the film is not a final interpretation of the verses, killing its director shows the degree of brutality to which fundamental Islamists can reach through claiming sympathy. Apart from the egoistic pride and narrow mindedness, Gogh’s assassination is a representative of a claim to right to sympathy. Anti-imperialist discourses create a sense of care and motherhood toward the rest of the world in which other countries are treated as children who are free to behave the way they want. The caring mother of anti-imperialism (the other face of the imperialist father figure) has too big a heart to be offended by the children. The children usually consider themselves as inferior to the culture and advanced lifestyle of the mother, a feeling that regularly leads to fascination with Western cultures, or animosity toward them. Thinking of everyday examples of the mother-child treatment of alterity, I offer two examples: first, in Black Skin, White Masks, Fanon mentions the childish language in which the French citizens address him. He writes: “The physicians of the public health services know this very well. Twenty European patients, one after another, come in: ‘Please sit down. . . . Why do you wish to consult me? . . . What are your symptoms? . . .’ Then comes a Negro or an Arab: ‘Sit there, boy. . . . What’s bothering you? . . . Where does it hurt, huh? . . .’ When, that is, they do not say: ‘You not feel good, no?’” (Fanon 32). And second, in Defamation—a documentary film examining the influence of the perception of anti-Semitism in Israeli and U.S. policy making—the Israeli correspondent asks an American Jewish woman about her feelings toward Israel. And she replies, “Israel is like my child. . . . I am ready to join the army to support it in any possible way” (Shamir min. 46). These attitudes and practices create a world that accepts the United States as the world’s superpower and cooperates to strengthen its monopoly. The mother will always be there regardless of the child’s attitude. This parental sympathetic rhetoric needs to be changed. The United States should be ready to change parenthood to friendship, especially when it comes to the Middle Eastern countries. By friendship I mean an understanding and a cultural acquaintance that demands global responsibil-

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ity from the Middle Eastern countries. This is a friendship, which includes criticism and analysis, not merely sympathetic regulations, and can fill the historical gaps and detachments between nations and create a more cohesive relationship. Accordingly, the United States needs to, on the one hand, modify its self-image; and, on the other hand, start learning about other cultures by sending non-military forces, especially students and teachers, to those countries, to replace propaganda with trust. The Eastern countries likewise should leave the platform of childhood and become responsible for their countries, and for global community.

TWO Logocentrism

I pray to God to rid me of God. (Meister Eckhart, 214) (The true New World, the world of orbic science, morals, literatures to come,) Thou wonder world yet undefined, unform’d, neither do I define thee, How can I pierce the impenetrable blank of the future? . . . But I do not undertake to define thee, hardly to comprehend thee . . . Thee in thy moral wealth and civilization, (until which thy proudest material civilization must remain in vain,) Thee in thy all-supplying, all-enclosing worship—thee in no single bible, saviour, merely, Thy saviours countless, latent within thyself, thy bibles incessant within thyself, equal to any, divine as any . . . These! these in thee, (certain to come,) to-day I prophesy. (Whitman 571)

What is logocentrism? In Dissemination, Jacques Derrida defines “logocentric” as that which is centered on the logos (44). Logos is speech, logic, reason, the Word of God, or any signifying system governed by the notion of the self-presence of meaning, any system structured by a valorization of speech over writing, immediacy over distance, identity over difference, and (self-)presence over all forms of absence, ambiguity, simulation, substitution, or negativity (ibid.). Hence logocentrism refers to the “determination of the being of the entity as presence” (Grammatology 12). It refers to the idea that, before everything, there is the Logos, the origin of the meaning of being, the rationality of thought, and the absolute truth. Discourses of history or religion, then, exist only “as detours for the purpose of the reappropriation of presence” (Grammatology 10). Everything connected to a center has always designated an invariable presence: “essence, existence, substance, subject, transcendentalist, consciousness, God, man, and so forth” (Writing & Difference 279). “Center,” he explains, 13

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Chapter 2

is there “not only to orient, balance, and organize” our structures, “but above all to make sure that the organizing principle of the structure would limit what we might call the play” 1 (ibid. 278). At the center, “the substitution of contents, elements, or terms is no longer possible.” At the center, “the transformation of elements . . . is forbidden” (ibid. 279). However, as Derrida, further remarks, the center itself is not a center: [The center is only a substitute for] a central presence which has never been itself, has always already been exiled from itself into its own substitute. The substitute does not substitute itself for anything which has somehow existed before it. Henceforth, it was necessary to begin thinking that there was no center, that the center . . . had no natural site, that it was not a fixed locus but a function, a sort of non locus in which an infinite number of sign-substitutions came into play. (Writing & Difference 279–80)

Even though centers of discourse exist, they are not internally fixed and determined, though based on them many fixed and determined structures have been constructed. There is certainty and safety in assuming fixed structures based on fixed centers, and the typical fruit of their absence is a mainstream fear of ambivalence and rupture. For Derrida, centers exist all the time, but they are collective and involve substitution, play, constant change and modification. The idea of a fully present center is not true to the complexity of reality. The fixed center only functions based on socially constructed ideas of reality. Belief in centers that are not fixed and determined, however, creates more vivid models of reality. Considering questions of collectivity and modifying his model of the center, Derrida questions basic ideas about philosophy, language, and religion. One of Derrida’s main challenges to the fixity of centers appears in his discussions of the structure of language. The structuralist tradition of Ferdinand de Saussure views language and writing as “two distinct systems of signs; the second [of which] exists for the sole purpose of representing the first” (Saussure 23). Such a model relies on the presence of a speaking subject. The presence-to-self within consciousness, the formation of self-present substance, which is the voice, becomes the origin of language. He writes, “phonocentrism merges with the historical determination of the meaning of being in general as presence . . . (the selfpresence of the cogito, consciousness, subjectivity, the co-presence of the other and of the self, intersubjectivity as the intentional phenomenon of the ego, and so forth)” (ibid. 11). Derrida, by contrast, attempts to deconstruct the priority of speech over writing by questioning the idea of selfpresence. Unlike speech, which seeks presence, writing presents as loss. Writing exists beyond the self-presence of a speaking subject. When we read a text, the speaking subject still exists but she/he is not present. What differentiates writing from speaking is the uncertainty of a present subject in writing. The speaker is there in the written text but not ready to

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identify, and the split obliterates the existence of author as central presence and lets the text speak for itself. The writer, no more a central expressive subject, becomes a collective event resulting from the individual interpretations of readers. Writing, in this sense, opens a rupture between the self-presence of the Saussurean subject and the autonomous text in the formalist tradition to present the collectivity of the act of reading where writer, text, and reader contribute in the creation of the poem. 2 Sufism, the Islamic school that Rumi belongs to, is the mystical tradition of Islam offering a worldview that throughout history has been considered heresy by many Islamic schools. The present situation of the Nematollahi Sufi order under the Iranian regime is an example of such an interpretation of Sufism as heretical and dangerous. 3 The Sufi mystics usually move against the mainstream concepts of political Islam to envisage a less constitutional, more individual version of Islam, a version that according to William Chittick is not by any means new. 4 However, orthodox Islam following the commands of shariʿa (the revealed law) finds other interpretations, including Sufism, heresy or kofr (non-belief). Rumi’s Sufi poetry, acting against the fixed interpretation of shariʿa, offers innovative interpretations of the sunnah (History of Islam, life of Prophet) to such an extent that Masnavi 5 holds an exalted status in the rich canon of Persian Sufi literature as the greatest mystical poem ever written. Instances of Rumi’s groundbreaking reading are numerous. For example, in the Divan 6 he says, “Mecca is inside you, make a pilgrimage to yourself” (vs. 648). And, in the Masnavi, “the real jihad is one against your ego not against an atheist” (Manavi I ch. 76). These verses challenge the conventional understanding of two major Islamic concepts, Hajj and Jihad (traditionally understood as pilgrimage to Mecca and holy war against the nonbelievers). Both have been forceful sources of military operations and financial profits throughout Islamic history. Looking at Rumi’s era, we can identify the sources of logocentrism, while his response to them manifests a high degree of individuality together with participation and play with/within the center. The main source of logocentrism and perhaps the most dominant one in the Middle East is religion. According to Abdolkarim Soroush, in Rumi’s time the Islamic constitution generally existed at three levels and among three groups of people: fuqaha (jurists), sultans (kings), and mutakallimun (theologians). Each group’s interpretation of Islam favors their rank and social status, Soroush notes, and each imposes a reading on a body of Islamic texts, an act of self-interested reading in opposition to which Sufism flourishes. Jurists usually focus on fiqh (Islamic jurisprudence) performed through division of shariʿa from the Quran and sunnah. Shariʿa is like the body of Islam in that it designates propriety. For instance, the “Five Pillars” of Islam, the shahada (Islamic creed), salat (daily prayers), zakat (almsgiving), sawm (fasting during Ramadan), and hajj (pilgrimage to Mecca) are deduced by fuqaha and considered as shariʿa. The realm of

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shariʿa is usually the main focus of fiqh, and most jurists are trained to become experts in reading Islamic texts to extract religious rules and social principles from them. Soroush believes that Muslim populations usually held great respect for religious jurists as the representatives and executives of Islamic law, the result of which is interpretation of Islam as a body of roles and regulations, and simultaneous suppression of other readings of it (mystical, philosophical, historical, and literary). The ʿulama [fuqaha] are to be blamed for their blind espousal of the current state of affairs. For them, the work in the field of Islamic fiqh is a comfortable venture. It does not contain any danger. But this kind of work goes against the grains of religion, its method, and its nature. It would become more useful for these ʿulama to deal with commerce; dealing with religion in this fashion is a major loss for Islamic community. (Abu-Rabi 197)

In Islamic societies, the sultans/kings/rulers are likewise the main regulators of religion. Jurists, Soroush states, often remain close to the rulers to make sure that their interpretations of shariʿa fulfill the social interests and status of the rulers. Rumi lived at the time of Seljuq dynasty. Seljuq were the ruling military family of the Oğuz (Ghuzz) Turkic tribes that invaded southwestern Asia in the eleventh century and eventually founded the Seljuq Empire and Sultanate of Rum. 7 The Seljuqs were militant Muslims who were involved in the Crusades. The Seljuq kings were often called themselves “Shadow of God on Earth” (zill Allah fi-lArz), considering themselves as supreme powers chosen by God. The Seljuqs were later defeated during the Mongol invasion by the Turkish tribes who resented their hegemony. The Seljuq dynasty was a key period in the establishment of Sunni orthodoxy, which remains important to this day. “The Seljuqs are responsible for actively promoting the development of a new institution—the madrasa, a school of orthodox theology and law—as a means of countering the successes of Shiite propagandistic training in Fatimid Egypt” (Strayer 147). The third group involved in creating the structure of religion is mutakallimun (Soroush). Kalam, an Arabic term meaning “speech” and hence “discussion,” was applied to early attempts in Islam to adduce philosophic proofs for religious beliefs. It later came to designate a system of religious philosophy, which reached its highest point in the eleventh century; “the masters of kalam, known as mutakallimun, were in many respects the Muslim equivalent of the Christian Church Fathers” (Wolfson). The major schools of Islamic kalam are Ashʿari, Imami, Maturidi, Murjiʿah, and Muʿtazila. Rumi, himself, comes from an Ashʿari background. Throughout history the place of kalam in Islamic philosophy has been controversial. The vast majority of the earlier orthodox scholars either criticized or prohibited it. Imam Al-Shafi’i, for instance, says that no knowledge of Islam can be gained from books of kalam, as kalam “is not

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from knowledge” (Muhammad Dahabi). The present day criticism of kalam usually comes from the Salafi scholars who base their argument on the views held by the early Imams like Al-Shafi’i. Other contemporary scholars hold that the criticism of kalam from early scholars was specific to the Muʿtazilites, going on to claim that other historical Muslim scholars such as Imam Muhammad Al-Ghazali saw both good and bad in kalam and cautioned about the speculative excess of unorthodox groups such as the Muʿtazila. It was in response to the kalam tradition that Sufism progressed. One can observe a tension between the interpretive approach of the experts in kalam and the Sufis. . . . Theologians made no claim to know God other than by way of rational interpretation of the Quran and the tradition. Whereas many of the Sufis claimed to know firsthand that God’s fundamental reality is mercy and compassion. Despite kalam’s highly developed methodologies and prominence in the secondary literature, it represents a rather narrow approach to the spiritual realm, typically apologetic and polemical (Katz 153). According to Soroush, seeing the decline of religion under these three factors (clerics and kings and philosophers), the Sufis introduced haqiqa (truth/ being/ heart) in addition to the common traditions of shariʿa (law/ activity/ body) and tariqa (path/ thinking/ mind). Irfan (marifah), another name of Sufism, meaning “the deeper knowledge of things,” refers to this interior dimension of religion. Irfan cannot be found in books. In fact, it is already live in the heart, but hidden deeply beneath a forgetfulness of material existence. What differentiates the Sufi approach from that of the clergy and their theology is mainly the fact that the Sufi authors rely on marifah—on the direct knowledge of self and God that flows freely in the purified heart. In contrast, both the theologians and philosophers affirm the necessity of ilm, which one can translate as knowledge, science, or learning. The Sufis give pride of place to the Quran and the religious teachings, but they also hold that the only way truly to understand the revelatory message is via inner catharsis. There has been no end to debate among the major intellectual perspectives—theology, philosophy, and Sufism—each of which has many schools. Rumi started as a mutakallim and philosopher of Islam, and later turned to Sufism. The turning point of Rumi’s life is said to be his encounter with Shams Tabrizi, 8 a Sufi whose character and lifestyle was a challenge to the religious structures of the time. The simplicity of his lifestyle and his mistrust of religious authorities (the jurists and the kings) along with his constant criticism of mutakallimun introduced a new aspect into Rumi’s life. Before meeting with Shams, Rumi, following his father’s path, was a theologian and a sheikh with many students. Meeting with Shams, he recognized that it is possible to go beyond the institutional understanding of religion (shariʿa, tariqa), to experience an individ-

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ual religion (haqiqa) through individual approaches to spirituality, which includes poetry, music, and dance. Legend portrayed Shams as an “untutored charismatic, an ordinary qalandar or wandering dervish 9 possessed of miraculous powers” (Lewis 135). Nicholson writes that Shams “curiously resembles Socrates” in his “strong passions, his poverty, and his violent death” (Nicholson xx). Shams left behind a body of writings (or, more precisely, notes) taken down by his own or Rumi’s disciples from his lectures. Those notes are now generally referred to as the Maqalat. While reading the Maqalat, one can see instances of Shams’s eager criticism of the institutions reducing spirituality to different forms of cultural and moral norms. For example he says: By God, to God and for God! Those people studying in the madrasas do so in order to become moid (repetitors), to get their own madrasa and to win place and position. They say, “We have to make a good impression, this is what should be said in these gatherings in order to get such and such position.” Why do you acquire knowledge for the purpose of a worldly morsel? The purpose of this rope is to lift yourselves out of the pit, not so that you can climb out of this pit and into deeper pits. Fix your sight on knowing who you are, what your essence is, why you have come here, where you are going, and what the source of your being is. What are you doing at this very moment? Where are you headed? (Shams 178)

Shams is a grave critic of the practices of the madrasa, and of jurists’ attempts to elevate their social statues through knowledge of Islam and tradition, but he did not stop there. Maqalat includes frequent criticism of the Sufis and their lifestyles as well. For instance he states: At first I wouldn’t mix with jurists, only with the dervishes. I’d say that the jurists are ignorant of dervish-hood. Now that I have realized what dervish-hood is and where they are, I find myself more eager for the company of jurists than dervishes, because the jurists have struggled to attain something. Those others boast that we are dervishes. But where is the true dervish? (Shams 249)

The term “dervish” is synonymous with the term “Sufi,” while also showing a specific practice in Sufism, that of poverty, both material and spiritual. The term is of ancient origin and descends from the Avestan word drigu—meaning needy or mendicant. The practice of poverty is an important element in Sufism, as Lewis points out (143). Shams himself is considered to be a dervish. He was educated; however, he cloaked his nature from religious scholars as well as from practicing pietists so that his contemporaries were confused about whether he was a faqih (jurist) or a faqir (dervish, poor man): Someone asked my friend about me, “Is he a faqih or a faqir?” “Both faqih and faqir,” he replied.

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He asked, “Then why do all speak of his feqh (knowledge)?” He answered, “For his poverty is of such a nature that it cannot be spoken about . . . he speaks beyond the boundaries of knowledge and speaks of mysteries in a knowledgeable way in the cloak of knowledge.” (Shams 326)

Aflaki describes Shams as peerless in his knowledge of alchemy, astronomy, astrology, logic, theology, and philosophy, “but when he kept the company of the men of God, he kept these hidden” (qtd. in Lewis 143). By intentionally acting in apparent contradiction to religious law or social standards, the Sufi dervishes such as Shams (known as the malamatis) addressed the spiritual danger of pious religious reputations. In order not to succumb to the temptations of sham piety (that is, to socially constructed conventions), they might “drink wine in public (or feign to), and shear themselves of all outward signs of social respect, such as the hair and beard, respectable clothes (which even more than now indicated rank and standing), and so forth” (Lewis 23). Of this tradition were the followers of Shams, the sixteenth-century socially deviant dervishes called Shams Tabrizis, who usually shaved their heads and faces, walked barefoot, and wore felt cloaks and caps of black and white. Supposedly, in addition to playing music and chanting, they also drank wine. The influence of Shams in Rumi’s life as it separated him from the scholarly religion helped him understand at an individual level the importance of questioning socially constructed concepts. Dervish-hood was then a device for mockery and denunciation of the socially established norm (logos), while at the same time it challenged the lavishness of kings, the hypocrisy of the clergy, and the impracticality of scholarly religion. As knowledgeable sages on the one hand and unruly vagabonds on the other, dervishes challenged the fixity of social images and behaviors while playing on the absence of individuality and agency in everyday life. As the state, feqh, and kalam create a body of rules, principles, the Word of God, reason (presences) that can be referred to and relied upon, dervishes act like written texts to let the meaning of religion emerge from their interaction with the logocentric authority. 10 Their characters develop multiple layers that are in play with the center. The social recognition of identity apart from simple labeling between presence or absence remains deferred. The labels malamati or qaandar are therefore representative of something, which is not a norm, a non-presence, a name without content, an empty center, a rupture. As Shams enters the life of Rumi, a rupture opens in the text of Rumi, which makes one realize the possibility of a decentered religious identity. The challenge to the social structures, especially to language, similarly exists in Whitman. It is generally true to say that the American poetry before Whitman conceptually follows the language and style of neoclassicist (Augustan) poets such as Alexander Pope, a central figure in the

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British Neoclassical movement of the early eighteenth century, whose style sought a revival of the spirit of antiquity inspired by classical works. Pope essentially believes that the mission of poetry is to discover the “rules of old” and the subject of poetry is “nature methodized” or nature discovered by the ancient poets such as Homer whom young poets must imitate (Pope vs. 88–89). While Transcendentalism is generally doubtful about such approaches to poetry, in figures such as Ralph Waldo Emerson, we witness the same interest in loyalty to form and the classical style. Emerson writes, Language is the archives of history, and, if we must say it, a sort of tomb of the muses. . . . Language is fossil poetry. . . . A rhyme in one of our sonnets should not be less pleasing than the iterated nodes of a sea-shell. . . . This insight . . . [comes by] circuit of things through forms, and making them translucid to others. . . . The condition of true naming, on the poet’s part, is his resigning himself to the divine aura, which breathes through forms, and accompanying that. (Emerson and Thoreau 360)

Whitman rejects a passive resignation to an established form such as that suggested here insofar as he composes a kind of poetry that in content and style does not follow the dominant conventions of his day. Besides its lack of consistent meter, Whitman’s poetry conveys openness regarding sex and its portrayal of the common man. Whitman, who also comes from a religious background writes Leaves of Grass, a book seemingly with little to do with religion. David Kuebrich explains that pre-war American society was notable in that it had no state-sponsored church and was officially committed to religious freedom, thus providing a fertile ground for a large number of denominations and sects (LeMaster and Kummings 581). This cultural context nurtured several forms of religious enthusiasm, which defined the United States as the primary agent for offering God’s will in history. “Protestant Christianity, political democracy, vast geographical expanse, burgeoning population, and material abundance,” according to Kuebrich, turned the United States to “God’s new Israel” in which “the spirit of Christ would rule the hearts of the people and govern their social institutions” (ibid. 582). A second type of enthusiasm, known as “perfectionism,” maintained that individual Christians could reach a state of complete satisfaction, and radical perfectionists even asserted themselves to be free from Christian precept and civil law (ibid.). A third, “illuminism,” held that it was possible to attain to more profound understandings of previous revelation or to arrive at fresh revelation (ibid.). During this era of various theological emphases, Whitman emerged with a call for a future “religious democracy,” a citizenry of “spiritual athletes” who would think lightly of “the laws” (Whitman 571). Defining spiritual prophecy, he writes:

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The word prophecy is much misused; it seems narrowed to prediction merely. That is not the main sense of the Hebrew word translated “prophet;” it means one whose mind bubbles up and pours forth as a fountain, from inner, divine spontaneities revealing God. Prediction is a very minor part of prophecy. The Great matter is to reveal and outpour the God-like suggestions. (Whitman 911)

According to Kuebrich, in addition to a general exposure to Christian culture, Whitman was in direct contact with the churches of his days. Although his family were not church members, Whitman went to Sunday school during his childhood, and he also attended the services of various churches during the 1840s. Nevertheless, “Whitman never joined a church and there is no evidence that he ever subscribes to a Christian world view” (LeMaster and Kummings 582). Through his father, Whitman became interested in deism, 11 and in his writings he consistently gave expression to deistic themes such as “a denial of Christ’s divinity, a distrust of clergy and organized religion, a concern to reconcile science and faith, and an openness to non-Christian religions” (ibid.). Of every hue and trade and rank, of every cast and religion . . . I resist anything better than my own diversity (43) . . . I am large. . . . I contain multitudes. (Whitman 87)

Whitman’s grandparents and parents were admirers of the Quaker prophet, Elias Hicks, 12 who extended the Quaker doctrine of the “soul’s inner light beyond the bounds of Christian orthodoxy” by proclaiming that “the religious imagination of the individual believer was the source of religious revelation and therefore, the higher authority than the Bible” (ibid. 583). In his old age Whitman composed a brief sketch praising Hicks: As myself a little boy hearing so much of E. H. . . . I remember how I dream’d to write perhaps a piece about E. H. and his look and discourses. . . . There is a sort of nature of persons I have compared to little rills of water, fresh, from perennial springs—persons not so very plenty, yet some few certainly of them running over the surface and area of humanity, all times, all lands. . . . It is a specimen of this class, I would now present . . . Always E. H. gives the service of pointing to the fountain of all naked theology, all religion, all worship, all the truth to which you are possibly eligible—namely in yourself. . . . Others talk of Bibles, saints, churches, exhortations, vicarious atonements—the canon outside of yourself and apart from man—E. H. to the religion inside of man’s very own nature. . . . He is [one of] the most democratic of religionists—the prophets. (Whitman 1245)

Hicks came from a Quaker background, a religious group one of whose main doctrines is of the “universal priesthood.” The universal priesthood is deduced from Martin Luther’s statement, “We are all consecrated priests through Baptism, as St. Peter in 1 Peter 2 [: 9] says, ‘You are a royal

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priesthood and a priestly kingdom,’ and Revelation [5:10], ‘Through your blood you have made us into priests and kings’” (Luther 149). Unlike the common assumption of the right to priesthood as the eternal power of God which gives authority to the worthy male members of the Church to preach the gospel and govern the kingdom of God, Luther puts forth the idea that every Christian believer is a priest, and that the formal priest has a social role granted to some ministers by the people, and the people should be aware that the religious institution has no right to exercise power over them, for it is their spiritual equal. Following the same line, Quakers such as Hicks based their message on the idea that Christ has come to teach people himself: stressing Christ’s direct relationship with a universal priesthood of which everyone is a part. The Quakers emphasized a personal, direct experience of Christ. For Susan Dean, Leaves carries the roots of Quakerism, and denying these roots will leave Whitman’s project “partial and unfinished” (Dean 191). As Dean states, the United States Orthodox culture perpetuated, and profited from, dualistic visions of creation (supernatural heaven vs. supernatural hell, with “nature” falling somewhere in between) and of human nature (radically flawed with “original sin,” incapable of selfcontrol and needing external restriction from social institutions such as royalty, aristocracy, universities, armies, police, churches, priests). Within this larger culture, Quakers pictured themselves as “seeds,” working through non-violent persuasion, showing by example that human nature, along with all the rest of created nature, carried within itself a seed of “God” that gave humankind an undying potential for goodness and happiness (ibid. 193). An example of respecting human nature is the Quakers’ viewpoint on sexuality. While orthodox Protestantism viewed sexuality as a venomous part of human nature, Quakerism endorses sexuality and affirms it as a part of human nature. Concerning homosexuality, a group of British Quakers writes, “An act which expresses true affection between two individuals and gives pleasure to them both does not seem to us to be sinful by reason alone of the fact that it is homosexual” (Towards a Quaker View of Sex). Whitman, likewise, defends his frankly sexual orientation by employing a Quaker affirmation of nature. In “A Memorandum at a Venture,” he notes: The sexual passion in itself, while normal and unperverted, is inherently legitimate, credible, not necessarily an improper theme for poet as confessedly not for scientist. . . . As the assumption of the sanity of birth, Nature and humanity, is the key to any true theory of life and the universe—at any rate, the only theory out of which I wrote—it is, and must inevitably be, the only key to Leaves of Grass, and every part of it. That is the reason that I have stood out for these particular verses uncompromisingly for over twenty years, and maintain them to this day. (Whitman 1057)

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In this essay, Whitman is breaking free from the orthodox opposition between natural and spiritual qualities. He rejects the opposition between two points of view; the Hellenistic view that believed life should be lived according to a rational order, and with the performance of virtuous acts; and the hedonistic view in the “erotic stories and talk, to excite, express, and dwell on, that merely sensual voluptuousness” (Whitman 1056). This second view, Whitman thinks, however “bad,” is at any rate like a “disease which comes to the surface,” and therefore less dangerous than the “conceal’d one.” It becomes “the most universal trait of all ages, all lands” (ibid.). Similar to the way orthodox structure of Islam can become a political tool and often has, orthodox Christianity can become a device for control and formation of religious logocentrism. 13 Eileen Luhr argues that political domination via religion was not confined within national borders. Considering non-white nations as backward and uncultivated, “the white missionary developed a right to meddle in the system of thought and life of the non-Christian nations. From South America to Budapest, from Africa to China, they show a desire for expanding the Western geographical territory through Christianization.” This desire, according to Luhr, is by itself a verification of colonialism. However, she argues that in calling into attention the common nature of man, “Quakerism denies the superiority of one belief over another, and thereby denounces colonialism” (Luhr). Similarly, Whitman questions the orthodox Christian authority in various forms, further examples of which will be shown in the upcoming chapters. NOTES 1. When Derrida writes about play he doesn’t mean “free play” or wanton “playfulness.” “Play” appears frequently in some of Derrida’s earlier works, especially in “Structure, Sign, and Play.” In that essay and elsewhere he makes it clear that “play” means something like “give” or “tolerance,” which works against ideas of self-sufficiency and absolute completion. Far from being grounded in presence, then, the identity of a thing is grounded without being grounded in this possibility of play—the internal play (or plays) of the movement of supplementarity. This means that in order for anything to be understood in terms of presence (to be self-sufficient), what has to be overlooked is its inscription within a system of differences and the movement of a chain—a chain or series of “signifying and substitutive” marks. This system is the play of presences and absences. “Play is always play of absence and presence, but if it is to be thought radically, play must be conceived of before the alternative of presence and absence.” Before there is presence or absences, in other words, there is play. The opposition depends on this play as the condition of its possibility (freely adapted from Lucy’s A Derrida Dictionary). 2. Poem: A term used by Louise Rosenblatt that refers to the creation of a new interpretation each time a reader transacts with a text, be that interaction a first reading or any of the countless rereadings of that same text. The interpretation thus becomes the poem, the new creation. 3. The Nematollahi order is Iran’s largest Sufi order, with reportedly over two million members across the country. Its members have come under increasing state pressure . . . ;

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three of their houses of worship have been demolished. Dervishes say they’re being targeted because of what they describe as the growing popularity of Sufism and also because they’re considered a potential challenge to the power of Iran’s clerical establishment. Some conservative clerics have called the Sufis a danger to Islam. Ayatollah Hossein Nuri Hamedani, a high-ranking cleric in Qom, said in 2006 that, by not interfering in politics, Sufis weaken Islam. Hard-liners have also accused the dervishes of being used by foreign powers to create discord in Iranian society. In 2007, a letter was published by a group describing themselves as seminarians of Qom in which they warned against the “dangers” of Sufism and called on authorities to deal with it “more firmly.” They added that the “Hezbollah nation of Iran” is ready to cooperate and assist officials. According to Azmayesh, who is the representative of the Gonabadi dervishes outside Iran, the demonization campaign against the Sufis began with the publication of several books in 2005. He says the books argued that Sufis should be treated as second-class citizens because they don’t believe in the principle of velayat-e faqih (the Iranian regime’s principle that the supreme Shiite jurist should be the nation’s political leader) and they follow their own spiritual leaders. “[Sufis] shouldn’t be allowed to have government jobs. If they do have government jobs, then they should be identified and fired; this is what is written in the books,” Azmayesh says. “These books started being written and published [a few months] before Mahmud Ahmadinejad came to power. After he became president, the contents of these books were gradually implemented” (Esfandiari). 4. Sufism was there from the beginning of Islam and was in fact what the prophet himself practiced as the “reality” of Islam (Chittick 22). 5. The title Masnavi is simply the name of the form of poetry adopted for it, the mathnavi form. Each half-line, or hemistich, of a mathnavi poem follows the same metre, in common with other forms of classical Persian poetry. The metre of Rumi’s Masnavi is the ramal metre in apocopated form (- ̆ -/--̆ -/--̆-/), a highly popular metre. What distinguishes the mathnavi form from other Persian verse forms is the internal rhyme, which changes in successive couplets according to the pattern aa bb cc dd, etc. Thus, in contrast to the other verse forms, which require a restrictive monorhyme, the mathnavi form enables poets to compose long works consisting of thousands of verses. Rumi’s Masnavi amounts to about 26,000 verses altogether. According to tradition, it was the popularity of these works amongst Rumi’s disciples that prompted Hosamoddin, Rumi’s deputy, to ask him to compose his own mystical mathnavi for their benefit. The process of producing the Masnavi started probably around 1262, although tradition relates that Rumi had already composed the first eighteen couplets by the time Hosamoddin made his request; we are told that he responded by pulling a sheet of paper out of his turban with the first part of the prologue already written on it. References to their system of production can be found in the text of the Masnavi itself (e.g., Mojaddedi I: 2947). They seem to have worked on the Masnavi during the evenings in particular, and in one instance Rumi begs forgiveness for having kept Hosamoddin up for an entire night with it (Mojaddedi I: 1817). After Hosamoddin had written down Rumi’s recitations, they were read back to him to be checked and corrected. 6. “Divan” means the “collected works” of a poet. Rumi’s Divan has been published with a variety of titles: Divan-i Kabir, Divan-i Shams Tabrizi, Kulliyat Shams, Kulliyat Shams Tabrizi. The Divan is the inspiration of Rumi’s middle-aged years. It began with his meeting Shams, and is believed to continue long after Shams’s disappearance from Rumi’s life. The Divan is filled with ecstatic verses in which Rumi expresses his mystical love. It is characteristic of Persian Sufi poetry to be ambiguous as to whether the human beloved or the Divine Beloved (=God) is being addressed. The Divan is filled with poems expressing this stage in which Rumi sees Shams everywhere and in everything. Rumi’s “annihilation” of his separate self was so intense that, instead of following the tradition of including his own name in the last line of odes/ghazals, he often uses the name of Shams. The Divan consists of three different types of poems. It contains 44,282 lines (according to Foruzanfar’s edition (1957–1967), which is based on the oldest manuscripts available): 3,229 odes, or ghazals [ghazaliyât] (total lines = 34,662); 44 tarji-bands [tarjî`ât] (total lines = 1698); and 1,983 quatrains [rubâ`iyât] (total lines = 7932).

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7. Rum or Rûm, meaning “Romans” was historically used by Muslims to refer to the Eastern Roman Empire (Byzantine Empire, c. 330–1453) or to the Seljuk Sultanate of Rum in Medieval Turkey (1077–1307) that included Mesopotamia, Syria, Palestine, and most of Iran. 8. Shams Tabrizi (1185–1248) was an Iranian Sufi mystic born in the city of Tabriz. He is responsible for initiating Rumi into Sufism, and the person for whom Rumi composed the poetry collection the Divan-e-Shams-e-Tabrizi (The Collection of Shams of Tabriz known as Rumi’s Divan). Shams lived in Koyna, Turkey for several years during which he and Rumi became devoted friends. After several years, Shams vanished quite suddenly. It is not known what became of him after his departure from Konya, and there are several locations that lay claim to his gravesite. 9. Practitioners of a personal devotional approach to God were called at different times and places in Islamic history the Sufi, zahed (ascetic), dervish (poor man), salek (sojourner on the spiritual path), aref (gnostic). The word “Sufi” has been explained variously as borrowing from Greek sophia (wisdom); a derivative of the word soffe, or stone outside the mosque at Medina, where certain ascetic-minded companions of the prophet used to sit (soffe is also the source of the English word “sofa”); or as a reference to the wearing of shirts or cloaks of wool (suf) by early Islamic ascetics. This latter explanation seems most likely the source of the word, as Sufism was early on associated with selfrenunciation (Lewis 21–22). 10. This sentence refers to Michel de Certeau’s concept of “mobile city” in which the individual movements of the citizens create the text of the city and interrupt the totality of the power structure. He argues that citizens compose the city as “a manifold story that has neither author nor spectator” (Certeau, “Walking” 93). 11. Deism is an unorthodox religious attitude that found expression in England during the first half of the seventeenth century. It generally refers to the acceptance of a certain body of religious knowledge that is inborn or that can be acquired by the use of reason, as opposed to knowledge acquired through revelation or the teaching of any church. The deists were advocates of tolerance during the religious wars of seventeenth-century Europe. They represent an attempt to rationally reconstruct religion to fit the emerging realities of nation-states, religious and confessional pluralism, and the empirical sciences. By the end of the eighteenth century, Deism had crossed the Atlantic to shape the religion of upper-class Americans. The first three presidents of the United States all subscribed to Deist beliefs (freely adapted from Merriam-Webster’s Encyclopedia of World Religions). 12. Elias Hicks was an early advocate of the abolition of slavery in the United States and a liberal Quaker preacher whose followers were one of the two factions created by the schism of 1827–1828 in American Quakerism. He is one of the first to preach progressive revelation, which allowed for continuing revision and renewal of doctrinal belief; in 1817 he successfully opposed the adaptation of a set creed by the Society of Friends. He was subsequently called a heretic for his oppositions to Evangelism, which stressed established beliefs. After this separation Hicks’s followers called themselves the Liberal Branch of the Society of Friends, but orthodox Quakers labeled them Hicksites. The Hicksites became increasingly isolated until the eighteenth century, when mutual cooperation began to prevail (freely adapted from Merriam-Webster’s Encyclopedia of World Religions). 13. Eileen Luhr argues that political domination via religion was not confined within national borders. Considering non-white nations as backward and uncultivated, “the white missionary developed a right to meddle in the system of thought and life of the non-Christian nations. From South America to Budapest, from Africa to China, they show a desire for expanding the Western geographical territory through Christianization.” This desire, according to Luhr, is by itself a verification of colonialism. However, she argues that in calling into attention the common nature of man, “Quakerism denies the superiority of one belief over another, and thereby denounces colonialism” (Luhr).

THREE Cultural Dialogue

According to Martin Buber, genuine dialogue is an essential building block of communities. Dialogue is not merely script or exchange of words. It evolves through a process and particular quality of communication whereby parties achieve a connection. Conventionally, dialogue is understood as conversation between two or more people—for instance, when persons are sitting and speaking. Dialogue does not imply agreement between parties but refers to the mode of communication, and to the general aura of a conversation, which ideally is serene, allowing time for the parties to converse without interruption. The conversation between Socrates and Plato is a classic example in which the tone, and the time and place suggest dialogical regard and understanding such as that which Buber thinks makes for authentic dialogue. Present-day conversations include other forms of dialogue that, due to advanced technology, may not necessarily follow conventional methods, and modes. Steve Jobs is among the people who technology-wise broadened the meaning of dialogue. Cellphones, iPhones, iPods, iPads increasing our connections and conversations with the world allow them to happen faster and regardless of the locations of those who seek dialogue. Conversations are not dependent on two people occupying the same space anymore. But can we use the term “dialogue” as the equivalent of conversation? It seems that, even after the invention of modern communications technology, dialogue has a vaster meaning than simple conversation. A conversation with the ability to produce dialogue is referred to by Buber as an “I-thou relationship,” and requires having regard for the other. The opposite type of relationship is called the “I-it relationship” in which the parties relate to and experience each other as objects or means of achieving goals. This relationship contains only regard for oneself. Buber does not suggest that we are to avoid this type of relationship; he 27

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merely claims that genuine dialogue cannot occur at the level of I-it relationship. He explicates the concept of dialogue by further classifying it into three different categories: I know three kinds [of dialogue]. There is genuine dialogue—no matter whether spoken or silent—where each of the participants really has in mind the other or others in their present and particular being and turns to them with the intention of establishing a living mutual relation between himself and them. There is technical dialogue, which is prompted solely by the need of objective understanding. And there is monologue disguised as dialogue, in which two or more men, meeting in space, speak each with himself in strangely tortuous and circuitous ways and yet imagine they have escaped the torment of being thrown back on their own resources. The first kind [genuine dialogue] . . . has become rare; where it arises, in no matter how “unspiritual” a form, witness is borne on behalf of the continuance of the organic substance of the human spirit. The second [technical dialogue] belongs to the inalienable sterling quality of “modern existence.” But dialogue is here continually hidden in all kinds of odd concerns and, occasionally in an unseemly way, breaks surface surprisingly and inappropriately . . . as in the tone of a railway guard’s voice, in the glance of an old newspaper vendor, in the smile of the chimneysweeper. And the third [monologue disguised as dialogue] . . . a conversation characterized by the need neither to communicate something, nor to learn something, nor to influence someone, nor to come into connection with someone, but solely by the desire to have one’s own self-reliance confirmed . . . ; a friendly chat in which each regards himself as absolute and legitimate and the other as relativized and questionable. (Buber Man & Man 22)

Buber’s second category, technical dialogue, suggests that dialogue is a part of everyday life. While for Buber the authenticity of dialogue exists only at a psychological level (meaning that in order to understand the genuineness of dialogue, an outside observer should be able to study the parties’ hidden interests and personal intentions), it is evident that especially in his last category he complicates the meaning of dialogue. “Monologue disguised as dialogue” is a category for that which passes as dialogue but should not be considered as such. Understanding the difference between I-thou and I-it relationships can help one to see the differences between “genuine dialogue” and “monologue disguised as dialogue.” In a monologue disguised as dialogue, the connection between the persons involved in communication is at an I-it level, where the self of each conversant is at the center of his consideration, and the other is reduced to an object. Although in form and style a dialogue is going on, in terms of understanding and consideration communication is stagnant, and monologic. In his argument, Buber further shows that a “genuine dialogue” is not a product of being acquainted with others, but happens through consideration and respect in a moment of hospitality. The genuine dialogue reshapes the borders of identity by taking it back to a face-

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to-face encounter with the other, a moment that does not necessarily need words and can occur in silence. Exploring the poetry of Rumi and Whitman, I would like to focus on genuine dialogue as a relationship with the world that depends neither on conversational gestures nor on the time and place (history and geography) of the encounter of the poets with the world but on responsibility and hospitality demonstrated in written form. The possibility of dialogue in a divided human community first and foremost depends on individual understanding of alterity, which calls for moral and ethical responsibility. In Rumi and Whitman, this dialogue happens at a metaphorical level 1 and as their poetry embodies otherness through its concerns for people, their cultures, and their differences. In discussing the possibilities of cultural dialogues, one usually has this kind of encounter in mind, a face-toface encounter in which the face of the other is wrinkled, ambiguous, incomprehensible, and open to response. 2 Cultural dialogue may occur between cultures which are familiar with each other or between total strangers. It may also occur as ideas and objects (e.g., as art and literature, among other cultural objects and activities) move from one nation to another. Literary dialogue equally can find different forms. For instance, there is epistolary dialogue in which two or more authors from different nations exchange letters. An example is the American Catholic mystic Thomas Merton’s correspondence with the Pakistani scholar of Sufism, Abdul Aziz, from 1960 to 1968. Merton calls their correspondence “interesting and inspiring” (Merton in Baker et al. 124). According to Sydney Griffith the letters exchanged between the two authors were “rare in that they contained a correspondence between a notable Christian and a practicing Muslim in religious dialogue in modern times” (ibid. 103). The letters addressed theological issues and questions that both parties asked and their answers and discussion about them. Their dialogue involves not only letters but also an exchange of books and articles. Another form of literary dialogue happens when authors travel to other countries to meet and enter into conversation with other authors. For instance, traveling to Europe (1832–1833) Emerson visited the British writers Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Carlyle, and learned much about European Romanticism and Idealism from them. Carlyle in particular was a strong influence on Emerson; Emerson would later serve as an unofficial literary agent in the United States for Carlyle, and in March 1835 he tried to convince Carlyle to come to America to lecture. The two would maintain correspondence until Carlyle’s death in 1881. There is also a conceptual kind of literary dialogue in which an author passes the boundaries of time and space to form a dialogue based on thought and imagination without any actual contact with the target cultures. It is mostly at this level that Whitman, like many orientalists, conversed with the Eastern cultures.

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WHITMAN AND THE MIDDLE EAST Orientalism as an academic field, according to Said, did not exist in America. 3 However, it is generally true that Transcendentalists, like European orientalists, were eager to learn about other nations and cultures. This desire in itself is valuable and forms a type of dialogue that prevents separation and cultural isolation. Against Said’s perspective, Arthur Versluis argues, “There are many different kinds of American orientalism, as there were many kinds of Transcendentalists” (Versluis 5). He classifies American orientalism into three categories: “negative Transcendentalist orientalism,” “positive Transcendentalist orientalism,” and American “popular orientalism” (ibid. 139). The first generation of Transcendentalists, including Emerson, Thoreau, and Whitman, created a more positive version of American orientalism, while the second generation (Clarke, Alger, Johnson) endorsed a negative orientalism. However, the first generation’s references to oriental cultures and literatures were not as broad as those of the second generation, where each key figure wrote at least one book on the religion and culture of the East. Nonetheless, as visionaries and vegetarians living imaginative lives, the first generation was closer to Eastern cultural teachings, while the second belong to a European orientalism in which occasional labeling, esotericism, and generalizing about oriental cultures occurred. Between 1854 and 1880, the years during which most Transcendentalists created their oriental works, the image of white settlers as the liberators of the Native Americans was still dominant. Anything non-white or non-Christian was considered evil. Many periodicals of the time promoted these cultural views. Journalists established the idea of an American mission to modernize the world. Non-Christian religions and cultures were usually pictured as childlike and backward. The American public in general was mostly unfamiliar with and uninformed about the orient. The periodicals in which Transcendentalists published their works were mainly limited to areas such as New England. Periodicals published in the Midwest and Far West whose main intention was to create an Emersonian image of America as a pioneer self-reliant nation did not include works by the orientalists. Such an environment and rhetoric was understandably unsympathetic to the comparative religion and extensive cultural exchange that were among the Transcendentalists’ ambitions. (This American public view appeared in Far Western periodicals such as the Pioneer, and Midwestern magazines, the majority of which were evangelical Christian magazines: Cincinnati’s The Evangelist (1832–1840), edited by Walter Scott; The Gospel Advocate (1835–1836), published in Georgetown, Kentucky; The Oberlin Evangelist (1838–1840), published in Oberlin, Ohio. Likewise, there was the literary magazine The Rose of the Valley: A Flower of the West, That Blooms to Enrich the Mind, a Cincinnati journal edited by G. G. Moore in 1839.) There were many efforts on the part of

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Transcendentalists to spread their orientalist views, and it is true that with their continuous attempt to inform the public, and their critique of a negative orientalism, a gradual shift in the cultural understanding of the public occurred. Although Whitman didn’t create a major orientalist piece, looking in detail at some of his poems we realize the level of understanding with which he observes cultural identity and alterity. Whitman never left the States; however, the general image of the Middle Eastern cultures existing in his poetry indicates a desire to embrace alterity. His dialogue with the Middle East appears in different forms throughout Leaves of Grass. At a very basic level, Middle Eastern names, titles, and terms appear in his texts: Assyria (282), Persia (282), Egypt (335), Arabia (516), Byzantium (536), Turkey (1141), Tehran (294), Kabul (296), Damascus (295), Muscat (294), Medina (294), Mecca (295), Tiberias (295), Bab-el-Mandeb (295), the Sufi (650), muezzin (282), Ibn Battuta (536), Sultan (1292). In many of these citations there is a call inviting the reader to join the speaker in imaginary explorations of the globe accompanied by an agreeable attitude and hope for a unified community: “I see Egypt and the Egyptians / I see the pyramids and obelisks / You whoever you are . . . / Each of us limitless—each of us with his or her right upon the earth / Each of us allow’d the eternal purports of the earth” (Whitman 294–96). Other occasions suggest a desire to see the historical other “converged” into the self: “The appointed winners in a long strech’d game / The course of Time and nations— Egypt, India, Greece and Rome; / Garner’d for now and thee—To think of it! / The heirdom all converged to thee!” (Whitman 616). Whitman invites his countrymen to contribute to the freedom and democracy of a larger world through observation and acceptance of the far lands. The foreigners with their historical backgrounds meet the American people and reach the same spirit of freedom and democracy: Superb-faced Manhattan! Comrade Americanos—to us, then, at last, the Orient comes. To us, my city . . . The Originatress comes, The nest of languages, the bequeather of poems, the race of eld, Florid with blood, pensive, rapt with musings, hot with passion, Sultry with perfume, with ample and flowing garments, With sunburnt visage, with intense soul and glittering eyes, The race of Brahma comes . . . These . . . show forth to me, and are seiz’d by me, And I am seiz’d by them, and friendlily held by them, Till, as here, them all I chant, Libertad! for themselves and for you. (Whitman 384–86)

Seeking democracy and freedom, the East moves westward in this. poem. This westward journey is the reminiscence of the westward journey of the American settlers and Whitman’s own dream of democracy and liber-

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ty. As the speaker blends the “sunburnt visage,” the “intense soul,” and the “glittering eyes” with Manhattan and its “libertad” atmosphere, the poem indicates a desire to form a dialogue based on incorporation of the unknown lands and peoples. Leaves equally refers to and interprets foreign cultures. For instance, this poem, entitled “A Persian Lesson,” discusses several Sufi ideas. For his o’erarching and last lesson the greybeard Sufi, In the fresh scent of the morning in the open air . . . Spoke to the young priests and students. “Finally my children, to envelop each word, each part of the rest, Allah is all, all, all—immanent in every life and object, May-be at many and many-a-more removes—yet Allah, Allah, Allah is there.” “Has the estray wander’d far? Is the reason-why strangely hidden? Would you sound below the restless ocean of the entire world? Would you know the dissatisfaction? the urge and spur of every life; The something never still’d—never entirely gone? the invisible need of every seed?” “It is the central urge in every atom, (Often unconscious, often evil, downfallen,) To return to its divine source and origin, however distant, Latent the same in subject and in object, without one exception.” (Whitman 650)

The poem represents the Sufi concept of wahdat al-wujud or the unity of being in God. It proposes the idea that God is manifest in every being, or as Whitman puts it “Allah [becomes] immanent in every life and object.” The greybeard Sufi speaking to his students offers a reminiscence of the Persian garden where the beauty of nature is reflected upon the soul and mind of the Sufi. 4 Whitman often expresses a desire to know beyond geographical boundaries. As the Middle Eastern lands, people, and ideas appear in his poetry, they bear witness to his familiarity, at least in concept, with the other and his desire for a dialogue with them. His language implies an ongoing hope for a unified community. Wai-chee Dimock suggests that the Transcendentalists were avid readers, commentators, and translators of other cultures, importing books from abroad and filling local libraries with them, making them their regular diet. Comparative philology and comparative religion were high on their reading lists (33). In The Orient in American Transcendentalism, Arthur Christy classifies various oriental schools and their influence on Transcendentalism. He names the “literature of Brahmans,” “the Confucian canon,” and “the poetry of the Sufis,” as the three most influential oriental philosophies in American Transcendentalism. According to Arthur Ford in “Near East Imagery in the Poetry of Walt Whitman,” Whitman’s interest in Persian poetry “begins in the

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early years of Leaves” when he owned and read “over and over again” a copy of W. R. Alger’s The Poetry of the East (1856). He carried it with him during part of the Civil War, reading it “sometimes to hospital groups, to while away the time” (Ford 12). Ford also believes that Whitman undoubtedly also read Ralph Waldo Emerson’s article, “Persian Poetry,” published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1858 in which Emerson introduces his readers to “the masters of the Persian Parnassus–Ferdousi, Nisami, Rumi, Saadi, Hafiz, Jami, and Khayyam” (Emerson and Thoreau 124). 5 “Persian lyric poetry,” according to Franklin Lewis, “was transported on the wings of German Romanticism directly to the New world” (546). Emerson encountered Persian literature initially in the German translations of Hammer-Purgstall and Goethe, and began introducing it, along with the literature and thought of India, to American intellectuals. In 1846 Emerson acquired a copy of Hammer-Purgstall’s translations of Hafez. He particularly liked Hafez, and also Sa’di (he wrote the preface for a translation of Sa’di published in 1865), but he also translated snippets from Anvari, Nezami, and other poets he had read. According to Lewis, “Emerson’s verse translations follow Hammer-Purgstall closely and therefore follow the Persian rather closely, as well” (570). Emerson’s translation in itself represents an act of genuine dialogue. The grey area of translation (in which according to Derrida one faces the “impossible”) involves an ethical response to alterity. 6 There are numerous allusions to Eastern traditions and ideas scattered throughout Transcendentalist poems, prose writings, and notebooks, and these indicate their general knowledge of the orient. Evidently they shared the fascination of their century for an Eastern mystical wisdom. It appears that Whitman possessed some knowledge, direct or indirect, of oriental philosophy and literature, but the extent of his indebtedness to those sources is difficult to assess. 7 It might be generally true that, in picturing the Middle East, Whitman sees “foreign lands” (Whitman 167), while the United States is always closely considered “home . . . pleas’d and joyous” (ibid. 267). However, his writings never create a West-East binary where one party is privileged. The two, rather, coexist. The States is his daily reality while other lands are the subjects of his scrutiny and desire for knowledge, none of which is complete and final. The variety of images in Whitman’s poetry represents an “orbit” (1036), “a sphere where every one goes in his turn” (291) and whose conclusion is its diversity. The real poems of the present . . . must launch humanity into new orbits, consonant with that vastness . . . like new systems of orbs, balanced upon themselves, revolving in limitless space, more subtle than the stars. (Whitman 1012)

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Changing binaries into orbits, the poem introduces play and substitution into the act of defining culture. As the relationship with the other drops its linear edges, it enters into a constant act of being and becoming. Some critics blame Whitman for this spirit, seeing it as a sign of American Unitarianism 8 and thus as an ideological imperialism from which they deduce that he is not a true democrat (see Wendy Kurant, Walter Grünzweig, Kyunghoon Jung). It is true that Transcendentalism was a fruit of Unitarianism and its plan for unity (Versluis 4). Transcendentalism was following a desire for universalism, and for the idea that in both Western and Eastern religions one was in contact with primordial “truth” that could in the face of growing rationalism create a renaissance. According to Said, to decontextualize oriental ideas and to Christianize or universalize them are forms of intellectual colonialism. American orientalism is usually considered the counterpart of a European form of orientalism. However, American orientalism does not follow the European model in believing in the superiority of the Western races over other races. Likewise, Transcendentalists’ attempt to introduce and embrace dialogical possibilities for encounter might allow us to question the extent to which they practiced intellectual colonialism. Moreover, the wish to connect through complex and diverse cultural traditions under universalism ignores differences in favor of similarities and suggests a simple approach to humanity that is disappearing from our world. Throughout Leaves of Grass one can see this connecting spirit. Whitman mixes a simple emphasis on Unitarian Christianity with a Transcendentalist desire for a universal humanity, a spirit holding the possibility of genuine dialogue. An amalgam of simple generalizations reading oriental religions through a Christian lens is evident in the works of many Transcendentalists. However, despite the fact that their attempts to understand the oriental worldview were limited to reading and interpreting oriental texts and artifacts it is evident at least that they tried to understand various world traditions. Equally, Whitman’s attitude is mostly far from creating simple orientalist binaries. 9 It is generally believed that Whitman’s poetry stands for the equality of human beings in their right to freedom of expression. However, what makes Whitman universally emblematic is not his plea for freedom but his humility in accepting his ignorance about every other human being. While a direct urge for understanding non-American cultures is absent in Whitman, the simplicity of his language in speaking about foreign traditions and his unsophisticated encounter with them could be understood as a step toward dialogue based on humility. It is true that the number of international scholars compared to Rumi and Whitman’s times has immensely increased, but it is obvious that there is less room for the acceptance of ignorance, especially at political levels where power is certain of its own finality.

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RUMI AND THE BIRD In Rumi, as in Whitman, we see the transgressing of cultural borders in favor of forming a genuine dialogue. Shams-e Parandeh (Shams the Bird, the flying, the wandering, or the nomadic Shams) is a nickname used in the Divan to refer to Rumi’s teacher, Shams. Through the bird metaphor Rumi creates an image of the other beyond cultural boundaries and demonstrates how he enters into dialogue: “You [Shams] are the bird” (Rumi, Divan vs. 37). “How can [your] soul . . . not fly?” (ibid. 791). 10 Flying and various kinds of birds generally are used by the Sufis in allegories about different stages of life, love, or states of mind. 11 However, critics explain the nickname Shams the Bird in a more biographical manner. They believe that Sham’s nickname was used to refer to his gypsy lifestyle as a wandering dervish who would go from land to land and, as soon as he was recognized and people gathered around him, pack up and leave (Aflaki, O’Kane, Can, Gulen, Saritoprak. See Lewis 182). By Shams-e Parandeh, they seem to understand that Shams traveled extensively or traveled by telekinesis (Tay al-Arz). One understands by “bird” that Shams was considered both a gnostic—tayyar or bird—as opposed to an ascetic—sayyar or traveler—a terminological distinction for the different kinds of wayfarers on the Sufi path (ibid.). The Gnostic constant toward the King’s throne arcs The ascete travels each month one day’s road Love has a thousand feathers and each one Soars over the throne beyond the Pleiades The fearful ascete charges on his feet Lovers fly lighter than lightening and air. (Rumi Masnavi V ch. 87) ‫ﺳﯿﺮ ﻋﺎﺭﻑ ﻫﺮ ﺩﻣﯽ ﺗﺎ ﺗﺨﺖ ﺷﺎﻩ‬ ‫ ﺳﯿﺮ ﺯﺍﻫﺪ ﻫﺮ ﻣﻬﯽ ﯾﮏ ﺭﻭﺯﻩ ﺭﺍﻩ‬. . . ‫ﻋﺸﻖ ﺭﺍ ﭘﺎﻧﺼﺪ ﭘﺮﺳﺖ ﻭ ﻫﺮ ﭘﺮﯼ‬ ‫ﺍﺯ ﻓﺮﺍﺯ ﻋﺮﺵ ﺗﺎ ﺗﺤﺖﺍﻟﺜﺮﯼ‬ ‫ﺯﺍﻫﺪ ﺑﺎ ﺗﺮﺱ ﻣﯽﺗﺎﺯﺩ ﺑﻪ ﭘﺎ‬ ‫ﻋﺎﺷﻘﺎﻥ ﭘﺮﺍﻥﺗﺮ ﺍﺯ ﺑﺮﻕ ﻭ ﻫﻮﺍ‬ (‫ ﺩﻓﺘﺮ ﭘﻨﺠﻢ‬،‫)ﻣﺜﻨﻮﯼ ﻣﻌﻨﻮﯼ‬

Flying on the wings of knowledge and mystical love, Shams can be associated with a desire for human connections beyond borders. The same desire for passing geographical borders and connecting exist in Rumi. Mystical love for Rumi becomes a connecting medium. The soul of the Sufi transformed through love melts and becomes one with the universe. It incorporates being: “A heart filled with love is like a phoenix that no cage can imprison / Such a bird can only fly above and beyond any known universe” (Rumi, Divan vs. 609).

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In addition to mystical love, the creation of connection and hope for dialogue finds examples when ordinary people discover common grounds for tolerance and respect via differences. A large number of poems in the Divan and the Masnavi are in the form of dialogue. The dialogue is usually between different characters in the narrative the Masnavi and between the speaker and her/his beloved in the lyrical Divan. Dialogues usually include two persons arguing or speaking about a material or spiritual matter. This method, which makes Rumi’s poetry similar to a play in which the meaning or the narrative is formed through the clash of thoughts of characters, creates an environment for the multiplicity of voices and thoughts. One example is the poem “Four Words for What We Want” from the Masnavi: A man gives one coin to be spent among four people. The Persian says, “I want Angur.” The Arab says, “Enab, you rascal.” The Turk, “Uzum!” The Greek, “Put a stop to all this nonsense. We’ll have Estafil.” They begin pushing each other, then hitting with fists, no stopping it. If a many-languaged master [Solomon] had been there, he could have made peace and told them, I can give each of you the grapes you want with this one coin. Trust me. Keep quiet, and you four enemies will agree. I also know a silent inner meaning that makes of your four words one wine. (Rumi, Masnavi II ch. 112) 12 ‫ﭼﺎﺭ ﮐﺲ ﺭﺍ ﺩﺍﺩ ﻣﺮﺩﯼ ﯾﮏ ﺩﺭﻡ‬ ‫ﺁﻥ ﯾﮑﯽ ﮔﻔﺖ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺑﺎﻧﮕﻮﺭﯼ ﺩﻫﻢ‬ ‫ﺁﻥ ﯾﮑﯽ ﺩﯾﮕﺮ ﻋﺮﺏ ﺑﺪ ﮔﻔﺖ ﻻ‬ ‫ﻣﻦ ﻋﻨﺐ ﺧﻮﺍﻫﻢ ﻧﻪ ﺍﻧﮕﻮﺭ ﺍﯼ ﺩﻏﺎ‬ ‫ﺁﻥ ﯾﮑﯽ ﺗﺮﮐﯽ ﺑﺪ ﻭ ﮔﻔﺖ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺑﻨﻢ‬ ‫ﻣﻦ ﻧﻤﯽﺧﻮﺍﻫﻢ ﻋﻨﺐ ﺧﻮﺍﻫﻢ ﺍﺯﻡ‬ ‫ﺁﻥ ﯾﮑﯽ ﺭﻭﻣﯽ ﺑﮕﻔﺖ ﺍﯾﻦ ﻗﯿﻞ ﺭﺍ‬ ‫ﺗﺮﮎ ﮐﻦ ﺧﻮﺍﻫﯿﻢ ﺍﺳﺘﺎﻓﯿﻞ ﺭﺍ‬ ‫ﺩﺭ ﺗﻨﺎﺯﻉ ﺁﻥ ﻧﻔﺮ ﺟﻨﮕﯽ ﺷﺪﻧﺪ‬ ‫ ﮐﻪ ﺯ ﺳﺮ ﻧﺎﻣﻬﺎ ﻏﺎﻓﻞ ﺑﺪﻧﺪ‬. . . ‫ﺻﺎﺣﺐ ﺳﺮﯼ ﻋﺰﯾﺰﯼ ﺻﺪ ﺯﺑﺎﻥ‬ ‫ﮔﺮ ﺑﺪﯼ ﺁﻧﺠﺎ ﺑﺪﺍﺩﯼ ﺻﻠﺤﺸﺎﻥ‬ ‫ﭘﺲ ﺑﮕﻔﺘﯽ ﺍﻭ ﮐﻪ ﻣﻦ ﺯﯾﻦ ﯾﮏ ﺩﺭﻡ‬ ‫ ﺁﺭﺯﻭﯼ ﺟﻤﻠﻪﺗﺎﻥ ﺭﺍ ﻣﯽﺩﻫﻢ‬. . . ‫ﭘﺲ ﺷﻤﺎ ﺧﺎﻣﻮﺵ ﺑﺎﺷﯿﺪ ﺍﻧﺼﺘﻮﺍ‬ ‫ﺗﺎ ﺯﺑﺎﻧﺘﺎﻥ ﻣﻦ ﺷﻮﻡ ﺩﺭ ﮔﻔﺖ ﻭ ﮔﻮ‬ (‫ ﺩﻓﺘﺮ ﺩﻭﻡ‬،‫)ﻣﺜﻨﻮﯼ ﻣﻌﻨﻮﯼ‬

While the tale shows the multidimensionality of “reality,” it also makes the case for coherence and unity despite cultural differences. “Wine” here

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stands for the communal juice of unity squeezed out of cultural wisdom and understanding. The story at length (64 lines) pictures a democratic environment in which everyone is free to express their ideas and admit their ignorance. The speakers of different languages are treated equally, while the multilingual “master” is preferred knowledge-wise. “Solomon,” similar to his description in the Judeo-Islamic traditions, is pictured as a knowledgeable person (the Quran refers to him as one who possesses “the bounty of understanding and language” [27:16]). Rumi uses his name as a wise man and the knower of many languages including those of birds: “Solomon has told you: Listen to the language of birds / “The soul’s bird does not belong to the body’s trap” (Rumi, Divan vs. 2131). It is also tempting to view the fifth person or Solomon entering the story as Shams entering the life of Rumi. The “wine,” which is the point of similarity between different languages, represents humanly innate similarities beyond contextual differences. While the four men were in conflict because of misunderstanding, Solomon the spiritually knowledgeable man enters and enlightens them. As “pushing each other” and “hitting with fists” are the signs of apparent conflict between them, Solomon emphasizes seeing differences not as points of conflict but as limitations to human knowledge. The differences are not inherent, and contexts such as language pass them to us. It seems that Solomon teaches how to bring the split ego together to make a cohesive self which is not in conflict with the world. Furthermore, as a sign of his cohesiveness, Solomon does not have a specific language or nationality while everyone else in the poem has one (Persian, Arab, Turk, Greek). Swollen, plump, pregnant, or oversized are the terms usually used by Rumi to refer to a self in coherence and abundance. Spiritual expansion, which is a leitmotif in his poetry, according to Soroush, objectifies his own expansion of knowledge and of self after becoming a Sufi. What does the earth know what you sow in it? You made it pregnant with your mysteries— You make it writhe a while in pangs of birth What marvels writhe to birth through the world-womb: I am God, the call Glory to me. (Rumi Divan vs. 3048) 13 ‫ﺯﻣﯿﻦ ﭼﻪ ﺩﺍﻧﺪ ﮐﺎﻧﺪﺭ ﺩﻟﺶ ﭼﻪ ﮐﺎﺷﺘﻪﺍﯼ‬ ‫ﺯ ﺗﻮﺳﺖ ﺣﺎﻣﻠﻪ ﻭ ﺣﻤﻞ ﺍﻭ ﺗﻮ ﻣﯽﺩﺍﻧﯽ‬ ‫ﺯ ﺗﻮﺳﺖ ﺣﺎﻣﻠﻪ ﻫﺮ ﺫﺭﻩﺍﯼ ﺑﻪ ﺳﺮ ﺩﮔﺮ‬ ‫ﺑﻪ ﺩﺭﺩ ﺣﺎﻣﻠﻪ ﺭﺍ ﻣﺪﺗﯽ ﺑﭙﯿﭽﺎﻧﯽ‬ ‫ﭼﻪﻫﺎﺳﺖ ﺩﺭ ﺷﮑﻢ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺟﻬﺎﻥ ﭘﯿﭽﺎﭘﯿﭻ‬ ‫ﮐﺰ ﺍﻭ ﺑﺰﺍﯾﺪ ﺍﻧﺎﺍﻟﺤﻖ ﻭ ﺑﺎﻧﮓ ﺳﺒﺤﺎﻧﯽ‬ (‫ ﻏﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۳۰۴۸)

The swollen soul or pregnant self identifies the moment of inclusion of the other when the ego expands to the point of embracing the world and

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all differences, an expansion of senses, and psyche. As the border between self and other disappears, Shams becomes a double or a continuation of Rumi. I am you and you are me, you in me, me in you. . . . do not wander from your longing breast . . . I flow from you as your leaning shadow; you cannot My Beloved, plunge your dagger into this shadow of yours. Cherish this dancing darkness like a tree nurses its own. Letting it sway from the founding path of its trunk. Bring all the shadows into the sun of your eye so they Will merge in the light of your cheek (Rumi, Divan vs. 1254) 14 ‫ﻣﻦ ﺗﻮﺍﻡ ﺗﻮ ﻣﻨﯽ ﺍﯼ ﺩﻭﺳﺖ ﻣﺮﻭ ﺍﺯ ﺑﺮ ﺧﻮﯾﺶ‬ ‫ ﺧﻮﯾﺶ ﺭﺍ ﻏﯿﺮ ﻣﯿﻨﮕﺎﺭ ﻭ ﻣﺮﺍﻥ ﺍﺯ ﺩﺭ ﺧﻮﯾﺶ‬. . . ‫ﺁﻥ ﮐﻪ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺳﺎﯾﻪ ﺯ ﺷﺨﺺ ﺗﻮ ﺟﺪﺍ ﻧﯿﺴﺖ ﻣﻨﻢ‬ ‫ﻣﮑﺶ ﺍﯼ ﺩﻭﺳﺖ ﺗﻮ ﺑﺮ ﺳﺎﯾﻪ ﺧﻮﺩ ﺧﻨﺠﺮ ﺧﻮﯾﺶ‬ ‫ﺍﯼ ﺩﺭﺧﺘﯽ ﮐﻪ ﺑﻪ ﻫﺮ ﺳﻮﺕ ﻫﺰﺍﺭﺍﻥ ﺳﺎﯾﻪﺳﺖ‬ ‫ﺳﺎﯾﻪﻫﺎ ﺭﺍ ﺑﻨﻮﺍﺯ ﻭ ﻣﺒﺮ ﺍﺯ ﮔﻮﻫﺮ ﺧﻮﯾﺶ‬ ‫ﺳﺎﯾﻪﻫﺎ ﺭﺍ ﻫﻤﻪ ﭘﻨﻬﺎﻥ ﮐﻦ ﻭ ﻓﺎﻧﯽ ﺩﺭ ﻧﻮﺭ‬ ‫ﺑﺮﮔﺸﺎ ﻃﻠﻌﺖ ﺧﻮﺭﺷﯿﺪ ﺭﺥ ﺍﻧﻮﺭ ﺧﻮﯾﺶ‬ (‫ ﻏﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۱۲۵۴)

The Sufi’s ego, carrying The “Beloved” within, the pregnant, swollen self, is neither absolute self nor absolute other but a state in-between, a self expanded to include different types of being. Rumi was familiar with different cultures. The Muslim thinkers of the Middle Ages were busy translating and adding their own ideas to Greek philosophies and Latin works. The Arabic-Latin translation movements happening at this time led to the translation of important scientific, medical, and philosophical texts from Greek and Latin. Muslim, Christian, Jewish, and secular philosophers writing in Arabic began to make important contributions to a tradition of philosophizing by debating and contesting logic, grammar, theology, and philosophy. This period is well known for its cultural blending, and for a constant dialogue between different schools of thought. It has been remarked that the “Golden Age” of Arabic philosophy began in this era (Adamson and Richard). The philosophical richness of Rumi’s era coupled with the intellectual openness and desire for knowledge were fruit of a genuine attempt for dialogue among cultures. What made that dialogue happen was the degree of selflessness and humility involved in the understanding of cultural otherness.

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BODY AND DIALOGUE, RUMI Self and other never become one absolute entity; they remain always different because they are two different beings in two different bodies. What defines me as me, and you as you, is first and foremost our existence in two distinguishable bodies. 15 Another area in which one can find dialogue in Rumi and Whitman relates to the concept of physical existence, the human body. Body, the original context of human identity in Rumi and Whitman, becomes more complex than our common understanding of it. From a cognitive-philosophy viewpoint, as a newborn baby starts to identify itself through learning different parts of its body (hand, lips, feet, eye, ear, etc.), body becomes the first separator of the self from the world, and the compilation of physical experience becomes the foundation of individual identity. Each body is called with a name. For example, my body walks into the room, and they say Elham enters the room; my body and my “I” are perceived as one. Rumi’s poetry, though it never states such concepts directly, pictures the body as a vehicle for spiritual identity. Rumi’s school in the present time is called Mawlawiyah and is known as the school of physically active meditation (the sama). The sama 16 is a symbol of the connection of the dancer’s soul to divinity. The present day sama, which is a system of meditative dance (an example of which is held every year on Rumi’s birthday at his tomb in Konya), follows a system of rules that teach the dancer how to make his body tame and ready for a spiritual experience. The spiritual experience may or may not occur in a systematic sama, but what Rumi’s poetry tells is that during the sama the body does not experience spirituality but becomes “the spirit.” In Rumi, soul has the same parts/organs as body: “eyes in the head” and “eyes of the soul” (Rumi Divan vs. 1390). “Let soul speak with the silent articulation of a face” (Divan). 17 This attachment of body and soul transforms the sama into a key to identity. The knowledge of self, extremely important in Islamic teachings, in sama is acquired through bodily knowledge. As the intoxicated spirit expresses its happiness via dance, an identity emerges via whirling. As body is not an inferior component to be tamed for the soul to flourish, the distinction is denied and considered imaginary: They try to say what you are, spiritual or sexual? They wonder about Solomon and all his wives. In the body of the world, they say, there is a soul and you are that But we have ways within each other that will never be said by anyone. (Rumi, Divan) 18

According to the systematic tradition of Rumi, the sama, Involves a very slow rotation, or twirling, in which every subtle body movement has mystic significance. For instance, the slow turning of the body represents the ability to perceive God from all angles and being

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Chapter 3 enlightened from each part of God, while the stamping of the feet represents the crushing of the carnal nature. In Shams’s view, sama was very important for Rumi because it gave him a concrete experience of mysticism, forcing him to advance beyond the world of ideas . . . Rumi quickly came to adore this form of music and dance. He and Shams would often twirl together [in public for hours] during their sessions of mystic communion. (Wines 103)

Rumi’s eldest son, Sultan Walad, is known as the one who organizes the first rules for the sama. He also organizes Rumi’s followers into a structured Sufi order, and leads it until his death. The sama is seen by this organization as a carefully calibrated spiritual discipline, a method of contemplation and mystical prayer, a way of focusing mind and body on the Divine. Rumi’s poetry, however, goes further than what this organized tradition suggests. 19 According to Schimmel, the sama formed the spiritual “axis” of Rumi’s poetry. Those who read Rumi’s poems in the original Persian can hear in their meter and rhyme echoes of the sama—its rhythms, its drumbeats. In some poems, Rumi speaks directly to the musicians; other times, he speaks of and even to their instruments. Rumi’s poetry is largely born out of the sound of music and the whirling dance (Schimmel, Rumi’s World 197). There is a story that Rumi was once passing by the goldsmiths’ bazar as the rhythmic sound of hammers striking anvils caused him to start dancing for hours. The goldsmith, Salah al-Din Zarkub, is said to have asked his employees not to stop working while Rumi was dancing (Mannani 24). Rumi created the following verses while dancing: By Saladin’s shop suddenly, I hear the music of gold being hammered, gold and God. As gold thins out, the presence becomes a sheer goldleaf light on this goldbeater’s face, in his eyes as he works. As the love-secret of Jacob becomes Joseph’s smile, as lovers leave what keeps them confined, as Job’s patience dissolves to nothing, you are the Friend coming toward this touching. You are the soul. Be that, and when you hear yourself in some hypocrisy, cut free. Quickly, cut. (Rumi, Divan vs. 2515) 20

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‫ﯾﮑﯽ ﮔﻨﺠﯽ ﭘﺪﯾﺪ ﺁﻣﺪ ﺩﺭ ﺁﻥ ﺩﮐﺎﻥ ﺯﺭﮐﻮﺑﯽ‬ ‫ﺯﻫﯽ ﺻﻮﺭﺕ ﺯﻫﯽ ﻣﻌﻨﯽ ﺯﻫﯽ ﺧﻮﺑﯽ ﺯﻫﯽ ﺧﻮﺑﯽ‬ ‫ﺯﻫﯽ ﺑﺎﺯﺍﺭ ﺯﺭﮐﻮﺑﺎﻥ ﺯﻫﯽ ﺍﺳﺮﺍﺭ ﯾﻌﻘﻮﺑﺎﻥ‬ ‫ﮐﻪ ﺟﺎﻥ ﯾﻮﺳﻒ ﺍﺯ ﻋﺸﻘﺶ ﺑﺮﺁﺭﺩ ﺷﻮﺭ ﯾﻌﻘﻮﺑﯽ‬ ‫ﺯ ﻋﺸﻖ ﺍﻭ ﺩﻭ ﺻﺪ ﻟﯿﻠﯽ ﭼﻮ ﻣﺠﻨﻮﻥ ﺑﻨﺪ ﻣﯽﺩﺭﺩ‬ ‫ﮐﺰ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺁﺗﺶ ﺯﺑﻮﻥ ﺁﯾﺪ ﺻﺒﻮﺭﯼﻫﺎﯼ ﺍﯾﻮﺑﯽ‬ ‫ﺷﺪﻩ ﺯﺭﮐﻮﺏ ﻭ ﺣﻖ ﻣﺎﻧﺪﻩ ﺗﻨﺶ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺯﺭﻭﺭﻕ ﻣﺎﻧﺪﻩ‬ ‫ﺟﻮﺍﻫﺮ ﺑﺮ ﻃﺒﻖ ﻣﺎﻧﺪﻩ ﭼﻮ ﺯﺭﮐﻮﺑﯽ ﮐﺮﻭﺑﯽ‬ ‫ﺑﯿﺎ ﺑﻨﻮﺍﺯ ﻋﺎﺷﻖ ﺭﺍ ﮐﻪ ﺗﻮ ﺟﺎﻧﯽ ﺣﻘﺎﯾﻖ ﺭﺍ‬ ‫ﺑﺰﻥ ﮔﺮﺩﻥ ﻣﻨﺎﻓﻖ ﺭﺍ ﺍﮔﺮ ﺍﺯ ﻭﯼ ﺑﯿﺎﺷﻮﺑﯽ‬ (‫ ﻏﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۲۵۱۵) 21

The metrical scheme of this poem is mafâiilon mafâiilon, which is among the metrical schemes known for creating speed in Persian poetry. While the metrical scheme of poets such as Hafez and Sa’di is slow and contemplative, Rumi’s Divan usually creates a sense of movement attributed to his practice of sama. Juxtaposing “gold,” “bazar,” and “secret,” the poem communicates the moment of discovering the gold (of spirit) through listening and dancing, the secret mixing of body and soul. The sama in Rumi is the product of an internal joy extending to body and beyond. Body which is normally a barrier between self and the world in the sama becomes the bridge between the two. As the sama connects the body to the world, Rumi experiences a type of vastness which can embody beyond itself, an identity pregnant with otherness. 22 There are some branches of the practice of the sama which are supposed heretical by the orthodox believers: for instance, when the sama is done through consumption of drugs. Some groups, identifying themselves as the Sufis, have sought mystical ecstasy through the agency of intoxication of various kinds, including intoxication with wine and hashish. “Behavior of this sort has generally elicited criticism from the Sufis and non-Sufi authorities alike, which have labeled practitioners of deviant, manipulative conduct as pseudo-Sufis at best” (Renard 78). Although I am not in favor of this type of intoxication, I do not see its methodological difference with the orthodox renderings of systematic sama (explained at 61–62). Both of them, I think, view the sama as a means to an end (one mental euphoria and the other internal purification), and none of them views it as an end in itself and a physical act that removes the boundaries between body and spirit. The term sama is derived from the words ‫( َﺳ ْﻤﻊ‬samʿ, ear) and ‫ﺍ ِْﺳﺘ َِﻤﺎﻉ‬ (etimaʿ, listening) meaning “audition” and a session of listening to music. According to Chittick, the Sufis “perform the sama to display what they are doing within their inmost consciousness. The singer in the sama is like the imam in the prayer: the participants follow him. If he sings slowly they dance slowly; and if he sings quickly, they dance quickly. This is a likeness of how they follow Him [God] who gives them commands inwardly” (Chittick, The Sufi Path 326). 23 The sama is a

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type of hospitality performed via listening. In other words, the dancing body is a metonymy for ear, and ear a symbol for alterity. The “true” sama only happens when the dancer listens to the other (musician, singer, Shams, Solomon, God) and enters into conversation and accordance with them, and finds his “thousand” selves: Stop this useless argument and disharmony; show your accord. Even if you feel torn to pieces, sew yourself new clothes. Your body and soul will surely feel the joy [they will enter the “true” sama] when they are in agreement. Learn this lesson from lute tambourine and trumpet, Learn the harmony of the musicians. If one is playing a wrong note even among twenty others will stray out of tune, don’t say what is the use of me alone being peaceful when everyone is fighting? You’re not one, you’re a thousand, just light your lantern. (Rumi, Divan vs. 1197) 24 At the time of sama, the Sufis hear another sound . . . You go ahead and listen to the (outer) form of sama, they have another ear. The sama of my ear is your name. (Rumi, Divan vs. 1057) 25 ‫ﺗﻮ ﻣﺨﺎﻟﻔﺖ ﻫﻤﯽﮐﺶ ﺗﻮ ﻣﻮﺍﻓﻘﺖ ﻫﻤﯽﮐﻦ‬ ‫ﭼﻮ ﻟﺒﺎﺱ ﺗﻮ ﺩﺭﺍﻧﻨﺪ ﺗﻮ ﻟﺒﺎﺱ ﻭﺻﻞ ﻣﯽﺩﻭﺯ‬ ‫ﺑﻪ ﻣﻮﺍﻓﻘﺖ ﺑﯿﺎﺑﺪ ﺗﻦ ﻭ ﺟﺎﻥ ﺳﻤﺎﻉ ﺟﺎﻧﯽ‬ ‫ﺯ ﺭﺑﺎﺏ ﻭ ﺩﻑ ﻭ ﺳﺮﻧﺎ ﻭ ﺯ ﻣﻄﺮﺑﺎﻥ ﺩﺭﺁﻣﻮﺯ‬ ‫ﺑﻪ ﻣﯿﺎﻥ ﺑﯿﺴﺖ ﻣﻄﺮﺏ ﭼﻮ ﯾﮑﯽ ﺯﻧﺪ ﻣﺨﺎﻟﻒ‬ ‫ﻫﻤﻪ ﮔﻢ ﮐﻨﻨﺪﻩ ﺭﻩ ﺭﺍ ﭼﻮ ﺳﺘﯿﺰﻩ ﺷﺪ ﻗﻼﻭﺯ‬ ‫ﺗﻮ ﻣﮕﻮ ﻫﻤﻪ ﺑﻪ ﺟﻨﮕﻨﺪ ﻭ ﺯ ﺻﻠﺢ ﻣﻦ ﭼﻪ ﺁﯾﺪ‬ ‫ﺗﻮ ﯾﮑﯽ ﻧﻪﺍﯼ ﻫﺰﺍﺭﯼ ﺗﻮ ﭼﺮﺍﻍ ﺧﻮﺩ ﺑﺮﺍﻓﺮﻭﺯ‬ (‫ ﻏﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۱۱۹۷) ‫ﺩﺍﺭﺩ ﺩﺭﻭﯾﺶ ﻧﻮﺵ ﺩﯾﮕﺮ‬ ‫ﻭ ﺍﻧﺪﺭ ﺳﺮ ﻭ ﭼﺸﻢ ﻫﻮﺵ ﺩﯾﮕﺮ‬ ‫ﺩﺭ ﻭﻗﺖ ﺳﻤﺎﻉ ﺻﻮﻓﯿﺎﻥ ﺭﺍ‬ ‫ﺍﺯ ﻋﺮﺵ ﺭﺳﺪ ﺧﺮﻭﺵ ﺩﯾﮕﺮ‬ ‫ﺗﻮ ﺻﻮﺭﺕ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺳﻤﺎﻉ ﺑﺸﻨﻮ‬ ‫ﮐﺎﯾﺸﺎﻥ ﺩﺍﺭﻧﺪ ﮔﻮﺵ ﺩﯾﮕﺮ‬ (‫ ﻏﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۱۰۵۷)

In The Politics of Friendship, Derrida writes, there is “no responsibility without response, without what speaking and hearing invisibly say to the ear, and which takes time. The co-implication of responsibility and respect can be felt at the heart of friendship . . . concern in what concerns the other” (252). And in Without Alibi, he remarks, “you know how to make the leap toward the im-possible, by exposing yourself, with the gracious gift of an almost unconditional hospitality, to the visit of a

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stranger come to salute you as a sign of gratitude. . . . The stranger speaks . . . with humble gratitude toward those who will have lent him an ear” (279). In Derrida, hearing works as a metaphor to undo a whole series of classic conceptual oppositions, including the privilege that has always been attached to inwardness, self-presence, and intelligible truth as opposed to the realm of mere external sensory perception. This privilege is subject to a certain dislocating pressure as soon as it comes into contact with a logic that suspends the decidable difference between inward and outward. Thus the ear no longer can serve as the ultimate guarantee of a meaning that always returns to source the moment of authentic, self-present truth. This uncertainty between the acts of hearing the other and hearing the other within self creates a space for hospitality. “One may derive the political import of the structure . . . in which the addressee signs with his/her ear, an organ for perceiving difference” (Derrida, The Ear of the Other 51). It can be said that the ear receiving the voice is that of the other and that this possibility of otherness allows communication to take place, making it a hospitable event. BODY AND DIALOGUE, WHITMAN One can find an analogous perception about the body in Whitman. The self of the speaker in Whitman is not an entity detached from the body. In Leaves of Grass, Whitman explores his selfhood and in doing so welcomes and embraces the body. In Whitman’s poetry the human body is a major theme. According to M. Jimmie Killingsworth, “Whitman’s use of body metaphors anticipates the work of twentieth-century cognitive philosophers in the recognition of body as the ground of human understanding to which all concepts ultimately relate . . . [It also is] the seat of the sympathetic emotions which bind person to person” (LeMaster and Kummings 285). Calling himself the “poet of body” and “of soul,” Whitman advocates a realization of the body as a source of psychological, social, and political wellbeing. In “I Sing the Body Electric,” for instance, bodily health is pictured as a metaphor for spiritual, social, and political prosperity, And if the body does not do fully as much as the Soul? And if the body were not the Soul, what is the Soul? . . . The man’s body is sacred, and the woman’s body is sacred; No matter who it is, it is sacred . . . This is not only one man—this is the father of those who shall be fathers in their turns . . . O my Body! . . . I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of the Soul, (and that they are the Soul;) I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my poems—and that they are poems . . .

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Chapter 3 Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears, Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eye-brows, and the waking or sleeping of the lids, Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws, and the jaw-hinges, Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition . . . All attitudes . . . all the belongings of my or your body, or of any one’s body, male or female . . . O I say, these are not the parts and poems of the Body only, but of the Soul, O I say now these are the Soul! (Whitman 250)

Different parts of the body become metonymies for human identity. The poem implicitly argues that neglecting one’s own body leads to the oppression of other bodies, so that democratic consciousness ultimately depends upon care for and respect of the physical existence of every individual. The body, furthermore, is the starting place of all knowledge, a theme taken up in “Song of Myself,” in which the poet treats the life of other people, as well as that of animals, trees, and even rocks as being tied to individual human beings. The speaker of the poem marvels that “I incorporate gneiss and coal and long-threaded moss and fruits and grains and esculent roots, / And am stucco’d with quadrupeds and birds all over” (Whitman 57). Whitman reveals material existence to be the starting place for identification and thus celebration of the body. Body has a tendency to the unification of individuals. It is via a physical identity that Whitman originally defines the self. Through the physical body Whitman also finds the other. Although the extension of individual organs to include others may not exist in Whitman, the acquaintance between bodies and the continuation of one body in the bodies of the future generations communicate the same desire for expansion and connection beyond time. Referring to the similar organs of bodies in every human being, Whitman seeks a form of unification that was performed through expanded self in Rumi. The individual self of Rumi expanded through the ear, and listening in Whitman expands via the eye and the ability to see: “There is something in looking . . . that pleases the soul well” (Whitman 120). The incorporation usually occurs through visual observation and achieving knowledge via looking: I see African and Asiatic towns . . . I see the Turk smoking opium in Aleppo . . . I see Egypt and the Egyptians, I see the pyramids and obelisks . . . I see at Memphis mummy-pits containing mummies embalm’d, swathed in linen cloth, lying there many centuries . . . I see all the menials of the earth, laboring, I see all the prisoners in the prisons, I see the defective human bodies of the earth,

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The blind, the deaf and dumb, idiots, hunchbacks, lunatics, The pirates, thieves, betrayers, murderers, slave-makers of the earth, The helpless infants, and the helpless old men and women . . . I go among them, I mix indiscriminately, And I salute all the inhabitants of the earth. (Whitman 294)

The self in Whitman is a social being, living and growing through its surroundings. In Rumi the self is a single entity that absorbs the others, while in Whitman the self is a collective entity. Whitman’s self thus shows the serenity of an individual in a populated world, while Rumi’s self shows the expansion of individuality via a populated world, both of which envisage a connection between the self and the other. The societies from which Whitman and Rumi proceed do not have sympathy for such portrayals of the body. One of the main criticisms of Whitman in his era had to do with his treatment of sexuality and physical love. The 1860 edition of Leaves 26 included the cluster “Children of Adam” which were the poems celebrating sexuality. When Whitman came to Boston to see his book through press, Emerson tried to persuade him to withdraw these poems, but he refused. Emerson later remained silent about Whitman’s literary achievements, and Whitman lost his job at the Interior Department in 1865 on the charge of writing “indecent poetry.” Before its publisher in Boston could distribute the book, it was found to be “immoral,” and because Whitman refused to remove the offensive parts the book was withdrawn. The Boston censors also found offensive many passages vital to the life of a number of Whitman’s works, including “Song of Myself” (LeMaster and Kummings 630). Similarly, in Rumi’s time, his sama happening for hours in public and often with Shams as his company was considered a heresy and an insolence by those of the orthodox believers. According to Leslie Wines, Rumi “would scandalize much of Konya with the sight of the formerly upright professor flamboyantly enjoying the controversial practice in public for hours.” There also were “reports that he sometimes enjoyed the sama with female relatives, a lapse which would compound his breach of etiquette and religious law in the view of many of his contemporaries” (103). Aflaki narrates how a group of people approached a qazi (judge) attempting to get him to condemn Rumi’s practice, while the qazi refuses (Aflaki 165–66, qtd. in Lewis 124). While sama was a practice that existed long before Rumi, according to Nevit Ergin, what made society reacts to his practice was his attachment to Shams through the sama. The Divan is considered to contain all the spontaneous utterances that Rumi made concerning “his interaction with Shams.” Some of the poems read like “open letters to Shams.” Some read like a “historical recounting of their time together,” while others “rail in anguish at the cruelty of his teasing and the petulance of his departure” (Ergin 12). The society’s response was mostly criticism and outrage. While Rumi remained a devout Mus-

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lim throughout his life, he exhorted everyone to descend into “heresy” and to experience for themselves the union with otherness. He said

Who came here with you?

I replied

O King, just the image I carry of you.

He asked

Who summoned you here?

I answered

The fragrance in your chalice

He demanded

State your purpose

Friendship

I responded

He asked

What is it that you want from me?

I said

Your universal grace

He countered

There is a place more pleasant. Name it!

I replied

The Royal Palace

And what

He queried

I said And why I said

and fidelity

did you see there?

A million blessings He asked

is it now desolate?

For fear of robbers.

And who

He asked

I said

The robber is reproach

He said

And where can one take refuge?

In continence

I replied

He asked

And what is continence

I said He asked

is a robber?

and piety

The way to safety and salvation And which way lies calamity? In that pathway of my love to you And how will you manage there? By being steadfast . . .

Silence!

For if I tell you of his attributes you will lose yourself and find yourself homeless completely without prospect

(Rumi, Divan vs. 436) 27 ‫ﮔﻔﺘﺎ ﮐﻪ ﺑﻮﺩ ﻫﻤﺮﻩ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﺧﯿﺎﻟﺖ ﺍﯼ ﺷﻪ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺘﺎ ﮐﻪ ﺧﻮﺍﻧﺪﺕ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺟﺎ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﮐﻪ ﺑﻮﯼ ﺟﺎﻣﺖ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺘﺎ ﭼﻪ ﻋﺰﻡ ﺩﺍﺭﯼ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﻭﻓﺎ ﻭ ﯾﺎﺭﯼ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺘﺎ ﺯ ﻣﻦ ﭼﻪ ﺧﻮﺍﻫﯽ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﮐﻪ ﻟﻄﻒ ﻋﺎﻣﺖ‬

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‫ﮔﻔﺘﺎ ﮐﺠﺎﺳﺖ ﺧﻮﺷﺘﺮ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﮐﻪ ﻗﺼﺮ ﻗﯿﺼﺮ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺘﺎ ﭼﻪ ﺩﯾﺪﯼ ﺁﻥ ﺟﺎ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﮐﻪ ﺻﺪ ﮐﺮﺍﻣﺖ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺘﺎ ﭼﺮﺍﺳﺖ ﺧﺎﻟﯽ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﺯ ﺑﯿﻢ ﺭﻫﺰﻥ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺘﺎ ﮐﻪ ﮐﯿﺴﺖ ﺭﻫﺰﻥ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﮐﻪ ﺍﯾﻦ ﻣﻼﻣﺖ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺘﺎ ﮐﺠﺎﺳﺖ ﺍﯾﻤﻦ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﮐﻪ ﺯﻫﺪ ﻭ ﺗﻘﻮﺍ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺘﺎ ﮐﻪ ﺯﻫﺪ ﭼﻪ ﺑﻮﺩ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﺭﻩ ﺳﻼﻣﺖ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺘﺎ ﮐﺠﺎﺳﺖ ﺁﻓﺖ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﺑﻪ ﮐﻮﯼ ﻋﺸﻘﺖ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺘﺎ ﮐﻪ ﭼﻮﻧﯽ ﺁﻥ ﺟﺎ ﮔﻔﺘﻢ ﺩﺭ ﺍﺳﺘﻘﺎﻣﺖ‬ ‫ﺧﺎﻣﺶ ﮐﻪ ﮔﺮ ﺑﮕﻮﯾﻢ ﻣﻦ ﻧﮑﺘﻪﻫﺎﯼ ﺍﻭ ﺭﺍ‬ ‫ﺍﺯ ﺧﻮﯾﺸﺘﻦ ﺑﺮﺁﯾﯽ ﻧﯽ ﺩﺭ ﺑﻮﺩ ﻧﻪ ﺑﺎﻣﺖ‬ (‫ ﻏﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۴۳۶)

MIND AND DIALOGUE Another point that helps facilitate connection and dialogue in Rumi and Whitman is their approach to rationality and the fact that their worldviews do not fix concepts. T. S. Eliot catches the moment of fixation precisely, “The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase/ And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin / When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall / Then how should I begin . . . ?” (Eliot, “Prufrock” ll. 56–59). The feeling of being a live butterfly pinned on a wall: labels, which we attach to things, ideas, and people, limit the vibration of reality. Rumi and Whitman picture man beyond labels, and thereby introduce a form of reasoning which does not trust ready-made judgments. As ideas and people are not labeled, understanding can evolve and refresh itself. In the same manner that Derrida defines Deconstruction as a movement that cannot be controlled by any particular logic, Rumi and Whitman favor open-endedness and avoid defining specific personal schools. Derrida is careful to avoid defining a method, which carries connotations of judgment. A thinker with a method has already decided how to proceed and is unable to give her/himself up to the matter of thought in hand. For Derrida giving oneself up to the matter of thought in hand is responsibility itself (Beadsworth 4). 28 While offering their mindsets as an open-ended inquiry, Rumi and Whitman did not define Sufism and Transcendentalism, the schools under which we commonly classify them. Rumi usually asks his readers not to look for an approach, as whoever reads him attentively will understand him, as his image is reflected in his writings (mirror). I am a mirror, I am a mirror, I am not the man of words— You will know my state, when your ears becomes eyes. (Rumi Divan vs. 38) ‫ﺁﯾﻨﻪﺍﻡ ﺁﯾﻨﻪﺍﻡ ﻣﺮﺩ ﻣﻘﺎﻻﺕ ﻧﻪﺍﻡ‬ ‫ﺩﯾﺪﻩ ﺷﻮﺩ ﺣﺎﻝ ﻣﻦ ﺍﺭ ﭼﺸﻢ ﺷﻮﺩ ﮔﻮﺵ ﺷﻤﺎ‬ (‫ ﻏﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۳۸)

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“Mirror” implies an unlimited thinking faculty, which is borderless to the point of projecting the being. The metaphor moreover represents an element of play in simultaneously being self and other. The glass substance of the mirror stands for one’s self and the reflecting function for the other, while the mirror is a combination of both. As soon as the mirror does not reflect the image (of the other), it is not considered a mirror anymore and will turn to a piece of glass. The identity of mirror (i.e., the self of the Sufi) depends on its ability to reflect the image of the other (or the wholly other). Thus, identity and alterity merge. “Ear” here refers to the desire to label facts and events, and “eye” to an unconditioned understanding of reality free from labels. 29 A “man of words” is someone who cannot see with an “eye” and seeks labels to clarify everything. The distinction between the eye and the ear is a distinction between understanding the world through systematic thinking (mind) and spontaneous thinking (heart). Reason, Self-Annihilation and Intuition Ibn Arabi (1165–1240) who in the Sufi tradition is called al-Shaykh al-Akbar (the Greatest Master), a contemporary of Rumi, is a Sufi philosopher whose teachings represent the “mind” of Sufism [Rumi is called the “heart”], as no one else in the tradition has been able to unpack the multi-layered significance of the sources of Islam with his detail and profundity. Ibn Arabi was born in Spain. In 1210 he visited Konya and taught quite heterodox views and several times came under suspicion of heresy. Shams learned much from him (Lewis 150), and Rumi’s theosophy was influenced by him. Some believe that the difficult aspects of Ibn Arabi’s writings are simplified in the poetical language of Rumi; therefore they read them together and see the common points. According to Soroush, Rumi directs what was brought by Ibn Arabi in its spiritual context more toward the line of a personal, intimate, loving relationship. What is called erfan e asheghaneh (romantic Sufism), the product of Rumi’s poetical language and his sama, is an evolution of Ibn Arabi’s erfan e aqlani (intellectual Sufism) the product of his scholarly language and theoretical discussions. According to Lewis, what distinguishes Rumi from Ibn Arabi is his “experiential” attitude toward Sufism, as compared to Ibn Arabi’s more theoretical approach (140). Rumi’s criticism of Sufism as a scholarly method appears in his writings. In the Masnavi, for instance, he writes, “[My] book is filled not with ink and words / it holds but a heart white as driven snow” (II). 30 A story that presents Rumi’s extended criticism of the scholarly attitude is “The Grammarian and the Boatman” from the Masnavi: Once a grammarian stepped into a boat And turned towards the oarsman just to gloat: “Have you learned any grammar?” He said, “No.”

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“Then half your life’s been wasted just to row!” Although this made the oarsman burn with pain From answering back he opted to refrain. Wind steered the boat towards a whirlpool there— The oarsman shouted to him, once aware, “Have you learned how to swim and keep afloat?” “I’ve never learned skilled captain of my boat.” “Grammarian, your whole life has been in vain: We’re sinking fast—what good now is your brain!” Not grammar but effacement’s needed here— If self-effaced dive in and have no fear! While corpses can float on a stormy sea, How can the living find security? When you have died to human qualities You’ll be borne by the sea of mysteries. He who called others “donkey” pays the price— He’s now left skidding like an ass on ice! Even if you’re the scholar of the age, Observe the passing of this world, deep sage! We’ve silenced the grammarian in narration To teach the grammar of annihilation, The law of law and grammar of grammar You’ll find through being less, of this be sure (Rumi, Masnavi I ch. 137) 31 ‫ﺁﻥ ﯾﮑﯽ ﻧﺤﻮﯼ ﺑﻪ ﮐﺸﺘﯽ ﺩﺭ ﻧﺸﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﺭﻭ ﺑﻪ ﮐﺸﺘﯿﺒﺎﻥ ﻧﻬﺎﺩ ﺁﻥ ﺧﻮﺩﭘﺮﺳﺖ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﻫﯿﭻ ﺍﺯ ﻧﺤﻮ ﺧﻮﺍﻧﺪﯼ ﮔﻔﺖ ﻻ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﻧﯿﻢ ﻋﻤﺮ ﺗﻮ ﺷﺪ ﺩﺭ ﻓﻨﺎ‬ ‫ﺩﻝﺷﮑﺴﺘﻪ ﮔﺸﺖ ﮐﺸﺘﯿﺒﺎﻥ ﺯ ﺗﺎﺏ‬ ‫ﻟﯿﮏ ﺁﻥ ﺩﻡ ﮐﺮﺩ ﺧﺎﻣﺶ ﺍﺯ ﺟﻮﺍﺏ‬ ‫ﺑﺎﺩ ﮐﺸﺘﯽ ﺭﺍ ﺑﻪ ﮔﺮﺩﺍﺑﯽ ﻓﮑﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﮐﺸﺘﯿﺒﺎﻥ ﺑﺪﺍﻥ ﻧﺤﻮﯼ ﺑﻠﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﻫﯿﭻ ﺩﺍﻧﯽ ﺁﺷﻨﺎ ﮐﺮﺩﻥ ﺑﮕﻮ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﻧﯽ ﺍﯼ ﺧﻮﺵﺟﻮﺍﺏ ﺧﻮﺏﺭﻭ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﮐﻞ ﻋﻤﺮﺕ ﺍﯼ ﻧﺤﻮﯼ ﻓﻨﺎﺳﺖ‬ ‫ﺯﺍﻧﮏ ﮐﺸﺘﯽ ﻏﺮﻕ ﺍﯾﻦ ﮔﺮﺩﺍﺑﻬﺎﺳﺖ‬ ‫ﻣﺤﻮ ﻣﯽﺑﺎﯾﺪ ﻧﻪ ﻧﺤﻮ ﺍﯾﻨﺠﺎ ﺑﺪﺍﻥ‬ ‫ﮔﺮ ﺗﻮ ﻣﺤﻮﯼ ﺑﯽﺧﻄﺮ ﺩﺭ ﺁﺏ ﺭﺍﻥ‬ ‫ﺁﺏ ﺩﺭﯾﺎ ﻣﺮﺩﻩ ﺭﺍ ﺑﺮ ﺳﺮ ﻧﻬﺪ‬ ‫ﻭﺭ ﺑﻮﺩ ﺯﻧﺪﻩ ﺯ ﺩﺭﯾﺎ ﮐﯽ ﺭﻫﺪ‬ ‫ﭼﻮﻥ ﺑﻤﺮﺩﯼ ﺗﻮ ﺯ ﺍﻭﺻﺎﻑ ﺑﺸﺮ‬ ‫ﺑﺤﺮ ﺍﺳﺮﺍﺭﺕ ﻧﻬﺪ ﺑﺮ ﻓﺮﻕ ﺳﺮ‬ ‫ﺍﯼ ﮐﻪ ﺧﻠﻘﺎﻥ ﺭﺍ ﺗﻮ ﺧﺮ ﻣﯽﺧﻮﺍﻧﺪﻩﺍﯼ‬ ‫ﺍﯾﻦ ﺯﻣﺎﻥ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺧﺮ ﺑﺮﯾﻦ ﯾﺦ ﻣﺎﻧﺪﻩﺍﯼ‬ ‫ﮔﺮ ﺗﻮ ﻋﻼﻣﻪ ﺯﻣﺎﻧﯽ ﺩﺭ ﺟﻬﺎﻥ‬ ‫ﻧﮏ ﻓﻨﺎﯼ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺟﻬﺎﻥ ﺑﯿﻦ ﻭﯾﻦ ﺯﻣﺎﻥ‬ ‫ﻣﺮﺩ ﻧﺤﻮﯼ ﺭﺍ ﺍﺯ ﺁﻥ ﺩﺭ ﺩﻭﺧﺘﯿﻢ‬ ‫ﺗﺎ ﺷﻤﺎ ﺭﺍ ﻧﺤﻮ ﻣﺤﻮ ﺁﻣﻮﺧﺘﯿﻢ‬

50

Chapter 3 ‫ﻓﻘﻪ ﻓﻘﻪ ﻭ ﻧﺤﻮ ﻧﺤﻮ ﻭ ﺻﺮﻑ ﺻﺮﻑ‬ ‫ﺩﺭ ﮐﻢ ﺁﻣﺪ ﯾﺎﺑﯽ ﺍﯼ ﯾﺎﺭ ﺷﮕﺮﻑ‬ (‫ ﺩﻓﺘﺮ ﺍﻭﻝ‬،‫)ﻣﺜﻨﻮﯼ ﻣﻌﻨﻮﯼ‬

The poem refers to the Sufi concept of wahdat al-wujud (the unity of being), a term which, though it is not used by Ibn Arabi, is philosophically associated with his legacy. Wahdat al-wujud, interpreted as ham e ust (everything is he), postulates that God and his creation are one, since all that is created preexisted in God’s knowledge and will return to it, making mystical union with God possible. 32 The boatman in the story would represent a Sufi, while the grammarian is a follower of the scholarly rules. As the boat is sinking, the boatman tells him that right now swimming is more important than grammar. The sea is a metaphor for existence (in Sufism the existence of the other, of God) while swimming represents the act of surrounding oneself to the tides of life (to the other, to God) without losing one’s individuality as a swimmer (in self-effacement or fanaa). 33 Grammar is an external structure that imposes a form of thinking away from the reality of non-structured self and regardless of the necessity of individual expansion and unification with existence. The ability to become one with the water requires a trust in self and in other rather than external tools like religious jurisprudence (fiqh). The “nahv-e nahv” and the “fiqh-e fiqh” (“The law of law and grammar of grammar”), in this sense, stand for a type of thinking and knowledge that is unconditional and beyond known and labeled borders. 34 The second example of Rumi’s mistrust of conditional reasoning is the story of “Chinese Art and Greek Art”: The Prophet said, “There are some who see Me by the same Light in which I am seeing them. Our natures are ONE. Without reference to any strands of lineage, without reference to texts or traditions, we drink the Life-Water together.” Here’s a story about that hidden mystery: The Chinese and the Greeks were arguing as to who were the better artists. The king said, “We’ll settle this matter with a debate.” The Chinese began talking, but the Greeks wouldn’t say anything. They left. The Chinese suggested then that they each be given a room to work on with their artistry, two rooms facing each other and divided by a curtain. The Chinese asked the king for a hundred colors, all the variations,

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and each morning they came to where the dyes were kept and took them all. The Greeks took no colors. “They’re not part of our work.” They went to their room and began cleaning and polishing the walls. All day every day they made those walls as pure and clear as an open sky. There is a way that leads from all-colors to colorlessness. Know that the magnificent variety of the clouds and the weather comes from the total simplicity of the sun and the moon. The Chinese finished, and they were so happy. They beat the drums in the joy of completion. The king entered their room, astonished by the gorgeous color and detail. The Greeks then pulled the curtain dividing the rooms. The Chinese figures and images shimmeringly reflected on the clear Greek walls. They lived there, even more beautifully, and always changing in the light. The Greek art is the Sufi way. They don’t study books of philosophical thought. They make their loving clearer and clearer. No wantings, no anger. In that purity they receive and reflect the images of every moment, from here, from the stars, from the void. They take them in as though they were seeing with the Lighted Clarity that sees them. (Rumi, Masnavi I ch. 157) 35 ‫ﭼﯿﻨﯿﺎﻥ ﮔﻔﺘﻨﺪ ﻣﺎ ﻧﻘﺎﺵﺗﺮ‬ ‫ﺭﻭﻣﯿﺎﻥ ﮔﻔﺘﻨﺪ ﻣﺎ ﺭﺍ ﮐﺮ ﻭ ﻓﺮ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﺳﻠﻄﺎﻥ ﺍﻣﺘﺤﺎﻥ ﺧﻮﺍﻫﻢ ﺩﺭﯾﻦ‬ ‫ﮐﺰ ﺷﻤﺎﻫﺎ ﮐﯿﺴﺖ ﺩﺭ ﺩﻋﻮﯼ ﮔﺰﯾﻦ‬ ‫ﺍﻫﻞ ﭼﯿﻦ ﻭ ﺭﻭﻡ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺣﺎﺿﺮ ﺷﺪﻧﺪ‬ ‫ﺭﻭﻣﯿﺎﻥ ﺩﺭ ﻋﻠﻢ ﻭﺍﻗﻒﺗﺮ ﺑﺪﻧﺪ‬ ‫ﭼﯿﻨﯿﺎﻥ ﮔﻔﺘﻨﺪ ﯾﮏ ﺧﺎﻧﻪ ﺑﻪ ﻣﺎ‬ ‫ﺧﺎﺹ ﺑﺴﭙﺎﺭﯾﺪ ﻭ ﯾﮏ ﺁﻥ ﺷﻤﺎ‬ ‫ﺑﻮﺩ ﺩﻭ ﺧﺎﻧﻪ ﻣﻘﺎﺑﻞ ﺩﺭ ﺑﺪﺭ‬ ‫ﺯﺍﻥ ﯾﮑﯽ ﭼﯿﻨﯽ ﺳﺘﺪ ﺭﻭﻣﯽ ﺩﮔﺮ‬ ‫ﭼﯿﻨﯿﺎﻥ ﺻﺪ ﺭﻧﮓ ﺍﺯ ﺷﻪ ﺧﻮﺍﺳﺘﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﭘﺲ ﺧﺰﯾﻨﻪ ﺑﺎﺯ ﮐﺮﺩ ﺁﻥ ﺍﺭﺟﻤﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﻫﺮ ﺻﺒﺎﺣﯽ ﺍﺯ ﺧﺰﯾﻨﻪ ﺭﻧﮕﻬﺎ‬ ‫ﭼﯿﻨﯿﺎﻥ ﺭﺍ ﺭﺍﺗﺒﻪ ﺑﻮﺩ ﺍﺯ ﻋﻄﺎ‬ ‫ﺭﻭﻣﯿﺎﻥ ﮔﻔﺘﻨﺪ ﻧﻪ ﻧﻘﺶ ﻭ ﻧﻪ ﺭﻧﮓ‬

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Chapter 3 ‫ﺩﺭ ﺧﻮﺭ ﺁﯾﺪ ﮐﺎﺭ ﺭﺍ ﺟﺰ ﺩﻓﻊ ﺯﻧﮓ‬ ‫ﺩﺭ ﻓﺮﻭ ﺑﺴﺘﻨﺪ ﻭ ﺻﯿﻘﻞ ﻣﯽﺯﺩﻧﺪ‬ ‫ﻫﻤﭽﻮ ﮔﺮﺩﻭﻥ ﺳﺎﺩﻩ ﻭ ﺻﺎﻓﯽ ﺷﺪﻧﺪ‬ ‫ﺍﺯ ﺩﻭ ﺻﺪ ﺭﻧﮕﯽ ﺑﻪ ﺑﯽﺭﻧﮕﯽ ﺭﻫﯿﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﺭﻧﮓ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺍﺑﺮﺳﺖ ﻭ ﺑﯽﺭﻧﮕﯽ ﻣﻬﯿﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﻫﺮﭼﻪ ﺍﻧﺪﺭ ﺍﺑﺮ ﺿﻮ ﺑﯿﻨﯽ ﻭ ﺗﺎﺏ‬ ‫ﺁﻥ ﺯ ﺍﺧﺘﺮ ﺩﺍﻥ ﻭ ﻣﺎﻩ ﻭ ﺁﻓﺘﺎﺏ‬ ‫ﭼﯿﻨﯿﺎﻥ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺍﺯ ﻋﻤﻞ ﻓﺎﺭﻍ ﺷﺪﻧﺪ‬ ‫ﺍﺯ ﭘﯽ ﺷﺎﺩﯼ ﺩﻫﻠﻬﺎ ﻣﯽﺯﺩﻧﺪ‬ ‫ﺷﻪ ﺩﺭ ﺁﻣﺪ ﺩﯾﺪ ﺁﻧﺠﺎ ﻧﻘﺸﻬﺎ‬ ‫ﻣﯽﺭﺑﻮﺩ ﺁﻥ ﻋﻘﻞ ﺭﺍ ﻭ ﻓﻬﻢ ﺭﺍ‬ ‫ﺑﻌﺪ ﺍﺯ ﺁﻥ ﺁﻣﺪ ﺑﻪ ﺳﻮﯼ ﺭﻭﻣﯿﺎﻥ‬ ‫ﭘﺮﺩﻩ ﺭﺍ ﺑﺎﻻ ﮐﺸﯿﺪﻧﺪ ﺍﺯ ﻣﯿﺎﻥ‬ ‫ﻋﮑﺲ ﺁﻥ ﺗﺼﻮﯾﺮ ﻭ ﺁﻥ ﮐﺮﺩﺍﺭﻫﺎ‬ ‫ﺯﺩ ﺑﺮﯾﻦ ﺻﺎﻓﯽ ﺷﺪﻩ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﺭﻫﺎ‬ ‫ﻫﺮ ﭼﻪ ﺁﻧﺠﺎ ﺩﯾﺪ ﺍﯾﻨﺠﺎ ﺑﻪ ﻧﻤﻮﺩ‬ ‫ﺩﯾﺪﻩ ﺭﺍ ﺍﺯ ﺩﯾﺪﻩﺧﺎﻧﻪ ﻣﯽﺭﺑﻮﺩ‬ ‫ﺭﻭﻣﯿﺎﻥ ﺁﻥ ﺻﻮﻓﯿﺎﻧﻨﺪ ﺍﯼ ﭘﺪﺭ‬ ‫ﺑﯽ ﺯ ﺗﮑﺮﺍﺭ ﻭ ﮐﺘﺎﺏ ﻭ ﺑﯽ ﻫﻨﺮ‬ ‫ﻟﯿﮏ ﺻﯿﻘﻞ ﮐﺮﺩﻩﺍﻧﺪ ﺁﻥ ﺳﯿﻨﻪﻫﺎ‬ ‫ﭘﺎﮎ ﺍﺯ ﺁﺯ ﻭ ﺣﺮﺹ ﻭ ﺑﺨﻞ ﻭ ﮐﯿﻨﻪﻫﺎ‬ ‫ﺁﻥ ﺻﻔﺎﯼ ﺁﯾﻨﻪ ﻭﺻﻒ ﺩﻟﺴﺖ‬ ‫ ﺻﻮﺭﺕ ﺑﯽ ﻣﻨﺘﻬﺎ ﺭﺍ ﻗﺎﺑﻠﺴﺖ‬. . . ‫ﮐﺲ ﻧﯿﺎﺑﺪ ﺑﺮ ﺩﻝ ﺍﯾﺸﺎﻥ ﻇﻔﺮ‬ ‫ﺑﺮ ﺻﺪﻑ ﺁﯾﺪ ﺿﺮﺭ ﻧﻪ ﺑﺮ ﮔﻬﺮ‬ ‫ﮔﺮﭼﻪ ﻧﺤﻮ ﻭ ﻓﻘﻪ ﺭﺍ ﺑﮕﺬﺍﺷﺘﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﻟﯿﮏ ﻣﺤﻮ ﻓﻘﺮ ﺭﺍ ﺑﺮ ﺩﺍﺷﺘﻨﺪ‬ (‫ ﺩﻓﺘﺮ ﺍﻭﻝ‬،‫)ﻣﺜﻨﻮﯼ ﻣﻌﻨﻮﯼ‬

The Greek art as the reflection of the Chinese art whose reality depends on it, platonically speaking, is a shadow of reality and therefore second to it. However, as Rumi stresses, a thought created without preconception and structured frameworks and on a clear wall of openness toward the unknown lives more “beautifully” and is more “lively” than its original (Lines 41–43). The Chinese preparation, “a hundred colors, all the variations,” and their labor for creating the best of art and winning the competition, is similar to the striving of the grammarian to learn rules instead of self-effacement. The Greek artists in their artless creation are rather similar to the boatman and his mahv (disappearance) in the arrival of the other. Although we cannot say that Whitman was quite the same in targeting the rational tradition before him, looking at Transcendentalist writings (and comparing Whitman to figures such as Emerson), one can see that Whitman was less concerned about labeling his teachings under a specific school of thought. One can see the similarity of Emerson to Ibn Arabi, and of Whitman to Rumi, in their relationships with the dominant schools that they created. Generally speaking, Transcendentalism was considered a reaction against intellectual and religious dogmatism. The

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writers in this tradition were seeking to transform the meaning of religious experience to deinstitutionalize and individualize religion and revalue intuition. Borrowing and slightly modifying Kant’s transcendental philosophy, which assumes the dependency of external phenomena on human perceptions, Transcendentalists created their own less skeptical and more spiritual version of subjectivity. In The Critique of Pure Reason (1781), Kant replied to British empiricists with an analysis of the nature of knowledge and of the powers and limitations of the human mind. He showed that science and its methods are valid in describing the world as he sees it through his logical understanding but unable to tell him what the world is like when not viewed through that highly selective instrument. The world as it appears to our senses is not the real world, he suggests. Thus, freedom of will, the concept of morality, and the concept of God are possible. The moral law points us to a timeless, space-less universe, to an intelligible world of free beings. The moral consciousness of man, his sense of right and wrong, gives him an insight into a realm different from the world of matter. Thomas Carlyle drew heavily from Kantian ideas, and his good friend and admirer Emerson gained much from him. In Literary Transcendentalism, Lawrence Buell argues that “the concept of higher reason is the heart of what came to be called Transcendentalism” (Buell 5). The core concept of Transcendentalism, the concept of the Kantian or Carlylean higher reason as it can be opposed to mere understanding, was called by different names, including spirit, soul, inner light, and conscience; it represented for some God immanent in man, for others an impersonal cosmic force. The emergence of Emerson as the main voice of the Transcendentalism was swift and powerful. Emerson’s message is delivered most influentially in his lecture “The Transcendentalist” (1842) where he attempted to explain what the new development of idealist philosophy was: It is well known to most of my audience that the Idealism of the present day acquired the name Transcendental from the use of that term by Immanuel Kant, of Konigsberg, who replied to the skeptical philosophy of Locke, which insisted that there was nothing in the intellect which was not previously in the experience of the senses, by showing that there was a very important class of ideas or imperative forms, which did not come by experience, but through which experience was acquired; that these were intuitions of the mind itself; and he denominated them Transcendental forms . . . whatever belongs to the class of intuitive thought is popularly called at the present day Transcendental. (Emerson and Thoreau 375)

When in 1837 Emerson delivered his speech entitled “The American Scholar,” he urged his audiences to throw off America’s two-hundredyear-long dependence on European thought. It was time for them to

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come into their own as a civilization, to think their own thoughts, to create their own philosophy, their own poetry and vision of life. There was an Emersonian urge in Transcendentalism to create a new national identity free from the established European schools and based on liberated rationality. Whitman took the instructions introduced by Emerson and composed a poetry, which lived up to the liberation of thought which Emerson wished for (this is comparable to Ibn Arabi’s theories and Rumi’s practice of them). I look in vain for the poet whom I describe. We do not, with sufficient plainness, or sufficient profoundness, address ourselves to life, nor dare we chant our own times and social circumstances. If we filled the day with bravery, we should not shrink from celebrating it. Time and nature yield us many gifts, but not yet the timely man, the new religion, the reconciler, whom all things await. (Emerson and Thoreau 366)

Whitman clearly uses this guidance in order to write his poetry. chanting his own times and social circumstance. And since for Whitman people and nature are equal to poetry, he equally celebrates people: “The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem . . . [The people], their manners, speech, dress, friendship . . . are unrhymed poetry. It awaits the gigantic and generous treatment worthy of it” (Whitman 6). And he celebrates himself as a part of the whole, “I celebrate myself, and sing myself / And what I assume you shall assume” (Whitman 27). In addition to his Emersonian heritage, Whitman’s writings on Kant and Carlyle show his familiarity with the idealist and transcendental view of reason as a higher faculty. However, Whitman does not hesitate to dismiss this type of reasoning in favor of a sense of love and responsibility toward people. In a poem called “The Base of all Metaphysics,” he writes, AND now, gentlemen, A word I give to remain in your memories and minds, As base, and finale too, for all metaphysics. (So, to the students, the old professor, At the close of his crowded course.) Having studied the new and antique, the Greek and Germanic systems, Kant having studied and stated—Fichte and Schelling and Hegel, Stated the lore of Plato—and Socrates, greater than Plato, And greater than Socrates sought and stated—Christ divine having studied long, I see reminiscent to-day those Greek and Germanic systems, See the philosophies all—Christian churches and tenets see, Yet underneath Socrates clearly see—and underneath Christ the divine I see, The dear love of man for his comrade—the attraction of friend to friend,

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Of the well-married husband and wife—of children and parents, Of city for city, and land for land. (Whitman 275)

The Kantian higher reason emerges in the poem and creates a transcendental sense through deserting systematic philosophy. However, favoring a “dear love” of men and women and children to the systematic thought, the poem once more returns to the worldly and everyday understanding of life. Finding his “higher” reason in Kant and others, the speaker intuitively leaves them behind and will not be confined by them. Mahv, Intuition, and “A Democracy to Come” In the denial of systematic reason in favor of a higher individual reason (whether it is called mahv, love, heart, spirit, or intuition) Rumi and Whitman demonstrate a democratic desire for the unknown, or what Derrida calls a democracy to come. Democracy to come, according to Derrida, [Does] not mean a future democracy that will one day be “present.” Democracy will never exist in present; it is not presentable. . . . But there is the impossible whose promise democracy inscribes. . . . I’m quite aware that such formulations remain obscure, but if democracy is also a thing of the reason to come, this reason can present itself today, it seems to me, only in the penumbra. Yet I can already hear in it so many intractable injunctions. (Derrida, Philosophy in a Time of Terror 120–21)

By drawing on the connection between “reason to come” and “democracy,” Derrida challenges not only the “traditional political thinking,” as Cheah and Guerlac suggest (16), but also the tradition of thoughts involved in the formation of the concept of democracy. An ongoing openness toward astonishment and onto what disturbs the rational faculties is a major feature of a democracy to come. It requires one to look at humanity through the lens of responsibility instead of societal obligations, a responsibility that cannot exist without uncertainty. A democracy to come, for that reason, does not belong to national political administrative systems, but to each and every individual citizen. In Rumi and Whitman we see a type of reason which confirms its rooted ignorance and admits responsibility. Democracy for these thinkers is embedded in a type of individual unbiased reasoning that starts from individual rather than legislative or religious rules and regulations. When the citizens accept uncertainty and acknowledge the lack of finality that is essential to human reasoning, it will become easier to respect alterity and to surpass the prejudgments and labels under which we understand reality. Rights such as the freedom of speech are not enough for democracy because freedom of speech without freedom of thought offers little hope to change established structures. Freedom of speech without freedom of thought allows fundamentalist structures and the confine-

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ment of ideas to persist. When a society supports freedom of speech without emphasizing its complex relation with freedom of thoughts (and its practical impossibilities), it creates a version of freedom based on self-speech rather than human complexity. Freedom of thought, which is a form of thinking aware of its own limits (caused by cultural beliefs, political maxims, personal opinions, etc.) is a necessity for creation of a genuine dialogue and is to be taught and respected. Derrida’s democracy to come, similar to Rumi’s mahv (self-effacement) and Whitman’s intuition, are not clearly defined concepts and organized methods. This fact, on the one hand, shows their mistrust of theoretical structures, and, on the other hand, indicates the probable impracticality of their ideas in a democracy, which is seen as merely functioning within frameworks and structures. A “democracy to come” is different from the fundamental constitution of democracy through its departure from democracy’s logocentric fixities and by reliance on individual citizens. In fact, if “democracy to come” were a fixed established center, it would be called democracy. The confirmation of human ignorance, of the fact that we are not wholly rational beings and even if we are our reason does not reflect a final truth, indicates the amount of trust that one could put on individual awareness and citizen responsibility in the formation of more democratic, more global, and more dialogic societies. Dialogue as I used it in this chapter refers to the ability of an individual to enter into conversation with the world at large by being able to drop those elements that limit the self (e.g., the forestructures of our understanding). The dialogue between self and the world (identity and alterity) occurs through the medium of spiritual love in Rumi and through passionate aspiration in Whitman. Reading their poetry in its original language, the reader senses the openness toward otherness first in their frivolous language and then in the crowdedness of their poetry. The speaker of their poems is generally a self who is projecting the voice of society. Unlike the image of selfhood in the present day transcendental “new age” movements where self is believed to operate autonomously and away from society, Whitman’s poetry demands a type of selfhood which emerges through society. NOTES 1. I used the term metaphorical dialogue as an antonym for actual dialogue. Obviously, Rumi and Whitman did not have actual historical and literary dialogue (for instance, one similar to that of Thomas Merton and Abdul Aziz, mentioned on page 43), but the general direction of their poetry includes a desire for entering into dialogue with others: thus metaphorical dialogue. 2. According to Emmanuel Levinas, “As the trace of the other, the face keeps the ambiguous character of an enigma.” The enigma “is a borderline phenomenon, located between the visible and the invisible, the said and the saying.” The face “is growing

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old, even while being young; as a wrinkled face, it is a ‘trace of itself.’ It says adieu, àdieu—or simply farewell” (Critchley and Bernasconi 77–78). 3. According to Said, the American experience of the orient prior to World War II was limited to affinities between Indian philosophies and Transcendentalism, studies of biblical oriental languages, occasional diplomatic and military encounters with the East, and the missionary activities. But “there was no deeply invested tradition of [American] Orientalism” (Orientalism 290). 4. In her book The Triumphal Sun, in a chapter on symbolism of garden in the poetry of Rumi, Ann Marie Schimmel discusses this last concept. 5. Whitman’s recurrent visits to the Middle Eastern collection of antiquity at the museums in New York City provided him with knowledge of the region and its cultures and religions. 6. In “Des Tours de Babel,” Derrida reads the suspension of the construction of the tower as the impossibility of encounter with the language of the other and the untranslatability of it. This is a condition that in Derrida’s eye opens the possibility of hospitality (258). 7. While some of the fundamental ideologies of Whitman’s poetry are similar to the Sufi ideas, one should be cautious in claiming exclusive resemblances between them, for they can be traced to many different sources, Eastern and Western. For instance, the God-like self portrayed in “Song of Myself” bears a close resemblance to the selflessness of “the men of God” (mardane khuda) in the poetry of Rumi. However, certain features of that vision based on religious practices in Sufism do not exist in Whitman. Additionally, other features of his poetry—such as ecstasy and heightened perception of the world—are also common to other (theistic / nontheistic) expressions of mystical consciousness, including Romanticism, Hinduism, etc. 8. The religious movement stressing the free use of reason in religion holding generally that God exists only in one person, and denying the divinity of Jesus. Its emergence is primarily the result of affirmation of the unity of God, the humanity of Jesus, and human religious responsibility, and rejection of the doctrines of the Trinity, the divinity of Jesus, and human corruption or total depravity. In 1961 Unitarians merged with Universalists to form the Unitarian Universalists Association (UUA). Since the differences between Unitarians and Universalists were more sociological than theological, the merger was smooth. The UUA affirms the following beliefs: freedom of religious expression; the conviction that all religions have intrinsic values; the authority of individual reason and consciousness over church and Scripture; the quest for truth with an open heart and mind; justice, equality, and dignity for all persons; natural human ethics based in love; the unity of reality; the seamlessness between the sacred and secular; the democratic decision-making process; the need for self-reflection; and the importance of religious community. The Transcendentalist movement injected Unitarianism with a new interest in the intuitive and emotional aspects of religion. Transcendentalists affirmed the essential human ability to experience a deeper relationship with the divine eternal in nature (freely adapted from MacMillan Encyclopedia of World Religions, MacMillan Encyclopedia of Religion, and Dictionary of Theology and Religious Studies). 9. Since some critics claim Whitman is not a true democrat because he did not acknowledge cultural differences, I argue that to build the concept of democracy solely based on respecting the differences of the other is to play a dangerous game. Differences usually are constructed in a self-other binary where self is privileged and shapes the concept of other or vice versa. As differences became the basis for defining identity and alterity, they create a lack of awareness about the complexity of their relationship. 10. Trans. Nader Khalili. 11. For example, Farid ud-Din Attar’s The Conference of the Birds (1177) recounts the longing of a group of birds who desire to know the great Simorgh (roughly equivalent to the western phoenix), and who under the guidance of a leader bird start their journey toward the land of Simorgh. In the story each bird represents a

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human characteristic. For instance, the hoopoe is the leader, the nightingale symbolizes the lover, the parrot is seeking the fountain of immortality, and the peacock symbolizes the fallen soul. 12. Trans. Coleman Barks, The Soul of Rumi. 13. Trans. Franklin Lewis. 14. Trans. Raficq Abdulla. 15. The self is not an absolute substance, which is formed without interaction with the other. How can we justify the claim about the importance of self when self is already a product of various contexts (of non-self)? The self is composed of the individual differences that appear in addition to context. My self and your self are different even if we are Iranian girls of the same age who have lived and been brought up in the same city and attended the same school. Despite the fact that society shapes us, our individual characteristics remain unique. Self remains self and forever sees the world via a single brain, body, chemical composition, and faculties. The problem here is that in order to believe in self, one must believe in differences. In other words, self is distinguished by its difference from others. But at the same time one relies on self to define differences in the first place. So, is this a vicious circle? It is only when self finds the sources of difference within itself and confirms its internal desire and its need to use these differences as sources defining its own singularity that it can expand and become “pregnant” with alterity. The expansion of self only happens in confirmation of the complexity of differences, which in part takes us back to enjoying similarities. Self is not a solid final entity from which other definitions will be derived, but an ongoing process. The cultural subject, likewise, is not a fixed unit with clear racial, national, and gendered labels but an ongoing phenomenon. Emphasizing differences without clearly defining their meaning causes a return to the fundamentals (historical or imagined) of each culture, which widens the gap between self and other and causes conflict. 16. The sama in Sufism is the practice of listening to music and chanting to reinforce ecstasy and induce mystical trance. Rumi’s practice of the sama is famous as whirling sama. It is a customary dance performed through which whirling dervishes aim to reach the source of spiritual perfection. Spinning one’s body in repetitive circles has been seen as a symbolic imitation of planets in the Solar System orbiting the sun. 17. Trans. Coleman Barks. The Book of Love 46, 48. 18. Trans. Coleman Barks. The Book of Love 91. 19. The systematic tradition, the sama,is a form or continuation of the dervishes’ ascetic lifestyle. But Rumi does not follow and in many cases is a critic of the ascetic traditions, and to see his dance through an ascetic lens is to be misled by some orthodox renderings. The happiness and intoxication involved in the performance (as the first and foremost meaning of the sama) is absent from systematic orthodox versions of the organized tradition. Abdolkarim Soroush writes that Rumi is a poet of happiness. While in mainstream understanding Islamic mysticism is considered a rather stoic approach, Rumi introduced hope, passion, and joy into this ascetic framework. It seems that what creates happiness and hope in Rumi is his immense trust in the other. Even though Shams eventually leaves him, Rumi continues composing lyrical poetry. This shows, on the one hand, the independence and un-conditionality of his love, and, on the other hand, the expansion of the meaning of alterity to the point that it does not exclude any other. The often-disloyal beloved in Persian poetry in Rumi becomes a friend whom he trusts, loves, and sets free. In Rumi, one can see a high degree of tolerance in treating the other. Tolerance and low expectations create a form of un-conditionality, which releases love from the common restricted structures. The mainstream concept of love as a cycle of giving and receiving is ruptured. This attitude embodies absolute hospitality. 20. Trans. Coleman Barks. Rumi: The Big Read Book.

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21. The transliteration: Ieki ganji padid amâd dar ân dukkân-e zarkoobi Zehi soorat, zehi ma’ni, zehi khoobi, zehi khoobi Zehi bâzâr e zarkoobân, zehi asrâr-e ya’ghobân Ke jân-e yusuf az eshghash bar ârad shoor-e ya’ghobi Ze eshgh-e oo do-sad leyli cho majnun band midarrad kaz in atash zaboon âiad sabourihâi-e ayyoubi Shoode zarkoob o hagh mande tanash choon zarvaragh mandeh javaher bar tabagh mandeh, cho zarkoobi-e karrobi Biâ benvaz ashegh râ ke tou jâni haghâiegh râ bezan gardan monâfegh ra agar az vei biâshoubi. 22. This is different from the clichéd standpoint of colonizing the other via the imperialism of the same or the self suggested earlier. If in imperialism the other is shrunk or pushed to become a second self, in Rumi we see a desire for expanding the self to meet and incorporate the other. 23. The sama is an emotional form of zekr (remembrance). When the sama is performed by dancers, turning is accompanied by a mental zekr of the name of God. What was originally Rumi’s act of remembrance of God, which resulted in his expression of joy in the sama, was limited by his disciples and practiced with him, and after him, as the emotional zekr. This remembrance of rupture has subsequently over the centuries been formalized into structured sama (Kreyenbroek et al. 488). 24. Trans. Nader Khalili. 25. Trans. Chittick, The Sufi Path of Love. 26. Since Whitman’s death, most publishers and readers have come to think of Leaves as synonymous with the “deathbed edition,” the expanded reissue of the 1881 edition that Whitman released in 1892. Indeed, Whitman asked that the “deathbed edition” be considered authoritative. However, he produced varied editions of the work. What began as a slim book of 12 poems was by the end of his life a thick compendium of almost 400. Using current bibliographic standards, scholars believe that Whitman released six editions of Leaves: in 1855, 1856, 1860, 1867, 1871–1872, and 1881–1882. After the first, each edition bore many similarities to its predecessor, but each contained significant changes: the addition of new poems, subtractions and revisions of old poems, shifting and recombining poems, and differing bindings and layouts. 27. Trans. Franklin Lewis, 343–44. 28. Derrida writes, Deconstruction is the movement of an experience open to the absolute future of what is coming, that is to say, a necessarily indeterminate, abstract, desert-like experience that is confided, exposed, given up to its waiting for the other and for the event. In its pure formality, in the indetermination that it requires, one may find yet another essential affinity between it and a certain messianic spirit. (Specters of Marx 90) 29. An internal eye that can see the depth of its surroundings is what the Sufis aim for through their practices. The internal eye is the eye of an expanded body. 30. Trans. Lewis, 140. 31. Trans. Jawid Mojaddedi, The Masnavi I. 32. This is a problematic doctrine for legalist interpreters of Islam such as the Wahhabis, who hold to a strict interpretation of tawhid (doctrine of oneness of God) that did not permit anyone or anything to be associated with or in union with God. For example a critic of Ibn Arabi, Afifi, writes, “Ibn Arabi’s doctrine undermines the concept of God on which all revealed religions are founded and sets aside tenets, such as those of reward and punishment, which are central elements of the Islamic law” (Ibn Arabi 43).

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33. Fanaa (Arabic: ‫ ﻓﻨﺎﺀ‬fanā’) is the Sufi term for dissolution or annihilation (of the self). It means to dissolve the ego while remaining physically alive. Persons having entered this enlightenment state obtain awareness of the intrinsic unity (Tawhid) between Allah and all that exists, including the individual’s mind. 34. Coming out of the Sufi mindset and thinking conditionally, borderless thinking (self-effacement, becoming boatman, and becoming mirror) may sound impossible, since one way or another thoughts are the fruits of circumstances. However, being aware of one’s limited choices and the conditions of being human is valuable. Acceptance of the ignorance embedded in our knowledge is a lesson in how to swim and pass the whirlpools. 35. Trans. Coleman Barks, The Essential Rumi, 121.

FOUR Compromising Binaries

Dialogue as the possibility for human connection beyond differences is regularly undermined by the simplified binaries that too often become the basis of our understanding of identity. Perception of life through binary thinking is a cause of conflict. It is problematic to entrust human communities to differences, but it is more problematic to entrust them to differences based on binary pairs. Playing on common binaries such as East/West, man/woman, and good/evil, mainstream media reinforces the power of oppositions and reduces the possibility of connection beyond binaries. Media reenact and reinforce binaries created by cultural and religious histories. Rejecting binaries by releasing their elements from fixed and defined historical structures contributes to cultural dialogue, reducing conflict. The challenging of binaries widens the perception of identity by introducing ambiguity and play. In the absence of fixed binary pairs, relationships between various elements become more experimental and less traditional or judgmental. Examining man/woman and good/evil binaries in the works of Rumi and Whitman, this chapter aims at reassessing the meaning of binaries by showing the aporia created by the poets’ lack of fixed standpoints toward binary oppositions. THE MALE/FEMALE BINARY Among the contributions of deconstruction to philosophy is its challenge to hierarchical and oppositional logic. The practice of deconstruction transforms binary oppositions into an economy in which terms circulate rather than remain fixed. Thus deconstruction mobilizes another ordering system in which the construction of false unities intrinsic to binary oppositions does not prevail. In other words, deconstruction does not simply offer an alternative hierarchy of binary oppositions; it problema61

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tizes and opens to scrutiny the very nature of identity and oppositional logic and therefore makes visible the artifice necessary to establish and maintain hierarchical thinking. As the play of substitution, différance can be figured as whatever problematizes opposition or represents the inbetween. Among common binaries is the man/woman binary in which woman is the unprivileged element. Complicating this binary in texts such as Spurs: Nietzsche’s Styles and “The Double Session,” Derrida investigates the possibility that “woman,” as that which is constituted in the position of “other,” can subvert or problematize the metaphysics based on presence and identity. Femininity, in this sense, could be perceived as différance or an in-between state. French feminists such as Hélène Cixous and Luce Irigaray have theorized Derrida’s standpoint as a specifically feminine language. Calling for “woman” to “write herself,” Cixous sets the stage for this essentialist feminism with her emphasis on “white ink.” In “The Laugh of the Medusa,” she associates this “ink” with “mother’s milk,” and, even though she problematizes the literal connection between female biology and the kind of writing this “ink” produces, her text allows for the common interpretation among feminists that such writing only belongs to women because it expresses what is biologically unique to them. According to Mary Poovey in “Feminism and Deconstruction,” such an interpretation leads to a “commercial” feminism where the success of French feminist texts is a measure of the appeal this theory holds especially for U.S. feminist audiences. The problem with such popularity, according to Poovey, is that, For U.S. feminist academics, the attraction of French feminism resides not so much in its philosophical dismantling of binary thinking (which it shares with deconstruction) as in its argument that the in-between mode of speech Derrida describes is feminine discourse—a special language that seems to articulate, if not derive from, the female body and female sexuality in particular. (54–55)

I agree with Poovey in thinking that Cixous’s texts were misread and used to create a new system of binaries in which, this time, “woman” is the privileged element. What Cixous calls “l’écriture feminine” is not a term strengthening the existing male/female binary by dismantling one element (masculine agency) in favor of another (feminine expression). Some feminists argue that “multiplicity,” “diffuseness,” and “openness” of language are the essential characteristics of a feminine writing (e.g., Milluns 196). 1 This is a statement that associates a conventionally made label (femininity) with a gender-neutral concept (the linguistic play of a written text). The “feminine” in “l’écriture feminine” rather represents a mode of writing that is individual and free from any established masculine or feminine order. This writing can be done by anyone. There is no need to deny the existential experiences of women and men related to biological differences, but individual experiences are, regardless of gen-

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der, unique (the existential affinity between the experience of one female body and another female body is not necessarily stronger than the affinity between the existential experience of a female body and a male body). The endeavor of deconstruction (unlike many feminist representations of it) is not to support a certain unprivileged element of the gender binary but to imagine some organization of language, reality, or imagination other than one based on binary oppositions. That involves theorizing the possibility that a language might have existed (and might exist again) not organized into binary oppositions and self-identical terms. This opens the door to what Cixous calls a “natural” language (i.e., free of any established order including gender) that articulates the human subject. Feminist critics often attack Rumi and Whitman for their misogynistic portrayals of women. The societies of their time depicted women as second-class citizens and treated them as inferiors or as a means to some end. Voiceless women were the hidden margins of their societies. An overview of critical studies on Whitman reveals that his poems have been read for the most part with an emphasis on masculine sexuality: on phallic imagery, homosexuality, and lyric, erotic passages. The feminist response to this scholarship is either to acknowledge, and sometimes lament, Whitman’s perceived reduction of women to types, and to examine these types as indicative of negative or positive social values, or to point out that the inconsistency of Whitman’s attitudes toward women in his verse is a result of the larger problematic of the expression/repression of women’s sexuality in nineteenth century America. 2 One critic who uses French feminism to read Whitman’s poetry is Maire Milluns. In “Leaves of Grass as a ‘Woman’s Book,’” she argues that Leaves of Grass is “stemming from the kind of writing which Hélène Cixous and other French feminist writers describe” (195). She reads passages from Whitman in relation to female sexuality discussing “feminine consciousness” as a call for “a recognition of repressed sexual drives and their connection to language” (196). Milluns reflects that the term “feminine” can be used to refer to a specific mode of writing regardless of the gender of the writer. However, she talks about actual female characters in Whitman’s poems and interprets their actual actions as another sign of Cixous’s “l’écriture feminine.” By connecting the “feminine” in Cixous to an actual “woman” in Whitman, Milluns returns to the familiar male/ female binary associating specific sexuality/morality with women. She writes, In Whitman’s poem, the young woman’s figurative movement out of her house leads to a daringly transgressive act: her hand passes over the bodies of the young men. . . . Whitman writes out woman’s autoerotic desire in this passage: the young woman’s explicitly physical action binds her to the young men, whose uninhibited happiness gladdens and inspires her. (200)

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Picturing an actual woman as a gendered body that is not supposed to do specific things but she does them anyway might suggest revolt against an established order, but this is not necessarily a reading that contributes to Cixous’s project of deconstructing binaries. To read Whitman beside deconstruction (through Cixous or others) one needs to desert first of all binary thinking. In this chapter, I will show how some of Whitman’s texts (as well as Rumi’s) complicate and dismiss the usual male/female binary. This will contribute to the project of deconstruction, which according to Cixous is “the greatest ethical critical warning gesture of our time” (The Reader xviii). Whitman and the Male/Female Binary In her article “Women as a Theme in Whitman’s Writing,” Sherry Ceniza explains that, concerning its images of women, the cluster of poems most attacked in Whitman’s times was “Children of Adam,” and the specifics in individual poems most problematic to his readers were the passages in which women’s bodies were spoken of in ways other than those pertaining to the docile, dutiful mother or the chaste, single woman (LeMaster and Kummings 796). A WOMAN waits for me, she contains all, nothing is lacking. . . . Sex contains all, bodies, souls, Meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations, Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk, All hopes, benefactions, bestowals, all the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth, All the governments, judges, gods, follow’d persons of the earth, These are contain’d in sex as parts of itself and justifications of itself. Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his sex, Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers. Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women, I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that are warm-blooded and sufficient for me, I see that they understand me and do not deny me, I see that they are worthy of me, I will be the robust husband of those women (Whitman 258–59)

Challenging the views of sexuality as inherently sinful, the poem shows that human beings are all descendants of Adam and Eve, who, after eating the forbidden fruit, knew that they were naked. For their act of disobedience they were cast out of the Garden. Whitman exhorts a return to the Garden by recovering the sexual innocence of Adam and Eve before the fall and in their nakedness. What I want to add to Ceniza’s

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reading of this poem is to point to the way in which it confuses gender binaries. Despite the fact that Adam starts and ends the cluster of poems by talking about the sensual pleasures he experienced in the Garden, and despite the fact that Eve remains Adam’s voiceless companion throughout the poems, these poems do not reenact gender stereotypes. Adam and Eve are nothing more than two different forms of experience of sexual activity. The term “love” is used as an umbrella term, which equally includes male and female physical pleasure: “Potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding / The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being” (Whitman 248). Further complicating the binary, the subject and object of love are not quite distinguishable. The speaker of the poem (the lover) loves the addressee (the “you”) who seems to be at the same time man and woman. The recurring confusion of the gender of the object of love (women, men, etc.) creates the feeling that specific physical pleasure passes through many genderless bodies. The love of the body of man or woman . . . The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards, The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face. (251)

There is another instance in the cluster where speaking of “a man” he knows, the speaker replaces a male love object with a female love object (the man’s mother): “I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons, / And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons / . . . you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang, / You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other” (119). And a few lines later he says, “Man is born of woman” (120). By following the reference to a male love-object with contemplation of the mother in this way, the speaker escapes being associated with a single gendered object. The confusion continues as the poems introduce love-objects from other ethnicities and races: “A man’s body at auction . . . / Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for it . . . / Examine these limbs, red, black, or white, they are cunning in tendon and nerve, / They shall be stript that you may see them. . . . A woman’s body at auction” (123). Introducing the bodies of slaves as his non-white love objects, the speaker indicates that the pleasure that he has in mind is not limited to a specific biological structure or its color, let alone the social structure of slavery through the master-slave binary. Finally, comparing bodily pleasure to poetry, the cluster characterizes body as a text. “O my body . . . I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my poems, / and that they are my poems, / Man’s, woman’s, child’s,

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youth’s, wife’s, husband’s, mother’s, father’s, young man’s, young woman’s poems” (257). To believe in body as text is to assume a type of freedom and expressiveness in one’s physical existence that embraces what Cixous calls the “other bisexuality.” [Through the other bisexuality] every subject not enclosed in the false theatre of phallocentric representationalism has founded his/her erotic universe. Bisexuality: that is, each one’s location in self of the presencevariously manifest and insistent according to each person, male or female-of both sexes, nonexclusion either of the difference or of one sex, and, from this “self-permission,” multiplication of the effects of the inscription of desire, over all parts of my body and the other body. (“The Laugh of the Medusa” 884) 3

In addition to complicating the gender binary, Whitman’s writing as it goes against the dominant tradition of male writers (the phallocentric structure of language identified by Cixous) is readable via the lines of deconstruction. In the theme and language of Leaves, Whitman shows that he challenges literary phallocentrism. In a time when literary dialogue was often exclusive to male writers and their male audience, Whitman’s appeal to many different readers, female as well as male, in addition to his use of “man and woman” and “woman and man” is radical. In “Song of the Open Road,” he writes: Whoever you are, come forth! Or man or woman come forth! You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you. (Whitman 306)

He addresses and envisages broader audiences than the majority of Transcendentalist poets do. Likewise, his stridently “new” aesthetic, according to Robert Johnstone, relies heavily on reversals of traditional meter and prosody. If the forms of the old poetry are preset and regular, those of Whitman are “spontaneous, regular or irregular as the occasion demands.” The size of the poems will vary with “content, mood, and intent.” To the rigid metrics of traditional verse Whitman opposes “a looser and more changeable rhythm.” “The appropriate organic analogy for Whitman’s sense of rhythm may be the human heartbeat. Its rhythm changes with the body’s needs: calm and quiet in repose, rushed and pounding when excited, always circulating energy in measure” (LeMaster and Kummings 525). Following the same line of argument, Patrick Redding classifies Whitman’s poetic theory, which he claims Whitman never systematically described, into four categories. “Generalizing from scattered comments made throughout his prose, Whitman’s theory consists of three negative doctrines—the rejection of meter, the rejection of rhyme, and the rejection of conventional poetic diction—and one positive one, the use of the plain style” (671). Out of these four elements, Whitman is perhaps best known for his rejection of traditional poetic meter and rhyme: “The truest and

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greatest Poetry, (while subtly and necessarily always rhythmic, and distinguishable easily enough), can never again, in the English language, be express’d in arbitrary and rhyming meter” (Whitman 1080). Whitman extended his argument to include liberation from meter, too: “Perfect poems [illustrate] the free growth of metrical laws and take shapes as compact as the shapes of chestnuts and oranges and melons and pears and, shed the perfume impalpable to form” (ibid. 11). In addition to rejecting meter and rhyme, Whitman argued that poets must avoid artificial diction. According to Redding, Whitman explains this third doctrine in this passage from Democratic Vistas: To-day, doubtless, the infant genius of American poetic expression . . . lies sleeping, aside, unrecking itself, in some western idiom, or native Michigan or Tennessee repartee, or stump-speech—or in Kentucky or Georgia, or the Carolinas—or in some slang or local song or allusion of the Manhattan, Boston, Philadelphia or Baltimore mechanic—or up in the Maine woods—or off in the hut of the California miner. (Whitman 1004)

Fourth, and finally, Redding discusses Whitman’s defense of the plain style, as when he declares, “I will not have in my writing any elegance or effect or originality to hang in the way between me and the rest like curtains. . . . What I experience or portray shall go from my composition without a shred of my composition. You shall stand by my side and look in the mirror with me” (ibid. 14). In “Song of Myself,” Whitman praises “words simple as grass, uncomb’d head, laughter, naivete, / Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and emanations” (72). While responding to the American poetic tradition, Whitman created (or followed) the most liberal forms of expression to let the poets express their individual language. It seems that, in doing so, his style and language challenge the established structure of poetry, which with its larger number of male poets/theorists could be considered a phallocentric tradition. In her article “The Newly Born Woman,” Cixous writes, “Rare are the men able to venture onto the brink where writing, freed from law, unencumbered by moderation, exceeds phallic authority, and where the subjectivity inscribing its effects becomes feminine” (Cixous, Reader 43). As Whitman’s poetry escapes from the structural dictations of meter and prosody, it becomes more “feminine” in the sense that it challenges the clear-cut borders of the poetic structure to create a language that is more individualistic and free from correcting forms. In the section on “Painting and Poetry,” I will further explain how Whitman’s specific diction and style contribute to his challenging of conventional and dominant structures of verse.

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Rumi and the Male/Female Binary In Rumi’s case, feminist criticism of his writing generally includes two extremes. On the one hand, there are the commentators who condemn Rumi for his contribution to misogynistic Islamic traditions (Barbara Merritt, Majid Naficy), and on the other there are the male Muslims or the Sufi theorists who defend Rumi by whitewashing a lack of understanding of gender in his work and blaming it on the social and historical climate (Celaleddin Bakir Çelebi, Eboo Patel, Ibrahim Salaam). Both of these approaches are extreme because they focus on specific examples from Rumi’s texts or their social context without generating a larger view of Rumi’s works or Sufism in general. In so doing, both views fail to generate a holistic view of gender in his work. The orthodox scholars usually show a tendency to impose their readings of femininity on Rumi, and in doing so the very femininity that they try to restore is lost. Likewise, feminist critics who overemphasize gender issues in Rumi overlook the contribution of Sufism to a feminine or a gender-equal reading of the Islamic tradition. Among the orthodox scholars who defend Rumi is Muhammad Hisham Kabbani. Starting his book in Classical Islam And The Naqshbandi Sufi Tradition with a poem from Rumi about women, Kabbani connects the Sufi tradition to the “sublime” role of women in Islam. Reenacting a male/female binary, he emphasizes that Islam sets the best “example of a woman” in the character of Fatimah (XIX). Through recurrent references to the prophet’s daughter, Kabbani interprets what he calls the “best” example as a woman who is modest, faithful to her husband, and who equally believes in “God”-“father”“husband” and in “her children” (a common interpretation among the orthodox Shia Muslims). What is totally absent from readings as such is the ability to interpret the Sufi and generally Islamic texts per se without imposing specific religious mindsets on them. Rumi does not belong to a certain school of thought. His picture of society, especially in the Masnavi, is very broad, and he includes all types of people, men and women. This results in the critics’ fortune or misfortune in dealing with him. They can single out short texts and show how feminist or misogynist he is, but it is not difficult to reverse their arguments by finding opposite examples in his poetry. An example of the limits of arguments about the established gender binary in Rumi is a study done by Zahra Taheri. In her paper, “Women in Rumi’s Spiritual Circle,” Taheri argues that Rumi portrays a fair image of women throughout his works. Referring to a line from the Masnavi, “She is a ray of God’s light / She is not just that earthly beloved” (Rumi, Masnavi I ch.119), Taheri infers that Rumi chooses womanhood as a metaphor for the divine secret in the human heart in order to underscore the vital personal and evolving nature of the sacred. Womanhood in Sufism, she believes, generally stands for spirituality, regardless of the environ-

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ment and life experience of the women. In other words, spirituality is inborn with women. Although I agree with the idea that womanhood (like manhood) is a kind of spirit or an experience, I do not believe that it is a symbol of spirituality in Rumi’s poetry. There are moments in Rumi that contradict Taheri’s claim about Rumi’s especial concern for womanhood. For instance, in the same story that Taheri quotes, “The Poor Bedouin and His Wife,” womanhood initially stands for human lust, greed, and resistance to spirituality (as shown in the character of the “husband”). Taheri chooses the very last stanza of the poem where, after a long quarrel between the wife and husband, the wife confirms that she was wrong and the husband was right. Here I quote excerpts from the poem: A Bedouin lived with his weary bride; Since they were hard up, every day she cried: “We always have to suffer and be poor, The rest rejoice, while you and I endure: We have no bread, just jealousy and pain, We have no water—tears replaced the rain . . .” “Why keep on seeking wealth?” her husband said, “Most of our life has passed—we’ll soon be dead! The wise don’t think of gain and loss like you For both are like a flood that passes through . . . Pains are like messengers from death—don’t shun Death’s messenger, you weak, distracted one! . . . From gnats to elephants the same applies: They’re all God’s family, whom he supplies . . . But if this part of death tastes sweet to you God will make all the rest of it sweet too. . .” His wife screamed, “Image is what you adore, I won’t endure your stories any more! Don’t spout pretentious gibberish to me, Don’t speak with arrogance presumptuously! . . . Don’t call me ‘wife’ or try to cuddle me, My husband’s justice, not depravity! . . . How can you walk with lords when you eat mud And, for your drink, you suck a locust’s blood! . . . You think you’re more intelligent than me, You have credited me with stupidity; Better to lack a brain than to be like you! Because your brain just shackles everyone It seems more like a snake or scorpion! May God oppose your lies and cruelty . . . I wasn’t trapped by your tricks but God’s name, You’ve made God’s name a trap, you should feel shame! . . .” He said, “Are you a wife? You always moan! Poverty’s pride, so leave my ears alone! . . . The slaves of lust can’t see his faults within

‫‪Chapter 4‬‬ ‫‪For lust unites hearts which are filled with sin . . .‬‬ ‫‪In anger, you have sworn at me a lot,‬‬ ‫”‪‘Snake-charmer’ you have called me, though I am not . . .‬‬ ‫‪The man said, “Don’t see me as covetous,‬‬ ‫‪Transcend this womanish suspiciousness . . .‬‬ ‫‪Stay silent or I’ll take this seriously‬‬ ‫”‪And leave behind our home immediately . . .‬‬ ‫‪(Rumi, Masnavi I ch. 111–19) 4‬‬ ‫ﯾﮏ ﺷﺐ ﺍﻋﺮﺍﺑﯽ ﺯﻧﯽ ﻣﺮ ﺷﻮﯼ ﺭﺍ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﻭ ﺍﺯ ﺣﺪ ﺑﺮﺩ ﮔﻔﺖ ﻭ ﮔﻮﯼ ﺭﺍ‬ ‫ﮐﯿﻦ ﻫﻤﻪ ﻓﻘﺮ ﻭ ﺟﻔﺎ ﻣﺎ ﻣﯽﮐﺸﯿﻢ‬ ‫ﺟﻤﻠﻪ ﻋﺎﻟﻢ ﺩﺭ ﺧﻮﺷﯽ ﻣﺎ ﻧﺎﺧﻮﺷﯿﻢ‬ ‫ﻧﺎﻥﻣﺎﻥ ﻧﻪ ﻧﺎﻥ ﺧﻮﺭﺵﻣﺎﻥ ﺩﺭﺩ ﻭ ﺭﺷﮏ ‪. . .‬‬ ‫ﮐﻮﺯﻩﻣﺎﻥ ﻧﻪ ﺁﺏﻣﺎﻥ ﺍﺯ ﺩﯾﺪﻩ ﺍﺷﮏ ‪. . .‬‬ ‫ﺷﻮﯼ ﮔﻔﺘﺶ ﭼﻨﺪ ﺟﻮﯾﯽ ﺩﺧﻞ ﻭ ﮐﺸﺖ‬ ‫ﺧﻮﺩ ﭼﻪ ﻣﺎﻧﺪ ﺍﺯ ﻋﻤﺮ ﺍﻓﺰﻭﻥﺗﺮ ﮔﺬﺷﺖ‬ ‫ﻋﺎﻗﻞ ﺍﻧﺪﺭ ﺑﯿﺶ ﻭ ﻧﻘﺼﺎﻥ ﻧﻨﮕﺮﺩ‬ ‫ﺯﺍﻧﮏ ﻫﺮ ﺩﻭ ﻫﻤﭽﻮ ﺳﯿﻠﯽ ﺑﮕﺬﺭﺩ‬ ‫ﺧﻮﺍﻩ ﺻﺎﻑ ﻭ ﺧﻮﺍﻩ ﺳﯿﻞ ﺗﯿﺮﻩﺭﻭ‬ ‫ﭼﻮﻥ ﻧﻤﯽﭘﺎﯾﺪ ﺩﻣﯽ ﺍﺯ ﻭﯼ ﻣﮕﻮ ‪. . .‬‬ ‫ﺯﻥ ﺑﺮﻭ ﺯﺩ ﺑﺎﻧﮓ ﮐﺎﯼ ﻧﺎﻣﻮﺱﮐﯿﺶ‬ ‫ﻣﻦ ﻓﺴﻮﻥ ﺗﻮ ﻧﺨﻮﺍﻫﻢ ﺧﻮﺭﺩ ﺑﯿﺶ‬ ‫ﺗﺮﻫﺎﺕ ﺍﺯ ﺩﻋﻮﯼ ﻭ ﺩﻋﻮﺕ ﻣﮕﻮ‬ ‫ﺭﻭ ﺳﺨﻦ ﺍﺯ ﮐﺒﺮ ﻭ ﺍﺯ ﻧﺨﻮﺕ ﻣﮕﻮ‬ ‫ﭼﻨﺪ ﺣﺮﻑ ﻃﻤﻄﺮﺍﻕ ﻭ ﮐﺎﺭ ﺑﺎﺭ‬ ‫ﮐﺎﺭ ﻭ ﺣﺎﻝ ﺧﻮﺩ ﺑﺒﯿﻦ ﻭ ﺷﺮﻡﺩﺍﺭ‬ ‫ﮐﺒﺮ ﺯﺷﺖ ﻭ ﺍﺯ ﮔﺪﺍﯾﺎﻥ ﺯﺷﺖﺗﺮ ‪. . .‬‬ ‫ﺭﻭﺯ ﺳﺮﺩ ﻭ ﺑﺮﻑ ﻭﺍﻧﮕﻪ ﺟﺎﻣﻪ ﺗﺮ‬ ‫ﻋﻘﻞ ﺧﻮﺩ ﺭﺍ ﺍﺯ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻓﺰﻭﻥ ﺩﯾﺪﻩﺍﯼ‬ ‫ﻣﺮ ﻣﻦ ﮐﻢﻋﻘﻞ ﺭﺍ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺩﯾﺪﻩﺍﯼ‬ ‫ﻫﻤﭽﻮ ﮔﺮﮒ ﻏﺎﻓﻞ ﺍﻧﺪﺭ ﻣﺎ ﻣﺠﻪ‬ ‫ﺍﯼ ﺯ ﻧﻨﮓ ﻋﻘﻞ ﺗﻮ ﺑﯽﻋﻘﻞ ﺑﻪ‬ ‫ﻋﻘﯿﻠﻪ ﻣﺮﺩﻣﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﭼﻮﻧﮏ ﻋﻘﻞ ﺗﻮ‬ ‫ٔ‬ ‫ﺁﻥ ﻧﻪ ﻋﻘﻠﺴﺖ ﺁﻥ ﮐﻪ ﻣﺎﺭ ﻭ ﮐﺰﺩﻣﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﺧﺼﻢ ﻇﻠﻢ ﻭ ﻣﮑﺮ ﺗﻮ ﺍﻟﻠﻪ ﺑﺎﺩ‬ ‫ﻓﻀﻞ ﻭ ﻋﻘﻞ ﺗﻮ ﺯ ﻣﺎ ﮐﻮﺗﺎﻩ ﺑﺎﺩ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﺍﯼ ﺯﻥ ﺗﻮ ﺯﻧﯽ ﯾﺎ ﺑﻮﺍﻟﺤﺰﻥ‬ ‫ﻓﻘﺮ ﻓﺨﺮ ﺁﻣﺪ ﻣﺮﺍ ﺑﺮ ﺳﺮ ﻣﺰﻥ‬ ‫ﻣﺎﻝ ﻭ ﺯﺭ ﺳﺮ ﺭﺍ ﺑﻮﺩ ﻫﻤﭽﻮﻥ ﮐﻼﻩ‬ ‫ﮐﻞ ﺑﻮﺩ ﺍﻭ ﮐﺰ ﮐﻠﻪ ﺳﺎﺯﺩ ﭘﻨﺎﻩ‬ ‫ﺁﻧﮏ ﺯﻟﻒ ﺟﻌﺪ ﻭ ﺭﻋﻨﺎ ﺑﺎﺷﺪﺵ‬ ‫‪ . . .‬ﭼﻮﻥ ﮐﻼﻫﺶ ﺭﻓﺖ ﺧﻮﺷﺘﺮ ﺁﯾﺪﺵ‬ ‫ﮔﺮ ﺧﻤﺶ ﮔﺮﺩﯼ ﻭ ﮔﺮ ﻧﻪ ﺁﻥ ﮐﻨﻢ‬ ‫ﮐﻪ ﻫﻤﯿﻦ ﺩﻡ ﺗﺮﮎ ﺧﺎﻥ ﻭ ﻣﺎﻥ ﮐﻨﻢ‬

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71 ‫ﺯﻥ ﭼﻮ ﺩﯾﺪ ﺍﻭ ﺭﺍ ﮐﻪ ﺗﻨﺪ ﻭ ﺗﻮﺳﻨﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﮔﺸﺖ ﮔﺮﯾﺎﻥ ﮔﺮﯾﻪ ﺧﻮﺩ ﺩﺍﻡ ﺯﻧﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﺍﺯ ﺗﻮ ﮐﯽ ﭼﻨﯿﻦ ﭘﻨﺪﺍﺷﺘﻢ‬ ‫ﺍﺯ ﺗﻮ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻭﻣﯿﺪ ﺩﯾﮕﺮ ﺩﺍﺷﺘﻢ‬ ‫ﺯﻥ ﺩﺭ ﺁﻣﺪ ﺍﺯﻃﺮﯾﻖ ﻧﯿﺴﺘﯽ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﻣﻦ ﺧﺎﮎ ﺷﻤﺎﺍﻡ ﻧﯽ ﺳﺘﯽ‬ ‫ﺟﺴﻢ ﻭ ﺟﺎﻥ ﻭ ﻫﺮﭼﻪ ﻫﺴﺘﻢ ﺁﻥ ﺗﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﺣﮑﻢ ﻭ ﻓﺮﻣﺎﻥ ﺟﻤﻠﮕﯽ ﻓﺮﻣﺎﻥ ﺗﺴﺖ‬ (‫ ﺩﻓﺘﺮ ﺍﻭﻝ‬،‫)ﻣﺜﻨﻮﯼ ﻣﻌﻨﻮﯼ‬

The wife eventually takes notice of her husband and seeks forgiveness for her words: “You have the power to just walk away/ Although my soul pleads that you’ll choose to stay . . . / I’ve lit my heart now to agree with you . . . / I interrupted but a good wife waits.” The lines that Taheri quotes belong to this last section when the wife returns to the familiar male (dominant)/female (submissive) binary. It is only at this point and because of her submission that she becomes “a ray of God’s light.” The critics’ arguments in defense of Rumi (quoting his statements on womanhood) are reversible from within the same texts. Instead of focusing on those specific quotations, one can highlight Rumi’s methods of characterization and his ability to form dialogues between the elements of a binary so that, often, the black and white border between them is blurred. I think the important fact in this poem is neither its positive conclusion about femininity (“She is a ray of God’s light / She is not just that earthly beloved”), nor the initial negative image of the wife. Rather, it is the fact that, unlike the tradition of Persian poetry in which the woman is repeatedly objectified as a romantic or sexual object, this poem creates a female character that confronts the dominant male perspectives and reasonably argues with them. It is true that the husband wins the argument, but he does that by threatening to leave the home and not necessarily by convincing the wife (and the reader). Moreover, when both the husband and the wife speak in vernacular Farsi, the wife’s language is less refined, more assertive, and even hostile. Creating a female character allowed to speak in slang in a tradition where women are usually pictured as quiet or soft-spoken is the poem’s main contribution to reading the gender binary against male-dominated conventions. It is obvious that Rumi is not interested in discussing binaries, and whenever he does employ them his text shifts the privileged-unprivileged dichotomy so often that the binary is barely recognizable. Feminist studies of Rumi also reflect on Rumi’s everyday interactions with women (his wife, daughters, and students) to note that in Rumi’s personal and social life women occupied a broad space. Taheri offers a very complete account in this regard. Rumi’s biographer, Aflaki, notes that Rumi was in constant contact with the female members of his extended household. Having a more liberal view of gender relationships than his father, Rumi disapproved of the segregation prevalent in the

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Islamic education system (a fact attested by his religious practice as well as his teaching of women such as Fatima Khatun). Fatima Khatun, his daughter-in-law, had a prominent role in the early history and conduct of the Mawlawiyah, and was greatly revered by Rumi. She is known as a selfdetermined woman who did not hesitate to declare her opinion publicly. Among other women in Rumi’s household, Mutahhara Khatun and Sheref Khatunm, Rumi’s granddaughters, were given the title of “gnostic” by Rumi and said to possess the spirit of leadership (sahib-e vilayat). Some of the Seljuq royalty were their followers, and Aflaki himself was Sheref Khatun’s disciple. Rumi recurrently uses the title “Sufi” to refer to both men and women. In addition to family members, the names of female mystics and disciples have been recorded in Rumi’s network. Aflaki records Rumi’s meetings with a female mystic, Fakhr al-Nisa (the pride of the womankind), who passed many of her male counterparts in the achievement of spiritual knowledge (Aflaki 199). Rumi discussed his spiritual knowledge and experiences with her. One of the female disciples of Rumi who is frequently mentioned by Aflaki is Gurji Khatun, the wife of two Saljuq Sultans. She and Gumaj Khatun hosted the sama gatherings in the latter’s palace; these were attended by the women of Qunya. Rumi was often present at these gatherings and joined them in the invocation and performed the dance. From historical documents we know that women continued to enjoy a prominent position in the Mawlawi order until the beginning of the sixteenth century. In comparison with other Sufi orders, its female initiators had a relatively independent role in its formation and organization in Anatolia. They participated in the religious ceremonies and even acted as deputies and masters. Women also played a distinguished role as transmitters of hagiographic material in the early Rumi tradition. However, despite the women’s important role, their individual presence in details in the hagiographical literature is fragmentary (Taheri). In these context-based analyses, Rumi’s practice of the sama and its connection to femininity can be interpreted based on Cixous’s concept of embodied femininity and its textual connotations. Some historical accounts suggest that Rumi’s sama and his composition through dancing, which is generally believed to be the result of Shams’ teaching, is actually the result of his life with the women of his household. Sultan Walad, Rumi’s son, emphasizes the importance of the Great Kera, his grandmother, as Rumi’s first sama teacher long before Shams. Directly quoting Sultan Walad, Aflaki notes, “My father was very ascetic in his youth and he was extremely virtuous and pious and never attended a sama-performance. The Great Kera [Kera-ye Bozorg] who was my maternal grandmother encouraged my father to participate in the sama. She taught my father how to perform the sacred dance sama in the movement of his hands and, later, Shams taught him how to spin in a circle (charkh zadan)” (Aflaki 471–72). 5 The practice of sama (which be-

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lieves in facilitating spirituality through the body) can be seen as a challenge to phallocentrism, and as a threat to the masculine structure of Islam. The masculine body of the Islamic theologian and teacher was to remain in the mosque and the madrasa and should not whirl and be exposed to the public. Dance belonged to inside spaces and to women. Rumi’s sama transforms the masculine body into a body which resists gendered expectations, and creates an atmosphere in which the body resists the masculine structure of religion to complicate the term “spirituality.” 6 However, rather than considering man/woman as a final step in defining gender identity, one might envisage an ongoing relationship or dialogue between genders. As one comes-in-between, “one is always infinitely more than one and more than me, without the fear of ever reaching a limit. . . . And we’ll keep on becoming” (Cixous, “The Laugh of the Medusa” 893). Rumi’s text successfully shows such an in-between state, and as a result, it shows that, even if binaries exist, their relationship is created in the in-between space where the “I” is not an element in a binary but part of an ongoing process and experience of becoming. Unlike the majority of the Persian poets before him, Rumi did not view poetry composition as a job. He instead belonged to the popular poetic tradition, whose poems were often composed and performed (i.e., sung) by unlearned or even illiterate poets in a specific meter, and which would circulate mouth to mouth (Lewis 327). In his study of Persian lyrical poetry, Sirus Shamisa points out that Rumi composed poems extemporaneously in response to personal events, not in a solid poetic fashion, but in an almost trance-like state of mind. This type of composition produces a new style, one in which the old rules of prosody and diction are violated and new, non-conventional metaphors spring out: Here, say something new To refresh this world and that, Release the limitless world from All its limitations. (Rumi, Divan vs. 546) ‫ﻫﯿﻦ ﺳﺨﻦ ﺗﺎﺯﻩ ﺑﮕﻮ ﺗﺎ ﺩﻭ ﺟﻬﺎﻥ ﺗﺎﺯﻩ ﺷﻮﺩ‬ ‫ﻭﺍﺭﻫﺪ ﺍﺯ ﺣﺪ ﺟﻬﺎﻥ ﺑﯽﺣﺪ ﻭ ﺍﻧﺪﺍﺯﻩ ﺷﻮﺩ‬ (‫ ﻏﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۵۴۶)

His poetry develops an ecstatic quality not found in some of the more recherché verse of professional poets (Lewis 562). To limit one’s poetical creations within a professional framework would be like following an already established linguistic structure, and for Cixous it would be a form of phallocentrism. The lack of professional concerns liberates Rumi’s poetic language from convention so that he can explore new dimensions of language. 7 He is not concerned about aesthetics, literary style, or word choice, and sometimes creates new words never used before. He occasionally expresses frustration with the constraints of meter,

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famously remarking in verse: “All this ta-dum-da-dum ta-dum-da-dum just kills me!” (Divan vs. 38). The next section will study his language and style in detail. PAINTING AND POETRY In the years of Whitman’s life American painting went from Romanticism (also known as the pre-impressionist movement) 8 with its especial emphasis on landscape and American natural wonders to impressionism and its vivid colors and inclination toward the portrayal of everyday life. Although both nature and everyday life appear in Whitman’s poetry, it seems that in terms of ideology and its general mode of understanding Whitman’s poetic style is closer to the impressionist school of painting. The founder of impressionist painting, Claude Monet, uses the term impression in referring to one of his paintings, “Impression: Sunrise” (1872). Landscape is nothing but an impression, and an instantaneous one, hence this label that was given us, by the way because of me. I had sent a thing done in Le Havre, from my window, sun in the mist and a few masts of boats sticking up in the foreground. . . . They asked me for a title for the catalogue, it couldn’t really be taken for a view of Le Havre, and I said: “Put Impression.” (qtd. in Thomson and Howard 16)

It was from this painting that the name impressionism was derived. Impressionist painting was characterized by open composition, emphasis on accurate depiction of light in its changing qualities (often accentuating the effects of the passage of time), portrayal of common, ordinary subjects, and inclusion of movement as a crucial element of human perception. Monet remarks, Impression—I was certain of it. I was just telling myself that, since I was impressed, there had to be some impression in it . . . and what freedom, what ease of workmanship! Wallpaper in its embryonic state is more finished than that seascape. (ibid. 43)

The capture of the momentary impression (or the capture of time via painting) exists in other works of Monet where he tries to draw a single image from different perspectives or at different times of day. For instance, “Haystacks” is composed of a twenty-five canvas series in which stacks of hay in the field after the harvest are pictured twenty-five times. Monet began this painting in the autumn of 1890 and continued through the following spring. “Haystacks” is known for its thematic use of repetition to show differences in the perception of light across various times of day, seasons, and types of weather. In his painting “Landscape With Viaduct” (1874) another eminent member of the school, Paul Cézanne, painted a mountain (Mont Sainte-Victoire) sixty times and from different positions on different days. In order to expand on the concept of captur-

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ing time, different painters of the school occasionally gathered to paint the same objects from different perspectives. Monet’s “La Grenouillere” and Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s “La Grenouillere” were painted as Monet and Renoir stood next to each other at the riverside of the Seine and painted a boating establishment and the people around it. American impressionism as practiced by American artists during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries demonstrates the same attention to temporality and repetition. According to Jessica Haigney, Whitman was interested in various schools of painting, while his own writing style shows an inclination toward impressionist modes of expression. She reflects that Whitman’s use of “concrete sense impressions, particularly in his catalogues,” combined with his use of “the present tense,” is designed to capture the immediacy of personal impressions. Through the medium of language, Whitman is able “to enumerate the impressions of all his senses and establish through shifting forms of the present tense the immediacy as well as the timelessness of those impressions” (Haigney 86). According to Stephan Black, Whitman’s poetry during the Civil War can be thought of as impressionist, but he attributes this to the fact that the Civil War was the first American war which was extensively photographed, photography having done much to give birth to impressionist painting: “He now wrote impressionist sketches of Civil War scenes, Drum-Taps, sketches that work in words as impressionist paintings work in colors” (LeMaster and Kummings 353). Scholars have discussed a variety of thematic and structural affinities between Whitman’s verse and the contemporaneous painting. Whitman’s fascination with the power inscribed in visual images contributes significantly toward a visual emphasis in his poetry. In the twentieth century Whitman’s verse has stimulated considerable response among painters of widely varying stylistic, thematic, and philosophical persuasions. Especially in the early decades of the century, American painters such as Robert Henry, Marsden Hartley, and Joseph Stella discovered in Whitman’s poetry an inspiring native voice for their “excursion into the unmapped terrain of visual modernism” (ibid. 503). Whitman’s interest in photography, which is in line with his interest in painting, is typical of the first generation of humans who could see their life in a sequence of images. “No man has been photographed more than I have,” Whitman writes (Traubel et al. 45). According to Ed Folsom, “through the development of techniques like the poetic catalogue, Whitman attempted to create a poetic field just as cluttered as a photograph; he would try to maintain an open attentiveness to the things of the world so that he could absorb in his poem anything that the sun illuminated, just as photos did” (LeMaster and Kummings 518). 9 Above all Whitman’s poetry is similar to impressionist painting and to photography for its efforts to capture fleeting experience. Each line of Whitman’s poetry resembles a quick touch of the brush, the final result of

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which is a collection of transient thoughts rather than a unified message or argument. Repetition is allowed and the main aim is to capture the essence of the moment in its articulation in language. The non-traditional structure of his poetry creates a sense of spontaneity and of speed of composition. As the heaviness of traditional rhyme disappears, Whitman’s language becomes more experimental and alert to the movement of time. The present moment is not less valuable than the past or future, and his form conveys this. As John Matteson suggests, in the 1855 and 1856 editions of Leaves, Whitman’s meditations on time emphasize natural cycles as an emblem of an eternal now (LeMaster and Kummings 722). Whitman writes, Swiftly I shrivel at the thought of . . . Time and Space and Death . . . Lo, thou gently masterest the orbs, Thou master Time, smilest content at Death. (Whitman 538)

The possibility of mastering time is juxtaposed with the possibility of mastering death, but time is superior to death here. The attempt to grasp the gist of time through language and prevent momentary death creates Whitman’s dwelling in the eternal now. Whitman’s implied reader is also a part of his spontaneity of language. Unlike contemporary Transcendentalist writers, Whitman addresses the common people in his poetry. The crowd, which is not divided by social status, lives in and depends on the moment, on present time. Economically speaking, the common man does not have the leisure to sit and plan for future; he is a daily breadwinner. He works and is paid daily. His wellbeing depends on smaller portions of time, days, and hours of work. These are the people who concern Whitman. In the introduction to Leaves, he remarks, The genius of the United States is not best or most in its executives or legislatures, nor in its ambassadors or authors or colleges or churches or parlors, nor even in its newspapers or inventors . . . but always most in the common people. Their manners, speech, dress, friendships . . . the picturesque looseness of their carriage, their deathless attachment to freedom, their aversion to everything indecorous or soft or mean, the practical acknowledgment of the citizens of one State by the citizens of all other States . . . the President’s taking off his hat to them, not they to him—these are unrhymed poetry. (Whitman 5–6)

As Whitman explains elsewhere in Leaves, the “great masters,” the “known leaders,” the “inventors,” the “rich,” and the “pious and distinguished” may serve well enough as subjects for other poets, but he “shall go with the rest”: the “ignorant,” the “wicked,” the “infected,” the “murderer,” the “mean person,” the “shallow people,” the “prostitute,” the “mocker of religion” (105), the “carpenter,” the “children,” the “duckshooter,” the “farmer,” the “lunatic,” the “printer,” the “machinist” (200).

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This desire to connect to “powerful uneducated persons” (11) shows an inclination toward simplicity and an unaffected understanding. In talking about the common people, Whitman’s application of the term “going” is noticeable. The speaker tells us about the common people as “they go” and as he wants to “go with” them (105). The repetition of the term “going” suggests a type of temporality in which the common people come into and go out of the speaker’s life. The desire to “go with” them on the speaker’s part is a desire to stop time and capture the moment. The emblematic figures such as American presidents are not the ones with whom the speaker would like to connect since they wouldn’t simply come and go in his life. The emblematic figures are connected to a social and historical structure that freezes time. The image of common people by contrast is free to move between layers of time and history without being registered or dissected. This poetical portrayal of common people “passing” resembles the impressionist attempt to draw “common subjects under fleeting light.” The same inclination toward momentary experience exists in Rumi. He remarks, “Sufi ibn al-waqt bashad ay rafiq” (the Sufi is the creature of the moment) (Masnavi I ch. 6). In fact ibn al-waqti (to be son of the moment) is generally considered a characteristic of the Sufi. Ibn al-waqt (the son of the moment) is a person who lets time rule her/his life. In this state the person does not let her/his feelings and thoughts fill the moment of his life and instead lets the time feed her/his feelings and thoughts. Such a view evacuates existence of the fear of time and mortality, and challenges the meaning of death as an end. As a result of ongoing daily practices, the Sufi learns to respect momentary impressions. The term waqt means “moment” or “present moment.” Ibn Arabi defines waqt as “That through which and upon which you are in the time of the state” (25). Here by “state” (haal) he means the situation at the moment, the actual situation of the thing at the time in question, which is this instant. In other words, the “moment” is what defines your own situation at any given time. We could paraphrase this by saying that the “moment” is that which is present with you and with which you are present at the instant that divides the past from the future. 10 Similar to Whitman, Rumi shows an immense consideration for the common people. He usually talks about the people who toil in everyday life, and his narratives usually have a common person as their main character (shopkeepers, farmers, shepherds, carpenters, peasants, vendors, the physically disabled, servants, embalmers, bards, tavern keepers, jewelry makers, beggars, thieves, etc.). A large part of Rumi’s narrative happens in the bazaar and among the people of the bazaar. Even the appearance of the beloved and the sama happen in the bazaar. The fact that the characters of his poetry mostly belong to the bazaar helped his poetry to return to the bazaar and become popular among common people. This is due to both its simple language and its everyday concerns. In

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fact, Shams might help Rumi to set himself free from more sophisticated and scholarly spaces like the madrasa and mosque to move into more common and public spaces like the bazaar and tavern. (The first exercise that some Sufis go through to break their ego is doing petty jobs in public spaces. For example there are narratives about the Sufi masters demanding that their disciples practice common humility by living as beggars or peddlers selling wine or bang to the public). Moreover, the usage of vulgar themes in some of the stories in the Masnavi shows Rumi’s inclination toward common subject matter. He insinuates a desire for impropriety practiced by the Sufis (especially the malamatis) and carelessness for social norms and etiquette. The content of this work is considered non-mystical, obscene, and hazl (bawdy) by many scholars. 11 For example, here is the story of Juha in the Masnavi: A prankster named Juha disguised himself with a woman’s veil and sat among a group of women at a religious gathering. Someone asked the preacher whether the presence of pubic hair would invalidate the ritual prayer. He replied that long pubic hair is objectionable during prayer and that anything longer than a grain of barley had to be removed for the daily ritual prayer to be perfected. The prankster turned to the woman next to him and said: “O sister, would you for God’s sake bring your hand forward and check the length of my pubic hair?” The woman put her hand in the prankster’s trousers and it collided with his penis. She screamed loudly, which caused the preacher to say: “My preaching touched her heart!” The prankster corrected him saying: “No, it did not touch her heart, it touched her hand. Woe to her if it had touched her heart, o wise one!” (Masnavi V ch. 140. qtd. in Tourage 58)

The transformation of heart, which is the main intention in telling this story, is further expanded in the rest of the poem. The reference to the mosque and the uselessness of listening to religious principles through clergy (instead of achieving a personal perception of the divine) has been graphically pictured through Juha and his repulsive act that stays longer in one’s mind than would writing in a normal didactic style. The primary function of vulgar words in Rumi, according to Tourage, is mystical. This language, whether through its bawdy tone or tricky characters of Juha, connects with the public and communicates Rumi’s mystical knowledge with them. However, it would be a mistake to view bawdy material in the Masnavi as a mixture of the sacred and profane. For Rumi there is nothing “profane” about the coarse imagery and vulgar words he uses. Vulgar desires and behaviors incorporated in Rumi’s poetry show a lack of concern for propriety and a desire to push mysticism closer to the common, unrefined, and simple. 12 Thinking about the similarities between this approach and impressionist painting, one can see impressionism as a desire to emphasize the common and the vulgar as opposed to the refined style of classical painting. An example among the first paintings of the school is Edouard Ma-

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net’s “Le déjeuner sur l’herbe” (“The Luncheon on the Grass,” 1863) originally titled “Le Bain” (“The Bath”). The painting shows the juxtaposition of a female nude with two fully dressed men in a rural setting. The darkness of clothing in the two men next to the brightness of the female skin conveys the impressionist desire for the natural body and common against the refined portrayal of the human body in sublime shapes (as pictured in the pre-impressionist era through Greek gods and goddesses). Since the common people were a threat to bourgeois art, the Salon jury rejected this painting, resulting in artistic and public notoriety for Manet. It seems that, in painting the common people, impressionism introduces a new dimension to time, and releases it from a linear framework in which the works of the “present” painters should be fed with the sublime themes or subjects of the “past.” By depicting a common subject that is not immersed in a tradition that uses principles of composition, impressionism denies the notion of history as something belonging to the past. It shows the ongoing nature of history. In addition to capturing the passage of time, the simplicity of language and theme in Rumi and Whitman envisages the possibility of incorporating the voices of the masses in the creation of a democratic community. Instead of the refinement of language, their focus was on the portrayal of the common. Similar to the fleeting light in Monet’s multiple canvases, the commonness of language and speed of composition in Whitman and Rumi allow for a multiplicity of voices and perspectives which move away from a known center (whether it is classical tradition, scholarly styles and thinking, religious authority, or the linear notion of history and time). Centralized, canonical, public understanding and narratives are dismissed in favor of momentary experiences that gradually and constantly reshape and redefine history. THE GOOD/EVIL BINARY The confusion created by binary thinking has ethical implications, which is to say that a systematic approach to morality simply opposing good and evil can be questioned. The struggle between good and evil is a part of many different world religions, of course. Orthodox Islam believes in the pious self and the devilish self (or the devil) as these are in constant struggle for mastery over each other. The biblical tradition, likewise, encourages God in His encounter with Satan in a battle for goodness. Hinduism and Buddhism through the concept of the cosmic good versus cosmic evil reinforce binaries. In Zoroastrianism, there is an ongoing fight between Ormazd and Ahriman, the divine spirit and the devilish one. The influence of these mindsets on creating an apocalyptic image of life in which real socio-historical events become manifestations of conflict between good and evil forces—a struggle that is eventually controlled by

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“good’s omnipotence”—is a great threat to human community. The desire to spread “our good” and diminish “their evil” which appears in various forms of visionary duties from Christian missionaries to Islamic holy jihad too often creates misery and harm in the name of spreading good. By contrast, a world in which binary thinking does not limit the definition of ethics is one that experiences ongoing renewal and evolution of ethical acts. Rumi and Whitman’s texts recurrently offer such an image and in doing so contribute to deconstructing ethics as a fixed structure defined based on binaries. While the conventional texts usually describe ethics through black and white human characteristics, theirs create a version of individuality that refuse a ready-made notion of ethical good and evil. Disciplinary approaches divide the study of evil by the ways in which they define or explain it. Psychological studies of evil focus on the individuals who have committed evil deeds. Theological approaches deal with evil as sin. Philosophical works take up evil as a problem about whether or not, and how, there can be an all-good, all-powerful God given the extent and kinds of evil in the world today. For the sociologist, evil is studied as in part or wholly the result of social forces at work shaping and reshaping individuals and institutions. History books narrate particular events deemed evil. In every case, evil is seen as the absence of good, and cannot be perceived without it. Although Rumi and Whitman also have some judgmental moments of deciding between what is good and what is evil, the general tone of their writing is inclined toward a democratic manifestation of every human characteristic, including those known as evil—anger, envy, despair, lust, greed, sloth, fear, hatred, etc. They do not attempt to purify the man through eliminating negativity and attaining a positive psychology. Neither do they trust the ascetic Islamic or Puritan programs to suppress negative human characteristics in favor of the positive ones. They distance themselves from the binary oppositions of various moral traditions that emphasize ideal humanity as absolute purity and goodness. It is by acknowledging evil as a normal component of human life that their texts highlight the limitations of an ethical understanding based on binaries. An example of Rumi’s rejection of good/evil as opposite elements of an ethical binary appears in the extended poem of “The Devil’s Debate with Moawiya” from the second book of the Masnavi, which puts forth this argument: It is related that the caliph Moawiya 13 was once asleep in a corner of his palace; the door of the palace fastened from the inside. . . . All of a sudden a man awakened him; when he opened his eyes the man had vanished . . . [Moawiya] went round the palace, searching for a sign of the vanished man. Behind the door he saw an unfortunate wretch who was hiding his face between the door and the curtain.

Compromising Binaries “Hey, who are you? What is your name?” he demanded . . . The other said, “my name is Iblis the Damned.” “Why are you so anxious to wake me up?” asked Moawiya. “Tell me the truth. Do not speak at cross purposes.” “The time of prayer is almost over,” said Iblis. “You must run quickly to the mosque. ‘Hasten your devotions before the time is past’: so spoke the Prophet, threading a pearl of truth.” “No, no,” Moawiya replied. “It would never be your object to be my guide to any good . . .” “At first I was an angel,” Iblis replied. “I trod the path of obedience to God with all my soul. I was the confidante of all who follow the Way; I was the confederate of those who dwell near the Throne. How should one forget his first vocation? . . . I too have been one of those intoxicated by this wine; I too have loved His court . . . the seed of love for Him was sown in my heart. I have good days from Fortune; I have drunk the water of mercy in the springtime. . . . Was it not He that lifted me out of non-existence? Many are the loving kindnesses that He has shown me. . . . He would lay the hand of compassion on my head . . . Who found milk for me in the season of my infancy? Who rocked my cradle? It was He. From whom did I drink milk other than His milk? Who nurtured me but His providence? The habit that has entered into men’s being with their mother’s milk, how can it be expelled from them? . . . During these few days since He drove me from His presence, my eyes have continued fixed upon His beauteous face. . . . Every one being preoccupied with the secondary cause, I do not regard the cause, which is temporal, for the temporal only occasions something temporal . . . granting it was out of envy that I would not bow down to Adam, yet that envy sprang from love, not from rebellion. . . . Since no other play was possible on His board, and He said, ‘Play!’ what more can I do? I played the only move that was open to me—I cast myself into calamity. Even in calamity I taste His delights: mated by Him am I, mated by Him am I, mated by Him am I. . . .” “All this is true,” replied the caliph. “But your share in these things is lacking. . . . You are fire: shall I not be burnt by you?” (Masnavi II ch. 62–75) 14 ‫ﺩﺭ ﺧﺒﺮ ﺁﻣﺪ ﮐﻪ ﺧﺎﻝ ﻣﺆﻣﻨﺎﻥ ﺧﻔﺘﻪ ﺑﺪ ﺩﺭ ﻗﺼﺮ ﺑﺮ ﺑﺴﺘﺮ ﺳﺘﺎﻥ‬ ‫ﻗﺼﺮ ﺭﺍ ﺍﺯ ﺍﻧﺪﺭﻭﻥ ﺩﺭ ﺑﺴﺘﻪ ﺑﻮﺩ ﮐﺰ ﺯﯾﺎﺭﺗﻬﺎﯼ ﻣﺮﺩﻡ ﺧﺴﺘﻪ ﺑﻮﺩ‬ ‫ﻧﺎﮔﻬﺎﻥ ﻣﺮﺩﯼ ﻭﺭﺍ ﺑﯿﺪﺍﺭ ﮐﺮﺩ ﭼﺸﻢ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺑﮕﺸﺎﺩ ﭘﻨﻬﺎﻥ ﮔﺸﺖ ﻣﺮﺩ‬ ‫ ﮔﻔﺖ ﺍﻧﺪﺭ ﻗﺼﺮ ﮐﺲ ﺭﺍ ﺭﻩ ﻧﺒﻮﺩ ﮐﯿﺴﺖ ﮐﯿﻦ ﮔﺴﺘﺎﺧﯽ ﻭ ﺟﺮﺍﺕ ﻧﻤﻮﺩ‬. . . ‫ ﮔﻔﺖ ﻫﯽ ﺗﻮ ﮐﯿﺴﺘﯽ ﻧﺎﻡ ﺗﻮ ﭼﯿﺴﺖ ﮔﻔﺖ ﻧﺎﻣﻢ ﻓﺎﺵ ﺍﺑﻠﯿﺲ ﺷﻘﯿﺴﺖ‬. . . ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﻫﻨﮕﺎﻡ ﻧﻤﺎﺯ ﺁﺧﺮ ﺭﺳﯿﺪ ﺳﻮﯼ ﻣﺴﺠﺪ ﺯﻭﺩ ﻣﯽﺑﺎﯾﺪ ﺩﻭﯾﺪ‬ ‫ﻋﺠﻠﻮﺍ ﺍﻟﻄﺎﻋﺎﺕ ﻗﺒﻞ ﺍﻟﻔﻮﺕ ﮔﻔﺖ ﻣﺼﻄﻔﯽ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺩﺭ ﻣﻌﻨﯽ ﻣﯽﺑﺴﻔﺖ‬ ‫ ﮔﻔﺖ ﻧﯽ ﻧﯽ ﺍﯾﻦ ﻏﺮﺽ ﻧﺒﻮﺩ ﺗﺮﺍ ﮐﻪ ﺑﺨﯿﺮﯼ ﺭﻩﻧﻤﺎ ﺑﺎﺷﯽ ﻣﺮﺍ‬. . . ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﻣﺎ ﺍﻭﻝ ﻓﺮﺷﺘﻪ ﺑﻮﺩﻩﺍﯾﻢ ﺭﺍﻩ ﻃﺎﻋﺖ ﺭﺍ ﺑﺠﺎﻥ ﭘﯿﻤﻮﺩﻩﺍﯾﻢ‬ ‫ﺳﺎﻟﮑﺎﻥ ﺭﺍﻩ ﺭﺍ ﻣﺤﺮﻡ ﺑﺪﯾﻢ ﺳﺎﮐﻨﺎﻥ ﻋﺮﺵ ﺭﺍ ﻫﻤﺪﻡ ﺑﺪﯾﻢ‬ ‫ﭘﯿﺸﻪ ﺍﻭﻝ ﮐﺠﺎ ﺍﺯ ﺩﻝ ﺭﻭﺩ ﻣﻬﺮ ﺍﻭﻝ ﮐﯽ ﺯ ﺩﻝ ﺑﯿﺮﻭﻥ ﺷﻮﺩ‬ ٔ ... ‫ﻣﺎ ﻫﻢ ﺍﺯ ﻣﺴﺘﺎﻥ ﺍﯾﻦ ﻣﯽ ﺑﻮﺩﻩﺍﯾﻢ ﻋﺎﺷﻘﺎﻥ ﺩﺭﮔﻪ ﻭﯼ ﺑﻮﺩﻩﺍﯾﻢ‬

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Chapter 4 ‫ ﻧﺎﻑ ﻣﺎ ﺑﺮ ﻣﻬﺮ ﺍﻭ ﺑﺒﺮﯾﺪﻩﺍﻧﺪ ﻋﺸﻖ ﺍﻭ ﺩﺭ ﺟﺎﻥ ﻣﺎ ﮐﺎﺭﯾﺪﻩﺍﻧﺪ‬. . . ‫ﺍﺯ ﺑﻦ ﺩﻧﺪﺍﻥ ﺑﮕﻔﺘﺶ ﺑﻬﺮ ﺁﻥ ﮐﺮﺩﻣﺖ ﺑﯿﺪﺍﺭ ﻣﯽﺩﺍﻥ ﺍﯼ ﻓﻼﻥ‬ ‫ﺗﺎ ﺭﺳﯽ ﺍﻧﺪﺭ ﺟﻤﺎﻋﺖ ﺩﺭ ﻧﻤﺎﺯ ﺍﺯ ﭘﯽ ﭘﯿﻐﺎﻣﺒﺮ ﺩﻭﻟﺖﻓﺮﺍﺯ‬ ‫ﮔﺮ ﻧﻤﺎﺯ ﺍﺯ ﻭﻗﺖ ﺭﻓﺘﯽ ﻣﺮ ﺗﺮﺍ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺟﻬﺎﻥ ﺗﺎﺭﯾﮏ ﮔﺸﺘﯽ ﺑﯽ ﺿﯿﺎ‬ ‫ﺍﺯ ﻏﺒﯿﻦ ﻭ ﺩﺭﺩ ﺭﻓﺘﯽ ﺍﺷﮑﻬﺎ ﺍﺯ ﺩﻭ ﭼﺸﻢ ﺗﻮ ﻣﺜﺎﻝ ﻣﺸﮑﻬﺎ‬ ‫ﺫﻭﻕ ﺩﺍﺭﺩ ﻫﺮ ﮐﺴﯽ ﺩﺭ ﻃﺎﻋﺘﯽ ﻻﺟﺮﻡ ﻧﺸﮑﯿﺒﺪ ﺍﺯ ﻭﯼ ﺳﺎﻋﺘﯽ‬ (‫ ﺩﻓﺘﺮ ﺩﻭﻡ‬،‫)ﻣﺜﻨﻮﯼ ﻣﻌﻨﻮﯼ‬

The debate continues, and each time the Devil’s explanation is refused by Moawiya as deception compared to the orthodox teaching. The story ends as the Devil confesses that he had an ill intention in awakening Moawiya and that he did not wish Moawiya to have a hearty prayer. Accepting his vice at the end, the Devil says that he cannot desire anything good by nature. “I am the enemy, and my work is trickery and hatred” (ibid.). The story ends by admitting good as the privileged side of good/evil binary. However, considering the general tone of the poem, it seems that the poem at length does not admit such a binary. The Devil argues that, as the cause of evil, he does not oppose God: “in calamity I taste His delights: mated by Him am I” (ibid.). 15 The Devil, as pictured by the systematic religion, is the opposite of God, and serves as the justification of the evil in the world. The poem’s Devil, by contrast, is not an autonomous subject acting against God but instead is the creation of the same God who collaborates with him. The poem turns the simplicity of the orthodox view of evil into a mental dilemma caused by the Devil’s love for God. 16 While it seems that the poem is a declaration of the Ashari idea that both good and evil are the products of God’s will and therefore both are respectable, it is evident that the text does not aim to totally dismiss the good/evil binary but tries to redefine it in a way that the dichotomy is blurred and hard to tell apart. Presenting the Devil’s responses as longer and more detailed than Moawiya’s questions, the poem implies a desire to explore and defend the ambiguous nature of evil that it proposes. God, in this sense, is imagined as a center but a de-centered center and which is in play and collective. Rumi’s view of evil is consistent with the Islamic belief that “Everything comes from God and returns to Him” (Quran 21:93). Contrary to the orthodox view that the existence of evil demonstrates the lack of perfection in God, Rumi explains that the existence of evil manifests the perfection of God’s Knowledge. For long his grace has held you in embrace; Not for one breath is he not where you face . . . Since evil too comes from Him, you feel doubt— His grace can have no flaws; it’s pure throughout: Creating evil is part of His perfection (Rumi, Masnavi II ch. 2542–45) 17

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‫ﺩﯾﺮ ﮔﯿﺮﺩ ﺳﺨﺖ ﮔﯿﺮﺩ ﺭﺣﻤﺘﺶ‬ ‫ ﯾﮏ ﺩﻣﺖ ﻏﺎﯾﺐ ﻧﺪﺍﺭﺩ ﺣﻀﺮﺗﺶ‬. . . ‫ﻭﺭ ﺗﻮ ﮔﻮﯾﯽ ﻫﻢ ﺑﺪﯾﻬﺎ ﺍﺯ ﻭﯾﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﻟﯿﮏ ﺁﻥ ﻧﻘﺼﺎﻥ ﻓﻀﻞ ﺍﻭ ﮐﯿﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﺁﻥ ﺑﺪﯼ ﺩﺍﺩﻥ ﮐﻤﺎﻝ ﺍﻭﺳﺖ ﻫﻢ‬ ‫ﻣﻦ ﻣﺜﺎﻟﯽ ﮔﻮﯾﻤﺖ ﺍﯼ ﻣﺤﺘﺸﻢ‬ (‫ ﺩﻓﺘﺮ ﺩﻭﻡ‬،‫)ﻣﺜﻨﻮﯼ ﻣﻌﻨﻮﯼ‬

In addition to confirming the existence of evil in the world, Rumi admits the evil within as it is manifested through our negative characteristics. 18 Unlike his predecessor Imam Al-Ghazali who believes that goodness proceeds from suppressing one’s desire and anger (as he himself has done through “a long inward struggle” with internal evil, and through “self-discipline”) (Al-Gazzali), Rumi believes that anger and other negative characteristics might be experienced and resolved (if ever) by living with them. In affirming negativities, Rumi establishes a mental state in which all human characteristics are permitted and none is suppressed for the sake of another. Whitman presents the same concern in his depiction of the human being as a whole. Not hiding evil under the guise of good, Whitman invites his readers to move beyond the known Puritan boundaries and experience every potential good or evil that they possess. The Puritan tradition teaches that man is by nature decadent and unable to exercise free will, and that God, never approving sin, limits and overrules it for good. The word “Puritan” is commonly used to denote strict morality in conduct, and anyone that professes severe morality and advocates purity is known as a Puritan. Puritanism accepts the interpretations of John Calvin (1509–1564) concerning the nature of man, free will, and other basic concepts. The Calvinistic concept of “total depravity,” also called “total inability,” asserts that as a consequence of the fall of man into sin every person is enslaved to sin. People are not by nature inclined to love God but rather to serve their own interests and reject the rule of God. Thus, all people by their own faculties are morally unable to choose to follow God and be saved because they are unwilling to do so out of the necessity of their own natures (Steele et al. 25). This doctrine is derived from the explanation of Original Sin as a result of Adam and Eve’s fall. Calvin writes, The mind of man is so entirely alienated from the righteousness of God that he cannot conceive, desire, or design any thing but what is wicked, distorted, foul, impure, and iniquitous; that his heart is so thoroughly envenomed by sin that it can breathe out nothing but corruption and rottenness; that if some men occasionally make a show of goodness, their mind is ever interwoven with hypocrisy and deceit, their soul inwardly bound with the fetters of wickedness. (Calvin and Lewis 18)

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The Calvinist tradition shows that good belongs exclusively to God and evil belongs to the human being. The binary is double, though: evil is the opposite of good and man is the opposite of God. In this formula, the source of evil is separate from the source of good, and the human being is capable of functioning in opposition to God. Dwelling on double binary oppositions the Calvinist tradition creates a limited version of subjectivity in which man cannot create good and the creation of good is limited to a divinity. Against this background, Walt Whitman emerges to show that man is not the opposite of the Divine. 19 Defying Puritan ideals, he emphasizes the physical and moral freedom of man. Omnes! omnes! let others ignore what they may, I make the poem of evil also, I commemorate that part also, I am myself just as much evil as good, and my nation is—and I say there is in fact no evil, (Or if there is I say it is just as important to you, to the land or to me, as any thing else.) I too, following many and follow’d by many, inaugurate a religion, I descend into the arena, (It may be I am destin’d to utter the loudest cries there, the winner’s pealing shouts, Who knows? They may rise from me yet, and soar above every thing.) (Whitman 179–80)

Giving voice to the good and evil in human nature, Whitman aims to advance from Puritan ideology and inaugurate a religion of his own. In 1888, Whitman received a short friendly note from the Quaker poet John Greenleaf Whittier. Horace Traubel (Whitman’s biographer) asked him whether Whittier had finally committed himself to Leaves of Grass. “Good heavens no!” said Whitman. “He has too much respect for himself, or his Puritan conscience to take such a leap” (Traubel et al. II: 125). Whitman was well aware of the gap that separated him from the Puritan conscience. When asked why he initially didn’t write an introduction to Leaves, he replies, “Why should I?—The book itself explains all I wish explained: is personal, confessional: a variegated product, in fact— streaks of white and black, light and darkness, threads of evil and good running in and out and across and through achieving in the end some sort of unity” (ibid. 121). As the fusion of “evil and good” creates unity in Leaves, Whitman is disinclined to admit the Puritan “good” (in isolation from evil) as the ending result of his poetry. The question of good/evil is important since the lack of understanding of the binary harms societies. In considering evil as a political problem, politicians are unlikely to question the philosophical tradition behind socially constructed concepts of evil. But when they do, their focus is often on the conditions that are conducive to widespread violence and crime, rather than on understanding evil. Denouncing the idea of human

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evil as an opposite of the spiritual good, Rumi and Whitman introduce a morality that has more complex values, and includes admitting and as a result alleviating evil. Evil cannot be defined by mental and theological structures that ceaselessly guard against and define it. And if it is defined, it is violated by the very tradition that claims to be anti-violence. Morality is the ability to bring good and evil out of the classical binary, and to show that evil can exist side-by-side good, not as an opposing concept, but as two elements among many other elements of life. To see evil as the extreme opposite of every good moral act is to create more terror by trying to overthrow it. NOTES 1. However, in “The Laugh of the Medusa,” Cixous writes, “It is impossible to define a feminine practice of writing, and this is an impossibility that will remain, for this practice can never be theorized, enclosed, coded-which doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist” (883). Based on this statement, the attachment of any specific writing style to femininity seems to be outside Cixous’s own theoretical framework. 2. Among other feminist responses to Whitman’s representation of women are attempts to contextualize Whitman’s poetry by studying the presence of women in his life. Though Whitman’s representation of women is not consistently in touch with contemporary feminism, it often breaks from traditional and Puritan views of women. One way that feminist critics account for Whitman’s view of women is to note the presence of actual women in his life who influenced or educated him. According to Sherry Ceniza, the strongest influence in his life was his mother, Louisa Van Velsor Whitman. Despite her lack of formal education and the circumstances of her times, she prepared the way for Whitman to listen to and admire women such as Frances Wright, whom he placed alongside Elisa Hicks and Thomas Paine as three influential figures in American history. When Whitman heard and read women’s words in the 1840s and more pervasively in the 1850s, Louisa’s essence enabled him to listen intently to what they were saying. His friendship with Abby Hills Price, Paulina Wright Davis, and Ernestine L. Rose, all activists in the women’s rights cause, as well as with antislavery supporters, attests to his ability and readiness to listen to and learn from reformminded women. In 1842, at the age of twenty three, Whitman came across George Sand’s novel Consuelo (1842) in his mother’s library, and read and reread it in various translations. Sand’s novel is the unconventional portrait of a wife who tries to free herself from the prison of an unhappy marriage in a society that emphasized male domination. Whitman thought Consuelo “truly a masterpiece . . . the noblest in many respects, on its own field, in all literature” (Traubel et al. 423). According to critics (Betsy Erkkila in Walt Whitman Among the French, and G. R. Roy in “Walt Whitman, George Sand and Certain French Socialists”) this work was seminal for Whitman, perhaps the work that inspired his democratic views of men and women. In Consuelo, Whitman was to find nourishment for much of the political, religious, and artistic vision that he would employ in Leaves of Grass. According to Andy Moore, it was “particularly in Sand that Whitman’s liberated perspective toward sex, the body, spirituality, and equality for women took shape” (LeMaster and Kummings 606). Whitman was a fervent reader of George Sand all his adult life, and she remained a vibrant force in his work. Other feminist scholars argue that women readers have admired Leaves since the beginning. In 1856 Fanny Fern—newspaper columnist, humorist, novelist—wrote in praise of Whitman and of Leaves in the New York Ledger (LeMaster and Kummings 798). Four years later, three women wrote in Henry Clapp’s Saturday Press defending

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Whitman’s representation of women and defending him against charges of immorality. Adah Menken lauded Whitman’s thinking and writing in 1860, and Eliza Fernham quoted Whitman in her 1864 Woman and Her Era. The decade of the 1870s included the publication of Ann Gilchurist’s “A Woman’s Estimate of Walt Whitman” and Nora Perry’s “A Few Words about Walt Whitman.” In the decades of the 1880s many women wrote positive reviews of Whitman’s work, and one woman, Elizabeth Porter Gould, published an edition of selected poems from Leaves, calling it Gems from Walt Whitman (ibid.). Positive responses to Whitman’s views of women continue, but one negative response has countered them: D. H. Lawrence’s article on Whitman written and published in 1921 and included in revised form in 1923 in his Studies in Classic American Literature. Lawrence’s negative views of Whitman’s representation of women is still repeated as authoritative in present-day scholarship (e.g., by Arthur Wrobel and Robyn Wiegman), even though scholars including Harold Aspiz, Jerome Loving, and Betsy Erkkila offer readings which, in large measure, contradict Lawrence’s. Equally, Whitman’s 1856 letter of reply to Emerson needs to be taken into consideration when reading negative feminist reviews of Leaves. Whitman writes, “This filthy law [that one cannot mention sexuality in writing] has to be repealed—it stands in the way of great reforms. Of women just as much as men, it is the interest that there should be no infidelism about sex, but perfect faith.” He then states, “Women in These States approach the day of that organic equality with men, without which, I see, men cannot have organic equality among themselves” (Whitman 1358). 3. Cixous’s bisexuality locates repressed feminine components in both men and women. The “other bisexuality” represents the potential for plural sexualities that multiply differences. 4. Trans. J. A. Mojaddedi. The Masnavi I: 142. 5. Furthermore, Rumi broke with tradition to introduce a gender-equal performance of the sama. Rumi, unlike the orthodox Muslims, remained respectful toward music and dance. Meeting his male and female students, Rumi conducted the sama in public. Other Sufi orders and Rumi’s contemporaries usually condemned such practices and were against the presence of women in the sama (Taheri). 6. The realm of Islamic mysticism, according to Annemarie Schimmel, is the one area in Islam in which women enjoy fully equal rights with men (Schimmel, My Soul is a Woman 15). In addition to Rumi’s actual connection to women, it is important to understand that the Sufi tradition to which he belongs is originally feminine. Rumi’s teaching is connected to the legacy of the Iraqi Sufi poet, Rabiʿa Basri (Rabiʿa alʿAdawiyya, 717–801 CE). Rabiʿa’s name heralds the beginning of the mystical movement in Islam. Mystical Sufism can be considered as the feminine version of Islam with Rabiʿa as its practical founding mother. This version is less focused on Islamic principles and laws and is more concerned with the “inner,” mystical, affectionate, psycho-spiritual dimensions of Islam (ibid.). 7. Since Farsi is a gender-neutral language, Persian lyrical poetry in general contributes to the complication of gender roles. Critics are usually divided on the issue of the addressee in Persian poetry, and, based on whom the addressee is thought to be, a poet can be considered a Sufi, a lover of women, a lover of men, a lover of God, a lover of monarchy, and so forth. Likewise, the object of love in Rumi, especially in the Divan and when it comes to the affectionate verses, is not clear. The addressee of the poems is conventionally considered as Shams, God, or Rumi himself. But due to the lack of gender specific references, it is possible to imagine a female addressee for his statements. In English: He said, you are not mad enough. You do not belong in this house. I went wild and had to be tied up. He said, Still not wild enough to stay with us. I broke through another layer into joyfulness. He said, it is not enough. I died. (Rumi, Divan vs. 1393)

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In Farsi: She/ He said, you are not mad enough. You do not belong in this house. I went wild and had to be tied up. She/ He said, Still not wild enough to stay with us. I broke through another layer into joyfulness. She/ He said, it is not enough. I died. ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﮐﻪ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻧﻪ ﻧﻪﺍﯼ ﻻﯾﻖ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺧﺎﻧﻪ ﻧﻪﺍﯼ‬ ‫ﺭﻓﺘﻢ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻧﻪ ﺷﺪﻡ ﺳﻠﺴﻠﻪ ﺑﻨﺪﻧﺪﻩ ﺷﺪﻡ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﮐﻪ ﺳﺮﻣﺴﺖ ﻧﻪﺍﯼ ﺭﻭ ﮐﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺩﺳﺖ ﻧﻪﺍﯼ‬ ‫ﺭﻓﺘﻢ ﻭ ﺳﺮﻣﺴﺖ ﺷﺪﻡ ﻭﺯ ﻃﺮﺏ ﺁﮐﻨﺪﻩ ﺷﺪﻡ‬ ‫ﮔﻔﺖ ﮐﻪ ﺗﻮ ﮐﺸﺘﻪ ﻧﻪﺍﯼ ﺩﺭ ﻃﺮﺏ ﺁﻏﺸﺘﻪ ﻧﻪﺍﯼ‬ ‫ﭘﯿﺶ ﺭﺥ ﺯﻧﺪﻩ ﮐﻨﺶ ﮐﺸﺘﻪ ﻭ ﺍﻓﮑﻨﺪﻩ ﺷﺪﻡ‬ (‫ ﻏﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۱۳۹۳) 8. The Romantic (Pre-Impressionist) school of American painting expresses three themes of America in the nineteenth century: discovery, exploration, and settlement. The paintings also depict the American landscape as a pastoral setting, where human beings and nature coexist peacefully. These paintings are characterized by their realistic, detailed, and sometimes idealized portrayal of nature, often juxtaposing peaceful agriculture and the remaining wilderness. In general, the pre-impressionists believed that nature in the form of the American landscape was an ineffable manifestation of God, though the artists varied in the depth of their religious conviction. They shared a reverence for America’s natural beauty with contemporary writers such as Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson (freely adapted from New World Encyclopedia, “Hudson River School”). 9. According to Marlies Kronegger, the term “literary impressionism” is often vaguely defined. Its association with phenomenology, however, is worth remarking. Gustave Geffroy (1894) defines an impressionist painting as a kind of painting that approaches phenomenology, tending to represent the appearance and meaning of objects in space and attempting to synthesize these in the semblance of a moment. Bally (1920), however, distinguishes between “impressionist” as “phenomenological” and “impressionist” as “transitive” form of perception. With the impressionists’ perspective on experience, the reality of the text changes; the traditional frozen forms of description set themselves into motion spatially. The characters represent or see reality from several angles of vision at once and the objects are released without losing sight of their earlier positions (25). 10. Alternatively, Soroush, using the term abu-al-vaqti (to be the “father” of time) translates the Sufi understanding of time into a transcendental experience. He argues that Shams (the sun), the core of Rumi’s poetry in the Divan,is a metaphor for timelessness. “Shams” stands for both Shams al-Din Tabrizi (the Sun of Faith from Tabriz), Rumi’s teacher, and the actual sun. The earthly time representing the duration of the rotation of the earth around the sun is divided into years, seasons, months, days, hours, minutes, and seconds. As the sun is the main source for earthly time divisions, Soroush sees it as the disappearance of the meaning of sunrise and sunset and day and night. Sun is considered a star that does not follow and is beyond earthly time. To live in the state of sun (or to become shams), in this sense, is to move beyond the divisions of time that explain history, and temporal identity. To achieve psychic powers to move beyond the limits of time (and space) is still considered one of the powers of the Sufi masters. Neurologic discoveries show that consciousness occurs at the most basic level of human brain activity through atomic vibrations. Following Einstein’s laws of general relativity, which argues that everything (matter, energy, space, and time) is connected through particular universal relations on an atomic level, some neurologists believe that consciousness is the result of quantum functions. In the quantum world, everything is connected and everything can exist in more than one place and time. This

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ability is called “quantum superposition” and is the fundamental property based on which the very fabric of the universe is formed. At the time of death, when the human brain stops functioning, its atoms continue their vibration and connect the mind to the atomic arrangements of the universe and experience existence beyond time and space (See Jack Tuszynski’s The Emerging Physics of Consciousness). Rumi’s references to “atoms” in his poetry suggest the same sort of collectivity and unity at an atomic level: O day, arise! The atoms are dancing. Thanks to him the universe is dancing. Overcome with ecstasy, the hearts are dancing. I’ll whisper in your ear where they are dancing. All the atoms in the air and in the desert Know well, they are insane like me. Every single atom, happy or miserable, Is enamored of the matchless Sun. (Rumi, Divan, vs. 555) ‫ﺍﯼ ﺭﻭﺯ ﺑﺮﺁ ﮐﻪ ﺫﺭﻩﻫﺎ ﺭﻗﺺ ﮐﻨﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﺁﻥ ﮐﺲ ﮐﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺍﻭ ﭼﺮﺥ ﻭ ﻫﻮﺍ ﺭﻗﺺ ﮐﻨﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﺟﺎﻧﻬﺎ ﺯ ﺧﻮﺷﯽ ﺑﯽﺳﺮ ﻭ ﭘﺎ ﺭﻗﺺ ﮐﻨﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﺩﺭ ﮔﻮﺵ ﺗﻮ ﮔﻮﯾﻢ ﮐﻪ ﮐﺠﺎ ﺭﻗﺺ ﮐﻨﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﻫﺮ ﺫﺭﻩ ﮐﻪ ﺩﺭ ﻫﻮﺍ ﻭ ﺩﺭ ﻫﺎﻣﻮﻧﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﻧﯿﮑﻮ ﻧﮕﺮﺵ ﮐﻪ ﻫﻤﭽﻮ ﻣﺎ ﻣﺠﻨﻮﻧﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﻫﺮ ﺫﺭﻩ ﺍﮔﺮ ﺧﻮﺵ ﺍﺳﺖ ﺍﮔﺮ ﻣﺤﺰﻭﻧﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﺳﺮﮔﺸﺘﻪ ﺧﻮﺭﺷﯿﺪ ﺧﻮﺵ ﺑﯿﭽﻮﻧﺴﺖ‬ ( ‫ ﺭﺑﺎﻋﯽ‬،‫ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۵۵۵ ‫ﻭ‬۴۴۲) In some transcendental moments, Whitman also uses “atoms” to create a sense of collectivity through body: “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you” (Whitman 21). 11. Medieval commentators on the Masnavi have simply bypassed the bawdy tales. For example, in his abridged anthology of the Masnavi entitled Lubb-i Lubab-i Masnavi, the fifteenth century Persian preacher and polymath, Husayn Vaʿiz-i Kashifi (d. 1504–1505), does not include the Masnavi’s bawdy tales and sexual imagery. In the recent studies and anthologies of medieval Persian literature, the presence of explicit sexual imagery and bawdy material in the Masnavi has not gone unnoticed. Some studies have situated the Masnavi’s sexual imagery in the general category of metaphors for mystical love. Others like J. Christoph Burgel have viewed the function of the bawdy tales and vulgar words in the Masnavi as symbolic opposites of the sublime. Annemarie Schimmel views the bawdy tales of the Masnavi as a literary device exploited by a master storyteller to create “a very fascinating way of getting the audience’s interest.” Reynold Nicholson attributes these tales to “the failing power” of an aging mystic, and in his monumental English translation of the Masnavi, he translates the sexual references into Latin. Nicholson seems to view Rumi’s Masnavi as somewhat inferior to the supreme mystical quality of the Divan. He writes that in the Divan, Rumi “soars higher; yet we must read the Masnavi in order to appreciate all the range and variety of his genius” (Tourage 48). 12. Carnivalesque is a term introduced by Mikhail Bakhtin, which refers to a literary mode that subverts and liberates the assumptions of the dominant style or atmosphere through chaos. In Rabelais and His World, Bakhtin describes carnival (itself related to the Feast of Fools) as “moments of death and revival, of change and renewal” leading to a “festive perception of the world” (9). During carnival, the social order is turned on its head, a reversal symbolized by the ritual decrowning of the king and subsequent crowning of the puppet. It is, in short the ritual trading of social places. During the Middle Ages the carnival spirit of folk culture was evoked as a nonofficial alternative

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to the official political and ecclesiastical order. According to Bakhtin vestiges of this carnival spirit remain embedded in the texts. Carnivalesque subverts and creates a syncretic pageant that weds and combines the sacred with the profane. The disturbance of social orders and decorum through bawdy tales could be read as carnivalesque moments in the Masnavi. 13. Moawiya Ibn Abu Sufyan (602–680) was the founder of the Islamic Umayyad dynasty of caliphs. His clan, which had resisted Mohammed and his message longest and most vehemently, eventually won political control over the Islamic community. After the conquest of Mecca by the Muslims, he and his family converted to Islam (freely adapted from Encyclopedia of World Biography). 14. Trans. Arberry, Tales, 157–58. 15. The black and white conclusion might be the result of Rumi’s concern for his orthodox audience. The Masnavi was collected and written by Rumi’s disciples. Rumi composed the work in front of a public audience, and it is possible that the fears of misinterpretation on the part of the public (and fear of execution for heresy, the fate of an earlier Sufi, Mansur al-Hallaj) made Rumi shift his direction and return to familiar binaries. Despite the final return to binary thinking, Rumi’s general view is obvious throughout the poem. The danger of thinkers like Hallaj for the state is that their approach introduces a type of individuality, which stands against mainstream philosophy and challenges the orthodox good/evil binary of the mainstream that supports the state and its backward culture. Introducing individuality to religion diminishes clerical influence and empowers people against the state. In the absence of the orthodox God, the God of each individual becomes the main source of power, and this creates an image of reality in which the social hierarchy imposed by state and culture is shattered. This interpretation is usually considered as a threat and is suppressed in various ways. The public execution of Hallaj indicates how seriously the orthodox take criticism of orthodoxy. Rumi has the same concerns in mind, and although he never directly mentions identification with God as Hallaj did (Hallaj was executed for declaring anā al-haqq meaning I am al-haqq. Al-haqq or the Absolute Truth is a name of God), his works involve developing an individual religion. And he does this not only through words but also through silence. Rumi’s pen name khamush (the silent). Appearing in the Divan this indicates a social hindrance in the way of his communication with the audience, as if he says there are certain things about individuality that he should be silent about; otherwise, he would end up like Hallaj. 16. According to the Islamic teaching, the Devil, though not an angel, is nevertheless (through his long history of obedience to God and prayer) turned into an angel who lives close to the throne. However, when God asked the angels to kneel in front of newly created Adam, all of the angels kneel except Satan, who disobeyed and whose disobedience caused his dismissal from the Garden. The reason for the Devil’s disobedience, according to orthodox interpretations, was his jealousy of Adam and his pride and rebellion against God. By contrast, Rumi’s Devil did not bow down to Adam because of his love for God. The fact that the Devil loves God (evil loves good) shatters the traditional binary through introducing a new relationship between the supposedly opposite elements. 17. Trans. J. A. Mojaddedi. The Masnavi, II. 18. An example is the story “An Enemy Spits in the Face of Ali” (The Masnavi I. ch. 164. Trans. J. A. Mojaddedi. The Masnavi, I: 277). 19. Whitman’s attempt in this regard is in line with “The Second Great Awakening,” a Protestant revival movement that occurred in the United States in the late eighteenth century and lasted until the middle of the nineteenth century. The movement was marked by an emphasis on personal piety over schooling and theology. The revival’s secular effects consisted of two main strains: The virtues and behavior of the expanding middle class—a strong work ethic, frugality, and temperance. Its emphasis on the ability of individuals to amend their lives engendered a wide array of reform movements aimed at redressing injustice and alleviating suffering—a democratizing effect.

FIVE On Hospitality

HOSPITALITY AND WAR In the absence of certain binary systems, and in the face of a world that does not recognize overarching structures, man is perhaps defenseless unless he develops a sense of hospitable responsibility without calculation of binary functions. Hospitality, however, is not a simple task. In “A Word of Welcome,” an address written to commemorate Emmanuel Levinas, Derrida acknowledges that to offer hospitality inevitably suggests that the welcomer is permanently at home. To be hospitable is therefore not only a matter of giving room to, or making space for, the other; it also allows the welcomer to police the threshold, to commandeer the site of welcoming for themselves, and thus to establish precedence over the other to whom the welcome is extended. In the process, the other is effectively appropriated precisely in terms of this scene of welcoming, with all the relations of hierarchy, power, and control that this implies. Given in the name of hospitality, such a welcome is therefore not truly worthy of the name of hospitality. As Derrida frequently reminds us, to welcome the “welcomable” guest is, like forgiving the forgivable, simply to follow a code or a norm. It is to realize an already existent, already “possible” possibility. By turning hospitality back into something that “masterable” and “possible,” such a welcoming fails to live up to hospitality’s name. One must therefore seek to keep open the possibility of hospitality in its unconditional form, as an opening to the other, the “unwelcomable” guest, the absolutely unanticipated “arrivant.” It seems that hospitality in our time too often becomes a device for conflict resolution, therapy, or reconciliation, while in reality it could be an ongoing trait beyond calculation. For those hoping to move hos91

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pitality toward ahistoricity, even eternity, to go beyond history in search of a better world, one might consider as a productive example the hospitality that Rumi and Whitman demonstrated in their works in connection to the war. It is worth considering the influence of war on their presentation of unconditional hospitality in their works. As a condition that signifies the highest level of violence and hostility, war can create a consciousness that though initially hostile is ultimately (and as a result of bloodshed and death) less self-centered and more unconditionally receptive of the other. Rumi and Hospitality The thirteenth century was the era of the crusades. Also, the regions where Rumi lived were under constant threat of Mongol invasion. Rumi lived from 1207 to 1273, and the Mongol conquests, which took place from 1206 to 1324, covered a large part of his life. He was directly affected by these invasions, and they played a great role in the formation of his poetry and worldview. When the Mongols invaded Central Asia between 1215 and 1220, Baha Walad, Rumi’s father, and his extended family, set out westwards to live the rest of their lives as refugees in Konya. Genghis Khan (d. 1227) declared an extreme war and devastated Rumi’s homeland, Balkh (now in Afghanistan), between 1219 and 1223. Although Rumi’s poetry maintained a continuing internal engagement with Shams’s powerful spiritual presence, it is clear from biographical accounts that Rumi was also constantly involved in the political struggles of his time. Lewis describes Rumi’s personal relations with various political authorities of this era, using extant letters to suggest his skill at combining diplomacy with personal counseling (Lewis 277–84). Rumi often criticized the Mongol kings and their state. His connection to the Mongol kings mainly appears in his epistolary accounts. He wrote two dozen letters to Parvane 1 during the middle decades of the thirteenth century, occasionally criticizing him for supporting the oppressors (Fihe ma fih 5) and for his superficial understanding of political action (ibid. 74). Nevertheless, according to Lewis, such criticism should be seen as a permissible dialogue between “an established holy man and a monarch,” for the relations between Rumi and Parvane must have been cordial (Lewis 281). Rumi frequently wrote to him asking for favors and Parvane desired the presence of Rumi at various gatherings. Parvane’s wife, Gorji Khatun, was also a disciple of Rumi (Aflaki 263). On one occasion when she demanded a divorce from her husband Parvane, Rumi was asked by Parvane to mediate and resolve the issue, and he did (Aflaki 432–33). It might seem that Rumi was making peace with the Mongol invaders and accepting them as members of Anatolia, but his attitude to-

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ward politicians in general was one of studied indifference. Despite Rumi’s indifference to the invaders, the influence of the invasion cannot be overlooked in his poetry. War appears in various forms in his poetry, from everyday quarrels between common people to arguments about actual war (e.g., Divan vs. 2529). The term “war” has various forms in his works: Jang (fight), nabard or navard (war), peykâr (combat), kârzâr (battle), ghazv (invasion), harb (warfare), razm (attack), ghetâl (hostility, murder), setiz (clash), jedâl (quarrel), neza (confrontation), nâsâzi (conflict), khasm (enmity), and so forth. In a Sufi sense, the battle originally starts within individuals, and projects itself into society at large. Showing the struggle between Majnun 2 and his camel on the way to Leila’s house in a story from the Masnavi Rumi represents the Sufi’s constant struggle with thoughts and emotions and the way he overcomes and prevents them from being projected into the world to cause actual war: Majnun was making for his beloved Laila’s home, as long as he was fully conscious he drove his camel in that direction. But when for a moment he became absorbed in the thought of Laila and forgot his camel, the camel turned in its tracks toward the village where its foal was kept. On coming to his senses, Majnun found that he had gone back a distance of two days’ journey. For three months he continued this way, coming no closer to his goal. Finally he jumped off the camel, saying, “This camel is the ruin of me!” and continued on foot, singing: My camel’s desire is now behind, My own desire is before. Our purposes were crossed, We can agree no more. (Masnavi IV ch. 58) 3 ‫ﻫﻢﭼﻮ ﻣﺠﻨﻮﻥﺍﻧﺪ ﻭ ﭼﻮﻥ ﻧﺎﻗﻪﺵ ﯾﻘﯿﻦ‬ ‫ﻣﯽﮐﺸﺪ ﺁﻥ ﭘﯿﺶ ﻭ ﺍﯾﻦ ﻭﺍﭘﺲ ﺑﻪ ﮐﯿﻦ‬ ‫ﻣﯿﻞ ﻣﺠﻨﻮﻥ ﭘﯿﺶ ﺁﻥ ﻟﯿﻠﯽ ﺭﻭﺍﻥ‬ ‫ﻣﯿﻞ ﻧﺎﻗﻪ ﭘﺲ ﭘﯽ ﮐﺮﻩ ﺩﻭﺍﻥ‬ ‫ﯾﮏ ﺩﻡ ﺍﺭ ﻣﺠﻨﻮﻥ ﺯ ﺧﻮﺩ ﻏﺎﻓﻞ ﺑﺪﯼ‬ ‫ﻧﺎﻗﻪ ﮔﺮﺩﯾﺪﯼ ﻭ ﻭﺍﭘﺲ ﺁﻣﺪﯼ‬ ‫ﻋﺸﻖ ﻭ ﺳﻮﺩﺍ ﭼﻮﻧﮏ ﭘﺮ ﺑﻮﺩﺵ ﺑﺪﻥ‬ ‫ﻣﯽﻧﺒﻮﺩﺵ ﭼﺎﺭﻩ ﺍﺯ ﺑﯽﺧﻮﺩ ﺷﺪﻥ‬ ‫ﺁﻧﮏ ﺍﻭ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ ﻣﺮﺍﻗﺐ ﻋﻘﻞ ﺑﻮﺩ‬ ‫ﻋﻘﻞ ﺭﺍ ﺳﻮﺩﺍﯼ ﻟﯿﻠﯽ ﺩﺭ ﺭﺑﻮﺩ‬ ‫ﻟﯿﮏ ﻧﺎﻗﻪ ﺑﺲ ﻣﺮﺍﻗﺐ ﺑﻮﺩ ﻭ ﭼﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﭼﻮﻥ ﺑﺪﯾﺪﯼ ﺍﻭ ﻣﻬﺎﺭ ﺧﻮﯾﺶ ﺳﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﻓﻬﻢ ﮐﺮﺩﯼ ﺯﻭ ﮐﻪ ﻏﺎﻓﻞ ﮔﺸﺖ ﻭ ﺩﻧﮓ‬ ‫ﺭﻭ ﺳﭙﺲ ﮐﺮﺩﯼ ﺑﻪ ﮐﺮﻩ ﺑﯽﺩﺭﻧﮓ‬ ‫ﭼﻮﻥ ﺑﻪ ﺧﻮﺩ ﺑﺎﺯ ﺁﻣﺪﯼ ﺩﯾﺪﯼ ﺯ ﺟﺎ‬ ‫ﮐﻮ ﺳﭙﺲ ﺭﻓﺘﺴﺖ ﺑﺲ ﻓﺮﺳﻨﮕﻬﺎ‬ ‫ﺩﺭ ﺳﻪ ﺭﻭﺯﻩ ﺭﻩ ﺑﺪﯾﻦ ﺍﺣﻮﺍﻟﻬﺎ‬

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In the character of Majnun, Rumi represents an ongoing struggle between feelings and thoughts. However, the struggles that constantly hinder him from achieving a peaceful state of mind find resolution in an unconditional love, a peaceful state. Still, it seems that the term “love,” which Rumi uses, goes further than its spiritual significance to become a means of blurring the conventional distinctions between heart and brain and to create a middle point for negotiation. Majnun is a person who due to his love forgives: Be mad and insane; why have you come to your senses and recovered your wits? Meditation is all for the sake of acquiring; you have become entirely giving (isar: forgiveness, sacrifice). Preserve the same order of Majnun, for you have become indifferent to all orders . . . Go forth into the desert, the same desert where you were; you have wondered long enough in these ruins. (Rumi, Divan vs. 2647) 4 ‫ﻫﻤﺎﻥ ﺳﻮﺩﺍﯾﯽ ﻭ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻧﻪ ﻣﯽﺑﺎﺵ‬ ‫ﭼﺮﺍ ﻋﺎﻗﻞ ﺷﺪﯼ ﻫﺸﯿﺎﺭ ﮔﺸﺘﯽ‬ ‫ﺗﻔﮑﺮ ﺍﺯ ﺑﺮﺍﯼ ﺑﺮﺩ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ‬ ‫ﺗﻮ ﺳﺮﺗﺎﺳﺮ ﻫﻤﻪ ﺍﯾﺜﺎﺭ ﮔﺸﺘﯽ‬ ‫ﻫﻤﺎﻥ ﺗﺮﺗﯿﺐ ﻣﺠﻨﻮﻥ ﺭﺍ ﻧﮕﻪ ﺩﺍﺭ‬ ‫ ﮐﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺗﺮﺗﯿﺐﻫﺎ ﺑﯿﺰﺍﺭ ﮔﺸﺘﯽ‬. . . ‫ﺑﻪ ﺻﺤﺮﺍ ﺭﻭ ﺑﺪﺍﻥ ﺻﺤﺮﺍ ﮐﻪ ﺑﻮﺩﯼ‬ ‫ﺩﺭ ﺍﯾﻦ ﻭﯾﺮﺍﻧﻪﻫﺎ ﺑﺴﯿﺎﺭ ﮔﺸﺘﯽ‬ (‫ ﻏﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۲۶۴۷)

The “ruins,” as the poem suggests, are places where human expectations and achievements are low, and where the self is trying to profit from every circumstance (ibid.). Majnun’s love, in its unconditional nature, creates a world in which human beings are capable of isar (giving) (ibid.) and of hospitality. Rumi relates Majnun’s mental state to that of Abraham when he decided to sacrifice Ismail (or Isaac): This man holds up a tambourine, and an entire musical mode comes out into the air. Prepare to travel. Tie the pack, loosen the reins . . . Abraham looks lost in his longing [original: Abraham becomes Majnun (mad), or

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becomes like Majnun], holding a sword over Ishmael and Isaac . . . The soul is tremendously honored by that. (Rumi, Divan vs. 738) 5 ‫ﻣﻄﺮﺑﻢ ﺳﺮﻣﺴﺖ ﺷﺪ ﺍﻧﮕﺸﺖ ﺑﺮ ﺭﻕ ﻣﯽﺯﻧﺪ‬ ‫ﭘﺮﺩﻩ ﻋﺸﺎﻕ ﺭﺍ ﺍﺯ ﺩﻝ ﺑﻪ ﺭﻭﻧﻖ ﻣﯽﺯﻧﺪ‬ ‫ﺭﺧﺖ ﺑﺮﺑﻨﺪﯾﺪ ﺍﯼ ﯾﺎﺭﺍﻥ ﮐﻪ ﺳﻠﻄﺎﻥ ﺩﻭ ﮐﻮﻥ‬ ‫ ﺍﯾﺴﺘﺎﺩﻩ ﺑﺮ ﻓﺮﺍﺯ ﻋﺮﺵ ﺳﻨﺠﻖ ﻣﯽﺯﻧﺪ‬. . . ‫ﺟﺎﻥ ﺍﺑﺮﺍﻫﯿﻢ ﻣﺠﻨﻮﻥ ﮔﺸﺖ ﺍﻧﺪﺭ ﺷﻮﻕ ﺍﻭ‬ ‫ ﺗﯿﻎ ﺭﺍ ﺑﺮ ﺣﻠﻖ ﺍﺳﻤﺎﻋﯿﻞ ﻭ ﺍﺳﺤﻖ ﻣﯽﺯﻧﺪ‬. . . ‫ﺭﻭﺡ ﺍﻭ ﻣﻘﺒﻮﻝ ﺣﻀﺮﺕ ﺷﺪ ﺍﻧﺎﺍﻟﺤﻖ ﻣﯽﺯﻧﺪ‬ (‫ ﻏﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۷۳۸)

Similar to Abraham, Majnun is the desolate lover who is capable of listening to alterity. 6 According to Derrida the feeling generated in the hospitable act of accepting the spiritual other can be multiplied and extended toward any other individual. Majnun is eventually capable of transforming his spiritual love for the absolute beloved to a love for every other being (human or animal). 7 Such a hospitable act alters love as a global rule to make it love as a purely personal virtue or as what Kierkegaard calls a “virtue of the absurd” (Kierkegaard 49)—a condition in which responses to others are resolved within a sense of absolute hospitality and unconditional bonding. The state of Majnun in Rumi is the state of someone who makes peace with being. This is a peace, which as his name (Majnun: the demented one) suggests, is at the same time mad. Making peace with everything and everyone is rationally impossible. But Rumi’s understanding of it indicates that it is not impossible to endorse the impossible. In the Divan, Rumi frequently refers to himself as Majnun. He talks about an inner reconciliation, which happens to him at the state of becoming “Majnun/ majnun” (Divan vs. 3133). He writes that Majnun is someone who in the midst of “blood” and “fire” can live and “happily” survive (18). He can bring opposites together and see the underlying connection between all differences and conflicts (28). Rumi also talks about the community of Majnuns (82)—the people whose existence create a state of eid (happiness, celebration, comfort). Majnun moreover does not follow rational calculations (532), does not believe in haya (the ethics), and is not ashamed of denouncing (“killing”) them altogether (213). He lives in a world in which everyone and everything is mad. Day and night (time) join in ecstasy (302). It is also notable that jonun (madness) does not mean lack of rationality, but rather obtaining a mad or unconditioned rationality (564). Rumi often claims that he is more Majnun than the actual Majnun (427), and in Rumi’s state Leila is also Majnun; there is no difference between the lover and the beloved (724). 8 Despite constant conflict of some type (between various feelings, states of minds, people) in Rumi’s work, the

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term “love,” as Rumi uses it—”love of Shams,” “love of God,” “love of the ultra-self” (Pournamdarian), and etc.—is a powerful force that ultimately devours conflict and welcomes alterity. Rumi’s love creates hospitality and this type of hospitality is based on feelings-emotions-passions rather than institutions-principles-duties. Whitman and the Civil War My book and the war are one. (Whitman 168)

In Whitman, war has another implication. It shows a community of people connected for a cause. The American Civil War (1861–1865) in Whitman becomes a move toward the ideal image of a country. But if men and women are capable of sacrifice for the sake of their nation, could this be considered as the offering of a gift of death? 9 Should the “gift” have specific characteristics that make it a hospitable act, or is any act of sacrifice equally an act of offering a hospitable gift? On April 12, 1861, Whitman heard of the firing on Fort Sumter while walking down Broadway around midnight. Three days later he recorded in his journal a resolution to purify and “spiritualize” his body, to drink only water and to avoid late supper and fatty meats. This ritual selfpurification, according to George Hutchinson, reflected Whitman’s view of the war as a purgative rite for the country (LeMaster and Kummings 124). Although until the end of 1862 Whitman had no direct experience of the war, he occasionally visited the hospitals for the sick and wounded and followed the conflict in the newspapers. Whitman’s first direct contact with war was on December 16, 1862, when he learned that his enlisted brother, George, had been wounded. Setting off to find him, he found George still with his company, his cheek pierced but on the mend. Whitman stayed with his brother for over a week, witnessing the dead on the battlefield, and visiting the wounded. Soon after, Whitman began to find his real calling in the war. After finding a part time job as a copyist in the Army Paymaster’s Office, he was able to broaden his visits to the hospitals, providing aid, comfort, and encouragement to the sick, wounded, and dying. At the same time he wrote journalistic pieces for the New York papers describing the conditions of the hospitalized soldiers. According to Hutchinson, it was during this time that Whitman found a way of actively employing the qualities celebrated in his poetry. Taking on a “healing” function, he also found new employment for his poetic powers as he strove to become “the bard of the war” (ibid. 125). Another event that influenced Whitman’s work during the war was the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. On April 15, 1865, Whitman and his family read the news of Lincoln’s assassination. Whitman’s later speech, “Death of Abraham Lincoln” (April 1879), introduces war as the

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“delivery” of and rebirth of the nation. In this speech, 17 out of 21 paragraphs describe Whitman’s several visits with Lincoln and recount Lincoln’s final day. The final four paragraphs discuss Whitman’s reaction to the event. Believing in the “great” consequences of Lincoln’s death, he states, “the grand deaths of the race—the dramatic deaths of every nationality—are its most important inheritance-value—in some respects beyond its literature and art—(as the hero is beyond his finest portrait, and the battle itself beyond its choicest song or epic.) Is not here indeed the point underlying all tragedy?” (Whitman 1070). Whitman calls Lincoln’s death “our own,” as something that the Americans will “identify with;” a “terrible identification,” and by “the greatest revolutionary step in the history of the United States” (ibid.). The influence of war and death made Whitman dedicate his life to poetry. He wrote to a friend, “The work of [my] life . . . making poems. . . . I must be continually bringing out poems—now is the heyday” (Miller 1:185). The time of war becoming “the heyday” of Whitman’s poetry indicates the consistency between his project and the cause of war. Leaves contains a cluster of forty-three poems called “Drum-Taps” (Whitman 416–59) all of which are about the Civil War. The cluster traces the sequence of Whitman’s varying responses, from initial excitement and doubt, to direct observation, to a deep compassionate involvement with the casualties of the armed conflict. Huck Gutman argues that these poems, written ten years after “Song of Myself,” are more aware of the precariousness of America’s present and future than of its expansive promise (LeMaster and Kummings 190). The experience of war changed Whitman’s understanding of hospitality from the humanistic duty it was in his earlier poems to an actual hospitable act toward suffering bodies in the later ones. Not youth pertains to me, Nor delicatesse, I cannot beguile the time with talk, Awkward in the parlor, neither a dancer nor elegant, In the learn’d coterie sitting constrain’d and still, for learning inures not to me, Beauty, knowledge, inure not to me—yet there are two or three things inure to me, I have nourish’d the wounded and sooth’d many a dying soldier, And at intervals waiting or in the midst of camp, Composed these songs. (Whitman, Leaves 452)

The juxtaposition of nourishing the wounded and composing poetry in this poem shows the significance of suffering bodies in composing the Leaves. The vulnerable body is an image, which evokes hospitality and response. It designates the other. 10

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At times, Whitman’s tone in “Drum-Taps” is patriotic and nationalistic; however, as we proceed to the end of the collection, his voice becomes more doubtful and mournful, showing his uncertainty about the whole practice of war. The amount of passion and understanding that he gets from his marginal involvement in war creates hospitality in his work. The image of self in the earlier sections of the Leaves, which turns around the individual self and its understanding of the world, becomes more social, historical, and more effectively receptive of the other. Although in the earlier poems of Leaves the speaker is still aware of human connections, it seems that his understanding is limited to a general picture of humanity, while this awareness in the latter section is more specific and directed toward individuals, toward wounded soldiers. War left Rumi and Whitman as men whose identity was partially compromised by politicians, and after the war they did not wish to claim back a certain national identity. In this sense, war became a means of hybridization, of mixture, an amalgam of different people from different cultures fighting for a nation while simultaneously losing the sense of belonging to it. War made a citizen of a specific land adopt a new identity, one which is careless about national borders. The experience of war brings people the experience of death, corporeal and psychological, and of geographical belonging. In the midst of war, among the numerous dead bodies from different parties, one may ask oneself to which party do I belong? To which country? To which political and national propaganda? What is after all a homeland in the midst of blood and death? One cannot remember one’s nationality. In this way, the very core of that for which much modern warfare occurs, the nation disappears at the very moment of bloodshed. Does one think about one’s nationality when in war one kills the other? A soldier is denationalized through the act of fighting with another human being. Through such questioning of whether one belongs to a specific nation, one may shun one’s nation or the geopolitical category of national identity in general. This feeling engenders a wish for freedom and rejects borders. Demolishing the sense of belonging through devastation and destruction of human belongings (body, property, land, etc.) war negates its own basis. Creating suffering figures, it revives a sense of hospitality that is buried under the everyday sense of possession and geographical belonging. In this sense, the study of war as a psychological force can strengthen the human bond and help in the creation of a hospitable community. SYMPATHY AND MADNESS The concept of madness appears in different forms in Rumi and Whitman. This section will show that, in a philosophical context, madness can become a means to dialogue. A mad person is one who is insane

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and incapable of perception of the world through rational reasoning. We accept reason in a Cartesian sense and observe how playing on the concepts of reason and madness Rumi and Whitman deteriorate a Cartesian subject-based reasoning to introduce alterity in the act of thinking. “Lunacy” and its connection to sympathy are rather historical facts in the life of Whitman. He had eight siblings, three of whom had suffered from mental conditions. His father, Sr. Walter Whitman, was also by all accounts “moody, dour, and inflexible” (LeMaster and Kummings 787). 11 Jesse Whitman, the oldest of Walt’s siblings, inherited elements of their father’s moody, unstable temperament. As Jesse’s situation worsened, they committed him to the lunatic asylum where he lived the last six years of his life. Andrew, the sixth of Walt’s siblings, was often sick, and may have been an alcoholic, and died at a young age. Likewise, nearly all the evidence indicates that their youngest sibling, Edward, was also from early childhood or birth significantly mentally retarded; he was epileptic and physically handicapped. While the specifics of Edward’s incapacities are somewhat blurred, there is little question regarding the closeness of the relationship between him and Walt (in the mid-1850s the two shared a bed in the attic of their mother’s house). In 1888 Edward entered the asylum where he spent the last four years of his life. Whitman’s references to “the lunatic” in the Leaves are usually considered as references to Edward. “The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirmed case, / He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother’s bedroom” (Whitman 39). It was due to the situation of his brother Edward that Walt visited Dr. Richard Maurice Bucke and his insane asylum. 12 Bucke was famous as one of the leading psychiatrists of his day, and his approach and theories in treatment of the mentally ill were progressive. He was part of the progressive movement concerned with the treatment of the mentally ill through the semi-mystical theory of cosmic consciousness. Cosmic consciousness is the idea that the universe exists as an interconnected network of consciousness, with each conscious being linked to every other. Bucke’s study of cosmic consciousness has become part of the foundation of transpersonal psychology, an experience in which the sense of identity extends beyond (trans) the individual or the personal to encompass wider aspects of humankind, psyche, or cosmos. Sometimes this is conceived as forming a collective consciousness. Bucke came to believe that there was a great need for new attitudes in treating lunacy, one of which was the offering of sympathy and love toward the retarded patients. Bucke put his theory in practice in multiple ways (met with great opposition from his colleagues). He established tremendous innovations in his asylum. He was the first in America to adopt the system of absolute non-restraint in the treatment of the insane. He removed shackles; the doors of the cells were opened and all forms of restraint eliminated. He provided the patients with music, sports, and garden parties to which outsiders were also

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invited. Bucke’s achievements in these areas show that he was aware of the connection between the nature of lunacy and the necessity of sympathy in its treatment. This clinical treatment based on connection to society rather than constraint introduced the importance of the role of the other in the formation of consciousness. Consciousness, in this sense, differs from the Cartesian or Freudian consciousness in which the thinking subject is at the center of identity. The patients’ consciousness moves beyond the centrality of single thinking subjects to connect to another consciousness to treat itself. Bucke shows that it is only through showing care and sympathy and through social interaction that mental treatment happens. An avid reader of literature and poetry, he believed that Whitman occasionally revealed moments of cosmic consciousness in his poetry. Whitman usually uses the term “sympathy” as an empowering force in his poetry: “O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only the human soul is capable of generating and emitting in steady and limitless floods” (324). There is a connection between lunacy as a condition that attracts sympathy or hospitality, and lunacy itself as a hospitable moment, as being hospitable toward absence of reason. Whitman’s understanding of his brother’s condition and the amount of love that he showed for him suggests respect for a lunatic reason that does not fit into the structured rationality of society. 13 Whitman further uses the term “madness” in verse and prose to refer to ecstasy and passionate happiness rather than any faculty of thinking. Madness usually occurs as the speaker is in contact with his body: “I am mad for it to be in contact with me” (27, 189), or in contact with nature as he refers to specific speed, movement or mirth in nature in a “mad naked summer night” (47), “mad filaments” (121), “mad pushes of waves upon the land” (249), and the “mad mackerel” (307). Such physical or natural enjoyment makes the poet join the cosmic “dance” in a city “whirling like mad”: The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves! The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and masts! The city nested in bays! my city! The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with them! The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk, eat, drink, sleep, with them! (1381)

The speaker feels madness (happiness) as the result of presence of or being with others. Are you mad or am I mad? (Divan vs. 79). In Rumi, I and you, self and other, are equally “mad.” The treatment of the other, not as a different quality but as an equal who can understand self and share its experience creates a source of trust in the other. In some of his poems we read that

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the mad person escapes his chains or the whole society went mad and broke their chains (ibid. 329). These lines show an urge for breaking the limits of conditional reasoning (ibid. 331). The recurrent juxtaposition of madness with chain and asylum (ibid. 329, 526, 1037, 1862, 2319, 2499) shows fear of the rational thinking of the ruling class who judge unconditionally as a lack of rational ability. Rumi asks the rational people to ignore him because their conditional thinking does not let them understand him. Khalilaneh (like Abraham) is a term used by Rumi to refer to the Abrahamic state of mind in which unconditional decisions are made (ibid. 1318). Madness here is not lack of reasoning but the developing of a “mad reason” (ibid. 152, 1372). After all, madness is not caused by external stimuli but by an internal drive (ibid. 2550): an internal drive fed through the presence of the other (ibid. 75, 2252, 2172). This duality in the formation of madness turns madness into an in-between state where identity and alterity meet or precisely become one. Madness as a pathological condition in Whitman and an illogical force in Rumi creates the possibility of sympathy toward others. Sympathy as a clinical method (in Whitman’s time) is a means to relate to the lunatics as the others whose treatment first and foremost seeks recognition and formation of the basic human bonds. Equally, madness as a means for questioning the absolutism of rational authority (in Rumi) would generate sympathetic communities where the human bonds are not compromised through mere fulfillment of rational and practical judgments. NOTES 1. Moin al-Din Parvane: The Mongol appointee ruling Anatolia. 2. Majnun, which literally means madly in love, is the proverbial lover in Islamic literatures. The story of Leila (Layli, Laila) and Majnun is a narrative poem of approximately 4,600 lines composed in 584/1188 by the Persian poet Nezami. The plot of the romance is simple. Majnun falls in love with Leila at school but Leila’s father forbids any contact. Separated from Leila, Majnun becomes obsessed with her, singing of his love for her in public. The obsession grows to the point that he sees and evaluates everything in terms of Leila; hence his sobriquet “the possessed, the demented one” (Majnun). When he realizes that he cannot obtain union even when other people intercede for him, he grows disillusioned with society and roams in the desert among the beasts. 3. Trans. Arberry. 4. Trans. Arberry et al. Mystical Poems of Rumi 327. 5. Trans. Coleman Barks, The Big Red Book 35. 6. In Kierkegaard, we read that Abraham’s sacrifice is the consequence of his individual faith. Calling Abraham the “knight of faith,” Kierkegaard writes, “On this height, then, stands Abraham.” Arriving at faith, “First and foremost, the knight of faith has the passion to concentrate in a single moment the whole of the ethical that he violates in order to give himself the assurance that he actually loves Isaac with his whole heart.” Next, he has “the passion to produce the whole of this assurance in the twinkling of an eye.” (Kierkegaard 69). Continuing the same line of argument, Derrida reads the Abrahamic act as representative of his unconditioned love for the tout autre (wholly other): Abraham’s is a “movement of the gift that renounces itself, hence a movement of infinite love. Only infinite love can

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renounce itself and, in order to become finite, become incarnated in order to love the other” (Derrida, Gift of Death 51). “Individual faith,” “mad love,” or “divine madness,” whatever inspiration Abraham has, his act represents an unconditioned acceptance of the alterity of the “wholly other” that as Derrida suggests is a symbol for “every” other. Since each of us, everyone else, each other is infinitely other in its absolute singularity, inaccessible, solitary, transcendent, nonmanifest, originality, nonpresent to my ego . . . then what can be said about Abraham’s relation to God can be said about my relation without relation to every other . . . in particular my relation to my neighbor or my loved ones who are as inaccessible to me, as secret and transcendent as Jahweh. (Derrida, Gift of Death 78) 7. After Leila’s marriage, Majnun took the company of animals. He began living in caves and was accompanied by wild animals while walking through the desert. 8. Most of the English translators of Rumi, especially the contemporary ones, translate the lines about Majnun as a reference to the actual story of Majnun or to the madness of a person in love. The translations most of the time do not show the connection between the actual and the symbolic or Abraham-like presence of Majnun as a mode of being. 9. The offering of the gift of death is a representative of absolute hospitality in Derrida’s reading of the Abrahamic act. In The Gift of Death, he writes, “What is given—and this would also represent a kind of death—is not something, but goodness itself, a giving goodness, the act of giving or donation of the gift. A goodness that must not only forget itself but whose source remains inaccessible to the donee” (41). 10. In Precarious Life, Judith Butler studies the “transformative effect of loss” in forming human “community” (20). The “social vulnerability of bodies” reduces the distinction between “the other and oneself” (24). This disposition of ourselves outside ourselves seems to follow only from “bodily life, from its vulnerability and its exposure” (25). In such a condition “violence” is an exploitation of the “primary tie, that primary way in which we are, as bodies, outside ourselves and for one another” (27). Butler believes that such a hospitable approach questions the ethics of global politics: Can this insight supply a perspective by which to begin to apprehend the contemporary global situation? (28). If we stay with this sense of loss, “are we left feeling only passive and powerless, as some might fear? Or, are we, rather, returned to a sense of human vulnerability, to our collective responsibility for the physical lives of one another?” (30). The understanding of bodily vulnerability in Whitman’s poetry is what allows him to reduce the distinction between the self and the other. The vulnerability of the body demands respect and responsibility. I understand . . . How . . . the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipped unshaved men; All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine, I am the man, I suffered, I was there . . . Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe. I am the mash’d fireman with breast-bone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels; They have clear’d the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth. (Whitman, 225) 11. Julie Rechel-White believes that Whitman describes his father in the poem “There was a Child Went Forth” (LeMaster and Kummings 787). In this poem, the

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father is described as “strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger’d, unjust.” He is also associated with the “blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure.” 12. Richard Maurice Bucke, the Canadian psychiatrist, was later among Whitman’s most devoted friends and his first biographer. In 1877 Bucke was appointed head of the provincial Asylum for the Insane, in London, Ontario. 13. There are also claims about the connection between Whitman’s poetry and his lunatic background. Randall Waldron for instance remarks, “[Whitman’s brother (two of whom died in asylum)] raise questions about the issue of mental aberration in the troubled family that produced perhaps America’s greatest poet” (LeMaster and Kummings 777). Considering this claim, poetry itself becomes a hospitable media for expression of a reason deviating from reason.

Conclusion

In “The Myth of the Clash of Civilizations” (a conference paper, 1996) Edward Said remarks, “Rhetorics of general cultural or civilizational specificity” go in two potential directions, one “a utopian line” that insists on an “overall pattern of integration and harmony among all peoples,” the other a line which suggests that “all civilizations [are] so specific and jealous, in effect, as to reject and war against all others.” Among instances of the first are the “language and institutions of the United Nations, founded in the aftermath of World War Two,” and the subsequent development out of the U.N. of various attempts at world government predicated on “coexistence,” “voluntary limitations of sovereignty,” and the “harmonious integration of peoples and cultures.” Among examples of the second are the “theory and practice of the Cold War” and, more recently, the idea that “the clash of civilizations is, if not a necessity for a world of so many different parts, then a certainty” (Said, “The Myth” 6). Throughout the paper, Said uses this argument to question Samuel Huntington’s concept of the clash of civilizations. I think, in addition to accepting cultural differences, as Said later suggests in this paper (11), we need to redefine differences to prevent them from becoming sources of conflict. Drawing upon Derrida’s concept of différance, I will point to political approaches such as Mohammad Khatami’s UN address on “Dialogue among Civilizations,” and Samuel Huntington’s “The Clash of Civilizations” (see note 1 below for detailed discussion), as examples of current political discourses which fail to open the concept of cultural identity through redefining its relationship with alterity. 1 This will be followed by examples from the poetry of Rumi and Whitman to suggest that their literary language with its non-dialectic characteristics is familiar with the problematic of identity and has the ability to form what Derrida calls “a democracy to come.” CULTURAL IDENTITY AND DIFFÉRANCE If “we wish to understand each other,” “you and me,” Derrida writes, we should be ready to accept the “great deal of trouble” (Margins of Philosophy 4)—the disturbed point of our differences. In the distinction between me and the world, what is formed as “I” is a play of differences between self and other in which identity (national, cultural, religious, etc.) is in an 105

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unending process of becoming. “One is but the other different and deferred, one differing and deferring the other. One is the other in différance, one is the différance of the other” (ibid. 18). 2 According to Derrida, difference shouldn’t be understood as difference from self but as difference within self. In his discussion of cultural identity in The Other Heading, he writes: There is no culture or cultural identity without . . . difference with itself. . . . This can be said, inversely or reciprocally, of all identity or all identification: there is no self-relation, no relation to oneself, no identification with oneself, without culture, but a culture of oneself as a culture of the other, a culture of the double genitive and of the difference to oneself (10). . . . Yes, difference with itself, with the self that is maintained and gathered in its own difference, in its difference from-with the others, if one can say this, as difference to itself, different from itself for itself. (25–26)

Basically, Derrida depicts a notion of culture which is founded neither on identity nor alterity but rather represents the constant play of differences. As every identity is shaped based on play of differences between self and other, no culture and cultural identity can point to a single or a pure point of origin. It is through this lack of certain origins that dialogue becomes possible. According to Matthew Calarco, in his essay “Derrida on Identity and Difference,” one should look for a political model which avoids “pure identity and pure difference,” a model that acts in the “aporia between identity and difference” (Calarco 57). Out of such a model no longer governed by the traditional logic of identity a genuine responsibility can emerge. 3 In the absence of clear options one cannot think of definite solutions such as “dialogue based on similarities” or “clash of civilizations.” Instead, dialogue is to be formed based on responsibility, aware of cultural and individual differences while knowing that it is not possible to totally understand and pin them down. The concept of différance opens up a space in our cognition, perceiving similarities and differences not as fixed realities but as pending and yet to come moments. For the condition of possibility of responsibility “is a certain experience and experiment of the possibility of the impossible” (Derrida, Heading 41). The shift from Khatami and Huntington’s definitions to those of Derrida is a shift from certainty and conflict to hesitation and responsibility. As the certainty of knowledge of identity and alterity is replaced by uncertain attitudes toward defining self and other, a form of responsibility emerges and makes dialogue possible. 4 Responsibility and the Ethics of Alterity Responsibility, for Derrida, involves making decisions when clear choices are not available. The part of Derrida’s philosophy which is most

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important in the interpretation of responsibility is his understanding of unconditional morality seeking its origin in the biblical tradition and in thinkers such as Kierkegaard and Levinas. Levinas’s morality especially emerges through the concept of “face-to-face.” According to Levinas, the face-to-face relation “is a relation in which the ego and consciousness reduces the distance between the same and the other, in which their opposition fades. The same is therefore called into question by an other that cannot be reduced to the same” (Critchley and Bernasconi 15). On the opposite side of the scale, and in a reverse reading of identity, is the phenomenological reading of Husserl that views self as the center for perception. It is through the self that the world and the other are perceived. The other in Husserl, therefore, only exists through the medium of self. As Derrida comes between these two traditions of thought he stands at the middle-point to deconstruct the meaning of identity and alterity through pondering their relationship. Derrida looks for a relation between self and other in which neither becomes the dominant or privileged element of a binary. Since the relation between the two is formed based on a play of concepts in the middle point of the binary (the differed nature of which does not allow a clear signification of any element) they stay open to the possibility of otherness and responsibility. There is a difference between the concept of alterity in Derrida and of alterity in Levinas. According to Jack Reynolds, “Derrida’s work can be envisaged to stage a battle between phenomenology and something tantamount to a post-phenomenology (a conception of alterity that is irrecuperable and beyond the dialectic)” (33). Although it seems that in his later books (The Gift of Death, The Politics of Friendship, Of Hospitality), Derrida follows Levinas in reiterating the messianic nature of alterity (happening through a rather prophetic understanding of the face of the other), it is evident that in his earlier work he questions Levinas’s attacks on Husserl’s phenomenology. Derrida’s philosophical career seems to gradually emphasize that alterity must always, at least to some extent, be dependent on and relative to the self. In “Violence and Metaphysics: An essay on the thought of Emmanuel Levinas,” Derrida criticizes Levinas’s rather absolute concept of alterity. He highlights his belief that alterity is always deferred and always “to come,” while the other “is always, already within the self.” Levinas uses the term “imperialism of the same” to refer to the fact that the other has always been conditioned by the self. Derrida, nonetheless, demonstrates that in insisting that alterity must be “other than the self” Levinas is already producing such imperialism. Levinas’s alterity and Derrida’s alterity are considered within a general messianic structure in which the “to come” is absolutely undetermined and deferred, though the responsibilities assigned by the messianic are nevertheless here and now. However, what makes Derrida’s “messianic” different is its reference to “a sort of relationship without relation, with one guarding itself from the other, in the waiting without horizon, for a

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language that only knows how to keep people waiting. That is all it knows how to do, to keep people waiting, and that is all I know about it” (Monolingualism 71). In waiting, therefore, one guards oneself from alterity. The other is inevitably “conditioned,” and some might say reduced, by the tools and experiences that we bring to bear upon any attempt to appreciate alterity (e.g., the structure of our understanding). While keeping the messianic moment of surprise, Derrida preserves a phenomenological implication for alterity—in which something that is other, even wholly other, must always still be conceivable as other than the self (Writing and Difference 126). Though the Levinasian aspect of responsibility with its emphasis on the enigmatic nature of alterity (the “wrinkled face” of the other) is important, Derrida shows that it also needs to be counterbalanced by other more phenomenological considerations. As Reynolds discusses, the question is “whether responsibility consists in paying attention to the aspects of the other that resist any transformative interaction with the self (e.g., the encounter between Abraham and God), or to the ways in which the self inevitably overlaps with the other” (55). Derrida acknowledges the second standpoint: an alterity that acknowledges the importance of the relation, in that the other must be an other relative to ourselves (Writing and Difference 126). This would reaffirm the idea that responsibility consists more in the recognition of that which disrupts the totality rather than that which unifies the totality. 5 Although Derrida’s more recent exaltation of themes like the messianic and the wholly other seeks to reverse the traditional hierarchical opposition between self and other, it often does so with recognition of phenomenological considerations. Different treatments of identity and alterity in Derrida and Levinas end in different approaches to the meaning of responsibility. While Levinas sees responsibility as an ethical response to the mysterious other, Derrida understands it as respect for alterity as yet-to-come and not absolutely other. Rumi and Whitman: The Philosophy of the Reed-Flute Exordium: the song of the reed Now listen to this reed-flute’s deep lament About the heartache being apart has meant: “Since from the reed-bed they uprooted me My song’s expressed each human’s agony . . . When kept from their true origin, all yearn For union on the day they can return . . . My deepest secrets in this song I wail But eyes and ears can’t penetrate the veil . . .” It’s fire not just hot air the reed-flute’s cry, If you don’t have this fire then you should die! Love’s fire is what makes every reed-flute pine, Love’s fervor thus lends potency to wine;

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‫‪The reed consoles those forced to be apart,‬‬ ‫‪Its notes will lift the veil upon your heart,‬‬ ‫‪Where’s antidote or poison like its song,‬‬ ‫?‪Or confidante, or one who’s pined so long‬‬ ‫‪This reed relates a tortuous path ahead,‬‬ ‫‪Recalls the love with which Majnun’s heart bled:‬‬ ‫‪The few who hear the truths the reed has sung‬‬ ‫‪Have lost their wits so they can speak this tongue.‬‬ ‫‪The day is wasted if it’s spent in grief,‬‬ ‫—‪Consumed by burning aches without relief‬‬ ‫‪Good times have long passed, but we couldn’t care‬‬ ‫‪When you’re with us, our friend beyond compare! . . .‬‬ ‫‪The way the ripe must feel the raw can’t tell,‬‬ ‫!‪My speech must be concise, and so farewell‬‬ ‫)‪(Rumi, Masnavi I ch. 1‬‬ ‫ﺑﺸﻨﻮ ﺍﯾﻦ ﻧﯽ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺷﮑﺎﯾﺖ ﻣﯽﮐﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﺍﺯ ﺟﺪﺍﯾﯿﻬﺎ ﺣﮑﺎﯾﺖ ﻣﯽﮐﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﮐﺰ ﻧﯿﺴﺘﺎﻥ ﺗﺎ ﻣﺮﺍ ﺑﺒﺮﯾﺪﻩﺍﻧﺪ‬ ‫ﺩﺭ ﻧﻔﯿﺮﻡ ﻣﺮﺩ ﻭ ﺯﻥ ﻧﺎﻟﯿﺪﻩﺍﻧﺪ‬ ‫ﺳﯿﻨﻪ ﺧﻮﺍﻫﻢ ﺷﺮﺣﻪ ﺷﺮﺣﻪ ﺍﺯ ﻓﺮﺍﻕ‬ ‫ﺗﺎ ﺑﮕﻮﯾﻢ ﺷﺮﺡ ﺩﺭﺩ ﺍﺷﺘﯿﺎﻕ‬ ‫ﻫﺮ ﮐﺴﯽ ﮐﻮ ﺩﻭﺭ ﻣﺎﻧﺪ ﺍﺯ ﺍﺻﻞ ﺧﻮﯾﺶ‬ ‫ﺑﺎﺯ ﺟﻮﯾﺪ ﺭﻭﺯﮔﺎﺭ ﻭﺻﻞ ﺧﻮﯾﺶ‬ ‫ﻣﻦ ﺑﻪ ﻫﺮ ﺟﻤﻌﯿﺘﯽ ﻧﺎﻻﻥ ﺷﺪﻡ‬ ‫ﺟﻔﺖ ﺑﺪﺣﺎﻻﻥ ﻭ ﺧﻮﺵﺣﺎﻻﻥ ﺷﺪﻡ‬ ‫ﻫﺮﮐﺴﯽ ﺍﺯ ﻇﻦ ﺧﻮﺩ ﺷﺪ ﯾﺎﺭ ﻣﻦ‬ ‫ﺍﺯ ﺩﺭﻭﻥ ﻣﻦ ﻧﺠﺴﺖ ﺍﺳﺮﺍﺭ ﻣﻦ‬ ‫ﻧﺎﻟﻪ ﻣﻦ ﺩﻭﺭ ﻧﯿﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﺳﺮ ﻣﻦ ﺍﺯ ٔ‬ ‫ﻟﯿﮏ ﭼﺸﻢ ﻭ ﮔﻮﺵ ﺭﺍ ﺁﻥ ﻧﻮﺭ ﻧﯿﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﺗﻦ ﺯ ﺟﺎﻥ ﻭ ﺟﺎﻥ ﺯ ﺗﻦ ﻣﺴﺘﻮﺭ ﻧﯿﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﻟﯿﮏ ﮐﺲ ﺭﺍ ﺩﯾﺪ ﺟﺎﻥ ﺩﺳﺘﻮﺭ ﻧﯿﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﺁﺗﺸﺴﺖ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺑﺎﻧﮓ ﻧﺎﯼ ﻭ ﻧﯿﺴﺖ ﺑﺎﺩ‬ ‫ﻫﺮ ﮐﻪ ﺍﯾﻦ ﺁﺗﺶ ﻧﺪﺍﺭﺩ ﻧﯿﺴﺖ ﺑﺎﺩ‬ ‫ﺁﺗﺶ ﻋﺸﻘﺴﺖ ﮐﺎﻧﺪﺭ ﻧﯽ ﻓﺘﺎﺩ‬ ‫ﺟﻮﺷﺶ ﻋﺸﻘﺴﺖ ﮐﺎﻧﺪﺭ ﻣﯽ ﻓﺘﺎﺩ‬ ‫ﻧﯽ ﺣﺮﯾﻒ ﻫﺮﮐﻪ ﺍﺯ ﯾﺎﺭﯼ ﺑﺮﯾﺪ‬ ‫ﭘﺮﺩﻩﻫﺎﺍﺵ ﭘﺮﺩﻩﻫﺎﯼ ﻣﺎ ﺩﺭﯾﺪ‬ ‫ﻫﻤﭽﻮ ﻧﯽ ﺯﻫﺮﯼ ﻭ ﺗﺮﯾﺎﻗﯽ ﮐﯽ ﺩﯾﺪ‬ ‫ﻫﻤﭽﻮ ﻧﯽ ﺩﻣﺴﺎﺯ ﻭ ﻣﺸﺘﺎﻗﯽ ﮐﯽ ﺩﯾﺪ‬ ‫ﻧﯽ ﺣﺪﯾﺚ ﺭﺍﻩ ﭘﺮ ﺧﻮﻥ ﻣﯽﮐﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﻗﺼﻪﻫﺎﯼ ﻋﺸﻖ ﻣﺠﻨﻮﻥ ﻣﯽﮐﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﻣﺤﺮﻡ ﺍﯾﻦ ﻫﻮﺵ ﺟﺰ ﺑﯿﻬﻮﺵ ﻧﯿﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﻣﺮ ﺯﺑﺎﻥ ﺭﺍ ﻣﺸﺘﺮﯼ ﺟﺰ ﮔﻮﺵ ﻧﯿﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﺩﺭ ﻏﻢ ﻣﺎ ﺭﻭﺯﻫﺎ ﺑﯿﮕﺎﻩ ﺷﺪ‬ ‫ﺭﻭﺯﻫﺎ ﺑﺎ ﺳﻮﺯﻫﺎ ﻫﻤﺮﺍﻩ ﺷﺪ‬ ‫ﺭﻭﺯﻫﺎ ﮔﺮ ﺭﻓﺖ ﮔﻮ ﺭﻭ ﺑﺎﮎ ﻧﯿﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﺗﻮ ﺑﻤﺎﻥ ﺍﯼ ﺁﻧﮏ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺗﻮ ﭘﺎﮎ ﻧﯿﺴﺖ‬ ‫ﻫﺮ ﮐﻪ ﺟﺰ ﻣﺎﻫﯽ ﺯ ﺁﺑﺶ ﺳﯿﺮ ﺷﺪ‬

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Conclusion ‫ﻫﺮﮐﻪ ﺑﯽ ﺭﻭﺯﯾﺴﺖ ﺭﻭﺯﺵ ﺩﯾﺮ ﺷﺪ‬ ‫ﺩﺭ ﻧﯿﺎﺑﺪ ﺣﺎﻝ ﭘﺨﺘﻪ ﻫﯿﭻ ﺧﺎﻡ‬ ‫ﭘﺲ ﺳﺨﻦ ﮐﻮﺗﺎﻩ ﺑﺎﯾﺪ ﻭﺍﻟﺴﻼﻡ‬ (‫ ﺳﺮﺁﻏﺎﺯ ﺩﻓﺘﺮ ﺍﻭﻝ‬،‫)ﻣﺜﻨﻮﯼ ﻣﻌﻨﻮﯼ‬

“The song of the reed,” the opening poem (exordium) of the Masnavi is one of the most celebrated poems of Rumi. The poem expresses a “secret” in an in-between state of alterity-identity, which is considered as the secret that the speaker/poet believes could belong to anyone. As the reed-flute narrates its story and its separation from neyestan (canebrake, the company of flutes), we hear the song of a self. An empty self becomes a flute open to airflow. In order for it to make sounds, someone should blow in it, and so it is with Rumi’s self. Self is not distinguished from the other. However, the other similarly needs the “flute” to turn his breath into music. It is not pure air but the “fire” of love that passes through the flute and composes music (poetry). Initially and typically Rumi’s “reed” flute is read as a metaphor for selfeffacement. Yet the self is still traceable in the poem. As the poem refers both to the “song of the reed” flute and “the reed” flute, it is apparent that, although they are creating the same song, the flute and the breath are distinct. The speaker (the reed) confesses his love through the fiery “song” while the song is said to be the fruit of the fiery breathe of the player and not that of the flute. The song, the poem is, therefore, the moment of recognition of self and other in a play of significances, which makes their distinction both possible and impossible. The emptiness of the flute is the result of the unconditional ways in which the speaker perceives the world: “The few who hear . . . have lost their wits so they can speak this tongue” (1.14). The term bihush (those who lost their wits, the intoxicated) refers to people who are unconscious or lack rational thinking. Pure and unconditioned perception has no finality or intelligibility. The “raw”—those who use wit—do not understand the “ripe,” the flute (1.18). As the self of the “raw” try to fit the “sea” of identity into the “jar” of calculation, the “ripe” are “joyful” at finding “Galen,” the “physician of all kinds of ailments” in “love” (1.20–22). “The loved one’s all, the lover’s just a screen /A dead thing, while the loved one lives, unseen” (30). The philosophy of the flute is the one that acknowledged the in-between image of the self and the other. Whitman’s “Song of Myself” where he invites the reader “to stop with [him] this day and night” to find “the origin of all poems,” corresponds to Rumi’s “Song of the reed.” The addressee of the poem, “you,” which is present throughout the poem from the first stanza (“What I assume you shall assume”) to the last (“I stop some where waiting for you”) indicates a concern for the reader, the companion, the other. Although Whitman’s tone does not include the same degree of spiritual ecstasy that Rumi’s poem conveys, its belief in otherness as an initiator of self still exists. “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you” (Whitman 187).

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And what is the “self” that Whitman celebrates? The poem tells us that the “self” is not concerned with the “people,” the “city,” the “nation,” the “latest news,” “discoveries, inventions, societies . . . authors,” with “dress, looks, dinners, businesses, compliments,” or “dues,” “the sickness,” “loss,” “lack of money,” “depressions,” “exaltations” of oneself or others. “They are not the Me myself” (191). Similar to Rumi’s speaker, the speaker of “Song of Myself” voids himself from common wit to experience the forbidden side of self: “Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am / Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary” (ibid.). If for Rumi the “secret” side of the intellect is spiritual, for Whitman it is physical; both “secrets” are the sources of writing, “the origin of all poems” (188). As the poem proceeds we see that Whitman’s initial claim about his lack of concern for others disappears and his individual self emerges into a society of people that belong to every sect: “I am of old and young . . . / Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, / Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man . . . / One of the Nation of many nations . . . / I resist anything better than my own diversity . . . / I will not have a single person slighted or left away . . . / In all people I see myself” (203–6). Whitman’s sense of inclusion does not stop there, as he incorporates nature, animals, and plants into his cosmology: sea, rocks, storm, sand, blackberries, cow, mouse, coal, moss, grains, roots, birds, snake, elk, carrots, forests, rivers, fish, bears, cotton, sugar and more, and grass—“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, / If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles” (247). As the poem ends, the sense of becoming one with his reader, and the unity with alterity is evident. Whitman becomes the tongue of the reader: “I follow you whoever you are from the present hour . . . / I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat, / It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of you, / Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen’d” (243). Whitman’s project, in this sense, resembles Rumi’s in communicating a sense of connection to the other (with extended meaning), which holds together the identity, and a sense of self. The celebration of self is, thus, simultaneously, a celebration of the vagueness and the uncertainty of the origin of self. Rumi and Whitman’s writings break boundaries in defining identify. According to Sheila Croucher identity is not “static, essential and unidimensional,” it is rather “changeable” (38). To “deterritorialize” one’s nationality is to “decline the centrality of geographic state” that one belongs to and to move “beyond and outside of the established boundaries of nation-states” (ibid. 12–13). This is to live in a world beyond geography, in a “superaterritory” which is “no longer wholly mapped in terms of territorial places, territorial distances, and territorial bounders” (ibid.). Lack of the concept of nationality inspires a kind of homelessness, which produces a cosmopolitan identity. Home including one’s actual place of living, city of birth, country of origin, or what is called homeland is part

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of one’s identity. Being called American, Italian, Indian, and so forth echoes belonging to a national state and its borders, while the denial of nationality and of national identity, the denial of belonging to the state, is in fact an approval of cosmopolitanism. Zygmunt Bauman defines cosmopolitan identity as a nomad personality belonging to everywhere (99), and who lives in a borderless territory or according to Bauman a “space without a certain culture.” Bauman believes that this “imaginary” space where the boundaries of the “real” have been dissolved, is a dramatized “space” that settles “the discomfort and anxieties” of home and homelessness, of identity cultural or otherwise (90, 91). The potential space (room) of Rumi and Whitman likewise does not demand specific cultural identities. The inhabitants of such a space do not necessarily identify with certain cultures, or national identity. Their literary room becomes the melting pot of different cultures. People come, people go, people tell stories, people listen, people read, and review their memories, the memories through which other people could live and die, enter the room and leave. Inside the walls of the room the identification of person with a certain nation, culture, or party disappears. Far from special identification, this space is “beyond and outside of established boundaries” (Croucher 13). The literary room itself bears the identities of a global state, of its sharing characteristic and its multilingualism. In this sense, it turns into timeless, locationless witness of changing identities (of authors and readers). The room that belongs to no nation, no culture, and no political standpoint is free of boundaries and is cosmopolitan. Rumi and Whitman’s narratives of culture are one of cultural fluidity and dynamism. 6 Whitman’s residence in literature and poetry is gypsy-like and without institutionalization. In Leaves, Whitman’s long lists remind one of a gypsy trip when a person sees and passes people and lifestyles without getting attached to them. The lists are the places of passing in Whitman, and the leaps in which tolerance and hospitality become possible. As different lists pass in front of the reader’s eyes like the frames in a movie, they remind one of the fleeting nature of identity. Whitman writes, “The pride of United States leaves the wealth and finesse of the cities and all returns of commerce and agriculture and all the magnitude of geography or shows of exterior victory to enjoy the breed of fullsized men and one fullsized man unconquerable and simple” (6). It is only in moving beyond nation and its geography that one finally understands and conquers nationality and lets it become what it is, an imaginary function. “The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem” (Whitman 5). The fact that geography becomes poetry for Whitman, put beside his claim that real poetry is beyond geography, suggests a desire to dissolve geographical distinctions into the fluid identity of a poetry that does not conform to external forces of time and space. This desire creates transcendental poetry that embraces a “fluid moment of population” (8); where the poet depicts mankind and its fluid identity. This poetry, as Whitman suggests, belongs to the era of “no solid

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forms” (8) where “the beauty and sacredness of the demonstrable” does not fall behind that of the mythical, historical, or geographical (6). While a country is “in war,” Whitman writes, a poet is “the most deadly force of war” (9) killing while composing. The poet of the “future” kills the ideology of war by emphasizing a lack of attachment to lands. Challenging the restrictions of national identity s/he becomes the most deadly force, discouraging nationalism. “The poet of kosmos” writes in a way that one’s “soul” and “very flesh” shall become “great poetry” (11). Nationalistic propaganda often draws upon firmed concepts of national or historical identity (based on a clear concept of time and space), while “soul” and “flesh”—the material of Whitman’s poetry—complicates the clear-cut notion of identity by introducing the idea of a global community of soul and flesh that does not belong within the clear borders of nations. 7 This lack of belonging to specific nations and identities corresponds to the Sufi stage of istighna (independence, detachment). Sufism borrows the idea from Farid ud-Din Attar’s book The Conference of the Birds where he discusses the importance of detachment and independence as a key element in the mystical enrichment of the Sufi identity. In the valley of independence and detachment one has no desire to possess anything or any knowledge. “Next comes the valley of detachment / Here all claims, all lust for meaning disappears” (Attar 184). He explains that in this stage all distinctions of space (for example, sky and earth, land and sea, heaven and hell, big and small) lose their meaning. To be able to experience these moments of lack of attachment is to take a step toward the final stage of fana (annihilation) where self experiences freedom from dependent conditional identifications. This is what Rumi would call the “placeless” state. A poem attributed to Rumi describes placeless as the lack of belonging to attributes: I am neither Christian, nor Jew, nor Zoroastrian, nor Moslem I am not of the East, nor of the West, nor of the land, nor of the sea; I am not of nature’s mint, nor of the circling heavens. I am not of earth, nor of water, nor of air, nor of fire; I am not of the empyrean, nor of the dust, nor of the existence, nor of enmity. I am not of India, nor China, nor Bulgaria, nor Saqsin; I am not of kingdom of Iraqain, nor of Khorasan. I am not of this world, nor of the next, nor of Paradise, nor of Hell; My place is the Placeless, my trace is the Traceless; I have put duality away, I have seen that the two worlds are one; One I seek, One I know, One I see, One I call. (Rumi) 8 ‫ﭼﻪ ﺗﺪﺑﯿﺮ ﺍﯼ ﻣﺴﻠﻤﺎﻧﺎﻥ ﮐﻪ ﻣﻦ ﺧﻮﺩ ﺭﺍ ﻧﻤﯿﺪﺍﻧﻢ‬ ‫ﻧﻪ ﺗﺮﺳﺎ ﻧﻪ ﯾﻬﻮﺩﻡ ﻣﻦ ﻧﻪ ﮔﺒﺮ ﻭ ﻧﻪ ﻣﺴﻠﻤﺎﻧﻢ‬ ‫ﻧﻪ ﺷﺮﻗﯿﻢ ﻧﻪ ﻏﺮﺑﯿﻢ ﻧﻪ ﺑﺮﯾﻢ ﻧﻪ ﺑﺤﺮﯾﻢ‬ ‫ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺍﺭﮐﺎﻥ ﻃﺒﯿﻌﯿﻢ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺍﻓﻼﮎ ﮔﺮﺩﺍﻧﻢ‬ ‫ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﻫﻨﺪﻡ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﭼﯿﻨﻢ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺭ ﺑﻠﻐﺎﺭ ﻭ ﺳﻘﺴﯿﻨﻢ‬

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Conclusion ‫ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﻣﻠﮏ ﻋﺮﺍﻗﯿﻨﻢ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺧﺎﮎ ﺧﺮﺍﺳﺎﻧﻢ‬ ‫ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺧﺎﮐﻢ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺁﺑﻢ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺑﺎﺩﻡ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺁﺗﺶ‬ ‫ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﻋﺮﺷﻢ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﻓﺮﺷﻢ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯﮐﻮﻧﻢ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﮐﺎﻧﻢ‬ ‫ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺩﻧﯿﺎ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﻋﻘﺒﯽ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺟﻨﺖ ﻧﻪ ﺩﻭﺯﺥ‬ ‫ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺁﺩﻡ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﺣﻮﺍ ﻧﻪ ﺍﺯ ﻓﺮﺩﻭﺱ ﻭ ﺭﺿﻮﺍﻧﻢ‬ ‫ﻫﻮﺍﻻﻭﻝ ﻫﻮﺍﻻﺧﺮ ﻫﻮﺍﻟﻈﺎﻫﺮ ﻫﻮﺍﻟﺒﺎﻃﻦ‬ ‫ﮐﻪ ﻣﻦ ﺟﺰ ﻫﻮ ﻭ ﯾﺎ ﻣﻦ ﻫﻮ ﮐﺲ ﺩﯾﮕﺮ ﻧﻤﯿﺪﺍﻧﻢ‬ ‫ﻣﮑﺎﻧﻢ ﻻ ﻣﮑﺎﻥ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ ﻧﺸﺎﻧﻢ ﺑﯽ ﻧﺸﺎﻥ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ‬ ‫ﻧﻪ ﺗﻦ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ ﻧﻪ ﺟﺎﻥ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ ﮐﻪ ﻣﻦ ﺍﺯ ﺟﺎﻥ ﺟﺎﻧﺎﻧﻢ‬ ‫ﺩﻭﺋﯽ ﺭﺍ ﭼﻮﻥ ﺑﺮﻭﻥ ﮐﺮﺩﻡ ﺩﻭ ﻋﺎﻟﻢ ﺭﺍ ﯾﮑﯽ ﺩﯾﺪﻡ‬ ‫ﯾﮑﯽ ﺑﯿﻨﻢ ﯾﮑﯽ ﺟﻮﯾﻢ ﯾﮑﯽ ﺩﺍﻧﻢ ﯾﮑﯽ ﺧﻮﺍﻧﻢ‬ (‫ ﻧﯿﮑﻠﺴﻮﻥ‬،‫)ﮔﺰﯾﺪﻩ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬

The poem includes a sense of indifference to belonging, which in part incorporates a form of cosmopolitanism as the loss or lack of identity based on belonging to divisions of space. Placelessness is a form of being that contemplates identity regardless of its attachments to the elements of space and time. 9 In another poem Rumi states that the truth is only to be found in the placeless, like an image reflecting on the surface of water. It is there and it is not there (Divan vs. 577). The rhyme of Rumi’s poetry especially in the Divan conveys a continuous movement and stands for either the ongoing process of composing poetry, the ongoing reading of poetry, or an ongoing journey of a spiritual traveler without attachment. The transliteration: bâ man sanamâ del iek del e kon gar sar nanaham an gah gele kon Majnoun shode am, az bahr e khodâ zan zoulf e khoshat iek selseleh kon si pâreh be kaf dar cheleh shodi si pâreh manam! tarke chele kon majhoul maro, bâ ghoul maro zenhâr, safar bâ ghafele kon . . . (Divan vs. 2095) My darling, give me your heart and merge with me If I don’t submit to you, Then complain to me! I am mad for the sake of God, Make a chain out of your beautiful hair. Don’t go where nobody knows, don’t fall off the road Travel with the caravan. O the instrument of heart; Fill me with your beautiful tune . . . ‫ﺑﺎ ﻣﻦ ﺻﻨﻤﺎ ﺩﻝ ﯾﮏ ﺩﻟﻪ ﮐﻦ‬ ‫ﮔﺮ ﺳﺮ ﻧﻨﻬﻢ ﺁﻧﮕﻪ ﮔﻠﻪ ﮐﻦ‬ ‫ﻣﺠﻨﻮﻥ ﺷﺪﻩﺍﻡ ﺍﺯ ﺑﻬﺮ ﺧﺪﺍ‬ ‫ﺯﺍﻥ ﺯﻟﻒ ﺧﻮﺷﺖ ﯾﮏ ﺳﻠﺴﻠﻪ ﮐﻦ‬

Conclusion

115 ‫ﺳﯽ ﭘﺎﺭﻩ ﺑﻪ ﮐﻒ ﺩﺭ ﭼﻠﻪ ﺷﺪﯼ‬ ‫ﺳﯽ ﭘﺎﺭﻩ ﻣﻨﻢ ﺗﺮﮎ ﭼﻠﻪ ﮐﻦ‬ ‫ﻣﺠﻬﻮﻝ ﻣﺮﻭ ﺑﺎ ﻏﻮﻝ ﻣﺮﻭ‬ ‫ﺯﻧﻬﺎﺭ ﺳﻔﺮ ﺑﺎ ﻗﺎﻓﻠﻪ ﮐﻦ‬ ‫ﺍﯼ ﻣﻄﺮﺏ ﺩﻝ ﺯﺍﻥ ﻧﻐﻤﻪ ﺧﻮﺵ‬ ‫ ﺍﯾﻦ ﻣﻐﺰ ﻣﺮﺍ ﭘﺮ ﻣﺸﻐﻠﻪ ﮐﻦ‬. . . (‫ ﻏﺰﻝ‬،‫ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﻥ ﺷﻤﺲ‬۲۰۹۵)

Here, as the speaker invites the addressee to join him in a group journey (last line), the rhyme of the poem itself conveys the movement of a traveling caravan. The repetition of consonants (d, g, s, m) creates a musical tone similar to that of a tambourine or other percussion instruments, showing the poem’s probable association with the sama, and thus movement, continuation. As the poem proceeds and the speaker continues to address a second party, the reader realizes that the addressee can be the speaker her/himself. He uses the term motreb e del (the signer of the heart) to refer to the addressee. The term can also be read as “heart, the singer” or “the singing heart,” both of which refer to the speaker’s heart or her/ his self. The intoxication of her/his singing heart leads the “busy mind” of the speaker to leave the concerns and join the “caravan.” Here, caravan stands for the company of the Sufis or of the general public. Mentioning the word “bell” in the last line, the poem again remembers the ringing bells of camels slowly passing in the deserts. Moreover, the desire to form an identity that recognizes and accompany the other emerges through the depiction of different parts of the speaker’s body dil (hand), sar (head), zolf (hair), kaf (hand), maghz (brain), chashm (eyes), pa (feet), gardan (neck) as a response to the presence and absence of the addressee. For instance, the speaker’s eyes would lose their sight without the existence of the addressee. The poetry of Rumi and Whitman illustrates how, as a person broadens her/his identity through time and space, her/his degree of tolerance will increase. Her/his sensitivity toward everything threatening personal belongings (whether they are concrete or abstract) decreases, and it produces tolerance and openness toward the world. As the terror declines, one nation drops the need to prepare for confrontation and war. LITERATURE AND “A DEMOCRACY TO COME” What Derrida admires about literature is its force of dissemination, its ability to disseminate itself to let meaning multiply, to keep open as many meanings as possible. Even though “literature” is not an especially meaningful term, it can be said that Derrida deduces the notion of dissemination from literature. Dissemination is a force within language and as the unruly and enabling force of language (the force of writing and of textuality) it occurs always without origin through the textual creation of

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authors/poets. For Derrida, literature is not defined by some mysterious or obvious “essence” but by the right that is assigned to literature: a “right to say everything” (On the Name 28). Of course, in practice this right is repeatedly repressed, censored, or qualified in different circumstances, and for a large number of reasons. Yet the principle of such a “right” remains a characterizing feature of literature. Derrida explains that the “right to literature/right of literature” tasks writers with the responsibility to say everything at the same time questions the concept of responsibility (ibid.). When writers refuse to reply for their writings to the constituted powers, the “duty of irresponsibility” becomes “the highest form of responsibility” (Acts of Literature 38). The writer’s irresponsibility to respond makes the response a future event, an event yet to come, always deferred. And it is this lack of response (explanation, conclusion, closure), which is the very function of literature. In this sense, literature is affirmed as perhaps the very trait of the “democracy to come”—a coming which continually places demands on us in the “herenow”—in the sense that literature puts into question its own law, keeping open the issue of its own unconditional responsibility. Literature is thus given the potential to resist forms of severity, domination, and mastery (Wortham). Literature has no essential form or character outside the function it is assigned as a right. Literature’s refusal to be held accountable in terms of an already given duty or ethics of writing might entail its greatest responsibility. [Literature] secures in principle its right to say everything. It ties its destiny to a certain noncensure, to the space of democratic freedom (freedom of the press, freedom of speech, etc.). No democracy without literature; no literature without democracy . . . [literature with its] unlimited right to ask any question. (Derrida, On the Name 28)

For this reason, literature may well serve the “democracy to come,” which remains irreducible to the limit of any given political orientation, ideological program, or historical project. The work of dissemination opens the possibility of encounters with others, including but not restricted to the encounter between literature and politics. NOTES 1. Mohammad Khatami, the Dialogue Among Civilizations: On September 5th 2000, in a round table in the UN, the former Iranian president Mohammad Khatami introduced the term Dialogue among Civilizations. The concept of Dialogue among Civilization is not exclusive to Khatami. The term was initially used by Hans Kochler, Austrian philosopher, in a letter to UNESCO (1972). However, the UN put emphasis on Khatami’s usage of the term and named the following year, 2001, Year of Dialogue among Civilizations—the year ironically famous for the events of 9/11. The term, which is a response to Huntington’s clash of civilizations, calls for the necessity of dialogue among the world’s nations. In his speech, Khatami admitted that, in the present world where global politics is grounded on material values and economical

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profits, envisaging a global dialogue might bring back a lost humanity to politics. Dialogue, according to Khatami, should be embedded in the cultural and historical acquaintance of nations. In order for the world to reach a degree of harmony and tranquility, it needs to seek meaningful dialogues in which different nations “can exchange knowledge, experience, and understanding in diverse areas of culture and civilizations” (Khatami). In order to do so, nations should suspend their “will to power,” and be ready to understand each other based on “empathy” and “compassion.” A world without empathy is a world in which military values rule over the human, and political and economic authority “begets the ultimate devastation of the environment and the eradication of all spiritual, artistic, and intuitive havens” (Khatami). At the end of his speech, he emphasizes that the people of the world should be ready to put aside their “destructive weapons” and be prepared to open and share their “inner existence with others.” It is only under this condition that the spirit of “love” and “harmony” will prevail. Khatami’s speech belongs to Said’s first category of cultural rhetoric: “a utopian line that insists on an overall pattern of integration and harmony between all peoples” (Said, “The Myth” 6). Khatami’s rhetoric of dialogue—including terms such as “true essence of humanity,” moments of “interpenetration of cultures,” “universal language”—implies an inclination toward a shared human nature. Overlooking differences in a hope for dialogue, such a political approach remains idealistic and impractical. In one of his sentences Khatami says, “Without a discussion of fundamentals, and by simply confining attention to superficial issues, dialogue would not get us far from where we currently stand” (Khatami). Although Khatami does not explain what he means by “superficial issues,” his reference to them as sources of conflict makes one wonder if he means cultural differences are superficial. Confusing a necessary condition with a sufficient one, Khatami’s approach turns human similarities into the only condition for dialogue and negotiation. Merely emphasizing similarities is dangerous since similarities can be reduced to simple versions of nationalism and patriotism and cause further conflict. Khatami’s emphasis on self is also problematic. He starts and ends his speech by referring to “Iran,” which he singles out as “the most ancient human civilization,” the home of “the Persian soul” and “Iranian spirit.” He also talks about a sense of “cultural homelessness” in the absence of belonging to a specific cultural identity, which “would deprive people of solace both in their own culture and in the vast open horizon of global culture.” In other words, “homelessness,” Khatami argues, as the result of a lack of origin, has negative results, and should be avoided through dialogue and sharing. (An opposite version of Khatami’s homeless is Gilles Deleuze’s term nomad, which has positive connotations. The nomad is a creative agent who runs counter to “the State” [or any absolute selfhood].) The main aim of dialogue, in this sense, is to return to the self. The fundamental problem with this approach is the simplicity with which identity and alterity are pictured. The term “civilization” (culture) becomes a clear-cut package based on which one categorizes and organizes people (Iranian, Indian, Western, etc.), and upon which one calls for dialogue among them. It seems that the terms “harmony” and “unity” were used in the formation of a homogenized world based on spiritual values. It is problematic to assume such cultural categories and more problematic to create such categories based on their similarities or differences with the self. Samuel Huntington, the Clash of Civilizations: In 1993, in an essay entitled “The Clash of Civilizations,” Samuel Huntington introduced cultural differences as the main cause of conflict and war in the world (he had borrowed the idea from Bernard Lewis’s article “The Root of Muslim Rage”). According to Huntington, world politics is entering a new phase in which human history will end in clashes and conflict. What will end our history, Huntington writes, are not “ideological” or “economical” but “cultural” conflicts (22). Each civilization has a cultural nature, which cannot be separated from it and which is defined through possession of “common objective elements, such as language, history, religion, customs, institutions” (Huntington 24). Each civil-

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ization is composed of “subcivilizations,” which are as significant as the original civilization. In general, the world used to have “21 major civilizations,” only eight of which exist in the contemporary world, namely “Western, Confucian, Japanese, Islamic, Hindu, Slavic-Orthodox, Latin American, and African” (25). The differences between civilizations are not only “real” but also “basic” (it seems that, by “basic,” he means “historical,” when a few lines later he writes that the differences “are the product of centuries” [25]). Huntington believes that human history teaches us that the most aggressive conflicts are the products of cultural differences (25). A large part of Huntington’s essay is dedicated to finding examples of conflicts between civilizations. He puts forth these examples as support for his argument. Logically speaking, he commits the fallacy of omission (by being selective about historical evidence, and ignoring evidence that disproves his theory), and also casual simplification by assuming that differences are the primary sources of human conflict. Huntington believes that modern economy and social change throughout the world enlarge the scope of human identity and separate him from “the longstanding local identities.” However, he remarks that religious identity is still a source of conflict. Emphasizing traditional differences, religious fundamentalism widens the gap in humanity (26). Huntington also uses the term fault line to refer to the clear line between cultures. He writes that, in the contemporary world, the “fault lines between civilizations” play the same role as the old “political and ideological boundaries of the Cold War.” Both show the flash points for bloodshed and crisis (29). Each fault line is a “line of difference” and, consequently, a line of “bloody conflict” (31) (as an example he explains how “Islam has bloody borders”). He concludes his article by admitting that each nation in the world is able to identify with one or another party in the global conflict. Such identification and a sense of belonging to one party or another, he thinks, transforms global politics to a “game” based on “double standards,” in which nations “apply one standard to their kin-countries and a different standard to others” (36). The future world is a place “torn” between various cultures and civilizations where tribal values rule humanity (42), and the only way to prevent such an end, Huntington believes, is to learn how to “coexist” in the world of “different civilizations” (49). Huntington’s concluding tone and his emphasis on the necessity of “coexistence,” appear contradictory to his standpoint throughout the article. Although he eventually returns to the importance of understanding, his emphasis on the immense significance of differences as sources of conflict doesn’t leave much room for such conclusions. Throughout the article, the human is considered a passive object following the shaping force of history and culture. History is pictured as a line with beginning, middle, and end, and with the contemporary world’s conflicts pushing it toward an end. Similar to Khatami, Huntington employs the terms “civilization” and “culture” as ready packages for identity. Although he tries to remain objective in his argument and does not easily identify with one party or another, it is evident that he sees himself as an authoritative voice searching for solutions from an American point of view. In the longer version of his paper published as the book The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order, Huntington pushes the argument further, in apparent encouragement of imperialism, suggesting that the West should learn how to turn the conflict to its own benefit: The West must exploit differences and conflicts among Confucian and Islamic states to support in other civilizations groups sympathetic to western values and interests to strengthen international institutions that reflect and legitimate western interests and values, and to promote the involvement of non-Western states in those institutions. (Huntington, Clash 49) The us/them dichotomy is a building block of Huntington’s argument much as it was in Khatami’s. Eventually, it seems that both Khatami and Huntington follow the same line in imagining cultures as existing with always already fully formed identities (one of them highlights cultural similarities, the other cultural differences). Moreover, Huntington refers to differences as mere sources of conflict, which is basically the

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same as saying that differences are equal to conflict, while similarities are equal to peace and agreement. Differences, in this sense, are frowned upon and condemned, although they are used to justify civilization, culture, and conflict. What Huntington does not include is the fact that every difference does not mean conflict and every conflict does not end in violence. Differences per se are not sources of conflict; rather, our understanding of them causes conflict. Are differences, as Huntington imagines, fixed realities based on which one can define cultural identity? 2. Wherever Derrida reflects upon the deconstructible relations that both limit and maintain the philosophy, history, culture, and politics of the Western tradition, différance is a term that comes into play. The tradition, as Derrida argues throughout his works, has set up a hierarchy of binary oppositions. This binary is precisely what Derrida is trying to subvert by using the term différance. Différance is the silent spacing in time and space functioning to create differences. And since différance is not a static entity, Derrida explains that his intention throughout his project is to insistently intensify “its play” (ibid. 3)—a play that “keeps itself beyond oppositions” (ibid. 7). One can even say that without play of différance, differences do not exist as, “différance is the name we might give to the active, moving discord of different forces” (ibid. 18). However, we should not confuse play with any type of movement or any familiar activity. For différance in nature is neither active nor passive: Différance is neither simply active nor simply passive, announcing or rather recalling something like, the middle voice, saying an operation that is not an operation, an operation that cannot be conceived either as passion or as the action of a subject on an object, or on the basis of the categories of agent or patient, neither on the basis of nor moving toward any of these terms. (ibid. 9) The “a” of différance marks such a state of hesitancy. 3. This rethinking may also point to what Giorgio Agamben calls the coming community. He describes the term as the situation where the condition of belonging, or more precisely the co-belonging of humans, is not premised upon or built through “any representable condition of belonging” (Agamben 86), since all representable conditions of belonging, operate through a violent inclusion/exclusion logic. More crucially, the representable conditions of belonging are built upon particular certainties— about identity, the environment, terrorism, and so on—that can hinder the possibility of change and transformation. This is why, for Agamben, the coming community is a community that “[does] not possess any identity to vindicate or any bond of belonging for which to seek recognition” (ibid. 85). 4. “Pure I, identical to I-self, does not exist. I is always in difference. I is the open set of the trances of an I by definition changing, mobile, because living-speakingthinking-dreaming. The difference is in us, in me, difference plays me (my play). And it is numerous: since it plays with me in me between me and me or I and myself. A myself which is the most intimate first name of you. I will never say often enough that the difference is not one, that there is never one without the other, and that the charm of difference is that it passes. It crosses through us, like a goddess. We cannot capture it” (Cixous, Reader xviii). 5. Reynolds further argues that Derrida is similar to Merleau-Ponty in this regard. According to Merleau-Ponty, there is a “divergence” or “disassociation” between self and other, but they are also intertwined with one another in such a way that to speak of the radical singularity of the self, or the radical otherness of the other, is to ignore the fact that both paradigms are conceivable only on account of being of the one same flesh. Merleau-Ponty emphasizes that we can address the other only on account of this separation. The important point in Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy is that responsibility to the other requires a recognition of the “overlapping, intertwining, and encroachments” that typify any relation between self and other, and also problematize the very ease of this distinction (Merleau-Ponty 123). The difference between Derrida and Merleau-Ponty, however, is that in addition to accepting responsibility as

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confirmation of this “distinction,” Derrida respects the “radical singularity” of the other, and the qualities of their alterity that resist the encroachment of self upon other (Reynolds 58–59). 6. The concept of cosmopolitanism as transcending the geographical borders in a hope for global community/dialogue originally belongs to Kant. According to Kant, all rational beings are members in a single moral community. They are analogous to citizens in the political sense in that they share the characteristics of freedom, equality, and independence, and that they give themselves the law. It seems that Derrida diverges from Kant’s version of “moral” cosmopolitanism to introduce a more mystical version based on uncertainty and hospitality. Derrida’s version leaves room for the “negotiation between the unconditional and the conditional, between the absolute and the relative, between the universal and the particular” (On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness xi). Likewise, Rumi and Whitman’s understandings are in line with Derrida’s standpoint. 7. In “Song of Myself” and elsewhere in Leaves we read about “rooms full of perfumes,” the fragrance of which the speaker of Whitman’s poetry “breathes,” “knows,” and “likes” (27). Whether the perfume is considered actual or whether it is fragrance of ideas and poetical images, it manifests a form of privacy that is familiar to the speaker. The privacy of his poetic language (a room full of “vision” [450]) that can connect him to “kosmos,” or the privacy of a room full of perfume in which the poet sits and writes is the beginning of his cosmopolitanism. The poetic voice communicates with the cosmos in a moment when the border is blurred: “The corps is slowly borne from the . . . rooms of the house” (5). The room creates vision and makes the internal-external community. According to Gaston Bachelard “Inside and outside as experienced by imagination can no longer be taken in their simple reciprocity” (216). They are always “ready to be reversed,” to exchange “their hostility” (218). The room is very deeply our room; it is in us. We no longer see it. It no longer limits us (226). And through it we can create an “indifferent space” which does not distinguish between us and the world (231). And it is only in a room that puts space, all space, behind that meditation on the meaning of identity will be free (ibid.). 8. Trans. Reynold Nicholson. Selected Poems from Divan. 9. The term placeless is used by Rumi throughout his writing and even if the attributed poem does not belong to him his teachings are familiar with this concept. I found twelve other places where the term placeless is used in the Divan, and eight in the Masnavi.

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Index

alterity, 2, 5, 10, 29, 31, 33, 41, 55, 56, 95, 98, 100, 105, 106, 106–108, 110 Attar, Farid ud-Din, 113

Divan, of Shams, 24n6, 35, 36, 41, 45, 95

Bhabha, Homi, 7, 8 Buber, Martin, 27–28 Calvin, John, 83–84 Cixous, Hélène, 1, 61–64, 65–66, 67, 72, 73 cosmopolitanism, 111, 114, 120n6, 120n7 culture: of colonized and colonizer, 7–9; deconstruction of, 34, 106, 112; and hybridity, 8, 112; space without, 111; as structure, 5 deconstruction: of binary thinking, 34, 61–64; of center, 6, 9, 13–15, 19, 56, 79, 82, 99, 106; and a democracy to come, 55–56, 105, 115–116; and différance, 62, 105–106, 119n2; and dissemination, 115–116; of logocentrism, 2, 13, 15, 23 Derrida, Jacques, 13–14, 23n1, 33, 42, 47, 55–56, 57n6, 59n28, 61–62, 91, 95, 101n6, 105–108, 115–116, 119n2, 119n5, 120n6 dervish, 18, 19, 23n3, 58n19; whirling, 1, 39, 40, 58n16, 100 dialogue: based on différance, 61; between self and other, 2; beyond similarities, 106, 116n1; cultural, 1, 5, 29, 38, 61; definition of, 56; and gender, 73; genuine, 27–29, 33, 34, 35, 55; literary, 29, 66; metaphorical, 56n1; religious, 29; Rumi, and, 35, 36, 92, 98; styles of, 27–30, 39, 47, 106; transcendentalism, and, 33–34; Whitman, and, 31, 32, 43

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 19, 29–30, 32–33, 45, 52–54, 87n8 ethics: of alterity, 106; and binary thinking, 79; based on love, 57n8; deconstruction of, 79; literary, 115; in Rumi, 95; political, 102n10 feminism, 61–64, 68, 71, 85n2 Fih-e Ma Fih, 92 Ghazali, Abu Hamid Muhammad, 16, 83 Hallaj, Mansur, 89n15 hospitality : absolute, 58n19, 95; and alterity, 28, 42, 57n6, 107; literary, 29; Rumi and, 92, 94, 95; sema as, 41; uncertainty and, 120n6; unconditional, 42; and war, 91; Whitman and, 97, 97–100, 112 hybridity, 8 Ibn Arabi, Muhyiddin, 48, 50, 52, 59n32, 77 identity, 6, 13, 19, 28, 87n10, 99, 110, 115, 119n3; and alterity, 2, 56, 57n9, 61, 100; cultural, 31, 105, 116n1; deconstruction of, 13, 19, 23n1, 61, 105–108, 110–112; in Rumi, 39, 44, 98, 110, 113, 114, 115; in Whitman, 44, 53, 57n9, 98, 99, 112, 120n7 imperialism, 5–7, 10, 10n2, 34, 59n22, 107 kalam, 16–17 Kierkegaard, Søren, 95, 101n6, 106

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Index

Leaves of Grass, about, 59n26, 63, 66, 75, 76 literature, politics of, 2, 115–116 Majnun, 93, 94–95, 101n2–102n8 Maqalat, of Shams, 18 Masnavi, about, 24n5, 36, 89n15 mysticism, Islamic, 39, 58n19, 78, 86n6 orientalism, 7–8, 30–31, 34, 57n3 otherness, 2, 29, 38, 41, 42, 45, 56, 106, 110, 119n5 panopticism, Foucauldian, 9 postcolonialism, 7, 8, 23, 25n13, 34 Rumi, Jalal al-Din Muhammad,: on body, 39–42; and dialogue, 35–39; encounter with Shams, 17; and gender binaries, 68–73; and good and evil, 80–83; and hospitality, 92–96; and logocentrism, 15–19; and madness, 100–101; on mind, 47–52; and time, 77–79; and transcendentalists, 32; and ethics of alterity, 108–110, 113–115 self: annihilation, 48–52, 56, 60n33, 110; criticism, 6; differences within, 106, 119n4; and other, 5, 5–6, 7, 14, 37, 38,

39, 100, 105, 106, 108; the postcolonial, 6–10; presence of, 13, 14, 42, 66 sema, 39–42, 45, 58n16, 58n19, 59n23, 71–72, 77, 86n5, 115 Shams, al-Din Mohammad Tabrizi, 1, 17–19, 25n8, 35, 36, 37, 39, 41, 45, 48, 58n19, 72, 77, 86n7, 87n10, 95 structuralism, 7, 14 Sufism,: as heresy, 15, 23n3; definition of, 17; the romantic, 48; God as the other in, 50; women in, 68 sympathy, 6, 10n2, 45, 98, 99–100, 101 Merton, Thomas, 29, 56n1 transcendentalism: literary style of, 19–20; oriental influence on, 32, 57n3; and Unitarianism, 34; definition, 52, 53; and religious dogma, 52 Whitman, Walt : and logocentrism, 19–23; and dialogue, 30–34; and body, 43–45; and mind, 52–55; and gender binaries, 63–67; and good and evil, 83–84; and time, 74–77; and war, 96–98; and madness, 98–100; and ethics of alterity, 110–112

About the Author

I received my PhD in English from Miami University. My research explores the ways in which hospitality and dialogue between the Occidental (North American) and Oriental (Islamic) cultures can be improved by pursuing alternatives to Edward Said’s orientalist paradigms. My research envisages the possibility of dialogue via literature against the background of political conflict. Along with my research I have taught a variety of classes at the American University of Armenia, the American University of Iraq, and Miami University. Teaching in different countries, I see classrooms as the microcosms of the societies. Both as a student and as a teacher, I have been constantly challenged and challenging my students to remain open to the textual possibilities that unfold layers of the aesthetic experience, and to be aware of the dangers of single interpretations that limit the text. My primary research and teaching interests are literary theory and criticism, comparative world literature, and American and Middle Eastern poetry. Elham Shayegh, PhD Assistant Professor of English College of Humanities & Social Sciences American University of Armenia

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