^{Direction, Camera, Edit    /    Seth Tillett
Text    /    William Shakespeare}







III        DER TOD DES EMPEDOKLES    /    THE DEATH OF EMPEDOCLES
             EIN TRAUERSPIEL    /     A MOURNING PLAY



^{_{As lifted from Tillett’s recording of Martz’s translation.}}


‘Das Lebendige in der Poesie’ / ‘Vitality in Poetry’        *

The following text was spoken extempore by R. Martz (a nom de guerre), who has no knowledge of the German language. It was recorded on the roof of the Squat Theatre at 23rd Street and 7th Avenue in three dawn sessions, 1984.

By following Hölderlin’s text in its narrative sequence—and translating instinctively with respect to acoustical, etymological and referential echoes between the two languages—Martz exposes a new layer of content which never-the-less carries over the central object of Hölderlin’s unfinished play. The Death of Empedocles treats of the banishment of a charismatic poet / natural philosopher whose radical ideas threaten the ruling priesthood of his native city. Martz’s interpretation is rooted in her furious indignation at the physical eviction and gradual whitewashing of New York’s cultural avant-garde / guard by real-estate speculators and their homunculi in the pseudo-liberal administration of Mayor Edward Koch.     **







Both plays, then, are concerned with the internal exile of radical genius and its loss of articulation and eventual extinction. The translator herself is driven to the edge of madness by the circumstances that Martz / Hölderlin / Empedocles decry. The transcription has been lightly edited for this publication, but the language of Martz’s initial delivery remains unaltered and true to its initial record.


 <sup>ORDER EMPEDOCLES FROM TENEMENT DIRECT 


AN EXCERPT /
WRITTEN DOWN</sup>


                     
Do you hear that drunken crowd?
Yeah, they’re searching for him.
The spirit of that man is the match under their ass that’s in ‘em.
Like the fire inside of ‘em.
Like setting a match under somebody’s ass.
The reason that they’re cooking under there.
                    The cause.

It’s fine.
Like dried grass.
The sick dimension.
They’re entering the cuckoo dimension.
Like Jove’s blitz on the world.

This is the introduction,         the paragraph that introduces
the artistical types in the night.

The paragraph about the artists that work in the night.
They are craftsmen.
Without milk, man.
They are wandering around. They’re searching.
They are searching-type human beings.


                [...]


This is the ultimate
        sick train of thought         human beings in this territory.
You’re gonna just leave them there to be victims
        in the hands of the alter-gears.
To twist and turn slowly in the other direction.

This is what they said.
The overtakers.                         The conquerors.
This is how they spoke.
This is a little sample of their speech.
Of the rap they laid on
with a personal touch.


Hermokrates.
This is not how it is.
There is something asleep there.
Don’t think that it’s dead.
There is something asleep there.
Don’t think it’s dead.
There is something that’s still in there.
There’s some life that is still coming out of that thing.


                [...]


THE OTHER NIGHT.

Come and taste the big senses!
The moon senses but not the soul.
Like the illusion of the soul.
Senses, like the prostitutes of the senses.
A beautiful woman hypnotises you.
Like you’re beyond yourself.
You’re in submission.
Like he is holy             but she is not.
In reality, only the illusion.
And the brain washing process throughout.
Like the chaotic throughout.


Lichen.
                            The very tiny animal of plankton.
                            Nourishment stirring up.
                            It’s done but it’s still tricked and trapped.
                            Organic and disgusting like an eel.
                                            Like an electric eel that’s found in the rocks.
                            Unleashing this hideous reality. Eel-like.
                            It’s like a dead dragon, like a devil ugliness.

Burst, break, pop the bubble.
So that’s it.
So, listen.         Listen.
You can’t kill them.

You coat them over with words.


                [...]




<sup>*             Hölderlin, discussing the authorship of The Death of Empedocles, his ‘mourning play,’ in a long letter dated November 12, 1798, addressed to Christian Neuffer: ‘I have been here [in Bad Homburg] for a bit more than a month. I’ve been working quietly on my mourning-play [and] enjoying the beautiful autumn days. I was so torn apart by suffering that I have to thank the gods for the good fortune of this calm […]. What most occupies my thoughts, and my senses now is vitality in poetry [das Lebendige in der Poesie]. I feel so deeply how far removed I am from achieving it, even though my entire soul is wrestling to attain it, and this realisation overcomes me so often that I have to weep like a child. The scenes of my drama are lacking in this or that respect, and yet I cannot twist free from the poetic errancy in which I wander. Oh, from my youth onward, the world has frightened my spirit back into itself, and I still suffer from that. There is one hospital, it is true, to which a botched poet like me can honourably flee—philosophy. Yet I cannot give up the hopes of my youth; I would rather go down with honour than alienate myself from the sweet homeland of my muses […].’    

**            Ken Rudin, ‘Ed Koch, New York City and the Politics of Resentment and Race,’ Political Junkie (NPR, 2013): ‘For anyone who lived in New York during his tenure—and even if you didn’t—Ed Koch was a larger-than-life figure, a feisty, combative and mostly-successful mayor who, for better or worse, dramatically changed the city and left his mark in the history books. But how will history judge him? When he was first elected, in 1977, […] Koch came off as honest, independent, competent, optimistic and fearless. He talked about sacrifice, not more programs. He promised to stand up to the unions. He refused to pander. And New Yorkers loved him for all of it. Once in office, he began to rebuild dilapidated bridges and streets. Affordable housing became a reality, and neighbourhoods began to bounce back. The city’s finances improved. And he moved away from his liberal reputation, one which he certainly earned during a political career that began in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village in the early 1960s and continued in Washington as a member of Congress. At City Hall, his support for the death penalty, for example, helped draw middle class whites to his corner; minorities became wary of him. But with his numbers in the stratosphere, he was overwhelmingly rewarded two more times. In 1981, he won both the Democratic and Republican primaries, something no New York mayoral candidate had ever achieved. Four years later, he won again with some 78 percent of the vote. He was, by all accounts, a true celebrity, one who transcended politics. But by the time he was defeated, in the 1989 primary in a bid for a fourth term, his outspokenness, once seen as charming and endearing, was portrayed as arrogance. He had become a bully and always seemed happiest when he was picking a fight with someone. To many, it felt tiresome. And while untouched personally, corruption became widespread in city agencies; a close ally, Queens Borough President Donald Manes, committed suicide in the wake of a scandal. [Addiction] and aids, were becoming an epidemic, and homelessness was drastically on the increase. Even if he wasn’t tired of the city, the city seemed to tire of him.’</sup>

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