In NDPR, Antonio Calcagno reviews Janae Sholtz's The Invention of a People: Heidegger and Deleuze on Art and the Political.
Sholtz argues that Heidegger wishes to think a new beginning for the human and for art. Reading closely Heidegger's essays on art and technology as well as his writings on Hölderlin, the reader sees how Heidegger provides the possibility of a new poetic dwelling: "Out of the relationship between art, the poet and the thinker, Heidegger posits the necessity of human essence as poetic dwelling, thus human beings become preservers of being -- though attunement, language and decision." If language is the house of being, as Heidegger claims, then language can open up possibilities of new beginnings as being itself is open-ended: the poet creates language and thus expands our understanding of ourselves, our world and our being.
In Notebook film magazine, Reno Lauro imagnines how Terrence Malick was inspired.
While rummaging through a patchouli-scented L. A. bookstore to do research for a new script—enigmatically (yet practically) entitled Q [Days of Heaven] —he finds a copy of Robert Bresson’s Notes on Cinematography. The book’s Tao-like aphorisms are reminiscent of The Book of Tea, which influential Japanese philosopher Tomonobu Imamichi has suggested strongly influenced Martin Heidegger’s phenomenology. The prospect of thinking philosophically about making cinema must have been particularly alluring to Malick. By all accounts, Malick was a promising philosophy student at Harvard. He spent a year teaching philosophy at MIT and traveled to Germany to meet and translate a work by Heidegger—The Essence of Reasons. The same year of his publication, Malick was part of the inaugural class at the AFI conservatory.
In NDPR Raoni Padui reviews Katherine Withy's Heidegger on Being Uncanny.
Since the mood of anxiety is an experience of a disruption of the character of average everyday dealing with entities, it is a modification of falling, which in turn is grounded upon an originary and ontological angst from which we fall. The reason this ground of falling is a form of angst is that there is something inherently opaque in it since the "whence" of Dasein's thrownness is obscure and can never be completely grasped. From this interpretation, Withy deduces several important conclusions regarding the finitude at the ground of what it means to be a human being, arguing that it "in fact coincides with Dasein's being" and that "Being-in-the-world is angst". Through this important notion of originary angst, Withy shows how an ontological form of uncanniness lies in Dasein's finitude: the whence of its thrownness withdraws from it, is fundamentally opaque, and therefore Dasein cannot get a full hold of its own ground. There is uncanniness at Dasein's ground, and falling is a falling from this uncanniness.
The other problem is the simplicity of Heidegger’s opposition between being “Herr” (lord) and “Hirt” (shepherd). From a historical perspective, we know the hirt works for the herr and that the herr has no lordship without the hirt. From an animal studies perspective, we know that the hirt isn’t herding only from the kindness of his heart: mutton may be eaten contemplatively, parchment can be scraped and enscribed gloomily, although this will be only cold comfort for the sheep. From a literary studies perspective, we know too that the hirt is the herr’s fantasy of leisure (as in the pastoral); as a schafhirtin (shepherdess) or perhaps schaferknabe (shepherd’s boy), the hirt is the herr’s fantasy of seduction or rape. At best, Heidegger’s opposition of (bad) herr to (good) hirt pretends to be wholly innocent of the whole tradition of pastoral, and of the fantasies of soil, place, and authenticity it sustains, not only in fascist Germany. He’s just not in control of his metaphor.
HERVIER: À propos of traveling, you talk about Heidegger, who was more of a homebody. You know that he was once invited to give a lecture in Rome, where he was supposed to spend a week. But the lecture was such a big hit that he was asked to give a second one, and he spent his entire stay indoors, preparing the lecture.
JÜNGER: Yes: in Seventy Wanes, I quote a letter that Heidegger wrote me, saying that he is like an old Chinese, he prefers staying at home. My brother Friedrich Georg was closer to Heidegger than I, and he always had anecdotes about him. One day, Heidegger was stung in the back of the neck by a bee, and my brother told him that that was excellent for rheumatism. Heidegger didn't know what to answer. I have a whole pack of letters that he sent me, and he also presented me with two unpublished essays in a very beautiful penmanship. He gave seminars on The Worker and Total Mobilization. If only he hadn't done those stupid things—for which, however, I don't reproach him; it is not the job of the philosopher to have clear political thinking. Besides, the situation was not such that one could say: "I want to preserve things as they are." He thought that something new was coming, but he was dreadfully mistaken. He did not have as clear a vision as I did.
[O]nce we accept that the world as it is in itself is the same as the world should be for us, then we will grant mathematics and physics the task of providing a correct ontology of nature. In this way, whoever does not submit to the ongoing absence of emergency is mistaken, or worse, on the wrong side of reality — maybe even the wrong side of the border. This would not simply include philosophy, but also other disciplines such as sociology, psychology, and economics, which only began and are dependent upon its observers, interpreters, and communities. And it is precisely these communities which are lost as soon as we return and submit to reality. This is why, instead of tightening the social order that accompanies reality’s absence of emergencies, it is necessary to weaken this order further because “the only emergency,” as Heidegger once said, “is the absence of emergency.”