Writing again. I have a writing-desk too, like the husband in Tolstoy’s Kreutzer Sonata. Tolstoy may have not written anything, abandoning literature, like Rimbaud. I would like not to write. I write, though, to manifest my recalcitrance to write. I write because its violence does not matter. Or because it matters too much. This is the writing of the “paper’s” and the train’s departure that carry the Kreutzer Sonata’s murderer. To write on Tolstoy is perplexing. I am writing because this “paper” will not matter. Unless we coincide with Tolstoy on looking at art through the optic of life. At least to write about Tolstoy’s novel, sometimes fruitlessly and knowingly, I will try not to write. But I am writing when I say this. And I am writing about what I have to write. And on how I write about it in relation to our writings/lives. I would like not to surrender to these excesses. How to write when the “paper” genre is a mere instrument of the greedy academic institution? That is why I will not write this paper because I have to write this “paper”. Or at least I am going to try. I have already ripped off its name to begin to murder it. To write to write. I will try to discover in this “paper” what Tolstoy means to me. “Paper”: I always found this bureaucratic word funny. I want to write something and, nevertheless, I simply write. My writing is a question and an illusion of seduction. But you read me without reading me and I am that black hole, violent as ink, repetitive as a damnation. This “paper” is written, like Tolstoy’s and Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata, for a special occasion. But it is probably not. Kreutzer will not play it. The painter and the actor will not do their jobs. To write is violent. Tolstoy could have committed suicide. He saw
“that terrible hell that drives them to drink, makes them shoot themselves, kill and poison each other” (KS 35).
We listen to a confession of how somebody murdered his wife, and how he had murdered her much earlier than the day he killed her. Somebody had to be hurt: to kill himself, his wife. Somebody had to die. He was going to throw himself under the train and thus end it all. Then
“at least I wouldn’t be able to doubt and hesitate anymore”(KS 104).
Tolstoy proposes a fiction that violently squeezes into the traps of perception. Like a writer, a murderer invents a world and escapes from the contingency of another. The husband kills her in order to exist, even as a criminal. He converts, “wakes up,” sees the light, through violence. What opens his eyes is the murder, not God. Tolstoy knew the frenzied passions, the violence of poetry evoking the impossible. Poetry: violent pleasure, horror, death, as opposed to the utility of the real world. Posdnyshev dies through his own eyes, like Narcissus staring at God, and wretched, because perhaps she was not the only one he killed. Because maybe she was also him, he receives the thrust of the bow of the violin. The artistic impulse is a violent act. Rimbaud whispers in my ear: “atroce”.
Posdnyshev, necrophiliac, thinks that through codifying he can possess, like a minor philosopher of language. He needs to kill (himself) to understand, to breathe again. Lack of air was also the culprit. Rimbaud’s life began only when he saw himself as a dead man too. Literary suicides. The word “aggression” comes from the Latin aggredi meaning to approach someone to attack him, aggredi deriving from gradi : to go. To write, to kill, to go. To horrify. There is a shocking will in the Kreutzer Sonata. The narrator tells us that, while discussing with the couple, Posdnyshev was
“evidently aware that this opinion would shock everyone, and pleased at the result” (KS 34).
We can extend that shocking will to the text that does with us what Posdnyshev does with the couple: it gives us an “insight into the horror of things” (KS 38). Every beauty hides the terror of a monstrous world, a mystic horror. And that unbearable beauty/horror creates an explosion if
we close the safety valve, as I did mine from time to time, there immediately results a state of physical arousal which, channeled through the prism of our artificial way of life, expresses itself as the purest form of love, sometimes even as a platonic infatuation. (KS 46).
And this disaster, this accident, is pursued:
...it was a strange thing: some peculiar, fatal energy led me not to repulse him, get rid of him, but, on the contrary, to bring him closer.” (KS 85).
...and I became all the more insistent. (KS 87).
...I took an interest in their playing, fixed his music stand for him, and turned the pages. (KS 87)
Posdnyshev turns the page of the story, attracts the risk as Paul in the Old Testament, provokes it. It is interesting to notice that Kreutzer’s playing style was distinguished by its emphasis on legato, absence of spicatto bowing, no extensive shifting of the left hand, not very high positions, limited use of double stopping: the opposite of an explosive style. If this sonata is famous because it is impossible to play, then it would have been even more difficult for Kreutzer, who thought it “absurd”. This sonata bursts like Rimbaud’s thought, hitting it with the bow of the violin, looking at it, listening to it as a sonata. Blanchot tried to conceive this disaster1, with the difficulty of assuming the disaster as the same thought. The burst of violence is the burst of a failure, explosion of Rimbaud’s volcano. Posdnyshev’s body after the murder is a body fallen from an obscure disaster. The accident is the relief from an object, the relief of a strong note in a weak one, the relief, the necessity and the difficulty of killing and speaking:
If anyone spoke to him he would reply curtly and abruptly...(KS 26)
...we were supposed to talk -yet there was nothing to talk about...(KS 51)
I have this need to talk about it all (KS 76)
Sometimes both desires cross only in an undesired explosion of the word:
“Oh, I wish you were dead” I shouted (KS 82).
The murderer in his confession assures us of the consciousness of his voice and its weight. We must remember that this story was written to be listened:
Go or I’ll kill you” I shouted suddenly, going up to her and seizing her by the arm, consciously exaggerating the level of animosity in voice. (KS 93).
I could no longer make out Pozdnyshev’s features. All I could hear was his voice, which was growing more and more agitated, fuller and fuller of suffering. (KS 102).
Pozdnyshev is confessing in the train, with the expected paces. The violinist and the wife can’t finish a sentence when they unexpectedly see him back. But we don’t know if they had something to confess. We only know what the husband tells us. And he expected a confession. Or maybe not, maybe he expected “that something else” (KS 111) that he cannot mention either. In fact, what she says is what leads him to believe that she has done “everything” with the violinist. Whatever she could have said, there was no way out for her. Her husband was already in the “non-stop crescendo.”
Confessions face us with the problem of the torture of being misunderstood. She tries to explain but he cannot hear her: she has already been judged. In his own testimony in the trial he tries to explain but they cannot hear him either: he has already been judged. His confession is a self-accusation and an accusation of society. He needs so many words because he knows the difficulties of the task, because he needs to speak in spite of his impossibility to speak. He has to replace the lack of language behind all that, the lack of language of the contemplating children who are unable to speak like the women in the story are unable to be heard. There is injustice and misunderstanding, that is why we need confessions. To confess is to find an idiom, the idiom of the uncertain night and of the Rimbaud’s flaming day. What can we confess in the wittgensteinian house where we are not be able to speak? Destroyed human beings can only speak through the voice of others that accuse them, obliging them to answer about their ignored disgraces. Rimbaud’s silence is an act of poetic existence, resistance, similar to Tolstoy’s attack on art, on words without risks. Posdnyshev perhaps suffers the trauma of his own reappeared poetic will.
To talk or shut up. Or to be at the limit, to find an idiom at the border between a shout and articulated language, where the converted character oscillates. To sink oneself, to write, to kill oneself: to convert. And then speak with a word trapped in its freedom, secreting its own laws. To speak without knowing how, like the inarticulate word of the confessor. He hosts in him no more mortal differences. The main character has a voice and eyes of fire. “I don’t know how to talk either” exclaims Rimbaud next to me. Passion does not know how to talk. It grows hotter and hotter in Posdnyshev talking against it. Love drove him to kill, he says. Sex, passion and love are completely mixed up in a text that is against them in the surface, as it is against art, but they are exalted by what is not told, cannot be told: that “something else” that the husband can never call by its name. Not even when he is converted. These are the deserts of love. But love is also discourse, and silence a dream of love. And Tolstoy desires this dream, that utopia. Even when he has to condemn it in its discursive realization and to silence it in its illusion. Tolstoy condemns passion as Plato did with poetry. To dignify it. After all, everything interesting in this world is born from passion. The rest is desolation.
Love, here, is no more than the impossible, the implacable, life and death animated by Rousseau’s heart, the insensitive Rimbaud’s rage looking for all the ways of love, the passions that spring the first voices from the crystal fire. Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata allows us a glimpse into the depths of this passionate intensity. Passion is resistance to law, to verdict: Afrodite’s infinite smile making us stammer like the converted husband who can only repeat that word like a beating heart: “love...love...love”. The way he stammers speaks against his speech about love because the confession is an activity of the heart. Listen to Posdnyshev’s heart discovering her wife with the violinist in the ballroom:
My heart suddenly contracted, stopped beating, and then started again like a hammer (KS 89).
When he confesses, his heart will talk with those cuts and torrents. Narrator and confessor touch at the end of the novel. They shake hands2, tenderly . They unite, fuse.
This is what the novel is about: the beat of the hammer and the heart in the void, generating a suspension of judgment , a suspension of the act of comprehension. As de Man argues:
The center always remain hidden and out of reach; we are separated from it by the very
substance of time (de Man 76-77).
And we cannot see further. The Kreutzer Sonata shows us the wounds of a reality only understandable inside the material it is made of: fictions, language. And we need the tenderness between the confessor and the narrator to heal them. To begin with, a tenderness with ourselves before the magnificent ironies of the world. The wound generates a meditation that is healed by the belief and in the confession, the latter being the continuation of the meditation and the wound by other means. Like when our mother used to put her hand in our belly when we were in pain. A “tendered” wound. The wounds help us to read other wounds, though: the books and the world:
Each time our eyes met, however, which was frequently, as we were sitting obliquely opposite one another, he would turn away and start reading his book or gazing out of the window (KS 26).
...I could read his mind as if it were a printed book (KS 88).
If we agree with de Man that life is a resistance to read and that to read is to read the difference between life and language, reading is not that simple. I would say it is almost impossible. Or as impossible as a perfect, complete action, without smoke and words on the way. Dirty reading. Reading that tempts us to abandon reading. Another impossibility. We cannot (w)hol(l)y read and that creates disasters and injustices. We need to do what we fail to do. Then we increase our passion for it and we only see more smoke. Like a book that leads you to more books that take you to many more. So to read is to increase our consciousness of blindness, to be shipwrecked.
Does Posdnyshev’s fixed look not represent our reading’s fixed look? I was reading myself while reading Tolstoy, evidently. As you are reading yourself now. To read is to realize what the text/world does to you. But can I know what it really does to me? Or all it does to me? When I read I forget more than what I know, like in love games. To read is to be trapped in an aporia like Posdnyshev’s one: he cannot reconcile or reject the meanings he builds. He guards his discourse made out of blindnesses like a good professor or judge. But he can only prop up his identity by risking those things that define him. He has the choice of sinking in the vertigo of a reading or of killing her, decipher her. Tolstoy’s text is the evidence of a violent game.
We are vertiginously cast out into the abyss of illegibility. We return to the vertigo that Rimbaud and Posdnyshev tried to fix, though in different ways. Vertigo: the state of a person who does not know where he is anymore. To fix the vertigo is to to stop the time in the obsession of a look. The vertigo sensation finds its root in preconscious times where the being learned the vertical position and movement, where it had its first experience of the fall: from the tree, from the womb. The vertigo, then, anticipates a fall, reveals the horror comparable to the way the first movement of the sonata “horrified” Tolstoy. And the attempt to fix that vertigo only hastens the fall. Fall: fixed vertigo, murder only exorcised lyricizing that same destruction. And then we are back to Rimbaud and to the abyss of passion. The feeling of being trapped in the world is stressed in italics by Posdnyshev:
...I knew in the bottom of my heart that I’d been trapped, that this wasn’t what I’d been expecting, that not only was marriage not happiness, it was something exceedingly painful and distressing (KS 59).
Tolstoy’s writing is trapped by the same passion that condemns through his confessor.
Prisons, factories, schools. How to free ourselves from a prison with the only weapons we possess: those of the prison? We know about Tolstoy’s concerns regarding education And his irony in that respect reminds us of Kafka’s:
‘You can’t expect anything else nowadays. They’ve all gotten that well educated.’ (KS 28).
‘They’ve all gotten that well educated’, repeated the old merchant, surveying the lady contemptuously and letting her question go unanswered (KS 29).
‘Education leads to nothing but a lot of silliness’, said the old man, firmly (KS 29).
The problem does not seem to be the lack of education but the actual education. That is maybe why the old merchant does not answer the question he has been posed. Not to continue “educating”. So as not to continue to lead to “a lot of silliness”. And some pages further it is the very Posdnyshev, now converted to educator, who submits the lady to a Socratic dialog, undressing “knowledge”, the simple assumptions on what things are:
Yes, but what’s true love? said the man with the light in his eyes, smiling timidly and awkwardly.
‘Everybody knows what love is’, said the lady, visibly anxious to bring this conversation to an end.
‘I don’t, said the man. “You’d have to define what you mean...”
‘What? It’s very simple’, said the lady, though she had to think for a moment. ‘Love? Love is the exclusive preference for one man or one woman above all others’, she said.
‘A preference lasting how long? A month? Two days, half an hour?’...(KS 33).
The illuminated-by-death confessor/educator cries for a new education. And that is why he imagines that, after the murder, the children were all looking at him, as one looks at a teacher. He feels the existential burden of the example. He “caught sight” of Liza looking at him with “frightened eyes”. The husband (Tolstoy?) is the one who wants to educate the children and will not be allowed to do it:
“Even so...I won’t...let you have...the children...She” -her sister- “will look after them...” (KS 117)
says the mother agonizing.
Posdnyshev receives the light when he kills her. Grace reappears to Posdnyshev once knowledge has passed through the infinite, in the corpse, in that other god. From then on, the ability to articulate, his declared Socratic ignorance, will be an excess of knowledge by grace. Once more Tolstoy’s text is teaching what he cannot say, like the best teachers not “answering” to our questions, the ones who disorient us, who think about truth more as the possibility of a shared set of questions. Rimbaud’s rejection is Tolstoy’s rejection of every pedagogical system he encountered. For him, the true education was outside schools which he found ominous.
To find a way out of school, “freedom” from captivity, is what the character also does in his liberation that reminds us of the classical expression when one finishes a “paper”, or classes, or university: “It is finished”. He is done with his wife as I am trying to be done with this “paper”. But I will not kill it. Not yet. I still have to travel more absences with Rimbaud, my reading mate.
After the conversion the main character does not need his luggage anymore. That is why he forgets it. It’s no longer his. He now wears new glasses after escaping from another fiction. And perhaps Tolstoy also frees himself from one fiction to enter another by writing this story. Ardent desires of freedom, passionate freedom of passion, sacrificial flight to a “new” life. But that novelty is also realized as an illusion strengthened by passion, by desire, by music:
...I had the illusion that I was discovering entirely new emotions, new possibilities I’d known nothing of before then (KS 97).
Together with the banality of the new in a world that praises it, music is here an allegory of a speech act, taking us somewhere else like a confession, temporarily. Music’s light precipitating the crucial action of the novel. But the revolt of the new revolts against itself, like the poniard.
What I am trying to say is that nothing new is new, that nothing is evident and that only those thoughts which do not manage to understand themselves are truth; that to think, as Nietzsche would say, is to think against oneself; that as the intensity of the reflection grows, the very contents of the text participate in its overwhelming smoke and that, like in music, the lightning flashes will disappear if we try to determine them, killing them like a beautiful wife. How to determine who is the narrator, who is the writer, who is the converted one in this story?:
‘I can see you’ve recognized me’, said the grey-haired man quietly, trying to appear unruffled (KS 35).
That “you” may be a broader audience than the passengers in the train. We are all the passengers in another endless train reading Tolstoy’s book. And how not to think about the possibility of the narrator and the confessor being the same when time makes them coincide. Posdnyshev says:
‘Before then, at eight a.m. to be precise, I’d been taken to the local police station and from there to prison.” (KS 117).
And the narrator says a little further:
When we reached the station where I had to get off -this was at eight a.m.- I went over to him in order to say goodbye (KS 118).
Naked agreement of bodies and identities, shaking hands. Repeating and continuing stories. The conversion, the revolutions, need to be repeated, reenacted in every reading, every listening. As when reading a religious text, in a high voice, repeating, like a teacher to his students. Only by repeating can we start a new path. It is necessary then to be ready again for the ruins of a smile, to displace oneself endlessly...like Rimbaud. Or to play music endlessly, creating a time against time. From this perspective only reflections on “moments” are possible. To flee out of time is the truly impossible escape. When we are with the beloved we want the instant to last forever. And the greatest recipe to the miseries of this world is the absorption in that instant. To be out of time or beyond it is to be in various places at the same time, like the writer, narrator and confessor, to be various ones, multiple ones, to live all the experiences...like Rimbaud’s dream. Music moves Posdnyshev, displaces him...throws him temporarily out of time. How to deal with aporias otherwise? Only with a philosophy that cannot stand itself. We would be able to choose silence as a nonconformity to get out of this uncomfortable situation. But silence is always suspicious and
The need to lend a voice to suffering is a condition for all truth (Adorno, ND 17-18).
What to tell? What to write, then? In the story the train stops in different stations that correspond to different sessions of the confession, interruptions that also reveal the difficulty of speaking. This is a story about how to relate, how to cut. The first articulated intervention of Posdnyshev is to interrupt the tediousness of a conversation that was also the tediousness of his previous conversations, and also the interruption of his own tediousness at that moment, always breaking the continuous discourse, the flaubertian “idées reçues” that claim to know what they are talking about. And then Rimbaud and I find fragments, broken lines: testimonies to be analyzed in its resistance to testimony. In what they do not say.
Posdnyshev says that Trukhachevsky and his music were the real cause of it all. He played like a virtuoso, leading Posdnyshev to the abyss like Hamelin’s flutist and the traveling mice. Because the train also excites his imagination, he is not fixed anymore. Art displaces like a train. And Posdnyshev is trapped in the rhythm of the train like in the rhythm of the music. Tolstoy’s rejection of art is an attempt to avoid the anonymous continuity of rhythm: art may be death but also dangerous threshold, crucial point, music of disaster: crisis as danger and opportunity.
The Kreutzer Sonata is a book on witchcraft, on music defying the barrier of meaning where the flame falls. The inexpressible attracts the music to express itself. It is born in passion, like the word. And it degenerates in its perfection in virtuosi to whom Beethoven dedicated the sonata, in the rising professionalism, in the transition from classicism to romanticism, from salon music to public concerts, from amateur-ism to the cold and skilled professionalism of the emancipated artist, “freed” as artist, that accompanied the growing importance of sonatas in the new public concerts. The virtuoso expected preferential treatment and that is one of the reasons why Kreutzer rejected Beethoven’s sonata. Because it brought up a concept of equal partnership for the two instruments like the one Tolstoy advocates for husband and wife and that is inadmissible for virtuosi, virile powerful men.
Tolstoy suggests us an ethics of ambiguity that understands, with a romantic mixture of horror and fascination, its existence as based in a mortal conflict like Posdnyshev’s. And there is no restoration of the ethical balance after the disaster. Tolstoy rejects everyday vulgarity. He does not want the fickle lie of magicians and poets and, in a contradictory double movement, revives the hope in magic and poetry. To face the ethical problems does not mean to avoid the law but to take flesh and pleasure to the law, to the writing, to the “paper”. For Tolstoy corruption is linked to writing, that violent overflow that almost always produces in the institution what a depraved society needs to reproduce itself. Tolstoy invites us not to read him while we read it. So to read the Kreutzer Sonata is not to read it. The characters are often not listening to what is said. What we cannot avoid listening to are the strange sounds Posdnyshev makes, like with a musical instrument, that also represent the resistance to talk, to confess through articulated language, the attempts to find, as we said, a new language to translate the language of the knife. The text written to be listened to cannot be listened to, in the same way that the characters cannot.
Once converted, Posdnyshev’s eyes cannot but “flicker from one object to another”(KS 26). Eyes now “on fire” that light the cigarettes generating his own blindness. There is smoke before and after the conversion, obscuring it all. When Posdnyshev starts telling his story it is so dark, the night and the tea, that the narrator cannot see his face. He needs a certain darkness to confess. We can only confess from darkness to rarefied clarities. There are certain things that should not be seen. Not even by the confessor. And the fog of the smoke calms us down from the terror of transparency. That is perhaps Tolstoy’s fear:
..to live, in a perpetual fog, without ever becoming aware of the situation we were in (KS 75)
There is also a “crescendo” of the smoke while he is approaching the murder. A murder that was already written in the law. That is why he can see it in advance, he knows in advance what is going to happen because he knows the law. Like a prophet. The character seems to know that he is being written by Tolstoy and smokes so much so that he may be invisible before the law of the writer. And the writer does the same thing with the law of the reader.
Posdnyshev is the eye “with only one end in view” (KS 110), the paranoid obsessive eye that takes care to retrieve the sheath that had fallen behind the sofa: everything should be in its place and he suspects of every detail, like a beginner in deconstruccionism. A character like this one sometimes needs to flee out of his caves to breathe, not to exhaust himself in his look. To be terrific or solitary: that seems to be the choice for Rousseau’s fanatic disciples. The sonata, after all, is a genre for solo instruments.
The obsessive does not rest because he knows that there is no rest in understanding. He suspects that there is always something missing. But he cannot see all that is missing. And sometimes the more he controls the more he misses: a tired gaze does not see anything. And that tiredness produces an immense blindness that leads to murder: the eye’s inn. How to live in peace with what we do not see, with our ghosts? The obsessive is usually lonely, so much that he cannot be with himself, aporetically, and his frenzy undermines him.
Posdnyshev’s “paranoia” is a state of misleading illusion under which Freud also includes illusory jealousies. He localizes the root of that paranoia in an unconscious defense against homosexuality: the mind denies this desire making the loved object become a rival or a persecutor, systematically reorganizing and reinterpreting reality in order to confirm that suspicion. And that is exactly what our murderer does. In a direct translation of a likely previous manuscript by Tolstoy’ I found a reference not available in the translation we used till now. Posdnyshev describes Truhachevsky in this way:
...too much developed about the hips, like a woman...his voice has a false ring in it as if he wished to convey his ideas by hints and innuendoes instead of frankly speaking like a man (KS, cap. XVIII).
Tolstoy looked for a fusion between life and poetry precisely for its final impossibility. And before the impossible: passivity, passion, pace. Invented, inevitable somersault of the writer across unnameable things. Posdnyshev’s irony is born in this impossibility: he agitates striving for more life and faces death. We read in the afore mentioned translation of the manuscript:
Then I took off my great-coat, which I had worn hitherto, and with stealthy step crept silently thither. I do not know whether I walked or ran, or through what rooms I passed, how I neared the dining-room or opened the door, or entered - I remember nothing-nothing. (KS, cap. XXIV).
It is that step further that allows something to happen. To think about this breakthrough demands a theoretical construction of the political subject that already requires a subject on trial.
As illusory travelers of Posdnyshev’s train, Rimbaud and I read this travel narrative where a subject can emerge asking himself about what he wants when he discovers the impossibility of departing. And repeatedly it is this very impossibility of moving what makes him leave. Travelers are natural creators of mirages, ruins remaining after a initial gash which we constantly want to evade, as havocs of unity, only conceivable in the shape of a dream.
Tolstoy’s novel travel is also the very life of the traveler, a search for himself whose main concern is time. Only by believing in time are departures, arrivals, writings possible. Travel is the possibility of inventing time through spatial translation while the other time is stopped, while the illusion of the detention of time in the left place is created. That is why Posdnyshev is “safe” traveling, safe from the places, on a flight, in a new time invented against everyday time, against intolerable houses to which we return dreaming on trains. The trip is also an allegory of the conversion in the story. The risk of losing oneself in travels, going from one place to another, is only smoothed or reverted if we see it as a possibility to retrieve identities once lost.
It is not by chance that we have a lawyer in the story explaining what her wife wants to say. And the guard of the train in front of whom Posdnyshev never speaks. He decides to forget the law for the first time when he looks at the children and at her wife’s face:
I looked at the children, at her battered face with its bruises, and for the first time I forgot about myself, about my marital rights and my injured pride; for the first time I saw her as a human being (KS 117).
He was not able to see her before as a human being because the law is that blindness. The knowledge of our blindness is our chance in life and the origin of our perversions.
Time now goes on. The instant is gone and we want something else. Rimbaud leaves me shouting: “Prêtres, professeurs, maîtres, vous vous trompez en me livrant a la justice. Je n’ai jamais été de ce peuple-ci; je n’ai jamais été chrétien; je suis de la race qui chantait dans le supplice; je ne comprends pas les lois; je n’ai pas le sens moral, je suis une brute: vous vous trompez.” I stay alone. I know too little, I wrote too much. However, it is not very funny to talk about what we know. I do not seem to explain anything. That tranquilizes me. I have nothing to explain. I am innocent. I believe in justice.
I am done. I don’t write anymore. I killed the “paper”. The paper is dead (She is dead). Rimbaud comes back with the bow of his violin in his hand. I still have the poniard in mine. We begin. I cannot write.
December 1, 1996
Bibliography
Adorno, Theodor W. Negative Dialectics. New York: Seabury Press, 1973.
Blanchot, Maurice. L’Écriture du désastre. Paris: Gallimard, 1980.
de Man, Paul. Blindness and Insight. Essays in the Rhetoric of Contemporary Criticism. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1975.
Tolstoy, Leo. The Kreutzer Sonata and other stories. London: Penguin Books, 1985.
Tolstoy, Leo. The Kreutzer Sonata. New York: The Pollard Publishing Company, 1890.
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