The Book of Margins

by Edmond Jabès, Edmond Jabès, Rosmarie Waldrop (Translation)

The death of Edmond Jabès in January 1991 silenced one of the most compelling voices of the postmodern, post-Holocaust era. Jabès's importance as a thinker, philosopher, and Jewish theologian cannot be overestimated, and his enigmatic style—combining aphorism, fictional dialogue, prose meditation, poetry, and other forms—holds special appeal for postmodern sensibilities.

In The Book of Margins, his most critical as well as most accessible book, Jabès is again concerned with the questions that inform all of his the nature of writing, of silence, of God and the Book. Jabès considers the work of several of his contemporaries, including Georges Bataille, Maurice Blanchot, Roger Caillois, Paul Celan, Jacques Derrida, Michel Leiris, Emmanuel Lévinas, Pier Paolo Pasolini, and his translator, Rosmarie Waldrop. This book will be important reading for students of Jewish literature, French literature, and literature of the modern and postmodern ages.

Born in Cairo in 1912, Edmond Jabès lived in France from 1956 until his death in 1991. His extensively translated and widely honored works include The Book of Questions and The Book of Shares . Both of these were translated into English by Rosmarie Waldrop, who is also a poet.

Religion and Postmodernism series

Genres: Poetry, Philosophy, Literature, Theory, Judaism, France

222 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1975

About the author

Edmond Jabes was a major voice in French poetry in the latter half of this century. An Egyptian Jew, he was haunted by the question of place and the loss of place in relation to writing, and he was one of the most significant thinkers of what one might call poetical alienation. He focused on the space of the book, seeing it as the true space in which exile and the promised land meet in poetry and in question. (This is summarized from the reader's description in A New History of French Literature, ed. Denis Hollier.) Very many of Jabes's books of prose and poetry have been translated into English, including The Book of Dialogue ( Wesleyan, 1987) and The Book of Margins (Chicago, 1993), both translated by Rosmarie Waldrop.

Reviews

[Dawoud Djama · Rating 4 out of 5]

إدمون جابيس كم أتمنى أن أرى كتبا أخرى له مترجمة لقراءتها. كتاب ليس ككل الكتب وفقط
يستحق أكثر من قراءة
من الكتاب؛
إذا لم تكن حريتي في الكتاب، أين ستكون؟
إذا لم يكن كتابي حريتي، ماذا يكون؟
لا يمكن للحقيقة إلا أن تكون عنيفة، ليست هناك حقيقة مريحة.
كل عنف هو في النهار.
الموت الذي هو نهاية النهار هو أيضا عنف بلغ مداه. في كل وقت كان اللا إرادي هو ما لا يمكن تفاديه.
إلى الأبد سيبقى الغد منفتحا على الغد: الحقيقة على الحقيقة، النهار مفتوحا على النهار، الليل على الليل، سيبقى العنف مفتوحا إلى ما لا نهاية على العنف.
عنف الكتاب يمارس ضد الكتاب: مقاومة ضارية.
أن تكتب، سيكون ربما هو هذا الاقتران في الفعل بالأطوار اللا متوقعة لهذا الصراع حيث الإله الذي هو الذخيرة غير المشكوك فيها لقوى عدوانية هو الرهان المتعذر قوله

بهذا افتتح جابيس كتابه. كتبت على الهامش كجواب لهلامات استفهامه << في الصمت >> ليكون الكتاب عن الصمت. صمت متكرر التفكير فيه ...

[Alexis · Rating 5 out of 5]

I'm giving it a five because it's consistently fascinating; I'm saying I've read it because I have read it, technically. I'm not (however) saying it's clear to me in any way. Maybe I revere it as I do, say, a painting by Agnes Martin. I flip it open every few months or years, I keep it near lately, I delight in its references to Hegel, its quotes from Blanchot, and from Waldrop, the translator, from a dozen other admired writers, every page an enigma and a pointing to--writing--the hole in writing--the necessary margin.

Here's a few lines Jabes included, translated by Keith Waldrop, written by Anne-Marie Albiach:

the other
the first
from the plot its purity
one
all the clues are mystery to him

There's definitely no "Date I finished this book."

Good.

[Myhte · Rating 5 out of 5]

A word emerges from the silence of all the others, and this silence is also the desert. If I had to define the words in my books, I would say they are words of sand, of sand made audible

ashes, all that faces up

It is in this other time, at time’s edge, that I find you again

So time goes by, read, written; reread, rewritten

Stone is no doubt the least eloquent, but also, certainly, the most recognizable form of eternity. On it our buildings rise, our storms break.

When stone becomes transparent or, rather, when transparency turns to stone, all the dreams of the earth can be read.

Circle caused by a stone dropped into water. Ah, shall I one day become master of the universe by heaving from high on the cliff heavier and heavier stones into the sea?

What emptiness draws me? After the Name and the law, after signs and ashes, ah, of all emptiness, my voice?

All roads of writing lead to Him

The hand reaching out of the abyss still tries to write. But what? With what stylus or other suitable point? On what material? On what rectangle of air cut from the void?

Silence is neither at the beginning nor at the end. It is in between.

One wound is enough to feed the open wounds of the sky.

How far, tell me, how far, in the odd hours, goes the ocean’s rage?

Ocean beyond all oceans, absolute. I am carried by rhythm, by ritual. All conditioning undone by writing.

night remains to be reached.

We try to tie down with words what, with buoyant power, always comes back up to the surface.

Stay. Even if you are not sure I am here. You will find me

hope is a whirl of dead leaves, a reflection of their gold rustling in the wind.

I have wanted to push as far as possible, which for me means to the boundary of the sayable

So the text remains without object; the word, without echo, for the time of their retreat. The future plays on the other side of the river, in the sun. The sea swallows all sounds, all calls, all screams that do not clear it. For the book does not seek refuge outside its words, but in them, hiding in their heart of hearts. So that the book always leads to a book that remains to be discovered.

There, a man questions himself at the infinite edge of silence, where life and death take on their full meaning. Trickery is a shadowy game, covert commerce. We are born and die at high noon.

In the dark where I am groping, you are present, ready to throw light.

[Marie-Noëlle · Rating 2 out of 5]

J'ai lu ce livre parce que la cinéaste dont j'étudie le film le citait et je voulais mieux comprendre. Est-ce que ça a un peu aidé? Sure. Maybe? Je redonne des nouvelles une fois mon essai rédigé 🫡

[Maurizio Manco · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Ci sono scrittori, prosatori, sognatori, poeti che mi hanno aperto gli occhi e poi coloro che mi hanno permesso di tenerli aperti." (p. 116)

"C'è posto solo per un dolore alla volta: un libro." (p. 148)

"Comprendere una parola è capirla soprattutto nei suoi echi, nei suoi infiniti prolungamenti. Il libro si costruisce su questo ascolto." (p. 176)

"Lo scrittore è il proprio libro; ma in esso non entriamo tutti dalla stessa porta. È sempre attraverso noi stessi che ci avviciniamo allo scrittore." (p. 182)

[Eric Phetteplace · Rating 4 out of 5]

The form of Jabes' writing is excellent, a wonderful prose poetry drifting through weighty, abstract subjects. This book is unique in its heavy use of quotations from other writers. That said, I do tire of his subject matter (again, no one cares about writers writing about writing, it is the least relatable topic one could possibly choose) and the endless basic paradoxes of opposites reversing into one another. I found The Book of Questions wildly profound as an adolescent and Jabes writing is still wonderful, I am just less impressed with ponderous meandering.