(Studies in German Literature Linguistics and Culture) Rolf J

146
ERIC JAROSINSKI
in; she appears under a black bonnet, not unlike the hood of early cameras;
her voice, like photographic plates, is made of a sensitive glass, similarly
fine-tuned; and her maidservants imitate her perfectly and represent
her with dignity, almost photographically, without words.
Indeed, Benjamin’s reading of this camera’s representation — the
glass mineworks shown to him as soon as he arrives — is more a reading
of the apparatus from which it has sprung: the aunt’s position in the
window, the mechanics of her gaze, her dark and gloomy housing. He is
not dazzled by the mineworks but admiring of the mimicry of the servants,
a second-hand representation of the aunt that reveals her status
as an apparatus. The result is a lifting of the veil surrounding the name
“Steglitz,” an uncovering that emerges from reading, rather than lifting,
coverings themselves. As such, the insight is reflective of the increased
attention Benjamin pays to the same discovery he recalls making as a child
in inserting his hand into a sock, forming a small pocket, then reflecting
on its disappearance as the hand emerged: “Er lehrte mich, daß Form und
Inhalt, Hülle und Verhülltes dasselbe sind. Er leitete mich an, die Wahrheit
so behutsam aus der Dichtung hervorzuziehen wie die Kinderhand
den Strumpf aus ‘der Tasche’ holte” (GS VII.1:417; “It taught me that
form and content, veil and what is veiled, are the same. It led me to draw
truths from works of literature as warily as the child’s hand retrieved the
sock from ‘the pocket,’” SW 3:374). If form and content are in fact the
same, there is no longer an inside to be uncovered, a façade to be seen
through. Like a photograph, there is nothing deeper within that will yield
to touch without destroying the surface that makes it legible. Desire is
still very much present, but it is to be held in check. An image is not
unlike the spools of thread that tempt the young Benjamin. When he can,
he tries to resist puncturing the paper bearing a brand name that covers
the core within; poking his finger through the paper destroys the legibility
of the label, while granting him access to its core — yet he already
knows it to be hollow.
Nowhere is this more the case than with film, which requires a mode
of reading different from that of Benjamin’s childhood books, which
entangled him in their frayed bindings, stood ready for repeated readings,
and registered his fingerprints. Both, however, appear in the allegory
of reading in a storm. In winter, Benjamin recalls standing by his window,
as a blizzard tells him stories as much as his books: “Was es erzählte,
hatte ich zwar nie genau erfassen können, denn zu dicht und unablässig
drängte zwischen dem Altbekannten Neues sich heran” (GS VII.1:396;
“What it told, to be sure, I could never quite grasp, for always something
new and unremittingly dense was breaking through the familiar,” SW
3:356). With the distant lands of his stories melding like the snowflakes,
the young Benjamin is reading like an allegorist, just as the grown Benjamin,
inoculated with the allegorical, is now remembering and writing. He