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- de Gruyter
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- © 2021 François Jaran, published by Sciendo
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- 2183-0142
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- 10.2478/phainomenon-2021-0015
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Abstract
This paper insists on similarities between Heidegger’s presentation of Dasein’s authentic understanding of time in Being and Time (§§ 79-80) and Thomas Mann’s attempts to “narrate time itself” in The Magic Mountain. It shows that Thomas Mann’s temporal experiments can contribute to a phenomenology of temporality, not merely by “illustrating” philosophical theses, but also by achieving something that goes beyond any phenomenological consideration on time: the enactment of fundamental temporal experiences. Keywords: Martin Heidegger, Thomas Mann, temporality, narrative Introduction In the first and splendorous decades of the history of phenomenology, time and temporality occupied an important place among the fundamental topics of investigation. Husserl’s Phenomenology of Internal Time Consciousness (1904-1905, published in 1928) and Heidegger’s Being and Time (published in 1927) are obviously the most iconic texts on that precise issue. At the same time, in th another realm of literary activities, two of the greatest novelist of the 20 century wrote two very peculiar “time novels” (Zeitromane): Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain (published in 1924, written between 1912 and 1923) and Marcel Proust’s Time Regained (published posthumously in 1927 as the conclusion to In Search of Lost Time written between 1905 and 1922). What Mann wrote about his own novel can also be applied to Proust’s: “It is a Zeitroman in a double sense: historically, because it tries to sketch the inner image of an epoch (of the era prior to the First World War), but then, also because the pure time itself (die reine Zeit selbst) is its object. The book is itself what it narrates about” (Mann, 1995: 136). ISSN: 0874-9493 (print) / ISSN-e: 2183-0142 (online) DOI: 10.2478/phainomenon-2021-0015 100 François Jaran This interest for time in phenomenology and in fictional narrative could be nothing but a chronological coincidence . Although independent from one another — Husserl and Heidegger had little or nothing to say about Mann and Proust and there is no evidence that phenomenology has had an influence whatsoever on the two novelists — it seems that some parallels can be drawn between the phenomenological and fictional dealings with the question of time that characterize these literary milestones of the first decades of the century. Indeed, some preoccupations and some conceptions of the problem of time are common to both phenomenology and these time-oriented novels. In this article, I would like to show how novels can contribute in their own way to the tasks of a phenomenology of time by arguing that Zeitromane are able to approach the question of time in a way that is inaccessible to phenomenology. According to the definition of phenomenology Heidegger gives in the § 7 of Being and Time (henceforth: SZ), the purpose of a phenomenology of time would be to let time (that shows itself) be seen from itself, just as it shows itself (SZ: 34/30) . The phenomenological description of time that is carried through in Being and Time must first establish the specific comportments in which time lets itself be seen, becomes phenomenon. That is precisely what Heidegger will do in §§ 79-80 when phenomenologically describing time as it shows itself in our proper “reckoning” (rechnen) with it. Although novels surely have no advantages over phenomenology in this particular task, they have nonetheless the possibility to let time be seen according to a peculiar fashion, that is, not through any intuition of its essence, but by enacting “lived experience” of the passing of time — something phenomenology never meant to do but that contribute, so we discuss, to the general task of understanding how time manifests itself. As such, the philosophical significance of literary works such as Mann’s The Magic Mountain and Proust’s In Search of Lost Time goes beyond the mere literary illustration of what phenomenology can achieve philosophically. Accordingly, my intention is not to expose what phenomenology would have to say about Zeitromane or about novels in general, but rather to insist on the capacity of a certain literature to deal with phenomenological issues — in this case, with basic phenomena such as the passing of time, acclimatation, and waiting, temporal phenomena that phenomenology can surely describe but never enact. It is Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain that will be at the center of my analyses. In order to show the proximity between phenomenology and Mann’s literary experiments on time, I will focus on Heidegger’s phenomenological considerations on temporality contained in Being and Time and some texts prior to 1927. My aim is not to show that Mann had any influence on Heidegger’s meditations on time but rather, that Mann’s novel achieves an “enactment” of temporality that has to be considered complementary to phenomenological investigations. I would like to show that, in parallel to the phenomenological discourses on time, the fictional narration benefits from its peculiar intimacy with time and succeeds in doing something that, as we will see, none of the other discourses on time is able to do. As such, the aim of this paper is to reconsider Ricœur’s reflection on the respective contributions of the “direct discourse of phenomenology” and the “indirect discourse of narration” to the question of time (Ricœur, 1985: 349/241). According to Ricœur, the “psychological” (or “Augustinian”) To which we could add Henri Bergson’s 1889 Essay on the Immediate Data of Consciousness—that left a permanent mark with its concept of “lived time” (or durée)—and Albert Einstein’s 1905 articles on special relativity—that redefined space, mass, energy and time and opened a new form of reflection on scientific time. Abbreviations can easily be found in the bibliography at the end of this paper. I reserve the right to modify existing translations when deemed necessary. The contribution of “time novels” to a phenomenology of temporality. 101 perspective that phenomenology adopts when dealing with time can never transcend itself and relate to the cosmological (or “Aristotelian”) speculation on time. This gap between these two times would find its solution in the mediation of “narrated time” that functions “like a bridge set over the breach speculation constantly opens between phenomenological time and cosmological time” (Ricœur, 1985: 352/244). According to Ricœur, human time would require narration to be understood, insofar as it only “emerges after a refiguration of the temporal experience through the linguistic structure of narration” (see Tengelyi, 2011: 611). I think it is safe to say that Ricœur’s solution is required only when we ask phenomenology — as well as “reflective, speculative thought as a whole” (Ricœur, 1985: 143/96) — to give a coherent answer to the question “what is time?” in general and take into account both human time and cosmological time. But if we leave this “aporetics of time” aside and focus on the temporality of human existence alone, we can also use temporality as it appears in fiction (in Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain) not to solve the aporia, but as a tool to complete the phenomenological perspective on human time. And I think we can do so following indications given by Ricœur himself in Oneself as Another where the issue of “narrative identity” leads him to praise the philosophical efficiency of the “imaginative variations” found in literary fictions as to the understanding of our being-in-the-world (see Ricœur, 1990: 178/150). Although Ricœur considers that Heidegger represents the “highest degree” of the mentioned aporia (Ricœur, 1985: 353/244-5), I deem legitimate to explore the temporality attached to being-in- the-world independently of the general question of time, assuming that such endeavor remains silent on the issue of cosmological time. As such, my use of Mann’s considerations on time will not aim at highlighting or at solving Heidegger’s aporia — as does Ricœur with his “poetics of narration” — , but at showing how fiction may complement the phenomenological portraying of our human apprehension of time. 1. Martin Heidegger on Thomas Mann Although there is no clear “phenomenological connection” with Mann and Proust, we know — through Heidegger — that Husserl admired “the extremely accurate and rich analyses from a phenomenological point of view” that he found in Proust . Also, a recommendation from Malvine Husserl to Heidegger in May 1927 regarding a text on Marcel Proust written by Ernst Robert Curtius — “entirely phenomenological and very interesting” — shows that Proust was read at the Husserl’s . There is, however, a certain link to be found between Martin Heidegger and Thomas Mann. On one hand, we know from a recent discovery that, in April 1944, Thomas Mann manifested a very poor opinion of Heidegger for his political engagement. In a letter to Paul Tillich (discovered in 2002 by Erdmann Sturm), Mann wrote that he never could bare Heidegger and his irrational philosophical jargon. Mocking both his Existenz-philosophy and his political engagement, Mann calls Heidegger a “Nazi par existence” — instead of the usual “par excellence”. On the other, in some of his 1925 letters to Hannah Arendt, Heidegger makes comments on his reading of The Magic Mountain. At that precise moment, Heidegger is in the midst of the elaboration of Being and Time and is thus absorbed by the See Simon (2004, 306) who reports a second person testimony by François Vezin. 4 th See Letter from E. and M. Husserl to Heidegger, May 26 1927 (Husserl, 1994: 144). Although there are no references to phenomenology in Proust, some attempts were made to read his work phenomenologically. See, among many, van Buuren, 2006, Ferraris and Terrone, 2019, Simon, 2004, Morrison and Stack, 1968. 102 François Jaran question of time and that of the temporality of human existence. His reading of The Magic Mountain takes place between July and August of 1925, immediately after he has concluded his important lecture course on the “history of the concept of time” in the summer semester of 1925. This lecture course itself came a little after the reading of a conference on the concept of time in July 1924 in Marburg (published in 1989) and the writing of a treatise on the same issue (finished around November 1924, published in 2004 in Der Begriff der Zeit, GA 64). His first comments on the novel are concerned with the depiction of the microcosmos in the Davos mountains, which he considers “fascinating”. But next to these considerations, Heidegger mentions that he doesn’t think much of the philosophical dissertation on time: “What I have read so far on ‘time’ is not really striking, but it would be completely absurd to explore the work in this th perspective” (Letter from Heidegger to Arendt, July 9 1925). It would be “absurd,” Heidegger thinks, because Thomas Mann is not a philosopher and, as such, should not be considered a possible contributor to the philosophical considerations on time, next to Bergson and Husserl, for example. However, in the same letter, Mann’s philosophical genius is praised for his depiction of an interesting phenomenon: “But that a phenomenon such as the Dasein has to be experienced (erlebt) from out of its environment (Umwelt) and that it itself lives only apparently — that is developed with such mastery th that, for now, I am concentrating on that alone” (Letter from Heidegger to Arendt, July 9 1925). In July of 1925, Heidegger is sick and, unable to work seriously, dedicates much of his time to the reading of The Magic Mountain. A week after the first letter, he has already finished the first half of it. His judgement has promptly changed: “It’s surely a book that would be worth ‘studying’” (Letter th from Heidegger to Arendt, July 17 1925). Heidegger finishes the second half of the novel a month later. He is not so enthused with the beginning of the second half — that is, what comes immediately after “Walpurgis Night” — but praises the whole: “For me, the test for a work is that I will soon reread it — even if only selected passages. And one must study them”. Heidegger thus reiterates that it’s a book that should be studied, but not for its passages on time: “One should not take ‘time’ into account rd too much” (Letter from Heidegger to Arendt, August 23 1925). Given the parallels that can be drawn between Mann’s considerations on lived time (vs. measured time) and Heidegger’s portrayal of “authentic time” in Being and time, it is surprising to see Heidegger not taking a greater interest in Mann’s brilliant illustrations of theses that are not very far from what Heidegger will defend in his own work . In order to understand these parallels, I would like to focus on the phenomenological treatment of the question of temporality as it appears in Being and Time — to be sure, not the general problem of the temporality of being (Temporalität), but the considerations connected with Dasein’s temporality (Zeitlichkeit) and its measuring of time. In a second moment, I will turn to The Magic Mountain so to see how it deals with the problem of time and how it can contribute to Heidegger’s phenomenological analyses. Unlike what Heidegger writes in his letters to Hannah Arendt, I would like to show here that what Thomas Mann writes on time — and mostly his experiments on fictional temporality — is in line with Heidegger’s depiction of time as it appears in human existence prior to the use of precise tools to measure it. For a literary attempt at reading The Magic Mountain taking Heidegger’s Being and Time as a common thread, see Eubanks, 2017. The contribution of “time novels” to a phenomenology of temporality. 103 2. – Time in Heidegger’s Phenomenology a) Time in Philosophy In Heidegger’s general reading of the philosophical history of the concept of time, two texts stand out: Aristotle’s “cosmological” considerations in the Physics and Augustine’s “psychological” approach in the Confessions. Aristotle’s most important pages on time are included in his Physics, that is, a book dedicated to the study of “nature” on the basis of its movement. As Heidegger often commented, Aristotle’s definition of time is contained in this “strange” but “obvious” sentence: “Time is the number (ἀριθμός) of a movement in respect of the before and after” (Physics, Δ 11, 219 b 1 ff.; see SZ: 421/473). It is thus when quantifying movements in the horizon opened by “the before and after” that time appears. The importance of this definition for us here lies in that time is considered on the basis of a measure that arranges events according to the before and after. In Aristotle’s conception of time — which is still ours — the passing of time is represented as a line on which events are gathered chronologically. It is the very idea of a “passing” of time that is here taken into account, as if present time were a dot progressing from the past towards the future at the rhythm of the ticking of a clock. Time is constituted, according to that image, of a potentially infinite series of moments in which one can say “now”. Seven centuries later, Augustine of Hippo follows a similar path when, in the book XI of his Confessions, he wonders about the measure of time and about the distinction between past, present and future, the three dimensions of time that we know. These are widely known pages but it is worth describing what Augustine mentions about each dimension of time: the past is no longer, the future is not yet, and present, in order to be, has no choice but to slide into the past, that is, towards non-being. The unique dimension in which something can be is present time. According to this conception of time — as that which “tends towards non-existence (quia tendit non esse)” (Confessions, book XI, chap. 14) — all the ontological weight of existence lies on this very brief moment called present. The well- known paradox that Augustine presents in his Confessions is that, curiously enough, this present time on which the whole of existence stands has no extension whatsoever. Indeed, if we reduce present to the present hour, and the present hour to the present minute and so on, we end up defining present time as some sort of moment without length, a mere frontier between what is not yet and what no longer is, between two realms of non-being. b) Nature-Time and World-Time The Augustinian idea of a present without extension was somehow challenged in Edmund Husserl’s lectures on The Phenomenology of Internal Time-Consciousness (1905) when he contended that a present without extension was a mere abstraction . In order to correctly grasp the essence of what we call present, it is necessary to take into account the present’s own horizons: that of retention and that of protention. As Husserl shows, it would be impossible to listen to a melody or to watch a dancer on the scene if present wasn’t also constituted by a memory of the immediate past (the previous note, the previous move) and an anticipation of the immediate future (the subsequent note, the subsequent move). According to Bernet 2009, Husserl’s own copy of Augustine’s Confessions shows a very attentive reading of Book XI. 104 François Jaran Following Husserl, Martin Heidegger also took in consideration the usual conception of time that we find in Aristotle and Augustine in order to develop his own. In Being and Time, he presented a peculiar thesis on the relation that connects the existence of things and present time. At the beginnings of Western philosophy in Greece, a profound connection — that soon became obvious — was established between existence and being-present. Thus, present time and what is “present-at-hand” (vorhanden) in it took on an enormous ontological importance. Heidegger’s reflections on time lead him to the conviction that a closer look might show that Dasein’s finite temporality is inauthentically oriented towards present time. Insofar the whole of human existence is running in the direction of its death and that implicitly — or unconsciously — it understands its time as what is left between now and the end of its life, the obsession with present time may as well be understood as a trick to deviate our attention from the certainty of our coming death. But beyond this general ontological treatment of the question of time in Being and Time, it is also possible to highlight some of Heidegger’s reflections on the way Dasein naturally “reckons with time,” on one hand, and “quantifies” it, on the other (SZ: 412/465). This attempt at distinguishing between various ways of understanding time defines Heidegger’s interest in the topic since the very beginning of his philosophical writings. In a 1915 paper entitled “The Concept of Time in the Science of History,” Heidegger presents the difference between natural and human sciences as being based on their respective understanding of time. In line with Wilhelm Dilthey’s attempt to defend the autonomy of the Geisteswissenschaften, Heidegger presents this difference between the quantitative and the qualitative perspectives on time as corresponding to a homogeneous time, on one hand, and to a time understood as the “congealing — crystallization — of an objectification of life within history” (GA 1: 431/71), on the other. In later writings, such as his 1924 conference The Concept of Time, Heidegger considers this quantitative understanding of time — or “nature-time” (Naturzeit) — as grounded in its apprehension through measuring (GA 64: 108-109/4). Next to this consideration on homogeneous time, another way of understanding time — as “world-time” (Weltzeit) — is also possible. Time is not only something I am able to measure thanks to precise and artificial clocks, but it is also already present with this “natural clock of the alternation of day and night,” a clock that human Dasein has always already assumed (GA 64: 111/5). Heidegger develops a consideration on the being of time that makes it tantamount to human spirit and criticizes the traditional orientation of philosophy towards “nature- time”: Nature-time (Naturzeit) as long since familiar and discussed has hitherto provided the basis for the explication of time. If human being (das menschliche Sein) is in time in a distinctive sense, so that we can read off from it what time is, then we must characterize this Dasein in the fundamental determinations of its being. Indeed, it would then have to be the case that being-temporal (Zeitlichsein), correctly understood, is the fundamental assertion of Dasein with respect to its being. (GA 64: 112/7) In this 1924 conference, Heidegger will oppose to the traditional conception of time based on present- time an understanding of it that takes into account Dasein’s “most extreme possibility of itself,” which is “the possibility of meeting with its death” (GA 64: 116/11). Future, “the fundamental phenomenon of time” (GA 64: 118/14), thus becomes the dimension from which we ought to understand time as a whole. This consideration of the various phenomena connected to time manifests “that the original way of dealing with time is not measuring” because “the time made accessible by a clock is regarded as present” (GA 64: 118 ; GA 64: 121/14 and 17). “If the attempt is made to derive from the ‘nature- The contribution of “time novels” to a phenomenology of temporality. 105 time’ (Naturzeit) what time is, then the νῦν serves as the μέτρον” (GA 64: 121/17) and the futuristic “world-time” (Weltzeit) that corresponds to human existence is missed. c) Reckoning with time This first draft of an explanation of how Dasein deals with time will be completed in Being and Time’s second section in which Heidegger makes a thorough presentation of Dasein’s reckoning with time and its relation to the “thens” and the “nows”. According to Heidegger, this relation based on “datability” is not something first made available to us thanks to our use of calendars and clocks. On the contrary, our capacity to make a time and a content coincide without explicitly making use of a diary is one of Dasein’s basic temporal abilities. For example, when I say I have to read some book before finishing the writing of my article, I am situating events within the horizon of datability without having to use any of the tools we possess for such purpose, ordering one and the other without associating precise dates and times to any of them. It is in this everyday concern, in its familiarity and proximity, that temporality shows itself. There is, before any clock or calendar, a certain “interpretative expressing” of the “nows,” the “thens,” and the “on that former occasion,” that can’t be considered a “subjectivizing” of an “objective” temporality, but rather as “the most primordial way of indicating time” (SZ: 408/461). This primordial manifestation of time also indicates that any “now” and “then” are always extended, have a “spanned character”. When we think of the “now” as the “while I am working” or the “then” as the “when I’ll be eating,” we are recognizing this spanned character which, as we see, has nothing to do with the determination of a point-like time determined specifically as a dot dividing the “not yet” and the “no longer”. It is not only Augustine’s “present without a length” that is here being attacked — Aristotle’s continuous present also is: When Dasein is “living along” in an everyday concernful manner, it just never understands itself as running along in a continuously enduring sequence of pure “nows”. (…) The time which Dasein allows itself has gaps in it, as it were. Often we do not bring a “day” together again when we come back to the time which we have “used”. But the time which has gaps in it does not go to pieces in this lack-of- togetherness, which is rather a mode of that temporality which has already been disclosed and stretched along ecstatically. (SZ: 409-410/461) Next to these two first characters — datability, spannedness — , Heidegger also insists on the fact that time has a public character. Time is public, it is “the sort of thing which everyman can come across” (SZ: 411/464), and this character is not a secondary feature but something essential to it. Time is not something personal or individual, so to say, but is always already shared with others. Although it is with the “astronomical and calendrical time-reckoning” that this making-public of time becomes something really “tangible,” this doesn’t mean that the use of numerical tools will help us come nearer to the essence of our concern with time (SZ: 411-412/464). Dasein surely reckons with time before using measuring tools. The use of artificial clocks and the measuring and quantification they imply is not a way towards a clarification of Dasein’s temporality but rather phenomena that are already conditioned by temporality. 106 François Jaran Time first manifests itself in the changes of day and night that orient the comportments of “primitive” Dasein (SZ: 415/468) : “When the sun rises, it’s time for so and so”. The sun is of course the source of this “most natural” measure of time that is at the basis of any further measure. And what distinguishes this primitive measuring with our “advanced” tools is that it still has an eye for “privileged places” — like sunrise, midday and sunset — that orient a datation that can’t be compared to the homogeneous time of natural sciences. Here, “moments” (Augenblicke) are still “significative moments,” related to the world of concern, before any homogeneous and indifferent levelling of the moments takes place (see Tengelyi 2011, 624). These three phenomena that describe Dasein’s time-reckoning — datability, spannedness, publicity — have to be considered the foundation (Grund) of clocks, be they natural or artificial (SZ: 413/466). The analysis of this phenomenon leads Heidegger to think that it has the structure of significance (Bedeutung) — it is always “time for…” — , a structure that constitutes the “worldhood of the world”. That is why Heidegger can define this worldly experience of time as “world-time”. To summarize, we can say that Heidegger refuses to consider the measuring of time as the originary phenomenon through which something like temporality is given. On the contrary, the measure of time “is grounded in the temporality of Dasein, and indeed in a quite definite temporalizing of temporality” (SZ: 415/468). Although there are natural clocks and that natural clocks, just as artificial ones, somehow end up being “relatively independent of the day and of any explicit observation of the sky” (SZ: 415/468), Heidegger considers that the datation that is proper to clocks is intrinsically connected to presence-at-hand (Vorhandenheit), this singular mode of being that has reigned throughout philosophical history: What has already shown itself in the most elementary time-reckoning here becomes plainer: when we look at the clock and regulate ourselves according to time, we are essentially saying “now”. (…) Saying “now,” however, is the discursive articulation of a making-present which temporalizes itself in a unity with a retentive awaiting. The dating which is performed when one uses a clock, turns out to be a distinctive way in which something present-at-hand is made present. (SZ: 416-417/469) This manner of reckoning with time that uses precise measures is thus associated with some of Dasein’s comportments, those distinguished for making vorhanden entities present. The unchangingness and stability of our measuring unity imply an understanding of the entities encountered in such comportments as things present-at-hand (SZ: 417/470). As such, measuring is connected with the pure observation of entities, their presence-at-hand and a very specific concept of time, “nature-time,” which has to be considered derived from a more original time that corresponds to Dasein’s temporality, “world-time,” a time described as “more ‘objective’ than any possible object” and “‘more subjective’ than any possible subject” (SZ: 419/471-472). However far from the authentic apprehension of Dasein’s temporality, the use of the clock and the general measuring of time are the phenomena that always served as the basis of our understanding of time. In our everyday and circumspective concern, that is, in our most immediate and usual relation with things, time seems to appear only in this very precise comportment (SZ: 420/472-473). For the reasons already presented, Heidegger characterizes this time as “the ordinary (vulgär) understanding Heidegger uses the word primitive between quotation marks, because he is not thinking of the human beings that were then (in 1927) considered “primitive,” but rather of prehistorical or pre-philosophical human beings. On Heidegger’s ontological treatment of some anthropological questions concerned with prehistory, see Jaran, 2018. The contribution of “time novels” to a phenomenology of temporality. 107 of time” according to which “time shows itself as a sequence of ‘nows’ which are constantly there before us (vorhanden), simultaneously passing away and coming along” (SZ: 422/474). The sequence of “nows” being “uninterrupted,” without “gaps” and “infinite” (SZ: 423-424/475-476), Heidegger considers it completely opposite to Dasein’s true temporality. In fact, this precise idea of time is only possible “on the basis of an orientation towards a free-floating ‘in-itself’ of a course of nows” (SZ: 424/476) which covers up Dasein’s original temporality characterized by datability, spannedness and publicity. The finitude of time — which corresponds to Dasein’s experience of time — as well as its significance have been removed from this ordinary understanding of the phenomenon. Dasein’s temporality has little to do with this infinite line that should describe the passing of the “nows,” these moments without length, and much more with its everyday concerns. In this context, time is not homogeneous, but rather contains moments that are appropriate for such and such and others that are not made for… Time is thus significative and although measuring time is part of dealing with it — e.g., by checking the position of the sun — , the precise calculus of minutes and seconds is not constitutive of our originary experience of time: Before Dasein does any thematical research [i.e., historical and natural science], it “reckons with time” and regulates itself according to it. And here again what remains decisive is Dasein’s way of “reckoning with its time” — a way of reckoning which precedes any use of measuring equipment by which time can be determined. The reckoning is prior to such equipment, and is what makes anything like the use of clocks possible at all. (SZ: 404/456) For reasons that are not exactly the same as Bergson’s, Heidegger also considers “lived time” as more originary than “measured time” even though, as we have seen, measuring time is also an important part of Dasein’s temporality. Like Bergson, Heidegger orients his reflections on time towards an original understanding of it based on the lexicon of “lived time,” or “experienced time,” that has to be considered the a priori of measured time (see Grondin, 2011: 61). This attempt at giving back its priority to the lived experience of time is also achieved in Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain (henceforth: ZB), not through philosophical analysis as is the case with Heidegger, but thanks to the enactment of the very experience of the passing of time. This is part of Mann’s aspiration: not to narrate something about time, but rather to narrate time itself (ZB: 571/532). Instead of using the tools of philosophical discourse in order to show that Dasein’s temporality cannot be adequately seized when the phenomenon of measure serves as a basis, Mann turns to the tool he masters best, the fictional narrative, to enable his reader to be faced with and live in his or her own flesh specific temporal phenomena that resist measurement. Ricœur emphasizes, in his analysis of Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain in the second volume of Time and Narrative, that “the major feature of the way the guests at the Berghof, the Davos sanatorium, exist and live” is precisely the “abolishing of the sense of measurement of time” (Ricœur, 1984: 168/112). As we will now see, it is that precise experience of “time beyond measurement” that Mann tries to access, not through phenomenological discourse, to be sure, but through fiction. While narrating temporal experiences such as the acclimatation and the waiting, the author reveals the very mechanisms of “pure time itself” (Mann, 1995: 136), that is, time that no one is measuring. 108 François Jaran 3. – Time on the Mountain a) Narrating about time The idea that we find in Being and Time according to which original temporality has to be considered the condition of possibility of the measuring of time — and not the other way around — is also present in Thomas Mann’s Zauberberg. As Ricœur notes, this distinction between “the time of calendars and clocks” and a “time gradually divested of any measurable character and even of any interest in measurement” (Ricœur, 1984: 172/115) is already present in the Foreword to the novel where Mann refers to the “problematic and strangely double nature” of time (ZB: 5/xi). Time as we “naturally” experience it is necessarily transformed when measured with instruments. The difference between the time that can be read on clocks — that of mechanical physics and of the movements of the planets, a homogeneous time, perfectly regular and without “gaps” — and the time of human life — a time which doesn’t flow as steadily as clocks, that sometimes quickens and sometimes slows down — is illustrated with a few enlightening examples in The Magic Mountain. The first example that comes to mind is precisely the simple but metaphysically challenging experience everyone makes when explicitly observing the passing of time on a clock: “And how long does that take?” Hans Castorp turned around to ask. Joachim raised seven fingers. “Seven minutes must be up by now.” Joachim shook his head. After a while he took the thermometer out of his mouth, looked at it, and said, “Yes, when you pay close attention to it — time, I mean — it goes very slowly. I truly like measuring my temperature four times a day, because it makes you notice what one minute, or even seven, really is — especially since the seven days of a week hang so dreadfully heavy on your hands here.” “You said ‘really.’ But ‘really’ doesn’t apply,” Hans Castorp responded. He was sitting with one thigh hiked up on the railing; the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. “There is nothing ‘real’ about time. If it seems long to you, then it is long, and if it seems to pass quickly, then it’s short. But how long or how short it is in reality, no one knows.” He was not at all used to philosophizing, and yet felt some urge to do so. Joachim contested this. “Why is that? No. We do measure it. We have clocks and calendars, and when a month has passed, then it’s passed for you and me and everyone.” “But wait,” Hans Castorp said, holding up a forefinger next to one bloodshot eye. “You said that a minute is as long as it seems to you while you’re measuring your temperature, correct?” “A minute is as long as … it lasts, as long as it takes a second hand to complete a circle.” “But how long that takes can vary greatly — according to how we feel it!” (ZB: 70-71/63-64) We all experimented that at least once: there is no “longer” minute than the minute we spend observing the movement of the hand around the clock, that is, a minute without content whatsoever — although filled with seconds that “stretch out into a little eternity” (ZB: 305/283). When we pay close attention to time, it slows down. When we empty it of its usual content, it seems to last longer. But Hans Castorp, the central character of the novel, refuses to consider this fact as pertaining to the mere appearance of time, a manifestation that could be opposed to its reality: time itself is what it seems. The duration of a minute, according to Castorp, is equal to the feeling (Gefühl) we have of it. The contribution of “time novels” to a phenomenology of temporality. 109 A second significant example is the time needed to go to an unknown place for the first time, while one is following indications or looking for some. The twenty minutes that lasts the journey forth always seems longer than those needed for the rapid journey back or those needed when going to the same place again, once the way is known. In The Magic Mountain, Thomas Mann alludes to this phenomenon: The hikers already had the hairpin turn behind them. Whether it was Settembrini’s conversation, the steepness of the path, or their not having left the sanatorium nearly so far behind them as Hans Castorp had thought — because a path always seems considerably longer when we first walk it than when we have come to know it — in any case, the return trip had taken a surprisingly short time. (ZB: 68/61) “Longer” here doesn’t refer to a distance in meters, but rather to the time it “seems” one requires to cross the distance — that is, the “real” time needed, according to Castorp. Of course, in these cases — especially the last one — one can easily argue that it is not time itself that passes slower or faster, that lengthens or shortens. What really changes is merely our subjective perception of time. Science shows that time itself, “real time,” is the one that appears on the clock or that manifests through the moving of the sun and that progresses at a pace of 60 minutes per hour without variation. The fact that some hours seem to pass faster or slower depends only on the content with which we fill them. That’s what common sense tells us, but things are not necessarily so. As we have seen with Heidegger, philosophical reflection often presents the world upside-down so that what appears obvious to our ordinary understanding soon turns into rough philosophical falsehoods. Just as Mann in The Magic Mountain, Heidegger wonders from what perspective do we justify that our lived experience of time is less original than the measurement of it by clocks. Why are we convinced, in other words, that measured time is “real” time, time itself, objective time, while time as it appears in human experience is nothing but derived time, biased time, subjective time, not as real as the first one? Shouldn’t we consider this the opposite way? Shouldn’t we consider time as something given initially in human experience, in the passing of the mornings, days and seasons, and only derivatively as something measured by some human inventions (calendars, clocks) that would allow something new to manifest itself — the precise measure of time — without being an original phenomenon as such? Could our lived experience of time be considered the access to its true and original nature? As we have seen, that is part of what Heidegger defends in Being and Time. Time appears differently whether it is given in a theoretical attitude — which levels entities to a sole mode of being: presence-at-hand — or in a concernful one, when we make use of the entities without explicitly observing them. Each attitude has its own realm of validity, so to say, but we traditionally tend to consider — as does Joachim Ziemssen, Castorp’s cousin, in the first quote above — theoretical or scientific attitudes towards objects as those revealing the objects’ true nature. Water is refreshing and very useful to run a mill. But “in reality,” “before anything else,” water is made of molecules of hydrogen and oxygen. Next to these examples of how lived time opposes measured time, we also find in the novel a short Exkurs on the consciousness of time, a digression that interrupts the novelistic tempo and suddenly transforms the book into a philosophical discourse that the proper author (or narrator) justifies appealing to Hans Castorp’s thoughts that are supposed to be similar to those presented there 110 François Jaran (ZB: 111/103). This digression, more than helping the reader to seize who is Hans Castorp, deals with fundamental “philosophical” problems concerned with time. First, it presents an interesting conception of boredom: A great many false ideas have been spread about the essence of boredom. It is generally believed that by filling time with things new and interesting, we can make it “pass,” by which we mean “shorten” it; monotony and emptiness, however, are said to weigh down and hinder its passage. (ZB: 110/102) Mann proves this “theory” wrong showing that, in reality, boredom (Langenweile), although able to make short times “boring,” allows us to annihilate enormous quantities of time. Interesting things have the capacity to shorten an hour or two. However, a year “rich in events” passes much more slowly than an empty year. It is only when days are all the same that they pass at great speed. In order to illustrate this, Mann turns to the experience of acclimatation, that is, the experience of settling in a new environment. Habit, Mann writes, is what arises when our sense of time falls asleep. If one wants time to stop passing rapidly, the only solution is to modify his or her habits. This results in a certain rejuvenation that is accompanied by a slowing down of the passing of time. The example that Mann brings forth is that of a trip to the shore: That is the reason for every change of scenery and air, for a trip to the shore: the experience of a variety of refreshing episodes. The first few days in a new place have a youthful swing to them, a kind of sturdy, long stride — that lasts for about six to eight days. Then, to the extent that we “settle in,” the gradual shortening becomes noticeable. Whoever clings to life, or better, wants to cling to life, may realize to his horror that the days have begun to grow light again and are scurrying past; and the last week — of, let us say, four — is uncanny in its fleeting transience. To be sure, this refreshment of our sense of time extends beyond the interlude; its effect is noticeable again when we return to our daily routine. The first few days at home after a change of scene are likewise experienced in a new, broad, more youthful fashion — but only a very few, for we are quicker to grow accustomed to the old rules than to their abrogation. And if our sense of time has grown weary with age or was never all that strongly developed — a sign of an inborn lack of vitality — it very soon falls asleep again, and within twenty-four hours it is as if we were never gone and our journey were merely last night’s dream. (ZB: 111/102-103) The experience of acclimatation to which Mann alludes here is something we all have experienced when going on holydays. When Mann writes about it, it brings back in us memories that agree with what he affirms. That’s what novelists usually do: they tell us, for example, the story of a woman who steps out of her house and realizes she forgot her keys and has to wait for hours before someone can open the door for her. If the author writes that she is now furious or feels like an idiot, we empathically understand her experience. We understand it because we already lived such experience or, if it is not the case, we can perfectly imagine ourselves going through it. This way, the author appeals to our experience so to give solidity to the narration. It is then possible to omit many details of the experience described because the author knows that the reader is able to take care of a part of the work thanks to his or her memories or capacities of empathy. That is what any narrative does when telling events and it is also what phenomenology does when it describes Dasein’s authentic relation to time. I would like here to penetrate deeper in The Magic Mountain’s narrative structure so to show that novels have the capacity to do something else than just say things about time. The Magic Mountain is in fact a perfect The contribution of “time novels” to a phenomenology of temporality. 111 illustration of how a novel can take the passing of time as a topic and convert it into an object worth studying, both from literary and philosophical perspectives. b) Narrating time itself As to the peripeteia contained in the novel, there is little to say. If we wanted to give a summary of it, we would have to say that it tells the story of Hans Castorp, a young man from Hamburg, who pays a visit to a sick cousin settled in Davos, Switzerland, in the sanatorium Berghof where he is being treated for tuberculosis. The poor cousin is up in the mountains alone and needs company. Hans Castorp makes plans for a three-week sojourn with his cousin and ends up staying at the sanatorium for seven years. The novel tells how time passes during these seven years, describing life in the sanatorium and the interminable discussions that the protagonist has with two antagonistic characters: Settembrini and Naphta, “the spokesmen for optimistic humanism and for a nihilism tinged with communist-leaning Catholicism” (Ricœur, 1984: 220/117). Leaving aside all the possible interpretations of the novel and all the refences to the condition of European culture just before the outset of the First World War, I want to insist on the ways The Magic Mountain enacts temporal experiences. We already have seen that the novel is filled with references to the passing of time and its relation to the measure of time and contains a four-page explicit digression on the sense of time. What I would like to highlight now are two ways the Zauberberg finds to make the articulation of time explicit, by (1) playing brilliantly on the difference between “narrated time” (erzählte Zeit) and “time of narrating” (Erzählzeit) — that is, between the time that the events require to take place (measured in days, weeks, years, etc.) and the time requires for the author to tell the events (measured in pages) (see Ricœur, 1984: 113-120/77-81, who borrows this distinction from Günther Müller) — and by (2) extending on an important amount of pages, almost exaggeratedly important, so to allow the reader to live literary experiences that can only be made in a novel of like duration. In addition to theorizing on time and describing the passing of time in the narration of the events, the narrative structure of The Magic Mountain does something much more difficult: it allows the reader to live temporal experiences linked to the passing of time. Mann does that in various ways but I would like here to focus on two of them. The first one has to do with the experience of acclimatation on which, we have seen, Mann theorizes in the digression on time. The second one has to do with the waiting and its importance in the experience of falling in love described in the novel. Acclimatation is one of the recurrent themes in the novel and one very present in the first chapters. Like I mentioned earlier, the novel first tells the arriving of Hans Castorp in an unknown place, a sanatorium in Davos. From the start, he is astonished by the way of life of “the people up there” and constantly compares them to those who live “down below”. The pages in which Mann describes Hans Castorp’s first day in Davos are filled with little details related to the life of the newly patient: the meals, the moments of rest, the way the patients methodically rolls themselves up in two blankets, the cold of September in the mountains, the taste of the Maria Mancini cigars that changes with altitude, the strolls around the Berghof, etc. The book is divided in seven chapters that all correspond to a different amount of time and thus make use of a different “time of narration.” After the first two chapters, Mann enters in a description of the seven years Castorp spent in Davos and as the story progresses, he dedicates less and less time to the description of each passing day. This attempt to follow the rhythm of real life is perfectly balanced and calculated with impressive perfection: if it takes 56 pages for the third chapter to describe 112 François Jaran one whole day, the fourth tells three weeks in 95 pages, the fifth narrates the events of seven months in 169 pages, the sixth tells almost two years in 204 pages and the seventh, four years and a half in 187 pages. If we calculate how many pages are needed to narrate the content of one whole day in each chapter, we find the following proportions: 56 : 4,5 : 0,8 : 0,28 : 0,11 . As Ricœur writes: These numerical relations are more complex than they appear. On the one hand, the Erzählzeit continually diminishes in relation to the erzählte Zeit. On the other hand, the stretching out of the chapters, combined with this abbreviation of the narrative, creates a perspectival effect, essential to the communication of the major experience, the hero’s internal debate over his loss of the sense of time. (Ricœur, 1984: 169-170/113) Insofar as the novel tells the story of a man who is settling in a new world — to be sure, not just in a cottage on the beach, but a completely different world where time has been abolished and where one is admired for knowing how to adequately fit between two blankets — , Mann’s narrative structure is perfectly coherent: it dedicates progressively less pages to describe events so to mimic the experience of acclimatation . On the first day, myriads of details are discovered, while the second day is already a partial repetition of what happened the day before. Once one is accustomed to a new place and has adopted new habits, time has to speed up. But isn’t that what any novel would do, that is, dedicate much time to the description of a room when the character find himself or herself in it for the first time and only add some details when he or she goes back to it? Indeed, but The Magic Mountain does something more in its descriptions of the passing of time: not only does it tell us what is happening, it puts us in the situation of a person acclimating. The “major experience” that is thus enacted with this peculiar pace of the narrative is not Castorp’s “loss of sense of time” and his acclimatation, as Ricœur thinks, but more radically the reader’s. It is the reader and not the protagonist who is getting used to this strange life on the mountain — spending important quantity of hours in the company of Castorp, Ziemssen, and the others. This sympathetic experiment is achieved by Thomas Mann thanks to these perfectly measured changes of rhythm from the beginning to the end of the novel. We are at the same time reading a description of the acclimatation and living it, acclimating ourselves to the world depicted in the novel. Thus, Mann is not only describing an experience Hans Castorp would have had, he is enacting it in the reader’s mind. But how does Thomas Mann achieve this literary miracle? Beside the perfectly measured tempo of the novel already mentioned, he succeeds in doing so by extending the novel up to the almost 800 pages that contain seven years in a fictional character’s life. That’s the “wonder” some long novels are able to achieve, converting the experience of reading into an experience of the very passing of time. Proust’s In Search of Lost Time is another obvious example of a novel that can do such things. Insofar as the reader cannot read The Magic Mountain during one afternoon or one week, but requires an The calculus is here made taking the 1988 Fischer edition of the book, but the proportions would be maintained in any edition and in any translation. Although we can consider “coherent” this narrative structure, an author obviously has the freedom of not following life’s own tempo, as does Milan Kundera in Life is Elsewhere: “The first part of this novel encompasses fifteen years of Jaromil’s life, but the fifth part, which is longer, covers barely a year. In this book, therefore, time flows in a tempo opposite to the tempo of real life; it slows down” (Kundera, 2000: Part VI). The contribution of “time novels” to a phenomenology of temporality. 113 important and long effort, he or she experiments both the duration of the events narrated in the novel and that of his or her own life that, curiously, ends up mixing with the events on the mountain. The novel has something “magical” since it forces us to live experiences that are those lived by the characters: we discover a new and strange world, we experience the acceleration of time in the acceleration of the passing of the days (although they are not days for the reader, he or she needs around four hours to read the description of the first day and less than twenty minutes to read the second one) and, most of all, we experience something that the very author of the novel admits explicitly: boredom. In the foreword to the novel, Mann writes: We shall tell [our story] at length, in precise and thorough detail — since when the amusement or the boredom (die Kurz- oder Langweiligkeit) of a story depend on the time and space required for the telling? Unafraid of the odium of appearing too meticulous, we are much more inclined to the view that only thoroughness can be truly entertaining. (ZB: 5-6/xii) We here have the key to an understanding of the novel: it arouses interest and bores. The world up in the mountains is fascinating but the lack of events despairs. The debates between Settembrini and Naphta, initially enthralling, end up exhausting the reader that is waiting for something to happen. The foreword continues: And so this storyteller will not be finished telling our Hans’s story in only a moment or two. The seven days in one week will not suffice, nor will seven months. It will be best for him if he is not all too clear about the number of earthly days that will pass as the tale weaves its web about him. For God’s sake, surely it cannot be as long as seven years! (ZB: 5-6/xii) The Magic Mountain’s intention is to create confusion between the time of the narration and the time that passes in the real world, that is, in the reader’s existence. As Kavaloski explains in his book High Modernism, the performative aspects of the novel allow it to create something that doesn’t pertain to the book as such, “to achieve efficaciousness in the world outside of the text” (Kavaloski, 2014: 143) . If the reader is willing to be overcome by the novel and to not ask how much time is left, then he or she can have an experience of how time operates on human existence. The reader gradually loses, as does the principal character, the capacity to orient himself or herself in time and to measure times. Just like Hans Castorp, the reader is waiting for something to happen. That is the second miracle that The Magic Mountain achieves: enacting the experience of waiting and the natural consequences attached to it. During the first days up on the mountain, Hans Castrop discovers a fascinating character in the person of Clavdia Chauchat, a Russian pensioner who, at first, annoys Castorp for being too loud (when she closes the door) but rapidly transforms into a real obsession for him. Even though he never speaks to her, in his thoughts she is converted into the woman As we have seen, Heidegger needed only two months to read it, but being sick, he had plenty of time to dedicate to his reading—which is not the usual experience one does reading Mann’s novel. Kavaloski describes the process as follows: “The most significant manifestation of the performative in Der Zauberberg takes place in the dimension of time, specifically in the manner with which the narrative’s pace reproduces the experiences of Hans Castorp. The storyteller regulates the pace of narrative in order to enact the protagonist’s subjective perception of time. These two modes of literary time are typically independent of each other. (…) The narration of Der Zauberberg, through its reproduction of Hans Castorp’s temporal consciousness, appropriates character experience and thus becomes performative” (Kavaloski, 2014: 146). 114 François Jaran of his dreams. As Mann highlights, a factor plays an important role here: the discovery that she has the same eyes as a certain kid Hans Castorp knew when he was young and with whom, without realizing it, he probably fell in love . Hans Castorp escapes boredom by thinking about Clavdia Chauchat and calculating her comings and goings so to accidentally bump into her in the corridors of the Berghof. At last, during the night of Walpurgis (a celebration organized in the sanatorium), they get to know one another — although it is unclear to what extent — just before he learns she is leaving on the next day. This temporary departure — she tells him she will come back, without saying when — occurs right in the middle of the novel and the reader spends the next 200 pages waiting with poor Hans Castorp the return of the woman he loves. Just as it happens in real life, this temporary absence endows the character of Clavdia Chauchat with an importance she probably wouldn’t have had if she had stayed at the sanatorium. In order to comfort himself — or the reader? — Castorp has kept a memento from Clavdia: a little plate of glass in a narrow frame, which had to be held up to the light for him to see what was there: the portrait of Clavdia’s interior, without a face, but revealing the organs of her chest cavity and the tender framework of her upper body, delicately surrounded by the soft, ghostlike forms of her flesh… (ZB: 369/343) But seven months — or 200 pages — spent pressing lips on an old X-ray is an important quantity of time — of pages. Especially for one — Castorp or the reader? — who only counts on Settembrini’s and Naphta’s debates for diversion. Once more, the experience that the reader makes mixes with that of the protagonist. Hans Castrop’s despair while waiting for Clavdia is also the experience the reader makes, wishing he could skip pages to make her come back more rapidly, just like Castorp would cross out dates in the calendar. And once she reappears, he is as confused as Castorp as to how much time has elapsed (ZB: 572/533). We have here a second example of an experience that only a long novel is able to produce: that of the waiting. A novelist can tell the reader that the protagonist was driven to despair while waiting a very long time, but the novelist also has the possibility of making the reader experience the waiting in his or her own flesh. After a long wait, Clavdia Chauchat returns to the sanatorium, accompanied with a new lover, something the reader can but experience as a tragedy not only for Castorp — who waited these long months — but also for the reader who was left waiting in the mountain, patiently and faithfully, next to Hans, and ended up developing a certain fondness for the absent woman. We can compare this literary experience of the passing of time with the one made by the reader of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time when the narrator, in the scene called “Le Bal des têtes” at the Prince Guermantes’ house, meets again with almost all of the characters of the novel, years after the events narrated in the books have taken place. The narrator comes back to Paris and makes important efforts to recognize all the persons he once knew and that, much older, all seem to appear in disguise. The effect of that scene — combined with that of the discovery of the narrator’s literary vocation who, a few minutes earlier, decided to write the long novel that the reader is about to finish — is made possible thanks to the “real” passing of time, that is, the time that was spent between the moment the reader opened the first volume of the novel and the moment he finished the last one. Both Proust’s and This fond memory of Pribislav Hippe acts in the novel has does the discovery made by Charles Swann in Swann in Love that Odette looks like a certain woman in Botticelli’s “The Youth of Moses”. Even though Swann doesn’t like Odette at first—she is not “his type”—, his faith in Botticelli’s tastes is so strong he can’t stop thinking about her. The contribution of “time novels” to a phenomenology of temporality. 115 Mann’s are novels in which one dwells for a long period in his or her life. One cannot read them in a week or a month. Only that way can a writer succeed in writing scenes describing the reencounter with an old acquaintance that are not mere descriptions, but become real enactments of a reunion for the reader. Conclusion This effect that Marcel Proust achieves in his novel, this peculiar opening “onto a time of life” (Ricœur, 1984: 114/77) that transcends the sphere of written discourse and allows our reading to become performative, Thomas Mann accomplishes it with the narrated experience of the acclimatation and the waiting . In these cases, it is not only the character but also the reader who experiences these temporal phenomena. However, with the tools a “phenomenology of time” usually masters, this type of effect is never achieved in the experience of reading itself. Phenomenology surely allows the reader to discover and understand the insides of temporality as well as to disentangle what really pertains to time’s essence and what only is the product of philosophical reflections on it. But phenomenology — and any type of speculative discourse — will never enact these real temporal experiences that novels can bring about. Insofar phenomenology never pretends to deal with time in that specific manner, it would be absurd to consider this a phenomenological deficiency. In this paper I tried to show how we can deem these fiction pieces as contributions to the very phenomenological task of a description of the phenomenon time. As we have seen, Being and Time’s dealing with Dasein’s “reckoning with time” aims at letting time be seen as it really shows itself. In order to do so, Heidegger situates the reader in a specific phenomenological attitude in which time suddenly shows some features that our “natural” attitude towards it usually conceals. In the case of Mann’s The Magic Mountain, the author constructs a storyline in which time manifests itself in an unusual way for a novel and in which the reader ends up experiencing in his or her own flesh how time fluctuates and how these fluctuations affects the real world outside of the novel itself. These two types of written activity (philosophy, fiction), although both attempting at seizing the nature of time, obviously obey to different rules and cannot be considered as achieving the same results. But from both perspectives — whether an argument-based language shows that measured time is a derivative phenomenon or a fiction narration allows the reader to experiment pure temporality as it is — the fundamental aim is to help human beings in their attempt at understanding what the mysterious dealing with time means. We could debate whether Heidegger and Mann are right concerning the difference between the measuring of time and the authentic experience of temporality, whether such conceptions of what time is are legitimate or not, but that’s not what I am interested in here. Both Heidegger and Mann seek an access to experiences of time that are independent of any measure, that challenge what measure tells us about time and thus leave Aristotle and Augustine behind. With different weapons, they both In Time and Narrative III, Ricœur describes the effect reading has on the real world as follows: “At the end of volume II, we introduced the notion of a world of the text, in the sense of a world we might inhabit and wherein we can unfold our ownmost potentialities. But this world of the text still constitutes a mere form of transcendence in immanence. In this regard, it remains part of the text. The second half of our path lies in the mediation that reading brings about between the fictive world of the text and the actual world of the reader. The effects of fiction, effects of revelation and transformation, are essentially effects of reading. It is by way of reading that literature returns to life, that is, to the practical and affective field of existence” (Ricœur, 1985: 149/101). 116 François Jaran achieve this purpose and that’s why we can consider these attempts at seizing time’s real essence as complementary. Bibliography Bernet, R. (2009). “Husserl’s Early Time-Analysis in Historical Context”. Journal of the British Society for Phenomenology, 40, 2, 117-154. Biemel, W. (1990). “On the Manifold Significance of Time in the Novel”. Analecta Husserliana. The Yearbook of Phenomenological Research, XXXII, 17-37. van Buuren, M. (2006). “Proust phénoménologue”. Poétique, 148, 4, 387-406. Eubanks, K. P. 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Der Begriff der Zeit bei Thomas Mann. Vom Zauberberg zum Joseph. Baden- Baden: Verlag für Kunst und Wissenschaft.
Journal
Phainomenon – de Gruyter
Published: Dec 1, 2021
Keywords: Martin Heidegger; Thomas Mann; temporality; narrative