Music, Mysticism, and Experience: Sufism and Spiritual Journeys in Nathaniel Mackey’s Bedouin Hornbook

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Music, Mysticism and Experience: Sufism and ‘Spiritual’ Journeys in Nathaniel

Mackey’s Bedouin Hornbook*

The opening metaphor of Jalal al-Din Rumi’s famous poem, the Mathnawi, has striking

resemblances to Nathaniel Mackey’s contemporary expositions of loss, music and mystical

experience. Rumi begins by comparing the mystic’s search for God to that of the reed in a

reed-pipe seeking to be reunited with the reed-bed. Rumi writes:

- Listen to this reed as it is grieving;

it tells the story of our separations.

‘Since I was severed from the bed of reeds,

in my cry men and women have lamented.

I need the breast that’s torn to shreds by parting

to give expression to the pain of heartache.

Whoever finds himself left far from home

looks forward to the day of his reunion (7)

The Mathnawi is not simply about the notion of separation, but it also describes the Sufi path

– the mystical journey to God, where the mystic’s self becomes united with the Oneness of

God, where the ‘reed’ is reunited with the ‘rush’. For Rumi, as for many Sufis, music

resonates with the spiritual journey. The experience of music as ‘mysticism’ is also an

important theme in Nathaniel Mackey’s Bedouin Hornbook, and Mackey himself has referred

to Rumi’s metaphor of the reed-pipe:

…the reed was cut from rushes and that what we hear in the sound of the [reed-flute] is

the remembrance of that cutting, that the very sound calls to mind the cutting which

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brought it into being and which it laments. The sound subsists on that cutting. The

[reed-flute] not only mourns but embodies separation. (‘Cante Moro’ 90)

Mackey’s Bedouin Hornbook, part of one of his series From a Broken Bottle Traces of

Perfume Still Emanate, comprises letters written by a horn-player known only as N.,

addressed to the ‘Angel of Dust’. In each of his letters, N. muses on meaning, philosophy,

(religious) experience, and, most importantly, his music, particularly Jazz. During a series of

concerts, N. undergoes ‘mystical’ experiences, induced and influenced by his music. To what

extent can the idea of the ‘spiritual’ journey be seen in Mackey’s Bedouin Hornbook?

Norman Finkelstein, in his study exploring ‘why the sacred remains a basic concern

of poets today’ (1), reads Mackey’s poetry in light of shamanism, linking the ideas of

initiation, the ‘spiritual’ journey, as well as ‘wounding and healing’ - all themes prominent in

shamanism, to Mackey’s poetic world (183-207). The influence of religious mysticism,

particularly Islamic mysticism (Sufism), has been acknowledged by Mackey himself in his

interviews with Christopher Funkhouser (325-6) and Peter O’Leary (37), especially the

thought of the Andalusian Sufi, Muhyi al-Din Ibn ‘Arabi (d. 1241). The aim of this article is

to explore Mackey’s Bedouin Hornbook in light of the Sufi tradition, and to assess the extent

to which the experience of music in Bedouin Hornbook has common links with Islamic

mysticism. In the various studies that have been made of Bedouin Hornbook, such as that by

James C. Hall, few have attempted to explore the impact of Islamic mysticism on N.’s

experiences of music; furthermore, the information about Islam that has been provided in the

secondary literature is, at times, misleading. For example, the idea, suggested by Peter

O’Leary, that ‘Sufism can trace its origins in part to Andalusia’ is simply incorrect (523). The

origins of Sufism are found in the central Arab lands. Andalusia, like the rest of the Islamic

world, had a number of notable Sufis, including Ibn ‘Arabi, but the ‘origins’ of Sufism are

not found there. In Bedouin Hornbook particular Islamic features such as the name Djamilaa,

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references to udhri poetry, and Sufi musicians are openly and easily found; others, such as

the use of music to achieve a mystical state, are more alluded to than stated clearly.

English literature has had a long interest in Islamic thought, and there are examples of

indirect Islamic influences on Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, as shown by Remke Kruk

(359), to more explicit, contemporary engagements with Islam such as is found in the work of

Doris Lessing, studied by Nancy Shields Harding; so Mackey’s utilization of Muslim ideas is

not necessarily original. Mackey’s particular interest, however, lies in notions of religious

pluralism, and he views Andalusian figures such as Ibn Arabi as representing a bridge

between the Muslim and European worlds, a theme noted by Funkhouser (326), and also

stated by Mackey himself in his interview with Finkelstein (186). This focus on a

universalist or pluralist view of the world is evident throughout Mackey’s poetry. There are

frequent references to the connection between ‘East’ and ‘West’; for example, in Song of the

Andoumboulou: 16 he writes:

The same cry taken

up in Cairo, Córdoba,

north

Red Sea near Nagfa,

Muharraq,… (‘Whatsaid Serif’ 3)

Mackey has also stated in his interview with O’Leary that he read about the link between

Islam and medieval troubadours, establishing a connection between poetry, music and cross-

cultural exchange, which is manifest is his own work (37). In School of Udhra Mackey not

only explores the links between the Arab and European worlds, but as in Bedouin Hornbook,

he draws inspiration from a broad spectrum of religious traditions. Mackey points out this

blend of musical, cultural and religious ideas in his poem Tonu Soy (‘School of Udhra’ 64-

70) in an interview with Charles H. Rowell:

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One of the things that happened in writing that poem is that I was weaving together

references to the Arabic world and the Iberian world, to the diasporic extensions of

those worlds. So references to and incorporations of flamenco are in there, as are

references to some aspects of Cuban culture, reference to a Brazilian musician,

Martinho da Vila, things like that. (711)

Such boundary crossing is also found in Mackey’s focus on the ‘diasporic extensions of those

worlds’. Throughout Mackey’s work, his reader encounters a wide range of diasporas.

Mackey’s interest in Islam is largely focused on Islamic Spain, a region that was somewhat

separate from the central Islamic lands, politically, culturally, and physically, functioning in

much the same way as a diasporic community. Similarly, while Haitian voodoo and Cuban

santería are not Christian as such, they both syncretize and incorporate Christian ideas into

their beliefs. The attempts by Christian slave-owners to suppress the African religious beliefs

of their slaves failed since ‘the old African deities, the Loas and the Orishas, became

identified with Christian saints!’ (Fanthorpe 13). This syncretism makes voodoo and santería

‘diasporic extensions’ of Christianity – ones in which music plays a prominent role.

Mackey’s frequent allusions to them and to other traditions, such as alchemy, break down the

boundaries between the different faith communities: Christianity, Judaism and Islam are no

longer confined to traditional ‘orthodox’ notions of ‘religion’; perhaps echoing Ishmael

Reed’s critique of Europhile, Anglo-Saxon, Judeo-Christian centrism in Mumbo Jumbo.

Mackey’s interest in the Arab world and thought is clear. However, the influences of

Islam need to be placed within this pluralist and cross-cultural context. Mackey believes that

boundaries are only notional, and that music and experience transcend such limitations.

Finkelstein argues that this transcendence is actualized in both his general worldview and in

the style and structure of his poetry (186), which is something Mackey has acknowledged

himself in Paracritical Hinge (209). This blurring of boundaries is seen in the fact that the

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first letters written to the ‘Angel of Dust’ appeared in Mackey’s collection of poems Eroding

Witness as Song of the Andoumbolou: 6 and Song of the Andoumbolou: 7 (iii) (‘Eroding

Witness’ 50 and 54). The work is both prose and poetry. Any Islamic influences on Bedouin

Hornbook need to be placed in this context of ‘boundary crossing’, utilized in a more general

belief in the free movement of ideas from one re(li)gion to another.

The mystical qualities of music have long been acknowledged. Philosophers from a

wide range of different theological backgrounds acknowledged the power of music to lead to

such states, from Plato (Rep. III, §401; 84-85) to the Sufi Hazrat Inayat Khan (11). Mackey

has made similar comments himself in his interview with Funkhouser:

Seeing people respond to music in ways that were quite different from music being

listened to in a concert situation, I mean people actually going into states of trance and

possession in church, had a tremendous and continuing impact on me. It’s no doubt one

of the reasons I so often refer to and incorporate aspects of, say, Haitian vodoun, Cuban

santería and other trance rituals that involve music-dance as a form of worship. That

was part of the music experience, the wider context into which the music experience

extends. (322)

The way in which N. experiences music throughout Bedouin Hornbook and the subsequent

volumes in From a Broken Bottle has often been described as mystical, but not always as

Sufi; for example Finkelstein emphasizes Shamanism as an influence (196). The various

musical concerts described by N., particularly that with the Crossroads Choir, also display a

number of motifs common to the Judeo-Christian and Islamic typologies of mystical ascent.

However, Paul Naylor has argued that:

Mackey’s conception of transcendence is best understood as a sociological or historical

rather than theological or metaphysical sense – as a human-to-human rather than a

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human-to-divine encounter. In short, Mackey offers a ‘horizontal’ rather than a

‘vertical’ notion of transcendence. (80)

Naylor is correct that there is no sense of vertical ascent; but there is a movement from a

worldly to a spiritual or supramundane plane. There are no encounters with a divine being as

such, but there is an explicit sense of spiritual ecstasy and detachment from reality, a sense of

union with a mystic reality. While I do not dispute Naylor’s analysis and concerns against

associating Mackey’s music-mysticism with the Judeo-Christian (and Muslim) traditions, the

contention, here, is that while the ‘end goal’ of N.’s mystical experience might differ from

monotheist ascent narratives, the way in which N. manages to achieve admittance to such a

mystical state does bear distinct similarities to Judeo-Christian and Islamic mysticism. As the

Japanese scholar of Islam Toshiko Izutsu has argued in his comparison of Islamic mysticism

and Taoism, mystical experiences tend to be universal, rather than isolated to individual

religious traditions. Indeed, Muslim patterns of mystical ascent are largely dependent on and

developed from those found in Judaism and Christianity, particularly biblical and later

apocalyptic literature. Furthermore some European writers were influenced by Muslim

sources, as Asín Palacios has shown in the case of Dante. This universalism is made all the

more apparent by Finkelstein, who looks beyond the Judeo-Christian and Islamic worlds, and

argues that shamanism provides a useful basis on which to assess Mackey’s exploration of

the relationship between music and the ‘spiritual’ experience (196). The interrelatedness and

boundlessness of mysticism surely appeal to Mackey’s universalism.

The basic aim of Islamic mysticism is to achieve oneness or union with God, as can

be seen in the classical analysis of Sufi concepts by al-Kalabadhi. Union with God is

achieved through spiritual exercises that vary from one Sufi order to another.1 The mystic

attempts to remove all notion of the self, achieving self-annihilation (fana’) – an emptying of

the self into which the divine can enter, marking union between the mystic and God. The aim

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is to remain in this state for as long as possible (baqa’), until the mystic returns to the ‘lower

world’ (al-dunya), i.e. the material world, a changed individual. All Sufis attempt to reach

this state, but the various Sufi brotherhoods achieve it in differing ways: some use music,

some do not. There is, however, a strong focus on dhikr, the remembrance of God. Dhikr is

articulated in different ways, but, most commonly, this is done by repeating set-phrases,

prayers or the name(s) of God as a mantra. The mystic becomes absorbed in the dhikr and

then can gain admittance to a mystical state: by remembering God, the mystic forgets

himself.

Not only does Bedouin Hornbook seem to draw on general patterns of mystical

experience, but there are many conceptual ideas included that form a strong part of the

Muslim mystical tradition. The first is the relationship between Islamic mysticism and

language. For Sufis, words, particularly those of the Qur’an, carry partiucular importance by

the fact that they carry two meanings. The first is the outward, exoteric meaning; but, parallel

to this, every word can have an inward, secret, esoteric meaning, known only to those who

have had an intimate experience of the divine. Mackey’s constant deconstruction of language

in Bedouin Hornbook echoes this, with N.’s reinterpretation of language being used as a

means for gaining understanding or gnosis (ma‘rifa). The second is the use of dreams;

dreams are an important part of religious experience, for both prophets and mystics. The fact

that Bedouin Hornbook begins with a dream highlights a common approach to religio-

philosophical experiences. The final theme is the notion of mystical ascent and spiritual

union. There are many episodes in Bedouin Hornbook in which N. goes on a ‘spiritual’

journey through his music, which are resonant with Muslim, and Judeo-Christian, typologies

of spiritual ascent.

The Angel of Dust: Muse, Critic or Other?

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Bedouin Hornbook is replete with ideas and phrases that blur reality and understanding,

which can be seen not only in the more complex ideas of loss and experience, but also in the

‘ordinary’ events found in the book. In most epistolary novels, the reader gains a real insight

into the relationship(s) between correspondents; and, often, the different perspectives of the

correspondents, such as those of Usbek and Rica in Montesquieu’s Lettres Persanes, are used

to illustrate the wider social ideas at stake. The same is not the case in Bedouin Hornbook,

not simply because the novel provides a conversation that is largely one-sided, but also since

the reader gains little understanding of the relationship between the two correspondents. As J.

Edward Mallot notes: ‘… the tone of the text suggests an interchange of thought between N.

and the recipient of the letters,… without providing either the Angel’s letters or much

assurance that interchange is actually taking place.’ (136). Mackey commented in his

interview with Funkhouser that the letters to the Angel of Dust began as a correspondence

with a friend, but one which the friend was allowed ‘to eavesdrop on, so to speak, though the

thoughts were provoked by his questions.’ (328). The reader, too, is an ‘eavesdropper’ on this

communication, but it is difficult to gain a full understanding of the relationship between N.

and the Angel of Dust: the reader does not even know their real names.

The relationship between N. and the Angel of Dust is ambiguous, but it does appear

to undergo a distinct change. The relationship is close at the beginning, but becomes more

distant: at the start N. ends his letters with ‘Love’ (9), ‘As ever’ (12), ‘Yours truly’ (19),

‘Much affection’ (27); but this develops into more impersonal signatures, such as ‘Yours’

(31), ‘Sincerely’ (35) and so on. The last affectionate signature is early on (27), after which

the tone is one more of acquaintance than of love. There is little in the text to suggest why

this change has happened, but it is in keeping with the themes of loss and ‘udhri love that

dominate Mackey’s work. At the same time, N. still appears to engage and interact with the

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Angel of Dust and to consider the Angel’s opinions or questions. For example, N. comments:

‘Thanks for writing back so quickly. As for your request regarding the ihamba and the

cupping horn, I don’t mind at all going into a bit more detail.’ (179) N. also asks the Angel

directly for advice (22). How, then, do the two relate? Is the Angel N.’s muse, critic or

something else?

Despite the Angel’s prominence, the actual name has received little attention. The

name resembles, quite clearly, the drug known as ‘Angel Dust’, and the reference to a ‘joint

soaked in embalming fluid’ (118) during the Crossroads Choir concert appears to be a direct

reference to it.2 The hallucinogenic drug could indicate, as Mallot argues, that the all of the

‘letters are transcripts of drug-induced states, the Angel a muse of abuse that guides his

intellectual “trip”.’ (140). But, many of the letters cannot really be considered ‘trips’: many

recount banal events, rather than surreal, drug-induced visions. Read more theologically, the

name is an oxymoron and inherently ambiguous: angels are of the divine, ethereal world,

while dust is earthly. The Angel occupies an intermediate space: part ethereal, part mundane;

part ‘divine’, part ‘human’. It describes a being that is either divine, but made earthly, or an

earthly creature made divine. Mallot comments: ‘The palimpsest that becomes the Angel of

Dust – the layers of possibility that refuse to collapse into a simple, static entity – parallels

the realms of communication that can and do permeate our daily lives, involving the living

and the dead, the seen and the invisible.’ (140-41) But does the Angel really occupy and echo

this semi-ethereal transcendent space? The Angel of Dust’s comments, albeit mentioned by

N. himself, do not portray the Angel as existing in, or paralleling, this special, in-between

plane between the intelligible and the unintelligible, the known and the unknown, the living

and the dead.

The Angel of Dust is very much the recipient of wisdom, rather than the giver of it. N.

gains inspiration from a whole range of different objects, people and dreams, but none from

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the Angel. The opening letters of Bedouin Hornbook set out clearly the Angel’s distance from

N.’s musical inspiration. In these letters, N.’s philosophical musings are developed from a

dream sequence (7-9), a car crash (10), oranges and nectarines (16), another dream sequence

(20) and a painting of Irving Petlin (23). The Angel of Dust does not appear to be a muse.

Indeed, N. criticizes the Angel for making the connection between a painting and a piece of

music, saying, ‘…[I] can’t say that I can see the connection you sense between them and that

latest tape I sent.’ (13) N.’s comment shows a ‘gnostic’ gap between N. and the Angel – a

separation of intellect. N. can also be quite blunt, telling the Angel,

You got me all wrong on what I meant by “a sexual ‘cut’” in my last letter. I’m not, as

you insinuate, advancing severance as a value, must less pushing, as you put it, “a

thinly veiled romance of distantiation.” (42).

They also have misunderstandings over N.’s use of ‘public/private’ (72) and ‘history’ (82).

Even moments in which N. responds to the Angel positively, such as N.’s comments on the

Angel’s essay ‘Towards a Theory of the Falsetto in New World African Musics’ (62), the

positivity is counterbalanced by suggestions for further exploration, indicating a dominance

in intellect of N. over the Angel.

However, there are times when what the Angel appears to have a certain amount of

‘right’ knowledge: the Angel rightly understands that N.’s composition ‘Not of Rock, Not of

Wood, Not of Earth’ refers to the fable of Gassire’s lute (29). The Angel encourages N.

(109), comforts him (128) and startles him by making a connection between N.’s Toupouri

composition and a Thelonious Monk record (135). While the two appear to become more

‘distant’ by the way in which N. signs off his letters, they draw closer together in

understanding; as Bedouin Hornbook progresses, the Angel of Dust becomes more learned,

more aware of possibilities, less prone to misunderstanding or making ‘faulty’ associations.

Yet, the two never meet (165) and they never reach the same level of gnosis: they are, as

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Mackey would have it, ‘asymptotic’; a theme of Mackey’s work that has been explored in

detail by Adelaide Morris (757). The closest that the two get is N. saying: ‘It’s as though we

shared a single set of ears.’ (158) N. and the Angel of Dust experience a union of sorts, but

only one that is hypothetical. It is not real. The Angel of Dust, then, is not a muse, and

certainly not an angel. Mackey’s Angel of Dust, just as its contradictory name suggests, is in

direct contrast to typical Judeo-Christian and Islamic angelology, in which angels are the

vehicles or mediators of revelation, rather than the receivers of it.

The relationship between N. and the Angel of Dust is more akin to the Sufi master-

disciple (shakyh-murid) relationship, in which the master can learn from his student, but most

of the education is imparted by the master. This relationship was, and continues to be,

extremely important in Islamic mysticism; teachings about the ‘path’ are passed from one

generation to another, through a chain of transmission (silsila) often going back to the

Prophet Muhammad. It is about such chains of the transmission of mystical knowledge that

Mackey read in Sufis of Andalusia.3 The expected reading may be that the Angel of Dust is

the shaykh and N. the murid, but it can also be read the other way around. This master-

disciple relationship is seen particularly strongly in N.’s reaction to and comments on the

Angel’s essay (62) and his surprise at the Angel’s association of Monk with his Toupouri

piece (135). If we consider the Angel of Dust as the ‘recipient’ of wisdom, rather than the

‘giver’ of wisdom, the conception of the Angel is quite different.

Mallot argues that the more esoteric nature of the Angel implies that the Angel could

have witnessed or taken part in the opening dream sequence (141); but, if the Angel is seen as

the recipient of knowledge, the following statement of N. is more akin to a hypothetical

proposition, a protasis rather than a statement of fact: ‘You should’ve heard me in the dream

last night’ (7), becomes, ‘If only you had been able to hear me in the dream last night…’. The

Angel of Dust can be viewed as being very much of this world: a figure with potential for

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attaining divine or angelic experience, but someone who is not quite ready for such

experiences: the Angel is still of this world, the lower world, the human world of dust. A

development in the Angel’s ability to gain gnosis can be seen as the novel progresses.

Throughout Bedouin Handbook there is a sense that N. is writing down the responses

to his ‘mystical’ experiences in order to catch them and keep them, before they disappear, or

become lost. Sufis also saw a need to pass information about the ‘path’ to their followers: a

shaykh finds a suitable pupil to whom he can pass his teachings for posterity. There is also a

sense that N. believes that the Angel of Dust can learn from his experiences. Reading the

relationship as that of the master and disciple has an impact on how N. is conceived: if N. is a

master/shaykh, he is embarking on a ‘spiritual’ journey: a ‘Bedouin’ searching for the

ultimate reality. N., then, must be seen as being dominant over the Angel of Dust: N. is the

Bedouin, the seeker, the shaykh and the mystic; the Angel of Dust is the murid, the disciple,

and the initiate. This relationship is reflected in the novel’s title: a hornbook is a didactic text,

a summary or précis of the key points of a more technical work. Bedouin Hornbook is, then,

N.’s guide for himself, through the prism of the Angel of Dust, towards enlightenment and

gnosis.

Words and Meanings: the ‘Outer’ and the ‘Inner’

In Islam, the Qur’an is believed to be the actual, physical ‘word’ of God, and as a result, the

any interpretation or exegesis of the Qur’an is an attempt to understand the divine. Sufis, in

particular, have a way of interpreting and engaging with the Qur’an that has some bearing on

Mackey’s own understanding of the relationship between words and meaning. As Kristin

Sands explains, Sufis maintain that there are two aspects to the text: an exoteric or outer

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meaning of the text (zahir) and an esoteric or inner meaning of the text (batin). Every word in

the Qur’an carries these dual meanings and can be interpreted through allusions (isharat) to

reveal the ‘true’ or ‘inner’ meaning of a Qur’anic word or verse. This form of interpretation is

not simply allegorical or metaphorical interpretation, since both the batin and zahir meanings

are valid at the same time. In a sense, the Qur’anic text can be deconstructed through isharat

by the mystic to reveal new ‘inner’ meanings. The Ismailis also studied the Qur’an through a

similar hermeneutical approach, ta’wil (‘interpretation’), which Mackey refers to in Song of

the Andoumboulou: 26 (‘Whatsaid Serif’ 57).

Words, for N., are also extremely important, if not the basis of meaning itself. Like

Ludwig Wittgenstein, who spends much of his Philosophical Investigations exploring

different types of Sprachspiel or ‘word game’, in Bedouin Hornbook Mackey, as Finkelstein

also notes (183-184), deploys a number of word games and wordplays. Some, such as the

misspelling of ‘Djamilaa’ with a doubled ‘a’ and ‘Djarred’, both with the French

transliteration ‘dj’, appear to disconcert or disconnect the reader from the text and from what

is normally expected. Wittgenstein, discussing the form of printed text, comments: ‘Think of

the uneasiness we feel when the spelling of a word is changed.’ (74). This disconcertion and

disconnection from expectation is not simply to disorientate but also reinforces Bedouin

Hornbook’s themes of loss and asymptotism: the reader becomes distant from N.’s word-

world. In Bedouin Hornbook word forms have become less stable; there is no longer any

surety of what is acceptable or expected. Mackey takes word forms into a Derridean world of

uncertainty and association, where meaning is up for grabs, malleable and fractured; but in

mysticism such uncertainty is not problematic, because it broadens the scope of meaning.

In many cases, N.’s discussions of words and their meanings explore apparent and

deeper meanings, meanings that are hidden (i.e. batin). The Sutter Street graffito (32-34) and

the band’s subsequent ‘exegesis’ reveal each member’s hermeneutical approach to a

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seemingly problematic text:4 ‘Mr. Slick and Mister Brother are one of the two most baddest

dude in town, and Sutter Street.’ (33). Penguin reacts to it sociologically or psychologically,

believing the grammatical errors to be ‘the sign of a deep-seated upheaval in the

consciousnesses of the folk, an insistent interrogation of the bounds between individual and

collective identities…’ (33). Aunt Nancy takes the statement at face value, the errors being

‘more likely an oversight than a deliberate tactic’ (33) and the result of ‘bad schooling’ (34).

Lambert, who encountered the text first, argues that the writers had been ‘literally shaken by

powers – whether artistic or autistic he couldn’t, he admitted, say – which were neither to be

trifled with nor explained away by hardheaded sophistries disguised as common sense.’ (34).

N. remains quiet, but finally comments on the use of most baddest, ‘pointing out that instead

of redundant I heard “most baddest” as a novel, rule-abandoning technique for

intensification.’ (34). It is important that it is N., and N. only, who seeks to derive the

meaning of the text; the others interpret its social implications, the reasons why the text was

created and presented in that form.

N. has ‘special’ knowledge, or at least a special insight into language, and he

recognises its potential for developing meaning. He comments: ‘Forgive me for resorting to

etymologies again, but therein, I’m convinced, lie the roots of coincidence.’ (89) Words, their

histories, their meanings and their associations, can be used to unlock philosophical meaning.

Mallot comments:

Somewhere between two similar words – for example, ‘card’ and ‘cord’ – is the precise

point of distinction between the two, the electrical charge that gives both their

individual potency; somewhere within ‘cord’ is a chord, an entire realm of sound and

sense, silence and nonsense. (162).

But Mackey does not simply use words to move from one ‘realm’ to another, from one plane

of thought to a different one. Words, their ‘slippage’ and their ‘discrepant engagement’ are,

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for N. and Mackey, the place where ‘truth’ is found – a theme particularly resonant with Sufi

exegesis of the Qur’an. In the Sutter Street graffito, N. sees the ungrammatical as being

innovatively grammatical. His meaning or interpretation is generated by a ‘gnostic’ reading, a

reading in light of the ‘knowledge’ that N. has of language; a theme that Peter O’Leary has

discussed (533-34).

While Mackey’s use of language can represent ‘loss’, particularly for the reader, who

discovers that words have lost their ordinary meanings; words can also be the confluence of

meaning. For N., etymology also signifies ‘coincidence’ - of being in the same place at the

same time - what Mackey has described as nonsonance: a definition, which itself incorporates

nonce, nonsense, and resonance (Finkelstein 2011: 198-9). In the case of card/cord/chord;

assent/accent/ascent (25); or pennies/Penny’s (‘Djbot Baghostus’s Run’ 39); Nazi/not see

(‘Djbot Baghostus’s Run’ 178); bell/belle (Atet A.D. 6) etc., the homophones or orthographic

similarities represent a ‘coincidence’, where ideas can be associated, paralleling the cross-

cultural exchange of wider philosophical principles and experiences. In Bedouin Hornbook

N. refers to the fact that ‘band’ has ‘overtones’ of ‘bond’ (89); ‘bond’ is not the same as

‘band’, but there is a resonance or overtone that encompasses both. In some instances the

coincidence is manifest in a single entity: Similary in Djbot Baghostus’s Run, N.’s playing of

the note ‘C’ is a musical exploration of a similar idea of the union of the many in the one

(178-179) – again, reminiscent of the Sufi focus on tawhid (‘Oneness’) and the participation

in divine unicity. By playing the ‘C’ repeatedly, N. not only encompasses the range of the

sound world in playing loudly, softly and so on; but also implies the potential that ‘C’ has: C,

Cm, F, Fm, Am, and all the other derived keys and suspensions possible. ‘C’ is the

foundation for a number of potential planes and infinite possibilities, the ‘coincidence’ of the

many in the ‘One’.

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Language is not used by N. to enter into a mystical experience but is used to generate

meaning. The concept of a text’s ‘secret’ knowledge is an important theme in mysticism

generally, and in Sufism specifically, where part of the Sufi path is to gain ‘divine

knowledge’ (ma‘rifa) about the world. As Reza Shah-Kazemi explains, Sufis make a

distinction between rational knowledge (‘ilm) and divine knowledge (ma‘rifa), which is only

gained through meditation and experience of the divine. N.’s reaction to words and his

exploration of their semantic and phonic potential echoes ma‘rifa rather than ‘ilm ; N. is not

necessarily interested in the ‘actual’ or ‘real’ etymology of a word, but in generating meaning

through association – taking a word-form on a journey and deriving new meanings from other

contexts. There is also the sense that N. believes that words have an outer and inner meaning,

an exoteric ‘normality’ alongside an esoteric ‘reality’; a idea that has much in common with

Sufi exegesis of the Qur’an and Ismaili ta’wil , with N. using deconstruction to understand, or

achieve gnosis about, his own experiences of world and word.

Four Dreams

There are four main dream sequences in the novel (7; 20-21; 64; and 159-160) and they all

play a part in the formation of N.’s music and his philosophical musings. In Jewish, Christian

and Islamic literature (but beyond as well), the veracity of a vision is often marked by certain

motifs: the presence of angels, the Throne of God, etc. Ithamar Guruenwald argues that the

witnessing of unusual events and creatures, and of the unexpected and impossible, is the way

a reader knows that the visionary has moved into a different plane (31). As such, dreams are

a key component of prophetic and mystical experiences of the divine, as dreams were

believed to act, in certain circumstances, as windows into the divine world and a place where

human-divine interaction could occur. The interpretation of dreams is also an ability given to

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prophets, such as Joseph and Daniel, as a sign of their prophetic office. Likewise, dreams,

namely those of the Prophet Muhammad, were accepted modes of prophetic revelation

among Sufis. The dream sequences in Bedouin Hornbook echo this prophetic typology.

Each of the dream sequences are relatively short, usually only one paragraph;

although some of the dreams focus on music, the main theme of the dreams is the notion of

otherness and distortion. In the opening dream sequence (7), N. intends to play John

Coltrane’s (or Archie Shepp’s) version of ‘Naima’5, but ‘Cousin Mary’ is what he actually

plays; the bass clarinet looks more like plumbing fixtures, and so on. In the dream about his

brother, N. comments that the action ‘took place in an area between two buildings, though a

sense was maintained of it also taking place inside.’ (20). This sense of otherness is made

explicit when N. states: ‘But those words, if they belonged to anyone, belonged to someone

else…’ (20). The unnatural state of things is also seen in N.’s recurring dream about the dog

at the foot of the ladder (159-160) which is simultaneously both dark and light: ‘I find myself

in the dark, facing a ladder at whose foot a dog sits. The darkness notwithstanding, the dog

and the ladder are both easy to see, each as though it were lit by an intrinsic light.’ (159) N.

also picks up on the ‘falseness’ and ‘otherness’ in the dream about another musician,

Braxton. In the dream Braxton drives past N. and says of himself in the third person, ‘That

Braxton’s real slick….Can’t trust him. Unreal to the bone. Your basic trickster. A little bit

false.’ (64). It is not surprising that dreams should describe aspects of ‘otherness’ or

‘surreality’; dreams inhabit a world in which normal physical rules do not apply, as it were,

representing a journey into a metaphysical realm.

This surreality and this sense of otherness are the main features of the dream

sequences, but what is the function of this feeling of ‘otherness’? Some commentators, such

as Mallot and Johnston, have suggested that the ‘phantom limb’ is at the heart of the novel,

and it is a theme that has been analyzed in detail, and one that Mackey has discussed with

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O’Leary (38). But what is the phantom limb? Is it something that was once possessed, but

then lost? Is it a memory or a remembrance of something lost? The dream-music haunts N.

like a ‘phantom limb’ (7), and N. says of the touch of his brother that he feels in another of

his dreams: ‘Was the brotherly arm I felt a phantom limb? (And, even if not, how much does

“limb” have to do with “liminal”?)’ (22) Later, N. writes that he came across the term

‘phantom objectivity’, on which he comments, ‘It refers to a situation, if I’ve got it right,

where we find ourselves haunted by what we ourselves initiate.’ (88). The ‘phantom limb’ is

related to ‘haunting’, to a ‘remembrance’ of something past, but it is not something that is

necessarily lost. The ‘phantom limb’ is also not of the supramundane world, as it is not

something felt in the dream but is a feeling of absence in the mundane, marking a point of

separation, just as an amputee is separated from the limb physically. But from what is N.

separated?

Dreams are not the same as a mystical experience, but they do, nevertheless, have

‘mystical’ significance: moments in the ‘unreal’ lead to moments of realization in the ‘real’

world. Such dreams and ventures into the supramundane show N.’s capacity to experience

and commune with otherworldliness. Mallot comments on this notion of separation between

worlds:

That something has been severed, importantly, does not mean that it remains forever

inaccessible, but that it becomes another absent layer in the palimpsest of our existence,

a phantom limb or lamb or iamb that replaces the real arm or body or word we knew

before. (137)

Mallot is thinking in wider, more general terms, but such a statement is also applicable to N.

himself. If Bedouin Hornbook is read with mysticism in mind, the separate planes of the

palimpsest are not disconnected from reality; they are part of it, because the phantom limb is

manifested in the worldly sphere, as a response to an experience in the supramundane. N.

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experiences a felt absence – not an absence of the dream or the venture into the

supramundane itself, but of some ‘knowledge’ that is acquired there. The importance of

music is what haunts N., and the touch of his brother acts as a reminder of him; both

experiences are in the mundane, a subsequent realization inspired by the dream itself.

In religious thought, dreams are vehicles of revelation or the imparting of knowledge.

They are ventures towards the supramundane, into a liminal space, without the visionary

entering fully into it. Despite not becoming part of the supramundane, the dreamer still

receives knowledge or gnosis (ma‘rifa). In all of the dreams that N. has, he learns something

about himself or about his philosophy. While there is a sense that such knowledge is

‘dangerous’, that it can ‘haunt’, any such journey or knowledge has, in most religions, an

element of risk.

A Journey into the Supramundane

Thus far, we have seen that there are a number of elements in Bedouin Hornbook that have a

resonance with some Sufi concepts, practices, and articulations of mysticism. However, none

of these actually shows an articulation of a ‘definite’ mystical experience. The dreams, which

some may consider ‘mystical’, are not really the same: a dream is an experience of the

supramundane but not a union with it. The concerts, particularly the concert with the

Crossroads Choir, are the moments in which N. achieves mystic ecstasy and union in the

supramundane. The Crossroads Choir concert provides the fullest account of a ‘mystical’

experience in Bedouin Hornbook, although the other concerts, both in Bedouin Hornbook and

the other volumes of From a Broken Bottle, have similar motifs.

Before examing the account in detail (109-124) it will be helpful to highlight the

prevalence of religious imagery and language throughout. There are references to baptism

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(110), a cathedral and church (112), the Upanishads (113), ‘a capella’ (114), parable (117),

‘liturgical ambush’ (117), ‘first and final things’ (117), ‘body and soul’ (119), prayer (119),

bride and wedding (120), koan (121), sacrament (121), crib and crypt (122), the seven days of

Creation (123), the eighth day (123), the Dogon ancestor Lébé (123) and ‘cabalistic light’

(124). Added to this are many phrases that are more ambiguous, where the reader can make

other connections between the text and religious ideas: can, for example, the reference to

[Eric] Dolphy (121) be related to the oracle of Delphi? Other words like ‘pneumatic’ and

‘antiphonal’ (113), although not being strictly ‘Christian’ have Christian undertones of the

Spirit (the pneuma) and of church antiphonal singing. The tune the Crossroads Choir plays,

“Head Like A Horse’s, Heart Like A Mule’s”, alludes to Voodoo possession (113), showing

the influence broadening out of the Judeo-Christian tradition. As already seen, Finkelstein has

noted other mystical influences on Mackey’s works, especially Shamanism (193-207). The

name ‘Crossroads Choir’ itself has clear links to both the meeting place of two worlds – a

‘crossing’ - and an ‘angelic’ choir, marking a moment where asymptotism is suspended, and

union is gained. As Puhvel argues, in folklore the idea of the ‘crossroads’ also has an element

of danger, of associations with encounters with the Devil, rather than the Divine. In Mackey’s

commentary on Robert Duncan, this tension between the benefits and dangers inherent in a

mystical experience is made apparent:

The age-old sense of inspiration as an inspiriting, an invasion of a human vessel by a

non-human daimon or spirit, carries the danger of a loss of touch with human realities

and feelings. Taken seriously, the notion complicates and unsettles what we mean by

‘human,’ since, if we are subject to such invasions, our susceptibility has to be a factor

of what being human means. (‘Paracritical Hinge’ 83)

The Crossroads Choir, then, could present either a divine or satanic encounter; but N.’s

mystical experience is not, as Paul Naylor has argued, an encounter with a personified deity,

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but one more abstract, a sense of being at one with humanity and with the self. (79). Naylor’s

wish to disassociate Bedouin Hornbook’s mysticism from a Judeo-Christian framework (79-

80) is made problematic in this concert, as Mackey appears to be drawing explicitly on

religious, particularly Christian, language and imagery. Turning to the concert in question, a

number of different elements can be seen to have some connection to mystical experiences in

Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. In Islam, Sufis modeled their own spiritual ascent on the

ascent of Muhammad to heaven, the mi‘raj .

The final words of the previous letter set up and prefigure the dramatic events that

follow. The letter ends with the words: ‘Let us sing’, and sing he does. The letter of 6.XII.80

presents a detailed account of what happened at the concert. N. undergoes a series of different

steps before he manages to taste spiritual enlightenment, and there is an implication that it

was necessary for N. to go through each stage in that particular order, as each stage informs

the experience of the next.

Initiation and Vocation marks the begiing of N.’s involvement in the concern, and it marks

the first stage, or in Sufi terms ‘maqam’, on the path (tariqa) to gnosis. N. begins by seeking

out the Crossroads Choir, searching for a mystic reality. He says: ‘I spent several weeks

asking around regarding their whereabouts, only to be told again and again that they’d gone

“underground”. No one I talked to was willing to discuss it any further than that.’ (109). N.’s

inquisitiveness gets a response, but the group remains secretive, telling N. that he ‘should go

alone, on foot and carrying the horn of [his] choice.’ (109). Once at the rendezvous, notably a

crossroads, N. blindfolds himself, is collected, bundled into a vehicle and given a strange,

unknown substance to drink (109-110). In the ascent literatures, Muslim and Judeo-

Christian, the prophet or visionary, begins the process of ascension unexpectedly (Colby

196); in much the same way as N. receives a call from a member of the choir out of the blue.

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Secrecy, although a feature of Muslim and Judeo-Christian ascents, has more in common

with Gnostic and Hermetic texts. The blindfolding and the secrecy could indicate something

of a tabula rasa – N.’s senses are wiped clean, and when the blindfold is removed he sees

with new eyes. This rite is reminiscent of the notion that the Prophet Muhammad needed to

be purified before ascending to heaven, which is done, famously, through the purification of

his heart; a motif which, Vuckoic argues, emphasizes ‘…that God and his agents prepared

Muhammad adequately to undergo the journey he is about to take.’ (22).

In the mi‘raj literature, Muhammad is given a test before (or sometimes after) his

ascent; he is presented with a choice of drinks: milk or wine (Vuckovic 26). When appearing

before the ascent itself, this test does two things: (i) it shows that Muhammad is suitable,

capable and worthy of the ascent; and (ii) it prepares him for the events and creatures that he

is about to encounter. N. is not presented with a ‘test’, but the odourless liquid that he is

forced to take plays a similar purificatory role, and through the ‘ordeals’ of his initiation,

which echo secret societies, N. proves his suitability to the Crossroads Choir. N. describes the

liquid as ‘…a watery submission to the elements at large in which every wrinkle of wind,

however slight, fluttered like wings or splashed like a swimmer’s limbs.’ (110). Here,

drinking the liquid is associated at once with a feeling of flight, of ascent and baptism, in

which one is symbolically ‘raised’ from the dead (Rom. 6:4). The liquid, which is highly

similar in both form and effects to PCP/‘angel dust’, is also very likely to be responsible for

N.’s change in sense-perception – either drug-induced, spiritual or both. Homerin illustrates

in his study of the Sufi Ibn al-Farid that many mystics drew much inspiration from

drunkenness to explain the ecstasy of divine union. Indeed, scholar such as G. Ray Jordan

have made links between religious and secular drug-induced visions, Huxley’s The Doors of

Perception being the most famous. The vocation and initiation sequence at the start of the

Crossroads Choir concert does not have direct parallels with Islamic and Judeo-Christian

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ascent narratives, but the sequence does appear to echo certain motifs found in these

literatures.

Admittance to the Supramundane is the next stage in N.’s mystic experience. In the Muslim

narratives of ascent, as in Judeo-Christian ones, the visionary is then taken on a tour of

Heaven by his guide. The guide informs the Prophet about what he is seeing and explains

their meaning. N. is guided physically (111) but also has his interpretations of events

confirmed by others. Later in the concert N. says:

This might also explain, I suggested at once, the vicarious octaves he’d apparently

added to the tenor’s range, the solo’s “phantom” reach. “Precisely,” he whispered in

agreement, nodding his head, as we both turned our attention back to the music. (118)

The need of an interpreting angel is important, as often the visionary does not understand

what he is seeing. The same is found in N.’s reaction to the concert room (111-12), which has

an ‘indeterminate character’ and it refuses ‘to settle into any solid, describable “take”.’ The

audience is similarly vague: ‘the crowd was faceless and of a variable aspect all its own…’

(112). The band, too, are disfigured and ‘appeared to suffer from a surplus or an overcharge

of features’ (112), revealing a ‘true’ or supramundane form:

…suggesting the Assyrian god Humbaba, whose face was built of intestines, the next

the Aztec raingod Tlaloc, whose face consisted of two intertwining snakes. The band,

which could only have been the Crossroads Choir, partook of an elastic, variable aspect

equal to if not greater than that of the audience and the structure (whatever and

wherever it was) in which we were gathered. (112)

N.’s fascination with the deconstruction of words, their malleability and their uncertainty, is

now made manifest in the experience of the supramundane. Likewise, the drainpipe horn

played by N. in the opening dream sequence foreshadows a more complex and strengthened

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‘deconstruction’. Mackey employs much religious imagery, some Christian, but also drawing

on Aztec and Assyrian religion. Both of these gods have a terrifying form, and such terrifying

images of divine beings are also common in the Judeo-Christian and Islamic traditions. The

imagery of the band members having a ‘surplus or an overcharge of features’ has intriguing

similarities with some angels found in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic literature, particularly

the four-faced cherubim and the Islamic ‘Bearers of the Throne’.6 Even the night club’s

failure to remain static and comprehensible has associations with visions of heaven and/or the

temple seen by prophets and mystics in the monotheist traditions. All of these act as markers

and signs that N. has entered the supramundane world. The nightclub is no longer simply a

nightclub, but something else, something more abstract, changing, and impossible.

N.’s confusion and incomprehension of what he sees when he enters this

supramundane world is a common feature of Judeo-Christian, and Islamic mystical ascents.

The things that the visionary sees are often confusing. The fact that N. cannot see the faces of

the crowd at first shows his disconnectedness with the world of the supramundane; but as he

gains more experience of the supramundane, he is able to see faces and understand his

surroundings (122).

Witnessing a Celestial Choir is a common motif in both Judeo-Christian and Islamic

narratives of ascent. The celestial choir has a number of functions within the tradition, but

there are two that have some bearing on Bedouin Hornbook. The first is that the angels

illustrate the archetypal form of worship to the visionary. The second is that angels, and

especially the celestial choir, can be used as a vehicle of revelation. N.’s mystical experience

may not be one of the divine world, but it is, as the imagery already encountered indicates, a

supramundane space. The music of the band plays a similar role in acting as an ‘archetypal

music’, and the musicians also impart a form of ‘revelation’ to N.

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That the band plays a role in defining music, or, at least, performs a ‘superior’ music

is encountered early on in the concert – the music is definitive. N. believes that the size of the

band is vast: ‘Their entrance threatened to go on forever – a slow, numberless stampede, as it

were, of musician after hyperbolic musician which made me wonder whether the stage could

hold them all.’ (112-113). N. then says of the band that ‘[i]t seemed they were every band I’d

ever heard or even dreamt I’d heard all rolled into one.’ (113) For N., at that moment, the

band is perfection, the archetype, the prototype, the consummation of all that is good about

music. The music that the band then plays does not disappoint. He describes their music as

transcending the self: ‘Such a sense of myself I’d nourished only in private (or what I thought

was private), unassailable, or so I thought, within the vascular walls of a fool’s paradise.’

(113). He also says of the flautist that: ‘Nevertheless it was the unobstructed body of love

their exchange addressed, a pneumatic equation whose antiphonal factors each exacted an

abrupt, unlikely gift of itself.’ (114). The themes of revelation and of ‘love’ are important in

mystical experiences of the divine. In the Judeo-Christian and Muslim traditions, God

embodies love, and part of the aim of the mystical experience is to be immersed in this love.

The concept and metaphor of love is particularly strong in Sufism, and poets such as Ibn al-

Farid used love poetry to describe their search and union with God. The most extreme

reaction to the music is not experienced by N., but by someone else in the crowd.

Off to my right I saw one man break two glasses on the edge of his table, set them up

again and bring the palms of his hands down on their ragged rims. He then held his

hands up for everyone to see, moving toward the stage to stand directly below the

flutist, his bleeding hands up in the air and the blood running down his arms – a token,

he seemed to be suggesting, of his appreciation. (115).

The great detail in which N. describes this event shows simultaneously both comprehension

and incomprehension. The actual behavior of the man seems to confuse N. and he cannot

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understand why the man acts as he does; yet N.’s own experience of the music gives him a

basic understanding of the man’s motivations. This behavior was the result of something the

flautist says. N. begins to lose faith in the flautist’s playing but is suddenly surprised,

commenting, ‘Just as I began to weary of a sloganizing strain which had crept into the

solo…the flutist did something that brought the crowd to its feet.’ (115). The flautist stops

playing and utters a word of revelation: ‘…he leaned forwards and whispered across the lip-

plate into the mike. “As for me,” he muttered, “who am neither I nor not I, I have strayed

from myself and I find no remedy but despair.’ (115). The flautist implies a state of self-

annihilation (fana’), the emptying of the self in order to be filled with something greater. This

emptying of the self is hinted at earlier, when N. describes the flautist: ‘Slaptonguing the lip-

plate while fingering the keys, the flutist resorted to certain percussive effects whose goal

seemed to be to do away with themselves as such.’ (114) This ‘doing away’ with the self, at

first the flute and then the flautist, is the goal of Islamic mystical path, a metaphor also seen

in Rumi’s Mathnawi (5). Although not yet having attained the state of self-annihilation

himself, N. accepts the flautist’s words as a piece of revelation. This revelation induces pain:

the spiritual and mental experience manifests it in the form of a sharp pain, as if glass had

embedded itself in his forehead.

The band plays on, seemingly in reaction to N.’s own confused state: ‘It was evidently

a need I shared with others, for at that moment the tenor player stepped forward as the band

made a quick transition into one of the most dangerous standards around, “Body and Soul.”’

(116-117). The spiritual significance of ‘body’ and ‘soul’ in religious imagery is well known,

but it does have particular importance in Sufism, where the greater jihad (‘struggle’) takes

place within the body and soul, a theme explored by many great Sufis, such as al-Ghazali in

his Ihya ‘ulum al-din (55-66). As the band’s rendition of ‘Body and Soul’ develops, N. feels

an increasing spirituality. He focuses on the title, saying: ‘“Body and soul,” I muttered under

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my breath, taken aback by the relevance of these words yet again, but the abrupt renewal of

such an apparently pristine relevance formed a lump in my throat.’ (119). The crowd

becomes frantic, fully involved in the music, chanting again and again ‘My house of cards

had no foundation’. (118). N. tries to join in, but, he says: ‘I opened my mouth to join in the

chant but no sound came out.’ (119). N. is not yet ready to become fully joined with the

‘other’; he retains his personal identity by not submitting himself to the audience. N. has not

yet managed to reach the state of self-annihilation.

Participation, Self-Annihilation and Ecstasy mark the climax of the concert for N. His

participation in the concert itself, which is marked by a physical move from one realm to

another: from the audience onto the stage. In this sense, his coming onto the stage is a final

‘ascent’ onto the platform itself. The process is one of vocation, of being summoned, just as

prophets like Isaiah receive their calling to draw closer to the Divine (Isa. 6:8). N. says: ‘It

took me no time at all to realize that I’d be summoned, that I was now being given a chance to

sit in. The opportunity both excited me and gave me cause to be wary.’ (120). N. even goes as

far to say that:

I saw myself as a “bride” by way of whose wedding what had been confirmed was –

how can I put it? – a vocation for longing. It was nothing less than a calling brought

about in such a way that one nursed a sweet-tooth for complication. ( 120).

Despite Naylor’s protestations that Mackey should not be read in a Judeo-Christian, and by

extension Muslim, context; here, there is an undeniably strong influence. The Sufi trope of

beauty and love reappears (120) as he begins to play. It takes N. a little time to find his voice,

beginning with a ‘sly breathy phrase’ which turned into a sigh. ‘The sigh was an ode, an

elegy and a confession all at once. I felt depleted and put upon.’ (121). The sense of

depletion marks the beginning of N.’s self-annihilation, his self-emptying. He progresses

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through this state, remembering a lover – returning to the theme of love. Mackey himself has

described the ‘udhri notion of the love-death in his interview with O’Leary (36-37),

especially the way in which the poet-lover dies because of unrequited and lost love; similarly,

N. empties himself, and in a sense causes a ‘death of self’ through a meditation on love:

…a seven day romance I had ages ago with a woman I met halfway around the world.

It was a whirlwind affair, love at first sight, proposing impossibly wide horizons and

laying claim to only the most unlikely prospects. With painstaking patience I sketched

every detail of our initial encounter, thrown back upon that oldest, ever available

sacrament – rites of seduction. (121).

It is in openly religious imagery that N. voices his meditation. N. opens himself and empties

himself through this musical confession, ‘sacrament’ and ‘rite’. In Sufism, the mystic empties

his or her ‘self’ so that it can be filled with an experience of the Divine, taking a share in the

Divine unicity. N., too, achieves a union, albeit not one with the Divine. The union is

pseudo-physical and sexual: ‘I did what justice I could to the press of our bones and the snug,

thrusting fit of our flesh, the enduring, wicked sting of the carnal rites whose plunge we

took.’ (122) This union leads to the climax, and N. becoming fully integrated into the

supramundane; it is only after this mystical union that N. sees clearly:

Not only did the audience come to their feet, as they had during the flute solo, but their

heads all of a sudden acquired features, welcome wrinkles and expressive lines they

hadn’t had before. (122)

N. continues exploring and remains in this state (baqa’) for as long as possible, taking ‘every

mystical consolation I could muster to keep from breaking down.’ (123). N.’s philosophical

musings get more profound, and he begins to contemplate Olivier Messiaen’s notion of the

‘Eighth Day’. The Eighth Day marks the notion of eternity, completeness and union, and

appears in Messiaen’s Quatuor pour la fin du temps and Mackey refers to it in his interview

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with Rowell (710). Messiaen, like Mackey, believes in the power of music to define and

explore theological notions and concepts, an idea that is being developed in theology itself,

by theologians such as Jeremy Begbie. Anthony Pople comments in his analysis of the

Quatuor pour la fin du temps:

Messiaen was convinced that musicians were as well placed to investigate the nature of

time as were scientists and philosophers, saying that “Without musicians time would be

much less understood.” He saw his use of non-retrograde rhythms and other devices as

somehow operating on time itself, revealing its nature. (13).

Mackey is not necessarily interested in exploring the concept of time, although it does play a

part; however, Mackey is more interested in widening and exploring space. In a sense, his

cross-cultural project attempts to transcend race and creed, placing ideas and experience in a

universalist and pluralist context. N. meditates on the number eight, relating it to music itself,

commenting that: ‘It occurred to me now, as though I’d never seen it before, that the eighth

note of every octave is a return to the first, both end and beginning.’ (123). N. continues to

play and realizes the enormity of his experience. He concludes, ‘I knew I’d come home to the

heart.’ (124). The reference to ‘heart’ is also a major theme in Sufism, where the mystic needs

to ‘purify the heart’ to attain spiritual enlightenment, a theme which Saeko Yazaki has

explored in detail. Mackey has himself commented on the idea of cardiognosis, the realization

of the self in the heart, in an interview with Paul Naylor (646). That N., when he has attained

mystical enlightenment, says that he had ‘come home to the heart’ is highly resonant of this

Sufi theme.

N. opens his eyes, and witnesses a woman burst a white balloon on which is written,

‘Only One’. The last thing that N. sees, the last thought he thinks, refers to the ‘One’: the

partaking of the Unicity or Oneness (tawhid) of God – the aim of mystical experience. While

N. does not share in any ‘divine unicity’, he has reached a mystical state in which he feels ‘at

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one’, sharing in humanity as a whole. As soon as the balloon bursts, the experience ends: N.

returns to the mundane.

The actual mystical experience with the Crossroads Choir exhibits all of the standard

‘stations’ (maqama) that a Sufi will typically undergo during experience of the divine. N.

searches for the choir, in much the same way a Sufi seeks the face of God. N. goes through a

series of initiations and rites of purification, so that when he reaches the nightclub, he is

‘purified’, has a clean slate and is ready for the experience. N. is confused by what he sees, a

signal that he is now in the world of the supramundane, and he needs a guide. There is a time

for N. to watch passively, as is typical of ascent narratives, before he takes part in the ‘ritual’

itself. Finally, through a love-mysticism, N. is able to reach the state of self-annihilation,

(fana’) and can achieve a sense of oneness and union. He remains in this state (baqa’) a time,

before returning to the ‘real’ mundane world, having received a ‘revelation’ of sorts.

Norman Finkelstein interprets Mackey’s poetry in light of shamanism and highlights

certain themes and ideas that are central to shamanism, such as violence and wounding (187),

shamanic journeying into the supramundane (196), and spirit possession (191); these themes

are found in Bedouin Hornbook and in the episode with the Crossroads Choir, but they are not

central concepts. While Mackey may, indeed, draw on shamanism in his poetry, the episode

with the Crossroads Choir is replete with Islamic imagery, and it is the Islamic influence that

comes across strongest. While the end result is not the same as monotheist ascent literature –

there is no union with the divine – the way in which N. undergoes his mystical experiences is

extremely reminiscent of such ideas. While Jewish and Christian narratives of mystical ascent

include similar motifs, the use of music to gain such a state indicates a strong Muslim

influence. The Sufi sama‘ (congregational singing of the dhikr) is extremely important and

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does not really have a counterpart in the Jewish or Christian mystical traditions. N.’s use of

music has much more in common with Islamic mysticism in his approach to the experience.

Bedouin Hornbook’s Musical and Mystic Journey

Nathaniel Mackey’s Bedouin Hornbook has received much interest, particularly its focus on

the themes of loss and the notion of the ‘phantom limb’. While many scholars have

acknowledged the presence of an Islamic influence on the novel, there has been little

exploration of it. Reading Mackey’s Bedouin Hornbook from the perspective of Sufism has

highlighted certain themes concerning the ‘mystical’ element in the work. N.’s mysticism is

neither Judeo-Christian, nor Islamic as such, but it is possible to see distinct influences on the

articulation of N.’s mystical experiences. While Norman Finkelstein has argued for a

shamanist influence on Mackey’s ideas, there are a number of themes in Bedouin Hornbook

that can be enhanced through an exploration of its relationship with Sufism. The idea of the

shaykh-murid relationship between N. and the Angel of Dust can be used to describe their

complicated relationship. The use of lexical deconstruction has parallels in Islamic mystical

exegesis, where words in the Qur’an are believed to have both exoteric and esoteric meanings;

and from which it is possible to derive ‘new’ meanings and to gain understanding (ma‘rifa).

Likewise, the use of dreams illustrates the way in which N. interacts with the supramundane,

showing a different form of ‘mysticism’ to that of the concerts, where N. enters a truly

mystical state. A Sufi reading of the events that N. experiences at the Crossroads Choir

concert also reveals the influence of ideas such as self-annihilation (fana’) and ‘remaining’

(baqa’), as well as the notions of divine and ecstatic beauty and ‘drunken’ Sufism.

Bedouin Hornbook is certainly not an ‘Islamic’ work, nor is it written necessarily with

Islam in mind, but it does exhibit a strong influence from Islamic mysticism, one which needs

to be acknowledged and explored in more detail. Indeed, it may be possible that the analysis

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of contemporary poetry may benefit from a deeper understanding of Islamic mysticism and

the ways in which notions of spirituality and meaning are articulated. Mystics, as well as

poets and authors writing in societies in which Sufism has a long heritage, seek to look

beyond the text of scripture (be it the Qur’an, the Bible, or any other text) to inform a deeper

spiritual meaning and inner reality; such approaches to language and the ‘spiritual’ may

provide a fruitful means to examine contemporary Western literature more widely.

In Mackey’s Bedouin Hornbook, the Sufi influences inform the text as whole, forming

part of the mystical collage that Mackey employs. The use of Muslim ideas is part of

Mackey’s syncretistic approach to (religious) experience and ideas: one of a great many

influences on the work from Brazilian culture, to Assyrian mythology to ancient Egypt. For

N., and for Mackey, the experience is paramount, rather than the establishment of theoretical

boundaries. Religious or spiritual experience should not be confined. Music is a means to

transcend the established boundaries of religion and culture; but is also a means to move

between the mundane and the supramundane – to transcend spiritually, as well as culturally.

N.’s music-mysticism leads him on a ‘spiritual’ journey, on which he develops his ideas about

music and his philosophy, which he shares with the Angel of Dust, and which Mackey shares

with his reader.

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* I would like to thank Miss Tara Woolnough for her extremely helpful suggestions; as well

as the anonymous readers for their comments.

1 The Sufi orders vary greatly in their mystic practices, especially in the ways in which the

mystical state is induced, especially the form of the ‘dhikr’; for a survey of the Sufi orders,

see Trimingham.

2 The British pharmaceutical dictionary, Martindale: The Extra Pharmacopoeia includes

‘Angel of Dust’ and ‘embalming fluid’ as street names for the hallucinogenic drug

phencyclidine / PCP (Reynolds 1740).

3 This is a translation of two of Ibn ‘Arabi’s works: (i) Ruh al-quds fi munasahat al-nafs

(‘The Spirit of Holiness in the Counselling of the Soul’) and (ii) al-Durrat al-fakhira fi dhikr

man intafa‘tu bihi fi tariq al-akhira (‘The Precious Pearl concerned with the mention of these

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whom I have derived benefit in the way of the hereafter’). Mackey has stated that he has read

the Sufis of Andalusia in his interview with Funkhouser (326).

4 Cf. Derrida’s essay on Nietzsche’s umbrella (122-143). The discussion concerns a short

note left by Nietzsche, which says: ‘I have forgotten my umbrella.’ Derrida argues: ‘Perhaps

it was the note for some phrase to be written here or there. There is no infallible way of

knowing the occasion of this sample or what it could have been later grafted onto. We never

will know for sure what Nietzsche wanted to say or do when he noted these words, nor even

that he actually wanted anything.’ (122). Similarly, the band will never really know what the

graffito meant, but that does not mean that they can use it to explore ideas.

5 The text is unclear whether N. originally wished to imitate Coltrane’s original version on

Giant Steps, or Shepp’s version on Four for Trane; either reading shows a disjunction

between intention and action. However, Mackey explains in Paracritical Hinge that this was

an actual dream he had, in which he associated the playing of the bass clarinet with Eric

Dolphy, Naima with Coltrane and Cousin Mary with Shepp (212).

6 In the Bible the cherubim have the faces of a man, a lion, an eagle and either a bull or a

cherub (cf. Ezek 10:14 and Rev 4:7). The Islamic hamlat al-‘arsh (‘Bearers of the Throne’)

have similar features (Burge 52-59).