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Remembering Dalí: An Analysis of Two Paintings

Towards the end of the 1980’s The Montreal Museum of Fine Arts held an exhibition of the complex, enigmatic and harrowing work by Dalí. I must confess I was unconsciously frightened; it was this fundamental anguish which opened Dalí forever to me. As I remember it, Dalí struck me from the start; the first sketch which opened the exhibition was entitled “Painted with the right hand while masturbating with the left.” (Many years later, in 1973, Dalí was to paint Hitler Masturbating). And in the same room, hundreds of small ink drawings repeating themselves differently. Dalí’s Cape Creus populated by skeletal figures; bones and sea gathered upon the shore. The mountains of Cataluña —mountains also to be found in the Persistence of Memory— providing the distant background. And within the exhibition in surreal Montreal, strange watches I had never seen before; Dalí’s now too famous, now too obvious, soft-watches.

This Journal inquires about what may lie behind two of his paintings. It therefore continues my decision to try to make Journals in DA much more philosophical and critical than they are. The two paintings in question are: Persistence of Memory (1931) and its 20-year-older kin Disintegration of Persistence of Memory (1954). The ideas were first presented in a PhD seminar on Heidegger’s views on time held in my Colombia. (Heidegger’s difficult vocabulary has obviously been altered.)

Remembering the “Persistence of Memory” (1931)

The space which is this canvas opens human temporality in a truly enigmatic manner. The surroundings bring us close to our endangered earth. A blue horizon recovers for us the daily appearance of the natural clock which dates our days in continuous cycles of sunrises and sunsets. What does the sunshine bring forth? The mountains of Dalí’s childhood; more generally, the very space of our own childhood. In this sunset —which is simultaneously a sunrise— sunrays provide the light which allows for the appearance of the painter’s head itself anchored in placid sleep. Dalí himself appears anchored as a fetus is anchored before life unto the womb. Resting almost faceless, he lies over the hills of his youth.

Nature’s abundant vegetation makes its appearance as a lonely tree devoid of life which emerges from an overconfident cubic structure which does not realize it is itself made out from the deadening wood which it supports. And it is on this leafless-lifeless tree that a clinging soft-watch appears. Arising out of thin air, amoeba-like, it signals our time. We realize more soft-watches have been hung by Dalí for us to see. And yet we need ask: why only four? Why not five or six? Why not an infinity of soft- watches reminding us our own finitude? Perhaps four have been carefully chosen by Dalí to remind us of the three-dimensional temporal structuring provided to us humans by our natural understanding of present, past and future tenses. “Was”, “is” and “will be”; a triad which conforms our daily perception of ordinary time. Still, the fourth watch remains a mystery.

The first soft-watch lies projected upwards hanging from the leafless tree. It signals with its only pointer a continuous now at around 6:00; the hour of dusk, the hour of dawn. Time seems to have been forever immobilized by Dalí. Yet it is so far from being a regular watch, that its mechanism has failed. Melting softly, it has ceased to be the watch of our ordinary lives. Its pointer has ceased to point as it should. It signals instead another time, the future time when trees will be no more for our lack of understanding our own temporality. This futuristic watch lies covered by the sky’s bluish reflection which brings us back to the natural time of our natural surroundings.

A second soft-watch, which again is no watch at all, makes is appearance. It is this watch which reflects the constant being thrown of human beings into their present existence. Thrown unto existence one finds Dalí’s fetus-like face over the sand which sustains him; the sand of the bony beaches of cape Creus. It is the very same dust to which we will return. Showing another hour, this soft-watch melts in time —not over a rotting tree —- but rather over the profile of the artist himself. The time of the watch attempts to become a body, and yet it cannot; it fails. The watch’s time does not, cannot, capture our own temporal nature. Dalí is thrown into deep sleep within the canvas present before us right now. Dreaming of what was, the persistence of our memories springs forth; at times liberating, at times torturing. The time of watches, even of soft-watches, points to a temporal dimension beyond their constant ticking. In contrast, the creator in dreaming of time recognizes the true foundation of our desire for everlasting timelessness. Watches melt so that our present time is not reduced to a mere ticking time-bomb. We owe this to Dalí. As we watch at this very moment Dalí’s painting, time redefined suddenly makes its appearance through us.

In a moment, now forever gone, the third angle of temporality is revealed; this one takes us back in time to what has been. It pushes us as in a fall over a solid cubic structure which will explode 20 years later in Dalí’s reworking of the original, a new painting entitled Disintegration of Persistence of Memory. The pointers in this third watch signal an impossible hour; an hour which is simultaneously before and after six. Fallen in time, each of us is present awaiting his inmost creative death. How can this be so? Because the twelve o’clock pointer signals a mortuary fly awaiting our demise. And yet memory persists, clinging overconfident to its ticking time frame. But it cannot remain so.

The threefold nature of our temporal existence –with a past, a present and a future—lies open before us who are set in motion by Dalí’s dreaming of the persistence of memory, But enigmatically there appears a fourth clock providing a new angle of vision; perhaps providing an original depth to all existing watches that are currently handcuffing our modern wrists. This watch alone seems oblivious to its own future disintegration in the mirror painting painted 20 years later. It alone is not a soft-watch. Under the “Persistence of Memory” the surrealist project still finds a certain security, a certain rest. Earth and sky may still cover the painter, comforting him.

With this fourth watch, a premonition of disaster. Lying mysterious in its own secluded corner, it does not even reveal its pointer. Perhaps it has none. We don’t know; we can never know for it is closed and will remain so forever in the painting. It lies there, mocking us in self-sufficiency. Not only is it not soft and melting, it also stands firmly entertaining itself. It appears enclosed upon itself as an erotic apple whose reddish tonality invites us constantly to try to open it, and at the same time warning us about the consequences of doing so. Bloody is this watch upon which insects gather as in a festive spirit. It is trodden by concentrating ants. They trod the watch as we trod the beaches lit by the movement of the sunlight covering Cataluña’s mountains and Dalí’s portrait. It takes twenty long years, it appears, for Dalí to open this fourth anomaly. This first painting’s persistence fails to understand the aquatic world of the womb from which we all arise in time. To even try to open this ant-ridden all-too-hard watch, there must first appear before us the “Disintegration of Persistence of Memory”.

Remembering the “Disintegration of Persistence of Memory” (1954)

The world of calming blues has left. It is now another time; two decades have gone by. And now fifty years have passed since then for us in 2005 still confronted daily with the mystery of our temporality. In Dalí’s later painting the world has become golden as a desert in which the temperature melts even soft-watches and the reality they have tried to safeguard. The force of the primordial dissolves everything present.

The same mountains appear as other, as foreign. Why? Not so much because of the different coloring, but rather because the land has broken away as if by a tectonic plaque. The mountains of youth, of innocence, have broken away from the security which previously allowed Dalí his placid dream. Properly speaking, the continent now appears there in the distance. It was once closest, now it remains inaccessible. We stand over water where once continental land ruled. The world has become a permanent becoming in which time itself becomes transformed. Memory disintegrated has nowhere now to anchor itself firmly. The solid ground has become liquid. Earth becomes once again marine; but not really, the world simply once again knows itself to have been marine. Memory must constantly forget this to remain as solid as can be.

And not even that is true, for one sees not water, but rather a thin canvas supported by the weakened branch of a new minute, but still leafless tree, which carries upon itself all the weight of sanity. Our previous tree has given birth to itself, but dwarfed by the passage of time. Surprisingly it isn’t even held in place by the strength of the cubic form which supported it 2 decades ago. How, then, could it support the whole of the coetaneous canvas which it carries? It might be really supported instead by the very canvas which opens itself before our spectator’s eyes as a new skin awaiting our explorations. By watching Dalí’s watches unfold, we ourselves sustain that tree which stares at us in the anguish of one who knows himself soon to collapse. And yet the elder tree of decades past has sprout a sibling; disintegration seems to allow for the possibility of the rebirth of self-sufficient trees freed from the necessity of leaves.

What has happened to the watches we have watched? Quite a lot. The angle of future existence supported by the changed tree explodes. Its bluish tranquility gives way to the metallic color of lifeless minerals. The pointer is thrown in flight into pieces. It has imploded; only a natural shadow remains. This watch can no longer be winded. Time has undergone a further transformation from the one we found in the Persistence of memory. A deeper time, the foundational time of poetry, is glimpsed. Implosion has rid the previous soft-watches of numbers, leaving instead the shadow of their mathematics. Shadows which provide the key to our most human possibility, a glance into our mortality which lies hidden from us busying ourselves at all times without any temporal depth, relying constantly on watches which have remained dangerously overlooked.

But something rather different occurs below the watery surface with our second watch. The portrait of the artist as a young man lies now dissolved in the uncertainty of he who no longer governs his own time. Creativity gains control over our desire to control time. Dalí reveals our desire for immortality as the dangerous desire which possesses us. Opening itself to its most primordial temporal depth, each face looses its definite figures. Conscious of the body’s temporality, Dalí liberates the body from itself and its sufferings. It is only then that the dangerous liberation from the time of ticking watches takes place. The logic of numbers lies revealed; numerical data no longer dates.

Our third soft-watch —–which previously anchored itself firmly on the cubic structure— now appears fully submerged undergoing with certainty the process of its own unstoppable rusting. Void of life, it appears golden metallic much like king Midas’ attempt to govern the temporality of his loved ones. It has moved indicating 12 o’clock. Twenty years have gone by in only five minutes. The time of those who are ill, as ill as Hans Castorp —Thomas Mann’s wonderful hero from The Magic Mountain —– has appropriated our temporal existence. The time which reveals a never-ending afternoon is done away with; the canvas instead reveals the longest day ever recorded as the few last instants of the drowned man to whom his life is suddenly revealed.

And what has occurred to our enigmatic fourth soft-match? It has been displaced unto the depths of the canvas. Now it appears open, almost just as any other watch does; now we seem to know it. And yet, underneath the nuclear structures with which Dalí fell in love in his later years ––which were to include the marvelous mathematic of the rhinoceros— we humans can hardly even see. The grounding of what is, must remain forever unfathomable. This uncertainty, which persists even after the disintegration of memory, requires the dignity of a courage free of illusions. It is in the courage of humans such as Dalí —-and his compatriot Don Quixote—- that we today may at least take a glimpse of those depths which are denied to us ordinary temporal beings. In doing so they provide us with the possibility of disintegrating our morbid assurances. Perhaps in this way alone can there come into being the beautiful Venus of Milo whose body reveals the bullfighter who knows of his instantaneous temporality in confrontation with Nature. Herein lies the magic —-far from the persistent memory of Nordic experiences—- of Dalí’s beautiful painting entitled The Hallucinogenic Toreador (1970).

A) Three other related paintings with soft watches
Soft Watch at the Moment of First Explosion, 1954 [link] , The Garden of Hours, 1981, [link] , Wounded Soft Watch, 1974, [link] .

B) Dali on the Internet
[link]

(Note: FOR AN IDENTICAL PRESENTATION WHICH INCLUDES SOME PHOTOS, PLEASE SEE THE FOLLOWING: link )

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 LOVING TAYLOR:

una posible interpretación animal de “Self-Interpreting Animals”

 

I. Introducción

 

Pareciera que las preguntas entorno a lo erótico y al lenguaje se entrelazan penetrándose las unas a las otras. Amor y discurso se entrecruzan. Corporeidad y palabra se anudan. Haciendo el amor con símbolos articuladores nos adentramos con mayor claridad en lo que somos. O podríamos decir que el articular lingüístico amplia los movimientos de todas nuestras articulaciones. Articular interpretativamente, parece, nos regala nuestra propia corporeidad de una manera que no lo podría hacer una comprensión bioquímica reductiva. O en otras palabras, el lenguaje en que abrimos aquello que somos, y el entorno en el que somos, posibilita cada vez más complejas autointerpretaciones que nos entregan nuevas formas, nuevas relaciones vinculadas, y por qué no, incluso nuevas posiciones.

En parte es por ello que en el bello texto de  Laura Esquivel, Como agua para chocolate,  la personaje principal, Tita, comienza el recorrido de su autoreconocimiento a partir de la comprensión de su naturaleza afectiva; en particular, a partir de la comprensión de su naturaleza erótica/amorosa. La vida embarca a Tita en una aventura por encontrar palabras que hagan justicia a la complejidad que deviene ella inmersa en un contexto dentro del cual se da su búsqueda incesante por una voz propia. Tita busca identificarse; busca darse cierta identidad, a saber, la suya. Padece ella el mundo de manera que sólo en la articulación simbólica logra cierto grado de autocomprensión; esa que Taylor recoge de manera hermosa con el término, clairvoyance (clarividencia).[1] Tita se hará clara para sí; Tita deviene Clara.

Pero como todos lo sabemos, dicho recorrido en el que estamos a cada momento —esa quest (aventura) de la que nos habla Taylor[2]—- es sobretodo en una primera instancia, altamente confusa e incierta. Nunca más habrá un primer beso; de eso no cabe duda. Pero recordamos, o debiéramos recordar, cómo la irrupción de eros nos descentró/a, nos hizo/hace incomprensibles para nosotros mismos. Sintiéndonos enamorados no encontramos palabras para expresar aquello que sabemos de manera grisácea está ocurriendo a pesar de nosotros mismos. Y es que esta novedosa incertidumbre se da de manera privilegiada en el arriesgado desnudarse frente al otro. Por ello Tita confundida no puede siquiera dormir:

 

“Esa noche fue imposible que (ella) conciliara el sueño; no sabía explicar lo que sentía. Lástima que en aquella época no se hubieran descubierto los hoyos negros en el espacio porque entonces le hubiera sido muy fácil comprender qué sentía un hoyo negro en medio del pecho, por donde se colaba un frío infinito” (mi énfasis) [3]

 

Tan siente Tita que no puede desconectarse; sin duda el mundo no aparece como desvinculado (disengaged). Sin embargo  tampoco sabe bien Tita como vincularse a él dada esta nueva experiencia vital transformadora. Aquello que ella siente le es extraño, por lo menos hasta cierto punto. Tita es ajena a sí misma. Tita, sobrecogida por la fuerza de un hoyo negra succionador, no sabe bien quién es esa mujer; aquella misma que ahora ella es.[4] Además, sin saberlo, no sabe quién podría ser.

Y que el enamorado no sepa qué le ocurre —–sobretodo mientras está enamorado— no es algo que haya descubierto Esquivel. Basta escuchar el hermoso Fedro de Platón. En el movimiento de un diálogo sobre la relación entre lo erótico y la palabra discursiva —- un diálogo en el que el eros deviene palabra dialógica entre dos que buscan autointerpretarse conjuntamente[5]—– se nos revela cómo el enamorado no tiene palabras para expresar aquello que le sobreviene una vez es cautivado por la mirada de su amor. Ciertas miradas nos recuerda Sócrates   “vivifica(n) los orificios de las alas y los impulsa a criar plumas, llenando a su vez de amor el alma del amado. Queda entonces enamorado, pero ignora de qué, y no sabe qué es lo que pasa, ni puede explicarlo” (mi énfasis). [6] El enamorado es el verdadero ignorante, peligrosamente no se autocomprende ya más. Al enamorado se le escapan las palabras articuladoras, aquellas mismas que le permiten saber quién es él y cuál su entorno contextual. Y por ello igualmente en el Banquete nos revela Aristófanes en su discurso tragi-cómico cómo, hablando de parejas heterosexuales u homosexuales: “el alma de cada uno es evidente que desea otra cosa que no puede decir con palabras, sino que adivina lo que desea y lo expresa enigmáticamente.” (mi énfasis) [7]   

Ahora bien, ¿qué podría todo esto tener que ver con el famoso artículo “Self-Interpreting Animals” del apasionado profesor Charles Taylor? Creo que mucho. En parte, como veremos,  nosotros carecemos a menudo de palabras que permitan abrir aquello que somos y hacerlo de manera más ajustada, más profunda, más enriquecedora; y hacerlo tanto para nosotros, para los demás, e incluso para el mundo en que actuamos. Trataré de argumentar que Taylor, en tanto defensor aguerrido de la articulación, precisamente nos pide enamorarnos de las palabras que nos permitan autocomprendernos. Como lo pone él, “el lenguaje realiza la humanidad del hombre ”.[8] 

Pero nos preguntamos, ¿qué nos da pie para enfatizar el fenómeno erótico/amoroso para la comprensión de nuestra naturaleza como animales autointerpretativos? El hecho mismo de que Taylor es quien lo privilegia en su argumentación. Hacia el final de su ensayo SIA (“Self-Interpreting Animals”) —que, afortunadamente, nos pide otro tipo de inteligencia que la de la CIA—- Taylor señala cómo, si su ejemplo de la vergüenza no ha convencido al lector de la necesaria relación entre articulación lingüística y las emociones humanas, pues nos dará aún otro que, en sus propias palabras, debería eliminar toda tentación a dejar de lado el carácter constitutivo del lenguaje respecto a nuestra naturaleza afectiva. Es Taylor quien nos remite a eros para comprender la relación entre nuestra naturaleza expresiva y el carácter constitutivo de lenguaje cuya enigmática presencia permite la articulación de los que somos, o dejamos de ser. Nos dice él:

 

“…. Pero otro ejemplo puede desvanecer la tentación incluso de tratar. Imaginémonos que estamos atraídos a alguien, tenemos un cierto tipo de amor—fascinación—admiración hacia él  —pero el término preciso es difícil ya que estamos relacionados con una emoción que no ha devenido fija” [9]

 

Lo imaginado por Taylor es lo padecido por Tita. Ella, que pareciera iba por el mundo sin tanta preocupación, de repente se ve enfrentada por una mirada de otro animal autointepretativo (léase, “ser humano”) que no la deja seguir su camino sin más. Tita es abierta al mundo por fuerzas que ella misma, y aquel misterioso otro, desconocen en gran medida. Su emoción no “ha sido fijada”, como lo dice Taylor en la anterior cita. Pero claro, no es que ella no comprenda nada; por el contrario desde el primer momento intenta ella integrar lo sentido, de alguna manera, al mundo en que ella se desenvuelve. El suyo es el mundo de la cocina. Por ello Tita dice sentirse como buñuelo —–y no por lo gorda:

 

“¡Esa mirada! Giró la cabeza  y sus ojos se encontraron con los de Pedro. En ese momento comprendió perfectamente lo que debe sentir la masa de un buñuelo al entrar en contacto con el aceite hirviendo”.[10]

 

Pero es que, lo que ella precisamente no es, es buñuelo  —-incluso sí como todos está un poco pasada de kilos. Ella es humana y en tanto humana debe ganarse y no consumirse para poder ser reconocida.[11] Tita es un animal;  pero autointepretativo. Lo cierto es que Tita aún no sabe que siente; ¿cómo saber que no fue una simple mirada desprevenida? ¿Quién le garantiza que Pedro no la admira tan sólo como cocinera, y no más? ¿O no será que Tita está tan ofuscada en casa que hará lo que sea por salir de allí, incluso volarse con el primer aparecido que medio la mire? Lo cierto es que no sólo Tita, sino todos y sobretodo en nuestros primeros amores, en un principio no podemos fijar adecuadamente, clarividentemente, las emociones que nos sobrevienen.

Pero además de este ejemplo vital para la argumentación de Taylor en SIA —y que no por nada es retomado desarrollado en “Explanation and Practical Reason”[12]—- amplia él nuestro derecho a privilegiar la naturaleza erótica del ser humano en la medida en que vuelve a mencionar la problemática naturaleza erótica del ser humano tan sólo un poco más adelante en su argumentación. Taylor, quien como buen aristotélico sabe de la variedad de lo humano, señala cómo igualmente  hay diferentes maneras de relacionarse con lo erótico. Nos pide el considerar “dos personas, uno con una sola dicotomía amor/lascivia para los posibles tipos de sentimientos sexuales, el otro con un vocabulario variado de diferentes tipos de relaciones sexuales. La experiencia de las emociones sexuales de estos dos hombres difiere”.[13] Ahora bien —-dejando a un lado la problemática pregunta de hasta dónde lo variado deja de ser variado para pasar a ser perverso—- lo cierto es que casi se podría decir: “dime cómo amas y te diré quien eres”. Es decir, una dicotomía cierra el mundo como no lo hace una plurivocidad de lenguajes. Un vocabulario “amor-lujuria” tal vez sea adecuado a algunos; pero la complejidad de lo humano pareciera desbordar ciertas dicotomías. Aquella persona dicotómica se asemeja más al Kant de La Metafísica de las Costumbres para quien la voluptuosidad es aun peor que el suicidio.[14] Aquel otro individuo, que por ejemplo investigue cuestiones como el sexo tántrico, o aquel que busque como Foucault la diferencia entre una ars erótica y una scientia sexualis —tomando así un respiro de nuestra occidentalidad sexual—-[15] se autocomprenderá de manera radicalmente diferente. Tal vez este último esté más preparado para escuchar el que Sócrates —para algunos supuesto originador de un racionalismo destinado a cierto tipo de perversión—–   le diga a Fedro en el diálogo ya citado “me parece que me voy a acostar. Tú escoge la postura en la que creas que leerás con mayor comodidad y lee.” [16] Kant seguramente leería más bien sentado que parado y/o acostado.

Y si esto no es aun suficiente para privilegiar el papel de la naturaleza afectiva erótica  de los seres humanos en el intento de comprender la argumentación tayloriana, resulta además que lo fundamentalmente innovador del proyecto de Taylor es que privilegia el amor del bien —–siguiendo sin duda a Platón, y a San Agustín—— sobre una ética del deber. Comprenderme a mi mismo como ser ético no sólo responde a preguntas tales como: “¿qué debo hacer?” En otras palabras, a Taylor no lo conmueve en demasía una postura ética que se funde sencillamente en la primacía del “deber ser”. Una moral del deber  pueda ser importante, pero el autocomprendernos sólo a partir de ella es el tipo de distorsión que Taylor nos invita a reconsiderar. Por eso señala en SotS:

 

“en otras palabras, la moral concierne lo que debemos hacer; esto excluye tanto lo que es bueno hacer aunque no estemos obligados a hacerlo … y también lo que pueda ser bueno (u obligatorio) ser o amar, como irrelevante para la ética.” [17]

 

Para saber qué debo hacer, hay un deber previo; debo comprender lo digno de amor, y para saber qué es digno de amor ayudaría el comprender la naturaleza erótica del ser humano como animal autointerpretativo. Porque, en caso contrario, algunos bienes primordiales característicos de nuestra constitución animal permanecen inaccesibles. O en otras palabras, saber ¿quién soy yo? —la pregunta por la identidad— está estrechamente ligada para Taylor a aquello que amo y sobretodo a cómo lo amo. Así se aproxima Taylor a las cuestiones éticas:

 

“El bien constitutivo hace más que definir el contenido de la teoría moral. Amor a él es lo que nos empodera hacia el bien. Y por lo tanto amarlo es parte de lo que es ser un buen ser humano. Esto se hace parte del contenido teórico moral, que incluye mandatos no sólo pare actuar de ciertas maneras y exhibir ciertas cualidades morales, sino también amar lo que es bueno.” [18]

 

Dejando de lado la muy problemática relación en Taylor entre agapē (amor cristiano), y eros (en el sentido griego),[19] lo cierto es que amar, articular y los bienes constitutivos de lo que somos para Taylor son indisociables. Los tres triangulan como lo hace, según Anne Carson, el mismo eros.[20] La palabra erotiza mi lealtad a aquellos bienes que configuran mi autocomprensión. Lo excitante del filosofar tayloriana es que nos invita a ser amantes verdaderos, a comprender que nuestra interpretación va de la mano de nuestra naturaleza amorosa, que la palabra conjunta nos abre como no puede hacerlo ningún otro tipo de toque. (¡Y sin embargo algunos prefieren la inarticulación!)

Finalmente, si estos tres elementos aún no dan pie para privilegiar lo erótico en un intento de comprender el análisis de SIA —-un privilegio que es muy importante señalar se contrapone de manera radical al privilegio del temor y de la angustia en Heidegger (privilegio que le permite abrir el ámbito de la muerte)[21]—— podría, tal vez, remitir al lector a que creyera que la pasión amable permeaba las propias clases de Taylor. El Geist hegeliano parece cobrar vida, encarnarse allí.[22]

Pero dejando de lado este incómodo dato anecdótico —sobre el cual a veces no tengo, un poco como Tita, aún real claridad—- lo cierto es que para comprender la argumentación presente en SIA, ayuda creo yo, el retomar una idea expuesta por Löw-Beer. Según él Taylor pertenece (¿abre?) a una tradición que privilegia este tipo de acceso interpretativo a nuestra naturaleza. Dicha postura la designa con el nombre de “expresivismo hermenéutico”. Bajo esta tradición: “nuestros sentimientos nos dan acceso al bien. Nos acercamos a él cuando lo articulamos. La articulación de la emoción nos lleva a valores, a estándares de bien.” [23] Acercar el bien no es foráneo, más bien es constitutivo,  a saber abrir y acercar lo amado.

 

 

Habiendo defendido la decisión de privilegiar el carácter central del amor en la propuesta de Taylor, miremos ahora en más en detalle la argumentación presente en su famoso ensayo SIA. ¿Qué es lo primero que señala Taylor? Para nuestra sorpresa que su argumentación  puede incurrir en un error fatal: “puede resultar un error, pero estoy tentando a reunir el dibujo integral que esta tesis intenta transmitir por etapas.“[24]  ¿Qué es lo que tanto preocupa a Taylor? Precisamente que una argumentación por etapas pareciera no hacer justicia a la naturaleza del fenómeno afectivo  humano in vivo. Taylor no quiere que comprendamos lo que somos in vitro sino dentro de las prácticas en que somos en realidad. Toda argumentación práctica debe ser  ad hominem.[25] Señalada esta prevención, resumamos las cinco afirmaciones –que no seguirán este orden de manera exacta en el desarrollo argumentativo—- y que dan vida articulativa a este ensayo. Para Taylor:

 

1.  Algunas de nuestras emociones involucran “atribuciones de sentido” (import-ascriptions).

2.  Algunos de estos imports (“sentidos”) hacen referencia a sujetos (“subject referring”).

3. Nuestras emociones referidas al sujeto (“subject-referring feelings” (SRF) son la base para la comprensión de lo humano.

4.  Estas emociones son constituidas por las articulaciones que lleguemos a aceptar de ellas.

Y finalmente,

5.  Estas articulaciones,  que se puede comprender como interpretaciones, requieren del lenguaje.

 

II. El modelo epistemológico y lo erótico

 

En primer lugar Taylor, enmarcándose dentro de la tradición hermenéutica, especifica de entrada aquella tradición de comprensión de la acción humana contra la cual se define; la del modelo epistemológico que surge hacia el siglo XVII.[26] En términos generales ésta busca comprender lo humano a partir de ciertos criterios de claridad y objetividad. Para Taylor dicho proyecto es él mismo un producto de la historia. Pretende este, señala Taylor, prescindir de aquellos elementos  del saber que involucren la subjetividad. El movimiento hacia la comprensión del ser humano como objeto entre objetos se ejemplifica sobretodo en Descartes.  Nos recuerda Taylor la famosa vela cartesiana —-que no iluminaba una velada romántica. De la cera en su uso sólo queda como permanente característica su extensión; es ella una cosa que ocupa un espacio físico dado. Dicho espacio ocupado, el de la res extensa, en efecto es potencialmente medible en términos matemáticos. Pero en cambio creer que el erótico color rojizo de la vela está en la vela, eso sería para Descartes, un error fundamental. Los colores, que son propiedades secundarias, no se dan en los objetos. El color es simplemente una variación de las cualidades primarias de las cosas. El color en sí es una modificación de propiedades físicas subyacentes. Por ello en SIA de manera jocosa indica Taylor cómo los seres de Alfa Centauro —seres que, Taylor añade, todos sabemos son grandes nubes gaseosas—podrían entender el lenguaje de las variadas longitudes de ondas, “pero lo que experienciamos como color permanecería altamente incomunicable.”[27] Lo que el método cartesiano nos ayuda a eliminar son precisamente estas distorsiones posibilitando así un acceso al ser de las cosas que las muestra como medibles, cuantificables y  observables. Surge una posición bien resumida por Taylor:

 

“La desvinculación (disengagement) puede verse como un librarse de la perspectiva de una experiencia corpórea. Es esta perspectiva la que es responsable de atribuir el color al objeto; es esto lo que nos hace darle una importancia desproporcionada a los sentidos y a la imaginación en nuestra concepción del conocimiento. Que la actividad pensante de la mente  está realmente en su liberarse de estos medios distorcionantes, muestra que la mente es esencialmente no-corpórea.”[28]

 

Ahora bien, ¿qué, más precisamente, tiene esto que ver con las emociones y nuestra autointerpretación lingüística, sobretodo con nuestra autointerpretación erótica? Pues en parte que precisamente lo que Tita siente es pura corporeidad subjetiva. Enamorarse como lo hacemos los humanos es incomprensible para seres gaseosos como los extraterrestres centurianos. Por ello señala Taylor —-casi con un poco de envidia—- cómo estos extraterrestres “se aglomeran y se redividen en toda clase de formas”.[29] ¡Cómo sería aglomerarnos en toda clase de formas! Sin duda algo no muy kantiano.

            Lo que estos seres de inimaginable capacidad reproductiva sin duda sí podrían comprender respecto a nuestra naturaleza erótica sería algo como lo siguiente. Los seres humanos tienen ciertos receptores específicos para sustancias de tipo opiáceo. Y que algunos de los defensores del modelo epistemológico “averiguaron que los receptores estaban conectados en aquellas regiones  del cerebro  de los mamíferos y de su médula espinal que se encuentran relacionadas con la percepción del dolor y la experiencia emotiva.” [30] Del ser humano en tanto animal evolucionado es el tener endorfinas; nombre para estos importantísimos receptores. Los masoquistas, por ejemplo, deben tener niveles de endorfinas casi sobrenaturales.

            Pero lo que Tita no comprende –—eso que le ocurre en el centro de su corporeidad— no se le aclarará leyendo el último estudio (imaginario obviamente) sobre la relación entre endorfinas y la urgente necesidad de todo tipo de viagras —–naturales o no, y con sugestivos nombres como “eroxym”, etc…—- que padece nuestra sociedad. Si Tita —saludable como está—- padeciera lo erótico a través de píldoras, seríamos sospechosos de su manera de autocomprenderse. Claro, la mirada de Pedro irrumpe sobre Tita como pulsiones electroquímicas; las hormonas se disparan, el corazón arranca a mil. Sin embargo a Tita parece molestarle algo más que esto; no se contentaría con tomar una aspirina para calmar sus pulsiones cardiovasculares. O en otras palabras, sin duda es interesante saber el papel de las feromonas —otra de estas impactantes hormonas—- pero ninguna feromona abre el bien como lo hace nuestra naturaleza desiderativa. Claro que eros involucra energías físicas del tipo freudiano, pero esto no es lo único; ni tal vez sea lo principal.[31]

Y es que creeríamos que el modelo epistemológico reconocería lo fútil de sus investigaciones reductivas; sobretodo en este ámbito. Pero como nos enseña Florence Thomas —–una especie de Diotima, maestra erótica de Sócrates, pero Diotima colombiana—— precisamente este modelo configura nuestra manera de autocomprendernos en términos de educación sexual. Ella, como Taylor, nos invita a otro tipo de vinculación propia, a otro tipo de compromiso con el otro y a otro tipo de arraigo en nuestro entorno compartido:

 

“En este sentido, nunca he creído en al educación sexual, sino en un aprendizaje del deseo y del placer, porque la sexualidad se inventa a cada momento y ningún manual podrá nunca hacer el inventario del juego infinito de nuestros fantasmas y del sabor de nuestro deseo… Esta educación sexual … llena de curvas, promedios, mesetas, estimulaciones vaginales y frías definiciones del orgasmo, … es un obstáculo para la comprensión de lo que es la relación entre seres humanos, relación para la cual la sexualidad no es sólo placer orgánico ….. al lado de esta realidad orgánica está el misterio del lenguaje.” (Mi énfasis)  [32]

 

Tita busca en el misterio de las palabras comprender lo que su cuerpo de alguna manera ya sabe. Las endorfinas deben dispararse en ciertos momentos de intimidad, pero lo que nos pide el dueto Taylor—Thomas (TT) es ser íntimos configurando creativamente nuevos vocabularios por medio de los cuales nos constituimos. El dueto TT nos pide un poco mirar más allá de las T´s. En otras palabras, otro tipo de lenguaje se requiere para comprender la naturaleza erótica (y en general la emotiva) del ser humano. A esto nos ayuda Taylor, a otro tipo de topografías, a otro tipo de mesetas, curvas y estimulaciones. Y el que la cosa va en serio sale a relucir cuando leemos el carácter de los amantes de Huxley en A Brave New World; o cuando observamos medio en risa, medio en horror, los aparatos orgásmicos de la película Bananas de Woody Allen. ¡Es que hasta los alfa centurianos quisieran una de estas! 

 

III. Imports y sujetos

 

Señalado el campo contra el cual se autodefine un expresivismo hermenéutico, abordemos la primera afirmación tayloriana, a saber, “algunas de nuestras emociones involucran atribuciones de sentido” (import-ascriptions)”. Para Taylor la experiencia desiderativa-afectiva del ser humano es vital. Llegar a decir apropiadamente lo que nuestras emociones involucran implica, en parte, expresar o hacer explícito, “un juicio acerca del objeto que le concierne.”[33] No sólo es que las emociones no son meras ficciones subjetivas privadas, sino que, de manera más importante, abren este ámbito emocional, como ningún otro, abre el mundo para nosotros. Emotivamente estamos conectados al mundo que padecemos incluso antes de actuar sobre él. Emotivamente configuramos el mundo, le damos formas; pero además, y esto es lo crucial, emotivamente nos configura el mundo, nos da formas.

Para Taylor todas las emociones están de entrada relacionadas a sus objetos; el temor involucra aquello a lo cual le temo: temo a mi padre, a mi profesor, a mi esposa, a mi propia ira, a mi excesivo erotismo, a horribles ratas de cañería. ¿Por qué señala esto Taylor? Creo, en parte como respuesta a la separación que provee el modelo epistemológico mismo ente sujeto y objeto. A diferencia de Descartes nosotros de entrada estamos vinculados con el mundo; la desvinculación tal vez sea una manera peculiar de vincularnos a este.[34] En otras palabras, Taylor ve como necesaria posibilidad un reestructurar los contactos entre lo que somos y el mundo en el somos; algo así también intenta el modelo de unidad diferenciada de Hegel según Taylor.  Comprender que las emociones involucran “import ascriptions” (“atribuciones de sentido”) hace que el sujeto sea uno que se comprende de entrada como vinculado al mundo.

Pero, se pregunta Taylor, ¿no existen contraejemplos a esta idea de que toda emoción tiene como referente un objeto dado? En cierta medida si parece que los hay. Se pregunta, ¿no es común sentir miedo, incluso terror sin objeto alguno? No es el terror más aterrador precisamente el que no podemos enfocar sobre algo/alguien —–como en la película sobre la Bruja de Blair en donde propiamente no vemos nada!! No sentimos precisamente la presencia del amado propiamente en su ausencia!!! Responde Taylor —–siguiendo el privilegio otorgado a la normalidad en Explanation of Behaviour[35]— lo que sentimos en el caso de dicho miedo carente de objeto precisamente es que debería haber algún objeto allí. Cuando leemos cómo Hamlet habla con su padre, nos parece un poco extraño. Y en parte por ello nuestro comercial sobre las páginas amarillas es tan gracioso; no existe la “llorona” porque no sale bajo la doble “l”. O hablando más seriamente, tal vez Nietzsche nos provea a sus 25 años, con uno de los ejemplos más aterradores de esta posible indeterminación: “a lo que le tengo miedo no es a la aterradora figura detrás del asiento, sino a su voz. No a las terribles palabras, sino el horripilante sonido inarticulado de la criatura. Tan sólo si hablara como humano.”[36] Nietzsche no comprende su terror, pero lo que si comprende es que para sentirlo debe haber algo que lo inspire. Lo aterrador es que tan in-humano es que carece del lenguaje en que los humanos hacemos más clarividentes las emociones que permiten reconocer ciertas atribuciones de sentido (import-ascriptions). Algo similar le ocurre a Tita que se aterra de cómo el mundo y lo que ella es, hasta ese momento, se desfasan. 

Sin embargo para evitar confusiones Taylor señala que deberíamos hablar más bien de como una emoción está relacionada no tanto a un “objeto”, sino más bien una situación contextualizada. A Tita lo que le abre el recuerdo de la mirada de Pedro es un mundo integrado antes que una sumatoria de cosas pegadas desinteresadamente entre sí. Escuchémosla corpóreamente: “A pesar del tiempo transcurrido, ella podía recordar perfectamente los sonidos, los olores, el roce de su vestido nuevo sobre el piso recién encerado.”[37] Tita recordando recuerda el contexto en que se da su emoción. Ella atribuye – a diferencia de otros—- cierto sentido a pisos encerados. Pero si esto es así, ¿qué contexto abre el temor de Nietzsche? Tal vez aquel que se sabe libre de todo contexto sólido, aquel que sabe, como Zarathustra, qué es temblar  “de pies a cabeza, porque siente que le falta el suelo, y comienza a soñar[38]  (mi énfasis). Por que tal vez sea precisamente el terror de la perdida de la identidad —-de todo suelo sobreseguro, de toda contextualización, de todo mapa orientador—– aquello que genera una crisis de identidad tal que se abre el bien como de otra manera no podría hacerlo. Por lo menos algo así parece creer Taylor cuando alude a nuestras comunes crisis de identidad.[39] Pero sin duda Tita está en crisis.

Experienciar una emoción involucra entonces experienciar una situación que tiene ciertas propiedades de significación; nuestro acceso al mundo no es, no puede nunca ser,  neutral. O en otras palabras a Tita le duele su estomago, no el de ningún otro; y con seguridad a Gertrudis, su hermana, Pedro no le mueve ni un cabello. Este sentido que abre la emoción en una situación dada Taylor lo denomina el “import” (“sentido”) de la emoción. El “import” involucrado en algunas de nuestras emociones, se podría decir, revela de cierta manera la “importancia” de un evento afectivo para una persona dada en un contexto determinado. Según Taylor “experienciar una emoción dada involucra experienciar nuestra situación como teniendo un cierto import.”[40] Emoción, situación e “import” son indisociables. Para Taylor, podríamos decir, no sólo es que Tita sienta algo —–mariposas, si está de buenas— sino que en tanto que somos seres capaces de atribuir imports, está capacidad misma es la que provee el terreno para la emoción.  Ontológicamente hablando se podría decir casi que el import es “previo” ––pero no temporalmente—- a la emoción;  sólo la estructura de “imports” permite emoción alguna.[41] Por ello es, en parte, que se hace posible el que no sea tanto que yo tenga una emoción, sino que en un principio la emoción me tiene a mi, me sobreviene. Si no fuese así la misma presencia de la emoción validaría su certeza inmodificable; es decir, Tita sabría ya lo que esta ocurriendo a su alrededor. Pero lo que ocurre, como hemos señalado, es que precisamente la certeza del modelo epistemológico es, en el ámbito de lo afectivo, lo que no tenemos. Por el contrario  en un principio ciertas emociones aparecen como requiriendo mayor articulación dado su carácter nebuloso, desarticulado, enigmático e incomprensible.[42] El “import” y la emoción no encajan.

Pero además esta diferenciación ontológica posibilita que Taylor no caiga en un subjetivismo moral radical. Un “import” no se reduce, aunque es incomprensible sin, la simple sensación por parte del agente afectivo que lo siente. Lejos está Taylor de un simple emotivismo —tan cuestionado por MacIntyre en After Virtue—- en donde simplemente “yo siente”, “tus sientes”, “nosotros sentimos”. De manera enigmática nos dice Taylor que los “imports” tienen otro tipo de lógica.  El import tiene en sí mismo ciertos criterios para su evaluación cuando es considerado  desde el ámbito de lo ético. Recordemos, las emociones no abren simplemente su sentir, abren por sobretodo el/(los) bien(es) morales que constituyen el horizonte de mi identidad. Hay deseos de segundo orden, como veremos, que Taylor denomina “evaluaciones fuertes”.

Ahora bien, ¿cuál es la posible relación crítica con el modelo epistemológico? Total. El ser humano en tanto comprensible sólo a partir de la atribución de “imports” contextualizados que lo abren a una más rica comprensión de su naturaleza afectiva, no puede ser visto  tan sólo como un objeto entre objetos. No somos simples endorfinas: más Taylor y menos viagra.  O en otras palabras, la mirada de Pedro y Tita no es equivalente a ninguna otra mirada en el reino animal, por más bellos ejemplos de cortejo se den en la naturaleza, y mucho menos es comprensible sólo como la activación de procesos fisicoquímicos.

Claro, dice Taylor, se podría reducir toda comprensión a un lenguaje causal médico; el temor correlacionado a movimientos de huida para evitar el doloroso momento en que el corazón se para:  “nuestro modelo de seres humanos como pudiendo experienciar el miedo entonces los vería a ellos como capaces de reconocer ciertas situaciones con estas propiedades causales, que son correlacionadas con un alto grado de probabilidad con los estados médicos negativos definidos.”[43] Entonces hasta un robot evadiría el contexto de una mina quiebra-patas. O en términos de lo erótico: tiene problemas de erección, vaya al urólogo, no crea que leer a Taylor, o a Platón, o a Esquivel, le ayudaría.

Pero, además,  si el miedo puede tal vez comprenderse bajo este lenguaje fisiológicamente reduccionista, Taylor —casi que de manera ascendente—- nos pide mirar otra emoción humana más compleja, la de la vergüenza. Para Taylor intentar a este nivel dejar de lado propiedades subjetivas sería pedir lo imposible. La vergüenza es  “una emoción de la cual un sujeto tiene experiencia en relación con la dimensión de su existencia como sujeto.”[44] Resulta extraño imaginar al elefante poniéndose rojo y colorado porque se le enredó la trompa en el árbol. ¡”Uyy, que oso,” dirán los demás elefantes sonriendo maliciosamente! O, ¿cómo sería la vergüenza de un robot; acaso requeriría subir el nivel de calor en el metal que configura sus metálicos cachetes? Y no es simplemente que los seres humanos seamos tan evolucionados que podamos sonrojarnos cuando se activa el flujo de sangre de nuestros más carnudos cachetes. Escuchemos a Tita por ejemplo, y hagamos un esfuerzo para recordar qué ocurre cuando sentimos vergüenza en términos de lo erótico. En el mismo momento en que Tita mira a Pedro ocurre que ella por fin se da cuenta que esta perdiendo el control de sí:

 

“¡Nada más eso faltaba! Que Paquita Lobo pensara que estaba borracha. No podía permitir que le quedara la menor duda o se exponía a que fuera a llevarle el chisme a su mamá. El terror a su madre la hizo olvidarse por un momento de la presencia de Pedro y trató por todos los medios de convencer a Paquita de la lucidez de su pensamiento y de su agilidad mental” [45]

 

La vergüenza abre el sentido de lo importante para Tita; es crucial para ella que los demás no la comprendan como una borracha capaz de perderse por una simple miradita amorosa. Tita entra en crisis, así sea por un momentito. Pero además, su terror —-ese miedo tan profundo a su madre pues Tita debe cuidar de ella hasta su muerte y no puede por ende casarse con hombre alguno[46]—- revela cómo en la rápida aparición de múltiples emociones se nos abre la complejidad contextual de “imports” por medio de los cuales Tita forja su futura identidad.[47] Para Taylor lo que esta involucrado en el sentimiento de vergüenza, y aquí retomamos la idea ya mencionada de las evaluaciones fuertes, es un cierto sentido de lo que es importante para el agente afectivo y su constitución ética. Como lo señala él, la vergüenza va de la mano de alguna noción de dignidad:

 

“Estas propiedades (las de la vergüenza) son por ende sólo degradantes para un sujeto para quien este tipo de cosas tenga sentido. Pero las cosas sólo pueden tener este tipo de sentido para un sujeto en cuya forma de vida figura la aspiración a la dignidad, el ser una presencia entre hombres que comanden respeto.”[48]  (nota: nótese el juego en inglés entre “demeaning“ (degradante) y “meaning” (sentido))

 

Y es que Tita tiene su propia forma de vida, quiéralo o no. ¿Por qué siente Tita vergüenza? Ella no quiere ser considerada como una “cualquiera” que ante una mirada deja de ser lo que es (para utilizar el poco sutil lenguaje, realmente vergonzoso, de una sociedad gobernada por la dualidad machismo-marianismo). Pero no comprende ella que esa vergüenza, mal enfocada, es precisamente el tipo de autocomprensión que le impide autocomprenderse de manera que pueda ser con mayor claridad lo que ella realmente es. Otro vocabulario requiere Tita, aquel en el cual la entrega va de la mano de la felicidad.[49] 

Pero lo importante es que para Taylor este sentido de la aspiración por cierto tipo de dignidad es algo que se le escapa a todo modelo reductivo que se intente liberar de lo que él llama “subject-referring properties” (propiedades referidas a sujetos) entre las cuales encontramos las “subject-referring emotions/feelings” (emociones referidas a sujetos; SRE). Dichas propiedades antes que asemejarse a la res extensa cartesiana, se relacionan más con la ya mencionada subjetividad del color. Retomando lo dicho, dichas propiedades en tanto referidas a un agente afectivo, se dan tan solo dentro de una situación contextual en donde el agente vive ya dentro de horizontes morales que le prescriben, para bien o para mal, qué debe considerar como  lo vergonzoso. Lo vergonzoso no pede concebirse  como una propiedad independiente de las experiencias de los sujetos. Para Tita sería vergonzoso, sin duda alguna, el besarse en una primera cita. Pero sin duda una canadiense no se avergonzaría de una miradita medio romanticonga. O sin duda un romano no se avergonzaría de sus complejas prácticas sexuales orgiásticas. La vergüenza sólo existe para sujetos de experiencia, aquellos que conforman su vida en ciertos contextos. Narrar nuestros actos vergonzosos en gran medida configura el texto que somos. Y al igual que el hecho de que la comprensión del import va más allá del simple sentimiento personal, señala Taylor igualmente cómo  las SRE no son, ni sólo objetivas, ni sólo subjetivas.[50] Por el contrario proveen ellas los canales de intercomunicación —–casi como un cordón umbilical—- con el mundo del cual somos parte de entrada ya. Ese mismo que nos enseña que hay leyes contra hacer el amor en espacios públicos. ¡Hay que recuperar el espacio público, pero tampoco tanto![51] 

 

Resumamos entonces las dos primeras afirmaciones taylorianas. Primero. que algunas de nuestras emociones involucran “import ascriptions” (Atribuciones de sentido”);  y segundo que algunos de esos “imports” son referidos al sujeto. Tita sintiendo abre uno de sus imports centrales, el del vocabulario de la cocina. En cambio su hermana Gertrudis —–y más aún Rosaura que de erótico pocón—-son un verdadero fracaso en la cocina.[52] Tita si sabe batir. Ella bate los huevos como ninguna otra, al hacerlo “un estremecimiento recorría (su) …. cuerpo y, como vulgarmente se dice, se le ponía la piel de gallina cada vez que rompía un huevo. Asociaba los blanquillos con los testículos de los pollos  a los que había capado un mes antes”.[53] ¡Y con seguridad nosotros que sabemos esto, ya nunca romperemos los huevos de la misma manera!

 

Pensaríamos que podríamos adentrarnos ahora en la tercera afirmación. Pero de manera sorpresiva —-rompiendo su modelo por etapas—- Taylor abre prematuramente la quinta afirmación referida al lenguaje; lo hace  sin siquiera haber llegado a la tercera. Pareciera que Taylor se lanza a dar un beso sin un previo diálogo más prolongado; algo un tanto vergonzoso. Pareciera que no pudiese él argumentar sin intentar integrar lo que esquemáticamente aparece como separado y fragmentado. El detour  que realiza Taylor  involucra nuestra naturaleza lingüística constitutiva. ¿Por qué hacer este desvío? Porque Taylor mismo lo hace. Para él, el que seamos seres con lenguaje tiene que ver sobretodo con la manera en que expresamos nuestra naturaleza afectiva. En el caso privilegiado de lo erótico, ¿cómo ocurre esto? En parte comprenderíamos más esta cuestión si nos remitiéramos a las importantísimas ideas del Fedro que es un dialogo sobre la relación ente lo erótico y la palabra dialógica.[54]  Pero dejando esto de lado, lo cierto es que la atribución de imports referidos al sujeto se hace posible gracias a la capacidad simbólica del ser humano. El lenguaje  comprendido como el ámbito de las formas simbólicas implica por lo tanto que lo “lingüístico” sea más que la prosa filosófica. Pero, ¿qué quiere decir que afectividad y palabra estén en una relación bidireccional?  No solo que sin Laura Esquivel no sabríamos de lo complejo que es el amor –sobretodo el de Tita—, sino sobretodo que la articulación de nuestras emociones subjetivas y sus “imports” se hacen comprensibles, y por sobretodo modificables, gracias a la palabra. Los símbolos son el campo no epistemológico en los cuales el sujeto gana para sí la identidad propia. Y en este sentido es de total relevancia recordar lo que para los griegos es precisamente un símbolo. Primariamente, como lo señala Anne Carson en su hermoso libro Eros the Bittersweet, éste es “la mitad de un nudillo (knucklebone) llevado como señal de identidad a alguien que tiene la otra mitad.” [55] (¡Recordemos esos regalos a nuestras parejas que dividimos en dos!) En gran medida el símbolo privilegiado, según Aristófanes, es aquel otro a quien amamos. El símbolo de Tita parece ser Pedro; pero Tita sólo puede hacer suyo ese símbolo sí se abre a los símbolos que configuran el ámbito de la creación humana. El lenguaje permitirá a Tita, como veremos, una mayor profundidad lingüística, y por que no, hasta corpórea. [56]

 

IV. Lo humano y la articulación.

 

Tomado este detour, ahora sí nos preguntamos, ¿cuál es la tercera afirmación tayloriana? Precisamente que las SRE abren es el ámbito de lo humano “nuestras emociones referidas al sujeto (SRF) son la base para la comprensión de lo humano”. Pero, nos preguntamos, ¿cómo precisamente abren las SRE el ámbito propiamente humano; aquel que podríamos distinguir, por ejemplo, del animal o del divino? Dejando de lado el hecho de que sólo en Sources of the Self —-escrito más de 10 años después de SIA—- Taylor provee el importantísimo marco histórico para comprender el papel moderno de estas SRE, lo cierto es que Taylor nos pide tratar de esclarecer la relación entre la razón y las emociones en los seres humanos.

Dentro de la tradición occidental se podría pensar que la relación es de mutua exclusión como ocurre en Kant. Por ejemplo, para éste último los instintos no deben figurar en absoluto en la formulación del imperativo categórico.[57] O se podría considerar que las emociones, comprendidas como ligadas al mundo sensible, son meras sombras ilusorias que encadenan y por ende impiden el acceso al mundo inteligible; algo así se podría decir, ocurre en la República de Platón, en donde no en vano el cuerpo aparece como excluido de la argumentación. En contraposición a estas tradiciones Taylor nos invita —–recordando tal vez un poco la idea aristotélica de que el objeto de la elección es un “deseo deliberado” (EN 1113a 12), y sobretodo recordando el papel expresivista del lenguaje en el modelo romántico—— a reconsiderar el papel de las emociones con respecto a nuestra  naturaleza racional. Entiende Taylor racionalidad en un sentido más amplio que el de racionalidad instrumental.[58]  Para él la razón va más de la mano del logos griego. Por ello en la introducción a Philosophical Arguments recupera él el valor aristotélico del ser humano como zoion exhon logon, traducible dice él más como “animal con lenguaje” que como simplemente “animal racional”.[59]  Además en “Language and Human Nature” indica, casi heideggerianamente, cómo debemos recuperar la polisemia de dicha palabra logos.[60] Para Taylor comprender y articular son inseparables; sigue él la concepción del logon didonai platónico traducible al inglés como “give an account”. En español sería algo así como el  proveer un relato, una narrativa coherente de lo que he llegado a ser.[61] Ser racional involucra en gran medida que la comprensión racional va de la mano de la articulación lingüística. No en vano en “Rationality” argumenta Taylor “tenemos una comprensión racional de algo cuando lo articulamos, esto quiere decir, distinguimos y explicitamos las diferentes características de la materia en un orden perspicaz.” [62]  

 

Miremos uno de sus ejemplos. La vergüenza, indica Taylor, ejemplifica cómo no es este un simple caso de la oposición  entre sentimiento y racionalidad. Para Taylor por el contrario las normas que configuran el ámbito de lo vergonzoso sólo adquieren su fortalece precisamente en tanto que nos mueven a niveles de identificación emotiva. Se podría decir que el deber no mueve si no conmueve. O como lo señala Taylor: “si fuese insensible a este tipo de emoción, estas normas no tendrían peso alguno para mí.”[63]  Es decir, el deber moral racional no puede comprenderse desde una perspectiva en la que ese deber no esté de entrada ligado a nuestra naturaleza desiderativa-afectiva. Para amar el deber debo, entre otras, saber amar. La norma racional no mueve si no moviliza en nosotros energías situacionales y vivenciales. Sin duda alguna Taylor retoma el argumento hegeliano contra el formalismo kantiano. Para Hegel:

 

“Las leyes y los principios no viven ni prevalecen inmediatamente por si mismos. La actividad que los pone por obra y les da existencia son las necesidades  y los impulsos del hombre, como asimismo las pasiones e inclinaciones. Para que  yo haga  y realice algo, es preciso que ello me importe; necesito estar en ello, encontrar satisfacción en realizarlo; es preciso que ello sea mi interés. Interés significa aquí estar en ello. Un fin por el que debo trabajar, tiene que ser de algún modo también mi fin” (mi énfasis) [64]

 

Motivar a un ser humano involucra tocar los “imports” que configuran la narrativa que ella es. Por ejemplo, para conmover a Tita, pues precisamente debemos estar abiertos a su lenguaje de cocina. Entre sabores Tita está en su salsa. O en otras palabras, el deber ser debe ser afectivo para ser efectivo. En Canadá es altamente vergonzoso llegar tarde a una cita; nosotros colombianos lo sabemos, pero algo impide que muchos de nosotros como colombianos nos motivemos a llegar a tiempo. Sabemos que secuestrar es indigno. Pero pareciera hemos fallado en mover de alguna manera a quienes —sin duda altamente sin-vergüenzas—- consideran esta praxis como  racionalmente defensible. Es decir, las normas o deberes racionales que configuran el actuar humano no son simples deberes formales, sino por el contrario involucran sobretodo modos de ser, es decir, formas de vida concretas.

Para Taylor la experiencia directa e intuitiva de un “import” es a través de la emoción. Un import no nos toca de entrada como el resultado de un proceso de racionalización. Un poco como diría Rousseau —siguiendo las modificaciones históricas que encontramos en el ultimo libro de SotS—–: “no se comenzó  por razonar sino por sentir”[65]. Para el ser humano no hay accesos desapasionados a los imports que configuran lo que es. Para Taylor por ende al decir que “Yo se x, pero siente y” lo que se da a entender no es una oposición dualista entre razón y emoción, sino precisamente una necesidad de articulación en términos de la naturaleza afectiva que soy yo. En el caso de Tita, sin saber por quien jugármela —-por Pedro o por John—- pues en parte no sé quien soy yo y qué es lo que en vida me importa, me conforma y me configura. Este acceso privilegiado del expresivismo hermenéutico es un poco como el “splaknisomae” griego; verbo ligado literalmente a un cierto sentir con las tripas.[66] Es precisamente en tanto que consideramos  la relación entre afección y articulación que podemos entrar a discurrir acerca de nuestra perspectiva de lo humano . Por ello en “Language and Human Nature” señala Taylor que en el debate entre la postura instrumentalizadora-designativa del lenguaje y la postura expresivo-constitutiva “el tema concierne la naturaleza del hombre, o lo que es ser humano”[67]

El que la decisión humana involucra aquello que me motiva y que por ende es de un grado de complejidad total, lo muestra Pedro; ese mismo que miró a Tita y la hizo sentirse como buñuelo. El ámbito humano se revela al escuchar el plan estratégico de Pedro para poder seguir cerca a Tita; movido afectivamente por ello es llevado a diseñar racionalmente un plan que tan sólo un humano diseñaría: casarse con Rosaura, la hermana. Ante dicha decisión que sin duda va en contra de la “razón”, Pedro encuentra la única posibilidad de ser cercano a su símbolo. Ante esta inversión de la relación ente razón y sensación el padre de Pedro le recrimina:

 

“—¿Por qué hiciste eso Pedro ? Quedamos en ridículo aceptando la boda con Rosaura? ¿Dónde pues quedó el amor que le juraste a Tita? ¿Qué no tienes palabra?

—-Claro que la tengo, pero si a usted le negaran de una manera rotunda casarse con a mujer que ama y la única salida que e dejaran para esta cerca de ella fuera casarse con la hermana, ¿no tomaría la misma decisión que yo?”

 

Tan mueve un import que el deber pasa a un segundo plano. En términos kantianos, no toda promesa se cumple. Por ello lo humano, señala Aristóteles, sobretodo en lo ético, debe comprenderse esquemáticamente pues se asemeja más a la medicina[68]; su criterio es un cierto tipo de percepción[69].

Pero dejando esto de lado, lo que nos pide Taylor es comprender que de estas SRE,  que son la base del ámbito humano, algunas pueden incorporar una mayor intuición penetrante (insight; ¿tal vez ligada a la ya mencionada phronesis aristotélica que  es ese cierto tipo de percepción?). Recordemos que en un principio Tita sólo sabe que se siente como un hueco negro, pero toda palabra más concretas parece ser arrastrado por la oscuridad de dicho agujero. ¡Y es que esto precisamente es lo que es normal para seres humanos! Por ello, el que sobre lo erótico poco podemos articular, nos lo recuerda la ya mencionada Thomas: “es difícil hablar del amor, pues el amor no se deja hablar y la impotencia del lenguaje se encuentra en el centro del mismo amor; no se habla del amor sino después de.” [70] Todo divorciado sabe tiempo después qué fue lo que hizo mal; y dadas las tazas de divorcio y sobretodo infelicidad pareciera que poca sabiduría práctica tenemos en cuestiones eróticas/amorosas. Poco insight al respecto.

Ante eros el lenguaje parece llegar a su límite; pero para Taylor es en estos límites que el ser humano se hace humano. Aun cuando sea difícil hablar de ciertas de nuestras emociones constitutivas y de los imports correlacionados, estamos llamados como seres lingüísticos a intentar articular con mayor clarividencia su presencia; aquella que, muchas veces, cae sobre nosotros medio desapercibidos. Pero además, una vez articuladas embrionariamente —recordemos que Tita ya dijo que era buñuelo—- pueden e incluso solicitan como todo embrión que les demos formas más apropiadas dentro de  nuestro cambiante contexto vital. Esto lo resume de manera hermosa Taylor:

 

“Por ende podemos ver que nuestras emociones incorporan una cierta articulación de nuestra situación, es decir, presuponen que caractericemos nuestra situación en ciertos términos. Pero al mismo tiempo admiten — y en muchos casos sentimos que solicitan— mayor articulación, la elaboración de términos más finos que permitan una caracterización más penetrante. Y esta articulación mayor a su vez puede transformar la emoción.”[71]

 

Este si que es un verdadero círculo vicioso. Sintiendo nos abrimos a aquello que despierta nuestro interés (¿qué hay en Pedro que mueve a Tita y no a su hermana Gertrudis?), pero articulando lo sentido comprendemos qué es eso de nosotros que nos invita a movernos afectivamente en ciertos casos y en otros no; y comprendiéndonos mejor, nos transformamos, enriqueciéndonos a partir de un vocabulario de mayor fineza frente a lo real.

Y tan es necesaria esta articulación que, hasta con un poco de vergüenza,  muchos de nosotros recordamos cómo estando a solas pensando en el ser amado hay veces en que hemos dicho en voz alta –sin nadie presente para escuchar—- “lo amo” o “la amo” (o incluso más humanamente, “los amo/las amo”). ¿No es esto extraño? ¿Acaso no lo sabía ya? ¿Qué saco diciendo algo que ya sé? ¡Y sin embargo lo hacemos! Pareciera como que articulando la emoción, “cobrara” ella otro tipo de realidad; se me presenta allí de tal manera que me sorprende el mismo decirlo. ¿Por qué me sorprendo? Tal vez porque en parte me reconozco humanamente.[72]

Pero como lo señaló Thomas, tan compleja es nuestra naturaleza erótica que muchas veces la articulación se hace posible —casi como el búho de Minerva hegeliano—- una vez todo ha acabado. Por ello lo paradójico de eros es que cuando nos sobreviene nos des-articula; y cuando lo articulamos ya se ha ido. En este sentido, creo yo, es que señala Thomas que debemos aprender incluso a articular nuestros adioses. Decir adiós es mucho más que cuando uno, con una sola palabra —-a saber, la palabra “adiós”— se despide de un enamorado/a. Saber decirlo:

 

“es aprender a recordar sin rabia y con nostalgia porque esa historia que está llegando a su fin estará ahí para siempre y habrá que vivir con ella, a pesar de ella, e incluso, gracias a ella. Saber que esta arruga encontrada hace poco en la esquina de su mirada (nota: otra vez las benditas miradas) nació para ser recordada, que cada historia de amor que vivimos se inscribe en la memoria, pero también en el cuerpo ….. saber vivir después del adiós es entender que este amor se inscribió en su historia y la cambió para siempre … Saber terminar es haber entendido que amar es un riesgo, el riesgo vital por excelencia y es saber que este  riesgo volverá a presentarse en la esquina de su vida más pronto de lo que usted creía”[73]

 

¡Bastantes palabras para poder ayudarnos a comprender que es decir “adiós”! Por ello decir “adiós” es sobretodo entender que la capacidad para decirlo se da con la ganancia articuladora que se genera en el constante esfuerzo por saber quién soy yo y cómo me relaciono con el otro en el amor. Es posible que sea por no poder decir adiós que Sócrates teme a Alcibíades.

Y son sobretodo los filósofos los que Taylor llama realmente adictos apasionados; es del filósofo ser “un articulador compulsivo”[74]. Taylor nos invita a enamorarnos de las palabras con las que podemos saber que es sentir amando. Tal vez ni Tita —ni nosotros— logremos la capacidad articulativa de Esquivel, o de Thomas, o de Taylor, pero lo cierto es que si deseamos cierta salud cierta articulación debemos lograr acerca de lo que somos. El título de otro libro de Thomas Los Estragos del amor encarna nuestro dilema actual.

Algo así debe ser lo que está involucrado en la cuarta afirmación tayloriana, que dice: “estas emociones son constituidas por las articulaciones que lleguemos a aceptar de ellas”. Las articulaciones son intentos —-algunos fallidos, otros logrados—- para esclarecer los “imports” que las cosas abren para nosotros. [75] Si bien las tres primeras afirmaciones taylorianas abren el ámbito humano; esta cuarta es la que provee el puente entre la animalidad inarticulada y  la humanidad que se gana para sí en la palabra dialógicamente articulada.[76]

¿Y cómo abren estas múltiples articulaciones el ámbito ético al cual hicimos referencia al inicio de este ensayo?  El articular las SRE constitutivas del ámbito de lo humano, nos permite esclarecer en cierta medida aquello que es digno de defensa. Se horrorizarán muchos que se autocomprenden sólo a partir del “deber ser”, pero como vimos, Pedro se casa con Rosaura y lo hace para estar con su amada Tita. 

Pero menos problemáticamente; para Taylor todo “import” invita a una consideración de lo que el llama “evaluaciones fuertes”. Antes que un peligroso romanticismo subjetivista, Taylor nos invita a comprender que de nosotros, como seres lingüísticos, es la posibilidad (y sobretodo la exigencia) de evaluar nuestros propios deseos. Las evaluaciones fuertes (“strong evaluations”) son deseos de segundo orden, es decir, permiten una postura evaluativa frente a lo que buscamos en tanto seres desiderativos.[77] Aquello que involucra una evaluación fuerte es precisamente el trabajo, incluso de condenar un acto, a pesar de la motivación y el deseo que tengamos para realizarlo.[78]

Pero, ¿cómo más específicamente se relaciona todo esto con la cuarta afirmación  tayloriana? De manera central. Esto es así ya que, para Taylor,  toda articulación se da dentro de una red lingüístico-práctica que me precede y que yo no escojo.[79] Dicha red —y para Taylor siguiendo a Humboldt todo lenguaje es una red—- provee el horizonte dentro del cual tiene cabida la búsqueda de lo que soy o no soy. Dentro de esta red me desenvuelvo; literalmente, me des-envuelvo. Por ejemplo, mi lenguaje erótico no tiene cabida para la palabra “dote”; el no poder elegir mi pareja nos parece altamente indigno. Por ello para Taylor, nuestro entramado lingüístico ya de entrada señala cómo ciertas prácticas son condenables o no.[80] Yo no me caso si hay dotes involucrados; ¿cómo sé que se casó por el dote y no por mí? Es decir, el horizonte lingüístico revela que hay prácticas que pueden ser comprendidas en términos de pares significativos como los de bueno/malo, deseable/despreciable. El dote no es digno de defensa para nosotros occidentales.[81] El horizonte moral dentro del cual busco articular aquello que de entrada no comprendo ya permite el uso de ciertos vocablos y no de otros para autocomprenderme. O en otras palabras,  en parte las evaluaciones cualitativas que realizamos no se dan in vacuo. Son posibles precisamente en tanto que nacimos y nos desarrollamos dentro de una comunidad ética concreta. En parte esto es lo que comprende Taylor por la Sittlichkeit hegeliana —-definida en contraposición al formalismo de la moral kantiana—- como “un sistema propiamente establecido de ética objetiva; las prácticas o instituciones comunes que encarnan esta vida se ven como surgiendo de nuestra propia actividad.”[82] El evaluador fuerte es, dirá Taylor en “What is Human Agency”,  precisamente aquel que logra desarrollar este “lenguaje de caracterización de contrastes” dentro de un contexto que le provee la posibilidad misma de su identidad. [83] En el caso de Tita está ella tan inmersa en este horizonte, uno que ha devenido asfixiante, que su novedoso lenguaje de contrastes implicará cierta ruptura.

Pero además, estas evaluaciones fuertes son aquellas que, una vez mejor explicitadas, permiten un juicio sobre ciertos sentimientos cuya concreta realización sería altamente peligrosa. Por ejemplo, Tita podría envenenar la comida de su madre; sin embargo, algo la detiene. En palabras de Taylor, el que en efecto no actuamos por envidia y por rencor es aquello que caracteriza al agente humano capaz de evaluarse fuertemente. Dejemos que sea Taylor mismo quien nos ayude a comprender lo que este tipo de agencia considera como central para su superior autocomprensión:

 

“y el tenor de esta evaluación es tal vez algo como lo siguiente; el que el rencor, la venganza, devolver mal por mal, es algo a lo que estamos inclinados, pero que hay una manera más elevada (higher) de ver nuestras relaciones con los demás; que es de más altura no sólo en que produce consecuencias más felices —menos pugna, dolor, mala sangre— pero además en que nos permite vernos a nosotros mismos y a otros más ampliadamente, más objetivamente, más verdaderamente. Uno es una mejor persona (bigger person), con una visión más amplia, más serena, cuando uno actúa desde este punto de vista superior (higher standpoint).”[84]

 

Palabras de las que no pocos podríamos aprender. Palabras que proveen una clarividencia similar que le permite a Thomas saber “decir adiós” a su pareja. Lo cierto es que las evaluaciones fuertes articuladas/articulables permiten la incorporación de múltiples aspectos que hacen cada vez más compleja nuestra narrativa vital particular. Pero Taylor añade en la anterior cita, nos da esta postura más objetividad. Y sorprendidos preguntamos, ¿no era precisamente contra esta objetividad que él luchaba? Sin duda que no es la misma. Esta objetividad es la objetividad característica de un sujeto, no la objetividad que es posible para objetos entre objetos. Esta objetividad nos lleva más allá del estudio de las endorfinas a la articulación liberadora de quien logra en la palabra darse forma. En su ensayo sobre Piaget Taylor había aludido a este tipo de objetividad irreversible que permitía  “propiamente el comprender nuestra real motivación ….. el ver nuestras emociones, deseos y situaciones bajo una cierta perspectiva.”[85] Esquivel nos provee un ejemplo. El segundo amor de Tita, el ya mencionado y muy norteamericano John, nos impacta con su mesura y su capacidad articulativa objetiva cuando le dice a Tita hacia el final de la obra:

 

“…. no me importa lo que hiciste, hay acciones en la vida a las que no hay que darle importancia, esas no modifican lo esencial. Lo que me dijiste no cambió mi manera de pensar y te repito que me encantaría ser el compañero de toda tu vida, pero quiero que pienses muy bien si ese hombre soy yo. Si tu respuesta es afirmativa, celebraremos la boda  dentro de unos días. Si no, seré yo  el primero en felicitar a Pedro y pedirle que te dé el lugar que te mereces”[86]

 

John parece en lo erótico tener este cierto tipo de capacidad evaluativa objetiva; desprendido sabe decir adiós, como pocos, pues su adiós es uno que involucra el mayor bien para quienes se despiden. Su adiós es realmente humano.

 

V. Mapas, el lenguaje y múltiples transformaciones.

 

O visto de otra manera, este tipo de objetividad tiene que ver con la multiplicidad de lenguajes y la correspondiente profundización que pueda conformarse y confirmarse en una persona. Un agente tal podría en términos geográficos comprender el terreno de lo humano mejor que cualquiera. En la forjación del mapa que ella es, podría reconocer terrenos que para nosotros permanecen inaccesibles; sus topografías practico-evaluativas estarían enriquecidas por visiones lingüísticas cada vez más perceptivas. Taylor nos pide comprender el mapa de nuestros contrastes éticos, nos pide explicitar nuestro topos ético-afectivo. Tan es así que la prueba de toda teoría social es equiparable a lo bueno que un mapa sea: “La prueba de un mapa está en qué tan bien nos movilizamos con  él …… Sé que tengo una mejor comprensión  de las cosas cuando puedo superar el embrollo, la confusión y los propósitos cruzados que afectaban mi actividad hasta el momento.” [87] Y lo que a tan gran escala es defendido, lo es para Taylor aún más a nivel personal.

Taylor es el geógrafo de aquel difícil terreno en que las emociones abren los bienes que configuran nuestra identidad. Se podría decir que articulando dejamos de vivir en simples planicies,  y aprendemos a movernos incluso dentro de la complejidad de nuestras cordilleras andinas. Configurando el complejo mapa vital que responde a mi identidad abro incluso nuevos mapas desconocidos, nuevas altitudes y nuevas latitudes. Es en este trabajo de autointerpretación que el mapa de lo que soy se transforma y  enriquece. Por ejemplo mi mapa erótico ya no es una simple portada de una revista pornográfica; incluye ahora historias enamoradas de adolescente, amores con mujeres/hombres  heridas/os, amores desdichados, amores de dichas cambiantes, adioses mal formulados, adioses bien formulados, amores de los buenos. Configurando sus mapas articulativos el agente se pule, se da cierto brillo. O como lo pone Taylor en SotS en su discusión de la relación entre identidad personal, narrativa y orientación topográfica:

 

“En la medida en que nos movemos hacia atrás, determinamos lo que somos por lo que hemos devenido, por la historia de cómo llegamos aquí. La orientación en el espacio resulta ser similar a la orientación en el espacio físico. Sabemos dónde estamos gracias a  una mezcla de puntos topográficos (“landmarks”) ante nosotros y de un sentido de cómo hemos viajado para llegar  a ellos.”[88]

 

“Articular” como verbo narrativo, y “articulaciones” como sustantivo corpóreo, parecen estar anudados. Articulando nos posicionamos, nos damos posiciones por medio de las cuales avistamos terrenos más lejanos, e incluso terrenos más peligrosos. La narrativa que somos se configura como cierta orientación espacial. Por ello  el Fedro de Platón abre con la siguiente famosa línea: “amigo Fedro, ¿a dónde vas ahora, y de donde vienes? [89] Es decir, ¿cuál es el mapa de tu recorrido, Fedro? Y sin duda Tita tan desorientada ha quedado con aquella mirada que con seguridad hasta tropezones físicos habrá tenido.

¿Cuál es el material topográfico del hacedor de mapas que es Taylor? El lenguaje. La tríada “imports”, SRE y articulación está permeada por lo que ontológicamente es mucho más primario, a saber, el lenguaje entendido como ya dijimos,  en un sentido amplio que abarca la multiplicidad de formas simbólicas.[90] ¿Dónde se inscribe el papel del lenguaje en el filosofar tayloriano? En el centro mismo de su proceder. Todo punto cardinal se comprende en torno al  enigma que es el lenguaje. Así llegamos por fin a la quinta afirmación tayloriana, a saber: que “estas articulaciones, que se pueden comprender como interpretaciones, requieren del lenguaje.” Articular e interpretar no son idénticos;  el que interpreta lo articulado se apropia de aquello que ya se ha hecho lenguaje. Puedo tener palabras, pero no hacerlas mías. Puedo recitar a Thomas y aún no saber decir adiós. O como lo pone Heidegger el interpretar es apropiarse de lo comprendido: “en la interpretación el comprender se apropia comprensoramente de lo comprendido por él. En la interpretación el comprender no se convierte en otra cosa, sino que llega a ser él mismo … La interpretación no consiste en tomar conocimiento de lo comprendido, sino en la elaboración de las posibilidades proyectadas en el comprender.” (mi énfasis) [91]

Y es así como por fin alcanzamos  aquel ejemplo de Taylor con el cual abrimos este ensayo. Recordemos, Taylor pide que imaginemos el ser impactados por aquella persona que pareciera cae de las nubes un día cualquiera y que no podemos sacar de nuestra mente sin saber por qué. ¿Qué me está ocurriendo? ¿La admiro, la deseo, me quiero sacar el clavo que me quedó por no saber decir adiós? En un principio su presencia trastorna mi vocabulario experiencial; no logro que su presencia sea comprensible dado el vocabulario que manejo hasta el momento. Y es que Tita ya avanzado el libro de Esquivel todavía sigue en duda:

 

“¿Estas más enamorada de él que de mí?

–No te lo puedo contestar, tampoco lo sé. Cuando tu no estás aquí pienso que es a él a quien quiero, pero cuando te veo, todo cambia. A tu lado me siento tranquila, segura, en paz,…pero no sé, no sé,…Discúlpame por decirte todo esto”[92]

 

Tita permanece escindida; articular parece ser un largo proceso en donde nada es definitivo. Ahora bien, supongamos que a fin de cuentas  luego de unas semanas de ejercicios dialógico-expresivos que involucren a aquella persona (o inclusive, ¿por qué no?, otro tipo de ejercicios) comprendo por fin que realmente sólo estoy fascinado por su forma de ser. Ahora veo como es tan ajena a la mía. Mi silencio se complementaba con su locuacidad; mi torpeza erótica con sus movimientos  maduros. Ahora sé que lo admiro, que no lo amo.

Se pregunta Taylor, ¿cómo, más precisamente, ocurre dicho cambió? En tanto ser dialógico interpretativo no puede ser simplemente que un día me levanto con la respuesta adecuada.[93] Por el contrario la pregunta que surge en mí con la presencia del otro implica un cierto tipo de trabajo, un trabajo interpretativo que se hace posible en la esfera simbólica. Para Taylor el paso de la nebulosidad  y la difusión a una mayor clarividencia (clairvoyance) frente a mi emoción se da en dos fases. Primero,  reconocemos ciertas cualidades que la otra persona expresa de tal manera que nos abre a nuevos vocabularios: “llegamos a reconocer ciertas cualidades, logros, y demás; y esto frecuentemente puede significar que tenemos un vocabulario que no teníamos anteriormente. Digamos que este hombre nos enseña lo que es una sensibilidad refinada que no comprendíamos anteriormente, mirándolo retrospectivamente.”[94] En términos musicales estos seres de mayor refinación sensible nos invitan a  escuchar la Tercera Sinfonía de Mahler cómo una  de las más claras expresiones de la voluntad de poder schopenhaueriana.[95]  En términos eróticos ese tipo de refinación sensible es la que ciertas mujeres piden de nosotros los hombres: “nosotros amamos su sexo cuando lo llenamos de significado, porque entendemos que eso es lo que nos hace distanciarnos del macho y de la hembra y de los peces ….. por nuestra escogencia primordial de lo vivo, lo caliente, lo significativo.”[96]

Esta sensibilidad refinada nos invita a abrir el ámbito humano en donde dejamos de ser simplemente animales para convertirnos en animales autointerpretativos. Y es que nuestra Tita, y quienes la rodean, comprenden en carne propia cómo se esta gestando una nueva sensibilidad gramatical. Comiendo codornices cocinadas con pétalos de rosa, se percatan los presentes que su autodominio cede a una cierta crisis lingüística:

 

“era inútil, algo extraño pasaba …. Parecía que habían descubierto un código nuevo de comunicación en el que Tita era la emisora, Pedro el receptor y Gertrudis la afortunada en quien se sintetizaba esta singular relación sexual, a través de la comida”[97]

 

En esta triangulación eléctrica, quién fuera Gertrudis! Lo cierto es que en el lenguaje Tita y Pedro son más que lo que ellos son. O en otras palabras, Tita y Pedro se articulan el uno para el otro en su comida comunicativa. Su comida es del tipo “slow food”.

Para Taylor con la forjación de este nuevo vocabulario, existe la posibilidad de comprender la ambigüedad que me permeaba en un comienzo. Para Taylor la segunda fase del proceso se da “cuando uno hace no-ambiguo (“disambiguates”) nuestro sentimiento por esta persona al verlo , al menos parcialmente, como admiración. Este reconocimiento ayuda a configurar la emoción misma”[98]. Por ejemplo, John le ha propuesto a Tita un cierto tipo de amor; Pedro otro. Sabemos de la indecisión de Tita frente a este aspecto vital suyo. Pero tan sabe ella lo que está en juego en esta “desambiguación” que se dice a sí misma que esta decisión es “la definitiva, la que determinaría todo su futuro.”[99] Todos sabemos qué decide ella hacer; comprende por fin ella que a John realmente sobretodo lo admira, no lo ama como sí a Pedro. En su escogencia Tita ya no es la misma: sabe ella cuales son los “imports” centrales que le permiten señalar quién es ella. Tita prefiere el riesgo  de eros, a la seguridad de lo admirable. Ella no es como Rosaura; es más como Safo. Ella es más como el Sócrates del tercer discurso del Fedro.

Lo cierto es que Tita es de aquellas pocas que en lo erótico, ahora sí, pueden diferenciar entre la admiración y el amor. Pero no es simplemente que la emoción se transforme enriquecida,  sino que dado este mapa de mayor complejidad vital, lo que se  trasforma es el mundo mismo en que Tita se moviliza. Tita adquiere un mapa corpóreo que le permite otro tipo de movimientos, unos que son más sutiles.[100] La articulación en verdad le devuelve sus articulaciones. Autointerpretarse abre un nuevo “self” más allá de un simple yo; el cogito se transforma al comprenderse en un mundo apropiado auténticamente para sí. O sino escuchen:

 

”El golpeteo de la cabecera del latón contra la pared  y los sonidos guturales que ambos dejaban escapar se confundieron con el ruido del millar de palomas volando sobre ellos, en desbandada. El sexto sentido que los animales tienen  indicó a las palomas que era preciso huir rápidamente del rancho. Lo mismo hicieron todos los demás animales, las vacas, los cerdos, las gallinas, las codornices, los borregos y los caballos.”[101]

 

Al tomar para sí el riesgo del cual habla Thomas, Tita se autocomprende como valiente, mucho más valiente que cualquier animal. Su valentía cambia el mundo de lo animal: tal vez las codornices corran por miedo a ser comidas entre rosas, pero sin duda los demás huyen pues todo animal sabe que hay temblores que rompen la solidez de cualquier terreno que se cree sólido y completo. Hay decisiones que generan, y sólo se pueden dar, en crisis. Los animales que son Tita y Pedro parecieran abrirse el uno al otro gracias en parte a que Tita ha logrado darse forma a sí misma. Darnos formas interpretativas como animales es lo que nos pide Taylor: nos invita a ser ANIMALES autointerpretadores y no simplemente agentes interpretativos; nos invita a ciertos tipos de terremotos que descongelan nuestra solidificadas autocomprensiones, entre ellas la de la hidra del modelo epistemológico a la cual aludimos al inicio.  Ser un animal de autocomprensión implica que nosotros nos constituimos, en parte, por las interpretaciones que damos de nosotros mismos en la medida en que logramos comprender hasta cierto punto aquellos “imports” centrales a través de los cuales nos definimos como sujetos auténticos.[102]

 

Y es que otra mujer sabe que sólo en la reconstitución de su autointerpretación puede ella lograr vencer aquel odio, envidia y deseo de venganza tan característicos de la emoción humana. Virginia Wolff en búsqueda de una “Habitación propia”[103] nos permite ver las dos etapas taylorianas de la autotransformación emocional de manera comprimida. En la primera fase del proceder tayloriana se  logra incorporar un nuevo vocabulario a nuestras vidas —-–por ejemplo, ya no me veo como una “prostituta” sino como una “trabajadora sexual.”[104] En el caso de Wolff genera ella un vocabulario que incluye articulaciones de ideas tan famosas como la de que “hace siglos que la mujer desempeña las veces de un espejo que tiene el poder mágico de reflejar la imagen del hombre al doble de su tamaño.” [105] En la palabra, la distorsión del espejo machista pasa a ser un verdadero espejismo que le permite a Wolff ser frente al otro como un “igual” (o se vea incluso como una “mejor”). Pero en la segunda fase este nuevo vocabulario libera a la autora a nuevas posibilidades más dignas de todo ser humano. Logra ella liberarse de la ambigüedad que caracterizaba  su relación frente a los hombres. De manera impactante y honesta —¿y no es la honestidad muestra de cierta sensibilidad lograda?—- escribe: “no es sólo  el esfuerzo y el trabajo duro lo que desaparece, sino también la amargura y el odio. Ya no tengo por qué odiar a ningún hombre, no hay ninguno que pueda hacerme daño….. Y así , sin darme cuenta. Me encontré que estaba adoptando una actitud muy diferente hacia la otra mitad de la raza humana”.[106] El otro es reconocido, liberado a su otreidad.

Pero más dramático aún es que si los “imports”, y las interpretaciones relacionados a ellos, no son simplemente cuestiones subjetivas —–proyecciones sobre el mundo—- pues aquello que sufre transformación es el mundo mismo en que nos desplazamos. Wolff puede ver por fin el cielo que se abre como un nuevo tipo de amante frente a sí: “me había revelado ciertamente el cielo, y había sustituido  la enorme e imponente imagen de un varón, … por el espectáculo de un cielo despejado”.[107] Pero más dramático aún es que no es sólo Virginia y su mundo natural los que se transformen —–transformación crucial pues somos animales interpretativos inmersos en ecosistemas complejos[108]—- sino igualmente la polis que encarna la Sittlichkeit mencionada anteriormente. El ámbito político de la república  —que tan insistentemente Taylor nos pide defender desde su cívico humanismo[109]—– cambia de tal manera que incluso la polis se hace digna de defensa. Cuenta  Wolff que “mientras pensaba y meditaba ..lleg(ó) hasta (su) casa junto al río. Empezaban a encenderse las luces, Londres había sufrido un cambio indescriptible desde las horas matutinas”. Una nueva concordancia, para usar palabras de Aristóteles,  lleva el amor incluso a la ciudad. Los ciudadanos de Montreal —Taylor es uno de ellos—- saben bien esto y lo hacen saber articulando artísticamente el nombre de su ciudad que es un beso.[110]

 

Pero para el Taylor de SotS es mucho más lo que se abre. En parte ese amor que sienten los habitantes de Montreal por su ciudad —que ya  comienza a permear la nuestra también—- tiene cierta semejanza al amor que Taylor retoma no sólo en su importante interpretación cristiana de Dostoievsky, sino el cual recupera para nosotros desde su ahora más explícito catolicismo contrapuesto a un humanismo exclusivista. Articular pareciera en realidad abrir incluso un ámbito más que el de lo humano y animal; el lenguaje posibilita abrir por sobretodo el ámbito de lo divino que sustenta todo otro. El Taylor posterior pareciera decir algo así como “More than Self-Interpreting Animals”. Y desde esa tradición es claro que “lo primero fue la palabra (logos), y la palabra era con Dios, y la palabra era Dios”. (Juan 1:1) Pero para Taylor esa primera palabra fue por sobretodo amor. Por ello concluyendo SotS nos indica que “agapē es un amor que tiene Dios por lo humanos que está conectado con su bondad como criaturas ….. agapē es inseparable de …. ’ver-bondad’”. (“agapē is a love that God has for humans which is connected with their goodness as creatures…. agapē is inseparable from such a ‘seeing-good’.”)[111]. Ciertas articulaciones por parte de algunos animales interpretativos nos permiten vislumbrar con mayor clarividencia ese bien y esa bondad; la de Taylor es una de ellas. Ser ingenuo es necesario; ser ingenuo realmente, etimológicamente,  quiere decir “haber nacido libre”.[112]

 

Pero antes que pretender poder hablar de este ámbito, me interesa no dejar en suspenso al lector acerca de una de esas criaturas, Tita. ¿Qué le ha ocurrido? Pues que, como todo animal autointerpretativo, ha muerto. Lo hace al lado de su amor Pedro. Pero su muerte no es cualquiera; muere ella sintiendo “(ese) resplandor tan fuerte que ilumina más allá de lo que podemos ver normalmente y que muestra el camino que olvidamos al momento de nacer y que nos llama a reencontrar nuestro perdido origen divino.”[113] La autointerpretación de Tita resulta tan enigmática que  no sólo supervive en este ensayo y en quienes lo escuchan, sino sobretodo en la vida de su nieta quien comienza a sentir lo que Tita alguna vez sintió sin poder articularlo claramente. Escuchándola reconocemos lo lejano que estamos de ganarnos interpretativamente:

 

“Yo no sé por qué a mi nunca me han quedado (las tortas de navidad) como a ella, y tampoco sé por qué derramo tantas lágrimas cuando las preparo, tal vez porque soy igual de sensible a la cebolla que Tita, mi tía abuela, quien seguirá viviendo mientras haya alguien que cocine sus recetas.” [114]

 

Y tampoco nosotros sabemos bien por qué no nos quedan igual nuestras recetas de lo que somos; tal vez, afortunadamente, porque son las nuestras. Pero lo que sabemos, gracias a los cinco ingredientes de Taylor, es que de cierta manera podemos —-debemos (¡por amor a Dios!)— cocinarnos mejor.[115]


 


[1] Taylor, Charles “Social Theory as Practice” pg 112  en Philosophy and the Human Sciences: Philosophical Papers 2 Cambridge, Cambridge, 1988.

[2] Taylor, Charles Sources of the Self, Harvard, Cambridge, 1989. pg 48 (SotS)

[3] Esquivel, Laura, Como agua para chocolate, Texto, Venezuela, 1994. pg 17

[4] Como el poema de Safo de Eros: “Qué puedo hacer, no lo sé; mis deseos son dobles.” Fragmento 51P pg 63 Safo: Poemas y Fragmentos , Poseía Hiperión , Madrid, 1997. 

[5] Ver Fedro 243e ff.

“—–Sócrates: ¿Dónde se ha metido el mucho de quien hablaba? Lo digo con la intención de que oiga esto también, y no se adelante, por no haberlo escuchado, a conceder su favor al no enamorado.

—-Fedro: Ese está siempre tu lado y muy cerquita, cuando quieras” Fedro, Labor, Barcelona, 1991.

[6] Ibíd. (255c-d).

[7] Platón, El Banquete, (192d), Alianza, Madrid, 1989. 

[8] “Language and Human Nature” pg 222. Claro, posteriormente Taylor indagará tanto en Sources of the Self “Part V: Subtler Languages”, y en su ensayo “Heidegger , Language and Ecology” los aspectos no- antropocéntricos del lenguaje. Se podría decir que para el “segundo Taylor”, y su noción de epifanía (SotS,  pg. 419) el lenguaje realiza algo más que la humanidad del hombre; realiza el mundo como tal en que las cosas que no son humanas llegan a la palabra. Lo divino se abre incluso en la literatura, por ejemplo, de Dostoievsky.

[9] Taylor, Charles, “Self Interpreting Animals” (pg 70) en Human Agency and Language Philosophical Papers 1 Cambridge, Cambridge, 1988. (Citado com “SIA”)

[10] Esquivel, Laura. Como Agua para Chocolate,  Texto, Venezuela, 1994. (pg. 17). El que la mirada es crucial para lo erótico también lo privilegia Aristóteles en la Ética a Nicomaquea  1167a2-3 y Libro IX 1171b30ff en donde señala que lo erótico es una amistad profunda “El amor, en efecto, tiende a ser una especie de exceso de amistad, y éste puede sentirse sólo hacia una persona” pg 374 Editorial Gredos. Para críticas al privilegio de la vista ver Heidegger Ser y Tiempo y el artículo de Florence Thomas, “Amor, sexualidad y erotismo femenino” en  Mujer Amor y Violencia.

[11] Taylor, Charles  Hegel pg 152 “Man, as a being who depends …”

[12] Taylor, Charles “Explanation and Practical Reason” pg 52 en Philosophical Arguments “Something more serious….”, con la diferencia que incluye (casi a la Nietzsche) la tensa relación entre el amor y el resentimiento.

[13] “SIA “,  (pg 72-73)

[14] Kant, Immanuel La Metafísica de las Costumbres pg 286 “A no ser porque el rechazo de sí mismo  en el último, de la vida como un lastre, no es el menos una débil entrega a los estimules sensibles sino que exige valor .. por sí mismo” pg 286 . Ver también Nietzsche Genealogía de la Moral Libro III *6 pg 151 Alianza,  para los efectos sobre la consideración estética.

[15] Foucault, Michel The History of Sexuality Vol. I pgs. 70-71. No por nada dice Foucault  “ I must confess that I am much more interested in problems about techniques of the self and things like that rather than sex … sex is boring” pg 229 Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics, Dreyfus and Rabinow (University of Chicago, Chicago, 1983).

Tal vez sea el momento para indicar que el análisis de este ensayo debe ser complementado por una lectura foucaultiana de la corporeidad.  Ver por ejemplo “Nietzsche, la genealogía, la Historia” en donde se abre la relación entre genealogía y cuerpo, siendo este último comprendido como: “volumen en perpetuo desmoronamiento. La genealogía como análisis de la procedencia, está, pues, en la articulación del cuerpo y la historia. Debe mostrar el cuerpo totalmente impregnado de historia, y la historia arruinando el cuerpo” pg 32 (Pre-textos, Valencia, 1992).

 

Por ejemplo, al final de su ensayo sobre Foucault, “Foucault sobre la Libertad y la Verdad”, Taylor señala que quedan abiertas para una discusión futura dos preguntas. Una de ellas involucra precisamente el valor el proceso de interiorización occidental. Como señala Taylor defendiendo su postura hermenéutica de agentes con profundidad, de agentes autointerpretativos:  “¿realmente podemos salir de la identidad que hemos desarrollado en la civilización occidental en tal medida que podemos repudiar todo lo que nos llega del entendimiento cristiano de la voluntad? ¿Podemos hacer a un lado toda la tradición de la interioridad agustiniana?“ (Couzens, David, Foucault, pg 115) ¿Cuál es la relación con la genealogía de Foucault? Se da en el sentido en que para Foucault el proceso de interiorización va de la mano de una manera de autocomprendernos como sujetos sexuales determinados que creemos hallar en el recorrido constante de nuestra interioridad caminos de libertad para lo erótico . Por  ejemplo en su Historia de la Sexualidad  indica él la relación entre la practica de la confesión (cuyo origen es precisamente agustiniano) y una cierta técnica del “yo”. Señala él cómo esta visión de autocomprensión va de la mano del surgimiento de una scientia sexualis en occidente en contraposición a una ars erotica como la de oriente. Para Foucault la confesión nos configura como sujetos hermenéuticos que incesantemente buscamos reconocernos desde la interioridad verdadera:

 

“la verdad no residía solamente en el sujeto quien, por medio de la confesión, la revelarla totalmente formada. Estaba constituida en dos etapas; presente pero incompleta, ciega para sí misma en quien hablaba, sólo podía llegar a su desarrollo completo en aquel que la asimilaba y la registraba,. Era la función de este último la de verificar su verdad: la relación de confesión  iba de la mano de el desciframiento de lo que se decía. Quien escuchaba no era simplemente el maestro que perdona, el juez que condena o absuelve, era él el señor de la verdad. La suya era una función hermenéutica” (mi traducción)

 

Precisamente en parte por ello es que encontramos en Sources of the Self, en el Capítulo sobre Agustín, un argumento por parte de Taylor que intenta rescatar el valor de una “reflexividad radical” ligada a la noción de interioridad. Sin duda la desea él defender, frente a una simple postura del “cuidado del yo” que iría de la mano de  una “estética de la existencia” en Foucault. Y no en vano la segunda pregunta que señala Taylor en el ensayo dedicado a Foucault es, si en efecto podemos y/o debemos dejar de lado la tradición de interioridad agustiniana, sin embargo  “es tan admirable la “estética de la existencia” (pg 115 en español) (“is the resulting ‘aesthetic of existence ‘ all that admirable”? (pg.  183 en inglés). Sin duda este es uno de los debates más importantes de la actualidad.

[16] Fedro,  (230d)

[17] Taylor, Charles Sources of the Self, Harvard, Cambridge, 1989. pg 79

[18] Ibíd. (pg 93) 

[19] Taylor define agape ya conluyendo Sources of the Self pg 516 “The original Christian notion ….” La diferencia entre los dos se puede ver en: Thomas, Florence Los Estragos del Amor , Universidad Nacional , Bogotá, 1995. Nos preguntamos: ¿podría decirse que Taylor se ha movilizado en su escritura desde un privilegio de eros hacia agape (aun cuando los dos parecen no ser separables para él)?

[20] Anne Carson Eros the Bittersweet. Princeton, Princeton, 1986. La triangulación la halla ella expuesta de manera central en la poesía de Safo (Fr. 31P,  pg 37). Pero además, de manera impactante, muestra ella como esta postura erótica esta ligada al surgimiento del alfabeto griego y las implicaciones para las concepciones de self que surgen con la palabra escrita.

[21] Sobre la fascinación de nuestra cultura con la muerte ver Taylor,  A Catholic  Modernity pg 28.

[22] Pero además Taylor rastrea en Sources of the Self  la afirmación de la vida ordinaria en la cual las relaciones afectivas se ven como históricamente desarrolladas que se define como la vida de la producción y de la familia pg 13 SotS. Ver sobretodo “The Culture of Modernity” capitulo 17 en donde traza  el cambio en la concepción de matrimonio y el papel de la familia, matrimonio compasivo y privacidad. “The difference  is not so much “ What changes pg 292; algo similar hace Foucault en su comprensión de la relaciones de pareja en Grecia y bajo los estoicos. (Volumen 2 y 3 de History of Sexuality)

[23] Löw-Beer, Martin, “Living a Life” pg 228 en Inquiry vol. 34 núm. 2, 1991; (La nota de pie de página se da pagina 236, nota 11 en donde Löw-Beer disntingue tres grupos, además del de Taylor; expresivismo psicológico, el expresivismo romántico y el expresivismo artístico.”

[24] “SIA” pg. 45.

[25] Taylor, Charles  “Explanation and Practical Reason” pg 38

[26]  Taylor, Charles “Overcoming Epistemology” en Philosophical Arguments

[27] “SIA”, pg 46.

[28] Taylor, Charles “Lichtung or Lebensform” pg 66. La traducción de disengagement por desvinculación es apropiado; pero en inglés engage implica estar involucrado con algo de manera comprometida; no en vano cuando una parejas decide casarse se dice en ingles que s el período del “engagement”; en español no nos “vinculamos” antes de casarnos. “Disengagement can be seen as getting free of the perspective of embodied experience, It is this perspective which is responsible for our attributing  the color to the object; it is this which makes us give disproportionate importance to the senses and imagination in our account of knowledge. That the thinking activity of the mind is really in its essential character free from these distorting media shows  that the mind is essentially non-bodily. So argues Descartes in the celebrated passage about the piece of wax which closes the Second Meditation”

[29] “SIA”, pg.  46.

[30] El poder de las endorfinas RBA Libros, Barcelona, 2000. pg 18.

[31] Ver por ejemplo Ricouer Freud and Philosophy sobre lo erótico.

[32] Thomas, Florence, “Amor, sexualidad y erotismo femenino” en  Mujer Amor y Violencia (pg 98-99)

[33] “SIA”, pg. 47.

[34] Taylor “Philosophy in its history“, pg 19-20 “if one wants to climb out of the epistemological prison…”

[35] Taylor, Charles Explanation of Behavior, Humanities, New York, 1965. pg 22: “and thus the normal operation of the system, i.e., the occurrence of events which result in the normal condition  is accounted  for by teleological laws, while the abnormal functioning must bring in a set of laws linking interfering factors and non-normal conditions which are not teleological. An this is the basis for the distinction between ‘normal’ and ‘abnormal’ itself  .. the two must be accounted for in  quite differ ways; that there exists, in other words, an asymmetry of explanation.

[36] Heller, Erich pg 173. ”Nietzsche’s Terrors: Time and the Inarticulate“ en The importance of Nietzsche

[37] Esquivel,  pg 17

[38]  (ASZ pg 160)

[39] Para Taylor la identidad está definida como “the commitments and identifications which provide the frame or horizon within which I can try to determine case to case what is good, or valuable, or what ought to be done, or what I endorse or oppose” (SotS, 27). Vivir una crisis de identidad por ende no es simplemente llegar a los 40, o las 50 –o a cualesquiera sea la edad en que ahora nos dan crisis. Por el contrario tal crisis revela el carácter de orientación que permite responder a la pregunta, “¿quién soy?”. En crisis no reconocemos el mapa de nuestra cotidianeidad; un poco como argumenta Taylor, no reconocemos el complejo mapa de nuestra identidad moderna. Carecer de identidad es para Taylor carecer de “a frame or horizon within which things can take on a stable significance, within which  some life  possibilities can be seen as good or meaningful others as bad and trivial. The meaning of all these possibilities is unfixed and labile or undetermined. This is a painful and frightening experience” (pg. 28). En este último sentido se da una conexión con Montaigne, a quien Taylor alude en el Capítulo 12 de su obra.  Vive él esta misma experiencia que lo catapulta hacia sí;  nos enseña que es pasar  por una experiencia “a terrifying inner instability” (pg 178). Algo así le ocurre también a Tita.

[40] “SIA”,  pg. 49

[41] Interesante sería ver el paralelo en Heidegger entre Befindlichkeit como existenciario analítico y las emociones mismas.

[42] Löw-Beer alude a estas experiencia llamadas com “it-experiences” o del id freudiano: “People are threatened by them and feel hindered from doing what they want, But in another sense such episodes are frightening because they are insignificant, have no meaning for their bearers.” (pg 220)

[43]  La vida incluso se comprende a partir de cadáveres como señala Foucault en El Nacimiento de la Clínica  “Abrid Cadáveres” pg 52. Ver también Julio Cesar Payán Lánzate al vacío.

[44] “SIA” (pg 53.) Cabe anotar la diferencia entre una cultura de la culpa y de la vergüenza como ocurre en Dodds The Greeks and the Irrational. Allí encontramos la idea de que hay una clara diferencia entre una cultura de la vergüenza y una cultura de la culpa. Señala él cómo para los héroes homéricos lo primordial era lo público y el sentido de comprensión propia se generaba en términos de la aidos  o vergüenza:  “Homeric’s man highest good….” (pg. 17-18)

 

[45] Esquivel,  (pg 17)

[46] Esquivel pg 13 “pero es que yo opino que …; Tu no opinas nada y se acabó! Nunca, por generaciones, nadie en mi familia ha protestado ante esa costumbre y no va a ser una de mis hijas quien lo haga”.

[47] Acerca de la relación entre vergüenza y Eros, ver Anne Carson (pgs. 19-25); “Aidos .. is a sort of voltage of decorum discharged between two people approaching one another for the crisis of human contact, and instinctive and mutual sensitivity to the boundary between them” (pg 20-21). También ver el impactante cuento de Yukio Mishima, The Damask Drum.

[48] SIA pg 53

[49] Para un proceso similar ver el impactante libro de Alba Lucía Ángel, Mísia Señora.

[50] Da Taylor el ejemplo el del buen Samaritano que no concierne al yo, no nuestra necesidad sino la del otro “we may feel something morally inferior, and tainted, about a motivation here which is self-regarding” (pg 57)

[51] Nussbaum cita esta postura en la conclusión de su Cosmopolitanism and Patriotism.

[52] Esquivel pg 40.

[53] Esquivel,  pg 24

[54] Interesante resulta por ejemplo el análisis de las palabras del epitafio de Midas en el Fedro. El orden no importa pues se pueden escribir de cualquier manera!

[55] Carson, Anne pg 75  Safo tan conoce a eros  que lo llama glukupikron. Eros como la forjación de nuestra identidad es un proceso en que la secuencia temporal de nuestras relaciones para ser del orden no tanto de lo “agri-dulce” sino por el contrario de lo “dulce-amargo”.

[56] Carson, ETB, Pero además cabe recordar que los líricos griegos incluso inventan una palabra deute que resume las perversidades temporales de Eros en la relación entre el ahora y los entonces. “The adverb (deute pg 118 y 119) en Carson  “Deute combines the article … “ (deute) (Nota Anne Carson y manzana y triangulo)

[57] Por ello Habermas en su artículo revalúa el valor de los instintos.

[58] Ver por ejemplo artículo “Rationality” pg 151

[59] Philosophical Arguments Prefacio ix.

[60] Taylor,  “LHN” pg 217 “The answer is that ….”

[61] Ver también “RAT” pg 136, y SotS sobre Platón pg 121

[62]  “RAT” pg 137 Y lenguaje de contrastes y fusión de horizontes de Gadamer

[63] “SIA” 60-61

[64] Hegel, Friedrich  Lecciones de filosofía para una Historia Universal  Alianza Editorial, Madrid, 1997. pg 81.

[65] Rousseau, Jean-Jacques Ensayo sobre el origen de las Lenguas,  Norma, Bogotá, 1993. Capitulo II pg 17

[66]  Wilches, Gustavo,  pg 61 “Sexo-Muerte-Singularidad-biodiversidad”

[67] Taylor, Charles “Language and Human Nature”, pg 246. Ver mi ensayo sobre la relación entre Taylor y Heidegger en términos del lenguaje.

[68] (EN 1104a10)

[69]  Ibíd. (1109b22)

[70] Thomas, Florence, “ASEF” pg 90.

[71] ¿Podríamos hacer un paralelo con la EN de Aristóteles, en la medida en que muchas virtudes no poseen nombres, pero nombrándolas casi las podemos ver?

[72] Un ejemplo similar es el de Taylor, pero enfocado a la colombiana. Supongamos que tenemos la suerte de estar en Cartagena y caminando bajo un sol infernal un amigo nos dice: “Qué calor tan tenaz!”. ¿Acaso espera él que le confirme lo que ya de hecho es obvio para los dos? Lo común por el contrario es responder simplemente con exactamente las mismas palabras, “Uyy si, que calor tan tenaz!”. [72] ¿Qué entonces precisamente nos deja ver el logos entre los dos si lo que se dice es un poco como descubrir que ”el agua moja”? Lo que se abre, y que anteriormente no lo había hecho por más de que camináramos cogidos de la mano, es el espacio público en que ahora aparece lo que se habla, y aparece no para mi, ni para ti sino para los dos. Como lo pone Taylor:

 

“La expresión abre aquí; no en el sentido de que te de a conocer mi incomodidad; tu ya sabías esto desde un principio. En cambio abre en el sentido de colocar esto en el espacio público ……  la incomodidad es ya un objeto para los dos juntos, le prestamos atención en conjunto. Vivimos ahora una complicidad. Esta es una experiencia que ahora compartimos. Gracias a esta expresión hay ahora algo entre nous.”

 

La articulación permite la solidaridad y en algunos casos hasta la profunda amistad. En “Theories of Meaning”, pg 264

[73] Artículo publicado en  EL Tiempo (sin fecha)

[74] Taylor, Charles “Philosophy in its History” (pg 23)

[75] “SIA”, pg 65 Para Taylor  “articulations are like interpretations  in that they are attempts to make clearer the imports things have for us.

[76] Sin duda el aspecto dialógico no cobra un papel central en SIA, pero si lo hará en su artículo “The importance of Herder”, pg 98: “Language is fashioned and grows not principally in monologue but in dialogue, or better, in the life of the speech community.”

[77] Ver, “What is Human Agency”

[78] En términos de la venganza por eso nos resulta tan impactante el cuento de Poe “The Cask of Amontillado”, o el cuento de Rulfo “Diles que no me maten”.

[79] El ejemplo lo da Taylor en su articulo sobre Foucault pg 103

[80] Taylor define lo que para él es una práctica en SotS pg 204 “By ‘pratice’, I mean something extremely vague and general: more or less any stable configuration of shared activity, whose shape is defined by a certan pattern of do’s and dont’s, can be a practice for my purpose”. Prácticas que incluyen la disciplina de nuestros hjios, los saludos, el voto y el intercamio comercial. Baste pensar en términos eróticos cómo celebran los argentinos un gol a diferencia de nosotros colombianos. Nuestra práctica de besarnos entre hombres es muy diferente; inexistente. Pero además, no es que Taylor crea que toda práctica ya está articulada, y menos aún que sea articulable tan sólo en palabras (piénsese en posturas corporales como la del machista). Así lo argumenta en “Philosophy and its History” en donde provee él otro mapa de la variabilidades de posible articualcion, señalando cómo “the inarticulate end of this gamut is somehow primary. That is, we are introduced to the goods, and inducted into the purposes of our society much more and earlier through its inarticulate practices than through formulations.” (pg 23) Otro interesante ejemplo se da en su artículo sobre Foucault: “That my declarations in this paper are all made in uninflicted words has nothing to do with what I  have decided, and everything to do with the fact that the medium of my thought is English (and I really didn’t choose that either” (pg 173). Por ejemplo, podría ser este un argumento para mantener las tildes del español que nos caracterizan.

[81] Taylor toca el tema de las relaciones interculturales en dos artículos: “Understanding and Ethnocentricity” y “Rationality”. Lo ideal sería añadir ideas expuestas  allí a este ensayo. Por ejemplo, ¿cómo desarrollar un lenguaje de constrastes entre los diferentes eroticismos? ¿Cómo dialogar acerca de lo erótico con el otro reconociendo su diferencia, incluso, corpórea?

[82]   Taylor, Charles Hegel and Modern Society,  pg 93.

[83] Taylor, Charles,  “What is Human Agency” pg 24

[84] “SIA”, pg 67

[85]  Taylor, Charles, “What is involved in Genetic Psychology”,  pg 161.

[86] Esquivel, pg 156-157

[87] Social Theory as practice pg 111 y ver también “Transcendental Arguments” en donde retoma la idea de la importancia de los mapas y de la orientación física;  “Thus although we may grasp this orientation from cues —-lay of land, ground, sky—what we perceive is not the lay of the land or the sky. We grasp a directionality of the field which is, however, essentially related to how we act and stand” [87]

 

[88] Taylor, SotS pg 48.

[89] Platón, Fedro 227ª, ligado a problemática de autenticidad “ a better or higher model of life ..ought to desire “ pg 16. Hay una manera auténtica de amar. “There is a certain way  .. for me” (MoM) pg. 29

[90] Taylor, Charles “Heidegger, Ecology and Language” pg 110: “so constitutive theoires go for the full range of expressive forms (what Cassirer called ”symbolic forms”. Ver igualmente Abbey, Ruth Charles Taylor pg 45 “However Taylor concedes that spelliing out the ….”

[91] Heidegger, Martin  Ser y Tiempo, Traducción de Rivera *32 (pg 172).

[92] Esquivel, pg.  156  y SIA “We experience our prearticulate  emotions as perplexing, as raising a question. And this is an experience that no non-language animal can have.”

 

[93] Como lo puso muy bien Botero en cuanto a la creación artística en su reciente e importante biografía televisada (¿articulada?). Para ver un ejemplo funesto de una postura no dialógica frente a lo erótico ver La Muerte en Venecia de Thomas Mann.

[94] “SIA”,  pg 70

[95] Esto nos lo indica obviamente Taylor en SotS pg 445 y prosigue “but as we reach … “. O nos enseña cómo Bach es más “profundo” que Liszt (“What is Human Agency”) pg 25: “I am also way ahead of where I might be if I had never acquired any language to talk about music, if it were a quite inarticulable experience for me”). Además, en la conclusión de su respuesta a los interlocutores de A Catholic Modernity? Taylor culmina aludiendo a otra obra musical: “And then I am tempted to say, in the words that open the choral part of Bethoveen’s Ninth Symphony, “Come off it. Let’s both calm down and listen to each other”. Changing the tome might be the essential prelude to changing the content”. Este es el tipo de fineza sensible que carecen las FARC y las AUC; entre otros colombianos.

[96] Thomas, AEF pg 96

[97] Esquivel pg 41

[98] “SIA” 70 Como lo pone Taylor  en su ensayo “Language and Human Nature” hablando del expresivismo y su importancia histórica: “the revolutionary idea  of expressivism  was that the development of new modes of expression enable us to have new feelings, more powerful or more refined, and certainly more self-aware. IN being able  to express or feelings we give them a reflective dimension which transforms them. The language user  can feel  not only anger but indignation,  not only love but admiration.Esto es precisamente lo que Tita aprende.

[99] Esquivel 157

[100] En “Understanding and Ethnocentricity” Taylor señala cómo “we do not expect callow youth to have as good an eye for the life free from illusion as those who have grown wiser with age …  When it comes to understanding what a life of fine sensibility is, some people are distressingly philistine” pg 119-120.

[101] Esquivel pg 171.  Ver también el hermoso texto de Ricoeur: “Hermeneutical function of distanciation” en Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences “Ultimately what I appropriate is a world. The latter is not behind the text, as a hidden intention would be, but in front of it, as that which the work unfolds, discovers, reveals” pg 143.

[102]  “SIA”,  “language articulates our feelings, makes them clearer and more defined; and in this way transforms our sense of our imports involved; and hence transforms the feeling”  (71). En su artículo sobre Foucault Taylor señala cómo desde la tradición romántica en términos de nuestra sexualidad: “Hay una verdad en esto; una auténtica manera para que cada uno de nosotros ame. Esto está distorsionado por la costumbre, o las demandas de poder externas a nosotros.” (pg 90)

[103] Ver un paralelo en el impactante cuento “The Yellow Wallpaper” de Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

[104] Cabe resaltar que Taylor en su lectura de Dostoievsky, tan fundamental para SotS,  señala cómo la obra de este última está permeada de “figuras curativas” (healing figures). “Loving the world ….”. Una de ellas es una prostituta, Sonia quien permanece cerca de Raskolnikov. Ver Crimen y Castigo, Oveja Negra, vol. II pg 574 “Sonia siempre…”

[105] Wolff, Virginia Una habitación propia , pgs 207-218. en “Antología del feminismo”, Alianza, Madrid, 1975. Pero también resultaría absurdo que la mujer viera ahora al hombre a la mitad de su tamaño. Taylor prefiere diálogos a monólogos, sean de la vagina o no.

[106] Ibíd.

[107] Al respecto no sobra recordar en cuanto al modelo epistemológico y la pregunta de la relación entre el saber cientifico y la racionalidad de culturas a-teróicas (Ver Taylor “Ratioanlity”)  como el indígena propiamente hace el amor con el cielo: “Cuando el indio hace la danza de la lluvia, por ejemplo, no está asumiendo una respuesta automática. Aquí no hay ninguna tecnología fallida, más bien, está invitando a las nubes a que se unan, para que respondan a la invocación. En efecto, les está pidiendo que hagan el amor con él, y como cualquier amante normal, puede que estén o no dispuestas a ello.“ (Payán, Julio César. Lánzate al vacío, McGraw Hill 2000. pg 30.) ¿Podemos nosotros amar nubes?

[108] Por ello compara Taylor un racista a un liberal carnívoro en su trata a los animales!: “in short, towards others he is like a contemporary carnivorous liberal towards animals” (SIA pg 61) También Hösle argumenta a favor del vegetarianismo en su “The third world as philosophical problem”. Ver nota 48

[109] En particular en “SIA” Taylor hace referencia a este ejemplo como central para la comprensiópn de lo que son evaluaciones fuertes: “The man wo flees seeks a good, safety. But we condemn him; he ought to have stood. For there is a higher good, the safety of the polis, which was here at stake. The judgement involves ranking goods, hence ranking motivations” (pg 66). Como nuestro Capitán Ruiz y el subintendente Díaz con su propia concepción de lo digno de ser amado; a saber, Bogotá.

[110] Para el amor de los quebecois por su provincia ver Reconciling the Solitudes, “Shared and Divergent values” pg 162 “The reaction to the massacre of the women at Montreal’s Ecole Polytechnique in 1989 is also eloquent on this score. Quebec society reacted more like a wounded family than like a large-scale, impersonal political unit”. Las calles de Montreal se llenaron de velas esa noche ante la masacre de mujeres por parte de un joven machista. 

[111] Taylor, SotS pg 516. La cita sobre Dostoievsky dice “Loving the world and ourselves is in a sense a miracle, in the face of evil and degradation that it and we contain. But the miracle comes on us if we accept being part of it. Involved in this is our acceptance of love from others. We become capable of love through being loved”. (SotS pg 452)

Es importante señalar aquí que la interpretación tayloriana de la identidad moderna ha sido considerada por algunos como ingenua. Por eso señala Ruth Abbey, algunos críticos “reprenden a Taylor por ofrecer una lectura implacablemente positiva de la historia de las ideas y por ignorar las perdidas sufridas a lo largo del camino además del lado oscuro de algunas de las filosofías influyentes que el discute”. (“chide Taylor for offering a relentlessly positive reading of history of ideas and for ignoring both the losses incurred along the way and the darker side of some of the influential philosophies he  discusses.“ (pg 75) Además esta tendencia interpretativa se hace aún más dramática, nos dice Abbey, cuando el reconocimiento de la pérdida frente al pasado se limita un pie de página de SotS (ibid. Pg 75). Pero si comprender la filosofía de la Mente (Geist) de Hegel se hace posible gracias a una compresión cualitativa de la acción humana (Como Taylor argumenta en “Hegel’s Philosophy of Mind”), pues en parte la cualidad que favorece Taylor en su lectura es característicamente optimista, más no ingenua. Por ello como señala Abbey la defensa tayloriana de la bondad  “viene del hecho de que la mejor manera de explicar el poder de una idea es la de apreciar la idea o imagen  del bien a la que da cuerpo y afirma” (“ comes from his belief that the best way to explain the power of an idea is to appreciate the idea or image  of the good that it embodies and affirms” (pg 75)).  Y Hegel parece pensar algo similar. Encontramos en las bellas  Lecciones sobre la Filosofía de la Historia Universal, en la introducción general —-subcapítulo titulado  “El fin último”——- las siguientes palabras que invitan a cierto tipo de acciones cualitativas:

 

“la censura negativa nos coloca en posición elegante y permite un gesto de superioridad sobre las cosas, sin haber penetrado en ellas, esto es, sin haberlas comprendido, sin haber comprendido lo que tiene de positivo ….. La censura puede estar fundada ciertamente; pero es mucho más fácil descubrir lo defectuoso que lo sustancial …… tiene sin duda, razón de censurarlo; pero, por otra parte, no tiene razón en  desconocer el aspecto afirmativo de las cosas. Es señal de máxima superficialidad el hallar por doquiera lo malo, sin ver nada de lo afirmativo y lo auténtico” (LFHU, pg 77-78, Alianza Editorial)

 

A diferencia de sus críticos, Taylor no es superficial en este sentido hegeliano. Taylor dista de aquel personaje, muy pesimista, a quien le dieron un delicioso donut y sólo pudo ver su insaboro centro hueco y no la dulce circunferencia.

[112] Augé, Paul y Claude. Nuevo pequeño Larousse. Larousse, Paris, 1953. pg 544. Pediría al lector releer la nota anterior. La importancia de ese tipo de “ingenuidad”, creo, se da igualmente en las tres transformaciones de Zarathustra y en Ricouer bajo el concepto de “second naivité”.  Además sorprende que personajes tan importantes como el doctor Payán concluyan sus libros dialógicos con palabras que piden “seguir el camino que tiene corazón”. Lánzate al vacío pg 130. (Y no en vano la última palabra de la importantísima obra del impactante Profesor Pangle The Ennobling of Democracy  concluye con la palabra eros, pero el de Sócrates).

[113] Esquivel, pg. 171. Claro dentro de la misma tradición de Taylor, la del catolicismo.

[114] Esquivel, pg. 173. Cabe recordar que Tita nace llorando y retorna, un poco eternamente, como lo señala Nietzsche.  Para un impactante análisis de lo erótico en Nietzsche ver La Gaya Ciencia *14 Titulado “Todo lo que llamos amor”. También  Will to Power numeral 808.

[115] Taylor resume su posición en “SIA” pg 74 “What emerges from the five together  is a picture of man as self-interpreting animal…..”. Pero además, revalorar el sentido del cocinarnos cobra validez no sólo porque Foucault abre nuestra comprensión a la dieta y a la comida (ver su entrevista al final de Rabinow y Dreyfus pg 229 y History of Sexuality vol 2), ni tampoco sólo porque múltiples doctores nos están haciendo concientes de nuestra “epistemológica” manera de comer (ver el texto citado de Payán), sino sobretodo porque estamos abiertos a escuchar las famosas palabras que retoma Aristotels para defender su análisis biológico de los animales: “Heraclitus is reported to have said to some visitors who wished to meet him and who hesitated when they saw him warming himself at the stove: ‘Come in, be bold: there are gods here too.’ In the same way we should approach the study of every animal without shame; for in all of them there is something natural and something beautiful.” (Citado en: Barnes, Jonathan, Aristotle, Oxford, Oxford, 1989.)

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RECONSTRUCCIÓN

 

DE LA ESPACIALIDAD DENTRO DE LA ARQUITECTURA GENERAL

 

DE SER Y TIEMPO

 

La nueva Ford Explorer 2002 nos invita a una aventura que desconoce de fronteras. ¿Cuáles son las características de esta topología originada en la revolución del Fordismo? ¿Cuáles son las coordenadas de esta invitación a descubrir nuevos espacios? En la propaganda correspondiente se nos responde: “Nadie las conoce. Lo que es cierto es que en la mente de cada quien existen lugares que no aparecen en ningún mapa, lugares espectaculares reservados sólo para quienes son capaces de liberar su espíritu aventurero.”(mi énfasis) [1].

En pleno siglo XXI se nos hace saber que el territorio Marlboro no necesita más de lentos caballos. Y sin embargo preocupados nos preguntamos a manera de contraste: ¿acaso es sólo posible apropiar la espacialidad por medio de la propiedad?¿Qué implica otro tipo de aventura espacial, a saber, la aventura por parajes a las que nos invita Heidegger?¿Qué otro tipo de topografías pueden mostrarse al leer las secciones *19 a *27 de Ser y Tiempo?

La compresión del conjunto espacio-temporal es para nosotros, herederos de la revolución computacional, una realidad cotidiana. Contactamos instantáneamente al otro por celulares, celulares que a su vez pagamos por medio de transacciones electrónicas de dinero plástico (con el cual también podemos acumular millas viajeros) en cajeros automáticos o vía transacciones electrónicas por Internet. Dentro del ciberespacio nos movemos no sólo comprando a través del e-commerce sino que nos contactamos por medio de populares programas tales como ICQ que conforman el software de nuestros cada vez más pequeños y más livianos computadores. Ya no nos resulta sorprendente que la final de la Copa América, que se realizó a veinte cuadras de mi casa, sea vista por millones de personas que no sólo no conocen Bogotá, sino que muy probablemente jamás la conocerán. Así como la Ford Explorer traspasa las fronteras existentes, de manera similar vemos como las fronteras estatales parecen ceder ante la presión de la globalización del planeta.[2] Como lo pone Harvey en The Postmodern Condition:

As space appears to shrink to a ‘global village’ of telecommunications and a ‘spaceship earth’ of economic and ecological interdependencies —to use just two familiar and everyday images —- and as time horizons shorten to the point where the present is all there is (the world of the schizophrenic), so we have to learn how to cope with an overwhelming sense of compression of our spatial and temporal worlds[3].

(A medida que el espacio se reduce al de una ‘ciudad global’ de telecomunicaciones y al de una ‘nave tierra’ de interdependencias económicas y ecológicas –para usar sólo dos imágenes familiares y cotidianas —y a medida que los horizontes temporales se acortan hasta el punto que el presente es lo único que hay (el mundo del esquizofrénico), entonces debemos aprender a manejar un sentido aturdidor de compresión de nuestros mundos espaciales y temporales).

Y lo interesante radica en que ya en 1927 Heidegger reconoce como él mismo no puede ver con claridad los efectos de la aparición de la radio sobre nuestra relación con la espacialidad. Para Heidegger la aparición de la radio lleva a “una des-alejación del mundo, cuyo sentido para el Dasein no podemos apreciar aún en su integridad.”[4] Si bien Heidegger al escribir Ser y Tiempo no podía visualizar la revolución que estaba forjándose, sin duda dicha compresión acelerada debe comprenderse, en parte, en el surgimiento del método cartesiano.

La crítica fundamental a la visión cartesiana de la espacialidad por parte de Heidegger nos remite a algo que en principio parece un tema un poco alejado. Dicha crítica se funda sobre la diferencia entre cualidades primarias y secundarias, separación común entre los filósofos del siglo XVII. Esto nos lo señala Heidegger en la sección *19. Allí nos invita él a retomar los pasos del análisis que realiza Descartes a un objeto cotidiano, una vela común y corriente, a partir del revolucionario método de la duda radical. Este objeto, que está hecho de cera, al usarse se transforma radicalmente. La cera se consume, se desvanece. Como lo pone Descartes: “what remains of the taste evaporates; the odor vanishes; its color changes; its shape is lost; its size increases; it becomes liquid; it grows hot”[5]. (lo que queda del sabor se evapora; el olor se desvanece; su forma se pierde; su tamaño se incrementa; se vuelve líquida; se calienta).

Debemos por lo tanto dudar de la exactitud y verificabilidad que podamos derivar de nuestras percepciones como seres corpóreos pues los sentidos nos engañan. Los sentidos no revelan la naturaleza en su verdadero trasfondo. Sin embargo, mirando más de cerca lo ocurrido podemos comprender, luego de un ejercicio de purgación sensorial, que de hecho algo sí permanece. En efecto de la cera sólo queda como permanente característica su extensión, como una cosa que ocupa un espacio físico dado. Dicho espacio ocupado, el de la res extensa, en efecto es potencialmente medible en términos matemáticos. Pero en cambio creer que el color rojo de la vela está en la vela, eso si sería, según Descartes, un error fundamental. Los colores, que son propiedades secundarias, no se dan en los objetos. El color es simplemente una variación de las cualidades primarias de las cosas. El color en sí es una modificación de propiedades físicas subyacentes.[6]

Lo que el método cartesiano nos ayuda a eliminar son precisamente estas distorsiones posibilitando así un acceso al ser de las cosas que las muestra como medibles, cuantificables y observables. Las cosas pueden ser objeto de análisis y experimentación. La razón es liberada de semejantes ataduras engañosas para abrir el camino progresivo de las ciencias naturales. Y no sólo son los objetos cosas extensas primariamente, igualmente yo en tanto ser racional debo obtener cierta distancia de mi propia corporeidad extensa y engañosa. Por ello encontramos que en Descartes la relación entre mente y cuerpo debe ser radicalmente dualista. Primero pienso, luego si existo. Surge una posición bien resumida por Charles Taylor:

Disengangement can be seen as getting free of the perspective of embodied experience, It is this perspective which is responsible for our attributing the color to the object; it is this which makes us give disproportionate importance to the senses and imagination in our account of knowledge. That the thinking acivity of the mind is really in its essential character free from these distorting media shows that the mind is essentially non-bodily. So argues Descartes in the celebrated passage about the piece of wax which closes the Second Meditation[7].

(El desarraigo puede verse como un librarse de la perspectiva de una experiencia corpórea. Es esta perspectiva la que es responsable de atribuir el color al objeto; es esto lo que nos hace darle una importancia desproporcionada a los sentidos y a la imaginación en nuestra concepción del conocimiento. Que la actividad pensante de la mente está realmente en su liberarse de estos medios distorcionantes, muestra que la mente es esencialmente no-corpórea. Así lo argumenta Descartes en el célebre pasaje del pedazo de cera que culmina la Segunda Meditación).

La perspectiva desarraigada (disengaged), es decir que se “libera” de la corporeidad, permite la certeza del cogito cartesiano que se enfrenta a la naturaleza en búsqueda de una comprensión mecanicista incluso de nuestras propias funciones vitales.[8] Un contemporánea de Descartes, pero que no comparte el dualismo del primero, lo expresa de manera concisa. Hobbes en el Capítulo V de su Leviatán, capítulo en el que se nos revelan las características fundamentales de la nueva racionalidad nos dice: “Reason is the pace; Encrease of Science the Way; and the Benefit of Man-kind the End.”[9] (La Razón es el paso; El Incremento de Ciencia el Camino; y el Beneficio de la Humanidad el Fin).

Pero nos preguntamos, ¿acaso nos pide Heidegger desconocer éstos avances científicos retornando a una inocencia no-tecnológica? Sin duda que no. Su crítica fundamental va, como la de Husserl, dirigida a la monopolización de los ámbitos de la razón por una sola, a saber, la razón instrumental que en su desarrollo debe controlar el espacio para poder emancipar la naturaleza a su posible uso. El que Heidegger no simplemente desee borrar el avance de la ciencia nos lo ha dicho ya en la “Introducción”. Recordamos como allí Heidegger nos decía: “el preguntar ontológico es ciertamente más originario que el preguntar óntico de las ciencias positivas”[10]. Y paralelamente enfatizaba como la madurez de una ciencia se da, anticipando a Kuhn, en su capacidad para sobrellevar una crisis en sus conceptos[11].

Ahora bien, el que las cosas se presenten como extensas en términos del recorrido ya realizado en nuestra lectura de Ser y Tiempo equivale a ver el ser de las cosas como meramente ‘ante los ojos’ (Vorhandenheit). Pero, recuperando las ganancias ontológicas de las secciones anteriores sabemos cómo en la cotidianeidad las cosas no se nos dan primariamente como cosas extensas sino como aquello que usamos en nuestras prácticas diarias. Y precisamente es difícil recuperar esta concepción del ser de las cosas como lo ‘a la mano’ por la primacía de aquella perspectiva que las concibe como objetos allá afuera cuya característica principal es la de su ser extensos. La deconstrucción heideggeriana parte de la siguiente realización, “con lo dicho se han evidenciado los fundamentos ontológicos de la determinación del mundo como res extensa: esa determinación se basa en la idea de substancialidad, no sólo no aclarada en su sentido de ser, sino tenida por inaclarable[12] (mi énfasis).

Pero, nos preguntamos ¿qué, más específicamente, tiene todo lo anterior que ver con la noción de espacialidad con la que iniciamos este ensayo? Precisamente que la posición denominada disengaged (desarraigada) concibe el espacio de manera tal que pueda controlarse y dominarse a partir de la acción humana. No en vano casi de manera contemporánea a Descartes se da el desarrollo de mapas matemáticos por medio de los cuales se logra “concebir el espacio como abstracto, homogéneo y universal en sus cualidades, un marco de pensamiento y acción que era estable y conocible. La geometría euclidiana proveyó el lenguaje de discurso básico” [13] Por ello mismo encontramos en Descartes, específicamente en la Segunda Parte del Discurso del Método, las implicaciones prácticas arquitectónicas de su metodología racionalista. Haciendo alusión a uno de los saberes que se mueven dentro de la conceptualización y manejo práctico del espacio, a saber a la arquitectura, Descartes nos dice:

Se ve así que las construcciones iniciadas y acabadas por un sólo arquitecto suelen ser más bellas y mejor ordenadas, que aquellas que han intentado reparar utilizando viejos muros que habían sido construidos con otros fines. Como esas ciudades antiguas que no fueron en un comienzo más que aldeas y llegaron a ser con el paso del tiempo grandes ciudades; son de ordinario tan mal acompasadas (Nota; mal trazadas con compás), en comparación a aquellas plazas regulares que un ingeniero traza en una llanura según su fantasía …….. Se diría que han sido más la fortuna la que los ha dispuesto así y no la voluntad de algunos hombres que usan la razón[14] (mi énfasis).

No lejos de este objetivo que racionaliza el espacio encontramos el plan arquitectónico de Le Corbusier para Paris. La rigidez, repetición y funcionalidad se abren ante nuestros ojos en el siguiente modelo, al cual retornaremos más adelante:

Ahora bien, es en Heidegger en donde encontramos el comienzo de una reconceptualización de lo que hemos de considerar como espacialidad en tanto existenciario ontológico de los seres humanos. La espacialidad es de Dasein en su cotidiano andar en el mundo. Ser espacial y ser-en-el-mundo van de la mano en el ser para quien la pregunta por el sentido del ser surge; ese Dasein que en cada caso somos nosotros mismos.

Vimos ya en el anterior ensayo como lo ‘a la mano’ es principalmente en el carácter de su cercanía, la cercanía de su uso práctico cotidiano. Por ello nos decía Heidegger que hablando ontológicamente dos cosas no se tocan por más cerca que ellas se encuentren[15]. Esto es así porque sólo es de Dasein el tocar. Dasein toca pero no lo hace a través de un espacio geométrico que le es externo en la forma de unas coordenadas como la ‘x’ y la ‘y’. Dasein no cabe en un sitio como el agua en el vaso.[16] Pero si esto es así, ¿cómo hemos de concebir la espacialidad de Dasein?

Heidegger nos pide que recordemos lo dicho en cuanto a los útiles. Todo útil (Zeug) tiene un sitio (Platz). Pero este sitio no lo concebimos principalmente en términos físicos, es decir que —-utilizando el vocabulario ya ganado en nuestra lectura—– el útil no es primariamente algo “ante los ojos”. El útil lo usamos, y en su uso su entorno sale a relucir pues todo útil ocupa un lugar dentro de una red (un entramado) que no salta a la vista en lo cotidiano. Raro sería colocar la licuadora en la sala para invitados. Más raro aún hacer que los invitados nos hagan visita parados frente a la estufa o la nevera. Pero, ¿si no es el sitio físico del cual habla Heidegger –es decir, la licuadora allí a treinta centímetros de la nevera—- entonces que tipo de espacio puede ser éste?

Podemos, creo yo, comenzar a comprender esta noción de espacialidad si nos remitimos de nuevo a nuestro lenguaje cotidiano. Es así como en español muchas veces decimos a alguien querido: “tienes un sitio especial en mi corazón”. ¿Hemos acaso de concebir aquí tu posición en mi pero anatómicamente? Sin duda que no. Más bien la anterior frase cotidiana nos invita a considerar y a tratar de comprender que cada cosa esta situada a la manera de ser como útil para un Dasein que en su práctica cotidiana se mueve por los sitios ocupados por útiles a su disposición. Y en la cotidianeidad es tan así que cuando algo no está en su sitio nosotros, Dasein, tendemos al desespero. Quien no ha escuchado a algún Dasein estresado preguntar: “¿dónde está mi control remoto?¡No está en su sitio!” Y sin embargo exclamamos al que se desespera ante el movimiento inoportuno de sitios, “¡claro, como si al preguntársele por el sitio del control remoto en efecto lo pudiese señalar!”

Pero si todo útil tiene un sitio, es evidente que un conjunto de útiles no es sencillamente una sumatoria de sitios separados entre sí. Por ello nos dice Heidegger que los sitios son múltiples y un conjunto de ellos conforma lo que él denomina como Paraje (Gegend). Por ello Heidegger resume lo dicho en referencia a los útiles con las siguientes palabras:

Esta orientación zonal de la multiplicidad de lugares propios de lo a la mano constituye lo circundante, el en-torno-a-nosotros del ente que comparece inmediatamente en el mundo circundate. Lo inmediatamente dado no es jamás una multiplicidad tridimensional de lugares posible, ocuparse por cosas que están ahí”. [17]

Pero además, entre los múltiples parajes en los que en nuestro diario acontecer nos movemos encontramos, no tematizados, los siguientes posibles espacios radicalmente diferenciables entre sí: el espacio de la iglesia (o el de la mezquita, o el de la sinagoga), el espacio de mi cuarto, el espacio de este seminario, el espacio de la discoteca, el espacio de un parque con andenes amplios, el espacio del senado, el espacio de la ciclovía, el espacio del consultorio, el espacio de cada habitación en nuestras casas, el espacio del cementerio, el espacio del cuartel, el espacio del manicomio, el sin-espacio de la prisión, el espacio del burdel. Son éstos múltiples espacios dentro de los que Dasein anda de manera radicalmente diferente. Por esto mismo más allá del comienzo del análisis a partir de los útiles hay ámbitos que habitamos, como los ya enumerados anteriormente, que primariamente no son a la manera de la utilidad de lo ‘a la mano’. Sorpresivamente Heidegger nos provee con el siguiente hermoso ejemplo:

Las Iglesias y las tumbas, por ejemplo, están situadas de acuerdo con la salida y la puesta del sol, zonas de la vida y de la muerte, desde las cuales el Dasein mismo está determinado desde el punto de vista de sus más propias posibilidades-de-ser-en-el-mundo[18].

Las posibilidades de Dasein están referidas de manera crucial a su modo de habitar el espacio en que anda. Y a diferencia de los ingenieros cartesianos que podrían construir de la nada, nuestro andar siempre estando dentro de parajes nos antecede. No sólo es que la iglesia de mi barrio estaba ahí antes de que naciera yo, es que en la iglesia que todavía perdurará aun cuando ya no esté aquí, se es de una manera particular, se es dentro del espacio de lo sagrado.

Y ¿por qué nos es tan difícil comprender esta deconstrucción heideggeriana? Primero por la deconstrucción requerida de la concepción cartesiana de la espacialidad que no es tan obvia y familiar. Pero además, porque nosotros andamos metidos de lleno en estos parajes cotidianos. Nosotros no los tematizamos, no nos son notorios en nuestro diario quehacer. ¿Acaso en la discoteca nos preocupamos, a menos de que seamos arquitectos o lectores de Heidegger, por los arreglos espaciales del lugar? Si lo hiciéramos sin duda nuestra pareja desearía estar precisamente en otro sitio, con otro Dasein.

Creo yo que un camino más que nos podría ayudar a comprender esta noción de espacialidad a la cual hace referencia Heidegger la encontramos recordando aquellos lugares que habitamos alguna vez y que ya no lo hacemos más: las casas de nuestra infancia, los parques donde jugábamos, y si contamos con suerte, las fincas que recorríamos. Si recordamos estos sitios lo que precisamente no reconocemos como su carácter espacial son las medidas entre sus objetos constituyentes. Un buen ejemplo de lo que implica este tipo de espacialidad, y los peligros de concebir la espacialidad de una manera más auténtica nos la entrega Albert Camus en su hermoso Return to Tipasa :

Yet I persisted without very well knowing what I was waiting for, unless perhaps the moment to go back to Tipasa. To be sure, it is sheer madness, almost always punished to return to the sites of one’s youth, to relive a forty what one loved or keenly enjoyed at twenty . But I was forewarned of that madness … I hoped, I think, to recapture there a freedom I could not forget[19]

(Sin embargo persistía sin saber bien aquello por lo que yo estaba esperando, a menos de pronto por el momento de regresar a Tipasa. De seguro, es una verdadera locura, casi siempre castigada, el retornar a los sitios de nuestra juventud, revivir a los cuarenta lo que uno amó o disfrutó agudamente a los veinte. Me advirtieron de esta locura …. Yo esperaba, creo yo, recapturar una libertad que no podía olvidar)

Al hacer este ejercicio mental, y sobretodo al hacer el ejercicio práctico de regresar a tales lugares, podemos comprender tal vez mejor las características esenciales de la espacialidad del ser ahí. En dicho análisis encontramos dos existenciarios específicos.[20] Por un lado encontramos el des-alejar (ent-fernung) , por otro la orientación (ausrichtung). ¿Qué nos indican estos dos existenciarios? ¿Cuál es la posible relación existente entre los dos?

El des-alejar para Heidegger no se da en un sentido del eliminar distancia físicas, de devorar los kilómetros con nuestra Ford Explorer modelo 2002. Más bien nos enseña Heidegger:

Desalejar quiere decir hacer desaparecer la lejanía(Ferne), es decir,el estar lejos de algo; significa, por consiguiente, acercamiento. El Dasein es esencialmente des-alejador; por ser el ente que es, hace que el ente comparezca viniendo a la cercanía. (…) Dos puntos, y en general, dos cosas no están propiamente alejados el uno del otro[21] (mi énfasis).

Los átomos chocan, no se des-alejan. Los átomos que chocan sobre Nagasaki, quitan a la ciudad su espacio geométrico, pero por eso mismo para nosotros Nagasaki ha sido des-alejada para siempre de manera aterradora. O para utilizar un ejemplo heideggeriano menos perturbador. Las gafas, siendo geométricamente lo más cercano, son realmente lo más lejano pues su espacialidad no salta “a la vista”. Y tampoco el andén sobre el cual camino en la nueva espacialidad de la Avenida Quince es realmente lo más cercano en términos del des-alejar. Más cercana es la linda chica o chico que cruza por el otro andén, que el andén aquí debajo mío y que piso a cada paso. En español cuando decimos que nos vamos a callejear, no es precisamente a maravillarnos con las calles que estrenan pavimento. Callejear es caminar con Daseins amigos los parajes que se muestran más allá del entrecruzarse de las calles mismas.

Al comenzar este recorrido enfatizábamos cómo en 1927 Heidegger se preguntaba por el surgimiento de la radio “cuyo sentido para el Dasein no podemos apreciar aún en su integridad”[22]. ¿No sabemos nosotros mejor que el propio Heidegger de los peligros inherentes a este des-alejar? Nuestro des-alejamiento geométrico en términos de una radical compresión espacial ha modificado nuestras vidas de manera total. Pero si bien nuestro espacio incluye ya espacios denominados “ciberespaciales”,[23] (espacios que para los limitados físicos pueden incluso reabrir el mundo) ¿acaso no simplemente hemos nosotros des-alejado lo remoto sobretodo en términos de distancia? Des-alejamos animales, des-alejamos guerras en la televisión, des-alejamos hasta los más diversos platos culinarios. En un mismo centro comercial podemos encontrar un espacio ecléctico que nos invita a degustar la más grande diversidad de platos cuyo origen se encuentra a miles de kilómetros. Podemos escoger entre platos argentinos, colombianos, árabes, gringos, chinos, mejicanos. [24] Des-alejamos, es cierto pero lo hacemos, tal vez, un poco a la manera que nosotros también desalejamos a La Pantera de Rilke:

“His tired gaze -from passing endless bars-

has turned into a vacant stare which nothing holds.

To him there seem to be a thousand bars,

and out beyond these bars exists no world.”

(Su mirada cansada —de pasar barrotes interminables—

se ha tornado en una mirada fija vacía que no contiene nada.

Para él parece haber miles de barrotes,

Y allá fuera de estos barrotes no existe mundo)

Pero dejando de lado por ahora las implicaciones de dicho des-alejar y las raíces en el movimiento inaugurado por Descartes, podemos continuar nuestra investigación topológica al mirar más de cerca el otro existenciario característico de la espacialidad humana, a saber, el orientar. La orientación —que Gaos traduce por dirección—— nos enseña que la espacialidad no sólo es un des-alejar viendo en torno, sino que este desalejar tiene un arreglo de orientación. Es del Dasein, por ejemplo, tener un izquierdo y un derecho al cual se refieren útiles como los guantes que usamos: “La orientación hacia la derecha o izquierda se funda en la esencial direccionalidad del Dasein en general, y ésta por su parte, está esencialmente codeterminada por el estar-en-el-mundo”[25].

Para Heidegger nuestro estar situados es un estar existencialmente como seres corpóreos. Ónticamente somos en la manera de ser en cuerpos. Incluso nuestra percepción —a diferencia de la perspectiva cartesiana desarraigada (disengaged)—- es la de un agente corpóreo involucrado en el mundo. Tenemos una estructura corpórea previa que de entrada nos orienta de ciertas maneras y no de otras. Al pensar por ejemplo en el arriba y en el abajo característicos de nuestro andar, no nos referimos simplemente a lo que está por encima de mi cabeza o debajo de los pies. Podría estar acostado y no por ello sería “arriba” lo que esta en dirección de mi cabeza. Tampoco es el orientarse simplemente el referirnos a unos objetos externos tales como el cielo o la tierra. Más bien, como lo pone Charles Taylor:

…. up-down directionality is the line of possible upright stance and action; that is, it is a perception of the field as a locus of our activity.

Thus although we may grasp this orientation from cues —-lay of land, ground, sky—what we preceive is not the lay of the land or the sky. We grasp a directionality of the field which is, however, essentially related to how we act and stand[26].

(La direccionalidad arriba-abajo es la línea de posible estado erguido y de posible acción; es decir, es una percepción del campo como centro de nuestra actividad …….. Por ello aunque podemos comprender esta orientación a partir de claves —- la disposición del terreno, suelo, cielo— lo que percibimos no es la disposición del terreno o el cielo. Comprendemos una direccionalidad del campo que es, sin embargo, esencialmente relacionada a cómo actuamos y nos paramos)

Y tan es así que podemos tomar el siguiente ejemplo, cotidiano para nosotros al andar en carro por Bogotá. En nuestra práctica cotidiana del conducir por las calles al orientar al que conduce para llegar a un sitio, por ejemplo a una fiesta en nuestra ciudad —-que nos han enseñado está mucho más cerca de las estrellas que otras—- decimos: “Sube por la siguiente. Y luego baja por la otra”. Tan nos es familiar dar direcciones de esta manera que no vemos cómo en muchos casos hacemos uso de la presencia de las montañas orientales para situarnos. El orientar bogotano hacia el oriente no es aplicable a ciudades norteamericanas en las que decir “go down” o “go up” es exactamente equivalente en términos de direccionalidad.

Y recuperando estos dos elementos constitutivos, el del des-alejar y el del orientar, sale a relucir que “el espacio no está en el sujeto ni el mundo está en el espacio.”[27]. Por el contrario Dasein es precisamente un ser de apertura que da espacio a lo que es. Dar espacio, nos dice Heidegger, es dar libertad a lo que se da. Es tan sólo de Dasein la posibilidad del abrir las cosas a su ser liberándolas. Y liberarlas a su espacialidad comienza por el reconocer que saberes como el de la geometría o el de la arquitectura —saberes que miden o manejan la espacialidad—– son saberes que parten del previo ser espacial de Dasein en cuanto ser-en-el-mundo. Pero repetimos, es evidente que Heidegger no rechaza el manejo del espacio realizado por estos saberes regionales. Señala él tan sólo que esta aproximación a la espacialidad, en particular la matemática, neutraliza los parajes en los que desarrollamos nuestra práctica cotidiana: “El descubrimiento circunspectivo y puramente contemplativo del espacio neutraliza las zonas circunmundanas convirtiéndolas en dimensiones puras”[28] .

¿Dónde encontramos nosotros estas neutralizaciones espaciales? Cada día lo hacemos. Lo hacemos al referirnos en nuestro andar, por ejemplo, a aquellos mapas que nos ayudan a movilizarnos de un punto a otro. Un mapa nos revela Certeau, “coloniza; elimina poco a poco las figuraciones pictóricas de la práctica que lo produjo.”[29] Las implicaciones de dicha colonización pueden ser comprendidas mejor al comparar un mapa del medioevo en donde todavía percibimos el acceso cotidiano al espacio referido a prácticas diarias:

Con el mapa de la bella ciudad de Montréal que queda reducida a un conjunto geométrico de líneas entrecruzadas liberadas del cotidiano ser espacial de Dasein en el mundo:

La creación de nuestros mapas se da históricamente y refleja el anhelo cartesiano de reducir la espacialidad a una abstracción que al ser tan sólo eso, una abstracción, se hace manejable y ordenable[30].

Pero no sólo los mapas, que nos llevan de un lado a otro, nos revelan la historicidad en la que se desenvuelven el des-alejar y el orientar que son propios de la espacialidad de Dasein. En nuestro diario existir nos movemos por entre, dormimos en, y soñamos con los parajes que son nuestras casas y nuestros edificios. Y si es cierto que el dar espacio es dar libertad a lo que es, y sólo es de Dasein el abrir las cosas a su ser liberándolas, entonces aquel saber que estudia el espacio que habitamos ha de tener una importantísima repercusión en nuestro modo de ser. La arquitectura es aquel saber que gira en torno al estudio del espacio que podemos habitar. Como lo señala nuestro famoso arquitecto Rogelio Salmona aludiendo a la historicidad propia de la espacialidad, historicidad que Heidegger revela en su crítica a la noción del espacio cartesiano:

“lo arquitectónico es la ruta que seguí para encontrar que la modernidad empieza en una nueva percepción del espacio. .. el que quiere instaurar otro sistema de figuración, de representación y de construcción del espacio, tiene que conocer su evolución, y en que momento se producen las rupturas” (mi énfasis) [31]

No en vano este debate por el espacio es uno de los temas centrales sobre los cuales gira la ruptura entre modernidad y postmodernidad. El conflicto se haya en una reconceptualización de lo que es la espacialidad de Dasein. Para los arquitectos modernos, por ejemplo de la década de los 50, el espacio debe ser concebido en términos de su función y de su aplicación social racionalizada. (No en vano dicha posición surge posterior a la Segunda Guerra Mundial) El espacio homogéneo es ordenado racionalmente para el beneficio de la humanidad. Recordemos lo dicho por Descartes sobre la ciudad de sus sueños y el plan de Le Corbusier para Paris. En cambio para los arquitectos postmodernos el espacio es concebible sólo como autónomo, diverso, e independiente. Espacios, en plural, que han de ser moldeados de acuerdo a principios estéticos que no llevan en sí un telos social como su base de realización.[32] Los sistemas de urbanización públicos de Baltimore con su aburridor carácter geométrico y repetitividad ejemplifican la postura aquí denominada moderna:

Sin duda estos edificios insípidos contrastan radicalmente con el nuevo Lloyds Building de Londres, que siendo un ejemplo de la arquitectura postmoderna, entre otras características, muestra en su fachada la tubería como ornamento del todo arquitectónico:

La postmodernidad —reconociendo de entrada la complejidad del debate en torno a este término casi indefinible—– se subleva contra este control cartesiano de la espacialidad. La espacialidad a la que nos invita el comercial de la Ford Explorer con el que comenzamos este ensayo no des-aleja, no orienta. Heidegger, ya desde Ser y Tiempo nos pide, aunque de manera muy incipiente, a reconsiderar los peligros inherentes a esta postura limitadora. Nos invita él en cambio, de manera indirecta, claro está, a considerar proyectos arquitectónicos como los de la famosa casa llamada Fallingwater de Wright en el que se respeta el entorno “dentro” del cual se construye y por ende en realidad libera el espacio gracias a la armonía que de se da entre los Daseins habitantes y su mundo circundante. Para Wright: “Organic buildings are of the strength and lightness of the spider’s spinning, buildings qualified by light, bred by native character to environment, married to the ground”[33]. (“Los edificios orgánicos son de la fortaleza y la ligereza del tejer de la araña, edificios cualificados por la luz, criados con un carácter nativo al ambiente, casados con el terreno.”) Dasein dando espacio ha de liberar su entorno casándose con sus terrenos recuperados luego de una lectura heideggeriana de la espacialidad. [34]


[1] Revista Motor, Agosto, 2001. No. 318, pg. 20-21.

[2] Claro, estas fronteras que en términos de mercados son franqueables, no cesan de existir cuando se trata del movimiento migratorio de los diversos Dasein por el mundo de los países desarrollados. La leyes de inmigración a nivel político reflejan como la globalización es sobretodo un proceso económico. Ver

[3] Harvey, David, The Postmodern Condition, pg. 240. El grafico No. 1 que aparece al final de este ensayo revela cómo gráficamente podemos señalar este proceso de compresión espacio temporal.

[4] Ser y Tiempo, *23, pg. 131. SuZ. P.105

[5] Descartes, Rene. Meditations, “Second Meditation”, Trans. Laurence J. Lafleur. , Bobbs Merril. Pgs. 81-91.

[6] Como lo pone Taylor en Philosophical Arguments “Lichtung or Lebensform” pg. 65: “Our “primary properties were really in” the objects “; secondary properties, such as color, were effects produced in the mind by concatenations of primary properties in things. Seeing things as really colored was one of those distorting effects of our peculiar constitution as a substantial union of soul and body. What comes to be called objectivity requires an escape from this.”

[7] Ibid. pg. 66

[8] Descarte, Rene. Discurso del Método, pg. 63ff.

[9] Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan. Capitulo V, Pg. 116, Penguin Classics.

[10] Ser y Tiempo *3 pg.34; En inglés pg. 31 *3 “ontological inquiry is indeed more primordial, as over against the ontical inquiry of the positive sciences”

[11] ibid. *3. pg. 29

[12] ibid. *20, pg. 120.

[13] Harvey David. “…conceiving of space as abstract, homogenous, and universal in its qualities, a framework of thought and action which was stable and knowable. Euclidian geometry provided the basic language of discourse” Pg 254

[14] Descares, Rene. Discurso del Método, Segunda Parte pg. 25 (Editorial Norma).

[15] Ser y Tiempo, *26 pg. 135.

[16] Ver por ejemplo la última propaganda de Bell South, El Tiempo, Agosto 12, 2001. que efectivamente utiliza el mismo ejemplo de Heidegger de vasos llenos de agua. (la propaganda es muy grande para fotocopiar)

[17] Ser y Tiempo, *22, 128.

[18] Ser y tiempo, *22, pg. 129.

[19] Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus and other essays, “Return to Tipasa, pg. 196. Vintage Books, 1983.

[20] Ser y Tiempo, *23, 148.

[21] Ser y Tiempo, *23, 130. Interesente sería recuperando la anotación sobre los puntos recoger la valiosa reconsideración del punto por parte de Kandinsky en Punto y Línea sobre el plano Labor, 1988. Además Harvey ve en Kandinsky un transformación de la espacialidad en sus obras que refleja el impacto que tuvo sobre el pintor la Primera Guerra Mundial. Ver los Dibujos No. 2 y No. 3 al final de este ensayo.

[22] Ser y Tiempo *23, 131.

[23] Espacio que amerita una investigación profunda y del cual se dice que se está en todo lugar y en ninguna parte a la vez; sobretodo en términos de las implicaciones para la ley..

[24] Harvey, Davis. Pg. 300.

[25] Ser y Tiempo, *23, pg. 135.

[26] Taylor, Charles, “Trascendental Arguments”, pg 24. en Philosophical Arguments”

[27] Ser y Tiempo *24 pg. 136.

[28] Ser y tiempo *24, 137.

[29] Certeau, Michel de. The Practice of Everyday Life Capítulo IX “Spatial Stories”, pg 121.

[30] Harvey, David, pg. 249 “Maps stripped of all fantasy and religious belief, as well as any sign of the experiences involved in their production, had become abstract and strictly functional systems for the factual pondering of phenomena in space”. Ver también “To follow a Rule” de Charles Taylor, pg. 176. “A way is essentially something you go through in time. The map on the other hand, lays out everything simultaneously, and relates every point to every point without discrimination”

[31] Revista Diners, Marzo, 1998.

[32] Harvey, David. pg. 66. “Above all, postmodernists depart radically from modernist conceptions of how to regard space. Whereas the modernists see space as something to be shaped for social purposes and therefore always subservient to the construction of a special project, the postmodernists see space as something independent and autonomous, to be shaped according to the aesthetic aims and principles which have nothing necessarily to do with any overarching objective, save, perhaps, the achievement of timelessness and ‘disinterested’ beauty as an objective in itself”. Además surge la pregunta de si para nosotros el fenómeno de la espacialidad ha cobrado mayor importancia que el de la temporalidad. Ver por ejemplo David Harvey pg 201 y sobretodo la obra de Foucault que está llena de relaciones espaciales.

[33] O como lo pone Salmona, él esta interesado en la arquitectura que involucra el cuerpo entero.” (mi énfasis) (La Revista Diners, Marzo 1998). Otros ejemplos hermosos de esta posición son la “Catedral” de Brasilia de Niemeyer y del mismo arquitecto “El Museo de Niteroi” que se eleva como una flor, como un cartucho, sobre la bahía.

[34] A continuación colocaré los diagramas citados en las notas finales de este ensayo . En su orden son la No. 1, “Contraccion del mapa temporal en los últimos siglos”, (en Harvey David pg 241); No. 2, “Pintura de Kandinsky Jugement Dernier de 1912” (en Harvey David pg 281); No. 3, “Pintura de Kandinsky Les Deux de 1924” (Harvey David, pg 282) y No. 4, Foto de Fallingwater de Wright.

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LENGUAJE(S), IDENTIDAD Y DIFERENCIA EN LA

TEORÍA POLÍTICA DE JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU

 

I. INTRODUCCIÓN

La visión del lenguaje en la teoría política de Jean-Jacques Rousseau no sólo es rica en contenido, sino además central para la comprensión de nuestra presente crisis de legitimidad. Para Rousseau el lenguaje es parte constitutiva de lo que hemos, históricamente, llegado a ser. Es a través del lenguaje que clarificamos y articulamos críticamente nuestra relación de autenticidad personal, la relación de solidaridad con los demás en el ámbito político, y por último, la relación con la naturaleza como fuente de expresión moderna. Al entrever tales relaciones podemos llegar a comprender, así sea parcialmente, lo que hemos sido, somos, y podemos llegar a ser.

Charles Taylor ha argumentado que Rousseau es uno de los principales inauguradores de una tradición política característicamente moderna, a saber, aquella fundada sobre la dignidad egalitaria basada a su vez en la idea de que todos los humanos somos dignos de respeto. Esto se ejemplifica en la noción de que “la clave para Rousseau de una república libre parece ser una exclusión de cualquier diferencia de roles” (*1). Dicha perspectiva se encuentra en tensión con la tradición contemporánea de una política de la diferencia, tradición crítica del proyecto de homogeneización y pretendida neutralidad del liberalismo en una de sus variantes. Sin embargo, como veremos, la posición de Rousseau es significativamente mucho más compleja. Contiene ella múltiples elementos que sin duda pertenecen al ámbito de lo que se ha llamado una política de la diferencia. Pero ella no deja de estar en tensión con la corriente que Taylor resalta, la de la universalidad egalitaria fundada sobre proyectos comunes de una voluntad general altamente indiferenciada.

Esta dialéctica se da primeramente ya que para Rousseau “las lenguas se forman naturalmente sobre las necesidades de los hombres; cambian y se alteran según los cambios de esas mismas necesidades” (EOL, XX). Estas necesidades, y las pasiones humanas más complejas, no sólo se transforman históricamente sino igualmente en relación con condiciones espaciales específicas. Por ello los lenguajes mismos están colocados dentro de diferentes dimensiones espacio-temporales (EOL VIII). Es así como el lenguaje que compartimos no sólo es constitutivo de que lo hemos llegado a ser dentro de múltiples sistemas políticos, sino que además la presencia de dicho lenguaje nuestro, y no de otro, afecta radicalmente la manera en que percibimos tanto comunidades lingüísticas existentes diferentes a la nuestra, como comunidades ya extintas. Además, dicha pluralidad es igualmente clave, no sólo para la comprensión de la fortaleza de la música en la visión rousseauiana y su relación con la política del lenguaje, sino también, como veremos, para la clarificación y redefinición de las múltiples familias de lenguaje que conforman nuestro lenguaje político moderno tal y como aparecen entrelazados en el Contrato Social (CS). Por ello el mundo de Rousseau, para bien, o muy probablemente para mal, está constituido por una multiplicidad de modos de experienciar; en germen presenta una política de la diferencia. Rousseau “ha absorbido los lenguajes del pasado …… para dar voz a un nuevo lenguaje” (Starob, 323).

Sin embargo esta multiplicidad no ha de llevarnos necesariamente a una concepción radicalmente relativista de la realidad política. Esto es así ya que subyacendo a la diversidad de formaciones lingüísticas (y la paralela diferenciación de formaciones socio-políticas y de modos de producción (EOL IX)) yace la universalidad, a la que todos podemos acceder, de la voz de la naturaleza. La pluralidad es en parte el resultado de una serie de eventos catastróficos en la naturaleza que hicieron posible el desarrollo de la potencialidad inherente hacia el perfección que es característica de los seres humanos desde su origen. No cabe duda alguna que aquella condición primigenia la hemos perdido para siempre (si es que en verdad existió alguna vez), pero independientemente de lo des-naturalizados e inauténticos que hayamos llegado a ser, la voz de la naturaleza todavía habla, a través de, y para todos. Igualmente participamos de ella universalmente. Rousseau se jacta de ser precisamente él quien en particular profundiza en escuchar dicha voz; es ella su única recompensa (DCA, 2). También el Contrato Social va más allá de la simple relatividad facilista pues nos abre a un ideal política por medio del cual se pueden juzgar formaciones y organizaciones sociales existentes (Starob, 301). Y aparte de la existencia de este ideal, la misma pluralidad de lenguajes que encontramos analizados allí está claramente jerarquizada; hecho que nos permite hablar de un respeto por la diferencia, más no de una tolerancia del perspectivismo simplista.

Para llevar a cabo esta investigación, que para Rousseau involucra un recuperar y un re-escuchar la historia de nuestra caída, propongo dividir este ensayo en cinco secciones que, aunque separadas, permanecen íntimamente interrelacionadas. Para dilucidar las primeras cuatro retomaré algunos de los puntos centrales que se hayan tanto en el Discurso sobre el origen y los fundamentos de la desigualdad entre los hombres (DOD), como en el Ensayo sobre el origen de las lenguas (EOL). Acerca de pocos otros textos podría uno decir que la comprensión del uno requiere de una cuidadosa lectura del otro. La mayor diferencia entre ellos radica en su énfasis. Mientras que el DOD coloca la problemática del lenguaje dentro del más amplio tópico del desarrollo histórico de la desigualdad politico-económica, el EOL por su parte invierte los papeles colocando al lenguaje, y su relación con la expresividad musical, al frente.

La afinidad entre ambas obras es impresionante. En primer lugar, y éste es el primer punto a tratar en este ensayo, ambos hablan directamente de la problemática de los orígenes. Al hacerlo nos presentan estos textos con un “método” para la comprensión del fenómeno de la génesis. En segundo lugar, y este será el tema de las tres siguientes secciones, ambos colocan al lenguaje, y la paralela formación de estructuras socio-políticas correspondientes, dentro de un marco histórico que en su movimiento trágico es representable de mejor manera, no como el espiral hegeliano ascendente, sino como una espiral en caída (*2). Como humanos habitábamos en silencio en la prehistoria escuchando la voz de la naturaleza; nuestra historia termina en un nuevo silencio, pero irónicamente en medio de la existencia de una pluralidad de lenguajes convencionales radicalmente empobrecidos (EOL XX) (*3). Además, si el estado natural era uno de igualdad en términos de libertad natural y capacidad de perfeccionamiento, nuestro estado actual civilizado lleva a una igualdad, pero en cadenas: “el hombre ha nacido libre pero por todas partes está encadenado” (CS, I *1).

Este pesimismo radical no escapa tampoco al Contrato Social, pero como señalaré en la quinta sección, Rousseau retoma los plurales lenguajes políticos de la modernidad ——-el republicano, el del contrato social y el del interés—— para comprender nuestra compleja situación. De nuevo la pluralidad será desligada del relativismo gracias a la primacía de uno de estos lenguajes, el republicano. Para Rousseau la salud del cuerpo político, que de todas maneras esta destinado a fallecer, se haya sólo en proyectos comunes dirigidos por una voluntad general que supere facciones conflictivas. En caso contrario, es decir, “cuando la relación social está rota en todos los corazones, cuando el más vil interés se adorna descaradamente con el nombre del bien público, entonces la voluntad general se vuelve muda” (CS, IV *1). La pluralidad lingüística puede entonces terminar simplemente enmudeciendo y ensordeciendo.

II. EL LENGUAJE DE LOS ORÍGENES

La búsqueda de orígenes es un tema central que encontramos en particular en el DOD y el EOL. Una primera reacción a dicho proyecto podría bien ser de sospecha. Esto es así ya que podría ser un proyecto confundido que simplemente busca escapar de las exigencias de la presente realidad, conformándose con la tranquilidad de una inalcanzable “época dorada”; una época de ensueños en el pasado que añoramos incesantemente.

Pero Rousseau está muy lejos de tal proyecto ‘romántico’. Para él, muy como en Nietzsche, volcamos la mirada al origen no con el propósito de permanecer en perpetua desesperanza de nuestra presente situación. Por el contrario, es de hecho mirando hacia estos puntos genéticos que podemos llegar a comprender nuestra constitución actual. El presente es problematizado (*1). Por su parte el pasado permanece muerto, pero sus interpretaciones pueden decirnos algo acerca de cómo es que hemos devenido lo que somos.

El que Rousseau está, en primer lugar, no tanto interesado en la veracidad y verificabilidad de su marco metodológico, sino más bien en presentar un diagnóstico crítico de la modernidad, y en segundo lugar, muy interesado en reconocer las dificultades inherentes a dicho proyecto, son dos puntos que están claramente presentadas en el prefacio al DOD:

“pues no es empresa ligera la de separar lo que hay de original y de artificial en la actual naturaleza del hombre y conocer bien un estado que ya no existe, que quizá no ha existido, que probablemente no existirá jamás y del cual, sin embargo, es necesario tener nociones ajustadas a fin de juzgar con exactitud nuestro estado presente” (DOD, 111, mi énfasis) (*2)

Aquí yace la base para una posible interpretación de la intención que Rousseau tiene. Como él nos lo dice, aún cuando el punto original “nunca haya existido”, es sin embargo todavía “necesario” tener claridad, por lo menos, acerca de su posibilidad hipotético-imaginativa. La historia del desarrollo del lenguaje y de las formaciones sociales tiene como fin investigativo el desenmascaramiento de unas acciones encubridoras que han llegado a gobernar la realidad de las modernos estados comerciales. Estos últimos, en comparación a la salud primitiva, han degenerado hasta tal punto que se puede afirmar que “la mayoría de nuestros males son obra nuestra, y los habríamos evitado casi todos si hubiéramos conservado el modo de vida simple, uniforme y solitario que nos prescribió la naturaleza” (DOD, 127). Incluso el método conjetural lleva en sí una carga normativa; la de restituir la virtud en los que para Rousseau son Estados ‘afeminados’ que, a diferencia de los ideales de Esparta y Roma, no conocen las palabras magnanimidad, equidad, templanza, humanidad, y coraje (DCA, 29).

Se podría pensar que hay aquí una contradicción entre la dicotomía, por un lado del “nunca ha existido” tal estado, y por otro su “necesidad” de comprensión. Pero no es así. Lo que Rousseau pretende en su investigación de orígenes no es una verdad objetiva a la medida de la ciencia mecanicista, sino una verdad narrativo-interpretativa. El mismo es el primero en reconocer que está inevitablemente constituido por las relaciones históricas que son características de la modernidad ilustrada. Su visión del pasado por lo tanto necesariamente involucra una especie de proceso selectivo que no puede ser evitado. (*3). Por ello Rousseau nos dice que en referencia al origen del lenguaje “el gran defecto de los europeos es filosofar siempre sobre los orígenes de las cosas según lo que sucede a su alrededor” (EOL, VIII) (*4). Este “problema” está claramente ejemplificado, entre otras, en las diferentes concepciones del estado de naturaleza que otros teóricos políticos han postulado; en particular el de Hobbes en el cual el hombre es un lobo para el hombre. Estos escritores, para Rousseau, simplemente han transferido concepciones modernas como las del orgullo, la avaricia, la arrogancia y la opresión a un estado en donde no existían inicialmente. (DOD, 124 y 147)

Que tanto nuestra perspectiva teórica, como nuestra realidad histórica, son elementos esenciales al determinar qué veremos, y qué es aquello que consideraremos de valor en el mundo y la historia, es claramente explicitado por Rousseau en el EOL donde señala que “para apreciar bien las acciones de los hombres, es necesario tomarlas en todas sus relaciones, y es esto lo que no se nos enseña a hacer. Cuando nos ponemos en el lugar de los demás, no nos volvemos lo que ellos deben ser, sino permanecemos nosotros mismos modificados” (EOL, XI). Apropiadamente nos da entonces un ejemplo de aquello a lo que se refiere. El fanatismo islámico “nos parece siempre risible, porque entre nosotros no tiene voz para hacerse oír” (ibid.). Por lo anterior es claro que existe en Rousseau, metodológicamente hablando, una multiplicidad de modos de experienciar que rompen con una postura homogeneizante y etnocentrista.

Pero lo que es sin duda lo más excitante, o tal vez el error más grande de la concepción rousseauiana de las cosas, es que, aun cuando reconociendo la existencia de una multiplicidad de formas de vida, él todavía es capaz de reunir en sí —–en su originalidad—– el suficiente poder y la suficiente fortaleza para argumentar que su obra transciende la pluralidad en virtud de que está dirigida a la totalidad de seres humanos, todos los cuales estamos constituidos por la voz natural primigenia. Claro, todos la podemos y de hecho la escuchamos de maneras diferentes, allí radica precisamente nuestra autenticidad personal (*5), pero la voz de la naturaleza no distingue entre lenguajes o posiciones teóricas. Uno podría llegar incluso a decir que por su naturaleza rechaza la diferenciación de lenguas. Por ello para Rousseau, aun cuando existe una relatividad de formaciones socio-linguísticas, todavía existe un criterio universal que subyace el poder ser considerado como ser humano bueno. Los humanos son en este sentido iguales irrespectivamente del sitio de origen y de sus conocimientos. Tal vez no entienda tus palabras, pero en tanto agente perfeccionable y sensible que soy, yo puedo dejar de lado las palabras para darme cuenta que comparto en lo que tu eres también. Antes que filósofos somos seres humanos. (DOD, 115). Es sin duda que por ello Rousseau nos dice a todos:

“Oh hombre, de cualquier comarca que seas, cualquiera que sean tus opiniones; he aquí tu historia como yo he creído leerla , no en los libros de tus semejantes —que mienten— sino en la naturaleza, que no miente nunca. Todo lo que proviene de ella será verdadero; no habrá más falsedad que en lo que yo haya podido mezclar de mis cosecha sin quererlo” (DOD, 120-1).

Rousseau no tiene solamente una pseudo-base empírica para su proyecto en la vida de los Amerindios (que sin embargo tampoco son exactamente habitantes del estado de naturaleza pura), sino mucho más importante, él, y cada uno de nosotros si prestamos oído, tenemos la real y tangible inmediatez de nuestro propio y único ser interior (*6). La voz de la naturaleza ha buscado expresarse a través de Rousseau. Pero sin duda tal recuperación, en parte poético-imaginativa, es necesariamente un recuperar adulterado: “Rousseau no puede estar inconsciente de que diciendo que la vida natural es la buena vida (nota; si es que eso es lo que está diciendo), está destruyendo el silencio de la naturaleza, alienándonos de la naturaleza con palabras” (Starob, 303). Recuperamos no la inmediatez de la naturaleza; es más bien la recuperación de la naturaleza a través del estado presente para que, a través de una crítica de este mismo presente, podamos socráticamente conocernos mejor a nosotros mismos, y así no sólo aceptar nuestra encrucijada sino emprender la búsqueda de puentes futuros más allá de todo origen legendario. (DOD 109)

III. ASPECTOS CENTRALES DEL LENGUAJE

Habiendo reseñado algunos de los aspectos centrales de la “metodología” de Rousseau, quisiera ahora examinar brevemente en esta sección, la importancia de considerar al lenguaje como objeto de estudio.

El párrafo que abre el EOL nos da en su brevedad asombrosa cuatro e interrelacionadas razones acerca del por qué debemos estar interesados en el tema del lenguaje. En primer lugar, el habla es la característica que distingue a los seres humanos de todas las demás seres naturales. (*1). Además, cada ser humano particular nace ‘accidentalmente’ dentro de una comunidad lingüística particular; los lenguajes distinguen a los pueblos. En tercer lugar, Rousseau señala que el lenguaje es la primera institución social. Es gracias a la existencia de otros que tiene sentido el lograr el habla; sin la presencia de seres prestos a oírme la posibilidad del lenguaje se hace inconcebible. Finalmente, este párrafo señala que el habla debe su origen tan sólo a causas naturales.

Una relación cuádruple se despliega. Nuestro interés por el lenguaje está motivado por la universalidad del compartir de todos en el lenguaje; incluso en los casos de los gestos, el ser seres lingüísticos nos lleva ya más allá de lo animal. (*2) El toque físico y los gestos yacen, sin duda, a la base de las relaciones interpersonales. Pero si bien el origen de los gestos se funda en las necesidades básicas, a la base del habla encontramos las pasiones morales humanas. El surgimiento del habla, y luego de la escritura, requiere que vayamos más allá de la satisfacción inmediata de las simples necesidades físicas (*3). El habla tiene un poder moral, el de movernos y persuadirnos: “supongamos una situación de dolor perfectamente conocida; al ver a la persona afligida difícilmente nos conmoveremos hasta llorar, pero démosle el tiempo de decir todo lo que siente y pronto estaremos anegados en lágrimas” (EOL, I) (*4). Pero además, este interés por el lenguaje es también particular. Esto es así ya que un grupo de seres históricos dado comparte un lenguaje histórico específico que, comprendido en su contexto, les provee en un sentido amplio con un noción de identidad (*5). El lenguaje también es el medio a través del cual nos hacemos re-conocer por los demás. Para Rousseau, “tan pronto como un hombre fue reconocido por otro como ser que siente, piensa y semejante a él, el deseo o la necesidad de comunicarle su sentimientos y sus pensamientos, le hizo buscar los medios para lograr tal comunicación” (EOL, I). Tal reconocimiento se hace central en el espacio público político. El lenguaje es precisamente el medio de consentimiento contractual; sólo a través de su riqueza, legitimidad y autenticidad se hace posible una verdadera vida política. Igualmente el lenguaje de la elocuencia es central para la vida del ethos republicano; en particular, el legislador debe conocer las pasiones humanas para convencer y persuadir al ciudadano hacia el bien común (CS II, *7). Finalmente el cuarto ángulo que se despliega de este breve párrafo señala el hecho de que la modernidad no puede tomar como dado la perspectiva divina del nacimiento del lenguaje. El lenguaje tiene su origen en eventos naturales, de hecho es en el punto de origen en el que la naturaleza nos hablaba directamente, en nuestra interioridad. Debemos prepararnos no tanto para hablar, como para saber escuchar. Precisamente es esa incapacidad para escuchar la enfermedad terminal de los modernos: “vuestras lenguas débiles no pueden hacerse oír al aire libre, pensáis más en vuestras ganancias que en vuestra libertad, y teméis mucho menos a la esclavitud que a la miseria” (CS, III, *15).

IV. ESTADOS DE NATURALEZA Y PASTORAL Y SUS LENGUAJES

Por estas razones es imperativo mirar el desarrollo histórico del lenguaje y sus correspondientes formaciones sociales. En el origen encontramos a los seres humanos primitivos regidos por la inmediatez (EOL II; DOD 162). Estos humanos originales son completamente autosuficientes, verdaderos solitarios nómadas. Pero no por autónomos en su primitivismo, dejaron de tener ya una tendencia hacia la sociabilidad: “y aun cuando sus semejantes no fuesen para él lo que son para nosotros …… no fueron olvidados en sus observaciones” (DOD, 164). Dado que sus necesidades físicas básicas eran fácilmente saciadas, entonces si algún tipo de comunicación hubiese sido posible en aquella distante época, lo hubiese sido de carácter gesticular. Tanto las pasiones complejas, como el habla son inexistentes pues ni siquiera las uniones familiares han surgido. Somos apasionados por y gracias a otros. Por lo tanto para Rousseau esta realidad de necesidades mínimas lleva a la separación: “Se pretende que los hombres inventaron la palabra para expresar sus necesidades, opinión que me parece insostenible. El efecto natural de las primeras necesidades fue el de separar a los hombres y no el de aproximarlos (EOL, II) (*1). Sin embargo, aunque separados, incluso a este nivel podemos hablar ya de un lenguaje en virtud a la clase de seres que somos. La voz de la naturaleza es un lenguaje universal caracterizado por tres elementos: a) su persuasión que nos conmueve (EOL, IV), b) su fortaleza que logra captar nuestro interés (EOL, I ), y por último, c) su uso intermitente, surge en ocasiones especiales (EOL, II). En este momento de nuestra historia el lenguaje y la naturaleza permanecen indiferenciables pues se hayan ambos entremezclados en nosotros. Y tal armonía se da además porque este periodo está marcado por la ausencia absoluta de la escasez territorial o alimenticia. La concordia reina ya que, aunque para cada individuo es cierto que la naturaleza “ejercita el cuerpo para la fortaleza, la agilidad y la carrera; el alma a la valentía y la astucia; endurece al hombre y lo hace feroz” (EOL, IX, 50), dicha ferocidad surge sólo en casos de autodefensa. Dada la existencia de un extenso bosque primigenio (EOL, IX 38-39 y DOD, 162), entonces la ferocidad era puesta en jaque por las posibilidades del movimiento nómada. Si soy atacado puedo ir a otra lugar y continuar allí mi simple vida de autosuficiencia.

Los humanos primitivos son por ello mismo seres altamente sanos, no comparten lo que para Rousseau es nuestra enfermiza reflexividad (DOD, 129). Su bienestar nace del hecho de que no existe ninguna discrepancia entre la necesidad y el deseo: “el deseo circunscrito por el momento presente nunca excede la necesidad; la necesidad, inspirada por nada más que la naturaleza es satisfecha tan rápidamente que el sentimiento de deseo nunca surge” (Starob, 293; DOD 55). No existe noción alguna de temporalidad, y por ello la totalidad de la historia individual yace en el instante. Consecuentemente no hay previsión, ni mucho menos pensamientos de la propia mortalidad.

Además, el ser primitivo es característicamente a-moral. Los dictados morales requieren de un consenso y del la comprensión de conceptos abstractos tales como los de justicia y responsabilidad. Y dado que dicho acto y dicho lenguaje no es necesario a este nivel, la moralidad no es articulada en su complejidad. Pero sin embargo permanecemos incluso a este nivel, como claramente diferenciables de los animales. A diferencia de los últimos somos seres libres, somos morales en potencia. Los animales aceptan o no por instinto, los humanos, en cambio, lo hacemos únicamente por un acto de libertad. Hasta nuestro más lejano pariente primitivo “se reconoce libre para asentir o resistir; y es en esta conciencia de esta libertad donde se muestra la espiritualidad de su alma” (DOD, 132). Esta libertad no es nada diferente a la expresión de la naturaleza particular de este ser único capaz de escuchar la voz de la naturaleza que no es nada diferente a su voz interior: “ya incluso antes de que el hombre primitivo comience a reflexionar, la naturaleza deja de ser simplemente un problema de condicionamiento físico. No siendo más un irresistible impulso, deviene un lenguaje interno, un lenguaje al que el hombre presta atención porque se habla dentro de él” (Starob, 306). El mayor acto de libertad es pues el de la perfección potencial que escogemos.

El sentimiento de preservación personal está aquí moderado, a diferencia de la concepción hobbesiana, por el sentimiento de la piedad. Es éste un sentimiento que es parte de nuestro corazón y que surge al activarse la imaginación pudiendo por ello colocarnos comparativamente en la posición del otro (EOL IX). Los seres humanos primitivos son seres piadosos; la inmediatez de la voz de la naturaleza es lo que hace que no se lleven a la destrucción mutua: “parece que si estoy obligado a no hacer daño a mi semejante, no es tanto porque sea un ser racional sino porque es un ser sensible” (DOD 115). Y dado que la piedad precede a la reflexión, entonces su universalidad nos lleva más allá de la multiplicidad de lenguajes convencionales; la benevolencia habla en Esperanto. La solidaridad, central para la república, es posible ya que la piedad es una “virtud tanto más universal y tanto más útil al hombre cuanto que ella antecede al uso de toda reflexión” (DOD, 149). Finalmente, los humanos a este nivel están caracterizados por su ocio. Su máxima principal radica, a diferencia de la de las sociedades comerciales, en “no hacer nada (que) es la más fuerte pasión del hombre, después de la de conservarse” (EOL, IX, 52). Rousseau resume de manera hermosa las principales características del hombre primitivo en un pasaje del DOD:

“el arte perecía con el inventor. No había ni educación ni progreso, las generaciones se multiplicaban inútilmente y, partiendo cada uno del mismo punto, los siglos pasaban en toda la rudeza de las primeras edades; la especie era ya vieja y el hombre permanecía siempre niño.” (DOD, 157) (*2)

Dejando un poco de lado la pregunta acerca de cómo pudimos salir de este estado paradisiaco, podemos mirar ahora la segunda etapa de nuestra larga historia; la de la transición hacia la verdadera época del equilibrio, la de las sociedades pastorales-patriarcales (EOL, IX). (*3) A este nivel al lenguaje doméstico han sido incorporados tanto el lenguaje natural interior como el gesticular. Hemos sido des-naturalizados, pero no completamente civilizados. El DOD nos ofrece una descripción narrativa: “fue ésta la época de la primera revolución que conformó el establecimiento y la distinción de las familias y que introdujo un tipo de propiedad, de las que probablemente nacieron gran número de querellas (166). (*4). Aunque existía un cierto tipo de propiedad ——no la misma propiedad privada que Rousseau analizará posteriormente siguiendo a Locke—— todavía seguía existiendo suficiente tierra para desplazarse fácilmente en caso de necesidad. Es gracias a esto que se puede decir que en este momento “por todas partes reinaba un estado de guerra, y toda la tierra estaba en paz” (EOL, XI, 46). Rousseau mismo se cuestiona acerca de cómo pudimos emerger de tal condición feliz:

“Supongamos una perpetua primavera sobre la tierra; supongamos por todas partes agua, ganado, pastizales; supongamos a los hombres que salen de manos de la naturaleza … no imagino cómo habrían renunciado jamás a su vida aislada y pastoral tan conveniente a su indolencia natural, para imponerse sin necesidad la esclavitud, los trabajos y las miserias inseparables del estado social” (EOL, IX, 52)

¿Cómo se rompe tal equilibrio, tal paz universal?

Para Rousseau, aparte de múltiples catástrofes naturales, surge lo que es una verdadera catástrofe humana. Con el paso de los siglos nos hicimos, poco a poco, más y más dependientes de los demás. Ya incluso en la etapa patriarcal, con el surgimiento de un mayor ocio, tuvimos nuevas comodidades desconocidas; fueron ellas “el primer yugo que se impusieron sin pensar en ello y la primera fuente de males” (DOD, 167). Una de las principales necesidades novedosas surgió de nuestra naturaleza pasional. Si antes “l’amour de soi meme” era natural y nos daba independencia, ahora “l’amour propre” convencional nos hace compararnos constantemente con los demás. Nuestro orgullo está fuera de nosotros. Pero acerca del valor esta nueva estima a partir del otro, Rousseau continuamente es ambivalente: “es a este interés en hacer hablar de sí mismo, a este furor por distinguirse, (lo) que nos tiene casi continuamente fuera de nosotros, a quien debemos lo que hay de mejor y peor entre los hombres” (DOD 197). Como señala Taylor, Rousseau no simplemente denuncia el valor de la estimación pública, como si lo hacen tanto el cristianismo y estoicismo, como la ética aristocrática que ve en el orgullo la fuente de desigualdades. Para Rousseau el ethos republicano requiere de una suprema actividad de la aparición pública de los virtuosos (Taylor, 49).

Es al investigar el surgimiento de los lenguajes meridionales que se nos revela esta ambivalencia que permea la obra de Rousseau. Señala él cómo en aquellos lugares en donde la escasez de agua era una condición natural “era preciso reuinirse para cavarlos o al menos para ponerse de acuerdo para su uso. Tal debió ser el origen de las sociedades y de las lenguas en los países cálidos” (EOL, IX, 60). Y en aquellos lugares donde abundaba el agua, en hogares rústicos “brilla(ba) el fuego sagrado que lleva al fondo de los corazones el primer sentimiento de la humanidad” (ibid., 56). Nuestras necesidades devienen pues cada vez más complejas, el constante ver al otro hace inevitable el surgimiento del deseo del otro. Lentamente salimos inevitablemente del paraíso del ideal primitivo solitario en donde los encuentros sexuales eran ocasionales. Paulatinamente dejamos para siempre nuestra vida solitaria en que la voz de la naturaleza nos hablaba directamente. Ahora deseamos hablar a y escuchar otro tipo de voz, una voz humana; y mejor aún si ésta es capaz además de dar expresión a la voz de la naturaleza misma, aunque modificada. En un pasaje hermoso Rousseau señala este proceso de interacción:

“el agua se hace imperceptiblemente más necesaria, el ganado tuvo sed más a menudo; se llegaba a prisa y se partía a disgusto … allí se hicieron las primeras fiestas, los pies saltaban de alegría, el gesto diligente ya no bastaba, la voz lo acompañaba con acentos apasionados, el placer y el deseo se hacían sentir simultáneamente. Allí estuvo en fin la verdadera cuna de los pueblos, y del cristal puro de las fuentes surgieron los primeros fuegos de amor” (EOL IX, 61)

La existencia de un nivel pasional bajo, y la presencia de necesidades sencillas, mantenían el equilibrio pseudo-humano de la etapa anterior. Ahora sin duda hemos ido mucho más allá al comenzar el ambiguo proceso de perfeccionamiento de la especie. Pero para Rousseau desafortunadamente nuestro movimiento es en su mayoría descendente. Esta época lleva en su nacimiento los elementos de su disolución. Comenzamos a mirar hacia afuera para ver que se exige de nosotros mismos en vez de mirar a nuestra interioridad deviniendo lo que la voz de la naturaleza deseaba que fuésemos:

“se acostumbra uno a considerar objetos diferentes y a hacer comparaciones; se adquieren insensiblemente las ideas de mérito y belleza que producen los sentimientos de preferencia ….. cada cual comienza a contemplar los otros y a querer ser contemplado el mismo, con lo que la estima pública tiene un precio. Aquel que canta o danza mejor, el más bello, el más fuerte, el más diestro o el más elocuente se convierte en el más considerado. Este fue el primer paso hacia la desigualdad y , al mismo tiempo, hacia el vicio (DOD 168-9).

El resultado final es la instauración de un estado hobbesiano en que el hombre es un lobo para el hombre: “castigando cada uno el desprecio que se le había hecho …….. las venganzas se tornaron terribles y los hombres más sanguinarios y crueles” (DOD. 169-70). Pero gracias, como dijimos a la facilidad de movilidad, durante esta época todavía reinaba la paz.

El que ésta sea una época dorada es claramente visto si consideramos la visión del lenguaje que le corresponde. Como vimos, el primer lenguaje fue el de la voz de la naturaleza. En este momento casi que ahistórico, mundo y yo era uno y lo mismo. No se tenía la capacidad de designar cosas fuera de sí, ni siquiera a sí mismo con pronombres como ‘yo’. A lo sumo se producían gritos animales. Pero con el desarrollo del lenguaje ya surgieron palabras y articulaciones cada vez más complejas. Y lo que es más importante, estas palabras en un principio no designaban un objeto real existente ya que el primer lenguaje fue figurativo. Las expresiones fueron primero metafóricas y sólo después llegaron a tener una significación literal. El ser primitivo ya más desarrollado, no veía en sus caminatas otros iguales a si, sino ‘gigantes’ que le amenazaban. Sólo posteriormente reconoció su error, un error que Rousseau atribuye a las pasiones: “he aquí como nace la palabra figurada antes que la palabra propia: cuando la pasión hechiza nuestros ojos y la primera idea que nos ofrece no es la verdad” (EOL, III). Queda clara la supremacía del poder expresivo del lenguaje sobre su poder designativo (*5). Y no sólo ésto, las primeras palabras fueron cantadas, no recitadas, y escritas en verso, no en prosa. La fuerza de Homero radica en pertenecer a una cultura oral (EOL, VI) (*6).

El lenguaje de las sociedades patriarcales es uno de equilibrio jerarquizado; por una parte ha sido desnaturalizado y por ende es más que un simple grito animal, pero a la vez no ha devenido totalmente civilizado, por ello no ha perdido aún la riqueza de su sonido y acento. En este momento histórico las funciones referenciales del lenguaje, es decir, su capacidad para designar el mundo fuera de nosotros, y además el elemento expresivo de éste, es decir, su capacidad para articular nuestras más interiores necesidades, pasiones y proyectos, están “fusionados” juntos en un poderoso y trastocador lenguaje melódico rico en su poder persuasivo. El poder persuasivo inmediato de la voz de la naturaleza impregna las palabras cantadas, pero éstas también logran cumplir su rol designativo que posibilita la diferenciación entre el mundo, el yo y los otros. Es un equilibrio ya que el yo se expresa a través de este lenguaje que es a su vez el medio para la designación del mundo que compartimos con los demás. Y dado que la designación es de hecho melódica, entonces el yo puede transformar su posibilidades de auto-expresión. Para Starobinsky:

“Las funciones expresivas y referenciales no están todavía separadas. Aunque sacado de el ámbito de la inmediatez, el hombre todavía forja un instrumento capaz de restaurar la inmediatez …. Se aventura más allá de las fronteras del yo, sólo para ofrecerse a los demás a través del lenguaje. Y se hace consciente de su propia existencia por medio de la constante presencia emocional que anima su discurso” (Starob, 318)

Las familias patriarcales lograron, según Rousseau, incorporar los breves gritos y gestos de los cazadores a un complejo lenguaje acentuado, fluido, melodioso y pasional. Permanece éste como ideal y tarea, incluso para la sociedad civil actual. ¿Cuál tarea? La de juntar la riqueza expresiva y designativa del discurso melódico dentro del ámbito político desarrollado. Tal lenguaje podría forjar, educar y mover a los ciudadanos necesarios para cimentar el ethos participativo de una verdadera república. Tal lenguaje sería en verdad un lenguaje elocuente. Pero el “progreso” del lenguaje conlleva, para Rousseau, a una caída estructural y una diferenciación histórica que hace cada vez más difícil darse cuenta que debajo de la pluralidad permanece la universal y ahora casi imperceptible voz de la naturaleza.

Para esclarecer el problema de la diferenciación lingüística es necesario recuperar ideas presente en el EOL. Allí Rousseau nos da un muy interesante relato acerca de la diversificación de discursos al hacer referencia a las diferencias entre los lenguajes meridionales y los del norte. Primero que todo, a la base del desarrollo lingüístico es claro que encontramos condiciones naturales materiales, no hay para el lenguaje ningún ‘deux ex machina’: “sea entonces que se busque el origen de las artes o que se observen las primeras costumbres, se pone de manifiesto siempre que todo se relaciona en sus principios con los medios de atender a la subsistencia” (EOL, IX, 59). En consecuencia, dado que los factores climáticos son más nobles con los sureños, uno puede casi concluir que las necesidades dieron pie al surgimiento de las pasiones. Por ello los lenguajes meridionales son acentuados, melodiosos y ricos; y precisamente por ello hasta oscuros (*7). Por el contrario en el norte las condiciones naturales eran tales que la inmediata gratificación de las necesidades primarias no es algo que ha de esperarse; las pasiones limitadas. Por ende los lenguajes norteños son aburridos, duros, monótonos y secos; y por ello claros en su articulación. En el norte, nos cuenta Rousseau, “antes de pensar en ser feliz, era preciso pensar en vivir …… y la primera palabra entre ellos no fue ámame sino ayúdame” (EOL, X, 64) Lo necesario prima en ellos sobre lo apasionado.

Pero lo que es absolutamente crucial en este relato es que el hecho de que uno llegue a hablar un lenguaje particular realmente afecta el modo en que uno percibe el mundo, los otros, y consecuentemente lo que uno mismo es. Rousseau va tan lejos que exclama que “en efecto los hombres septentrionales no carecen de pasiones, pero las tienen de otra especie” (ibid, 65). (*8). Y esta multiplicidad es igualmente característica de la música sin la cual comprender la evolución del lenguaje se hace imposible (*9). No podemos recapturar la degeneración del lenguaje sin a la vez retomar la visión rousseauiana de la música. Para ganar claridad respecto a la degeneración del lenguaje debemos mirar la caída de la música. A través del lenguaje melódico poético podíamos articular nuestra interioridad y a la vez proteger nuestra autenticidad de una fusión directa —–romántica—– con la naturaleza; nos daba un identidad personal y comunal. Es por esto que es de este estado del que realmente podemos decir que:

“Los sonidos en la melodía no obran solamente sobre nosotros como sonidos, sino como signos de nuestras afecciones, de nuestros sentimientos. Es así como excitan en nosotros los movimientos que expresan y cuya imagen reconocemos (EOL80 )……. “pues no es tanto el oído el que lleva el placer al corazón como el corazón el que lo lleva al oído” (ibid., 82).

En verdad nos identificábamos en aquellos tiempos con nuestros productos simbólicos. La música en particular tenía una función moral pues nos movía en conformidad con la naturaleza, nos conmovía. Lo que escuchábamos al hablar no era vibraciones externas sino melodiosos sonidos internos de autenticidad. Pero la narración rousseauiana no termina ahí.

V. MODERNIDAD Y DECADENCIA LINGÜÍSTICA

Para Rousseau la modernidad está caracterizada por la creciente separación entre el lenguaje y la música; esta última se vuelve políticamente sospechosa (*1). La degeneración musical sigue en proporción directa a la evolución de los modernos lenguajes convencionales no-melódicos: “a medida que se perfeccionaba la lengua, al imponerse nuevas reglas, la melodía perdió insensiblemente su antigua fuerza” (EOL, XIX, 93). El lenguaje históricamente se hace cada vez más racional, es primordialmente concebido como instrumento de dominio y cálculo; se refiere a las cosas, pero sin expresarnos. En la música los elementos de la armonía subyugan a los de la expresión melódica: “no es de extrañarse que el acento oral se haya afectado por ello, y que la música haya perdido para nosotros casi toda su fuerza” (ibid.). Así como ocurrió en el lenguaje, en la música la universalidad de la voz de la naturaleza se ha ramificado en una pluralidad empobrecida. Como en la diversificación lingüística, la una vez conocida voz de la naturaleza se ha ocultado en múltiples voces y cantos desconocidos.

Ahora pareciera que tuviésemos tan diferentes tipos de nervios (XV, 81) que resulta cierto que “cada uno es afectado sólo por los acentos que le son familiares; sus nervios no se prestan sino en tanto que su espíritu los disponga a ello”. Incluso hasta el punto de que la música, cura de unos es la enfermedad de otros (Ibid, 81). Y a diferencia de la posibilidad de una compleja fusión de horizontes a través del diálogo, el pesimismo rousseauiano emerge ahora con toda su fortaleza. Para él las sociedades comerciales modernas, sociedades de sermones incomprensibles, “han alcanzado su última forma; ya nada cambia en ellas como no sea con el cañón y la moneda (*2)….. lo necesario es mantener dispersa a la gente: tal es la primera máxima de la política moderna” (EOL, XX, 100) Nuestra libertad la hallamos tan sólo en el silencio de la ley; se rompe el nudo social y se deja de lado bien común en pro de discursos faccionales (CS, IV *1). Valoro la libertad en términos de no interferencia; soy libre en sentido negativo (*3) si es que somos libres del todo pues como Rousseau afirma “toda lengua con la cual no puede hacerse oír del pueblo reunido, es una lengua servil: es imposible que un pueblo permanezca libre y que hable esta lengua” (EOL , XX, 101).

El lenguaje musical, que adecuadamente expresaba nuestra naturaleza pasional en el espacio compartido de las sociedades patriarcales, termina siendo valioso sólo en la esfera privada; sirve sencillamente para murmurar en los divanes (EOL, XX, 100). Las palabras cesan de revelarnos, y devienen ahora el instrumento fundamental del encubrimiento y la hipocresía. Su presencia destructiva posterga una ausencia, la de la apariencia que nunca es. En el espacio público se encuentran cara a cara estos lenguajes, sin comprenderse ——-sin querer comprenderse. Los discursos se hacen ajenos a la tolerancia dialógica.

A donde sea que miramos hay plurales lenguajes, pero permanecemos tan perplejos como los desilusionados constructores de la Torre de Babel (*4). Al final de la historia yace un silencio, pero a diferencia del silencio primitivo, el nuestro es realmente trágico ya que surge en medio de la multiplicidad de lenguajes desarrollados. El mundo, para Rousseau, está poblado por una serie de Chaplins, pero lo que es preocupante es que ni siquiera son chistosos ——han olvidado hasta cómo gesticular, cómo gritar.

Políticamente el lenguaje es precisamente el medio a través del cual se instaura la desigualdad entre los seres humanos. De la violencia abierta del final de las sociedades patriarcales, llegamos ahora a la violencia escondida de las palabras. Los ricos, para el Rousseau del DOD, han logrado persuadir a los pobres por medio de un discurso para entrar a hacer parte de un contrato desigual: “para el provecho de algunos ambiciosos, sometieron entonces a todo el género humano al trabajo, a la servidumbre y a la miseria” (DOD. 181)(*5). La propiedad ya desarrollado de las sociedades comerciales presupone un lenguaje, su existencia requiere de quienes tienen la capacidad para decir “Esto es mío”; y claro, de otros capaces de creerlo. El lenguaje sirve ahora la causa de la ausencia; la apariencia obstruye la presencia de la autenticidad. Nos escondemos en las palabras y en el silencio. Lo que era cierto para seres de una época anterior, permanece todavía, a saber, el hecho de que era “preciso para su ventaja mostrarse distinto a como se es efectivamente. Ser y parecer llegaron a ser dos cosas desde todo punto diferentes” (DOD, 176) El lenguaje perpetua nuestra dependencia en la apariencia, nos gobierna desde fuera; nos hace heterónomos. Sólo vivimos de la exterioridad, de lo que los demás pretenden que seamos: “con lo que la dominación se torna más querida que la independencia, estando dispuestos a llevar cadenas para poder imponerlas a los demás” (DOD, 195)(*6). Somos esclavos con cadenas hasta internas.

La ironía de la historia se expresa no sólo en nuestro nuevo silencio. También la pluralidad de la diferencia, que pareció ser una posibilidad de recuperar novedosamente la voz de la naturaleza en su complejidad variable, llega simplemente a un fin trágicamente egalitario. Somos de nuevo absolutamente iguales. La universalidad sí es recuperada pero es una que comparte en la nada. Somos dueños pero del silencio. “Apres moi, le silence”, diría Rousseau. (Starob, 378); se lo diría a sí mismo en sus paseos solitarios (Starob, 327). (*7)

VI. LOS PLURALES LENGUAJES POLÍTICOS DEL “CONTRATO SOCIAL”

Si bien este pesimismo pseudo-augustiniano no escapa al Contrato Social ya que la República, y todo orden político, es siempre un verdadero cuerpo político. Y éste, como “el cuerpo humano, empieza a morir desde su nacimiento y lleva en sí mismo las causas de su destrucción” (III. *11, 113). Hasta los mejores sistemas de gobierno “se acabaran”; “el hombre ha nacido libre, pero por todas partes esta encadenado” (I *1). Pero si bien esto es cierto, la virtud del CS radica precisamente en su lucha contra tales presuposiciones. No sólo señala Rousseau diversos mecanismos para la preservación y el fortalecimiento de una buena comunidad política ——-limitaciones territoriales (II *9), balance poblacional (II *10), eliminación de excesivas diferencias económicas (II *11), prioridad de que los cargos públicos sean otorgados a partir de méritos y virtudes (III *6), elección popular de buenos magistrados y demás cargos públicos, la censura (IV *7), y la religión cívica (IV *8)——— sino que además nos presenta con un agudísimo análisis de los plurales lenguajes políticos que conforman nuestra identidad moderna. Se nos revela el complejo entrelazado de tradiciones centrales para la comprensión de la fundamental pregunta directriz acerca de la legitimidad de nuestras sociedades comerciales (I *1). Encontramos, en primer lugar, el lenguaje de la tradición del republicanismo o humanismo cívico, tanto clásico (Aristóteles, Cícero) como renacentista (Maquiavelo; hoy en día Arendt). Bajo este discurso el agente es visto como un yo caracterizado esencialmente por su búsqueda apasionada e incesante de la ‘virtud’ (*1). La demanda principal sobre las instituciones estatales es la de servir como foro en la que cada ciudadano puede llegar a articular su concepción del bien público. Ser libre radica en participar activamente en el manejo de un estado en donde la ley es soberana, es decir, es expresión tanto de la voluntad general como de mi manera de pensar propia (*2). El segundo lenguaje hace referencia a la tradición fundada sobre el concepto de la ley natural (Aristóteles, Aquino, Grotius), concepción que se ve ampliada por las ideas del ‘estado natural’ y del ‘contrato social’ (Hobbes, Locke; hoy día Rawls). La noción misma de justicia y realidad política surge sólo a partir de la forjación consensual del contrato social a partir de, por un lado una comprensión racional de las capacidades humanas y por otro, unos principios universalizables fundamentales. Ahora el agente es visto primordialmente como un individuo con ciertos derechos naturales universales; por ejemplo el de la autopreservación. La sociedad política, que es un ente artificial, busca como mínimo la protección de dichos derechos egalitarios. El contrato “sustituye una igualdad moral y legítima por la desigualdad física que la naturaleza puso entre los hombres, los cuales, si bien pueden ser desiguales en fuerza o en talento, son todos iguales por convención y derecho” (I *9). Soy, por ejemplo en la visión hobbesiana, libre negativamente, es decir primordialmente en el silencio de la ley y la inexistencia de obstáculos físicos. Finalmente encontramos un tercer lenguaje que es radicalmente moderno, característico de nuestras sociedades comerciales. Es éste el lenguaje del interés y de la utilidad que surge con el desarrollo de la economía política (Smith, Mandeville, Helvetius). El yo se considera bajo esta perspectiva como un ser interesado que busca, primordialmente, su propio bienestar en el espacio privado; es incluso su deber. La estructura estatal debe proveerlo con los mecanismos necesarios para poder lograr el máximo grado de utilidad. Por otra parte la premisa de la no intervención, del ‘laissez-faire’, se acrecienta ya que el mercado tiene sus propias reglas que no podemos controlar.

El primer párrafo del CS revela cómo estos lenguajes se integran en el texto de tal manera que la presencia de uno redefine al otro para intentar ir más allá de sus presuposiciones conflictivas. Rousseau nos dice, primero, que: “en esta investigación intentar(á) siempre relacionar lo que el derecho permite con lo que el interés prescribe, a fin de que la justicia y la utilidad nunca sean divididos”. Y seguidamente procede a enmarcar tal proyecto dentro del discurso republicano al indicar, entre otras, que tal investigación le da “nueva razones para amar el gobierno de (su) país” (ibid.) (*3).

La interrelación entre los dos primeros lenguajes, el de la tradición republicana y el del contrato social, se ve con claridad en el apartado titulado “Del Pacto Social” (I *6). Allí, retomando ideas del DOD pero con un optimismo radicalmente inesperado respecto a la salida del estado de naturaleza, Rousseau señala cómo con el surgimiento de diversos obstáculos al bienestar individual en el estado primitivo (que aparece ya sin etapas aquí), se hace necesaria la constitución conjunta de un pacto en el cual se hacen partícipes todos aquellos que entran a la sociedad civil. Este acto da la solución al problema de “encontrar una forma de asociación que con la fuerza común defienda y proteja a la persona y los bienes de cada asociado, y por la cual cada uno, uniéndose a todos, no obedece sino a sí mismo y permanezca tan libre como antes”. Un pacto que nos entrega la libertad civil y moral gracias a, a diferencia de la noción de delegación lockeana, “la enajenación total de cada asociado con todos sus derechos a la comunidad” (ibid.). Pero para Rousseau lo que surge, constituido artificialmente, no es un simple agregado de átomos débilmente interrelacionados, sino por el contrario un verdadero cuerpo político (ciudad o república) que va más allá de las presuposiciones de la tradición contractual. Nace “un cuerpo moral y colectivo compuesto de tantos miembros como votos tiene la asamblea, el cual recibe, por este mismo acto, su unidad, su yo común, su vida y su voluntad” (ibid., mi énfasis) El lenguaje del pacto de entrada está ligado al republicano como eje central. Y Rousseau es consciente de su intento de redefinición sintética. Por ello señala cómo, dependiendo del lenguaje político utilizado ——así como ocurrió con los lenguajes meridionales y del norte——- veremos algunas cosas en la realidad y no otras. Aquí en particular consideramos las ópticas diferentes del ciudadano y del súbdito. En cuanto ciudadanos somos agentes activos en la conformación de la legislatura, somos miembros egalitarios del soberano, y participes de la voluntad general que involucra, más allá de la simple unanimidad de votos, un proyecto común que nos une e identifica. En cambio, en tanto súbditos, somos seres pasivos miembros del estado, agentes obedientes de la ley que nos señala nuestros derechos, entre ellos el de la propiedad privada.

Incluso ya en el apartado analizado el tercer lenguaje, el del interés, es señalado como un lenguaje propio; hay una clara diferencia para Rousseau entre el ciudadano y el burgués. Pero la relación del lenguaje republicano con éste último se puede esclarecer de mejor manera al analizar la sección titulada “De lo límites del poder soberano” (II *4). Allí Rousseau, quien de entrada es radicalmente sospechoso de intereses faccionales que olvidan el bien común general (“cuando una voluntad particular es impuesto sobre la general, tanto la comunidad como el individuo son esclavizados” (Viroli 169), intenta señalar cómo incluso en la persecución de intereses privados es de utilidad tanto privada, como común, el no perder de vista los proyectos de la sociedad en su conjunto. Es así como argumenta Rousseau que al moldear nuestra actividad privada con miras a fines más globales, garantizamos como mínimo la supervivencia de la seguridad cívica que permite el comercio mismo. Para él “los compromisos que nos atan al cuerpo social no son obligatorios sino en cuanto son mutuos, y su naturaleza es tal que cumpliéndolos no se puede trabajar para otro sin trabajar para sí mismo”. La relación entre estos dos lenguajes es de nuevo retomada en la sección que lleva por título, ‘Del soberano’ (CS I *7). Es ésta aquella en que argumenta Rousseau de manera famosa que se le obligará a ser libre a quien no obedezca la voluntad general (*4). Pero antes que caer en un totalitarianismo absoluto en donde lo público ocupa todo espacio —como en 1984 de Orwell—- Rousseau señala que:

“en el momento en que esta multitud está así unida en un cuerpo no se puede ofender a uno de los miembros sin atacar el cuerpo ….el deber y el interés obligan por igual a las dos partes contratantes a ayudarse mutuamente y los mismos hombres deben buscar reunir bajo esta doble relación todas las ventajas que derivan de ella” (26)

En tanto modernos inevitablemente somos seres con intereses económicos particulares. Por ende el interés y el fomento de lo privado sigue siendo crucial (*5). Pero para Rousseau, sólo si logramos ir más allá, y así percibir la necesidad de proyectos mutuos, podemos entonces no sólo preservar la libertad negativa de la simple preservación, sino además tanto la “libertad civil” como base para la consecución de proyectos comunitarios, como la “libertad moral” “que por sí sola hace al hombre verdaderamente dueño de sí mismo, puesto que el impulso del simple apetito es la esclavitud.” (I *8, 30). Obligados podemos ser a la libertad civil, pero a la libertad moral sólo nosotros en nuestra interioridad podemos acceder (*6). Ahora bien, si es cierto que la voluntad general jamás puede errar (II *3), aunque no signifique esto que requiera ser unánime pues siempre está dirigida al bien público (II *2),¿cómo precisamente al ser obligados por lo público a moldear lo privado, permanece este último como independiente?

Al mirar, brevemente, el propósito de la ley dentro de la tradición republicana vemos que ésta es precisamente aquello que nos hace libres. Son leyes las que surgen de “una autoridad legítima y soberana y respeta los dos principios de la universalidad y la reciprocidad” (Viroli, 163). La ley dentro de una república garantiza el ordenamiento político que tiene, según Viroli, tres aspectos interrelacionados: i) el concepto de armonía y concordia, es decir la cooperación entre las partes, ii) la noción de justa y apropiada disposición, a saber, la correcta colocación de las partes en una escala de valores de mérito, y iii) la virtud de la moderación personal caracterizada por el control de las pasiones. Es claro que allí radica el orden, pero y de nuevo, ¿cómo garantizar que el orden no será totalizante? ¿Cómo puede Viroli afirmar que “el objetivo del verdadero político no se es el de imponer la utilitas publica sobre la utilitas singolorum; es hacer que los intereses privados y públicos concuerden?” (Viroli, 170). ¿Si hay realmente cabida para el lenguaje del interés en el CS?

En primer lugar, lejos de un totalitarianismo, para Rousseau el gobierno debe estar preparado para sacrificarse por el pueblo y no al contrario (III *1, 98). En segundo lugar el acceso a la libertad moral es nuestro únicamente; se es libre de esta manera hasta en una tiranía. Además, el ordenamiento a partir de la ley que emana de nosotros mismos, no sólo cumple el rol de garantizar la paz, sino que también tiene la función de moldear a los ciudadanos. El legislador que es humano, y por ende no puede darnos leyes perfectas, debe tener esto en mente: “quien pretende emprender la formación de un pueblo debe sentirse … en capacidad de cambiar la naturaleza humana, de transformar a cada individuo, que es en sí mismo un todo perfecto, y convertirlo en parte de un todo más grande, del cual este individuo recibe, de alguna forma, su vida y su ser” (II *7, 64). Para Rousseau es el legislativo, siguiendo la tradición republicana, el verdadero corazón del estado; el ejecutivo es simplemente el cerebro (III *7). Y este corazón involucra mucho más que leyes políticas, civiles o criminales. Su sistema circulatorio está compuesto por otro tipo de leyes, aquellas “que no se graban sobre el mármol ni sobre el bronce sino dentro del corazón de los ciudadanos que conforman la verdadera constitución del estado”(II *12) (*7). Ley, libertad y buenas costumbres conforman un triángulo equilátero que el legislador debe comprender para moldear los necesarios impulsos privados hacia el bienestar público.

Pero un legislador prudente (en el sentido de Aristóteles) no se limita simplemente a imponer un formato de leyes universales preestablecidas. Por el contrario debe éste “examinar primero si el pueblo al cual están destinados puede realmente soportarlas” (II *8). Resurge entonces aquí la sensibilidad rousseauiana a la diferencia. Responder a la pregunta ¿cuál es el mejor sistema político?, es imposible pues “cada uno de ellos en algunos casos es el mejor y en otros el peor” (III *3). Incluso la libertad no está al alcance de todos los pueblos (III *8). Pero como dijimos anteriormente, no por la presencia de la diferencia caemos en un relativismo total. El lenguaje del republicanismo permanece ocupando el ápice de la estructura política ideal. Esto es así, entre otras, ya que en él, a diferencia de por ejemplo la monarquía, los cargos públicos van de acuerdo al mérito (III *6). Estos tampoco son entregados simplemente por dinero:

“dad dinero y pronto tendréis cadenas. La palabra finanzas es una palabra de esclavo; es desconocida en la ciudad. En un estado realmente libre, los ciudadanos hacen todo con sus brazos y nada con dinero; lejos de pagar por eximirse de sus deberes, pagarán por cumplirlos ellos mismos” (III *15), 152-3).

Evidentemente el lenguaje de intereses comerciales es radicalmente limitado, a diferencia de Constant, por la austeridad de Rousseau. Pero limitar la incidencia de un lenguaje es bien diferente a rechazarlo de entrada.

Sin embargo, aunque Rousseau intenta recuperar esta pluralidad política en su obra, no es para nada optimista acerca de las posibilidades de la realidad política humana. Entre la naturaleza humana como ha llegado a ser, y la ley como debe ser, prima la primera ya escindida de su origen. Es así como señala que lo ocurre en el corazón del legislador es representativo de lo que ocurre en los nuestros. Los magistrados tienen tres voluntades (que más o menos corresponden a los lenguajes analizados): i) la voluntad individual que busca la ventaja particular, ii) la común de los magistrados o de cuerpo, y por último, iii) la voz de pueblo o soberano. El ordenamiento político que pospone la crisis se da por la jerarquización adecuada. Pero para Rousseau:

“por el contrario, según el orden natural estas diferentes voluntades se vuelven más activas a medida que se concentran. Así la voluntad general siempre es la más débil, la voluntad de cuerpo ocupa el segundo lugar, y la voluntad particular la primera de todas; en el gobierno cada miembro primero es él mismo, luego magistrado y por último ciudadano, gradación directamente opuesta a la que exige el orden social” (III *2, 101).

Rousseau por ende no es nada optimista acerca de su propia empresa clarificadora de la relación entre una política de la diferencia, y una de la igualdad en la modernidad. Sin embargo investigar su investigación nos permite un lenguaje más para la comprensión de nuestra compleja identidad moderna.


VII. NOTAS

*I)1. Taylor trata esta interpretación de Rousseau en la tercera sección de “The politics of recognition” (TPoR), especialmente pg. 50.

2. La visión rousseauiana de la historia no es sencillamente una secularización de la tradición crsitiana (Edén, Caída y Redención) como señala Arrocha en una cita; según mi análisis no existe realmente tal redención.

3. Ver en particular el ensayo de Starobinsky acerca del EOL, 322.

*II) 1. Ver también (DOD, 121), y el ensayo de Foucault, “What is Enlightenment”

2. Igualmente para Rousseau no existe, ni existirá, una democracia perfecta.(III *4)

3. Taylor trata el tema del reconocimiento, respeto y valor de otras culturas en “The politics of recogition”

4. Un paralelo se encuentra en La genealogía de la moral de Nietzsche, I *1.

5. Para Taylor la temática de la autenticidad es central par la comprensión de nuestra identidad moderna, en particular ver Sources of the Self, (SotS); capítulos IV y V.

6. La historia de nuestra interiorización está trazada igualmente en SotS, capítulo II, y en el artículo sobre Foucault titulado,“Foucault on freedom and truth” PP II.

*III) 1. Para un análisis de las diferentes tradiciones linguísticas de la modernidad ver Taylor, “Language and Human Nature”

2. Un ejemplo del valor del lenguaje gesticular en la educación cívica son evidentemente los mimos de Mockus.

3. Rousseau recupera, siguiendo la tradición agustiniana, el concepto de la calidad de la voluntad; ver Taylor, SotS, 357.

4. Visión ligada al sentientalismo del siglo XVIII, y central en la tradición romántica como por ejemplo en el Werther (Blum, 48).

5. Taylor trata este tema en SotS, capítulo 1; y analizando las leyes del lenguaje de Quebec en “TPoR”.

*IV) 1. El rol de los sentimientos en una crítica de la libertad negativa se da en Taylor, “What’s wrong with negative liberty”.

2. No tocaré en el análisis tres paradojas que se encunttran en Rousseau: i) la de la relación entre el pensamiento y el lenguaje (es necesario para pensar tener un lenguaje y un lenguaje para pensar), ii) la relación entre la sociedad y el lenguaje, y finalmente, iii) el hecho de que dadas las presuposiciones rousseauianas en el CS si uno nace en un estado corrupto, con malas costumbres, es difícil ver como arrancaría siquiera la posición de Rousseau.

3. Es importante considerar si esta segunda etapa es realmente la segunda etapa de la naturaleza o la primera de la civilización pues de ello depende nuestra valoración, positiva o negativa, de nuestro carácter civilizado.

4. Starobinsky señala las cuatro etapas completas en su ensayo sobre el DOD.

5. Ver Taylor “Language and Human Nature” para la relación entre expresión y designación, y la pugna entre diferentes tradiciones (Rousseau/Herder contra Hobbes/Locke/Condillac)

6. Esta idea bellamente analizada en Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet, en donde se ve la relación enter una cultura oral y escrita y las correspondientes concepciones del yo y la identidad..

7. Camus también ve en los algerianos algo similar, ver su “Summer in Algiers”.

8. Los norteños tienen un ejemplo en el personaje Hans de la obra de Julio Verne, Viaje al centro de la tierra.

9. La importancia de la música retomada claro por Schopenhauer, Nietzsche y Mann.

*V)1. Ver la visión de Herr Settembrini acerca de la música en La Montaña Mágica de Thomas Mann; contrapuesta al amor de la música de Hans Castorp.

2. Sería importante comparar aquí la crítica de Constant sobre el rol de lo comercial en la modernidad.

3. Ver artículo de Taylor, “What’s Wrong with Negative Liberty”

4.Tal vez Rousseau esté creando una Torre de Babel hacia el interior, forjando un tipo de subjetividad moderna que retoma el proceso de interiorización de San Agustín; proceso del que Foucault es altamente sospechoso. Central para una mejor comprensión de esta temática es la de incorporar Las Confesiones a este estudio preliminar.

5. No tocaré aquí el problema de la tensión que existe ente el DOD y el CS; por ejemplo, ¿es, finalmente, el contrato originalmente desigual o no?

6. La idea del reconocimento claro retomada por Hegel en, La Fenomenología del Espíritu, “Señor y Siervo”.

7. La relación entre la biografía de Roussseau y su obra es compleja y no la trataré aquí, pero claro es menester tratarla en el doctorado.

*VI) 1. Virtud claro comprendida no en el sentido cristiano pues este es un lenguaje apolítico según Rousseau (CS IV *8) que aquí sigue a Maquiavelo.

2. Idea que retomará Kant en su importantísima concepción del imperativo categórico como universal y a la vez emanando de mi propia autonomía racional.

3. El hecho de que Rousseau no era ya ciudadano de Ginebra no lo trataré aquí. (Satrob, 322) (Blum, 54).

4. Ejemplos nuestros de ser forzados a ser libres son: posibilidad de voto obligatorio y ley zanahoria.

5. La legitimidad de lo privado en la modernidad es tratada por Taylor en “Legitimation Crisis?”.

7. Ejemplos del valor de la ley en Rousseau se dan en Consideraciones sobre el gobierno de Polonia, II; “El espíritu de las instituciones antiguas”; Taylor lo cita en “TPoR”. pg. 46-7.

 

VIII. BIBLIOGRAFíA


A) LECTURAS PRIMARIAS

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, Discurso sobre el origen y los fundamentos de la desigualdad entre los hombres y otros escritos de Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Estudio preliminar, traducción y notas de Antonio Pintor Ramos, REI Andes Ltda., Santafé de Bogotá, 1995

—–El contrato social, Traducción de Andebeng-Abeu Alingue, Prólogo y notas de

VíctorFlorián, Panamerican Editorial, Santafé de Bogotá, 1996

—–Ensayo sobre el origen de las lenguas, Traducción de Rubén Sierra Mejía,

Editorial Norma, Santafé de Bogotá, 1993.

—–The Basic Political Writings, Tranducción de Donald Cress, Hackett Publishing

Company, Indianapolis, 1987.

—–Two Essays on the Origin of Language, Translated by Moran, John and Gode

Alexander, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1966 (1986)

—–Discours sur les sciences et les arts, Preface de Jean Varloot, Editions Gallimard, Paris,

1987.

—–Du contract social, Union generale d’editions, Paris, 1973 (1982)

—–Essai sur l’origine des langues, Bibliotheque du Graphe, Ligugé, 1976.

 

B) LECTURAS SECUNDARIAS

 

Arrocha Ruperto, “La actualidad del pensamiento de J.J. Rousseau en nuestra época”,

Memorias del XIII Congreso de Filosofía, Los Andes Santafé de Bogotá, 1994, pgs.

813-819

 

Blum, Carol, Rousseau and the Republic of Virtue, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, 1986,

(1989), pgs 13-57

Constant, Benjamin, “The Liberty of the Ancients compared with that of the

Moderns” in Political Writings, Translated by Biancamaria Fontrana, Cambridge

University Press, Cambridge, 1988 (1989).

 

Herder, Johann, Essay on the Origin of Language, (ver arriba; Moran y Gode).

Kant, Immanuel, Kant’s Political Writings, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge

1970 (1985).

Pagden, Anthony, “Introduction” en The Languages of Political Theory in Early-Modern

Europe, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1987 (1990), pgs. 1-17.

 

Starobinsky, Jean, J.J. Rousseau: La transparence et l’obstacle, Editions Gallimard, Paris,

1971(1976). Versión inglesa Jean-Jacques Rousseau:Transparency and Obstruction, s.d.

Taylor, Charles, “The Politics of Recognition” en Multiculturalism, Princeton

University Press, Princeton, 1994. pgs. 25-74.

——-”Language and Human Nature, Philosophical Papers I, pgs. 215-248

——-”Theories of Meaning”, PP I, pgs 248-292

——-”Kant’s Theory of Freedom”, en Philosophical Papers II, pgs. 318-337

——-”Legitimation Crisis?” en PP II, pgs. 248-288

——-”What’s Wrong with Negative Liberty”, PP II, 211-229.

——-”Nature as Source” Capítulo 20 de Sources of the Self, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1989.

Viroli, Maurizio, “The concept of ordre and the language of classical republicanism in Jean-Jacques Rousseau”, en Pagden, Anthony, (ver arriba), pgs159-178.

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PLATO AND FREUD:

EROTIC SUBLIMATION, TRUTH AND NARRATION

 

INTRODUCTION

Drawing up a comparison between Freud and Plato on the nature of our erotic life is a project that would require a long and attentive dedication to each thinker’s over-all perspective on human nature. Not being capable of undertaking such a massive enterprise, I propose instead to focus this comparative essay on the relationship between sexuality, sublimation and the human search for truth through narrative.

The comparison between both thinkers is primarily made possible because of the fact that Freud, in different parts of his work, alludes to Plato’s views on the nature of ‘Eros’. For instance, in his Group Psychology the German thinker writes concerning the centrality of sexuality in the overall picture of psychoanalysis:

“By coming to this decision, Psychoanalysis has let loose a storm of indignation, as though it had been guilty of an act of outrageous innovation. Yet it has done nothing original in taking love in this ‘wider’ sense. In its origin, function and relation to sexual love, the ‘Eros’ of the philosopher Plato coincides exactly with the love force, the libido of psychoanalysis” (GP, 119) (See also, 3ES, Preface 4, 43)

 

According to Freud the libido, that is to say, the “energy regarded as quantitative magnitude …… of those instincts which have to do with all that may be comprised under the word ‘love’” (GP, 116), is merely a reformulation of the Platonic understanding of erotic longing. However, this claim is so strong that it cannot but puzzle us. This is so primarily because it is not at all clear that Plato has anything like ‘THE’ theory of sexuality within his dialogues. Instead it is of the nature of the dialogues to provide avenues for reflection, but no absolutely clear end roads where human reflection would become an impossibility. Besides, the interaction between the different Platonic dialogues may actually provide varying, perhaps mutually conflicting views, on the nature of human eroticity. Given this multiplicity which Freud seems to overlook, one is lead to ask: when Freud talks of the Platonic ‘theory of love’, does he have in mind the Symposium, the Phaedrus¸ or perhaps the Republic? Or does he mean the three, somehow made commensurable? And even if he does indeed have in mind particularly the Symposium, does he take it for granted that Plato’s views are identical to those of Socrates’ speech founded upon the remembrance of Diotima’s words? If this is so, then what ought we to do with all the other speeches? Why did Plato take the trouble of writing them in that order, with speakers the character of which clarify the nature of their speeches, and moreover, in such dramatic, and lively, fashion?

Having this questions in mind, in order to get clearer on how precisely Plato and Freud stand as regards the transformability of sexuality into ever widening activities, relations and aims, I propose to look at the question of sublimation in general, but particularly as it rotates around the crucially important notion of truth as it appears in each thinker’s view. I will carry this out by dividing this essay into two sections which perhaps can stand as mirror images to each other. In the first I will try to shed some light on the dialogical nature of the Symposium. This involves, among other things, bringing to the fore what I take to be the central confrontation of the dialogue, that is to say, the always indirect battle of positions held between Aristophanes (and to a minor extent Alcibiades) and Socrates. In their confrontation, I take it, lies the most important Platonic contribution to the understanding of the complexities and difficulties one runs into in seeking to comprehend the nature of our erotic longing as human beings, and perhaps even as potential Socrateses. The difficult issue of truth comes to light not in the personal, steadfast, and perhaps even stubborn adherence to one of the speeches, but rather in the critical acceptance of the dialogical interaction between the participants who together let us know that Eros, and the narration of Eros, are two sides of the same coin.

In the second section I will proceed to consider, briefly, some of the issues in Freud’s treatment of the ever elusive concept of sublimation within his work, and its relation to the pessimistic claims which mark the latter writings centering on the status of civilization and its relation to our unhappiness. Having done this, I will proceed to look at how precisely sublimation can, in the specific case of the analytic situation, brings out the ‘truthfulness’ of psychoanalysis as the working through of perplexities and unconscious barriers in order to get clearer, through the dialogical articulation of the participants involved, about the history and meaningfulness of one’s own past. I will claim that by centering on the issue of the narrative character of psychoanalytic truth, i.e., the textuality inherent in case histories, one finds the closest possible linking bridge between the complex and quite different views held by both Plato and Freud.

 

SECTION I: ARISTOPHANES AND/OR SOCRATES? DIALOGICAL TRUTHS IN THE SYMPOSIUM

The Symposium is a Platonic dialogue. Now, this may seem like an obvious claim, one which truly reveals nothing that is not self-evident. However, this very narrative character of the Platonic writings, a character which varies within the different Platonic periods, is the one which makes of Plato’s work a truly living breathing work. In the case of the Symposium in particular it is this dialogical characteristic which makes it evident that the Platonic understanding of the role of Eros in our lives is not simply identical to that of Socrates. Perhaps we can even find in this dialogue a questioning of the Socratic adventure towards philosophical truth. This is nowhere clearer than in the silent confrontation found between the speeches of Aristophanes and that of Socrates. In order to see exactly what is at stake in their agonistic encounter I will center the discussion upon the words of the Greek comedian. In situating the comedian’s speech within the dialogue, I will try to situate myself within, what I take to be, Plato’s overall intentions.

But before doing so, one ought to keep in mind a parallel that constantly reappears between Aristophanes and Freud. Aristophanes covers up the tragic nature of his brief speech on the nature of human erotic longing with the temporary soothing elements of comic myth. In this sense Aristophanes shares, as we shall see, Freud’s own pessimism regarding the search for human happiness through a life centered fundamentally on the erotic intermingling between lovers. For Freud, “the weak side of this technique of living is easy to see … it is that we are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love, never so helplessly unhappy as when we have lost our loved object or its love” (CiD, 270). But before looking more closely at the way this pessimism finds expression in Aristophanes’ speech, we must seek to briefly situate the comedian’s words within the whole of the Platonic dialogue.

That this concern is central in trying to understand the comic’s speech can be clearly seen in that Aristophanes is mysteriously silenced by Plato at different crucially climatic points of the dialogue. The first of these occurs just after Socrates has finished recollecting Diotima’s complex words concerning the possibility of an ascent to “the beautiful in itself”. Diotima’s speech on the nature of the philosophical life not only explicitly mentions and rejects Aristophanes’ myth ———due to its distancing itself, allegedly, from the goodness of the lovers involved (206d-e)——– but also involves a starting point in the ascent that stands in outright conflict with the comedian’s understanding of what is involved in the “ordinary” erotic interrelation between lovers. For Diotima the initiate in erotic understanding:

“first of all … must love one body and there generate beautiful speeches. Then he must realize that the beauty that is in any body whatsoever is related to that in another body; and if he must pursue the beauty of looks, it is great folly not to believe that the beauty of all bodies is one and the same. And with this realization he must be the lover of all beautiful bodies and in contempt slacken this erotic intensity for only one body, in the belief that it is petty” (210a).

For the Diotimian lover, the uniquely beautiful body of the loved one is not only interchangeable with others, but is linked to a kind of brutishness unworthy of those engaged in ascending towards “higher ground” (and those who believe this bodily interchangeability is not so problematic, must grapple with the fact that it also holds for the individual soul of that human being which we love as no other (210d)). Now, what is extremely suspicious from the stance of the defender of Aristophanes’s speech, lies in that, once Socrates has finished speaking, we learn that the comedian does not only NOT praise it, but moreover is just about to speak when Plato silences his reservations via the entrance of the bodily beautiful and drunken Alcibiades (212c). Perhaps Alcibiades’ speech will retake elements of Aristophanes’s myth, but perhaps too Alcibiades will not fully express the comedian’s deepest reservations. Now, however that may turn out to be, it is likewise suspicious that towards the end of the dialogue Plato once again is quick to silence Aristophanes. In the culminating conversation between Aristophanes, Agathon and Socrates, conversation in which the latter is trying to “compel” (223d) the other two to admit that the tragic poet is also a comic poet, Aristophanes , by the magical hand of the author, is the first to be “put to sleep”. Socrates, in contrast, goes on sleepless to continue his contemplative activity at the Lyceum. How to understand this? Is there a hierarchy between the different speeches, Socrates’ being the culminating one? Does Socrates speech take up and complete Aristophanes’, just as Pausanias claimed to complete Phaedrus’? Does Aristophanes’ speech present itself not as a dialectical “stepping stone” for what is to follow, but rather as a sort of broken bridge which divides two different ways of living one’s erotic life? If this is so, then clearly Plato’s views on what sublimation and truth might be taken to be, are not so easily identifiable with Socrates’ own words.

The competition between Socrates, who is characterized by his ‘strangeness’ (215a), ‘outrageousness’ (175c) and ‘oddness’ (175a), and Aristophanes, is further made clear by the starting point each takes up in order to the clarify our erotic involvements. While Socrates, unlike in the Apology, claims to have “perfect knowledge of erotics” —— a knowledge expressed, in his youth, not by him but by Diotima (177d) ——– Aristophanes speaks from his own personal, perhaps lived-through, opinion (‘doxa’) (189c) (although it is also important to remember that Aristophanes, of all the speakers, is the only not paired with any other as lover to beloved). Moreover, both speakers seems to hold allegiance to very different gods. Socrates lets us know that Aristophanes’s “whole activity is devoted to Dionysius and Aphrodite” (177d). Aristophanes is concerned with two very particular Olympians: on the one hand Dionysius, the only god who knows of death and a subsequent rebirth, the god of wine and music (music being “exiled” from the dialogue, while wine is “moderated”; until the final entrance of Alcibiades), the god of excess which Agathon calls upon to judge the rivalry between him and Socrates (175e); and on the other hand, Aphrodite, the beautiful goddess of delicate feet born asexually from the genitals of Uranus after having been conquered by Cronos, the goddess who commits adultery with Ares and is made to pay for it by Hephaestus, to whom we shall return. These two gods, which are mysteriously absent from Aristophanes’s speech itself, stand in outright contrast to the Apollinian values of self-knowledge and moderation, values which partly characterize the behavior of Socrates.

Aristophanes’ linkage to the love of wine, and thus to Dionysius, is made clear from the very line which marks his entrance. Celebrating Agathon’s victory he drank not moderately, but rather like a human sponge, taking in so much that he has become completely soaked. (176b). Aristophanes is not by any means a measured Athenian gentleman. His disordering presence becomes even more evident precisely when his turn to speak arrives. If Socrates rudely interrupts by his bodily inactivity the dinner to which he is invited (174d), Aristophanes rudely interrupts (or perhaps is overtaken) by his bodily activity, thus changing the original order of the speeches. Just when Pausanias has finished his sophisticated speech on pederasty, Aristophanes reveals that hiccups have gotten the best of him. Hiccups, we are mysteriously told, due to “satiety or something else” (perhaps wine?) (185d). Eryximachus, the physician who had played a key role both in ordering the whole banquet (177d), and in moderating the dangerous effects of wine (176d), sets out to cure the poor comedian’s sudden illness. Medicine rescues the comedian by putting forward the strongest of cures known to hiccuping, the soaking outbursts of sneezing. Once Eryximachus’ “doctoral” speech come to an end (presumably with Aristophanes hiccuping and sneezing throughout), the comedian ironically challenges the doctor’s claims to understanding the nature and erotics of the body. He says: “so I wonder at the orderly decency of the body, desiring such noises and garglings as a sneeze is; for my hiccuping stopped right away as I applied the sneeze to it” (189c). That Aristophanes is not by any means thanking his doctor, is made evident by the laughter of all those present; a laughter which comes into conflict with the seriousness of the doctor who fights back by way of an aggressive challenge. Eryximachus will become the guardian of comedy; “you did have the chance to speak in peace”, he tells Aristophanes (189b). The comic poet becomes now the doctor who must cure the excessive anger which bursts easily from the moderate physician. Aristophanes seeks a truce claiming to want to start from the beginning: “let what has been said be as if it were never spoken” (189b). (An apology which seems to imply that the previous speeches have somehow gone wrong.) Eryximachus, in turn, demands that the poet give a rational account (‘logos’) of Eros; a demand which, if fulfilled, would reduce the speech of the comic to pure silence. Aristophanes will speak in another vein, it is one which involves story-telling, imaginative interaction and poetic creativity; much the same things we feel are necessary in speaking about one’s love for that other who makes us feel “head over heels”. Finally, the comedian shares with us his one big fear; Aristophanes is not afraid of saying laughable things, that is to say, things which can be shared by all of us who somehow feel ourselves identified with what is said —–things which, besides, represent a gain for the poetic Muse (189c)—— but he is afraid of saying things that are “laughed at”, that is to say, things from which we think we can distance ourselves and judge from a higher plane than that of our vulnerable and tragic condition (189b).

In trying to situate Aristophanes’ speech within the whole of the Platonic dialogue, I argued that he and Freud investigate the viability and shortcomings of the highly risky human possibility which centers the attainment of happiness on a radical emphasis in the life of erotic sharing between two individuals. But besides this similarity, what is more amazing still, is that we find in Freud a passage in which he makes us recollect Aristophanes’s own mythological comprehension of the power of Eros in our lives. For Freud:

“ a pair of lovers are sufficient to themselves, …… in no other case does Eros so clearly betray the core of his being, his purpose of making one out of more than one … (thus) we can imagine quite well a cultural community consisting of double individuals like this, who libidinally satisfied in themselves, are connected with one another through the bonds of common work and common interests …. but this desirable state of things does not, and never did, exist” (CiD, 298).

 

For Aristophanes, once upon a time, such state did “exist”, and his story stands as imaginative “proof”. It is a story which allows us to re-’collect’ the genesis of human erotic longing. Only through its understanding can we come closer to comprehending that force in us which strives to reach out for another’s physical and psychical partnership.

The brevity of the speech stands in stark contrast with its complexity. Too many issues are brought together and unfortunately, I cannot, nor know how to, deal with many of them. I propose therefore to zero-in more closely on one of these aspects, namely, the central issue which links Aristophanes to Freud’s ‘community of double individuals’, the issue of human ‘happiness’ and the nature of erotic desire.

Aristophanes claims that the power of Eros lies in its providing us with the greatest possible happiness any human being could ever expect to achieve in this world. As he puts it: “Eros is the most philanthropic of gods, the helper of human beings as well as a physician dealing with an illness the healing of which would result in the greatest happiness for the human race” (189c-d)”. According to Aristophanes we humans can allegedly reach happiness via erotic involvement, but it seems, not just with anybody. Eros represents this regressive possibility by allowing us to catch a glimpse of our ancient nature. Unlike the tragic results of the first operation by Zeus, operation which culminated in the painful death of the two newly severed parts which were left to cling unto each other, dying “due to hunger and the rest of their inactivity, because they were unwilling to do anything apart from one another” (191b), for us who are the “beneficiaries” of the second more complex Apollinian operation, sexuality has been brought to the fore. Having placed the genitals, the “shameful things” in Greek, in the front (191b), we can move beyond clinging by now engaging in sexual activity. Through the latter the previous oneness can be, only temporarily for sure, remembered once again. Eros’ power allows this, and it is because of it that we must thank, praise and sacrifice to this god’s, usually taken for granted, divine presence (189c). But sexual interaction with just anyone will not lead to the happiness which reminds us of our past protohuman “fulfillment”. We must permanently search for that other who matches the jagged features of our patched up bodies (191a). Eros is then “the bringer-together of their (that is to say, ‘our’) ancient nature, who tries to make one of two and to heal their (that is to say, ‘our’) human nature. Each of us is a token (‘symbolon’) of a human being ….. and so each is always in search of his own token” (191d). Ever since we become old enough to feel the erotic longing for another’s patches, we turn into permanent seekers of what in Spanish we call “mi otra media naranja”, that is to say, that “my other half-orange” who will complete our fruit like original nature in which we resembled the natural gods. The Greeks here preferred to speak of apples (190e).

And if ever we are so lucky as to be allowed by Eros to find that other who strikes us wondrously with friendship and erotic love to the point that, now, we “are unwilling to be apart from one another even for a short time” (192c), then human bliss seems to reach its highest possible peak. The other’s presence modifies one’s own self-perception and that of the world in a way in which both are mutually enriched; we feel ourselves enhanced in a world which suddenly opens itself to new, previously unseen, possibilities.

But Aristophanes and Freud seem to have reservations. Freud, we saw, centers his critique on the loss of the beloved. Aristophanes, though aware of this danger, provides a more devastating critique by looking at the problematic functioning of erotic desire itself. The lucky lovers who are finally able to reach each other, presumably following several painful misses and rather uncomfortable fits ——— for Aristophanes makes it clear that this reunion is not what normally happens at present (193b) ———- these lucky lovers nevertheless seem to desire something more. This something, Aristophanes jokingly says, one could not conceivably take it simply to be the delight of sexual intercourse with that other half which seems to fit, ‘just right’, in yourself: “as though it were for this reason —-of all things—– that each so enjoys being with the other… but the soul of each wants something else” (192c). But that elusive ‘something else’ which the soul of each wants for him/herself, that cannot be easily put into words. Just as it so happens when one is asked why one loves his/her, hopefully, ‘real’ other half, there comes a point where you cannot quite “explain”, and instead just feel like saying, “Can’t you see why?, well that is really odd”.

Nevertheless Aristophanes challenges this silence, the same silence which Plato forces on him, by providing us with a riddle to be solved. The riddle, like Oedipus’, concerns humans, but unlike the King’s, Aristophanes’s concerns a dilemma which is brought to light by looking at our desiring nature. The riddle is spoken by yet another Olympian god, Hephaestus, the weak god of fire and crafts/arts (techne). It is he who chained Aphrodite and Ares for having committed adultery; chaining them, not to bring them eternal bliss, but rather eternal boredom. Hephaestus seems, tragically, to seek welding as punishment (Od. 315). This god is made to ask us humans what we really want out of love, and, just as Zeus was perplexed with the attitude of the circular beings, so we humans stand perplexed by Hephaestus’ question (192d). He must therefore not only rephrase the question, but very directly answer it in doing so. Would we not really desire just to become one once again, our belly wrinkles giving way to a stronger sphericity? What more lovely than reaching this “golden state” capable even of denying the individual death of its members, so that even “in Hades you (that is to say, we) would be together one instead of two?” (192e). Would this not be the ultimate happiness, that which involved a shared immortality?

The riddle, and riddles one would think are so because they are, presumably, very difficult to answer, is to our perplexity immediately answered in the affirmative. It seems as though nothing would be more desirable for us, ill halves, than to permanently rejoin that other whom Eros has granted us, finally, to reach. However, we should remember that even the protohumans though fused to their extremities, nonetheless did not seem to have seen themselves as part of a Paradise in which nothing was lacking. Even asexual human sphericity finds itself lacking, striving to move beyond its original condition. Oneness reaches beyond itself, although of course it reaches out more powerfully with four arms, four legs, not just two of each. And moreover, what distinguishes our humanity lies precisely in that, like it or not, we will forever remain as halves in constant search for that which we lack. Desire flourishes precisely due to this incompleteness which moves us beyond ourselves. The feverish conditions which evolve out of the absence of the loved one seem to move in the same direction. If Hephaestus’ riddle were not only answered in the affirmative, but actually set in place, our human condition as we know it, fragile and ill as it may be, would come to a permanent end. Letting Hephaestus do his work would turn out to be a punishment much severer than that of Zeus who intended to break us down once more, leaving us “hopping on one leg” (190d). Seeking to become spherical again requires the death of Eros’ presence in our lives. And Aristophanes hints to this towards the end of his speech in a paragraph which links past, present and future possibilities: “our race would be happy if we were to bring our love to a consummate end, and each of us were to get his own favorite on his return to his ancient nature. And if this is the best, it must necessarily be the case that, IN PRESENT CIRCUMSTANCES, that which is closest to it is the best; and that is to get a favorite whose nature is to one’s tastes” (193c) (here a specific reference to the pederasts, but shedding light, I believe, into all the different kinds of relationships). Aristophanes qualifies his appeal to a return to oneness by continually using the hypothetical ‘if’, as in ‘if this is the best’. But as I have argued this undoubtedly is not the best desirable course for us humans to take. Our present circumstances cannot be done away with, no matter how hard we imagine ourselves to have been otherwise. At best we should seek out to reach the sweetness of that other who allows the growth of those beautiful wings characteristic of the highest kind of lovers in the Phaedrus (251e); but, at the same time knowing, or perhaps feeling, full well that Eros’ presence immediately sets us humans in the web of a dilemma which seems to promise much more that it can offer. Aristophanes laughs, and allows us to laugh at this all-too-human endevour.

Perhaps it is because of this dilemma, characteristic, of our ‘ordinary’ erotic life that Socrates takes a radically different starting point in his search for the desiring value of the beautiful in our lives. Attempting to analyze that speech in full would require taking up too many difficult issues, many of which I am uncertain. Instead, I would just like to, in order to complete this section, show how it is precisely Socrates who stands, in his daily living and acting, as the greatest challenge to the Aristophanean conception of lovers comically seeking to erase their split nature. It is by looking at Socrates’ way of life, a philosophical way of life which questions all others, that another perspective on erotic desire and its role in the achievement of truth becomes possible.

That Socrates is brought to court in this dialogue, though clearly in a different setting than that of the Apology, can be seen from the very start. As we pointed out above, Agathon has promised to take him to court about their wisdom with Dionysus as judge (176a). But clearly Agathon’s challenge seems to have been more forcibly made by he who has Dionysius as his God. It is Aristophanes, silenced throughout by Plato, who carries the greatest challenge to the Socratic philosopher and his demeening view of the body.

This ridiculing of any bodily knowledge is clearly exemplified, for instance, in Socrates ironic treatment of Agathon’s view of the corporeal transference of wisdom (175e). Furthermore the belief that in bodily contact there lies some kind of understanding, as Aristophanes seems to believe, is precisely what Socrates finds troubling in Alcibiades’ love:

“So if, in observing my beauty, you are trying to get a share in it and to exchange beauty for beauty, you are intending to get far the better deal. For you are trying to acquire truth of beautiful thing in exchange for the seeming and opinion of beautiful things; and you really have in mind to exchange ‘gold for bronze’” (218e)

 

The importance of bringing this to light, is that it is particularly in the confrontation between Socrates and Alcibiades where the conflict between perspectives achieves its highest point. Drunk Alcibiades, who acknowledges his love of fame derived from the dedication to the city and consequent self-neglect, (216a) tells Socrates: “I shall tell the truth. See if you allow it.” (215e). Philosophy, understood as the love of the truth, finds its Socratic response not only in an acceptance of the challenge, but in a demand to do so.

Leaving aside the claims of the beautiful Alcibiades, it is quite obvious that Socrates’ ascent takes place under very different conditions. Socrates, who as a young man was led by Diotima to the most perfect revelations (210a), understands this ascent as one linked directly to the search of a very different kind of truth. It is a truth of unquestionable nature, for as he tells Agathon, “It is rather that you are unable to contradict the truth … since it is not at all hard to contradict Socrates” (201c). Although Diotima doubted whether young Socrates could follow in her lead, it is clear that now Socrates is convinced of the path he was taught by her (212b). What the highest step in the ladder reveals is a contemplative reality which has moved radically beyond the eroticity of Aristophanes’ everyday lovers, and their particular sort of truth. Although it is defined negatively for the most part (211a), and only given to us in a glimpse (210e), it becomes clear that according to Socrates only herein lies full human flourishing and happiness through the exploration of the divine in us:

“only here, in seeing in the way the beautiful is seeable, will he get to engender not phantom images of virtue … but true, because he lays hold of the true; and that once he has given birth to and cherished true virtue it lies within him to become dear to god, and if it is possible for any human being, to become immortal as well” (212a)

 

In ascending, what was perceived as supremely important in the ascent, is relegated to lower levels of comprehension incapable of grasping the beauty of the whole. And Socrates, the embodied human being in love with philosophy, stands as palpable truth of this transformation both in word and action. He is a human being like no other either present or past (221c-d). Socrates is truly a weird character. Although utterly ugly in bodily terms ——so much so that he is likened to Silenus and Marsyas—— his ‘internal’ beauty (217a), and the speeches that flow from it (215d) are of incomparable beauty and eroticity. This human being ——— with unheard of courage in retreat (220eff), with unheard of capacity for sustained thought (220c), with unheard of lack of bodily necessities, not only in the most sensual of situations (219d), but also in the crudest of winters (220b)——– this human being dedicates his whole life to the undertaking of a way of life which severs ties with the richness and honors sought by the majority (216e).

But puzzled by the presenc of such disparate speeches we are led to ask, if Aristophanes and Socrates present such conflicting perspectives of the role of sexuality in the conformation of our life plans, then who does Plato take to be the ‘true’ path we as humans ought to follow? An easy way out, it seems to me, is to claim that Plato’s love of Socrates obviously leads to the primacy of the speech of his beloved teacher. However, what I have tried to argue is instead that Plato uses the narrative character of his dialogue precisely to allow us to develop the philosophical capacity of reflexive self-awareness. In engaging ourselves in the reading of the work as a whole, what are revealed are not straight unquestionable answers to our dilemmas and perplexities, but rather a presentation of the complexities involved in thinking about the nature of our erotic life. Plato, like Socrates and Aristophanes, loves the agon of words, over and beyond any tranquil acceptance of clear-cut positions.

 

SECTION II: REPRESSION, SUBLIMATION, AND DIALOGICAL NARRATIVITY

The Platonic and Freudian perspectives on erotic desire touch and differ in multiple places and aspects. On the one hand, one finds that the striking parallels between Freud and Aristophanes can be more fully appreciated if one looks more closely at the pessimism which permeates the former’s writings on the processes and mechanisms underlying civilized institutions and behavior. On the other hand, the parallel with the Platonic dialogue as a way to self-understanding is more closely bound, if one moves beyond the previous tragic perspective, to the liberating therapeutic value of the analytic situation.

As I argued above, the Aristophenean position represented a simultaneous comic and tragic perspective onthe nature of our everyday love affairs. For Freud, it seems at times, the comic aspect is completely overrun by the tragedy of our human condition. An example of this is the troublingly entitled work Civilized Sexual Morality and Modern Nervous Illness. Providing us with a diagnosis of the modern condition, and not intended as a text for a particular kind of reformation (CSM, 55), it focuses rather on the characteristic repression of sexuality on which modern civilization, and for that matter any other civilization, is built. According to Freud: “we must view … all factors which impair sexual life, suppress its activity or distort its aims as being pathogenic factor in the psychoneurosis” (CSM, 38). What occurs at the level of the individual, namely, the supression of her instictual drives, is likewise the distinguishing mark of society as a whole which can survive only through an active taming of sexual and aggressive instincts. This suppression, which reminds one of Zeus’ operation in Aristophanes’ speech, involves for Freud, not the possibility of new paths, but instead primarily an impossibility of reaching human fulfillment. For him: “when society pays for obedience to its far-reaching regulations by an increase in nervous illness, it cannot claim to have purchased a gain at the price of sacrifices; it cannot claim a gain at all” (CSM, 54). This pessimistic trend, which hampers directly the human possibilities of achieving a full-fledged happiness, permeates as well Freud’s discussion of religion as it appears in his Future of an Illusion. There he once again reminds us that “the decisive question is whether and to what extent it is possible to lessen the burden of the instinctual sacrifices imposed on men, to reconcile men to those which must necessarily remain and to provide compensation for them (TFI, 186). Civilization imposes sacrifices, and according to Freud, we turn to religion as an illusory compensation for our incompleteness. However, the connection of this burden to the claims to happiness is more clearly explicited in Civilization and its Discontents. There Freud points out the different factors, both external and internal, which make it for us humans easier to realize that “unhappiness (for us) is much less difficult to experience” (CiD, 264). The eventual decay of our body and our death, the indifference and aggressiveness of nature towards us, and the unsatisfactory character of our relations with others, are for Freud the central conditions leading to our modern malaise (CiD, 329). This malaise, built on the repression of our instinctual nature, is made possible because of our experience of guilt. Freud intention, following Nietzsche’s analysis of the rise of consciousness in the Genealogy of Morals, is “to represent the sense of guilt as the most important problem in the development of civilization and to show that the price we pay for our advance in civilization is a loss of happiness through a heightening of the sense of guilt” (CiD, 327). Freudian pessimism reaches its greatest height in the perception of the development of the super-ego which sets itself against the very being which gave rise to it. Its ruthless governing reveals that: “a threatened external unhappiness—-loss of love and punishment on the part of the external authority—has been exchanged for a permanent internal unhappiness, for the tension of the sense of guilt” (320).

However, this pessimism is balanced in psychoanalysis by its claims not only to provide a regressive diagnosis of our condition, but also to provide us with the necessary tools for therapeutic counteraction. This is why Freud writes that “an analytic of such neuroses might lead to therapeutic recommendations which could lay claim to great practical interest” (CiD, 338). Psychoanalysis, which seeks an education to reality (TFI, 233), aims at bringing forth the truth of our condition. Take for instance the reality of death and our unconscious denial of its presence. Towards the end of his short essay on our attitude towards death, Freud tells us that from his investigation, though undoubtedly regressive in some respects, nevertheless comes forth a realization of our human limitations. His analysis thus has the minimum advantage“of taking the truth more into account and of manking life more tolerable for us” (OAD, 89).

The tolerability of this condition can be further enhanced by the possibility of of sublimation. According to Freud through the redirection of instinctual energies, repression is avoided, or at least, somehow rechanneled. Sublimation:

“places extraordinary large amounts of force at the disposal of civilized activity and it does it in virtue of its especially worked characteristic of being able to displace its aim without materially diminishing its intensity. This (is a) capacity to exchange its originally sexual aim for another one, which is no longer sexual but which is psychologically related to the first aim…” (CSM 39).

 

By allowing us to reshape the drives towards sexual interaction and aggressive behavior, it becomes possible to move into the realm of ‘higher and finer’ cultural achievements. However, according to Freud this capacity can be actually developed by a few, and even in those intermittently (CSM, 45). And not only this, the transformation of the sexual instinct into these higher activities, such as those of artistic activity, intellectual inquiry, ethical comprehension and religious dedication, is constantly set within the above mentioned condition of inherent supression in the coming about of any civilization. But if this is so, how then can there truly be redirection which is not itself built upon renunciation?

One way of dealing with this problematic question, thus moving beyond its pessimistic overtones, is to retake one of Abramson’s central points, namely the idea that repression “is centrally the repression of ideas; it must be understood as the corruption of meaning as well as damning of energy” (86). Psychoanalysis re-comprehends our condition by bringing to light new ways of comprehending the way we see ourselves. Psychoanalysis leads us beyond repression by paving the way into consciousness and its hidden meanings. It is primarily in the analytic situation where analyst and analysand come to enact psychoanalysis’ truth. It is this truth, which involves the painful search and articulation of a liberating narrative, the one which can also bring us closer not only to comprehending the phenomena of sublimation, but likewise to understanding the most important and immediate bonding element between both the Platonic and Freudian discourses.

Freud claimed that psychoanalysis gave us truth. Getting clearer on what he could have meant by claiming this involves looking at psychoanalytic practice itself. According to Ricoeur, on whom I base the following remarks, psychoanalytic theory “is (should be) the codification of what takes place in the analytic situation and more precisely in the analytic relationship” (Ricoeur, TQoPiFW, 248). One is therefore concerned with specifying what will ultimately count as knowledge for this distinct situation. Analytic ‘facts’, for instance, differ fundamentally from the ‘facts’ of the natural sciences. Ricoeur provides us with four distinguishing criteria.

First, that which can be treated in the analytic situation are those experiences of the analysand which are capable of being said. The object of psychoanalysis is not instinct simply as a physiological phenomena. Desire is accessible to us only in its coming to language. It is in virtue of this that Freud can speak of translating or deciphering the content of instinctual drives. The facts in psychoanalysis are inherently language related; instincts remain unknown in themselves. Freud makes this explicit in his paper on The Unconscious:

“I am in fact of the opinion that the antithesis of conscious and unconscious is not applicable to instincts. An instinct can never become an object of consciousness —–only the idea that represents the instinct can. Even in the Ucs. an instinct cannot be represented otherwise than by an idea. If the instinct did not attach itself or manifest itself as an affective state, we could know nothing about it” (F, TU, Vol 11, 179)

 

Only what is sayable can become factual in psychoanalysis; by the same token only what the interlocutors in the Platonic dialogue say, can guide us towards a better comprehension of the text as a whole.

The second criteria for facts emphasizes the fact that in the analytic situation two subjectivities encounter each other. Desire comes to language not only for the sake of being said, but more importantly, because it is a saying directed to another. Intersubjectivity is built into analytic facts because desire itself is structured intersubjectively; desire is the desire of or for another. Without the existence of the other, desire would not be spoken. Consequently, the attempt to do away with speech by aiming at pure objectivity:

“misunderstands the essential point, namely, that the analytic experience unfolds in the field of speech and that within that field, what comes to light is another language disassociated from common language which presents itself to be deciphered” (FaP, III, 367)

 

The importance of intersubjectivity finds its highest expression in the phenomena of transference. The former, coupled with the peculiar character of the analytic situation as one in which the overpowering exigencies of the reality principle are temporarily set aside, allows a repressed desire to be heard. The recovery of this language involves a remembering which in turn is made possible by the curbing of the resistances in the analysand through new energies. It is the liberation of the latter which allow a re-interpretation of past events. (Remembering is not only a crucial factor in Aristophanes myth, but likewise marks the whole of the Symposium).

Here the central feature of transference comes to light. This is so for if desire is addressed to another as a demand, the other can deny this satisfaction. This inherent quality of desire allows the analyst, through he denial of satisfaction, to aid in he reconstituiton of the analyzand herself. Hence Ricoeur tells us: “the constitution of the subject in speech and the constitution of desire in intersubjectivity are one and the same phenomenon” (FaP, 387). This intersubjective reconstitution is clearly portrayed in the agonistic interaction between, but not only, Socrates, Aristophanes and Alcibiades.

A third crucial element in defining the criteria appropriate to psychoanalytic facts lies in the necessary differentiation between psychical and material reality. What the analyst “observes” is not an act, but instead an interpretation of an act which need not necessarily have occurred. The analyst’s inquiry is ultimately based on the interpretative value placed by the analysand on a given experience: “what is important to the analyst are the dimensions of the environment as ‘believed’ by the subject, what is pertinent to him is not the fact, but the meaning the fact has assumed in the subject’s history” (FaP, 364). The meaningfulness of psychical reality reminds us that the analytic space is one in which fantasy is played out. Likewise in the Platonic dialogue it is clear that the discussion of Eros involves many reinterpretations or events which conflict with historical reality. It is astonishing to find that the Symposium tells us erotic readers how Apollodorus conversed with a friend, “which reports a previous conversation of his own, in which he recalls a speech by Aristodemus, who reports (among others) a speech of Socrates, who reports a speech of Diotima, who reports the secrets of the mysteries. (Nussbaum, 167-8).

The final factual criteria in psychoanalysis according to Ricouer, concerns the aim which both the analysand and the analyst strive for, namely, the developing of what is capable of a narrative in the analysand’s experience. This is to say that the primary texts are individual case histories. In this fourth criteria one can clearly see the interdependence of the previous three. Narration is not a given but instead involves a creative process which could not even begin if desire were not accessible to us in speech. Likewise this work towards narrativity is the product of an intersubjective relation. Both analysand and the analyst are active participants in this reconstruction which requires the building up for forces to overcome resistances. The former are made possible by engaging in a process of remembrance through which a re-interpretation of one’s past is made possible. In narration lies self-understanding. I dwell in fantasy to find myself in reality. The Platonic dialogue, as act of the letrary and philosophical imagination, represents one of the most sublime of this recreations, one in which through words the world, and we ourselves, come to life once again.

Having looked at what it is that Ricoeur argues counts as a fact in psychoanalysis, and having briefly compared it to some elemental aspects of the Symposium, we can turn finally to a characterization of the psychoanalytic framework as a whole. Here we touch upon Freud’s tripartite definition of psychoanalysis. He writes in the first of two encyclopedia articles:

“Psychoanalysis is the name 1) of a procedure for the investigation of mental processes which are always inaccessible in any other way, 2) of a method (based on that investigation) for the treatment of neurotic disorders and 3) of a collection of psychological information obtained along these lines which is gradually being accumulated into a new scientific discipline” (Freud, TEA, 131, Vol. 15)

 

Psychoanalysis as a procedure for the investigation of mental processes which are always inaccessible in any other way deals particularly with the translation and deciphering of hidden and distorted meanings. This procedure is one which claims to give us a kind of truth of therapeutic value. In order to specify these truth claims, and the criteria of verifiability appropriate to psychoanalysis, Ricoeur returns to the four criteria for facts stated above.

First, analytic experience shows us desire coming to discourse. What is true or false consequently is what is said. Therefore, the truth aimed at is one which involves a saying-true rather than a being-true. Truth is not one that is observe, but one that is heard, In saying-truly the analysand guarantees self-reflection, she moves from misunderstanding to self-recognition. In this, Freudian discourse comes much closer to Platonic dialogue than to Socratic contemplation which, as we saw in the peak of its contemplative fulfillment seems to move even beyond language, the words of which seem inadequate in portraying the presence of a ‘being-true’ which is revealed by philosophical praxis.

Second, desire exists as desire for another. Truth claims are thus necessarily placed within the field of intersubjective communication. Pure objectivity becomes not only unthinkable, its imposition would imply the loss of speech. Both subjectivities which encounter themselves in analysis are engaged in a work which aims at the saying of truth. The joint effort of analysand and analyst aims at giving back a fantastical yet alienated realm to the analysand. The task of the latter is to incorporate this alienation through understanding. And as we saw in our first section, it is precisely this interaction which guarantees that one does not fall into a simplistic understanding of the Symposium, one in which Plato and the Socratic speech are unproblematically identified.

Here we already move beyond the second criteria for truth, namely the recognition of intersubjectivity, to the third criteria for facts of which we spoke before, that is, that what is psychoanalitically relevant is what the analysand makes of his fantasies. The aim of analysis is not the undermining of fantasy, but rather its recovery through self-understanding. The possibility of truth herein lies in something like this. In analytic experience I come to recognize my condition as human being. That is to say, I come to realize that I may not possibly realize the whole of my fantastical life. But at the very least I come to understand the reasons for this denial. By making myself responsible for my fantasy, I acknowledge the force of necessity. In the case of the Platonic dialogue, by realizing the tension between the Socratic and Aristophenean positions (to siganl out only two) I am borught to a realization of the impossibility of holding onto both simultaneously. It seems as though the Symposium is marked by an either/or dichotomy.

This last claim can perhaps be illuminated by looking at Ricoeur’s fourth criteria for facts, and the consequent truth claim appropriate to it. What is developed in analysis is a case history, a history of fantasy. A misunderstood past is made truly historical in virtue not only of my playing out my fantasy, but more importantly, by being appropriated as distinct from the real. Narrativity is critical and thus aims at this specific truth, the reconstitution of a subject through self-understanding. The analysand:

“is both the actor and the critiquer of a history which he is at first unable to recount. The problem of recognizing oneself is the problem of recovering the ability of reconstructing one’s own history, to continue endlessly to give the form of a story to reflections of oneself” (Ricoeur, TQoPiFW, 268)

 

Ultimately, the truth brought to light in analysis lies in the development of this unique case history. This is so for the fundamental precondition for the former’s existence is that the potential for self-reflection has been actualized. It is this very potential which Plato once actualized in his self-clarifying dialogues, an activity and a task which allows us to see in his dialogues a vivid reflection of his ‘sublimated’ love of words and truth. A passionate love to which the writings of Freud lead as well.

 

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

 

1) PRIMARY SOURCES

 

Freud, Sigmund, On Metapsychology: The Theory of Psychoanalysis, Volume 11 of the Penguin Freud Library, “The Unconscious” 159-210. (Edition 1984)

 

———–Civilization Society and Religion, Volume 12 of Penguin Freud Library, “‘Civilized’ Sexual Morality and Modern Nervous Illness” pgs 33-55. (edition 1985), “Thoughts for the Times on War and Death”, “Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego”, “The Future of an Illusion”, “Civilization and its Discontents” .

 

———–Historical and Expository Works on Psychoanalysis, “An Outline of Psychoanalysis, pgs 371-444.

 

 

Plato, Symposium, Photocopies given out in class.

 

——– Phaedrus, Penguin Books, Translated by Walter Hamilton.

 

 

2) SECONDARY SOURCES

 

Abramson, Jeffrey, Liberation and Its Limits, The Free Press, New York, 1984, Chapter 6, “Sublimation: A way Out?”

 

Carson, Anne, Eros the Bittersweet¸ Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1988.

 

Nussbaum, Martha, The Fragility of Goodness, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1989, (1986). Chapter 6 “The Speech of Alcibiades” pgs., 165-195.

 

Ricoeur, P., Freud and Philosophy, New Haven and London, Yale University Press, 1970. Translated by Denis Savage.

 

———- Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,

“The question of proof in Freud’s Psychoanalytic writings” pgs 247-273.

 

Rosen, Stanley, Plato’s Symposium, Yale University Press, New Haven, (1968), 1987.

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ARISTOPHANES’ SPEECH IN PLATO’S SYMPOSIUM: A presentation

 

1) SITUATING THE SPEECH

 

  Just as Socrates covers up his physical ugliness through his unusual use of “fancy slippers” (174a), so Aristophanes covers up the tragic nature of his brief speech on the nature of human erotic longing with the temporary soothing elements of comic myth. In this sense Ar. shares, as we shall see, Freud’s own pessimism regarding the search for human happiness through a life centered fundamentally on the erotic intermingling between lovers. For Freud, as we already know, “the weak side of this technique  of living is easy to see … it is that we are never so defenceless against suffering as when we love, never so helplessly unhappy as when we have lost our loved object or its love” (CiD, 270). But before looking more closely at the way this pessimism finds expression in Aristophanes’ speech, we must seek to briefly situate the comedian’s words within the whole of the Platonic dialogue. In doing so we should keep in mind the fact that it is not Aristophanes the author of The Clouds who speaks, but rather Plato appropriating the comedian’s way of life for his own purposes.

  That this concern is central in trying to understand the comic’s speech can be clearly seen in that Ar. is mysteriously silenced by Plato at different crucially climatic points of the dialogue. The first of these occurs just after Socrates has finished recollecting Diotima’s complex words concerning the possibility of an ascent to “the beautiful in itself”. Diotima’s speech not only explicitly mentions and rejects Aristophanes’ myth ———due to its distancing itself, allegedly, from the goodness of the lovers involved (206d-e)——– but also involves a starting point in the ascent that stands in outright conflict with the comedian’s understanding of what is involved in the erotic interrelation between lovers. For Diotima the initiate in erotic understanding “first of all … must love one body and there generate beautiful speeches. Then he must realize that the beauty that is in any body whatsoever is related to that in another body; and if he must pursue the beauty of looks, it is great folly not to believe that the beauty of all bodies is one and the same. And with this realization he must be the lover of all beautiful bodies and in contempt slacken this erotic intensity for only one body, in the belief that it is petty” (210a). For the Diotimian lover the uniquely beautiful body of the loved one is not only interchangeable with others, but is linked  to a kind of brutishness unworthy of those engaged in ascending towards “higher ground” (and those who believe this bodily interchangeability is not so problematic, must grapple with the fact that it also holds for the individual soul of that human being which we love as no other (210d)). Now, what is extremely suspicious from the stance of the defender of Ar.’s speech lies in that, once Socrates has finished speaking, we learn that the comedian does not only NOT praise it, but moreover is just about to speak when Plato silences his reservations via the entrance of the bodily beautiful and drunken Alcibiades. (212c). Perhaps Alcibiades’ speech will retake elements of Ar.’s myth, but perhaps too Alcibiades will not fully express the comedian’s deepest reservations. Now, however that may turn out to be, it is likewise suspicious that towards the end of the dialogue Plato once again is quick to silence Ar. In the culminating conversation between Ar., Agathon and Socrates, conversation in which the latter is trying to “compel” (223d) the other two to admit that the tragic poet is also a comic poet, Ar. , by the magical hand of the author, is the first to be “put to sleep”. Socrates, in contrast, goes on sleepless to the Lyceum. How to understand this? Is their a hierarchy between the different speeches, Socrates’ being the culminating one? Does Socrates speech take up and complete Ar.’s, just as Pausanias claimed to complete Phaedrus’? Does Ar.’s speech present itself not as a dialectical “stepping stone” for what is to follow, but rather as a sort of broken bridge which divides two different ways of living one’s erotic life? Could one then not say that Ar. sleeps first for he somehow knows that his speech has already accomplished what Socrates is trying him to compel him to admit, namely, that comedy and tragedy are two sides of a circle eternally split for us humans who are continually torn between the bitterness of tears and the sweetness of laughter.

  The  competition  between Socrates, who is characterized by his ‘strangeness’ (215a), ‘outrageousness’ (175c) and ‘oddness’ (175a), and Ar., is further made clear by the starting point each takes up in order to the clarify our erotic involvements. While Socrates, unlike in the Apology, claims to have “perfect knowledge of erotics” —— a knowledge expressed not by him but by Diotima (177d) ——– Ar. speaks from his own personal, perhaps lived-through, opinion (189c) (although it is also important to remember that Ar., of all the speakers, is the only not paired with any other as lover to beloved). Moreover, both speakers seems to hold allegiance to very different gods. Socrates lets us know that Ar.’s “whole activity is devoted to Dionysius and Aphrodite” (177d). Ar. is concerned with two very particular Olympians: on the one hand Dionysius, the only god who knows of death and a subsequent rebirth, the god of wine and music (music being “exiled” from the dialogue, while wine is “moderated”), the god of excess which Agathon calls upon to judge the rivalry between him and Socrates (175e), and on the other hand, Aphrodite, the beautiful goddess of delicate feet born asexually from the genitals of Uranus after having been conquered by Cronos, the goddess who commits adultery with Ares, god of war, and is made to pay for it by Hephaestus, to whom we shall return. (It is noteworthy that Ar. seems to avoid Pausanias’ clever and complex split between the Uranian and Pandemian Aphrodites, a split which leads to controverial dualities such as those of beloved/lover, passive/active, body/mind and, their social expression in conventional roles such as those of the “machismo/marianismo” dichotomy in a Latin American context). These two gods, which are mysteriously absent from Ar.’s speech itself, stand in outright contrast to the Apollinian values of self-knowledge and moderation, values which partly characterize the behaviour of Socrates.

  Aristophanes’ linkage to the love of wine, and thus to Dionysius, is made clear from the very line which marks his entrance. Celebrating Agathon’s victory he drank not moderately, but rather like a human sponge, taking in so much that he has become completely soaked. (176b). Aristophanes is not by any means a measured  Athenian gentleman. His disordering presence becomes even more evident precisely when his turn to speak arrives. If Socrates rudely interrupts by his bodily inacitivity the dinner to which he is invited (174d), Ar. rudely interrupts by his bodily activity the original order of the speeches. Just when Pausanias has finished his sophisticated speech on pederasty, Ar. reveals that hiccups have gotten the best of him. Hiccups, we are mysteriously told, due to “satiety or something else” (perhaps wine?) (185d). Eryximachus, the physician who had played a key role both in ordering the whole banquet (177d), and in moderating the dangerous effects of wine (176d), sets out to cure the poor comedian’s sudden illness. Medicine rescues the comedian by putting forward the strongest of cures known to hiccuping, the soaking outbursts of sneezing. Once Eryximachus’ “doctoral” speech come to an end (presumably with Ar. hiccuping and sneezing throughout), the comedian ironically challenges the doctor’s claims to understanding the nature and erotics of the body. He says: “so I wonder at the orderly decency of the body, desiring such noises and garglings as a sneeze is; for my hiccuping stopped right away as I applied the sneeze to it” (189c). That Ar. is not by any means thanking his doctor, is made evident by the laughter of all those present;  a laughter which comes into conflict with the seriousness of the doctor who fights back by way of an aggressive challenge. Eryximachus will become the guardian of comedy; “you did have the  chance to speak in peace”, he tells Ar. (189b). The comic poet becomes now the doctor who must cure the excessive anger which bursts easily from the moderate physician. Ar.  seeks a truce (as in his work Peace), claiming to want to start from the beginning: “let what has been said be as if it were never spoken” (189b). (An apology which seems to imply that the previous speeches have somehow gone wrong.) Eryximachus, in turn, demands that the poet give a rational account (‘logos’) of eros; a demand which, if fulfilled, would reduce the speech of the comic to pure silence.  Ar. will speak in another vein, it is one which involves story-telling, imaginative interaction and poetic creativity; much the same things we feel are neccesary in speaking about one’s love for that other who makes us feel “head over heels”. Finally, the comedian shares with us his one big fear; Ar. is not afraid of saying laughable things, that is to say, things which can be shared by all of us who somehow feel ourselves identified with what is said —–things which, besides, represent a gain for the poetic Muse (189c)—— but he is afraid of saying things that are “laughed at”, that is to say, things from which we think we can distance ourselves and judge from a higher plane than that of our vulnerable and tragic condition (189b).

 

2) ASPECTS OF THE SPEECH

   

  At the outset  I argued that Freud and Ar. investigate the viability and shortcomings of the highly risky human possibility which centers the attainment of happiness on a radical emphasis in the life of erotic  sharing between two individuals. But besides this similarity, what is more amazing still, is that we find in Freud a passage in which he makes us recollect Ar.’s own mythological comprehension of the power of Eros in our lives. For Freud: “ a pair of lovers are sufficient to themselves, …… in no other case does Eros so clearly betray the core of his being, his purpose of making one out of more than one … (thus) we can  imagine quite well a cultural community consisting of double individuals like this, who libidinally satisfied in themselves, are connected with one another through the bonds of common work and common interests …. but this desirable state of things does not, and never did, exist” (CiD, 298). For Ar., once upon a time, such state did “exist”, and his story stands as imaginative “proof”. It  is a story which allows us to re-’collect’ the  genesis of human erotic longing. Only through its understanding can we come closer to comprehending that force in us which strives to reach out for another’s physical and psychical partnership.

  The brevity of the speech stands in stark contrast with its complexity. Too many issues are brought together and unfortunately, I cannot, nor know how to, deal with many of them. Therefore, I propose first to put forward some questions regarding a few of the most relevant aspects within the myth, and second,  to zero-in more closely on one of these aspects, namely, the central issue which links Ar. to Freud’s ‘community of double individuals’..

  Some of the questions one could  consider in trying to begin to understand the comic speech by Ar. are: i) Why are the circular gods of nature ——– the sun, the earth and finally the moon as intermediary between both—— gods from which the circular beings are born (male, female, androgynous respectively) (190b), quickly transformed into the anthropomorphic gods of Olympus whose origin is not even discussed (190c)? How to understand the needy nature of the Olympic gods (particularly Zeus) who wisely, after being perplexed, come to realize that by destroying the circular race of protohumans they will end up destroying their ‘other half’, namely, the one which honours and praises them? Is the Zeus mentioned here identical with the Olympian Zeus of tradition? And if so, then why so much emphasis on his deliberation (190c), his perplexity and his pity (191b)? Moreover, why, if Socrates has told us that Ar.’s god’s are Dionysius and Aphrodite, do precisely these gods not appear in the mythical narration of the genesis of eros and our permanent illness? Furthermore, why is Zeus made to speak three times in the present  “says” (190c), “supplies” and “rearranges” (191b), while the rest of his speech is in the past? Does this imply, as in Freud, that somehow the process of civilization, although comprehensible to a certain extent regressively, is nevertheless a process which has constituted us in a radically imperfect and incomplete way, a process that is, in other words, ‘here to stay’? Finally, is the process of what Ar. considers the unjust splitting up by Zeus, a split which seems to link sexuality to shamefulness,  comparable to the “unjust”  process of religion in Freud’s own perspective, a process which links sexuality to guilt? How could one link this new reference to shame, to the shame of the lovers of honour which one finds in Phaedrus’ speech? ; ii) How to understand the fact that the circular beings, who seem complete in themselves, nevertheless are, from their very mysterious conception, made to lack something so that they are taken over by “proud thoughts” which make them try to overturn, not the natural gods, but the anthropomorphic gods of Olympus (190b)? How do they end up getting this overwhelming desire for power into their heads in the first place? And if not their own fault, then why are they punished for something which presumably is not in their power to modify? Moreover, what is one to make of the status of the ‘androgynous’ original kind which has mysteriously disappeared, leaving only its reproachable name behind (189e)? Is it reproachable, not for Ar. who in the Lysistrata  reaches peace through a Panhellenic strike of wives, but for the Greeks in general due to their view that men are superior to women? Could one link this ‘androgynous’ type to Freud’s views on bisexuality, particularly as it finds expression in each individual?; iii) How can we understand Ar.’s intention of including in his speech a concern for all human beings by focusing on human nature in general (189c-d, 190d, 191c-d), and not just a few who have the ‘real’ key to loving? Does not Ar. then miss the fact that loving IS somehow or other inevitably linked to the customs (‘nomos’) within which it develops; so that for instance loving between Canadians, Latin Americans and Japanese is really quite different?; iv) What is the relationship between the, ironic, yet serious reference Ar. makes to pederasty as the only activity which prepares men to political office, but does so by setting aside the very procreation of the species and thus endangering the very subsistence  of the city (192a)?; v) Is Diotima’s critique concerning the ethical nature of lovers one that radically undermines Ar.’s position? (For instance, we think there is something odd in saying that Eva Brown was the ‘other half’ of Adolf Hitler) Moreover, don’t we conceive of lovers likewise as somehow seeking out to become friends in terms of character?; and finally, vi) given that each half of the circular beings, I think,  must have been generated simultaneously in time, and that in their original form they each had their  own set of everything, except for the head which was shared by the two opposing faces, could one not then somehow link these creatures to Freud’s notion of narcissim by looking at the following passage in which he discusses the relationship between love and hypnosis: “we see that the object is being treated in the same way as our own ego, so that when we are in love a considerable amount of narcissitic libido overflows onto the object. It is even obvious, in many forms of love-choice, that the object serves as a substitute for some unattained ego ideal of our own. We love it on account of the perfections which we have striven to reach for our own ego, and which we should now like ro procure in this roundabout way as a means of satisfying our narcissim.” (GP, 143). (one could also look at the Phaedrus  (252e) where the beloved becomes a mirror image of us, a divine mirror image that is) Would one not have to consider then the complex relation between self-love and the love of others?

   Not having the space, nor the understanding to even start to provide some answers to these questions, I would like instead to focus now on Ar.’s claim that the power of Eros lies in its providing us with the greatest possible happiness any human being could ever expect to achieve in this world. As he puts it: “Eros is the most philanthropic of gods, the helper of human beings as well as a physician dealing with an illness the healing of which would result in the greatest happiness for the human race” (189c-d)”.  According to Ar. we humans can allegedly reach happiness via erotic involvement, but it seems, not just with anybody. Eros represents this regressive possibility by allowing us to catch a glimpse of our ancient nature (also, but differently, Phaedrus 250 ff). Unlike the tragic results of the first operation by Zeus, operation which culminated in the painful death of the two newly severed parts which were left to cling unto each other, dying “due to hunger and  the rest of thier inactivity, because they were unwilling to do anything apart from one another” (191b), (a  reminder of the cicadas in the Phaedrus (259b)), for us who are the  “beneficiaries” of the second more complex Apollinian operation, sexuality has been brought to the fore. Having placed the genitals, the “shameful things” in Greek,  in the front (191b), we can move beyond clinging by now engaging in sexual activity. Through the latter the previous oneness can be, only temporarily for sure, remembered once again. Eros’ power allows this, and it is because of it that we must thank, praise and sacrifice to this god’s, usually  taken for granted, divine presence (189c). But sexual interaction with just anyone will not lead to the happiness which reminds us of our past protohuman “fulfillment”. We must permanently search for that other who matches the jagged features of our patched up bodies (191a). Eros is then  “the bringer-together of their (that is to say, ‘our’) ancient anture, who tries to make one of two and to heal their (that is to say, ‘our’) human nature. Each of us is a token (‘symbolon’) of a human being ….. and so each is always in search of his own token” (191d). Ever since we become old enough to feel the erotic longing for another’s patches, we turn into permanent seekers of what in Spanish we call “mi otra media naranja”, that is to say, that “my other half-orange” who will complete our fruit like original nature in which we ressembled the natural gods. The Greeks here preferred to speak of apples (190e).

   And if ever we are so lucky as to be allowed by Eros to find that other who strikes us wondrously with friendship and erotic love to the point that, now,  we “are unwilling to be apart from one another even for a short time” (192c), then human bliss seems to reach its highest possible peak. The other’s presence modifies one’s own self-perception and that of the world in a way in which both are mutually enriched; we feel ourselves enhanced in a world which suddenly opens itself to new, previously unseen, possibilities. Nietzsche captures this optimism beautifully: “the lover is more valuable, is stronger …. his whole economy is richer than before, more powerful, more complete than in those who do not love. The lover becomes a squanderer, he is rich enough for it. Now he dares, he becomes an adventurer, becomes an ass in magnanimity and innocence; he believes in god again. He believes in virtue because he believes in love; and on the other hand this happy idiot grows wings and new capabilities, and even the door of art is opened to him” (WtP #808) (The very same wings that the lover of the Phaedrus will grow in one of the most beautiful passages of all the Platonic dialogues (255ff.))

  But unlike Nietzschean optimism, Ar. and Freud seem to have reservations. Freud, as I have said from the outset, centers  his critique on the loss  of the beloved. Ar., though  aware of this danger, provides a more devastating critique by looking at the problematic functioning of erotic desire itself. The lucky lovers who are finally able to reach each other, presumably following several painful misses and rather uncomfortable fits ——— for Ar. makes it clear that this reunion is not what normally happens at present (193b) ———- these lucky lovers nevertheless seem to desire something more. This something, Ar. jokingly says, one could not conceivably take it simply to be the delight of sexual intercourse with that other half which seems to fit, ‘just right’, in yourself: “as though it were for this reason —-of all things—– that each so enjoys being with the other… but the soul of each wants something else” (192c) But that ellusive ‘something else’ which the soul of each wants for him/herself, that cannot be easily put into words. Just as it so happens when one is asked why one loves his/her, hopefully, ‘real’  other half, there comes a point where you cannot quite “explain”, and instead just feel like saying, “Can’t you see why?, well that is really odd”.

  Nevertheless Ar. challenges this silence, the same silence which Plato forces on him, by providing us with a riddle to be solved. The riddle, like Oedipus’, concerns humans, but unlike the King’s, Ar.’s concerns a dilemma which is brought to light by looking at our desiring nature. The riddle is spoken by yet another Olympian god, Hephaestus, the weak god of fire and crafts/arts (techne). It is he who chained Aphrodite and Ares for having committed adultery; chaining them, not to bring them eternal bliss, but rather eternal boredom. Hephaestus seems, tragically, to seek welding as punishment (Od  315). This god is made to ask us humans what we really want out of love, and, just as Zeus was perplexed with the attitude of the circular beings, so we humans stand perplexed by Hephaestus’ question (192d). He must therefore not only rephrase the question, but very directly answer it in doing so. Would we not really desire just to become one once again, our belly wrinkles giving way to a stronger sphericity? What more lovely than reaching this “golden state” capable even of denying the individual death of its members, so that even “in Hades you (that is to say, we) would be together one instead of two?” (192e). Would this not be the ultimate happiness, that which involved a shared immortality?

  The riddle, and riddles one would think are so because they are, presumably, very difficult to answer, is to our perplexity immediately answered in the affirmative. It seems as though nothing would be more desirable for us, ill halves, than to permanently rejoin that other whom Eros has granted us, finally, to reach. However, we should remember that even the protohumans though fused to their extremities, nonetheless did not seem to have seen themeselves as part of a Paradise in which nothing was lacking. Even human sphericity finds itself lacking, striving to move beyond its original condition. Oneness reaches beyond itself, although of course it reaches out more powerfully with four arms, four legs, not just two of each. And moreover, what distinguishes our humanity lies precisely in that,  like it or not,  we will forever remain as halves in constant search for that which we lack. Desire flourishes precisely due to this incompleteness which moves us beyond ourselves. The feverish conditions which evolve out of the absence of the loved one seem to move in the same direction. If Hephaestus’ riddle were not only answered in the affirmative, but actually set in place, our human condition as we know it, fragile and ill as it may be, would come to a permanent end. Letting Hephaestus do his work would turn out to be a punishment much severer than that of Zeus who intended to break us down once more, leaving us “hopping on one leg” ( 190d). Seeking to become spherical again requires the death of Eros’ presence in our lives. And Ar. hints to this towards the end of his speech in a paragraph which links past, present and future possibilities: “our race would be happy if we were to bring our love to a consummate end, and each of us were to get his own favorite on his return to his ancient nature. And if this is the best, it  must necesarrilly be the case that, IN PRESENT CIRCUMSTANCES, that  which is closest to it is the best; and that is to get a favorite whose nature is to one’s tastes” (193c) (here a specific reference to the  pederasts, but shedding light, I believe, into all the different kinds of relationships). Ar. qualifies his appeal to a return to oneness by continually using the hypothetical ‘if’, as in ‘if this is the best’. But as I have argued this undoubtedly is not the best desirable course for us humans to take. Our present circumstances cannot be done away with, no matter how hard we imagine ourselves to have been otherwise. At best we should seek out to reach the sweetness of that other who allows the growth of  those beautiful wings characteristic of the highest kind of lovers in the Phaedrus (251e); but, at the same time bitterly knowing, or perhaps feeling, full well that Eros’ presence immediately sets us humans in the web of a dilemma which maybe Sophocles, a tragedian, can better help us to understand. Eros is like ice, we delight in having it, yet its presence is a reminder of a painful reality, that of our constant neediness:

            “Like children that beneath a frosty heaven

            Snatch in their eagerness at icicles

            (First they are ravished with this latest toy;

            Yet soon they find it hurts their hands to hold

            That icy thing; and yet how hard to drop it!)

            Even such are lovers too, when what they love

            Tears them between ‘I would not’ and ‘I would’” (Lucas, 224)

 

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INTRODUCTION

 

  In the Myth of Sisyphus Camus retraces Hamlet’s famous words: “the play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king”. The murdering king’s bloody desire for power must be uncovered, and a play within a play will allow this. Camus is also, like Hamlet, keen on desiring to catch and uncover. This can be seen in our tracing anew his commentary on the words by Ophelia’s vanishing lover: “‘Catch’ is indeed the word. For conscience moves swiftly or withdraws within itself. It has to be caught on the wing at that barely perceptible moment when it glances fleetingly at itself” (MoS, 77). Conscience eludes us, and yet we desire to get hold of it, somehow. Conscience is a task, not a given; it is there, but it is not.

  Eros, for the Greeks, was much like this. It too moves in flight: “flutters its wings amongst the birds of air” (Sophocles, Love, fr 855, Lucas 224). We humans of course do not fly. And this perhaps it is why desire is so hard to ‘catch’: “as a sweet apple turns read on a high branch/ high on the highest branch and the applepickers forgot —-/well, no they didn’t forget — were unable to reach” (Carson quotes Sappho, 26). Eros  and Camusian conscience both evade us as soon as we attempt to ‘catch’ them. They are like red apples we cannot really bite, and yet we yearn to taste their sweetness.

  Writing a concept trace has to do a lot with all this. To leave a trace is to leave marks, a sign of something’s presence. But the marks stand there as a memory, what left the trace in the first is long gone. And we long for it; if not, then why trace it in the first place? And so we set out to trace that which left its footsteps, or better, its wing-marks. For this particular quest we reach out to the vestiges of desire as it traverses Camus’ lyrical philosophy.

  But to trace, we ought to remember, is not only to follow, or to track down. To trace can be like the hunter; but we do not want to hunt, that is, catch in death. Hunters seem to be fond of stones. But stones leave no traces, for they neither walk nor fly. (Stones are truly not ruins, like the ruins at Tipasa). To trace can also refer to a much simpler innocent act that, as children, we repeated again and again and again. To trace refers also to the act of drawing or copying with lines or marks. To trace, then, is to recopy. I set out then to recopy Camus’ words, listening intently for the appearance of such an elusive force as is desire, the Greek Eros. In this sense to trace is truly to plagiarize. And plagiarizing is not only always inevitable and desirable, but, it can, if done properly, also be liberating. Besides, plagiarizing Camus is remembering him again and again and again. And this is something to be desired.

  Our search along desires’ vestiges in Camus’ marks and lines will proceed in triangular fashion: i) by providing the general location of desire within it, albeit, given that this is just a tracing, briefly, incompletely, and sketchily, ii) by giving some specific locations in the work by referring to some pages where desire has been “caught” in words, pages which I will copy once again, that is trace, as I did as a child, and iii) by letting desire have its play through the desire to question which we feel governs us. Questions born out of desire as fragile sketches.

 

 

 

 

TRACING THE TRACES

 

I. CALIGULA

 

i) General location

 

            a) Drusilla’s death is the death of a loved one. Besides it is the death of a desired sister. Loss here is at once erotic and filial. Caligula’s refusal to face this desire as truly relevant.

            b) Caligula’s desire for the impossible as symbolized in the moon. His drive to physically possess the moon; to be sexually moonstruck. Sadistic desire to kill and to obliterate, out of love of power and of the impossible, the other, the human and the possible. Caligula as hunter. The forceful desire to teach his logical truth: “Men die and are not happy”.

            c) Caesonia’s desiring love of Caligula.

            d) Cherea’s desire for meaning and his hard-won respect for Caligula.

            e) Caesonia v.s. Cherea on love.

            f) Scipio’s love and admiration of Caligula. Scipio’s love of art v.s. Caligula’s solitude and rejection of the lies of art.

 

ii) Specific locations

 

            a) pages. 4, , 6, 6, 10, 15, 71

            b) 7, 8, 15, 40, 46, 49, 71

            c) 17

            d) 21, 58,

            e) 63

            f) 67, 65,

 

a) 71, “love isn’t enough for me; I realized it then. And I realize it today again; when I look at you. To love someone means that one’s willing to grow old beside that person. That sort of love is outside my sort of range. Drusilla old would have been worse than Drusilla dead”

b) 46, “she was coy to begin with, I’d gone to bed. First she was blood-red, low on the horizon. The she began rising, quicker and quicker, growing brighter and brighter all the while. And the higher she climbed the paler she became. Till she was like a milky pool in a dark wood rustling with stars. Slowly, shyly she approached, through the warm night air, soft, light, as gossamer, naked in beauty. She crossed the threshold of my room, poured herself into it, and flooded me with her smiles and sheen … So you see Helicon, I can say, without boasting, that I’ve had her”

c) 17, “ I needn’t swear. You know I love you”.

d) 21 “to loose one’s life is no great matter; when the time comes I’ll have the courage to loose mine. But what is intolerable is to see one’s life drained of meaning, to be told there is no reason for existing”

    58, “he forces one to think, there’s nothing like insecurity for stimulating the brain, that of course is why he is so much hated” (words said even after his condemnation of Caligula’s “corruption” of Scipio (56)

e) 63, “too much soul, that’s what bites you, isn’t it? You prefer to label it disease .. tell me Cherea, has love ever meant anything to you?”

f) 67, “I shall go away, far away, and try to discover the meaning of it all … Dear Caius when all is ended remember that I loved you”

 

 

iii) Some questions

 

Is Drusilla’s role simply secondary, as Caligula says? Why then did Camus not choose any lover? What is that only emotion Caligula ever felt, that “shameful tenderness for” Caesonia (70)? Why does Caesonia ask Cherea if he has ever loved? Is Cherea truly ‘loveless’ and ‘simple minded’? Does Caligula ‘really’ think he has possessed the moon? If so then why does he say “even if the moon were mine, I could not retrace my way?” (49) What could it mean that Caligula is still ‘alive’? Does desire have to do something with it?

 

 

II. THE MISUNDERSTANDING

 

i) General location

            a) Maria’s unconditional, bodily love for Jan; simplicity; loss of a world outside Europe in which together they were happy.

            b) Jan split not only between the desire to fulfill his duty to relatives and his love for his spouse, but also between the land of exile and the homeland.

            c) Martha’s longing for the wind of the sea. Her desire to breathe under the sun, even if this implies murder. Her asexuality, bodilessness and stone-like character. (Like The Commander for Don Juan, like Sisyphus’ stone, like the Gods).

            d) The mother’s fatigue of life briefly cast aside through the emergence of a late love. (Like Meursault’s mother’s love for Perez)

 

ii) Specific locations

 

            a) 81, 84, 128

            b) 88

            c) 79, 105

            d) 81, 124

 

a) 128 Martha: “What does that word mean (i.e. love)?”, Maria: “It means all that is at this moment tearing, gnawing at my heart; it means that rush of frenzy that makes my finger itch for murder. It means all my past joy and this vivid sudden grief you have brought me, yes, you crazy woman”

b) 86-87, “As for my dreams and duties, you’ll have to take them as they are. Without them I’d be a mere shadow of myself; indeed you’d love me less, were I without them” …. and ….. “One can’t remain a stranger all one’s life. It is quite true that a man needs happiness, but he also needs to find his true place in the world. And I believe that coming back to my country, making happy those I love, will help me to do this”

c) “What is human in me is what I desire, and to get what I desire, I’d stick at nothing, I’d sweep away every obstacle in my path”  ….. and ……. “ I have a very different idea of the human heart, and to be frank, your tears revolt me” (129) …… and ….. “Buried alive! No one has ever kissed my mouth and no one, not even you, has seen me naked. Mother I swear to you that MUST be paid” (122)

d) 122 “its no more than the pain of feeling love rekindle in my heart”

 

iii) Some questions

 

Is Maria simply a secondary character? Is Maria’s appeal to the Gods a ‘weakness’? Are these Gods the same stony one’s of which Martha speaks? Is Martha’s longing similar to Caligula’s? Is it just in a ‘minor’, much less impressive, scale? Can it not be seen instead as appealing to the contrast between the public and the private sphere? Politics and ruthlessness as against family and intimacy? Is The Misunderstanding really more familiar than Caligula? What is Camus’ idea in recovering the force of this play in The Stranger? Is this a little like Hamlet’s staging a play within a play? Is Jan at fault for not being straightforward? How to understand the dichotomies present in this work of mirrors: home/exile, dark/light, burning sun/sun of life, family love/erotic love, past/future, rich/poor, men/women? Can the absurd be seen as springing precisely out of their tension? Would it be too crazy to say that it is rather strange an odd that Camus chose the names of Maria and Martha as those of the central figures of the work? Is it not puzzling that their names, out of a million others, begin with the three letters which stand for sea in Spanish(i.e. mar)? Are not Maria’s tears which Martha repudiates born out of this sea? Can one see Maria’s encounter with Martha as a mirroring encounter? Like the different mirroring encounters Caligula has with himself? What does this mirroring have to do with our recopying Camus’ words in front of us? What of the words in The Stranger  which tells us of the sea that “it lay smooth as a mirror”? (54)

 

 

III. HELEN’S EXILE

 

i) General location

 

            a) Greek valuation of nature’s beauty. Socratic desire for limits and desire for admission of ignorance.

            b) Modern split between instrumental rationality, and expressive powers (Like Jan split duty/love)

            c) Hubris; desire of power (Like Caligula’s overstepping of limits)

            d) love of friendship (a healthy Scipio)

 

ii) specific location:

 

            a) 187

            b) 189

            c) 191

            d) 192

 

a) 187, “The Mediterranean sun has something tragic about it, quite different from the tragedy of fogs. Certain evenings at the base of the seaside mountains, night falls over the flawless curve of a little bay, and there rises from the silent waters a sense of anguished fulfillment. In such spots one can understand that if the Greeks knew despair, they always did so through beauty and its stifling quality. In that gilded calamity, tragedy reaches its highest point. Our time on the other hand, has fed its despair on ugliness and convulsions. This is why Europe would be vile, if suffering could ever be so”

b) 189, “we turn our backs on nature, we are ashamed of beauty. Our wretched tragedies have a smell of the office clinging to them and the blood that trickles from them is the color of the printer’s ink” (very different, of course, than that of Camus’)

c) 189 “Our reason has driven all away. Alone at last, we end up by ruling over a desert”  ……. and ……. 190-1 “Nature is still there, however. She contrasts her calm skies and her reasons with the madness of men. Until the atom too catches fire and history ends up in the triumph of reason and the agony of the species. But the Greeks never said  that the limit could not be overstepped” (Overstepping in a universe devoid of Gods)

d) 192 “we shall fight for the virtue that has a history. What virtue? The horses of Patroclus weep for their master killed in battle. All is lost. But Achilles resumes the fight, and victory is the outcome, because friendship has just been assassinated: friendship is a virtue?”

 

iii) Some questions

 

Is Camus’ view of Nature here truly romantic? Is not an appeal to nature as objective standard inaccessible to us moderns? Could one then relate this view of nature to our inner expressive powers? Nature reborn out of its transfiguration? Nature’s epiphany? Does Camus fall into a regressive desire for a land long lost for us, that is the Greeks? Is his a failure like Rimbaud’s  ambivalent Soleil et Chair? Or does he find a way to retrace this past era in a way that it opens, for us moderns, new possibilities of becoming? How to link Helen’s beauty with both a political project and an ethical outlook? Can Helen return form exile?

 

 

IV. RETURN TO TIPASA

 

i) General location

           

            a) longing love of the homeland; permanent exile (Like Maria and Martha, and Caligula, and Jan, and Camus, and us)

            b) love of water and the Sea God (a God in Camus!)

            c) love of light; its ephemerality

            d) love of what is, as it is

            e) split love again: beauty and the humiliated

            f) love of love; an ethics of overflowing giving

            g) strange love of paradoxical articulated secrets

 

ii) Specific location

 

a) 194 Medea “You have navigated with raging soul far from the paternal home, passing beyond the sea’s double racks, and now you inhabit a foreign land”

b) 195 “for five days rain had been falling ceaselessly on Algiers and had finally wet the sea itself ….. which ever way you turned you seemed to be breathing water, to be drinking the air” …. and …… 200-201 “before dropping into the sea itself. It is seen from a distance, long before arriving, blue haze still confounded with the sky. But gradually it is condensed as you advance towards it, until it takes the color of the surrounding waters, a huge motionless wave whose amazing leap upward has been brutally solidified above the sea calmed all at once. Still nearer, almost at the gates of Tipasa, here is its frowning bulk, brown and green, here is the old mossy god that nothing will ever shake, a refuge and harbor for its sons, of whom I am one” (The sea of Meursault’s flowing with Marie)(Tipasa, the loved ruins of our youth)

c)  199 “In the earth’s morning the earth must have sprung forth from such light” ….  and …..202 “O light! This is the cry of all the characters of Ancient Drama brought face to face with their fate … I knew it now. In the middle of winter I at last discovered that there was an invincible summer in me”. (invincibility in Camus!)

d) 196 “disoriented, walking through the wet, solitary countryside, I tried, at least to recognize that strength, hitherto always at hand, that helps me to accept what is when once I have admitted that I cannot change it. And I could not indeed; reverse the course of time and restore to the world the appearance I had live” (dis-orientation)

e) 203 “yes, there is beauty and there are the humiliated, whatever may be the difficulties of the undertaking, I should like never to be unfaithful either to one or the other”

f) 201-2 “For there is merely bad luck in not being loved; there is misfortune in not loving. All of us are drying up of this misfortune. For violence and hatred dry up the heart itself … I discovered at Tipasa once more that one must  keep intact in oneself a freshness, a cool wellspring of joy, love the day that escapes injustice and return to the combat having won that light” (ethics of benevolence and artistic creation; good-fortune?)

g) 203-204. (a secret cannot be revealed)

 

iii) Some questions

 

Is the tension between beauty and the humiliated fully surpassable? Can one think of a longing to a rebirth of the world outside a Christian tradition? What is the relationship between Camus’ moving philosophical work and his moving and lyrical work? Are they complementary, in tension? Does Camus’ loving transfiguration of nature eliminate its silence? If not, then what does it mean to ‘leave everything as it is’?  (Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence)

 

 

V. THE MYTH OF SISYPHUS      

 

i) General location

 

            a) contradiction: desiring the end of desiring. Force of suicide and lack of meaningfulness

            b) a desire too move beyond nihilism as loss of meaning. Beyond exile and malaise.

            c) desire and nostalgia: modernity and homelessness

            d) Lovers’ dialogue: A: “What are you thinking of” B: “Nothing”

            e) death appears: mortality and the end of desiring

            f) Don Juan’s Love: like a platonic cicada

            g) The actor: the body is king

            h) Conqueror: desire for articulation, lost causes and self-conquest.

            i) desire for creation: ephemeral works of art

            j) loving and knowing

            k) desire to break stones; hatred of unhealthy rockiness

            l) desire for happiness

 

ii) Specific location

 

a) Preface, 3, 5 “It is confessing that life is too much for you, or that you do not understand it … It is merely confessing that it is not worth the trouble”

b) Preface, “even within the limits of nihilism, it is possible to find the means to proceed beyond nihilism”

c) 6, “in a universe suddenly divested of illusion and light, a man feels alien, a stranger. His exile is without remedy (a logical contradiction with b?) since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home or the hope of a promised land. This divorce between man and his life, the actor and his setting is properly the feeling of absurdity”

d) 12, “but if that reply is sincere, if it symbolizes that odd state of soul in which the void becomes eloquent, in which the chain of daily gestures is broken, in which the heart vainly seeks the link that will correct it again, then it is as if it were the first sign of the absurd”

e) 57, “the idea that ‘I am’, my way of acting as if everything has meaning, all that is given the lie in vertiginous fashion by the absurdity of a possible death”

f) 69, 71, 72, 76, 77  “the more one loves the stronger the absurd grows” ….. “this life gratifies his every wish and nothing is worse than loosing it. This madman is a creative man” …… “yet it can be said that at the same time nothing is changed and everything is transfigured. What Don Juan realizes in his action is an ethic of quantity, whereas the saint on the contrary, tends towards quality” ….  “what more ghostly image can be called up than a man betrayed by his body who, simply because he did not die in time, lives out the comedy while awaiting the end” ….. “the ultimate end awaited but never desired, the ultimate end is negligible”.

g) 80, 81 “the actor is the intruder. He breaks the spell chaining that soul, and at last the passions can rush onto their stage. They speak in every gesture, they live only through shouts and cries. Thus the actor creates his characters for display. He outlines or sculptures them and slips into their imaginary form transfusing his blood into their phantasms”

h) 84, 88 “don’t assume that because I love action I’ve forgotten how to think …. I can thoroughly  define what I believe. Believe it firmly and see it clearly and surely. Beware of those who say :’I know this too well to be able to express it’ For if they cannot do so this is because they don’t know or it is out of laziness they stopped at the outer crust” (biting the apple of desire?) ….  “conqueror’s sometimes talk of vanquishing and overcoming. But it is always ‘overcoming’ oneself that they mean”

i) 93, 94, 113, 114  ( 93-4)“it is certain that a new torment arises wherever another dies. The childish chasing after forgetfulness, the appeal of satisfaction are now devoid of echo. But the constant tension that keeps man face to face with the world, the ordered delirium that urges him to be receptive to everything leave him another fever. In this universe the work of art is then the sole chance of keeping his consciousness and of fixing its adventures. Creating is living doubly” ….. 113 “ this is the difficult  wisdom that the absurd thought sanctions. Performing these two tasks simultaneously, negating of the one hand and magnifying on the other is the way open to the absurd creator. He must give the void its colors”

j) 97, 98, 117  (97), “there are no frontiers between the disciplines that man sets himself for understanding and loving, they interlock, and the same anxiety merges them”

k) 120, “You have already grasped that Sisyphus is the absurd hero. He is, as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted towards accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the passions of the earth”

l) 123 “I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one’s burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy”

 

iii) Some questions

 

Is Don Juan just a step on the ladder to the conqueror? Is this not too Hegelian a view? In other words is quantity leading up to quality or are quantity and quality at the same level; even in constant interacting conflict? (like Dyonisius and Apollo in Nietzsche) Can one have a Doña Juana? Is loving and knowing at the same time really possible?  Can one not desire suicide under certain circumstances? How is Sisyphus’ stone linked to Christ’s cross? Does not Camus tend to see the Greeks and the Catholic tradition too much like each other? Can Sisyphus be really happy, or is he just fooling himself? Can one really move beyond nihilism starting from it? Why does Camus say yes and no?  How is it that the body and all we are ‘become’ conscious of its mortality? By reading Camus? By being sentenced to death? By external events; an accident? Is the Myth of Sisyphus simply related to an ‘individualistic’ retrieval of ‘consciousness’; if so then why does the conqueror say, “as for me. I decidedly have something to say about the individual. One must speak of him bluntly and, if need be, with the appropriate contempt” (84)? What then does the conqueror’s self-conquest imply? How is it that art becomes the sole possibility of keeping consciousness?

 

 

VI. THE STRANGER

 

i) General location

 

            a) Marie, lovely laughing living Marie. (Like in The Misunderstanding?)

            b) Salomon and his dog (Raymond and nameless girlfriend, a variation)

            c) Friendship; love of Celeste

            d) Love of ghosts: Marie’s traces

            e) Mother’s new love

            f) Love v.s. priest (Cherea v.s. Caesonia?)

            g) Love of life: love of ice-cream

 

ii) specific location

 

a) 27, 28, 29, 42, 56, 57, 78 

b) 52

c) 93

d) 75, 79, 80, 113

e) 120

f)118

g) 98, 104-5

 

a)  27, “ I let my hand stray over her breasts” …. I caught her up, put my arm around her waist, and we swam side by side. She was still laughing”, …..  41 “ One could see the outline of her firm little breasts, and her sun tanned face was like a velvety brown flower” …56 “for the first time I seriously considered marrying her” …. 78 “I remember Marie’s describing to me her work with that set smile always of her face”

b) 52 “I tried hard to take care of him; every mortal night after he got that skin disease I rubbed an ointment in. But his real trouble was old age and there is no curing that“ (Meursault’s reaction ‘a yawn’)

c) 93 “ I didn’t say anything, or make any movement, but for the  first time in my life I wanted to kiss a man”

d) 80 “ I never thought of Marie especially. I was distressed by the thought of this woman or that …. so much so that the cell grew crowded with their faces, ghosts of my old passions. That unsettled (desire unsettles?) me, no doubt, but at least it served to kill time” (compare to Don Juan “he is incapable of looking at portraits” (72))

e) 120 “and now it seemed to me I understood why at her life’s end she had taken on a ‘fiancé’. Why she’d played at making a fresh start”

f) 118 “and yet none of his certainties was worth one strand of a woman’s hair. Living as he did, like a corpse, he couldn’t ever be sure of being alive”

g) 104-5 “only one incident stands out; towards the end, while my counsel rambled on, I heard the tin trumpet of an ice-cream vendor in the street, a small, shrill sound cutting across the flow of words. And then a rush of memories went through my mind — memories of a life that was no longer mine and had once provided me with the surest, humblest pleasures: warm smells of summer, my favorite streets, the sky at evening, Marie’s dresses and her laugh. The futility of what was happening here seemed to take me by the throat, I felt like vomiting, and I had only one idea: to get it over, to go back to my cell, and sleep …. and sleep”

 

iii) Some questions

 

How does desire’s appearance relate to the idea that Meursault is simply a ‘passive’ character? Is not desire precisely where Meursault finds meaning in life? Is he not truly artistic in his meticulous descriptions of places and people; like Camus, in a sense? Is this a prearticulate sense of bodily activity and meaningfulness a more adequate path towards Caligula’s questioning and dismissal of Drusilla and consequent search for the impossible?  (Like enjoying ice cream, and the smells of summer, and favorite streets, and the evening sky, and Marie’s dresses and especially her laugh) Why did Meursault decide, finally, to marry her? What to say about Meursault indifference to his mother’s death,  to Salamano’s beatings, to Raymond’s beating’s, to his four extra-shots? Just chance? Just psychoanalysis? Just unethical? How do we in our everyday life become aware of the value of life; do we have to be sentenced to death? But is not reading this book a kind of death and a rebirth? How, if at all, can Meursault ever become a political being? Is there not a tension here?

 

 

We have in this way come to the end of some of the tracks left by desire in Camus’ words. But surely many other traces remain untracked, and if we are to follow the Conqueror’s conception of conscience, somehow we must be able to articulate what moves elusively in all these marks and figures. But for now, tending to believe that such a project is doomed to fail, let us remind ourselves of the ambivalent love of ice that Sophocles tells us children feel; that same love of ice, as of ice-cream, which triggered in Meursault the surest and humblest pleasures:

 

            “Like children that beneath a frosty heaven

            Snatch in their eagerness at icicles

            (First they are ravish with their latest toy;

            Yet soon they find it hurts their hands to hold

            That icy thing: and yet how hard to drop it!) —

            Even such are lovers too, when what they love

            Tears them betwixt ‘I would not’ and ‘I would’” (Sophocles, Lucas, 224)

 

Desire traced has come into our hands but it has melted; its gone. This is a feeling Camus knew all too well. It, too, is present in the gaining of our own self and meaning:  “For I try to seize this self of which I feel sure, If I try to define it and summarize it, it is nothing but water slipping through my fingers” (MoS, 19).

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INTRODUCTION

We have so become accustomed to looking at ourselves in mirrors, that even when facing ourselves we overlook ourselves. And not having seen ourselves, once we turn around, we are blind to the beauty and the injustices of the world. Lifeless we see no life; deaf we hear no cries. We have lost the child’s playful love of mirrors. Even Zarathustra, who has to be handed a mirror by a child, is a stranger to himself:

‘O Zarathustra,’ the child said to me, ‘look at yourself in the mirror’. But when I looked into the mirror I cried out and my heart was shaken; for it was not myself I saw … (TSZ, II, “The Child with the Mirror”)

Zarathustra, unlike us, dares to look; he dares to challenge what he finds staring back at him, a “devil’s grimace and a scornful laughter”.

One way of shedding some light on the event known as ‘nihilism’, involves recovering ourselves, and the world, through mirror-like relations. Just as mirrors provide the possibility for a doubling split between spaced figures, so nihilism itself is a split phenomenon arising from what is truly spaceless, a point in which we learn of the death of God. In order to understand the duality characteristic of nihilism, I shall turn in Section I to Zarathustra’s creator, Nietzsche. Why him? Well because Camus sees in his works, in the multitude of colorful mirrors it provides, and the multitude of mirrors it shatters, a lucid reflection of the emergence of modern meaninglessness. The death of God marks, according to Nietzsche, our modern identity. It is an event in which all possible reflection is shadowed; an event which forecloses all foreshadowing. From it, flowers nihilism in its two principal mirroring modalities, the passive and the active. But besides this important theoretical gain, for Camus, Nietzsche is one of those whom it is worthwhile to mirror creatively: “if it is true, as Nietzsche claims, that a philosopher, to deserve respect, must preach by example, you can appreciate the importance of that reply” (MoS, 3). But, can we, really? We, who are unable even to mirror ourselves.

In Section II, I will proceed to look at one who loves mirrors as few do, Camus’ Caius. He comes to mirrors by confronting the death of his beloved. In Caligula, his imperial name, passive nihilism shows one of its two faces, that of murder. His feverish mirror becomes stained in blood. It is precisely because of its reddish reflection, the one which likewise invades the moon he longs for, that he must in the end break it. But ironically, at the moment where all reflection ends, Caligula claims to be finally alive. Could this be possible?

Finally, in the last section of this essay, I will take up Camus’ remark that “even within the limits of nihilism it is possible to find the means to proceed beyond nihilism” (Preface, MoS). The guiding questions here will be: can we truly move beyond nihilism? Would it not be better, perhaps, to say we learn to move within a certain kind of nihilism, that is to say, its active variant as elucidated by Nietzsche? I will try to look here at the possibility of re-covering ——- in other words, covering anew ——- ourselves and the world through a new light that streams from a web of mirrors exhibiting an ephemeral value. We will be able to look at, and through, an artistic kaleidoscopic whose motion is born out of the present desire of life. But in this peculiar kind of kaleidoscope, the playful child who delights in it, is him/herself part of the figures and colors recreated. Perhaps by partaking of some of the dancing figures which Camus himself allows us to see ——-and as in a mirror, reflect upon—— we will come closer to understanding what Camus meant by saying that ‘creation is the great mime’. (MoS, 94). (*1)

SECTION I. THE DIVINE MIRROR IS BROKEN; NIHILISM’S MIRROR SPLIT

In The Gay Science Nietzsche wrote concerning ‘New Struggles’: “God is dead; but given the way of men, there may still be caves for thousands of years in which his shadow will be shown —-and we —– we still have to vanquish his shadow, too” (TGS, 108). The divine mirror on which we saw ourselves mirrored has been shattered. Of it there remain only fragments and the shadow of a corpse. But a shadow is much like a mirror; for it, too, is our other. But this other, unlike the reflected self facing us in the mirror, is born out of the absence of all sunlight. Nevertheless, the shadow spoken of, is of infinite dimensions. To divine mirroring, there follows a dead God’s omnipresent shadow.

The death of God is a modern phenomenon which alludes to the downfall of all previously held hierarchical valuations. The divine axle, that standard around which we orbited, has been crushed. (*2) We are left suspended in mid-air; or no, mid-air implies there being a middle to which one can refer in order to place oneself appropriately. There is no middle anywhere now. Instead we are exiled into a weird atmosphere lacking any gravitational pull whatsoever. Flung around, disoriented where once we knew our way around, we see the land we once stood on, crumbling. (*3) Where lay constructions now appear ever-fading ruins. We are overtaken by the aquatic fluidity of it all:

In the horizon of the infinite.—-We have left the land and have embarked. We have burned our bridges behind us—- indeed, we have gone farther and destroyed the land behind us. Now, little ship, look out! Beside you is the ocean: to be sure it does not always roar, and at times it lies spread out like silk and gold and reveries of graciousness. But hours will come when you will realize that it is infinite and there is nothing more awesome than infinity. Oh, the poor bird that felt free and now strikes the wall of this cage! Woe, when you feel homesick …… there is no longer any land. (TGC, 124) (*4)

There is nothing but ocean straight ahead; only in the sea can we come to see ourselves again. And on it, knowing of its dual nature, at the same time a silky gold and a deep devouring black, we landless moderns must set sail. But this quest is precisely the quest for ourselves because looking overboard we cannot overlook the reflection which stares at us from beneath. The sea is the mirror of mirrors:

Free man, you will forever love the sea!

The sea’s your mirror; you observe your soul

Perpetually as its waves unroll,

Your spirit’s chasm yawns as bitterly (Baudelaire, 51) (*5)

Like waves, we long for a land upon which to break. But instead, for us, there remains only a world rid of continents; a true laberynth made up of watered walls. Our universe, at its worst, is that of a whirlpool sucking us to the dark depths where shadows find comfort.

But even if we look up, tired of gazing downwards, we find much the same picture, that of utter confusion. Even our galaxies have ceased to follow the regularity we had become accustomed to. We voyage in a milky way, but one lacking orbits, lacking milkiness, lacking predictable ways:

Parable.—–Those thinkers in whom all stars move in cyclic orbits are not the most profound. Whoever looks into himself as into vast space and carries galaxies in himself, also knows how irregular all galaxies are; they lead into the chaos and labyrinth of existence. (TGC, 322)

Looking at oneself not only involves the sea, but star filled galaxies where all light is born. However, our galaxies, these have to be constructed anew out of chaotic ruins. Nostalgia reminds us of once known star systems where orbits, milk and predictability were taken for granted.

But continuously longing for this center upon which to gravitate, we start to become dizzy as never before. The chaos that emerges and the marine labyrinth into which we are flung leave us at a loss. Meaning and purpose mean nothing.

He who feels the blurring of our disintegrating cartographies; he who holds a compass liberated from any magnetic pull; he who knows himself at a crossroads whose point of origin is quicksand; he who feels all this is the mad human:

‘Whither is God?’, he cried; ‘I will tell you. We have killed him —- you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? …Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? …. who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? Is not the greatness of this deed to great for us? (TGS, 125)

Sunlight is effacing; night sets in, enlightened by a blood covered moon. Thirst becomes unquenchable for to quench it there is only the salty water of the ocean which, the mad human tells us, we have already drank up. Even the sea seems permanently deserted, lifeless. The madman announces an event, but nobody listens. Breaking his lantern, he tells us, from the ensuing shadowy atmosphere: “deeds though done, still require to be seen and heard …. themselves” (ibid.). But we, who are unable to look at ourselves in mirrors, how could we not overlook the deed that precisely shatters all mirroring?

Nevertheless Nietzsche did try to see; as a matter of fact, he foresaw as few have. His tenacity allows us to gain clarity while still among shadows, shadows whose pull is like that of black holes. Nietzsche stood his ground for, as Camus tells us, one who “has become conscious of the absurd ….. is forever bound to it” (MoS, 31). The absurdity of nihilism is what Nietzsche faced. The deed, God’s death, triggers an event, the leveling of all values; the ‘reign’ of emptiness, the will to nothingness. If God’s death arrives as shadow, then surely nihilism is that shadow which we carry upon ourselves; like Zarathustra his dwarf. Ours is not a cross, but a cross’ shadow. Nietzsche places himself at the crossroads, at that point where the two logs meet, that point where the divorce between humans and the world has taken place. And there, in that crack which follows the earthquake —-a crack quick to close itself—– lucidly he awaits; and listening intently, there he sees two paths flowering in different contradictory directions. (*7)

The question “What is nihilism”, is an odd question to ask. The real question, for Nietzsche, is quite different: what does nihilism, the situation emerging out of God’s death, mean to whom? For one does not, in a parallel way, ask what is the beautiful, nor what is the good, or the true:

In every case it is a question of the conditions of preservation of a certain type of man: thus the herd man will experience the value feeling of the beautiful in the presence of different things than will the exceptional or over-man” (WtP, 804) (8)

Beauty, goodness and truthfulness are taken to be different things depending on the character of those concerned. And this holds true, likewise, for the interpretation of nihilism.

Nihilism is an event we as moderns share. It is in this sense that Nietzsche speaks of it as being a “normal condition” (WtP, 23). But this normal condition, which we have seen is defined precisely because of it abnormality, its anomie, is one which can be faced in different ways. And the way we do face it, says a lot of the way we face ourselves in mirrors. How we see the world and how we perceive who we are, are as inseparable as a coin’s two sides.

Even though Nietzsche has been all to keen on portraying, as vividly as possible, the disorientation that stems from the death of God, he wants anything but simply despairing beings who embrace as desirable the loss of all valuations. Not only has he told us that we have a ship on which to cruise the ocean, but likewise reminded us of the silky gold graciousness of the sea upon which we travel. And furthermore, his keen eyesight brings to light that “only ONE interpretation succumbed; but because of the fact it passed as THE interpretation, it looks as if there were no sense in existence, as if everything were in vain” (Melendez, FP, 5 (71), 1887, p 31). God’s death is the culminating point in the history of a unique interpretation; an interpretation which claimed to be the only mirroring possibility. Its having been questioned leaves now open the possibility of a plurality of mirrors.

For the univocal pessimist, the loss of an interpretation necessarily involves the loss of all possible interpretations. Unsurpassable meaninglessness ensues:

Everything lacks meaning (the impossibility of practicing one unique interpretation of the world to which immense efforts have been dedicated —– awakens the suspicion of the falsity of all interpretations of the world —-) Buddhist tendency, longing for nothingness (Melendez, 2(127), 1885-86, p. 23) (9)

The pessimist rids all life of meaning for life does not fit his/her notion of what meaningfulness is. The pessimist prides himself on dis-covering the world; but his egoism lies precisely in his/her passion simply to un-cover, leaving everything nakedly, shamefully, barren:

it has been discovered, the world is not worth what we thought … a senselessness which finally begins to be understood after unfortunate roundabouts, a Comedy of Errors, a bit too prolonged, which shamefully looses itself in nothingness. (Melendez, FP, 3(14), 1886), p. 31) (10)

Love of disorientation. Desire for an endless fall free of any meaning whatsoever. A decision to remain in perpetual indecision. Triumph of the shadow and its aimless wandering, its coldness incapable of taking in the light required to carry on the quest for horizons of sense. All this is the pessimist, and much less. Through the pessimist, who is nothing but shadow, one gains clarity on the phenomenon of nihilism. His/her shadow asks Zarathustra:

Nothing is alive anymore that I love; how should I still love myself? …. how could anything please me any more? Do I have a goal any more? A haven toward which my sail is set? A good wind? Alas, only he who knows where he is sailing also knows which wind is good and the right wind for him. What is left to me now? A heart, weary and imprudent, a restless will, flutter-wings, a broken-backbone. Trying thus to find my home ——O Zarathustra, do you know it? ….’Where is —-my home?’ I ask and search and have searched for it, but I have not found i. O eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O eternal—in vain!’ (TSZ, IV, “The Shadow”)

Windless wandering upon boats without masts; ships peopled by back-bone lacking creatures; eternal homelessness and never-ending directionless wandering; all this is the world of shadowy figures. Theirs is an adventure which is truly an undertaking, that is to say, an ‘under’-taking. A death sought in dreamt ships, among ghostly seamen vent on fictitious quests. Shadows who, lacking any port, disdain all possible ports. Each and every possible site of arrival is burnt out of resentment and resignation. A lifeless life of blackened mirrors, is for them a perfect life:

Perfect nihilism

Its symptoms: The great scorn

The great compassion

The great destruction

and its culminating point: a doctrine which precisely makes of the life of nausea, of compassion, of the pleasure of destruction, more intense, and teaches them as absolute and eternal” (Melendez, FP, 11 (149), 1987-88, p.67)

Perfect teachers of the hatred of life. Desire vent on destroying itself; on punishing itself.

But for every shadow in us, there lies a living laughing being from which it stems. Not all destruction need simply rejoice in its destructive abilities. This is why nihilism is not a one way affair; but much more like a coin with two opposing faces. Nihilism flowers into two variants which stand to each other as one stands to a mirror. On the one hand, the passively imprisoned image, on the other, the actively living human:

“Nihilism. It is ambiguous:

A. Nihilism as sign of increased power of the spirit; as active nihilism.

B. Nihilism as decline and recession of the power of the spirit; as passive nihilism” (WtP, 22)

Active nihilism, for it Nietzsche, for the most part, stands as mirroring model due to his lively confrontation with the void. A dignified spirit standing its ground under the most extreme of disasters. Affirmation of a life desired ever and ever anew just as it is; a ‘yes’ to a loved narration which eternal recurs. (*11) A faint light in the dark world of madness and indifference. The fragile light born out of a candle in the quiet of the night onboard our interim home:

“With ropes I have learned to climb many a window; with swift legs I climbed into high masts; and to sit on high masts of knowledge seemed to me no small happiness; to flicker like small flames on high masts —- a small light only, and yet a great comfort for shipwrecked sailors and castaways” (TSZ, III, “On the Spirit of Gravity”)

Our homes, ships with backbones and true sea-humans. Zarathustra, climber of masts whose words shine in order to be mirrored creatively. Creatively, that is, not like blind shadow-like followers. Shadows to which Zarathustra asks: “this is my way; where is yours? —-thus I answered those who asked me ‘the way’. For the way —that does not exist” (ibid.).

Caligula is no follower, and he too will tells us of his way.

SECTION II. CALIGULA: MIRRORS, LOVE AND MURDER

In the ‘Introduction’ to The Rebel Camus lets us know that absurdity and mirrors go hand in hand: “in a certain way, the absurd, which claims to express man in his solitude, really makes him live in front of a mirror” (R, 8). Caligula’s absurdity lies precisely in his being a lover of mirrors. But what he sees there, in front of him, is not the light that Zarathustra won through his unconditional affirmation of life. He sees there, at a distance, that which Zarathustra once saw, a “devil’s grimace and a scornful laughter”. That grimace and laughter somehow tied to the passive nihilist.

Passive nihilism itself is a complex phenomenon which Camus portrays as split; it too, like nihilism construed broadly, is like a coin. When tossed its downward fall resembles that of a guillotine. When it lands on the emptiness from which it springs, two possible outcomes can follow: heads is suicide, tails murder. Absolute nihilism

“which accepts suicide as legitimate, leads even more easily, to logical murder. If our age admits, with equanimity, that murder has its justification, it is because of this indifference to life which is the mark of nihilism” (R, 6)

Caligula’s coin has landed heads-side up. Murder is Caligula’s peculiar sort of passive nihilism. But ironically it seems completely opposed to all passivity; it is active nihilism set head over heels. All this is better seen by looking at the mirroring pages of Camus’ Caligula.

The recurrent appeal to nothingness with which the play starts, stems from their being no news of the emperor who, on parting, himself had nothing to say (C, 3). Caligula, the political name for Caius, the man, has left to see, for the last time, Drusilla. Loving her was an affair “something more than brotherly” (5). Face to face with the death of his beloved, Caligula disconcerts us. Rather then entering into a radical disorientation, he remains calm, cool, in control: “he stroke it with 2 fingers and seemed lost in thought for a while. Then swung around and walked out calmly” (5). Caligula’s body has come into contact with Drusilla’s shadow. The death of God manifests itself for him in the death of the beloved one. And yet, seemingly, nothing happens. The others, most of whom believe that loosing a loved one “doesn’t amount to much” (4), do not yet perceive that Caligula has already been lost to them: “and ever since we’ve been hunting for him in vain” (5). Caligula evades them for they disdain what Caius has felt.

It seems to me not at all self-deceptive to seriously take Caesonia’s words concerning Caius’ love for Drusilla: “one thing is sure, he loved her. And its cruel to have someone die whom only yesterday you were holding in your hands” (10). (*12) But, why believe her? Particularly given the fact that Caligula himself, again and again, denies this? Because she, of all the characters in the play, knows love. She alone will stand by Caligula, as unconditionally as the fool by King Lear: “Caligula: Swear to stand by me, Caesonia. Caesonia: I needn’t swear. You know I love you” (17).

Nevertheless, what Caesonia affirms, Caligula denies vehemently. The emperor denies, from the start, the determining encounter with mortality which was his touch of Drusilla: “love is a side issue, I swear to you, her death is not the point” (8), or elsewhere, “what nonsense is this? Why drag in Drusilla? Do you imagine love’s the only thing that can make a man shed tears?” (15). All this talk of love is, for Caligula, pure nonsense. In him loving is senseless, it turns out to be that loving is precisely what lacks all meaning; it is, for the emperor, nihilism at its clearest. And yet, he cannot stop desiring and loving.

We do not, and should not, believe Caligula. Why take his ‘swearing’ seriously if he sets out to replace all Gods? Something deep down in us rebels against Caligula’s denial of Drusilla. And we faintly know why. We sense somehow that Caius’ body feels what Caligula’s logical knowing fails to admit. Caius has touched Drusilla, and is moved, Caligula moves back untouched. Drusilla’s death shatters Caius’ every bodily sense, it makes life senseless:

Pain everywhere, in my chest, in my legs and arms. Even my skin is raw, my head is buzzing. I feel like vomiting. But worst of all is this queer taste in my mouth. Not blood or death or fever, but a mixture of all the three” (5)

Caius’ skin, that which stands between him and the world, between him and Drusilla, is raw material. The body is pure flesh left naked and vulnerable to the world’s hostility and indifference. But Caligula, well he knows better. He finds this new taste in his mouth not so much queer as desirable.

Nevertheless in the first entrance of Caius-Caligula unto the scene of the action, he appears not naked, but rather covered. That which covers his body, and garments, is the earthly mud of a torrential night:

“His legs caked with mud, his garments dirty, his hair wet, his look distraught. He brings his hand to his mouth several times. Then he approaches a mirror, stopping abruptly, when he catches sight of his reflected self” (6-7)

And with the world sticking to him Caius-Caligula catches sight of himself as he never had before. Without Drusilla’s absence, a love which cost even the overstepping of the incest taboo, Caligula would not have come to be present to himself as he is now. A child gave Zarathustra his mirror; mortality gave Caligula his. Stopping abruptly one can imagine Caligula’s silent mouth saying: “I am alive, you, my love, are dead; I cannot be happy; and if I cannot, no one will”.

With Drusilla’s death, Caligula enters the night. And in it he sees a being so overwhelmingly lit that he longs for it as he perhaps never did for his beloved sister. Raising his eyes above Drusilla’s fragility, Caligula finds a pregnant moon overflowing in light. The moon is majestic, seemingly eternal; Drusilla, perhaps lovely, but neither majestic nor long-lasting:

Caligula: Yes, I wanted the moon

Helicon: Why?

Caligula: It’s one of those things I haven’t got …. I couldn’t get it ….That’s why I’m tired (7)

Caligula desires the moon, he longs to possess it. Drusilla he wanted and kind of had; but she was snatched from him. The moon, if he could have it, that would certainly, seem to be, a much more consummate affair. For the moon is a celestial being, not simply a worldly one: (*13)

“Really, this world of ours, the schema of things as they call it is quite intolerable. That is why I want the moon, or happiness or eternal life, something, in fact, that may sound strange, but which isn’t of this world” (8)

Only in the moon can Caligula now find eternal happiness; but scarcely does he know that for him the evanescent happiness of human evenings will never again be possible. Scarcely does he realize that the moon is only a mirror, its light source not of itself. The moon makes sense only by way of the rays of the sun and the permanent longing for the return of daylight.

Caligula, logician as he is, is one of those who really “dare(s) to follow his ideas” (13). Caligula persists as few do. He alone will have the courage of tracking down the moon. This hunter adventurer is set on “exploring the impossible, or more accurately, it is a question of making the impossible, possible.” (13). It is a quest begun out of a real death, carried through on a red sea populated by deadly encounters, and its circular conclusion being the proud prize of all hunters. It is a syllogistic proof of a single truth: “a childishly, simple, obvious, almost silly truth, but one that s hard to come by and heavy to endure … Men die and are not happy” (8). God’s die and they are not happy either; but what Zarathustra derived from this was certainly not what Caligula believed inevitable.

The mirror upon which Caius stares at himself shows him the magnanimity proper to an emperor; the mirror blurs Caius so, that now he sees only Caligula. Mirrors sometimes can be made to distort; Caligula’s eyesight so distorts this one that he appears magnified a thousand fold. And the reflection which reaches his eyes, much like in King Oedipus’ case, makes him turn around and see in the world, and us, nothing but lies and self-deception. (*14). But the Roman, unlike his Greek counterpart, feels a gnawing need to become a teacher. Caius has felt the truth, he has earned the diploma. In contrast Caligula believes it his mission to set out and impose: “for I know what they need and haven’t got. They’re without understanding, and they need a teacher; someone who knows what he’s talking about” (9).

Caligula’s denial of the experience of the death of the beloved becomes norm; his mirror is the only possible one. We must all stand in line to face ourselves through it. Whoever sees not death as Caligula himself does, must be sentenced to death. Then his raw skin will be made to feel what up to then it, stubbornly, refused to know. While Drusilla remains as the dead beloved unjustly taken away, those Caligula sets out to murder are his/her ignorant students, who, for their own good, must be ‘taken away’. Like the shadow Caligula task is truly an ‘under’-taking. And ironically, what Caligula sees flowering from this enlightening project is a noble end: “then perhaps I shall be transfigured and the world renewed; then men will die no more and be happy” (17). Caligula has come up with the answer to the predicament of death; but only faintly does he perceive that his transfiguration is such that it leaves no figure whatsoever to play with.

But, if to transfigure is to change in form, then Caius does so transfigure himself. He transfigures himself in that his now, unique and only, form seems to lie in the emperor’s figure. Facing the mirror once again, the transfigured Caius faces an image free of either landscapes as background, or comforting beings as companions;

Caligula: All gone, you see my dear … no more masks. Nothing, nobody left. Nobody? No, that’s not true. Look Caesonia. Come here all of you and look …. (He plants himself in front of the mirror in a grotesque attitude).

Caesonia: (staring, horrified, at the mirror) Caligula!

Caligula: Yes …… Caligula. (18)

The world is truly renewed, in it there remains one figure, one reflection, one interpretation. Only Caligula remains in the world. The transfigurative murdering of others and disruption of the world can commence. The untouchable is violated: murdered father’s and son’s, raped wives, usurped property. Anomie becomes the imposed norm (9).

Extreme solitude would seem to be price for all of this. This is what Scipio, whose father has been cowardly murdered, seems to believe. “How horrible loneliness yours must be”, he tells Caligula (36). But the latter again disconcerts us, as many years later will Meursault. The emperor is emperor, and not simply out of luck:

“You don’t realize that one is never alone…. Those we have killed are always with us. But they are no great trouble. It’s those we have loved; those who loved us and whom we did not love; regrets, desires, bitterness and sweetness” (37) (*15, *16)

Those who loved us and were taken away from us; that is the first, albeit unacknowledged, premise in Caligula’s criminal argumentative process. Drusilla’s absence haunts Caligula till the end, but everything he says seems to deny, again and again, our claim. Even nearing death he clings to his indifferent attitude towards the loss of the beloved’s face:

Love isn’t enough for me; I realized it then, and I realize it today again … To love someone means that one’s willing to grow old beside that person. That sort of love is outside my sort of range; Drusilla old would have been far worse than Drusilla dead” (71).

Caligula’s range is, as I briefly mentioned, sky oriented. And perhaps we might be tempted to say that he has real reasons to say that his sky-oriented range is not simply the desire of a madman; but rather can be considered as a real, human, possibility. Perhaps, like the Socrates of the Symposium, his desire for the moon can be seen as moving, somehow, beyond that worldly, too fragile love of a Drusilla condemned to aging and passing away.

Once, his reign of terror already on the roll, Caligula tells us that out of the mirror on which he only saw himself, there came a new light; the light of the moon. Once, while in bed, Caligula’s longing seems to have been temporarily consummated. The full moon itself decides to share its reflected and guiding light for those lost in the midst of darkness and utter despair:

“to come back to the moon —it was a cloudless August night …… She was coy, to begin with. I’d gone to bed. First she was blood-red, low on the horizon. Then she began rising, quicker and quicker, brighter and brighter all the while. And the higher she climbed, the paler she grew, till she was like a milky pool in a dark wood rustling with stars. Slowly, shyly she approached, through the warm night air, soft, light as gossamer, naked in beauty. She crossed the threshold of my room, glided to my bed, poured herself into it, and flooded me with her smiles and sheen …” (46)

The moon has shared itself with Caius, once lover of art. But the alleged encounter takes place too late. The moon’s reddish color perhaps stems from the evening contact with the evanescent sun, but Caligula’s reddish color projects from his murdering hands. The emperor cannot even comprehend what has just happened between Caius and the guiding light of night. Caligula now speaks, and with his words, the charm of the moon is forever lost: “so you see Helicon, I can say, without boasting, that I’ve had her” (ibid.) Revealing the intimacy of his encounter, viewing it as the hard won prize in a hunting competition; precisely this, is boasting.

And Caius knows this. This is why, just prior to the final mirroring encounter with Cherea, Caligula and Caius stand once again facing each other. Together they doubt. Caius seems to deny that they ever actually had the moon. Caligula ironically says:

Suppose the moon were brought here, everything would be different. That was the idea, wasn’t it? … After all, why shouldn’t Helicon bring it off? One night, perhaps he’ll catch her sleeping on a lake, and carry her, trapped in a glistening net, all slimy with weeds and water, like a pale bloated fish drawn from the depths, Why not Caligula? Why not, indeed? (49)

An ‘idea’, that is what it was all about; an idea, not a living loving act. Or was it? Caligula displaces his search for the moon on Helicon; Caius knows, deep inside, that his ‘trapping’ it is doomed to fail. But to our surprise the moon seems to have, itself, been transfigured. What Caligula intends to trap, in a move towards modesty, is not anymore, the heavenly body. The moon has descended, or perhaps, as Caligula says so himself, emerged from the depths of the earth. Moreover, the moon is now one which in its proximity comes to be covered by water and weeds, and unavoidably, by the mud that covers Caligula from the start. Disconcerting revelations follow. Caligula now he seems intent on a net-size moon. The moon, it seems, is no longer that unreachable object overlooking our world; but a reflection found in the mirror-like calm of a lake in a cloudless night of August. This is a human moon, and Caligula’s halfway realization, makes his tragic fate, even more so. It is not a chance event that Caligula, as we shall see, is loved and admired by many of his own.

The words just analyzed, we are told by Camus, are to be spoken in complete irony, and irony implies expressing that which one disbelieves in such a way that all who hear understand this masking. This is why to their pronunciation there follows a muffled voice which, like MacBeth’s, knows of the inevitability of the events to follow: “too many dead, too many dead — that makes an emptiness …. No, even if the moon were mine, I could not retrace my way … There’s no return” (49). To the emptiness born of the loss of Drusilla, Caligula adds a self-inflicted one. The world has become stained in red, looking at it unbearable. Caligula must look ahead, to the mirror in front. But before the ultimate confrontation, that of Caius and Caligula, the emperor is met by three successive attacks; attacks born out of love and/or admiration. But just as with the moonstruck encounter, these final encounters, take place after Caligula acknowledges that truly, “there’s no return”.

In the first place Caligula stands face to face with Cherea. The defender of a courageously held ‘common sense perspective’ likens Caligula to a rather odd ‘murdering Socrates’: “he forces on to think. There’s nothing like insecurity for stimulating the brain. That, of course, is why he’s so much hated” (58). Cherea, who sees himself as an “ordinary” man (52) desiring “to live and be happy” (51) refused, from the start, to join the hunters. He is no coward, rather he knows death’s inevitable appearance, but he likewise knows of the different ways of dying:

“to loose one’s life is no great matter; when the time comes I will have the courage to loose mine. But what’s intolerable is to see one’s life being drained of meaning, to be told there is no reason for existing. A man can’t live without some reason for living” (21)

He “refuse(s) to live in a topsy-turvy world”, he wants to stand secure (51). Cherea is a land creature, not a lover of the sea. His mirror is that which challenges, like no other, Caligula’s pretensions. He cannot bring himself either to hate Caligula, for he knows him not to be happy, nor to scorn him, for he knows him to be courageous (51). Nevertheless he will, and does, participate in the final stabbing of the maddened emperor.

A second mirror now appears in the mirror full world where Caligula’s death is steadily approaching. Scipio reflects a warmth for Caligula which Cherea did not. He both admired and loved Caius. (10) Fatherless because of Caligula’s ruthlessness, Scipio knows a love of Caligula which goes beyond the bondage of familial ties. Their bounding element is art. And this linkage is for Scipio unbreakable: “I cannot be against him, even if I killed him, my heart would still be with him” (56). Bonded by the heart, Scipio, though not a coward, denies himself revenge. His counterattack lies in the pen as a sword:

Pursuit of happiness that purifies the heart

Skies rippling with light

O wild, sweet festival of joys, frenzy without hope (66)

Scipio’s three line poem shines forth in a different light. The pursuit of happiness lies not only in knowing the bitter cold of a hopelessly unending night. Happiness as purification; that seems to be more a matter of the permanent interplay of night, and its frenzy, and day with its ‘skies rippling with light’. Happiness, as we shall see, in our third section, lies in between these; in the eveningsat Algiers. Scipio leaves; his poem unheard. Caius’ love of art mocked by Caligula’s disheartening wreckage. Another beloved has died to Caligula, and, as he told us, it is those loved who are the real problem: “I shall go away, far away, and try to discover the meaning of it all ……. Good-by dear Caius, when all is ended remember that I loved you” (67). Scipio loves Caius, the human being who has lost his beloved, not Caligula the human who has lost himself, his humanity. This is why he too finally participates in the culminating self-defensive act.

The third and final mirror which places itself against Caligula’s, is that of Caesonia’s love. But this one, the most fragile, is precisely the one which has been torn to pieces, even before the beginning of the play, with Drusilla’s death. Caesonia’s love for Caligula makes one shudder “we will defend you. There are many of us left who love you” (69). It is alone for her that Caligula has felt a sincere emotion a “shameful tenderness”(71). Caesonia makes Caligula blush, and she reminds tenderly of Caligula’s childish nature (10). But Caligula’s cheeks of filled with a red from a very different source; his tenderness buried under the redness of his crimes.

And Caligula knows this. Out of the two types of love and happiness he knows, he admits to have chosen the murderous kind:

I live, I kill, I exercise the rapturous power of the destroyer, compared with which the power of the creator is merest child’s play. And this, this is happiness; this and nothing else —-this intolerable release, devastating scorn, blood, hatred all round me; the glorious isolation of a man who all his life long nurses and gloats over the ineffable joy of the unpunished murderer; the ruthless logic that crushes out human lives (he laughs), that’s crushing yours too, Caesonia, so as to perfect the utter loneliness that is my heart’s desire.” (72)

Caligula’s destructive nature undoubtedly places him in the field of the passive nihilists; but his passivity can only be understood as a negative, counterclockwise activity turned against the world, others and himself.

But even this rage towards the world, this desire for complete loneliness, is marred by his incapacity to kill Caesonia (72). Drusilla was taken away, but if Caesonia were to die it would be by his hand, not by that of fate.

Nevertheless a kind of loneliness, not absolute, not so perfect as Caligula would like, sets in; it is that odd loneliness characteristic of a dialogue among identical, symmetrical beings, among Caius and Caligula who are one and the same. Caius, the man, the art lover, the living body who senses the loss of the beloved, he who knows of tears and of trembling, in the first instance condemns the distorted image of Caligula, that over-magnified image reflected on the red-tanned mirror: “Caligula! You, too; you too, are guilty”. But this momentary humane resurgence is followed by an imperial denial : “then what of it — a little more, a little less? Yet who can condemn me in this world where there is no judge, where nobody is innocent?” (72). A true duel is on the make, and in the space separating the duelers, sincerity is born. Caius, distressed, realizes now that the moon will “never, never, never” be his, and self-questioningly asks himself why, even though “innocence will triumph”, he is not among those sharing in it (72).

But Caligula’s calmer speech, that same calm attitude with which he left Drusilla’s inert body, is now reflected from the glassy surface. Calmness quickly diminishes and a heartbreaking screaming sets in:

If I‘d had the moon, if love were enough, all might have been different. But where could I quench this thirst? (*17) What human heart, what god, would have for me the depth of a great lake? (kneeling, weeping) There’s nothing in this world, or in the other, made to my stature, And yet I know (presumably Caligula) and you know (presumably Caius)(still weeping stretches out his arms to the mirror) that all I need is for the impossible to be. The impossible!”

The emperor kneels and weeps; his body has partly recovered his humanity. His knees on the floor remind us of the descent of the moon to the lake. Earthly bound, Caligula stretches out his hands, but in that space between him and Caius, he now only sees emptiness and death; death of the beloved, absence of the moon:

(screaming) See, I stretch out my hands, but it’s always you I find, you only, confronting me and I’ve come to hate you….. I have chosen a wrong path, a path that leads to nothing, My freedom isn’t the right one … The air tonight is heavy as the sum of human sorrows” (73).

Though heavy, the air is not so heavy that Caligula cannot pick up the stool and hurl it with all his strength at the mirror image which from the beginning has overgrown itself. Watching his reflected self disappear into shattered fragments Caligula shouts: “To history Caligula. Go down to history” (74). Caligula goes down into history for each and every one of us who, when we look at ourselves in mirrors, overlook ourselves. In each look of ours at the everyday mirrors that permeate our modern world, Caligula-Caius appears. In this sense, Caligula can claim to still live at the moment of death. We are challeged by the simple truth from which he derived the wrong conclusions.

Nietzsche too knew of this rebirth to which he alluded at the beginning of Book IV of The Gay Science. After a destructive period, Nietzsche wins for himself the miracle of Sanctus Januarius, whose blood, once a year, becomes liquid again:

With a flaming spear you crushed

All its ice until my soul

Roaring toward the ocean rushed

Of its highest hope and goal.

Even healthier it swells,

Lovingly compelled but free:

Thus it lauds your miracles

Fairest month of January! (TGC, IV)

Camus knew himself of such new beginnings.

SECTION III. ABSURD DESIRE AND ART

When we moderns try to reflect on nature, we do not see ourselves reflected through it. For us, nature has ceased to be a source we can mirror for it manifests itself as the other which confronts us with its overwhelming force and its silencing indifference. Nature is no home for us:

“in a universe suddenly divested of illusion and light, a man feels alien, a stranger. His exile is without remedy since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home, or the hope of a promised land. This divorce between man and his life, the actor and his setting is properly the feeling of the absurd (MoS, 6)

The universe has been rid of all its masks, there are no illusions left. And without illusions, no magic. Moreover, without light, the playful interplay of mirrors is destroyed. The home we once inhabited no longer is, and the one we longed to make our permanent habitat no longer will be, it never really was. Looking back one sees not cities but only ruins; looking forward, simply a void, not the divine city in which we thought our long pilgrimage would finally come to an end.

The most familiar, the beloved face itself becomes faceless: “there are days when under the familiar face of a woman, we see as a stranger her we had loved months or years ago” (14). The beloved stands unattached; living, but for all intent and purposes, dead-like. To corporeal intermingling there follows a separation and an endless longing. But not only personal beauty erodes, the beauty of the world too lies ravaged. Undressed, behind its illusory meaningful garments, there lies nothing but corroding hostility:

“at the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman and these hills, the softness of the sky, the outlines of the trees at this moment loose their illusory meaning … the primitive hostility of the world rises up to face us across millennia (14) (*18)

The colorful and meaningful mirror upon which we once saw ourselves reflected, lies now shattered into fragments (18). And with its infinite fragmentation, we ourselves become like nucleus-free electrons. Our-’selves’ are “nothing but water slipping through (our) fingers” (19). Nature’s silent indifference and incomprehensible violence is met, or better, never met, by our inability to hear and articulate.

Setting a date to which neither party cares to attend; something like this is the absurd. It “lies in neither of the elements compared (but) … is born in their confrontation” (30). But a confrontation requires an intermediate space, that space in which duels take place. It is a space of silence and darkness where we see, now, not simply God’s death, but our own mortality in a godless, and many times gutless, marine environment: “the idea that ‘I am’, my way of acting as if everything has meaning, all that is given the great lie in vertiginous fashion by the absurdity of a possible death” (57).

Caligula, for example, could never have proclaimed this ‘I am’. The confrontation between Caligula and Caius is born within the space lying between them. This space is precisely the “no man’s land” which separates Marie and Meursault in her only visit to the condemned stranger (S, 76). It is also that horrifying space that opens up in the mirror-like confrontation between Maria and Martha at the end of The Misunderstanding. (Maria and Martha, Spanish names whose three first letter match each other in perfect symmetry; three letters which, furthermore, in Spanish mean nothing other than ‘sea’. The sea in which alone we can see ourselves.)

Now, exile would truly be ‘without remedy’ if this intermediate space between us and the world, us and others, and us and ourselves, were totally devoid of any life forms whatever. But to our astonishment life seems capable of flourishing even in such arid territories. This is why we should take Camus literally when he says; the absurd is “born out of (a) confrontation”. The absurd is a kind of birth, it is not simply an aborted fetus. It is this dimly felt light, above anything else, which makes it meaningful to seek intercommunicative channels between those confronted. Without the presence of any links whatsoever, confrontation itself would become incomprehensible; for how to confront that from which one is completely detached? If confrontation were solely a matter of monologues, then surely there would follow the most monstruous of characters, a Caligula without any mirror to break, a lonely emperor without the possibility of redemption.

What Caligula did not see, or feigned he did not see —– or distorted when he in fact did see it —— is something to which Don Juan, in the The Myth of Sisyphus, dedicates his entire life. Don Juan lives for desire’s living. The lover is truly the most absurd human for “the more one loves the stronger the absurd grows” (69) If the absurd human’s ideal is “the present and a succession of presents” (60), then Don Juan ——and all Doña Juanas (*19)——- are more than any other human, the caretakers of this ever-present way of living. Their banner, that is, that for which they would, if they had to, give their lives, is that of the instant where they, others and the world come to be in the presence of each other. For them life is bodily vitality felt, here and now, at its highest energetic level: “life gratifies his (her) every wish and nothing is worse than loosing it. This mad(human) is a great wise (human)” (72) (*20). Living life’s every second has made this topsy-turvy human ——- a different species of mad human than the one we found in Nietzsche ——– aware of the stakes involved in life’s loss.

Loving passionately paves the way to transforming the space between the confronted parties. Don Juan’s love is the love of a human, and such love is capable of transformation. Yet, ironically, the transfiguration that ensues from his activity is one in which both “nothing is changed and eveything …… tranfigured” (72). Through his/her figure-giving love, the lover’s commanding figure rises, not as a stone sculpture that condemns, but rather as a thread-thin bridge which resonates to a world with a new, more humane figure (*21). In all this, the passionate lover is very much like a cicada, those platonic figures which “enter the ‘now’ of their desire and stay there”; little fragile animals who “have no life apart from their desire, and, when it ends, so do they” (Carson EBS, 139). (*22) Nevertheless, unlike cicadas, Don Juan and Doña Juana are human beings. Desire for them is a bridge to dwell upon, not an immediacy out of which no confrontation can be born. The lover, unlike the cicada, loves humanely, that is to say as a another Don does, Don Quijote.

Don Juan and Doña Juana know Caligula’s simple truth: they will die and they, like all of us, are not happy. But although Don Juan awaits “the end face to face with a God that he does not adore” (76), his interest lies not in a divine mirror from which are born rays of grace. Death he is faintly conscious of, but he does not desire to be conscious simply of its inevitable presence. He loves living all the more so, for he knows, but cares not to pay too much attention to this, that in the end love really ends. There he stands “the ultimate end awaited, but never desired, the ultimate end is negligible” (72). Don Juan and Meursault are vey much alike. The former’s attitude towards death, is that of Meursault to, among many other things, God. To the priests’ words he responds, thinking through: “though I mightn’t be so sure about what interested me, I was absolutely sure about what didn’t interest me. And the question he had raised didn’t interest me …… I hadn’t time to work up interest for something that didn’t interest me” (S, 114). In the same way Don Juan is not so much interested in death for what interests one is that which one spends time doing; Don Juan does not spend much time dying. (*23)

This is why he prefers to turn his loving aging face elsewhere. From the solitary monastery cell which has become his home, he turns to the light shining “through a silent narrow slit in the sun-baked wall, some silent Spanish plain, a noble, soulless land in which he recognizes himself” (76). Ennobled, nature rises temporarily, all too briefly re-’covered’, that is to say, covered anew, by the warmth of a being sold out to the pre-articulate desiring impulse which flows out of his body regained. Don Juan, unlike Caligula, is not covered by mud.

Don Juan and Doña Juana await death, perhaps even together, and death will come to each in their loneliness. But the air he/she breathes is one which does not weigh over and suffocate him/her like it did Caligula. His/ her air is of a much purer variety. It is that air which Camus himself allows us to breathe through our reading of his desire pregnant lyrical works. Breathing as Don Juan does, is recovering a new atmospheric confrontation which nevertheless cannot but remind one of one’s unavoidable exile:

“being pure is recovering that spiritual home where one can feel the world’s relationship, where one’s pulse beat coincides with the violent throbbing of the 2 o’clock sun. It is well known that one’s native land is always recognized at the moment of loosing it. For those who are too uneasy of themselves their native land is the one that negates them” (SA, 152)

Our spiritual home as moderns can only stem from the realization of our inevitable homelessness.

Caius surely recognized love’s abode by loosing Drusilla. Besides he mistakenly longed for a homeland, or better an over-land, which is impossible for any human to achieve. Martha too longed for a new realm of meaning, but unlike Caligula’s, it was earthbound. Nevertheless, like the emperor’s, it too travelled the reddish path of murder. Both Caligula and Martha longing as they do, become terribly uneasy. But somehow we sense that Don Juan is really the uneasy character par excellence; made uneasy out of the fragile bondage to life he so much cherishes.

In being uneasy we are not that different from Caligula, Martha and Don Juan. In what sense? Well in the sense that we too know of the longing for both a native land and a beloved face. This encounter if ever it is to happen for us becomes not a given, but rather a creative task. But even if all three characters share this with us, it is in Don Juan where uneasiness finds itself a home; his courage lies in living uneasily till the end do him apart. It is in him, as in no one else, that what Camus tells us occurs: the “pulse beats” of his desiring blood coincide with the “violent throbbing of the 2 o’clock sun”. A human being and nature stand confronted, but at the same time erotically intertwined as peculiar kinds of energetically charged mirror images. (*22) Don Juan’s selfishness lies in his love of this newly won mirror which reflects much more than he himself is, or can, see. Caligula, in contrast, must break the desert-like mirror in which he alone stands facing his red stained image.

But surely there is one thing Don Juan knew nothing of, this is creative writing. What would or could he have written about? (*24) He cannot even look at portraits —— yet another kind of mirror of which Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is a beautiful portrait —– much less articulate what he would have seen in them. But Camus did write, his passion to articulate moves him much more towards towards a Don Juan, Conqueror of himself. (*25). In this sense, something like what Don Juan’s pulse beats felt looking enamouredly at the Spanish plain, is what Camus allows us briefly and secretly to read in his return to Tipasa. For Don Juan to return is a joke. “Return! To what?”, he would ask.

Camus’ permanent and healthy uneasiness is that which permeates his every written word. Camus is a lover of lively portraits which spring from the light of his pen. Returning to Tipasa he allows us a return. Although in some sense it is his return, he allows us all to share in its beauty. Together we return to the ruins of our youth. Camus re-walks paths once traveled. But traveling anew is not simply a childish nostalgia for what, somewhat disoriented, Camus knows has been inevitably lost:

“disoriented, walking through the solitary countryside I tried at least to recapture that strength …. that helps me to accept what is when once I have admitted I cannot change it” (RT, 196).

To return is to recapture desiring strength. Part of strentgh comes from purer air, part from purer drink. Through liquid words Camus reaches outside Don Juan’s monastic cell. He traverses that land he once inhabited. A landscape which once again gives him some refreshing water to quench, his two main thirsts:

“I satisfied the two thirsts one cannot reject without drying up — I mean loving and admiring. For there is merely bad luck in not being loved; but there is misfortune in not loving” (RT, 201)

The lovers of suicide and murder find their thirst quenched in the thickness of blood. They onle vary as to the source. But blood coagulates outside its body bound atmosphere. It does not refresh, and this is why Sanctus Januarius’ miracle strikes us as miraculous. Looking back at the quoted passage one is lead to realize: unlike this bloody saint, Caligula has known misfortune, Martha only bad luck.

Camus’ thirst for loving and admiring he met in a world he retraced; a world which allows us to bathe our naked, mud-covered bodies, again. A world of words and live figures which recovers the warmth of a fragile candlelight:

(I) discovered once more at Tipasa that one must keep intact in himself a freshness, a cool wellspring of joy, love the day that escapes injustice and return to combat having won that light. Here I recaptured the former beauty, a young sky and measured my luck, realizing at last that in the worst years of our madness the memory of that sky had never left me.. This was what in the end had kept me from despairing. I had always known that the ruins of Tipasa were younger than our new constructions … there the world began over again everyday in an ever new light. O light! This is the cry of all characters of ancient drama brought face to dace with their fate. This last resort was ours too, and I knew it know. In the middle of winter I at last discovered that there was in me an invincible summer” (RT, 201-2)

In Tipasa Camus, face to face with the ruins and beauty of his past, resembles the condemned heroes of Greek tragedy standing facing fate’s decisions. And in these two face to face encounters —-separated by thousands of years ——- again springs that intermediate space, a void, which has recurrently returned to us. It is the unbridgeable space which separates us from ourselves, from others and from nature. But in that space there springs life out of a light never lost; a light that traverses the youthful ruins in a country to us unknown: “I had always known hat the ruins of Tipasa were younger than our constructions … there the world began over again everyday in an ever new light”. Camus is born to life like Meursault, but unlike him he does not need to be sentenced to death to do so. Sentenced to death officially, that is.

This light which allegedly gave Camus invincibility, this light is not that of divinity. It is not a never ending, shadow-free light. It is not the light that numbed Meursault. Not at all. Camus’ return knows instead of candlelight ephemerality. The return is not simply a longing for a golden lit age which would utterly blind us, if we in fact could ever reach it. The return is to ever fading, mortal bound ruins, the only homeland we moderns can know if we take the death of God seriously. In the ephemeral nature of ruins, Camus finds the most beautiful mirror for our fragile nature as desiring and mortal creatures (*26). Ruins are dead memories of fought for constructions, constructions made possible by proud and dignity deserving human beings (*27). Besides, the actual ruins stand only as a physical human reminder of the natural ruins which are summer and winter to each other. In its among the ruins of winter and its, apparently, lifeless landscapes, that Camus actually finds, facing himself in his ruins, a light so powerful and yet so weak, that it can even melt ice.

In the middle of winter Camus finds in himself an invincible summer. Winter and summer stand as the seasonal correlates, of the more recurrent confrontation between night and day. This is why Camus returns to find not the revival of a divinely everlasting light, but rather that light which is born when the day comes to an end and prepares itself to enter the night. Or to put it another way, Camus finds himself facing those Algerian evenings of which he asks that figure reflected in the mirror which are his books: “what exceptional quality do the fugitive Algerian evenings possess to be able to release so many things in me?” (SA, 146). Fugitive, lawless, evenings re-’lease’ Camus from a certain kind of imprisonment. Evenings give him a new lease on life. Why evenings? Why not sunrises? Aren’t they equally as beautiful? Caligula loved the absence of light; sunlight truly hurt Meursault; Camus enlightened both shadowy figures for us. Only evenings make us long for a return.

Evenings bring, in an instant, the divorce of night and day to a momentary togetherness. In those instants Merusault’s sun, fading, reaches the cool waters of the sea; but almost instantaneously, Caligula’s sunlit moon rises to allow us to see the emerging beauty of the night. And between them, in their confrontation, there is born the presence of an intemediary; “the old mossy god that nothing will never shake, a refuge, and a harbor for its sons, of whom I am one” (RT 200). Scipio’s sky, rippling with light, traverses the land bound ruins of Tipasa; that which remains of them is reflected unto the salty waters which in an mysterious instant fill the entire horizon, (and even Caligula’s weeping eyes):

“the evening is inhabited. It is still light, to tell the truth, but in this light an almost invincible fading announces the day’s end. A wind rises, young like this night, and suddenly the waveless sea chooses a direction and a flow like a barren river from one end of the horizon to another. The sky darkens” (RT, 203)

The space between one end of the horizon, and the other, is flooded; and we marine moderns can inhabit it momentarily by swimming away as Meursault and Marie did; that is, like strangers in love. (*28)

This Tipasian evening, this nihilistic event, is one of which Camus goes on to say, “begins the mystery, the gods of night, the beyond pleasure”. But knowing that we are bound to be lost in the language Camus uses, he tries to translate this natural event into something more familiar to us who are so unused to looking at evenings. The translation into human terms is peculiar, it involves a two-sided coin:

But how to translate this? The little coin I’m carrying away from here has a visible surface, a woman’s beautiful face which repeats to me all I have learned in this day, and a worn surface which I feel under my fingers during the return. What can that lipless mouth be saying, except what I am told by another mysterious voice, within me (*29) which everyday informs me of my ignorance and my happiness? (RT, 203-4)

The mysterious pleasurable dance of gods is mirrored unto a worthless coin which Camus carries away from Tipasa. A coin is much like a two sided mirror. But unlike the possible contact of two figures approaching themselves in a mirror; in a coin those two who constitute it stand forever apart, yet at the same time, welded by channels they feel intensely, yet cannot comprehend.

If for passive nihilism tossing the coin involved two possibilities, heads meant suicide and tails murder, Camus’ active nihilism involves two radically different ones. On the one hand, beauty emerges in all its visibility. It is the beauty of a woman, it is Drusilla born again, Marie meeting Meursault, Maria meeting Jan. But Drusilla is dead, Meursault and Jan too; beauty’s mouth must remain lipless. Yet beauty finds a translator who has word-loving fingers as lips. And this is why, what beauty silently says, remains nothing other than what another mysterious voice within Camus informs; informs, that is to say, gives form. What is informed are the limits of all possible forms; the inner limit being ignorance, the outer happiness.

But a coin has two faces and only one seems to have been brought to light. This is so because, just as the moon has too its permanent dark side, so beauty must have a worn backside to which it cannot turn its back on. The tail end of the coin is one that Camus’ fingers feel worn out, tired, exhausted. It is a deserted land of lifeless cries:

“I should like, indeed, to shirk nothing ad to keep faithfully a double memory. Yes there is beauty and the care of the humiliated. Whatever may be the difficulties of the undertaking, I should like never to be unfaithful either to one of the others” (RT, 203)

To each lucky coin there lies an unlucky face. But the tossing of the Camusian coin involves a more dignified outcome than that which accumulates endlessly in the coins amassed by some passive nihilists. This everyday coin, which enriches our life like no other, is the coin of art with its mirror-like duality: “negating on the one hand and magnifying on the other, is the way of the absurd creator, he must give the void its colors” (MoS, 114)

Perhaps know, I hope, we can come a little bit closer to understanding what Camus could have meant by remarking that “creation is the great mime”. But even if this is not so, at least, his creation will certainly allows us, not only never again to overlook ourselves when looking at mirrors, but also to see and hear the absurd confrontation between a beauty which certain evenings give and the painful endless cry which emerges humiliated out of voiceless mouths.

 

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

A) Primary Sources

 

Camus, Albert Caligula and three other plays, Vintage Books, New York, 1958. Translated by Stuart Gilbert. (Abbreviations: Caligula: C)

 

———The Myth of Sisyphus, Vintage International Books, New York, 1955 (1991), Translated by Justin O-Brien. (Abbreviations: MoS, Summer in Algiers: SA, Return to Tipasa: RT)

 

——– The Outsider, Penguin Books, Middlesex, 1961 (1980). Translated by Stuart Gilbert. (Abb: S)

 

——–The Rebel, Vintage International Books, 1956 (1991) Translated by Anthony Bower. (Abb: R)

 

 

B) Secondary Sources

 

Baudelaire, Selected Poems, Penguin Books, Middlesex, 1975 (1984). Translated by Joana Richardson.

 

Carson, Anne, Eros the Bittersweet, Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1986.

 

Nietzsche, Friedrich, The Gay Science, Vintage Books, New York, 1974. Translated by Walter Kaufmann.

 

——–Thus Spoke Zarathustra, in “The Portable Nietzsche”, The Viking Press, New York, 1968. Translated by Walter Kaufmann.

 

———Will to Power, Vintage Books, New York, 1968. Translated by Walter Kaufmann and R.J. Hollingdale.

 

———Fragmentos Postumos, Editorial Norma, Bogotá, 1992. Translated by Germán Meléndez Acuña.

 

Taylor, Charles, Sources of the Self, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1984.

 

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INTRODUCTION

One cannot help but be puzzled by Freud’s four-page interpretation of Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrranus. Innumerable pages have been written on the tragedy, and yet Freud seems not to be troubled much by his brief and allegedly clear solution of the work’s principal riddle. Freud seems to share some of Oedipus’ confidence as riddle-solver. But we must ask just how so.

In order to get clear on Freud’s interpretation, I propose to divide this essay into five sections the interrrelation of which, I hope, will become clearer as we move along struggling with the issues present in each. In the first I will look specifically at Freud’s analysis as explicitly presented in The Interpretation of Dreams. By proceeding in this manner three possible paths of interpretation will be brought to light: i) the ‘regressive path’, which is the pillar of all, ii) the ‘humiliation path’, and finally iii) the ‘revealing path’. Then I will proceed to show why the four page interpretation is so problematic by focusing primarily on the issue of the ahistorical nature of Freud’s analysis. The third section will be devoted to signaling out two central aspects of the play itself, aspects upon which Freud barely touches: the issue of the revelation of truth and its relation to Oedipus’ pride and hubris. Why Freud is blind to some of these aspects will become clearer in the fourth section when psychoanalysis’ regressive type of inquiry will be uncovered. Finally, in the last section, I will try to show how the ‘humiliation’ and ‘regression’ paths of interpretation, both of which are present in psychoanalytic theory and practice, make sense only with view to a third ‘revealing’ interpretation in which a special kind of truth can be brought to light; a truth that can be lived meaningfully.

I. FREUD’S ANALYSIS IN CONTEXT

Freud’s interpretation of Sophocles’ play is very specifically located. Without an understanding of this location Freud’s brief analysis is dramatically impoverished. Therefore, it is crucially important to remember that the interpretation of the tragedy takes place in Chapter V of The Interpretation of Dreams which is the chapter that deals with the material and sources of dreams. But within it the play only appears in the section entitled “Typical Dreams”. We are moving closer to localizing the isssue but still a further qualification is required; the tragedy appears only within it in the subsection beta , that is, the one concerning dreams of the death of persons of whom the dreamer is fond of. The four-page interpretation of the play thus involves death dreams, which are a special kind of dreams, which in turn refer to special kinds of sources.

Among typical dreams one finds those dealing with embarrasing situations involving some sort of nudity. It is among these that we come to the dream of the unhappy wanderer; Odysseus himself standing naked and covered with mud before Nausicaa. Literature makes an early appearance in this section on ‘typical dreams’. Besides, Freud’s commentary on the dream present in Homer’s work paves the way for what is to follow: “the deepest and eternal nature of man, upon whose education in his hearer the poet is accustomed to rely, lies in those impulses of the mind which have their roots in a childhood that has become prehistoric” (F, TIoD, 346). Odysseus’ dream portrays Homer’s reaching out backwardly in time. Children’s shameless exhibitionism likewise pointing to some long lost Paradise where shame, anxiety, sexuality and cultural actvity were not yet present (ibid., 343).

The fact that some writers such as Homer follow the creative process “in a reverse direction and so trace back the imaginative writing into a dream”, allows Freud to ascertain the connection between dreams and literary works of diverse kinds (ibid., 345). If this connection is to hold, then it becomes crucial to find some common element shared both by literary art and typical dreams. And in fact, Freud claims to have found such a linking thread. Of typical dreams we are “accustomed to assume they have the same meaning for all of us” (ibid., 339). That is to say, what links typical dreams to literary works is the underpinning sense of universality characteristic of both. What is meant by this can be better appreciated if one listens to Eliot’s words concerning Twain’s Mississippi river; this river “is not only the river known to those who voyage on it, or live beside it, but the universal river of human life” (Eliot, LNI, 66).

The fact that the discussion is carried out in reference to ‘embarrasing dreams of being naked’ brings nudity itself as a common element underpinning children, adults and literature; children live it, adults embarrasingly dream it, and artists, as we shall see in the case of Sophocles, use its power to undress us, leaving us nakedly facing ourselves in order to better live.

To nakedness there follows a sort of death. And it is in relation to dreams of loved ones that we find Freud’s words on Oedipus. Such dreams, under normal circumstances, seek not a real and bloody manifestation of the desire from which they stem, but rather reveal an unfulfilled wish the history of which can be traced regressively. Psychoanalysis “is satisfied with the inference that this death has been wished for at some time or other during the dreamer’s childhood” (ibid., 349). A desire to kill has been set up, or better sets itself up, as part of our human make-up. Dreams’ power to move backward allows us to bring to light what would otherwise remain concealed, or at least, not properly understood.

Wishing the death of brothers and sisters can be understood by referring to the child’s intensely maginified egoism. Children, at one point in their development, take themselves much like Oedipus will, to be all powerful. And given that for them death is easily equatible with ‘general absence’, then their wishing the death of brothers and sisters becomes, through psychoanalysis, more comprehensible, much less shocking.

But wishing the death of one’s parents, now that seems like a much more complicated matter. There is truly a riddle here: how can we make sense of the wish to kill precisely those beings who have given us life and love in the first place? People who perhaps we are fortunate enough to admire? Freud, like Oedipus, does not shy away from the riddle. Instead he calls on the reader to consider what analysis has found in the case of psychoneurotics who exhibit “on a magnified scale feelings of love and hatred for their parents which occur less obviously and less intensely in the minds of most children” (ibid., 362). It is from the analysis of these troubled humans that analysis, Freud confesses, reaches “complete conviction” (ibid., 360). They convince the analyst of two things: first, that there is a sexual preference by children for the parent of their opposite sex and, second, that the other parent stands as a rival “whose elimination could not fail to be to their advantage” (ibid., 356-7). Analysing neurotic patients then, like dream analysis, involves a regressive uncovering of childhood wishes.

It is only after having said all of this that Freud begins to speak of Oedipus. But the role of the interpretation to follow is not intended to add anything new to the findings already reached. Rather than there being in Sophocles’ tragedy a new discovery, what we find is a different, albeit not unrelated path, towards the revelation of the same conflict. Dreams, neurosis and Literature seem to follow different paths towards an identical destination:

“this discovery is confirmed by a legend that has come down to us from antiquity; a legend whose profound and universal power can ONLY be understood if the hypothesis I have put forward in regard to the psychology of children has an equal universal validity.” (ibid., 362-3; my emphasis)

The argument is intended to be purely circular.[1] The emergence of the meaning of the death wish in dreams ——– an understanding that arises out of an understanding of the distortive mechanism of the dream-work process ——- is intricately connected to the meaning which emerges undistorted in the tragedy:

“It is thus the psychology of children that furnishes the core of the argument, provided that it has ‘universal validity’. But it is the legend and its literary elaboration which provide evidence for this. The explanation is thus perfectly circular: psychoanalysis brings out ‘the particular nature of the material’ ….; but it is the tragedy which makes it speak” (Ricoeur, PWA, 9)

The tragedy speaks from a realm different than that of our, or neurotics, everyday dreams. But within the work itself Jocasta fails not to remind us that what psychoanalysis discovers in the twentieth century is something deeper, the universal character of which, Sophocles’ tragedy allows us to better see.

In Freud’s four-page analysis, I take there to be three interconnected interpretations at work. I will call the first, the ‘regresive interpretation’, the second, the ‘humiliation interpretation’ and, the last, the ‘revelation interpretation’. For Freud, seemingly, the first of these carries most of the weight in our understanding of Oedipus’ psuche. Nevertheless, I will show not only that the other two are already present as early as The Interpretation of Dreams , but likewise take on added importance if one looks beyond the analysis of Sophocles’ play. While section IV will deal with the ‘humiliation’ and ‘regression’ interpretations in the broad context of Freud work, section V will elucidate briefly what the ‘revelation’ interpretation involves.

The ‘regressive’ interpretation is primarily intended to fill up the circular argument of which we spoke above. The tragedies main, or for Freud, ONLY theme, is that dealing with the issues of incest and parricide. Oedipus’ destiny:

“moves us only because it might have been ours —- because the oracle laid the same curse upon us before our birth as upon him. It is the fate of all of us, perhaps, to direct our first sexual impulse towards our mother and our first hatred and our first murderous wish against our father” (Freud, ibid., 364)

We are thus shockingly perturbed and moved by the tragedy becuase it leaves us nakedly facing the wishful nature which cements our psychological history. We shrink upon reading Oedipus’ life-story because we repudiate the meaning of the dreams we ourselves have; dreams which, thanks to psychoanalysis, we come too know all too well. The real shame (and guilt) which asssaults us having dreamt these phantastic dreams, finds a parallel in Oedipus’ own self-punishment. But we, we do not blind ourselves as the hero does. Instead we are “blinded”, through repression, and thus cease seeking to carry out these disturbing wishes in reality.

The ‘humiliation interpretation’ —– to borrow Ricoeurs terminology[2]—– finds expression in the text some of Freud’s own words which strike us as a reprehension. Having quoted the last lines of the play, lines which ask of us to fix our eyes on the culminating fall of the Greek hero left nakedly facing himself, Freud tells us that all this: “strikes us as a warning at ourselves and our pride, at us who since our childhood have grown so wise and mighty in our eyes. Like Oedipus we live in ignorance …..” (Freud, ibid., 365). Now, this is of course not just any kind of ignorance, but precisely the kind of ignorance which ties this second interpretation to the first. It is ignorance, as Freud proceeds to say, of our childhood wishes for incest and parricide. Having regressed and acknowledged what this regression entails “we may all of us well seek to close our eyes to these scenes of our childhood” (Freud, ibid., 365). We moderns close our eyes ashamed (or feeling guilt); Oedipus, through Sophocles’ “pen”, does not simply close them but instead violently and bloodily pulls them out.

The third and final interpretation is the one I have called the ‘revelation interpretation’. It likewise, I believe, finds expression in the text in the following words: “the action of the play consists in nothing other than the process of revealing with cunning delays and ever mounting excitement — a process that can be likened to psychoanalysis” (Freud, ibid., 363). Revelation is here not to be taken in the religious sense of an undistorted meaning given to us humans by the divine.[3] Rather, for our purposes, it is to be understood as the coming to light of truth as meaningfulness.

Through the intertwining of the three interpretations, we will come to see how psychoanalysis not only humiliates in order to open the realm of the past, but is likewise projected and fed by the desire of present resolution and future construction of healthy ways of moving about.

However, even though the three interpretations interact in different ways, they are seemingly under the banner of the first. This is so in the sense that, as we quoted above, this first interpretation is the one which truly allows us to understand what is going on in Oedipus’ mind; it alone can really explain what is that something which the tragedy triggers in us. The tragedy stirs us because we find in it the birth of the Oedipus complex. And its taking shape in early childhood stands, for Freud, as the pillar of psychoanalysis. This complex is both decisive and divisive; it is representative of a frontier. Those adhering to it are truly, for Freud, psychoanalysts. Its denying critics are playing on a separate field:

“It has justly been said that the Oedipus complex is the nuclear complex of neuroses, and constitutes the essential part of their content. It represents the peak of infantile sexuality, which, through its after effects, exercises a decisive influence on the sexuality of adults. Every new arrival on this planet is faced by the task of mastering the Oedipus complex; anyone who fails to do so falls a victim to neurosis. With the progress of psychoanalytic studies the importance of the Oedipus complex has become more and more clearly evident; its recognition has become the shibboleth that distinguishes the adherents of psychoanalysis from its opponents” (Freud, 3ES, 149)

This quote, written 20 years after the writing of the principal work on dreams, sees the Oedipus complex as a shibboleth, that is to say, the crucial piece, the real clue, the very solution of a very important human riddle.

II. SOMETHING’S MISSING

Section I, I hope, has shown that Freud’s four-page commentary of Oedipus Tyrannus is more complex that it would appear at first sight. And yet one is left with a sense of lack and incompleteness. One longs for something more, so to speak.

It is Greek scholars who particularly feel this way. There is just something odd and suspicious in trying to understand a Greek text through three quotes taken out of context and reprinted, seemingly, haphazardly. But what is most puzzling is that Freud, particulary in The Interpretation of Dreams, goes out of his way not to rid the reader of innumerable quotations from all corners of knowldege. Unknown scientists, difficult philosophers and literats all share in Freud’s voluminous work on dreams. But Sophocles does so in an astonishingly limited way; particularly given the centrality of his appearance.

It is precisely this oversimplification which really irritates Greek scholars such as Vernant and Vidal-Naquet. One finds their protest for example in their purposely entitled essay “Oedipus without the Complex”:

“If one proceeds … as Freud does, by succesive simplification and reduction —- of all Greek mythology to one particular legendary schema, of the whole of tragedy to one particular play, of this play to one particular aspect of the story and of this aspect to a dream —- one might just as well substitute, for example, Aeschylus’ Agamemnon for Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex” (Vernant, 69)

Although Vernant’s commentary is half-mocking, half-serious, I have been trying to argue that the simplification, while blatantly obvious —- and just because of this so very puzzling—– is not really so simplistic, but instead makes more sense within the context of Freud’s work.

Nevertheless there are two points to be recovered from the view that wants to argue for an Oedipus without a complex. One is the crucial issue, which I take it really goes to the heart of Freud’s limited interpretation, of history; the other the tension and relationship between, what I have called the ‘humiliation interpretation’ of the play and its counterpart, the ‘reggressive’ one.

Although in a sense the regressive nature of dreams makes them historical both phylogenetically and ontogenetically, it is obvious that Sophocles’ play is seen by Freud without the most minimal attempt at understanding the context within which it arose. In a sense Freud’s interpretation, in its search for universality, takes a leap outside history: “for in the Freudian interpretation the historical aspect of tragedy remains totally incomprehensible” (Vernant, 67). But tragedy is so historically situated. Tragedy springs out of and within a highly complex artistic, religious and social reality. To put it in the most minimum terms; we moderns read Greek tragedy, the Greeks in contrast, at one point in their history, lived and experienced it through their bodies. Tragedy made them feel truly naked.

Tragedy arouse not just anywhere; its birth lies in a crossroad —-much like the crossroad at which Oedipus begins his doom. Tragedy is born out of and expresses conflict and contradiction. The highest tension possible comes to live in the peculiar form of art which is Greek Tragedy. But the tension from which it sprung is not completely our own. It is rather that which appears, very broadly speaking, in the struggle between conflicting moments and ways of viewing the world. Contraries come face to face for a moment in history: the decaying myth encounters the emerging philosophical outlook, prejuridical social forms struggle with the juridical status of the new born cities, the almost absolute determination of action by divine forces is questioned by a new conception of action and decision “in” the agent (Vernant, IWGT, OWC), the competitive virtues face the now emphasized cooperative ones (Adkins, MR). It is in this border zone that the tragic hero lives and breathes. He is a torn being, both acted upon and acting over:

“It is a form that must convey a sense of the contradictions that rend the entire universe, the social and political world and the domain of values, and that thus presents man himself as ….. some kind of an incomprehensible, baffling monster, both an agent and one acted upon, guilty and innocent, dominating the whole of nature with is industrious mind yet incapable of controlling himself, lucid and yet blinded by a frenzy sent to him by the gods … his choice takes place in a world full of obscure and ambiguous forces, a divided world … “ (Vernant, 68)[4]

Understanding this divided world involves taking the gods seriously. But instead what Freud tells us is precisely that the interpretation which holds that Oedipus Tyrranus is a tragedy of destiny — which for Freud, erroneously implies complete submission to divine will (F, TIoD, 364)[5]——– is not the most accurate. This is so for, Freud argues, other modern tragedies of destiny fail to move us: “the espectators have looked on unmoved while a curse or an oracle was fulfilled in spite of all efforts of some innocent man. Later tragedians of destiny have failed in their effect” (Freud, ibid., 364) Freud does not investigate further why precisely it is that such tragedies do not move US, and in doing so he does not quite see how and why they did move the Greeks.[6]Furthermore to his argument one could equally reply, playing devil’s advocate: “dramatic success would be simple if it sufficed to write plays about incest, there have been plenty. But Walpole’s Mysterious Mother, for example, is stone dead. Oedipus lives. Why?” (Lucas, 168).

It is part of this ‘why’ that Freud, as child of the Enlightenment, cannot see. And this is a reminder that we always runs the danger of misreading the Greeks by projecting on to them our own views, vocabulary, and practices.(Vernant, 29).[7]

The second issue which I would like to touch upon is the question of the primacy of what I have called, the ‘humiliation’ thesis, over and against the ‘regressive’ one. For Vernant the value of the play lies precisely where Freud sees it not. Oedipus errs out of megalomania, out of an excess of grandeur. He oversteps ——- and at the same time is made to overstep ——- the limitations set upon us humans by the divine and cosmological order. Under this perspective, the central theme of the tragedy becomes, not incest and parricide, but “absolute power and the necessary hubris that necessarily stems from it” (Vernant, 84). Oedipus is overproud, oversure of his prowess as solver of riddles. And this facet of his character is made worse because of his lack of self-criticism. Rather than seek to change himself, Oedipus, as we shall see, changes the world by distorting it. The central concern of the play is therefore, not so much the murder of Laius, but Laius’ murderer and his relation to the gods:

“It is this hubris characteristic of a tyrant … that causes Oedipus’ downfall and is one of the mainsprings of tragedy. For the inquiry concerns not only the murder of Laius but also the question of Oedipus himself, Oedipus the clairvoyant; the solver of riddles, who is a riddle to himself that, in his blindness as king, he cannot solve.” (Vernant, 81)

The ‘humiliation’ interpretation is primary; the ‘regressive’ only an added one.

Having come to see some of the dangers in bypassing the historical context within which Oedipus’ tragedy was played out, we are now led to ask who is this Oedipus king, who even though most famous of riddle-solvers, has become a riddle to himself. We would like to get clearer on who is he of whom his mother-bride says “may you never, unhappy, know who you are” (Lucas 1068).[8]To do so we cannot follow Freud any longer, but rather must turn our sight, weary of what we shall see, to Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus.

III. OEDIPUS TYRANNUS: TRUTH AND HUBRIS

Oedipus is intent on truth. He is driven against all obstacles, both self-imposed and of external origin, to try to uncover Laius’ murderer. Oedipus’ self-clarifying inquiry into the nature of his past will leave him, all of us at least think we already know, nakedly revealed. Oedipus is truly undermined for the ground on which he felt secure is taken away from him. He enters the eternal darkness of the really unhappy wanderer; he who blindly gropes in the night. But Oedipus is king, and as such he is also beholder of heroic force and power. He thinks highly of himself and it is precisely because of this that his drive towards truth is capable of overcoming his and others’ resistances. Only in revealing himself through his past, does Oedipus humiliate himself to the point where even though self-blinded, he nevertheless will come to see a new light —– a light far away in Colonus.

The very first lines of the play intertwine these two struggling paths; the one towards truth, the other towards true hubris: “I thought it right to hear the truth, my children/and so am come/ I, Oedipus, whose name fills all men’s mouths” (Lucas, 7-9). [9] Moreover, the Oedipus who knows himself bent to truth is he who also knows that other’s must bend in his presence. The Thebeans, who look up to him (35), place in him their salvation: “greatest in the eyes of all/ Here at thy feet we beg thee, Oedipus,/ Find us some help” (42-44). And Oedipus will be at all costs —- even if he must loose himself —– of ‘some help’.

First he seeks help in the divine; by way of Apollo. Apollo, god known as ‘Phoebus’ which means bright or radiant (133), as Lycean King that isprotector of flocks as against wolves (203), and as healer (155). (Lucas, page 230). This gods of light speaks bright words that aim at a healing which protects from the ravages of excessive beings. His words to the Thebeans stand clear, pollution can only come to an end through exile or blood. (100).

It is with this new information that Oedipus recognizes that he must begin anew: “I must start afresh, and bring to light/ these hidden things” (132-3). Oedipus will start an excavation out of which will surface what is hidden; but nothing does he know of the fact that this tunneling is carried through and about himself. Unknowing he firmly continues his search for truth, initially understood only in reference to the murder of Laius (129). But in order to so continue; he is in need of further information. And not just anybody gives it to him.

Summoned by Creon, Teiresias enters the action. But he does so in a very peculiar way; his entrance is one that is guided. Teiresias comes to life in the tragic play led by the weak hand of a boy. He is the well-known prophecy teller who was blinded for having looked at Athena’s naked body. But to blindness followed as divine gift another kind of seeing, that of foreseeing. Nakedness, which appears again, cost him his sight; but having seen the nude goddess won him a sight which “shares most nearly Apollo’s vision” (285). His new sight then would seem to have some relation to the power to heal. Moreover, what Teiresias sees, now blinded, is nothing other than the naked truth, he is“the prophet in whose heart/ alone of men, lives knowledge of truth” (300-1).

Teiresias entrance is not only guided by a child, it is one guided by silence; he knows all too well what his words carry with them. The enraged Oedipus cannot endure this and calls him, who for all is the wisest of men, a “creature of unending night”, a creature who has no power “to injure (him) or any that sees the light” (375-6). Oedipus has truly lost all measure, and his excessive pride fills his mouth:

“If merely for the sake of this my greatness,

Bestowed on me by the Thebens, a gift unasked,

The loyal Creon, my friend from long ago,

By stealthy machinations undermines me,

setting upon me this insidious wizard —-

Gear-gathering hypocrite, blind in his art,

With eyes only for gain!

For tell me now, when have you proved true seer?

Why, when there came that chanting, monstrous hound,

Had you then no answer to deliver Thebes?

And yet her riddle was not to be read

By the first comer’s wit —- that was the time

For powers prophetic. But of those no sign

You gave us —- neither by the voice of birds,

Nor taught by any God. But then came I —–

the ignorant Oedipus! —– and closed her mouth

By force of intellect — no birds to help me!” (381-398)

Oedipus reveals himself as the self-sufficient king and riddle solver who has lost his humanity; he alone has defeated the Sphynx and alone he will stand accursed. He has both severed ties to friends, through his distortion of Creon’s intentions, and to the Gods, through his mocking of Teiresias mediator.

But even so, Oedipus will not cease asking. He is driven to uncover the riddle which he know sees facing him. “Who was it that gave me life?” he asks the humiliated Teiresias (438). A puzzle to which the seer answers, mockingly enough, with yet another riddle: “this day shall bring thy birth — and thy destruction” (438). And we, puzzled ask, how is Oedipus, already born, to be brought to birth once again? And how is it that this newly won first sight of light, will simultaneously involve the darkest night of death?

The action rushes on and it does so primarily through a process of remembering. Oedipus remembers the words of the insulting drunkard who had said Polybus and Merope were not truly his parents (778-9). And his capacity to reminesce is aided by its slow eruption in different characters which are lead slowly, but surely, towards the discovery of the meaning behind Oedipus’ birth. The herdsman who saved Oedipus as a child from death has to be reminded by the messenger about these past events. Besides this dialogical remembering is one dealing with truth:

Herdsman. Not that I can recall it —— out of hand

Mesenger. No wonder sire. But though he does not know me,

I’ll soon remind him. Well I know he knows

Those times that we ranged together round Cithaeron,

He with two flocks ……..

Am I talking truth or not?

Herdsman. ‘Tis true enough; though a great while ago” (1132-40)

The herdsman is even forced to remember and answer by Oedipus’ threats of physical torture (1150). But when all the information has been put together, Oedipus realizes what has happened; how it was he who murdered his father, thus committing parricide, and he who wed his mother, thus committing incest. A contradictory (like the contradictory world out of which tragedy is born) ‘shadow full clarity’ sets in: “now all accomplished —-all is clear/Light of this day, let me look last on thee/ Since now I stand revealed, curst in my birth/ curst in my wedlock, curst in my bloodshed” (1182-5). Oedipus stands revealed; he has been uncovered, all his clothing removed.

But the shadow of the intellect is not enough; this blindness must be appropriated by the body itself. In a monologue of utter despair Oedipus, as reported by the servant, yells “henceforth be darkened/ eyes that saw whom ye should not” (1270-4). Oedipus king lies truly helpless. He is now become a hideous monster to look upon (1318-20), too “hateful for human sight” (1301-2).

But his is a king’s nature and pride, even now, is not lacking. Thus to the leader’s words: “I cannot count well what though hast done”, he answers, “ah cease advising me/tell me not now/ that what I did was not the best to do” (1368-9). Oedipus most definitely does not believe himself merely to be a puppet of the gods, as Freud would have it. He knows well both that it was he who blinded himself and, in a sense, not he who was involved in the acts of parricide and incest: “It was Apollo, my friends, Apollo/That made me suffer this misery;/But my eyes were stricken by myself alone./What need had I to see/For whom life kept no sight of sweetness more?” (1328-32).[10]

Oedipus does not die or commit suicide. If had so proceeded, Teiresias’ riddle involving a birth and a death in the instant of coming to know, would have been denied. Teiresias foresees another path into the future. And as the mark of this beginning, which is now simply seen as total disorientation, Oedipus chooses exile. But exile not just anywhere but precisely to the land in which he as a child, one could say, was truly saved to life:

“Leave me among the mountains, where Cithaeron

Is linked with my name forever. There it was

My parents when they lived, assigned my grave;

There let me die, according to their will

That sought to doom me then —-yet well I see

No sickness, no mischance, had power upon me;

Who could never have escaped, had I not been

Reserved for some portentuous doom.

But let my own fate drive to what end it will” (1451-9)

And end of which Freud did not speak and which Oedipus will find only in the Colonus of a poet in his nineties. (Lucas, 215)

It is only after all this has been revealed that one —-finally—– encounters the closing words of the play which are quoted by Freud in his analysis in The Interpretation of Dreams.[11] Our feeling that something was missing seems not to have been completely misleading. But then why Freud’s confidence in his four-page analysis? Why this neglect of relevant aspects from a man whose magnificence, humour and humanity shine through in all his writings?

IV. PSYCHOANALYSIS; HUMILIATION AND REGRESSION

Freud did not ever pretend to see everything clearly, but he did claim the capacity to give us clarity in certain dimensions of our understanding: “Freudian interpretation touches on the essential precisely as a result of its narrowness” (Ricoeur, PMCC, 141).

Diagnosis is psychoanalysis’ path towards understanding. As investigatory practice it is not content with the way things appear, but is rather suspicious of such a-critically held appearances. For instance, something more lies behind the appearance of the manifest content, of our identifying love for our parents, of our neurosis, of our kokes, of our love of God, of our civilization’s goals. It is because of this that the linguistic symbols which psychoanalysis sets out to comprehend come to light, in the first instance, as shadowy, illusory and deceitful. The meaning of symbols is undermined by their presence as idols. Analysis, in uncovering deceit, distortion and blindness, cannot but ask negatively. (Ricoeur, FP, 31). Psychoanalysis is intent on undressing symbols, so that in their nakedness we can better come to comprehend and reappropriate them once again.

Psychoanalysis, as a hermeneutics of suspicion, is primarily concerned with the humiliation of the historically developed narcissism which anchors our pride in conscious knowledge. Of course psychoanalysis cannot deny the immediate certainty of consciousness, the Cartesian ‘I think’, but it does lay bare the former’s illusory claims to immediate truth. Consciousness in this view, is in immediacy a ‘false consciousness’ for, although it posits itself, it does not possess itself: “psychoanalysis cannot situate the essence of the psychical in consciousness,, but is obliged to regard consciousness as a quality of the psychical, which may be present in addition to other qualities or may be absent” (Freud, EI, 351) Psychoanalysis, Ricoeur tells us, does away with “consciousness and its pretensions of ruling over meaning in order to save reflection” (Ricoeur, FP 422). Meaning is a task, not a given.

The movement towards reflection necessarrily implies a dispossession or displacement of the illusory cogito. We relinquish consciousness in order to recapture it at a more complex level through the integration of a ‘deeper’ understanding of the conditions within which consciousness itself is born. To gain myself I must, oddly enough, somehow be willing to loose myself:

“If it is true that the language of desire is a discourse combining meaning and force[12], reflection, in order to get at the root of desire, must let itself be dispossessed of the conscious meaning of discourse and displace it to another place of meaning ……… But since desire is accesible only in the disguises in which it places itself, it is only by interpreting the signs of desire that one can recapture in reflection the emergence of desire and thus enlarge reflection to the point where it regains what it had lost” (Ricoeur, FP , 424)

There is then a reduction not ‘to’ consciousness but ‘of’ consciousness and for the sake of a new, more humble, type of conscious activity. But, why is discentering so crucial to my rediscovery? It is because through it alone can one move beyond the narcissism which cements one’s ego. The illusion of a not fought for selflove, safeguards the ego from the work involved in its becoming. Freud’s appeal to our ‘humiliation’ interpretation is clear:

“You are sure you are informed of all that goes on in your mind …. come let yourself be taught something on this point ….. turn your eyes inward, look into your own self, learn first to know yourself! Then you will understand why you were bound to fall ill; perhaps to avoid falling ill in the future” (Ricouer quotes Freud, FP, 426-427)[13]

Consciousness is wounded by the “reality” of the unconscious. The ego no longer rules in an unqualified manner, but is instead set within a complex and demanding internal and external framework. The immediacy of the ego and the world is forever shattered; the idea, for instance, of an oceanic feeling —— adhered to uncritically —— is in reality the flight of an ego who denies the exigencies of an external reality which stands apart as alien, overpowering and senseless.[14]The ego is uncovered, undressed, and what Freud finds is a precipitate of lost objects. That objects have been lost signifies that direct real satisfaction of libidinal demands has not been adequately met. The ego thus presents itself to the Id as a totality of losses, ‘I’ becomes the primordial love object for ‘it’: “when the ego assumes the features of the objects, it is forcing itself, so to speak, upon the Id as a love object, and trying to make good the Id’s loss by saying: ‘Look, you can love me too —- I am so like the object’” (Freud, EI, 369). The ego which posits itself arrogantly, does not come close to possessing itself. In order to become itself, it must start by reviewing the history of its losses; it must engage in archeological investigation on itself. The ‘humiliation’ interpretation consequently goes hand in hand with the ‘regressive’ one. Making oneself humble implies retrogression and retrogression can only start through humility. A new circle is born.

Negation opens up the way to the remoteness of our history both phylogenetically and ontogenetically; this happens in various interrelated ways. One can see this backward motion in dream formation. Dreams lay bare, and allow us to acquaint ourselves through critical interpretation, not only with our personal history (going as far back as our childhood), but also, and through connections with works of art such as Oedipus Turranus, but also with the whole archaic heritage which constitutes our humanity. The first topography shows the mechanism of this regression in dreams which allows movement of unconscious material, not towards the motor end of the y-systems, but rather to the opposite extreme, namely, the perceptual end (Freud, TIoD, 692)[15]. Dreaming is not only ”an example of regression to the dreamer’s earliest condition, of the instinctual impulses that dominated it, and of the methods of expression …. available to him” (Freud, ibid., 699), but likewise a universal regression towards the archaic structures which involve the rise of the Oedipus complex itself. Psychoanalysis, having quoted Nietzsche, knows that this its particular kind of narrowness is far reaching:

“Dreams and neurosis seem to have preserved more mental antiquities than we could have imagined possible; so that psychoanalysis may claim a high place among the sciences which are concerned with the reconstruction of the earliest and most obscure periods of the begginings of the human race” (Freud, ibid., 700)

It is in this sense that topographic, temporal and formal regresion are at bottom one and the same kind of regression; for “what is older in time is also more primitive in form and in psychical topography lies nearer to the perceptual end” (Freud, TIoD, 699).

But this regressive tendency, is far from being only present in dreams, rather it permeates the whole of Freud’s outlook. It continues to play a central role in the second topography where in a difficult passage we are told: “in the id, which is capable of being inherited, are harboured residues of the existences of countless egos; and, when the ego forms its superego out of the id, it may perhaps only be reviving shapes of former egos and be bringing them to ressurrection” (Freud EI, 378). Understanding ourselves today involves then an understanding of residues present prior even to our birth. Moreover this regressive tendency is likewise present in Freud’s writings on culture.. An example of this being the analogy of mind and Rome in Civilization and its Discontents, where we are told concerning mental life:

“Since we overcame the error of supposing that the forgetting we are familiar with signified a destruction of the memory trace — that is, its annihilation —- we have inclined to take the opposite view that in mental life nothing which has once been formed can perish — that everything is somehow preserved and that in suitable circumstances (when for instance, regression goes back far enough) it can once more be brought to light” (Freud, CD, 256) (my emphasis)

Regression is not an endless abysmal fall into the darkness of the unknown; it rather involves, as we shall see, a bringing to light; something for which we are better prepared having read Sophocles’ play. But furthermore, one finds this regressive type of inquiry coming to life in the very foundation of psychoanalysis, that is to say, it is present in psychoanalysis dualism. as seen in the perpetual struggle between the eros and the death instincts. The latter, which for Freud finds meaningful expression in sadism and hatred is not only supported by biology but its task is to lead organic lfe back ino the inanimate state” (Freud, EI, 380). This is truly as back as you can go.[16]

Having said all this, I hope it becomes clearer to see why it is that in an early work like The Interpretation of Dreams so much emphasis is placed by Freud on Jocasta’s words on incestous dreaming. Only with a view to the whole regressive nature of psychoanalytic investigation does the four-page interpretation of Sophocles’ play start to make more sense. Humiliation and regression, which we saw present in the work itself, are two of the banners held by psychoanalysis in its search for understanding. Ricouer, who captures this tendency in his concept of the ‘archeology of the subject’, tells us:

“If one interrelates all these modalities of archaism; there is formed the complex figure of a destiny in reverse, a destiny that draws one backward; never before had a doctrine so coherently revealed the disquieting consistency of this complex situation” (Ricoeur, FP, 452).

A complex situation hinted at by Teiresias’ puzzling words: “This day shall bring thy birth —– and thy destruction”. Destruction, painful as it might be, is not for destruction’s sake. Neither Sophocles nor psychoanalysis aim simply at leaving us nakedly and embarrasingly facing ourselves defenseless in the uttermost cold of cage-like caverns.

V. THE GAME OF REVELATION

Literature is fond of playing with words. To reveal is one of those words that invite us to playfulness; it calls on foreplay, that is to say, all that which goes on before the actual playing. But some languages aid us better is playing certain games; I will therefore refer the reader to Spanish words here. To ‘reveal’ in English is to bring to light, to disclose. But, at least phonetically, the word could be seen to have some relation to the verb ‘to veil’ which means exactly the opposite, that is to say, to cover, to haze over. If one added the prefix ‘re’ which means to do again (as in redo your homework) then one would end up with the exactly opposite word to ‘re-veil’. The game I am playing works much better in Spanish, for the word for ‘to reveal’ is ‘revelar’, and the word for ‘to veil’ is ‘velar’. It is easier then to add the repetitie prefix ‘re’ which also exists in Spanish. To reveal then would involve a new type of vealing, a new covering up. The game takes added force because inseems to point precisely at Ricoeurs conception of what a ‘symbol’ is double meaning and which in reference to dream we are told: “the dream and its analogues er set within a region of language that presents itself as the locus of compelx significations when another meaning is BOTH hoddenn and given ina n immediate meaning” (Ricoeur, FP, 7). The regressive and humiliation have moved us a primary meaning that distorted, veiled. But there movement revelas new posibilities which leave us not strandeed nakedly humiliated in a maddening past but covers us agains, re-vveils’ us. How is dthis done? [17].

Now under this view to ‘reveal’ is a ‘re-veiling’ that is to say, a recovering, a covering oneself anew. Naked we would surely die; we humans must cover us through new meanings.

There are many ways in whih one could come to see how psychoanalysis could do this within its regressive framework; through a positive view on identification[18], also by way of a recovery of the never fully articulated and comprehended phenomena of sublimation by Freud[19], and finally, the course I propose here to take by looking at Freud’s own words, by reminding oneself of the practice which psychoanalysis involves. In the analytic situation analysand and analyst meet in dialogue to overcome regression and firmly held resistances. IN the analytic situation nakedness sets in, but it s a different kind of nakedness, one that reacts much like Athena did to Teiresias.

The analysand —and all of us reading Freud outside the analytic situation —- is suffering from symptoms which hamper his ability to move around, articulate and face the reality which mingles outside the analytical situation. He/she is stuck, so to speak, much like we dream universally of being embarrassingly stuck in our own nakedness. Their inability to orient themselves in the real world lies partly in a regressive fixation on past experiences: “not only do they remember painful experiences of the remote past, but they still cling to them emotionally; they cannot get free of the past and for its sake they neglect what is real and immediate” (F, 5LP, 40). But not only are they backwardly fixed, they cannot see what it is precisely they are fixed on. It is as if they had become amnesic. The analysand is there fore set in an awkward situation of simultaneously knowing and not knowing. Confusion sets in, as Freud clearly saw in the case of Fraulein Elizabeth von R.:

“it followed that her feelings themselves did not become clear to her …. her love for her brother in law was present in her consciousness as a foreign body …. with regard to these feelings she was in a peculiar situation of knowing and at the same time not knowing” (Freud, SoH, 165)

A riddle plays itself out here. It is a riddle that Oedipus knew all too well. Uncovering the riddle implies recognition this dangerously regressive tendency “the libido …. has netered on a regressive course and has revived the subject’s infantile images” (F, TDoT, 102). We are literally caught up in a dream world.

Psychoanalysis, like Oedipus, does not shy away from this riddle. It desires a try at it. It rebels against human suffering for it cannot understand how “people notice that the patient has some slit in his mind, but shrink from touching them for fear of increasing his suffering” (Freud, 5LP, 84). Psychoanalysis likes to touch; it does so for the purpose of healing. It faces our split head on and tries to comprehensively fill gaps building brdges of communication between both split —much like iin tragedy — disconnected worlds.

And it knows that this construction is a task, “one o f the hardest” (Freud, SoH, 138), is a true battle of continuous struggle towards recovery:

“The analysis has to struggle against the resistances … the resistance accompanies the treatment step by step. Every songle association, every act of the person under treatment must reckon with the resistance and represents a compromise between the forces that are striving towards recovery and the opposing ones which I have described” (Freud, TDoT, 103)

Psychoanalysis, following the basic rule of honesty which states that “whatever comes into one’s head must be reported without criticizing it “ (Freud, TDoT, 107), moves by way of shedding clothes, by untangling knots which hamper our everyday fulfillment. Psychoanalysis clears, much like Oedipus, its procedure is “one of clearing away the pathogenic material layer by layer, and we liked to compare it with the technique of excavating a city” (Freud, SoH, 139). Psychoanalysis exccavates but its excavations matter iin so far as the uncovered city that is brought to light is not simply left standing to werode but rather integrated, cultivated and admred by making it part of the whole topography of one’s mind. Psychoanalysis rebuilds, repaints, reconstructs. Psychoanalyis recovers, that is to say, it covers again our nakedness.

In the analytic situation, byy way of the, beautifully termed by Freud, “catalytic ferment” which is the transference (Freud, 5LP, 82), which is the “true vehicle of therapeutic influence” (ibid., 83) psychoanalysis embarks of the reconstruction of misunderstood losses in order to construct new meaning. Knowing all too well about the dangers of transference as substitute for the analysand most intimate desires — the analysand feels his nakedness can be covered by way of the analyst —-(Freud, TDoT, 103-4), it sets out on a quest towards the difficult articulation of a narrative, the coherence and beauty of which, allows, and proceeds from the overcoming of resistances. Freud sees this narrative structure but his scientific outlook is weary of its claims to real truth: “and it still strikes me as strange that the case histories I wrote should read like short stories and that we might say they lack the serious stamp of science” (Freud, SoH, 160). [20]

With the aid of a trained analyst who, with Freud’s unfortunate choice of words “tries to compel him to fit these emotional impulses into the nexus of the treatment and of his life history” (Freud, TDoT,, 108). The analysand is given the tools through which he can not only comprehend his/her past, but move beyond it creatively and realistically in a world outside the analytic situation for “what matters is that he shall be free of it in his real life” (ibid., 106). IN the construction of a narrative of which I cannot go into detail here, regression and humiliation end up ina form of revealing, as we saw a new covering, a revealing; a veiling in the warmth of meaningful words and actions. truth emerges out of a backward movement in which we doubt as never had. Truth emerges as a rock that “is reliable,, strong enough to be a foothold, a foundation for us to stand upon” (Loch, CSPT, 221) A rock from which Oedipus at Colonus finds his own death (Sophocles, OC, 1594), with these words, leaving his children without a father:

“My children, from this day

Ye have no father. Now my life is done.

You shall not toil to tend me any more.

How hard it was for you, I know, dear daughters;

Yet that one word of ‘love’ repaid it all.

No man could give you deeper love than mine.

And now without me

You both must pass the remnant of your days” (1614-1621)

His children are left nakedly facing the world, but they are better prepared for it.


[1]For a defense of such circularity as mode of understanding peculiar to human beings one can look at Heidegger’s Being and Time..

[2]For Ricoeur psychoanalysis can be understood, in conjunction with the work of Marx and Nietzsche, as a ‘hermeneutics of suspicion’. For these critical thinkers the immediacy of meaning is questioned and each develops a way to gain insight into the process of distortion which governs, be it dreams, capitalist accumulation and alienation, and morality. This idea will perhaps become clearer in section IV of this essay. Besides, the term is used by Ricoeur in reference to the three-fold humiliation of Western thought: i) the cosmological humiliation by Copernicus, ii) the biological humiliation at the hands of Darwin, and iii) the psychological humiliation at the hands of Freud himself. (Ricoeur, FP, 32-36, see also PMCC). Humiliation therefore, as I take it, has nothing to do with guilt; but with something more like shame.

[3]Ricouer does attempt to situate psychoanalysis within, what he considers are three zones of symbolic language: i) the cosmic, linked to the phenomenology of religion, ii), the zone of the oneiric linked to psychoanalysis, and iii) the zone governed by poetic imagination (Ricoeur, FP, BOOK I: “Problematic: the placing of Freud”)

[4]Perhaps one could see in this tension clear parallels with the struggle between unconscious and conscious forces, between the ego and the id, but one must continuously be weary of projecting the way we understand ourselves to other cultures who shared neither our practices nor our conceptual frameworks. A crucial example is the inexistence of a concept of ‘will’ within Greek thought. (Vernant, 28)

[5]The theory of double motivation holds instead that there is not simply a submission by the agent but rather a complex double participation, both divine and human: “Since the origin lies in both man himself and outside him, the same character appears now as an agent, the cause and source of his actions, and now as acted upon, engulfed in a force that is beyond him and sweeps him away. yet although human and divine causality are intermingled in tragedy, they are not confused. The two levels are quite distinct, sometimes opposed to each other” (Vernant, 53)

[6]Within the tradition of a ‘hermeneutics of suspicion’ one could look at Nietzsche’s The Birth of Tragedy for a clearer view of what Tragedy meant to the Greeks. Nevertheless, the Nietzschean analysis is not itself without problems, and one can therefore try to look at works such as Dodds’ stimulating The Greeks and the Irrational for a better understanding of teh context within which Greek Tragedy took place (e.g. Appendix I “Maenadism”). For a defense of a more Freudian analysis of Oedipus Tyrannus , one can also look at Thallia Feldman’s “Taboo and Neurotic Guilt in the Oedipus Theme”. Her argument is that “ it is principally Sophocles who, in his two dramas, bridges the transition between such surviving notions surrounding primitive taboo and their elevation into a significant stage beyond, one which indicates a new, individual concern and feeling” (Feldman, 60)

[7]The issue of historicity places real questions on the whole enterprise of psychoanalysis. This is nowhere better seen than in the important work of Michel Foucault who traces the history of madness in his Madness and Civilization. The possible ground for a critique of psychoanalysis is found particularly in his first and third volumes on the History of Sexuality. While in the third he attempts to understand Artemidorus within his context, in the first he argues that modernity is characterized by a deep concern for what is referred to the ‘repressive hypothesis’. The fundamental claim of this hypothesis, according to Focault, is one of liberation by engaging in discursive critique through which it is argued we may finally overcome both external and internal repression. (Of course Freud himself never aims at this, but some aspects of Foucault’’s critique due go to the heart of psychoanalytic practice) For Foucault this project is radically misguided. He seeks to show this by tracing its origin in history to the development of a practice peculiar to the West, namely, the radical emphasis we have placed in the discursiveness of sexuality. The overwhelming concern with the speaking of sexuality is traced back to the Christian confessional. In the confession one seeks permanently to ‘uncover’ oneself; it is an uncovering which makes possible,at least ideally, the emergence of some deeply concealed truth which up to that point had been held back. For Foucault the Christian confessional becomes secularized in a move from Augustine’s Confessions through to Rousseau’s Confessions and finally in the analytic situation itself. Freud many times writes as if within this paradigm, for example in An Outline of Psychoanalysis: he tewlls us: “this looks as though we were only aiming at the post of a secular father confessor. But there is a great difference, for what we want to hear from our patient is not only what he knows and conceals from other people; he is to tell us too what he does NOT know” (Freud, AOP, Chpter VI ) What is problematic for Foucault on this view of things is that we are continuously incited to confess believing that herein lies the breakdown of repression. But for Foucault this confessional practice is set within a whole network of power relations which give expression too a historically developed technology of the self through which we come to be constituted as particular kinds of subjects, that is, confessional subjects. The former perpetuate the discourse of protest which represents the very means of perpetuating their condition as the kind of subjects the have come to be. For Foucault this condition is that western human have become ‘confessional animals’ (Foucault, HoS I, 159) (This position radically questions many of the points in this essay).

[8]Vernant and Vidal Naquet have two furher arguments against Freud’s interpretation: i) the first concerns the circularity of the argument (I have tried to show that this is precisely what Freud intends and therefore the critique is unfair) (Vernant, 64); and ii) they question the whole idea of Oedipus’ really knowing or not whether Polybus and Merope were his parents. I think this to be a weaker argument and Freud could attempt to answer it.

[9]I will use F.L. Lucas translation because although its English is difficult I find it particularly beautiful. But perhaps not everyone coincides.

[10]Vernant and Vidal-Naquet shed light on this dual nature of the action: “the contrary aspects of the action he has accomplished by blinding himself are both united and opposed in the very same expressions that the chorus and himself both use … The divine causality and the human initiative which just now appearede to be so clearly opposed to each other have now come together and, at the very heart of the decision ‘chosen’ by Oedipus, a subtle play of language produces a shift from the action …. to that of passivity …” (Vernat, 54)

[11]”Dwellers here in Thebes our city, fix your eyes on Oedipus/Once he guesed the famous riddle, once our land knew none so great—-/Which among the sons of Cadmus envied not his high estate?/Now behold how deep above him there hath rolled the surge of doom/So with every child of mortal” (1524-8)

[12]Ricouer sees n Freud’s analysis two interpretations, the hermeneutical and the energetic, neither of which can be reduced to the other an the dual nature of which gives an added strength to psychoanalytic theory.

[13]Perhaps one could argue that part of the fascination with Sophocles’ play lies precisely in its appeal  to the language of sight. In this sense it moves us closer to the perceptual end of the first topography.

[14]A view which makes sense, I beleive, only as stemming from a Schopenahuerian view of the will.

[15]It is interesting to note that our game leads us, in its Spanish variant,  to realize that the verb “velar” also means to take care of something important, and particularly of the dead.

[16]The presence of the symbol is further made interesting if one looks at its Greek origin. As Anne Carson tells us in her beautiful Eros: the Bittersweet: “The English word ‘symbol’ is the Greek word symbolon which means, in teh ancient world, one half of a knucklebone carried as a token of identity to someone who has the other half. Together the two halves compose one meaning. A metaphor is a species of symbol. So is a lover.” (Carson , 75.)  The importance of this relation becomes more important if one sets to try to understand Freud’s claim to be following Plato in erotic matters. (Freud, 3ES, 43.)

[17]A positive view of identification would see it as an inevitable event, yet under certain historical circumstances not simply a negative one. One could try for example, to link the issue of identification with a notion of ‘identity’ such as theone defended by Charles Taylor in his Sources of the Self.

[18]

[19]Ricoeur recovers this in his view of Sophocles’ play seen principally as a tragedy of truth and in his genral understanding of art as providing the progressive movement which, while incorporating some regressive understaniding, nevertheless reveals present and future possibilities. : “because of their emphasis in disguise dreams look more to the past, to childhood. But in works of art the emphasis is on disclosure; thus works of art tend to be prospective symbols of one’s personal synthesis and of man’s future and not merely a regressive symptom of the artist’s unresolved conflict”. One can also  look at also Ricoeur’s “Psychoanalysis and the Work of art” where he touches on the realiton of he ‘fantastic’ as both representabel and substitutable, and the sublimation found in the work of Leonardo Da Vinci.

[20]On the issue of narrativity and truth see Ricoeur’s essay: “The Question of Proof in Freud’s Psychoanalytic Writings”

BIBLIOGRAPHY

1) PRIMARY SOURCES

Freud, Sigmund, Two Short Accounts of Psycho-analysis, Penguin, London, 1991, “Five Lectures on Psychoanalysis” pgs. 31-87. Translated by James Strachey.

———– The Interpretation of Dreams, Volume 4 of the Penguin Freud Library, Penguin, London, 1991.

———–On Sexuality, Volume 7 of the Penguin Freud Library, particularly “Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality” pp. 33-169.

———–On Metapsychology: The Theory of Psychoanalysis, Volume 11 of the Penguin Freud Library, “The Unconscious” 159-210, “The ego and the Id”, 339-401. (Edition 1984)

———–Civilization Society and Religion, Volume 12 of Penguin Freud Library, “‘Civilized’ Sexual Morality and Modern Nervous Illness” pp. 33-55. (edition 1985

2) SECONDARY SOURCES

Loch, W., “Some Comments on the Subject of Psychoanalysis and Truth”, Essay 8 in Psychiatry and the Humanities Volume 2: Thought, Consciousness, and Reality, (de. Smith, Joseph) Yale University Press, New Haven and London, 1977, pgs 217-250.

Lucas, F.L., Greek Tragedy and Comedy, “Oedipus the King”, The Viking Press, New York, 1967, pp. 168-208

Ricoeur, P., “Psychoanalysis and the Work of Art”, Essay 1 in Psychiatry and the Humanities Volume 1: Psychiatry, Art and Literature (de. Smith, Joseph), Yale Univesity Press, New Haven and London, 1977, pp. 3-33

———– Freud and Philosophy, New Haven and London, Yale University Press, 1970. Translated by Denis Savage.

———- Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,

“The question of proof in Freud’s Psychoanalytic writings” pp. 247-273.

Sophocles, Oedipus Tyrannus, Translated and edited by Luci Berkowitz and Theodore Brunner, Norton and Company, New York, 1970. Particularly “Thalia Phillies Feldman “Taboo and Neurotic Guilt in the Oedipus Theme” pp. 59-69.

Vernat, J.P. and Vidal-Naquet P., “Preface”, Chapter 3: “Intimations of the Will in Greek Tragedy”, Chapter 4:“Oedipus without the complex”, in Tragedy and Myth in Ancient Greece, Harvester Press, Sussex, n.d., pp. 28-86.

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