Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘reflection’

 

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.

IMPORTANT: All posts, pages, art and written work found in this blog are licensed through Creative Commons:

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

Read Full Post »

 

 

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.

Read Full Post »

In order to try to better understand the different ways in which the moral virtues are exhibited and understood, on the one hand, by the person pursuing the theoretical life, and on the other, by the one who seeks the practical life, I propose to briefly look at the specific moral virtue of courage as understood by Aristotle.

A) Practical Courage and Its Complexities

In a lengthy section of Book III, Aristotle lays out his basic tenets regarding courage. The courageous, in order to truly exhibit her virtue, must know what she is doing, choose it for its own sake, and do so from a fixed and permanent disposition (1105b33). Moreover, her choosing involves aiming at the mean lying between rashness and cowardice as determined rationally by the prudent man (1107a1).

Practically speaking, the truly courageous are those who face the greatest terrors that humans can face, those of the battlefield where the dangers are “greatest and most glorious” (1115a30). City-states honour their dead; presumably then we would expect Aristotle to base the choosing of courageous actions as the means to the, more important, survival of the community by safeguarding the conditions for the common good. But Aristotle wants instead to investigate the viability of choosing the moral life for ITS own sake, not for anything external to it (only later to be considered under the banner of justice). This is the reason why for Aristotle civic courage, though the most akin to moral courage, is not quite it. The civically courageous yearns to receive something in return for what she knows involves the greatest of self-sacrifices, death. What moves her to act is truly something outside the action itself, namely the honour bestowed on those who are remembered as martyrs of the community. Now, if the greatest courage involves death in the battlefield, and such actions cannot be grounded on one’s own love of one’s country, then one is puzzled and led to ask, what precisely is the courageous rationally choosing, in choosing to die for its own sake?

According to Aristotle, having negatively characterized what courage is not, it should not be difficult to grasp what courage actually is (1117b22). But, if our target is that of happiness, at the core of which lie the moral virtues in a complete life (1101a16), and which is pleasant in itself because virtuous actions are pleasant in themselves (1199a14), it looks as though courage as virtue stands quite at odds with such a goal.

Aristotle tells us that the pleasurable in courage lies in the end obtained, just as boxers who receive punches, but in the end gain glory (if they win). So, and if the analogy holds, the courageous human will endure death and wounds “because it is a fine thing OR because it is a disgrace not to” (1117b8). (The ‘or’ revealing the tension between choosing it for its own sake, or for something else).

In the case of the happy human the conflict reaches its peak for his life is pleasurable and supremely worth living; “he will be distressed at the thought of death” (1117b10). However, as morally virtuous, she will choose, and more bravely than any other, to give up his life “because in preference to these blessings he chooses a gallant end in war” (1117b14)

B) Contemplation and courage

In Book X, *6, Aristotle reminds us that happiness involves activity chosen for its own sake; in it nothing is required beyond the exercise of the activity. (1176b9). Strikingly, it seems he still maintains that happiness consists in activities in accordance with virtue (1177a9, reminding us of 1098a16 in BK. I).

Chapter *7 therefore is quite illuminating in that it points to a reconsideration of the possibility of human happiness through the activity of contemplation; the “highest virtue” in us corresponding to the best in us (1177a12). Not only is this activity the most continuous, the most perfect and self-sufficient, one seeking no end beyond itself, but that which is most akin to the divine. The gods are the supremely happy beings, and we ought therefore to aim, not simply at living according to mortal thoughts, but instead, “so far as in us lies, to put on immortality” (1177b33).

Herein lies “the perfect happiness of man” (1177b33), not simply the secondary kind of “happiness” associated to the actions of the morally minded human. Politics and warfare (courage being as central virtue to both), lack the necessary leisure (1177b9) and are chosen for something external to themselves (1177b16). Moreover, all the virtues cataloged by the morally minded, are unworthy of the gods (1178b15), who instead are dearest to those engaging in the contemplative life (1179a28).

Given all this, in the case of a courage demanding situation, how will the contemplative human act? Will he run away leaving his friends and the city which is worthy of defending? Will he not seek to preserve himself instead?

Although the contemplative human is the most self-sufficient, he can practice contemplation by himself, Aristotle is quick to point out that “he does it better with the help of fellow-workers” (1177a33). Besides, like the moral human, the contemplative is in need of external necessities such as that of a healthy body (1178b31), and friends (1170b12). But in excess these can even become a hindrance (1178ba). Aristotle quotes both the man of practical affairs (Solon) and the man of wisdom (Anaxagoras) as agreeing on the  limited importance of such external accessories. The happy human might turn out to be “an oddity in most people’s eyes, because they judge from outward appearances” (1179a12). But how precisely would this human regard courageous action? Who could be such a courageous human?

Perhaps one ought to consider a being such as Socrates whose courage was displayed both in words and in deeds. He was courageous, not only in the battlefield, where particularly in retreat he shone like no other in the defense of his worth-while city and worth-while friends (Symp. 220 , Laches 181b), but also in the world of the struggle for articulation and clarification. The contemplative Socrates tries to get clearer on the nature of courage in the Platonic Laches. Although the dialogue seemingly ends in Socratic aporia, for he tells us “what I don’t advise is that we allow ourselves to remain in the same condition we are now” (201a), it carries the seeds to move beyond aporia in the very picture of Socrates. Socrates’ quest is one of self-understanding and courageous questioning of his and other’s way of life. Socrates will fight, but he will do so nowhere better than in the realm of understanding. Perhaps even deaths will follow and new re-births from a wise human who leads us “into giving an account of (our) present life-style and of the way (we have) spent it in the past” (187e). However, unlike Socrates, Aristotle, whose work so questions us while at the same time aiding us in clarifying our perplexities, did not choose the hemlock.

Read Full Post »

INTRODUCTION

 

 The very fact that Aristotle dedicates two complete books to the issue of friendship, coupled with the strategically important positioning of the discussion —–suspiciously close to the final considerations on the supreme value of the contemplative life and its relation to happiness—— immediately lets it known to the reader that she is entering what is both difficult and decisive territory. It is no small wonder, then, to see many questions flourishing as one pursues their reading: why are they situated in between two discussions of pleasure? Why are they broken down into two Books  separated by a seemingly untruthful “so much for our discussion of this topic” (1163b28)? Why did Aristotle not simply write one single Book, however long it might have turned out to be? Is he simply giving us a friendly break so that as listeners of his lectures we can digest all the information and gather our minds? Is there something to the fact that the discussion on friendship as expressed in the household and in the city is taken up in the first book? Is Aristotle pointing towards a form of friendship which somehow goes beyond all conventional links, just as natural right went beyond, or better, completed, its legal or conventional counterpart?

  These questions are indeed puzzling and difficult. But to begin to get clearer on some of them, however imperfectly and indirectly, I would like to center this essay on the difficult and sometimes obscure relation between the most perfect form of friendship, the noble variant, and the possibility of self-love. What exactly does Aristotle consider to be the characteristics of the former? Is the noble friend simply a selfless being intent of benefiting his friend over everything else? Is the self-lover identical to the happy human? Is Aristotle pointing towards a new form of self-love which goes beyond its conventional understanding?

  Although the issues I will explore in addressing some of these questions are still very undeveloped, in order to do so I propose to divide the essay into three sections. In the first I will begin by focusing on the three kinds of friendship as outlined in Book VIII; in particular by paying attention to the problematic relation between the inferior kinds based on utility and pleasure, and how still in the higher form these two elements seems to persist though perhaps modified to a great extent. In the second section I propose to look more closely at some of the aspects found in Book IX, particularly by looking at what kind of agent Aristotle has in mind when speaking of self-love, and contrasting her to the happy human being from which, if I understand the chapters involved correctly, she is quite distinct.. Finally, and all too briefly, I will take up some of the differences between Montaigne’s understanding  of friendship and Aristotle’s own position, particularly by centering on the death of one’s friends, and the consequent impossibility of attaining the fullest happiness achieveable by human beings.

   However, even before taking up the issue more closely, one must remind oneself continuously that Aristotle only once, in the whole of the Nicomachean Ethics (except of course for the very title itself),  refers to his friends. He does so early on in the complex discussion on the nature of the Good and the Platonic Forms. There he tells us: “yet, surely it would be thought better, or rather necessary (above all for philosophers) to refute, in defense of the truth, even views to which one is attached; since although both are dear, it is right to give preference to the truth” (1096a11-14). That among Aristotle’s friends one finds a Plato clearly sets quite a high standard on the nature of friendship, but that even in such a case there is something which goes beyond the allegiance to friends ——namely, a friendship of the truth—– is more telling indeed.

 

SECTION I: SOME ASPECTS ON NOBLE OR PERFECT FRIENDSHIP IN BOOK VIII.

 

  Having extensively praised the value of friendship as necessary to us humans even at the levels of the family and the political community, Aristotle proceeds to question the different views on what friendship has been taken to be (1155a32). In so doing once again Aristotle tries to clarify for us the internal workings of something we take to be central to our human self-understanding.

  Divergent answers have been given regarding the question “Who are friends?”, and in order to clarify where the possible nobility of friendship lies, Aristotle is led to ask among other things, whether there is one kind of friendship or several ones. Without even waiting for a reply Aristotle immediately tells us: ”those who think that there is only one, on the ground that it admits of degrees, have based their belief on insufficient evidence, because things that differ in species also admit of difference  in degree”. (1155b13ff) Now, if I understand this passage correctly, Aristotle seems to be arguing that there exist different kinds of friendship just as there are different kinds of fruits: apples, peaches, and even sour lemons. So it would be odd, for instance, to compare apples and oranges. But moreover, even within each distinct kind of friendship there seem to be varying degrees of perfection, so that some apples are more fully developed apples than others. And some lemons much more bitter than others.

  In order to begin to understand what these different species of friendship are, Aristotle asks us in chapter 2, to consider what is and how many are the objects of affection. Not everything is loved by us, Aristotle argues, but only the good, the pleasant and the useful (1155b16). Seemingly it is these three things which set us going, which somehow are sought as satisfying in different ways the needs we as humans have. However, Aristotle sets a sharp demarcatory line between the first two, the love of the good and the pleasant,  and the love of the useful. Only in the loving of the good and the pleasant do we aim at ends in themselves; in contrast, the love of the useful seems to involve a relation purely of a means towards an end. The latter, one could say, requires a relation of pure instrumentality. Now, given this sharp separation it seems not odd to ask: if all benefit is fundamentally the use of another to further one’s own good and pleasure, then, can there really be a truly selfless friend? Moreover, are not the good and the pleasurable, the things which are particularly “beneficial” to the soul, to the furtherance of its intellectual strength and emotional health?

  We know, having read on, that Aristotle will ground his three kinds of friendship upon these different objects of affection (which suspiciously do not include in them the beautiful), but instead of immediately listing these, Aristotle instead reminds us of something already asked before: do we humans love the Good simply/absolutely,  do we not love the good as somehow good for us? What would it mean to love the Good if loving it involved somehow transcending our bodily desiring nature, our human neediness? Would this not be a desire to end all desire, an objective which paradoxically ends human longing as we actually know it? Cautiously Aristotle answers our questions by telling us: “It seems that each individual loves what is good for himself; i.e. that while the good is absolutely lovable, it is the good of the individual that is lovable for the individual” (b24). The good, it seems, cannot be see independently of its being good for someone.

  (This discussion, of course, reminds one of the critique held against Plato’s conception of the Good. There, although Aristotle accepted the plausibility of the Platonic argument about whether it is not necessary to gain knowledge of the good  in order to attain the goods of practical life (1097a2-5), he criticized it primarily because in the realm of ethical and  practical affairs involving human conduct, one deals with particular individuals. So too the doctor centers his activity not so much on achieving health for human beings but rather the health “of a particular patient, because what he treats is the individual” (1097a12-14).)

   It looks as if  because the good is good for someone, Aristotle is led to remind us also that we humans do not in reality love what is good, but what appears  to us to be so (1155b24). This would seem to imply that our needy nature can at times go radically astray, missing the mark. This perhaps because many a time we may not be clear on ourselves, on what and why we desire what we do. Would not our friends, and our friendship to others, precisely allow us to clarify ourselves so as to get clarity on this appearance?

  However, be that as it may, it is only after having provided us with the tripartite division of the objects of affection, and reminded us of two earlier  central points, that Aristotle finally returns to his discussion of friendship (1155b27). We speak of friendship where we sensibly can expect some return of affection. As humans it seems as though friendship gives us something which inanimate objects (perhaps even the books we love) cannot provide. This is so because in the case of inanimate objects we cannot wish for the good of the object. In  contrast, it is characteristic of friendship, Aristotle tells us ‘they’ say —–it is not clear precisely who this ‘they’ are—– that we “ought to wish (our friend) good for his own sake” (1159b30). Friends are truly friends when such a wish becomes reciprocal and mutual affection sets in.

   But after having heard this one cannot but be puzzled. Did not Aristotle say just a few lines before that what the individual loves is precisely what is, or at least appears, good for himself? Is it possible then to simultaneously seek the good for ourselves while at the same time arguing that what we really do in seeking friends is actually to do the good for the other? Moreover, if the lovable objects upon which the different kinds of friendship will be based, involve not only the good but also the pleasant and the useful, then how precisely do we, for instance, ‘use’ our friends as means, while almost contradictorily at the same time claiming that when we do so we are actually seeking their good  and not ours? Will good friends not have to redefine the foundations of their mutual benefit? However, did Aristotle not say that the different forms of friendship were different in KIND, not in degree?

  Having quietly alluded to these puzzles Aristotle finally  gives us his famous tripartite division of the kinds of friendship.  The three forms correspond neatly to the three objects of affection: there is a friendship based on utility, another on pleasure, and the final, most perfect friendship, on goodness. All of these, Aristotle claims, are characterized by involving not only mutual affection known to both parties, but also a wishing “for each other’s good in respect of the quality for which they love (each other)” (1156a7). Bewildered we are led to ask once again, does Aristotle seriously entertain the idea that when we enter into relationships of utility we are actually doing a good to the other? This is particularly problematic in view of the fact that Aristotle points out, when we desire the good of the other in terms of utility or pleasure, we are primarily motivated by our own good, not that of our friend: “these friendships (being)  accidental, because the person loved is not loved on the ground of his actual nature, but merely as providing some benefit or pleasure” (1156a17-8). Now, if this is true, then how do good humans ever end up feeling a need for the other?

  Having said this Aristotle now proceeds to characterize each friendship. The friendship of utility is of an impermanent nature and found primarily among the elderly and middle aged, specifically those centered on seeking their own advantage. This allusion to the elderly, who are continuously regarded as difficult to be friends with and even linked to the sour (1158a5),  reminds the reader of Cephalus’ concern for money in the beginning of the Republic. No wonder then that, as the Book progresses, we will be told that it is these relationships which for the most part “give rise to complaints because since each associates with each other for his own benefit, they are always wanting the better of the bargain, and thinking that they have less than they should, and grumbling because they do not get as much as they want, although they deserve it” (1162b17ff) (see also 1157a14).

 Friendships based on pleasure, in contrast to the utilitarian ones, are characteristic of the young of whom, from the start of the book, we are told tend to follow their feelings (1095a4ff). Although this might sometimes lead them astray, this too makes them much more capable of having a more generous nature (1158a22). In this they differ from the instrumentalist. However, they share with them the fact that their friendships are anything but long lasting: their erotic impermanence proves ground even for some Aristotelian humour: “that is why they fall in and out of friendship quickly, changing their attitude often within the same day” (1156b3-4). What kind of friendship would prove both much more permanent and agreeable?

  It looks as though to find such characteristics we have to turn to the third form of friendship, the one founded on the goodness of both (or more) parties. At first we are told that this friendship stands in stark contrast to what we have been told about the other two. It seems as though only until now do we come up with a real selfless mutual regard. It is the friendship “of those who are good and similar in their goodness” (1156b5) who alone are capable of wishing their friends good for what they are essentially, and not simply accidentally (1156b9).

   However, as the discussion moves on Aristotle proceeds to make a very puzzling remark, one which seems to run counter to what was argued before. According to him at this level “also each party is good both absolutely and for his friend since the good are both good absolutely and USEFUL to each other. Similarly they PLEASE one another too; for the good are pleasing both absolutely and to each other” (1156b13-16).  (see also 1157a1-3) Saying this seems to imply that the three forms of friendship are then not really like different fruits, but rather like one fruit capable of perfection in all its constituent elements. Does this not come closer to the way we perceive friendship? If so, would this not allow us to better comprehend how it is that the good humans, which are desiring beings like all of us, by somehow transforming what they take to be pleasurable and useful, nonetheless see in the pleasurable and the beneficial the starting ground for the full-fledged formation of mutual goodwill?

   Aristotle explicitly stresses the fact that even at this level both parties receive a benefit (11565b9). And moreover each provides the other, through his healthy outlook and flourishing nature, the possibility of pleasure: for “everyone is pleased with his own conduct and conduct that resembles it” (1156b17). And this is much more so of those who are good. However, if this is so why does the good friend not simply turn out to be a mirror of self-satisfaction, rather than a window for self-comprehension and that of the world? What if this mirror, as we shall see in Book IX, ends up being somewhat stained?

  Of course Aristotle goes on to tell us that such relationships are extremely rare among us humans, not only because these friends need intimacy and time to know each other —— Aristotle uses the example of eating salt together which seems to portray the idea not of happiness but rather of making it together “through tough times”—— but also because of the fact that these good men only become friends once they have proven, and know each other is worthy of their love (1156b23-29). But if this is true, how is it possible then for some good humans to actually be deluded, thus falling into utility or pleasure based friendships? (1157a15).

  It seems then that the good humans are not blind to the pleasure and the benefits that accrue from engaging in conversation and spending time  with each other. But what they seem to find pleasurable and beneficial seems to be radically different from what is normally taken to be so. Perhaps part of the answer starts to develop in Chapter 5 where Aristotle reminds us that friendship involves not only a state and a feeling, but primarily an activity. Likewise it seems as though it is not a chance affair  that,  here for the first time in the whole discussion of friendship, Aristotle mentions the happy human being. We are told that nothing is so characteristic of friends as spending time together because they are agreeable to each other. And in an oddly situated parenthetical remark we are told “those who are in need are anxious for help, and even the supremely happy are eager for company, for they above all are the least suited by a solitary existence” (1157b20-20).

  Happiness comes back onto the stage, but it does very indirectly, silently. Happiness too, we were told in Book I involved activity, it was precisely the end of all actions. (1097b19-21) Perhaps only later on will it become clearer what this activity, in the case of friends, might involve. However, we are reminded too that friendship involves a state, a permanent disposition from which good choice emerges in accordance to moral virtue. Particularly in the highest form of friendship, the good friends choose each other, and choice we know “is either appetitive intellect or intellectual appetition” (1139b3-4). When choosing a friend then desire has a say, and this Aristotle clearly argues as we read on: “for when a good man becomes a friend to another he becomes that other’s good; so each loves his own good, and repays what he receives by wishing the good of the other and giving him pleasure” (1157b30-31). In the case of the happy human too that pleasure is central, for she would not even pursue the Good “if (s)he found it unpleasant” (1158a24).

   Now,  also in the case of the happy human being the paradox we alluded to in friendship, seems to recur. The friends of the happy human seemingly are not Gods, for Aristotle tells us friendship with the gods is impossible because between us and them there lies too great a gulf (1159a6). This is why it seems that in the case of the happy human, if she acts for the sake of the good of the friend, he must wish for his friend to remain human: “so if we were right in saying that a friend wishes his friend’s good for his friend’s sake the latter must remain as he is, whatever that may be. So his friend will wish for him the greatest goods possible for a human being. And presumably not all of these; because it is for himself that everyone most of all wishes what is good” (1159a 10-12). Now this seems unproblematic except for the fact that in Book X we will be told something quite striking, true happiness lies in contemplation and this kind of life involves a move beyond the merely human “for any man who lives it will do so not as a human being but in virtue of something divine within him .. and we ought not to listen to those who warn us ‘man should not think the thoughts of man’” (1177b26 and 31-32). The happy human too seems to be caught in the tension between seeking his own good, and at the same time, seeking the good of his friends. However one is led to ask, is the divine self-sufficiency towards which the happiest and healthiest of humans strive, comprehensible to us in our human terms which precisely involve needy friends? Will Book IX, in which the problematic relation between friendship, self-love and happiness is discussed allow us to, however faintly, get clearer on these questions?

 

SECTION II: SOME TENTATIVE ASPECTS OF  THE IDEAS OF SELF-LOVE  AND HAPPINESS IN BOOK IX

 

 Aristotle resumes his discussion of friendship in Book IX by placing particular emphasis on the motives that underpin the mutual affection between friends. Again he reminds us once more that the highest form of friendship, that founded on character, is reeally disinterested (1164a13). This is an assertion which would seem to take us back to the paradox to which we alluded in the previous section. However, already in chapter 1 new information is given to us. In speaking of the relationship between what is due to a benefactor Aristotle suddenly, out of the blue, mentions philosophy. An activity which in its very name alludes to a kind of friendship, a friendship of wisdom; the useless activity in which Anaxagoras and Thales were engaged (1141a5). In contrast to the Sophists who require a pay back in monetary terms for their services, the benefits accrued by philosophy involve a strikingly unique payless payback: “presumably it is enough if (as in the case of the gods or one’s parents) the beneficiary makes such a return as lies in his power” (1164a5). Perhaps the highest possible form of friendship between humans is founded on such a perception of mutual benefit. But, according to Aristotle this view is inconceivable for most who tend to see the relation between beneficiary and benefactor as analogous to the relationship between a creditor and a debtor. They do so because they are looking at things from the “dark side”, something which Aristotle tells us “is not inconsistent with human nature, because most people have short memories and are anxious to be well treated than to treat others well” (1167b26). Generosity seems not to be the order of the day amongst most.

  To this sudden unexpected appearance Aristotle adds in chapter 2 a reminder about the methodological difficulties involved in dealing with practical affairs. In considering the actual complexities of the problems involved in our friendships —–in particular our conflicting allegiances, our friends, the household, the city—– Aristotle reminds us that “it is perhaps no easy matter to lay down exact lines in such cases, because they involve a great many differences of every kind” (1164b27-8) (see also 1165a12). One is led to ask, why does Aristotle wait until this point to remind us of this? Why not mention it at the beginning of Book VIII with its contradictory assertions? Is Aristotle letting us know here that the classificatory divisions set in place are somehow in Book IX more closely tied to actual practical conflicts such as the grounds for dissolving friendship?

  It is by focusing on the latter that it becomes clear that the clear cut divisions and assertions found in Book VIII, are revisited and enriched. Take for instance the, perhaps all too frequent, cases of deception and self-deception among friends. Even though previously we have been told that friendship among the good makes  slander an impossibility (1157a21), it seems as though sometimes things can, and do go wrong. This is particularly so when “when the basis of their friendship is not what (friends) suppose to be” (1165b6). This is puzzling, particularly in the case of good friends, whom we were told only become friends precisely after they know that each other is worthy of their affection. How then does it happen that sometimes they can be deceived by the other so that in such case it is correct to protest  “even more than if it had been a case of uttering false coin, since the offense concerns something more valuable than money” ? (1165b11).

  We would expect Aristotle to somehow tell us that in such cases the good must somehow run for cover and protect his own good. However, astonishing as it might seem, Aristotle tells us that even if the other turns out to be, or even appear like a villain (one here is somewhat confused and is led to ask, what does ‘appearing like a villain’ mean?),  the good friend ought to stay and, as far as possible, help out. This is of course not in cases of utter depravity (but how would a good man ever end up with an utterly depraved one?), but in those cases where a transformation of the situation is possible: “those who are capable of recovery are entitled to our help for their characters even more than for their fortunes, inasmuch as the character is a higher thing and more closely bound up with friendship” (1165b18-20). Here, one could think  of a friend of ours who due to difficult circumstances has sought, or had sought, refuge in drinking or worse. It seems as though sometimes friendships do involve sacrifices, but in  surpassing them there lies too the strongest of goodwills possible. (Perhaps we know this because we have found ourselves in difficult times, and yet have not failed to remain our own best friends).

 Perhaps then, by looking at the feelings we have towards ourselves, we might understand why it is that it is possible both to seek our own good while at the same time that of our friends. In chapter 4 Aristotle claims that not only the feelings we have towards our neighbors, but also the characteristics of the different kinds of friendship, SEEM to be derived from our feelings to ourselves (1166a1-3). He then proceeds to do three things: i) to tell us how it is people define friends (1166a3ff), ii) to tell us how the morally good man defines himself (a11ff), and finally, iii) to tell us, not exactly how the bad human defines himself, but how the good man, as standard, sheds light on the torn nature of the bad humans; who, besides, according to Aristotle are the majority (1166b2).

  Will we finally arrive at an easing of the tension between the seeking for our good and that of our friend. It does not seem so. This is so for if one looks at the lists characterizing the definition of a friend and that of the feelings we hold towards ourselves, not only do they vary in order and are actually transformed as Aristotle goes through them, but more importantly, seem to  stand in outright conflict at times.

  The first and most obvious tension is that to which we have alluded throughout: while we define a good friend as one who first of all wishes to effect the good or apparent good for us, the healthy feelings towards ourselves involve seeking the good for us, not for another. But, another more striking tension seems to come to light when we realize that a good friend is he who wishes the existence and preservation of his friend for his friend’s sake. Now, in the case of our friendly feelings towards ourselves we desire not only our preservation and safety, but Aristotle goes on to say, the preservation of the highest part in us. What to do then in the case of life-threatening situations in which the life of our friend and ours is at stake? Precisely in such extreme situations the tension between our preservation and our friend’s comes to light. However that may turn out to be, after looking at the different characteristics, Aristotle concludes that self-love “it would seem from what we have said ….. IS possible” (1166b1-2).                                           

   But, exactly what is involved in this self-love which leads to goodwill towards our friend? As we have seen it seems to imply a reconsideration of what is to be understood as beneficial between the strongest and healthiest human beings. And not only that, but a reconsideration of what is beneficial to ourselves, that is to say, in what self-love lies. According to Aristotle “the author of a kindness feels affection and love for the recipient even if he neither is nor is likely to be of any use to him”. The theme of disinterest comes to the surface once again. This time it is exemplified most clearly in the works of the poets who regard their creations even as their children (1168a1). Aristotle allows us to see what is going on in the creative activity of the poets. A poet’s creations provide the artist no other benefit than that of a self-clarification which never ends, but is a continuous process founded on a rare and strong openness, few have, towards the world and themselves. Just as in the case of the poets the benefactor loves his handiwork better than work loves the maker. As to why this is so is explained in a complex way, one which prefigures the discussion of the need for friends of the happy human: “The reason for this is that existence is to everyone the object of choice and love, and we exist through activity (because we exist by living and acting); and the maker of the work exists, in a sense, through his activity… the maker loves his work, because he loves existence. This is a natural principle for the work reveals in actuality what is only potentially” (1168a4ff). Benevolence allow friends to mutually make themselves into beings who delight in their seeing what is potentially in them flourish in different forms. However both in the case of poets and benefactors somoething is lacking; neither of them is “loved” back by their work, which is precisely what we somehow expect from our friends.

  Presumably if we look at the issue of self-love we will start to move beyond this paradox. In chapter 8, where the discussion of self-love finds its climatic formulation, Aristotle mentions two conflicting views. The first view of self-love seems to involve a two-sided coin. Under this view people believe that the self-lovers are truly bad men whose chief concern is only with their selfish motives. And simultaneously, on the other side of the coin, these same people view the good man as the complete opposite, namely the purely self-less individual who acting from fine motive does everything “for sake of his friend and neglects his own interest”  (111168b2). As regards this two-sided camp founded on the view “that a man should love his best friend most”, Aristotle is quick to tell us that it is not surprisingly, not borne by the facts (b3-4).

  To this position, I think,  Aristotle counters another starting at  (b4) with the following words “But a man’s best friend is the one who not only wishes him well but wishes it for his own sake (even though nobody will ever know it); and this condition is best fulfilled by his attitude towards himself” (1168b5). Unlike the previous camp built on absolute self-sacrifice, and perhaps getting something in return for it, this new camp is seemingly not so interested in what others might think. It is primarily concerned on what the person thinks about himself for  “a man’s best friend is himself” (1168b9). These two broad camps inevitably stand in conflict with each other, and Aristotle is quick to point this out: “naturally it is hard to say which of these opinions one should follow since each has some plausibility” (1168b10).

  In order to clarify what underlies each camp, Aristotle tells us that we ought to get clearer on the different ways that people view self-love. One way, which is that of the first camp, is to link it to the irrational cravings of humans seeking more than their share in goods such as money, public honours and bodily pleasures: “because most people have a craving for these, and set their hearts on them as the greatest goods, which makes them objects of fiercest competition” (1168b18ff). Immediately after having mentioned this first side of the coin, Aristotle points out that on the other hand the person performing just (which implies acting for the sake of the good of another) or temperate acts and in general acting honourably (which seems to involve a desire for public recognition), of this exceptional kind of person, “certainly nobody would reproach him for being a self-lover”. (1168b27).

  It seems to me that Aristotle is here still taking us for a voyage in the geography of the first camp, the one in which selflessness is the basis of true self-love. This person “might be considered to have a better title to the name” (1168b28). Why so? This is so because just as was argued in the feelings towards oneself he wishes what is good on account of the intellectual part in him (1166a18) and  this human being assigns himself what is most honourable and most truly good (1168b32). Moreover, this human acts voluntarily through reasoned acts so that in comparison to the self-lovers who incur reproach he is “far superior … as life ruled by reason is to life ruled by feeling, and as desire for what is fine is to desire for an apparent advantage” (1169ba7)

  It seems then that we have found the true self-lover, who in loving himself actually does the good thing for his friend. However, is the self-lover Aristotle speaking of here really that selfless, benefiting the other without himself seeking some kind of return? Would this human act as he does even if ‘nobody will ever know it’? Or does this human really bring to an end the paradox of friendship alluded to in section I, as Aristotle seems to argue “and if everyone were striving for what is fine, and trying his hardest to do the finest deeds, then both the public welfare would be truly served, and each individual would enjoy the greatest goods, since virtue is of this kind” (111169a12).

 It seems as though we have reason to be rather optimistic. However, this optimism seems to collapse once Aristotle tells us a little more about the kind of actions in which this selfless self-lover is engaged. According to Aristotle this morally good man, presumably engaged in moral and noble friendships, “performs many actions for the sake of his friends and his country, and if necessary even dies for them. For he will sacrifice both money and honours and in general the goods that people struggle to obtain, in his pursuit of what is morally fine” (1169a19). The most noble of friends seems to desire even death before upsetting the recognition of others. This becomes more evident yet if one looks closely at the actions in which this self-lover is involved. In reality, if I understand it correctly, his disinterest seems to hide a craving for something more, some kind of payback for his activities. This would seem to account for the fact that this human would rather have intense pleasure for a short period of time rather than quiet pleasure for a long period of time, live finely one year rather than indifferently many and, more strikingly yet, do one glorious deed rather than many petty ones. 1169a23-5). Do this actions not evidently involve something beyond pure  selflessness, so that even the most selfless act is done out of a need for public recognition: “this result is presumably achieved by those who give their lives for others; so their choice is a glorious prize”? (1169a25).

  Somehow these words ring a bell. They stand, I believe, as a striking reference to the portrait of the magnanimous or high-spirited human “who does not take petty risks, nor does he court danger, because there are few things that he values highly; but he takes great risks, and when he faces danger he is unsparing of his life, because to him there are circumstances in which it is not worth living” (1124b6). The magnanimous human in his actions clearly disrupts two of the fundamental factors involved in the possibility of achieving human happiness: first, the fact that  happiness involves a complete life time (1100b20 and 1098a20), and second, the fact that the happy human is, of humans, the most self-sufficient (1097b21). Moreover this form of self-lover, who is ready to give up his life for recognition, clearly is tied to an inferior view of courage namely, that of civic courage which, though the closest to real courage, is not courage precisely because of its linkage to public recognition (1116a28). It is worth recalling too the few words dedicated to the happy human in that specific discussion, the happier he is “the more he will be distressed at the thought of death. For to such a man life is supremely worth living; and he is loosing one of his greatest blessings and he knows it and this is a grievous thing” (11711ff). Happiness seems to require a new view of what self-love is all about.

  In this sense it is really illuminating to find that the chapter which follows the discussion of  self-love (which I take has really moved only in the field of the first camp), deals directly with the happy human and the question as to whether she needs friends or not. Why introduce this question precisely here? Does Aristotle intend us to consider what a new conception of self-love with a view to happiness would require? What would be the “needs” of this most complete human type?

  As was the case with the discussion on self-love, also here Aristotle finds two conflicting camps. According to the first, the happy human needs no friends for she is wholly self-sufficient, needing nothing further to complete his existence (1169b7). To this position Aristotle immediately counterargues that this position seems quite odd for it is strange not only not to assign the happy human friends, who are the ‘greatest of external goods” and allow her to confer benefits upon them, but also  because it is paradoxical to have the happiest human living in solitude while humans are characterized by being social creatures. These two “arguments” thus point to the need for the happy human to have friends. (1169b23).

  Having said this, Aristotle goes on to look more carefully at the first camp: “what then, is the meaning of those who uphold the first view, and what truth is there in their argument?” (1169b23). The idea that the happy human needs no friends stems from the erroneous popular conception of friendship conceived solely in terms of utility or pleasure. (1169b26-28). Of the first, the happy human has no need, of the second “only to a limited extent”. It is because of this that the happy human is thought not to need friends, “but this is presumably not true” (1169b29)

   The happy human seems to need friends, but friends of a particular nature. In him the need for another seems to have been so transformed that a new kind of benevolence shines forth. But how exactly is this so?  It seems that some of it has to do with a process towards our self-formation. In trying to make it clearer for us Aristotle returns to the very beginnings of the Nicomachean Ethics.   

  Although the arguments put forward by Aristotle are extremely complex and difficult to follow, I will try to understand in what general direction they are moving. Happiness, Aristotle told us way back, (1098a7, 16, b31) is a kind of activity. Now, if friendship brings about the possibility not of extreme self-sacrifice, but of mutual enrichment then it too involves a kind of activity. Both friendship and happiness then involve not a possessing of something already given, but more precisely a task and a work which must be given time to grow its fruits and reproduce them both in oneself and in others. Happiness, Aristotle tells us, consists  in living and being active, but not just living for the sake of preserving life; more importantly living so as to bring to light those activities which stand as highest possibilities for us human beings. Now, among the multiple and concentrated arguments put forward by Aristotle in what is a weird rush, he alludes to the value of a friend as guarantor against the possibility of self-deception: as Aristotle puts it in an important conditional statement, “if we are better able to observe our neighbors than ourselves, and their actions than our own” (1169b33-4). Presumably we do not only delight in sharing in the birth and rebirth of another human being intent on exploring his capacities, but we do so primarily because we too, to an extent have sworn allegiance to this never ending process of change. As Aristotle puts it, in order to fully enjoy life, the happy human needs others for it is difficult to “keep up continuous activity by oneself” (1170a6). Friends stand as references and guides towards mutual goals.

   Finally, and in order to defend the view that happy humans do need friends, Aristotle provides his reader with a set of very complex and scientific arguments. (Only twice has Aristotle used scientific arguments previously: in his critique of Plato, and in his reference to Socrates’ doctrine concerning the impossibility of weakness of the will). In what is a tidal wave of intricately interconnected arguments, I would like to signal some in particular. First of all one finds in them a position which stands in stark contrast to the attitude of the self-lover of chapter 8. Here in contrast we are reminded that for the happy human “Life is in itself good and pleasant (as appears from the fact that it is sought after by all, especially by those who are virtuous and truly happy, because their life is in the highest degree desirable and their existence the truest felicity” (1170a26). Second, and in contrast to the exclusive reference to the  rational part which the self-lover gratifies (1168b34), here in contrast the highest involves much more than this: “hence it appears that to live is primarily to perceive or to think” (1170a17) and furhter down “to be conscious that we are perceiving or thinking is to be conscious of our existence” (1170a33). Third, we are reminded that this capacity for perceiving or thinking is a “capacity relative to its activity, and its realization is dependent upon the activity” (1170a17); in other words, it is a determinate activity, one in which a potentiality is capable of  being actualized. But how, more precisely, can such activity be brought to the fore in all its strength?

  As a conclusion to his long and complicated scientific argument, Aristotle points out:

            If all this is true, it follows that for a given person the existence of his friend is desirable, or almost as desirable as his own.. But as we saw, what makes      existence desirable is the consciousness of one’s own goodness and such      consciousness is pleasant in itself. So a person ought to be conscious of his             friend’s existence, and this can be achieved by living together and conversing            and exchanging ideas with him — for this would seem to be what living    together means in the case of human beings; not being pastured like cattle in             the same field (1170b5-13).

 

The happy human’s type of self-love is primary, and from it flows his goodwill towards others whose existence is “almost as desirable as his own”. But though clearly of the most self-sufficient kind, this human nevertheless knows quite well of a strong bondage which becomes redirected with another’s presence towards higher pleasures and benefits. This  is why although Aristotle, unlike Plato is puzzingly silent about erotic love, he nevertheless sees in its passionate force something akin, though distinct from the strongest friends. (for the strength of the desire as compared to that of lovers see 1171a8ff and 1171b30).

   These happy human beings realize that the consciousness they aim at is not itself a given, but must “be actualized in their life together” (1172a1). All humans know of this desire to share in the occupations and activities which “constitute… (their) existence or makes life worth living”. Some, Aristotle goes on to tell us, seek each other simply to drink, other to play dice, yet others to engage in athletic competitions. But some see in the philosophical way of life that which provides them with the highest satisfaction (1172a5). As contrasted to the friendship of what Aristotle considers to be the “worthless”:

            the friendship of the good is good, and increases in goodness because of their         association. They seem even to become better men by exercising their      friendship and improving each other; for the traits that they admire in each       other get transferred to themselves. Hence the saying: From good men goodness     (11728-13).

 

Engaged in the mutually enriching activity of good happy humans, these friends together,, but without having become one, come slowly to perceive and act on that terrain within which goodness is nourished and flourishes by some for us to try to emulate.

 

 

 

SECTION III: MONTAIGNE’S VIEWS ON FRIENDSHIP IN LIGHT OF ARISTOTLE’S   

 

  To conclude this already too extensive essay, in this final section I would like, briefly and very sketchily, to hint at some of the striking differences one finds between Montainge’s views on friendship and the one’s already addressed in Aristotle.  However, rather than being a fully developed section, I take this final words to be more like an incomplete appendix which, perhaps later on, might be delineated and completed much more fully. In trying to make sense of the differences between both authors I propose to follow a numerical ordering. Of course the different themes  interact in deep ways, but for the sake of clarity such ennumaration may end up proving helpful.

   But before looking at Montaigne himself one can always remember Freud’s own words, found in Civilization and its Discontents, regarding the search for human happiness through a life centered on a strong bondage between lovers. For him “the weak side of this tehnique is that we are never so defenceless agaisnt suffering as when we love, never so helpelessly unhappy as when we have lost our loved object or its love“ (Penguin, 270). Words which seem to fit quite perfectly the whole underlying position of Montaigne.

  Now, some of the striking differences that one finds between the Greek and  French thinkers are:

 

1) Montaigne begins his essay by attempting to imitate  a painter who fills a wall with grotesque and fantastic pictures “having no other charm than their variety and strangeness” (161). He himself perceives his own works  as “grotesque bodies, pieced together of sundry members, without definite shape, having neither order, coherence or proportion, except by accident” (161). This imitation, not of nature, but of the grotesque, stands in outright conflict with the whole Aristotlian position which sees in nature a teleological ordering of which we form a part, and without which the highest form of happiness seems inconceivable.

 

2) Montaigne throughout his essay frequently refers to, either the intervention of chance or god’s will, in his attempt to comprehend how incredible it seems to him that a person such as de la Boétie somehow came to be part of his life. As he puts it: “preparing the way for that friendship which we cherished, so long as it was God’s will, with such entirety and such perfection …. It needs so many concurring factors to build it up that it is much if fortune attains to it in three centuries” (162) (or elsewhere: “I know not what inexplicable and fated power that brought this union …. I believe it was by some decree of heaven” (166)) However, according to Montaigne himself it is this God which has taken the friend away from him: “which I/ Shall ever hold, for so ye gods have willed/ sacred to grief and honour without end” (171) In contrast, as we saw, for Aristole, not only is there a gulf between us and the Gods (which are of a very different nature than Montainge’s), but likewise friendship involves choice, not simply an inarticulate fate.

 

3) Montainge’s emphasis on the type of bond which comes about among friends reflects a loss of self in which one even turns out to have the other in his power. This position cannot but remind one, to what occurs to Aristophanes’ half creatures permanently looking for their other halves in order to achieve true completion (though it is not by any means identical for Aristophanes speaks of erotic lovers; and ‘eros’ is strangely absent froom Aristotle’s account). As Montainge puts it: “in the friendship I speak of they mingle and unite one with the other in a blend so perfect that the seam which has joined them together is effaced, and can never be found again”  (166). (or elsewhere “It is I know not what quintessence of all this mixture which, having seized my whole soul, brought it to plunge and loose itself in his” (167); ”the complete fusion of wills” (168); “one soul in two bodies” (169)). This particular outlook seems to deny the view that, as we saw, for the happiest most self-sufficient human, the existence of his friend is “almost” as desirable as his own; ‘almost’, but not quite the same.

 

4) From Montaigne’s emphasis on a strong fussion between friends, follow demands which perhaps to others, who have not experienced such proximity, appear wholly irrational. As Montaigne puts it: “this answer carries no better sound than mine would do to one that should question to me in this fashion: “If your will should command you to kill your daughter, would you fdo it?. and I should answer that I would. For this carries no proof of consent to such act, because I have no doubt of my own will, and just as little of the will of such a friend. No action of his, what face soever it might bear, could be presented to me of which I could not instantly find the moving cause” (167). (and elsewhere: “should trust myself more willingly with him than with myself” (168)) For Aristotle it would seem odd that a friend would even make us entertain such thoughts. And as we know, Aristotle criticizes even friends of the caliber of Plato precisely because their outlooks might prove, in the realm of pratical life, to have diverse shortcomings. Likewise, Aristotle struggles as we saw above with the possibilities both of deception and self-deception among what amy appear to be even the noblest of friends.

 

5) Tied to the previous remarks, one finds a difference regarding the actual number of friends one can have. For Aristotle in the case of the happy human: “presumably there is no one correct number (of friends), but anything between certain limits” seems reasonable (1170b30). It is true that Aristotle does remind us that in friendships “the celebrated cases are reported as occurring between two” (1171a14). But his understanding of the helathiest friendships is not limited to two beings fused together by the power of a Hephaestus. In contrast, Montaigne tells us about his most perfect form of friendship: “(it) is indivisible; each one gives himself so entirely to his frriend that he has nothing left to distribute to others; on the contrary, he is sorry that he is not double, triple or quadruple, and that he has not several souls and several wills, to confer them all upon this ONE object” (169). Montaigne had one friend in his life, and now he has departed.

 

6) Yet another striking difference partially alluded to above, lies in the actual reference to particular individuals in the analysis. We know exactly who Montaigne is talking about, though we are not so clear as to the character of his friend. But this seems to be not a fundamental problem for him because he speaks only to those who have actually experienced such a mutual belonging:: “so I also, could wish to speak to such as have had experience of what I say. But knowing how remote a thing such a friendship is from common practice and how rarely it is found, I do not look to meet with any competent judge. For even the discourses of antiquity upon this subject seem to me flat in comparison with the feeling of it. And, in this particular, the facts surpass even the precepts of philosophy” (170). The attack on writings such as that of Aristotle seems to be  very poignant and clear. However, it is likewise true that Montaigne fails to see that in Plato something like what he speaks of can be seen not only in the confrontation between Alcibiades (and in a different sense Aristophanes) and Socrates in the Symposium, but also in the type of “symbolic” pederasty found in the beautiful Phaedrus.

 

7) And this brings us to another discrepancy between both writers. There seems to be in their view of friendship a struggle between poetry and philosophy. Montaigne finds in the poets the only words to express the force and strength of what he as needy human being feels. Thus he persistently quotes writers who have experienced what he, right now feels burdens his heart with an overwhelming weight: “Why should I linger on, with deadened sense/ and ever-aching heart/ a worthless fragment of a fallen shrine?/ No, no one day hath seen thy death and mine” (172). Now, this tragic overtones, though comprehensible to Aristotle, nevertheless are precisely what stand in the way of actual human self-sufficiency and the completeness required in order to pursue the contemplative life. Thus is speaking of whether we need friends in good or bad times, Aristotle tells us: “a man of resolute nature takes no care to involve his friends in his troubles ….; and in general does not give them a chance to lament with him, because he himself does not indulge in lamentation either” (1171b6ff).

 

8) The previous difference brings us to the last and most fundamental clash between both perspectives. Just as in Freud, for Montaigne it is painfully clear that the death of his friend has so marked his life that it is a blow from which he cannot nor sees how it is possible to recover. Life without him is a life of nebulosity in which all lights have been exhausted, and consequently all consciousness fades. If it were not because of the grace of God such condition would truly be unbearable:: “For in truth, if I compare the rest of my life, though with the grace of God it has passed sweetly and easily and, except for the loss of such a friend, free form any griveous affliction and in great tranquility of mind, seeing I was content with my natural and original advantages without seeking others, if I should compare it all, I say, with the four years that were granted to me to enjoy the sweet company and society of that man, it is nothing but smoke, nothing but a dark and irksome night” (171). Montaigne is now only half of what he once knew was possible, namely a oneness of unspeakable strength and beauty. In contrast to such a life devoid of happiness and concentrated on “tranquility”, Aristotle tells us, as part of the “scientific argument” to which we alluded at the end of our second section: “we must not take the case of a vicious life and corrupt life, or of one that is passed in suffering, because such a life is indeterminate, just as are the conditions that attach to it” (1170a22-4). The happy human is not content with what is given her, but seeks as far as possible to allow and foster, with the desirable presence of others, the growth of what as humans, and more than humans, we are capable of.

 

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

 

A) Primary Sources

 

Aristotle, The Ethics of Aristotle, Penguin Books, London, 1rst- 1953, 1988. Translated by J.A.K. Thomson.

 

Montaigne, Michel de, The Essays of Michel de Montaigne, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1934, Translated by Jacob Zeilin. Volume I, Essay 28,  pgs 161-173.

Read Full Post »

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)

 

Read Full Post »

INTRODUCTION

One of the main reasons why an understanding of the relationship between ‘natural right’ and ‘conventional right’ must be high in the hierarchy of activities we engage in, lies in that its consideration brings to light the difficult issues of relativity between, and criticality of, different political communities. The extremely compressed passage in which Aristotle takes up this relationship is full of difficult lines, lines which are themselves enlightened by sometimes perplexing examples. In it, one could say, Aristotle seems to move back and forth from one kind of right to the other; uncomfortably trying to delineate the space which lies between them.

The tension between both kinds of right leads to an array of difficult questions which come to light precisely out of the opposition in which they stand. On the one hand, if political justice is wholly conventional, one is necessarily led to ask; is it not then doomed to be variable to the extent that, what a given community considers to be just, is just as valid as what any other does? Will the question of justice not be reduced to a prior question, namely, ‘whose justice’ are we speaking of; justice becoming then a relative term? This is more problematic because if, as Aristotle holds, law shapes our very being, then, “stepping aside” to critically assess the regime which seeks to foster precisely its own outlook, seems a rather difficult, if not impossible, course of action. In other words, if one’s tradition determines to a large extent what one considers to be just, how is it possible for “us” to reach some kind of ‘objective’ standpoint from which our own and other conventional conceptions of right can be judged? Must tolerance be reduced to a passive acceptance of difference, independent of the ethical considerations and violations underlying such diversity?

On the other hand, if one holds onto a natural view of political justice, then although one can claim to be able to assess all conventional right by measuring it to a common ground, a standard to which all political communities have access in virtue of something common to all humans (e.g. rationality), still the position is not itself without difficulties. First of all that ‘common something’ seems contested by the different traditions themselves. But besides this, if all perspectives can be assessed by way of this standard, still, how to figure out and agree upon what is the fundamental nature of such standard is by all means not an easy task. Is it grounded on a transcendental ideal to which only few have access? Is it to be found in the natural order of things? Does it follow alone from divine revelation? Is it ultimately, particularly for us moderns, simply a matter of promoting and defending some group of basic inalienable human rights and duties (perhaps to be supplemented by different kinds of group differentiated rights for minorities)? Or, if it is indeed based on a distinctively human capacity such as reason, how is one to conceive of this rationality —- be it that of classical thought or that of the Enlightenment—— other than by acknowledging it as part of a specific tradition which has come to understand itself in such ‘rational’ terms? What guarantee do we have that when assessing other cultures by way of some form of natural right, we are not simply, though disguisedly, projecting the values of our own? Finally, what is the relationship between philosophy, born out of a particular tradition, and the search for this critical space in which the city, and all cities for that matter, come to be questioned? (*1)

The complexity and importance of the issue under consideration is well put by Strauss:

“If there is no standard higher than the ideal of our society, we are utterly unable to take a critical distance from that ideal. But the mere fact that we can raise the question of worth of the ideal of our society shows that there is something in man that is not altogether in slavery to his society, and therefore, that we are able and hence obliged to look for a standard with reference to which we can judge the ideals of our society as well as any society” (NRH, 3) (*2)

To question is part of our nature, but indeed it would be rather absurd to try to answer all these mind-boggling puzzles in a short essay like this. Nevertheless they stand as avenues that can be pursued, some of which we will begin to pursue here only tentatively. But before proceeding, I would like to make two cautionary remarks. The first deals with the idea that whatever conception of natural right is ultimately available to us moderns, its grounding cannot proceed from the imitation of a given hierarchical ordering of a purposeful universe which we admire in its beauty and inherent goodness; an external teleological reality which, by shaping ourselves according to it, allows our own human beauty and goodness to flourish. Nature for us moderns is not a mirror we model ourselves upon. As Charles Taylor puts it with respect to the creative imagination found in art’s capacity to transfigure reality:

“it becomes possible for us to see a crisis of affirmation as something we have to meet through a transfiguration of our vision, rather than simply through a recognition of some objective standard of goodness. The recovery may have to take the form of a transfiguration of our stance towards the word and the self, rather than simply the registering of external reality” (SotS, 448) (*3)

The second prefatory point is that, even though the search for such a ‘objective’ standpoint ——-which is somehow or other implied in the notion of natural right—– is of great importance in judging and differentiating unjust regimes, as well as individuals, from just ones, that this ‘natural’ standard can ultimately be found is another matter altogether:

“our aversion to fanatical obscurantism must not lead us to embrace natural right in a spirit of fanatical obscurantism. Let us beware of the danger of pursuing a Socratic goal with the means, and the temper of Thrasymachus. Certainly the seriousness of the need of natural right does not prove that the need can be satisfied” (Strauss, NRH, 6) (*4)

Having said this, and in order to get somewhat clearer on the relationship between conventional and natural right, I would like to divide the essay into two sections. In the first I will look at the difficult and compressed passage in the Nicomachean Ethics where Aristotle deals directly with the subject matter; chapter seven of the Book on Justice. There I will try to follow Aristotle’s own struggle with the issue by looking and trying to elucidate, as far as possible, the arguments and examples given to us readers. In the second section I will take up two of the most prominent interpretations of the passage; one by Saint Thomas Aquinas, the other by Marsilius of Padua. I will there try to, briefly and in outline, show that neither does justice in their reinterpretation to the complexities found in the first section where the text by Aristotle was considered. To conclude this section, I will likewise question some of the arguments put forward by Strauss in his search for a middle road between these conflicting interpretations.

SECTION I: ARISTOTLE AND THE MUTABILITY OF BOTH NATURAL AND CONVENTIONAL RIGHT IN POLITICAL JUSTICE.

Aristotle is the first to point out that when speaking of the just, one can do so in many ways. For instance one can consider, either general justice (1129b12 ff.), or a part of this general form, that is to say, particular justice and its distributive and corrective aspects. Some even speak of justice in terms solely of the relation of the parts of the soul and its health (1138b1 ff). Furthermore, one can speak of justice with reference to the different domains in which relationships between agents take place. In this sense political justice is not the same as the justice appropriate to the household; relations between citizens, for Aristotle, are not the same as those of inferior kind that hold between husband and wife, master and slave, and father and son (MM, 1194b5 ff.). (*5)

Besides, it is not just any social organization which meets Aristotle’s criteria for being considered political. This is why in the chapter immediately preceding the one dealing with the relationship between conventional and natural right, Aristotle points out the conditions for the politically just. It

“obtains between those who share a life for the satisfaction of their needs as persons free and equal … hence in the associations where these conditions are not present there is no political justice between members, but only a sort of approximation to justice” (1134a26-8)

This seems rather puzzling. We have not even begun to attempt to determine what natural right might be, and yet Aristotle has already set up a criteria for the consideration of the political, namely, equality and freedom between participants who share at the same time in being ruled and ruling (1134b16-19). Now, if political justice develops under these conditions, and if it is true that “if anyone wants to make a serious study of the fine and just things, or of political science generally, he must have been well trained in his habits” (1095b2-4), then truly few regimes will be able to carry out such an inquiry, namely those in which such equality and freedom already exists, in some sense or other. Presumably a tyranny could not then reflect on the politically just precisely because the conditions for its appearance are in it wholly lacking. But let us look closer then at this very specific type of justice, that is to say, political justice.

In the Magna Moralia, even though one finds the bipartite differentiation between the just things, on the one hand by nature, and on the other by convention, there what is considered to be politically just is reduced only to the realm of the conventional:

“so the just according to nature is better than the just according to convention, but what we are inquiring about is the politically just; and the politically just is that which is by convention, not that which is by nature” (MM, 1194a1-4)

It seems as though in that work Aristotle is skeptical of finding any such natural justice within the political. But this position is altogether different from what Aristotle himself holds in the corresponding passage of his Nicomachean Ethics.

The conflict between both is strikingly made evident from the very first line where we are told that the division between natural right and conventional right IS set, unlike the previous quotation, within the overall discussion of political justice (1134b18-19). Perhaps why this difference exists can be somewhat understood by looking at the passage more closely.

In it, Aristotle first defines natural right as “that which has everywhere the same power and does not depend on being opined or not”. The “naturalness” of natural right resides precisely in its being independent both of spatial and temporal differences —-it is in a sense transhistorical and transcultural——, and of the multiplicity of conflicting opinions held by different humans. Natural right is truly something unchanging, or so it would seem. Suspiciously, Aristotle here gives no example to elaborate upon.

Conventional right, in contrast, can be seen in three interrelated forms. First it refers to “that with regard to which in the beginning it makes no difference whether matters are this or that way, but once it is established one way or another it does make a difference”. An interpretation could be as follows. For instance, in the downfall of a regime or in its early periods of consolidation, some aspects of conventional right can go in many different possible ways. It is ‘up for grabs’, so to speak. But once it has been set down as law, it determines (to a large extent in a negative form) what is to be considered just and what unjust. And here, unlike the case of natural right, Aristotle aids us somewhat by providing some examples. These refer specifically to laws regarding some aspect or other of war, the ransom of prisoners, and of religion, the number and nature of animals to be sacrificed. (Would it be too exaggerated to read these then as portraying how relativity appears foremost and most dangerously in the realm of the defense of one’s community and in religious strife?) Perhaps another example of this type of conventional right could be the national symbols of different states. Colombia’s or Canada’s flag could presumably have been otherwise, but now that they have been set in place it does make a difference if someone were to attempt to modify them in one way or another. In the religious realm for instance one could say it makes a great difference if one is brought up as Catholic or as Muslim (*6).

As a second field of conventional right Aristotle points to legislation that takes place in particular cases; private laws which for instance require sacrifices for outstanding, honour-deserving individuals such as the sacrifices for Brasidas, a spartan general (Penguin, 371). Conventional law then seeks to put forward legislation which acknowledges the sacrifices of some distinguished people who, for the sake of the political community, have sacrificed themselves and therefore “ought to be given some reward, honour or dignity. It is those who are not satisfied with these rewards that develop into despots” (1134b6-8). A similar contemporary example of this type of ‘conventional right’ would be the changing of the name of a city street to remember a given person ——for instance, in Montreal, the ‘Rene Levesque Avenue’—– however this example is not closely linked to law itself. (*7)

Finally the third category is that of ‘things passed by vote’. Although it is not clear to me what Aristotle refers to, perhaps one could think of cases such as the referendum in Quebec. If it had gone through, matters would now stand a quite different light. Aquinas sees this category of conventional right as referring to the decrees of judges (1022). If this is the correct way to understand it then examples of these type of decisions can be seen in multicultural societies where different conventional understandings require the transformation of the positive laws already set in place. As Parekh puts it:

“In all these cases person’s cultural background made a difference to his or her treatment by the courts. The law was pluralized and departures from the norm of formal equality were made in different ways and guises, showing how to reconcile the apparently conflicting demands of uniformity and diversity” (Parekh, BCCD, 200)

Having given us a first look at the differentiation between natural and conventional right, Aristotle then proceeds to argue against those who believe that the politically just is only what is conventionally just; a position with which he himself sides, as we saw in the Magna Moralia. Aristotle continues his argument as follows: “but in the opinion of some, all things are such on the ground that what is by nature is unchangeable and has everywhere the same power, just as fire here and in Persia burns, but they see that the just things change”. Fire burns equally in Greece and in Persia, but what the Greeks and the Persians take to be ‘the just’, varies considerably. And furthermore, if what we said at the outset concerning the conditions of political justice is true, then Persia does not meet the conditions for speaking of political justice at all. This because of their not sharing in freedom and equality. Having chosen Persia in the example, therefore seems not to have been by luck.

Presumably Aristotle would go on to tell us, finally, just precisely how this standard, which natural right is, works. But to our disappointment this is precisely what Aristotle proceeds NOT do; or at least fully. Instead he tells us that all natural right is in fact just as changeable as conventional right. Or, he pauses, almost always, he says. That is, natural right seems unchangeable in reference to the gods, the celestial beings which for the Aristotle, as Aquinas reminds us (1026), are unchanging. But to our surprise once again the statement is qualified; even in divine matters the unchangeability of natural right is only ‘probably’ so. In this sense, as we shall see, Aristotle’s Gods do not fit well with Aquinas’. But leaving this question aside, for our purposes it is important to point to the changeability that Aristotle makes characteristic of natural right; the tranformability of that standard through which we aim somehow at ranking conventional understandings of the just. As Aristotle puts it, among us humans (*9): “while there is something by nature, it is ALL changeable and yet nevertheless there is that which is by nature and that which is not by nature”. The variability of natural right does not preclude its remaining to a degree invariable. The standard, if it exists at all, would then seem to resemble not an iron pole, but a more flexible structure such as that of a rubber band; capable of transforming itself without necessarily becoming something other that that which it is.

And while we stand rather perplexed by all of what has bee said, Aristotle, one feels almost jokingly, tells us that all this ought to be as clear as daylight: “now, which is by nature of the things that can be otherwise and which is not, but is instead conventional and by agreement, since both of them are equally changeable is CLEAR”. Well perhaps it is not. However, unlike the previous definition of natural right which excluded variability, this new qualified perspective is indeed, finally, followed by an example. But it is an extremely odd example, one which seems rather removed from the discussion of the politically just. It goes like this: “by nature the right is stronger though it is possible for everyone to become ambidextrous”. Few words which make one wonder what Aristotle is getting at.

Our first reaction could be to say; but look around you, there are many left handed people, for instance my brother –in–law, for whom the left hand is by nature the strongest. Is their left hand not ‘by nature’ the strongest? So Aristotle, what you are saying is not at all true (*10). Unfortunately our first objection seems made irrelevant if one looks at the corresponding example found in the Magna Moralia. There the same example is put forward, but with the notion of superiority left on the side: “yet nevertheless the left is such and such by nature, and the right is no less better than the left, even if we were to do everything with the left as with the right” (MM 1199b31-34). Aquinas understands this example as showing that natural right is valid in the majority of cases, but in some few cases it does not hold (1029); a position to which we shall return in the following section (*11). But perhaps there is another way to comprehend this flexibility of natural right, while having its kind of flexibility not partaking of the same type which characterizes that of the conventional.

One imaginative, perhaps too imaginative, way to do interpret the example, though this is not what Aristotle himself says, would be as follows. By nature most of us are indeed right handed, and some left handed. But being left handed or right handed takes no extraordinary effort on our part; we are so equipped by nature one way or the other. Aristotle himself has told us that we are equipped as humans in just the very same way not only as regards the different faculties of the soul, namely, the vegetative, the desiderative and the rational (1102b28ff), but likewise in the case of the potentiality to develop the moral virtues of which he says we are “constituted by nature to receive them” (1103a29). But although this is true under normal conditions, still few seek to modify what is given to us by nature, transforming it so that new, more complete organizations, can be achieved. Becoming ambidextrous, through a habitual practice involving throwing with the other hand (MM 1194b27), is just such a practice which changes what is, without making it something wholly different. In a similar way, the passage alluded to above, the one concerning the moral virtues, culminates by telling us that “their full development is due to habit”. Becoming virtuous transforms us in that, what we are potentially capacitated to do, reaches its utmost level of actualization. If one can imagine those who have indeed attempted to become ambidextrous, one can imagine the patience and personal commitment required in order to achieve that end which represents a flourishing towards higher natural completeness. And this end goes beyond utility and survival, though perhaps ambidextrous people will be more helpful under certain circumstances, for instance in the case of strikers in soccer who, because they can use both legs to hit the ball, can score more goals. This end involves, in a sense, a healthier realization, a completeness comparable to works of art (1106b9). It would be a little like becoming fully bilingual, not an easy matter, assuming that is that one learns the language not simply as a child. Unfortunately our imaginative analysis seems far removed from what Aristotle argues in the passage considered, for the passage as a whole focuses principally on political justice, not on individual health. (*12) But perhaps some regimes are healthier than others; some regimes fighting against all odds in order to become more readily ambidextrous.

Aristotle goes on to exemplify how, in contrast to the variability of the natural, so too the conventional has its own kind of variation. The conventional is now defined as that which “is by agreement and what is beneficial”. The appearance of the beneficial, which had not entered into the argument previously, seems to determine natural right contrastively as that which is not primarily concerned with utility, though it can incidentally be useful in different ways (as we saw in the case of the soccer striker). And once more, to clarify the issue, Aristotle gives us an obscure example regarding measures. A similar example, if I understand the issue correctly, would be that of the beneficial, and agreed to, use of human standards such as that of the metric system. We all agree what a 100 meters are, we sense it is beneficial to agree thus, particularly in Olympic races. However the conventional nature of this standard, the metric one, comes to the fore when compared to other systems like the US system and its use of feet. Unfortunately these examples do not refer to lawful arrangements and in this way would seem to differ somewhat from what Aristotle tells us. But if this example is not the best, Aristotle himself has provided us with one in the whole discussion of Justice, that of the use of money by communities. Even the name itself of money, nomisma reflects its conventionality: “this is why money is so called, because it exists not by nature but by custom, and it is in our power to change its value or render it useless” (1133a29-31).

The fact that Aristotle somehow senses that his own example concerning measures is far removed from political justice, surfaces in the line which continues his argumentation. Relativity and conventionality are present not simply in measurements, but principally in political regimes: “the just things that are not by nature but merely by humans are not the same everywhere, since the regimes are not”. It is precisely here where political justice seems to be destined to a relativity based upon the different views of what conventional right is, or might be. But this is not new to Aristotle. He has pointed to this difficulty from the very start of the Book on Justice, particularly in his consideration of justice in the general sense. There justice as the lawful, which aims at securing happiness for the members of the political community, was partly understood as follows:

“the laws prescribe for all departments of life aiming at the common advantage whether of all the citizens, or of the best of them, or of the ruling class, or on some other basis. So in a sense we call just anything that tends to produce or conserve the happiness (and constituents of happiness) of a political association (1129b16-21)

If law so varies from regime to regime, then it seems that the search for a natural right from which to critically assess the different interpretation of the role of law is ruled out as utopian. This troubling conclusion is in fact made worse because of the fact that within each type of regime there exists fallibility as to the setting down of the laws themselves: “the law commands some kinds of behaviour and forbids others; rightly of the law is rightly enacted, but not so well if it is an improvised measure” (1129b28-29). There would then be different types of happiness, one here, one there; all equally unquestionable. Or so it would seem.

Aristotle knows of this variability of conventional law, but he knows too of the necessity of providing a human standard from which judgment can be passed on diversity. This is why the passage we have been analyzing continues precisely by calling forth such criteria. The complete passage reads: “similarly the just things that are not by nature but merely by humans are not the same everywhere, since the regimes are not, THOUGH there is only one that is everywhere according to nature the best”. We stand perplexed for Aristotle seems to want it both ways. He wants to argue that what is merely by humans is not by nature, and presumably all political justice concerns the human, and, therefore cannot be by nature. And yet there is such a regime, he claims, that is by nature the best of possible regimes; and presumably if this regime has anything to tell us humans, then it is of human form. Perhaps natural here could be understood by looking back at the example of the ambidextrous individual. Just as by nature we are all born either right handed or left handed, so by nature, according to Aristotle, we humans are political animals; we live in political associations where alone the good life can be achieved. However all existing regimes deviate to different extents from the best human level of political fulfillment and health; one must therefore seek to understand the complex circumstances in which such deviations have come about.

But if the development of the ambidextrous person requires a level of personal commitment and dedication that is undertaken by few; this effort presumably would be much more difficult to obtain at the level of the whole political community. A tension arises between those transforming themselves in order to become ambidextrous, and the need to transform the political conditions in which becoming ambidextrous rises as a human possibility. As Aristotle puts it:

“As for the education of the individual, that which makes him simply a good man, we must determine later whether it falls under political science or some other, because probably it is not always the same thing to be a good man and a good citizen” (1130b25-30)

But indeed it would seem too that the healthier the regime’s commitment to political justice, the healthier the individuals partaking of that standard; and vice-versa the healthier the individuals, the healthier the political association itself. (e.g. 1129a16-21). Furthermore. the fact that this standard is not a transcendental object independent of the way we humans live in our always imperfect political communities, is hinted too also in the Ethics. The final lines of the work tell us of an investigatory procedure that must be followed to complete our understanding of the realm of the ethical by way of a study of the political:

“So let us first try to review any valid statements … that have been made by our predecessors; and then to consider, in the light of our collected examples of constitutions what influences are conservative and what are destructive of a state …. and for what reasons states are well governed … for after examining these questions we shall perhaps see more comprehensively what kind of constit ution is the best ….” (1181b13-21).

What is by nature the best is not an immutable given, but the end object of a comparative study of the different existing regimes which remain always wanting due to the very complex circumstances in which they develop. In this sense political justice by nature is transformable though it is not made completely anew each time new information is gathered as regards the different conventional political communities. (*14) Respect for multiplicity does not signify not being able to reach out to certain criteria which the best possible polis ought to follow; an issue taken up at length in the Politics.

SECTION II: AQUINAS AND MARSILIUS OF PADUA ON ARISTOTLE: IS A MIDDLE ROAD CONCEIVABLE?

Two of the most important interpretations of the passage we have attempted to clarify have been those of Saint Thomas Aquinas and Marsilius of Padua. Their positions are so divergent that for Strauss they can be said to exemplify the opposition between the ‘theological’ and the ‘philosophical’ interpretations of natural right (Strauss, PAW 96-7). Are these two views thus condemned to the very incommensurability which we have argued an account of natural right seeks to counter at the level of the political? Is one more in accordance with the Aristotelian position as articulated in the text itself? Or do both take from Aristotle what fits their personal mold, so that the Aristotelian perspective is, though transformed, not Aristotelian in a strong sense? Can one, as Strauss proposes, seek some middle road between what, perhaps in the final analysis turn out to be not two extremes in a continuum, but rather two altogether different fields of human understanding? Perhaps by looking critically at each of the authors in turn, we might gain some insight, however slight, on these difficult questions.

Aquinas’ outlook of the world and ourselves is that of one of the major strands to be found within the Catholic tradition; the other being that of Saint Augustine. Because of this, Aquinas superimposes a Catholic mold over the pre-Christian Aristotelian interpretation of natural right. And this does not go by unnoticed when one compares it to the original text in Aristotle. One of the places where this recasting of Aristotle’s wording becomes more salient can be seen in what Aquinas takes to be the relationship between the principles concerning speculative matters, and those that serve as guides for human action in the variable realm of practical affairs. In his commentary on the Ethics he tells us that, just as in speculative philosophy:

“likewise in practical matters there are some principles naturally known as it were, indemonstrable principles and truths related to them, as evil must be avoided, no one is to be unjustly injured, theft must not be committed and so on” (1018)

The ethical, according to Aquinas, deals with indemonstrable principles which we humans ought to take as starting points and guidelines by way of which we can determine the just or unjust nature of actions, both at the level of the individual and that of the political community. Just as we cannot prove Euclid’s most fundamental axioms, so in the realm of conduct we cannot demonstrate the validity of those fundamental principles which determine that evil, injustice and theft ought always, without exception, to be avoided. (*15)

Although it is quite true that Aristotle sometimes speaks in an Aquinas-like fashion, particularly in Book 2 of his Ethics, he nonetheless goes out of his way to clarify more fully what is set there as an introductory framework; one to be followed by different qualifications. The passage in question, which concerns the inexistence of a mean in some cases, reads as follows: “but not every action or feeling admits of a mean; because some have names that directly connote depravity, such as malice, shamelessness and envy and among actions, adultery, theft and murder ….. in either case … one is ALWAYS wrong” (1107a9-15). Though superficially on the same track as Aquinas’ argument, nevertheless Aristotle gives us much more, and much less, than Aquinas does. Aristotle never alludes to any indemonstrable truths, and besides, his longer list includes not only actions, but feelings as well. For Aristotle goodness is concerned not only with the way we act on the world and others, but also, and just as importantly, with the way we are open to this world and others with whom we share in it (1109b30).

Besides Aristotle does not leave this statement, which appears early on in the text, unqualified. Instead his different discussions ——on the difficulty of defining the mean when considered in relation to us and the action concerned, on the relationship between voluntary and involuntary action, and on his analysis of the virtues and the tension present in their being taken as ends in themselves or for the sake of something else—— rids the Aristotelian passage of Aquinas’ sense of immutability and indemonstrability. And this is no surprise to us who sense that Aquinas’ “free(dom) from hesitations and ambiguities” (Strauss, CNR) (*16), is somehow linked to the certainty offered by the presence of clear cut, and clearly articulated, divine commandments. Aquinas lacks, at times, the permanent Aristotelian consideration for the fluidity and flexibility characteristic of the practical affairs in which different human beings are involved. For Aristotle:

“questions of conduct and expediency have as little fixity about them as questions about what is healthful; and if this is true of the general rule, it is still more true that its application to particular problems admits of no precision” (1104a3-7) (see also 1094a11 ff).

(Which is of course not to say that Aristotle does not have criteria for the consideration of an action as praiseworthy or blameworthy). A clear example of the tension between both the Catholic and the Greek outlook can be seen by focusing on one of the actions to which both writers allude, namely, that of theft. For Aquinas “those actions belonging to the very nature of justice cannot be changed in anyway, for example, theft must not be commited because an injustice” (1029). Robbing is an activity that we should strive with all our might to avoid for it involves, under all circumstances, committing an unjustice. Stealing is sinful. In contrast, by taking up the Aristotelian multilayered qualifications, one could eventually come to conceive of, or be actually involved in, situations where stealing would not only not be evil, but perhaps the best possible course of action under the constraining circumstances. War sets the conditions for just this kind of exceptional undertakings. (*17)

But this reading is rather unfair to the very sensitivity which is characteristic of Aquinas’ outlook. The Catholic philosopher himself acknowledges some variability. Nevertheless it concerns not the principles (i.e. no variability in terms of natural right), but the specific actions undertaken. His interpretation of the passage on becoming ambidextrous is here, I think, revealing. He tells us: “so also the things that are just be nature, for example, that a deposit ought to be returned must be observed in the majority of cases but is changed in the minority”(1028) (which deals with part of the first definition of justice given by Polemarchus to Socrates in Plato’s Republic 331d (*18)). However, although this example does qualify somewhat what we previously said, still the principle to which this specific example alludes, is definitely not of the stronger type, the kind which merits inclusion under the Decalogue.

But no matter how the matter stands here, that which is most un-Aristotelian in the whole interpretation by Aquinas on natural right, lies in that the standard upon which such right is founded is not of human origin. Aquinas’ yardstick, though it is in fact related to human rationality ——a faculty Aquinas tells us is shared by all humans making them capable of distinguishing what is disgraceful from what is honorable (1019)—— is itself measured by a not so human standard. Reason is completed only with view to faith; natural right is superseded, or finds its fundamental expression in divine law. As Strauss puts it: “the ultimate consequence of the Thomistic point of view is practically inseparable from natural theology … but even from revealed theology” (Strauss, NRH, 164). This theological perspective retakes some of the conceptions presented by Aristotle, but informs them with a mold which at times does not fit as gracefully as one would desire. Natural right looses the ambivalence which enriched the Aristotelian perspective, and which we saw was continually present in the struggles faced in the passage analyzed. All conventional right, all political justice, can therefore be adequately compared to that standard which holds universally and equally for all. And given that its fundamental seal of guarantee lies not in rationality but rather in faith, no matter what one makes of this position, it remains true that Aquinas’ faith in the Catholic God, as contrasted to the divine in Aristotle, stands unchallenged by any appeal to reason. (*19) Precisely because of this, finding some kind of middle road between this interpretation, and Marsilius’, seems an unfortunate project to undertake. One cannot have both of them at the same time, for their standards for measuring are fundamentally of a different qualitative kind. These would stand very much in accordance to Marsilius view. But to see why this is so, one needs to consider the other side of the balance.

What Strauss calls the ‘philosophical’ interpretation of Aristotle, is carried out by Marsilius of Padua, following Averroes. While the Renaissance writer does take up some of the elements analyzed in the discussion of the Aristotelian passage, his primary objective seems to be to set itself as a radically different alternative to Aquinas’ ‘theological’ view. In that Marsilius seems —–I say ‘seems’ for, as we shall see, this is not completely so—— to set himself against a religious tradition, one finds a first parallel between him and Aristotle. The latter too sets his conception of philosophy against a traditional perspective of the divine which finds its clearest expression in the Delphic inscription found both ethics (EN 1099a26-7). However, the religious traditions which they both question, are of a very different nature.

In his attack on the view of natural right which links it to divine law, Marsilius puts forward two arguments concerning the relationship between it, and its counterpart, conventional right. In order to go through each I will designate the first the ‘as-if’ argument, and the second, the ‘plural rationalities’ argument. According to the first, natural right concerns “that which almost everyone agrees is respectable”. A statement with which neither Aquinas nor Aristotle would agree. On the one hand, for Aquinas it is precisely its immutability that which gives natural right its divine force. On the other, for Aristotle, it is precisely its being independent of opinion that which makes natural right that which it is; general agreement belongs only to the realm of conventional right. Moreover, to differentiate himself much more profoundly from the Catholic alternative, Marsilius includes under this conception the immutable laws which conform the Decalogue; obligations which are, according to Aquinas, exception-free, such as worshiping God and honouring one’s parents. What I have called the ‘as-if’ argument really gets its name it what follows position based on consent. Marsilius understands natural as being conceivable solely in a “metaphorical” sense. If one is clear about natural right, then one does not delude oneself into really believing it can be taken in the literal sense. Natural right is not univocal but equivocal; it is simply a very good intentioned belief we humans hold on to. It is neither an indemonstrable truth as for Aquinas, nor a real standard as for Aristotle.

It is particularly illuminating in understanding the difference between Marsilius and Aristotle, to look at the example concerning the fact that fire burns equally everywhere. In Marsilius its articulation is completely transformed. And this change points us back to one of the prefatory remarks I made in the introduction, namely, that the non-teleological view of the universe is the view of nature open to us moderns. As Marsilius puts it: “like the acts of natural things NOT having purpose are everywhere the same, such as fire which burns here just as it does in Persia”. Nothing would seem more foreign to the Aristotelian conception of teleological nature. For Marsilius, in a universe devoid of purposefulness, the notion of natural right cannot stem from a consideration of an external order which we seek to understand, and in so doing reach our highest potentialities. (However, it seems clear that Aristotle in his own argumentation did not lay claim to such teleology as grounding his own perspective on natural right).

The second argument, what I have called the ‘plural rationalities argument’, seems once again set primarily against Aquinas’ view of natural right; though it is likewise not wholly in accordance with what Aristotle has told us. As we saw, for Aquinas the force of natural right stemmed from the rational capacity we humans have to be able to recognize and live by the principles revealed to us by God. In stark contrast, Marsilius tells us, quite sure of himself —— he uses the words ‘of course’—- that these rational principles (not to say anything of the divine principles underpinning them), are not at all known to all humans. An affirmation which, for instance would still seem not to preclude the search for evangelization. This is so because with an effort on the part of different missionaries, all of us could be brought to finally see and abide by these standards. However, the ignorance of the ‘correct’ principles, for Marsilius, leads consequently to the much more problematic fact that they are “not admitted by all, and all nations do not concede (them) to be respectable”. Presumably those who do not admit them, as opposed to those who are merely ignorant of them, could also be brought to finally admitting them. But the history which lies behind this procedure, particularly in the case of the Catholic Church, would make us now hesitate over considering such “forceful” transformation. Natural right, and it is noteworthy that nowhere does Marsilius mention the example of the ambidextrous human, would then seem to be inexistent. Consequently, any attempt to judge these different nations would be, if not an unrealistic affair, at least a much more arduous one than either Aquina or Aristotle would allow. For Marsilius what each nation finds respectable, is precisely what each holds to be their view of conventional right. Natural right ceases to exist because as Strauss puts it:

“The effectiveness of general rules depends on their being taught without ifs or buts. But the omission of the qualification which makes the rule —— makes them at the same time untrue. The unqualified rules are not natural right but conventional right” (Strauss, NRH, 158).

Or so it would seem. What Strauss does not mention, though it is striking and reminds us of Aristotle’s ambivalence, is that Marsilius, in the end, pauses to tell us that, for the most part, we can still go on with divine law: “There are also precepts, prohibitions, or permissions in accordance with divine law which agree in this respect with human law, which since they are known in many instances, I have not given examples of for the sake of abbreviating this sermon”. But even at this level one would, following Marsilius own propositions, be led to ask; which set of divine laws are you speaking of?

As has been seen, both Aquinas’ and Marsilius’ interpretations not only stand in conflict with each other, but likewise read into, and suspiciously pass over, central elements of the Aristotelian passage analyzed. Furthermore, as we pointed out, seeking to find a middle road between these alternatives is an entreprise which seems to be blind to the fact that both stand in rather different spaces of inquiry. However Strauss has attempted to move in that direction seeking to avoid the extreme immutability of Aquinas’ position, and the extreme variability of Marsilius’. Briefly put, for Strauss natural right consists in highly particular decisions, taken in concrete circumstances. However this variability of the natural is, as in Aristotle, at the same time accompanied by an underpinning sense of what are the ethical principles: “(for) one can hardly deny that in all concrete decisions general principles are implied and presupposed” (159). An instance in which such concrete and variable decision making becomes evident, lies in those extreme circumstances in which the survival of the political community, the existence of the common good itself, is what is at stake. In such circumstances normality is shaken to the point that what becomes primary, and urgently so, is the very survival of the community itself: “in extreme situations the normally valid rules of natural right are justly changed, or changed in accordance with natural right, the exceptions are as just as the rules” (160) (*20). One could ask, however, are extreme situations the only ones in which natural right, in all its variability, appears? Is its scope then so limited as to become rather secondary? Moreover, in a given community one need ask, who is it precisely that decides what constitutes an extreme situation in which normalcy can be temporarily waived? (*21) What if the regime in question precisely seeks such appeals to set itself as unquestionable?

Strauss acknowledges these difficulties in his distancing himself from the Machiavellian conception of natural right, founded on the extreme situations themselves rather than on the normality which Aristotle takes as starting point. Moreover, Strauss points out to a critical standard which, he holds, holds universally for all conventional right:

“there is a universally valid hierarchy of ends, but there are no universally valid rules of action” (162) ….or elsewhere “the only universally valid standard is the hierarchy of ends. This standard is sufficient for passing judgment of the nobility of individuals and of actions and institutions. But it is insufficient for guiding our actions” (163).

Unlike Aquinas’ position, Strauss’ has the virtue of regaining the fluidity and transformability of natural right which characterized the Aristotelian understanding. Likewise, unlike Marsilius’ alternative it does present us, like Aristotle, with some natural standard which would allow political justice to surge above the ephimerality of conventional right. Moreover, he points to the fact that Aristotle’s hesitations stem from the multiplicity of circumstances in which human beings find themselves throughout their lives. As we saw: “questions of conduct and expedience have as little fixity about them as questions about what is healthful; and if this is true of the general urle, it is still more true that its application to particular problems admits of no precision” (1104a4-9). Furthermore, as in Aristotle the focus too is not primarily on knowing what goodness is, but on learning how to become good human beings (1103b28-9) (a statement qualified for young people in 1095a5 who fail to learn anything from lectures on ethics for they are lead away by their passionate natures into different types of actions).

But, precisely how this hierarchy of ends is to be understood is quite a different problem altogether. As we saw not even Aquinas and Marsilius seemed to be in agreement as to an extremely short passage within Aristotle’s text. Presumably then one cannot claim to have the unique interpretation which will, finally, clarify what counts as constitutive of this hierarchy. How to understand is a contested matter presumably to be cleared by reading and re-reading the text itself. However, let us conclude by saying that an elucidation of this hierarchy must consider different passages in which such a hierarchical structuring takes place. Briefly, some of these are: i) the existence of a hierarchy in the arts which culminates in the architectonic arts, ii) the formulation of happiness as the highest possible end for us humans, end under which all other goods are subordinated, iii) the hierarchical division of the soul into the vegetative, the appetitive and the rational (logos); linked to the corresponding proper function of humans according to rational principle, iv) the hierarchy of goods as found in the tripartite division, goods of the body, external goods, and goods of the soul, v) the hierarchy of different types of lives; the life of business, of enjoyment, of politics and of philosophical contemplation, vi) the hierarchy of the moral virtues, hierarchy in which greatness of soul stands as one of the peaks and finally, vii) the peak which justice represents, one revealing a reconsideration of the moral virtues under the perspective of the good, fundamentally, for the other.

FOOTNOTES

INTRODUCTION

1. This important question is posed by Strauss in his Persecution and the Art of Writing pg 95.

2. Strauss goes on to compare modern relativity to nihilism; though he does not mention that nihilism can be of two very different variants, the active and the passive. Nietzsche, Will to Power #22.

3. Strauss agrees with Taylor here, pg. 164

4. Taylor agrees with Strauss here. Section 3.1

SECTION I

5. Arendt deals with this extremely important difference, between the private and the public, in her The Human Condition.

6. A case in point is that of Charly Garcia, a famous Argentinian rock star, and his reinterpretation of the Argentinian National Anthem in heavy metal form. It shocked many Argentinians.

7. Presumably the important issue of equity, as dealing with the faulty generality of law, would somehow be linked to these particular transformations of the law.

8. Parekh gives examples such as this: “In R v Bibi (1980) the Court of Appeal reduced the imprisonment of a Muslim widow, found guilty of importing cannabis, from three years to 6 months on the ground, that, among other things, she was totally dependent on her brother-in-law and was socialized by her religion into subservience to the male members of her household” (200) Other very interesting and complex examples are given in the readings by Carens (see bibliography).

9. The qualification ‘in relation to us’ has taken place not only concerning ethical inquiry in general (1095b11 ff), but also concerning the mean (1106a30 ff)

10. It is interesting to note that under Catholicism the left hand has had a rather unfortunate history. This is more salient in the Spanish words siniestra, the left, and diestra, the right. Siniestra has altogether negative connotations just as sinister does in English.

11. Aquinas gives an example of humans having by nature two feet; this of course is not the Aristotelian example precisely because it does not deal with the transformability of the natural.

12. The connection here between this example and the always elusive issue of health as regards justice (see chapter 1) I believe is there, though I do not quite know how to articulate it fully at the moment.

13. That these matters make a difference can be seen, for instance, if one asks somebody used to one of the given measurements to imagine the other. If somebody asked me, for instance, the altitude of Santafé de Bogotá in feet, I would be at a loss as to what to answer. Though I know, and was brought up to memorize as a child, the corresponding measure in meters.

14. This looking at actual real cases is what lies behind Carens’ appeal to differentiating between policy making and philosophical comprehension, or between idealistic and realistic approaches to politics. He asks one to, rather than staying at one of the extremes. move towards a form of reflexive equilibrium. On a different note, the passage which ends the chapter to be analyzed was left on the side primarily because of the difficulty in viewing how to link it to the whole discussion. Is there such a connection?

SECTION II

15. Of course in modern geometry Euclid’s axioms are only a set of the possible starting points. Conventionality has reached even such indemonstrable truths for us moderns.

16. Kantian ethics is too permeated by this rigidity, primarily as regards its distinction between the moral and the non-moral spheres. There is a sharp line differentiating both.

17. Strauss gives the example of espionage. pg 160

18. Socrates “tricks” Thrasymachus into assuming a natural standard which he himself did not hold by way of his definition of justice with reference to the strongest.

19. The question as to whether one can return to the Greeks, having had 2000 years of Catholic tradition, is a difficult one. One can see he ambivalence in poems such as Rimbaud’s nostalgic Soleil et Chair.

20. The extreme situation for the individual is presented by Aristotle in 1100b31 ff.

21. In Colombia, where I was born, there is such a law which is called “Ley de Conmocion Interior”. It can be set in place when the public order is imperiled; as it has happened many times happens under the Colombian reality, one of a weak form of democracy (some would argue an oligarchy). But it is limited to a 3 month period of application; presumably so that the exception does not become the satte of normalcy. But also so that the government does not use it to further its own objectives. Under this law for instance military officials require no warrants in the persecution of criminals. However the governement has used it, I believe, as a weapon to fight matters which go beyond the defense of the public realm; or at least as a substitute for other measures which would go to the heart of the violence and poverty which permeates everyday reality.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

A) Primary Sources

Aristotle, Ethica Nicomachea, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1rst 1894, 20th 1988, Edited by I. Bywater.

Aristotle, The Ethics of Aristotle, Penguin Books, London, 1rst- 1953, 1988. Translated by J.A.K. Thomson.

B) Secondary Sources

Carens, Joseph, “Complex Justice, Cultural Difference and Political Community”

——– “Realistic and Idealistic Approaches to the Ethics of Migration”

——– “Democracy and Respect for Difference”

Course Handouts:

——Aquinas, Commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics, 1018-1032

——Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. 5, chap 7 9113418-35a15)

——Marsilius of Padua, Defender of Peace, Discourse 2, Chap 12, sec 7-9

Parekh, Bikhu, “British Citizenship and Cultural Difference”, in Geoff Andrews (de.) Citizenship, Lawrence and Wishart, London, pp.  183-204.

Strauss, Leo, Natural Right and History, University of Chicago Press, “Introduction“ and “Classical Natural Right”, pp.  156-164.

——- Persecution and the Art of Writing, pp.  95-98

Taylor, Charles, Sources of the Self, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1990.

Read Full Post »

IMPORTANT: PLEASE REDUCE FONT IN BROWSER

AS I HAVE HAD SERIOUS PROBLEMS SCANNING THIS ESSAY

LANGUAGE, GOODS AND DIALOGUE: SOME TENTATIVE ASPECTS OF THE IMMIGRANT CONDITION

INTRODUCTION

Albert Camus carried his beloved Algiers with him throughout his whole life. Both his

body and pen knew of a sky, a sea, a sun and an earth which were radically different

from those of the Europe he went to live in. This other sky, sea, sun and earth were

those that constituted the unforgettable landscapes of his homeland. Camus knew, like

few have, about the life that begins far from one’s native land; a life which in the most

extreme cases is one of exile. In his beautiful short essay entitled Summer in Algiers,

this lyrical philosopher summarizes, in few words, this feeling: “it is well known that

one’s native land is always recognized at the moment of loosing it. For those who are

uneasy about themselves their native land is the one that negates them” (152). (*1)

These brief remarks on Camus allow us to begin to shed some light on the complex

situation in which immigrants from around the globe find themselves. Most

immigrants, I believe, know of this loss, they know of this negation and of this

uneasiness. They are rather daring figures who set out to sail leaving behind the

landscape –usually a nation-state— in which their values, commitments and

practices were set within a meaningful cultural and linguistic context. Immigrants carry

with them more than physical suitcases, they carry a heavy load of cultural heritage

which has shaped and allowed them to grow as they have.

Nevertheless immigrants dare to move, they are not static. To migrate is their

characteristic activity. But once immigrants have ‘landed’, that is to say, have become

‘landed-immigrants’, they come into contact with a societal reality which, to most, is to

a large extent new. It is one with its own standards, language, and modes of self-

perception; one which, perhaps, may appear alien.

It is this double belonging that which, I believe, marks immigrants. It is a tension

governed by Camusian ‘uneasiness’, which, at least, first generation immigrants feel

acutely. And truly there is nothing easy about migration; it is literally, an ‘un’-easy

affair. The familiar is displaced, and in its place, the immigrant is set within an

unfamiliar framework which provides her with, in many cases, radically new conditions

for intelligible and meaningful choice and action. What appeared to be self-evident,

perhaps even unquestionable, seems not to be shared by others who, nevertheless, are

1

set within the same novel reality. Many of our deeply held values and practices arechallenged, subverted, questioned and given new possibilities stemming frominteraction, not only with the mainstream culture, but likewise with the continuousand inevitable sight of other, quite different immigrant cultures. Incomprehensionopens up a space of intercommunication in which a plurality of languages and ways of

life begin to comprehend each other. (*2) This is a space of interaction that, as Walzer

tells us, allows for the birth of a deep type of moral philosophy; ” (one) understood as a

reflection upon the familiar, a reinvcntion of our homes” (Walzer, 17).

Multiculturalism reinvents the homes we carry within. It remodels, redesigns and

makes mirror reflection with others a delightful necessity. But multiculturalism can

also, by being denied its enriching possibilities, be simply seen as a destructive

tendency which must be demolished in order to preserve the secure foundations of

either, a mainstream society which sees itself threatened by the influx of difference

and diversity, or of severed islands populated by minority groups intent on

hermetically safeguarding themselves from any change whatsoever.

In this essay, I would like to explore some of the primary moral issues that spring

from these brief considerations on immigrants. My concern is purely normative, in

other words, I am concerned with considering some aspects of ‘ought’-questions such

as for instance; what are some of the factors that ought to be considered in trying to

begin to understand the complexity of the immigrant minority groups’ situation, and

their interaction with mainstream society? This theoretical overweight will clearly

make of the discussion something quite unbalanced. (*3) If, as Carens tells us, “any

discussion of the ethics of migration should (not only) recognize reality, ….. (but) also

consider whether we should embrace that reality as an ideal or regard it as a limit to be

transcended as soon as possible”, then this essay lies on the idealistic end of the

spectrum of possible analysis (Carens RIAEM, 9).

In particular, my central concern will be to point out some of the relevant aspects that

must be considered if any headway is to be achieved in the relationship between

immigrant minorities and the society within which they are set. In order to get clearer

on them, I propose to divide the essay in three sections. In the first, I will take up the

2

crucially important issue of language by focusing on Will Kymlicka’s Multicultural

Citizenship. Here I will try to, briefly and sketchily, elucidate the central importance of

considering not only the protection and preservation, but also the positive

enhancement of the conditions for the adequate flourishing of immigrants’ mother

tongue (particularly in cases where numbers warrant). Immigrants surely leave what

some have designated as the ‘father’ land, but just as surely they cannot leave behind,

what others have called, the ‘mother’ tongue. Although Kymlicka sets out to give some

mechanisms for ensuring special group differentiated rights for immigrants, as we shall

see, he nevertheless greatly, and dangerously, ends up watering these claims down.

This is specially so in what he himself acknowledges to be one of the most central

aspects of culture, the issue of language.

In the second section, I will take up Waldron’s view of cosmopolitanism which claims

that our modern allegiance goes beyond any specific and limited communal

framework. Instead, he sees in Rushdie’s writings a more adequate and faithful

reflection of the hybrid nature characteristic of modern, globally interdependent,

societies. Nevertheless, although claiming to be speaking from an immigrant’s

perspective, I would like to look more closely at the underlying ‘thin theory of the

good’ which cements his argument (as well as Kymlicka’s), and its linkage to a very

particular view of the self. From the immigrants perspective, I believe, these two

presuppositions may not only seem at odds with the societal culture within which they

have been brought up, but likewise can actually be detrimental and dangerous to the

healthy survival and flourishing of theirs, and their children’s, identity.

Penally, in section III, I will address Parekh’s views on the complexity of British

society understood as a multiethnic reality. I will restate there what I take to be

Parekh’s most important contributions to the debate; contributions which, like this

essay, move more on the level of a normative theory of migration rather than on the

needy-greedy conditions for its real application in politically complex circumstances.

Re-reading Parekh will allow us to see how the relationship between immigrants and

mainstream society is one involving a continual give and take, a game in which both

parties, if there concern is to foster healthy and mutually enriching conditions for

3

dialogue, must listen and respect each other’s voices. For Parekh “integration requiresmovement on both sides, otherwise it is an imposition” (B , 105).JSECTIQN I: CULTURE, LANGUAGE AND IMMIGRANTSIf what Parekh says is true, ‘words are never mere words …. they shape our

understanding and approach of the world” (BCCD, 183), then Kymlicka’s being a

philosopher aids us immensely. His attempt to understand the language of minority

rights within the liberal tradition starts to give us a vocabulary “appropriate to

nuances” (30); a vocabulary which is sensitive to a variety of hard cases and difficult

grey areas (19). It is a novel conceptual scheme which challenges the narrow focus of

the previously held frameworks stemming from the liberal tradition itself. Some of

these ended up, and continue defending, the erroneously held view of justice based

on benign neglect for minorities; a policy based on the mistaken assumption of

neutrality of the liberal state (56). In contrast, Kymlicka’s is an investigative procedure

which aims, not at hermetically closing itself upon its findings, but one which is rather

focused on opening the discussion through the portrayal of a plurality of empirical

cases and a historical tracing of the complex issue of a theory of minority rights within

the liberal tradition.

Kymlicka provides us, in different ways, with conceptual novelty, reconstruction and

clarification. First, in his view of multiculturalism as assuming two main possible

forms: 1) as ‘multinarion multiculturalism’, arrived at through the incorporation of

previously self-governing, territorially concentrated, cultures into larger states, or 2) as

‘polyethnic multiculturalism’, that is to say, a type of pluralism arising from the

incorporation of multiple immigrant cultures within a mainstream culture by way of

individual and familial uprooting (*1). A second novelty in Kymlicka’s analysis lies in

his tripartite division of ‘group differentiated rights’ for minorities; a) ‘self-government

rights’ which allow for a delegation of powers to national minorities through the

development of different forms of federalism, b) ‘polyethnic rights’ related to financial

4

and legal protection, as well as active support, for different cultural practices pertainingto ethnic groups, and finally, c) ‘special representation rights’ which guarantee seats ingovernmental institutions for minorities which would otherwise remain unheard. Thethird novel addition which Kymlicka puts forward in his book is that of the dualanalysis of ‘collective rights’ — a distortive and over-generalizing category (39) — in

terms of, either ‘external protections’, a group’s right to limit the power exercised by

the larger society thus ensuring the conditions for its survival and positive flourishing,

or ‘internal restrictions’, a culture’s right to limit its own individual’s liberties for the

sake of a good held in common by the larger group. (*2) Finally, Kymlicka reconstructs

and reinterprets the fundamental concepts of freedom and equality — which have

been considered by liberals fundamentally from the perspective of human rights —

by incorporating onto this incomplete analysis, not only an emphasis on the

individual’s belonging to a societal culture, but also by recovering the previously

mentioned ‘group differentiated rights’ which alone can allow for free and equal

interchange between minorities and majorities within democratic governments. (^3)

Having briefly and too tightly laid out the central aspects of Kymlicka’s rich

conceptual clarifications and innovations, it will now be easier to focus on the issue of

immigration which, according to the diverse categories mentioned above, must be seen

under the broad category of multiculturalism as polyethnic, and with reference to

rights involving some type of polyethnic claims for external protections.

Among the different reasons for the suspicious silence of contemporary liberal

political thought on minority issues (M), Kymlicka mentions the ethnic revival in the

US of the 1960’s and 1970’s: “the increasing politicizarion of immigrant groups

profoundly unsettled the American liberals, for it affected the most basic assumptions

and self-conceptions of American political culture” (52) (*S). The uneasiness of which

Camus spoke seems to have become contagious. It stemmed from the fact that

immigration, without some adequate process of integration, was perceived

theoretically to challenge the very foundation of US society. A melting pot must

somehow melt if it is to continue existing as such. (*6). For US political theorists, the

way to keep the melting going, was to adopt a policy of benign neglect towards

5

immigrant affairs; a policy which held that minorities not only have no special rights toclaim, but that such claiming can lead to the dangerous destabilizarion of the veryconditions for social cohesion and bonding required to unite a society under acommonly held banner(s).Unlike US theorists, Kymlicka denies the possibility of ever achieving a neutral state

which can, by remaining silent on minority issues, actually promote a just interaction

between the mainstream culture and those which lie in the outskirts- F’or Kymlicka

immigrant groups have a right to group differentiated rights; without them they will

remain invisible, unheard and voiceless (53). For the Canadian writer, the US

theoreticians’ fears were born out of a misperception, namely, that the purpose of the

ethnic revival was to end up in the creation of separate self-governing ethnic islands

which posed a real threat to the unity of the “united states”. For Kymlicka, on the

contrary, such ethnic revival aimed rather at demanding an appropriate level of

recognition for the minority ethnic groups. Ethnic groups were struggling to defend

their peculiar and distinctive identities and cultural modes of expression. Ethnic

revival “involved a revision of the terms of integration, not a rejection of integration”

(83). This is why, unlike his colleagues south of the border, the Canadian philosopher

believes that the demands set forth by immigrant groups do not aim at consolidating

^elf-government rights, but rather different types of permanent polyethnic rights. For

Kymlicka the crucial difference can be elucidated by contrasting the goals and

conditions which have characterized both, colonists, and immigrants:

“There was a fundamentally different set of expectations accompanying

colonists and immigrants, the former resulted from a deliberate policy aimed at

the systematic recreation of an entire culture in a new land; the latter resulted

from individual and familial choice to leave their society and join another

existing one” (81)

Nevertheless Kymlicka recognizes that it is not absolutely illogical too think of a future

scenario in which, territorially concentrated, and culturally consolidated immigrant

groups, could in effect forge such a strong sense of identity as to seek some kind of

self-government rights, even separation. Kymlicka is Canadian; he knows of Quebec

and its particularity; a particularity to which we shall return. But, while Kymlicka

6

acknowledges this as a possibility, it is not, according to him, a morally permissible

alternative for immigrants. Immigrants ought not to actively seek such a goal. This is

so, the argument goes, because immigrants, the parents at least, have chosen to leave

their homeland, thus waiving their claims to self-governance:

“Immigrants have no legitimate basis to claim national rights. After all they had

come voluntarily knowing that integration was expected of them. When they

chose to leave their culture and come to America, they voluntarily

relinquished their national membershipfad/narional rights which go with it”

(53) ^

(Although here Kymlicka is arguing for the case of ethnic revival in the US, it is a

position which he not only endorses, as we shall go on to see, but which permeates the

whole of his conceptual framework; one in which the duality between

multinarionalism from polyethinicity is found again and again)

Whoever re-reads the previous quote, might be somewhat puzzled by its claim that

immigrants “chose to leave their culture”. Surely what Kymlicka must mean is that

immigrants leave behind the “nation-state” (or some such political structure) to which

they belonged. Leaving a territory is, more or less, an easy matter; but leaving one’s

culture, as Camus reminded us, not an easy one at all. And Kymlicka is well aware of

this. This is the main reason why, within his interpretation, he is at pains to point out

that the liberal notion of individual freedom is one which can only be made sense of by

shedding light on its intricate linkage to the societal culture within which the

individual is ‘thrown’. This concept of societal culture is defined by Kymlicka as

“a culture which provides its members with meaningful ways of life across a full

range of human activities, including social, education, religion, recreational and

economic life, encompassing both public and private spheres. These cultures

tend to be territorially-concentrated, and based on a shared language” (67)

According to this definition of ‘societal culture’ immigrants seem to be in a tight spot.

They have left one such societal culture, the one in which they were raised throughout

their whole life, but at the same time they are just beginning to enter one of which

they know few aspects; perhaps not even the language. The problem is made more

acute within Kymlicka’s own argument precisely because it is the societal culture

7

which provides any human being with the meaningful context of choice.Understanding the praxis of a given agent then, under this particular view, implies to acertain extent comprehending the cultural background in which the individual is set.Furthermore, for Kymlicka, the way that this process of comprehension goes aboutinvolves an understanding, not only of the language used in the mainstream culture

which immigrants enter, but moreover an understanding of the practices for which

language stands as expressive realization:

“to understand the meaning of a social practice therefore requires,

understanding the shared vocabulary –i.e. understanding the language and

the history which constitute this vocabulary, whether or not a course of action

has any significance for us depends on whether, and how, our language renders

vivid to us the point of that activity …… understanding those cultural narratives

is a precondition of making intelligent judgments about how to lead our

lives”(72)

Understanding the shared vocabulary of, let us say, Canadians, means not only having

high-level linguistic skills (something difficult to achieve(*7)), but furthermore a

sense of the values and commitments underlying the diverse linguistic functions which

Canadians use in their everyday life. However, immigrants are precisely characterized

by their (unless they are extremely qualified and fast language learners) standing in a

complex situation where two different narratives meet; one very deeply entrenched

and in danger of dying, the other barely born and in danger of being misunderstood.

According to Kymlicka, unless the conditions for this mutual understanding are fully

met, the context of choice for immigrants wi\\ not be one which does justice to their

dilemma. Intelligent judgments for immigrants involve two narratives: one readily

available, but context-less, the other one yet to be written and not even, for some,

faintly comprehended.

Nevertheless, for Kymlicka, since immigrants have voluntarily uprooted themselves

from their countries of origin, in doing so they have relinquished some of the rights

which went with belonging to a ‘secure’ societal culture which was territorially

concentrated and shared a distinct language. Immigrants, Kymlicka tells us have

“relinquished some of the rights that go along with their original national

membership” (81). But even if this is true, still, Kymlicka wants to argue that even in

8

the case of immigrants, their societal culture cannot be simply overseen. Kymlickaknow\s we\\ of the tense situation in which immigrants find themselves:”they have left behind the set of institutionalized practices conducted in theirmother tongue which actually provided culturally significant way of life topeople in their homeland, they bring wdth them a ‘shared vocabulary of

tradition and convention’, but they have uprooted themselves from the societal

practices which this vocabulary originally referred to and made sense of.” (68)

Having acknowledged that immigrants cannot simply do away with their cultural

make-up, Kymlicka then goes on to inquire whether they should be allowed to seek an

active and strong flourishing of their respective culturally shared practices, their sense

of self-identity, and their communal modes of belonging and understanding. To put in

interrogative terms, if people have such a deep bond to their societal culture why

should immigrants not be allowed to develop, to a large extent, their societal cultures

within the space they have been allowed to land in? Kymlicka himself classifies the

problematic as one of the ‘hard cases’ with which a liberal theory of minority rights

must deal. (80). The problem is clearly an ‘un’-easy one.

At different points throughout his book, Kymlicka allows for two types of external

protections to which immigrants, and presumably their descendants, have access; this

h even after having acknowledged their having uprooted themselves. In Chapter 2 he

tells us that the first kind is of a negative character, they are linked to the fighting of

prejudice and discrimination through, for instance, antidiscrimination laws. These

law^s, more than promoting the development of a given group, prevent its dissolution

through reference to human rights in general; it is in this sense that they can be

understood as belonging to a negative policy, the aim of which is simply the physical

survival of those concerned. But Kymlicka goes beyond these.

The second type of polyethnic rights to which immigrants are entitled involve a

much more positive political stance. It is one which actually seeks, not simply to build

thin layered protective walls around disadvantaged groups — a procedure which can

lead to viewing these minorities as an unproductive burden and an unwelcome

responsibility — but rather to build healthy and just interactions which foster the

growth of cultural elements from diverse ethnic communities and their enriching

9

variety of ways of life. Among the latter Kymlicka allows for two distinct cases: a)public funding of cultural and artistic (even linguistic classes) where the market andpolitical forces would greatly disadvantaged minority groups and their numericalinferiority, and b) religious cases in which minority ethnic groups have beendisadvantaged, albeit not intentionally, as for instance in dress codes, traffic laws,

holiday celebrations and economic issues such as that of Sunday closing. (22-23)

Now, while it seems that Kymlicka has provided quite a lot of strongholds upon

which immigrants can seek to safeguard and promote their culture, nevertheless he

seems to shy away from the strong kind of polyethnic rights which would be required if

he took seriously his claims concerning the centrality of societal culture as a context of

choice and meaningfulness for individuals from different cultures. This is nowhere

rendered more problematic than in the case of the defense of immigrant languages.

Are immigrants, and particularly their children, condemned to view their language,

their shared vocabulary, as a nice relic worthy of the admiration reserved for museum

pieces which are doomed to constant and unrelenting fading away? Are immigrants and

their children condemned to relegate their language simply to the private sphere in

order that a more secure mainstream societal culture can flourish?

Kymlicka himself acknowledges that “it is very difficult for languages to survive in

modern industrialized societies when they are not used in public life” (68). Immigrant

languages then would seem to be set on a destructive course. Immigrants uprooted

themselves voluntarily, so they must, to put it rather crudely, somehow pay for their far

from wise decision; or so it seems. I add ‘or so it seems’, because even in the case of

languages Kymlicka is sensitive to the complexity of the issue. This is why he

dedicates a few lines to the issue of ESL teaching for immigrants. Presumably if

immigrants ought to learn the ways of the societal culture they have entered, then

learning the language in which this community deals is the most important aspect of

integration; one which can morally be demanded of all immigrants who arrive to

English-speaking, immigrant receiving countries, such as Canada and the US.

Kymlicka, in his struggle to provide immigrant groups with polyethnic rights, tells us

10

that ESL courses must move away from the view that imposes English as uniquelanguage:”current policy has operate on the assumption that the ideal is to makeimmigrants and their children as close as possible to unilingual speakers ofEnglish (i.e. that learning English requires losing their mother tongue), rather

than aiming to produce people who are fluently bilingual (i.e. that learning

English involves gaining a language, in addition to one’s mother tongue)” (82)

Given this passage it would seem then that Kymlicka, finally, provides the basis in his

argument for a strong immigrant defense of their minority languages- Nevertheless this

is not the case, and precisely here, is where Kymlicka disconcerts the most.

Kymlicka’s doubts and hesitations on the immigrant language issue can be seen when

he discusses the case of Quebec and its special status within Canada as French

sneaking national minority It is not a chance event that Kymlicka discusses both the

Quebec issue and the immigrant issue side by side. Perhaps he fears, just as the US

theorists he himself criticizes feared, that immigrant groups will in a distant future

evolve into such a strong position, with such a strong differentiating identity7, that they

will seek for themselves some claims of regarding self-government rights; perhaps

even to the extreme of secession-

According to Kymlicka the Quebecois do have a claim (and have greatly advanced in

this resnect, as the referendum clearly shows) to group differentiated rights within the

whole Canadian context founded on a tacitly accepted form of asymmetrical

federalism. Nevertheless the Quebecois are not immigrants, they should be

considered, within Kymlicka’s framework, instead as original colonists with particular

multinational rights. This is why they have a right to exercise strong forms of group

differentiated rights (in its three forms) at three levels: i) the individual level,

francophones outside Quebec have access to public services in French; ii) the group

level French-speaking parents can demand a French school where numbers warrant it

(Kvmiicka does not mention Bill 101 and its ‘internal restrictions’ here); and finally, iii)

the provincial level, in order to preserve culture and the conditions for the active

flourishing and recognition of the French-speaking minority in North America. But no

11

such strong rights are accessible to any immigrant groups whatsoever; they areconceived of as groups of uprooted ethnic communities, not as national minorities (*8).Presumably then, newly arrived immigrants will have, under these conditions, tostruggle hard to preserve their own languages given that the language of the publicsphere will remain English in the US and Canada, and French within the, up to today,

province of Quebec. Integration of the first generation immigrants will remain a

difficult task, for if learning a language takes years of dedication, understanding the

context of that language much more than that. But what is truly more troublesome is

the situation which second generation and even third generation immigrants face. If

language is so central to the definition of a societal culture, then by not providing an

adequate defense and a positive enhancement of immigrant languages, the children of

immigrants will be left with, at best, only one societal culture within which to choose

how to be, that of the mainstream English (or French). It seems to me highly

implausible to preserve central, core-type, polyethnic rights without granting much

more than anti-discriminatory laws and religious “exemptions”. And Kymlicka himself

is not silent on this issue either; but his answer reveals his fundamental fear of any

strong type of ethnic revival which emerges from a strong definition of identity which

need not, as he fears, end up in claims of national minorities:

“adult immigrants may be willing to accept a marginalized existence in their

new country, neither integrated in to the mainstream culture nor able to

recreate their old culture. But this is not acceptable for children … Parents at

least had the benefit of being raised in a societal culture in their homeland … If

we do not enable immigrants to recreate their old culture then we must

strenuously work to ensure that children integrate into mainstream” (91, FN 19)

Parents have waived their right to security, so to speak; they were free to be insecure,

but not to make their children insecure beings. But children must be afforded the kind

of security7 which will enable to them to be brought up under adequate social

conditions. In order to do so Kymlicka seems to be arguing that a ‘strenuous effort’

must be made to make them into mainstream beings who learn from their parents’

inadequate marginalized existence. But this is precisely to do away with the | //

foundation of any strong sense of multiculturalism which is founded, as the word

12

portrays, on different cultures (minority and majority), not on a set of watered downcultural backgrounds. It seems to me Kymlicka gives a strong blow to the chances of astrong and healthy deep diversity which, in the Canadian environment could be, asTaylor puts it, a true object of pride; one “where a plurality of ways of belonging wouldalso be acknowledged and accepted”? (Taylor, SDV, 75). (*9)

In yet another of his interesting footnotes Kymlicka tells us that linguists consider

language to be a “dialect with an army” (93, #28). Mainstream culture truly can

become like this, failing to perceive the richness and possibilities of a stronger

perspective on polyethnic rights concerning language. Perhaps security will not follow,

but it will not follow either from failing to see the problematic at hand. And besides, as

Walzer tells us “morality …. is something we have to argue about. The argument

implies common possession, but common possession does not imply agreement”

(Walzer, 3PI, 32). Even though Kymlicka fights hard for some kind of polyethnic

rights, he ends up by denying any strong version of these. He lowers the level of

argumentation by implying that common possession must follow from a very strong

sense of agreement.

SECTION II: COSMOPOLITANISM AND ITS ASSUMPTIONS

Immigrants are caught up in a two-sided struggle which pulls them in two directions.

In the first place they seek to preserve their valuable cultural heritage, not simply for

the sake of the first generation, but, presumably, also of the benefit of their

descendants. However, this tendency is set limitations, by the cultural

forces of the society they enter upon having left their homeland. Immigrants therefore,

  • )

and those who receive and welcome them, must search jointly for some sort of balance

between their, at times, conflicting claims, rights and obligations.

The political structure which immigrants migrate into, the one governing countries

such as Canada and the US, is that of the western tradition of democratic liberalism. It

is a form of political government to which most immigrants have had some access,

though of course, in different degrees and forms. This particular tradition is one that

13

holds that a critical stance towards the goods valued by the individual is, thoughdifficult, both possible and desirable. This modern perspective is itself the product ahistorical tradition born out of the Enlightenment. While enlightening implies,negatively, liberating one from the obscurity of traditional conceptions of the good, thisnew born tradition knows likewise of the possibility of a self-critique, that is to say, it is

intent on coming to an understanding of its own limits of understanding and practice.

(*1)

Within the liberal branch of the Enlightenment, individual liberty and autonomy, the

capacity to deliberate and choose among conflicting goods for oneself, becomes a

central commitment. This is one of the reasons the individual has the right and

capacity to become highly critical of the political, religious and social community in

which she is born. This is a point of view to which Kymlicka holds allegiance, for “it

allows to choose a conception of the good life and then allows then to reconsider that

decision and opt a new and hopefully better plan of life” (70).

The end, or ends, which guide our everyday practice, are no longer static and

unquestionable, but rather dynamic and requiring a continuous investigatory capacity

capable of revising, reconsidering, even rejecting them. This is, of course, not to say

that the individual is to be held up as the atomic center of the universe. Kymlicka

already let us see the crucial force of a societal culture as framework of choice for each

agent; society is constitutive of the individual’s identity and possibilities of self-

understanding. Nevertheless this position claims that there is in reality a peculiarly

modern human capacity to stand back and question the presuppositions, not only of

other culture’s goods, but of those which provide its own conceptual and practical

framework:

“the freedom which liberals demand of the individual is not primarily the

freedom to go beyond one’s language and history, but rather the freedom to

move around within one’s societal culture, to distance oneself from particular

cultural roles, to choose which features of the culture are most worth

developing, and which are without value” (Kymlicka, 78)

Liberals like Kymlicka, do not want to argue that a pure objective stance is humanely

possible. This is so for stepping wholly outside one’s own tradition is as impossible, as

14

stepping outside one’s very own skin. Walzer’s defense of the path of interpretation inmoral affairs is here particularly illuminating: “I do not mean to deny the reality of theexperience of stepping back, though I doubt that we can ever step back all the way tonowhere. Even when we look at the world from somewhere else, however, we are stilllooking at the world” (Walzer, 6). And presumably ‘the’ world means here in some

deep sense ‘our’ world, that which springs forth form ‘our’ interpretation.

If one inquires as to why it is that this standing back is possible in this Western

tradition, while it remains inexistent in many others — at least to the same degree

and in the same form — part of the answer seems to lie in the conception of the good

underlying it. This stance, common to both Kymlicka’s multiculturalism and

Waldron’s cosmopolitanism, is founded upon a peculiar view of the good for human

beings; it is that of a ‘thin’ theory of the good, as opposed to a ‘thick’ or ‘substantive’

one. According to Waldron this conception “give(s) us the bare framework for

conceptualizing choice and agency, but leaving the specific content of choices to be

filled up by the individuals” (20) (*2\ \

But, even though Kymlicka and Waldron share the same thin theory of communal

and individual goods, they are led to radically different positions regarding the defense

of the goods held as valuable, and in need of defense, by minority groups. Unlike

Kymlicka’s triad of group differentiated rights, which places barriers on the goods held

by majorities within liberal democratic states, Waldron pushes the view of a thin theory

of the good to its extreme in his view of the alternative to a defense on

communitarianism –in Kymlicka’s terminology ‘societal culture’– namely,

cosmopolitanism.

He finds this perspective expressed most clearly in Rushdie’s immigrant perception

of modern Britain’s multiethnicity. What shines forth in the persecuted author’s

writings is a migrant’s perspective of the kaleidoscopic reality in which she lives daily.

It is a realization of the hybrid and highly amorphous structure of the public sphere in

which she moves about. Members of such a diffuse, tension full and diversified reality,

are keen on questioning the fundamental tradition(s) in which they were brought up

for they “refuse … to think of (them)selves as defined by (their) location or (their)

15

ancestry or (their) citizenship or (their) language”. (Waldron, 753). Meaningfulnesslies not in the sharing of a unique piece of land, or a singularly held language, or ahomogeneous and secure societal culture, but rather in the intermingling of diversesocietal cultures with different languages encountering each other publicly on a day today basis. Authenticity and human fulfillment lie, not in complete allegiance and

rootedness in one’s or anyone’s traditional culture, but in a never finished web of

relativized and multivocal threads of discourse which conform the public arena of

polyethnic societies.

Under this perspective, the emphasis on the validity of a mongrel-type lifestyle

stands in opposition to the conformation of isolated islands made up of self-enclosed,

and externally protected societal cultures (752). The communitarian idea “that there is

a universal human need for rootedness in a particular community (which) confers

character and depth on our choices and actions”, is misguided and even dangerously

misrepresentarive of a dynamic reality which it, not only fails to see correctly, but

worse yet, actively covers up.

Allegiance now makes sense primarily, though not exclusively, at the level of the

global community which, according to Waldron, has come to represent the real realm

on intelligible economic, moral and political interdependence (771). (*3). Only via a

defense of such a broad community, and its international organizations, can there be a

real understanding and effective battle of global issues such as redistribution, pollution

and resource depletion. (770). Just as the communitarians understand the individual

with reference to a particular community, Waldron believes that their argument

nowadays ought to be pushed further. This to the point where individual communities

can only be made sense of, now, with reference to the global framework: “no honest

account of our being will be complete without an account of our dependence on large

social and political structures that goes far beyond the particular community with

which we pretend to identify ourselves” (780).

The ties that help constitute our identity(ies) do not pertain to one individual societal

culture, as it seems Kymlicka argues at times, but rather to a plurality of these; all of

16

which shower us with a great number of different narratives, goods, meaningfulfragments, multiple images and moral valuations. For Waldron:”From the fact that each option must have a cultural meaning, it does not followthat there must be one cultural framework in which each available option isassigned a meaning. Meaningful options may come to us as items or fragments

from a variety of cultural sources” (783)

We do in fact need cultural material in order to provide the context for meaningful

choices, but what we do not need is ONE unique, more or less homogeneous and

secure cultural framework. We need choices in a plural context and not one context for

choosing. The preeminence of one societal culture would in fact lessen the

possibilities of reaching out for diversity. Furthermore, by placing all ‘strenuous

efforts’, as Kymlicka argues, in securing one social structure, its component elements

are much less easily opened up to new and enticing possibilities.

This is why, for Waldron, securing and preserving minority cultures, and cultures in

general, is a way, not of promoting such enriching diversity, but rather of clogging up

the sources which feed the ground for mutual interaction:

“cultures live and grow, change and sometimes whither away; they amalgamate

with other cultures or they adapt themselves to geographical and demographic

necessity, to preserve a culture is often to take a favored snapshot version of it

and insist that this version must persist at all costs, in its defined purity,

irrespective of the surrounding social, economic and political circumstances”

(787-8)

According to Waldron, if we are to take seriously the cosmopolitan alternative, then

excessively campaigning for minority rights is seen almost as a backward tendency.

Kymlicka, who himself views a conception of the thin good as desirable, provides us

with some elements to criticize Waldron’s argument. His arguments are put forward

immediately following the already analyzed ‘hard cases’ which included among them

the ‘un’-easy case of immigrants. While Kymlicka acknowledges the enriching power

of intercultural exchange, he is likewise quick to point out that “there are limits in the

cultural material which people find meaningful” (86). Why is this so? Well because for

Kymlicka, although he subscribes to a thin theory of the good just as Waldron does, his

-tv

thinness is radically less thin than the required for a strong version of cosmopolitanism.

/’

17

Different societal cultures share a language which gives and shapes the sensepossibilities of practices and ideas. Snatches of culture dragged out of context loosetheir deeper meaning, they remain context-less and in this way extremelyimpoverished. Ridding cultural elements to a large extent from their original languageleads to incomprehension of words and actions. For Kymlicka “options are available to

us if they become part of the shared vocabulary of social life , i.e., embodied in the

social practices based on a shared language that we are exposed to” (86).

It is precisely because of this that the protection of minority right, particularly in the

case of immigrants becomes a necessity. This is so because of the inexistence of a

neutral sphere in which all cultural components of the cosmopolitan alternative are set.

Waldroifs alternative seems to presuppose that all traditions entering upon the public

sphere enter into it as equals. Only in this way can a strong view of hybrid reality make

sense. Unfortunately while Waldron delights, as we all should, in the intercultural

exchange which marks immigrant receiving countries, he does away with the very

conditions for the active flourishing, rather than mere preservation, of the roots from

which a strong multi-cultural reality springs. While Waldron seems led to deny special

immigrant treatment because of his anricommunitarian arguments, Kymlicka, as we

saw in the previous section^ does not go far enough.

What is so problematic in Waldron’s argument, from the perspective of immigrant

groups, comes to light clearly in his conception of the cosmopolitan picture of the self.

Its amorphous identity is based, not on any kind of hierarchical structuring based on

some special elite’s perception of some substantive view of the good, but rather on the

democratic governance of a pluralistic society of equals brought together by their

sharing a ‘thin’, perhaps too thin, theory of the good.

However, minority groups are so thin themselves as compared to majority traditions,

that, under Waldron’s conditions they will truly, I believe, disappear; their deep

richness condemned to invisibility and inaudibility. As Iris Young argues: “democratic

public should recognize mechanisms for the effective representation and recognition of

the distinct voices and perspective of those of its constituent groups who are oppressed

or disadvantaged within it” (Young, 261). While Waldron cherishes the hybridity born

18

out of interaction between cultures, he precisely takes out the very protectivefoundations which can guarantee real complex intermingling. If in Kymlicka’sargument the future scenario ends up being a secure societal culture, under Waldron’sperspective security will, in the long haul, end up being achieved by a mainstreamsociety free from the struggles of any communitarian oriented minorities.

A second serious problem in Waldron’s view of the self, from the perspective of

immigrants, lies in its relation to the identity struggles faced by immigrant children.

While his view of the self can in fact lead to an enriching and multiply fulfilling

condition; while it is true that this selfs tension, its chaotic nature and healthy

confusion, can lead — perhaps is the main road — to an artistic creation such as

Rushdie’s, it is also true that not all immigrants are potential Rushdie’s who can

articulate the confusion in which they are set in. Immigrant children do in fact face this

same kind of chaotic self structure, but from them, as we shall see in the next section,

there do not spring literary works, but rather a lack of self-esteem and disorientarion. A

senselessness born precisely out of the lack of the adequate conditions for the

reccognition

Finally, I would just like to question the very idea put forward at the beginning of

‘ this second section; the one dealing with a critical stance based on a thin theory of the

good. It makes one wonder whether Waldron, while trying to argue for a hybrid

\~\

coexistence of cultures, does in fact end up putting forward only ONE alternative,

namely, the one which is based on a very thin theory of the good in which real deep

ties to one’s culture are to be seen as radically suspicious; and the incapacity to

question these as absolutely inauthentic. But in the case of immigrants precisely this

perspective is what can in the fact be missing, at least to the same degree and in the

same form. Take for instance family ties; while family ties seem linked to the nuclear

family in North America, few North Americans would comprehend the virtual

necessity for some people of living in an extended family; living outside these is like

being torn apart. This is why I tend to believe that the most valuable aspect of the

liberal tradition which can stand back from its goods is that it can stand back, prior to

judging other communities’ goods, from its own goods by assuming a self-critical

19

stance. This inward turn, if done properly, can then truly pave the way to thepossibility of a dialogue which is both more honest and much deeper; one whichrespects the fact that other communities do not share the same goods as it does, and donot share the same type of questioning as it can.SECTION III: PAREKH ON IMMIGRANTS

In his paper on aboriginal Canadians, Alain Cairns points to the fact that the broad

category, ‘aboriginal’, tends to cover up the diverse traditions that, if one looks up

close, are found within it: “Metis, Inuit, and Status Indians are very different ways of

being aboriginal that derive from distinct histories and particular interactions with

Euro-Canadian society” (3). Simplifying reality conceptually can lead to overseeing the

real complexity which lies behind such all-encompassing terms.

This is likewise the case, I believe, with the broad category of ‘immigrant’. The term,

of course, is not only inevitable because it facilitates overall discussion and general

policy planning, but it does so —if it simply stays at this level of generality– by

homogenizing widely diverging experiences of different immigrant groups constituted

through varying traditions, histories, purposes and languages.

Kymlicka’s astonishing sensibility to difference is here lacking. Although he does, in

the case of Hispanics, differentiate between four groups –national minorities

(Chicanes and Puerto Ricans), refugees (Cubans), illegal workers (Mexican) and

immigrants (presumably Central and South America)— he fails to sec the latter

category’s internal diversity. Spanish immigrants, while certainly sharing the Spanish

language, do not by any means share the same societal culture. (This, not only across

boundaries such as for instance Colombia and Venezuela, but within boundaries

themselves due to the huge class differences which grow out economic disparities.)

Kymlicka himself acknowledges that sharing a language, while being a necessary

condition for sharing a culture, is not a sufficient one for doing so: “while the members

of a culture share the same language, it does not follow that all people who share the

same language belong to the same culture. Not all anglophones in the world belong to

20

the same culture” (93, footnote 28). By the same token, not all Spanish speakingimmigrants belong to the same culture. And if this is so for Spanish speakingimmigrants, well one can truly see the necessity of considering the difficulty ofviewing all immigrants as somehow commensurable to each other, for instance,because of their having uprooted themselves.

In contrast, Parekh is extremely conscious of the importance of signaling out the

different cultural groups which conform the broad immigrant population. In the first

place, he tells us that immigrants, who have certainly uprooted themselves from the

territory they inhabited, nevertheless do so for quite different reasons. These fall into a

continuum with an extensive area of greyish tonalities which allows us to move

beyond a voluntary/involuntary dichotomy: “immigrants come for a variety of reasons,

ranging from search for asylum to their active recruitment by the state, and each

generates distinct claims and obligations” (Parekh, TRA, 701). Different conditions

for uprooting , or better, migrating, require different relational interactions between

the members of mainstream culture and the newcomers. Dealing with refugee claims,

for example, requires radically different considerations from those which arise with

regards to immigrants who are so skilled that they enter the job market with relative

ease.

Parekh also points out that it is an unquestionable fact that immigrants come from all

over the globe. They share little in common; not language, not religion, not diet, not

dress, not customs, not family relations, not gender relation, not economic abilities.

Immigrants “come from different countries, ranging from ex-colonies to fellow

members of such international organizations as the European community. In each case

they stand in different historical and contractual relations to the receiving country”

(ibid.)(*l)

And not only the ‘why’ and the ‘where’ tend to vary to a considerable degree in the

case of immigrants, but likewise the ‘how long’ and ‘to what degree attachment is felt’.

This variation, I suspect, is determined, to a large extent, on the favorable conditions

found upon arrival, that is to say, on the degree to which immigrants feel respected and

21

respecting, recognized and recognizing, valued and valuable, and finally seen asworth- deserving as well as worth- giving beings. For Parekh:”some immigrants are or see themselves as short-term residents anxiousafter a few years to return to their home countries of origin or to moveelsewhere; some are or see themselves as long-term residents anxious

eventually to return to their countries of origin and in the meantime to remain

and work within, but not to become full members of, the host society; some

others want to remain members of their countries of origin as well as become

full members of the host country; yet others have completely broken with their

countries of origin” (Parekh, TRA, 702)

It is true that by putting forward all these differentiating factors, the issue of

‘immigrants’ might become much more dense and less easy to handle practically, but

at least it is a move which does not shy away from portraying the complexity of the

issue. Not by closing one’s eyes, no matter how hard one tries, will the dense multi-

layered reality of a multicultural society fade away.

This idea is one which Parekh develops more fully in his understanding of British

society. For him contemporary Britain ought to be seen as a multiethnic society. He

purposely rejects designating it as ‘multicultural’, precisely because for him this term

“does not adequately express, and even seems to obscure the kinds of difference that

obtain between different communities in modern Britain” (Parekh, BCCD, 184).

Ethnicity refers to identity and character differentiation, it is in this sense that Britain

can be seen as made up of such differentiating communities, “each with its distinct

culture or ways of thought and life” (184). (*2) Their having landed on British soil is a

fact to which there exists not one unique way of responding. Mainstream British

culture which, for different reasons, allowed these multiethnic appearance on its

shores: “ha(s) to decide how to respond to this fact, bearing in mind their own history,

system of values and aspirations as well as the likely reactions of the ethnic

community” (186). Parekh sees four general possible paths to follow: i) a rejoicing in

multiethnicity (polyethnicity for Kymlicka or cosmopolitanism for Waldron), ii) a

grudging acceptance of its nature, iii) a slow, but effective, undermining of it or finally,

iv) an open declaration of war upon it (186). Regardless of which is adopted, it remains

fundamental to realize that their implementation, just as in the case of Aboriginal

22

demands for fair treatment in the Canadian context, must continuously remind itselfthat, “simply put, the difficulty (here) is that the direction in which we are going isuncharted territory with few signposts” (Cairns, 1).However, this is not to say that the ethnic presence is somehow new to mainstreamculture; a kind of surprise to which they have suddenly awakened. In fact Parekh

shows how British governments have adopted more or less clear political policies with

determined objectives. Parekh traces the history of the two main responses to

immigrant arrival: on the one hand, the assimilationist/ nationalist alternative, and on

the other, the integrationist/liberal one. Both have subsisted side by side; the

preeminence of one over the other has depended primarily on the political climate of

the times (191). The first promotes some form of benign neglect, a policy which, as we

have argued, ends up being neither ‘benign’ nor ‘neglecting’. This interpretative path

perceives the incompatible ways of life found in ethnic communities as a diversity

which can lead eventually to political instability; even to a serious fragmentation of

what it sees as a cohesive and unified Britain with a univocal identity. According to this

view, Britain “could not remain cohesive without fully integrating them (note; the

ethnic groups), and it couldn’t integrate them without dismantling their internal

bonds” (188). Through both a discriminatory immigration policy which for instance

did not allow relatives to join already settled immigrants, and a mainstream education

focusing on English curricula (primarily history and language), this policy sought an

active cultural engineering of ethnic groups. Of course immigrants were not denied

basic human rights, but neither were they given any type of group differentiated rights.

The second model, the liberal/integrationist, valued diversity as actually enriching the

social fabric of contemporary Britain. Nevertheless “it remained vague and was not

clearly distinguished from its assimilarionist rival” (191). It pushed forward both

antidiscriminatory laws and demanded an education curricula based on mutual

understanding and tolerance. It fostered an environment where both parties sought to

interact actively in order to enrich each others’ perspective to the fullest. But it did so

timidly and halfheartedly.

23

Parekh sees various difficulties in each of these approaches. But among the critiquesthat he puts forward, I would like to signal one out which takes up the issues raised inthe first two sections of this essay. It is one which he directs primarily against thestrong assimilationist strand, but which can equally be argued against a weak liberalperspective which does not guarantee strong forms of group differentiated rights to

immigrant minorities. The critique concerns the effects of a strong defense of minority

rights, not simply on first generation immigrants, but on their children and their

children’s children as well.

Immigrant children, as we saw in Section I, did not decide to uproot themselves.

Nevertheless, they stand now, because of their parents’ decision, in an environment

which can not only foster the most extreme uneasiness and disorientation, but also

provide them with the most enriching of possibilities in the conformation of their

directional identity. While their parents had the possibility of growing into different

sorts of, more or less, solid trees –trees which can use their strength to survive in

unknown terrain — immigrant children are like fragile seeds and plants facing a forest

the richness and dangers of which can be compared to a jungle. This can lead to a

sense of loss and disorientation without comparison. In the case of Asian immigrants,

for instance:

“There is ample evidence that (their) children growing up in non-Asian Areas,

or taught in overzealous assimilationist schools, are deeply confused, insecure,

tense, anxious, emotionally hollow, ashamed of their past, including their

parents, lack resistance and self-confidence, and display disturbing disorders in

their thoughts, feelings and behavior” (192)

Kymlicka’s answer to this dilemma, which I take it goes beyond Asian boundaries, lies,

as we saw, in adopting a ‘strenuous effort’ to bring these children closer to mainstream

society. A solution which, we argued, sidestepped the problem itself by seeming to

imply that cutting the roots of one’s culture, and one’s language could be morally

demanded of immigrant children because, if not, they would end up just as

disoriented. Waldron, in turn, presumably would argue that this is the price to be paid

for the constitution of a radically new form of multiple thin identities which together

constitute the cosmopolitan view of the self.

24

Parekh is perturbed, and rightly so, by these troubling effects of migration. And,unlike Kymlicka, he views the source of the problem, not primarily in diversificationitself, but precisely in the inability of mainstream culture, not only to provide adequatemechanisms for the survival of immigrant identities, but also those which canguarantee their active and strong flourishing.

A case in point is that of the issue of the use of immigrant languages in the public

sphere. As we have argued, unless some strong defense of the minority language is

allowed — presumably where numbers warrant– these languages are, if not

doomed to disappear, then, and perhaps worse yet, forcefully sent to search for self-

enclosed islands in which they remain in use, quietly awaiting an opportunity to come

to public light through some kind of political demand. A shocking example given to us

by Parekh is that of the Urdu parents speaking in crowded train. To her parents use of

the shared language used in their homeland, a young immigrant girl reacts with utter

shame:

“When the confused mother asked for an explanation, the girl shot back: ‘Just

as you do not expose your private parts in public, you do not speak in public in

that language’. Though no one had presumably taught her that, she knew that

the public realm belonged to the whites, that only their language and customs

were legitimate within it, and that ethnic identities were to be confined to the

private realm. In a society dominated by one culture, pluralism requires more

than mere tolerance” (193) (*3)

Immigrant children’s healthy upbringing requires more than a mere bipartite strategy

in which their language remains exclusively private-oriented. This strategy may so

severe the identification links with their parents as to even deform the identities of

those children who make up second and third generations.

But it is not Parekh’s aim simply to safeguard minorities, and their languages, from

any interaction with mainstream society. This is neither possible, nor desirable given

that extreme differentiation, the kind which disregards some sort of integration is just

as counterproductive and damaging; “differentiation draws attention to oneself,

intensifies self-consciousness, singles one out as an outsider, and denies one the

instinctive trust and loyalty extended to those perceived to be ‘one of us'” (192) (*4^).

Some type of communicative interaction can alone respond adequately to the

25

multiethnicity which marks Britain’s social reality. It is an interaction that finds in adialogical relationship an extremely alluring model for new kinds of coexistence andcohabitation.Some of the central points for such a healthy interaction are given to us by Parekhhimself. His position, which springs from a critique of the previous two approaches, is

founded on five central premises: i) cultural difference is a valuable asset, ii) in

polyethnic societies such diversity is grounded partly in ethnicity which finds

expression in fragile minority communities, iii) these communities are not a threat to

mainstream society, but rather positively strengthen the latter’s economic, social,

cultural and linguistic possibilities, iv) the British have as part of their liberal tradition

an understanding of tolerance within morally permissible limits, and finally, v)

minority ethnic cultures ought to have a say in the public, politically charged, realm.

According to this perspective, minority immigrant communities are not simply to be

preserved in formaldehyde jars. They ought rather to be defended to the extent that

the conditions for their survival and active flourishing can be met by both (or more)

parties involved. The healthy tension found between minority(ies) and majority(ies)

can perhaps be seen to resemble a game which maybe most of us played as young

children; and if not so shared, it is one that can be taught to others (for the lovely thing

about games is that they can be taught to others who are eager to learn and participate

in them). It is that game in which two teams pull real hard on a single rope they share,

in order to bring one of them across a painted or imaginary line. It is true that Majority

cultures can indeed push the shared cord so as to send minority groups flying, in worse

case scenarios, right into the puddle which lies between them. But what both sides

must come to realize is that the possibility of the game itself makes sense only given

the presence of both. Of course one can play against oneself, but that, children can tell

you, is neither as challenging, nor as fun. It is in this sense, I think, that one can say

that “integration requires movement on both sides, otherwise it is an imposition”

(Parekh, 195).

Imposition reflects a desire to deny diversity, it proceeds from a leveling hunger

which fails to critically assess the underlying motives behind its game destroying

26

action. Fortunately as we saw in Section II, the mainstream culture of countries such asCanada and the US is born out of a tradition which knows itself to be born out of a self-critical and dialogical tradition. This is why it can indeed come to see that ethnicminorities:”widen the range of lifestyles upon its citizens, enabling them to borrow from

others what attracts them and to enrich their way of life. They also bring

different traditions into a mutually beneficial dialogue and stimulate new ideals

and experiments” (195) (*4)

Borrowing and lending are the social expressions of a hard won trust and

understanding.

This mutual activity, this rope game, is the one which Parekh defends by expliciting

six primary normative objectives to have in mind in determining the healthy

relationships between minorities and majorities. First, cultural diversity ought to be

given strong public status so that diversity and difference come to be viewed, not as a

limiting factor by both parties — half grudgingly accepted by the majority,

halfheartedly rejected by immigrant children– but rather as a deep challenge for

both. One in which both (or more) parties are called upon to foster the cohabitation of

strong identities living side by side and committed to respect their traditions by way of

increasing bilingual education, multicultural curricula, acceptance of dress codes,

religious beliefs, and minority holidays, among many others. Second, on the minority

culture’s side of the rope, it is expected that they accept the obligations of British

citizenship through national loyalty and sensitivity to British political values;

principally through an active respect for the liberal democratic practices and

institutions and an understanding of the history and language which provide the

foundations of Britain’s shared cultural vocabulary. Nevertheless, and this is the third

point, minority cultures must be allowed to develop in their own direction and at a

speed not to be imposed from outside. These minority groups, even if they come from

a tradition that does not know of such a critical stand as that which characterizes the

countries they enter upon, have among them: “intelligent and wise men and women,

most of them heirs to old civilizations, and familiar with the art of making changes.

They love their children, are deeply concerned about their well-being, and know

27

better than anyone else that their future is tied up with British society, which theymust therefore understand and to which they must adapt, however painful the process”(199). Fourth, it is necessary to understand, and here Parekh coincides with Kymlicka,that individuals comprising communities flourish or decay with the downfall oruprising, literally up-rising, of these communities. This is why the proper conditions

for communal recognition and identification must be set in place; from this conditions

perhaps will follow more smoothly, higher individual levels of self-confidence and self-

esteem. The fifth consideration involves the need for the recognition of the distinct

character of ethnic communities by the mainstream legal system. This, not through the

implementation of a plurality of incommensurable legal systems (*5), but rather

through a more flexible, imaginative, and not because of this less secure, interpretation

of British laws: “the courts confront one with the other and decide how best the

general intentions of the law can be realized and justice done as well as seen to be

done in a specific and unique case” (202) () Vor instance, while cases of female

circumcision ought to be rejected, equal treatment of genders ought to be fostered

(*7).

Finally, and here Waldron and Parekh come close to each other, but through

radically different routes, the idea of identity must be reconsidered so as to

acknowledge the diversity upon which it is now to be construed. Identity is “not an

abstract but a concrete and internally differentiated universal. It is not something all

Britons (note: or Canadians) possess; but rather a milieu, a self renewing process in

which they participate’. Identity is a dynamic concept which, regardless of our

intentions, seems to have a life of its own. Its fluidity continually escapes us no matter

how hard we fight to reach its alleged security. Multiculturalism implies

interdependence; it requires an open stance capable, both of listening to perspectives

which at first may appear radically alien, and of articulating self-critically one’s own

goods and valuations. To speak of a British identity makes sense only through the

recognition of this mutual belonging:

“In other words none of us is fully British. We are constantly trying to become

one, each on his own way and at his own pace. Only he is fully British who can

honestly say that no British citizen, black or white, Christian or Hindu, is a

28

cultural stranger to him. Those generally regarded as quintessentially British arein some way the least British” (203)Identity is a never-ending process in which becoming supersedes being. Polyglots aresuch becoming loving creatures. We positively admire polyglots, among other things,for their incredible capacity to perceive and produce sounds of differing tonalities, for

having the mnemic capacity required to recognize distinct words, for their graceful and

almost effortless comprehension of grammar and functional structures pertaining to

diverse linguistic groups. But polyglots are truly gifted humans; immigrants and their

hosts can simply try to learn from the former the mutual advantages to be won from

aiming at some type of expressive and respectful bilingualism. (*8) Having won this

linguistic advantage, perhaps then can follow different types of trilingualism, and who

knows, maybe even an enriching polyglorism. (*9)

FOOTNOTESINTRODUCTION1. In this passage Camus refers not only to the loss of his beloved Algiers, but likewise to a loss whichhe sees permeates the whole of the Western tradition. For him it is one which, in modernity, ischaracterized by the birth of nihilism and the absurd. Nihilism is itself understood as a leveling of all

values which, for example for Nietzsche, is seen as a detrimental aspect of the democratic tradition and

its perspective of a ‘thin view of the good’ (a perspective taken up in section II of this essay). The

liberal tradition is not without critiques itself, starting from Plato and Aristotle..

2. Having lived most of my life in Colombia, born from a Quebecois mother and a Colombian father,

having had access to the English language from early on, having lived for four years in Montreal some

years ago, and for a few months here in Toronto, I still am at a loss sometimes as to how to respond to

some elements in Canadian culture. Although there are too many examples, I would like to signal out

two in particular. The first occurred some days prior to the Quebec referendum. I asked a fellow Master

student whom I met in the Department what she thought about the issue. She gave me her opinion

and I proceeded to ask her who she was going to vote for. She stared at me rather oddly and asked

“Isn’t that kind of personal?”. Then, somehow, it clicked that such a question, though perhaps common

in a Colombian setting, is radically personal here. It took us some seconds to understand why she

thought it was such a strange question and why I thought it to be rather normal. Although embarrasing,

we seemed to realize the context within which the question was made. The second occurred in 1986

when I, for the first time was coming to a country I was a citizen of, but which I had never before

visited. Upon arriving to the airport and showing my passport where it says I was born in Colombia, I

was ‘jokingly’ asked by the immigration official; how many kilos do you have with you? He seemed to

take it for granted that it was obvious what the kilos WCTC of (Colombians abroad are dealt with with

extreme unfairness). Many examples which occur in day to day interactions still occur to me. I take it

that it is something that most immigrants share to even greater degrees. (This is likewise true for

people who migrate, from the countryside, into the ever growing cities in the Latin American setting.)

3. Perhaps a more balanced consideration can be reached with the difficult empirical study that will

follow this essay, and which will focus on the issue of immigration, either in Quebec, or a Province such

as Ontario. I will, in this essay, disregard all questions dealing with the economic requirements

necessary to foster a healthy relation between minorities and mainstream culture in a period where

cutbacks are the order of the day. But I will likewise remind myself that practice, without some kind of

theoretical framework, can be dangerously blind.

SECTION I

1. For Kymlicka both forms of multiculturalism, the multination, and the polyethnic, are not as distinct

as the separate categories might portray (19); furthermore for him Canada is among the few countries

which shares both (16).

2. For Kymlicka internal restrictions are to be regarded by liberals with very suspicious eyes.

Nevertheless, when he discusses the Quebec case he seems to shy away from considering Bill 101 .Is

not this Bill an internal restriction. Does Kymlicka see it as a suspicious one? How does it presence

affect incoming immigrants to the province of Quebec? Can they claim such internal restrictions using

the same arguments? Up to what extent?

3. Kymlicka is extremely sensitive to a multitude of empirical cases which he acknowledges do not fit

easily in his complex conceptual framework. Some of these are African Americans, refugees and

Hutcerites in Canada (19).

4. The other reasons for this minority rights skepticism lie in: i) the failure of minority treatises such as

that of Poland and Germany prior to the beginning of the Second World W^ar, and ii) racial

desegregation in the LS which seeks a color-blind society.

30

5. The continual use of the adjective and noun American in the part of Kymlicka is radicallydiscriminating to the peoples who live in the American CONTINENT; a continent comprised ofSouth, Central and North America. This use of the term cannot be defended either morally norgeographically. It is as if one, unintentionally, argued that all Canadians are gringos. This might seemlike a nominal problem, but if the arguments in Section I are correct, then it is certaiily more than this.

This use ought to be changed; but, of course, watching the news and reading the newspaper, it seems

quite illusory to try do so.

6. For Kymlicka there is not that much of difference between the two immigration models usually

discussed, the Canadian ‘mosaic’, and the US ‘melting pot’. Perhaps the first is not so mosaic-like, the

latter, not so melting. (10-11)

7. Having taught English as a Foreign Language for several years, I have seen the difficulty, and time

consuming task, which is to learn a language such as English (that is in all the four linguistic skills:

reading, writing, speaking and listening). I know that the ESL situation changes, and soon will begin to

prepare myself to look at the differences.

8. On the identity of the Quebecois, Kymlicka moves from referring to them sometimes as Quebecers,

sometimes as French Canadians. But precisely the Quebecois see themselves, before Canadians, as

members of the French speaking Province of Quebec. For Taylor this is furthermore linked to a

perspective which holds that the Quebecois hold a view of the good which stands in tension, to some

extent, with the ‘thin’ view of the good upheld by Kymlicka and Waldron. That Taylor dedicates pages

to the issue of language in political thought is therefore no surprise.

9. This deep diversity follows from an acceptance of a first level agreement on the basic principles of

liberalism and human rights.

SECTION II

1. A tradition grounded on the Kantian imperative, Sapere Aude! (Learn to be wise) As Kant asks of us:

“Have courage to use your own understanding” (Kant, What is Enlightenment”). This is a tradition in

which autonomy is set against all forms of heteronomy.

2. This is a position which is radically criticized, I believe, by Aristotelian ethical thought. The amazing

clement in Waldron’s argument is that he can still use Aristotle to foster his argument of global

interdependence, while clinging to a thin theory of the good. The tension can also be seen, I think, in

the Taylorite differentiation between what he calls hypergoods, and the goods which follow from the

modern affirmation of ordinary life (Sources of the Self.)

3. Here Waldron follows Habermas’ modernist project: “the arrival of world citizenship is no longer

a phantom though we are still far from achieving it. State citizenship and world citizenship form a

continuum w-which already shows itself (at least) in outline form” (Habermas, 7).

SECTION III

1. Recently a friend of mine from Colombia, who was not as lucky as I to have been born from a

Canadian, and therefore by law having the right to Canadian Citizenship (something envied by many in

countries such as Colombia), told me that during his swearing allegiance to the Queen and Canada,

there were, in the same place, about 120 people coming, and this is astonishing, from 29 different

countries !!!!!

2. Parekh clearly differentiates between the processes followed by Asian immigrants and their economic

claims, Afro-Caribbean and their political claims, and Muslims and their religious claims. Of course all

three claims are interrelated, but each immigrant group has tended to emphasize some over the others.

3. One of my Canadian nieces, the one old enough to speak, does not like to speak any Spanish,

although she can understand just about anything one tells her. In contrast, one of my Colombian

nephews speaks English as much as he can. Precisely it is in these everyday realities that, I think, one

can sec the difference between having a language extremely valued for different purposes as English is

in Latin America, and the parallel relevance of Spanish in Canada. Of course the case of Hispanics in

the US is radically different. Most of my students in Colombia would, if they could travel to learn

English, shy away from cities such as Miami for they argued, “one does not need English there”.

31

4. It is disturbing sometimes to hear stories of immigrants whose success within mainstream societyleads them away from the culture within which they were brought up. But this is a very personal andbiased opinion.5. The difference between immigrants and Aboriginal Indians is here illuminating. The latter do have,for different reasons, their own legal systems; but these seek not to deny basic human rights.

6. Aristotle in his Ethics points this out in quite another historical context: “‘it is he mark of the trained

mind never to expect more precision in the treatment of any subject than the nature of the subject

permits” (1094b28-30)

7. In the case of legal claims drawing the line is precisely the problem. While Carens argues that cases

of gender equality must hold universally, as well as the female circumcision of children (for adults it is

different) (CJ,CD,PC), there are other more problematic cases to which Parekh points. One of these is

the legalization of marijuana by Rastafarians of which he says: “The Rastafarians cannot be easily

isolated from the rest of the community, there is always the risk of the large-scale traffic of drugs, and

the likely health risk to them that cannot be ignored by the state” (201). Here, I believe, Parekh seems

to be sidestepping the issue. And it is one which of course permeates the whole modern debate on drug

control.

8. I write bilingualism because I take it that the primary relationship to consider in multicultural society

is between specific immigrant groups and the English speaking society. Once this dialogue takes place,

I believe, there can follow the more complex possibility of carrying over these intercommunicative links

to the relationship between immigrant groups themselves. But here I may perhaps be wrong.

9. What one certainly does not want, I have argued, is some kind of Esperanto which all human beings

share, but without having any ties to real practical and theoretically complex and differentiated

contexts. (The Bible story of the Tower of Babel can perhaps be here illuminating)

32

BIBLIOGRAPHY (Readings for the course)Cairns, Alan, “Aboriginal Canadians, Citizenship and the Constitution”.Carens, Joseph, “Realistic and Idealistic Approaches to the Ethics of Migration”.— “Complex Justice, Cultural Difference and Political Community”.— “Canadian Citizenship and Aboriginal Self-Government”.

— “Democracy and Respect for Difference: The Case of Fiji”.

________ “Liberalism and Culture”.

Habermas, Jurgen, “Citizenship and National Identity: Some Reflections on the

Future of Europe”.

Kymlicka, Will, Multicultural Citizenships

Parekh, Bhikhu, “British Citizenship and Cultural Difference”.

— “The Rushdie Affair: Research Agenda for Political Philosophy”.

Taylor, Charles, “Shared and Divergent Values”.

Waldron, Jeremy, “Minority Cultures and the Cosmopolitan Alternative”.

Walzer, Michael, “Three Paths in Moral Philosophy”.

Young, Iris, “Polity and Group Difference: A Critique of the Ideal of Universal

Citizenship”.

Read Full Post »

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).

Read Full Post »

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.

 

Read Full Post »

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.

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »