Remembering René Guénon

Edouard RIX

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

Translated by Greg Johnson

Editor’s Note:

This essay and the one that follows are presented in commemoration of René Guénon’s birth on November 15, 1886.

On January 7th, 1951, the Frenchman René Guénon, one of the principal representatives of Traditional thought in the 20th century, died in Cairo.

From Occultism to Esotericism

Guénon was born in Blois, on November 15, 1886, to a strongly Catholic family. In 1904, after a pilgrimage to Lourdes, he went to Paris to continue his education. A dawdler, he only obtained his license when he was 29, then at 32 he failed his aggregation in philosophy when his doctoral thesis, devoted to “A General Introduction to the Study of Hindu Doctrines,” was rejected.

Parallel to his studies, Guénon frequented, from his arrival in the capital, the occultist milieu, launching himself headlong into a series of affiliations and initiations. He entered the Hermetic School, was received into the Martinist Order, attended various occultist Masonic organizations, was initiated in the Tebah Lodge of the Grand Lodge of France. In 1908, he was secretary of Second Spiritualistic and Masonic Congress and became Sovereign Grand Commander of the Order of the Renovated Temple. At the age of 23, he was consecrated “bishop of Alexandria” of the Gnostic Church of France, under the name of Palingénius and became editor of La Gnose, “the monthly review devoted to the study of esoteric sciences.”

After several disappointing experiences in the occultist milieu, he turned to the East to find the right path, that of “initiatory Knowledge.” After being interested in Taoism, he was initiated in 1912 into Sufism, an Islamic initiatory current, without embracing the Islamic religion, as he would later explain to a correspondent. Having learned Chinese and Arabic, reading the original texts, he tried to work with initiates in each tradition.

While giving his own lessons and courses of philosophy, René Guénon wrote many articles for Catholic publications like the Revue universelle du Sacré-Cœur Regnabit and Traditionalist publications like the Le Voile d’Isis (Veil of Isis), which became Etudes traditionnelles. He also published books.

The Tradition Against the Modern World

In his Introduction to the Study of Hindu Doctrines (1921), and the Man and His Becoming According to the Vedanta (1925), he defined the criteria of universal traditional metaphysics. For Guénon, Tradition means the whole of “metaphysical” knowledge of order: it admits a variety of forms, while remaining one in its essence.

He insists on the idea, already formulated before him by Joseph de Maistre and Fabre d’ Olivet, of a primordial Tradition, which goes back to a supreme Center, the repository of all spiritual knowledge, which diffuses it by the means of “initiatory chains” present in the various religious paths. In Perspectives on Initiation (1946), he defended the need to attach oneself to  a “chain,” to a “regular organization,” but hardly offers an alternative to those who refuse to defer, like him, to Muslim or Oriental ones. But in all fairness, he recognizes that in spite of its degeneration Freemasonry remains in theory a conduit of genuine initiation.

The most interesting aspect of Guénon’s work lies in his radical criticism of the modern world, to which he opposes the world of Tradition as a positive foil. According to him, traditional civilization,which was realized in the Orient as well as the West—India, Medieval Catholicism, Imperial China, the Islamic Caliphate—rests on metaphysical foundations. It is characterized by the recognition of an order higher than anything human and the authority of elites which draw from this transcendent plane the principles necessary to found an articulated social organization.

This rests on the division of society into four castes or functional classes: at the top representatives of spiritual authority, then a warlike aristocracy, a middle-class of the merchants and craftsmen, and finally the toiling masses. This concept of caste refers obviously to the Hindu, Indo-Aryan system, divided between the Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, and Shudras. In the same way, ancient Iran, Greece, and Rome also had somewhat analogous social organizations, which one finds, moreover, in the political doctrines of Plato. The ultimate revival of this system in the West was the feudal Middle Ages, the clergy corresponding to the Brahmins, the nobility to the Kshatriyas, the third estate with the Vaishyas, and the serfs with the Shudras.

The polar opposition of the world of the Tradition is held to be modern civilization, which is characterized by desacralization, ignorance of all that is higher than man, materialism, frenzied activity.

Two major books, The Crisis of the Modern World (1927) and The Reign of Quantity and the Signs of  the Times (1946) contain the essence of this critique, to which one can add East and West (1924), which holds that the only remaining Traditional civilizations are in the East. This led Guénon to move to Cairo in 1930, where he took the identity of Sheik Abdel Wahid Yahia.

The Regression of the Castes

René Guénon was never politically active, although he moved in the Parisian circles of Action française, because he believed that “at present, there is no movement deserving one’s adherence.”

For him, we are at the end of a cycle, in the Kali Yuga or “Dark Age” of the ancient Hindu texts or Hesiod’s “Iron Age.” His interpretation of the course of History as decline, resolutely anti-Marxist and reactionary, rests on the idea of the “regression of the castes.” In quasi-mythical times, society is ruled by sacred Kings ruling by divine right selected from the first caste. This is followed by the reign of the warlike caste, secular monarchs, military chiefs, or lords of temporal justice, which comes about in Europe with the decline of great monarchies. Then comes rule by the third estate, the middle-class, aristocracy giving way to plutocracy. Finally comes rule by the last caste, the working class, which finds its logical conclusion in Communism and Sovietism.

The idea of the regression of the castes was taken up by Julius Evola in his masterpiece, Revolt Against the Modern World, published in 1934. Guénon, moreover, allowed the publication of his writings in the cultural page edited by Evola from 1934 to 1943 in the daily newspaper Il Regime Fascista.

Knowledge and Action

Although Evola is indebted to Guénon in many ways, they differ on one point: the relationship of spiritual authority and temporal power, i.e., priesthood and royalty. In its book Spiritual Authority and Temporal Power published in 1929, Guénon affirms the primacy of the priesthood over royalty. For him, the Brahmin is higher than the Kshatriya because knowledge is higher than action and the “metaphysical” domain higher than the “physical.” Even if the members of the sacerdotal caste no longer appear worthy of their function, the validity in principle of their superiority cannot be denied lest one risk the disintegration of the socio-political system. Evola, however, who thought that Western culture is rooted in a “tradition of warriors,” defends the opposite thesis, claiming that Guénon’s reasoning is marked by “brahmanico-sacerdotal point of view of an Oriental.”

Faithful to his nature as a Brahmin, as a sage, René Guénon was more a witness of the Tradition than an actor in his time, contrary to the Kshatriya, the warrior Julius Evola, the 20th century’s only true rebel against the modern world.

Source: “Un témoin de la Tradition: René Guénon,” http://www.voxnr.com/cc/ds_tradition/EpZpkZVVlAJuBArRHD.s...

The Primordial Tradition: A Tribute to Ananda Coomaraswamy

The Primordial Tradition:
A Tribute to Ananda Coomaraswamy

by Ranjit Fernando

Ex: http://www.freespeechproject.com/ 

Ananda Coomaraswamy once suggested that Buddhism has been so much admired in the West mainly for what it is not; and he said of Hinduism, that although it had been examined by European scholars for more than a century, a faithful account of it might well be given in the form of a categorical denial of most of the statements that have been made about it, alike by European scholars and by Indians trained in modern modes of thought.

In the same way, it could perhaps be said of Coomaraswamy himself, that he is admired in Lanka, as in India, almost entirely for what he was not, and that a true account of his ideas might well take the form of a denial of most of the statements made about him in the land of his birth.

Coomaraswamy has long been presented, both in India and in Lanka, as a patriot, a famous indologist and art historian, an eminent scholar and orientalist; it would be as well to examine the validity of these widely-held beliefs about a man who was undoubtedly one of the greatest figures of our time.

The subject matter of all Coomaraswamy's mature writings can be placed under one heading, namely, Tradition. The Tradition that he writes about has little to do with the current usage of this term to mean customs or social patterns that have prevailed for some time. Coomaraswamy's theme is the unchanging Primordial and Universal Tradition which, as he shows, was the source from which all the true religions of the present as well as the past came forth, and likewise the forms of all those societies which were molded by religion.

The particular aspect of Tradition which Coomaraswamy chose as his own specialty -- the one best suited to his own talents -- was, of course, the traditional view of art, now mainly associated with the East, but once universally accepted by East and West alike, as also by the civilizations of antiquity and, indeed, by those societies which we are pleased to call primitive. Coomaraswamy never tired of demonstrating that the traditional view of life and of art was always the universal and normal view until the Greeks of the so-called classical period first introduced a view of life and of art fundamentally at variance with the hitherto accepted view.

In his aversion to what has been called 'the Greek miracle', Coomaraswamy is at one with Plato whose attitude to the changes that were taking place in his time was, to say the least, one of the strongest disapproval. Coomaraswamy shows, as Plato did, that the view of life and of art invented and glorified by the Greeks, and subsequently adopted by the Romans was, in the context of the long history of mankind, an abnormal view, an aberration; and that although this view lost its hold on men's minds with the rise of Christendom in the Middle Ages, it was to re-establish itself with greater force at the Renaissance thus becoming responsible for the fundamental ills of the modem world.

In all traditional societies, quite apart from his ability to reason, man was always considered capable of going further and achieving direct, intuitive knowledge of absolute truth which, as the traditionalist writer, Gal Baton says, "carries with it an immediate certainty provided by no other kind of knowledge."

"In the modem world," he continues, "we think in terms of "intellectual progress", by which we mean a progress in the ideas which men formulate with regard to the nature of things; but, from the point of view of traditional knowledge, there can be no progress, except in so far as particular individuals advance from ignorance to reflected or rational know ledge, and from reason to direct intuitive knowledge which, we might add, by its nature cannot be defined, but which, nevertheless stands over and above all other forms of knowledge being nothing less than knowledge itself.

From a traditional point of view, the fault of the Greeks lay in their substitution of the rational faculty for the supra-rational as the highest faculty of man, and in the words of Coomaraswamy's distinguished colleague, Rene Guenon, "it almost seems as if the Greeks, at a moment when they were about to disappear from history, wished to avenge themselves for their incomprehension by imposing on a whole section of mankind the limitations of their own mental horizon." Since the Renaissance, as Baton points out, the modem world has, of course, gone much further than did the Greeks in the denial even of the possibility of a real knowledge which transcends the narrow limits of the individual mentality." Moreover, as we are all aware, that which, from a traditional point of view, appears to be a serious narrowing of horizons, is seen from our modem point of view as an unprecedented intellectual breakthrough!

While it is hardly possible in a brief summary, such as this, to further discuss the issues involved, we might usefully ponder on Plato's story of the subterranean cave where some men have been confined since childhood. These men are familiar only with the shadows cast by a fire upon the dark walls of the cave, which they have all the time to study, and about which they are most knowledgeable. They know nothing of the outside world and therefore do not believe in its existence.

Coomaraswamy, like Plato, would have us realize that we, too, are in darkness like these men, and that we would do well to seek the light of another world above by concerning ourselves with those things, which our ancestors knew and understood so well. He constantly points out, that modem or anti-traditional societies are shaped by the ideas men develop by their own powers of reasoning, there finally being as many sets of ideas as there are men; he also tries to show that traditional societies, on the other hand, were based on perennial ideas of quite another order -ideas of divine origin and revealed -- whereby all the aspects of a society were determined.

A recurrent theme in Coomaraswamy's writings was the traditional view of art. When referring to European art, he repeatedly stressed that Graeco-Roman art and Renaissance art, like all the more modern schools of European art, were of earthly inspiration and therefore of human origin like the philosophies that went with them, whereas traditional art, like traditional philosophy, was related to the metaphysical order and therefore religious in character and divine in origin.

We now see that in his earliest works such as the monumental Medieval Sinhalese Art, Coomaraswamy did not as yet fully understand the difference between these two contrasting points of view which were to form the basis of his later and more significant work; in his early writings, his profound understanding of the traditional arts of Greater India, as indeed his already considerable grasp of the true meaning of religion, was a little clouded with modernistic prejudice, the outcome, no doubt, of his early academic training in England which was of a kind that he had, even then, begun to despise. But later, following his association with the French metaphysician, Rene Guenon, Coomaraswamy's writings assumed the complete correctness of exposition and the great authority, which we associate with his most mature work.

Insofar as we are able to see that a universalist approach to the study of the world's religions, coupled with an understanding of the true meaning of Tradition, have, at the present time, a special importance for the modern world, we shall also see that two men, the Frenchman, Rene Guenon, and Sri Lanka's Ananda Coomaraswamy, stand out as the greatest thinkers of the first half of this century. A great gulf separates their thought from the thought of nearly all their contemporaries. The second half of this century has witnessed the emergence of a whole school founded on their pioneering work and on the Perennial Philosophy, a movement which has found acceptance in many parts of a confused and bewildered world.

It will now be apparent that, if we are to regard Coomaraswamy as an eminent orientalist and art historian, it must first be clearly understood that he stands apart from almost all those other scholars who can be similarly described, in that while they approach the life and art of traditional societies from a modern standpoint {which is both "skeptical and evolutionary", to use his own words), Coomaraswamy, like his few true colleagues and collaborators, takes the view that takes the view that Tradition can only be understood by a careful consideration of its own point of view however inconvenient this may be. Once this is realized, it would certainly be true, not only to say that Coomaraswamy was an eminent scholar but, as Marco Pallis has said, a prince among scholars.

Coomaraswamy saw that a feudal or hierarchical society based on metaphysical principles is essentially superior to the supposedly egalitarian systems held in such high esteem today. Like Plato, he maintained that democracy was one of the worst forms of government, nor did he view any other materialistic system with more favour. His enthusiasm for such institutions as caste and kingship was based, not on sentiment, but on a profound understanding of the vital relationship between spiritual authority and temporal power in society and government. He would hardly have approved of the road which India and Lanka have taken since achieving their so-called independence, although he would have regarded it as inevitable.

It is well known that, from the very beginning, Coomaraswamy deplored the influence of the West on Eastern peoples, and especially the consequences of British rule in Greater India. He has therefore been placed alongside those who in India and Lanka have been regarded as national leaders in the struggle for independence. But here again, a complete difference of approach separates Coomaraswamy from his contemporaries, for it was not imperialism or the domination of one people by another that he was concerned about, but rather the destruction of traditional societies by peoples who had abandoned sacred forms. It was what the British stood for and not the British that he detested; on the contrary, there is no doubt that he loved England because he knew another, older England which in form as well as spirit was so much like the oriental world he understood so well.

It would, in conclusion, be appropriate to quote the words of that highly respected English artist-philosopher, Eric Gill, who in his autobiography paid Coomaraswamy this great tribute:

"There was one person, to whose influence I am deeply grateful; I mean the philosopher and theologian, Ananda Coomaraswamy. Others have written the truth about life and religion and man's work. Others have written good clear English. Others have had the gift of witty exposition. Others have understood the metaphysics of Christianity and others have understood the metaphysics of Hinduism and Buddhism. Others have understood the true significance of erotic drawings and sculptures. Others have seen the relationships of the true and the good and the beautiful. Others have had apparently unlimited learning. Others have loved; others have been kind and generous. But I know of no one else in whom all these gifts and all these powers have been combined. I dare not confess myself his disciple; that would only embarrass him. I can only say that I believe that no other living writer has written the truth in matters of art and life and religion and piety with such wisdom and understanding."

N°10-11 d'HYPERBOREE

N°10-11 d’Hyperborée

Tradition & Revolution

Tradition & Revolution

Edouard RIX

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

Translated by Greg Johnson

What are we fighting for? Every political soldier has to raise this question. Contradictory as it might seem, we are inclined to answer that we fight for Tradition and Revolution.

The Tradition

First of all, one should not confuse the Tradition with traditions, i.e., customs and habits.

The Tradition indicates the ensemble of higher-order knowledge regarding Being and its manifestations in the world, such as they were bequeathed to us by former generations. It pertains not to what is given in space and time, but to what is always. It admits a variety of forms — traditions — while remaining one in its essence. One should not confuse it with the one religious tradition, because it covers the totality of human activities — political, economic, social, etc. . . .

Following Joseph de Maistre, Fabre d’ Olivet, and especially René Guénon, Julius Evola speaks about a “primordial Tradition” which, historically, would make it possible to consider the concrete origin of a whole array of traditions. He refers to a “Hyperborean tradition,” coming from the Extreme North, located at the beginning of the present cycle of civilization, in particular the Indo-European cultures.

From Evola’s point of view, “a civilization or a society is traditional when it is governed by principles that transcend what is merely human and individual, when all its forms come to it from on high, and when as a whole it is oriented toward what is above.” Traditional civilization thus rests on metaphysical foundations. It is characterized by the recognition of an order superior to all that is human and contingent, by the presence and the authority of elites that draw from this transcendent plane the principles necessary to found a hierarchically articulated social organization, to blaze trails towards a higher knowledge, and finally to confer on life a vertical orientation.

The modern world, to Evola, is contrary to the world of the Tradition which was incarnated in all great civilizations, West and East. They are free of our ignorance of all that is higher than man, our generalized desacralization, materialism, and confusion of castes and races.

The Revolution

As for the term Revolution, it must be brought back to its double meaning. In its current sense, which is most commonly used, Revolution means the abrupt and violent change in the government of a State. The French Revolution and the Russian Revolution of 1917 are perfect illustrations.

However, in its original sense, Revolution does not mean subversion and revolt, but the opposite, namely the return to a starting point and movement centered around an axis. Thus, in astronomical terms, the revolution of a star precisely indicates its axial motion, its movement around a center that restrains its centrifugal force, thus preventing the star from losing itself in infinite space.

Today, however, we are at the end of a cycle. With the regression of the castes — the progressive descent of authority down the Traditional hierarchy of the four functions — power has passed from sacred kings to warrior-aristocrats, then to merchants, and finally to the masses. This is the Iron Age, the Indo-Aryan Kali-Yuga, the Dark Age of decline characterized by the reign of quantity, number, mass, and the unrestrained scramble for production, profit, material wealth.

Thus to be for the Revolution today is to want our European civilization to return to its original starting point, in conformity with the values and the principles of the Tradition, which happens, to borrow the words of Giorgio Freda, by “the disintegration of the current system,” the antithesis of the traditional world to which we aspire.

Edouard Rix, Le Lansquenet, no. 16, Fall 2002

Invocation aux Dieux

Ex: http://lecheminsouslesbuis.wordpress.com/

Savitri Devi, de son vrai nom Maximine Portas, née le 30 septembre 1905 à Lyon, est morte le 22 octobre 1982 à Sible-Hedingham (Essex, Angleterre)

« Je me souvins de ma visite à la Godafoss, dans le nord de l’Islande, en juin 1947.

On m’avait dit que quelque temps après l’an 1000, un homme nommé Thorgeir, qui était un «godi» — un prêtre des dieux nordiques — dans la région de Ljosvatn, au nord de l’Islande, devint un chrétien. Et que, comme démonstration spectaculaire de son allégeance à la nouvelle foi étrangère — et peut-être, dans son esprit, comme un «exemple» — il avait pris les images des anciens dieux et les avait publiquement jetées dans la chute d’eau de la rivière Skjalvantaflyot, connue depuis lors sous le nom de Godafoss: la Chute d’Eau des Dieux.

Profondément émue, je m’étais rendue sur les lieux, et je me tenais devant la chute d’eau et je pensais à ces dieux — Odin, et Thor, et Baldur le Beau et les autres, que mes ancêtres vikings adoraient jadis — gisant, depuis plus de neuf cents ans au fond des eaux glacées de la Skjalvantaflyot, attendant l’aube des temps nouveaux, la grande Renaissance Païenne; nous attendant nous, m’attendant moi. J’avais apporté avec moi un papier sur lequel j’avais copié les paroles que le poète français Leconte de Lisle avait mis dans la bouche d’un dieu nordique s’adressant au doux Jésus, venu pour renverser son pouvoir:

… Tu mourras à ton tour:
J’atteste par neuf fois les Runas immortelles.
Tu mourras comme moi, Dieu des âmes nouvelles,
Car l’homme survivra! Vingt siècles de douleurs
Feront saigner sa chair et ruisseler ses pleurs
Jusqu’au jour où ton joug, subi deux mille années
Fatiguera le cou des races mutinées;
Où tes temples, dressés parmi les nations,
Deviendront en risée aux générations;
Et ce sera ton heure!

–Leconte de Lisle, Poèmes Barbares, «Le Runoïa»

Mon bras droit tendu vers l’Orient, j’avais récité ces vers, et ensuite jeté le papier dans la cataracte grondante. Et ensuite — bien que je n’avais pas encore repris espoir; bien que le désastre [de 1945] avait, à mes yeux, retardé, peut-être pour des années et des années, la grande Renaissance païenne de mon rêve — j’avais parlé aux anciens dieux. «Dieux du Nord, frères des dieux védiques que l’Inde vénère encore», avais-je dit, «dieux aryens, dieux de ma race, vous savez que pendant toute ma vie j’ai défendu les valeurs que vous incarniez jadis dans le cœur de vos adorateurs. Oh, quel que soit le destin que vous me réservez, vous que les ancêtres de ma mère invoquaient au milieu des éclairs et du tonnerre, sur les vagues furieuses de la Mer du Nord, aidez-moi à ne jamais cesser de combattre pour nos grands idéaux; à ne jamais cesser de combattre pour le culte de la jeunesse, de la santé, de la force, pour le culte du Soleil — pour votre vérité, notre vérité — où que ce soit dans le monde, jusqu’à ma mort!»

Et ayant dit cela, j’avais senti courir un frisson glacé le long de mon dos, et j’avais été submergée par la conscience d’une solennité infinie, comme si je venais d’être l’instrument d’un rite préparé et attendu depuis longtemps; comme si les dieux nordiques, rejetés par leur prêtre Thorgeir, avaient réellement attendu mon geste symbolique. Il était 10h30 du soir mais il faisait plein jour, comme c’est naturel en juin sous cette latitude. Et je m’étais soudain souvenue que c’était le 9 juin, le septième anniversaire du jour où, également à 10h30 du soir, un brahmane, représentant de l’aryanité la plus à l’Est, avait pris ma main dans la sienne au-dessus du feu sacré et m’avait donné son nom et sa protection. Et j’avais senti que ma visite à la Chute d’Eau des Dieux, et mon geste symbolique en un tel jour, avaient un sens dans l’invisible; qu’il y avait là davantage qu’une simple coïncidence. Maintenant, je me souvenais de cet épisode, qui prenait, à la lumière de l’histoire entre ces deux années, une valeur symbolique plus grande que jamais. «Dieux du Nord, dieux des forts», pensais-je, «dieux aryens, enseignez-moi ce détachement sans lequel il n’y a pas de force véritable, pas d’efficacité durable! Faites de moi un témoin digne de votre vérité — de notre vérité. Débarrassez-moi de toute faiblesse!»

Savitri Devi.

Renato Del Ponte: My Memories of Julius Evola

My Memories of Julius Evola

Renato Del Ponte

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

Translated by Greg Johnson

Renato del Ponte is a central figure in European Evolianism. Founder of the Centro studi evoliani in Genoa in 1969 and editor of the journal Arthos, he also runs the Roman Traditionalist Movement.

Question: Renato del Ponte, your name is closely related to Evola’s. Can you tell us how you came to Evola and what your relationship was with him?

Reply: I am simply a man who has always sought to give my life, on the existential, political, and cultural levels, a line of extreme coherence. It is no surprise that on this way I crossed paths with Evola, who had made coherence in his life as in his writings his watchword.

Naturally because Evola was born in 1898 and I in 1944, our physical encounter could take place only in the last years of his life.

The circumstances and the characteristics of our relationship are developed partly in the letters from 1969 to 1973 (published in the book Julius Evola, Lettere 1955–1974 [Finale Emilia: Edizioni La terra degli avi, 1996], pp. 120–155).

It was always a very cordial relationship, which imparted in me the desire to create an organizational network to make his thought better known in Italy and abroad.

Q.: It is you who deposited the urn containing Evola’s ashes in a crevasse on Monte Rosa. Could you tell us the circumstances?

R.: Yes, it was I, along with other faithful friends, who ensured the transport and the deposit of Evola’s ashes in a crevasse on Monte Rosa at 4,200 meters of altitude, at the end of August 1974. To tell you the truth, I was not the executor of Evola’s will, but I had promised him that, along with our mutual friend Pierre Pascal, I would be vigilant so that the provisions of his will concerning his burial were correctly carried out.

As Evola feared, there were many serious oversights that obliged me to intervene and carry out the burial with the assistance of Eugene David who was Evola’s alpine guide when he made his ascents of Monte Rosa in 1930. It is impossible for me to relate all these adventures, some rather romantic, but you can refer to the collective work Julius Evola: le visionnaire foudroyé [Julius Evola: The Fallen Visionary] (Paris: Copernic, 1979) where some of them are reported.

Q.: You run the Roman Traditionalist Movement. What is this?

R.: The Movimento tradizionalista romano is an essentially cultural and spiritual structure that aims to raise awareness of the characteristics of the Roman Tradition, which is not a historical reality that has been definitively left behind, but an immortal spiritual reality still able to offer today an operative existential model and a religious orientation based on what we define as the “Roman way of the Gods.” To this end, the movement acts on a very discrete internal and communal dedicated to the practice of pietas, and on an external plane dedicated to making known the traditional set of themes of Romanness through manifestos, books — for example my Religione dei Romani (Milano: Rusconi, 1992) which obtained an important literary prize — and periodicals. For more details, you should refer to my contribution in Paris last February to colloquium of L’originel on paganism that will probably be published in French in the journal Antaios.

Q.: For some, Evola’s involvement with the Ur Group is his most interesting period. It seems to us that he mixed quasi-fascist politics, occultism, and modern art in an astonishing and attractive cocktail. Is this correct? How do you analyze this phase of Evola’s life?

R.: I cannot discuss the Ur Group and Evola’s involvement in a brief manner. I recommend my book Evola e il magico Gruppo di Ur [Evola and the Magical Ur Group] (Borzano: Sear Edizioni, 1994).

I will simply say that it was the most committed period in Evola’s life.

This is because it was the period when certain esoteric current, which for the most part laid claim to Roman tradition, had some concrete hope of influencing Italy’s government.

But this phase of Evola’s life can also be interpreted as an attempt, characteristic of his whole existence, “to proceed differently,” to exceed the limits of the forces that condition existence, to create something once more, or better, to return under quite “normal” conditions to a life according to the Tradition.

Q.: How does one reconcile Evolianism and political commitment?

R.: If you speak to me about possible political actions of more limited orientation, reserved to a minority that tries to influence certain groups or certain environments, but at the individual level and without concrete hope of publication of journals and books.

We soon begin to publish Arthos again at quarterly intervals. It is natural that the Italian initiative is accompanied by the birth of similar groups and movements in Europe and especially in France where Evola’s work is well-known. The year to come will surely see the realization of concrete initiatives of which you will be of course informed since we naturally count on your active contribution.

From Lutte du Peuple, no. 32, 1996, http://www.centrostudilaruna.it/mes-souvenirs-de-julius-e...

Le cochon: porte-bonheur ou véhicule d' "impureté"?

« Moestasjrik » / «  ‘t Pallieterke » :

 

Le cochon : porte-bonheur ou vecteur d’ « impureté » ?

 

 

Mes lecteurs me posent des questions ? Je réponds ! Un lecteur veut savoir pourquoi le cochon est un animal symbolique positif en Chine, de même qu’en Europe ( « Schwein haben » en allemand signifie « avoir de la chance »), alors qu’au Moyen Orient, on le considère comme un animal impur. De fait, ce lecteur pose là une question bien utile.  Surtout en ces jours où des organisations caritatives distribuent du bouillon de porc et quelques tranches de pain aux sans-abri, ce qui provoque immédiatement un tollé chez les tenants les plus délirants du « politiquement correct ». Un juge parisien vient d’interdire cette générosité culinaire parce qu’elle constituerait une discrimination à l’endroit des musulmans, alors que les dites organisations caritatives n’ont jamais eu la moindre intention d’empêcher un pauvre, quelle que soit sa religion, de recevoir son bol de soupe. Pour brouiller encore les pistes et insinuer qu’il y a de l’antisémitisme dans l’air, certains agents désinformateurs ont même été jusqu’à affirmer que ces distributeurs de soupe discriminaient et les clochards juifs et les clodos musulmans ; les Juifs, que je sache, n’ont jamais cherché, au cours des siècles, à imposer leurs interdits alimentaires aux autres comme le font aujourd’hui les musulmans dans nos écoles et nos prisons. Quoi qu’il en soit, ces manipulations rhétoriques ne s’avèrent possibles que parce qu’à la base le judaïsme et l’islam interdisent effectivement de consommer de la viande de porc, tandis que les religions dominantes en Europe et en Asie orientale s’abstiennent de prononcer un tel interdit.

 

On explique généralement que cette différence provient de ce que les matrices territoriales de ces différentes religions se situent chaque fois en des zones climatiques différentes. Contrairement aux bovins, ovins et caprins, qui sont exclusivement herbivores, les porcs sont omnivores. Les végétariens n’ont pas entièrement tort lorsqu’ils nous disent que la consommation de viande génère de l’impureté. Les moutons possèdent un système intestinal de dimension très longue afin qu’ils puissent tranquillement absorber et épurer les éléments nutritifs de leur alimentation. Les lions en revanche possèdent un système intestinal court pour pouvoir, après une digestion sommaire, se débarrasser aussi rapidement que possible de la viande qu’ils ont absorbée et qui entre en putréfaction dans leur corps. Au départ, le porc, lui aussi, était végétarien, et donc son système intestinal n’est pas parfaitement adapté à une diète faite de viande. Ils deviennent ainsi assez aisément la proie de vers, de parasites et d’autres germes pathologiques. D’autres animaux carnivores, consommés par l’homme, ont souvent transmis des maladies dangereuses pour l’être humain, notamment la volaille qui nous transmet la grippe.

 

Transmission de maladies

 

Ceux qui tabouisent la consommation de viande de porc prétendent dès lors que leur position est rationnelle ; d’autres éléments apportent de l’eau à leur moulin : l’animal aime se vautrer dans la saleté et le rôle qu’il joue dans la transmission de maladies. A cela s’ajoutent l’amour immodéré du porc pour la boue et le fait qu’il ne mange pas d’herbes mais concurrence l’homme dans la manducation de fruits et de graines.

 

Cette carte d’identité biologique du porc entraine plus de problèmes dans certaines zones climatiques que dans d’autres. Un climat froid, avec de longues périodes de gel, procure à intervalles réguliers, une phase de désinfection générale, tandis que dans les climats chauds tous les microbes et bactéries prolifèrent sans arrêt. En Inde, il y a chaque année prolifération de vermines de toutes sortes juste avant la mousson. Pendant la saison torride, même les moustiques estiment qu’il fait trop chaud pour voler mais après les premières pluies, moustiques, cancrelats et scorpions apparaissent par centaines de millions. Les cadavres commencent alors immédiatement à pourrir : c’est la raison pour laquelle on les brûle le jour même de leur décès avant le coucher du soleil (ou qu’on les enterre s’ils sont musulmans). Sous de tels climats, on ne prend aucun risque avec tout ce que l’on considère comme vecteur d’impureté.

 

Ce problème n’existe pas dans le nord. En Chine, qui est une civilisation née dans le bassin du Fleuve Jaune (Huanghe), nous avons affaire à une zone climatique modérément froide, comparable à nos latitudes. Il n’y existe aucun tabou alimentaire. On y mange de tout : des serpents, des singes, des insectes, des tortues et donc aussi du porc. C’est même cet animal-là qui forme l’essentiel de l’élevage en Chine. Le signe chinois, qui signifie tout à la fois « maison », « foyer » et « famille » (jia), est constitué d’un toit, avec, sous lui, un cochon. Les Chinois accueillent l’Année du Cochon avec joie et les jeunes mariés espèrent, au cours de ces douze mois, avoir un enfant.

 

Et qu’en est-il parmi les peuples indo-européens, que l’on a improprement appelés naguère « Aryens », selon le nom que se donnaient les Indo-Iraniens ? L’opposition nord-sud, que nous avons évoquée en début d’article, est aussi d’application dans le monde indo-européen. En Europe et en Russie, le porc est totalement accepté dans les régimes alimentaires. En Asie du Sud, il n’entre pas dans la cuisine, même chez ceux qui ne suivent pas un régime végétarien. Le sanskrit ne connaît d’ailleurs pas de mot pour désigner le « porc domestiqué » ; il ne connaît seulement qu’un mot, « varahaa », pour le « porc sauvage ». Seules les castes « impures », les plus basses dans la hiérarchie indienne, gardent quelque fois des porcs ; il y a souvent des émeutes quand un de leurs porcs s’échappe et s’égare dans un quartier musulman.

 

Et qu’en est-il entre l’Inde et la Russie, en Asie centrale ? Cette région nous réserve une fameuse surprise. Les archéologues savent que s’ils tombent sur un site de 2000 av. J.C. qui ne contient aucun trace de la présence de porcs, ils l’identifient automatiquement comme indo-européen (1). C’est pour eux une règle d’or. Eviter la viande de porc était donc une caractéristique typique des « Aryens », qui les distinguaient des autres peuples de cette vaste région. On ne doit donc pas partir du principe qu’il y a, d’une part, des Sémites hostiles au cochon et, d’autre part, des « Aryens » adorateurs du cochon.

 

Vishnou le Sanglier

 

Malgré ce rejet du porc chez leurs ancêtres, les Hindous, qui ne mangent pas davantage de porc que les musulmans, ont réussi tout de même à jeter un trouble sacré parmi les musulmans, en évoquant un suidé. Les adorateurs de Vishnou croient que leur dieu se montre à intervalles réguliers dans le monde par le truchement d’une incarnation. Ces incarnations suivent une sorte de modèle ascendant, comme dans la doctrine de l’évolution de Darwin, raison pour laquelle cette doctrine évolutionniste n’a jamais choqué les Hindous. Bien avant que Vishnou ne viennent sur terre, en tant que Rama, ou que Krishna, il fut successivement poisson, tortue et, ensuite, sanglier, « varaaha ». Les musulmans s’insurgent lorsque les chrétiens présente Dieu sous la forme d’un homme souffrant ou humble, comme Jésus le fils du charpentier, ou Krishna comme conducteur de chariot. Alors quand on représente Dieu sous les formes d’un suidé, on tombe pour eux dans le blasphème suprême !

 

« Moestajrik » / «  ‘t Pallieterke ».

(article paru dans « ‘t Pallieterke », Anvers, 21 février 2007 ; trad. franç. : octobre 2010).

 

Note :

 

(1) (ndt) Les Indo-Européens d’Asie centrale sont nomades. L’élevage du porc est signe de sédentarité, comme l’indique d’ailleurs le signe chinois « jia », évoqué par notre auteur. 

Swami Vivekananda e il suo tempo, tra modernità e tradizione

Swami Vivekananda e il suo tempo, tra modernità e tradizione

Elena BORGHI

Ex: http://www.eurasia-rivista.org/

Il quadro storico

Il periodo storico in cui visse ed operò Swami Vivekananda, la seconda metà dell’Ottocento, fu per l’India un momento particolarmente intenso.

Sul piano politico, caratterizzò questi anni il passaggio del governo dell’India dalla Compagnia delle Indie Orientali alla Corona inglese, che assunse il controllo diretto del Paese nel 1858, a seguito del Mutiny. Considerato da alcuni il primo scoppio del fervore nazionalista ed indipendentista, questo evento ebbe come principali conseguenze un’ondata terribile di violenze e la deriva ancor più autoritaria del governo inglese in India. Certamente, la rivolta fu indicativa del carattere predatorio della Compagnia e del livello di esasperazione da essa indotto nella popolazione, che cominciava a mal sopportare il peso del dominio inglese. Se, infatti, il regime coloniale trasformava gradualmente l’India in una nazione moderna – introducendo infrastrutture, reti di comunicazione, organizzazione della burocrazia e della società civile – d’altro canto il Paese pagava un prezzo altissimo in termini economici, sociali e politici.

Sul piano economico, l’India subì in questo periodo la devastazione causata dai legami sproporzionati tra centro e periferia dell’impero, che distrussero la preesistente economia, anche se, per quanto sfrenato, lo sfruttamento economico dell’India garantiva alla Gran Bretagna guadagni complessivamente piuttosto limitati. L’apporto fondamentale della colonia, infatti, rimase sempre la sua funzione di bacino potenzialmente inesauribile di reclutamento di uomini per l’esercito inglese in India, per l’apparato burocratico coloniale e per l’indentured labour, il sistema di “lavoro a contratto” che sostituì gli schiavi africani con migliaia di contadini e braccianti indiani, trasferiti nelle piantagioni e nelle miniere dei luoghi più disparati, legati a contratti che mascheravano uno stato di effettiva schiavitù.

Questi erano tra gli aspetti che, naturalmente, contribuivano a disintegrare il tessuto sociale indiano; vi si aggiungeva il portato del bagaglio ideologico introdotto dal regime coloniale, che cooperò enormemente alla cristallizzazione delle differenze castali e religiose e, dunque, alla frammentazione della società indiana in una miriade di blocchi contrapposti ed ostili, chiusi a livello endogamico, regolati da criteri gerarchici e definiti su basi di purezza razziale e rituale.

I movimenti di riforma

Di pari passo con il potere coloniale, cresceva lo scontento ed il senso di inadeguatezza di alcune categorie, perlopiù intellettuali di classe media ed estrazione urbana, figli di un’educazione di stampo occidentale, dalla cui iniziativa scaturì quel processo di rinnovamento sociale e culturale – nonché di ridefinizione identitaria, presa di coscienza nazionale e critica del regime coloniale – che investì l’India nel periodo in esame.

Si trattò di un periodo di fermento culturale e di tentativi di riforma sociale e religiosa, volti a ripensare le pratiche considerate più aberranti della tradizione hindu (come la sati, l’immolazione delle vedove sulla pira del marito, o il matrimonio infantile), a diffondere un’istruzione di tipo moderno, a ridiscutere la condizione femminile. Motore e scopo ultimo di questi movimenti era l’acquisizione di strumenti atti ad affrontare «l’esibita superiorità dell’Occidente cristiano nei confronti della cultura e delle religioni indiane»¹, come dimostrarono, in particolare, le misure a favore dell’istruzione femminile. Auspicate dai riformatori per motivi che poco avevano a che fare con il reale desiderio di apportare miglioramenti alla generale condizione delle donne, queste misure si rivelarono, in realtà, necessarie ad altri scopi: confutare le teorie europee – secondo le quali la discriminazione cui erano sottoposte le donne in India e la loro condizione erano immagine dell’arretratezza del Paese in generale –, dando prova dell’adeguatezza dell’India all’autogoverno; creare “nuove donne indiane” capaci di essere mogli e madri più adatte alle necessità (pratiche, ma anche identitarie e d’immagine) della classe emergente, e di socializzarne i valori e le aspirazioni, pur entro i confini della tradizione patriarcale, che restava per i riformatori un punto fermo e indiscutibile.²

In ambito religioso, la riforma si concretizzò nelle figure di alcuni pensatori e nella fondazione di istituzioni, volte a rivedere le più grandi tradizioni indiane – hindu e musulmana – alla luce di uno spirito più moderno e razionale.

È tra questi riformatori che si colloca Vivekananda, al secolo Narendranath Datta, nato in quella Calcutta all’epoca centro della vita politica e culturale del Paese, e in una famiglia di scienziati e pensatori illustri.

Fin da bambino profondamente interessato ai temi dell’Hinduismo e della meditazione e dotato di un carisma e di una passione per la ricerca della verità inusuali per la sua età, Narendranath ricevette un’istruzione di stampo occidentale, appassionandosi in particolare alla filosofia, e coltivando allo stesso tempo lo studio della poesia sanscrita, dei testi sacri e degli scritti del riformatore suo contemporaneo Rammohan Ray.

Razionale, dedito al ragionamento logico e sprezzante dei dogmi religiosi tradizionali, Narendranath si avvicinò al Brahma Samaj, l’istituzione fondata a Calcutta nel 1828 da Rammohan Ray al fine di operare una trasformazione dello Hinduismo in senso moderno, depurando la religione dalle pratiche più barbare ed introducendo nello studio della stessa il principio di ragione. Narendranath, affascinato dalle arringhe dei riformatori che facevano parte del movimento, sembrava destinato ad una carriera del tutto simile, borghese e socialmente impegnata, fino a quando un incontro introdusse nel suo percorso un cambiamento di rotta.

Da Narendranath a Vivekananda

Era il 1880, quando Narendranath incontrò per la prima volta Ramakrishna, il sacerdote officiante di un tempio situato a Dakshineshwar, un sobborgo di Calcutta, e dedicato ad una forma del dio Shiva, che veniva lì adorato insieme alla dea Kali. Brahmano di estrazione contadina, con un’istruzione limitata cui sopperivano buon senso, mitezza e profonda devozione, costui era un rinunciante di eccezionale spessore, un rappresentante della corrente mistica della bhakti, la “devozione”, e un punto di riferimento per gli intellettuali bengalesi, affascinati dalla schiettezza dei suoi insegnamenti.

Quell’incontro provocò un imponente cambiamento nella vita del giovane Narendranath, che in pochi anni, durante i quali proseguì nel tentativo di conciliare il materialismo delle scienze occidentali e lo spiritualismo in cui lo precipitavano i momenti a Dakshineshwar, divenne il discepolo prediletto di Ramakrishna. Come il suo Maestro, divenne un Advaitavedantin, un sostenitore dell’indirizzo dottrinale del non-dualismo, che predicava l’unità tra Sé individuale e Assoluto. Da questi insegnamenti Narendranath avrebbe in seguito derivato la convinzione della divinità degli esseri umani, dunque la considerazione di tutte le forme dell’esistenza quali manifestazioni dello spirito divino.

Nel 1886 Ramakrishna, dopo aver iniziato i discepoli alla loro nuova condizione di sanyasin³, indicò Narendranath come loro guida. Fu così che egli divenne Vivekananda, “colui che ha la beatitudine della discriminazione spirituale”. Due anni più tardi Vivekananda cominciò la sua vita di parivrajaka, “monaco errante”, partendo per un pellegrinaggio che durò anni, un viaggio solitario compiuto a piedi sulle strade polverose dell’India, dallo Himalaya fino a Kanyakumari. Questa esperienza fornì a Vivekananda una conoscenza profonda del Paese, quale non aveva mai posseduto. Alla fine del viaggio, quando finalmente raggiunse Kanyakumari, Vivekananda rifletté su tutto quello che aveva visto: «Un Paese dove milioni di persone vivono dei fiori della pianta mohua, e un milione o due di sadhu e circa cento milioni di brahmani succhiano il sangue di queste persone, senza fare il minimo sforzo per migliorare la loro condizione, è un Paese o l’inferno? È quella una religione, o la danza del diavolo?»⁴

Partito con l’obiettivo di portare unità tra le varie sette e confessioni indiane, radunandole sotto l’ombrello del messaggio vedantico, Vivekananda comprese che al suo Paese servivano istruzione e cibo, più che insegnamenti religiosi. Ripensò a quel che aveva sentito dire alcuni mesi prima, circa l’organizzazione a Chicago del World’s Parliament of Religions, un congresso che avrebbe ospitato rappresentanti di ogni religione del mondo; Vivekananda decise che si sarebbe recato negli Stati Uniti, per predicare il messaggio vedantico e chiedere in cambio il sostegno economico necessario a fondare in India istituzioni educative e caritative per le classi più svantaggiate.

Pochi mesi più tardi ebbe inizio la sua missione in Occidente, che lo vide tenere innumerevoli conferenze e radunare intorno a sé molti sostenitori.

Un pensiero moderno e rivoluzionario

Attualizzando gli aspetti religioso-filosofici della dottrina vedantica, all’interno di un pensiero in cui la speculazione teorica e dogmatica veniva costantemente riportata alle necessità pratiche del suo tempo e del suo luogo – percepite come urgenti ed imprescindibili –, Vivekananda divenne l’esempio di una nuova tipologia di riformatore, capace di coniugare gli insegnamenti ancestrali del pensiero vedantico con l’attualità dell’India più comune. Questa narrazione, dunque – a differenza di quelle costruite da altri riformatori, che auspicavano un ripensamento, quando non un distacco, della “tradizione” sociale e religiosa, sentita come ostacolo al “progresso” –, non presupponeva una revisione in chiave filo-occidentale del bagaglio culturale e religioso indiano, bensì glorificava quel passato, proponendolo come la chiave che avrebbe aperto all’India le porte della giustizia sociale, dell’istruzione, dello sviluppo materiale e spirituale.

«La società più grande è quella in cui le verità più alte diventano concrete»⁵, sosteneva Vivekananda, facendo riferimento alla necessità di costruire una società strutturata in modo da permettere la realizzazione della divinità umana. Da questa convinzione di base, derivata dalla filosofia vedantica, egli ricavò il suo progetto di società utopica, che si sarebbe retta sul pilastro dell’uguaglianza tra gli uomini. Il fatto che egli ritenesse necessarie all’avverarsi di questa idea da un lato la diffusione dell’istruzione – che doveva diventare di massa, affinché gli strati più svantaggiati acquisissero forza e coscienza del proprio valore – e, dall’altro, la soppressione di ogni privilegio – politico, economico o religioso che fosse – dimostra il carattere rivoluzionario del pensiero di Vivekananda. Diversamente da molti suoi contemporanei, egli non era disposto a prevedere risultati parziali; eppure, l’imponenza di questo progetto e il suo carattere utopico non compromettevano in alcun modo la fede di Vivekananda nella sua realizzabilità.

«Pane! Pane! Non credo in un Dio che non riesce a darmi il pane in questo mondo, mentre mi promette la beatitudine eterna nei cieli! Bah! L’India deve essere affrancata, i poveri devono essere nutriti, l’istruzione deve essere diffusa, e la piaga del potere sacerdotale deve essere eliminata».⁶

Anche nel suo rapporto ideale con l’Occidente Vivekananda differiva dal resto dei riformatori: non prevedendo né una forma di riverente assimilazione ai suoi valori, né il rifiuto astioso di essi, egli auspicava una sorta di collaborazione e di mutuo scambio di eccellenze: «Direi che la combinazione della mente greca, rappresentata dall’energia dell’Europa, e della spiritualità hindu darebbe origine a una società ideale in India. […] L’India deve imparare dall’Europa la conquista del mondo esteriore, e l’Europa deve imparare dall’India la conquista del mondo interiore. Allora non ci saranno hindu ed europei: ci sarà un’umanità ideale, che ha conquistato entrambi i mondi, quello esterno e quello interno. Noi abbiamo sviluppato una parte dell’umanità, e loro un’altra. È l’unione delle due ciò cui dobbiamo aspirare».⁷

Ancora, la modernità del pensiero di Vivekananda si espresse nella sua considerazione del gesto filantropico che, come in ambito cristiano, fino a quel momento era stato reputato dal sistema hindu tradizionale una questione privata tra donatore e beneficiario. Egli fu il primo a proporre un’etica del seva (il “servizio”) istituzionalizzata – così come è divenuta la filantropia, un po’ ovunque nel mondo, in tempi recenti –, con lo scopo di garantire una ripartizione equa e il più possibile estesa di azioni di solidarietà nei confronti di persone bisognose: “Fare del bene agli altri è l’unica grande religione universale”⁸, sosteneva Vivekananda, accordando alla pratica del seva un significato che andava ben oltre la semplice azione filantropica. Teorizzò, inoltre, che la figura sociale più autorevole in India – e dunque più adatta a diffondere un pensiero in certo modo rivoluzionario – era quella del sanyasin. Mentre i suoi contemporanei proponevano modelli borghesi, di uomini d’alta casta colti e mondani, o figure eroiche della tradizione storica e religiosa indiana, Vivekananda individuava nel monaco, nell’asceta e nel rinunciante la sede della saggezza e della credibilità presso il popolo; era a queste figure, estranee ai meccanismi del potere, all’avidità e al perseguimento dell’interesse personale, che Vivekananda avrebbe affidato il compito di diffondere il messaggio, dimostrando ancora una volta l’intransigenza che guidava il suo pensiero.

Su questi pilastri poggiava la Ramakrishna Mission, istituita da Vivekananda a fine secolo quale organizzazione impegnata in ambito sociale e strettamente connessa alla vita del monastero dell’Ordine di Ramakrishna, i cui monaci fondevano nella propria esperienza quotidiana lavoro sociale e pratica spirituale – due aspetti che, completandosi a vicenda, fungevano l’uno da motore dell’altro. Intervenendo inizialmente soprattutto in ambito educativo e nella lotta alla povertà, la Ramakrishna Mission cominciò così in quegli anni il suo servizio all’India, che Vivekananda descriveva in termini angosciati:

«Fiumi ampi e profondi, gonfi e impetuosi, affascinanti giardini sulle rive del fiume, da fare invidia al celestiale Nandana-Kanana; tra questi meravigliosi giardini si ergono, svettanti verso il cielo, superbi palazzi di marmo, decorati da preziose finiture; ai lati, davanti e dietro, agglomerati di baracche, con muri di fango sgretolati e tetti sconnessi […]; figure emaciate si aggirano qua e là coperte di stracci, con i volti segnati dai solchi profondi di una disperazione e di una povertà vecchie di secoli […]; questa è l’India dei nostri giorni!

[…] Devastazione causata da peste e colera; malaria che consuma le forze del Paese; morte per fame come condizione naturale; carestie mortali che spesso danzano il loro macabro ballo; un kurukshetra di malattie e miseria, un enorme campo per le cremazioni disseminato dalle ossa della speranza perduta.

[…] Un agglomerato di trecento milioni di anime, solo apparentemente umane, gettate fuori dalla vita dall’oppressione della loro stessa gente e delle nazioni straniere, dall’oppressione di coloro che professano la loro stessa religione e di coloro che predicano altre fedi; pazienti nella fatica e nella sofferenza e privati di ogni iniziativa, come schiavi, senza alcuna speranza, senza passato, senza futuro, desiderosi solo di mantenersi in vita in qualche modo, per quanto precario; di natura malinconica, come si confà agli schiavi, per i quali la prosperità dei loro simili è insopportabile. […] Trecento milioni di anime come queste brulicano sul corpo dell’India come altrettanti vermi su una carcassa marcia e puzzolente. Questo è il quadro che si presenta agli occhi dei funzionari inglesi».⁹

Costituito inizialmente da appena una dozzina di monaci, nei cento e più anni che ci separano dalla sua fondazione l’Ordine di Ramakrishna è oggi un movimento transnazionale di proporzioni enormi, simbolo di pace ed ecumenismo, fondato sulla pratica del servizio disinteressato come metodo per la realizzazione del divino e caratterizzato da un approccio razionale alla religione – considerata non un apparato ritualistico ma una scienza dell’essere e del divenire –, da una tradizione colta e dall’efficacia dei suoi interventi in campo sociale.

Definiscono Ramakrishna Mission e Ramakrishna Math (rispettivamente la componente pratica del movimento e l’organizzazione monastica) le tre caratteristiche che sono state segni distintivi di Vivekananda e del suo operato e che, risultando a tutt’oggi innovative, dimostrano la statura di un riformatore illuminato, rivoluzionario per il tempo e il luogo in cui visse: la modernità – che si esprime nell’attualizzazione dei principi vedantici, e nel collocare nel presente il pensiero guida dell’operato di queste istituzioni; l’universalità – data dal rivolgersi non ad un unico Paese o ad uno specifico gruppo di persone, ma all’umanità intera; e la concretezza – che risiede nel porre i principi teorici e spirituali a servizio del miglioramento delle quotidiane condizioni di vita delle persone.

* Elena Borghi, dottoressa in Studi linguistici e antropologici sull’Eurasia e il Mediterraneo (Università “Ca’ Foscari” di Venezia), è autrice di Sai Baba di Shirdi. Il santo dei mille miracoli (Red, Milano 2010) e Vivekananda. La verità è il mio unico dio (Red, Milano 2009)

1 Torri, M., Storia dell’India, Editori Laterza, Roma-Bari 2000, p. 453.

2 Jayawardena, K., Feminism and Nationalism in the Third World, Zed Books, Londra 1986.

3 Asceta errabondo, che ha rinunciato ad ogni piacere mondano e ad ogni forma di possesso materiale ed umano, per dedicarsi unicamente al conseguimento della liberazione, il moksha. Il monaco rinunciante trascorre la propria vita in solitario cammino, elemosinando il cibo, coltivando il silenzio e il raccoglimento, inaccessibile ad ogni desiderio e ad ogni umana debolezza. La contemplazione dello Spirito supremo, il distacco, la disciplina e la meditazione profonda sono i suoi compiti, che lo preparano ad abbandonare per sempre la dimora terrena ed il corpo mortale, liberandolo dal ciclo di rinascita e rimorte.

4 The complete Works of Swami Vivekananda, Mayavati Memorial Editing, Advaita Ashrama, Calutta 1992-95, vol. VI, p. 254.

5 Ibid., vol. II, p. 85.

6 Ibid., vol. IV, p. 368.

7 Ibid., vol. V, p. 216.

8 Ibid., vol. IV, p. 403.

9 Ibid., vol. V, p. 441-442.

The Yezidis: The History of a Community, Culture and Religion

The Yezidis: The History of a Community, Culture and Religion
 

Birgul Acikyildiz (author)

Hardback, £49.50

Yezidism is a fascinating part of the rich cultural mosaic of the Middle East. Yezidis emerged for the first time in the 12th century in the Kurdish mountains of northern Iraq. Their religion, which has become notorious for its associations with 'devil worship', is in fact an intricate syncretic system of belief, incorporating elements from proto-Indo-European religions, early Persian faiths like Zoroastrianism and Manichaeism, Sufism and regional paganism like Mithraism. Birgul Acikyildiz offers a comprehensive appraisal of Yezidi religion, society and culture. Written without presupposing any prior knowledge about Yezidism, and in an accessible and readable style, her book examines Yezidis not only from a religious point of view but as a historical and social phenomenon. She throws light on the origins of Yezidism, and charts its historical development - from its beginnings to the present - as part of the general history of the Kurds.

The author describes the Yezidi belief system (which considers Melek Taus - the 'Peacock Angel' - to be ruler of the earth) and its religious practices and observances, analysing the most important facets of Yezidi religious art and architecture and their relationship to their neighbours throughout the Middle East. Richly illustrated, with accompanying maps, photographs and illustrations, the book will have strong appeal to all those with an interest in the culture of the Kurds, as well as the wider region.

 

List of Illustrations 
Acknowledgements 
Abbreviations 
Introduction 

Chapter I: Origins, History and Development 

•  
  • Yezidis in Mesopotamia and Anatolia 
  • Yezidis in Syria 
  • Yezidis in Transcaucasia 

Chapter II: Religious Belief System 

1. God, Angels and the Trinity 

•  
  • God (Xwedê)
  • Angels 
  • The Peacock Angel (Tawûsî Melek) 
  • Sultan Êzi 
  • Sheikh ‘Ad? 

2. Yezidi Mythology 

•  
  • Creation of Cosmos and Universe 
  • Creation of Human Being 
  • The Flood 

3. Holy Books 

4. Religious Hierarchy 

Chapter III: Religious Practices, Observances and Rituals 

•  
  • Haircut, Baptism, Circumcision, Brother of the Hereafter, Marriage, Death 
  • Prayer
  • Fast 
  • Pilgrimage 
  • Festivals and Ceremonies 
  • Taboos 

Chapter IV: Material Culture 

•  
  • Homeland, Landscape, Sacred Places 
  • Places of Worship 
  • The Sanctuary 
  • Mausoleums 
  • Shrines 
  • The Baptistery 
  • Caves 
  • Tombstones 

Conclusion 
Appendixes 
Glossary 
Notes



Birgul Acikyildiz is a Research Fellow at the Khalili Research Centre for the Art and Material Culture of the Middle East, Faculty of Oriental Studies, University of Oxford.



This is a major, innovative study of one of the least known religious communities of the Middle East…[it will] probably long remain the definitive work on Yezidi material culture.
– Martin van Bruinessen, Professor of the Comparative Study of Contemporary Muslim Societies, Utrecht University

A fascinating narrative and photographic journey through Yezidi religion, society and material culture.
– Nelida Fuccaro, Lecturer in Modern History of the Arab Middle East, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London

It is particularly gratifying to see the publication of a scholarly work that takes into account both the living tradition and the archaeological and architectural aspects of the Yezidi heritage...A book that makes a real contribution to Yezidi studies.
– Philip G Kreyenbroek, Professor of Iranian Studies, Georg-August University, Göttingen

An invaluable introduction to Yezidi architectural and spiritual history…An indispensable reference book.
– Sebastian Maisel, Assistant Professor for Arabic and Middle East Studies, Grand Valley State University, Allendale

A remarkable and original interdisciplinary work on Yezidi history, religion and material culture.
– Khalil Jindy Rashow, Consular at the Ministry of Iraqi Foreign Affairs, Baghdad

Imprint: I.B.Tauris
Publisher: I.B.Tauris & Co Ltd

Hardback
ISBN: 9781848852747
Publication Date: 30 Sep 2010
Number of Pages: 304

 

 

Ontologia politica, mitopoiesis y estructura totalitaria de los cuentos de hadas

Ontología política, mitopoiesis y estructura totalitaria de los cuentos de hadas

Llevaba años enamorada de la Virgen,
de sus excelsas virtudes, de su terrible pureza,
de su aire aristocrático irresistible,
y no había logrado encontrar
a ninguna doncella que se le igualase

Sofía Tudela Gastañeta

Ontología política, mitopoiesis y estructura totalitaria de los cuentos de hadas: a modo de introducción

Por Giovanni B. Krähe

Ex: http://geviert.wordpress.com/

Muchos habrán oído hablar del famoso instituto Jung de Zürich. Este famoso instituto tiene varias sedes afiliadas por el mundo, muchas de estas sedes son clínicas y centros terapéuticos que aplican y desarrollan el pensamiento de C.G. Jung. Una de la terapias que estos centros organizan y ofrecen es la “terapia a través de los cuentos de hadas” (Märchentherapie). Existen rigurosas Märchenkommisionen (comisiones sobre los cuentos de hadas) que deciden qué terapia es la más adecuada, según el cuadro psicológico del paciente o grupo y el contenido de un determinado “cuento de hadas”. Algo muy serio en pocas palabras. (el lector amodorrado no se dejará sorprender ingenuamente por el título del post). No se trata, entonces, de psiquiatras profesionales que se dedican únicamente al análisis narratológico, metaforológico, antropológico-cultural, al analisis de la tradición oral, folklore y demás. Tampoco se dedican al análisis histórico-literario de estos “cuentos infantiles”. No. En efecto, estas breves obras en prosa son generalmente obviadas por el público medio y consideradas modernamente como “literatura infantil” sin más. Como en el caso del uso en ámbito psicológico junguiano, no se trata de nada de lo anteriormente mencionado: se trata de estudiar y aplicar el potencial mitopoiético, la estructura totalitaria de estos contenidos y finalmente su preciso efecto terapéutico en la Psyche. Mientras los psicólogos modernos se preocupan de la salud “individual”, ego-céntrica, de la psyche, nosotros retomaremos intuitivamente el objetivo originario de estos contenidos, considerando sumariamente los aspectos relacionados a la salud colectiva de la psyche misma. Nos ocuperemos, en otras palabras, del potencial de mitopoiesis (política, ontológico-política, estético-política) de estos contenidos. No es una excentricidad lo que afirmamos. Se recuerde que ya en los tiempos de los hermanos Grimm el Romanticismo no era mera estética o mera “literatura” (en el sentido moderno corriente, es decir,”discursivo”, logocéntrico, bibliolatra). El romanticismo alemán tampoco era sólo estética e ideología individualista-libertaria, apología emancipadora y liberal: el romanticismo político del norte de Alemania tal vez, no el romanticismo negro del sur. Existía, pues, una precisa praxis romántica también, la denominada medicina romántica (C.G. Carus por ejemplo).

Por otro lado, sin ir muy lejos, pensemos en un ejemplo más cercano a nosotros: ¿qué significa toda la industria americana detrás de Disney y símiles? Mitopoiesis pura y no en ese sentido culturológico y ocioso, gender, de análisis de sociología primaria y “personalidad autoritaria” que ha tomado indirectamente gracias a medio siglo de análisis marxistas. En los post sucesivos vamos a comentar muy sumariamente algunos aspectos en relación a los “cuentos de hadas”: 1) por qué hablamos de mito político y ejercicio mitopoiético, 2) por qué vemos una estructura totalitaria (pacem Arendt) (1). No nos limitaremos a fuentes literarias: veremos cuáles ejemplos pueden ser considerados como excelentes ejercicios mitopoiéticos en el cine por ejemplo. De ahora en adelante llamaremos a estos contenidos apropiadamente, en alemán: Märchen. El término “Cuentos de hadas” es, en efecto, un francesismo derivado de D’Aulnoy y Perrault. En parte se deve al moralismo pedagógico de Perrault que los “cuentos de hadas” hayan acabado como meros “cuentos” para niños. En efecto, Perrault “suavizó” estas tradiciones orales indoeuropeas, que eran también para un público adulto y tenían (tienen) explícitos contenidos duros y crudos muchas veces (en la tradición alemana por ejemplo). El término que usaremos es, entonces, el alemán Märchen (que es el diminutivo de la forma arcaica Mär, cuento, relato). Nos referiremos exclusivamente a la obra de los hermanos Grimm. Luego utilizaremos un ejemplo práctico, una Märchen (revisada por nosotros). La intención final de este breve post introductorio es motivar al lector adulto a que re-considere con mucha mayor atención toda esta “literatura infantil”, se purgue del moralismo pedagógico de Perrault y epígonos culturológicos posteriores (antropología cultural in primis), que supere la suave moraleja de Esopo y sobre todo abandone rápidamente, los más jóvenes en particular, los amaneramientos posmodernos “débiles” del actual género fantasy. En otras palabras: recuperar el ludos, el mito y la mitopoiesis (estética y política) es nuestro objetivo, alcanzar una robusta ontología política. Esta es la Leit-Idee.

En este post presentamos por ahora la idea. En este link se puede ya leer el ejemplo de Märchen que vamos a utilizar en nuestro ejercicio (Der Mond, la Luna). En este blog, que recomendamos vivamente, se pueden encontrar varios ejemplos sui generis del tema que afrontaremos más adelante. Las imágenes de este post son de Ernst von Dombrowski (biografía).

Nota

(1) Usaremos el término totalitario en un sentido muy diferente al de la vulgata historiográfica iniciada con H. Arendt. Recuperaremos, en nuestro ejercicio, el carácter de proceso del término Totalitär. Lo entenderemos en el sentido de la realización (Ver-wirklichung) de un absoluto, de una totalidad (Gesamtheit). En el caso de las Märchen alemanas, la realización de la totalidad (el arquetipo) del mundo fantástico y todos sus personajes no es, en ningún modo y bajo ninguna forma, el centro o eje narrativo de la historia fantástica (la trama), con el sujeto-lector como mero espectador ocioso. La realización de la totalidad es ya el requisito inicial y obligado que se le impone al lector, antes del acceso al mundo (Welt) de la Märchen con sus símbolos, sus arquetipos y personajes reales. La realidad (no sólo simbólica) de estos mundos se debe a la mímesis de segundo grado que estos textos utilizan. En términos literarios, este requisito se puede notar en la forma inicial es war einmal… (érase una vez), con la cual el lector es obligado a colocarse en ningún lugar (!) espacio-temporal (por la misma paradoja, en todos los lugares al mismo tiempo). Precisamente este recurso literario de la indeterminación inicial de cualquier marco espacio-temporal, hace que el contenido mitopoiético del texto sea posible y se realice especularmente en sus símbolos con mayor facilidad y en forma absoluta, durante la dinámica narrativa (oral) o terapéutica (cfr. Marie-Louise von Franz, 1986). Obvio decir que la misma dinámica puede llevar a una mitopoiésis política, o más aún, político-comunicativa.

Bibliografia recomendada:

 Marie-Louise von Franz: Psychologische Märchen-Interpretation. Eine Einführung.München: Kösel-Verlag, 1986 (Link a otras obras de von Franz sobre el tema).

edición inglesa: Marie-Lousie von Franz: The Interpretation of Fairy Tales, diferentes ediciones paperback (por ejemplo, link Amazon UK).

Analisis de la Luna (der Mond) de los hermanos Grimm

Analisis de la Luna (der Mond) de los hermanos Grimm

Por Anamaría Hurtado
psiquiatra, psicoterapeuta, colaboradora de im Geviert

Ex: http://geviert.wordpress.com/

Sumergirse  en un cuento de hadas es iniciar una aventura en un bosque espeso, henchido de vida y de  todo tipo de criaturas de la psique,  no es azar  que sea el bosque  lugar por excelencia de los cuentos.  Tras su aparente simpleza, los cuentos exponen las vicisitudes  más trascendentes  de la humanidad;  el relato mítico, del cual se vale el cuento de hadas, más que un discurso lógico-formal,  efectúa una apropiación analógica de las experiencias propiamente humanas en su entorno natural y social, manteniéndose en sincronía con los procesos del acontecer interno.  No se detiene en  la realidad  externa, sino que va a penetrar la realidad psíquica individual, y de ella salta en circular retorno al ámbito mayor de la psique colectiva.  A través de la imagen, vía regia para la manifestación arquetipal, los cuentos son una episteme integral y totalizante.  Siempre hallaremos en los cuentos una condensación de múltiples niveles de significado, abundancia de símbolos, cuya cualidad polisémica les permite dar cuenta de lo inabarcable.  En ese sentido,  el conocimiento no queda seccionado por el intelecto, por el contrario se amplifica en extensión y profundidad.  Por ello, cualquier  análisis estructural, semiótico, psicológico, social o estético es  apenas intento parcial  de explicar un todo más amplio que los contiene: la propia realidad arquetipal; más fidedigna será siempre la conmoción que se origina en el espectador, niño o adulto, y que Jung acertadamente definiera como el carácter numinoso de los arquetipos.

Bajo esa antorcha intentaré adentrarme en La Luna de los Grimm. Lo primero que llama la atención es que el cuento discurre en un espacio de oscuridad, evoca esa selva oscura en la que se encuentra Dante al iniciar su camino. Es la noche la que nos acoge, todo el cuento se desarrolla entre  tinieblas y la suave luz de la luna. Nos ubica en la inconsciencia primordial, la irracionalidad, el hombre en tanto naturaleza; de ese primer estadio salen los protagonistas, pero con la particularidad  de que ellos salen simplemente a una excursión, al parecer no emprenden una búsqueda o una conquista, como suele suceder en otros relatos. Este inicio del camino no es buscado, acontece, más bien.  Esto marca distancia con los cuentos clásicos de héroes, quienes inician un camino, que los lleva a  luchas por encontrar algo valioso. Tampoco es un solo joven: son cuatro, es una tarea colectiva la que comienza.  El número nos acerca en primera lectura al simbolismo del cuadrado, expresión geométrica de la  cuaternidad , los cuatro elementos, los puntos cardinales, símbolo de la fijeza y quietud de la tierra, se constituye así  el ámbito de la existencia humana, es la ubicación en el mundo. De inmediato, el mismo número nos llevará  a las fases lunares, punto central del relato.  Ocurre luego otra particularidad, los jóvenes encuentran en el crepúsculo, en el descenso solar, el globo de luz suave, lejana y amplia, la cual pende de un roble, árbol sagrado, puerta del conocimiento, arcaico símbolo materno. Este hallazgo es más bien un acontecer, un encuentro fortuito, pero de tal importancia que da inicio a la dramática del cuento. Ese segundo estadio nos habla de una luz en la noche.  Todos esos elementos nos ubican en una atmósfera nocturna- lunar, símbolo de lo femenino y de un tipo de consciencia  diferente a la consciencia diurna-solar, masculina.

Hasta acá hemos  visto lo  que el cuento no es,  no relatará el periplo de un héroe, que en esencia  simboliza el viaje del sol, es decir la aparición de la consciencia masculina patriarcal. Los cuatro jóvenes,  quienes también  parecen representar las cuatro funciones de la psique descritas por Jung, son tomados por la idea del Robo, cada uno aporta una facultad, reitero es un trabajo colectivo, un consenso. Las monedas de plata son otra conexión con el mundo lunar, por el elemento plata, asociado en la alquimia con la luna. El robo permitirá un acceder de los jóvenes y al pueblo al disfrute de una nueva consciencia, aún indiferenciada y apegada a la materia, pero que les evita  tropiezos y pueden iniciar el conocimiento y el despliegue en el mundo.

La dinámica de lo femenino  continúa, los jóvenes envejecen y mueren, no hay lucha, batallas ni pruebas, simplemente el ciclo de la vida y la muerte con el que tan íntimos vínculos tiene  la feminidad.  El descenso al inframundo, y la consecuente repartición de los cuartos de luna, repiten en otra octava lo que venimos señalando, ahora la luz lunar se traslada al  mundo de los muertos, recordemos a Perséfone, Señora del Hades, también raptada y conectada al inframundo que la transforma aunque la  retorne. Esa luz que no es intensa  ilumina a los muertos, lleva luz al ámbito profundo de la existencia, al inconsciente, los muertos salen de sus lugares y actúan como si estuvieran vivos, pierden sus lugares, hay un predominio de la consciencia femenina que amerita, por parte del psiquismo, de una actitud compensatoria.

San Pedro,  representante de la consciencia masculina patriarcal, hace su aparición tratando de poner orden, pero lo hace de una manera tremendamente insólita.  El advenimiento del poder no es por la guerra, la batalla o la lucha, las huestes angélicas no obedecen al  llamado. Pedro tiene que descender, se abaja, dialoga, ¡qué interesante! Sin embargo logra el cometido, lo muerto, lo ctónico regresa a su lugar, se establece un nuevo orden con la inclusión del elemento femenino lunar junto al elemento masculino: se efectúa la coniuctio, y se accede entonces a un estado de consciencia plena donde los opuestos se reúnen, lo racional y lo irracional, logos y naturaleza.

Pareciera, entonces que el cuento nos habla de la experiencia humana de integración de lo femenino en el  alma individual y colectiva. Ese apropiamiento no es  el robo prometeico de un fuego por el cual hay que pagar con el suplicio, este, por el contrario, es un robo hermético, un intercambio,  nadie protesta, nadie castiga, sólo se obtiene a cambio la experiencia de las monedas de un metal femenino. Asimismo, la luz lunar debe ser mantenida con el cuidado de la cultura, el aceite, otro referente femenino de espera y paciencia. Recordemos las vírgenes prudentes cuidando el aceite de las lámparas para mantener viva la llama, mientras esperan al esposo.

Todo es suave en este cuento, nos pone al tanto de un desarrollo de la consciencia femenina, no en cuanto género, sino como forma de apercibir y percibirse con la suave luz lunar que permite claroscuros, matices, sombras, que otorga a la psique un conocimiento global, amplio y emotivo, en oposición a la consciencia solar del logos que ilumina y encandila, apercepción del mundo desde la razón y la lógica del intelecto.  Se trata del  advenimiento de lo femenino ,  tanto en la psique individual como colectiva, lo cual va a implicar un esfuerzo diferente, un estar, dejar que suceda, un trabajo silencioso y  de espera, como el tejido, la cocina o la agricultura, diferentes a la caza, la conquista y la inmediatez.

Se hace posible otra dinámica del poder: San Pedro, el guardián, se relaciona con el submundo  a través de un diálogo, no hay poder autoritario, hay reconocimiento del Otro, es un  San Pedro que pide, solicita la vuelta a sus lugares de lo ya vivido, del pasado. No hay imposición cruenta. La omnipotencia suplicante, figura que integra dos aparentes opuestos.

El ascenso final de la luna, de manos del elemento masculino, bella imagen que evoca el dogma católico de la asunción de la Virgen para constituir una Cuaternidad a partir de la Trinidad, hay una nueva completud, un nuevo cosmos con la integración de la consciencia femenina.

Los Grimm  intentan en el cuento la integración de los aspectos femeninos, como parte indispensable del  proceso de individuación. Nos hablan de un viaje no heroico desde la inconsciencia primordial hasta la integración de los aspectos femenino y masculino, adquiriéndose así una consciencia más amplia. Es el dar lugar a otra forma complementaria de ver y estar en el mundo, haciendo posible el encuentro del alma y el espíritu.  Nos devuelven la visión de un monje medieval- Guillame de Digulleville, quien ve a Dios en el cielo como un Rey sentado en un trono circular y radiante, y junto a él , la Reina del cielo en un trono de cristal oscuro. El relato nos ubica en el dilema de la humanidad  a partir del Iluminismo, la concepción de un mundo atado a la razón, y el intento de echar a un lado la irracionalidad, lo emotivo, la intuición, formas alternativas de pensar, diferentes a la aparente pureza de la lógica y la objetividad científica, con lo cual contribuyó  al empobrecimiento simbólico de la humanidad, expulsada desde entonces de su habitar poético (Holderlin). El romanticismo mostró la  cara que se intentó ocultar, invitó a la Luna al cielo del mundo…

Links relacionados:

La luna, Der Mond

Ontología, mitopoiesis y estructura totalitaria de los cuentos de hadas

Proverbes latins

 

 

Citations et Sagesses latines

A bove ante, ab asino retro, a stulto undique caveto : Prends garde au bœuf par devant, à l'âne par derrière, à l'imbécile par tous les côtés

Absentem lædit, qui cum ebrio litigat : Celui qui se querelle avec un ivrogne frappe un absent

Abusus non tollit usum : L'abus n'exclut pas l'usage

Abyssus abyssum invocat : L'abîme appelle l'abîme (Psaume de David)

Ad augusta per angusta : Vers les sommets par des chemins étroits (La gloire ne s'acquiert pas facilement)

Ad impossibilia nemo tenetur : À l'impossible nul n'est tenu

Ægroto dum anima est, spes est : Tant que le malade a un souffle, il y a de l'espoir

Amicus certus in re incerta cernitur : C'est dans le malheur qu'on reconnaît ses amis

Aquila non capit muscas : L'aigle ne prend pas les mouches

Audaces fortuna juvat : La fortune sourit à ceux qui osent

Audi, vide, tace, si tu vis vivere : Écoute, observe, et tais-toi, si tu veux vivre

Avaro omnia desunt, inopi pauca, sapienti nihil : À l'avare, tout manque, au pauvre, peu, au sage, rien

Barba non facit philosophum : La barbe ne fait pas le philosophe (l'habit ne fait pas le moine)

Beati pauperes spiritu : Bienheureux les pauvres d'esprit (citation extraite du Sermon sur la montagne)

Beatus qui prodest quibus potest : Heureux qui vient se rendre utile à ceux qu'il peut aider

Bis dat, qui cito dat : Donner rapidement, c'est donner deux fois

Bis repetita placent : Ce qui est répété séduit Bis repetita non placent : Ce qui est répété deux fois ne séduit plus

Bene diagnoscitur, bene curatur : Bien diagnostiquer, c'est bien soigner

Bona valetudo melior est quam maximæ divitiæ : Une bonne santé vaut mieux que les plus grandes richesses

Canis sine dentibus vehementius latrat : Un chien sans dents aboie plus vigoureusement (chien qui aboie ne mord pas)

Carpe diem : Cueille le jour (mets à profit le jour présent ; Horace)

Caveat emptor : Que l'acheteur soit vigilant

Cave ne cadas : Prends garde à la chute

Cibi condimentum est fames : La faim est l'épice de tout plat

Citius, Altius, Fortius : Plus vite, plus haut, plus fort ! (il s'agit de la devise olympique)

Cogito ergo sum : Je pense donc je suis (Descartes)

Consuetudinis vis magna est : La force de l'habitude est grande

Consuetudo altera natura est : L'habitude est une seconde nature

Contra vim mortis non est medicamen in hortis : Il n'y a dans le jardin aucun remède à la puissance de la mort

Contraria contrariis curantur : Les contraires se guérissent par les contraires

Cuiusvis hominis est errare : Il appartient à tout homme de se tromper

Dat veniam corvis, vexat censura columbas : La censure pardonne aux corbeaux et poursuit les colombes (Juvénal)

De gustibus et coloribus, non disputandum : Des goûts et des couleurs, il ne faut pas discuter

De mortuis nihil nisi bene : Des morts, on ne doit parler qu'en bien

Divide et impera : Divise pour régner

Dolus an virtus quis in hoste requirat ? : Ruse ou courage, qu'importe contre l'ennemi ?

Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt : Le destin porte ceux qui l'acceptent et lynchent ceux qui le refusent

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori : Il est doux et beau de mourir pour la patrie (Horace)

Dum spiro, spero : Tant que je respire, j'espère

Dura lex, sed lex : La loi est dure, mais c'est la loi

E fructu arbor cognoscitur : On connaît l'arbre par les fruits

Errare humanum est : L'erreur est humaine (Sénèque le Jeune)

Errare humanum est, sed perseverare diabolicum : Il est humain (dans la nature de l'homme) de se tromper, mais persévérer (dans l'erreur) est diabolique

Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas : Heureux celui qui a pu pénétrer le fond des choses (Virgile)

Finis coronat opus : La fin justifie les moyens

Fortes fortuna juvat ou Audaces fortuna juvat : La fortune favorise les audacieux

Furor arma ministrat : La fureur fournit des armes

Gutta cavat lapidem non vi, sed sæpe cadendo : La goutte fait un trou dans la pierre, pas par la force, mais en tombant souvent

Habent sua fata libelli : Les livres ont leur propre destin

Hodie mihi, cras tibi : Aujourd'hui pour moi, demain pour toi

Homines quod volunt credunt : Les hommes croient ce qu'ils veulent croire

Homo homini lupus est : L'homme est un loup pour l'homme

Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto : Je suis un homme ; rien de ce qui est humain ne m'est étranger (Térence)

Horas non numero nisi serenas : Je ne compte les heures que si elles sont sereines

Ignorantia iuris nocet : L'ignorance du droit porte préjudice

Ignorantia legis non excusat : L'ignorance de la loi n'est pas une excuse

Ignoti nulla cupido : On ne désire pas ce qu'on ne connaît pas (vers d'Ovide)

In cauda venenum : Dans la queue le venin

In dubio pro reo : Le doute profite à l'accusé (en cas de doute, on acquitte)

In medio stat virtus : La vertu se tient au milieu... et non aux extrêmes

Inter arma silent leges : En temps de guerre, les lois sont muettes

Ira furor brevis est : La colère est une courte folie

Iurare in verba magistri : Jurer par les paroles du maître

Iuventus stultorum magister : La jeunesse est le professeur des fous

Labor omnia vincit improbus : Le travail opiniâtre vient à bout de tout

Laborare est orare : Travailler, c'est prier (devise bénédictine)

Lacrimis struit insidias cum femina plorat : Lorsque la femme pleure, elle tend un piège avec ses larmes (Caton)

Macte animo ! Generose puer, sic itur ad astra : Courage noble enfant ! C'est ainsi que l'on s'élève vers les étoiles.

Major e longinquo reverentia : De loin, l'admiration est plus grande

Medicus curat, natura sanat : Le médecin soigne, la nature guérit

Memento mori : Souviens-toi que tu es mortel ou souviens-toi que tu mourras

Memento audere semper : Souviens toi de toujours essayer/oser

Memento quia pulvis es : Souviens-toi que tu es poussière

Mens sana in corpore sano : Un esprit sain dans un corps sain (Juvénal)

Multi sunt vocati, pauci vero electi : Beaucoup d'appelés, mais peu d'élus

Mutatis mutandis : En changeant ce qui doit être changé ou en faisant les changements nécessaires

Natura abhorret a vacuo : La nature a horreur du vide

Nemo auditur propriam turpidudinem allegans : Nul ne peut se prévaloir de sa propre turpitude

Nemo censetur ignorare legem : Nul n'est censé ignorer la loi

Nemo judex in causa sua : Nul ne peut être à la fois juge et partie

Neque ignorare medicum oportet quæ sit ægri natura : Il ne faut pas que le médecin ignore quelle est la nature de la maladie

Nihil lacrima citius arescit : Rien ne sèche plus vite qu'une larme

Nil novi sub sole : Rien de nouveau sous le soleil

Nil sine numini : Il n'y a rien sans la volonté des dieux

Nomen est omen : Le nom est un présage

Non nobis domine, non nobis nomine sed tuo da gloriam : Non pour nous Seigneur, non pour nous, mais en votre nom et pour votre gloire

Non omnia possumus omnes : Tous ne peuvent pas tout

Non scholæ, sed vitæ discimus : Nous n'apprenons pas pour l'école mais pour la vie

Non ut edam vivo, sed ut vivam edo : Je ne vis pas pour manger, mais je mange pour vivre

Non vestimentum virum ornat, sed vir vestimentum : Ce n'est pas l'habit qui embellit l'homme, mais l'homme qui embellit l'habit

Non vini vi no, sed vi no aquæ : Je ne nage pas grâce au vin, je nage grâce à l'eau (Jeu de mots)

Nondum amabam, et amare amabam : Je n'aimais pas encore, pourtant je brûlais d'envie d'aimer

Nosce te ipsum : Connais toi toi-même !

Nulla poena sine lege : Nulle peine sans loi

Nulla regula sine exceptione : Pas de règle sans exception

O tempora, o mores ! Ô temps, ô mœurs ! (Cicéron) : Autres temps, autres mœurs

Oculi plus vident quam oculus : Plusieurs yeux voient mieux qu'un seul

Oculos habent et non videbunt : Ils ont des yeux mais ne voient pas

Omne ignotum pro terribili : Tout danger inconnu est terrible

Omnes homines sibi sanitatem cupiunt, sæpe autem omnia, quæ valetudini contraria sunt, faciunt : Tous les hommes désirent leur propre santé mais ils agissent souvent contre elle

Omnes vulnerant, ultima necat : Les heures blessent toutes, mais la dernière tue

Omnia mea mecum porto : Je transporte avec moi tous mes biens

Omnia vincit amor : L'amour triomphe de tout Omnibus viis Romam pervenitur : Tous les chemins mènent à Rome

Omnis homo mendax : Tout homme est menteur

Omnium artium medicina nobilissima est : De tout les arts, la médecine est le plus noble

Optimum medicamentum quies est : Le meilleur médicament est le repos

Pax melior est quam iustissimum bellum : La paix est meilleure que la plus juste des guerres

Pecunia non olet : L'argent n'a pas d'odeur (Vespasien)

Plenus venter non studet libenter : À plein ventre l'étude n'entre

Plures crapula quam gladius perdidit : L'ivresse a causé la perte de plus de gens que le glaive

Post cenam non stare sed mille passus meare : Après dîner ne reste pas, mais va flâner mille pas

Præsente medico nihil nocet : Quand le médecin est là, pas de danger

Prævenire melius est quam præveniri : Précéder vaut mieux que d'être précédé

Primus inter pares : Le premier parmi ses pairs

Qualis pater, talis filius : Tel père, tel fils

Qui nescit dissimulare, nescit regnare : Qui ne sait dissimuler, ne sait régner

Qui rogat, non errat : Poser des questions n'est pas une erreur

Qui scribit, bis legit : Celui qui écrit lit deux fois

Qui tacet, consentire videtur : Qui ne dit mot semble consentir

Quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris : Parce que tu es poussière et que tu retourneras à la poussière

Quidquid agis, prudenter agas, et respice finem ! : Quoi que tu fasses, fais-le avec prudence, sans perdre de vue la fin

Quidquid discis, tibi discis : Quoi que tu apprennes, tu l'apprends pour toi-même

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes ? : Qui gardera les gardiens ? (Juvénal)

Quo fata ferunt : Là où les destins l'emportent

Quod erat demonstrandum (Q.E.D.) : Ce qu'il fallait démontrer (CQFD) (Ponctue la fin d'une démonstration.)

Quod licet Iovis, non licet bovis : Ce qui est permis à Jupiter n'est pas permis au bœuf

Quod medicina aliis, aliis est acre venenum : Ce qui est un remède pour certains est poison violent pour d'autres

Quot capita, tot sententiæ : Autant d'avis différents que d'hommes

Reddite ergo quæ Cæsaris sunt Cæsari et quæ Dei sunt Deo : Rendez donc à César ce qui est à César et à Dieu ce qui est à Dieu

Repetitio est mater studiorum : La répétition est la mère des études

Requiescat in pace (R.I.P.) : Qu'il repose en paix

Sæpe morborum gravium exitus incerti sunt : Souvent, l'issue des maladies graves est incertaine

Salus ægroti suprema lex : Le bien-être du malade, voilà la loi suprême

Sapientia est potentia : La sagesse est pouvoir

Si napo leo viveret, hominem non esset : Si le lion vivait de navets il ne mangerait pas l'homme

Si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses : Si tu t'étais tu, tu serais resté un philosophe

Si vis pacem, para bellum : Si tu veux la paix, prépare la guerre

Si vis pacem, para iustitiam : Si tu veux la paix, prépare la justice

Sine labore non erit panis in ore : Sans travail il n'y aura pas de pain dans ta bouche, ou pour conserver le jeu de mots : Sans boulot, pas de fricot

Solem lucerna non ostenderent : On ne montre pas le soleil avec une lanterne (pour montrer l'évidence d'une chose)

Spoliatis arma supersunt : À ceux qui ont été dépouillés, une ressource reste : les armes

Tarde venientibus ossa : Pour les retardataires, des os. (se dit en parlant de ceux qui arrivent en retard à un repas)

Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis : Le temps bouge, nous bougeons avec lui

Testis unus, testis nullus : Un seul témoin, pas de témoin

Ubi bene, ibi patria : La patrie est là où l'on se sent bien

Ubi concordia, ibi victoria : Là où il y a concorde, il y a victoire

Ubi lex non distinguit, non distinguere debemus : Là où la loi ne distingue pas, il ne faut pas distinguer

Ubi tu Gaius, ibi ego Gaia : Là où tu seras Gaïus, je serai Gaïa (formule de fidélité dite par les époux romains lors du mariage)

Ultima ratio regum : Le dernier argument des rois (devise inscrite sur les canons par ordre du Cardinal de Richelieu)

Ultra posse nemo obligatur : À l'impossible nul n'est tenu

Unum castigabis, centum emendabis : Si tu réprimes une erreur, tu en corrigeras cent

Usus magister est optimus : L'expérience [ou la pratique] est le meilleur maître

Ut ameris, amabilis esto : Pour être aimé, sois aimable

Ut sis nocte levis, sit cena brevis : Si tu veux passer une bonne nuit, ne dîne pas longuement

Vade retro satana : Retire-toi, Satan !

Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas : Vanité des vanités, tout est vanité (Cri de l'Écclésiaste)

Veni vidi vici : Je suis venu, j'ai vu, j'ai vaincu (Phrase de Jules César)

Verba docent, exempla trahunt : Les mots enseignent, les exemples entraînent

Verba volant, scripta manent : Les paroles s'envolent, les écrits restent

Veritas odium parit : La franchise engendre la haine (équivaut à l'actuel « Toute vérité n'est pas bonne à dire »)

Veritas odium parit, obsequium amicos : La franchise crée des ennemis, la flatterie des amis

Victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa Catoni : La cause du vainqueur a séduit les dieux, mais celle du vaincu a séduit Caton (Lucain, Pharsale, I, 128)

Vide supra : Voir plus haut

Video meliora proboque deteriora sequor : Je vois le bien, je l'aime et je fais le mal

Vinum aqua miscere : Mettre de l'eau dans son vin

Virtus post nummos : La vertu après l'argent Vox populi vox dei : La voix du peuple est la voix de Dieu

V.S.L.M abréviation de « Votum Solvit Libens Merito » : Il s'est acquité de son vœu, de bon gré, comme il se doit.

Vulnerant omnes, ultima necat : Toutes blessent, la dernière tue (adage sur les cadrans solaires)" 

 

Proverbes latins

Rasmus B. Anderson: Mythologie scandinave, la légende des Eddas

Rasmus B. Anderson,

 Mythologie scandinave, la légende des Eddas

Rasmus Bjorn Anderson est un auteur américano-norvégien né à Albion dans le Wisconsin, le 12 janvier 1846, de parents qui étaient des immigrants de Stavanger dans le Rogaland norvégien. Ses parents appartenaient à un petit groupe de Quakers qui organisèrent la première émigration norvégienne vers l’Amérique au début des années 1820. Il fut professeur d’université et diplomate au Danemark, ainsi qu’éditeur et traducteur de textes consacrés à l’histoire et aux romans de l’Europe du Nord. C’est lui qui a notamment popularisé l’idée que les Vikings furent les premiers découvreurs du Nouveau Monde, réussissant même à imposer une journée Leif Erikson dans plusieurs états américains. Sa connaissance parfaite de l’islandais lui permit d’avoir accès aux textes fondamentaux de la littérature norroise et d’en devenir l’un des grands spécialistes de son époque.

 

Premier titre de la collection Au Nord du Monde des Editions d’Héligoland, le livre Mythologie scandinave de Rasmus Bjorn Anderson, publié aux éditions Ernest Leroux en 1886, méritait une réédition qui n’a jamais eu lieu jusqu’à présent. Jean Mabire, invétéré chineur de livres, le mentionnait en 1978 comme un ouvrage introuvable « dont il n’existe aucun équivalent contemporain ». Nous avons à notre tour cherché, fouillé, chiné pendant des années, jusqu’à ce qu’un beau jour nous découvrions l’objet de notre assiduité sous la forme d’un vieux bouquin fatigué, relié en percaline brune. Le trésor tant attendu, sous un aspect austère, allait enfin livrer ses secrets !

 

Certes, la recherche aujourd’hui a progressé vers une meilleure connaissance dans le domaine nordique, mais ses publications en restent souvent difficiles d’accès pour des néophytes qui veulent découvrir le fascinant Royaume du Nord et les mœurs, coutumes, croyances et traditions des hommes qui y ont vécu et fait souche depuis des temps assurément fort reculés. Conjointement, depuis les années quatre-vingt, une littérature foisonnante, côtoyant allègrement ésotérisme « œcuménique » et mode New Age, a pris le contre-pied des études universitaires en mêlant de manière univoque la pratique magique et le chamanisme à l’étude anthropologique, sociologique, culturelle, historique et à l’érudition. Les mondes traditionnels, dans notre époque troublée et chagrine, en perte de repères, noyée dans le relativisme le plus chaotique, passionnent pour leurs sorciers, chamanes, magiciens, mages et autres mystagogues : une nouvelle forme de « quête de pouvoir » sur le monde subtil, presque aussi matérialiste que celle fondée sur le rationalisme s’est emparée d’un public friand de fantastique. Elle ressemble fort à cette forme de « religiosité seconde » dénoncée par Oswald Spengler comme signe de déclin de sociétés aux croyances déjà vacillantes. Il est à craindre qu’irrationalisme, auto-suggestion et fuite hors de la réalité n’en soient les mamelles.

 

Rien de tel avec cet ouvrage que nous publions et qui se situe en un juste milieu, parce qu’il restaure avant tout la dimension poétique des mythes du Nord, ce qui est peut-être bien l’essence même du sacré dans un domaine où toute tentative de ritualisation se heurte véritablement à un problème de continuité et de légitimité. Laissons la mythologie et ses symboles parler au plus profond de nous de manière franche et directe, laissons-nous séduire par leur beauté et leur simplicité, sachons y voir des tableaux grandioses se dévoiler, une dynamique s’esquisser, une vision du monde et une sagesse se mettre en place, un esprit et une âme s’exprimer. Les mythes parleront en nos tréfonds, exigeant de nous le plus profond respect à défaut d’un culte parfait devenu aujourd’hui problématique et aléatoire.

 

Du « culte » passons à la « culture » qui est la prolongation du premier terme, et cultivons notre « jardin secret » pour engranger tant de belles images qui s’enracinent sur une terre septentrionale aux contours si attrayants, et dans un psychisme modelé par une nature sauvage et vaste, espace de liberté, de solitude et d’indépendance. Les territoires de l’antique et mythique Thulé qui se confondent géographiquement et sentimentalement avec les pays de « l’arc nordique » aux parages du cercle polaire arctique, au Nord de notre Europe, sont les chemins d’un « recours aux forêts » pour l’homme libre conscient des limites du monde moderne et de sa tolérance à sens unique.

 

Voilà la raison d’être de notre collection dont la future ligne éditoriale est bien représentée par le beau livre de Rasmus Bjorn Anderson. De la Finlande et des Pays Baltes, à l’extrême Occident des Celtes et de l’Islande en passant par la Scandinavie et la vieille Germanie, notre volonté est de dévoiler une part des « mystères » et de la poésie originelle des mondes nordiques, afin d’accéder à une meilleure connaissance de ces lieux aux paysages romantiques, à cette Europe romanesque et « barbare » d’où sourd véritablement la « Sehnsucht », cette nostalgie qui s’empare de l’homme en quête de sens, en recherche d’idéaux nobles au spectacle de la beauté, de la grandeur du monde et de son immanence.

 

Honoré de Balzac annonçait fièrement : « J’ai fait de fabuleux voyages, embarqué sur un livre ». En tant que directeur de collection telle est notre volonté d’emmener des lecteurs prêts à entamer de nouvelles traversées où ils découvriront une part d’eux-mêmes, ainsi qu’un héritage ancestral. Cette passion pour le livre, petit objet anodin, qui certes, comme la langue, peut être « la pire et la meilleure des choses », représente encore un formidable espace de liberté qui peut forger des « esprits libres » et permet de se construire soi-même dans un élan basé sur l’amour de la culture authentique et la connaissance des racines de l’âme européenne.

 

 

Pierre BAGNULS

Rédacteur en chef de la revue Figures de proues

Directeur de la collection «Au nord du monde»

• Éditions d’Héligoland 2010, ISBN : 978-2-914874-67-0, 1 volume 16 x 24, 268 pages, 25,00 € (vente par correspondance : 29 € franco). À commander chez le diffuseur EDH, BP 2, 27 290 Pont-Authou.

Cf; : http://www.editions-heligoland.fr/

The Epic of Indians and Persians

The Epic of Indians and Persians

Jan de Vries

Ex: http://www.centrostudilaruna.it/

The products of Oriental culture often make a bizarre impression upon Western man. This applies to Indian plastic art no less than to Indian thinking and Indian literature. Everything tends to assume the most luxurious forms of a tropical forest. The images of the gods, strange and grotesque, with their many arms, their denioniacal faces, their strange attributes; the temples with super-abundance of ornamentation and their symbolically thought-out structure; the finely spun speculations on the nature of man and God which eventually fade away into a nirvana without thought; all this bewilders us, and, in order to discern the beaury undeniably hidden in it, we Westerners must abandon many of our ways of thinking if we are to feel at home in this different world.

The epic poetry of the Indians, too, strikes us as strange. We feel at home in the Iliad. There we find a fine sense of proportion. There we find a sense of restraint and beautiful order which seems to us to be the essence of all genuine classical art. But when we read in the Mahabharata it seems as if we wander through the many galleries and turnings of a Barabhudur, and we get entangled in the multiplicity of detail and digressions.

ln size, the Mahabharata, the most important Indian epic, is tremendous. In its present form it comprises about 107,000 two-line stanzas or ślokas; if one places these more thats 2oo,ooo lines beside the almost 16,000 hexameters of the Iliad, one realizes the difference between excessiveness and wise restraint. An Indian collection of fairy-tales is called Kathasaritsagara, i.e. the ocean of fairy-tale rivers. Indeed, the Indian thinks in terms of oceans, whereas the Greek sees before him the picture of the Mediterranean.

Naturally an epic of such a size is the result of a long development.

The poem itself has something to say about this, as it tells us with amusing precision that it used to have only 24,000 ślokas, but that this poem in its turn was an expansion of an older epic of 8,800 stanzas, i.e. the size of the Iliad. This expansion is due chiefly to the insertion of numerous episodes: first, all kinds of other heroic legends which are told as exempla, but in later times also of long digressions of a philosophical and didactic nature. The sixth book of the Mahabharata contains the famous Bhagavadgita or the ‘Song of the exalted‘, which attempts to make a synthesis of the various metaphysical systems. The way in which it is inserted is remarkable: when the hero shrinks from shedding the blood of so many relations, the god who has changed into a man opposes this momentary weakness by pointing out that all living things must go the circular course through death to a new life.

The thirteenth book contains a series of legal treatises. Long digressions on worldly wisdom and politics, also on the mokśa or the liberation from the chain of regenerations, give the epic poem the character of a dharmasastra or a treatise on divine and worldly right. It is therefore easy to understand that in the temples devoted to Vishnu and Shiva and in the places of pilgrimage the Mahabharata is still read aloud to this day.

If one asks when this gigantic work was made, the answer is: in the course of about eight centuries. The final version belongs to the fourth century of our era, but the origin of the epic may certainly be as far back as the fourth century B.C. At that time it will still have been a purely epic poem. In the course of time and in the hands of Brahman priests it became the vessel which collected from all directions the streams of Indian thought. But the fact that theological and legal digressions especially could so easily find a place in it may be an indication that Indian tradition never considered it as a secular heroic poem in the narrower sense, but that the poem had a certain affinity with religious-philosophical literature.

The core of the epic may be briefly summarized in this way. Pandu, the prince of Kuru, situated in the basins of the upper reaches of the Ganges and the Jumna, leaves five sons after his death who are called Pandavas, after their father. The most prominent of these sons are Yudhishthira, Bhima, and Aryuna. They are brought up by their blind uncle Dhritarashtra. But jealousy springs up between the sons of this prince and their five cousins. The eldest son, called Duryodhana, finally succeeds in prejudicing his father against the Pandavas, in spite of the opposition of the uncle of King Bhisma, the warrior-Brahman Drona and the judge
Viduera.

The sons of King Dhritarashtra manage to obtain the support of the famous hero Karna, the son of a charioteer. Duryodhana then makes an attempt to kill his cousins by luring them into a house of inflammable material which is then set on fire. This treacherous method is also found in Irish and Germanic literature. It recalls the burning of the hall in the legend of the Burgundians. But it also took place in real life; the Icelandic sagas give several examples of brenna inni, thc burning of the enemy in his house.

The Pandavas, however, manage to escape with their mother Kunti through a subterranean passage. But the ground has become too hot underfoot, so they hide in a wood, while Duryodhana is under the reassuring impression that they have perished in the flames.

Dressed like Brahmans, the brothers live in the wood. The extra-ordinarily strong Bhima kills two huge monsters or Rakshasas, a feat which is almost obligatory for a hero and may be compared to Beowulf’s fight with Grendel. The king of the neighbouring people of the Panchala, called Drupada, decides to hold a svayamvara for his daughter Krśna, usually called Draupadi. This means that she may take a husband of her own choosing from the princes that come from all sides. The five brothers, begging and dressed as Brahmans, also go there. As a test of their strength the suitors have to bend a huge bow and shoot an arrow at a certain target. None of those present is able to do this. Only Kama has the strength for it. But Draupadi rejects him as husband because he belongs to a lower caste. Then Aryuna comes forward and accomplishes the task.

The bending ofa bow as a test of strength is also told in the other Indian epic, the Ramayana; it is evidently an old relic from a distant past, for we are reminded of Odysseus, who bends a bow in the hall of his house where the suitors are gathered, and thus initiates the denouement.

Aryuna is now accepted as husband, in spite of the protest of many of the princes present, because he is a Brahman. Then the Pandavas reveal who they are, and moreover demand that in accordance with an old ancestral custom Draupadi shall marry them all.

Drupada succeeds in making peace between Dhritarashtra and the Pandavas. Yudhishthira is made ruler of half the kingdom. Aryuna purposely breaks the agreement between the brothers regarding their relationship to Draupadi, and as a penance goes into exile for twelve years and lives the life of a recluse. But this does not prevent him from going through a series of adventures of war and love. When finally he returns to his brothers, their power has grown continuously; they have attained a dominant position in Northern India, and Yudhishthira now makes the famous king’s sacrifice, known as the aśvamedha.

Presently, however, fate will tum against them. The sons of Dhritarashtra invite Yudhishthira to a game of dice with Sjakuni, their mother’s brother. Carried away by the game, Yudhishthira stakes everything on the last die; he loses all his possessions and, finally his own freedom and that of his brothers. In the famous story of Nala, which is one of the episodes of the epic, the svayamvara and the game of dice also occur, which proves how important these were in Indian tradition.

Tacitus also mentions the passion of the Germanic people for the game of dice in which everything is set at stake. If the player loses he allows himself to be bound and sold. ‘Such an obstinacy prevails among them in a foolish cause. But they themselves call it fidelity’. The Roman author could not surmise what lay behind this. The Edda likewise tells us that in ancient times the gods played the game of dice. But this game is more than a simple pastime. lt is a questioning of fate; and hence also a determination of fate. That is the reason why the loser never opposes the issue of the game: alea locuta est.

The Pandavas, then, have lost their kingdom, and for another twelve years they have to seek refuge in the forest. At the end of this time they remain for a thirteenth year in the service of Virata, king of the Matsya, a nation that lived south of the Kuru.

The time has come at last to reveal themselves. When the Kauravas, the princes of Kuru, undertake a large-scale cattle-raid, they are beaten by Aryuna. The Pandavas are to be restored to their kingdom, but the sons of Dhritarashtra refuse this, and on both sides preparations for the battle are made in which all the princes of North India will be involved.

The battle is described in great detail. The poet here makes use of the frequently occurring motif of the messenger. From time to time Sanyarya leaves the battlefield to keep Dhritarashtra abreast of the course of thc battle. There are many victims of the lighting, among them all the sons of Dhritarashtra. The end is a lament uttered by the mother of the dead.

Such an ending to the poem shows a similarity to that of the Iliad and Beowulf. The climax of the epic has been reached in this tremendous and decisive battle; lamentation and funeral are the satisfying final chord. But the epic continues, without however maintaining its heroic character. We are told that Yudhishthira discovers only now that Kama, the son of the charioteer, who also fell in the battle, was his own (half) brother. In order to atone for the sin unwittingly committed by him, he makes a grand sacrifice of horses. ln the end Yudhishthira gives up his kingdom, and is taken to heaven with his brothers and Draupadi.

Though very brief this summary cannot but give the impression of a genuine heroic song. Just as in the Iliad the struggle for Troy is told as a series of duels between the leaders, so also in the Mahabharata. Naturally the typically Indian features, such as the svayamvara or the game of dice and especially withdrawing into the wood for many years in solitude, must be put down to the social and cultural conditions in which this poetry came into being. Yet there can be no doubt that the characteristics which we mentioned in our discussion of European epic poetry are present here too. This applies not only to the subject-matter, but also to the elements of style in general.

A look at the contents may easily lead to the conclusion that this is a story ofa real event embellished by a strong imagination. It is, however, noteworthy that older sources of the earliest history of India, as we know them, do not mention the Pandavas nor the Kauravas. The time of the recorded facts can be determined from the poem with some degree of certainty. For the Mahabharata is said to have been recited by Vaishampayana to King Yanameyaya, going back, therefore, to about 800 B.C. From the fact that the grandfather of this Yanameyaya is supposed to have fallen in the great battle of the epic, it follows that the poem deals with events of the ninth century B.C. But is this sort of information, which can so easily have been made up at a later date, really reliable?

The very fact that the Indians treat history very freely at once forces us to exercise the utmost reserve. With so many gaps and uncertainties it seems impossible to pin down the Pandavas and the Kauravas to one or other century. This does not mean that in the Mahabharata no memories of a far-distant past have been preserved. We have already discussed this. The use of chariot: recalls those early times when the Indo-European people had taken over this method of fighting from the steppe tribes in Central Asia. They used it for a long time. In the Gaulish graves of the La Tène period chariots are still found. We have seen that in the Irish legend Cúchulainn fights on his chariot. The Greeks of the Iliad did so too. A very old feature, too, is that the Indian heroes fight with bow and arrow. This is also known of the Hittites in Asia Minor and of the Egyptians of the nineteenth dynasty. But in addition the heroes also swing swords and battle-axes.

There are indications enough not to deny the poem an historical core; the Chadwicks believe that this will now be accepted by most scholars. As far as the external elements are concerned, one can agree. But what about the core of the story itself? ln this respect opinions have certainly changed in the last ten to twenty years. If one uses the term ‘historical’ in connexion with unhistorical India, one should be clear about its real meaning. Naturally the feudal structure of society is an historical fact. The battle which the Aryan tribes had to wage against the indigenous tribes in their invasion of Hindustan was too important not to leave traces in later literature. But it was no longer felt as pure history. Instead it was transposed into a different environment. Hence the answer to the question of what is the real core of the story should be in mythological rather than historical terms. One should not look for political history in the story, but for tradition; no powerful princes of the past, but real heroes. In due course we shall try to determine what this means in greater detail. Here it may suffice to quote a few sentences from Charles Autran: «This tradition is always carried on more or less by the fame of the legend or the more or less contradictory fantasies of the myth. It has its divine or human figures which it likes to embody as ethical or cultural ideals. lt worships these as leaders. It sees in them incarnations of common memories, of protectors on the ever uncertain path of time. It jealously defends their memory against the continuous threat of oblivion. lt also rescues some impressive names from that past, either religious or magic, folkloristic or heroic. But among all this abundantly rich material one can hardly point to names or facts that could be fixed chronologically with any accuracy».

How true this is appears from a closer inspection of the character of the three Pandavas. As in all genuine epic poetry, they are types, unchanging, fixed. One is either a hero or a traitor. There is no progression or retrocession in regard to man’s inborn nature. When we consider Virgil not as the end of classical epic poetry that goes back to Homer, but as the forerunner of all epic poetry which appeared later, modern literature included, then it is precisely the characterization of pius Aeneas that is developed in the course of his poem, because he becomes conscious of his vocation! In the Iliad, however, as in the Song of Roland or in the Mahabharata, a hero is given the character he will have throughout the whole poem from the outset. Thus the action is sharply outlined owing to this clear characterization, and creates a situation in which the reader always knows how the characters will art in the various circumstances in which they are placed.

How are the Pandavas drawn? Yudhishthira is the chief of the five brothers. He is described as a more or less passive personality, who respects the law and is true to his word. He is the incamation of the idea of dharma, and for that reason he is the son of the god Dharma. Bhima, on the other hand, is a furious fighter. Armed withhis club, he undertakes the defence of the three brothers and saves them in the most difficult circumstances. Aryuna is not less brave a warrior, but he is armed with bow and arrow. He is considered as the son of the god lndra. Then there are the two youngest brothers, Nakula and Sahadeva. They remain entirely in the background. They are supposed to be twins, and so it is no wonder that tradition should take them to be the sons ofthe twin-gods: the Aśvins.

The Swedish scholar Stig Wikander was the first to realize the true significance of this remarkable characterization, basing his inquiries upon Georges Dumézil’s investigations into the structure of the world of Germanic gods. For Dumézil observed that the relationship between the chief gods corresponds with the social groupings in the world of men, where we find, in the scale of social importance and status, first of all the king and on the same level the Brahmans. Then follow the caste of warriors and, as the lowest group, the farmers and artisans. For the latter the main emphasis lies in fertility, and various gods are active in this field: particularly a series of goddesses, apart from the twins, the Aśvins. The awe-inspiring Indra appears as the god of the warrior-caste. But the upper layer – and that is the unique feature of the Aryan system – has two facets, for kingship has a double aspect: it is the guarantee of social order and of its laws, but it also takes the initiative for reform when matters have come to a standstill. In other words: on the one hand it has a sacral-religious character, but on the other it is of a dynamic-magic nature. lt should be borne in mind that this apparent antithesis resolves itself in an unbreakable unity: thus among the lndian gods there is the inseparable pair Mithra-Varuna.

When we compare the five Pandavas (why five?) with this scheme – which is preserved in a more or less pure form among all Indo-European nations – they appear to be in complete accordance with it. The wise, almost passive Yudhishthira and the frenzied fighter Bhima together correspond to the pair Mithra-Varuna. The noble and brave Aryuna represents the caste of warriors, and it goes without saying that the twins Nakula and Sahadeva who stay in the background are a replica of the Aśvins.

This detailed correspondence between the five Pandavas and the Aryan system of gods cannot, of course, be accidental. As we have already remarked, scholars in the past tried hard to uncover an historical core in the Mahabharata. The same applies to the history of prehistoric times about which Livy speaks in his first book. The kings Romulus and Remus, Numa Pompilius, Servius Tullius in fact never existed except as mythical figures. If one looks more closely at their characterization and their actions, the typical features that we have indicated for the five Indo-European main gods appear at once. Hence it is not really true to say that everything that is mythical is a later addition to the Indian epic. This is proved by the fact that an entirely different world of gods exists in the epic: here the much younger gods Vishnu and Shiva appear. Behind them another world of gods lies hidden, namely that of the gods that are worshipped in the hymns of the Veda, but now as it were camouflaged as mortal heroes. Stig Wikander is therefore right when he concluded that the mythical core is the oldest part, and everything that is historical or pseudo-historical is merely an enrichment with motifs that were necessary to give action to the epic.

The marriage of Draupadi with all five brothers has indeed given much offence and caused much difficulty. It was thought to be a typical example of polyandry, and the actual establishment of this form of marriage among some primitive tribes of Hindustan seemed to prove the point. With the bold imagination that sometimes also carries scholars away, the thesis was propounded that the five Pandavas did not belong to the royal family of the Kurus at all but were in fact of non-Aryan origin. Did then this powerful and very popular Indian epic prefer to have for its heroes representatives of the hostile and despised primitive inhabitants of Hindustan? Did the classic epic of the Indians, in which they liked to find the traces of their war of conquest for the peninsula, really place the main heroic figures in a conjugal relationship which ran counter to all Aryan customs and was bound to appear in the highest degree offensive? There is no question of a conjugal relationship between a mortal woman and a set of tive mortal brothers, but rather of a mythical symbol. Draupadi – as has now become plain – is the goddess of fertility, who herself belongs to the lowest and third level and so comes to be closely associated with the Aśvins. In mythical terms, she is the wife of both of them, their sister or their temptress, for in this varying form the myth can attempt to give shape to what can only be sensed as a mythical symbol. Perhaps I may recall the Irish representation: the direct relationship between king and country finds its expresion in the marriage of the king to Medb, the goddess of earth. Hence Draupadi likewise has a relationship with the two persons symbolizing royal power. But the more or less fluid figure of the earth-goddess Draupadi, reduced to suit the rigid scheme of an heroic epic, in her (mythically) natural relationship to the other gods becomes part of a form of marriage in which she is the wife of all Pandavas. This is a remarkable result of a svayamvara, in which an extremely brave charioteer is rejected as husband and a marriage with five men is accepted. In considering this enormity, one wonders whether the Indian audience still had any idea of the mythical background. At any rate it proves with what almost religious reverence the epic was accepted by the Indians.

This surprising result throws light not only on the genesis of the Mahabharata but also on that of the heroic epic in general. We shall come back to this later on. We shall now try to show that a similar origin is also very probable for the second large Indian epic, the Ramayana.

Tradition ascribes the Ramayana to the poet Valmiki, which probably means that he was the final author of this epic. The present version of about 24,000 ślokas, a quarter of that of the Mahabharata, is no more than the result of the enrichment of the old epic core (especially at the end) with much non-heroic, partly antiquarian subject-matter.

The poem begins with the story that King Dasharatha of Ayodhya has two wives. The one, Kausalya, bore him his elder son Rama, the other, Kaukeyi, a second son Bharata. When the king grows old he decides to hand over his government to Rama. But Kaukeyi, spurred on by her foster-mother, asks the king to honour a former promise. He had promised her to fulfil any two wishes. She now utters these: Rama must go into exile for fourteen years and Bharata will reign in his place. The king falls in a faint, overcome by grief. When Rama hears about all this, he insists that the king must keep his promise. He therefore decides to withdraw into the wood. His only companions are his faithful wife Sita, the daughter of Janaka, and his younger brother Lakshmana. Soon afterwards the king dies; Bharata, convinced that he has obtained the succession in an unjust way, visits his brother in the wood and tries to persuade him to return and to be king of Ayodhya. But Rama will not violate his father’s promise and firmly refuses. Bharata returns, but in order to show that he is only reigning in his brother’s stead, he places Rama’s sandals on the throne.

The further adventures of Rama and Sita form a typically romantic story. We shall recount it briefly. A Rakshasa abducts Sita when Rama and Lakshmana are absent and takes her to the capital of the island of Lanka, which was later taken to be Ceylon. Rama wants to try and free his wife from the power of the monster, and in this attempt he secures the help of an army of monkeys. The wise councillor of the monkeys, Hanuman, makes the success of the dangerous undertaking possible. The monkeys build a bridge to the island, and, in a fight that is described in copious detail, the Rakshasa is killed. Rama is now united again with Sita, who in the meantime has shown herself steadfastly faithful. The period of his exile has now expired. He returns to Ayodhya, where Bharata joyfully hands over the government to him. Leaving aside the long fight with the Rakshasa and considering only what may be called the core of the story, one gets the impression that it has not a very heroic character. The tone is noble and lofty. Rama’s exile, undertaken out of a sense of duty, as well as Bharata’s refusal to make use of his morher’s ruse, give evidence of a high moral standard, but this does not make for exciting action. The hearer is compensated, however, by the story of Rama’s adventures during his exile.

The poem was very successful. Not only did it become a source of inspiration for the whole of Indian literature, but it laid the foundation for Hinduism. It penetrated far beyond the Indian peninsula: for preference, the Wayang-play in Java still shows the adventures of Rama and Hanuman.

Because there is so little action in the original story of Rama and Bharata, one wonders whether one is justified in speaking of an heroic legend in the accepted sense of the word. A king’s son who for years has to give up the throne, a brother who has the magnanimity not to make a use of the fortune that is thrown into his lap, all this does not really contain the subject-matter of a genuine heroic action. It is more an example of high morality. Naturally people have tried to establish an historical background for it, and the epic was thought to reflect the struggle of the Aryans for the possession of the southem part of Hindustan, or even, which is still less acceptable, the struggle of the Brahmans against the Buddhists in Ceylon.

Chadwick remarks: “The story of Rama is of special interest as illustrating the growth of mythology”. However, the conception of Rama as the incarnation of Vishnu cannot be part of this growth, for it appears only in the latest part of the epic. It is true that the later gods Vishnu and Shiva tried to get a firm hold in the older epics, both in the Mahabharata and in the Ramayana, but they did not penetrate much beyond the periphery. Chadwick also holds that the equation of the heroine Sita with the goddess of agriculture of the same name is of later origin: a folklore element that was added later. But I cannot agree with this. First of all it is a very striking coincidence, that ‘accidentally’ the heroine and the goddes of vegetation bear the same name. And in addition that name is a word meaning ‘furrow’, and so is a name which fits a goddess of agriculture perfectly. How would the wife of Rama have obtained this strange name?

Scholars have often made conjectures about the mythical background of this poem, and have often tried to prove too much by wanting to explain everything. When the German scholar Jacobi alleges that, according to Indian tradition, Sita as goddess is the wife of Indra and then deduces from this that therefore Rama equals Indra, I feel bound to make a reservation. As the epic pictures the hero, he is certainly not an incarnation of Indra. On the contrary, he is, like Yudhishthira, the typical representative of the dharma. Also he is a pronounced royal type and not at all a ksatriya, a member of the warrior caste, whose patron Indra is. If I had to point to a mythical background, I should like to see in the marriage of Rama and Sita a parallel to that of the Irish king with Medb. Behind this we can still discern the ritual marriage of the god of heaven with the goddess of earth which must be solemnized ritually by the king in the furrow. In popular customs this rite survives for a long time: in the spring the farmer and his wife nimble about together in the field, a mild form of sexual intercourse which at one time took place on the sown field.

If, then, we take Rama to be the Mithra-half of the two gods of royal authority, we would expect Bharata to represent the Varuna-half. Was he originally the usurper who pushed his brother off the throne? But in the epic he is equally admirable as a model of the dharma: the sandals on the throne of Rama are the striking symbol of this. Right is above might.

Thus we leave the two Indian epics with the feeling that they are a remarkable variant of the general Indo-European type. Iliad, Chanson of Roland, Nibelungenlied, these belong to a different world, the Western world, while in Hindustan an Oriental mentality gained the upper hand in the epic. How, then, do matters stand with the second Aryan nation, which pitched its tents on the plateau of Iran?

Firdausi has come down to us as the poet of the mighty Persian epic: the Shalt-nama or the Book of Kings. He is an historically well-known figure; Firdausi is the pen-name of Abu ‘l-Kasim Mansut, who lived from about 932 to 1021. The epic contains no fewer than 6o,ooo couplets (here too we are struck by the gigantic size of the poem) and was dedicated to Mahmud, King of Ghazni (999 to 1032), who, however, did not apparently reward the poet for it as much as the latter expected. Yet it was a great honour that was done to the king. The Mohammedan dynasties which ensconced themselves on the Persian throne thought it of great value to be considered as the legitimate descendants of the old royal generations. In the splendid figures of pre-Mohammedan tradition, Mahmud liked to recognize his own ancestors.

However much epic material is included in the Book of Kings, it is fundamentally the history of a dynasty which reaches far back into the Persian past. The history of Persia up to the death of Khosru ll in 628 had been written down in the Kwadhainanamagh or Book of Princes which was probably written during the first years of Yazdgard III’s reign: after the year 632. After the conquest of Persia by the Mohammedans in 638, i.e. very soon after the composition of the Book of Princes, many translations of it were made into Arabic, several of which have now been lost. In the middle of the tenth century the Shah-nama was made, written in New-Persian prose. Tradition has it that Dakiki, the court poet of Bokhara, made a poetic version of it between 977 and 997, which, however, he did not complete himself. That was done by Firdausi, who, it is assumed, completed it in about 1010.

This purely literary and written text is therefore mainly historical in character, and is not to be put on a par with genuine heroic epic poetry such as we have encountered so far. The Book of Kings deals with the history of Yamsed up to the fall of the realm of the Sassanids, and so stretches from mythical times up to the end of Persian independence. But out of this series of kings there arises the true hero, Rustum the faithful servant, who cannot die but gives successive generations of rulers his indispensable help. His origins lie in the district of Scistan in South-East Iran, and he first plays a part in the reign of Minutshir. The war with the Turanian tribes in the North begins to assume a threatening character, and their King Afrasiab succeeds in putting an end no the Persian dynasty. Then Rustum brings Kaj Kavad from Elburz and has him crowned. The king lives for a hundred years and becomes the founder of the dynasty of the Kayanides. His successor is Kaj Kaus, an ambitious ruler, of whom the myth is told that he tried no fly to heaven with trained eagles: a borrowing from the Babylonian Etana myth, which is also reflected in the well-known story of Alexander’s flight to heaven. He is succeeded by Kaj Chosrev, who was brought up in a secret place and, like Hamlet, had to feign madness. The war with Turan flares up again, in which Rustum plays a large part. With King Lohrasp a new generation of kings begins in Balkh, the capital of Bactria. His son is Vistasp, in whose reign Zarathustra proclaimed his doctrine. Under his successor Isfandiar, Rustum appears once more on the scene after having to hand over his function of leader of the army to somebody else for a time. Isfandiar is invulnerable, except in the eye. Rustum has to flee from him, but he hears from the bird Simurg that there is a plant with which Isfandiar’s life is bound up. From this plant he makes an arrow and shoots Isfandiar in the eye. With this story we are entirely in the epic-mythical atmosphere. A hero’s one vulnerable spot where he can be killed is also known from the legends of Achilles and Siegfried; we are reminded particularly of the Irish legend of Balor, who likewise can only be killed in the eye, and the deadly plant is known from the Norse myth of Balder and the Finnish legend of Lemminkäinen.

The episode of the fight between Rustum and his son Sohrab is justly famous. We have already met the same motif in the German legend of Hildebrand and Hadubrand, in the Irish story of Cúchulainn, and we shall see it again in the Russians heroic legend of Ilya Murometch. It is undoubtedly an ancient motif, but the view that it was handed down from nation to nation and so would have spread from the Persians to the Irish via the Russians and the Germans is subject to serious objections. lt is especially the early appearance of it in Irish heroic poetry that is inconsistent with this view. I would be inclined to think rather of an Indo-European tale preserved by some, but not all, separate nations. Moreover it is evident that its origin was a myth.

Pressed into a royal genealogy and drawn out over several generations, the heroic legend of Rustum was never completely rounded off. Or perhaps it would be more correct to say that the original unity was broken up kaleidoscopically as a result of this treatment. At any rate, both in Persia and in India we find book epics, that is, written works of gigantic size such as the West has never produced. There is no doubt that this is the end ofa very long development which must have had its origin in oral popular epic poetry. This epic activity can be assumed to have gone on for about a thousand years for the Mahabharata. For the Ramayana it went on for at least eight hundred years. The tradition of Persia may be estimated at about four hundred years. lt has justly been remarked that narrative poetry must have already existed before Dakiki, from which the Shah-nama derived not only its metre but also its fixed formulae and stylistic elements.

No less remarkable is the story of Artachsir i Papakan. Artachsir is the grandson of Papak, governor of Pars. When he is fifteen years old he is called to the court by the king of Iran, Ardawan. Although he is there brought up honourably at first, he is degraded to stable-hand status as a result of a quarrel during a hunt. But one of Ardawan’s concubines discovers him and falls in love with him. She tells him of a dream the king has had which indicates that the throne will be transferred to a servant, who will escape from him within the next three days. Then the pair decide to flee. They take great treasures from the palace with them and ride away on horseback. This reminds us vividly of the story of Walter and Hiltgunt, who flee from the court of Attila in a similar fashion.

On the way two women hail him as the future ruler of Iran and advise him no ride westwards in the direction of the sea. When Ardawan discovers the flight the next day, he equips an army to pursue them. In the afternoon the learns from the inhabitants that Artachsir passed that way at sunset. At the next resting-place he is told that the fugitives passed there in the afternoon and that a ram walked behind them. But on the second day Ardawan learns from a caravan that they are twenty parasangs ahead of him and that a ram was sitting behind one of the riders. Ardawan now realizes the futility of his pursuit. For the ram which had joined Artachsir was the symbol of the majesty of kingship. It had turned from Ardawan to the young hero.

This story, which can already be found in a middle-Persian manuscript and which also occurs in Firdausi’s Book of Kings has as its main character the founder of the middle-Persian kingdom of the Sassanids in A.D. 226. Nöldeke observes in connexion with this legend that it is remarkable that such romantic tales were current about the founder of the realm whose history was known with such accuracy. Certainly remarkable, but no more so than in similar cases which will be mentioned later. Here we touch upon the problem of the transition of history to heroic legend which will be discussed more fully in Chapter 10.

* * *

Source: Jan de Vries, Heroic song and heroic legend, Oxford 1963, pp. 99-115.

Evola & Spengler

by Robert STEUCKERS

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

Translated by Greg Johnson

“I translated from German, at the request of the publisher Longanesi . . . Oswald Spengler’s vast and celebrated work The Decline of the West. That gave the opportunity to me to specify, in an introduction, the meaning and the limits of this work which, in its time, had been world-famous.” These words begin a series of critical paragraphs on Spengler in Julius Evola’s The Way of Cinnabar (p. 177).

Evola pays homage to the German philosopher for casting aside “progressivist and historicist fancies” by showing that the stage reached by our civilization shortly after the First World War was not an apex, but, on the contrary, a “twilight.” From this Evola recognized that Spengler, especially thanks to the success of his book, made it possible to go beyond the linear and evolutionary conception of history. Spengler describes the opposition between Kultur and Zivilisation, “the former term indicating, for him, the forms or phases of a civilization that is qualitative, organic, differentiated, and vital, the latter indicating the forms of a civilization that is rationalist, urban, mechanical, shapeless, soulless” (p. 178).

Evola admired the negative description that Spengler gives of Zivilisation but is critical of the absence of a coherent definition of Kultur, because, he says, the German philosopher remained the prisoner of certain intellectual schemes proper to modernity. “A sense of the metaphysical dimension or of transcendence, which represents the essence of all true Kultur, was completely lacking in him” (p. 179).

Evola also reproaches Spengler’s pluralism; for the author of The Decline of the West, civilizations are many, distinct, and discontinuous compared to one another, each one constituting a closed unit. For Evola, this conception is valid only for the exterior and episodic aspects of various civilizations. On the contrary, he continues, it is necessary to recognize, beyond the plurality of the forms of civilization, civilizations (or phases of civilization) of the “modern” type, as opposed to civilizations (or phases of civilization) of the “Traditional” type. There is plurality only on the surface; at bottom, there is a fundamental opposition between modernity and Tradition.

Then Evola reproaches Spengler for being influenced by German post-romantic vitalist and “irrationalist” strains of thought, which received their most comprehensive and radical expression in the work of Ludwig Klages. The valorization of life is vain, explains Evola, if life is not illuminated by an authentic comprehension of the world of origins. Thus the plunge into existentiality, into Life, required by Klages, Bäumler, or Krieck, can appear dangerous and initiate a regressive process (one will note that the Evolian critique distinguishes itself from German interpretations, according exactly to the same criteria that we put forward while speaking about the reception of the work of Bachofen).

Evola thinks this vitalism leads Spengler to say “things that make one blush” about Buddhism, Taoism, Stoicism, and Greco-Roman civilization (which, for Spengler, is merely a civilization of “corporeity”). Lastly, Evola does not accept Spengler’s valorization of “Faustian man,” a figure born in the Age of Discovery, the Renaissance and humanism; by this temporal determination, Faustian man is carried towards horizontality rather than towards verticality. Regarding Caesarism, a political phenomenon of the era of the masses, Evola shares the same negative judgment as Spengler.

The pages devoted to Spengler in The Path of Cinnabar are thus quite critical; Evola even concludes that the influence of Spengler on his thought was null. Such is not the opinion of an analyst of Spengler and Evola, Attilio Cucchi (in “Evola, Tradizione e Spengler,” Orion no. 89, 1992). For Cucchi, Spengler influenced Evola, particularly in his criticism of the concept of the “West”: by affirming that Western civilization is not the civilization, the only civilization there is, Spengler relativizes it, as Guénon charges. Evola, an attentive reader of Spengler and Guénon, would combine elements of the the Spenglerian and Guénonian critiques. Spengler affirms that Faustian Western culture, which began in the tenth century, has declined and fallen into Zivilisation, which has frozen, drained, and killed its inner energy. America is already at this final stage of de-ruralized and technological Zivilisation.

It is on the basis of the Spenglerian critique of Zivilisation that Evola later developed his critique of Bolshevism and Americanism: If Zivilisation is twilight for Spengler, America is the extreme-West for Guénon, i.e., irreligion pushed to its ultimate consequences. In Evola, undoubtedly, Spenglerian and Guénonian arguments combine, even if, at the end of the day, the Guénonian elements dominate, especially in 1957, when the edition of The Decline of the West was published by Longanesi with a Foreword by Evola. On the other hand, the Spenglerian criticism of political Caesarism is found, sometimes word for word, in Evola’s books Fascism Seen from the Right and the Men Among the Ruins.

Dr. H. T. Hansen, the author of the Introduction to the German edition of Men Among the Ruins (Menschen inmitten von Ruinen [Tübingen: Hohenrain, 1991]), confirms the sights of Cucchi: several Spenglerian ideas are found in outline in Men Among the Ruins, notably the idea that the state is the inner form, the “being-in-form” of the nation; the idea that decline is measured to the extent that Faustian man has become a slave of his creations; the machine forces him down a path from which he can never turn back, and which will never allow him any rest. Feverishness and flight into the future are characteristics of the modern world (“Faustian” for Spengler) which Guénon and Evola condemn with equal strength.

In The Hour of Decision (1933), Spengler criticizes the Caesarism (in truth, Hitlerian National Socialism) as a product of democratic titanism. Evola wrote the Preface of the Italian translation of this work, after a very attentive reading. Finally, the “Prussian style” exalted by Spengler corresponds, according to Hansen, with the Evolian idea of the “aristocratic order of life, arranged hierarchically according to service.” As for the necessary preeminence of Grand Politics over economics, the idea is found in both authors. Thus the influence of Spengler on Evola was not null, despite what Evola says in The Path of Cinnabar.

Source: Nouvelles de Synergies européennes no. 21, 1996.

Note: Evola’s The Path of Cinnabar is now available in English translation from Arktos Media.

Le mouvement aryen en Iran

Le mouvement aryen en Iran

Ex: http://pagantroop.org/

 

ll y a maintenant en Russie beaucoup de publications consacrées à la révolution islamique, quand la monarchie fut renversée et qu’il y eut un Etat des mollahs. Les historiens et les journalistes qui rendent célèbre la révolution islamique passent consciemment sous silence ce que se passa en Iran jusqu’en 1978.

Il est naturel qu’un pays dont le nom vient du mot Aryanam-vaejo, c’est-à-dire le pays des Aryens, n’ait pu rester indifférent aux événements européens. La religion et la tradition islamiques furent imposées au pays d’abord par les conquérants arabes, puis par les fondamentalistes musulmans. Dans le pays de Zoroastre, Kir, Darius, Iskander et Rustem, elles sont étrangères. De plus, les nouveaux venus turco-mongols inondant au XIIIe siècle toute l’Asie supprimèrent toute l’élite persane. Jusqu’au siècle dernier les Turcs occupaient les postes-clés dans l’armée persane et dans le gouvernement, ce qui mena le pays à l’appauvrissement et à la dévastation.

Pour lutter contre la contagion révolutionnaire les Perses à l’exemple des Russes commencèrent à utiliser des cosaques, qui créèrent la brigade persane des cosaques. Le commandant de cette brigade devint bientôt le jeune et talentueux Mohamed Reza, qui était le fils d’un riche paysan persan. Reza détruisit d’abord les révolutionnaires et les séparatistes, puis tourna ses troupes vers Téhéran.

S’étant mis à la tête du gouvernement, il tâcha par tous les moyens de discréditer le shah, qu’il détestait. En 1925, le Premier ministre, profitant de l’absence du shah, l’accusa d’incompétence et le démit. Mohamed Reza décida de fonder une nouvelle dynastie Pahlavi, d’après l’ancien nom des rois parthes. Pendant le couronnement, le shahinshah (l’empereur) frais émoulu, imitant Charlemagne, arracha la couronne des mains du religieux qui devait le couronner. Alors l’un des hommes politiques présents prononça cette phrase historique : « Enfin un homme appartenant à la race aryenne est arrivé à la tête de notre Etat ».

Le nouveau shah proclama la nécessité de l’européisation : le costume européen et le calendrier solaire furent introduits, les noms des villes et des mois du vieil Iran furent rétablis. Les journaux et la radio commencèrent à glorifier la grandeur de l’ancien Iran, prêchant partout le nationalisme persan. En politique étrangère le shah s’orienta vers l’Italie fasciste, à l’exemple de laquelle furent créés de nombreux détachements de jeunesse scouts. Le shah souligna par tous les moyens que son arrivée au pouvoir était une sorte de révolution fasciste.

Mais la jeunesse était encore plus attirée par le mouvement pour la pureté de la race aryenne en Allemagne, que préconisait l’hebdomadaire l’« Iran-e-bastan » (L’Ancien Iran) et le groupe formé autour de lui. La jeunesse organisait des manifestations bruyantes en soutien aux nazis allemands, manifestations qui finissaient le plus souvent par des heurts avec la police, parce que le shah était très réservé concernant le parti d’Hitler. Cependant l’influence du national-socialisme germanique était très grande en Iran : le général Zahedi, le Parti Nationaliste de l’Iran, plusieurs représentants du clergé et des députés du Medjlis (le parlement iranien) sympathisaient avec lui. Même le parti gouvernemental « Iran Novin » (Nouvel Iran), créé en 1929, prit la croix gammée comme emblème.

La propagande du national-socialisme en Iran se renforça après l’arrivée au pouvoir d’Hitler en 1933. Le Troisième Reich commença à aider l’Iran avec des techniciens et des spécialistes. Des étudiants et des officiers iraniens firent leurs études en Allemagne. La propagande hitlérienne radiodiffusait sur la nécessité de l’union entre les « Aryens du Nord » et la « nation de Zoroastre » ; en plus de cela, les Perses étaient considérés comme des Aryens pur sang et par un décret spécial furent exemptés de l’application des lois raciales de Nuremberg. Après cela en Iran vinrent souvent d’Allemagne des conférenciers pour des sujets raciaux, et des peintres allemands, qui organisaient là des expositions de tableaux glorifiant la race aryenne.

Quand, en 1937, l’Iran reçut la visite du leader de la jeunesse allemande Baldur von Schirach, on lui organisa une réception pompeuse, et la jeunesse iranienne défila le bras tendu. Cette activité effraya le shah, qui voyait en cela une menace pour son pouvoir. D’autant plus que la même année on découvrit un complot ayant à sa tête le lieutenant M. Dzhadzhuz, qui voulait renverser le shah et établir une dictature de droite. Après l’exécution des révoltés, le shah interdit le national-socialisme dans le pays et ordonna de fermer l’« Iran-e-bastan ». Le mouvement national-socialiste avec à sa tête le docteur Dzhahansuzi entra dans la clandestinité.

Mais la propagande nazie en Iran se poursuivit quand même. Elle agissait officiellement – par les journaux et les consulats allemands – et illégalement. Une fois une affaire fit scandale : le bulletin officiel iranien publia l’article de A. Rosenberg : « Où la race aryenne s’est le mieux conservée », offensant les sentiments des musulmans. Les Allemands durent annoncer que Hitler avait accepté l’islam pour retrouver la sympathie du petit peuple iranien. Vers 1940 les Allemands devinrent tellement audacieux qu’une « maison Brune » fut ouverte à Téhéran et qu’ils procédèrent à la construction de la « Naz’jabada » (la ville des nazis), à laquelle participèrent les membres de l’organisation « Melli modafe » (la Protection Nationale) de la jeunesse radicale de droite. Les consulats allemands répandaient activement « Mein Kampf » et le bulletin « l’Aryen » en farsi.

Dès 1940 dans le pays apparurent de nouveaux groupements radicaux de droite : « Kabud » (Bleu), « Millet » (Nation), « Mejhanparastan » (les Patriotes), l’« Iran-e-bidar » (l’Iran Réveillé), « Shijahtushan » (les Manœuvres), « Pejkar » (la Lutte), « Mejhan » (la Patrie), « Istikal » (Indépendance), ainsi que l’organisation« Nehzat-e-melli » des officiers nazis (le Mouvement national). Toutes ces organisations s’unirent en 1942 au parti « Mellijun Iran » (les Nationalistes iraniens). Le renforcement de la droite radicale fut notamment la raison de l’occupation de l’Iran par les troupes de la coalition anti-hitlérienne.

Après leur départ en 1949, il y eut un Parti national des ouvriers socialistes. En 1951, les sections d’assaut de cette organisation saccagèrent l’exposition des marchandises soviétiques. Dès 1952, le Parti de la nation iranienne s’orienta contre le capitalisme et l’impérialisme, mais agit aussi contre le communisme pour la protection de la nation et de la monarchie. Le Parti des travailleurs de l’Iran et le groupement « Troisième force » manifestaient avec des slogans analogues.

http://cercle-futur.blogspot.com/2010/09/le-mouvement-ary...

Gnose et politique chez Jacob Taubes

Archives de SYNERGIES EUROPEENNES - 1986

 

Gnose et politique chez Jacob Taubes

 

Gnose et politique. Apparamment deux do- maines sans rapports aucuns l'un avec l'autre. La Gnose, c'est la théologie, la religion de la fuite hors des vanités de ce bas monde. La Gnose, c'est le refus de l'histoire, donc l'exact opposé du politique qui, lui, est immersion totale dans l'imma- nence de la Cité, dans le grouillement des passions et des intérêts. Pour Jacob TAUBES, pourtant, il est possible d'interpré- ter historiquement le déploiement des idéaux gnostiques, de repérer les traces que le mental gnostique a laissé, par le truchement du christianisme, dans les idéologies politiques. Ce travail de recherche, il l'a entrepris lors d'un colloque de la Werner-Reimers-Stiftung, tenu à Bad Homburg en septembre 1982. Les actes de ce colloque sont désormais disponibles sous forme de livre (références infra).

 

Le thème central, celui de la Gnose comme phénomène religieux, a déjà été abondem- ment exploré. Mais uniquement en tant que phénomène religieux de la fin de l'antiquité. Lors du colloque de Bad Homburg, la plupart des participants ont d'ailleurs abordé la Gnose sous l'angle strictement théologique, relatant ses avatars antiques. La Gnose n'est pourtant pas morte; elle s'est infiltrée dans le discours politique moderne. Odo MARQUARD définit la Gnose comme suit: "La Gnose est la positivisation de la Weltfremdheit (le fait d'être étranger au monde) et la négativisation du monde". Selon MARQUARD, la Gnose génère une conception eschatologique de l'histoire qui juge mauvais le monde tel qu'il est et valorise du même coup toute marginalité affichée par rapport à lui. Le Moyen Age jugule les débordements de l'eschatologisme, en posant un Dieu "bon", créateur d'un monde globalement positif. Ce monde, produit d'un créateur bon, ne peut en conséquence qu'être bon, conforme à sa bonté infinie. Le Moyen Age met donc un terme à la Weltfremdheit de la Gnose et revalorise la création. L'Augustinisme part du principe que cette "bonne création", ce "bon monde" a été perverti(e) par l'homme qui a abusé de sa liberté et s'est servi des richesses de cette création pour satisfaire des appétits de puissance. Le "bon monde", comme le "Bon Dieu", sont victimes de la "malifacture" de l'homme. Pour MAR- QUARD comme pour le théologien et philosophe Hans BLUMENBERG, le nomina- lisme constitue un retour de la Gnose en restituant au "Bon Dieu" une totale liberté d'action et donc une irresponsabilité vis-à-vis de ses créations qui, automatiquement, ne sont plus globalement considérées comme positives.

 

Cette "maléfaction" du monde provoque l'âge des révolutions populaires, des contestations sociales, des guerres de religions, parce que les hommes veulent abattre le monde tel qu'il est pour le remplacer par un monde idéal. A la suite de ces querelles, de ces guerres civiles perma- nentes, l'Europe connaîtra un deuxième dépassement du mental gnostique grâce à la "neutralisation" (Carl SCHMITT en parlera abondemment, dans le sillage de ses études sur HOBBES). L'Etat hobbesien neutralise ainsi les querelles religieuses; il valorise le monde régi par le Prince. Un siècle plus tard, LEIBNIZ parlera du meilleur Dieu, créateur du meilleur des mondes possibles. Dans cette optique, l'immanence acquiert à nouveau une valeur positive. La réalité de l'existence est acceptée telle quelle par les Lumières anglo-saxonnes. Le monde est acceptée mais, simultanément, dépourvu de tout caractère sensationnel.

 

A cette disparition du merveilleux et de l'enthousiasme eschatologique, succédera iné- vitablement la récidive gnostique, avec le pessimisme de ROUSSEAU et le concept marxiste d'aliénation. Pour MARQUARD, cette récidive gnostique recèle un danger très sérieux: celui de ne plus tenir compte des réalités complexes du monde immanent (jugées reflets du mal en soi) et d'engendrer une praxis du politique reposant sur le tout-ou-rien.

 

L'objet du colloque de Bad Homburg était d'accepter cette interprétation de l'histoire des idées politiques en Europe ou de la réfuter. Pour le professeur berlinois Richard FABER, pourfendeur génial de la notion d'Occident (Cf. Orientations no.5), le chemi- nement de MARQUARD est typiquement libéral, rattachable aux Lumières anglo-saxonnes, qui biffent des esprits les enthousiasmes et les fureurs révolutionnaires. Le Dieu "bon" des Lumières anglo-saxonnes, mais aussi de LEIBNIZ, est, pour MARQUARD, mort sous les coups de la récidive gnostique et du romantisme comme le signale un autre participant au colloque, Ioan P. CULIANU. Pour FABER, les thèses de MARQUARD expriment ipso facto un néo-conservatisme rigide, à mettre en parallèle avec la renaissance des thèses néo-libérales anti-révolutionnaires de HAYEK et de von MISES. L'alibi de MARQUARD, affirme FABER, est son "polythéisme", en tant qu'acceptation des diversités du monde. Mais ce polythéisme, ajoute encore FABER, minimise la fonction politique, qui est par définition transformatrice et quasi-prophéti- que. Les dieux du polythéisme marquardien sont "la science, la technique et l'économie" qui engendreront la neutralisation dont notre époque, héritière directe des gnoses romantique et marxiste, aurait rudement besoin.

 

Dans une seconde contribution au colloque de Bad Homburg, FABER s'attaque au théologien et philosophe germano-américain Eric VOEGELIN. Si MARQUARD et BLUMENBERG valorisaient essentiellement l'anti-gnosticisme des Lumières anglo-saxon- nes, VOEGELIN valorise, lui, la neutralisation médiévale de l'eschatologisme gnostique. Il y voit le véritable génie de l'Occident car, dans le libéralisme philoso- phique du XVIIIème siècle et dans le positivisme comtien, se cache l'idée d'une révolution permanente, d'une incomplétude du monde qui se "guérit" par de petites interventions chirurgicales. Le monde n'est pas accepté, dans ces philosophies sociales et politiques, comme globalement "bon". Dans les débats politiques, cela engendre une praxis marquée d'indécision voire un chaos non violent. Pour FABER, pourtant, VOEGELIN, BLUMENBERG et MARQUARD doivent être renvoyés dos à dos comme produits "occidentaux" qui refusent de percevoir le monde comme tissu conflictuel incontournable.

 

On le constate: le débat est sans fin, il interpelle toute l'histoire spirituelle et intel- lectuelle de l'Europe. Le politique véhicule nécessairement la gnose et nier les éléments gnostiques correspond à une négation partielle du politique.

 

Autre trésor que nous avons découvert dans les actes de cet époustouflant colloque, qui nous ouvre de vastes horizons: un essai d'Ekkehard HIERONIMUS sur le dualisme et la Gnose dans le mouvement völkisch allemand et plus précisément dans les cénacles qui ont adhéré au national-socialisme. Nous y reviendrons dans une prochaine contribution...

 

Robert STEUCKERS.

 

Jacob TAUBES, Gnosis und Politik, (Religionstheorie und Politische Theologie, Band II), Wilhelm Fink Verlag / Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh, München/Paderborn, 1984, 306 S., 78 DM. 

Epic of the Persian Kings: The Shahnameh of Ferdowsi

Epic of the Persian Kings: The Shahnameh of Ferdowsi

Edited by: Charles Melville, Barbara Brend

Hardback - £45.00 - I. B. Tauris, London

Composed more than a millennium ago, the "Shahnameh" - the great royal book of the Persian court - is a pillar of Persian literature and one of the world's unchallenged masterpieces. Recounting the history of the Persian people from its mythic origins down to the Islamic conquest in the seventh century, the "Shahnameh" is the stirring and beautifully textured story of a proud civilization. But the "Shahnameh" (or, literally, the "Book of Kings") is much more than a literary masterpiece: it is the wellspring of the modern Persian language, a touchstone for Iranian national consciousness and its illustrations, in manuscripts of different eras, are the inspiration for one of the world's greatest artistic traditions. "Epic of the Persian Kings" combines revealing scholarship with stunning, full-colour illustrations from the rich manuscript tradition of the "Shahnameh". International experts including Charles Melville, Barbara Brend, Dick Davis and Firuza Abullaeva shed light on the epic's background, national importance and enduring legacy.

This context is accompanied by a wealth of illustrations from "Shahnameh" manuscripts belonging to the Fitzwilliam Museum, the Victoria and Albert Museum, and the Bodleian Library, as well as rarely-seen material from the Royal Collection. These illustrations, drawn from a wide range of artists and styles, display the timeless flexibility of the "Shahnameh" story as well as the marvellous ingenuity of the Persian artistic experience. "Epic of the Persian Kings" is an essential textual and pictorial guide to one of the world's great cultural achievements.

Evola’s Metaphysics of War

Derek Hawthorne

 

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com

Julius Evola
Metaphysics of War:
Battle, Victory, and Death in the World of Tradition
Aarhus, Denmark: Integral Tradition Publishing, 2007

Italian Traditionalist Julius Evola (1898–1974) needs little introduction to the readers of Counter-Currents. The Metaphysics of War is a collection of sixteen essays by Evola, published in various periodicals in the years 1935–1950.

These essays constitute what is certainly the most radical attempt ever made to justify war. This justification takes place essentially on two levels: one profane, the other sacred. At the profane (meaning simply “non-sacred”) level, Evola argues that war is one of the primary means by which heroism expresses itself, and he regards heroism as the noblest expression of the human spirit. Evola reminds us that war is a time in which both combatants and non-combatants realize that they may lose their lives and everything and everyone they value at any moment. This creates a unique moral opportunity for individuals to learn to detach themselves from material possessions, relationships, and concern for their own safety. War puts everything into perspective, and Evola states that it is in such times that “a greater number of persons are led towards an awakening, towards liberation” (p. 135):

From one day to the next, even from one hour to the next, as a result of a bombing raid one can lose one’s home and everything one most loved, everything to which one had become most attached, the objects of one’s deepest affections. Human existence becomes relative–it is a tragic and cruel feeling, but it can also be the principle of a catharsis and the means of bringing to light the only thing which can never be undermined and which can never be destroyed. [p. 136]

So far, these ideals may seem quite similar to those espoused by Ernst Jünger–and indeed Evola alludes to him in one place in the text (p. 153), and is uncharacteristically positive. (Usually when Evola references a modern author it is almost always to stick the knife in.) However, Evola goes well beyond Jünger, for he adds to this ideal of heroism and detachment a “spiritual” and even supernatural dimension (this is the “sacred” level I alluded to earlier). In essential terms, Evola argues that the heroism forged in war is a means to transcendence of this world of suffering and to identification with the source of all being. He even argues that the hero may attain a kind of magical quality.

Unsurprisingly, Evola attempts to situate his treatment of heroism in terms of the doctrine of the “four ages,” a staple of Traditionalist writings. The version of the four ages most familiar to Western readers is the one found in Ovid, where the ages are gold, silver, bronze, and iron. However, Evola has squarely in mind the Indian version wherein the iron age (the most degraded of all) is referred to as the Kali Yuga. To these correspond the four castes of traditional society, with a spiritual, priestly element dominating in the first age, the warrior in the second, the merchant (or, bourgeoisie, the term most frequently used by Evola) in the third, and the slave or servant in the fourth.

When the bourgeoisie dominates in the third age, “the concept of the nation materializes and democratizes itself”; “an anti-aristocratic and naturalistic conception of the homeland is formed” (p. 24). Ironically, when I read this I could not help but think of fascist Italy and National Socialist Germany. To the liberal mind, fascism and Nazism both are “ultra-conservative” (to put it mildly). From the Traditionalist perspective, however, both are modern, populist movements. And National Socialism especially found itself caught up in reductionist, biological theories of “the nation.” Nevertheless, Evola writes that “fascism appears to us as a reconstructive revolution, in that it affirms an aristocratic and spiritual concept of the nation, as against both socialist and internationalist collectivism, and the democratic and demagogic notion of the nation” (p. 27). In other words, whatever its shortcomings may be, fascism is for Evola a means to restore Tradition. Evola also writes approvingly of fascism having elevated the nation to the status of “warrior nation.” And he states that the next step “would be the spiritualization of the warrior principle itself” (p. 27). Of course, it seems to have been Heinrich Himmler’s ambition to turn his SS into an elite corps of “spiritual warriors.” One wonders if this was the reason Evola began courting members of the SS in the late 1930s (a matter briefly discussed in John Morgan’s introduction to this volume).

Evola tells us that the end of the reign of the bourgeoisie opens up two paths for Europe. One is a shift to the subhuman, and Evola makes it clear that this is what bolshevism represents. The fourth age is the age of the slave and of the triumph of slave morality in the form of communism. The other possibility, however, is a shift to the “superhuman.” As Evola has said elsewhere, the Kali Yuga may be an age of decline but it presents unique opportunities for self-transformation and the attainment of personal power. (“A radical destruction of the ‘bourgeois’ who exists in every man is possible in these disrupted times more than in any other,” p. 137). Those who “ride the tiger” are able not just to withstand the onslaught of negative forces in the fourth age, but actually to use them to rise to higher levels of self-realization. War is one such negative force, and Evola maintains that the idea of war as a path to spiritual transformation is a Traditional view.

According to Evola, the ancient Aryans held that there are two paths to enlightenment: contemplation and action. In traditional Indian terms, the former is the path of the brahmin and the latter of the kshatriya (the warrior caste). Both are forms of yoga, which literally means any practice that has as its aim connecting the individual to his true self, and to the source of all being (which are, in fact, the same thing). The yoga of action is referred to as karma yoga (where karma simply means “action”), and the primary text which teaches it is the Bhagavad-Gita. Evola returns again and again to the Bhagavad-Gita throughout The Metaphysics of War, and it really is the primary text to which Evola’s philosophy of “war as spiritual path” is indebted. The work forms part (a very small part, actually) of the epic poem Mahabharata, the story of which culminates in an apocalyptic war called Kurukshetra. On the eve of battle, the consummate warrior Arjuna (the Siegfried of the piece) surveys the two camps from afar and realizes that on his enemy’s side are many men who are his friends and relations. When Arjuna reflects on the fact that he will have to kill these men the following day, he falters. Fortunately, his charioteer–who is actually the god Krishna–is there to teach him the error of his ways. Krishna tells Arjuna that these men are already dead, for their deaths have been ordained by the gods. In killing them, Arjuna is simply doing his duty and playing his role as a warrior. He must set aside his personal feelings and concentrate on his duty; he must literally become a vehicle for the execution of the divine plan.

One might well ask, what’s in it for Arjuna? The answer is that this following of duty becomes a path by which he may triumph over his fears, his passions, his weaknesses–all those things that tie him to what is ephemeral. Following his duty becomes a way for Arjuna to rise above his lesser self and to connect with the divine. This is not mere piety or “love of God.” It is a way to tap into a superhuman source of power and wisdom. The result is that Arjuna becomes more than merely human.

In fact, Krishna puts Arjuna in a situation in which he must fight two wars. One, the “lesser” war is external–it is the one fought on the battlefield with swords and spears. The other, “greater” war is internal and is fought against the internal enemy: “passion, the animal thirst for life” (p. 52). Evola places a great deal of emphasis on this distinction. What Krishna really teaches Arjuna is that in order to fight the lesser war, he must fight the greater one. Really, unless one is able to conquer one’s weaknesses, nothing else may be accomplished. This opens up the possibility that there may be “warriors” who never fight in any conventional, “external” wars. These would be warriors of the spirit. Evola believes that one can be a true warrior without ever lifting a sword or a gun, by conquering the enemy within oneself. And he mentions initiatic cults, like Mithraism, which conceived of their members on the model of soldiers.

Nevertheless, the focus in The Metaphysics of War is really on actual, physical combat as a means to spiritual transformation. Evola tells us that the warrior ceases to act as an ordinary person, and that a non-human force transfigures his action. The warrior who does not fear death becomes death itself. This is one of the major lessons imparted by Krishna in the Bhagavad-Gita. It is not just a matter of “waking up” or becoming tougher and harder (as it is in Jünger). Evola clearly suggests that there is a supernatural element involved, though his remarks are far from clear. He writes that “the one who experiences heroism spiritually is pervaded with a metaphysical tension, an impetus, whose object is ‘infinite,’ and which, therefore, will carry him perpetually forward, beyond the capacity of one who fights from necessity, fights as a trade, or is spurred by natural instincts or external suggestion” (p. 41). Elsewhere Evola states that when the “right intention” is present “then one has given birth to a force which will not be able to miss the supreme goal” (p. 48).  Heroic experiences seem “to possess an almost magical effectiveness: they are inner triumphs which can determine even material victory and are a sort of evocation of divine forces intimately tied to ‘tradition’ and ‘the race of the spirit’ of a given stock” (p. 81).

The suggestion here is that the experience of combat, fought with the right intention, results in a kind of ecstasy (an “active ecstasy” as Evola says on p. 80). The Greek ekstasis literally means “standing outside onself.” In combat one is lifted out of one’s ordinary self and, more specifically, out of one’s concern with the mundane cares of life. One enters into a state where one ceases even to care about personal survival. It is at this point that one has ceased to identify with the “animal” elements in the human personality and has tapped into that part of us that seems to be a divine spark. This is not, however, an intellectual state or “realization.” Instead, it is a new state of being, which pervades the entire person. The ancient Germans called it wut and odhr. And from these two words derive two of the names of the chief Germanic god: Wuotan and Odin. Odin is not, however, conceived simply as the god of war; he is also the god of wisdom and spiritual transformation. In this state of ecstasy, one feels oneself lifted above the merely human; one’s senses and reflexes become more acute, one’s movements more graceful, life suddenly comes into perspective and is seen as the transient affair that it really is, and one feels invincible, capable of accomplishing anything. (A dim simulacrum of this is experienced in athletic competition.) One has, in fact, become a god.

Evola ties this achievement of self-transformation through combat into a “general vision of life,” which he expresses in one of the most memorable metaphysical passages in this small volume:

[L]ike electrical bulbs too brightly lit, like circuits invested with too high a potential, human beings fall and die only because a power burns within them which transcends their finitude, which goes beyond everything they can do and want. This is why they develop, reach a peak, and then, as if overwhelmed by the wave which up to a given point had carried them forward, sink, dissolve, die and return to the unmanifest. But the one who does not fear death, the one who is able, so to speak, to assume the powers of death by becoming everything which it destroys, overwhelms and shatters–this one finally passes beyond limitation, he continues to remain upon the crest of the wave, he does not fall, and what is beyond life manifests itself within him. [p. 54]

Throughout The Metaphysics of War, Evola describes the various virtues of the warrior. These are the characteristics one must have to be effective in battle, and receptive to the sort of experience Evola describes. Again, however, it is very clear that he believes that all those who follow a path of spiritual transformation are warriors. Evola describes the warrior as without any doubt or hesitation; as having a bearing that suggests he “comes from afar”; as holding a world-affirming outlook. The warrior takes pleasure in danger and in being put to the test. (The lesson here for all of us, Evola says, is to find the meaning in adversity, and to take hardships as calls upon our nobility.) The warrior regards as comrades only those he can respect; he has a passion for distance and order; he has the ability to subordinate his passions to principles. The warrior’s relations with others are direct, clear, and loyal. He carries himself with a dignity devoid of vanity, and loathes the trivial.

Above all, however, Evola emphasizes the importance of  detachment:

detachment towards oneself, towards things and towards persons, which should instill a calm, an incomparable certainty and even, as we have before stated, an indomitability. It is like simplifying oneself, divesting oneself in a state of waiting, with a firm, whole mind, with an awareness of something that exists beyond all existence. From this state the capacity will also be found of always being able to commence, as if ex nihilo, with a new and fresh mind, forgetting what has been and what has been lost, focusing only on what positively and creatively can still be done. [p. 137]

Evola offers us a vision of life as a member in a spiritual army. The standard, liberal view of the military is in effect that it is a necessary evil, and that the military and its values are not a suitable model for individual lives or societies. Evola argues instead that true civilization is conceived in heroic and “virile” terms. Readers of Evola’s other works will be familiar with his concept of “spiritual virility.” Mere physical virility is the element in the man that he shares with other male animals. But this is not true or absolute manhood. True manhood is achieved in the spirit, in developing the sort of hardness, detachment, and perspective on life that is characteristic of the warrior. Rene Guenon (a major influence on Evola) called the modern age “the reign of quantity.” It is typical of our time that we have come to see manhood entirely in terms of quantities of various kinds: how many pounds one can bench press or squat; numbers of sexual partners; inches of height; inches of penis; the number of zeros in one’s bank balance; the number of cylinders in one’s engine, etc. Just as in Huxley’s Brave New World, our masters have striven to create a society without conflict; a “nice” and “tolerant” society. And women have invaded virtually every arena of competition that used to be exclusively male, and ruined them for everyone. Under such circumstances, how is spiritual virility to develop? It is no surprise that our conception of virility is a purely physical and quantitative one. Evola evidently saw in fascism a means to awaken spiritual virility in the Italian male. He says that the starting point for fascist ethics is “scorn for the easy life” (p. 62).

Unlike other thinkers on the right, Evola never was particularly interested in biological conceptions of race, because he believed that human nature as such was irreducible to biology. He opposed reductionism, in short, and believed in a spiritual (i.e., non-material) component to our identity. Evola articulates his views on race in much greater detail elsewhere. Here he reminds us of his belief in a “super race” of the spirit: a race of men who are like-souled, and not necessarily like-bodied. Nevertheless, Evola realized the connection between the body and the spirit. He did not believe that all the (biological) races are equally fitted for achieving heroism. What Evola was most concerned to combat was a racialism that reduced heroism or mastery to simple membership in a race defined by certain biological characteristics. For Evola, heroism is really achieved in a step beyond the biological, and in mastery over it.

One will also find little in Evola that celebrates “the nation.” Evola’s ideal of heroism transcends national identity. This comes out most clearly in his discussion of the Crusades: “In fact, the man of the Crusades was able to rise, to fight and to die for a purpose which, in its essence, was supra-political and supra-human, and to serve on a front defined no longer by what is particularistic, but rather by what is universal” (p. 40, italics in original). Having written this, however, Evola immediately realized that the powers that be might see this (correctly) as implying that it is the achievement of heroism as such that is important, not merely the achievement of heroism in service to one’s people. A further implication of this, of course, is that the hero is raised above his people. And so Evola writes in the next paragraph, “Naturally this must not be misunderstood to mean that the transcendent motive may be used as an excuse for the warrior to become indifferent, to forget the duties inherent in his belonging to a race and to a fatherland” (pp. 40-41). Evola is not really being disingenuous here. Taking a cue again from the Bhagavad-Gita, one can say that it is the performance of one’s duty to race and fatherland that is the path to liberation. But as the wise man once said, when the raft takes us to the other shore, we do not put it on our backs and carry on with it. As Rajayoga teaches, there is no god (and certainly no country) above an awakened man. Evola is a fundamentally a philosopher of the left hand path, not a conservative. This individualistic element in him is troublesome for many on the right, and it is one of the primary reasons why he was unable to wholly reconcile himself to fascism.

Nine of these essays were written during the Second World War, and it is interesting to see how Evola situates his understanding of the conflict within his philosophy. In one essay written on the eve of the war, Evola states that “If the next war is a ‘total war’ it will mean also a ‘total test’ of the surviving racial forces of the modern world. Without doubt, some will collapse, whereas others will awaken and arise. Nameless catastrophes could even be the hard but necessary price of heroic peaks and new liberations of primordial forces dulled through grey centuries. But such is the fatal condition for the creation of any new world–and it is a new world that we seek for the future” (p. 68). It is doubtful that the war’s outcome either surprised or demoralized Evola. As noted earlier, he believed strongly in a cyclical view of history, and saw our age as a period of inevitable decline. It could not have surprised him that the combined forces of bourgeois and Bolshevik prevailed. In the final essay of in this volume, published five years after the end of the war, Evola reflects that “what is really required to defend ‘the West’” against the forces of barbarism “is the strengthening, to an extent perhaps still unknown to Western man, of a heroic vision of life” (p. 152).

Evola makes it clear that his position is not an unqualifiedly pessimistic one. The Kali Yuga is not the final age; history is cyclical, and a new and better age will follow this one. In each period, the stage is set for the next. The actions of those who resist this age set the stage for what is to come. Hence, though speaking and acting on behalf of truth may seem futile given the degradation that surrounds us, ultimately our resistance is part of the mechanism of the great cosmic wheel which will, in time, swing things back to truth and to Tradition. In the act of resisting, heroism is born in us and instantly we become creatures who no longer belong to this age, who “come from afar.” We become beacons pointing the way to the future, and simultaneously back to a glorious past. Evola writes that “a teaching peculiar to the ancient Indo-Germanic traditions was that precisely those who, in the dark age, in spite of all, resist, will be able to obtain fruits which those who lived in more favorable, less hard periods could seldom reach” (p. 61).

The Metaphysics of War is required reading for all those interested in the Traditionalist movement. But it will be of special appeal to a certain sort of man, who scorns the easy life and seeks to give birth to something noble and heroic in himself.

Note: The Metaphysics of War is available for purchase here.

Renato del Ponte: Mes souvenirs de Julius Evola

Mes souvenirs de Julius Evola

Renato Del Ponte

Ex: http://www.centrostudilaruna.it/

Renato del Ponte est une figure incontournable de l’évolisme européen. Fondateur du Centro studi evoliani à Gênes en 1969 et éditeur des revue Arthos, il anime aussi le Mouvement traditionaliste romain. Il nous a fait l’amitié de nous accorder l’entretien qui suit.

Question: Renato del Ponte, votre nom est étroitement lié à celui d’Evola, pourriez vous vous présenter à nos lecteurs et préciser ce qui vous a amené à Evola et quels ont été vos rapports avec lui?

Réponse: Je suis simplement une homme qui a toujours cherché à donner à sa propre vie, sur les plans existentiels, politiques et culturels, une ligne d’extrême cohérence. Il est normal que sur cette voie mon itinéraire ait rencontré celui d’Evola qui avait fait de la cohérence dans sa vie comme dans ses écrits son mot d’ordre. Naturellement pour des raisons conjoncturelles – Evola est né en 1898 et moi en 1944 – la rencontre physique n’a pu se produire que dans les dernières années de sa vie.

Les circonstances et les particularités de nos rapports sont développés en partie dans les courriers que nous avons échangé à partir de 1969 et jusqu’en 1973 (Ndlr: Édité dans le livre Julius Evola, Letttere 1955-1974, Edizioni La terra degli avi, Finale Emilia, 1996, pp. 120-155).

Il s’est toujours s’agit de rapports très cordiaux, emprunts pour ma part de la volonté de créer un réseau organisationnel qui fasse mieux connaître sa pensée en Italie et à l’étranger.

Q.: C’est vous qui avez déposé dans une crevasse du mont Rosé l’urne contenant les cendres d’Evola. Pourriez vous nous dire dans quelles circonstances ?

R.: C’est effectivement moi et d’autres amis fidèles qui avons assuré le transport et le dépôt des cendres d’Evola dans une crevasse du Mont Rosé à 4.200 mètres d’altitude, à la fin d’août 1974. Pour vous dire la vérité, je n’étais pas l’exécuteur testamentaire des dernières volontés d’Evola, mais je lui avais promis ainsi qu’à notre ami commun Pierre Pascal, que je serais vigilant à ce que les volontés concernant sa sépulture soient correctement exécutées.

Comme le craignait Evola, il y eut de graves et multiples négligences qui m’obligèrent a intervenir et a procéder à l’inhumation avec l’aide d’Eugène David qui était le guide alpin d’Evola lorsqu’il fit ses ascensions du Mont Rosé en 1930. Il m’est impossible de raconter toutes les péripéties, certaines particulièrement romanesques, mais vous pouvez vous reporter à l’ouvrage collectif Julius Evola: le visionnaire foudroyé (Copernic, Paris, 1979) ou certaines sont relatées.

Q.: Vous animez le Mouvement traditionaliste romain. Qu’est-ce ?

R.: Le Movimento tradizionalista romano est une structure essentielle­ment culturelle et spirituelle qui se propose de mieux faire connaître les caractéristiques de la Tradition romaine, laquelle n’est pas une réalité historique définitivement dépassée, mais une entité spirituelle immortel­le capable d’offrir encore aujourd’hui un modèle opératif existentiel et une orientation religieuse basée sur ce que nous définissons comme la «voie romaine des Dieux». Dans ce but, le mouvement agit sur un plan interne et communautaire, très discret, voué à la pratique de la pietas, et sur un plan externe voué à faire connaître la thématique traditionnelle de la romanité au travers de manifestes, de livres – par exemple ma Religione dei Romani (Rusconi, Milano, 1992) qui a obtenu un important prix littéraire – et de revues. Pour le reste des particularités vous devez vous référer à mon intervention faites à Paris en février dernier au colloque de L’originel sur le paganisme et qui sera probablement publiée en français dans la revue Antaios.

Q.: Pour certains, la période du groupe Ur est la plus intéressante d’Evola. Il nous semble qu’elle mélangea politique para-fasciste, occultisme et art moderne dans un étonnant et fascinant cocktail. Est-ce exact? Comment analyser cette phase de la vie d’Evola?

R.: Je ne peux pas parler de manière brève du groupe d’Ur et de ses activités. Je vous renvoie à mon livre Evola e il magico Gruppo di Ur (Sear Edizioni, Borzano, 1994).

Je me limiterai à dire gué c’est la période la plus engagée de la vie d’Evola.

Cela parce que ce fut la période où certains courants ésotériques, qui pour une bonne part se revendiquaient de la tradition romaine, avaient quelques espérances concrètes d’influencer le gouvernement de l’Italie.

Mais aussi cette phase de la vie d’Evola peut être interpétée comme une tentative, caractéristique de toute son existence, de «procéder autre­ment», de dépasser les limites des forces qui conditionnent l’existence, pour créer quelque chose de nouveau, ou de meilleur, de revenir à des conditions plus «normales» d’une vie selon la Tradition.

Q.: Comment concilier évolisme et engagement politique?

R.: Si vous me parlez de possibles actions politiques d’orientation une fâché plus limitée, réservée à une minorité qui est de tenter d’influencer certains groupes ou certaines ambiances, mais au niveau individuel et sans espérance concrète de publication de revues et d’édition.

Nous allons bientôt recommencer à publier Arthos à un rythme trimestriel. Il est naturel que l’initiative italienne soit accompagnée par la naissance de groupes et de mouvements analogues en Europe et surtout en France où l’œuvre d’Evola est bien connue. L’année a venir verra sûrement la réalisation d’initiatives concrètes dont vous serez bien sur informés puisque nous comptons naturellement sur votre active contri­bution.

Note
Article tiré de «Lutte du Peuple», numéro 32, 1996.

Entretien avec Jean Haudry

Archives de SYNERGIES EUROPEENNES - 1990

 

Entretien avec Jean Haudry

 

propos recueillis par Xavier Cheneseau

 

1- Professeur à l'Université Lyon III, vous dirigez «l'Institut d'Etudes Indo-euro­péennes». Pouvez-vous nous dire en quelques mots qui étaient les Indo-Euro­péens?

 

Bien que je ne dirige plus l'Institut (mon ami Allard m'a remplacé dans cette fonc­tion), je continue à me consacrer aux études indo-européennes. Les Indo-Euro­péens ne peuvent se définir, dans un pre­mier temps, que comme «locuteurs de l'in­do-européen reconstruit», comme des in­do-européanophones comme il existe des «francophones», etc. C'est seulement dans un deuxième temps, à partir de la recons­truction (fondée en grande partie sur celle de la langue) de la civilisation matérielle et de la culture, en particulier de la «tra­dition indo-européenne» qu'on peut parler de «peuple indo-européen», et chercher à le situer dans l'espace et dans le temps, c'est-à-dire par rapport aux sites archéo­logiques actuellement connus.

 

2- Peut-on parler d'unité des Indo-Euro­péens? A quand remonte celle-ci? Comment s'est formée la communauté primitive?

 

On peut sans aucun doute parler d'une «période commune» de l'Indo-Européen et donc de ses locuteurs les Indo-Européens; sinon, la notion même d'indo-européen, lan­gue commune dont sont issues les lan­gues indo-européennes par un pro­ces­sus de dialectalisation, serait vide de sens. Cette période commune se situe au Néo­lithique et se termine avec ce que cer­tains préhistoriens nomment «l'âge du cuivre»: le nom du «cuivre» (*áyes-)  figure en effet dans le vocabulaire reconstruit, tandis qu'on n'y trouve ni le nom du bronze, ni celui du fer. La localisation la plus pro­bable du dernier habitat commun est le site dit des «Kourganes», en Ukraine, aux Vième et IVième millénaires. Quant à la formation de l'ethnie, je persiste à croire, après E. Krause, Tilak, et quelques au­tres, qu'elle s'est effectuée dans les ré­gions circumpolaires arctiques. Mais, en l'absence de confirmation archéologique, ce n'est là qu'une hypothèse, et qui ne fait pas, tant s'en faut, l'unanimité.

 

3- Existe-t-il un type physique spécifique­ment indo-européen?

 

La réponse à cette question ne peut être que «statistique»: aucune langue n'est liée par nature et définitivement à une ethnie ou à une race. Mais de même que la grande majorité des locuteurs des langues bantu sont de race noire, et que la grande majorité des locuteurs du japonais sont de race jaune, on peut affirmer sans ris­quer de se tromper que la grande majo­rité des locuteurs de l'indo-européen étaient de race blanche. On peut même préciser, en se fondant sur la tradition indo-européenne, qui associe constam­ment le teint clair, les cheveux blonds et la haute stature à son idéal social et mo­ral, que la couche supérieure de la po­pu­lation, au moins, présentait ces trois ca­ractères. Les documents figurés de l'é­poque historique confirment cette hypo­thèse; mais l'archéologie préhistorique, sans l'infirmer positivement, ne la con­firme pas non plus: il semble bien que les migrations indo-européennes n'aient pas été des mouvements massifs de popula­tions. Par là s'explique l'apparente contra­diction entre les deux points de vue: un petit groupe peut véhiculer et trans­met­tre l'essentiel d'une tradition, mais il ne laisse guère de traces anthropologiques de sa présence sur le terrain.

 

4- Quelle était la vision du monde des Indo-Européens?

 

Le formulaire reconstruit (plusieurs cen­taines de formules) exprime manifeste­ment les idéaux et les valeurs d'une «so­ciété héroïque», un type d'organisation so­ciale pré-féodale bien connu, qui se pro­longe à l'âge du bronze et même au début de l'âge du fer. On peut supposer qu'elle était déjà constituée en ce qui concerne les Indo-Européens, au Néolithique final (à l'«âge du cuivre»). Dans cette «société héroïque», la gloire et la honte sont les deux forces principales de pression (et de répression) sociales. Il s'agit de ce que les ethnologues nomment shame culture,  par opposition aux guilt cultures, dans les­quelles ce rôle revient au sens du péché. Gloire et honte affectent à la fois l'in­dividu (qui, par la «gloire impérissable» atteint la forme supérieure de la survie) et sa lignée toute entière, ascendants et descendants. D'où une inlassable volonté de conquête et de dépassement de soi, et des autres.

 

5- Que signifie le concept «d'idéologie tri­partite»? Avait-il un objectif précis?

 

On nomme «idéologie tripartite» la ré­par­tition de l'ensemble des activités cosmi­ques, divines et humaines en trois sec­teurs, les «trois fonctions» de souverai­neté magico-religieuse, de force guerrière et de production et reproduction, mise en lu­mière par Georges Dumézil. On ne sau­rait parler d'un «objectif» quelconque à propos de cette tripartition: il s'agit en ef­fet d'une part (essentielle) de la tra­di­tion indo-européenne, et non d'une cons­truc­tion artificielle, comme celles des «idéo­logues». C'est pourquoi le terme d'«i­déologie» ne me paraît pas très heureux; il conduit à cette confusion, quand on n'a pas présente à l'esprit la définition qu'en a donné Dumézil.

 

6- «La révolution française» semble avoir fait disparaître la conception trifonction­nelle de la société, êtes-vous d'accord avec cette vision des choses?

 

Est-il sûr que la conception trifonction­nelle était vivante dans la société d'An­cien Régime finissant? J'en doute. L'a­bolition des trois ordres, qui repré­sen­taient effectivement une application du mo­dèle trifonctionnel n'a fait qu'entériner un changement de mentalité et un chan­gement dans les réalités sociales. La no­blesse avait depuis longtemps cessé d'être une caste guerrière et privée de ses der­niers pouvoirs politiques par Louis XIV, il ne lui restait que des «privilèges» dont la justification sociale n'était pas évidente. On peut à l'inverse estimer que la Révo­lution a donné naissance à une nouvelle caste guerrière sur laquelle Napoléon Bo­naparte a tenté d'édifier un nouvel ordre social.

 

7- Est-il possible d'adapter une nouvelle tripartition à nos sociétés post-indus­trielles?

Je ne crois pas que la tripartition fonc­tionnelle représente un idéal éternel et intangible, tel le dharma  hindou. La fonc­tion guerrière a perdu aujourd'hui une grande part de sa spécificité, écartelée entre la science et la technique d'une part, l'économie de l'autre. Quant à la fonc­tion magico-religieuse, on peut se de­mander qui en est aujourd'hui le repré­sentant. Elle se répartit sur un certain nombre d'organisations (et une multitude d'individus) dont on ne peut attendre une régénération de nos sociétés, bien au con­traire. Mais nombre de sociétés indo-eu­ropéennes anciennes n'étaient pas orga­nisées sur le modèle trifonctionnel. Seuls, les Indo-Iraniens et les Celtes, en dé­ve­loppant une caste sacerdotale, ont réalisé à date ancienne une société trifonction­nelle. Or, ce ne sont pas les peuples qui ont le mieux réussi dans le domaine po­litique.

 

8- Est-ce à dire que cette nouvelle triparti­tion puisse être un élément de renouveau de nos civilisations?

 

Un renouveau de nos civilisations (je di­rais plutôt: une régénération de nos peu­ples) ne saurait venir d'un retour à un type d'organisation politique, économique et social des périodes médiévales ou pro­to­historiques. Je sais bien qu'il existe dans nos sociétés des gens qui ont pour idéal l'«âge d'or» de la horde primitive vivant de cueillette. L'archaïsme et la régression sont des phénomènes typiques des pé­rio­des de décadence; ils sont la contre-partie sociale de l'infantilisme sénile. Le renou­veau ne peut venir que d'un retour aux for­ces vives de la tradition, c'est-à-dire aux idéaux et aux valeurs qui ont fait le succès historique des peuples indo-euro­péens, qui a abouti à l'émergence du mon­de civilisé, industrialisé et développé. Il s'agit d'abord de la volonté d'être, dans le monde et dans la durée: d'aimer la vie, de la transmettre, de lutter contre toutes les formes de mort, de décadence, de pourri­ture. Il s'agit aussi de la volonté d'être soi, de maintenir la différence capitale en­tre le sien et l'étranger. Ces deux idéaux ne sont d'ailleurs pas spécifiques: ils sont communs à tout groupe humain qui sou­haite exister comme tel et avoir un ave­nir. Nos ancêtres indo-européens ont vou­lu davantage: on constate dans leur tra­dition une volonté d'être «plus que soi», de se dépasser, de conquérir, et pas seule­ment des territoires, d'accéder à cette sur­humanité que certains d'entre eux —les Grecs— ont nommés «héroïque» et que tous, même sans la nommer, ont connue. C'est dans cette perspective que le modèle trifonctionnel peut être un élément de re­nouveau: comme échelle de valeurs, et non comme principe d'organisation socia­le.

Professeur Haudry, nous vous remercions de nous avoir accordé cet entretien.

La metafisica del sesso in Mircea Eliade

La metafisica del sesso in Mircea Eliade

di Giovanni Casadio*

Fonte: Rinascita [scheda fonte]

“La vita è fatta di partenze”
Jurnalul Portughez, 19 luglio 1945

Mircea Eliade nacque nel marzo 1907 e morì nel 1986, quindi a poco più di 79 anni. Trascorse 3 anni in India, quasi un anno in Inghilterra, quasi 5 anni in Portogallo (Lisbona e Cascais), 11 anni a Parigi, 30 anni in America (Chicago) e naturalmente 33 anni in Romania, gli anni della formazione, durante i quali fece continui viaggi in Italia e in Germania. Durante i 30 anni di relativa stabilità a Chicago, quasi tutte le estati traslocava in Francia, con lunghe trasferte prima nel Canton Ticino e poi in Italia.

 

 

Si sposò due volte (come adombrato nel proverbio “di Venere e di Marte non si sposa e non si parte”, le nozze sono come un imbarco per un viaggio assai incerto). La prima moglie Nina Mareş (dal 1934 al 1944), la seconda Christinel Cottescu (dal 1950 al 1986) furono devotissime amanti, massaie e segretarie. Ebbe una decina di amori extraconiugali importanti (i più notevoli, quello con Maitreyi, per il contesto orientale e il libro – anzi i due libri – che ne seguirono, e quello con Sorana, per l’exploit orgasmico di cui parlerò nel seguito). E svariate altre donne: non tantissime come il coetaneo Georges Simenon (1903-1989), che si vantava di aver consumato un numero di donne superiore a quello delle matite usate nei suoi innumerevoli scritti (quattrocento e più romanzi e migliaia di articoli) e in un’intervista al vitellone romagnolo Federico Fellini dichiarava: “Fellini, je crois que, dans ma vie, j’ai été plus Casanova que vous! J’ai fait le calcul, il ya un an ou deux. J’ai eu dix mille femmes depuis l’âge de treize ans et demi. Ce n’est pas du tout un vice. Je n’ai aucun vice sexuel, mais j’avais besoin de communiquer!”
Ma anche i libri o gli articoli che si scrivono e poi (non sempre) si pubblicano sono partenze. Un elenco provvisorio, probabilmente in difetto, potrebbe essere il seguente: Romanzi o racconti lunghi: 15 - volumi di novelle: 4 - diari: 5 - volumi di memorie: 2 - drammi: 4 - saggi di storia delle religioni, di filosofia, di critica letteraria: 34 e più - curatele di opere singole o collettive: 2 tomi (Bogdan Hasdeu); 1 tomo (Nae Ionescu); 4 tomi (From Primitives to Zen: fonti di storia delle religioni), 15 voll. (Encyclopedia of Religion) - riviste fondate e dirette o co-dirette: 1. Zalmoxis, 2. Antaios, 3. History of Religions.
Aggiungiamo più di 1900 articoli, pubblicati in riviste e miscellanee di varia cultura soprattutto nel periodo romeno, ripresi solo in minima parte nelle opere menzionate sopra. E non parliamo degli infiniti frammenti inediti: abbozzi di libri non condotti a termine, note erudite, appunti di diario smarriti nei vari traslochi o da lui stesso gettati nelle fiamme o distrutti nel grande incendio che devastò il suo ufficio all’Università di Chicago un anno prima della morte. Molto si trova ancora nei 177 scatoloni del fondo Eliade conservato allo “Special Collections Research Center” presso la Regenstein Library della Università di Chicago, insieme alla corrispondenza, i manoscritti e le prime copie a stampa di tutti i libri pubblicati da Eliade, scritti su di lui e altro materiale interessante, compreso la famosa pipa, 5 temperini e un calzascarpe. Certo una bagattella al confronto della produzione del quasi coetaneo teologo indo-catalano Raimon Panikkar (1918-), al quale si devono più di 60 voll. e più di 1500 articoli, ma – si sa – i teologi scrivono sotto la dettatura di Dio (ed Eliade non era un teologo, contrariamente a quanto molti pensano). Ma un numero abbastanza cospicuo per comprendere che siamo di fronte a un essere fenomenale: un individuo ossessionato da una specie di delirio della scrittura-confessione, in funzione di una fuga dalla realtà (in gergo psicologico “escapismo”), che è poi una forma estrema di svago o distrazione, il cui scopo è d’estraniarsi da un’esistenza nei confronti della quale si prova disagio.
Infinite (in svariate lingue) le monografie, le miscellanee, gli articoli, le voci d’enciclopedia, le recensioni, le tesi di laurea sui più disparati aspetti della sua vita e della sua opera. E – ed è ciò che più conta – infinite citazioni dei suoi scritti in opere di storia delle religioni e di ogni altro genere letterario; per fare un esempio, Eliade è l’unico storico delle religioni menzionato in due opere chiave di due papi, Karol Józef Wojtyła (Varcare la soglia della speranza) e Joseph Ratzinger (Fede, verità, tolleranza).
La sua vita in Portogallo
In questa sede, ci proponiamo di affrontare alcuni momenti del suo vissuto interiore nel periodo portoghese. Premettiamo che Eliade stette in Portogallo, prima come addetto stampa, poi come consigliere culturale, poi di nuovo come addetto stampa, poi come privato cittadino (in ragione dei mutamenti del vento politico romeno) dal 10 febbraio 1941 al 13 sett. 1945, esattamente 4 anni e 7 mesi: sono date che parlano da sé …
Il Jurnal portughez è il più importante dei diari di Eliade per due motivi. Anzitutto esso si diversifica da Şantier (“Cantiere”, noto in Italia come Diario d’India) e dai tre voll. di Fragments d’un journal ovvero Journalul in romeno (che vanno dall’arrivo in Francia nel ’45 alla morte dell’autore nell’86) perché non fu ridotto (e censurato) dall’Autore per la pubblicazione, sia perché non ne ebbe il tempo sia perché non si trovò mai nella disposizione d’animo adatta per fare i conti con il vissuto psichico di quegli anni colmi di avvenimenti funesti per lui, per il suo paese e per il resto del mondo. Sia chiaro: quando Eliade scrive, scrive sempre col pensiero al lettore. Una volta, infatti, osserva che solo quando lui avrà sessant’anni quei pensieri potranno essere resi di pubblico dominio, e solo allo stato di “frammenti”, estrapolati dall’insieme delle confessioni: così scrive il 5 febbraio 1945. Alla sua morte la moglie Christinel non si è mai decisa a dare il permesso della pubblicazione: solo pochissimi intimi hanno avuto accesso al manoscritto conservato nel fondo Eliade della Biblioteca Regenstein di Chicago, tra i quali l’amico romeno Matei Calinescu (1934-2009) e il fedelissimo allievo e biografo McLinscott Ricketts. Ricapitolando, il testo manoscritto è stato pubblicato così come era stato buttato giù dall’autore, e sarebbe dunque la prima volta che ci troviamo di fronte ai pensieri immediati di Eliade, un autore che anche critici benevoli come N. Spineto e B. Rennie considerano un grande bugiardo, costruttore e manipolatore del proprio personaggio per la posterità.
Abbiamo detto che il Jurnal del periodo portoghese è più importante di tutti gli altri diari per due motivi. Il primo, si è visto, risiede nel suo carattere di documento genuino, immediato, in quanto presenta i suoi pensieri senza tagli o rielaborazioni. Il secondo motivo è di ordine contenutistico, e non è meno essenziale. In esso infatti sono narrati: 1) i pensieri e le emozioni che fanno da sostrato alle due opere di Eliade (apparse entrambe nel 1949 ma cominciate in quegli anni luttuosi) di gran lunga più lette e citate, cioè il Traité d’histoire des religions (prima concepito come “Prolegomeni” e poi ripresentato in inglese come Patterns) e il Mythe de l’éternel retour (successivamente presentato in inglese col titolo più descrittivo Cosmos and History); 2) le emozioni e i pensieri generati dal progressivo disfacimento – cui seguirà un inesorabile collasso – delle due cose che al Nostro erano più care, la patria -nazione romena, neamul românesc (sotto il rullo compressore delle armate sovietiche e per la inettitudine o complicità di “piloti orbi” di varie tendenze), e la sposa Nina Mareş (in seguito agli effetti devastanti di un cancro all’utero). E – come è stato notato anche da Alexandrescu, che definisce il Diario portoghese “Apocalisse di Eliade” o “secondo Mircea Eliade” (p. 317, trad. ital.; p. 26, ed. romena) – tra le due catastrofi esiste un inscindibile nesso, quale quello che può sussistere tra le vicende del macrocosmo-mondo e quelle del microcosmo-uomo, per restare nei termini di una polarità derivata da una tradizione – quella indiana – a lui estremamente familiare (si veda, ad es. nel Diario, la riflessione del 25 sett. 1942: “Quando l’uomo scopre sé stesso, ātman, scopre l’assoluto cosmico, brahman, e nello stesso tempo coincide con esso”, p. 49, trad. it.). In queste circostanze, e da esse condizionato e afflitto, egli elabora una serie di formule ermeneutiche che anticipano la filosofia delle due opere. Da queste circostanze, in maniera ancora più evidente, nascono una serie di riflessioni assolutamente brutali sulla situazione politica del tempo e sulla propria intimità personale, riflessioni che non mancheranno di suscitare gli strilli indignati delle anime belle e dei corifei della correttezza politica. Diamo quindi la parola all’autore stesso: all’Eliade intimo.
La bella giudea di Cordova
Anzitutto una riflessione sulla donna come virtuale soggetto e oggetto di desiderio e di innamoramento. Il 5 ottobre 1944 Eliade è a Cordova per un congresso in cui avrebbe parlato di miti sull’origine delle piante. Nella piazzetta di Maimonide adocchia “dal gruppo di curiosi che ci guardano passare, una ragazza straordinariamente bella, con una macchia bruna sotto gli occhi. Un tipo marcatamente ebraico” (p. 169 trad. it.). In lui si accende la fiamma del desiderio; non lo dice – secondo lo stile reticente e allusivo che è tipico del suo diario –, ma è evidente dalla narrazione che segue. “Al Depósito de Sementales (cioè il deposito degli stalloni), perché ci vengano mostrati i cavalli. Il primo cavallo che ci presentano è da monta: poderoso, ma terribile. In effetti il sesso non è mai bello, manca di grazia, non ha altra qualità tranne quella della riproduzione potenziata in modo mostruoso. Sono convinto che la maggior parte dei cavalli arabi e arabo-ispanici che ci vengono fatti vedere, superbi, nervosi e fieri, siano impotenti, o quasi. Il pensiero che la forza generativa che sento turbarmi sin dall’adolescenza potrebbe essere il grande ostacolo tra me e lo spirito puro, l’uccello del malaugurio del mio talento, mi deprime. Che cosa avrei potuto creare se fossi stato meno schiavo della carne!”. Eliade fu certo ossessionato dall’antitesi tra libido copulandi e libido scribendi (sentite entrambe come forme di creazione potenziale), ma non ricorse mai come il giudeo greco alessandrino Origene al rimedio estremo della castrazione. Per domare le urgenze della carne dovette attendere il naturale sedarsi dell’istinto sessuale, in seguito al trascorrere degli anni e grazie alla compagnia di una donna castrante come Christinel Cottescu. Lì a Cordova, la visione in rapida successione della bella giudea e dei potenti/impotenti stalloni fa scattare nella sua mente un’intuizione sulle modalità dell’eros femminile che è certo basata sulla sua ventennale esperienza di seduttore ma anche su una raffinata capacità di cogliere gli aspetti sottili della realtà, capacità che è poi anche quella che contraddistingue la sua ermeneutica dei fenomeni religiosi nei loro aspetti simbolici. “Dubito che le donne amino la violenza come stile erotico e abbiano un debole per gli uomini brutali. La donna è sensibile in primo luogo all’intelligenza (come la intende lei, ovviamente: “vivacità di spirito”, “facezia” [spirt, drăcos, glumeţ], ecc.); più che alla stessa bellezza. In secondo luogo, è sensibile alla bontà. Tutti i racconti con donne ossessionate da uomini brutali, ecc., sono invenzioni letterarie di certi decadenti. Statisticamente, e soprattutto nei villaggi, ciò che attrae nel 90 % le donne è il “cervello” (deşteptăciunea) e la bontà. Non è la capacità generativa a distinguerci dalle donne, ma l’intelligenza” (p. 170 trad. it.).
La conclusione di Eliade, per quanto generalizzante, è sicuramente fondata e potrebbe assegnare al suo autore un posto d’onore tra i trattatisti dell’amore nella serie che va da un Andrea Cappellano a un Henri Stendhal, fino a un Francesco Alberoni, si licet parvis componere magnis. Merita attenzione il corollario di questa riflessione che sembra caratteristico di una mentalità tipicamente maschilista, piuttosto disinvolta nei riguardi delle capacità intellettuali del gentil sesso: “Non è la capacità generativa a distinguerci dalle donne, ma l’intelligenza”.
Intelligenza e gentil sesso
Vuole egli intendere, con questa asserzione, che le donne sono prive di intelligenza?
Probabilmente sì, nel senso che le donne sarebbero prive di quel certo tipo di intelligenza o prontezza di spirito che esse prediligono in quegli uomini che ai loro occhi ne appaiono dotati. E credo invero che quel suo insistere sulla differenza (quella certa cosa che ci distingue dalle donne, “ne distingue de femei”), debba intendersi nel senso che le donne – come del resto gli uomini – sono naturalmente attratte (per la nota legge chimico-fisica sull’attrazione tra poli contrari) da quegli uomini che possiedono in maniera marcata una caratteristica di cui esse si sentono prive: il che naturalmente è vero solo in certi casi. E sarà lo stesso Eliade a notarlo in un pensiero successivo che sembra in netta contraddizione con questo.
L’11 aprile 1945, meno di un anno dopo, il Nostro è in uno stato di acuta irritazione nei riguardi dei suoi compatrioti maschi (in particolare i funzionari del ministero degli Esteri, pronti a inchinarsi di fronte al nuovo padrone sovietico) e in più soggetto a una crisi nevrastenica, “alimentata in modo naturale dalla mia insoddisfazione erotica”. Il suo pessimismo “per quel che riguarda la condizione attuale dell’uomo” lo induce ad impietose considerazioni che smascherano la (presunta) superiorità dell’intelligenza maschile. “Certe volte mi deprime l’enorme ruolo che continua a svolgere la vanità nella vita di quasi tutti gli uomini; superiore a quello del sesso, della fame o della paura della morte. Mi convinco egualmente che il maschio ‘in generale’ è di gran lunga più stupido di quello che ritenevo sino a qualche anno fa. La lucidità del maschio è una leggenda. Conosco, oggi, moltissimi uomini che sono stati scelti, menati per il naso e ‘acchiappati’ da donne completamente prive di ogni tipo di attrattiva – senza che essi avessero anche solo il sospetto del ruolo passivo che hanno avuto. (…) In moltissime coppie che ho conosciuto negli ultimi sette, otto anni, le mogli sono molto al di sotto del livello dei mariti, ma infinitamente più intelligenti e abili di loro, prova ne sia il fatto che se li tengono. Al contrario, quasi tutte le donne ammirevoli che ho conosciuto in questo lasso di tempo sono rimaste senza marito, perché nessun uomo ha saputo sceglierle. D’altronde, credo che quasi nessun uomo scelga. È sempre scelto. Come spiegarmi, altrimenti, tante coppie assurde che conosco? La stupidità dei maschi non è mai tanto evidente come quando, dopo molti amoreggiamenti e avventure, decidono di sposarsi. Quasi sempre la sposa ‘scelta’ è di gran lunga inferiore alle donne con le quali hanno flirtato, ecc.” (p. 264-265, trad. it.). Sei mesi prima, come abbiamo visto, pare che egli pensasse esattamente il contrario. Anche se sembra evidente che nell’un caso egli si riferisce alle condizioni in base alle quali la donna si lascia sedurre, nell’altro alla strategia che mette in atto per sedurre – a fini matrimoniali. Sulla donna, sul mistero della mente femminile, comunque, fa cilecca la razionalità di Mircea Eliade, come faceva cilecca la razionalità di un Platone o di un Schopenhauer.
L’eros come emozione
e orgasmo
E dall’eros come “innamoramento” passiamo a un’altra serie di riflessioni attorno a un altro aspetto paradossale della tematica erotica: l’eros come emozione legata all’evento fisiologico dell’eccitazione e dell’orgasmo, di nuovo da un punto di vista prettamente maschile. Tra il 2 e il 3 di febbraio del 1945, quando la disperazione per la “sparizione di Nina” gli pare intollerabile, quando la lettera di quasi licenziamento del Ministero degli Esteri lo getta praticamente sul lastrico, egli giunge, come avrebbe detto Eschilo, al mathein attraverso il pathein: a un intuizione geniale attraverso l’angoscia e la sofferenza (p. 227, trad. it.). Egli si domanda: “Che cosa significa la perdita di tua moglie, in confronto alla grande catastrofe mondiale, nella quale lasciano la vita decine di migliaia di persone al giorno, che annienta città e strema nazioni?”. La risposta che Eliade dà è lucidissima, e getta, per così dire, un ponte tra il macro- e il microcosmo; e significa, nel fondo, che la massa non è che una somma di individui tra loro incomunicabili. “Gli risponderei: immaginati un giovane innamorato da tanto tempo, che, un bel giorno, riesce a far sua la donna amata. È felice, e nel vederlo traboccare di felicità tu gli dici: ‘Che interesse può avere il fatto che tu oggi abbia posseduto una donna! Alla stessa ora, in tutto il mondo, almeno un milione di coppie stavano facendo, come te, l’amore. Non c’è nulla di straordinario in quello che ti è successo!’. E, malgrado ciò, lui, innamorato, sa che ciò che gli è successo è stato straordinario”. In questa minirealtà – che poi tanto minima non è – Eliade dà mostra di una capacità introspettiva che gli fa cogliere quel tanto di banale e di balordo che è implicito nell’atto della consumazione, che assume significato solo attraverso l’amore, amore che è in grado di produrre una trasformazione quasi alchemica dell’evento fisiologico. Una capacità introspettiva che è in fondo in sintonia (ci sia concesso questo accostamento che ad alcuni potrà apparire irriverente o impertinente) con la sua riflessione su tempo ed eternità, quale si ritroverà appunto nel libro alla stesura del quale si accingerà il mese successivo e che apparirà in Francia quattro anni dopo col titolo Le mythe de l’éternel retour. Archétypes et répétition (Paris 1949). Per il resto della notte lo rode l’insonnia, durante la quale si accavallano pensieri dominati da una disperazione atroce e senza apparente via di uscita (“sento che qualsiasi cosa faccia il risultato è la disperazione”). E di nuovo si rifugia nell’escamotage del libertinaggio fine a se stesso, svuotato di ogni dimensione romantica.
“E ho un’alternativa: se mi getterò di nuovo in esperienze (leggi: erotismo), mi consumerò invano, perché nessun piacere fisico può essermi di consolazione una volta estinto (può forse consolarmi l’aver stretto tra le braccia Rica, Maitrey, Sorana e qualche altra? Mai un ricordo erotico consola; tutto si consuma per sempre nell’atto; si ricorda l’amore, l’amicizia, la storia legata a una donna, ma ciò che è stato essenzialmente erotico, il fatto in sé diventa nulla nell’istante successivo alla sua consumazione). Così, mi dico che devo accontentarmi di un equilibrio fisiologico acquisito senza grattacapi (un’avventura qualunque e comoda) e concentrarmi sulla mia opera, lasciandomi passare accanto la vita senza sentirmi costretto ad assaporarla, a cambiarla né ad avvicinarmela”. Alla lucidità della diagnosi (effettivamente è così: il ricordo erotico non consola, tutto si consuma per sempre nell’atto, da cui il pessimismo sull’eros come adempimento fisiologico frustrante di Lucrezio nel IV libro del De Rerum Natura e l’insaziabile concupiscenza di Don Giovanni nel mito e nella letteratura) segue la banalità della terapia: “un’avventura qualunque e comoda”, cioè evidentemente mercenaria.
Insomma, per salvarsi dalla depressione conseguente alla débacle sua personale e della sua patria, Eliade (in fondo ha solo 38 anni, un’età in cui gli ormoni sono ancora assai attivi) si rifugia nel sesso come atto biologico di puro consumo. Nei giorni e nelle notti che vanno dal 5 marzo al 15 aprile 1945, mentre la storia macina gli eventi (per usare un’espressione carducciana) come in nessun altro momento del secolo testé trascorso, il Nostro macina i propri testicoli con accanimento per così dire terapeutico. Negli intervalli della cronaca del pellegrinaggio a Fatima, “per il riposo dell’anima di Nina e la salvezza della mia integrità spirituale” (18 marzo, p. 252, trad. it.), e del successivo ritorno a Cascais ove si ritrova a lottare con i tira e molla del Ministero degli Esteri romeno e con i fantasmi del proprio passato, è tutto un susseguirsi di annotazioni di eventi crudamente neurologici e fisiologici (p. 249-269 trad. it.). Il 5 marzo egli comincia a sperimentare la sua inedita tecnica di liberazione dalla crisi nevrastenica dando briglia sciolta alla sua sensualità e ad una sfrenata ginnastica sessuale. “Oggi – annota – sono tornato alla fisiologia. In un’ora ho fatto l’amore tre volte con la stessa donna, un po’ meravigliata, bisogna dirlo, del mio vigore. Domani o dopodomani consulterò un neurologo: voglio tentare tutto. Mi affliggerebbe apprendere, ad esempio, che la mia nevrastenia e la mia melanconia sono dovute alle adorabili funzioni seminali” (p. 249, trad. it.).  Il 14 marzo, alla vigilia della partenza per Fatima, annota: “Ripeterò la mia arcinota tecnica di liberazione attraverso l’eccesso, di purificazione attraverso l’orgia. (…) Voglio sapere se la mia melanconia ha o no radici fisiologiche. Voglio liberarmi da ogni influenza seminale, anche se questa liberazione implicherà sedurre un centinaio di donne” (p. 251, trad. it.). Il 16 marzo riceve dal neurologo la risposta che si attendeva: “le melanconie dipendono da cause spirituali”, ma la crisi generale ha motivazioni più biologiche, legate alla sua ipersessualità insoddisfatta: “non posso raggiungere l’equilibrio se non solo dopo la realizzazione di quello erotico” (p. 252, trad. it.). E durante il viaggio, nonostante le consolazioni spirituali del paesaggio “archetipico” si ritrova a lottare coi soliti fantasmi ormonali: “Tutto ieri e oggi ossessionato dal sesso” (22 marzo, p. 257, trad. it.). L’11 aprile, di nuovo a Cascais, ripete a sé stesso che la crisi nervosa è basata sull’insoddisfazione erotica. Ma i rapporti saltuari, per quanto spinti al massimo della sollecitazione ormonale, non lo soddisfano abbastanza: “avrei bisogno di un’amante giorno e notte” (11 aprile, p. 264, trad. it).
La politica, la pausa,
il lavoro
Il 15 aprile finalmente il Nostro riprende a lavorare (dopo la crisi di melanconia del giorno precedente in cui ha vissuto “un distacco definitivo dall’opera, dalla cultura, dalla filosofia, dalla vita e dalla salvezza”), ed è alle prese con la rilettura di Isabel şi apele diavolului (1929/30), in vista di un’eventuale nuova edizione. E allora, quasi proustianamente, riaffiorano in lui sensazioni e ossessioni che lo perseguitavano al momento della stesura del libro e immediatamente dopo la sua apparizione in Romania. “Un particolare mi turba: l’accento che pongo sulla sterilità, sull’impotenza. … Mi sono chiesto se il mio rifiuto (nel romanzo) di possedere Isabel non potrebbe interpretarsi psicoanaliticamente come un’ossessione di impotenza. Visto che non ho mai avuto tale ossessione, mi chiedo da dove provenga il rifiuto di possedere una ragazza che ti si offre, complicato dalla gioia sadica di vederla posseduta da un altro. È probabile che questa domanda se la siano posta anche gli altri. Rammento che Sorana, dopo una giornata eroica [meglio: “brava”, romeno: zi de vitejie] nel rifugio di Poiana Braşov dove feci dieci volte l’amore con lei, mi confessò che il mio vigore l’aveva sorpresa; perché, dopo aver letto Isabel, mi credeva quasi impotente. Ma, spaventata dalla mia energia, si confidò con Lily Popovici, che lei riteneva avesse avuto più esperienze in fatto di uomini. Lily le disse che, se non mi avesse conosciuto, avrebbe pensato che mi fossi drogato, che avessi preso delle pillole, ecc. La cosa più divertente è che io neppure mi rendevo conto d’essere in realtà messo tanto “bene”. Mi sembrava che qualsiasi uomo, se una donna gli piaceva, ed era rilassato, poteva fare l’amore dieci volte! Più tardi, ho capito che questo è un privilegio abbastanza raro” (p. 268, trad. it.). Questa ossessione della virilità, presente nella sua narrativa giovanile, è certo esistente allo stato latente nella sua psiche (per quanto egli si affretti a precisare il contrario: “Il problema della potenza o dell’impotenza non mi ha mai preoccupato”), altrimenti mal si spiegherebbe questa sua ricorrente, quasi puerile compiacenza nell’esibizione delle sue prodezze priapiche, ed è da Eliade ricollegata a un rifiuto ben più radicato e conscio: il rifiuto di generare prole, che si lega poi al lacerante senso di colpa prodotto dalla morte di Nina per cause probabilmente legate a un aborto violento che lui stesso le aveva imposto.
In queste meditazioni di un Eliade alla soglia dei quarant’anni è teorizzata, sul piano individuale, una tecnica di liberazione dall’angoscia (in altre parole, una tecnica di “salvezza”), basata sulla ginnastica copulatoria e l’estasi eaiaculatoria, senza che si tenti di elevarla su un piano di trascendenza metafisica o di stabilire alcun rapporto con i valori catartici e salvifici dell’orgia, temi peraltro assai familiari all’Eliade autore, nel 1936, di Yoga, essai sur les origines de la mystique indienne. L’aggancio di questo tema con più ampie realtà filosofiche e storico-religiose sarà invece compiuto da un altro storico e pensatore che è stato un suo dialettico compagno di strada in varie imprese, l’italiano Julius Evola (1898-1974), in Metafisica del sesso (1958; II ed. 1969). Un libro, questo, anch’esso frutto di una catastrofe personale mirabilmente metabolizzata, un libro che Eliade non avrebbe mai potuto scrivere, anche se fu testimone della sua gestazione in un incontro avvenuto nel maggio del 1952. In esso, in particolare nel terzo capitolo (Fenomeni di trascendenza nell’amore profano), Evola tratta dell’amplesso da un punto di vista superiore, cercando di cogliere quegli effetti trascendenti che rappresentano l’acme dell’atto sessuale. Come ha scritto Franco Volpi nel Dizionario delle opere filosofiche (Milano 2000, p. 357), nella voce appositamente dedicata a quest’opera apparentemente così poco filosofica, “Evola sviluppa una considerazione metafisica del sesso, ritenendo tale fenomeno un elemento troppo importante nella vita degli esseri per lasciarlo a spiegazioni semplicemente positivistiche e sessuologiche. Il sesso è la forza magica più intensa della natura, capace di esercitare su tutti i viventi un’attrazione irresistibile e tale da fornire, secondo Evola, l’occasione per trascendere la mera corporeità ed elevarsi fino al piano dello spirito. Il fenomeno del sesso implica dunque un potenziale estatico, iniziatico, che può essere portato alla luce soltanto guardando a esso dalla prospettiva metafisica”. E, conclude Volpi, “nell’eros – nei suoi attimi sublimi, ma a volte anche in esperienze d’amore quotidiane particolarmente intense – balugina la trascendenza, la quale può infrangere i limiti della coscienza quotidiana e produrre un’apertura spirituale. Il fenomeno del sesso getta così un ponte tra la fisica e la metafisica, tra la natura e lo spirito”. Ma queste cose l’Eliade del 1945, innamorato senza speranza di una donna che è ormai un fantasma e soggetto ancora a violente tempeste ormonali, non poteva o non voleva dirle.

*Ordinario di Storia delle Religioni all’Università di Salerno

Tante altre notizie su www.ariannaeditrice.it

 

 

Perché in Giapponeil cristianesimo è "straniero"

Perché in Giappone il cristianesimo è "straniero"

 

di Sandro Magister - Kagefumi Ueno
 

Fonte: L'Espresso [scheda fonte]

Annientamento del "sé", divinizzazione della natura, rifiuto di un Dio personale. I capisaldi della cultura giapponese spiegati dall'ambasciatore del Sol Levante presso la Santa Sede

di Sandro Magister

Già un'altra volta, quest'anno, www.chiesa ha messo in luce l'estrema difficoltà che incontra il cristianesimo a penetrare in Giappone.

È una difficoltà che riguarda anche altre grandi civiltà e religioni asiatiche. Il cardinale Camillo Ruini – quand'era vicario del papa e presidente della conferenza episcopale italiana – indicò più volte la principale ragione di questa impermeabilità nel fatto che in Giappone, in Cina, in India manca la fede in un Dio personale.

È per questo motivo – aggiungeva – che la sfida lanciata ai cristiani dalle civiltà asiatiche è più pericolosa di quella di un'altra religione monoteista come l'islam. Mentre l'islam, infatti, stimola se non altro i cristiani ad approfondire e rinvigorire la propria identità religiosa, le civiltà asiatiche "spingeranno piuttosto nel senso di una ulteriore secolarizzazione, intesa come denominatore comune di una civiltà planetaria".

Per quanto riguarda il Giappone, un'autorevole conferma di questo assunto viene da una conferenza tenuta il 1 luglio scorso al Circolo di Roma dall'ambasciatore giapponese presso la Santa Sede, Kagefumi Ueno.

La conferenza – riprodotta quasi integralmente più sotto per gentile concessione del suo autore – mette in evidenza con rara chiarezza l'abisso che separa la visione cristiana dalla cultura e religiosità del Giappone.

L'ambasciatore Ueno si definisce d'orientamento buddista-scintoista. E nella conferenza parla non da diplomatico ma da "pensatore culturale", come in effetti egli è. Il suo centro d'interesse sono da molti anni le civiltà e le culture. Su questo tema ha scritto numerosi saggi e parlato a vari congressi.

Un suo saggio pubblicato poco prima di arrivare a Roma come ambasciatore, quattro anni fa, ha per titolo: "Contemporary Japanese Civilization: A Story of Encounter Between Japanese 'Kamigani' (Gods) and Western Divinity".

Una sintesi della sua conferenza al Circolo di Roma è uscita su "L'Osservatore Romano" del 14 agosto.
_________

CULTURA E RELIGIOSITÀ NEL GIAPPONE MODERNO

di Kagefumi Ueno


Credo che vi siano almeno tre elementi che caratterizzano la religiosità giapponese come filosoficamente distinta dal cristianesimo.

Le tre parole chiave sono "sé", "natura" e "assolutizzazione".

In primo luogo, sul concetto di "sé" c'è una nettissima distinzione tra la visione buddista-scintoista e quella monoteista occidentale.

Secondo, nel concepire la natura l'oriente e l'occidente differiscono sostanzialmente. Mentre i giapponesi vedono la natura come divina, i cristiani non condividono la stessa riverenza.

Terzo, quanto ai giudizi di valore, a motivo della loro mentalità religiosa i giapponesi in genere hanno una propensione molto minore degli occidentali ad assolutizzarli.


DISSOLVERE IL "SÉ"


Primo elemento: il "sé". Come differisce il concetto religioso tradizionale giapponese di "sé" dalla visione occidentale? Per dirlo con parole semplici, i buddisti-scintoisti credono che, al fine di raggiungere la vera libertà spirituale, essi devono "cacciar via" ogni "karma" (desiderio), "ego", "interesse", "speranza" e anche "sé". Qui il termine "cacciar via" è sinonimo di abbandonare, rinunciare, dissolvere, svuotare, azzerare, ridurre a niente. In altre parole, lo stato finale della mente, la genuina libertà del pensiero, o la realtà ultima possono essere ottenuti solo dopo aver cacciato via il proprio sé o dissolta la propria identità. Il sé e l'identità devono essere assorbiti nella Madre Natura o universo.

Invece, le religioni monoteiste sembrano essere basate sull'assunto che gli esseri umani sono "miniature" del divino. Gli umani sono definiti per riflettere l'immagine del divino. Essi quindi, per definizione, sono chiamati a essere "divini", o almeno "mini-divini". Per avvicinarsi al divino sono comunque destinati a purificare, consolidare, elevare o portare a perfezione il proprio sé. Mai deve accadere, dunque, che caccino via il loro sé. Il cacciar via il proprio sé è semmai considerato immorale o peccaminoso.

In breve, i monoteisti sono chiamati a massimizzare, a portare a perfezione il proprio sé. Quindi, sono "massimalisti". Con questa idea in mente, non ci vuole una speciale immaginazione per capire che un "sé mini-divino" massimizzato o portato a perfezione è inviolabile o sacro.

All'opposto, i buddisti-scintoisti sono chiamati, al fine di raggiungere la realtà suprema, a minimizzare, cioè a cacciar via il loro sé. Quindi essi sono "minimalisti". Anche la dignità o l'onore di ciascuno è qualcosa a cui non devono legarsi. Mai guardano a se stessi come a delle "mini-divinità". Non accade mai che essi debbano perfezionare se stessi per arrivare più vicini al divino. Un simile desiderio è un tipo di "karma" che essi devono cacciar via.

Insisto, i buddisti-scintoisti credono che da ultimo non ci si deve legare ad alcun desiderio od ossessione, inclusa l'esaltazione di sé. Ognuno dev'essere completamente distaccato dal desiderio di esaltare se stesso.

Fin qui ho fatto una specie di esercizio intellettuale, con l'assunto che le differenti religiosità comportino differenti concetti di "sé". A questo proposito, l'immagine che mi sono fatta è che il "sé" degli occidentali è simile a una grossa, solida, splendente sfera d'oro che deve essere costantemente lucidata, pulita e consolidata, mentre il "sé" dei buddisti è simile ad aria o fluido senza forma, elastico, difficile se non impossibile da lucidare e pulire.

Secondo la religiosità giapponese, ciò a cui si deve rinunciare non è limitato al "karma", ai desideri e al "sé". Bisogna essere distaccati anche da ogni pensare logico. In definitiva, per i giapponesi, la religiosità è un ambito nel quale il "logos" in quanto "ragione", il pensiero logico e l'approccio deduttivo devono anch'essi essere cacciati via.

In particolare, per la tradizione buddista Zen, anche valori opposti come il bene e il male sono qualcosa che va trasceso. Nel senso più profondo della religiosità buddista, nello stadio ultimo dello spirito non vi è nessuna santità, nessuna verità, nessuna giustizia, nessun male, nessuna bellezza.  Anche la speranza è qualcosa a cui non ci si deve legare, a cui bisogna rinunciare. La libertà ultima è data dall'assoluta passività.

I giapponesi credono anche che devono essere distaccati dal desiderio di tendere all'eternità. Nell'universo non c'è niente di eterno o di assoluto. Ogni essere resta "effimero", cioè come un niente. Ogni essere rimane "relativo". La realtà ultima è nel "vuoto", nel "nulla", nell'"ambiguo".

Per vedere come la filosofia orientale ci dice che si deve essere distaccati dal "logos", ecco alcune citazioni riprese da buddisti Zen e in particolare da opere di Daisetsu Suzuki:

– "Molti è uno. L'uno è molti".
– "Essere è non essere".
– "L'essere è 'mu', nulla. 'Mu' è l'essere".
– "La realtà è 'mu'. 'Mu' è la realtà".
– "Ogni cosa è nel 'mu', sorge dal 'mu', è assorbita nel 'mu'".
– "Una volta distaccati dalla visione razionale, si trascendono opposti concetti come bene e male".
– "Nel senso più profondo della religiosità buddista, non vi è nessuna santità, nessuna verità, nessuna giustizia, nessun male, nessuna bellezza".
– "La libertà ultima è data dalla passività assoluta".
– "Alla fine, lo spirito sarà come un albero o una pietra".


VENERARE LA MADRE NATURA


Secondo elemento di differenziazione: la natura. Per gli occidentali, la divinità è nel Creatore invece che nella natura, la quale è prodotta da lui. Invece, per i buddisti-scintoisti la divinità è nella stessa natura, dal momento che manca del tutto l'idea di un Creatore che abbia creato l'universo dal nulla. La natura è stata generata da sé stessa, non da una forza extranaturale. Il divino permea la natura. E permea quindi anche gli esseri umani.

La divinità della Madre Natura abbraccia ogni cosa: uomini, alberi, erbe, rocce, sorgenti e così via. Per i buddisti-scintoisti la realtà suprema non esiste al di fuori della natura. In altre parole, la divinità è intrinseca alla natura. [...]

Per i giapponesi, gli uomini e la natura sono una sola realtà inseparabile. Gli esseri umani sono parte della natura. Non c'è alcuna distinzione o barriera concettuale tra le due cose. Una sensazione di distanza tra le due è considerata insignificante o inesistente.

A questo proposito vorrei commentare una formula alla moda, la "simbiosi (o convivenza) con la natura", che è spesso considerata una formula pro-ecologista. A me questo concetto pare invece che includa una sfumatura di arroganza, di "umanocentrismo", poiché conferisce agli uomini una posizione paritaria con la natura. Secondo la religiosità tradizionale giapponese, gli uomini devono essere sudditi della natura. È la natura, non gli uomini, che deve essere protagonista. Gli uomini dovrebbero essere umili giocatori che non possono pretendere una condizione pari a quella della natura. Devono scrupolosamente ascoltare le voci della natura e umilmente accettare ciò che la natura comanda. Ecco perché la formula "convivenza con la natura" suona troppo umanocentrica per il pensiero tradizionale giapponese.

Su questo sfondo, in termini di amore o rispetto per la natura o gli animali, la cultura giapponese è profonda e ricca. Nella sua tradizione così come oggi, i giapponesi trattano la natura o gli animali in una maniera piena di rispetto. Quasi con uno spirito religioso.

Ad esempio, molti dirigenti di polizia in tutto il paese usano officiare una cerimonia per rendere grazie agli spiriti di cani poliziotto deceduti, o per placare le loro anime una o due volte all'anno nei santuari a loro dedicati.

Qualcosa di simile avviene nei tradizionali villaggi dei cacciatori di balene. Essi usavano officiare cerimonie religiose per rendere grazie agli animali o per consolare e placare gli spiriti delle vittime, le balene. Alcuni ancora lo fanno. E facendo così, fanno da bilancia spirituale tra gli uomini e gli animali loro vittime.

Allo stesso modo, in alcuni ospedali vi sono associazioni che celebrano annualmente dei rituali, chiamati "hari-kuyoo", per addolcire gli spiriti degli "aghi", specie quelli delle iniezioni.

Nelle campagne, la gente venera alberi maestosi, grandi rocce, cascate o sorgenti trasformandole in templi scintoisti con dei festoni bianchi detti "shimenawa". Inoltre, molte montagne, a cominciare dal Fuji, e numerosi laghi in Giappone sono ritenuti sacri.

La religiosità o mentalità dei giapponesi ora descritta – che alcuni studiosi chiamano panteista o animista – è chiaramente e vitalmente incorporata in molte opere culturali giapponesi, siano esse di letteratura, di poesia, di pittura, di incisioni o d'altro, indipendentemente dalla terminologia che si può usare.

Ad esempio, Higashiyama Kaii, un grande pittore di paesaggi, disse una volta in un'intervista televisiva che, con l'avanzare della maturità, era divenuto consapevole che la natura talvolta gli parla. Egli percepisce la sua voce e avverte i suoi sentimenti. E quindi, aggiunse, la sua opera di pittore di paesaggi è fatta non da lui, ma dalla natura stessa.

Sinilmente, Munakata Shiko, famoso incisore di legno, disse in tv che, quando la sua anima è in pace, egli compie la sua opera di incisione come ispirata dallo spirito del legno che sta incidendo. Quindi, aggiunse, non è lui ma lo spirito del legno che fa il vero lavoro. [...]


NON ASSOLUTIZZARE I VALORI


Terzo elemento di differenza: l'assolutizzazione dei valori. A motivo della descritta mentalità religiosa buddista-scintoista, i giapponesi non amano legarsi a "valori assolutizzati". Non credono che vi sia una giustizia assoluta o un male assoluto. Dicono piuttosto che ogni essere è, in sostanza, "relativo". Per loro ogni valore, intendo dire ogni valore positivo, è valido fino a quando si scontra con altri valori. Quando lo scontro tra valori avviene, essi credono che nessun valore particolare deve essere assolutizzato a spese di altri. Semplicemente perché, nel senso più profondo della loro filosofia, non c'è niente di assoluto nell'universo. Esiste solo l'effimero, l'impermanente.

Detto altrimenti, nell'applicare i valori, i giapponesi in genere preferiscono avere un approccio "soft". Ad esempio, alcuni anni fa, prima in Danimarca e poi in altri paesi d'Europa, ci fu uno scontro di ideologie [a proposito di vignette su Maometto] tra coloro che tenevano alla libertà di espressione e coloro che difendevano la dignità religiosa. Questa vicenda non ebbe in Giappone una grande risonanza pubblica, ma immagino che la maggioranza dei giapponesi, se informati degli elementi in gioco, avrebbero detto che assolutizzare la fede di una parte (quella favorevole alla libertà di espressione) a spese dei valori degli altri – cioè affrontare la questione in modo rigido invece che "soft" – era immotivato o imprudente. A questo proposito, durante quella vicenda io stesso ebbi la sensazione che la mentalità di alcuni disegnatori ed editori danesi sembrava essere troppo "monoteista", nel senso che assolutizzavano un particolare valore come qualcosa di trascendentale, di sacro e di inviolabile. In quel caso particolare, faccio notare che la Chiesa cattolica preferì un approccio "soft". Simile a quello preferito dai giapponesi.

Come ho detto, i giapponesi trattano la natura o gli animali in un modo pieno di rispetto. Nonostante ciò, la maggioranza dei giapponesi non si spinge fino ad applicare il concetto dei diritti umani agli animali, come fanno alcuni paladini di tali diritti. Di tanto in tanto esce la notizia che alcuni animalisti fondamentalisti hanno assaltato laboratori nei quali alcuni animali sono sacrificati per finalità tipo la ricerca di nuove medicine. Inoltre, si ricorda la notizia di un gruppo ambientalista radicale che assaltò una baleniera giapponese nell'Oceano Antartico. Essi non solo assalirono la nave a più riprese, ma anche lanciarono bottiglie di sostanze chimiche che ferirono alcuni membri dell'equipaggio della nave.

In questi casi, i protagonisti giustificarono la loro violenza o violazione dei valori altrui sostenendo che la loro finalità era sacra e quindi assoluta. Giustificarono i loro atti dicendo che essi dovevano combattere contro un male assoluto. In questo modo "assolutizzarono" la loro fede e fecero blocco con i loro sacri valori, senza pensare di violare i valori di altri. Nel suo messaggio per la Giornata Mondiale della Pace del 1 gennaio 2010, papa Benedetto XVI ha espresso preoccupazione per la visione eccessiva di alcuni ecologisti o animalisti che conferiscono lo stesso livello di dignità agli animali e agli uomini. Questo è un altro esempio di come la Chiesa cattolica pare essere riluttante riguardo a un approccio rigido o a una "assolutizzazione" di un valore particolare. Lo stesso fanno i giapponesi, con la loro tradizionale mentalità religiosa.


UN CRISTIANESIMO "STRANIERO"


A questo punto si può capire perché, a motivo della mentalità religiosa giapponese che si differenzia dal cristianesimo nei sensi sopra detti, anche oggi molti giapponesi trovano il cristianesimo in qualche modo straniero (od occidentale).

E anche si può capire perché la quota dei cristiani in Giappone resta sempre al di sotto dell'1 per cento e quella dei cattolici al di sotto dello 0,5 per cento.

Ciò non significa che i giapponesi rifiutino di accettare il cristianesimo in tutto. Molti di essi provano simpatia per questa fede e i suoi insegnamenti, non però al 100 per cento, ma al 70-80 per cento. Il restante 20-30 per cento è riconducibile alla differenza di fondo, fondamentalmente culturale e filosofica, tra le due realtà.

A motivo di questa differenza, il cristianesimo appare ai giapponesi come "appartenente ad altri", non a loro stessi.


UN IBRIDO TRA MODERNITÀ E TRADIZIONE


Osservo ora la religiosità giapponese attraverso lo spettro della premodernità, della modernità e della postmodernità.

Nel passato, sino alla fine del XIX secolo, si riteneva in ogni angolo del mondo che la modernizzazione delle nazioni potesse essere ottenuta solo in società con religiosità monoteista, in particolare col cristianesimo. Si pensava che la modernizzazione e il monoteismo fossero legati assieme, direttamente o indirettamente. Si era convinti che le società con religiosità politeiste, animiste o panteiste, come il buddismo o lo scintoismo, non fossero modernizzabili, a differenza dei paesi occidentali.

L'impressionante modernizzazione del Giappone ha smentito questa credenza. Oggi molte nazioni non cristiane hanno raggiunto livelli evidenti di modernità, sull'esempio del precedente giapponese. Di conseguenza, il loro progresso ha ulteriormente sciolto il legame concettuale tra modernizzazione e monoteismo. È stato reso chiaro che l'approccio politeista, animista o panteista non rappresenta un regresso, se messo a confronto con l'approccio monoteista.

In Giappone in particolare, la modernità scientifica, tecnologica e razionale non solo coesiste con una mentalità panteista e animista premoderna, ma è rinvigorita e rafforzata da tale mentalità.

Insisto. Molti prodotti giapponesi di alta tecnologia sono pensati, progettati, prodotti e messi sul mercato ad opera di giapponesi che hanno in larga misura la mentalità e la religiosità che ho descritto. Sottolineo che il livello tecnologico o la qualità del prodotto sono migliorati dalla combinazione di due distinte mentalità: la scientifica e l'animista.

Ad esempio, molte società giapponesi spesso invitano preti scintoisti a officiare cerimonie rituali quando installano nuovi macchinari nelle loro fabbriche, per invocare l'efficienza del loro funzionamento. Allo stesso modo, essi officiano anche dei rituali per placare o ringraziare lo spirito dei vecchi macchinari prima di smantellarli. E ancora, i costruttori di case celebrano rituali scintoisti per pregare per la riuscita dei futuri lavori, con una cerimonia sul terreno di costruzione. Quasi tutte queste cerimonie sono celebrate da preti scintoisti, solo raramente da preti buddisti. Perché? Perché la maggior parte dei giapponesi preferiscono che siano dei preti scintoisti a occuparsene, convinti che gli spiriti della casa o del luogo, della terra o degli edifici debbano essere presi in cura dallo scintoismo.

Insomma, nel Giappone di oggi la mentalità panteista e animista premoderna è strettamente legata alla modernità dell'alta tecnologia. E dunque si può dire che la civiltà giapponese contemporanea è un ibrido di premodernità e di modernità. Quindi assolutamente postmoderna!


ECONOMIA BUDDISTA, PER UN TERRENO COMUNE


Ho fin qui messo a fuoco la dimensione filosofica, nella quale la distinzione tra l'oriente e l'occidente è ragguardevole. Io credo, tuttavia, che al livello pratico c'è un terreno comune tra le due parti.

Un'ottantina di anni fa il Mahatma Gandhi, il padre fondatore dell'India moderna, citò il "commercio senza moralità" come uno dei "sette peccati sociali". Gli altri sei peccati che egli elencò erano la "politica senza principi", la "ricchezza senza lavoro", il "divertimento senza coscienza", la "conoscenza senza carattere", la "scienza senza moralità" e il "culto senza sacrificio" (sembra di ascoltare un papa).

Anche il papa e la Santa Sede in numerosi messaggi hanno ripetutamente condannato la mancanza di considerazioni morali da parte di molti leader del mondo degli affari.

In Giappone simili richiami si odono da tempo, in particolare tra economisti di orientamento buddista. In effetti, negli ultimi decenni alcuni economisti hanno cominciato ad amalgamare la filosofia buddista con le analisi economiche, fondando una nuova disciplina chiamata "economia buddista", di cui ora dirò gli elementi di base.

Gli economisti buddisti sono molto critici del neoliberismo che ha dominato le politiche economiche delle maggiori potenze mondiali negli ultimi decenni, portando a un aggravamento delle disparità economiche, a una mancanza di equità, a un predominio assoluto del profitto e a un deterioramento dell'ambiente a livello globale.

Per quanto vi siano delle diverse visioni tra gli economisti buddisti, essi condividono i seguenti otto principi, come loro minimo comune denominatore:

– rispetto della vita;
– non violenza;
– chisoku (la capacità di sapersi accontentare);
– kyousei (la capacità di convivere assieme);
– semplicità, frugalità;
– altruismo;
– sostenibilità;
– rispetto delle diversità.

Ad esempio, Ernest Friedrich Schumacher, un economista tedesco che è tra i fondatori dell'economia buddista, autore del celebre libro "Small Is Beautiful: Economics as if People Mattered", ha particolarmente insistito su "chisoku" e "semplicità".

Allo stesso modo, Wangari Maathai, un'ambientalista kenyana che ha vinto il Nobel per la Pace nel 2004, crede in una filosofia affine all'economia buddista. È famosa come sostenitrice della campagna "mottainai", cioè della campagna internazionale dei tre "ri": riusa, riduci e ricicla. Alcuni anni fa, mentre era in Giappone, si imbatté nella parola giapponese "mottainai" che in sostanza significa "mai gettare le cose minime perché anch'esse hanno un valore intrinseco". Così ebbe l'ispirazione di lanciare la sua campagna, cioè si convinse che lo "Spirito di Mottainai" che anima lo spirito dei tre "ri" doveva essere diffuso globalmente. Ella sostiene che per assicurare la protezione e la conservazione dell'ambiente globale, lo "Spirito di Mottainai" è indispensabile. Questo spirito che ella invoca è in evidente sintonia con i principi base dell'economia buddista.

Gli economisti buddisti reclamano politiche che portino tra l'altro a:

– distacco da un approccio che privilegi solo la crescita;
– distacco da una produzione dipendente dal petrolio;
– instaurazione di un nuovo sistema internazionale che elimini la violenza.

Nell'attuale instabilità e incertezza dell'economia mondiale, che ha rafforzato lo scetticismo nei principi del libero mercato, l'economia buddista guadagna un'attenzione crescente. Sarebbe interessante avviare un dialogo in questo campo tra economisti di orientamento sia buddista sia cattolico.

*

Per concludere con una battuta, consentitemi di chiamare il buddismo-scintoismo "sushi spirituale" e il cristianesimo "spaghetti spirituali". Quello che ho cercato di dire è che il "sushi spirituale" e gli "spaghetti spirituali" hanno sapori diversi. Ma ho anche aggiunto che entrambi sono "squisiti". Sia l'uno che gli altri arricchiscono profondamente le vite degli uomini. Senza uno di essi, le culture umane sarebbero terribilmente noiose e aride.

Tante altre notizie su www.ariannaeditrice.it

 

 

We Anti-Moderns

Michael O'Meara

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

Antoine Compagnon
Les antimodernes:
De Joseph de Maistre à Roland Barthes
Paris: Gallimard, 2005

“Ce qu’on appelle contre-révolution ne sera
point une révolution contraire, mais le
contraire de la révolution.”
—Joseph de Maistre

Though Antoine Compagnon’s eloquently written and extensively researched essay won a number of prizes and set off a stir among France’s literati, there is little to recommend it here—except for its central theme, which speaks, however implicitly, to the great question of our age in defining and classifying a form of thought whose mission is to arrest modernity’s seemingly heedless advance toward self-destruction.

The antimoderne, Compagnon argues, was born with the birth of liberal modernity. Neither a reactionary nor an antiquarian, the anti-modernist is himself a product of modernity, but a “reluctant” one, who, in the last two centuries, has been modernity’s most severe critic, serving as its foremost counter-point, but at the same time representing what is most enduring and authentic in the modern. This makes the antimoderne the modern’s negation, its refutation, as well as its double and its most authentic representative. As such, it is inconceivable without the moderne, oscillating between pure refusal and engagement. The anti-modernist is not, then, anyone who opposes the modern, but rather those “modernists” at odds with the modern age who engage it and theorize it in ways that offer an alternative to it.

Certain themes or “figures” distinguish anti-modernism from academism, conservatism, and traditionalism. Compagnon designates six, though only four need mentioning. Politically, the antimoderne is counter-revolutionary; unlike contemporary conservatives, his opposition to modernity’s liberal order is radical, repudiating its underlying premises. Philosophically, the antimoderne is anti-Enlightenment; he opposes the disembodied rationalism born of the New Science and its Cartesian offshoot, and he sides with Pascal’s contention that “the heart has its reasons that reason knows not.” Existentially, the antimoderne is a pessimist, rejecting the modern cult of progress, with its feel-good, happy-ending view of reality. Morally or religiously, the antimoderne accepts the doctrine of “original sin,” spurning Rousseau’s Noble Savage and Locke’s Blank Slate, along with all the egalitarian, social-engineering dictates accompanying modernity’s optimistic onslaught.

The greatest and most paradigmatic of the antimoderns was Joseph de Maistre (1753–1821). Prior to the Great Revolution of 1789, which ushered in the modern liberal age, Maistre had been a Freemason and an enthusiast of the Enlightenment. The Revolution’s wanton violence, combined with Burke’s Reflections, helped turn him against it. Paradoxically indebted to the style of Enlightenment reasoning, his unorthodox Catholic critique of the Revolution became the subsequent foundation not only for the most meaningful distillations of Continental conservatism, but of the antimodern project.

The tenor of Maistre’s anti-modernism is probably best captured in his contention that the counter-revolution would not be a negation of the Revolution, but its dépassement (i.e., its overtaking or transcendence). Unlike certain reactionary anti-revolutionaries who sought a literal restoration of the old regime, the grand Savoyard realized the Revolution had wreaked havoc upon Europe’s traditional order, and nothing could ever be done to undo this, for history is irreversible. The counter-revolution would thus have to be revolutionary, going back not to the old regime, but beyond it, to a new order representing both the Revolution’s completion and transcendence. In this sense, the anti-modern project—by rejecting what is decadent and perverted in the modern, while defending what is great and necessary in it—holds out the prospect of rebirth.

Between the Great Revolution and the Second World War, as anti-modernists were excluded from the leading spheres of French political and social life, they took refuge, Compagnon argues, in literature and letters—their “ideological resistance [being] inseparable from [their] literary audacity.” Balzac, Baudelaire, Flaubert, Proust, Péguy, Céline—to name those most familiar to English-speaking readers—are a few of the great figures of French literature who, in implicit dialogue with Maistre, resisted the modern world in modernist ways. (Not coincidentally, for it was also a European phenomenon, the great Welsh Marxist scholar, Raymond Williams, makes a similar argument for English literature in his Culture and Society, 1780–1950 [1958], though in anti-capitalist rather than anti-modernist terms.)

But if Compagnon develops a suggestive term to designate the nineteenth- and twentieth-century resistance to modern liberal dogmas, he himself is no anti-modernist—which is what one would expect from this professor of French literature occupying prestigious chairs at both the Sorbonne and Columbia University. For anti-modernism is not simply modernity’s aesthetic auxiliary, as Compagnon would have it, but an ideological-cultural tradition frontally challenging the modern order. Given, moreover, the anti-liberal and frequently anti-Semitic implications of the anti-modern temper, as well as its uncompromising resistance to the reigning powers, no feted representative of the system’s academic establishment could possibly champion its tenets. Thus, despite Compagnon’s invaluable designation of one of the great figures opposing modernity’s destructive onslaught, he not only characterizes the antimoderne in exclusively literary terms, missing thereby its larger historical manifestations and contemporary relevance, he never actually comes to term with its defining antonym: the “moderne.”

The concept of modernity, though, is crucial not only to an understanding of the anti-modern, but to an understanding of—and hence resistance to—the forces presently threatening the European life world. There are, of course, a number of different ways to understand these anti-white threats. In an earlier piece in TOQ, I argued that they stem ultimately from the ontological disorder (“consummate meaninglessness”) that marks the foundation of the modern age. Others in these pages have pointed to the Jewish “culture of critique” and the managerial revolution of the Thirties, both of which throw light on the subversive forces threatening us. At other venues, there are those emphasizing the predatory nature of international capitalism, the suicidal disposition of our secular, humanist civilization, or the complex and perplexing forces of modern structural differentiation, to mention just a few of the contending interpretations. Because the historical process is a complicated affair and rarely lends itself to a single monolithic interpretation, the wisest course is probably an eclectic one accommodating a variety of interpretations.

However, if it were necessary to put a single label on the historical process responsible for the “decomposition and involution” preparing the way for our collective demise as a race and a culture, the best candidate in my view is the admittedly imprecise and difficult to define term “modernity”—and its variants (modernism, modernization, modern times, etc.). Over the last century and a half, some of our greatest thinkers have wrestled with this term, offering a variety of not always compatible interpretations of that “certain something” which distinguishes modern life from all former or traditional modes of existence. Compagnon adopts the view of Baudelaire, who invented the term, defining “modernité” as an experience “which is always changing, which does not remain static, and which is most clearly felt in the [bustling] metropolitan center of the city [where everything is] constantly subject to renewal.” The Baudelairian conception, like other interpretations of the modern stressing its fleeting, fragmented, and discordant nature, relates back to the Latin modernus or the early French modo, meaning “just now”—that is, something that is of present and not of past or “old-fashioned” times. In this sense, it is associated, positively, with the new, the improved, the unquestionably superior; negatively, with the ephemeral, the fashionable, and the superficial.

Here is not the place to review the history of this key term. Suffice it to note that the modernist sees life in the present as fundamentally and qualitatively different from life in the past. In contrast to traditionalists, who view the present as a continuation, a transmission, and a recuperation of the past, modernists (and today we are all, to one degree or another, modernists) emphasize discontinuity, favoring reason’s endless capacity to create ever more desirable forms of existence, opposing, thus, the historic, organic, and traditional orders of earlier social forms and identities. Racially, culturally, and in other ways, modern civilization cannot, then, but pursue its abstract, disordering cult of progress in a manner that contests who we are.

There is also a geography to modernity. It began as a European idea, but its fullest historical realization came in lands where the European tradition was weakest, specifically in America (“the home of unrelenting progress . . . where tomorrow is always better than today”) and, to a lesser extent, Soviet Russia. Thus it was that up to 1945 anti-modernists dominated European literature and letters and anti-modernist principles not infrequently found their way into the European public sphere. Since das Jahre Null, however, all has changed, and anti-modernists have been largely exiled to Samizdat and marginal publications—a sign of modernity’s increasingly totalitarian disposition to regulate, level, and homogenize for the sake of America’s modern “way of life.”

Flawed as it may be, Compagnon’s book not only helps us rediscover the anti-modern tradition that stands as an antidote to a runaway modernity, it comes at a time when modern civilization, in the form of globalization, faces its gravest crisis. Phillipe Grasset (at dedefensa.org), arguably the greatest living student of modern, especially American, civilization, claims that a triumphant modernity is today completely unchained, drunk on its own power, as it remakes the planet and transforms our lives in ways that destructure all known identities and beliefs. Like earlier French Jacobins, who exported their revolution to the rest of Europe, American Jacobins in the White House and on Wall Street are today imposing their revolutionary disorder on the rest of the world, as they turn it into a monochrome, amorphous herd of consumers shorn of everything that has traditionally been the basis of our civilization.

A single force compels the spiritless modernism of these latter-day Jacobins: the chaos-creating imperatives of their techno-economic cult of progress, which runs roughshod over every organic, historic, and traditional reference. Evident in Iraq, along our southern border, and in the antechambers of the European Commission, they thrive not just on the illusion that the past is discontinuous with the present, but on a “virtualism” whose artificial and self-serving constructions bear little relationship to the realities they endeavor to affect. As one White House official said to a New York Times reporter (October 17, 2004) on the subject of Bush’s “faith-based community”: “When we act, we create our own reality.” The modernist is prone, thus, to taking refuge in the illusory idea he makes of reality. This “virtualist” affirmation of illusion as reality inevitably leads to chaos, madness, and a world which is no longer our own.

Because our age’s defining conflict increasingly revolves around the battle between a destructuring modernity, in the form of globalism, and the anti-modernist forces of order rooted in the cultural and genetic heritage defining the European, the anti-modernist project has never been more pertinent. In Grasset’s view, what is at stake in this conflict is “the consciousness of existing as a specific phenomenon”—that is, identity. For as the modernist impetus of an American-driven globalism imposes its virtualist identities (based on creedal abstractions, not history, nature, or tradition), it clashes with the anti-modern project of forging an identity based on a synthesis of primordial identities and modern imperatives, as the temporal and the untimely meet and merge in a higher dialectic.

Throughout the nineteenth century and into the first half of the twentieth century, anti-modernists commanding the cultural heights of modern civilization were able, at times, to mitigate modernity’s destructive import. Since the American triumph of 1945, especially since 1989, as liberals and globalists subjected the spirit to new, more iron forms of conformity, this has changed, and anti-modernist writers and critics have been systematically purged from the public sphere.

The anti-modern, though, is not so easily suppressed, for it is the voice of history, heritage, and a reality that refuses to adapt to the modernist’s Procrustean demands.

Banned now from literature and letters, it is shifting to other fields. With the terrorist assault of 9/11, fourth-generation war in Iraq, the European referendum of 2005, etc.—the anti-modern forces of history and heritage continue to make themselves felt, for as our clueless modernists fail to understand, the past is never dead and gone.

TOQ, vol. 7, no. 4, Winter 2007–2008

Connaissance par les labyrinthes

Archives de SYNERGIES EUROPEENNES - 1980

Connaissance par les labyrinthes

 

par Juan LEMMENS & Georges HUPIN

 

Ressentir une des structures supérieures du vivant, la faire passer de l'interne au conscient et au visible, a sans doute été une étape importante dans l'avènement de l'homme.

 

La forme labyrinthique, complexe par définition, peut paraître presqu'aussi élémentaire que la droite, le cercle ou le carré lorsqu'il s'agit de figurer une conception du monde et du destin de l'homme. Le symbole est extrêmement ancien.

 

Nietzsche remarquait: «Nous avons pour le labyrinthe une véritable curiosité, nous nous efforçons de faire la connaissance de Monsieur le Minotaure», symbole de toutes les terreurs labyrinthiques. L'affronter et le jouer comme, dans les corridas minoennes, les plus généreux trompaient le taureau au centre de l'arène et sautaient par-dessus ses larges cornes, revient à peu près à affronter Zeus et à le jouer au profit des forces fécondes et enivrantes. Comme Ariane, petite-fille de Zeus, délaissée par Thésée, devient à Naxos l'épouse de Dionysos, couple d'antagonismes primordiaux selon Nietzsche, masculin-féminin, qui doit mener au dépassement et à la transvaluation.

 

«L'essence du taureau divin, écrit J. Duchaussoy, force impérieuse de la nature créatrice, n'est ni destructrice ni salvatrice par elle-même. Elle s'efforce de faire pénétrer (en nous) dans sa plénitude le sens de la vie, en tirant l'homme hors du labyrinthe où l'enferment ses instincts ou ses passions refoulées. Comme ceux de Mithra, les mystères de Dionysos étaient destinés à faire acquérir cette maîtrise par le sacrifice joyeux des plaisirs, mais après en avoir pris connaissance».

 

Thésée, guerrier et champion sauveur, doit d'abord être sauvé lui-même. Sa victoire sur le Minotaure est une victoire sur la mort, une nouvelle naissance. Son parcours souterrain est comme le mouvement en serpentin de la ronde initiatique des jeunes gens, dans l'aire de danse, à l'entrée de la caverne.

 

Nietzsche se proclamaient homme labyrinthique, c'est-à-dire selon lui, celui qui s'enfonce toujours plus, détours et retrours, profondément dans le chaos, jusqu'à la vérité radicale, plus réelle pour lui que la «vérité» elle-même. Libérateur comme Dédale, l'homo faber qui fait passer du labyrinthe naturel au labyrinthe construit, il fait glisser du symbole au concept, d'un donné naturel et surnaturel à un schéma produit par l'homme et qui échappera progressivement à la sphère sacrée. Et, nouveau Thésée, il marque la fin d'une période archaïque.

 

On a pu dire que le labyrinthe est le fruit de l'union de deux taureaux et de deux femmes. On se souvient que le roi Minos est né des amours d'Europe et de Zeus olympien, qui pour la séduire et l'enlever prit la forme d'un taureau blanc. Il la ramena dans l'île de Crète où lui-même avait vu le jour, sur les sommets sacrés des monts Ida et Aigaion, dont les flancs abritent une multitude de cavernes insondables.

 

Minos fera construire par l'architecte Dédale un palais de mille salles aux issues enchevêtrées pour y enfermer le Minotaure, monstre mi-taureau, mi-homme, né de l'amour de son épouse Pasiphaé pour un taureau écumant sorti de la mer, amour coupable surtout parce qu'il consacre la trahison de Minos à son engagement de sacrifier l'animal à Poséidon en payement d'un service rendu par le dieu.

 

On a dénombré en Crète plus de trois mille cavernes. Aux temps minoens, elles servaient pour l'épreuve de l'initiation des jeunes gens, initiation à la mort et au courage de vivre. Comme les sept garçons et les sept filles qui avaient accompagné Thésée dans l'antre du Minotaure, ces jeunes gens se masquaient, s'assimilant momentanément à la mort pour pouvoir renaître ensuite à eux-mêmes, à leur âge adulte, «après avoir retrouvé le nœud au centre spirituel de la circonférence, par une somme égale de dépouillements et d'acquisitions qui leur permettront d'échapper à l'enchaînement du cycle».

 

Les mythes et les rites, comme le remarque Georges Dumézil, sont solidaires et s'engendrent réciproquement. Ces rituels initiatiques si fournis illustrent l'importance du mythe qu'ils ont nourri et sa persistance. Ses rémanences modernes, hors les nombreux labyrinthes de haies dans les parcs (hedge-maze  en Angleterre) ou de gazons et de sentiers, se retrouvent le plus sûrement, hors les puzzles et les jeux de l'oie, dans les marelles (ou merrils)  que les enfants dessinent sur les trottoirs et dont le «ciel» est le couronnement, terme d'un cheminement semé d'épreuves de plus en plus ardues. Alain de Benoist rappelle à ce sujet le rapprochement significatif fait par Shakespeare, dans Le Songe d'une nuit d'été:  «la boue a envahi la cour où s'assemblaient nos joueurs de marelle et l'herbe folle efface les fins lacets du labyrinthe abandonné».

 

On ne s'accorde guère sur l'origine des labyrinthes ni sur celle de leur nom. On fit d'abord dériver le mot «labyrinthe» du mot grec «labrys»: hache double qu'on a retrouvé dans de nombreux endroits à Cnossos et surtout dans le palais. On en a conclu que le palais était le labyrinthe des anciens. L'étymologie «labrys» fut discréditée par le fait que l'objet s'appelait à cette époque, en Crète, «peleky».

 

Le fameux Ventris, après son déchiffrage du «linéaire B», a proposé une autre explication. Les mots «da-pu-ri-to-jo», «po-ti-ni-ja» et «da-da-re-jo» se retrouvaient sur les tablettes du linéaire B et les deux premiers termes semblaient même associés. Compte tenu de la relation linguistique «d-l», on pouvait lire «labyrinthe», «Potnia» (divinité chtonienne) et «Daidallion». La question de savoir si le labyrinthe était habité par la Potnia (et non le Minotaure) reste sans réponse. Des recherches en cours, il n'est pas exclu que l'on aboutisse à la conclusion que «labrys» et d'autres étymologies proposées aient quand même un rôle à jouer dans l'explication du mythe, plus ancien et plus répandu qu'on le pense communément.

 

Au sujet du mythe connexe de Thésée, Ovide rapporte: «deux fois déjà il s'était repu du sang de l'Acté, il fut vaincu lorsqu'elle lui envoya pour la troisième fois les victimes que le sort lui désignait tous les neuf ans. Aidé par une vierge, le fils d'Egée retrouva au moyen d'un fil qu'il enroulait la porte d'accès difficile, par où nul autre avant lui n'était revenu. Aussitôt après, ayant enlevé la fille de Minos, il fit voile vers Dia (Naxos) et là le cruel abandonna sa compagne sur le rivage.

 

L'association de la ville de Troie au labyrinthe est ancienne. Le souvenir de Cnossos s'estompant, on admit communément une connexion ethnique, ce que rapporte Virgile, qui dit, dans le cinquième chant de l'Enéide, que le berceau de la race troyenne fut la Crète.

 

Quand on sait que Troie était la forteresse que les Achéens ne purent investir que grâce à la ruse, on peut comprendre que le Moyen Age militaire en ait été impressionné et que de nombreuses places fortes aient porté son nom. Dans le nord de l'Europe, où les représentations de labyrinthes sont très répandues et très anciennes, l'association existe au niveau du langage. Alain de Benoist observe qu'en Angleterre, en Allemagne, en Suède, en Hollande, au Pays de Galles, le nom commun du labyrinthe est «château (ou ville) de Troie» (Trojaburg) et que dans les langues de ces pays, la racine du verbe «tourner», et souvent celle du verbe «ruser» y est apparentée.

 

Il n'est pas inattendu que Jérusalem ait été associée au mythe labyrinthique, et ceci pour trois raisons: d'abord, c'était une ville sainte, centre de l'enseignement du Rédempteur; ensuite, elle était l'aboutissement du pélérinage en terre sainte; finalement, elle représentait la cité parfaite où l'on accédait à la rédemption finale de l'âme. D'autres lieux de pélérinage accédèrent bientôt à une renommée continentale, dont Saint Jacques de Compostelle. Nombreux étaient les fidèles désireux de s'y rendre, qui ne pouvaient songer à réaliser leur vœu. A leur intention, on se mit à dessiner dans le dallage des églises des labyrinthes appelés «chemin de Jérusalem» qu'on parcourait à genoux, en chantant des psaumes de pénitence.

 

Saint-Hilaire relève dans les établissements religieux de nos régions, à l'abbaye de Lophem (Loppem), près de Bruges (Brugge), un labyrinthe de haies qui conduit à un grand arbre et un autre à l'abbaye de Groenendaal. Plus intéressant encore est le labyrinthe inscrit dans le dallage de la cathédrale de Saint-Omer, à proximité d'un énorme monolithe, couvert d'un enchevêtrement de fines lignes et qui porte l'inscription «Tombeau de Saint Erkembode». A l'heure actuelle encore, les fidèles viennent déposer sur la pierre des chaussures ou des bas, survivance de la pratique ancienne des pélerins de passage, qui y déposaient, geste propitiatoire pour leur long et difficile voyage, leurs sandales et leur bâton, arme du pélerin. Quand on aura remarqué que «erkend bode» signifie en néerlandais «envoyé reconnu», on se rappelera que Thésée avait reçu, avant même d'être né, de son père, le Roi Egée, la mission de soulever, dès qu'il serait assez fort pour le faire, une énorme pierre sous laquelle il avait caché ses sandales et son épée et de les porter pour venir le rejoindre. Il reconnaîtrait son fils à ces signes. Ce qui fut accompli.

 

Les premiers labyrinthes ne sont certainement pas à situer en Crète. On en relevait à usage militaire en Egypte dès la IIième dynastie (-3500), bien antérieurs à l'époque de la construction des premiers palais crétois (-2000). Le géographe grec Strabon a fait peu avant le début de notre ère la description du labyrinthe que le pharaon Amenhemat III de la XIIième dynastie (-1850) fit construire en bordure du Lac Moeris, et qu'Hérodote avait déjà évoqué cinq siècles plus tôt. Saint-Hilaire note que la description évoque les grands ensembles mégalithiques de Bretagne et d'Angleterre.

 

Alain de Benoist relève dans l'ouvrage d'Emmanuel Anati sur le site protohistorique de Val Camonica dans les Alpes italiennes, à propos de représentations de labyrinthes: «La légende du Minotaure trouve là sans doute ses origines» et dans celui de Paolo Santarcangeli: «Le labyrinthe est un des thèmes les plus constants de l'art rupestre européen. Il apparaît gravé sur la pierre en Europe vers le IIième millénaire avant J.C.» pour préciser que les premiers apparaissent en Europe septentrionale sur les gravures rupestres de la Scandinavie méridionale, avant l'Irlande, l'Angleterre, l'Islande, l'Allemagne, la Russie.

 

Janet Bord se réfère aux études de datation au carbone radioactif de Colin Renfrew et Jonathan Cape (Before Civilization,  Londres, 1973; trad. fr.: Les origines de l'Europe, 1988) pour préciser que les labyrinthes gravés du nord-ouest de l'Europe dateraient de -2500 à -4500.

 

Dans l'Enéide, Virgile décrit sur la porte de l'Hadès, gardé par une sybille, la gravure du labyrinthe crétois. Des dessins labyrinthiques spiraliformes se retrouvent dans nombre de tombeaux celtiques du Pays de Galles et d'Irlande.

 

Janet Bord indique que le mouvement centrifuge figurerait la renaissance et le mouvement centripète, la mort, le retour à la terre mère, de laquelle on naîtra peut-être une seconde fois. Ceci est à rapprocher de l'opinion que les tumuli avaient été conçus comme une représentation du corps maternel dans lequel le mort reposait comme avant la naissance, à rapprocher également des cérémonies d'initiation sélective au cours desquelles on célébrait des rites de renaissance à l'issue d'épreuves.

 

Les figures labyrinthiques sur les maisons, les étables et sur les lieux de mariage, les fils embrouillés et les entrelacs, qui se sont pratiqués couramment, auraient été destiné à égarer les influences néfastes et stérilisantes. En Inde, les femmes dans certaines populations dravidiennes ont conservé la coutume de dessiner à l'aube devant leur maison, au mois du solstice d'hiver, réputé néfaste parce que le soleil «meurt», des labyrinthes que le maître de la maison devait parcourir. Leur forme rappelle soit le labyrinthe crétois soit la svastika. On les pratique aussi en tatouage.

 

la colline artificielle de Maiden Castle, dans le Dorset, qui paraît d'origine néolithique et se présente comme un plateau en ellipse entouré de remblais et de fossés concentriques, avec dans les grands côtés des entrées labyrinthiques obligeant à faire un demi-circuit pour franchir le remblais suivant, peut difficilement être considérée comme une place forte (il aurait fallu 250.000 hommes pour la tenir efficacement). Elle serait plutôt un lieu de culte, l'entrée dans l'enceinte étant réservée aux initiés. Jackson Knight, auteur d'une importante étude, Les portes cuméennes (Cumean Gates,  Basil Blackwell, Oxford, 1936; 2ième éd.: Vergil, London, 1967) considère que les premiers labyrinthes militaires seraient égyptiens et dateraient de la IIième dynastie (-3500).

 

Le Tholos d'Epidaure, petit temps circulaire, contenait dans son sous-sol un petit labyrinthe de six enceintes, qui abritaient dans leur centre les serpents sacrés que seuls les prêtres allaient visiter. De même, Glastonbury Tor, dans un site mentionné dans la légende du Graal, paraît fort probablement être un labyrinthe initiatique. Ses sept couloirs présentent des obstacles à trois dimensions, en ce sens qu'il fallait les aborder en ordre irrégulier (3, 2 ,1, 4, 7, 6 et 5) et selon les cas vers la gauche ou vers la droite et à certains endroits escalader des montées abruptes jusqu'au sommet du mur.

 

Le seul fait de suivre la voie labyrinthique sinueuse comme dans les danses initiatiques, constituait sans doute un rite d'exclusion. La plus connue de ces danses du labyrinthe est la danse du géranos (grue) de l'Ile de Délos. D'après les Scolies, elle aurait été dansée pour la première fois par les compagnons de Thésée, sauvés des griffes du Minotaure. Les masques d'animaux portés par certains danseurs et le cheraton (autel à cornes) autour duquel elle se danse, symbolisent peut-être le Minotaure.

 

On dansait, et on danse encore, des danses du labyrinthe dans plusieurs régions d'Europe; en Suisse, en Bavière à Munich, les danses Schäffer, dansées tous les sept ans, à Traunstein, la danse de Saint Georges tuant le dragon, récupération probable par l'Eglise du mythe de Thésée, et dans l'Ile de Corfou, la danse des grues où les danseurs tiennent une longue corde.

 

Selon Norman O. Brown (Le corps d'amour,  Densel, 1960), les danses rituelles initiatiques auraient représenté symboliquement les efforts archétypiques de l'ancêtre divin, de l'homme prototypique, pour émerger dans ce monde. Janet Bord note que généralement «les rituels religieux dégénèrent au cours du temps jusqu'à ne plus laisser aux éléments retransmis qu'une vague ressemblance avec le modèle original et une signification imprécise».

 

Au cours de l'évolution des figurations de labyrinthes, on aura pu constater les «changements d'humeur» de cette expression figurative. A l'époque des premiers âges historiques, c'est la spirale et le méandre qui ont donné leur forme au labyrinthe. Une forme logique et mathématique ne se fera jour qu'en Egypte et au cours des premiers siècles helléniques. Celui qui poursuivra sa route avec constance est assuré de parvenir au terme du chemin.

 

Ensuite, dans la conversion des cathédrales du Moyen Age, le Christ remplace Thésée, la foi, Ariane, et l'âme du pélerin libéré de ses angoisses, le Minotaure.

 

Vers la fin du XVIième siècle, fait propre au baroque, pour représenter la tragique incertitude du monde et de l'homme, surgissent systématiquement les bifurcations dans le dessin du labyrinthe. La faculté de choix intervient et la possibilité non seulement d'errer mais aussi et surtout de se tromper. Aujourd'hui, on a ajouté l'impénétrabilité du destin: l'élection divine a son rôle à jouer.

 

Quoi qu'il en soit, l'idée fondamentale du labyrinthe a toujours été la même: la conscience que l'homme peut prétendre atteindre le dépassement, la liberté de son esprit, que ce soit par la foi, par la connaissance ou par la persévérance opposée au destin.

 

Juan LEMMENS & Georges HUPIN.

 

Bibliographie:

- Alain de Benoist, «Le domaine grec et romain», in Marc De Smedt, L'Europe païenne, Seghers, 1979.

- P. Santarcangeli, Le livre des labyrinthes,  Gallimard, 1974.

- Saint-Hilaire, Le mystère des labyrinthes,  Rossel, Bruxelles, 1977.

- Emmanuel Anati, La civiltà preistorica della Val Camonica,  Milan, 1964.

- Janet Bord et Jean-Clarence Lambert, Labyrinthes et dédales du monde,  Presses de la Connaissance, 1977.

- J. Duchaussoy, Le bestiaire divin,  La Colombe, Paris, 1958.