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00:05 Publié dans art, Littérature | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : art, avant-gardes, wyndham lewis, angleterre, littérature, lettres, lettres anglaises, littérature anglaise | |
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It may be a source of some pride to those of us fated to live out our lives as Americans that the three men who probably had the greatest influence on English literature in our century were all born on this side of the Atlantic. One of them, Wyndham Lewis, to be sure, was born on a yacht anchored in a harbor in Nova Scotia, but his father was an American, served as an officer in the Union Army in the Civil War, and came from a family that has been established here for many generations. The other two were as American in background and education as it is possible to be. Our pride at having produced men of such high achievement should be considered against the fact that all three spent their creative lives in Europe. For Wyndham Lewis the decision was made for him by his mother, who hustled him off to Europe at the age of ten, but he chose to remain in Europe, and to study in Paris rather than to accept the invitation of his father to go to Cornell, and except for an enforced stay in Canada during World War II, spent his life in Europe. The other two, Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot, went to Europe as young men out of college, and it was a part of European, not American, cultural life that they made their contribution to literature. Lewis was a European in training, attitude and point of view, but Pound and Eliot were Americans, and Pound, particularly, remained aggressively American; whether living in London or Italy his interest in American affairs never waned.
The lives and achievements of these three men were closely connected. They met as young men, each was influenced and helped by the other two, and they remained friends, in spite of occasional differences, for the rest of their lives. Many will remember the picture in Time of Pound as a very old man attending the memorial service in Westminster Abbey in 1965 for T.S. Eliot. When Lewis, who had gone blind, was unable to read the proofs of his latest book, it was his old friend, T.S. Eliot who did it for him, and when Pound was confined in St. Elizabeth’s in Washington, Eliot and Lewis always kept in close touch with him, and it was at least partly through Eliot’s influence that he was finally released. The lives and association of these three men, whose careers started almost at the same time shortly before World War I are an integral part of the literary and cultural history of this century.
The careers of all three may be said, in a certain way, to have been launched by the publication of Lewis’ magazine Blast. Both Lewis and Pound had been published before and had made something of a name for themselves in artistic and literary circles in London, but it was the publication in June, 1914, of the first issue of Blast that put them, so to speak, in the center of the stage. The first Blast contained 160 pages of text, was well printed on heavy paper, its format large, the typography extravagant, and its cover purple. It contained illustrations, many by Lewis, stories by Rebecca West and Ford Maddox Ford, poetry by Pound and others, but it is chiefly remembered for its “Blasts” and “Blesses” and its manifestos. It was in this first issue of Blast that “vorticism,” the new art form, was announced, the name having been invented by Pound. Vorticism was supposed to express the idea that art should represent the present, at rest, and at the greatest concentration of energy, between past and future. “There is no Present – there is Past and Future, and there is Art,” was a vorticist slogan. English humour and its “first cousin and accomplice, sport” were blasted, as were “sentimental hygienics,” Victorian liberalism, the Royal Academy, the Britannic aesthete; Blesses were reserved for the seafarer, the great ports, for Shakespeare “for his bitter Northern rhetoric of humour” and Swift “for his solemn, bleak wisdom of laughter”; a special bless, as if in anticipation of our hairy age, was granted the hairdresser. Its purpose, Lewis wrote many years later, was to exalt “formality and order, at the expense of the disorderly and the unkempt. It is merely a humorous way,” he went on to say, “of stating the classic standpoint as against the romantic.”
The second, and last, issue of Blast appeared in July, 1915, by which time Lewis was serving in the British army. This issue again contained essays, notes and editorial comments by Lewis and poetry by Pound, but displayed little of the youthful exuberance of the first – the editors and contributors were too much aware of the suicidal bloodletting taking place in the trenches of Flanders and France for that. The second issue, for example, contained, as did the first, a contribution by the gifted young sculptor Gaudier-Brzeska, together with the announcement that he had been killed while serving in the French army.
Between the two issues of Blast, Eliot had arrived in London via Marburg and Oxford, where he had been studying for a degree in philosophy. He met Pound soon after his arrival, and through Pound, Wyndham Lewis. Eliot’s meeting of Pound, who promptly took him under his wing, had two immediate consequences – the publication in Chicago of Prufrock in Harriet Monroe’s Poetry magazine, and the appearance of two other poems a month or two later in Blast. The two issues of Blast established Lewis as a major figure: as a brilliant polemicist and a critic of the basic assumptions and intellectual position of his time, two roles he was never to surrender. Pound had played an important role in Blast, but Lewis was the moving force. Eliot’s role as a contributor of two poems to the second issue was relatively minor, but the enterprise brought them together, and established an association and identified them with a position in the intellectual life of their time which was undoubtedly an important factor in the development and achievement of all three.
Lewis was born in 1882 on a yacht, as was mentioned before, off the coast of Nova Scotia. Pound was born in 1885 in Hailey, Idaho, and Eliot in 1888 in St. Louis. Lewis was brought up in England by his mother, who had separated from his father, was sent to various schools, the last one Rugby, from which he was dropped, spent several years at an art school in London, the Slade, and then went to the continent, spending most of the time in Paris where he studied art, philosophy under Bergson and others, talked, painted and wrote. He returned to England to stay in 1909. It was in the following year that he first met Ezra Pound, in the Vienna Cafe in London. Pound, he wrote many years later, didn’t greatly appeal to him at first – he seemed overly sure of himself and not a little presumptuous. His first impression, he said, was of “a bombastic galleon, palpably bound to or from, the Spanish Main,” but, he discovered, “beneath its skull and cross-bones, intertwined with fleur de lis and spattered with star-spangled oddities, a heart of gold.” As Lewis became better acquainted with Pound he found, as he wrote many years later, that “this theatrical fellow was one of the best.” And he went on to say, “I still regard him as one of the best, even one of the best poets.”
By the time of this meeting, Lewis was making a name for himself, not only as a writer, but also an artist. He had exhibited in London with some success, and shortly before his meeting with Pound, Ford Maddox Ford had accepted a group of stories for publication in the English Review, stories he had written while still in France in which some of the ideas appeared which he was to develop in the more than forty books that were to follow.
But how did Ezra Pound, this young American poet who was born in Hailey, Idaho, and looked, according to Lewis, like an “acclimatized Buffalo Bill,” happen to be in the Vienna Cafe in London in 1910, and what was he doing there? The influence of Idaho, it must be said at once, was slight, since Pound’s family had taken him at an early age to Philadelphia, where his father was employed as an assayer in the U.S. mint. The family lived first in West Philadelphia, then in Jenkintown, and when Ezra was about six bought a comfortable house in Wyncote, where he grew up. He received good training in private schools, and a considerable proficiency in Latin, which enabled him to enter the University of Pennsylvania shortly before reaching the age of sixteen. It was at this time, he was to write some twenty years later, that he made up his mind to become a poet. He decided at that early age that by the time he was thirty he would know more about poetry than any man living. The poetic “impulse”, he said, came from the gods, but technique was man’s responsibility, and he was determined to master it. After two years at Pennsylvania, he transferred to Hamilton, from which he graduated with a Ph.B. two years later. His college years, in spite of his assertions to the contrary, must have been stimulating and developing – he received excellent training in languages, read widely and well, made some friends, including William Carlos Williams, and wrote poetry. After Hamilton he went back to Pennsylvania to do graduate work, where he studied Spanish literature, Old French, Provencal, and Italian. He was granted an M.A. by Pennsylvania in 1906 and a Fellowship in Romantics, which gave him enough money for a summer in Europe, part of which he spent studying in the British museum and part in Spain. The Prado made an especially strong impression on him – thirty years later he could still describe the pictures in the main gallery and recall the exact order in which they were hung. He left the University of Pennsylvania in 1907, gave up the idea of a doctorate, and after one semester teaching at Wabash College in Crawfordsville, Indiana, went to Europe, to return to his native land only for longer or shorter visits, except for the thirteen years he was confined in St. Elizabeth’s in Washington.
Pound’s short stay at Wabash College was something of a disaster – he found Crawfordsville, Indiana, confining and dull, and Crawfordsville, in 1907, found it difficult to adjust itself to a Professor of Romance Languages who wore a black velvet jacket, a soft-collared shirt, flowing bow tie, patent leather pumps, carried a malacca cane, and drank rum in his tea. The crisis came when he allowed a stranded chorus girl he had found in a snow storm to sleep in his room. It was all quite innocent, he insisted, but Wabash didn’t care for his “bohemian ways,” as the President put it, and was glad for the excuse to be rid of him. He wrote some good poetry while at Wabash and made some friends, but was not sorry to leave, and was soon on his way to Europe, arriving in Venice, which he had visited before, with just eighty dollars.
While in Venice he arranged to have a group of his poems printed under the title A Lume Spento. This was in his preparation for his assault on London, since he believed, quite correctly, that a poet would make more of an impression with a printed book of his poetry under his arm than some pages of an unpublished manuscript. He stayed long enough in Venice to recover from the disaster of Wabash and to gather strength and inspiration for the next step, London, where he arrived with nothing more than confidence in himself, three pounds, and the copies of his book of poems. He soon arranged to give a series of lectures at the Polytechnic on the Literature of Southern Europe, which gave him a little money, and to have the Evening Standard review his book of poetry, the review ending with the sentence, “The unseizable magic of poetry is in this queer paper volume, and words are no good in describing it.” He managed to induce Elkin Mathews to publish another small collection, the first printing of which was one hundred copies and soon sold out, then a larger collection, Personae, the Polytechnic engaged him for a more ambitious series of lectures, and he began to meet people in literary circles, including T.E. Hulme, John Butler Yeats, and Ford Maddox Ford, who published his “Ballad of the Goodley Fere” in the English Review. His book on medieval Latin poetry, The Spirit of Romance, which is still in print, was published by Dent in 1910. The Introduction to this book contains the characteristic line, “The history of an art is the history of masterworks, not of failures or of mediocrity.” By the time the first meeting with Wyndham Lewis took place in the Vienna Cafe, then, which was only two years after Pound’s rather inauspicious arrival in London, he was, at the age of 26, known to some as a poet and had become a man of some standing.
It was Pound, the discoverer of talent, the literary impresario, as I have said, who brought Eliot and Lewis together. Eliot’s path to London was as circuitous as Pound’s, but, as one might expect, less dramatic. Instead of Crawfordsville, Indiana, Eliot had spent a year at the Sorbonne after a year of graduate work at Harvard, and was studying philosophy at the University of Marburg with the intention of obtaining a Harvard Ph.D. and becoming a professor, as one of his teachers at Harvard, Josiah Royce, had encouraged him to do, but the war intervened, and he went to Oxford. Conrad Aiken, one of his closest friends at Harvard, had tried earlier, unsuccessfully, to place several of Eliot’s poems with an English publisher, had met Pound, and had given Eliot a latter of introduction to him. The result of that first meeting with Pound are well known – Pound wrote instantly to Harriet Monroe in Chicago, for whose new magazine, Poetry, he had more or less been made European editor, as follows: “An American called Eliot called this P.M. I think he has some sense tho’ he has not yet sent me any verse.” A few weeks later Eliot, while still at Oxford, sent him the manuscript of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Pound was ecstatic, and immediately transmitted his enthusiasm to Miss Monroe. It was he said, “the best poem I have yet had or seen from an American. Pray God it be not a single and unique success.” Eliot, Pound went on to say, was “the only American I know of who has made an adequate preparation for writing. He has actually trained himself and modernized himself on his own.” Pound sent Prufrock to Miss Monroe in October, 1914, with the words, “The most interesting contribution I’ve had from an American. P.S. Hope you’ll get it in soon.” Miss Monroe had her own ideas – Prufrock was not the sort of poetry she thought young Americans should be writing; she much preferred Vachel Lindsey, whose The Firemen’s Ball she had published in the June issue. Pound, however, was not to be put off; letter followed importuning letter, until she finally surrendered and in the June, 1915, issue of Poetry, now a collector’s item of considerable value, the poem appeared which begins:
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table …
It was not, needless to say, to be the “single and unique success” Pound had feared, but the beginning of one of the great literary careers of this century. The following month the two poems appeared in Blast. Eliot had written little or nothing for almost three years. The warm approval and stimulation of Pound plus, no doubt, the prospect of publication, encouraged him to go on. In October Poetry published three more new poems, and later in the year Pound arranged to have Elkin Matthews, who had published his two books of poetry to bring out a collection which he edited and called The Catholic Anthology which contained the poems that had appeared in Poetry and one of the two from Blast. The principal reason for the whole anthology, Pound remarked, “was to get sixteen pages of Eliot printed in England.”
If all had gone according to plan and his family’s wishes, Eliot would have returned to Harvard, obtained his Ph.D., and become a professor. He did finish his thesis – “To please his parents,” according to his second wife, Valerie Eliot, but dreaded the prospect of a return to Harvard. It didn’t require much encouragement from Pound, therefore, to induce him to stay in England – it was Pound, according to his biographer Noel Stock “who saved Eliot for poetry.” Eliot left Oxford at the end of the term in June, 1915, having in the meantime married Vivien Haigh-Wood. That Fall he took a job as a teacher in a boy’s school at a salary of £140 a year, with dinner. He supplemented his salary by book reviewing and occasional lectures, but it was an unproductive, difficult period for him, his financial problems increased by the illness of his wife. After two years of teaching he took a position in a branch of Lloyd’s bank in London, hoping that this would give him sufficient income to live on, some leisure for poetry, and a pension for his wife should she outlive him. Pound at this period fared better than Eliot – he wrote music criticism for a magazine, had some income from other writing and editorial projects, which was supplemented by the small income of his wife, Dorothy Shakespear and occasional checks from his father. He also enjoyed a more robust constitution that Eliot, who eventually broke down under the strain and was forced, in 1921, to take a rest cure in Switzerland. It was during this three-month stay in Switzerland that he finished the first draft of The Waste Land, which he immediately brought to Pound. Two years before, Pound had taken Eliot on a walking tour in France to restore his health, and besides getting Eliot published, was trying to raise a fund to give him a regular source of income, a project he called “Bel Esprit.” In a latter to John Quinn, the New York lawyer who used his money, perceptive critical judgment and influence to help writers and artists, Pound, referring to Eliot, wrote, “It is a crime against literature to let him waste eight hours vitality per diem in that bank.” Quinn agreed to subscribe to the fund, but it became a source of embarrassment to Eliot who put a stop to it.
The Waste Land marked the high point of Eliot’s literary collaboration with Pound. By the time Eliot had brought him the first draft of the poem, Pound was living in Paris, having left London, he said, because “the decay of the British Empire was too depressing a spectacle to witness at close range.” Pound made numerous suggestions for changes, consisting largely of cuts and rearrangements. In a latter to Eliot explaining one deletion he wrote, “That is 19 pages, and let us say the longest poem in the English langwidge. Don’t try to bust all records by prolonging it three pages further.” A recent critic described the processes as one of pulling “a masterpiece out of a grabbag of brilliant material”; Pound himself described his participation as a “Caesarian operation.” However described, Eliot was profoundly grateful, and made no secret of Pound’s help. In his characteristically generous way, Eliot gave the original manuscript to Quinn, both as a token for the encouragement Quinn had given to him, and for the further reason, as he put it in a letter to Quinn, “that this manuscript is worth preserving in its present form solely for the reason that it is the only evidence of the difference which his [Pound’s] criticism has made to the poem.” For years the manuscript was thought to have been lost, but it was recently found among Quinn’s papers which the New York Public Library acquired some years after his death, and now available in a facsimile edition.
The first publication of The Waste Land was in the first issue of Eliot’s magazine Criterion, October, 1922. The following month it appeared in New York in The Dial. Quinn arranged for its publication in book form by Boni and Liveright, who brought it out in November. The first printing of one thousand was soon sold out, and Eliot was given the Dial award of the two thousand dollars. Many were puzzled by The Waste Land, one reviewer even thought that Mr. Eliot might be putting over a hoax, but Pound was not alone in recognizing that in his ability to capture the essence of the human condition in the circumstances of the time, Eliot had shown himself, in The Waste Land, to be a poet. To say that the poem is merely a reflection of Eliot’s unhappy first marriage, his financial worries and nervous breakdown is far too superficial. The poem is a reflection, not of Eliot, but of the aimlessness, disjointedness, sordidness of contemporary life. In itself, it is in no way sick or decadent; it is a wonderfully evocative picture of the situation of man in the world as it is. Another poet, Kathleen Raine, writing many years after the first publication of The Waste Land on the meaning of Eliot’s early poetry to her generation, said it
…enabled us to know our generation imaginatively. All those who have lived in the Waste Land of London can, I suppose, remember the particular occasion on which, reading T.S. Eliot’s poems for the first time, an experience of the contemporary world that had been nameless and formless received its apotheosis.
Eliot sent one of the first copies he received of the Boni and Liveright edition to Ezra Pound with the inscription “for E.P. miglior fabbro from T.S.E. Jan. 1923.” His first volume of collected poetry was dedicated to Pound with the same inscription, which came from Dante and means, “the better marker.” Explaining this dedication Eliot wrote in 1938:
I wished at that moment to honour the technical mastery and critical ability manifest in [Pound’s] . . . work, which had also done so much to turn The Waste Land from a jumble of good and bad passages into a poem.
Pound and Eliot remained in touch with each other – Pound contributed frequently to the Criterion, and Eliot, through his position at Faber and Faber, saw many of Pounds’ books through publication and himself selected and edited a collection of Pound’s poetry, but there was never again that close collaboration which had characterized their association from their first meeting in London in 1914 to the publication of The Waste Land in the form given it by Pound in 1922.
As has already been mentioned, Pound left London in 1920 to go to Paris, where he stayed on until about 1924 – long enough for him to meet many people and for the force of his personality to make itself felt. He and his wife were frequent visitors to the famous bookshop, Shakespeare and Co. run by the young American Sylvia Beach, where Pound, among other things, made shelves, mended chairs, etc.; he also was active gathering subscriptions for James Joyces’ Ulysses when Miss Beach took over its publication. The following description by Wyndham Lewis of an encounter with Pound during the latter’s Paris days is worth repeating. Getting no answer after ringing the bell of Pound’s flat, Lewis walked in and discovered the following scene:
A splendidly built young man, stripped to the waist, and with a torso of dazzling white, was standing not far from me. He was tall, handsome and serene, and was repelling with his boxing gloves – I thought without undue exertion – a hectic assault of Ezra’s. After a final swing at the dazzling solar plexus (parried effortlessly by the trousered statue) Pound fell back upon the settee. The young man was Hemingway.
Pound, as is well known, took Hemingway in hand, went over his manuscripts, cut out superfluous words as was custom, and helped him find a publisher, a service he had performed while still in London for another young American, Robert Frost. In a letter to Pound, written in 1933, Hemingway acknowledged the help Pound had given him by saying that he had learned more about “how to write and how not to write” from him “than from any son of a bitch alive, and he always said so.”
When we last saw Lewis, except for his brief encounter with Pound and Hemingway wearing boxing gloves, he had just brought out the second issues of Blast and gone off to the war to end all war. He served for a time at the front in an artillery unit, and was then transferred to a group of artists who were supposed to devote their time to painting and drawing “the scene of war,” as Lewis put it, a scheme which had been devised by Lord Beaverbrook, through whose intervention Lewis received the assignment. He hurriedly finished a novel, Tarr, which was published during the war, largely as a result of Pound’s intervention, in Harriet Shaw Weaver’s magazine The Egoist, and in book form after the war had ended. It attracted wide attention; Rebecca West, for example, called it “A beautiful and serious work of art that reminds one of Dostoevsky.” By the early twenties, Lewis, as the editor of Blast, the author of Tarr and a recognized artist was an established personality, but he was not then, and never became a part of the literary and artistic establishment, nor did he wish to be.
For the first four years following his return from the war and recovery from a serious illness that followed it little was heard from Lewis. He did bring out two issues of a new magazine, The Tyro, which contained contributions from T.S. Eliot, Herbert Read and himself, and contributed occasionally to the Criterion, but it was a period, for him, of semi-retirement from the scene of battle, which he devoted to perfecting his style as a painter and to study. It was followed by a torrent of creative activity – two important books on politics, The Art of Being Ruled (1926) and The Lion and the Fox (1927), a major philosophical work, Time and Western Man (1927), followed by a collection of stories, The Wild Body (1927) and the first part of a long novel, Childermass (1928). In 1928, he brought out a completely revised edition of his wartime novel Tarr, and if all this were not enough, he contributed occasionally to the Criterion, engaged in numerous controversies, painted and drew. In 1927 he founded another magazine, The Enemy, of which only three issues appeared, the last in 1929. Lewis, of course, was “the Enemy.” He wrote in the first issue:
The names we remember in European literature are those of men who satirised and attacked, rather than petted and fawned upon, their contemporaries. Only this time exacts an uncritical hypnotic sleep of all within it.
One of Lewis’ best and most characteristic books is Time and Western Man; it is in this book that he declared war, so to speak, on what he considered the dominant intellectual position of the twentieth century – the philosophy of time, the school of philosophy, as he described it, for which “time and change are the ultimate realities.” It is the position which regards everything as relative, all reality a function of time. “The Darwinian theory and all the background of nineteenth century thought was already behind it,” Lewis wrote, and further “scientific” confirmation was provided by Einstein’s theory of relativity. It is a position, in Lewis’ opinion, which is essentially romantic, “with all that word conveys in its most florid, unreal, inflated, self-deceiving connotation.”
The ultimate consequence of the time philosophy, Lewis argued, is the degradation of man. With its emphasis on change, man, the man of the present, living man for the philosophy of time ends up as little more than a minute link in the endless process of progressive evolution –lies not in what he is, but in what he as a species, not an individual, may become. As Lewis put it:
You, in imagination, are already cancelled by those who will perfect you in the mechanical time-scale that stretches out, always ascending, before us. What do you do and how you live has no worth in itself. You are an inferior, fatally, to all the future.
Against this rather depressing point of view, which deprives man of all individual worth, Lewis offers the sense of personality, “the most vivid and fundamental sense we possess,” as he describes it. It is this sense that makes man unique; it alone makes creative achievement possible. But the sense of personality, Lewis points out, is essentially one of separation, and to maintain such separation from others requires, he believes, a personal God. As he expressed it: “In our approaches to God, in consequence, we do not need to “magnify” a human body, but only to intensify that consciousness of a separated and transcendent life. So God becomes the supreme symbol of our separation and our limited transcendence….It is, then, because the sense of personality is posited as our greatest “real”, that we require a “God”, a something that is nothing but a person, secure in its absolute egoism, to be the rationale of this sense.”
It is exactly “our separation and our limited transcendence” that the time philosophy denies us; its God is not, in Lewis’ words “a perfection already existing, eternally there, of which we are humble shadows,” but a constantly emerging God, the perfection toward which man is thought to be constantly striving. Appealing as such a conception may on its surface appear to be, this God we supposedly attain by our strenuous efforts turns out to be a mocking God; “brought out into the daylight,” Lewis said, “it would no longer be anything more than a somewhat less idiotic you.”
In Time and Western Man Lewis publicly disassociated himself from Pound, Lewis having gained the erroneous impression, apparently, that Pound had become involved in a literary project of some kind with Gertrude Stein, whom Lewis hated with all the considerable passion of which he was capable. To Lewis, Gertrude Stein, with her “stuttering style” as he called it, was the epitomy of “time philosophy” in action. The following is quoted by Lewis is in another of his books, The Diabolical Principle, and comes from a magazine published in Paris in 1925 by the group around Gertrude Stein; it is quoted here to give the reader some idea of the reasons for Lewis’ strong feelings on the subject of Miss Stein:
If we have a warm feeling for both (the Superrealists) and the Communists, it is because the movements which they represent are aimed at the destruction of a thoroughly rotten structure … We are entertained intellectually, if not physically, with the idea of (the) destruction (of contemporary society). But … our interests are confined to literature and life … It is our purpose purely and simply to amuse ourselves.
The thought that Pound would have associated himself with a group expounding ideas on this level of irresponsibility would be enough to cause Lewis to write him off forever, but it wasn’t true; Pound had met Gertrude Stein once or twice during his stay in Paris, but didn’t get on with her, which isn’t at all surprising. Pound also didn’t particularly like Paris, and in 1924 moved to Rapallo, a small town on the Mediterranean a few miles south of Genoa, where he lived until his arrest by the American authorities at the end of World War II.
In an essay written for Eliot’s sixtieth birthday, Lewis had the following to say about the relationship between Pound and Eliot:
It is not secret that Ezra Pound exercised a very powerful influence upon Mr. Eliot. I do not have to define the nature of this influence, of course. Mr. Eliot was lifted out of his lunar alley-ways and fin de siecle nocturnes, into a massive region of verbal creation in contact with that astonishing didactic intelligence, that is all.
Lewis’ own relationship with Pound was of quite a different sort, but during the period from about 1910 to 1920, when Pound left London, was close, friendly, and doubtless stimulating to both. During Lewis’ service in the army, Pound looked after Lewis’ interests, arranged for the publication of his articles, tried to sell his drawings, they even collaborated in a series of essays, written in the form of letters, but Lewis, who in any case was inordinately suspicious, was quick to resent Pound’s propensity to literary management. After Pound settled in Rapallo they corresponded only occasionally, but in 1938, when Pound was in London, Lewis made a fine portrait of him, which hangs in the Tate Gallery. In spite of their occasional differences and the rather sharp attack on Pound in Time and Western Man, they remained friends, and Lewis’ essay for Eliot’s sixtieth birthday, which was written while Pound was still confined in St. Elizabeth’s, is devoted largely to Pound, to whom Lewis pays the following tribute:
So, for all his queerness at times–ham publicity of self, misreading of part of poet in society–in spite of anything that may be said Ezra is not only himself a great poet, but has been of the most amazing use to other people. Let it not be forgotten for instance that it was he who was responsible for the all-important contact for James Joyce–namely Miss Weaver. It was his critical understanding, his generosity, involved in the detection and appreciation of the literary genius of James Joyce. It was through him that a very considerable sum of money was put at Joyce’s disposal at the critical moment.
Lewis concludes his comments on Pound with the following:
He was a man of letters, in the marrow of his bones and down to the red rooted follicles of his hair. He breathed Letters, ate Letters, dreamt Letters. A very rare kind of man.
Two other encounters during his London period had a lasting influence on Pound’s thought and career–the Oriental scholar Ernest Fenollosa and Major Douglas, the founder of Social Credit. Pound met Douglas in 1918 in the office of The New Age, a magazine edited by Alfred H. Orage, and became an almost instant convert. From that point on usury became an obsession with him, and the word “usurocracy,” which he used to denote a social system based on money and credit, an indispensable part of his vocabulary. Social Credit was doubtless not the panacea Pound considered it to be, but that Major Douglas was entirely a fool seems doubtful too, if the following quotation from him is indicative of the quality of his thought:
I would .. make the suggestion … that the first requisite of a satisfactory governmental system is that it shall divest itself of the idea that it has a mission to improve the morals or direct the philosophy of any of its constituent citizens.
Ernest Fenollosa was a distinguished Oriental scholar of American origin who had spent many years in Japan, studying both Japanese and Chinese literature, and had died in 1908. Pound met his widow in London in 1913, with the result that she entrusted her husband’s papers to him, with her authorization to edit and publish them as he thought best. Pound threw himself into the study of the Fenollosa material with his usual energy, becoming, as a result, an authority on the Japanese Noh drama and a lifelong student of Chinese. He came to feel that the Chinese ideogram, because it was never entirely removed from its origin in the concrete, had certain advantages over the Western alphabet. Two years after receiving the Fenollosa manuscripts, Pound published a translation of Chinese poetry under the title Cathay. The Times Literary Supplement spoke of the language of Pound’s translation as “simple, sharp, precise.” Ford Maddox Ford, in a moment of enthusiasm, called Cathay “the most beautiful book in the language.”
Pound made other translations, from Provencal, Italian, Greek, and besides the book of Chinese poetry, translated Confucius, from which the following is a striking example, and represents a conception of the relationship between the individual and society to which Pound attached great importance, and frequently referred to in his other writing:
The men of old wanting to clarify and diffuse throughout the empire that light which comes from looking straight into the heart and then acting, first set up good government in their own states; wanting good government in their states, they first established order in their own families; wanting order in the home, they first disciplined themselves; desiring self-discipline, they rectified their own hearts; and wanting to rectify their hearts; they sought precise verbal definitions of their inarticulate thoughts; wishing to attain precise verbal definitions, they sought to extend their knowledge to the utmost. This completion of knowledge is rooted in sorting things into organic categories.
When things had been classified in organic categories, knowledge moved toward fulfillment; given the extreme knowable points, the inarticulate thoughts were defined with precision. Having attained this precise verbal definition, they then stabilized their hearts, they disciplined themselves; having attained self-discipline, they set their own houses in order; having order in their own homes, they brought good government to their own states; and when their states were well governed, the empire was brought into equilibrium.
Pound’s major poetic work is, of course, The Cantos, which he worked on over a period of more than thirty years. One section, The Pisan Cantos, comprising 120 pages and eleven cantos, was written while Pound was confined in a U.S. Army detention camp near Pisa, for part of the time in a cage. Pound’s biographer, Noel Stock, himself a poet and a competent critic, speaks of the Pisan Cantos as follows:
They are confused and often fragmentary; and they bear no relation structurally to the seventy earlier cantos; but shot through by a rare sad light they tell of things gone which somehow seem to live on, and are probably his best poetry. In those few desperate months he was forced to return to that point within himself where the human person meets the outside world of real things, and to speak of what he found there. If at times the verse is silly, it is because in himself Pound was often silly; if at times it is firm, dignified and intelligent, it is because in himself Pound was often firm, dignified and intelligent; if it is fragmentary and confused, it is because Pound was never able to think out his position and did not know how the matters with which he dealt were related; and if often lines and passages have a beauty seldom equaled in the poetry of the twentieth century it is because Pound had a true lyric gift.
As for the Cantos as a whole, I am not competent to make even a comment, much less to pass judgment. Instead I will quote the distinguished English critic Sir Herbert Read on the subject:
I am not going to deny that for the most part the Cantos present insuperable difficulties for the impatient reader, but, as Pound says somewhere, “You can’t get through hell in a hurry.” They are of varying length, but they already amount to more than five hundred pages of verse and constitute the longest, and without hesitation I would say the greatest, poetic achievement of our time.
When The Waste Land was published in 1922 Eliot was still working as a clerk in a London bank and had just launched his magazine, The Criterion. He left the bank in 1925 to join the newly organized publishing firm of Faber and Gwyer, later to become Faber and Faber, which gave him the income he needed, leisure for his literary pursuits and work that was congenial and appropriate. One of his tasks at Fabers, it used to be said, was writing jacket blurbs. His patience and helpfulness to young authors was well known–from personal experience I can bear witness to his kindness to inexperienced publishers; his friends, in fact, thought that the time he devoted to young authors he felt had promise might have been better spent on his own work. In spite of the demands on his time and energy, he continued to edit the Criterion, the publication of which was eventually taken over by Faber. He attached the greatest importance to the Criterion, as is evidenced by the following from a letter to Lewis dated January 31, 1925 which is devoted entirely to the Criterion and his wish for Lewis to continue to write regularly for it, “Furthermore I am not an individual but an instrument, and anything I do is in the interest of art and literature and civilization, and is not a matter for personal compensation.” As it worked out, Lewis wrote only occasionally for the Criterion, not at all for every issue as Eliot had proposed in the letter referred to above. The closeness of their association, however, in spite of occasional differences, may be judged not only from Eliot’s wish to have something from Lewis in every issue, but from the following from a letter to Eliot from Lewis:
As I understand with your paper that you are almost in the position I was in with Tyro and Blast I will give you anything I have for nothing, as you did me, and am anxious to be of use to you: for I know that every failure of an exceptional attempt like yours with the Criterion means that the chance of establishing some sort of critical standard here is diminished.
Pound also contributed frequently to the Criterion, but at least pretended not to think much of it–“… a magnificent piece of editing, i.e. for the purpose of getting in to the Athenaeum Club, and becoming permanent,” he remarked on one occasion. He, by the way, accepted some of the blame for what he considered to be Eliot’s unduly cautious approach to criticism. In a letter to the Secretary of the Guggenheim Foundation, written in 1925 to urge them to extend financial assistance to Eliot and Lewis, he made the following comment:
I may in some measure be to blame for the extreme caution of his [Eliot’s] criticism. I pointed out to him in the beginning that there was no use of two of us butting a stone wall; that he’d never be as hefty a battering ram as I was, nor as explosive as Lewis, and that he’d better try a more oceanic and fluid method of sapping the foundations. He is now respected by the Times Lit. Sup. But his criticism no longer arouses my interest.
What Pound, of course, wished to “sap” was not the “foundations”of an ordered society, but of established stupidity and mediocrity. The primary aim of all three, Pound, Eliot and Lewis, each in his own way, was to defend civilized values. For Eliot, the means to restore the health of Western civilization was Christianity. In his essay The Idea of A Christian Society he pointed out the dangers of the dominant liberalism of the time, which he thought “must either proceed into a gradual decline of which we can see no end, or reform itself into a positive shape which is likely to be effectively secular.” To attain, or recover, the Christian society which he thought was the only alternative to a purely secular society, he recommended, among other things, a Christian education. The purpose of such an education would not be merely to make people pious Christians, but primarily, as he put it, “to train people to be able to think in Christian categories.” The great mass of any population, Eliot thought, necessarily occupied in the everyday cares and demands of life, could not be expected to devote much time or effort to “thinking about the objects of faith,” their Christianity must be almost wholly realized in behavior. For Christian values, and the faith which supports them to survive there must be, he thought, a “Community of Christians,” of people who would lead a “Christian life on its highest social level.”
Eliot thought of “the Community of Christians” not as “an organization, but a body of indefinite outline, composed of both clergy and laity, of the more conscious, more spiritually and intellectually developed of both.” It will be their “identity of belief and aspiration, their background of a common culture, which will enable them to influence and be influenced by each other, and collectively to form the conscious mind and the conscience of the nation.” Like William Penn, Eliot didn’t think that the actual form of government was as important as the moral level of the people, for it is the general ethos of the people they have to govern, not their own piety, that determines the behaviour of politicians.” For this reason, he thought, “A nation’s system of education is much more important than its system of government.”
When we consider the very different personalities of these three men, all enormously gifted, but quite different in their individual characteristics–Pound, flamboyant, extravagant; Eliot, restrained, cautious; Lewis, suspicious, belligerent–we can’t help but wonder how it was possible for three such men to remain close friends from the time they met as young men until the ends of their lives. Their common American background no doubt played some part in bringing Pound and Eliot together, and they both shared certain characteristics we like to think of as American: generosity, openness to others, a fresher, more unencumbered attitude toward the past than is usual for a European, who, as Goethe remarked, carries the burden of the quarrels of a long history. But their close association, mutual respect and friendship were based on more than their common origin on this side of the Atlantic. In their basic attitude toward the spirit of their time, all three were outsiders; it was a time dominated by a facile, shallow liberalism, which, as Eliot once remarked, had “re- placed belief in Divine Grace” with “the myth of human goodness.” Above all they were serious men, they were far more interested in finding and expressing the truth than in success as the world understands it. The English critic E. W. F. Tomlin remarked that a characteristic of these three “was that they had mastered their subjects, and were aware of what lay beyond them. The reading that went into Time and Western Man alone exceeded the life-time capacity of many so-called ‘scholars.’” The royalties Lewis earned from this book, one of the most important of our time, which represented an immense amount of work and thought of the highest order, didn’t amount to a pittance, but Lewis’ concern, as he put it toward the end of his life, was for “the threat of extinction to the cultural tradition of the West.” It was this mutual concern, on a very high level, and an utterly serious attitude toward creative work that brought them and held them together.
Why did Pound and Eliot stay in Europe, and what might have happened to them if they had come back to this country, as both were many times urged to do, or to Lewis if he had gone to Cornell and stayed over here? In Pound’s case, the answer is rather simple, and was given in essence by his experience in Crawfordsville, Indiana, as a young man, and the treatment he received following the war. There is no doubt that in making broadcasts on the Italian radio during wartime he was technically guilty of treason; against this, it seems to me, must be weighed the effect of the broadcasts, which was zero, and his achievement as a poet and critic, which is immense. One can’t expect magnanimity from any government, and especially not in the intoxication of victory in a great war and overwhelming world power, but one might have expected the academic and literary community to have protested the brutal treatment meted out to Pound. It didn’t, nor was there any protest of his long confinement in a mental institution except on the part of a few individuals; his release was brought about largely as a result of protests from Europe, in which Eliot played a substantial part. When, however, during his confinement in St. Elizabeth’s, the Bollingen prize for poetry was given him for the Pisan Cantos, the liberal establishment reacted with the sort of roar one might have expected had the Nobel Peace Prize been awarded to Adolf Hitler.
Lewis spent some five years in Toronto during World War II, which, incidentally, provided him with the background for one of his greatest novels, Self Condemned. He was desperately hard up, and tried to get lecture engagements from a number of universities, including the University of Chicago. A small Canadian Catholic college was the only representative of the academic institutions of North America to offer this really great, creative intelligence something more substantial than an occasional lecture. Since his death, Cornell and the University of Buffalo have spent large sums accumulating Lewis material-manuscripts, letters, first editions, drawings, etc. When they could have done something for Lewis himself, to their own glory and profit, they ignored him.
The American intellectual establishment, on the other hand, did not ignore the Communist-apologist Harold Laski, who was afforded all the honors and respect at its command, the Harold Laski who, in 1934, at the height of Stalinism–mass arrests, millions in slave labor camps and all the rest–had lectured at the Soviet Institute of Law.
Following his return to England the Labour government gave Lewis, “the Enemy” of socialism, as he called himself, a civil pension, and the BBC invited him to lecture regularly on modern art and to write for its publication, The Listener. He was even awarded an honorary degree by the University of Leeds. Can anyone imagine CBS, for example, offering a position of any kind to a man with Lewis’ unorthodox views, uncompromising intelligence, and ability to see the world for what it is, the Ford Foundation offering him a grant, or Harvard or Yale granting him an honorary degree? Harold Laski indeed yes, but Wyndham Lewis? It is inconceivable.
The following taken from letters from Ezra Pound, the first written in 1926 to Harriet Monroe, and the second in 1934 to his old professor at the University of Pennsylvania, Felix Schelling, puts the problem of the poet in America as he saw it very graphically:
Poverty here is decent and honourable. In America it lays one open to continuous insult on all sides. . . Re your question is it any better abroad for authors: England gives small pensions; France provides jobs. . . Italy is full of ancient libraries; the jobs are quite comfortable, not very highly paid, but are respectable, and can’t much interfere with the librarians’ time.
As for “expatriated”? You know damn well the country wouldn’t feed me. The simple economic fact that if I had returned to America I shd. have starved, and that to maintain anything like the standard of living, or indeed to live, in America from 1918 onwards I shd. have had to quadruple my earnings, i.e. it wd. have been impossible for me to devote any time to my REAL work.
Eliot, of course, fared much better than Pound at the hands of the academy. As early as 1932 he was invited to give the Charles Eliot Norton lectures at Harvard, many universities honored themselves by awarding him honorary degrees, he was given the Nobel Prize, etc. One can’t help but wonder, however, if his achievement would have been possible if he had completed his Ph.D. and become a Harvard professor. He wrote some of his greatest poetry and founded the Criterion while still a bank clerk in London. One can say with considerable justification that as a clerk in Lloyd’s Bank in London Eliot had more opportunity for creative work and got more done than would have been possible had he been a Harvard professor. It was done, of course, at the cost of intensely hard work–in a letter to Quinn in the early twenties he remarks that he was working such long hours that he didn’t have time either for the barber or the dentist. But he had something to show for it.
It is impossible, of course, to sum up the achievement of these three men. They were very much a part of the time in which they lived, however much they rejected its basic assumptions and point of view. Both Lewis and Eliot described themselves as classicists, among other reasons, no doubt, because of the importance they attached to order; Lewis at one time called Pound a “revolutionary simpleton,” which in certain ways was probably justified, but in his emphasis on “precise verbal definitions,” on the proper use of language, Pound was a classicist too. All three, each in his own way, were concerned with the health of society; Eliot founded the Criterion to restore values; in such books as Time and Western Man, Paleface, The Art of Being Ruled, Lewis was fighting for an intelligent understanding of the nature of our civilization and of the forces he thought were undermining it. The political books Lewis wrote in the thirties, for which he was violently and unfairly condemned, were written not to promote fascism, as some simple-minded critics have contended, but to point out that a repetition of World War I would be even more catastrophic for civilization than the first. In many of his political judgments Pound was undoubtedly completely mistaken and irresponsible, but he would deserve an honored place in literature only for his unerring critical judgment, for his ability to discern quality, and for his encouragement at a critical point in the career of each of such men as Joyce, Hemingway, Eliot, Frost, and then there are his letters–letters of encouragement and criticism to aspiring poets, to students, letters opening doors or asking for help for a promising writer, the dozens of letters to Harriet Monroe. “Keep on remindin’ ’em that we ain’t bolsheviks, but only the terrifyin’ voice of civilization, kultchuh, refinement, aesthetic perception,” he wrote in one to Miss Monroe, and when she wanted to retire, he wrote to her, “The intelligence of the nation [is] more important than the comfort of any one individual or the bodily life of a whole generation.” In a letter to H. L. Mencken thanking him for a copy of the latter’s In Defense of Women, Pound remarked, almost as an afterthought, “What is wrong with it, and with your work in general is that you have drifted into writing for your inferiors.” Could anyone have put it more precisely? Whoever wants to know what went on in the period from about 1910 to 1940, whatever he may think of his politics or economics, or even his poetry, will have to consult the letters of Ezra Pound–the proper function of the artist in society, he thought, was to be “not only its intelligence, but its ‘nostrils and antennae.’” And this, as his letters clearly show, Pound made a strenuous and, more often than not, successful effort to be.
How much of Lewis’ qualities were a result of his American heritage it would be hard to say, but there can be no doubt that much in both Pound and Eliot came from their American background. We may not have been able to give them what they needed to realize their talents and special qualities, they may even have been more resented than appreciated by many Americans, but that they did have qualities and characteristics which were distinctly American there can be no doubt. To this extent, at least, we can consider them an American gift to the Old World. In one of Eliot’s most beautiful works, The Rock, a “Pageant Play written on behalf of the forty-five churches Fund of the Diocese of London,” as it says on the title page, there are the lines, “I have said, take no thought of the harvest, but only of perfect sowing.” In taking upon themselves the difficult, thankless task of being the “terrifying voices of civilization” Eliot and his two friends, I am sure, didn’t give much thought of the possible consequences to themselves, of what there “might be in it for them,” but what better can one say of anyone’s life than “He sowed better than he reaped?’’
Originally published in Modern Age, June 1972. Reprinted with the permission of the Intercollegiate Studies Institute.
Henry Regnery (1912-1996) was an American publisher.
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Parc Vigeland, Oslo, 6 & 7 août 2011
Photos de Robert Steuckers
6 août, journée ensoleillée et torride, excellente lumière
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Ilya Repin:
La fillette du pêcheur
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Les femmes au tabac
Tableau de Constantin Meunier
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Ilya Glazunov:
Le déclin de l'Europe
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1890 erschien in Leipzig beim Verlag „C. L. Hirschfeld” das Buch Rembrandt als Erzieher. Von einem Deutschen. Der Name des Verfassers wurde nicht genannt.
Zwei Mark waren als Verkaufspreis festgesetzt. Jeder sollte dieses seltsame Buch besitzen können. Es erlebte innerhalb kürzester Zeit 40 Auflagen ‒ damals ein ungeheurer Erfolg. 1945 hatte der Beststeller eine Gesamtauflage von 250.000 Exemplaren erreicht. Das Buch wurde seinerzeit zum Tagesgespräch. Mit steigender Auflage verschärfte sich auch der antisemitische Gehalt dieses Buches.
Es begann das große Grübeln darüber, wer es wohl geschrieben habe: Paul de Lagarde? Friedrich Nietzsche? Wer wagte es, derartig schroff an der damaligen Lebens– und Geistesführung Kritik zu üben? Wer zweifelte an der von Gott gegebenen Auffassung deutscher Wissenschaft und Politik, an den hehren Begriffen von Anstand und Sitte? Wer warf den Deutschen ungeheure Dinge wie „abgestandene Massenbildung“ und „Brutalisierung in vielen Lebensbereichen“ vor?
Es war ein Autor, der ernstes und selbstständiges Denken erwarten musste. Er appellierte an die aus seiner Sicht „ernstdenkende Minderheit“. Julius Langbehn (1851−1907) hieß der, der jenes Unbehagen aufgriff, das im zweiten Deutschen Reich viele wahrnahmen. Zweifelsohne, es war auch eine Zeit des militärischen und politischen Erfolges, Deutschland hatte u. a. den Krieg gegen Frankreich gewonnen. Zugleich aber sorgte der spürbare Schub an Schaffenskraft und wohl auch Übermut im Lande sowie die Industrialisierung für die Entwurzelung des Einzelnen und für die Bildung einer zunehmend nicht ständisch gebundenen, potenziell revolutionären Masse.
Die Gründerepoche und die daraus resultierende Überschätzung materieller Güter folgten. Langbehn selbst stellte schon früh fest: „Jena habe die Deutschen sittlich mehr gefördert als Sedan“. Damit meinte er wohl den Deutschen Idealismus, der dem bürgerlichen Erfolgsdünkel nach der Reichseinigung 1871 überlegen gewesen sei.
Es war Karl Marx, der die soziale Aufspaltung der Gesellschaft als Ergebnis der industrialisierten Welt kennzeichnete und als Ausweg nur die Revolution sah. Der neue politische und soziale Träger dieser Umwälzung sei der Arbeiter, der entwurzelte Proletarier. So trug Marx seinen historischen Materialismus, sein Geschichtsverständnis mit den sechs Stadien Urgesellschaft, Sklavenhaltergesellschaft, Feudalismus, Kapitalismus, Sozialismus und Kommunismus vor und verkündete es fälschlicherweise als Endurteil der Geschichte. Im Gegenzug aber suchten bürgerliche Theoretiker nicht die Lösung der sozialen Frage in dem Problem von Besitz und Herrschaft, sondern in der Forderung nach Kultur und Bildung.
Prozesse wie die Individualisierung durch Zerstörung der Stände und überlieferten Gemeinschaften, die Vermassung durch die Annahme standardisierter Verhaltensweisen und die Versessenheit auf Produktivität, Wachstum und Profit sollten vom Geistigen her, nicht vom Materiellen her bekämpft werden. Der Geist und die Erkenntnis sollten den Menschen befreien, der noch unter der Fuchtel riesiger Herrschafts– und Entscheidungsmechanismen stehe, gegenüber denen die Freiheit und die wirkliche Bildung rein formell bleibe.
Für dieses Bestreben stehen unter anderem die frühen Schriften Friedrich Nietzsches (1844−1900) in seinen Unzeitgemäßen Betrachtungen (1874), ebenso wie später das Werk Arthur Moeller van den Brucks (1876−1925). Zu derselben Strömung zählt auch Julius Langbehn, der über Nietzsche schrieb, man dürfe Nietzsche nicht mit seinen Nachläufern und Nachschreiern verwechseln, von denen es ab 1900 genügend gab. Der schon als Kind als egozentrisch und impulsiv bezeichnete Langbehn nahm 1870⁄71 am Feldzug gegen Frankreich teil und wurde als Leutnant der Reserve entlassen. Seine Dissertation schrieb er 1881 über die Flügelgestalten der ältesten griechischen Kunst, die als ausgezeichnet beurteilt wurde.
Julius Langbehns Mannestat
Julius Langbehn will seinen Bestseller Rembrandt als Erzieher als eigene philosophische Tat verstanden wissen. Er sieht in Rembrandt die Wiedergeburt des „niederdeutschen Wesens“.
122 Jahre nach der Veröffentlichung des Buchs sind neue Interpretationen möglich. Es handelt sich eigentlich nicht um ein Buch über Rembrandt, sondern über einen spezifisch deutschen Typus. Langbehn spricht vom „niederdeutschen Wesen“, das in seiner Kunst nicht nur erdverbunden gewesen sei, sondern bäuerlich und aristokratisch zugleich. Ihm gilt Rembrandt somit als „Hauptvertreter des deutschen Geistes“ schlechthin. Seine Kunst sei antiklassisch, voller Geheimnis und religiösen Gefühls, spontan und unkonventionell und spiegle zugleich die Widersprüche der menschlichen Erfahrung.
Glaubt man Langbehns Biographen und Sekretär, dem Maler Benedikt Momme Nissen (1870−1943), so habe der Autor Rembrandt als Erzieher nicht allein als „literarische Neuerscheinung“ verstanden, sondern als „Mannestat“. Folgt man nun dem Bild Nissens von der „Mannestat“, so kann Langbehns Buch zuerst als moralische Tat verstanden werden, die die geistige Erneuerung in Deutschland forderte und sich gegen „Maschinengeist“, „Materialismus“, „Genußsucht“ und überflüssige Ausschweifungen richtete.
Blickt man auf zentrale Zitate des Rembrandt-Buches, so gehören Musik und Ehrlichkeit, Barbarei und Frömmigkeit, Kindersinn und Selbständigkeit zu den zentralen Zügen, die Langbehn fordert und die er zugleich als die klaren Wesensmerkmale des deutschen Charakters ausmacht. Er sieht im idealen Deutschen den schlichten, heimatverbundenen Bürger und Bauern, der Hierarchien anerkennt. Zugleich sollte er seine individuellen, regionalen Besonderheiten zum Ausdruck bringen: „In der Heimat wurzelt man am besten. Es ist zwar gut, wie jeder Gärtner weiß, daß Pflanzen versetzt werden. Aber schließlich bringt man sie ins alte Erdreich zurück, um daheim die Verbesserung zu verwerten.“
Das Buch kann aber auch als politische Tat seines Verfassers bewertet werden. Langbehn thematisiert geschichtliche Gestalten, an deren Namen sich seinerzeit nationale Sympathien knüpften. Bismarck wird neben Goethe als eines der großen Vorbilder glorifiziert. Langbehn kritisierte das Spezialistentum der zeitgenössischen Wissenschaft und bemängelt eine durch Naturalismus und Realismus trivialisierte Kunst.
Die Gesellschaft des Kaiserreiches, so Langbehn, befinde sich einerseits auf dem Wege zur Militarisierung und sei zugleich durch Demokratisierung bedroht. Neue mechanische und abstrakt konstruierte Hörigkeiten hätten die vielförmigen organischen Bindungen abgelöst. Indem der Mensch einzelgängerisch geworden sei, sei er auch verwundbarer und hilfloser geworden, fürchtet er. Der Individualismus führe zur Ausgliederung, Familie und Religion würden an Einfluss verlieren und ihre sozialisierende Kraft verlieren.
Doch Rembrandt als Erzieher entspricht auch dem völkisch-antisemitischen, zeitgenössischen Grundtenor. Als eine der größten Gefahren erachtet Langbehn eine jüdisch geprägte „Herrschaft des Geldbeutels”: „Weder im geselligen noch im künstlerischen Leben der Deutschen darf Judas mit seinen Silberlingen als tonangebend gelten.” Es sind solche Stellen, die den analytischen Wert des Buches deutlich schmälern.
In der Kunst sah Langbehn hingegen den Ursprung aller echten Werte angelegt. Das Gefühl habe Vorzug gegenüber dem Verstand. Langbehn beschrieb die Kunst und die Bildung als „Instrument der Charakterbildung“. Anstelle eines bis auf die Spitze getriebenen Forschungswahns nahm er wieder die Suche nach Weisheit und nach einer Bildung auf, die Muße für die Einzel– und Naturanalyse fördert. Er tritt entschieden für philosophisches Denken ein. Der Deutsche benötige zudem eine Kunst der vollen Kraft, aber auch der vollen Seele. Kurzsichtigkeit in Kunst und Bildung sei ein weit verbreiteter Makel: „Daß die Kunst auch eine sittliche Seite habe, daran denkt man heute allzu selten. Man fordert in dieser Hinsicht nicht viel vom Künstler und bekommt deshalb auch nicht viel von ihm.“
Vieles trägt Langbehn ohne Analyse, gewissermaßen in freien Assoziationen vor. Ein anderes Vorgehen scheint aber auch nicht das Konzept zu sein, denn das Buch lebt ganz offen vom appellativen Charakter. Manches, was heute als Schwäche an Langbehns Buch ausgelegt wird, wird durch die planmäßige Art des Schreibens und die zumeist auch kunstpolitische Absicht gerechtfertigt. Die tragenden Ideen bleiben für den Leser nicht verschleiert. Insgesamt könnte man die treibende Kraft von Rembrandt als Erzieher als Unbehagen in der Moderne kennzeichnen.
Die Modernisierung der Lebensverhältnisse wurde von vielen Menschen als etwas Fremdes gesehen, das über sie hereinbrach. Besonders das konservative Bürgertum sah darin eine Amerikanisierung der Wirtschaft und Französisierung der Kunst. Es rückte alternative, eigene Tugenden in den Mittelpunkt. Irrtümlicherweise hielt Langbehn neben den körperlichen und geistigen Tugenden auch die sittlichen Tugenden für naturgegeben. Das führte zu einem überhöhten Elitedenken. Er setzte auf die Bildung einer Sozialaristokratie, von der die kulturelle Erneuerung Deutschlands ausgehen sollte: „Die Lösung der sozialen Frage besteht darin: Gleiches Recht, aber nicht gleiche Rechte für Alle. Beides gleichzusetzen ist ärgster Irrtum. Trugschluß und Fehlerquelle ohne Ende.“
So schoss Langbehn in der Überschätzung rein menschlicher Geisteskraft manchmal über das selbstgesteckte Ziel hinaus. Rembrandt als Erzieher war aber aus heutiger Sicht geeignet, das Feld des Geistes derartig umzupflügen, den Boden der Vermessenheit so zu lockern, dass für neue Ideen und für ein geistiges Maßhalten Platz werden konnte. Zudem wollte das Buch wirksamer auf positive Lebenswerte hinarbeiten, als es so manchem Buch mit gleichem Ziel zu Langbehns Lebenszeit gelang. Die methodische Rückführung des Deutschen vom „Professor“ zum „Menschen“ auf dem Wege der Einkehr, der Bescheidenheit, der Kindlichkeit hatte angesichts des Erfolges des Buches eindeutig Erfolg, wenn auch nur für kurze Zeit.
Die letzten Jahre seines Lebens verbrachte Langbehn in Armut. Im Jahre 1900 trat er zum Katholizismus über und kämpfte fortan gegen modernistische Tendenzen in der katholischen Kirche. Mit 24 Jahren verließ er einst die evangelische Kirche. Gegen Ende seines Lebens trat er schließlich dem Dominikanerorden bei. Diesem Lebenswandel ist es wohl auch zu verdanken, dass der damalige Bischof des Bistums Rottenburg, Dr. Paul Wilhelm von Keppler, der 1926 verfassten Biographie von Benedikt Momme Nissen über Lengbehn ein eigenes Geleitwort beifügte. Darin würdigt der Bischof das Rembrandt-Buch als tiefer blickendes Werk, das sich gegen krankhaft erregtes Nationalgefühl, Bildungshochmut und gegen die Geringschätzung sittlicher Werte gewandt habe. Zugleich habe es die Schäden für das öffentliche Leben mit unnachlässiger Wucht ausgeleuchtet. Dies macht Langbehn wohl nicht nur zu einem Menschen des 19. Jahrhunderts mit seinen zeitgenössischen Problemen, sondern auch noch zum Denker für das 20. Jahrhundert mit Strahlungskraft hinein in die Gegenwart.
August Julius Langbehn, der sich gern als einsamen Propheten sah, starb, die letzten Jahre von seinem Gefährten und Sekretär Nissen umgeben, 1907 in Rosenheim (Bayern). Langbehn befand sich auf halbem Weg nach Oberitalien, wo er sich erholen wollte. Sein Leben steht für eine Geisteshaltung, die er ungeachtet aller Stärken und Schwächen seines Werkes, selbst in Worte fasste: „Hat man den Wind gegen sich, so ist das nur ein Grund, umso stärker auszuschreiten.“ In dieser widerspenstigen Kraft liegt das Erbe seines zeitlosen Denkens begründet.
00:05 Publié dans art, Révolution conservatrice | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : julius langbehn, rembrant, art, allemagne, révolution conservatrice | |
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Of course, the ongoing institutionalization of the values of the sexual revolution is not without its fierce critics. Predictably, the most strident criticism of sexual liberalism originates from the clerical and political representatives of the institutions of organized Christianity and from concerned Christian laypeople. Public battles over sexual issues are depicted in the establishment media as conflicts between progressive-minded, intelligent and educated liberals versus ignorant, bigoted, sex-phobic reactionaries. Dissident conservative media outlets portray conflicts of this type as pitting hedonistic, amoral sexual libertines against beleaguered upholders of the values of faith, family, and chastity. Yet this “culture war” between liberal libertines and Christian puritans is not what should be the greatest concern of those holding a radical traditionalist or conservative revolutionary outlook.
Sexuality and the Pagan Heritage of Western Civilization
The European New Right has emerged as the most intellectually progressive and sophisticated contemporary manifestation of the values of the conservative revolution. Likewise, the overlapping schools of thought associated with the ENR have offered the most penetrating and comprehensive critique of the domination of contemporary cultural and political life by the values of liberalism and the consequences of this for Western civilization. The ENR departs sharply from conventional “conservative” criticisms of liberalism of the kind that stem from Christian piety. Unlike the Christian conservatives, the European New Right does not hesitate to embrace the primordial pagan heritage of the Indo-European ancestors of Western peoples. The history of the West is much older than the fifteen hundred year reign of the Christian church that characterized Western civilization from the late Roman era to the early modern period. This history includes foremost of all the classical Greco-Roman civilization of antiquity and its legacy of classical pagan scholarship and cultural life. Recognition of this legacy includes a willingness to recognize and explore classical pagan attitudes towards sexuality. As Mark Wegierski has written:
The ENR’s “paganism” entails a naturalism towards mores and sexuality. Unlike still traditionalists, ENR members have a relatively liberated attitude towards sexuality…ENR members have no desire to impose what they consider the patently unnatural moralism of Judeo-Christianity on sexual relations. However, while relatively more tolerant in principle, they still value strong family life, fecundity, and marriage or relations within one’s own ethnic group. (Their objection to intraethnic liaisons would be that the mixture of ethnic groups diminishes a sense of identity. In a world where every marriage was mixed, cultural identity would disappear). They also criticize Anglo-American moralism and its apparent hypocrisy: ” . . . In this, they are closer to a worldly Europe than to a puritanical America obsessed with violence. According to the ENR: “Our ancestral Indo-European culture . . . seems to have enjoyed a healthy natural attitude to processes and parts of the body concerned with the bringing forth of new life, the celebration of pair-bonding love, and the perpetuation of the race.”
In its desire to create a balanced psychology of sexual relations, the ENR seeks to overcome the liabilities of conventional conservative thought: the perception of conservatives as joyless prudes, and the seemingly ridiculous psychology implied in conventional Christianity. It seeks to address “flesh-and-blood men and women,” not saints. Since some of the Left’s greatest gains in the last few decades have been made as a result of their championing sexual freedom and liberation, the ENR seeks to offer its own counter-ethic of sexual joy. The hope is presumably to nourish persons of the type who can, in Nietzsche’s phrase, “make love alter reading Hegel.” This is also related to the desire for the reconciliation of the intellectual and warrior in one person: the reconciliation of vita contemplative and vita activa.1
It is therefore the task of contemporary proponents of the values of conservative revolution to create a body of sexual ethics that offers a genuine third position beyond that of mindless liberal hedonism or the equally mindless sex-phobia of the Christian puritans. In working to cultivate such an alternative sexual ethos, the thought of Julius Evola regarding sexuality will be quite informative.
The Evolan Worldview
Julius Evola published his Eros and the Mysteries of Love: The Metaphysics of Sex in 1958.2This work contains a comprehensive discussion of Evola’s views of sexuality and the role of sexuality in his wider philosophical outlook. In the book, Evola provides a much greater overview of his own philosophy of sex, a philosophy which he had only alluded to in prior works such as The Yoga of Power (1949)3 and, of course, his magnum opus Revolt Against the Modern World (1934)4. Evola’s view of sexuality was very much in keeping with his wider view of history and civilization. Evola’s philosophy, which he termed merely as “Tradition,” was essentially a religion of Evola’s own making. Evola’s Tradition was a syncretic amalgam of various occult and metaphysical influences derived from ancient myths and esoteric writings. Foremost among these were the collection of myths found in various Greek and Hindu traditions having to do with a view of human civilization and culture as manifestation of a process of decline from a primordial “Golden Age.”
It is interesting to note that Evola rejected modern views of evolutionary biology such as Darwinian natural selection. Indeed, his views on the origins of mankind overlapped with those of Vedic creationists within the Hindu tradition. This particular reflection of the Vedic tradition postulates the concept of “devolution” which, at the risk of oversimplification, might be characterized as a spiritualistic inversion of modern notions of evolution. Mankind is regarded as having devolved into its present physical form from primordial spiritual beings, a view that is still maintained by some Hindu creationists in the contemporary world.5 Comparable beliefs were widespread in ancient mythology. Hindu tradition postulates four “yugas” with each successive yuga marking a period of degeneration from the era of the previous yuga. The last of these, the so-called “Kali Yuga,” represents an Age of Darkness that Evola appropriated as a metaphor for the modern world. This element of Hindu tradition parallels the mythical Golden Age of the Greeks, where the goddess of justice, Astraea, the daughter of Zeus and Themis, lived among mankind in an idyllic era of human virtue. The similarities of these myths to the legend of the Garden of Eden in the Abrahamic traditions where human beings lived in paradise prior the Fall are also obvious enough.
It would be easy enough for the twenty-first century mind to dismiss Evola’s thought in this regard as a mere pretentious appeal to irrationality, mysticism, superstition or obscurantism. Yet to do so would be to ignore the way in which Evola’s worldview represents a near-perfect spiritual metaphor for the essence of the thought of the man who was arguably the most radical and far-sighted thinker of modernity: Friedrich Nietzsche. Indeed, it is not implausible to interpret Evola’s work as an effort to place the Nietzschean worldview within a wider cultural-historical and metaphysical framework that seeks to provide a kind of reconciliation with the essential features of the world’s great religious traditions which have their roots in the early beginnings of human consciousness. Nietzsche, himself a radical materialist, likewise regarded the history of Western civilization as involving a process of degeneration from the high point of the pre-Socratic era. Both Nietzsche and Evola regarded modernity as the lowest yet achieved form of degenerative decadence with regards to expressions of human culture and civilization. The Nietzschean hope for the emergence of anubermenschen that has overcome the crisis of nihilism inspired by modern civilization and the Evolan hope for a revival of primordial Tradition as an antidote to the perceived darkness of the current age each represent quite similar impulses within human thought.
The Metaphysics of Sex
In keeping with his contemptuous view of modernity, Evola regarded modern sexual mores and forms of expression as degenerate. Just as Evola rejected modern evolutionary biology, so did he also oppose twentieth century approaches to the understanding of sexuality of the kind found in such fields as sociobiology, psychology, and the newly emergent discipline of sexology. Interestingly, Evola did not view the reproductive instinct in mankind to be the principal force driving sexuality and he criticized these academic disciplines for their efforts to interpret sexuality in terms of reproductive drives, regarding these efforts as a reflection of the materialistic reductionism which he so bitterly opposed. Evola’s use of the term “metaphysics” with regards to sexuality represents in part his efforts to differentiate what he considered to be the “first principles” of human sexuality from the merely biological instinct for the reproduction of the species, which he regarded as being among the basest and least meaningful aspects of sex. It is also interesting to note at this point that Evola himself never married or had children of his own. Nor is it known to what degree his own paralysis generated by injuries sustained during World War Two as a result of a 1945 Soviet bombing raid on Vienna affected his own reproductive capabilities or his views of sexuality.
Perhaps the most significant aspect of Evola’s analysis of sex is his rejection of not only the reproductive instinct but also of love as the most profound dimension of sexuality. Evola’s thought on this matter is sharp departure from the dominant forces in traditional Western thought with regards to sexual ethics. Plato postulated a kind of love that transcends the sexual and rises above it, thereby remaining non-sexual in nature. The Christian tradition subjects the sexual impulse and act to a form of sacralization by which the process of creating life becomes a manifestation of the divine order. Hence, the traditional Christian taboos against non-procreative sexual acts. Modern humanism of a secular-liberal nature elevates romantic love to the highest form of sexual expression. Hence, the otherwise inexplicable phenomena of the modern liberal embrace of non-procreative, non-marital or even homosexual forms of sexual expression, while maintaining something of a taboo against forms of non-romantic sexual expression such as prostitution or forms of sexuality and sexual expression regarded as incompatible with the egalitarian ethos of liberalism, such as polygamy or “sexist” pornography.
Evola’s own thought regarding sexuality diverges sharply from that of the Platonic ideal, the Christians, and the moderns alike. For Evola, sexuality has as its first purpose the achievement of unity in two distinctive ways. The first of these is the unity of the male and female dichotomy that defines the sexual division of the human species. Drawing once again on primordial traditions, Evola turns to the classical Greek myth of Hermaphroditus, the son of Hermes and Aphrodite who was believed to be a manifestation of both genders and who was depicted in the art of antiquity as having a male penis with female breasts in the same manner as the modern “she-male.” The writings of Ovid depict Hermaphroditus as a beautiful young boy who was seduced by the nymph Salmacis and subsequently transformed into a male/female hybrid as a result of the union. The depiction of this story in the work of Theophrastus indicates that Hermaphroditus symbolized the marital union of a man and woman.
The concept of unity figures prominently in the Evolan view of sexuality on another level. Just as the sexual act is an attempt at reunification of the male and female division of the species, so is sexuality also an attempt to reunite the physical element of the human being with the spiritual. Again, Evola departs from the Platonic, Christian, and modern views of sexuality. The classical and the modern overemphasize such characteristics as romantic love or aesthetic beauty in Evola’s view, while the Christian sacralization of sexuality relegates the physical aspect to the level of the profane. However, Evola does not reject the notion of a profane dimension to sexuality. Instead, Evola distinguishes the profane from the transcendent. Profane expressions of sexuality are those of a non-transcendent nature. These can include both the hedonic pursuit of sexual pleasure as an end unto itself, but it also includes sexual acts with romantic love as their end.
Indeed, Evola’s analysis of sexuality would be shockingly offensive to the sensibilities of traditionalists within the Abrahamic cults and those of modern liberal humanists alike. Evola is as forthright as any of the modern left-wing sexologists of his mid-twentieth century era (for instance, Alfred Kinsey6 or Wilhelm Reich7) in the frankness of his discussion of the many dimensions of human sexuality, including sexual conduct of the most fringe nature. Some on the contemporary “far Right” of nationalist politics have attempted to portray Evola’s view of homosexuality as the equivalent of that of a conventional Christian “homophobe.” Yet a full viewing of Evola’s writing on the homosexual questions does not lend itself to such an interpretation. The following passage fromThe Metaphysics of Sex is instructive on this issue:
In natural homosexuality or in the predisposition to it, the most straightforward explanation is provided by what we said earlier about the differing levels of sexual development and about the fact that the process of sexual development in its physical and, even more so, in its psychic aspects can be incomplete. In that way, the original bisexual nature is surpassed to a lesser extent than in a “normal” human being, the characteristics of one sex not being predominant over those of the other sex to the same extent. Next we must deal with what M. Hirschfeld called the “intermediate sexual forms”. In cases of this kind (for instance, when a person who is nominally a man is only 60 percent male) it is impossible that the erotic attraction based on the polarity of the sexes in heterosexuality – which is much stronger the more the man is male and the woman is female – can also be born between individuals who, according to the birth registry and as regards only the so-called primary sexual characteristics, belong to the same sex, because in actual fact they are “intermediate forms”. In the case of pederasts, Ulrich said rightly that it is possible to find “the soul of a woman born in the body of a man”.
But it is necessary to take into account the possibility of constitutional mutations, a possibility that has been given little consideration by sexologists; that is, we must also bear in mind cases of regression. It may be that the governing power on which the sexual nature of a given individual depends (a nature that is truly male or truly female) may grow weak through neutralization, atrophy, or reduction of the latent state of the characteristics of the other sex, and this may lead to the activation and emergence of these recessive characteristics. And here the surroundings and the general atmosphere of society can play a not unimportant part. In a civilization where equality is the standard, where differences are not linked, where promiscuity is a favor, where the ancient idea of “being true to oneself” means nothing anymore – in such a splintered and materialistic society, it is clear that this phenomenon of regression and homosexuality should be particularly welcome, and therefore it is in no way a surprise to see the alarming increase in homosexuality and the “third sex” in the latest “democratic” period, or an increase in sex changes to an extent unparalleled in other eras.8
In his recognition of the possibility of “the soul of a woman born in the body of man” or “intermediate” sexual forms, Evola’s language and analysis somewhat resembles the contemporary cultural Left’s fascination with the “transgendered” or the “intersexed.” Where Evola’s thought is to be most sharply differentiated from that of modern leftists is not on the matter of sex-phobia, but on the question of sexual egalitarianism. Unlike the Christian puritans who regard deviants from the heterosexual, procreative sexual paradigm as criminals against the natural order, Evola apparently understood the existence of such “sexual identities” as a naturally occurring phenomenon. Unlike modern liberals, Evola opposed the elevation of such sexual identities or practices to the level of equivalence with “normal” procreative and kinship related forms of sexual expression and relationship. On the contemporary question of same-sex marriage, for example, Evolan thought recognizes that the purpose of marriage is not individual gratification, but the construction of an institution for the reproduction of the species and the proliferation and rearing of offspring. An implication of Evola’s thought on these questions for conservative revolutionaries in the twenty-first century is that the populations conventionally labeled as sexual deviants by societies where the Abrahamic cults shape the wider cultural paradigm need not be shunned, despised, feared, or subject to persecution. Homosexuals, for instance, have clearly made important contributions to Western civilization. However, the liberal project of elevating either romantic love or hedonic gratification as the highest end of sexuality, and of equalizing “normal” and “deviant” forms of sexual expression, must likewise be rejected if relationships between family, tribe, community, and nation are to be understood as the essence of civilization.
The nature of Evola’s opposition to modern pornography and the relationship of this opposition to his wider thought regarding sexuality is perhaps the most instructive with regards to the differentiation to be made between Evola’s outlook and that of Christian moralists. Evola’s opposition to pornography was not its explicit nature or its deviation from procreative, marital expressions of sexuality as the idealized norm. Indeed, Evola highly regarded sexual practices of a ritualized nature, including orgiastic religious rites of the kind found in certain forms of paganism, to be among the most idyllic forms of sexual expression of the highest, spiritualized variety. Christian puritans of the present era might well find Evola’s views on these matters to be even more appalling than those of ordinary contemporary liberals. Evola also considered ritualistic or ascetic celibacy to be such an idyllic form. The basis of Evola’s objection to pornography was its baseness, it commercial nature, and its hedonic ends, all of which Evola regarding as diminishing its erotic nature to the lowest possible level. Evola would no doubt regard the commercialized hyper-sexuality that dominates the mass media and popular culture of the Western world of the twenty-first century as a symptom rather than as a cause of the decadence of modernity.
Originally published in Thoughts & Perspectives: Evola, a compilation of essays on Julius Evola, published by ARKTOS.
Notes:
1 Wegierski, Mark. The New Right in Europe. Telos, Winter93/Spring94, Issue 98-99.
2 Evola, Julius. Eros and the Mysteries of Love: The Metaphysics of Sex. English translation. New York: Inner Traditions, 1983. Originally published in Italy by Edizioni Meditterranee, 1969.
3 Evola, Julius. The Yoga of Power: Tantra, Shakti, and the Secret Way. English translation by Guido Stucci. New York: Inner Traditions, 1992. Originally published in 1949.
4 Evola, Julius. Revolt Against the Modern World: Politics, Religion, and Social Order in the Kali Yuga. English translation by Guido Stucco. New York: Inner Traditions, 1995. From the 1969 edition. Originally published in Milan by Hoepli in 1934.
5 Cremo, Michael A. Human Devolution: A Vedic Alternative to Darwin’s Theory. Torchlight Publishing, 2003.
6 Pomeroy, Wardell. Dr. Kinsey and the Institute for Sex Research. New York: Harper & Row, 1972.
7 Sharaf, Myron. Fury on Earth: A Biography of Wilhelm Reich. Da Capo Press, 1994.
8 Evola, Eros and the Mysteries of Love: The Metaphysics of Sex, pp. 62-63.
Bibliography:
Cremo, Michael A. Human Devolution: A Vedic Alternative to Darwin’s Theory. Torchlight Publishing, 2003.
Evola, Julius. Eros and the Mysteries of Love: The Metaphysics of Sex. English translation. New York: Inner Traditions, 1983. Originally published in Italy by Edizioni Meditterranee, 1969.
Evola, Julius. Revolt Against the Modern World: Politics, Religion, and Social Order in the Kali Yuga. English translation by Guido Stucco. New York: Inner Traditions, 1995. From the 1969 edition. Originally published in Milan by Hoepli in 1934.
Evola, Julius. The Yoga of Power: Tantra, Shakti, and the Secret Way. English translation by Guido Stucci. New York: Inner Traditions, 1992. Originally published in 1949.
Pomeroy, Wardell. Dr. Kinsey and the Institute for Sex Research. New York: Harper & Row, 1972.
Sharaf, Myron. Fury on Earth: A Biography of Wilhelm Reich. Da Capo Press, 1994.
Wegierski, Mark. The New Right in Europe. Telos, Winter93/Spring94, Issue 98-99.
00:05 Publié dans Philosophie, Révolution conservatrice, Traditions | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : julius evola, sexualité, métaphysique, métaphysique du sexe, philosophie, italie, esthétique, art, tradition, tradtionalisme | |
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di Alberto Melotto
Fonte: megachip [scheda fonte]
“La parola rivoluzione, che noi socialisti siamo così spesso costretti ad usare, suona in modo sinistro alle orecchie della maggior parte della gente, anche se noi ci affanniamo a spiegare che essa non significa necessariamente un cambiamento che si attuerà all’insegna di tumulti e di ogni specie di violenza, così come non potrà significare un cambiamento che si produrrà automaticamente e contro la pubblica opinione ad opera di un gruppo di uomini riusciti in qualche modo a impadronirsi momentaneamente dell’esecutivo. Anche quando spieghiamo che usiamo la parola rivoluzione nel suo senso etimologico, intendendo per essa un cambiamento nelle basi della società, la gente ha paura all’idea di un mutamento tanto vasto che ci supplica di dire riforma e non rivoluzione”. (William Morris)
Signore e signori, ecco a voi William Morris. Artigiano produttore di oggetti di arredamento, poeta, romanziere, affiliato alla confraternita artistica dei preraffaelliti, socialista utopista e profetico. Di rado nell’opera di uno studioso engagé di fine ‘800 si riscontrano, lucidamente evidenziati e confutati, gli snodi e le contraddizioni del movimento operaio novecentesco: il fallimento del modello del socialismo autoritario, l’acquiescenza socialdemocratica verso la rigidità di ruoli voluta dal potere borghese.
Inoltre, Morris sviluppò temi che i posteri non osarono nemmeno affrontare, senza dubbio per timore di sembrare ingenui, naif, poco allineati: la volontà di creare un mondo dove il lavoro sia gioia e creazione artistica, la critica disinvolta allo strapotere della scienza e della tecnologia, la rivalutazione dell’ambiente naturale, l’altra grande vittima, insieme all’uomo, del degrado e dello sfruttamento capitalistico.
Un suo grande ammiratore, Oscar Wilde, raccontava una confidenza fattagli dallo stesso Morris:
“Ho tentato di rendere ogni mio lavoratore un artista, e quando dico un artista intendo dire un uomo”.
Nato in un ambiente benestante, Morris trovò nella cittadella universitaria di Oxford il luogo ideale per lasciarsi affascinare da una miriade di diversi interessi culturali e artistici, e forse proprio per questo motivo non concluse nessun corso regolare di studi. Oltre al socialismo cristiano di Charles Kingsley, poi temporaneamente abbandonato in favore del radicalismo borghese di marca liberale, troviamo l’influsso determinante di John Ruskin, che gli instilla l’amore per l’architettura.
1. Il lavoro – valorizzazione delle capacità umane, non più strumento di oppressione
In Lavoro utile e inutile fatica, Morris mostra di voler sgombrare il tavolo da tutta una serie di luoghi comuni riguardanti il lavoro, prima di procedere nella direzione del teorizzare una nuova concezione sull’argomento.
È sbagliato, dice Morris, affermare entusiasticamente che ogni lavoro è una benedizione in sé. Congratularsi con il fortunato lavoratore per la sua operosità fa comodo soprattutto a coloro che vivono alle spalle degli altri. Non tutta la popolazione, infatti, è dedita ad attività lavorative, al contrario sussistono enormi differenze al riguardo.
Vi sono i ricchi, gli aristocratici:
“che non fanno alcun lavoro: sappiamo tutti che consumano moltissimo senza produrre nulla. Ne consegue che debbono evidentemente essere mantenuti a spese di coloro che lavorano, proprio come i mendicanti, e sono un puro fardello per la comunità”.
Vi è poi l’alta borghesia, la classe che Marx avrebbe definito come “proprietaria dei mezzi di produzione”, la quale è impegnata in una forsennata e feroce gara, in patria e all’estero, per l’accumulo della ricchezza, con l’unico fine di potersi astrarre dal lavoro, e divenire così improduttivi, come sono da secolo gli aristocratici.
Dopo la massa degli impiegati e dei soldati, ecco i lavoratori manuali, obbligati, e questo diviene il punto focale del ragionamento di Morris, a produrre:
“articoli lussuosi e stravaganti la cui domanda è legata all’esistenza delle classi ricche e improduttive, oggetti che chi conduce una vita degna e non corrotta non si sognerebbe neppure di volere”.
Morris sostiene dunque che il gusto della sua epoca per gli oggetti della vita quotidiana – mobilio, tendaggi – appare stravolto, avvelenato dai nefasti meccanismi di sfruttamento economico dell’uomo sull’uomo. Questa adulterazione del gusto si diffonde in ogni parte della società, poiché i poveri producono per uso personale dei manufatti che sono ridicole imitazioni del lusso dei ricchi. Tale deformità nel modo di concepire e di conseguenza guardare alle cose che prodotte proviene dalla disarmonica strutturazione del corpo sociale: una classe oziosa di improduttivi che si fa mantenere da un gran numero di schiavi.
Quali caratteristiche dovrebbe, invece, possedere il lavoro per donare speranza all’uomo, invece che causargli pena e sofferenza? Dovrebbe garantirgli la speranza del riposo: per quanto possa essere piacevole, esso comporta tuttavia una certa sofferenza animale nel mettere in moto le proprie energie. Il riposo dovrebbe essere abbastanza lungo, più lungo dello stretto necessario al recupero delle forze, e dovrebbe essere libero da preoccupazioni e da ansie.
Vi è poi la speranza del piacere del lavoro in sé: concetto, questo, rivoluzionario al massimo grado; Morris afferma risolutamente che l’uomo che lavora davvero utilizza le energie della mente e dell’animo oltre a quelle del corpo:
“la memoria e l’immaginazione lo aiutano nel lavoro. Non solo i suoi pensieri, ma anche i pensieri degli uomini delle trascorse età guidano le sue mani, egli crea in quanto parte della razza umana”.
La dimensione della creatività viene valutata come componente fondamentale nel dar corpo e significato all’atto del faticare, dare sfogo alle proprie capacità creative potrà dunque, donare quel piacere che sarà una soddisfazione quotidiana, una quotidiana ricompensa, nella società socialista. In una società di questo tipo, non si assisterà più al fenomeno dello spreco, da Morris certamente detestato: ovvero la produzione di sordidi surrogati per la povera gente che non può permettersi merce di buona qualità, e la produzione di oggetti pacchiani di lusso per i ricchi. Nella concezione di Morris, lo spreco è il volto perverso e malato della ricchezza di pochi, il profitto nato da uno stimolo produttivo insensato e privo di vere ragioni che non siano l’avidità.
2. Le opzioni di fondo – compromesso socialdemocratico, comunismo e anarchia
Eclettico come soltanto certe figure vittoriane seppero essere, simili ai grandi del rinascimento, William Morris non fu soltanto uomo di pensiero, ma fin dalla gioventù seppe coniugare la passione per l’arte (considerata a torto dal grande pubblico) minore, con una mentalità imprenditoriale decisamente controcorrente, sia dal punto di vista estetico che affaristico.
Nel 1861, all’età di 27 anni, fondò, nelle sue stesse parole, “una specie di ditta per la produzione di oggetti di arredamento”, alla quale si aggiunse col tempo una piccola ma originale casa editrice. La ditta Morris si dimostrò fedele al suo afflato iniziale, ovvero contribuire all’emancipazione economica e sociale dei suoi dipendenti. Gli operai poterono godere di un migliore salario e partecipare attivamente alla fase creativa. Tale volontà non era del tutto sconosciuta in terra d’Inghilterra, nella prima metà del secolo l’industriale Richard Owen aveva fondato dei laboratori dove i lavoratori potevano partecipare ai guadagni relativi ai frutti delle loro fatiche. L’iniziativa di Owen naufragò tristemente perchè i prodotti non incontrarono i gusti del pubblico.
Tornando a Morris, va detto che egli non si illudeva che iniziative come quella da lui portata avanti potessero influenzare la gran parte dell’avida classe imprenditoriale inglese. Lungi dal concedersi ad un paternalismo dickensiano, Morris riponeva le sue speranze in un’avvenire solcato da un cambiamento radicale nella struttura della società. Per questo avversava strenuamente ogni forma di compromesso socialdemocratico.
Morris seppe riconoscere quelle che sarebbero divenute le linee portanti, i binari della dialettica politica inglese per almeno un secolo a venire: una classe operaia poco interessata all’idea di un cambiamento strutturale di regime in senso socialista, ma attenta ad ottenere relativi miglioramenti in seno al luogo di lavoro (migliori salari, più sicurezza) e più garanzie sul piano della cittadinanza (sanità e istruzione pubblica, pensione). Questo compromesso socialdemocratico, inibitore del conflitto fra le diverse classi e portatore di pace sociale, veniva demandato dai lavoratori in primo luogo all’efficiente azione dei sindacati, delle Trade Unions, che seppero orientare fin da subito le politiche del Labour Party.
È cosa nota che una forte percentuale dei delegati del Labour venivano concessi per Statuto ai rappresentanti delle Trade Unions. Il nostro autore non nascose mai il suo dissenso, venato di disprezzo, per quelli che definiva come dei “palliativi”. Egli non era certo così insensibile da mostrarsi disinteressato a dei miglioramenti immediati nelle condizioni di vita delle classi più umili, ma temeva fortemente che queste limitate riforme venissero percepite come l’obiettivo finale. Questo apparente slancio avrebbe, in realtà, lasciati inalterati i rapporti di subordinazione, anzi di schiavitù, esistenti nella rigida società capitalistica inglese:
“Il fatto di dare a moltissimi, o anche pochi, poveri, una vita un po’ meno disagiata, un po’ meno miserabile dell’attuale, non è certo in sé un bene da poco: ma sarebbe un grave male se incidesse negativamente sugl sforzi dell’intera classe lavoratrice per la conquista di una vera società di eguali … quel che mi chiedo è se la terribile organizzazione della società civile commerciale non stia giocando al gatto col topo con noi socialisti; se la società dell’ineguaglianza non stia accettando il marchingegno pseudosocialista e non lo stia adoperando allo scopo di mantenere quella società in una condizione in qualche modo ridimensionata ma sicura”.
Il nostro compito, scrisse nell’articolo A che punto siamo?, è quello di formare i socialisti, di creare i presupposti di una coscienza sociale nuova, una coscienza sociale liberata dall’idea stessa di sfruttamento e di dominio. Fare a meno dei padroni. La sua coerenza lo portò in questo senso ad opporsi all’idea di mandare rappresentanti socialisti nel parlamento di Sua Maestà. Così, quando la Social-Democratic Federation, della quale era membro, nonché tesoriere, si espresse in massa per la partecipazione alle contese elettorali, egli favorì una scissione interna alla Federazione, che portò alla creazione della Socialist League, nel 1884. Testimonianza ricca di pungente sarcasmo di questa divisione è la lettera che Engels scrisse a Bernstein, e della quale riportiamo un passaggio:
“I dimissionari erano Aveling, Bax e Morris, i soli uomini onesti fra gli intellettuali, ma anche i tre più inetti, dal punto di vista pratico (due poeti e un filosofo), che per quanto si cerchi sia dato trovare”.
Certo le parole di Engels si debbono attribuire a un diffuso pregiudizio anti-umanista nella sinistra dell’epoca, resta da dimostrare che il tecnicismo positivista abbia saputo raggiungere risultati pratici di rilievo, a giudicare del disastro organizzativo della Russia di Stalin, Kruscev e Breznev ciò non sembra vero.
Non fermarsi fino alla piena realizzazione del socialismo, questa l’aspirazione di Morris, la realizzazione del comunismo. Con questo vocabolo egli intende porre l’accento sul diritto della popolazione ad accedere all’uso dei beni comuni, ovvero le risorse naturali come la terra. Anche sotto questo aspetto possiamo riscontrare la vicinanza del pensiero di Morris al corrente dibattito in seno al filone del pensiero decrescista, Latouche in primis. Tali beni comuni, non devono essere posseduti da singoli individui:
“In caso contrario, i proprietari dei mezzi di produzione saranno necessariamente i padroni di coloro che non possiedono abbastanza da liberarsi dal bisogno di pagare con una parte del proprio lavoro l’uso dei mezzi di produzione medesimi. I padroni o proprietari dei mezzi di produzione possiedono quindi praticamente i lavoratori: molto praticamente perché possono imporgli il genere di vita che devono condurre .. quindi le risorse della natura e la ricchezza usata per la produzione di ulteriore ricchezza, tutto insomma, dovrebbe essere messo in comune“.
Quanto ai meccanismi regolatori di questa futura società comunista, Morris si dimostra giustamente restio a fornire indicazioni troppo precise; in lui il desiderio di portare alla partecipazione diretta le masse popolari è così forte e convinto da non lasciar spazio a rigide direttive. Si può solo prevedere come quella società non sarà.
Non verrà abolita qualsiasi forma di autorità, con buona pace dell’ala anarchica più intransigente. L’esercizio di una qualche autorità è pur necessario, ma d’altra parte, i vincoli della futura società comunista saranno volontari. Una volta stabilite alcune grandi linee di principio, si lascerà grande spazio alla:
“varietà di temperamenti, capacità e desideri che esiste fra gli uomini in tutto ciò che non rientra nella sfera delle prime necessità”.
3. Alcune considerazioni finali
William Morris scrisse un romanzo utopico, News from nowhere, tradotto nella nostra lingua col titolo Notizie da nessun luogo, col preciso intento di raffigurare la società delle donne e degli uomini liberi. S’immagina che il narratore, un uomo di fine ‘800 nel quale è facile individuare un alter-ego dell’autore, venga trasportato magicamente in un futuro distante un centinaio d’anni, in un’Inghilterra liberata, grazie ad un’aspra guerra civile, dal dominio del capitale, un paese dove il benessere e la serenità sono condivisi dall’intera popolazione.
Va detto che la critica non considera il romanzo fra le vette più alte raggiunte da Morris in campo letterario, forse a causa di una raffigurazione fin troppo idilliaca e manichea di un tempo dove la felicità regna sovrana, tanto da far somigliare l’esistenza ad un “amoroso picnic”.
Ciò non sminuisce la cristallina volontà di pervenire ad una sostanziale rivoluzione, in grado di liberare l’essere umano da ceppi che sono prima di tutto di tipo culturale e psicologico. Morris non si tirò mai indietro, e nonostante le facili ironie engelsiane, seppe partecipare a cruente manifestazione di piazza, pur di accrescere il livello di protesta sociale. In particolare, è nota la sua partecipazione ad una delle tante Bloody Sunday, le domeniche di sangue, di cui è costellata la storia britannica.
In Londra in stato d’assedio, che come gli altri scritti finora citati fa parte della raccolta di articoli intitolata Come potremmo vivere, Morris ci racconta dei fatti del 13 novembre 1887, quando il governo tory-liberale, s’ispirò all’amorevole insegnamento di Bismarck per attaccare i disoccupati che avevano occupato Trafalgar Square.
La sua capacità d’immaginare un futuro e una società diversa ce lo restituisce come un fratello che solo l’ottusità e la parzialità di molto marxismo ci avevano tenuto nascosto, un obiettore di coscienza decrescista ante litteram. Valgano per William Morris le parole di Michail Bakunin:
“È ricercando l’impossibile che l’uomo ha sempre realizzato il possibile. Coloro che si sono saggiamente limitati a ciò che appariva loro come possibile, non hanno mai avanzato di un solo passo”.
Tante altre notizie su www.ariannaeditrice.it
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Marc. EEMANS:
La Vision de Tondalus et la littérature visionnaire au moyen âge
La vision est un des genres mystico-littéraires des plus goûtés au moyen âge. Innombrables sont, en effet, les textes visionnaires parvenus jusqu'à nous et, sans parler de ces sommets que sont les visions de Sainte Hildegarde et de Hadewych, l'on peut dire que la vision a fleuri dans tous les pays de l'Europe occidentale. La plupart des textes conservés semblent d'abord avoir été écrits en langue latine, pour être traduits par la suite en langue vulgaire et se répandre ainsi dans toutes les couches de la société.
A en juger d'après le grand nombre de visions d'origine irlandaise, l'on peut affirmer que c'est avant tout un genre propre au monde celtique (1) où il se confondrait avec la tradition païenne de l'imram (2) ou voyage maritime à la Terre des Ombres, île lointaine et inaccessible où tout n'est que félicité.
Par la suite, se rencontrant avec d'autres récits de tradition strictement chrétienne, ce voyage se serait confondu avec les « ravissements dans l'esprit », au cours desquels les visionnaires visitent l'au-delà.
L'une des premières visions chrétiennes dont le texte nous soit parvenu est la Vision de Salvius qui nous apporte, d'emblée deux éléments propres au style visionnaire: la mort apparente du visionnaire et l'apparition du guide qui Je conduit sain et sauf à travers les embûches de l'au-delà.
Dans tous les textes visionnaires du quatrième au sixième siècle, le paradis des élus se rapproche encore beaucoup de l’Élisée des Grecs ou du Hel des anciens Germains: c'est une espèce de pays de cocagne ou tout n'est que joie et allégresse, et qui se confond volontiers avec le paradis terrestre dont Adam en Eve furent chassés après la faute.
Dans un des Dialogues du Pape Grégoire le Grand, nous trouvons également la description classique d'une mort apparente accompagnée d'un voyage dans l'autre monde, tandis que des considérations eschatologiques viennent utilement nous renseigner sur notre vie future. Maïs l'originalité de cette vision réside dans le fait que nous y rencontrons pour la première fois le thème du pont étroit qui est une des épreuves les plus redoutables pour les âmes damnées.
Le texte de Grégoire le Grand semble avoir donné un essor définitif au genre et dès le huitième siècle les visions se multiplient, en étant toutes construites sur le même schéma.
L'Historia Ecclesiastica de Beda Venarabilis (3) nous rapporte à elle seule la relation de trois morts apparentes accompagnées de visions à tendances eschatologiques. La plus remarquable d'entre elles est la Vision de Drithelm qui s'apparente de très près à la Vision de Tondalus, aussi la considère ton comme une de ses sources.
Sous le règne de Charles Magne, nombreuses sont les visions qui s 'inspirent des thèmes de Grégoire le Grand, mais sous l'influence de certains facteurs extérieurs, elles perdent petit à petit leur sens religieux pour revêtir un aspect politique. La plus célèbre des visions de ce genre est certainement la Vision d'une Pauvresse. Elle nous conte l'histoire d'une pauvre femme, du district de Laon, tombée en extase en l'année 819, et dont les visions auraient inspiré directement la politique carolovingienne.
Faisant exception dans la série des visions politiques de l'époque, les Visions d'Anscarius (4) sont de la plus pure inspiration eschatologique. Dès sa prime jeunesse, Anscarius connut les visions et les ravissements, aussi vécut-il de la manière la plus sainte, loin des rumeurs du vaste monde. Puis, certain jour, une vision lui ayant montré les beautés de l'apostolat, il alla convertir les hommes du Nord à la foi chrétienne. Les Visions d'Anscarius s'apparentent de fort près à la Vision de Salvius, tout en s'inspirant des principaux thèmes eschatologiques de l'Apocalypse. Jusqu'ici, le style visionnaire était encore tout entaché de matérialité, voire même de vulgarité. Chez Anscarius, au contraire, le récit se spiritualise et l'âme qui s'échappe du corps endormi se pare d'une essence vraiment impondérable, tout comme Je Ciel se colore d'une indicible fluidité. Anscarius reconnaît cependant son incapacité à traduire l'ineffable et il avoue que ses descriptions ne sont que des approximations qui se trouvent bien en-dessous du réel.
Pendant les deux siècles qui suivent, la littérature visionnaire connaît une certaine régression. Hormis la Vision de Vauquelin, qui date de 1091, il n'y a aucun texte marquant à signaler.
Dès le début du 12° siècle, les textes visionnaires se suivent de très près, nous y relèverons surtout des visions d' origine irlandaise dont la Vision d'Adamman semble être la plus ancienne. Tout en relevant d'un certain conventionnel, le genre se traduit en récits d'une très grande beauté de style. Ces visions nous révèlent, en effet, le merveilleux chrétien dans toute sa diversité, depuis la description des plus misérables scènes du monde des damnés, jusqu'à l'épanouissement béatifique des âmes au sein de Dieu. Les thèmes traditionnels se développent et s'amplifient d'un récit à l'autre. Des réminiscences orientales, dues aux Croisades, s'y révèlent, tandis que des rappels des auteurs anciens viennent témoigner des premières influences du monde antique.
Cette littérature visionnaire à tendance eschatologique connaîtra bientôt son apogée dans la Divine Comédie (5) du Dante, tandis que les visions d'inspiration plus mystique aboutiront aux plus sublimes révélations de Sainte Hildegarde et de Hadewych (6). Tant par leur popularité ,que par la beauté de leur style, la Vision de Tondalus et le Purgatoire de St-Patrice occupent une place d'exception dans la littérature eschatologique du moyen âge.
La Vision du Chevalier Ovin relatée dans le Purgatoire de St-Patrice se rattache à l’antique tradition celtique des Imrama, aussi n ' est-ce point en état de léthargie que le Chevalier Ovin s'aventure dans le monde des ténèbres, mais en y pénétrant volontairement par une grotte qui communique avec les entrailles de la terre. Sur le plan chrétien il refera le voyage déjà entrepris avant lui par Orphée, Ulysse et Enée. Tout comme eux il pénètrera de son plein gré dans le monde de l'au-delà, mais son voyage est un véritable pélerinage: c'est, en effet, pour se purifier qu'il veut contempler les peines infligées aux âmes damnées. Il est ainsi porteur de cette foi essentiellement chrétienne et médiévale en la Rédemption de l'homme.
Le Chevalier Ovin n'a point le bonheur d'avoir un guide dans son voyage, mais là ou les dangers seront par trop menaçants, il lui suffira de prononcer le nom de Jésus pour se sentir aussitôt à l'abri. Il ira ainsi de supplice en supplice, en se purifiant chaque fois davantage, pour arriver enfin aux partes du Paradis.
Par les nombreuses recommandations à l'adresse du lecteur qui entrecoupent le récit, cette vision se révèle avant tout comme une œuvre d'édification et une exhortation à la pénitence.
Ce récit, qui se rattache au fameux Pélerinage de St-Patrice, en Irlande, a rencontré un succès sans précédent dans les annales de la littérature médiévale. Ecrit en latin par un moine irlandais du nom d'Henry de Saltrey vers 1189, il fut bientôt traduit dans toutes les langues de l'Europe occidentale. De nombreux auteurs célèbres s'en inspirèrent, notamment Calderon qui en tira son El Purgataria de San Patricio. Jusqu'au milieu du 19° siècle il a servi de trame à un mystère fort populaire dans toute la Bretagne.
Quant à la Vision de Tondalus, due vers le milieu du 12° siècle à la plume du moine Marcus, son succès dura plus de trois siècles. Plus de 60 versions latines, toutes du 12° ou du 13° siècle en ont été conservées jusqu'à nos jours. Sa traduction en langue vulgaire se répandit dans tous les pays de l'Europe occidentale. Vincentius Bellavacensis recopia intégralement cette vision dans son Speculum Ristoriale (vers 1244) , tandis que Denys le Chartreux en donna un résumé fort circonstancié dans deux de ses ouvrages Quatuor Novissima et De Particulari Judicia Dei. C'est grâce à ces deux auteurs, particulièrement populaires à l'époque, que la Vision de Tondalus pénétra dans tous les milieux.
Cette vision nous conte les mésaventures du Chevalier Tondal qui, étant tombé certain jour en état de léthargie, eut le privilège de descendre en Enfer et d'en rapporter le récit que le frère Marcus (7) a trancrit pour l'édification des pécheurs.
Dès le seuil de l'autre monde, Tondal est accueilli par son ange gardien et ensemble ils traverseront l'Enfer pour visiter ensuite le Paradis et y contempler les âmes bienheureuses.
La délimitation de l'au-delà en trois zônes bien définies- Enfer, Purgatoire, Paradis - telle que nous la trouvons dans la Divine Comédie n' est pas encore bien fixée dans le récit du frère Marcus, aussi a-t-on pu soulever une controverse quant à la définition des lieux visités par Tondalus Selon certains, seul le supplice infligé par Lucifer, relèverait des peines de l'Enfer, toutes les autres étant encore celles du Purgatoire.
Quoi qu'il en soit, nous constatons que dans la Vision de Tondalus onze supplices s'étagent jusqu'aux partes du Paradis et que même à l'intérieur de celui-ci, certaines âmes doivent encore souffrir des supplices temporaires, tels les deux rois ennemis Concober et Donacus, qui avaient cependant déjà fait pénitence sur terre, maïs qui ne furent pas « entièrement bons » ... Quant au roi Cornacus, il y doit également expier certains crimes et y subit ainsi chaque jour, durant trois heures, la peine du feu jusqu'au nombril, tandis que la partie supérieure de son corps se recouvre entièrement de poils. Comme on le voit, dans le Paradis de Tondal, la première joie connaît encore ses heures de détresse, mais les cinq joies suivantes, elles, sont toute félicité. Elles sont réservées aux âmes nobles qui vécurent d'une vie exemplaire ici-bas.
Tondal serait volontiers resté en ces lieux, mais son ange gardien lui fait comprendre qu'il n'en est pas encore digne. S'il persévère dans ses bonnes résolutions, il reviendra certainement en ces lieux pour y prendre part aux chœurs des bienheureux. Maïs avant d'en arriver là Tondal devra vivre, pendant le temps qui lui reste à demeurer sur terre, une vie de mortification et de charité. C'est à ce moment que l’âme de Tondal va rejoindre son corps pour s'adonner à l’œuvre de la gräce.
La Vision de Tondalus a laissé des traces profancles dans toute la littérature de moyen âge. Son iconographie est des plus abondantes, car des artistes de la qualité d'un Pol de Limbourg ou d'un Jéröme Bosch y ont trouvé de fécondes sources d'inspiration. Nombreux sont également les incunables qui ont reproduit cette vision. La première édition typographique de ce livre serait celle d'Anvers « gheprent bi mi Mathijs van der goes », portant le millésime 1472.
Les bibliographes sont toutefois unanimes pour affirmer que cette édition a été antidatée par van der goes qui voulait ainsi s'attribuer la gloire d'avoir imprimé le premier livre paru dans les Pays-Bas.
Presque toutes les éditions de la Vision de Tondalus datent du 16° siècle et dès le 17°, cet ouvrage qui avait connu tant de vogue ne reparut plus au catalogue des éditeurs. Au 19° siècle il sortit de l'ombre grâce à la curiosité des philologues romantiques et dès 1837 Octave Delepierre, archiviste de la Flandre Occidentale en présenta une nouvelle version française d'après le texte la tin de Vincentius Bellavacensis, à laquelle nous empruntons les fragments publiés dans le présent cahier.
Dans plusieurs pays d'Europe les philologues se sont depuis lors occupés fort longuement des innombrables manuscrits de l’œuvre. Certains d'entre eux nous ont dotés ainsi de la présentation critique de quelques-uns d’entre-eux, notamment MM. R. Verdeyen et J. Endepols qui publièrent une version moyen-néerlandaise de la Vision de Tondalus et du Purgatoire de St. Patrice. Nous devons la plupart des données historiques réunies dans cette étude aux patientes recherches de ces deux savants.
Une étude détaillée du sujet, que nous venons d'esquisser ici et qui relève autant de l'histoire de la littérature comparée que de l'histoire de la dévotion occidentale au moyen âge, reste encore à écrire.
Marc. EEMANS.
(1) Rappelons cependant que le monde antique tout comme le monde oriental connurent ce genre et bien souvent nos visions médiévales en sont des démarcations plus ou moins conscientes.
(2) Le plus célèbre Imram connu à ce jour est celui du Voyage de Bran ou de Saint Brandan.
(3) Moine et historien anglais, né à Wearmouth (675-735).
(4) Saint Anschaire, évèque de Hambourg (801-865) .
(5) Les constantes allusions du Dante à des personnages politiques contemporains rattachent également la Divine Comédie à la tradition carolovingienne des visions politiques.
(6) Parmi les grandes femmes visionnaires citons également: Elisabeth de Schönau, Marie d'Oignies, Christine de St-Trond, Lutgarde de Tongres, Beatrice de Nazareth, Mechtild de Magdebourg, etc.
(7) L'auteur de la Vision de Tondalus, probablement un moine Irlandais du XIIe siècle, n'est connu que sous ce prénom. C'est ainsi qu'il se présente lui-même au debut de son récit.
Hermès, n° 3, mars 1937.
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Non possumusby Marc. Eemans
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Qu'on nous excuse ce recours au latin papal pour opposer un refus – net et catégorique – à cette déviation vers un ésotérisme teinté de science-fiction que nous croyons découvrir derrière le « thème d'Uranus » proposé par quelques « fantasmages »au IVe Salon International « Fantasmagie » de Bruxelles, dont le présent numéro [Fantasmagie no. 10, mai 1962] est en quelque sorte comme le support idéologique.
Libre à ces amis de se perdre dans les dédales d'un néo-rosicrucianisme revu et corrigé à la lueur de certaines théories à la mode du jour, qui tendent à nous faire croire que notre civilisation se trouve « en rupture et mutation ».
Nous le savons bien que nous sommes entrés – et depuis pas mal d'années déjà – dans une ère que nous appellerons volontiers celle du mépris, de la bassesse d'être et de 'avilissement. Oui, nous assistons à une irrésistible autant qu'irréversible montée d'aveugles forces telluriques qui menacent de submerger tout ce qui nous était cher et qui demeurait notre seule raison de vivre et d'espérer. Que nous sommes aussi entrés dans une ère de science nouvelles, de conquêtes interstellaires et de menaces nucléaires, qui le niera, mais en quoi cela peut-il changer l'essence-même de notre condition d'homme et de l'authenticité de notre vie réelle ?
Ne faut-il pas être un peu illuminé, comme Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, ou plutôt jobard, comme le savant américain Oppenheimer, pour affirmer que les récents progrès de la science sont en passe de faire de nous des « êtres nouveaux »? Sans doute, les technocrates d'aujourd'hui se trouvent à l'antipode de l'homme cultivé, de l' « honnête homme » de jadis, car la technocratie a succédé à la culture, en général, et à la science, en particulier. L'automation autant que la spécialisation vont 'l'encontre de la vie de l'esprit. Ainsi, nos modernes cosmonautes – pour ne parler que de ces vedettes de la technocratie – au lieu d'être les prototypes du surhomme de demain que nous annonçait Nietzsche, ne sont-ils que de simples citoyens soviétiques ou américains uniquement préoccupés de la bonne réussite du travail qui leur a été assigné. Une fois rentrés chez eux, après leur périple spatial qui relève davantage de la performance sportive, que de l’expérience scientifique, ils ne sont certainement plus que de tout petits hommes, aussi dupes que le premier monsieur Dupont ou Durand venu, de la pâture que peuvent leur offrir les modernes techniques d'abrutissement des foules que sont la grande presse, le cinéma, les sports, la radio et la télévision.
Il est évident que nous ne nous laisserons pas aveugler par ce stupide nouveau culte des idoles et que nous sommes prêts à apporter notre tribut d'admiration aux savants obscurs qui rendent possibles tant d'exploits spectaculaires. Mais, ne l'oublions pas, ce sont aussi ces savants qui sont les apprentis-sorciers üraniens » auxquels font allusion MM. Brahy et Mariën, ces apprentis-sorciers dont l'esprit d'investigation et de conquête est à la fois riche en découvertes vertigineuses et en menaces d'anéantissements apocalyptiques.
Certes, nous pourrons nous rencontrer ainsi avec certaines théories quant aux caractéristiques « uraniennes », telles que les définissent les astrologues, car, somme toute, leurs vues sur l' « ère uranienne » ne sont peut-être que de simples intuitions qui nous viennent de la nuit des temps, et dont les projections métaphoriques, ainsi que les synthèmes et symboles, peuvent parfaitement se prêter à l'analyse des mythes et archétypes de l'inconscient collectif chers à la psychologie des profondeurs.
Mais, que penser de ces tenants de la « Tradition »qui veulent insérer les progrès techniques du jour dans un schéma de superstitions selon lesquelles l'histoire du monde s’acheminerait vers un devenir religieux fait à l'image des divagations les plus sottes ?
Rêveries sans bien grande importance, sans doute, mais aussi étrange goût du paradoxe et de l'affirmation gratuite. Et, par ailleurs aussi, que de visions rétrogrades, que de professions de foi réactionnaires, et que de logomachie ! On se croirait parmi les primates de la pensée philosophique ou les analphabètes de la Christian Science devant des sornettes aussi flagrantes que l'énoncé que voici que certains n'ont pas hésité à proposer à notre méditation : « Uranus ensuite pourra porter l'Humanité vers une fraternité réelle et non plus théorique. Le véritable christianisme enseigné par une Eglise plus démocratique, telle que le conçut son fondateur, deviendra universel, et le culte du Saint-Esprit prendra une grande importance ».
Devons-nous y opposer une profession de foi agnostique, anti-chrétienne et anti-démocratique, pour nous présenter comme des néo-païens non-conformistes et passablement révolutionnaires ? Non, ce ne serait que ridicule, et puis ne nous répondrait-on pas que nous n'y avons rien compris et que nous ne sommes que de pauvre esprits cartésiens auxquels échappe la grâce de l'Illumination initiatique...
Mais, comment l'art fantastique et magique peut-il s'accommoder de tant d’ésotérisme primaire ? Pour les épigones du surréalisme figuratif, il suffira peut-être de démarquer certaines recettes qui remontent aux fantasmagories d'un Jérôme Bosch ou d'un Brueghel et que le Salvador Dali des bonnes années a su réactualiser dans le sillage du comte de Lautréamont. Ce ne seront que perspectives fuyantes en des paysages désertiques ou lunaires avec des personnages déboîtés ou larvaires aux ombres allongées, des matières molles ou viscérales, des spectres un peu grotesques ou hideux, le tout plongé dans une atmosphère d'apocalypse.
Quant aux admirateurs d'un surréalisme évolué selon les plus récentes formules de l'abstraction chaude ou lyrique, que d'aucuns considèrent comme le nec plus ultra de l'expression automatique, il leur suffira de s'adonner à l'art des nébuleuses ou des éruptions solaires et de peindre des cosmogonies agrémentées ou non de planètes et d’étoiles filantes...
Le fantastique uranien s'intègre ainsi facilement dans l'incongru, le cauchemaresque et la science-fiction, à moins qu'il ne prétende être le véritable art magique, celui des signes secrets et des anagogies qui relient mystérieusement le passé au futur.
Mais pourquoi le fantastique ne s'en tiendrait-il pas à la sancta simplicitas, à la simple poésie de l’œil, du sein, de la rose, du feuillage, de l'écorce, de l'écume de la mer, de la conque, du cristal, de la pierre, de l'écaille, de la plume, de l'algue, du nuage, de l'os, « autant d'éléments », comme le rappelait encore Thomas Owen dans une récente préface de catalogue fantasmagique, « qui participent à l'expression fantastique » ?
Et pour finir, que l'on nous permette de préférer au « thème d'Uranus », celui de l'Amour, de l'amour sublime, car dans le doux sourire d'une femme aimée nous découvrons infiniment plus d'infini fantastique que dans toutes les infinitudes de l'univers.
Marc. EEMANS
Fantasmagie no. 10. Numéro spécial sur le thème d'Uranus, mai 1962.
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Los artistas como intelectuales
Alberto Buela (*)
En una sociedad como la nuestra, de consumo, opulenta para pocos, cuyo dios es el mercado, la imagen reemplazó al concepto. Es que se dejo de leer para mirar, aun cuando rara vez se ve.
Y así los artistas, actores, cantantes, locutores y conductores televisión han reemplazado a los intelectuales.
Este reemplazo viene de otro más profundo; cuando los intelectuales, sobre todo a partir de la Revolución Francesa, vinieron a remplazar a los filósofos. Es cierto que siguió habiendo filósofos, pero el tono general de estos últimos dos siglos marca su desaparición pública.
El progresismo, esa enfermedad infantil de la socialdemocracia, se caracteriza por asumir la vanguardia como método y no como lucha, como sucedía con el viejo socialismo. Aún existe en Barcelona el viejo diario La Vanguardia.
La vanguardia como método quiere decir que para el progresista hay que estar, contra viento y marea, siempre en la cresta de la ola. Siempre adelante, en la vanguardia de las ideas, las modas, los usos, las costumbres y las actitudes.
El hombre progresista se sitúa siempre en el éxtasis temporal del futuro, ni el presente, ni mucho menos el pasado tiene para él significación alguna, y si la tuviera siempre está en función del futuro. No le interesa el ethos de la Nación histórica, incluso va contra este carácter histórico-cultural. Y esto es así, porque el progresista es su propio proyecto. Él se instala siempre en el futuro pues ha adoptado, repetimos, la vanguardia como método. Nadie ni nada puede haber delante de él, de lo contrario dejaría de ser progresista. Así se explica que el progresista no se pueda dar un proyecto de país ni de nación porque éste se ubicaría delante de él, lo cual implica y le crea una contradicción.
Y así como nadie puede dar lo que no tiene, el progresista no puede darse ni darnos un proyecto político porque él mismo es su proyecto político.
El hombre progre, al ser aquél que dice sí a toda novedad que se le propone encuentra en los artistas sus intelectuales. Hoy que en nuestra sociedad de consumo donde las imágenes han reemplazado a los conceptos nos encontramos con que los artistas son, en definitiva, los que plasman en imágenes los ideas. Y la formación del progresista consiste en eso, en una sucesión de imágenes truncas de la realidad. El homo festivus, figura emblemática del progresismo, del que hablan pensadores como Muray o Agulló, encuentra en el artista a su ideólogo.
El artista lo libera del esfuerzo, tanto de leer (hábito que se pierde irremisiblemente), como del mundo concreto. El progresista no quiere saber sino solo estar enterado. Tiene avidez de novedades. Y el mundo es “su mundo” y vive en la campana de cristal de los viejos almacenes de barrio que protegían a los dulces y los fiambres donde las moscas (el pueblo y sus problemas) no podían entrar.
Los progresistas porteños viven en Puerto Madero, no en Parque Patricios.
La táctica de los gobiernos progresistas es transformar al pueblo en “la gente”, esto es, en público consumidor, con lo cual el pueblo deja de ser el agente político principal de toda comunidad, para cederle ese protagonismo a los mass media, como ideólogos de las masas y a los artistas, como ideólogos de sus propias élites.
Este es un mecanismo que funciona a dos niveles: a) en los medios masivos de comunicación cientos periodistas y locutores, esos analfabetos culturales locuaces, según acertada expresión de Paul Feyerabend (1924-1994) nos dicen qué debemos hacer y cómo debemos pensar. Son los mensajeros del “uno anónimo” de Heidegger que a través del dictador “se”, se dice, se piensa, se obra, se viste, se come, nos sume en la existencia impropia. b) a través de los artistas como traductores de conceptos a imágenes en los teatros y en los cines y para un público más restringido y con mayor poder adquisitivo: para los satisfechos del sistema.
Esto es: los progres
El artista cumple con su función ideológica dentro del progresismo porque canta los infinitos temas de la reivindicación: el matrimonio gay, el aborto, la eutanasia, la adopción de niños por los homosexuales, el consumo de marihuana y coca, la lucha contra el imperialismo, la defensa del indigenismo, de los inmigrantes, de la reducción de las penas a los delincuentes, un guiño a la marginalidad y un largo etcétera. Pero nunca le canta a la inseguridad en las calles, la prostitución, la venta de niños, el turismo pedófilo, la falta de empleo, el creciente asesinato y robo de las personas, el juego por dinero, de eso no se habla como la película de Mastroiani. En definitiva, no ve los padecimientos de la sociedad sino sus goces.
El artista como actor reclama para sí la transgresión pero ejecuta todas aquellas obras de teatro en donde se representa lo políticamente correcto. Y en este sentido, como dice Vittorio Messori, en primer lugar está el denigrar a la Iglesia, al orden social, a las virtudes burguesas de la moderación, la modestia, el ahorro, la limpieza, la fidelidad, la diligencia, la sensatez, haciéndose la apología de sus contrarios.
No hay actor o locutor que no se rasgue las vestiduras hablando de las víctimas judías del Holocausto, aunque nadie representa a las cristianas ni a las gitanas. Estas no tienen voz, como no la tienen las del genocidio armenio ni hoy las de Darfour en Sudán.
Así, si representan a Heidegger lo hacen como un nazi y si a Stalin como un maestro en humanidad. Al Papa siempre como un verdugo y a las monjas como pervertidas, pero a los prestamistas como necesitados y a los proxenetas liberadores. Ya no más representaciones del Mercader de Venecia, ni de la Bolsa de Martel. El director que osa tocar a Wagner queda excomulgado por la policía del pensamiento y sino ¡qué le pregunten a Baremboin?
En el orden local si representan al Martín Fierro quitan la payada y duelo con el Moreno. Si al general Belgrano, lo presentan como doctor. A Perón como un burgués y a Evita como una revolucionaria. Pero claro, la figura emblemática de todo artista es el Che Guevara.
Toda la hermenéutica teatral está penetrada por el psicoanálisis teñido por la lógica hebrea de Freud y sus cientos de discípulos. Lógica que se resuelve en el rescate del “otro” pero para transformarlo en “lo mismo”, porque en el corazón de esta lógica “el otro”, como Jehová para Abraham, es vivido como amenaza y por eso en el supuesto rescate lo tengo que transformar en “lo mismo”.
Es que el artista está educado en la diferencia, lo vemos en su estrafalaria vestimenta y conducta. Él se piensa y se ve diferente pero su producto termina siendo un elemento más para la cohesión homgeneizadora de todas las diferencias y alteridades. Es un agente más de la globalización cultural.
El pluralismo predicado y representado termina en la apología del totalitarismo dulce de las socialdemocracias que reducen nuestra identidad a la de todos por igual.
Finalmente, el mecanismo político que está en la base de esta disolución del otro, como lo distinto, lo diferente, es el consenso. En él, funciona el simulacro del “como sí” kantiano. Así, le presto el oído al otro pero no lo escucho. Se produce una demorada negación del otro, porque, en definitiva, busco salvar las diferencias reduciéndolo a “lo mismo”.
Esta es la razón última por la cual nosotros venimos proponiendo desde hace años la teoría del disenso, que nace de la aceptación real y efectiva del principio de la diferencia, y tiene la exigencia de poder vivir en esa diferencia. Y este es el motivo por el cual se necesita hacer metapolítica: disciplina que encierra la exigencia de identificar en el área de la política mundial, regional o nacional, la diversidad ideológica tratando de convertir dicha diversidad en un concepto de comprensión política, según la sabia opinión del politólogo Giacomo Marramao.
El disenso debería ser el primer paso para hacer política pública genuina y la metapolítica el contenido filosófico y axiológico del agente político.
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Marc. Eemans |
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Opening Pandora's Box: An Elitist Defence of Modernism
Jonathan Bowden
Ex: http://www.wermodandwermod.com/
I would like to take this opportunity to respond to various postings which have been placed on the website ‘Stormfront’ in recent weeks. I would like to thank those people who have been supportive of my efforts— including ‘glasgow bnp’, ‘fraser’ and ‘Dux90’, who was kind enough to describe the work as “excellent”.
Other correspondents have been less charitable however. These include ‘Son Of Britain’, ‘Byzantium Endures’ (probably named after a novel by Michael Moorcock) and ‘brummie76’ among others. Now I’m not responding to their comments directly—primarily because most of them are semi-literate and scatological in tone. These persons are also hiding under false names. Their identities are known to me though by virtue of my status and links with the American owners of the Stormfront website. (Byzantium Endures, for example, is an Irish Republican and National Socialist who has been on the site for many years).
But amidst all of the silliness and abuse these people are contriving to make a serious point, and this is: the status of modern or modernist art.
This happens to be a completely legitimate debate and one which I will respond to now. What large numbers of western individuals have missed is that a seismic shock went through the art world at the end of the nineteenth century. This was completely adjacent to the creation of photography as both an art and a science. Once a classic early photographer like Edward Muybridge produced an interconnected series of images featuring Greco-Roman wrestlers and running horses, the world was forever changed. Fine art now had a choice – it either replicated photography badly or in a stylised way which was loyal to a tradition running from Rembrandt to Orpen or it contrived to do something else. What it did was to go inside the mind and tap all sorts of semi-conscious and unconscious ideas, fantasies, desires and imaginative forays. All these relate to iconic art, religious painting and the art of the occult, spiritualism, pornography and even the images of the insane or the marginally so. It also relates to religious art as exemplified by Pacher, Giotto, Cimabue, Bosch, Brueghel, Grunewald and various modern masters of a similar sort. The point about this art is that it is highly personal and powerful because it comes from inside. This means that people often of a highly rigid and morally defensive character find this work heretical, blasphemous, evil and even degenerate. (Indeed the theory of degenerate art originates from the 1880’s when this change of direction took place). A large number of modern masters like Bacon, Buffet, Ernst, Paolozzi, Balthus, Dali and Labisse have all dealt with these themes. What has happened to art in other directions is that representational, classical, traditional and academic work has been taken over by cinema. The moving image and the tens of thousands of individual films produced for well over a century now are a testament to this. Great filmmakers like Lang, Hitchcock, Stroheim, Gance, Truffaut, Renoir, Syberberg and Tarkovsky are all examples of this. They inherit the tradition of representation which has gone elsewhere. In the end you either love or loathe this. Two regimes in the twentieth century tried to prevent painters and sculptors producing modernist work. These were Nazi Germany and Stalin’s Soviet Union. Both failed. The reasons for this are the dynamism of the modern current—even though German sculptors like Arno Breker and Gustav Thorak were excellent artists but they were also copyists who were returning to the Greeks and Praxiteles. The dilemma which painters and sculptors have faced is either to create purely imaginatively or just to make films in another medium.
Turning to my own work various currents are discernable. These are the demonic, strength and a concern with pure power, ugliness and fury as well as erotica and shape, or purely imaginative formulations. In my own mind the softer material balances the harsher, more violent and aggressive work. Nonetheless, I have also done a large number of relatively traditional pieces which hark back to classic art by Bosch, Rops and Caravaggio. Some are also based on Hellenistic form. Obviously a subjective element intrudes into art but I believe that modernistic fury is the correct vehicle for elitist and hierarchical values.
I always sign everything I produce—whether in writing, on film or as an image—with my own name.
Source: Jonathan Bowden.
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Ex: http://europa-soberana.blogia.com/
El disfrute de la belleza y del orden, por el mero placer de la contemplación, sin ningún sentido práctico, es quizás uno de los argumentos más elocuentes a favor de la existencia del espíritu. El arte bien entendido viene a ser una fuente de nostalgia, anhelo, inspiración, idealismo y esperanza, la lucha del espíritu por evadirse del orden material y volver a elevarse a lo alto por unos instantes.
El artista que nos ocupa en esta ocasión viene a ser otro pintor ruso, Boris Mijailovich Olshansky, nacido el 25 de Febrero (Piscis) de 1956 en Tambov, una ciudad mediana del oeste de Rusia. Su madre, campesina, sumamente tradicional y devota, tuvo cinco hijos además de él. Su padre era un veterano de guerra herido en combate (la bala de un francotirador alemán le entró por una mejilla y le salió por un ojo) y que disfrutaba del apoyo estatal para gente de su condición.
Aunque se crió durante la época soviética, en la que poco menos que parecía que la historia de Rusia comenzaba en 1917 con la revolución bolchevique, Olshansky escribe que "la misma vida, nuestra mente y nuestra memoria genética, buscan intensamente las fuentes de la cultura y la historia".
Boris M. Olshansky.
Enseguida apreciaremos los rasgos básicos del arte de Olshansky: nacionalismo ruso, paneslavismo, idealización del pasado proto-eslavo y de los rasgos nórdicos, menciones a los antiguos griegos, vikingos, bizantinos y otomanos, fuerte carga paganizante pero sin renunciar a la fe ortodoxa, concepción de Rusia como un muro de contención ante las hordas asiáticas, importancia de la Naturaleza, ausencia total de "ideales modernos", etc. A diferencia del ya visto Konstantin Vasiliev ―que hizo algunos guiños al "comunismo patriótico"―, la obra de Olshansky carece totalmente de simbología soviética.
Este arte no parece gran cosa si lo comparamos con el Renacimiento, con el Siglo de Oro español o con la época victoriana, pero hay que recordar que estamos en el Siglo XXI, el siglo de la globalización capitalista neoliberal, de la humanidad-masa, de la vulgarización, del gran asalto de la materia inerte (sin espíritu) sobre la materia viva (con espíritu) y en la disolución de toda forma de tradición.
Por tanto, es notable que aun existan personas volcadas en producir arte de verdad y no basura abstracta que sólo sirve para establecer "fundaciones" privadas, exposiciones y museos de "arte moderno", donde un público descerebrado y esnob se dedica a contemplar con devoción excrementos enlatados, escombros fundidos, vacas mutiladas o salpicaduras de pintura hechas por algún cocainómano. Además, en torno a estas instituciones de "arte moderno" han florecido importantes negocios de lavado de enormes cantidades de dinero negro ―procedente del narcotráfico, la trata de blancas, el tráfico de armas y de órganos, la especulación, etc.
Sin más, veamos algunas de las obras de este pintor. En todas las imágenes, click para agrandar.
"Paisaje" (años 80).
"El campo de Kulikovo" (1994). Rusia también tuvo monjes-soldados comparables a los caballeros de las órdenes religioso-militares de Europa Occidental. El personaje representado es Peresvet, un monje que se batió en duelo contra un jinete mongol antes de la batalla de Kulikovo. Ambos morirían en el choque, pero el mongol cayó de su caballo, el ruso no.
"La leyenda de Sviatoslav" (1996). Sviatoslav I de Kiev fue un konung (príncipe) pagano del Estado de Rus de Kiev, que vivió en el Siglo X y que derrotó a los jázaros y los búlgaros. De origen varego (vikingo sueco), llegó al Caspio y a las puertas del Imperio Bizantino.
"La batalla del Dnieper" (1996). Sviatoslav se enfrenta a los jázaros. El emperador bizantino Constantino VII consideraba que quien controlara las cataratas del Dniéper podría destruir los barcos rusos.
"Una verdadera historia eslava" (1997).
"Nacimiento de un héroe" (1997).
"Iván el hijo de la viuda" (1999).
"La noche del héroe" (1999).
"Bereginya" (1999).
"Svarog" (fecha desconocida). Svarog era un dios uránico (celeste) eslavo.
"El sueño de la razón produce monstruos" (fecha desconocida). No confundir con el grabado homónimo del pintor español Goya.
"Marchando sobre Tsargrad el verano de 908" (fecha desconocida). "Tsargrad" (es decir, "Cesargrado", la ciudad de los Césares), era la forma que tenían los antiguos eslavos de referirse a Constantinopla, la capital del Imperio Bizantino, actualmente capital de Turquía y llamada Estambul. Por aquel entonces, Constantinopla tenía unos 750.000 habitantes, era la ciudad más importante del Mediterráneo y a menudo tenía que enfrentarse a las incursiones de los varegos (vikingos suecos asentados en lo que hoy son Rusia y Ucrania). Uno de ellos, el konung Oleg de Novgorod, lideró un ataque ruso contra Constantinopla.
"Escudos en la puerta de Tsargarad, la gloria de Rus" (fecha desconocida). La princesa bizantina le suplicó a Oleg que no entrase como enemigo y que se apiadase de la ciudad. El príncipe acepto y, al llegar a la ciudad, las puertas le fueron abiertas de par en par. Oleg obtuvo un importante tratado comercial, ordenó que su escudo fuese colgado sobre la puerta del palacio imperial bizantino y navegó de vuelta a Kiev con las riquezas obtenidas. La presencia vikinga en el Imperio Bizantino acabaría dando lugar a la Guardia Varega.
"Réquiem ruso" (fecha desconocida).
"El nacimiento de la flota rusa" (fecha desconocida). El zar Pedro el Grande estaba muy interesado en romper la continentalidad de Rusia dándole una salida al mar. Lo consiguió conquistando territorio sueco en el Báltico y turco en el Mar Negro. San Petersburgo fue fundada en 1703.
"Patio de una embajada, Siglo XVII" (fecha desconocida).
"El triunfo de los herodianos" (fecha desconocida). Los enemigos de Cristo celebran la muerte de San Juan Bautista. Junto con "El sueño de la razón produce monstruos", esta pieza, en palabras del artista, representa "la pobreza espiritual del mundo moderno".
"La gesta de Raevsky" (fecha desconocida). El general Nikolai Raevsky fue un héroe ruso que se distinguió especialmente durante la invasión napoleónica.
"Sombras de antepasados olvidados" (2002).
"Noche de Kupala" (1995-2003).
"Juramento de Svarog" (2003).
"Desde las oscuras profundidades de los siglos" (2003).
"Gran Rus" (2005).
"Jesús y los cambiadores de dinero" (2006).
"El rapto de Europa" (2007).
Estudio para "Diosa blanca de la sabiduría" (2009). Obviamente, se trata de la Atenea helénica.
"Diosa blanca de la sabiduría" (2009).
Título y fecha desconocidos.
Ídem. La deidad que cabalga por el cielo es Dazhbog, un dios solar eslavo.
Pueden verse más obras del artista en los siguientes enlaces:
http://01varvara.wordpress.com/category/fine-art/page/42/
http://galleries.tvalx.com/Russia/BorisOlshansky1/russian_artist_boris_olshansky.htm
http://ateney.ru/art/art006.htm?PHPSESSID=e4ab8614f4c6cbaa15bd65da349f7872
http://www.artcyclopedia.ru/olshanskij_boris_mihajlovich....
00:05 Publié dans art | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : russie, art, arts plastiques, peinture | |
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00:05 Publié dans art, Manipulations médiatiques | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : cia, art, art abstrait, art contemporain, cia, politique internationale, manipulations médiatiques, guerre froide | |
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00:05 Publié dans art | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : art, peinture, dessin, graphisme | |
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Yvan BLOT
Ex: http://www.polemia.com/
Les partisans de « Golgota picnic » ou « Piss Christ », œuvres (?) subventionnées et médiatisées prétendent défendre la liberté d’expression. Mais la liberté d’expression, c’est aussi de pouvoir dire que le roi est nu. C’est aussi pouvoir dénoncer de fausses provocations subventionnées. C’est enfin pouvoir critiquer le non–art contemporain –un art (?) idéologique inhumain, désincarné et abstrait– et penser que l’avenir est à la reprise vivifiante du fil interrompu de la tradition.
Le point de vue d’Yvan Blot pour Polémia.
L’art traditionnel, dans la plupart des pays et des époques, représente généralement les quatre thèmes qui constituent, selon, Heidegger, le « monde » des hommes.
La divinité, les hommes, la nature, l’idéal
L’art représente la Divinité : c’est le cas de l’art grec classique qui a tant marqué le nôtre. C’est le cas de l’art du Moyen Age, principalement religieux. L’art religieux constitue la plus grande part des chefs-d’œuvre présentés dans nos musées d’art anciens. L’art qui représente le bouddha appartient aussi à cette catégorie. L’islam se refuse à représenter Dieu mais les versets du Coran sont représentés de façon décorative.
L’art représente les hommes. C’est notamment le cas de l’art du portrait. Le visage humain est représenté non seulement dans les tableaux, mais aussi sur les monuments et sous forme de sculptures. Dans le Christianisme, représentation de Dieu et représentation des hommes convergent souvent car le Dieu s’incarne dans un homme, le Christ. Mais le portrait peut aussi représenter un roi, un guerrier, ou un simple paysan, des femmes ou des enfants.
L’art peut aussi représenter la nature, la terre qui porte les hommes. C’est l’art paysagiste. Au 19ème siècle, l’art paysagiste a pris une connotation patriotique. Mais l’art patriotique est plus ancien que cela.
L’art représente enfin l’idéal, les idéaux de la société. On représente sur nos monuments nationaux une femme qui symbolise la justice, la bravoure ou la charité (*). Des scènes peuvent représenter des batailles, l’aumône faite au pauvre, scènes réalistes mais où un idéal s’incarne dans l’action.
Ces arts ne sont pas « idéologiques » au sens des idéologies modernes. Dire que l’art chrétien est « idéologique » serait abusif.
Idéologies modernes et destruction des formes d’art issues de la tradition
Mais les idéologies modernes ont détruit peu à peu les formes d’art issues de la tradition et qui représentent le monde des hommes, sur terre, sous le ciel et face à la Divinité. L’art du Gestell (système utilitariste qui arraisonne les hommes à son service), pour utiliser ce concept de Heidegger, détruit ce qui n’est pas dans sa logique utilitaire.
Dieu n’est plus représenté car il est assimilé à la superstition. L’art idéologique officiel élimine toute forme d’héritage religieux et de transcendance. Il sera à l’occasion blasphématoire (voir le « piss christ » par exemple) afin de choquer, car le scandale médiatise et fait vendre.
L’idéal est considéré comme un outil de la répression conformément aux idées des faux prophètes Marx ou Freud. Il est donc évacué sans ménagement. L’homme n’est plus représenté car la masse est honorée et les particularités de l’individu, de sa classe, de sa profession, de sa race sont des choses gênantes qu’il faudrait oublier pour que les hommes soient parfaitement interchangeables dans le processus économique et social. Le paysage, la nature disparaissent car ils sont des éléments d’enracinement de l’homme sur la terre.
L’art contemporain : inhumain, abstrait et désincarné
L’art contemporain, qui devient l’art officiel obligatoire (voir les murs des ministères et des préfectures et bâtiments officiels), obéit à ces impératifs idéologiques. Il ne doit plus représenter le « monde » traditionnel.
Il rompt délibérément avec l’héritage religieux et humaniste de notre civilisation. C’est un art de rupture révolutionnaire.
Il est abstrait et désincarné car il rejette toute forme d’enracinement. Il n’incarne aucun idéal au nom d’un subjectivisme total. Sa tendance dominante est de représenter, s’il représente encore quelque chose, le monde quotidien dans ce qu’il a de plus insignifiant, utilitaire ou prosaïque. Souvent, il se veut choquant car en choquant, on attire l’attention des medias et des financements oligarchiques.
Cet art est inhumain au sens propre du terme car il ne représente jamais la figure humaine, et s’il la représente, c’est pour la défigurer le plus possible : comme l’a écrit Salvador Dali, « un homme normal n’a pas envie de sortir avec les demoiselles d’Avignon de Picasso ». (voir son livre : Les Cocus du vieil art moderne).
L’art contemporain : un art autoritaire qui interdit toute forme de critique
Enfin cet art inhumain ou ahumain est de nature profondément autoritaire comme est toute idéologie par essence. Cet art s’étend partout. Il interdit toute forme de critique laquelle est méprisée sinon diabolisée avec violence. Le bon conformiste n’osera jamais avouer qu’il n’aime pas une œuvre dite contemporaine. Cet art autoritaire est irresponsable car il ne répond pas à la commande d’un roi, d’un bourgeois ou d’un prince de l’église comme autrefois. Il peut répondre à la demande d’une bureaucratie anonyme : faites donc une fresque pour l’entrée de nos bureaux ! De plus, cet art officiel est soutenu par les pouvoirs publics autant que par des personnes privées. Il est financé bien souvent par l’impôt, c’est-à-dire par la force, ce qui accentue encore son caractère autoritaire.
Art déraciné, idéologique, inhumain et autoritaire, il fait l’objet d’une propagande médiatique permanente. Il reflète la boursouflure de l’ego de l’artiste, lequel pense se substituer au Dieu créateur, il favorise les spéculations financières et l’argent est souvent son seul impératif catégorique, il est déraciné, comme l’idéologie, car il veut avoir une vocation universelle. Cet art idéologique n’a guère les préférences du peuple censé être « inculte » mais il est révéré par l’oligarchie dominante.
L’art contemporain versus l’art traditionnel humaniste et enraciné
L’idéologie de l’art officiel déploie son dynamisme autour de ces quatre pôles :
L’argent
↑
L’ego ← art idéologique → les medias
↓
Abstraction (négation des racines)
L’art traditionnel, qui survit notamment en Russie (Saint Pétersbourg a aujourd’hui la plus grande école d’art figuratif) et sur certaines marges artistiques dissidentes en Occident, pourrait être représenté par le schéma suivant :
Idéal (le Bien, le Beau)
↑
Divinité ← Art traditionnel→ les hommes
↓
Nature
L’art traditionnel est humaniste et enraciné, il a la plupart du temps une dimension spirituelle ou idéaliste afin de tirer l’homme vers le haut. L’art idéologique, dit contemporain, et qui semble avoir son centre à New York méprise Dieu et les hommes pour établir l’ego et l’argent, ses fétiches, comme les moteurs de son dispositif autoritaire. Cet art idéologique, souvent financé par la force (l’impôt) n’est ni humaniste ni démocratique, contrairement au discours de ses promoteurs : on a donc bien à faire à un art idéologique officiel.
Yvan Blot
28/11/2011
(*) Voir ci-après l’image, illustrant le texte.
Voir aussi :
Le marché financier de l'art est à la FIAC - Et les autres marchés ?
Les reliques barbares vont-elles terrasser les arts conceptuels ?
L'art contemporain et la titrisation du néant
«L'art caché - Les dissidents de l'art contemporain» de Aude de Kerros
Le krach de l'art officiel mondial
L'art est nu et l'argent roi
Correspondance Polémia - 1/12/2011
00:08 Publié dans art | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : art, art contemporain, art abstrait | |
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Picard/’t Pallieterke:
Hommage à Paul Jamin (1911-1995)
L’un des derniers numéros du journal satirique bruxellois “Père Ubu/Pan” (11 août 2011) comprenait un encart fort intéressant: quatre pages consacrées à Paul Jamin (1911-1995), qui fut, pendant de longues décennies, le principal caricaturiste de “Pan” d’abord, de “Père Ubu” ensuite. Aujourd’hui les deux feuilles ont fusionné pour devenir “Ubu/Pan”, le seul hebdomadaire satirique de droite en Belgique francophone (et les critiques acerbes de cette feuille disent qu’elle est “islamophobe”). Paul Jamin a été indubitablement l’un des meilleurs caricaturiste dans la Belgique d’après guerre.
C’est parce qu’on célèbre le centième anniversaire de sa naissance qu’“Ubu/Pan” a voulu attirer l’attention de ses lecteurs. Jamin était natif de Liège. Sa biographie peut se lire en parallèle avec la période la plus effervescente de l’histoire au 20ème siècle. Jamin et sa famille émigrèrent assez tôt à Bruxelles. Au départ, il ne semblait pas prédestiné au dessin. A l’école, les résultats qu’il obtenait dans cette branche étaient au mieux “bons”. Jamin avait toutefois des talents cachés. Il avait à peine dix-sept ans quand il fut impliqué dans le lancement du supplément-jeunesse du quotidien catholique de droite “Le Vingtième Siècle”. Pour ceux qui connaissent bien l’univers de la bande dessinée, ce supplément-jeunesse, baptisé “Le Petit Vingtième”, est une référence. Car c’est dans cet encart que furent publiées les premières aventures de Tintin. Jamin et Georges Remi (alias “Hergé”) étaient tous deux des protégés du charismatique Abbé Norbert Wallez, patron du “Vingtième Siècle”. Le journal étaient d’obédience conservatrice et autoritariste, résolument catholique, et cultivait une sympathie certaine pour le régime de Benito Mussolini en Italie.
On ne doit pas sous-estimer l’influence de Paul Jamin sur “Le Petit Vingtième”. Trop d’analystes de cette époque font l’équation entre cet encart destiné à la jeunesse et Hergé mais il ne faut pas oublier que ce fut Jamin qui patronna la naissance de Quick et Flupke et fut l’inspirateur de leurs innombrables gags. Il y a plus à dire encore à ce propos: au moins un biographe d’Hergé signale, en conclusion, que c’est grâce à Jamin que des personnages comme les Dupont/Dupond n’ont pas disparu des aventures de Tintin. Hergé voulait les supprimer mais Jamin a pu le convaincre de ne pas le faire.
Bon élève de l’Abbé Wallez, Jamin n’était pas insensible au charme des idées d’Ordre Nouveau. On ne s’étonnera pas, dès lors, qu’en 1936, il ait abandonné “Le Petit Vingtième” pour rejoindre “Le Pays Réel”, le journal de combat de Rex et de son leader flamboyant, Léon Degrelle. Jamin et Degrelle sont alors devenus amis pour la vie. Jamin publia dans “Le Pays Réel” quantité de caricatures sous le pseudonyme de “Jam”. N’oublions pas que Rex, à ce moment-là, était un jeune mouvement politique encore très proche de l’aile droite du “pilier catholique” et de l’Action catholique. Ce n’est que lorsque le Cardinal Van Roey estima que c’était péché de voter pour les listes de Rex que le mouvement bascula dans la marginalité (“Il essaie de me crosser” disait Degrelle).
Mais Jamin est toujours resté fidèle à Degrelle. Y compris lorsque ce dernier s’est rapproché de l’occupant allemand pendant la seconde guerre mondiale. Jamin appartenait aux cercles d’Ordre Nouveau qui demeuraient “belgicains”. Dans le petit univers médiatique francophone de Belgique, ces groupes de la collaboration belgicaine ont été délibérément effacés des mémoires. Jamin, qui en faisait partie, estimait, tout comme le Roi Léopold III et son entourage d’ailleurs, que le salut pouvait venir d’une nouvelle Europe sous domination allemande. Aux yeux de Jamin, il fallait essayer de tirer le meilleur profit de cette situation. “Jam” ne se contenta pas dès lors du seul “Pays réel” mais dessina aussi ses caricatures mordantes pour “Le Soir” (alors sous contrôle allemand), pour “Le Nouveau Journal” (de Robert Poulet) et pour le “Brüsseler Zeitung”. On n’insistera jamais assez sur le fait que les collaborateurs du “Nouveau Journal” de Poulet étaient convaincus qu’ils plaidaient pour une “politique d’accomodement” avec les nationaux-socialistes, avec l’approbation du Palais de Laeken.
Après l’entrée des troups anglaises dans Bruxelles en septembre 1944, on n’a tenu compte d’aucune de ces nuances: Jamin fut arrêté et condamné à mort. Il échappa au peloton d’exécution mais ne fut libéré qu’en 1952. Il reprit une carrière de caricaturiste sous le pseudo d’”Alidor” dans les colonnes du journal satirique “Pan”. Tout comme dans “’t Pallieterke”, le journal satirique anversois, les figures politiques qu’étaient Achiel Van Acker, Paul-Henri Spaak, Théo Lefebvre et Gaston Eyskens constituaient les principales têtes de Turc. “Alidor” commit aussi des dessins pour le “Standaard”, “De Vlaamse Linie” et “Trends”. On ne peut affirmer avec certitude s’il a été engagé dans ces deux dernières publications par le Sénateur Lode Claes (Volksunie) qui avait son mot à dire dans chacune d’elles.
On remarquera que Jamin ornait toujours sa signature “Alidor” d’une petite couronne. C’est une allusion à Léopold III, prétend aujourd’hui “Ubu/Pan”. Alidor était un léopoldiste convaincu mais après la guerre et la question royale, il ressentait une réelle frustration: Léopold III, à ses yeux, avait laissé froidement tomber les hommes qui l’avaient soutenu.
Jamin n’a jamais pris ses distances par rapport à Léon Degrelle. Il allait régulièrement lui rendre visite dans son exil espagnol. Il faut encore mentionner que Jamin a quitté “Pan” en 1990 parce qu’il n’était pas d’accord avec le nouveau propriétaire de la feuille, Stéphane Jourdain. Au cours des dernières années de sa vie, Jamin a donc dessiné pour “Père Ubu”, un journal qu’il a fondé avec son ami Henri Vellut (qui, pendant la campagne des Dix-Huit Jours, en mai 1940, avait perdu un oeil). En 2010, quinze ans après sa mort, “Pan” et “Père Ubu” ont fusionné.
PICARD/ ’t Pallieterke.
(texte paru dans ’t Pallieterke, Anvers, 24 août 2011).
00:05 Publié dans Bandes dessinées, Belgicana, Histoire, Hommages | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : belgique, belgicana, caricatures, humour, satire, bande dessinée, dessin, art, seconde guerre mondiale, deuxième guerre mondiale, alidor, jam, paul jamin, wallonie | |
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