Little Gidding

Little Gidding

 

By Christopher Pankhurst 

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

T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets can be considered amongst the greatest English poetry of the 20th century, and arguably amongst the greatest English poetry ever. The four poems meditate repetitively and brilliantly on man’s relationship to time and eternity, and posit a religious solution to the problem of man’s need for meaning in the face of death. 

Eliot converted to Anglicanism and became a British subject in 1927. With this double conversion Eliot seemed to find access to a deeper and more rooted sense of spiritual identity. This provides the key to understanding the lines from Little Gidding, the last poem in the sequence: “So, while the light fails/ On a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel/ History is now and England.” The Four Quartets can be read as a sort of metaphysical statement or better still as a sacred text. The great achievement of these poems is to crystallize difficult metaphysical concepts, particularly the intersection of the eternal with the temporal, in memorable and lasting images. Thus, the poems are themselves an intersection of the eternal into language, and a validation of their own theme.

The first poem of the sequence, Burnt Norton, begins by articulating the doubt that vexes the religious mind: “Time present and time past/ Are both perhaps present in time future/ And time future contained in time past./ If all time is eternally present/ All time is unredeemable.” This is the conundrum: if we escape from the narrow prison of egoic consciousness and intuit a higher sense of interconnection that transcends linear temporality then we begin to worry that everything has, in some sense, already happened, that everything is predetermined, and that free will counts for nothing. We see ourselves as, “Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind/ That blows before and after time.” A larger perspective shrinks man and makes him seem like nothing more than a dead leaf blowing in the breeze. When man adopts this cosmic perspective he seems to lose all volition and meaning, the vastness of time reduces him to an unimportant and impotent detail, unworthy of note. This sense of diminishment undermines the religious imperative. Why worship God (eternity) when that very vastness itself makes us feel meaningless?

At a vulgar level religion provides simple answers and comfort for people. But Eliot is concerned here with a much higher level of understanding. It is an important issue because if religion cannot provide meaning at a serious intellectual level then it really is no more than a noble lie, fed to the masses to keep them supine. Eliot clearly senses that it is far more than this and he struggles with the question of how to read meaning into a perspective wherein “time is unredeemable.” By the final poem of the sequence, Little Gidding, he achieves a sense of resolution.

Little Gidding is a real place in Huntingdonshire and is closely associated with the English theologian Nicholas Farrar. Farrar was born in 1592 into a wealthy merchant family and he was intellectually precocious from an early age. After a short career in business and Parliament he left London and in 1625 moved to Little Gidding. At that time Little Gidding consisted of a run-down house and a chapel in a field. Farrar moved there with his mother, brother and sister, their children, and a few other people. About 30 people lived there and formed a close-knit religious community.

I was unaware of the association between Eliot’s Little Gidding and Nicholas Farrar until I read the chapter on Farrar in Colin Wilson’s Religion and the Rebel. Religion and the Rebel was Wilson’s successor to his debut book, The Outsider. Whereas the publication of The Outsider drew unbelievably glowing reviews, Religion and the Rebel was completely trashed and marked a decisive end to Wilson’s very brief moment in the critical sun. Reading the book now it is possible to understand why the critics hated it, although that is no excuse for their antipathy.

Wilson is influenced by both Oswald Spengler and Arnold Toynbee in elaborating a cyclic view of history. In The Outsider he had demonstrated how certain literary and philosophical figures from the 19th and 20th centuries had seen deeper into the problem of human existence than most artists. The “outsider” was the man who intuited a limitless sea of potential within the human psyche but who felt thwarted by the pettiness and contingency of existence.

In Religion and the Rebel, Wilson extrapolated his thesis to encompass aeonic stretches of civilizational time. This allowed him to argue that certain visionary figures who lived at a time of high civilizational health could integrate their higher sensibility into a more vigorous theological structure. Only with the decline of the civilization, and the attendant decline in religious vigor, did such men become alienated from the mainstream of spiritual life and acquire their outsider status.

Such a thesis strikes me as being not just sensible but ultimately compelling. Presumably the critics caught a sniff of metaphysical obscurantism; or perhaps they couldn’t stomach a cyclic view of history wherein Marx’s materialistic prophecies had no place. In any case, Wilson was soon suspected of some sort of ill-defined fascism, and his subsequent obsession with serial killers and the occult did nothing to return him to critical favor.

Of course, the popular backlash against Wilson’s thesis is exactly the sort of response you would expect if his thesis was correct. If Wilson and Spengler were correct, and the mid-20th century marked a period of spiritual poverty (the decline of the west), then you would expect a book like Religion and the Rebel to be met with incomprehension. Marxists would have balked at the importance given to visions and the powers of the human mind (or spirit), whilst Christians could not have accepted the ready conflation of their faith with other systems of philosophical enquiry. Wilson was falling between the cracks of 20th-century English thought and ensuring his own exile to outsider status.

Wilson’s interest in Nicholas Ferrar stems from the type of devotional community that Ferrar set up at Little Gidding. The entire community would cross the field to the chapel for worship three times a day: matins at 6 a.m., litany at 10 a.m., and evensong at 4 p.m. In addition, Ferrar set up a system of Gospel readings taking place every hour, so that the four Gospels would be read in their entirety each month. On top of all this, on a couple of nights each week after a four hour Psalter recital finishing at 1 a.m., Ferrar would spend the rest of the night in meditation and prayer.

Wilson notes, “It is true that the monastic temper is not a familiar one in the modern world and that, although millions of people may detest the routine of modern life and wish they could escape from it, they would hardly be willing to exchange it for the life of a monk.” But nonetheless, Ferrar had found one particular answer to the outsider’s problem: “he had set his own little corner of the world in order, and lived in that corner as if the rest of the world did not exist.”[1]

For Eliot, Little Gidding represented more than this. At the end of The Dry Salvages, the third poem in the sequence, he presents the solution to the problem of being in time:

The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.
Here the impossible union
Of spheres of existence is actual,
Here the past and future
Are conquered, and reconciled,
Where action were otherwise movement
Of that which is only moved
And has in it no source of movement-
Driven by dæmonic, chthonic
Powers.

Through the Incarnation of Christ, “the impossible union of spheres,” time is redeemed. The eternal is no longer an incomprehensibly vast expanse of predetermined actions but a condition of freedom and redemption that can be actualized within time:

But to apprehend
The point of intersection of the timeless
With time, is an occupation for the saint–

So, for some few holy men it is possible to actualize the eternal in time. It is with this resolution that Eliot concludes The Dry Salvages and moves on to Little Gidding.

Little Gidding begins with a description of a bright winter’s day when the hedgerow is covered in snow. The image creates a paradoxical impression of flowering in winter:

This is the spring time
But not in time’s covenant. Now the hedgerow
Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
Of snow

It is a momentary glimpse of temporal paradox. It serves merely as a poetic foreword to the real intention of the poem. We then approach the chapel at Little Gidding itself:

If you came by day not knowing what you came for,
It would be the same, when you leave the rough road
And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade
And the tombstone.

The tombstone is that of Nicholas Ferrar, blank, uninscribed, a sacred precursor to Abstract Expressionist painting. But this is not the sort of interpretation that Eliot would countenance. The value of Little Gidding the place derives from the holiness of the lives lived there and the disciplined, ordered urge to transcend the contingencies of time and place. Ferrar instituted a way of life at Little Gidding that was able to actualize the eruption of the eternal into time. And the only reason for pilgrimage to Little Gidding is to try to participate in some way in this practice of worship:

You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
Is England and nowhere. Never and always.

Here, Eliot is suggesting that this small and insignificant chapel is one place where the Holy Spirit descended. The language echoes Acts of the Apostles, “And when the day of Pentecost was fully come, they were all with one accord in one place. And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting. And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance.” In Eliot’s poem the dead speak with Pentecostal fire and actualize the timeless moment. The holy fire is the symbol of the eternal and is opposed to the fire of hell which is the destructive fire of temporality, the distracted, egoic consciousness that cannot begin to intuit the notion that there might be something more to life than material manifestation. This destructive fire devours time because it is the manifestation of a mind that can only perceive a linear progression moving towards death, each second consuming reality in an endless cremation. The fire of the Holy Spirit, on the other hand, is the voice of the dead, the triumph over mundane time and the redemption of all time in the timeless moment.

And the possibility of this intrusion of the eternal into time is predicated on the Incarnation. So, for Eliot, escape from the temporal prison is only possible because the eternal (God) manifested in history and created the possibility for actualizing this “impossible union” between distinct “spheres of existence.” Nicholas Ferrar’s solution can only be achieved through the disciplined pursuit of holiness, and even then it must take the divine Incarnation as its precondition.

At the conclusion of his chapter on Nicholas Ferrar, Wilson is critical of Ferrar’s solution: “We may feel that there is much to find fault with in the Little Gidding way of life. The objection to it is the same as the objection to Mr. Eliot’s embracing of Anglicanism: that the Outsider must not surrender his reason to some ‘historical’ fact. For ultimately, history does not matter.”[2] This objection is one with which I both agree and disagree. To insist that the possibility of redemption from time is dependent upon the Incarnation of Christ seems to me to belong to the sphere of the noble lie. In other words, whilst I have no problem with the Incarnation being an article of faith for Christian believers it cannot be an absolute and universal requirement for the possibility of transcending mundane time.

However, in stating that, “history does not matter,” Wilson overstates his case. He evidently does so because he believes so strongly that the human individual has the potential to overcome his limitations regardless of the phase of the civilizational cycle he happens to be living in. But his error is to focus too closely on the individual at the expense of the culture as a whole. This is entirely typical of Wilson’s existentialism and his interest in the potential powers of human consciousness. He is interested in what the intellectual and artistic elite are capable of achieving at the highest level and his hope seems to be for a future state of global transformation of individuals into Nietzschean overmen. As he puts it elsewhere in Religion and the Rebel the problem is, “how to make our whole civilization think like the Outsider.”[3] But this is not the problem. Trying to make all members of society think like outsiders is an inorganic solution to an organic problem. It is also teleologically similar to Christian Messianism and Marxist utopianism and, in the hope for a future state of super-empowered men, Wilson has forgotten one of Spengler’s crucial lessons: we are tied to our own particular culture or civilization.

So, history does matter in a crucial sense. As the example of Little Gidding shows, particular acts of worship in a particular place can achieve intimations of immortality. But this sense of the eternal is not a sort of free floating universalist spirit. It emerges through the sanctification of place through particular acts of worship. History is important in this sense because the discipline of religious worship creates its own special accumulation of sanctity. It is what makes certain places holy. And one thing that all religious people agree on is that certain places are holy places. But the importance of history in this sense is very different from the insistence that Christ existed historically as an intersection of different dimensions.

There is, in fact, a certain paradox for many of us here. Those who do not accept the Incarnation of Christ as a point of historical singularity have to face the fact that it was a deep article of faith for most (almost all) of our ancestors for many centuries. If we then wish to venerate the past we have to admit that a great deal of it was predicated on this belief in the Incarnation. If we choose to simply overlook this fact we are slighting the sincere beliefs of the dead whom we profess to respect, and implementing a degree of discontinuity with the past. It is not a trivial problem.

Regardless, it is useful to bear in mind the example of Little Gidding when thinking about spiritual practice. Few of us would wish to go to the extremes that Nicholas Ferrar went to and some of us in any case would not want to emulate his Christianity. But for most of us we can still, with Eliot, meditate on those intimations of the eternal that sometimes fall upon us, those,

hints and guesses,
Hints followed by guesses; and the rest
Is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.

Notes

1. Colin Wilson, Religion and the Rebel (Salem: Salem House, 1984), 175.

2. Ibid., 177.

3. Ibid., 256.

 

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Yeats tra fascismo e aristocrazia

Yeats tra fascismo e aristocrazia

Lambert O'Manwel

Ex: http://nemicidelsistema.blogspot.com

« Che importa se le più grandi cose che gli uomini pensano di consacrare o esaltare, accolgono la nostra grandezza solo se unita alla nostra amarezza?». Così parlò William Butler Yeats nei suoi versi dedicati alle Case degli avi, nelle meditazioni in tempo di guerra civile. Alla sua amarezza composta, anzi alla sua «virile malinconia» dedicò un saggio giovanile Tomasi di Lampedusa, che anche nel suo Gattopardo subì il fascino di Yeats, quel gran cantore del Mitico Passato.

Sessant’anni fa, il ventotto gennaio del 1939, alla vigilia della seconda guerra mondiale, il poeta irlandese si spegneva all’età di 73 anni. Era nato in un decoroso sobborgo di Dublino da una rispettabile famiglia protestante anglo-irlandese, con le estati dell’infanzia trascorse all’ombra di croci celtiche e rovine di torri nel piccolo porto di Siligo, nella costa occidentale irlandese. Suo padre alternava le sue preoccupazioni «terrene» (era un agrario benestante) con i suoi sogni celesti di pittura. E il giovane Yeats, che a vent’anni aveva già acquisito una buona notorietà per le prime composizioni poetiche pubblicate sulla Dublin University Review, aveva ben presto rigettato lo spirito vittoriano del suo tempo per sposare la tradizione dell’antica Irlanda gaelica, cattolica e romantica.

Yeats può dirsi un tradizionalista lirico, un romantico che amava il mondo antico, un cultore della bellezza cresciuto sulle orme del neoplatonismo e della magia. Da giovane si dedicò in particolare all’occultismo. Fondò la Società Ermetica di Dublino, poi aderì alla società teosofica di Madame Blavatsky e infine fu ammesso all’Ordine del Golden Dawn. Due donne ebbero grande influenza su di lui: Maud Gonne e Lady Augusta Gregory. Ma dello Yeats poeta si conoscono già molte cose; decisamente meno si sa dell’impegno civile e culturale di Yeats in chiave nazionalista, protofascista e rivoluzionario-conservatrice. Un capitolo in ombra, che destò grande imbarazzo, anche perché Yeats era stato insignito del Premio Nobel per la letteratura. Era dunque sconveniente richiamare questa sua passione politica non-conformista.

Yeats sognava un’Irlanda affrancata dalla tutela britannica ed era diventato esponente del movimento radicale feniano della Irish Republican Brotherhood; sono gli anni della sua collaborazione a giornali cattolico-nazionalisti come The Irish Monthly e The Irish Fireside. Nel 1898, Yeats fu nominato presidente dell’associazione nata per celebrare il centesimo anniversario dell’insurrezione di Wolfe Tone. Successivamente Yeats noterà con preoccupazione l’ombra sempre più lunga del radicalismo religioso che si univa ad un nascente spirito cristiano-borghese. A quest’universo, Yeats opporrà una visione eroica, pagana e mitologica dell’Irlanda, un «delirio di valorosi».

La delusione per gli sviluppi del nazionalismo in Irlanda lo porterà a viaggiare, soprattutto in Italia. Fu un amore a prima vista per la civiltà rinascimentale, per Ferrara ed Urbino (due città che fecero innamorare anche Ezra Pound, che egli incontrò più volte in Italia). Da quel confronto con le città italiane, l’accusa agli inglesi e al mondo politico irlandese che aveva lasciato distruggere le grandi residenze di Aran e Galway, «simili ad ogni antica ed ammirata città italiana». Agli inglesi attribuiva la responsabilità di aver distrutto i tratti aristocratici del paesaggio di Connaught.

Yeats divenne successivamente senatore e sostenitore del governo legittimo dello Stato libero sud-irlandese, in seguito al trattato anglo-irlandese del 1921. In quegli anni Yeats teme una propagazione del comunismo in Irlanda, che egli vede come una conseguenza diretta della rivoluzione francese. E si avvicina alla lettura di un conservatore illuminato come Edmund Burke, un controrivoluzionario che era riuscito secondo Yeats a coniugare l’ordine con la libertà. Scrisse Yeats: «Il moto centrifugo che cominciò con gli enciclopedisti e che produsse la Rivoluzione francese e le vedute democratiche di uomini come Stuart Mill, è giunto alla fine... I movimenti che avevano come scopo la liberazione dell’individuo sono risultati alla fine produttori d’anarchia». Al timore di un’epoca di brutalità, massacri e regicidi nel segno della rivoluzione marxista, Yeats dedicò un breve poema, The Second Coming.


L’amore per la tradizione nazionale, la richiesta di ordine, comunità e anticomunismo, spinsero così Yeats sulle tracce del fascismo. Un secondo viaggio in Italia con un lungo soggiorno in Sicilia, lo rafforzò in questa convinzione. Era il 1925. Yeats, che aveva già avuto il premio Nobel, si avvicinò a Roma al pensiero di Giovanni Gentile, a cui si ispirarono molti suoi interventi nel Senato irlandese dedicati alla scuola e all’educazione nazionale. Tornò in Italia altre volte: a Rapallo nel 1928 (luogo nietzscheano e poundiano), a Roma nel 1928 e ancora a Rapallo e Roma nel ‘34.

Nel luglio del 1927 l’assassinio da parte dell’Ira di Kevin O’Higgins, ministro dell’Interno del governo conservatore di Cosgrave, rafforzerà Yeats nella convinzione di fronteggiare con ogni mezzo il bolscevismo e la sovversione. L’anno successivo Yeats lasciò il Senato, esprimendo disprezzo per la democrazia parlamentare. Successivamente espresse sostegno e simpatia per le Camicie azzurre del generale O’Duffy, nate per contrastare i repubblicani dell’Ira dopo la caduta del governo conservatore.


In particolare, Yeats sostenne la necessità di formulare una teoria sociale «da contrapporre al comunismo in Irlanda». Ma il movimento aveva un‘impronta impiegatizia, cattolica e piccolo borghese; mentre il poeta sognava un movimento aristocratico, antimoderno. L’unica vera riserva che Yeats avanzava verso Mussolini era del resto proprio quella: mancava al duce del fascismo un’ascendenza aristocratica. Troppo «popolano». Il suo ideale restava una specie di Repubblica di Venezia, con il governo del Doge e il consiglio dei Dieci.

Nell’ultima opera pubblicata tre mesi prima di morire, On the boiler, Yeats lancia un messaggio alla gioventù d’Irlanda all’insegna del libro e moschetto: educatevi con armi e lettere, esortava Yeats per «respingere dai nostri lidi le prone e ignoranti masse delle nazioni commerciali» (le «plutocrazie», avrebbero detto i fascisti). Poco prima, nella Introduzione generale alla sua opera, Yeats aveva scritto parole terribili di apologia dell’odio che a suo dire avrebbe prima o poi conquistato le menti più forti: «Un’odio indefinito che cova in Europa e che tra alcune generazioni spazzerà via il dominio attuale».

«Odiava la democrazia e amava l’aristocrazia. Per aristocrazia - scrisse di lui Lady Wellesley - egli intendeva la mente orgogliosa ed eroica. Ciò voleva dire anche una furiosa ostilità verso la meschinità, l’approssimazione e l’abbassamento dei valori. Egli si ribellava alla progressiva eliminazione della gente ben nata». Nelle sue idee si ravvisano tracce di Maurras ma anche suggestioni che sembrano appartenere ad Evola. Scriverà: «Io rimango attaccato alla tradizione irlandese... Le mie convinzioni hanno radici profonde e non si adeguano alle consuetudini». La crisi delle forme cerimoniali è per Yeats un segno dell’imminente distruzione del mondo. In questa sua concezione apocalittica prende corpo la sua visione eroica e bellica: «Amate la guerra per il suo orrore - scrive un personaggio delle Storie di Micbael Robartes - così che la fede possa mutarsi, la civiltà possa rinnovarsi». Qui il richiamo alla tradizione celtica, o a volte, sulla scorta di Renan, alla «razza celtica».

Nel cimitero degli antenati dove egli è sepolto, a Drumcliff, è riportata come epigrafe un celebre verso della sua ultima poesia: «Getta uno sguardo freddo su vita e morte. Cavaliere prosegui oltre!».

Alla sua morte, Auden gli intentò un processo sulla Partizan Review, per il suo filo-fascismo. Prese le sue difese George Orwell, nel 1943, che argomenta: «Yeats è sì tendenzialmente fascista ma in buona fede, perché non si rende conto degli esiti ultimi del totalitarismo». Più recentemente Connor Criuse O’Brian ha contestato la presunta ingenuità di Yeats, sostenendo che vi fosse una vera ispirazione fascista in Yeats, una consapevole adesione.

Yeats fu in realtà un viaggiatore onirico del nostro secolo. «Quanto a vivere, i nostri servi lo faranno per noi»

INTOLERANCIA… O AXIS MUNDI DE LA SOCIEDAD ORWELLIANA

 

INTOLERANCIA… O AXIS MUNDI DE LA SOCIEDAD ORWELLIANA

 

Ex: http://kulturaalternativaalcaos.blogspot.com

 

El mundo libre: eje de lo políticamente correcto, representante máximo del “bien estar”, ejemplo de democracia y ésta como sinónimo de buenrollismo y parloteo de todo aquel que lo desee. Pilar de la alianza de civilizaciones, de la integración, de la tolerancia, del porvenir y un largo etcétera de vocablos que solo un loco podría posicionarse en contra de ellos.

 

Yo mismo, me considero un defensor acérrimo de las libertades, pero también de los sacrificios y más aún, de las responsabilidades.

 

La cuestión que se nos plantea ante estas “enigmáticas” palabras que resuenan como pan nuestro de cada día y se repiten —y las repetimos— una y otra vez de manera automática, es su significado… ¿Sabemos cuál es? ¿O las repetimos como autómatas sin saber a qué nos referimos? ¿Quizás si no las admitimos ni decimos es que nos encontramos “fuera de circulación” y por lo tanto se nos consideraría antiguos?

 

No pasa nada, el significado de las palabras no importa, lo único que importa es el repetirlas, pues como seres sociales que somos deseamos estar en el grupo, decir lo que todos repiten, no destacar en éste aspecto, puesto que ya se han inventado ciertas palabras para el que destaque fuera del conocido Pensamiento Único. Destacar implica ser: un intolerante, intransigente, antiguo, facha, antisistema (en ocasiones), racista, homófobo… y otro largo etc. de adjetivos calificativos que todo ciudadano de bien quiere evitar. Como el caso de la reciente denuncia por racismo y antisemitismo que emitió la Comunidad Judía de España al escritor Antonio Gala, por desviarse un poco de lo “políticamente correcto”.

 

Por lo tanto, se debe, como imperativo categórico, repetir una y otra vez lo escrito en el primer párrafo de este artículo, asimilándolo de una manera positiva, hacer auto-conciencia de ello y aplicarlo. 
Nadie se dará cuenta de que indirectamente lo esté haciendo, pero una frase que todos pronunciamos determina el que somos inconscientemente parte de este juego impuesto por el $istema, una frase que todo caucásico dice antes de hablar de alguien de otra raza: “yo no soy racista pero…” ¿Por qué esa necesidad de disculparse antes de hacer una crítica referente a un individuo de otro tipo racial? ¿Nos damos cuenta que con ello estamos pidiendo perdón antes de hablar?

 

No nos damos cuenta ni nos daremos, porque no nos cuestionamos nada y menos aún, no deseamos ser cómplices de pronunciar palabras que nos puedan llevar a que se nos tache de “políticamente incorrectos”… ¿miedo al aislamiento social quizás? Posiblemente en parte sea eso, y también, posiblemente nos estén reeducando para no cuestionarnos nada, para ser cada día más sumisos, más borreguiles... a fin de cuentas no conviene que la "mano de obra" piense por sí misma.

 

Siguiendo esta misma línea de pensamiento impuesta por el $istema nos podemos encontrar en una conversación de lo más normal, tratando un asunto que no tiene que ver con política estatal ni religión (pues son temas que siempre generan ampollas en las conversaciones) y que por llevar una opinión contraria a la impuesta por los mass media, uno de los contertulios no quiera dar opción a debate alguno y amenace con marcharse si no se para la conversación, puesto que se siente ofendido de que se hable de algo que quizás él no comparte ya que no lo ha visto en los medios de comunicación habituales.

 

Y en esos momentos es cuando uno se da cuenta que a pesar de existir periódicos y canales de TV de diversas ideologías políticas, todos mandan un solo mensaje, puesto que no se admite una réplica a la esencia de la noticia dada. Y si no existe replica por parte de un individuo sobre otro ¿Dónde podemos hallar la libertad? ¿Dónde está la tolerancia democrática del que dice ser un aperturista social? ¿O es que solo se tiene que ser tolerante para escuchar asuntos de homosexualidad y no se puede ser tolerante para tratar el tema de Gaza o el genocidio boer en la RSA? ¿Qué límites tiene entonces la tolerancia? Y si alguien da su punto de vista sobre la cuestión islámica salafista en Europa ¿Es tolerante no dar opción a replica sobre el tema expuesto en cuestión?

 

George Orwell decía en este aspecto que “La libertad es el derecho a decirle a la gente lo que no quiere escuchar” (Freedom is the right to tell people what they do not want to hear).

Lo más jocoso de este tipo de situaciones es que no hace falta ser un genio o intelectual para, por ejemplo, saber de geopolítica, sino que la clave residen en tener conocimientos básicos de historia y antropología, pues si algo es cierto en este mundo es que todo es cíclico. Por lo que un político (o ciudadano) que carezca de conocimientos de historia y un mínimo de antropología podría perfectamente caer en errores que hace 200 años se cometieron, hablar de posibles situaciones alternativas a modelos de sociedades actuales sin saber que ya existieron y fracasaron, y esto es lo que hace peligroso (e ignorante) a un político, pero también, a su vez, a un ciudadano.

 

Hace unos días un diario virtual que se hace llamar imparcial colgó una noticia que no era del todo correcta, al disponer yo de la fuente escribí en su perfil de Facebook para notificárselo y les puse el enlace oficial de la noticia para que lo subsanaran. La respuesta de esta gente fue no solo el borrar mi comentario de su muro de dicha red social, acto que no comparto pero que podría ser comprensible en cierto modo, sino que además la noticia no la subsanaron. El ego de esta gente que dirige dicho diario que es independiente de los mass media y se vende como adalid de la verdad faltó a la misma que ellos promulgan… y es que el ego en esta sociedad moderna y órquica no tiene límites y la tolerancia de los portadores de la verdad menos aún. Pues reafirman con su actitud ser parte del $istema que ellos mismos critican, predicando con su ejemplo en esos pequeños detalles, que como bien siempre ha dicho mi padre, son los que definen a las personas.

 

 

 

Llegado este punto no puedo proseguir sin analizar el vocabulario que diariamente es usado por tothom y el cual es el motivo de este artículo, vayamos de nuevo al primer párrafo:

 

Mundo Libre: Dícese de la sociedad democapitalisa que otorga a cada uno de sus ciudadanos (súbditos y/o vasallos) la libertad de endeudarse de manera cuasi hereditaria, permite trabajar de sol a sol, otorga autonomía para que sus mandatarios se corrompan y hurten a su comunidad popular. El Mundo Libre se caracteriza principalmente por “tanto tienes, tanto vales”, imponiéndose el becerro de oro (el dinero) a la persona. Por lo que: permite que millones duerman en la calle habiendo casas vacías, así como tirar millones de toneladas de comida mientras millones de personas pasan hambre.

 

Eje de lo políticamente correcto: Base del conocido “Mundo Libre” en la cual se le impone al vasallo lo que debe hacer o decir, dándole a elegir entre varias opciones para que consideré como decisión propia lo que realmente es impuesto por el $istema que dirige al “Mundo Libre”.

 

Representante Máximo del “bien estar” o “Sociedad del Bienestar”: Verborrea usada por los políticos de las últimas dos décadas para vender a los ciudadanos una moto que no tenía gasolina para encenderse y ruedas para circular —o lo que es lo mismo, hacer como un alcalde de Xàtiva, que prometió una playa en su ciudad—, sirviendo esta palabra como excusa para endeudar al Estado hasta un punto insostenible con la excusa del desarrollo (local, provincial, autonómico y estatal), pero con la carga de la deuda financiera y el “beneficio” de magnas comisiones a la casta política de turno (afincada en el poder desde 1978 e incluso antes) a costa los ciudadanos (siervos-gentiles).

 

Democrácia: Sistema establecido por el “Mundo Libre” en el que los vasallos pueden deponer a un tirano corrupto y elegir otro tirano corrupto, donde no existe una alternativa real de gobierno que represente a los ciudadanos, puesto que todos se basan en lo “políticamente correcto” (revisar la explicación anterior) y, en el caso que ésta surgiese sería vetada de todos losmass media para que no tuviese repercusión mediática ni buena ni mala —puesto que la propaganda negativa sigue siendo propaganda.

 

Buenrollismo y parloteo: Entiéndase por permitir que todos los ciudadanos-vasallos puedan balbucear con la “total libertad” que permite lo “políticamente correcto” y sin salirse un ápice de lo estipulado por el “Mundo Libre”. Si se saliese de estas pautas los mismos Buenrollistas estigmatizarían al individuo que lo haga, ya no sería necesario que el $istema actúe, pues el Pensamiento Único implantado por el $istema se encarga de actuar por sí solo.

 

Alianza de Civilizaciones: Concepto atlantista y globalizador que pretende destruir las identidades étnicas de los pueblos del mundo, fomentando los movimientos migratorios planetarios en general y sobre los países étnicamente caucásicos en particular. Slogans repetitivos que se convierten en realidades por su insistencia mediática como: “Una sola raza, la raza humana” o el reciente “somos ciudadanos de un lugar llamado mundo” lobotomizan a una población cada vez más manipulada por los designios del “Mundo Libre”.

 

Integración: Sistema de implantación de sustitución demográfica por elementos étnicamente extra-europeos, que generan (entre otros perjuicios) un estancamiento y caída en los salarios debido a su adaptabilidad como mano de obra barata de la cual se aprovechan empresarios capitalistas sin escrúpulos. Evitando así una respuesta activa por parte de los movimientos obreros para solicitar y/o exigir mejoras salariales y laborales, produciéndose en consecuencia una pérdida de las mismas.

 

Tolerancia: Dícese de escuchar y permitir que se hable o escriba sobre todo lo que el “eje de lo políticamente correcto” ha marcado como apto. En el caso de salir de dicha línea se le impide la capacidad de réplica al interlocutor que lo haya hecho, haciendo lo posible por ridiculizarle de manera jocosa sin darle opción al debate o bien cortando por la tangente y llevando sus comentarios y a la misma persona al ostracismo y si fuese necesario al presidio.

 

Porvenir: Evolución del “Mundo Libre” hacía el “eje de lo políticamente correcto” que evoque en una “Sociedad del Bienestar” en la cual se fomente “la Alianza de Civilizaciones” y donde la “Democracia”, el “Buenrollismo”, la “Integración” y la “Tolerancia” dicten como debemos de ser, vestir, pensar y actuar.

 

Una vez habiendo leído todos estos significados lo primero que pensará el lector es que seguramente perdí el norte, para ello deseo poner la definición de una última palabra que puede resultar aterradora, vamos allá:

 

Totalitarismo: Régimen que incumbe a su Estado la totalidad de los bienes y servicios estratégicos de la nación. (Diccionario de la Real Academia Española - 1933).

 Totalitarismo: Régimen político que ejerce fuerte intervención en todos los órdenes de la vida nacional, concentrando la totalidad de los poderes estatales en manos de un grupo o partido que no permite la actuación de otros partidos. (Diccionario de la Real Academia Española - 2014).

 

Cada vez más, las palabras tienen el sentido y significado que se les quiera dar, es marketing a fin de cuentas, es vender la moto y exponer a los ciudadanos lo que quieren oír, lo que desean escuchar, lo que vende y está de moda, aquella palabra que parece otorgar mayor sentido de libertad, aunque luego no lo tenga.

 
Pero repetir mil veces que se es “demócrata” actuando como un tirano no hace más demócrata a dicho individuo, eso sí, será un tirano que habla de democracia y viste como un demócrata ¿o no?.

 

Sin ir más lejos no olvidemos el uso de la palabra "democracia" que hacen ciertos países como: la República Democrática Alemana (antes de la reunificación) o la República Popular Democrática de Corea (Corea del Norte). 

 

El hábito no siempre hace al monje.

Los significados que he otorgado a las palabras que hoy día se convierten en mandamientos de la sociedad moderna, deberían ser los que use la RAE para actualizarse, pues con un poco de sentido común, nadie que lea el presente artículo y realice un poco de (auto-)crítica extrañará ninguno de los significados que expongo con relación a la realidad que vivimos.

 

La misma palabra "democracia" no tenía el mismo significado cuando se creó que en el siglo XIX, al igual que no lo tenía a principios del siglo XX en relación con la época presente. El lenguaje debe ser adaptado a la realidad presente y no usado como arma política arrojadiza haciendo mal uso del mismo.

 

Orwell decía que "el lenguaje debe ser la creación conjunta de poetas y trabajadores manuales", pero hoy día es de usureros, politicuhos y arribistas sin escrúpulos. El lenguaje esta corrompido y la población ha sido adaptada por dichos corruptores para asimilar su nuevo mensaje.

 

No nos engañemos, vamos hacia la sociedad orwelliana, hacia “1984” y la gente calla por miedo a ser estigmatizada pero llega un momento, como decía Eric Arthur Blair que: “En un tiempo de engaño universal - decir la verdad es un acto revolucionario” (In a time of universal deceit - telling the truth is a revolutionary act).

 

 

 

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Con la puesta en marcha de un nuevo proyecto cultural llamado EDITORIAL EAS he redactado un artículo para una colección de libros sobre grandes autores llamada Pensamientos & Perspectivas. El presente texto correspondería a una parte del artículo completo que será publicado en el Nº 2 de esta colección que trataría sobre la figura de ORWELL. Más información en: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Editorial-Eas/621046797979596 y en [e-mail].

 

“La Comunidad Judía se querella contra Antonio Gala por racista y antisemita” http://www.libertaddigital.com/espana/2014-07-25/la-comunidad-judia-se-querella-contra-antonio-gala-1276524688/

 

Hace referencia al tipo racial blanco.

 

“Tot home, tota persona, totes les persones”. Palabra catalana que designa a “todo el mundo”.

 

Las definiciones pueden e incluso deberían ser mucho más extensas, puesto que contenido hay de sobra para ello pero considero que el presente artículo debe ser de lectura fácil y comprensión rápida, para evitar que el lector caiga en el aburrimiento. La cuestión básica es transmitir una idea.

 

Y es que para esto los valencianos somos especiales, cuando en su momento disponíamos de cadena de televisión propia (Canal 9) se contó un chiste que definía el carácter jocoso de nuestra tierra, pero el problema es adaptarlo a la realidad política y esto se ha logrado en toda España. En el mismo se encontraban dos valencianos hablando y uno le decía al otro: Chae, saps que està mes prop, Xàtiva o el Sol? —Y el otro le contesta: Tu veus Xàtiva? ...i el Sol? Aquí tens la resposta!!

 

Para el que tenga dudas, aclarar que las razas base son tres: caucásica, mongoloide y negroide. Estos tres troncos raciales pertenecen a una especie, la especie humana. Hablar de raza humana además de no tener sentido, a una persona que se considere medianamente inteligente le tienen que chirriar los oídos como si de una ofensa a su inteligencia se tratase.

 

La capacidad de manipulación se valora en función a la debilidad del manipulado y a las causas que no frenan o incluso fomentan la manipulabilidad de los individuos que son manipulados, así como su efecto en el ambiente en el que el manipulado se educa, como por ejemplo, en el caso de España: Mayor consumo de droga de Europa y uno de los mayores del mundo; visualización de la TV una media de 4 horas por individuo; un nefasto sistema educativo; mayor abandono escolar de Europa; pérdida de valores...

 

Hay que destacar el caso de la ciudad de Londres, donde el 55% de la población no es caucásica. Entre el 45% restante se incluirían ingleses nativos y todas las nacionalidades étnicamente caucásicas que hay en la ciudad, por lo que estaríamos hablando que el inglés nativo londinense prácticamente ha desaparecido. Si a esto le añadimos que los no caucásicos suelen tener un índice de natalidad de 3 hijos por pareja frente a la media caucásica de 1.1 hijos por pareja (aprox.), estaríamos hablando que Londres en una generación posiblemente no quede población autóctona y en dos generaciones no quedará población caucásica.

 

Entiéndase como extra-europeo todo aquel que no tiene una base genética caucasoide. Considerando, por ejemplo, que más del 80% de la población de Argentina es genéticamente europea (occidental). La nacionalidad reside en la sangre y no el los documentos que emiten los gobiernos de turno. Europa no se basa en una cuestión puramente geográfica, sino genética y cultura.

 

Claramente se ve a diario, y en época de crisis se acrecienta mucho más, que el estancamiento y bajada de sueldos es un efecto rebote de aquellos que aceptan puestos de trabajo a cambio de salarios miserables. El exceso de mano de obra barata devalúa el mercado laboral y frena las huelgas (las cuales aportan mejoras laborales). Dejo constancia que el fallo recae en el $istema, en ningún caso sobre el individuo que acepta dichas condiciones laborales, que hasta en el algunos casos son infrahumanas, dicho individuo es una víctima más.

De la "novlangue" aujourd'hui

 

Robert Steuckers:

De la “novlangue” aujourd’hui

 

Conférence prononcée au “Club de la Grammaire”, Genève, 9 avril 2014

 

C’est à la demande de Maître Pascal Junod, Président du “Club de la Grammaire”, que j’ai composé tout récemment cette conférence sur la novlangue, suite à l’allocution que j’avais déjà prononcée, à cette même tribune en avril 2010, sur la biographie d’Orwell, sur les étapes successives de sa pensée. Cette conférence s’inscrivait dans le cadre d’un cycle consacré aux “romans politiques” (les political novels), où j’ai abordé aussi Soljénitsyne (en 2009) et Koestler (en 2011). A l’évidence, la notion orwellienne et romanesque de “novlangue” correspond aux pesanteurs actuelles de la “political correctness” ou “rectitude politique”, comme on le dit plus justement au Québec. Aborder ce thème de la manipulation systématique du langage, perpétrée dans le but de freiner toute effervescence ou innovation politiques, est, on en conviendra, un vaste sujet, vu le nombre d’auteurs qui se sont penchés sur ce phénomène inquiétant depuis la mort d’Orwell.

 

Le point de départ de cette conférence —car il faut bien en trouver un— reste le fonds orwellien, abordé en avril 2010. L’approche biographique et narrative que nous avions choisie, il y a quatre ans, permettait de pister littéralement les étapes de l’éveil orwellien, toutes étapes importantes pour comprendre la genèse de sa théorie du langage, laquelle est sans cesse réétudiée, remise sur le métier, notamment en France par un Jean-Claude Michéa, professeur de philosophie à Montpellier. Orwell, au cours de son existence d’aventurier et d’écrivain, est sorti progressivement de sa condition humaine, trop humaine, de ses angoisses d’adolescent, d’adulte issu d’une classe privilégiée un peu en marge du monde réel, en marge du monde de ceux qui peinent et qui souffrent, pour devenir, grâce à Animal Farm et à 1984, un classique de la littérature et, partant, de la philosophie, tant son incomparable fiction contre-utopique a été prémonitoire, a signalé des glissements de terrain en direction d’un monde totalement aseptisé et contrôlé.

 

Le fonds orwellien

 

Le fonds orwellien est donc incontournable, est un classique du 20ème siècle auquel on ne peut échapper si l’on veut s’armer pour faire face à un monde de plus en plus déraciné, de plus en plus contrôlé par des agences médiatiques et étatiques qui oblitèrent la luxuriance du réel, veulent empêcher les hommes de voir et d’aimer cette luxuriance et d’y puiser des recettes pour changer ou faire bouger les choses selon les rythmes d’une harmonie toute naturelle. Certes, le contexte, notamment le contexte technologique, mis en place dans l’oeuvre romanesque d’Orwell n’est plus le même. Les périodes du début du 20ème siècle, marquées par le militantisme virulent et les totalitarismes utopiques et messianiques, ne sont plus reproduisibles telles quelles. Néanmoins, la genèse de la situation actuelle, où tout est contrôlé via la NSA, les satellites et l’internet, Orwell l’a bien perçue, l’a anticipée conceptuellement. Notre réalité, plus surveillée que jamais, est un avatar mutatis mutandis d’une volonté politique de contrôle total, déjà mise en place au temps d’Orwell.

 

Quel est-il, ce contexte, où émerge l’oeuvre orwellienne? Il est celui 1) du totalitarisme ambiant et 2) de la volonté d’aseptiser la langue pour contrôler les esprits.

◊ 1. Le totalitarisme ambiant.

L’époque d’Orwell est celle où viennent d’émerger en Europe continentale deux formes de totalitarisme, le communisme et le national-socialisme, qui sont, pour reprendre le vocabulaire de Guy Debord, des “sociétés du spectacle spectaculaire”, du spectacle hystérique. Le 1984 le reproduira tout en le caricaturant à l’extrême, lui donnant finalement une “coloration” plus communiste que nationale-socialiste, aussi parce que le communisme soviétique survit à l’élimination du national-socialisme, suite à la défaite allemande de 1945. Orwell ne connaît pas encore le “spectacle diffus”, dénoncé par Debord dans les années 60, ni le “festivisme”, fustigé par Philippe Muray dans les années 90 et les premières années du 21ème siècle, où l’essentiel, le “politique politique” (Julien Freund), est submergé par des “festivités” destinées à amuser, abrutir, décérébrer et dépolitiser les masses. Le monde fictif, né de l’imagination d’Orwell, est durablement marqué par l’agitprop communiste, qui avait d’abord séduit les avant-gardes artistiques (dada, surréalisme, André Breton) dans les années 20 et 30. Pour l’Orwell de la fin des années 40, cette “agitprop” est la quintessence même de ce totalitarisme dur, constat qu’il formule après avoir eu derrière lui une existence de militant de gauche, fidèle et inébranlable, qui a participé à toutes les mésaventures des gauches radicales anglaises, s’est engagé dans les milices anarchistes de Barcelone pendant la Guerre civile espagnole. Cette aventure espagnole le rapprochera d’Arthur Koestler, lui aussi protagoniste de la guerre civile espagnole (cf. Le testament espagnol). Koestler rompt ensuite avec les services du Komintern, qu’il avait pieusement servi, notamment sous l’égide de Willy Münzenberg, un communiste allemand exilé à Paris, chargé par les instances moscovites d’organiser en Occident une propagande soviétique bien conforme aux directives du “Politburo” dirigé par Staline.

 

Willy Münzenberg et la guerre civile espagnole

 

A Paris, Willy Münzenberg orchestre toute la propagande soviétique antinazie et antifasciste. Lors de l’incendie du Reichstag, il est chargé de propager la version communiste des faits, au besoin en travestissant la réalité. De même, lors de la guerre d’Espagne, il fait fabriquer par ses services des brochures de propagande où les faits sont enrobés d’inventions et de mensonges délibérés de manière à susciter des vocations militantes et à couvrir l’adversaire d’opprobre. Koestler, dans son autobiographie, décrit parfaitement l’atmosphère qui régnait dans les officines parisiennes du Komintern sous la direction de Münzenberg. L’objectif était de faire éclore, dans le vaste public, la vision d’un monde manichéen où une bonne gauche, parée de toutes les vertus, et dont les communistes étaient l’avant-garde, s’opposerait dans un combat planétaire à une méchante droite, dont la perversité culminerait dans les régimes dits “fascistes” d’Allemagne, d’Italie ou d’Espagne. Pourtant, ce tableau en noir et blanc n’a jamais correspondu à aucune réalité du conflit civil espagnol: les gauches, unies selon la propagande, vont au contraire s’entre-déchirer à Barcelone et faire crouler le front catalan du “Frente Popular”, scellant définitivement le sort de la République espagnole. Orwell a été un témoin direct des événements: il a vu et entendu les communistes espagnols et étrangers enclencher une propagande virulente et dénigrante contre les autres formations de gauche.

 

C’est dans ce contexte qu’est née la fameuse expression, qui a tant fait sourire, de “vipères lubriques hitléro-trotskistes”. Orwell, blessé après un combat contre les troupes franquistes, doit fuir la métropole catalane, à peine sorti de l’hôpital, pour échapper aux équipes d’épurateurs communistes, chassant les anarchistes, les militants du POUM et les trotskistes, qui formaient le gros des troupes irrégulières de la République espagnole et des autonomistes catalans. En posant l’équation entre hitlériens et trotskistes, le manichéisme propagandiste des communistes visait à faire passer les forces de la gauche non communiste dans le même camp que les adversaires les plus radicaux du Komintern: dans le mental de la propagande, comme dans celui de la “political correctness” actuelle, il ne peut y avoir de demies teintes. Il y a toujours des “gentils”, des “purs”, et des “affreux”, des “âmes noires”. La propagande communiste, hostile aux autres gauches, et le vocabulaire hystérique et dénigrant qu’elle utilisait, vont donner à Orwell l’idée du “quart d’heure de la haine”, qu’il mettra en scène dans 1984. Les historiens actuels de la guerre civile espagnole, comme Pio Moa et Arnaud Imatz, démontrent que la République a implosé, à cause de cette guerre civile dans la guerre civile: un fait d’histoire que toutes les gauches vont tenter de camoufler après la victoire des armées de Franco, renouant avec les lignes directrices de la propagande orchestrée par Münzenberg, avant le pacte germano-soviétique d’août 1939. Travestir et camoufler la réalité deviennent des agissements politiques courants, appelés à s’amplifier considérablement au fur et à mesure que les moyens techniques se perfectionnent, aboutissant à une oblitération de plus en plus accentuée des réalités concrètes.

 

1936: année cruciale

 

Pour Orwell, 1936 est une année cruciale. Simon Leys, dans son livre Orwell ou l’horreur de la politique, rappelle un extrait de Looking Back on the Spanish War, où Orwell se souvient avoir eu une conversation sur la guerre civile espagnole avec Arthur Koestler où il aurait dit: “L’Histoire s’est arrêtée en 1936”. Pourquoi? Parce que, pour la première fois, Orwell a vu des articles de journaux, relatant les événements du front, “qui n’avaient absolument plus aucun rapport avec la réalité des faits”. Et il ajoutait: “Je vis des descriptions de grandes batailles situées là où nul combat n’avait pris place, tandis que des engagements qui avaient coûté la vie à des centaines d’hommes étaient entièrement passés sous silence. Je vis des troupes qui avaient courageusement combattu, accusées de trahison et de lâcheté, et d’autres qui n’avaient jamais vu le feu, acclamées pour leurs victoires imaginaires”. Pire: “je vis (...) des intellectuels zélés édifier toute une superstructure d’émotions sur des événements qui ne s’étaient jamais produits. Je vis en fait l’Histoire qui s’écrivait non pas suivant ce qui s’était passé, mais suivant ce qui aurait dû se passer, selon les diverses lignes officielles”.

 

 

 

 

Aujourd’hui, force est de constater que les techniques de propagande mises au point par Münzenberg pour le compte du Komintern dans les années 30 du 20ème siècle sont toujours les mêmes, sauf qu’elles ne sont plus diffusées par des communistes mais par les agences de presse américaines: on se souvient des “couveuses de Koweit City” en 1990, on se souvient des “quarts d’heure de haine” aboyés par Shea, le porte-paroles de l’OTAN à accent “cockney” lors de la guerre contre la Serbie en 1999; en Crimée, aujourd’hui, le ton est quelque peu édulcoré car aux Etats-Unis mêmes, l’opposition à toutes les guerres extérieures  déclenchées par le Pentagone est plus largement répandue, surtout sur la grande toile, que dans les années 20 et 30 où certains républicains, avec le Sénateur Taft, et les populistes, autour du père et du fils LaFollette, s’étaient opposés au bellicisme hypocrite des Présidents Wilson et Roosevelt, camouflé derrière un verbiage pacifiste, moraliste et “démocratique”.

 

Si Shea n’a jamais été qu’un acteur bien payé pour éructer son “quart d’heure de haine” contre les Serbes en 1999 puis a été congédié mission accomplie pour aller amorcer ailleurs une autre comédie dûment stipendiée, Münzenberg, lui, croyait au message communiste. Il a été broyé par la propagande qu’il avait lui-même mise en place. Münzenberg était pour l’union des gauches contre le fascisme, pour l’alliance Paris-Prague-Moscou de 1935 (qui, en Belgique, a suscité tant de craintes que les accords militaires franco-belges ont été rompus par le Roi, que la neutralité a été à nouveau proclamée en octobre 1936 et que de larges strates de l’opinion publique disaient préférer “Berlin” à “Moscou”), pour l’union de toutes les gauches dures contre Franco. Son propre parti va finir par refuser cette politique unitaire qu’il avait pourtant préconisée avec insistance et à laquelle Münzenberg avait voué toutes ses forces. Au lendemain de la guerre civile espagnole, le Pacte Ribbentrop-Molotov déstabilise complètement les communistes qui avaient confondu leur combat avec l’antifascisme et l’antinazisme, quitte à s’allier à des éléments gauchistes, considérés, dans les écrits de Lénine, comme les vecteurs de la “maladie infantile du communisme”. La direction stalinienne, au lendemain de la guerre d’Espagne et de la victoire de Franco, en vient à considérer l’antifascisme et l’antinazisme comme des positions immatures, propres du “gauchisme” stigmatisé par Lénine. Willy Münzenberg, qui avait plaidé pour un large front des gauches, englobant les socialistes et les gauchistes, se rebiffe et écrit un pamphlet intitulé “Le coup de poignard russe”, fustigeant, bien entendu, le retournement stalinien et l’alliance tactique (purement tactique) avec l’Allemagne nationale-socialiste. Il tombe en disgrâce, disparaît, sans doute enlevé par des agents du Komintern. On retrouvera son corps pendu à un arbre dans une forêt de la région de Grenoble.

 

Roubachov et la ferme des animaux

 

Arthur Koestler relate dans ses mémoires cet épisode où les militants internationalistes du Komintern tombent dans le désarroi le plus complet après les événements de Barcelone —la guerre civile dans la guerre civile— et le Pacte Ribbentrop-Molotov. Ce retournement a lieu au moment le plus fort et le plus tragique des purges de Moscou, où de vieux militants bolcheviques sont éliminés parce qu’ils ne sont plus au diapason de la politique nouvelle amorcée par l’Union Soviétique. Les purges staliniennes en Union Soviétique forment la toile de fond du plus célèbre roman de Koestler, Darkness at Noon (en français: Le Zéro et l’infini). Le personnage central et fictif de ce roman s’appelle Roubachov: il est emprisonné, attend son jugement, sa condamnation à mort (pour le bien de la révolution) et son exécution; il avait été un révolutionnaire naïf et enthousiaste, criminel à ses heures comme tous ses semblables mais toujours animé de bonnes intentions à l’endroit du prolétariat. Aucune révolution n’est toutefois possible sans militants de ce type dont la naïveté correspond parfois à celle de la common decency d’Orwell, à l’honnêteté foncière du bon peuple qui trime et qui souffre, à la bravoure naïve du cheval dans La ferme des animaux, incarnation du prolétariat qui donne son sang sans calculer, au contraire des intellectuels et des théoriciens qui aspirent à toujours plus de pouvoirs, comme les cochons d’Animal Farm.

 

Münzenberg dans la réalité, Roubachov dans la fiction, sont des personnalités broyées, des enfants de la révolution dévorés par elle qui, erratique, cherche sa voie dans les méandres d’un réel, qu’elle rejette et qu’elle critique toute en s’affirmant “matérialiste historique”, tout en énonçant des discours simplificateurs, réductionnistes et outranciers. Ces personnalités sont broyées parce que, quelque part, elles demeurent, ontologiquement, les réceptacles naturels et inévitables d’une diversité réelle, héritée de leur famille, de leurs proches, de leurs amis d’enfance et du patrimoine du peuple dont elles sont issues. Elles sont aussi le réceptacle de sentiments diffus ou réels de fidélité que ne comprennent pas, ne veulent pas ou plus comprendre, les langages propagandistes. Ceux-ci ne peuvent exprimer cette fidélité des anciens pour les autres anciens, qui se cristallise au-delà de la détention et de l’exercice d’un pouvoir arraché aux maîtres des vieux mondes, au paysan ivrogne de la Ferme des animaux. Qui dit fidélité dit souvenir d’un passé héroïque ou glorieux, tissé de souffrances et de combats, d’efforts et de deuils. Qui dit passé dit frein à la marche en avant vers un progrès certes hypothétique, pour tous ceux qui gardent lucidité, mais posé comme “telos” inévitable de la politique par les nouveaux maîtres du pays. Pour ne pas être broyées, les personnalités révolutionnaires ou politiques doivent OUBLIER. Oublier le passé de leur peuple, oublier leur propre passé personnel, oublier leurs amis et camarades, avec qui ils avaient combattu et souffert. Dans l’univers de la politique totalitaire du communisme de mouture soviétique ou même de la politique démocratique des partis triviaux et corrompus de l’univers libéral décadent, le militant, le permanent, le candidat doivent se mettre volontairement ou inconsciemment en état d’oubli permanent et cela, sans RETARD aucun par rapport aux décisions ou aux orientations formulées par un très petit état-major de chefs ou d’intrigants, inconnus de la base militante ou de l’électeur.

 

Malheur aux personnalités “retardatrices”!

 

Si une personnalité marque un retard, elle est aussitôt posée comme “retardatrice” de l’avènement du “télos” ultime ou comme un élément passéiste et redondant, “ringard”. Dans ce cas, elle est éliminée de la course aux pouvoirs ou aux prébendes, dans les démocraties partitocratiques comme les nôtres. Dans les systèmes totalitaires, elle est liquidée physiquement ou “évaporée” comme dans le 1984 d’Orwell. Dans la Russie stalinienne, on gommait sur les photos des temps héroïques de la révolution russe la personne de Trotski, comme on efface toute trace concrète de l’hypothétique Goldstein dans le roman d’Orwell pour n’en maintenir que l’image très négativisée, générée par la propagande. Dans les démocraties libérales, on houspille hors de portée des feux de rampe médiatiques les gêneurs, les esprits critiques, les candidats malheureux, les dissidents qui ne formulent pas d’utopies irréelles mais se réfèrent au seul réel tangible qui soit, celui que nous lègue l’histoire réelle et tumultueuse des peuples. Ils subissent la conspiration du silence.

 

◊ 2. Les manipulations de la langue:

Orwell s’est toujours méfié instinctivement des volontés d’aseptiser la langue, de l’enfermer dans la cangue des propagandes. Ce jeu pervers qui s’exerce sur la langue n’est pas nécessairement une stratégie mise en oeuvre par les totalitarismes politiques, ceux qui procèdent du totalitarisme spectaculaire et tapageur, mais aussi du démocratisme libéral, que l’on peut aujourd’hui, sans guère d’hésitation, camper comme un totalitarisme mou ou diffus, bien plus subtil que les régimes forts ou autoritaires.

 

La première forme de fabrication linguistique qui hérisse Orwell est l’esperanto du mouvement espérantiste qu’anime à Paris le mari de sa tante qui y réside et qui l’héberge parfois quand il enquête sur les bas-fonds de la capitale française, prélude à son oeuvre poignante Dans la dèche à Londres et à Paris. Orwell juge farfelue l’idée de “fabriquer une langue” car une telle fabrication n’aurait pas de passé, pas d’histoire, pas de mémoire et sa généralisation provoquerait un refoulement général de tous les legs de l’humanité, plus personne n’étant alors capable de les comprendre.

 

Esperanto et “basic English”

 

Mais si les efforts des espérantistes, observés avec ironie par Orwell, n’ont pas été couronnés de succès, la généralisation du “basic English”, sous l’impulsion du tandem anglo-américain à partir des années 40, réussira à créer une koinè d’abord pour les peuples de l’Empire britannique puis pour tous les peuples plus ou moins inféodés à la sphère d’influence anglo-saxonne. Le coup d’envoi pour promouvoir cet anglais simplifié est donné en 1940, quand Orwell a déjà derrière le dos deux expériences, importantes pour la maturation de son oeuvre et de sa pensée: les efforts dérisoires des espérantistes, dont son oncle par alliance, et les jeux langagiers pervers et violents de la propagande communiste anti-gauchiste de Barcelone pendant la guerre civile espagnole. Il retient que le langage ne peut procéder de simples fabrications et qu’il doit toujours dire le réel et non pas l’oblitérer par des affirmations propagandistes péremptoires.

 

Quand les autorités britanniques lancent le projet, leur but premier —et purement pragmatique— est d’instruire les soldats indiens et africains qui vont être enrôlés dans les armées britanniques pendant la seconde guerre mondiale, tout comme aujourd’hui ce “basic English” des armées sert à instruire les soldats d’Afrique francophone dans le cadre de l’Africom, instance militaro-civile visant à arracher les pays africains de toute influence non américaine, qu’elle soit française ou chinoise. Le Rwanda, ancienne colonie allemande, devenue protectorat belge après 1918 et donc francophone, est désormais inclus dans la sphère de l’Afrique anglophone. L’objectif du “basic English” est donc d’instruire des étrangers, d’abord des soldats puis des cadres civils ou des interlocuteurs commerciaux, non plus seulement dans l’Empire britannique mais dans les pays européens ou asiatiques libérés par les armées anglo-saxonnes et appelés à devenir des comptoirs commerciaux ou des débouchés pour les productions industrielles américaines surtout, britanniques dans une moindre mesure. Dès le départ, le projet de répandre un “basic English” reçoit l’appui de Winston Churchill, adepte et signataire de la “Charte atlantique” de 1941, laquelle visait à faire advenir à terme “an English speaking world”. Cette année-là, Orwell travaille à la BBC et, dans une première phase, semble adhérer à ce projet vu qu’il plaidait pour une langue littéraire et journalistique “limpide”, capable d’exprimer le réel sans détours, sans masques, sans fioritures inutiles, avec tout à la fois une simplicité et une densité populaires, dépourvues d’ornements pompeux ou de redondances gratuites, propres à une littérature plus bourgeoise. Au bout de quelques mois, Orwell est horrifié. Il exprimera son désaccord fondamental dans un texte intitulé Politics and the Englih language. Orwell constate que l’on cherche à réduire le vocabulaire à 850 mots, que l’on simplifie la syntaxe outrancièrement, projet qui est toujours d’actualité car les universités britanniques prestigieuses, comme Oxford et Cambridge, qui ont produit jusqu’ici les meilleurs manuels d’apprentissage de la langue anglaise, cherchent désormais, depuis début 2013, à lancer sur le marché des méthodes préconisant un enseignement de l’anglais “as it is really spoken”, englobant avec bienveillance les erreurs, parfois grossières, généralement commises par les étrangers, les Afro-Américains, les classes défavorisées du Royaume-Uni ou des Etats-Unis, les non anglophones du tiers-monde vaguement frottés à l’anglais. Le “basic English” des années quarante semble encore trop compliqué pour faire advenir l’English speaking world donc, pour favoriser plus rapidement son avènement, on est prêt à généraliser sur la planète entière un affreux baragouin imprécis et filandreux! Les écoles belges n’ont heureusement pas adopté ces nouvelles méthodes! Mais ce n’est sans doute que partie remise!

 

 

 

 

Détruire la transmission intergénérationnelle

 

Pour Churchill, ce “basic English” était l’“arme la plus terrifiante de l’ère moderne” puisqu’elle allait faire imploser de l’intérieur les polities non anglophones et détruire les môles de résistance, appuyés sur les legs du passé, dans les pays de langue anglaise eux-mêmes. Trois professeurs, Ogden, Richards et Graham, et les services de l’Université de Harvard vont alors tenter de structurer ce projet politique et linguistique de grande envergure que la politique soviétique avait anticipé quand elle avait progressivement remplacé le russe impérial par une langue soviétisée et appauvrie ou quand le jargon politisé du Troisième Reich oblitérait la langue allemande par ce que Viktor Klemperer a nommé la LTI, la lingua terterii imperii, la langue du “Troisième Reich”. Soljénitsyne, emprisonné à Moscou après la seconde guerre mondiale, avait mesuré, avec ses co-détenus, l’ampleur de cet affadissement et de cette mutilation linguistique subie par sa langue maternelle. Son oeuvre ultérieure a visé, entre bien d’autres choses, à restaurer les espaces sémantiques mutilés par la soviétisation. Mais la vision d’un “basic English” comme “arme terrifiante” à appliquer au monde anglo-saxon et à tous les espaces qu’il allait satelliser, ne nous permet plus, objectivement, en tenant compte des démarches d’Orwell, de limiter aux seuls régimes totalitaires la volonté de mutiler et de travestir les langues. La soviétisation, la LTI de Klemperer et la mise en oeuvre planétaire du “basic English”, avec l’appui enthousiaste de Winston Churchill, démontrent une commune volonté (au bolchevisme et à l’américanisme) de redéfinir en permanence la langue quotidienne du peuple, la langue de la transmission intergénérationnelle, de façon à ce qu’une politie, portée normalement par le mos majorum, soit atomisée, pulvérisée donc subrepticement exterminée.

 

Ce type de démarche s’observe également dans les rédactions successives des dictionnaires usuels: si l’on lit les définitions proposées par des dictionnaires d’avant 1914, de l’entre-deux-guerres, des années 50 et 60, on constate, très souvent, qu’elles ne concordent plus exactement avec celles suggérées aujourd’hui. Par ailleurs, bon nombre de vocables ont disparu ou leur plage sémantique s’est réduite, un grand nombre d’expressions populaires, de tournures de phrases propres au langage coloré (argotique, dialectal ou patoisant) de la population se sont effacées, sont tombées en désuétude. Ce sont là les indices d’une volonté politique d’appauvrissement général de la langue mais qui échoue, en ultime instance, parce que la littérature existante rappelle sans cesse des notions anciennes, des nuances oubliées mais revenues, crée des nouveaux mots, recourt aux argots, aux anciens patois, aux dialectes. L’anglais et les autres langues soumises, elles aussi, à manipulations retorses, restent riches, se complexifient en dépit des prophètes de l’hyper-simplification: le “best-seller” international de l’an dernier, le livre intitulé The Sleepwalkers de l’historien australien Christopher Clark, consacré aux prolégomènes de la première guerre mondiale, est l’exemple même d’un livre clair au vocabulaire riche et varié, réintroduisant des termes absents voire évacués du “basic English”.

 

Du totalitarisme dur au totalitarisme mou

 

Le “basic English” d’Ogden n’est donc pas une entreprise communiste mais une entreprise libérale et démocratique prouvant que les régimes de cette sorte ne sont nullement immunisés contre la tentation de lobotomiser leurs citoyens en réduisant la portée sémantique de leurs langues quotidiennes. C’est l’indice du passage du totalitarisme dur et spectaculaire au totalitarisme diffus et “incontestable”, dans la mesure où il ne peut plus être contesté puisqu’il est derechef campé comme “boniste” (disent aujourd’hui nos amis italiens) et comme intrinsèquement “démocratique” au sens de la Charte de l’Atlantique de 1941, laquelle représenterait l’optimum d’entre les optima et ne saurait dès lors subir la moindre critique.

 

Orwell a encore cru, dans les années noires de l’immédiat après-guerre, que les politiques contrôlantes allaient déboucher, en Occident atlantique aussi, sur une langue comme celle de son roman 1984. Il craignait l’avènement d’un totalitarisme pareil à celui de son “Oceania” imaginaire. Non, les manipulateurs et les propagandistes ont introduit dans leur stratégie linguistique oblitérante, surplombant le réel jugé imparfait et donc mauvais, d’autres ingrédients que le jargon propagandiste soviétique, que la langue de bois communiste ou autres perversions sémantiques similaires. Ces ingrédients sont ceux qu’Aldous Huxley avait envisagés dans Brave New World et Brave New World Revisited où la lobotomisation des esprits s’effectue par les drogues et la promiscuité sexuelle, artifices destinés à faire oublier le rôle majeur et incontournable de l’homme en tant que zoon politikon. Le camé et le frénétique de la quéquette s’agitent de manière compulsive sans se soucier de la Cité, sans ressentir ce que Heidegger nommait la Sorge. Avec la mode hippy puis le festivisme (Muray), qui s’en suivirent à partir des années 60, l’emprise des instances contrôlantes s’est renforcée sans en avoir l’air, provoquant à terme l’implosion des polities non hégémoniques, ou réduisant à néant les contestations au sein de l’hegemon lui-même, et la ruine des “Etats profonds” en Europe. Nous avons aujourd’hui la juxtaposition d’un festivisme impolitique —où les faits de monde, dont tout zoon politikon attentif devrait se soucier, sont délibérément noyés sous un torrent de discours ou d’images ineptes mais amusants— et de propagandes hyper-simplificatrices, très souvent guerrières quand Oceania (ou, dans notre réel, la “Communauté atlantique des valeurs”) entre en guerre contre un ennemi quelconque, qu’il s’agit de décrire non pas tel qu’il est vraiment mais tel un croquemitaine chimérique véhiculant tous les aspects du “Mal” avec un grand M. Ces discours, images et propagandes doivent induire les masses à toujours ignorer les faits du monde réel, à ne pas percevoir les interstices qui permettraient la paix ou les négociations.

 

De l’amphibologie

 

C’est en ce sens qu’il faut interpréter le slogan de la propagande d’Oceania dans le 1984 d’Orwell: l’IGNORANCE, c’est la FORCE. L’ignorance, donc la force puisqu’il y a équation entre les deux termes, est générée par l’éradication de tous les souvenirs du passé, par l’éradication de la mémoire parce que la mémoire peut toujours constituer un môle de résistance face aux propagandes. La mémoire est donc une force qu’il faut percevoir comme s’opposant en tout temps et en tout lieu aux propagandes éradicatrices et oblitérantes. L’ignorance est aussi générée par la création d’une langue épurée à l’extrême, qui cherche à réduire voire à effacer ce que le penseur espagnol Eugenio d’Ors (1) nommait l’amphibologie de tous les termes du vocabulaire d’une langue. L’amphibologie, c’est la richesse sémantique des mots, richesse largement extensible, dans la mesure où tout mot peut acquérir des significations nouvelles par l’art du poète ou du littérateur, par l’imagination truculente et gouailleuse des classes populaires et des titis déclassés. L’amphibologie est donc la marque majeure de la langue ancienne par rapport à la langue nouvelle fabriquée qu’Orwell nomme la “novlangue” (newspeak) et qu’il définit dans les chapitres 4 et 5 de 1984 et dans un appendice au livre qui lui est entièrement consacré. Orwell définit dans ces chapitres et cet appendice un langage contrôlé et fabriqué par un Etat totalitaire pour en faire un instrument qui limitera la liberté de pensée (qui passe par le maintien de l’amphibologie du vocabulaire) et qui jugulera la liberté politique, l’expression de soi, formatera les individualités et les personnalités et éradiquera la prédisposition des hommes quiets et normaux à vouloir la paix, c’est à dire à vouloir un pacifisme qui n’est autre que l’expression de leur bon sens.

 

Georges Orwell et Simone Weil

 

A ce propos deux remarques et digressions: 1) la “political correctness”, en tant qu’avatar non romanesque de la novlangue orwellienne, interdit tout renouvellement des champs politiques dans les pays qui s’y soumettent et interdit toute forme de pacifisme et de neutralité quand l’Oceania réelle de notre échiquier politique international, soit la “Communauté atlantique des valeurs”, décide de partir en guerre contre un Etat dont elle fait sa victime, et qui est alors immanquablement posé comme “voyou”; 2) à la suite d’Orwell, le formatage systématique des esprits est généralement prêté aux seuls régimes totalitaires et spectaculaires; pour Simone Weil, volontaire pour servir comme infirmière dans une ambulance anarchiste sur le front de Barcelone pendant la guerre civile espagnole, tous les partis politiques, quelle que soit leur obédience, quel que soit le signe idéologique sous lequel ils se placent, formatent les esprits qui, d’une manière ou d’une autre, se soumettent à leur bon vouloir. Simone Weil était très dure à l’endroit des partis politiques, plus dure même que certains théoriciens étiquetés autoritaires (2): elle réclamait leur suppression pure et simple, comme mesure de salut public, justement parce qu’ils enrégimentaient les âmes et ôtaient au citoyen son libre arbitre. Pour elle, l’ensemble des partis dans un pays force les citoyens à élire des “collectivités irresponsables” qui n’ont aucune relation tangible avec la volonté générale; citations: “les partis sont des organismes publiquement, officiellement constitués de manière à tuer dans les âmes le sens de la vérité et de la justice”; “en entrant dans un parti, on renonce à chercher uniquement le bien public et la justice”; “chaque parti est une petite Eglise profane armée de la menace d’excommunication”. Le PC soviétique avait exclu et gommé Trotski, exécuté la vieille garde bolchevique (pour nostalgie gauchiste de la révolution), le parti fictif du roman de Koestler Darkness at Noon (Le Zéro et l’Infini) va tuer Roubachov: ce sont là, en dimension macroscopique et sanguinaire, les mêmes phénomènes que les petites épurations mesquines qui émaillent la vie quotidienne de nos partis politiques et trouvent leur point culminant dans les exclusions des listes électorales à la veille des élections, le PS et le CdH wallons viennent d’ailleurs d’en donner l’exemple juste avant le scrutin à venir de mai 2014. L’écrivain et journaliste anglais Orwell et la petite philosophe juive et française Weil ont tous deux servi sur le front républicain de Catalogne, l’un comme combattant anarchiste, l’autre comme infirmière volontaire. Tous deux sont sortis de cette aventure espagnole avec un dégoût profond de la politique politicienne et partisane, des outrances verbales de la propagande communiste. Tous deux nous lèguent aujourd’hui les recettes pour nous donner la force intérieure (Weil est très explicite à ce sujet) de résister aux sirènes des politicailleries sordides, quelles qu’elles soient. Avec leurs conseils et leurs constats, nous pourrons dans l’avenir construire le pôle de rétivité, nécessaire pour sortir des torpeurs du système, de ses enfermements et du pourrissoir auquel il nous condamne.

 

Organiser une “rétivité générale”

 

Mais organiser cette rétivité générale, voulue notamment par Michel Foucault (dans un contexte à la mode, soixante-huitard, festiviste, transgresseur et homosexuel), implique de commettre sans cesse le thoughtcrime, le crime de la pensée, d’énoncer et de pratiquer une “pensée-crime”. Cette pensée rétive, criminalisée par les chiens de garde du système, ne s’adresse plus à aucun parti totalitaire en place, car il n’y en a plus en place dans la sphère culturelle européenne ou russe, mais, comme le préconisait Simone Weil dans son exil londonien, à tous les partis, à la forme-parti. La political correctness —qui énonce ce qui est “bon”, et qu’il faut vénérer, et ce qui est thoughtcrime, et qu’il faut abhorrer— est une pensée dépourvue de rétivité, dépourvue de richesse sémantique permettant l’exercice de la rétivité, par les jeux de la langue, par la richesse du vocabulaire. Elle énonce et impose ce qu’il convient de penser et qui ne peut jamais être brocardé ou rejetté par une quelconque rétivité, fût-elle ludique à la façon des cabarets d’antan, sous peine d’excommunication ou de “correctionalisation”, de “mise en examen”. Tout thoughtcrime, toute pensée-crime, qui enfreint les règles et conventions langagières de la bienséance, de toute forme locale ou nationale de “rectitude politique”, est désormais hissé au plus haut sommet de l’inconvenance et est passible des tribunaux. En Allemagne, c’est trop souvent le délire quand on évoque des faits gênants relevant du régime national-socialiste ou des événements de la seconde guerre mondiale, alors que ces faits sont librement discutés dans d’autres pays, Russie comprise aujourd’hui. Il me paraît utile d’ajouter que dans les pays émergents, comme la Chine ou l’Inde, ces faits d’histoire européenne, vieux de sept ou huit décennies, n’émeuvent personne. Armin Mohler et Caspar von Schrenck-Notzing ont fustigé les notions de Gehirnwäsche (le “lavage des cerveaux”) et de Vergangenheitsbewältigung (littéralement: de “maîtrise forcée du passé”) qui empoisonnaient tous les débats et toutes les réflexions politiques en RFA. Pour eux, ces stratégies d’effacement des traditions et du passé émanaient en droite ligne de la politique poursuivie par les autorités d’occupation américaines.

 

En France, on a également assisté à des procès du plus haut ridicule, voire à des procès d’intention complètement aberrants comme l’hystérie suscitée par les derniers écrits et la candidature à l’Académie Française d’Alain Finkielkraut, alors que celui-ci avait, de conserve avec d’autres têtes d’oeuf parisiennes, prescrit des règles de “rectitude politique”, imposé des conventions médiatiques par le truchement de quarts d’heure de haine lors des affrontements inter-yougoslaves des années 90, campant de braves philologues serbes du 19ème siècle (Vuk Karadzic et Ilya Garasanin), inspirés par le philosophe germano-balte Herder, comme des figures génératrices d’horreurs sans nom, alors que Wolfgang Libal, un journaliste israélite de Vienne, spécialiste des Balkans, considérait, au même moment, ces mêmes figures comme d’admirables humanistes en lutte contre la gestion cruelle des pays serbes et bosniaques par les autorités ottomanes (cf. Wolfgang Libal, Die Serben – Blüte, Wahn und Katastrophe, Europa Verlag, München/Wien, 1996). Deux sons de cloche... L’un de pure propagande, l’autre de pure scientificité: en effet, Garasanin, d’obédience grande-serbe, voulait une protection “européenne” et non pas exclusivement russe pour les peuples balkaniques soumis à la férule ottomane. En ce sens, Garasanin était un “libéral”, hostile aux traditionalistes russes et à toute forme d’autocratie, dont Leontiev, ultra-conservateur, sera au contraire le porte-parole le plus emblématique, dans la mesure où il préférait voir les Slaves des Balkans sous un joug traditionnel musulman que sous une protection occidentale/libérale. Pour le Finkielkraut d’il y a vingt ans, ce libéral balkanique Garasanin, adepte des “autres Lumières”, celles de Herder, était, bien entendu, un précurseur du “nazisme”. C’était à une époque, bien sûr, où Finkielkraut ne glosait pas encore sur le thème de l’identité, qui l’a propulsé tout récemment à l’Académie avec l’aura d’un martyr qui avait évoqué un sujet tabou et avait été vilipendé par la bien-pensance.

 

Du vocabulaire mouvant

 

Grosso modo, la novlangue de 1984, possède les mêmes structures que l’anglais, que le “basic English”, tout comme le russe soviétisé de l’ère stalinienne possédait les mêmes structures que le russe impérial. Ce qui fait sa spécificité profonde, en revanche, est le shifting vocabulary, le caractère mouvant du vocabulaire, où le mot ne désigne plus une chose tangible dont l’existence doit être considérée comme intangible, non mouvante. Dans la novlangue, un concept peut être d’abord investi d’une connotation positive, comme la paix que doivent apporter des instances comme la SdN ou l’ONU. Puis subitement ce concept positif peut, dans la bouche des mêmes dirigeants et médiacrates de l’hegemon, devenir un concept négatif, chéri seulement par des trouillards, des poules mouillées d’Européens, comme quand il s’est agi de bombarder la Serbie ou d’envahir l’Irak en 2003. Tout d’un coup, les règles édictées par Roosevelt dans l’immédiat après-guerre devenaient des vieilleries retardatrices, alliées de l’Axe du Mal, qu’il fallait détruire sans attendre. De même, la défense de l’identité des peuples slaves des Balkans, théorisée par Karadzic et Garasanin au 19ème siècle était campée dans les années 90 comme un sinistre prélude théorique du nazisme, tandis que dans la première moitié de la deuxième décennie du 21ème siècle, subitement, la notion d’identité redevenait, dans la bouche du même philosophe, la valeur à défendre par-dessus tout.

 

La novlangue et son vocabulaire mouvant expriment donc des variations récurrentes qu’il faut tout de suite saisir au vol. Il faut se mettre à leur diapason immédiatement, sous peine de subir le sort de Roubachov ou d’être fustigé par des hyènes médiatiques ou de subir une sorte de mort civile. Les exemples abondent: les droits de l’homme avaient été moqués par toutes les gauches innovatrices dans les années 60, qui voyaient en eux l’expression d’un subjectivisme individualiste et bourgeois désuet, qui devait être remplacé par des réflexes sociaux plus “groupaux” voire plus collectivistes. Dès que Carter, Président de l’hegemon, décide d’utiliser le discours sur les droits de l’homme pour faire avancer les pions de l’Oceania du réel, soit de l’hyperpuissance américaine dans le monde, une nouvelle gauche, qui se pose avec une emphase suspecte comme plus intelligente, plus humaniste et plus subtile que toutes les autres, embraye sur ce discours et en fait la nouvelle panacée qu’on ne peut plus critiquer. Ce fut le rôle de la “nouvelle philosophie” en France, de Habermas et de ses disciples en Allemagne. Pour Simon Leys, interprète de l’oeuvre d’Orwell, c’est la manipulation d’un vocabulaire mouvant chez les activistes politiques, totalitaires comme “démocrates”, c’est la succession arbitraire et erratique des variations sémantiques du vocabulaire usuel qui ont rendu Orwell profondément allergique à la politique politicienne, à la politique partisane des mouvements et partis les plus virulents et aux langages propagandistes. Ces inconstances manipulatrices, que devinent les simples citoyens soucieux de conserver la common decency, et qu’ils rejettent par instinct, nous ont conduit à honnir, nous aussi, toutes les cliques politiciennes, de quelle qu’obédience que ce soit.

 

Oldspeak, newspeak et common decency

 

Comment doit fonctionner la novlangue dans l’esprit de ses fabricateurs? Elle commence, dit Orwell, par un appauvrissement sémantique qui procède par suppression des synonymes et antonymes (surtout quand ces antonymes ont une autre forme, une autre étymologie). La novlangue dans son travail d’hypersimplification ne veut plus utiliser qu’un seul mot, alors que le vocabulaire hérité en utilisait parfois jusqu’à vingt ou trente. Les fabricateurs de la novlangue effacent donc la luxuriance et la variété du vocabulaire, l’amphibologie des mots, mise en exergue dans l’oeuvre d’Eugenio d’Ors. L’aire d’intersection entre plages sémantiques est réduite à néant, alors que, dans une langue normale, héritée, le thesaurus, avec les synonymies et les analogies qu’il nous présente, nous montre combien la richesse lexicale est luxuriante, combien le langage peut être riche en nuances subtiles, celles que toute novlangue ou tout discours “politiquement correct” veut faire disparaître. Orwell imaginait qu’en 2050, les élites au pouvoir, les cliques politiciennes héritières du langage propagandiste des communistes et de la BBC en temps de guerre, héritières aussi des fabricateurs du “basic English”, ne parleraient plus que le newspeak, tandis que les “proles”, exclus du pouvoir réel et des médias aux ordres, conserveraient la langue ancienne, l’oldspeak, capable de toujours exprimer l’idéal orwellien de la common decency. Dans la version originale anglaise, l’élite lobotomisante comprendrait 15% de la population de la future Oceania de 2050, tandis que les “proles” déclassés formeraient le reste (85%). Masse qui permet de conserver l’espoir. Dans la traduction française, rappellent Leys et Michéa, interprètes de l’oeuvre d’Orwell, ces chiffres sont inversés: la masse est du côté des locuteurs de la newspeak, de la novlangue, tandis que seule une minorité en récession constante conserverait l’oldspeak. Une vision plus pessimiste en découle. Jamais l’erreur de traduction n’a été corrigée dans les éditions françaises.

 

L’idée d’une différence notable entre la langue des détenteurs du pouvoir et celle des strates soumises de la population se retrouve chez le philologue et romaniste russe, Mikhaïl Bakhtine, spécialiste de Rabelais, qui évoquait la “langue du peuple sur la place du marché”, une langue gouailleuse et truculente rappelant justement celle de Rabelais, un français d’avant l’ordonnance de Villers Cotterêt d’août 1539, qui a imposé une langue administrative et centralisatrice dépouillée, forcément, de toute verve populaire. Ainsi s’oppose en France, au 16ème siècle, une langue du peuple, plastique, à une langue des élites, figée, distinction qui, selon Robert Muchembled, implique aussi une différence “idéologique” entre strates élevées et strates basses de la société, flanquée, en ce 16ème si turbulent, d’une répression de la culture populaire sous le prétexte de lutter contre la sorcellerie. Pour Muchembled, une première mise au pas de la société, lors de la première phase de la modernité, s’effectue par l’imposition d’une langue épurée et administrative et par l’éradication des croyances populaires, présentées comme relevant de la sorcellerie. Le 1984 d’Orwell, en dénonçant les tentatives soviétiques et britanniques d’anémier la langue pour les besoins d’une propagande belliciste, stigmatise une entreprise nouvelle de mise au pas de la “populité” fondamentale.

 

Et dans la France contemporaine?

 

Force est de constater que les castes dirigeantes de la France actuelle articulent des discours non plus totalitaires/spectaculaires mais festivistes qui sont plus proches des méthodes hédonistes d’endormissement et d’assoupissement des instincts vitaux, imaginées par Huxley; elles participent ainsi à une entreprise hostile à la culture populaire, plus exactement hostile aux réflexes naturels d’une culture populaire fondée sur l’évidence des faits et toujours sur la common decency, qui, elle, refuse tout naturellement d’accepter comme signes d’excellence culturelle les spectacles vulgaires et sordides des femens ou des gay prides, lesquels ne sont, finalement, que des instruments destinés, une nouvelle fois, à bousculer et à marginaliser les réflexes sains du bon peuple, conformes au mos majorum, sans lequel aucune politie ne peut fonctionner, comme on le sait depuis les édits de l’Empereur Auguste. La France d’aujourd’hui est marquée par une césure mentale entre, d’une part, son peuple de base, sa populité intacte sans fioritures festivistes, et, d’autres part, ses intellocrates, médiacrates et journalistes qualifiés par Serge Halimi de “chiens de garde du système”, qui manipulent désormais la canaille crapuleuse et les dévoyés pathologiques pour se maintenir au service du pouvoir en dépit des échecs patents de celui-ci, en dépit de la faillite retentissante de ses projets idéologico-politiques. La rétivité nécessaire au maintien de toute politie —qui connait forcément l’usure du pouvoir et les affres d’un déclin inexorable, toujours à l’oeuvre, dû au facteur “temps”— vient en fait de quitter l’espace réduit des marginalités criminelles, sociales ou sexuelles où Genet et Foucault voulaient la confiner tout en voulant renforcer l’impact de ces marginalités et leur donner des micro-pouvoirs de remplacement, pour faire, pensaient-ils dès les années 60, de tous les marginaux possibles et imaginables une sorte de caste de nouveaux élus, tout en dénonçant les mises au pas antérieures, dont celles amorcées à l’âge des Lumières, à la fin du 18ème. La rétivité est désormais dans le camp de la common decency, du peuple rabelaisien qui jase et persifle sur les places publiques, une common decency qui avait été battue en brèche pendant de longues décennies. Le travail de sape et de subversion commis par des élites manipulatrices, pour briser les ressorts de la société porteuse d’Etat, s’est heurté in fine à des instincts inamovibles, qui, face aux agissements des “rétifs de cours”, des faux rétifs, des pseudo-rétifs tolérés et imposés, en appellent à la “rétivité pour tous”.

 

Rétivité pour tous!

 

Une “rétivité pour tous” —apte à subvertir un ordre (plutôt un “désordre”) établi qui, lui, parie sur des marginalités pathologiques ou incongrues ou inassimilables qu’il a délibérément hissées au rang d’avatars “sublimes” de porteurs désintéressés du “révolutionisme institutionnel”—, doit forcément recourir aux formes de “populité” prémodernes, prérévolutionnaires, antérieures au grand encadrement moderne, recourir aux langues plus colorées, plus plastiques, plus réellement amphibologiques que parlait le peuple quand il n’avait encore été ni dressé par la modernité ni oblitéré par les marginalités, mises bruyamment en exergue pour étouffer ses instincts naturels et spontanés. Jules Ferry, poursuivant le travail des “Lumières modernes”, du projet du “Panopticon” des “philanthropes anglais”, proposait un enseignement uniformisateur, au nom du principe révolutionnaire de l’égalité, qui prévoyait, au nom de ce miroir aux alouettes, l’éradication des dialectes de l’Hexagone, donc d’une immense richesse sémantique, où la langue savante ou juridique, littéraire ou médiatique, pouvait sans cesse puiser pour se rénover, pour décrire le réel tangible et échapper aux réductionnismes idéologiques.

 

Le retour et le recours aux populités refoulées de l’Hexagone est donc un acte de “rétivité fondamentale”, de rejet des “révolutionnismes institutionalisés”, soit de toute la mascarade “républicaine” qu’avancent les gauches devenues anachroniques et répressives et que défendent encore de piètres analystes dits “de droite” qui, finalement, camouflent leur variante néfaste du “révolutionnisme libéral” et leur néo-libéralisme subversif derrière un discours bancal qui n’évoque la “République” que pour stigmatiser des incongruités et des importations religieuses incompatibles avec les anciens droits coutumiers des populations hexagonales de souche et, ainsi, pour imposer des formes sociales et économiques qui ruineront les assises des populités charnelles avec autant d’efficacité que les délires des gauches. Ou pour réitérer une vieille hostilité voltairienne-jacobine, déracinante et “ritournellique”, à toutes les formes de la religiosité autochtone. La réhabilitation des parlers populaires, le recours aux anciens dialectes, à un vocabulaire riche mais refoulé, constitue dès lors une révolution plus profonde que si elle n’avait été que “politique”.

 

Un travail de retour aux sources vives de la langue

 

En effet, la prise en compte de la critique orwellienne dans son ensemble, conjointement avec la prise en compte des écrits de Simone Weil sur l’enracinement (nécessaire) du peuple dans son passé et ses traditions, et sur le caractère néfaste des partis politiques, comme vecteurs d’ahurissements collectifs et comme instances négatrices de la liberté personnelle de jugement, doivent très logiquement nous induire à amorcer un travail de retour aux sources vives de la langue, comme l’a fait aussi un Soljénitsyne, pour le russe, dès les premières années de son emprisonnement. Ce recours aux langages vivants, aux étymologies, doit s’accompagner d’un dressage des citoyens à la méfiance et à la vigilance à l’endroit de toutes les élites politiciennes, lesquelles —il faut sans cesse le rappeler— ne s’engagent que par ressentiment à l’encontre des réalités concrètes qui ne leur offrent rien: elles espèrent simplement que leurs artifices langagiers, leur phraséologie, leur sophistique et leurs manigances politiciennes vont leur apporter un pouvoir que la nature leur dénie, vu leur incompétence en tous domaines concrets. La sophistique des élites politiciennes ne procède pas, comme le souligne très justement Michéa, d’une “révolte du coeur” comme celle de Charles Dickens et ne mérite dès lors aucune considération, aucun respect, rien que le mépris le plus abyssal. Enfin, le philosophe, le moraliste, dans la perspective orwellienne/weilienne, qui est aussi celle de Michéa, doit faire confiance au bon sens populaire, au common sense des Britanniques (qui aujourd’hui l’ont bel et bien perdu), à la common decency d’Orwell.

 

Dans le nouvel engouement pour Orwell qui se dessine dans le paysage intellectuel français contemporain, c’est Bruce Bégout qui définit de la manière la plus juste et la plus précise la notion cardinale de la critique orwellienne de la politique et des médias, celle de “décence ordinaire”.

 

Des effets de la novlangue

 

Les effets de la novlangue, sont pour Orwell, 1) de gommer et donc de perdre les expressions idiomatiques les plus savoureuses, ce qui revient à réduire le vocabulaire donc à rendre les locuteurs de cette novlangue aveugles à la richesse et à la diversité du monde réel; 2) d’introduire dans les discours politiques une rhétorique pompeuse, soutenue par une diction prétentieuse, que d’aucuns, comme Nicolas Bourgeois, avaient nommé l’“hexagonal” où la célèbre tirade dans le Cid de Corneille, “ô rage, ô désespoir, ô vieillesse ennemie”, devenait “ô stress, ô breakdown, ô sénescence aliénante”; 3) d’épurer et/ou de modifier les dictionnaires pour faire correspondre les définitions qu’ils donnent aux lubies du “politiquement correct” ou aux variations induites par le shifting vocabulary; 4) de multiplier les termes creux ou rendus creux par usage abusif; ici, il faut mentionner les usages inflationnistes des termes péjoratifs que sont “fascisme”, “nazisme”, “totalitarisme”, etc; ou des termes posés comme positifs tels “liberté”, “démocratie”, “droits de l’homme” (sans que l’on ne procède jamais plus à un travail généalogique pour en comprendre l’origine et l’émergence dans l’histoire réelle des peuples européens). Ces termes sont tous désormais utilisés comme s’il n’y avait d’eux qu’une seule et unique définition fixe et immuable, fixité et immuabilité qui n’autorisent aucun travail de généalogie (d’historia, disait Foucault), aucun travail de redéfinition, de “nuanciation”, de complètement. On est dans la croyance, dans le monde aseptisé des “croyeux”, plus dans le réel.

 

Orwell reste toutefois optimiste. Pour lui, la langue est là pour refléter la réalité et celle-ci ne se laisse pas effacer, en dépit des efforts parfois démesurés dont on use pour l’oblitérer, l’estomper dans les mémoires et les perceptions. Le réel revient toujours, au grand galop. La réalité ne se laisse pas figer. On revient toujours à la case départ, au common sense, “à la langue du peuple sur la place du marché” (Bakhtine).

 

Ministère de la vérité

 

Revenons aux différents aspects de la novlangue telle qu’elle a été imaginée par Orwell dans son 1984. Elle fourmille d’abréviations comme la langue soviétique ou, dans une moindre mesure, comme la langue de la NSDAP (cf. Klemperer). Les deux termes, “abréviés”, les plus connus sont l’Ingsoc (“English Socialism”) et le Minitrue (“The Ministry of Truth”, le “Ministère de la Vérité”). L’Ingsoc est l’idéologie officielle que l’on ne peut plus critiquer et le Minitrue est le ministère de la propagande qui fait triompher la vérité (mouvante selon les circonstances) de l’Ingsoc, même en cas de changement d’ennemi, de modification de la donne géopolitique (par exemple quand l’ennemi n’est plus l’Eurasia mais devient en un tournemain l’Eastasia). Il y a, dans la novlangue, produit de l’imagination romanesque d’Orwell, bien d’autres termes ou concepts révélateurs que l’on retient malheureusement un peu moins souvent malgré leur grande pertinence et leur réelle actualité. Ainsi le terme “bellyfeel”, à la fois verbe et substantif, qui désigne le sentiment d’adhésion viscéral que l’on peut ressentir à l’endroit de l’Ingsoc ou aujourd’hui à l’endroit de toutes les calembredaines hystériques de la “rectitude politique” ou des discours distillés par une gazette nauséabonde comme Le Soir à Bruxelles, spécialisé dans les discours haineux à l’endroit de la Flandre (sous tous ses aspects), de la Russie (sauf les oligarques), de l’Autriche, d’Israël, des militaires arabes, du Vatican, de l’archevêque de Malines, de la Syrie baathiste, de l’Arménie, du nazisme (imaginaire), des églises orthodoxes de Grèce, de Serbie, du monde slave ou de l’Orient, de la Chine ou de tout autre puissance ou fait social ou géopolitique qui déplait aux gauches de Washington, donc, en ultime instance, à la NSA. L’antonyme de bellyfeel est, selon les règles hypersimplificatrices de la novlangue, unbellyfeel, soit un sentiment de non-adhésion viscéral: de “feel”, “sentir” ou “ressentir”, et de “belly”, le “ventre” ou les “tripes”, les “viscères”. L’antonyme se forme par l’adjonction du préfixe “un”. Ce qui peut donner la phrase suivante: Oldthinkers unbellyfeel Ingsoc. Trois mots qui, pour Orwell, traduisent la longue phrase suivante: “Those whose ideas were formed before the Revolution cannot have a full emotional understanding of the principles of English socialism” (= “Ceux dont les idées se sont formées avant la Révolution ne peuvent comprendre émotionnellement les principes du socialisme anglais”). En bref: le bon citoyen d’Oceania (ou des pays formant la “Communauté Atlantique des Valeurs”) doit adhérer avec émotion, avec compassion (la “République compassionnelle”) aux idées que distillent les médias, sinon il est posé comme un Oldthinker, dont l’espèce est condamnée au silence ou à la disparition.

 

Aveuglement acquis et volontaire

 

Il y a ensuite le terme “blackwhite”, soit “penser en terme de tout blanc et tout noir”, de manière manichéenne et simplificatrice. Ce terme de la novlangue orwellienne recèle des connotations positives si la pensée manichéenne désignée correspond aux plans de l’Ingsoc; elle a des connotations négatives si elle contribue à rejeter les projets de l’Ingsoc. Le blackwhite est donc le contraire d’une pensée critique en adéquation avec le réel tel qu’il est, tel qu’il se présente extérieurement à nous. La présence ubiquitaire d’une pensée de type blackwhite entraîne un mécanisme, très actuel, de rejet du réel jugé incorrect (et qu’il faut corriger par des mesures coercitives ou par des appels pressants à une moralité “surréelle”). Ce rejet implique l’acceptation d’une pure fabrication irréelle laquelle doit être vue comme une “vérité” parce qu’elle est voulue telle par le pouvoir, par les médias, par le mainstream. Le blackwhite de la pensée officielle (et artificielle) fait émerger le doublethink, ou “double pensée”, soit une forme d’aveuglement acquis et volontaire vis-à-vis des contradictions contenues dans le système de pensée imposé. Le citoyen, dressé à penser de manière manichéenne (blackwhite) et émotionnelle (bellyfeel), ne perçoit plus, ne veut plus percevoir, à cause d’un processus insidieux de refoulement permanent, les contradictions du discours dominant (qui, aujourd’hui, par exemple, exalte un socialisme qui fait une politique néo-libérale ou un libéralisme soi-disant libre-penseur et dégagé de toute cangue religieuse mais qui accepte pour argent comptant toutes les dérives para-théologiennes du néo-conservatisme américain, etc.). Le réel est ainsi escamoté derrière un rideau de fumée médiatique, derrière un patchwork parfois contradictoire, tissé de brics et de brocs, présenté comme l’expression de la seule vérité vraie et acceptable, toute référence au réel concret étant assimilé à du oldthink ou à de la perversité émanant de Goldstein (ou d’un nazisme purement imaginaire ou d’un populisme mal défini mais voué d’office et a priori à devenir dangereux comme, par exemple, dans la Hongrie d’Orban).

 

Impostures intellectuelles

 

L’oldthink recèle la possibilité de tomber dans le crimethink, la pensée illicite et criminalisée, en contradiction avec les mots d’ordre du pouvoir. Le crimethink, dans le 1984 d’Orwell, est une pensée totalement incorrecte, en contradiction avec les directives du parti, des médias, de l’hegemon et de ses agences de presse chargées de faire l’opinion sur la planète entière. Toute voix critique de l’intervention de l’OTAN en Yougoslavie en 1999 commettait un crimethink, dûment réprimé à l’époque comme l’atteste l’inadmissible matraquage du Professeur Jean Bricmont à Bruxelles, qui protestait contre cette agression à proximité du Quartier Général de l’OTAN à Evere. Qui plus est, Bricmont était l’auteur d’un ouvrage intitulé Les impostures intellectuelles, lequel entendait démontrer que la fabrication d’un vocabulaire soi-disant philosophique et indirectement idéologique sur base de vocables tirés des disciplines scientifiques, dérivés des sciences physiques ou biologiques, relevait de l’imposture et donc de la manipulation médiatique et idéologique. Cette démonstration logique et réaliste avait déplu: Bricmont n’est presque plus nulle part en odeur de sainteté (ce qui l’honore). Il a aggravé son cas en 1999: il a donc ramassé une volée de coups de matraques. Le même scénario de diabolisation des adversaires de conflits inutiles et néo-impérialistes s’est répété lors de l’intervention contre l’Irak en 2003, où contrairement à l’intervention de 1990, l’opération n’avait pas reçu l’aval de l’ONU et d’alliés arabes de la coalition pro-américaine. Les machines propagandistes américaines ont alors fustigé l’Axe Paris-Berlin-Moscou, à leurs yeux, une alliance informelle de lâches, de passéistes et d’efféminés incapables de percevoir le danger, figés dans les complications de la diplomatie —celle-ci étant rejetée comme un vestige inutile et encombrant du passé— et tous fils de Vénus plutôt que du dieu Mars.

 

Novlangue et monde arabe contemporain

 

En Syrie, la machine s’est d’abord mise en branle pour charger Béchar El-Assad de tous les péchés du monde, selon le même mode de diabolisation administré en 1990 puis en 2003 contre Saddam Hussein. L’intervention de djihadistes incontrôlables en Syrie a forcé ces bellicistes en chambre à mettre un bémol à leurs excitations artificielles, les péchés véniels d’El-Assad apparaissant tout d’un coup bien pardonnables face aux atrocités commises par les salafistes et tafkiristes stipendiés par l’Arabie Saoudite et le Qatar, comme en Libye post-khadafiste d’ailleurs. Pour Khadafi, l’acharnement médiatique a conduit à une mort particulièrement hideuse. En Ukraine, où les techniques de diabolisation appliquées aux pays musulmans ne fonctionnent pas, on découvre que même Bernard-Henri Lévy trouve des vertus à des nationalistes ukrainiens qui, par antisoviétisme à une époque où le soviétisme n’existe même plus, se réclament du Troisième Reich hitlérien, parce que ce Troisième Reich a failli vaincre l’URSS de Staline, responsable de l’Holodomor, de la mort par famine de centaines de milliers de paysans des terres noires d’Ukraine! On constate dès lors que les syncrétismes raisonnables, participant d’une sorte de “rationalisme vitaliste” (Ortega y Gasset), sont pour l’Oceania occidentale actuelle des “pensées criminelles”, du crimethink, tandis que le fondamentalisme, sous toutes ses facettes, les plus bigotes comme les plus atroces, se voit parfaitement valorisé, du moins dans ses actions concrètes sur les terrains libyen et syrien, se muant du même coup en goodthink, parce que les wahhabites saoudiens incitent à la haine contre l’ennemi iranien, non seulement dans les pays du Proche et du Moyen Orient mais aussi dans les mosquées et centres “culturels” de nos banlieues ensauvagées mais les représentants de cet ensauvagement généralisé n’étant plus critiquables sous peine d’être taxé de crimethink, le système médiatique mainstream, —dont les stupides et hideux p’tits salauds haineux du Soir de Bruxelles— fait d’une pierre deux coups: sous prétexte de lutter contre le “racisme” (plus imaginaire que réel), il laisse la bride sur le coup aux prédicateurs de haine qui servent l’hegemon et ses alliés saoudiens.

 

Le système lutte contre le crimethink en imposant par la virulence propagandiste et par une terreur psychologique sournoise le réflexe du crimestop, soit un refoulement bien intériorisé, pareil aux refoulements sexuels de la société victorienne fustigés par David Herbert Lawrence, un refoulement qui empêche de recourir encore à l’oldthink ou à développer une pensée alternative qui serait automatiquement du crimethink. L’individu, comme le citoyen d’Oceania, combat, d’abord à l’intérieur de lui-même, dans ses propres cogitations, tout recours à un réel vrai car un tel recours serait du crimethink et le mettrait en marge de la société existante. Le citoyen formaté de toute Oceania, la fictive d’Orwell comme la “réellement existante” d’aujourd’hui, combat les expressions du crimethink, le dénonce chez ses concitoyens, est prêt à tuer toute personne qui émettrait des idées jugées criminelles par le pouvoir. Le crimestop, c’est-à-dire les réflexes inculqués qui permettent l’intériorisation viscérale des discours officiels, génère une abominable humanité de délateurs, de cloportes gris et visqueux, qu’Alexandre Zinoviev, dans Le communisme comme réalité, avait d’ailleurs très bien décrite, tout en précisant, surtout dans la suite de son oeuvre, que cette humanité déchue, ce “peuple-bête” (narod-zver), était certes formatée “communiste” dans sa patrie soviétique mais que l’Occidentisme était sur le point d’en générer une autre, sous le signe du libéralisme cette fois. Nous y sommes.

 

 

 

 

Duckspeak et oppositions inconsistantes

 

Orwell évoque aussi le duckspeak, qui consiste à débiter des discours insignifiants en caquetant comme un gallinacé ou en cancanant comme un canard. Emettre des sons et des vocables sur le mode du duckspeak signifie “parler pour ne rien dire”. Le duckspeak est bon s’il répète benoîtement ce que dit le parti ou Big Brother (ou les médias dans l’Oceania non fictive); il est “non-bon” en revanche s’il balbutie des idées contraires au mainstream. Mais ce dernier a intérêt à laisser se développer une opposition ou des oppositions qui ânonnent du duckspeak peu consistant: on perçoit d’ailleurs, dans l’Oceania actuelle qu’est la “communauté atlantique des valeurs” quantité d’oppositions débiles, bruyantes, parfois mises en exergue pour maintenir le pouvoir en place ou des oppositions qui ne sont jamais que des “négatifs photographiques” du pouvoir en place, comme certaines gauches radicales à la Mélanchon ou à la Hedebouw (qui bénéficient symptomatiquement de l’attention bienveillante des médias parce que ceux-ci savent bien que leurs programmes sont archaïques et irréalisables et qu’ils feront barrage, quand on le leur demandera, à l’émergence de toute véritable innovation révolutionnaire) ou certaines droites sans profondeur qui n’abordent jamais les problèmes de fond et se focalisent sur des détails abscons qu’elles mettent en exergue tout en finissant par lasser le public et... les électeurs.

 

Aucun critère de vérité objective

 

Cependant, quand Orwell a mis le phénomène du duckspeak en évidence, il a formulé l’essentiel de sa philosophie: le duckspeak n’exprime certes que des banalités, des absurdités, des mensonges ou des critiques sans fondement et est soit “bon”, s’il ne contrarie par le parti ou le mainstream (on peut dire tout ce qu’on veut sur facebook, à condition que ce soit des conneries ou des remugles de dessous la ceinture) soit “non-bon” s’il recèle encore quelques maigres résidus de crimethink ou d’oldthink mais il est “bon” ou “non-bon” de manière totalement indépendante du critère de vérité tangible (objective). C’est ce qu’Orwell redoutait le plus au monde: l’avènement d’un langage détaché de toute réalité objective; c’est pire, bien pire, que la bombe atomique, avait-il coutume de dire. Le goodthink dégénère souvent en duckspeak dans les discours de propagande (on songe à Shea en 1999). L’exemple le plus emblématique se lit dans le 1984 quand l’orateur du parti condamne les crimes d’Eurasia dans une longue litanie enflammée puis, pendant cette logorrhée, on lui glisse un billet; il remplace alors le mot “Eurasia” par “Eastasia” dans son discours, car, entretemps, “Eastasia” est devenue l’ennemie principale d’Oceania, sans que ses auditeurs ne bronchent et ne se rendent compte de la substitution. Sans référence au réel tangible, tout goodthink ou tout duckspeak (découlant du goodthink) est interchangeable.

 

L’ère de l’interchangeabilité des discours

 

Les propagandes communiste et atlantiste ont inauguré l’ère de l’interchangeabilité des discours: Saddam Hussein, Khadafi, Hafez et Bachar El-Assad ont été tour à tour bons et mauvais (bien que plus souvent mauvais que bons) et, dans le club des puissances classées dans l’“Axe du Mal”, l’Iran est subrepticement en train de redevenir “bon” après avoir été un “Etat voyou” pendant plus de trois longues décennies. Hafez El-Assad, le père de Bachar, avait échappé à cette opprobre fabriqué en 1981-82, lors du premier soulèvement anti-baathiste des Frères Musulmans, perpétré d’abord avec l’assentiment de l’Occident puis condamné suite à l’assassinat d’Anouar El-Sadate par ces mêmes Frères Musulmans en Egypte en octobre 1981. Sadate était un allié des Etats-Unis: sa disparition tragique a induit les Etats-Unis et leurs alliés à ne plus soutenir le parti de ses assassins en Syrie (que l’on soutiendra toutefois trente ans plus tard contre Moubarak lors du “fameux printemps arabe” du Caire). La répression anti-Frères d’Hafez El-Assad s’est donc déroulée avec l’accord tacite de Washington. Avant de subir une révolte appuyée par l’Occident, Sarközy et BHL en tête, et financée par le Qatar et les Saoudiens, Khadafi avait connu quelques années de grâce pour redevenir subitement “mauvais”. Ce genre d’oscillation n’est pas nouveau dans la politique pétrolière des puissances anglo-saxonnes: William Engdahl, spécialiste de l’histoire et de la géopolitique du pétrole, rappelle qu’avant 1907, le Tsar Nicolas II, pour la presse londonienne et tous ceux qu’elle influençait, était un “tyran” pour redevenir tout d’un coup un “bon empereur” quand les divisions russes devaient à terme servir les desseins de l’Entente. Les leaders révolutionnaires mexicains des vingt premières années du 20ème siècle ont également été successivement de bons défenseurs républicains de leur peuple avant de devenir ou de redevenir de méchants révolutionnaires sanguinaires désireux, bien entendu, de s’emparer des richesses pétrolières du Mexique et de les nationaliser. Staline a connu une fortune analogue: de criminel sanguinaire, il est devenu ce “bon Uncle Joe” étrillant les divisions allemandes pour redevenir, dès le début de la Guerre Froide, un monstre infréquentable. Cette propagande anglo-saxonne relative à la Russie impériale, au Mexique ou à l’URSS stalinienne ne s’appuie pas sur des faits nécessairement objectifs ou sur une prise en compte exacte des projets concrets de la puissance dont question: elle varie au gré des fluctuations économiques et ses contenus (de pure fabrication) sont chaque fois interchangeables. Il n’y a plus, comme le constatait Orwell, de socle objectif, de vérité tangible qui compte ou qui tienne. Le subjectivisme délirant fait loi: c’est le règne de l’arbitraire et de la guerre permanente.

 

Autre concept de la novlangue mis en évidence par Orwell: l’ownlife, le fait d’avoir une vie propre dégagée des impératifs du parti. Il est subversif, dans le 1984, d’être solitaire et individualiste. Aujourd’hui, l’idéologie du mainstream ne raisonne plus de cette façon, qui était le propre des systèmes totalitaires spectaculaires comme le communisme et le national-socialisme (Du bist nichts, dein Volk ist alles). Christian Salmon souligne, dans son excellent ouvrage intitulé Verbicide, que le contrôle total par déréalisation s’opère non pas par une sorte de coercition collectiviste tambourinée par la propagande, mais par le storytelling. De quoi s’agit-il?

 

Grands récits et narrations alternatives

 

Les “grands récits”, d’origine hégélienne, qui avaient façonné les discours du mainstream de gauche, et la vulgate “progressiste”, ne mobilisent plus, ont cessé de séduire, suite à la répression du soulèvement de Budapest en 1956, à l’effervescence plus dionysiaque de mai 68, à l’amplification des pensées relativistes post-modernes, etc. Il a donc fallu inventer et promouvoir des narrations alternatives comme celles du féminisme, de l’altérité immigrée soi-disant persécutée par le racisme ambiant, du néo-libéralisme hostile à toute “régulation” et vainqueur de l’histoire (Fukuyama), des droits de l’homme (et non pas du citoyen) imparfaitement appliqués, de la “différence” homosexuelle à laquelle les blocages de la “common decency” ne donnent pas un droit de cité plein et entier, etc. Ces narrations alternatives vont, avec la rectitude politique induite depuis les projets de “Grand Society” de Lyndon B. Johnson, servir la promotion d’un goodthink de nouvelle mouture, en apparence pluriel et pluraliste.

 

Mais ces narrations alternatives ne séduisent pas le gros de la population: quand, comme la majorité des citoyens des pays de la “communauté atlantique des valeurs”, on n’est ni une névrosée hystérique ni un immigré en difficulté d’assimilation ou d’intégration ni un spéculateur en bourse frénétique ni un juriste besogneux en quête de causes perdues ni un homosexuel revendicateur, on ne s’intéresse pas à ces narrations alternatives, désintérêt qui freine, bien entendu, le déploiement planétaire du nouveau goodthink revu par les femens, Harlem Désir, Francis Fukuyama, le Président Carter et Hilary Clinton, BHL ou le lobby gay. Ces narrations n’intéressent finalement pas grand monde, n’intéressent pas ceux qui oeuvrent et peinent dans la vie quotidienne (et que défendent Péguy, Orwell et Michéa). Comment impliquer dès lors cette masse, comment la contrôler? Comment faire en sorte qu’elle s’insère volontairement dans le cadre du nouveau goodthink? On va, via Facebook notamment, la faire basculer dans la narratomanie, et contourner ainsi Orwell, qui raisonne comme à l’âge des totalitarismes anti-individualistes, en présentant aux lecteurs de son 1984 l’ownlife comme une première étape dans le glissement progressif d’un individu vers le crimethink. Le système, suite à l’effondrement des “grands récits” théorisé jadis par Jean-François Lyotard, va tout à la fois déployer des narrations alternatives, celles que nous avons évoquées ici, et multiplier à l’infini les petites narrations individuelles pour briser et la common decency, partagée par tous les hommes sains d’esprit, et la cohésion des sociétés encore composées de zoon politikon, rétifs aux embrigadements des grands ou des petits récits et surtout des récits alternatifs. Le système et ses psychologues savent que le cerveau humain est capable d’absorber une bonne histoire donc aussi de bonneS histoireS. On va donc faire en sorte qu’elles se multiplient à l’infini via des instruments comme Facebook ou Twitter, où le sujet va irrésistiblement, de son plein gré, se dépouiller de sa “ownlifeness”, jusqu’ici tenue secrète en son for intérieur par manque de moyens adéquats pour la projeter vers l’extérieur, l’Unique de Stirner va abandonner son “propre” (Der Einzelne und seine Eigenschaft). Il va le partager. Il va l’offrir aux “services” pour qu’ils fabriquent des “stories” qui vont complètement oblitérer le réel, avec une efficacité encore plus redoutable que les sbires de Big Brother qui, finalement, ne contrôlent complètement que 15% de la société d’Oceania.

 

Un délit de “sale gueule” politiquement correct

 

Pour Orwell, il n’y avait pas que le thoughtcrime, il y avait aussi le facecrime, soit l’expression faciale qui trahit la présence intérieure d’un crimethink. En Allemagne, en effet, un traducteur-interprète a été condamné pour avoir traduit, avec un air, un ton et une expression faciale considérés comme approbateurs, le discours d’un non conformiste américain, peut-être un peu révisionniste (mais aux Etats-Unis de telles positions ne sont pas considérées comme illégales et qu’en sa qualité de citoyen des Etats-Unis, il a le droit, protégé par son ambassade, d’exprimer ses opinions partout dans le monde sans avoir à craindre les foudres d’un juriste obtus, hargneux et hystérique, au service d’un Etat-croupion ou d’une quelconque république bananière). Ce cas allemand est la variante, agréée par la “rectitude politique”, du “délit de sale gueule”. A quand la condamnation d’un obèse amateur de mets gras qui ferait la moue lors d’un colloque de végétariens?

 

La notion “novlanguiste” de prolefeed, littéralement de “pitance de prolo”, désigne l’ensemble des spectacles sans substance, la plupart du temps cinématographiques, qu’un régime politique contrôleur produit pour distraire les classes laborieuses, pour oblitérer leur common decency ou ce qu’il en reste. Depuis les années 50, les pays occidentaux ont subi, bien plus que les pays communistes du temps de la guerre froide, une avalanche continue de variétés dépourvues de valeur culturelle: films idiots, revuettes ineptes, romans sans envergure, pornographie à deux balles ont envahi le quotidien des classes non dominantes dans toutes les sociétés occidentales, lesquelles ne peuvent plus faire la distinction entre ce qui est valable (et sérieux) et ce qui est dépourvu de valeur culturelle (mais est amusant). Cette irruption ininterrompue de junk thought, selon l’expression de Susan Jacoby, auteur de The Age of American Unreason, a fait basculer nos sociétés dans la médiocrité intellectuelle, dans l’incapacité à transmettre des valeurs héritées, et, par voie de conséquence, met en danger l’avenir de toute démocratie réelle, laquelle, pour pouvoir fonctionner, doit être composée de zoon politikon, dotés de la plus longue mémoire possible, et non pas de décérébrés et d’amnésiques. De son côté, Benjamin R. Barber, auteur d’un ouvrage célèbre, Jihad vs. McWorld, démontre, dans Consumed. How Markets Corrupt Children, Infantilize Adults and Swallow Citizens Whole, que le marché transforme bien plus sûrement les citoyens des pays à économie libérale en des êtres sans consistance que le totalitarisme dur, porté par un parti ubiquitaire, imaginé par Orwell dans 1984. Les citoyens de l’Oceania réelle et non pas fictive sont désormais des “kidults” (de “kid”, gamin, et “adult”, adulte) qui ne s’identifient plus à une politie, dotée d’une histoire et d’une mémoire, mais, entre autres choses, à des marques d’objets divers offerts par le marché. Ce processus donne l’illusion de la pluralité, chère à Hannah Arendt, mais elle “totalise” la société, l’uniformise bien plus sûrement que les totalitarismes d’avant la seconde guerre mondiale ou que le soviétisme de Staline à Andropov ou que le sino-communisme de Mao, pour la simple et bonne raison que des cerveaux occupés par des choix entre marques, par une hyper-consommation et par le paraître qu’elle induit, par des variétés innombrables, etc. ne focalisent plus leur attention sur les ressorts vivants d’une Cité et, ipso facto, se font confisquer subrepticement leurs droits fondamentaux, en dépit des rituels électoraux, organisés à intervalles réguliers. Le prolefeed ou junk thought ou kidult culture sont des armes redoutables, comme le basic English soutenu par Churchill, qui permettent de réduire à néant une politique, plus sûrement que la bombe atomique.

 

“Rectifier” les archives

 

Autre terme intéressant dans la novlangue d’Orwell, le recdep, ou “Departement of Records”, le “département des souvenirs” ou “des archives”. Il s’agit d’utiliser celles-ci, en mettant tantôt quelques faits en exergue, après les avoir longtemps conservés dans le frigo de l’oubli, tantôt en les occultant, en les arrachant à la mémoire collective. Le recdep n’a pas vraiment la tâche facile: les traces subsistent dans les mémoires, elles reviennent après avoir été refoulées ou occultées, elles demeurent dans l’ombre du junk thought: l’instinct de la figure centrale du 1984 la porte à aimer, à bellyfeel, les choses anciennes et vénérables, à les palper, à imaginer le monde où elles ont émergé et servi. Le pouvoir peut certes “rectifier les archives”, comme les Soviétiques staliniens rectifiaient celles qui montraient ou évoquaient Trotski, il ne peut pas entièrement les gommer.

 

En Belgique, il a fallu attendre avril 2012 pour que l’université organise enfin un colloque sur l’homme-orchestre du non-conformisme des années trente, Raymond De Becker. Sans une analyse méticuleuse de son itinéraire et de ses fréquentations multiples, l’histoire du royaume et les prolégomènes de la question royale demeurent incompréhensibles. De 1945 à 2012, il fallait évidemment qu’elle le demeurât pour ôter auprès des générations nouvelles de l’après-guerre un patrimoine idéologique complexe, varié, chatoyant et riche en potentialités diverses pour déverser dans les cerveaux le junk thought occidental, celui de l’Oceania réelle. Cette réhabilitation tardive, quand tous les témoins directs sont passés de vie à trépas, va sans doute donner, pour le futur, une image à jamais incomplète de cet homme-orchestre, de ce “passeur” étonnant, actif au point d’intersection de toutes les idéologies qui se télescopaient pendant les années 30, dans l’espoir de faire germer puis éclore une synthèse nouvelle. Il a fallu l’insistance opiniâtre de l’écrivain Henry Bauchau, heureusement devenu quasi centenaire, pour que des professeurs se mobilisent pour connaître enfin le contexte idéologique réel des années 30, pour juger correctement l’histoire des idées en Belgique pendant l’entre-deux-guerres, histoire qui montre à côté de quels possibilités sublimes nous sommes passés, alors que nous nous vautrions dans l’horreur technocratique, l’horreur économique, le festivisme imbécile, l’écophobie pathologique, la haine de soi assortie d’une xénophilie d’écervelé, la plomberie d’un être veule comme Jean-Luc Dehaene, les corruptions les plus écoeurantes des socialistes dévoyés et de la bêtise intrinsèque et incurable des libéraux pour qui toute forme de culture doit disparaître au nom des lubies acquisitives des analphabètes friqués.

 

Seberechts interdit d’archives!

 

Ainsi, dans un centre de documentation destiné à recueillir les témoignages des Juifs de Belgique sur les événements des années 30 et 40, les manuscrits apportés par des gens simples qui souhaitaient que l’on conservât leur histoire personnelle étaient systématiquement jetés à la poubelle et donc non archivés par ce mini-recdep, tout simplement parce que ces histoires réelles, pourtant toutes de souffrance, ne correspondaient pas à l’image de ces tragédies que l’on voulait promouvoir dans les médias. Plus récemment, l’historien flamand Frank Seberechts, qui a pignon sur rue, qui n’en est pas à ses premières publications, a sorti un ouvrage bien documenté sur les déportations de citoyens belges et non belges de confession israélite, de ressortissants du royaume de convictions communiste, rexiste ou nationaliste flamande, vers les camps de concentration pyrénéens de la Troisième République. Seberechts prouvait que les listes de proscription puis la déportation, qui s’ensuivit, des juifs antifascistes réfugiés en Belgique et originaires d’Allemagne ou d’Autriche, d’abord ordonnée par les Belges ensuite exécutée par les Français de la Troisième République, avaient permis, ultérieurement, aux autorités nationales-socialistes de mettre la main sur ces personnes et de les déporter à leur tour. Cette thèse déplaisait: on a refusé à Seberechts l’accès aux archives du ministère de l’intérieur, du ministère des affaires étrangères et d’autres centres de documentation officiels, comme s’il y avait beaucoup de choses gênantes à dissimuler. Ce ne fut pas le cas en France, où les services officiels ont accueilli le chercheur flamand sans rechigner, alors qu’il prouvait l’existence d’un système concentrationnaire français particulièrement mortifère, attesté notamment par les mémoires d’Arthur Koestler ou d’Hannah Arendt (cf. Frank Seberechts, De weggevoerden van mei 1940, De Bezige Bij, Antwerpen, 2014).

 

La novlangue prévoit également la notion de rectify, de rectifier le passé, c’est-à-dire de procéder à son altération délibérée pour servir des desseins présents. Dans le royaume de Belgique, on procède, ou on a longtemps procédé, à ce type de “rectification”, en “oubliant” ou en diabolisant des personnages clefs de l’histoire intellectuelle du royaume (comme De Man, De Becker ou Colin), en jetant au rebut les mémoires de petites gens honnêtes ou en barrant l’accès aux archives à des historiens qui n’ont rien de “fasciste”.

 

Transformer les citoyens en pions crédules

 

La novlangue sert donc à transformer chaque citoyens en pion crédule dans un contexte où 15% adhèrent à l’équivalent local de l’Ingsoc (l’UMPS de la France actuelle, les partis traditionnels en Belgique ou en Allemagne, les “Republicrats” aux Etats-Unis,...) et 85% de la population demeurent d’une certaine façon fidèle à l’oldthink ou à des bribes d’oldthink, tout en étant au maximum neutralisés. Elle sert également à isoler les dissidents, à leur infliger la conspiration du silence, même avec internet, où, par exemple, en Allemagne, récemment, les éditions Antaios, néo-conservatrices, ont été chassés des rayons virtuels du distributeur mondial “amazon.com”. Façon de tuer une maison d’édition publiant des essais d’une grande pertinence. Elle sert aussi à promouvoir des politiques réalisables (p. ex. l’Obamacare aux Etats-Unis) en même temps qu’à poursuivre des objectifs démesurés, pareils à ceux d’Oceania, notamment la poursuite des guerres lancées par les néo-conservateurs des père et fils Bush, des guerres voulues par ce que le Prof. Peter Dale Scott nomme la “politique profonde” de Washington que déterminent les manigances des pétroliers et des narcotrafiquants et à augmenter l’ampleur planétaire de la surveillance totale par la NSA. La novlangue actuelle, sous Obama, sert donc une politique de promesses sociales, qu’on ne tiendra pas, pour mieux poursuivre les buts de la “politique profonde” analysée et dénoncée par Dale Scott. Elle sert enfin à imposer l’autodiscipline dans les rangs des démocrates, des décideurs américains, des alliés et vassaux européens (et autres) et des instances du soft power médiatique. Les “lanceurs d’alerte” (ou whistleblowers) comme Snowden prouvent que la novlangue a donc pour fonction principale la DISSIMULATION de ce qu’est réellement l’Etat profond ou les intentions d’un parti (totalitaire ou non). Cette novlangue dissimulatrice indique la présence d’un système plus fort que les dictatures classiques ou que les totalitarismes de la première moitié du 20ème siècle, qui visibilisaient outrancièrement leurs buts, stratagèmes et intentions.

 

Verbicide et linguicide

 

Deux pistes complémentaires me semblent utiles à explorer pour compléter l’appareil critique, celui de la “rétivité pour tous” en gestation, que cette conférence appelle de ses voeux. Ces pistes sont celles que Jacques-Olivier Granjouan et Christian Salmon ouvrent en définissant l’un la notion de “linguicide”, l’autre la notion de “verbicide”. Grandjouan appelle “linguicide” les processus qui conduisent à faire émerger une vulgate médiatique truffée de fautes de langage, de barbarismes et d’incongruités. Ces fautes participent à la destruction de la précision de la langue, de l’idiomatie. Les traducteurs (surtout de l’anglais) et les journalistes transposent des vocables anglais en français, sans tenir compte ni des subtiles différences sémantiques entre les deux langues ni des “faux amis”, les traductions d’Euronews étant, à l’heure actuelle, emblématiques pour illustrer ce genre de dérives. Grandjouan relève, dans son livre (cf. bibliographie) un nombre impressionnant d’erreurs de ce type: bornons-nous à citer le terme “escalade” qui sert, depuis la guerre du Vietnam, à décrire une augmentation ou une aggravation voire une intensification dans un conflit armé; les médias nous parlent de l’“Administration Clinton”, alors qu’il faudrait dire le “gouvernement de Clinton”; quand les médias évoquent la représentation parlementaire américaine, ils parlent du “Congrès”, ce qui est inapproprié en français, etc.

 

Plus intéressante pour notre propos est la notion de “verbicide”, telle que nous la propose Christian Salmon. Orwell avait posé l’écrivain comme le gardien du vocabulaire, immédiatement après 1944, après son expérience à la BBC, après son bref engouement pour le basic English. Salmon ressort un texte d’André Breton, datant de 1949. Dans ce texte, le chef de file des surréalistes français disait que l’écrivain doit veiller à ce que le sens des mots ne se corrompe pas, dénoncer impitoyablement ceux qui font profession de le fausser, s’élever avec force contre le monstrueux abus de confiance que constitue la propagande d’une certaine presse. Ces injonctions de Breton sortent donc de ce texte exhumé par Salmon et significativement intitulé Pour un dégagement des intellectuels, ce qui revenait à prendre le contre-pied de Sartre, qu’Orwell traitait par ailleurs de bag of wind (“sac de vent”). Ce texte est resté inédit jusqu’en 1999!! Salmon, fort de la lecture de ce texte peu connu de Breton, écrit, page 64, que “l’intellectuel engagé s’est rangé désormais aux côtés de ceux qui exercent le pouvoir et non plus de ceux qui le subissent, aux côtés de ceux qui déclenchent des guerres” (Finkielkraut en Serbie, BHL partout ailleurs). Dans un tel contexte, “l’intello de gauche s’empresse de se montrer réceptif aux codes médiatico-marchands, docile à l’air du temps” (p. 65). Ensuite, la censure, qui était défensive au 19ème siècle, devient offensive: elle ne s’occupe plus vraiment des droits individuels, elle opère par inondation, répétition, saturation. L’espace culturel en devient standardisé, homogénéisé, dominé par les agences médiatiques. Les voix dissidentes sont noyées, comme l’avait constaté Soljénitsyne, quasiment dès son arrivée en Occident (le communisme, c’est “Ferme ta gueule!”, l’occidentisme, c’est “Cause toujours tu m’intéresses!”). La censure n’est plus le fait d’officines policières et étatiques mais est exercée par les médias publics et privés, par le “quatrième pouvoir”, par les “chiens de garde” du système (Serge Halimi). Elle revêt ensuite, surtout en France, une dimension judiciaire. En effet, le code pénal depuis 1994 autorise les poursuites par de simples citoyens, ce qui implique que le juge peut intervenir dans des productions littéraires ou artistiques, alors que droit et art sont deux domaines foncièrement différents et où le juriste n’a pas à s’immiscer dans le travail de l’artiste ou de l’écrivain et où l’artiste ne doit pas intervenir dans le domaine du droit.

 

LQR et “experts”

 

Toujours dans le contexte du néo-orwellisme français, Eric Hazan rappelle, avec un clin d’oeil à Klemperer, que les novlangues de bois du communisme ou de la LTI ont fait place en France, et par ricochet dans tout l’espace politico-médiatique de la francophonie, à la LQR, la Lingua Quintae Respublicae, la “Langue de la Cinquième République”. Celle-ci s’est amorcée dès les années soixante, où émergeait le phénomène de la télévision (analysé avec brio tant par Martin Heidegger à Messkirch en 1961 que par mon compatriote Raymond De Becker, réprouvé et proscrit, dans les colonnes de Planète). Elle était marquée en cette première période par le paternalisme gaulliste mais au fil des temps elle s’est faite le véhicule du prêchi-prêcha mitterandien, souvent pur cynisme, pour déboucher, comme le dénonce très justement Hazan, sur un discours justifiant les folies du néo-libéralisme. Hazan: “La LTI visait à galvaniser, à fanatiser; la LQR s’emploie à assurer l’apathie, à prêcher le multi-tout-ce-qu’on-voudra du moment que l’ordre libéral n’est pas menacé” (p. 14). Il ne s’agit plus, ajoute-t-il, de remporter la guerre civile comme le voulaient les staliniens à Barcelone en 1936-37 mais “d’escamoter les conflits, de les rendre invisibles et inaudibles”. Cette tâche est parachevée par les “experts”, qui segmentent les affaires de la collectivité en “séries de problèmes techniques”, sans avoir la moindre légitimité démocratique et sans être le moins du monde en phase avec la common decency.

 

Dans Verbicide, Christian Salmon comme Orwell constate que les pouvoirs en place, qu’ils soient totalitaires ou soi-disant “démocratiques”, sont animés par une logophobie tenace. Les pouvoirs et les idéologies ultra-simplificatrices, abrutissantes et bêtifiantes, qui les sous-tendent sont marqués par une haine du langage, du parler vrai, par une haine du langage que Heidegger définissait comme “la maison de l’Etre”. La langue d’un peuple est effectivement le conteneur de sa mémoire, le réceptacle de recettes potentielles pour faire advenir des alternatives de toutes natures, dont, bien sûr, des alternatives politiques: voilà pourquoi il faut en permanence et avec un acharnement frénétique le rectifier, pourquoi il faut organiser l’amnésie collective, pourquoi il faut laisser s’abâtardir et s’ankyloser le parler quotidien, pourquoi il faut tolérer, au nom de la “tolérance”, l’effondrement calamiteux de toute syntaxe ordonnante. L’objectif de tous ces pouvoirs figeants et crispés est de maintenir partout et toujours des majorités et des oppositions politiques conformes, tout comme Goldstein ou le nazisme imaginaire de nos médias sont de pure fabrications propagandistes et des croquemitaines sempiternellement inchangés, répétés à satiété selon la méthode Coué. L’objectif, pour nous, doit être de s’opposer avec constance et fermeté à cette avalanche permanente et médiatique de conformismes fabriqués, de défendre ce qu’Orwell appelait l’oldspeak ou l’oldthink. Maintenir leur richesse sémantique, leur luxuriance lexicale envers et contre tout, afin d’être toujours les derniers d’hier et de s’apprêter à devenir les premiers de demain.

 

Robert Steuckers

(Forest-Flotzenberg, Fessevillers, Genève, mars-avril 2014).

 

Notes:

 

1. Robert STEUCKERS, “L’ironie contre la political correctness”, cf/ http://robertsteuckers.blogspot.com

2. Simone WEIL, Oeuvres complètes, V, Ecrits de New York et de Londres, vol. 2, Gallimard, Paris, 2013.

    

Bibliographie

(à l’exception de l’oeuvre d’Orwell elle-même):

 

• Fernando ARRABAL, “Le grand théâtre du monde totalitaire”, in: Le magazine littéraire, n°202, décembre 1983.

• Benjamin BARBER, De infantiele consument. Hoe de markt kinderen bederft, volwassenen klein houdt en burgers vertrapt, Ambo/Manteau, Amsterdam, 2007.

• Bruce BEGOUT, De la décence ordinaire, Editons Allia, Paris, 2008.

• François BORDES, “French Orwellians? La gauche hétérodoxe et la réception d’Orwell en France à l’aube de la guerre froide”, in: Orwell entre littérature et politique, Agone, n°45, 2011.

• Paul CHILTON, “Orwell’s opvattingen over taal”, in: Bzzlletin, n°111, december 1983.

• James CONANT, Orwell ou le pouvoir de la vérité, Agone, Marseille, 2012.

• John CROWLEY & S. Romi MUKHERJEE, “Le peuple d’Orwell”, in: Orwell entre littérature et politique, Agone, n°45, 2011.

• Eric DIOR, “George Orwell – L’enragé de la lucidité”, in: Le magazine littéraire, n°492, décembre 2009.

• Jacques-Olivier GRANDJOUAN, Les linguicides, Martorana Editions, Les Milles/Aix-en-Provence, 1989.

• Eric HAZAN, LQR – La propagande au quotidien, Ed. “Raisons d’Agir”, Paris, 2006.

• Karel HELLEMANS, “Always the eyes watching you – Conditionering in “1984””, in: Bzzlletin, n°111, december 1983.

• Susan JACOBY, The Age of American Unreason – Dumbing Down and the Future of Democracy, Old Street Publishing, London, 2008.

• Dr. Mario KANDIL, “George Orwells “1984” – von der Realität überholt”, in: Neue Ordnung, Graz, III/2013.

• Simon LEYS, Orwell ou l’horreur de la politique, Plon, Paris, 2006.

• Jean-Claude MICHEA, Orwell éducateur, Climats, Paris, 2003-2009.

• Jean-Claude MICHEA, Orwell anarchiste tory, Climats, Paris, 1995-2008.

• Martha NUSSBAUM, “Un monde sans pitié”, in: Le magazine littéraire, n°492, décembre 2009.

• Jean-Jacques ROSAT, “Ni anar ni tory: socialiste”, in: Le magazine littéraire, n°492, décembre 2009.

• Jean-Jacques ROSAT, “Ni anarchiste ni tory. Orwell et “la révolte intellectuelle”’, in: Orwell entre littérature et politique, Agone, n°45, 2011.

• Frédéric ROUVILLOIS, “Mieux qu’un bâillon, la langue de bois”, in: Le magazine littéraire, n°492, décembre 2009.

• Christian SALMON, Verbicide. Du bon usage des cerveaux humains disponibles, Actes Sud, Paris, 2007.

• Eberhard STRAUB, Die Götterdämmerung der Moderne – Von Wagner bis Orwell, Manutius Verlag, Heidelberg, 1987.

• Samuel TODEDANO BUENDIA, “La neolengua de Orwell en la prensa actual. La literatura profetiza la manipulacion mediatica del lenguaje”, in: Revista Latina de Comunicacion Social, enero-diciembre de 2006, La Laguna/Tenerife/Canarias.

• Lyman TOWER SARGENT, “Sociale controle in de eigentijdse dystopie”, in: Bzzlletin, n°111, december 1983.

• General Dr. Franz UHLE-WETTLER, “Geschichtsfälschung – Der Einfluß der “political correctness” auf unser Geschichtsbild”, in Neue Ordnung, Graz, I/2006.

• Chris van der HEIJDEN, “Op zoek naar kristal – Orwell in Spanje achterna”, in: Bzzlletin, n°111, december 1983.

• Michael WALZER, “La défense d’une démocratie radicale” (entretien), in: Le magazine littéraire, n°492, décembre 2009.

• Raymond WILLIAMS, “Schrijver zijn in Orwells tijd”, in: Bzzlletin, n°111, december 1983.

• Frank WINTER, “Nieuwspraak en de proles – de politieke revolutie in Orwells 1984”, in: Bzzlletin, n°111, december 1983.

   

ORWELL'S QUAD AND THE NEW WORLD DISORDER

ORWELL'S QUAD AND THE NEW WORLD DISORDER

by Colin Liddell

Ex: http://alternative-right.blogspot.com

George Orwell, in 1984, described a chaotic world of perpetual warfare: a large part of the planet was forever fought over and constantly changing hands, with the lives of the inhabitants assigned minimal value.

“Between the frontiers of the super-states, and not permanently in the possession of any of them, there lies a rough quadrilateral with its corners at Tangier, Brazzaville, Darwin, and Hong Kong, containing within it about a fifth of the population of the earth. It is for the possession of these thickly-populated regions, and of the northern ice-cap, that the three powers are constantly struggling. In practice no one power ever controls the whole of the disputed area. Portions of it are constantly changing hands, and it is the chance of seizing this or that fragment by a sudden stroke of treachery that dictates the endless changes of alignment.” 1984, Chapter 9

Due to the decline of both moral and pragmatic qualities caused by the West's dominant ideology of Universal Liberalism, our "geopolitical organs" are now creating a similar zone of chaos and anarchy to the one envisioned by Orwell. This has been dramatically driven home by the recent rise to prominence of the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS) across a large and geographically ill-defined sector of the Middle East, at a time when many other parts of Orwell's quad – Gaza, Somalia, Sudan, Libya, Mali, and Yemen – are also deep in chaos.

 

Another stop on the road paved with Liberal intentions.

 

The great flaw of Washington and its allies in recent years has been a tendency to start things without finishing them. This is a tendency that has accelerated in recent years and is driven by the following factors:

• Increasing geopolitical ignorance caused by a growing misunderstanding of how the world actually works
• A drastic decline in political pragmatism because it is viewed as inconsistent with a new Western morality  infused with narratives of feminism, gay rights, and anti-racism  
• A steep decline in the West's original moral qualities of courage, honour, loyalty, masculinity, moral fiber, and commitment

The West feels 'morally' driven to destabilize or depose the natural power elites of various Third World states, often with an unacknowledged economic back story, but it now lacks the qualities that enabled it to succeed in the past.

Liberal elites, unlike the old Conservatives or the 'rednecks’ and 'flyovers' they so detest, are unable to fulfill the duties their actions assume. For the liberal ruling class, it is enough to make the moral gesture, get the buzz, and then sidle away from the mess they have created and look for the next humanitarian interventionist thrill.

Rather than imposing "totalitarian humanism," as some fear, this irresponsible attitude has instead created a toxic brew of "hegemonic anarchy," characterized by chaos, civil war, massacres, mutilations, religious insanity, and growing contempt for the West. Boko Haram, the group in Nigeria that hit the headlines earlier this year when it kidnapped over 200 schoolgirls, expresses this contempt in its name, which literally means "Western education is sin." Iraq and Afghanistan, the scenes of the West's greatest commitments and sacrifices, are clearly being lost to any semblance of order; while the hashtag offensive "Bring our Girls Back" that was supposed to bring Boko Haram to its knees is struggling even to make an impact on social media.

Against this background, some countries in the danger zone, like Algeria, Egypt, and Thailand, have found temporary reprieve by reverting to old-style military dictatorships with a bit of PR – the promise of "free elections," a high-profile female appointment, etc. – to keep the liberal commentariat from becoming too interested in their affairs.

 

The secular strongman – the optimum
solution for the fractious Third World state?

Iraq is a classic example of the kind of country that either requires pragmatic or principled treatment, but which in Western interventionist hands just turns to mush. Like most Third World countries, it has badly-drawn borders that do not correspond to organic cultures and nations, but instead throw together diverse and antagonistic thedes.

Thanks to the former predominance of the Turks in the region, the natural ruling elite has been rooted in the Sunni Arab part of the population. This group also occupies a relatively central position, with the numerically superior Shiite Arabs to the south and the non-Arabic Kurds to the northeast.

Despite its inherent flaws and weakness, Iraq, with the right kind of strong and pragmatic leader, could be relatively stable. Although Saddam Hussein was clearly deeply flawed, he may well have been an optimum solution for the country in a way that the present underpowered 'strongman,' Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki, clearly isn't.

A well-managed partition of the country into three separate sections, corresponding to the three main groups in the population, may have been another option at one time, but that moment has clearly passed. Whatever new borders arise will now have to be drawn in blood, while any strongmen that arise to keep the country united are likely to get on the wrong side of Western Liberals at some point and meet the same end as Saddam or Gaddafi.

The truth is that "humanitarian" Western liberals prefer anarchy to a convenient tyrant: anarchy says "we tried" rather than "we connived," and, as the somewhat Orwellian phrase "humanitarian intervention" hints, it helps them to feel better about themselves. But rather than orderly humanism, what the Liberal West is pioneering is a form of hegemonic anarchy.

Orwell's quad: wreaking havoc in the 21st century.

A version of this article was previously published at Theden.

The Anti-Modernism of G. K. Chesterton

Neither Progressive nor Conservative: The Anti-Modernism of G. K. Chesterton

By Keith Preston

AlternativeRight.Com & http://attackthesystem.com

 

 

Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874-1936) bears the distinction of being a writer who resisted virtually all of the dominant trends of his era. He lived during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, precisely the time that modernity was fully consolidating itself within Western civilization more than a century after the apex of the Enlightenment and the French Revolution. Chesterton began his writing career as a young man and as the twentieth century was just beginning. As much as any other writer from his era, he predicted the horrors that century would entail.

 

A man of many talents and interests, Chesterton was a playwright, novelist, lecturer, journalist, poet, critic of literature and art, philosopher, and theologian. His work in many of these areas stands out as being among the very best of the era and continues to offer immense insight even in the present day. Among Chesterton’s circle of friends and intellectual sparring partners were such luminaries as H. G. Wells, Bertrand Russell, and George Bernard Shaw. His relationships with these men are themselves highly significant as each of them were among the leading “progressive” intellectuals of the era and fully committed to the modernist values of rationalism, secularism, and socialism. As these were all systems of thought that Chesterton adamantly opposed, it is striking that he could also count some of these figures as friends and engage them in amiable debate. It was during an era when the old liberal values of rational discourse and gentlemanly civility still prevailed, even among those who in many ways held polar opposite world views. It was before the time of the radical political polarization of modern intellectual life that began with the growth of the totalitarian movements of the early to middle twentieth century. The friendly exchanges between Chesterton and Shaw, for instance, even on topics of intense disagreement in many ways serve as a refreshing contrast to the rhetorical brutality that dominates much of today’s public discourse.

The dramatic changes that had occurred in Western society over the course of the nineteenth century had dramatically impacted the thinking of its leading intellects. The growth of industrial civilization has raised the general standards of living to levels that were hitherto not even dreamed of, and the rising incomes of the traditionally exploited industrial working class were finally allowing even the proletariat to share in at least some middle class comforts. The rise of new political ideologies such as liberalism and democracy had imparted to ordinary people political and legal rights that were previously reserved only for the nobility. Health standards also increased significantly as industrial civilization expanded and life expectancy began to grow longer. Scientific discovery and technological innovation exploded during the same era and human beings began to marvel at what they had accomplished and might be able to accomplish in the future. Religion-driven superstitions had begun to wane and the religious persecutions of the past had dwindled to near non-existence. Societies became ever more complex and out of this complexity came the need for an ever expanding class of specialists and more scientific approaches to social management. While only a hundred years had passed between the world as it was in 1800 and the world of 1900, the changes that had occurred in the previous century were so profound that the time difference might as well have been thousands of years.

The profundity of this civilization-wide change inspired the leading thinkers of the era to tremendous confidence and optimism regarding the future and human capabilities. If one surveys the literature of utopian writers of the era one immediately observes that many of these authors expressed a confidence in the future that now seems as quaint as it is absurd. The horrors of the twentieth century, with its genocides, total wars, atomic weaponry, and unprecedented levels of tyranny would subsequently shatter the naïve idealism of many who had previously viewed the advent of that century with great hopes that often approached the fantastic. The early twentieth century was a time of joyous naivete. Bertrand Russell would later insist that no one who was born after the beginning of the Great War which broke out in 1914 would ever know what it was like to be truly happy.

“Pick a star, any star” – the retro-futuristic optimism of the past

But G. K. Chesterton, while far from being a cynical or overly pessimistic figure, was not one who shared in this optimism. Indeed, he was one who understood the potential horrors that could be unleashed by the new society and new modes of thought as clearly as any other. To Chesterton, the progressives of his time were over confident to the point of arrogance and failed to recognize the dangers that might befall mankind as humanity boldly forged its way into the future. Perhaps one of Chesterton’s most prescient works of social criticism is Eugenics and Other Evils, published in 1917. [1] At the time the eugenics movement that was largely traceable to the thought of Darwin’s cousin, Francis Galton, had become a popular one in the world’s most advanced nations such as England, America, and Germany. It was a movement that in its day was regarded as progressive, enlightened and as applying scientific principles to the betterment of human society and even the human species itself. Its supporters included many leading thinkers and public figures of the era including Winston Churchill, Sidney and Beatrice Webb, John Maynard Keynes, Anthony Ludovici, Madison Grant, and Chesterton’s friends Wells and Shaw. Yet Chesterton was one of the earliest critics of the eugenics movement and regarded it as representing dangerous presumptions on the part of its proponents that would likely lead to horrific abuses of liberty and violations of the individual person which it eventually did.

One of Chesterton’s most persistent targets was the growing secularism of his era, a trend which continues to the present time. That Chesterton was a man of profound faith even as religion was being dwarfed by science among thinking and educated people during his time solidifies Chesterton’s role as a true intellectual maverick. It is this aspect of Chesterton’s thought that as much as anything else continues to win him the admiration of those who remain believers even during the twenty-first century. Chesterton was always a man of spiritual interests and even as a young man toyed with occultism and ouija boards. The development of his spiritual thinking later led him to regard himself and an “orthodox” Christian and Chesterton formally converted to Catholicism in 1922 at the age of forty-six. His admirer C. S. Lewis considered Chesterton’s writings on Christian subjects to be among the very best works in Christian apologetics.

In the intellectual climate of the early twenty-first century, religious thinking has fallen into even greater disrepute than it possessed in the early twentieth century. In relatively recent times, popular culture has produced a number of writers whose open contempt for religious believers has earned them a great deal of prominence. While intelligent believers who can offer thoughtful defenses of their views certainly still exist, it is also that case that religious belief or practice is at its lowest point yet in terms of popular enthusiasm in the Western world. Less than five percent of the British population attends religious services regularly and even in the United States, with its comparatively large population of religious fundamentalists, secularism has become the fastest growing religious perspective. Chesterton would no doubt be regarded as a rather anachronistic figure in such a cultural climate.

Abandoned church

The contemporary liberal and left-wing stereotype of a religious believer is that of an ignorant or narrow-minded bigot who is incapable of flexibility in his thinking and reacts with intolerance to those holding different points of view. Certainly, there are plenty of religious people who fit such stereotypes just as overly rigid and dogmatic persons can be found among adherents of any system of thought. Yet, a survey of both Chesterton’s writings on religion and his correspondence with friends of a secular persuasion indicates that Chesterton was the polar opposite of a bigoted, intolerant, religious fanatic. In his Christian apologetic work Orthodoxy, Chesterton wrote,

“To hope for all souls is imperative, and it is quite tenable that their salvation is inevitable…In Christian morals, in short, it is wicked to call a man ‘damned’: but it is strictly religious and philosophic to call him damnable.” 

Of his friend Shaw, he said, “In a sweeter and more solid civilization he would have been a great saint.”

In his latter years when he knew he was dying, H. G. Wells wrote to Chesterton, “If after all my Atheology turns out wrong and your Theology right I feel I shall always be able to pass into Heaven (if I want to) as a friend of G.K.C.’s. Bless you.” Chesterton wrote in response:

“If I turn out to be right, you will triumph, not by being a friend of mine, but by being a friend of Man, by having done a thousand things for men like me in every way from imagination to criticism. The thought of the vast variety of that work, and how it ranges from towering visions to tiny pricks of humor, overwhelmed me suddenly in retrospect; and I felt we have none of us ever said enough…Yours always, G. K. Chesterton.” [2]

It was also during Chesterton’s era that the classical socialist movement was initially starting to become powerful through the trade unions and labor parties and virtually all leading intellectuals of the era professed fidelity to the ideals of socialism. Yet just as Chesterton was a prescient critic of eugenics, he likewise offered an equally prescient critique of the totalitarian implications of state socialism. Because of this, he was often labeled a reactionary or conservative apologist for the plutocratic overlords of industrial capitalism by the Marxists of his era. But Chesterton was no friend of those who would exploit the poor and workings classes and was in fact a staunch critic of the industrial system as it was in the England of his era. “Who except a devil from Hell ever defended it?” he was alleged to have said when asked about capitalism as it was practiced in his day. [3]

Indeed, Chesterton’s criticisms of both industrial capitalism and state socialism led to the development of one of the most well-known and interesting aspects of his thought, the unique economic philosophy of distributism. Along with his dear friend and fellow Catholic traditionalist Hilaire Belloc (Shaw coined the term “Chesterbelloc” to describe the pair as inseparable as they were), Chesterton suggested the creation of an economic system where productive property would be spread to as many owners of capital as possible thereby producing many “small capitalists” rather than having capital concentrated into the hands of a few plutocrats, trusts, or the state itself.

The prevailing trends of the twentieth century were towards ever greater concentrations of power in large scale, pyramid-like institutions and ever expanding bureaucratic profligacy. Chesterton’s and Belloc’s economic ideas were frequently dismissed as quaint and archaic. However, technological developments in the cyber age have once again opened the door for exciting new possibilities concerning the prospects for the decentralization of economic life. Far from being anachronistic reactionaries, perhaps Chesterton and his friend Belloc were instead futuristic visionaries far ahead of their time.

It is clear enough that Chesterton was in many ways a model for what a public intellectual should be. He was a fiercely and genuinely independent thinker and one who stuck to his convictions with courage. Chesterton never hesitated to buck the prevailing trends of his day and was not concerned about earning the opprobrium of the chattering classes by doing so. He was above all a man of character, committed to intellectual integrity, sincere in his convictions, tolerant in his religious faith, and charitable in his relations with others. In his intellectual life, he wisely and quixotically criticized the worst excesses of the intellectual culture of his time. The twentieth century might have been a happier time if the counsel of G. K. Chesterton had been heeded.

NOTES:

[1] Chesterton, Gilbert Keith. Eugenics and Other Evils. Reprinted by CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform; 1st edition (November 20, 2012). Originally published in 1917.

[2] Babinski, Edward T. Chesterton and Univeralism. Archived at http://www.tentmaker.org/biographies/chesterton.htm. Accessed on March 12, 2013.

[3] Friedman, David D. G. K. Chesterton-An Author Review, The Machinery of Freedom: Guide to Radical Capitalism. Second Edition. Archived at http://daviddfriedman.com/The_Machinery_of_Freedom_.pdf. Accessed on March 12, 2013.

Originally published in Chesterton: Thoughts & Perspectives, Volume Thirteen (edited by Troy Southgate) published by Black Front Press.

In America è boom di vendite per il libro “1984″

In America è boom di vendite per il libro “1984″

Ex: http://luciananonconforme.wordpress.com

L’opera deve il suo nuovo successo allo scandalo scoppiato dopo le rivelazioni del giovane informatico Edward Snowden, che ha svelato al mondo alcuni dettagli sul programma di sorveglianza dell’intelligence statunitense

Il Grande Fratello, il personaggio immaginario creato da George Orwell nel suo celebre libro “1984″, sta avendo un nuovo successo commerciale alimentato, molto probabilmente, dallo scandalo intercettazioni che coinvolge l’intelligence americana, come rivelato dallo scoop del quotidiano britannico Guardian.

Su Amazon le vendite di “1984″ non hanno cessato di aumentare negli ultimi giorni. Il romanzo, pubblicato nel 1949, un anno prima della morte del suo autore, alle 16,30 italiane era uno dei cinque libri più venduti delle ultime 24 ore, ed era balzato dalla 6.208 posizione alla 193esima.

L’opera deve il suo nuovo successo allo scandalo scoppiato dopo le rivelazioni del giovane informatico Edward Snowden, che ha svelato al mondo alcuni dettagli sul programma di sorveglianza dell’intelligence statunitense. Nella società che Orwell descrive, ciascun individuo è tenuto costantemente sotto controllo delle autorità.

 

My hero: George Orwell

My hero: George Orwell

 

by John Carey

Ex: http://www.theguardian.com

Orwell was a truth-teller whose courage and sense of social justice made him a secular saint

 

George Orwell with his son in 1946. Photograph: Veina Richards

 

I admire Orwell for how he lived as well as for how he wrote. He would have sneered at the notion that he was a saint – he once described the Christian heaven as "choir practice in a jeweller's shop". All the same, for me he was a secular saint. His road-to‑Damascus moment came when he resigned from the Indian Imperial police in 1927. He was aware, he said, of an "immense weight of guilt" he had to expiate, so he joined the beggars and outcasts, as described in Down and Out in Paris and London and "How the Poor Die".

He was a truth-teller, admitting to feelings others would hide. In Burma he had found the taunts and insults of the radicalised Buddhist priests hard to bear. Part of him thought of the British Raj as a tyranny, but another part thought "the greatest joy in the world would be to drive a bayonet into a Buddhist priest's guts".

He admired courage and "the military virtues", regarding pacifism as a luxury others pay for. He wrote: "Those who 'abjure' violence can only do so because others are committing violence on their behalf." He regretted having been too young for the first world war, but in Spain he fought against fascism with the POUM anarchist militia, was shot in the throat and almost killed.

Spain opened his eyes to the ruthlessness of Soviet communism. The communists had no intention of allowing the anarchists an independent role; they were hunted down and liquidated. Orwell and his wife Eileen only just escaped. He also witnessed the communist media's rewriting of history – battles in which he had fought were completely misreported. His vision of a totalitarianism in which the very concept of objective truth vanishes grew into Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four.

Comradeship with common soldiers in Spain clarified what socialism meant to him: that the highest-paid would not get more than 10 times what the lowest-paid got; that hereditary privilege would be abolished; that the public schools and universities would be filled with state‑aided students chosen simply for ability. Far too much like social justice for anyone to advocate now.

• John Carey's The Unexpected Professor is published by Faber.

Arthur C. Clarke, La Cité et les Astres

Chronique littéraire: Arthur C. Clarke, La Cité et les Astres, 1956.

Ex: http://cerclenonconforme.hautetfort.com

Le Paradis Galactique perdu

Ecrit il y a plus d’un demi siècle, la Cité et les Astres est un roman-clé de la science-fiction dite « classique ». C’est aussi l’un des ouvrages les plus riches d’Arthur C. Clarke, l’auteur britannique de 2001, l’Odyssée de l’Espace.

Dans un futur extrêmement lointain, Diaspar – anagramme de Paradis - est le dernier bastion d’humanité sur terre. Une bonne partie de l’univers a été ravagé par une guerre entre empires galactiques, et les rares hommes survivants ont constitué une sorte de base autonome durable ultime au cœur de la vaste étendue désertique que constitue désormais la Terre, à mi-chemin entre Matrix et la Cité idéale de Brunelleschi. Un jeune adolescent un peu à part,  Alvin, choisit de se détourner du petit confort ultime de Diaspar pour diriger son regard vers les Astres, vers les contrées lointaines, qui terrifient ses congénères…

Jusque-là, rien de bien original. Et pourtant, il me semble qu’on aurait tort de passer son chemin.

Ce qui frappe dans cet ouvrage, c’est tout d’abord le foisonnement des sujets abordés. On y trouve en effet la plupart des thèmes chers aux auteurs de SF classiques : l’immortalité, l’eugénisme, la mise en question du divin, mais aussi un certain nombre d’éléments propres au space-opéra : les robots, les extra-terrestres et autres envahisseurs, les pouvoirs télépathiques, télékinésiques, la téléportation, etc., le tout mâtiné d’un certain nombre d’éléments issus des civilisations indo-européenne : l’ aspect cyclique du temps, la philosophie, l’omniprésence de l’art - mosaïques, sculptures intégrées à l’espace publique -, permanence de la vie culturelle, de l’architecture qui défie les âges…

A première vue, Diaspar se présente comme une sorte de société idéale : plutôt qu’à un monde post-apocalyptique, on est confronté à un univers propret, auto-suffisant et quasi-immuable, caractérisé par une sorte d’état de béatitude perpétuel. La guerre, la maladie, et même la mort elle-même ont été éradiqués.

Même si le terme n’est jamais mentionné directement, on ne peut s’empêcher de songer à un retour à l’Âge d’or, après plusieurs millénaires d’une interminable décadence intergalactique, ayant atteint son paroxysme avec la destruction de la majorité de l’humanité par de mystérieux Envahisseurs : ainsi la cité s’organise-t-elle autour d’une colline, réminiscence de la montagne sacrée, de l’axe cosmique, du nombril de la terre[1], au sommet de laquelle se trouve un édicule abritant la statue du Créateur de la cité, un peu à la manière d’un temple ; de plus, la réincarnation et la réminiscence des vies antérieures assure virtuellement sur Diaspar l’immortalité, et donne d’ailleurs à la mort un visage totalement différent de celui qu’on lui trouve habituellement : certains protagonistes, dans le livre de Clarke, se donnent volontairement la mort pour échapper à tout problème qui leur semble de trop grande envergure, presque sans état d’âme, parce qu’ils sont assurés de se réincarner plus tard. L’homme n’ayant plus à craindre la mort, les problèmes existentiels récurrents subissent des inflexions monumentales. On trouve aussi le thème de la prééminence de l’esprit sur la matière, puisque les hommes de Diaspar peuvent créer et détruire à volonté tous les objets de la vie quotidienne, par la seule force de la pensée.

Bien que Clarke ne fournissent que peu de détails quant à ces étranges pouvoirs, il semble que toutes ces mystérieuses facultés psychiques soient fournis par une sorte de processeur hypertrophié, tout à la fois cœur et cerveau de cette cité idéale aux allures de Paradis perdu et pourtant dystopique à maints égards…

Le versant dystopique

Car ce mystérieux Âge d’or n’aurait probablement pas trouvé grâce aux yeux d’un Guénon ou d’un Evola. La première dissonance perceptible dans l’ouvrage de Clarke consiste en une phobie insurmontable pour tous les habitants de Diaspar : celle de l’éventualité même de se confronter à quoi que ce soit ayant un rapport avec le monde extérieur à la cité. Les grands espaces inspirent aux hommes de Diaspar une peur qui semble venue du fond des âges. Ce premier élément discordant est très révélateur de la mentalité d’une société qui pense avoir atteint une sorte d’état de grâce en empruntant la voie de la technologie. Car au-delà des apparences, Diaspar n’est rien d’autre qu’une société régie en totalité par les seuls moyens  matériels. Les robots sont quasi-invisibles mais omniprésents, et assurent le bon fonctionnement de la Cité ; un cerveau-machine, appelé Calculatrice Centrale, fait office de divinité locale - et universelle en raison du caractère unique de Diaspar. Les hommes de Diaspar se sont donné les moyens matériels de maîtriser à la perfection leur microcosme et chacun de ses composants, et il semble donc tout naturel que ce soit une machine omnipotente qui leur tienne lieu d’entité divine.

Le confort de tous les instants implique un autre phénomène : la seule notion d’effort physique, et partant, tout ce qui peut constituer une aventure authentique, est devenue étrangère aux habitants de la cité ; le héros du roman en fera d’ailleurs l’expérience au cours de ses pérégrinations. Dès lors un grand nombre de qualités humaines parfois triviales mais absolument essentielles - le courage, la patience, le dévouement… ne trouve plus de champ d’expression. Il en va de même des liens entre les hommes, qui se trouvent totalement dénaturés : immortels, les habitants de Diaspar se connaissent ou se reconnaissent tous, mais ne sont même pas en mesure d’éprouver l’authenticité des liens qui semblent pourtant unir certain d’entre eux : l’amitié comme l’amour sont sur Diaspar des abstractions supplantées par des éléments plus directement sensibles et superficiels, comme la simple attirance physique par exemple.

Les dissemblances avec la société traditionnelle apparaissent à mesure que l’on progresse  dans la lecture de La Cité et les Astres. La conception de la cellule familiale, par exemple, est réduite à peau de chagrin : la procréation elle-même n’a plus de finalité génésique ; la maternité n’existe plus, et l’éducation à proprement parler se réduit à une simple formalité, les individus de Diaspar sortent préfabriqués idéalement d’un « temple de la Création », déjà physiquement âgés d’une vingtaine d’années, et les parents de chaque individu sont attribués de manière aléatoire.

Ajoutons qu’au cours du roman, l’auteur nous gratifie d’une confrontation particulièrement éclairante avec un autre type de société régie par un système de valeurs radicalement différent, ce qui a le mérite de procurer plus de profondeur encore au propos, et de donner un second souffle à l’intrigue.

Un bon exemple de roman de science-fiction intelligent

Le microcosme que Clarke nous fait entrevoir semble donc idéal, et fondé en apparence sur un système traditionnel ; pourtant il ne faut pas longtemps pour découvrir au contraire une société hédoniste, nombriliste et dont la vanité est à peine voilée par les avancées technologiques éblouissantes, qui agissent comme autant de narcotiques sur la conscience de chacun. Bien à l’abri au cœur de leur petit monde  contemplatif, esthétisant, intellectualisant, désacralisé au possible, aux antipodes des protagonistes de la République du Mont Blanc de Saint Loup, les habitants de Diaspar sont des « super-hommes » sur le plan physique ou même culturel, mais sont à des années-lumière du surhomme de Nietzsche. Une vie passée à méditer et à créer n’a aucun sens, aucune valeur, si rien ne vient mettre quoi que ce soit en péril, si rien ne vient troubler la quiétude égocentrique de l’homme, car c’est seulement lorsqu’il est confronté aux difficultés que celui-ci est capable de s’élever au-dessus de sa médiocre condition.

Toute ressemblance avec une société existante ou ayant existé n’est donc plus tout à fait fortuite : l’idéal d’une société capitaliste, fondée sur la soumission de l’essentiel aux seuls impératifs économiques, censés apporter le Salut à l’homme occidental par le confort matériel, sécularisée jusqu’à la corde, ne constitue-t-il pas un prototype de Diaspar ?

Les parallèles que l’on pourrait établir avec le monde actuel ne s’arrêtent pas là : on peut lire aussi La Cité et les Astres comme un prolongement de 1984, puisque la société qu’on y trouve est bâtie sur une série de mensonges complaisamment entretenus par un système donné. Tout comme dans 1984, un seul individu, le personnage principal de l’œuvre, semble avoir les yeux décillés. C’est à partir de son expérience, dissidente, déstabilisante, comme le serait un virus dans un système informatique, que se développe le roman.

Plusieurs éléments du roman de Clarke renvoient au thème de la religion, parfois d’une manière très allusive ; de façon générale on peut remarquer que l’auteur met en cause, si ce n’est la spiritualité dans son ensemble, au moins l’idéal dogmatique des religions révélées. Je ne vous en dis pas davantage afin de ne pas déflorer ce qui est sans doute l’un des passages les plus surprenants et les plus inventifs de tout le roman, mais je ne ferais pas preuve d’une grande honnêteté en présentant ce livre comme un plaidoyer pour un retour à la spiritualité. A mon avis Clarke a plutôt choisi dans cet ouvrage d’insister sur l’importance vitale de l’éducation, de l’épreuve, et d’autres vertus propres à l’homme – ce qui, dans le fond, n’a rien de théologique, mais présente au moins le mérite de faire appel à un ensemble de valeurs supérieures.

L’auteur nous livre, au final, une vision relativement positive de ce que peut devenir l’homme dans une société hypermatérialiste, puisque d’une part la société de Diaspar échappe à la guerre de tous contre tous, et que d’autre part, à l’inverse de ce que l’on peut lire dans certains classiques d’anticipation tels que 1984 ou Farenheit 451, on trouve sur Diaspar des aspects de vie culturelle ou philosophique. Mais les habitants de cette petite utopie sont dépourvus de vitalité, de sève, de force intérieure ; la vie sur Diaspar se développe exclusivement sur le plan horizontal. Ce roman met en scène de  façon assez intelligente l’éradication de la troisième dimension de l’homme, qui fait que chaque individu devient non pas un être humain doté de sens critique, mai un logiciel incarné.

Lyderic

---

[1] consultez Mircea Eliade si ces notions ne vous sont pas encore familières

The Life & Ideas of Colin Wilson

A Heroic Vision for Our Time:
The Life & Ideas of Colin Wilson

By John Morgan

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

Colin Wilson, the English author of well over a hundred books on subjects as diverse as philosophy, literary criticism, criminology, and the occult, as well as many novels, essays and short stories, passed away last Thursday (December 5, 2013) at 11:45 PM local time, in the presence of his wife, Joy, and his daughter, Sally. He was 82.

It was unfortunate that Colin’s death came within hours of Nelson Mandela’s, as it ended what little chance it had of being reported in the television news media, as would have been fitting for an author who I believe to have been among the most important authors of the latter half of the twentieth century. A number of obituaries have appeared in the British press this week, most of them full of mockery and some venturing shamelessly into insult. This was not unexpected, for reasons that I will discuss further on.

Colin’s name is probably not familiar to many younger readers in the United States, unless they have unusual reading tastes. Even in his native England, Colin isn’t very well-known among the younger generations, apart from his popular true crime and occult-themed books, which is a pity, since Colin’s work encompassed much more than that. Indeed, his first book, The Outsider ^[2], which has been variously classified as a work of existentialism, sociology and literary criticism, was published in 1956, when Colin was only 24 years old, and became an instant bestseller throughout the English-speaking world, and was, briefly, the talk of the literary world. Few would have imagined at that time, I suspect, that he would end up passing into obscurity. It is certainly unjust that his exit from this world should have been upstaged by Mandela’s, since Colin was undoubtedly the more important of the two men.

I am probably biased in making this judgment, since Colin was a personal acquaintance of mine. I remember first coming across his book, Beyond the Outsider ^[3], on the remainder table outside of the downtown Ann Arbor Borders during a period when I had dropped out of my classes at the University of Michigan out of despair and frustration. Colin’s writing opened up a whole new intellectual vista for me. Unlike much of what went on in my university classes, Colin’s ideas really struck a chord with me. This was no dry intellectualism or critique of the guilt of the modern West, and still less a “deconstruction” – this was a philosophy of and call to unabashed and unapologetic heroism, based upon the best (and now discredited by the mainstream) aspects of the Western tradition. It was, in part, my enthusiasm for Colin’s work that led me to finally return to and finish school. I was also inspired to set up the first Website dedicated to Colin in 1996, which soon led to me getting in touch with the man himself. We corresponded for many years, and I was fortunate enough to meet him at a conference of the International Fortean Organization in November 2000, where he was a speaker. I can’t claim that Colin was a close friend of mine, but he was certainly an acquaintance, and served as a great inspiration to me during a crucial time of my life. Therefore, the news of Colin’s death came as a blow for me, although not an unexpected one, considering his age.

Life

Colin wrote two autobiographies: the first, Voyage to a Beginning ^[4], was published in 1969; and Dreaming to Some Purpose ^[5], in 2004. These are the best sources for learning about Colin’s life, but I will offer a few essentials.

Colin was born on June 26, 1931 in Leicester, England to a working-class family. He developed an early passion for reading and ideas, although his first love was science. He left school, as was normal for teenagers who were expected to go to work, at age 16, and got a job as an assistant in a chemistry lab. He has described how his early enthusiasm for science quickly waned, as he discovered that it alone failed to answer many of the essential questions, such as the meaning of life and his place in it. Gradually sinking into despair, he describes how he went to work one day with the intention of killing himself. Upon arriving, he took down a bottle of hydrochloric acid that he knew would kill him immediately. But once he opened it and was about to drink, he suddenly saw himself as two people. One was a depressed and confused teenager; the other was the person he realized he could become. He realized that it didn’t matter at all if the first killed himself, he said; but if the first Colin Wilson died, he would be taking the other one with him, and that would be a tragedy. So he put the bottle back and went about his work.

Colin discovered his new passion in literature, philosophy and writing, which he threw himself into with feverish enthusiasm. Supporting himself through a series of low-paying jobs for the next several years, he began gestating the ideas that would eventually become his first book, The Outsider ^[2].

It should be of interest to Counter-Currents readers that, at this time, Wilson befriended Sir Oswald Mosley, whom he met at a café. (Wilson later claimed that he knew nothing of Mosley’s political activities at the time.) Wilson and Mosley shared an interest in many of the same writers and philosophers, and apparently their friendship continued until Mosley’s death, over 20 years later. Mosley even penned a very laudatory review of The Outsider ^[2] under a pseudonym in his journal, The European, shortly after the former’s publication. Wilson, for his part, never disavowed his friendship with Mosley, although he did disavow fascism and wrote, in a review of two books about Mosley that he published in 1961, that he considered Mosley to be a great man in spite of his error, in Wilson’s view, of embracing fascism. Nonetheless, this relationship was one that was to dog Wilson for the remainder of his career, and more than one journalist attempted to brand him with the “fascist” label.

It was in 1955 that Colin, frustrated at the amount of time and energy that he was spending just to make ends meet instead of reading and writing, gave up his flat and took up residence in a sleeping bag on Hampstead Heath, a park in London. He would spend his days in the Reading Room at the British Museum, studying and working on The Outsider ^[2]. (He later confessed that, when it was particularly cold, he would spend the night at his then-girlfriend Joy’s place.) It just so happened that the supervisor of the Reading Room at that time was the novelist Angus Wilson, and he and Colin struck up a friendship. When Angus learned that Colin was working on a book, Angus asked to see it, and was so impressed by it that he decided to show it to his publisher, Gollancz, which soon agreed to publish it. And when the book was published in both the United Kingdom and the United States in 1956, it became an instant bestseller, earning widespread praise even from established literary figures like Cyril Connolly, Philip Toynbee and Edith Sitwell, all of whom assured their readers that Colin’s career was greatness in the making. For a 24-year-old author publishing his first book, it was unheard-of. It was every young writer’s fantasy brought to life, and might seem to have been almost too good to be true.

And it was.

Upon the publication of the second book in what came to be called Colin’s “Outsider cycle,” Religion and the Rebel ^[6], in 1957, the critics who had previously been so full of praise had now turned vicious. It was obvious, many of them claimed, that they had been fooled – Wilson was nothing but a pretentious, egotistical hack who was attempting to grapple with issues that were beyond his knowledge and maturity. This established a pattern in the British press that has continued up to the obituaries being published about him at present. Either Colin Wilson was to be ridiculed, or else ignored altogether.

There are many reasons for this. Jealousy was no doubt a factor. Another was that the press made Colin into a celebrity, and he, at age 24, was too naive to realize how he was being used by them, as he himself later conceded. People became sick of seeing Wilson’s name and picture in the newspapers and magazines (he even made the cover of Life magazine). Another factor was an incident in early 1957 in which Joy’s father came across some notes that Colin had been making for a novel he was working on (which later became Ritual in the Dark ^[7]), in which a character is a sexual deviant. Thinking that these notes were Colin’s own beliefs, Joy’s father immediately went over to his apartment, bursting in on them while they were having dinner and famously crying, “The game is up, Wilson!” As he refused to listen to Colin’s explanations, the police were called, and although the incident quickly came to an end, the reporters were already on their way, and soon the story about the young literary celebrity getting his comeuppance was in every newspaper in Britain. The fate of Colin’s reputation was sealed.

It just so happened that the publication of The Outsider ^[2] coincided with the premiere of 26-year-old John Osborne’s play Look Back in Anger ^[8], which, although it failed to garner the critical acclaim of Colin’s book, became very popular with audiences, and was seen as a sign of the British Zeitgeist. As a result, the press decided to lump Wilson and Osborne together with several other writers, including Kingsley Amis, Alan Sillitoe, Harold Pinter and others, and dubbed them the “angry young men.” Although their specific styles and ideas had little in common, these writers were young and discontented with British society of the 1950s, and came from lower-class backgrounds. So, Colin was now part of a literary movement. Another of the angry young men was Bill Hopkins, a lifelong friend of Colin’s, who in later years befriended Jonathan Bowden. Although Hopkins was soon to abandon his writing career in favor of becoming an art dealer, he did publish a single novel, The Divine and the Decay (later republished as The Leap!), which explores fascistic ideas. (See Jonathan Bowden’s excellent lecture ^[9] on Hopkins.)

The Outsider

So what is The Outsider? The book is still in print – and, as far as I know, has been continuously since 1956 – so readers still have ample opportunity to find out for themselves. But I will provide a brief overview. It is a survey of writers, artists, and mystics who Colin believed defined the outsider identity. This included H. G. Wells, George Bernard Shaw, Hermann Hesse, Albert Camus, Jean-Paul Sartre, T. S. Eliot, Ernest Hemingway, T. E. Lawrence, Vincent van Gogh, Nijinsky, Friedrich Nietzsche, Fyodor Dostoevsky, William Blake, Ramakrishna, and G. I. Gurdjieff, among others.

Colin defined “outsiders” as those individuals who feel alienated from the society they live in, and who feel compelled to defy the conventions of their time and attempt to forge something new that transcends it, either in their work or in their own lives (sometimes both). He once said that outsiders are the warts that appear on the face of a civilization that has lost its health and sense of meaning. Colin believed that the existentialists, who were at the peak of their popularity in Continental Europe at the time he was writing, held the key to understanding this predicament. The existentialists recognized that life has no meaning apart from what we ourselves give it, which Colin agreed with. But he took the French existentialists to task for coming to what he saw as negative conclusions. Sartre and Camus, he held, saw it as a tragedy that man has no essential meaning and that he was “condemned” to be free. Such a view led Sartre to come to the rather ridiculous conclusion that, all meanings being equal, he should embrace Communism. For Colin, existentialism should not be about making false commitments, but rather of affirming the boundless potential freedom of the individual to realize himself.

The mystical experience was a vital proof of this. (“Any system of values must ultimately be mystical,” he wrote.) Rather than interpreting mysticism in a religious way (Colin was always uninterested in any form of institutionalized religion), he saw such experiences as a crucial factor in human evolution. An analogy he frequently used was the “Christmas morning” experience that a child has, when everything seems alive, fresh and infinitely complex, or the “absurd good news” referenced by G. K. Chesterton. In Colin’s view, psychologically healthy people have such experiences all the time. He believed that those who were among the elite of human society (which he estimated as being 5% of the whole) would actively seek such states through various means such as adventure, danger, sex, drugs, battle, art, and/or asceticism. For Colin, this was more than just a psychological phenomenon – it was a presaging of an entirely new form of consciousness that humans are only just beginning to explore, but which will eventually bring about an entirely new phase in our development. “The outsider stands for truth,” he wrote.

Career and Ideas

In spite of the savagery his second book sustained at the hands of the critics, the success of The Outsider had at least provided Colin with enough money to purchase a home in Cornwall, where he and Joy were to remain permanently, and they began raising a family – Colin eventually had three sons and one daughter. He also now had a reputation as a writer, and this enabled him to begin supporting himself entirely from his writing, although this proved to be a challenging task for a man with a family, and no doubt explains his prodigious output. His intensive need to make his living by his pen even led to a nervous breakdown in 1973, from the strain of overwork.

In typical Wilsonian fashion, Colin was inspired to take one of his ideas from the experience, which he termed “the ladder of selves,” by which he meant the various levels of consciousness that one can attain. Most, he felt, never venture beyond the lower rungs, which are accessible by anyone with merely biological impulses. But those with a drive to realize their will, he believed, could access the higher rungs, and discover previously unknown layers of their own personalities. Colin believed that multiple personality disorder was a corruption of this facet of human nature.

Nevertheless, Colin persevered, and always earned his living as a writer (with occasional teaching gigs, lecturing, and television appearances to go along with it). Wilson also had a reputation for being a voracious book and record (LPs, for the young) collector. He is reputed to have acquired many tens of thousands of volumes over the course of his life, and eventually had to construct a series of sheds on his property in Cornwall in order to house them.

Colin’s writing career had two distinct phases to it. The phase that commenced with The Outsider, and which comprises his work of the 1950s and ’60s, I would term his “New Existentialism” phase, and is undoubtedly the era of his most important books. This is when Colin laid down the premises for his work, primarily through philosophy and literature, although he also began to engage with psychology. He befriended Dr. Abraham Maslow, and adopted from him the term “peak experience” to describe the mystical states of intensity which outsiders experience. Maslow believed that peak experiences come and go, but that one couldn’t control them. Colin contested this idea, believing that they could be induced at will, and he actually worked at developing techniques by which they could be attained.

At the same time, he was also laying the foundations for a new school of existentialism that was free of the pessimism that defined the French incarnation of it. Colin was very adamant that pessimism was detrimental to human development, and believed that pessimism could even affect perception and thus alter one’s ability to accurately perceive and know the world. This was an overriding concern of his throughout his career. An illustration he frequently used to make this point was the existence in the course of Van Gogh’s lifetime both of the painting, “Starry Night,” and Van Gogh’s suicide note. When one looks at the painting, one is awestruck by the wonderment of the scene. It gives the impression of an overflowing of the senses, of gifted perception made permanent. And yet the man who was capable of seeing the world in this way was also capable of despising life to the extent that he could destroy himself, leaving a note that said, “Misery will never end.” “‘Starry Night’ was true, the suicide note was false,” Colin was fond of saying. I still believe that the basis for a new existentialism upon the premises that he outlined remains an as yet unexplored potential worthy of further consideration, and may even offer a worthy alternative to postmodernism.

In 1971, this interest in the mystical led to one of Colin’s most important works, The Occult ^[10]. This was the book that launched what came to define the second part of his career: the mystical and the supernatural, which Colin believed provided further evidence for the coming change in human consciousness. Colin’s interest in such matters wasn’t motivated by any interest in demonic powers or such things, but rather his view that such phenomena are manifestations of unsuspected powers of the human mind, which he thought we would eventually learn to control and exploit. The Occult became the first of many books that Colin would write on the subject. Beginning in the 1990s, he also wrote a series of books which I personally found fascinating on the evidence for an advanced, worldwide civilization on the Earth in prehistoric times (along the lines of Graham Hancock’s Fingerprints of the Gods ^[11]). Even these books tie into his interest in consciousness, since he believed, along with Julian Jaynes, that the ancients possessed a different form of it than we have today.

The other genre that defines the second part of Colin’s career is true crime, which actually began in 1961 when he co-wrote Encyclopedia of Murder ^[12], although he began writing much more on the subject beginning in the 1970s. Murder is also something that occurs frequently in Colin’s novels. Colin was always fascinated by it, and by serial killers in particular. He viewed serial killers as a sort of flawed type of outsider – he believed they were artists whose creative powers had become misdirected into violence, and that the thrill they got from transgressing the moral order (which he thought induced a type of peak experience in the killers) became addictive. Colin thought that some criminals could be successfully rehabilitated by offering them an artistic outlet while they were in prison, and he helped to design experimental programs that were used in prisons in the United States.

Some people who had been admirers of his early books were disappointed by the turn that Colin’s work took from the 1970s onward. Apart from occasional essays, Colin largely abandoned philosophy and literary criticism – he wrote no major works on those subjects after the early 1970s. Part of this was no doubt because he discovered that it was easier to sell occult and true crime books than books on philosophy. However, I do believe that he said everything that he wanted to say about philosophy in those early books, and his later books – the best of them, at any rate – can be seen as a continuation of his earlier concerns in other mediums. Colin’s perpetual subject was always consciousness and its possibilities, and while some may disagree with the direction he took, there is no doubt in my mind that he genuinely believed that the study of the occult and of the criminal mentality could offer vital clues as to how consciousness is evolving, and thus help to resolve the “search for meaning” of the existential outsider.

There are also some books of his that defy easy categorization. There is A Book of Booze ^[13], his book on one of his greatest loves: wine (and I can report that we polished off several bottles at his insistence on the evening that I was fortunate enough to join him for dinner). There is Brandy of the Damned ^[14], his survey of one of his other greatest loves: classical music. There is L’Amour: The Ways of Love ^[15], a book he wrote on sex to accompany a series of erotic photographs. And there are also his many novels, including several written in the world of the Cthulhu Mythos of Lovecraft; but trying to do a survey of them goes beyond the scope of this essay.

Politics

As this is appearing at Counter-Currents, I feel I should also write something about Colin’s relationship to politics. Colin himself always eschewed politics, and rarely mentioned it in his work; he said at times that he didn’t think writers should engage with contemporary politics, and suggested on more than one occasion that writers who did so were wasting their time. He also claimed that he really didn’t understand politics himself. Nevertheless, there are a few interesting things to be said. I have already discussed Colin’s relationship with both Sir Oswald Mosley and Bill Hopkins. In his autobiography, he says that he considered himself to be an anarchist in his youth; in the 1950s and ’60s, he expressed sympathy for socialism in some of his public statements. In the 1970s, he aroused some controversy for writing a review of Richard Verrall’s Did Six Million Really Die?, a work of Holocaust revisionism. The controversy arose not because Colin defended Verrall’s thesis, since he remained noncommittal about it, but simply because he said that the evidence presented was compelling and was worthy of being taken seriously. Given the problems he had encountered earlier because of his connection to Mosley, this has also been presented by some as proof of his fascist sympathies.

I also recall reading an uncollected essay by Colin that was published in the 1970s on the subject of Hitler. The essay as a whole was rather unremarkable, but something Colin wrote at the end of it struck me and stuck in my memory. I don’t have a copy at hand, but I remember he pointed out that Hitler’s power derived from his ability to create a myth that inspired and motivated the German people to incredible feats. At the end, he wrote something to the effect of, “If the civilization which defeated Hitler is actually to demonstrate that it is better than his was, then it needs to create heroic myths of its own, rather than embrace nihilism.” I think this aptly sums up the primary difference between  the traditional worldview and that of liberalism.

By the 1980s, Colin had taken a more decisive turn toward Toryism. This was underscored by what I believe to be his sole venture into the world of contemporary politics: a volume he co-edited in 1987 entitled Marx Refuted: The Verdict of History ^[16]. It is an anthology of essays opposing Marxism which includes one by no less a person than Margaret Thatcher, as well as contributions from Arthur Koestler, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, A. L. Rowse, and Milton Friedman, as well as from Colin himself. How this book came about or why Colin chose to do it, I don’t know, but it is an interesting footnote to his otherwise total disinterest in politics.

Something that is not very well-known about Colin, however, is that his books are extremely popular in the Middle East, and many of them have been translated into Arabic and Farsi (although he once mentioned to me that he profited little from this popularity, as most of the books were pirated editions). In 1973, he was invited to Beirut, where he was met at the airport by the mayor of the city on a red carpet. On the same trip he was invited by some Palestinian guerrillas to visit one of their camps. The experience made him very sympathetic to the Palestinian cause, and he wrote an essay in favor of them at the time. He also related to me that on this same trip, he went to Damascus, where he was met by the then War Minister, General Tlas, who regaled him with a story from when he and his comrades had been imprisoned by the previous regime. They had read Colin’s novel Ritual in the Dark by tearing the pages out of a copy and passing them from one to the other as they read.  As a token of thanks, he presented Colin and Joy with Arab robes and a bronze plaque. Colin was also invited to Iran at the behest of the government in the 1970s, but he said the plan fell through after the Shah was overthrown.

The most interesting connection, however, is between Colin and Colonel Gaddafi. Gaddafi made frequent complimentary references both to Colin and to The Outsider throughout his reign. (I remember seeing a transcript of a speech he had given in the 1990s in which he chided the Clinton White House for inviting Salman Rushdie there, but not Colin Wilson.) Colin told me that he had been asked by the Libyan embassy to make a visit to the country at the government’s behest, but that he had declined out of fear that such a visit would have made it seem as though he were endorsing Gaddafi’s politics.

I would not call Colin a Rightist or a traditionalist. To do such a thing would be to read something into his work that simply isn’t there. At the same time, however, Colin always remained an unabashed elitist, from start to finish. He often reiterated his view that it is only 5% of humanity that comprise a potential elite, and that the majority of men, as he once put it, ought not to have bothered to be born at all. As such, his work is entirely consistent with a hierarchical view of life and civilization.

Reflections

I no longer view Colin Wilson as the demigod that I saw him as when I was in my mid-’20s, when I took his word as gospel and believed that he had the answer to life, the universe, and everything. (Julius Evola and René Guénon, whom I discovered shortly thereafter, soon knocked him off of that pedestal.) His critics are at least partially correct when they say that Colin sometimes overstretched himself, and was perhaps guilty of too much generalization and unfounded speculation on occasion. And I certainly would not suggest to anyone that they attempt to read through his entire corpus – anyone who has read many of Colin’s books will attest that only a third of them, perhaps, are truly great. The rest of them contain a lot of repetition, and some of them were obviously only written for money (such as many of his occult and true crime books, entertaining as they can be). But that third is genuine gold, and I believe is worthy of being read by anyone who is looking for worthy alternatives to the prevailing way of thinking about the nature and destiny of humanity in modern times.

Colin Wilson occupies a unique place in late twentieth-century thought. In an era of extreme specialization, he dared to range across the entire gamut of human endeavor in pursuit of understanding humanity’s untapped potential. In an era when the culture and figures of the West are frequently derided, Colin based his work unapologetically on the best minds of our civilization, and never worried about political correctness. In an era when equality, conformity and consumerism is valued over genuine achievement and self-development, Colin offered a vision of heroism, which affirmed that not only can an individual rise above the monotonous, bourgeois reality of our times, but that, for the outsider, it is an absolute must.

His vision will remain a compelling one long after his death.

His Chief Works

For those interested in delving into Colin’s work, I can offer a few suggestions. Many of Colin’s older works are long out-of-print, but it’s usually not difficult to find used copies.

His most important works, few would argue, are those in his “Outsider cycle.” The sequence is comprised of The Outsider, Religion and the Rebel ^[6], The Age of Defeat ^[17] (an abridged edition was published in the United States as The Stature of Man), The Strength to Dream ^[18], Origins of the Sexual Impulse ^[19], and Beyond the Outsider ^[20]. A seventh volume, variously published as The New Existentialism ^[21] and An Introduction to the New Existentialism ^[22], presents the ideas from these books in brief, and can serve as a good summary for those uninterested in reading the entire series.

The Craft of the Novel ^[23] is probably Colin’s most important work of literary criticism. In it he discusses his conception of “Existential Criticism,” in which he held that a work of literature should be evaluated first and foremost on the basis of the ideas and worldview it presents.

In terms of his occult work, The Occult ^[10] and Mysteries ^[24] are his two primary works, of many he wrote on the subject. Beyond the Occult ^[25] seems to have been an attempt by Colin to reconcile his later interest in the occult with his earlier, existential ideas.

A Criminal History of Mankind ^[26] is undoubtedly Colin’s most important work in the area of criminology. New Pathways in Psychology: Maslow and the Post-Freudian Revolution ^[27] was the product of his interaction with Maslow, and it examines the idea of the “peak experience” at length.

And lastly, there are his novels. He wrote many, including “novels of ideas,” mysteries, and science fiction. My personal favorites would include Ritual in the Dark ^[7], which is about a struggling young writer named Gerard Sorme who is obsessed with the meaninglessness of life, until he begins to worry that a friend of his could be a serial killer who is on the loose in London. Another I enjoyed was The World of Violence ^[28], which is about a young mathematical prodigy, Hugh Greene, who becomes dissatisfied with the intellectual world and becomes attracted to violence, becoming embroiled in a criminal gang, guns and the hunt for a serial killer. And then there is The Philosopher’s Stone ^[29], which is set in the world of the Cthulhu Mythos. Colin was enticed into the Lovecraftian world by August Derleth, who had challenged Colin to write the earlier novel The Mind Parasites ^[30], also a Cthluhu Mythos story. Derleth praised Colin for his efforts. The Philosopher’s Stone ^[29] is about a scientist, Howard Lester, who is conducting experiments in an effort to extend the human lifespan, but accidentally discovers an operation on the brain which results in greatly enhanced mental powers. As he begins to explore the new powers of his mind, Lester comes to realize that there are ancient and powerful hidden forces which are seeking to prevent humanity from evolving beyond its current state. Bits of Colin’s philosophy always find their way into his novels.

There is also a good anthology of selections from several of Colin’s works intended to introduce his chief ideas entitled The Essential Colin Wilson ^[31]. Colin also regarded a survey of his work written by Howard F. Dossor, Colin Wilson: The Man and His Mind ^[32] to have been the best and most comprehensive to date.

 

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Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2013/12/a-heroic-vision-for-our-time/

URLs in this post:

[1] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/wilson.jpg

[2] The Outsider: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0874772060/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0874772060&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[3] Beyond the Outsider: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0000CMF88/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0000CMF88&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[4] Voyage to a Beginning: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0006CZ5MU/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0006CZ5MU&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[5] Dreaming to Some Purpose: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0099471477/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0099471477&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[6] Religion and the Rebel: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0575012587/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0575012587&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[7] Ritual in the Dark: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0914171631/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0914171631&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[8] Look Back in Anger: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0140481753/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0140481753&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[9] lecture: http://www.counter-currents.com/2013/07/bill-hopkins-and-he-angry-young-men/

[10] The Occult: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0394465555/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0394465555&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[11] Fingerprints of the Gods: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0517887290/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0517887290&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[12] Encyclopedia of Murder: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0006AX7B8/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0006AX7B8&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[13] A Book of Booze: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0575018313/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0575018313&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[14] Brandy of the Damned: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0000CMCCT/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0000CMCCT&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[15] L’Amour: The Ways of Love: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0006C2USC/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0006C2USC&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[16] Marx Refuted: The Verdict of History: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0906798728/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0906798728&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[17] The Age of Defeat: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0000CKD1W/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0000CKD1W&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[18] The Strength to Dream: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0349137366/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0349137366&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[19] Origins of the Sexual Impulse: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0000CLQME/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0000CLQME&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[20] Beyond the Outsider: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0881847046/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0881847046&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[21] The New Existentialism: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0704504154/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0704504154&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[22] An Introduction to the New Existentialism: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000NUOT0O/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B000NUOT0O&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[23] The Craft of the Novel: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0575019972/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0575019972&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[24] Mysteries: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1842931857/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1842931857&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[25] Beyond the Occult: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00FIMWELS/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00FIMWELS&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[26] A Criminal History of Mankind: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0881846465/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0881846465&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[27] New Pathways in Psychology: Maslow and the Post-Freudian Revolution: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0575027967/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0575027967&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[28] The World of Violence: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1939140269/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1939140269&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[29] The Philosopher’s Stone: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0874775094/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0874775094&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[30] The Mind Parasites: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0974935999/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0974935999&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[31] The Essential Colin Wilson: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0890874727/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0890874727&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[32] Colin Wilson: The Man and His Mind: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1852301767/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1852301767&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

Alcune riflessioni sul linguaggio di Tolkien ne Il signore degli anelli

Alcune riflessioni sul linguaggio di Tolkien ne Il signore degli anelli

Autore: Riccardo Rosati

Ex: http://www.centrostudilaruna.it

Un articolo uscito non troppo tempo fa sul Corriere della Sera, a firma di Dario Fertilio (1), ripercorreva le più sensazionali, e in molti casi inspiegabili, bocciature per il Premio Nobel per la letteratura; a conferma del fatto che forse è più illustre la lista degli esclusi che quella di coloro a cui è stato conferito il celeberrimo riconoscimento (2). Tra coloro giudicati “non all’altezza” compare anche il nome di J. R. R. Tolkien. Il motivo della bocciatura ha del sorprendente, ovvero sembra che l’inglese utilizzato dallo scrittore e linguista nei suoi romanzi non fosse degno di un tale premio. In questa analisi intendiamo fornire, per ovvi motivi di spazio, solo delle prime indicazioni e chiavi di lettura su un argomento decisamente complesso e quasi per nulla studiato dalla letteratura di settore in lingua italiana. Tornando al succitato articolo di Fertilio, leggiamo come i giurati scelti dalla Accademia Reale Svedese delle Scienze abbiano a suo tempo etichettato l’opera tolkieniana quale “prosa di seconda categoria”, e poco importa se si ha a che fare con uno degli autori più letti e apprezzati nella intera storia della letteratura mondiale. L’assurdo lo si raggiunge quando si pensa che non solo Tolkien è stato professore di Letteratura Inglese Medievale a Oxford, ma persino esperto traduttore di testi antichi (3). Su questo tema, potrebbe essere utile citare un interessante saggio dell’accademico anglosassone Ross Smith, nel quale si evidenzia la passione di Tolkien per l’inglese antico, dunque per le radici stesse di questa lingua: “Una relazione del professor Tom Shippey intitolata Tolkien and the Beowulf-Poet comincia con la seguente domanda retorica: ‘Tolkien si è mai chiesto se lui potesse essere il poeta del Beowulf reincarnato?’” (4). Ciononostante, l’inglese di Tolkien è stato considerato da molti e per lungo tempo non abbastanza buono.

Giudizio avventato? Svista clamorosa o semplice miopia intellettuale? In fondo, non si diceva la stessa cosa di Joseph Conrad, altro mostro sacro della letteratura anglosassone? Se per quest’ultimo la ragione della sua presunta inadeguatezza letteraria era da imputare al fatto di essere di origine straniera (5), l’inglese non essendo in effetti la sua prima lingua, per quanto riguarda Tolkien, crediamo di non azzardare un giudizio privo di fondamento se affermiamo che la sua “colpa” risiedeva proprio nella forma di letteratura in cui si esprimeva: il (6) Fantasy. Tuttavia, Tolkien non fu l’unico a essere “maltrattato”, in quella occasione, dai giurati del Nobel (7). Non è un mistero per nessuno del resto che la distribuzione geografica fra i paesi e un equilibrio fra destra e sinistra (con una prevalenza per quest’ultima) presiedano da sempre ai criteri di scelta. Il preconcetto storico nei confronti di Tolkien è principalmente legato alla accusa di fuggire dalla realtà, di non essere un autore impegnato ma solo un buon mestierante che si cimenta a scrivere complesse favole per bambini troppo cresciuti. Lo scrittore Howard Jacobson, tanto per citare uno dei numerosi casi di ostilità intellettuale susseguitesi negli anni, reagì con rabbioso disprezzo all’incredibile successo delle opere del nostro autore: “Tolkien… quello per bambini, no? O per adulti ritardati…”. Raramente un romanzo ha causato tante controversie e il vetriolo della critica ha messo in evidenza lo scisma culturale tra i letterati “illuminati” e il pubblico dei lettori. A difesa di Tolkien, qualche anno addietro, si è levato con vigore Patrick Curry, il quale in un suo studio (8) afferma senza mezze parole che Il signore degli anelli è tutto tranne che una “fuga dalla realtà”. Per Curry, Tolkien non ci fa solo la predica, come avviene in John Ruskin o G. K. Chesterton, sui pericoli del mondo moderno. Egli ha infatti tessuto con la sua opposizione alla modernità una narrazione ricca e intricata che offre una alternativa, con la creazione di un mondo completamente diverso, ma che è a sua volta una proposta per una riscoperta della nostra Tradizione.

Gli ostracismi nel mondo anglosassone verso Tolkien si ritrovano anche nelle parole di Chris Woodhead, dal 1994 al 2000 a capo del Servizio Ispezioni Scolastiche in Inghilterra, il quale stigmatizzava le basse aspettative culturali della opera tolkieniana, affermando in più occasioni come Il signore degli anelli è un libro che si legge benissimo, ma non è il prodotto migliore della letteratura inglese di questo secolo”. Woodhead dava voce alle preoccupazioni di molti pedagogisti presi alla sprovvista dal successo di Tolkien. Dunque, da un lato il malcelato snobismo intellettuale di molta critica, dall’altro il timore degli educatori che romanzi quali Il signore degli anelli potessero deviare i giovani dall’apprendimento di un perfetto inglese e dal costruirsi una solida cultura, grazie alla frequentazione di autori canonici.

La ostilità verso Tolkien ha avuto anche la sua “scena” italiana (9). Difatti, sin dalla sua prima edizione, quella del 1970, nella quale compare anche quel dotto e suggestivo riassunto introduttivo a firma di Elémire Zolla, intorno al nostro autore nacquero vari pregiudizi. Non potendo ovviamente svalutare il linguaggio di una opera in traduzione, a Il signore degli anelli venne imputato di essere una storia reazionaria, vicina alle simpatie di una destra neofascista. Tuttavia, sulle qualità di quello che lo stesso Zolla definì “il maggior studioso di letteratura anglosassone e medievale” (10) si volle tacere, poiché Tolkien era tabù e lo restò per molto tempo. Se si intende analizzare le capacità linguistiche di Tolkien, è fondamentale tenere a mente come il suo primo lavoro al ritorno dal fronte della Prima Guerra Mondiale fu quello di assistente presso il prestigiosissimo Oxford English Dictionary (OED) (11). Lo stesso Tolkien ha affermato di aver imparato di più in questi due anni che in nessun altro uguale lasso di tempo nella sua vita. Pochi sono gli autori che hanno tratto così tanta della loro vena creativa dalla storia e dai mutamenti dei singoli vocaboli. Dal suo amore per le parole e il modo di utilizzarle possiamo trarre una ulteriore prova di come egli ricercasse con assiduità un linguaggio ricco, quanto vario, come si afferma nell’attento studio The Ring of Words (12), nel quale si parla di Tolkien anche come un creatore di parole (13).

Tolkien è stato inoltre un traduttore puntiglioso (14). Sempre Ross Smith evidenzia quanto la traduzione come concetto fosse onnipresente nel nostro scrittore, persino nei suoi lavori creativi: “Parlando ora della prosa di Tolkien, è interessante notare come nella Appendice F de Il signore degli anelli ci dica che tutta la sua storia epica è per l’appunto una traduzione” (15). Chiaramente i personaggi della Terra di Mezzo non parlano inglese, difatti il loro linguaggio o lingua-franca è il Westron. Il “trucco” escogitato da Tolkien è quello di affermare di aver solo tradotto in inglese Il signore degli anelli, così da rendere comprensibile anche all’uomo moderno questa storia. Ovviamente, l’autore si diverte solo ad ammiccare alla possibile veridicità del proprio romanzo, creandone però un piacevole divertissement letterario.

Tornando all’argomento chiave di questo nostro breve ragionamento, è un fatto decisamente curioso che una persona tanto attenta al significato delle parole – questa è infatti la qualità principale di un traduttore – non fosse tuttavia capace di utilizzare un inglese di qualità. Questo crediamo sia un altro punto abbastanza solido a favore di chi sostiene, e chi scrive è tra questi, che per lungo tempo i romanzi di Tolkien sono stati vittima di più di un mero fraintendimento e che il suo linguaggio sia degno di uno studio attento e imparziale. Parlando ora più da vicino proprio del linguaggio di Tolkien, riteniamo che esso sia ricco, grazie alla presenza di un vocabolario vario e ricercato. In più occasioni lo scrittore ci offre descrizioni meravigliose, con un tono evocativo che fa talvolta della lingua virtù. Soprattutto, egli crea un universo di mito, magia e archetipi che risuona nei più remoti recessi della memoria e dell’immaginazione del mondo occidentale. Tolkien era uno studioso di prim’ordine che attingeva dalla vitale eredità anglosassone.

Giunti a questo punto, analizzeremo ora alcuni brevi estratti dal tomo I della Trilogia, presenti nel capitolo intitolato Il ponte di Khazad-Dûm (16). Si è scelta questa particolare sezione della opera tolkieniana per due motivi. Il primo è che essa è tra le parti più conosciute della saga de Il signore degli anelli. Il secondo, come vedremo, perché in questo capitolo si trovano molti degli elementi distintivi dello stile narrativo dell’autore. I brani sono tre, a dimostrazione di altrettanti aspetti del linguaggio del Tolkien scrittore.

Il primo è un significativo esempio di quanto la presenza di una idea della cultura antica (in inglese lore) aiutasse l’autore a pensare al suo lavoro come a un libro dentro un libro, creando in tal modo un significativo esempio di metaletteratura e ipertestualità. Così avviene durante la lettura da parte di Gandalf del diario del popolo nanico che un tempo abitava le Miniere di Moria. Le parole pronunciate dal mago si fondono con le vicende dei protagonisti della storia, l’orrore che un tempo distrusse gli abitanti di quei luoghi, pagina dopo pagina, mentre il mago grigio è intento a leggere, si sta per riabbattere sulla Compagnia dell’Anello: “A sudden dread and horror of the chamber fell on the Company, ‘We cannot get out’, muttered Gimli. ‘It was well for us that the pool had sunk a little, and that the Watcher was sleeping down at the southern end’” (423) (17).

Il secondo brano che abbiamo scelto potrebbe essere definito un “classico”, ovvero un esempio di come Tolkien abbia in buona parte codificato il linguaggio delle scene di azione del fantasy, con l’utilizzo di determinate parole per rappresentare azioni e suoni: “There was a crash on the door, followed by crash after crash. Rams and hammers were beating against it. It cracked and staggered back, and the opening grew suddenly wide. Arrows came whistling in, but struck the northern wall, and fell harmlessly to the floor” (426) (18). Che le frecce “sibilino” (whistle) è ormai un modo di dire codificato in questo genere narrativo e tutto l’impianto linguistico delle scene d’azione in Tolkien, come ben dimostra questo estratto, rappresenta il canone di ogni battaglia fantasy scritta dopo Il signore degli anelli.

Infine, l’autore inglese possiede anche quella visibilità (19) del linguaggio tanto cara a Italo Calvino: “The flames roared up to greet it, and wreathed about it; and a black smoke swirled in the air. Its streaming mane kindled, and blazed behind it”  (432) (20). Qui la narrazione tolkieniana dimostra di avere quella fondamentale capacità di creare una astrazione nel lettore, grazie all’uso del linguaggio, così da suggestionarlo e, proprio come afferma Calvino, che riprende le parole di Dante, portarlo in luogo altro, quello della pura letteratura: “O immaginazione, che hai il potere d’importi alle nostre facoltà e alla nostra volontà e di rapirci in un mondo interiore strappandoci al mondo esterno, tanto che anche se suonassero mille trombe non ce ne accorgeremmo” (21).

Forse alla giuria del Nobel saranno sfuggite le qualità linguistiche e letterarie di Tolkien o, più verosimilmente, non era possibile dare un premio tanto blasonato a un autore di “storie per ragazzi”. Magari i giurati avranno giustificato la scelta di cassarlo, individuando, ad esempio, qualche incoerenza nella sua scrittura, come nel posizionamento di alcuni avverbi prima o dopo gli ausiliari, nel diverso modo di scrivere parole come toward e towards, addirittura a distanza di poche righe (458) o, sempre a breve distanza (454), l’alternanza nello scrivere il verbo “essere” (to be) al congiuntivo, con la grafia sia giusta (were), ma anche con quella sbagliata (was), benché da anni questa ultima sia accettata dalla maggioranza dei linguisti.

Concludendo, anche se la scrittura di Tolkien ha le sue piccole debolezze, come del resto avviene praticamente per ogni autore, esse sono davvero così tante e gravi da offuscare la vastità della sua visione, la fecondità della sua immaginazione, il potere ritmico del suo linguaggio? Riteniamo di no, considerato che abbiamo a che fare con uno scrittore in cui la lingua e la letteratura sono una cosa sola: “Tutte pagine di un unico libro, di un esperimento linguistico prima e culturale poi” (22). Dunque, Tolkien andrebbe apprezzato anche come creatore di un logos tipico del fantasy – magari provando a leggerlo in lingua originale – nelle cui pagine si incarna la idea del “mito come linguaggio” (23) e grazie al quale non è solo stato codificato un genere narrativo, ma anche un modo di scrivere.

* * *

(1) Si fa riferimento al numero uscito il 7/1/2012.

(2) Ricordiamo, ad esempio, la triplice bocciatura di Yukio Mishima, per motivi esclusivamente politici. Costui è considerato ormai da anni dalla critica internazionale come uno dei più importanti scrittori giapponesi del Dopoguerra.

(3) Sue sono varie importanti traduzioni, tra tutte quella della pietra miliare della letteratura medievale inglese (Old English e Middle English), il Beowulf, il cui autore e la datazione di composizione sono tuttora incerti. A Tolkien si deve inoltre quello che viene ancora oggi ritenuto il maggior lavoro critico, del 1936, su questo testo antico: The Monsters and the Critics and other Essays, HarperCollins, Londra 1997.

(4) R. Smith, J. R. R. Tolkien and the art of translating English into English, pubblicato nella rivisita online English Today, 99, settembre 2009, p. 1. Il saggio a cui fa riferimento Smith è: T. Shippey, Roots and Branches: Selected Papers on Tolkien, Walking Tree Publishers, Zurigo-Berna 2007, p. 1. Traduzione mia.

(5) Il suo vero nome era Józef Teodor Nałęcz Konrad Korzeniowski, nato a Berdicev (Polonia) nel 1857. A esser precisi, l’inglese fu la terza lingua che imparò: la prima fu, ovviamente, il polacco e la seconda il francese. Ciononostante, molta critica ritiene che l’inglese di Conrad sia decisamente ricco, con un uso del linguaggio evocativo e a tratti simbolico. Lo scrittore non aveva forse competenze da madrelingua nel parlato, visto che il suo accento tradiva una origine straniera.

(6) Preferiamo non seguire il costume abbastanza diffuso in Italia di utilizzare questo termine al femminile, dunque la fantasy, visto che la lingua inglese non attribuisce generi ai sostantivi. Ragion per cui, crediamo sia più corretta una interpretazione legata alla locuzione ellittica: “il genere fantasy”.

(7) Vi furono altri illustri bocciati nel fatidico 1961. Fra questi, due colossi della letteratura del Novecento come Graham Greene e Karen Blixen. Questi ultimi, tuttavia, ebbero un trattamento ben diverso da quello riservato a Tolkien, giacché si piazzarono rispettivamente al secondo e al terzo posto, dopo essere stati attentamente soppesati per le loro qualità letterarie.

(8) P. Curry, Defending Middle-Earth: Tolkien: Myth and Modernity, HarperCollins, Londra 1998.

(9) Uno dei più attenti studiosi tolkieniani italiani, Gianfranco de Turris, ha tracciato una precisa evoluzione storica di questo fenomeno, evidenziando come il periodo di maggiore ostracismo verso Tolkien nel nostro paese sia individuabile tra il 1977 e la fine degli anni ‘80. Cfr. Dal terriccio alle foglie, in “Albero” di Tolkien. Come il signore degli anelli ha segnato la cultura del nostro tempo, a cura di G. de Turris, Bompiani, Milano 2007.

(10) J. R. R. Tolkien, La compagnia dell’anello, Bompiani, Milano 2006, p. 11.

(11) Questo dizionario è da tempo considerato come il canone per l’inglese britannico ed è spesso messo in contrapposizione con il suo “rivale” storico, il Cambridge Dictionary. Se il primo, difatti, rappresenta la tradizione linguistica inglese, il secondo tende a incoraggiare l’utilizzo di un International English di chiara impronta americana. Non è un caso dunque che Tolkien, futuro filologo e linguista, sia uscito dalla scuola dell’OED.

(12) P. Gilliver, J. Marshall, E. Weiner, The Ring of Words: Tolkien and the Oxford English Dictionary, University Press, Oxford 2006.

(13) La sua vasta conoscenza del lessico inglese è dimostrata dal gran numero di arcaismi presenti nella sua scrittura. Una lista di questi si può trovare anche su Internet: http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/words.html.

(14) Ha tradotto specialmente opere medievali della letteratura angloassone. Un suo altro importante lavoro in questo campo è rappresentato dalla traduzione del poema anonimo del XIV secolo: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Pearl and Sir Orfeo, a cura di C. Tolkien, Allen & Unwin, Londra 1975.

(15) R. Smith, op. cit., p. 9. Traduzione mia.

(16) Trattasi del capitolo V del primo tomo della Trilogia. Il titolo originale è The Bridge of Khazad-Dûm.

(17) In corpo al testo i numeri di pagina della edizione originale in inglese: The Fellowship of the Ring, HarperCollins, Londra 2001. In nota, invece, sono riportate le traduzioni in italiano, a cura di Vicky Alliata di Villafranca, dei brani citati. “Una paura e un orrore improvvisi di quella stanza s’impadronirono della Compagnia. ‘Non possiamo più uscire’, mormorò Gimli. ‘È stato un bene per noi che lo stagno sia sceso leggermente, e che l’Osservatore stesse dormendo all’estremità sud’”. J. R. R. Tolkien, La compagnia dell’anello, cit., p. 424.

(18) “Un colpo risuonò con fracasso contro la porta, seguito da un altro e da altri ancora. Arieti e martelli battevano con forza sempre maggiore. Il battente scricchiolò vacillando, e la fessura si aprì improvvisamente. Delle frecce entrarono sibilando, ma urtando contro la parete caddero in terra inoffensive”. Ivi, p. 427.

(19) Ci riferiamo ovviamente all’omonimo capitolo, facente parte del celeberrimo testo di Italo Calvino: Lezioni americane, Mondadori, Milano 1993, pp. 89-110.

(20) “Con un ruggito le fiamme s’innalzarono in segno di saluto, intrecciandosi intorno a lui; un fumo nero turbinò nell’aria. La criniera svolazzante dell’oscura forma prese fuoco, avvampandolo”. J. R. R. Tolkien, La compagnia dell’anello, cit., p. 433.

(21) I. Calvino, op. cit., p. 92.

(22) A. Bonomo, Nostalgia di un’innocenza perduta: disobbedienza e sacrificio in The Hobbit di J. R. R. Tolkien, in Rivista di Studi Italiani, Anno XXIX, n° 1, Giugno 2011, p. 291.

(23) Ivi, p. 288.

* * *

Tratto, con il gentile consenso della Redazione, da Antarès, n. 03/2012, J.R.R. Tolkien. Un’epica per il nuovo millennio, http://www.antaresrivista.it/Antares_03_web.pdf.

Cinquant'anni fa moriva C. S. Lewis

Cinquant'anni fa moriva C. S. Lewis, il creatore di miti che oggi sanno ancora incantare

Annalisa Terranova

Ex: http://www.secoloditalia.it

Clive Staples Lewis, l’inventore del ciclo di Narnia, il fine medievista, il divulgatore della fede cristiana, l’amico cui Tolkien leggeva le sue saghe, l’ideatore della science fiction “catartica” e metafisica,  morì cinquant’anni fa a soli 65 anni (era il 22 novembre del 1963). Autore prolifico e di enorme successo, si fece “strumento” del genere fantastico e con i racconti simbolici dal paese immaginario di Narnia (i sette volumi di questa fiaba per bambini e adulti uscirono tra il 1950 e il 1956) divenne uno degli autori più apprezzati dentro e fuori l’Inghilterra. È vivo nella sua opera l’insegnamento di George MacDonald (tra i primi teorizzatori dei canoni della letteratura fantastica): “Noi roviniamo per avidità intellettuale infinite cose che già esistevano prima”. Non bisogna dunque farsi tentare dagli artifici ma tornare alla semplice visione che è propria dell’infanzia, farsi piccoli come gli gnomi e recuperare lo stupore della visione che si fa conoscenza. E la semplicità era anche la cifra stilistica adottata da Lewis nei suoi scritti (questo uno dei suoi consigli: “Invece di dirci che una cosa era terrificante, descrivila in modo da terrorizzarci. Non dire che era meravigliosa: fa’ sì che noi diciamo meraviglioso quando ne leggiamo la descrizione…”).

Era convinto che la forza del mito può risvegliare nell’uomo il desiderio di Dio. Per questo un recente studio dedicato a Lewis lo definisce “maestro dello spirito”. Scrive l’autrice Anna Maria Giorgi: “L’eroismo della quotidianità, ecco quello che ci propone C.S.Lewis con le sue opere e con il suo stesso stile di vita, sulla linea dei santi che sono diventati grandi facendosi piccoli come bambini. Generazioni di lettori si sono convertite leggendo i suoi libri: tra questi, per citarne uno solo, lo scienziato americano Francis Collins, scopritore del genoma umano,il quale si definiva un ateo di ferri finché non si imbatté in un libricino di Lewis, Mere Christianity“. Nella conversione di Lewis, invece, furono cruciali le conversazioni con l’amico Tolkien, con il quale diede vita ad Oxford al club letterario degli Inklings, fucina di idee per le pagine più note e amate della letteratura fantasy.

Paolo Gulisano ha scritto che il simbolismo di Lewis non è sentimentale ma “sacramentale”: “Le sue immagini funzionano spesso come simboli, che hanno la capacità di mostrare la verità e di farle raggiungere la coscienza del lettore e destare la sua meraviglia”. Non meno importante dell’altrove immaginato con Narnia è il viaggio dello scienziato Ransom nella trilogia fanta-teologica che comprende i romanzi Lontano dal pianeta silenzioso, Perelandra e Quell’orribile forza: “Durante il suo involontario viaggio interplanetario Ransom – scrive ancora Anna Maria Giorgi – sa comunque aprire gli occhi a scoprire una bellezza non solo fisica in quella che è la grande danza dell’universo, comprendendo che ‘spazio’ è una parola fredda e inadeguata per definire ‘il sommo oceano di splendore nel quale navigava’ “. Nel personaggio di Ransom, tra l’altro, rivivono alcune caratteristiche dell’amico Tolkien. Lewis non fu solo narratore di fiabe e inventore di miti ma anche un convinto propagandista. Il suo obiettivo polemico, sempre “aggredito” con senso dello humour e leggerezza, senza mai contaminarsi con il fanatismo, era la mentalità scientista e relativista, finché non scelse convintamente di far prevalere in lui l’uomo immaginativo, l’unico in grado di far nascere Narnia: “In me l’uomo immaginativo è più vecchio e opera con più continuità, e in questo senso è più basilare sia rispetto allo scrittore religioso, sia al critico…”.

Clive Staples Lewis era nato a Belfast nel 1898. Fece il suo ingresso all’università di Oxford nel 1916 ma i suoi studi furono interrotti dalla Prima guerra mondiale, alla quale partecipò rimanendo ferito. Nel 1924 comincia sempre a Oxford l’insegnamento di Lingua e letteratura inglese. Nel 1929 abbraccia la fede cristiana. Quattro anni dopo fonda il circolo degli Inklings di cui, oltre a Lewis e Tolkien, fece parte anche lo scrittore Charles Williams. Nel 1942 pubblica uno dei suoi libri più fortunati, The Screwtape Letters, che racconta in forma epistolare il fallito tentativo del diavolo Berlicche di istruire il nipote Malacoda nell’arte della tentazione. Nel 1950 comincia la pubblicazione delle Cronache di Narnia e successivamente sposa la scrittrice Joy Davidman Gresham, che morirà precocemente lasciando Lewis in preda allo sconforto e al dsiorientamento come lo stesso Lewis racconterà nell’autobiografia del 1955, Sorpreso dalla gioia (Surprised by Joy).

D. H. Lawrence on the Metaphysics of Life

D. H. Lawrence on the Metaphysics of Life

By Derek Hawthorne

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

1. Life and the “Creative Mystery”

Lawrence believes that the chief thing modern science simply cannot explain is life itself. And he regards life as an irreducible, and ultimately inexplicable, primary. Further, he believes that there is no such thing as disembodied spirit, or immaterial existence. The only meaningful distinction is that between living and non-living matter.[1]

In addition, Lawrence believes that non-living matter is merely the dead remains of the living. (A position that will strike many as utterly bizarre.) Lawrence makes this claim many times, especially in Fantasia of the Unconscious, but also in his strange, Hermetic essay “The Two Principles.” He writes there, “Inanimate matter is released from the dead body of the world’s creatures. It is the static residue of the living conscious plasm, like feathers of birds.”[2] And: “death is not just shadow or mystery. It is the negative reality of life. It is what we call Matter and Force, among other things. . . . The cosmos is nothing but the aggregate of the dead bodies and dead energies of bygone individuals. The dead bodies decompose as we know into earth, air, and water, heat and radiant energy and free electricity and innumerable other scientific facts.”[3]

Obviously, if the non-living comes from the living and is its residue, then living things must have existed before there were any non-living things. But this seems to present a whole host of difficulties. Where did these living things reside, if not on the non-living rocks we call planets? If they were like the living things we know, then wouldn’t they have had to have breathed oxygen and consumed water? And oxygen and water can hardly be classed as “alive.” Lawrence finds a way around this problem, however, by postulating that in the beginning there were no living things; instead, life was “homogeneous,” and not divided into distinct creatures.

He puts this idea forward in his 1914 philosophical essay “A Study of Thomas Hardy”: “In the origin, life must have been uniform, a great unmoved, utterly homogeneous infinity, a great not-being, at once a positive and negative infinity: the whole universe, the whole infinity, one motionless homogeneity, a something, a nothing.”[4] (I will have reason to return to this quotation later for, as we shall shortly see, Lawrence qualifies this statement in an important way.)

Lawrence’s conception of an undifferentiated, homogeneous “life” is very close to Schopenhauer’s “will.” Recall that in The World as Will and Representation, Schopenhauer argues that the will is an impersonal, self-perpetuating force, and that it lies at the root of all that exists. Lawrence seems to have held some version of this theory for most of his life. In a letter from 1911 he writes: “There still remains a God, but not a personal God: a vast, shimmering impulse which waves onwards towards some end, I don’t know what—taking no regard for the little individual, but taking regard for humanity. When we die, like rain-drops falling back again into the sea, we fall back into the big, shimmering sea of unorganized life which we call God.”[5]

In Women in Love Birkin often expresses Schopenhauerian ideas: “Well, if mankind is destroyed, if our race is destroyed like Sodom, and there is this beautiful evening with the luminous land and trees, I am satisfied. That which informs it all is there, and can never be lost. After all, what is mankind but just one expression of the incomprehensible.”[6] And, later in the novel, Lawrence expresses Birkin’s thoughts after Gerald’s death:

If humanity ran into a cul-de-sac, and expended itself, the timeless creative mystery would bring forth some other being, finer, more wonderful, some new, more lovely race, to carry on the embodiment of creation. The game was never up. The mystery of creation was fathomless, infallible, inexhaustible, for ever. . . . The fountain-head was incorruptible and unsearchable. It had no limits. It could bring forth miracles, create utter new races and new species in its own hour, new forms of consciousness, new forms of body, new units of being. To be man was as nothing compared to the possibilities of the creative mystery.[7]

Lawrence also sometimes refers to “the pan mystery,” and at one point says “God is the flame-life in all the universe; multifarious, multifarious flames, all colours and beauties and pains and somberness. Whichever flame flames in your manhood, that is you, for the time being.”[8] Finally, in one of Lawrence’s last works of fiction, The Man Who Died, he writes,

And always the man who had died saw not the bird alone, but the short, sharp wave of life of which the bird was the crest. . . . And the man who had died watched the unsteady, rocking vibration of the bent bird, and it was not the bird he saw, but one wave-tip of life overlapping for a minute another, in the tide of the swaying ocean of life. And the destiny of life seemed more fierce and compulsive to him even than the destiny of death. The doom of death was a shadow compared to the raging destiny of life, the determined surge of life.[9]

Unlike Schopenhauer, Lawrence never settles on a single term for this “life force,” and so I have chosen to follow his language in Women In Love and to refer to it consistently here as the creative mystery. I take Lawrence’s discussion in “A Study of Thomas Hardy” of primordial life as a “great unmoved, utterly homogeneous infinity,” as yet another description of the creative mystery that lies at the root, and origin of all things.

It is easy to see that the creative mystery forms the basis for Lawrence’s ontology, his theory of Being.[10] If Lawrence merely followed Schopenhauer and identified the creative mystery with Being (as Schopenhauer himself never explicitly does), he would fall squarely within the tradition of what Heidegger calls “ontotheology.” Ontotheology is the error of identifying Being-as-such with the highest or most basic of all beings, or things that have being. The error is analogous to declaring that the characteristic of Tallness is just the same as a thing that happens to be tall (i.e., a thing that “has” tallness). To recognize what Heidegger calls the “ontological difference” is to recognize that Being is not simply another of the beings, no matter how special.

If the creative mystery is something that has Being, then it cannot be Being-as-such. Fortunately, however, Lawrence does not make this error. One of the few places where Lawrence explicitly refers to Being occurs in his essay “Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine”: “The clue to all existence is being. But you can’t have being without existence, any more than you can have the dandelion flower without the leaves and the long tap root.”[11] Essentially, for Lawrence Being is the emergence of individuals out of the creative mystery. The creative mystery itself is not Being, but what one might call the “ground of Being.”

This ontology comes very close to Heidegger’s understanding of the Pre-Socratic conception of Being as phusis. And surely this is no accident. Lawrence’s understanding of the creative mystery and what emerges from it was not formed solely through his encounter with Schopenhauer. His descriptions of it also reflect his encounter with pre-Socratic philosophy, which he also studied carefully. In particular, one can detect a strong hint of Anaximander’s “indefinite” (apeiron), out of which all things emerge and into which they return. I will return to Lawrence’s ontology later when I discuss his theory of the “Holy Ghost,” which “draws” individuals out of the creative mystery and into the flowering of Being. For now, however, we must continue to investigate Lawrence’s understanding of the creative mystery itself.

2. The Holy Ghost

Earlier I quoted Lawrence’s essay “A Study of Thomas Hardy” concerning the origin of life, when it was “uniform, a great unmoved, utterly homogeneous infinity.” However, he qualifies this statement in the next sentence: “And yet it can never have been utterly homogeneous: mathematically, yes; actually, no.”[12] Indeed, Lawrence makes it very clear elsewhere that he believes in the primacy of the individual.

In Fantasia of the Unconscious he writes, “Life is individual, always was individual and always will be. Life consists of living individuals, and always did so consist, in the beginning of everything.”[13] Later in the same text Lawrence remarks that living individuals are “the one, pure clue to our cosmos.” And then: “I only know there is but one origin, and that is the individual soul. The individual soul originated everything, and has itself no origin.”[14]Lawrence is here going a step further. Life is always individual life, but what accounts for individuality as such is “the soul,” or what he calls elsewhere the Holy Ghost. Lawrence has acquired these terms from his Christian upbringing, but he uses them in a highly unusual way, as we will see in the next section.

But here we must pause to raise a troubling, and obvious objection: doesn’t all of this completely contradict the idea Lawrence puts forward that in the beginning only life existed, but that it was an “utterly homogeneous infinity”? Yes and no. Lawrence frankly admits elsewhere that he does not believe there ever was a literal beginning to the universe. So what was the point, then, in telling us what happened “in the origin”? Is Lawrence simply spinning out myths? The answer is yes: Lawrence is consciously and deliberately expresses his ideas in mythic form.

When Lawrence speaks of a homogeneous life “in the origin” this is a mythic way of speaking of the creative mystery that is the source of all things. In a way, one can say that this is the “origin” of all things. However, the creative mystery has always existed in and through individuals. Because these individuals are all expressions of the creative mystery, they are all one; but the one creative mystery exists only within the many. As Lawrence says, “life” is homogeneous “mathematically,” but not “actually.”

Now, some might charge that the foregoing is merely a facile way of trying to resolve what is quite simply a glaring contradiction in Lawrence’s thought. But this is not the case. Lawrence makes it quite clear, in fact, that he means us to interpret him exactly as I have suggested. In his essay “The Two Principles” Lawrence writes: “When we postulate a beginning, we only do so to fix a starting point for our thought. There never was a beginning, and there never will be an end to the universe. The creative mystery, which is life itself, always was and always will be. It unfolds itself in pure living creatures.”[15]

For Lawrence, existence “begins” with an undifferentiated life force, which then progressively and infinitely individuates itself. Of course, we must remember that Lawrence does not believe in a literal beginning. When this is taken into account, his position comes extremely close to that of Schopenhauer: existence is, at root, an infinite will that never exists as such, purely by itself, but is continually “expressed” through individuals. Lawrence’s account of the course of creation then becomes, in effect, an alchemical ontology giving us the ultimate qualities and categories of being itself—the most fundamental of which are Fire and Water.

Lawrence develops his “creation myth” in Fantasia and in “The Two Principles.” It is complex and obscure, and best set aside for the moment. Instead, I will turn now to another issue, and an important one. We have seen that for Lawrence the purpose of existence itself is individuation: the coming-into-being of individuals of various forms, each unique and, to one degree or another, independent and self-sufficient. But how, in metaphysical terms, can we account of the arising of the individual? Lawrence answers this question with his idiosyncratic theory of the “Holy Ghost.”

Writing of the positive “sun-pole” and negative “moon-pole” in Fantasia, Lawrence states that “Existence is truly a matter of propagation between the two infinities. But it needs a third presence. . . . The hailstone needs a grain of dust for its core. So does the universe. Midway between the two cosmic infinities lies the third, which is more than infinite. This is the Holy Ghost Life, individual life.”[16] Lawrence also speaks of the ‘individual soul” as the “one clue to the universe.”[17] We shall see that the soul and the Holy Ghost are, in a way equivalent.

The Holy Ghost, Lawrence tells us, mediates between dualities. In the language of “The Two Principles” the Holy Ghost is that which “draws together” Fire and Water to produce a new individual. In his essay “The Crown,” Lawrence remarks that every new (living) individual is “a glimpse of the Holy Ghost.”[18] And in “Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine” he writes that “All existence is dual, and surging towards a consummation into being. In the seed of the dandelion, as it floats with its little umbrella of hairs, sits the Holy Ghost in tiny compass. The Holy Ghost is that which holds the light and the dark, the day and the night, the wet and the sunny, united in one little clue. There it sits, in the seed of the dandelion.”[19]

Lawrence’s concept of the Holy Ghost is not unlike Aristotelian entelecheia, or full or completed actuality. It is that for that for the sake of which each thing strives: its end, or, in Lawrence’s terms, its “fullness of being.” The entelecheia of a thing is just the fully-accomplished being or acting of the thing, yet it has the status of an ideality which is, in a sense, logically and ontologically prior to the existence of the thing. This comparison may seem a bit of stretch, so let us consider the following statements Lawrence makes in his essays. In “Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine” he writes,

Any creature that attains to its own fullness of being, its own living self, becomes unique, a nonpareil. It has its place in the fourth dimension, the heaven of existence, and there it is perfect, beyond comparison. . . . At the same time, every creature exists in time and space. And in time and space it exists relatively to all other existence, and can never be absolved. Its existence impinges on other existences, and is itself impinged upon. . . . The force which we call vitality, and which is the determining factor in the struggle for existence is, however, derived also from the fourth dimension. That is to say, the ultimate source of all vitality is in that other dimension, or region, where the dandelion blooms, and which men have called heaven, and which now they call the fourth dimension: which is only a way of saying that it is not to be reckoned in terms of space and time.[20]

In “Him with His Tail in His Mouth” (1925), Lawrence writes “Creation is a fourth dimension, and in it there are all sorts of things, gods and what-not. That brown hen, scratching with her hind leg in such common fashion, is a sort of goddess in the creative dimension.”[21] And in “Morality and the Novel” (1925), Lawrence tells us “By life, we mean something that gleams, that has the fourth-dimensional quality.”[22] Nothing in Lawrence is ever completely clear, but it seems clear enough in these passages that he thinks that living things exist in two ways. In space and time they exist alongside other creatures, and in large measure are what they are in contrast or opposition to those other creatures. In truth, however, their being is located in a realm beyond space and time.

So far, this seems Platonic. However, Lawrence tells us that any creature that attains its own “fullness of being” becomes unique, and “has its place in the fourth dimension.” In other words, being, for Lawrence, is an achievement. When creatures actualize themselves through becoming what they are, this actuality (what Lawrence calls “vitality”), achieved in space-time, partakes of the eternal.[23] Employing Aristotelian terminology to explain these ideas is almost irresistible—but I hope at this point that the reader sees that my use of this terminology is not misuse.

The Holy Ghost is the actuality of each individual living thing, existing “prior” to it, drawing it on to its achieved fullness of being. Lawrence’s statement that in the fourth dimension “there are all sorts of things, gods and what-not” is tantalizing. I take it to support my claims about the Holy Ghost (i.e., that it is a non-spatio-temporal ideality). But Lawrence’s remark about the hen shows very clearly that, as I shall argue more fully later on, each individual thing is itself God or a god insofar as it follows its Holy Ghost and achieves its fullness of being.

As we have seen, the universe for Lawrence tends toward individuation—or, to put it another way, the creative mystery realizes itself through the perpetual blossoming of myriad individuals. “While we live, we are balanced between the flux of life and the flux of death. But the real clue is the Holy Ghost, that moves us into the state of blossoming. And each year the blossoming is different: from the delicate blue speedwells of childhood to the equally delicate, frail farewell flowers of old age: through all the poppies and sunflowers: year after year of difference.”[24] The blossom is the “completed” individual, which is a wholly unique creation; an unrepeatable expression of the creative mystery.

Lawrence tells us that “Blossoming means the establishing of a pure, new relationship with all the cosmos.”[25] According to Lawrence’s fanciful cosmogony, “first” the creative mystery abides as the one existing individual. Yet, in this form, it is simply undifferentiated “life plasm”—and, in truth, it is no individual at all, for it has no other against which it marks itself off as a specific something. The creative mystery then comes to actualization as an individual, not through the introduction of a foreign other, but through “othering itself”: through expressing itself as an infinite plurality of individuals, whose identities mutually determine each other – who are drawn forth from the mystery in blossoming, abide for a while, then die. The residue they leave forms the material out of which other living things are grown, and on which they depend for shelter and sustenance.

That Lawrence is aware that he is formulating an ontology is clear from the language he uses. For example, to repeat a quotation from “Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine,” he states that “The clue to all existence is being. But you can’t have being without existence, any more than you can have the dandelion flower without the leaves and the long tap root.”[26] By “being” Lawrence means “blossoming,” which not only bears a strong similarity to the Aristotelian entelecheia, but also, more generally, to the Greek phusis, mentioned earlier. Existence, on the other hand, refers to the concrete forms through which blossoming takes place: individual flowers, animals, human beings, etc.

Lawrence is telling us that the clue to understanding beings is Being, but that there is no Being without beings. So long as one understands the specific sense Lawrence gives to Being—“blossoming”—these are not vacuous statements. Things exist only insofar as they are, in essential terms, the blossoming forth of an underlying, primal reality—and this underlying, primal reality only exists through the concrete forms of blossoming in terms of which it “specifies” itself.

Unsurprisingly, Lawrence goes on to identify his Holy Ghost with God. To Heideggereans, of course, this means that Lawrence’s ontology slides over into the fallacy of ontotheology, discussed earlier. Lawrence remarks that “The flower is the burning of God in the bush: the flame of the Holy Ghost: the actual Presence of accomplished oneness, accomplished out of twoness. The true God is created every time a pure relationship, or a consummation out of twoness into oneness takes place. So that the poppy flower is God come red out of the poppy-plant.”[27]

In truth, however, this is not ontotheology. Lawrence is in actual fact telling us that there is no separate being called God. If however, what we mean by “God” is simply the most fundamental fact or, we might say, the most fundamental act in the universe, then we may identify God with Being or blossoming as such. Lawrence’s imagery in the above quotation is a particularly brilliant example of both his skills as a writer, and as an interpreter of myth. God is the burning bush—but in truth every bush, every flower, every living thing is the fire of God: the fire of “accomplished oneness.” God, for Lawrence, just is individuation, and God comes into being, in the world, each time a new living individual blossoms forth.

So far I have spoken in general terms of the Holy Ghost as, in effect, an ideality all living things are striving, in Aristotelian fashion, to “realize.” But nothing has been said specifically about the Holy Ghost in us, and our experience of it. In his 1924 essay “On Being Religious,” Lawrence tells us that “Only the Holy Ghost within you can scent the new tracks of the Great God across the Cosmos of Creation. The Holy Ghost is the dark hound of heaven whose baying we ought to listen to, as he runs ahead into the unknown, tracking the mysterious everlasting departing of the Lord God, who is for ever departing from us.”[28]

The Holy Ghost is an “ideality,” in the sense that it is something being striven for, but in the human being it is not the intellect or a part of the intellect. In so far as Aristotle seems to identify the actualization of the human animal with the actualization of its intellect, this is definitely a point on which Lawrence parts company with Aristotle. As I have argued in other essays, for Lawrence the “true self” is not to be identified with the conscious, socially-constructed ego, nor is it to be identified with intellect. In fact, for Lawrence, the Holy Ghost in human beings is more or less the same thing that he calls the true unconscious (see my essay “D. H. Lawrence on the Unconscious ^[2]”). It is the primal self that knows without abstract concepts, and guides without words and rules. It is this primal self that draws us on to the realization of our “fullness of being.”

Our Holy Ghost is our being—and it is an expression of the ultimate being, the creative mystery. Thus, when Lawrence tells us that “Only the Holy Ghost within you can scent the new tracks of the Great God across the Cosmos of Creation” he means that if we are to identify ourselves with our primal self—if we are able to become, in a sense, just that—then through it we know all of life, all of the universe. Lawrence’s position is, again, structurally similar to that of Schopenhauer. In Schopenhauer’s philosophy, we come to know the will in nature through the will that manifests itself in our deepest self. Indeed, that is the only way in which we may become aware directly of the will as the source of all that is.

“We go in search of God,” Lawrence writes, “following the Holy Ghost, and depending on the Holy Ghost. There is no Way. There is no Word. There is no Light.”[29] Lawrence means that there is no way to God, to awareness of ultimate reality and ultimate goodness, except through following our own Holy Ghost and letting it draw us into blossoming, into fullness of being. In other words, because God just is Being or blossoming, there is no way to God except through each of us becoming what we are.

Words cannot get us there, nor can following a path marked out by others, or a light kindled by others. Each of us is alone before God, and each way to God is individual because God is individuation. Recall the passage quoted earlier: “Creation is a fourth dimension, and in it there are all sorts of things, gods and what-not. That brown hen, scratching with her hind leg in such common fashion, is a sort of goddess in the creative dimension.”[30] In a sense, each living thing is God insofar as it achieves its fullness of being.

Notes

[1] “There is no utterly immaterial existence, no spirit. The distinction is between living plasm and inanimate matter.” Phoenix II, 230 (“The Two Principles”).

[2] Phoenix II, 230 (“The Two Principles”).

[3] Fantasia, 150-51.

[4] Phoenix, 432 (“A Study of Thomas Hardy”).

[5] Selected Letters of D. H. Lawrence, ed. Diana Trilling (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Cudahy, 1958), 10. Note that Schopenhauer does not identity will with God. His is an atheistic philosophy. But Lawrence has already gone beyond Schopenhauer and given a religious dimension to the will doctrine. Also, there is no direct evidence that Lawrence read The World as Will and Representation. However, we do know that he read Schopenhauer’s essays, and that they made a major impact on him.

[6] D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love (New York: Viking Press, 1969), 52.

[7] Ibid., 470.

[8] Phoenix II, 426 (“The Novel”).

[9] D. H. Lawrence, The Man Who Died (New York: Ecco Press, 1994), 17-18.

[10] I capitalize the B in Being to distinguish it from a being, or thing which has Being. In other words, beings (things which are) have Being.

[11] Phoenix II, 470 (“Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine”).

[12] Phoenix, 432 (“A Study of Thomas Hardy”).

[13] Fantasia, 150.

[14] Fantasia, 160.

[15] Phoenix II, 227 (“The Two Principles”).

[16] Fantasia, 158.

[17] Fantasia, 150.

[18] Phoenix II, 396 (“The Crown”).

[19] Phoenix II, 470 (“Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine”).

[20] Phoenix II, 469 (“Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine”).

[21] Phoenix II, 431 (“Him With His Tail in His Mouth”).

[22] Phoenix I, 529 (“Morality and the Novel”).

[23] In “Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine,” Lawrence writes “Being is not ideal, as Plato would have it: nor spiritual. It is a transcendent form of existence, as much material as existence is. Only the matter suddenly enters the fourth dimension” (Phoenix II, 470). I take Lawrence to be expressing here (without realizing it) essentially the Aristotelian alternative to Platonism: the being of the thing is not another “thing” existing in another reality. Instead, in some sense a living thing becomes eternal—becomes fourth-dimensional—in its actualization. At the same time, we may speak of this “actualization” as something transcendent precisely because it is not a spatio-temporal “thing” at all, but something ontologically “prior” to things. Insofar as it is the actualization of some spatio-temporal living thing, however, in another way it is immanent.

[24] Phoenix II, 396 (“The Crown”).

[25] Phoenix II, 471 (“Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine”).

[26] Ibid., 470.

[27] Phoenix II, 412 (“The Crown”).

[28] Phoenix I, 728 (“On Being Religious”).

[29] Ibid., 729.

[30] Phoenix II, 431 (“Him With His Tail in His Mouth”).

 

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Au royaume de Kipling

Au royaume de Kipling

Par

Mickaël Fonton

 

 

Ex: http://www.valeursactuelles.com

 

1894. Publiée cette année-là, la Légion perdue évoque dans un même mouvement la frontière afghane, le souvenir d'une colonie britannique massacrée en se retirant de Kaboul et la récolte des Cipayes. L'écrivain reporter conserve de l'afghanistan l'image d'un pays fascinant et redouté. 

Kipling nous avait prévenus : cette guerre ne pas être gagnée! De même que l’échec – re - latif – de l’invasion soviétique des années 1980, les difficultés rencontrées par les Britanniques en Afghanistan un siècle plus tôt servent de caution historique à ceux qui, aujourd’hui, jugent perdu d’avance le conflit mené par la coalition occidentale contre les talibans. Il est in contestable que Kipling a connu l’Afghanistan de la fin du XIXe siècle, expérience qui a influencé et nourri son oeuvre littéraire ; il est tout aussi vrai de dire que celle-ci n’a constitué qu’un épisode parmi d’autres d’une vie passée à parcourir de long en large l’Empire britannique, de l’Inde au Canada en passant par l’Afrique australe et l’Australie. Une biographie fouillée de Charles Zorgbibe, déjà auteur de travaux sur Herzl, Mirabeau ou Metternich, permet de mieux cerner le regard que l’auteur du Livre de la jungle portait sur le “pays rebelle”.

Joseph Rudyard Kipling est né le 30 décembre 1865, à Bombay, où ses parents sont arrivés huit mois plus tôt. Enfant, Kipling parle l’hindoustani aussi bien que l’anglais et, s’échappant du bungalow familial en compagnie de sa nounou (ayah), il découvre les foules indiennes aux turbans multicolores, les illusionnistes montreurs de serpents, les sons et les odeurs du bazar de Borah.

Toute sa vie Kipling gardera la trace de cette dualité de culture, ce « scandale intime » qu’on retrouvera aussi chez un autre écrivain, français cette fois, Albert Camus. À 6 ans, il est envoyé en Angleterre pour y suivre sa scolarité. Si ses premières années en famille d’accueil à Southsea sont douloureuses (il parlera plus tard de la « maison de la désolation »), ses années de collège à Westward Ho ! constituèrent en revanche une époque plus heureuse, à laquelle l’écrivain devra une part certaine de ses ressources littéraires – notamment l’humour et une imagination débridée.

Au sortir du collège, la vie de Kipling prend un tournant décisif : grâce aux relations de son père et du principal de Westward Ho !, il est engagé par la Civil and Military Gazette, le grand quotidien de Lahore, où il arrive le 18 décembre 1882, à l’âge de 17 ans. Après deux années d’apprentissage de son métier, durant lesquelles il découvre le microcosme de la société angloindienne, le jeune Kipling accompagne le nouveau vice-roi des Indes, lord Dufferin, sur la frontière afghane. Quarante ans plus tôt, à l’hiver 1842, seize mille soldats britanniques ont été massacrés dans la retraite de Kaboul et, si les Anglais ont pu ensuite y acheter un semblant de paix, la situation devait à nouveau se détériorer. À Rawalpindi, tout près de la frontière afghane, Kipling observe, prend des notes, recueille les confidences d’un proche d’Abdur Rahman, l’émir de Kaboul, alors en visite officielle. Il s’agit, pour lui, non seulement d’exercer son métier de journaliste mais aussi et surtout de nourrir des réflexions personnelles qu’il exprimera plus tard dans ses nouvelles. En particulier dans l’Homélie de l’émir, dont Charles Zorgbibe dit qu’elle constitue un « portrait extraordinairement percutant de l’émir et de son royaume ».

On y lit notamment que, pour Kipling, les Afghans constituent tout simplement « la race la plus turbulente qui existe ici-bas » ; il les voit comme des guerriers indépendants, éternels insoumis, rétifs à toute autorité interne ou étrangère. «Pour l’Afghan, écrit-il, ni la vie, ni la propriété, ni la loi, ni la royauté ne sont sacrées lorsque ses appétits le poussent à la révolte. L’instinct l’érige en voleur, l’hérédité et l’éducation le transforment en meurtrier, les trois réunis le rendent bestialement immoral. Il a, certes, une certaine conception de l’honneur, tortueuse et très personnelle, et son caractère est passionnant à observer. »

Ces réflexions – dont on comprend qu’elles aient pu contribuer à forger le mythe d’un Kipling “raciste” – traduisent chez le journaliste de 20 ans une vision qui porte davantage sur les hommes qui font un pays que sur des considérations militaires. D’ailleurs, si, à l’occasion de son séjour à Simla, la résidence d’été du vice-roi, Kipling est longuement interrogé par le général Roberts, commandant en chef des armées, c’est parce que celui-ci souhaite recueillir des impressions de journaliste sur l’état d’esprit des officiers ou le moral des troupes. Immergé dans le milieu militaire, Kipling met à profit son « extraordinaire faculté d’assimilation des moeurs et de la couleur locales » selon l’avis de son rédacteur en chef Kay Robinson ; il double son activité journalistique d’une production littéraire qui lui offre d’être plus offensif, plus critique, d’adopter un regard plus perçant sur le monde qui l’entoure. Sa nouvelle réputation de journaliste et le succès croissant de ses nouvelles (notamment les Simples Contes des collines) le conduisent bientôt à quitter Lahore pour Allahabad et la rédaction du Pioneer, puis à rejoindre l’Angleterre via la Chine, le Japon et les États-Unis. Il rencontre Mark Twain, Henry James ou Jerome K. Jerome, l’auteur de Trois hommes dans un bateau, avec qui il partage le goût d’un humour très britannique. Tout ce qu’il voit constitue pour lui une matière à écrire, qu’il s’agisse d’articles ou de nouvelles.

Il n’en demeure pas moins attaché à l’Inde, qui continue d’occuper son imaginaire ou nourrir ses réflexions politiques. Naturellement prisonnier d’une vision très “anglo-indienne”, il accueille avec beaucoup de scepticisme la naissance du Parti du Congrès et estime que, « sans les Britanniques, l’Inde s’effondrerait dans le chaos ». En Afghanistan, un accord entre les Afghans et les Anglais a donné naissance en 1893 à la ligne Mortimer-Durand (actuelle frontière avec le Pakistan, dans les monts Sulayman, au coeur du pays pachtoun). S’il ne s’exprime pas directement sur la politique menée par les Anglais, Kipling va donner à voir ses sentiments à travers plusieurs nouvelles aux genres très différents.

La Légion perdue, publiée en 1894, évoque dans un même mouvement la frontière afghane, le souvenir de la colonne massacrée lors de la retraite de Kaboul, plaie toujours à vif dans l’imaginaire britannique, et la révolte des Cipayes, qui secoua l’Inde huit ans avant la naissance de Kipling. Il brouille ici les cartes de la loyauté et de la rébellion entre les Britanniques, les Hindoustanis et les Afghans, dans le cadre d’une expédition visant à capturer « l’éternel trublion, le dissident islamique immuablement dressé contre la présence étrangère, le mollah Gulla Kutta ».

Dans Chéri des dames, publié un an plus tôt, une nouvelle sur le thème de l’amour fou, le régiment du héros rentre décimé d’une campagne en Afghanistan, preuve que, pour Kipling, comme pour ses lecteurs, la région conserve une résonance tragique.

Entre Lahore et la contrée mystérieuse au nord…

L’Afghanistan servait déjà de décor à la nouvelle l’Homme qui voulut être roi – publiée en décembre 1888, c’est-à- dire toujours dans la période indienne de Kipling. « Deux aventuriers ont conçu le projet fou de se tailler un royaume en Asie centrale, au-delà de la passe de Khyber – au “Kafiristan”, habité par des tribus aryennes. » Sensibles à l’équilibre géo stratégique de la région, ils sont en effet « soucieux d’établir un “glacis” sur la frontière nord de l’Inde, qui s’appuierait sur des populations plus assimilables que les tribus afghanes ». Où l’on voit qu’au-delà de la trame romanesque (doublée ici d’une ré - flexion sur la franc-maçonnerie), l’Afghanistan apparaît déjà aux yeux de Kipling, qui y a passé deux mois, comme une terre indomptable.

Enfin il y a Kim, cette grande fresque publiée en 1901, roman picaresque, envoûtant, colonialiste et généreux, « l’oeuvre de la vie de Kipling ». Bien que le personnage principal en soit l’Inde, une Inde totale, éternelle, l’Inde de la grande route de liaison, l’un des personnages principaux est afghan. Celui-ci, Mahbub Ali, est marchand de chevaux ; il passe sa vie sur les pistes, entre Lahore et « la contrée mystérieuse au-delà des passes du Nord ». Agent des Britanniques, il surveille depuis Peshawar les principautés des montagnes. Selon Zorgbibe, Mahbub Ali incarne aux yeux de Kipling « à la fois l’Afghanistan hostile, incontrôlable et redouté, et l’espoir d’une alliance avec une fraction des Afghans » – ce qui est probablement le lien le plus pertinent qui puisse être établi avec les enjeux du conflit actuel.

Si Kipling n’est pas l’inventeur de la notion de “Grand Jeu” – cet affrontement entre les empires russe et britannique sur le terrain afghan –, il l’a rendu populaire par l’intermédiaire de ses nombreux récits. On peut y voir la raison pour laquelle l’écrivain est invoqué encore aujourd’hui quand il est question de l’Afghanistan, alors que l’importance réelle de ce pays fut, dans la vie de Kipling, inférieure à celle de l’Inde, de l’Empire britannique dans son ensemble, des États-Unis, de l’Angleterre, voire même de l’Afrique au trale, où Kipling joua un rôle important à l’époque de la guerre des Boers.

Car Rudyard Kipling ne saurait être réduit à ses récits les plus fameux, Kim, le Livre de la jungle ou son poème If («ce texte au souffle de forge volontariste »), encore moins à ses caricatures : écrivain colonialiste, héraut de la « plus-Grande Bretagne », voix officielle de l’Empire britannique.

Ce fut un homme à la pensée nuancée et complexe, célèbre à 20 ans, Prix No bel de littérature, qui influença aussi bien Baden-Powell que George Orwell, ami de Théodore Roosevelt ou de Clemenceau. Un Anglais amoureux de la France. Un homme qui perdit une fille en bas âge puis un fils à la guerre. Un écrivain convaincu que les écoles devaient « forger des hommes afin de créer et de conserver des empires », mais persuadé en même temps que « le fardeau de l’homme blanc » est finalement trop lourd à porter. Un homme d’action enfin, devenu mystique, partagé entre saint Paul et Kismet, le petit dieu malin de la mythologie indienne. 

Mickael Fonton

Kipling, de Charles Zorgbibe, Editions de Fallois, 490 pages, 24€

D. H. Lawrence on the Meaning of Sex

D. H. Lawrence on the Meaning of Sex

By Derek Hawthorne 

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

D. H. Lawrence is best known to the general public as a writer of sexy books. In his own time, his treatment of sex made him notorious and caused him to run afoul of the authorities on a number of occasions. I have no desire to rehearse in detail the well-known history of Lawrence’s troubles with censorship, but for those who do not know anything of it a few details will suffice.

In September 1915 Lawrence’s novel The Rainbow, one of his major works, was published by Methuen. By November it had been banned by court order, largely due to Lawrence’s brief (and, by today’s standards, extremely tame) depiction of a lesbian affair. The following year Lawrence finished what is arguably his greatest novel, Women in Love. However, owing to the notoriety of The Rainbow as well as to Women in Love’s much more frank depiction of sexuality, he could not find a publisher for the novel until 1920. Disgusted by his treatment at the hands of his fellow countrymen, Lawrence moved himself and his wife Frieda to Sicily that year, thereby beginning a long sojourn abroad that would take them to Sardinia, Ceylon, Australia, California, and New Mexico.

Lawrence was deterred neither by censorship nor by the frequent vilification he suffered at the hands of the press. In 1926, on a visit to Italy he wrote the first of three versions of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, his most sexually explicit work and, in fact, one of the most sexually explicit “serious” works of literature ever written. A small edition of the novel was brought out in Florence in 1928, and another in Paris. Various pirated editions were also printed.

Copies of the novel were seized by customs in both the United States and Great Britain, and the reviews that appeared were brutal. One English critic declared that the novel was “the most evil outpouring that has ever besmirched the literature of our country. The sewers of French pornography would be dragged in vain to find a parallel in beastliness . . . Unfortunately for literature as for himself, Mr. Lawrence has a diseased mind.”[1] (The famous court case in Britain occurred thirty years after Lawrence’s death, when Penguin Books brought out an unexpurgated edition of Lady Chatterley.)

In 1926 Lawrence had started to paint. He wrote to his friend Earl Brewster, a Buddhist, “I put a phallus, a lingam you call it, in each one of my pictures somewhere. And I paint no picture that won’t shock people’s castrated social spirituality.”[2] Predictably, when an exhibition of his paintings was held in London in 1929 it was raided by the police, though, as Jeffrey Meyers notes, the officers “politely waited to carry out their orders until the Aga Khan had finished viewing the pictures.”[3]

Why was Lawrence seemingly so preoccupied with sex? The answer is that he saw sex as a means to awaken the true self, and to discover not only our own inner being but the inner being of all things. In Fantasia of the Unconscious he writes, “To the individual, the act of coition is a great psychic experience, a vital experience of tremendous importance.”[4]

Lawrence was unquestionably influenced by Schopenhauer in his views about the metaphysical significance of sex. In his unpublished notebooks—summing up views he expressed more circumspectly in his published writings—Schopenhauer states

If I am asked where the most intimate knowledge of that inner essence of the world, of that thing in itself which I have called the will to live, is to be found, or where that essence enters most clearly into our consciousness, or where it achieves the purest revelation of itself, then I must point to ecstasy in the act of copulation. That is it! That is the true essence and core of all things, the aim and purpose of all existence.[5]

However, Lawrence (unlike Schopenhauer) saw the inner essence of things as having religious significance. He felt that the “life mystery” at the core of all was the only thing that he could honestly call God. Hence, he regarded sex as sacred—indeed as an act of divine worship—since it opens us to the life mystery. In a posthumously published essay Lawrence writes, “In the very darkest continent of the body there is God.”[6] This is the real key to understanding Lawrence’s treatment of sex: it is reverential; he regards sex as sacred, not as profane. The public attacks on Lawrence’s work as “smut” are hugely unjust, for Lawrence had a lifelong hatred of pornography precisely because he saw it as a profanation of sex.

An illustration of Lawrence’s attitude is his reaction to James Joyce’s Ulysses. As Jeffrey Meyers notes, it was, in part, Lawrence’s hostile reaction to Ulysses that spurred him to write Lady Chatterley’s Lover. In a letter Lawrence stated, “The last part of [Ulysses] is the dirtiest, most indecent, obscene thing ever written. . . . This Ulysses muck is more disgusting than Casanova. I must show that it can be done without muck.”[7] This may seem a trifle ironic, given how others had attacked Lawrence’s own work with similar invective. But, in fact, Lawrence’s attitude to Joyce is not hypocritical. He is not attacking the explicitness of Joyce’s treatment of sex, but rather what he regarded as its unforgivable irreverence.

In Fantasia of the Unconscious Lawrence writes, “In sex we have our basic, most elemental being.”[8] Further, he declares that the procreative purpose of sex is “just a side-show.”[9] Lawrence rejects the reductive, scientific understanding of sex; part and parcel of the scientific will to nullify beauty and mystery and to make everything mundane and “practical.”

Sex can lead to reproduction, but it is no more correct to say that the “purpose” of sex is reproduction than it is to say that the purpose of eating is to fill our stomachs. More often than not, we eat not because we happen to really need nourishment just then, but because we take pleasure in eating, in the taste of food, and in the company of those we eat with. And frequently the food we enjoy ingesting has little actual nutritional value. If the purpose of eating were simply to acquire nourishment, then we ought not mind the idea of simply ingesting a tasteless paste full of vitamins, minerals, protein, and carbohydrates three times daily.

Sex, Lawrence tells us,

is our deepest form of consciousness. It is utterly non-ideal, non-mental. It is pure blood-consciousness. It is the basic consciousness of the blood, the nearest thing in us to pure material consciousness. It is the consciousness of the night, when the soul is almost asleep. The blood-consciousness is the first and last knowledge of the living soul: the depths.[10]

When we enter into what Schopenhauer calls “ecstasy in the act of copulation,” there is a sloughing off of intellect, of self-consciousness. The act is ecstatic precisely to the extent that this is accomplished. The Greek ekstasis could be translated literally as “standing outside oneself.” In ecstatic acts we have the sense of leaving ourselves, and certainly our consciousness of ourselves (our inner monitor, inner censor, inner doubter) behind. Insofar as we cannot accomplish this, the sexual act will be dissatisfying. The woman may experience little pleasure, and the man may even be unable to perform, should he fail to disengage the intellect.

Of course, when we are caught in the ecstasy of sex we are not literally unconscious. What happens, in effect, is that a different sort of consciousness takes over: what Lawrence calls “blood-consciousness.” What Lawrence means by this term is the pre-reflective, pre-conceptual, subterranean depth in consciousness: what he sometimes confusingly calls the “unconscious.”

Sometimes this type of consciousness is derisively labeled the “animal” in us. This is misleading, for we have a tendency not to think of ourselves as animals, and labeling the blood-consciousness “animal” becomes a way to disown it. But it is our own, and, of course, we are animals. In the heat of true, ecstatic sexual passion, one loses a sense of individuality. It is common to hear the participants speak (later on) of losing the sense of bodily boundaries, and feeling as if the two bodies merged into one. Strange, animal-like cries are uttered and motions become automatic rather than deliberately willed.

In sex we surrender our intellect and self-consciousness, and open ourselves to the blood-consciousness, to our primal self—so that we become, for the space of the act, that primal self. And this is the reason why modern people are so sex-obsessed.

To live in modern, industrialized society means to live almost constantly from what Lawrence calls the “upper centres,” from intellect. And it means to live surrounded at all times by the products of intellect, cocooned in a synthetic, human world built over top of the natural world, operating according to human ideas and ideals. Almost always, this life requires us to lead an existence that is false in certain fundamental ways; false and inimical to life and to the natural, primal self. Passionate sex, insofar as modern people can even manage it, is the only respite from this that most people know. As such, Lawrence believes that in sex we are fundamentally truer than at most other times in life. And reflection on what the sex act means may help us to recover this trueness in daily life, outside of sexual activity.

All of the above is an attempt to say “what sex is.” But Lawrence holds that ultimately it is ineffable:

We can never say, satisfactorily. But we know so much: we know that it is a dynamic polarity between human beings, and a circuit of force always flowing. . . . We know that in the act of coition the blood of the individual man, acutely surcharged with intense vital electricity—we know no word, so say “electricity,” by analogy—rises to a culmination, in a tremendous magnetic urge towards the blood of the female. The whole of the living blood in the two individuals forms a field of intense, polarized magnetic attraction. So, the two poles must be brought into contact. In the act of coition, the two seas of blood in the two individuals, rocking and surging towards contact, as near as possible, clash into a oneness.[11]

Lawrence’s remark about his use of the term “electricity” tells us that we should not take this description very literally. When he speaks of an “electricity” in the blood of a sexually aroused man or woman, he uses this term, for lack of a better one, to describe the peculiar sense of acute, tingling “aliveness” that one feels in sexual ecstasy. When he speaks of a “magnetic attraction” between the blood of man and woman, he means the uncanny, overpowering, and unchosen sense of attraction that one experiences for the other. It is a sense of attraction that at times makes men and women feel that they must come together or die.

We attempt to deflate the mystery of this attraction by chalking it up to “chemistry.” Indeed it may somehow be chemical, but to describe the physical conditions necessary for a profound experience to take place does not render it less profound, or less mysterious. It might seem a bit ironic, given Lawrence’s criticisms of science, that his own language has a kind of scientific veneer, with its talk of “electricity,” “magnetism,” and “polarity.” But Lawrence’s “science” is, in fact, a throwback to the vitalistic philosophy of nature of the Romantics.

Lawrence attempts to sum things up as follows: “Sex then is a polarization of the individual blood in man towards the individual blood in woman.”[12] At the root of this idea is a basic conviction of Lawrence’s, which cannot be overemphasized: that men and women are fundamentally and radically different—metaphysically different. (See my essay “D. H. Lawrence on Men and Women ^[2].”) In the same text he writes, “We are all wrong when we say there is no vital difference between the sexes.”

Lawrence wrote this in 1921 intending it to be provocative, but it is surely much more controversial in today’s world, where it has become a dogma in some circles to insist that sex differences (now called “gender differences”) are “socially constructed,” and that the only natural differences between the sexes are purely and simply anatomical. Lawrence continues: “There is every difference. Every bit, every cell in a boy is male, every cell is female in a woman, and must remain so. Women can never feel or know as men do. And in the reverse, men can never feel and know, dynamically, as women do.”[13]

Interestingly, I believe that Lawrence derives the idea of “cells” being male or female from Otto Weininger’s Sex and Character, a text he was definitely familiar with. Weininger writes: “every cell of the organism . . . has a sexual character.” And: “In a male every part, even the smallest, is male, however much it may resemble the corresponding part of a female, and in the latter, likewise, even the smallest part is exclusively female.”[14]

Setting Weininger aside, this is Lawence’s way of emphasizing that men and women are different all the way down, and that there are ways in which they can never understand each other, and never see as the other sees. Lawrence is concerned in particular (though this is not obvious) to guard against the claim that there are borderline cases of men and women who are (psychically) androgynous, straddling the divide between male and female:

A child is born sexed. A child is either male or female; in the whole of its psyche and physique is either male or female. Every single living cell is either male or female, and will remain either male or female as long as life lasts. And every single cell in every male child is male, and every cell in every female is female. The talk about a third sex, or about the indeterminate sex, is just to pervert the issue.[15]

The reference in the last sentence is to the ideas of figures like Magnus Hirschfeld and, indeed, Otto Weininger, both of whom argued that homosexuals were sexually “intermediate.” Part of the reason Lawrence is so vehement in this passage is that he had strong homosexual inclinations (as any honest reader of Women in Love, especially its deleted “Prologue,” will admit). Early in life he saw himself as an androgynous being, with a hefty share of femininity in his soul. However, he came to repudiate this idea and to regard it as having hindered his development as a man.

The Phallus

In coition, Lawrence writes, “the two seas of blood in the two individuals, rocking and surging towards contact, as near as possible, clash into a oneness.”[16] The means by which this connection occurs, where the blood of the man and the woman is brought together, is the phallus. One of Lawrence’s most important philosophical essays is “A Propos of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover,’” which he wrote partly to answer criticisms of the novel, and partly to make explicit and expound upon the novel’s message. He writes at one point that “The phallus is a column of blood that fills the valley of blood of a woman. The great river of male blood touches to its depths the great river of female blood—yet neither breaks its bounds.” The two blood streams, the male and the female, “encircle the whole of life.”[17] They never literally mingle, but coition is essentially an act in which the blood of the male, enfolded within an extension of his flesh, enters the blood-engorged flesh of the woman—and the two blood streams come as close to mingling as they ever will.

The result is a crisis; an ecstatic moment in which—as in the Zen experience of satori—there is the sudden, non-verbal intuition that this here now is all there is, and there is a loss of the sense of individual separateness and isolation; a sense of becoming absorbed into a greater unity. Lawrence describes the orgasm as follows: “There is a lightning flash which passes through the blood of both individuals, there is a thunder of sensation which rolls in diminishing crashes down the nerves of each—and then the tension passes.”[18]

In his later works, Lawrence writes often and explicitly of the metaphysical, indeed the divine significance of the phallus. For example, in the second of Lawrence’s three versions of Lady Chatterley’s Lover (published posthumously as John Thomas and Lady Jane) there is a scene in which Constance Chatterley lies beside her sleeping lover, contemplating his flaccid penis. “Wasn’t there a weird, grotesque godhead in it?” she asks herself, and what follows is a passage of great significance:

To most men, the penis was merely a member, at the disposal of the personality. Most men merely used their penis as they use their fingers, for some personal purpose of their own. But in a true man, the penis has a life of its own, and is the second man within the man. It is prior to the personality. And the personality must yield before the priority and the mysterious root-knowledge of the penis, or the phallus. For this is the difference between the two: the penis is a mere member of the physiological body. But the phallus, in the old sense, has roots, the deepest roots of all, in the soul and the greater consciousness of man, and it is through the phallic roots that inspiration enters the soul.[19]

Lawrence makes a traditional distinction in this passage (though, as usual, he is slip-shod about it) between the penis and the phallus, which is the erect penis. In cultures that have worshipped the penis, it always the erect penis that is depicted and revered. Why? Because, in a real sense, the phallus does not belong to the individual man. It is—notoriously—not under the control of his personality, his mental self-conscious being. It has a will of its own. It is the “second man within the man,” meaning that it is a direct expression or, if you will, externalization of the deeper, truer, self; of the unconscious, or blood-consciousness.

This self is “prior to the personality,” and indeed it is fundamentally the same in all men. So it transcends the individual—indeed it is an expression of the life mystery which permeates all of nature. The penis, Lawrence tells us, is a “mere member of the physiological body,” but the phallus is something that rises from out of the chthonic depth of nature itself. The phallus is our connection to those depths. When Lawrence says that it is “through the phallic roots that inspiration enters the soul” he means that it is insofar as we are able to surrender our intellect and mental awareness that we are guided by the wisdom of the blood-consciousness.

If a man’s mental self dominates him and grips him, refusing to let go, preoccupying him with thoughts, then he cannot achieve an erection. His mind has “blocked” the primal, unconscious self. This is all that the mind can do to the primal self—it cannot command it. Hence there is no “willing” an erection. But if a man can momentarily surrender his mental self, then the blood-consciousness is awakened, and the phallus comes to life. The virile man is admired because he has a connection to the primal force. The impotent man is pathetic in our eyes, because he has lost that connection. He is literally without power.

Thus, for Lawrence, sexual arousal in the male and the sex act following upon it become emblematic of what must take place if there is to be a general return to the blood-consciousness, and thus an achievement of lasting happiness, lasting satisfaction in the whole of life. There must be a surrender of idealism, and of the tendency to live strictly from the “upper centres.” There is no way to get to the natural self by way of intellect and its ideas, just as there is no willing an erection. All that mind can do is to let go—to do nothing. Then the blood-consciousness takes over and the result is that there rises up from the root of us a new man, a new self. New only in the sense that it is unfamiliar to us, for in truth it is actually the oldest of old selves.

Erection and a full, ecstatic sexual experience symbolize for Lawrence the successful reawakening of the primal self that is needed if we are to again become natural creatures and achieve our “fullness of being.” But they are not merely symbolic. Lawrence also sees coition as the deepest, most profound, and profoundly mysterious way in which we come into contact with our chthonic depth, and the chthonic depth of the natural world itself. Hence, in “A Propos of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’” he says the following

[The] phallus is the connecting link between the two rivers [of male and female blood], that establishes the two streams in a oneness, and gives out of their duality a single circuit, forever. And this, this oneness gradually accomplished throughout a life-time in twoness, is the highest achievement of time or eternity. From it all things human spring, children and beauty and well-made things; all the true creations of humanity. And all we know of the will of God is that He wishes this, this oneness, to take place, fulfilled over a lifetime, this oneness within the great dual blood-stream of humanity.[20]

Here Lawrence makes it quite clear, as he does in innumerable other places, that his reverence for the phallus is a religious one. Indeed, it would not be a distortion to call his own, personal religion a form of “phallic worship.” This is, of course, a provocative choice of words, but not an inaccurate one. There is, in fact, a remarkable similarity between Lawrence’s views and Hindu Shaivism, the oldest surviving phallic cult in the world.

The God Shiva is a personification of what Lawrence means by the life mystery or “pan power,” as well as what Schopenhauer meant by the will in nature.[21] Alain Daniélou, one of the foremost Western interpreters of Shaivism, writes

As Lord of Yoga, Shiva is named Yogendra, Yogeshvara, Mahâyogi, since it is he who taught the world the Yoga method through which man can know himself, realize himself and communicate with subtle beings, beasts, plants and gods. He also teaches the dance and the music which leads to ecstasy, the intoxication which takes man out of himself. . . . His festivals are those of Spring, of the Renewal of Life, and of creative Eroticism. . . . He is naked, libidinous, and preaches rapture, love, detachment, and friendship with nature. God of Sensual Pleasure and of Death, he is present in the forest and the funeral pyre. Shiva is at the same time benevolent (Shambhu) and terrible (Bhîma).[22]

Although these and many other qualities are attributed to Shiva, the sacred Shaivite texts indicate that the true Shiva is beyond all human categories: “Shiva (the supreme divinity) is without sign (without sex), without color, without taste, without odor, beyond the reach of words or touch, without qualities, immutable and immobile.”[23] This being can therefore only be known through some tangible sign that it gives of itself in the physical, perceptible universe, and that sign is the phallus.

The Sanskrit word for phallus, lingam, literally means “sign.” Daniélou writes, “The lingam, or phallus, the source of life, is the form by which the Absolute Being, from whom the world is issued, can be evoked. . . . In the microcosm, which is to say in man, the sexual organ, the source of life, is the form in which the nature of the formless manifests itself.”[24]

Daniélou quotes liberally from ancient texts in order to explain the Shaivite attitude toward the phallus and its relationship to Shiva. One such text states, “Shiva said ‘I am not distinct from the phallus. The phallus is identical with me, and therefore must be worshipped. My well-beloved! Wherever there is an upright male organ, I myself am present, even if there is no other representation of me.”[25] This passage indicates that the phallus is not, in fact, merely a symbol of Shiva, but is a physical “expression” of the god—the most perfect expression of the god, in fact. In a way, Shiva is distinct from the phallus, but in a way the phallus is Shiva.

We find just the same sort of mystical logic in Lawrence: the phallus is an expression of the life mystery, as the blood-consciousness that animates it is an expression of the life mystery; but the phallus, and blood-consciousness just are the life mystery, as it expresses itself in us. The phallus is our link to the life force itself. Daniélou writes, “The penis is therefore the organ through which a link is established between man . . . and the creative force which is the nature of the divine.”[26] Lawrence expresses precisely this Shaivite conception in John Thomas and Lady Jane, when Constance Chatterley has an argument with her very modern and irreligious sister:

“I don’t care!” she said stubbornly to Hilda at bedtime. “I know the penis is the most godly part of a man. . . . I know it is the penis which connects us with the stars and the sea and everything. It is the penis which touches the planets, and makes us feel their special light. I know it. I know it was the penis which really put the evening stars into my inside self. I used to look at the evening star, and think how lovely and wonderful it was. But now it’s in me as well as outside me, and I need hardly look at it. I am it. I don’t care what you say, it was the penis gave it me.”[27]

According to Daniélou, Shaivism regards the procreative purpose of sex as “a side show” – just as Lawrence does. Daniélou writes that the phallus has a dual role: “the inferior one of procreation and the superior one of contacting the divine state by means of the ecstasy caused by pleasure (ànanda). The orgasm is a ‘divine sensation.’ So whereas paternity attaches man to the things of the earth, the ecstasy of pleasure can reveal divine reality to him, leading him to detachment and spiritual realization.”[28]

The orgasm, for Lawrence as well as for Shaivism, is a religious experience in which selfhood is transcended and we become reabsorbed, momentarily, into the life mystery; connected to “the stars and the sea and everything.” Daniélou quotes another Shaivite text: “Every orgasm, every pleasure is a divine experience. The entire universe springs forth from enjoyment. Pleasure is at the origin of all that exists.”[29]

Just as Lawrence’s ideas about the metaphysical significance of the phallus and intercourse can be likened to Shaivism, his views about the use of sex as a means to “awakening” can be likened to Tantra. Tantra refers to the set of practical techniques and methods used to bring the individual to union with the divine source.

In the West, we tend to associate Tantra exclusively with a kind of “sex magic,” and although there are other forms of Tantra this is, in fact, the one that I am drawing on in making comparisons to Lawrence. Tantric sex actually involves a rather overwhelmingly complex collection of ritual preparations, mantras, and physical positions. None of these are truly relevant to our concerns here. Suffice it to say that the theory behind Tantric sex involves the belief that if intercourse is approached properly, with an understanding of the metaphysical significance of the act, it affords the participants the opportunity to achieve a state of transcendence.

They lose their sense of individuality and merge with each other, and through merging with each other—through bringing together the male and female natures—they participate in the creative power represented by Shiva. Again, the parallels to Lawrence are obvious. He too regarded the man and the woman as representing eternal male and female powers, and he saw in intercourse a way in which the two become one (“the highest achievement of time or eternity”) and in so doing, lose themselves in the life mystery.

Notes

[1] Quoted in Jeffrey Meyers, D. H. Lawrence: A Biography (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1990), 362.

[2] Quoted in Meyers, 367.

[3] Meyers, 369.

[4] D. H. Lawrence, Fantasia of the Unconscious in Fantasia of the Unconscious and Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious (New York: Penguin, 1971), 106.

[5] Arthur Schopenhauer, Manuscript Remains, trans. E. F. J. Payne (Oxford: Berg, 1988–90), vol. 3, 262.

[6] D. H. Lawrence, Phoenix, ed. Edward McDonald (New York: Viking, 1968), 759 (“The Novel and the Feelings”).

[7] Quoted in Meyers, 362.

[8] Fantasia, 185.

[9] Fantasia, 106.

[10] Fantasia, 173.

[11] Fantasia, 106–07.

[12] Fantasia, 185.

[13] Fantasia, 102.

[14] Otto Weininger, Sex and Character, trans. Ladislaus Löb (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005), 17.

[15] Fantasia, 96.

[16] Fantasia, 106–07.

[17] D. H. Lawrence, Phoenix II, ed. Warren Roberts and Harry T. Moore (New York: Viking, 1971), 505 (“A Propos of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover’”).

[18] Fantasia, 106–07.

[19] D. H. Lawrence, John Thomas and Lady Jane (New York: Penguin Books, 1977), 238.

[20] Phoenix II, 506 (“A Propos of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover’”).

[21] Alain Daniélou argues that the Greek Pan is equivalent to Shiva. See Alain Daniélou, The Phallus, trans. Jon Graham (Rochester, Vermont: Inner Traditions, 1995), 47–48.

[22] Alain Daniélou, Gods of Love and Ecstasy: The Traditions of Shiva and Dionysus, no translator credited (Rochester, Vermont: Inner Traditions, 1992), 51.

[23] Linga Purána, 1.3.2–3. Quoted in Alain Daniélou, The Phallus, 11.

[24] Daniélou, The Phallus, 11–13.

[25] Quoted in Daniélou, Gods of Love and Ecstasy, 56.

[26] Ibid., 56.

[27] John Thomas and Lady Jane, 312.

[28] Daniélou, The Phallus, 18.

[29] Ibid., 18.

 

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D. H. Lawrence’s Phallic Traditionalism

D. H. Lawrence’s Phallic Traditionalism

 

By Derek Hawthorne

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

Sex and Religion

D. H. Lawrence argues that through the sex act, individuals participate in some kind of mysterious power running through nature. But does this momentary experience have any kind of long-term effect on them? Lawrence directly addresses this question. When the sex act is over, he writes, “The two individuals are separate again. But are they as they were before? Is the air the same after a thunderstorm as before? No. The air is as it were new, fresh, tingling with newness. So is the blood of man and woman after successful coition.” He states further that coition alters “the very quality of being, in both.”[1]

But how? Not surprisingly, Lawrence actually says little about how the experience changes the woman, but as for the man he has plenty to say. After coitus, “The heart craves for a new activity. For new collective activity. That is, for a new polarized connection with other beings, other men.”[2] As we have seen, Lawrence believes that sex involves an encounter with the creative force at the basis of nature. This encounter renews the male’s own creativity. He is eager, after the encounter, to break away from the woman for a time and to take action in the world, to bring something new into being: “Men, being themselves made new after the action of coition, wish to make the world anew. A new, passionate polarity springs up between men who are bent on the same activity, the polarity between man and woman sinks to passivity. It is now daytime, and time to forget sex, time to be busy making a new world.”[3]

The man yearns for union with the woman. At the time, all other considerations other than that union become trivial. Union must be achieved. But once it is achieved, he is renewed and yearns now to come together with other men in a new kind of union: a union directed toward the accomplishment of purposive activity. Again, however, what of the woman in all of this? Doesn’t she yearn for a purposive activity beyond the marriage bed? Lawrence answers that, in the main, this is not the case. He writes, “Primarily and supremely man is always the pioneer of life, adventuring onward into the unknown, alone with his own temerarious, dauntless soul. Woman for him exists only in the twilight, by the camp fire, when day has departed. Evening and the night are hers.”[4]

Lawrence’s view is that in life we must oscillate between an encounter with the source—through sex, for example—and purposive, creative activity. In other words, we must oscillate between blood-consciousness and mental consciousness. Lawrence is not anti-intellectual. Mental consciousness exists in order to allow us to carry out the inspirations we have received from blood-consciousness (recall that “it is through the phallic roots that inspiration enters the soul”). It is when mental consciousness is cut off from blood-consciousness and tries to make itself radically autonomous that problems result.

Lawrence at one point frames the issue of the relation of the two forms of consciousness in terms of “nighttime” and “daytime” selves:

Well, then, we have night-time selves. And the night-self is the very basis of the dynamic self. The blood-consciousness and the blood-passion is the very source and origin of us. Not that we can stay at the source. Nor even make a goal of the source, as Freud does. The business of living is to travel away from the source. But you must start every single day fresh from the source. You must rise every day afresh out of the dark sea of the blood.

When you go to sleep at night you have to say: “Here dies the man I am and know myself to be.” And when you rise in the morning you have to say: “Here rises an unknown quantity which is still myself.”[5]

When Lawrence speaks of rising in the morning, he means emerging from the world of dreams. Like Jung, Lawrence believed that we encounter our primal, pre-mental selves in dream. But he does not just mean this. He means that whenever we emerge from an encounter with the source – whenever we have sloughed off, for a time, our individuality and then put it back on again – we must be prepared to be changed, to be inspired with something that has emerged from the source. We must be willing to bring this into the light. He alludes to this idea in Studies in Classic American Literature when he tell us he believes “That my soul is a dark forest” and “That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back.”[6]

Human beings generally make the mistake of absolutizing either the daytime self or the nighttime self; either making sex the be all and end all, to the exclusion of purposive activity, or vice versa. Lawrence writes that “With sex as the one accepted prime motive, the world drifts into despair and anarchy.”[7] In the sex act, as we have said, the sense of individuality, of personal identity is lost and the participants have the sense of merging into some larger unity. But what of the rest of life? We must live as individuals, with a sense of ourselves as separate beings for most of our waking existence.

But what are we to make of our individuality? Some people find the burden of separate, individual existence so great that they seek to have the sort of transcendence one can experience through sex on an almost constant basis, through alcohol or drugs or thrill-seeking. And what we often find with such individuals is that their lives come to pieces, they drift into “despair and anarchy.”

We have, according to Lawrence, two selves: the nighttime self which is the same in all of us, and which is an offshoot of the worldself, the life mystery; and the daytime self, which is different in each of us, and individual. To deny either is unnatural. We must shuttle back and forth between the two. If we absolutize the nighttime self, then we are destroyed as individuals. And any society that tries to found itself on the nighttime self would quite literally descend into chaos. (Consider the case of Woodstock, for example.) “Assert sex as the predominant fulfillment, and you get the collapse of living purpose in man. You get anarchy.”[8]

But it is equally mistaken to assert purpose above everything. This is, in effect, the mistake of idealism. There are individuals who deny sex or any act that involves a contact with the source. Such acts involve a loss of control, and a temporary breakdown in the sense of individual separateness. And this is terrifying to many people. So they live, as it were, from the neck up and devote themselves wholly to achievement, to productive work, to purpose. This is essentially what Freud means by the sublimation of the libido. Such individuals may not literally cease to have sex, but their sex is mechanical and without any real sensual depth. “Assert purposiveness as the one supreme and pure activity of life,” Lawrence writes, “and you drift into barren sterility, like our business life of today, and our political life.”[9]

Lawrence sees in these observations a key to understanding world history. “You become sterile, you make anarchy inevitable,” he says.[10] In other words, if a society asserts purposiveness above all, eventually it reaches a mass psychological breaking point, and the society will abandon itself to pure sensuousness. If this happens, however, things are destined to cycle back again. Someone or some movement will arise in response to this sensuous anarchy, and it will put forward the solution: abandon sensuousness, in favor of pure purpose, or pure idealism. And so on. To quote Anaximander (one of Lawrence’s favorite philosophers), “they pay penalty and retribution to each other for their injustice according to the assessment of time.”[11]

For Lawrence, the solution to this problem is for individuals to live in complete acceptance of sex and the blood-consciousness. They must accept these not only without guilt, but with positive reverence. Sex and all that puts us into touch with the primal, chthonic source is to be regarded as the touchstone of life. All plans and purposes of human beings are to draw their inspiration from the encounter with this source, and must be compatible with the free, regular, sensual contact with it.

Lawrence writes that “no great purposive passion can endure long unless it is established upon the fulfillment in the vast majority of individuals of the true sexual passion. No great motive or ideal or social principle can endure for any length of time unless based upon the sexual fulfillment of the vast majority of individuals concerned.” And just to make sure we have gotten his point, he says again a few lines later, “You have got to base your great purposive activity upon the intense sexual fulfillment of all your individuals.”[12] (Mysteriously, he adds, “That was how Egypt endured.”)

To sum up, it is certainly true to say that Lawrence was preoccupied with sex. But that was because for him sex was religion. In sex we awaken the deepest part of ourselves; we become that part, which is itself part of the life energy of which we are an expression. In sex we contact this mystery, and draw creative strength from it. Lawrence insists, however, that we cannot dwell forever in this mystery. Our lives must be a perpetual shifting back and forth between blood-consciousness and mental consciousness. Contact with the chthonic blood mystery spurs us on to purposive action. And in terms of what our purposes are to be, we draw inspiration from opening ourselves to the chthonic and whatever it may bring forth. 

Sex in the Head

Ideally, sex should not be the only means by which we contact the life mystery, but for modern people it usually is. That is, when they can manage to have fulfilling sex at all. The trouble is that modern people live almost exclusively from the intellect, from conscious, mental awareness. And they live with rigid conceptions of selfhood. These are constructions of the intellect and, not surprisingly, they make intellect central to selfhood.

We tend to think, in other words, that we are minds simpliciter. But it is actually worse than that. We tend to think of ourselves almost as disembodied minds, and we relate as one disembodied mind to another. We invest a tremendous amount in maintaining these conceptions. Anything that would break down or challenge our sense of individual distinction is regarded as a threat.

Consequently, as Lawrence tells us over and over again, we have “got our sex into our head.”[13] This is a favorite expression of his. As much as we may locate our sense of self in the head, we cannot ever fully extinguish thereby the flame of the “lower self.” Rather than cede any of its power to the lower self, intellect must find some way to get sex into the head and control it. Sex becomes a matter of ego-aggrandizement, and the object of myriad neuroses. Even sexual arousal comes to be controlled by the head. The instinctual, animal sexual response that nature equips us with is suppressed by intellect. The head develops its own fixations and these become “cues” which trigger arousal.

For example, fetishism is a sexual response triggered not by the presence of an actual man or woman, or male or female genitalia, but by something which somehow symbolizes or refers to these. For example, the fetishist who gets excited over women’s underwear but has difficulty getting excited in the presence of a real woman. This is a person whose response is, again, intellectual and unnatural. He is disconnected from natural sexual feelings, and achieves arousal by routing information through the intellect: “I associate panties with women’s crotches, and they’re sexy, therefore this is sexy.”

The head may even declare some sexual feelings “wrong,” because they are incompatible with the ego’s self-conception. Repression and terrible inner conflict are the result. The more we get our sex into our head, the more a natural, fulfilling sexual response becomes impossible. The end result is almost inevitably impotence in the man and frigidity in the woman. Lawrence would not have been surprised at all had he lived to see the plethora of drugs that have now become available to treat sexual dysfunction, and the massive profits made by the companies that produce them.

One would think that getting sex into the head would put modern people off of sex, but instead it actually makes them terrifically hungry for repeated, transient sexual experiences. Lawrence writes, “The more individual the man or woman, the more unsatisfactory is a non-individual connection: promiscuity.”[14] By identifying only with the “daytime self,” with the mental self alone, we in effect disown our bodies and their sensations and urges. But the urges remain, and we must satisfy them. So we go to a sexual encounter, but because we have rendered our bodies largely insensate, we wind up feeling very little. And because we are terrified of anything that might break down or transform our sense of ourselves, we emerge from the act unchanged.

We are unwilling to surrender ego and make ourselves vulnerable, and so the sex act becomes merely a gymnastic exercise, followed by some mildly pleasurable muscular contractions. Dimly, we sense that something is missing—or that we have missed out on something. So we are driven to go on to another encounter, but the old pattern repeats itself. Of course, part of what drives us to another encounter is the biological sex urge itself, but Lawrence believes that the sex urge alone cannot explain the extraordinary promiscuity of modern people.

A solution to promiscuity, of course, is to find a steady partner, ideally one to hold onto for a lifetime. But modern people tend to approach this from the head as well. Lawrence writes,

We have made the mistake of idealism again. We have thought that the woman who thinks and talks as we do will be the blood-answer. . . . We have made love and sex a matter of seeing and hearing and of day-conscious manipulation. We have made men and women come together on the grounds of the superficial likeness and commonality—their mental and upper sympathetic consciousness. And so we have forced the blood into submission. Which means we force it into disintegration.[15]

We relate to potential love partners through the head, looking for intellectual agreement and a “shared mutuality of values.” This is much more so the case today than when Lawrence wrote. It has become increasingly the case in today’s world that one feels obliged in certain contexts (for example, the workplace) to suppress one’s feelings of magnetic attraction to the opposite sex, and certainly never to give voice to it. Some find an expression of such feelings to be somehow degrading or demeaning, no matter the context. And so men and women tend now to relate to each other primarily through talking, and talking mainly about ideas, opinions, and preferences.

The other side of the coin, of course, is relationships based upon physical attraction. While these may seem superficially more healthy than the relationships just described, in their modern form they are in fact no better. Modern people, as I have said, are caught up in preserving ego boundaries, and that means they are caught up in not losing themselves in the other, in not going too far in the direction of sensuous abandon. Hence, after a while, modern relationships based upon sex reach a dead end, where neither partner is willing to go further for fear of actually becoming something other than what he or she already is. The sex becomes overly familiar, overly mechanical, and, for lack of anything else to sustain it, the relationship ends.

Between dissatisfying sexual encounters, modern people (especially males) steel themselves against the possibility that the next time might be a profound, transformative experience by making a smirking joke of sex; by treating sex as a game in which numbers count: number of conquests, number of orgasms, minutes elapsed before ejaculation, inches of erection, etc. Sex becomes a possession of the ego, something I do which elevates me in my own eyes, a selfish pursuit. What it should be, in fact, is the most selfless pursuit of all—not in the sense of being altruistic, but in the sense of being egoless and ecstatic:

But today, all is image consciousness. Sex does not exist; there is only sexuality. And sexuality is merely a greedy, blind self-seeking. Self-seeking is the real motive of sexuality. And therefore, since the thing sought is the same, the self, the mode of seeking is not very important. Heterosexual, homosexual, narcissistic, normal, or incest, it is all the same thing. . . . Every man, every woman just seeks his own self, her own self, in the sexual experience.[16]

Contrary to appearance, modern people hate and fear sex. They hate and fear the loss of control, the loss of ego, and the abandonment to the life mystery that real, “blood-conscious” sex involves. So they reduce sex to smut and laugh at it, and at themselves for wanting it. In his essay “Pornography and Obscenity,” Lawrence writes, “Pornography is the attempt to insult sex, to do dirt on it. This is unpardonable.”[17] Further, as we have already discussed, scientism conspires with pornography to deflate the sex mystery and render it all a mundane matter of chemicals and “procreative drive.” “The scientific fact of sex is no more sex than a skeleton is a man,” Lawrence writes. “Yet you’d think twice before you stuck a skeleton in front of a lad and said, ‘You see, my boy, this is what you are when you come to know yourself.’”[18]

The “scientific” approach to deflating sex is largely the hard-headed approach of the sexually-repressed male. The sexually-repressed female has given us the “lovey-dovey” approach. Sex is “something wonderful and extra lovey-dovey, a bill-and-coo process of obtaining a sweet little baby.” Both approaches are, Lawrence tells us, “disastrous to the deep sexual life.” “But perhaps,” he adds, “that is what we want.”[19] We want, at some level, to destroy the sexual life because it threatens the ego and the control of intellect.

Phallic Traditionalism

Fear of sex, Lawrence tells us in John Thomas and Lady Jane is “fear of the phallus”:

This is the root fear of all mankind. Hence the frenzied efforts of mankind to despise the phallus, and to nullify it. All out of fear. Hence the modern jazz desire to make the phallus quite trivial, a silly little popgun. Fear, just the same. Fear of this alter ego, this homunculus, this little master which is inside a man, the phallus. Men and women alike committed endless obscenities, in order to be rid of this little master, to be free of it! Free! Free! Freedom![20]

Remember that the phallus—the erect penis—is the second man within the man: the expression of the primal, chthonic self. It is the bodying-forth in the male’s body of the unconscious, or the blood-consciousness. It is not a thing of intellect; its roots go much deeper. And because of this, it is an affront to the intellect, which prides itself on its autonomy. Lawrence is telling us that all of our reductive scientism, our pornography, our sanitized “lovey-dovey” smarm about sex, indeed most of modern life, are a concerted effort to deny the power of the phallus and to assert the radical autonomy of intellect.

It would be a mistake to understand Lawrence as simply saying that modern men and women fear a physical organ. In a way, Lawrence is saying this. The erect penis represents, in the minds of most people, the primal self within the self, deeper than intellect. And, indeed, it is under the control of that primal self; again, an erection cannot be “willed.” But recall also that for Lawrence the phallus is an expression of the life mystery that permeates all of nature.

The fear of the phallus thus represents, in another way, the fear and hatred of that which is greater than ourselves. It is no accident that the scientific “deflation” of sex usually goes hand in hand with atheism. They spring from the very same sort of mentality, the mentality that fears losing itself in something that would break the bounds of ego. To prevent this from ever happening, it must deny mystery, beauty, and God. These are all, in a way, the phallus. It must deny these or somehow explain them away. And above all it must deny itself pleasure. The fear of the phallus goes hand in hand with a fear of pleasure, for pleasure threatens to carry us away and give us a transcendent experience in which we feel absorbed into something greater than ourselves. As a Shaivite text says: “every pleasure is a divine experience. The entire universe springs forth from enjoyment. Pleasure is at the origin of all that exists.”

In “A Propos of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’” Lawrence writes that “the bridge to the future is the phallus, and there’s the end of it.” At this point, as strange as it may seem, it should be unsurprising to hear Lawrence make such a claim. What is surprising, however, is that he insists that he is not saying that the bridge to the future is sex. In the same essay, Lawrence goes on to say that if England (and, by extension, the entire modern, Western world) is to be “regenerated . . . then it will be by the arising of a new blood contact, a new touch, and a new marriage. It will be a phallic rather than a sexual regeneration. For the phallus is the only great old symbol of godly vitality in a man, and of immediate contact.”[21]

What can Lawrence mean by “phallic rather than sexual”? One must keep in mind that which the phallus represents. Lawrence is calling upon us to return to consciousness of the life mystery, in every way that we can. Sex is only one way. The phallus is “only the great old symbol of godly vitality in a man,” and it is this godly vitality that we must put ourselves back in touch with. But what does Lawrence mean when he says, further, that the phallus is the old symbol of “immediate contact”?

Here he refers to his provocative claim, discussed earlier, that the phallus “is a column of blood that fills the valley of blood of a woman.” The phallus is the means by which the two great rivers, which are metaphysical opposites, are brought together wordlessly, and more profoundly than any words or ideas could convey. The phallus represents this and all other forms of “blood-contact,” meaning instinctive or intuitive, non-verbal contact between individuals.

Lawrence believes that individuals relate to each other in countless, mysterious ways that he often designates by the term “vibrations.” We relate to the opposite sex through these vibrations. No matter our sexual orientation, the vibrations are there. We relate to members of our own family, or our own ethnic group, or to members of another, different ethnic group through these vibrations. We must learn somehow to recover our awareness of these, and cease attempting to relate to one another exclusively through words and ideas. But this is only part of what we must do to get back in touch with “the phallus.”

In the same essay, Lawrence speaks of the necessity of establishing an entire life lived in connection to the phallus:

We must get back into relation, vivid and nourishing relation to the cosmos and the universe. The way is through daily ritual, and the re-awakening. We must once more practise the ritual of dawn and noon and sunset, the ritual of the kindling fire and pouring water, the ritual of the first breath, and the last. This is an affair of the individual and the household, a ritual of day. The ritual of the moon in her phases, of the morning star and the evening star is for men and women separate. Then the ritual of the seasons, with the Drama and Passion of the soul embodied in procession and dance, this is for the community, in togetherness. And the ritual of the great events in the year of stars is for nations and whole peoples. To these rituals we must return: or we must evolve them to suit our needs.[22]

This is, of course, a description of the kind of life our distant ancestors lived. It was a life lived, in effect, in constant meditation upon and connection with the phallic mystery, the pan power. The phallus is the “bridge to the future,” but this bridge takes us roundabout and back again to the distant past.

 Notes

[1] D. H. Lawrence, Fantasia of the Unconscious in Fantasia of the Unconscious and Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious (New York: Penguin, 1971), 107.

[2] Fantasia, 108.

[3] Fantasia, 108.

[4] Fantasia, 109.

[5] Fantasia, 182–83.

[6] D. H. Lawrence, Studies in Classic American Literature (New York: Penguin, 1977), 22. Italics in original.

[7] Fantasia, 110. Later in the same text he declares, “Sex as an end in itself is a disaster: a vice” (Ibid., 187).

[8] Fantasia, 111.

[9] Fantasia, 111.

[10] Fantasia, 111.

[11] The Presocratic Philosophers, trans. G. S. Kirk, J. E. Raven, and M. Schofield (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 118.

[12] Fantasia, 110–11.

[13] Fantasia, 85.

[14] Fantasia, 175.

[15] Fantasia, 175.

[16] D. H. Lawrence, Phoenix, ed. Edward McDonald (New York: Viking, 1968), 381–82 (Review of Trigant Burrow, The Social Basis of Consciousness).

[17] Phoenix, 175 (“Pornography and Obscenity”).

[18] Fantasia, 114.

[19] Fantasia, 114.

[20] John Thomas and Lady Jane, 239.

[21] D. H. Lawrence, Phoenix II, ed. Warren Roberts and Harry T. Moore (New York: Viking, 1971), 508 (“A Propos of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’”).

[22] Phoenix II, 510 (“A Propos of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’”).

 

 

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D.H. Lawrence’s uncensored poems

D.H. Lawrence’s uncensored poems published for the first time

 

When the ban on D.H. Lawrence’s controversial novel, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, was finally lifted in 1960 it was a watershed moment for censorship in Britain. But many assume it was only Lawrence’s novels that suffered at the hands of the censors.

Now, nearly 100 years after Lawrence wrote them, a collection of his poems have been published for the first time in their original uncensored form by the Press.

The two volume edition – the first ever critical edition of Lawrence’s poetry and the final part of the Press’s 40-volume series of Lawrence’s Letters and Works – restores deleted passages and lines removed by publishers fearing government intervention because of Lawrence’s anti-war stance and his attacks on British imperialism.

Some 860 poems are published in the new edition. They include, All of Us, a sequence of 31 war poems never before published in full and many others unpublished in Lawrence’s lifetime. One poem, Rose Look Out Upon Me, is previously unpublished in any form and was discovered by the volume’s editor Christopher Pollnitz in a typescript formerly held in the private collection of George Lazarus, now located at the University of Nottingham.

Pollnitz said “Few of Lawrence’s poetry collections escaped censorship.  Faber & Faber omitted three poems because two referred to the Victorian statesman, W. E. Gladstone, one to the former Home Secretary of the Tory government, Sir William Joynson-Hicks. And Lawrence’s most important collection of poems, Birds, Beasts and Flowers, suffered extensive censorship at the hands of his American publisher. The new Cambridge volume returns to the original manuscripts and typescripts and what emerges radically shifts our understanding of Lawrence as a poet.”

The Cambridge Edition of the Works of D.H. Lawrence: The Poems, edited by Christopher Pollnitz is published by Cambridge University Press, price £130.00

Related site:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2013/mar/24/dh-lawrence-war-poetry-censorship

Dichter der Tradition

Dichter der Tradition

von Prof. Paul Gottfried (Gastautor)

Ex: http://www.blauenarzisse.de/

T S. Eliot verkörpert in Europa die US-​amerikanische Spielart literarischer Moderne. Der Schriftsteller selbst sah sich im Dreiklang von „Monarchie, Klassizismus und einer anglokatholischen Einstellung”.

Der „Stockneuengländer” mit anglikanischen Vorfahren aus Boston kam 1888 in St. Louis/​Missouri zur Welt und steuerte früh auf einen europäischen Bezugspunkt zu. 1914 reiste er nach Marburg und siedelte sich schließlich in Oxford an. Als Harvard-​Absolvent mit einer schon bewährten literarischen Begabung brauchte der junge Autor des modernistischen Klassikers und Versepos The Waste Land von 1922 eine Lebens– und Mitwelt, in der er sich seelisch zuhause fühlen konnte. Der von ihm in seinem theoretischen Schrifttum hervorgehobene Dreiklang „Monarchie, Klassizismus und eine anglokatholischen Einstellung im theologischen Bereich“, bezeugt Eliots Suche nach einer allumfassenden, sinnstiftenden Identität.

Die englische Tradition

Was Thomas Stearns Eliot begrifflich und dichterisch herstellte, entsprang seiner Schöpferkraft, die unter anderem eine traumhafte, archaisierte politische und kulturelle Landschaft der Gegenwart als Folie heraufbeschwor. In seinem Gesamtwerk zeichnen sich seine immer wiederkehrenden Vergangenheitsbeschäftigung ab und – nicht weniger hervorstechend – sein Bedauern über den Verlust einer aristokratisch-​priesterlichen Pracht.

Ein scharfsinniger Deuter des angloamerikanischen Dichters, Adrian Cunningham, betont Eliott Schwepunktsetzung auf die „englische Tradition“. Formelhaft und anhand des französischen Monarchisten Charles Maurras gelangte Eliot zu einem Verständnis der Tradition als geteiltem Erbgut, das er mit seiner kunstvoll konturierten englischen Vergangenheit in Verbindung brachte. Eliot ging diese intellektuelle Übung in seiner 1992 gegründeten Literaturzeitschrift Criterion an, ohne Rücksicht auf die Besonderheiten seiner eigenen Familienvergangenheit zu nehmen. Bei Eliots Zerlegung „des gewöhnlichen Handelns“ tritt wenig Erlebtes und Prägendes aus dem eigenen Elternhaus im mittleren Westen der USA heraus. Dabei wanderten seine angesehenen Vorfahren aus England aus und siedelten sich im 17. Jahrhundert in den amerikanischen Kolonien an.

Mehr Soziologie als Theologie

Wenn Eliot seine Glaubenslehre verteidigt, läuft seine Darlegung Cunningham zufolge eher „auf einen soziologischen als einen theologischen Standpunkt“ hinaus. Der Dichter verstand sie als Bestandteil der Idee einer „universalen Kirche“ im Kontext der römischen und orthodoxen Konfessionen. Nach dem strengen Katholiken Cuningham scheiterte das Verfahren in dem Maße, dass Eliot von einer selbstbezogenen Vorstellung ausging, ohne in einer wahren religiösen Tradition verankert zu sein.

Seine Schaffensfreudigkeit wurde dauernd mit einer Kritik der Moderne verknüpft und zugleich mit dem Auftrag, eine für seine Lebensmission geeignete Tradition vorzufinden oder sich auszudenken. Cunningham betont Eliots Besorgnis über den ausufernden Relativismus, der ihn in seinem aus den Fugen geratenen Zeitalter erschütterte. Umso größer blieb Eliots Bedürfnis nach einem sittlichen Rettungsanker. Er trauerte um den Verlust ästhetischer Maßstäbe, die in einer noch erkennbar aristokratischen Kultur gediehen waren. Durch sein Werk wollte der Dichter diese glühend verehrte Vergangenheit versinnlichen.

Doch Eliots angenommene Identität und sein Festhalten an einer monarchistischen, hochkirchlichen Tradition hätte dessen Vorfahren kaum angesprochen. Im Gegensatz zu seinen calvinistischen, republikanisch gesinnten Ahnherren, die in die Neue Welt einwanderten, entschied sich Eliot für den Monarchismus und für die seine Wahltradition begleitende Dogmenlehre.

Verschlossenheit und Wandel

Daraus erwuchs ihm und der englischsprachigen Literatur im Zwanzigsten Jahrhundert ein großer Gewinn. In Dramen wie Murder in the Cathedral (1935) und der umfangreichen Lyrik verbirgt sich eine schöpferische Genialität, die Eliots steife und verkrampfte Außenwirkung Lügen straft. Wie seine angenommenen, englischen Mituntertanen des Königs hat Eliot oft eine sprichwörtliche Verschlossenheit bekundet. Das kam ihm zugute, als er mit einer Menge von Schwierigkeiten zu ringen hatte. Als seine erste Gattin, Vivienne, geisteskrank wurde, litt der Dichter und fühlte sich gedrängt, sie in ein Sanatorium einzuliefern.

Modernismus und vergangene Pracht

Bis heute tobt eine stürmische Kontroverse um die Frage, ob Eliot für seine junge temperamentvolle Frau hinlänglich sorgte und ihre Einweisung berechtigt war. Außer Zweifel steht, dass Eliot bis tief in seine mittleren Jahre hinein bedürftigen Umständen gegenüberstand. In einer Bank rackerte er sich tagsüber als Kassierer ab. Seine literarische Leidenschaft konnte er sich nur nachts und daher häufig übermüdet widmen. Trotz des unerwarteten Erlöses, der ihm dank The Waste Land zufiel, versiegte sein Wohlstand rasch. Eliot fehlte das Geld, sich ganz der Dichtkunst zuzuwenden. Erst als er 1948 mit dem Literaturnobelpreis geehrt wurde, zeichnete sich langsam ein Wandel ab.

Bemerkenswert bleibt, dass Eliot gerade in seine theologisch-​politischen Schriften viel Mühe investierte. Wenn heute seine umständlichen Essays, etwa The Idea of a Christian Society (1939), nicht derart bekannt wie die Gedichte sind, dann muss beachtet werden, dass Eliot in seinen geschmacklichen und politisch-​theologischen Aufsätzen seine mit Wehmut angehauchte Weltansicht am stärksten enthüllt. In seinen Gedichten tritt dagegen eine mit dem Modernismus verwachsene Schöpferkraft zutage, die ebenso auf neue literarische Ausdrucksmöglichkeiten vorausweist, wie sie in eine vergangene Pracht zurückführt.

Schon in seinen ersten bedeutenden, satirischen Gedichten, The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock, die bereits 1917 herauskamen, erschlossen sich einige Zeichen des Experimentierens mit Versformen, die die schon damals hervortretenden Modernisten kennzeichnete. Sie arbeiteten vor allem mit freien Versen und eingestreuten Glossen über die Verkommenheit der Massenkultur. Als Wegbereiter galten Leitfiguren wie Ezra Pound, Gottfried Benn, und Louis-​Ferdinand Céline, die den Aufruf zur ästhetischen Mobilisierung mit konservativen oder rechten Zuneigungen verquickten.

Pietät und Märtyrerleiden

Im Gegensatz zum genialen Ezra Pound, der mit ihm die Erstfassung von The Waste Land umgearbeitet hatte, blieb Eliot aber von neuheidnischen Gedanken unberührt. Diese Zeitströmung, die im letzten Viertel des 19. Jahrhunderts einsetzte und mit Namen wie Nietzsche, D’Annunzio, und Pound in die kulturelle Tradition einzog, prallte von Eliot gänzlich ab. Aus seinen Dichtungen und Schauspielen entströmt, wie bei dem katholischen, französischen Schriftsteller Paul Claudel (1868 — 1955), ein betont christlicher Geist. In etlichen Schöpfungen wie Ash Wednesday (Aschermittwoch, 1930) und Murder in the Cathedral bleiben die Thematiken unverkennbar anglokatholisch.

Auch bei Eliots Bewunderern erschöpft sich manchmal die menschliche Geduld, wenn Eliot seine Pietät wiederholt unterstreicht. In den Schauspielen Murder in the Cathedral, das die Tötung des Erzbischofs Thomas Beckett auf Befehl des ihm entfremdeten Königs Heinrich II. schildert sowie The Cocktail Party (1948), das das Befestigen einer Missionarin an einem Ameisenhügel irgendwo in Afrika nacherzählt, zeigt sich die finstere Seite des Gläubigen. Märtyrerleiden übten auf Eliot zeitlebens eine große Faszination aus. Zweifelsohne, Eliot ging konsequent einen ganz eigenen Weg. Von anderen ließ er sich unterrichten, ohne ihnen zu verfallen.

Thomas Carlyle: Over helden en heldenverering

Thomas Carlyle

(vertaling Bert Bultinck)

Over helden en heldenverering

| Vijfde Lezing – De Held als Literator.
Dinsdag, 19 mei 1840

Held-goden, Profeten, Poëten, Priesters. Het zijn allemaal vormen van Heroïsme die tot de oude tijden behoren, die al in de vroegste tijden verschijnen; sommige van die vormen lijken niet langer mogelijk, en kunnen zichzelf niet meer tonen in deze wereld. De Held als Literator, waarover we vandaag zullen spreken, is al bij al een product van onze nieuwe tijden; en zolang de wonderlijke kunst van het Schrift, of van het Paraat-Schrift dat we Drukwerk noemen, blijft bestaan, mag men veronderstellen dat hij één van de belangrijkste vormen van het Heroïsme zal blijven voor alle tijden die nog volgen. Hij is, in verschillende opzichten, een zeer bijzonder fenomeen.

Ik zeg dat hij nieuw is; hij is er amper langer dan een eeuw. Nooit, tot zo’n honderd jaar geleden, was er enig beeld van een Grote Ziel die op zo’n abnormale manier apart leefde, niemand die poogde de inspiratie die in hem was uit te spreken in Gedrukte Boeken en die plaats en levensonderhoud vond door middel van wat het de wereld behaagde hem daarvoor te geven. Er was al veel ver- en gekocht; en achtergelaten om de eigen prijs op de markt te vinden; maar de bezielde wijsheid van een Heroïsche Ziel nog nooit, op die naakte wijze. Hij, met zijn copy-rights en copy-wrongs, in zijn vieze zolderkamertje, in zijn versleten jas; die vanuit het graf hele naties en generaties regeert (want dat is wat hij doet) die hem tijdens zijn leven al dan niet brood wilden geven – hij is een curieus spektakel! Er zijn weinig vormen van Heroïsme die nog meer onverwacht zouden kunnen zijn.

Helaas, de Held uit de oude dagen heeft zich in vreemde vormen moeten wringen: de wereld weet bij tijden niet goed wat met hem aan te vangen, zo vreemd is zijn verschijning in deze wereld! Het leek ons absurd, dat mensen, in hun brute bewondering, één of andere wijze grote Odin als god namen en hem als zodanig vereerden; of een wijze grote Mohammed voor een door god bezielde, om diens Wet twaalf eeuwen religieus na te leven: maar dat een wijze grote Johnson, een Burns, een Rousseau als doelloze slampampers worden beschouwd, en af en toe een paar muntstukken toegeworpen krijgen om van te leven, als zouden die enkel bestaan om de leegheid te amuseren: dit zal misschien, zoals reeds eerder gesuggereerd, ooit nog wel een veel absurdere stand van zaken lijken! – Ondertussen moet, aangezien het spirituele altijd het materiële bepaalt, deze Literator-Held als onze belangrijkste moderne persoon worden beschouwd. Hij, hoe hij ook moge zijn, is de ziel van alles en iedereen. Wat hij verkondigt, zal de hele wereld doen en maken. Hoe de wereld hem behandelt is het meest significante kenmerk van de algehele staat van de wereld. Als we goed naar zijn leven kijken, kunnen we misschien een glimp opvangen, zo diep als ook maar mogelijk is voor ons, van het leven van die bijzondere eeuwen die hem hebben voortgebracht en waarin wij zelf leven en werken.
Er zijn authentieke Literatoren en inauthentieke; zoals bij elke soort zijn er authentieke en onechte. Als we Held als authentiek opvatten, dan zeg ik dat de Held als Literator voor ons een functie zal blijken te vervullen die voor altijd de meest eerbiedwaardige, de hoogste is. Hij spreekt, op zijn eigen manier, zijn eigen geïnspireerde ziel uit; alles wat een man, in elk geval, kan doen. Ik zeg geïnspireerd, dat wat we ‘originaliteit’, ‘oprechtheid’, ‘genie’ noemen, die heroïsche kwaliteit waar we geen goede naam voor hebben. De Held is hij die leeft in de innerlijke sfeer van de dingen, in het Ware, Goddelijke en Eeuwige, dat altijd, onopgemerkt voor de meesten, onder het Tijdelijke, Triviale leeft: daarin ligt zijn wezen; hij openbaart dat uitgebreid, door een handeling of een uitspraak, en door zichzelf uitgebreid te openbaren. Zijn leven, zoals we vroeger al zeiden, is een stuk van het eeuwige hart van de Natuur zelf: dat is het leven van iedereen, – maar de zwakke velen kennen dat feit niet, en zijn het meestal ontrouw; de sterke weinigen zijn sterk, heroïsch, standvastig, want het kan zich niet voor hen verstoppen. De Literator, net als elke Held, is er om dit uit te dragen, zoals hij dat kan. Intrinsiek is het dezelfde functie waarvoor de oude generaties een man Profeet, Priester of Godheid noemden; om die dingen te doen, door woord of daad, waarvoor alle soorten van Helden de wereld ingestuurd worden.

Zo’n veertig jaar geleden gaf de Duitse Filosoof Fichte een zeer opmerkelijke reeks lezingen over dit onderwerp in Erlangen: ‘Über das Wesen des Gelehrten, Over De Natuur van de Literaire Mens.’ In overeenstemming met de Transcendentale Filosofie waarvan hij een groot leermeester was, stelt Fichte eerst en vooral: Dat alle dingen die we zien of waarmee we werken op deze Aarde, in het bijzonder onszelf en alle mensen, als een soort overjas of zinnelijke Verschijning zijn: dat er onder dat alles, als hun essentie, datgene ligt wat hij de ‘Goddelijke Idee van de Wereld’ noemt; dit is de Realiteit die ‘aan de grond ligt van elke Verschijning’. Voor de massa is zo’n Goddelijke Idee niet te herkennen in de wereld; zij leven enkel, zegt Fichte, onder de oppervlakkigheden, de praktische probleempjes en de uiterlijkheden van de wereld, en dromen niet dat daaronder ook maar iets goddelijks is. Maar de Literator wordt speciaal hierheen gezonden om, voor zichzelf, dezelfde Goddelijke Idee te onderscheiden en om die, voor ons, duidelijk te maken: elke nieuwe generatie zal dit Idee aan zichzelf kenbaar maken in een nieuw dialect; en de Literator is er om dat te doen. In die bewoordingen drukt Fichte zich uit; en wij hoeven dat niet te betwisten. Wat hij op zijn manier benoemt is datgene wat ik hier, in andere woorden, op onvolmaakte wijze tracht te benoemen: dat waar momenteel geen naam voor is: De onuitsprekelijke Goddelijke Betekenis, vol van glans, van wonder en terreur, dat in het wezen van elke man ligt, van elk ding,– de Aanwezigheid van de God die elke mens en elk ding heeft gemaakt. Mohammed verkondigde dit in zijn dialect; Odin in het zijne: alle denkende harten zijn hier om dat, in één of ander dialect, aan te leren.

Daarom noemt Fichte de Literator een profeet, of zoals hij hem liever noemt, een Priester, die voortdurend het Goddelijke voor de mensen ontvouwt: van tijdperk tot tijdperk vormen Literatoren een eeuwig Priesterschap, dat alle mensen leert dat er nog steeds een God is in hun leven; dat elke ‘Verschijning’, wat we ook zien in de wereld, niet meer dan een overjas is voor de ‘Goddelijke Idee van de Wereld’, voor ‘dat wat op de bodem van de Verschijning ligt’. In de ware Literator is er dus altijd een, al dan niet door de wereld erkende, wijding: hij is het licht van de wereld, de Priester van de wereld: - hij leidt de wereld, als een heilige Vuurpilaar, in diens donkere pelgrimstocht door de woestijn van de Tijd. Fichte onderscheidt gepassioneerd de ware Literator, die we hier de Held als Literator noemen, van de massa valse onheldhaftigen. Wie niet volledig in deze Goddelijke Idee leeft, of voor wie er slechts gedeeltelijk in leeft en er niet naar streeft, als naar het enige goede, om er volledig in te leven, – hij is, waar hij ook leeft, in welke praal en voorspoed dan ook, geen Literator; hij is, zegt Fichte, een ‘zielige, een Stümper’. Of, hij kan, op zijn best, als hij van de prozaïsche streken is, een ‘loonslaaf’ zijn; Fichte noemt hem elders zelfs een nul, en heeft, om kort te gaan, geen genade voor hem, geen verlangen dat hij blijmoedig onder ons blijft! Dit is Fichtes opvatting van de Literator. In zijn eigen uitdrukkingsvorm zegt het precies wat we hier bedoelen.
Vanuit dit standpunt beschouw ik Fichtes landgenoot Goethe als de meest opmerkelijke Literator van de laatste honderd jaar. Wat we een leven in de Goddelijke Idee van de Wereld kunnen noemen was ook, op een vreemde manier, aan die man gegeven; een visioen van het innerlijke, goddelijke mysterie: en vreemd genoeg, rijst uit zijn boeken de wereld eens te meer op als goddelijk verbeeld, werk en tempel van een God. Geheel verlicht, niet in woeste onzuivere vuurglans als bij Mohammed, maar in milde, hemelse stralen; -waarlijk een Profetie in deze hoogst onprofetische tijden; mijns inziens, veruit het grootste, zij het één van de stilste, van alle dingen die in deze tijden gebeurd zijn. Als specimen van de Held als Literator zouden we deze Goethe verkiezen. En het zou me zeer aangenaam zijn om het hier over zijn heroïsme te hebben: want ik beschouw hem als een echte Held; heroïsch in wat hij zei en deed, en misschien nog heroïscher in wat hij niet zei en niet deed; wat mij betreft een nobel spektakel: een groot heroïsch man van vroeger, die sprak en zweeg als een Held van de oude tijd, in de verschijning van een uiterst moderne, welopgevoede, zeer gecultiveerde Literator! Wij hebben zo geen spektakel gehad; geen man die daartoe in staat was, de laatste honderdvijftig jaar.
Maar momenteel is de algemene kennis van Goethe zodanig dat het meer dan zinloos zou zijn om het in deze kwestie over hem te hebben. Hoe ik ook over hem zou spreken, Goethe zou voor de meesten onder jullie vaag en problematisch blijven; geen indruk behalve een valse zou ik kunnen meegeven. We moeten hem voor later bewaren. Johnson, Burns, Rousseau, drie grote figuren van een vorige tijd, uit een veel slechtere staat van omstandigheden, passen hier beter. Drie mannen van de Achttiende Eeuw; hun levensomstandigheden lijken veel meer op wat die van ons nog altijd zijn, dan op die van Goethe in Duitsland. Helaas, deze mannen overwonnen niet zoals hij; ze vochten moedig, en vielen. Ze waren geen heroïsche bezorgers van het licht, maar heroïsche zoekers ervan. Ze leefden in bittere omstandigheden; worstelden als onder bergen van obstakels, en konden zich niet ontvouwen in duidelijkheid, of in een zegevierende interpretatie van die ‘Goddelijke Idee’. Het zijn eerder de Graftombes van drie Literaire Helden die ik u wil tonen. Daar zijn de monumentale bergen, waaronder drie spirituele reuzen begraven liggen. Zeer somber, maar ook groots en vol belang voor ons. We blijven een tijdje bij hen.^¹
In deze tijden wordt er vaak geklaagd over wat we de gedesorganiseerde staat van deze maatschappij noemen: hoe slecht veel geordende maatschappelijke krachten hun taak vervullen; men kan zien hoe zoveel machtige krachten op een spilzieke, chaotische, zeg maar ongeordende manier functioneren. De klacht is meer dan terecht, zoals we allemaal weten. Maar misschien, als we dit bekijken vanuit het standpunt van Boeken en van de Schrijvers van Boeken, zullen we er als het ware de samenvatting van elke andere desorganisatie vinden; – een soort van hart, van waaruit, en waar naar toe, alle andere verwarring in de wereld circuleert. Als ik kijk naar wat schrijvers in de wereld doen, en wat de wereld met schrijvers doet, dan zou ik zeggen dat dat het meest abnormale ding is wat de wereld vandaag laat zien. – We zouden in een onmetelijk diepe zee terechtkomen, als we hier verslag van zouden willen doen: maar omwille van ons onderwerp moeten we er even een blik op werpen. Het ergste onderdeel van het leven van deze drie Literaire Helden was dat ze hun zaken en maatschappelijke positie zo chaotisch vonden. Via de platgetreden paden kan men behoorlijk makkelijk reizen; maar het is hard labeur, en velen gaan eraan ten onder, als men een pad door het ondoordringbare moet creëren!

Onze devote Vaders, die goed aanvoelden hoe belangrijk het spreken van man tot menigte was, stichtten kerken, vonden fondsen en maakten reglementen; overal in de beschaafde wereld is er een Preekstoel, omringd door allerlei soorten van complexe, waardige accessoires en hulpmiddelen, zodat van op die preekstoel een welbespraakte man zijn naasten zo voordelig mogelijk kan toespreken. Ze vonden dat dit het belangrijkste was; dat er zonder dit niets goeds was. Dat werk van hen is waarlijk vroom; mooi om te aanschouwen! Maar nu, met de kunst van het Schrift, met de kunst van het Drukken, is die hele aangelegenheid totaal veranderd. De Schrijver van een Boek, is hij geen Predikant, die niet preekt voor deze of gindse parochie, op één of andere dag, maar voor alle mensen van alle tijden en plaatsen? Zeker, het is van het grootste belang dat hij zijn werk goed doet, wie anders het ook slecht moge doen; – dat het oog niet foutief rapporteert; want dan dwalen alle andere leden! Wel; hoe hij zijn werk doet, of hij het goed of slecht doet, of hij het überhaupt doet, is iets waarvoor geen mens in de wereld ooit de moeite heeft gedaan om over na te denken. Voor één of andere winkelier, die geld voor diens boeken probeert te verkrijgen, als hij geluk heeft, is hij nog van een zeker belang; maar voor elke andere man van geen enkel. Waar hij vandaan kwam, en waar hij naar toe trekt, via welke wegen hij hier aankwam, en via welke hij zijn tocht zou kunnen voortzetten, vraagt niemand. In de maatschappij is hij een accident. Hij zwerft rond als een wilde Ismaëliet, in een wereld waarvan hij als het ware het spirituele licht is, ofwel de juiste ofwel de verkeerde gids!
Van alle dingen die de mens ontworpen heeft, is de kunst van het schrift zeker het meest miraculeuze. Odins Runen waren de eerste vorm van het werk van een Held; Boeken, geschreven woorden, zijn nog altijd miraculeuze Runen, in hun meest recente vorm! In Boeken ligt de ziel van de hele Voorbije Tıjd; de heldere, hoorbare stem van het Verleden, wanneer het lichaam en de materie ervan volkomen verdwenen zijn als een droom. Machtige vloten en legers, havens en arsenalen, uitgestrekte steden, met hoge koepels en veel werktuigen,- ze zijn kostbaar, groot: maar wat wordt er van hen? Agamemnon, de vele Agamemnons, Periclessen, en hun Griekenland; alles is nu verworden tot enkele brokstukken, stomme, sombere wrakken en blokken: maar de Boeken van Griekenland! Daar leeft Griekenland – zeer letterlijk – nog steeds voor elke denker; en kan het terug tot leven geroepen worden. Geen magische Rune is vreemder dan een Boek. Alles wat de mensheid ooit heeft gedaan, gedacht, gewonnen of is geweest: het ligt als in magische bewaring in de bladzijden van een boek. Ze zijn het uitverkoren bezit van de mensen. Is het niet zo dat Boeken nog altijd de mirakels verrichten die volgens de legenden de Runen altijd deden? Ze overtuigen de mensen. Geen roman uit een leesgezelschap, beduimeld en verslonden door dwaze meiden in afgelegen dorpen, zo verschrikkelijk, of hij helpt de praktische kant van trouwerijen en huishoudens van deze dwaze meiden in goede banen leiden. Zoals ‘Celia’ zich voelde, zo handelde ‘Clifford’: het dwaze Theorema van het Leven, in deze jonge breinen gestampt, komt op een dag terug te voorschijn als vaste Werkwijze. Vraag u eens af of enige Rune, in de wildste verbeelding van de mytholoog ooit zulke wonders heeft verricht, als diegene die, op de feitelijke vaste aarde, sommige Boeken hebben gedaan! Wat heeft St. Paul’s Cathedral gebouwd? In essentie, was het dat goddelijke Hebreeuwse BOEK – gedeeltelijk de wereld van de man Mozes, een vogelvrij verklaarde die zijn Midianitische kudden hoedde, vierduizend jaar geleden, in de wildernissen van Sinaï! Het is uiterst vreemd, maar niets is meer waar dan dat. Met de kunst van het Schrift, waarvan de Boekdrukkunst een eenvoudig, onvermijdelijk en relatief onbetekenend uitvloeisel is, begon voor de mensen de ware heerschappij van mirakelen. Het Schrift verbond, met wonderlijke nieuwe raakpunten en eeuwige nabijheid, het Verleden en het Verre met het Heden in tijd en ruimte; alle tijden en alle plaatsen met ons feitelijk Hier en Nu. Alle dingen veranderden voor de mensen: leren, preken, regeren, en alle andere dingen.
Laten we eens naar het Leren kijken, bijvoorbeeld. Universiteiten zijn een opmerkelijk, respectabel product van de moderne tijden. Ook hun bestaan is wezenlijk aangepast door het bestaan van Boeken. Universiteiten ontstonden wanneer er nog geen boeken verkrijgbaar waren; wanneer een man, voor één enkel boek, een heel landgoed moest geven. In die omstandigheden was het noodzakelijk dat, wanneer een man enige kennis wou meedelen, hij dat deed door de mensen die wilden leren, van aangezicht tot aangezicht, rond zich te verzamelen. Als je wou weten wat Abélard wist, dan moest je naar Abélard gaan luisteren. Duizenden, wel dertigduizend, gingen naar Abélard en diens metafysische theologie luisteren. En nu kwam er voor elke andere leraar die iets van zichzelf had aan te leren een nieuw gemak: zoveel duizenden die gretig wilden leren, waren daar al verzameld; van alle plaatsen was dat de beste voor hem. Voor elke derde leraar was het nog beter; en werd het altijd maar beter, naarmate er meer leraars kwamen. De Koning moest nu alleen nog dit nieuwe verschijnsel opmerken; de verscheidene scholen doen fusioneren; het gebouwen, privileges en aanmoedigingen geven en het Universitas, of School van Alle Wetenschappen noemen: en de Universiteit van Parijs, in grote trekken, was er. Het model van alle volgende Universiteiten; die tot op vandaag, zes eeuwen lang al, doorgegaan zijn met zichzelf te stichten. Dat, stel ik mij voor, was de oorsprong van Universiteiten.

Het is niettemin duidelijk dat met deze eenvoudige omstandigheid, het gemak om Boeken te verkrijgen, alle voorwaarden van de zaak veranderden. Eens je de Boekdrukkunst uitvindt, verander je ook alle Universiteiten, of maak je ze overbodig! De Leraar moest nu niet langer alle mensen persoonlijk rond zich verzamelen, om zo hen te kunnen zeggen wat hij wist: druk het in een Boek, en alle leerlingen van heinde en verre, hadden het elk bij hun haardvuur, voor een kleinigheid, en konden het veel efficiënter studeren! – Zonder twijfel heeft het Spreken nog steeds een bijzondere kwaliteit; zelfs schrijvers van Boeken kunnen het, in sommige omstandigheden, passend vinden om ook te spreken, – getuige onze huidige bijeenkomst hier! Men zou kunnen zeggen – en dat moet zo blijven zolang de mens een tong heeft – dat er een apart domein voor het Spreken is, zowel als één voor Schrijven en Drukken. In alle opzichten moet dit zo blijven; zoals onder andere bij de Universiteiten. Maar de grenzen van beide zijn nog nooit aangetoond, vastgesteld; laat staan in praktijk gebracht. De Universiteit die zich volledig rekenschap zou geven van het grootse nieuwe feit van het bestaan van Gedrukte Boeken, en van eenzelfde niveau zou zijn voor de Negentiende Eeuw als die van Parijs was voor de Dertiende Eeuw, is nog niet tot stand gekomen. Als we er goed over nadenken, is alles wat een Universiteit, of een Hogeschool, kan doen, nog steeds slechts wat de eerste School begon te doen – ons leren lezen. We leren lezen, in verschillende talen, in verschillende wetenschappen; we leren het alfabet en de letters van allerlei Boeken. Maar de plaats waar we onze kennis gaan halen, zelfs theoretische kennis, is bij de Boeken zelf! Het hangt af van wat we lezen, nadat allerlei Professoren voor ons hun best hebben gedaan. De ware Universiteit van deze dagen is een Verzameling Boeken.

Maar door de introductie van Boeken is voor de Kerk zelf, zoals ik al suggereerde, alles veranderd, wat het preken betreft, wat haar werking betreft. De Kerk is de werkende erkende Vereniging van Onze Priesters of Profeten, van zij die door wijze lessen de zielen van de mensen leiden. Zolang er geen Schrift was, vooral waneer er geen Gemak-Schrift of Drukken was, was de preek van de stem de enige natuurlijke methode om dit te doen. Maar nu er Boeken zijn! – Hij die een Boek kan schrijven, om Engeland te overtuigen, is hij niet de Bisschop en de Aartsbisschop, de Primaat van Engeland en Heel Engeland? Ik zeg dikwijls dat de schrijvers van Kranten, Pamfletten, Gedichten, Boeken de echte werkende en wezenlijke Kerk van een modern land zijn. Nee, niet alleen onze preken, maar zelfs onze eredienst, worden zij ook niet verricht door middel van Gedrukte Boeken? Het nobele gevoel dat een getalenteerde ziel voor ons in melodieuze woorden heeft aangekleed, woorden die melodie in ons hart brengen,– is dit niet essentieel, als we het goed begrijpen, voor het wezen van de eredienst? Er zijn er velen, in alle landen, die, in deze verwarde tijd, geen andere manier van verering hebben. Hij die ons, op welke manier dan ook, op een betere wijze dan we ervoor kenden, toont dat een veldlelie mooi is, toont hij ons dat niet als een uitvloeisel van de Fontein van alle Schoonheid; als het handschrift, daarin zichtbaar gemaakt, van de grote Maker van het Universum? Hij heeft voor ons een klein vers van een heilige Psalm gezongen, hij heeft het ons met hem doen meezingen. Wezenlijk wel. Hoeveel te meer hij die de nobele handelingen, gevoelens, stoutmoedigheden en beproevingen van een man en een broeder bezingt, uitspreekt of op een andere manier naar ons hart brengt! Hij heeft werkelijk ons hart geraakt als was het met een gloeiende kool van het altaar. Wellicht bestaat er geen eredienst die authentieker is.
Literatuur, in zoverre het Literatuur is, is een ‘apocalyps van de Natuur’, een openbaring van het ‘open geheim’. Het zou best, in de stijl van Fichte, een ‘voortdurende revelatie’ van het Goddelijke op het Aardse en het Gewone genoemd kunnen worden. Het Goddelijke duurt daar werkelijk steeds voort; het komt te voorschijn, nu eens in dit dialect, dan in dat, met verschillende graden van helderheid: alle werkelijk getalenteerde Zangers en Sprekers doen dit, bewust of onbewust. De donkere stormachtige verontwaardiging van een Byron, zo wispelturig en pervers, kan er enkele trekken van hebben; of nee, de verdorde spot van een Frans scepticus,– zijn bespotting van het Valse, een liefde en verering van het Ware. Hoeveel meer nog de sferenharmonie van een Shakespeare, van een Goethe; de kathedraal-muziek van een Milton! Zij zijn ook iets, die nederige echte leeuwerikennoten van een Burns, – veldleeuwerik, die begint van de nederige voor, ver boven het hoofd in de blauwe diepten, en die ons daar zo authentiek toezingen! Want alle werkelijke zang is wezenlijk een verering; zoals men inderdaad kan zeggen dat alle ware arbeid dat is, – waarvan die zang voor ons slechts de neerslag, en passende melodieuze voorstelling is. Fragmenten van een echte ‘Kerkliturgie’ en ‘Preekbundels’, vreemd verborgen voor het gewone oog, vind je zwalkend op die enorme schuimoceaan van het Gedrukte Woord dat we vaag Literatuur noemen! Boeken zijn ook onze Kerk.

noot
¹ Dat doen we niet: deze tekst is een fragment van een lezing waarin Carlyle zijn ideeën over de Held als Literator illustreert aan de hand van drie grote voorbeelden: Samuel Johnson, Jean-Jacques Rousseau en Robert Burns. Hier worden enkel de meer algemene opvattingen van Carlyle gepubliceerd.

http://www.yangtijdschrift.be/editorhtml.asp?page=19993L5

Le Meilleur des Mondes, c'est maintenant

Aldous Huxley

Le Meilleur des Mondes, c'est maintenant

par Stéphane Blanchonnet

Ex: http://a-rebours.ouvaton.org/

article d'abord paru sur a-rebours.fr puis repris dans L'AF2000

   Au moment où un gouvernement entreprend de liquider l'institution du mariage en en dénaturant la définition, au moment où un prétendu "droit" au mariage et un prétendu "droit" à l'enfant se substituent à la plus naturelle des institutions sociales (quelles que soient les variations de ses modalités dans le temps et l'espace), il est urgent de se replonger dans un livre où l'auteur représente une société future dans laquelle la famille traditionnelle a été abolie, les notions de père et mère ont disparu des mémoires, la reproduction et la sexualité ont été totalement dissociées (les enfants sont tous le résultat d'une fécondation et d'une gestation artificielles), la liberté sexuelle, enfin, est devenu le plus efficace moyen de contrôle social de l’État sur des individus sevrés de plaisir mais devenus pour cette raison irresponsables et incapables de responsabilité comme d'esprit critique. Ce livre, vous l'aurez sans doute reconnu, est le remarquable roman Le Meilleur des Mondes d'Aldous Huxley, qui est aussi un profond apologue, dans la grande tradition des fables et des contes philosophiques.

    Dans son essai, Retour au Meilleur des Mondes, paru en 1958 (vingt-cinq ans après le roman), Huxley se livre à une passionnante comparaison entre son propre livre et le chef d'œuvre de George Orwell, 1984. Il y écrit notamment ces lignes qui expliquent que là où Orwell avait en vue les régimes autoritaires et militaristes, lui-même dénonçait plutôt les potentialités totalitaires des démocraties libérales : « La société décrite dans le roman d'Orwell est continuellement en état de guerre, aussi le but de ses dirigeants est-il d'abord, bien entendu, d'exercer le pouvoir, générateur de grisantes délices, et ensuite de maintenir leurs sujets dans cet état de tension croissante qu'une lutte permanente exige de ceux qui la livrent. En faisant croisade contre la sexualité, les chefs parviennent à entretenir le degré de tension voulu chez leurs satellites et en même temps à satisfaire de manière extrêmement agréable leur propre appétit de puissance. Celle qui est décrite dans Le Meilleur des Mondes est une société mondiale dans laquelle la guerre a été éliminée et où le premier but des dirigeants est d'empêcher à tout prix leurs sujets de créer des désordres. Ils y parviennent (entre autres méthodes) par la légalisation d'un degré de liberté sexuelle (rendu possible par l'abolition de la famille) qui garantit pratiquement les populations de toute forme de tension émotive destructrice (ou créatrice). Dans 1984, l'appétit de puissance se satisfait en infligeant la souffrance ; dans Le Meilleur des Mondes en infligeant un plaisir à peine moins humiliant. »

    L'ouvrage d'Huxley est sans doute le plus intéressant pour comprendre la logique de notre société consumériste, hédoniste et surtout progressiste qui prétend émanciper les individus en les déracinant (la table rase permanente à l'égard de la culture, des traditions et désormais de la filiation) alors qu'elle ne fait que les couper des contraintes normales qui, en circonscrivant le périmètre de la nature humaine, lui permettent tout simplement d'exister en tant que telle. Ceux qui participent à ce mouvement littéralement insensé vers l'indifférenciation et l'indétermination absolues ne voient pas qu'un changement, qui n'est qu'un processus, un ”accident" pour parler comme les philosophes, suppose un sujet à ce processus, une "substance", donc une nature, un certain nombre de déterminations sans lesquelles il n'est pas plus de conservation nécessaire que de progrès légitime mais un pur chaos inintelligible !

Stéphane BLANCHONNET

Isaac Asimov: Rivedere 1984

Rivedere 1984

 

ex: aurorasito

di Isaac Asimov

Avevo scritto un articolo in quattro parti per il Field Newspaper Syndicate all’inizio di ogni anno per molto tempo fin agli anni ’80, pensando all’avvicinarsi del 1984, FNS mi chiese di scrivere un critica al racconto 1984 di George Orwell. Ero riluttante. Non ricordavo quasi nulla del e lo dissi – ma Denison Demac, la ragazza amabile che era il mio contatto con FNS, semplicemente mi spedì una copia del testo e disse “leggilo“. Così lo lessi e mi sorpresi meravigliato di ciò che leggevo. Ero sorpreso di quanta gente parlasse del testo in modo così spigliato, senza averlo mai letto; o se l’avevano fatto, non lo ricordavano affatto. Sentì di voler scrivere la critica solo per avvertire la gente. (mi dispiace; mi piace farlo.)

A. Lo scritto 1984
Nel 1949, un libro intitolato 1984 venne pubblicato. Era stato scritto da Eric Arthur Blair con lo pseudonimo di George Orwell. Il libro cercava di mostrare come la vita sarebbe stata in un mondo totalitario in cui il governo si mantiene al potere con la forza bruta, distorcendo la verità, riscrivendo in continuo la storia, insomma ingannando il popolo.  Il mondo da incubo esisteva a 35 anni nel futuro, così che le persone di mezza età, al momento della pubblicazione del libro, avrebbero potuto constatare se avrebbero vissuto una vita normale.  Io, al contrario, ero già sposato quando apparve il libro, e oggi siamo a meno quattro anni dall’anno apocalittico (il ’1984′ è divenuto l’anno associato con tale minaccia grazie al libro di Orwell), e io ero contentissimo di poterlo vedere.
In questo capitolo, parlerò del libro, ma prima: chi era Blair/Orwell e perché scrisse questo libro?
Blair nacque nel 1903 figlio di funzionario inglese, il padre era nel Indian civil service e Blair stesso visse la vita di un ufficiale imperiale inglese. Andò a Eton, servì in Birmania, ecc. Tuttavia, era sempre al verde per esser un “English gentleman” completo. Allora inoltre, non voleva passare il resto della sua vita alla scrivania; voleva essere uno scrittore. Ancora, si sentiva in colpa per la sua condizione di borghese medio-alto. Così negli anni ’20 fece quello che molti giovani americani fecero negli anni ’60. In breve divenne un cosiddetto ‘hippie‘ ante litteram. Viveva negli slum di Londra e Parigi, confondendosi e identificandosi con i vagabondi e i diseredati degli slum, cercando di sollevare la propria coscienza e, allo stesso tempo, di raccogliere materiale per i suoi primi libri. Divenne di sinistra, un socialista, combatté con i lealisti in Spagna negli anni ’30. Si ritrovò intrappolato nella lotta settaria tra fazioni di sinistra, e finché credeva in un socialismo da bravo inglese, era inevitabile che fosse nel lato perdente. Opposti a lui vi erano gli appassionati anarchici, sindacalisti, e comunisti spagnoli, che amaramente subivano il fatto che le necessità della lotta ai fascisti di Franco venissero sostituite dallo scontro fratricida. I comunisti, i meglio organizzati, vinsero e Orwell lasciò la Spagna, era convinto che lo avrebbero ucciso. Da allora fino alla morte, condusse una guerra letteraria contro i comunisti, determinato a vincere, con le parole, la battaglia che aveva perso sul terreno.
Durante la seconda guerra mondiale, dove venne scartato dal servizio militare, si associò con l’ala sinistra  del British Labour party, ma non legò molto con il partito, poiché il suo blando socialismo gli sembrava fin troppo ben organizzato. Non era preoccupato, apparentemente, dal totalitarismo nazista, per lui c’era spazio solo per la guerra privata contro lo stalinismo. Perciò, quando il Regno Unito combatteva contro il nazismo, e l’URSS combatteva da alleato nella lotta e contribuì molto in vite umane perdute e in coraggio risoluto, Orwell scrisse “La fattoria degli animali” una satira della Rivoluzione Russa e di ciò che seguì, dipingendola come la rivolta di animali domestici contro i padroni umani. Completò “La fattoria degli animali” nel 1944 e ebbe problemi nel trovare un editore fin quando arrivò il momento buono per attaccare i sovietici. Appena finita la guerra, l’Urss divenne il nemico e “La fattoria degli animali” venne pubblicata. Venne accolta con ovazione e Orwell divenne sufficientemente ricco per andare in pensione e dedicarsi al suo capolavoro: 1984.
Il libro descrive una società come una super Russia stalinista mondiale in stile anni ’30, cioè come veniva dipinta dai settari di ultrasinistra. Altre forme di totalitarismo giocavano un ruolo secondario. Vi erano uno o due menzioni del nazismo e della inquisizione. All’inizio almeno due o tre riferimenti agli ebrei, avrebbero dovuto dimostrare la loro persecuzione, ma ciò sparisce subito e Orwell non vuole che il lettore identifichi i cattivi con i nazisti. L’immagine è lo stalinismo, e solo lo stalinismo.
Quando il libro apparve nel 1949, la guerra fredda era al culmine. Il libro divenne, perciò, popolare. Era una questione di patriottismo in occidente comprarlo e parlarne e, forse, persino leggerne una parte; è mia opinione che molta gente che lo ha comprato lo ha più discusso che letto, poiché è un libro ostico, statico, ripetitivo e didascalico. Fu molto popolare, all’inizio, presso le persone di destra, conservatrici, per essi era chiara la polemica contro l’Urss, e il quadro della vita lì mostrata nella Londra del 1984 era proprio quella immaginata dai conservatori nella Mosca del 1949.
Durante l’era di McCarthy negli USA, 1984 divenne sempre più popolare presso i liberals, poiché sembrava che gli USA dei primi anni ’50 scivolassero verso il controllo del pensiero e che tutti i mali che Orwell aveva descritto si stessero avverando. Quindi, in una prefazione di una edizione pubblicata in paperback dalla New American Library nel 1961, il psicoanalista e filosofo liberale Erich Fromm conclude così: “Il libro di Orwell è un potente allarme, e potrebbe essere una sfortuna se il lettore interpretasse 1984 come l’ennesima descrizione della barbarie stalinista, e non è detto che appaia, da noi, in quel modo.”
Anche quando lo stalinismo e il McCarthyismo scomparvero, sempre più statunitensi divennero consapevoli di come fosse divenuto “grande” il governo; di come fossero alte le tasse; di come la vita quotidiana e gli affari fossero sempre più regolati dalle leggi; di come l’informazione riguardante ogni fatto della vita privata entrasse nei documenti del governo, ma anche del sistema bancario privato.
1984, quindi, significava non più stalinismo, o dittatura, ma il semplice governo.  Anche il paternalismo governativo sembrava ispirato a 1984 e la frase il “grande fratello ti vede” significava tutto ciò che era troppo grande per il controllo del singolo.
Non vi era solo un grande governo o un grande business che fosse sintomo del 1984, ma anche una grande scienza, un grande lavoro, un grande tutto. Infatti, la 1984-fobia penetrò nella coscienza di molti di coloro che non avevano letto il libro o avevano nozione del suo contenuto; ci si preoccupava di ciò che sarebbe accaduto entro il 31 Dicembre 1984. Una volta arrivato il 1985, con gli USA che erano ancora una realtà, e affrontava i molti problemi quotidiani, come esprimeremo la paura sugli aspetti della vita che ci riempiono di apprensione? Quale data inventeremo per sostituire il 1984?
Orwell non visse per vedere il proprio libro divenire un successo. Non vide il modo in cui fece del 1984 un anno che avrebbe perseguitato una intera generazione di statunitensi. Orwell morì di tubercolosi in un ospedale di Londra, nel gennaio 1950, pochi mesi dopo la pubblicazione del libro, all’età di 46 anni. Era consapevole della sua fine imminente, e l’amarezza l’aveva riversata nel libro.

B. La fantascienza di 1984
Molti pensano che 1984 sia un racconto di science fiction, ma l’unica cosa che supporti ciò e che 1984 sia ambientato nel futuro. Non è così! Orwell odia il futuro e la storia è più geografica che temporale.
La Londra in cui si svolge la storia si svolge a 30 anni di distanza, dal 1949 al 1984, e si svolge a migliaia di miglia a Est, a Mosca. Orwell immagina il Regno Unito colpito da una rivoluzione simile a quella Russa e che abbia attraversato tutti gli stadi dello sviluppo sovietico. Non prevede variazioni sul tema. I Sovietici ebbero una serie di purghe negli anni ’30, così il Ingsoc (English Socialism) ha avuto le sue purghe negli anni ’50. I Sovietici convertirono uno dei loro rivoluzionari, Leon Trotsky, in un nemico, e al contrario, il suo oppositore Josip Stalin, in un eroe. L’Ingsoc, tuttavia, converte uno dei suoi rivoluzionari, Emmanuel Goldstein, in un nemico, e il suo oppositore, con baffi come Stalin, in un eroe. Non è difficile fare piccole modifiche, Goldstein, come Trotsky, “dalla faccia di ebreo, con la grande cresta di capelli bianchi e la barbetta di capra“. Orwell apparentemente non vuole confondere il tema dando un nome diverso a Stalin e così lo chiama semplicemente ‘Grande Fratello‘.
All’inizio della storia, è chiaro che la televisione (appena nata al momento della stesura del libro) serviva come continuo mezzo di indottrinamento del popolo, che non può essere spenta. (e, apparentemente, in una Londra fatiscente, in cui nulla funziona, tale dispositivo è sempre acceso.)
Il grande contributo orwelliano alla tecnologia del futuro é che la televisione funziona nei due sensi, e la gente che è forzata a vederla può essere veduta e ascoltata e essere sottoposta a una costante supervisione anche quando dorme o è in bagno. Ecco, perciò, il significato della frase ‘il Grande Fratello ti vede‘. Questo è il peggior mezzo per controllare tutti. Avere una persona che è sotto controllo ogni momento significa averne un’altra che la guarda sempre (almeno nella società orwelliana) e farebbe assai poco, per questo vi è un grande sviluppo dell’arte della recitazione e dell’espressione mimica. Una persona non può guardare più di un’altra in piena concentrazione, e può solo farlo in un breve periodo di tempo, prima che l’attenzione scemi. Posso testimoniare, in breve, che dovrebbero esserci almeno cinque persone per osservarne una. E certo, gli osservatori stessi sarebbero osservati, poiché nessuno nel mondo orwelliano è libero dal sospetto. Perciò, il sistema di oppressione attraverso la TV interattiva non può funzionare.
Orwell stesso lo capisce, limitando il lavoro ai membri del partito. I ‘proles‘ (proletariato), verso cui Orwell non può nascondere il suo atteggiamento borghese inglese, sono largamente lasciati a presentarsi come subumani. (A un certo punto nel libro, dice che ogni prolet che mostra abilità è ucciso – come facevano gli spartani con gli iloti 25 secoli fa.) Inoltre, vi è un sistema di spie volontarie in cui i bambini controllano i genitori e i vicini si spiano tra di loro. Non è possibile che funzioni bene, poiché se tutti spiano tutti, il resto verrebbe abbandonato.
Orwell non era capace di concepire i computer o i robot, o di mettere tutti sotto il controllo non umano. I nostri computers arriva a farlo con l’IRS (servizio immigrazione, NdC), nel credito bancario e così via, ma nel 1984 la cosa non ci coinvolge direttamente, tranne che nella più fervida immaginazione.  Computer e tirannia non vanno necessariamente mano nella mano. I Tiranni hanno lavorato bene senza i computer (vedi i nazisti) e le nazioni più computerizzate oggi, sono le meno tiranniche (ancora oggi è così? NdC).
Orwell era privo della capacità di vedere o inventare dei piccoli cambiamenti. Il suo eroe trova difficile nel mondo di 1984 avere lacci per scarpe o lame per rasoi. Così il vero mondo degli anni ’80, utilizza mocassini e rasoi elettrici. Allora, anche Orwell aveva la fissazione tecnofobica che ogni progresso tecnologico è una scorciatoia. Perciò, l’eroe quando scrive, “mette la penna nel calamaio e ne risucchia l’inchiostro. Fa così perché sente che la bella carta color crema sia destinata a essere scritta con un vero pennino invece che essere graffiata con una penna a inchiostro“. Presumibilmente, la “penna a inchiostro” è la penna a sfera che era appena stata introdotta quando 1984 venne scritto. Ciò significa che Orwell descrive che qualcosa sia scritta con un vero pennino ma rimane graffiata dalla penna a sfera. Ciò è, tuttavia, precisamente il contrario del vero. Se sei abbastanza vecchio da ricordare che i pennini graffiano fragorosamente e si sa che la penna a sfera non lo fa.
Tutto questo non è science fiction, ma una nostalgia distorta del passato che non c’è mai stato. Sono sorpreso che Orwell si sia fermato al pennino e che non abbia fatto usare a Winston una grossa penna d’oca. Né Orwell era particolarmente previdente negli aspetti strettamente sociali del futuro che presenta, con il risultato che il mondo orwelliano di 1984 è incredibilmente arcaico comparato con quello vero degli anni ’80. Orwell non immagina nuovi vizi, al contrario. Egli era tutto gin e tabacco, e parte dell’orrore del suo quadro di 1984 è l’eloquente descrizione della bassa qualità del gin e del tabacco. Non prevedeva nuove droghe, non la marijuana, né gli allucinogeni sintetici. Non un aspetto della s.f. dello scrittore è precise e esatto nella sua previsione, ma certamente ci si sarebbe aspettato che inventasse qualche differenza.
Nella sua disperazione (o rabbia), Orwell dimentica le virtù umane. Tutti i caratteri sono, in un modo o nell’altro, deboli o sadici, sleali, stupidi o repellenti. Questo dovrebbe essere il modo in cui la gent,e o come Orwell vuole indicare, siano sotto la tirannia, ma mi sembra che sotto le peggiori tirannie, vi siano uomini e donne coraggiosi che affrontano i tiranni fino alla morte e che tali personalità storiche abbiano illuminato l’oscurità circostante. Solo per questo 1984 non assomiglia al vero mondo degli anni ’80. Né prevede alcuna differenza nel ruolo delle donne o nella debolezza dello stereotipo femminile del 1949. Vi sono solo due caratteri di donna di qualche importanza. Una forte donna ‘prole’ senza cervello che  è sempre lavandaia, che canta sempre canzoni popolari con parole del tipo famigliare negli anni ’30 e ’40 (a cui Orwell descrive fastidiosamente come ‘spazzatura’, in piena e beata assenza di anticipazione dell’hard rock).
L’altra è l’eroina, Julia, che è sessualmente promiscua (ma almeno mostra coraggio per il suo interesse nel sesso) ed è d’altronde senza cervello. Quando l’eroe, Winston, legge il suo libro che spiega la natura del mondo orwelliano, lei risponde addormentandosi, ma visto che Winston legge in modo estremamente soporifero, ciò è una buona indicazione del buon senso di Julia piuttosto che del contrario.
In breve, se 1984 deve essere considerato science fiction, allora è pessima science fiction.

C. Il governo di 1984
Il 1984 di Orwell è il ritratto di un governo totalitario, e ciò aiuta a comprendere la nozione del ‘big government’ assai eclettico. Dobbiamo ricordare, che il mondo dei tardi anni ’40, quando Orwell scrive il libro, vi era un solo vero e cattivo “big governments” con un vero tiranno-individuale il cui desiderio, anche se ingiusto crudele e vizioso, era legge. Inoltre sembrava un tiranno irremovibile eccetto che dalla forza esterna.
Benito Mussolini dell’Italia, dopo 21 anni di dominio assoluto, venne rovesciato, ma solo a causa della sua sconfitta in guerra. Adolf Hitler della Germania, dittatore assai più forte e brutale, dominò con pugno di ferro per dodici anni, e anche se sconfitto, non venne abbattuto dall’interno. Sebbene l’area che dominava si restringeva e gli eserciti nemici lo circondavano a est e a ovest, rimaneva dittatore assoluto nell’area da lui controllata, anche quando era solo nel bunker in cui si suicidò. Finchè si tolse di mezzo, nessuno poté abbatterlo. (Vi furono dei complotti contro di lui, certo, ma fallirono sempre, grazie, spesso, alla fortuna, che sembrava incredibile solo pensando a qualcuno come lui.)
Orwell, tuttavia, non badava a Mussolini o Hitler. Il suo nemico era Stalin, e al momento in cui venne pubblicato 1984, Stalin governava l’URSS da 25 anni ininterrotti, era sopravvissuto a una guerra tremenda in cui la sua nazione soffrì perdite enormi e ora era più forte che mai. A Orwell, ciò sembrava che né il tempo né la fortuna potessero abbattere Stalin, ma che sarebbe vissuto per sempre, aumentando di forza. Era così che Orwell presentava il Grande Fratello. Certo, non era vero. Orwell non vise abbastanza da vedere la morte di Stalin, tre anni dopo la pubblicazione di 1984, e non molto dopo il suo regime fu denunciato come dittatura – indovinate da chi? – dalla leadership sovietica. L’URSS è ancora URSS, ma non è stalinista, e i nemici dello stato non sono più fucilati (Orwell diceva ‘vaporizzati‘ invece, ma tale piccola differenza era tutto quello che sapeva fare) pratica presto abbandonata. Anche quando morì Mao Tse-tung in Cina, e mentre egli stesso non venne denunciato, i suoi più stretti collaboratori, la “Banda dei quattro“, vennero subito rimossi dallo stato di divinità, e ora la Cina è rimasta Cina, ma non è più maoista. Franco della Spagna  morì nel suo letto e fino al suo ultimo respiro, rimase il leader indiscusso per quasi 40 anni, subito dopo il suo ultimo respiro, il fascismo sparì subito dalla Spagna, così in Portogallo dopo al morte di Salazar.
In breve, Grande Fratello muore, o dovrebbe farlo, e quando muore, il governo muta sempre in senso moderato. Non si sa come i nuovi dittatori si sentano, ma dovranno morire, anche. Alla fine nei veri anni ’80 sappiamo i dittatori passano e che il “Grande Fratello“  non è una minaccia reale.
Se nessun governo, infatti, degli anni ’80, sembra così pericoloso. L’avanzata della tecnologia concede nuove armi potenti – esplosivi, mitragliatrici, auto veloci in mano a terroristi urbani che possono rapire, sequestrare, uccidere e  prendere ostaggi con impunità mentre i governi sono più o meno aiuti privi di aiuto. Inoltre la immortalità del Grande Fratello, che Orwell presenta come i due modi altri modi di mantenere una dittatura eterna.
Primo -presenta qualcuno o qualcosa da odiare. Nel mondo orwelliano era Emmanuel Goldstein da odiare e che era costruito e orchestrato in funzione di masse robotizzate. Nulla di nuovo, certo. Ogni nazione nel mondo ha usato i vicini allo scopo di odiare. Tale tipo di cosa è facilmente gestito e emerge come la seconda natura dell’umanità che meraviglia perché vi sono gli odi guidati organizzati nel mondo orwelliano. Necessita poca psicologia delle masse per fare odiare gli Arabi con gli Israeliani, Greci con i Turchi e cattolici Irlandesi con i protestanti Irlandesi – e viceversa in ogni caso. Per essere sicuri i nazisti organizzavano incontri di massa da delirio a cui ogni partecipante sembrava unirsi, ma non vi erano effetti permanenti. Una volta arrivata la guerra sul suolo Germanico, i tedeschi si arrendevano e non hanno mai più detto Sieg-Heil nella loro vita.
Secondo – riscrivere la storia. Quasi ogni individuo che incontriamo in 1984 ha come lavoro, la rapida riscrittura del passato, il riaggiustamento delle statistiche, la revisione dei giornali, con tutti preoccupati di fare attenzione al passato comunque. Tale preoccupazione orwelliana per le minuzie storiche è tipica del settario politico che sempre riporta ciò che è stato detto sin passato per provare a chiunque dell’altro lato che è sempre citato qualcosa che è sttao detto o fatto dell’avversario. Coma sa ogni politico, nessuna prova di qualsiasi tipo è mai richiesto.  È solo necessario fare una dichiarazione – qualsiasi – per avere una audience che vi crede. Nessuno vedrà la bugia rispetto ai fatti e, se lo fa, non crederanno ai fatti.
Pensate che i tedeschi nel 1939 fingessero di credere che i polacchi gli avessero attaccati e iniziando la Seconda Guerra Mondiale? No! Quando gli si disse che era così essi vi credettero come io credo che essi attaccarono i polacchi. Sicuro, i sovietici pubblicarono nuove edizioni della loro Enciclopedia in cui politici che avevano lunghe citazioni nelle prime edizioni, venivano all’improvviso cancellati totalmente, e ciò è senza dubbio il germe della nozione orwelliana, ma la possibilità di portare ciò al livello di descritto in 1984 sembra nullo – non perché è oltre la malvagità umana,  ma perché non è necessaria.
Orwell presenta la ‘Neolingua‘ come organo della repressione – la conversione dell’inglese in uno strumento limitato e abbreviato dove il vocabolario reale dei dissensi sparisce. Parzialmente acquisì la nozione dell’indubbia abitudine dell’abbreviare. Diede degli esempi: la ‘Internazionale Comunista‘ divenne ‘Comintern‘ e ‘Geheime Staatspolizei‘ divenne ‘Gestapo‘, ma non è una invenzione del moderno totalitarismo. ‘Vulgus mobile‘ divenne ‘mob‘; ‘taxi cabriolet‘ divenne ‘cab’; ‘quasi-stellar radio source’ divenne ‘quasar’; ‘light amplification by stimulated emission of radiation’ divenne ‘laser’ e così via. Non ci sono segnali che la compressione della lingua renda più debole il modo di esprimere.
In realtà l’offuscamento politico tende a usare molte parole invece che poche, lunghe invece che corte, a estendere invece che a ridurre. Ogni leader poco istruito o dalla intelligenza limitata si nasconde dietro una esuberante e inebriante loquacità. Quindi, quando Winston Churchill suggerisce lo sviluppo di un ‘Inglese Basico’ come lingua internazionale (indubbiamente similmente alla “Neolingua“), la suggestione era forte. Non possiamo, tuttavia, avvicinarci alla Neolingua nella sua forma condensata, ma abbiamo già una Neolingua nella sua forma estesa e sempre l’avremo.  Abbiamo un gruppo di giovani tra noi che dice cose come “Vabbene, uomo, sai, è come prenderli tutti assieme, sai, uomo, penso, come sai tu” e così per cinque minuti quando la parola che i giovani cercano è il loro ‘Huh?‘ Perciò, tuttavia, non è Neolingua, è sempre stato così da noi. È qualcosa che in Veterolingua è chiamato ‘mancanza di articolazione’ e non è ciò che Orwell aveva in mente.

D. La situazione internazionale di 1984
Sebbene Orwell sembri, di massima, essersi inesorabilmente bloccato nel mondo del 1949, in un aspetto si mostra assai previdente, cioè la previsione della tripartizione del mondo negli anni ’80.
Il mondo internazionale di 1984 è un mondo di tre superpotenze: Oceania, Eurasia e Estasia – e che combacia, assai rozzamente, con le tre attuali superpotenze degli anni ’80: gli USA, l’URSS e la Cina. (Potremmo anche fare con USA, Unione Europea e Cina degli anni ’90; NdC)
L’Oceania è la combinazione di USA e Impero inglese, chi è stato un ufficiale imperiale civile, non avverte che l’impero inglese stava esalando l’ultimo respiro nei tardi anni ’40 e stava  per dissolversi. Sembra supporre, in effetti, che l’impero inglese sia il membro dominante della coalizione anglo-americana. Alla fine, L’intera azione si svolge a Londra e frasi come gli ‘USA’ e ‘americani’ sono rare, se mai, menzionate. Ma, ciò è assai tipico nei racconti di spie inglesi in cui, fin dalla seconda guerra mondiale, il Regno Unito (adesso l’ottava potenza militare economica del Mondo) appare come la grande avversaria dell’URSS, o della Cina, o di qualche inventata cospirazione internazionale, con gli USA mai menzionata o ridotta a piccola comparsa con la cortese partecipazione di qualche agente della CIA.
Eurasia è, naturalmente, l’URSS, cui Orwell fa assorbire tutto il continente Europeo. Eurasia, inoltre, include oltre all’Europa, la Siberia, e la sua popolazione è per 95 % europea in ogni modo. Quindi, Orwell descrive gli Eurasiani come ‘uomini dall’aspetto robusto con visi asiatici privi di espressione‘.  Orwell viveva in un periodo in cui gli ‘Europei‘ e gli ‘Asiatici‘ erano rispettivamente l”eroe‘ e il ‘cattivo‘, era impossibile attaccare l’URSS con spontaneità se non pensandola come ‘Asiatica’. Ciò avvenne sotto l’inebriante Neolingua Orwelliana detta ‘doppio-pensiero‘, qualcosa che Orwell, come ogni uomo ritiene, buona cosa. Certo, potrebbe darsi che Orwell non pensi all’Eurasia, o all’URSS, ma la sua grande ‘bestia nera’ è Stalin. Stalin era un georgiano, e la Georgia, che si estende nel Caucaso meridionale, geograficamente è in Asia. Eastasia è, certo, la Cina e varie nazioni tributarie. Qui fa una profezia. Al momento della stesura di 1984, i comunisti cinesi non avevano il controllo del paese e molti (gli USA soprattutto) ritenevano che l’anticomunista, Chiang Kai-shek, avesse il controllo. Una volta che i comunisti ottennero il potere, divenne credo accettato degli occidentali che i cinesi fossero sotto il controllo dei sovietici e che la Cina e l’URSS formassero un blocco monolitico comunista.
Orwell no solo previde la vittoria comunista (vedeva la vittoria dovunque, infatti) ma inoltre previde che Russia e China non avrebbero formato una potenza   monolitica ma sarebbero stati nemici mortali. In tale caso, è stata la sua esperienza di settario di sinistra ad aiutarlo. Non aveva le superstizioni di destra riguardo alla sinistra come unificazione di indistinti cattivi. Sapeva che avrebbero combattuto tra loro spietatamente sopra i punti assai controversi della dottrina come i più pii cristiani. Inoltre previde uno stato permanente di guerra tra le tre potenze; una condizione di permanente mutazione delle sempre instabili alleanze, ma sempre due contro il più forte. Questa era il vecchio sistema di “equilibrio del potere” presente fin dall’antica Grecia, nell’Italia medievale, e nella prima Europa moderna.
L’errore di Orwell risiede nel pensare che vi fosse una guerra per mantenere  il controllo dell’equilibrio. In effetti, nella parte più risibile del libro, presenta la guerra come mezzo per consumare le risorse e la produzione mondiale e quindi mantenere la stratificazione sociale  con classi superiori, medie   e inferiori. (ciò suona come un vera spiegazione di sinistra  della guerra come risultato di una cospirazione attuata con grande difficoltà.) Nei fatti odierni, le decadi dal 1945 sono state segnate dall’assenza di guerre rispetto ai decenni precedenti. Vi sono state guerre locali a profusione, ma non una generale. Ma la guerra non è ritenuta un mezzo disperato per consumare le risorse del mondo. Ciò può essere fatto con altri metodi, come l’incremento senza fine della popolazione e dell’uso dell’energia, mai considerate da Orwell. Orwell non prevede alcuni significativo mutamento economico che sono stati attuati dopo la fine della seconda guerra mondiale. Non prevede il ruolo del petrolio o del declino della sua disponibilità o l’aumento del suo prezzo o l’incremento della potenza di quelle nazioni che lo controllano. Non ricordo alcun riferimento al ‘petrolio‘. Ma forse in ciò è Orwell abbastanza vicino da prevederlo, se sostituiamo
‘guerra fredda‘ con ‘guerra‘. Vi sono stati eventi, in effetti, da continuare, più o meno, la ‘guerra fredda‘ che serviva a mantenere l’occupazione elevata e a risolvere a breve termine i problemi economici (al costo di crearne di assai più grandi a lungo termine). E questa Guerra Fredda è sufficiente da esaurire le risorse. Inoltre, l’alleanza mutevole, come previsto da Orwell è assai vicina alla realtà. Quando gli USA sembravano potentissimi, URSS e Cina erano ferocemente anti-statunitensi, e si allearono. Quando la potenza USA diminuì, l’URSS e Cina si divisero. E ognuno si contrappose egualmente contro gli altri due. Allora, quando l’URSS apparve divenire abbastanza potente, si ebbe una alleanza tra USA e Cina, e cooperarono per contrastare l’URSS, e parlare moderatamente ognuno dell’altro.
In 1984 ogni cambio di alleanza sfociava in una orgia di storia riscritta. In realtà, tale follia non era necessaria. IL pubblico scivolava facilmente da un punto all’altro, accettando il cambio di circostanza senza alcun problema per il passato. Invece, i giapponesi, negli anni ’50, cambiarono da cattivi senza speranza in amici, mentre i cinesi passarono nella direzione opposta, senza aver commesso nessuna Pearl Harbour. Nessuno ci fece caso, per buona stupidità. Orwell ha volontariamente dimenticato l’uso della bomba atomica nella guerra tra le tre potenze, sicuro che tali bombe non sarebbero state usate nelle guerre dopo il 1945. Ciò, tuttavia, a causa che le sole grandi potenze nucleari USA e URSS, hanno impedito la guerra tra di loro. Se ci fosse una guerra adesso,  assai dubbio che le parti non credano, infine, necessario premere il bottone. In ciò, Orwell manca, forse, di poco la realtà. Londra, tuttavia, ha sofferto attacchi di missili, cosa che richiama le armi V-1 o V-2 del 1944, e la città è in una bolgia stile 1945. Orwell non può rendere 1984 assai differente dal 1944 in tale aspetto. Orwell, infatti, rende chiaro che in 1984, il comunismo universale delle tre superpotenze ha soffocato la scienza e ridotto il suo uso tranne che per le necessità della guerra. Non vi sono domande su quale nazione investe di più nella scienza dove le applicazioni per la guerra sono chiare, né vi è modo di porre domande sulla separazione delle applicazioni per la guerra da quelle per la pace.
La Scienza è una unità, e ogni cosa può essere concepita in relazione alla guerra e alla distruzione. La Scienza, inoltre, non è stata soffocata ma continua non solo negli USA e nell’Europa Occidentale e Giappone, ma anche in URSS e in Cina. I progressi della scienza sono numerosi, ma si può pensare ai laser e ai computer come armi dalle infinite applicazioni pacifiche.
Insomma: George Orwell in 1984 era, secondo me, impegnato in una guerra privata con lo stalinismo, piuttosto che cercare di prevedere il futuro. Non diede alla scienza alcuna plausibile funzione prevedibile in futuro, e oggi, in ogni caso il mondo di 1984 non è correlato al mondo reale degli anni ’80. Il mondo può essere comunista, me non nel 1984, che per qualcuno non è una vera tarda data; o dove sembri che la civiltà stia per essere distrutta. Se accadesse, tuttavia, accadrà in modo diverso da quello descritto in 1984 e se tentate di prevenirne l’eventualità immaginando che 1984 sia accurata, allora dovrete difendervi dagli assalti provenienti da direzioni sbagliate e perderete.

Traduzione Alessandro Lattanzio

V. S. NAIPAUL, DE L’AUTRE COTE DES TENEBRES

V. S. NAIPAUL, DE L’AUTRE COTE DES TENEBRES

par Frédéric Schramm

Ex: http://livr-arbitres.com/

A propos du prix Nobel 2001 de Littérature, écartons d’emblée la question de l’éventuel opportunisme politique dont auraient pu faire preuve certains juges séduits par la position radicale du lauréat sur la question islamique[1]. Le lauréat échappe à toute comparaison simpliste avec un écrivain tel que Salman Rushdie, qu’il avoue d’ailleurs n’avoir jamais lu.

Qu’elle soit niée ou revendiquée, une loi récurrente s’impose à tout ce qui a attrait au domaine de la création à l’échelle humaine. Elle inverse le postulat d’une prétendue raison pure détachée du monde comme la feuille morte se détache de l’arbre : « Je pense ce que je suis » présuppose l’œuvre créée en général et l’œuvre littéraire en particulier. Celle-là n’est jamais que le témoignage d’une réalité existentielle inexpugnable et l’univers littéraire de Vidiadhar Surajprasad Naipaul, exact reflet de son parcours identitaire et de l’enseignement sur le monde qu’il en a retiré, s’inscrit dans cette perspective.

Originaire des îles caraïbes de Trinité et Tobago, Naipaul est issu de la troisième génération d’Indiens[2] exilés dans cette possession britannique. Ecrivain anglophone, il devient en 1989, comme il l’avoue lui-même, citoyen des Lettres anglaises plutôt que véritable citoyen britannique, peuple auquel il reste définitivement étranger autant par la culture que par le sentiment d’appartenance nationale : un Britannique de papier, en somme mais dans le sens le plus noble du terme. Dès lors la comparaison revendiquée avec le Polonais Jozef Conrad Korzeniowski s’impose à bien des égards. La colonisation vécue par ceux qui la subissent ou « Marlow de l’autre côté du miroir » : ainsi pourrait se résumer la contribution de Naipaul. Mais loin des revendications geignardes et manichéennes, l’écrivain jette un regard sans complaisance sur les peuples colonisés en même temps qu’il poursuit la réflexion sur l’idée de la sauvagerie et des ténèbres entamée par Joseph Conrad[3].

Conscient d’appartenir à un peuple doué d’une forte identité, Naipaul oppose la solidarité communautaire[4] à l’individualisme occidental même s’il reste lucide face à de sa propre acculturation, ses ancêtres issus des hautes castes ayant perdu le véritable sens mystique de leurs rituels hindous. Fondamentalement opposé au mimétisme de classe de la part des plus éduqués parmi le peuple colonisé, qui se contentent de singer les classes supérieures colonisatrices, il annonce le leurre des sociétés démocratiques américaines, agglomérat de races à prétention égalitaire, la réalité des faits obligeant l’une de ces races à prendre le dessus. Et sans s’embarrasser de sous-entendus, il annonce clairement dans son roman Guérilleros[5]. qu’il ne peut pas s’agir des Afroaméricains, leurs tentatives aboutissant au même chaos que dans les états africains calqués sur des normes occidentales contredites par les réalités tribales et morales africaines, thème du roman A la courbe du fleuve5.

Profitant de ses voyages en Asie, il poursuit ses réflexions sur la nature des civilisations, leurs normes et l’effacement de leurs valeurs par les exemples hindous dans L’Inde brisée5 et L’illusion des ténèbres5 et islamique dans Parmi les croyants5 et Crépuscule sur L’Islam5 En Inde, il constate la contradiction profonde entre l’immuabilité du regard hindou sur le monde et le modernisme de l’Inde du parti du Congrès. Son jugement de l’Islam est beaucoup plus sévère puisqu’il dénonce son  intransigeance, son refus de la conscience individuelle, son caractère intrinsèquement fanatique et sa société acculturante par l’obligation de se soumettre à une oumma, communauté religieuse inexistante dans la réalité des faits mais idéalisée[6].

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[1] Les prix Nobel restent à l’image du pays qui les décernent : neutres mais intéressés pour les prix littéraires et scientifiques suédois, ignoble pour l’improbable prix Nobel de la Paix, décerné par la Norvège, membre de l’OTAN délivrant ces dernières années leur rançon à des individus ou des organisations favorisant les intérêts bellicistes ou financiers de l’organisation criminelle et terroriste.

[2] Présente dans les quatre coins de l’Empire britannique, cette communauté atypique présente le double désavantage d’avoir été victime de la sanglante colonisation anglo-saxonne tout en l’ayant renforcée par sa participation à la repopulation des terres conquises.

[3] Notons qu’à cette fin, il utilise le même procédé de l’opposition entre le village et la brousse, les mêmes métaphores animales pour l’inanimé et l’humain.

[4] Affirmant pour l’occasion l’opposition entre les notions de Peuples ou Nations et celles de Patrie ou Etat.

[5] Editions 10/18

[6] Rappelons la tentative de coup d’état islamique perpétrée à Trinité, le 27 juillet 1990 par le Jamaat Al-Muslimeen de Yasin Abou Bakr (plusieurs dizaines de morts).

Chesterton the prophet of menacing Americanisation

1920: Chesterton the prophet of menacing Americanisation

 

 By Nicolas Bonnal

Ex: http://english.pravda.ru/

But to-day personal liberties are the first liberties we lose.

In 1920 Chesterton visits America where he gives some lectures. The British (yet Catholic) genius is intimidated by this great country which horrifies and amazes then many European writers. Think of Kafka or Celine who describe a curious mega-machine.

 

Yet America happens -at least for Chesterton- to be a problem, because this is the country that will become the matrix of globalization (we all agree that being that matrix ruin the ancient Americans as a people). And when the author of father Brown gets to the control area, he is asked some very indiscreet questions such as: are you an anarchist? Then the questionnaire asks him naively if he is "ready to subvert by force the government of United States!" And what would answer our poet? ''I prefer to answer that question at the end of my tour and not the beginning'.

The questionnaire is not over. It asks then if the traveller is a polygamist! This time Chesterton is somewhat upset, like should have been the future travellers when asked if they are Nazis, anti-Semites or of course communists, Islamists or terrorists (what else, carnivores?). And he unleashes this terrible phrase:

Superficially this is rather a queer business. It would be easy enough to suggest that in this America has introduced a quite abnormal spirit of inquisition; an interference with liberty unknown among all the ancient despotisms and aristocracies.

So, let us think of inquisitive America as the land of the modern inquisitors (I think of course of Dostoyevsky). And, as if he had known we were doomed to an endless clash of civilizations between Muslims and Yankees, Chesterton evokes his visit to Jordan and compares with bonhomie Arab administration to the American one: 

These ministers of ancient Moslem despotism did not care about whether I was an anarchist; and naturally would not have minded if I had been a polygamist. The Arab chief was probably a polygamist himself.

Of course Chesterton, having quoted the Muslim world, had to speak of prohibition. That American prohibition too is hard to swallow for our drinker of beer (he deals with the subject -and with Islamism too- in the scaring novel the flying inn). And beyond the classical denunciations of hypocrisy and Puritanism, prohibition inspires him the following witty lines:

But to-day personal liberties are the first liberties we lose. It is not a question of drawing the line in the right place, but of beginning at the wrong end. What are the rights of man, if they do not include the normal right to regulate his own health, in relation to the normal risks of diet and daily life?

Chesterton knew he was entering in a no smoking area. The Americanization of the world would mean an exigent agenda of rules and orders to comply in all fields.  It is linked to the reign of the lawyers and congressmen, the cult of technique, a past but resilient Puritanism and of course the desire to homogenize all migrants. And he concludes on this matter with his sarcastic and efficient remark:

To say that a man has a right to a vote, but not a right to a voice about the choice of his dinner, is like saying that he has a right to his hat but not a right to his head.

Another subsequent menace is the Anglo-American friendship. Chesterton guesses that the anglo-American condominium means a general police of the planet and a future world order. The end of his strange and genial book is dedicated to the future new world order, whose prophet and agent is the famous sci-fi writer H.G. Welles. The motivation of this world state is mainly... fear, the artificial fear of the machines (think now of gun control).

He tells us that our national dignities and differences must be melted into the huge mould of a World State, or else (and I think these are almost his own words) we shall be destroyed by the instruments and machinery we have ourselves made.

But America has given to Chesterton enough reasons to fear its matrix, its efficiency and its blindness too. This is why America is too the magnet of heretic and modernist H.G. Wells. A country founded by Illuminati and masons has to become the mould and model of all.

Now it is not too much to say that Mr. Wells finds his model in America. The World State is to be the United States of the World... The pattern of the World State is to be found in the New World.

And although he speaks English and is an Anglo-Saxon, Chesterton, who is above all a Christian, a democrat and a humanist who mainly enjoys French and Russian peasants, then plundered by bolshevists, and he understands the American menace: the Americanisation of this planet, Americanisation that nothing will stop. The American menace consists in destroying any resisting nation in order to create the new united states of the world.

 The idea of making a new nation literally out of any old nation that comes along. In a word, what is unique is not America but what is called Americanisation. We understand nothing till we understand the amazing ambition to americanise the Kamshatkan and the hairy Ainu.

Let us be more humoristic, but not optimistic. For the new American order will be established on the models of a nursery. This is where the blatant American feminism interferes:

And as there can be no laws or liberties in a nursery, the extension of feminism means that there shall be no more laws or liberties in a state than there are in a nursery. The woman does not really regard men as citizens but as children. She may, if she is a humanitarian, love all mankind; but she does not respect it. Still less does she respect its votes.

Our European commission works like this nursery. And of course our genius thus seizes American paranoia and the perils of modern pseudo-sciences, say for instance the theory of the gender. As if he was predicting infamous patriot act, Chesterton writes:

Now a man must be very blind nowadays not to see that there is a danger of a sort of amateur science or pseudo-science being made the excuse for every trick of tyranny and interference. Anybody who is not an anarchist agrees with having a policeman at the corner of the street; but the danger at present is that of finding the policeman half-way down the chimney or even under the bed.

That's not all. Why this American matrix imposes her strength so easily? Chesterton has already remarked that American political order incites citizens - or pawns- to be repetitive, trivial and equal: I think they too tend too much to this cult of impersonal personality. Thanks to fast-foods and commercial centres, business cult and universities, television and movies' omnipresence, this model has been applied in fifty years everywhere, event in the resilient Muslim countries, making the globalization more a mind-programmed attitude than a free will. But this is where we are. 

But friendship, as between our heroes,

can't really be: for we've outgrown

old prejudice; all men are zeros,

the units are ourselves alone.

Eugene Onegin

 

Chesterton, what I saw in America, the project Gutenberg e-book.

 

Nicolas Bonnal

La politique de Tolkien

Some Sort of Nietzschean

Some Sort of Nietzschean

By Alex Kurtagić

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

 

Wyndham Lewis in 1917

Review:

Paul O’Keefe
Some Sort of Genius: A Life of Wyndham Lewis ^[2]
London: Pimlico, 2000

In his acknowledgment pages Paul O’Keefe states that it took him a decade—not including the years of research already donated to him by another writer—to complete his biography of Wyndham Lewis, a project he began in 1990 while he was president of the Wyndham Lewis Society. And this is apparent, for this volume, holding 700 pages of tightly packed print, offers an indefatigably detailed and masochistically researched account of the British modernist artist and author’s life.

Biographies differ in emphasis, depending on the author’s biases, and the tone here is set early in the first chapter, which consists of a detailed description of Lewis’ bisected brain—now preserved in the Pathology Museum of the Imperial College School of Medicine—and the progressive destruction (through compression of the adjacent structures) caused by the growth of its pituitary tumor, medically known as a chromophone adenoma. O’Keefe’s narration is temperate and balanced in the extreme, abstaining from either celebration or condemnation, or indeed evaluation, of his subject. Instead, we are presented with unvarnished facts and restrained descriptions of circumstances, and, where records have not survived or never existed and witness memories were unavailable, with the most disciplined of inference.

Initially, the effect of this cold detective approach is a certain literary anhedonia: the narrative barely raises the pulse, despite Lewis’ turbulent social life, truculence, and extraordinarily difficult personality. One feels that another author would have been able to produce much more dramatic prose with the same information.

All the same, O’Keefe’s biography is impressive, and after a somewhat laborious account of Lewis’ Bohemian early life and career—which, ironically, includes his most significant artistic period, coinciding with Cubism and Futurism, and now referred to as Vorticist—the pace picks up once we get to 1930, the year Apes of God (London: Arthur Press, 1930), Lewis’ savage satire of London’s literary scene and the Bloomsbury Group, was published. We learn, as we race through the decade, that Lewis would routinely ridicule his friends and patrons in his novels, where they would appear thinly disguised under a pseudonym. Few were spared, which led to many a falling out, libel writs, and loss of patronage. This, plus Lewis’ quarrelsome, irascible, ultra-individualistic, cruel, secretive, litigious, and somewhat paranoid personality, kept him always on the verge of bankruptcy, despite his tremendous creative energy and productivity. Indeed, when a group of friends decided to contribute monthly to a fund so that Lewis could work without financial worries—for he was always in arrears and in debt—he very quickly and rudely alienated his benefactors. This was probably because he resented being beholden to anyone. Any well-meaning gesture was an affront.

The book is hard to put down as we pass through the 1940s. From the late 1930s, when Lewis travelled to North America, where he alternated between Canada and the United States and where he remained until after the end of the war. There we are taken to what was probably the most bitter and penurious period in his life. By this time he had difficulties finding a publisher, having become notorious for attracting libel suits, locking horns with his earlier publishers, and not delivering manuscripts for which he had been paid an advance. In the United States his books were deemed by some not the most marketable. Commissions for portraits and other art, which he desperately needed and assiduously sought, were scarce and not proof against upsetting his patrons. They were also not terribly popular—in 1938 his portrait of T. S. Eliot had been rejected by the Royal Academy ^[3]. And speaking engagements, greatly facilitated by the publicity efforts of friend and future media guru Marshall McLuhan, proved insufficient and disappointing financially—Lewis was no Jonathan Bowden, in any event. Thus, he and his wife survived in cheap hotels and grim rented accommodation only a dollar, sometimes a few cents, away from eviction until 1945.

Lewis’ situation improved marginally thereafter, though by this time his eyesight was in steep decline, owing to his as-yet-undiagnosed pituitary tumor compressing his optic nerve. His 1949 portrait of T. S. Eliot would be his last painting. All the same, Lewis marched on, continuing to author substantial and difficult books—including the last two volumes of his Human Age trilogy, the first of which had been published many years earlier—even after he went blind in 1951. In his final years, Lewis benefited from the radio dramatisation of his trilogy and from his Civil List Pension, which, though exiguous, provided him with a bare minimum of security.

O’Keefe’s narration continues through to a search of Lewis’ condemned flat soon after his death and to his final resting place inside a niche in a wall at Golder’s Green Crematorium.

Despite its comprehensiveness in all that pertains to Lewis, O’Keefe’s biography has two major deficiencies, which stem from the fact that all we learn is tightly circumscribed to the facts and events relating to Lewis and his immediate social periphery. Firstly, aside from a few clinical descriptions, we learn very little about Lewis’ art and writing, or their cultural significance. By the time he finally receives a modicum of institutional honors and recognition, it comes almost unexpectedly; it is as if there had been a sudden sea change and the invisible powers who had previously been critical, suspicious, or unimpressed suddenly decided to relent. Secondly, there is virtually no wider historical, cultural, or sociological context, leaving Lewis’ life and work somewhat abstracted; the points of reference appear shadowy, remote, and somewhat peremptory. One can go too far in the opposite direction, of course, which would detract from a work that aims to be objective, devoid of opinion and coloration, or about an individual as opposed to his times, but it seems O’Keefe was a little too careful to avoid this.

We do obtain some perspective through Lewis’ relations with (and on occasion anecdotes involving some of) the various and now illustrious members of Lewis’ circle—which included Ezra Pound, T. S. Eliot, James Joyce, D. H. Lawrence, and W. B. Yeats—but this perspective remains somewhat shallow, and the individuals concerned remain somewhat distant. This may well be because Lewis was a study in detachment; we learn that for him friends were there to be used, and were friends only in so much as they were useful. Bowden described him ^[4] as “a bit of a rogue” and “a rascal,” and one can see why.

Having said that, in this biography Lewis does not come across as the iron-hard Right-winger that Bowden made him out to be. It is admitted that Lewis wrote a book called Hitler (London: Chatto and Windus, 1931), but he wrote it hastily and it seems he later regretted it, writing The Hitler Cult and How It Will End (London: J. M. Dent and Sons Ltd., 1939) and The Jews: Are They Human? (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1939), the latter of which is an attack against anti-Semitism. (O’Keefe also documents the frustration with Lewis of German National Socialists visiting the United Kingdom in the early 1930s in the face of the British author’s refusal to identify Communists as Jews—although this may have been recalcitrant individualism on the part of Lewis, for an anecdote a few hundred pages later on in the biography suggests he was aware of the “Jewish question,” a state not necessarily incompatible with dismissing anti-Semitism as “a racial red-herring.”)

It is admitted that Lewis met William Joyce and Oswald Mosley (O’Keefe, p. 370), but any relations in this biography appear vague and non-committal, his article in the British Union Quarterly notwithstanding. It is admitted also that, he wrote two other books (Left Wings Over Europe [London: Jonathan Cape, 1936] and Count Your Dead: They Are Alive! [London: Lovat Dickson, 1937]) which have been interpreted as in support for Mussolini and Franco respectively, but they are anti-war tracts. Later, Lewis would write Anglo-Saxony: A League that Works (Toronto: Ryerson, 1941), which is pro-democracy, and America and Cosmic Man (New York: Doubleday Company, 1949), where he pledges allegiance to a cosmic or cosmopolitan utopianism (Cosmic Man, p. 238).

Lewis’ politics were complex. Not Red, certainly, but not pure Black either. Now, Bowden, who knew O’Keefe for a time, described the latter as a liberal, and told in his 2006 talk about Lewis how, while being a member of the Wyndham Lewis Society, he told those present at an AGM that the society was “based on a lie”—proceeding then to accuse its members of revisionism, timidity, and denial. It may be that Bowden saw in Lewis want he wanted to see, or that his interpretation of Lewis as a Nietzschean metapolitical fascist owed to Bowden’s approaching his subject as a Nietzschean and a Stirnerite. Or that he focused only on the parts of Lewis that interested him, obviously the inter-war and then the late period.

In O’Keefe’s biography, certainly, Nietzsche does not figure in relation to Lewis. This is not to say, however, that Lewis was not a Nietzschean force or cannot be seen as such: aside from what can be gleaned from his prose or the conceptual elitism of his 1917 manifesto (“The Code of a Herdsman”), Lewis was certainly always against, always difficult and “rebarbative,” and always—despite his navigating a fairly wide circle of leading modernist artists and literati, alone against all, unabated by poverty and refusing to throw in the towel even after he went blind.

The reason for the above remarks is that I read this book as background research for a biography of Jonathan Bowden. Bowden mentioned Lewis frequently in his early writing, and among his effects after his death several books by Lewis were found, including Childermass (London: Chatto and Windus, 1928), The Revenge of Love (London: Cassell and Co. 1937), Self Condemned (London: Methuen Press, 1954), Apes of God, Snooty Baronet (London: Cassell and Co., 1932), Tarr (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1918; London: Chatto and Windus, 1928), and The Demon of Progress in the Arts (London: Methuen Press, 1954).

From the present biography of Lewis one can easily see the reasons why Bowden could have conceivably either identified with or seen something of himself in Lewis. Both lost a parent in early life. Both were prolific painters and writers, both of an experimental sort, though Bowden more than Lewis. Both identified with the politics of the Right, while also being aggressively individualistic, though, again, Bowden more than Lewis. Both were unafraid of—and indeed enjoyed—including friends and acquaintances in their prose, where these victims of cruel and often libellous psychoanalysis appeared quasi-cartoonified and only thinly disguised under pseudonyms. Both moved frequently during early adulthood and later lived closed off, hidden away at a recondite and obscure address. Both were secretive in their personal lives, which they strictly compartmentalized—in Lewis’ case, many of his friends were unaware of the fact that he had a wife and several children (by previous lovers) until Lewis was in late middle age; initially, he never mentioned her, few ever saw her, and no one was ever given access to the flat hidden behind a door below his studio, where she lived with him, until many years later. Both found wealth elusive, and were mostly interested in recognition. And there are other parallels. On the whole, however, Bowden was more consistent philosophically, harder politically, and a more extreme artist and writer.

Irrespective of your thoughts on modernism in general, Wyndham Lewis is sufficiently interesting on his own for this major biography to be educational and entertaining, though I suspect it will be those familiar with Jonathan Bowden’s oratory who will get the greater profit.

 

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