American Transcendentalism

American Transcendentalism:
An Indigenous Culture of Critique

By Kevin MacDonald

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

Philip F. Gura
American Transcendentalism: A History ^[2]
New York: Hill and Wang, 2007

Philip Gura’s American Transcendentalism provides a valuable insight into a nineteenth-century leftist intellectual elite in the United States. This is of considerable interest because Transcendentalism was a movement entirely untouched by the predominantly Jewish milieu of the twentieth-century left in America. Rather, it was homegrown, and its story tells us much about the sensibility of an important group of white intellectuals and perhaps gives us hints about why in the twentieth century WASPs so easily capitulated to the Jewish onslaught on the intellectual establishment.

Based in New England, Transcendentalism was closely associated with Harvard and Boston—the very heart of Puritan New England. It was also closely associated with Unitarianism which had become the most common religious affiliation for Boston’s elite. Many Transcendentalists were Unitarian clergymen, including Ralph Waldo Emerson, the person whose name is most closely associated with the movement in the public mind.

These were very intelligent people living in an age when religious beliefs required an intellectual defense rather than blind acceptance. Their backgrounds were typical of New England Christians of the day. But as their intellectual world expanded (often at the Harvard Divinity School), they became aware of the “higher criticism” of the Bible that originated with German scholars. This scholarship showed that there were several different authors of Genesis and that Moses did not write the first five books of the Old Testament. They also became aware of other religions, such as Buddhism and Hinduism which made it unlikely that Christianity had a monopoly on religious truth.

In their search for an intellectual grounding of religion, they rejected Locke’s barren empiricism and turned instead to the idealism of Kant, Schelling, and Coleridge. If the higher criticism implied that the foundations of religious belief were shaky, and if God was unlikely to have endowed Christianity with unique religious truths, the Transcendentalists would build new foundations emphasizing the subjectivity of religious experience. The attraction of idealism to the Transcendentalists was its conception of the mind as creative, intuitive, and interpretive rather than merely reactive to external events. As the writer and political activist Orestes Brownson summed it up in 1840, Transcendentalism defended man’s “capacity of knowing truth intuitively [and] attaining scientific knowledge of an order of existence transcending the reach of the senses, and of which we can have no sensible experience” (p. 121). Everyone, from birth, possesses a divine element, and the mind has “innate principles, including the religious sentiment” (p. 84).

The intuitions of the Transcendentalists were decidedly egalitarian and universalist. “Universal divine inspiration—grace as the birthright of all—was the bedrock of the Transcendentalist movement” (p. 18). Ideas of God, morality, and immortality are part of human nature and do not have to be learned. As Gura notes, this is the spiritual equivalent of the democratic ideal that all men (and women) are created equal.

Intuitions are by their very nature slippery things. One could just as plausibly (or perhaps more plausibly) propose that humans have intuitions of greed, lust, power, and ethnocentrism—precisely the view of the Darwinians who came along later in the century. In the context of the philosophical milieu of Transcendentalism, their intuitions were not intended to be open to empirical investigation. Their truth was obvious and compelling—a fact that tells us much about the religious milieu of the movement.

On the other hand, the Transcendentalists rejected materialism with its emphasis on “facts, history, the force of circumstance and the animal wants of man” (quoting Emerson, p. 15). Fundamentally, they did not want to explain human history or society, and they certainly would have been unimpressed by a Darwinian view of human nature that emphasizes such nasty realities as competition for power and resources and how these play out given the exigencies of history. Rather, they adopted a utopian vision of humans as able to transcend all that by means of the God-given spiritual powers of the human mind.

Not surprisingly, this philosophy led many Transcendentalists to become deeply involved in social activism on behalf of the lower echelons of society—the poor, prisoners, the insane, the developmentally disabled, and slaves in the South.

* * *

The following examples give a flavor of some of the central attitudes and typical social activism of important Transcendentalists.

Orestes Brownson (1803–1876) admired the Universalists’ belief in the inherent dignity of all people and the promise of eventual universal salvation for all believers. He argued “for the unity of races and the inherent dignity of each person, and he lambasted Southerners for trying to enlarge their political base” (p. 266). Like many New Englanders, he was outraged by the Supreme Court decision in the Dred Scott case that required authorities in the North to return fugitive slaves to their owners in the South. For Brownson the Civil War was a moral crusade waged not only to preserve the union, but to emancipate the slaves. Writing in 1840, Brownson claimed that we should “realize in our social arrangements and in the actual conditions of all men that equality of man and man” that God had established but which had been destroyed by capitalism (pp. 138–39). According to Brownson, Christians had

to bring down the high, and bring up the low; to break the fetters of the bound and set the captive free; to destroy all oppression, establish the reign of justice, which is the reign of equality, between man and man; to introduce new heavens and a new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness, wherein all shall be as brothers, loving one another, and no one possessing what another lacketh. (p. 139)

George Ripley (1802–1880), who founded the utopian community of Brook Farm and was an important literary critic, “preached in earnest Unitarianism’s central message, a belief in universal, internal religious principle that validated faith and united all men and women” (p. 80). Ripley wrote that Transcendentalists “believe in an order of truths which transcends the sphere of the external senses. Their leading idea is the supremacy of mind over matter.” Religious truth does not depend on facts or tradition but

has an unerring witness in the soul. There is a light, they believe, which enlighteneth every man that cometh into the world; there is a faculty in all, the most degraded, the most ignorant, the most obscure, to perceive spiritual truth, when distinctly represented; and the ultimate appeal, on all moral questions, is not to a jury of scholars, a hierarchy of divines, or the prescriptions of a creed, but to the common sense of the race. (p. 143)

Ripley founded Brook Farm on the principle of substituting “brotherly cooperation” for “selfish competition” (p. 156). He questioned the economic and moral basis of capitalism. He held that if people did the work they desired, and for which they had a talent, the result would be a non-competitive, classless society where each person would achieve personal fulfillment.

Amos Bronson Alcott (1799–1888) was an educator who “believed in the innate goodness of each child whom he taught” (p. 85). Alcott “realized how Unitarianism’s positive and inclusive vision of humanity accorded with his own” (p. 85). He advocated strong social controls in order to socialize children: infractions were reported to the entire group of students, which then prescribed the proper punishment. The entire group was punished for the bad behavior of a single student. His students were the children of the intellectual elite of Boston, but his methods eventually proved unpopular. The school closed after most of the parents withdrew their children when Alcott insisted upon admitting a black child. Alcott supported William Garrison’s radical abolitionism, and he was a financial supporter of John Brown and his violent attempts to overthrow slavery.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882) stirred a great deal of controversy in his American Scholar, an 1832 address to the Harvard Divinity School, because he reinterpreted what it meant for Christ to claim to be divine:

One man was true to what is in you and me. He saw that God incarnates himself in man, and evermore goes forth to take possession of his world. He said, in this jubilee of sublime emotion, “I am divine. Through me, God acts; through me, he speaks. Would you see God, see me; or, see thee, when thou also thinkest as I now think.” (p. 103)

Although relatively individualistic by the standards of Transcendentalism, Emerson proposed that by believing in their own divine purpose, people would have the courage to stand up for social justice. The divinely powered individual was thus linked to disrupting the social order.

Theodore Parker (1810–1860) was a writer, public intellectual, and model for religiously motivated liberal activism. He wrote that “God is alive and in every person” (p. 143). Gura interprets Parker as follows: “God is not what we are, but what we need to make our lives whole, and one way to realize this is through selfless devotion to God’s creation” (p. 218).

Parker was concerned about crime and poverty, and he was deeply opposed to the Mexican war and to slavery. He blamed social conditions for crime and poverty, condemning merchants: “We are all brothers, rich and poor, American and foreign, put here by the same God, for the same end, and journeying towards the same heaven, and owing mutual help” (p. 219). In Parker’s view, slavery is “the blight of this nation” and was the real reason for the Mexican war, because it was aimed at expanding the slave states. Parker was far more socially active than Emerson, becoming one of the most prominent abolitionists and a secret financial supporter of John Brown.

When Parker looked back on the history of the Puritans, he saw them as standing for moral principles. He approved in particular of John Eliot, who preached to the Indians and attempted to convert them to Christianity.

Nevertheless, Parker is a bit of an enigma because, despite being a prominent abolitionist and favoring racial integration of schools and churches, he asserted that the Anglo-Saxon race was “more progressive” than all others.[1] He was also prone to making condescending and disparaging comments about the potential of Africans for progress.

William Henry Channing (1810–1884) was a Transcendentalist writer and Christian socialist. He held that economic activity conducted in the spirit of Christian love would establish a more egalitarian society that would include immigrants, the poor, slaves, prisoners, and the mentally ill. He worked tirelessly on behalf of the cause of emancipation and in the Freedman’s Bureau designed to provide social services for former slaves. Although an admirer of Emerson, he rejected Emerson’s individualism, writing in a letter to Theodore Parker that it was one of his deepest convictions that the human race “is inspired as well as the individual; that humanity is a growth from the Divine Life as well as man; and indeed that the true advancement of the individual is dependent upon the advancement of a generation, and that the law of this is providential, the direct act of the Being of beings.”[2]

* * *

In the 1840s there was division between relatively individualist Trancendentalists like Emerson who “valued individual spiritual growth and self-expression,” and “social reformers like Brownson, Ripley, and increasingly, Parker” (p. 137). In 1844 Emerson joined a group of speakers that included abolitionists, but many Transcendentalists questioned his emphasis on self-reliance given the Mexican war, upheaval in Europe, and slavery. They saw self-reliance as ineffectual in combating the huge aggregation of interests these represented. Elizabeth Peabody lamented Emerson’s insistence that a Transcendentalist should not labor “for small objects, such as Abolition, Temperance, Political Reforms, &c.” (p. 216). (She herself was an advocate of the Kindergarten movement as well as Native American causes [p. 270].)

But Emerson did oppose slavery. An 1844 speech praised Caribbean blacks for rising to high occupations after slavery: “This was not the case in the United States, where descendants of Africans were precluded any opportunity to be a white person’s equal. This only reflected on the moral bankruptcy of American white society, however, for ‘the civility of no race can be perfect whilst another race is degraded’” (p. 245).

Emerson and other Transcendentalists were outraged by the Fugitive Slave Law of 1850. Gura notes that for Emerson, “the very landscape seemed robbed of its beauty, and he even had trouble breathing because of the ‘infamy’ in the air” (p. 246). After the John Brown debacle, Emerson was “glad to see that the terror at disunion and anarchy is disappearing,” for the price of slaves’ freedom might demand it (p. 260). Both Emerson and Thoreau commented on Brown’s New England Puritan heritage. Emerson lobbied Lincoln on slavery, and when Lincoln emancipated the slaves, he said “Our hurts are healed; the health of the nation is repaired” (p. 265). He thought the war worth fighting because of it.

* * *

After the Civil War, idealism lost its preeminence, and American intellectuals increasingly embraced materialism. Whereas Locke had been the main inspiration for materialism earlier in the century, materialism was now exemplified by Darwin, Auguste Comte, and William Graham Sumner. After the Civil War, the Transcendentalists’ contributions to American intellectual discourse “remained vital, if less remarked, particularly among those who kept alive a dream of a common humanity based in the irreducible equality of all souls” (p. 271). One of the last Transcendentalists, Octavius Brooks Frothingham, wrote that Transcendentalism was being “suppressed by the philosophy of experience, which, under different names, was taking possession of the speculative world” (p. 302). The enemies of Transcendentalism were “positivists” (p. 302). After Emerson’s death, George Santayana commented that he “was a cheery, child-like soul, impervious to the evidence of evil” (pp. 304–305).

By the early twentieth century, then, Transcendentalism was a distant memory, and the new materialists had won the day. The early part of the twentieth century was the high water mark of Darwinism in the social sciences. It was common at that time to think that there were important differences between the races in both intelligence and moral qualities. Not only did races differ, they were in competition with each other for supremacy. Whereas later in the century, Jewish intellectuals led the battle against Darwinism in the social sciences, racialist ideas were part of the furniture of intellectual life—commonplace among intellectuals of all stripes, including a significant number of Jewish racial nationalists concerned about the racial purity and political power of the Jewish people.[3]

The victory of Darwinisn was short-lived, however, as the left became reinvigorated by the rise of several predominantly Jewish intellectual and political movements: Marxism, Boasian anthropology, psychoanalysis, and other ideologies that collectively have dominated intellectual discourse ever since.[4]

*  *  *

So what is one to make of this prominent strand of egalitarian universalism in nineteenth-century America? The first thing that strikes one about Transcendentalism is that it is an outgrowth of the Puritan strain of American culture. Transcendentalism was centered in New England, and all its major figures were descendants of the Puritans. I have written previously of Puritanism as a rather short-lived group evolutionary strategy, supplementing the work of David Sloan Wilson on Calvinism, the forerunner of Puritanism.[5] The basic idea is that, like Jews, Puritans during their heyday had a strong psychological sense of group membership combined with social controls that minutely regulated the behavior of ingroup members. Their group strategy depended on being able to control a particular territory—Massachusetts—but by the end of theseventeenth century, they were unable to regulate the borders of the colony due to the policy of the British colonial authorities, hence the government of Massachusetts ceased being the embodiment of the Puritans as a group. In the absence of political control, Puritanism gradually lost the power to enforce its religious strictures (e.g., church attendance and orthodox religious beliefs), and the population changed as the economic prosperity created by the Puritans drew an influx of non-Puritans into the area.

The Puritans were certainly highly intelligent, and they sought a system of beliefs that was firmly grounded in contemporary thinking. One striking aspect of Gura’s treatment is his description of earnest proto-Transcendentalists trekking over to Germany to imbibe the wisdom of German philosophy and producing translations and lengthy commentaries on this body of work for an American audience.

But the key to Puritanism as a group strategy, like other strategies, was the control of behavior of group members. As with Calvin’s original doctrine, there was a great deal of supervision of individual behavior. Historian David Hackett Fischer describes Puritan New England’s ideology of “Ordered Liberty” as “the freedom to order one’s acts in a godly way—but not in any other.”[6] This “freedom as public obligation” implied strong social control of thought, speech, and behavior.

Both New England and East Anglia (the center of Puritanism in England) had the lowest relative rates of private crime (murder, theft, mayhem), but the highest rates of public violence—“the burning of rebellious servants, the maiming of political dissenters, the hanging of Quakers, the execution of witches.”[7] This record is entirely in keeping with Calvinist tendencies in Geneva.[8]

The legal system was designed to enforce intellectual, political, and religious conformity as well as to control crime. Louis Taylor Merrill describes the “civil and religious strait-jacket that the Massachusetts theocrats applied to dissenters.”[9] The authorities, backed by the clergy, controlled blasphemous statements and confiscated or burned books deemed to be offensive. Spying on one’s neighbors and relatives was encouraged. There were many convictions for criticizing magistrates, the governor, or the clergy. Unexcused absence from church was fined, with people searching the town for absentees. Those who fell asleep in church were also fined. Sabbath violations were punished as well. A man was even penalized for publicly kissing his wife as he greeted her on his doorstep upon his return from a three-year sea voyage.

Kevin Phillips traces the egalitarian, anti-hierarchical spirit of Yankee republicanism back to the settlement of East Anglia by Angles and Jutes in post-Roman times.[10] They produced “a civic culture of high literacy, town meetings, and a tradition of freedom,” distinguished from other British groups by their “comparatively large ratios of freemen and small numbers of servi and villani.”[11] President John Adams cherished the East Anglian heritage of “self-determination, free male suffrage, and a consensual social contract.”[12] East Anglia continued to produce “insurrections against arbitrary power”—the rebellions of 1381 led by Jack Straw, Wat Tyler, and John Ball; Clarence’s rebellion of 1477; and Robert Kett’s rebellion of 1548. All of these rebellions predated the rise of Puritanism, suggesting an ingrained cultural tendency.

This emphasis on relative egalitarianism and consensual, democ­ratic government are tendencies characteristic of Northern European peoples as a result of a prolonged evolutionary history as hunter-gatherers in the north of Europe.[13] But these tendencies are certainly not center stage when thinking about the political tendencies of the Transcendentalists.

What is striking is the moral fervor of the Puritans. Puritans tended to pursue utopian causes framed as moral issues. They were susceptible to appeals to a “higher law,” and they tended to believe that the principal purpose of government is moral. New England was the most fertile ground for “the perfectibility of man creed,” and the “father of a dozen ‘isms.’”[14] There was a tendency to paint political alternatives as starkly contrasting moral imperatives, with one side portrayed as evil incarnate—inspired by the devil.

Whereas in the Puritan settlements of Massachusetts the moral fervor was directed at keeping fellow Puritans in line, in the nineteenth century it was directed at the entire country. The moral fervor that had inspired Puritan preachers and magistrates to rigidly enforce laws on fornication, adultery, sleeping in church, or criticizing preachers was universalized and aimed at correcting the perceived ills of capitalism and slavery.

Puritans waged holy war on behalf of moral righteousness even against their own cousins—perhaps a form of altruistic punishment as defined by Ernst Fehr and Simon Gächter.[15] Altruistic punishment refers to punishing people even at a cost to oneself. Altruistic punishment is found more often among cooperative hunter-gatherer groups than among groups, such as Jews, based on extended kinship.[16]

Whatever the political and economic complexities that led to the Civil War, it was the Yankee moral condemnation of slavery that inspired and justified the massive carnage of closely related Anglo-Americans on behalf of slaves from Africa. Militarily, the war with the Confederacy was the greatest sacrifice in lives and property ever made by Americans.[17] Puritan moral fervor and punitiveness are also evident in the call of the Congregationalist minister at Henry Ward Beecher’s Old Plymouth Church in New York during the Second World War for “exterminating the German people . . . the sterilization of 10,000,000 German soldiers and the segregation of the woman.”[18]

It is interesting that the moral fervor the Puritans directed at ingroup and outgroup members strongly resembles that of the Old Testament prophets who railed against Jews who departed from God’s law, and against the uncleanness or even the inhumanity of non-Jews. Indeed, it has often been noted that the Puritans saw themselves as the true chosen people of the Bible. In the words of Samuel Wakeman, a prominentseventeenth-century Puritan preacher: “Jerusalem was, New England is; they were, you are God’s own, God’s covenant people; put but New England’s name instead of Jerusalem.”[19] “They had left Europe which was their ‘Egypt,’ their place of enslavement, and had gone out into the wilderness on a messianic journey, to found the New Jerusalem.”[20]

Whereas Puritanism as a group evolutionary strategy crumbled when the Puritans lost control of Massachusetts, Diaspora Jews were able to maintain their group integrity even without control over a specific territory for well over 2,000 years. This attests to the greater ethnocentrism of Jews. But, although relatively less ethnocentric, the Puritans were certainly not lacking in moralistic aggression toward members of their ingroup, even when the boundaries of the ingroup were expanded to include all of America, or indeed all of humanity. And while the Puritans were easily swayed by moral critiques of white America, because of their stronger sense of ingroup identity, Jews have been remarkably resistant to moralistic critiques of Judaism.[21]

With the rise of the Jewish intellectual and political movements described in The Culture of Critique, the descendants of the Puritans readily joined the chorus of moral condemnation of America.

The lesson here is that in large part the problem confronting whites stems from the psychology of moralistic self-punishment exemplified at the extreme by the Puritans and their intellectual descendants, but also apparent in a great many other whites. As I have noted elsewhere:

 

Once Europeans were convinced that their own people were morally bankrupt, any and all means of punishment should be used against their own people. Rather than see other Europeans as part of an encompassing ethnic and tribal community, fellow Europeans were seen as morally blameworthy and the appropriate target of altruistic punishment. For Westerners, morality is individualistic—violations of communal norms . . . are punished by altruistic aggression. . . .

The best strategy for a collectivist group like the Jews for destroying Europeans therefore is to convince the Europeans of their own moral bankruptcy. A major theme of [The Culture of Critique] is that this is exactly what Jewish intellectual movements have done. They have presented Judaism as morally superior to European civilization and European civilization as morally bankrupt and the proper target of altruistic punishment. The consequence is that once Europeans are convinced of their own moral depravity, they will destroy their own people in a fit of altruistic punishment. The general dismantling of the culture of the West and eventually its demise as anything resembling an ethnic entity will occur as a result of a moral onslaught triggering a paroxysm of altruistic punishment. Thus the intense effort among Jewish intellectuals to continue the ideology of the moral superiority of Judaism and its role as undeserving historical victim while at the same time continuing the onslaught on the moral legitimacy of the West. [22]

 

The Puritan legacy in American culture is indeed pernicious, especially since the bar of morally correct behavior has been continually raised to the point that any white group identification has been pathologized. As someone with considerable experience in the academic world, I can attest to feeling like a wayward heretic back in seventeenth-century Massachusetts when confronted, as I often am, by academic thought police. It’s the moral fervor of these people that stands out. The academic world has become a Puritan congregation of stifling thought control, enforced by moralistic condemnations that aseventeenth-century Puritan minister could scarcely surpass. In my experience, this thought control is far worse in the East coast colleges and universities founded by the Puritans than elsewhere in academia—a fitting reminder of the continuing influence of Puritanism in American life.

Given this state of affairs, what sorts of therapy might one suggest? To an evolutionary psychologist, this moralistic aggression seems obviously adaptive for maintaining the boundaries and policing the behavior of a close-knit group. The psychology of moralistic aggression against deviating Jews (often termed “self-hating Jews”) has doubtless served Jews quite well over the centuries. Similarly, groups of Angles, Jutes, and their Puritan descendants doubtlessly benefited greatly from moralistic aggression because of its effectiveness in enforcing group norms and punishing cheaters and defectors.

There is nothing inherently wrong with moralistic aggression. The key is to convince whites to alter their moralistic aggression in a more adaptive direction in light of Darwinism. After all, the object of moralistic aggression is quite malleable. Ethnonationalist Jews in Israel use their moral fervor to rationalize the dispossession and debasement of the Palestinians, but many of the same American Jews who fervently support Jewish ethnonationalism in Israel feel a strong sense of moralistic outrage at vestiges of white identity in the United States.

A proper Darwinian sense of moralistic aggression would be directed at those of all ethnic backgrounds who have engineered or are maintaining the cultural controls that are presently dispossessing whites of their historic homelands. The moral basis of this proposal is quite clear:

 

(1) There are genetic differences between peoples, thus different peoples have legitimate conflicts of interest.[23]

(2) Ethnocentrism has deep psychological roots that cause us to feel greater attraction and trust for those who are genetically similar.[24]

(3) As Frank Salter notes, ethnically homogeneous societies bound by ties of kinship and culture are more likely to be open to redistributive policies such as social welfare.[25]

(4) Ethnic homogeneity is associated with greater social trust and political participation.[26]

(5) Ethnic homogeneity may well be a precondition of political systems characterized by democracy and rule of law.[27]

The problem with the Transcendentalists is that they came along before their intuitions could be examined in the cold light of modern evolutionary science. Lacking any firm foundation in science, they embraced a moral universalism that is ultimately ruinous to people like themselves. And because it is so contrary to our evolved inclinations, their moral universalism needs constant buttressing with all the power of the state—much as the rigorous rules of the Puritans of old required constant surveillance by the authorities.

Of course, the Transcendentalists would have rejected such a “positivist” analysis. Indeed, one might note that modern psychology is on the side of the Puritans in the sense that explicitly held ideologies are able to exert control over the more ancient parts of the brain, including those responsible for ethnocentrism.[28] The Transcendentalist belief that the mind is creative and does not merely respond to external facts is quite accurate in light of modern psychological research. In modern terms, the Transcendentalists were essentially arguing that whatever “the animal wants of man” (to quote Emerson), humans are able to imagine an ideal world and exert effective psychological control over their ethnocentrism. They are even able to suppress desires for territory and descendants that permeate human history and formed an important part of the ideology of the Old Testament—a book that certainly had a huge influence on the original Puritan vision of the New Jerusalem.

Like the Puritans, the Transcendentalists would have doubtlessly acknowledged that some people have difficulty controlling these tendencies. But this is not really a problem, because these people can be forced. The New Jerusalem can become a reality if people are willing to use the state to enforce group norms of thought and behavior. Indeed, there are increasingly strong controls on thought crimes against the multicultural New Jerusalem throughout the West.

The main difference between the Puritan New Jerusalem and the present multicultural one is that the latter will lead to the demise of the very white people who are the mainstays of the current multicultural Zeitgeist. Unlike the Puritan New Jerusalem, the multicultural New Jerusalem will not be controlled by people like themselves, who in the long run will be a tiny, relatively powerless minority.

The ultimate irony is that without altruistic whites willing to be morally outraged by violations of multicultural ideals, the multicultural New Jerusalem is likely to revert to a Darwinian struggle for survival among the remnants. But the high-minded descendants of the Puritans won’t be around to witness it.

Notes

[1] http://www25.uua.org/uuhs/duub/articles/theodoreparker.html ^[3]

[2] http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/transcendentalism/authors/whchanning.html ^[4]

[3] Kevin MacDonald, Separation and Its Discontents: Toward an Evolutionary Theory of Anti-Semitism (Bloomington, Ind.: Firstbooks, 2004), Chapter 5.

[4] Kevin MacDonald, The Culture of Critique: An Evolutionary Analysis of Jewish Involvement in Twentieth-Century Intellectual and Political Movements (Bloomington, Ind.: Firstbooks, 2002).

[5] David Sloan Wilson, Darwin’s Cathedral (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002); Kevin MacDonald, (2002). “Diaspora Peoples,” Preface to the First Paperback Edition of A People That Shall Dwell Alone: Judaism as a Group Evolutionary Strategy (Lincoln, Nebr.: iUniverse, 2002).

[6]  David H. Fischer, Albion’s Seed: Four British Folkways in America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989), 202.

[7]  Albion’s Seed, 189.

[8] See Darwin’s Cathedral.

[9] Louis T. Merrill, “The Puritan Policeman,” American Sociological Review 10 (1945): 766–76, p. 766.

[10] Kevin Phillips, The Cousins’ Wars: Politics, Civil Warfare, and the Triumph of Anglo-America (New York: Basic Books, 1999).

[11] Ibid., 26.

[12] Ibid., 27.

[13] Kevin MacDonald, “What Makes Western Civilization Unique?” in Cultural Insurrections: Essays on Western Civilization, Jewish Influence, and Anti-Semitism (Atlanta: The Occidental Press, 2007).

[14] Albion’s Seed, 357.

[15] Ernst Fehr and Simon Gächter, “Altruistic Punishment in Humans,” Nature 412 (2002): 137-40.

[16] See my discussion in “Diaspora Peoples.”

[17] The Cousins’ Wars, 477.

[18] Ibid., 556.

[19] A. Hertzberg, The Jews in America: Four Centuries of an Uneasy Encounter (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998), 20–21.

[20] Ibid., 20.

[21] See Kevin MacDonald, “The Israel Lobby: A Case Study in Jewish Influence,” The Occidental Quarterly 7 (Fall 2007): 33–58.

[22] Preface to the paperback edition of The Culture of Critique.

[23] Frank K. Salter, On Genetic Interests: Family, Ethnicity, and Humanity in an Age of Mass Migration (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction, 2006).

[24] J. Philippe Rushton, “Ethnic Nationalism, Evolutionary Psychology, and Genetic Similarity Theory,” Nations and Nationalism 11 (2005): 489–507.

[25] Frank K. Salter, Welfare, Ethnicity and Altruism: New Data and Evolutionary Theory (London: Routledge, 2005).

[26] Robert Putnam, “E Pluribus Unum: Diversity and Community in the Twenty-first Century,” The 2006 Johan Skytte Prize Lecture, Scandinavian Journal of Political Studies 30 (2007): 137–74.

[27] Jerry Z. Muller, “Us and Them: The Enduring Power of Ethnic Nationalism,” Foreign Affairs, March/April 2008.

[28] Kevin MacDonald, “Psychology and White Ethnocentrism,” The Occidental Quarterly 6 (Winter, 2006–2007): 7–46.

Source: TOQ, vol. 8, no. 2 (Summer 2008).

 

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The Underman as Cultural Icon

The Underman as Cultural Icon:
The Saga of “Blanket Man”

By Kerry Bolton

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

“Blanket Man,” known in a previous life as Bernard (Ben) Hana, was a filth ridden alcoholic, given to drinking methylated spirits attired in nothing other than a blanket and a loin cloth. He shouted or mumbled abuse at passers-by, as he squatted on the streets of Wellington with others of his ilk. He seemed harmless enough, and this writer has nothing personal against him or the way he chose to lead his life.

What I do find of socio-cultural interest is the manner by which others have turned him into a cultural icon. Such elevation to the presently esteemed status of Anti-Hero says something about the mentality of those who have revived the “Cult of the Noble Savage” that became the rage of effete upper class French society prior to the Revolution. It is a symptom of what Lothrop Stoddard called “the menace of the underman” and “the revolt against civilization.”[1]

Mr. Hana has a Facebook page ^[2] established by his admirers. There one can learn the fundamentals of his life; a hagiography, one might say. He was born February 8, 1957 and died as the result of his celebrated lifestyle choice on January 15, 2012. He was a “homeless man who wandered the inner city streets of Wellington, New Zealand. Ben was a local fixture and something of a celebrity and was typically on the footpath in the precincts of Courtenay Place which has 24-hour activity.”[2]

When the scribe of Saint Bernard alludes to Courtenay Place’s “24-hour activity,” what this means is that the nightlife brings out lowlifes who engage in drinking, vomiting, excreting in the doorways of shops, and other expressions of societal rebellion.

But what makes Saint Bernard especially esteemed by the champions of the generic Underman is that he was a Maori, complete with matted, filthy, dreadlocked hair, and perhaps the epitome of what liberals, nihilists, and anarchists see as the living vestige of the Maori as he was, prior to European colonization: the “noble savage,” existing in the midst of a modern Western city.

Saint Bernard, despite sizzling his brain with alcohol and marijuana, was no fool, and on the few occasions the City Council attempted to do something about his plight, he had a ready answer for the Courts, exploiting the deference New Zealand society is obliged to show for all things “Maori,” whether real or contrived:

Ben was a self-proclaimed devotee of the Māori sun god Tama-nui-te-rā, and claimed that he should wear as few items of clothing as possible, as an act of religious observance. As a result, he was also tempted from time to time to remove all his clothing, which resulted in the consequent attendance of police officers.[3]

Another blogsite devoted to “Brother,” as he called himself, euologizes his contempt for authority, including his squatting with others of like state, at Wellington’s Cenotaph near Parliament Buildings.[4] On this blogsite one can read comments by, for the most part, admiring youths, aptly expressed in pidgin English, who were in such awe that they could only admire Saint Bernard from afar, as if a Christ-like figure too divine to be approachable, but an individual around which myths and legends can be spun:

• “When he i [sic] first saw blanket man he gave me a big as nod [sic] and he has a smile that makes you feel warm inside.”[5]
• From someone who wants to follow the way, the truth, and the life: “Inspiring Shit When i`m A Bigg Girll ii Wanna Bee Justt Like Him He`sz My idol.”[6]
• “mayn this dude is fucking awesome,, gu cunt. i always go to wellie and see him and he always smiles and nods (and mumbles haha) Hez a legend!”[7]

Such is the “evolution” of New Zealand “English” under several decades of liberal education, where grammar and spelling are not corrected by teachers lest the “creativity” of the child is ruined and s/he is left with a feeling of having failed.

However, Saint Bernard became an icon to more than just ill-educated youngsters. Many of the artistic, intellectual and scribbling classes see him as “a carefree spirit,” rather than an individual who became unbalanced after killing his best friend as the result of drunk driving and died through alcoholism. Marcelina Mastalerz in an interview with “Brother” relates her first impressions of his countenance:

He has become an iconic figure of Wellington’s Cuba Mall and Courtenay Place. Wrapped in a purple blanket, nearly naked, with his long dreads and carefree spirit, to many he is an annoying homeless man who simply won’t go away and who is destroying the beautiful, clean image of our city.[8]

At least this was my opinion of him when I first arrived to Wellington. I would see him, make a sour face and above all avoid eye contact as I quickly crossed the street. After all, his lifestyle and that of mine seemed to illustrate two contrasting worlds, which neither of us would ever understand.

But I started to wonder, who is this ever-present figure, who has no shame in living a lifestyle that society finds unacceptable and degenerating? Surely he must be either an alcoholic, drug addict, insane or all of the above, right?

No. “Brother,” what he likes to call himself, is neither an alcoholic[9] nor an unhappy man. He likes his lifestyle, and above all the freedom, which it gives him.[10]

Ms. Mastalerz was surely blinded by the Light, not to have perceived Saint Bernard as an alcoholic, if not a drug addict. What she saw was a Tolstoyan visage of a man who had succeeded in throwing off all the encumbrances of Civilization, and returned to the “state of Nature” that is heralded by effete intellectuals and bourgeoisie who could not last a day in such a state, but who envy those who seem “happy” to live in filth, rationalized as living an “alternative lifestyle,” or as Ms. Mastalerz and her type insist, living “carefree” and in “freedom.” It is what Lothrop Stoddard called “the lure of the primitive.”[11]

In the course of the interview Saint Bernard relates the gospel of the Underman quite articulately, and one readily sees why he is so irresistible to those who feel the burden of Civilization.

M: I saw the documentary Te Whanau o Aotearoa — Caretakers of the Land. In it you set to establish a “village of peace”– Aotearoa. How is that plan going?

B: It’s getting better. We established a political party “Te Whanau o Our Tea Roa.” There’s one million of us.[12] We live love, peace, harmony, equality at the top irrespective of age or gender.

M: If you had the power to do anything, what would you do?

B: I don’t want power. Power belongs to the people.[13]

Saint Bernard, beneath the filthy façade, worn like a halo, articulated the very ideology that is upheld by the multitude of purveyors of Western decline, from the denizens of the streets to Green Party Members of Parliament, the Secretary General of the United Nations Organization, or the President of the United States: “love, peace, harmony, equality at the top irrespective of age or gender,” the present-day catch cries of Western decay; the contemporary counterpart to “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.”

It is no wonder that Saint Bernard became such an admired figure: This is the Age of the Anti-Hero. In bygone days, our heroes were great soldiers and explorers. Today, a hero can be a filthy drunk who lived, cussed, smoked, and crapped on the city streets. A figure who would be one of a multitude in Calcutta; a figure who will perhaps one day also be one of a multitude in all the cities of a bygone Western Civilization: the Fellaheen.

Another scribe for Saint Bernard, Nyree Barrett, provided a class conflict analysis of “Brother”:

Hana pervades the experience of Wellington, whether we like it or not, he is one of the most visual men in the city and because of this he carries a certain amount of celebrity status. He is the protagonist of Abi King-Jones and Errol Wright’s documentary Te Whanau o Aotearoa, the subject of a Wikipedia site, the inspiration for photographic assignments and poetry (albeit bad poetry), and a “character” to be dressed up as. During the recent rugby sevens tournament I saw a group of young men wearing fake dreads and versions of Hana’s distinct purple blanket.

He is imitated, yet when he discusses his many political ideas through his movement Te Whanau o Aotearoa, they are deemed unimportant. This quasi-political party seeks a reclamation of Aotearoa, from its current state as a bureaucratic colony to an egalitarian and racially non-exclusive land. The alienation and inequality in New Zealand is, for Hana, only going to be solved through a complete upheaval of the current system. This sounds an impossibility in a society so entrenched in hierarchy and class. Despite this, Hana’s ideas do deserve to be heard without his homeless status stifling our reception of them.

If the homeless and mainstream society are ever going to be able to live in one space in harmony, as Hana suggests we do in his ambitious vision of Aotearoa, we must first question and change the mainstream perception of life on the streets.[14]

Here again, Saint Bernard is perceived as a great philosopher and political leader, rather than as a wretch who squatted in filth. He is the New Zealand liberal’s version of the most famous “blanket man” of all: Gandhi. He is extolled as the leader of a “political movement,” which seems never to have amounted to to more than a half-dozen other homeless pot smokers who squatted about him within the central business district.

The latest eulogy to Saint Bernard is a play which we are told will further “immortalize” him. “The Road That Wasn’t There,” to be performed at the world fringe festival at Edinburgh, Scotland, was “inspired” by Hana. Playwright Ralph McCubbin Howell, now resident in Britain, wanted to write something about New Zealand “while taking inspiration from folktales.” “Who better to draw on than a man who became a legend within his own lifetime?”[15]

The play is aimed at children, using puppets, and Hana has been made into a puppet of what is — presumably unintentionally — monstrous visage. Other tributes include a song created in 2012 in tribute to Hana, recorded and released by ZM Radio;[16] and a 2007 Victoria University presentation on Hana by sociology lecturer Mike Lloyd and Doctoral student Bronwyn McGovern.

When Hana died of alcohol poisoning in 2012, a makeshift shrine was created at Courtenay Place, where messages were written on the walls of the ANZ Bank building, and flowers, candles, food and other items were left in tribute. Cecilia Wade-Brown, the Green Party’s Mayor of Wellington, were among those who paid tribute to Hana.

The local Anarchists — a melange of pot-smoking street people and mentally aberrant, histrionic bourgeoisie — quite naturally proclaimed Hana as one of their own and produced a signed, limited edition run of prints depicting the frail, doddering “Brother” as a heroic, strident revolutionary. To the Anarchists, “Blanket Man led quite and [sic] extraordinary life and will be missed by many Wellingtonians and New Zealanders alike following his recent death.”[17]

Where once bards wrote of Knights they now write of Blanket Man. He is an archetype of civilization’s decay, and as such is instinctively embraced by those, whether journalists, lecturers, street kids, or artists, high and low, who feel that civilization is an imposition. I saw the future visage of the Fellaheen West, and it squatted in filth on the streets of Wellington.

Words

1. L Stoddard, The Revolt Against Civilization: The Menace of the Underman (London: Chapman & Hall, 1922), republished 2012 by Wermod & Wermod.

2. “R.I.P. Blanket Man,” “About,” http://www.facebook.com/pages/RIP-BLANKET-MAN/273891829339723?sk=info ^[2]

3. Ibid.

4. “Blanket Man,” http://www.bebo.com/BlogView.jsp?MemberId=3895594292&BlogId=3895641359 ^[6]

5. Dr. Stevo, Ibid.

6. Nirvana, ibid.

7. Minta, ibid.

8. Wellington has long since stopped being “beautiful’ or “clean.” I have to question the aesthetic sensibilities of Ms. Mastalerz.

9. Apparently drinking methylated spirits is not to be regarded as a sign of alcoholism.

10. Marcelina Mastalerz, “A Different Way of Life: Interview with ‘Brother’ (a.k.a ‘Blanket Man’),” http://www.bebo.com/BlogView.jsp?MemberId=3895594292&BlogId=3895641359&PageNbr=2 ^[6]

11. L. Stoddard, chapter IV.

12. Probably an exaggeration.

13. Marcelina Mastalerz.

14. Nyree Barrett, “Perceiving homelessness in Wellington,” http://www.bebo.com/BlogView.jsp?MemberId=3895594292&BlogId=3895641359&PageNbr=2 ^[6]

15. Sophie Speer, “Myth of Blanket Man takes time trip at coveted Fringe,” The Dominion Post, Wellington, June 26, 2012, http://www.stuff.co.nz/dominion-post/culture/performance/7172069/Wellingtons-Blanket-Man-immortalised-in-play ^[7]

16. http://www.zmonline.com/player/ondemand/blanketman-song ^[8]

17. Wellington Craftivism Collective, http://wellingtoncraftivism.blogspot.co.nz/2012/01/blanket-man-limited-edition-prints.html ^[8]

 

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

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/06/the-underman-as-cultural-icon-the-saga-of-blanket-man/

Introduction to Aristotle’s Politics

Introduction to Aristotle’s Politics
Part 1: The Aim & Elements of Politics

Posted By Greg Johnson

Part 1 of 2

Author’s Note:

The following introduction to Aristotle’s Politics focuses on the issues of freedom and popular government. It is a reworking of a more “academic” text penned in 2001.

1. The Necessity of Politics

Aristotle is famous for holding that man is by nature a political animal. But what does this mean? Aristotle explains that,

even when human beings are not in need of each other’s help, they have no less desire to live together, though it is also true that the common advantage draws them into union insofar as noble living is something they each partake of. So this above all is the end, whether for everyone in common or for each singly (Politics 3.6, 1278b19–22).[1]

Here Aristotle contrasts two different needs of the human soul that give rise to different forms of community, one pre-political and the other political.

The first need is material. On this account, men form communities to secure the necessities of life. Because few are capable of fulfilling all their needs alone, material self-interest forces them to co-operate, each developing his particular talents and trading his products with others. The classical example of such a community is the “city of pigs” in the second book of Plato’s Republic.

The second need is spiritual. Even in the absence of material need, human beings will form communities because only through community can man satisfy his spiritual need to live nobly, i.e., to achieve eudaimonia, happiness or well-being, which Aristotle defines as a life of unimpeded virtuous activity.

Aristotle holds that the forms of association which arise from material needs are pre-political. These include the family, the master-slave relationship, the village, the market, and alliances for mutual defense. With the exception of the master-slave relationship, the pre-political realm could be organized on purely libertarian, capitalist principles. Individual rights and private property could allow individuals to associate and disassociate freely by means of persuasion and trade, according to their own determination of their interests.

But in Politics 3.9, Aristotle denies that the realm of material needs, whether organized on libertarian or non-libertarian lines, could ever fully satisfy man’s spiritual need for happiness: “It is not the case . . . that people come together for the sake of life alone, but rather for the sake of living well” (1280a31), and “the political community must be set down as existing for the sake of noble deeds and not merely for living together” (1281a2). Aristotle’s clearest repudiation of any minimalistic form of liberalism is the following passage:

Nor do people come together for the sake of an alliance to prevent themselves from being wronged by anyone, nor again for purposes of mutual exchange and mutual utility. Otherwise the Etruscans and Carthaginians and all those who have treaties with each other would be citizens of one city. . . . [But they are not] concerned about what each other’s character should be, not even with the aim of preventing anyone subject to the agreements from becoming unjust or acquiring a single depraved habit. They are concerned only that they should not do any wrong to each other. But all those who are concerned about a good state of law concentrate their attention on political virtue and vice, from which it is manifest that the city truly and not verbally so called must make virtue its care. (1280a34–b7)

Aristotle does not disdain mutual exchange and mutual protection. But he thinks that the state must do more. It must concern itself with the character of the citizen; it must encourage virtue and discourage vice.

But why does Aristotle think that the pursuit of virtue is political at all, much less the defining characteristic of the political? Why does he reject the liberal principle that whether and how men pursue virtue is an ineluctably private choice? The ultimate anthropological foundation of Aristotelian political science is man’s neoteny. Many animals can fend for themselves as soon as they are born. But man is born radically immature and incapable of living on his own. We need many years of care and education. Nature does not give us the ability to survive, much less flourish. But she gives us the ability to acquire the ability. Skills are acquired abilities to live. Virtue is the acquired ability to live well. The best way to acquire virtue is not through trial and error, but through education, which allows us to benefit from the trials and avoid the errors of others. Fortune permitting, if we act virtuously, we will live well.

Liberals often claim that freedom of choice is a necessary condition of virtue. We can receive no moral credit for a virtue which is not freely chosen but is instead forced upon us. Aristotle, however, holds that force is a necessary condition of virtue. Aristotle may have defined man as the rational animal, but unlike the Sophists of his day he did not think that rational persuasion is sufficient to instill virtue:

. . . if reasoned words were sufficient by themselves to make us decent, they would, to follow a remark of Theognis, justly carry off many and great rewards, and the thing to do would be to provide them. But, as it is, words seem to have the strength to incite and urge on those of the young who are generous and to get a well-bred character and one truly in love with the noble to be possessed by virtue; but they appear incapable of inciting the many toward becoming gentlemen. For the many naturally obey the rule of fear, not of shame, and shun what is base not because it is ugly but because it is punished. Living by passion as they do, they pursue their own pleasures and whatever will bring these pleasures about . . . ; but of the noble and truly pleasant they do not even have the notion, since they have never tasted it. How could reasoned words reform such people? For it is not possible, or nor easy, to replace by reason what has long since become fixed in the character. (Nicomachean Ethics, 10.9, 1179b4–18)

The defect of reason can, however, be corrected by force: “Reason and teaching by no means prevail in everyone’s case; instead, there is need that the hearer’s soul, like earth about to nourish the seed, be worked over in its habits beforehand so as to enjoy and hate in a noble way. . . . Passion, as a general rule, does not seem to yield to reason but to force” (Nicomachean Ethics, 10.9, 1179b23–25). The behavioral substratum of virtue is habit, and habits can be inculcated by force. Aristotle describes law as “reasoned speech that proceeds from prudence and intellect” but yet “has force behind it” (Nicomachean Ethics, 10.9, 1180a18). Therefore, the compulsion of the appropriate laws is a great aid in acquiring virtue.

At this point, however, one might object that Aristotle has established only a case for parental, not political, force in moral education. Aristotle admits that only in Sparta and a few other cities is there public education in morals, while “In most cities these matters are neglected, and each lives as he wishes, giving sacred law, in Cyclops’ fashion, to his wife and children” (Nicomachean Ethics, 10.9, 1180a24–27). Aristotle grants that an education adapted to an individual is better than an education given to a group (Nicomachean Ethics, 10.9, 1180b7). But this is an argument against the collective reception of education, not the collective provision. He then argues that such an education is best left to experts, not parents. Just as parents have professional doctors care for their childrens’ bodies, they should have professional educators care for their souls (Nicomachean Ethics, 10.9, 1180b14–23). But this does not establish that the professionals should be employees of the state.

Two additional arguments for public education are found in Politics 8.1:

[1] Since the whole city has one end, it is manifest that everyone must also have one and the same education and that taking care of this education must be a common matter. It must not be private in the way that it is now, when everyone takes care of their own children privately and teaches them whatever private learning they think best. Of common things, the training must be common. [2] At the same time, no citizen should even think he belongs to himself but instead that each belongs to the city, for each is part of the city. The care of each part, however, naturally looks to the care of the whole, and to this extent praise might be due to the Spartans, for they devote the most serious attention to their children and do so in common. (Politics, 8.1 [5.1], 1337a21–32)

The second argument is both weak and question-begging. Although it may be useful for citizens to “think” that they belong to the city, not themselves, Aristotle offers no reason to think that this is true. Furthermore, the citizens would not think so unless they received precisely the collective education that needs to be established. The first argument, however, is quite strong. If the single, overriding aim of political life is the happiness of the citizens, and if this aim is best attained by public education, then no regime can be legitimate if it fails to provide public education.[2]

Another argument for public moral education can be constructed from the overall argument of the Politics. Since public education is more widely distributed than private education, other things being equal, the populace will become more virtuous on the whole. As we shall see, it is widespread virtue that makes popular government possible. Popular government is, moreover, one of the bulwarks of popular liberty. Compulsory public education in virtue, therefore, is a bulwark of liberty.

2. Politics and Freedom

Aristotle’s emphasis on compulsory moral education puts him in the “positive” libertarian camp. For Aristotle, a free man is not merely any man who lives in a free society. A free man possesses certain traits of character which allow him to govern himself responsibly and attain happiness. These traits are, however, the product of a long process of compulsory tutelage. But such compulsion can be justified only by the production of a free and happy individual, and its scope is therefore limited by this goal. Since Aristotle ultimately accepted the Socratic principle that all men desire happiness, education merely compels us to do what we really want. It frees us from our own ignorance, folly, and irrationality and frees us for our own self-actualization. This may be the rationale for Aristotle’s claim that, “the law’s laying down of what is decent is not oppressive” (Nicomachean Ethics, 10.9, 1180a24). Since Aristotle thinks that freedom from the internal compulsion of the passions is more important than freedom from the external compulsion of force, and that force can quell the passions and establish virtue’s empire over them, Aristotle as much as Rousseau believes that we can be forced to be free.

But throughout the Politics, Aristotle shows that he is concerned to protect “negative” liberty as well. In Politics 2.2–5, Aristotle ingeniously defends private families, private property, and private enterprise from Plato’s communistic proposals in the Republic, thereby preserving the freedom of large spheres of human activity.

Aristotle’s concern with privacy is evident in his criticism of a proposal of Hippodamus of Miletus which would encourage spies and informers (2.8, 1268b22).

Aristotle is concerned to create a regime in which the rich do not enslave the poor and the poor do not plunder the rich (3.10, 1281a13–27).

Second Amendment enthusiasts will be gratified at Aristotle’s emphasis on the importance of a wide distribution of arms in maintaining the freedom of the populace (2.8, 1268a16-24; 3.17, 1288a12–14; 4.3 [6.3], 1289b27–40; 4.13 [6.13], 1297a12–27; 7.11 [4.11], 1330b17–20).

War and empire are great enemies of liberty, so isolationists and peace lovers will be gratified by Aristotle’s critique of warlike regimes and praise of peace. The good life requires peace and leisure. War is not an end in itself, but merely a means to ensure peace (7.14 [4.14], 1334a2–10; 2.9, 1271a41–b9).

The best regime is not oriented outward, toward dominating other peoples, but inward, towards the happiness of its own. The best regime is an earthly analogue of the Prime Mover. It is self-sufficient and turned inward upon itself (7.3 [4.3], 1325a14–31). Granted, Aristotle may not think that negative liberty is the whole of the good life, but it is an important component which needs to be safeguarded.[3]

3. The Elements of Politics and the Mixed Regime

Since the aim of political association is the good life, the best political regime is the one that best delivers the good life. Delivering the good life can be broken down into two components: production and distribution. There are two basic kinds of goods: the goods of the body and the goods of the soul.[4] Both sorts of goods can be produced and distributed privately and publicly, but Aristotle treats the production and distribution of bodily goods as primarily private whereas he treats the production and distribution of spiritual goods as primarily public. The primary goods of the soul are moral and intellectual virtue, which are best produced by public education, and honor, the public recognition of virtue, talent, and service rendered to the city.[5] The principle of distributive justice is defined as proportionate equality: equally worthy people should be equally happy and unequally worthy people should be unequally happy, commensurate with their unequal worth (Nicomachean Ethics, 5.6–7). The best regime, in short, combines happiness and justice.

But how is the best regime to be organized? Aristotle builds his account from at least three sets of elements.

First, in Politics 3.6–7, Aristotle observes that sovereignty can rest either with men or with laws. If with men, then it can rest in one man, few men, or many men. (Aristotle treats it as self-evident that it cannot rest in all men.) The rulers can exercise political power for two different ends: for the common good and for special interests. One pursues the common good by promoting the happiness of all according to justice. Special interests can be broken down into individual or factional interests. A ruler can be blamed for pursuing such goods only if he does so without regard to justice, i.e., without a just concern for the happiness of all. When a single man rules for the common good, we have kingship. When he rules for his own good, we have tyranny. When the few rule for the common good, we have aristocracy. When they rule for their factional interest, we have oligarchy. When the many rule for the common good, we have polity. When they rule for their factional interest, we have democracy. These six regimes can exist in pure forms, or they can be mixed together.

Second, Aristotle treats social classes as elemental political distinctions. In Politics 3.8 he refines his definitions of oligarchy and democracy, claiming that oligarchy is actually the rule by the rich, whether they are few or many, and democracy is rule by the poor, whether they are few or many. Similarly, in Politics 4.11 (6.1) Aristotle also defines polity as rule by the middle class. In Politics 4.4 (6.4), Aristotle argues that the social classes are irreducible political distinctions. One can be a rich, poor, or middle class juror, legislator, or office-holder. One can be a rich, poor, or middle class farmer or merchant. But one cannot be both rich and poor at the same time (1291b2–13). Class distinctions cannot be eliminated; therefore, they have to be recognized and respected, their disadvantages meliorated and their advantages harnessed for the common good.

Third, in Politics 4.14 (6.14), Aristotle divides the activities of rulership into three different functions: legislative, judicial, and executive.[6]

Because rulership can be functionally divided, it is possible to create a mixed regime by assigning different functions to different parts of the populace. One could, for instance, mix monarchy and elite rule by assigning supreme executive office to a single man and the legislative and judicial functions to the few. Or one could divide the legislative function into different houses, assigning one to the few and another to the many. Aristotle suggests giving the few the power to legislate and the many the power to veto legislation. He suggests that officers be elected by the many, but nominated from the few. The few should make expenditures, but the many should audit them (2.12, 1274a15–21; 3.11, 1281b21–33; 4.14 [6.14], 1298b26–40).

In Politics 3.10, Aristotle argues that some sort of mixed regime is preferable, since no pure regime is satisfactory: “A difficulty arises as to what should be the controlling part of the city, for it is really either the multitude or the rich or the decent or the best one of all or a tyrant? But all of them appear unsatisfactory” (1281a11–13). Democracy is bad because the poor unjustly plunder the substance of the rich; oligarchy is bad because the rich oppress and exploit the poor; tyranny is bad because the tyrant does injustice to everyone (1281a13–28). Kingship and aristocracy are unsatisfactory because they leave the many without honors and are schools for snobbery and high-handedness (1281a28–33; 4.11 [6.11], 1295b13ff). A pure polity might be unsatisfactory because it lacks a trained leadership caste and is therefore liable to make poor decisions (3.11, 1281b21–33).

4. Checks and Balances, Political Rule, and the Rule of Law

Aristotle’s mixed regime is the origin of the idea of the separation of powers and “checks and balances.” It goes hand in hand with a very modern political realism. Aristotle claims that, “all regimes that look to the common advantage turn out, according to what is simply just, to be correct ones, while those that look only to the advantage of their rulers are mistaken and are all deviations from the correct regime. For they are despotic, but the city is a community of the free” (3.6, 1279a17–21).

It is odd, then, that in Politics 4.8–9 (6.8–9) Aristotle describes the best regime as a mixture of two defective regimes, oligarchy and democracy–not of two correct regimes, aristocracy and polity. But perhaps Aristotle entertained the possibility of composing a regime that tends to the common good out of classes which pursue their own factional interests.

Perhaps Aristotle thought that the “intention” to pursue the common good can repose not in the minds of individual men, but in the institutional logic of the regime itself. This would be an enormous advantage, for it would bring about the common good without having to rely entirely upon men of virtue and good will, who are in far shorter supply than men who pursue their own individual and factional advantages.

Related to the mixed regime with its checks and balances is the notion of “political rule.” Political rule consists of ruling and being ruled in turn:

. . . there is a sort of rule exercised over those who are similar in birth and free. This rule we call political rule, and the ruler must learn it by being ruled, just as one learns to be a cavalry commander by serving under a cavalry commander . . . Hence is was nobly said that one cannot rule well without having been ruled. And while virtue in these two cases is different, the good citizen must learn and be able both to be ruled and to rule. This is in fact the virtue of the citizen, to know rule over the free from both sides. (3.4, 1277b7–15; cf. 1.13, 1259b31–34 and 2.2, 1261a32–b3)

Aristotle makes it clear that political rule can exist only where the populace consists of men who are free, i.e., sufficiently virtuous that they can rule themselves. They must also be economically middle-class, well-armed, and warlike. They must, in short, be the sort of men who can participate responsibly in government, who want to participate, and who cannot safely be excluded. A populace that is slavish, vice-ridden, poor, and unarmed can easily be disenfranchised and exploited. If power were entirely in the hands of a free populace, the regime would be a pure polity, and political rule would exist entirely between equals. If, however, a free populace were to take part in a mixed regime, then political rule would exist between different parts of the regime. The many and the few would divide power and functions between them. Not only would members of each class take turns performing the different functions allotted to them, the classes themselves would rule over others in one respect and be ruled in another. In these circumstances, then, checks and balances are merely one form of political rule.

In Politics 3.16, Aristotle connects political rule to the rule of law:

What is just is that people exercise rule no more than they are subject to it and that therefore they rule by turns. But this is already law, for the arrangement is law. Therefore, it is preferable that law rule rather than any one of the citizens. And even if, to pursue the same argument, it were better that there be some persons exercising rule, their appointment should be as guardians and servants of the laws. For though there must be some offices, that there should be this one person exercising rule is, they say, not just, at least when all are similar. (1287a15–22)

Aristotle’s point is simple. If two men govern by turns, then sovereignty does not ultimately repose in either of them, but in the rule that they govern by turns. The same can be said of checks and balances. If the few spend money and the many audit the accounts, then neither group is sovereign, the laws are. If sovereignty reposes in laws, not men, the common good is safe. As Aristotle points out, “anyone who bids the laws to rule seems to bid god and intellect alone to rule, but anyone who bids a human being to rule adds on also the wild beast. For desire is such a beast and spiritedness perverts rulers even when they are the best of men. Hence law is intellect without appetite” (1287a23–31). The greatest enemy of the common good is private interest. The laws, however, have no private interests. Thus if our laws are conducive to the common good, we need not depend entirely on the virtue and public-spiritedness of men.

Aristotle would, however, hasten to add that no regime can do without these characteristics entirely, for the laws cannot apply themselves. They must be applied by men, and their application will seldom be better than the men who apply them. Furthermore, even though a regime may function without entirely virtuous citizens, no legitimate regime can be indifferent to the virtue of the citizens, for the whole purpose of political association is to instill the virtues necessary for happiness.

Notes

1. All quotes from Aristotle are from The Politics of Aristotle, trans. and ed. Peter L. Phillips Simpson (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1997). Simpson’s edition has two unique features. First, The Politics is introduced by a translation of Nicomachean Ethics 10.9. Second, Simpson moves books 7 and 8 of The Politics, positioning them between the traditional books 3 and 4. I retain the traditional ordering, indicating Simpson’s renumbering parenthetically. Unless otherwise noted, all quotes are from The Politics. Quotes from the Nicomachean Ethics will be indicated as such.

2. A useful commentary on these and other Aristotelian arguments for public education is Randall R. Curren, Aristotle on the Necessity of Public Education (Lanham, Maryland: Rowman and Littlefield, 2000).

3. For a fuller discussion of the value Aristotle puts on liberty, see Roderick T. Long, “Aristotle’s Conception of Freedom,” The Review of Metaphysics 49, no. 4 (June 1996), pp. 787–802.

4. One could add a third category of instrumental goods, but these goods are instrumental to the intrinsic goods of the body, the soul, or both, and thus could be classified under those headings.

5. As for the highest good of the soul, which is attained by philosophy, Aristotle’s flight from Athens near the end of his life shows that he recognized that different political orders can be more or less open to free thought, but I suspect that he was realist enough (and Platonist enough) to recognize that even the best cities are unlikely to positively cultivate true freedom to philosophize. I would wager that Aristotle would be both surprised at the freedom of thought in the United States and receptive to Tocquevillian complaints about the American tendency toward conformism that makes such freedom unthreatening to the reigning climate of opinion. A cynic might argue that if Americans actually made use of their freedom of thought, it would be quickly taken away.

6. On the complexities of the executive role in the Politics, see Harvey C. Mansfield, Jr., Taming the Prince: The Ambivalence of Modern Executive Power (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), chs. 2–3.

Introduction to Aristotle’s Politics
Part 2: In Defense of Popular Government

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Part 2 of 2

5. The Good Man and the Good Citizen

Having now surveyed Aristotle’s thoughts on the elements and proper aim of politics, we can now examine his arguments for popular government. When I use the phrase “popular government,” it should be borne in mind that Aristotle does not advocate a pure polity, but a mixed regime with a popular element.

Aristotle’s first case for bringing the many into government can be discerned in Politics 3.4. Aristotle’s question is whether the virtues of the good man and the good citizen are the same. They are not the same, insofar as the virtue of the good citizen is defined relative to the regime, and there are many different regimes, while the virtue of the good man is defined relative to human nature, which is one. One can therefore be a good citizen but not a good man, and a good man but not a good citizen. History is replete with examples of regimes which punish men for their virtues and reward them for their vices. Aristotle does, however, allow that the good man and the good citizen can be one in a regime in which the virtues required of a good citizen do not differ from the virtues of a good man.

The chief virtue of a good man is prudence. But prudence is not required of a citizen insofar as he is ruled. Only obedience is required. Prudence is, however, required of a citizen insofar as he rules. Since the best regime best encourages happiness by best cultivating virtue, a regime which allows the many to govern along with the few is better than a regime which excludes them. By including the many in ruling, a popular regime encourages the widest cultivation of prudence and gives the greatest opportunity for its exercise. The best way to bring the many into the regime is what Aristotle calls political rule: ruling and being ruled in turn, as prescribed by law.

Political rule not only teaches the virtue of prudence to the many, it teaches the virtue of being ruled to the few, who must give way in turn to the many. Since the few aspire to rule but not be ruled, Aristotle argues that they cannot rule without first having been ruled: “the ruler must learn [political rule] by being ruled, just as one learns to be a cavalry commander by serving under a cavalry commander . . . Hence is was nobly said that one cannot rule well without having been ruled. And while virtue in these two cases is different, the good citizen must learn and be able both to be ruled and to rule. This is, in fact, the virtue of a citizen, to know rule over the free from both sides. Indeed, the good man too possesses both” (3.4, 1277b7–16).

Aristotle names justice as a virtue which is learned both in ruling and being ruled. Those born to wealth and power are liable to arrogance and the love of command. By subjecting them to the rule of others, including their social inferiors, they learn to respect their freedom and justly appraise their worth.

6. Potlucks, Chimeras, Juries

Aristotle’s next case for bringing the many into the regime is found in Politics 3.11.[1] Aristotle seeks to rebut the aristocratic argument against popular participation, namely that the best political decisions are wise ones, but wisdom is found only among the few, not the many. Popular participation, therefore, would inevitably dilute the quality of the political decision-makers, increasing the number of foolish decisions. Aristotle accepts the premise that the wise should rule, but he argues that there are circumstances in which the few and the many together are wiser than the few on their own. The aristocratic principle, therefore, demands the participation of the many:

. . . the many, each of whom is not a serious man, nevertheless could, when they have come together, be better than those few best–not, indeed, individually but as a whole, just as meals furnished collectively are better than meals furnished at one person’s expense. For each of them, though many, could have a part of virtue and prudence, and just as they could, when joined together in a multitude, become one human being with many feet, hands, and senses, so also could they become one in character and thought. That is why the many are better judges of the works of music and the poets, for one of them judges one part and another another and all of them the whole. (1281a42–b10)

At first glance, this argument seems preposterous. History and everyday life are filled with examples of wise individuals opposing foolish collectives. But Aristotle does not claim that the many are always wiser than the few, simply that they can be under certain conditions (1281b15).

The analogy of the potluck supper is instructive (cf. 3.15, 1286a28–30).[2] A potluck supper can be better than one provided by a single person if it offers a greater number and variety of dishes and diffuses costs and labor. But potluck suppers are not always superior–that is the “luck” in it. Potlucks are often imbalanced. On one occasion, there may be too many desserts and no salads. On another, three people may bring chicken and no one brings beef or pork. The best potluck, therefore, is a centrally orchestrated one which mobilizes the resources of many different contributors but ensures a balanced and wholesome meal.

Likewise, the best way to include the many in political decision-making is to orchestrate their participation, giving them a delimited role that maximizes their virtues and minimizes their vices. This cannot be accomplished in a purely popular regime, particularly a lawless one, but it can be accomplished in a mixed regime in which the participation of the populace is circumscribed by law and checked by the interests of other elements of the population.

Aristotle’s second analogy–which likens the intellectual and moral unity of the many to a man with many feet, hands, and sense organs, i.e., a freak of nature–does not exactly assuage doubters. But his point is valid. While even the best of men may lack a particular virtue, it is unlikely that it will be entirely absent from a large throng. Therefore, the many are potentially as virtuous or even more virtuous than the few if their scattered virtues can be gathered together and put to work. But history records many examples of groups acting less morally than any member on his own. Thus the potential moral superiority of the many is unlikely to emerge in a lawless democracy. But it could emerge in a lawful mixed regime, which actively encourages and employs the virtues of the many while checking their vices. This process can be illustrated by adapting an analogy that Aristotle offers to illustrate another point: A painting of a man can be more beautiful than any real man, for the painter can pick out the best features of individual men and combine them into a beautiful whole (3.11, 1281b10–11).

Aristotle illustrates the potential superiority of collective judgment with another questionable assertion, that “the many are better judges of the works of music and the poets, for one of them judges one part and another another and all of them the whole.” Again, this seems preposterous. Good taste, like wisdom, is not widely distributed and is cultivated by the few, not the many. Far more people buy “rap” recordings than classical ones. But Aristotle is not claiming that the many are better judges in all cases. Aristotle is likely referring to Greek dramatic competitions. These competitions were juried by the audience, not a small number of connoisseurs.

A jury trial or competition is a genuine collective decision-making process in which each juror is morally enjoined to pay close attention the matter at hand and to render an objective judgment.[3] Although each juror has his own partial impression, when jurors deliberate they can add their partial impressions together to arrive at a more complete and adequate account. To the extent that a jury decision must approach unanimity, the jurors will be motivated to examine the issue from all sides and persuade one another to move toward a rationally motivated consensus. A jury decision can, therefore, be more rational, well-informed, and objective than an individual one.[4] The market, by contrast, is not a collective decision-making process. It does not require a consumer to compare his preferences to those of others, to persuade others of their validity or defend them from criticism, or to arrive at any sort of consensus. Instead, the market merely registers the collective effects of individual decisions.[5]

7. Freedom and Stability

Another argument for popular government in Politics 3.11 (1281b21–33) is that it is more stable. Aristotle grants the Aristocratic principle that it is not safe for the populace to share in “the greatest offices” because, “on account of their injustice and unwisdom, they would do wrong in some things and go wrong in others.” But then he goes on to argue that it would not be safe to exclude the many from rule altogether, since a city “that has many in it who lack honor and are poor must of necessity be full of enemies,” which would be a source of instability. Instability is, however, inconsistent with the proper aim of politics, for the good life requires peace. The solution is a mixed regime which ensures peace and stability by allowing the many to participate in government, but not to occupy the highest offices. In Politics 2.9, Aristotle praises the Spartan Ephorate for holding the regime together, “since, as the populace share in the greatest office, it keeps them quiet. . . . For if any regime is going to survive, all the parts of the city must want it both to exist and to remain as it is” (1270b17–22; cf. Aristotle’s discussion of the Carthaginians in 2.9, 1272b29–32; see also 4.13 [6.13], 1297b6).

In Politics 2.12, Aristotle offers another reason for including the populace in government. Solon gave the populace, “the power that was most necessary (electing to office and auditing the accounts), since without it they would have been enslaved and hostile” (1274a4–6). Here Aristotle makes it clear that he values liberty, and he values popular government because it protects the liberty of the many.

8. Expert Knowledge

In Politics 3.11 Aristotle rebuts the argument that the many should not be involved in politics because they are amateurs, and decisions in politics, as in medicine and other fields, should be left to experts. In response to this, Aristotle repeats his argument that the many, taken together, may be better judges than a few experts. He then adds that there are some arts in which the products can be appreciated by people who do not possess the art: “Appreciating a house, for example, does not just belong to the builder; the one who uses it, namely the household manager, will pass an even better judgment on it. Likewise, the pilot judges the rudder better than the carpenter and the dinner guest judges the feast better than the chef” (1282a19–22). If the art of statesmanship is like these, then the best judge of the quality of a statesman is not the few political experts, but the many political laymen who are ruled by him. The judgment of the populace should not, therefore, be disdained.

9. Resistance to Corruption

In Politics 3.15 Aristotle argues that popular regimes are more resistant to corruption. Even in a regime in which law ultimately rules, there are particular circumstances which the laws do not anticipate. Where the law cannot decide, men must do so. But this creates an opportunity for corruption. Aristotle argues that such decisions are better made by large bodies deliberating in public: “What is many is more incorruptible: the multitude, like a greater quantity of water, is harder to ruin than a few. A single person’s judgment must necessarily be corrupted when he is overcome by anger or some other such passion, but getting everyone in the other case to become angry and go wrong at the same time takes a lot of doing. Let the multitude in question, however, be the free who are acting in no way against law, except where law is necessarily deficient” (1286a33–38). Aristotle’s argument that the many may collectively possess fewer vices than the few is merely a mirror image of his earlier collective virtue argument. Here, as elsewhere, Aristotle defends popular government only under delimited circumstances. The populace must be free, not slavish, and they must decide only when the laws cannot.

10. Delegation and Diffusion of Power

Politics 3.16 is devoted to arguments against total kingship. One of these arguments can be turned into a case for popular government. Aristotle claims that total kingship is unsustainable: “It is not easy for one person to oversee many things, so there will need to be many officials appointed in subordination to him. Consequently, what is the difference between having them there right from the start and having one man in this way appoint them? . . . if a man who is serious is justly ruler because he is better, then two good men are better than one” (1287b8–12, cf. 1287b25–29).

Since total kingship is unworkable, kings must necessarily appoint superior men as “peers” to help them. But if total kingship must create an aristocracy, then why not have aristocracy from the start?

This argument could, however, be pushed further to make a case for popular government. An aristocracy cannot effectively rule the people without the active participation of some and the passive acquiescence of the rest. As we have seen above, Aristotle argues that the best way to bring this about is popular government. But if aristocracy must eventually bring the populace into the regime, then why not include them from the very beginning?

11. When Regimes Fail

In Politics 4.2 (6.2), Aristotle returns to his list of pure regime types. The three just regimes are kingship, aristocracy, and polity; the three unjust ones are tyranny, oligarchy, and democracy. Aristotle proceeds to rank the three just regimes in terms of the kinds of virtues they require. Thus Aristotle identifies kingship and aristocracy as the best regimes because they are both founded on “fully equipped virtue” (1289a31). Of the two, kingship is the very best, for it depends upon a virtue so superlative that it is possessed by only one man. Aristocracy is less exalted because it presupposes somewhat more broadly distributed and therefore less exalted virtue. Polity depends upon even more widespread and modest virtue. Furthermore, the populace, unlike kings and aristocrats, lacks the full complement of material equipment necessary to fully exercise such virtues as magnificence.

By this ranking, polity is not the best regime, but the least of the good ones. But Aristotle then offers a new, politically realistic standard for ranking the just regimes which reverses their order. Kingship may be the best regime from a morally idealistic perspective, but when it degenerates it turns into tyranny, which is the worst regime. Aristocracy may be the second best regime from a morally idealistic perspective, but when it degenerates it turns into oligarchy, which is the second worst regime. Polity may be the third choice of the moral idealist, but when it degenerates, it merely becomes democracy, which is the best of a bad lot.

Since degeneration is inevitable, the political realist ranks regimes not only in terms of their best performances, but also in terms of their worst. By this standard, polity is the best of the good regimes and kingship the worst. Kingship is best under ideal conditions, polity under real conditions. Kingship is a sleek Jaguar, polity a dowdy Volvo. On the road, the Jaguar is clearly better. But when they go in the ditch, the Volvo shows itself to be the better car overall.

12. The Middle Class Regime

Aristotle displays the same political realism in his praise of the middle class regime in Politics 4.11 (6.11): “If we judge neither by a virtue that is beyond the reach of private individuals, nor by an education requiring a nature and equipment dependent on chance, nor again a regime that is as one would pray for, but by a way of life that most can share in common together and by a regime that most cities can participate in . . . ,” then a large, politically enfranchised middle class has much to recommend it: “In the case of political community . . . the one that is based on those in the middle is best, and . . . cities capable of being well governed are those sorts where the middle is large . . .” (1295b35–36).

Since the middle class is the wealthier stratum of the common people, Aristotle’s arguments for middle class government are ipso facto arguments for popular government. Aristotle makes it clear from the beginning, however, that he is not talking about a purely popular regime, but a mixed one compounded out of a middle class populace and those elements of aristocracy which are not out of the reach of most cities (1295a30–34).

Aristotle’s first argument for the middle regime seems a sophistry: “If it was nobly said in the Ethics that the happy way of life is unimpeded life in accordance with virtue and that virtue is a mean, then necessarily the middle way of life, the life of a mean that everyone can attain, must be best. The same definitions must hold also for the virtue and vice of city and regime, since the regime is a certain way of life of a city” (1295a35–40).

In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle makes it clear that the fact that virtue can be understood as a mean between two vices, one of excess and the other of defect, does not imply either that virtue is merely an arithmetic mean (Nicomachean Ethics, 2.2, 1106a26–b8), or that virtue is to be regarded as mediocrity, not as superlative (Nicomachean Ethics, 2.2, 1107a9–27). Here, however, Aristotle describes the mean not as a superlative, but as a mediocrity “that everyone can attain.” This conclusion follows only if we presuppose that the morally idealistic doctrine of the Ethics has been modified into a moral realism analogous to the political realism of Politics 4.2.

Aristotle then claims that in a regime the mean lies in the middle class: “In all cities there are in fact three parts: those who are exceedingly well-off, those who are exceedingly needy, and the third who are in the middle of these two. So, since it is agreed that the mean and middle is best, then it is manifest that a middling possession also of the goods of fortune must be best of all” (1295b1–3). Aristotle is, however, equivocating. He begins by defining the middle class as an arithmetic mean between the rich and the poor. He concludes that the middle class is a moral mean. But he does not establish that the arithmetic mean corresponds with the moral.

Aristotle does, however, go on to offer reasons for thinking that the social mean corresponds to the moral mean. But the middle class is not necessarily more virtuous because its members have been properly educated, but because their social position and class interests lead them to act as if they had been.

First, Aristotle argues that “the middle most easily obeys reason.” Those who are “excessively beautiful or strong or well-born or wealthy” find it hard to follow reason, because they tend to be “insolent and rather wicked in great things.” By contrast, those who are poor and “extremely wretched and weak, and have an exceeding lack of honor” tend to become “villains and too much involved in petty wickedness.” The middle class is, however, too humble to breed insolence and too well-off to breed villainy. Since most injustices arise from insolence and villainy, a regime with a strong middle class will be more likely to be just.

Second, Aristotle argues that the middle class is best suited to ruling and being ruled in turn. Those who enjoy, “an excess of good fortune (strength, wealth, friends, and other things of the sort)” love to rule and dislike being ruled. Both of these attitudes are harmful to the city, yet they naturally arise among the wealthy. From an early age, the wealthy are instilled with a “love of ruing and desire to rule, both of which are harmful to cities” (1295b12), and, “because of the luxury they live in, being ruled is not something they get used to, even at school” (1295b13–17). By contrast, poverty breeds vice, servility, and small-mindedness. Thus the poor are easy to push around, and if they do gain power they are incapable of exercising it virtuously. Therefore, without a middle class, “a city of slaves and masters arises, not a city of the free, and the first are full of envy while the second are full of contempt.” Such a city must be “at the furthest remove from friendship and political community” (1295b21–24). The presence of a strong middle class, however, binds the city into a whole, limiting the tendency of the rich to tyranny and the poor to slavishness, creating a “city of the free.”

Third, Aristotle argues that middle class citizens enjoy the safest and most stable lives, imbuing the regime as a whole with these characteristics. Those in the middle are, among all the citizens, the most likely to survive in times of upheaval, when the poor starve and the rich become targets. They are sufficiently content with their lot not to envy the possessions of the rich. Yet they are not so wealthy that the poor envy them. They neither plot against the rich nor are plotted against by the poor.

Fourth, a large middle class stabilizes a regime, particularly if the middle is “stronger than both extremes or, otherwise, than either one of them. For the middle will tip the balance when added to either side and prevent the emergence of an excess at the opposite extremes” (1295b36–40). Without a large and powerful middle class, “either ultimate rule of the populace arises or unmixed oligarchy does, or, because of excess on both sides, tyranny” (1296a3; cf. 6.12, 1297a6ff).

Fifth is the related point that regimes with large middle classes are relatively free of faction and therefore more concerned with the common good. This is because a large middle class makes it harder to separate everyone out into two groups (1296a7–10).

Finally, Aristotle claims that one sign of the superiority of middle class regimes is that the best legislators come from the middle class. As examples, he cites Solon, Lycurgus, and Charondas (1296a18–21).

Conclusion: Aristotle’s Polity and Our Own

If the proper aim of government is to promote the happiness of the citizen, Aristotle marshals an impressive array of arguments for giving the people, specifically the middle class, a role in government. These arguments can be grouped under five headings: virtue, rational decision-making, freedom, stability, and resistance to corruption.

Popular government both presupposes and encourages widespread virtue among the citizens, and virtue is a necessary condition of happiness. Middle class citizens are particularly likely to follow practical reason and act justly, for they are corrupted neither by wealth nor by poverty. Popular participation can improve political decision-making by mobilizing scattered information and experience, and more informed decisions are more likely to promote happiness. In particular, popular government channels the experiences of those who are actually governed back into the decision-making process.

Popular participation preserves the freedom of the people, who would otherwise be exploited if they had no say in government. By preserving the freedom of the people, popular participation unifies the regime, promoting peace and stability which in turn are conducive to the pursuit of happiness. This is particularly the case with middle class regimes, for the middle class prevents excessive and destabilizing separation and between the extremes of wealth and poverty.

Popular governments are also more resistant to corruption. It is harder to use bribery or trickery to corrupt decisions made by many people deliberating together in public than by one person or a few deciding in private. This means that popular regimes are more likely to promote the common good instead of allowing the state to become a tool for the pursuit of one special interest at the expense of another. Furthermore, if a popular regime does become corrupt, it is most likely to become a democracy, which is the least unjust of the bad regimes and the easiest to reform.

All these are good arguments for giving the people a role in government. But not just any people. And not just any role.

First, Aristotle presupposes a small city-state. He did not think that any regime could pursue the common good if it became too large. This is particularly true of a popular regime, for the larger the populace, the less room any particular citizen has for meaningful participation.

Second, he presupposes a populace which is racially and culturally homogeneous. A more diverse population is subject to faction and strife. It will either break up into distinct communities or it will have to be held together by violence and governed by an elite. A more diverse population also erodes a society’s moral consensus, making moral education even more difficult.

Third, political participation will be limited to middle-class and wealthy property-owning males, specifically men who derive their income from the ownership of productive land, not merchants and craftsmen.

Fourth, Aristotle circumscribes the role of the populace by assigning it specific legal roles, such as the election of officers and the auditing of accounts–roles which are checked and balanced by the legal roles of the aristocratic element, such as occupying leadership positions.

If Aristotle is right about the conditions of popular government, then he would probably take a dim view of its prospects in America.

First and foremost, Aristotle would deplore America’s lack of concern with moral education. Aristotle’s disagreement would go beyond the obvious fact that the American founders did not make moral education the central concern of the state. America has neglected to cultivate even the minimal moral virtues required to maintain a liberal regime, virtues such as independence, personal responsibility, and basic civility.

Second, Aristotle would predict that multiculturalism and non-white immigration will destroy the cultural preconditions of popular government.

Third, Aristotle would reject America’s ever-widening franchise–particularly the extension of the vote to women, non-property owners, and cultural aliens–as a sure prescription for lowering the quality of public decision-making in the voting booth and jury room.

Fourth, Aristotle would be alarmed by the continuing erosion of the American working and middle classes by competition from foreign workers both inside and outside America’s borders. He would deplore America’s transformation from an agrarian to an industrial-mercantile civilization and support autarky rather than free trade and economic globalization.

Fifth, Aristotle would be alarmed by ongoing attempts to disarm the populace.

Sixth, he would condemn America’s imperialistic and warlike policies toward other nations.

Finally, Aristotle would likely observe that since genuine popular government is difficult with hundreds of thousands of citizens it will be impossible with hundreds of millions.

In short, if Aristotle were alive today, he would find himself to the right of Patrick J. Buchanan, decrying America’s decline from a republic to an empire. Aristotle challenges us to show whether and how liberty and popular government are compatible with feminism, multiculturalism, and globalized capitalism.

To conclude, however, on a more positive note: Although Aristotle gives reasons to think that the future of popular government in America is unpromising, he also gives reasons for optimism about the long-term prospects of popular government in general, for his defense of popular government is based on a realistic assessment of human nature, not only in its striving for perfection, but also in its propensity for failure.

Notes

1. For useful discussions of the arguments of Politics 3.11, see Mary P. Nichols, Citizens and Statesmen: A Study of Aristotle’s Politics (Lanham, Maryland: Rowman and Littlefield, 1992), 66–71, and Peter L. Phillips Simpson, A Philosophical Commentary on the Politics of Aristotle (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1998), 166-71.

2. On the potluck supper analogy, see Arlene W. Saxonhouse, Fear of Diversity: The Birth of Political Science in Ancient Greek Thought (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 222–24.

3. I wish to thank M. L. C. for suggesting the model of a jury trial.

4 . For a beautiful description of the deliberative process of a jury, see John C. Calhoun, A Disquisition on Government, in Union and Liberty: The Political Philosophy of John C. Calhoun, ed. Ross M. Lence (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1992), 49–50.

5. Friedrich A. Hayek’s classic essay “The Use of Knowledge in Society,” in his Individualism and Economic Order (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1948), argues that the market is superior to central planning because it better mobilizes widely scattered information. The market is, of course, larger than any possible jury and thus will always command more information. However, if one were to compare a market and a jury of the same size, the jury would clearly be a more rational decision-making process, for the market registers decisions based on perspectives which are in principle entirely solipsistic, whereas the jury requires a genuine dialogue which challenges all participants to transcend their partial and subjective perspectives and work toward a rational consensus which is more objective than any individual decision because it more adequately accounts for the phenomena in question than could any individual decision. It is this crucial disanalogy that seems to vitiate attempts to justify the market in terms of Gadamerian, Popperian, or Habermasian models and communicative rationality. For the best statement of this sort of approach, see G. B. Madison, The Political Economy of Civil Society and Human Rights (New York: Routledge, 1998), esp. chs. 3–5.

 

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Rousseau as Conservative - The Theodicy of Civilization

Rousseau as Conservative:
The Theodicy of Civilization

By Greg Johnson

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

In 1762, Immanuel Kant did something unprecedented: he missed his daily walk. He stayed home to read Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s new book Emile, a philosophical novel on education which was to exercise a profound and revolutionary influence on his thought.[1] In one of his notes on Rousseau, from 1764–1765, Kant writes:

Newton was the very first to see order and regularity bound up with the greatest simplicity, where before him disorder and mismatched heterogeneity were to be met with, whereas since then comets run in geometric paths.

Rousseau was the very first to discover under the heterogeneity of the assumed shapes of humanity its deeply hidden nature and the concealed law according to which providence through his observation is justified. Formerly the objections of Alfonso and Mani were still valid. After Newton and Rousseau, God is justified and Pope’s thesis is henceforth true.[2]

Here Kant, who was a great admirer of Newton, lauds Rousseau as the Newton of the human world. He also indicates the central problem that any Newton of the human world must face: the objections of Alfonso and Mani. What Alfonso and Mani are objecting to is the idea of divine providence.

King Alfonso X of Castile reportedly declared, “Let justice triumph though the world may perish,” implying that in this world there is no justice; he also reportedly said, upon inspecting the Ptolemaic system of the heavens, that “If I had been the creator of the world, I should have made the thing better.”[3]

Both claims imply that the created world is not ruled by a benevolent divine providence, but by the forces of evil, which is the position of Mani, the founder of Manicheanism.

To answer the objections of Alfonso and Mani, we must solve the problem of evil, i.e., we must produce a theodicy. We must show that the evils of the world are consistent with an omnipotent, omniscient, omnibenevolent, provident God–either by showing that the evils of the world are illusory, or by showing that they are the unavoidable characteristics of the best of all possible worlds, which is the thesis of Alexander Pope’s Essay on Man and Leibniz’s Theodicy, the thesis known as “optimism.”

Now, at first glance, it seems odd to attribute an optimistic solution to the problem of evil to Rousseau, for although Rousseau thought that the natural world is good, the same was not true of society. Consider this passage from Emile:

when . . . I seek to know my individual place in my species, and I consider its various ranks and the men who fill them, what happens to me? What a spectacle! Where is the order I had observed [in nature]? The picture of nature had presented me with only harmony and proportion; that of mankind presents me with only confusion and disorder! Concert reigns among the elements, and men are in chaos! The animals are happy; their king alone is miserable! O wisdom, where are your laws? O providence, it it thus that you rule the world? Beneficent Being, what has become of your power? I see evil on earth. (Emile,[4] 278)

Indeed, the overall tenor of Rousseau’s Discourse on the Sciences and the Arts (First Discourse, 1750[5]) and his Discourse on the Origins of Inequality (Second Discourse, 1754[6]) was so darkly pessimistic that Voltaire, who was himself no defender of optimism, declared them “books against the human race.”

The First Discourse argues that the progress of the arts and sciences from the Renaissance to the Enlightenment has served to corrupt rather than to improve morals. The advancement of civilization causes the decay of humanity.

The Second Discourse argues that civilization as such is absurd and evil–absurd because it arises from sheer Epicurean contingency rather than through providence or natural teleology, both of which aim at the good–and evil because it alienates us from our natural goodness, our natural freedom, and our natural sentiments of self-love and pity.

What, then, was Kant thinking of when he attributed a theodicy of the human world to Rousseau? How did he read Rousseau as an optimist? There are three Rousseauian texts that can support Kant’s optimistic reading: Emile, Of the Social Contract (1762), and the famous letter to Voltaire of August 18, 1756,[7] which was published without Rousseau’s permission and may have reached Kant. (I should also note that the following discussion is partial, for it abstracts from the crucial topic of Rousseau’s denial of original sin and assertion of the natural goodness of man.)

In his letter to Voltaire, Rousseau responds to Voltaire’s Poems on the Lisbon Disaster, an attack on optimism occasioned by the series of great earthquakes that destroyed much of Lisbon in 1755. Rousseau explicitly defends the optimism of Leibniz and Pope.

Furthermore, he makes it clear that he is an optimist about both the human and the natural worlds, arguing that the First and Second Discourses, contrary to the pessimistic impression they create, actually vindicate God’s providence by showing that God is not the author of mankind’s miseries. Man himself is their author.

Because mankind is free, we are the author of all of our moral miseries and, because we have the freedom to avoid or minimize most of our physical miseries, to the extent that we fail to do so, we are their authors as well. God is blameless.[8]

In Of the Social Contract, the project of a theodicy of the human world is apparent in the famous opening paragraph of Book I, Chapter 1:

Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains. One believes himself the master of others, and yet he is a greater slave than they. How has this change come about? I do not know. What can render it legitimate? I believe that I can settle this question.[9]

In the state of nature, man is free. In the civil condition, he is in chains, but the chains are not merely the iron fetters of slaves, but the fetters of vanity (amour-propre) which bind the masters as well. How did man pass from the state of nature to the civil state? Rousseau claims he does not know.

Now this is a startling claim, for Rousseau’s Second Discourse is precisely an account of man’s passage from the state of nature to the civil state. Apparently, whatever kind of account it is, it does not in Rousseau’s eyes constitute knowledge. This is an important point, to which we will return later.

Rousseau’s next question, “What can render it legitimate?” introduces the question of justice. Rousseau’s goal is to show us that the chains of civilization are legitimate, that they are justified.

It is not possible to offer a complete interpretation of Rousseau’s General Will doctrine here, so let me simply to assert that for Rousseau the civil state is not good because we choose it; rather we ought to choose it because it is good.

Furthermore, Rousseau does not think that only the ideal state of the Social Contract is preferable to the state of nature. He thinks that all really-existing civil states, save the most corrupt, are more choiceworthy than the state of nature; the civil state as such is better than the state of nature.

And why is the civil state good? Rousseau’s most explicit answer is Chapter 8 of Book I: “Of the Civil State”:

This transition from the state of nature to the civil state produces in man a very remarkable change, by substituting in his conduct justice for instinct, and by giving his actions a morality that they previously lacked. It is only when the voice of duty succeeds physical impulsion, and right succeeds appetite, that man, who till then had only looked after himself, sees that he is forced to act on other principles, and to consult his reason before listening to his inclinations. Although in this state he is deprived of many advantages he holds from nature, he gains such great ones in return, that his faculties are exercised and developed; his ideas are expanded; his feelings are ennobled; his whole soul is exalted to such a degree that, if the abuse of his new condition did not often degrade him to below that from which he has emerged, he should ceaselessly bless the happy moment that removed him from it forever, and transformed him from a stupid and ignorant animal into an intelligent being and a man.[10]

Now, in the context of Of the Social Contract, the alternative title of which is “Principles of Political Right,” it is only natural to construe the question of the legitimacy of the civil state as a matter of political or human justice. But the “happy moment” when man passed from the state of nature into the civil state marks the beginning of historical life; it is not the same as the moment in history when man passed from primitive and warlike society (Hobbes’ state of nature) to law-governed political society; rather it is the moment when the human world itself comes into existence.

The transition from warlike society to political society can be guided and illuminated by principles of political right. But the transition from nature to history is pre-political, and if we are to “ceaselessly bless” this moment, it is not in virtue of its political justice, but in virtue of a natural justice–a natural justice that in Emile is revealed to be a divine justice.

In Emile, particularly the Profession of Faith of a Savoyard Vicar in Book IV, Rousseau offers an explicit theodicy of the human world, arguing that man’s fall from nature into history is a felix culpa, even if it does violence to our natural freedom and sentiments, because it creates the conditions for the development of our moral and spiritual natures. Providence, therefore, is vindicated.

First, Rousseau argues that, although man chooses most of his miseries and is therefore responsible for them, the very freedom that creates these miseries is also the condition for his moral dignity:

To complain about God’s not preventing men from doing evil is to complain about His having given him an excellent nature, about His having put in man’s actions the morality which ennobles them, about His having given him the right to virtue. The supreme enjoyment is in satisfaction with oneself; it is in order to deserve this satisfaction that we are placed on Earth and endowed with freedom, that we are tempted by the passions and restrained by conscience. (Emile, 281)

Second, Rousseau argues that civilization makes possible the development of man’s rational faculties, whereas savages and peasants, although bright and active during childhood, become mentally dull and placid as adults. During childhood, young Emile, whose education is the subject of the book, is given all the freedom of young savages and peasants. But Emile will be taught to think, and thinking is an activity that presupposes the development of civilization. Therefore, the full development of Emile’s intellectual faculties requires that he leave the state of nature for the civil state. Thinking is good, and civilization, because it cultivates thinking, is good as well (Emile, 315–16).

Third, the cultivation of taste adds a great deal to the agreeableness of life; it teaches us to find pleasures virtually anywhere and to minimize pain and suffering (Emile, 344); it also makes us more finely attuned to the objective differences in the world around us; and it encourages us to take pleasure in reflection and discussion, thus creating the conditions for philosophy. The ideal place to cultivate taste, however, is not Arcadia or Sparta or Geneva, but decadent Paris:

If, in order to cultivate my disciple’s taste [speaks the preceptor, the narrator of Emile], I had to choose between taking him to countries where there has not yet been any cultivation of taste and to others where taste has already degenerated, I would proceed in reverse order. . . . taste is corrupted by an excessive delicacy which creates a sensitivity to things that the bulk of men do not perceive. This delicacy leads to a spirit of discussion, for the more subtle one is about things, the more they multiply. This subtlety makes feelings more delicate and less uniform. Then as many tastes are formed as there are individuals. In the disputes about preferences, philosophy and enlightenment are extended, and it is in this way that one learns to think. (Emile, 342)

Even the theater, Geneva’s ban on which Rousseau defended, is lauded as a school of taste (Emile, 344).

Finally, in book five of Emile, the political institutions which so frequently do violence to our natural freedom and sentiments are defended as necessary conditions for the development of our moral and spiritual nature:

If he [Emile] had been born in the heart of the woods, he would have lived happier and freer. But he would have had nothing to combat in order to follow his inclinations, and thus he soul have been good without merit; he would not have been virtuous; and now he knows how to be so in spite of his passions. The mere appearance of order brings him to know order and to love it. The public good, which serves others only as a pretext, is a real motive for him alone. He learns to struggle with himself, to conquer himself, to sacrifice his interest to the common interest. It is not true that he draws no profit from the laws. They give him the courage to be just even among wicked men. It is not true that they have not made him free. They have taught him to reign over himself. (Emile, 473)

It is important to note that Rousseau is not talking about the good laws of the ideal state described in Of the Social Contract, but about the bad laws of any and all really-existing states. For Rousseau, even bad laws are better than no laws at all, for laws as such awaken and actualize potencies of the soul which slumber in the state of nature. In particular, laws which prescribe actions contrary to our inclinations awaken our free will; such laws open up the latent distinction between the soul and the body (the soul understood as our moral personality, the body understood as the desires, drives, and inclinations of our physical frame), and finally such laws offer us occasions for virtue, understood as self-mastery.

Man in the state of nature is unreflective and therefore experiences no distinction between the self and its desires and inclinations. Freedom in the state of nature is experienced as the free play of inclination. It is only when a human being is presented with the choice of two incompatible courses of action, one determined by his inclinations and the other by the commandments of the law, that he becomes aware of his moral freedom, i.e., his capacity not simply to follow his impulses, but actively to choose his actions–and not simply to choose particular actions, but to choose the ultimate grounds for determining his actions.

When a human being is presented with the choice of acting upon the desires and incentives of the economy of nature or upon human laws–even absurd and unjust commands–if he chooses to suppress his natural inclinations to obey human laws, then he experiences a sublime elevation of his moral personality above his own body, and above the economy of nature in general, as well as a sense of pride in his moral strength and self-mastery.

Rousseau is fully cognizant of the cruelty of civilization, of its tendency to mortify and mutilate our natural freedom, our natural goodness, and our natural sentiments of self-love and pity. But even at its worst, civilization is justified by the fact that it awakens our distinctly human capacities to exercise moral freedom, to master our inclinations, to take responsibility for our actions. Civilization brings us to know and esteem ourselves as creatures who are not merely cogs in the clockwork of nature, but its masters and possessors. Therefore, civilization—even at its worst—is better than the state of nature. Therefore, the providence that brought us from nature to history is vindicated.

This, I think, is a plausible reconstruction of how Kant read Rousseau’s project as a theodicy of the human world. Now I wish to deal with an objection to this interpretation.

The Kantian interpretation of Rousseau can be characterized as theistic and dualistic, whereas most contemporary interpretations of Rousseau, particularly those influenced by Marx and Leo Strauss tend to treat Rousseau as a modern Epicurean, i.e., as an atheist and a materialist. The Epicurean interpretation of Rousseau is based primarily upon the Second Discourse, and I think that James H. Nichols, Jr. is correct to suggest that,

in this particular work Rousseau is most obviously influenced by Lucretius: the analysis of man’s primitive condition, and of the subsequent steps of development out of it; the character of prepolitical society; and thereafter the movement via disorder and violence to the institution by compact of political society with coercive laws–on all these points Rousseau follows the main lines of the Lucretian account.[11]

Both Rousseau and Lucretius regard man as naturally independent, self-sufficient, limited in his desires, and therefore as happy.

Both regard society as a realm of vanity, false opinions, and artificial desires which trap us in an alienating web of interdependence with other persons and external things, leading to competition, enmity, violence, oppression, and misery.

Finally, both Lucretius and Rousseau offer a non-teleological and non-providential account of man’s passage from nature into history.

Epicureanism is to this day the main alternative to teleological and theistic accounts of the origins of order. According to Epicurus, the appearance of order can be explained without reference to teleology or design, simply as the product of random material collisions which, over a very long time, accidentally produce pockets of order which can maintain and replicate themselves within the environing chaos.

On such an account, man does not leave the state of nature because of the inner-promptings of his nature. Nor does he leave it under the guidance of providence to fulfill a divine plan. Man leaves the state of nature simply because of the accumulation of a large number of essentially contingent and absurd events, such as volcanic eruptions, tectonic upheavals, and even–in the Essay on the Origin of Language–the sudden shifting of the earth’s axis of rotation away from the perpendicular of the plane of its orbit.

Rousseau makes no reference to natural teleology. And save for one reference, appeals to providence are conspicuously absent. Indeed, Rousseau’s account of man’s passage from the state of nature is even more Epicurean than Lucretius’s account, for Lucretius offers a harsher view of prehistoric life than Rousseau and therefore makes the passage from prehistory to history seem far more natural, whereas Rousseau paints an idyllic picture of prehistoric life, which makes the transition from nature to history seem all the more jarring and inexplicable.

Since the perspective of the Second Discourse is clearly Epicurean, i.e., atheistic and materialistic, if one accepts the Second Discourse as a statement of Rousseau’s metaphysical convictions, one is obligated to explain away Rousseau’s theistic and dualistic pronouncements–as well as his explicit critique and rejection of Epicureanism–in Emile, the letter to Voltaire, and elsewhere.

The strategy of Leo Strauss and Allan Bloom seems to be to assimilate the credo of the Savoyard vicar to Rousseau’s account of civil religion in Of the Social Contract. To put it crudely, the vicar’s credo is a salutary noble lie–something to be believed by Emile, but not by Rousseau himself.

Roger D. Masters, although he is a student of Strauss, rejects this approach–in my opinion quite rightly. Rousseau’s substantial agreement with the vicar’s credo is indicated by the fact that its language and arguments appear in texts written in Rousseau’s own name, such as the letter to Voltaire of August 18, 1756, the letter to Jacob Vernes of February 18, 1758, the Letters written from the Mountain, and the Reveries. Rousseau also adds his own approving notes to the Profession itself.[12]

On the basis of such evidence, Masters concludes that Rousseau’s private convictions were theistic and dualistic, although he maintains that these private convictions are “detachable” from Rousseau’s public philosophy, which remains atheistic and materialistic.

By contrast, the Kantian interpretation of Rousseau I wish to defend maintains that both Rousseau’s private convictions and his final philosophic system are dualistic and theistic.

But to maintain this thesis, I must explain, or explain away, the apparent Epicureanism of the Second Discourse. I wish to suggest that the Second Discourse really is an Epicurean account of man’s nature and his passage into history, but that it does not represent Rousseau’s final metaphysical position.

I do not, however, wish to argue that it represents an Epicurean “stage” in Rousseau’s “philosophical development.” Instead, I wish to suggest that the Epicureanism of the Second Discourse is merely hypothetical and provisional. This is, I think, the clear sense of the following passage:

Let us . . . begin by setting all the facts aside, for they do not affect the question. The researches which can be undertaken concerning this subject must not be taken for historical truths, but only for hypothetical and conditional reasonings better suited to clarify the nature of things than to show their true origin, like those of our physicists make every day concerning the formation of the world. Religion commands us to believe that since God Himself took men out of the state of nature immediately after creation, they are unequal because He wanted them to be so; but it does not forbid us to form conjectures, drawn solely from the nature of man and the beings surrounding him, about what the human race might have become if it has remained abandoned to itself. That is what I am asked and what I propose to examine in this Discourse.[13]

Those who wish to treat Rousseau as something more than a hypothetical and conditional Epicurean can, of course, treat this passage as merely an attempt to placate possible Christian censors by casting what is meant to be a true account of man’s nature and history as merely suppositious.

I think that this is clearly part of Rousseau’s intention. But I see no reason to conclude that his statement is also insincere, especially because I can offer a good philosophical reasons for why Rousseau might have adopted a hypothetical Epicureanism, and as a rule I think that we should always prefer philosophical explanations of a given passage instead of, or in addition to, extrinsic political explanations, and we should always prefer taking an author’s statement as sincere unless and until it resists such treatment.

What, then, is the philosophical explanation for Rousseau’s provisional adoption of a position he regards as ultimately false? I wish to suggest that the purpose of the Second Discourse is to lay the groundwork for a total critique of civilization. To offer a total critique of civilization, we must find a standpoint outside of civilization from which we can take the totality of civilization into view. This standpoint is the state of nature.

But why an Epicurean as opposed to, say, an Aristotelian account of the state of nature? Because for Aristotle, man is by nature both rational and political; for Aristotle, the actualization of man’s nature requires civilization; therefore, Aristotelian nature cannot provide a critical standpoint outside of civilization. Epicurean nature, however, can.

In the Second Discourse, man is by nature neither rational nor political. He is a simple, unreflective, undivided material being, wholly content with his lot. Civilization, when viewed from the state of nature, thus seems to be nothing more than a ghastly spectacle of suffering, and we are left to conclude that there’s nothing in it for us; we feel with a pang that our hearts are just not in it.

Given the choice, we would never have left the state of nature. Instead, we were forced out of it by mere accidents. Civilization as such, therefore, is both evil and absurd.

But why does Rousseau mount a total critique of civilization? Rousseau’s critique is not an end itself. Nor is it the prelude to a total revolutionary reconstruction of society. Instead, it is a prelude to an essentially conservative project of reconciliation–the reconciliation of man with civilization and with divine providence. It is a theodicy of the human world.

Rousseau constructs the strongest possible critique of civilization in order to oppose it with the strongest possible defense.

To mount this defense however, we must recognize that the sense of complete alienation from civilization produced by the Second Discourse is a product of its essentially atheistic and materialistic perspective.

Rousseau claims that civilization is based upon man’s internal dividedness against himself. Epicureanism, as a one-dimensional materialism, can conceive of man only as a unified being. Therefore, from the Epicurean point of view, the dividedness of civilization–any civilization–is a violent deformation of our nature.

Civilization would, however, be justified if man really is a divided being. If man really is divided into body and soul, then the only way to heal the violent dividedness of vanity is with the natural dividedness of virtue.

It is only by adopting a dualistic account of human nature and a theistic and providential metaphysics that we can reconcile ourselves to civilization.

This does not, of course imply that Rousseau was uninterested in social and political reform. What it does imply is that Rousseau accepted the essentially conservative principle that although bad laws ought to be changed, bad laws are still better than no laws at all; therefore, we should be cautious lest we discover we are more capable of destroying bad laws than creating better ones.

Notes

1. In the 1970s, at the University of Toronto’s Law School, there occurred a remarkable panel on Plato’s Republic, the principal members of which are numbered among this century’s greatest Plato interpreters: Hans-Georg Gadamer, Eric Voegelin, and Allan Bloom. Bloom prefaced his remarks on the Republic with a remarkable claim about Kant and Rousseau. He said, if memory serves, that “Kant was an absolutely extraordinary interpreter of Rousseau, perhaps the greatest interpreter of Rousseau who ever lived.” I find this claim interesting for many reasons, not the least of which is this: If Bloom’s estimation of the profundity of Kant’s reading is correct, then some of what Bloom himself says about Rousseau has to be wrong.

2. Immanuel Kant, Bemerkungen in den “Beobachtungen über das Gefühl des Schönen und Erhabenen,” ed. Marie Rischmüller (Hamburg: Felix Meiner, 1991), 48; my trans.

3. My source for the second anecdote is Ernst Cassirer, Rousseau, Kant, Goethe: Two Essays, trans. James Gutmann, Paul Oskar Kristeller, and John Hermann Randall, Jr. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1945), 18, n22.

4. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile, or On Education, trans. Allan Bloom (New York: Basic Books, 1979).

5. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the Sciences and Arts (First Discourse) and Polemics, ed. Roger D. Masters and Christopher Kelly, The Collected Writings of Rousseau, vol. 2 (Hanover and London: Dartmouth College/University Press of New England, 1992).

6. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the Origins of Inequality (Second Discourse), Polemics, and Political Economy, ed. Roger D. Masters and Christopher Kelly, The Collected Writings of Rousseau, vol. 3, ed. Roger D. Masters and Christopher Kelly (Hanover and London: Dartmouth College/University Press of New England, 1992).

7. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Letter to Voltaire, August 18, 1756.  Trans. Terence E. Marshall, in The Collected Writings of Rousseau, vol. 3.

8. Letter to Voltaire, 109–10, 111–12; cf. Emile, 281–2, 293.

9. Rousseau, Of the Social Contract, trans. Charles M. Sherover (New York: Harper and Row, 1984), 4.

10. Of the Social Contract, 18.

11. James H. Nichols, Jr., Epicurean Political Philosophy: The De rerum natura of Lucretius (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1976), 198–99.

12. Roger D. Masters, The Political Philosophy of Rousseau (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), ch. 2.

13. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The First and Second Discourses, ed., Roger D. Masters, trans. Roger D. Masters and Judith R. Bush (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1964), 103.

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Les « élites » et « l'écroulement d'un monde », selon Frédéric Lordon

 

Les « élites » et « l'écroulement d'un monde », selon Frédéric Lordon

Ex: http://verslarevolution.hautetfort.com/

« (...) la catastrophe étant sans doute le mode historique le plus efficace de destruction des systèmes de domination, l’accumulation des erreurs des "élites" actuelles, incapables de voir que leurs "rationalités" de court terme soutiennent une gigantesque irrationalité de long terme, est cela même qui nous permet d’espérer voir ce système s’écrouler dans son ensemble.

Il est vrai que l’hypothèse de l’hybris, comprise comme principe d’illimitation, n’est pas dénuée de valeur explicative. (...) Car c’est bien l’abattement des dispositifs institutionnels de contention des puissances qui pousse irrésistiblement les puissances à propulser leur élan et reprendre leur marche pour pousser l’avantage aussi loin que possible. Et il y a bien quelque chose comme une ivresse de l’avancée pour faire perdre toute mesure et réinstaurer le primat du "malpropre" et du "borné" dans la "rationalité" des dominants.

Ainsi, un capitaliste ayant une vue sur le long terme n’aurait pas eu de mal à identifier l’État-providence comme le coût finalement relativement modéré de la stabilisation sociale et de la consolidation de l’adhésion au capitalisme, soit un élément institutionnel utile à la préservation de la domination capitaliste – à ne surtout pas bazarder ! Évidemment, sitôt qu’ils ont senti faiblir le rapport de force historique, qui au lendemain de la seconde guerre mondiale leur avait imposé la Sécurité sociale – ce qui pouvait pourtant leur arriver de mieux et contribuer à leur garantir trente années de croissance ininterrompue –, les capitalistes se sont empressés de reprendre tout ce qu’ils avaient dû concéder. (...)

Il faudrait pourtant s’interroger sur les mécanismes qui, dans l’esprit des dominants, convertissent des énoncés d’abord grossièrement taillés d’après leurs intérêts particuliers en objets d’adhésion sincère, endossés sur le mode la parfaite généralité. Et peut-être faudrait-il à cette fin relire la proposition 12 de la partie III de l’Éthique de Spinoza selon laquelle "l’esprit s’efforce d’imaginer ce qui augmente la puissance d’agir de son corps", qu’on retraduirait plus explicitement en "nous aimons à penser ce qui nous réjouit (ce qui nous convient, ce qui est adéquat à notre position dans le monde, etc.)".

Nul doute qu’il y a une joie intellectuelle particulière du capitaliste à penser d’après la théorie néoclassique que la réduction du chômage passe par la flexibilisation du marché du travail. Comme il y en a une du financier à croire à la même théorie néoclassique, selon laquelle le libre développement de l’innovation financière est favorable à la croissance. Le durcissement en énoncés à validité tout à fait générale d’idées d’abord manifestement formées au voisinage immédiat des intérêts particuliers les plus grossiers trouve sans doute dans cette tendance de l’esprit son plus puissant renfort.

C’est pourquoi la distinction des cyniques et des imbéciles est de plus en plus difficile à faire, les premiers mutant presque fatalement pour prendre la forme des seconds. À bien y regarder, on ne trouve guère d’individus aussi "nets" – il faudrait dire aussi intègres – que le Patrick Le Lay de TF1 qui, peu décidé à s’embarrasser des doctrines ineptes et faussement démocratiques de la "télévision populaire", déclarait sans ambages n’avoir d’autre objectif que de vendre aux annonceurs du temps de cerveau disponible ; rude franchise dont je me demande s’il ne faut pas lui en savoir gré : au moins, on sait qui on a en face de soi, et c’est une forme de clarté loin d’être sans mérite.

Pour le reste, il y a des résistances doctrinales faciles à comprendre : la finance, par exemple, ne désarmera jamais. Elle dira et fera tout ce qu’elle peut pour faire dérailler les moindres tentatives de re-réglementation. Elle y arrive fort bien d’ailleurs ! Il n’est que de voir l’effrayante indigence des velléités régulatrices pour s’en convaincre, comme l’atteste le fait que, depuis 2009, si peu a été fait que la crise des dettes souveraines menace à nouveau de s’achever en un effondrement total de la finance internationale. Pour le coup, rien n’est plus simple à comprendre : un système de domination ne rendra jamais les armes de lui-même et cherchera tous les moyens de sa perpétuation.

On conçoit aisément que les hommes de la finance n’aient pas d’autre objectif que de relancer pour un tour supplémentaire le système qui leur permet d’empocher les faramineux profits de la bulle et d’abandonner les coûts de la crise au corps social tout entier, forcé, par puissance publique interposée, de venir au secours des institutions financières, sauf à périr lui-même de l’écroulement bancaire. Il faut simplement se mettre à leur place ! Qui, en leur position, consentirait à renoncer ?

Il faudrait même dire davantage : c’est une forme de vie que ces hommes défendent, une forme de vie où entrent aussi bien la perspective de gains monétaires hors norme que l’ivresse d’opérer à l’échelle de la planète, de mouvementer des masses colossales de capitaux, pour ne rien dire des à-côtés les plus caricaturaux, mais bien réels, du mode de vie de l’ "homme des marchés" : filles, bagnoles, dope. Tous ces gens n’abandonneront pas comme ça ce monde merveilleux qui est le leur, il faudra activement le leur faire lâcher.

C’est en fait à propos de l’État que le mystère s’épaissit vraiment. Préposé à la socialisation des pertes bancaires et au serpillage des coûts de la récession, littéralement pris en otage par la finance dont il est condamné à rattraper les risques systémiques, n’est-il pas celui qui aurait le plus immédiatement intérêt à fermer pour de bon le foutoir des marchés ?

Il semble que poser la question ainsi soit y répondre, mais logiquement seulement, c’est-à-dire en méconnaissant sociologiquement la forme d’État colonisé qui est le propre du bloc hégémonique néolibéral : les représentants de la finance y sont comme chez eux. L’interpénétration, jusqu’à la confusion complète, des élites politiques, administratives, financières, parfois médiatiques, a atteint un degré tel que la circulation de tous ces gens d’une sphère à l’autre, d’une position à l’autre, homogénéise complètement, à quelques différences secondes près, la vision du monde partagée par ce bloc indistinct.

La fusion oligarchique – et il faudrait presque comprendre le mot en son sens russe – a conduit à la dé-différenciation des compartiments du champ du pouvoir et à la disparition des effets de régulation qui venaient de la rencontre, parfois de la confrontation, de grammaires hétérogènes ou antagonistes. Ainsi par exemple a-t-on vu, aidé sans doute par un mécanisme d’attrition démographique, la disparition de l’habitus de l’homme d’État tel qu’il a pris sa forme accomplie au lendemain de la seconde guerre mondiale, l’expression "homme d’État" n’étant pas à comprendre au sens usuel du "grand homme" mais de ces individus porteurs des logiques propres de la puissance publique, de sa grammaire d’action et de ses intérêts spécifiques.

Hauts fonctionnaires ou grands commis, jadis hommes d’État parce que dévoués aux logiques de l’État, et déterminés à les faire valoir contre les logiques hétérogènes – celles par exemple du capital ou de la finance –, ils sont une espèce en voie de disparition, et ceux qui aujourd’hui "entrent dans la carrière" n’ont pas d’autre horizon intellectuel que la réplication servile (et absurde) des méthodes du privé (d’où par exemple les monstruosités du type "RGPP", la Révision générale des politiques publiques), ni d’autre horizon personnel que le pantouflage qui leur permettra de s’intégrer avec délice à la caste des élites indifférenciées de la mondialisation.

Les dirigeants nommés à la tête de ce qui reste d’entreprises publiques n’ont ainsi rien de plus pressé que de faire sauter le statut de ces entreprises, conduire la privatisation, pour aller enfin rejoindre leurs petits camarades et s’ébattre à leur tour dans le grand bain des marchés mondiaux, de la finance, des fusions-acquisitions – et "accessoirement" des bonus et des stock-options.

Voilà le drame de l’époque : c’est qu’au niveau de ces gens qu’on continue à appeler – on se demande pourquoi tant leur bilan historique est accablant – des "élites", il n’y a plus nulle part aucune force de rappel intellectuelle susceptible de monter un contre-discours. Et le désastre est complet quand les médias eux-mêmes ont été, et depuis si longtemps, emportés par le glissement de terrain néolibéral ; le plus extravagant tenant à la reconduction des éditorialistes, chroniqueurs, experts à demi vendus et toute cette clique qui se présente comme les précepteurs éclairés d’un peuple nativement obtus et "éclairable" par vocation.

On aurait pu imaginer que le cataclysme de l’automne 2008 et l’effondrement à grand spectacle de la finance conduirait à une non moins grande lessive de tous ces locuteurs émergeant en guenilles des ruines fumantes, mais rien du tout ! Pas un n’a bougé !

Alain Duhamel continue de pontifier dans Libération ; le même journal, luttant désespérément pour faire oublier ses décennies libérales, n’en continue pas moins de confier l’une de ses plus décisives rubriques, la rubrique européenne, à Jean Quatremer qui a méthodiquement conchié tous ceux qui dénonçaient les tares, maintenant visibles de tous, de la construction néolibérale de l’Europe. Sur France Inter, Bernard Guetta franchit matinée après matinée tous les records de l’incohérence – il faudrait le reconduire à ses dires d’il y a cinq ans à peine, je ne parle même pas de ceux de 2005, fameuse année du traité constitutionnel européen… L’émission hebdomadaire d’économie de France Culture oscille entre l’hilarant et l’affligeant en persistant à tendre le micro à des gens qui ont été les plus fervents soutiens doctrinaux du monde en train de s’écrouler, parmi lesquels Nicolas Baverez par exemple, sans doute le plus drôle de tous, qui s’est empressé de sermonner les gouvernements européens et de les enjoindre à la plus extrême rigueur avant de s’apercevoir que c’était une ânerie de plus. Et tous ces gens plastronnent dans la plus parfaite impunité, sans jamais que leurs employeurs ne leur retirent ni une chronique ni un micro, ni même ne leur demandent de s’expliquer ou de rendre compte de leurs discours passés.

Voilà le monde dans lequel nous vivons, monde de l’auto-blanchiment collectif des faillis. (...)

Dans ce paysage où tout est verrouillé, où la capture "élitaire" a annihilé toute force de rappel, je finis par me dire qu’il n’y a plus que deux solutions de remise en mouvement : une détérioration continue de la situation sociale, qui conduirait au franchissement des "seuils" pour une partie majoritaire du corps social, c’est-à-dire à une fusion des colères sectorielles et à un mouvement collectif incontrôlable, potentiellement insurrectionnel ; ou bien un effondrement "critique" du système sous le fardeau de ses propres contradictions – évidemment à partir de la question des dettes publiques – et d’un enchaînement menant d’une série de défauts souverains à un collapsus bancaire – mais cette fois autre chose que la bluette "Lehman"…

Disons clairement que la deuxième hypothèse est infiniment plus probable que la première… quoiqu’elle aurait peut-être, en retour, la propriété de la déclencher dans la foulée. Dans tous les cas, il faudra sacrément attacher sa ceinture. (...)

À constater le degré de verrouillage d’institutions politiques devenues absolument autistes et interdisant maintenant tout processus de transformation sociale à froid, je me dis aussi parfois que la question ultra taboue de la violence en politique va peut-être bien devoir de nouveau être pensée, fût-ce pour rappeler aux gouvernants cette évidence connue de tous les stratèges militaires qu’un ennemi n’est jamais si prêt à tout que lorsqu’il a été réduit dans une impasse et privé de toute issue.

Or il apparaît d’une part que les gouvernements, entièrement asservis à la notation financière et dévoués à la satisfaction des investisseurs, sont en train de devenir tendanciellement les ennemis de leurs peuples, et d’autre part que si, à force d’avoir méthodiquement fermé toutes les solutions de délibération démocratique, il ne reste plus que la solution insurrectionnelle, il ne faudra pas s’étonner que la population, un jour portée au-delà de ses points d’exaspération, décide de l’emprunter – précisément parce que ce sera la seule. »

Frédéric Lordon (décembre 2011)

Il delirio delle libertà, per Luigi Iannone, porta verso un nuovo totalitarismo

Il delirio delle libertà, per Luigi Iannone, porta verso un nuovo totalitarismo

di Francesco Lamendola

Fonte: Arianna Editrice [scheda fonte]

Da quando l’Illuminismo ha incominciato a predicare la continua perfettibilità dell’uomo, giungendo al suo corollario inevitabile, che il progresso è il motore della storia e che esso è per sua natura illimitato, l’Occidente - e, al suo rimorchio, un po’ alla volta, il mondo intero - si è avviato per una strada che non può non condurre all’implosione.

Un progresso illimitato è una contraddizione in termini, sia sul piano materiale, sia sul piano spirituale. Sul piano materiale, perché un pianeta dalle risorse limitate non può offrire materia ad esso sufficiente (e una eventuale colonizzazione di altri corpi celesti non farebbe che spostare temporaneamente il problema); sul piano spirituale, perché pretende di spostare sul piano del quantitativo ciò che, per sua natura, non può che essere esclusivamente qualitativo: prima cosa fra tutte, appunto, la qualità della nostra vita, che non si misura in base al P.I.L. o ad altri indicatori economici, anzi non si può misurare  affatto.

La libertà, il grande feticcio dei tempi moderni, dopo aver prodotto innumerevoli ecatombi e crudeltà, si è rivelata infine per quel che era: un vuoto simulacro, una parola d’ordine dietro la quale fa capolino la schizofrenia di una ideologia che, per garantire la massima fruizione di essa al maggior numero di persone, giunge al tragico paradosso di toglierne quote sempre più rilevanti ai cittadini, proprio in nome della difesa dell’ordine senza il quale la libertà stessa non può concretamente esistere.

Prima, dunque, si è predicato che la società ad altro non serve che ad assicurare la libertà a tutti, intesa come godimento del maggior numero possibile di diritti; poi, per poter mantenere la promessa, si è introdotta una legislazione sempre più restrittiva della libertà medesima, al fine di tutelarne il godimento, si dice, da parte dei cittadini virtuosi che la rispettano, e contro i cattivi cittadini che ne abusano. Fatto sta che l’erosione della libertà colpisce tutti indiscriminatamente e che le istituzioni coercitive (giudici, tribunali, forze dell’ordine) stanno invadendo, su mandato dei parlamenti democraticamente eletti, spazi sempre più ampi della vita privata dei cittadini, guardati ormai tutti con sospetto dalle autorità, quali possibili sovvertitori dell’ordine costituito.

Il serpente si morde la coda. Si voleva sempre più libertà per godere di sempre maggiori diritti; ma, nello stesso tempo, si pretende sempre più ordine pubblico, perché l’esercizio della libertà sia possibile: il risultato è la tendenza verso una società poliziesca, sul modello del Grande Fratello orwelliano, dove le cose proibite, non solo in ambito pubblico, ma perfino in quello privato o semi-privato (di fatto, in molti casi la distinzione netta é impossibile) diventano talmente numerose, che al comune cittadino diviene praticamente impossibile conoscerne e rispettarne l’elenco completo, trovandosi così perennemente esposto ai rigori della legge.

Questa è una delle aporie della moderna società “democratica”, esemplarmente messe a nudo nel nuovo libro di Luigi Iannone, «Il profumo del nichilismo. Viaggio non moralista nello stile del nostro tempo» (Chieti, Solfanelli, 2021), preceduto da una ricca presentazione di Alain de Benoist e scandito in quattro agili ma incisivi capitoli che passano in rassegna, con un taglio sociologico che ricorda un po’ gli «Scritti corsari» di Pier Paolo Pasolini, gli aspetto più invasivi e allarmanti di questa tarda modernità: «Il paese dei balocchi», «Civili e democratici», «L’insostenibile leggerezza delle idee», «La comunicazione globale».

Il libro è una vera miniera di spunti di riflessione: argomentato con logica stringente, ma anche con ironia e un certo qual humour che ricorda un po’ Cioran, un po’ il Leopardi delle «Operette morali», persegue una tesi che non perde mai di vista, pur nella discussione degli aspetti particolari, e che si può riassumere in questa formula: in nome di una tecnologia disumana che avrebbe dovuto portarci il Paradiso in terra, stiamo costruendo volonterosamente, pezzo per pezzo, giorno per giorno, qualche cosa che finirà per somigliare molto, ma molto, all’Inferno.

Così Iannone  in un passo particolarmente efficace (pp. 80-82; ma avremmo potuto sceglierne parecchi altri):

 

«… in una società che si vorrebbe senza rischi e in cui il primato ella ragione dovrebbe sovrastare ogni cosa, la libertà personale è sempre minata da divieti moralizzatori che tentano di influenzare nel profondo il modo di agire e di pensare, palesando una impercettibile ma incombente tendenza totalitaria. […]

Nel 2009, “The Independent” aveva avvertito i turisti inglesi con una frase perentoria: “Se una cosa è divertente, l’Italia ha una legge che lo vieta”. Eppure, proprio perché ideologico, è un declivio di portata mondiale. Quasi tutte le città occidentali vanno infatti dietro un modello leggibile e lo perseguono con tenacia, perennemente insoddisfatte del livello di ordine sociale raggiunto, e quindi facilitano obblighi e divieti.

Quando anche New York, che ancor oggi nell’immaginario collettivo funge da terra promessa delle libertà, diventa - come ci ricorda Marcello Fa - il ricettacolo di tutti i divieto possibili, allora si palesa cin tutta la sua forza lo snodo cruciale delle tesi che ho fin qui sostenuto: proprio in questa città si passati dalla TOLLERANZA ZERO, che aveva delle sue precipue motivazioni di ordine pubblico e di decoro urbano, alla continua erosione di quote di libertà in cambio di sicurezza.

Proposte in apparenza strambe e in molti casi inapplicabili (il divieto di fumo nei parchi ma esteso alle spiagge; l’idea, davvero peregrina, di vietare il sale nelle pietanze dei ristoranti; di ascoltare gli iPod durante la maratona, ma un senatore aveva chiesto di estendere il divieto ai pedoni newyorchesi per tutto l’anno; di bere bibite troppo gasate; di baciare la ragazza in strada, di sbattere la scopa anche su un cortile interno ad un palazzo, e così via) possono farci gettare uno sguardo lungimirante sulle regole del gioco, su quelle che si stanno preparando per il futuro e sule finalità che alimentano percorsi solo apparentemente privi di logica.

Ora,. Al di là dell’ironia che per fortuna ancora marca il confine fra lecito e surreale e fa apparire tutto ciò meno invadente di quanto in effetti sia, sembra chiaro che le sanzioni possono rappresentare un deterrente efficace per regolare i confini del vivere civile e la loro legittimità un cardine della convivenza da cui non possiamo prescindere. Ciò che però preoccupa non è la ricerca disperata dell’ordine ma l’intento censore, soprattutto quando ostentato come valore dominante e alòl’interno del quale i divieti sono solo la precondizione, la parte più superficiale di una battaglia della restrizione delle libertà individuali che si gioca su più campi.

Ecco perché deve farsi largo la convinzione che il più orribile dei fantasmi potrebbe impadronirsi del nostro tempo. E cioè, una generalizzata tendenza alla perfezione che si caratterizza per le grandi opportunità economiche e sociali offerte dalla competizione globale  e, contemporaneamente, una non percezione del moltiplicarsi delle limitazioni e dei divieti. Insomma, il delirio delle libertà.»

 

Ed era inevitabile che così avvenisse, viste le premesse.

L’ideologia del progresso illimitato porta al conformismo di massa e, a sua volta, il conformismo di massa porta all’individualismo di massa; per reagire ai cui effetti distruttivi non resta che innalzare un idolo all’Ordine pubblico, delegandolo a fare da super-guardiano dei cittadini, nei quali non si è voluto, saputo o potuto gettare nemmeno un seme di spirito critico individuale, unica radice del senso di responsabilità che rappresenta la vera garanzia del vivere civile.

Abbiamo eliminato i doveri dal nostro codice etico; anzi, abbiamo gettato via l’etica, considerata, al pari della metafisica, una anticaglia del passato; abbiamo creduto che, per garantire i diritti di tutti, fosse sufficiente stabilire una società perfettamente ordinata. Ora ci stiamo accorgendo che l’ordine presuppone il senso del dovere e non solo la coscienza dei propri diritti; ma, invece di comprendere l’errore commesso e tornare a parlare dei doveri, consumisti fino all’ultimo, stiamo preferendo affidarci al “deus ex machina” della legge, che ci salverà dall’anarchia e farà rigare dritto anche i soggetti meno propensi al bene comune.

Insomma: se gli uomini non vogliono diventare perfetti con le buone, allora bisognerà renderli tali con le cattive, magari costringendoli sul letto di Procuste; perché è certo che non ci si può accontentare di niente di meno della perfezione. Infatti, una volta tolta di mezzo la scomoda, ingombrante figura di un Dio che tiene l’uomo in un perpetuo stato di minorità e che gli proibisce di mangiare i frutti dell’albero della conoscenza del Bene e del Male, a chi dare la colpa del fatto che il Paradiso in terra non sia stato ancora realizzato seguendo i dettami della Ragione?

Rimane, in mezzo ai fumi dell’individualismo di massa, con tutti i suoi miti e i suoi discutibili riti, una diffusa carenza di senso del bene comune: questo è il problema più urgente che la nostra società dovrebbe affrontare, prima ancora della crisi economica che ci attanaglia: perché questa nasce da quello, e non viceversa.

E tuttavia, da dove potrebbe mai scaturire il senso del bene comune, se l’ideologia dominante non ha fatto altro che battere e ribattere sul tasto dei diritti privati, della libertà privata, dell’edonismo individuale? Se non ha fatto altro che insegnare che la società esiste per garantire al singolo individuo il massimo della libertà possibile, del profitto possibile, della felicità possibile?

Si raccoglie quel che si semina…

Tante altre notizie su www.ariannaeditrice.it

Quando Evola e Eliade vollero «fare fronte» spirituale

Quando Evola e Eliade vollero «fare fronte» spirituale

Autore: Gianfranco de Turris

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

Quella fra Julius Evola e Mircea Eliade fu, come scrisse molti anni fa Philippe Baillet, «una amicizia mancata», o meglio fu Un rapporto difficile: è questo il titolo di un saggio scritto da Liviu Bordas, dell’Istituto Studi Sud-Est Europei dell’Accademia Romena di Bucarest, pubblicato sul nuovo numero di Nuova Storia Contemporanea.

Uno studio ricco di analisi e interrogativi sull’incontro fra i due studiosi, che si basa sul ritrovamento di 8 lettere inedite del periodo 1952-1962 dell’italiano al romeno, scovate da Bordas tra i Mircea Eliade Papers custoditi all’Università di Chicago e che si aggiungono alle 16 pubblicate poco tempo fa dalla casa editrice Controcorrente (Julius Evola, Lettere a Mircea Eliade 1930-1954).

I rapporti tra Evola e Eliade furono soprattutto epistolari e sicuramente comprendono molte più missive di quelle sino a oggi rintracciate: nell’immediato dopoguerra, Evola cercò di riprendere i contatti con le sue maggiori conoscenze culturali, scrivendo loro sin da quando era in ospedale, nel 1948-49: a Carl Schmitt, a René Guénon, a Gottfried Benn, a Ernst Jünger e a diverse altre personalità fra cui, appunto, Eliade. Lo scopo ideale era non solo riallacciare contatti personali ma cercare di ricostruire una specie di fronte spirituale nella nuova situazione pubblicando in Italia la traduzione di alcune delle opere delle sue antiche conoscenze. Non tutti compresero le sue intenzioni.

Nell’epistolario con Eliade, a esempio, il problema che si pose in quei primi anni Cinquanta nei quali Evola si diede molto da fare per la pubblicazione dei più importanti libri dello studioso romeno, come documentano le nuove e vecchie lettere, fu quello di quanta poteva essere l’influenza degli autori «tradizionalisti» sugli scritti scientifici e divulgativi di Mircea Eliade e il fatto che questi non citasse quasi mai certe sue fonti che alla «Accademia» potevano sembrare sospette. Erano anni turbolenti e anche pericolosi per chi era stato sul fronte degli sconfitti e lo studioso di certo non amava che gli si ricordasse la sua vicinanza prima della guerra alla Guardia di Ferro di Codreanu. Sta di fatto che, nonostante l’aiuto concreto che Evola diede alla pubblicazione dei libri di Eliade, dopo l’uscita della sua autobiografia Il cammino del cinabro (1963) in cui venivano ricordati certi precedenti «politici» eliadiani, questi sospese ogni contatto e, come rivela Bordas, che ha esaminato i diari inediti dello storico delle religioni romeno, confessò nelle sue note di essere molto amareggiato.

Insomma, il rapporto fra i due andò avanti sempre fra alti e bassi, comprensioni e incomprensioni che avevano radici culturali e psicologiche, come ben documenta Bordas. Il quale ha fatto un ottimo lavoro di esegesi incurante dei pregiudizi «politici» che man mano negli anni sembrano accentuarsi sia per Evola sia per Eliade. Ultimo esempio è un recentissimo articolo di Claudio Magris, in cui l’autore, elogiando lo scrittore romeno Norman Manea, afferma che Eliade è «il più grande rappresentante» di quella «grande e spesso cialtronesca cultura romena che genialmente ha indagato e talora pasticciato e falsificato l’universo del mito, disprezzando le ideologie (quelle liberali e democratiche) in nome delle ineffabili verità dell’occulto». Parole che rispecchiano una conoscenza di seconda e terza mano, sorprendente in una personalità come Magris, il quale confonde «occulto» con «esoterismo».

Eliade fu sempre contro l’occulto (anche Guénon ed Evola lo furono) e, come dimostra il saggio di Bordas, elaborò studi «scientifici» anche se si interessava degli autori «tradizionalisti».

* * *

Tratto da Il Giornale del 21 maggio 2012.

Nietzsche vu par Guillaume Faye

Nietzsche vu par Guillaume Faye

Réponses de Guillaume Faye au questionnaire de la Nietzsche académie. Guillaume Faye, ecrivain engagé, ancien membre du GRECE, ancienne figure de la Nouvelle droite, est l'auteur dernièrement de Mon programme aux éditions du Lore.

Ex: http://nietzscheacademie.over-blog.com/

 

- Quelle importance a Nietzsche pour vous ?

- La lecture de Nietzsche a constitué la base de lancement de toutes les valeurs et idées que j’ai développées par la suite. Quand j’étais élève des Jésuites, à Paris, en classe de philosophie (1967), il se produisit quelque chose d’incroyable. Dans ce haut lieu du catholicisme, le prof de philo avait décidé de ne faire, durant toute l’année, son cours, que sur Nietzsche ! Exeunt Descartes, Kant, Hegel, Marx et les autres. Les bons pères n’osèrent rien dire, en dépit de ce bouleversement du programme. Ça m’a marqué, croyez-moi. Nietzsche, ou l’herméneutique du soupçon... C’est ainsi que, très jeune, j’ai pris mes distances avec la vision chrétienne, ou plutôt christianomorphe du monde. Et bien entendu, par la même occasion, avec l’égalitarisme et l’humanisme. Toutes les analyses que j’ai développées par la suite ont été inspirées par les intuitions de Nietzsche. Mais c’était aussi dans ma nature. Plus tard, beaucoup plus tard, récemment même, j’ai compris, qu’il fallait compléter les principes de Nietzsche par ceux d’Aristote, ce bon vieux Grec au regard apollinien, élève d’un Platon qu’il respecta mais renia. Il existe pour moi un phylum philosophique évident entre Aristote et Nietzsche : le refus de la métaphysique et de l’idéalisme ainsi que, point capital, la contestation de l’idée de divinité. Le « Dieu est mort » de Nietzsche n’est que le contrepoint de la position aristotélicienne du dieu immobile et inconscient, qui s’apparente à un principe mathématique régissant l’univers. Aristote et Nietzsche, à de très longs siècles de distance, ont été les seuls à affirmer l’absence d’un divin conscient de lui-même sans rejeter pour autant le sacré, mais ce dernier s’apparentant alors à une exaltation purement humaine reposant sur le politique ou l’art. Néanmoins, les théologiens chrétiens n’ont jamais été gênés par Aristote mais beaucoup plus par Nietzsche. Pourquoi ? Parce qu’Aristote était pré-chrétien et ne pouvait connaître la Révélation. Tandis que Nietzsche, en s’attaquant au christianisme, savait parfaitement ce qu’il faisait. Néanmoins, l’argument du christianisme contre cet athéisme de fait est imparable et mériterait un bon débat philosophique : la foi relève d’un autre domaine que les réflexions des philosophes et demeure un mystère. Je me souviens, quand j’étais chez les Jésuites, de débats passionnants entre mon prof de philo athée, nietzschéen, et les bons Père (ses employeurs) narquois et tolérants, sûrs d’eux-mêmes.

     

- Quel livre de Nietzsche recommanderiez-vous ?

- Le premier que j’ai lu fut Le Gai Savoir. Ce fut un choc. Et puis, tous après, évidemment, notamment Par-delà le bien et le mal où Nietzsche bouleverse les règles morales manichéennes issues du socratisme et du christianisme. L’Antéchrist, quant à lui, il faut le savoir, a inspiré tout le discours anti-chrétien du néo-paganisme de droite, dont j’ai évidemment largement participé. Mais on doit noter que Nietzsche, d’éducation luthérienne, s’est révolté contre la morale chrétienne à l’état pur que représente le protestantisme allemand, mais il n’a jamais vraiment creusé la question de la religiosité et de la foi catholique et orthodoxe traditionnelles qui sont assez déconnectées de la morale chrétienne laïcisée. Curieusement le Ainsi parlait Zarathoustra ne m’a jamais enthousiasmé. Pour moi, c’est une œuvre assez confuse où Nietzsche se prend pour un prophète et un poète qu’il n’est pas. Un peu comme Voltaire qui se croyait malin en imitant les tragédies de Corneille. Voltaire, un auteur qui, par ailleurs, a pondu des idées tout à fait contraires à cette « philosophie des Lumières » que Nietzsche (trop seul) a pulvérisée.

 

- Etre nietzschéen, qu'est-ce que cela veut dire ?

- Nietzsche n’aurait pas aimé ce genre de question, lui qui ne voulait pas de disciples, encore que… (le personnage, très complexe, n’était pas exempt de vanité et de frustrations, tout comme vous et moi). Demandons plutôt : que signifie suivre les principes nietzschéens ? Cela signifie rompre avec les principes socratiques, stoïciens et chrétiens, puis modernes d’égalitarisme humain, d’anthropocentrisme, de compassion universelle, d’harmonie utopique universaliste. Cela signifie accepter le renversement possible de toutes les valeurs (Umwertung) en défaveur de l’éthique humaniste. Toute la philosophie de Nietzsche est fondée sur la logique du vivant : sélection des plus forts, reconnaissance de la puissance vitale (conservation de la lignée à tout prix) comme valeur suprême, abolition des normes dogmatiques, recherche de la grandeur historique, pensée de la politique comme esthétique, inégalitarisme radical, etc. C’est pourquoi tous les penseurs et philosophes auto-proclamés, grassement entretenus par le système, qui se proclament plus ou moins nietzschéens, sont des imposteurs. Ce qu’a bien compris l’écrivain Pierre Chassard, qui, en bon connaisseur, a dénoncé les « récupérateurs de Nietzsche ». En effet, c’est très à la mode de se dire « nietzschéen ». Très curieux de la part de publicistes dont l’idéologie, politiquement correcte et bien pensante, est parfaitement contraire à la philosophie de Friedrich Nietzsche. En réalité, les pseudo-nietzschéens ont commis une grave confusion philosophique : ils ont retenu que Nietzsche était un contestataire de l’ordre établi mais ils ont fait semblant de ne pas comprendre qu’il s’agissait de leur propre ordre : l’égalitarisme issu d’une interprétation laïcisée du christianisme. Christianomorphe de l’intérieur et de l’extérieur. Mais ils ont cru (ou fait semblant de croire) que Nietzsche était une sorte d’anarchiste, alors qu’il prônait un nouvel ordre implacable, Nietzsche n’était pas, comme ses récupérateurs, un rebelle en pantoufles, un révolté factice, mais un visionnaire révolutionnaire.

 

- Le nietzschéisme est-il de droite ou de gauche ?

- Les imbéciles et les penseurs d’occasion (surtout à droite) ont toujours prétendu que les notions de droite et de gauche n’avaient aucun sens. Quelle sinistre erreur. Même si les positions pratiques de la droite et de la gauche peuvent varier, les valeurs de droite et de gauche existent bel et bien. Le nietzschéisme est à droite évidemment. Nietzsche vomissait la mentalité socialiste, la morale du troupeau. Mais ce qui ne veut pas dire que les gens d’extrême-droite soient nietzschéens, loin s’en faut. Par exemple, ils sont globalement anti-juifs, une position que Nietzsche a fustigée et jugée stupide dans nombre de ses textes et dans sa correspondance, où il se démarquait d’admirateurs antisémites qui ne l’avaient absolument pas compris. Le nietzschéisme est de droite, évidemment, et la gauche, toujours en position de prostitution intellectuelle, a tenté de neutraliser Nietzsche parce qu’elle ne pouvait pas le censurer. Pour faire bref, je dirais qu’une interprétation honnête de Nietzsche se situe du côté de la droite révolutionnaire en Europe, en prenant ce concept de droite faute de mieux (comme tout mot, il décrit imparfaitement la chose). Nietzsche, tout comme Aristote (et d’ailleurs aussi comme Platon, Kant, Hegel et bien entendu Marx – mais pas du tout Spinoza) intégrait profondément le politique dans sa pensée. Il était par exemple, par une fantastique prémonition, pour une union des nations européennes, tout comme Kant, mais dans une perspective très différente. Kant, pacifiste et universaliste, incorrigible moralisateur utopiste, voulait l’union européenne telle qu’elle existe aujourd’hui : un grand corps mou sans tête souveraine avec les droits de l’Homme pour principe supérieur. Nietzsche au contraire parlait de Grande Politique, de grand dessein pour une Europe unie. Pour l’instant, c’est la vision kantienne qui s’impose, pour notre malheur. D’autre part, le moins qu’on puisse dire, c’est que Nietzsche n’était pas un pangermaniste, un nationaliste allemand, mais plutôt un nationaliste – et patriote – européen. Ce qui était remarquable pour un homme qui vivait à une époque, la deuxième partie du XIXe siècle (« Ce stupide XIXe siècle » disait Léon Daudet) où s’exacerbaient comme un poison fatal les petits nationalismes minables intra-européens fratricides qui allaient déboucher sur cette abominable tragédie que fut 14-18 où de jeunes Européens, de 18 à 25 ans, se massacrèrent entre eux, sans savoir exactement pourquoi. Nietzsche, l’Européen, voulait tout, sauf un tel scénario. C’est pourquoi ceux qui instrumentalisèrent Nietzsche (dans les années 30) comme un idéologue du germanisme sont autant dans l’erreur que ceux qui, aujourd’hui, le présentent comme un gauchiste avant l’heure. Nietzsche était un patriote européen et il mettait le génie propre de l’âme allemande au service de cette puissance européenne dont il sentait déjà, en visionnaire, le déclin.

     

- Quels auteurs sont à vos yeux nietzschéens ?

- Pas nécessairement ceux qui se réclament de Nietzsche. En réalité, il n’existe pas d’auteurs proprement “nietzschéens”. Simplement, Nietzsche et d’autres s’inscrivent dans un courant très mouvant et complexe que l’on pourrait qualifier de “rébellion contre les principes admis”.Sur ce point, j’en reste à la thèse du penseur italien Giorgio Locchi, qui fut un de mes maîtres : Nietzsche a inauguré le surhumanisme, c’est-à-dire le dépassement de l’humanisme. Je m’en tiendrai là, car je ne vais pas répéter ici ce que j’ai développé dans certains de mes livres, notamment dans Pourquoi nous combattons et dans Sexe et Dévoiement. On pourrait dire qu’il y a du ”nietzschéisme” chez un grand nombre d’auteurs ou de cinéastes, mais ce genre de propos est très superficiel. En revanche, je crois qu’il existe un lien très fort entre la philosophie de Nietzsche et celle d’Aristote, en dépit des siècles qui les séparent. Dire qu’Aristote était nietzschéen serait évidemment un gag uchronique. Mais dire que la philosophie de Nietzsche poursuit celle d’Aristote, le mauvais élève de Platon, c’est l’hypothèse que je risque. C’est la raison pour laquelle je suis à la fois aristotélicien et nietzschéen : parce que ces deux philosophes défendent l’idée fondamentale que la divinité supranaturelle doit être examinée dans sa substance. Nietzsche jette sur la divinité un regard critique de type aristotélicien. La plupart des auteurs qui se disent admirateurs de Nietzsche sont des imposteurs. Paradoxal : je fais un lien entre le darwinisme et le nietzschéisme. Ceux qui interprètent Nietzsche réellement sont accusés par les manipulateurs idéologiques de n’être pas de vrais « philosophes ». Ceux-là même qui veulent faire dire à Nietzsche, très gênant, l’inverse de ce qu’il a dit. Il faut dénoncer cette appropriation de la philosophie par une caste de mandarins, qui procèdent à une distorsion des textes des philosophes, voire à une censure. Aristote en a aussi été victime. On ne pourrait lire Nietzsche et d’autres philosophes qu’à travers une grille savante, inaccessible au commun. Mais non. Nietzsche est fort lisible, par tout homme cultivé et censé. Mais notre époque ne peut le lire qu’à travers la grille d’une censure par omission.

 

- Pourriez-vous donner une définition du Surhomme ?

- Nietzsche a volontairement donné une définition floue du Surhomme. C’est un concept ouvert, mais néanmoins explicite. Évidemment, les intellectuels pseudo-nietzschéens se sont empressés d’affadir et de déminer ce concept, en faisant du Surhomme une sorte d’intellectuel nuageux et détaché, supérieur, méditatif, quasi-bouddhique, à l’image infatuée qu’ils veulent donner d’eux-mêmes. Bref l’inverse même de ce qu’entendait Nietzsche. Je suis partisan de ne pas interpréter les auteurs mais de les lire et, si possible, par respect, au premier degré. Nietzsche reliait évidemment le Surhomme à la notion de Volonté de Puissance (qui, elle aussi, a été manipulée et déformée). Le Surhomme est le modèle de celui qui accomplit la Volonté de Puissance, c’est-à-dire qui s’élève au dessus de la morale du troupeau (et Nietzsche visait le socialisme, doctrine grégaire) pour, avec désintéressement, imposer un nouvel ordre, avec une double dimension guerrière et souveraine, dans une visée dominatrice, douée d’un projet de puissance. L’interprétation du Surhomme comme un ”sage” suprême, un non-violent éthéré, un pré-Gandhi en sorte, est une déconstruction de la pensée de Nietzsche, de manière à la neutraliser et à l’affadir. L’intelligentsia parisienne, dont l’esprit faux est la marque de fabrique, a ce génie pervers et sophistique, soit de déformer la pensée de grands auteurs incontournables mais gênants (y compris Aristote ou Voltaire) mais aussi de s’en réclamer indument en tronquant leur pensée. Il y a deux définitions possibles du Surhomme : le surhomme mental et moral (par évolution et éducation, dépassant ses ancêtres) et le surhomme biologique. C’est très difficile de trancher puisque Nietzsche lui-même n’a utilisé cette expression que comme sorte de mythème, de flash littéraire, sans jamais la conceptualiser vraiment. Une sorte d’expression prémonitoire, qui était inspirée de l’évolutionnisme darwinien. Mais, votre question est très intéressante. L’essentiel n’est pas d’avoir une réponse “ à propos de Nietzsche ”, mais de savoir quelle voie Nietzsche, voici plus de cent ans, voulait ouvrir. Nietzsche ne pensait pas, puisqu’il était anti-humaniste et a-chrétien, que l’homme était un être fixe, mais qu’il était soumis à l’évolution, voire à l’auto-évolution (c’est le sens de la métaphore du « pont entre la Bête et le Surhomme »). En ce qui me concerne, (mais là, je m’écarte de Nietzsche et mon opinion ne possède pas une valeur immense ) j’ai interprété le surhumanisme comme une remise en question, pour des raisons en partie biologiques, de la notion même d’espèce humaine. Bref. Cette notion de Surhomme est certainement, beaucoup plus que celle de volonté de puissance, un de ces pièges mystérieux que nous a tendu Nietzsche, une des questions qu’il a posée à l’humanité future Oui, qu’est-ce que le Surhomme ? Rien que ce mot nous fait rêver et délirer. Le Surhomme n’a pas de définition puisqu’il n’est pas encore défini. Le Surhomme, c’est l’homme lui-même. Nietzsche a peut-être eu l’intuition que l’espèce humaine, du moins certaines de ses composantes supérieures (pas nécessairement l’”humanité”), pourraient accélérer et orienter l’évolution biologique. Une chose est sûre, qui écrase les pensées monothéistes fixistes en anthropocentrée : l’Homme n’est pas une essence qui échappe à l’évolution. Et puis, au concept d’Ubermensch, n’oublions jamais d’adjoindre celui de Herrenvolk... prémonitoire. D’autre part, il ne faut pas oublier les réflexions de Nietzsche sur la question des races et des inégalités anthropologiques. La captation de l’œuvre de Nietzsche par les pseudo-savants et les pseudo-collèges de philosophie (comparable à celle de la captation de l’œuvre d’Aristote) s’explique par le fait très simple suivant : Nietzsche est un trop gros poisson pour être évacué, mais beaucoup trop subversif pour ne pas être déformé et censuré.

     

- Votre citation favorite de Nietzsche ?

- « Il faut maintenant que cesse toute forme de plaisanterie ». Cela signifie, de manière prémonitoire, que les valeurs sur lesquelles sont fondées la civilisation occidentale, ne sont plus acceptables. Et que la survie repose sur un renversement ou rétablissement des valeurs vitales. Et que tout cela suppose la fin du festivisme (concept inventé par Phillipe Muray et développé par Robert Steuckers) et le retour aux choses sérieuses.

 

Credo: A Nietzschean Testament

Credo: A Nietzschean Testament

By Jonathan Bowden

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

Editor’s Note:

The following text is a transcript by Michael Polignano of a lecture by Jonathan Bowden given in London on September 8, 2007. The audio is available on YouTube here ^[2]. If you have any corrections or if you can gloss the passages marked as unintelligible, please contact me at [e-mail] ^[3] or simply post them as comments below.

I think ideas are inborn, and you’re attracted, if you have any, toward certain systems of thinking and sensibility and response. From a very young age, I was always fascinated about meaning and purpose and philosophy and those elements of religion which impinge on real matters.

And very early in life I was attracted to vitalist, authoritarian, and individualist ideas. And in my late teens I came across Friedrich Nietzsche’s writings in the 28-volume, Karl Schlecta edition. Now those ideas predate my interest in them, because I was drawn towards them in a particular way.

As we look around us in this society now, our people have an absence of belief. They’re very technically sophisticated. We still as a civilization bestride much of the rest of the world, like a sort of empty technological colossus. But if you peer inside, as to what we are supposed to believe, and account for, and what we think our destiny is individually and as a group, there’s a zero; there’s a nothingness; there’s a blank space for many people.

A hundred years ago, Christianity was an overarching system in our society, for those who went along with it socially, for those who believed in it in a deep core way. It’s now virtually — apart from small minorities — invisible. It’s extraordinary how a faith system that can shape a civilization in part for a millennium-and-a-half to two millennia, can disappear. Those who say that certain ideas and ideals are impossible should look at what’s happened to many of our belief systems.

A hundred years ago we had an elite. We actually had a government. We really haven’t had a government in this country, pretty much, for about 100 years. Not an elite that knows what it wants and understands its mission in life, and that will hand on to people after it, and that comes out groups that exist before it. We’re ruled by essentially a commercial elite, not an intellectual elite or a military elite or even a political one, but a commercial, profit-and-loss one.

And things have slid to such a degree now that if asked what does it mean to be British, probably about 8 million of our people will say Posh and Becks. That’s what it means for many people inundated to the tube, and its vapid nonsense.

Now there are many complicated reasons why much of what Western and white people used to believe in has gone down in the last century.

Nietzsche prophesied that the collapse of Christianity, for many people — even though he welcomed it personally — would be a disaster for them. Why so? Because it gave a structure and a meaning and an identity. A death without a context beyond it has no meaning. It’s meat before you. I believe that we’re hard-wired for belief, philosophical and religious, that we have to have it as a species and as a group. Look at the number of people who go completely to pieces when there is nothing outside beyond them to live for beyond instantaneous things right in front of them.

In France they teach philosophy from the age of six.

For the last couple of hundred years in the Anglo-Saxon and Anglophone world there’s been hostility to theory. There’s been a hostility to abstraction. There’s been a complete reaction against a thinker called Thomas Hobbes, who in many ways prefigures many events on the continent in the last century, many many centuries before. We had an extremely violent and convulsive political and dynastic revolution during the Cromwellian interregnum, and since then it should appear that we have a quiescence in this society. Yes we’ve had radical movements. But the last major political movement to occur was the forming of a party by the trade unions in 1900, which grew into the Labour Party after the Labour Representation Committee.

But the idea that nothing can ever happen in Britain and that we are asleep is false. English life is often depoliticized, yes, but culturally English life is always been quite vital, quite violent underneath the surface, quite emotional. In our Renaissance, which is really the Elizabethan period, we were renowned all over Europe for being vital, for being scientifically-oriented, for having our minds completely open towards the future. We were regarded as an aggressive and a powerful group that was coming of age. We created the greatest interconnected set of theater that the world had seen at that time since the Greeks.

We have lost our dynamism as a people: mentally and in every other way. Our people are still quite strong when it comes to the fist, and a bit of pushing and shoving. But what’s up here, is lacking. A thug is not a soldier, and a soldier is not a warrior. And it’s the strength which exists up here which is the thing that we have to cultivate. I believe that strength comes from belief, in things which are philosophically grounded and appear real to you.

One response that a critic would give to what I’ve just said, mentally speaking, is that it’s so individualized now and so broken down and everybody sort of makes it up as they go along — that’s called heuristic thinking, technically — and if everyone does make it up as they go along how will you ever have an organic culture again?

But I think this is to misunderstand Western society, and Western thought. When Blair says, when he used to be premier until couple of months ago, when Blair said that tolerance and equality and forbearance and humanism are our virtues, he was talking about, and turning against us, a tiny strand of our own civility which is part of our nature. English and British people often don’t like to impose their ideas on others, often will avoid conflict until it becomes actively necessary. Many of these characteristics have been turned on us and used against us.

There’s also a subtext to this country in the last 4 to 5 hundred years, and a lot of our Puritans and our obsessives and our fanatics and our extremists went abroad to found the United States. That’s where our Puritans went. Now many of them were gradgrind and the New Model Army banned Shakespeare in Newcastle, and flogged actors who dared to perform it. This is England’s greatest writer of course. So there’s a sort of Taliban self-destructivity, to that type of Puritanism. But we could do with an element if not a Puritanism, then of asceticism, of belief, and of asking foundational questions of what life is about.

To me this is what right-wing politics is really about. The issues that people campaign on at the level of the street are not incidentals. They are the expression of what’s happened when you are ruled by liberal ideas. We’ve been ruled by liberal ideas for many centuries but in their most acute form in the last 50 years. Liberal ideas say that men and women are the same and are interchangeable, that war is morally bad, that all races are the same and should all live together. That a population just exists, that a country is just a zone, just an economic area, that everything’s based on rationalism and materialism and is purely a calculation of economic self-interest.

Now there’ll be millions of our people who say “What’s this chap talking about? This is all abstraction.” Go out there on the street, and you see the example of the society that is based on these sorts of ideas.

Everybody’s mouthing somebody else’s ideas. Even Brown and Blair and the others. They are coming out with, in their own way, their 10th rate way, certain of the ideologies that they knew when they were at Edinburgh or Oxford or wherever. Because everybody speaks–unless they are a universal genius who takes hold of reality and reshapes it as a cosmos of themselves–everyone uses ideas that precede them and to which they are attracted. Even to say, “I haven’t got any ideas, and it’s all load of nonsense,” is an idea. Everything is ideological. Every BBC news broadcast is totally ideological, and is in some respects a soft form of communism, which is what liberalism is.

The last speaker today is a man called Tomislav Sunic, and his book Homo americanus, is about the American role in the world. And of course America is the model for much of the development that is going on in every continent and in every group on earth. America is the model. He said that, and don’t forget he’s a Croatian, and Eastern Europeans have lived under communism. Middle-class left-wing students in 1960s used to hold their fist in the air and talk about communism, but these people actually had to live under it. And that is a totally different formulation, in every respect. What was a protest against mummy and daddy, and a desire to smoke a bit of pot and do what you wanted, led to concentration camps and slavery and dysgenics and death in certain Eastern European societies. What was just the mantras of adult babies out of their cots in the West was terrorism in the East, and that’s what people don’t understand.

But in that book he said something very revealing. He said that communism kills the body, but liberalism rots the soul. And that’s exactly the case.

We face a situation in the West, where, paradoxically, spiritually we’re in a far worse state than the people who lived under communism. And this is one of the great ironies, because amongst its manias and the rest of it, communism froze things. It froze things glacially for 50 years in many respects. And much of the decay, the voluntarist decay, much of which we’ve imposed ourselves, because of ideas that successive generations of our leaders have adopted from themselves and from others, didn’t occur to the same degree in the East: the idea of self-denigration, that patriotism is the worst evil on Earth, that patriotism is one-stop from genocide, that you own group is always the worst group. This hadn’t been institutionalized and internalized quite to the same degree. It’s perverse that peace and plenty can produce more decadence and decay than hard-line Puritanism, artistic philistinism, queuing, and terror. But that’s what’s happened!

And in the East, of course, they now have the dilemma of westernization. And that’s joining us, because these are universal processes, and they won’t stop at the boundary between the old East and West Germany.

I was born in 1962. At the beginning of the 20th century, this country ruled large stretches of the world. We’re still relatively a normatively powerful country. The statistics say we’re between the fourth and the 20th most significant country on earth. But you also know, on all sorts of registers as you look around, that we don’t believe in anything anymore, that we’re in chaos, that a large number of our people are miseducated to the degree they hardly even know who they are. That patriotism, although it still exists in the blood and bone and in the consciousness of many people, has been partially indoctrinated out of many. That people look behind them before they make an incorrect remark, even if they’re in a wood! Even if they’re by themselves, they still look around! Because all these things are mental. They’re in the mind.

Five percent of all groups rule their own groups. And 80% always conform to the ruling ideology. If somebody says, “He’s a demon you know. He’s in one of those far right parties. He’s in the National Front.” That’s what they always say, because that’s the generic term amongst apolitical people for all right-wing groups, even though the BNP is by far the biggest group and has had by far as the greatest degree of electoral success, “It’s all the NF really.”  And the mass attitude towards all this is it’s dangerous and threatening! It’s being a Catholic under high Protestantism. It’s something that’s a threat, and the masses are like this, and they always have been.

In Eastern Europe the present regimes would have you believe that the dissidents were loved. I tell you it’s a fact that under Soviet tyranny, if you saw Sharansky, if you saw Sakharov walking towards you, you’d say “Oh my God!” And you did everything to pretend that he was an unperson, that he didn’t exist, that you weren’t in the street with him. There could be a man in a watchtower watching you. Now everyone comes and says, “Oh we agreed with you all along.”

And in this society liberalism has learned how to rule in a far more sophisticated way. Towards the end of the quasi-Stalinist state in Czechoslovakia secret policeman were looking under people’s beds for abstract paintings and jazz music and this sort of nonsense. The West allows people to dissent, just to think in their own little boxes, and don’t give a damn. Doesn’t bother to ban books because 40% of the population can’t read them anyway. This is how liberalism rules. It doesn’t allow the privilege of dissent, because it disprivileges dissenting ideas. And if people can’t think, and those ideas aren’t worth anything anyway, it’s invisible. And therefore you don’t even need to “persecute.” You can put economic pressure on people, so you got a choice to be sort of decanted from bourgeois life if you manifest in public certain types of opinion. That’s one of the pressures that’s put on people. That’s done deliberately to stop people who have education forming in the head, forming a brain, forming an elite with the fist. And that’s done quite deliberately, so that the leaders will be choked off.

If you go to the University–and Blair and Brown say everybody should go to university. At the University of Slough straight up the Thames Valley, there are 28,000 students, and they give courses in golf and tourism and hairdressing. It’s just mass training for a postindustrial society, for sort of semi-robotic nerds to do repetitive tasks in trained environments where they’ve been timed and watched all the time.

Now because I believe it’s thought which characterizes our race and our group more than anything else, I think thinking is cardinal for many people.

When the events of 1968 occurred, there were convulsive riots all across the Western world by left wing Western youth. They can raise hundreds of thousands in the streets, and in the key events in Paris and elsewhere, there were a million in the street. There were also very large riots in the United States on many campuses. Western people have always been convulsed by ideals and by ideas. The idea that it’s all in the past, that Fukuyama said that history is ended, and then 9/11 happened. History never ends, and things go on and repeat themselves and come back again, at times even more violently than before.

What our people are crying out for isn’t really a religion or a belief system, it’s a form of mental strengthening in and of themselves, to overcome the disprivileging mechanisms that don’t allow them to think and also allow them to reconnect with core areas of identity.

I’m not a Christian. And I never was. Although I went to a Catholic school, and they educated me very well. And almost every book in that library was by a dead White European male. And almost everything the one learnt culturally — from the rather gory sort of Grünewald-type crucifixion as you went in, to the Dali on the wall, the reverse crucifixion scene, in reverse perspective from above, that was next to the assembly point, and to everything else — everything was European. And that’s why people become Catholics. Did you notice many parents become interested when their child’s about 10? And that’s because they want to get them into these schools. Why do they want to get them into the schools? Because they retain the structure and the discipline. You don’t leave when you’re 16 and don’t even know what your name is, you can’t read or write, you speak like a Jamaican gangster, you have no respect for what you are and what you could become.

Now you hear about youth crime, and you hear a lot about the uncontrollability of many people in society. They’re not controlled because there’s no control up here.

One of the cardinal weaknesses of the contemporary West is the feminization of all areas of life. Masculinity is a sacred thing, and yet it’s been demonized and disprivileged in the Western world, regarded as just an excuse for brutality. Masculinity is about self-control. It’s about respect and power that’s ventilated when it’s necessary to use it. The only way in which you would cure many of the problems that presently exist with elements of lumpen and criminality at all levels of life is to reintroduce National Service, with maximum harshness in the initial period.

And a few would die because, they’d be too obese to get through those tunnels, and over those walls with serrated glass, with people screaming at them in an unpleasant accent. But you would need to do that. And the reason isn’t physical; the reason is psychological. Some of our Marines cried when the Revolutionary Guard in the Gulf took their iPods off them. This is where we’ve declined! This is the Green Berets! These are the Royal Marines! The Revolutionary Guard in Iran, the Quds brigade, which is the elite brigade which reports directly to the supreme leader, Ayatollah Khamenei, couldn’t believe it when they saw that sort of thing. The post-imperial British truly have a tremble in the lip. But these things in the end are cultural, and philosophical, and psychological.

Now our civilization has had many religions and many dispensations of thought. But one of the things that we have forgotten is that open-mindedness to the future and respect for evidence does not mean woolliness and an absence of certitude in what we are.

There’s a thinker who existed two-and-a-half thousand years ago called Heraclitus, and my type of thinking is his linear descendant. He’s a pre-Socratic; he’s a sophist; he begins right at the beginning Western thought, when we actually write down what we think. He wrote a book on nature which Aristotle glossed, and which has survived in fragments.

What did he believe?

He believed that everything is a form of energy. “Fire” he called it; we would call it “energy” today. That it exists in all forms of organic and inorganic matter. That thought and the sentience of nature is what we are. Nature has become sentient in us which means we must incarnate natural law as a principle of being. It’s called becoming in my philosophy. The right, even if you don’t use that term, stands for nature and for that which is given.

What does that mean?

It means conflict is natural, and good. It means domination is natural, and good. It means that what you have to do in order to survive, is natural, and good. It means that we should not begin every sentence by apologizing for our past or apologizing for who we are.

Tony Blair made several interconnected apologies when he was Premier, but he didn’t apologize for being Premier. He apologized for the Irish famine. I’ve got Irish blood, but I’m not interested in apologies for the Irish famine. He apologized for the Shoah. He apologized for slavery. He apologized for almost everything going. These apologies are meaningless, as some of the groups that they were targeted on had the courage to say. It’s just temporizing sympathy.

In my philosophy sympathy multiplies misery. And if somebody’s in pain in front of you, you give them some options. And if they can’t get through it, suicide’s always an option.

Now, what does Nietzsche believe? He believes that strength is moral glory. That courage is the highest form of morality. That life is hierarchical. That everything’s elitist. There’s a hierarchy in each individual. And a hierarchy in every group of individuals. There’s a hierarchy between groups of individuals. Inequality is what right-wing ideas really mean.

Right-wing ideas aren’t just a bit of flag-waving and baiting a few Muslims. Right-wing ideas are spiritually about inequality. The left loves equality. It believes we’re all the same. We must be treated the same. And they believe that as a morality. As a moral good which will be imposed.

Under communism, Pol Pot shot everyone who’d read book that he didn’t approve of. Why did he do that? Because he wanted everyone to be the same, and everyone to think in the same way. Asiatics have a formal description. It’s called the tall poppy syndrome. They look at the plants. They decide one’s a bit out of kilter. It’s standing higher than the others, so you snip it down, so all are the same.

Pol Pot’s not his real name by the way. It’s a joke name; it means “political potential.” When he was very young, Maoists wrote down, “This man has political potential.” “Pol Pot.” And that’s where he took it from. This man is a terroristic psychopath. But when he took over his society with a teenage militia high on drugs, and almost everything had been blitzed and was defenseless, he put into practice in a cardinal way, what many of these Western idiots in the 60s with their fists in the air have been proposing. He sat in Paris, in salons listening to Kristeva, listening to Sartre, listening to de Beauvoir. And he imposed it implacably like the cretin he was. The family is immoral. Shoot all the village priests that got people married. Shoot people who are bit too keen on marriage. Shoot everyone who’s read books about marriage. Shoot everybody who ever said marriage is a good thing. That’s quite a pile of bodies, and you haven’t started yet.

That is communism in its rawest and its crudest form. It’s a sort of morality of bestiality, essentially. And it can’t even impose equality, because in the communist societies of yesteryear, the elite will have its own shops, and its own channels, and they will have their own corrupt systems to keep their children out of military service, and so on. Just like Clinton’s America, or Vietnam America before it. Every elite in that sense will recompose, despite the stigma.

Inequality is the truth. Because nature is unjust, but also fair in its injustice. Because there’s always a balance. People who are very gifted in one area will have grotesque weaknesses in another. People who are strong in one area will be weak in another. People who are at the bottom within a hierarchy have a role and have a place in a naturally ordered society. And will be looked after, because patriotism really is the only socialism. That’s why the right appeals to all parties. And to all groups within a culture. Because all have a place.

Now, I believe that in the Greek civilization, a peasant woman could kneel before an idol, and could have a totally literalist — it’s called metaphysically objectivist — view of the religion. She believes in it absolutely. A fundamentalist in contemporary terms. And you can go right through the culture to extremely sophisticated intellectuals, some of whom were agnostics and atheists who supported religion — yes they did!

Charles Maurras was believed to be an atheist, but he led a Catholic fundamentalist movement in France. Why? Because if you are right-wing, you don’t want to tear civilization down just because you privately can’t believe. You understand the discourse of mass social becoming. What does a wedding mean? What does a death mean? What does the birth of a child mean? Unless there’s something beyond it? What does a war mean? Just killing for money? Unless there’s another dimension to it

We are reduced: as White people first, and just as humans second. But we have to understand that belief is not a narrowness. Belief is an understanding that there are truths outside nature, and outside the contingent universe that’s in front of us, that are absolute. The left-wing view that it’s all relative, or we make it up as we go along, is false.

Nietzsche believes that we test ourselves here now in relation to what’s going on before us. And the more primordial we are, the more we live in accordance with what we might become, the more we link with those concepts which are eternal and that exist outside us.

So what appears with half an eye closed to be an atheistic, a secular, and a modern system, if you switch around and look at it from another perspective, is actually a form for traditional ideas of the most radical, the most far-reaching, the most reactionary, and most archaic and primordial sort to come back. To come back from the past.

What the New Right on the Continent in the last 40 years has been is the reworking of certain ideas, including certain ideas associated with fascism, and their reworking so that they come back, into modernity, where we are now.

If you look at mass and popular culture, the heroic is still alive. It’s still alive in junk films, in comic books, in forms that culturally elitist society and intellectuals disprivilege.

Why the heroic treated at that level? Because liberalism can’t deal with the heroic. It doesn’t have a space for it in its ideology, so it decants it.

Nothing can be destroyed. Liberals think that they’ve destroyed the ideas in this room, but they haven’t: they’ve just displaced them into other areas. And they’ve found new ways to come up, and new syntheses that emerge.

Much of popular culture involves the celebration of men–iconographically, in films and so on–who are authoritarian, who are hierarchical, who are elitist. How many cinema posters have you seen with the man alone with a gun staring off into the distance? It’s the primordial American myth.

These are men who think “fascistically.” And they fight against fascism. They fight against authoritarian ideas of what the West once was and can be. This is always the trick: that they will use the ideology of the Marine Corps, to fight for a liberal, a humanist, and a Democratic purpose. That’s the trick. In every film, in every television program, in every comic, in every simple novel, in everything that the masses consume that isn’t purely about sex or sport, the heroic is there. And they always fight for liberal causes, and their enemies are always grinning Japanese generals, or Nazis. Used again, and again, and again, as a stereotype, of a stereotype, of a stereotype, to impose the idea that that which is core, primal, Indo-European, is morally wrong.

I must have spoken, in the four years I was in the British National Party, at 100 events, 120 events, 150 events, if you add everything together. Now, I’ve never mentioned this topic, which I’m going to talk briefly about now. And this is the topic known as the Shoah.

Now all my life, this has been used as a weapon. All my life. Against any self-assertion by us.

Whenever the most mild and broken-backed Tory starts to think, “Immigration has gone a little too far,” the finger will go down. And he will fall on the ground, and say, “Oh no, oh no, I may have made a minor complaint before I was going to leave office, but don’t drag me in that particular direction.”

And of course, many of the people who use this as a weapon don’t give a damn either way. It’s a weapon they can use. And it shuts people up, instantaneously. And it does so because it impinges, at quite a deep level, on what white and European people think about morality.

And this is a deep problem. And it’s a problem that all right-wing politics since the Second World War, which was in reality a Second European Civil War, the European equivalent of the American Civil War in some ways in the century before, of which in a very complicated way it’s both an attenuation and reverse reflex.

But this issue is very, very deep. And very complicated and important. And goes beyond methodologies about the figures for the number of purported victims involved. Many Western people feel that, because it is generally a given in the society and culture that they’re in, that variants of our group have committed atrocities, that our civilization is therefore rendered worthless, almost in its entirety.

Except when it apologizes before it even states that it has a right to exist. So every time Wagner is played on Radio Three there will be, there will be, a sort of 30-second health warning, like on a packet of cigarettes. It’s as literal as that! And because it’s an ideology. It’s got to. It imposes itself. Ideologies want to impose themselves, like liquid finds its own level in a tank.

If I was running the BBC, it would be slightly different from what’s on tonight. In fact those dumb people working at the BBC at the moment would hang themselves in their studios at the thought.

There is a degree to which the issue of the Shoah is very cardinal, because it has caused intergenerational hatred, particularly in Germany and elsewhere. It has caused degree of self-hatred among our own people, something that de Benoist, the French New Right a theoretician from France, talks about a great deal.

And this is the worst type of denigration, because denigration that comes from without is rain that bounces off, and can be withstood: you can put up an umbrella and get rid of it. But that which comes from inside is much more corrosive, much more deconstructive, much more disabling. And one of the reasons why this issue, as if this is the only event of brigandage that has ever occurred, but nevertheless, relativism, deep down, isn’t enough.

When the IRA commited an atrocity they said, “Never mind ours, look at the British! Look at the loyalists!” And people said, “What about this, what you’ve done?” They said, “No, no, no, look what they’ve done.”

Deep down, philosophically, that’s not good enough. The problem we have, is if you are very Christian or post-Christian in your morality, where there’s a total dualism of good and evil. And if you think and have been indoctrinated at school from a very early age that our group has committed some monstrous evil, you are “endwarfed,” to invent a word. You are semi-humiliated, from the start.

When you begin to assert yourself you suddenly begin to remember, “Oh, I need to apologize before I do.” And that’s not just a strange intellectual concept. Millions do that all the time.

They say, “I’m not this, but . . .”

They say, “I don’t want to make an extremist remark, but . . .”

They say, “Well, I don’t really wish to go into the area of self-assertion, but . . .”

And the reason for all that garbage is because of this shadow. Or those that relate to it, in the background. And if you knock down one, another will emerge.

Every black group in the United States wants a holocaust museum about slavery in their own cities. That’s the next thing. And they say to their congressman, “We want our museum!” “Well, I don’t . . .” “If you want our votes you’re going to get us our museum.”

It’s as straight as that. Each group claims status for strength through victimhood. That’s what we face. “I can be strong because I’ve suffered, and I’m going to get back because I’ve been weak in the past. And my strength is revenge, and I’m morally entitled.” And lots of our people think, we were the primary and primordial and dominant group on Earth, for quite a long time, and now we’re losing it, in almost every area.

Oswald Spengler wrote Decline of the West after the Great War, which of course was a dysgenic war, which had a considerably destructive impact upon Western leadership, at every level. But as you look around you sense the decline, and if you have a decline and you have a desire to assert yourself to arrest the decline, and you have to apologize to yourself about even having the idea of assertion to arrest decline, you’re not going to get anywhere, are you?

And that’s what this weapon is.

Now, my view is the following. I’m technically a pagan. And pagans believe that creation and destruction go together. That love is fury. That whatever occurred, and whatever occurs, we don’t have to apologize. We step over what exists.

There’s a concept in my philosophy which is called “self-overbecoming.” Where you take things which exist at a lower level, that you feel uncomfortable with, and you sublimate them, you throw them forward, you ventilate them. You take that which you don’t like, and you transmute it alchemically, psychologically, and intellectually, and you change it.

And you step forward and say, “No!” to past humiliations, to past indoctrination and degradation of the German people, who are cardinal to the European identity. Both because of their cultural and linguistic specificity, and also because of the fact that they were over half of the European continent. If they have to apologize every day of the week, for being what they are, our group as a whole can never assert itself.

And my view is that when this is viewed as an issue: there are relativist dodges, [and] there are things you can say. The deputy chairman of the party that I was in was asked about the Shoah on a Channel 4 program. And he said “Well, which ‘Shoah’ are you referring to? Are you talking about the Communist Holocausts, many of which were inspired by Jewish ideas?”

Silence. A very radical statement for a contemporary BNP leader. Silence. Silence.

But of course, that’s a clever answer, and it’s a political answer, and it’s a relativist answer.

But my view is I would say, “We’ve overcome all of these events.” And we will stride on to new forms of glory. New forms of that which is implacable. We can rebuild cities again! Every German city was completely destroyed. It was like Grozny in Chechnya now: nothing at all!

I have a friend of mine who is a well-known right-wing intellectual. He’s almost 80 now. His name is Bill Hopkins. After the war he served in Hamburg, and during the summer in about 1948 when he was in the RAF, he said all the British troops used to go often outside the city, because the stench was so bad, because of all the bodies under the buildings that hadn’t been reached, that hadn’t been dragged out, or hadn’t been put into lime pits.

But everything has been rebuilt. Because everything can be rebuilt, and built beyond what even existed in the past. So if somebody says to you, “You’re descended from brigands.” Which is in a sense, individually, what that sort of contrary ideology is. You say, “I’m not going to bother about diggers and who did what to whom. I’ve overcome that!”

“Oh, well I don’t like the sound of that. That’s a bit illiberal.”

And I’d just say, you just say, “Liberalism is moral syphilis. And I’m stepping over it.”

“Well, I don’t like the sound of that! You sound like a bit of a Fascist to me!”

And I’d say, “There’s nothing wrong with Fascism. Nothing wrong with Fascism at all!”

Everyone now adopts a reverse semiotic and runs against what they actually think, in order to convince people who don’t agree with them anyway. Because democracy – and I’m not a democrat. I’m not a democrat. When I supported the challenge in the party that I used to be in, I did it for various reasons, but to encourage greater democracy wasn’t necessarily one of them.

But, authoritarianism has to have morality with it! Those who make an absolute claim and who don’t live up to the nature of that claim, or don’t even begin to live up to the nature of it, can’t advocate authority. Mosley, for example, was regarded as above the movements that he led, and therefore there was a degree of absolute respect: even if people disagreed with him totally on Europeanization and various other things. Because of the respect he had, as a man. And if you are to lead right-wing movements, you have to have that degree of character. Character is integral to that type of authority. It would be so in a military commander, never mind a political one. If it’s not there you can’t make authoritarian pledges and carry on in that sort of way, because you’re just involved in the grubby game, which consists of Labor-Liberal-Tory and different versions of the same thing.

To make an absolute claim and not live up to it is worse than being in New Labor. Because they don’t pretend, even though people have been fooled.

So my view is that we must return again to certain sets of ideas which suit us, that are cardinal for us, that are metaphysically objective and subjective, that see the flux and warp and weft of life, and its complicatedness, but know there are absolute standards upon which things are based.

If we can’t overcome the weapons which are used against us, we will disappear. These are the facts. And therefore we have to do so in our own minds.

Every other group that’s ever existed in human history has not had the albatross around it, that it only remembers as a form of guilt and expiation, and as a Moloch before sacrifices must be made, their own moments of grief and of slaughter and of ferocity. They configured the world in another way.

When the Greeks sacked a city in internal warfare, everyone would be enslaved. But they did not remember, when their bards sang of their victories, that they had denied human rights of other Greek city states.

No people can survive if it incorporates as a mental substructure an anti-heroic myth about itself.

This is why war is largely fought in the mind in the modern world. When Iraq was invaded and that regime was taken down, the precedents for everything which occurred had been done earlier in the 20th century. De-Baathafication, removal of the Army — but allowing them to keep their weapons; bad move, the Americans have learned the error of that, subsequently — the removal of the top of the civil service, trials for those involved, their moral degradation and expiation: hanging, in public, put on YouTube so the world can see it! A degradation of these villains, not foreign statesmen to which we were opposed and against in this war, but villains, criminals, that we must demonize and destroy!

Why is it done? Because it destroyed them morally, in the mind. And Iraqis think, “Well, Saddam was the one who [unintelligible]. Why would you say that, Abdul? “Well, I’ve seen it on the telly.” That’s what 80% of people are like. These extraordinary reversals because this is a mass age. In the past countries were ruled by elites. You shot up an elite and put another elite in place. Now the masses are allegedly in charge, you have to indoctrinate the masses. You have to stimulate them to fury: your enemies aren’t human, they’re beasts.

Beasts!

Milošević: beast, human rights abuser, genocidalist. Saddam: our man in the Gulf for years, now a demon, a demon! An anti-Zionist, ferocious apostate, and so on. But most of the chemicals that he used in the three-way war–Kurds, Iranians, and Iraqis, fought on the First World War level–companies in Berlin, Germany, and France, in Russia, in Belgium, in Britain, and in North America provided that. The gas was used by the Iranians as well, and the Kurds fought on both sides. Now that is the complicatedness that people don’t want to see.

And it’s also applicable to all groups. An American colonel in Fallujah will be fighting in his own mind, physically, in a courageous way. At the level of him on the ground with the sand around it, and the flies in his eyes. He’s not thinking about grand theory. He’s thinking about getting through that tour of duty and getting back to the wife and the kids in Maryland or something. That’s the level. We always have to understand that individual White Americans have absolutely no control over their elites, just as we have no control over ours. Because they’ve gone to a global level. And they think they’ve left us behind. They think England and Britain is a puddle, and they can step out of it to universality.

Well we can’t step out of it to universality, because if you’re not rooted in something, you don’t come from anywhere, there are no roots that go down into the earth. And you can be moved about like a weed which has very weak roots and just rips out. And somebody stronger will rip you out.

So my goal, really, in all these right-wing partisan groups I’ve been in, in one way or another, for the last 15 years is to preach inequality.

“Did you hear that? He says people are unequal.” People are unequal: 75% of it’s genetic and biological. Partly criminality’s biological; predispositions to drug addictions are biological; intelligence is biological; beauty is biological; ferocity or a predisposition to it is biological; intellect is biological. You can do a bit, but you’re born to be which you are, and we should celebrate what we were born to be. Because we have created 90% of value in modernity.

I am a modernist in many ways because I believe we created a modern world that has been taken away from what it could have been. The modern and that which preceded it are not necessarily in complete opposition. If people with our sorts of values ruled modernity, everything about the society would be, at one level the same, and in every other respect completely different. People would still drive contemporary cars; there’d still be jets; and there’d still be supercomputers, and so on. But the texture and the nature of life would be different in every respect.

How so?

Firstly, cultures would be mono-ethnic. Secondly, there would be a respect for the past glories of our civilization. Thirdly, we would not preface every attempt to be strong by saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for what we have done.”

We’re not sorry!

And we’ve stepped over the prospect of being sorry.

Menachem Begin in his autobiography, which is called – is it called My Struggle? – it’s called My Life.

He was asked about the massacres of Palestinian villages, which was certainly instituted by his paramilitary group. And he said, “The sun comes up and goes down. It was necessary. We lived, we struggled, and they have died. Israel!” And we have to do the same. We have to do the same.

I once spoke at a BNP meeting, and this chap came up to me and said, “You’re a bit right-wing, aren’t you?” He said, “I used to be in the Labour Party.”

I said, “That’s all right.”

And he said, “Don’t you think this party is a bit too nationalistic?”

And I said, “Well, what, do you object to these flags?”

And he said, “Well, I’m just being honest.”

And I said, “Okay.” He’s willing to stand, and this sort of thing. I said, “Why does it upset you?”

And he said, “Well, wouldn’t it be better if we presented ourselves as the victims?” I don’t want to caricature the bloke too much. He said, “I’m obsessed by the case of the red squirrel.” And I gave him a very strange look.

But what he meant, what he wanted to configure, was that we are the victims. And the problem with that is that it’s what everyone else does. And it can be done, because there are many white victims in this society now, in the way that it’s going. But if you concentrate on pain and defeat, you will breed resentment. And I believe that resentment and pity are the things to be avoided.

Stoicism should be our way. Courage should be our way. When somebody pushes you, you push them back. When somebody’s false to you, you’re false to them. When somebody’s friendly to you, you are to them. You fight for your own country, and your own group, and your own culture, and your own civilization, at your own level, and in your own way. And when somebody says, “Apologize for this, or that” you say: “No. I regret nothing.” As a French singer once said. “I regret nothing.”

And it’s a good answer! I have no regrets.

One’s life is a bullet that goes through screens. You hit your final screen, and you’re dead. What happens after, none of us know. There’s either a spiritual world, as all the cardinal and metaphysically objectivist religions of every type for every culture and every group say there is, or there’s not.

In my philosophy, the energy that’s in us goes out into everything which exists. That there is an end after the end, but it’s not finite or conscious. That’s what I think.

That’s why believe in cremation. Because I believe in fire, and the glory of fire. I remember when my mother was cremated. If anyone’s ever been to a cremation, there’s a bit of ghastly simpering and this sort of thing, and they have a curtain because they don’t want you to see the fire. Because it’s a furnace, an absolute inferno.

And I said to the Vicar, “Look, I’ll even give you some money. I want to see the fire.” And he went “Ahh, ahh, ahh  . . . Pardon?” “I’m a pagan. I want to see the fire.” He said, “Good lord, are you one of those?” I thought he was going to say he’d take 20 quid more. But no.

And I was allowed to stand near the coffin as it went in. And it’s just a blazing furnace, it opens, the sort of ecumenical and multi-dimensional curtain that they have over it, which has a peacock and various multi-faith figures on it, goes up.

And you see this wall of flame. This amazing wall of flame, that’s like the inside of a sun. And you see this oblong box go into it. And the flame finds every line, and every plane, and every sort of mathematical conceit in the box. And soon it’s completely aflame. And then the gate comes down.

And I believe that’s what life’s like. I believe that’s what happens when a sun forms, when a galaxy forms, when one ends, when a life begins, and when a life ends. That for me is life. Fire, energy, glory, and thinking.

Thinking is the important thing. Being white isn’t enough. Being English isn’t enough. Being British isn’t enough. Know what you are! In this book to read about your own culture is a revolutionary act. People are taught to rebel at school and hate our high culture, hate our folk culture – it’s all boring.

I heard a Manchester Club leader who I vaguely knew earlier in my life who died recently. And he was in charge of Factory Records. Very left-wing. That’s why he produced bands called New Order and Joy Division, to make money out of it.

He said, “I didn’t like ’80s New Romantic music,” and the Radio 5 jockey said to him, “Why is that?” And he said “Because it’s too white.” Too white! Because its bass wasn’t black enough, he said.

Now, if you have these sorts of ideas you will mentally perish over time, and you will physically perish as well over time.

But you have to know about our own forms to be able to deny the postulation of these people who would deny them. Knowledge is power. Listen to high music, go into the National Gallery. It’s free. You can stay hours in there. Look at what we’ve produced as a group.

This is what the Muslims teach their people. To be totally proud of what you are in your own confirmation of identity. Because identity is divine. It’s just like that fire, that consumed the box when I was younger.

Nietzsche’s philosophy isn’t for everybody. It’s too harsh and too forbidding for many people. But it is a way of thinking which is reflexive and absolute. It’s a way of thinking which is primordial and extraordinarily Western. It’s a way of thinking that enables people to be religious, in the sense of the sacredness of life, but also to be open to fact, and to evidence, and to science. It combines those things that lead to glory. And express themselves through tenderness and ferocity.

I urge all white people in this era to look into the mirror and to ask themselves, “What do you know about what you are?” And if you don’t know enough, put your hand on that mirror, and move towards greater knowledge of what you can become.

We’re all going to die. Make use of that time which remains.

Greatness is in the mind and in the fist. The glory of our tribe is not behind us. We can be great again. But the first thing that we have to do is to say, “I walk towards the tunnel, and I’m on my own, and I’m not afraid. And I have no regrets.”

Thank you very much!

 

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

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/05/credo-a-nietzschean-testament/

Martin Heidegger e la Rivoluzione conservatrice

Giorgio Locchi:

Martin Heidegger e la Rivoluzione conservatrice

SULLA "RIVOLUZIONE CONSERVATRICE" IN GERMANIA
Armin Mohler utilizzò l'espressione "Rivoluzione conservatrice", introdotto da Thomas Mann e Hugo von Hofmannsthal, per designare un ampio, complesso e, sotto il profilo dottrinario, variegato insieme di tendenze politiche, letterarie, filosofiche, artistiche, che, tra il 1918 e l'avvento del Nazionalsocialismo al potere, criticarono da Destra sia la Repubblica di Weimar e le dottrine democratico-liberali in genere. sia le ideologie social-comunistiche, nonostante certi sconfinamenti di alcune sue espressioni anche verso questi due ultimi orizzonti ideologici. Si trattava comunque di tendenze che avevano quale proprio minimo comune denominatore la critica alla "civiltà illuministico-borghese", ricollegandosi in ciò al Neo-romanticismo di fine Ottocento, e alle "idee del 1789", senza ripetere, però, pedissequamente. i temi già fatti valere dal pensiero Controrivoluzionario e Reazionario, in seguito ad una più attenta considerazione delle conseguenze derivanti dalla cosiddetta "modernizzazione".
Lo scritto di Mohler, Die Konservative Revolution in Deutschland. 1918-1932. Ein Handbuch, frutto di una ricerca per la tesi di laurea, fu pubblicato nel 1950 e, in seconda edizione, nel 1972. Per la traduzione italiana abbiamo dovuto aspettare il 1990. grazie alle Edizioni Akropolis e La Roccia di Erec. Purtroppo, la ricezione non è stata pari quanto meno all'attesa di quella traduzione, molto probabilmente perché si attendeva un testo di dottrina politica, mentre si tratta per lo più di un testo di filosofia della politica, quindi, bisognoso di un pubblico molto più coltivato culturalmente.
Se non proprio il termine "Rivoluzione conservatrice", espressioni analoghe sono ricorrenti in vari teorici — penso, ad esempio, a Sergio Panunzio — che le utilizzarono per designare il significato complessivo delle rivoluzioni nazionali che negli anni Venti e Trenta portarono al governo di importanti Stati europei, tra cui l'Italia, governi di ispirazione fascista. Si interessarono direttamente ad Autori riconducibili alla Rivoluzione conservatrice tedesca, Evola. Delio Cantimori, V. Beonio Brocchieri, Lorenzo Giusso e, anche se in chiave critica, Balbino Giuliano e Guido Manacorda.
Nel dopoguerra, nell'ambito della cosiddetta "Cultura di destra", l'attenzione al movimento meta-politico qui considerato, non poteva non passare attraverso la ricostruzione del Mohler. Possiamo ricordare di Stefano Mangiante, La cultura di destra in Germania ("Ordine Nuovo", n. 1-2, 1965) e gli scritti di un altro studioso, anch'esso scomparso prematuramente, ossia di Adriano Romualdi, la cui tesi di laurea discussa con Renzo De Felice, venne pubblicata postuma nel 1981, con il titolo Correnti politiche ed ideologiche della destra tedesca dal 1918 al 1932.
Profondo conoscitore della cultura tedesca, Giorgio Locchi si interessò a più riprese della Rivoluzione conservatrice e di quelli che devono senz'altro essere considerati come i due ispiratori principali di essa: Friedrich Nietzsche e Richard Wagner. Il saggio che qui di seguito viene riproposto, venne pubblicato dal periodico "La Contea" (N° 34). Locchi discusse del libro di Mohler nell'articolo La Rivoluzione conservatrice in Germania, pubblicato ne "La Destra" del gennaio 1974.



MARTIN HEIDEGGER E LA RIVOLUZIONE CONSERVATRICE

Il dibattito sul cosiddetto "caso Heidegger, recentemente ridivampato in Francia e di là un po' ovunque in Europa, ha dimostrato soprattutto questo: che il confronto col pensiero dì Heìdegger costituisce un'imperiosa necessità per chiunque, scevro da illusioni, si interroghi sui fondamentali problemi dei nostri tempi e sul destino delle genti d'Europa. Ma anche va dimostrato che del pensiero di Heìdegger circolano, dominando imperterrite, interpretazioni (sempre fondate su un aspetto particolare, isolato dal generale contesto), che lo stesso Heidegger ha più volte sdegnosamente confutate e rigettate: esistenzialismo, nichilismo, misticismo, pseudo-teologia, "rifiuto della Tecnica" e così via. Chiedersi — cito il titolo di un dibattito televisivo francese — se "esista un legame tra il pensiero di Essere e Tempo (1927) e l'adesione di Heidegger al Partito Nazionalsocialista 1 1933)", chiedersi cioè se esista un legame tra l'analitica heideggeriana dell'esistenza storica delFuomo e la visione del mondo nazionalsocialista, z interrogazione che presuppone una conoscenza genuina e non già un'interpretazione abusiva o pretestuosa del pensiero di Heidegger, così come d'altra parte esige una visione non riduttrice del Nazionalsocialismo e della sua Weltanschauung.
Quel che non cessa dì sorprendere in tutti gli studi dedicati al pensiero di Heidegger è il fatto che, sempre, la seconda conclusiva sezione di Essere e Tempo testo fondamentale, è totalmente ignorata, come "non letta". L'attenzione degli studiosi e degli interpreti si fissa sulla critica heideggeriana della concezione "metafisica" dell'essere come presenza (Anwesenhei) e sul primo approcio ancora puramente descrittivo della fenomenalità del Dasein, allorquando — e non fosse che per davvero comprendere quella critica e penetrare quella enomenalità — dovrebbe soprattutto soffermarsi sulla concezione che Heidegger espone della temporalità del Dasein, dell'esistenza istoriale dell'uomo. La tanto discussa e, dai più, tanto esaltata guanto malcompresa "rottura" con la "Metafisica"
occidentale scaturisce in effetti proprio da questa nuova concezione della temporalità. È questa concezione della temporalità a fondare la visione heideggeriana della storia ed è dunque in essa e a partire da essa che va eventualmente ricercata la natura del rapporto esistente tra il pensiero di Heidegger e la "visione del mondo" nazionalsocialita. Esprimerò subito, per evitare ogni pur comoda ambiguità, la mia convinzione: questa parentela esiste, è quanto mai intima e. nella sua articolazione, spiega l'adesione attiva dell'autore di Essere e Tempo alla NSDAP e la sua fervida partecipazione alle attività del regime su un piano non soltanto universitario (1933-34). L'abbandono del rettorato e di ogni attività politica a partire dalla seconda metà del 1934 coincidono con una evoluzione di pensiero che progressivamente conduce Heidegger, sempre formalmente membro della NSDAP, su posizioni critiche nei confronti del regime: ma la sua critica resta critica all'interno e non comporta mai, neanche nel dopoguerra, la minima concessione alle ideologie democratiche, la minima simpatia per gli avversari del Terzo Reich.

ROTTURA CON LO SPIRITO DELL'OCCIDENTE

La "rottura" di Heidegger col pensiero filosofico tradizionale dell'Occidente, cioè — come egli diceva — con la "Metafisica" occidentale, è stata recepita dalla filosofia cattedratica come un novum clamoroso, come una svolta storica del pensiero europeo. Heidegger stesso lo ha creduto e, si può dire, orgogliosamente proclamato. Ma, di fatto, la sua "rottura" con la Metafisica altro non è, quando è proclamata, che l'aspetto "moderno" di una rottura con lo "spirito dell'Occidente" propria di tutta una corrente dì pensiero emersa nella seconda metà del XIX secolo, corrente che, con riferimento a Nietzsche, possiamo chiamare "tendenza sovrumanista" in opposizione alla bimillenaria tendenza egalitarista che, con il suo inerente inconscio nihilismo, ha conformato e conforma il destino dell'Occidente. Preannunciata in una delle "due anime" viventi nel petto dei Romantici, questa tendenza sovrumanista trova infatti, in rottura con lo spirito dell'Occidente, la sua prima manifestazione storica nell'opera artistica e negli scritti "metapolitici" di Richard Wagner. Dopo Wagner e, pretestuosamente, contra Wagner, Nietzsche rivendica a sé il merito della "rottura", proclamandosi "dinamite della storia", fondatore del movimento che dovrà opporsi al bimillenario nihilismo dell'Occidente giudeo-cristiano. Ereditata ora da Wagner ora da Nietzsche, la rottura investe già all'inizio di questo secolo larghissima parte della cultura tedesca, che Ernst Tròltsch potè così opporre allo "spirito occidentale", e sfocia più tardi, dopo la prima guerra mondiale, non soltanto in Germania ma quasi ovunque in Europa, nelle varie correnti letterarie, artistiche, ideologiche e infine politiche d'una "Rivoluzione Conservatrice", di cui, a dispetto di quanto si vorrebbe far credere, sono parte integrante i vari movimenti fascisti.
Evidentemente ciò che permette di accomunare Wagner e Nietzsche e Heidegger ed i tanti autori e movimenti della "Rivoluzione Conservatrice" (giustificando l'uso di questo termine generico) non è certamente una filosofia, non è una ideologia in senso stretto, bensì — per così dire a monte di "ideologie" o filosofie quanto mai diverse e magari divergenti — un comune sentimento, una comune intuizione dell'uomo, della storia e del mondo, che drasticamente si oppone alla concezione che tradizionalmente fonda e sottende teologie, filosofie, ideologie, strutture politiche del cosiddetto "Occidente". La tendenza sovrumanista, cioè la rottura con la dominante tradizione occidentale, si manifesta sempre come "rivolta contro il mondo moderno", come condanna del nostro presente epocale e volontà di opporsi ad una situazione obbiettiva interpretata come trionfo del "nihilismo" e rovinoso declino dell'Europa. Di qui l'esigenza di una rivoluzione radicale, che peraltro anche è concepita come un rinnovamento delle origini: tratto politicamente essenziale che permet-
te di distinguere nel modo più netto ciò che è Rivoluzione Conservatrice e Fascismo da ciò che è soltanto o "reazione" o "conservatismo" o "progressismo".

UN RINNOVAMENTO DELLE ORIGINI

La visione della storia che da Wagner e Nietzsche fino alla Rivoluzione Conservatrice determina la "rivolta contro il mondo moderno" — come ho gin indicato — trova il suo fondamento in una nuova intuizione dell'uomo, della storia e del mondo. Questa intuizione nuova è, nella sua radice, intuizione della tridimensionalità della temporalità del Dasein, della "istorialità" umana. Armin Mohler. nel suo fondamentale studio sulla Rivoluzione Conservatrice in Germania, ha esaurientemente dimostrato che, alla concezione unidimensionale e "lineare" del tempo, Nietzsche e gli autori conservatori-rivoluzionari oppongono una concezione tridimensionale del tempo-della-storia. A dir vero. parlare a proposito di Nietzsche e di questi autori di una "concezione" della tridimensionalità del tempo è improprio: intuita, la tridimensionalità del tempo, al pari di tutte le "idee" che ne discendono. è affermata non già concettualmente, bensì con ricorso ad un Leitbild suggestivo ed evocatore, ad una "immagine conduttrice", quella della "Sfera" temporale (da non confondere, come quasi sempre avviene, col "cerchio" o "anello", proiezione della Sfera nel tempo unidimensionale della "sensorialità"). Questo ricorso a "immagini" si imponeva — come ha ben visto Mohler — perché il linguaggio ricevuto è, nella sua "razionalità", tutto impregnato della concezione unidimensionale del tempo ed ad essa dunque obbedisce. Un aspetto peculiare della grandezza di Heidegger sta proprio nel suo tentativo, intrapreso con Essere e Tempo, di destrutturare il linguaggio ricevuto e ricreare un linguaggio nuovo al fine, per l'appunto, di concettualizzare la tridimensionalità della temporalità storico-esistenziale, nonché le "idee" che essa immediatamente genera.
Nella misura in cui si constatò incompreso. Heidegger finì col giudicare fallito il tentativo di Essere e Tempo e ripiegò più tardi su una Sage, su un "dire mito-poetico" che, a parer mio, è stato icor più mal compreso, provocando non pochi Iuívoci e abbagli. La novità rivoluzionaria del nguaggio filosofico di Heìdegger spiega vera-lente l'incomprensione che oggi ancora circonda 'argomentazione conclusiva di Essere e Tempo e n particolare — qui potremmo ironicamente innotare: come è logico — il quarto ed ì] quinto capitolo della seconda sezione, rispettivamente dedicati a "Temporalità e Quotidianeità" ed a "Temporalità e Istorialità". Chi peraltro riesce a penetrare il linguaggio di Essere e Tempo e saprà fare propria, eventualmente sviluppandola, la concettualizzazione della temporalità tridimensionale, anche avrà trovato la chiave che meglio di qualsiasi altra permette di comprendere i "discorsi" della Rivoluzione Conservatrice ed i fenomeni politici da questa generati e cioè in primo luogo di comprendere la "razionalità", fondamentalmente diversa da quella della "Metafisica".


LA TEMPORALITÀ COME "SFERA"

Germanico Gallerani (nello scorso numero de "La Contea") ha creduto di poter opporre Heidegger, "uomo rivolto al passato", ad una Konservative Revolution, "rivolta al futuro". È vero l'esatto contrario: è proprio l'identico atteggiamento nei confronti di passato presente e avvenire il "sintomo" più appariscente della loro parentela spirituale. La Rivoluzione Conservatrice è rivoluzione perché "rivolta al futuro" e tuttavia "conservatrice" perché si richiama sempre ad un lontano "passato". Quanto ad Heidegger basti ricordare una sua definizione del Dasein, dell'uomo in quanto esistente istoriale: "un Essente, che nel suo essere è essenzialmente zukúnftig", cioè essenzialmente esistente nella dimensione temporale dell'avvenire. E proprio perché zukiinftig — spiega Heidegger — il Daseín "è cooriginariamente gewesend", esistente nella dimensione della "divenutezza", e "può dunque tramandare a sé stesso una possibilità ereditata e ad essa consegnarsi". Nel quadro della temporalità tridimensionale, della "istorialità", rivendicazione di un passato e progetto d'avvenire coincidono nel modo più intimo.
Il progetto avvenire che il Dasein sceglie nel "passato", contro altre, una possibilità di esistenza istoriale: "Il Daseín — esplicativamente aggiunge Heidegger — sceglie i suoì propri Eroi" e, cioè, sceglie tra le possibilità offerte dal "passato" (Vergangenheit) la sua propria "divenutezza" (Gewesenheit). Conservator-rivoluzionari e fascismi possono così progettare tutti, rivoluzionaria-mente, un "uomo nuovo" e. nondimeno, richiamarsi ad una passata possibilità d'esistenza: alla più lontana "germanità", alla `romanità" repubblicana o imperiale, ad una "cattolicità" confusa con l'origine della nazione e dei suoi antichi istituti imperiali o monarchici. Allo stesso modo, sul terreno puramente filosofico, Wagner si richiama alla ancestrale "religione" indoeuropea (di cui il "cristianesimo originario", "non giudaìzzato". sarebbe secondo lui una semplice evoluzione), Nietzsche ed Heidegger al pensiero pre-socratico ed Evola, drasticamente, ad una originaria "Tradizione" postulata in una nebulosa pre-istoria. La "rivolta contro il mondo moderno", l'assunto rivoluzionario sono determinati dalla natura stessa del "regresso in una passata possibilità d'esistenza istoriale", cioè dalla natura della "ripetizione" (Wiederholung): perché — così Heidegger — "la ri-petizione non intende far ritornare ciò che una volta è stato, bensì piuttosto offre una replica contraddittoria (erwidert) alla passata possibilità di esistenza" ed è così "simultaneamente, in quanto attualità, la revoca di tutto ciò che in quanto passato determina l'Oggí". "La ripetizione nè si affida al passato, nè mira ad un progresso, l'uno e l'altro essendonella attualità indifferenti all'esistenza istoriale". (Traducendo queste concezioni sul terreno della grande politica Martin Heidegger afferma nella sua Introduzione alla Metafisica che il popolo tedesco, "popolo di mezzo preso nella più dura tenaglia [tra America e Russia] e popolo più d'ogni altro minacciato", può realizzare il suo destino istoriale "soltanto laddove sappia creare in se stesso un'eco, una possibilità d'eco per la missione assegnatagli e comprenda creativamente la sua Tradizione" e cioè, "in quanto istoriale esponga, a partire dal centro del suo divenire storico, se stesso e con ciò la storia dell'Occidente nell'originaria regione delle potenze dell'Essere").

UNA "COMUNITÀ DI DESTINO"

L'atteggiamento di Heidegger nei confronti di "passato" e "attualità" ed "avvenire" non soltanto è essenzialmente identico — conforme — a quello della Rivoluzione Conservatrice e dei movimenti fascisti, bensì anche conferisce alla comune visione-della-storia un saldo fondamento concettuale. Quel che nel discorso conservator-rivoluzionario e fascista è ancora soltanto Leitbild, "immagine conduttrice", diviene con Heidegger concetto. Se in questa sede è evidentemente impossibile mostrare come per l'appunto l'analitica heideggeriana dell'esistenza istoriale concettualizzi, fondandosi sul principio della temporalità tridimensionale del Dasein, tutti i Leitbilder, tutte le "immagini conduttrici" della visione-del-mondo della Rivoluzione Conservatrice e dei movimenti fascisti, mi sembra nondimeno opportuno mettere qui in luce la traduzione concettuale che Heidegger offre di un Leitbild quanto mai rilevante, quello della "comunità di destino", ritrovata a seconda delle correnti o nel "popolo" o nella "nazione" o nella "razza" (questa a sua volta assai diversamente intesa).
E la temporalità tridimensionale dell'esistenza —afferma Heidegger — a "rendere possibile l'istorialità autentica, cioè quel che chiamiamo destino istoriale". Poiché il Dasein, in quanto essere-almondo, è anche co-essere, essere-con-Altri, ìl destino (Schicksal) di un Dasein è anche sempre Geschick, commesso destino comune, "la (cui) forza si libera grazie alla comunicazione ed alla lotta". Ora il "destino" scaturisce da una scelta istoriale pro-veniente dalla dimensione avvenire del Dasein: e nella comunicazione e nella lotta si riconoscono un comune destino coloro che hanno compiuto un'identica scelta istoriale e ad essa restano risolutamente fedeli. Ogni scelta istoriale implica però sempre la "ri-petizione", la "replica a una passata possibilità dell'esistenza istoriale" e, insieme, un "progetto d'avvenire". La "comunità di destino" si rivela dunque essa stessa costituita da una scelta istoriale (che è selettiva e che dunque può essere giudicata non-umanista da un punto di vista egalítarista). Questo significa che nazione popolo razza, in quanto comunità riconosciuta di
destino, se sempre costituiscono una replica contraddittoria (Erwiderung) della passata possibilità d'esistenza su cui si è portata la scelta istoriale, d'altro lato sempre hanno natura "pro-gettuale" e, nel presente oggettivo, restano un "da farsi", una "missione". La prassi politica dei regimi fascisti implica così una "disciplina selettiva" (Zucht, in tedesco) per l'appunto intesa a conformare il "materiale umano" dell'Oggi all'idea di nazione o popolo o razza scaturente dalla scelta istoriale compiuta. (In questo senso i fascismi sono "azione cui è immanente un pensiero" sempreché per pensiero si intendano insieme "ri-petizione" [nel senso che Heidegger dà a questo termine] e "progetto"). Altamente significativa e profonda è in questo contesto la distinzione che Heidegger introduce in Essere e Tempo fra "Tradition" e "Ueberlieferung", cioè — potremmo tradurre - fra "tradizione subita" e "tradizione scelta". "La tradizione — afferma Heidegger in Essere e Tempo — priva di radici l'istorialità del Dasein", essa "cela e addirittura fa dimenticare la sua stessa origine". La "Ueberlieferung", per contro, si fonda "espressamente sulla conoscenza dell'origine delle possibilità d'esistenza istoriale" e consiste nella "scelta" di una di queste possibilità, scelta che sempre proviene dalla dimensione avvenire del nostro Dasein. Solo una concezione del genere riesce a conciliare fedeltà alla tradizione e assunto rivoluzionario teso alla creazione di un "uomo nuovo".

IL "RETTORE DEI RETTORI"

Mohler, nel già citato saggio sulla Rivoluzione Conservatrice in Germania, mette espressamente tra parentesi il Nazionalsocialismo. Egli indica nondimeno che le correnti della Rivoluzione Conservatrice oggetto del suo studio vanno considerate "come i trotzkisti del Nazional socialismo". Implicitamente egli situa così il nazionalsocialismo al centro stesso della Rivoluzione Conservatrice così come dopo di lui ha fatto il marxista Jean-Pierre Faye (da non confondere col neo-destrista Guillaume Faye), che vede in Hitler "l'ospite muto" che accoglie in sé i discorsi che gli provengono dalla Destra e dalla Sinistra della Rivoluzione Conservatrice, tacitamente li sintetizza e, subito, li trasforma in azione. Conto tenuto di ciò e di quanto è stato precedentemente esposto, mi sembra ovvio affermare — così abbordando l'aspetto più concreto del dibattito suscitato dal libro di Farias — che lo Heidegger di Essere e Tempo va situato al centro del vasto campo della Rivoluzione Conservatrice e dunque su una posizione assai vicina a quella del movimento nazionalsocialita, quand'anche — inutile precisarlo - filosoficamente più "alta". Che dunque, al contrario di molti esponenti della Destra e della Sinistra della Rivoluzione Conservatrice, Heidegger non abbia scelto nel 1933 un settario distacco ed abbia invece prontamente aderito alla NSDAP ed attivamente partecipato poi per quasi due anni ad attività non soltanto politiche del regime, tutto ciò è non già frutto d'un abbaglio, d'una speranza mal riposta, del "fascino" subito nel contesto di un conturbante momento storico, bensì è frutto di una coerenza col proprio stesso pensiero e con le idee politiche a questo pensiero inerenti. Ciò non significa che nel 1933 tutte le idee politiche di Heidegger coincidano esattamente con quelle manifestate del discorso del nazionalsocialismo. È tuttavia evidente che, agli occhi di Heidegger, le differenze non investono l'essenziale: e — val la pena di osservare — neanche l'antisemitismo da sempre iscritto nel programma del partito fa ostacolo all'adesione.
L'evoluzione successiva ( a partire dalla seconda metà del 1934) dell'atteggiamento di Heidegger nei confronti del regime è certo avviata da contingenze umane, ma trova la sua causa profonda in una evoluzione di pensiero, quella stessa che indusse Heidegger ad abbandonare il "cammino" di Essere e Tempo, la cui annunciata seconda parte non fu dunque mai scritta. Lo Heidegger di Essere e Tempo aveva veduto nel movimento nazionalsocialista la traduzione politica dell'auspicata fine della Metafisica, cioè un sovvertimento della tradizione occidentale ed un superamento del nihilismo. Probabilmente egli si attendeva pertanto che il suo pensiero fosse riconosciuto dal regime come "filosofia del movimento". Avversato da altri universitari nazisti come il Krieck, protetti da
Rosenberg, Heidegger dovette abbandonare ogni speranza di imporre le sue idee in campo educativo e di divenire, come ad un certo momento era sembrato possibile, il "rettore dei rettori" delle Università germaniche. Nel 1935, un anno dopo le dimissioni dal rettorato, nel suo corso di introduzione alla Metafisica, egli ancora rivendicava al proprio pensiero, contro le varie "filosofie dei valori" alla Krieck, l'autentica comprensione della "intima verità e grandezza del movimento" nazionalsocialista, ritrovata "nell'incontro fra la Tecnica segnata da un destino planetario e l'uomo dei tempi nuovi". In questo stesso corso anche si annunciava però una critica del regime, che troverà in seguito la sua più compiuta seppur "cifrata" formulazione nella lettera Zur Seinsfrage (Sul problema dell'Essere) indirizzata a Ernst Jiinger nel 1953. È una critica — sia detto subito — che a mio avviso non situa Heidegger fuori dal vasto spazio della Rivoluzione Conservatrice. bensì - quanto meno nella trasparente intenzione dello stesso Heidegger — al di là dell'oggi in un "avvenire", che apparirà infine precluso alla volontà umana e potrà semmai soltanto essere concesso da "un dio".

SOLO UN "DIO" CI POTRÀ SALVARE

La "posizione" politica assunta dall'ultimo Heidegger deve essere messa in relazione con la sua interpretazione del pensiero di Nietzsche, la quale anche coinvolge la Rivoluzione Conservatrice (Jiinger) ed il movimento nazionalsocialista. Allo stesso modo in cui l'ultimo Nietzsche, dopo aver esaltato l'opera di Wagner, aveva voluto vedere in essa non già la promessa di una "rigenerazione" del mondo e della storia, bensì il "colmo della decadenza" ed una "fine", Heidegger ritiene fallito il tentativo nietzschiano di "dinamitare la storia" e "superare il nihilismo" occidentale. Secondo Heidegger, Nietzsche avrebbe il merito incontestabile di avere per primo "scoperto" e denunciato il "nihilsmo" della cultura occidentale, ma del nihilsmo non avrebbe saputo individuare la causa, situata a torto nel sovvertimento platonico-cristiano del "valori" anzichè nel-
l'oblio dell'Essere. Il pensiero di Nietzsche non costituirebbe dunque un superamento (Verwindung) della Metafisica, bensì capovolgerebbe la Metafisica stessa, portandola al suo ultimo compimento. Questa critica — non va dimenticato — ha un risvolto apologetico: in quanto ultima, più compiuta forma del metafisico oblio dell'Essere, il pensiero di Nietzsche costituisce nel giudizio di Heidegger un "passaggio obbligato", una ineludibile "necessità" sul cammino che potrebbe condurre al superamento della Metafisica e del nihilismo.
Nella citata lettera Zur Seinsfrage Heidegger proietta questa sua critica di Nietzsche sul "Lavoratore" jungeriano, interpretato come la moderna configurazione della Volontà-di-Potenza inerente al progetto di Nietzsche, e — non senza una segreta ironia nei confronti di Ernst Jiinger —sul regime nazionalsocialista in quanto realizzazione del progetto inerente al "Lavoratore" jùngeriano: ma questo anche significa che agli occhi di Heidegger la forma politica nazionalsocialista, in
quanto traduzione del capovolgimento nietzscheniano della Metafisica; supera storicamente la forma delle democrazie liberali o socio-comuniste. (Ovverosia, per dirla nel sinistrese di un LacoueLabarthe [cfr.: La Fiction da Politiquel: "Il nazismo è per Heidegger un umanismo che riposa su una determinazione dell'humanitas più possente di quella su cui riposa la democrazia, pensiero ufficiale del capitalismo, cioè del nihilismo secondo cui tutto vale").
Ai fini del dibattito aperto dal libro di Farias, poco importa qui la convinzione degli uni o degli altri che l'interpretazione di Heidegger costituisca o non costituisca una falsificazione del pensiero e della "posizione" di Nietzsche. Importante a questi fini è la spiegazione che essa offre dell'atteggiamento assunto da Heidegger nel dopoguerra e di quel suo "silenzio" che tanto esaspera il pretesto imperante "umanismo", proprio perché sostanzia un rifiuto di condannare chi, nel confronto coi suoi avversari, appare incondannabile.

“Le Complexe de Narcisse”, recension de l’ouvrage de C. Lasch

“Le Complexe de Narcisse”, recension de l’ouvrage de C. Lasch

par Guillaume FAYE

Ex: http://vouloir.hautetfort.com/

« Partout, la société bourgeoise semble avoir épuisé sa réserve d’idées créatrices (…) La crise politique du capitalisme reflète une crise générale de la culture occidentale. Le libéralisme (…) a perdu la capacité d’expliquer les événements dans un monde où règnent l’État-Providence et les sociétés multinationales et rien ne l’a remplacé. En faillite sur le plan politique, le libéralisme l’est tout autant sur le plan intellectuel ».

Ce diagnostic porté par Christopher Lasch, l’un des observateurs les plus lucides de l’actuelle société américaine, donne le ton du réquisitoire qu’il a fait paraitre contre la mentalité et l’idéologie décadente des sociétés bourgeoises, sous le titre de The Culture of Narcissism (en traduction française, Le complexe de Narcisse). Dans cet essai, Lasch s’efforce de donner une description aussi précise que possible d’une « nouvelle sensibilité américaine » que l’on retrouve aujourd’hui, plus ou moins atténuée ou déformée, dans la plupart des pays industriels. Conclusion générale de son analyse l’individualisme traditionnel propre à l’idéologie libérale ne se traduit plus aujourd’hui, contrairement à ce qui se passait encore dans les années 60, par une politisation de l’opinion ou une radicalisation de la recherche du bien-être économique, mais par un repli radical sur le “moi” individuel. Ce repli correspond à la poursuite effrénée du “bonheur intérieur”. L’homme contemporain part à la recherche de lui-même, sans illusions politiques, mû par une angoisse qu’il tente d’apaiser par un recours systématique à toutes les formes de sécurité. C’est le triomphe de Narcisse.

Passant en revue l’évolution de la littérature, du système d’éducation, des médias de masse et du discours politique, C. Lasch dresse ainsi la “géographie” d’un narcissisme contemporain dans lequel il n’est pas éloigné de voir, à juste titre, le stade ultime du déclin d’une civilisation.

L’« invasion de la société par le moi » produit, dit-il, une course sans limites vers la « sécurité physique et psychique ». Équivalant à une existence menée dans un perpétuel présent, elle interdit « tout sens de la continuité historique ». Les modes “psy”, les obsessions sexuelles étalées dans le discours public, la frénésie des “expérimentations personnelles”, le désintérêt pour le travail, “l’égotisme” d’une famille nucléaire essentiellement consommatrice, la “théâtralisation de l’existence”, le mimétisme vis-à-vis des “vedettes” de la scène ou de la chanson, sont autant de traits caractéristiques du narcissisme.

« Cette concentration sur soi définit (…) le mouvement de la nouvelle conscience », note Lasch, qui ajoute : « La recherche de son propre accomplissement a remplacé la conquête de la nature et de nouvelles frontières ». Sur le plan politique, un tel comportement s’observe à gauche aussi bien qu’à droite. La gauche était d’ailleurs, depuis longtemps, acquise à une idéologie de refus de la vie-comme-combat. La droite, elle, a peu à peu été gagnée aux valeurs de la pensée rationnelle, calculatrice et bourgeoise. La fuite devant la lutte aboutit ainsi à un psychisme « misérabiliste », que Lasch décrit en ces termes : l’homme « est hanté, non par la culpabilité, mais par l’anxiété (…) Il se sent en compétition avec tout le monde pour l’obtention des faveurs que dispense l’État paternaliste. Sur le plan de la sexualité (…) son émancipation des anciens tabous ne lui apporte pas la paix (…) Il répudie les idéologies fondées sur la rivalité, en honneur à un stade antérieur du développement capitaliste. Il exige une gratification immédiate et vit dans un état de désir inquiet et perpétuellement inassouvi ».

L’origine de ce « complexe de Narcisse », état psychologique ultime de la mentalité individualiste, est à rechercher dans la décomposition d’une société qui, fondée sur l’égalité et l’autonomie individuelle, s’est peu à peu transformée en jungle sociale. « La culture de l’individualisme compétitif est une manière de vivre qui est en train de mourir — note à ce propos C. Lasch. Celle-ci, dans sa décadence, a poussé la logique de l’individualisme jusqu’à l’extrême de la guerre de tous contre tous, et la poursuite du bonheur jusqu’à l’impasse d’une obsession narcissique de l’individu pour lui-même. La stratégie de la survie narcissique (…) donne naissance à une « révolution culturelle qui reproduit les pires traits de cette même civilisation croulante qu’elle prétend critiquer (…) La personnalité autoritaire n’est plus le prototype de l’homme économique. Ce dernier a cédé la place à l’homme psychologique de notre temps — dernier avatar de l’individualisme bourgeois ».

Soumis aux “experts” et dominé par les psychiatres, l’homme contemporain s’est donc anxieusement lancé à la poursuite de son “moi”. Démobilisé dans ses instances profondes, imperméable à toute visée politique de longue durée, inapte à la compréhension d’un destin collectif, indifférent à l’histoire, il planifie, comme un comptable, l’obtention de son bonheur intime. Ce dernier, jusqu’à la fin des années 60, se confondait avec la réussite matérielle et le bien-être du confort domestique. C’était l’époque de la deuxième “révolution industrielle”, animée par une idéologie de la compétition individuelle et caractérisée par l’accession massive des classes moyennes au standing de la bourgeoisie aisée. Mais aujourd’hui, l’idée de bonheur a pris une autre résonance. Elle a dépassé sa connotation purement matérielle pour se doter d’une portée “psychologique”. Il s’agit maintenant de sécuriser son “moi”, de “partir à la recherche de soi-même”, sur la base d’une introspection presque pathologique. À la quête du bonheur économique, dont les limites apparaissent désormais clairement, s’ajoute la recherche du “bonheur intérieur”. L’idéal mercantile du bien-être petit-bourgeois conserve sa vigueur, mais il ne suffit plus à étancher la soif de l’homme contemporain. Celui-ci veut accéder à la “félicité psychique”. Il se tourne vers une série d’utopies nouvelles. L’État-Providence est là pour lui promettre la “bonne vie” sans le stress, le maximum de droits avec le minimum de devoirs, le confort à peu de frais, la prospérité matérielle dans la quiétude du “moi”.

Toutefois, les gourous du mieux-vivre, s’ils ont rejeté les valeurs de compétition et de risque, n’ont pas abandonné pour autant les aspirations matérialistes de la bourgeoisie traditionnelle. Narcisse, obsédé par son désir d’apaiser ses “tensions” psychologiques, de réaliser ses “pulsions” libidinales, n’entame pas une critique sur le fond de la société de consommation. Il veut l’abondance, mais sans avoir à se battre pour l’obtenir ; la richesse, mais sans effort, et, en plus, la plénitude sexuelle et l’apaisement de ses conflits quotidiens.

L’impossibilité évidente de satisfaire en même temps ces exigences contradictoires donne à la mentalité narcissique une conscience à la fois infantile et douloureuse. Plus l’individu se replie sur lui-même, plus il se découvre des “problèmes” nouveaux et insolubles. La recherche du bonheur débouche sur une angoisse qui n’est plus regardée comme un défi, mais comme une menace. La nouvelle bourgeoisie narcissique est une classe fragile, inquiète, hypersensible, superficielle, instable.

Une autre cause du narcissisme contemporain, qui « recroqueville le moi vers un état primaire et passif dans lequel le monde n’est ni crée ni formé », réside dans la permissivité sociale et la bureaucratisation. La permissivité détruit les normes de conduite collectives. Loin de libérer, elle isole. Elle fait exploser le sens. Privé du cadre éducatif et des institutions hérités, l’individu ne sait plus comment se comporter. Il s’en remet alors ans injonctions éphémères que lui distillent les médias, la publicité, les “manuels” d’éducation sexuelle, etc. Les conseils (intéressés) des magazines ou de la télévision se substituent à l’expérience intériorisée de la tradition familiale ou communautaire. Les règles de vie ne sont plus trouvées que par fragments ou par accident, dans le champ anonyme et frustrant du “discours public”. Le “surmoi” social s’est effondré. Les normes de comportement, auxquelles nulle société n’échappent, ne proviennent plus que des structures dominantes, économiques et techniques, de la société, Privé d’autodiscipline, puisqu’il n’intériorise pas les règles sociales, l’individu se heurte brutalement aux interdits socio-économiques qu’il découvre en arrivant à l’âge adulte : règles bureaucratiques, pratiques bancaires, impératifs commerciaux, etc. Élevé dans le mythe d’une “liberté” formelle, il supporte de moins en moins bien ces contraintes et réagit en se renfermant d’autant plus sur lui-même.

La bureaucratisation des activités sociales accentue la tendance. Déchargeant les hommes des soucis de la lutte quotidienne, elle donne aux hommes l’illusion de l’irresponsabilité. L’individu se découvre étranger à ceux qui l’entourent, à ceux qui partagent son existence quotidienne et à qui, désormais, plus rien ne le lie. La mentalité d’assistance, le recours perpétuel à des “droits” que rien ne vient plus fonder, la sécurisation de la vie privée par la bureaucratisation de l’État-Providence décharge l’individu de son rôle actif. Que lui reste-t-il à faire alors, puisque rien ne l’attache plus aux autres, sinon à se passionner pour lui-même ?

Le déclin des idéaux révolutionnaires et du marxisme orthodoxe a fait perdre l’espoir d’une transformation radicale de la société. L‘idéologie égalitaire a reporté ses visées dans le domaine des contre-pouvoirs insignifiants et des micro-aménagements quotidiens. L’égalitarisme ne laisse plus entrevoir de “paradis social”, mais seulement des “paradis individuels”. L’utopie du bonheur s’affaiblit sur le plan collectif et se rétracte au niveau intime et personnel. Nous en sommes à l’ère, prévue (et voulue) par l’École de Francfort, des “révolutions minuscules”.

La “fin de l’histoire”, elle aussi, est recherchée sur le plan individuel après l’avoir usé sur le plan social et collectif, Même la société “bonheurisée” et privée de véritable histoire politique que nous connaissons actuellement apparaît comme trop astreignante. Elle ne constitue pas encore un refuge suffisamment sécurisant contre le stress. Elle n’endort pas encore assez. L’individu, en se repliant sur sa sphère psychique, prend mentalement sa retraite dès l’âge de 20 ans. La société n’entend plus sortir directement de l’histoire ; c’est l’individu qui se retire de la société.

Oublieuse de toute notion de continuité historique, de toute perception dense des liens sociaux, la société narcissique incite à vivre pour soi-même et à n’exister que dans l’instant. Tel est d’ailleurs le sens de la plupart des messages publicitaires. Tel est aussi le “discours” distillé à longueur de temps par des magazines, de plus en plus nombreux, qui se spécialisent dans la résolution “catégorielle” des problèmes individuels (parents, enfants, jeunes femmes, amateurs de vidéo, etc.) et l’étude “micro-dimensionnelle” de la vie quotidienne. Dans cette recherche, nulle place n’est laissée à l’accomplissement personnel dans le sens d’un style aristocratique ou d’un dépassement de soi. On en reste aux fantasmes stéréotypes, à la planification “micro-procédurière”, à l’introspection complaisante d’un “moi” de plus en plus étiolé. « La survie individuelle est maintenant le seul bien », observe C. Lasch. Le XXIe siècle, à ce rythme, ne sera pas un siècle religieux, mais un siècle thérapeutique.

Dans cette perspective, le culte de la fausse intimité, l’intensification artificiel le des rapports subjectifs, la simplification primitiviste des “rituels” de séduction et d’approche, constituent des formes maladroites de compensation par rapport au cynisme social et à l’absence de valeurs partagées. L’existence de liens entre l’individu et des valeurs de type communautaire reste en effet une nécessité inéluctable dans toute société, quand bien même la conscience individuelle les refuse. Les liens affectifs individuels demeurent insuffisants pour donner aux individus un sens à leur existence. Ainsi, paradoxalement, la vague actuelle de “sentimentalité” qui tend à isoler l’individu à l’intérieur du couple, et le couple à l’intérieur de l’ensemble de la société, débouche sur la mort de toute affection authentique et sur la fragilisation des rapports d’union. L’amour comme l’amitié, pour être durables, doivent s’insérer dans un cadre plus large que celui défini par leurs protagonistes immédiats. Or, c’est cette dimension communautaire que le “narcissisme” attaque dans ses racines. Lorsque l’individu ne peut plus ni percevoir ni “idéaliser” le groupe, la cité, la communauté à laquelle il appartient, il est obligatoirement conduit à intensifier ses rapports infimes de façon si hypertrophique qu’il finit en fait par les détruire. C’est ainsi, par ex., que la vague récente de “néoromantisme”, évoquée par Edouard Shorter (Naissance de la famille moderne, Seuil, 1979), ne débouche pas sur l’amour, mais sur l’égotisme et sur l’obsession de soi.

De même, les fausses expérimentations vitales, qui ne reposent sur aucune habitude culturelle, sur aucun besoin intériorisé, dépersonnalisent l’individu au lieu de le recentrer, le “débranchent” en quelque sorte du monde vécu sans lui fournir “l’autre dimension” souhaitée. N’ayant pas trouvé le bonheur dans la consommation matérielle et le confort économique, la nouvelle bourgeoisie “narcissique” tente de l’atteindre dans une consommation de “produits spirituels”, dont la qualité laisse, évidemment, fort à désirer. Les États-Unis, et plus spécialement la sphère “californienne”, sont particulièrement en pointe dans ce style d’entreprises, dont certains essaient de nous persuader qu’elles constituent la naissance d’une nouvelle culture ou la source possible d’un renouveau de la spiritualité.

La description que donne C. Lasch est convaincante de bout en bout. Pourtant, Lasch semble ne pas tirer toutes les conclusions de son propos, probablement parce qu’il se trouve lui-même immergé dans une société américaine dont il n’ose pas remettre en cause les idéaux fondateurs (dont le “narcissisme” est pourtant l’aboutissement). C’est pourquoi il propose, de façon assez peu crédible un retour à des valeurs anciennes auxquels il n’envisage à aucun moment de donner un nouveau fondement. (Certains pourront voir là un essai de réactivation du puritanisme américain traditionnel).

Ce n’est pourtant pas, à notre avis, dans un quelconque “ordre moral” que réside la solution au “mal de vivre” de Narcisse. La solution ne peut procéder d’une manipulation sociale, d’une transformation des institutions, d’une évolution mécanique des codes sociaux ou d’un discours purement moral, Pour en finir avec “l’idéologie de la compassion” et la mentalité de “l’avoir-droit narcissique”, toute attitude répressive ou, au contraire, de simple lamentation, ne peut que se révéler sans effet. Seuls peuvent mobiliser les individus en tant que parties intégrantes d’un peuple, des projets d’essence politique et culturelle, fondés sur des valeurs (et des contre-valeurs) entièrement opposées à celles qui ont présidé à la naissance de la “république universelle” des États-Unis d’Amérique. Ce n’est pas, bien entendu, d’outre-Atlantique, que l’on peut les attendre.

◘ Le complexe de Narcisse : La nouvelle sensibilité américaine, traduit par Michel Landa, Robert Laffont, coll. Libertés 2000, 1981. [Version remaniée : La Culture du narcissisme, Champs-Flam, 2006]

► Guillaume Faye, Nouvelle École n°37, 1982.

La beauté de l'imperfection...

La beauté de l'imperfection...

Ex: http://metapoinfos.hautetfort.com/

Les éditions Arléa viennent de publier Les Lieux et la poussière - Sur la beauté de l'imperfection, un essai de Roberto Peregalli, dans lequel il dénonce la laideur froide et sans défaut de l'habitat moderne. Architecte milanais, Roberto Peregalli a suivi des études de philosophie et a été influencé par sa lecture d'Heidegger. Il est  déjà l'auteur d'un essai intitulé  La cuirasse brodée (Le Promeneur, 2009).

 

"Les Lieux et la poussière est un essai en douze chapitres sur la beauté et la fragilité. La beauté de notre monde périssable, la fragilité des choses et des vies, la nostalgie qui habite les objets etles lieux.

Roberto Peregalli voit les façades des maisons comme des visages. Il regarde le blanc, le verre, ou la lumière des temples, descathédrales, de la pyramide du Louvre. Il dénonce l’effroi provoqué par le gigantisme et l’inadaptation de l’architecture moderne, la violence de la technologie. Il s’attarde sur le langage et la splendeur des ruines, de la patine et et de la pénombre. Il dénonce l’incurie de l’homme quant à son destin.

Roberto Peregalli nous renvoie à notre condition de mortel. Il nous rappelle combien tout est fragile dans notre être et notre façon d’être. Combien tout est poussière. Combien nous oublions de prendre soin de nous dans notre rapport aux choses et au monde.

Son texte a la force soudaine de ces objets qu’on retrouve un jour au fond d’un tiroir et qui disent de façon déchirante et immédiate tout ce que nous sommes, et que nous avons perdu.

À la façon de Tanizaki, dans Éloge de l’ombre, il dévoile avec sensibilité et intelligence l’effondrement de valeurs qui sont les nôtres et qui méritent d’être en permanence repensées et préservées."

"ITINERAIRE ENTRE POLEMOS ET MITTELEUROPA"

"ITINERAIRE ENTRE POLEMOS ET MITTELEUROPA"

Méridien Zéro reçoit ce dimanche Jean-Jacques Langendorf, historien, écrivain et essayiste suisse, spécialiste des problèmes de stratégie et de défense ainsi que Laurent Schang, animateur du blog Le Polémarque pour évoquer avec eux les grands problèmes stratégiques européens.

Pour écouter:

http://meridienzero.hautetfort.com/archive/2012/05/17/emission-n-97-itineraire-entre-polemos-et-mittel-europa.html

La boussole s’est rompue par Costanzo PREVE

 

La boussole s’est rompue

par Costanzo PREVE

 

I

 

On ne peut décemment demander au marin de partir en mer sans compas, surtout lorsque le ciel est couvert et que l’on ne peut s’orienter par les étoiles. Mais qu’arrive-t-il, si l’on croit que le compas fonctionne, alors qu’il est falsifié par un aimant invisible placé dessous ? Eh bien, voilà une métaphore assez claire de notre situation présente.

 

II

 

En Italie, avec le gouvernement Monti, les choses sont devenues à la fois plus claires et plus obscures. Plus claires, parce qu’il est bien évident que la décision politique démocratique (dans son ensemble, de gauche, du centre, de droite) a été vidée de tout contenu; et que nous sommes devant une situation que n’avaient jamais imaginée les manuels d’histoire des doctrines politiques (bien évident : du moins pour ces deux pour cent de bipèdes humains qui entendent faire usage de la liberté de leur intelligence; je ne tiendrai pas compte ici des quatre-vingt dix-huit pour cent restant).

 

En bref, nous sommes devant une dictature d’économistes, à légitimation électorale référendaire indirecte et formelle. Il est évident  que cette dictature s’exerce pour le compte de quelqu’un, mais ce serait se tromper que de trop « anthropomorphiser » ce quelqu’un : les riches, les capitalistes, les banquiers, les Américains, etc. Cette dictature d’économistes est au service d’une entité impersonnelle (que Marx aurait qualifiée de « sensiblement suprasensible »), qui est la reproduction en forme « spéculative » de la forme historique actuelle du mode de production capitaliste (1). À ce point de vue, les choses sont claires.

 

Ce qui n’est pas clair du tout, et même obscur, c’est la manière dont cette junte d’économistes peut « conduire l’Italie hors de la crise ». Elle est au service exclusif de créanciers internationaux; son unique horizon est la dette. La logique du modèle néo-libéral consiste à « délocaliser » de Faenza jusqu’en Serbie la fabrication des chaussures Omca, afin de pouvoir payer les ouvrier deux cents euros.

 

Dans cette situation, le maintien du clivage Droite/Gauche n’est plus seulement une erreur théorique. C’est potentiellement un crime politique.

 

III

 

Dernièrement, je suis resté ébahi en lisant un tract du groupuscule La Gauche critique. Je ne comprenais même pas pourquoi, et puis tout d’un coup j’ai cru comprendre. Le terme même de « gauche critique » est une contradiction, puisque le présupposé principal et très essentiel de toute critique, sans lequel le terme de « critique » perd tout son sens, est justement le dépassement de cette dichotomie « Droite/Gauche ». On ne peut plus être à la fois critiques, et de gauche; non plus que de droite, ce qui revient au même.

 

Je viens de renvoyer au dernier livre de Diego Fusaro. Dans cette histoire philosophique du capitalisme, depuis ses origines au XVIe siècle jusqu’à aujourd’hui, ces deux petits mots, Droite et Gauche, n’apparaissent absolument jamais, par ce fait tout simple et nu que la mondialisation capitaliste, et la dictature des économistes qui   nécessairement en est la forme, a entièrement vidé ces catégories de leur sens. Norberto Bobbio (2) pouvait encore en parler en toute bonne foi, en un temps où existait encore une souveraineté monétaire de l’État national, et où les partis de « gauche » pouvaient appliquer des politiques économiques de redistribution plus généreuses que celle des partis « de droite ». Mais aujourd’hui, avec la globalisation néo-libérale, le discours de Bobbio ne correspond plus à la réalité.

 

Il y a, bien sûr, un problème, du moment que la dictature « neutre » des économistes a cependant toujours besoin d’être légitimée constitutionnellement par des élections, fussent-elles vides de tout sens de décision. C’est donc ici que se met en scène une comédie à l’italienne; personnages : la « gauche responsable » : Bersani, D’Alema, Veltroni, tout le communisme togliattien recyclé; le bouffon qui fait la parade, Vendola, dont on sait bien a priori que  ses suffrages iront de toute façon au Parti démocrate (3); les « témoins du bon vieux temps » Diliberto et Ferrero, dont les suffrages iront toujours au même Parti démocrate, sous le prétexte du péril raciste, fasciste, populiste, etc.; les petits partis à préfixe téléphonique (respectivement Pour la refondation de la IVe internationale bolchevique, Refondateurs communistes), de Turigliatto et Ferrando, fidèles au principe olympique « L’important n’est pas de vaincre, mais de participer »; enfin, les « Témoins de Jéhovah » du communisme (Lutte communiste), dans l’attente du réveil du bon géant salvifique, la classe ouvrière et salariée mondiale (4).

 

L’idéal serait que, selon la fiction du romancier portugais José Saramago, personne n’allât plus voter; je souligne : personne. Si personne n’allait plus voter, la légitimation formelle de la dictature des économistes s’écroulerait. Le magicien capitaliste trouverait encore le moyen de tirer un nouveau lapin de son chapeau, mais on s’amuserait bien en attendant. Hélas ! Cela est un rêve irréalisable. La machine Attrape-couillons est trop efficace pour qu’on la laisse tomber en désuétude.

 

IV

 

Et pourtant, la solution pourrait bien être à la portée de la main : une nouvelle force politique radicalement critique à l’égard du capitalisme libériste mondialisé, et tout à fait étrangère au clivage Droite/Gauche. Une force politique qui laisse tomber tous les projets de « refondation du communisme » (la pensée de Marx est encore vivante, mais le communisme historique est mort), et qui retrouve plutôt des inspirations solidaristes et communautaires (5). En théorie, c’est l’œuf de Christophe Colomb; en théorie, il faudra encore plusieurs décennies, à moins d’improbables accélérations imprévues de l’histoire, pour que l’on comprenne bien que la boussole est hors d’usage, et que « droite » et « gauche » ne sont plus désormais que des espèces de panneaux de signalisation routière.

 

V

 

Et c’est ici que je vais donner l’occasion à tous les scorpions, araignées, et vipères de m’accuser : « Preve fasciste ! ». Il est vrai que, si l’on a peur de briser les tabous, mieux vaut se reposer et lire des romans policiers.

 

Voici : un cher ami français vient de m’envoyer le livre qu’a écrit Marine Le Pen (6). Je sais déjà qu’on va parler d’une astucieuse manœuvre d’infiltration populiste par l’éternel fascisme; mais ce livre, lisez-le, au moins. Il est étonnant. Moi, il ne m’étonne pas, puisque je connais bien la dialectique de Hegel, l’unité des contraires, et la logique du développement tant de la gauche que de la droite depuis une vingtaine d’années.

 

Voyons cela. À la page 135, Marine Le Pen écrit : « Je n’ai pour ma part aucun état d’âme à le dire : le clivage entre la gauche et la droite n’existe plus. Il brouille même la compréhension des enjeux réels de notre époque ». Je vois que ses principales références philosophiques dont deux penseurs « de gauche » : Bourdieu et Michéa (p. 148). Je vois que Georges Marchais, ce représentant du vieux communisme français, est cité, favorablement. Plus de Pétain ni de Vichy. Sarkozy est condamné tant pour sa politique extérieure au service des États-Unis que pour sa politique intérieure qui aggrave l’inégalité sociale. Sur la question du marché, sa principale référence théorique est Polanyi (p. 26). Le non français à la guerre d’Irak de 2003 est revendiqué (p. 37). Marx est cité (p. 61); le grand économiste Maurice Allais est souvent cité, pour soutenir l’incompatibilité du marché et de la démocratie. Mais surtout, j’y ai retrouvé avec plaisir ce qui me séduisait dans le communisme des années soixante, à savoir que la parlotte polémique à courte portée marche derrière, et non devant : le livre commence par un long chapitre intitulé, à la française « Le mondialisme n’est pas un humanisme ». La globalisation est très justement qualifiée d’« horizon de renoncement », et il y est réaffirmé que « l’empire du Bien est avant tout dans nos têtes », ce qui est vrai.

 

Je pourrais continuer. Je sais que j’ai donné aux vipères et aux scorpions une belle occasion de m’outrager; et c’est ce qui va arriver.

 

Mais pour moi, tout ce que je veux, en réalité, c’est faire réfléchir.

 

VI

 

Pour comprendre ce que sont aujourd’hui la Droite et la Gauche, nul besoin de s’adresser à des défenseurs « idéal-typiques » de la fameuse dichotomie, en termes de valeurs éternelles et de catégories de l’Esprit, comme un Marco Revelli. Il suffit de lire des défenseurs du système comme Antonio Polito (dans le Corriere della sera, 25 février 2012). Polito dit ouvertement que la compétition politique peut désormais avoir lieu dans le seul cadre, tenu pour définitif, de l’économie globalisée; que tout le reste, du pitre Nichi Vendola (Mouvement pour la gauche) à Forza Nuova (d’« extrême droite »), n’est qu’agitation insignifiante; que cela est notre destin.

 

Que proposent donc les « gauches » encore en activité, d’Andrea Catone à Giacche et à Brancaccio ? Une relance du keynesisme  et de la dépense publique en déficit, à l’intérieur de l’Union européenne ? Une nouvelle mise en garde après tant d’autres contre la menace du racisme, de la Ligue du Nord, du populisme ? Une « alter-globalisation à visage humain » ? À présent que le Grand Putassier n’occupe plus le devant de la scène, avec quoi va-t-on continuer à fanatiser comme des supporters de foot le « peuple de gauche » ?

 

Si on lit le dossier « Chine 2020 » de la Banque mondiale, récemment présenté à Pékin, on verra que la dictature des économistes s’étend sur le monde entier. Aujourd’hui, la révolution n’est pas mûre; elle n’est à l’ordre du jour ni selon sa variante stalinienne (Rizzo), ni selon sa variante trotskiste (Ferrando). Ni même le réformisme, puisque le réformisme suppose la souveraineté de l’État national. Et il y en a encore qui jouent comme des enfants avec la panoplie du petit fasciste contre le petit communiste ? Ou du petit communiste contre le petit fasciste ? Aujourd’hui, l’ennemi, c’est la dictature des économistes néo-libéraux. Avec ceux-ci, pas de compromis ! Voilà le premier pas. Si on le fait, on pourra faire les suivants.

 

Deux mots encore à propos de la manie du vote compulsif.

 

Il est probable que l’américanisation intégrale et radicale, bien plus grave encore que l’européisme, que va apporter le gouvernement Monti, produise une diminution de la participation électorale des Italiens, qui depuis 1945 a toujours atteint des niveaux délirants. Cette compulsion électoraliste, qui est évidente chez les personnes âgées, était liée à l’opposition Démocratie chrétienne/Parti communiste; elle s’est prolongée, par inertie, au temps de Craxi, de Prodi, et de Berlusconi. Mais à présent que l’État prend tout et ne donne plus rien, elle devrait diminuer; pas assez vite, hélas ! Il y aura toujours du champ pour des clowns comme les Casini, les Veltroni, les Vendola, etc.

 

À côté de cet affaiblissement du vote compulsif, on notera un second aspect de l’américanisation : le déclin des débats sur la politique extérieure. Aux États-Unis, il est naturel que les gens ne sachent pas où sont l’Afghanistan, l’Irak, la Syrie, etc., dont les bombardements sont confiés à d’obscurs spécialistes. Les temps où tous s’intéressaient à la Corée ou au Vietnam sont bien passés, irréversiblement. Toute la caste journalistique, sans aucune exception, est devenus une parfaite machine de guerre qui produit joyeusement du mensonge.

 

Au temps de la guerre du Golfe de 1991, il y avait encore de la discussion; puis elle s’est tue. On a eu alors ce que Carl Schmitt a appelé la reductio ad hitlerum, c’est-à-dire l’attribution de tous les malheurs de la société et du monde à de féroces dictateurs, et l’invention (dont l’origine est « de gauche ») de peuples unis contre les dictateurs. Les peuples furent médiatiquement unis contre des Hitler toujours nouveaux, ennemis des droits de l’homme. Le jeu commença avec Caucescu, continua avec Noriega, puis ce furent Saddam Hussein, Ahmadinejad, Milosevic, Kadhafi, et maintenant Assad. L’histoire a été abolie; on l’a remplacée par un canevas de comédie, toujours le même : un peuple uni contre le féroce dictateur; le silence coupable de l’Occident; les « bons » dissidents, auxquels est réservé le droit à la parole. Depuis un an, je n’ai jamais entendu à la télévision manipulée un seul partisan d’Assad, et pourtant, la Syrie en est pleine.

 

C’est seulement lorsque le jeu se durcit qu’il importe que les durs commencent à jouer. Tant que règne la comédie italienne de la parodie Droite/Gauche, il en est toujours comme de ces spectacles de catch américain où tout n’est que simulation devant des spectateurs idiots.

 

État national, souveraineté nationale, programme de solidarité et de communauté nationale, non à la globalisation sous toutes ses formes, et à la dictature des économistes anglophones !

 

Costanzo Preve

Traduit de l’italien par Yves Branca

 

Notes

 

1 : cf. Diego Fusaro, Minima mercatazlia. Philosophie et capitalisme, Bompiani, Milan, 2012.

 

2 : Norberto Bobbio (1909 – 2004). Turinois, professeur de philosophie politique, socialiste, célèbre en Italie. Plusieurs de ses ouvrages ont été traduits en français. Signalons, Droite et gauche, Paris, Le Seuil, 1996; L’État et la démocratie internationale. De l’histoire des idées à la science politique, Bruxelles, Éditions Complexe, 1999. Ce dernier ouvrage est considéré comme son œuvre majeure. Costanzo Preve a correspondu avec lui et a écrit une étude critique courtoise, mais radicale, de sa pensée, comme forme classique d’un politiquement correct de gauche : Les contradictions de Norberto Bobbio. Pour une critique du bobbioisme cérémoniel, Petite plaisance, 2004.

 

3 : Fondé en 2007, par une coalition de divers courants de gauche et centristes (démocrates chrétiens); d’une tonalité analogue au Nouveau Centre, allié de l’U.M.P. en France.

 

4 : Respectivement trotskiste à la manière du Parti des travailleurs [aujourd’hui remplacé par le Parti ouvrier indépendant, N.D.L.R. d’E.M.] ou de Lutte ouvrière, et refondateur communiste. Susceptibles de s’unir dans une sorte de « front de gauche » à l’italienne. Diliberto et Ferrero cités auparavant sont les chefs de file d’autres courants gauchistes et « refondateurs communistes ».

 

5 : Preve a quant à lui retrouvé l’inspiration aristotélicienne; à ses yeux, la communauté est la société même.

 

6 : Marine Le Pen, Pour que vive la France, Grancher, Paris, février 2012.

 

• Écrit à Turin, le 3 mars 2012, et mis en ligne le jour même sur le site italien ComeDonChisciotte.

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Article printed from Europe Maxima: http://www.europemaxima.com

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Ein idealistischer Prophet der Tat

Von Günter Zehm

Ex: http://www.jungefreiheit.de/

Johann Gottlieb Fichte war nicht nur ein gewaltiger Tribun und einer der größten Philosophen, die die Welt je trug, er war vor allem auch ein bis ins letzte aufrechter, ja knorriger Mann, dem man nichts vormachen konnte. Man muß lesen, wie unnachsichtig er gegen alle Formen ziviler Geschmeidigkeit ankämpfte, wie abgrundtief seine Verachtung für beifallheischendes Literatengeschmeiß und karrierebedachte Katzbuckelei war und wie schneidend er diese Verachtung zu formulieren verstand.

Er war kleiner Leute Kind, Sohn eines Bandwirkers aus der Oberlausitz, hatte dank der Unterstützung des örtlichen Gutsbesitzers Haubold von Miltitz das berühmte Elitegymnasium Schulpforta besuchen können und danach jahrelang das Hauslehrer- und Hofmeisterschicksal der damaligen deutschen Intellektuellen geteilt. Es bedeutete für ihn viel, als er 1794 als Professor nach Jena berufen wurde, aber gerade diese Stelle verscherzte er sich bald wieder durch seine Unnachgiebigkeit.

Ein von ihm mit einem Nachwort versehener Artikel von Friedrich Karl Forberg im Philosophischen Journal hatte der Vermutung Ausdruck gegeben, daß die Existenz Gottes nicht notwendig sei für die Errichtung einer moralischen Wertordnung. Das hatte das äußerste Mißfallen diverser Obrigkeiten erregt, der berüchtigte „Atheismusstreit“ brach aus, Sachsen und Preußen drohten, die Universität Jena zu boykottieren und ihr sämtliche Fördermittel zu entziehen.

Meinungsfreiheit aus Prinzip

Fichte stimmte nicht mit dem fraglichen Aufsatz überein, doch um des Prinzips der wissenschaftlichen Freiheit willen warf er sich stürmisch in den Kampf und ließ „gerichtliche Verantwortungsschriften“ und „Appellationen an das Publikum“ erscheinen. Nicht Forberg, sondern Fichte rückte unversehens in den Fokus der Auseinandersetzung. Er wurde aus seinem Lehrverhältnis entlassen, und aufgehetzte Studenten warfen ihm abends die Fenster ein.

Der zuständige sachsen-weimarische Minister, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, der Fichte als Person an sich sehr achtete, kommentierte spöttisch: „Eine unangenehme Art, von der Existenz der Außenwelt Kenntnis zu nehmen.“ Seine Worte bezogen sich auf die Philosophie Fichtes, seine „Wissenschaftslehre“, die das berühmte „Ding an sich“ der Kantischen Theorie seiner Objektivität entkleidet und zum Produkt der dialektischen Vernunft gemacht hatte.

Goethe vermochte in Fichte nur eine Neuausgabe des seinerzeitigen englischen Bischofs George Berkeley (1685–1753) zu sehen, der das Vorhandensein einer unabhängig vom individuellen Bewußtsein existierenden Außenwelt leugnete und die Gegenstände als bloße individuelle Vorstellungen auffaßte. Die Reduktion Fichtes auf Berkeley und andere „subjektive Idealisten“ und Sensualisten ging jedoch völlig an der wesentlichen Problematik vorbei.

Das Ich setzt sich sein Nicht-Ich

Entscheidend war, daß Fichte als erster ein einheitliches voluntaristisches System entwarf, das keines Anstoßes von außen bedurfte, weil das Prinzip seiner Bewegung in ihm selbst ruhte. Es handelte sich bei diesem Prinzip nicht um irgendeinen biologischen „Trieb“, sondern um jenen Widerspruch in jedem denkenden Selbstbewußtsein, daß sich das „Ich“ nur dann als Ich denken kann, wenn es gleichzeitig auch ein „Nicht-Ich“ denkt.

Fichte konstatierte, daß sich der allgemeine Widerspruch zwischen Ich und Nicht-Ich in jeder konkreten Situation des Ich wiederhole. Immer und überall könne es nur im Nicht-Ich seine Bestimmung finden, es sei also ins Nicht-Ich hinein entfremdet, und sein wesentliches Bestreben sei es, diese Entfremdung aufzuheben und sich mit seinen konkreten Bestimmungen zu vereinigen. Dadurch aber entstehe der Weltprozeß wie auch der Prozeß jedes Individuums.

Diese Dialektik, als deren Schöpfer also mit Fug Fichte gelten kann, ist ungeheuer folgenreich gewesen: Hegel faßte ein wenig später die Entfremdung des Ich ins Nicht-Ich als „Negation“ und das Bestreben des Ich, das Nicht-Ich einzuholen, als „Negation der Negation“, baute diese Begriffe zu einer kompletten Methode aus und faßte mit ihrer Hilfe das ganze Material der damaligen Wissenschaften zu seinem epochemachenden System zusammen. Marx bediente sich bei seinen ökonomischen Analysen ebenfalls der Dialektik und gelangte dadurch zu seiner revolutionären Theorie vom Proletariat als der leibhaftigen Negation der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft.

Ein prophetischer Philosoph der Tat

Aber nicht genug damit. Dadurch, daß Fichte nicht gewillt war, die Dialektik zu objektivieren, mußte er folgerichtig zu dem Schluß gelangen, daß die Empfindung der äußeren Gegenstände nichts anderes sei als der freie Wille des Ich, sich Gegenstände zu setzen, um sie später wieder „einzuholen“, also zu zerstören. Der Denker war in erster Linie Täter, mag sein Untäter. Er formte die Welt nach seinem Willen – und nach dem Willen Gottes, von dem das Ich gleichsam ein „Teilchen“ und ein „Fünklein“ war.

Fichte war der Prophet der Tat, das Ich hatte sich bei ihm unentwegt an sozialen und politischen Konstellationen abzuarbeiten. So war er also, wie wir heute sagen würden, ein ungeheuer „engagierter“ Denker, der sich ungeniert und mit der ganzen Kraft seiner schier dämonischen Rhetorik in die politischen Händel einmischte. Er war nach seiner Vertreibung aus Jena nach Berlin gegangen, und dort stieg er in kürzester Zeit zu einem der bekanntesten Publizisten des Reiches auf.

Deutschland sah sich um die Jahrhundertwende vom 18. zum 19. Jahrhundert den massiven Angriffen und Vereinnahmungen Napoleons ausgesetzt, und der Widerstand dagegen trug entscheidend zur Formierung des Landes als moderne Nation bei. Und Fichte war (mehr noch als Herder) von der Geschichte tatsächlich dazu ausersehen, diesen objektiven Prozeß klar und machtvoll ins öffentliche Bewußtsein zu heben. Seine „Reden an die deutsche Nation“ von 1808 waren ausdrücklich als Medizin gedacht, welche den Widerstand gegen die Fremdherrschaft und den Prozeß der Nationwerdung befördern sollte.

„Wo das Licht ist, ist das Vaterland“

Nichts Dümmeres gibt es, als Fichte als geborenen „Franzosenfresser“ und die „Reden“ als Ausdruck eines ignoranten Chauvinismus hinzustellen. In den ersten Jahren der Revolution von 1789 hatte Fichte Frankreich ja noch als Hort der Freiheit gefeiert, man denke an Schriften wie „Zurückforderung der Denkfreiheit von den Fürsten Europas“. „Ubi lux, ibi patria“, schrieb er da, „wo das Licht ist, ist das Vaterland“.

Erst unter dem Einfluß der Napoleonischen Kriege gab der Philosoph seine transrheinische Begeisterung auf. „Der Staat Napoleons“, hieß es nun in den „Reden“, „kann nur immer neuen Krieg, Zerstörung und Verwüstung erzeugen. Man kann damit zwar die Erde ausplündern und wüste machen und sie zu einem dumpfen Chaos zerreiben, nimmermehr aber sie zu einer Universalmonarchie ordnen.“

Zur selben Zeit, da Fichte vor größter Öffentlichkeit in Berlin seine Reden an die deutsche Nation hielt, trug er vor akademischem Publikum auch seine „Grundzüge des gegenwärtigen Zeitalters“ vor, will sagen: seine Geschichtsphilosophie, die natürlich ein überzeitliches, jeder politischen Aktualität enthobenes historisches Schema zu liefern begehrte. Dennoch bereitet es hohen Reiz, die „Reden“ sich in den „Grundzügen“ spiegeln zu lassen und umgekehrt.

Deutschland zum Licht heben

Fichte unterschied drei gesellschaftliche Grundstadien. Da ist erstens das „arkadische Zeitalter“, in dem primitive Zustände und allenfalls ein „Vernunftinstinkt“ herrschen, und zweitens das sogenannte „Zeitalter der vollendeten Sündhaftigkeit“, in dem das Gemeinwesen sich von sich selbst entfremdet hat und in unendlich viele divergierende Individuen auseinandergefallen ist. In dieser Sündhaftigkeit, daran läßt der Philosoph keinen Zweifel, leben wir jetzt.

Abgelöst aber wird diese Ära der Sündhaftigeit, drittens, vom „elysischen Zeitalter“, dem Zeitalter der „Vernunftkunst“. Dieses letzte Zeitalter, meint Fichte, wird sich erheben, wenn die sündhafte Willkür der Individuen ihren Höhepunkt erreicht hat und sie nur noch wie Atome konturlos durcheinanderschwirren. Angesichts der politischen Zustände im damaligen Deutschland mag der Geschichtsdenker ernsthaft überzeugt gewesen sein, daß das Zeitalter der Sündhaftigkeit nun also komplett sei und es „nur“ noch der Zusammenfassung aller individuellen Energien bedürfe, um Deutschland zu einem Land des Lichts und der Vernunft emporzuheben.

Wenn Fichte gut von den Deutschen sprach, dann sprach er immer in der Zukunft. In den „Reden“ betont er an vielen Stellen, daß eine Erhebung aus dem gegenwärtigen Zustande einzig unter der Bedingung denkbar sei, daß dem deutschen Volk eine neue Welt aufginge. Johann Gottlieb Fichte starb im Januar 1814, mitten im Siegeslärm der Befreiungskriege, am Lazarettfieber, das seine Frau, die in einem Hospital verwundete Landsturmleute pflegte, von daher mitgebracht hatte.

Ein tragisch-banaler, früher Tod. Aber er ersparte dem großen Philosophen immerhin so manche Enttäuschung, die die Nachkriegszeit mit ihren Demagogenverfolgungen und ihrer feigen Biedermeierei mit sich brachte. Sein Vermächtnis weht uns heute wundersam ungebrochen an.

Rousseau et la postmodernité

Rousseau et la postmodernité

par Claude BOURRINET

 

Jean-Jacques Rousseau est sans doute l’humain qui est parvenu le mieux à contrecarrer l’emprise du Christ sur les consciences, les cœurs et les habitudes. Jamais un individu n’a connu une influence aussi universelle que ce fils d’artisan. Le lire est parcourir un territoire étrangement familier. Ses bonheurs, ses souffrances, ses aspirations et ses désespoirs, nous les avons vécus, nous les vivons, ou il nous a préparés à les consentir. Si le Fils de l’Homme nous a ouvert le royaume des cieux, lui, l’orphelin de naissance, nous a fait découvrir le royaume de l’intérieur, cette terra incognita, source de tous les enchantements et de tous les déchirements. Le premier, il a offert au monde une recette, le roman de soi-même, et, à sa suite, pour paraphraser Andy Warhol, n’importe qui peut obtenir, non sans doute à coup sûr son quart d’heure de gloire, du moins le sentiment d’avoir quelque chose à dire, sinon que cela soit intéressant, puisque c’est dit par quelqu’un qui est soi. La raison du succès, du triomphe de Rousseau est bien d’avoir réussi à parer la banalité de l’apparat du romanesque. Après lui, aucune mise en cause de la médiocrité n’est plus possible, par ce seul fait qu’elle reçoit l’onction de l’advenu, de l’existant, qui englobe toutes choses, tant l’existence est bien ce qui s’ouvre à tous les possibles, fussent-ils banals. Aussi notre monde semble-il saturé de légitimités démultipliées mais vacillantes, en mal de reconnaissances, qui souffrent ardemment de ne pas participer à ce qui leur revient de droit, et qui s’en trouvent mises en croix.

 

Qui n’a pas lu passionnément les Confessions à dix-sept ans, sans perdre le sommeil, ne sait pas ce qu’est la littérature. Ce diable d’homme présente tous les charmes d’un dieu. Sa phrase étourdit, enchante, enivre, et ce n’est certes pas un hasard qu’il fût d’abord un musicien. Et pourtant, dans le même temps qu’on l’adore, le vénère – et l’on comprend très bien que plusieurs générations de jeunes gens aient fait le pèlerinage d’Ermenonville – on se met à l’exécrer, voire à le mépriser.

 

L’homme Rousseau est indissociable de sa pensée, et réciproquement. Les romans et les œuvres autobiographiques, qui traduisent sa sensibilité et son imagination, sont aussi signifiants du point de vue théorique que le sont ses essais par rapport à tout ce qui intéresse sa vie affective. Cherchant plus à justifier un comportement qu’à prouver la vérité d’un système, ses écrits, même les plus abstraits, seront une apologie de Jean-Jacques. Le Contrat social n’est-il pas un moyen civique de rétablir une « sympathie des âmes », évoquée de façon si sublime dans la rencontre avec Madame de Warens, à l’échelle d’une nation, en conjurant le « maléfice de l’apparence » qu’aurait incarné le système de la représentation politique ?

 

Il suit par-là une démarche contraire à ce qui était admis à l’âge classique, c’est-à-dire la séparation entre l’individu privé, qui n’intéresse pas, ce « misérable petit tas de secrets », et l’auteur, celui qui crée une œuvre faite pour le public et, avec un peu de chance et de talent, pour la postérité. Bien que, dans le fond, une telle dissociation entre la personne et sa création soit problématique. Car si, par exemple, Racine fut un courtisan parvenu, doté d’un bon sens pratique, il est aventureux d’avancer que ses tragédies fussent radicalement étrangères à sa vision du monde, qui pouvait être, comme son éducation l’y conduisait, janséniste. Toutefois il ne vivait pas selon les préceptes de Port-Royal. Les mêmes remarques, malgré les paradoxes de Valéry, qui insistait sur le rôle de l’artifex, valent pour La Fontaine, et tous les auteurs classiques qui fuyaient la singularité, contraire au modèle de l’honnête homme, et visaient l’homme en soi, universel. Selon le mot de Buffon, le style est l’homme-même, non l’être particulier, différent de tous les autres, mais l’empreinte dans son écriture de ce qui fait la spécificité de l’humanité, la raison, la clarté et l’ordre. Au fond, cette appréhension de la création littéraire, et, par-delà, politique, demeurera jusqu’à la fin du XVIIIe siècle, puisque les philosophes projettent de reconstruire, par une psychologie jugée universelle, quels que soient l’espace et le temps, une société idéale. Le seul changement d’une universalité à l’autre est que celle du XVIIe siècle ambitionnait de dresser un inventaire, tandis que celle des Lumières, plus injonctive, fixe un horizon à atteindre. Et c’est bien en cela que Rousseau ne peut être dit « romantique », car son propos débouche sur l’universalité, non seulement dans son projet politique, mais aussi dans l’exemplarité de sa singularité, qui n’est si bloquée dans l’immédiateté, si perdue dans l’irrationnel, mais qui cherche à trouver une similarité entre les hommes, cet « état de nature » enfoui, occulté, et néanmoins présent, susceptible de restaurer une communication sur le mode de l’émotion et de la sensibilité « naïve ».

 

Rousseau paraissait emprunter, dans sa méthode, une voie déductive, s’en tenant à des principes. En affirmant la souveraineté du peuple, il en avait tiré, rigoureusement, toutes les implications. Il quêtait aussi, dans la marque profonde qu’avait laissée l’origine de l’homme, un accès au bonheur, pour peu que l’on s’évertuât d’éliminer toutes les passions factices, les habitudes pernicieuses, qui déparent le cœur de l’homme. Cette idée est reprise dans le Supplément au Voyage de Bougainville, de Diderot, qui répudie la société occidentale et sa religion moralisatrice, au bénéfice de la vie naturelle fondée sur une morale mêlant plaisir et raison. Chez de nombreux penseurs antérieurs à Rousseau écrivain, comme Montesquieu, dans Les Lettres persanes, les vertus pouvaient s’allier aux jouissances, les passions, à conditions qu’elles fussent simples, étaient bonnes. Vauvenargues, Duclos, Toussaint, Helvétius, d’Holbach partageaient cette conviction.

 

Rousseau n’était donc pas le seul à fonder sa morale sur le sentiment. Tout son siècle l’y portait, les sermons, les prières, les odes, les élégies, les manuels de piété, les romans, les mémoires, les correspondances, un siècle nourri essentiellement de pensée anglaise, et notamment de Locke, qui mettait la sensibilité avant la réflexion, en qualité et dans l’ordre de la succession des étapes de construction de l’être humain. Rousseau le répète : j’ai senti avant de penser. Le quiétisme lui-même s’en prenait à la raison. Les libertins, au sens philosophique, comme Du Bos, en 1719, plaçaient le sentiment à l’origine du goût artistique et poétique. Mais c’est Rousseau qui explicita le mieux et le plus profondément ce qui était diffus dans le cercle assez fermé des intellectuels, et, surtout, qui en fit une règle de vie, en réformant cette dernière radicalement (vitam impedere vero), décision qui, après avoir suscité une sorte de fascination dans Le Monde, aboutit, à force de scandales, et singulièrement à l’occasion de la parution des Confessions, à la réprobation. Étaler son moi sans pudeur – et l’adoption du costume arménien en est une sorte d’emblème – n’était pas encore de bon aloi. Jean-Jacques ne manifestait pas la retenue qui sied aux gens de la bonne société, dont faisaient partie Voltaire, Diderot, Helvétius, ces « messieurs ». Il fut chassé de France, L’Émile fut brûlé par le Parlement (cette même bourgeoisie d’affaires et de chicane qui contestait obstinément la monarchie et conduirait cette dernière au désastre), son Contrat social, en même temps que son traité pédagogique, subissaient le même autodafé à Genève, qu’il admirait. La Profession de foi du vicaire savoyard, en s’attaquant à la religion civile, que Voltaire jugeait indispensable pour maintenir l’ordre, et que Rousseau lui-même, peu conséquent, accepte dans son Contrat social, était une déclaration de guerre aux philosophes rationalistes et à la société. Car se suffire du sentiment, c’est dénier l’autorité extérieure, et les intermédiaires entre le moi et le monde. La religiosité vague et affective conduit au bonheur, et l’on peut se passer des autres, sauf d’un cœur aimé. Le petit paradis utopique du lac de Genève, avec sa vache, son petit bateau, réminiscence des pastorales de L’Astrée, est renvoyé à la face d’une société hypocrite et viciée par la « civilisation ». La réponse de cette « société », étrangement, est aussi violente que l’est la provocation de Jean-Jacques, qui est ainsi contraint de se réfugier, vainement, en Suisse, à Genève, dont on l’exclut, puis d’Yverdon, de Motiers, de l’Île Saint-Pierre, où il connaît le même sort.

 

La présence d’une nature primitive au cœur de l’homme, assimilée à sa dimension enfantine, à une pureté détruite par une société mauvaise, garantit l’innocence de Jean-Jacques, et son authenticité. L’obstacle éprouvé de façon réitérée dans son commerce avec autrui est l’équivalent des corps intermédiaires qui empêchent, en la déviant, l’expression franche et intégrale du peuple. La démocratie directe, la volonté générale peut se passer de forme positive, car il suffit qu’elle existe pour emplir tout le champ de la puissance. En s’aliénant, elle reconnaît à l’État le droit de la refléter, comme un miroir. Comment cet État prend-il forme, et quel est son mode concret de délégation – s’il en est – de son autorité, c’est un mystère. Il est comme un Dieu du cœur qui n’existe que parce qu’il touche le sentiment, c’est-à-dire le peuple. Les débats sont aussi inutiles que la réflexion philosophique. Le peuple peut se passer du paraître, puisque la cité intégrale est son être. La rupture entre la source de la légitimité et les corps constitués, qui sont les héritiers d’une histoire et l’ajustement des équilibres entre les forces sociales antagonistes, sous le prétexte d’effacer les abus et les préjugés, les illusions, le « voile » et les mensonges rhétoriques, et d’éliminer les masques et les rôles, ouvre une béance dans laquelle s’engouffrent tous les possibles, la révolution permanente des désirs insatisfaits et des violences compensatrices. Le gouvernement des hommes en devient impossible. Rousseau offre à ses contemporains, et à la postérité, bien plus que des philosophes comme Voltaire, qui avaient pensé la fausseté nécessaire à toute organisation humaine, le fantasme d’une société transparente.

 

Car si le péché est absent dans la pensée des Lumières, la morale naturelle s’en passant bien, cependant il réapparaît comme faute involontaire dans la perspective du lien social qui, par les quiproquos inévitables des relations, voile la transparence originelle de l’existence, dont le langage est musique du cœur, poésie de l’immédiat plutôt que prose de la médiation. À ce compte, personne n’est responsable, hormis les autres qui imposent leur regard aliénant, parce que collectif, social et inquisiteur, comme lors de l’épisode du ruban volé l’assemblée des « on » menée par le comte de La Roque, qui précipite dans les rets du démon un Jean-Jacques voleur, menteur et calomniateur, malgré lui. La modernité porte avec elle, et l’atomisation sociale et psychologique qui en constituent la substance, la renonciation à la charge de la faute, ce qui ne signifie nullement que la souffrance en ait disparu. « Ô Julie ! s’exclame saint-Preux dans La Nouvelle Héloïse, que c’est un fatal présent du ciel qu’une âme sensible ! ».

 

Si la réalité est évacuée, reste l’imaginaire comme possession de soi, en l’occurrence la littérature, le roman et les Vies illustres de Plutarque, où Rousseau trouve les racines de son esprit républicain, avec cependant l’expérience douloureuse de l’injustice subie quand il est accusé par la famille de son oncle d’avoir brisé un peigne, vers l’âge de dix ans. Il est à souligner néanmoins que cet épisode mêle intimement des souvenir affectifs singulièrement surévalués, et des bribes déclinées de rhétorique romaine, l’émotion et la déclamation grandiloquente étant pour ainsi dire l’une des marques de fabrique du discours de cette époque (mais heureusement pas la seule). Du reste, le « patriotisme » de Rousseau, contraire au cosmopolitisme de la haute société aristocratique, mais tout de même non sans parenté avec les convictions des philosophes dans leur ensemble, se nourrit de souvenirs prégnants d’une enfance assimilée au paradis perdu, et à l’amour, non partagé, pour une Genève qui constituera pour lui un modèle politique. Finalement, Rousseau ne s’est-il pas « fait » un personnage, un fantôme de spartiate qui ira épater l’aristo dans les salons, avant d’avoir recours, avant l’heure, aux forêts ? « Je me croyais Grec ou Romain », dit-il dans ses Confessions.

 

Car c’est bien là un paradoxe de Rousseau, qui n’en ai pas dépourvu : lui qui cherche la transparence, l’ostentation d’un moi épuré, sinon pur, un moi de vérité, un moi naturel, n’évolue vraiment à son aise que dans l’artifice imaginaire, la confection de rôles, l’aliénation de soi dans le fantasme. S’exhibe-t-il à Turin ? Il s’en sort, devant le gendarme qui l’a arrêté dans une cave, en prétendant être un jeune prince étranger en fuite. Plus tard, dans ses pérégrinations, il se rêvera maréchal de France ou trouvère. Ses « chimères » le portent même à changer de nom : prenant pour modèle un musicien aventurier, douteux et brillant, se nommant Venture, il substitue à son patronyme celui de Vaussore de Villeneuve, et se met en tête de passer pour un compositeur et directeur d’orchestre auprès des bonnes gens de Lausanne, qui ont vite fait de le démasquer. Sa sexualité s’inspire des mêmes détours, pour parvenir à la jouissance d’être : il ne peut, de son aveu même, parvenir au plaisir sans être fessé, comme il le fut à dix ans par Mlle Lambercier. L’écriture, notamment celle de son autobiographie, boucle technique, par un long détour retardateur, signe de ce signe qu’est la parole, opaque instrument qui sert paradoxalement à se cacher pour se révéler, pour trouver une nouvelle patrie de l’âme et de sa sensibilité, lui permet de revenir à lui-même, mais en se narrant, en racontant le roman de Jean-Jacques, que l’anamnèse met dans une perspective savamment orientée. Starobinsky souligne que Rousseau a retrouvé le mythe platonicien du retour d’exil de l’âme, en quête de l’absolu qu’est l’enfance lovée en nous. Mais singulier dé-couvrement que de se couvrir du vêtement de l’authenticité, qui risque parfois de se transformer en tunique de Nessus… L’acceptation du monde comme il est, de sa folie, si l’on veut, résignation amusée et quelque peu mélancolique parfois que l’on trouvait chez Marivaux dans son théâtre, et surtout dans ce savoureux plaidoyer pour le mensonge doux et jouissif qu’est Le Paysan parvenu, sans compter les romans libertins, tels ceux de Crébillon, est une sagesse que ne peut comprendre un Jean-Jacques raidi par l’obstacle qu’il voit partout dans la quête d’une coïncidence avec lui-même. Même lorsqu’il y parvient, comme sur l’Île Saint-Pierre, ou dans tel passage des Confession, face à un paysage sublime de montagne, ou dans tel bocage du Forez, c’est toujours avec quelque référence littéraire qu’il l’effectue, par exemple le passage des Alpes par Hannibal et ses éléphants, ou l’inévitable Astrée d’Honoré d’Urfé, ou bien en projetant sa subjectivité dans l’objet, comme le feront les romantiques. On a en effet parfois procédé abusivement à des comparaisons entre ces instants où le temps semble s’arrêter, y compris dans la mouvance phénoménale du monde, où la conscience semble s’oublier pour adhérer à l’instant essentiel, comme si l’être même était saisi par la contemplation, et le bouddhisme zazen, si prisé à notre époque. Mais c’est peut-être là une illusion. Car, outre la réfection par l’écriture de tels moments du passé, re-façonnage qui octroie à l’expérience, par le souvenir formalisé, un surcroît d’intensité (« Les objets font moins d’impression sur moi que leurs souvenirs », écrit-il), le bonheur de paix évoqué n’est qu’une fusion momentanée d’une subjectivité avec la perception, un miroir de soi-même, comme l’illustrait parfaitement cet autre rousseauiste qu’était Stendhal (il est vrai mâtiné de voltairianisme), qui écrivait, dans La Vie de Henri Brulard, que le paysage était comme un archet qui jouait sur son âme. Au demeurant, quelles descriptions concrètes avons-nous, qui donnent prise à la remarque, fondée néanmoins, que Rousseau nous fit voir la montagne ? Les passages qu’il chante, par exemple au début de La Nouvelle Héloïse, la montagne valaisanne (songeons à l’opéra italien, qu’il affectionnait) sont les relations, surtout, de ses dispositions intérieures, de ses réactions : le paysage, tout à coup délivré du « voile » qui s’était abattu après l’« injustice » de Bossey, est celui de son âme et de son cœur, et nous en dit plus sur Jean-Jacques que sur une « nature » dont il est ardu de saisir le concept, si tant est qu’il n’y en ait qu’un. Comme Rousseau l’expliquera dans sa troisième Lettre à Malesherbes, l’expérience intuitive ne rend pas vraiment nécessaire le dévoilement matériel de la nature – en quoi il rejoint Augustin et Pétrarque. En mêlant, comme par « magie », passivité et conscience aiguë, il parvient à nier l’espace, ou plutôt à s’épandre en lui, à fusionner avec le tout, à éprouver le sentiment de légèreté que donnerait un état de lévitation doublé d’une impression d’ubiquité. La « découverte » du paysage, comme chacun sait, est une construction. De Lorenzetti à Gainsborough, l’ouverture de l’œil à la beauté extérieure est une illusion, car cet organe de la vision est tourné davantage vers l’intériorité. En suivant l’histoire du paysage en Occident, nous pouvons y suivre la trajectoire d’une subjectivité de plus en plus envahissante, fondée surtout sur le sentiment, l’affectivité, la reconnaissance de l’individu singulier, et un sublime que Burke a explicité en 1757, cinq ans avant la parution de La Nouvelle Héloïse. Dans une société holiste, intégrale, où la subjectivité ne s’est pas détachée de l’Ordre universel, il n’existe pas de paysage.

 

Du reste, la question de savoir si le refus de l’argent, de l’industrie, du travail (considéré comme le premier signe de la suffisance et de l’orgueil), du Paris sophistiqué et mondain traduit un conservatisme virulent, est sans doute une interrogation viciée, dans la mesure où adhésion et rejets doivent s’appréhender en fonction d’une perspective historique donnée et d’un contexte déterminé qui procure sa véritable signification, toute relative, aux phénomènes culturels et sociaux qu’il inclut. Ainsi la critique « écologique » de la technique menée par Heidegger présente une autre profondeur qu’une recherche hédoniste d’un coin vert pour y passer sa retraite. De même la vision négative que Rousseau détient de l’argent est-elle plus proche de l’hégélianisme de gauche et des Manuscrits de 44 du jeune Marx à la recherche de l’authenticité humaine, que du Marx de la maturité. Rousseau relate ses réticences à entrer dans une pâtisserie, par répugnance à compliquer une relation qui aurait dû être très simple, « naturelle ». Le larcin sera, pour lui, plus moral que le truchement faux d’une monnaie qui s’apparente au commerce langagier. Quoiqu’il ne soit évidemment pas faux de mettre l’accent sur la dimension aliénante de l’argent (et du langage), il est aventureux d’en faire un geste conservateur, ou même révolutionnaire. Telle posture obéit souvent à un conformisme imitatif ou paresseux. Un bobo actuel qui, en villégiature dans sa maison de campagne, proteste contre le bruit des tracteurs ou des tronçonneuses, est-il pour autant « conservateur », lui qui, peut-être, aimera conduire un tout terrain ? Nietzsche pensait que l’aristocratie européenne avait entamé son déclin au début du XVIIe siècle, et que le signe de cette décadence était l’entichement pour la pastorale, cette fuite utopique vers un imaginaire pacifié, romanesque et amollissant. Louis XV avait montré du goût pour le Devin du village. Le penchant de Marie-Antoinette pour les Bergeries n’était somme toute qu’une annonce subliminale de la tragédie à venir : en optant pour les moutons, on se livrait à la fureur d’un Danton à la chevelure léonine. L’expression superlative de la subjectivité, ombre du baroque, est le pendant de la construction mathématique et mécaniste d’un univers désormais accessible à la raison. Honoré d’Urfé et l’opéra offrent un parallèle avec Galilée et Descartes, de la même façon que le préromantisme, dont Rousseau est une figure, est le double inversé du rationalisme des Lumières. Mais au fond, ces deux pôles représentent les deux orientations d’un pendule historique qui ne possède qu’une seule et même finalité, celle, occidentale, de mettre fin, un jour, au vieux monde. La Raison instrumentale et le moi hyperbolique sont deux expressions d’une modernité agissante, deux machines qui œuvrent de concert. La Révolution, par exemple, qu’on a voulu considérer comme l’immixtion de la Raison dans l’histoire, est une formidable explosion de passion romantique.

 

L’adoption du style romain, et des mœurs spartiates, n’étonne pas. Ce siècle, dont l’élite cultivée a appris la rhétorique oratoire républicaine chez les jésuites – il n’est qu’à lire le discours du Vieillard tahitien dans le Supplément au voyage de Bougainville, de Diderot -, même si Rousseau fut un autodidacte – mais ses Discours sont des exercices scolaires, des  compositions de concours – est imprégné d’Antique. À l’époque du marxisme triomphant, un débat d’école a parfois mis aux prises ceux qui pensaient que les idées ont quelque importance dans l’orientation des événements, et leurs adversaires, qui privilégient la puissance de l’action en considérant que les références idéologiques sont des habillements, ou des servantes de la politique pratique. Au fond, l’éclatement de la révolution fut une incroyable expérimentation, puisqu’elle sembla illustrer ce que l’on avait mis un siècle à élaborer théoriquement. Il ne faut pas croire pour autant que les acteurs d’un combat qui changeait de figure à une vitesse extrême, et qui, dans le sang et les cris, s’éliminaient les uns et les autres de façon expéditive, tenaient des livres dans une main pendant que la seconde arborait la pique. Une idée quitte le papier imprimé pour se diffuser dans la société, quitte à se diluer et à perdre de sa profondeur, pour parvenir, de manière plus ou moins confuse jusqu’à la conscience des hommes, à qui elle apporte une certaine compréhension de ce qu’ils font. Que seraient devenus Voltaire et Rousseau s’ils avaient vécu jusqu’à la terreur ? Voltaire, anglophile, aurait peut-être été emporté avec les monarchiens, à moins qu’il eût partagé le sort des Girondins, quoiqu’il eût été plus vraisemblable qu’il fût resté à l’abri à la frontière suisse. Rousseau est l’un des rares républicains des Lumières, un membre du tiers état.  Dans  son Discours sur l’origine de l’inégalité…, paraphrasant le Montaigne des Cannibales, mais avec une indignation violente que le Bordelais n’avait pas, il s’exclame : « Il est manifestement contre la loi de nature, de quelque manière qu’on la définisse, qu’un enfant commande à un vieillard, qu’un imbécile conduise un homme sage et qu’une poignée de gens regorge de superfluités, tandis que la multitude affamée manque du nécessaire ». Cette rhétorique enflammée, tout à fait contraire au conservatisme, lequel, du moins si l’on s’en tient à la surface des choses, a justement pour fonction de persuader que les « absurdités » relèvent d’une haute sagesse alliée à la folie des hommes, ne pouvait qu’aller droit au cœur des sans-culottes. Mais notre Genevois aurait-il supporté la promiscuité des militants, lui, le solitaire, l’ermite ? Au même moment, Henri Beyle, qui avait onze ans, et qui venait, sous l’œil horrifié de sa famille, de manifester la plus grande joie à l’exécution du roi, en qui il voyait une doublure de son père, fréquentait avec écœurement le cercle grenoblois des Jacobins, avec lesquels il se jugeait en parfait accord politique, mais qui avaient le défaut d’être sales et de puer. Pour jauger de l’influence de Rousseau, il ne faut pas s’arrêter au seul Robespierre, qui était en effet rousseauiste. C’est au niveau des sectionnaires des clubs, chez les Montagnards de base, et surtout les enragés, qu’il s’agit de le retrouver, et surtout après le 2 juin 93, où la démocratie directe chère à l’admirateur de Genève semblait s’imposer. On y découvre des comportements de « gauche », la revendication de l’égalité, du « maximum », c’est-à-dire l’expression du ressentiment social, ainsi qu’une antique mémoire des soulèvements populaires français, fondés sur une vision utopique, la guillotine étant comme une déesse vorace, Kali en action, rendant tout le monde à une commune condition nivelée. Mais il y a aussi la tentation putschiste, l’antiparlementarisme que l’on rencontrera  le 18 Brumaire, et qui, là, s’exprime en menaçant les représentants du peuple avec les bouches de canons. C’est peut-être, paradoxalement, dans la relation fusionnelle entre un empereur et la France que s’exprimera le mieux cette volonté populaire qui irrigue le Contrat social. De même Valmy avait fait prendre conscience que la Nation existait, et combattait. Être « patriote » désignait son appartenance. C’était une idée nouvelle, comme le bonheur. Elle n’était nullement conservatrice. La nation, le patriotisme seront d’abord de « gauche », avant d’être, après l’affaire Dreyfus, l’apanage de la droite.

 

Rousseau « anarchiste » ? « Fasciste » ? Peut-être les deux. Mais en tout cas furieusement moderne, et même postmoderne. Edmund Burke, dans son essai polémique sur la Révolution française, s’en prit aux idéologues des Lumières qui, répudiant tout legs historique, toute tradition, toute mémoire sédimentée du passé, avec ses préjugés, ses croyances, ses certitudes, fondaient la nouvelle société sur le mythe du progrès, et surtout sur une vision atomique de la société, théorisée par Hobbes, sur une assemblée d’individus libres qui décidaient de se lier par un contrat. La critique du conservateur anglais est d’une pertinence inégalée. Il ne s’agit pas de reprendre son argumentation, bien qu’on aurait tout intérêt à observer de près l’éducation que prône Rousseau dans L’Émile, apprentissage qui est censé se passer des sciences, de l’Histoire et des livres.

 

Dans son dernier livre consacré aux « pédagogues » (Essai historique sur l’utopie pédagogique, Éditions du Cerf), Jean de Viguerie analyse L’Émile ou de l’éducation (1762). Il relève que les personnages de ce traité-fiction sont abstraits : Émile n’a « ni parents, ni frères et sœurs », et le gouverneur « n’a pas de nom », ni de passé apparent. Le propre du « conservateur » étant une prédilection particulière pour la généalogie, la filiation, la lignée, Rousseau s’inscrit manifestement dans ce qui lui est contraire. Le but de l’ouvrage, en effet, n’est pas de préserver un héritage, mais de « façonner » un être. On est dans le constructivisme pur. L’« éducateur » a, de ce fait, un rôle majeur, puisqu’il est le maître de sa créature. Nul moyen d’échapper à cette emprise, à l’opposé de l’être inséré dans une tradition, socle solide à partir duquel il est en mesure d’affronter l’altérité du monde. Tout au contraire, Émile est le jouet des lubies de son formateur, comme le sont les élèves de maintenant. Pire, il est manipulé : « Qu’il croie toujours être le maître, enseigne Jean-Jacques au gouverneur, et que ce soit vous qui le soyez. Il n’y a point d’assujettissement si parfait que celui qui garde l’apparence de la liberté; on captive ainsi la volonté même » ». Le pédagogue marie entre autre sa marionnette à vingt-deux ans, à la jeune fille qu’il lui a choisie. Après ces préceptes d’un impeccable cynisme, et qui sont susceptibles d’être transférés dans le champ politique, dans une démocratie directe, par exemple, Rousseau s’attache à faire de son élève un parfait imbécile. Il suivra les mouvements de sa nature, sans plus, puis apprendra un métier manuel. Le savoir sera répudié comme inutile : « J’enseigne, dit-il, un art très long, très pénible, c’est celui d’être ignorant ». Il y parvient fort bien, et, en refusant les livres, « il refuse l’héritage que la cité porte en elle, l’héritage transmis par la tradition et par les livres », vouant le jeune Émile à une solitude intellectuelle, culturelle fatale. Solitude qui est le lot de l’homme moderne, l’exil de la table rase.

 

Comme Descartes rejetait l’illusion de la perception, Rousseau, en effet, dans  son Discours sur l’origine et les fondements de l’inégalité parmi les hommes, opuscule au demeurant remarquable par ses intuitions anthropologiques et ethnologiques, que Diderot fera siennes dans son Supplément au Voyage de Bougainville, commence par « écarter les faits », et s’en tient « à des raisonnements hypothétiques et conditionnels ». Autrement dit, il refuse l’apport de la tradition historiographique pour aller aux principes. Concrètement, jusqu’à l’innocence qui subsiste sous les strates de vices que le Mal a déposés dans ce temps où l’homme s’est écarté de l’état de nature. Rousseau, qui n’est pas à un paradoxe près, est un patriote qui refuse le passé. Comme l’utopie contemporaine, libérale et mondialiste prétend la réaliser, il rêve d’une fin de l’Histoire. Elle est une longue série de souffrances, le triomphe de l’injustice, de l’inégalité, de l’esclavage et du mensonge, lequel est porté par l’opacité d’un langage qui a rompu avec la langue originelle, proche de la musique. De ce fait, l’art de la « tromperie » est aussi supprimé : l’étude des langues, des humanités, de la rhétorique est exclue.  Rhétorique dont Rousseau était parvenu à répandre le charme dans toutes les bonnes familles de l’aristocratie française, bien heureuse de pouvoir frissonner ou pleurer sur les souffrances de l’âme sensible !

 

L’être idéal est donc déraciné, détaché de tout lien autre que ceux qu’il s’est donnés, ou qu’on a fait en sorte qu’il acquière. Livré au flot des sensations, qui le portent à la connaissance de lui-même, perception en premier lieu empirique, mais aussi imprégnée d’une potion onirique envoûtante, toujours en passe de devenir poison, pharmakon portatif à l’usage de l’individu en quémande de place sociale et de reconnaissance, Jean-Jacques est atteint de dromomanie, d’errance frénétique, sa « manie ambulante », comme il le dit lui-même. En effet, partir, c’est se délivrer des contingences de la vie sociale, c’est s’abstraire des rets de la « politesse », des civilités contraintes, et c’est aussi s’arracher à un passé, sans avoir encore abouti à une condition qui reste à l’état de projet, ou plutôt d’hypothétique destination. Il y a du bouchon qui flotte dans le voyage, surtout s’il obéit aux caprices de la fantaisie et des plaisirs du changement. Le monde en est livré, délivré, libre, comme une page blanche offerte à l’imagination créatrice. La réalité y perd son poids d’angoisse. La solitude n’y est plus pénible. Jean-Jacques se trouve au « pays des chimères ». Ses vertiges, au bord des gouffres, lui procurent les délices du vide. Et, à pieds, il parcourt des centaines de kilomètres, quitte à repousser avec horreur les parcelles de réalité déplaisante qui, malgré tout, parviennent quand même à égratigner ses rêves, comme dans le Forez, ou à Vevey, le lieu-même où se situe le cadre de La Nouvelle Héloïse !, où il trouve étrangement que « le pays et le peuple dont il est couvert ne [lui avaient]  jamais paru faits l’un pour l’autre ». La patrie de Jean-Jacques peut être dépeuplée, pourvu qu’elle soit pittoresque.

 

Bien que Baudelaire semblât donner raison à Rousseau, en enjoignant, dans son article « Prométhée délivré », de ne jamais  confondre « les fantômes de la raison avec les fantômes de l’imagination [car] ceux-là sont des équations, et ceux-ci des êtres et des souvenirs » – et il affirmait, à la ligne précédente : « Or, la grande poésie est essentiellement bête, elle croit, et c’est ce qui fait sa gloire et sa force », toutes remarques qui siéent parfaitement à Rousseau, qui fut un immense poète, il n’avait pas de mots assez durs pour ridiculiser – au même titre que George Sand, cette « vache à lait de la littérature » (comme l’écrivait plaisamment Nietzsche) – un spécimen quasiment pur de plébéien, de révolté démoniaque, représentant d’une modernité démocratique détestée pour qui, disait-il dans ses « Notes nouvelles sur Edgar Poe », « une sensibilité blessée et prompte à la révolte [tenait] lieu de philosophie ». Le poète des Fleurs du Mal partageait le même mépris que Hegel pour « la soi-disant philosophie » selon qui « la vérité est ce que chacun laisse s’élever de son cœur, de son sentiment et de son enthousiasme sur les objets moraux, particulièrement sur l’État, le gouvernement, la constitution ». Et Hegel ajoutait, dans la préface des Principes de la philosophie du droit : « Cette platitude consiste essentiellement à faire reposer la science, non pas sur le développement des pensées et des concepts, mais sur le sentiment immédiat et l’imagination contingente, et à dissoudre dans la bouillie du cœur, de l’amitié et de l’enthousiasme cette riche articulation intime du monde moral qu’est l’État, son architecture rationnelle […] ».

 

Il est vraisemblable que Rousseau aurait fait bon ménage avec les « Indignés » actuels. Mais, plus largement, nous retrouvons chez lui les traits du Narcisse postmoderne, que Christopher Lasch a analysés, ce produit du monde néolibéral, sensualiste, hédoniste, individualiste, rétif aux contraintes, à la hiérarchie, au principe de réalité, pétri de contradictions, son égocentrisme, ses « illusions sporadiques d’omnipotence » ayant besoin, notamment, d’autrui « pour s’estimer lui-même ». Lasch ajoute, comme pour expliquer la vocation d’écrivain de Jean-Jacques, et ses justifications copieuses : « il ne peut vivre sans un public qui l’adore ». Mirabeau fait cette reproche à Rousseau : « Vous avez beaucoup vécu dans l’opinion des autres », et ce dernier : « J’aimerais mieux être oublié de tout le genre humain que regardé comme un homme ordinaire ».  Mais tout le monde n’est pas Rousseau, dût-on écrire sa vie.

 

Comme lui, le Narcisse postmoderne, ayant refusé le péché originel, « est hanté, non par la culpabilité [Rousseau aura toujours une explication idoine pour la transférer sur la société – y compris après l’abandon de ses enfants] mais par l’anxiété ». Pour la combattre, pour ainsi dire de manière thérapeutique, il s’agit de « vivre dans l’instant […] vivre pour soi-même, et non pour ses ancêtres ou la postérité ». C’est pourquoi « […] la dépréciation du passé est devenue l’un des symptômes les plus significatifs de la crise culturelle […] ». La quête de la reconnaissance presse d’« […] établir des rapports authentiques avec autrui », ce qui, paradoxalement, rend propice la prolifération de cet artifice qu’est la « rhétorique de l’authenticité ». Le refus des codes, des conventions, et d’une certaine « hypocrisie » (comédie, jeu théâtral) inhérente à la vie sociale a pour conséquence une régression vers l’enfance, sur le mode de l’expression instinctive, et la tentation de se perdre dans le sentiment océanique de la vie, décliné à l’infini par le marché des nouvelles spiritualités, qui offre ce qu’Emerson appelle « une relation primordiale avec l’univers » », et aussi par un tourisme, un nomadisme avide de perte de soi dans un univers « exotique » (ou dans les aéroports), qui n’est en fait que le fantasme d’êtres inquiets, de cette grosse classe moyenne qui a colonisé la société.

 

Certes, l’éthique de Rousseau n’encourageait pas a priori à un « retrait de la chose publique », et la Révolution française, ainsi que les tendances politiques qui se sont réclamées de lui, l’attestent. Mais une pensée véritable, si tant est qu’elle soit toujours homogène, renferme une logique interne qui, tôt ou tard, manifeste ce qui était latent en elle. C’est pour cette raison qu’il n’est pas absurde d’avancer que notre monde est devenu rousseauiste, comme jadis il était chrétien.

Claude Bourrinet

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Article printed from Europe Maxima: http://www.europemaxima.com

URL to article: http://www.europemaxima.com/?p=2517

Vanguard, Aesthetics, Revolution

Vanguard, Aesthetics, Revolution

By Alex Kurtagić

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

I have on various occasions criticized the tendency among a subset of racial nationalists to indulge in improbable revolutionary fantasies, where the liberal system collapses, the white masses rise up, and evildoers hang from lampposts in one great Day of the Rope. “Mainstreamers” have, in turn, criticized the tendency among another subset to be bookworm revolutionaries, hermitic, eccentric, and too absorbed in their abstruse intellectual vaporings to be effective harbingers of change in the real world. Both subsets are emblematic of the retreat from reality that results from perceived powerlessness. Both represent vanguardist tendencies. Does that mean that vanguardism is a failed strategy, and that only mainstreamers offer a viable approach?

Far from it.

Vanguardism plays a key role in any movement seeking fundamental change when a system that can no longer be reformed, that has to crumble to make way for a new one, built on different foundations. What is more, it needs not stand in an either-or relationship with mainstreaming: it is possible—indeed it is preferable—to integrate both approaches into a coherent strategy.

Before I begin, I will define the political categories “Right” and “Left” as I intend to use them in this article. By Left I mean those who believe in the ideology of equality and progress; they are associated with liberalism and modernity. By Right I mean those whose outlook is elitist (inegalitarian) and cyclical; they are associated with Traditionalism (in the Evolian sense). By Right I do not mean conservatives, whom I regard as Classical liberals, only with socially conservative attitudes.

From Dystopia to Utopia

Commentators on the Right are prone to spend most of their energy analyzing and critiquing the modern dystopia. But while this is necessary, it is not sufficient: saying that we have arrived at a wrong destination and that we need to be elsewhere without at the same time indicating where that elsewhere is does not imply motion, only the recognition of the need for motion; therefore it is not a movement. For movement to occur, for an idea to gain adepts who then follow each other in a collective act of motion, the destination must be known, a priori, which implies it must be communicable in some way. This destination is the movement’s utopia: the perfect accomplishment of its goals.

Utopias exist only in the imagination. Most of the time they are communicated through fantastic art and literature. At best, they are only ever partially and/or imperfectly implemented. At worse, they are highly unrealistic and impractical—most are to some degree. Yet this does not mean they are not useful: they are in fact necessary, and a pre-condition for movement. Their active ingredient is not their being scientifically accurate, but their capacity to exert an enormous sentimental force on a large enough collective of individuals. And its conception is the charge of the vanguardist, the intellectual outsider, the pioneer, the dreamer, the creator—the individual, or group of individuals, whose task is to break us out of the cognitive cages built by the incumbent system; out of the system-sponsored illusion where anything that is anathema to it seems unthinkable.

Those who adopt mainstreaming approaches often despair at these dreamers because they appear—obviously—impractical, eccentric, and lacking in good sense. The problem is that creative innovators and iconoclasts often are: creative types comprise a peculiar breed, and within that, those who are truly innovative, truly at the vanguard, often shock, worry, and discomfit their less creative peers because they are less fettered by convention. There are undoubtedly good and bad sides to this, but this does not detract from the value of the creative process, even if not all of its byproducts are eventually adopted. The task of the mainstreamer, who abuts the vanguard and the mainstream, is to calculatingly take whatever can be used from the vanguard to stretch the limits of the mainstream, with a view to fundamentally transform the later in the long run.

Dreamer as Pragmatist

Despite having the science, the data, and the logical arguments on its side, the Right has been in retreat for many decades. This alone should be sufficient indication that humans need more than just data, arguments, and truth to be persuaded into a change of allegiance. Yet many who identify with the Right continue operating under the illusion that this is not the case: if people believe in equality it is because they do not know about race differences in IQ; if people believe in multiculturalism it is because they do not know the black on white crime statistics; if people believe in liberalism it is because they have not read Gibbon, or Spengler, or Schmitt; and so on.

The irony is that the best example of why this approach is flawed exists all around us: the consumer society. As a child I was irritated by the unrealistic scenarios, the catchy jingles, and the constant sloganizing of television advertising, and I resented the irrational superficiality implied in this method of selling products. I thought that it would be far more logical to have a man in a suit seated at a table, facing the camera, like in a newsroom, and listing the product specifications to the audience in an unemotional monotone, so that viewers may be able to make a rational choice, based on solid data. Any adult with sense knows, even if he cannot explain exactly why, that this would never work in the real world. The reason is simple: the consumer society is not founded on utilitarian logic or reason, but on Romanticism, daydreaming, status display, and utopias. And it is founded on these principles because that is what has been found to work—vast sums of money has been spent researching human psychology in the effort to maximize consumer mobilization. Colin Campbell and Geoffrey Miller provide theoretical and evolutionary explanations for the human motivational aspects of consumerism this in The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of Modern Consumerism and Spent respectively.

Therefore it is fair to say that he who daydreams and purposefully induces others to daydream is, in fact, more of a pragmatist than the self-avowed pragmatically-oriented rationalist who seeks to persuade through reason. The former at least understands the irrationality of human nature, and plays (preys?) on it, while the latter fantasizes about abstract humans who act on the basis of rational self-interest.

Truth as a Lifestyle Choice

Far from an asset, a belief in the power of “the truth” is one of the main obstacles for White Nationalists seeking converts to their cause. If they are frustrated by the failure of individuals to support them despite masses of scientific and statistical data showing heritable race differences in IQ and heritable propensities to violent crime, it is because they have failed to realize that humans choose the truth that suits them best, according to whether it makes them feel good about themselves and about the world, and whether it makes those whose opinion they value feel good about them, at any given point in time and space. Humans are more strongly motivated by the innate need for self-esteem and belonging than by abstract reason. Thus, faced with voluminous, conflicting, and virtually indigestible data and arguments emanating from multiple factions, each claiming monopoly of the truth, it is easy to choose the most emotionally and socially convenient of available options. For the majority of people this means the truth sponsored by the cultural establishment, because it means easier social integration and higher rewards. Those who choose a truth anathematized by the cultural establishment become reliant on alternative networks and even unconventional methods to survive within a system that seeks to purge them. Ultimately, and perhaps especially in a materialistic society, truth becomes a lifestyle choice.

Substance & Style

For the above reasons, a strategy purely based on what we tend to regard as substance (i.e., empirical data, logical arguments, reasoned conclusions) is doomed to fail. And in the case of White Nationalism, it has long proven a failure. Also for the above reasons, an effective strategy needs to employ a methodology that taps, like consumerism, into the pre-rational drivers of human behavior. The lesson of consumerism does this through the calculating use of style and aesthetics, which in the consumer society are constantly deployed to induce the desired behavior (consumption).

I am familiar with the calculating use of style and aesthetics through my role in the consumer culture, which I played via my record company. Before the advent of MySpace and the free illegal download, whenever I designed an album cover, a logo, an advertisement, a newsletter, or a website; whenever I crafted an album description; even whenever I described an album verbally, I was acutely conscious of the need to appeal and stimulate interest in my target audience. I did not expect them to make rational decisions (especially since to hear the music they had to first buy the CD), but because I successfully triggered an emotional response strong enough to elicit the needed response: an immediate purchase. (Of course, I did not always get it right, and from time to time I got stuck with unsellable stock, something I blamed as much on bad artwork, ill-judged names and titles, and uninspiring logos as I did on the quality of the music.) Advertisement agencies thrive on the exploitation of style and aesthetics for purposes of mobilizing the public into consuming products, supporting a campaign, or voting for a political candidate.

We all know that as far as the White voters are concerned, Obama got elected purely on the basis of aesthetics: he sounded good, was telegenic, and his “blackness” reassured millions of whites eager to prove (mainly to themselves) that they were not racist. Slogans like “Hope” and “Change” contained zero substance; it was all about the Obamicons; and yet they excited the right sentiment among voters who felt hopeless and wanted change. Televised debates about policy emphasized visual presentation and catchy soundbites; they were more about what the candidates looked and sounded like while discussing—but not really—an ostensibly serious topic than about really discussing a serious topic. Annoying? Certainly. But there is no point fighting this. It works.

Having said this, substance is still important. We all know that a strategy based purely on stylistic flash without it being backed by at least some substance eventually implodes. (In the United States, many duped voters have since realized that Obama is an empty suit; in the United Kingdom, many duped voters eventually realized that Blair was a liar.) Emphasize style over substance in too obvious a manner and your strategy will, in fact, turn against you. (This was a major problem for the Blair government during the late 1990s; heavy “spin-doctoring” got Blair elected, but in time everyone was complaining about it.)

It is obvious, therefore, that the winning strategy is one that has both style and substance—substance that backs the style and style that backs the substance—that, in other words, projects the substance as well as the nature of the substance.

This is nothing new, of course, but it is amazing how many fail to realize the importance of style and aesthetics. Is it because we live in an age that is so obviously about style over substance that there is an instinct to rebel against it?

Weaponizing Aesthetics

In a metapolitical context, we can speak then of weaponizing aesthetics: translating ideology into art, high and low, and using it to push culture and society in a pre-determined direction, to cause culture and society to undergo fundamental change.

In my experience with various forms of underground music and their associated subcultures, an individual’s transformation of consciousness goes through identifiable phases.

First, individuals are exposed to a particular genre of music through their peers; the response, positive or negative, is often immediate, instinctive, the result of a combination of innate biological predisposition, personal history, and sociological factors.

Next, if the individual’s response is positive, there begins a process of researching and collecting albums by bands that play in that genre. And if the individual’s response is extremely positive, the process is intensive, and becomes gradually more so, causing him eventually to become completely immersed in the associated subculture.

Music-centered youth subcultures are easily identifiable because they are highly stylized and stylistically distinctive. They also have their own ideology, which both emanates and reinforces the values coded in the style of music out of which it has grown. Sometimes the ideology is derivative, an extrapolation, or an exaggeration of certain mainstream values. Sometimes the ideology is fundamentally antagonistic to the cultural mainstream. Also, sometimes the ideology is superficial, sometimes it is not. But in all cases, music fans who have become immersed in the associated subculture come to adopt and internalize its ideology to some extent.

Depending on the nature of this ideology, members of a subculture may undergo a radical change in consciousness—even to the point of becoming proud pariahs—which endures even after they have transcended their membership. They may eventually discard the garb and take up conventional salaried employment, but their allegiance to the music will endure, sometimes as a guilty secret, and traces of their fanatical past will remain in their cognitive structures, lifestyle, home decor, vocabulary, and choice of associations. What is more, even decades after, former members will recognize each other and have a common bond.

And all this is achieved aesthetically, through art. It bears iterating: to the extent that values are absorbed, they are so not because they have been presented logically or scientifically, but because they were presented in an attractive and artful or aesthetically pleasing manner—in a manner that exerts a strong sentimental force on its consumers. And anyone with an awareness of popular culture will know that its power to excite extreme emotion, unite psychologically, and mobilize the masses—to cause them to act irrationally, violently, even against their own rational best interests—cannot be underestimated. When the last volume of the Harry Potter series of novels was published, people queued for hours, in the cold, in the rain, in the wee hours of the morning, to be the first to get their hands on the first hardback edition. And this is a very mild example. We have film evidence from the 1960s showing young women absolutely in hysterics at Beatles concerts, and there is little doubt that their personal lives were partly consumed by thoughts and fantasies involving members of the band. Did their record company present an especially logical argument?

Of course, mass mobilization is possible within popular culture when the product or event in question encodes culturally mainstream values. The less mainstream the values, the less the capacity for mobilization. All the same, in the age of mechanical reproduction we have seen that when a synergistic aesthetic and ideological system is deployed using the methods of popular culture, even radical anti-system propositions are capable, under the right conditions, of mobilizing large enough bodies of people and growing until it establishes itself as a new hegemonic order.

The National Socialists, beginning in Weimar Germany, offer perhaps the most iconic example in the West. Like all political movements, however, National Socialism had metapolitical origins, and arguably occult origins in daydreams of Atlantean and Hyperborean civilizations, which the SS later sought to substantiate. It was more a certain set of ideas and daydreams, a certain sentiment, a certain political romanticism, a certain look, before it was actual politics with an actual label.

The same is true of our modern society: between René Descartes, Adam Smith, John Locke, Karl Marx, and Sigmund Freud on the one hand, and political correctness, immigration, outsourcing, and diversity training on the other, lie a mass of popular novels, films, and albums that consciously or semi-consciously encode, aestheticize, and promote the ideas and narratives of global capitalism and the Freudo-Marxist scholasticism, upon whose metapolitical tradition the modern order is founded.

The weaponization of aesthetics is the creation of an interface that facilitates the translation of the metapolitical into the political, of the vanguard into the mainstream.

Credibility

Another reason why I put such emphasis on aesthetics in metapolitical discussions is that a well-formulated and perfectly rendered aesthetic system is the fastest way of projecting credibility, and therefore of making a set of values and ideals appear credible to apolitical observers. (To political observers it may inspire pride or fear, depending on their allegiance.) Do we not judge books by their covers? Do we not judge a person by his or her appearance?

I contend that if our values and ideals lack credibility outside our immediate milieu, it is partly because we have yet to find a way to translate our metapolitics into an professionally rendered aesthetic system that is both acceptable and appealing to a wider audience—that reformulates our archaic ideas in a way that is vibrant, relevant, and forward-looking (because people do need hope and change). Needless to say that there are other very significant factors involved (such as the reality of economic sanctions), but this is certainly one of them: without an optimal aesthetic system, actual politics becomes very difficult. One cannot sell an idea without marketing. And one cannot appeal to an elite audience without the right kind of marketing.

This is why we will benefit when talented artists, musicians, designers, and literary stylists who share our sensibilities find congenial outlets and begin making a name for themselves. It is, therefore, necessary that we provide such outlets and offer viable professional and economic opportunities for creative types, lest we continue losing them to the (censoring but remunerated) alternatives offered by the establishment. Only then will we be able to grow a forceful counter-culture.

Final Thoughts

The age of chaos offers opportunities to those able to “sell” a new dream. Although the present liberal, egalitarian, progressive establishment appears superficially invincible, they do not represent a unified, cohesive, monolithic, totalitarian order: they are, in fact, a rainbow coalition of competing and sometimes contradictory factions that happen to share a set of core beliefs. They are also degenerative and disintegrative, and the logical conclusion of their project is the complete breakdown of society. This has become increasingly apparent since the adoption of multiculturalism as an official government policy, and the adoption of globalism as the modern capitalist paradigm. Worse still, they are contrary to nature, so their continuity results in constant stress and strenuous effort. Division, degeneration, disintegration, stress, and exhaustion grow ever more apparent. And the end of prosperity in the West will make social and cultural upheavals more difficult to contain or diffuse. Thus, in the escalating confusion, even the apolitical, conventionally thinking citizen will in time become receptive to new, exotic, and even quixotic ideas. Once the confusion becomes severe enough, they will be looking for a radical ideology, a harsh religion, an authoritarian strongman, or Caesar. They will be looking for meaningful symbolism, for utopian daydreams, for a new romanticism, for something that projects order and strength, is distinctive amid the chaos, and makes them feel powerful and part of something strong.

This might seem grandiose, but the beginning of it is nearer than one thinks: it, in fact, starts with pen and paper, with brush and canvas, with guitar and plectrum; it is founded on the fantasy and the daydreams that animate these utensils.

If revolutions begin with scribbles, scribbles begin with daydreams. And although this may sound fluffy and nebulous to the hard political pragmatist, it bears remembering that such verities always look so after a long period of material prosperity and political stability, while the system appears strong and credible to a majority. But, as it did in the past, following cataclysmic upheavals, when their origins and causes were catalogued by sociologists in their postmortem reports, said verities are likely to look somewhat less nebulous after the tide of culture turns and those once seemingly improbable daydreams start to take form. How long until then? Who knows? But unless we have set the metapolitical bases for our new order, unless we have a virile counter-culture upon which can build it, we might find that by the time the tide turns, others got in well ahead of us while we waited to see if it ever would.

 

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

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/05/vanguard-aesthetics-revolution/

North American New Right, vol. 1

Greg Johnson

To order the book: http://www.counter-currents.com/

North American New Right, volume 1
Edited by Greg Johnson
366 pages

hardcover: $120

paperback: $30

Publication date: May 30, 2012

North American New Right is the journal of a new intellectual movement, the North American New Right. This movement seeks to understand the causes of the ongoing demographic, political, and cultural decline of European peoples in North America and around the globe — and to lay the metapolitical foundations for halting and reversing these trends.

The North American New Right seeks to apply the ideas of the European New Right and allied intellectual and political movements in the North American context. Thus North American New Right publishes translations by leading European thinkers as well as interviews, articles, and reviews about their works.

NOTE: The hardcover edition of NANR is so expensive because it is a premium available to donors who give more than $120 in a given year. If you have already given such a donation, you already own a copy.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

“Toward a North American New Right”
Greg Johnson

FRANCIS PARKER YOCKEY: IN MEMORIAM

“The Death of Francis Parker Yockey”
Michael O’Meara

“Spiritual & Structural Presuppositions of the European Union”
Julius Evola

“A Contemporary Evaluation of Francis Parker Yockey”
Kerry Bolton

“The Overman High Culture & the Future of the West”
Ted Sallis

Six Poems for Francis Parker Yockey
Juleigh Howard-Hobson

INTERVIEWS

Interview with Alain de Benoist
Bryan Sylvain

Interview with Harold Covington
Greg Johnson

ESSAYS

“What is to be Done?”
Michael O’Meara & John Schneider

“Pan-European Preservationism”
Ted Sallis

“Vanguard, Aesthetics, Revolution”
Alex Kurtagić

“Absolute Woman: A Clarification of Evola’s Thoughts on Women”
Amanda Bradley

“D. H. Lawrence’s Women in Love”
Derek Hawthorne

“’The Flash in the Pan’: Fascism & Fascist Insignia in the Spy Spoofs of the 1960s”
Jef Costello

TRANSLATIONS

“The Lesson of Carl Schmitt”
Guillaume Faye & Robert Steuckers

“Homer: The European Bible”
Dominique Venner

“Mars & Hephaestus: The Return of History”
Guillaume Faye

“Post-Modern Challenges: Between Faust & Narcissus”
Robert Steuckers”

“Jean Thiriart: The Machiavelli of United Europe”
Edouard Rix

REVIEW ESSAYS

Michael O’Meara’s Toward the White Republic
Michael Walker”

Michael Polignano’s Taking Our Own Side
Kevin MacDonald

“A Serious Case: Guillaume Faye’s Archeofuturism”
F. Roger Devlin

Julius Evola’s Metaphysics of War
Derek Hawthorne

Abir Taha’s The Epic of Arya
Amanda Bradley

Jack Malebranche’s Androphilia
Derek Hawthorne

“Sir Noël Coward, 1899–1973: The Noël Coward Reader”
James J. O’Meara

“Arkham Asylum: An Analysis”
Jonathan Bowden

“Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins & The Dark Knight”
Trevor Lynch

ABOUT THE EDITOR

Greg Johnson, Ph.D., Editor-in-Chief of Counter-Currents Publishing Ltd. and Editor of the annual journal North American New Right. From 2007 to 2010 he was Editor of The Occidental Quarterly. In 2009, he created TOQ Online with Michael J. Polignano and was its Editor for its first year.

He is the author of Confessions of a Reluctant Hater (San Francisco: Counter-Currents, 2010).

He is editor of Alain de Benoist, On Being a Pagan, trans. John Graham (Atlanta: Ultra, 2004); Michael O’Meara, Toward the White Republic (San Francisco: Counter-Currents, 2010); Michael J. Polignano, Taking Our Own Side (San Francisco: Counter-Currents, 2010); Collin Cleary, Summoning the Gods: Essays on Paganism in a God-Forsaken World (San Francisco: Counter-Currents, 2011); Irmin Vinson, Some Thoughts on Hitler and Other Essays (San Francisco: Counter-Currents, 2011); and Kerry Bolton, Artists of the Right: Resisting Decadence (San Francisco: Counter-Currents, 2012).

Giorgio Agamben: Höchste Armut

Giorgio Agamben: Höchste Armut

Geschrieben von: Timo Kölling   

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

 

Das Verdikt über das Unverständliche ist die Rache des Bürgertums an Autoren, von denen, wenn sie einer Erkenntnis folgen, es immer nur jenen Zipfel zu greifen bekommt, der als reine Bedeutung explizit wird. Die fetischisierten Bedeutungen markieren am deutlichsten das bürgerliche Desinteresse an jeder Form von réalisation. Schon dass es Erkenntnisse gibt, ist des Bürgers Sache nicht. Sie stören die Wonne seines Meinens. Die Rache pflegt desto grausamer auszufallen, je bunter der Zipfel war, den der Autor preisgab, je „schillernder“, je mehr zum interessierten Gespräch Anlass gebend, zum Skandal taugend.

Am wenigsten verzeiht der Bürger, dass das, was er liebt und wovon er lebt, das schier Augenscheinliche, sich letztlich doch ihm entzieht. Diese fundamentale Unsicherheit des Bürgers, Grund seiner zahlreichen „Nihilismen“, die in erster Linie nur der Rechtfertigung des Kitschs dienen, ist epochal geworden, keine phänomenologische Konstruktion von „Wesensgründen“ (die ihrerseits schon dem „Nihil“ aufruhen) hat daran etwas ändern können. Am Ende wird stets in Abrede gestellt werden, hinter dem erhaschten Zipfel habe je sich ein Kleid verborgen. Die beliebte Metapher des „Schillerns“ enthält sie bereits, diese Kritik. Alles kann in den Augen des Bürgers von jetzt auf gleich zu „schillern“ beginnen: Titel, Thesen, Begriffe, Charaktere, Gesten, Bedeutungen.

Die Existenz dessen aber, worauf das „Schillern“ verweist: der Autor wird sie sich allemal nur ausgedacht haben. Gewiss, er mag gut schreiben, die Lektüre stets „faszinierend“ sein. Unvorstellbar aber, dass er sich die Mühe gemacht hat, das zum Zipfel gehörige Kleid auch tatsächlich zu nähen. Seine Bücher: bloße Büchergesten, Intentionen ohne Realisierung, zum vielleicht größten Teil weiß er selbst nicht, was er eigentlich sagen, worauf er hinaus will. Der Autor ist und bleibt, was wir alle sind (und weshalb wir alle das Recht haben, kreativ zu sein und uns Gehör zu verschaffen): ein mehr oder weniger begabter Laberer. Agamben zumal, der raunende Philosoph, der italienische Sloterdijk: hangelt seine stilistisch gewiss bewundernswerte philosophische Belletristik sich nicht von bloßem Einfall zu bloßem Einfall, mit jedem weiteren Buch unfreiwillig den Blick des Lesers schärfend für die Maschen einer vergänglichen, da leeren und zwangsläufig sich selbst entzaubernden Verführungskraft?

„Dort, wo Gesten Worte werden, werden Worte Tatsachen.“ Herrschaft und Herrlichkeit (Homo sacer II.2)

Der Zipfel, mit dem der italienische Philosoph die gebildeten unter den deutschen Lesern zu verführen vermochte, ist bekannt: es war die These, das „Lager“ (Arbeits-, Straf-, Schutz-, Gefangenen-, Konzentrations-, Vernichtungslager) sei als biopolitischer Produzent des „bloßen Lebens“ das Paradigma der Moderne, und wir alle seien in einem mehr als nur symbolischen Sinne, nämlich wesenhaft, seine Insassen. Der Name, den Agamben seinem mehrteiligen Buchprojekt gegeben hat, Homo sacer, bezeichnete im römischen Recht ein Leben, das als heiliges zwar tötbar, aber nicht opferbar war. Es ist demzufolge das Heilige selbst, worin das nackte Leben, die tötbare Kreatur gerade als Gestalt der Profanität ihren Entstehungsgrund hat.

So erklärt sich Agambens Vorhaben, die These in einen großen religionsgeschichtlichen Zusammenhang zu stellen. Am Ende soll die Erkenntnis unabweisbar sein, was im Lager und als Lager sich manifestiere, sei kein inhaltlich bestimmter politischer Wille, sondern die Figur des Rechts als solche. Agamben schließt sich Benjamins radikaler Identifikation von Recht und Gewalt an. Hitlers rechtmäßiger Aufstieg zur Macht habe diese Identifikation nachträglich beglaubigt; der Ausnahmezustand, den Hitler ebenso rechtmäßig verkündete, sei als paradigmatische Figur des Rechts, welches den Ausnahmezustand allererst produziert, bis heute nicht beendet.

Das Zeitalter des Rechts aber: nach dem Willen Agambens vergeht es, in paulinischer Vergängnis. Das Recht zerstört sich in eben dem Maße, als es das Leben selbst zu seinem Gegenstand macht, das heißt: auf den Aspekt einer dirigierbaren Körperlichkeit reduziert, welche von ihm vernichtet wird, indem es vorgibt, sie zu erhalten. Was aber kommt, wenn das Zeitalter des Rechts (das in eins fällt mit der abendländischen Geschichte) endgültig vorbei ist? Wie wird sie aussehen, die „kommende Gemeinschaft“ dies-jenseits, jen-diesseits des Rechts und seiner Verpuppungen? Wie ist jene ursprüngliche Gerechtigkeit zu denken, die Agamben — darin freilich nicht originell — gegen die positiven Formen des Rechts ausspielt?

Diese Fragen sind so drängend, und Agamben beantwortet sie bislang so wenig konkret, dass jeder weitere Band des Homo sacer-Projekts von den Rezensenten im wesentlichen nur als „Überbau“ verstanden wird, welcher stets ein und dieselbe These, indem er sie mit historischem Material unterfüttert, zugleich verstellt und der Bewertung entzieht. Das wird sich auch mit dem vorliegenden Band IV,1 nicht ändern. Der Inhalt ist in seinen wesentlichen Zügen schnell zusammengefasst: anhand der Ordensregeln des mittelalterlichen Mönchtums entfaltet Agamben, der ausgiebig aus ihnen zitiert, die These, jenes „bloße Leben“, das in der Moderne in der Tatsache des Lagers seine unhintergehbare Faktizität gewann, habe historisch gesehen seinen Ursprung im „zönobitischen Projekt“ (25) des Mönchtums als dem Versuch, das Leben der Liturgie anzugleichen, die Liturgie im Leben dauerhaft zu machen.

Ergebnis dieses Versuchs sei ein „Leben, das mit seiner Form so innig verbunden ist, dass es von ihr nicht mehr unterschieden werden kann“ (9). „Was wird aus der Regel, wenn sie restlos mit dem Leben zu verschmelzen scheint? Und was aus einem Menschenleben, wenn es nicht mehr von der Regel zu unterscheiden ist?“ (17) Immer wieder wird in vorliegendem Buch diese Frage gestellt — so oft, dass oberflächliche Lektüre den Eindruck gewinnen mag, es komme Agamben im wesentlichen nur darauf an, die Frage zu stellen, nicht aber darauf, sie auch zu beantworten. Etwas „Drittes“ jedenfalls entstehe in der Zone der Verschmelzung, der Ununterscheidbarkeit von Regel (Gesetz) und Leben: etwas, das die untersuchten Texte unter den Syntagmen vita vel regula, regula et vita, forma vivendi, forma vitae „unermüdlich zu benennen suchen“ (123) und doch aufgrund der ungeheuren Neuheit dieser Entdeckung immer nur unzureichend benennen.

Es handelt sich eben um nichts geringeres als um die Entdeckung des „bloßen Lebens“ selbst in seiner nackten irreduziblen Faktizität. Dessen Eintreten ins menschliche Bewusstsein ist, so Agamben, die Folge davon, dass das zönobitische Projekt ein von Anbeginn utopisches gewesen ist. Die Angleichung des Lebens ans Gesetz konnte nicht mit der Unmöglichkeit dieses Unterfangens rechnen — einer Unmöglichkeit, die, als sie sich faktisch bereits erwiesen hatte, zudem nicht sogleich zu Bewusstsein kommen konnte aufgrund der alles bestimmenden Vorherrschaft der Liturgie. „Der Liturgisierung des Lebens entspricht eine integrale Verlebendigung der Liturgie.“ (160) Ergebnis aber sei ein zunächst sich selbst nicht begreifendes, auf nichts als die eigene Autonomie verwiesenes Leben, das sich durch seine „radikale Fremdheit“ (164) nicht nur gegenüber der Liturgie, sondern gegenüber schlechthin allen Formen des Rechts auszeichne.

Die Jahrhunderte sind der Prozess dieses Sich-selbst-begreifens. Es handelt sich für Agamben um eine „neue Konsistenzebene menschlicher Erfahrung“, die gegenüber der Liturgie, als die sie zunächst fälschlich sich begreift, „eine andere, noch unbestimmte Dimension des Seins und des Handelns erahnen lässt“ (122f.). Indes habe es einen in seiner Radikalität noch uneingeholten Vorstoß gegeben, an den gerade heute, im Zeitalter des Verendens des Rechts zu erinnern sei: den franziskanischen. In der franziskanischen Novitas erweist sich die fundamentale „Nichtanwendbarkeit des Rechts auf das mönchische Leben“ (48), das von Agamben geradezu definiert wird als Ideal einer „totalen Mobilmachung des Daseins durch die Zeit“ (41). Das „Leben“, an sich Gegenstand einer unbewussten Freisetzung, die erst nachträglich sich konstruieren lässt — die „alles entscheidende Frage“ (133) nach seiner Möglichkeit und Wirklichkeit ist bereits im Mittelalter von den Franziskanern gestellt worden. Für sie ging es nicht länger darum, „auf das Leben eine Form — oder eine Norm — anzuwenden, sondern darum, gemäß jener Form zu leben, d. h. um ein Leben, das sich in der Nachfolge selbst Form gibt, mit ihr zusammenfällt“ (137f.).

Es kann keine Rede davon sein, dass Agamben seine Thesen in Auseinandersetzung mit den historischen Quellen gewonnen hat. Die Quellen sind herbeigesucht, um die vorgängige Konstruktion der Thesen zu stützen. Für illegitim kann dies nur halten, wer nicht begreift, worum es Agamben in jedem seiner Bücher geht. Der Sinn seiner Konstruktionen ist die eschatologische Unwirksammachung der Tradition am Ende ihres Laufs, am Ende der Geschichte, am Ende aller Zeitalter. Das „Kommende“, der Zustand dies-jenseits, jen-diesseits des Rechts — das unterscheidet Agambens Vision allemal von der kommunistischen Utopie — wird kein aktiv zu ergreifendes, planhaft anthropotechnisch zu realisierendes historisch-epochales Geschick mehr sein, sondern das Ausmünden der Geschichte selbst in den Stand der eschatologischen Indifferenz.

Einzig so erklärt sich die Identifikation mit dem franziskanischen Spiritualismus und der ihm wesentlichen Unterscheidung von Eigentum und Gebrauch. Die naturrechtliche Lehre von der ursprünglichen Gütergemeinschaft ist der rechtsgeschichtliche Hintergrund, nicht aber ein zu reaktivierender Sinn der Unterscheidung. Denn Agamben zufolge geht es einzig „um die Möglichkeit, als Mensch außerhalb des Rechts zu existieren“ (151). Die franziskanische Novitas besteht in dem „Versuch, ein den Bestimmungen des Rechts völlig entzogenes menschliches Leben und Handeln zu verwirklichen“ (152).

Wenn Agamben diesen Versuch eine „noch immer ungedachte und im gegenwärtigen Zustand der Gesellschaft völlig undenkbare Neuheit“ nennt (152), so sind wir im Zentrum seiner geschichtsphilosophischen „Konstruktion der Gegenwart“ angelangt. Die Beschäftigung mit den Ordensregeln und der Lebensform des christlichen Mönchtums erweist sich als die Nahtstelle, wo am historischen Ursprung der Kategorie des „bloßen Lebens“ zugleich dessen erkenntnistheoretische Konfiguration kenntlich werden muss. Wird sie es? Die diesbezüglich zentrale Feststellung lautet: „Der Konflikt mit dem Recht — oder besser der Versuch, es durch den Gebrauch außer Kraft zu setzen und unwirksam zu machen — ist auf derselben existentiellen Ebene angesiedelt, auf der sich auch die Operativität des Rechts und der Liturgie entfaltet. Die Lebensform ist jenes reine Existenzial, das es von den Signaturen des Rechts und des Offiziums zu befreien gilt.“ (185)

Der Anspruch der Spiritualen habe zwar darin bestanden, „dass der Gebrauch nicht nur negativ im Verhältnis zum Recht definiert wird [...], sondern einen eigenen formalen Grund hat und in einer objektiv bestimmten Operation endet.“ (173) Faktisch aber habe die „Hartnäckigkeit, mit der die franziskanischen Theoretiker den Verzicht auf das Recht mit rechtlichen Begriffen zu formulieren versuchten“ (155), die Einlösung dieses Anspruchs verhindert. Für Agamben hängt also, wie mit diesem letzten Argument deutlich wird, die Herrschaft des Rechts an einer vorgängigen und auszuschaltenden Herrschaft der Sprache des Rechts, so wie für Heidegger die Herrschaft der Metaphysik an einer vorgängigen und auszuschaltenden Herrschaft der Sprache der Metaphysik hing. Das ist mehr als eine Analogie. Agamben und Heidegger operieren, wie in der Rede vom „reinen Existenzial“ deutlich wird, auf dem Boden ein und derselben erkenntnistheoretischen Konfiguration. Dieses Fundament ist schwach, ja hinfällig. Gegen es aufzubieten ist mit Scholem die Einsicht, dass „das absolut Konkrete [...] das Unvollziehbare schlechthin“ ist, und dass es sich bei der messianischen Idee, die Agambens Vision im verborgenen leitet, um „die eigentlich anti-existentialistische Idee“ handelt.

Damit ist die Tiefenschicht bezeichnet, in der Agambens Homo sacer-Projekt und Esoterik der Schrift konvergieren. In Tradition und Transzendenz ist dargestellt, dass die Heideggers Spätwerk bestimmende Kategorie einer „Überwindung“ der abendländischen Metaphysik einen Rückfall in die existenzphilosophischen Bestimmungen des Frühwerks darstellt, der seinen Grund im vorzeitigen Abbruch des Denkwegs der „Kehre“ hat. Denn gerade sie hätte Heidegger das Instrument an die Hand gegeben, die Begriffe der Metaphysik als Figuren dessen zu gewahren, was an ihnen —chôra der platonischen Idee — nicht metaphysisch ist. Analog wäre auch die Rede von einem „Gebrauch des Rechts“ auf den Ort der von Agamben selbst proklamierten eschatologischen Indifferenz hin zu modifizieren.

Die Logik der „Überwindung“ unterbietet ihn. Es gibt keine Sprache jenseits des Rechts, sondern der Grad ist zu bestimmen, in dem das Recht der Sprache immanent ist, um das Recht als sprachloses sich in der Stummheit seiner Gewalt verschließen zu lassen. Das wäre das Wahrheitsmoment der spiritualistischen Revolte, an die keine bürgerliche Kritik von Agambens Werk hinanreicht. Für Scholem und Benjamin konzentrierte es sich im Begriff der Schrift, den sie anlässlich von Kafkas Parabel Vor dem Gesetz diskutierten. Giorgio Agambens Interpretation dieser Diskussion (Homo sacer I, 60ff.) enthält alle Elemente seiner Verfehlung dieses Begriffs. Gerade in dieser Verfehlung aber ist Agamben ernst zu nehmen. Sie konstituiert die Intensität seiner Geste, den Keil des bloßen Lebens in das Herz der Tradition zu schleudern. Sie ist nahe daran, Wort zu werden.

Giorgio Agamben: Höchste Armut. Ordensregeln und Lebensform (Homo sacer IV,1). Aus dem Italienischen von Andreas Hiepko. S. Fischer (Frankfurt am Main) 2012. 208 Seiten. ISBN 978-3-10-000533-5.

Zuerst erschienen auf: http://timokoelling.wordpress.com/rezensionen/giorgio-agamben-hochste-armut/

Die Redaktion bedankt sich bei Timo Kölling für die Erlaubnis zur Übernahme dieses Beitrags.

Are We Free?

Are We Free?

By Collin Cleary

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

1. The Problem

Do we have “free will”? It certainly seems to me that I freely choose what I do in life, with respect to things both major and minor. My decision to go to graduate school, for example, certainly seems to have been one that I made freely, without anyone or anything coercing me. Similarly, my decision not to brew a second cup of coffee moments ago also seems to have been made “of my own free will.” However, things are not always as they appear. It is entirely possible that my actions only seem to be freely chosen by me. They could, in fact, be caused by factors quite beyond my control. “Free will” might simply be an illusion.

This is, of course, one of the most famous problems in philosophy. It is generally framed as the problem of “free will vs. determinism,” determinism being the position that we are unfree; that we are caused, in one way or another, to do what we do (or to be what we are). The two most popular candidates for what might determine us are heredity (i.e., genes) and environment; or nature and nurture. One does not have to choose one or the other: it is quite permissible to hold that we are determined by a mixture of both hereditary and environmental factors.

Some philosophical problems seem like abstract questions divorced from real human concerns – but not this one. Here our dignity is at stake, and our deepest convictions about what it is to be human. That I freely choose to do what I do seems as obvious and self-evident to me as my impression that there really is a world out there, and that my senses put me in touch with it. The idea that this might be an illusion is deeply troubling. But the real problem is not just that I might be wrong about something very important. If determinism is correct, then I must now see myself in a wholly new light. I must abandon my image of myself as master of my life and my actions. If determinism is correct, I am actually a slave. I am a plaything of genes or environment, or both. I am worse than most slaves, in fact, because most slaves are aware that they are slaves. I think I am free, so I am not only a slave, I am a fool to boot. Thus, if determinism is right, human dignity seems to be abolished.

Not only this, human responsibility is abolished as well. We believe that individuals are responsible for their actions. On that basis, we judge them for the things that they do. We praise the actions of others or blame them only if we are convinced they freely chose those actions, and could have acted otherwise. In short, moral judgment – indeed, morality itself – is only possible if free will really exists. If determinism is true, then we cannot judge anyone for their actions, because in a real sense their actions are not their own. They were “caused,” or “forced” to do what they did, and cannot be held responsible.

In sum, a great deal is at stake here. And it seems we must have an answer. Either we must exorcize the specter of determinism and save free will, or we must somehow make peace with determinism (which seems a rather bleak prospect). I actually propose to do neither. My thesis is that the problem of free will and determinism is actually a pseudo-problem, and that it rests upon a false conception of personal identity, or “selfhood.”

2. The Opposable Self

You’ve no doubt heard the absurd claim that human accomplishments are due to our having opposable thumbs. Someone (I can’t remember who) responded to this once by saying that in fact what truly makes us human is our possession of an “opposable self.”

Human beings have the ability to mentally “step back” from the situations we find ourselves in, in a way that no other creature can. When I drive my car or do the dishes, I am seldom absorbed in either. My mind is often someplace else entirely. Sometimes, I am thinking about myself. This ability to mentally disengage from situations, in fact, is a pre-condition of self-awareness. Higher animals (and a good many lower ones, in fact) all seem to have the ability to adjust their behavior based upon how their actions are affecting things around them. For example, if the kitten scratches the family dog and the dog growls ominously, the kitten backs off. But we attribute much of this to the animal instinctually making a new choice from among its pre-set repertoire of behaviors.

Human beings, on the other hand, have the ability to “turn inward” and reflect on themselves in a sustained, prolonged, and profound way that animals just do not seem to be capable of. The reactions of others, for example, may even prompt me to go off on my own (literally or figuratively) and ask “What kind of person am I?” or “Am I a good person?”

The “opposable self” has the ability to abstract itself from all situations and all things – even from the self itself. Consider the following. Right now you are reading my words, taking them in, and (I hope) understanding them.

Reading the preceding sentence, however, caused you to shift your focus: for a moment I caused you to think not about my words but about yourself thinking about my words. Your opposable self awakened, and, in a sense a different “you” came momentarily into being. “You” confronted the “you” confronting the computer (and my words) in front of you.

But if you have understood what I have just now said, still another “you” (or “opposable self”) has come into being: for now “you” are thinking about the “you” that thought about the “you” that was thinking about my words. And so on. J. G. Fichte illustrated this point to his classes by saying “Gentlemen, think the wall! Now think him who thought the wall . . . .”

This remarkable ability that we have to step back reflectively from our surroundings – even from ourselves – generating multiple “selves” confronting selves, is made possible by the fact that we contain nothingness (or negativity) This is how Jean-Paul Sartre put the matter. We have the ability to negate otherness. On a literal, physical level I can destroy or transform things around me. On the mental level, I can refuse engagement with what is immediately present and send my mind off elsewhere (as when, bored at a lecture, I begin imagining how tomorrow’s events will unfold). Or I can deny or repudiate something as it is and imagine or affirm how it ought to be. This is uniquely human, this ability to oppose what ought to be to what is – but it is founded on the more basic ability to disengage from or negate the given.

Consider that when you stepped back and considered yourself considering my words, you had the feeling of being, in that moment, distinctly different from the you that you were thinking about. Have you ever repudiated your own actions or thoughts with the claim – either tacit or explicit – that “that was not me” or “that’s not who I am”? Your opposable self can consider who and what you are only because it has the ability to stand apart from who and what you are; to say “I am not that.” This is how we can look back on ourselves in the past and say (or feel) “I am not that person.” And this is also the basis of our ability to utter what seems, on reflection, to be a very strange statement: “I have a body.” One can only say “I have a body” if one’s “I” has already differentiated itself from the body; i.e., you cannot say “I have a body,” unless this “I” thinks it is not the body. This “I” that “has” the body is the opposable self.

The opposable self or detached “I” shows up quite a lot in the history of philosophy, in one guise or another. It is what’s behind Aristotle’s concept of nous (intellect), the part of our soul that is separate from the body and really nothing at all – a little version of Aristotle’s God, a truly detached “I” that thinks only itself. It was Descartes’s detached “I” that said “I think, therefore I am,” after doubting everything else in existence, including its body. (Descartes goes on to claim that just because we can think of the soul as distinct from the body, it really must be.) We see the detached “I” again in Kant’s transcendental unity of apperception (the “I think” that is in principle appended to any act of awareness), in Fichte’s Absolute Ego which “posits” itself absolutely, and in Sartre’s authentic man, who has the freedom to negate all facticity.

Now, my claim is that “the problem of free will vs. determinism” arises as a result of identifying oneself with this detached “I”; as a result of thinking that the opposable self is who I really am. This is an almost irresistible error. The very act through which the opposable self constitutes itself involves negation; saying I am not this or that. It therefore feels perfectly right to say I am not my body. But, of course, it is perfectly wrong. The truth is that I am my body.

3. Who “I” Am

I do not “have” a body at all. It would be wrong even to say something like “I live in this body.” No, I am my body. We moderns tend to locate consciousness and selfhood in the brain. This is actually a problematic idea – only partially correct — but for the moment let’s just assume that it’s true. And suppose I told you “I have a brain.” This is a perfectly meaningful sentence, as meaningful as saying “I have a left foot.” But it is obviously much stranger. If I lost my left foot I could say, unproblematically, “I had a left foot.” But if I lost my brain you won’t catch me saying “I had a brain,” because “I” would be gone. Yet this peculiar “I” still wants to insist that it “has” a brain.

We begin to wonder just what this “I” can be – this “I” that distinguishes itself from anything and everything. The suspicion emerges that it is nothing at all, a kind of epiphenomenon or will-o’-the-wisp. Albeit a necessary one, as the capacity to step back from our ourselves and our surroundings and distinguish ourselves from them is the foundation of human consciousness. Still, to think that this detachable “I” is myself is a gross error – an error at the root of our horror in the face of “determinism.”

Determinism bothers me because I do not want to believe that my actions are caused by something other than myself. When someone suggests that I might be determined by genetics, I am troubled by this because I think that I am not my genes. Just as I can say “I have a body” or “I have a brain,” so I can say “I have genes.” And again, the precondition of being able to say we “have” those things is our mental ability to artificially distinguish ourselves from them. I have learned much over the years about genetics, and about how our appearance, behavior, and even our thoughts are shaped by genes. But I have this stubborn conviction that I am not my genes; I “have” genes,” but they are not me.

Of course, this is just as problematic a claim as “I have a body,” or “I have a brain.” In fact, in a very real sense my genes are me. My body and my mind have been shaped by my heredity. My “opposable self” revolts against this: “I am not my genes!” But once we realize that my self is something far more complicated and richer than just this phantom that says “I,” this becomes a completely untenable claim.

To begin purely with externals, I am a person with a certain height and build. I have a certain hair and eye color and facial structure. All these have affected my life in important ways and have shaped my experiences and hence shaped my mind as well. My bodily structure means that I am good at some things and not at others. My height and build might have suited me well for the football field, but not for being a jockey. I didn’t pursue being a football player because I had my nose in a book most of the time. Why? There is ample reason to think that such personality traits are heritable. I am an intellectual, and my family tree includes a number of them. I am also impatient, conservative, melancholy – all probably inherited traits. And these inherited traits have made me what I am.

In a real sense I can say that they are me. Once this is realized, the specter of “genetic determinism” seems to be exorcized. Again, what troubles us is the prospect that our actions might be determined by some alien force – something outside us. But my genes are not something alien to me; again, they are me. I am an utterly unique combination of genes inherited from my mother and father (this is true, of course, of all of us – unless we have an identical twin!). When “I” act it is this unique constellation of genetic factors that act – and nothing else. The genes are not alien bodies that “cause” me to do things. I am the cause of my actions, and nothing else – but I am just this unique interweaving of genetic factors.

I am my genes just as I am my body. My genes link me to my parents and to their parents before them, and so on. So that my being is inextricably tied to the being of certain others, and to the past. (As I will discuss later on, modernity is built upon the “opposable self,” and we moderns don’t like the idea that our being is tied to the past, or anything else for that matter.)

Now, what I have argued in the case of heredity can also be argued for what gets called “environment.” Hegel said that true freedom consists in “willing our determination.” He recognized that we are “determined” by all sorts of social factors over which we have little or no control. The truth of the matter, however, is that these make us who we are; they give us a determinate identity without which we would be nothing at all. Further, social constraints which seem, on the one hand, to limit and “determine” us actually create the concrete circumstances within which our character, preferences, and abilities take shape and unfold.

Tarzan is the most “unfree” man of all. Yes, he is free of all social constraints – but he is bereft of community and of the social institutions which make available to us the means to become what we are. For instance, it might be in my nature to be musical, or to be an artist, or a scientist, or a leader of men. But I can realize none of these possibilities outside of a concrete social setting. But any particular social setting will also “limit” me.

It cannot be any other way: freedom is only possible through determination. Hence we must not see our heredity and environment as alien factors limiting and constraining us. We must “will” our determination – affirm it and make it our own. There is something truly liberating about this: about affirming who we are, and all that has made that possible, and knowing that freedom means becoming who we are. The truth is that we are the cause of our actions, not something else. And if being the cause of our actions is freedom, then we are free. But what we are is shaped by many factors – genetic and otherwise — that we do not choose.

4. True and False Freedom

Here an obvious objection will occur: “But if we don’t choose these factors that shape us, then we are not free!” The trouble with this objection, however, is that it implicitly appeals to a conception of freedom that is so utterly fantastic as to be meaningless. Essentially, the objector is assuming that we are free only if we can choose and control exactly what we are. But this is completely impossible. At this point, therefore, we have a choice. If we accept the objector’s ideal of true freedom, we can bite the bullet and declare that we are unfree. A better approach, however, would be to consider whether there might be a more reasonable understanding of being “free” and “unfree.”

In his Vocation of Man (1800), Fichte writes the following about freedom:

Give a tree consciousness and let it grow unchecked; let it spread its branches and bring forth leaves, buds, blossoms, and fruits peculiar to its species. It will surely not feel limited by the circumstance that it just happens to be a tree, a tree of just this species and just this particular tree of this species. It will feel free because in all those expressions it does nothing but what is demanded by its nature; it will not want to do anything else because it can only want what its nature demands. But let its growth be retarded by unfavorable weather, by inadequate nourishment, or by other causes: it will feel limited and restrained because a drive which really lies in its nature is not being satisfied. Tie its freely striving branches to a trellis, impose alien branches on it by grafting: it will feel forced to act a certain way. Its branches will, of course, continue to grow, but not in the direction they would have taken had they been left to themselves; and it will, after all, bear fruit, but not the fruit demanded by its original nature.[1]

In short, true freedom means freedom to become what you are – but you don’t get to choose what you are, anymore than the tree gets to choose that it’s a tree, or what kind of tree it is. We are “unfree” not as a result of the various factors that have shaped what we are; we are unfree when circumstances prevent us from becoming what we are. All of us are determinate beings of one kind or another, and what has given us determinate form is a whole host of factors we did not choose. It cannot be any other way. The man who bemoans the fact that this makes him “unfree” is really the man whose ideal of freedom is to be nothing at all.

This is the dirty little secret of modernity: the desire not to be anything determinate. We moderns want to believe that we are “free” in the sense of having the ability, if we so choose, to be completely unaffected by the past, by heredity, by ties to others, by hormones, by anatomy, by culture, by ethnicity, and, in general, by any and all physical or social circumstances. We want to “have it all.” And we teach our children “you can be anything you want to be.” We believe that such things as biology, human desires, and the structure of societies are infinitely changeable and perfectible. We regard nature itself as a “social construct,” and feel ourselves unburdened by any limits of any kind. We revolt against the very idea that we – and other things — might be something; something definite, with immovable boundaries that might hinder our desires.

But in this idealism there is a profound and terrible nihilism. To be means to be something – something definite. The will to be nothing definite is simply the will not to be. This is the awful telos of modern, Western civilization. Our quest for a false freedom is at root a will to erase ourselves from the world; a death wish. Life is identity, definiteness, form, order, hierarchy, and limits. Those who would affirm life must affirm all of these things. We must say a great YES to all that which says a still greater NO to our hubris, a voice to which we moderns have become practically deaf.

5. Some Replies to Objections

Essentially, I have argued that the choice between “free will” and “determinism” involves a false dichotomy. That which is supposed to “determine” us (heredity and environment) is not something alien and other that acts upon us. Instead, in a real sense, it is us. Once this is understood, we will realize that I am free just in the sense that my acts are my own – but that what I am has been shaped and determined by all manner of things I haven’t chosen and cannot control. We are free when we are able to act on our nature and to become what we are. The only objectionable form of “determination” would be circumstances in which I am prevented from flourishing; prevented from actualizing my potentialities and becoming what I am.

On this account, both human dignity and moral responsibility are preserved (you will recall that I mentioned at the outset that these were at stake). My acts are still my own, because all those things that are said to “determine” me are not alien and other but a part of my being. Hence, I am not merely the plaything of “external” forces. Further, if this is the case, it follows that I and I alone am responsible for my actions.

I have argued, further, that the “free will and determinism” problem really arises from a false conception of the self – from which we have constructed the idea that true freedom would be a kind of absolute choice, free of any influence by anything that the self has not chosen. I have tried my best to banish this false notion of freedom and of the self. However, it tends — in various ways — to creep back in.

For instance, I could imagine someone objecting to what I’ve argued so far by saying “All right, perhaps true freedom consists simply in our having the choice to will – or not to will – our determination. And this choice, unlike all our other choices is truly free in the sense that it is not ‘caused’ or affected by any factors over which we have no control.” It is tempting to affirm this — precisely because the ideal of the “opposable self,” the detached judge, free of any constraints is so attractive. Sartre has a similar conception of “true freedom”: our “opposable self” is absolutely free to negate anything and everything, in some fashion or other. “Authenticity” means recognizing this and knowing that we are “condemned to be free,” whereas “bad faith” means disowning this freedom, and saying “I couldn’t help it . . .”

But I am sceptical. All sorts of factors – genetic and social – determine whether or not a person has it in them to will, or not to will their determination. There are individuals who are constitutionally incapable of willing their determination, because for them this means defeat. It means complacency, surrendering control, “settling” for what has been handed to them by nature or nurture. And this can be a tremendous virtue – but it is not a “choice” that sprang out of nowhere, without antecedent factors or influences. Such an attitude belongs to a certain sort of character, and character is never self-caused. (Of course, the person who will not affirm his determination does not realize that this characteristic too is something he did not choose.)

Some individuals will affirm their determination, and others will not. Ultimately, we can never explain exactly why some do and some don’t. But one thing is certain: it is not the result of a magical “choice” that was completely free of any antecedent factors or conditions. It is a choice that flows from the sort of man one happens to be – but that is shaped and formed by myriad things we do not choose.

The same thing can be said about the Sartrean “true freedom” as negation. Whether or not I have the will to negate – to rebel against, change, or transform – what nature or society has handed me is a matter of character. And it is also a matter of intelligence. It is a well known fact that stupid people tend to simply accept what they are handed much more readily than intelligent people. Smart people are able to conceive of many more possibilities than stupid people, so they have more choices in life. Though, as I have argued, many factors will determine what choice a person makes from the options of which they are aware, it is nonetheless true that intelligent people will be able to think of a wider array of options. Of course, intelligence is a hereditary trait; we don’t get to choose how smart we are. The will to “negate” the given is thus not something absolutely “free” in the sense of being devoid of antecedent factors or influences: it is very much the result of character traits, hereditary environmental influences, and IQ.

Further, I could imagine someone objecting to what I have argued by invoking a subject dear to my heart: the Left Hand Path. Isn’t that all about rebelling against limits and boundaries, biological and social? Isn’t it about “self-overcoming”? My answer to this is really implicit in what has already been said: yes, the Left Hand Path is all of these things. But it is not for everyone. Who will choose the Left Hand Path? Only those who can. And this is, again, a matter of character. “Self-overcoming” is literally impossible. All that one can do is to realize or develop hitherto undeveloped aspects of one’s self. Again, freedom means becoming who you are.

I suppose someone might also object to everything I have written by saying that it sounds awfully fatalistic. People sometimes confuse determinism and fatalism and think that the determinist position asserts that everything that happens to us is “fated” to happen. But this is not the case. Though who we may be “determined,” this does not mean that everything that happens to us has been somehow pre-determined. When I walk out the door tomorrow I may encounter a salesman out to sell my something – or a madman out to take my life. There is nothing about me that necessitates either one happening. But there is much about me that necessitates how I will react to either occurrence. In a certain sense then, yes, one can say that I am “fated” to act and react in particular ways.

And this leads me to the last point I will make. This has been a philosophical essay; an attempt to arrive at the truth about free will and determinism, without presuppositions. But the position I have arrived at is one that is, in fact, the Traditional position – and it is certainly quite similar to the understanding of fate and personal destiny that we find specifically in the Germanic lore.

According to that tradition, even the gods are subject to fate. Some of the words used to refer to fate include Old Icelandic urðr and Old English wyrd, both of which are related to modern German werden, which means “to become.” There is also Old Saxon metod and Old English me(o)tod, which both mean “measure.”

Fate, for our ancestors, is therefore something measured out to you, and something you become. Fate is not a “plan” for the individual or for the world laid out in advance: fate is what you are handed by heredity, by the past, and by the present circumstances you enter into. Fate is the “lot” that is cast for the individual by the three Norns: Urð (“what has become”), Verðandi (“what is becoming”), and Skuld (“what shall be” – given antecedent factors or conditions).

 Note

1.  J.G. Fichte, The Vocation of Man, trans. Peter Preuss (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 1987), 14-15. It should be noted that here Fichte is taking a position he believes to be completely legitimate and rationally defensible – but also one that he does not himself endorse. The argument of the text is a complicated one.

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Bakounine visionnaire ?

Bakounine visionnaire ?

L'« État a toujours été le patrimoine d'une certaine classe privilégiée : « une classe sacerdotale, une classe aristocratique, une classe bourgeoise. En définitive, lorsque toutes les autres classes se seront épuisées, l'État deviendra le patrimoine de la classe bureaucratique pour finalement tomber — ou, si vous préférez, atteindra la position d'une machine. » Mikhail Bakounine

Fervent de la liberté

« Je suis un amant fanatique de la liberté, la considérant comme l'unique milieu au sein duquel puissent se développer et grandir l'intelligence, la dignité et le bonheur des hommes ; non de cette liberté toute formelle, octroyée, mesurée et réglementée par l'État. » Mikhail Bakounine

La patrie

« L’État n’est pas la patrie. C’est l’abstraction, la fiction métaphysique, mystique, politique, juridique de la patrie. Les masses populaires de tous les pays aiment profondément leur patrie ; mais c’est un amour réel, naturel. Pas une idée : un fait... Et c’est pour cela que je me sens franchement et toujours le patriote de toutes les patries opprimées. » Mikhail Bakounine

Ex: http://antoinechimel.hautetfort.com/

Julien Freund. Del Realismo Político al Maquiavelismo

Julien Freund. Del Realismo Político al Maquiavelismo

Ex: http://disenso.org

Por Jerónimo Molina Cano*

Memoria de un hombre de acción escritor político

El pasado día diez de septiembre del 2003 se cumplió el décimo aniversario de la desaparición del filósofo político y polemólogo francés Julián Freund. Había nacido en 1921 en un pueblecito lorenés de poco más de seiscientos habitantes (Henridorff), criándose, hijo de un peón ferroviario, en el ambiente de una familia muy humilde de clase obrera. Desde principios de los años ochenta Freund vivía en su retiro de Villé (Alsacia), su San Casciano, apartado de la burocratizada vida universitaria. En 1993 su muerte no trascendió del círculo de sus adictos, discípulos y amigos. Unas pocas necrológicas, la edición póstuma de un magnífico libro sobre La esencia de lo económico, en el que laboró tenazmente los últimos meses de su vida para dejar constancia «de [mi] lucha permanente y obstinada contra la enfermedad», y la promesa —hasta el día de hoy, por desgracia, frustrada— de una pronta publicación de sus Cartas desde el valle (Lettres de la vallée), cifra de un realismo que denuncia las ensoñaciones políticas del prescriptor de los intelectuales del siglo XX, Rousseau, autor de las Cartas escritas desde la montaña (Lettres écrites de la montagne): esta escueta relación, a la que se pueden añadir algunos estudios predoctorales, sentidas necrológicas y unos cuantos artículos agota la reacción de la inteligencia europea e hispanoamericana ante la muerte de uno de los más brillantes escritores políticos franceses de la segunda mitad del siglo veinte, cuya obra raya sin duda en lo excepcional.

No han cambiado mucho las cosas en este año 2003, aunque merecen todo nuestro reconocimiento diversas iniciativas editoriales en Argentina, Italia y España, ya concretadas o en proyecto. No parece pues que la injusticia que se ha cometido con Freund vaya a enderezarse, ni siquiera a corto plazo. Arbitrariedad que, ciertamente, no es de estos últimos años, sino que viene de muy atrás, cuando recién terminada la guerra su rectitud personal e independencia de espíritu le apartaron de la politiquería de quienes, por entonces, se ufanaban por la restauración de las libertades francesas. Freund, comprometido desde el otoño de 1944 con la guerrilla de los «Francotiradores y partisanos franceses», de rígida observancia marxista-leninista, tomó parte en numerosas acciones de sabotaje, incluido el atentado contra el Ministro de sanidad del gobierno petainista de Pierre Laval. Recompensado, como miles de jóvenes socialistas, con un puesto secundario en el departamento del Mosela y la dirección de un periódico regional El porvenir lorenés (L’avenir lorraine), la descarnada lucha de las izquierdas por el poder y la cruel depuración política del nuevo régimen le asquearon. Esa conmovedora experiencia vital le determinó a estudiar lo político como en realidad es: no según las representaciones abstractas y desinhibidas de los doctrinarios, sino como una de las esencias fundadoras de lo humano, mediadora entre la metafísica y la historia. La esencia de lo político fue el fruto de un trabajo que se prolongó durante quince años (1950-1965), hasta su defensa como tesis doctoral en la Sorbona, ante una sala abarrotada de público.

Se recuerda de aquella ocasión la intervención de Raymond Aron, quien, como director de una tesis de la que no quiso hacerse cargo Jean Hyppolite por sus escrúpulos pacifistas —«yo soy pacifista y socialista; no puedo patrocinar una tesis en la que se declara que sólo existe política donde hay un enemigo»—, señaló el valor de aquella obra y el coraje de su autor. Pero trascendió particularmente la discusión entre Freund e Hyppolite, miembro este último de la comisión juzgadora. Si Freund tenía razón con respecto a la categoría del enemigo, elevada a presupuesto fenomenológico de la politicidad, entendía Hyppolite que sólo le quedaba ya dedicarse a su jardín. Freund le reprochó la ingenuidad irresponsable de su argumentación, pues la pureza de intención ni conjura las amenazas ni suprime al enemigo. Más bien es éste quien nos elige u hostiliza. Si así lo decide debemos afrontar políticamente su enemistad, pues puede impedir que nos ocupemos de nuestros asuntos particulares, incluso de1 cultivo del jardín. La salida de Hyppolite, sorprendentemente, apelaba al suicidio: aniquilarse antes que reconocer la realidad.

El pensamiento de Freund, profundo pero al mismo tiempo claro en la exposición formal, no se agota en la concienzuda y sistemática exploración de lo político —la insociable sociabilidad humana como antecedente metafísico (natura naturata); mando y obediencia, público y privado, amigo y enemigo como presupuestos formales (in re) de lo político; el bien común y la fuerza como finalidad y medio específicos de lo político 2—, sino que se proyecta sobre todas las esencias u órdenes imperativos primarios —lo político, lo económico, lo religioso, lo ético, lo científico y lo estético— y sobre algunas de las dialécticas antitéticas u órdenes imperativos secundarios —lo jurídico, lo social, lo pedagógico, lo cultural, lo técnico—. Freund, que en último análisis se consideraba un metafísico —«ha sido mi ambición ser un teórico» solía decir—, fue un pensador del orden y las formas, pues en estas y en aquel se deja traslucir la multiplicidad del ser. La ambición de su sistema de pensamiento sorprende en una época como la actual, cuyo afán de novedades académicas, incompatible con la vocación, imposibilita o al menos dificulta la necesaria articulación de las ideas. Muy pocos comprendieron en su día la subordinación filosófica del problema que representa cada esencia singular (y sus tratos respectivos) en la distensión temporal (historia) a lo verdaderamente decisivo según el polemólogo francés: la «significación » o, dicho de otra manera, la «jerarquía» de las esencias. Esta temática constituye el cierre metafísico de su fenomenología de las actividades humanas —incoativamente sistematizada en sus conferencias de Lovaina la Nueva de 1981 3—. De todo ello hubiese querido dar razón en un libro apenas imaginado: La jerarquía.

La obra freundeana tiene tres vías de acceso, íntimamente relacionadas por su común raíz metafísica y determinadas cada una de ellas por su ubicación en diversos planos de una teoría científica englobante: metafísica, filosofía política y polemología, en este preciso orden. En cuanto al pensamiento metafísico de Freund, más desatendido si cabe que el resto de su obra, aparece en forma en el libro Filosofía filosófica 4. El último ontólogo de la política caracterizaba en esas páginas a la genuina filosofía por la «libertad de presupuestos», afirmando, después de examinar cómo la trayectoria de la filosofía moderna se agota en la «razón racionalista», que la filosofía filosófica, como saber gratuito e irrefutable, es un «pensamiento segundo que se da por objeto el examen especulativo de las diversas actividades primeras». Al margen de esta consideración necesaria, su pensamiento transita, muy a la manera de Weber, de la epistemología implícita en su teoría de las esencias a la sociología del conflicto o polemología 5, intermediando su densa filosofía de lo político.

Un reaccionario de izquierdas en el mundo hispánico

Freund, cuyo temperamento se opuso polarmente a la actitud complaciente con la degradación de la política, no gozó, como puede suponerse, del favor de los que a si mismos se llamaron «humanistas», «intelectuales» o «progresistas». Esta terminología, sagazmente explotada por el internacionalsocialismo, le parecía vacía, pero sobre todo inapropiada, pues presumía maniqueamente que los adversarios eran, sin más, «reaccionarios». Desde el punto de vista de la esencia de lo político, estas categorías y otras similares —sobre todo «derecha» e «izquierda»—, propias de la que el autor llamó política ideologizada6, apenas si servían para incoar una sociología del conocimiento. ¿Era Freund un hombre de derechas o de izquierdas, conservador o progresista? «Este asunto, escribió en su bella autobiografía intelectual, siempre me pareció ridículo, pues desde el fin de la Guerra había asistido a la polémica entre comunistas y socialistas, quienes se excluían recíprocamente llamándose derechistas»7. Así pues, en escritor político puro, nunca se dejó seducir por esas dicotomías, a la postre fórmulas complementarias de hemiplejía moral e instrumentos del peor maquiavelismo —el antimaquiavelista—. Por eso, a quienes pretendían zaherirle adjudicándole no pocas veces el sello de la Nueva Derecha 8, les respondía irreverente que él era, ante todo, un «reaccionario de izquierdas». En esta paradójica terminología se denuncia en realidad el particularismo de la gavilla de categorías políticas con las que ha operado la mentalidad político-ideológica europea continental (rectius socialdemócrata). En contra de lo que se pretende, nada dice de un gobierno, ni a favor ni en contra, el que se defina como liberal o socialista, monárquico o republicano, igualitario, democrático, solidario, pacifista, etcétera, pues la piedra de toque de cualquier acción de gobierno es el bien común, no la realización de una doctrina. La política es definida al final de La esencia de lo político como la «actividad social que se propone asegurar por la fuerza, generalmente fundada en el derecho, la seguridad exterior y la concordia interior de una unidad política particular, garantizando el orden en medio de las luchas propias de la diversidad y la divergencia de opiniones e intereses» 9. Nada que ver pues con la salvación del hombre o su manumisión histórica.

No era fácil mantener este tipo de actitudes intelectuales durante los años del s i n i s t r i s m o, mentalidad indulgente con los crímenes cometidos en nombre de las buenas intenciones, según Aron, en la que se sigue viendo todavía un pozo emotivo de nobleza. El mundo hispánico, como se sabe, no fue ajeno a los avatares de la política ideológica y a los estragos que han causado sus tres grandes mitos, el de la Revolución, el del Proletariado y el de la Izquierda. Ello dificultó, hasta hacerla casi imposible, la divulgación y recepción del pensamiento freundeano. Aún así, hubo episodios singulares que no pueden ocultarse. Aunque Freund no se ocupó nunca de la política hispánica —salvo alguna mención a la jefatura militar de Franco y a sus tropas «blancas», adelantando, por cierto, la reciente polémica sobre el revisionismo histórico de la Guerra de España1 0, a la dictadura chilena del General Pinochet 11 o a la Guerra de las Malvinas y del Atlántico Sur1 2— , ni se encuentran en su obra más referencias al pensamiento hispánico que Unamuno y Ortega y Gasset 13, no se dejó llevar por los tópicos izquierdistas que, particularmente durante los años setenta, llegaron a constituir el repertorio de un verdadero Kulturkampf contra España.

Tiene aquí algún interés recordar la presencia editorial y personal de Freund en el mundo hispánico, circunscrita a España, Argentina y Chile, países gobernados entonces por dictaduras de estabilización14. En cuanto a la primera, desde finales de los años sesenta y durante una década se registró el primer intento de divulgar su pensamiento en los ambientes jurídico políticos y de la sociología académica, bien a través de las versiones o traducciones de libros como Sociología de Max Weber15, La esencia de lo político 16 o Las teorías de las ciencias humanas 17, bien a la publicación de algún artículo de temática jusinternacionalista, «La paz inencontrable» 18, su breve prefacio a la obra de Francis Rosenstiel El principio de supranacionalidad19 y dos textos aparecidos en la revista de Vintila Horia Futuro presente 2 0. Se produjeron entretanto sendos viajes del profesor estrasburgués a Barcelona (mayo de 1973) y Madrid (septiembre de 1973). En Barcelona impartió una conferencia sobre «Naturaleza e historia » en el Instituto de Estudios Superiores de la Empresa (IESE), dependiente de la Universidad de Navarra, concediendo también una entrevista para la edición barcelonesa del diario Te l e - E x p r e ss 2 1. AMadrid, en cambio, le llevó una invitación al Congreso de la Asociación Mundial de Filosofía del Derecho, celebrado en la Facultad de Derecho complutense2 2. La década de los 90 ha comprendido la segunda etapa de la difusión del pensamiento de Freund, que propició la traducción de Sociologie du conflit2 3, alcanzando hasta la publicación del primer estudio sistemático sobre su pensamiento político 2 4. De Freund se ocuparon entonces las tres revistas más importantes del pensamiento liberal y conservador español finisecular: Hespérides, Razón Española y Ve i n t i u no 2 5.

Se diría que Argentina y Chile hubiesen tomado el relevo, durante la década de los 80 26, de la difusión en el orbe hispánico del realismo político freundeano. En las prensas australes se imprimieron, sucesivamente, El fin del Renacimiento 27 La crisis del Estado y otros estudios 28 y Sociología del conflicto 29. En el invierno de 1982 Freund, que ya vivía retirado de la Universidad en su San Casciano de los Vosgos, viaja Santiago y Buenos Aires, ciudades en las que leyó varias conferencias. El Instituto de Ciencia Política de la Universidad de Chile y la Fundación del Pacífico le habían invitado a participar en un seminario sobre «Cuestiones fundamentales de la política contemporánea», celebrado en la institución universitaria durante la semana del 21 al 28 de junio. Tres fueron sus disertaciones: «La crisis del Estado», «La crisis de valores en Occidente» y «Capitalismo y socialismo», recogidas ese mismo año en un libro 30. El día 4 de julio apareció publicada en El Mercurio la extensa entrevista que le hizo Jaime Antúnez Aldunate 31, aunque para entonces ya se había trasladado a Buenos Aires, ciudad en la que al menos impartió dos conferencias: una sobre «La esencia de lo político» en la Universidad del Salvador y otra sobre el estudio científico de lo político y su metodología en la Facultad de Derecho de la Universidad de Buenos Aires 32. También en la prensa porteña quedó constancia de su visita, pues La Nación dio el breve ensayo referido más arriba: «El conflicto de las Malvinas a la luz de la polemología». El autor se refería en él al papel de tercero mediador desempeñado por los Estados Unidos, así como a la alianza de éstos con Gran Bretaña, lo que determinó el curso de la Guerra de las Malvinas y del Atlántico sur. Consecuencia directa de aquel viaje hispanoamericano fue la relación de Freund con los hermanos Massot, editores de uno de los diarios decanos de la prensa argentina, La nueva provincia, en cuyo suplemento cultural Ideas Imágenes aparecieron «Una interpretación de George S o r e l» 3 3, «Carl Schmitt. Una existencia hecha de contrastes» 34 y «Presupuestos antropológicos para una teoría de la política en Thomas Hobbes»3 5.

Después de algunos años de cierta indiferencia, mas sólo aparente, pues Freund seguía siendo leído por numerosos intelectuales vinculados generalmente a las Universidades católicas o a los círculos militares argentinos y chilenos 36, los últimos años 90 han conocido una progresiva actualización del interés por la obra política y jurídica del escritor francés. No poco de esta Freund-Renaissance en Argentina se ha debido,men primera instancia, a la labor divulgadora del jurista político bahiense Néstor Luis Montezanti, de la Universidad Nacional del Sur, traductor de ¿Qué es la política? 37, El derecho actual 38 y Política y moral 39. A estas ediciones le han seguido, en fechas recientes, el opúsculo Vista de conjunto sobre la obra de Carl Schmitt 40 y ¿Qué es la política? 41, ambos textos al cuidado de Juan Carlos Corbetta, de la Universidad Nacional de La Plata 42. Tal vez en los próximos años, particularmente en Argentina, asistamos a la recepción académica integral del modo de pensar político de Freund, por encima de toda leyenda ideológica.

El "maquiavelianismo" político

Si hubiésemos de condensar en términos simples la obra y el pensamiento de Freund optaríamos, sin dudarlo, por la fórmula del «maquiavelianismo» o «realismo político». A pesar de los equívocos que suscita y de la mala prensa de todo escritor realista o relacionado con el Secretario florentino 43. Renunciaremos ahora a exponer con detalle qué debe entenderse genéricamente por realismo, pues ello excede del objeto de esta semblanza intelectual, orientada a poner en claro algunos supuestos del pensamiento del profesor de sociología de Estrasburgo 44. Apartaremos la disputa clásica sobre el realismo político como una con- secuencia del «método» —«el primado de la observación sobre la ética» 45—, tesis divulgada por Aron pero que acaso sólo tenga alguna utilidad dentro del horizonte de preocupaciones metodológicas propias de los profesores de ciencia política 46. El realismo político se asimila en realidad al «punto de vista político», perífrasis que, a pesar de su carácter puramente descriptivo, casi puede considerarse como una de esas banalidades superiores, pues ¿quién dudará cabalmente de que lo político tiene un medio propio de acceso que no resulta intercambiable con el propio de la moral —moralismo político—, la economía —economicismo— o la religión —teocratismo—? A esta actitud espiritual le dan gracia y carácter (a) la centralidad o primado histórico de lo político; (b) la convicción de que los medios políticos no siempre se presentan bajo la especie de lo agible, pues en ocasiones no hay elección posible; (c) el agnosticismo en cuanto a la forma de gobierno, pues no existe una organización óptima de la convivencia política; (d) la distinción entre lo político (das Politisch) y el Estado (der Staat) y entre lo político (le politique) y la política (la politique) o, por último, (e) la determinación del pensamiento jurídico-político por la configuración de la forma política.

La querella sobre el realismo es consecuencia, según Freund, de las dificultades inherentes al paso de la teoría a la acción. En rigor, sólo tiene sentido predicar el realismo de una cierta forma de proceder el político, inspirada en la evaluación de la relación de fuerzas, más allá de todo ardid político, propaganda o ideología, pues todo cálculo del poder debe orientarse al beneficio de la comunidad. «No sólo se trata, puntualiza el autor, de sopesar correctamente las fuerzas de los adversarios, sino de no engañarse sobre las propias. La relación de fuerzas indica un límite que una colectividad política no debe sobrepasar, so riesgo de poner su existencia en peligro» 47. Aún así, Freund se mostró reticente a utilizar la expresión «realismo político» en el desarrollo de su fenomenología. Sucede a veces, en efecto, que el realismo puede llegar a convertirse en una versión del maquiavelismo, es decir, en una ideología del poder. Pero, ¿qué sucede entonces con la dignidad teórica del «realismo»? ¿Es el realismo político el método que, en opinión de uno de sus estudiosos contemporáneos, «hace suya, poniéndola al día críticamente, una cierta tradición del pensamiento político europeo, cuya primaria ambición ha sido la comprensión de la política y sus manifestaciones históricas en términos científicos, es decir, avalorativos y puramente descriptivos» 48? Freund, en realidad, prefirió no entrar en los pormenores de una polémica que, en gran medida, consideraba estéril. Pues, «no se trata de ser realista o idealista —palabras recubiertas, por lo demás, de una pátina ética asaz turbia— sino de captar la política en su realidad de esencia humana» 49. Ésta es la actitud del maquiaveliano, no la del realista. Fue, pues, el propio autor quien rechazó definirse intelectualmente como realista político.

Estas observaciones clarifican la actitud de Freund ante las vías de acceso a lo político, si bien todavía de una manera imprecisa. Hasta cierto punto, su posición es atípica en el panorama actual de las ideas. Por lo pronto, se trata de un filósofo reacio a aceptar como verdades intangibles los prejuicios de la política ideológica. Su repertorio no se agotó en las nociones más ideologizadas, pues también analizó críticamente algunas categorías o postulados aparentemente sanos: pensar la política políticamente también incluye la reflexión sobre la tradición heredada. Mas detrás de esta temática, dispersa en apariencia, se encuentra una gran divisoria intelectual de la comprensión de lo político. De un lado, el estilo «idealista, utópico e ideológico», del otro, el «realista, científico, polemológico» 50. El realismo científico y polemológico se corresponde con el punto de vista maquiaveliano.

La primera dificultad que hay que sortear es la confusión terminológica, puesto que el autor distingue netamente entre maquiavelismo y maquiavelianismo. «Ser maquiaveliano» consiste, prima facie, en adoptar un estilo teórico sin concesiones al moralismo. No se trata, sin embargo, de que el sabio devenga inmoral, ni siquiera amoral. El pensador maquiaveliano se limita a reclamar la dignidad de la política, su derecho a ser pensada políticamente. Por eso rechaza las interpretaciones del maquiavelista, cuya óptica es la del moralista. El maquiavelismo, solía decir Freund, es el cinismo de los amantes de la justicia abstracta. En cualquier caso, maquiavelismo y antimaquiavelismo le parecían dos especies del mismo moralismo político. Al elegir ser maquiaveliano, Freund optó por estudiar la actividad política como tal. Su visión no es limitada o reduccionista como la del pensador maquiavelista: trátase de «examinar lo político en sus relaciones con la naturaleza humana y la sociedad para mostrar que no se justifica en sí mismo, sino que sirve para justificar casi todos los actos decisivos del hombre en la sociedad» 51.

El maquiavelianismo es concebido epistemológica y metodológicamente según la fórmula que Freund denomina demostrativa. A pesar de las dificultades cognoscitivas que se presentan en el campo pragmático de la política, o de la constatación de la dimensión polémica de la política, que impregna la adscripción del científico a una u otra escuela, el método demostrativo «se libera de la fascinación de lo político mostrando su presencia ineluctable y su potencia constituyente de las relaciones sociales» 52. El contraejemplo del método demostrativo es el método justificativo. Si el primero aspira a ver más allá de la contingencia de los regímenes, buscando los mecanismos o los elementos comunes a todos ellos, el segundo, «centrado en los fines, renuncia a los presupuestos del análisis y de la investigación positivos». Sus aspiraciones se orientan hacia el estudio de los regímenes, los partidos y las instituciones a la luz de una supuesta ética. Pero no le corresponde al maquiaveliano justificar una especie de poder o de régimen, prefiriendo unos a otros. Cuando el filósofo o el politicólogo traspasan este umbral convierten su saber, como decía Aron, en un «sistema para justificar» 53. Abandonado entonces el punto de vista polemológico, su posición deviene abiertamente polemógena.

* Sociedad de Estudios Políticos de la Región de Murcia. Universidad de Murcia (España)

NOTAS

1 Véase J. Freund, L’essence du politique. Epílogo de Pierre-André Taguieff. París, Dalloz, 2003.

2 Véase J. Freund, L’essence du politique. París, Sirey, 1990, passim. Una exposición sistemática del pensamiento político freundeano en J. Molina, Julien Freund, lo político y la política. Madrid, Sequitur, 2000.

3 J. Freund, Philosophie et sociologie. Lovaina La Nueva, Cabay, 1984.

4 J. Freund, Philosophie philosophique. París, La Découverte, 1990

5 La polemología freundeana, como elaborado corpus teórico, es una «sociología del conflicto» en sentido estricto, y no sólo, según la interpretación de Gastón Bouthoul, una «sociología de las guerras». Cfr. J. Feund, Sociologie du conflit. París, P. U. F., 1983. G. Bouthoul, Traité de polémologie. Sociologie des guerres. París, Payot, 1991.

6 J. Freund, Qu’est-ce que la politique idéologique?, en Revue européenne des sciences sociales, vol. XVII, nº 46, 1979.

7 J. Freund, «Ébauche d’une autobiographie intellectuel», en Revue européenne des sciences sociaes, vol. XIX, nº 45-46, 1981, pág. 33.

8 Alain Bhir, «Julien Freund: de la résistence à la collaboration», en Histoire et Anthropologie, nº 7, abril y junio de 1994. Las opiniones de este artículo, parte de una miserable campaña de difamación intelectual, fueron refutadas por Jean-Paul Sorg, «Julien Freund, ou de la difficulté de penser la politique!», Histoire et Anthropologie, nº 8, julio y agosto de 1994.

9 J. Freund, L’essence du politique, p. 751.

10 Franco, que como gobernante «estatificó» la forma política española tradicional y «nacionalizó» la dinastía borbónica, se puso en 1936 al frente de un «contra-terror que combate un régimen de terror», el «terror blanco» de la polemología de Julien Freund. El terror blanco se genera espontáneamente en situaciones atravesadas por graves y violentos conflictos, bien en pleno periodo revolucionario, bien una vez que un gobierno despótico ha sido derrocado. Clásicamente se citan como ejemplos la resistencia de los campesinos vendeanos frente a la Revolución francesa y la de los Ejércitos blancos frente al Ejército rojo de Trotsky. Esta violencia defensiva casi nunca tiene éxito, aunque según Freund, entre las rarísimas excepciones se halla la victoria del bando nacional en la Guerra de España: «Las concepciones de Franco no fueron las de un fascista, sino las de un adepto del terror blanco». J. Freund, Utopie et violence. París, Marcel Rivière, 1978, pág. 191. Otras precisiones en J. Molina, «Raymond Aron y el Régimen de Franco», en Razón Española, nº 121, septiembre-octubre de 2003, espec. Págs. 206-10.

11 Merece la pena, a este respecto, reproducir la opinión del autor sobre el desplome del imperio soviético, forma ecclesiae del marxismo-leninismo: «En Alemania la repercusión fue grande, pues el asunto le afectaba directamente. En Francia, España e Italia la noticia se recibió con júbilo. Pero en el resto del mundo la onda de choque fue muy débil. En Mozambique, Etiopía o Nicaragua la información estuvo teledirigida, llegando como un rumor lejano. Por último, la ONU no se movió. No dijo ni una palabra, lo que muestra a las claras cuál es la orientación de los representantes de los Estados. Si todo eso hubiese sucedido en Chile, no me cabe duda que la ONU se habría hecho oír». J. Freund, L’aventure du politique. París, Criterion, 1991, pág. 169.

12 J. Freund, «El conflicto de las Malvinas a la luz de la polemología», en La Nación, junio de 1982.

13 En su libro sobre la decadencia se encuentra también la elogiosa referencia a un notable libro hispánico: Horacio Cagni y Vicente Massot, S p e n g l e r, pensador de la decadencia. Buenos Aires, Grupo Editor Hispanoamericano, 1993 (19781ª) Véase J. Freund, La décadence. París, Sirey, 1984, pág. 214, nota 63.

14 Ello le valió, lo mismo que a otros intelectuales liberales o conservadores, el desdén sordo del sinistrismo, pues como decía Jean-Paul Sorg en su defensa del maestro, «los prejuicios son tenaces y las reputaciones indelebles». Véase J.-P. Sorg, «Julien Freund, ou de la difficulté de penser la politique», en loc. cit., pág. 129. Mas, en último análisis, recordando lo que el mismo Freund decía de Schmitt, ilustre visitante de la España franquista, el polemólogo lorenés no fue el único intelectual que profesó conferencias en países gobernados por dictadores. El caso de Schmitt sigue siendo paradigmático, pues difícilmente se puede exagerar su identificación con España, nación por la que sentía gran admiración. En la correspondencia del viejo de Plettenberg con su amigo, discípulo y traductor español Javier Conde se encuentra este fantástico párrafo: «Mi siempre querido amigo… todo concurre en las circunstancias actuales para sacarnos a la palestra tanto a mis amigos y a mi como, visto del otro lado, a mis asediadores. Comprenderá que en un momento como este le tenga a usted tan presente. No olvide nunca que los enemigos de España han sido siempre también mis propios enemigos. Es esta una coincidencia que afecta a mi posición particular en la esfera del espíritu objetivo». Carta de C. Schmitt a J. Conde de 15 de abril de 1950. Nordrhein-Westfälisches Hauptstaatsarchiv de Düsseldorf: RW 265-12874.

15 Barcelona, Península, 1967.

16 Madrid, Editora Nacional, 1968.

17 Barcelona, Península, 1975.

18 En Revista de política internacional, nº 69, 1963.

19 Madrid, Instituto de Estudios Políticos, 1967.

20 «Futurología y escatología», en Futuro presente, nº 39, 1977; «Vilfredo Pareto y el poder», en Futuro presente, nº 41, 1978. Se cierra esta primera etapa con «Trabajo y religión según Max Weber», en Concilium. Revista internacional de teología, nº 151, 1980.

21 «La ONU no está sensibilizada sobre la alternativa progreso-contaminación », en Tele-Express, 24 de mayo de 1973.

22 La ponencia de Freund, patrocinada por Michel Villey, exponía una teoría polemológica del derecho, cuyo contenido recogería «Le droit comme motiv et solution de conflits», en Archiv für Rechts- und Sozialphilosophie, nº 8, 1973.

23 Sociología del conflicto. Madrid, Ediciones Ejército, 1995.

24 Véase J. Molina, Julien Freund, lo político y la política.

25 En H e s p é r i d e s, dirigida por José Javier Esparza, apareció un artículo de Freund: «Algunas ideas sobre lo político» (nº 4-5, 1994). Véanse también en esta serie los artículos de J. Molina «La esencia de lo económico. Acerca de las relaciones entre la economía, la política y la política social en Julien Freund» (nº 18, 1998) y «La teoría de las formas de gobierno en Julien Freund: el problema de la democracia moral» (nº 20, 2000). En Razón Española, empresa intelectual animada por Gonzalo Fernández de la Mora, se dio a conocer «El liberalismo europeo» (nº 115, 2002). La revista Ve i n t i u n o, dirigida por Francisco Sanabria Martín, publicó «Socialismo, liberalismo, conservadurismo. Un ejemplo de confusión entre la economía y la política» (nº 33, 1997), además de sendas reseñas sobre tres libros de Freund. La Fundación Cánovas del Castillo, editora de Ve i n t i u n o, incluyó en su colección «Cuadernos Veintiuno de formación. Serie azul» el opúsculo de J. Molina sobre «La filosofía de la economía de Julien Freund ante la economía moderna». Madrid, F. C. C., 1997. Véase también J. Freund, «La cuestión social», en Cuadernos de Trabajo social, nº 11, 2000. El doctorando Juan Carlos Valderrama defenderá próximamente su tesis doctoral, que versa sobre la «Esencia y significación polemológica de lo jurídico». Del mismo puede verse una magnífica investigación predoctoral inédita: Julien Freund, estudio bio-bibliográfico (2002). La revista Empresas políticas dedicará su número 5 (2º semestre de 2004) al pensamiento del polemólogo francés.

26 No obstante: J. Freund, «Observaciones sobre dos categorías de la dinámica polemógena. De la crisis al conflicto», en Randolph Starn (ed.), El concepto de crisis. Buenos Aires, Megalópolis, 1979. Y del mismo, «La fe y la política», en Criterio, vol. 52, nº 1825-26, 1979. El último texto de este periodo es «La sociología alemana en la época de Max Weber», en Tom Bottomore y Robert Nisbet (eds.), Historia del análisis sociológico. Buenos Aires, Amorrortu, 1986.

27 Buenos Aires, Belgrano, 1981.

28 Santiago, Universidad de Chile, 1982

29 Buenos Aires, C. E. R. I. E. N., 1987. Se trata de una traducción distinta a la editada en España en 1995 y amparada por el Centro de Estudios de Relaciones Internacionales y Estrategia Nacional.

30 La crisis del Estado y otros escritos. Santiago, Universidad de Chile, 1982. El texto de «La crisis del Estado» apareció también en Revista política, nº 1, 1982.

31 «Freund: del estatismo al igualitarismo». Recogido en J. Antúnez Aldunate, C r ó n i c a de las ideas. Para comprender un fin de siglo. Santiago, Andrés Bello, 1988.

32 Debo esta información al jurista Luis María Bandieri, en esa época profesor de la Universidad del Salvador. Véase J. Freund, «La esencia de lo político», en Signos Universitarios, nº 12, 1984.

33 Nº 139, 3 de abril de 1983.

34 Nº 294, 23 de marzo de 1986.

35 Nº 435, 1º de diciembre de 1988. Reproducido más tarde en N. L. Montezanti (ed.), Estudios sobre política. Bahía Blanca, Universidad Nacional del Sur, 2001, pp. 5-20. Conste aquí mi reconocimiento al profesor Montezanti por sus precisiones, recabadas en las jornadas inolvidables que transcurrieron en Carmen de Patagones, Bahía Blanca y Mar del Plata en octubre de 2003.

36 Véanse, para el caso de la Armada chilena: Capitán de Navío y Oficial de Estado Mayor Fernando Thauby García, «Guerra y globalización», en Revista de marina, nº 2, 1998; Vicealmirante y Jefe del Estado Mayor General de la Armada Hernán Couyoumdjian Bergamali, «Paz, seguridad y estabilidad. Piedras angulares para la prosperidad», en Revista de marina, nº 5, 1998.

37 Bahía Blanca, Universidad Nacional del Sur, 19961ª, 19982ª. La segunda edición incluye «Política y moral», editado simultáneamente como folleto independiente.

38 Bahía Blanca, Universidad Nacional del Sur, 1998.

39 Bahía Blanca, Universidad Nacional del Sur, 1998.

40 Buenos Aires, Struhart y cía, 2002.

41 Buenos Aires, Struhart y cía, 2003. Se trata de la versión de Sofía Noël (1968) corregida.

42 En México se ha interesado por Freund el escritor y periodista José Luis Ontiveros. Véanse sus artículos «Freund y el mito economicista», en Página uno, suplemento semanal del diario Uno más uno, nº 828, 17 de agosto de 1997; «Realismo político», en Página uno, suplemento semanal del diario Uno más uno, nº 843, 30 de noviembre de 1997; «Revalorización de lo político », en Página uno, suplemento semanal del diario Uno más uno, nº 969, 30 de abril de 2000; y «Reivindicación de la política», en Página uno, suplemento semanal del diario Uno más uno, nº 1003, 24 de diciembre de 2000. En otros países hispanoamericanos apenas si se recogen unas cuantas referencias dispersas a algunos libros freundeanos. Así en Colombia: véase Jorge Giraldo Ramírez, «Los otros que no son el enemigo. Situación polémica y terceros en Schmitt, Freund y Bobbio», en Estudios políticos, nº 14, enero-junio de 1999. También de inspiración freundeana es, del mismo, El rastro de Caín. Una aproximación filosófica a los conceptos de guerra, paz y guerra civil. Bogotá, Foro Nacional por Colombia, 2001.

43 La renovada tradición del realismo político contemporáneo cuenta con referencias de nota en diversos países europeos y americanos: Francia, A l e m a n i a , Italia, España y Argentina. En Madrid brilló el elenco de profesores de la Escuela española de Derecho político [1935-1969]: de Javier Conde y Carlos Ollero a Jesús Fueyo y Rodrigo Fernández-Carvajal y, formando constelación con su magisterio, Gonzalo Fernández de la Mora, Álvaro d’Ors y Dalmacio Negro. En Argentina resulta insoslayable el Neomaquiavelismo hispanizado de Ernesto Palacio, del que debe verse su Teoría del Estado. Buenos Aires, Eudeba, 1973. Tampoco hay que descuidar el realismo chileno, encabezado por el jurista político Jaime Guzmán Errázuriz, schmittiano liberal; véase su Derecho político. Apuntes de las clases del profesor Jaime Guzmán Errázuriz. Santiago de Chile, Universidad Católica de Chile, 1996.

44 La inserción de Freund en la tradición del realismo político puede hacerse atendiendo al magisterio ex auditu y ex lectione de sus autores predilectos. Mientras que su m a q u i a v e l i a n i s m o le emparenta con Maquiavelo, su l i b e r alismo político le compromete con la crítica sui generis de Schmitt al demoliberalismo. En cuanto al primado de lo político, temática incoada por Aron, en Freund se presentó, en parte, como categoría mediadora fundamental en su teoría del orden. En una perspectiva distinta, acaso más epistemológica, no pueden ignorarse ni su realismo filosófico, que en Freund fue de inspiración aristotélica, ni su a n t i i n t e l e c t u a l i s m o, no en el sentido sociológico del descrédito de los intelectuales, sino como uno de los supuestos de la filosofía de We b e r, relacionado por una parte con la neutralidad axiológica (We r f r e i h e i t) y por otra con el «desencantamiento del mundo» y sus consecuencias en el orden de las diversas actividades humanas (intelectualización de la vida, i d e o l o g i z a c i ó n, etc.) Tampoco carecen de interés, desde un punto de vista sociológico, la teoría paretiana del poder, supuesto que gravita sobre la concepción freundeana de cada una de las «actividades sociales» y sus consecuencias en términos de potencia, o su teoría del conflicto, cuya configuración fenomenológica es deudora de la sociología f o r m i s t a de Simmel.

45 Véase R. Aron, Machiavel et les tyrannies modernes. París, Éditions de Fallois, 1993, pág. 63.

46 Aron ha sido un autor fundamental para el realismo político contemporáneo, sin embargo, sus diatribas de los años de la Segunda Guerra Mundial contra el maquiavelismo de Maquiavelo y Pareto han sugerido a sus exégetas, a veces, un camino equivocado, poco partidarios de aceptar en un liberal la actitud vigilante del «maquiavelista moderado». Cfr. Rémy Freymond, «Présentation» a R. Aron, op. ult. cit. Decía Aron que «el llamado método del realismo científico o racional, también denominado experiencia sistematizada les condujo [a Maquiavelo y Pareto] al amoralismo». Su visión del problema, no obstante, resulta ser más amplia que la de algunos de sus comentaristas. A nuestro juicio, el realismo como una consecuencia del método abarca una mínima parte del problema de lo que, en rigor, constituye una actitud espiritual que busca el esclarecimiento de las «ultimidades sociales». R. Aron, op. ult. cit., pág. 109. Decía el jurista político español R. Fernández-Carvajal que la ciencia política es «virtus intellectualis circa postrema socialia»; difícilmente se hallará en la literatura europea una definición más bella y precisa del realismo político. Puede verse en su libro El lugar de la ciencia política. Murcia, Universidad de Murcia, 1981, pág. 340.

47 J. Freund, L’essence du politique, pág. 748

48 A. Campi, Schmitt, Freund, Miglio. Figure e temi del realismo politico europeo. Florencia, Akropolis, 1996, pág. 10.

49 L’essence du politique, págs. 22-3.

50 J. Freund, «L'éternelle politique», en Paysans, nº 120, 1976, pág. 53.

51 L’essence du politique, pág. 23

52 J. Freund, L’essence du politique, pág. 9.

53 R. Aron, Dix-huit leçons sur la société industrielle. París, Gallimard, 1970, pág. 23.

Mesianismo tecnológico. Ilusiones y desencanto.

Mesianismo tecnológico. Ilusiones y desencanto.

Por Horacio Cagni*

Ex: http://disenso.org

Las contradicciones del progreso, y particularmente la tremenda experiencia de las guerras del S. XX, pusieron sobre el tapete los alcances de la ciencia y la técnica, obligando a pensadores de todo origen y procedencia a interrogarse angustiosamente sobre el destino de nuestra civilización.

Al analizar aspectos emblemáticos como los gulags soviéticos, el genocidio armenio por los otomanos, o el Holocausto –el exterminio de judíos por el nazismo en la Segunda Guerra Mundial– así como las consecuencias del eufemísticamente llamado bombardeo estratégico angloamericano –que, tanto en dicho conflicto como en otros posteriores, era simple terrorismo aéreo–, se puede concluir que estas masacres en serie son consecuencia de la planificación y organización propias de las industrias de gran escala. La muerte industrial, la objetivación de un grupo social o de un colectivo a destruir, resulta obvio para los estudiosos del Holocausto y del aniquilamiento racial, como para aquellos que se dedicaron a la revisión del aniquilamiento social que realizaron los comunistas con burgueses, reaccionarios o “desviacionistas”.

En dichos casos, la presencia del confinamiento en campos de concentración y de exterminio, los lager y los gulags , resultan imágenes por demás familiares. Menos asiduas son aquellas que corresponden a la destrucción de ciudades y la muerte masiva de población civil, aduciendo tácticas y estrategias de ataque de industrias y centros neurálgicos económicos, administrativos y políticos del enemigo. Si bien nadie duda de la indefensión de los concentrados en los campos de exterminio, sean armenios, judíos o kulacs , resulta cada vez más difícil sostener que las poblaciones de Alemania, Japón, Vietnam, Serbia, Afganistán o Irak sean considerados objetivos militares válidos.

En todos los casos, la distancia que la tecnología pone entre victimarios y víctima asegura la despersonalización de esta última, convertida en simple material a exterminar; los que están hacinados esperando el fin en un campo de concentración ante el administrador de su muerte, como los trasegados civiles que están bajo la mira del bombardero, no son más que simples números sin rostro. La responsabilidad del genocidio se diluye en la inmensa estructura tecnoburocrática, lo que Hanna Arendt llamaba “la banalidad del mal”.

Es útil recordar que, a lo largo de todo el siglo pasado, numerosas voces se alzaron, lúcidamente, para denunciar los límites de la técnica y los peligros del mesianismo tecnológico. La técnica, clave de la modernidad, se constituyó en una religión del progreso, y la máquina resultó igualmente venerada y ensalzada por liberales, comunistas, nazifascistas, reaccionarios y progresistas.

Guerra y técnica. La crítica de Ernst Jünger

Escritor, naturalista, soldado, muerto más que centenario poco antes del 2000, Ernst Jünger ha sido el testigo lúcido y el crítico agudo de una de las épocas más intensas y cataclísmicas de la historia, de ese siglo tan breve, que Eric Hobsbawm sitúa entre el fin de la belle époque en 1914, y la caída del Muro de Berlín y de la utopía comunista, en 1991.

Nunca se insistirá lo suficiente que, para entender a Jünger y las corrientes espirituales de su tiempo, que también es el nuestro, la clave, una vez más, es la Gran Guerra. El primer conflicto mundial fue la gran partera de las revoluciones de este siglo, no sólo en el plano ideológico y político sino en el de las ideas, la ciencia y la técnica. Por primera vez todas las instancias de la vida humana se subsumían y subordinaban al aspecto bélico. Era la consecuencia lógica de la Revolución Industrial, el orgullo de Europa, pero además necesitó de la conjunción con un nuevo fenómeno sociopolítico, que George Mosse definiera con acierto “la nacionalización de las masas”. En todos los países beligerantes, pero sobre todo en Italia y Alemania, culminaba el proceso de coagulación nacional y de exaltación de la comunidad. Países que habían advenido tarde, merced a las vicisitudes históricas, al logro de una unidad interior –como los señalados–, habían encontrado finalmente esa unidad en el frente. En las trincheras se dejaba de lado los dialectos, para mandar y obedecer en la lengua nacional; en el barro y bajo el alud de fuego se vivía y se moría de forma absolutamente igualitaria.

Abrumados ante tamaño desastre, esos hombres “civilizados” se encontraron con que su única arma y esperanza era la voluntad, y su único mundo los camaradas del frente. Atrás habían quedado los orgullosos ideales de la Ilustración. El juego de la vida en buenas formas y la retórica folletinesca-parisina quedaban enterrados en el lodo de Verdún y de Galizia, en las rocas del Carso y las frías aguas del Mar del Norte.

La catástrofe no sólo significó el hundimiento del positivismo sino que demostró hasta qué punto había avanzado la técnica en su desmesurado desarrollo, y hasta qué grado el ser humano estaba sometido a ella. Soldados y máquinas de guerra eran una misma cosa, juntamente con sus Estados Mayores y la cadena de producción bélica. Ya no existía frente y retaguardia, pues la movilización total se había apoderado del alma del pueblo. Jünger, oficial del ejército del Káiser, llamó Mate - rialschlacht –batalla de material– a esta novedosa especie de combate. En las operaciones bélicas, todo devenía material, incluso el individuo, quien no podía escapar de la operación conjunta de hombres y máquinas que nunca llegaba a entender.

Cuando se leen las obras de Jünger sobre la Gran Guerra –editadas por Tusquets–, como Tempestades de Acero o El bosquecillo 125, el relato de las acciones bélicas se vuelve monótono y abrumador, como debe haber sido la vida cotidiana en el frente, suspendida en el riesgo, que insensibiliza a fuerza de mortificación. En La guerra como experiencia interna, Jünger acepta la guerra como un hecho inevitable de la existencia, pues existe en todas las facetas del quehacer humano: la humanidad nunca hizo otra cosa que combatir. La única diferencia estriba en la presencia omnímoda y despersonalizante de la técnica, pero siempre somos más fuertes o más débiles.

La literatura creada por la Gran Guerra es numerosa, y a veces magnífica. A partir de El Fuego de Henri Barbusse, que fue la primera, una serie de obras contaron el dolor y el sacrificio, como la satírica El Lodo de Flandes, de Max Deauville, Guerra y Postguerra de Ludwig Renn, Camino del Sacrificio de Fritz von Unruh, y las reconocidas Sin Novedad en el Frente, de Erich Remarque y Cuatro de Infantería, de Ernst Johannsen, que dieron lugar a sendos filmes. En todas estas obras –traducidas al español en su momento y editadas por Claridad– campea la sensación de impotencia del hombre frente a la técnica desencadenada. Pero, más allá de su excelencia literaria, todas se agotan en la crítica de la guerra y el sentido deseo de que nunca vuelva a repetirse la tragedia.

Jünger fue mucho más lejos; comprendió que este conflicto había destruido las barreras burguesas que enseñaban la existencia como búsqueda del éxito material y observación de la moral social. A h o r a afloraban las fuerzas más profundas de la vida y la realidad, lo que él denominaba “elementales”, fuerzas que a través de la movilización total se convertían en parte activa de la nueva sociedad, formada por hombres duros y jóvenes, una generación abismalmente diferente de la anterior.

El nuevo hombre se basaba en un “ideal nuevo”; su estilo era la totalidad y su libertad la de subsumirse, de acuerdo a la categoría de la función, en una comunidad en la cual mandar y obedecer, trabajar y combatir. El individuo se subsume y tiene sentido en un Estado total. Individuo y totalidad se conjugan sin trauma alguno merced a la técnica, y su arquetipo será el trabajador, símbolo donde el elemental vive y, a la vez, es fuerza movilizadora. Si bien el ejemplo es el obrero industrial, todos son trabajadores por encima de diferencias de clase. El tipo humano es el trabajador, sea ingeniero, capataz, obrero, ya se encuentre en la fábrica, la oficina, el café o el estadio.

Opuesto al “hombre económico” –alma del capitalismo y del marxismo por igual–, surgía el “hombre heroico”, permanentemente movilizado, ya en la producción, ya en la guerra. Esta distinción entre hombre económico y hombre heroico la había esbozado tempranamente el joven Peter Drucker en su libro The end of the economic man, d e 1939, haciendo alusión al fascismo y al nacionalsocialismo, que irrumpían en la historia de la mano de “artistas de la política”, que habían vislumbrado la misión redentora y salvífica de unidad nacional en las trincheras donde habían combatido.

El trabajador es “persona absoluta”, con una misión propia. Consecuencia de la era tecnomaquinista, es pertenencia e identidad con el trabajo y la comunidad orgánica a la cual pertenece y sirve, señala Jünger en su libro Der Arbeiter, uno de sus mayores ensayos, escrito en 1931. Lo más importante de esta obra es la consideración del trabajador como superación de la burguesía y del marxismo: Marx entendió parcialmente al trabajador, pues el trabajo no se somete a la economía. Si Marx creía que el trabajador debía convertirse en artista, Jünger sostiene que el artista se metamorfosea en trabajador, pues toda voluntad de poder se expresa en el trabajo, cuya figura es dicho trabajador.

En cuanto al meollo del pensamiento burgués, éste reniega de toda desmesura, intentando explicar todo fenómeno de la realidad desde un punto de vista lógico y racional. Este culto racionalista desprecia lo elemental como irracional, terminando por pretender un vaciamiento de

sentido de la existencia misma, erigiendo una religión del progreso, donde el objetivo es consumir, asegurándose una sociedad pacífica y sin sobresaltos. Para Jünger esto conduce al más venenoso y angustiante aburrimiento existencial, un estado espiritual de asfixia y muerte progresiva. Sólo un “corazón aventurado”, capaz de dominar la técnica asumiéndola plenamente y dándole un sentido heroico, puede tomar la vida por asalto y, de este modo, asegurar al ser humano no simplemente existir sino ser realmente .

Otros críticos del tecnomaquinismo

A principios de los años treinta, aparecieron en Europa, sobre todo en Alemania, una serie de escritores cuyas obras se referían a la relación del hombre con la técnica, donde la voluntad como eje de la vida resulta una constante. Así ocurre en El Hombre y la Técnica, de Oswald Spengler (Austral) –quien sigue las premisas nietzscheanas de la “voluntad de poder”–, La filosofía de la Técnica de Hans Freyer, Perfección y fracaso de la técnica de Friedrich Georg Jünger –hermano de Ernst– y los seminarios del filósofo Martín Heidegger, todos contemporáneos del mencionado El Trabajador. (El libro de su hermano Friedrich fue editado inmediatamente después de la 2° Guerra, pero había sido escrito muchos años antes y por las vicisitudes del conflicto no había podido salir a luz; existe versión castellana de Sur). Pero estos interrogantes no eran privativos del mundo germánico, pues no debemos olvidar a los futuristas italianos liderados por Filippo Marinetti, ni al Luigi Pirandello de Manivelas, a los escritos del francés Pierrre Drieu La Rochelle –como La Comédie de Charleroi– y a la película Tiempos Modernos, de Charles Chaplin.

El autor de El Principito, el notable escritor y aviador francés Antoine de Saint Exupéry, también hace diversas reflexiones sobre la técnica. En su libro Piloto de Guerra (Emecé) hay una página significativa, cuando señala que, en plena batalla de Francia en 1940, en una granja solariega, un anciano árbol “bajo cuya sombra se sucedieron amores, romances y tertulias de generaciones sucesivas” obstaculiza el campo de tiro “de un teniente artillero alemán de veintiséis años”, quien termina por suprimirlo. Reacio a emplear su avión como máquina asesina, St. Ex, como le llamaban, desapareció en vuelo de reconocimiento en 1944, sin que se hayan encontrado sus restos. Su última carta decía: “si regreso ¿qué le puedo decir a los hombres?”

También el destacado jurista y politólogo Carl Schmitt se planteó la cuestión de la técnica. Tempranamente, en su clásico ensayo El concepto de lo político –de múltiples ediciones–, afirma que la técnica no esuna fuerza para neutralizar conflictos sino un aspecto imprescindible de la guerra y del dominio. “La difusión de la técnica –señala– es indetenible”, y “el espíritu del tecnicismo es quizás maligno y diabólico, pero no para ser quitado de en medio como mecanicista, es la fe en el poder y el dominio ilimitado del hombre sobre la naturaleza”. La realidad, precisamente, demostraba los efectos del mesianismo tecnológico, tanto en la explotación de la naturaleza, como en el conflicto entre los hombres. En un corolario a la obra antedicha, Schmitt define como p roceso de neutralización de la cultura a esta suerte de religión del tecnicismo, capaz de creer que, gracias a la técnica, se conseguirá la neutralidad absoluta, la tan deseada paz universal. “Pero la técnica es ciega en términos culturales, sirve por igual a la libertad y al despotismo... puede aumentar la paz o la guerra, está dispuesta a ambas cosas en igual medida”.

Lo que ocurre, según Schmitt, es que la nueva situación creada por la Gran Guerra ha dejado paso a un culto de la acción viril y la voluntad absolutamente contraria al romanticismo del ochocientos, que había creado, con su apoliticismo y pasividad, un parlamentarismo deliberativo y retórico, arquetipo de una sociedad carente de formas estéticas. Es innegable la influencia de los escritos de posguerra de Jünger –la guerra forjadora de una “estética del horror”– en la enjundiosa mente de Schmitt. Pero a esa desesperada búsqueda de una comunidad de voluntad y belleza, capaz de conjurar al Golem tecnológico mediante una barbarie heroica, no escapaba prácticamente nadie en aquellos tiempos. Hoy es fácil mirar hacia atrás y señalar a tantos pensadores de calidad como “enterradores de la democracia de Weimar” y “preparadores del camino del nazismo”. Esta mirada superficial sobre un período histórico tan intenso y complejo se impuso al calor de las pasiones, apenas terminada la Segunda Guerra Mundial y, luego, más aún desde que el periodismo se apoderó progresivamente de la historia y la ciencia política. La realidad es siempre más profunda.

En aquellos años de Weimar, los alemanes en su mayoría sentían la frustración de 1918 y las consecuencias de Versalles; los jóvenes buscaban con ahínco encarnar una generación distinta, edificar una sociedad nueva que reconstruyera la patria que amaban con desesperación. Fue una época de increíble florecimiento en la literatura, las artes y las ciencias, y obviamente, esto se trasladó al campo político. Por entonces, Moeller van der Bruck, Spengler y Jünger –malgrado sus diferencias– se transformaron en educadores de esa juventud, a través de escritos y conferencias. La estética völkisch, popular, que era anterior al nacionalsocialismo, teñía todos los aspectos de la vida cotidiana. La mayoría de los pensadores abjuraban del débil parlamentarismo de la República surgida de la derrota, y en el corazón del pueblo, la Constitución de Weimar estaba condenada. ¿Acaso no había sido un éxito editorial El estilo prusiano, de Moeller van der Bruck, que proponía una educación por la belleza? ¿Y Heidegger? En su alocución del solsticio de 1933 dirá: “los días declinan/nuestro ánimo crece/llama, brilla/corazones, enciéndanse”

Lo interesante es que todos coincidían. El católico Schmitt, cuando en su análisis Caída del Segundo Imperio sostenía que la principal razón estribaba en la victoria del burgués sobre el soldado; neoconservadores como August Winning, que distinguía entre comunidad de trabajo y proletariado, y como Spengler con su “prusianismo socialista”; el erudito Werner Sombart y su oposición entre “héroes y mercaderes”, y, además, los denominados nacionalbolcheviques. El más conspicuo de los intelectuales nacionalbolcheviques, Ernst Niekisch, había conocido a Jünger en 1927; a partir de allí elaborará también una reflexión sobre la técnica. Su breve ensayo La técnica, devoradora de hombre s es uno de los análisis más lúcidos del mesianismo tecnológico, y una de las mayores críticas de la incapacidad del marxismo para comprender que la técnica era una cuestión que escapaba al determinismo economicista y a las diferencias de clase. También es de Niekisch uno de los mejores comentarios de El Trabajador de Jünger, obra de la cual tenía un gran concepto. Todos ellos intentaron dotar a la técnica de un rostro brutal, pero aún humano, demasiado humano, único hallazgo del mundo, como sostuvo Nietzsche.

Por supuesto, todas estas energías fueron aprovechadas por los políticos, que no pensaban ni escribían tanto, pero podían franquear las barreras que los intelectuales no se atrevían a traspasar. Estos nuevos políticos poseían esa nueva filosofía: ya no procedían de cuadros ni

eran profesionales de la política sino “artistas del poder”, como decía Drucker. Lenin abrió el camino, pero hombres como Mussolini y Hitler, y muchos de sus secuaces, eran arquetipos de esta nueva clase. Provenían de las trincheras del frente, eran conductores de un movimiento de

jóvenes, tenían una gran ambición, despreciaban al burgués, si bien confundían sus ideas de salvación nacional con el lastre ochocentista de diversos prejuicios.

El fin de una ilusión

Schmitt coincidía con Jünger en su desprecio del mundo burgués. En la concepción jüngeriana, tan importante era el amigo como el enemigo: ambos son referentes de la propia existencia y le otorgan sentido. El postulado significativo de la teorética schmittiana será la específica distinción de lo político: la distinción entre amigo y enemigo. El concepto de enemigo no es aquí metafórico sino existencial y concreto, pues el único enemigo es el enemigo público, el hostis. Preocupado de la ausencia de unidad interior de su país luego de la debacle de 1918, vislumbrando en política interior el costo de la debilidad del Estado liberal burgués, y en política exterior las falencias del sistema internacional de posguerra, Schmitt, al principio, se comprometió profundamente con el nacionalsocialismo. Llegó a ser uno de los principales juristas del régimen. Creía encontrar en él la posibilidad de realización del decisionismo, la encarnación de una acción política independiente de postulados normativos.

Jünger, atento a lo que denominaba “la segunda conciencia más lúcida y fría” –la posibilidad de verse a sí mismo actuando en situaciones específicas– fue más cuidadoso, y se distanció progresivamente de los nacionalsocialistas. Sin duda, su costado conservador había vislumbrado los excesos del plebeyismo nazifascista y su fuerza niveladora. También Schmitt comenzó a ver cómo elementos mediocres e indeseables se entroncaban en el régimen y adquirían cada vez más poder. Heidegger, al principio tan entusiasta, se había alejado del régimen al poco tiempo. Spengler murió en 1936, pero los había criticado desde el inicio.

No obstante, había diferencias de fondo. Spengler, Schmitt y Jünger creían que un Estado fuerte necesitaba de una técnica poderosa, pues el primado de la política podía reconciliar técnica y sociedad, soldando el antagonismo creado por las lacras de la revolución industrial y tecnomaquinista. Eran antimarxistas, antiliberales y antiburgueses, pero no antitecnológicos, como sí lo era Heidegger; éste se había retirado al bosque a rumiar su reflexión sobre la técnica como obstáculo al “desocultamiento del ser”, que tan magistralmente explicitara mucho después.

Otro aspecto en el cual coincidían Jünger, Schmitt, y también Niekisch, era en su consideración cómo la Rusia stalinista se alineaba con la tendencia tecnológica imperante en el mundo. Al finalizar los treinta, dos naciones aparentaban sobresalir como ejemplo de una voluntad de poder orientada y subsumida en una comunidad de trabajadores, malogrado sus principios y sistemas políticos diferentes: el III Reich y la URSS stalinista (en menor medida también la Italia fascista). Pero, obviamente, sus clases dirigentes no eran permeables a las consideraciones jüngerianas o schmittianas, pues la carcaza ideológica no podía admitir actitudes críticas. AJünger y a Schmitt les ocurrió lo mismo: no fueron considerados suficientemente nacionalsocialistas y comenzaron a ser criticados y atacados. Schmitt se refugió en la teorización –brillante, sin duda– sobre política internacional.

En cuanto a Jünger, su concepción del “trabajador” fue rechazada por los marxistas, acusándola de cortina de humo para tapar la irreductible oposición entre burguesía y proletariado –es decir “fascista”– tanto como por los nazis, quienes no encontraban en ella ni rastros de problemática racial. En su exilio interior, Jünger escribió una de sus novelas más importantes. Los acantilados de mármol; constituye una reflexión profunda, enclave simbólica, sobre la concentración del poder y el mundo de sencadenado de los “elementales”. Mediante una prosa hiperbólica y metafórica, denuncia la falacia de la unión de principios guerreros e idealistas cuando falta una metafísica de base. Por supuesto que esta obra, editada en vísperas de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, fue considerada, no sin razón, una crítica del totalitarismo hitleriano, pero no se agota allí. El escritor va más lejos, pues se refiere al mundo moderno donde ninguna revolución, por más restauradora que se precise, puede evitar la caída del hombre y sus dones de tradición, sabiduría y grandeza.

Jünger siempre ha sido un escéptico. En La Movilización Total hay un párrafo esclarecedor: “Sin discontinuidad, la abstracción y la crudeza se acentúan en todas las relaciones humanas. El fascismo, el comunismo, el americanismo, el sionismo, los movimientos de emancipación de pueblos de color, son todos saltos en pos del progreso, hasta ayer impensables. El progreso se desnaturaliza para proseguir su propio movimiento elemental, en una espiral hecha de una dialéctica artificial”. Contemporáneamente, Schmitt señalaba: “Bajo la inmensa sugestión de inventos y realizaciones, siempre nuevos y sorprendentes, nace una religión del progreso técnico, que resuelve todos los problemas. La religión de la fe en los milagros se convierte enseguida en religión de los milagros técnicos. Así se presenta el S. XX, como siglo no sólo de la técnica sino de la creencia religiosa en ella”.

Si ambos pensadores creían en un intento de ruptura del ciclo cósmico desencadenado, rápidamente habrán perdido sus esperanzas. Los propios desafiantes del fenómeno mundial de homogeneización –cuyo motor era la técnica originada en el mundo anglosajón de la revolución industrial–, como el nacionalsocialismo y el sovietismo, mal podían llevar adelante este proceso de ruptura cuando constituían parte importante, y en muchos casos la vanguardia, del progreso tecnológico. No hay escapatoria posible para el hombre actual y el principio totalitario, frío, cínico e inevitable que Jünger vislumbró desde sus primeras obras, y que siguió desarrollando hasta su final, será la característica esencial de la sociedad mundialista.

El desenlace de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, con su horror desencadenado, liquidó la posibilidad de entronización del tan mentado “hombre heroico” y consagró el “hombre económico” o “consumista” como arquetipo. Este evidente triunfo de la sociedad fukuyamiana se debió no sólo a la prodigiosa expansión de la economía sino esencialmente, al auge tecnológico y a la democratización de la técnica. Ello no implica, no obstante, que el hombre sea más libre; se cree libre en tanto participa de democracias cuatrimestrales, habitante del shopping y esclavo del televisor y de la computadora, productor y consumidor en una sociedad que ha obrado el milagro de crear el ansia de lo innecesario, la aparente calma en la que vive esconde aspectos ominosos.

La tecnología ha despersonalizado totalmente al ser humano, lo cual se evidencia en la macroeconomía virtual, que esconde una espantosa explotación, desigualdad y miseria, así como en las guerras humanitarias,eufemismo que subsume la tragedia de las guerras interétnicas y seudorreligiosas, vestimenta de la desembozada explotación de los recursos naturales por parte de los poderes mundiales. Desde el FMI hasta la invasión de Irak, el “filisteo moderno del progreso” –Spengler dixit– es, bajo sus múltiples manifestaciones, genio y figura.

En sus últimos tiempos, Jünger estaba harto. Su consejo para el rebelde era hurtarse a la civilización, la urbe y la técnica, refugiándose en la naturaleza. El actual silencio de los jóvenes –sostenía en La Emboscadura , mejor traducida como Tratado del Rebelde– es más significativo aún que el arte. Al derrumbe del Estado-Nación le ha seguido “la presencia de la nada a secas y sin afeites. Pero de este silencio pueden s u rgir nuevas formas”. Siempre el hombre querrá ser diferente, querrá algo distinto. Y, como la calma que precede a la tormenta, todo estado de quietud y todo silencio es engañoso.

* Politólogo especializado en Relaciones Internacionales. Ensayista.

Actualización DISENSO

Actualización DISENSO

 

Sección "Metapolítica": Mesianismo tecnológico. Ilusiones y desencanto. Por Horacio Cagni.   

Sección "Geopolítica": ¿Por qué Geopolítica?. Por Alberto Methol Ferré.  

Sección "Geopolítica": La Federación Rusa en la prueba del Multipolarismo. Por Tiberio Graziani.

Sección "Pensamiento Nacional": Sampay como pensador nacional, popular y católico. Por Alberto Buela.  

Sección "Pensamiento Nacional": Historia de una literatura trágica. Por Vintila Horia.  

Sección "Pensamiento Nacional": Breve historia del movimiento obrero argentino. Por Cecilia González Espul.

Sección "Pensamiento Político": Julien freund: Del realismo Político al Maquiavelismo. Por Jerónimo Molina Cano.

Sección "Filosofía": Schopenhauer. Por Leonardo Castellani.  

Sección "Filosofía": Conciencia y Método en Edmund Husserl. Por Alberto Buela.

Sección "Entrevistas": Eurasia: la visión geopolítica de Alexander Dugin. Extractos de la entrevista realizada por VOXNR.

Sección "Biblioteca": Geocultura del Hombre Americano de Rodolfo Kusch - Irán como Pivote geopolítico. Centro Superior de Estudios de la Defensa Nacional. Ministerio de Defensa Español - ABC de Pedro Godoy  

Sección "Biblioteca" especial Nimio de Anquín: Ente y Ser - De las dos inhabitaciones en el Hombre - La Ontología sin Ser de Nicolai Hartmann - El problema de la desmitologización - Las cuatro instancias filosóficas del Hombre actual - Cuadernos. Leopoldo Lugones

SE RUEGA DIFUSIÓN.

Hasta la próxima!  

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Leo Strauss and the Conservative Movement

by Paul Gottfried

Ex: http://lewrockwell.com/

 

A book of mine, Leo Strauss and Conservative Movement in America: A Critical Appraisal, is about to come out with Cambridge University Press; and it has a special connection to the Mises Institute. Much of the critical thrust comes from attending conferences sponsored by the Mises Institute and from getting to know my fellow- participants and their writings. Although I harbored strong doubts about my latest subjects even before these encounters, my conversations with David Gordon, Murray Rothbard, Robert Higgs and Thomas DiLorenzo and later, discovering Mises’s comments about Strass gave additional substance to my suspicions. My project became a way of calling attention to a significant body of criticism that the liberal-neoconservative press and most scholarly organizations wouldn’t deign to present. I was upset in particular by the inability of David Gordon (and Lew Rockwell) to find a suitable publisher for a long, incisive work that David had produced about Harry Jaffa’s reading of American history. It was one of the most cerebral "value critiques" by a living thinker that I had seen.

Why, asks David, should Jaffa, a cult figure who is wined and dined by GOP benefactors, be immune from the type of assessment that other authors of scholarly works should have to accept? Why do Straussians like Jaffa, Allan Bloom, Thomas Pangle, and Charles Kesler achieve canonical status as "conservative" thinkers without having their ideas rigorously examined in widely accessible forums? It seems that the only appraisals such figures have to deal with are puff pieces in neoconservative publications and the scribbling of inflamed leftists attacking them as rightwing extremists.

 

Note that my book does not come out of any political engagement. It is in no way a statement of my political creed. Although hardly friendly to the Wilsonian Weltpolitik of the Straussians, I devote more space to defending my subjects from unjust critics than I do to dissecting their views. Nor was my book produced, as one nasty commentator writing to the executive editor of an Ivy League press explained, because I’m "a very angry person" trying to settle scores. Apparently my madness would "permanently discredit" any press that was foolish enough to publish me. My book at any rate is not an expression of pique, and I bend backward to make sense of arguments that I have trouble accepting at face value. I also treat main subject, Leo Strauss, with respect and empathy, even while disagreeing with his hermeneutic and liberal internationalism. I stress that for all his questionable judgments, Strauss was a person of vast humanistic learning, and more thoughtful and less pompous than some of his famous students. I fully sympathize with the plight that he and others of his background suffered who because of their Jewish ancestry were driven out of their homeland and forced to live in exile. My own family suffered the same fate.

What seemed intolerable, however, was the unwillingness of Straussians and their adulators to engage serious critics, some of whom have been associated with the Mises Institute. These expressions of moral self-importance may go back to Strauss himself. Murray Rothbard observed that at a Volker Fund conference, his teacher Mises had argued vainly with Strauss about the need to separate facts from values in doing research. Strauss had retorted that there are moral judgments inseparably attached to our use of facts. This supposedly indicates that one could not or, perhaps more importantly, should not draw the fact/value distinction that Mises, and before him, in a different form, Max Weber had tried to make. In response to these statements, Mises argued that facts remain such, no matter how people dress them up. "A prostitute would be plying the same trade no matter what designation we choose to confer on such a person." As the debate wore on and Strauss began to moralize, Mises lost his equanimity. He indicated to Rothbard that he was being asked to debate not a true scholar but a "gymnasium instructor."

 

In my book I quote David, who has taken over and elaborated on the criticism offered by his teacher and Murray’s teacher Mises, namely, that the Straussians reach for moral platitudes against those who are better- armed with "facts." One reason David is mentioned so often in my monograph, and particularly in the chapter "The Method Deconstructed," is that he did much of the deconstructing for me. While helping with the proofreading, which is another service he performed, David commented about how much he enjoyed my text; then, in typically David-fashion, he listed as his favorite parts of my book those pages on which he’s mentioned. Actually he missed more than half of the references to him, including two of them in the acknowledgements.

Like other thoughtful critics of Straussian methodology, specifically Grant Havers, Barry Shain, and Kenneth McIntyre, David was essential to my work. But in his case listening to him reel off what was wrong with how the Straussians read (or misread) selected texts, inspired my project. Without the fact that David cornered me about ten years ago at a conference in Auburn and explained to me in between Borscht Belt jokes the fallacies of Strauss and his disciple, I doubt that I would have done my book. His conversation and written comments, stored in the bowels of the Lew Rockwell Archives, made my task considerably less burdensome. One remark from David’s conversation in Auburn that I still remember was his hypothetical rejoinder to Harry Jaffa in a debate that never took place. Jaffa insisted on the pages of National Review, and in fact wherever else he wrote, that we should believe in equality because Lincoln did (never mind that Di Lorenzo, among others, has challenged this view of Lincoln with counter-evidence). David asked that "even if we assume that Jaffa was expressing Lincoln’s real opinion, why should we have to hold the same view"? And why are we supposed to impose Lincoln’s opinion on unwilling subjects by force of arms? No one else to my knowledge has asked these indelicate questions.

 

Even then David and I were sick of the smarminess with which certain Straussians would respond to logical and factual objections. Calling one’s opponent a "relativist" or scolding him for not embracing universal democratic values is not an answer at all. It is an arrogant evasion of a discussion. David also observed that in their attempt to find "secret writing" in texts, Straussians would almost compulsively read their own values into the past. Presumably all smart people who wrote "political philosophy," no matter when they lived, were religious skeptics, yearning for something like "liberal democracy." This speculation could be neither confirmed nor disconfirmed and contributed zip to scholarly discussion. Like me, David also wondered why none of the great minds whom the Straussians wrote about was ever shown to be a Christian heretic or something other than a forerunner of those who are now revealing their concealed meanings. One might have thought that if concealment was their intention, these fellows on at least some occasions would have been hiding non-modern thoughts from the public or their monarchs. Why do all "secret writings" seem to have originated with a Jewish agnostic residing in an American metropolitan area?

An observation in my book contrasting Straussian enterprises to the Mises Institute also warrants some attention here. The Miseans and the Straussians both claim intellectual descent from Central European Jewish scholars who fled from the Nazis. Moreover, both groups have processed these biographical experiences and incorporated them into their worldviews, but in totally different ways. Whereas the Miseans view their founder as the victim of a particularly noxious form of state socialism, the Straussians emphasize the evils of the "German connection," as explained by Allan Bloom in The Closing of the American Mind. While the Miseans focus on the link between state planning and tyranny, the Straussians finger the uniquely wicked heritage of the Germans in telling us why "liberal democracy" is always under siege. Strauss himself established this perspective, when in Natural Right and History he stressed the continuing danger of German ideas, even though the German military threat had been defeated six years earlier.

 

While the disciples of Mises favor an isolationist foreign policy designed to dismantle socialism at home, the Straussians are perpetually reliving Munich 1938, when the "democracies" backed down to a German dictatorship, just as they had failed to confront the supposed iniquities of Kaiser Wilhelm in 1914. One might push the contrast even further: while the Mises Institute celebrates the Vienna in which the Austrian School of Economics took form, including the generally supportive liberal monarchy of Kaiser Franz Josef, the Straussians have continued their efforts to counter a threat that they see originating in Central Europe. During the student revolts of the 1960s, Allan Bloom and his soul-brothers blamed these outbursts on German critics of modern democracy. Strauss’s star students managed to find the German threat wherever they looked. In one of my earliest encounters with Straussian professors, at Michigan State in 1967 and 1968, it was explained to me that German historicists had fueled the antiwar student protest with their antidemocratic notions. This connection seemed to me so surreal that it caused me to reflect on the life’s experiences of those who could believe such things.

Significantly, these Straussian attacks on the tainted German heritage play well in our society of letters. A Jewish liberal-neoconservative presence (perhaps predominance) in the media and in the academy renders some Straussian fixations profitable. Well-placed intellectuals are still agonizing over the "German catastrophe" in a way that they don’t about other bloodbaths, particularly those unleashed by Communist tyrants. There is also a culture of defeat and self-rejection among the Germans which fits perfectly with the Straussian war on German ideas and German illiberalism. Although the Left may attack the Straussians rhetorically as "fascists," it shares many of their sentiments, particularly their revulsion for German culture and for German politics before the First World War.

Another factor has helped the Straussians professionally: Their impassioned Zionism has enhanced their moral acceptability in Jewish and neoconservative circles. If their interpretive gymnastics may sometimes drive their political fans up the wall, Strauss’s disciples win points where it counts. They are recognized as part of the journalistic establishment. Whereas the Miseans (and a fortiori this author) would have trouble getting into the New York Times, Washington Post or neoconservative publications, Straussians (and their allies) appear in all these venues as both authors and respected subjects. Nothing is more baffling than the complaint that the "liberal media" ignore or persecute Straussians. This gripe is almost as baseless as another related one, that Straussians are excluded from elite universities. Would that I had been excluded from academic posts during my career the way the Straussians have been.

 

I do not mean to suggest that there is something wrong with how the Mises Institute has dealt with its founder’s experiences in Central Europe. Its approach to this aspect of twentieth-century history has been rational and even commendable. But it has certainly not won the Mises Institute the moral acceptability that the Straussians have achieved by taking the opposite position. Curiously, leftist opponents have laced into the Straussians for not being sufficiently Teutonophobic. Despite the scornful references to German ideas in their polemics, these Straussians are alleged to be perpetuating the hated German connection while pretending to denounce it. In short, one can never hate German thought sufficiently (except of course for Marx and a few other selected German leftists) to please our current cultural industry. But Straussians can at least be credited with having made a start here.

One final point may belong here: The professional and journalistic successes of Strauss’s students have had little to do with their efforts to revive a "classical heritage" or to make us appreciate Plato and Thucydides. The argument I try to make in my book is exactly the opposite: the Straussians have done so well at least partly because they have bet on the right horse in our current liberal internationalist politics. They provide window-dressing and cultic terminology for a widely propagated American creed pushed by government and the media, featuring calls for armed "human rights" campaigns, references to the Holocaust and the Anglosphere, and tributes to liberal or social democratic "values." The Straussians have made names for themselves by putting old and even stale wine into new bottles.

December 7, 2010

Paul Gottfried [send him mail] is Horace Raffensperger Professor of Humanities at Elizabethtown College and author of Multiculturalism and the Politics of Guilt, The Strange Death of Marxism, Conservatism in America: Making Sense of the American Right, and Encounters: My Life with Nixon, Marcuse, and Other Friends and Teachers. His latest book, Leo Strauss and the American Conservative Movement: A Critical Appraisal, was just published by Cambridge University Press.

 

Copyright © 2011 by LewRockwell.com. Permission to reprint in whole or in part is gladly granted, provided full credit is given.