jeudi, 19 juillet 2012
Krantenkoppen - Juli 2012 (1)
http://www.voltairenet.org/The-carefully-organized-Paraguay
'Een enorme straf' voor Paraguay, zegt analist Atilio Borón, docent politieke theorie aan de Universiteit van Buenos Aires. 'De Paraguayaanse senaat is een instrument van de buitenlandpolitiek van de Verenigde Staten, die van de niet-toetreding van Venezuela tot de Mercosur het belangrijkste beleidspunt binnen het blok heeft gemaakt.'
(..) De afzetting van president Federico Lugo door het parlement op 22 juni (...) wordt door de buurlanden als een verkapte staatsgreep gezien. Paraguay blijft geschorst zolang de democratische orde niet hersteld is (...). Economische sancties komen er niet, om de bevolking te sparen."
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/03/opinion/paraguays-destructive-soy-boom.html?_r=2&smid=fb-share
00:05 Publié dans Actualité, Affaires européennes | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : actualite, flandre, pays-bas, politique, presse, journaux, politique internationale, medias | 
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mercredi, 18 juillet 2012
De misvattingen van de liberaal-Westerse visie op het Nabije Oosten
De misvattingen van de liberaal-Westerse visie op het Nabije Oosten
door Filip Martens
Islamitisch falen en Westers succes
De islam was eeuwenlang een grote cultuur, die toonaangevend was inzake wetenschap en technologie. In de 19deeeuw ging deze cultuur echter op korte termijn ten onder door het imperialistische Europa. Militair werden de mohammedanen keer op keer verslagen en zelfs het machtige Ottomaanse Rijk werd gedwongen om door Europa gedicteerde vredesverdragen te sluiten. Tevens bleken de liberale Westerse economieën veel krachtiger dan die van de moslimwereld. Ook politiek telde het Nabije Oosten niet meer mee. Dit leidde in de mohammedaanse wereld tot een debat over wat er verkeerd gelopen was.
De verschuiving van de eeuwenoude handel en intellectuele uitwisseling tussen Europa en het Nabije Oosten naar de Atlantische Oceaan betekende de neergang van het Nabije Oosten. Door de ontdekking van Amerika in 1492 veranderden de eeuwenoude handelsroutes, waardoor die niet langer door het Nabije Oosten liepen: West-Europa dreef nu handel met Afrika (slaven) en zijn Aziatische en Amerikaanse kolonies. Ondertussen ontwikkelde Europa ook betere wapens en gaf het opkomende kapitalisme het kolonialisme een stevige impuls door grote kapitalen te mobiliseren. Tot het einde van de 16de eeuw bleef het Nabije Oosten wel nog textiel leveren aan Europa.
De moderne geschiedenis van het Nabije Oosten begint in 1798 met de invasie van generaal Napoleon Bonaparte in Egypte en Palestina. Het proces van islamitische nederlagen en terugtrekking was toen in de Balkan en Oost-Europa al begonnen. De Franse invasie leerde de moslimwereld dat een Europese macht ongestraft kon binnenkomen en doen wat hij wou. Zelfs het vertrek van de Franse troepen werd niet bewerkstelligd door de Egyptenaren of Ottomanen, maar door de Britse vloot van admiraal Nelson, wat een 2de les betekende: alleen een andere Europese macht kon een binnenvallende Europese macht weer wegkrijgen.
Vanaf de 18deeeuw verzwakte het Ottomaanse Rijk dus en begon Europa er zijn invloedssfeer uit te bouwen. De diverse religies in het Ottomaanse Rijk vormden elk een ‘millet’, waardoor iedere geloofsovertuiging zo zelfbestuur genoot op religieus vlak. Dit vergemakkelijkte de Europese infiltratie. Onder andere de ‘capitulaties’ waren hierbij heel belangrijk. Dit waren verdragen tussen het Ottomaanse Rijk en een overwonnen christelijk land, waardoor de christenen niet onder het Ottomaanse strafrecht vielen, maar volgens het recht van hun land berecht werden. Het bekendste verdrag is dat tussen Frankrijk en het Ottomaanse Rijk uit 1536, waar Frankrijk zich in de 19de eeuw terug op beriep om zich in het zwakke Ottomaanse Rijk te kunnen inmengen.
Na onderzoek van het islamitische falen en van het Westerse succes werden hervormingen ingezet: modernisering der legers (Westerse methodes, wapens en training), industrialisering van de economie en overname van het Westerse politieke systeem. Het bleek echter tevergeefs. Het Ottomaanse Rijk trachtte de hele 19deeeuw het groeiende imperialisme van het liberale en industriële Europa het hoofd te bieden. Toch werden veel Ottomaanse gebieden in Noord-Afrika en Zuidwest-Azië nu Europese kolonies of invloedszones. Er vonden dan ook diverse hervormingen van de Ottomaanse imperiale structuren plaats om het rijk beter te kunnen verdedigen tegen buitenlandse dominantie. Hoewel hierdoor tegen het begin van de 20ste eeuw de rechtspraak, het leger en de administratie grondig hervormd werden, leidde dit tevens tot een groeiende Europese economische en culturele aanwezigheid en tot het ontstaan van beginnende nationalistische bewegingen bij vele volkeren in het Ottomaanse Rijk, bijvoorbeeld bij de Armeniërs, de Arabieren en de maronietische christenen in het Libanongebergte. De islamitische wereld werd de voorbije 3 eeuwen dus niet alleen overtroffen door Europa, maar er ook door gedomineerd en gekoloniseerd.
Ook het debat van ‘ijtihad’ in de islamitische wereld duurt al 3 eeuwen en biedt steeds nieuwe verklaringen. ‘Ijtihad’ betekent rede, maar deze term slaat vooral op de diverse bewegingen die sinds het einde der 18de eeuw ontstonden en verandering eisten. Deze bewegingen waren primo het reformistische wahhabisme en het conservatieve salafisme; secundo het islamitische modernisme van Jamal ad-Din al-Afghani en Mohammed Abdu; en tertio de combinaties die Rashid Rida en Hassan al-Banna er van maakten.
Clash of Definitions’
Samuel Huntingtons boek ‘Clash of Civilizations’ uit 1993 kondigde een totaal nieuwe wereldpolitiek aan, maar is een mythe. Huntington stelde dat oorlog tot dan gevoerd werd tussen ideologieën en dat internationale conflicten voortaan een culturele oorzaak zouden hebben. Deze ‘botsende beschavingen’ – i.e. Westerse vs. niet-Westerse beschavingen – zouden voortaan de internationale politiek domineren. Hij speelde hiermee in op het door president Bush sr. gelanceerde idee van een ‘New World Order’ en de aankomende millenniumwissel.
Huntingtons stelling is een gerecycleerde versie van de Koude Oorlogsthese dat conflicten ideologisch zijn: voor hem draait immers alles om de Westerse liberale ideologie vs. andere ideologieën. De Koude Oorlog ging met andere woorden gewoon verder, maar dan op nieuwe fronten (islam & Nabije Oosten). Volgens Huntington moest het Westen een interventionistische en agressieve houding aannemen tegenover niet-Westerse beschavingen om dominantie over het Westen te vermijden. Hij wou dus de Koude Oorlog voortzetten met andere middelen in plaats van de wereldpolitiek proberen te begrijpen of om culturen proberen te verzoenen. Deze oorlogszuchtige taal was koren op de molen van het Pentagon en van het Amerikaanse militair-industriële complex.
Huntington was echter niet geïnteresseerd in de geschiedenis van culturen en was ook erg misleidend! Veel van zijn argumenten kwamen immers uit indirecte bronnen: hij analyseerde bijgevolg niet goed hoe culturen werken, omdat hij zich vooral baseerde op journalisten en demagogen in plaats van op wetenschappers en theoretici. Zelfs de titel van zijn boek haalde hij uit Bernard Lewis’ artikel ‘The Roots of Muslim Rage’: een miljard moslims zouden woedend zijn op onze Westerse moderniteit, doch dit idee van een miljard moslims die allemaal hetzelfde denken versus een homogeen Westen, is echter simplistisch. Huntington nam dus van Lewis over dat culturen homogeen en monolitisch zijn, evenals het onveranderlijke verschil tussen ‘wij’ en ‘zij’.
Het Westen zou verder ook superieur zijn aan alle andere culturen en de islam zou per definitie anti-Westers zijn: dat de Arabieren echter al lang vóór Marco Polo en Colombus grote delen van de wereld (Europa, Zuid-Azië, Oost-Afrika) verkenden, deed er voor hem niet toe. Huntington meende tevens dat alle culturen (China, Japan, de Slavisch-orthodoxe wereld, islam, …) vijanden van elkaar zijn en hij wou bovendien deze conflicten beheren als een crisismanager in plaats van ze op te lossen. Hierbij kunnen we ons de vraag stellen of het wel verstandig is om zo’n simplistisch beeld van de wereld te schetsen en generaals en politici op basis daarvan te laten handelen. Dit mobiliseert immers nationalistisch-patriottische oorlogsstokerij. Eigenlijk moeten we ons afvragen waaróm iemand überhaupt de kans op conflict wil doen toenemen!
Groteske, vage en manipuleerbare abstracties als ‘het Westen’, ‘de islam’, ‘de Slavische cultuur’, … zijn heden alomtegenwoordig en drongen door in racistische en provocatieve ideologieën, die veel erger zijn dan die van het Europese imperialisme uit de tweedehelft der 19deeeuw. Imperialistische machten vinden dus eigen culturele theorieën uit om hun expansiedrang te rechtvaardigen, zoals de Manifest Destiny van de VS of Huntingtons ‘Clash of Civilizations’. Deze theorieën zijn gebaseerd op strijd en botsingen tussen culturen. Ook in Afrika en Azië bestaan er zo´n bewegingen, zoals het islamcentrisme, het Israëlische zionisme, het voormalige Zuid-Afrikaanse Apartheidsregime, …
In iedere cultuur definiëren cultureel-politieke leiders op dergelijke wijze wat ‘hun’ cultuur inhoudt, waardoor bijgevolg eerder van een ‘Clash of Definitions’ dan van een ‘Clash of Civilizations’ dient gesproken te worden. Deze officiële cultuur spreekt in naam van de gehele gemeenschap. Nochtans zijn er in iedere cultuur alternatieve, heterodoxe, niet-officiële cultuurvormen, die de orthodoxe officiële cultuur bekampen. Huntingtons ‘Clash of Civilizations’ houdt geen rekening met deze tegencultuur van arbeiders, boeren, bohémiens, buitenstaanders, armen, … Geen énkele cultuur is echter te begrijpen zonder rekening te houden met deze uitdaging van de officiële cultuur, want daardoor mist men net wat vitaal en vruchtbaar is in die cultuur! Zo zou volgens historicus Arthur Schlesinger de Amerikaanse geschiedenis van grote politici en ranchers moeten herschreven worden en ook rekening houden met slaven, personeel, immigranten en arbeiders, wiens verhalen doodgezwegen worden door Washington, de New Yorkse investeringsbanken, de universiteiten van New England en de industriële magnaten in de Midwest. Deze groepen beweren immers het discours van de doodgezwegen groeperingen te vertegenwoordigen.
Ook in de islam bestaat een gelijkaardig cultureel debat en het is net dát dat Huntington niet inzag! Er is géén vastomlijnde, éne cultuur! Iedere cultuur bestaat immers uit interagerende groepen én iedere cultuur wordt ook nog eens beïnvloed door andere culturen.
Het leed van de islamitische wereld
Islamieten zien de teloorgang van het Ottomaanse Rijk in de Eerste Wereldoorlog als dé ultieme vernedering. Toch was de ondergang al voordien ingezet als een pijnlijk en langzaam proces (cfr. supra). Kernland Turkije kwam dit weliswaar te boven doordat de opstand van Mustafa Kemal (Atatürk) in Centraal-Anatolië de geallieerde bezetters verdreef, doch dit was echter géén islamitische overwinning, maar een nieuwe islamitische nederlaag! Mustafa Kemal was immers een seculier én hij schafte het sultanaat en het kalifaat af. Vooral de ondergang van het kalifaat was een ramp omdat de religieuze eenheid in de islamwereld er door teloorging. Iederéén in het Nabije Oosten beseft dit zeer goed!
Heden is het voormalige Ottomaanse Rijk verdeeld in door Frankrijk en Groot-Brittannië kunstmatig gecreëerde natiestaten. Nochtans zien islamieten zichzelf niet in nationale en regionale termen, maar wel in termen van religieuze identiteit en politieke trouw.
De profeet Mohammed werd geboren in Mekka en stichtte de islam in Medina, van waaruit hij ook Mekka veroverde. Niet-moslims mogen deze 2 heilige steden én de hele Hedjaz [1] niet betreden om de profeet niet te onteren! Volgens sommigen geldt dit verbod zelfs voor héél Arabië. Vandaar dat de aanwezigheid van Amerikaanse troepen (hoewel niet in de Hedjaz) voor islamieten zo problematisch is! Bovendien vielen die troepen vanuit het ontstaansland van de islam Irak aan, dat gedurende een half millennium – tevens de meest glorierijke periode in de islamitische geschiedenis – de zetel van het kalifaat was. De Britten begaven zich echter net om die redenen nooit in het binnenland van Arabië, maar beperkten zich tot de randgebieden (Koeweit, Bahrein, Qatar, Verenigde Arabische Emiraten, Oman, Aden).
De misleidingen van het oriëntalisme
De Brits-Amerikaanse joodse oriëntalist Bernard Lewis poneerde dat er sinds 1990 een groeiende vijandigheid van de islamitische wereld tegen de VS bestond. Hoewel Lewis in 1986 op emeritaat ging, bleef hij toch tot zéér invloedrijk! Zowel het Witte Huis als de beide Amerikaanse partijen vroegen hem om advies over het Nabije Oosten, wat betekent dat hij een enorme invloed uitoefende op het Amerikaanse buitenlands beleid.
Bernard Lewis zag een strijd tussen ‘de’ islam en ‘het’ Westen die al 13 eeuwen duurt (kruistochten, jihad, Reconquista, …), waarbij nu eens de ene en dan weer de andere wint. Na de implosie van de USSR in 1991 bleef er volgens hem voor de islam nog één grote vijand over: de VS. Hij zwaaide daarbij zelfs met grote woorden als “de overleving van onze beschaving”. Nu de VS delen van het Nabije Oosten militair bezet en lijkt te winnen, groeit het verzet. Bijvoorbeeld het Somalische verweer tegen de VS in 1993 vermeed Amerikaanse dominantie over Somalië.
Lewis stelde tevens dat het tot dan toe gevoerde Westerse beleid tegenover het Nabije Oosten niet goed was. Zijn advies voor de Amerikaanse regering was: get tough or get out! ‘Get tough’ stond daarbij voor het voortzetten van het in Afghanistan begonnen ‘goede’ werk en dus nog meer aanvallen op zogenaamd ‘terroristische’ landen en groeperingen. Met ‘get out’ bedoelde hij dat er een vervangmiddel voor olie moest gevonden worden, zodat het Nabije Oosten niet langer belangrijk is.
Bernard Lewis’ simplistische theorie van de ‘Clash of Civilizations’ gaat terug op het oriëntalisme. Wat heden als ‘islam’ omschreven wordt in het liberale Westen door de theorie van de ‘Clash of Civilizations’, gaat terug op het discours van het oriëntalisme. Dit is een gefabriceerde constructie om vijandigheid te creëren tegen een werelddeel dat voor de VS van belang is omwille van zijn olie en concurrentiestrijd met het Westen. Oriëntalisme biedt ons een bepaald beeld van het Nabije Oosten, waardoor wij menen te weten hoe de mensen zich daar gedragen en welk soort mensen daar leeft. Daardoor gaan wij die mensen bekijken vanuit die ‘kennis’ die wij over hen menen te hebben. Oriëntalisme biedt echter geen onschuldige of objectieve kennis over het Nabije Oosten, maar weerspiegelt bepaalde belangen!
De zogezegd onafhankelijke media in een liberale maatschappij worden gecontroleerd door commerciële en politieke belangen: er is géén onderzoeksjournalistiek, maar slechts herhaling van het regeringsstandpunt en van de meest invloedrijksten binnen de regering. Zij gebruiken de islam als externe bliksemafleider om de ernstige sociale, economische en financiële problemen in onze samenleving te verdoezelen. Doordat de media zo gemakkelijk de aandacht kunnen vestigen op één negatief aspect van de islam, was het op het einde van de Koude Oorlog ook erg gemakkelijk om een nieuwe, buitenlandse vijand te creëren en om het enorme Amerikaanse leger te blijven legitimeren.
Amerikanen kennen niet veel van geschiedenis, ook hooggeschoolde Amerikanen niet. Daarom kunnen ze geen historische verwijzingen maken, noch begrijpen. Toen Osama Bin Laden het bijvoorbeeld had over “de ramp van 80 jaar geleden”, wist iedereen in het Nabije Oosten dat hij het had over de ondergang van het Ottomaanse Rijk. Amerikanen hadden echter geen flauw benul waarover Bin Laden het had. Daarnaast is het in de VS erg moeilijk om literatuur te vinden die sympathiek staat tegenover de islam, omdat de islam als een bedreiging wordt beschouwd voor de joods-protestantse natie die de VS is.
‘Clash of Ignorance’
Edward Saïds ‘Clash of Ignorance’ weerlegde Lewis’ stellingen: ieder land in het Nabije Oosten heeft zijn eigen geschiedenis en zijn eigen interpretatie van de islam. Bovendien moet men het Nabije Oosten niet begrijpen als aparte landen, maar via de dynamieken tussen de diverse landen. Saïds ‘Clash of Ignorance’ toonde aan dat Lewis’ oriëntalisme ‘de’ islam simplistisch veralgemeent: er zijn immers meerdere soorten islam! Desondanks domineert Lewis’ Clash of Civilizations het Amerikaanse buitenlands beleid inzake het Nabije Oosten. Deze liberaal-Westerse visie op ‘islam’ is echter iets totáál anders dan hoe moslims de islam zien! Er is bijvoorbeeld een wereld van verschil tussen de islam in Algerije en in Indonesië! Het is dus bijzonder onverstandig om dat werelddeel als één islamitisch, irrationeel, terroristisch en fundamentalistisch geheel te zien. Volgens Edward Saïd is één exclusieve cultuur onmogelijk: we moeten ons dus afvragen of we willen streven naar het scheiden van culturen of naar het samenleven van culturen.
Huntingtons versie van Lewis ‘Clash of Civilizations’ verscheen eerst als tijdschriftartikel in Foreign Affairs, omdat het zo beleidsmakers kon beïnvloeden: dit discours liet de VS immers toe om het denkpatroon van de Koude Oorlog voort te zetten. Veel bruikbaarder is echter een nieuwe mentaliteit die bewust is van de gevaren die de hele mensheid momenteel bedreigen: toenemende armoede, etnische en religieuze haat (Bosnië, Congo, Kosovo, Somalië, Tsjetsjenië, …), toenemend analfabetisme én een nieuw analfabetisme (inzake elektronische communicatie, TV en de informatiesnelweg).
Geschiedenis zou moeten gedenationaliseerd worden en moeten duidelijk maken dat we in een erg complexe en vermengde wereld leven, waarin culturen niet zomaar kunnen gescheiden worden: geschiedenis moet gedoceerd worden als een uitwisseling tussen culturen, zodat duidelijk wordt dat conflicten nutteloos zijn en slechts mensen isoleren. Heden geeft geschiedenis echter nog steeds mee dat wij het centrum van de wereld zijn.
Er moet tevens verschil blijven tussen culturen: zowel het willen uitvlakken van culturen als het willen doen botsen van culturen, zijn niet goed. We moeten streven naar coëxistentie van verschillende culturen, talen en tradities en dus deze verschillen bewaren in plaats van naar één wereldcultuur of – zoals Huntington en Lewis – naar oorlog te streven.
De foutieve oriëntalistische idee van de ‘Clash of Civilizations’ dient bestreden te worden door te onthullen wat er echt achter zit, door er over te debatteren, door onderwijs en door de Amerikaanse en Europese intellectuelen te doen beseffen wat een enorme impact de buitenlandse interventies van het Westen hebben op andere culturen.
Noot
[1] De Hedjaz is een landstreek in Noordwest-Arabië, waartoe de heilige islamitische steden Mekka en Medina behoren.
Referenties:
1. Boeken:
BARBER (Benjamin), Jihad vs. McWorld: how globalism and tribalism are reshaping the world, New York, Ballantine Books, 1996, pp. 389.
HUNTINGTON (Samuel), Botsende beschavingen, Antwerpen, Icarus, 1997, pp. 412.
LEWIS (Bernard), What went wrong? Western Impact and Middle Eastern Response, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2002, pp. VII + 180.
OWEN (Roger), State, Power and Politics in the Making of the Modern Middle East, Londen, Routlegde, 2007, pp. XVI + 279.
POLK (William), The Arab World Today, Cambridge (Massachusetts), Harvard University Press, 1991, pp. 538.
SAÏD (Edward), Orientalism, Londen, Penguin, 2003, pp. 396.
SCHLESINGER (Arthur), The Disuniting of America, New York, Norton, 1992, pp. 160.
TIBI (Bassam), Conflict and War in the Middle East: From Interstate War to New Security, New York, Palgrave Macmillan, 1998, pp. 334.
2. Tijdschriftartikel:
LEWIS (Bernard), The Roots of Muslim Rage, in: The Atlantic Monthly, 1990.
00:05 Publié dans Actualité, Islam | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : actualite, islam, occident, civilisations | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
mardi, 17 juillet 2012
Deux nouvelles parutions aux éditions du Trident
Bonjour
Nous vous proposons aujourd’hui
deux nouvelles parutions aux éditions du Trident
"La Gaule avant César" par Camille Jullian
… la première page de l'Histoire de France
HTTP://editions-du-trident.fr/catalogue#gaule
"La Grande guerre de 1793"
… premier volume de "l'Histoire de la Vendée militaire" de Jacques Crétineau-Joly
HTTP: //editions-du-trident.fr/catalogue#vendee
17:47 Publié dans Livre | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : livre, vendee, 1793, revolution francaise, gaule, gaulois | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
Letter to My Friends on Identity & Sovereignty
Letter to My Friends on Identity & Sovereignty
By Dominique Venner
Ex: http://counter-currents.com
[1]
Charlemagne by Albrecht Dürer, circa 1512
Translated by Greg Johnson
When you belong to a nation associated with St. Louis, Philip the Fair, Richelieu, Louis XIV, or Napoleon, a country which in the late 17th century, was called the “great nation” (the most populated and most dangerous), it is cruel to recount the history of repeated setbacks: the aftermath of Waterloo, 1870, 1940, and again in 1962, the ignominious end of French rule in Algeria. A certain pride necessarily suffers.
By the 1930s, many among the boldest French minds had imagined a united Europe as a way to an understanding with Germany and as a solution to the constant decline of France. After the disaster that was World War II (which amplified that of 1914–1918), a project was born that is in itself legitimate. New bloodlettings between the French and Germans should be outlawed forever. The idea was to tie together the two great sister nations of the former Carolingian Empire. First by an economic association (the European Coal and Steel Community), then by a political association. General de Gaulle wanted to make this happen with the Elysée Treaty (January 22, 1963), but the United States, in their hostility, forestalled it by putting pressure on West Germany.
Then came the technocratic globalists who gave us the gas works called the “European Union.” In practice, this is the absolute negation of its name. The fake “European Union” has become the biggest obstacle to a genuine political settlement that respects the particularities of the European peoples of the former Carolingian Empire. Europe, it must be remembered, is primarily a unitary multi-millennial civilization going back to Homer, but it is also a potential power zone and the aspiration for a future that remains to be built.
Why an aspiration to power? Because no European nations today, neither France nor Germany nor Italy, despite brave fronts, are sovereign states any longer.
There are three main attributes of sovereignty:
First attribute: the ability to make war and conclude peace. The US, Russia, Israel, or China can. Not France. That was over after the end of the war in Algeria (1962), despite the efforts of General de Gaulle and our nuclear deterrent, which will never be used by France on its own (unless the United States has disappeared, which is unpredictable). Another way to pose the question: for whom are the French soldiers dying in Afghanistan? Certainly not for France, which has no business there, but for the United States. We are the auxiliaries of the USA. Like Germany and Italy, France is a vassal state of the great Atlantic suzerain power. It is best to face this to recover our former pride.
Second attribute of sovereignty: control of territory and population. Ability to distinguish between one’s own people and others . . . We know the reality is that the French state, by its policy, laws, courts, has organized the “great replacement” of populations, we impose a preference for immigrants and Muslims, with 8 million Arab-Muslims (and more waiting), bearers of another history, another civilization, and another future (Sharia).
Third attribute of sovereignty: one’s own currency. We know what that is.
The agonizing conclusion: France, as a state, is no longer sovereign and no longer has its own destiny. This is a consequence of the disasters of the century of 1914 (the 20th century) and the general decline of Europe and Europeans.
But there is a “but”: if France does not exist as a sovereign state, the French people and nation still exist, despite all efforts to dissolve them into rootless individuals! This is the great destabilizing paradox of the French mind. We were always taught to confuse identity with sovereignty by being taught that the nation is a creation of the state, which, for the French, is historically false.
It is for me a very old topic of discussion that I had previously summarized in an opinion column published in Le Figaro on February 1, 1999 under the title: “Sovereignty is not Identity.” I’ll put it online one day soon for reference.
No, the sovereignty of the state is not to be confused with national identity. France’s universalist tradition and centralist state were for centuries the enemy of the carnal nation and its constituent communities. The state has always acted relentlessly to uproot the French and transform them into the interchangeable inhabitants of a geographic zone. It has always acted to rupture the national tradition. Look at the July 14 celebrations: it celebrates a repugnant uprising, not a great memory of unity. Look at the ridiculous emblem of the French Republic: a plaster Marianne wearing a revolutionary cap. Look at the hideous logos that have been imposed to replace the arms of the traditional regions. Remember that in 1962 the state used all its strength against the French in Algeria, abandoned to their misery. Similarly, today, it is not difficult to see that the state gives preference to immigrants (construction of mosques, legalizing halal slaughter) at the expense of the natives.
There is nothing new in this state of war against the living nation. The Jacobin Republic merely followed the example of the Bourbons, which Tocqueville has demonstrated in The Old Regime and the French Revolution before Taine and other historians. Our textbooks have taught blind admiration for the way the Bourbons crushed “feudalism,” that is to say, the nobility and the communities they represented. What a brilliant policy! By strangling the nobility and rooted communities, this dynasty destroyed the foundation of the old monarchy. Thus, in the late 18th century, the individualistic (human rights) Revolution triumphed in France but failed everywhere else in Europe thanks to the persistence of the feudal system and strong communities. Reread what Renan says in hisIntellectual and Moral Reform in France. The reality is that in France the state is not the defender of the nation. It is a machine of power that has its own logic, willingly lent to the service of the enemies of the nation, having become one of the main agents of the deconstruction of identity.
Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com
URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/07/letter-to-my-friends-on-identity-and-sovereignty/
URLs in this post:
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lundi, 16 juillet 2012
Il nuovo ordine giapponese in Asia nel 1941-42 rese inevitabile la fine del colonialismo occidentale
Il nuovo ordine giapponese in Asia nel 1941-42 rese inevitabile la fine del colonialismo occidentale
Non è uno sterile esercizio di retorica e non è neppure una forma di nostalgia verso la “ucronia” o “storia alternativa” teorizzata dal filosofo Charles Renouvier, in polemica con il determinismo positivista, domandarsi che cosa sarebbe accaduto se la politica giapponese in Asia, negli anni del secondo conflitto mondiale, fosse stata diversa da quella che è stata; o meglio, se avesse privilegiato alcuni elementi che pure in essa erano presenti, a scapito di altri – dettati specialmente dai militari – che finirono per prevalere nettamente.
Che cosa sarebbe accaduto, in particolare, se la “sfera di co-prosperità della grande Asia Orientale” non fosse stato un semplice slogan propagandistico, ma avesse tenuto nel debito conto le esigenze e le aspirazioni nazionali dei popoli coloniali, dalla Birmania alla Malacca, dall’Indocina alle Indie Orientali olandesi, per non parlare della Manciuria e dell’India stessa, la quale ultima, pur non essendo stata occupata dalle armate nipponiche, fu tuttavia minacciata da vicino, mentre un esercito nazionale indiano veniva armato ed istruito sotto la guida prestigiosa di Subhas Chandra Bose, già presidente del Partito del Congresso e oppositore della linea nonviolenta di Gandhi?
Che cosa sarebbe accaduto se, una volta occupato l’immenso territorio che va dalle pendici dell’Himalaya alle isole Salomone e dalla Manciuria a Singapore, le autorità giapponesi non si fossero limitate a sfruttare nel loro esclusivo interesse le forze indipendentistiche locali, ma avessero dato loro una effettiva autonomia, cointeressandole alla sconfitta finale delle potenze occidentali e stabilendo verso di esse un rapporto paritario, invece di spremere le risorse economiche ed umane di quei territori, con una spietatezza che fece loro rimpiangere, in molti casi, la precedente dominazione coloniale europea o (nel caso delle Filippine) americana?
Certo, si potrebbe rispondere che se ciò non avvenne, e l’ottuso militarismo giapponese sciupò in tal modo una straordinaria occasione di mobilitare l’immenso potenziale asiatico contro l’Occidente (si pensi solo a quel che accadde nel Vietnam dopo la guerra e il ritorno dei Francesi), ciò non fu per un caso o per una imprevedibile fatalità, ma perché le vedute politiche del governo giapponese e, in genere, della sua classe dirigente, non andarono mai oltre una visione grettamente nazionalistica e, diciamolo pure, razzista, fondata sulla presunta superiorità degli abitanti del Giappone imperiale, “stirpe divina” della dea Amaterasu, non solo rispetto ai detestati occidentali, ma anche rispetto agli altri popoli dell’Asia.
E ciò è innegabilmente vero.
Tuttavia, non si deve tacere il fatto che una minoranza di menti illuminate, specialmente fra i membri civili del governo imperiale nipponico, aveva invece compreso il grandissimo valore del nazionalismo pan-asiatico quale strumento di lotta contro l’Occidente; e, inoltre, che il processo di formazione di una moderna coscienza nazionale era già in atto, specialmente in alcuni Paesi (l’India in primis) e che, pertanto, una intelligente politica giapponese avrebbe dovuto soltanto assecondarlo e favorirlo, non già creare o “inventare” qualche cosa che ancora non esisteva, almeno nei Paesi più evoluti o dove esistevano delle élites culturalmente formate in senso europeo o americano, che avevano preso sul serio la lezione del Risorgimento italiano e, in genere, della lotta per l’indipendenza dei popoli europei prima e dopo la guerra 1914-18.
Potremmo spingere lo sguardo ancora più in là e domandarci che cosa sarebbe avvenuto se una siffatta politica, lungimirante e realistica, fosse stata adottata dalle forze dell’Asse in Europa, particolarmente dalle autorità tedesche in Polonia, Ucraina, Russia e nei Balcani, oltre che in Francia, Belgio, Olanda, Danimarca e Norvegia, invece di instaurare un regime di occupazione che deluse e disgustò quelle stesse popolazioni che, in un primo tempo, avevano accolto l’avanzata germanica con sentimenti in parte favorevoli o, comunque, ancora incerti e suscettibili di positivi sviluppi. Si pensi, ad esempio, a come sarebbero potute andare le cose sul fronte orientale, se l’armata anticomunista del generale Vlasov fosse stata dotata di mezzi adeguati e se questa carta fosse stata giocata dai Tedeschi prima e con più convinzione, e non quando ormai le sorti della guerra in quel teatro erano praticamente segnate.
Ciò equivarrebbe a domandarsi se la seconda guerra mondiale, nel suo complesso, fu davvero combattuta tra le forze del “nuovo” e quelle del “vecchio”, ossia, come recitava la propaganda fascista, tra “il sangue” e “l’oro”; o se non fu, invece (e salvo alcune eccezioni) l’ennesimo scontro fra potenze, vecchie e nuove, interessate solo a uno sfruttamento miope ed egoistico delle risorse mondiali, secondo gli schemi collaudati nei secoli della modernità, dall’avventura dei “conquistadores” spagnoli in avanti.
In questo senso, si potrebbe anche dire che l’unico membro del Tripartito le cui vedute andavano, almeno in parte, al di là di tale visione grettamente obsoleta della politica estera, era proprio l’Italia; e i maligni potrebbero aggiungere che ciò avveniva proprio perché, essendo la potenza più debole, non aveva forze bastanti per condurre una vera politica imperiale e doveva necessariamente puntare più a destabilizzare gli imperi avversari, facendo leva sui nazionalismi dei popoli soggetti. Così si può interpretare la politica filo-islamica e filo-araba di Mussolini, finché la valle del Nilo e il Canale di Suez furono a portata delle forze italo-tedesche del Nordafrica; e così le simpatie del Gran Muftì per l’Italia, almeno fino a che le vicende della guerra, a noi sfavorevoli, non lo indussero a rivolgersi piuttosto verso la Germania.
Inoltre, per far leva sui nazionalismi dei popoli coloniali sarebbe stato necessario mostrare la capacità militare di aiutarli validamente a scrollare il giogo delle potenze alleate; mentre l’esito disastroso della rivolta anti-inglese irachena scatenata da Rashid Ali el Gaylani nell’aprile-maggio 1941, e la palese incapacità dell’Asse di supportarla in maniera adeguata, mostrarono al mondo arabo che non vi erano margini concreti per una azione coordinata con la Germania e l’Italia per colpire in modo decisivo l’Impero britannico in quell’area.
Anche in Europa, è noto che la politica italiana prima della seconda guerra mondiale era stata piuttosto quella di aggregare una coalizione danubiano-balcanica in funzione antifrancese e antibritannica, piuttosto che quella di sottomettere direttamente quelle nazioni. Tale politica era culminata con la firma del cosiddetto protocollo di Roma, il 17 marzo 1934, fra Mussolini, Dollfuss e Gömbös, primo ministro magiaro, che in pratica includeva l’Austria a l’Ungheria nella sfera d’influenza italiana; ma si era poi sgretolata con l’abbandono del “fronte di Stresa” e con il riavvicinamento italo-tedesco del 1936, all’epoca della guerra d’Etiopia, quando (per usare l’espressione dello storico Gordon Brook Shepherd) l’attenzione di Mussolini fu spostata dal bacino del Danubio all’alto corso del Nilo.
Nei primi mesi del 1943, dopo la duplice sconfitta di El Alamein e di Stalingrado, un nuovo blocco fra l’Italia e gli scoraggiati alleati minori dell’Asse (Ungheria, Romania, Bulgaria) stava potenzialmente riformandosi, con l’obiettivo a breve termine di persuadere Hitler, d’accordo col Giappone, a giungere ad una pace negoziata con l’Unione Sovietica; o, in alternativa, ad uscire dal Tripartito e abbandonare l’alleanza con la Germania. Ma le vicende del 25 luglio e, poi, dell’8 settembre, fecero abortire il tentativo: e si noti che ancora la mattina dopo il voto del Gran Consiglio e poche ore prima di essere arrestato, Mussolini si incontrava con l’ambasciatore giapponese a Roma, Hidaka, per concertare la pressione da svolgere su Hitler in vista dell’apertura di una trattativa coi Sovietici.
Ma torniamo al Giappone e al suo mancato sfruttamento della politica panasiatica basata sugli slogan della “co-prosperità” e della “più grande Asia orientale”.
Non si dimentichi che la guerra del Pacifico è tuttora considerata, dai Giapponesi, come una episodio a sé stante, staccato dal contesto che gli storici europei e americani chiamano, genericamente, la “seconda guerra mondiale”; e che essa incominciò non dopo l’attacco di Hitler alla Polonia, e cioè con il bombardamento di Pearl Harbor del 7 dicembre 1941, ma alcuni anni prima, e cioè con l’incidente al ponte Marco Polo di Pechino e con l’inizio della guerra sino-giapponese, il 7 luglio 1937.
Al tempo stesso, essi la considerano – e non del tutto a torto – come una guerra sostanzialmente difensiva, cui il Giappone fu tirato per i capelli dalla politica statunitense mirante ad accerchiarlo e metterlo in ginocchio con il blocco delle importazioni di materie prime. Anche la strategia giapponese fu originata essenzialmente da esigenze economiche: in particolare, la campagna delle Indie Olandesi fu dettata dalla necessità di impadronirsi del petrolio necessario all’industria bellica e specialmente alla flotta (più o meno come il petrolio romeno era indispensabile alla macchina bellica tedesca); e la campagna di Malacca, culminata nell’attacco a Singapore, non fu che la sua necessaria premessa tattica.
Tali esigenze economiche spiegano, almeno in parte, la diversità di trattamento riservata dal Giappone alle forze indipendentiste indonesiane (ma sarebbe meglio dire giavanesi, dato che un sentimento nazionale indonesiano ancora non esisteva) rispetto a quelle indiane, birmane o allo stesso governo fantoccio cinese. Infatti, Giava, Sumatra, Borneo e Celebes dovevano restare delle semi-colonie nipponiche, di cui la madrepatria non avrebbe potuto fare a meno senza dover rinunciare a tutta la sua politica imperiale; mentre gli altri Paesi, una volta divenuti indipendenti, avrebbero anche potuto essere trattati come soci alla pari, o quasi.
Il potenziale rivoluzionario dell’India, in particolare, era immenso; e fu certo un grave errore quello di non aver sostenuto in maniera convinta il movimento di Chandra Bose, lesinandogli i mezzi e trattandolo con malcelata diffidenza. Una rivolta indiana alle spalle del fronte birmano avrebbe potuto avere conseguenze incalcolabili e far crollare il dominio coloniale britannico; mentre in Birmania, nel 1944, l’ultima offensiva giapponese si risolse in un disastro, quando già l’Assam e il Bengala sembravano a portata di mano, cosa che provocò la fine del sogno di Bose (che aveva stabilito la sede provvisoria del suo governo, l’Hazad Hind, a Port Blair, nelle Isole Andamane). Per inciso, di Bose si parla ancor oggi poco e malvolentieri, fra gli storici occidentali: un po’ perché gli si preferisce l’immagine più rassicurante del Mahatma Gandhi, e molto perché Bose fu amico di Mussolini e Hitler, ciò che lo rende politicamente impresentabile nel salotto buono della cultura democratica odierna, tutta miele e buone intenzioni.
Generalmente, poi, in Occidente si pensa che la guerra doveva finire come è finita, data la sproporzione delle forze in campo; e la tenacissima resistenza delle forze armate giapponesi a Tarawa, Okinawa, Iwo Jima, viene immancabilmente presentata come un esempio di fanatismo folle e irresponsabile, dettato dal disprezzo della vita umana. Per un Occidentale, è cosa ovvia che, quando la superiorità materiale del nemico si delinea schiacciante, non resta altro da fare che arrendersi; ma ciò deriva dalla concezione materialistica della storia, e più in generale della vita, tipica dell’Occidente.
Per la cultura giapponese, e più specificamente per la religione scintoista, quel che conta non è un preventivo puramente materiale delle forze in campo, ma la capacità del singolo individuo di sacrificarsi fino all’estremo, se necessario, per la salvezza comune (della squadra, del gruppo, della patria): solo così si può entrare nella giusta ottica per comprendere il fenomeno dei “kamikaze” o quello dei soldati che rifiutarono di arrendersi e continuarono a resistere, nella giungla di qualche sperduta isola del Pacifico, per molti e molti anni dopo che la guerra era cessata.
Dunque, se il Giappone fosse stato in grado di mobilitare a fondo le forze nazionaliste dell’India, della Birmania, della Malesia, delle Filippine e delle Indie Orientali olandesi, non è scontato che la guerra sarebbe finita come è finita; del resto, la guerra del Vietnam e, poi, quella dell’Afghanistan, hanno mostrato cosa può fare un piccolo popolo, privo di armi moderne e di una moderna industria, contro una superpotenza mondiale, purché la coscienza nazionale sia salda e le condizioni del terreno siano favorevoli alla guerriglia.
Fra parentesi, lo stesso ragionamento si può fare a proposito dell’Europa, se la Germania avesse saputo giocare meglio la carta russa, mobilitando tutte le forze anticomuniste, ma non offrendo a Stalin – come invece accadde – la possibilità di presentarsi come il difensore del sacro sentimento nazionale e di ricevere perfino la benedizione della Chiesa ortodossa, da lui così crudelmente perseguitata fino alla vigilia dell’invasione tedesca. Oppure – già vi abbiamo accennato – se l’Italia avesse saputo giocare meglio la carta araba, per colpire gli Inglesi nel Mediterraneo e per minacciare le loro posizioni nel Medio Oriente.
Siamo proprio sicuri che la seconda guerra mondiale doveva necessariamente finire come è finita, solo perché il potenziale industriale e militare degli Alleati superava di molto quello del Tripartito? Non è forse vero che, coordinando la loro azione politico-militare (non diciamo: coordinandola meglio, perché non la coordinarono affatto), i Paesi del Tripartito sarebbero stati in grado di vincere: in particolare, se i Giapponesi avessero attaccato l’Unione Sovietica nell’autunno-inverno del 1941, quando la Wehrmacht era giunta alle porte di Mosca?
La politica giapponese in Asia orientale durante la seconda guerra mondiale è stata così sintetizzata dall’inglese Richard Storry, studioso del nazionalismo giapponese, nel suo libro Storia del Giappone moderno (titolo originale: A History of Modern Japan, Penguin Books, 1960; tradizione italiana di Laura Messeri, Firenze, Sansoni, 1962, pp. 268-71):
«I tedeschi, esperti nel genocidio nei loro rapporti con gli ebrei e i popoli della Russia e dell’Europa orientale, nel complesso si comportarono correttamente verso i prigionieri di guerra americani, inglesi e francesi caduti nelle loro mani. I giapponesi che non arrivarono mai agli abissi di spietatezza in cui piombarono le SS tedesche nel loro programma di sterminazione [sic] scientifica, inasprirono i loro nemici per il modo brutale e disordinato con cui sfruttarono e abbandonarono i prigionieri. Simili crudeltà si manifestarono nei riguardi del grosso dei popoli asiatici che caddero sotto il controllo giapponese; e ciò oltre che immorale fu pazzesco. Ciò significò che i Giapponesi ben presto dissiparono il rispetto e la simpatia con cui erano stati accolti in molte parti dell’Asia sudorientale dopo le prime grandi vittorie. Gli amministratori o consiglieri civili inviati da Tokyo in certe località, vi venivano trattati in modo da sentirsi inferiori alle autorità militari; e fra queste, nelle aree occupate, nessuna era più potente dell’odiato “kempei”, o polizia militare, che dominava col terrore seminando la paura e guadagnandosi così l’odio di coloro che avevano sperato nei Giapponesi come amici piuttosto che come conquistatori. Il risultato fu che i Giapponesi rovesciato il vecchio ordine, fecero in modo, col loro folle comportamento, che il popolo dell’Asia sud-orientale non accettasse mai volentieri il programma di “sfera di prosperità comune” sostenuta dal Giappone, dal momento che questo pratica significava passare da un colonialismo a un altro. Il movimento di resistenza sviluppatosi in paesi come le Filippine, la Birmania e la Malacca fu fortemente soggetto, come in Europa, all’influenza comunista, e in realtà lo sviluppo del comunismo fu un importante retaggio del malgoverno giapponese nell’Asia sud-orientale. Inoltre i rigori dell’occupazione giapponese specialmente nelle Filippine, creano un pregiudizio che rallentò il rientro del Giappone come esportatore nei mercati dell’Asia sud-orientale dopo la guerra.
Detto ciò, sarebbe nondimeno erroneo liquidare come completamente insincero e inefficiente il motto di guerra del Giappone “un’Asia orientale più grande!”. Sebbene i militari sul luogo si comportassero nel complesso con scarso riguardo per la suscettibilità delle razze asiatiche sotto il lotro controllo, il governo di Tokyo era abbastanza in grado di comprendere il nazionalismo asiatico. Lo stesso Tojo aveva sufficiente immaginazione per accorgersi che, promettendo l’indipendenza ai territori coloniali e semi-coloniali dell’Asia sud-orientale, il Giappone aveva un’arma di propaganda di incalcolabile potere. Non mancava l’idealismo nella visione di un Giappone come forza liberatrice dell’Asia, come socio più vecchio, piuttosto che come dittatore di un gruppo di nazioni da poco indipendenti. Questo era il nobile sogno degli uomini migliori della vita pubblica; e la maggior parte di essi videro malvolentieri entrare in guerra; per molti di loro poi la guerra fu giustificata solo in misura che questo sogno potesse divenire realtà. Ma fra i comandanti civili e militari, non c’era cooperazione su base di parità. Le forze armate avevano la preminenza e fra di loro, più specialmente nel’esercito, predominavano persone dalla mentalità ristretta e grossolanamente interessata. Per esempio, gli ufficiali giapponesi con un po’ più di immaginazione si erano ben accorti che i capi del cosiddetto “esercito nazionale indiano (un esercito costituito di vecchi prigionieri di guerra indiani e residenti indiani nell’Asia sud-orientale) andavano trattati come alleati, non come dei semplici fantocci; dopotutto, l’arrivo dall’Europa di Subhas Chandra Bose per capeggiare il governo della “India libera” poteva essere considerato un importantissimo punto di vantaggio per la causa giapponese. Eppure l’atteggiamento della maggior parte dei giapponesi verso l’esercito nazionale indiano, può essere riassunto da Terauchi, il generalissimo del’Asia sud-orientale, il quale fece sapere come egli disprezzasse alquanto Chandra Bose e i suoi seguaci. Parlando con altri Giapponesi, Terauchi notò che suo padre, che egli rispettava grandemente, quando era governatore generale della Corea, non aveva affatto tempo per i movimenti coloniali d’indipendenza. Così la conferenza dell’”Asia Orientale più grande” tenuta a Tokyo nel novembre 1943 e indetta dal Primo Ministro, con la presenza di Wang Ching-wei in rappresentanza della Cina, e i capi politici del Manchukuo, del Siam, delle Filippine, della Birmania e della “India libera”, fu una faccenda alquanto priva di significato. Esser festeggiati a Tokyo non compensava gli schiaffi ricevuti a Rangoon o a Manila.
Tuttavia, la concessione di una sia pur apparente indipendenza ai paesi occupati d’Asia (nelle Indie Orientali olandesi ciò non avvenne fino agli ultimi giorni di guerra) significava che sarebbe stato moralmente impossibile per le nazioni coloniali occidentali rifiutare loro una indipendenza effettiva una volta sconfitto il Giappone. Là dove nel dopoguerra l’indipendenza fu calorosamente richiesta, e poi rifiutata, i popoli asiatici in questione ebbero abbastanza fiducia in sé da conquistarsela con la lotta; così le vittorie giapponesi distruggendo la mistica della supremazia bianca, e la politica giapponese accordando ai territori occupati almeno una forma esteriore di indipendenza, accelerarono moltissimo la nascita nel dopoguerra delle nuove nazioni dell’Asia meridionale e sud-orientale.»
In conclusione, il Giappone non seppe sviluppare le potenzialità offerte dalla presenza, nei territori asiatici da esso conquistati o minacciati durante la seconda guerra mondiale, di movimenti nazionalisti più o meno sviluppati, che avrebbero potuto dare un contributo decisivo alla sconfitta degli Alleati e all’instaurazione di un “nuovo ordine” in Asia orientale.
Ciò fu una conseguenza del fatto che la politica giapponese, e specialmente la politica estera, erano virtualmente nelle mani di una casta di generali e di ammiragli dalle vedute corte, imbevuti di un nazionalismo gretto e di un senso di superiorità razziale che li portava a guardare ai popoli della Corea, della Manciuria, della Cina, dell’Indocina, delle Filippine, delle Indie Orientali e della stessa India, con un disprezzo mal dissimulato.
Ciò spinse la stragrande maggioranza di quei popoli ad astenersi dalla collaborazione attiva con i Giapponesi, i quali, da parte loro, li trattarono con stupida ed inutile durezza, un po’ come fecero i Tedeschi in Europa e specialmente in Europa orientale. Le premesse ideologiche dei regimi nipponico e germanico erano simili, così come erano simili alcuni tratti dello sviluppo economico-sociale dei due Paesi tra la fine dell’Ottocento e la prima metà del Novecento; anche se i due sistemi politici erano molto diversi perché, nel Giappone scintoista dominato dal culto della divina persona dell’imperatore, una figura come quella del Füher sarebbe stata impensabile.
Qualcuno ha detto che non si può versare del vino vecchio in otri nuovi e, in questo senso, la politica giapponese (e tedesca) negli anni della seconda guerra mondiale fu vecchia nella sostanza, nel senso che ricalcava i moduli classici del nazionalismo e dell’imperialismo, anche se talune trovate propagandistiche avevano, in effetti, l’apparenza del nuovo.
Nuova, semmai, era la politica del fascismo, o almeno suscettibile di elementi di novità, dato che essa faceva appello non a un cieco egoismo nazionale, ma a valori e riferimenti di portata trans-nazionale; tanto è vero che ad essere imitato nel mondo fu il modello fascista italiano, non quello nazista tedesco e meno ancora quello imperiale giapponese. Cade, perciò, il mito che fa parlare gli storici occidentali di “nazifascismo” come di una categoria perfettamente logica ed omogenea, persino ovvia. L’alleanza tra fascismo e nazismo era, in origine, tattica e non strategica; quello che la trasformò in un abbraccio mortale furono la stupidità e la miopia della politica francese e soprattutto inglese, fra il 1935 e il 1940.
Comunque, se si vuol capire qualcosa dei Paesi asiatici e africani dopo il 1945, bisogna ricordare questo: che l’Italia fascista, più della Germania e più del Giappone, fu un modello per una intera generazione di giovani nazionalisti, i quali, dopo la fine della guerra, andarono al potere nei rispettivi Paesi, una volta raggiunta l’indipendenza.
Tanto per citarne uno, tale è il caso di Anwar el Sadat, imprigionato dai Britannici durante la seconda guerra mondiale per essersi rivolto alle potenze dell’Asse allo scopo di ottenere l’indipendenza dell’Egitto. Non tutti, ad Alessandria e al Cairo, facevano il tifo per il maresciallo Montgomery, quando i carri armati di Rommel si erano spinti fino ad El Alamein, come agli storici occidentali piacerebbe credere far credere; e meno che meno gli Egiziani, ossia i più diretti interessati all’esito della battaglia.
Di Chandra Bose abbiamo già detto, così come abbiamo accennato al Gran Muftì di Gerusalemme; e lo stesso si potrebbe dire di molti altri. Certo, alcuni di questi leader non piacciono all’Occidente, ad esempio – come nel caso del Gran Muftì – a causa del loro conclamato e virulento antisemitismo. Ma questo è un altro discorso; e, in ogni caso, è un problema inerente alla visione del mondo occidentale; un problema nostro, insomma.
Comunque, tornando al Giappone, un risultato importantissimo la sua politica panasiatica lo ottenne, indipendentemente dal fatto che quella politica rimase allo stato di abbozzo o di mera propaganda: e cioè che essa rese inevitabile e quasi immediata la partenza delle potenze coloniali occidentali, a guerra finita.
Chi avrebbe potuto immaginare, ancora pochi anni prima, che già nel 1947 l’India sarebbe diventata una grande nazione indipendente, sia pure a prezzo della secessione del Pakistan; e che, nel 1949, la stessa cosa sarebbe accaduta per l’Indonesia, altro gigante mondiale: i quali sono, oggi, rispettivamente il secondo Stato del pianeta (l’India), il quarto (il Pakistan) e il quinto (l’Indonesia), per numero di abitanti?
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Tratto, col gentile consenso dell’Autore, dal sito Arianna Editrice.
00:05 Publié dans Histoire | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : colonialisme, anti-colonialisme, japon, asie, asie orientale, deuxième guerre mondiale, seconde guerre mondiale, impérialisme, antui-impérialisme | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
dimanche, 15 juillet 2012
Guillaume Faye on Nietzsche
Guillaume Faye on Nietzsche
Translated by Greg Johnson
Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com
Translator’s Note:
The following interview of Guillaume Faye is from the Nietzsche Académie [2] blog.
How important is Nietzsche for you?
Reading Nietzsche has been the departure point for all values and ideas I developed later. In 1967, when I was a pupil of the Jesuits in Paris, something incredible happened in philosophy class. In that citadel of Catholicism, the philosophy teacher decided to do a year-long course on Nietzsche! Exeunt Descartes, Kant, Hegel, Marx, and others. The good fathers did not dare say anything, despite the upheaval in the program.
It marked me, believe me. Nietzsche, or the hermeneutics of suspicion. . . . Thus, very young, I distanced myself from the Christian, or rather “Christianomorphic,” view of the world. And of course, at the same time, from egalitarianism and humanism. All the analyses that I developed later were inspired by the insights of Nietzsche. But it was also in my nature.
Later, much later, just recently, I understood the need to complete the principles of Nietzsche with those of Aristotle, the good old Apollonian Greek, a pupil of Plato, whom he respected as well as criticized. There is for me an obvious philosophical affinity between Aristotle and Nietzsche: the refusal of metaphysics and idealism, and, crucially, the challenge to the idea of divinity. Nietzsche’s “God is dead” is the counterpoint to Aristotle’s motionless and unconscious god, which is akin to a mathematical principle governing the universe.
Only Aristotle and Nietzsche, separated by many centuries, denied the presence of a self-conscious god without rejecting the sacred, but the latter is akin to a purely human exaltation based on politics or art.
Nevertheless, Christian theologians have never been bothered by Aristotle, but were very much so by Nietzsche. Why? Because Aristotle was pre-Christian and could not know Revelation. While Nietzsche, by attacking Christianity, knew exactly what he was doing.
Nevertheless, the Christian response to this atheism is irrefutable and deserves a good philosophical debate: faith is a different domain than the reflections of philosophers and remains a mystery. I remember, when I was with the Jesuits, passionate debates between my Nietzschean atheist philosophy teacher and the good fathers (his employers) sly and tolerant, sure of themselves.
What book by Nietzsche would you recommend?
The first one I read was The Gay Science. It was a shock. Then Beyond Good and Evil, where Nietzsche overturns the Manichean moral rules that come from Socrates and Christianity. The Antichrist, it must be said, inspired the whole anti-Christian discourse of the neo-pagan Right, in which I was obviously heavily involved.
But it should be noted that Nietzsche, who was raised Lutheran, had rebelled against Christian morality in its purest form represented by German Protestantism, but he never really understood the religiosity and the faith of traditional Catholics and Orthodox Christians, which is quite unconnected to secularized Christian morality.
Oddly, I was never excited by Thus Spoke Zarathustra. For me, it is a rather confused work, in which Nietzsche tried to be a prophet and a poet but failed. A bit like Voltaire, who believed himself clever in imitating the tragedies of Corneille. Voltaire, an author who, moreover, has spawned ideas quite contrary to this “philosophy of the Enlightenment” that Nietzsche (alone) had pulverized.
Being Nietzschean, what does this mean?
Nietzsche would not have liked this kind of question, for he did not want disciples, though . . . (his character, very complex, was not devoid of vanity and frustration, just like you and me). Ask instead: What does it mean to follow Nietzschean principles?
This means breaking with Socratic, Stoic, and Christian principles and modern human egalitarianism, anthropocentrism, universal compassion, and universalist utopian harmony. It means accepting the possible reversal of all values (Umwertung) to the detriment of humanistic ethics. The whole philosophy of Nietzsche is based on the logic of life: selection of the fittest, recognition of vital power (conservation of bloodlines at all costs) as the supreme value, abolition of dogmatic standards, the quest for historical grandeur, thinking of politics as aesthetics, radical inegalitarianism, etc.
That’s why all the thinkers and philosophers — self-appointed, and handsomely maintained by the system — who proclaim themselves more or less Nietzschean, are impostors. This was well understood by the writer Pierre Chassard who on good authority denounced the “scavengers of Nietzsche.” Indeed, it is very fashionable to be “Nietzschean.” Very curious on the part of publicists whose ideology — political correctness and right-thinking — is absolutely contrary to the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche.
In fact, the pseudo-Nietzscheans have committed a grave philosophical confusion: they held that Nietzsche was a protest against the established order, but they pretended not to understand that it was their own order: egalitarianism based on a secularized interpretation of Christianity. “Christianomorphic” on the inside and outside. But they believed (or pretended to believe) that Nietzsche was a sort of anarchist, while advocating a ruthless new order. Nietzsche was not, like his scavengers, a rebel in slippers, a phony rebel, but a revolutionary visionary.
Is Nietzsche on the Right or Left?
Fools and shallow thinkers (especially on the Right) have always claimed that the notions of Left and Right made no sense. What a sinister error. Although the practical positions of the Left and Right may vary, the values of Right and Left do exist. Nietzscheanism is obviously on the Right. The socialist mentality, the morality of the herd, made Nietzsche vomit. But that does not mean that thepeople of the extreme Right are Nietzscheans, far from it. For example, they are generally anti-Jewish, a position that Nietzsche castigated and considered stupid in many of his writings, and in his correspondence he singled out anti-Semitic admirers who completely misunderstood him.
Nietzscheanism, obviously, is on the Right, and the Left, always in a position of intellectual prostitution, attempted to neutralize Nietzsche because it could not censor him. To be brief, I would say that an honest interpretation of Nietzsche places him on the side of the revolutionary Right in Europe, using the concept of the Right for lack of anything better (like any word, it describes things imperfectly).
Nietzsche, like Aristotle (and, indeed, like Plato, Kant, Hegel, and Marx, of course — but not at all Spinoza) deeply integrated politics in his thinking. For example, by a fantastic premonition, he was for a union of European nations, like Kant, but from a very different perspective. Kant the pacifist, universalist, and incorrigible utopian moralist, wanted the European Union as it exists today: a great flabby body without a sovereign head with the Rights of Man as its highest principle. Nietzsche, on the contrary, spoke of Great Politics, a grand design for a united Europe. For the moment, it is the Kantian view that has unfortunately been imposed.
On the other hand, the least we can say is that Nietzsche was not a Pan-German, a German nationalist, but rather a nationalistic — and patriotic — European. This was remarkable for a man who lived in his time, the second part of the 19th century (“This stupid 19th century,” said Léon Daudet), which exacerbated as a fatal poison the shabby petty intra-European nationalism that would result in the terrible fratricidal tragedy of 1914 to 1918, when young Europeans from 18 to 25 years, massacred one another without knowing exactly why. Nietzsche the European wanted anything but such a scenario.
That is why those who instrumentalized Nietzsche (in the 1930s) as an ideologue of Germanism are as wrong as those who, today, present him as a proto-Leftist. Nietzsche was a European patriot, and he put the genius of the German soul in the service of European power whose decline, as a visionary, he already sensed.
What authors do you see as Nietzschean?
Not necessarily those who claim Nietzsche. In reality, there are no actual “Nietzschean” authors. Simply, Nietzsche and others are part of a highly fluid and complex current that could be described as a “rebellion against the accepted principles.” On this point, I agree with the view of the Italian philosopher Giorgio Locchi, who was one of my teachers: Nietzsche inaugurated “superhumanism,” that is to say the surpassing of humanism. I’ll stop there, because I will not repeat what I have developed in some of my books, including Why We Fight and Sex and Perversion. One could say that a large number of authors and filmmakers are “Nietzschean,” but this kind of talk is very superficial.
On the other hand, I believe there is a strong link between the philosophy of Nietzsche and Aristotle, despite the centuries that separate them. To say that Aristotle is Nietzschean is obviously an anachronistic absurdity. But to say that Nietzsche’s philosophy continues Aristotle, the errant student of Plato, is a claim I will hazard. This is why I am both Aristotelian and Nietzschean: Because these two philosophers defend the fundamental idea that the supernatural deity must be examined in substance. Nietzsche looks at divinity with a critical perspective like Aristotle’s.
Most writers who call themselves admirers of Nietzsche are impostors. Paradoxically, I link Darwinism and Nietzsche. Those who actually interpret Nietzsche are accused by ideological manipulators of not being real “philosophers.” Even those who want Nietzsche to say the opposite of what he so inconveniently actually said. We must condemn this appropriation of philosophy by a caste of mandarins who proceed to distort the texts of the philosophers, or even censor them. Aristotle has also been a victim. One can read Nietzsche and other philosophers only through a scholarly grid, inaccessible to the common man. But no. Nietzsche is quite readable by any educated man. But our time can read only through the grid of censorship by omission.
Could you give a definition of the Superman?
Nietzsche intentionally gave a vague definition of the Superman. This is an open-ended yet clear concept. Obviously, the pseudo-Nietzschean intellectuals were quick to blur and empty this concept by making the Superman a sort of airy intellectual: detached, haughty, meditative, quasi-Buddhist—the conceited image they have of themselves. In short, the precise opposite of what Nietzsche intended. I am a partisan not of interpreting writers but of reading them, if possible, with the highest degree of respect.
Nietzsche obviously linked the Superman to the notion of Will to Power (which, too, has been manipulated and distorted). The Superman is the model of the man who fulfills the Will to Power, that is to say, who rises above herd morality (and Nietzsche thought socialism was a herd doctrine) to selflessly impose a new order, with two dimensions, warlike and sovereign, aiming at dominion, endowed with a power project. The interpretation of the Superman as a supreme “sage,” a non-violent, ethereal, proto-Gandhi of sorts is a deconstruction of Nietzsche’s thought in order to neutralize and blur it. The Parisian intelligentsia, whose hallmark is a spirit of falsehood, has a sophisticated but evil genius in distorting the thought of annoying but unavoidable great authors (including Aristotle and Voltaire) but also wrongly appropriating or truncating their thought.
There are two possible definitions of the Superman: the mental and the moral Superman (by evolution and education, surpassing his ancestors) and the biological superman. It’s very difficult to decide, since Nietzsche himself has used this expression as a sort of mytheme, a literary trope, without ever truly conceptualizing it. A sort of premonitory phrase, which was inspired by Darwinian evolutionism.
But your question is very interesting. The key is not having an answer “about Nietzsche,” but to know which path Nietzsche wanted to open over a hundred years ago. Because he was anti-Christian and anti-humanist, Nietzsche did not think that man was a fixed being, but that he is subject to evolution, even self-evolution (that is the sense of the metaphor of the “bridge between the beast and the Superman”).
For my part — but then I differ with Nietzsche, and my opinion does not possess immense value — I interpreted superhumanism as a challenge, for reasons partly biological, to the very notion of a human species. Briefly. This concept of the Superman is certainly much more than Will to Power, one of those mysterious traps Nietzsche set, one of the questions he posed to future humanity: Yes, what is the Superman? The very word makes us dreamy and delirious.
Nietzsche may have had the intuition that the human species, at least some of its higher components (not necessarily “humanity”), could accelerate and direct biological evolution. One thing is certain, that crushes the thoughts of monotheistic, anthropocentric “fixists”: man is not an essence that is beyond evolution. And then, to the concept of Übermensch, never forget to add that ofHerrenvolk . . . prescient. Also, we should not forget Nietzsche’s reflections on the question of race and anthropological inequality.
The capture of Nietzsche’s work by pseudo-scientists and pseudo-philosophical schools (comparable to the capture of the works of Aristotle) is explained by the following simple fact: Nietzsche is too big a fish to be eliminated, but far too subversive not to be censored and distorted.
Your favorite quote from Nietzsche?
“We must now cease all forms of joking around.” This means, presciently, that the values on which Western civilization are based are no longer acceptable. And that survival depends on a reversal or restoration of vital values. And all this assumes the end of festivisme (as coined by Philippe Muray and developed by Robert Steuckers) and a return to serious matters.
Source: http://nietzscheacademie.over-blog.com/article-nietzsche-vu-par-guillaume-faye-106329446.html [3]
Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com
URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/07/guillaume-faye-on-nietzsche/
00:05 Publié dans Nouvelle Droite, Philosophie | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : philosophie, nouvelle droite, guillaume faye, nietzsche, surhumanisme | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
samedi, 14 juillet 2012
Warrior heritage of Ukrainian Cossacks
Warrior heritage of Ukrainian Cossacks
00:05 Publié dans Militaria, Musique | Lien permanent | Commentaires (2) | Tags : cosaques, russie, ukraine, histoire, militaria, musique | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
vendredi, 13 juillet 2012
Akhenaton, Fils du Soleil par Savitri Devi
La vie est un culte:
Akhenaton, Fils du Soleil par Savitri Devi
By Mark Brundsen
Traduit par Arjuna / Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/
English original here
Savitri Devi demeure une figure énigmatique dans l’histoire récente. Elle est probablement le mieux connue comme la « prêtresse d’Hitler »,[1] une partisane farouchement impénitente de l’Allemagne nationale-socialiste, et portée au mysticisme. On se rappelle probablement d’elle de cette manière parce que cela nous permet de catégoriser ses idées. Si on se rappelle d’elle un jour, ce sera précisément à cause de l’absence de « mal pur » chez elle, cette étrange qualité qui est attribuée à d’autres figures nationale-socialistes dans le but de les rejeter. Le paradoxe qu’elle incarne, celui d’une nazie déclarée et aimante, est trop incompréhensible pour que certains puissent même l’examiner.
En conséquence, Savitri Devi reste une voie obligatoire dans une vision historique plus réaliste du national-socialisme ; ses écrits révèlent une vision-du-monde implicite qui est activement combative et dynamique, une possibilité inconcevable pour beaucoup de gens qui acceptent la vision d’après-guerre, ossifiée et monolithique, du national-socialisme. Cela ne veut pas dire que ses idées doivent remplacer les autres visions que nous avons du mouvement, mais qu’elles doivent nous en révéler les multiples dimensions, dont les siennes ne sont qu’une partie. Pour cette raison, Savitri Devi offre des leçons précieuses aux nationaux-socialistes d’aujourd’hui, qui peuvent apprendre à défendre un idéal moins dérivé d’une vision mutilée de l’histoire (et de son opposition polaire), tout comme aux accepteurs passifs de cette orthodoxie du mal, construite par leur crainte de tout schéma complexe.
C’est dans cet esprit que je voudrais examiner son livre Akhenaton, Fils du Soleil : la vie et la philosophie d’Akhenaton, Roi d’Egypte,[2] écrit pendant la seconde guerre mondiale, alors que l’auteur demeurait en Inde, loin de la calamité en Europe, regardant anxieusement la tragédie de son mouvement. Le texte est un examen approfondi de la vie d’Akhenaton en tant que Pharaon apostat et des détails de son culte de la puissance solaire, Aton.
Le texte est divisé en trois parties : une description du début de la vie du roi, incluant son ascension et son remplacement de la religion nationale ; une discussion des particularités et des implications de l’atonisme ; et un exposé du déclin conséquent de l’Egypte à cause du refus par Akhenaton de faire des compromis concernant ses croyances, qui se termine par un chapitre examinant les leçons que les gens d’aujourd’hui peuvent tirer de la vie et de la religion d’Akhenaton.
Le chapitre final révèle le but ultime de Savitri Devi, qu’elle expose elle-même, c’est-à-dire présenter pour examen l’œuvre intellectuelle d’un héros oublié : un système de croyance antique, mais étonnamment contemporain, dont elle pensait qu’il avait le potentiel pour éclairer le chemin au-delà de l’impasse de la mentalité moderne, handicapée par la coupure entre science (ou rationalité) et religion, un système à la vision large.
Le style de Savitri Devi révèle sa personnalité ; en lisant Fils du Soleil, on peut voir à l’œuvre une penseuse hautement dévouée et passionnée, qui s’efforce de trouver toutes les informations (employées de manière créative) pour faire avancer sa thèse. Celle-ci peut constituer un choc pour le lecteur contemporain, trop préoccupé par le leurre de l’objectivité en histoire, et n’est pas aidée par le fait qu’à l’époque il n’y avait qu’une fraction des études sur Akhenaton disponibles aujourd’hui.
Savitri Devi utilise sans vergogne son imagination pour spéculer sur les détails de la vie du roi (en particulier sa description de l’éducation d’Akhenaton, de sa haute considération pour sa femme, de la vie dans sa nouvelle capitale Akhetaton, et la facilité avec laquelle Akhenaton comprenait intuitivement des faits que la science moderne a décrits depuis lors). Cela ne donne pas toujours l’impression d’être érudit, malgré son affirmation répétée de la valeur de la rationalité.
Savitri Devi considère comme son devoir de discuter d’Akhenaton comme d’un génie, d’un maître spirituel et intellectuel, et entreprend sa tâche d’une manière active et créative. Pour accepter ce fait, il faut considérer Fils du Soleil comme un exposé des idées de Savitri Devi tout autant que de la vie d’Akhenaton. Si on peut accepter cela, Fils du Soleil est une lecture riche et gratifiante.
La première partie du livre sert surtout à présenter le contexte dans lequel commença la vie d’Akhenaton, et aide aussi le lecteur à se familiariser au style de Savitri Devi. Celle-ci semble enivrée par sa description de l’Egypte impériale ; elle consacre un temps considérable à décrire la richesse et le pouvoir à la disposition de son roi, et la portée de son règne, qui impliqua une influence à la fois économique et religieuse. Le début de la vie d’Akhenaton est scruté de la même manière, et elle admet que les détails en sont déduits de ce que l’on sait de la fin de la vie de l’homme (p. 19). Elle fait cela très longuement, incluant la spéculation sur les origines ou les influences de ce qui devait devenir sa religion.
Quelque temps après que le prince soit devenu Pharaon, et ayant subi un changement religieux intérieur, il érigea un temple consacré au dieu Aton, une déité solaire déjà adorée en Egypte, peut-être synonyme de Râ. Si les murs du temple contiennent des images d’Aton aux cotés d’Amon et d’autres dieux nationaux, un peu plus tard la tolérance du roi disparut et toute l’iconographie religieuse fut enlevée, sauf celle d’Aton. C’est la principale trace historique des réformes d’Akhenaton : les influents prêtres d’Amon furent empêchés de pratiquer officiellement et l’atonisme fut déclaré seule religion légitime. Le problème d’Akhenaton, cependant, était que sa religion panthéiste innovante ne plaisait pas aux profanes, et Savitri Devi se demande même si ses adeptes n’ont pas été motivés simplement par un désir de promotion. La résolution d’Akhenaton impliquait la construction d’une nouvelle capitale pour l’Egypte, à nouveau décrite d’une manière glorieuse et créative.
La seconde partie consiste en un examen de l’atonisme, principalement à travers une lecture attentive des deux hymnes survivants d’Akhenaton (dont de multiples traductions sont fournies en appendice), et contient donc à la fois les idées centrales d’Akhenaton et de Savitri Devi. Dans les hymnes, Akhenaton désigne Aton, le disque du soleil, par divers autres termes. Le terme qui intéresse Savitri Devi est « Shu-qui-est-dans-le-disque », où Shu évoque à la fois la chaleur et la lumière. Elle compare cet usage aux références similaires d’Akhenaton aux grondements du tonnerre et de la foudre, qu’il assimile à Aton. Savitri Devi utilise ces deux indications pour suggérer qu’Akhenaton avait une conception profonde de l’énergie, de la chaleur et de la lumière, les considérant finalement comme équivalentes, un fait qui a été ostensiblement validé par la recherche scientifique.
L’indication de cette compréhension poussa Sir Flinders Petrie, dans son History of Egypt [1899], citée par Savitri Devi (p. 293), à remarquer : « Si c’était une nouvelle religion inventée pour satisfaire nos conceptions scientifiques modernes, nous ne pourrions pas trouver de défaut dans la correction de la vision [d’Akhenaton] de l’énergie du système solaire ». Sir Wallis Budge est cité comme affirmant que Akhenaton ne vénérait qu’un objet matériel, le soleil littéral, mais Savitri Devi rejette cela en citant des exemples où Akhenaton parle du Ka du Soleil, son âme ou son essence. Budge reconnaît aussi que la vision d’Akhenaton est celle d’un Disque créé par lui-même et existant par lui-même, ce qui est une distinction marquée par rapport aux vieux cultes héliopolitains qui incluaient une figure créatrice.
Akhenaton semble avoir suivi cette approche religieuse rationnelle avec cohérence. Son enseignement est entièrement dénué de récits mythologiques, de récits de miracles, et de métaphysique. La thèse de Savitri Devi en concevant la religion du Disque est que Akhenaton voyait et adorait la divinité dans la vie elle-même.
Dans ses hymnes, Akhenaton affirme l’origine terrestre du Nil et compare ses bienfaits à ceux des autres fleuves et de la pluie, rompant avec l’idée habituelle de l’origine divine du Nil, ou de tout ce qui était source d’eau. Akhenaton affirme également sa propre origine terrestre, s’opposant à la pratique acceptée des pharaons prétendant à une naissance divine. Akhenaton conserve ainsi sa connexion divine directe – il s’appelle lui-même Fils de Râ – mais transfère sa conception divine à une conception qui est physique sans ambiguïté.
La probabilité de l’accent porté par la religion sur l’immanence est accrue par l’absence d’idolâtrie. Akhenaton n’adore ni « un dieu… à l’image d’un homme, ni même un pouvoir individuel », mais une « réalité impersonnelle » (p. 141). Cela est aussi cohérent avec une absence de prescriptions morales dans le culte, qui contient seulement la valeur (que Akhenaton applique à lui-même, par un surnom régulier) « vivre-dans-la-vérité » : ce qui compte, c’est de mettre un esprit particulier dans ses actions (p. 193).
Une telle absence n’empêche cependant pas Savitri Devi de suggérer ce que cet esprit peut apprécier, par l’examen des hymnes. Alors que de nombreux commentateurs avaient précédemment souligné l’internationalisme et l’« objection de conscience à la guerre » (Weigall cité dans le texte, p. 150) d’Akhenaton, et son amour de tous les êtres humains, Savitri Devi lit les hymnes d’une manière moins anthropocentrique. Elle affirme que les hymnes expriment « la fraternité de tous les êtres sensibles, humains et non-humains » (p. 150, souligné dans l’original), et que par leur nature même les animaux adoraient le Ka du Disque, effaçant ainsi la séparation entre homme et bête, ou matériel et métaphysique (si fortement affirmée par la pensée juive, grecque et chrétienne). Les plantes sont aussi inclues dans l’hymne, bien que pas comme des agents aussi actifs que les animaux.
La discussion de Savitri Devi culmine dans son affirmation que Akhenaton était opposé à l’anthropocentrisme : l’idée que l’homme est un être unique et privilégié et que la seule valeur de l’environnement est son utilité pour l’homme (p. 161). Ses propres idées sur le sujet sont développées plus complètement dans Impeachment of Man. En proposant une telle vision centrée sur la vie, Savitri Devi précède même l’essai majeur de Aldo Leopold, The Land Ethic (1949), qui est généralement considéré comme l’année zéro pour l’éthique environnementale moderne et l’écologie profonde. Inutile de le dire, notre but en mentionnant cela n’est pas de présenter Savitri Devi comme la mère de ces développements, car le courant intellectuel dominant n’est pas intéressé par ses idées et celles-ci ont donc eu peu d’influence.
Savitri Devi interprète aussi les hymnes d’Akhenaton comme encourageant un nationalisme bienveillant. Si Akhenaton percevait la fraternité de toutes les créatures (unissant l’humanité par le fait de leur relation singulière avec Aton), il pensait aussi que Aton « a mis chaque homme à sa place », ce qui inclut la division en peuples « étranges » (et différents) (p. 158, note). Ici Savitri Devi discute en détail des droits de tous les peuples à l’autodétermination et de sa farouche opposition à l’impérialisme.
Finalement, Savitri Devi spécule sur la vision des femmes par Akhenaton, exprimée par le fait que, contrairement à la coutume, il n’eut qu’une seule femme (bien que cela ait ultérieurement été prouvé comme faux), et par l’inclusion de Nefertiti dans les hymnes, apparemment en tant qu’égale d’Akhenaton. Elle reconnaît, cependant, que nous ne savons pas de quelle manière ou à quel degré la reine comprenait la religion de son époux.
La partie finale du livre se concentre sur les résultats de la vision-du-monde du pharaon. A cause de sa négligence de la politique impériale, condamnée par ses croyances, l’Etat déclina. Dans un grand nombre de territoires conquis, des vassaux loyaux, menacés par des invasions et des soulèvements, appelèrent désespérément à l’aide le pharaon, auquel ils avaient payé un tribut régulier et important. Akhenaton refusa d’intervenir, et répondit à peine à leurs lettres, dont la plupart ont été préservées ; il retarda même pendant des mois une audience avec un messager.
Alors que les autres historiens ont interprété cette apathie comme de l’égoïsme, Savitri Devi accorde la bénéfice du doute à Akhenaton et explique cette inaction par sa croyance en l’autodétermination des tribus et des nations, et voit cette tragique effusion de sang comme la seule issue dans une situation bloquée, la véritable mise à l’épreuve pour les principes du pharaon. Il pouvait soit réprimer les soulèvements dans le sang, ce qui aurait entretenu l’hostilité, soit autoriser un conflit sacrificiel final, ce qui mettrait fin à l’escalade de la violence, celle de l’oppression tout comme celle de la résistance. Cette approche est en opposition avec les impératifs dictés par l’individualisme moderne, qui ne possède aucun mécanisme pour stopper un tel processus.
Inutile de le dire, un tel résultat était un suicide politique, et Savitri Devi continue à spéculer sur ce qui aurait pu se passer si Akhenaton avait tenté de répandre sa religion en utilisant la force, décrivant une expansion mondiale du culte. Cependant, cela aurait été contraire à l’essence même de cette religion, qui est élitiste, reposant sur une intuition profonde de l’essence de l’univers et de l’Etre. Le destin d’Akhenaton, consistant à être oublié et de voir sa religion abolie avec hostilité, était donc pour Savitri Devi « le prix de la perfection ». Savitri Devi conclut son ouvrage en examinant directement la pertinence de cette religion pour les Aryens d’aujourd’hui.
D’après cet exposé, il est clair qu’il y a quelques idées contradictoires dans Fils du Soleil, ce qui devrait nous inciter à considérer Savitri Devi comme une propagandiste du mal à l’esprit partisan. Malheureusement, alors que Savitri Devi dépense une énergie excessive à répéter et à souligner ses thèses (au point que le livre est inutilement long), elle néglige pour la plus grande part certains points contradictoires, qui restent ainsi non résolus dans le texte. Cela ne veut pas dire qu’ils compromettent les buts de Savitri Devi, mais que des occasions de développer ses idées ne sont pas exploitées, très probablement parce qu’elle ne voyait pas nécessairement de contradiction, alors que ses lecteurs contemporains en verront probablement une.
Les contradictions centrales sont, d’une part, celle entre son affirmation de la vision universaliste de la vie et la division des races humaines, et d’autre part sa présentation d’Akhenaton comme le premier individu du monde par opposition à l’appui de Savitri à ses politiques anti-individuelles. Ces difficultés finissent par disparaître si l’on fait quelques distinctions subtiles, qui sont si souvent négligées par les nationalistes tout comme par leurs adversaires aujourd’hui, très probablement à cause d’une interprétation orthodoxe de la seconde guerre mondiale.
Les buts du nationalisme ne coïncident pas nécessairement avec ceux de l’impérialisme, et Savitri Devi fait résolument la distinction entre eux. Le fait que l’humanité soit une fraternité sous le regard d’Aton n’exige pas que toutes les cultures effacent leurs différences ; au contraire, cela les encourage à célébrer leurs différents chemins de vie et de culte.
La révélation de la fraternité universelle ne pousse pas non plus Savitri Devi à adopter une position populiste : elle approuve le refus d’Akhenaton d’édulcorer sa religion pour les masses, qui ne feraient que la pervertir. Les gens d’aujourd’hui pourraient se plaindre d’un « double langage » dans la hiérarchie des droits en Egypte, mais Savitri Devi considère naturellement ces différences comme supérieures à une position totalement égalitaire.
La répugnance d’Akhenaton à se concilier les masses est poétique et pure, mais futile. Cela soulève la question même du règne de l’élite, car si celui-ci est juste mais ne peut jamais être correctement établi, quel est l’intérêt de le théoriser et de le défendre ? La norme politique aujourd’hui est simplement plus populiste, avec l’attente du suffrage universel, qui est lié au concept d’humanité. René Guénon met en garde contre un tel règne lorsqu’il déclare que « l’opinion de la majorité ne peut être que l’expression de l’incompétence ».[3] Mais dès que ces pouvoirs ont été accordés, comment la situation peut-elle être inversée ? Ce problème est éternel, puisqu’il est la question centrale de la politique, et nous ne pouvons pas nous attendre à ce que Savitri Devi le résolve. Comme beaucoup d’autres aujourd’hui, Savitri Devi peut seulement trouver une mauvaise consolation dans la croyance que ses idées, comme celles d’Akhenaton, ont valeur de vérité, quel que soit le jugement des masses.
De même, Savitri Devi fournit un exposé enthousiaste de la richesse et du statut impérial d’Akhenaton, dont elle affirme qu’ils sont la « récompense de la guerre » (p. 14), tout en affirmant ensuite le refus d’Akhenaton de maintenir un tel Etat, son principe du droit à l’autodétermination, et sa croyance que la guerre était « une offense envers Dieu » (p. 242). La position d’Akhenaton peut être excusée par le fait qu’il était né dans une certaine situation et qu’il fit de son mieux pour ne pas la laisser telle qu’il l’avait trouvée, et pour tenter d’améliorer sur le long terme l’état des choses tel qu’il le percevait. Savitri Devi, cependant, ne traite pas de cela dans le texte.
Mais la vision de Savitri Devi se trouve aussi en opposition avec son appui incessant à l’Allemagne nationale-socialiste, bien qu’elle ait écrit Fils du Soleil pendant les années de guerre. Nous devons bien sûr lui reconnaître d’abord la dignité d’avoir des idéaux supérieurs à ses affiliations politiques de compromis, de même que tout partisan d’un parti politique conserve une identité séparée de la politique du parti. Mais Savitri Devi reconnaît aussi la nécessité malheureuse d’une force de changement moralement portée au compromis dans son Europe lorsqu’elle remarque que « la violence est la loi de toute révolution dans le Temps » (p. 241, souligné dans l’original). Elle considère Akhenaton comme un homme « au-dessus du Temps », qui défend ses idéaux seulement pour les voir maudits, en contraste implicite avec Hitler (jusqu’ici implicitement mis en parallèle avec le pharaon), qui reconnaissait l’axiome précité (une ligne de pensée développée dans son ouvrage ultérieur The Lightning and the Sun). Savitri Devi n’expose pas explicitement ses idées sur le Lebensraum, bien qu’il semble que si certains de ses idéaux sont ouverts au compromis par nécessité politique, alors elle ne ferait pas d’exception pour l’expansion.
Elle tient aussi à montrer la continuité entre le culte solaire d’Akhenaton, l’hindouisme, et le national-socialisme moderne, en tentant d’établir divers liens biologiques avec les deux premières idées et en soulignant le fond culturel commun de la centralité du soleil, et de l’importance de la beauté, des castes et du principe. En fin de compte les connexions culturelles sont bien plus fortes que les biologiques, et sur le plan culturel le national-socialisme ne pouvait pas égaler ses prédécesseurs.
Savitri Devi envisage le remplacement de la relation brisée entre religion et Etat par une unité dans l’idée de la « religion de la race » (p. 288). Alors qu’elle approuve initialement un retour à une telle unité matérielle et spirituelle, elle le critique ensuite comme étant de portée trop étroite pour être fructueux. Elle le compare à un retour aux « dieux nationaux de jadis », qui étaient, notamment, ceux qui furent supplantés par la révolution d’Akhenaton. En fin de compte, Savitri Devi ne peut pas approuver un tel but ; s’il vaut peut-être mieux que les idées de ses « antagonistes humanitaires » (p. 288), il demeure un symbole plus étroit que celui de « l’homme », et peut donc permettre l’exploitation anthropocentrique de la nature ainsi que l’exploitation sélective des autres humains.
Une telle limitation imposée à la « Religion de la Vie » est indéfendable, et Savitri Devi préférerait plutôt l’autre voie, reconnaissant « les valeurs cosmiques comme l’essence de la religion » (p. 289). Cela semble similaire au rejet par Julius Evola de la vision biologique de la race par le national-socialisme, qu’il remplaça par un concept racial spirituel. Une telle vision, bien qu’elle jouait un rôle secondaire dans son courageux optimisme concernant le national-socialisme, nous montre que Savitri Devi tentait d’améliorer le mouvement qu’elle soutenait et qu’il ne la contraignait aucunement à limiter sa pensée.
Les complexités et les contradictions apparentes dans la pensée de Savitri Devi, particulièrement lorsqu’elles sont liées à ses convictions politiques, ne sont certainement pas des impasses et ne doivent pas nous conduire à rejeter sa pensée et à nous souvenir seulement de son action. Au contraire, elles doivent nous pousser à remettre en question notre conception de ses actions (et du contexte national-socialiste lui-même) afin de nous adapter à sa pensée. Vues sous cet angle, ce sont les convictions politiques de Savitri Devi qui nous apparaissent maintenant comme des anomalies ; elle consacra une foi incessante au mouvement national-socialiste d’après-guerre (qui n’aurait certainement pas pu approcher la vie d’après ses idéaux), finalement en vain, ce qui ne pouvait que ternir sa réputation en tant qu’écrivain.
L’exactitude historique de Fils du Soleil n’est pas d’une importance essentielle. Savitri Devi utilisa habilement l’histoire pour sélectionner et développer une religion unifiant les besoins rationnels et spirituels de l’humanité, tout en décrivant à son sommet un génie/héros digne de toutes les tentatives d’émulation. C’est la principale réussite du livre. Si l’obsession moderne de l’authenticité est forte, elle est finalement dépassée par l’obsession moderne pour l’originalité et la nouveauté. L’atonisme, bien sûr, n’a été adopté par personne. Mais son approche naturaliste et esthétique de la vie, et son absence de prescriptions morales, est une leçon inestimable pour les humains modernes. Le livre Fils du Soleil est en lui-même une œuvre de l’esprit solaire qu’il exalte. Akhenaton, Roi d’Egypte, et Savitri Devi peuvent tous deux nous enseigner la vérité selon laquelle la vie est un culte.
Notes
1. Titre d’une récente biographie : Nicholas Goodrick-Clarke, Savitri Devi, la prêtresse d’Hitler, Akribeia 2000. Edition originale : New York University Press, 1998.
2. Titre original : A Son of God: The Life and Philosophy of Akhnaton, King of Egypt (London: Philosophical Publishing House, 1946), plus tard réédité sous le titre de Son of the Sun: The Life and Philosophy of Akhnaton, King of Egypt (San Jose, California: A.M.O.R.C., 1956).
3. René Guénon, La crise du monde moderne, Gallimard 1946. Traduction anglaise M. Pallis et R. Nicholson (London: Luzac, 1962), p. 72.
Source: http://savitridevi.org/article_brundsen_french.html [6]
Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com
URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2011/06/la-vie-est-un-culte-savitri-devis-akhenaton-fils-du-soleil/
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jeudi, 12 juillet 2012
The Fourth Political Theory
A Note from the Editor
Foreword by Alain Soral
Introduction: To Be or Not to Be?
1. The Birth of the Concept
2. Dasein as an Actor
3. The Critique of Monotonic Processes
4. The Reversibility of Time
5. Global Transition and its Enemies
6. Conservatism and Postmodernity
7. ‘Civilisation’ as an Ideological Concept
8. The Transformation of the Left in the Twenty-first Century
9. Liberalism and Its Metamorphoses
10. The Ontology of the Future
11. The New Political Anthropology
12. Fourth Political Practice
13. Gender in the Fourth Political Theory
14. Against the Postmodern World
Appendix I: Political Post-Anthropology
Appendix II: The Metaphysics of Chaos
00:05 Publié dans Livre, Nouvelle Droite, Synergies européennes, Théorie politique | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : livre, alexandre douguine, russie, theorie politique, sciences politiques, politologie, nouvelle droite russe | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
Modernità totalitaria
Modernità totalitaria
Ex: http://www.centrostudilaruna.it/
Augusto Del Noce individuò precocemente la diversità dei regimi a partito unico del Novecento, rispetto al liberalismo, nella loro natura “religiosa” e fortemente comunitaria. Vere religioni apocalittiche, ideologie fideistiche della redenzione popolare, neo-gnosticismi basati sulla realizzazione in terra del Millennio. Questa la sostanza più interna di quei movimenti, che in tempi e modi diversi lanciarono la sfida all’individualismo laico e borghese. Fascismo, nazionalsocialismo e comunismo furono uniti dalla concezione “totalitaria” della partecipazione politica: la sfera del privato andava tendenzialmente verso un progressivo restringimento, a favore della dimensione pubblica, politica appunto. E nella sua Nuova scienza della politica, Voegelin già nel 1939 accentrò il suo sguardo proprio su questo enigmatico riermergere dalle viscere dell’Europa di una sua antica vocazione: concepire l’uomo come zoòn politikòn, animale politico, che vive la dimensione dell’agorà, della assemblea politica, come la vera espressione dell’essere uomo. Un uomo votato alla vita di comunità, al legame, alla reciprocità, al solidarismo sociale, più di quanto non fosse incline al soddisfacimento dei suoi bisogni privati e personali.
Lo studio del Fascismo partendo da queste sue profonde caratteristiche sta ormai soppiantando le obsolete interpretazioni economiciste e sociologiche che avevano dominato nei decenni scorsi, inadatte a capire un fenomeno tanto variegato e composito, ma soprattutto tanto “subliminale” e agente negli immaginari della cultura popolare. In questo senso, la categoria “totalitarismo”, sotto la quale Hannah Arendt aveva a suo tempo collocato il nazismo e il comunismo, ma non il Fascismo (in virtù dell’assenza in quest’ultimo di un apparato di violenta repressione di massa), viene recuperata con altri risvolti: anche il Fascismo ebbe un suo aspetto “totalitario”, chiamò se stesso con questo termine, aspirò a una sua “totalità”, ma semplicemente volendo significare che il suo era un modello di coinvolgimento totale, una mobilitazione di tutte le energie nazionali, una generale chiamata a raccolta di tutto il popolo nel progetto di edificazione dello Stato Nuovo. Il totalitarismo fascista, insomma, non tanto come sistema repressivo e come organizzazione dello Stato di polizia, ma come sistema di aggregazione totale di tutti in tutte le sfere dell’esistenza, dal lavoro al tempo libero, dall’arte alla cultura. Il totalitarismo fascista non come arma di coercizione capillare, ma come macchina di conquista e promozione di un consenso che si voleva non passivo e inerte, ma attivo e convinto.
Un’analisi di questi aspetti viene ora effettuata dal libro curato da Emilio Gentile Modernità totalitaria. Il fascismo italiano (Laterza), in cui vari autori affrontano il tema da più prospettive: la religione politica, gli stili estetici, la divulgazione popolare, l’architettura, i rituali del Regime. Pur negli ondeggiamenti interpretativi, se ne ricava il quadro di un Fascismo che non solo non fu uno strumento reazionario in mano agli agenti politici oscurantisti dell’epoca, ma proprio al contrario fu l’espressione più tipica della modernità, manifestando certo anche talune disfunzioni legate alla società di massa, ma – all’opposto del liberalismo – cercando anche di temperarle costruendo un tessuto sociale solidarista che risultasse, per quanto possibile nell’era industriale e tecnologica, a misura d’uomo.
Diciamo subito che l’indagine svolta da Mauro Canali, uno degli autori del libro in parola, circa le tecniche repressive attuate dal Regime nei confronti degli oppositori politici, non ci convince. Si dice che anche il Fascismo eresse apparati atti alla denuncia, alla sorveglianza delle persone, alla creazione di uno stato di sospetto diffuso. Che fu dunque meno “morbido” di quanto generalmente si pensi.
E si citano organismi come la mitica “Ceka” (la cui esistenza nel ‘23-’24 non è neppure storicamente accertata), la staraciana “Organizzazione capillare” del ‘35-’36, il rafforzamento della Polizia di Stato, la figura effimera dei “prefetti volanti”, quella dei “fiduciari”, che insieme alle leggi “fascistissime” del ‘25-’26 avrebbero costituito altrettanti momenti di aperta oppure occulta coercizione. Vorremmo sapere se, ad esempio, la struttura di polizia degli Stati Uniti – in cui per altro la pena capitale viene attuata ancora oggi in misura non paragonabile a quella ristretta a pochissimi casi estremi durante i vent’anni di Fascismo – non sia molto più efficiente e invasiva di quanto lo sia stata quella fascista. Che, a cominciare dal suo capo Bocchini, elemento di formazione moderata e “giolittiana”, rimase fino alla fine in gran parte liberale. C’erano i “fiduciari”, che sorvegliavano sul comportamento politico della gente? Ma perchè, oggi non sorgono come funghi “comitati di vigilanza antifascista” non appena viene detta una sola parola che vada oltre il seminato? E non vengono svolte campagne di intimidazione giornalistica e televisiva nei confronti di chi, per qualche ragione, non accetta il sistema liberaldemocratico? E non si attuano politiche di pubblica denuncia e di violenta repressione nei confronti del semplice reato di opinione, su temi considerati a priori indiscutibili? E non esistono forse leggi europee che mandano in galera chi la pensa diversamente dal potere su certi temi?
Il totalitarismo fascista non va cercato nella tecnica di repressione, che in varia misura appartiene alla logica stessa di qualsiasi Stato che ci tenga alla propria esistenza. Vogliamo ricordare che anche di recente si è parlato di “totalitarismo” precisamente a proposito della società liberaldemocratica. Ad esempio, nel libro curato da Massimo Recalcati Forme contemporanee di totalitarismo (Bollati Boringhieri), si afferma apertamente l’esistenza del binomio «potere e terrore» che domina la società globalizzata. Una struttura di potere che dispone di tecniche di dominazione psico-fisica di straordinaria efficienza. Si scrive in proposito che la società liberaldemocratica globalizzata della nostra epoca è «caratterizzata da un orizzonte inedito che unisce una tendenza totalitaria – universalista appunto – con la polverizzzazione relativistica dell’Uno». Il dominio oligarchico liberale di fatto non ha nulla da invidiare agli strumenti repressivi di massa dei regimi “totalitari” storici, attuando anzi metodi di controllo-repressione che, più soft all’apparenza, si rivelano nei fatti di superiore tenuta. Quando si richiama l’attenzione sull’esistenza odierna di un «totalitarismo postideologico nelle società a capitalismo avanzato», sulla materializzazione disumanizzante della vita, sullo sfaldamento dei rapporti sociali a favore di quelli economici, si traccia il profilo di un totalitarismo organizzato in modo formidabile, che è in piena espansione ed entra nelle case e nel cervello degli uomini con metodi “terroristici” per lo più inavvertiti, ma di straordinaria resa pratica. Poche società – ivi comprese quelle totalitarie storiche –, una volta esaminate nei loro reali organigrammi, presentano un “modello unico”, un “pensiero unico”, un’assenza di controculture e di antagonismi politici, come la presente società liberale. La schiavizzazione psicologica al modello del profitto e l’obbligatoria sudditanza agli articoli della fede “democratica” attuano tali bombardamenti mass-mediatici e tali intimidazioni nei confronti dei comportamenti devianti, che al confronto le pratiche fasciste di isolamento dell’oppositore – si pensi al blandissimo regime del “confino di polizia” – appaiono bonari e paternalistici ammonimenti di epoche arcaiche.
Il totalitarismo fascista fu altra cosa. Fu la volontà di creare una nuova civiltà non di vertice ed oligarchica, ma col sostegno attivo e convinto tanto delle avanguardie politiche e culturali, quanto di masse fortemente organizzate e politicizzate. Si può parlare, in proposito, di un popolo italiano soltanto dopo la “nazionalizzazione” effettuata dal Fascismo. Il quale, bene o male, prese masse relegate nell’indigenza, nell’ignoranza secolare, nell’abbandono sociale e culturale, le strappò al loro miserabile isolamento, le acculturò, le vestì, le fece viaggiare per l’Italia, le mise a contatto con realtà sino ad allora ignorate – partecipazione a eventi comuni di ogni tipo, vacanze, sussidi materiali, protezione del lavoro, diritti sociali, garanzie sanitarie… – dando loro un orgoglio, fecendole sentire protagoniste, elevandole alla fine addirittura al rango di “stirpe dominatrice”. E imprimendo la forte sensazione di partecipare attivamente a eventi di portata mondiale e di poter decidere sul proprio destino… Questo è il totalitarismo fascista. Attraverso il Partito e le sue numerose organizzazioni, di una plebe semimedievale – come ormai riconosce la storiografia – si riuscì a fare in qualche anno, e per la prima volta nella storia d’Italia, un popolo moderno, messo a contatto con tutti gli aspetti della modernità e della tecnica, dai treni popolari alla radio, dall’auto “Balilla” al cinema.
Ecco dunque che il totalitarismo fascista appare di una specie tutta sua. Lungi dall’essere uno Stato di polizia, il Regime non fece che allargare alla totalità del popolo i suoi miti fondanti, le sue liturgie politiche, il suo messaggio di civiltà, il suo italianismo, la sua vena sociale: tutte cose che rimasero inalterate, ed anzi potenziate, rispetto a quando erano appannaggio del primo Fascismo minoritario, quello movimentista e squadrista. Giustamente scrive Emily Braun, collaboratrice del libro sopra segnalato, che il Fascismo fornì nel campo artistico l’esempio tipico della sua specie particolare di totalitarismo. Non vi fu mai un’arte “di Stato”. Quanti si occuparono di politica delle arti (nomi di straordinaria importanza a livello europeo: Marinetti, Sironi, la Sarfatti, Soffici, Bottai…) capirono «che l’estetica non poteva essere né imposta né standardizzata… il fascismo italiano utilizzava forme d’arte modernista, il che implica l’arte di avanguardia». Ma non ci fu un potere arcigno che obbligasse a seguire un cliché preconfezionato. Lo stile “mussoliniano” e imperiale si impose per impulso non del vertice politico, ma degli stessi protagonisti, «poiché gli artisti di regime più affermati erano fascisti convinti».
Queste cose oggi possono finalmente esser dette apertamente, senza timore di quella vecchia censura storiografica, che è stata per decenni l’esatto corrispettivo delle censure del tempo fascista. Le quali ultime, tuttavia, operarono in un clima di perenne tensione ideologica, di crisi mondiali, di catastrofi economiche, di guerre e rivoluzioni, e non di pacifica “democrazia”. Se dunque vi fu un totalitarismo fascista, esso è da inserire, come scrive Emilio Gentile, nel quadro dell’«eclettismo dello spirito» propugnato da Mussolini, che andava oltre l’ideologia, veicolando una visione del mondo totale.
* * *
Tratto da Linea del 27 marzo 2009.
00:05 Publié dans Histoire, Théorie politique | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : totalitarisme, histoire, théorie politique, politologie, sciences politiques, italie, années 20, années 30, fascisme | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
Chant of the Templars - Salve Regina
Chant of the Templars - Salve Regina
00:05 Publié dans Musique | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : musique, moyen âge, templiers, chevalerie, musique | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
mercredi, 11 juillet 2012
Fascism, Anti-Fascism, and the Welfare State
Fascism, Anti-Fascism, and the Welfare State
Paul Gottfried
00:05 Publié dans Entretiens, Théorie politique | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : théorie politique, politologie, sciences politiques, paul gottfried, fascisme, italie, années 20, années 30 | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
mardi, 10 juillet 2012
Interview with Paul Gottfried
"Attack the System"
Interview with Paul Gottfried
00:18 Publié dans Entretiens | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : droite, gauche, paul gottfried, entretiens, etats-unis | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
lundi, 09 juillet 2012
Augustin Cochin on the French Revolution
From Salon to Guillotine
Augustin Cochin on the French Revolution
By F. Roger Devlin
Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/
Augustin Cochin
Organizing the Revolution: Selections From Augustin Cochin [2]
Translated by Nancy Derr Polin with a Preface by Claude Polin
Rockford, Ill.: Chronicles Press, 2007
The Rockford Institute’s publication of Organizing the Revolution marks the first appearance in our language of an historian whose insights apply not only to the French Revolution but to much of modern politics as well.
Augustin Cochin (1876–1916) was born into a family that had distinguished itself for three generations in the antiliberal “Social Catholicism” movement. He studied at the Ecole des Chartes and began to specialize in the study of the Revolution in 1903. Drafted in 1914 and wounded four times, he continued his researches during periods of convalescence. But he always requested to be returned to the front, where he was killed on July 8, 1916 at the age of thirty-nine.
Cochin was a philosophical historian in an era peculiarly unable to appreciate that rare talent. He was trained in the supposedly “scientific” methods of research formalized in his day under the influence of positivism, and was in fact an irreproachably patient and thorough investigator of primary archives. Yet he never succumbed to the prevailing notion that facts and documents would tell their own story in the absence of a human historian’s empathy and imagination. He always bore in mind that the goal of historical research was a distinctive type of understanding.
Both his archival and his interpretive labors were dedicated to elucidating the development of Jacobinism, in which he (rightly) saw the central, defining feature of the French Revolution. François Furet wrote: “his approach to the problem of Jacobinism is so original that it has been either not understood or buried, or both.”[1]
Most of his work appeared only posthumously. His one finished book is a detailed study of the first phase of the Revolution as it played out in Brittany: it was published in 1925 by his collaborator Charles Charpentier. He had also prepared (with Charpentier) a complete collection of the decrees of the revolutionary government (August 23, 1793–July 27, 1794). His mother arranged for the publication of two volumes of theoretical writings: The Philosophical Societies and Modern Democracy (1921), a collection of lectures and articles; and The Revolution and Free Thought (1924), an unfinished work of interpretation. These met with reviews ranging from the hostile to the uncomprehending to the dismissive.
“Revisionist” historian François Furet led a revival of interest in Cochin during the late 1970s, making him the subject of a long and appreciative chapter in his important study Interpreting the French Revolution and putting him on a par with Tocqueville. Cochin’s two volumes of theoretical writings were reprinted shortly thereafter by Copernic, a French publisher associated with GRECE and the “nouvelle droit.”
The book under review consists of selections in English from these volumes. The editor and translator may be said to have succeeded in their announced aim: “to present his unfinished writings in a clear and coherent form.”
Between the death of the pioneering antirevolutionary historian Hippolyte Taine in 1893 and the rise of “revisionism” in the 1960s, study of the French Revolution was dominated by a series of Jacobin sympathizers: Aulard, Mathiez, Lefevre, Soboul. During the years Cochin was producing his work, much public attention was directed to polemical exchanges between Aulard, a devotee of Danton, and his former student Mathiez, who had become a disciple of Robespierre. Both men remained largely oblivious to the vast ocean of assumptions they shared.
Cochin published a critique of Aulard and his methods in 1909; an abridged version of this piece is included in the volume under review. Aulard’s principal theme was that the revolutionary government had been driven to act as it did by circumstance:
This argument [writes Cochin] tends to prove that the ideas and sentiments of the men of ’93 had nothing abnormal in themselves, and if their deeds shock us it is because we forget their perils, the circumstances; [and that] any man with common sense and a heart would have acted as they did in their place. Aulard allows this apology to include even the very last acts of the Terror. Thus we see that the Prussian invasion caused the massacre of the priests of the Abbey, the victories of la Rochejacquelein [in the Vendée uprising] caused the Girondins to be guillotined, [etc.]. In short, to read Aulard, the Revolutionary government appears a mere makeshift rudder in a storm, “a wartime expedient.” (p. 49)
Aulard had been strongly influenced by positivism, and believed that the most accurate historiography would result from staying as close as possible to documents of the period; he is said to have conducted more extensive archival research than any previous historian of the Revolution. But Cochin questioned whether such a return to the sources would necessarily produce truer history:
Mr. Aulard’s sources—minutes of meetings, official reports, newspapers, patriotic pamphlets—are written by patriots [i.e., revolutionaries], and mostly for the public. He was to find the argument of defense highlighted throughout these documents. In his hands he had a ready-made history of the Revolution, presenting—beside each of the acts of “the people,” from the September massacres to the law of Prairial—a ready-made explanation. And it is this history he has written. (p. 65)
In fact, says Cochin, justification in terms of “public safety” or “self- defense” is an intrinsic characteristic of democratic governance, and quite independent of circumstance:
When the acts of a popular power attain a certain degree of arbitrariness and become oppressive, they are always presented as acts of self-defense and public safety. Public safety is the necessary fiction in democracy, as divine right is under an authoritarian regime. [The argument for defense] appeared with democracy itself. As early as July 28, 1789 [i.e., two weeks after the storming of the Bastille] one of the leaders of the party of freedom proposed to establish a search committee, later called “general safety,” that would be able to violate the privacy of letters and lock people up without hearing their defense. (pp. 62–63)
(Americans of the “War on Terror” era, take note.)
But in fact, says Cochin, the appeal to defense is nearly everywhere a post facto rationalization rather than a real motive:
Why were the priests persecuted at Auch? Because they were plotting, claims the “public voice.” Why were they not persecuted in Chartes? Because they behaved well there.
How often can we not turn this argument around?
Why did the people in Auch (the Jacobins, who controlled publicity) say the priests were plotting? Because the people (the Jacobins) were persecuting them. Why did no one say so in Chartes? Because they were left alone there.
In 1794 put a true Jacobin in Caen, and a moderate in Arras, and you could be sure by the next day that the aristocracy of Caen, peaceable up till then, would have “raised their haughty heads,” and in Arras they would go home. (p. 67)
In other words, Aulard’s “objective” method of staying close to contemporary documents does not scrape off a superfluous layer of interpretation and put us directly in touch with raw fact—it merely takes the self-understanding of the revolutionaries at face value, surely the most naïve style of interpretation imaginable. Cochin concludes his critique of Aulard with a backhanded compliment, calling him “a master of Jacobin orthodoxy. With him we are sure we have the ‘patriotic’ version. And for this reason his work will no doubt remain useful and consulted” (p. 74). Cochin could not have foreseen that the reading public would be subjected to another half century of the same thing, fitted out with ever more “original documentary research” and flavored with ever increasing doses of Marxism.
But rather than attending further to these methodological squabbles, let us consider how Cochin can help us understand the French Revolution and the “progressive” politics it continues to inspire.
It has always been easy for critics to rehearse the Revolution’s atrocities: the prison massacres, the suppression of the Vendée, the Law of Suspects, noyades and guillotines. The greatest atrocities of the 1790s from a strictly humanitarian point of view, however, occurred in Poland, and some of these were actually counter-revolutionary reprisals. The perennial fascination of the French Revolution lies not so much in the extent of its cruelties and injustices, which the Caligulas and Genghis Khans of history may occasionally have equaled, but in the sense that revolutionary tyranny was something different in kind, something uncanny and unprecedented. Tocqueville wrote of
something special about the sickness of the French Revolution which I sense without being able to describe. My spirit flags from the effort to gain a clear picture of this object and to find the means of describing it fairly. Independently of everything that is comprehensible in the French Revolution there is something that remains inexplicable.
Part of the weird quality of the Revolution was that it claimed, unlike Genghis and his ilk, to be massacring in the name of liberty, equality, and fraternity. But a deeper mystery which has fascinated even its enemies is the contrast between its vast size and force and the negligible ability of its apparent “leaders” to unleash or control it: the men do not measure up to the events. For Joseph de Maistre the explanation could only be the direct working of Divine Providence; none but the Almighty could have brought about so great a cataclysm by means of such contemptible characters. For Augustin Barruel it was proof of a vast, hidden conspiracy (his ideas have a good claim to constitute the world’s original “conspiracy theory”). Taine invoked a “Jacobin psychology” compounded of abstraction, fanaticism, and opportunism.
Cochin found all these notions of his antirevolutionary predecessors unsatisfying. Though Catholic by religion and family background, he quite properly never appeals to Divine Providence in his scholarly work to explain events (p. 71). He also saw that the revolutionaries were too fanatical and disciplined to be mere conspirators bent on plunder (pp. 56–58; 121–122; 154). Nor is an appeal to the psychology of the individual Jacobin useful as an explanation of the Revolution: this psychology is itself precisely what the historian must try to explain (pp. 60–61).
Cochin viewed Jacobinism not primarily as an ideology but as a form of society with its own inherent rules and constraints independent of the desires and intentions of its members. This central intuition—the importance of attending to the social formation in which revolutionary ideology and practice were elaborated as much as to ideology, events, or leaders themselves—distinguishes his work from all previous writing on the Revolution and was the guiding principle of his archival research. He even saw himself as a sociologist, and had an interest in Durkheim unusual for someone of his Catholic traditionalist background.
The term he employs for the type of association he is interested in is société de pensée, literally “thought-society,” but commonly translated “philosophical society.” He defines it as “an association founded without any other object than to elicit through discussion, to set by vote, to spread by correspondence—in a word, merely to express—the common opinion of its members. It is the organ of [public] opinion reduced to its function as an organ” (p. 139).
It is no trivial circumstance when such societies proliferate through the length and breadth of a large kingdom. Speaking generally, men are either born into associations (e.g., families, villages, nations) or form them in order to accomplish practical ends (e.g., trade unions, schools, armies). Why were associations of mere opinion thriving so luxuriously in France on the eve of the Revolution? Cochin does not really attempt to explain the origin of the phenomenon he analyzes, but a brief historical review may at least clarify for my readers the setting in which these unusual societies emerged.
About the middle of the seventeenth century, during the minority of Louis XIV, the French nobility staged a clumsy and disorganized revolt in an attempt to reverse the long decline of their political fortunes. At one point, the ten year old King had to flee for his life. When he came of age, Louis put a high priority upon ensuring that such a thing could never happen again. The means he chose was to buy the nobility off. They were relieved of the obligations traditionally connected with their ancestral estates and encouraged to reside in Versailles under his watchful eye; yet they retained full exemption from the ruinous taxation that he inflicted upon the rest of the kingdom. This succeeded in heading off further revolt, but also established a permanent, sizeable class of persons with a great deal of wealth, no social function, and nothing much to do with themselves.
The salon became the central institution of French life. Men and women of leisure met for gossip, dalliance, witty badinage, personal (not political) intrigue, and discussion of the latest books and plays and the events of the day. Refinement of taste and the social graces reached an unusual pitch. It was this cultivated leisure class which provided both setting and audience for the literary works of the grand siècle.
The common social currency of the age was talk: outside Jewish yeshivas, the world had probably never beheld a society with a higher ratio of talk to action. A small deed, such as Montgolfier’s ascent in a hot air balloon, could provide matter for three years of self-contented chatter in the salons.
Versailles was the epicenter of this world; Paris imitated Versailles; larger provincial cities imitated Paris. Eventually there was no town left in the realm without persons ambitious of imitating the manners of the Court and devoted to cultivating and discussing whatever had passed out of fashion in the capital two years earlier. Families of the rising middle class, as soon as they had means to enjoy a bit of leisure, aspired to become a part of salon society.
Toward the middle of the eighteenth century a shift in both subject matter and tone came over this world of elegant discourse. The traditional saloniste gave way to the philosophe, an armchair statesman who, despite his lack of real responsibilities, focused on public affairs and took himself and his talk with extreme seriousness. In Cochin’s words: “mockery replaced gaiety, and politics pleasure; the game became a career, the festivity a ceremony, the clique the Republic of Letters” (p. 38). Excluding men of leisure from participation in public life, as Louis XIV and his successors had done, failed to extinguish ambition from their hearts. Perhaps in part by way of compensation, the philosophes gradually
created an ideal republic alongside and in the image of the real one, with its own constitution, its magistrates, its common people, its honors and its battles. There they studied the same problems—political, economic, etc.—and there they discussed agriculture, art, ethics, law, etc. There they debated the issues of the day and judged the officeholders. In short, this little State was the exact image of the larger one with only one difference—it was not real. Its citizens had neither direct interest nor responsible involvement in the affairs they discussed. Their decrees were only wishes, their battles conversations, their studies games. It was the city of thought. That was its essential characteristic, the one both initiates and outsiders forgot first, because it went without saying. (pp. 123–24)
Part of the point of a philosophical society was this very seclusion from reality. Men from various walks of life—clergymen, officers, bankers—could forget their daily concerns and normal social identities to converse as equals in an imaginary world of “free thought”: free, that is, from attachments, obligations, responsibilities, and any possibility of failure.
In the years leading up to the Revolution, countless such organizations vied for followers and influence: Amis Réunis, Philalèthes, Chevaliers Bienfaisants, Amis de la Verité, several species of Freemasons, academies, literary and patriotic societies, schools, cultural associations and even agricultural societies—all barely dissimulating the same utopian political spirit (“philosophy”) behind official pretenses of knowledge, charity, or pleasure. They “were all more or less connected to one another and associated with those in Paris. Constant debates, elections, delegations, correspondence, and intrigue took place in their midst, and a veritable public life developed through them” (p. 124).
Because of the speculative character of the whole enterprise, the philosophes’ ideas could not be verified through action. Consequently, the societies developed criteria of their own, independent of the standards of validity that applied in the world outside:
Whereas in the real world the arbiter of any notion is practical testing and its goal what it actually achieves, in this world the arbiter is the opinion of others and its aim their approval. That is real which others see, that true which they say, that good of which they approve. Thus the natural order is reversed: opinion here is the cause and not, as in real life, the effect. (p. 39)
Many matters of deepest concern to ordinary men naturally got left out of discussion: “You know how difficult it is in mere conversation to mention faith or feeling,” remarks Cochin (p. 40; cf. p. 145). The long chains of reasoning at once complex and systematic which mark genuine philosophy—and are produced by the stubborn and usually solitary labors of exceptional men—also have no chance of success in a society of philosophes (p. 143). Instead, a premium gets placed on what can be easily expressed and communicated, which produces a lowest-common-denominator effect (p. 141).
The philosophes made a virtue of viewing the world surrounding them objectively and disinterestedly. Cochin finds an important clue to this mentality in a stock character of eighteenth-century literature: the “ingenuous man.” Montesquieu invented him as a vehicle for satire in the Persian Letters: an emissary from the King of Persia sending witty letters home describing the queer customs of Frenchmen. The idea caught on and eventually became a new ideal for every enlightened mind to aspire to. Cochin calls it “philosophical savagery”:
Imagine an eighteenth-century Frenchman who possesses all the material attainments of the civilization of his time—cultivation, education, knowledge, and taste—but without any of the real well-springs, the instincts and beliefs that have created and breathed life into all this, that have given their reason for these customs and their use for these resources. Drop him into this world of which he possesses everything except the essential, the spirit, and he will see and know everything but understand nothing. Everything shocks him. Everything appears illogical and ridiculous to him. It is even by this incomprehension that intelligence is measured among savages. (p. 43; cf. p. 148)
In other words, the eighteenth-century philosophes were the original “deracinated intellectuals.” They rejected as “superstitions” and “prejudices” the core beliefs and practices of the surrounding society, the end result of a long process of refining and testing by men through countless generations of practical endeavor. In effect, they created in France what a contributor to this journal has termed a “culture of critique”—an intellectual milieu marked by hostility to the life of the nation in which its participants were living. (It would be difficult, however, to argue a significant sociobiological basis in the French version.)
This gradual withdrawal from the real world is what historians refer to as the development of the Enlightenment. Cochin calls it an “automatic purging” or “fermentation.” It is not a rational progression like the stages in an argument, however much the philosophes may have spoken of their devotion to “Reason”; it is a mechanical process which consists of “eliminating the real world in the mind instead of reducing the unintelligible in the object” (p. 42). Each stage produces a more rarified doctrine and human type, just as each elevation on a mountain slope produces its own kind of vegetation. The end result is the world’s original “herd of independent minds,” a phenomenon which would have horrified even men such as Montesquieu and Voltaire who had characterized the first societies.
It is interesting to note that, like our own multiculturalists, many of the philosophes attempted to compensate for their estrangement from the living traditions of French civilization by a fascination with foreign laws and customs. Cochin aptly compares civilization to a living plant which slowly grows “in the bedrock of experience under the rays of faith,” and likens this sort of philosophe to a child mindlessly plucking the blossoms from every plant he comes across in order to decorate his own sandbox (pp. 43–44).
Accompanying the natural “fermentation” of enlightened doctrine, a process of selection also occurs in the membership of the societies. Certain men are simply more suited to the sort of empty talking that goes on there:
young men because of their age; men of law, letters or discourse because of their profession; the skeptics because of their convictions; the vain because of their temperament; the superficial because of their [poor] education. These people take to it and profit by it, for it leads to a career that the world here below does not offer them, a world in which their deficiencies become strengths. On the other hand, true, sincere minds with a penchant for the concrete, for efficacy rather than opinion, find themselves disoriented and gradually drift away. (pp. 40–41)
In a word, the glib drive out the wise.
The societies gradually acquired an openly partisan character: whoever agreed with their views, however stupid, was considered “enlightened.” By 1776, d’Alembert acknowledged this frankly, writing to Frederick the Great: “We are doing what we can to fill the vacant positions in the Académie française in the manner of the banquet of the master of the household in the Gospel: with the crippled and lame men of literature” (p. 35). Mediocrities such as Mably, Helvétius, d’Holbach, Condorcet, and Raynal, whose works Cochin calls “deserts of insipid prose” were accounted ornaments of their age. The philosophical societies functioned like hired clappers making a success of a bad play (p. 46).
On the other hand, all who did not belong to the “philosophical” party were subjected to a “dry terror”:
Prior to the bloody Terror of ’93, in the Republic of Letters there was, from 1765 to 1780, a dry terror of which the Encyclopedia was the Committee of Public Safety and d’Alembert was the Robespierre. It mowed down reputations as the other chopped off heads: its guillotine was defamation, “infamy” as it was then called: The term, originating with Voltaire [écrasez l’infâme!], was used in the provincial societies with legal precision. “To brand with infamy” was a well-defined operation consisting of investigation, discussion, judgment, and finally execution, which meant the public sentence of “contempt.” (p. 36; cf. p. 123)
Having said something of the thought and behavioral tendencies of the philosophes, let us turn to the manner in which their societies were constituted—which, as we have noted, Cochin considered the essential point. We shall find that they possess in effect two constitutions. One is the original and ostensible arrangement, which our author characterizes as “the democratic principle itself, in its principle and purity” (p. 137). But another pattern of governance gradually takes shape within them, hidden from most of the members themselves. This second, unacknowledged constitution is what allows the societies to operate effectively, even as it contradicts the original “democratic” ideal.
The ostensible form of the philosophical society is direct democracy. All members are free and equal; no one is forced to yield to anyone else; no one speaks on behalf of anyone else; everyone’s will is accomplished. Rousseau developed the principles of such a society in his Social Contract. He was less concerned with the glaringly obvious practical difficulties of such an arrangement than with the question of legitimacy. He did not ask: “How could perfect democracy function and endure in the real word?” but rather: “What must a society whose aim is the common good do to be founded lawfully?”
Accordingly, Rousseau spoke dismissively of the representative institutions of Britain, so admired by Montesquieu and Voltaire. The British, he said, are free only when casting their ballots; during the entire time between elections there are as enslaved as the subjects of the Great Turk. Sovereignty by its very nature cannot be delegated, he declared; the People, to whom it rightfully belongs, must exercise it both directly and continuously. From this notion of a free and egalitarian society acting in concert emerges a new conception of law not as a fixed principle but as the general will of the members at a given moment.
Rousseau explicitly states that the general will does not mean the will of the majority as determined by vote; voting he speaks of slightingly as an “empirical means.” The general will must be unanimous. If the merely “empirical” wills of men are in conflict, then the general will—their “true” will—must lie hidden somewhere. Where is it to be found? Who will determine what it is, and how?
At this critical point in the argument, where explicitness and clarity are most indispensable, Rousseau turns coy and vague: the general will is “in conformity with principles”; it “only exists virtually in the conscience or imagination of ‘free men,’ ‘patriots.’” Cochin calls this “the idea of a legitimate people—very similar to that of a legitimate prince. For the regime’s doctrinaires, the people is an ideal being” (p. 158).
There is a strand of thought about the French Revolution that might be called the “Ideas-Have-Consequences School.” It casts Rousseau in the role of a mastermind who elaborated all the ideas that less important men such as Robespierre merely carried out. Such is not Cochin’s position. In his view, the analogies between the speculations of the Social Contract and Revolutionary practice arise not from one having caused or inspired the other, but from both being based upon the philosophical societies.
Rousseau’s model, in other words, was neither Rome nor Sparta nor Geneva nor any phantom of his own “idyllic imagination”—he was describing, in a somewhat idealized form, the philosophical societies of his day. He treated these recent and unusual social formations as the archetype of all legitimate human association (cf. pp. 127, 155). As such a description—but not as a blueprint for the Terror—the Social Contract may be profitably read by students of the Revolution.
Indeed, if we look closely at the nature and purpose of a philosophical society, some of Rousseau’s most extravagant assertions become intelligible and even plausible. Consider unanimity, for example. The society is, let us recall, “an association founded to elicit through discussion [and] set by vote the common opinion of its members.” In other words, rather than coming together because they agree upon anything, the philosophes come together precisely in order to reach agreement, to resolve upon some common opinion. The society values union itself more highly than any objective principle of union. Hence, they might reasonably think of themselves as an organization free of disagreement.
Due to its unreal character, furthermore, a philosophical society is not torn by conflicts of interest. It demands no sacrifice—nor even effort—from its members. So they can all afford to be entirely “public spirited.” Corruption—the misuse of a public trust for private ends—is a constant danger in any real polity. But since the society’s speculations are not of this world, each philosophe is an “Incorruptible”:
One takes no personal interest in theory. So long as there is an ideal to define rather than a task to accomplish, personal interest, selfishness, is out of the question. [This accounts for] the democrats’ surprising faith in the virtue of mankind. Any philosophical society is a society of virtuous, generous people subordinating political motives to the general good. We have turned our back on the real world. But ignoring the world does not mean conquering it. (p. 155)
(This pattern of thinking explains why leftists even today are wont to contrast their own “idealism” with the “selfish” activities of businessmen guided by the profit motive.)
We have already mentioned that the more glib or assiduous attendees of a philosophical society naturally begin exercising an informal ascendancy over other members: in the course of time, this evolves into a standing but unacknowledged system of oligarchic governance:
Out of one hundred registered members, fewer than five are active, and these are the masters of the society. [This group] is composed of the most enthusiastic and least scrupulous members. They are the ones who choose the new members, appoint the board of directors, make the motions, guide the voting. Every time the society meets, these people have met in the morning, contacted their friends, established their plan, given their orders, stirred up the unenthusiastic, brought pressure to bear upon the reticent. They have subdued the board, removed the troublemakers, set the agenda and the date. Of course, discussion is free, but the risk in this freedom minimal and the “sovereign’s” opposition little to be feared. The “general will” is free—like a locomotive on its tracks. (pp. 172–73)
Cochin draws here upon James Bryce’s American Commonwealth and Moisey Ostrogorski’s Democracy and the Organization of Political Parties. Bryce and Ostrogorski studied the workings of Anglo-American political machines such as New York’s Tammany Hall and Joseph Chamberlain’s Birmingham Caucus. Cochin considered such organizations (plausibly, from what I can tell) to be authentic descendants of the French philosophical and revolutionary societies. He thought it possible, with due circumspection, to apply insights gained from studying these later political machines to previously misunderstand aspects of the Revolution.
One book with which Cochin seems unfortunately not to have been familiar is Robert Michels’ Political Parties: A Sociological Study of the Oligarchical Tendencies of Modern Democracy, published in French translation only in 1914. But he anticipated rather fully Michels’ “iron law of oligarchy,” writing, for example, that “every egalitarian society fatally finds itself, after a certain amount of time, in the hands of a few men; this is just the way things are” (p. 174). Cochin was working independently toward conclusions notably similar to those of Michels and Gaetano Mosca, the pioneering Italian political sociologists whom James Burnham called “the Machiavellians.” The significance of his work extends far beyond that of its immediate subject, the French Revolution.
The essential operation of a democratic political machine consists of just two steps, continually repeated: the preliminary decision and the establishment of conformity.
First, the ringleaders at the center decide upon some measure. They prompt the next innermost circles, whose members pass the message along until it reaches the machine’s operatives in the outermost local societies made up of poorly informed people. All this takes place unofficially and in secrecy (p. 179).
Then the local operatives ingenuously “make a motion” in their societies, which is really the ringleaders’ proposal without a word changed. The motion passes—principally through the passivity (Cochin writes “inertia”) of the average member. The local society’s resolution, which is now binding upon all its members, is with great fanfare transmitted back towards the center.
The central society is deluged with identical “resolutions” from dozens of local societies simultaneously. It hastens to endorse and ratify these as “the will of the nation.” The original measure now becomes binding upon everyone, though the majority of members have no idea what has taken place. Although really a kind of political ventriloquism by the ringleaders, the public opinion thus orchestrated “reveals a continuity, cohesion and vigor that stuns the enemies of Jacobinism” (p. 180).
In his study of the beginnings of the Revolution in Brittany, Cochin found sudden reversals of popular opinion which the likes of Monsieur Aulard would have taken at face value, but which become intelligible once viewed in the light of the democratic mechanism:
On All Saints’ Day, 1789, a pamphlet naïvely declared that not a single inhabitant imagined doing away with the privileged orders and obtaining individual suffrage, but by Christmas hundreds of the common people’s petitions were clamoring for individual suffrage or death. What was the origin of this sudden discovery that people had been living in shame and slavery for the past thousand years? Why was there this imperious, immediate need for a reform which could not wait a minute longer?
Such abrupt reversals are sufficient in themselves to detect the operation of a machine. (p. 179)
The basic democratic two-step is supplemented with a bevy of techniques for confusing the mass of voters, discouraging them from organizing opposition, and increasing their passivity and pliability: these techniques include constant voting about everything—trivial as well as important; voting late at night, by surprise, or in multiple polling places; extending the suffrage to everyone: foreigners, women, criminals; and voting by acclamation to submerge independent voices (pp. 182–83). If all else fails, troublemakers can be purged from the society by ballot:
This regime is partial to people with all sorts of defects, failures, malcontents, the dregs of humanity, anyone who cares for nothing and finds his place nowhere. There must not be religious people among the voters, for faith makes one conscious and independent. [The ideal citizen lacks] any feeling that might oppose the machine’s suggestions; hence also the preference for foreigners, the haste in naturalizing them. (pp. 186–87)
(I bite my lip not to get lost in the contemporary applications.)
The extraordinary point of Cochin’s account is that none of these basic techniques were pioneered by the revolutionaries themselves; they had all been developed in the philosophical societies before the Revolution began. The Freemasons, for example, had a term for their style of internal governance: the “Royal Art.” “Study the social crisis from which the Grand Lodge [of Paris Freemasons] was born between 1773 and 1780,” says Cochin, “and you will find the whole mechanism of a Revolutionary purge” (p. 61).
Secrecy is essential to the functioning of this system; the ordinary members remain “free,” meaning they do not consciously obey any authority, but order and unity are maintained by a combination of secret manipulation and passivity. Cochin relates “with what energy the Grand Lodge refused to register its Bulletin with the National Library” (p. 176). And, of course, the Freemasons and similar organizations made great ado over refusing to divulge the precise nature of their activities to outsiders, with initiates binding themselves by terrifying oaths to guard the sacred trust committed to them. Much of these societies’ appeal lay precisely in the natural pleasure men feel at being “in” on a secret of any sort.
In order to clarify Cochin’s ideas, it might be useful to contrast them at this point with those of the Abbé Barruel, especially as they have been confounded by superficial or dishonest leftist commentators (“No need to read that reactionary Cochin! He only rehashes Barruel’s conspiracy thesis”).
Father Barruel was a French Jesuit living in exile in London when he published his Memoirs Illustrating the History of Jacobinism in 1797. He inferred from the notorious secretiveness of the Freemasons and similar groups that they must have been plotting for many years the horrors revealed to common sight after 1789—conspiring to abolish monarchy, religion, social hierarchy, and property in order to hold sway over the ruins of Christendom.
Cochin was undoubtedly thinking of Barruel and his followers when he laments that
thus far, in the lives of these societies, people have only sought the melodrama—rites, mystery, disguises, plots—which means they have strayed into a labyrinth of obscure anecdotes, to the detriment of the true history, which is very clear. Indeed the interest in the phenomenon in question is not in the Masonic bric-a-brac, but in the fact that in the bosom of the nation the Masons instituted a small state governed by its own rules. (p. 137)
For our author, let us recall, a société de pensée such as the Masonic order has inherent constraints independent of the desires or intentions of the members. Secrecy—of the ringleaders in relation to the common members, and of the membership to outsiders—is one of these necessary aspects of its functioning, not a way of concealing criminal intentions. In other words, the Masons were not consciously “plotting” the Terror of ’93 years in advance; the Terror was, however, an unintended but natural outcome of the attempt to apply a version of the Mason’s “Royal Art” to the government of an entire nation.
Moreover, writes Cochin, the peculiar fanaticism and force of the Revolution cannot be explained by a conspiracy theory. Authors like Barruel would reduce the Revolution to “a vast looting operation”:
But how can this enthusiasm, this profusion of noble words, these bursts of generosity or fits of rage be only lies and play-acting? Could the Revolutionary party be reduced to an enormous plot in which each person would only be thinking [and] acting for himself while accepting an iron discipline? Personal interest has neither such perseverance nor such abnegation. Throughout history there have been schemers and egoists, but there have only been revolutionaries for the past one hundred fifty years. (pp. 121–22)
And finally, let us note, Cochin included academic and literary Societies, cultural associations, and schools as sociétés de pensée. Many of these organizations did not even make the outward fuss over secrecy and initiation that the Masons did.
By his own admission, Cochin has nothing to tell us about the causes of the Revolution’s outbreak:
I am not saying that in the movement of 1789 there were not real causes—[e.g.,] a bad fiscal regime that exacted very little, but in the most irritating and unfair manner—I am just saying these real causes are not my subject. Moreover, though they may have contributed to the Revolution of 1789, they did not contribute to the Revolutions of August 10 [1792, abolition of the monarchy] or May 31 [1793, purge of the Girondins]. (p. 125)
With these words, he turns his back upon the entire Marxist “class struggle” approach to understanding the Revolution, which was the fundamental presupposition of much twentieth-century research.
The true beginning of the Revolution on Cochin’s account was the announcement in August 1788 that the Estates General would be convoked for May 1789, for this was the occasion when the men of the societies first sprang into action to direct a real political undertaking. With his collaborator in archival work, Charpentier, he conducted extensive research into this early stage of the Revolution in Brittany and Burgundy, trying to explain not why it took place but how it developed. This material is omitted from the present volume of translations; I shall cite instead from Furet’s summary and discussion in Interpreting the French Revolution:
In Burgundy in the autumn of 1788, political activity was exclusively engineered by a small group of men in Dijon who drafted a “patriotic” platform calling for the doubling of the Third Estate, voting by head, and the exclusion of ennobled commoners and seigneurial dues collectors from the assemblies of the Third Estate. Their next step was the systematic takeover of the town’s corporate bodies. First came the avocats’ corporation where the group’s cronies were most numerous; then the example of that group was used to win over other wavering or apathetic groups: the lower echelons of the magistrature, the physicians, the trade guilds. Finally the town hall capitulated, thanks to one of the aldermen and pressure from a group of “zealous citizens.” In the end, the platform appeared as the freely expressed will of the Third Estate of Dijon. Promoted by the usurped authority of the Dijon town council, it then reached the other towns of the province.[2]
. . . where the same comedy was acted out, only with less trouble since the platform now apparently enjoyed the endorsement of the provincial capital. Cochin calls this the “snowballing method” (p. 84).
An opposition did form in early December: a group of nineteen noblemen which grew to fifty. But the remarkable fact is that the opponents of the egalitarian platform made no use of the traditional institutions or assemblies of the nobility; these were simply forgotten or viewed as irrelevant. Instead, the nobles patterned their procedures on those of the rival group: they thought and acted as the “right wing” of the revolutionary party itself. Both groups submitted in advance to arbitration by democratic legitimacy. The episode, therefore, marked not a parting of the ways between the supporters of the old regime and adherents of the new one, but the first of the revolutionary purges. Playing by its enemies’ rules, the opposition was defeated by mid-December.[3]
In Brittany an analogous split occurred in September and October rather than December. The traditional corporate bodies and the philosophical societies involved had different names. The final purge of the nobles was not carried out until January 1789. The storyline, however, was essentially the same. [4] La Révolution n’a pas de patrie (p. 131).
The regulations for elections to the Estates General were finally announced on January 24, 1789. As we shall see, they provided the perfect field of action for the societies’ machinations.
The Estates General of France originated in the fourteenth century, and were summoned by the King rather than elected. The first two estates consisted of the most important ecclesiastical and lay lords of the realm, respectively. The third estate consisted not of the “commoners,” as usually thought, but of the citizens of certain privileged towns which enjoyed a direct relation with the King through a royal charter (i.e., they were not under the authority of any feudal lord). The selection of notables from this estate may have involved election, although based upon a very restricted franchise.
In the Estates General of those days, the King was addressing
the nation with its established order and framework, with its various hierarchies, its natural subdivisions, its current leaders, whatever the nature or origin of their authority. The king acknowledged in the nation an active, positive role that our democracies would not think of granting to the electoral masses. This nation was capable of initiative. Representatives with a general mandate—professional politicians serving as necessary intermediaries between the King and the nation—were unheard of. (pp. 97–98)
Cochin opposes to this older “French conception” the “English and parliamentary conception of a people of electors”:
A people made up of electors is no longer capable of initiative; at most, it is capable of assent. It can choose between two or three platforms, two or three candidates, but it can no longer draft proposals or appoint men. Professional politicians must present the people with proposals and men. This is the role of parties, indispensable in such a regime. (p. 98)
In 1789, the deputies were elected to the States General on a nearly universal franchise, but—in accordance with the older French tradition—parties and formal candidacies were forbidden: “a candidate would have been called a schemer, and a party a cabal” (p. 99).
The result was that the “electors were placed not in a situation of freedom, but in a void”:
The effect was marvelous: imagine several hundred peasants, unknown to each other, some having traveled twenty or thirty leagues, confined in the nave of a church, and requested to draft a paper on the reform of the realm within the week, and to appoint twenty or thirty deputies. There were ludicrous incidents: at Nantes, for example, where the peasants demanded the names of the assembly’s members be printed. Most could not have cited ten of them, and they had to appoint twenty-five deputies.
Now, what actually happened? Everywhere the job was accomplished with ease. The lists of grievances were drafted and the deputies appointed as if by enchantment. This was because alongside the real people who could not respond there was another people who spoke and appointed for them. (p. 100)
These were, of course, the men of the societies. They exploited the natural confusion and ignorance of the electorate to the hilt to obtain delegates according to their wishes. “From the start, the societies ran the electoral assemblies, scheming and meddling on the pretext of excluding traitors that they were the only ones to designate” (p. 153).
“Excluding”—that is the key word:
The society was not in a position to have its men nominated directly [parties being forbidden], so it had only one choice: have all the other candidates excluded. The people, it was said, had born enemies that they must not take as their defenders. These were the men who lost by the people’s enfranchisement, i.e., the privileged men first, but also the ones who worked for them: officers of justice, tax collectors, officials of any sort. (p. 104)
This raised an outcry, for it would have eliminated nearly everyone competent to represent the Third Estate. In fact, the strict application of the principle would have excluded most members of the societies themselves. But pretexts were found for excepting them from the exclusion: the member’s “patriotism” and “virtue” was vouched for by the societies, which “could afford to do this without being accused of partiality, for no one on the outside would have the desire, or even the means, to protest” (p. 104)—the effect of mass inertia, once again.
Having established the “social mechanism” of the revolution, Cochin did not do any detailed research on the events of the following four years (May 1789–June 1793), full of interest as these are for the narrative historian. Purge succeeded purge: Monarchiens, Feuillants, Girondins. Yet none of the actors seemed to grasp what was going on:
Was there a single revolutionary team that did not attempt to halt this force, after using it against the preceding team, and that did not at that very moment find itself “purged” automatically? It was always the same naïve amazement when the tidal wave reached them: “But it’s with me that the good Revolution stops! The people, that’s me! Freedom here, anarchy beyond!” (p. 57)
During this period, a series of elective assemblies crowned the official representative government of France: first the Constituent Assembly, then the Legislative Assembly, and finally the Convention. Hovering about them and partly overlapping with their membership were various private and exclusive clubs, a continuation of the pre-Revolutionary philosophical societies. Through a gradual process of gaining the affiliation of provincial societies, killing off rivals in the capital, and purging itself and its daughters, one of these revolutionary clubs acquired by June 1793 an unrivalled dominance. Modestly formed in 1789 as the Breton Circle, later renamed the Friends of the Constitution, it finally established its headquarters in a disused Jacobin Convent and became known as the Jacobin Club:
Opposite the Convention, the representative regime of popular sovereignty, thus arises the amorphous regime of the sovereign people, acting and governing on its own. “The sovereign is directly in the popular societies,” say the Jacobins. This is where the sovereign people reside, speak, and act. The people in the street will only be solicited for the hard jobs and the executions.
[The popular societies] functioned continuously, ceaselessly watching and correcting the legal authorities. Later they added surveillance committees to each assembly. The Jacobins thoroughly lectured, browbeat, and purged the Convention in the name of the sovereign people, until it finally adjourned the Convention’s power. (p. 153)
Incredibly, to the very end of the Terror, the Jacobins had no legal standing; they remained officially a private club. “The Jacobin Society at the height of its power in the spring of 1794, when it was directing the Convention and governing France, had only one fear: that it would be ‘incorporated’—that it would be ‘acknowledged’ to have authority” (p. 176). There is nothing the strict democrat fears more than the responsibility associated with public authority.
The Jacobins were proud that they did not represent anyone. Their principle was direct democracy, and their operative assumption was that they were “the people.” “I am not the people’s defender,” said Robespierre; “I am a member of the people; I have never been anything else” (p. 57; cf. p. 154). He expressed bafflement when he found himself, like any powerful man, besieged by petitioners.
Of course, such “direct democracy” involves a social fiction obvious to outsiders. To the adherent “the word people means the ‘hard core’ minority, freedom means the minority’s tyranny, equality its privileges, and truth its opinion,” explains our author; “it is even in this reversal of the meaning of words that the adherent’s initiation consists” (p. 138).
But by the summer of 1793 and for the following twelve months, the Jacobins had the power to make it stick. Indeed, theirs was the most stable government France had during the entire revolutionary decade. It amounted to a second Revolution, as momentous as that of 1789. The purge of the Girondins (May 31–June 2) cleared the way for it, but the key act which constituted the new regime, in Cochin’s view, was the levée en masse of August 23, 1793:
[This decree] made all French citizens, body and soul, subject to standing requisition. This was the essential act of which the Terror’s laws would merely be the development, and the revolutionary government the means. Serfs under the King in ’89, legally emancipated in ’91, the people become the masters in ’93. In governing themselves, they do away with the public freedoms that were merely guarantees for them to use against those who governed them. Hence the right to vote is suspended, since the people reign; the right to defend oneself, since the people judge; the freedom of the press, since the people write; and the freedom of expression, since the people speak. (p. 77)
An absurd series of unenforceable economic decrees began pouring out of Paris—price ceilings, requisitions, and so forth. But then, mirabile dictu, it turned out that the decrees needed no enforcement by the center:
Every violation of these laws not only benefits the guilty party but burdens the innocent one. When a price ceiling is poorly applied in one district and products are sold more expensively, provisions pour in from neighboring districts, where shortages increase accordingly. It is the same for general requisitions, censuses, distributions: fraud in one place increases the burden for another. The nature of things makes every citizen the natural enemy and overseer of his neighbor. All these laws have the same characteristic: binding the citizens materially to one another, the laws divide them morally.
Now public force to uphold the law becomes superfluous. This is because every district, panic-stricken by famine, organizes its own raids on its neighbors in order to enforce the laws on provisions; the government has nothing to do but adopt a laissez-faire attitude. By March 1794 the Committee of Public Safety even starts to have one district’s grain inventoried by another.
This peculiar power, pitting one village against another, one district against another, maintained through universal division the unity that the old order founded on the union of everyone: universal hatred has its equilibrium as love has its harmony. (pp. 230–32; cf. p. 91)
The societies were, indeed, never more numerous, nor better attended, than during this period. People sought refuge in them as the only places they could be free from arbitrary arrest or requisitioning (p. 80; cf. p. 227). But the true believers were made uneasy rather than pleased by this development. On February 5, 1794, Robespierre gave his notorious speech on Virtue, declaring: “Virtue is in the minority on earth.” In effect, he was acknowledging that “the people” were really only a tiny fraction of the nation. During the months that ensued:
there was no talk in the Societies but of purges and exclusions. Then it was that the mother society, imitated as usual by most of her offspring, refused the affiliation of societies founded since May 31. Jacobin nobility became exclusive; Jacobin piety went from external mission to internal effort on itself. At that time it was agreed that a society of many members could not be a zealous society. The agents from Tournan sent to purge the club of Ozouer-la-Ferrière made no other reproach: the club members were too numerous for the club to be pure. (p. 56)
Couthon wrote from Lyon requesting “40 good, wise, honest republicans, a colony of patriots in this foreign land where patriots are in such an appalling minority.” Similar supplications came from Marseilles, Grenoble, Besançon; from Troy, where there were less than twenty patriots; and from Strasbourg, where there were said to be fewer than four—contending against 6,000 aristocrats!
The majority of men, remaining outside the charmed circle of revolutionary virtue, were:
“monsters,” “ferocious beasts seeking to devour the human race.” “Strike without mercy, citizen,” the president of the Jacobins tells a young soldier, “at anything that is related to the monarchy. Don’t lay down your gun until all our enemies are dead—this is humanitarian advice.” “It is less a question of punishing them than of annihilating them,” says Couthon. “None must be deported; [they] must be destroyed,” says Collot. General Turreau in the Vendée gave the order “to bayonet men, women, and children and burn and set fire to everything.” (p. 100)
Mass shootings and drownings continued for months, especially in places such as the Vendée which had previously revolted. Foreigners sometimes had to be used: “Carrier had Germans do the drowning. They were not disturbed by the moral bonds that would have stopped a fellow countryman” (p. 187).
Why did this revolutionary regime come to an end? Cochin does not tell us; he limits himself to the banal observation that “being unnatural, it could not last” (p. 230). His death in 1916 saved him from having to consider the counterexample of Soviet Russia. Taking the Jacobins consciously as a model, Lenin created a conspiratorial party which seized power and carried out deliberately the sorts of measures Cochin ascribes to the impersonal workings of the “social mechanism.” Collective responsibility, mutual surveillance and denunciation, the playing off of nationalities against one another—all were studiously imitated by the Bolsheviks. For the people of Russia, the Terror lasted at least thirty-five years, until the death of Stalin.
Cochin’s analysis raises difficult questions of moral judgment, which he does not try to evade. If revolutionary massacres were really the consequence of a “social mechanism,” can their perpetrators be judged by the standards which apply in ordinary criminal cases? Cochin seems to think not:
“I had orders,” Fouquier kept replying to each new accusation. “I was the ax,” said another; “does one punish an ax?” Poor, frightened devils, they quibbled, haggled, denounced their brothers; and when finally cornered and overwhelmed, they murmured “But I was not the only one! Why me?” That was the helpless cry of the unmasked Jacobin, and he was quite right, for a member of the societies was never the only one: over him hovered the collective force. With the new regime men vanish, and there opens in morality itself the era of unconscious forces and human mechanics. (p. 58)
Under the social regime, man’s moral capacities get “socialized” in the same way as his thought, action, and property. “Those who know the machine know there exist mitigating circumstances, unknown to ordinary life, and the popular curse that weighed on the last Jacobins’ old age may be as unfair as the enthusiasm that had acclaimed their elders,” he says (p. 210), and correctly points out that many of the former Terrorists became harmless civil servants under the Empire.
It will certainly be an unpalatable conclusion for many readers. I cannot help recalling in this connection the popular outrage which greeted Arendt’s Eichmann in Jerusalem back in the 1960s, with its similar observations.
But if considering the social alienation of moral conscience permits the revolutionaries to appear less evil than some of the acts they performed, it also leaves them more contemptible. “We are far from narratives like Plutarch’s,” Cochin observes (p. 58); “Shakespeare would have found nothing to inspire him, despite the dramatic appearance of the situations” (p. 211).
Not one [of the Jacobins] had the courage to look [their judges] in the eye and say “Well, yes, I robbed, I tortured and I killed lawlessly, recklessly, mercilessly for an idea I consider right. I regret nothing; I take nothing back; I deny nothing. Do as you like with me.” Not one spoke thus—because not one possessed the positive side of fanaticism: faith. (p. 113)
Cochin’s interpretive labors deserve the attention of a wider audience than specialists in the history of the French Revolution. The possible application of his analysis to subsequent groups and events is great indeed, although the possibility of their misapplication is perhaps just as great. The most important case is surely Russia. Richard Pipes has noted, making explicit reference to Cochin, that Russian radicalism arose in a political and social situation similar in important respects to France of the ancien régime. On the other hand, the Russian case was no mere product of social “mechanics.” The Russian radicals consciously modeled themselves on their French predecessors. Pipes even shows how the Russian revolutionaries relied too heavily on the French example to teach them how a revolution is “supposed to” develop, blinding themselves to the situation around them. In any case, although Marxism officially considered the French Revolution a “bourgeois” prelude to the final “proletarian” revolution, Russian radicals did acknowledge that there was little in which the Jacobins had not anticipated them. Lenin considered Robespierre a Bolshevik avant la lettre.
The rise of the “Academic Left” is another phenomenon worth comparing to the “development of the enlightenment” in the French salons. The sheltered environment of our oversubsidized university system is a marvelous incubator for the same sort of utopian radicalism and cheap moral posturing.
Or consider the feminist “Consciousness Raising” sessions of the 1970’s. Women’s “personal constructs” (dissatisfaction with their husbands, feelings of being treated unfairly, etc.) were said to be “validated by the group,” i.e., came to be considered true when they met with agreement from other members, however outlandish they might sound to outsiders. “It is when a group’s ideas are strongly at variance with those in the wider society,” writes one enthusiast, “that group validation of constructs is likely to be most important.”[5] Cochin explained with reference to the sociétés de pensée exactly the sort of thing going on here.
Any serious attempt to extend and apply Cochin’s ideas will, however, have to face squarely one matter on which his own statements are confused or even contradictory.
Cochin sometimes speaks as if all the ideas of the Enlightenment follow from the mere form of the société de pensée, and hence should be found wherever they are found. He writes, for example, “Free thought is the same in Paris as in Peking, in 1750 as in 1914” (p. 127). Now, this is already questionable. It would be more plausible to say that the various competing doctrines of radicalism share a family resemblance, especially if one concentrates on their negative aspects such as the rejection of traditional “prejudices.”
But in other passages Cochin allows that sociétés de pensée are compatible with entirely different kinds of content. In one place (p. 62) he even speaks of “the royalist societies of 1815” as coming under his definition! Stendhal offers a memorable fictional portrayal of such a group in Le rouge et le noir, part II, chs. xxi–xxiii; Cochin himself refers to the Mémoires of Aimée de Coigny, and may have had the Waterside Conspiracy in mind. It would not be at all surprising if such groups imitated some of the practices of their enemies.
But what are we to say when Cochin cites the example of the Company of the Blessed Sacrament? This organization was active in France between the 1630s and 1660s, long before the “Age of Enlightenment.” It had collectivist tendencies, such as the practice of “fraternal correction,” which it justified in terms of Christian humility: the need to combat individual pride and amour-propre. It also exhibited a moderate degree of egalitarianism; within the Company, social rank was effaced, and one Prince of the Blood participated as an ordinary member. Secrecy was said to be the “soul of the Company.” One of its activities was the policing of behavior through a network of informants, low-cut evening dresses and the sale of meat during lent being among its special targets. Some fifty provincial branches accepted the direction of the Paris headquarters. The Company operated independently of the King, and opponents referred to it as the cabale des devots. Louis XIV naturally became suspicious of such an organization, and officially ordered it shut down in 1666.
Was this expression of counter-reformational Catholic piety a société de pensée? Were its members “God’s Jacobins,” or its campaign against immodest dress a “holy terror”? Cochin does not finally tell us. A clear typology of sociétés de pensée would seem to be necessary before his analysis of the philosophes could be extended with any confidence. But the more historical studies advance, the more difficult this task will likely become. Such is the nature of man, and of history.
Notes
[1] François Furet, Interpreting the French Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 173.
[2] Furet, 184.
[3] Furet, 185.
[4] Furet, 186–90.
[5] http://www.uow.edu.au/arts/sts/bmartin/pubs/01psa.html [3]
Source: TOQ, vol. 8, no. 2 (Summer 2008)
Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com
URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/06/from-salon-to-guillotine/
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Chant of the Templars - Da Pacem Domine
Chant of the Templars
Da Pacem Domine
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dimanche, 08 juillet 2012
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
[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).
Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com
URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/06/american-transcendentalism/
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Viol de masse des Françaises en 1945
Viol de masse des Françaises en 1945 (1 + 2)
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samedi, 07 juillet 2012
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]
17. Wellington Craftivism Collective, http://wellingtoncraftivism.blogspot.co.nz/2012/01/blanket-man-limited-edition-prints.html [8]
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/
00:05 Publié dans Philosophie | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : kerry bolton, blanket man, ben hana, nouvelle zélande, philosophie | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
Fabrice LUCHINI à propos de Louis-Ferdinand CÉLINE
Fabrice LUCHINI
à propos de Louis-Ferdinand CÉLINE
00:05 Publié dans Entretiens, Littérature | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : littérature, lettres, lettres françaises, littérature française, céline, fabrice luchini | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
vendredi, 06 juillet 2012
Lettre sur l’identité à mes amis souverainistes, par Dominique Venner
Lettre sur l’identité à mes amis souverainistes,
Ex: http://fr.novopress.info/
Quand on appartient à une nation associée à Saint Louis, Philippe le Bel, Richelieu, Louis XIV ou Napoléon, un pays qui, à la fin du XVIIe siècle, était appelé « la grande nation » (la plus peuplée et la plus redoutable), il est cruel d’encaisser les reculs historiques répétés depuis les lendemains de Waterloo, 1870, 1940 et encore 1962, fin ignominieuse de la souveraineté française en Algérie. Une certaine fierté souffre nécessairement.
Dès les années 1930, beaucoup d’esprits français parmi les plus audacieux avaient imaginé trouver dans une Europe à venir en entente avec l’Allemagne, un substitut à cet affaiblissement constant de la France. Après la catastrophe que fut la Seconde Guerre mondiale (qui amplifiait celle de 14-18), naquit un projet légitime en soi. Il fallait interdire à tout jamais une nouvelle saignée mortelle entre Français et Allemands. L’idée était de lier ensemble les deux grands peuples frères de l’ancien Empire carolingien. D’abord par une association économique (la Communauté Européenne du Charbon et de l’Acier), puis par une association politique. Le général de Gaulle voulut concrétiser ce projet par le Traité de l’Elysée (22 janvier 1963), que les Etats-Unis, dans leur hostilité, firent capoter en exerçant des pressions sur la République fédérale allemande.
Ensuite, on est entré dans les dérives technocratiques et mondialistes qui ont conduit à l’usine à gaz appelée “Union européenne”. En pratique, celle-ci est la négation absolue de son appellation. La pseudo “Union européenne” est devenue le pire obstacle à une véritable entente politique européenne respectueuse des particularités des peuples de l’ancien Empire carolingien. L’Europe, il faut le rappeler, c’est d’abord une unité de civilisation multimillénaire depuis Homère, mais c’est aussi un espace potentiel de puissance et une espérance pour un avenir qui reste à édifier.
Pourquoi une espérance de puissance ? Parce qu’aucune des nations européennes d’aujourd’hui, ni la France, ni l’Allemagne, ni l’Italie, malgré des apparences bravaches, ne sont plus des États souverains.
Il y a trois attributs principaux de la souveraineté :
1er attribut : la capacité de faire la guerre et de conclure la paix. Les USA, la Russie, Israël ou la Chine le peuvent. Pas la France. C’est fini pour elle depuis la fin de la guerre d’Algérie (1962), en dépit des efforts du général de Gaulle et de la force de frappe qui ne sera jamais utilisée par la France de son propre chef (sauf si les Etats-Unis ont disparu, ce qui est peu prévisible). Autre façon de poser la question : pour qui donc meurent les soldats français tués en Afghanistan ? Certainement pas pour la France qui n’a rien à faire là-bas, mais pour les Etats-Unis. Nous sommes les supplétifs des USA. Comme l’Allemagne et l’Italie, la France n’est qu’un État vassal de la grande puissance suzeraine atlantique. Il vaut mieux le savoir pour retrouver notre fierté autrement.
2ème attribut de la souveraineté : la maîtrise du territoire et de la population. Pouvoir distinguer entre les vrais nationaux et les autres… On connaît la réalité : c’est l’État français qui, par sa politique, ses lois, ses tribunaux, a organisé le « grand remplacement » des populations, nous imposant la préférence immigrée et islamique avec 8 millions d’Arabo-musulmans (en attendant les autres) porteurs d’une autre histoire, d’une autre civilisation et d’un autre avenir (la charia).
3ème attribut de la souveraineté : la monnaie. On sait ce qu’il en est.
Conclusion déchirante : la France, comme État, n’est plus souveraine et n’a plus de destin propre. C’est la conséquence des catastrophes du siècle de 1914 (le XXe siècle) et du grand recul de toute l’Europe et des Européens.
Mais il y a un « mais » : si la France n’existe plus comme État souverain, le peuple français et la nation existent encore, malgré tous les efforts destinés à les dissoudre en individus déracinés ! C’est le grand paradoxe déstabilisateur pour un esprit français. On nous a toujours appris à confondre l’identité et la souveraineté en enseignant que la nation est une création de l’État, ce qui, pour les Français, est historiquement faux.
C’est pour moi un très ancien sujet de réflexion que j’avais résumé naguère dans une tribune libre publiée dans Le Figaro du 1er février 1999 sous le titre : « La souveraineté n’est pas l’identité ». Je le mettrai en ligne un jour prochain à titre documentaire.
Non, la souveraineté de l’État ne se confond pas avec l’identité nationale. En France, de par sa tradition universaliste et centraliste, l’Etat fut depuis plusieurs siècles l’ennemi de la nation charnelle et de ses communautés constitutives. L’État a toujours été l’acteur acharné du déracinement des Français et de leur transformation en Hexagonaux interchangeables. Il a toujours été l’acteur des ruptures dans la tradition nationale. Voyez la fête du 14 juillet : elle célèbre une répugnante émeute et non un souvenir grandiose d’unité. Voyez le ridicule emblème de la République française : une Marianne de plâtre coiffée d’un bonnet révolutionnaire. Voyez les affreux logos qui ont été imposés pour remplacer les armoiries des régions traditionnelles. Souvenez-vous qu’en 1962, l’État a utilisé toute sa force contre les Français d’Algérie abandonnés à leur malheur. De même, aujourd’hui, il n’est pas difficile de voir que l’État pratique la préférence immigrée (constructions de mosquées, légalisation de la viande hallal) au détriment des indigènes.
Il n’y a rien de nouveau dans cette hargne de l’État contre la nation vivante. La République jacobine n’a fait que suivre l’exemple des Bourbons, ce que Tocqueville a bien montré dans L’Ancien Régime et la Révolution avant Taine et d’autres historiens. Nos manuels scolaires nous ont inculqué une admiration béate pour la façon dont les Bourbons ont écrasé la « féodalité », c’est-à-dire la noblesse et les communautés qu’elle représentait. Politique vraiment géniale ! En étranglant la noblesse et les communautés enracinées, cette dynastie détruisait le fondement de l’ancienne monarchie. Ainsi, à la fin du XVIIIe siècle, la Révolution individualiste (droits de l’homme) triomphait en France alors qu’elle échouait partout ailleurs en Europe grâce à une féodalité et à des communautés restées vigoureuses. Relisez ce qu’en dit Renan dans sa Réforme intellectuelle et morale de la France (disponible en poche et sur Kindle). La réalité, c’est qu’en France l’État n’est pas le défenseur de la nation. C’est une machine de pouvoir qui a sa logique propre, passant volontiers au service des ennemis de la nation et devenant l’un des principaux agents de déconstruction identitaire.
[cc] Novopress.info, 2012, Dépêches libres de copie et diffusion sous réserve de mention de la source d'origine [http://fr.novopress.info/]
00:05 Publié dans Nouvelle Droite | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : souveraineté, souverainisme, identité, dominique venner, europe, européisme, nouvelle droite, mouvement identitaire | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
jeudi, 05 juillet 2012
Lovecraft und die Inszenierung der großen Niederlage
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Geschrieben von: Dietrich Müller
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Ex: http://www.blauenarzisse.de/
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Was für einen Sinn soll es haben, sich mit diesem Mann zu beschäftigen? Er hat eine reiche Korrespondenz hinterlassen und eine überschaubare Anzahl an Geschichten, die dem Horrorgenre zugerechnet werden – das nicht ganz zu Unrecht einen zweifelhaften Ruf genießt. Selbst für einen so früh verstorbenen Mann ist seine Biographie schrecklich mager, sie bietet kaum Höhepunkte, praktisch nichts Erzählenswertes. Geboren, geschrieben, gestorben. Lovecraft in drei Worten. Was kann die Beschäftigung mit diesem Mann uns schon geben? Ein Portrait dieses Mannes zu verfassen, scheitert am biographischen Zugriff. Es soll uns auch nur am Rande kümmern, wie er gelebt hat. Aber aus seinen Widersprüchen und seinen Fähigkeiten lässt sich ein Destillat erzeugen, aus dem sich einiges ziehen lässt und gerade dem kritischen Geist Nahrung liefert. Mehr als Fragment kann es freilich nicht sein, das hätte ihm wohl auch gefallen. Kapitulation hat durchaus etwas Verführerisches. Hat man erst einmal alle Hoffnung persönlich negiert, kann man sich bequem am Leben vorbeidrücken. Widerstand ist anstrengend, nervenaufreibend. Wo man sich an den Zeiten und den Menschen offensiv abmühen muss, da geht es an die Nerven, an die Substanz und der Ausgang bleibt immer mehr als ungewiss. Dem vollendeten Pessimisten ist der Eskapismus nahe. Beides trifft auf Lovecraft zu. Es ist eine Situation, welche die Kritiker heutiger Zeiten (und gerade die Konservativen und Reaktionäre) mit ihm teilen: Alles wird schlechter, die Entwicklungen werden zur Lawine, wir werden erdrückt. Fast könnte man neidisch werden auf die Kollaborateure und ihr zufriedenes Unzufriedensein zwischen Konsum und banalen Sorgen. Das Verführerische an der Kapitulation Viele kennen die Verführung, sich in die Schreibstube zurückzuziehen und abzuwarten, bis die Zeit einen dahinrafft. Diese leise Stimme, dass man sich umsonst abplackt und welch’ hoffnungsloser Irrsinn im dauernden Widerstand liegt. Lieber sich nicht mehr kümmern, nicht mehr teilnehmen. So sind wir doch Lovecrafts Kinder, wenn wir diese Verführung und diese Stimme kennen. Allein: Das stellt den Zweifel nicht ab. Den Schrecken über soviel Unwissen und Dummheit. Das – durchaus auch wohlige Erschauern – beim Ausblick auf künftige Katastrophen. Man blickt aus dem Fenster und beschaut die lachend-dummen Gesichter und fragt sich, wie sie aussehen werden, wenn das Unheil zu ihnen kommt. Der Gedanke gefällt und beunruhigt uns, er zieht uns magisch an den Schreibtisch, denn ganz können wir es nicht unterlassen, uns doch mitzuteilen – und sei es auch nur dem Papier. Nicht weil wir Erfolg wünschen oder Ruhm, sondern weil wir den Eselgesichtern einen Vorgeschmack geben wollen auf die bitteren Zeiten, welche sich für uns so klar abzeichnen. Man hat sich zwar versteckt, aber man kann den prophetischen Akt nicht unterlassen, auch weil man das falsche Glück durchschaut, welchem die Kleingeister da huldigen. Sind wir neidisch auf die Gedankenlosen? Halt! Moment! Wir wollten doch kapitulieren, uns nicht mehr einmischen! Uns der Passivität hingeben und alles verneinen. Wegducken und in Ruhe vergehen. Der Widerspruch nagt an uns. Sind wir neidisch? Ein unschöner Gedanke. Vielleicht so unschön wie wir und die anderen? Wir leben also weit weg vom prallen Leben. Die Menschen und ihr Alltag widern uns an. Unbegreiflich das dumme Tun und der Lauf der Zeit. Wir künden davon und werden alt. Auch aus der Ferne kann man das Schauen nicht unterlassen, die Gedanken nicht abstellen – die Qual sich zu äußern, die Frage, ob nicht alles anders sein könnte. Schließlich knüppeln wir die Hoffnung in den Texten tot. Oder versuchen es zumindest. Nicht mehr nur wegen der anderen, viel mehr noch wegen uns selbst. Abfinden wollen wir uns mit dem Ekel und nicht aufbegehren. Die Welt ist uns unbegreiflich, aber wir uns auch. Was soll dieser Unsinn? Das Leben ist und bleibt ein Saustall und es widert uns an. Geht mir aus den Augen! Gehe mir selbst aus den Augen! Ich tue mir selbst furchtbares an, aber wir auch den anderen. Missgunst und Empathie lassen keine Ruhe aufkommen. Auch die Heimat wird Gefängnis. Welch Verführung, welch Verschwendung! Also zehren wir uns auf Wir werden alt im Zeitraffer. Und krank. Wir schämen uns einerseits ob des ausgewichenen Lebens und sind doch voller Vorfreude, wenn die Zeit uns endlich dahinrafft. Wir spucken auf das erbärmliche Geschenk dieses unnötigen Lebens. Nur auf die Haltung kommt es noch an, auf die letzten Meter, bevor man endlich diesem Scheißhaufen mit seinen Amöbenexistenzen entfliehen kann. Ob einfach nur ein schwarzer Vorhang fällt oder neue Welten, neue Schrecken sich auftun, ist uns egal. Nur weg! Haben wir doch geahnt (oder nur gemeint?), dass es den ganzen Wahn nicht wert ist. Welche Verführung, welche Verschwendung! Also zehren wir uns auf: Uns rührt nicht die Frau, die wir nicht hatten, das Kind nicht, welches wir nie wollten, die Nachwelt nicht, welche wir ablehnen wie die Gegenwart. Wir haben ein Beispiel gegeben oder auch nicht. Das soll andere kümmern. Als uns das Sterben schließlich zerfrisst, blicken wir uns noch einmal delirisch um. Sicher war es alles nichts wert. Oder hoffen wir es nur? Das ist jene drohende, zwiespältige Botschaft, welche Lovecraft, sein Leben und seine Schriften haben. Wir leben in diesem Widerspruch. Die „Fülle der Zeit“ (Gasset) wie im 19. Jahrhundert kennen wir nicht und sie kommt auch nicht wieder. In jedem Zweifler steckt auch ein Nihilist, die wegwerfende Geste, die durchaus auch großartig wirken kann. Dieser Widerspruch und diese Verführung machen uns zu Lovecrafts Kindern. Freilich: Man sollte nicht seinem Beispiel folgen. Der quälende Blick vor dem Ende muss furchtbar sein und ist eine Mahnung. Auch die Glücklichen vergehen Aber wenn wir schließlich in seine Texte schauen, wenn wir angenehm erschauern beim Blick in den irrsinnigen Abgrund dieser sirenenhaften Unfassbarkeit, dann spüren wir, wie nahe er uns gewesen ist. Der Ekel über den alltäglichen Menschen in seiner viehischen Zufriedenheit wird uns bestätigt und am Ende kommt das Böse zu allen und bleibt stark in seiner Unfassbarkeit. Auch die Glücklichen vergehen und ihr Sturz ist noch viel tiefer. Das hilft über manch düstere Momente hinweg. Gerade diese missgünstige Ader, diese Lust am Unglück der Anderen befriedigt Lovecraft für uns. Deswegen redet man auch nicht gerne von ihm, vor allem in Deutschland. Aber auch in der internationalen Rezeption verschanzt man sich hinter schönen Worten oder böser Kritik. Lovecraft hat der „Leere eine Farbe“ gegeben Man sieht es nicht gerne, wenn der Menschenhasser und Katastrophenwünscher in jedem von uns bedient wird. Das literarische Establishment meidet seine Schriften und Visionen. Nicht alleine wegen der rassistischen Untertöne, sondern wegen der verführenden Wirkung und dieses unangenehmen Gefühls, beim eignen Widerspruch ertappt worden zu sein. Er hat der „Leere eine Farbe“ gegeben (Camus), während er konsequent gegen sich selbst lebte. Er ist Verführung und Vergewaltigung zugleich. Destruktiv und autoaggressiv. Selbstbezogen und doch voller Empathie. Ein totaler Widerspruch. Aus der Zeit. „I am Providence.” Alles hatte er überwunden und negiert. Und doch den Gedanken nicht unterlassen. Daran schließlich zerbrochen. Durch die Zeit hat er über diese und seine bescheidene Herkunft triumphiert, indem er seine Niederlage inszenierte. Und heute vernehmen wir vielleicht ein leises Echo eines boshaften Lachens, das möglicherweise von ihm stammt. Er war mehr als „nur“ Providence. In unseren aktuellen Thesen-durch-Fakten-Anschlägen haben wir uns ebenfalls mit dem Thema Pessimismus auseinandergesetzt und dazu sechs Thesen formuliert: Pessimismus ist Feigheit! |
00:05 Publié dans Littérature | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : lettres, littérature, littérature américaine, lettres américaines, lovecraft | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
mercredi, 04 juillet 2012
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
[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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mardi, 03 juillet 2012
Roman 20-50, revue d'étude du roman du XXè siècle
Roman 20-50, revue d'étude du roman du XXè siècle
00:07 Publié dans Littérature, Revue | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : revue, céline, littérature, lettres, lettres françaises, littérature française, france | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
lundi, 02 juillet 2012
Conférence Piero san Giorgio et Michel Drac à Bordeaux
Conférence
Piero san Giorgio et Michel Drac
à Bordeaux
00:05 Publié dans Actualité, Evénement | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : urbanisme, ville, entretiens, actualité | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook
Éducation : le grand abandon
Éducation : le grand abandon
par Pierre LE VIGAN
Depuis Jacques Ellul, nous savons que la modernité consiste à croire que tout problème a une solution technique. Il suffit en tous domaines de trouver la bonne technique : celle qui est la plus efficace. En matière d’éducation, nous en sommes là. Les pédagogues ont développé l’idée qu’il faut expérimenter le plus possible, et que des méthodes nouvelles permettront de surmonter les échecs de l’école. Il faudrait ainsi « apprendre à apprendre ». Comment ? Par petits groupes, par le travail « collectif », sous le patronage d’un « prof-animateur » et non plus de Monsieur ou Madame le Professeur. Le tuteur remplace l’enseignant, qui était déjà une version dégradée du professeur. Le travail en petits groupes évite de se poser la question des notes individuelles, remplacées au mieux par une « évaluation » collective voire plus simplement par la validation d’un savoir-être : s’intégrer au groupe, réciter les mantras sur les « droits citoyens », les « écogestes », etc. Les petits groupes valident aussi la communautarisation de la société : chacun dans son groupe, c’est au fond l’individualisme à une échelle collective, soit ce qu’il y a de pire dans le communautarisme, à savoir non pas la communauté mais la tribu, et la juxtaposition des tribus sans lien entre elles. C’est en d’autres termes la fin de l’espace public. Nous allons ainsi vers « un pays libanisé », dit Natacha Polony (dans Le pire est de plus en plus sûr, Éditions Mille et une nuits, 2011). C’est le règne du chacun pour soi et du chacun chez soi, chacun dans sa communauté – celle-ci n’étant qu’une caricature des liens communautaires anciens. Avec la fin de l’espace public c’est bien sûr aussi la fin de la France qui se profile. C’est le grand abandon.
De quoi s’agit-il pour les maîtres de notre politique éducative ? De déconstruire le concept de nation au nom de la diversité. Entendons-nous : la diversité des origines existe, et en France existent même les « petites patries » locales dont parlait Jules Ferry (et qu’il ne niait nullement mais voulait lier en une nation tel un bouquet), et a fortiori la diversité des origines avec l’immigration de peuplement. Mais à partir du moment où des millions de personnes ont été amenées à vivre en France et à s’y installer définitivement, il est prioritaire de leur donner les moyens de s’y acclimater. Comment ? En enseignant d’abord l’histoire de France et d’Europe, la géographie, la langue française. Et en enseignant d’une certaine façon. Parce qu’il ne suffit pas de se mettre ensemble autour d’une table pour apprendre. Il n’y a pas à désamorcer l’angoisse de ne pouvoir arriver à apprendre. Qui ne l’a pas connue ? Cette angoisse est naturelle. Elle peut justement être desserrée en avançant sur des bases fermes, solides, universelles dans notre pays. Il fut une époque où tel jour à telle heure tous les écoliers de France faisaient la même dictée. Ce n’était pas si idiot. Cela indique un chemin : une éducation dans un pays doit être universelle, commune, en continuité d’un bout à l’autre du territoire. Elle doit créer un socle de références communes, et cela d’autant plus que les origines de chacun sont diverses. En effet, ce socle commun est d’autant plus nécessaire que manque la culture commune entre les élèves, d’autant plus nécessaire quand elle se résume au consumérisme et à l’américanisation des mœurs. C’est pourquoi la tendance actuelle dans l’éducation est néfaste. Quelle est-elle ? Elle est de valoriser les expérimentations, les autonomies des établissements d’enseignement. C’est le discours de la dérégulation appliqué à l’école après avoir été appliqué à la finance à partir des années 1980 – 90. Dans l’école post-républicaine, chacun expérimente, et chacun s’évalue. Au nom de la créativité. Un beau mot pour dire la fin d’un socle commun de connaissances. Depuis la loi Fillon de 2005, cette tendance s’accélère. Les expérimentateurs libéraux se retrouvent au fond d’accord sur la même politique que les « innovants » libertaires. Daniel Cohn-Bendit est l’archétype politicien de cette convergence. Tous deux, libéraux et libertaires, ont cessé de croire à l’espace public de l’éducation. Du fait de leur action conjointe, culturelle pour les libertaires, politique pour les libéraux (de droite ou de gauche), la tribalisation des établissements est en marche, en phase avec la tribalisation-barbarisation de la société. Dans le même temps, l’idée de savoirs à connaître est abandonnée au nom de l’efficacité économique, que défendent aussi bien la droite que la gauche. Les savoirs laissent la place à des « compétences », concept flou à la mode. C’est un processus de dé-civilisation : il s’agit non plus de maîtriser des connaissances, de les évaluer par des notes forcément individuelles, de progresser vers un savoir donnant la capacité d’être citoyen mais d’acquérir un savoir-être utilitaire, bref d’être adaptable dans le monde de l’entreprise. Fluide et flexible. Dans ce domaine, la démagogie face à la préoccupation de l’emploi fait rage, surfant sur l’angoisse des Français. On ne parle d’ailleurs plus de métiers, qui supposent des connaissances précises mais de l’emploi, qui suppose une malléabilité continue. Il s’agit donc de créer l’homme nouveau flexible. Dévaloriser les connaissances précises et valoriser les « savoirs-être », c’est la révolution anthropologique de l’école nouvelle, l’école d’après la France et d’après la République, l’école d’après les nations (en tout cas les nations d’Europe). Curieusement la campagne électorale de 2007 s’est jouée sur d’autres thèmes. C’est en défendant, dans la lignée d’Henri Guaino, les principes d’une école républicaine que Nicolas Sarkozy a gagné, y compris en séduisant un électorat de gauche sur ces questions. (Il n’est pas exclu qu’il tente la même manœuvre). A-t-il appliqué ses principes affichés dans les meetings et discours ? Aucunement. La droite, malgré quelques tentations de bonnes mesures sous Xavier Darcos, est vite revenue avec Luc Chatel à la conception de l’enseignant-animateur, une conception plus en rapport avec l’air du temps.
En conséquence, la sélection sociale se fait de plus en plus en dehors de l’école publique, gratuite et laïque. L’abandon de la méritocratie prive les classes populaires de toute possibilité d’ascension sociale. À la place de l’ascenseur social par l’école publique, un leurre est mis en place : c’est la diversité chère à tous nos gouvernants, de la droite américanisée à la gauche multiculturelle à la Jack Lang en passant par l’omniprésent Richard Descoings, patron de Sciences Po – Paris, membre du club Le Siècle et « diversito-compatible » s’il en est. À ce stade, le chèque-éducation représenterait l’officialisation de la fin de l’école républicaine. C’est d’ailleurs pour cela qu’il n’est pas appliqué. Trop voyant. Trop symbolique. Il manifesterait trop clairement cette fin : il s’agit en d’autres termes de maintenir la fiction, le manteau vide de l’Éducation « nationale, laïque et publique ». La diversité participe de l’abandon de la méritocratie. De quoi s’agit-il ? De faire entrer des élèves dans des institutions prestigieuses en les exonérant de l’accès classique, en ouvrant une voie privilégiée. Comme si on reconnaissait implicitement qu’ils sont incapables de réussir le concours normal de ces institutions – ce qui est faux, sauf que ce ne serait sans doute pas les mêmes qui seraient admis. À l’inverse, une bonne politique républicaine serait de développer des aides aux devoirs, des bourses d’étude, des internats d’excellence pour aider à la réussite dans ces concours des jeunes issus de milieux populaires. Avec la « politique de la diversité », il s’agit en fait de former une petite élite hyper-adaptée au système économique et de lui offrir la collaboration (lucrative : les jeunes de la diversité admis dans les grandes écoles choisissent souvent… la finance) avec le turbo-capitalisme tandis que l’immense masse des jeunes de banlieue resteraient l’armée de réserve du Capital. Nous avons donc du côté des gouvernants, de droite comme de gauche, des pédagogistes ou ludo-pédagogistes pour qui chaque jeune doit découvrir en lui ses « savoirs-faire enfouis » et développer un savoir-être basé sur le « vivre–ensemble », une autre formule magique. Et nous constatons dans le même temps que ce spontanéisme éducatif est prôné tandis que la barbarisation de certains jeunes, pourtant bel et bien passés par l’école s’accroît (cf. l’affaire Ilan Halimi). C’est en fait l’abandon de la dimension verticale de l’éducation qui est en cause dans la perte des repères que l’on observe. Il y a toujours eu des gens rétifs à se conformer à une certaine noblesse d’âme. Mais il fut un temps où on enseignait cette noblesse. Chacun savait plus ou moins qu’elle existait, sans s’y conformer pour autant. Désormais, le nihilisme qui se manifeste dans la société et dans l’éducation tend à dire que tout vaut tout, que l’élève doué et/ou travailleur doit être noyé dans le groupe. Pour ne pas « stigmatiser » les nuls. Face à cela, les instructionnistes sont ceux qui disent : il y a des choses à apprendre, et pas seulement des savoirs-être à acquérir. En d’autres termes, le meilleur apprentissage du « savoir-être » – si on tient vraiment à avancer cette notion – c’est le sens de l’effort et du travail. On appelle aussi les instructionnistes les « républicains ». Je suis républicain. C’est de cela qu’il s’agit : d’affirmer que la République est autre chose qu’une démocratie des ayants-droits où chacun serait réduit à un consommateur tranquille, avec une pondération raisonnable d’insurgés incendiaires, de façon à entretenir la peur sécuritaire (bien légitime face à des agressions bien réelles) et à empêcher toutes luttes sociales, si nécessaires pourtant, si légitimes quand le système de l’hypercapitalisme financier attaque les classes populaires, les salariés et les classes intermédiaires avec une détermination sans précédent.
Refaire une instruction publique et républicaine pour former des citoyens qui iraient vers les luttes de libération sociale et nationale du peuple de France, c’est là l’enjeu.
Pierre Le Vigan
• D’abord mis en ligne sur Vox N.-R., le 5 novembre 2011.
Article printed from Europe Maxima: http://www.europemaxima.com
URL to article: http://www.europemaxima.com/?p=2292
00:05 Publié dans Ecole/Education | Lien permanent | Commentaires (0) | Tags : france, école, éducation, enseignement | | del.icio.us | | Digg | Facebook