Jean Racine

http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Racine

http://www.epdlp.com/escritor.php?id=2184

Robert Musil

http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Musil

http://www.epdlp.com/escritor.php?id=2078

http://www.guiacultural.com/guia_tematica/letras/robert_musil.htm

http://www.tusquetseditores.com/titulos/cuadernos-infimos-sobre-la-estupidez

Robert Musil, author of Hope for a Heated Planet and Senior Fellow at American University’s Center for Congressional and Presidential Studies, joined the Council Tuesday night to present strategies for combating climate change. Musil said he prefers to be an optimistic environmentalist, rather than  emphasize  “gloom and doom” like so much of what’s found in today’s media. He acknowledged many problems that the world is facing, such as the spread of malaria and the rise of sea-levels, but spent the majority of his time focusing on positive solutions, like the increasing global investment in alternative energy and the changes the Obama administration is making in environmental policy. Musil also discussed the current Boxer-Kerry “cap and trade” bill that is making its way through the Senate and he encouraged the audience to write Senator Boxer to ask her to keep plans for new nuclear plants out of the bill. However, of all the solutions Musil has for fighting climate change, his biggest is getting the general public involved. He cited numerous groups all across the political spectrum that are doing good things for the environment and said the only way we can slow global warming is to become involved ourselves.

To listen to the full program with Robert Musil, please visit our complete online archive here. If you would like to get involved with a group taking action against climate change, check out these organizations mentioned by Musil: 350.org, Earth Day Network, Power Shift, Interfaith Power and Light Campaign, and Save Our Evironment.

IF, as…, Stranger in the Corridor, two plays by Mammad Aidani
Explorations @ La Mama
Mon. 12 Oct. to Wed. 14 Oct.

La Mama’s Explorations Season is on again and explorations are exactly what are wanted after the intellectual bludge that was the MIAF (of which complaint more to follow later this week along with more dispatches from La Mama).

Two short plays by Mammad Aidani opened the season: IF, as …, with Elnaz Sheshgelani and Shahin Shafaei; and Stranger in the Corridor, with Majid Shokor and Shahin Shafaei. Both directed by Lloyd Jones.

I attended the sold-out final performance (each exploration has a run of three nights only) with my friend Muzil, and, via the waiting list, we were lucky to get in at all. Not everyone did.

The experience was heavy—at times gloomy, at times abrasive, at times protracted, at times sublime—and, afterward, as we took small circles in the La Mama car park, both Muzil and I dithered on where to start. Twice Muzil opened his mouth as if to begin, and twice he finished only with a deep drag on his Djarum Black, he being the sort of crusty cosmopolitan who smokes Djarum Black. So it was Aidani himself, through Sheshgelani’s character, who eventually got us underway:

This is a very profound thing you are saying.

“At least, that’s the feeling,” I said. “Though, it’s just as likely Aidani will turn round, much like the blind man in IF, as …, Shahin Shafaei, and say, ‘No, not really profound; it’s just how I feel about things.’ So I’m not sure how much all this eloquence needs to be unpacked.”

“As in Beckett, for example, where to sift the eloquence is to miss the play?” asked Muzil, finally stubbing out his cigarette.

“No, not like Beckett. I do think these two plays are to be found in their eloquence; I’m only not sure how deep we need to go. Here, Aidani is not at all like Beckett, despite the efforts of Lloyd Jones to point us in that direction. Aidani is impatient, like Beckett. But his impatience is philosophical, not aesthetic or formal.”

“What do you mean impatient. The pace was contemplative, not hasty, almost fatally so in Stranger. But even in the shorter play, IF, as … I thought we were given plenty of space to reflect during the performance.”

“I don’t mean impatience as a question of pace or design. I mean the content. With these two pieces Aidani shows, I think, impatience with artistic devices; he wants to come directly to his real concern, the philosophy of experience. His lesson—at least it felt like a lesson—is delivered as directly as possible. It is not dressed naturalistically, expressionistically, conceptually or in any other overtly artistic fashion. And his verses have a declarative quality that speaks against imitative fluency and experimentation. Indeed, I think the two pieces together can be viewed as a statement against all explorations that are not essentially ethical explorations.”

“I think that’s too bold, Neandellus. To start with, to say disdain is all wrong. The emphasis here might not be on artistic methods, but he leaves ample room for the director and the production team, if one should ever take these scripts on, to interpret the work artistically. You may have felt like it was a lesson, but the text was not built like a lecture. The director is not blocked out by the text—”

“But what about in Stranger where we, the audience, are constantly being told in monologues what it is that we see in the performance? It appeared to me that the director was blocked, as you say, from treating the content. This led to some eccentric directorial choices, I thought, particularly in the slow disposition of events in Stranger.”

“Well,” with his lips Muzil excerpted another Djarum Black from the packet, but did not light it, “that perhaps pwoves that the philosophy here is an artistic method after all, that Aidani is concerned with device. And the text itself is not as poetically bare as you suggest. There are some powerful images: the stranger dipping his hand in the soup; the stranger kissing the mirror; the bits of meat in the corridor. And the direction, despite having Jones fussing about with the seating on the night, was not all that eccentric. For instance, in Stranger, I thought there was a consciously cinematic aesthetic, like the dark corridors of Ingmar Bergman, which tied in with the stranger being a film maker and recluse.”

“But I think the text speaks too loudly over these choices. In Stranger in the Corridor, the text even speaks over the characters. The only lines the stranger speaks in character are occasional moans and gibbering.”

Muzil shrugged. “It’s an exploration. You can’t expect much production polish.”

“But it’s more than that,” I said, “There was a definite antipathy toward the visual. Hearing is more important than seeing we are told in IF, as …, and I think Aidani means it.”

“Even so, for hearing we still need the actors. That is, even without a strong visual emphasis, there still needs to be art. Which I think we got. There’s not much room for fudging in Aidani’s explicit lines and I thought all three performers dealt with them well, in a restrained way, especially, Sheshgelani, although I suppose she had the best opportunity to take on an actual character.” Muzil lit his cigarette and took a sceptical drag and asked, “But what was the content? What was it about? What is this philosophy of experience you spoke of?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. But, for what it’s worth, I think IF, as … should be treated as a prologue to Stranger in the Corridor. The key line in the former, it seems to me, is You don’t know how hard it is to situate the values of Being and not Being. The blind man laughs at this ancient problem, hard as it is, because he is a dreamer, and dreamers do not hate, apparently. In Stranger in the Corridor, however, the stranger shows us what hard can really mean.

“The values of Being and not Being cannot be situated because in an infinite universe they cannot be rationally proved. That is, they cannot be rationally understood. They can only be intuitively known or empirically tested. But neither intuition nor experience allow us fully to participate in the state of either Being or not Being. Thus we are told that we know the stranger (intuitively) but that we do not understand him (logically). The stranger, like the blind man, is in pain. He, however, cannot laugh. He is made frantic by the wish that we, the audience, not only know (sympathise with, recognise) his pain, but that we understand (empathise with, participate in) this pain. But we cannot rationally deduce it, we cannot prove that he is in pain. This distresses him and all we can do is offer sympathy and talk of his pain in terms of our own experiences. But he wants more than sympathy.

“So he has locked himself in a special corridor. Is he delimiting the universe? The corridor is a strange place. We are told that it is a very strange place. We are told it is no place geographically. It is, I suspect, a realm where rationality is displaced by experience and intuition. The spoon, for instance: we do not see it, but we are told that it is there and that we do not understand it. The clock’s tick, too: we do not hear it, but we are told it is there and that we do not understand it. The stranger wants this to be a place where facts consist of experiences, where experiences such as his are validated as truths and his Being is complete. Such a universe would be dynamic; it would not consist of fossilised facts and crystalline truths; it would be a soul, a living memory. That’s as far as I got. My understanding, at least, soon faded with the stranger into the dark of the corridor.”

Muzil stubbed out his cigarette, ready to go. “Hmm. I thought it was just an immigration allegory. You know, the sealed corridor like the sealed borders, the crazy stranger like the deluded polity. But, still, this is a very profound thing you are saying.”

Karen Mac Cormack | Implexures (Complete Edition) | Chax Press and West House Books | 2008

I’d read extracts from this project first in The Gig back in 2004, then got hold of the beautiful Chax / West House edition of the first nineteen parts published in 2003. Mac Cormack has written what she calls a ‘polybiography’, responding to a family history written by her great- aunt Susan Hicks Beach and letters to and from her own grandparents and parents, whilst traversing an extraordinary array of other discourses from post-structuralist theory to cultural history and etymology. At its launch in London in June 2008, Alan Halsey summed it up when he said it’s both not a big book and it is a big book because there’s a lot in it. This is a very rich text indeed.

Jennifer Moxley | Clampdown | Flood | 2009

I was first presented with this book by its author on a visit to Maine at Easter 2009 and my re-reading of it is even now bound up with that locale. Moxley continues her project of revivifying the lyric, and all that entails, in a collection of reflective poems on the possibilities that being both presents and denies us. Some of the poems here come on in a similar mode to Moxley’s autobiography The Middle Room in the way they handle experience and memory, and all the pieces have an understated technical assurance that constantly reminds one of the possibilities of language itself. I shall be re-reading these pieces for a long time to come: a phrase which stays with me is ‘my accuracy is unstable’.

Caroline Bergvall | Cropper | Torque Press | 2008

In common with the two previous titles, Bergvall’s book explores the autobiographical mode and is a story of her relationships with language(s) (French, Norwegian and English) and desire, and a demand that the body be heard in-between. The piece unsettles the English it is written in with orthographical, phonological and cross-linguistic play and also incorporates lines in Norwegian (the piece was a response to write a text in Norwegian, only partly met). However, it is also one of Bergvall’s most candid pieces to date – deepening my understanding of how the complex range of formal practices in her work all stem from the way in which she experiences herself as on the border of languages.

Andrea Brady | Wildfire: A Verse Essay on Obscurity and Illumination | Dispatx | 2006

This text has been online for some time and this indeed is its natural habitat as it was designed with a tapestry of hyperlinks woven in to indicate source materials, which are legion. As a way of revealing the compositional approach of the author, these links are very generous. That said, I found my encounter with the piece only really took off when I painstakingly cut and paste sections together to form a printable copy (I have admitted this to the author!). In this work Brady explores the history of Greek Fire as an analogue of the use of White Phosphorous in the attack on Fallujah in 2004. Thought through a trail of damages that includes the horrific treatment of phosphorous workers at a match factory in London’s East End, this is a highly political poem that is full of memorable and disquieting images. Still available online at dispatx.com.

Robert Musil, trans. Sophie Wilkins and Burton Pike | The Man Without Qualities | Picador | 1997

I’m still only about half way through this massive, unfinished novel, that I’ve been digesting in slow intense chunks over a six month period. This is a book often compared to Proust’s In Search of Lost Time or Joyce’s Ulysses, but to me it also illuminates and complements the works of two great C20th Polish novelists: Stanislaw Witkiewicz (Nienasycenie – Insatiability) and Witold Gombrowicz (several novels and the infamous Dziennik – Diary). Musil’s observational writing is superb but it is the way he handles the theme of cultural change which is totally fascinating and which makes the book seem fresh and relevant to our current predicaments. As Karen Mac Cormack has pointed out, at times it reads like a philosophical treatise.

James Lovelock | The Vanishing Face of Gaia: A Final Warning | Allen Lane | 2009

The creator of the Gaia hypothesis, a theory of the Earth as a physiological system, and inventor of the electron capture detector, Lovelock’s scientific credentials are second to none, which makes the impact of this book about as gloomy as can be imagined. Lovelock essentially argues that we need a shift in emphasis in green thinking from sustainability to managed retreat in the face of inevitable global climate change. This book cuts through much received thought about green issues, for example Lovelock is a strong advocate of nuclear power, and though doubtless raising as many problems as it ‘solves’ for the scientific community, to the lay reader this is urgent and important information.

Gil Ott | traffic | Chax Press | 2001

I first fell in love with Ott’s work when I read an extract from his Zasterle Press book The Whole Note on Silliman’s Blog. That was about as perfect a book I could imagine at the time and perhaps still is, though traffic is also remarkable. Complete with a generous preface (in content rather than length), this is a long slow burner that I seem to favour reading on trains at present. Each page has a short verse or verses then a space then a short prose paragraph at the bottom. Endlessly fascinating, meticulous and rewarding poetry: ‘this poem, the notebook open on the bed where you might find it. One is one alone, is one among others’.

Kevin Davies | Comp. | Edge Books | 2000

Miles Champion told me years ago I should read this, but I had to actually go to the United States to secure a copy (thanks Steve!). I’ve since learned that Davies has only published one book since so at least I’m not too far behind as this was a real wake-up call even nine years after its first publication. A review by Brian Kim Stefans noted Jeff Derksen’s use of the term ‘rearticulatory’ which seems to me the way to go in keeping a post-Language political critique alive and kicking. And this book definitely is. And hilarious: ‘Entropy is built into the chicken’!

Maggie O’Sullivan | Waterfalls | Etruscan Books | 2009-08-13

A handsome cloth-bound edition of pieces which I’d only previously read in photocopied pamphlet form. O’Sullivan’s stunning poems really benefit from resetting and the addition of colour to her images but they are as tantalisingly incantatory as ever, poems to spell with, to do ritual by: ‘DID YOU KNOW THE AIR – THE WASH OF HAZEL / MAPPED ON THE SWING OF HER SIGHT?’ Parts of the work are responses to the Irish Famine of 1845-52 and explore O’Sullivan’s own Irish roots.

Nicholas Johnson | SHOW | Etruscan Books | 2001

This book shows English verse music working to its full height and depth in long-lined long lyric poems which make the everyday world full of rich, almost mythic, potential. There are also voices here, heavily accented, speaking in dialect in a way which reminds me of the late, great Bill Griffiths, whose last book Johnson published with his own Etruscan press. The book closes with ‘The Margarete-Sulamith Cycles of Anselm Kiefer’ which responds to Celan’s ‘Todesfuge’ and is practically a sound poem.

Jacques Rancière, trans. Gabriel Rockhill | The Politics of Aesthetics | Continuum | 2008

I tend to read theory as poetics, for what can inform practice, and this was a productive encounter for me. I don’t know other works by Rancière although at times he seemed to be simply going over the commonplaces of postmodern theory, including ideas associated with Lyotard in particular, without acknowledgement. However, it is his notion of the ‘distribution of the sensible’ (le partage du sensible), a law that produces a system of self-evident facts of perception, that enables his assertion of the aesthetic dimension as inherent in any radical emancipatory politics, by ‘undoing the relations between the visible, the sayable and the thinkable.’

More Scott Thurston here.

É um lugar tão comum quanto tolo na filosofia pensar que aqueles que se ocupam de filosofia continental tendem para a literatura e para as artes tal qual os que se ocupam da filosofia analítica tendem para a matemática e para a ciência. Bem, se é um lugar muito comum e tolo, tem necessariamente um inescapável fundo de verdade. De qualquer forma, recomendo fortemente que os irmãos fenomenólogos e/ou hermenêutas desliguem os sabres-de-luz e abaixem as orelhas de vez em quando para ouvir os filósofos filosofarem em inglês. Não apenas pela ampliação do horizonte filosófico, mas também porque estaremos familiarizados com as armas do inimigo quando a próxima guerra filosófica começar.
Brincadeiras à parte, quero dividir aqui a grata, muito grata surpresa de encontrar um artigo simples, curto e ao mesmo tempo genial sobre a relação entre filosofia metafísica e literatura fantástica. Não, a metafísica não é um gênero da literatura fantástica. Ou sim? Bem, talvez seja, mas não é exatamente esse o ponto da professora Evgenia Cherkasova em seu Filosofia como narrativa colateral, presente em Filosofia contemporânea em ação. Bem, talvez não seja somente ou exatamente esse o ponto da discussão em seu artigo.
Cherkasova abre seu artigo fazendo a aproximação entre a metafísica e a literatura fantástica através de um conceito colhido de Saul Morson em seu Narrative and Freedom: The Shadows of Time, o conceito de narrativa colateral – sideshadowing no original.
A narrativa colateral estaria nas antípodas da narrativa prenunciadora que, em moldes aristotélicos, estrutura uma história de modo estanque e linear em início, meio e fim. A estrutura da narrativa prenunciadora faz parte do composto que lhe dá unidade de sentido. Não há espaço para episódios que fujam da ordem – e se há, estes são completamente inessenciais para a história. Cherkasova não fala sobre a categoria aristotélica de episódio, mas apela a própria reflexão para mostrar que no plano existencial mesmo o mais fatalista dos homens tem a plena consciência de que as coisas “poderiam ter acontecido de outra forma”, o que faz com que a própria vida não possua a mesma forma de uma narrativa prenunciadora. Cherkasova menciona que Milan Kundera, em seu A Imortalidade, nos lembra de que nem mesmo a morte nos garante um ponto final sobre a narrativa de nossa própria vida: nossa história será mais objetiva do que nunca sem a subjetividade que lhe dava gênese. Será essencialmente uma história nas mãos daqueles que permanecem vivos. Para além da esperança de um sentido unívoco.
(Lembro aqui do romance onde vi o episódio aparecer com força e nos moldes clássicos pela primeira vez: o Tom Jones, de Henry Fielding. Há um capítulo inteiro sobre as aventuras de Tom Jones e “o homem da colina”. Se fosse completamente apagado da história, se fosse ignorado pelo leitor, se esse capítulo nao existisse isso não faria a menor diferença para a história!)
A narrativa colateral possui o poder de dar conta dessa dimensão de contingência intrínseca à vida. Segundo Cherkasova, “Nossas vidas emergem das escolhas que fazemos, das escolhas que evitamos fazer e das escolhas que ignoramos por completo”. Contudo, essas “potencialidades não atualizadas” que são os caminhos não tomados perseguem a pessoa humana tal qual uma nuvem, e fazem parte da equação que define justamente os caminhos escolhidos. Segundo a autora, mesmo aquela dimensão que está além do possível – ou seja, o impossível – é temporalmente determinada. Não é eterna: o que parece impossível agora outrora não parecia – ou futuramente não parecerá.
Cherkasova coloca na mesma sacola os filósofos metafísicos e os “escritores de inclinação filosófica”, e diz que fazem uma coisa muito parecida: exploram o campo do possível. É assim que Platão, Descartes e Leibniz estarão em um mesmo nível que Kafka ou Borges: e se nosso mundo for um simulacro do mundo real? E se a realidade conhecida for um engodo de um demônio? Ou pior: e se isso tudo for, afinal, o melhor dos mundos possíveis? E se um dia as instituições dissiparem nossa noção de responsabilidade? E se um dia perdessemos o precioso dom de esquecer, conseguiríamos ainda pensar? Essas são questões que emergem do texto filosófico e literário pensado sob a forma de narrativa colaretal.
Esse é, aliás, o princípio moral que rege a prosa de Milan Kundera – princípio que, segundo o escritor tcheco, absorveu de Hermann Broch – e que oferece uma interessantíssima lente através da qual podemos julgar a literatura: ela explora possibilidades humanas? Ela revela a essência de situações? Ela é capaz de sacrifiar a verossimilhança e a linearidade narrativa para apresentar algo de essencial? Se as respostas para tais questões forem negativas, podemos pensar como David Hume e atirá-los na fogueira.
Quando direcionado para a dimensão do conhecimento, o discurso pode justamente explorar os limites da razão humana – isto é, o limite de suas possibilidades. É, no entendimento de Cherkasova, o projeto kantiano. Segundo ela:

“Para Kant, as múltiplas junções do conhecido com o desconhecido definem as fronteiras da investigação filosófica. Ele deixa claro que a razão pode e deve empreender a tarefa de operar no limite, isto é, a tarefa de reunir o que é conhecido e o que jamais será.”

Segundo alguns estudiosos, esse é mesmo um dos grandes méritos – e por isso mesmo um dos maiores problemas – da filosofia de Kant: diferentemente de Descartes, Kant veda completamente o acesso à verdade acerca da experiência. Nenhum Deus está, em Kant, dentro dos limites da razão carimbando com sua eterna bondade nossa experiência. Kant vai mais longe, é verdade, e define o que não pode ser conhecido, ainda que em termos econômicos.
Contudo, o bastião da filosofia moderna torna-se apenas mais uma perspectiva quando pensamos em narração colateral. Outras experiências de pensamento são possíveis, outros sistemas e linhas de raciocínio podem ser construídos a partir de outros interesses. Penso que aqui haja o perigoso flerte com o perspectivismo relativista à que Simon Blackburn faz menção no início da obra. É perigoso inveredar por esse caminho, pois afinal tornar-se-á uma questão de ótica ver o mundo como um desdobramento de processos dialéticos ou como a manifestação de uma vontade irracional e sem-fundamento que perpassa a natureza.
Mas se Blackburn nos alerta para o perigo é certamente porque ele é real: será a filosofia apenas um olhar diferenciado? Posso, então, chamar Kafka de filósofo? E dizer que há uma literatura em Descartes? Milan Kundera não me deixaria fazer isso: romance tem personagens, tem situações. Filosofia se desdobra em um plano abstrato, sem pessoas, sem personagens, sem situações.
E o Ser e o Nada? E quando Sartre menciona o proletariado do início do século XIX? E quando ele menciona a moça que flerta de má-fé? Ou mesmo quando conta sobre sua tentativa de parar de fumar? Não temos aí literatura?
Se faço estas questões que Cherkasova não colocou é justamente no interesse de separar o joio do trigo (sem querer jamais pretender definir qual seria o joio e qual seria o trigo nesse par). Porque filosofia é filosofia e literatura é literatura, ponto final. Walter Benjamin admirava a inteligência de Robert Musil, mas não sua arte. Então aquele monstruoso tijolo que é O Homem Sem Qualidades é um livro filosófico? Sim, quero separar a filosofia e a literatura para, justamente, poder ver mais claramente o que elas podem ter em comum.
Pensar em Kundera é inevitável. O autor tcheco oferece, em sua obra, elementos suficientes para que pensemos as questões postas por Cherkasova. A prosa de Kundera é, de longe, a prosa mais inteligente que tive o prazer de ler. O velho tcheco é um filósofo disfarçado: reflete, analisa conceitos e faz longas digressões durante seus romances. E, sem dúvida, faz aquilo que Cherkasova chama de narrativa colateral: explora possibilidades ao custo da verossimilhança. Os dois exemplos que não me saem da mente são o sexto capítulo do Livro do Riso e do Esquecimento, onde a personagem principal vai parar numa ilha dominada por crianças e o final do romance A Imortalidade, já citado, onde Kundera simplesmente derruba a barreira entre ficção e realidade e encontra seus próprios personagens.
Mas Milan Kundera não é filósofo. Nem Kafka. Nem Camus. Bem, Camus escreveu filosofia, mas O Estrangeiro não é filosofia. Nem A Insustentável Leveza do Ser. Nem O Processo. E acho que para não me estender nesta questão, recorro à um post recente, onde falo de Blackburn e sua reflexão sobre a natureza da filosofia. Sirvo-me novamente da definição de filosofia como “um olhar diferenciado”.
Posso ter um olhar diferenciado para qualquer obra literária, por mais seca e descritiva que seja. Posso filosofar sobre Virginia Woolf (uma das coisas que para mim melhor se enquadra nessa descrição). A diferença é que no caso de uma Virginia Woolf (que tem sua versão da Metamorfose de Kafka, seu Orlando, o homem que um dia acorda e descobre que virou uma moça) eu tenho de preparar a terra e as sementes, em Kafka a terra já está pronta. Em Kundera, só nos cabe regar as sementes, pois está quase tudo pronto. Evidentemente tais juízos, como quaisquer juízos, são absolutamente parciais e revelam mais meus próprios interesses do que a potencialidade da obra. Mas o fato é que, como diz Cherkasova, o “modo” de contar uma história faz toda a diferença. Pode-se projetar uma imagem numa tela e deixar que o leitor/espectador raciocine por si. Pode-se fazer como Fielding, e conceber o ato da escrita próximo ao trabalho de um cozinheiro que deve agradar o paladar do cliente. E se eu tenho um palpite, é o de que o trabalho de um Fielding, de um Kundera ou de um Kafka, pelo seu modo e pela sua forma se aproximam mais da reflexão filosófica do que outros modos de se fazer literatura. Ou não?
Acho que minha conclusão é decepcionante, porque não penso que seja fácil separar, afinal, a filosofia da literatura.

Meu palpite é que boa parte do potencial filosófico de uma obra está na maneira que ela é escrita: Virginia Woolf reflete muito pouco durante o Orlando. Apenas nos conta sua história. Podemos fazer filosofia disso? Talvez sim – como podemos fazer filosofia de Kafka – mas será mais difícil do que fazê-la sobre um texto de Kundera ou Borges.
De qualquer modo, o saldo positivo com o qual eu acho que saio do texto de Evgenia Cherkasova é talvez justamente aquele que eu estava procurando: há, sim, uma dimensão muito comum do discurso e que diz respeito ao proceder do filósofo e ao proceder do romancista. É justamente a possibilidade que eles tem de tecer possibilidades paralelas à condição humana e com isso aprenderem e ensinarem justamente sobre essa condição humana. A virtualmente infinita possibilidade de produção filosófica e literária (a despeito do que se fale sobre a morte dessas dimensões da cultura) parece revelar também uma outra verdade trágica: talvez seja tão impossível mapear completamente a condição humana quanto esgotar as possibilidades da filosofia e da literatura. Mas eu menti, porque isso não é necessariamente trágico. Pois essa impossibilidade, essa inesgotabilidade da tarefa, não deve ser considerada um fracasso a priori. Ou deve? Justamente por não transcender as próprias possibilidades? Por não fazer o impossível? Até porque, segundo Cherkasova, esse “impossível” é tão eterno quanto nossas crenças mais tolas, como a crença na ordem e na unidade de sentido de uma vida.

Um último comentário deve ser feito: eu menti duas vezes. Cherkasova não é uma filósofa analítica. Leciona ética, filosofia da literatura e existencialismo. Tem predileção por questões como liberdade, abitrariedade e o Mal. Ou seja: não foi uma coincidência que eu tenha me deliciado nas poucas páginas de seu artigo.

“I have a dream” capata conotatii diferite pentru mine zilele astea. De trei zile am un vis. Un vis la propriu, nu o ambitie, nu o fantezie. Visez de trei nopti incoace acelasi lucru, cam pe la aceeasi ora. Stiu asta pentru ca, dupa vis, ma trezesc si stau vreo doua ore treaza, citind o carte in italiana la o veioza mica si chioara. Faptul ca stiu foarte vag italiana dar ca mama si-ar fi dorit sa stiu ma ajuta sa ma linistesc si sa capat sansa de a adormi din nou, am senzatia ca fac ceva util, ceva important. Am gasit in biblioteca celei la care stau o carte a lui Robert Musil, autor care nu mi-a placut niciodata dar asta este o carte despre prostie si m-a prins subiectul. Asa ca ma straduiesc sa o citesc si sa o inteleg. Nu e foarte greu, de ce sa mint?

Visul e din ala care se petrece chiar in camera in care dormi, asa incat lucrurile sa fie si mai inspaimantatoare decat in visele care se petrec intr-un spatiu indepartat de cel in care te afli. In primele secunde nu stii daca visezi sau nu, in primele secunde ai convingerea ca se intampla cu adevarat treaba. Si te straduiesti sa o corectezi, sa iesi din ea, te ridici, te lupti, vrei sa pui capat situatiei, esti mai implicat decat in visele obisnuite. Eu visez de trei zile ca peste mine se afla un corp. Nu cu fata catre mine, nicidecum cu vreo urma de implicatie sexuala, asadar. Sta peste mine ca si cum as fi o saltea, sta cu spatele catre mine, doarme peste mine, cu fata in sus. Ii vad prin ceata doar o mana si am analizat-o cat am putut de atent asa incat sa stiu cu cine am de-a face. Nu vad destul de bine mana, chiar daca strang din ochi, chiar daca incerc din rasputeri sa ma concentrez. Dar simt ca este o mana familiara, o mana pe care o stiu foarte bine. Cu toate ca intreg corpul care sta peste mine ma incomodeaza, ma impiedica sa ma intorc, ma sperie prin prezenta lui intr-un loc atat de nepotrivit si ma sperie si prin lipsa lui de consideratie la adresa mea – ei bine, cu toate astea, nu am o senzatie convinsa de respingere, am doar o senzatie de disconfort fizic dar simt ca o impingere a corpului nu ar fi un lucru bun. Nu prea imi vine sa il imping, imi vine sa ma strecor de sub el si sa il las sa doarma sau sa stea linistit la mine in pat. Ceea ce si reusesc. Reusesc sa ma strecor de sub el dar, cand sa ma vad eliberata, in picioare, langa pat, ma trezesc. Visul nu isi atinge finalul.

Abia ieri noapte am reusit sa inteleg cine este corpul. Am fost putin dezamagita de realizarea asta. Corpul ala care sta peste mine si nu ma lasa nici sa dorm, nici sa ma misc firesc prin pat este corpul meu. Sunt eu peste mine, cu o totala lipsa de consideratie pentru mine. Si daca nu ar fi fost un vis, nici nu as fi scris tampenia asta. Pentru ca nu m-am desconsiderat niciodata, nu am fost niciodata complexata. Nu m-am cufundat niciodata in confortul complexului si desconsiderarii, eu m-am biciuit, autoeducandu-ma si scotandu-ma poate prea repede din gropi in care as fi putut sa ma odihnesc, fie ele si mai putin confortabile decat ar trebui sa fie un loc de odihna. Asadar m-am intrebat de unde vine metafora asta a lipsei de consideratie pentru mine. Atat de pregnant si deja atat de des. Trei nopti la rand e mult. Pentru acelasi vis, la aceeasi ora. Ma tem sa ma culc, nu glumesc. Ce imi era mie dezagreabil momentul culcarii, dar sa vedeti in ce hal ma tem de el acum.

In dimineata asta m-am uitat pe geam imediat cum m-am ridicat din pat, am vrut sa vad oameni si caini, copii, plante, am vrut sa ma rup de vis cu ajutorul lucrurilor vazute afara. Am vazut, ca la fiecare sfarsit de saptamana aici, in curtea interioara, o armonie si o impacare pe care nu le pot resimti in totalitate, nu cred ca voi putea sa ajung vreodata la ele si ma feresc sa le mimez, ma feresc sa cad in asimilari partiale si fortate ale unor realitati care nu imi sunt proprii. Lumea este, cel putin la nivelul meu de educatie, mult mai linistita decat mine. Aici, in Berlin. Si nu numai. Cam in toate tarile occidentale in care am fost. Mult mai impacata si mult mai deschisa, mult mai increzatoare. M-am uitat o jumatate de ora cum familia din casa de langa cladirea mea a cules perele din pom si le-a pus intr-un cos. E un balet al miscarilor care spune foarte mult despre ce se petrece in sufletul oamenilor. Felul in care se privesc oamenii aici, felul in care rup o para si o aseaza apoi in cos, felul in care-si mangaie copiii, felul in care privesc in jur. Intreg Berlinul, cu vulpile lui alergand peste tot, cu iepurii lui, cu aricii lui, cu vulturii lui, cu toti copacii batrani si enormi tronand, cu bicicletele lui, cu lentoarea lui cu toate ca e ditamai metropola cu un trecut chinuit – il privesc zi de zi si ma umplu de bucurie. Il privesc cu admiratie si ma mangaie, ma linisteste. Imi reda incredere in rasa umana. Dar il privesc ca o batranica. Stau pe sezlong si privesc cu incantare ca lumea nu e asa rea ca pe vremea mea. Ca lucrurile merg spre bine. Pot sa mor impacata, viata e treaba cu cap, viata decurge inteligent, viata duce undeva.  Si, dincolo de ideile (cu care ma las des imbatata) ca suferinta, incarcatura mea ca estica trebuie folosite in arta, in iubire, in relatiile adanci cu oamenii, in general – dincolo de toate astea, as vrea sa ma pot misca si eu mai usor prin cele ale lejeretii occidentale. Degeaba sunt un om care stapaneste (poate mai bine decat multi dintre nemti) teoretic mecanismele libertatii, emanciparii, elegantei. Degeaba. De pus in practica, nu le-am pus cu adevarat. Nu am trait cu adevarat (pana acum) lucrurile pe care le-am invatat teoretic. Libertate, toleranta, armonie – toate astea sunt notiuni despre care pot scrie zeci de pagini si banuiesc ca pot scrie chiar corect aceste zeci de pagini. Dar sunt lucruri de care am stat departe atat de multa vreme. Si schioapat in manifestarea lor. Ceea ce imi parea interesant initial la persoana mea in contextul occidental, imi pare acum o povara. Nu pentru cei din jur, ei par chiar foarte interesati de un tumult pe care nu l-au intalnit prea des. Mi se pare o povara pentru mine. Si ma intreb foarte serios daca o sa vina ziua in care o sa culeg si eu pere cu atat de multa gratie si liniste, cu atat de multa bucurie simpla. Duminicile nemtilor sunt intotdeauna ravasitoare pentru un suflet incrancenat ca al meu. Duminicile occidentalilor, in general.  Oricat de iubit si respectat ai fi de ei, oricat de calde si sincere le-ar fi imbratisarile, oricat de mult ar fi ei pregatiti sa te asculte si sa te sprijine, oricat de mare ar fi bucuria lor sa te aiba printre ei, tu nu faci decat sa participi la viata lor, asta nu e inca viata ta. Specific ca altul e culesul de pere intr-o metropola, dupa ce te-ai indepartat de viata de la tara de vreo cateva decenii sau chiar secole incoace si altul e culesul ala de pere la bunica de la tara in gradina. Nu e acelasi lucru. Nu ca as fi cules vreodata pere la bunica. Ca nu am bunici la tara, asa cum stiti. Dar eu vorbesc aici despre o intoarcere la cele elementare dupa o imensa perioada de emancipare. E un ciclu care se inchide superb, nu o ramanere in timp si in conceptii statute, agrare.

Si mi-am dat seama, chiar daca este o banalitate pe care mi-ar fi putut-o spune oricine imediat dupa ce ar fi ascultat cateva lucruri despre plecarea din Romania, ca viata mea aici este senzationala, este frumoasa in fiecare detaliu, este mangaietoare, este neteda, este calda si buna cu iz parintesc chiar, se simte ca atunci cand stai intins sub un soare potolit dar sofisticat de toamna. Dar nu este viata mea, este ceea ce mi-am dorit sa traiesc si ceea ce mi-as fi dorit sa fiu. Acum particip la ea dar ea este construita si mentinuta de cei din jurul meu. Nici nu stiu ce s-ar intampla daca as lasa cu adevarat esenta mea imbarligata sa se reverse in duminicile nemtilor. Sunt un musafir delicat si manierat, un musafir dorit si indragit. Totul e perfect. Viata e perfecta. Un singur lucru nu e in regula. Eu cea veche. Iar eu cea noua nu sunt inca gata. Sunt departe de a fi gata. Stiu ca se poate raspunde cu un cliseu de genul: se va sedimenta si aranja totul in timp, se va pastra ce este esential din trecutul tau si se vor adauga elemente noi din viata germana, se va aseza totul in timp, vei fi un amalgam reusit de identitate romaneasca si identitate occidentala, vei fi impacata pana la urma. Dar eu stiu ca nu e asa.

De-aici si corpul meu nesimtit peste somnul meu lin si german, insotit de fosnetul perilor din curtea interioara. Ma bucur de acest vis pentru ca el reprezinta si va reprezenta in continuare un barometru al integrarii si linistirii mele. Degeaba voi arata eu a fata fericita pe strada si poate chiar voi crede ca am atins frecventa care ma inconjoara, daca noaptea ma voi trezi cu corpul meu peste mine, neputand sa respir si sa ma misc in voie.

Kakania este un cuvânt inventat de scriitorul austriac Robert Musil (1880-1942), pentru a desemna monarhia “K und K”, imperiul austro-ungar  sau chezaro-crăiesc, cum îi spuneau românii. În fine, Robert Musil punea în Kakania o încărcătură peiorativă, dar nici chiar în exagerarea practicată acum pe blogosfera românească! Mai temperat : Kakania înseamnă chezaro-crăiesc. Credeţi-mă, îmi este greu să mă adaptez la timpul postmodern fără valori.

Titus Filipas

I am traveling with Robert Musil’s A Man Without Qualities.

I have a bad habit of writing in books I read. I will usually do it on the inside flap of the cover and never on the pages of the book itself. Readings will provoke thought, but more often, I will simply note down a page where I found a sentence or an idea particularly interesting.

What I love about Vintage International’s edition of Musil’s book is that it comes with a number of blank pages towards the end. This is not the only excellent thing about the version; the bindings are superb and allow the reader to bend and fold the book comfortably into his hands without cracking the spine. And its porportions are an excellent example of the size a book should actually be – easy to hold, carry, bend, store and pack.

Any by the way, one copy of A Man Without Qualities read with focus and reflection far outweighs the value of a thousand random and insipid books on a Kindle (who came up with that retarded name?) or any other electronic book readers. Do you really want to carry yet another recharger? Call me backward, old fashioned or just 43-years of age, but I can’t see how a reading medium that reduces your gazpacho soup recipe to the same form and flow as your The Adventures of Amir Hamza can really work for anything other than simple, easy, low-concentration fare.

Call me sceptical, but never thickheaded, I remain open to the idea that it may be more convenient to carry your entire library with you wherever you go, but is it really what reading is all about? And why is it that I can read 100 pages from the printed edition of A Man Without Qualities without tiring, while I can barely make it through a digital, multi-page online article on Salon or The New York Times Magazine?

I ponder.

So, back to Musil. I am traveling in India with him by my side, and I am taking you along for the ride. Over the course of the next few weeks, some snippets of insights that perhaps will also encourage others to read this wonderful European novel.

Patriotism remains a disease despite all attempts at modernity and greater moral civility. This passage could just as well have been written about Pakistan, India and a number of other nations determined to ‘celebrate’ their purity and superiority through banal and insipid and definitely artificial symbols and rituals:

Patriotism in Austria was quite a special subject. German children simply learned to despire the wars sacred to Austrian children, and were taught to believe that French children, whore forebears were all decadent lechers, would turn tail by the thousands at the approach of a German soldier with a big beard. Exactly the same ideas, with roles reversed and other desireable adjustments, were taught to French, English, and Russian children, who also had often been on the winning side…But in Austria, the situation was slightly more complicated. For although the Austrians had of course also won all the wars in their history, after most of them they had had to give something up.  (page 13)

The following passage should be read by most in America’s conservative and lunatic fringe right wing, including the making-too-many-apperences-on-TV and clearly determined to outline his warmongering credentials, the hideous John Bolton, former Permanent US Representative to the UN during the repugnant George W. Bush Administration:

Uninitiated observers have mistaken this for charm, or even, for a weakness of what they thought to be the Austrian character. But they were wrong; it is always wrong to explain what happens in a country by the character of its inhabitants. For the inhabitant of a country has at least nine characters; a professional, a national, a civic, a class, a geographic, a sexual, a conscious, an unconscious, and possibly even a private character to boot. (page 30)

And a wonderfully funny moment when Ulrich considers the consequences of his choice of a career in the field of mathmatics:

We have gained reality and lost dream. No more lounging under a tree and peering at the sky between one’s big and second toe; there’s work to be done. To be efficient, one cannot be hungry and dreamy but must eat steak and keep moving. It is exactly as though the old, inefficient breed of humanity had fallen asleep on an anthill and found, when the new breed awoke, that the ants had crept into its bloodstream, making it more frantically ever since, unable to share off that rotten feeling of antlike industry…The inner drought, the dreadful blend of acuity in matters of detail and indifference towards the whole, man’s monstrous abandonment in a desert of details, his restlessness, malice, unsurpassed callousness, money-grubbing, coldness, and violence, all so characteristic of our times, are by these accounts solely the consequence of damage done to the soul by keen logical thinking! (page 36)

I loved this statement that had me thinking since I read it:

Then Clarisse and Ulrich took a walk through the slanting arrows of the evening sun, without Walter; he remained behind at the piano. Clarisse said:

“The ability to fend off harm is the test of vitality. The spent is drawn to its own destruction. What do you think? Nietzsche maintains it’s a sign of weakness for an artist to be overly concerned about the morality of his art.” She had sat down on a little hummock. Ulrich shrugged.

More in the coming days on this wonderful work, but I highly recommend it!

The lesson that narrativity also has its unsettling cases is taught to perfection in contemporary plays and novels. To begin with, these cases can be described as fictions of the loss of identity. With Robert Musil, for example, The Man without Qualities — or more precisely, without properties (ohne Eingenschaften) — becomes ultimately nonidentifiable in a world, it is said, of qualities (or properties) without men. The anchor of the proper noun becomes ridiculous to the point of being superfluous. The nonidentifiable becomes the unnameable. To see more clearly the philosophical issues in this eclipse of the identity of the character, it is important to note that, as the narrative approaches the point of annihilation of the character, the novel also loses its own properly narrative qualities … To the loss of the identity of the character thus corresponds the loss of configuration of the narrative … these unsettling cases of narrativity can be reinterpreted as exposing selfhood by taking away the support of sameness.

—from Paul Ricoeur, Oneself as Another, trans. Kathleen Blamey. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992

Talvez o livro que mais tempo me levou a ler e certamente o que mais me fez sair da cápsula que é o corpo – como Ulrich, o personagem principal desta obra de Musil, considerava. Aí surgem as perguntas. Muitas. Questiona-se a realidade, a possibilidade, a alma, a razão, a moral, o todo e as partes. O primeiro dos três volumes desta obra – o último dos quais com edição prevista para este ano, ainda - passa-se nos anos anteriores à I Guerra Mundial e decorre em torno da realização de uma «Acção Paralela», designação escolhida para as celebrações do aniversário dos 70 anos de reinado do imperador Austro-Húngaro Franz Joseph. A Áustria e as situações políticas e sociais são outros dos temas que Ulrich aborda mais insistentemente.
Um livro denso e trabalhoso, mas muito compensador.

O austríaco Robert Musil ficou mundialmente conhecido com a publicação do enorme O homem sem qualidades, cujo primeiro tomo saiu em 1930. Por conta deste livro, ele costuma ser citado como um dos maiores escritores do século XX, ao lado de Proust, Joyce, Kafka e Thomas Mann (com variações de lista para lista, é claro).

Quase 25 anos antes, no entanto, ele já havia publicado seu primeiro romance – O jovem Törless. Trata-se de um romance de formação (Bildungsroman, em alemão), gênero de narrativa inaugurado em 1796 com Os anos de aprendizagem de Wilhelm Meisters, de Goethe. Esse tipo de livro costuma narrar os conflitos e descobertas por que passa um adolescente e que o preparam para entrar na maturidade, moldando sua personalidade e caráter. Em geral, esse jovem se tornará um artista, como o autor. Outro exemplo famoso é Retrato do artista quando jovem, de James Joyce.

Em O jovem Törless, o que mais chama a atenção é o conflito interno por que passa a personagem-título ao se dar conta de que percebe o mundo de maneira diferente dos outros jovens. Já não é uma criança que aceita todas as coisas como são, mas alguém que se sente obrigado a pensar no caráter dúbio que existe em tudo que o cerca. Ele passa a buscar o “segundo rosto” daquilo que vê, um rosto que vive não dentro da coisa em si, mas naquele que a percebe.

“Assim como sinto que um pensamento adquire vida e mim, também sinto que alguma coisa vive em mim quando contemplo as coisas, quando os pensamentos se calam. Existe algo obscuro em mim, debaixo de todos os pensamentos, algo que não pode ser avaliado com eles; uma vida que não se exprime em palavras e que, ainda assim, é a minha vida”.

Essa vida que não se exprime em palavras é o tesouro escondido que Musil busca contemplar. Curioso que seja por meio de um livro.

Comme nous l’avons vu dans l’article L’EGO ISTHME DE SUEZ, les relations tendues entre ego (rapports de force, compétition, concurrence, prédation, parasitisme) conduisent l’individu à se parer (au sens de protéger mais aussi d’orner pour tromper) de qualités qu’il n’a pas. L’ego ment, je le rappelle (je se ment). Les vertus dont il se dote, tel un caméléon mime un décor, sont fausses car momentanées, accidentelles. C’est une parade, stimulus indispensable pour obliger l’autre à lui fournir ce qu’il attend, ego intéressé, ego calculateur : il fausse la réalité des choses par le biais des apparences. Elles sont de trois sortes mais s’épousent les unes les autres dans une synergie très efficace :

- les apparences physiques (look, mode, grimage…),
- les apparences morales (vertu, métier, culture…)
- les apparences spirituelles (métaphysique, croyance, foi…)

On peut montrer par l’exemple le supposé intérêt des apparences pour l’égo mais en réalité, le prix à payer de ce stratagème est toujours la mort, virtuelle comme réelle. Chaque jour, chacune de mes sorties dans le grand monde vient confirmer les présomptions dont je vous fais part. Qu’il soit un inconnu, un membre familial, une connaissance, un ami même, je décèle en lui l’ego envahissant et étouffant l’être qu’il squatte. J’ai débuté par moi, depuis l’âge de l’adolescence tardive, je m’épiais pour me connaître. La difficulté étant d’exprimer ça clairement. Pour qui ne se pose de question, la tâche doit être ardue de me suivre. Pour faire simple, voici quelques anecdotes relevées de-ci de-là, de manière tout à fait ordinaire et qui serviront d’illustration. Je n’ai nul besoin d’attendre pour tomber sur un sujet d’étude croustillant et… énervant, les ego se présentant à la pelle.

1) Le caïd qui doit avoir des goûts de chiottes :

Une BMW est garée sur une place pour handicapés depuis un bon moment. Aucun macaron GIG ou GIC mais, à la place, un autocollant sur le pare brise-arrière “Bébé à bord” que je traduis par “Respectez MON bébé.”
Le proprio sort du resto où il mangeait, l’esprit tranquille et dominical et tant pis si un type à roulettes cherchait une place de stationnement. Il me passe devant l’air autain et méprisant, supérieur donc, en remarquant que je le soutenais du regard. Il a bien dû comprendre. Portant de beaux habits, coupe de cheveux nickel, l’air plutôt satisfait et sûr de lui, cet homme paraît fort, beau et puissant. Pour sûr, on lui reconnait une dose d’intelligence, de la culture même. Nous n’avons pas les mêmes valeurs, réellement, c’est un cave au sens argotique : il n’est pas du milieu, de la haute je veux dire. Apparences physiques et morales lui conférant son assise sociale, blindage, mascarade, supercherie et mimétisme.

2) La bourgeoise décorée de sa croix et son 4X4 monstrueux :

Une femme d’un certain âge, parfaitement fringuée, bourgeoise aisée à l’évidence au vu de ces parures ostentivement chrétiennes -croix pas de chrysocale, gare son 4X4 énorme qui empiète sur l’étroite rue de mon village. L’endroit est particulièrement dangereux pour les voitures, pour les piétons, pour les cycles et surtout à cause des camions assassins qui déboulent à fond dans un virage mortel. Aucune visibilité et pour qui ne connait pas, un risque aggravé. Elle, s’arrange avec le fait qu’elle a fait mine de bien serrer son véhicule en occupant totalement le trottoir étriqué. Impassible, elle se glisse dans la queue de la pharmacie. Les autres, au cul. De bonne morale, dévote en chrétienté, en apparence seulement. Les premiers seront les derniers. Maquillage, grimage, garnitures ornementales et glorificatrices, imposture et mystification.

3) L’élite inutile et ridicule :

Quand la fine fleur des notables s’érige en puissants, les ego rivalisent en médiocrité. J’aurai pu parler de l’excellent film “Ridicule” mais l’exemple donné est littéraire et je le puise chez Robert Musil dans son oeuvre magistrale “L’homme sans qualités”, une merveilleuse fresque sur la vie des grands de ce monde presque ennuyeuse.
L’histoire se déroule en Autriche en 1913, à la veille de la première guerre mondiale que personne dans les hautes sphères ne semble voir arriver. Au contraire, l’Europe va bien et on va lui montrer de quoi l’empire (autrichien) est capable pour épater la galerie et lui prouver sa supériorité historique. C’est encore l’ère des ego-nations s’affrontant pour la suprématie et qui conduisait inévitablement au conflit. Donc, pour éblouir son entourage, le gouvernement autrichien décide d’organiser une méga commémoration culturelle qui ferait valoir les valeurs et les vertus transcendantes du peuple autrichien (en fait, l’empire est dit austro-hongrois et n’est pas constitué en un peuple unique puisqu’il englobe des germains, des magyars, des slaves, des italiens, des tziganes…). A cette compétition idiote des ego-nations va se superposer une rivalité entre ego de personnes, et non des moindres. Tout le gratin autrichien, politique, artistique, militaire, intellectuel, scientifique… s’empresse de rejoindre une pseudo-commission chargée de préparer les festivités les plus grandioses de tous les temps. On veut y mettre le paquet pour convaincre tout le monde de sa puissance éclatante.
Le premier tome du livre fait 750 pages. Les personnages, pédants à la longue, tournent en rond, brassent beaucoup d’air, se congratulent dans une auto-suffisance déconcertante et rien ne se passe. J’en suis à la cinq-centième page et, si le style et la qualité de l’écriture n’étaient pas aussi accompli, j’aurais abandonné l’ouvrage. C’est d’un ennui pour qui cherche de l’action et des péripéties. Tout est fait pour éprouver un terrible malaise face à telle indigence intellectuelle. Si ces individus de pouvoir se présentent comme les meilleurs (aristos), que dire du quidam d’en-bas ? Cette comédie grottesque n’empêchera pas la Grande Guerre, elle y précipitera plutôt. Grosse bouffonnerie.
“Nous gagnerions plus de nous laisser voir tels que nous sommes, que d’essayer de paraître ce que nous ne sommes pas” disait La Rochefoucauld. Ceci est valable à l’échelle de l’individu mais aussi du groupe.

Sans ce travestissement, l’individu est à nu, exposé aux attaques prédatrices des hyènes sauvages de la jungle. Car ce monde se masque de concepts de civilisation et de culture mais comme résultat, il y a mieux. Pour des idéalistes… leur morale ne fait pas force de preuve, guerres, famines, chômage, précarité, anxiété, dépression. Civilisation habitée par des barbares qui ne sont pas ceux que l’on croit. Ego riches contre ego pauvres, ego forts contre ego faibles. Culture hypocrite de valeurs arbitraires, judéo-chrétiennes si ces mots ont un sens. Notre monde civilisé, policé, asceptisé, ordonné, rangé est tiraillé par ses instincts naturels et thanatophiles ; le siège de l’ego est sans doute la partie reptilienne de l’encéphale. Le darwinisme s’applique au social, il y a lutte pour la vie. Marche ou crève, tue avant d’être tué, adapté à la vie quotidienne ; concurrence et compétition pour l’espace et le temps touchant aussi bien les individus que les entreprises, les peuples, les nations et les grands blocs. On pourrait faire tout l’inverse s’il n’y avait pas l’ego, ce dinosaure de l’esprit : développer l’être caché, comme l’imam fameux, orienter sa vie vers une érotique solaire, échanger, partager, mettre en commun, gatuitement, gracieusement. L’ego-Thanatos compétiteur et prédateur freine l’élan vers Eros de l’humanité qui contient en elle le germe civilisant. La protection apportée aux plus faibles n’est pas une apparence ; la gratuité accélèrerait ce mouvement créateur, puissant et humanisant qu’empêchent nos ego.

La vision de l’esprit de Lucrèce :

“Maintenant, quelles choses émeuvent nos esprits,
d’où vient la pensée, apprends-le brièvement.
D’abord je dis ceci : maintes images des choses
errent de maintes façons en tout sens et partout,
subtiles comme toiles d’araignées ou feuilles d’or
dans les airs s’unissant au hasard des rencontres.
Elles sont d’un tissu bien plus ténu que les images
qui s’emparent des yeux et suscitent la vue :
entrant par les canaux du corps, elles vont de l’âme
ébranler la nature subtile et susciter la sensation.
C’est pourquoi nous voyons Centaures et Syllas,
museaux de Cerbères ou bien fantômes d’hommes
trépassés dont la terre étreint les ossements.
Oui, toutes sortes d’images volent de-ci de-là :
les unes se forment spontanément dans l’air,
d’autres s’échappent des différents objets
ou se créent à partir de leurs figures conjointes.
Non, l’image d’un Centaure ne vient pas d’un vivant
puisqu’un tel animal n’a jamais existé,
mais dès que l’image d’un cheval et celle d’un homme
par hasard se rencontrent elles se soudent aisément
car leur nature est subtile, fin tissu, je l’ai dit.
Toute image de ce genre naît de même façon.
Leur extrême légèreté les rendant très mobiles,
comme je l’ai montré, une seule image ténue
peut sans peine émouvoir notre esprit d’un seul choc,
car l’esprit est lui-même étonnament fin et mobile.
Et voici la preuve que mes dires sont justes :
la vue de l’esprit étant semblable à celle des yeux,
elle naît forçement d’une cause semblable.
Mais puisque j’ai prouvé que si je vois un lion,
c’est grâce aux images qui stimulent mes yeux,
sois certain que l’esprit est mû semblablement
par des images de lions et par toutes les autres ;
il les voit comme l’oeil mais il en perçoit de plus fines.
Ainsi quand le sommeil a détendu nos membres,
l’esprit est vigile que parce qu’il est stimulé
par les mêmes images que lorsque nous veillons,
au point qu’il nous semble vraiment aprecevoir
un défunt possédé par la terre et la mort.
Voici pourquoi la nature produit ces illusions :
tous les sens dans le corps entravés se reposent
et ne peuvent donc pas vaincre le faux par le vrai.
En outre, la mémoire gît alanguie de sommeil
et ne proteste pas qu’en son pouvoir la mort détient
depuis longtemps celui que l’esprit pense voir vivant.
Il n’est pas étonnant que les images se meuvent,
lancent les bras et tous les membres en cadence
comme elles paraissent le faire au sein des rêves :
à peine l’une a-t-elle disparu qu’une autre est déjà née
dans une autre attitude et la première semble changer la sienne.
Il faut certes penser que tout cela est rapide.
Si prompts et si nombreux sont les simulacres des choses,
si grand est le nombre, en un seul instants perceptible,
de leurs minces composants qu’ils pourvoient ces visions.

Combien de questions se posent ici, combien il faut
en élucider si nous voulons être exhaustif !
Pourquoi, s’il nous prend fantaisie d’une chose,
l’esprit se la représente aussitôt ?
Les simulacres observent-ils notre volonté ?
Dès que nous le voulons, l’image accourt-elle vers nous,
que nous souhaitions voir la mer, la terre ou le ciel ?
Assemblées, cortèges, festins, combats, suffit-il d’un mot
pour que la nature forme et propose tant de choses ?
Sans compter que divers hommes dans un même lieu
conçoivent en pensée des choses bien dissemblables !
Que dire des rêves où nous voyons des simulacres
s’avancer en mesure et mouvoir leurs membres souples,
si souples qu’ils alternent les mouvements des bras
et les accompagnent sous nos yeux de pas cadencés ?
Des artistes pour sûr ! Les spectres ont appris la gigue
pour être capables de nous offrir ces jeux nocturnes !
Ou bien la vérité n’est-elle pas plutôt celle-ci :
dans un temps que nous percevons unique,
celui d’une seule émission de voix, se dissimulent
de multiples moments que la raison découvre.
Ainsi s’explique donc qu’à tout instant, en tout lieu,
toute espèce d’image soit à notre disposition.
Si prompts et si nombreux sont les simulacres des choses,
à peine l’un a disparu qu’un autre est déjà né
dans une qutre attitude et le premier semble changer la sienne.
Mais comme ils sont ténus, l’esprit ne peut bien voir
que ceux auxquels il est attentif : tout simulacre
passe et se perd, sauf celui auquel il s’est préparé.
Or, l’esprit se tient prêt et toujours il attend
à voir la suite d’une chose ; elle advient donc.
Quand nos yeux se mettent à fixer des objets ténus,
ne les vois-tu se tendre et se préparer,
condition nécessaire pour bien les observer ?
Même pour les objets visibles, tu reconnais
que si tu manque d’attention ils sont pour ainsi dire
par tout le temps distraits, infiniment lointains.
Pourquoi donc t’étonner si l’esprit perd tous les simulacres
hormi ceux des choses auxquelles il s’est voué ?
Enfin, de faibles signes nous concluons à des merveilles,
nous laissant abuser et frustrer par nous-mêmes.
Parfois aussi des images différentes se succèdent,
la femme qui était dans nos bras se change en homme,
figures et âges divers paraissent défiler,
mais le sommeil et l’oubli nous dispensent d’étonnement.”

Untitled (detail)
Pencil on paper
50cm x 65cm
© 2009 Tammy Lu

“All that had happened was merely a phenomenon from the realm of vital systems. Clothes, when abstracted from the flow of present time and their transmogrifying function on the human body, and seen as forms in themselves, are strange tubes and excrescences worthy of being classed with such facial decorations as the ring through the nose or the lip-stretching disk. But how enchanting they become when seen together with the qualities they bestow on their wearer! What happens then is no less than the infusion, into some tangled lines on a piece of paper, of the meaning of a great word. Imagine a man’s invisible kindness and moral excellence suddenly looming as a halo the size of the full moon and golden as an egg yolk right over his head, the way it does in old religious paintings, as he happens to be strolling down the avenue or heaping little tea sandwiches on his plate—what an overwhelming, shattering sensation it would be! And just such a power to make the invisible, and even the nonexistent, visible is what a well-made outfit demonstrates everyday of the week.”

Robert Musil, The Man Without Qualitites (1930-1943)

“La première signification de Vrai et de Faux semble avoir son origine dans les récits ; et l’on a dit vrai un récit, quand le fait raconté était réellement arrivé ; faux, quand le fait raconté n’était arrivé nulle part. Plus tard, les philosophes ont employé le mot pour désigner l’accord d’une idée avec son objet ; ainsi, l’on appelle idée vraie celle qui montre une chose comme elle est en elle-même ; fausse, celle qui montre une chose autrement qu’elle n’est en réalité. Les idées ne sont pas autre chose en effet que des récits ou des histoires de la nature dans l’esprit. Et de là on en est venu à désigner de la même façon, par métaphore, des choses inertes ; ainsi, quand nous disons de l’or vrai ou de l’or faux, comme si l’or qui nous est présenté racontait quelque chose sur lui-même, ce qui est ou n’est pas en lui.”

Spinoza, Pensées métaphysiques (1663), 1er partie, chap. VI, Gallimard, ” La Pléiade “, trad. R. Caillois.

Comme le fait remarquer Jacques Bouveresse dans son livre “Peut-on ne pas croire ? “, la réussite et le pouvoir sont, en pratique, le plus souvent assurés par le biais de mensonges et de fausseté et rarement en s’appuyant sur la vérité“. C’est un fait très généralement observé. Même si cette dernière obtient toutes sortes de louanges, elle n’a pas l’attrait des deux premiers ; la vérité, en vérité, déplait. Preuve est faite avec les promesses jamais tenues par les candidats à l’élection ; cela les porte plutôt au pouvoir. Au contraire, le postulant qui dit la vérité a peu de chance d’être élu. ”A croire que la vérité ne présente qu’inconvénients quand la fausseté serait avantageuse en donnant l’impression de vrai” remarque Bouveresse. La publicité d’un produit, au même titre que la propagande politique, ment le plus souvent et c’est, ainsi, un avantage pour le distributeur, comme pour le parti. Mais ça ne fait pas souvent de la fausseté un avantage pour le client ou l’électeur. Bouveresse interroge : ”La fausseté ressemble à s’y méprendre à la vérité, sinon comment pourrait-elle être crue aussi facilement et avec autant d’opiniâtreté ?” Une impossibilité de discernement, donc, devant la tromperie. Et qui peut affirmer le vrai ou bien le faux ? A ce titre, “les vérités de la science ne sont peut-être que des erreurs qu’elle réussit à présenter et à faire reconnaître comme vraies“. Le faux est-il utile ou indispensable ? Le mensonge, qui se retrouve dans la nature avec l’art de la dissimulation et de la ruse, est une condition nécessaire pour la survie. L’homme ne fait alors que suivre ses instincts, qui peuvent se retourner contre lui.

Alors, pourquoi recherchons nous donc la vérité si le faux joue un rôle si important ? La preuve de cette quête, vieille comme le monde, est la science elle-même. Chez les grecs de l’antiquité, la connaissance n’était qu’un moyen pour parvenir à la vertu, donc au bonheur. Le vrai conduisait au beau et au bien. Mais la connaissance pouvait donner le pouvoir et, conduire à la tyrannie si bien qu’il fallait déjà, par période, se cacher pour pouvoir s’instruire. Vingt siècle plus tard, cela était encore valable, dans toutes les dictatures, de droite comme de gauche. Comme quoi, le vrai peut faire trembler autant que le faux.  La science moderne, qui se présente comme objective, libératrice et se proclame vraie, fournit des vérités toujours plus proches du mensonge utile que de la vérité vraie. Comme Bouveresse le fait remarquer : “[la science] n’est pas le produit d’une contemplation désintéressée mais d’une volonté particulière, éloignée de la pureté et de l’innocence citées par Spinoza.” Les dogmes, vérités provisoires, sont arrangeants mais tombent un jour ou l’autre, dépassés par une nouvelle théorie plus vraie mais toujours fausse (Copernic, Galilée, Newton). La découverte du boson de Higgs, sensé être la fin des fins -le dieu du physicien, ne suffira pas à satisfaire une soif inextinguible de vérité. Et si, comme le disait Nietzsche, la volonté de vérité n’était qu’une volonté de mort déguisée ?
 
L’erreur est la cause de toute évolution, de tout progrès, si bien qu’elle s’avère plus utile que la vérité. Mais, le cancer concerne l’erreur quand elle n’est plus profitable. Pour l’homme qui en éprouve un besoin, la vérité a démontré qu’elle est, elle aussi, une puissance conservatrice de la vie. D’ailleurs, il vaut mieux qu’une cellule ne commette pas trop d’erreurs en se divisant si elle veut assurer la stabilité des suivantes. De même pour les civilisations. Si bien qu’on peut se demander s’il y a un faux vrai et un vrai faux, le vrai étant, comme pour le bien et le mal, difficilement séparable du faux. Contrairement à une certaine logique, le faux peut donc être bon et le vrai mauvais. La science n’évite pas le mal, elle peut tout à fait s’en accommoder. Il n’y a, en effet, ”pas de volonté de vérité qui ne s’accompagne pas inévitablement d’une certaine agressivité, d’une volonté de conquête et de maîtrise, d’un désir de rabaisser et de détruire tout ce qui se présente sous les apparences du bien et de l’idéal” selon Jacques Bouveresse.

Il n’y a pas de science sans pré-suppositions ; celle-ci repose donc sur une croyance en des absolus. Croyances affirmées vraies quand bien même elles restent hypothétiques. De plus, la science nous a souvent trahi. Mais, même si la recherche de la vérité a conduit l’humanité a des déceptions, à des difficultés sérieuses et à des drames épouvantables il n’est pas certain que celle-ci doive se désintéresser de la vérité pour se mettre à rechercher la fausseté. Il lui faut surtout combattre l’étroitesse d’esprit de la science et le scientisme mais également celle du rationalisme et de l’intellectualisme, l’objectivité annoncée n’étant souvent que tactique.

D’après un sondage Gallup, effectué en 2001 aux USA, pays des plus évolué par l’instruction, 50% des adultes croient en la perception extrasensorielle, 42% aux maisons hantées, 41% en la possession par le diable, 36% à la télépathie, 32% à la voyance, 28% à l’astrologie, 15% au channeling, 45% à l’exactitude littérale du récit de la création dans la Génèse, 50% croient que le monde a été créé il y a 2000 ans… Ils sont nombreux à croire qu’on a découvert des armes de destruction massives en Iraq et que Saddam Hussein et Al-Qaïda ne faisaient qu’un. Combien sont-ils à être persuadés que le soleil tourne autour de la terre, voire que la terre est plate ? Ce n’est pas une question d’ignorance mais de choix assez délibéré et comme l’écrivit Lucrèce :

Toujours les imbéciles admirent et préfèrent

ce qu’ils aperçoivent caché sous des paradoxes,

ils tiennent pour vrai ce qui flatte leur oreille

et se farde d’une agréable sonorité.”

L’homme a donc une propension naturelle, que l’instruction ne défait pas, a admettre le faux comme vérité. Il n’est pas sûr que le scepticisme, l’incrédulité ou le rationalisme français nous écartent de tels pourcentages. Nous sommes, en reprenant Bouveresse, le plus souvent “sceptiques face à tout ce qui est le mieux établi au regard de la raison et crédules devant n’importe quelle sottise, si invraissemblable soit-elle, la contredisant, la ridiculisant ou l’insultant“. La démocratie, prise dans ses propres contradictions et qui s’est bâtie par son combat pour la vérité, doit aujourd’hui admettre, tolérer et respecter ces croyances, même, si d’un point de vue rationnel, elles sont absolument dépourvues de plausibilité et de fondement.

Depuis un certain temps, nous assistons à un retour du religieux. Robert Musil parlait déjà de “nostalgie de la croyance” dans une époque foncièrement non croyante. C’était dans la première moitié du XXème siècle. Cependant, on n’observe pas de renouveau religieux, au sens de la spiritualité, mais plutôt, comme le soupçonne Michel Onfray, une nouvelle forme d’orthodoxie religieuse, avec tout ce qu’elle a de plus traditionnel et de plus archaïche : rejet du rationnel, désintérêt du vrai, rituel de masse… Le domaine religieux s’intéresse à nouveau d’un peu trop près au pouvoir et à la politique, ce qui représente un bond de plus de deux siècles en arrière. Si, au XVIIIème siècle, on avait enfin compris que, pour plus de sérénité, il fallait rendre à César ce qui lui revenait, on assiste aujourd’hui à une tentative rétrograde de fusion de l’intemporel au temporel, comme il s’agirait d’un parasitage du second par le premier. A moins qu’il s’agisse d’une simple phagocytose. Or, si un peu de spiritualité ne fait de mal à personne, le pouvoir, quand il est pris par le religieux, si.

Polémique sur les sens de Lucrèce, romain du premier siècle avant J.C. :

“Celui qui pense qu’on ne sait rien ne sait pas même
si on peut le savoir puisqu’il avoue ne rien savoir.
Je négligerai donc de plaider une cause
contre qui a décidé de marcher sur la tête.
Même si je lui accorde cet unique savoir
qu’il me dise comment, s’il n’a rien vu de vrai au monde,
il sait ce qu’est savoir et ne pas savoir, d’où provient la notion du vrai et du faux,
quel est le critère du doute et de la certitude.
Tu découvrira que les sens formèrent les premiers
la notion de vérité et qu’ils sont infaillibles.
Car il faut reconnaître comme plus digne de foi
ce qui peut de soi-même réfuter le faux par le vrai.
Que trouver en ce cas de plus fiable que les sens ?
La raison toute entière issue de la sensation
pourra-t-elle les réfuter si sa source est trompeuse ?
Non, je ne le crois pas : chaque sens ayant un pouvoir
particulier et séparé, il est donc nécessaire
de sentir le mou, le froid ou le chaud séparément,
séparément aussi les couleurs variées des choses,
comme les qualité liées aux diverses couleurs.
Le goût possède aussi faculté particulière,
les odeurs et les sons naissent séparément,
ils ne peuvent donc pas se réfuter les uns et les autres,
non plus qu’ils ne pourront se corriger eux-mêmes
puisqu’ils devront toujours être également fiables.
Leur perception de chaque instant est donc vraie.

Et si la raison ne peut expliquer pourquoi
des objets qui de près étaient carrés paraissent
arrondis de loin, mieux vaut, à défaut de son aise
expliquer incorrectement les deux figures
que laisser échapper de nos main l’évidence,
que trahir notre foi première et ruiner toute
l’assise de nos vies et de notre salut.
Car non seulement ta raison s’écroulerait
mais ta vie périrait dès lors que tu n’oserais plus
te fier aux sens qui te gardent des précipices,
ou d’autres mauvais pas, et te guident à l’opposé.
Considère donc comme un vain amas de paroles
les arguments fourbis pour combattre les sens.
En architecture, si la règle est fausse au départ,
si l’équerre est menteuse et s’écarte des lignes droites,
si le niveau en quelque endroit cloche d’un rien,
il s’ensuit que tout est gauche et de travers,
difforme, affaissé, plongeant en avant, en arrière :
l’édifice discordant semble vouloir s’écrouler,
croule même en partie, tout entier faussé
par la fausseté des premiers jugements.
Ainsi toute raison qui naîtrait de sensations
mensongères serait mensongère et viciée.”

Vous avez dit inscience ?

BONUS : Un petit podcast à cliquer, comme si le temps s’arrêtait. Si c’est long à venir, c’est normal, une espièglerie de Chronos.

“Na verdade, não se pode negar que esses sonhos ancestrais, na opinião dos não-matemáticos, se concretizaram de repente de um modo bem diverso do que se imaginara. A corneta do postilhão de Münchhausen era mais bela que a voz em conserva, industrial; a bota de sete léguas, mais bela que um caminhão; o reino de Larino, mais belo que um túnel de ferrovia; a mandrágora, mais bela que um fototelegrama; comer o coração da própria mãe para compreender os pássaros era mais belo que estudar psicologia animal sobre a expressividade dos pios. Ganhou-se em realidade, perdeu-se em sonho. Não nos deitamos mais sob a árvore, espiando o céu entre o dedo grande do pé e o dedo médio, mas trabalhamos; também não devemos passar fome nem sonhar demais, se quisermos ser eficientes, mas comer bifes e fazer exercício. É exatamente como se a velha humanidade ineficiente tivesse adormecido sobre um formigueiro; quando despertou a humanidade nova, as formigas tinham entrado no seu sangue, e desde então ela precisa fazer movimentos incessantes, sem conseguir se livrar desse chatíssimo ímpeto de fanatismo pelo trabalho.”