Salvador Dali "Christ of St. John of the Cross"

Tolstoy On The Gospels
An idea becomes close to you only when you are aware of it in your soul, when in reading about it it seems  that it has already occurred to you, that you know it and you are simply recalling it. That’s how it was when I read the Gospel. In the Gospels I discovered a new world: I had not yet supposed that there was such a depth of thought in them. Yet it all seemed so familiar; it seemed that I had known it all long ago, that I had only forgotten it.
Tolstoy, As recorded in Bulgakov’s Diary 18 April 1910

The Revelation’s Impetus
..the revelation Jesus provided, in his teaching, and in the drama of his life, death, and Resurrection, of the true purpose and destination of our earthly existence, seems to me, even by comparison with other such revelations, to be of unique value and everlasting validity. The fact hat I happen to have come into the world myself at a time when the revelation’s impetus in history gives every sign of  being almost spent, and when western Man is increasingly inclined to reject and despise the inheritance it has brought him, only serves to make me the more appreciative of it and awed by it. In the same sort of way the last notes of the Missa Solemnis seem to contain the whole beauty of what has gone before, or the light of a June evening to hold all the glory of the day that is ending.

Faith
The key to this seeming disparity between Pascal the scientist, scrupulously observing facts and weighing their relevance, and Pascal the Christian, bowing his head, bending his knees, humbling his proud mind, before the Virgin Mother of Jesus, lies in the one word “faith”…”the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen”[Paul, Epistle to the Hebrews] Faith that bridges the chasm between what our minds can know and what our souls aspire after; faith which so dwarfs whatever we may consider ourselves to have achieved, or been, that it makes all men —- the humblest, the simplest, the most, in worldly terms –foolish — our equal, our brothers; faith which so irradiates our inner being and outward circumstances that the ostensible exactitudes of time and measure, of proof and disproof, lose their precision, existing only in relation to eternal absolutes which everything in the universe proclaims, and in which all life has its being – the stones and the creatures, the pigs grunt and the nightingale’s song, the trees and the mountains, the wind and the clouds, height and depth, darkness and light, everything that ever has been, or ever will be, attempted, or done, till the end of time — all swelling the chorus of faith.

Fantasy, Truth And The Eye
I want to cry out with the blind man to whom Jesus restored his sight: One thing that I know, that whereas I was blind, now I see. How, I ask myself, could I have missed it before? How not have understood that the grey–silver light across the water, the cry of the seagulls and the sweep of their wings, everything on which my eyes rest and my ears hear is telling me about God.

This life’s dim Windows of the Soul
Distorts the Heavens from Pole to Pole
And leads you to believe a Lie
When you see with, not thro’, the Eye.

Thus Blake distinguishes between the fantasy that is seen with the eye and truth that is seen though it. There are two clearly demarcated kingdoms; and passing from one to the other, from the kingdom of fantasy to the kingdom of reality, gives inexpressible delight. As when the sun comes out, and a dark landscape is suddenly glorified, all that was obscure becoming clear, all that was incomprehensible, comprehensible. Fantasy’s joys and desires dissolve away and in their place is one joy, one desire; one Oneness — God.

In this kingdom of reality, Simone Weil tells us, nothing is so continually fresh and surprising, so full of sweet and perpetual ecstasy as goodness; no desert so dreary, monotonous and boring as evil. There we may understand what St. Augustine meant when he insisted that ‘though the higher things are better than the lower, the sum of all creation is better than the higher things alone, and how, in  the light of this realization, all human progress, human morality, human law, based, as they are, on the opposite proposition — of the intrinsic superiority of the higher over the lower — is seen as written on water, scribbled on dust; like Jesus’ scribble while he was waiting for the accusers of he woman taken in adultery to disperse.

Approaching Jesus Through Art
Jesus’ story is a drama, not documentation, and the word whose flesh he became is every true word ever written or spoken; every true note ever sounded, every true stone ever laid on another, every true shape molded, or true color mixed. The whole creative achievement of Man is comprehended in it. Look for it in the light shining in El Greco’s faces; listen for it in the notes of Plainsong; marvel at it in the spire of Salisbury Cathedral rising so exquisitely into the sky; read it in Blake’s Song of Innocence and Songs of Experience. Hold it in your hand in a grain of sand; in your mind in the universe, with all its planetary systems within systems and ultimate vistas of everlasting space; in your soul in the contemplation of the creator of it all, the spirit which animates it all the beginning and the end of what has not beginning and no end — God. Then pinpoint it all, bring it all to a focus, concentrate it all in a Man and that Man – Jesus

The Meaning of The Incarnation
The perfection of Jesus’ divinity was expressed in the perfection of his humanity, and vice versa. He was God because he was so sublimely a man, and Man because, in all his sayings and doings, the grace of his person and words, in the love and compassion that shone out of him he walked so closely with God. As Man alone Jesus could not have saved us; as God alone, he would not. Incarnate, he could and did.

Prophecy
If, I remember reflecting as a child, and perhaps asking some unfortunate teacher, this or that had to be done to fulfill a prophecy, how was it a prophecy at all? Surely, prophesying meant foreseeing something that was going to happen, not so arranging things that it happened. Subsequent experience of life, and brooding thereon, made me understand that two parallel processes are at work – prophesying, and surrendering to the logic of events whereby the prophecy comes to pass. Built into our mortal circumstances here is what Blake called a Fearful Symmetry –

Tyger Tyger buring bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Western Man Has Decided To Abolish Himself
It has become abundantly clear in the second half of the twentieth century that Western Man has decided to abolish himself. Having wearied of the struggle to be himself, he has created his own boredom out of his own affluence, his own impotence out of his own erotomania, his own vulnerability out of his own strength; himself blowing the trumpet that brings the walls of his own city tumbling down, and, in the process of auto–genocide, convincing himself  that he is too numerous, and laboring accordingly with pill and scalpel and syringe to make himself fewer in order to be an easier prey for his enemies; until at last, having educated himself into imbecility, and polluted and drugged himself into stupefaction, he keels over, a weary, battered old brontosaurus, and becomes extinct.

Determinism, Freedom And Prophecy
In their exposition of the fulfillment of the prophecy the Gospels faithfully reflect the mysterious blend of determinism and freedom which governs our lives. What happens, they tell us, has to happen, but still need not; we must bend our knees and bow our heads and say Thy will be done, while none the less knowing, as Jesus did in his darkest hour in the Garden of Gethsemane, that it is open to us to follow our own wills. The demons of the ego are allowed to enter into us, as they were allowed to enter into the Gadarene swine, and can send us similarly leaping to destruction…

The imagination can relate these two seeming opposites — determinism and freedom — into a wholeness which partakes of both and is greater than either. Hence art. Watching a performance of Macbeth, we know perfectly well that Macbeth will murder Duncan, and all the tragic consequences will ensue, and yet hang breathlessly on Macbeth’s words as he summons up his resolution to fulfill the witches’ prediction…

Prophecy belongs to the domain of the imagination, not of the intellect; its truth lies in the inescapable necessity to fulfill it; its strength, in our sense that we are free to fulfill or not as we think fit. This is why, especially at moments of great crisis in our individual lives or in history, we often seem to be following a preordained course, and yet choosing, whether grudgingly, heroically, or in desperation, to follow it.

Where Shall Wisdom Be Found
Where shall wisdom be found and where is the place of understanding? [Job 28:12] Not, certainly, in what passes for being the documentation of this or any other age, whether recorded by a Josephus, elegantly recorded by a Gibbon, laboriously assembled by a Namier, dispersed in clouds of rhetoric by a Churchill, or reflected in the fabulous distorting mirror twentieth — century technology has devised to take in every detail and aspect of our contemporary scene — the television screen. This last, least of all; nothing is less actual that its actualites.

Only mystics, clowns and artists, in my experience, speak the truth, which, as Blake was always insisting, is perceptible to the imagination rather than the mind. Thus an animist groveling naked in the African bush before a painted stone may well be nearer to the heart of things than any Einstein or Bertrand Russell, and a painted clown riding a bicycle round and round a circus ring more attuned to the reality of life than a Talleyrand or a Bismark can hope to be. Jesus was making the same point when he insisted that God has revealed to the foolish what is hidden from the wise.

A Religion Of Slaves
Simone Weil describes…There was a full moon, and the wives of the fishermen were going in procession form ship to ship, carrying candles and singing ancient hymns of a heart — rending sadness. As she listened to them, here own sadness lifted, and she suddenly had a joyous conviction ‘that Christianity is preeminently a religion of slaves, that slaves cannot help belonging to it, and I among others.’

Sinners’s Knowledge, Garnered In Sinlessness
This is like asking why the Word needed to become flesh in the first place; why it did not suffice just as Word. The point is that, to exist for us in time, the Word had to be spoken, and that the Incarnation was God’s way of speaking it. Or, as it is put in the Fourth Gospel in becoming flesh in the person of Jesus, the Word dwelt among us. Thus though Jesus’ coming into the world was divinely ordained, and represented God’s deliberate intervention in history, it was still the case that he had to live in the world as a man among other men. In this capacity, he heard and heeded John’s call to repentance and accepted John’s hands, just as later, he accepted crucifixion at Pilate’s.

In this capacity too, he understood, fully and perfectly, the nature and driving force of sin. How otherwise could he have insisted that just to look after woman to lust after her is to commit adultery? This is sinner’s knowledge, as all sinners at once recognize. How otherwise would he know that the insatiable ego ever raising its cobra head will not be coaxed or persuaded or indulged into quiescence, but must be struck down once and for all? That to live we must die, experiencing the ultimate sweetness of life, the final fragrance and music of it, only in its final rejection. That when we at last know that life is worthless, then only do we truly live; that when we have absolutely nothing more to hope for  —- no dream, however exalted, of delighting or uplifting our fellows, no vista of fulfilled love or of silver evening light falling serenely across our last days – then, at last, we can hope?  That when the heart is empty, the mind dry, the soul blown away in dust, and the sheet of white paper that has to be covered stares back at us glassy-eyed, then, and only then, a flame leaps up of certainty, absolute and everlasting, that God awaits with outstretched arms to welcome us into the eternity whence we came? This is what Jesus knew — sinners’s knowledge, garnered in sinlessness.

Salvation For Individuals No Collective Cures
Jesus never used his miraculous powers to promote any general or collective purpose. The salvation he offered was for individuals not collectivities; for a person, not for an idea. Though the sick crowded around him there were no collective cures or blanket dispensations.

Fulfilling His Mission While Accepting Mortal Existence
…While he was incarnate he insisted on being regarded in every respect as a mortal man. Had he done otherwise, the focus and climax of all his teaching, the Cross, would have lost its point. For a man to die on the Cross for other men was sublime, where for God to be crucified would be nothing – like someone who is immortal serving a prison sentence. If the Devil had succeeded in persuading Jesus to exploit his miraculous powers to his own greater glory in the eyes of the world, his mission would have been emptied of its content. To fulfill his mission he had to accept all the limitations, fallibilities and inadequacies of our mortal existence and relate these to our immortal destiny, thereby enabling men to draw near to God, and God to make Himself accessible to men….

After his colloquy with the Devil it was to be abundantly clear to him that always and in all circumstances he must eschew the three pillars of earthly authority – marvels, affluence and the exercise of power. It was not for him to turn stones into bread, however plentiful the stones and scarce the bread, but rather to sacramentalize bodily into spiritual sustenance; not for him to draw men to him by calling on God for a sign, but rather to light with his truth their way to God and God’s way to them. Above all it was not for Him to look for help or support to any Caesar, actual or aspiring; still less to become one. He was to be no Fuhrer, no mythical resistance leader; there was poetry , but no rhetoric, in the words wherewith he would reveal to men how God would have them live together and do His will.

Adam And Jesus
As one man, Adam, had estranged men for God, so another man, Jesus, would reconcile them to God; as Adam’s disobedience necessitated Moses’ Law, so Jesus’ obedience opened up a new dispensation of love transcending Moses’ Law in relations between man and man, and between men and God…Jesus’ sacrifice undoes Adam’s sin; the Old Man with his deeds is put off, and the New Man, reborn in the spirit is put on; and all mankind, Jew and gentile, bond and free, conjoined together in one body, in one fellowship, with, and in, Christ. This was the new heaven and the new earth prophesied in the Scriptures…

C.H.Dodd On Truth In The Gospels
There are particular moments in the lives of men and in the history of mankind when what is permanently true (if largely unrecognized) becomes manifestly and effectively true. Such a moment in history is reflected in the Gospels. The presence of God with men, a truth for all times and all places, becomes an effective truth. It became such (we must conclude) because of the impact Jesus made; because in his words and actions it was presented with exceptional clarity and operative with exceptional power. Jesus himself pointed out the effects of his work as signs of the coming of the kingdom: If by the finger of God I drive out devils, then be sure the Kingdom of God has come upon you.

The Messiah Of The Prophecy And Jesus
The Messiah of the prophecy was for the Jews exclusively, and his Kingdom an Israel restored to a greatness and glory; the messiah in the person of Jesus is not for a Chosen People, but for all who will accept Him, and His Kingdom is not of this world at all. It is, at once, within us, and located beyond the confines of space and time and mortality.

We carry about it with us in our inner being, infinitely precious, as it might be some locket containing he likeness of a beloved face. At the same time, like Augustine’s City of God, it is high above us out of our reach — Isaiah’s land that is very far off; but still, for those who have eyes to see, discernible from our earthly city and the destination of our earthly pilgrimage.

It is both here and now, available to everyone for the asking, and to be vigilantly expected — as the wise virgins awaited the coming of the bridegroom, with their lamps full of oil, unlike the foolish ones who had used up their oil and then, when the bridegroom came , had no means of replenishing their lamps.

The Christian Life: Tasting Eternity In Time
As Shakespeare put it in his famous seven stages of man, we come into the world as babies mewling and puking in our nurse’s arms; then pass from childhood to youth, to mature manhood, until finally we peter out in second childishness and mere oblivion. Where in this process is there a place for being reborn? Yet it happens. Out of the dark womb of our own willfulness and carnality some force of spiritual creativity can push us into another birth. We emerge into the same world we have grown accustomed to, to find it now made new; its colors shining and translucent, its shapes sharpened and wonderful in their grace, its men and women moving like angels, and all its creatures disclosing a beauty hitherto secret.

So, seeing with new eyes, I see a new world; understanding with heart and mind and soul, truth breaks upon me, not thought or sensation or realization but in one comprehensive enlightenment. As a child with its first yawn or smile measures up to Time, I, reborn, and become a child again, measure up to Eternity. Who can doubt that this is the everlasting life Jesus promised – what is eternal in life becoming manifest eternally; each joy forever in its joyfulness, each woe likewise in its woefulness, and the two inextricably intertwined; in Blake’s words ‘woven fine, a clothing for the soul divine.’…

[Jesus’ Kingdom] offered salvation to men and women living in the world; holding out to them the possibility of a way of life on quite different terms from any hitherto envisaged. Tasting eternity in time; experiencing heavenly ecstasies while still walking the earth; carrying love, not just to the ultimate requirements of the Law, of morality, of human affections, but far, far beyond that — into the crazy extravagancies of God’s love, which knows no limits; which is poured out indiscriminately on all His creation, flooding it all in beauty, and making all its sounds — the grunts, the cries, the songs, the screeches – somehow melodious, not to mention words, which fill and billow like a sail to his Breath, and glow with his translucence. …

[Imagine] Paul breaking into song while living in and for Christ in Nero’s world…The joy and wonder  were to continue unabated through all the troubles and pitfalls that lay ahead. In the world ye shall have tribulations: but be of good cheer: I have overcome the world – how often I have said over to myself with feelings of inexpressible comfort these words Jesus spoke to his disciples, knowing that when the test came they would scatter and lose heart, and regret ever having been associated with him . Jesus had indeed overcome the world, and forever…He had overcome the world by revealing its true nature, its reality contrasting with the layer upon layer of fantasy which the human ego is endlessly constructing out of itself, like a monstrous coral reef. The revelation was Jesus’ good news, the kingdom he came to proclaim. In its light, we may know ourselves to be displaced persons, who yet are given eyes, if we care to use them, capable of seeing here on earth, all the contours and of our true habitat and dwelling–place–to–be. Thus St Augustine’s preaching…after hearing the news of the sack of Rome:

You are surprised that the world is losing its grip? That the world is grown old and full of pressing tribulations? Do not hold on to the old man, the world; do not refuse to regain your youth in Christ, who says to you: the world is passing away, the world is losing its grip, the world is short of breath. Do not fear, thy youth shall be renewed as an eagle.

Christianity Is An Experience
The war goes on; and suddenly in the most unlikely theater of all, a Solzhenitsyn raises his voice, while in the dismal slums of Calcutta a Mother Teresa and her Missionaries of Charity go about Jesus’ work of love with incomparable dedication. When I think of them, as I have seen them at their work and at their devotions, I want to put away all the books, tear up all the scribbled notes. There are no more doubts or dilemmas; everything is perfectly clear.

What commentary or exposition, however eloquent, lucid, perceptive, inspired even, can equal in elucidation and illumination the effect of these dedicated lives? What mind has conceived a discourse, or tongue spoken in it, which conveys even to a minute degree eh light they shine before men? I was an hungred, and  ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: naked and ye clothed me: I was sick and ye visited me: I was in prison and ye came unto me – the words come alive, as no study or meditation could possibly make them, in the fulfillment in the most literal sense of Jesus’ behest to see in the suffering faces of humanity his suffering face, and in their broken bodies, his.

The religion Jesus gave the world is an experience, not a body of ideas or principles. It is being lived that it lives, as it is in loving that the love which it discloses at the heart of all creation becomes manifest. It belongs to the world of a Cervantes rather than a Wittgenstein; to Rabelais and Tolstoy rather than to Bultmann and Barth.

Our Transformation At Death
So at last I may understand, and understanding believe; see my ancient carcass, prone between the sheets, stained and worn like a scrap of paper dropped in the gutter, muddy and marred with being trodden underfoot, and hover over it, myself, like a butterfly released from its chrysalis stage and ready to fly away. Are caterpillars told of their impending resurrection? How in dying they will be transformed from poor earth — crawlers into creatures of the air, with exquisitely pained wings? If told, do they believe it?

Is it conceivable to them that so constricted an existence as this should burgeon into so gay and lightsome a one as a butterfly’s? I imagine the wise old caterpillars shaking their heads — no, it can’t be; it’s a fantasy, self–deception, a dream. Similarly,  our wise ones. Yet in the limbo between living and dying, as the night clocks tick remorselessly on, and the black sky implacably shows not one single streak or scratch of grey, I hear those words; I am the resurrection, and the life, and feel myself to be carried along on a great tide of joy and peace.

Two Great Propositions
Jesus summarized all his teaching for us in two great propositions which have provided Christendom with, as it were, its moral and spiritual axis. The first and great commandment, he said , was: Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and the second , like unto it: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these commandments, he insisted, hang all the law and the prophets. His manner of presenting them indicates their interdependence; unless we love God we cannot love our neighbor, and correspondingly, unless we love our neighbor we cannot love God.. Once again , there has to be a balance; Christianity is a system of such balanced obligations –To God and Caesar, to flesh and spirit; to God and our neighbor, and so on. Happy the man who strikes the balance justly; to its imbalance are due most of our miseries and misfortunes, individual as well as collective.

What Does Loving God Mean?
We can love the world he created and the universe which is its setting…All this we can love; but still it is not loving God…We may love the godly works of man…all this can be loved as emanating from God, and yet not even this is God. Yet again there are Man’s own particular and private loves, all of which pertaining to love partake in some degree of God’s love…how beautiful in old age to note in the grandchild newly born some trait remembered form long ago …like the echo of a distant bell…yet this is still not God…How is God to be found and loved? Not as philosophically conceived as a first cause or Categorical Imperative…still less are we capable of loving God as scientifically conceived…the life force which has triumphantly carried our species form primeval slime to Professor Ayer…the simple fact is that to be truly loved God has to become a Man without thereby ceasing to be God. Hence Jesus who provides the possibility of loving God through and in him.

Thus the two commandments become one; to be celebrated in a Man – Jesus —- who died and sanctified in a Man — also Jesus — who goes on living.. As out of Jesus’ affliction came a new sense of God’s love, and a new basis for love between men, so out of our affliction we may grasp a the splendor of God’s love and how to love one another. Thus the consummation of the two commandments was on Golgotha; and the cross is at once their image and their fulfillment. “It is affliction itself.”

Simone Weil writes, ‘that the splendor of God’s mercy shines; from its very depths, in the heart of its inconsolable bitterness.’ We feel ourselves to be forsaken, as Jesus momentarily did on the Cross; and if then we persevere in our love, we end by coming into contact with something which is neither joy nor sorrow, something necessary, pure and essential; something apart form the senses, partaking of both joy and sorrow. Then, at last , triumphantly, we know what it is to love God and looking outwards from within this love, we see our fellow men, all of them, the sick and the well, the beautiful and the plain, the stupid and the clever, mongols and beauty queens, and  imbeciles and athletes, every variety and category of humankind; see them all as brothers and sisters, members of one family, at once enfolded in God’s love and chained together by it, as though they were His galley–slaves, and this servitude their perfect freedom.

Jesus And Jerusalem
In his [Jesus’] only recorded personal outburst, he cried out at his first glimpse of Jerusalem in the distance, set amidst the hills, so strangely and beautifully aloof, as though floating in the sky, and more like a visionary city than an actual one: O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!

The Cloud Of Unknowing: Quotation
Love is such a great power that it maketh all things to be shared. Therefore love Jesus, and all things that he hath, it is thine. He by his Godhead is maker and giver of time. He by his Manhood is the true heeder of time. And he by his Godhead and Manhood together, is the truest judge and the asker of account of the spending of time. Knit thee therefore to him, by love and by belief.

Judas
And Judas?…Was he the most skeptical of them all about Jesus’ Messianic pretensions and the powers that went therewith, and so the readier to be a paid renegade? Or was he the most understanding of them all, the one with the greatest certainty that Jesus was indeed all he claimed to be, Incarnate God, which made Judas feel he must at all costs get rid of him The method he chose suggests as much – betraying Jesus to the Sanhedrin gang for a paltry sum of money, thirty pieces of silver, which at the then market rate was less than the cost of a mediocre slave.

As does also the manner he chose to identify Jesus — with a kiss. After all there were plenty of other means of identification than a kiss; such as pointing Jesus out and pronouncing a Devil’s version of Ecce Homo—Behold the Man! Surely that kiss was an indication that Judas betrayed Jesus, not because he hated him, but because he loved him.

A Stupendous Riddle
They call him Master and rightly so, but in washing their feet the Master deliberately abases himself in order to demonstrate that greatness lies not in self–assertion, but in self–abnegation. Earthly authority displays itself in giving orders, in magnificent apparel, in hordes of servitors, in sycophantic addresses; the authority  Jesus disposes of is, by contrast, spiritual, and expresses itself in serving, not in being served, in seeking to be the least instead of the greatest, the last instead of the first, in finding wisdom in the innocence of children and truth in the foolishness of men rather than in those who pass for being sagacious and experienced in the world’s ways. When we want to adulate men, we say they are godlike; but when God became Man, it was in the lineaments of the least of men…

If the greatest of all, Incarnate God, chooses to be the servant of all, who will wish to be the master? If he receives orders, who will venture to give them? If those who climb are descending, and those who descend, climbing, who will aspire after eminence? These are the questions Jesus leaves with us; not to answer — because they have no answer — but to live with and by. Christianity is a stupendous riddle without a solution; a stupendous joke without a point; a stupendous song without a tune; a stupendous waking dream that we lose in sleeping; a death in life and a life in death.

The Way, The Truth, The Life
Thomas, the doubter, asked, not unreasonably, how, if they did not know where Jesus was going, they could possibly be expected to follow after him. It was then that Jesus came out with one of his greatest sayings — that he was himself  the way, the truth, and the life. For his followers, to know him is to know where they’re going, and why they are going there, and to be vouchsafed the strength to follow the way to the end where Jesus awaits them. There are many signposts, but he is the way. There are many words and meanings, but he is the truth; there are many ways of living and dying, but He is life itself.

The Trinity
First God the Father who is everywhere and nowhere; the oneness of all things rather than any particular thing. It is material or temporal beauty? Surely not. Not the brilliance of earthly light, the sweet melody of harmony and song, the fragrance of the flowers, and perfumes; not manna or honey or limbs such as the body delights to embrace. It is none of these he loves when he loves his God. Yet, in loving God he also loves them; but in his inner self, when the soul is bathed in illimitable light, when it breathes fragrance not borne away on the wind, listens to sounds that never die away, clings to an embrace not severed by desire’s fulfillment.

What then is his God? He asks the earth, and it answers: I am not God. Likewise he asks the sea, the winds that blow, the sky , the sun, the moon and the stars, all things that can be admitted by the door of the senses, and the answer is of one and all is the same – they are not God. Where then is God And the answer is at the very core of creation, and in all its parts God is creation’s soul, and because we have souls which are components of His as the tiniest particle of moisture in sea spray is a component of the ocean, we are one with God and God is one with us.

So Augustine triumphantly concludes: ‘He is the life of the life of my soul.’ …Between the earthly city and the heavenly city there is a deep impassable chasm ….Jesus is the suspension bridge to God the Father. Through him we may know God truly as a Father; through him the universal becomes the particular, the immanent becomes the transcendent, the implicit becomes the explicit. Always becomes now. The pure of heart are blessed because thy may know God the Father; but thanks to God the Son, so may the impure of heart through knowing Jesus.

It was for this purpose – to open up a way for sinners to know God – that Jesus came amongst us. By the same token, this was the offense for which he was crucified. God the Son is God the Father’s probation officer to a fallen world, who, by his death on the Cross, expiated Adam’s sin, and reversed the fall. Under the dispensation of God the Father, Adam brought death into the world; under the dispensation of God the Son, Jesus abolished death….

Then there is the Holy Spirit…this is the conception the most nebulous, but in terms of experience, the most actual. The Holy Spirit first descended upon the disciples in the Acts of Apostles, on the first Pentecost, fifty days after Passover, on what is celebrated by Christians as Whit Sunday…Whatever may have been the precise intimations and nature of the experience, it s certainly the case that thenceforth these hitherto easily scared, rather quarrelsome and confused men became worthy and effective servants of their Master; propagandists of genius and martyrs of indomitable heroism…

Era un’intellettuale, una mistica, una poetessa. Una donna
sensibilissima, a tutto tondo, nemica del culto della forza, proprio negli anni violenti della seconda guerra mondiale. Era una “pasionaria” animata da una fede assai concreta, una persona onesta che scriveva benissimo, perché si sforzava di pensare bene. Si mescolava alla gente, cercava di restare umile. Innamorata della Croce, diceva, ma di quella del buon ladrone.
Non voglio che finisca l’anno – nel 2009 ricorre il centenario della sua nascita – senza parlare di Simone Weil: ne abbiamo letto molto poco, su quotidiani e periodici – figuriamoci in tv – quindi cerco di mettere in ordine qualche idea, soprattutto per me stesso.
Mi sono state particolarmente care le pagine de “I catari e la civiltà mediterranea”, dedicate alla civiltà occitana e scritte a Marsiglia nei primi mesi del 1942. In esse la grande pensatrice descrive la parabola discendente dell’Europa e della civiltà occidentale, il bivio violento imboccato a partire dal Duecento, e che l’ha portata quasi a diventare “l’impero della forza”.
Analizzando la “Chanson de la croisade albigeoise” (poema epico medievale e in lingua d’Oc che descrive gli ultimi palpiti della civiltà occitana, per dirla in modo semplicistico la civiltà dei trovatori, allora in pieno sviluppo, diffusa soprattutto nel Midi Francese e in parte anche in Italia), Simone Weil spiega con lucidità le conseguenze del massacro voluto con la crociata contro gli Albigesi dalla Chiesa e dal re di Francia.
Il Paese occitanico, spiega, “trovò la sua espressione estrema nella religione catara, occasione della sua sventura”. “Quel Paese che è morto e che merita di essere pianto, non era la Francia”, scrive la Weil. “Si rifaceva alla vocazione spirituale della Grecia antica”, ovvero nutriva la carità verso il prossimo, “espressa con una purezza mai più superata”. Il Paese occitano era tollerante; una volta distrutto, “a partire dal XIII secolo l’Europa si ripiegò su se stessa e presto non uscì più dal territorio del suo continente se non per distruggere. Vi erano infine i germi di quel che noi chiamiamo oggi la nostra civiltà”.
Ci dice qualcosa, tutto questo?
“L’essenza dell’ispirazione occitanica”, scrive Simone Weil, “è identica a quella dell’ispirazione greca. Essa è costituita dalla conoscenza della forza. Questa conoscenza appartiene soltanto al coraggio soprannaturale. Il coraggio soprannaturale contiene tutto ciò che noi chiamiamo coraggio e, in più, qualcosa d’infinitamente più prezioso. Ma i vili scambiarono il coraggio soprannaturale per debolezza d’animo. Conoscere la forza significava riconoscerla come pressoché assolutamente sovrana in questo mondo, e rifiutarla con disgusto e disprezzo. Questo disprezzo è l’altra faccia della compassione per tutto ciò che è esposto ai colpi della forza. Questo rifiuto della forza raggiunge la sua pienezza nella concezione dell’amore”.
Gli occitani di allora spinsero l’orrore della forza fino alla pratica della non violenza e fino alla dottrina che fa procedere dal male tutto ciò che è sottoposto alla forza. Un bellissimo esempio di questo “rifiuto della forza”, scrive la Weil, si ritrova nell’arte di quel periodo, nell’architettura e nella musica: c’è forza e orgoglio nello slancio delle guglie gotiche e nell’altezza delle volte ogivali, mentre le chiese romaniche, con fondamenta possenti che sembra debbano salire chissà dove, restano ancorate a terra, esprimendo meravigliosa semplicità e armonia.
Altrettanto vale per il canto gregoriano: “Il canto gregoriano – scrive la Weil – cresce lentamente, ma nel momento in cui sembra sicuro di sé, il movimento ascendente è rotto e abbassato; il movimento ascendente è continuamente sottomesso al movimento discendente”.
Ecco i frutti della vera forza, dell’umiltà, se si vuole del sacrificio.
Valori molto alla moda, vero?
La loro assenza produce disastri, dal punto di vista psicologico, morale e politico: Simone Weil spiegò che il “bel nome di obbedienza” si può applicare solo quando i sottoposti (i cittadini, ad esempio) riconoscono l’auctoritas” di chi comanda, ovvero lo ritengono degno di dare ordini. L’obbedienza, cioè, sgorga come libera scelta, e sancisce il fondamento del potere vero. Ci si può inginocchiare senza piegarsi.
Se invece il potere vuole sottomettere con la forza e l’arbitrio, a fil di spada, lascia la porta aperta alla ribellione: comanda, sì, ma senza vera forza, senza autorevolezza.
Leggete tutto quello che potete, di Simone Weil: Marietti 1820 ha pubblicato moltissimi dei suoi testi, il più recente è “La colonizzazione e il destino dell’Europa”, uscito un paio di mesi fa.
Anche nel 2010 Simone sarà “up to date”. Come Rosa Luxemburg, come Emily Dickinson, come ogni uomo o donna che lotta per salvare la sua umanità, la sua sensibilità e la sua intelligenza.

L’intelletto santo della Weil

E’ lei il più grande filosofo del Novecento, fraintesa perché scriveva come in presenza del giudizio di Dio

di Alfonso Berardinelli

Qualche mese fa un giovane critico letterario, piuttosto polemico con le mie opinioni sia politiche che culturali (secondo lui indecifrabili, se non aberranti), mi ha chiesto in conclusione qual è, secondo me, il maggiore filosofo del Novecento. Non ho dovuto riflettere molto per rispondere: Simone Weil. Questa risposta, pur essendo accolta come un’ulteriore provocazione, sembrava anche offrire finalmente un chiarimento: perché certo Simone Weil la si sente nominare, ma non si sa mai come prenderla, non rimanda alle culture dominanti nel Novecento o le respinge, tiene insieme, non per moderatismo, ma per radicalismo, politica e religione, etica e gnoseologia: e quindi, soprattutto, non viene letta, esige molto dal lettore e disturba in particolare gli intellettuali e la loro categoria oggi prevalente, quella degli universitari. La Weil non ha confezionato trattati sistematici usufruendo di fondi di ricerca, e per questo dai filosofi di professione, abituati a rimasticare qualunque autore, spesso senza ragioni sufficienti, viene ritenuta a torto un pensatore non sistematico, teoreticamente inadeguato perché frammentario.
Niente di meno vero. Simone Weil non ha costruito sistemi, edifici concettuali dentro cui ripararsi. La sua produzione è occasionale, profondamente motivata dagli eventi della sua vita e da quelli politici degli anni in cui è vissuta (il ventennio fra le due guerre mondiali). Ma i suoi articoli e saggi, i suoi diari e aforismi configurano un pensiero straordinariamente coeso e coerente, originale (parola a lei non gradita!) nella sua cartesiana lucidità e in una eroica onestà esistenziale.
Stranamente, faziosamente, accusano la Weil di non professionalità filosofica coloro che non battono ciglio davanti a Nietzsche, conformisticamente lo ritengono, in questi anni, un filosofo “epocale” (esagerando), salvo mettere fra parentesi il punto centrale e la punta contundente di tutto il pensiero di Nietzsche: il suo proposito di pensare filosoficamente fuori della filosofia tradizionale, delle sue problematiche e del suo linguaggio.
Perché disturba, perché “non frutta” Simone Weil? La risposta è che non viene da Hegel né rimanda a Nietzsche (dichiarò di non sopportarlo); fa totalmente a meno di Freud anche quando parla di psicologia, di passioni e di desideri; non tiene conto né del “Tractatus” di Wittgenstein né di “Essere e tempo” di Heidegger; non ha niente a che fare né con il Surrealismo né con altre avanguardie. Le sue riflessioni politiche non escludono l’esperienza religiosa, il suo impegno politico non esclude, anzi implica, un’idea della mente umana che abbia la capacità di trascendere i dati immediati dell’esperienza. Il suo ateismo intellettuale non nega la possibilità di concepire Dio, se davvero se ne è capaci, cioè se si è in grado di vivere, di convivere con una certezza religiosa in un mondo costruito sull’assenza di Dio e la cancellazione del sacro.
Il pensiero della Weil si muove tra Platone e Marx, fra cultura greca (e in parte orientale) e un cristianesimo che a volte affascina i cristiani, li chiama in causa con la figura di Cristo e con il simbolo della Croce, ma in definitiva è giudicato un cristianesimo inaccettabile perché troppo “personale”. Dato che rifiuta la Chiesa, deve pur essere un cristianesimo che ha qualcosa che non va. Si sospetta che pecchi di superbia intellettuale o di un eccesso di umiltà malintesa.
Se poi aggiungessi altre cose che credo, e cioè che la Weil è anche il maggiore, o migliore, o più onesto teologo del Novecento, un teologo esistenziale e anti-dottrinale; che è uno dei più grandi saggisti allo stato puro, cioè senza specializzazioni disciplinari, come pochissimi altri (penso a Karl Kraus); ed è, con Orwell, uno dei pochi e veramente utili scrittori politici – allora la provocazione sembrerebbe intollerabile. Anche perché, mettendo insieme e sommando tutte queste cose, risulterebbe scandalosa la perdurante distrazione con cui viene trattato dagli intellettuali l’insieme dei suoi scritti.
Intendiamoci, il fatto che la Weil resti un autore per pochi, se non è un bene, soprattutto non è un male. Anzi è del tutto naturale: è una delle poche cose naturali ed equilibrate che accadono in quella fiera delle falsificazioni e delle sproporzioni che è la nostra cultura. Ci sono autori di valore ingiustamente ignorati, alcuni di grande successo ma scadenti, altri giustamente famosi ma in realtà non letti. La Weil, almeno, sembra ancora essere letta solo da chi è disposto a capirla, e questa credo che sia la prima cosa che un autore dovrebbe augurarsi.
Ho detto che la Weil è un grande saggista: questo significa che non è facile, forse è impossibile riassumere il suo pensiero, non separabile dalla forma di scrittura che di volta in volta lo esprime. Non riesco a pensare a nessun altro saggista che, come lei, abbia avuto una così divorante passione di farsi capire, una vera fobia di risultare ambigua, di essere fraintesa. Potrei dire, senza enfasi, che scrivere per lei era una forma della preghiera, nel senso che scriveva come in presenza del giudizio di Dio. E questo lo si sente, ovviamente, nei suoi scritti più religiosi, ma anche quando scrive articoli sull’ascesa del nazismo in Germania e sul fallimento della politica operaia dei partiti socialdemocratico e comunista. Per usare una formula weiliana, non si tratta di “dire la verità”, che non è un oggetto definibile e preesistente al discorso, ma di parlare e scrivere “in spirito di verità”, cioè avendo la verità come scopo.
Detto questo, più che riassumere, farò un breve elenco di temi, illustrato con qualche citazione. Al primo posto metterei proprio il tema della verità. Tema morale, intellettuale, politico, religioso. Verità, per la Weil, vuol dire anzitutto incarnare nella vita il bisogno di verità, che non è limitato al pensiero e alla parola. Nella “Prima radice” leggiamo: “Il bisogno di verità è il più sacro di tutti. Eppure non se ne parla mai. La lettura fa spavento, quando ci si sia resi conto della quantità e dell’enormità di menzogne materiali, diffuse senza vergogna anche nei libri degli autori più amati. E così leggiamo come se si bevesse acqua di un pozzo sospetto”. Il giornalismo in queste pagine diventa l’argomento centrale, e la conclusione attiene già alla politica: “Non è possibile soddisfare l’esigenza di verità di un popolo se a tal fine non si riesce a trovare uomini che amino la verità”.
Fondamentale per quegli anni e decenni (1920-1940), nonché per l’intero secolo e per il culto in generale della Storia, è la critica che la Weil rivolge a Marx e al marxismo, alle idee di rivoluzione e di progresso, alla socialdemocrazia e ai partiti comunisti della Terza Internazionale, dipendenti da Mosca. Tutto il lungo saggio “Riflessioni sulle cause della libertà e dell’oppressione” (scritto nel 1934) è dedicato a questo. Scelgo poche righe: “Del ‘socialismo scientifico’ si è fatto un dogma, esattamente come è avvenuto per tutti i risultati conseguiti dalla scienza moderna (…). Marx supponeva, senza peraltro provarlo, che ogni specie di lotta per il potere sparirà il giorno in cui il socialismo verrà realizzato in tutti i paesi industrializzati; l’unica sventura è che, come aveva riconosciuto Marx stesso, la rivoluzione non si può fare contemporaneamente dappertutto; e quando la si fa in un paese, essa non sopprime, anzi accentua la necessità per questo paese di sfruttare e opprimere le masse lavoratrici, perché teme di essere più debole delle altre nazioni. Di questo la storia della rivoluzione russa costituisce un’illustrazione dolorosa (…) la totale subordinazione dell’operaio all’impresa e a coloro che la dirigono poggia sulla struttura della fabbrica e non sul regime della proprietà (…) ‘la degradante divisione del lavoro in lavoro manuale e lavoro intellettuale’ [Marx] è il fondamento stesso della nostra cultura, che è una cultura di specialisti (…) Lo stesso ‘socialismo scientifico’ è rimasto monopolio di alcuni e gli ‘intellettuali’ purtroppo hanno nel movimento operaio gli stessi privilegi che nella società borghese”. Aggiungo una postilla: “Ma altre forme della macchina utensile hanno prodotto, soprattutto prima della guerra, forse il tipo più bello di lavoratore cosciente che sia apparso nella storia, cioè l’operaio qualificato”.
Nel 1937 in un articolo “Sulle contraddizioni del marxismo” la Weil parla di un “inconsapevole conformismo” di Marx di fronte alle “superstizioni più infondate della sua epoca, cioè il culto della produzione, il culto della grande industria, la credenza cieca nel progresso”. E aggiunge che il movimento operaio dovrebbe “attingere, non dico delle dottrine, ma una fonte di ispirazione in ciò che Marx e i marxisti hanno combattuto e così follemente disprezzato: Proudhon, le forme di organizzazione operaia del 1848, la tradizione sindacale rivoluzionaria, lo spirito anarchico” (“Incontri libertari”, a cura di Maurizio Zani, Eléuthera).
In un articolo del 1933 sul “Riformismo tedesco” leggiamo: “Si può affermare che in Germania l’organizzazione operaia ha dato nell’ambito della legalità capitalista la migliore espressione di sé. I risultati non sono disprezzabili”. Ma “in questo modo gli operai si sono incatenati all’apparato dello Stato”. E quindi le cose cambiano, i vantaggi conquistati vengono meno “se la borghesia tedesca fa ricorso al fascismo” per superare la sua crisi. Mentre “la politica del partito comunista tedesco (…) consiste in una propaganda puramente verbale; si predica la rivoluzione a della gente che non chiede se questa è desiderabile, bensì se è possibile”.
Infine, il testo che riassume la riflessione politica e morale della Weil è “La prima radice” (dicembre 1942-aprile 1943), la cui prima parte è intitolata “Le esigenze dell’anima”. Invece che di diritti si parla di “obblighi” o doveri nei confronti dell’essere umano. Mi limito a ricordare l’elenco di questi “bisogni vitali” da rispettare: l’ordine, la libertà, l’ubbidienza, la responsabilità, l’uguaglianza, la gerarchia, l’onore, la punizione, la libertà di opinione, la sicurezza, il rischio, la proprietà privata, la proprietà collettiva, la verità.
Si capisce bene quanto poco fondata, se non in qualche caso disonesta, sia stata, a sinistra e a destra, la scelta di distinguere e separare una Weil politica, marxista e rivoluzionaria da una Weil moralista, religiosa, mistica e cristiana, per valorizzare un aspetto e liquidare l’altro. Bisogna ripetere invece che nel pensiero weiliano sono stati sottoposti a una critica serrata, propriamente razionalistica e antidogmatica, tanto il marxismo che il cristianesimo, in quanto edifici dottrinali adottati e sostenuti da organizzazioni partitiche o ecclesiastiche tenute insieme da un corpo di chierici o di politici professionali. In saggi relativamente brevi ma fondamentali come “La persona e il sacro” (1942-43) e “Nota sulla soppressione dei partiti politici” (1943, entrambi in “Écrits de Londres”, Gallimard) è chiaro che la separazione tra morale, politica e ispirazione religiosa è impossibile, sarebbe un vero abuso interpretativo. Proviamo a leggere: “C’è nell’intimo di ogni essere umano, dalla prima infanzia fino alla tomba e nonostante tutta l’esperienza dei crimini commessi, sofferti e osservati, qualcosa che si aspetta invincibilmente che gli si faccia del bene e non del male. E’ questo, prima di tutto, ciò che è sacro in ogni essere umano” (“La persona e il sacro”).
Affermazioni come questa non si potrebbero assegnare a nessuna sfera delimitata e separata: siamo nella psicologia, nell’etica, nella religione o nella politica? Qui tutto è connesso, ed è a queste pietre angolari del pensiero che Simone Weil si rivolge per fondare i suoi ragionamenti.
Dall’inizio degli anni Ottanta, con l’edizione Adelphi dei “Quaderni”, quattro volumi a cura di Giancarlo Gaeta usciti fra il 1982 e il 1993, si è periodicamente riproposta una lettura di Simone Weil attraverso convegni, antologie, monografie: se ne sono occupati Gabriella Fiori (autrice di una biografia uscita da Garzanti nel 1981), Domenico Canciani, Roberto Esposito (nel volume “Categorie dell’impolitico”, il Mulino 1988), Adriano Marchetti, Guglielmo Forni, Pier Cesare Bori (presenti in uno dei quaderni mensili di “Testimonianze”, intitolato “Le passioni di Simone Weil. Politica, cultura, religione”, 1994). Va notato comunque che il pensiero weiliano non è mai entrato davvero nel dibattito filosofico e politico, né in Italia né in altri paesi, come invece autori molto più astratti, equivoci e sfuggenti, per esempio gli studiatissimi e citatissimi Martin Heidegger e Carl Schmitt. La sinistra ha di gran lunga preferito autori come questi, compromessi più o meno direttamente con il nazismo, a Simone Weil, che avrebbe permesso di riflettere a fondo sull’intera vicenda della sinistra europea in un’ottica diversa rispetto a quella che oscilla ossessivamente fra confuse riproposte rivoluzionarie, speranze progressiste e riscoperte del pensiero liberale. Parlo della sinistra. Ma neppure la destra ha mai osato servirsi seriamente della riflessione della Weil nel suo insieme, che evidentemente non attira chi abbia intenzione di servirsene in funzione propagandistica.
In tutto il periodo in cui si formò e agì una Nuova Sinistra a livello internazionale, tra la fine degli anni Cinquanta e l’inizio degli anni Ottanta, della Weil non si parlò. Fu quella, credo, forse la più grave fra le occasioni mancate. La Nuova Sinistra di allora non aveva più come punto di riferimento l’Unione Sovietica, cosa avvenuta anche dopo il 1945 e fino allo scontro che oppose Sartre e Camus in seguito alla pubblicazione dell’“Homme revolté”. Ma la Nuova Sinistra nacque anzitutto come riscoperta del vero Marx “scientifico” e antihegeliano e del marxismo rivoluzionario degli anni Venti: Lukács di “Storia e coscienza di classe” e Karl Korsch di “Marxismo e filosofia”. La critica all’Unione Sovietica lasciò intatto l’impianto marxista e anzi lo rilanciò e lo radicalizzò, mettendo da parte anche revisioni e integrazioni preziose come quelle di Gramsci e dei Francofortesi. Per anni dominò l’idea di un’attualità e urgenza della rivoluzione: questo sembrò il primo imperativo e fece nascere rapidamente un’ortodossia neoleninista che dimenticò di chiedersi se un’ipotesi rivoluzionaria fosse possibile e realistica in Europa, negli Stati Uniti e perfino in America Latina. Sembravano innominabili gli scrittori politici degli anni Trenta, le cui esperienze cruciali erano state la grande crisi del Ventinove, i fascismi, la guerra civile spagnola e lo stalinismo. La Nuova Sinistra nacque ignorando di proposito che c’era, doveva esserci un rapporto fra critica allo stalinismo e critica al marxismo.
Franco Fortini, che pure aveva scoperto presto Simone Weil, ed ebbe il merito di tradurre per le edizioni di Comunità testi tutt’altro che marginali come “L’ombra e la grazia” (nel 1951), “La condizione operaia” (1952) e “La prima radice” (1954), non propose però apertamente il pensiero della Weil come correttivo o antidoto a quel “ritorno a Marx” su cui si fondava la ricerca di “Quaderni rossi”. Un po’ come i giovani nichilisti russi dell’Ottocento guardarono con sufficienza o disprezzo il gran signore cosmopolita e liberal-socialista Aleksandr Herzen, così i giovani marxisti antiumanisti o nichilisti degli anni Sessanta italiani potevano ridere di Orwell e della Weil. Nessuno vide allora quanta lucidità teorica e competenza politica c’era nel saggio “Oppressione e libertà” che genialmente Simone Weil scrisse a venticinque anni.
Fu così che le traduzioni di Fortini si interruppero troppo presto, non diedero luogo a nuove traduzioni, né tantomeno a una considerazione approfondita del già tradotto. “La prima radice” era uscita senza un’introduzione del traduttore ed è negativamente significativo che in uno dei due libri di saggi più importanti di Fortini, “Verifica dei poteri”, uscito nel 1965, il nome della Weil non compaia mai. Si pensò in quegli anni che tutte le esperienze degli anni Venti fossero riproponibili e tutte le esperienze degli anni Trenta fossero definitivamente superate. Venne isolata, per esempio da Elémire Zolla, la Weil mistica e lo stesso Calasso, più tardi, editore benemerito di Nietzsche, vide nella Weil piuttosto un pensatore metafisico, e non sociale e politico, rendendo poco comprensibile la sua intera vicenda umana.
Grande lettrice della Weil, soprattutto dei “Quaderni”, fu Elsa Morante. Disse che quella lettura aveva cambiato la sua vita. E in effetti provocò una svolta nella sua opera. Chi legge i saggi di “Pro o contro la bomba atomica”, i poemi del “Mondo salvato dai ragazzini” e il romanzo “La Storia” può avvertire e rintracciare dovunque la presenza della Weil, pensiero e persona, che viene definita “l’intelligenza della santità”. Ma per dire in proposito qualcosa di più c’è bisogno di interpretazioni critiche, perché la Morante su quell’esperienza di lettura non ha scritto nulla. Per quanto ne so, il solo studio che affronti il problema è di Concetta D’Angeli: “La pietà di Omero: Elsa Morante e Simone Weil davanti alla storia” (in “Leggere Elsa Morante”, Carocci 2003). Si trova qui un’interpretazione della formula morantiana “l’intelligenza della santità”, da intendersi come intelligenza del mondo che può venire solo da una santità risolta soprattutto in capacità di capire, in intelletto.
Torniamo con questo alla verità, vocazione centrale della Weil. In una lettera da Marsiglia del 15 maggio 1942 a padre Perrin, che è un vero e proprio saggio sintetico di autobiografia interiore, la Weil scrisse tra l’altro alcuni passi che possiamo leggere come epigrafi definitive per tutta la sua opera: “Dopo mesi di tenebre interiori, ebbi d’improvviso e per sempre la certezza che qualsiasi essere umano, anche se le sue facoltà naturali sono pressoché nulle, penetra in questo regno della verità riservato al genio, purché desideri la verità e faccia un continuo sforzo d’attenzione per raggiungerla: in questo modo diventa egli pure un genio, anche se per mancanza di talento non può apparire tale esteriormente (…) Il concetto di verità comprendeva per me anche la bellezza, la virtù e ogni sorta di bene”. E ancora: “La funzione propria dell’intelligenza esige una libertà totale, che implica il diritto di negare tutto, senza nulla dominare. Dovunque essa usurpa un comando, si verifica un eccesso di individualismo. Dovunque si senta a disagio, c’è una collettività oppressiva” (in “Attesa di Dio”, Rusconi 1972).

Waiting for God by Simone Weil
(Harper & Row, NY: 1973)

Looking for a book that’s beautiful yet challenging? What if it’s by one of the most highly respected thinkers of the 20th century who also happens to be a fascinating woman? Then Waiting for God, a collection of spiritual letters and essays by Simone Weil, may give you some food for thought. As she herself wrote, “In reading as in other things I have always striven to practice obedience . . . . for as far as possible I only read what I am hungry for at the moment . . . , and then I do not read, I eat” (p 69).

From a Christian perspective it may be impossible to appreciate Simone’s thought, which was often unorthodox, without having a grasp of the time and place in which she lived, as well as of her genius and zeal. The biographical information in Waiting for God is helpful, but I recommend reading Stephen Plant’s “Simone Weil” in the Great Christian Thinkers series (Triumph 1997) which I utilized for this essay.

Simone was born in France in 1909 to agnostic parents. At the age of six she could quote classic poetry, and despite interruptions in her education (and the onset of migraines), she received her baccalaureate at the age of 15. Simone had a deep desire to know “truth,” so went to graduate school and became a teacher of philosophy.

Do not think that she lived comfortably from the “ivory tower.” As early as age five she refused to eat sugar because the soldiers could not have it, and she maintained this practice of food-denial all of her life. She chose not to turn the heat on in her rented rooms since the unemployed could not afford it themselves, and gave much of her salary to the poor and to workers’ causes. She was very politically active, striving to secure better conditions for factory workers, and was involved with the defense of her country during World War II.

Simone seemed to apply her whole self towards realizing her convictions. Even though frail, she was always working, thinking, writing–incessantly doing. She even went so far as to travel to war-torn Spain, in 1936, to fight against the Fascists. She was a pacifist but felt so strongly about the cause that she volunteered for the most dangerous assignments. Because of a bad cooking-related accident, however, Simone did not stay there for very long. Her witness to an execution of a 15-year-old boy by the people she supported, among other things, caused her to not return.

Perhaps the personal experience of war caused a crack in Simone’s idealism that was an entryway for God. In 1937, while at Assisi, “something stronger than I was compelled me for the first time in my life to go down on my knees (pp 67-68). Then in 1938, while having severe migraines during Holy Week services, Simone had the experience of separating herself from the pain to enjoy the beauty of the service and to receive the understanding of the passion of Christ. That same year, while reciting a Christian poem about accepting Christ–which she claims she hadn’t understood as such–Christ indeed “came down and took possession of me” (p 69).

Though she accepted Christ, Simone’s writings are controversial. Some do not believe Simone was really a Christian, assumably due to her consideration and respect for other religions, and some of her unorthodox theological views. But being a Christian for a relatively short period before she died, at the age of 34, one can easily argue that Simone’s views were immature. She mulled over her new found faith with what she knew: philosophy, history, and the life of war and suffering that she saw.

She writes about wrestling with God over truth, and that is what she so often does in her “religious” writings (most of the essays she published were not spiritual, however). She may write that there are spiritual truths contained in other religions or even myths (CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien held similar views), but in the final analysis, only Christ is truth: “Christ likes us to prefer truth to him because, before being Christ, he is truth. If one turns aside from him to go toward the truth, one will not go far before falling into his arms (p 69).

Her friends in faith were Catholic, but she refused to enter the church because of its history and its exclusionary practices. Despite being an “outside Christian,” she wrote conventional ideas like: “It is not my business to think about myself. My business is to think about God. It is for God to think about me” (pp 50-51), and ” . . . I think that God himself has taken it [her soul] in hand from the start and still looks after it” (p 73). Going deeper into her thought we find: “Only obedience is invulnerable for all time” (p 63), and ” . . . I always believed that the instant of death is the center and object of life” (p 63). Significantly, in 1943 (a few months before she died), she told a friend: “I believe in God, in the Trinity, in the Incarnation, in the Redemption, in the teachings of the Gospel) (Plant, p 33).

….….
..Look around?.………………..Look in?……………………………..Look out?

A lightly edited version of a real time discussion that took place right at the end of the original ‘watchdog’ website, Foetry.com. ‘Expatriate Poet’ is Christopher Woodman, the 70 year old poet who lives in Chiang Mai in northern Thailand and is active on Scarriet. Although ‘Monday Love’ posing as Scarriet’s ‘Thomas Brady‘ has given permission to reprint his contribution to this dialogue, he prefers to remain (sort of…) anonymous.

Scarriet takes full reponsibility for the obscenity in this article, and understands that there will be many readers who won’t know where to look. We apologize for any offense given.

~

Dear Monday Love,
A few days ago you wrote, “If I want to convey to you right now some truth, I will do everything I can to put the argument before you as nakedly and clearly as I can possibly present it.”

There’s a poem I’ve been working on for some time—or rather, I should say the poem’s been working on me, so much so that when I read what you just wrote I immediately thought of the poem and wanted it to work on you too! Like this:

THE MEANING AND VALUE OF REPRESSION

………..Who’s this naked giant then
………………….peering in at your window

………..with the huge brown phallus
………………….pressed up against the pane,

………..the half-tumescent glans
………………….like some rude Cyclops’s tongue

………..or thick-set paleolithic fruit
………………….in puris naturabilis displayed

………..and mounted on the slippery
………………….slide the shocked members

………..gape at as their meals
………………….get laid upon the table?

………..He has no shame, this sly
………………….weighted thing towering

………..above the high tree tops—
………………….the great trunk of his gnarled

………..sex and trumpet foreskin
………………….making all the cultivated

………..thoughts that dine in private
………………….so much fast-food small-talk.

………..But oh, how the air out there
………………….shines attendant with delight,

………..hiking up those warm kirtled
………………….skirts to reveal Galileo’s secret

………..so profound only such obscene
………………….dimensions ever fathom it!

Posted by EXPATRIATE POET: Sat Feb 24, 2007 12:23 pm
_________________
(…yet still it moves!)

~

“Huge brown phallus pressed up against the pane”

Best image in poetry ever!

Posted by MONDAY LOVE: Sun Feb 25, 2007 9:16 am
_________________
Whisper and eye contact don’t work here.

~

But that’s not even the best image in the poem, so how could it be the best image in poetry ever?

I know I’m a fool, and I always rise to your bait, but now I’m thinking about what you said yesterday about Aimée Nezhukumatathil’s new book, Miracle Fruit.

Aimee N. definitely has it going on. Hot chick w/ erotic poems. Naughty, yet sensitive; sexy, yet learned; chatty, yet profound; worldly, yet academic; with her third-world traditionalist family hitting on her American singleness, freedom and sass. . . You go, girl!

But I predict she’ll get bored with the kind of chatty lyric she’s writing now. She’ll beat a hasty retreat towards more serious forms. The little dog will give way to twelve or thirteen kids, metaphorically speaking.

Dear Monday Love–you do such good work on this site, and we’re all so fortunate to have the chance to read so much of you–which goodness knows is certainly never dull! But much too often it’s your private Big Boy that gets dropped on our threads, and the ashes keep piling and piling up. Well, I’m an old man and I have no reputation at all, and partly for that reason you should listen to me. You can’t step on my toes because I don’t have any, it’s as simple as that, nor can you open my closet living as I do in a place that has none. But I’m serious about poetry all the same, and I can talk to you if you’ll listen.

And I say you not only have an issue with poetry but with girls!

That’s why I posted the poem for you, and not surprisingly you ignored the WOMAN in it altogether and chose rather to celebrate the PHALLUS–just like you poked fun at the girl!

I felt the woman in the poem was so overwhelmingly attractive and uncomplicated that she would have to illuminate you and quicken your being, that she would speak to who you were and where you were going. Now I begin to think you never let poets speak to you at all–even the dwindling handful you regard as o.k.

Because what I’ve never seen you do is listen to what a poem actually says that might be of value to you personally. You read with such disdain and critical detachment, almost as if you were judging a small town dog show that neglected to shovel up its poop. But even a common poem can talk to you, you know–it mustn’t be asked just to stand up on its hind legs and rhumba, or jump through a hoop to please you.

That’s what the little poem might have been trying to tell you, in fact–that like the average scientist you restrict yourself to the empirical evidence before you, as if the universe could tango without the human value that gives meaning to it.

Christopher

Posted by EXPATRIATE POET: Mon Feb 26, 2007 10:41 am
_________________
(…yet still it moves!)

~

Christopher,
I have no toes to step on either.

Do I have an “issue” with “girls?” Perhaps, I do. “Girls” is a big topic.

I loved Aimée’s poem. I summed up her schtick in a few words, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t dig it.

Also empirical evidence is all we have. The rest is speculation.

But I must say, I’m not good at riddles. What specific ‘evidence’ am I missing?

Monday
Posted by MONDAY LOVE: Mon Feb 26, 2007 8:48 pm
_________________
Whisper and eye contact don’t work here.

CLICK HERE to continue reading this article.

                            “COMET PECAT D’ENVEJA”

Lentament el pensament de Simone Weil comença a ocupar un petit espai en les lletres catalanes. Crec que el seu és un llegat indispensable per trobar petites sortides a l’atzucac moral europeu de la primera meitat del segle XX. És impagable el mèrit de l’editorial Denes, des de la col·lecció “Rent (literatura religiosa en valencià)”, juntament amb l’esforç per difondre l’obra de Weil que fa la professora de dret de la Universitat de València, Emília Bea, al mateix temps traductora d’aquests assajos; aquest llibre és un recull de tres textos que van ser escrits a Marsella, entre els anys 1941 i 1942. Els textos traduïts són: “Autobiografia espiritual”, “L’amor a Déu i la desgràcia” i “Formes de l’amor implícit a Déu”.

El primer text és una carta a un amic: el dominic pare Perrin -primer editor d’uns assajos de Weil. A la vegada aquesta carta és un comiat a la vida mateixa, i de retruc a allò que creu que ha donat, pot donar i ja no pot donar com a creient cristiana. Weil no pot estar al costat d’una Església oficial que continua fent sentències condemnatòries i anatèmiques.

La por a escriure, la por a enfrontar-se a la “primera” realitat que pot ser l’escriptura -ja que a la vida quotidiana t’enganyen, deia Helena Valentí- no la compartia Simone Weil. Amb l’escriptura -no com a narradora sinó com a filòsofa- féu un intent per fixar i alhora fer empènyer la realitat cap a un present analitzat de manera radical; Europa s’hauria de banyar en un corrent místic. Aquest bany d’aigua és allò tan petit que és l’únic que salva. L’únic que guarirà. Etty Hillesum deia que volia ser un “ungüent per a tantes ferides”. Weil, que a causa de la duresa dels seus textos i del seu mateix caràcter no volia ser cap ungüent, aconsegueix, però, que els seus escrits es converteixin en un ungüent per als seus lectors, gairebé a setanta anys de la seva mort. Si més no, són unes anàlisis que critiquen la situació de la realpolitik de la França del seu temps. Weil sap que la política de les democràcies representatives i de les dictadures comunista i feixista havia arribat a un alt grau de degeneració política. Només d’aquesta manera es pot comprendre el seu “manual” de Londres (Els escrits de Londres i darreres cartes i L’arrelament). Treballant per al govern francès a l’exili de Londres, durant l’any 1943, escriu una mena de “manual polític” on reelabora de manera moralment molt alta el codi polític que ha pres cos des de la Revolució Francesa i que accepten gairebé tots els règims sense resistència -les “democràcies”, el comunisme i el feixisme.

Aquesta edició també compta amb un pròleg d’Emília Bea que, de manera ben sagaç, ens transmet el pensament més essencial de Simone Weil. Els textos traduïts formen part de l’edició conjunta d’uns articles que porten per nom A l’espera de Déu. Hi havia una edició catalana del llibre a Edicions 62 de l’any 1965, totalment introbable. Ara, aquesta edició valenciana recull els tres textos més essencials de l’esmentat recull.

L’”Autobiografia espiritual” és un text molt potent i ple de sinceritat. Escrit, però, amb un bisturí ben esmolat, ens descriu els motius pels quals no es batejà aquesta jueva que no ho volia ésser; “(…) comet pecat d’enveja”: fa referència a la crucifixió del Crist. Llàstima que no ens hi podem estendre.

Simone Weil va escriure en uns moments d’intempèrie. Des de la no rereguarda analitza amb profunditat les contradiccions de la política contemporània. Quants catedràtics de filosofia i d’una família benestant abandonen el seu treball per anar a treballar a una fàbrica i experimentar en carn viva el sofriment de l’opressió d’un obrer en una cadena industrial? Ben pocs. I això no és que la faci més “gran”. Però la fa ser una filòsofa, si més no, diferent. No tingué por d’”actuar”.

Adrià Chavarria

Caràcters núm. 49

Even if our efforts of attention seem for years to be producing no result, one day a light that is in exact proportion to them will flood the soul.

~ Simone Weil

The future has a way of arriving unannounced” [George Will].

It’s difficult to believe. Even harder to imagine. But it’s true.

You future is here!

You know that far-off-in-the-distant, one day I’ll get there, that’s why I’m working so hard today future?  Yes, that ONE!  Well, it’s here.

And it might not even seem like it. Could be impossible to recognize, what with all the exceedingly normal activity you have planned for today. But be assured, today is your future.

What do you mean it doesn’t look like what you had imagined? Were you anticipating marching bands, balloons, a parade in your honor?

What? You weren’t ready for the future’s arrival? What were you expecting today to be? Just more of yesterday?

Simone Weil said, “the future is made of the same stuff as the present.”

That may be why it doesn’t look particularly different. And it may also explain why we don’t recognize it. And why we fail to plan for it.

I wonder what would happen if we managed to stop thinking of the future as some fuzzy time far off in the distance happening that will burst on the scene when we least expect it, and begin thinking of the future as tomorrow.

You can sit by and mindlessly go through the motions, waiting for your “some day” to arrive.

You can hold your future hostage through the actions of your past.

You can paralyze the future through unforgiveness, bitterness, and shame.

You can ignore the future — play the part of the grasshopper instead of the ant.

In the end, it doesn’t matter how you treat the future, it’s coming again tomorrow.  The future is not a surprise party given in your honor. It is a creation of your efforts. Each of us is responsible for our own future.

So, the question you must ask yourself is this one:

How are you going to live today,
to create the tomorrow you’re committed to?
~Tony Robbins

See how easy that is?  Change today, impact tomorrow, and create the future you’ve imagined.

Whatever you are, be a good one!

Deanna

PS: “Stop acting as if life is a rehearsal” [Wayne Dyer].

I got to see Michael Moore’s Capitalism, A Love Story with Sake Onederful, Bay Area revolutionary and DJ last week.  While I found Moore’s history of capitalism a little skewed and not incredibly helpful, one of the questions it re-evoked for me was that of ownership and identity.

I think one of the more pernicious ideological consequences of capitalism is how indebted we are to possession and ownership in the structuring and maintenance of our identities, be these constituted in public or private spheres, in various registers of subjectivity.  When I buy a pair of boots (or two) I buy them because they allow me to be a particular kind of woman — they say something about who I “am”, what I am about: they are spicy, or sassy, or chic, or whatever.

Obviously I participate in consumption as a means for self-expression.  Frankly it is something that I am good at, and problematic as it is, I do derive pleasure from having the perfect cake stand, or what have you.

But I read this book last month, and it really got me to thinking… in particular about how even our love relationships as chances to own things.  To own people, in particular.  “That’s my husband,”  “that’s my girl,”  “those are my kids,” etc.

Clearly, we can imagine a linguistic system that makes use of possessive pronouns and which exists outside of a capitalist economic order.  I’m not making a claim that capitalism fundamentally gave us language for ownership.  But I am claiming that thinking through a critique of capitalism could also lead to rethinking how we talk about those who we care about, who are in relation to us.

I’m not going to make a grand claim on behalf of humanity.  If you want to be owned by another person, fine.  Sometimes it is nice to belong to another — I’ll admit I like the idea of belonging to my parents.  They are pretty great people and I know they will, to the best of their ability, care for me.

On the other hand, I would welcome the challenge to imagine what it would be like to reject ownership as the terms of relationality.  To say, “I belong to no one and no one should belong to me.  I am for others, I can give love and receive love, and participate in relationships and be active socially… but I am my own person, and I belong to existence, not another human.”

This, according to Osho, and probably according to Simone Weil, would be to embrace love without ownership: love without oppression.

It would be difficult to do but probably worth trying.

Happy Halloween! Ready to trick or treat? America is.

Evil vs Good quote

“Twins of Evil” video

Evil Twin Body Wisdom

Evil twin tricks (Bwa ha haaaaaa…) practice

Treat movement

__________________________________________

Take a deep breath and let it out with a sigh!

Evil vs Good quote

“Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring. Imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating.”- Simone Weil

“Twins of Evil” video

Playing with “evil” is a human tradition. It is how we rise above it and poke fun at it.

Evil Twin Body Wisdom
Brain Herring (of Raleigh, NC), sharing about their Evil Twin Performance Jam tradition “The Evil Twins Strike Back,” says people are encouraged to “Tell your scariest story, sing your most haunting song, dance like the zombies are after you in InterPlay’s version of open-mike night, joining with others to create a special Halloween performance!” He says, “The first time we did the Evil Twins performance jam, at the last minute I threw in two words at the end of the description,”Costumes welcome.” I didn’t really expect many people to come dressed up. I was astonished at the effort and creativity that people put into their costumes. People had a blast and a tradition was born. Being given permission to do stuff (move, sing off key, talk loudly) felt vital. In the naming circle, the fake identities start to be revealed. No one uses their real name! Stories and songs and dances come from other places. And yet there is a sense that a greater truth is being revealed than is otherwise allowed. One man is a brain-damaged mental patient.  Another is the winner of a wet t-shirt contest. Where else, even in InterPlay, would this crew be so brazen?

Evil twin tricks (Bwa ha haaaaaa…) practice
•Fling your focuser (and your serious self) up in the air for 30 seconds.
•Thrust your pelvis forward and walk around. Can you keep a straight face?
•Hold your face in a strange position and keep it there. Let your moves flow from your facial expression.
•Dance in a completely jerky, quirky way to “Amazing Grace.”
From Dance: A Sacred Art: The Joy of Movement as Spiritual Practice p49 “Trickster Dances”

Treat movement
Play Marquetta Dupree and Angela Holley singing “InterPlay.” Dance with a hand or your whole self as you raise a hand to welcome a million connections!

Take a deep Breath and Let it out with a Sigh.

L’amica Simone Pétrement racconta in una mirabile e discreta biografia la vita mirabile e discreta di una giovane donna, Simone Weil, libera per tutta la sua vita ( 1909-1943)  di lottare per l’emancipazione dell’uomo, emancipazione in primo luogo dai miti della civiltà contemporanea, fra i quali a suo parere ha influenza peggiore il concetto di rivoluzione che quello di religione.

Fra le riflessioni comprese nella biografia quella proposta mantiene un effetivo legame con i vizi della politica italiana contemporanea:

” [Simone Weil] Insiste in modo particolare sulla coppia libertà di opinione e verità. Ritiene necessario, affinché questi bisogni siano rispettati, che si vieti ogni propaganda di partito come pure ogni pressione di un gruppo sui propri membri per imporre certe opinioni ( cioè ogni pressione esercitata in virtù della nozione di ortodossia). Consiglia anche di creare dei tribunali davanti ai quali si possano citare tutti quegli scrittori o giornalisti che abbiano pubblicato consapevolmente delle mensogne oppure degli errori che avrebbero potuto facilmente evitare. “

Per approfondimenti ” Manifesto per la soppressione dei partiti politici“

Insegnante, libera pensatrice, filosofa, mistica

On ne peut pas vraiment dire que c’est une citation. C’est plutôt une lettre reproduite de manière intégrale.

Mes lecteurs de longue date et certains de mes amis proches savent que j’entretiens une relation particulière avec Simone Weil. Cela dit, je partage avec vous aujourd’hui une lettre qu’elle a écrite à Bernanos que je trouve touchante.

***********

Monsieur,

Quelque ridicule qu’il y ait à écrire à un écrivain, qui est toujours, par la nature de son métier, inondé de lettres, je ne puis m’empêcher de le faire après avoir lu “Les Grands Cimetières sous la lune”. Non que ce soit la première fois qu’un livre de vous me touche, le “Journal d’un curé de campagne” est à mes yeux le plus beau, du moins de ceux que j’ai lus, et véritablement un grand livre. Mais si j’ai pu aimer d’autres de vos livres, je n’avais aucune raison de vous importuner en vous l’écrivant. Pour le dernier, c’est autre chose ; j’ai eu une expérience qui répond à la vôtre, quoique bien plus brève, moins profonde, située ailleurs et éprouvée, en apparence – en apparence seulement -, dans un tout autre esprit.

Je ne suis pas catholique, bien que, – ce que je vais dire doit sans doute sembler présomptueux à tout catholique, de la part d’un non-catholique, mais je ne puis m’exprimer autrement – bien que rien de catholique, rien de chrétien ne m’ait jamais paru étranger. Je me suis dit parfois que si seulement on affichait aux portes des églises que l’entrée est interdite à quiconque jouit d’un revenu supérieur à telle ou telle somme, peu élevée, je me convertirais aussitôt. Depuis l’enfance, mes sympathies se sont tournées vers les groupements qui se réclamaient des couches méprisées de la hiérarchie sociale, jusqu’à ce que j’aie pris conscience que ces groupements sont de nature à décourager toutes les sympathies. Le dernier qui m’ait inspiré quelque confiance, c’était la CNT espagnole. J’avais un peu voyagé en Espagne – assez peu – avant la guerre civile, mais assez pour ressentir l’amour qu’il est difficile de ne pas éprouver envers ce peuple ; j’avais vu dans le mouvement anarchiste l’expression naturelle de ses grandeurs et de ses tares, de ses aspirations les plus et les moins légitimes. La CNT, la FAI étaient un mélange étonnant, où on admettait n’importe qui, et où, par suite, se coudoyaient l’immoralité, le cynisme, le fanatisme, la cruauté, mais aussi l’amour, l’esprit de fraternité, et surtout la revendication de l’honneur si belle chez les hommes humiliés ; il me semblait que ceux qui venaient là animés par un idéal l’emportaient sur ceux que poussait le goût de la violence et du désordre. En juillet 1936, j’étais à Paris. Je n’aime pas la guerre ; mais ce qui m’a toujours fait le plus horreur dans la guerre, c’est la situation de ceux qui se trouvent à l’arrière. Quand j’ai compris que, malgré mes efforts, je ne pouvais m’empêcher de participer moralement à cette guerre, c’est à dire de souhaiter tous les jours, toutes les heures, la victoire des uns, la défaite des autres, je me suis dit que Paris était pour moi l’arrière, et j’ai pris le train pour Barcelone dans l’intention de m’engager. C’était au début d’août 1936.

Un accident m’a fait abréger par force mon séjour en Espagne. J’ai été quelques jours à Barcelone ; puis en pleine campagne aragonaise, au bord de l’Ebre, à une quinzaine de kilomètres de Saragosse, à l’endroit même où récemment les troupes de Yagüe ont passé l’Ebre ; puis dans le palace de Sitgès transformé en hôpital ; puis de nouveau à Barcelone ; en tout à peu près deux mois. J’ai quitté l’Espagne malgré moi et avec l’intention d’y retourner : par la suite, c’est volontairement que je n’en ai rien fait. Je ne sentais plus aucune nécessité intérieure de participer à une guerre qui n’était plus, comme elle m’avait paru être au début, une guerre de paysans affamés contre les propriétaires terriens et un clergé complice des propriétaires, mais une guerre entre la Russie, l’Allemagne et l’Italie.

J’ai reconnu cette odeur de guerre civile, de sang et de terreur que dégage votre livre ; je l’avais respirée. Je n’ai rien vu ni entendu, je dois le dire, qui atteigne tout à fait l’ignominie de certaines des histoires que vous racontez, ces meurtres de vieux paysans, ces “ballilas” faisant courir des vieillards à coups de matraques. Ce que j’ai entendu suffisait pourtant. J’ai failli assister à l’exécution d’un prêtre ; pendant les minutes d’attente, je me demandais si j’allais regarder simplement, ou me faire fusiller moi-même en essayant d’intervenir ; je ne sais pas encore ce que j’aurais fait si un hasard heureux n’avait empêcher l’exécution.

Combien d’histoires se pressent sous ma plume… Mais ce serait trop long ; à quoi bon? Une seule suffira. J’étais à Sitgès quand sont revenus, vainqueurs, les miliciens de l’expédition de Majorque. Ils avaient été décimés. Sur quarante jeunes garçons partis de Sitgès, neuf étaient morts. On ne le sut qu’au retour des trentes et un autres. La nuit même qui suivit, on fit neuf expéditions punitives, on tua neuf fascistes ou soi-disant tels, dans cette petite ville où, en juillet, il ne s’était rien passé. Parmi ces neuf, un boulanger d’une trentaine d’années, dont le crime était, m’a-t-on dit, d’avoir appartenu à la milice des “somaten” ; son vieux père, dont il était le seul enfant et le seul soutien, devint fou. Une autre encore : en Aragon, un petit groupe international de vingt-deux miliciens de tous pays prit, après un léger engagement, un jeune garçon de quinze ans, qui combattait comme phalangiste. Aussitôt pris, tout tremblant d’avoir vu tuer ses camarades à ses côtés, il dit qu’on l’avait enrôlé de force. On le fouilla, on trouva sur lui une médaille de la Vierge et une carte de phalangiste ; on l’envoya à Durruti, chef de la colonne, qui, après lui avoir exposé pendant une heure les beautés de l’idéal anarchiste, lui donna le choix entre mourir et s’enrôler immédiatement dans les rangs de ceux qui l’avaient fait prisonnier, contre ses camarades de la veille. Durruti donna à l’enfant vingt-quatre heures de réflexion ; au bout de vingt-quatre heures, l’enfant dit non et fut fusillé. Durruti était pourtant à certains égards un homme admirable. La mort de ce petit héros n’a jamais cessé de me peser sur la conscience, bien que je ne l’aie apprise qu’après coup. Ceci encore : dans un village que rouges et blancs avaient pris, perdu, repris, reperdu je ne sais combien de fois, les miliciens rouges, l’ayant repris définitivement, trouvèrent dans les caves une poignée d’êtres hagards, terrifiés et affamés, parmi lesquels trois ou quatre jeunes hommes. Ils raisonnèrent ainsi : si ces jeunes hommes, au lieu d’aller avec nous la dernière fois que nous nous sommes retirés, sont restés et ont attendu les fascistes, c’est qu’ils sont fascistes. Ils les fusillèrent donc immédiatement, puis donnèrent à manger aux autres et se crurent très humains. Une dernière histoire, celle-ci de l’arrière : deux anarchistes me racontèrent une fois comment, avec des camarades, ils avaient pris deux prêtres ; on tua l’un sur place, en présence de l’autre, d’un coup de revolver, puis, on dit à l’autre qu’il pouvait s’en aller. Quand il fut à vingt pas, on l’abattit. Celui qui me racontait l’histoire était très étonné de ne pas me voir rire.

A Barcelone, on tuait en moyenne, sous forme d’expéditions punitives, une cinquantaine d’hommes par nuit. C’était proportionnellement beaucoup moins qu’à Majorque, puisque Barcelone est une ville de près d’un million d’habitants ; d’ailleurs il s’y était déroulé pendant trois jours une bataille de rues meurtrière. Mais les chiffres ne sont peut-être pas l’essentiel en pareille matière. L’essentiel, c’est l’attitude à l’égard du meurtre. Je n’ai jamais vu, ni parmi les Espagnols, ni même parmi les Français venus soit pour se battre, soit pour se promener – ces derniers le plus souvent des intellectuels ternes et inoffensifs – je n’ai jamais vu personne exprimer même dans l’intimité de la répulsion, du dégoût ou seulement de la désapprobation à l’égard du sang inutilement versé. Vous parlez de la peur. Oui, la peur a eu une part dans ces tueries ; mais là où j’étais, je ne lui ai pas vu la part que vous lui attribuez. Des hommes apparemment courageux – il en est un au moins dont j’ai de mes yeux constaté le courage – au milieu d’un repas plein de camaraderie, racontaient avec un bon sourire fraternel combien ils avaient tué de prêtres ou de “fascistes” – terme très large. J’ai eu le sentiment, pour moi, que lorsque les autorités temporelles et spirituelles ont mis une catégorie d’êtres humains en dehors de ceux dont la vie a un prix, il n’est rien de plus naturel à l’homme que de tuer. Quand on sait qu’il est possible de tuer sans risquer ni châtiment ni blâme, on tue ; ou du moins on entoure de sourires encourageants ceux qui tuent. Si par hasard on éprouve d’abord un peu de dégoût, on le tait et bientôt on l’étouffe de peur de paraître manquer de virilité. Il y a là un entraînement, une ivresse à laquelle il est impossible de résister sans une force d’âme qu’il me faut bien croire exceptionnelle, puisque je ne l’ai rencontré nulle part. J’ai rencontré en revanche des Français paisibles, que jusque-là je ne méprisais pas, qui n’auraient pas eu l’idée d’aller eux-même tuer, mais qui baignaient dans cette atmosphère imprégnée de sang avec un visible plaisir. Pour ceux-là je ne pourrai jamais avoir à l’avenir aucune estime.

Une telle atmosphère efface aussitôt le but même de la lutte. Car on ne peut formuler le but qu’en le ramenant au bien public, au bien des hommes – et les hommes sont de nulle valeur. Dans un pays où les pauvres sont, en très grande majorité, des paysans, le mieux-être des paysans doit être un but essentiel pour tout groupement d’extrême gauche ; et cette guerre fut peut-être avant tout, au début, une guerre pour et contre le partage des terres. Eh bien, ces misérables et magnifiques paysans d’Aragon, restés si fiers sous les humiliations, n’étaient même pas pour les miliciens un objet de curiosité. Sans insolences, sans injures, sans brutalité – du moins je n’ai rien vu de tel, et je sais que vol et viol, dans les colonnes anarchistes, étaient passibles de la peine de mort – un abîme séparait les hommes armés de la population désarmée, un abîme tout à fait semblable à celui qui sépare les pauvres et les riches. Cela se sentait à l’attitude toujours un peu humble, soumise, craintive des uns, à l’aisance, la désinvolture, la condescendance des autres.

On part en volontaire, avec des idées de sacrifice, et on tombe dans une guerre qui ressemble à une guerre de mercenaires, avec beaucoup de cruautés en plus et le sens des égards dus à l’ennemi en moins. Je pourrais prolonger indéfiniment de telles réflexions, mais il faut se limiter. Depuis que j’ai été en Espagne, que j’entends, que je lis toutes sortes de considérations sur l’Espagne, je ne puis citer personne, hors vous seul, qui, à ma connaissance, ait baigné dans l’atmosphère de la guerre espagnole et y ait résisté. Vous êtes royaliste, disciple de Drumont – que m’importe? Vous m’êtes plus proche, sans comparaison, que mes camarades des milices d’Aragon – ces camarades que, pourtant, j’aimais.

Ce que vous dites du nationalisme, de la guerre, de la politique extérieure française après la guerre m’est également allé au coeur. J’avais dix ans lors du traité de Versailles. Jusque-là j’avais été patriote avec toute l’exaltation des enfants en période de guerre. La volonté d’humilier l’ennemi vaincu, qui déborda partout à ce moment (et dans les années qui suivirent) d’une manière si répugnante, me guérit une fois pour toutes de ce patriotisme naïf. Les humiliations infligées par mon pays me sont plus douloureuses que celles qu’il peut subir. Je crains de vous avoir importuné par une lettre aussi longue. Il ne me reste qu’à vous exprimer ma vive admiration.

S. Weil.

Mlle Simone Weil,
3, rue Auguste-Comte, Paris (VIème).
P.s. : C’est machinalement que je vous ai mis mon adresse. Car, d’abord, je pense que vous devez avoir mieux à faire que de répondre aux lettres. Et puis je vais passer un ou deux mois en Italie, où une lettre de vous ne me suivrait peut-être pas sans être arrêtée au passage.

L’existence d’une autorité légitime met de la finalité dans les travaux et les actes de la vie sociale, une finalité autre que la soif de s’accroitre (seul motif reconnu par le libéralisme).
La légitimité, c’est la continuité dans le temps, la permanence, un invariant. Elle donne comme finalité à la vie sociale quelque chose qui existe et qui est conçu comme ayant toujours été et devant être toujours. Elle oblige les hommes à vouloir exactement ce qui est.
-Simone Weil

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Note importante : Je ne juge nullement le jeune homme qui sera mentionné dans ce billet. La journaliste de « La Presse » qui a rédigé l’article auquel je réponds a, en mon sens, manqué de professionnalisme en utilisant le récit d’un individu pour faire sa démonstration. Pour ma part, je ne fais que répondre à son article. Je ne connais pas ce jeune homme et je n’ai aucune raison de le juger.

Par les temps qui courent, bien de l’encre coule dans les quotidiens québécois à propos de la dichotomie qui existe entre écoles publiques/écoles privées. La thèse que soutiennent les libéraux et la gauche est que les gens riches désertent les écoles publiques pour migrer leurs enfants vers les écoles privées. Loin d’être en faveur d’une privatisation de l’éducation, je suis prêt à admettre qu’une telle migration peut bien être problématique.

Cependant, en tant que jeune père et ancien enseignant au secondaire, l’idée d’envoyer ma fille dans une école privée n’est pas une possibilité que j’écarte. On me demandera dès lors comment un tel dilemme pourrait bien être cohérent avec mes positions de gauche. C’est ce dont je traiterai dans l’essai que je partagerai avec vous aujourd’hui.

D’abord, je vous inviterai à lire cet article du quotidien « La presse » et revenez me voir par la suite.

Article sur Cyberpresse du 9 octobre 2009 : Écoles privées : performance à outrance

Le ton de l’article est clair : c’est une critique de l’école privée. On présente le jeune homme de 33 ans dans cet article comme quelqu’un qui a été marqué négativement par les exigences du Collège Jean-de-Brébeuf. Ayant 32 ans et ayant fréquenté ce même collège durant mes trois premières années de secondaire, je comprends très bien d’où il vient. J’ai fait partie de la cohorte qui a été admise l’année après la sienne (donc, la cohorte de George Laracque, il était mon camarade de classe). Je me suis fait mettre à la porte à la fin de ma troisième année de secondaire dudit collège.

Cela dit, il me semble que l’argument principal sous-tend l’article est, en mon sens, faible. On nous ferait sous-entendre avec la lecture de cet article que les exigences et l’autorité qui dérivent de collèges tels que Brébeuf peuvent mener à des angoisses et serait en négation avec le bien-être et l’émancipation de l’individu.

Loin d’être un apologiste de la domination ( et même très critique de cette dernière dans tous les contextes sociohistorique possibles), je postule tout de même que c’est plutôt l’état néo-libéral qui est à la source de ces angoisses.

La faiblesse des masses postmodernes provient du fait qu’il n’y a plus de figures d’autorité claire à laquelle se confronter et ceci nuit énormément à la constitution du sujet. Bref, c’est en se confrontant à la figure autoritaire du père et en le dépassant qu’on peut se constituer comme sujet fort. Or, le contexte dans lequel nous vivons nous confronte à un grand frère bienveillant qui veut nous aider à intégrer l’état néo-libéral dans toutes nos différences et tout le pluralisme du monde. Nous faisons face à un grand frère bienveillant qui veut nous aider à intégrer le marché. C’est cette logique, en mon sens, qui contribue à l’affaiblissement du sujet.

Et un sujet faible, lorsque confronté à une figure d’autorité pour une première fois tardivement, sera cassé.

***************

L’école publique, ayant embrassé les principes de la réforme socioconstructiviste des États généraux de 1996, est entrée complètement dans la logique du grand frère bienveillant. On ne parle plus d’élève, mais bien d’apprenant. On ne parle plus d’enseignants, mais bien d’accompagnateur. On ne fait plus d’examens, on met en pratique des situations d’évaluation de compétences…

Bref, tous ces détournements sémantiques et pratiques servent à une seule chose : enlever à ceux ou celles qui se retrouvent devant la salle de classe sa place en tant que figure d’autorité. Et on retrouve cette logique dès le primaire.

En quelque sorte, c’est l’opposition élève-enseignant qu’on tente de faire disparaître. On cherche à évaporer tout sentiment d’adversité et conflictuel dans ce monde. Sans adversité, pas de lutte pour la liberté. Et sans lutte pour la liberté, pas de liberté. La liberté est quelque chose qui se gagne, non pas quelque chose qui est transmise.

Je préfère que ma fille soit confrontée à une figure d’autorité claire et nette dans son éducation. Je pense sincèrement que ça lui donnera une base plus forte pour se développer une posture critique dans le monde. C’est donc dans ce sens que je pourrais réconcilier mon éthique libertaire de gauche et l’idée d’envoyer ma fille à une école privée. De toute évidence, si l’éducation publique était plus sensée, je ne penserais pas deux fois à envoyer ma fille dans une institution publique.

Mais j’ai encore un bon cinq ans pour régler ce dilemme et pour élever ma fille avant de partager son éducation avec une institution.

Inspired by Malinda’s contribution to this month’s Grown in My Heart Carnival, we will begin with a quote:

So. It’s pretty much accepted what this means: a name is not the totality of someone or something. We are given names; some of us struggle with them. There is Triona, for example, whose adoption was such a negative life event that when she got the chance, she changed her name to something her former boyfriend called her. (Triona, this is absolutely one of my favourite adoption stories.) There are also those who despise the names their natural parents gave them and the baggage they carry. Generations weighing down on them expecting them to be . . . ? Sometimes it’s impossible to live up to that family history.

My daughter was named for three Simones—Simone de Beauvoir, Simone Weil, and Simone Signoret—women I continue to admire for their intelligence, wit, and tenaciousness. The B choice was Miranda, from The Tempest. Putting the two names together was a possibility until someone pointed out that it sounded a bit “alpha”.

Simone’s second name was chosen with the help of a Chinese admin assistant in the publishing company were I worked before her adoption. No one knew about the adoption so I said we needed to name a Chinese character in a book we were working on. She wrote out 20 names and I put two together—Lai Ming—with some conviction. Yet I have never been sure that I did right by her with that particular gesture. Perhaps it was just meshing syllables nonsensically to please my Anglophone ear. The name could mean dawn. Originally, though, I was led to believe it meant beauty and wisdom.

Nonetheless. . .

There is an 81-year-old Malaysian actress named Lai Ming.

There is also a Lai Ming Hotel in Singapore. Definitely not fancy. Claims to be family oriented. Hmm.

There is a Chinese actress known as Joyce Tang Lai Ming. Looks like Lai Ming is her first name.

In China, my daughter’s burgundy and gold passport, property of the People’s Republic of China, was placed in my hands a few days before went went home. Her Chinese name appears on this passport. Because she continues to be a Chinese citizen and we renew this passport regularly, this name also continues to be a part of her life. It is constructed out of the locality of her birth and the name given to her by her foster mom. Additionally, when I applied for her health card back in ‘98, I discovered an error on her landing paper that had originated in China. As a result, the Ontario Ministry of Health would not recognize her English name. So for years, her Chinese name also appeared on her health card and I would get notices from the hospital where she was treated for asthma directed to “The guardian of. . .”

Today I know that Sim continues to have a connection to her Chinese name. She also has a love-hate relationship with the name “Simone” because those store carousels of key rings and door signs and other enticing bric-a-brac never include it! When she was about 4, there was a special craft display in our local mall and a guy was there who carved wooden keyrings out of names. I got her one for Christmas and she still has it and still talks about it.

I have no breathtaking insights into names and adoption and I’m sure my story falls short of the politically correct standard. But this is simply our story so far and really only my contribution to it.

It could still change.

“A necessidade desesperada de hoje não é a  de um número maior  de pessoas inteligentes nem talentosas, mas de pessoas com profundidade”. (Richard Foster – Celebração da Disciplina)

Minha homenagem aos homens e às mulheres que encontraram novo significado para suas vidas à luz do evangelho de Cristo. Elas, com suas vidas, inspiram outros a seguirem os mandamentos de Jesus Cristo. Eles só se tornaram o que foram porque resolveram seguir, profundamente, a Cristo, mediante o poder do Espírito. Soli Deo gloria!

Sei que hoje há outros como eles e elas foram, uns bem conhecidos, outros no anonimato perante as lentes da mídia. Que estes, no passado e no presente, nos mostrem que vale a pena amar uns aos outros como ele nos amou.

Cruz vazada. Ele morreu, mas ressuscitou!

“Nu posedam decat lucrurile la care renuntam. Cele la care nu renuntam ne scapa.” 

“De aceea fugim de vidul interior. Dumnezeu S-ar putea furisa in el.”

“Iubirea are nevoie de realitate. A iubi prin intermediul unei aparente corporale o fiinta imaginara, ce poate fi mai atroce in ziua cand lucrul acesta iti devine limpede? E pedeapsa pentru crima de a fi hranit iubirea cu imaginatie.”

“Dorinta de a fi inteles de altul inainte sa te fi limpezit pe tine insuti in fata propriilor tai ochi e o greseala. Inseamna a cauta in prietenie desfatari nemeritate.”

“Nu a incerca sa nu suferi, ori sa suferi mai putin; a incerca sa nu fii alterat de suferinta.”  

“Cu timpul te modifici: daca de-a lungul timpului iti mentii privirea orientata catre acelasi lucru, in cele din urma iluzia se ripiseste si realul apare. Conditia e ca atentia sa fie privire, iar nu atasament.”

 (Simone Weil, “Greutatea si harul”)

Except that he’s the wrong kind of ‘good person’. His contributions to radical feminism are the only good thing about him, IMO, and possibly his criticisms of Israel. Otherwise, his blind anti-Americanism and Gandhi-style moralism make him too viceful to be an overall admirable person in my eyes.

Take a look, for example, at an excerpt posted here.

One young woman came to my office the day after we had watched a documentary in class about the 1991 Gulf War and its devastatingly brutal effects — immediate and lingering — on the people of Iraq. The student is also active in the movement to support the Palestinian struggle for self-determination, and the day she came to see me was during a period in which Israeli attacks on Palestinians were intensifying.

We talked for some time about a number of political topics, but the conversation kept coming back to one main point: She hurt. As she was learning more about the suffering of others around the world, she felt pain. What does one do about such a feeling, knowing that one’s own government is either responsible for, or complicit in, so much of it? How does one stop feeling that pain, she asked.

I asked her whether she really wanted to wipe that feeling out of her life. Surely you know people, perhaps fellow students, who don’t seem to feel that pain, who ignore all that suffering, I told her. Do you want to become like them? No matter how much it hurts, would you rather not feel at all? Would you rather be willfully ignorant about what is happening?

When I saw this I was shocked. He is asking a woman to not flourish, which is immoral; but most importantly he’s asking her to not flourish because he thinks that in a guilt-ridden and pathological state (pain is a pathological state) she will somehow be a better person! This is a very concentrated example of so many problems with the Left, that I felt slightly nauseous when I read it.

I left this comment:

This is horrible. The behaviour of Robert Jensen is inexcusable.

No wonder there’s a reaction against the Left, with people detracting (moving to the Right). Guilt and self-righteousness only create the illusion of morality, but in fact participate in the same general problem that leads to supposedly ‘immoral’ things.

Guilt is the other side of narcissism. Robert Jensen should have told them: follow your dreams and be happy. Don’t beat yourself up over anything, as you are not carrying the world on your shoulders.

I bet Robert Jensen is an atheist too.

The only response I got was an idiotic one from a person I can’t take seriously. But I meant what I said. The attitude exemplified by Jensen in the above excerpt is what I will call Pathetic Pseudo-Christianity, approximately the same as what is commonly called ‘Judeo-Christian morality’. I don’t use the latter term because it is misleading, since all Judeo-Christian morality is not in fact like this.

• Pathetic Pseudo-Christianity: making yourself weak in order to have sympathy with others. It is based on the view that you help others by not being better than them, except this not-being-better is implemented not through an improvement in their condition so that they are equal to you, but a diminishing in your own condition so you are no better than them. It increases the overall amount of suffering and doesn’t help anyone at the end of the day.

Before anyone objects, I am not referring to giving charity and other such things. Giving charity does not make you weak unless you’re giving food that you need to live to others, thus having nothing left for yourself (and that rarely happens with charity, as we know). I’m talking about, for example, starving yourself in order to show solidarity.

• Violent Asceticism: one meaning of this term is the over-indulgence of the tendency to avoid ‘worldly distractions’ or consumption in general. Another is that of using asceticism to make a point and manipulate others; essentially passive-aggressiveness. The hunger strike is the best example of the latter, and Jainism, Freeganism, Platonism (the moral bit, not the metaphysical bit) and in some cases possibly anorexia are good examples of the former. The life of Simone Weil is relevant to this concept as well.

  Nietzsche describes this tendency excellently (On the Genealogy of Morals), though I think he is too charitable. It is ultimately not a spiritual tendency but an inability to cope with the world, and a mistaken attempt to fulfill the legitimate desire to find something greater than material things. It is that inexplicable urge to (self-) negation, the one that gripped the Buddha and Socrates. I suppose it has its place in the Universe, but it is not ultimate, and it is not ideal.

• Violent Altruism: a very common tendency to provide things to others in order to receive in return, or to do/say ‘good’ things to another in order to do violence to some third party. Violent altruists use their ‘rightness’ to harm others or to extract desired emotions or objects from them – this, by the way, is a much more common result of collectivism than actual goodness.

  An example: in Pakistan many girls would persecute me by trying to beat down my character, and in order to reduce my credibility would engage in an open display of pseudo-generosity in my presence. This was meant to act as a moral lesson to me so that I may be ’shamed’, but it did nothing but breed loathing and bitterness in my heart. Indeed, I might go so far as to say that it traumatized me (many tears have been shed, but God only knows if the wounds will heal. Yes, I’m being deliberately dramatic, but people should know how truly damaging such things can be).

• Moralism: I admit I am often guilty of this. It is desirable in small measure, as a way to encourage good behaviour, but beyond that measure it becomes judgmental bullying. Moralism is rejecting people for not being moral enough; persecuting or speaking ill of them because they violated the Sabbath, so to speak.

[Continuación final del extracto anterior]

Salvo error,  entre todos los hechos relativos a los romanos que se encuentran en la historia antigua sólo hay un ejemplo de bien perfectamente puro. Bajo el triunvirato, durante las proscripciones, los personajes consulares, los cónsules y pretores cuyos nombres figuraban en la lista abrazaban las rodillas de sus propios esclavos e imploraban su ayuda proclamándoles sus dueños y salvadores;  el orgullo romano no se mantenía en la desgracia. Los esclavos, con razón, les rechazaban. Sin embargo un romano, sin haber tenido que humillarse, fue ocultado por sus propios esclavos en su propia casa. Los soldados, que le habían visto entrar, torturaron a los esclavos para obligarles a entregar a su dueño. Los esclavos lo padecieron todo sin doblegarse. Pero el amo, desde su escondite, veía la tortura. No pudo soportar el espectáculo, se entregó a los soldados y fue muerto inmediatamente.

Quien tenga el corazón en su sitio, si tuviera que escoger entre varios destinos, optaría por ser, indiferentemente, ese amo o uno de sus esclavos, y no uno de los Escipiones, o César, Cicerón, Augusto, Virgilio o incluso alguno de los Gracos.

He aquí un ejemplo de lo que es legítimo admirar. En la historia hay pocas cosas perfectamente puras. La mayoría se refiere a personas cuyo nombre ha desaparecido, como ese romano o como los habitantes de Béziers a principios del siglo XIII. Si se busca nombres que evoquen la pureza se encontrarán pocos. En la historia griega a penas si se podría mencionar a Arístides, a Dión, el amigo de Platón, y a Agis, el joven rey socialista de Esparta, asesinado a los veinte años. En la historia de Francia,  ¿hay más nombres que el de Juana de Arco? No es seguro.

Pero eso importa poco. ¿Qué es lo que obliga a admirar muchas cosas? Lo esencial es admirar únicamente lo que se puede admirar con toda el alma. ¿Quién puede admirar con toda el alma a Alejandro, como no tenga bajeza de alma?

Hay gente que propone eliminar la enseñanza de la historia. Cierto es que habría que eliminar la absurda costumbre de sacar lecciones de la historia, al margen de un esqueleto de datos y puntos de referencia tan magro como sea posible, y dedicarle a la historia el mismo tipo de atención que a la literatura. Pero suprimir el estudio de la historia sería desastroso. Se percibe demasiado bien en los Estados Unidos qué es un pueblo carente de la dimensión del tiempo.

Hay quien propone enseñar la historia dejando las guerras en el último plano. Eso sería mentir. Bien advertimos hoy, y es igual de evidente en lo que se refiere al pasado, que para los pueblos no hay nada más importante que la guerra. De la guerra hay que hablar tanto o más que hoy, pero es preciso hacerlo de otra manera.

Para conocer el corazón humano no hay más procedimiento que el estudio de la historia unido a la experiencia de la vida, de modo que se iluminen mutuamente. Existe la obligación de proporcionar este alimento a los espíritus adolescentes y de los hombres. Pero es necesario que sea un alimento de verdad. No sólo que los hechos sean tan exactos como se pueda controlar, sino que además sean mostrados en su verdadera perspectiva en relación con el bien y el mal.

La historia es un tejido de bajezas y crueldades donde de tarde en tarde brillan unas gotas de pureza. Ocurre así ante todo porque entre los hombres hay poca pureza, y además porque la mayor parte de esa poca pureza permanece oculta. Hay que buscarla, si se puede, a partir de testimonios indirectos. Las iglesias románicas y el canto gregoriano sólo pudieron surgir entre poblaciones en las que había mucha más pureza que en los siglos posteriores. Hay que amar la parte muda, anónima, desaparecida.

Es absolutamente falso que un mecanismo providencial transmita lo mejor de cada época a la memoria de la posteridad. Por la naturaleza de las cosas, lo que se transmite es la falsa grandeza. Hay un mecanismo providencial, pero sólo opera mezclando un poco de grandeza auténtica a mucha falsa grandeza; a nosotros nos corresponde discernirlas. Sin eso estaríamos perdidos.

La transmisión de la falsa grandeza a través de los siglos no es algo específico de la historia. Es una ley general. También gobierna, por ejemplo, las letras y las artes. Hay un cierto predominio del talento literario a través de los siglos que responde al predominio espacial del talento político; se trata de predominios que tienen la misma naturaleza, temporal en ambos casos, y que pertenecen los dos al ámbito de la materia y de la fuerza, igualmente bajos. De modo que pueden ser objeto de trato y cambio.

Ariosto no se sonrojó al decirle a su señor, el duque de Este, en su poema, algo parecido a lo siguiente: Estoy en tu poder a lo largo de mi vida, y de ti depende que sea rico o pobre. Pero tu nombre está en mi poder para el futuro, y de mí depende que dentro de trescientos años no se hable para nada de ti, y de que se hable bien o se hable mal. Nos conviene entendernos. Dame tu favor y tu riqueza, y tu elogio lo haré yo.

Virgilio tenía un sentido de las conveniencias demasiado agudo para exponer públicamente un trato de este género. Pero en realidad tal es el trato que hizo con Augusto. Sus versos resultan con frecuencia deliciosos, pero a pesar de ello habría que encontrar para él y para los que son como él un nombre que no fuera el de poeta. La poesía no se vende. Dios sería injusto si la Eneida, compuesta en estas condiciones, tuviera tanto valor como la Ilíada. Pero Dios es justo, y la Eneida dista infinitamente de tener ese valor.

No sólo en el estudio de la historia: en todos los estudios propuestos a los niños se desprecia el bien; y, cuando llegan a hombres, sólo encuentran en el alimento que se ofrece a sus espíritus motivos para encallecerse en tal desprecio.

Es evidente, es una verdad que se ha convertido en lugar común entre los niños y entre los hombres, que el talento no tiene nada que ver con la moralidad. Pero a la admiración de los niños únicamente se propone el talento en todos los ámbitos. En todas las manifestaciones de talento, cualquiera que sean, ven desplegada con impudicia la ausencia de las virtudes que se les recomienda practicar. ¿Qué hay que concluir, como no sea que la virtud es propia de la mediocridad? Este convencimiento ha penetrado tanto que la propia palabra virtud, en otro tiempo cargada de sentido, es ahora ridícula, al igual que las palabras honradez y bondad. Los ingleses están más próximos a su pasado que los demás países, de modo tal que hoy no hay en la lengua francesa palabra alguna que pueda traducir good y wicked.

Un niño que ve glorificar en las clases de historia la crueldad y la ambición; en las de literatura, el egoísmo, el orgullo, la vanidad y el ansia por destacar; en las de ciencia, todos los descubrimientos que han trastocado la vida de los hombres, sin tener en cuenta el método del descubrimiento ni los efectos de esa transformación, ¿cómo puede aprender a admirar el bien? Todo lo que intenta ir contra esa corriente tan general –por ejemplo, los elogios a Pasteur— suena a falso. En la atmósfera de la falsa grandeza resulta inútil querer recuperar lo verdadero. Hay que despreciar la falsa grandeza.

Cierto es que el talento no tiene que ver con la moralidad; pero ocurre que en el talento no hay grandeza alguna. Es falso que no haya vínculos entre la belleza perfecta, la verdad perfecta y la justicia perfecta; hay algo más que vínculos: hay una misteriosa unidad, pues uno es el bien.

Existe un punto de grandeza donde el genio creador de belleza, el genio revelador de verdad, el heroísmo y la santidad son indiscernibles. En los aledaños de ese punto se advierte que los géneros de grandeza tienden a confundirse. No es posible discernir en Giotto el genio del pintor y el espíritu franciscano; ni en los cuadros y los poemas de la secta Zen en China el genio del pintor o del poeta y el estado de iluminación mística; ni tampoco, cuando Velásquez pinta en lienzos reyes y mendigos, es posible discernir el genio del pintor y el amor ardiente e imparcial que traspasa el fondo de las almas. La Ilíada, las tragedias de Esquilo y  las de Sófocles llevan el sello evidente de que los poetas que la compusieron se hallaban en estado de santidad. Desde el punto de vista puramente poético, sin tener en cuenta nada más, es infinitamente preferible haber compuesto el Cántico de san Francisco de Asís, esa joya de belleza perfecta, que toda la obra de Victor Hugo. Racine escribió la única obra de toda la literatura francesa que puede colocarse al lado de las grandes obras maestras griegas en un momento en que su alma se veía atravesado por la conversión. Estaba lejos de la santidad cuando escribió sus otras obras, pero tampoco se encuentra en ellas esa belleza desgarradora. Una obra como King Lear es el fruto directo del puro espíritu de amor. La santidad resplandece en las iglesias románicas y en el canto gregoriano. Monteverdi, Bach y Mozart fueron seres puros tanto en su vida como en su obra.

Si hay genios en los que el genio es puro hasta el punto de estar manifiestamente cerca de la grandeza propia de los santos más perfectos, ¿por qué perder el tiempo admirando otros? A los otros se les puede emplear, buscar en ellos conocimiento y placer, pero ¿por qué amarles? ¿Por qué entregar el alma a otra cosa que el bien?…

(Simone Weil, extraído de Echar Raíces. Editorial Trotta. 1996)