New Europe College Yearbook 1996-1997

Transcription

New Europe College
Yearbook 1996-1997
ªtefan BORBÉLY
Mircea CÃRTÃRESCU
Cristina CODARCEA
Felicia DUMAS
Ioan ICÃ, Jr.
Ion MANOLESCU
Cãtãlin PARTENIE
Cristian PREDA
Mihai Sorin RÃDULESCU
Valentina SANDU-DEDIU
New Europe College
Yearbook 1996-1997
New Europe College
Yearbook 1996-1997
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
MIRCEA CÃRTÃRESCU
CRISTINA CODARCEA
FELICIA DUMAS
IOAN ICÃ, JR.
ION MANOLESCU
CÃTÃLIN PARTENIE
CRISTIAN PREDA
MIHAI SORIN RÃDULESCU
VALENTINA SANDU-DEDIU
Tipãrirea acestui volum a fost finanþatã de
Published with the financial support of
Copyright © 2000 - New Europe College
ISBN 973 – 98624 – 4 – 6
NEW EUROPE COLLEGE
Str. Plantelor 21
70309 Bucharest
Romania
Tel. (+40-1) 327.00.35, Fax (+40-1) 327.07.74
E-mail: [email protected]
CONTENTS
ANDREI PLEªU
ELITEN - OST UND WEST
7
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
A PSYCHOHISTORICAL INSIGHT INTO PAST
AND PRESENT ROMANIA
23
MIRCEA CÃRTÃRESCU
POSTMODERNITY AS A ‘WEAK’ ONTOLOGICAL,
EPISTEMOLOGICAL AND HISTORICAL EXPERIENCE
93
CRISTINA CODARCEA
RAPPORTS DE POUVOIR ET STRATÉGIE DE GOUVERNEMENT
DANS LA VALACHIE DU XVIIe SIÈCLE
129
FELICIA DUMAS
LE GESTUEL LITURGIQUE ORTHODOXE - DIMENSIONS SÉMANTIQUES
ET PRAGMATIQUES
151
IOAN ICÃ, JR.
POLITICAL EUROPE, SPIRITUAL EUROPE
191
ION MANOLESCU
VISUAL TECHNIQUES IN POSTMODERN LITERATURE. TOWARDS AN
INTERDISCIPLINARY APPROACH OF FICTIONAL PERSPECTIVE
239
CÃTÃLIN PARTENIE
PLATONIC IMMORTALITY
REVISITED
277
CRISTIAN PREDA
NOUS, LES MODERNES
301
SUR L’ARISTOCRATIE ROUMAINE DE L’ENTRE-DEUX-GUERRES
337
COMMON SUBJECTS IN MUSICAL RHETORIC AND STYLISTICS.
ASPECTS AND PROPOSALS
367
COLEGIUL „NOUA EUROPÃ”
411
NEW EUROPE COLLEGE
415
NEW EUROPE COLLEGE
419
ELITEN - OST UND WEST
ANDREI PLEªU
Hoffentlich verstoße ich nicht allzu sehr gegen den Geist der
Reuter-Konferenzen, wenn ich Ihnen an Stelle eines Vortrags etwas bieten
werde, das eher einer Erzählung nahe kommt. Mit anderen Worten, ich
ziehe es vor episch zu sein, und nicht analytisch, und das aus zwei
Gründen. Zum einen komme ich aus einem ehemals kommunistischen
Land, in dem das Thema Eliten längst als Lebenserfahrung existierte, bevor
es zum Thema von Reflexionen, Forschung und akademischer Debatte
wurde. Die Eliten waren bei uns der Grundstoff für einen Krieg. Die Frage,
die unser Leben nach 1945 prägte, war nicht „Was sind Eliten und welches
ist ihre Rolle im sozialen Leben?“, sondern „Wie können die Eliten liquidiert
werden, wie kann man die Welt von ihrer verhängnis- und unheilvollen
Präsenz befreien?“ Es wurde nicht nach einem Konzept gesucht, sondern
nach einer Strategie. Niemand verlor Zeit mit Definitionen, und
seltsamerweise - obwohl eine gründliche Definition fehlte – wußte
jedermann sehr wohl, um was es ging… Der zweite Grund, weshalb ich
mich für die epische Variante entschied, hat mit der Art und Weise zu
tun, wie ich in diesem Moment die optimale Entwicklung eines
Ost-West-Dialogs verstehe. Meiner Ansicht nach ist Osteuropa nach 1989
viel zu schnell zu einem Studienobjekt für Westeuropa geworden. Die
theoretische Konstruktion kam zustande, bevor die Tatsachen gründlich
verdaut waren. Wir wurden systematisiert, bevor wir gehört wurden, bevor
uns bis zu Ende zugehört wurde. Damit möchte ich keineswegs sagen, es
gäbe kein umfassendes Inventar der osteuropäischen „Wirklichkeiten”,
und ich möchte auch nicht die Pose des unverstandenen Opfers
einnehmen, beziehungsweise noch unterstreichen. Ich behaupte nur, dass
noch viel zu akkumulieren ist auf der Ebene der offenbarenden kleinen
Geschichte, der unermerklichen alltäglichen Promiskuität. Gebraucht wird
ein naiver, klatschender und tratschender Diogenes Laertius des Osten,
der das „Fleisch“ der totalitaristischen Erfahrung wieder ins rechte Licht
rückt, das von politischen Analytikern, von Soziologen, Historikern und
Wirtschaftsexperten von überall zu früh seziert und obduziert worden ist.
7
N.E.C. Yearbook 1996-1997
Kurz gesagt, Osteuropa hat seine Geschichte noch nicht zu Ende erzählt.
Deswegen erscheint mir jede epische Episode willkommen.
Ich beginne jedoch mit einer Geschichte aus Westeuropa. Es war in
1992, und ich befand mich in diesem Saal als Gast des Rektors. Ich hielt
einen Vortrag über Engel, mein damaliges Thema, exotisch genug, um
gleichzeitig Neugier und Mißtrauen zu erwecken. Zwangsläufig kam ich
auf die himmlischen Hierarchien zu sprechen, mit den neun Stufen, die
Pseudo-Dionysios Aeropagita aufzählt: von der niedrigsten Stufe der
einfachen Engel, die gleich über dem Menschen angesiedelt sind, bis zur
höchsten Stufe der Serafim, in unmittelbarer Nähe Gottes. Bei den
Diskussionen, die auf meinen Vortrag folgten, bemerkte ein bewanderter
Kollege aus Chicago – später wurden wir dann gute Freunde – halb im
Spaß, halb ernst, dass die Hierarchien von Dionysios eine elitär-diskriminatorische Auffassung verraten. Schon der Terminus „Hierarchie“
signalisiert – durch seinen Rigorismus – eine Sklerose der Werte, ihr
Verharren in einer ungerechten Schichtung.
Ich brauche wohl nicht zu erwähnen, dass ich überrumpelt war. Bis
dahin hatte ich niemals daran gedacht, die hierarchische Aufstellung der
Engelscharen als Ausdruck der Ungleichheit, als mangelhaften
demokratischen Geist zu analysieren und zu deuten. Mir schien, dass
unter dem göttlichen Auge alle, die ihren Zweck erfüllen, gleich sind. Es
gibt zugegebenermaßen in der erschaffenen Welt eine Art „Arbeitsteilung“,
die jedem eine besondere Rolle zuteilt, auf der einen oder anderen
kosmischen Stufe. Diese Rollenverteilung führt jedoch nicht zwangsläufig
zu ungerechten Verhältnissen der Unterordnung. Der Mensch,
beispielsweise, befindet sich unter den Engeln angesiedelt, ist ihnen aber
nicht unbedingt unterlegen – im Gegenteil, er kann „eine Überengelheit“
sein, wie Angelus Silesius sagt, und folglich in der Rolle des Zentrums des
Universums verteilt werden. Keine despotisch aufgezwungene
Ungleichheit sah ich im Konzept der „Hierarchie“, sondern eine freiwillig
eingegangene, lebendige und funktionelle Ordnung.
Die Bemerkung des amerikanischen Kollegen ließ mich eine – für mich
neue – Empfindlichkeit gegenüber dem Eliten-Problem entdecken. Ich
war in einem Umfeld aufgewachsen, in dem der Terminus „Elite“ keinerlei
negativen Beigeschmack zuließ. Ich glaubte mit einer nahezu schülerhaften
Unschuld, dass dieser Terminus ausschließlich etwas Gutes bezeichnet,
etwas Schönes, Edles, Wünschenswertes. Nur die Aktivisten der
Kommunistischen Partei reagierten allergisch, wenn er beschworen wurde;
für sie gab es nur eine einzige akzeptable Elite: die Gegen-Elite. Und
8
ANDREI PLEªU
siehe, hier im Westen angelangt, wurde mir – ganz unerwartet und aus
einem völlig anderen Blickwinkel – eingeredet, dass mit den Eliten etwas
nicht stimme. Dass die Legitimität der Eliten keine „Selbstverständlichkeit“
sei. Ich begann meine Unschuld zu verlieren...
Doch das war weder das erste, noch das letzte Mal, dass sich meine
unter dem Kommunismus angesammelte Lebenserfahrung als
unverwendbar in der „freien Welt“ erwies. Selbst wenn wir scheinbar
dasselbe sagen, denken wir häufig an unterschiedliche Wirklichkeiten.
Oftmals können wir gar nicht dasselbe sagen. Zwischen den beiden Welten
hat sich eine komplizierte Sammlung von Dyssymmetrien angehäuft, die
eine Wiedervereinigung mindestens in demselben Maße verhindert wie
die ökonomischen Dysfunktionen. Erlauben Sie mir einige Beispiele
anzuführen. Nach 1989 galten für die ehemals kommunistischen Länder
zwei Ziele als dringend und prioritär: die Gründung eines politischen
Mehrparteiensystems und der Übergang zur Marktwirtschaft - Demokratie
und Kapitalismus. Zumindest theoretisch waren unsere Bestrebungen frei
von jedwelcher Zweideutigkeit. Wir mußten nur die Ärmel hochkrempeln
– unter dem Expertenblick des Westens und mit dessen großzügiger Hilfe.
Nur war der Westen nicht mehr an jenem Punkt, an dem wir gewohnt
waren, ihn zu suchen. Solch eine Entdeckung konnte für uns nicht ohne
bedeutende taktische und strategische Folgen bleiben. Richard von
Weizsäcker, der damalige Bundespräsident, hatte gerade an die Politiker
seines Landes eine mutige Botschaft über den übertriebenen Anteil des
Parteikampfes im öffentlichen Leben gerichtet. Das öffentliche Interesse
laufe Gefahr vom Wahlkampf verraten zu werden. Der Mechanismus der
politischen Dispute zwischen den verschiedenen Parteiformationen
entwickele sich zum einzigen realen Inhalt der Demokratie, was
letztendlich einer Preisgabe der grundlegenden Prinzipien der Demokratie
gleichkomme. Möglicherweise sollten wir unsere Vorstellungskraft
einsetzten, um neue Funktionsformen des politischen Lebens anzupeilen
und auszuloten, in denen die Parteien nicht mehr die überlegene Prägnanz
von heute haben.
In den rumänischen Medien sorgte dieserart Argumentation für
Verblüffung. Die demokratischen Geister waren verschnupft, die
Krypto-Kommunisten jubilierten. Denn das hieße, wir hätten auf ein
Auslaufmodel gesetzt. Wir wollten ein System übernehmen, das sich seine
Erfinder vorbereiteten aufzugeben. Herr von Weizsäcker bezog sich aber
eindeutig nicht auf die Transitions-Länder, und es wäre zumindest
unangebracht eine Idee in Rumänien anwenden zu wollen, die nur in
9
einem stabilen demokratischen Kontext Sinn machte. Psychologisch
gesehen ist es jedoch zumindest unangenehm sich für ein Ziel stark zu
machen, dessen Risse und Sprünge so leicht vorhersehbar sind. Man steht
kurz vor der Hochzeit, und da wird einem die Scheidung angekündigt.
Nüchternheit ist kaum eine gute Prämisse für den reformierenden
Enthusiasmus. Das ist auch der Grund, weshalb ich lange Zeit sauer auf
André Glücksmann war, der im Dezember 1989 nach Bukarest kam und
unsere revolutionäre Euphorie zerstörte, indem er sagte: „Maintenant, c’est
le bordel qui commence!“ Er hatte Recht. Doch mit seinem Recht konnten
wir nichts anfangen.
Ähnliche Probleme tauchten auch im Zusammenhang mit der
Marktwirtschaft und im allgemeinen mit dem kapitalistischen Modell auf.
Wir waren daran gewöhnt, in der Schule, in den Stunden „Politische
Erziehung“, auf den offiziellen Konferenzen oder von den Massenmedien
über die Unzulänglichkeiten des Kapitalismus aus marxistischleninistischer Sicht informiert zu werden. Nach 1989 haben wir es nicht
mehr mit einer sozialistischen Kritik, sondern mit einer kapitalistischen
Kritik des Kapitalismus zu tun. Selbst George Soros hat zahlreiche
Bedenken im Zusammenhang mit dem zeitgenössischen Funktionieren
der Finanzmärkte und der internationalen Finanzorganisationen (siehe
u.a. seinen Artikel „The Capitalist Threat“, erschienen im „The Atlantic
Monthly“ im Februar 1997). Manche hyperentwickelte Länder, wie
beispielsweise Japan, zögern nicht, eine zentralistische Kontrolle über
Produktion und Handel auszuüben, es kommen geschickte Theoretiker
auf, von Galbraith bis hin zu Adolph Lowe, und beweisen, dass der
Mißerfolg der Planwirtschaft nicht durch eine abgöttische Verherrlichung
des Marktes korrigiert werden kann. Man spricht von einem schuldhaften
„Fundamentalismus“ des Liberalismus (John Gray), während die These
des dritten Wegs auf das Binom Kommunismus (beziehungsweise
Sozialdemokratie) - Kapitalismus (beziehungsweise Liberalismus)
verzichtet und, seit Anthony Giddens, immer mehr Gehör findet.
Keinen Augenblick stelle ich Berechtigung, Subtilität und Aktualität
dieser umfangreichen Debatte in Frage. Alles was ich sagen möchte ist,
dass wir, im Osten, nicht darauf vorbereitet sind, an ihr teilzunehmen
und sie uns anzueignen. Mehr noch, es wäre zu diesem Zeitpunkt riskant,
auf diese Debatte einzugehen und den Entschluß prompt zu handeln mit
Betrachtungen über eine Problematik zu ersetzen, die keinerlei Deckung
in unserer alltäglichen Erfahrung hat. Beispiele gibt es noch und noch: So
haben wir zum Beispiel jetzt das Gefühl, dass wir uns endlich wieder in
10
ANDREI PLEªU
den natürlichen Metabolismus der Geschichte einfügen können – für
unseren jetzigen Zustand ist Fukuyama unpassend und irritierend. Wir
haben das Gefühl, daß wir nach Jahrzehnten des mehr oder minder stark
proletarisch geprägten „Internationalismus“ nun unsere Identität
wiederfinden müssen – der Wirbelwind der Globalisierung setzt für uns
zu früh ein. Möglicherweise kommt alles zu früh, was in Form von
Ansprüchen vom Westen auf uns zukommt, nachdem wir jahrzehntelang
mit dem Gedanken lebten, der Bruch mit dem Kommunismus komme
möglicherweise zu spät... Wir sind auf gefährlicher Weise in dieser
drastischen Dialektik eines „Zu-früh – Zu-spät“ gefangen, was unter
Umständen lähmende Auswirkungen haben kann.
Und jetzt kommen wir auf die Eliten zu sprechen. Wahrscheinlich ist
meine These durchaus vorhersehbar nach alledem, was ich bereits gesagt
habe. Ich behaupte, dass das charakteristischste Programm des
Kommunismus und dessen dauerhafteste Auswirkung die Beseitigung der
Eliten war. Ich behaupte ferner, dass die Schwierigkeiten, mit denen
Osteuropa in der postkommunistischen Periode zu kämpfen hat, in großem
Maße von den zahlenmäßig und qualitativ nicht ausreichenden Eliten
bedingt sind, und dass folglich die „Neuerfindung“ der Eliten lebenswichtig
ist. Der globale Kontext aber, und die zu diesem Zeitpunkt dominante
Ideologie, neigen eher zur Relativierung der Eliten. Wir befinden uns
demnach in der Situation, ein Projekt zur Rekonstruktion der Eliten auf
dem Hintergrund einer anti-elitaristischen Rhetorik vorzuschlagen. Eine
weitere Asymmetrie also, zusätzlich zu denjenigen, die ich erst vorhin
erwähnt habe. Allerdings mit dem Unterschied, dass ich diesmal eine
Nuancierung hinzufügen muß, die mir wesentlich erscheint: Ich glaube,
dass unsere Verspätung in diesem Falle nicht verhängnisvoll ist. Ich glaube,
es ist vorteilhafter, vor sich die Aussicht auf eine Rekonstruktion der Eliten
zu haben, als jene ihrer Nivellierung. Ich glaube, was zu früh für uns ist,
ist diesmal auch für den Rest der Welt zu früh. Und mehr noch, ich glaube,
dass die derzeitige Modetendenz, Ansehen und Autorität der Eliten zu
beschneiden, unproduktiv ist und auch niemals willkommen sein wird.
I. Einer der am häufigsten im modernen politischen Kommentar
anzutreffenden Gemeinplatz ist derjenige, der den Nazismus als Doktrin
des Rassenhasses im Unterschied zum Kommunismus definiert, der eine
Doktrin des Klassenhasses sei. Im Grunde genommen übt der
Kommunismus seine Ressentiments nicht nach Klassenkriterien aus. Alle
sozialen Klassen sind potentielle Feinde, einschließlich der Klasse der
11
Proletarier. Worauf der Kommunismus wirklich abzielt sind die Eliten die bürgerlichen Eliten, aber auch die Eliten der Arbeiterschaft, der
Großgrundbesitzer, ebenso die Eliten des Bauerntums. Selbst die von der
Partei nach vorne, in Spitzenfunktionen, geschobene künstliche Elite, wird
ohne Vorurteile oder Bedenken liquidiert, sobald sie sich als eine Elite
mit Unabhängigkeitstendenzen erweist.
Der Kommunismus ist eine Theorie des Klassenkampfes, aber eine
Praxis der Zerstörung der Eliten. Dass die Dinge so stehen, beweist die
Bevölkerung der kommunistischen Gefängnisse, in denen Politiker,
Universitätsprofessoren und Großgrundbesitzer mit des Lesen und
Schreibens unkundigen Bauern, oder mit Arbeitern, Priestern, Gendarmen
und Studenten zusammen leben und leiden. Die Welt der
kommunistischen Konzentrationslager ist nicht der Ausdruck eines
Klassenmartyriums; es ist ein perfektes Resümee der Welt. Die 100.000.000
Toten – dies scheint die provisorische Bilanz des Weltkommunismus zu
sein – sind nicht 100.000.000 Bürgerliche. Der Titel, den Nicolas Werth
für das erste Kapitel des „Schwarzen Buches des Kommunismus“, das
Kapitel über die Sowjetunion, gewählt hat, ist äußerst treffend: „Ein Staat
gegen sein Volk“. Nicht gegen eine Klasse oder eine Idee – gegen ein
ganzes Volk. Die Rhetorik der Repression sprach selbstverständlich von
den Arbeitern und Bauern als die Initiatoren und Nutznießer der
„Revolution“, in Wirklichkeit aber zählten sie auch oft zu den Opfern.
Die Bolschewiken-Kommissare starteten umfassende und blutige
Kampagnen zur „Befriedung der Dörfer“, die sich der Kollektivisierung
widersetzen. Eine Statistik des Volkskommissariats für Arbeit stellte fest –
um nur ein Beispiel anzuführen –, dass im Jahre 1920 rund 77 Prozent der
großen und mittelständischen Unternehmen Rußlands von
Protestbewegungen und Streiks erfaßt waren. Ein „engagierter“ Journalist
der Prawda kommentierte kategorisch: „Der beste Platz für einen
Streikenden, diese gelbe und schädliche Mücke, ist das Konzentrationslager.“ „Der reiche und habsüchtige Bauer“, „der Wucherer“, „der
blutsaugende Kulak“ sind in der Parteisprache die Ziele der revolutionären
Justiz, ebenso wie die intellektuellen „Schmarotzer“ und die „Banditen“
von Großgrundbesitzer. Ein subalterner Beamter schlug Lenin einen
anderen Namen für das „Volkskommissariat für Justiz“ vor: „Volkskommissariat für Soziale Extermination“. „Exzellente Idee“, antwortete
Lenin. „Auch ich sehe die Dinge genau so. Unglücklicherweise können
wir es aber so nicht nennen.“ Letztendlich aber war der Name nicht
wichtig. Wichtig war das Prinzip selbst, die Extermination des Feindes,
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ANDREI PLEªU
und der Feind konnte – auch wenn er als Klassenfeind bezeichnet wurde
– überall angesiedelt werden.
In Rumänien wurden allein in den Jahren 1951 und 1952 etwa 35.000
Bauern verhaftet, von denen rund 29.000 wohlhabende Bauern waren.
Nach welchen Kriterien aber wurde der „Feind“ identifiziert und weshalb
behaupten wir, dass seine Zugehörigkeit zu einer bestimmten Elite sein
distinktives Merkmal war? Ich möchte da Metaphysik oder Psychologie
nicht überstrapazieren und der unmenschlichen nazistischen Arroganz
die trivialen kommunistischen Ressentiments gegenüberstellen. Eindeutig
aber erscheint mir, dass der kommunistische Ideologe mit einer
beeindruckenden und beängstigenden Unterscheidungsfähigkeit die
„hohen“ Register einer jeden sozialen Klasse lokalisierte und sich dann
mobilisierte, um sie zu zerstören, denn er wußte, dass eben diese Register
das Hindernis für sein großes Projekt darstellten. Man wollte den „neuen
Menschen“ schaffen, einen Menschen mit anderen Kriterien und Optionen
als der traditionelle Mensch. Das Schlüsselwort bei der Umsetzung dieses
Projektes war „Umerziehung“: andere Modelle, andere Erinnerungen,
andere Sitten. Und wer ist, auf einen ersten Blick, immun gegenüber der
„Umerziehung“? (Ich sage >auf einen ersten Blick<, denn Immunität
gegenüber auferzwungener Umerziehung gibt es nicht.) Die Antwort
finden wir bei Gorki, in einem Brief an Romain Rolland: als erstes die
„Intelligenzija“ mit ihren stabilen Wertvorstellungen und Optionen, die
zu bewahren sie neigt, und dann der „reiche Bauer“ mit seinem Sinn für
Eigentum und Besitz. Gegen diese, sagt Gorki, müsse ein unbarmherziger
Bürgerkrieg geführt werden. „Und im Krieg wird getötet.“
Alles, was für das menschliche Individuum einen identitätsverleihenden
Wert darstellt, alles, was ihm Ansehen und Autorität innerhalb seiner Klasse
verleiht, mußte abgeschafft werden. Denn schließlich sind Identität und
Autorität Eigenschaften des alten Menschen... Ein Tscheka-Offizier sagte
1918 zu seinen Untergeordneten: „Sucht während der Ermittlungen nicht
nach Unterlagen und Beweisen für die Taten des Angeklagten (...). Die
erste Frage, die ihr ihm stellen müßt, ist (...), welches sind seine Herkunft,
Erziehung, Ausbildung, Beruf.“ Das Ergebnis muß Entwurzelung sein, etwas
was in der Alchemie nigredo heißt, die Rückführung der Welt in den
Zustand der „materia prima“. Die Bauern-Elite muß zerstört werden, weil
sie zu stark an Grund und Boden, an Bräuche, an die Vergangenheit
gebunden ist. Die Arbeiter-Elite muß liquidiert werden, weil sie zu stark
dem nicht ideologisierbaren Kult des Handwerks verbunden ist und nicht
nur das Bewußtsein ihrer Rechte, sondern auch die Kraft hat, diese
13
durchzusetzen. Die Intellektuellen müssen liquidiert werden, weil sie einen
übermäßig kritischen Geist haben und mit riskanten Konzepten wie
„Wahrheit“, „Kultur“, „Ideen“, usw. operierten. Die Religion muß
kompromittiert, die Familie politisiert, die Schule umstrukturiert werden.
Eine neue Geschichtstheorie wird ausgearbeitet, dergemäß
Persönlichkeiten einfach nur Auswüchse der Massen sind, aus den
Lehrbüchern für Geschichte werden die nonkonformistischen Helden
verbannt und aus jenen für Literatur die Autoren, die nach
marxistisch-leninistischem Kanon nicht systematisiert werden können. Fein
geregelt wird auch die Wellenlänge der Bewunderung, letztendlich eine
gefährliche Gemütsbewegung, wird sie nicht – mit ideologischer
Wachsamkeit – richtig ausgerichtet. Die Geschichte wird passend
umgeschrieben, bis sie Fiktion ist, während der Fiktion so lange angedroht
wird „realistisch“ zu werden, bis sie letztendlich Propaganda ist. Reichen
werden zu Bettlern, der soziale und menschliche Abschaum macht
Karriere.
Der Sinn für Hierarchien wird vergewaltigt, bagatellisiert, mit
Schuldgefühlen behaftet. Das Innenleben wird wie eine Subversion
behandelt. Hochgespielt und hochbewertet werden hingegen
geschwätzige Äußerlichkeit und oberflächlicher Dynamismus. Auf dem
Weg zum „neuen Menschen“ entstehen die Zwischenspezies des
Aktivisten und dessen romantische Variante – der Agitator. Der
Kommunismus setzt sich auf fast allen Gebieten als Weltmeister der
Planimetrie durch. Sein Universum ist ein Art Eislaufplatz ohne
Anhaltspunkte, ein Wahnsinn der Gleichmacherei. Untergründigkeiten
werden in der Regel als suspekt entlarvt, die Höhe als einfache
Suprastrukturen entmythisiert. Die Tiefgründigkeit der Geschichte wird
auf das „Schaubild“ des Klassenkampfes reduziert. Die Seelentiefe ist
irgendein unwichtiger Reflex der sozialen Epidermis.
Was aber ist denn schließlich, unter all diesen Umständen, mit den
Eliten geschehen? Einige sind ganz einfach verschwunden. In den
Gefängnissen oder in der anonymen Misere einer peripheren Existenz.
Andere haben diskret überlebt, am Rande, wie der verarmte Adel, zwar
noch fähig den Schein zu wahren, in Wirklichkeit aber entmannt: eine
Elite an ihrem Lebensabend, eine Untergrund-Elite, es ist gerade noch
soviel übrig, um die Erinnerung an die Normalität zu wahren. Man konnte
einen alten Schriftsteller in einer altmodischen Wohnung besuchen, oder
einen von den Behörden geduldeten Philosophen in einem Bergdorf. Man
entdeckte auf diese Weise eine zarte und schmächtige Kontinuität zu einem
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ANDREI PLEªU
anderen Zeitalter, das nach „Hörensagen“ angedeutet wurde, Gegenstand
einer diffusen, schuldhaften und ängstlichen Nostalgie. Und schließlich
gab es eine dritte Kategorie, die ich als die „Glashaus-Elite“ bezeichnen
will. Es handelt sich um die enge Gemeinschaft der Schriftsteller und
Künstler, die in „Schaffensverbänden“ organisiert waren – eine Art gut
überwachter Reservationen, in denen ein akzeptables Überleben im
Gegenzug zu der Heraushaltung aus dem Jetzt, oder aber zu einem
triumphalistischen Mitmachen, angeboten wurde. Den Ideologen der
„engagierten Kunst“ gelang auf diese Weise eine perfekte Isolierung der
Künstler-Elite von dem realen Metabolismus der Gesellschaft. Die kulturelle
Elite war zum Exotismus verdammt.
Und was die anderen Eliten betrifft - diese werden entwurzelt, durch
die perfide Förderung eines krankhaften Wettbewerbsgeistes, der zu
schweren Mißbildungen führte. Die Bauernschaft wird ermutigt den
Arbeiter-Status, folglich städtischen Status, anzustreben, man spricht über
die „Abschaffung der Unterschiede zwischen Land und Stadt“. Die
Arbeiterschaft wird ihrerseits aufgefordert, in Richtung Intelektuellen-Status
zu migrieren. Es werden Parteischulen gegründet, die über Nacht
Hochschultitel an Vertreter des Proletariats verleihen, ausgewählt nach
Kriterien der dürftigen sozialen Herkunft und der politischen Treue. Leute
ohne Gymnasialabschluss erhalten Doktor- und akademische Titel. Auf
diese Weise wird schnellstens eine widerrechtliche Aneignung jeder
Kompetenz und die Diskreditierung jedwelcher echten Leistung erzielt.
Großangelegte Veranstaltungen für Laienkünstler werden veranstaltet, um
damit unter Beweis zu stellen, dass Kreativität nicht alleiniges Recht der
Berufskünstler und Talent eine demokratische Tugend ist, „la mieux
partagée du monde“. Nivellierung, Umsturz, Entwurzelung, Destabilisierung – das sind die alltäglichen Winkelzüge des Regimes. Das Verhältnis
zwischen Zentrum und Peripherie, zwischen Überlegenheit und
Unterlegenheit wird umgestülpt. Wer über echte Autorität verfügt hat keine
Macht, und wer die Macht besitzt hat keine Autorität.
II. Das ist im großen Ganzen der Hintergrund, auf dem sich die
revolutionären Änderungen vom Dezember 1989 abzeichneten. Und es
entbehrt nicht einer gewissen symbolischen Relevanz, dass diese
Änderungen von einer Straßenbewegung hervorgerufen wurden, deren
Helden, statistisch gesehen, keine Vertreter irgendeiner Elite waren. Eliten
produzieren eher „samtene Revolutionen“; blutige Revolutionen brauchen
die anonyme Vehemenz der Masse. Nach einem radikalen Umsturz der
15
alten Institutionen ergibt sich als Hauptproblem die Frage, wer übernimmt
die Zügel, wer definiert und wer verwaltet das plötzlich möglich
gewordene Neue? Aller Augen richten sich folglich auf den leer
gebliebenen Platz, auf den luftleeren Raum im Zentrum des Wirbelsturms
und suchen die eventuellen neuen Verwalter der Macht. Allein, nach 45
Jahren totalitären Abdriftens, ist das Angebot konfus, wenn es nicht gar
null ist. Zuerst suchen die Blicke in der unmittelbaren Nachbarschaft der
ehemaligen Führer. Die Euphorie nach der Beseitigung des Diktators
schwächt die Fehler seiner ehemaligen Mitarbeiter ab. Die Namen
mancher seiner einstigen Ministerpräsidenten ertönen, und diese erklären
sich durchaus bereit, sofort mit der Reform zu beginnen. Dann wird unter
den vom launenhaften Führer politisch verfolgten Aktivisten gesucht, unter
den Helden der Straße und unter den wenigen im öffentlichen Bewußtsein
bewahrten Dissidenten. Es ist offensichtlich – es gibt keine Reserve an
„Ersatz-Eliten“. Das postkommunistische Rumänien muß folglich eine Elite
erfinden - aus dem Nichts oder aus den hinfälligen und gebrechlichen
Überresten der alten. Die ehemalige Nomenklatura erweist sich
zwangsläufig als eine Kader-„Nachwuchsschule“, auf die zurückgegriffen
werden kann. Daneben tauchen von unbegründetem Ehrgeiz getriebene
Personen auf, Schlitzohren und nebulöse Romantiker, die aus Interesse
oder einfach blauäugig-treuherzig bereit sind, Verantwortung in diesem
Durcheinander des Augenblicks zu übernehmen. Das Spielfeld betritt auch
jene von mir vorher erwähnte „Glashaus-Elite“, die ihren Status
neudefinieren und durch einen endlich mutigen – und zudem lukrativen
– Aktivismus die schuldige Passivität von vor 1989 kompensieren muß.
Ein Teil der Intellektuellen spürt, dass die neuen Zeiten eine andere Art
von „Stars“ durchsetzen werden, und, aufgrund der Kriterien der Aktualität,
nehmen sie eine Umorientierung an ihrer Karriere vor: Sie werden
Journalisten, Politiker und – seltener – Geschäftsleute. Insgesamt kann
von einer spektakulären Umverteilung der Berufe gesprochen werden.
Recht häufig anzutreffen ist die Umwandlung von Ärzten, Ingenieuren,
Schriftstellern und Juristen in politische Analytiker (ein inflationärer Beruf),
in Diplomaten, Parteistreiter oder Herausgeber. Manche – j’en sais quelque
chose - werden Minister, Parlamentarier, Unternehmer. Nahezu alle
drängen sich unter den hochfeinen Reihen der „Zivilgesellschaft“, die
dazu neigt, in Zeiten des Umbruchs zum Homonym der „Elite“ zu werden.
Die berufliche Restrukturierung kommt leider – zumindest vorläufig – einer
allgemeinen Ent-Professionalisierung gleich. Alle Welt – vom Staatspräsidenten und Minister bis hin zum einfachen Straßenbudenbesitzer – befindet
16
ANDREI PLEªU
sich im Zustand des Debütanten, der das Fehlen einer entsprechenden
Ausbildung und Erfahrung durch Talent, konjunkturelle Geschicklichkeit,
Glück oder Unverfrorenheit zu kompensieren versucht. Der allgemeine
Eindruck ist, dass „wir keine Leute haben“, dass wir für keinen einzigen
Bereich einen überzeugenden Katalog von Experten aufstellen können.
Die jetzige Koalition kündigte im Wahlkampf 1996 an, sie werde 15.000
Spezialisten ans Ruder bringen. Sehr bald erwies sich, dass diese
Versprechung sich völlig an die Regeln eines jeden Wahlkampfes hielt:
Sie hatte keinerlei Deckung. Die 15.000 Spezialisten, genauer gesagt, ihr
Nichtvorhandensein, ist heute Anlaß für öffentlichen Spott und Hohn...
Charakteristisch ist die Tatsache, dass Bauernschaft und Arbeiterschaft,
also die eigentliche Masse der Bevölkerung, sich nur minimal an den
Belangen des Landes beteiligt. Ihrer elitären Dimension beraubt, haben
sie keinerlei klare Interessen mehr jenseits der alltäglichen ÜberlebensAnsprüche, sie haben keine Kriterien mehr, keine Überzeugungen, keine
Initiative. Sie sind leicht zu manipulieren und explodieren dann und wann,
getrieben von einem unbestimmten Herdentrieb, oder angestiftet von
geschickten und unlauteren Anführern. Auf die 1992 einigen Frauen vom
Lande gestellte Frage: „Welchen der beiden Kandidaten für das
Präsidialamt werden Sie wählen?“ kamen Antworten der Art: „Solange
dieser da Staatspräsident ist, werde ich ihn wählen, wenn der andere ans
Ruder kommt, wähle ich den!“, oder aber: „Ich wähle beide, Gott soll
entscheiden, welcher der bessere ist.“ Das Aufgeben der Entscheidungstreffung, die Delegierung des Optionsrechts beweisen eine akute
Identitätskrise. Und mit einer Wählerschaft, die sich in tiefer Identitätskrise
befindet, können demokratische Wahlen eine angemessene politische Elite
kaum korrekt destillieren.
Denn eine Führungs-Elite durch Wahlen zu erzielen setzt die politische
Kompetenz der Masse, mehr noch, eine gewisse Sensibilität der Masse
gegenüber der Tugenden der Elite, voraus. Echte Eliten sind keine sich
selbst genügende Minderheiten, kein einsamer Klub, der ein abstrakter
Superlativ verkörpert. Sie sind Ausdruck des Bedürfnisses des sozialen
Körpers nach Eliten, sie sind die Projektion eines gemeinschaftlichen
Affekts. Um zu entstehen, benötigen die Eliten selbstverständlich
menschliche „Qualität“, erlesene und gründlich gepflegte Eigenschaften,
aber sie brauchen auch eine gewisse Investition an Respekt seitens der
anderen, ein „Mandat“ des kollektiven Vertrauens. Die Eliten sind das
Korrelat einer Gemeinschaft, die eine Intuition der Eliten-Leistung hat und
sie bewundert. Mit anderen Worten, eine „Aristokratie“ der Kompetenz
17
kann es ohne die Aristophilie des sozialen Körpers nicht geben. Der
dramatischste Prozess aber, der in den ehemaligen kommunistischen
Ländern – außer der Zerstörung der Eliten – ablief, war die strategische
Untergrabung des Respekts gegenüber Eliten.
Die Folgen werden erst jetzt sichtbar, wenn wir merken, dass ein Grund
für das Fehlen der Eliten auch die Tatsache ist, dass wir kein „Organ“
mehr für Eliten haben. Die „Umerziehung“, der wir unterzogen wurden,
ist gelungen: Uns gefallen die Superlative nicht mehr - und Größe vertragen
wir auch nicht mehr. Nach Jahrzehnten des verstümmelnden und
verunstaltenden Gehorsams sind wir Zeugen der kompensierenden
Explosion eines zerstörerischen kritischen Geistes – niemand ist mehr
sicher vor der verallgemeinerten Wollust der Diskreditierung. Statt
beansprucht, genutzt und stimuliert zu werden, sind die Eliten eher
Gegenstand entfesselter Beschuldigungen. Die Qualifizierung zur Elite ist
verwässert und durch Atomisierung auf alle übertragen. Jeder Bürger fühlt
sich berechtigt, jedwelche Form von Herausragendem und Außergewöhnlichem anzufechten und in Frage zu stellen. Eine definitorische Funktion
der Eliten und zwar jene, als koagulierender Anhaltspunkt im magnetischen
Zentrum der Gesellschaft zu stehen, wird somit außer Kraft gesetzt.
Es scheint, wir haben es mit einem für post-revolutionäre
Geschichtsabläufe typischem Drehbuch zu tun, mit dem chaotischen
Drehbuch der „Transition“. Nach seiner Rückkehr aus Amerika beschreibt
Toqueville eine ähnliche Stimmung in Frankreich 1835: „Wo befinden
wir uns wohl? Gläubige Menschen bekämpfen die Freiheit, und Freunde
der Freiheit greifen die Religionen an; edle und großzügige Geister loben
das Sklaventum, und die niedrigen und senilen Gemüter empfehlen die
Unabhängigkeit; ehrliche und erleuchtete Bürger wehren sich gegen
jedwelchen Fortschritt, während Menschen, denen Patriotismus und Moral
abgehen, zu Aposteln der Zivilisation und des Lichtes werden! (...) …
Eine Welt, in der nichts mehr zueinander passt, in der die Tugend kein
Genie mehr hat, und das Genie keine Ehre mehr, in der Ordnungsliebe
mit Vorliebe für Tyrannen und der heilige Kult der Freiheit mit der
Verachtung gegenüber dem Gesetz verwechselt werden; eine Welt, in
der das Gewissen ein nur sehr undeutliches Licht auf die menschlichen
Aktionen wirft, in der nichts mehr verboten scheint, nichts mehr erlaubt,
nichts mehr ehrlich, noch schandhaft, noch wahr, noch falsch ist.“
Toqueville allerdings konnte auf ein Ende der Krise hoffen, denn er hatte
das Modell einer Lösung: die amerikanische Demokratie. Wir, in
Osteuropa, haben die Krise auch identifiziert. Wir wissen wie die ersten
18
ANDREI PLEªU
therapeutischen Manöver auszusehen haben. Wir sind desgleichen bereit,
ein nützliches Modell zu übernehmen, sei es westeuropäisch oder
amerikanisch. Doch das „Modell“ kämpft gegen andere Krankheiten als
wir. Genauer gesagt, was wir als Krankheit empfinden – die Zergliederung
der Eliten –, scheint auf der Ebene des Modells als ein Symptom der Normalität empfunden zu werden. Wir wollen das wieder aufbauen, was sich
das Modell vornimmt, abzubauen. Wiederaufbau mit „Déconstruction“…
III. Selbst die Definition des Terminus „Elite“ hat sich eindeutig in
Richtung Relativierung entwickelt. Zur Zeit von Vilfredo Pareto und
Gaetano Mosca hatte die „Elite“ noch eine Spur von Pracht, im Sinne der
alten Tradition der griechischen aber vor allem römischen Rhetorik. Ich
spreche von „Pracht“, im Sinne dass sich die Idee der menschlichen
Qualität (Tugend, Erkenntnis, Edelmut) mit der Idee der Größe, mit dem
monumentalen Ansehen verband. Im V. Buch der „Gesetze“ (730c – 731a)
verleiht Plato beispielsweise dem höheren Menschen die Attribute „mégas
kaì téleios“ – „groß und vollendet“. „Große“ Menschen sind auch die
Helden der „Vitae parallelae“ von Plutarch, sowie einige Gestalten der
griechischen Tragödie und die Aristokraten von Pindar. Doch die
rhetorische Emphase des „großen“ Menschen scheint in der westlichen
Zivilisation eher ein Erbe Ciceros zu sein (vergl. für diese Problematik
Hans Joachim Mette, „Der große Mensch“, in „Hermes. Zeitschrift für
klassische Philologie“, 89. Band, 1961, S. 332-334).
Doch gerade die Konnotation von Pracht, auf die ich mich beziehe,
hatte zur Folge, dass das Gerechtigkeitsempfinden einer gewissen „political
correctness“ irritierte. Aus Angst vor ungerechten, beleidigenden
Ausrutschern, vor unverdienten Hierarchisierungen, die zu Arroganz
führen, wurde der Kult der „Größe“ aufgegeben, und mit ihm gleichzeitig
auch der Kult der außergewöhnlichen menschlichen Qualität. Aus Angst
vor Elitarismus ging man zur Minimalisierung der Elite über. Zuerst wurde
ihre Einzigartigkeit (die Minderheit „der Besten“ – aristoi – Vertreter einer
Gemeinschaft) durch eine Mehrzahl ersetzt, die auf Berufe, Institutionen
und Funktionen gegliedert ist. Bereits 1936 sah Harold Lasswell in den
Eliten die Summe derjenigen, die effizienten Einfluß in unterschiedlichsten
sozialen Tätigkeitsbereichen besaßen: Politik, Geschäftswelt, Religion,
Armee, usw. Folglich Eliten – nicht Elite. Dann folgte eine funktionelle
Einschränkung des Terminus: Heute arbeiten die Sozialwissenschaften
mit einem Elitekonzept, das praktisch nur noch die elementare Mechanik
der Macht umfaßt. Eliten sind in jedem öffentlichen Bereich diejenige,
19
die leiten, die führen - Entscheidungsträger also. Das Substantiv ist
sozusagen zu einem einfachen Attribut geworden. Eliten bezeichnen nicht
länger eine beständige Eigenschaft, sondern eine vorübergehende Position.
Persönlichkeiten, Berühmtheiten, mit einem Wort, die „Stars“ (oder „die
Prominenten“ oder die VIPs) kommen und gehen, und Qualifikation ist
letztendlich eine Frage des „image“, ein Ergebnis der „publicity“.
Äußerst bedeutungsvoll ist die Mutation, die auf genau jenem Gebiet
stattfand, das normalerweise für die Formung der Eliten zuständig ist:
Erziehung und Bildung. John R. Searle macht in einer im Herbst 1993 in
„Daedalus“ veröffentlichten Studie auf die Spannung aufmerksam, die
bereits zu jenem Zeitpunkt herrschte – vor allem in der amerikanischen
akademischen Welt – zwischen der mehr oder minder traditionellen
Pädagogik, die den Prinzipien des abendländischen Rationalismus treu
blieb, und der „Neuen Welle“ der „postmodernen“ Pädagogik, die sich
unter dem Einfluß von Autoren wie Thomas Kuhn, Jacques Derrida, Richard
Rorty und in geringerem Maße Michel Foucault herausgebildet hatte. Eine
„links“-gefärbte Neulesung von Nietzsche stellt Konzepte mit einer
glorreichen und stabilen Herkunft in Frage: Es existiert keine Objektivität,
die Wahrheit wird eher fabriziert denn entdeckt, selbst der Begriff
Wissenschaft wird als „repressiv“ eingestuft. Der kulturelle Kanon, den
die Universitäten pflegen und fördern, ist ein politisches Konstrukt, ein
willkürlicher Werteblock, der erfunden wurde, um Außenstehende
manipulieren zu können. Auf den riesigen politischen „Mißbrauch“ der
traditionellen Universitäts-Eliten muß ebenfalls politisch reagiert werden.
„Böse“ Manipulation wird durch „gute“ Manipulation ersetzt. Und deshalb
werden auch die Rekrutierungsregeln für neue Professoren geändert.
Neudefiniert wird selbst das Konzept „intellektuelle Qualität“. Die
Pflichttugenden sind eher in der Richtung korrekte politische Einstellung,
Intensität des „Engagements“, oder Hingebung zur „Sache“ zu suchen,
als bei der tatsächlichen wissenschaftlichen Leistung. Wir erleben eine
radikale Restrukturierung der bestehenden Hierarchien und damit
eigentlich die prinzipielle Aufhebung jedwelcher Hierarchie. Es ist zum
Beispiel ungerecht, unbegründet und „elitär“ zu behaupten, dass manche
Bücher besser als andere, manche Theorien wahr und andere falsch sind,
oder aber dass ein beweiskräftiger Unterschied gemacht werden kann
zwischen der Bildungskultur und der Volkskultur.
Es ist nicht mein Ziel, auf dieser Konferenz die von Searle umrissene
„Revolution“ auf irgendeiner Art und Weise zu kommentieren oder zu
beurteilen. Ich frage mich aber, wie eine Versöhnung möglich wäre
20
ANDREI PLEªU
zwischen den Krisen, die der europäische Osten nach langen Jahrzehnten
kommunistischer Herrschaft nun erlebt, und dem reformatorischen Furor
der postmodernen Ideologien. Wie kann ein vernüftiger Sprung aus der
Vor-Moderne in die Post-Moderne gemacht werden, angenommen dieser
Sprung ist Pflicht?
Für mich ist dieses Problem nicht theoretischer Natur. Es handelt sich
nicht um eine abstrakte Debatte über die Philosophie der Bildung. Es
handelt sich um dringliche praktische Folgen. Als ich mir das Verständnis
und die Unterstützung des Kollegs, in dem wir uns heute befinden, zu
Nutze machte und 1994 in Bukarest ein kleines Institut für Fortgeschrittene
Studien gründete, war mein Projekt sehr klar: die Organisierung eines
Ambiente, eines Umfelds, in dem elitäre Begabung identifiziert,
wiederhergestellt, angeregt, stimuliert und ihr geholfen wird sich zu
verwirklichen. Die Stipendiaten sollten das bekommen, was ihnen weder
zur Zeit der Diktatur, noch jetzt in der Transition geboten wurde – einen
dezenten Lebensunterhalt, völlige Denk- und Ausdrucksfreiheit, modernes
Arbeitsinstrumentarium, Kontakte zur internationalen wissenschaftlichen
Elite. Von ihnen wurde erwartet, dass sie wöchentlich an einem
freundschaftlichen Kolloquium teilnahmen, auf dem der Reihe nach die
Projekte eines jeden besprochen werden. Das Ziel dabei ist unter anderem
die Wiedererlangung von intellektuellen Fertigkeiten, die dabei waren zu
verkümmern und zu verschwinden, infolge der durch den alten Lebensstil
aufgenötigten Marginalisierung (manchmals Verheimlichung), Isolation
und Mißtrauen. Ich hatte das Glück, Menschen und Institutionen zu finden,
deren subtiles und promptes Verständnis von Großzügigkeit begleitet
wurde. Doch sie, wie auch ich, mußten die Zeitzeichen bewältigen...
Dann und wann wird um unsere Institution herum das Rumoren von
„modehaften“ Befürchtungen laut: Ist dies nicht womöglich eine elitäre
Institution? Finanzieren wir nicht möglicherweise ein Glasperlenspiel? Wie
profitiert die „Gesellschaft“ von solch einer Aktivität? Der Subtext dieser
Befürchtungen besteht aus der Summe von Annahmen und Vorurteilen,
die - in guter Absicht - dazu neigen, mit Prinzipien in den Rekonstruktionsprozess im Osten einzugreifen, die im historischen, sozialen und
intellektuellen Umfeld des Westens geboren wurden. Man versucht die
Heilung einer Krankheit mit Hilfe einer Medikation, die für die Heilung
einer anderen gedacht ist. Man versucht Mangel und Elend mit einer
Philosophie der Überproduktion zu behandeln.
Die Länder des europäischen Ostens stehen zurzeit vor einer
Inventurliste mit Dringlichkeiten, auf der keine prioritäre Ordnung
21
festgelegt werden kann. Alles ist prioritär, und das ist das größte Hindernis
in der Wiedererlangung der Normalität. Die Rehabilitierung der
Lebensqualität ist nicht dringender als die Remodellierung der
Mentalitäten, und das aus dem einzigen Grund, dass ohne eine neue
Mentalität in Sachen Arbeit, Profit, Freiheit und Justiz keine Verbesserung
des Lebensstands stattfinden kann. Die Reform der Industrie ist nicht
dringender als die Reform der Schule; die Rückgabe der Liegenschaften
nicht dringender als die Institutionalisierung der zivilen Kontrolle über
das Militär, der Inflationsabbau nicht dringender als die Konsolidierung
der Zivilgesellschaft. Desgleichen ist die Verbesserung des öffentlichen
Unterrichtswesens nicht dringender als die Wiederherstellung der Eliten.
Ein gewisser bürokratischer Geiz versucht uns davon zu überzeugen, dass
die Bedürfnisse des Menschen sich nicht in einer organischen
Gleichzeitigkeit, sondern in buchhälterischer Folge abspielen. „Primum
vivere, deinde philosophari“, ein berühmter wie trivialer Sinnspruch, eine
Methode, das Minimale in einen primordialen Wert zu konvertieren. In
Wirklichkeit braucht ein ganzer Mensch - und eine gesunde Gesellschaft
- den Segen des gesicherten Lebensunterhalts und jenen der Reflexion
gleichzeitig, er braucht Socken und Träume, er braucht das alltägliche
Brot und Utopien. Im Osten fehlen uns vorläufig sowohl das eine wie
auch das andere. Aber wir können nicht akzeptieren, dass auf die jetzige
Generation nur das „vivere“ entfällt, während die Philosophie später
finanziert werden soll...
Was mich betrifft, so habe ich ein ideales Bild des „Kultur“-Sponsors
vor Augen, dem ich, so meine ich, einige Male bereits begegnet bin: Es ist
jemand, der – nachdem er nutzbringend in großangelegte Projekte für
Hochschulausbildung, in Forschungen über die Kunst des Regierens, in
Gesetzgebung, Liberalismus, Umweltschutz und Minderheiten investiert
hat, und ebenso in Programme zum wirtschaftlichen und institutionellen
Aufschwung - jetzt das Bedürfnis verspürt, aus dem Umstandsbedingten,
aus dem unmittelbar Vernünftigen auszusteigen, um in ein Glasperlenspiel
zu investieren. Die Finanzierung von Newtons Standort unter dem Apfel
oder der utopischen Schifffahrt von Kolumbus hat sich durchaus gelohnt
und als rentabel erwiesen. Die Menschen werden sicher nicht ärmer, wenn
sie dann und wann bereit sind, die Serafim zu ernähren...
22
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
Born in 1953, in Fagaraº
Ph.D., “Babeº-Bolyai” University of Cluj-Napoca, 1999
Dissertation: Heroes and Anti-Heroes as a Cultural Paradigm
Associate Professor in Comparative Literature and Mythology at the Faculty of
Letters, “Babeº-Bolyai” University of Cluj-Napoca
Associate Professor in Mythology at the “Avram Iancu” University of
Cluj-Napoca
Director of the Echinox cultural journal
Editor of the “Discobolul” series of the Dacia Publishing House, Cluj-Napoca
Founding member of ASPRO (Professional Writers’ Association of Romania),
member of the Writers’ Union of Romania, member of the International
Psychohistorical Association (IPA) and Head of its Romanian chapter,
co-founder of the Echinox and Apostrof Cultural Foundations, member of the
American Historical Association and of the Modern Language Association
(MLA).
Visiting Scholar, FEIE Scholarship, English Centre of PEN, London, 1990
Fulbright Scholar, Indiana University, Bloomington, 1992
Visiting Scholar, Columbia University, New York, 1997
Visiting Scholar, Institute for Psychohistory, New York, 1999
Visiting East European Scholar, St. John’s College, Oxford, 1999
Several national and international prizes and awards, among which the Debut
Prize of the Cluj Book Fair, 1995, the Debut Prize of the Writers’ Union of
Romania, 1995, the Certificate of Scholarly Achievement in Psychohistory,
New York, 1997
Books:
The Garden of Magister Thomas. Bucharest: Ed. Didacticã ºi Pedagogicã, 1995
Xenograms. Oradea: Ed. Cogito, 1997
The Dream of Steppenwolf. Cluj-Napoca: Dacia, 1999
Contributions to collective volumes of literary theory and history, over 300
essays and articles. Editor and translator.
A PSYCHOHISTORICAL INSIGHT INTO
PAST AND PRESENT ROMANIA
Theoretical Background
Since this text represents the very first extensive psychohistorical
approach to Romanian realities1 , linking together the past with the present
in order to suggest a psychogenic continuity of motifs and collective
obsessions, a theoretical outline of the method proves to be necessary.
As Lloyd deMause puts it2 , “psychohistory has become a new science
of patterns of historical motivations, less a division of history or psychology
than a replacement for sociology...”. According to Paul Monaco3 , a sharp
contributor to the same debate, “psychohistory is an approach, not a
discipline. That it is the most compelling of approaches to history is a
25
conviction, not a dogma. To claim to be formalizing psychohistory’s task
of creating a >>complete history of the human psyche<< is gratuitous.”
The above quotations delineate the two main trends psychohistorians
have acknowledged so far: Lloyd deMause, by far the most creative
psychohistorian ever, will always insist that psychohistory is a >>science<<
bearing clear marks of scholarly independence, while more cautious
historians will say it is a mere alternative >>approach<< to historical
realities.
“Psychohistory as a science - replies Lloyd deMause to Paul Monaco’s
position4 - will always be problem-centred, while history will always
remain period-centred. They are simply two different tasks.” As such,
psychohistory will not deal with the narrative history, that is a history
captured by facts and determined by singular events, such as wars, battles
or deeds of kings and politicians, but with the deep psychic motivations
of historical individuals and groups. “Understanding history through
motives and motives through history: this is psychohistory. Psyche causing
history, making it intelligible.”5
In order to achieve this, one has to discover the “general laws in
history”6 , how they function as a subliminal psychic motivation of
individuals or groups, and the way they create psychogenic corridors
throughout centuries and decades, transforming history into a “system”7 .
The linkage between psychohistory and the French “nouvelle histoire”, a
concept launched by Fernand Braudel and the school of Annales ESC, is
still a task to be completed, and this paper has no intention of going further
into details; however, it seems necessary to mention the fact that both are
built on the understanding of the “long run”, and on the methodological
rejection of the pre-eminence of the “event” in judging historical
development. Back in 1906, discussing Edouard Meyer’s ideas concerning
historical understanding, Max Weber8 sharply formulated that “one must
consider as meaningless for history, and as such alien to the rigors of a
scientific exposition: a. what is accidental; b. the >>free<< decision of
particular personalities and c. the influence of the ideas upon the activity
of people.” It is fairly interesting to note what Max Weber considered to
be essential for the real historical understanding: “a. the manifestations of
the masses as opposed to individual activity; b. what is typical as opposed
to what is unique; c. the evolution of communities and of social classes
and nations in particular, as opposed to the political activity of the
individuals.”
26
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
It goes without saying that Max Weber did not advocate the use of
psychoanalysis in order to reveal the collective depths of history. His ideas
probably bear the influence of naturalism and Zola, and for him history is
still a rational being, functioning however differently. The key word here
seems to be “evolution”, understood as “progress”. History “progresses”
with each experience left behind: it is an organism looking straight forward,
well-trained in the cult of the future so as not to repeat the gloomy mistakes
of the past. In this light, the past is considered to be an imperfect present,
and the present an imperfect future. What results is that progress proves to
be the endless history of self-deprecation and of resentment. It is easy to
understand now why it became the main religion of the proletarians.
Quite on the contrary, for psychohistorians the key word in
understanding history is “regression”. The term comes from Freud (Die
Traumdeutung,19009 ), and denotes the capacity of the psyche to shift
back in time in order to find a response to an external, traumatical stimulus.
Regression is always present in Lloyd deMause’s works, he was interested
in showing that the reaction of an individual or a group to a specific
historical event is ambivalent, the “internal development”10 based on the
regression to the informal material of the deep psyche being more relevant
than the particular, rational response of consciousness. The psyche and
consciousness act simply differently: as such, historical motivations appear
to be the “truth” of the psyche, and only on a secondary level the approval
of the rational mind.
This pattern of historical understanding is strictly evolutionary, and it
is based, methodologically speaking, on the capacity of regression of the
historian himself. The morphology of psychohistory supposes - and it is
interesting to note this detail - the openness to regression of historiography
itself. “Like all sciences - Lloyd deMause says -, psychohistory stands or
falls on the clarity and testability of its concepts, the breadth and parsimony
of its theories, the extent of its empirical evidence, and so on. What
Psychohistory does have and is distinguishes it, is a certain methodology
of discovery, a methodology which attempts to solve problems of historical
motivation with a unique blend of historical documentation, clinical
experience and the use of the researcher’s own emotions as the crucial
research tool for discovery.”11
As a consequence, historical motivations will be detected by
psychohistorians on a pre-verbal level, which implies, in a strict Freudian
lineage, focusing onto the material aspect of history. Materiality is the
“womb” of Psychohistory, and in this respect every interpretation will be
27
seen as a “re-birth” of the interpreter himself. The regression to the
pre-formal stage of the psyche drops psychohistory into myth and ritual:
history will be perceived as a re-enactment of previous complexes by
individuals and groups, and most of all as the subconscious repressions
and actualizations of an eternally present, always evolving psychic energy
in turmoil.
The term “re-enactment” defines the spontaneous, deep reaction of
the psyche to an external stimulus. To perform a re-enactment, the psyche
of an individual or of a group relies primarily on its own inner history,
which is by all means different from the “real”, external history,
event-centred and based on documents. Alice Miller for instance12
dissociates “regular” and “re-enactment” type responses in the life of
children. Regular answers to an external stimulus are the conventional
ones, approved by the adults and by society, and corresponding to the
Freudian paradigm of the reality principle. Re-enactments involve the
free associations of the deep psyche, structuring a “second”, personal
history for each individual and group. When meeting an external stimulus,
the individual or the group usually reaches back to this personal, backstage
history, through the spontaneous mechanism of abreaction13 . Establishing
its personal code, this response usually violates the existing social norms,
thus undermining official history, which is by definition a normative one.
“To a greater or lesser degree - Daniel Dervin states -, history exists as a
record of the violation of or adherence to lawfulness in its totality. And
since law signifies prior repression, the power of enacting presumes a
potential for anti-social acting out...”14
To give some examples: wars are interpreted by Lloyd deMause as
re-birth and re-sacralization complexes15 ; for Robert S. McCully16 ,
symbols are structured by a continuous re-shaping of a universal
“archetypal energy” (“...personality dynamics alone do not fully account
for symbol formation; archetypal energy must be activated to re-structure
images”); for Henry Ebel17 , Star Trek and Star Wars theology are based
on the central image of an irrational hostile force spread all over the
universe, a force which is “indifferent” to the needs of the humans, that is,
it cannot be personalized. The motif of the pre-formal energy explains the
exquisite interest of the psychohistorians in “group-fantasies”, collective
obsessions, in filth and dirt, interpreted as primary, ever existing,
birth-giving materials, opposed to the “clean” aspects of individuation. In
Lloyd deMause’s Fetal Origins of History18 , the pre-birth, foetal drama,
dominated by two placentas, the Nurturant one and the Poisonous one,
28
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
provides “the basis for historical group-fantasies”19 , and it is interpreted
as being “imprinted” as a “matrix” in the psychogenic soil of history.
“Although the form that this endlessly repeated death-and-rebirth foetal
drama takes in later life is determined by the kind of childrearing which is
experienced - Lloyd deMause writes20 -, the basic >>imprinted<< foetal
drama can nevertheless always be discovered behind all the other overlays,
pre-oedipal or oedipal.” The middle part of the quotation stresses the other
great obsession of psychohistory: childrearing, Lloyd deMause being the
editor and first contributor of a famous History of Childhood21 . I do believe
childrearing topics are overemphasized in contemporary Psychohistory,
excessively formalizing the discipline, and lessening its impact on the
academics or professionals belonging to other intellectual fields22 . That
is why I consider it necessary to restore the original meaning of childrearing,
as it appears in Lloyd deMause’s writings23 , where it denotes above all
the practical, empirical forms that foetal energy has taken throughout the
centuries. Since history is interpreted as a succession of re-birth
re-enactments, the evolution of childhood shows an endlessly re-staged
primal experience of birth or death, of liberty or suffocation. Each
generation regresses several times in its existence to the pre-formal level
of experiencing that something around it is “nurturant” or “poisonous”.
Historical crises activate the “poisonous” level of the collective
subconscious, while the sacrifice offered in response opens the “gates” of
the “nurturant” blood, relieving the “patients” from social anorexia.
Setting this perspective in contrast with the methodology of
psychoanalysis and applied psychology makes obvious the
anti-individuation complex of psychohistory. Regression to the informal
expresses in the very first instance a subconscious reluctance to accept
the burdens of individuation; the psyche feels protected by the informal,
just like a foetus feels protected in the mother’s womb. Facing an external
stimulus, every individual or group experiences the threat of individuation,
as an obligation to pour the reaction to the stimulus into a specific form,
to limit it.
Traditional history is the diachrony of successive limitations, while
psychohistory offers the joys of the unlimited regression to the informal.
Quite opposite to the progress-centred history outlined above, history, as
psychohistorians understand it, is a living organism composed of different
psychic strata, each of them potentially active in the fascinating Oriental
carpet embroidery of the present. This means that history is not lived as a
continuous separation of the present from the past, but as a dynamics of
29
present and past interchanges: the present can activate, as a response to
an external stimulus, whichever elements it wants from the past, and the
past can be interpreted in the focus of a psychodrama that the present is
always likely to perform. The model is subtly illustrated by Georges
Devereux24 , who insists in the first theoretical half of his paper on the
importance of selective regression for the understanding of history, seen
as a living body of energy and virtualities used by individuals and groups
in order to assimilate the experience of the present.
My paper will therefore deal with regressive shifts detectable in
Romanian history. Politicians as children, exonerated from their possible
sins by virtue of lack of responsibility, politicians as players or garbage
cleaners, not to mention the extensive myth of the politicians seen as a
distant “family”, parasiting on the “pure” soul and body of the sacred
motherland are all examples of regression. Significantly, this regression
appears whenever Romanians face a new historical experience. For
instance, in the very period I concluded my research for accomplishing
this paper (that is mid July 1997), the imagery of child sacrifice suddenly
burst out again in the Romanian media, after a long “amnesia” imposed
by the electoral victory in November 1996 of the Democratic
Convention25 . I must confess that as a trained psychohistorian I was pretty
sure that this outburst would appear, expressing the ambivalent public
fantasy of shame for Romania being rejected from admission into NATO
and the European Union (“we are a bad nation, killing our children; it is
not at all surprising that they disposed us”) and of the fear of being
abandoned again, as a helpless child of the unfair political sandbox. In
the same period, Bill Clinton’s strange visit to Bucharest, following USA’s
option to recommend the omission of Romania from the list of the former
communist countries invited to join NATO, got in the Romanian media
the connotation of a joyful carnival, performed by cheerful children who
gathered in the University Square as in the “womb” of the December
1989 revolution to admire a strange being - an American president using
athletic metaphors to boost Romania’s morale - and enjoy some benefits
of the great American civilization (Coca Cola, Pepsi Max) free of charge.
As if to test psychohistorical perceptions, a Romanian teenager was
presented as taking Bill Clinton’s seat while the American president was
speaking, childishly suggesting a familiarity coming from a nation
magnanimously ready to forgive its oppressors (as - textbooks teach us it has always done during its history …).
30
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
The following research will insist (not only as a tribute to Lloyd
deMause’s extraordinary work) on some aspects of childrearing in
Romanian history. I do believe that childrearing procedures haven’t
changed too much from the 19th century to the second half of the 20th
century, that is during the decades of modern Romanian history. Swaddling
is still dominant in the rural areas26 , but civilization has erased the habit
of using children as poison containers, enabling them with the projection
of demonic spirits. On the contrary, childrearing in Romania is rather
loose, taking up the forms of the Abandonment Mode described by Lloyd
deMause in The Evolution of Childhood27 . The literature and mass media
imagery of modern Romania are full of lost children, children who cannot
find their way back home, and children wandering on the roads alone.
Their parents are so “unattentive” that they do not even realize that the
children are missing, and when they do, they do not rush to find them. A
child, the subliminal message says, can always find its way back home,
because the centre of the house, dominated by the fireplace, is magical
and is provided with a magnetic power. The mythology of the fireplace
(“vatra”) is extremely persistent in the Romanian public fantasy, defining
a person from the point of view of the distance which separates him/her
from the centre. The centre, the “womb” is maternal, feminine, and it is
defined as being safe. On the other hand, leaving the “womb” is always
dangerous and treacherous. Being on the road is perceived as malevolent
in the Romanian subconscious. As a result, a complementary structure
emerges: the fireplace (the “vatra”) is assimilated with timelessness, defined
as a magical circle which one can leave only at the price of being exposed
to various dangers. As a consequence, history as an expression of Time is
full of bad projections in the Romanian public fantasy.
As they represent continuity - signifying the trespassing of the magic
circle of the family’s self-sufficiency and strife to build up an immemorial
fireplace protected from the intrusion of the invaders -, children are
perceived as threats in the Romanian public fantasy. Per definitionem,
they have always belonged to history. Traditional Romanian housebuilding
confirms the spiritual structure. In the village areas, each house has mainly
two parts: the front room, which is perfectly clean, not inhabited by anyone
and open to guests only, and the rest of the building, crowded by a family
of usually numerous, successive generations. Guests or people coming
from the outside do not penetrate this area. In case of extensions, more
rooms are added to the back, intimate structure, leaving the front part of
the building magically untouched.
31
Ready to sacrifice
Romania is an ideal place to test psychohistorical patterns. After the
December 1989 revolution - or popular coup d’etat, as recent analysts
have suggested - the country experienced a rebirth complex through a
very strong “lost child syndrome”28 . Mass media and international TV
channels intensely reflected the misery of the Romanian orphanages, the
roaming gangs of homeless children sniffing bags of aurolac (a fermented
glue) on the streets of Bucharest, and the “deadly” unhygienic conditions
in the Romanian schools of all grades - deprived of running water or soap
and using filthy backyard lavatories. The tragedy of the gypsies - who are
as a rule structured in socially marginalized families with numerous
children, living in tents, cottages or even the local garbage fields -, the
frightening March 1990 street fights between Romanians and Hungarians
in Tîrgu Mureº - a town lying in the mid part of Transylvania -, and the
June 15-16 1990 punitive expedition of the miners to Bucharest sharpened
the media image. Romania was seen as a third-world country which had
gradually lost its immense popularity - acquired with the December 1989
mass uprising - and had implacably sunk to a sort of formless,
“pre-civilised” creature (sucking a “poisonous placenta29 ”), pregnant with
hatred, social turmoils and nationalistic prejudices.
The two terms of Ion Iliescu’s presidency (1990-1992; 1992-1996)
generated a suffocation syndrome due to a weak, practically impotent
government run over by deep and almost generalized corruption, by a
complete lack of public authority or control and by the desperate effort of
the President to maintain power through political cleansing and pressure
(e.g., his attempt to coerce the bank leaders and major managers of the
country to become members of the main ruling party, The Socialist
Democratic Party of Romania /PDSR/). The functional weakness of the
leading party was compensated for by dragging into a so-called “governing
arch” two extremely active nationalist parties - the Romanians’ National
Unity Party (PUNR), and The Great Romania Party (PRM) - which brought
along an overt anti-European discourse, nationalistic megalomania and
the Messianic ideology of the “pure”, “ancient”, “organic” inner values.
President Iliescu’s quest for a third, anti-constitutional term was overturned
by the November 1996 vote, the very first in the whole history of the
country when a president was unseated through legal elections.
Having no specific ideology or political program, former President
Iliescu’s re-election campaign insisted in vain on nationalistic issues, built
32
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
on the stereotypes of the menaced tribe surrounded by bloodthirsty
neighbours and undermined from the interior by a villainous, double-faced
enemy (the Opposition, including Hungarians) ready to deliver the country
to a voracious monster: Europe. On the other hand, the Opposition, led
by Emil Constantinescu, former Rector of the Bucharest University and
from November 1996, President, developed the anti-syndrome of the
voracious monster, that is the monster you have to avoid by accepting the
gentle embrace of Europe. The name of this monster is Russia, a country
which has always been perceived as malignant through Romania’s history.
Communism was imposed in Romania by the Red Army and by the
discretionary will of the Kremlin, and left deep scars in the people’s
memory; the anti-Communist rage became the principal informal ideology
of post-revolutionary Romania. A former student obediently completing
his studies in Moscow and later a member of the red nomenclature,
President Iliescu formally contributed as a hate target to the extension of
the anti-Soviet feelings in a period when every mistake made in the process
of European integration was publicly interpreted as a drawback dictated
by Moscow.
Summing up, former President Iliescu’s elections staff insisted on ethnic
values, while the Constantinescu group - including many leading
intellectuals, such as Gabriel Liiceanu, Andrei Pleºu, Octavian Paler or
the poet Ana Blandiana, nor to forget the intellectual front of Romanian
exiles, very active especially in Paris (Monica Lovinescu, Virgil Ierunca,
Sanda Stolojan, Paul Goma, etc.) or in the USA (Matei Cãlinescu, Virgil
Nemoianu, Vladimir Tismãneanu, I.P.Culianu) - stressed ethical values,
which revealed the common European heritage Romanian culture and
civilization have shared for more than a century. Nevertheless, it is an
illusion to believe that chauvinistic, nationalistic beliefs suddenly dried
out in Romania with the November 1996 elections. Resorting by analogy
to a pattern outlined by Peter Brown in The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and
Function in Latin Christianity30 , Romania could be seen as a “two-level”
society: intellectuals, newly born managers and newly emerged “yuppies”
have a cosmopolitan, pro-European and pro-American orientation, while
the older generations (which still provide informal leaders of opinion
particularly in public places and factories), the peasantry and its offspring
(as a mentality representing more than 65% of the whole society, some of
them having lived for decades in towns, unassimilated and looking for
rural motivations or social links) cherish organicist, traditional,
self-sufficient and nationalistic values. Psychoclass conflicts play a huge
33
role in nowadays Romania, the ideological split between traditionalists
and modernists on the political panel expressing actually a deep schizoid
social identity.
As a consequence, after the ’96 elections the main group fantasy in
Romania was the “brotherhood complex” of “joining the fellow states of
Europe”, which could be understood as a fatal loss of national identity
(that is, death). I shall analyze later on Prime Minister Victor Ciorbea’s
formal acceptance speech (December 1996), which can be shortened
through a psychohistorical subliminal Fantasy Analysis to a message that
sounds as follows: “We ... as Romanians ... are ... nothing.” The verdict
was involuntarily confirmed in March 1997 by the Minister of Finance,
Mircea Ciumara, who shocked the whole country by publicly stating that
the strict and almost unbearable steps taken by the new government to
enforce the revival of the Romanian economy would “probably cause the
death of a thousand people”31 , but it was better to do it this way than to
cause the collapse of some millions later.
This paper intends to analyze the three psycho-social syndromes
outlined so far: the “rebirth complex” experienced after the revolution of
December 1989; the “suffocation syndrome” of President Iliescu’s two
terms; the “death and loss of national identity” complex, which emerged
with the victory of the democratic and pro-European forces in November
1996.
Since they re-enact recurrent group fantasies also detectable in the
history of Romania, some back glimpses prove to be necessary in order to
understand the shift from a traditional, self-sufficient and Messianist
patriarchal society to a modern “brotherhood type” society seeking
integration with NATO (a major desire and immediate new goal of the
new government) and with Europe. In this rebirth process, Romanians are
now ready - as newspapers and statistics put it - for sacrifices. The long
list of potential victims includes old traditions, customs and the almost
sacred habit of “boycotting” (as philosopher Lucian Blaga remarked32 )
history. In other words: they are ready to sacrifice their parents.
A history of child neglect
The modern history of Romania starts in 1859 when the two
principalities, Moldavia and Muntenia elected - ignoring the
recommendation of the Turks, who exercised suzerainty over them - one
34
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
and the same Prince: Alexandru Ioan Cuza. Belonging to the Free-Masonry,
Cuza established a brotherhood-like society which lasted only seven years.
When in 1866 Cuza was unseated, the country looked for a father-figure,
it eventually found in the person of Carol I, who belonged to the royal
house of the Hohenzollerns. The quest for a father outside the country is
highly significant, showing the complex of a lack of paternity, which may
seem rather surprising if one takes into the consideration the fact that the
great families of the “boyars” were still active, pulling strings, influencing
politics and marriages. The hypothesis of an option for a “European father”
instead of a domestic one should also be taken into consideration33 , given
its significance of a radical separation from the historical tradition, fostered
by a modernist generation interested in speeding up the process of reaching
European standards.
A careful perusal of the texts of the “classical” period in Romanian
literature, contemporary to the start of the dynasty, will lead to the
immediate realization of two major complexes. Firstly: the fathers are
absent from these texts. Secondly: the children are mostly nasty, bad,
annoyingly loud and clothed like adults. The literature of the period clearly
expresses the main public fantasy of a loose parentage and of an
unrestrained, inexact, capricious and improper behaviour. The pattern of
confusion doubles each impact of the Romanian immemorial soul with
history: less than three decades later, the traditionalist ideology of two
rural inspired social movements (sãmãnãtorism, poporanism) will
emphatically sanction this “errant” behaviour.
For instance, in I.L.Caragiale’s (1852 - 1912) Visit the protagonist,
dressed up like a cavalier, wearing shiny brass buttons and carrying a
sword terrorizes his mother as well as her kind and shy visitor, and in the
end bestows him with a jar of jam poured into his uppershoes. The father
is absent. In Mr.Goe (both are compulsory pieces for school textbooks),
the spoiled offspring of a bourgeois family is taken to Bucharest by train
as a “reward” for his - so far - school failures: the child wears a sailor’s
costume, shocks the passengers and the train crew with his behaviour,
locks himself up in the lavatory, brings his mother to hysteria and takes an
excited step down to Bucharest, hoping to see the king on the “avanyou”
(that is >>avenue<<, the form >>avanyou<< being an equivalent of the
original French distortion in the text). No male accompanies the child,
the quest for a surrogate father being obvious.
Ioan Slavici’s (1848 - 1925) classical novel Mara depicts a possessive,
Mutter Courage-like mother, living alone as a bridgekeeper with her two
35
children - a son and a daughter. Titu Maiorescu (1840 - 1917), the leading
figure of those years’ literature emerges directly as an adult, like Athens
from Zeus’ chest. At the age of 24 he is already Rector of Iaºi University:
his Daily Notes, published later, show a child without childhood, attentive
to “mature chat”, eager to climb the steep steps of the social hierarchy
and ready to pull up the unbreakable walls of the Conservative Party. Ion
Creangã’s (1839 - 1889) Remembrances From My Childhood apparently
built up the myth of a happy childhood in Romanian literature. In fact - as
Corina Ciocârlie has already noticed34 - the text depicts a child you
wouldn’t keep happily in your house: he is selfish; avoids tasks; destroys
the harvest; terrorizes the villagers and his relatives; abuses animals. His
supervisors are females; the males - when they show up - are always
distant and necessarily punitive.
The list can be continued with Mihai Eminescu (1850 - 1889), the
“national poet” of Romanian literature. His brilliant career starts with the
rejection of his father’s name, and the adoption of a surrogate father: the
literary critic Iosif Vulcan publishes his first verses by changing the poet’s
name from Eminovici to Eminescu, without previously asking the consent
of the new star. Eminescu doesn’t care about such an intrusion: his work
as a whole suggests a strong mother-complex, the only father which
appears in his poems (in Luceafãrul, as “Father of the Universe”) being
cold, distant and repulsive. Eminescu is also the “inventor” of the concept
of serene childhood in Romanian literature, due to a decisively Romantic
influence. There is no “true” childhood in his poems, but an artificial one,
built up on cultural stereotypes and linked with dreams and memories,
which reveals the fact that it is a mere aspiration, not a reality.
The subliminal rejection of the father in a period when Romania
consolidates its political structures and its monarchy seems quite odd and,
at a first glance, incomprehensible. It is, therefore, legitimate to ask: where
are the fathers in this world? Why are they so carefully rejected? The answer
is rather surprising: the fathers are in politics. They sit in distant lodges, play
the endless and childish game of politics (see Illustrations 1-4), “tie and
untie” the country, and leave everyday life and struggle to females.
In Illustration 1 (from 1869), liberal leader Ion Brãtianu juggles with
three difficult “stones” of the epoch: the Bulgarian threat; the Jewish
question; the Austro-Hungarian conspiracy. The other leader, C.A.Rosetti,
is dancing on the rope while balancing the Jews and their influence on
the major challenge of the period: the extension of the railroad network.
In Illustration 2 (1869), the French emperor Napoleon III (in front of the
36
Illustration 1
Illustration 2
Illustration 3
Illustration 4
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
horse) theatrically expresses his disappointment because of liberal leader
Ion Brãtianu’s inability to move forward, his wooden horse being held
back by the Russians and the Prussians. In Illustration 3 (1859), Ion Brãtianu
and C.A. Rosetti help young prince Dimitrie Ghica to “keep the right
pace”, while in Illustration 4 (1869), the already mentioned couple,
Brãtianu and Rosetti, enjoy - represented as Janus bifrons - the excitement
of a train voyage, the wheels impassively treading on the body of the
country lying down across the rails.
Since the males are exiled in politics - the group fantasy says - they
are necessarily in filth because politics is dirty. Females keep things going,
males spoil them, according to this thinking. Males - the period says - are
like nasty, uncontrollable children: they have their own game; are reluctant
to see the sufferings of the people; live far “above the earth”; must be
incessantly supervised not to do too much harm to “real life”.
This Manichean perception explains a lot of things that are essential to
Romanian history. To start with, kings (meaning the period starting with
Carol I) were bad “fathers” in Romanian history and perceived as such
because they didn’t belong to the sacred and ancient roots of the tribe:
they were “foreigners”.
On the other hand, no politician has become a “good father” figure in
Romanian history, in spite of the multiple attempts made to promote such
a lineage. The last such attempt - and probably the most intrusive one was made by Nicolae Ceauºescu (leader from 1965 to December 1989,
shot at Tîrgoviºte) using the whole strategy of the communist propaganda:
endless marches of children dressed alternatively in red, yellow and blue
(the colours of the national flag); cheerful pioneers bringing thousands of
bunches of flowers; collective political baptizing rituals. Neither his
successor (Ion Iliescu) nor Emil Constantinescu tried to copy these efforts,
through the group fantasy of a good, protective father image being still
active in the backstage of today’s Romanian public life, as a shadow
anti-crisis figure, constructed by nostalgic communists, some people from
the army and the Security forces and by the resentful nationalists.
The “exile” of the fathers to the filthy dens of politics has had another
impact on the historical group fantasy of the Romanian people. Due to
this conviction, what is “authentic”, innately and purely “Romanian”
belongs to the mothers, a perspective which satanizes politics as such.
Nobody loves politics in Romania at present and nobody loved it before you can respect politics, enjoy the fruits of a tree anchored with its roots
in filth and mud, but not love it. That is why politics is ugly, dirty and by
41
all means “alien”, “foreign” or, to put it differently, it is not part of “the
clean soul of the Romanian people”35 . As a consequence, sodomizing
foreigners has always been a public show in Romanian history, and a
projective stereotype, always at hand when the “pure soul of the people”
was to be exonerated from sins or failures. “The other” - come it from
abroad or be it an ethnic minority (Hungarians, Germans, Gypsies) becomes a projective hate target in Romania’s public fantasy, playing the
classical role of the cleansing poison container.
Anti-Hungarianism and anti-Semitism are part of this attentively
directed public hysteria. The most important social and political movement
of the thirties (Archangel Michael’s Legion = the Iron Guard), including
prestigious intellectuals like Nae Ionescu, Mircea Eliade, Constantin Noica,
Emil Cioran and thousands of others, was Messianic and had a decidedly
anti-Semite accent. Stepping forward in time, it is significant to mention
that a still active group fantasy, risen in Romania after the 1989 coup,
explicitly suggests that in 1947 communism was imposed on Romanians
by Jews and Hungarians (zealous executives of the Kremlin), the message
being that this historical “shame” was “alien” to the pure soul of the inmates.
The fantasy of cleansing was extremely strong in 1990, when tabloids
shouted that the executed dictator, Nicolae Ceauºescu, was actually not
a Romanian but a ... gypsy!
Romania “invented” its idealistic childhood ideology as an appendix
to the nationalistic pride promoted with the annexation of Transylvania
(1918). This led to the formation of the “round” country as we have it
today, by reuniting three main historical regions: a conservative Moldavia,
built on old family values; a rather nervous Muntenia, where the centrifugal
forces of individuals have always been more powerful than centripetal
ones; a cosmopolitan Transylvania, having strong Hungarian and German
urban communities. It is therefore worthwhile to note that the ideology of
the serene childhood emerged in the Romanian public unconscious from
two main drains: the traditionalism of Moldavia on the one hand, and the
pride of the new historical birth stressed by Transylvanian intellectuals
and political leaders on the other. Both spread down to Bucharest, and
united in a sort of official public fantasy, fashioned by the idea that Romania
is an underprivileged “child of Europe”, neglected by nasty parents, one
who has to thrive on its own to be accepted in the “great family” of nations.
Thus, the Romanian “underprivileged child fantasy” is based on frustration
and compensates through self-sufficiency. According to this complex, the
father of the child might be lost, but his mother never. The mother is the
nation itself.
42
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
Indeed, in the first three decades of the 20th century the children
portrayed in the books of literature are always threatened, almost lost in
the dark corners of the universe, and found again by adults seemingly not
too surprised by not having them around for such a long period. The
anxiety of being alone, not protected by the family characterizes the child
projections of Mihail Sadoveanu (1880 - 1961), whose very first writings
include The Graveyard of a Child (1906). Another heroine of his, Lizuca,
ventures in the black and frightening forest, and finds her way back without
the interference of her parents. Her return is not accompanied with an
outburst of relief and joy: it seems that the adults haven’t even noticed her
absence. The “absent male” motif is the main frame of Sadoveanu’s novel
Baltagul (The Hatchet,1930), built on the mythical pattern of the Isis-Osiris
quest: worried by the absence of her husband, a woman leaves her home
to find him and discovers that he has been murdered by greedy shepherds.
The structure of the novel interferes with the main frame of the popular
ballad Miorita (The Little Sheep), considered to be the archaic root of the
Romanian way of life and psychology. “Home” is equivalent here with
protective motherhood: distress and death (of the males, generally speaking)
come when you leave home and are confronted with aliens or with foreign
places. Intra muros means the protective womb of the nation and ethnicity;
extra muros comprises the villains, “the others”, anybody who is not a
member of the ethnic club.
Lucian Blaga’s (1895 - 1961) Hronicul ºi cîntecul vîrstelor (The
Chronicle and the Song of the Ages, 1965, written a long time before its
first publication, as Blaga died in 1961) starts with a speculation of the
motive of the rejected world: the child doesn’t speak for four years, delaying
the contact with a hostile world, in which he has to struggle alone, as his
parents are not of great help. To come back to Bucharest, Ioan Alexandru
Brãtescu-Voinesti’s (1868 - 1946) short stories are full of abandoned, lonely
children. The happy family seems to be absent from Romanian public
fantasy, being replaced by the complex of the protective surrogate family,
that is the nation. This leads to the utter rejection of the foreigners (Germans,
Hungarians, Jews), even if they live next door. If asked, Romanians say
today that Hungarians or Jews are hostile per se because they are well
organized and structured in impenetrable family units, a stereotype which
explains a recurrent dimension of the historical public fantasy in Romania:
that of the attraction represented by fraternity.
Fraternity is here a substitute for maternity, namely the integration in a
bigger “family”, the great family of individuals sharing the same blood.
43
To attain this level, you have to surpass heredity and interpret fraternity as
a spiritual linkage, more efficient than the strict flesh and blood
dependence. Blood becomes here spiritualized, and the wound of
somebody is the wound of everybody, the whole nation functioning as a
big organism having the same blood vessels and sharing the same heart.
In Psihologia poporului român (The Romanian People’s Psychology)36
Constantin Rãdulescu-Motru interprets national psychology as an “ability
to create a national culture”. The development of a population is
determined - Motru says - by three main factors, the biological or
hereditarian fund, the geographical conditions and the institutions, some
people experiment history forever from a “pre-historic” stage, being unable
to rise to the higher level of “spirituality”. “In the case of populations with
unconsolidated spiritual institutions the influences of heredity and of the
geographic climate are overwhelming.”37 On the contrary, “spirituality
is not - Rãdulescu-Motru maintains - a produce of time”38 , which means
that by spirituality a population surpasses its condition of being a historical
victim, reaching a dignity which is beyond time and its vicissitudes.
The Romanian people, though not entirely articulated Rãdulescu-Motru concludes - is determined by “spirituality” rather than
by biology or landscape, which means that the pre-condition of a person
who creates values is to surpass its biological linkages. Family means
time, brotherhood means eternity.
One would expect Rãdulescu-Motru to assimilate fraternity with
challenge and openness, with the adventure of taking chances by meeting
somebody distant. The surprise of the text is, on the contrary, the
equivalence between “spirituality” and self-sufficiency. “Spirituality Rãdulescu-Motru says - is like an isolating armour”, the myth of
self-sufficiency and historical isolation sneaking back in the room at the
very moment you thought it had been forever thrown over the threshold.39
But the ideal of the artificial (Rãdulescu-Motru calls it “bourgeois”) fraternity
is formulated again by the distinction between the “subjective” and the
“institutional” individualism, the aim being to transform the biological,
subjective person into a strong, self-dependent, “institutional” character.
This ideal of spiritual fraternity was promoted in Romanian culture
and public life by a major generation of philosophers and writers who
emerged in the thirties and concentrated around the fascinating figure of
Nae Ionescu, a philosopher, journalist, politician and professor at Bucharest
University. His disciples included a select list of names like Mircea Eliade,
Emil Cioran and Constantin Noica, living in the deep shadows of a rightist
44
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
and extremist ideology, characterized by national Messianism, the
irrational cult of a Saviour (the leader was Constantin Zelea-Codreanu,
“The Captain”), by the excited pathos of the fantasy of spiritual collective
cleansing through action, violence or culture and by sharp accents of
xenophobia and anti-Semitism.
This paper does not intend to get into the details of this ideology40 , but
it would be impossible to step further without mentioning the sharp
fraternity characteristics of the Iron Guard, built on male initiation rites
and separation from the biologic family. The spiritual movement led by
Zelea-Codreanu represented the climactic rejection of the mothers in the
modern history of Romania, this tendency being doubled by the emergence
of a new motif in Romanian art and literature: that of the sensuous, strange,
magnetic female41 , a fascinating target to be conquered by energetic males
who earned their energy by leaving boring homes, wives and mothers
behind in order to experience the self-destructive combustions and strains
of the “real life”. The key words of the new epoch are “solidarity” (of
independent spiritual “brothers”42 ) and “experimentalism” of life through
interpersonal links.43
The rejection of the parents is obvious. The discussions hosted by the
leading newspapers and literary magazines of the period (for instance:
Vremea, Christmas 1932) insist on the necessity of such a “sacrifice”, by
saying that the new generation is the first one in Romanian history to
conquer a place without spilling blood. Blood is, by the way, everywhere
in the public subconscious: at first, as shame (the previous generations
died for the independence of the country in 1877, then in World War I,
which led to the integration of Transylvania), then as urge and necessity.
As outer targets aren’t available any more, history being rather calm at
that time, public fantasy turns towards the inner “sins” of the poisoned
national body, due to some traditional enemies: first of all the foreigners,
then the politicians and in the end the forefathers who kept the country in
the sinful contemplation of a village-centred community.
*
To take a glimpse into the mid/late 20th century: Romania experienced
two further public fantasies. The first of them was the fantasy of the powerful
father, that is the father-centred society introduced by the Russians’ arrival
in August 1944, consolidated by the communist regime until December
1989 and discretely promoted by Ion Iliescu’s regime until November
1996. The second one is the strategy of the fraternal society, promoted by
45
President Emil Constantinescu’s election campaign team during the fierce
media fights which announced the November 1996 change of power. It is
interesting to note that President Constantinescu was raised to power by a
brotherhood type political coalition, and not by a single party or democratic
force, the “fraternal” quarrel for positions and privileges being the main
show of Romania’s post-election period. The government formed at that
time is still a conglomerate of self-interested individuals, belonging to a
loose family of slightly different ideologies.
Nicolae Ceauºescu’s regime (1965-1989) brought about at least two
public fantasies which prove to be essential to understanding the evolution
of Romanian society after the coup d’etat of December 1989. First of all,
it promoted a strong father figure, especially after 1971, when Ceauºescu
returned from China and North Korea and tried to implement in Romania
- successfully, one must say - the cult of personality admired there, with
huge mass rituals of children wearing uniforms from the age of 3, and
frantic gatherings of people meant to pay tribute to the nurturing powers
of the leader. This mass hysteria was associated with a carefully projected
father-image, centred around the family of the dictator.
The second public fantasy was the result of a rather tricky strategy,
and I must confess that I cannot determine how much of an official, though
never recognized, persuasive image-building strategy was in it, and to
what extent it was the result of a spontaneous public reaction. I am referring
to the public image of Elena Ceauºescu, the dictator’s wife. On the one
hand, she was officially worshipped as a nurturant mother and world-wide
recognized scientist, although she had some difficulties in building up a
simple and coherent sentence. On the other hand, public opinion satanized
her and this “poison container” syndrome was used by informal
propaganda to cleanse the dictator, attributing everything that went wrong
in the country to the mad influence of his wife.
As a consequence, female satanization became a common practice in
Romania during the eighties and has never stopped since. The party found
atrocious 180-pound de-feminized monsters (Suzana Gâdea, Alexandrina
Gãinuºe, Lina Ciobanu), and promoted them to leading positions. You
can hardly find a delicate lady in the literature of the period. After 1989
the satanization went on: there have been no females in public positions
or in the leadership of the parties, as if they didn’t exist at all, although
statistics say that Romania has always had more females than males in its
demographic composition.
46
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
Former President Ion Iliescu quickly understood the situation and never
promoted his wife Nina, while former Chamber of Deputies President
Adrian Nãstase unsuccessfully tried to ignore the pressure of the public,
his elegant wife being violently rejected by the crowd when she led
gymnasts Nadia Comãneci and Bart Conner to the altar. In the twilight of
Iliescu’s regime (Spring 1996), a female minister emerged (Daniela Bartoº)
- significantly - in the Health Department, replacing the former holder of
the position (Iulian Mincu), who had the notorious reputation of a butcher.
Subsequently, in the very first months of 1990, famous female dissidents
like Doina Cornea or Ana Blandiana were sent to the backstage of political
life and possible leaders (like Smaranda Enache) were set aside without
reasonable explanations. At the moment, male domination is fully
accomplished in Romanian society, although female figures (Alina
Mungiu-Pippidi, Gilda Lazãr, Iolanda Stãniloiu) appear on TV screens
every now and then, having the precise role of serving their male
counterparts. Recently (end of June-early July 1997), the Government
sacrificed Gilda Lazãr, spokesperson of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, as
a response to a scandal revolving around her alleged abuse of power to
get a distorted negative image of Prime Minister Victor Ciorbea’s visit to
Washington from the media.
Pollution through sacrificial killing: a paradox?
Romania killed her “father” on Christmas Eve 1989, at Tîrgoviºte, after
a short and hasty trial. The execution was carried out by misinformed
“children” against a father they unjustly hated - said Elena Ceausescu,
while taking her last steps to the wall where she was a moment later
literally riddled with shots. The patricide was - public opinion considered
afterwards - a sinful decision, which polluted the initial purity of the mass
uprising. Accordingly, the Romanian revolution entered from the very
beginning in an ambivalent mode, the main tendency of the public fantasy
striving to pollute and not to cleanse the initial steps of the revolt.
The reasons for such a behaviour are easy to understand. The revolution
had been started five days earlier in Timiºoara by a Hungarian Protestant
priest, László Tökés, an “intrusive” act from a member of a minority which
somehow overshadowed the theatrical self-esteem of the natives. The
Orthodox Church experienced the deepest sorrow: already a target of
suspicion because of its collaboration with the “ancien régime” and its
47
secret police, it felt the privilege of the sacred and collective recognition
slipping away from its hands. Consequently, there appeared the necessity
of a new start and the elaboration of a new myth with an appropriate
dosage of sparkling lights and dark shadows, good guys and bad guys,
terrorists and occasional heroes. The strategy had something essential: it
simply didn’t have to be logical.
In the first weeks of 1990, the country experienced a popular rebirth
fantasy. People spontaneously cut out the arms of the Socialist Republic
of Romania from the national flag, the hole becoming the symbol of an
escape from the uterus and of the delivery44 . A ghost-faced spiritual father,
the politologist Silviu Brucan evasively explained to the “children” of the
new era the further steps of the democratic alphabetization, learned by
him in Moscow during the fifties and accomplished later through random
research in Washington D.C. Lorries loaded with goods frantically crossed
the borders, regressing each Romanian to the stage of a child happy to go
home with both hands full of gifts: bananas; second-hand clothing; outworn
typewriters; pens of all sorts; shiny computers, which they had just started
to learn to handle - in order to play exciting electronic games.
Democracy seemed to be a ludicrous socializing form, played by
politicians who were not entirely responsible for their decisions. As already
stated in this paper, politics has always been assimilated in Romania with
play. In the first years of the post-Ceauºescu era, the public fantasy of
assimilating the politicians with children had three main reasons.
Firstly, it exempted politicians from the sins of errors, alluding to the
real sense of the new leadership: the aspiration to take power in a single,
firm hand. A childish politician is allowed to make errors, but he is never
guilty. It is interesting to note that in the media imagery of the period (see
Illustrations 5 and 6) President Iliescu is always represented as a protective
parent, the nasty child being in both cases Prime Minister Nicolae
Vãcãroiu45 . Another similarity: in each of the cases, the child is disciplined
by being dragged in front of an institution (the school). The stereotype is
transferred in the July 6, 1995 issue of the same newspaper onto Minister
Mircea Coºea, responsible for the major “play” of the period: the
privatization of the former socialist industry.
Secondly, this strategy pervades the fantasy of a strong, almost sacred
leader, the holy father of the nation. Illustrations 7-8-9-10 suggest President
Iliescu’s omnipotent power: with an aura around his head (Illustration 746 );
as an icon, worshipped by an orthodox priest (Illustration 847 ); as a saint
(Illustration 948 ); or as a hospodar, sitting on a throne (Illustration 1049 ).
48
Illustration 5
Illustration 6
Illustration 7
Illustration 8
Illustration 9
Illustration 10
Illustration 11
Illustration 12
Illustration 13
Picture 14
It is worthwhile noting that all these illustrations have been deliberately
selected from the leading newspaper of the Opposition, which is by definition
not favourable to the President. The tricky thing is that the persuasive fantasy
of the illustrations published by this paper unwillingly undermines the explicit
message of the texts which surround them50 .
The third aspect concerns the relation between the individual, or the
common man, and the power. In the Romanian exercise of power, the
common man has always been a victim of the institutions of power and
not a beneficiary of their services (although he has always been a good
and humble taxpayer). The media imagery of the period (Illustrations
11-12-13) insists on showing the common person as a little man (or child),
delivered to the omnipotent discretion of the Police, embodied by giants51 .
Picture 1452 completes the message featuring a man who kisses the hand
of a policeman.
Pollution was the main public fantasy during former president Ion
Iliescu’s two mandates (1990-1996). Romania experienced the three forms
of the “upheaval” stage, delineated by Lloyd deMause in The Foetal Origins
of History53 , though simultaneously and not alternately. The Christmas
1989 “regicidal” killing promoted the former leader, Nicolae Ceauºescu,
58
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
as an enemy; however, his assassination, formally approved by the majority
of the population, didn’t serve to purify the atmosphere by a sacrificial
death, but - rather paradoxically - to pollute it.
There were several reasons for such an outcome. First of all, the impurity
of Christmas and the pollution of the new political structures with former
communist leaders - Ion Iliescu was just one of them - created a fantasy of
impotence and fatalism, which can be very easily transformed into a
political manipulation in Romania, a country where fatalism has always
been a public ingredient to all sorts of historical failures. The enigma of
the “terrorists”, who acted in the streets of Bucharest after Ceauºescu had
been executed, the moral crisis of the army - which at first shot into the
crowd and then fraternized with them - and the reluctance of the new
leaders to promote transparency and public control over the decisions
which continued to be taken behind tightly closed doors led to a fantasy
of impurity. This was reinforced by the “shame” induced by the Western
mass media, which started to talk about the filthy conditions of the
Romanian orphanages, about abandoned children sniffing fermented glue
(“aurolac”), and about the exaggerated figures concerning the victims of
December 1989. In Paris in March 1990, huge placards hanging outside
the headquarters of several leading media agencies asked one and the
same question: “Who lied in Romania?”54
The child was born, but it was dirty. In these circumstances, the new
Romanian power resorted to the “Martial solution” by inventing an internal
enemy, the Hungarians of Transylvania, over whom the rage of the polluted
people could exercise power. The street fights between Hungarians and
Romanians in Tîrgu-Mures in March 1990 inaugurated several political and
strategic plans, which had been “in the cards” a long time before December
1989. The first step was the reactivation of the Secret Police, of the Securitate.
Then, the clashes legitimatized a nationalistic outburst, having as flagpoles
two hysterically extremist parties, the PUNR and the PRM55 . But the most
important outcome was the public fantasy of the threatened nation (a
stereotype of Romanian history), funnelled into the conviction that history
is again hostile to the country but general and unfair animosity can be
overcome if everybody reacts as a pure and sincere Romanian.
Thus, ethnicity became a cleansing device again, used to sanction
centrifugal forces and keep the people together. Law and reason ended at
the gates of the pride of being a Romanian This energetic Messianism
covered the deepest corruption one can imagine. Hundreds of thousands
of people came to Cluj to participate - and lose their savings - in an
59
enormous pyramidal game (an economic swindle, like the one whose
collapse caused the 1997 riots in Albania), but when it was stopped,
nobody uttered more than a few sighs of confusion. Romania is not
Albania... The childish desire to get rich without working transformed
Cluj into a mass hysteria and the pyramidal game owner Ioan Stoica into
the Epiphany of Jesus. “Suicidal individuals - Lloyd deMause says treating
the third upheaval form, the <<Suicidal Solution>>56 - often resolve
internal ambivalence through a fantasy of a <<Hidden Executioner>>
who helps them in their suicidal effort in killing the bad, polluted part of
themselves so that the good purified part can be loved again.” Romania’s
leaders experienced this solution in June 1990 by asking the miners from
Petroºani to come to Bucharest in order to drain the “pollution” represented
by the street protests in the University Square. The “Hidden Executioner”
fantasy has been used several times since, the miners coming to Bucharest
each time “the young and the restless” part of the society (i. e. the students)
advocated real democracy and openness. In September 1993, the new
“father” (President Iliescu) sacrificed his own “son” (Prime Minister Petre
Roman); however, public opinion didn’t receive the message as a purifying
solution but as a new confirmation of the general pollution of the society.
Death, leisure and happy family values
Starting with Spring 1996, the imagery of the Romanian press suggested
the decline of Iliescu’s power through reiterated symbols of death and
decomposition (Illustrations 15-16-17-18-19). Two of them (no 16 and 1857 )
suggest mass sacrifice as a price paid for the privatization of the industry
requested by the cunning Western capitalist world, represented in the June
24 1995 issue of the same publication by a US dollar mousetrap (Illustration
20). Other images of general collapse introduced Prime Minister Nicolae
Vãcãroiu (Illustrations 21 and 2258 ), known for his passion for drinking.
The difference from the previous period lies in the new habit of
representing the President as a childish, irresponsible fellow (Illustrations
23-24-25-26). The subliminal message suggests the regression to a family
“womb”, where politicians wash their laundry and boil the ingredients of
politics without knowing properly what is going on outside the walls of
their reclusion. Illustrations 23 and 25 show the happy family formed by
governing leaders Ion Iliescu, Adrian Nãstase and Oliviu Gherman (the
President of the Senate at the time59 ), while the children in Illustrations
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ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
24 and 2660 are the interpreters of the national ideological “score”
promoted by the power, party leaders Corneliu Vadim Tudor and Gheorghe
Funar. In Corneliu Vadim Tudor’s case, the message of opportunistic
sacrifice is obvious, because the text says: “Do we clean him, or do we
conceive another one?”
The popular image of politics as a self-sufficient game, played by
deaf-to-reality individuals has always been a stereotype of the Romanian
perception of the state affairs, having its roots in the ontological understanding
of ethnicity as a thing to itself, an a priori type “essence” (“Romanianism”)
incorporated in a worldly structure, namely the state as a historical
phenomenon. This rather simple theory, shared by the majority of
Romanians, has as a turning point the belief that historical vicissitudes may
alter the worldly identity of the state, but cannot harm its deep, good-for-ever
“substance”. Since 1990, the interpretation of communism in Romania as
an imported plague, which corrupted some millions between 1947 and
1989 but didn’t harm the ethnic substance of the natives, has been a recurrent
stereotype of public debates in Romania. To challenge it is sacrilegious. A
similar mental stereotype is associated with King Michael I, living now in
Switzerland, whose role in arresting former head of state Marshall Ion
Antonescu on August 23, 1944 and in turning Romania against Germany at
the end of World War II is still a topic of debate amongst historians.
The conclusion would be that politicians belong to the historical forms
of the state, and not to its timeless “substance”. As such they are the nasty
children of a restless family, scratching only the crust of the universe, but
never reaching down to its core. This perception explains the great
frequency of the imagery of play and leisure involving politicians in the
Romanian mass media (Illustrations 27-28-29-3061 ) during a period
dominated by the fantasy of rebirth into a world which must be destroyed
entirely in order to gain purity (Illustration 3162 ).
It should be noted that pollution, dirt or filth are ambivalent as symbols.
They do not have only a negative connotation, but, isomorphically, a positive
one too. In this respect, dirt is associated with debris, that is with the warm
and secure ecstasy of the lair, of the den. Lair means here regression to the
formless, the certainty of the womb. Starting from the treatment of the debris,
there are, one may believe, two kinds of societies: disposal societies and
thrifty ones. Disposal societies are, so to say, detergent trained societies. I
mean by that the continuous exercise of leaving behind unnecessary things,
or - to put it differently - the exercise of making one’s way in life by always
leaving the past behind. On the other hand, thrifty societies cope with the
61
present and with the new stimuli by crouching in the lair, that is by protecting
themselves with the debris of their past.
Romania is a thrifty society. If you pass through villages, or enter houses,
the first thing that strikes you is the absence of evacuation symptoms:
“memories” of past years, old tools, broken cutlery, outworn cloths and
bags pile up topsy-turvy into room corners, backyard lumber boxes or
barns. If asked about the reason for keeping all these things, the owners
generally have one and the same answer: one never knows when you
need one thing or another.
The real, psychic reason is the desire to lessen the impact of the present
by having at hand, as a protection, a certainty of the past. I’d call it, stretching
a Jungian term a little, social abreaction. That is why historical analogies
have always been present in Romania’s way of life, where the only true
step is the step legitimatized by tradition. “The population of the Romanian
villages - Constantin Rãdulescu-Motru concludes - stays under the tradition
of collective work. Every peasant will act as he believes everybody will act.
He doesn’t feel the incentive to start work but at the time everybody starts
it. To step aside the line is, for the Romanian peasant, not merely a risk, but
sheer madness.”63 As things have gone on this way for centuries, Romania’s
“shame culture”64 wasn’t distressed too much by the media images of the
dirty children roaming in flocks in the streets of Bucharest or by the similar
illustrations of the roms. Filth is the metaphysical substance of the past: why
bother if you find it on your threshold?
Politicians as garbage cleaners
A suffocation syndrome characterized Ion Iliescu’s final months of
presidency (Spring - Summer 1996). Clear symptoms of the “collapse”
phase turned into a media imagery which embodied the shared fantasies
of abandonment and suffocation. Though Romania is not part of an
evacuation trained civilization and it is by no means sure that the press
illustrations contributed to the drop Iliescu’s popularity in the polls, media
representations insisted on the fantasy of a country led by politicians
surrounded by dirt and garbage, as symbolic equivalents for social
disintegration, corruption and crisis. For instance, in Illustration 3265 ,
President Iliescu is featured sinking into water, while in the October 14th
issue of România Liberã (Illustration 33) the disastrous state of the health
care is represented by a sleeping child, seemingly abandoned in a sort of
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ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
floating basket, like Moses or - nearer to us - the mythical ancestors
Romulus and Remus. In Illustrations 3466 and 3567 President Iliescu
appears as a garbage man, in the second picture sharing the joy of the
disposal with Adrian Nãstase, his major henchman and former president
of the Chamber of Deputies. In Illustration 3668 (an extremely acid and
unusual one for the Romanian media) President Iliescu enjoys the pains
of defecation, using the Constitution as toilet paper.
The titles of articles published at that time clearly expressed a suffocation
crisis. Here is a sample of them: Trash. The Ecologist Organizations Require
that Salubrity Should Be Paid by PDSR69 (România Liberã, Nov.1996);
Timiºoara: The Opera Square Again in Turmoil (Ibid.); A Plague Called
Rãducãnoiu; Mudava: Our People’s Head Is Rotten (Academia Caþavencu,
no 41/1996); From Topliþa to Borsec: Poisoned Water for Everybody
(România Liberã, Oct.26,1996); When Food Becomes Poison (România
Liberã, Dec.16,1996); The American Ambassador Is Blind (România Liberã,
Sept.14,1996); Sclerosis of Our Roads (România Liberã, Oct.9, 1996); Ion
Cristoiu: “Iliescu drags the sacred values of Romanianism into the mire.”
Not at all surprisingly, the September 16, 1996 issue of România Liberã
puts an article on its front page saying that in the previous six months of
the year Romania registered the sharpest deficit of population in her whole
history. Romania sacrifices children.
It is then obvious that when times change, media imagery insists on
representing the newly elected leaders as poison drainers or detoxifiers,
like Illustration 3770 , which shows Prime Minister Victor Ciorbea killing
corruption virus holders with a bug tox pump.
“We ... as Romanians ... are nothing”
Nationalism kept being a major issue in Romania’s Autumn 1996
elections, which brought to power a “political fraternity” (the Democratic
Convention, built up as a coalition of numerous parties) and a new
President, Professor Emil Constantinescu, former Rector of Bucharest
University. Ion Iliescu’s PDSR was, paradoxically, a party without a
personal ideology. To compensate for such a deficiency, the leaders of
the party stressed an opportunistic and very poignant nationalism, a popular
persuasion which was exacerbated during the first and the second ballots,
when President Iliescu realized that things were going really wrong. The
63
victory of the Democratic Convention was therefore presented as a farewell
to the sacred and ancient values, and as a fatal loss of national identity.
Romania is sharing now the public fantasy of frustration because of
the cautious hugs of a rejective surrogate mother (Europe) and a similarly
repulsive surrogate father (NATO). The lack of parentage is very obvious
in recent public fantasies: the government is accused of being
non-protective, insensitive to the needs of its “offspring”. Actually, Romania
experiences a completely new leadership system at the moment, based
on the premeditated diffusion of the Centre, the responsibility being taken
up by a loose fraternity of equals.
The crisis is illustrated by the public fantasy of travelling, of being on
the road (that is nowhere), the most controversial minister of the new
Government being Traian Bãsescu, the head of the Department of
Transportation. Articles about deadly unsafe belts of communication and
about absurd road taxes to be paid by car-owners blasted Romanian media
until mid July 1997, associating the officially induced enthusiasm to join
Europe and NATO with the subliminal public fantasy of threat and
expulsion because of a cut umbilical cord.
A Fantasy Analysis of Prime Minister Victor Ciorbea’s discourse at the
presentation of the Governing Program and of the members of the
Government to the Parliament71 shows, contrary to its explicit, primeval
message, a subliminal fear of losing identity when joining Europe and
NATO. Words suggesting a catastrophe start from the very beginning of
the text, circling around the fantasy that “we ... Romanians ... are nothing
...” Here is a sample of the analysis of the discourse:
“We, Romanians ... are not ... not capable ... we, Romanians ... do not
... we mustn’t have complexes ... Romanians do not make quality products
... must change destiny ... we are not condemned ... not a miracle ...
mustn’t fear ... bad ... for everybody ... winter ... sacrifices ... total war ...
fight against ... crisis program ... ministers who do not ... the picture of the
Romanian reality is distressing ... dangerous loss ... our life expectancy is
the lowest in Europe, infant mortality the highest ... the biological being
of the Romanian people ... affected ... Romania ... still a risky country ...
painful evaluation of the situation ... the top of pain ... children infected
with AIDS ... malnutrition ... fear ... not transform ... will not hide ... not
notice ... Romanians were not told ... unsafe Christmas ... waste the
resources of a rich country, Romania ... sap the Romanians’intelligence,
initiatives and everyday strife.”
64
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In its last passages the discourse reiterates the ambivalence of the
“terrible moments” of history (understood as the empirical cover of
ethnicity) and the deepest imperative of “surviving as a nation”, thus shifting
politicians from the generally accepted level of the surface to the deepest
level of the essence for the first time in a Romanian political discourse. It
is also interesting to note that the cooperation with ethnic groups as well
as the understanding of the minorities are exiled to the abstract reef of
“the common platform of the religious morals”72 . The whole speech claims
the exigence of “making history together”, in order “to leave anonymity
and modesty” as national marks of self-appreciation and identity behind.
The fantasy analysis of the discourse suggests a dangerous state of peril,
poisoning, helplessness and hopelessness. As quoted above (see note 25),
in less than eight months from the date of the discourse, tabloids announced
that only Albania kills more children than Romania in Europe.
NOTES
1. Previous approaches include: Stefan Borbély: Romania and the Myth of the
Lost Child, Romania literara, no. 48, November 1992 and the whole issue of
Echinox, Cluj, XXVII, no. 3-4-5, which includes the Romanian versions of
texts by David R. Beisel, William L. Langer, Henry Lawton, Bruce Mazlish,
Alenka Puhar, Juhani Ihanus, Paul H. Elovitz, Howard F. Stein, Stefan Borbély.
2. Psychohistorians Discuss Psychohistory, in: History of Childhood Quarterly:
The Journal of Psychohistory, vol. 3, no. 1, Summer 1975, p. 124
3. Psychohistory: Independence or Integration, ibid.
4. The Independence of Psychohistory. In: History of Childhood Quarterly: The
Journal of Psychohistory, vol. 3, no. 2, Fall 1975
5. Rudolf Binion, in the debate The Joys and Terrors of Psychohistory, in: History
of Childhood Quarterly: The Journal of Psychohistory, vol. 5, no. 3, Winter
1978
6. Carl Hempel: The Function of General Laws in History, in: Readings in
Philosophical Analysis, ed. by Herbert Feigel and Wilfred Sellars,
Appleton-Century-Crofts, New York, 1949
7. Ortega y Gasset: History as a System and Other Essays toward a Philosophy
of History. With an Afterword by John William Miller. The Norton Library, W.
W. Norton & Company Inc. New York, 1962
8. Apud: Hervé Coutau-Begarie: Le phenomène >>Nouvelle histoire<<. Stratégie
et idéologie des nouveaux historiens, Economica, Paris, 1983, pp. 18-19
9. See Jean Laplanche & J.-B.Pontalis: Vocabulaire de la psychanalyse, PUF,
Paris, 1967
88
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
10. Lloyd deMause: The Independence of Psychohistory, in: Foundations of
Psychohistory, Creative Roots, Inc., New York, 1982, p. 89
11. Op. cit., p. 90. The italics belong to the author, but the marks underlining the
final part of the quotation belong to me, in order to stress the acceptance of
personal involvement, of “transference” by Psychohistory.
12. Thou Shalt Not Be Aware. Society’s Betrayal of the Child. Translated by
Hildegarde and Hunter Hannum. A Meridian Book, 1990, pp. 19-20
13. The abreaction is defined by classical psychoanalysis as the dramatic
reenactment of a previous traumatic experience by the deep psyche (See:
Andrew Samuels, Bani Shorter, Fred Plaut: A Critical Dictionary of Jungian
Analysis, Routledge & Kegan Paul, London-New York, 1986. Abreaction)
14.Daniel Dervin: Enactments. American Modes and Psychohistorical Models.
Madison-Teaneck. Fairleigh Dickinson University Press. London: Associated
University Press, 1996, pp. 35-36
15. Historical Group-Fantasies, in: Foundations ... , ed. cit., pp. 172-243
16. Archetypal Psychology as a Key for Understanding Prehistoric Art Forms, in:
History of Childhood Quarterly: The Journal of Psychohistory, vol. 3, no. 4,
Spring 1976
17. The New Theology: Star Trek, Star Wars, Close Encounters and the Crisis of
Pseudo-rationality, in: History of Childhood Quarterly: The Journal of
Psychohistory, vol. 5, no. 4, Spring 1978
18. The Journal of Psychohistory, vol. 9, no. 1, Summer 1981, reprinted in the
Foundations of Psychohistory, op. cit., pp. 244-332
19. Op. cit., p. 261
20. Op. cit., p. 260
21. The History of Childhood. Lloyd deMause, editor. The Psychohistory Press,
New York, 1974; The English edition: A Condor Book. Souvenir Press (E&A)
Ltd., 1976
22. See in this respect Dan Dervin’s Critical Reflections on Key Aspects of Lloyd
deMause’s Seminal Psychohistory, and Lloyd deMause’s Reply to Dan Dervin,
both in The Journal of Psychohistory, vol. 24, no. 2, Fall 1996
23. Especially in The Evolution of Childhood, printed both in The History of
Childhood (op. cit.) and in the Foundations ... (op. cit.)
24. La psychanalyse et l’histoire: une application à l’histoire de Sparte, Annales
ESC (20) 1965, reprinted in Alain Besancon’s L’Histoire psychanalytique.
Mouton-Paris-La Haye, 1974
25. Aproape 100.000 de copii abandonaþi în instituþii de ocrotire/Almost 100,000
children abandoned in foster homes/, România liberã, July 19, 1997; Societatea
româneascã nu-ºi mai poate permite sã piardã copii în instituþii de tip lagãr/
Romanian society can no longer afford to lose children in concentration camp
type institutions/, ibid.; Cei mai mulþi copii se îmbolnãvesc din cauza sãrãciei/
Most of the children get sick because of poverty/, România liberã, July 21,
1997; Doar în Albania mor mai mulþi copii decât în Romania/Only in Albania
do more children die than in Romania/, România liberã, July 22, 1997
89
26. An excellent model of childrearing for the Balkans can be found in Alenka
Puhar’s Childhood Origins of the War in Yugoslavia, I-II, The Journal of
Psychohistory, vol. 20, no. 4 Spring 1993 and vol. 21, no. 2 Fall 1993
27. The History of Childhood (op. cit.), p. 51
28. See my text in România literarã, November 1992
29. Lloyd deMause’s terminology from The Fetal Origins of History, see supra
30. The University of Chicago Press, 1981
31. TV and media reports, May 1997
32. Spaþiul mioritic, Bucharest, 1936
33. I am grateful to Prof. Jerry Atlas from Long Island University, Brooklyn, New
York for this suggestion (St.B.)
34. Pragmatica personajului /The Pragmatics of the Hero/, Minerva Publishing
House, Bucharest, 1992; Fals tratat de disperare /False Treatise of Despair/,
Hestia Publishing House, Timiºoara, 1995
35. The expression is a commonly widespread public stereotype in formal debates
and informal arguments in Romania (St.B.)
36. Short version in: Enciclopedia României, Bucureºti, 1938, pp. 161-168
37. Op. cit., p. 161
38. Ibid., p. 161
39. It’s necessary to say that Constantin Rãdulescu-Motru’s theory opposes Lucian
Blaga’s famous thesis concerning “the boycotting of history” expressed in
Spaþiul mioritic (The Mioritical Space, 1936). As Blaga puts it, the psychology
of the Romanian people is based on the reluctance to face history (that is, by
the desire to “boycott it”), its actions being performed in a “pre-historical”
time (“eternity”). On the contrary, according to Rãdulescu-Motru, “spirituality”
rises a nation beyond time and contingencies, in the “pure” space of creative
values.
40. See Norman Manea, Felix Culpa, in: On Clowns. The Dictator and the Artist.
Grove Weidenfeld Press, New York, 1992; D. A. Doeing, A Biography of
Mircea Eliade’s Spiritual and Intellectual Development. Thesis presented to
the Faculty of Arts of the University of Ottawa as a partial fulfillment of the
requirement for the degree of PhD, Ottawa, 1975; I. P. Culianu, Mircea Eliade,
Cittadella Editrice, Assisi, 1978 (Romanian version in 1995, by Nemira
Publishing House); Man Linscott Ricketts, Mircea Eliade. The Romanian Roots
1907-1945, Boulder Co., East European Monographs, 1988; Z.Ornea: Anii
treizeci. Extrema dreaptã româneascã /The Thirties. The Romanian Extremist
Right/, Editura Fundaþiei Culturale Române, Bucureºti, 1995
41. Camil Petrescu, Ultima noapte de dragoste, întîia noapte de rãzboi, I (1930);
G. Ibrãileanu, Adela (1933); M. Sebastian, Femei(1933); Gib I. Mihãescu,
Rusoaica (1933); M.Eliade, Maitreyi(1933), Domniºoara Christina(1936);
G.Cãlinescu, Enigma Otiliei (1938)
42. M. Eliade, Cuvântul, VIII, no. 2502/ July 11, 1932
43. P. Comarnescu, Azi, no. 1/ 1932. The term “experientalism” is a forced creation
of the author
90
ªTEFAN BORBÉLY
44. The significance of rebirth from a malignant womb theatrically reemerged on
July 11, 1997, when President Bill Clinton visited Bucharest after blocking
Romania’s access to NATO. When finishing his speech, Petre Roman, Iliescu’s
former Prime Minister and the actual President of the Senate unexpectedly
offered the American President a flag having a hole in its middle. By doing
this, Roman tried to persuade the guest to legitimatize Romania’s new political
leadership by raising the unfolded flag of the December 1989 revolution in
front of the enthusiastic crowd. Clinton either misunderstood the claim, or
was reluctant to honour it. (St.B.)
45. România Liberã, 1995, May 9 and June 9 respectively
46. România Liberã, July 1, 1995 (It is worth mentioning that the beneficiary of a
similar consecration was President Carter, represented with an aura around
his head in Lloyd deMause’s Reagan’s America, Creative Roots, 1984, p. 18)
47. Ibid., July 1 1995
48. Ibid., May 6 1995
49. Ibid., April 18 1995
50. For further details see my text Psihoistoria în imagini /Psychohistory in
Illustrations/, Echinox, XXVII, no. 3-4-5/ 1995, pp. 3 & 20
51. România Liberã, 1995: February 6, June 15 and March 20 respectively
52. Ibid., June 3 1995
53. Creative Roots, Inc., New York, 1982, pp. 246-247
54. Personal observation (St.B.)
55. PUNR: Partidul Unitãþii Naþionale Române /The Romanian National Unity
Party; leader: Gheorghe Funar, until end of March 1996; after losing the
elections, Funar was unseated, and the party elected a new president, Valeriu
Tabãrã/; PRM: Partidul România Mare /The Greater Romania Party; leader:
the anti-Semite poet Corneliu Vadim Tudor/
56. Lloyd deMause, op. cit., p. 246
57. România liberã, February 1 and March 30 respectively
58. România liberã, March 1 1996 and February 7 1996 respectively
59. România liberã, February 16 and 9 1996 respectively
60. Ibid., April 22 and July 15 1996 respectively
61. Ibid., February 15, April 3, January 24, January 10 1996 respectively
62. Ibid., June 9 1995
63. C. Rãdulescu-Motru, Psihologia poporului român (op. cit), p. 161
64. The term belongs to E. R. Dodds: The Greek and the Irrational, The Regents of
the University of California Press, 1951 /Romanian version translated by
Catrinel Pleºu: Dialectica spiritului grec, Meridiane, 1983/
65. Academia Caþavencu, October 16-22 1996
66. România Liberã, October 14 1996
67. România Liberã, September 26 1996
68. România Liberã, September 28 1996
69. PDSR = Partidul Democraþiei Sociale din România, the leading party until the
1996 general elections
91
70. România Liberã, December 16 1996
71. Discursul Primului Ministru desemnat, Victor Ciorbea, cu ocazia prezentãrii
programului de guvernare ºi a Guvernului în faþa Parlamentului, in: Dreptatea,
nr. 121, December 18-24 1996, pp. 15-16
72. It is worthwhile noting that in the Romanian Constitution (1991), the President
is the only point where the mundane meets the sacred...
92
MIRCEA CÃRTÃRESCU
Born in 1956, in Bucharest
Ph.D., University of Bucharest, 1999
Dissertation: Romanian Postmodernism
Associate Professor at the Faculty of Letters, University of Bucharest
Visiting Professor at the University of Amsterdam, 1994-1995
Member of ASPRO (Professional Writers’ Association of Romania),
member of the Writers’ Union of Romania
Fellow of The International Writers’ Program, Iowa City, 1990
Numerous prizes and awards, among which the Prize of the Writers’ Union of
Romania in 1980, 1990 and 1994, the Prize of the Romanian Academy, 1989,
the ASPRO Prize in 1994 and 1996;
short-listed in 1992 for Le Prix Médicis, Le Prix de l’Union Latine and Le Prix
pour le meilleur livre étranger.
Participation in international seminars, conferences; readings from his works in
Germany, Hungary, Holland, France, etc.
His works were translated into French, Spanish, Dutch, English, Hungarian,
German, Norwegian, Italian, and Swedish.
Books:
Headlights, Shop Windows, Photographs. Bucharest: Cartea Româneascã, 1980
Love Poems. Bucharest: Cartea Româneascã, 1983
Everything. Bucharest: Cartea Româneascã, 1985
The Dream. Bucharest: Cartea Româneascã, 1989
Levant. Bucharest: Cartea Româneascã, 1990
The Chimeric Dream. Bucharest: Litera, 1991
Nostalgia. Bucharest: Humanitas, 1993
Love. Poems 1984-1987. Bucharest: Humanitas, 1994
Travesty. Bucharest: Humanitas, 1995
Blinding. The Left Wing. Bucharest: Humanitas, 1996
Double CD. Bucharest: Humanitas, 1998
Romanian Postmodernism. Bucharest: Humanitas, 1999
POSTMODERNITY AS A ‘WEAK’
ONTOLOGICAL, EPISTEMOLOGICAL AND
HISTORICAL EXPERIENCE
1. Postmodernism and postmodernity
The concept of “modernism”, defining an attitude and an artistic
practice which emerged towards the end of the last century, cannot be
probed into without discussing the philosophical, historical and
socio-cultural background of modernity, a much wider notion, yet one
which is closely interrelated to the artistic and literary phenomena in
question . Likewise postmodernism, one of the most widespread concepts
in contemporary theories of art (and elsewhere) simply cannot be
understood — or is even prone to gross misinterpretation — without an
understanding of the world that has engendered it : ‘il convient de faire
une distinction entre “postmodernite” comme type de condition humaine
(existentielle, mais aussi sociale) et “postmodernisme” en tant que courant
litteraire (ou culturel, si vous voulez)’1 . Moreover emphasising the bond
between postmodernism and postmodernity is of greater significance than
relating modernism to modernity. If modernists, despite their claim to be
artists of their time, keeping abreast with the progress of the modern world,
promoted an extreme form of aesthetic autonomy and, like classicists,
regarded the creative act as pure and impersonal, postmodern artists have
shifted their focus towards the insertion of their works in everyday life and
have become engaged in contemporary ethical, political and religious
dilemmas. Consequently the aesthetic criterion, which was looked upon
as all-powerful by modernity, proves insufficient to pass a right judgement
and to estimate the genuine value of any work of art. From this point of
view, postmodernism draws a full circle in European culture, since it
represents a return to the environmental, utilitarian, ornamental and
essentially “democratic” perception of art which preceded the Romantic
revolution.
95
I am going to seek the conceptual roots of postmodernity in three
fundamental fields of knowledge, while emphasising the common purpose
of their three respective endeavours: defining the contemporary human
being. For each of these cognitive areas I have chosen the theory of one
illustrious analyst of post-modernity as a guiding light. While faithfully
following the paths opened by their theories, I will nevertheless consider
contradictory viewpoints so that, by the end of this paper, I hope to have
achieved a clearer insight into what postmodernity is, not only in its
day-to-day tangible occurrences, but in the intricate paradoxical network
of its underlying theory. A discussion of postmodern ontology will comprise
Gianni Vattimo’s reflections on his “forerunners” Nietzsche and Heidegger,
as well as Gadamer’s, Jauss’s and Rorty’s contemporary hermeneutics. I
have regarded Jean-Francois Lyotard’s work as representative for the
formulation of essential issues pertaining to epistemology and for the
legitimisation of new patterns of cognition. The concept of the “end of
history”, dealt with by all postmodern theorists as one of the basic aspects
of the postmodern age, has been audaciously, if not always persuasively
enough, discussed by Francis Fukuyama, the author of the noteworthy
book “The End of History and the Last Man”. I will enlarge upon his point
of view in the third section, although the American historian does not
declare himself a disciple of postmodernism. Although divergent as to
methodology and detail of investigation, the three theories have in common
the sense that modernity, as an age in the history of humankind, has reached
its end .The world is taking a new turn, and fundamental concepts like
reality, history, value, thought and art are undergoing radical changes, as,
alongside them, is the human being.
2. Postmodern ontology
In his book, The End of Modernity, Gianni Vattimo’s main endeavour
is to find points of correspondence between the various contemporary
discussions of the concepts of modernity and postmodernity and the
theories of Nietzsche and Heidegger, both late modern philosophers, fully
aware of the dissolution of modernity and of the obsolescence of its initial
design. As an inheritor of the 18th century rationalist Enlightenment,
modernity carried forward the mainstream of European thought, at the
core of which was an idealism centred around humanism and progress,
the acme of which was reached by 19th century Romanticism : ‘Modernity
96
MIRCEA CÃRTÃRESCU
can indeed be characterised as being dominated by a view of the history
of thought as progressive enlightenment, which develops by means of an
ever deeper appropriation and reappropriation of fundamentals, often
considered as origins, so that the theoretical and practical revolutions in
Western history are often viewed and justifiably labelled as recoveries,
revivals, returns.’2 This utopian teleological view has been castigated by
various thinkers who have revealed the role played by chaos, hazard,
and the subconscious in the making of history, the so-called “negative
categories”, which, did not only enable prosperity and progress to govern
certain ages, but also generated blind alleys, decadence and dissolution,
and brought about the death of entire cultures and civilisations. Following
in the footsteps of Copernicus’s revolution, which demoted the human
being from the centre of the universe, the ruthless Kulturkritik went so far
as to shatter traditional humanism into pieces. Fr. Nietzsche is, indisputably,
“the great shatterer”, whose philosophy has made its imprint upon the
century following him, and whose impact is now more powerful than
ever. His act of discrediting and, ultimately, of annihilating those values
European culture regarded as the most stable and secure, started with the
very concept of “founding”, of “base”, of establishing that ontological or
cognitive “foundation” without which there could be no metaphysics.
Both Nietzsche, and, less radically, Heidegger, bring into discussion the
notion of metaphysical foundation, but, unlike other critics of European
culture, they do not propose any other kind of grounding. With these two
philosophers, being is no longer a fixed, immutable plane to which real
world phenomena relate; it is a fluctuating, contextual, aleatory entity.
Neither concepts nor values pertain to the eternal and the unchangeable,
they become relative and dependent on local conditions. Consequently,
in their view, modernity (which relies wholly upon the illusions bred by
metaphysics) can neither be prolonged nor surpassed: the only acceptable
solution is a separation from modernity. The following chapter will
demonstrate how the meaning of the prefix “post-”, a morpheme in words
such as postmodernism and postmodernity has aroused many controversies
because the this separation has been misunderstood.
“The shattering of ontology”, “the weakening of being” and “nihilism”
were among the scathing expressions by which humanist philosophers
attempted to isolate and discredit Nietzsche’s influence. All these categories
have nevertheless been espoused by those to whom the modern age
appears mistrustful of absolute values, seeing them as the storehouse of
human prejudices and the source of discriminatory and totalitarian
97
practices. We acknowledge, these rejecters of absolute values say, that
we live in a nihilist age, but, taking nihilism to its conclusion is our only
chance, since nihilism has come to mean our ability to endlessly create
truth and value — albeit short-lived like everything else — instead of
false, once-and-for-all norms and dogmas. The “weak” value, created
among people for people who live a precise moment in their history is the
only kind of value postmodernity enables us to create, since all the other
values have proved to be false idols. The dissolution of metaphysics by
the revelation of the “weak” nature of being and thinking, the end of
history as the never-ending headway of the human being in search of
selfhood (for the subject itself, as a substratum — subjectum —, has not
been able to resist criticism) and the reformulation of truth, a notion which
grows similar to an aesthetic concept, are all “nihilistic” ideas. They are
equally the premises required by the only optimistic, positive, approach
to the contemporary world: the postmodern critique. It is worthwhile
expanding upon this last idea. In Vattimo’s opinion, postmodernity no
longer regards truth as a gnoseological concept, since it is no longer
grounded in a stable metaphysical reality. Like the subject, truth goes on
“a slimming diet”, it becomes an instrumental concept of communication
and interrelation, very much like aesthetic concepts. Consequently,
postmodernism sustains ‘a non-metaphysical conception of truth, which
should be interpreted starting not so much from the positivist model of
scientific knowledge as from (...) the experience of art and the model of
rhetoric.’3 From now on, the aesthetic experience, which is essentially
“weak” will be the model for any type of knowledge. This step is needed
for the “aestheticization” of life in the post-modern world, the unexpected
consequence of which is a dramatic change in the way culture and art are
assessed in the new society. I shall try to show how difficult it is for “high”,
elitist culture to adjust to this astheticisation of the entire life of society.
With Nietzsche, the concept of human being is obviously marginalized,
since nihilism is ‘the condition in which man rolls from the centre
x-wards.’4 . ‘The devaluation of the supreme value’ is expressed by the
concomitant “Death of God” and that of man (as an ideal, sublime,
atemporal being, as pure judgement). Genuine freedom only emerges
once our illusions about man have come to an end. Surprisingly enough,
on the wasteland which Nietzsche created by demolishing rationalist
humanism, radically opposite ideologies could be formulated. The idea
that, after God’s death “everything is permitted” and that morality itself
disintegrates, while the only law left is the right of the stronger, has enabled
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MIRCEA CÃRTÃRESCU
the establishing of a morality of the “masters” or of the “superior race”; in
other words it has led to fascism. Paradoxically and ironically, history has
testified to the validity not of the masters’ morality, that of the Ubermensch,
but of that of the “slaves” whom nihilism liberated from the idols of the
tribe, a morality which took the form of the new democratic ethics based
on human rights. The Ideal Man had to die in order for human beings to
arise, in all their complexity and diversity, as they are in real life. Absolute
value had to dissolve in order for individual values and group values to
have their say, values created between people, not once-and-for-all, but
for a limited period, and only contextually valid. As already mentioned,
the unavoidable consequence of Nietzsche’s perspective is a certain
de-realisation of the world. Unbound from the metaphysical chains which
had kept it in bondage during the classical age, the post-Nietzschean
world is depleted of reality, a phenomenon which finds its most faithful
expression in The Twilight of the Gods : ‘the real world has become a
fairy-tale.’5 In the same way, for Heidegger being is annihilated to the
extent that it is completely converted into value, which is in its turn
fluctuating and convertible. This effect of unreality, so salient in today’s
world, has led to various trends of thought joining against the nihilism of
our age. Starting with the first decades of our century, a strong philosophical
front has stood up in defence of humanist values. Reunited under the
shared motto of “the pathos of authenticity”, early existentialists,
phenomenologists, Marxists, and more recently, representatives of
contemporary hermeneutics such as Habermas have made great
endeavours to defend the great values theoretically. Vattimo points out
that all these endeavours have failed. Despite the charges brought against
it — “dehumanisation”, “confusion”, “alienation”, “generalised
prostitution” — total nihilism has proved much less harmful and more
fruitful than all the ideologies which have led to wars and dictatorships.
The failure of humanism is perceptible everywhere in our century, in which
not only has communism caused unparalleled disasters, but respectable
philosophical and artistic trends (existentialism, surrealism, futurism and
avant-garde movements) have become compromised by supporting all
kinds of dictatorships, from Stalinism to fascism, from Maoism to
international terrorism. Vattimo points out that, in striking contrast with
these trends, ‘unerring nihilism calls for an experience of reality, which
has become fabulous, and which is our only way to achieve freedom.’6
Wherever a society has undergone de-ideologisation and the abolition of
absolute creeds (as is the case of contemporary Western, and especially
99
American society), that society has enhanced its complexity, prosperity
and freedom, despite the psychological already referred to.
Together with Niezsche’s assertion that ‘God is dead’, in the practical
sphere modern technology, which was originally regarded as a source of
opening the gate towards totalitarian practices, has contributed to the
dissolution of all absolute values and has brought about an unprecedented
crisis of humanism, a concept that Heidegger considered equivalent to
the possibility for metaphysics itself to exist. Between around 1900 and
the period after the Second World War, human values underwent a painful
crisis, which was mirrored in all philosophical trends. One attempt to
provide a cordon sanitaire for these values was the use of dichotomies of
the type humanities versus natural sciences or culture (humanist) versus
civilisation (dehumanising). These dichotomies — in which the first terms
defined the fortress of everlasting humanism, a sort of Goethean Castalia
wholly isolated from the present day world of decay — proved groundless,
partly because humanist values did not appear essentially different from
other values, and partly because modern technology, far from emerging
as a deadly menace, turned on the contrary into a positive reality. If
Spengler or Husserl deplore the loss of the “human core”, of the “subject”
in the new technological civilisation, Heidegger regards the “surpassing”
(Verwindung) of humanism as the only path leading to the Ge-Stell, to the
world of technology as the best instantiation of metaphysics, and,
consequently, as the first mark of Ereignis, of re-discovery of the self. The
subject, as it is conceived by humanists, is not worth defending, as it is
identified with reason and conscience, which are defined as correlatives
of the object, sharing in the immutable stable character of the object. The
subject is a substratum (sub-jectum) and, as such, paradoxically
relinquishes its very subjectivity, its historicity (Dasein). As a conclusion,
Heidegger reinforces the necessity to abandon metaphysics, not by
transgression as such, but by Verwindung, which rather means recovery
or convalescence. There is a need for the subject to take up a “slimming
diet”, since it can no longer claim to be the absolute spirit. As a result of
this “slimming”, the subject acquires historicity and location, becoming
contextual and ephemeral, an entity ‘which dissolves its presence-absence
into the networks of a society which increasingly turns into a sensitive
body of communication.’7 The cycle referred to above is thus completed,
since postmodern philosophy and practice prove to be solidary and
complementary.
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Art is the first area to benefit from the consequences of this. The decay
of metaphysics provides fertile ground for a general aestheticisation of
life. The problem of the “death of art”, which might be seen as the central
topic of modernity, acquires a quite different meaning in postmodernity.
From the avant-garde breakthrough of the 20s, which denied any
confinement of art, to the new avant-garde, with its ubiquitous art, which
steps beyond the traditional, isolated and protected spaces (theatres,
museums, exhibition and concert halls), the classical view on art has been
violently challenged throughout our century. Never has the concept of art
reached such relativisation as in the age of media supremacy, since the
communication media have become nowadays a kind of perverse (still
not totally distorted) embodiment of the Hegelian concept of the absolute
spirit. Art does not fade away with postmodernity, but it loses its isolation
from the social body (that famous autonomy of the aesthetic proclaimed
against all kinds of populisms and dictatorships) into which it finally
dissolves. The survival of art implies the renunciation of the “absolute”,
so that what was not habitually regarded as art becomes art. The work of
art’s questioning of its own status becomes a criterion of value. It can be
seen that postmodernity witnesses a triumph of avant-garde concepts, on
condition that they be “tamed”. When the avant-garde becomes routine
and fits into the “norm”, when what used to be shocking no longer shocks
anyone, while that which formerly did not shock has vanished from the
picture, we may say that we have entered the postmodern world.
Undeniably, any postmodern work includes its own denial, in the form of
critical distance, irony, parody, (self) pastiche, which means that the death
of art is literally implied in any artistic product, which indeed somehow
feeds on this implication. Turning the disappearance of art into the very
source of art’s vitality and survival is the optimistic solution the postmodern
thinker provides to a problem which the modernist failed to resolve, since
the death of art could only be followed by nothingness.
It is not by chance that this has only been achieved in the present age.
The impact of technology opens a gap between the historical and
postmodern avant-gardes, since technology favours the endless
reproduction and the ubiquitous nature of all works of art and thus destroys
one of the essential criteria employed by the elitist estimation of the work
of art: its uniqueness. The mass reproduction effect mentioned by Benjamin
in his famous work ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical
Reproduction’8 leads to a curious “living death” of art. Although art
pervades all possible spaces and permeates all possible forms, it loses the
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immense prestige it used to have when it was considered (admittedly by
the restricted elite to whom it was accessible) the repository of all human
values and wisdom. Nowadays, the mass media place little stress on “high”,
“authentic” art; on the other hand, they widely disseminate information,
culture and entertainment according to a unique , essentially aesthetic
criterion: pleasure. Mass communication alone can achieve social
consensus nowadays, a consensus which is neither political, nor
ideological, but ‘a resignedly aesthetic function.’9 That is why the death
of art should be understood in two ways : its strong meaning points to the
end of “high” art as the moulder of humankind, as an occult, initiatory
world, the preserver of transcendental revelation (we may clearly recognise
the “elation-inducing” perspective of modernism); its weak meaning
concernes the mutation, which traditional thinking would have regarded
as unacceptable, even apocalyptic, leading to the dissolution of art into
social life through the mass media. The “myth of art” crumbles and art
undergoes a boundless democratisation. The “weak” viewpoint does not
come after the “strong” one; they are simultaneously displayed and strongly
interrelated. Modernism is not dead when postmodernism appears; rather
modernism survives by means of postmodernism, due to the specifically
postmodern simultaneity of all aesthetic attitudes, ideologies and styles in
an ahistorical world, where, according to Al. Philippide, ‘old and new
ages in motley merge; all as one swiftly surge’. “High” art still survives,
despite the dwindling of its audience and prestige. It dwells in its tiny
secluded room, ‘where, within a complex system of connections, the three
aspects of the death of art: utopia, kitsch and silence, play and interact
together.’10 The next chapter will enlarge upon the concept of silence
and demonstrate, following Ihab Hassan’s line of thought, that both trends
typical of modernity, intellectualism and violent avant-garde, end up in
silence — the one in intense meditation over the blank page, and the
other in the white noise of pandemonium. On the contrary, postmodernity
starts from silence in order to build up parallel worlds that will someday
compete with the World itself. With postmodernity, while art loses its
“life” in the traditional sense of the word (namely its value, significance
and mystery), it equally loses its death, entrapped in the limbo of paradox,
like the hunter Gracchus in Kafka’s tale. Its condition might be called the
“twilight” or the “agony” of art. The art of the present day can only be
defined by oxymoron: dead life, sweet agony, “merry apocalypse”, which
only draws it closer to the aesthetic trend it so strikingly resembles:
mannerism.
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Together with art, traditional aesthetics is also prone to decay. The
“exemplary” character of the work of art lacks support. If it technologically
reproducible (consider, for instance, the playing of Vivaldi’s music in a
washing-powder advert or the glimpsing of the Gioconda’s smile on a
match-box), the work of art can only induce a “sideways”, “marginal”,
“casual” perception, as an object glanced at “out of the corner of one’s
eye”. Devoid of any stable substantiation of values, the aesthetic approach
becomes “weak”. Temporary and perishable, the work of art becomes a
mere “password” for Heidegger, a token of its belonging to the world,
depleted of its own meaning. This draws it closer to ornamental practices,
since they are both embellishing and peripheral. In The Origin of the
Work of Art, Heidegger describes art as a “background happening”,
describable only by means of a “weak” ontology. Casting art back into
the role it used to play before Romanticism “ennobled” it and widening
the concept until it covers the entire social body are processes which
perform the conditions necessary in order for the whole world to become
a work of art, as was foreseen by Nietzsche as far back as the previous
century, when he wrote: ‘The world is a work of art in the process of
self-making.’11 To conclude the discussion on the death of art in the
contemporary world, one might say that, like the seed in Christ’s parable,
art remains alone unless it dies, but if it dies it may bear much fruit.
In proposing ‘an essentially humanistic philosophy of history’12 , the
most important representatives of contemporary hermeneutics, Gadamer,
Apel and Jauss stray away from the Heideggerian spirit they would wish
to share and turn into opponents of the postmodernity foreshadowed by
Heidegger. The great philosopher supplies a nihilist definition for the
relationship between being and language: Dasein means
“being-into-death”. Being lacks “foundation”, it is mere “utterance”,
adjusted to the rhythm of discourse. While progressively turning into
language, being “weakens”, and the history of metaphysics becomes the
history of the progressive oblivion of being. Among contemporary theorists
of hermeneutics, Richard Rorty is closest to a postmodern standpoint
(without being a postmodern theorist himself). In his main book, Philosophy
in the Mirror of Nature, Rorty lays emphasis on “empathy”, on the intuitive
nature of hermeneutic knowledge. In Rorty’s view, once the attempt to
build up an epistemology has been relinquished, hermeneutics dissolves
into anthropology and becomes ‘a form of the dissolution of being.’13
Split between homologising and difference, between a Western
“ecumenical” ideal and a secular marginality, the contemporary world
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looks like ‘a huge building site of survivals.’14 The same definition could
apply to contemporary art, which displays a wide variety of trends —
from the historicising to the marginalising —, simultaneously unified and
pluralised by the great media discourse.
3. Knowledge in postmodernity
As far as postmodern epistemology is concerned, the most clear-sighted
analysis is Jean-Francois Lyotard’s15 . Having studied various types of
legitimising discourses, Lyotard has evinced the increasing substitution of
new legitimising procedures for the “modern” legitimisation of power,
science, knowledge, etc. Dealing with the beginning of postmodern
thinking, Lyotard, like Vattimo, mentions the works of Nietzsche and
Heidegger. He regards other influences, such as Freud’s psychoanalysis,
Max Weber’s demonstration of the connection between the Protestant
spirit and capitalism, and the philosophy promoted by the Frankfurt School,
as equally decisive. Neither are Marxist and Neo-Kantian thought
neglected, since they inspire postmodernism with major topics. The two
postmodern theorists equally agree as to certain common points shared
by these theories, and as to overlapping areas in the views of Foucault,
Derrida, Deleuze, etc. One major area would be the scathing criticism of
the European Enlightenment, of its faith in reason and its grandiose coherent
teleological scripts, which always set man in the centre of being and of
history and on the ascendant line of unbounded progress. The
Enlightenment provided “scripts” or “grand narratives” which were to play
a legitimising and comforting role in European thought for almost three
centuries. These scripts generated the illusions bred by humanist thinking
about human “predestination” and encouraged far-fetched attempts to
fully and coherently justify man’s worldly destiny. The rationalist and
idealist-Romantic heritage urged modernity to believe in the “objective
truth” of various explanatory scripts. Modern man, although deeply
fissured, continues to embody an abstract ideal. On the other hand,
postmodernity utterly mistrusts meta-narratives and, once it has acquired
the skill of deconstructing them, it unveils all the ideological and
self-mystifying presumptions underlying any seemingly “objective”
discourse. In Lyotard’s view, this mistrust, this scepticism towards
objectivity, coherence and completeness is the main symptom of
postmodern thinking. ‘When this meta-discourse [i.e. philosophy] explicitly
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resorts to one grand narrative or another, such as the dialectics of spirit,
the hermeneutics of meaning, the emancipation of the national or working
subject, the development of wealth, I have decided to designate as modern
the science to which they relate in order to get legitimised.’16 Surprisingly
enough, doctrines and ideologies so profoundly divergent such as
Hegelianism, nationalism, Marxism, hermeneutics and market liberalism
appear as various facets of a “totalitarian” modernity, in the sense that
each of them proclaims itself the only legitimate and thorough
interpretation of Man and the only way to influence and shape Man
according to certain abstract principles. Lyotard supports the idea of a
trenchant opposition between modernity and postmodernity; however,
as already suggested, postmodernism does not simply “replace” modernism
at a precise historical moment, since there are complex relationships of
coexistence and interdependence between the two. Lyotard’s relative
manichaeism has been exposed by other theorists, such as Matei Calinescu,
who, in the introductory chapter of the postmodern anthology he edited
together with Douwe Fokkema17 , explicitly asserts the following: ‘Actually,
Lyotard’s opposition between modernity and postmodernity, seen within
the corpus of his philosophical work, is just another way of personifying
the eternal conflict between Ahriman (domination, capital, the acquisitive
drive, the will to infinity, mastery, control, richness) and Ormazd (the
desire for opacity, paralogy, non-communication, autonomy, the “figural”
and “deconstructive” search for “incommensurability”. Modernity would
then be a synonym for Lyotard’s strangely timeless notion of capitalism,
while postmodernism would be a personification of an equally timeless
desire for freedom and justice.’18 If the notion of a strange “ageless”
capitalism (or rather, an “industrial age”, perceived either as a background
or as a metaphor) may fit into the notion of modernity as defined by Lyotard,
Matei Calinescu’s statement that postmodernism is an “opaque”
“non-communicative” world sounds questionable. To counter Calinescu’s
opinion, both Lyotard and Vattimo (the author of a book specifically dealing
with this topic19 ) perceive transparency and communication — which
are, after all, one and the same thing — as the core of the new postmodern
liberalism. Lyotard emphasises the fact that within this transparent (or at
least translucent) world, only those more conservative institutions that
obviously preserve residues from the past will withstand this tendency for
a while: ‘The state will start to look like a factor of opacity and “noise”
undermining an ideology of “communicational” transparency, which is
accompanied by a commercialisation of knowledge.’20
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With Lyotard, knowledge no longer plays a formative role. In his view,
postmodernity wholly rejects the idea of man’s ceaseless “completion”,
of knowledge enriching the human mind, an idea still supported by modern
humanism. In the new post-industrial world, knowledge is valued
differently: any value becomes an exchange value, which, like any
commodity, fluctuates according to the “exchange rate”: ‘Knowledge has
been and will be produced to be sold, has been and will be consumed to
be put to use in a new production.’21 Redefined as such, value differs
both from the “production force” — in positivist terms —, and from the
moulding force — in hermeneutic terms —, which is meaningful only in
a world of absolute values and purposes. Knowledge has become an issue
that goes far beyond the production of commodities. The real place where
knowledge proves decisive is the realm of decision: ‘In the age of
informatics knowledge as an issue has become more than ever an issue of
governing.’22 , Lyotard writes, then adds that the question “Who should
make the decisions?” lies at the heart of this matter. Instead of the grand
narratives, it is the logical and linguistic criteria, devoid of ideology but
still supporting an endlessly expandable network, that could be able to
describe the informational clouds of the present society. Among these
criteria, Lyotard shows a particular interest in “language games”, as
understood by Ludwig Wittgenstein. The following demonstration relies
on this specific criterion. Under the conditions provided by the new society,
ruling is no longer identified with political decision: ‘The former poles of
attraction consisting in nation-states, parties, professions, institutions and
historical traditions have ceased to arouse interest’ and have been replaced
by ‘a composite blanket made up of managers, officials, leaders of large
professional , trade union, political, and religious bodies, etc.’23 . This
group takes decisions which impact upon the entire “social fabric” within
a complex game, which is in its turn constituted by numberless other
language games. In order to be noticed, the social bond need to encompass
a “language change” in the context of such a game. Consequently a general
agonistics takes shape, as a new “power” mechanism in the postmodern
world, in which ‘to speak means to fight in the sense of to play.’24 On the
one hand, Lyotard’s analysis includes those contrastive aspects which are
specific to linguistic structuralism; on the other hand, it lays considerable
emphasis on the ludic aspect of decision, which is the truly novel element
in the new social relations of postmodernity. However the issue of decision
is merely described and far from being solved by depicting the new society
as an informational cloud governed by a general agonistics. For a decision
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to be made possible and to be able subsequently to structure the social
fabric, it has to be perceived as legitimate. Legitimisation is a key concept
with Lyotard. Having experienced world-wide conflicts, holocaust and
communist totalitarian regimes, the post-war world can no longer be
governed according to the grand legitimising narratives, be they nationalist
or Marxist. The erosion of man has entailed demolishing all the ideals and
utopias in the name of which countless crimes have been committed. To
Lyotard, the main issue which postmodernity faces is the following: how
can legitimisation occur otherwise, so that it may preserve its credibility
and prove its validity? Combining epistemology with game theory, Lyotard
tries to answer this question by disclosing the way in which ‘the atomisation
of the social in flexible language game networks’25 takes place.
Legitimisation will be determined by the very nature of these language
games.
From the beginning of his study, Lyotard distinguishes two major ways
of acquiring knowledge. One is “narrative” knowledge, of folk origin, in
which narrative form prevails over content or discursive aims (recollecting
the past). The need for fiction, in the form of classical or modern myths,
thus becomes synonymous to the need for oblivion, or for the fabrication
of a fake memory, more suitable for collective desires and cravings. With
this type of knowledge, there is no need for legitimisation, since the
narrative provides self-legitimisation. Scientific knowledge is in striking
contrast to narrative knowledge. The pragmatics of the two forms of
knowledge are two equally valid, yet mutually exclusive, language games.
Narrative knowledge is the form specific to traditional societies,
resuscitated by Romanticism and extended into modernity. What Lyotard
deals with further on is scientific knowledge, which is highly specific of
postmodernity.
In its turn, scientific knowledge can be split into two basic branches
(or games): research and education. Research features the following
presuppositions (or game rules): 1. The addressee and the addresser are
equally competent; 2. The referent should be appropriate to reality; 3.
The addresser is assumed to be telling the truth; 4. There is a double
suitability rule: dialectical and metaphysical; 5. Research achieves its
purpose once consensus as to its validity has been reached. In its turn,
education is underlain by several presuppositions: 1. The addressee does
not share the same amount of knowledge as the addresser; 2. The addressee
may become an expert; 3. There are “unquestionable” utterances which
are conveyed as truths. Lyotard combines the features of the two games
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pertaining to scientific knowledge and reveals the following characteristics
of this type of knowledge : 1. Scientific knowledge only allows for a
denotative language game; an utterance is accepted according to its truth
value; 2. Scientific knowledge is indirectly acquired knowledge, isolated
from the other aspects of social bonds; 3. Competence is compulsory
only for the addresser; 4. The scientific utterance does not get validated
by its own formulation. 5 Science is a cumulative process which, because
of its diachronic character, involves memory and design.
Between narrative knowledge and scientific knowledge there is an
asymmetrical compatibility. If narrative knowledge tolerates a scientific
mentality to a certain extent, scientific knowledge proves altogether
intolerant of a narrative mentality. This is exactly what opponents of
postmodernism as being a loss of meaning, a loss of the human value of
knowledge. There can be detected in their attitude a nostalgia for the
humanist modernity of the past, when knowledge was indeed
predominantly narrative.
Once the religious-metaphysical legitimisation have collapsed,
knowledge of the European type reaches an impasse. Various types of
legitimisation have been devised, in a general endeavour to avoid
“nihilism”, or in other words legitimisation by consensus. Thus
Romanticism brought legitimisation from the people by means of debate
and consensus. This view invests the people with the status of “universal
expert”, whose representatives demolish traditional narrative structures
only to replace them by modern, equally narrative, structures. The notion
of progress flourished during this period, seen as the acquisition of
competence over generations. The golden age, which ancient philosophers
identified with a mythical past, was re-located by modern thinkers in the
future: it was to be possible owing to the general progress of humanity’s.
This type of legitimisation still dominates the political life of nations. It
turns the issue of state into an issue of scientific knowledge. As a universal
expert, the people becomes concerned with the legitimisation of political,
economic and scientific power by means of meta-narratives. This interest
generates the great “scripts” or legitimising narratives in their two versions:
political and philosophical. In the great political script of European
modernity, humanity as a whole is represented as a hero of liberty. This
view assigns the state with the mission of moulding the people as a nation
and of guiding it on the pathway to progress. A classical example is the
Prussian state in Hegel’s time, regarded by the philosopher as the ideal,
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unsurpassable form of state, the emergence of which marked the end of
history as the unimpeded development of the absolute spirit.
The philosophical version of the legitimising narratives centres around
metaphysics as the exquisite all-comprehensive synthesis of all sciences.
In their turn, these sciences are but moments in the development of the
spirit, meant to achieve a meta-history of the spirit. It is easy to recognise
the Hegelian design in the philosophical version, since they both rely on
knowledge of the narrative type. This knowledge engenders that of
hermeneutics, which is so suitable for modernity, but altogether
incompatible with postmodernity. All great ideologies rooted in the
Enlightenment and Romantic idealism have been legitimised either by
the political version of the grand narratives, or by the philosophical version,
and in most cases by both.
If legitimisation has been an obsession of European modernity for at
least two centuries, postmodernity witnesses a process of ideological
de-legitimisation as the great scripts have lost their credibility. This process
shifts the focus from aims (teleology, progress, utopia) to means. Agreeing
with Gianni Vattimo and other postmodern theorists, J.-F. Lyotard points
out that the decay of the great legitimising scripts is not the result solely of
humanity’s having entered its post-industrial age, but primarily of certain
processes regarding the theoretical aspects of knowledge. The seeds of
de-legitimisation and of nihilism should be first sought in the erosion of
the speculative (philosophical) discourse generated, as Nietzsche
remarked, by the sciences being subordinated to and validated by
philosophy. If philosophy was predominantly narrative, sciences would
become ideological tools in the service of power, losing their truth value
and, implicitly, their credibility. Likewise, the emancipatory (political)
discourse becomes eroded since there are two types of discourse generated
by the people: one descriptive and the other prescriptive. The two types
of discourse do not overlap and are generated according to different rules.
A fatal gap opens between the scientific and the forensic.
The above considerations might account for the wave of pessimism at
the end of the past century and during the first decades of the present
century. Irrespective of their proclivities, thinkers were forced to face a
huge proliferation of languages which had emerged without any traditional
legitimisation. Lyotard points out that the age of pessimism came to an
end once new forms of legitimisation had emerged, forms specific to this
very proliferation of languages, arising from linguistic practices and
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interactive communication. Lyotard goes on to analyse these practices in
more detail.
In the postmodern view, the first branch of scientific knowledge,
research, is legitimised by performativity (from the very start a pragmatic,
not a metaphysical criterion). Unlike a few decades ago, the pragmatics
of research is influenced nowadays by two changes: the enriching of
argumentation and the complication of the administration of evidence.
While discussing the richer argumentative strategies, Lyotard shows that
argumentative languages are regulated by logical meta-language, which
implies consistency, completeness, decidability and interdependence of
axioms. Formal logic has lately become considerably enriched: Godel’s
famous demonstration proves that all systems have limitations, which
appear whenever the systems are translated into a natural, inconsistent
and paradox-generating language. This leads to the impossibility of
exhausting a system by demonstration, somenthing which traditional
thought used to consider unacceptable, but which postmodern thinkers
consider inevitable, even stimulating. By accepting the haphazard, the
incomplete and the contradictory, the very notion of reason undergoes
fundamental change:
‘The principle of a universal meta-language is replaced by that of a
plurality of formal and axiomatic systems capable of argument in favour
of denotative utterances; these systems belong to a universal, however
inconsistent meta-language.’26 There is a salient discrepancy between
postmodernity and all previous ages as to scientific knowledge: while
classical and modern science rejected paradox, postmodernity draws its
argumentative force from it.
The other recent change undergone by pragmatics is the complication
of the administration of tests The central paradox of this issue is that the
test itself needs testing. To apply a test means to find out a fact by means
of certain recording procedures, obeying the principle of performativity.
The procedure implies the use of complex and costly hardware, which is
not available to any scientist. The triad that regulates the administration of
tests is wealth - efficiency - truth, where causality sets the order of the
terms. In the new “empire of performance”, the scientific idealism, which
used to enliven classical science and urge the dedicated scholars into
getting committed to the sheer quest of truth for their own benefit and
pleasure, has become not only a naive goal, but also an unattainable
target. Science has stopped being a guarantee of humanity’s unlimited
progress, and has simply become an instance of the circulation of capital:
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‘It is the desire to get rich, rather than the desire to acquire knowledge,
which imposes the imperative of better performance and higher quality
products upon technology.’27 Research starts being scheduled according
to enterprise management and capitalism grants credits either by financing
various departments with practical “applications” or by creating specialised
foundations. Consequently, the administration of tests ‘is controlled by a
different language game, where not truth, but performativity is at stake
(...) The state and/or the enterprise abandon the idealistic or humanistic
legitimising narrative in order to justify power as the new asset at stake’28 .
Out of the main language games: denotative (scientific), prescriptive (legal)
and technical (performative), power belongs only to the last mentioned.
Since reality provides proofs and since technology masters reality,
legitimisation is conferred by power, as power alone makes available that
technology which is meant to investigate reality. This is the only real
legitimising method acknowledged by the modern world.
Consequently, if in modernity technology was regarded as an appendix
of science, in the postmodern world it acquires priority over science. Taking
this reversal into account, sciences exist only in order for ever more
performative technologies to emerge. A cycle is thus established, in which
any increase in power can only be achieved by increasing the amount of
information. The postmodern world system is essentially informational.
The second component of knowledge, education, differs from research
by its functioning as a sub-system of the social system and not irrespective
of the social bond. Its purpose is to contribute to general optimisation. To
achieve this purpose, the new forms of education have discarded the
humanist ideal of character delineation and simply content themselves
with competence delineation. Competence is needed, on the one hand,
to take part in the world-wide competition between post-industrial states
(which requires the training of experts in languages and information), and,
on the other hand, to satisfy internal social needs (doctors, teachers,
engineers, or in other words ‘actors able to conveniently play their parts
in the pragmatic positions institutions need them for.’29 Within this
framework, Lyotard highlights the meaninglessness of academic autonomy,
an issue so much debated in the 70s, since educational institutions are
necessarily subordinated to that power which allows them to function.
Their role basically consists of the uninterrupted training of individuals. In
the new type of society, education has come to replace the question “is it
true?” by “is it saleable?”, which finally entails a profound change in the
notion of reality itself, and thus represents the most puzzling and shattering
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challenge of postmodernity. Contrary to all expectations, it is not the idealist
and humanist education, the preserver of values and of the sense of reality,
which has proved to foster the development of knowledge, but the
pragmatic education, based on sheer performativity. ‘The perspective of
a huge market for operational competence opens up. The holders of this
type of knowledge have been and will be the object of demand and even
the target of seductive practices. From this point of view, what is heralded
is not the end of knowledge, but quite the contrary. Tomorrow’s
encyclopaedias will be databases. They exceed any user’s capacity. To
the postmodern citizen they are “nature”.’30 The idea that the scientist no
longer explores nature directly, but searches the databases on nature, in
other words explores a secondary reality, created by humans, into which
the human being gets integrated from now on, comfortably dwelling in
un-reality, may be the absolute hallmark of postmodernity. When Lyotard’s
book was published, in 1979, PCs had not yet invaded the market; only
later on their did their rapid spread confirm the cynical, yet insightful
predictions of the French thinker. PCs have introduced virtual reality, the
illusory core of posmodernity, into the life of ordinary people by means of
incorporated databases, person-to-person facilities, multimedia and
internet connections.
At the same time, Lyotard favours the idea that there is a certain
traditionally “humanist” traditional quality which preserves its role in the
new society as well. This quality is imagination. When knowledge is fully
transparent and informationally substantiated, something else is needed
in order to get the advantage in a competitive situation. This advantage is
provided by an excess of imagination, by the ability to conceive new
moves in a language game, assembling scattered pieces of information at
a speed exceeding that of others. As in Asimov’s famous story, education
relies on two levels of performance, a “mass” one, based on the memorising
and recounting of knowledge, and an “elitist” one, which aims at enhancing
creativity. The “Age of the Teacher” comes to an end, as teachers are
rivalled by databases and research teams and de-legitimisation and
performativity gain priority.
Legitimisation is not a closed issue. Performativity indeed presupposes
the existence of a stable deterministic system. In postmodernity, however,
stability and determinism lose their absoluteness and, as with all other
characteristics, become variable and contextual. Therefore, neither can
legitimisation be absolute. Within the framework of post-modern
knowledge, it is subject to perpetual fluctuation, while sciences find a
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new basic function for themselves: the permanent questioning of their
own legitimisation. Consequently, the legitimising discourse becomes
immanent, and dependent on local and consensual circumstances.
According to Godel’s theory, the internalisation of this discourse necessarily
brings about paradoxes and limitations, which, are no longer regarded as
“flaws” of legitimisation, as they were in the past, but rather as its objective,
unavoidable aspects. As early as the first decades of our century, atomic
physics introduced the notion of boundaries to knowledge by quantum
theory and Heisenberg’s principle of indeterminacy. Heisenberg, for
instance, reveals that, on the one hand, observing all conditions within a
system requires more energy than that consumed in that system, and on
the other hand, that perfect control diminishes efficiency. The higher the
precision, the higher the uncertainty, the only predictable quantities being
the statistical percentages. Next to immanence, indeterminacy is the
second basic characteristic of postmodernity. Mathematical theories of
non-linear equations (Rene Thom’s catastrophe theory, the theory of chaos,
Mandelbrot’s theory of fractals) have followed the same trend towards the
theoretical congruence of the post-modern world. Absolute determinism
lacks both meaning and reality. In an ocean of chaotic movement there
are mere unstable “islands of determinism”, engendered by the local state
of the system. Paralogies are to be encountered throughout the
post-industrial universe. Culture and art will also face disorder, paradox
and indeterminacy. In Lyotard’s view, the human being is re-positioned
as a conscience striving (as always) to invest chaos with meaning, but this
meaning is now not global but punctual at each and every moment: ‘In its
concern with the undecidable, with the boundaries of controlled accuracy,
with quanta, with clashes of incomplete information, with fractals, with
catastrophes, and with pragmatic paradoxes, postmodern science theorises
its own discontinuous, catastrophical, unrectifiable and paradoxical
evolution.’31 . Mutatis mutandis, this might equally well describe the
condition of postmodern literature: focused on its transcendence during
modernity, the text becomes immanent, ceaselessly questioning its own
artistic legitimacy.
The end of legitimising narratives becomes thus the end of closed
systems. The new science provides the open system anti-model, which
undergoes a process of morphogenesis, as Rene Thom calls it. This process
implies introducing new rules into the game, related to the unpredictable
local conditions which may emerge within the ‘huge clouds of linguistic
matter that make up societies’32 .
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In its new interpretation, scientific pragmatics can even redefine its
links to society. It acts ambivalently, both against power (be it prescriptive
or meta-prescriptive) and in favour of power. During a first stage of the
informational impact, the manipulation of information by the media was
feared as a potential ‘dream instrument for the control and regulation of
the market system’ 33 , as well as the political system. Numberless
mid-century anti-utopias describe such totalitarian worlds governed by
rigorous information control. On the contrary, having followed the history
of the world during the last decades, the latest postmodern thinkers consider
that a boundless proliferation of information renders its large scale
manipulation impossible. In their view, a scientific pragmatics based on
informatisation ‘may serve discussion groups in addition to
meta-prescriptions, while providing them with the missing information
they most often need in order to make knowledgeable decisions’34 .
Knowledge itself becomes part of the power of decision. Although
postmodern theory starts from a radical nihilism, it ends up by offering an
optimistic perspective on knowledge, which modernity would have found
it hard to imagine. This new optimism, which cannot pass unnoticed in
postmodern artistic theory, is still one of the most characteristic aspects of
postmodernity. Every person’s free access to all knowledge (memory and
databases) ‘foreshadows that kind of politics where the desire for justice
and the desire for the unknown will be equally obeyed’35 . This is the
conclusion reached by Lyotard at the end of a survey which brilliantly
combines post-structuralist analysis and down-to-earth pragmatism.
4. The end of history or awakening from the nightmare
When James Joyce wrote his famous statement ‘History is the nightmare
I cannot awake from’, above and beyond the terrifying sentential generality
of his utterance, he undoubtedly voiced a modernist viewpoint. Since
history as a science separated itself from historiography, acquired
self-awareness and subsequently laid the foundation for a philosophy of
history which claimed to “account for” events by all-embracing
metaphysical schemata, that is, roughly speaking, since the Enlightenment,
numerous historical outlooks, despite their divergences, have shared the
idea of a continuous evolution of society, from barbarism to civilisation,
in the sense of its material and moral improvement. The final purpose of
human evolution was to achieve a “human ideal” pertaining either to the
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past, or to the future. Each historical event had to be acknowledged as
part of this triumphant march towards perfection, in which “more recent”
meant, by definition, “better”. Even pessimistic views on history, which
depict humankind as sliding downwards into evil and degradation — such
as Romanticism or modernism — share an ideal and teleological point of
view: humankind “has gone astray”, “has deviated from its lofty purpose”,
which is simply a different way of asserting the existence of a pathway
towards the ideal, the teleology of history and the privileged condition of
the human being in the world. The Enlightenment view has been
questioned in history as well as in the fields already discussed, by those
thinkers who have discarded the idea that history acquires meaning by
predestination. With Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and later Heidegger, the
human being is never immobile and absolute; with time, humans are
subject to becoming by random fluctuations. As a conclusion, there can
be no immutable ideal that humankind should strive to reach and there
can be no-one to show humankind the way to the peak along the pathway
of progress. Abandoning the notion of progress, which underlay the entire
philosophy of history during the previous century, opens the way to a
different approach to history, which is consonant with postmodern theory
in other fields. Postmodernity marks the end of the Joycean nightmare
and the human being awakens from history. Recurrent with all postmodern
thinkers, the “end of history” signifies, beyond its various nuances, an
abandoning of the notions of linear evolution and teleology. Arnold Gehlen
was dealing with post-history as early as 1957, meaning that the present
world of technology, in which progress has ceased to be spectacular and
has turned into routine practice, conceals a certain immobility at its core
which separates it from previous history and somehow places it outside
history36 . With Gianni Vattimo, contemporary history is fundamentally
different from modern history due to the dissolution of the science of history
with all its branches, including both the philosophy of history and the
practical historiography, be it rhetorical or ideological. A history of the
contemporary world can no longer be written because everything
nowadays ‘shows a flattening tendency on the plane of contemporaneity
and simultaneity owing to the new communication media, especially
television.’37 This simultaneity or synchrony of all history via the media is
one of the essential traits of the postmodern world. It has considerable
consequences for art and literature: the artists is suddenly granted access
to all forms of art, no matter how “historicised” (therefore dead) they may
seem from the viewpoint of modernist critique.
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The notion of the “end of history”, which is fundamental to
postmodernism, is not actually a postmodern contrivance. It has been set
forth, in either an explicit or a veiled manner at certain other moments in
European historical-philosophical thinking. Hegel is probably the first to
reiterate, after millenia, the terrifying sentence from the Apocalypse: ‘And
time shall be no more.’ In Hegel’s view, world history was a continuous
advance of humankind towards self-knowledge, that is towards the
complete fulfilment of the absolute spirit. In the tangible historical plane,
this fulfilment was tantamount to everybody’s acquiring awareness of their
liberty: ‘Oriental peoples knew that you were free; the Greek and the
Roman worlds knew that certain people were free; while we all know
that absolutely all people (humans as humans) are free.’38 This statement,
in which the aim of history is commensurate with liberty, recalls a Kantian
assertion: ‘The history of the world is nothing else but the improvement of
the awareness of Liberty.’39 Hegel was nevertheless going a step further,
since he was trying to prove that fully acquiring a free conscience was no
longer a desideratum, but a wish come true. Admittedly, people could
accede to freedom only under the conditions supplied by certain
institutions, the most important of which was a modern constitutional
state. These conditions were met with, in Hegel’s view, by the Prussia of
his time, after the battle of Jena in 1806. As a result, Hegel regarded this
date as the landmark of “the end of history”. Historical events would keep
on taking place, but the principles of freedom and justice which all liberal
modern states rely on had been discovered and implemented, although
only partially and in a few states (apart from Prussia, mention could be
made of France and the United States after their respective revolutions).
From the viewpoint of the ideas underlying the progress of humankind,
no further evolution was possible.
Another thinker who, starting from Hegelian dialectics, foresaw an
end for history was Marx. After the final victory of communism throughout
the world, humankind was not to witness further historical stages. Once
the final aim was reached, history would come to an end and no track
would be kept of any real progress. The state itself was sentenced to
dissolution and class struggle, “the power engine of history”, would end
in the victory of the proletariat.
The controversial book of the young American historian Francis
Fukuyama The End of History and the Last Man (preceded, three years
before, by his apprehensively interrogative article ‘The End of History?’)
has had a great impact on contemporary thought owing to the postmodern
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circumstances in which it was written. The book was published in a context
which supported the idea of the end of an evolutionm, and of the dissolution
of linearity, causality and teleology, especially in culture, art and literature.
Fukuyama does not declare himself to be postmodern and does not use
the term systematically. Nevertheless, his book may be considered
postmodern in its description of the historical, social, economic and (last
but not least) psychological conditions which enable the moving onward
of all societies, at various speeds, towards a unique form of socio-political
life, identified by Fukuyama as bourgeois democratic liberalism. In my
opinion, Fukuyama’s book rounds off a bird’s-eye view on postmodernity
from a historical and political viewpoint, focusing on a type of society
which could not be achieved outside contemporary democracy and
liberalism. His analysis is all the more plausible as it comprises recent
events of an overwhelming importance for world history . He deals with
those events of the late 80s which led to the irreversible breakdown of the
world’s second totalitarian regime, communism, fifty years after the fascist
regime had been destroyed by the same Western democracies. Under the
circumstances, the conclusion is self-evident: on a world-wide scale,
democratic liberalism is no longer rivalled by any ideology that might
constitute a serious threat or a plausible alternative. The purpose of Francis
Fukuyama’s book is, however, not to reveal a state-of-affairs (which might
only be sheer historical hazard), but to prove its necessity: the necessary
, increasingly manifest ongoing movement of all societies towards Western
capitalist ideals, in other words towards what we call the postmodern
world.
Fukuyama finds the philosophical foundations substantiating a possible
end to historical evolution in the work of Alexandre Kojeve, a fascinating
personality among the French intellectuals of the 30s. Kojeve had delivered
a series of lectures providing an unconventional interpretation of Hegel.
He agreed with the author of The Phenomenology of Mind that history
had ended in 1806, with the battle of Jena. All events after this date, some
of them world-shattering, such as the revolutions in Russia and China,
failed to signify for him higher stages of the “universal and homogeneous”
modern state; he regarded these events as pertaining to the same stage
and representing the “alignment of the provinces” to the mainstream trend,
namely the dissemination of the same principles of liberty and equality
among the less advanced nations, under specific forms: ‘Observing what
is going on around me and what has happened in the world since the
battle of Jena, I understood that Hegel had been right to see the end of
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history as such in this battle. In and by this battle, the avant-garde of
humanity actually reached its limit and its purpose, namely the end of
Man’s historical evolution. What has been happening ever since has been
but a spatial extension of the universal revolutionary force which
Robespierre and Napoleon implemented in France.’40 And if for Hegel,
Marx or Kojeve the end of history was the harmless process of fulfilment
of human liberty, the deeply-rooted pessimism of our century, which has
witnessed two devastating world wars, the holocaust, the Hiroshima
A-bomb, and two totalitarian regimes of unprecedented monstrosity, has
utterly discredited history as a unidirectional, progressive and intelligible
action force. For the ordinary human being, the very notion of history has
acquired negative connotations, as in the Joycean nightmare. Under the
given circumstances, Fukuyama’s optimism distinguishes his theory from
those promoted by modern historians (such as Toynbee) and draws it closer
to postmodern theories.
The American historian deals with two aspects of human life which
should necessarily overlap in order for liberal societies to achieve their
present day form. One aspect is material, the one is idealist-psychological.
Economical analysis reveals that there is only one human process that is
undoubtedly cumulative and progressive: science. The accumulation of
knowledge provides tangible advantages for a society committed to
scientific progress. Even those societies that are utterly opposed to the
scientific spirit cannot do without scientific findings nowadays, even if
only in the military field. The technical and scientific revolution has a
considerable impact not only on those states which initiated it, but on all
states, whether they are communist, Islamic or feudal. The social
advantages generated by science and technology in all fields of life
(medicine, entertainment, education, etc.) are so obvious that renouncing
them seems inconceivable. Should a world-wide disaster occur, the
surviving groups would necessarily resume the process. Thus, at least from
this point of view, history follows an irreversible path: ‘And if the mastery
of modern science is irreversible, once it has been achieved, then a
directional history and its various economic, social and political
consequences are fundamentally irreversible as well.’41
This does not in any way mean that the accumulation of knowledge
should necessarily lead to a society of the liberal type, but only that it
constitutes a necessary premise for such a society. States such as the Soviet
Union or South Korea are examples of highly industrialised countries which
have never been democratic; on the contrary they have lived under one
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authoritarian regime or another. Until the 60s and 70s, when the
informational post-industrial society emerged, the impact of science and
technology was considered rather negative, a source of dehumanisation,
uniformity and dictatorship. The imperative of performativity has however
led to the progressive rationalisation of production, which has reached its
acme in the development of free markets, top technologies and
management. Unexpectedly, it was technologies that abolished
hyper-authoritarian regimes and that became “the grave-diggers of
communism” to use Raymond Aron’s phrase42 . Communist states suffered
from economical stagnation because of their centralised economy, based
on planning from above and unable to adjust to market fluctuations. There
is no alternative today to free market mechanisms for achieving that full
modernity which is postmodernity.
Under these circumstances, the old socialist idea according to which
capitalism survives by exploiting Third World resources and causing their
underdevelopment appears as erroneous. Those countries which benefited
from industrialisation later on have not been disadvantaged in comparison
with the old industrial states. The contrary can be proved by the economic
boom of certain countries in south-eastern Asia, which decided in favour
of industrialisation by adopting top technologies and which stepped out
of their feudal underdevelopment into the post-industrial age. Irrespective
of the amount of resources and the backwardness of the population,
capitalism has been successful wherever it has been imposed by firm
political decision. The underdeveloped countries of the present day do
not lack propitious conditions; what they lack — Fukuyama emphasizes
— is the political will to pass on to a prosperous society. The idea is also
illustrated by Germany’s and Japan’s miraculous recoveries, these countries
being able to rebuild everything out of wreck and ruin.
Without the decision to create a hi-tech economy, the ideal of
democracy stays utopian. All over the world there is a salient link between
a society’s level of prosperity and the degree of democracy in its institutions.
Mass education, communication and public services, and a political system
able to express the wide range of group and individual interests created
by the post-industrial age, have improved the political culture of the
population. Consequently, industrialisation generates bourgeois societies,
which need legal and political protection in order to secure freedom and
equality for their citizens.
Despite the above considerations, authoritarian states of the right wing
or Islamic dictatorship type may prove as capable as democracies of
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securing economic prosperity both in principle and in practice. They may
follow a sterner economic path and spend less on social assistance. The
economic growth rate in the Republic of Chile during Pinochet’s
dictatorship was the highest in the country’s history. Therefore, mere
economical growth does not seem sufficient to create a modern democratic
society, as it may easily lead to bureaucratic authoritarianism. What is
evident is that, irrespective of the different ways the constitutive states are
governed, today’s world community is unified by a single culture, owing
to the one-way path the process of scientific knowledge has embarked
upon. Both traditionalist societies and totalitarian experiments have proved
invalid. Among the traditionalist societies, the most primitive, such as
those in Africa, Papua or South America are almost extinct, while the
totalitarian ones are hybrids bordering on the dominant civilisation. Richard
Rorty shares this opinion and in Philosophy in the Mirror of Nature points
out that the encounter with “absolute otherness” is ideal and utopian43
under present day circumstances, when a generalised European-American
culture allows the existence of antiquated societies only as “sites of
survivals”44 . For this civilisation, founded on knowledge and technology,
to convert into a democratic world, another component is, however,
needed. Fukuyama seeks it in a realm, which ,unexpected as it might
appear, proves fruitful in the search of the philosophical and psychological
roots of democracy.
This component is human nature, the “ideal” factor which needs to be
added to the economic factor. The citizen of the liberal-democratic world
is no longer the grotesquely satirised selfish philistine bourgeois, solely
concerned with their own prosperity. The essence of their existence is
political, and economy plays but a minor part in political life. After all,
the political struggle is a struggle for idealistic and psychological
recognition, specific to the genuine human being. While searching for
the “first Man” and his political motivations, the American historian resorts
to Hegel once again. In The Phenomenology of Mind the original Man
appears as a being who experiences wholly non-material needs alongside
his natural needs. Among these non-material needs, the “desire for the
desire of others” ranks primary and implies the need for recognition, love
and appreciation on the part of other members of the community. In their
struggle towards recognition, human beings surpass their biological
condition, as they come to act against their own instinct of self-preservation
and to show heroism and a spirit of sacrifice. This need for recognition
could be called vanity, self-love, craving for glory, pride or dignity.
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Fukuyama uses a term he borrows from Plato’s Republic, “thymos”, which
could be translated as boldness or wit. The Greek word has neither negative
nor positive connotations (or rather accepts both) and enables the historian
to employ it as the basic element of his demonstration. The present day
democratic world is generated by the joint action of technology and
thymos. All along history, thymos has embodied the human spirit of justice
and the rebellious rage against injustice. The thymotic component of the
human mind is responsible for most historical events such as wars or
revolutions to a higher extent than economic causes. In 1989, for instance,
East-Europeans did not demonstrate in the streets in order to ask for higher
material prosperity, but because their dignity had been painfully injured
for so long.
Thymos is a duplicitous component of the spirit. Its exacerbation, in
the form of megalothymia, becomes aggressive and anti-social. This is
why philosophers such as Hobbes or Locke had attempted to confine it or
even eradicate it as if it were a human vice. This exacerbation defines the
aristocratic thymos, which is essentially opposite to the bourgeois spirit,
as it is liable to perpetuate a morality of the master, as opposed to a morality
of the slave. Although so bitterly despised by Nietzsche, the morality of
the slave has paved its way triumphantly through history, from the Christian
revolution to the bourgeois one. Spiritually, the slave has proved to be
more complex than the ancient philosophers or Nietzsche himself had
ever fancied, since the slave is equally endowed with a thymotic nature,
which is wholly opposed to that of the master. Present day bourgeois
society is the consequence and the end of the “slaves’” struggle for
recognition, which has constituted the historical movement itself, in the
form of a “universal recognition” which combines the morality of the
master and that of the slave. The liberal state transcends all the irrational
modalities of thymos — nationalism, racism, etc. — granting the individual
full recognition as a human being. It is the only possible way to rationally
satisfy the thymos of all citizens. The form of state which confers this
recognition is, to quote Kojeve, “fully satisfactory” and history as a
movement of ideas comes to an end. In real life, it is the granting of rights
that enables the recognition of citizens.
Francis Fukuyama manages to combine the necessity of an advanced
economy with that of the free, thymos-based, option for democracy. The
economic liberalisation of society generates the conditions required by
democracy through the need for universal education, egalitarian par
excellence, which in its turn creates the need for universal recognition.
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But for this need, people would go on living happily under dictatorships
that witness prodigious economical growth, such as that of South-Korean.
The extremely violent popular upsurges in that country prove the contrary.
The final conclusion the book reaches is that history came to an end once
the liberal democracies vanquished all the other types of state: monarchic,
aristocratic, theocratic, fascist, communist, etc. With the exception of the
Islamic world (a peculiar case which I do not propose to discuss here)
democracy has become the explicit ideal, asserted as such, of all societies
dwelling on this planet and the central component of a transnational world.
It is not hard to identify this transnational world with Lyotard’s informatized
world or with Vattimo’s “recovery” from the nightmare of a horrendous
history, in other words with a post-historical, post-industrial, post-humanist,
consequently post-modern world, in which ‘time shall be no more’ as in
the Apocalypse prediction. The merits of Fukuyama’s demonstration are
all the greater as it goes beyond its own conclusion. The final part of his
book pits the idea of the inevitable ongoing movement of the world towards
democracy against the extremely contradictory actual geopolitical
situation. Why has democracy not been embraced by the whole world?
Which are the most dreaded enemies of the democratic world nowadays?
Why is democracy irreversible? — These are questions the American
historian strives to answer in an objective and honest way.
As already emphasised, the postmodern space becomes fractal,
paradoxical, virtual, giving rise to vertigo and illusion as in Escher’s
engravings, and finally creating a feeling of unreality. The notion of time
is also subject to other bizarre, yet everyday phenomena. Postmodern,
transhistorical time becomes a “weak”, aestheticised time, no longer
perceived under the tragic, elegiac, nostalgic or pathetic aspect it was
envisaged in the modern age, but as a storehouse of images ranged in
conformity with weak and artistic criteria: the pleasant, the amazing, the
delightful. A photo album, a slide set, a video tape displaying images we
ourselves have shot, postmodern time undergoes the same process of
irrealisation as does space and turns into a motley, simultaneous and
shallow patchwork. The myth of Chronos devouring his children is replaced
by the myth of the same Chronos, castrated by a diamond scythe.
The same feeling of unreal time permeates an article written by Sergio
Benvenuto, ‘The Third Time’ 45 , which basically deals with he
ambiguisation of temporal concepts in present day American society, in
which a bizarre hybrid is growing within the past-present interstice. The
past becomes a kind of present owing to the hundreds of museums,
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entertainment parks and castles, which in California (undoubtedly the
most postmodern region on the globe) and in other parts of the United
States, reconstruct the historical realities of the ages past at a one-to-one
scale, in a bedazzling surrealistic melting- pot in which history becomes
a storehouse of shallow images, all of which are exhibited on the present
plane. In such places, the most famous (or ,as Americans would say,
infamous) of which are places like Disneyland, the Paul Getty Museum or
Renaissance Fayr, a European feels completely disoriented. This reckless
enterprise is inevitably accompanied by dizziness and an acute feeling of
kitsch. To the American, these places are only part of their ahistorical,
popular — in the Bakhtinian sense — perception of reality. The past made
present and flattened is one side of the American perception of time. Its
counterpart is the reverse tendency, equally powerful in the American
world and equally strange to Europeans: that of historicising the present.
Among the museums and entertainment institutions which present past
monuments as being present, there are others, just as numerous, which
display recent moments by setting them at an estranging historical distance.
There are museums of the 60s and the 70s, of pop-art, of rock stars, of the
hippie movement, all minutely reconstituted. There are exact
reconstructions of renowned establishments. Prisons like Alcatraz are
visited as if they were museums. Hence the feeling that Americans live
their whole history at once, while, on the other hand, they keep visiting
their own present as if it were their past: ‘Mummifying the present means
giving a popular dimension to the social sciences that haunt the United
States... To us, the inhabitants of the Old World, there is a “continuum”
between the past and the present: we celebrate the past, but fail to “grasp”
the present. In the New World, the past, including that of paleontology46 ,
is magically projected into the living present. On the other hand, the
present, because of the irony of the “spectacle” or of museum — and
philological — display, grows increasingly remote. Thus the American
loiters through a different time dimension, somewhere between our
(historical) past and our (invisible and non-representable) present: a
different kind of elation, vacillating between presence and absence.’
Benvenuto emphasises that this is the vision of a grown-up child,
remarkably fresh and with a huge ludic and ironical potential.
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5. The postmodern option
Having analysed three theoretical approaches to postmodernity, I am
persuaded that the topic exceeds the confinements of a literary survey.
However, I find it impossible to understand postmodern art and literature
without these preliminary discussions. Had I focused on literary
phenomena alone, I might have run the risk of presenting a mere list of
procedures and traits inexplicably featuring in post-war poetry and fiction,
and of enhancing, instead of diminishing the confusion of contemporary
literary criticism. That the evolution of the literary system can only be
explained by means of its inner logic is sheer illusion. The global changes
in present day architecture and mentality are decisive for any artistic
approach, since, more than ever, art participates nowadays in the world’s
social and communicational network. While moulding the network, art
has become one of its epi-phenomena as well. Such changes are dramatic
enough for us to discard the concept of “trend” in art or thought (such as
classicism, Romanticism or modernism) and to talk instead about the
emergence of a new civilisation, as different from the modern one (that of
the period from the Renaissance to the Second World War) as the modern
age was different from the Middle Ages. That would be one reason why
postmodernism could be called post-humanism or even post-Europeanism.
Facing not only a literary or artistic trend but a whole new world entails
fundamental options on the part of any intellectual (or indeed anyone)
educated in the spirit of European humanist culture. Integration into
postmodernity requires a long and painful process during which the
intellectual must witness the breakdown of many basic premises of their
location in the world. The more the individual used to be attached to certain
ideals or values regarded as perennial and immutable, the greater the anxiety
and confusion experienced in front of an apparently (and programmatically)
indetermined, chaotic and unstable world. This end of millenium witnesses
a tragedy of alienation. The revival of nationalisms, tribalisms and
fundamentalisms, as well as the excessive anti-Americanism present even
in advanced European countries, are the anguished response of peoples
and individuals whose fear for the future has reached its climax, so that the
only solution they can devise is taking refuge in the past. The feeling of
privacy, safety and comfort inspired by religious faith, or the creed in a
homeland or in a nation (leading at the extreme to chauvinism, intolerance
and nationalism) appears to many as more appealing than an impersonal
society of an infinite abstract complexity, in which individuals compete
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fiercely, according to the rules imposed by performativity. But this is only a
pastiche of the liberal world. In real life, the postmodern world that is being
created nowadays, although not “fully satisfactory”, is closer to the ideal of
a world “that can be lived in” than any other world ever created on earth.
Detachment from reality (and even irrealisation), perspectivism regarding
values, the end of history as humankind’s triumphant progress towards one
human ideal or another, and pluralism, are all the new premises which
provide the foundation upon which personhood may be structured. It is up
to everyone to decide whether they want and whether they can exist in the
postmodern world, whether they want and can pursue art, science or
management under the new circumstances. Resignation is no solution. No
state of things should be accepted only because it looks inevitable. Any
intellectual that strives to be a postmodern thinker should be aware of the
price postmodernity asks us to pay. Questions such as how one can keep a
religious faith when any kind of faith becomes relative and contextual (how
can one “contextually” believe in God?), or how one can practise art when
values are dissolved, involve commitment of the individual conscience and
life design. The hope that one may relieve oneself from irrational thymoses
overnight and that democracy and tolerance may be learned as part of the
curriculum is simply utopian. Regarding postmodernity as a new myth of
the golden age, as a new Cernishevskian “crystal palace” where all problems
get solved by themselves and where humans are necessarily happy sounds
more than naive. Dostoyevski’s man from the pit would answer these utopias
in a boastful, wayward, yet fully humane voice: ‘What I’m asking you is
this: what can you expect from man, a being endowed with such bizarre
features? Bestow all the goodness of the earth on him, or immerse him in
the pool of happiness till he is blowing bubbles to the surface. Bestow upon
him economic satiation so that he need no longer lift a finger (…), well,
even then, man, ungrateful as he is, just out of contradictory spirit, will hit
you with some piece of mischief at you (...) It is precisely his fancy dreams
that he will want to hold on to, his villainous tomfoolery, only to prove to
himself that people are still people and not piano keys (...) And unless more
fitting means are within his reach, he will contrive destruction and chaos,
he will concoct God knows how much suffering, but he will act to his
heart’s delight.’47 Far from being extinct today, communist and fascist
nostalgias, terrorism and nationalisms are seeing a recrudescence that only
testifies to their responsive nature as an expression of dread for the future. It
is the high price, unendurable for some, of integration into the new
civilisation, since nobody parts with the past smiling, but bleeding.
125
NOTES
1. Virgil Nemoianu, ‘Notes sur l’etat de postmodernite’ in Euresis, 1-2/1995, p.
17. In the same essay Nemoianu also proposes one of the most interesting
views on postmodernity, which is characterised, in his opinion, by nine
essential elements: ‘1. La centralite de l’element communication/mobilite; 2.
La societe postindustrielle; 3. La transition de la revolution de Gutenberg (...)
au visuel televise et a la presence virtuelle; 4. L’etablissement de nouveaux
rapports entre les hommes et les femmes; 5. La tension entre le globalisme et
le multiculturalisme; 6. La conscience de soi, l’autoanalyse; 7. La relativisation
et l’incertitude des valeurs; 8. Le jeu parodique avec l’histoire; 9. La religiosite
postmoderne ‘spirituel/mystique’’ (pp. 18-19).
2. Gianni Vattimo, Sfîrºitul modernitãþii, Pontica Publishing House, p. 6.
3. Gianni Vattimo, op. cit., p. 15.
4. Quoted by Vattimo, op. cit., p. 21.
5. Idem, p. 26.
6. Idem, p. 31.
7. Idem, p. 48.
8. See the discussion in the preface of Vattimo’s book and then its 6th chapter:
‘The Structure of Artistic Revolutions’.
9. G. Vattimo, op. cit., p. 57.
10. Idem, p. 60.
11. Quoted by G. Vattimo, op. cit., p. 56.
12. Idem, p. 112.
13. Idem, p. 154.
14. R. Guideri, quoted by Vattimo, op. cit., p. 156.
15. Jean-Francois Lyotard, Condiþia postmodernã, Bucharest, Babel Publishing
House, 1993.
16. J-F. Lyotard, op. cit., p. 15.
17. Matei Calinescu & Douwe Fokkema, Exploring Postmodernism, Amsterdam/
Philadelphia, John Benjamins Publishing Company, 1990.
18. Matei Calinescu, in ‘Introductory Remarks’, p. 5-6.
19. Societatea transparentã, Pontica Publishing House, Constanta, 1995.
20. J.-F. Lyotard, op. cit., p. 22.
21. Idem, p. 20.
22. Idem, p. 26.
23. Idem, p. 36.
24. Idem, p. 29.
25. Idem, p. 39.
26. Idem, p. 77.
27. Idem, p. 79.
28. Idem, p. 81.
29. Idem, p. 85.
126
MIRCEA CÃRTÃRESCU
30. Idem, p. 89.
31. Idem, p. 101.
32. Idem, p. 108.
33. Idem, p. 111.
34. Idem, p. 111.
35. Idem, p. 112.
36. A. Gehlen, quoted by Vattimo, op. cit., p. 10.
37. G. Vattimo, op. cit., p. 14.
38. Hegel, quoted by Fukuyama in Sfîrºitul istoriei ºi ultimul om, Paideia Publishing
House, 1994, p. 59.
39. Immanuel Kant, quoted by Fukuyama, op. cit., p. 59.
40. Alexandre Kojeve, quoted by Fukuyama, op. cit., p. 64.
41. F. Fukuyama, op. cit., p. 64.
42. Raymond Aron, quoted by Fukuyama, op. cit., p. 90.
43. R. Rorty, quoted by Vattimo, op. cit., p. 151.
44. R. Guideri, quoted by Vattimo, op. cit., p. 156.
45. In Lettre Internationale, Romanian version, Spring 1994.
46. The movie Jurassic Park is the basic subject of Benvenuto’s article.
47. Feodor Dostoievski, Omul din subteranã, Bucharest, Orfeu Publishing House,
1993.
127
CRISTINA CODARCEA
Née en 1966, à Bucarest
Doctorat accordé par l’Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Science Sociales, Paris,
1997
Thèse : Pouvoir et Société au 17ème siècle en Valachie. Entre Tradition et Loi.
Attachée de recherche à l’Institut d’ Etudes Sud-Est Européennes de l’Académie
Roumaine, Bucarest
Membre du Groupe Image, E.H.E.S.S., Paris, 1992-1997
Bourse du gouvernement français, 1992, 1994-1997
Bourse Tempus, Università Statale, Milan, 1995
Participations aux colloques et rencontres scientifiques internationales en
Roumanie, France, Italie.
Livres:
Société et pouvoir en Valachie (1602-1654), Entre la coutume et la Loi.
Cluj-Napoca, Presses Universitaires de Cluj-Napoca (en préparation)
Les malédictions à travers l’Europe médiévale. Recherches d’anthropologie
historique. Bucarest, Ed. Fundaþiei Culturale Române (en préparation)
Articles et études sur l’histoire médiévale occidentale, l’anthropologie
historique et l’ethnologie européenne parus en Roumanie et en France
RAPPORTS DE POUVOIR ET STRATÉGIE DE
GOUVERNEMENT DANS LA VALACHIE DU
XVIIe SIÈCLE
Dans la société valaque du XVIIe siècle la propriété sur la terre et sur
les hommes signifie à égale mesure pouvoir, prestige social et position
privilégiée. De plus en plus, à cette époque, la terre devient le deuxième
pôle qui, à côté du pouvoir, participe à la composition du système politique
valaque. A partir de la possession foncière et de la capacité de l’exploiter
se distinguent à la fois les fortunes, les hiérarchies, les aptitudes politiques,
les alliances dans le cadre d’une même catégorie sociale, se définissent
les rôles, les légitimités et les rituels qui composent cette catégorie sociale
privilégiée. En effet, c’est la terre (et il faut insister sur le fait qu’il s’agit
surtout pour cette époque de la terre exploitée, la seule qui soit source de
bénéfices) qui favorise la conservation de la fortune seigneuriale et qui
permet aux velléités politiques de se manifester par l’exercice des fonctions
publiques. Pour déterminer la part de l’institution princière1 dans la
configuration des rapports reliant la terre (propriété) - le pouvoir local
(statut social) - et le pouvoir public (Etat) il est nécessaire de savoir comment
et par quels moyens à l’intérieur du système politique sont élaborées les
stratégies et les manières dont se réalise la translation d’un élément à un
autre.
La définition du statut social de l’aristocratie («boierime») en Valachie
se heurte toujours aux ambiguïtés qui sont évidentes dès l’origine. En
effet, il est bien difficile de délimiter avec précision les contours sociaux
de cette catégorie car les principes mêmes qui permettent d’opérer la
sélection font défaut. On rappelle ici l’exaspération de l’administration
autrichienne lors de la conquête de l’Olténie au début du XVIIIe siècle
qui envisageait de départager selon des critères rationnels et clairs la
catégorie des privilégiés. La plupart de ceux voulant obtenir une
exonération d’impôts (et ils sont nombreux) se déclarent «boieri» sans
que ce statut puisse être défini rigoureusement en dehors d’une vague
coutume locale2 .
131
Les éléments qui nous permettent de classer une personne dans la
catégorie des seigneurs, tiennent compte en premier lieu des relations
seigneur-serf3 , auxquelles on doit ajouter la fortune et la fonction publique.
Un seigneur peut avoir ces trois éléments caractéristiques ou une partie
seulement, ainsi, un personnage grec venu de Constantinople dans la
suite d’un prince et qui occupe à la cour une fonction importante (le plus
souvent celle de trésorier, ce qui en dit long sur les intentions du prince et
de ses accompagnateurs) peut ne pas avoir au début, ni fortune, ni
domaine; un autre, peut être d’une condition sociale modeste, mais il sert
le prince ce qui lui ouvre la possibilité d’acquérir des domaines et donc
d’avoir des relations seigneur-serf; et ainsi de suite. Les analyses des
historiens roumains ont cru identifier comme critère essentiel la fortune
ou la fonction publique4 .
Ces trois critères, qui connaissent un rapport dynamique selon le sort
du pouvoir central du prince, mènent inévitablement à une séparation
entre les seigneurs, car ils établissent une hiérarchie. Liée étroitement au
sort du prince, la situation de l’aristocratie apparaît comme paradoxale,
car forte et faible à la fois.
Comme la puissance économique conditionne l’avancement des
options politiques et l’occupation d’une fonction dans l’administration ou
dans la hiérarchie politique supérieure du pays, elle est à son tour
cautionnée et renforcée par la charge publique qui la réclame. Cette
situation est censée résister aussi longtemps que dure le privilège 5 octroyé
par le pouvoir central, car il semble être l’instrument par lequel l’autorité
politique du prince intervient pour régler les mécanismes du pouvoir.
Au début du XVIIe siècle la cour du souverain avec ses ramifications
commence à dessiner une administration locale sous obédience
personnelle du prince, qui s’impose au fur et à mesure que se construit un
appareil fidèle6 . L’évolution de ces formes de fidélités envers le prince
montre combien les rapports de pouvoir s’établissent à partir des
interactions subtiles entre coercition7 , monopole8 , largesse9 et grâce.
Ainsi, non seulement la force coercitive est censée imposer le pouvoir
central par rapport à ses adversaires et à ses alliés mais aussi
d’instrumentaliser en sa faveur le rapport dynamique fortune-pouvoir. La
cour du prince, l’administration dont elle est la source, autant que sa
personne favorisent la promotion sociale par le biais des charges qu’elle
offre, promotion qui est à la base du prestige social, des richesses, des
privilèges (l’exonération d’impôts par exemple a des conséquences
économiques importantes). La haute fonction publique comme toute autre
132
CRISTINA CODARCEA
fonction permet aux familles aristocratiques d’augmenter leur patrimoine
et surtout d’envisager des stratégies matrimoniales qui assurent la
conservation et la transmission d’une position privilégiée, d’initier des
alliances capables d’accroître le pouvoir des boyards afin de garantir la
survivance des privilèges et d’influencer et dominer la décision politique
dans le pays.
La relation entre le pouvoir central et les boyards se particularisent par
les paradoxes. Dans ce début de siècle, la société roumaine connaît une
période confuse où le passé est encore visible, soutenu par la tradition,
mêlé à des éléments nouveaux liés encore à la suspicion générale qui
pèse sur l’innovation, trop faibles pour imposer les stratégies de
gouvernement. Comme les éléments nouveaux ne peuvent pas pour
l’instant fonder entièrement les prétentions de suprématie du pouvoir
central, ni la possibilité d’organiser la société politique, ni, par la médiation
de celle-ci, de toute la société en tant qu’unité. Le prince emploie des
formules diverses qui touchent également le registre traditionnel et celui
moderne pour orchestrer sa domination et son propre contrôle sur la
société. A cette époque la dimension et la fonction militaire du pouvoir
diminuent, ceci a pour conséquence l’effacement des stratégies de
recrutement et de promotion basées sur des exigences et des vertus
guerrières, devant un système politique géré par des moyens civils moins
violents et plus efficaces. La définition du statut social de boyard à partir
d’un privilège princier ou d’un office, les modes de sélection des hauts
fonctionnaires, la diversification des moyens qui lient personnellement
les membres d’une famille influente au prince, constituent quelques-uns
des procédés mis en place par l’autorité du prince pour s’assurer le premier
rôle dans son pays.
Ces éléments composent l’image d’un pouvoir préoccupé à la fois de
renforcer l’efficacité des moyens qui assurent un contrôle accru sur ses
sujets, et de développer des pratiques censées le présenter comme l’unique
source de légitimation10 (en se proclamant sommet et source). L’autorité
princière apparaît ainsi comme étant reconnue et investie par la société
elle-même de fonctions particulières. Le prince dans sa personne, comme
incarnation du droit, de la Loi divine («legea dumnezeiascã»), est acceptée
et sollicitée comme présence nécessaire et toute puissante. Quoique parfois
ses attributs politiques (les plus touchés par l’arbitraire) soulèvent des
oppositions de la part de l’aristocratie, son arbitrage en matière judiciaire,
son autorité sur les titres de propriété, les droits, les privilèges, sont autant
d’éléments fortement recherchés. Les décisions du prince dans le domaine
133
de la justice lui permettent de contrôler la fortune de ses sujets, d’intervenir
dans le processus de constitution de leurs domaines, de fixer leur
configuration par l’imposition de règles dont l’application est également
surveillée par les institutions locales et le prince.
Dans ces conditions, on attribue à l’institution princière la capacité
unique de consacrer un fait social en lui rendant stabilité et légitimité.
L’intervention du prince au niveau de la propriété privée
La coutume interdit l’immixtion du pouvoir public dans la propriété
privée des sujets mais il arrive souvent que le prince soit sollicité pour
intervenir et consacrer une acquisition ou appliquer les règles assurant la
survie de la propriété et même son agrandissement. Par son prestige, il
préserve le cadre juridique qui permet le maintien des formes de
transmission de la propriété, cautionnées par la tradition.
La plupart des cas qui nécessitent l’assistance du prince concernent
les litiges de propriété qui opposent les ayants droit d’une même ou de
plusieurs générations, liés par la parenté ou par une relation de voisinage.
L’autorité du prince est souvent sollicitée pour évaluer la hiérarchie des
droits selon des règles coutumières et pour actualiser cette hiérarchie.
Un acte émis par Alexandre Iliaº prouve combien il est difficile de
trouver une vérité et de l’imposer dans une réalité sociale marquée par la
confusion (voir fig. n° 1). Le litige sur une partie du village de Vârâti et
une partie du village de Grãdiºte, commence en 1554 pendant le règne
de Pãtraºco le Bon; à cette date, la dame Paraschiva conteste le droit de
Barbu du village de Borãºti, de doter sa fille Maria des deux villages car
une partie lui appartient. Le prince permet à Paraschiva de se présenter
accompagnée par 12 témoins pour prêter serment et certifier qu’elle dit la
vérité. Sur la base de ce serment, Pãtraºco voïvode admet que Paraschiva
est en droit de détenir une partie des deux villages. Quelques années plus
tard, sous Alexandre II Mircea (1568-1577), la fille de Maria, Stana, qui
reçoit de sa mère les deux villages, rouvre avec son mari le procès contre
les fils de Paraschiva pour les éliminer de la propriété. Ils amènent devant
le prince 24 témoins qui rendent caduc le témoignage antérieur et celui-ci
remet dans leurs droits les descendants de Barbu. Un troisième procès se
déroule dans les années du règne du prince Mihnea l’Islamisé
(1577-1583,1585-1591) qui donne gain de cause toujours à la famille de
134
CRISTINA CODARCEA
Barbu, représentée par les mêmes, cette fois-ci contre le neveu de
Paraschiva. En 1621, à la mort du mari de Stanca, le relais est pris par ses
fils qui s’opposent devant le prince Radu Mihnea aux fils de la nièce de
Paraschiva. Enfin, en 1628, Alexandru Iliaº confirme encore une fois les
droits de propriété d’un seul lignage sur les villages de Vârâti et de
Grãdiºtea, éliminant les prétentions des descendants de Paraschiva11 .
C’est toujours le prince en position d’arbitre qui confirme une
réconciliation de deux parties en litige et cautionne le respect d’un pacte
engagé. Matei Basarab, devant le mécontentement exprimé par les
seigneurs du village de Cepturile, oblige un nouveau venu sur le domaine,
le grand boyard Preda Buzinca de respecter les droits des frères Pãtru,
Dumitrasco et Pãdure, fils de Staico spãtar car, comme précise le
document, il a obtenu cette propriété par achat et non par héritage. Plus
encore, il est averti de ne plus se comporter comme «un boyard important»
(«boier greu») car le prince pourrait prendre en considération le droit de
préemption des autres boyards et chasser Preda12 .
Le jugement du prince fixe les termes du fonctionnement du droit de
préemption ou de retrait, appliqués toutefois à cette époque d’une manière
assez subjective. Dans le cas de Dumitru Dudescu, vistier de deuxième
rang, Alexandru Iliaº satisfait sa demande de chasser de sa propriété le
seigneur Musat qui avait acheté des terres dans le village de Drãcesti sans
prévenir Dudescu13 , tandis que dans un cas similaire Matei Basarab décide
que l’achat effectué par le grand boyard Marco Danovici dans le village
de Sâmbureºti reste valable, en dépit des plaintes formulées par les héritiers
de Vlad Rudeanu, le propriétaire du village14 .
La même attitude contradictoire est visible dans les jugements des
princes lorsqu’il s’agit d’une vente déguisée sous l’apparence d’une
fraternisation. Le prince Alexandru Iliaº déclare «déliées» les parties qui
ont suivi le cérémonial religieux de la fraternisation (Stroe, fils du chancelier
Oprea et André postelnic), car il considère que les frères de Stroe ont plus
de droits à acheter le village de leur père, Sirineasa15 . Quant au prince
Radu Mihnea, ayant à juger un autre cas de préemption qu’on essaye de
contourner par une cérémonie de fraternisation s’étant déroulée «dans la
sainte église» (unissant les seigneurs Pârvul paharnic et Preda postelnic
sur une partie du village de Voinigeºti ), confirme la validité de l’acte
contesté par des ayants droit. Le prince donne comme argument de sa
décision d’annulation du droit de préemption, le cérémoniel religieux
suivi par les parties qui fraternisent car :
135
«Ma seigneurie a vu la charte de Pârvul paharnic entre les mains de
Preda postelnic comprenant de grandes malédictions... Ainsi, Ma
Seigneurie n’a pas pu procéder autrement, mais Ma Seigneurie a laissé
exactement comme ils l’ont décidé et selon leur fraternisation»16 .
Il n’est pas sans importance de préciser que dans ces deux cas le
jugement du prince a été influencé par l’appartenance sociale des
personnes impliquées. Si dans le premier litige, le procès opposait
strictement les représentants de la catégorie privilégiée des seigneurs, le
deuxième a comme protagonistes des paysans asservis qui sollicitent le
droit de se racheter en vertu du droit de préemption17 .
On réclame l’intervention du prince dans les cas de succession qui
soulèvent des litiges entre les héritiers, qu’il s’agisse d’une transmission
normale ou d’une dévolution, que cela se fasse par voie testamentaire ou
ab intestat . Le nombre des disputes sur la propriété jugées par juridiction
princière lors des héritages se rapproche visiblement de celui des disputes
de voisinage qui opposent des personnes non-apparentées.
L’action du prince, lorsqu’un héritage provoque une crise, se résume
à un arbitrage, car il est le garant de la Loi et non pas un législateur à qui
on reconnaît la capacité d’innover en matière de droit successoral; ses
moyens d’intervention sont limités strictement par la coutume. Les
décisions qui accompagnent le jugement ne peuvent qu’obéir aux règles
puisées dans la tradition du pays («legea pãmântului») et rarement dans
les codes de lois utilisés à l’époque («pravila»). Ce domaine semble avoir
alors une importance stratégique moindre pour le pouvoir central, et dans
la plupart de ces cas le prince délègue ses attributs de juge au métropolite
du pays. Seulement certains cas sont soumis au jugement du prince qui
ne les ignore pas, car de toute façon le service public est payé sur mesure.
Par exemple, ce sont les hommes envoyés par Matei Basarab qui
interviennent pour appliquer les commandements du legs du grand boyard
Dumitru Filisanul lorsque les héritiers trouvent que la fortune est trop
injustement répartie. Le prince décide alors de ne pas changer la destination
des principaux domaines de la famille en installant le cadet comme héritier
principal, mais il intervient dans la répartition du reste de la fortune au
nom de la justice rendue18 .
Le prince est appelé comme garant du droit lorsque des parents en
dispute avec les héritiers de droit risquent de porter atteinte aux règles de
succession. Il se trouve que le code de loi valaque19 défend les héritiers
contre les décisions des parents voulant par un accès de colère, changer
136
CRISTINA CODARCEA
le cours et la destination de leur patrimoine. A cet égard, on comprend
mieux que le contenu de la propriété d’autrefois se traduit plus par un
droit de possession et d’administration (qui incluent la quasi-obligation
de la transmettre aux successeurs légaux) que par un droit absolu,
individualisé, permettant de décider librement de sa destination. Dans ce
contexte traditionnaliste assez rigide, l’autorité du prince se présente
comme le garant de l’application juste des habitudes et des règles
coutumières. Seulement dans ce cadre on peut interpréter le geste de
Matei Basarab qui empêche la moniale Marta du village de Pãtârlagele
de toucher à ses propriétés durant sa vie, en la déclarant possesseur aux
droits limités, il lui interdit d’aliéner ses biens ou d’interrompre la
succession en ligne masculine; elle ne peut non plus laisser la fortune à
ses filles, ni la donner à un monastère, tant que ses trois fils sont en vie20 .
Dans le même sens il intervient contre l’un de ses boyards , Stoica spãtar,
fils de grand dignitaire, lorsqu’il abandonne sa famille et donc ses devoirs
envers elle; Matei Basarab l’oblige à doter ses trois filles, comme le veut
la Loi et même à racheter les propriétés qu’il a vendu sans se soucier des
droits de ses successeurs21 .
De même que le prince représente la caution de stabilité et de continuité
d’une règle, son autorité est sollicitée pour sceller les modifications dans
la structure d’un patrimoine lors d’une vente, d’une vente déguisée sous
forme de fraternisation ou d’une donation envers l’Eglise ou envers un
particulier. Un document du prince confirmant une transaction ou un
don, garantit la validité du transfert ou au moins diminue la possibilité de
contester l’acte par les générations suivantes. Une fois qu’un geste est
devenu public, présenté devant le prince et devant sa cour, il ne peut plus
être annulé par une décision ultérieure. Ana, la femme d’un certain ªtefan,
fait don (pour «son âme») au monastère de Snagov d’un vignoble situé sur
la colline des Negovani ; ensuite elle regrette sa décision et veut revenir
sur ce don, mais le prince s’oppose et lui interdit de «casser l’aumône
qu’elle seule a faite pour son âme»22 .
Pour les mêmes raisons, tout acte impliquant publiquement la
participation du pouvoir, a la capacité d’annuler les engagements privés
qui l’ont précédé.
137
L’intervention du prince au niveau de la parenté
Pour la société du passé la parenté23 joue un rôle essentiel dans
l’organisation et la transmission de la propriété. On comprend à travers
elle son évolution de même que le prestige qui entoure un lignage. Plus
encore, c’est à travers la parenté que se tissent les solidarités qui assurent
la prépondérance et la domination d’une élite définie à la fois du point de
vue social et politique24 .
Le pouvoir politique arrive à valoriser les structures relationnelles basées
sur la parenté comme un réseau efficace, dont il se sert dans ses efforts
pour gouverner la société en général et dominer (par le contrôle des
alliances et des successions) la société politique en particulier. La position
d’arbitre du pouvoir politique ne peut que privilégier le processus
d’utilisation du réseau constitué à partir de solidarités lignagères, en effet,
la parenté est intimement liée à la promotion sociale ou au contraire, à la
déchéance des membres d’une famille. Ainsi, le pouvoir central utilise sa
position d’autorité reconnue et exigée par la société pour exercer un
contrôle attentif sur les implications des relations de parenté. Il est le seul
à décider si le membre d’une famille, peut être éloigné légitimement d’un
héritage par punition ou si au contraire, comme expression de libéralité,
il doit être réinstallé dans ses droits.
Maria, la fille du grand boyard Ivasco Bãleanu, mariée à Vasile spãtar,
lui aussi fils de grand boyard, est chassée de son foyer à la suite d’une
plainte d’infidélité formulée par son mari devant les chefs spirituels de
l’Eglise, le métropolite du pays Luca et Macarius, exarque de Târnova,
l’homme du patriarche Cyrille de Constantinople. Ceux-ci jugent le cas et
admettent que Maria est coupable et mérite d’être déchue de ses droits,
sa fortune passant dans la propriété absolue de son mari. Le procès rouvre
sur les insistances de la dame Maria devant le tribunal de Matei Basarab,
qui l’innocente sur les témoignages qu’elle amène car elle «a demandé
justice le jour de l’Epiphanie devant les archevêques, les évêques, les
higoumènes et devant tout le synode, les boyards et tout le pays»25 . Par
conséquent, le prince lui rend ses droits sur ses propriétés et son mari
risque la condamnation suprême pour parjure tout autant que la
déchéance.
Devant le prince se présentent les cas les plus divers qui réclament la
remise en droit lorsqu’il s’agit d’un héritage, d’une dot, d’un droit
d’appartenance à un lignage, c’est toujours devant lui qu’on exige la
permission de renoncer à un héritage donc à une filiation compromettante
138
CRISTINA CODARCEA
ou tout simplement trop coûteuse. Radu, le fils du grand boyard Dumitru
Dudescu, représentant du prince Matei Basarab à Constantinople, est
contraint en 1636 de renier son père («se leapãdã») et de renoncer au
patrimoine paternel empêchant ainsi d’être touché par les dettes de son
père, car il a «des petits enfants et un ménage difficile à entretenir»26 .
Son père, ancien fidèle du prince Alexandru Iliaº et de son fils Radu Iliaº,
avait soutenu les prétentions du dernier au trône de Valachie contre Matei
Basarab. Après une confrontation militaire qui s’est déroulée à Plumbuita,
près de Bucarest (1632) il regagne le pays à la suite des appels lancés par
le prince victorieux Matei Basarab qui lui octroie des missions auprès du
Sultan à Constantinople. En outre, la haute dignité de grand trésorier qu’il
lui offre durant la période 1634-1636, le prince permet à Dumitru Dudescu
de récupérer ses biens confisqués à la suite de son soutien à Radu Iliaº27 .
Pourtant, très vite (février 1636) Dumitru Dudescu se retrouve parmi les
accusés du prince qui lui fait payer avec ses propriétés les sommes d’argent
disparues à Constantinople lorsqu’il était en mission diplomatique
(«capuchehaie»)28 . Cet argent, que Dumitru aurait gaspillé (selon les
témoignages des envoyés du prince qui transportaient le tribut) «sans
mesure», le fait «qu’il n’a pas pu rendre compte de cet argent d’une manière
sage et juste « l’ont amené devant le grand conseil de Matei Basarab qui
se réunit exceptionnellement pour juger l’ancien trésorier du pays. L’action
semble être dirigée spécialement contre le grand trésorier, car finalement
les autres personnages présents à Constantinople, le grand sluger Calotã
et le chancelier Marco Danovici29 sont innocentés après avoir prêté
serment dans une église devant le synode et devant le métropolite. Qu’il
s’agit d’un plan destiné à compromettre des anciens ennemis du prince
(pratique courante dans les stratégies politiques du temps qui fait débuter
un règne par une «réconciliation» avec l’ancienne équipe
«gouvernementale») le prouve aussi le devenir de ces trois fonctionnaires
et de leurs descendance. Ce procès met en lumière le rôle du prince dans
le contrôle qu’il exerce sur la distribution des fonctions et des fortunes.
Malgré des alliances matrimoniales avantageuses30 que Radu Dudescu
(fils de Dumitru déclaré félon par le conseil du prince31 ) a contracté dans
la haute aristocratie valaque, il n’arrive pas à valoriser politiquement sa
position sociale. Ni son fils Radu, également marié dans une grande famille,
ne réussit à être récompensé par une haute fonction. Ce n’est que tard, au
XVIIIe siècle, qu’un neveu de Radu Dudescu (I), fils du second Radu,
réussit à relever le prestige de son lignage en lui ajoutant un nouveau
grand dignitaire.
139
La situation des deux autres boyards accusés et ensuite disculpés par
l’assemblée du pays n’est pas meilleure du point de vue social. Par contre,
du point de vue politique, elle semble être plus avantageuse. Ainsi, bien
que la carrière de Calotã grand sluger soit stopée, son fils, Mâinea Popescu
a un cursus honorum ascendant qui aboutit en 1655 à la fonction de
grand sluger, sous le règne du neveu de Matei Basarab, Constantin ªerban.
Quant à Marco Danovici, il connaît lui-même une ascension politique
reconnue par le prince Matei Basarab qui l’avait autrefois accusé. Il est
nommé pour deux années (de 1641 à 1643) grand paharnic et occupe
ensuite durablement la dignité de grand aga entre 1644-1652.
«Juste et fidéle service»32
Afin de s’assurer de la solidarité des personnes qui l’entourent et
l’appuient, le prince utilise également le domaine princier reçu en même
temps que sa fonction, de même que sa possibilité d’intervenir dans le
patrimoine seigneurial si il s’agit d’une situation exceptionnelle de trahison.
La pratique des donations princières («mila domneasca») complétée par
celle des confiscations fournit au prince un instrument efficace dans l’action
de contrôle qu’il exerce avec son groupe de pression sur les fortunes des
sujets. Elle est sans doute soutenue par l’existence du domaine princier33
qui évolue au rythme des confiscations qui l’augmentent et des donations
qui le diminuent.
En dehors des périodes brèves et ponctuelles dans l’histoire de la
Valachie (les débuts de la centralisation de l’Etat et l’époque de Michel le
Brave) le domaine princier ne joue pas vraiment un rôle économique
important car ses ressources sont très fluctuantes, ponctionnées
systématiquement par les donations, et ceci malgré les confiscations. Ainsi,
son importance est de permettre au prince d’avoir des libéralités à l’égard
de ses sujets, et d’adopter une stratégie de gouvernement visant à
rassembler autour du trône des personnes solidaires. Si le don pour «juste
et fidèle service» récompense concrètement les gestes répétés de fidélité
et les actes de bravoure, il n’en est pas moins vrai que celui-ci a des
références symboliques qui renvoient aux rapports de pouvoir qui
s’établissent entre le prince et ses serviteurs. On voit se cristalliser une
structure de pouvoir profondément personnalisée qui fonctionne à partir
d’une relation de don (le service) et contre-don 34 (la donation princière),
pratique mise en évidence par le sociologue Marcel Mauss pour les sociétés
140
CRISTINA CODARCEA
archaïques mais qui caractérise également cette société traditionnelle
déterminée historiquement. Quant au prince, il devient le principal
dispensateur de grâces et de bénéfices qui associent intimement la fortune
à la promotion sociale.
Une autre fonction du prince qui se dégage à la suite de cette position
centrale est celle de «nourricier». Bon nombre de donations ont justement
comme but déclaré celui de «nourrir» («a hrãni») les bénéficiaires de la
générosité du prince35 , qu’il s’agisse des grands ou des petits boyards,
des serviteurs ou des paysans.
Une question qui a soulevé des controverses est celle du régime de la
donation princière; s’agirait-il d’une propriété à titre absolu ou d’une
possession viagère conditionnée par la fonction? Les documents nous
renseignent peu à ce sujet et seule l’analyse de l’évolution de ces donations
dans le cadre du patrimoine seigneurial pourrait fournir quelques réponses,
malgré le peu d’informations des actes de cette période..
Les conclusions des chercheurs ont dans un premier temps, été altérées
par la manière d’aborder le sujet. Les deux réalités sociales, celle de la
Valachie et celle de la Moldavie, n’ont pas été traitées différemment ce
qui a conduit à l’extrapolation du système moldave à la Valachie36 . En
outre, la préoccupation de trouver des similitudes entre les éléments de la
réalité roumaine et des modèles occidentaux ou byzantins a également
nui à l’identification des particularités de l’histoire de la Valachie et de
son organisation sociale et politique37 .
Pour essayer à notre tour d’ébaucher une réponse concernant cette
question on doit tout d’abord détacher les deux niveaux de références:
premièrement, il est nécessaire de localiser la source des biens cédés par
le prince - qu’il s’agisse de confiscations pour trahison, pour dette fiscale,
pour deshérence,ou d’achats fait spécialement pour cette destination;
deuxièmement, il faudrait établir quels services sont récompensés par ces
dons et de quel statut juridique ils jouissent par rapport à l’ensemble du
patrimoine détenu antérieurement - s’agirait-il d’une restitution ou d’une
concession ? Ce sont des problèmes dont les réponses peuvent mieux
éclairer le statut de la donation princière. Les renvois à ces deux registres,
conjugués et combinés diversement selon le hasard du jeu social et
politique du temps, offrent au statut de la donation princière une apparence
d’instabilité et de fragilité. De cette manière, une donation qui récompense
le service fidèle d’un proche du prince et qui a comme source une
confiscation (pour punir une trahison par exemple) peut avoir un statut
141
beaucoup plus incertain qu’une donation qui a comme but le
rétablissement du droit d’un membre déchu de l’aristocratie.
Cette instabilité est d’autant plus saisissable lorsque les fréquents
changements des règnes modifient les caractères de ces donations. Ainsi,
ce qui dans un règne apparaît comme un acte de félonie, situant le
coupable par rapport au pouvoir dans la sphère du droit de confiscation
de ses biens, sous un autre règne apparaît comme l’acte d’un fidèle
serviteur, censé recevoir la grâce du prince. En examinant les documents
conservés pour cette période, on observe que les donations qui entrent
dans le patrimoine des seigneurs ont le même statut que les autres
propriétés, héritées ou achetées. Elles peuvent être aliénées ou transmises
aux successeurs selon les règles habituelles de transmission des
patrimoines. Les ambiguïtés liées à cette forme de propriété ne semblent
pas seulement connues aux bénéficiaires, mais aussi assumées, car ils
éprouvent le besoin récurrent de chercher une confirmation écrite lors
d’un nouveau règne. Pourtant, cette confirmation princière ne veut pas
dire (comme on le croyait jusqu’ici38 ) qu’il s’agit d’un renouvellement de
la grâce ou d’une deuxième donation, mais simplement d’une confirmation
des droits sur une propriété. La charte princière répond à une recherche
de garanties qui prémunit tout propriétaire nouveau contre les prétentions
formulées par l’ancien propriétaire ou par ses héritiers. Ceci est d’autant
plus nécessaire qu’il n’existe pas un cadre clair pour régler les trahisons
et les punitions, laissant une grande liberté au prince et à son arbitraire39.
Il arrive parfois que la famille d’un félon puisse récupérer un domaine
(surtout s’il s’agit du domaine hérité qui donne le nom de la famille) tout
de suite après le changement d’un règne ou parfois durant le même règne.
Comme ni la coutume ni la loi ne précisent si la peine de félonie frappe
toute la famille ou simplement le membre déclaré coupable, les
interprétations sont à la merci du prince et du groupe au pouvoir40 . Si le
coupable est puissant et menace la position même du prince, ou s’il se
solidarise avec un groupe trop dangereux qui met en péril le règne, il
risque de recevoir une peine exemplaire (la décapitation), sa famille
s’efforcera par la suite, durant plusieurs règnes, de reconstituer difficilement
le patrimoine initial ou attendra que son propre groupe ait pris le pouvoir.
Etant donné que les donations pour «juste et fidèle service» ont comme
source le domaine princier, elles sont sensibles aux changements et aux
hésitations propres à un règne. Qu’elles proviennent de confiscations
(nombreuses surtout sous un règne autoritaire) ou d’achats, les donations
142
CRISTINA CODARCEA
ont un régime précaire si on les compare avec les autres formes de propriété
car leur destin ne cesse d’être mouvementé.
Par exemple, le village de Cãtun du département de Muscel se vend
au seigneur Leca à une date inconnue durant le règne de Radu ªerban
(1602-1610). En 1616, le prince Radu Mihnea soupçonne de trahison
Leca, qui occupait dans son propre Conseil la fonction de grand spãtar; il
confisque ses propriétés et le condamne à la mort. La même année il
récompense la fidélité d’un autre grand boyard du Conseil, Bratu le grand
comis41 , parent du prince, en lui donnant le village de Cãtun. Mais en
1631 le village se trouve dans la possession de la femme de Leca, Grãjdana,
qui lègue ses biens, faute d’héritiers directs, à Preda le deuxième spãtar,
son neveu42 . S’ensuit un procès de partage intenté par les neveux de
Leca, Mihai le postelnic et Tudosie le spãtar43 qui reçoivent à leur tour,
devant la justice du prince, le village et un vignoble, vendus tout de suite
après44 à Manea le grand postelnic du Conseil de Leon Tomºa.
Peu de temps après l’arrivée du prince Matei Basarab en Valachie et
la confirmation de son règne, il confisque le village de Manea («homme
méchant et menteur») resté fidèle au prince Alexandru Iliaº qui régnait en
Moldavie. En 1639, lorsque Matei Basarab devient le parrain de Petru le
paharnic («il le marie suite au fidèle service rendu au prince et au pays»45 )
il lui fait don pendant les noces du village de Cãtun étant donné qu’ il est
un descendant de la dame Grãjdana.
L’observation des donations conservées par les archives et dont on a
pu suivre le devenir, permet de se rendre compte de la mobilité particulière
qui les caractérise. Sur un total de 16 donations faites pendant les deux
règnes de Radu Mihnea, 10 ont changé par la suite de propriétaire46 .
Ainsi, le village de Bucºa (Ialomiþa) est donné par Radu Mihnea à Dumitru
Dudescu, deuxième vornic47 qui est obligé de le vendre en 1646 au prince
Matei Basarab pour lui payer ses dettes48 . L’ancien emplacement du village
de Selistioara (Romanati) est donné en 1613 à Gheorghe deuxième
clucer49 qui probablement le vend puisqu’on le retrouve en 1639 dans la
propriété de Dragomir grand armas50 , parent du prince régnant à cette
date, Matei Basarab. La donation du village de Frãsinetul (Ilfov) récompense
l’amitié de Radu Mihnea pour Constantin Baptista Vevelli (qui accompagne
le prince depuis sa Péra natale)51 , mais pour peu de temps, car deux ans
plus tard, en 1623, le même village est donné à un autre grec qui s’était
établi antérieurement en Valachie, Dumitrache Cantacuzino52 .
143
Pendant le règne de Matei Basarab d’autres exemples encore illustrent
la fragilité de la possession d’une donation princière. Ce n’est pas sans
importance si le bénéficiaire est un grand boyard, ou un boyard de
deuxième rang, ou un serviteur de la cour. Sans doute que le premier a
plus de moyens de renforcer et de conserver ses nouvelles acquisitions
car sa position auprès du prince est forte. Le grand armas Dragomir, parent
de Matei Basarab, avoue que sa fortune est due en grande partie à la
générosité du prince («mila domnului»)53 ; on est alors tenté de supposer
qu’il a reçu des donations; et que sa fortune ne provient exclusivement
des fonctions qui permettent l’acquisition massive de villages et de
richesses.
Plus que les donations de terres ou de villages, ce sont les privilèges
octroyés sous forme de récompense pour «juste et fidèle service» qui
permettent aux grands boyards de conserver et surtout d’augmenter leurs
domaines. L’exonération d’impôts ou de certaines taxes nous explique
pourquoi les revenus des grands boyards s’accroissent considérablement
et pourquoi de pareilles donations ont un poids particulier dans l’ensemble
d’une fortune. Cependant, outre la signification d’une récompense que
ces donations supposent, elles sont censées apaiser les ambitions des
membres de l’aristocratie en les faisant participer à la distribution des
richesses du pays.
Les donations envers les sujets moins importants54 , de deuxième rang,
sont moins importantes (villages, parties de villages, emplacements
d’anciens villages); en plus, elles sont touchées par une plus grande
précarité. En effet, ce type de propriété obéit à un régime spécial qui se
situe quelque part entre la propriété absolue et la propriété conditionnée,
en se rapprochant toutefois plus de la première. Ce type de propriétaire
prélève la dîme sur la production des serfs, est responsable devant le fisc
pour son village, libère les serfs ou vend le village sans que quelqu’un
puisse l’en empêcher. Ses droits sont pourtant amoindris par la possibilité
du prince de révoquer sa donation.
Le caractère ambigu de cette forme de propriété est donné par le fait
que plusieurs éléments contradictoires co-existent à l’intérieur de celle-ci.
La capacité du prince de révoquer le droit de possession fait penser à une
propriété conditionnée par le service mais cependant, à chaque fois qu’une
donation est reprise, le prince dédommage le bénéficiaire. En 1633, Matei
Basarab donne une partie du village de Micºuneºti (Ilfov) au capitaine
Iancu pour «fidèle service»55 . Très vite le prince révoque sa donation
faite à son sujet car il vient de construire un monastère (Cãldãruºani) dans
144
CRISTINA CODARCEA
le département de Ilfov et désire le doter d’un patrimoine convenable
pour un monastère princier. En le faisant, il paye au capitaine une somme
de 200 ‘ughi’, somme importante qui compense la perte de cette propriété.
Dans un autre cas, ce sera le prince qui touchera la plus grande partie
de la somme obtenue par le iuzbasa Radu pour le rachat des serfs du
village de Polovinele (Romanaþi), donation qu’il avait reçue auparavant.
A cette occasion Matei Basarab reçoit 100 «ughi» du total des 150 «ughi»
payés par les villageois56 mais il ne conteste pas la liberté de son sujet de
disposer du sort des serfs du village.
L’intervention du prince peut aboutir à la perte de la donation (lorsqu’il
décide de lui donner une autre destination ou de permettre aux anciens
propriétaires la récupération de leurs biens), mais n’efface pas
complètement la grâce accordée car il la remplace par une somme
d’argent. Ce sera le cas lorsque Matei Basarab accepte finalement la
demande du fils du grand boyard Trufanda, déclaré félon, de reconstituer
le patrimoine de son père à condition de racheter les villages offerts comme
donation par le prince57 ce qui équivaut en effet à une grâce accordée.
Il semblerait que même ceux qui reçoivent des dons en villages ou en
parties de villages préfèrent les vendre à cause de leur instabilité mais
aussi à cause des obligations fiscales qui grèvent une propriété foncière58 .
Malgré la fragilité qui caractérise la donation princière pour service
rendu il n’est pas moins vrai que cette forme de récompense a une fonction
stratégique dans l’ensemble de relations de pouvoir. La répartition des
récompenses à l’intérieur de la catégorie privilégiée des boyards et des
serviteurs du prince nous fournit une idée sur la structuration des solidarités
autour du trône. Si on prend en compte les règnes les plus longs de cette
première période du XVIIe siècle et qui ont laissé des traces documentaires,
on arrive aux données suivantes les concernant:
Radu ªerban
Radu Mihnea
Matei Basarab
Grands
Boyards
Boyards
IIe rang
7
5
7
3
7
8
145
Serviteurs et
Militaires
0
3
17
Ces donnés corroborées par d’autres concernant l’origine des donations,
peuvent compléter l’image d’un règne et de sa stratégie.
Radu
ªerban
Villages appartenant déjà au
domaine princier
Villages achetés par le prince à
l’occasion de la donation
Villages confisqués pour félonie
Villages confisqués pour cause de
non-paiement des impôts
Terres désertes
Radu
Matei
Mihnea Basarab
10
13
5
0
2
1
0
1
10
0
0
0
0
8
3
Le prince Radu ªerban s’installe avec l’appui de la grande aristocratie
et jouit de son appui dans son dessein de rapprochement des puissances
chrétiennes, en poursuivant manifestement le programme de Michel le
Brave. Au contraire, dans des circonstances beaucoup plus rudes,
d’aggravation du régime de domination ottomane et de renforcement
économique et politique de l’aristocratie, Matei Basarab ne cesse d’obtenir
le soutien des couches moyennes de la société, en même temps qu’il
exerce un règne autoritaire. Parallèlement au processus de croissance du
pouvoir central et du rôle de la cour du prince se tisse tout un réseau
administratif en partant de la cour où les relations de fidélité unissent
directement les sujets à leur prince.
NOTES
1. Paul R. Hyams - King, Lords and Peasants in Medieval England, Oxford, 1980;
Wendy Davies et Paul Fouracre (dir.) - Property and Power in the Early Middle
Ages, Cambridge, 1995, v. surtout pp. 245-271.
2. ªerban Papacostea - Oltenia sub stãpânire austriacã, Bucarest, 1971, p. 227.
3. Marc Bloch – La société féodale, Paris, 8e éd. vol. 1 . On penche plutôt vers
une définition qui valorise l,élément relationnel que celui de définition
purement juridique qui risque d’être rendu fictif par une réalité trop diversifiée
et trop peu soucieuse de se penser dans des catégories raisonnables.
146
CRISTINA CODARCEA
4. C. Giurescu - «Despre boieri» , pp. 381-440. L’observation faite par l’historien
N. Stoicescu, il nous semble très significative; elle montre comment au niveau
du vocabulaire transparaît la conscience d’une hiérarchisation des positions
et des rôles des privilégiés. Ainsi, les membres de l’aristocratie ayant des
statuts égaux se nomment entre eux «frères» tandis que ceux qui leur sont
inférieurs comme rang social sont dénomés «amis» – v. Sfatul domnesc ºi
dregãtorii din Þara Româneascã ºi Moldova, secolele XIV-XVII, Bucarest, 1968,
p. 74.
5. Par privilège nous comprenons les avantages qui découlent de l’office, de la
fonction et non l’immunité comme l’ont interprété plusieurs historiens
roumains.
6. Un modèle du corps de contrôle qui se rapproche sans doute plutôt de celui
existant en Russie (v. Richard Pipes - La Russia, Potere e Societa dal Medioevo
alla dissoluzione dell’Ancien regime, Milano, 1989, pp. 124-157.) plus que
de celui de l’occident dont l’utilité administrative s’articule à partir de la
fonction publique et non de la fidélité envers le souverain.
7. Alain Guery - «L’oeuvre royale. Du roi magicien au roi technicien» in Le
débat , n° 74, 1993, pp. 123-142.
8. Norbert Elias - La dynamique de l’Occident, Paris, 2e édition, 1969.
9. Roland Delmaire - Largesse sacrées et Res privata...L’Aerarium impérial et
son administration, Ecole francaise de Rome, Rome, 1989.
10. Pour cette raison, croyons-nous, l’aristocratie n’essaie jamais de substituer au
modèle monarchique celui de la république nobiliaire bien qu’au long de
toute l’histoire du XVIIe siècle elle se soit efforcée d’augmenter son emprise
sur le pouvoir princier. Pour elle, le prince malgré son arbitraire (qu’elle
parvient à contrôler à certains moments) reste le moteur du mécanisme social.
11. 13 juin, 1628, Documenta Romaniae Historica, (DRH) B, vol; XXII, doc. 108,
pp. 230-235
12. 24 avril 1645, Catalogul Documentelor Þãrii Româneºti din Arhivele Statului,
(Catalogue) vol. VI, doc. 124, p. 68.
13. 13 septembre 1628, D.R.H., B, vol. XXII, doc. 155, p. 322.
14. 1 août 1638, Catalogue..., vol. IV, doc. 1272, p. 561. Il faut préciser que les
seigneurs eux-mêmes prennent des précautions dans le cas d’une vente
susceptible d’être contestée plus tard. Ils rassemblent des voisins du lieu lors
de la vente et ils demandent que les ayants-droits déclarent publiquement
leur droit caduc. Ainsi, on dispose des preuves et on limite le plus possible
l’arbitraire du prince.
15. 8 mai 1628, D.R.H., B, vol. XXII, doc. 68, p. 140.
16. 24 septembre 1614, Documentele. Istoriei. României, (DIR), vol. II, XVII, doc.
290, p. 327.
17. Normalement les serfs peuvent aussi bénéficier d’un droit de préemption
lorsque la vente qui les concerne ne se fait pas dans la parenté des propriétaires
où lorsqu’un autre seigneur ne détient pas une partie de la propriété mise en
147
vente. v. par exemple le cas du village acheté par Chirca comis qui, avant la
transaction avec le propriétaire interroge les paysans s’ils veulent se racheter;
2 novembre 1612, ibidem, doc. 118, p. 116.
18. 4 mai 1649, Catalogue..., vol. VI, doc. 1377, p. 514.
19. Carte româneascã de Învãþãturã, 1636, (ed. Andrei Rãdulescu), Bucarest, 1961,
p. 162, Chapitre 52: « ...la malédiction lancée en état de colère est grave et
sera considérée comme toute autre forme de malédiction; seulement dans les
cas de séparation, d’exhérédation ou de vente les décisions ne seront pas
prises en considération si elles sont entâchées par la colère».
20. 1645, Catalogue..., vol. VI, doc. 250, p. 114.
21. 11 janvier 1640, Catalogue..., vol. V, doc. 4, p. 26. Il procède de la même
manière avec les frères Hamza, Stanciul, Udrea et Balaci, les fils de Socol du
village de Pade, qui refusent à leur soeur la dot attribuée par leur père. C’est
le prince qui rend à Vlãdaia, la fille de Socol la moitié du village de Clãbuceari
avec des serfs et des Tsiganes. (12 juillet 1643, Catalogue..., vol. V, doc.
1079, p. 457).
22. 12 mai, Catalogue..., vol. V, doc. 1017, p. 432.
23. (dir. ) Jacques Le Goff et Georges Duby - Famille et parenté dans l’Occident
médiéval , Rome, 1977; David Herlihy - La famiglia nel Medioevo, Rome,
1995 (Medieval Households, 1éd. 1985), voir ch. 6 - «Il sistema familiare nel
tardo Medioevo», pp. 169-200.
24. Nancy Shields Kollmann - Kinship and politics. The making of the Moscovite
Political System, 1345-1547, Stanford, California, 1987.
25. 10 janvier 1635, Catalogue..., vol. IV, doc. 449, p. 217.
26. 21 décembre 1636, Catalogue..., vol. IV, doc. 891, p. 408-409.
27. La chronique du pays décrit l’épisode de la lutte entre les deux ennemis,
prétendants au trône de la Valachie, Matei et Radu Iliaº: «...et les boyards du
pays, Necula vistier, Hrizea vornic, Papa logofat, Necula Catargi et Dumitru
Dudescul, et Neagul aga et d’autres n’ont pas voulu accepter le prince Matei
et sont partis en Moldavie chez le prince Alexandre Iliaº pour qu’il vienne
avec son fils, Radu voyvode dans le pays. (Istoria Þãrii Româneºti, 1299-1690.
Letopiseþul cantacuzinesc, (ed. C. Grecescu et D. Simonescu), Bucarest,
1960,p. 101.)
28. 2 novembre 1636 - Catalogue..., vol. IV, p. 399-400, doc. 874.
29. Ce n’est pas sans importance le fait que les deux sont au début, (directement
ou leurs parents proches), contre le règne de Matei Basarab. Calotã se trouve
parmi les boyards réfugiés dans le camp de Radu Iliaº en Moldavie tandis que
l’oncle par alliance de Marco, Mitrea du village de Stãneºti, se rend à
Constantinople pour formuler auprès de la Porte des plaintes contre le prince.
30. N. Stoicescu - Dicþionar al marilor dregãtori din Þara Româneascã si Moldova,
Bucarest, 1971, p. 173, Radu s’est marié une première fois avec la fille du
grand chancelier Fiera Leurdeanu et une deuxième fois avec la fille de Vlad
Rudeanu, à son tour grand chancelier.
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CRISTINA CODARCEA
31. L’historien Constantin Rezachievici affirme que Dumitru Dudesco aurait été
condamné et même décapité par ordre du prince (v. «Fenomene de crizã
social-politicã în Þara Româneascã în veacul al XVII-lea» in Studii si Materiale
de Istorie Medie, vol. IX, 1978, p. 77) fait qui n’est pas confirmé par Nicolae
Stoicescu dans son Dictionnaire.
32. Une question qui a été traitée par les historiens roumains toujours en grande
hâte - G. Potre - «Matei Basarab în lumina unor documente referitoare la
rãsplãtiri de servicii, iertãri de rumânie ºi ordine date» in Matei Basarab ºi
Bucurestii , Bucarest, 1983, pp. 35-48.
33. Ion Donat - Domeniul domnesc în Þara Româneascã, secolelel XIV-XVI,
Bucarest,1996.
34. Marcel Mauss- Despre dar, Bucarest, 1992.
35. Catalogue..., vol. IV, doc. 824, p. 381 - En 1636 Matei Basarab reprend à
deux de ses serviteurs la donation qu’il leur avait faite auparavant, car ils se
«sont suffisament nourris» dans un village. Le statut du prince dans cette
société patriarcale rappelle plutôt le statut de père de famille que celui d’un
souverain occidental. Le langage des remontrances que le prince adresse à
ses grands boyards a des fois un ton familier; celui des ordres respecte peu
une étiquette curiale et exprime simplement le courroux princier.
36. O. Sachelarie (Instituþii feudale din þãrile române, Bucarest, 1988, p. 137) est
plutôt évasif sur cette question car il affirme que la donation peut avoir un
caractère conditionné; (il cite un document de la Moldavie de la même
époque). Valentin Georgescu croît que dans les pays roumains une propriété
viagère est conditionnée par le service, (Bizanþul ºi instituþiile româneºti pânã
la mijlocul secolului al XVIIIlea, Bucarest, 1981, p. 66: «en ce qui concerne
le statut foncier de la classe dominante il se rapproche plus de la propriété
conditionnelle de l’Occident médiéval»).
37. Valeria Costãchel - Les immunités dans les Principautés Roumaines aux XIVe
et aux XVe siècle, Bucarest, 1947.
38. I. Donat - «Le domaine princier rural en Valachie (XIV-XVI) «, in Revue
Roumaine d’Histoire, T. VI, n° 2, 1967, p. 216
39. Ibidem - le prince avait toute latitude de choisir entre les décisions suivantes:
a)restituer au boyard gratuitement ou par achat les villages qui lui avaient été
confisqués b)reconfirmer la donation causé à quelqu’un en maintenant le
préjudice fait à un autre et c)retirer un bien confisqué à un bénéficiaire pour
le donner à un autre; V. Georgescu fait une comparaison avec les lois
byzantines punissant le crime de lèse majesté et signale lui aussi la flexibilité
du cadre juridique roumain, Bizanþul......., p. 130-141.
40. P. Delmaire, Les largesses..., p. 602.
41. D.I.R., XVII, vol. III, doc. 5. v. aussi N. Stoicescu - Dicþionarul dregãtorilor...,
p. 120.
42. D.R.H., B, vol. XXIII, doc. 230, antérieur à l’an 1631, 21 avril, p. 368.
43. Ibidem, doc. 355, 1632, 17 avril, p. 542.
149
44. Ibidem, doc. 385, 28 mai 1632, p. 575.
45. 21 août 1639, Catalogue..., vol. IV, p. 667-668.
46. Nous avons pu suivre l’appartenence des villages suivants: Cãtun (Muscel et
Pãduret), Strehaia (Mehedinþi), Sopârliga (Saac), Bucºa (Ialomiþa), Seliºtioara
(Romanaþi), Groºani (Buzãu), Frãsinetul (Ilfov), Izvorul Alb (Mehedinþi), Cioara
(Ilfov), Bucºa (Ialomiþa).
47. D.I.R., XVII, vol. II, doc. 158.
48. Catalogue..., vol. VI, doc. 497.
49. D.I.R., XVII, vol. II, doc. 167.
50. Catalogue..., vol. IV, doc. 1546.
51. Celui-ci est aussi proche conseiller du prince Alexandru Iliaº qui gouverne le
pays en suivant ses recommandations, D.I.R., XVII, vol. II, doc. 138.
52. Ibidem, doc. 288 - en outre il reçoit l’exemption d’impôt pour son village qui
garde encore en 1649 le statut de «slobozie».
53. N. Iorga - Studii ºi Documente, vol. V, pp. 548-549.
54. On n’est pas toutefois d’accord avec l’affirmation de Nicolae Stoicescu que
les donations ne concernent que les hauts fonctionnaires. Ce qui fait la
différence entre les sujets c’est la durabilité du don, la possibilité effective de
le conserver.
55. D.R.H., B, vol. XXIV, doc. 4.
56. Ibidem, doc. 117.
57. En 1633 le prince Matei Basarab donne le village de Stejarul (Mehedinþi)
pour «juste et fidèle service au prince et au pays éprouvé par des blessures»
à ses serviteurs Drãghici logofãt et Ianiu postelnic (D.R.H., B, vol. XXIV, doc.
56). En mars1645, Iordache, le fils de Trufanda, ancien grand vistier,
accompagné par sa grande mère Catrina, se présente devant le prince pour
récupérer leurs biens, demande qui leur est refusée car ils n’ont pas voulu
rentrer au pays lorsqu’ils ont été rappelés par le prince et parce qu’un de
leurs parents avait agi à Constantinople contre les intérêts du prince
(Catalogue..., vol. VI, doc. 67). Toutefois, en septembre 1649, Iordache parvient
à déterminer Drãghici de lui vendre le village de Stejarul, vente renforcée par
une charte princière (Ibidem, doc. 1499).
58. En 1643 Matei Basarab récompense le service de trois de ses serviteurs
(Doxoteaiu iuzbasa, Cãciulat iuzbasa, Vlãdilã iuzbasa, les trois habitant
Bucarest), avec le village de Þigãneºti situé sur la rivière de Mostiºtea. Ceux-ci
le vendent à Istrate logofãt pour 15000 aspri (Catalogue...., V, doc. 1062).
Calotã clucer vend les village de Clinceni et de Mãicãneºti (Catalogue..., IV,
doc. 135), les fils de Ianiu postelnic vendent la partie du village de Stejarul
qui revenait à son père en 1647 (Catalogue..., VI, doc. 963).
150
FELICIA DUMAS
Née en 1970, à Piteºti
Doctorat accordé par l’Université “Al. I. Cuza”, Iaºi, 1998
Thèse : Techniques non-verbales de communication dans la liturgie byzantine
Doctorande en anthropologie religieuse, Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes,
Paris
Thèse : Du geste liturgique byzantin dans les églises roumaines
contemporaines
Maître assistante à la Faculté des Lettres, Université “Al. I. Cuza”, Iaºi
Membre de l’Association des Philologues Roumains
Bourse Tempus, Poitiers, 1992
Bourse postdoctorale du gouvernement roumain, Paris, 1999
Roumanie, Pologne, France
Nombreux articles, études et traductions
LE GESTUEL LITURGIQUE ORTHODOXE DIMENSIONS SÉMANTIQUES ET
PRAGMATIQUES
1. Le geste comme signe. La sémiologie gestuelle dans le
cadre de la sémiologie non verbale
Après la deuxième guerre mondiale, les recherches faites dans le
domaine de la théorie de la communication ont connu un grand essor.
Pendant ces dernières décennies, un grand nombre d’études ont été
consacrées aux communications non verbales. Couvrant plusieurs
domaines (l’anthropologie, l’éthologie, la psychologie des affects), les
communications non verbales, définies comme types de communication
manifestée par des canaux différents de celui du langage verbal, ont joui
d’un succès assez important même parmi les linguistes (et les sémioticiens):
Greimas 1970, Benveniste 1966, Guiraud 1980, Barthes 1967. D’ailleurs
le «champ sémiotique» du non verbal (Eco 1972) a été délimité par rapport
au langage verbal, tout comme celui du para-verbale (ou para-linguistique:
Trager 1958), défini en tant que sous-système vocal» de ce dernier (Cosnier
1984), comprenant les phénomènes vocaux supra-segmentaux: les accents,
l’intonation, etc.
Les recherches modernes consacrées aux communications non verbales
refusent cependant cette acception synonymique (devenue d’ailleurs
classique) de la communication non verbale avec la communication non
linguistique: une partie du langage verbal est non verbale, tout comme
une partie du non verbal ne constitue pas du langage (Cosnier 1984). On
devrait donc parler d’un non verbal co-textuel (dans le premier cas) et,
respectivement, d’un non verbal contextuel (Idem, p. 7). D’ailleurs, toutes
ces recherches proposent, entre autres, les concepts de «communication
totale» ou d’interaction communicationnelle (Winkin 1981, Goffman 1974,
Watzlawick 1972).
153
Les communications non verbales utilisent trois types de supports
(Corraze 1980): 1.le corps et ses qualités physiques ou physiologiques et
avec ses mouvements, considéré comme «un support privilégié de la
circulation du sens» (Le Breton 1988, p .22), 2.des artefacts liés au corps
(chez l’homme), comme les vêtements, les tatouages, les mutilations
rituelles ou non (voir, entre autres, Maertens 1983) ; 3.la disposition dans
l’espace des individus, qu’il s’agisse d’un espace fixe ou territorial, ou de
celui très personnel qui entoure le corps de chaque individu (voir, par
exemple, les études de E. T. Hall : 1971 et 1984, ou bien de Schilder
1968).
La communication gestuelle occupe une place très importante dans le
cadre du large domaine des communications non verbales, si l’on pense
au nombre impressionnant d’études consacrées aux manifestations
communicationnelles de cette nature. Comme la plupart des autres études
sur la communication non verbale, les recherches du champ sémiotique
du gestuel ont également connu, une grande influence de la part de ce
que les représentants du groupe μ appelaient «l’impérialisme linguistique»
(Le Groupe μ 1992, p. 10). Une grande partie des concepts opérationnels
de la linguistique générale (surtout du structuralisme linguistique) ont été
extrapolés et utilisés pour la description de la plupart des systèmes de
signes non verbaux (voir les études : Barthes 1967, Porcher 1976, Schefer
1969, Lagrange 1973, Birdwhistell 1981).
Un type d’analyse gestuelle est représenté par l’analyse kinésique de
Birdwhistell, qui propose l’étude des mouvements corporels manifestés
pendant une conversation (verbale !). Son système, la kinésique, est formé
de la prékinésique (qui s’occupe de l’étude des déterminants
physiologiques des gestes), la microkinésique (qui analyse les gestes dans
les plus petites unités significatives) et la sociokinésique (qui s’occupe de
l’étude des variations culturelles des gestes) (Birdwhistell 1981). Malgré
le système assez lourd de notation (56 unités élémentaires proposées
seulement pour le visage), l’analyse kinésique de Birdwhistell reste l’un
des plus intéressants modèles d’analyse gestuelle (mais aussi l’un des
modèles qui offrent le plus d’exemples concernant l’extrapolation de
nombreux concepts de la linguistique, surtout de la phonologie).
En utilisant comme instrument d’étude le stéréotype, Marc-Alain
Descamps propose à son tour, une étude descriptive des principales
taxinomies gestuelles, dans le cadre d’une présentation plus large, des
différentes formes de manifestation communicationnelle du corps humain
(Descamps 1989). Les gestes des moines trappistes, des bénédictins de
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FELICIA DUMAS
Cluny ou de Cîteau, sont inventoriés par Clelia Hutt, en tant que substituts
du langage verbal (Hutt 1968). Marcel Mauss étudie toute une série de
gestes traditionnels concrétisés dans des techniques du corps (Mauss 1973),
et Pierre Guiraud nous propose une taxinomie très intéressante des codes
corporels (qui peuvent être des substituts du langage verbal ou des
auxiliaires de celui-ci), tout comme une ré-interprétation des principales
analyses gestuelles que nous avons déjà mentionnées (Guiraud 1980).
Un autre système de description micro analytique a été réalisé par les
auteurs de l’une des plus intéressantes classifications gestuelles : des
illustrateurs, régulateurs, signaux et emblèmes (Ekman et Friesen 1969).
Cependant, la plus importante pour nous reste l’analyse séquentielle de
l’activité corporelle réalisée par S. Frey, dont nous allons emprunter la
méthode pour l’étude des gestes rituels orthodoxes (Frey 1984). Les gestes
de rite chrétien n’ont que très peu été étudiés par un nombre assez réduit
d’historiens. Dans le monde occidental, l’œuvre monumentale de
Jean-Claude Schmitt (1990) nous propose des informations inédites sur
certains gestes de pénitence exécutés par différents ordres monastiques,
sans faire aucune référence à la spiritualité orientale. En ce qui concerne
les gestes rituels orthodoxes, ils n’ont fait, à notre connaissance, l’objet
d’aucune étude d’analyse communicationnelle, ou plus largement,
sémiotique. A part un merveilleux livre d’Hélène Lubienska de Lenval
(1957), nous n’avons pas trouvé d’ouvrages «scientifiques» sur ce type de
gestes. Nous proposons donc une étude sémiotique de ces gestes
manifestés pendant la célébration de la liturgie eucharistique byzantine,
et définis au niveau d’une triade interactionnelle qui comprend le gestuel,
la disposition dans l’espace et l’habillement des actants liturgiques.
2. Le gestuel liturgique orthodoxe - l’objet de notre
recherche
2.1. La liturgie et la liturgie eucharistique
Par gestuel liturgique byzantin nous comprenons l’ensemble des
manifestations gestuelles actualisées pendant la célébration de la liturgie
eucharistique byzantine attribuée à saint Jean Chrysostome. Il est donc
nécessaire de faire la distinction entre ce qu’on appelle la liturgie en général
et la réalité rituelle de la liturgie eucharistique, en particulier. Les
155
spécialistes liturgiques définissent la liturgie comme la mise en scène de
quatre composantes principales : les acteurs, les lieux, les paroles et les
objets. Cette définition peut très bien s’appliquer à la liturgie eucharistique
également, car celle-ci ne constitue que l’un des aspects de la liturgie en
général. Tandis que la liturgie comprend la littérature liturgique (les livres,
les prières), les œuvres des écrivains qui ont disserté sur le culte, les
différents offices de l’Eglise, tout comme les gestes et les mouvements des
actants liturgiques, la liturgie eucharistique (la «messe» de l’Eglise
Orientale) représente la célébration de l’eucharistie. C’est pour cela qu’elle
est appelée d’ailleurs, la divine Liturgie, orthographiée dans la plupart
des cas, avec une majuscule. La Liturgie eucharistique byzantine comprend
trois grandes parties : la prothèse (ou la partie introductive, pendant laquelle
un prêtre ou un diacre prépare les dons pour la consécration), la liturgie
des catéchumènes (ou la liturgie de la parole, centrée sur la louange de
Dieu, l’écoute de sa parole, et l’intercession, tout le monde étant autorisé
à y participer, notamment les catéchumènes) et la liturgie des fidèles
(centrée sur la célébration du mystère eucharistique).
Dans les plus anciens eucologes byzantins (tel l’eucologe Barberini,
par exemple), la liturgie de saint Basile précède toujours la liturgie de
saint Jean Chrysostome. La liturgie de Chrysostome a évincé la liturgie de
saint Basile vers le Xe ou le XIe siècle (Paprocki 1993, p. 72). Nous allons
travailler sur la liturgie de saint Jean Chrysostome (qui appartient à la
famille liturgique syro-antiochienne), parce que c’est la liturgie célébrée
pendant la plus grande partie de l’année liturgique et parce qu’elle nous
est la plus familière des liturgies eucharistiques byzantines.
2.2. Quelques aspects méthodologiques
Notre modalité d’approche de ce rituel liturgique a été celle de
«l’observation participante» : le chercheur s’insère dans le groupe qu’il
étudie et interagit avec les acteurs sociaux, en s’impliquant avec eux dans
des situations communes (Maisonneuve 1988, p. 16). Nous avons donc
participé à un grand nombre de célébrations liturgiques (eucharistiques)
dans différentes églises de Roumanie, des paroisses ou des monastères,
surtout en Valachie et en Moldavie (mais aussi en Transylvanie), en
observant et en enregistrant (sur pellicules photo et bandes vidéo) la
pratique gestuelle des prêtres et des fidèles participants à ce rituel liturgique.
Les gestes rituels manifestés pendant la célébration de la liturgie de saint
Jean Chrysostome constituent un inventaire bien défini et limité. Nous
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FELICIA DUMAS
allons donc nous constituer un corpus avec les variantes exécutionnelles
de tous les gestes rituels actualisés par les deux grandes catégories d’actants
liturgiques : le prêtre qui officie et les fidèles participants à la liturgie. Une
fois le corpus constitué, nous allons entreprendre la structuration, l’analyse
et l’interprétation du matériel gestuel accumulé de la sorte. Nous allons
étudier ainsi, les modes de production sémiotiques de ces gestes, les
techniques de réinvestissement sémantique qui ont participé à la
récupération de plusieurs gestes profanes et à leur «transformation» en
gestes liturgiques, réinvestis avec des significations symboliques sacrées
(l’agenouillement, le fait de faire brûler un cierge, etc.). Quant à l’étude
des dimensions pragmatiques du gestuel liturgique orthodoxe, nous allons
procéder à une segmentation du continuum gestuel enregistré sur bande
vidéo en séquences signifiantes, définies dans la temporalité. Nous
étudierons de cette façon les différentes variantes pragmatiques manifestées
par les fidèles participants au rituel liturgique byzantin, tout comme la
fréquence et le rythme d’exécution de ces gestes.
Comme le rituel liturgique byzantin représente un processus
interactionnel complexe, dans l’étude des dimensions pragmatiques du
gestuel actualisé pendant sa célébration, nous allons nous occuper
également des relations qui fonctionnent entre l’appropriation de l’espace
ecclésiastique par les actants liturgiques et l’actualisation de leurs gestes.
Quant à l’étude des dimensions sémantiques de ces gestes, nous allons
analyser les significations et l’importance sémiotiques des objets rituels
impliqués dans le processus de réinvestissement sémantique, tout comme
la signification des habits sacerdotaux et la mise en scène du corps par les
vêtements des fidèles participants à la liturgie de l’eucharistique.
2.3. Geste et communication dans la liturgie byzantine
La liturgie eucharistique, ou la «divine liturgie», est le plus important
des offices orthodoxes. Interprétée, à travers le temps (et à des époques
plus ou moins différentes), soit comme un véritable scénario symbolique,
une remémoration de la vie de Jésus (voir, par exemple, Evdokimov 1966),
soit comme une montée spirituelle vers le grand Repas eucharistique
célébré par le Christ dans son Royaume (Schmémann 1985), la liturgie
eucharistique byzantine est une grande prière, une prière commune (de
l’assemblée et du prêtre officiant), la plus impressionnante forme de
louange adressée par les hommes à Dieu. Et qui dit prière, dit
communication, c’est-à-dire, communion entre deux (ou plusieurs)
157
présences. C’est pour cela que la liturgie de saint Jean Chrysostome peut
être également interprétée comme le contexte extrêmement généreux
d’actualisation (dans certaines conditions de temps et d’espace) d’une
communication de type symbolique («la communication par le biais du
déclenchement dans le destinataire d’un processus d’évocation» : Sperber
1979, p. 27).
En prenant comme point de départ la thèse de Maxime Kovalevsky
(1984), on peut parler d’un modèle canonique de communication à quatre
pôles, situés dans deux plans de conditions différentes (le modèle des
hiérarchies célestes de Denys le pseudo aréopagite comporte plusieurs
aspects concernant ce type de répartition : cf. Dionisie le pseudo
Aréopagite 1994) : d’un côté Dieu, et de l’autre les hommes (mis déjà
sous le signe d’une pluralité), l’assemblée eucharistique, dont on distingue
le prêtre (le diacre fait partie de la même catégorie liturgique), le chœur
et les fidèles participants à la liturgie. «Le prêtre s’adresse au nom de tous
directement à Dieu, écrit Maxime Kovalevsky ; le diacre (nous allons
étudier uniquement le rituel liturgique officié par le prêtre tout seul, sans
évêque, ni diacre) parle à l’assistance en l’incitant à prier (lorsqu’il n’y a
pas de diacre, précise le même théologien, c’est le prêtre qui assume ses
fonctions) ; les chantres exposent des textes objectifs ou de méditation ;
les fidèles, eux, répondent au prêtre et au diacre (par exemple en disant :
<<Amen>>, ou <<Avec ton esprit>>), dialoguent avec lui, ou ils s’adressent
directement à Dieu (par exemple en disant : <<Kirie Eleison>>...)»
(Kovalevsky 1984, p. 92).
Dans les églises roumaines, la pratique liturgique des fidèles -participants
relève plutôt d’un modèle tabulaire de communication (Dumas 1994), dans
l’acception de Serres : une communication à plusieurs pôles (Serres 1968).
Il s’agit d’un modèle extrêmement mobile, qui ne contredit pas vraiment la
motivation qui se trouve à la base de cette conception de la communication
à quatre pôles (qui peuvent, en fait, être réduits à trois) dont nous avons
déjà parlé : la liturgie signifie «louange commune», «action de grâce
commune», le sacrifice eucharistique devant être célébré par toute
l’assemblée des chrétiens.
De nos jours, le chercheur avisé, sociologue, anthropologue et
herméneute de la communication, remarque plusieurs efforts de
communication personnelle avec la Divinité, intériorisée, mais surtout
extériorisée au niveau gestuel et postural, en dehors, à côté et même à
l’intérieur de la communication «commune» du modèle imposé comme
norme par la tradition dogmatique : les fidèles participants (+ le chœur),
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FELICIA DUMAS
le prêtre et Dieu. Il y a d’abord (en dehors du rituel liturgique) une forme
de communication gestuelle utilisée en tant que substitut du langage verbal
(interdit pendant la célébration de la liturgie), entre les fidèles participants.
C’est une communication qui a comme but l’initiation des néophytes dans
la pratique liturgique : les fidèles initiés, possesseurs de certaines
connaissances liturgiques, indiquent par le geste, aux autres, la manière
correcte dont ils doivent participer au rituel liturgique : les moments où
ils doivent s’agenouiller, l’endroit où ils doivent se tenir, pour respecter
un certain ordre traditionnel, ou tout simplement, pour ne pas gêner le
prêtre, lors de ses sorties du sanctuaire, etc. Un autre type de
communication, définie cette fois-ci à l’intérieur du rituel liturgique, est
celle établie entre les fidèles participants et le prêtre. Cette communication
peut être verbale (musicale), imposée et contrôlée par le chœur, ou non
verbale -gestuelle-, orientée par le discours du prêtre, envisagé comme
officiant du culte divin. L’assemblée des fidèles répond en même temps
que le chœur, aux invitations à la prière adressées par le prêtre : «Prions
le Seigneur» - «Kirie eleison», ou bien «Demandons au Seigneur pardon
et rémission de nos péchés» - «Accorde, Seigneur». Les réponses des
fidèles peuvent également être gestuelles, engendrées par certaines
exhortations du prêtre officiant, telles : «Inclinez la tête devant le Seigneur»,
ou bien «Sagesse, debout, écoutons le saint Evangile ! Paix à tous !»
Un troisième type de communication est représenté par la communication directe, de chaque participant au rituel liturgique (prêtre et fidèles)
avec la Divinité. Elle peut être verbale (il s’agit des prières dites par les
fidèles devant les icônes de l’iconostase à n’importe quel moment de la
liturgie, ou par le prêtre, à voix basse, dans le sanctuaire, pendant la
prothèse, par exemple, pour la rémission des péchés des fidèles présents,
ou pendant l’épiclèse pour invoquer la descente du Saint Esprit sur les
saints dons), ou non verbale. La communication gestuelle (y compris celle
posturale) du prêtre avec Dieu, mais surtout celle des fidèles participants,
représente, avant tout, la preuve incontestable de leur reconnaissance du
statut et de la position communicationnelle privilégiée de la Divinité. Le
«message» de cette communication peut être une demande d’exaucer un
vœu (l’agenouillement, les mains jointes, devant les icônes de l’iconostase),
ou bien une action de grâce (après la communion, par exemple, ou après
l’accomplissement d’un voeux).
On peut donc constater que le gestuel liturgique orthodoxe est engendré
(dans les conditions d’une participation active et consciente des actants
liturgiques à la pratique commune de la liturgie) par le discours verbal.
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Les gestes liturgiques constituent de véritables répliques d’actualisation
gestuelle de certains actes de langage (verbal !) énoncés par le prêtre
officiant, par les membres du chœur dans les textes chantés, ou par les
fidèles participants à ce rituel. Exécuté comme réplique à l’énoncé du
chœur de la première grande partie de la liturgie (la liturgie des
catéchumènes), «Venez, adorons et prosternons- nous devant le Christ»,
le geste de se signer, fait par les fidèles, combiné avec celui de la
prosternation, représente l’accomplissement gestuel «effectif» de deux
actes de langage comportatif (Austin 1970, p. 161). Cette dimension
d’actualisation gestuelle est soutenue d’abord par la disposition des actants
liturgiques dans l’espace intérieur de l’église (type interactionnel vis-à-vis:
les fidèles-participants se trouvent devant les icônes du Christ de
l’iconostase, dont l’emplacement oriente tout le processus interactionnel
liturgique) et par la nature symbolique du mimodrame (Jousse 1974)
déroulé devant eux pendant la séquence rituelle immédiatement antérieure
(la «petite entrée», procession qui symbolise le départ du Christ dans le
monde pour prêcher l’enseignement de sa nouvelle loi : Cabasila 1989).
«Au moment où le prêtre sort du sanctuaire et passe devant les fidèles
avec l’Evangile, le peuple se signe et se prosterne, comme si le Sauveur y
était présent» (Ionescu-Amza 1982, p. 24).
On remarque ici la présence de l’impératif, en tant qu’expression d’une
«force illocutoire prescriptive», défini par Anna Jaubert comme «un
performatif primaire, qui fait reconnaître un acte de discours directement,
sans passer par la réflexivité» (Jaubert 1990, p. 136). En même temps,
comme expression de la nature du pronom personnel impliqué dans la
production de l’énoncé verbal (le pronom <<nous>>, défini par <<vous>>
et par <<je>>, à l’initiative énonciative et symbolique du <<je>> du prêtre;
il s’agit d’un <<nous>> inclusif, d’une personne amplifiée : Benveniste
1966, p. 233, 235), on observe également la manifestation gestuelle (du
même type) du prêtre.
Le geste de se signer, exécuté comme réplique à l’énoncé du chœur,
ou du prêtre officiant : «Gloire au Père et au Fils et au Saint Esprit !»,
représente toujours l’actualisation d’un acte de langage, expositif, cette
fois-ci (Austin 1972, p. 162), si l’on pense à la signification canonique
attribuée à ce geste liturgique (on reviendra là-dessus : Mitrofanovici 1929,
p. 434). Un autre exemple de pareilles «répliques» d’actualisation gestuelle
de certains actes de langage est constitué par l’exécution du geste simple
de se signer et des séquences gestuelles de la prosternation et de la grande
métanie, lors de l’énonciation de l’une des prières les plus importantes du
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rituel liturgique, qui «accompagne» le moment symbolique de la
consécration des dons dans le sanctuaire : «Nous te chantons, nous te
bénissons, nous te rendons grâces, Seigneur, et nous t’implorons, ô notre
Dieu». Le processus d’actualisation gestuelle est déterminé dans ce cas,
par la présence de plusieurs verbes performatifs, définis par Vanderveken
de la manière suivante : «chantons (avec le sens de louer) : verbe de type
expressif» (Vanderveken 1988, p. 202) ; rendre grâce : «verbe de type
expressif» (Idem, p. 199), et «implorer : verbe de type directif» (Idem, p.
184).
Un autre type de répliques gestuelles, définies toujours par rapport
aux énoncés verbaux produits dans le cadre de l’interaction rituelle
liturgique, est représenté par les gestes exécutés à la suite de quelques
énoncés qui visent des effets perlocutionnaires (Searle 1972) de nature
symbolique (dans le sens de l’obtention de certains effets positifs, en tant
que preuves de l’efficacité rituelle), prononcés par le prêtre officiant : le
fait d’incliner la tête, lorsque les fidèles entendent l’exhortation du prêtre :
«Inclinez la tête devant le Seigneur» ; la station debout ou, dans la plupart
des cas (bien que d’une façon paradoxale), la position agenouillée, comme
réplique de l’énoncé verbal (appartenant toujours au prêtre) : «Sagesse.
Debout. Ecoutons le saint Evangile...» Les formes différentes du pronom
personnel (dans le premier cas, <<vous>>, et dans le second, <<nous>>)
mettent en évidence la définition des rôles et de la position interactionnelle
des deux grandes catégories d’actants liturgiques -le prêtre et les fidèles
participants-, par rapport à la troisième présence communicationnelle :
la divinité.
D’autres répliques gestuelles des énoncés qui visent de tels effets
perlocutionnaires (dans le sens mentionné plus haut), prononcés par le
prêtre officiant surtout au moment liturgique du sermon (et qui reprennent,
d’ailleurs, des fragments des discours normatifs des Saints Pères), sont la
séquence gestuelle de porter des offrandes au sanctuaire et la communion.
Certains gestes liturgiques peuvent également fonctionner du point de
vue sémiotique, comme un type particulier de répliques interactionnelles
de quelques énoncés du prêtre officiant (interprétés en tant que seuils
d’institution symbolique et efficace de certaines séquences liturgiques),
en définissant de cette façon, une manière de ponctuer temporellement
le déroulement séquentiel et symbolique du scénario liturgique : les
fidèles-participants se signent et s’agenouillent lorsque le prêtre dit de
l’intérieur du sanctuaire «Aimons-nous les uns les autres, afin que dans
un même esprit nous confessions», parce qu’ils savent que cet énoncé
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perlocutionnaire représente l’élément verbal introductif de la séquence
liturgique de la récitation du Credo.
Ce ne sont que quelques repères évoqués pour mettre en évidence la
manière dont le discours liturgique verbal engendre et oriente du point
de vue sémiotique, les manifestations gestuelles définies lors de la
célébration du rituel liturgique, en utilisant, entre autres, quelques verbes
performatifs, plusieurs énoncés illocutionnaires et perlocutionnaires, ou
des variations de la personne (du pronom personnel).
2.4.Le geste liturgique en tant que geste rituel. Définition
«Si le corps est à l’origine de la chute, il est aussi porteur d’une promesse
de salut, il peut devenir un moyen de rédemption. [...] Ainsi, est-ce dans
le corps, à travers le corps, donc aussi dans les gestes, que doit se préparer
et se mériter la destinée de l’âme» (Schmitt 1990, p. 67). Dans la culture
chrétienne, le corps n’a pas d’autonomie reconnue ; il est toujours présenté
en relation avec l’âme. Les Pères de l’Eglise parlent des «mouvements de
l’âme» et des «mouvements du corps», ces derniers n’étant que les formes
de manifestation extérieure des premiers (Idem, p. 66). Dans les rituels
chrétiens (et religieux, en général), le corps devient de la sorte un
participant actif à la production et à la circulation des sens investis dans
le but de l’obtention d’une «efficacité rituelle» maximale (Maisonneuve
1988).
Durkheim considérait les principales attitudes rituelles, comme faisant
partie des «formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse» (Durkheim 1912). Il
distingue d’ailleurs, deux grandes catégories de telles attitudes : le culte
négatif, constitué d’un ensemble de tabous, d’interdictions, et le culte
positif, qui établit des relations avec la sacralité. Le rituel liturgique
représente la mise en pratique d’une attitude (rituelle) de culte positif.
Jean Maisonneuve définit la liturgie comme une «cérémonie sacrificielle
qui comporte une phase communielle, qui permet à l’homme d’assurer
son lien avec la divinité en s’incorporant les offrandes qu’il vient de lui
consacrer» (Maisonneuve 1988, p. 35). C’est toujours en termes de
communion, de participation à l’essence d’une divinité transcendantale
que J. Cazeneuve interprétait, lui-aussi, l’ensemble des rituels religieux
(Cazeneuve 1971).
Ce qui nous semble le plus intéressant, c’est le fait que la plupart des
études consacrées aux rituels proposent des approches et des
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interprétations de type communicationnel : «Le mot rituel désigne tout
système de communication avec le monde imaginaire, système
sémiologique autonome, utilisant essentiellement des gestes» (Heusch
1974, p. 213) ; «L’activité rituelle constitue un système de communication
hiérarchisé» (Idem, p. 232) ; «Les pratiques rituelles sont éminemment
symboliques car elles médiatisent par des postures, gestes ou paroles,
une relation à une <<entité>> non seulement absente [...], mais impossible
à percevoir, inaccessible sauf par le moyen du symbole lui-même»
(Maisonneuve 1988, p. 10) ; ou bien : «Du <<point de vue des
hommes... >>, le rite religieux est une expérience réussie de la
communication de l’homme et de Dieu, transmise dans l’espace et dans
le temps par la fixation de son sens et de son but» (Oliviéro 1991, p. 36).
Cela nous intéresse particulièrement, parce que notre approche du rituel
liturgique byzantin est toujours une approche communicationnelle.
Une notion importante de la ritologie est celle d’efficacité rituelle. Le
cœur de la liturgie est représenté par l’efficacité symbolique. Dans le cas
du rituel liturgique, c’est le clergé ordonné qui rend valide son efficacité
symbolique et sacramentale, cette efficacité étant reconnue d’une manière
collective. Le souci d’efficacité rituelle est très important pour l’homme
qui participe à la liturgie. Nous verrons que la plupart des gestes liturgiques
ont, outre leur signification d’origine (symbolique), une signification
pragmatique aussi, ou d’efficacité rituelle (en général, celle de demande
d’exaucer un vœu).
En prenant comme points de départ l’étymologie du mot geste (défini
par le dictionnaire Larousse de la Langue française comme «mouvement
du corps, surtout des bras, des mains, ou de la tête, porteur ou non d’une
intention de signification» : Larousse 1977, p. 795, ce mot provient du
latin gest-us. En latin, le sens de ce dernier était «manière de se tenir, port,
attitude, geste» : Ernoult et Meillet 1939, p. 420, ce nom étant un dérivé
du verbe gero, gerere, qui signifiait «porter» et après, par extension,
«exécuter, accomplir, faire» : Idem, p. 421) et la définition du rituel
proposée par Jean Maisonneuve dans le livre cité (1988, p. 12), nous
appellerons geste rituel tout mouvement du corps (donc, non seulement
des bras et de la tête), une manière de se tenir et de se porter, investi d’un
sens conformément à un système codifié de pratiques, sous certaines
conditions de temps et d’espace, pratiques ayant un sens vécu et une
valeur symbolique et un certain rapport avec le sacré. Le geste liturgique
peut donc être défini comme un geste rituel manifesté dans les conditions
particulières de temps et d’espace et de scénario symbolique de la liturgie
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(eucharistique) byzantine. Le mode de production sémiotique de ces gestes
est celui que Umberto Eco appelle la reconnaissance : «Un processus de
reconnaissance a lieu quand un objet ou un événement donné, produit
de la nature ou de l’action humaine (intentionnellement ou
inintentionnellement), fait parmi les faits, est interprétée par un destinataire
comme l’expression d’un contenu donné, soit en fonction d’une corrélation
déjà prévue par un code, soit en fonction d’une corrélation établie
directement par le destinataire» (Eco 1992, p. 72).
2.5. Les gestes liturgiques byzantins : significations et variantes
pragmatiques
Pour une présentation plus cohérente de l’inventaire clos de ces gestes
liturgiques, nous avons procédé à une structuration de celui-ci en fonction
des actants liturgiques qui les exécutent. En réfléchissant aux concepts
d’acteur social utilisé par Goffman (Goffman 1973) pour désigner le
participant à une interaction sociale, d’interactant, utilisé par Scheflen
(Scheflen 1981) pour nommer le participant à une interaction (verbale ou
complexe), ou à celui d’acteur, utilisé par Greimas (Greimas 1970) pour
désigner les parties du corps qui participent à la réalisation d’un geste,
nous avons préféré employer le syntagme d’»actant liturgique», pour
désigner le participant à une interaction rituelle liturgique. Les deux grandes
catégories d’actants liturgiques sont le prêtre officiant et les fidèlesparticipants à la liturgie. La troisième présence communicationnelle (et,
donc, implicitement interactionnelle) est la Divinité.
Nous avons classé les gestes liturgiques byzantins en trois grands
groupes : les gestes simples, les positions du corps et les séquences
gestuelles (des signes gestuels combinés d’une manière «synchronique» :
cf. Frey 1984). Nous commencerons par la catégorie la plus nombreuse
d’actants liturgiques, les fidèles participants à la liturgie eucharistique :
a) gestes simples : se signer, élever les mains pour la prière, joindre les
mains pour la prière (junctibus manibus), communier, faire brûler un cierge,
embrasser les icônes, embrasser l’évangéliaire, embrasser la main du prêtre
à la fin de l’office liturgique ; b) positions du corps : la station debout,
l’agenouillement, la position inclinée de la tête (la tête baissée) ;
c) séquences gestuelles : porter son don (des offrandes) au sanctuaire (en
général, de l’huile, du vin, de l’encens et du pain de froment fermenté
servant à l’eucharistie, appelé prosphore), la prosternation, la grande
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prosternation, ou la grande métanie, d’origine monastique. Les membres
du chœur exécutent en général les mêmes gestes, la fréquence et leur
rythme d’exécution étant modifiés par leur emplacement dans l’espace
intérieur de l’église : du côté droit de la nef, debout devant l’iconostase,
ou bien (surtout dans les cathédrales métropolitaines et épiscopales) à
l’étage, au-dessus du narthex, assis sur des bancs.
Pour ce qui est du prêtre officiant, nous mentionnerons ses gestes en
prenant en considération ses trois hypostases liturgiques : en tant que
fidèle participant au rituel liturgique, il actualise une série de gestes simples
: se signer, embrasser les icônes, embrasser l’évangéliaire, embrasser la
sainte table du sanctuaire, la croix avec laquelle il bénit le peuple, la
communion, l’élévation des mains pour la prière, tout comme la plupart
des postures mentionnées dans le cas des fidèles participants à la liturgie
: la position debout, l’agenouillement et la position inclinée de la tête. En
tant que prêtre-célébrant de la liturgie eucharistique, il exécute un grand
nombre de séquences gestuelles : la séparation des parcelles de prosphore
qui vont être consacrées pendant l’eucharistie, le fait de remuer lentement,
de haut en bas, le grand voile liturgique au-dessus des saints dons (signifiant
la descente du Saint Esprit), ou la distribution de la communion. En tant
que symbole du Christ (le théologien roumain Dumitru Stãniloae l’appelle
«le transparent du Christ» : Stãniloae 1986), le prêtre fait un geste simple
(la bénédiction), et actualise au moins une séquence gestuelle : le fait
d’entrer dans le sanctuaire (à certains moments du scénario liturgique)
par les portes centrales de l’iconostase -les portes «royales».
Tant la norme d’exécution de ces gestes, que leurs significations
symboliques (connues d’ailleurs, de moins en moins, de nos jours, par les
fidèles-participants à la liturgie) ont été transmises par imitation (ou grâce
à l’éducation religieuse, réalisée en famille, ou organisée par l’Eglise : le
catéchisme), et, respectivement par la voie orale (pour ce qui est des
fidèles-participants), ou écrite (dans le cas des futurs prêtres). La plupart
des manifestations gestuelles actualisées par le prêtre pendant la
célébration de la liturgie eucharistique ont une tradition lointaine, étant
mentionnées par exemple, par les Constitutions Apostoliques, ou les
Catéchèses mystagogiques de saint Cyrille de Jérusalem (la position debout,
l’agenouillement, la bénédiction, la communion, le baiser de la paix).
D’autres gestes sont de tradition plus récente, étant apparus à certains
moments d’évolution du rituel liturgique : le fait de remuer le grand voile
au-dessus des saints dons pendant la récitation du Credo, la bénédiction
du peuple avec le calice et la patène après la communion.
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Les significations des gestes liturgiques byzantins, mentionnées dans
les écrits des Pères de l’Eglise et reprises par les théologiens auteurs des
manuels liturgiques, sont des significations symboliques. Vu l’accès assez
limité des fidèles à ce type de sources liturgiques, cette catégorie d’actants
liturgiques connaît, généralement, très peu ces significations symboliques.
Cependant, ils connaissent très bien les significations pragmatiques,
d’efficacité rituelle de ces gestes, mentionnées dans des livres de
popularisation des symboles liturgiques ou dans les sermons des grands
prédicateurs des monastères les plus célèbres du pays. C’est toujours dans
les écrits à valeur normative des Saints Pères que l’on trouve aussi la
description de ce que l’on pourrait appeler un modèle canonique
d’exécution de ces gestes (l’un des exemples les plus connus est celui du
signe de la croix, décrit par saint Jean Chrysostome).
En ce qui concerne le rythme et la fréquence d’exécution des gestes
liturgiques, nous avons très peu de prescriptions de cette nature : dans
quelques documents synodaux, ou dans les mêmes livres de popularisation
des saints Sacrements de l’Eglise et de la symbolique de la Divine Liturgie
(voir, par exemple, Màndità 1994).
Le geste simple de se signer signifie la foi en la Sainte Trinité et dans le
salut de l’âme, réalisé par le Christ sur le bois de la croix (saint Jean
Chrysostome, apud Mitrofanovici 1929, p. 434). Ce geste a également
une signification d’efficacité rituelle (postérieure à la première), appelée
par le même Mitrofanovici, la signification «effective», celle d’attirer à
celui qui l’exécute plusieurs dons positifs, tout en éloignant de lui les
mauvais esprits (ibidem). On se signe avec la main droite, les trois premiers
doigts réunis et tenus droits et les deux derniers pliés à l’intérieur de la
paume, du front vers le bas de la poitrine, et du côté droit vers le côté
gauche, la verbalisation de ce geste étant représentée par la formule bien
connue, «Au nom du Père, du Fils et du Saint Esprit. Amen.» Nous avons
déjà étudié, ailleurs, les variantes pragmatiques de ce geste (Dumas 1997),
que nous nous contenterons seulement de mentionner ici (pour la
description du gestuel liturgique byzantin, nous utiliserons la transcription
linguistique d’Anne-Marie Houdebine : barres obliques et parenthèses
pour les candidats signifiants, barres obliques pour les «caractères
pertinents du signifiant Gestuel», et crochets pour les signifiés ou «effets
de sens» : apud Brunetière 1991, p. 283) : 1) /la main droite «essaie» de
toucher le front, s’arrêtant au-dessus de celui-ci, les doigts en position
canonique/ + /la main droite essaie de toucher le bas de la poitrine, sans
la toucher pour autant, les doigts gardent les mêmes positions/ + /la main
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FELICIA DUMAS
droite au-dessus de l’épaule droite, mais sans la toucher, les doigts en
positions canoniques/ + /la main droite au-dessus de l’épaule gauche,
sans la toucher, les doigts en positions canoniques/ ; 2) /la main droite
touche la poitrine, entre le menton et le ventre, mais plus près du menton,
les trois premiers doigts réunis et tenus droits, les deux derniers légèrement
courbés vers l’intérieur de la paume/ + /la main droite touche la poitrine,
entre le menton et le ventre, plus près du ventre, mais très près aussi de
l’endroit touché antérieurement, les doigts gardent les mêmes positions/
+ /la main droite touche le côté droit de la poitrine, au-dessous du sein,
les doigts dans les mêmes positions/ + /la main droite touche le côté gauche
de la poitrine, au-dessous du sein gauche, les doigts gardent les mêmes
positions/ ; 3) /la main droite touche le front, les doigts en positions
canoniques/ + /la main droite touche le bas de la poitrine, les doigts en
positions canoniques/ + /la main droite touche l’épaule droite, les doigts
en positions canoniques/ + /la main droite touche le côté gauche de la
poitrine, au-dessous du sein, les doigts en positions canoniques/. Si les
deux premières variantes se caractérisent par leur actualisation dans le
cadre d’un enchaînement gestuel de plusieurs signes de croix, la troisième
trahit une sorte de fatigue d’exécution.
Le geste d’élever les mains (+les bras) pour la prière est exécuté surtout
par le prêtre, en général à l’intérieur du sanctuaire, debout, et tourné vers
la table de l’autel. Il est exécuté au début de la liturgie de la parole, avant
la lecture de l’évangile ou le moment de la grande entrée, et au moment
de la consécration des saints dons, pour l’invocation du Saint Esprit.
Combiné avec la position agenouillée du corps, ce geste peut être
également exécuté par les fidèles-participants à la liturgie, lors d’une prière
individuelle, faite d’habitude devant une icône (de l’iconostase). La
signification de ce geste simple, dont le signifiant peut être décrit de la
façon suivante : /(tête droite)/ + /paumes orientées vers l’intérieur de
l’espace défini par leur position «vis-à-vis»)/ + /(doigts réunis)/, est celle
de «l’élévation du cœur de celui qui prie vers Dieu, sa dévotion intérieure,
tout comme sa demande d’exaucer un vœu urgent» (Mitrofanovici 1929,
p 447) . Ce geste représenterait donc, l’actualisation non verbale d’une
métaphore indicielle.
La même signification est attribuée également au geste de joindre les
mains pour la prière. Ce geste connaît deux variantes d’actualisation :
1) /(les mains jointes au niveau de la poitrine)/ + /(position agenouillée du
corps)/, utilisée seulement par les fidèles-participants au rituel liturgique,
devant les icônes de l’iconostase, lors des prières individuelles, ou, partout
167
ailleurs, dans l’espace intérieur de l’église, pendant la récitation du Credo,
ou de la prière dominicale, et 2) /(les mains jointes au niveau du ventre)/
+ /(les bras pliés au niveau du ventre)/ + /(la station debout)/, manifestée
par certains prêtres dans le sanctuaire (surtout, lorsqu’il y en a plusieurs
qui célèbrent la liturgie) et par certains fidèles aussi, pendant tout le long
de la liturgie (sauf, pendant les moments où ils doivent s’agenouiller). Ce
geste liturgique a été récupéré du paradigme gestuel profane, du rituel
laïque de l’hommage (Schmitt 1990, p. 296), étant investi après, par
l’intermédiaire d’un processus de métaphorisation, avec la signification
symbolique d’élévation du cœur vers Dieu.
Mentionné par saint Basile en tant que geste de vénération des saintes
personnes représentées dans les icônes (cf. Basilius, Epist. 340 ad Iulianum
Apostatum, in Migne, Patr. Gr. T.XXXII, p. 1100), le geste d’embrasser les
icônes est exécuté par les deux grandes catégories d’actants liturgiques,
généralement au début de la liturgie, mais aussi à tout autre moment du
scénario liturgique.
Le geste simple d’embrasser l’évangéliaire est exécuté par le prêtre
officiant, tout comme par les fidèles, après le moment de la lecture de
l’évangile, entre les portes royales (donc, au seuil de l’iconostase, considéré
comme la partie la plus «sacrée» de l’église, bien qu’elle n’ait pas été
soumise à une consécration spéciale, lors du rituel de la consécration de
l’église en entier), et exprime la vénération de la parole divine qui y est
contenue. Cette parole transmet sa sacralité à l’objet de culte embrassé,
et par «contagion», à la personne qui exécute ce geste.
La signification du geste simple d’embrasser la main du prêtre à la fin
de la célébration liturgique, est celle de respect manifesté par rapport à
ce serviteur privilégié du Christ, et surtout par rapport à sa main droite,
celle qui œuvre le mystère eucharistique et qui se trouve en contact avec
les objets liturgiques et, surtout, avec les saints dons.
Les fidèles orthodoxes roumains reçoivent le Saint Sacrement, le corps
et le sang du Christ (comme tous les autres orthodoxes, d’ailleurs), dans
une petite cuillère, qui leur est proposée par le prêtre, devant le sanctuaire,
entre les portes royales. Le geste de la communion a connu à travers le
temps, une modification d’actualisation. Aux débuts, les fidèles
communiaient comme les prêtres communient de nos jours, c’est-à- dire,
à même le calice, tel que nous le présente saint Cyrille de Jérusalem dans
la Vème Catéchèse mystagogique : «Quand tu t’approches, ne t’avance
pas les paumes des mains étendues, ni les doigts disjoints ; mais fais de la
main gauche un trône pour la droite, puisque celle-ci doit recevoir le Roi
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et, dans le creux de ta main, reçois le corps du Christ [...]. Ensuite [...],
approche-toi aussi du calice de son sang. N’étends pas les mains, mais
incliné, et dans un geste de respect et d’adoration, en disant «Amen»,
sanctifie-toi en prenant aussi le sang du Christ.» (p. 21 et 22). Il semblerait
que l’usage de la cuillère fût introduit à l’époque de (et même par) saint
Jean Chrysostome, pour empêcher que le Saint Sacrement soit consommé
par des païens. (cf. Nicephorus Callistus, Hist. eccl. L 13, c 7, apud
Mitrofanovici 1929, p. 249).
Le geste de faire brûler un cierge a été récupéré du paradigme gestuel
profane et réinvesti après, par l’intermédiaire d’un processus de
métaphorisation réalisé au niveau de l’objet rituel qui définit ce geste, le
cierge, avec une signification symbolique. (Dumas 1995-1996, p. 11).
Utilisé aux débuts du christianisme dans un but pratique très précis, pour
éclairer l’espace sombre des catacombes, ce geste signifie la foi et la
dévotion de l’actant liturgique qui l’accomplit, envers Dieu, parce que
«la lumière matérielle du cierge symbolise la lumière éternelle, [...] Jésus
Christ, la lumière de la vraie foi [...], la vie, la joie et notre adoration, en
nous montrant que nous-mêmes, nous sommes et nous devons être les fils
de la lumière» (Mitrofanovici 1929,p.239). Ultérieurement, ce geste a été
investi par les fidèles-participants à la liturgie, avec une signification
d’efficacité rituelle : la demande d’exaucer un vœu, une action de grâce,
ou une demande de rémission des péchés.
Pour ce qui est des positions du corps, la station debout est considérée
comme l’attitude habituelle de l’homme en prière (Lubienska de Lenval
1957, p. 10). Elle se définit donc, «normalement» (le premier concile
œcuménique a interdit de s’agenouiller le dimanche, car «le dimanche
est Pâques» : Clément 1982, p. 178), à l’intérieur d’une opposition réalisée
par rapport à la position assise. De nos jours, dans la pratique liturgique
roumaine, elle s’oppose à la position agenouillée, qui a finit par s’emparer,
en partie, de sa signification. Origène écrivait parmi ses réflexions sur la
prière : «Pour louer, célébrer, rendre grâce, on prie debout, les mains
étendues. La prière à genoux est de pénitence et de supplication» (apud
Clément 1982, p. 178).
La position agenouillée du corps est en général, «l’expression de la
pénitence, de la dévotion et de notre humiliation devant Dieu»
(Mitrofanovici 1929, p. 441). On s’agenouille pendant les moments les
plus importants (du point de vue symbolique) du rituel liturgique : la lecture
de l’évangile, la petite entrée, la grande entrée, la récitation du Credo et
du Notre Père, la consécration et la prière finale, de l’ambon. Durant le
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Moyen Age, la position agenouillée du corps devient «l’attitude normale
de la prière» (Schmitt 1990, p. 299). Nous n’avons pas trouvé de
descriptions écrites de la façon dont on devait s’agenouiller ; cependant,
les expressions utilisées pour désigner cette attitude de la prière -par
exemple, fléchir les genoux (Basile de Césarée, Traité du Saint Esprit, 27,
apud Clément 1982, p. 179) -, tout comme les représentations
iconographiques qui lui ont été consacrées nous aident à reconstituer un
modèle canonique d’exécution de ce geste : /(genoux fléchis)/ + /(jambes
droites)/ + /(buste droit)/. C’est par rapport à ce modèle que nous pouvons
définir (tout comme dans le cas du signe de la croix) plusieurs variantes
pragmatiques de la position agenouillée du corps, que nous avons
enregistrées en Roumanie, pendant la célébration de la liturgie
eucharistique. Par variante pragmatique, nous comprenons toute variante
qui s’écarte, du point de vue de l’exécution, du modèle canonique de ce
geste, sans présenter pour autant de changements de la signification de
cette norme. Deux de ces variantes ont été inventoriées, en tant
qu’inclinaisons, par Humbert de Romans, dans son commentaire des
constitutions de l’ordre dominicain (genuflexiones recta et prostrationes,
le corps reposant sur les genoux) (apud Schmitt 1990, p. 302). Voyons
maintenant quelles sont ces variantes : 1) /(genoux fléchis)/ + /(fesses
appuyées sur les jambes et les pieds)/ + /(buste droit)/, exécutée notamment
par des femmes, jeunes ou âgées et des enfants ; 2) /(genoux fléchis)/ + /
(buste parallèle au sol)/ + /(bras réunis) + (appuyés contre le sol)/ + /(mollets
étendus derrière)/, exécutée surtout par de vieilles femmes (très rarement
par de vieux hommes) et des enfants ; 3) /(genoux fléchis)/ + /(fesses
appuyées sur les pieds)/ + /(bras croisés sur les jambes)/ + /(buste appuyé
sur les bras et sur les jambes)/, exécutée seulement par des femmes, jeunes
ou âgées, qui restent agenouillées pendant longtemps (parfois, pendant
toute la durée de la célébration liturgique), et en général, dans des lieux
un peu cachés de l’église : derrière une table, une petite colonne ;
4) /(genoux fléchis)/ + /(jambes droites)/ + /(bras étendus) + (appuyés contre
le sol)/ + /(mains jointes)/ + /(buste allongé sur les bras)/ + /(tête posée sur
les mains)/. Cette variante pragmatique est actualisée par la même catégorie
de femmes, situées dans le même type d’endroits (cachés) de l’église. Ce
sont les significations d’efficacité rituelle attribuées à ce geste (demandes
d’exaucer des vœux urgents, rémission des péchés) qui déterminent et
qui engendrent, même, ces variations de la forme du signifiant.
La signification de la position inclinée de la tête est la vénération
intérieure de Dieu, «la dévotion profonde manifestée par rapport à lui»
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(Mitrofanovici 1929, p. 445). Les fidèles baissent leur tête, pendant le
déroulement du rituel liturgique, lorsqu’ils se signent, lorsqu’ils reçoivent
la bénédiction du prêtre, ou bien, lorsque le prêtre les invite à le faire
(«Inclinez la tête devant le Seigneur»).
La séquence gestuelle de porter son don au sanctuaire était exécutée à
l’origine en dehors du rituel, avant le commencement de celui-ci (le vin
et les prosphores étaient tout simplement apportés à l’église pour la
réalisation «effective» de l’eucharistie), puis avant la liturgie des fidèles
(jusqu’au IXe siècle, lorsque le rituel de la prothèse a été déplacé avant la
liturgie des catéchumènes), et enfin, pendant la partie préparatoire de la
célébration liturgique, la prothèse (ou la proscomidie), comme aujourd’hui.
La signification de ce geste est celle d’une participation de type
contributionnel au rituel, de communion symbolique, par l’intermédiaire
de ces offrandes, avec le Christ, présent sous la forme des espèces
eucharistique, lors de la célébration de l’eucharistie. Ce geste aussi a été
investi à son tour, avec une signification pragmatique, d’efficacité rituelle :
réussite et succès dans différents domaines, rémission des péchés, etc. De
nos jours, les fidèles-participants à la liturgie eucharistique portent leurs
dons au sanctuaire à tout moment du déroulement liturgique, parfois,
même à la fin de la célébration. Dans la plupart des cas, il s’agit des dons
de dimensions plus réduites : un cierge, de l’encens et des diptyques avec
les noms et les vœux de l’actant liturgique qui exécute le geste et des
membres de sa famille.
Une autre séquence liturgique, exécutée tant par les prêtres (dans le
sanctuaire, avant le commencement de la liturgie, avant la procession de
la petite entrée, pendant le chant de l’hymne du Trisagion, et avant
l’épiclèse), que par les fidèles (dans la nef ou le narthex, pendant le chant
du Trisagion, ou lors de la vénération des icônes de l’iconostase) est celle
de la prosternation (ou la petite métanie). La signification de ce geste, qui
est toujours accompagné de celui de se signer et qui peut être défini de la
manière suivante : /le corps incliné/ + /la tête inclinée/ + /les bras tendus
vers le sol/, est la vénération, et l’humilité, manifestées à l’égard de Dieu,
ou des saintes personnes représentées sur les icônes. C’est un geste
engendré par une interaction posturale de type vis-à-vis avec une présence
symbolique, de nature sacrée : le Christ, la Sainte Trinité (dans le cas du
Trisagion), ou les saints figurés dans les icônes.
La grande métanie, ou la métanie monastique, c’est-à-dire le fait de
fléchir les genoux, et de toucher le sol avec les bras et le front, est une
séquence gestuelle exécutée par certains prêtres dans le sanctuaire, lors
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de l’épiclèse (l’invocation du Saint Esprit) et par les fidèles les plus pieux
(hommes et femmes) en tant que modalité très humble de vénérer les
icônes de l’iconostase (à n’importe quel moment de la liturgie) et, comme
nous l’avons déjà vu, en tant que réplique d’accomplissement gestuel
d’un acte de langage comportatif (lorsque le chœur chante, au moment
de la petite entrée : «Venez, adorons et prosternons-nous devant le Christ.
Sauve-nous, ô Fils de Dieu...»).
La bénédiction est un geste simple exécuté par le prêtre-officiant,
notamment en sa qualité de symbole du Christ. La bénédiction est donnée
avec la main droite, en réalisant le signe de la croix sur l’assemblée des
fidèles, de haut en bas et de gauche à droite, de façon à ce que ce signe
«se pose» normalement, de droite à gauche, sur les destinataires de ce
geste. La position des doigts de la main droite est bien codifiée : «l’index
est tendu pour former la lettre <<I>>, tandis que le médius est plié en
forme de <<C>>. Le pouce et le quatrième doigt sont croisés en forme de
<<X>>, et le petit doigt est à nouveau plié en <<C>>, de sorte que nous
avons <<I, C, X, C>>, les lettres initiales et finales du nom grec de
Jésus-Christ.» (Lewis, 1988, p. 49). La signification de ce geste est l’envoi
de la paix, de la sérénité et de la grâce divine sur le destinataire de la
bénédiction. La réaction gestuelle des fidèles -participants à l’office
liturgique, engendrée par ce geste, est celle de se signer tout en baissant
leur tête.
La bénédiction est un geste simple qui accompagne une bénédiction
verbale (un énoncé verbal, donc), qui existait déjà aux débuts du
christianisme : les Constitutions Apostoliques mentionnent, entre autres,
de pareilles bénédictions pour les catéchumènes, pour les énergumènes,
etc. A cette époque-là, la bénédiction était donnée par l’évêque, parce
que c’était lui qui célébrait l’eucharistie. Ensuite, la bénédiction a
commencé à être donnée également par les prêtres. De nos jours encore,
lorsqu’un évêque participe à la liturgie, c’est lui qui bénit le peuple, avec
deux groupes de deux et respectivement, de trois cierges allumés dans
ses mains.
Pendant le rituel liturgique, le prêtre bénit l’assistance plusieurs fois :
avant la lecture de l’Evangile, en disant les mots «Paix à tous» («Sagesse !
Debout ! Ecoutons le saint Evangile, paix à tous !») ; avant le moment
liturgique de la grande entrée, pendant que le chœur chante l’hymne du
Chérubikon, avant de commencer la procession avec le calice et la patène
(c’est le seul moment de la liturgie, où la bénédiction du prêtre n’est pas
accompagnée d’un énoncé verbal) ; après la consécration des saints dons,
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tout en disant une bénédiction verbale : «Que les miséricordes de notre
grand Dieu et Sauveur Jésus-Christ soient avec vous tous !»; et après la
récitation de l’oraison dominicale, accompagnant les mots «Paix à tous !».
Lorsqu’il accompagne un énoncé verbal (c’est-à-dire, dans la plupart des
cas de son exécution), ce geste représente l’actualisation effective de la
signification de cet énoncé. Il s’agit d’un cumul de signifiants différents
qui vise l’augmentation de l’efficacité rituelle de la signification. Pourquoi
le prêtre est-il le seul actant liturgique qui ait le droit d’exécuter ce geste,
pendant le rituel liturgique ? Parce que sa main droite (et pratiquement,
tout son bras) est un support privilégié de la transmission de la grâce
divine. Parce qu’il a donc, le pouvoir de le faire ; sa main droite le
représente d’ailleurs, d’une manière métonymique, lui, le prêtre officiant,
en tant que servant de l’autel et célébrant du mystère eucharistique. Aux
moments où la bénédiction accompagne les mots «Paix à tous», le prêtre
est effectivement le symbole du Christ, en remémorisant la bénédiction
donnée par celui-ci aux apôtres, après la Résurrection, ou pendant son
Ascension.
Outre ces gestes liturgiques, qui relèvent de la Tradition avec une
majuscule, mentionnés par les écrits des Saints Pères, et décrits par les
théologiens liturgistes, nous en avons observé d’autres, sans tradition écrite,
mais exécutés déjà, dans certaines régions du pays, et dans certaines
paroisses et monastères, depuis assez longtemps, et placé sous le signe
d’une tradition évidemment plus récente. Il s’agit du geste du
prêtre-officiant de toucher les têtes des fidèles, lors de la procession de la
grande entrée, avec le calice porté dans la main droite, et de plusieurs
gestes et séquences gestuelles exécutés par les fidèles participants au rituel
liturgique : le geste de toucher les vêtements sacerdotaux, lorsque le prêtre
se trouve à leur proximité (c’est, donc, un geste dont l’actualisation est
déterminée par la disposition des actants liturgiques dans l’espace intérieur
de l’église) ; le geste de s’allonger par terre, entre la porte de gauche de
l’iconostase et les portes royales, pendant le moment liturgique de la grande
entrée, pour que le prêtre qui sort en procession avec les Saints Dons, les
enjambe ; l’agenouillement tout près du prêtre, lors du moment liturgique
de la lecture de l’Evangile ; la séquence gestuelle de s’approcher du
sanctuaire, en se signant, à l’invitation du prêtre pour la communion :
«Approchez avec crainte de Dieu, foi et amour !» Le mode de production
sémiotique de ces gestes est l’invention : «un mode de production qui
exige que le producteur de la fonction sémiotique choisisse un continuum
matériel, non encore segmenté en fonction des intentions qu’il se propose,
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et suggère une nouvelle manière de le structurer, pour y opérer les
transformations des éléments pertinents d’un type de contenu.» (Eco 1992,
p. 95).
Ces gestes aussi ont été récupérés du paradigme profane et investis
après avec des significations nouvelles ; sauf que, dans leur cas, la première
étape de ce processus de re-sémantisation gestuelle a été celle
d’investissement avec des significations d’efficacité rituelle, récupérées
ultérieurement en tant que symboliques, dans la continuité des
significations symboliques attribuées aux autres gestes rituels actualisés
dans le contexte communicationnel de la liturgie eucharistique byzantine.
La signification d’efficacité rituelle du geste de toucher les vêtements
du prêtre est l’attraction de certains dons positifs, ou bien, une guérison
morale ou physique. Les fidèles touchent et embrassent la chasuble ou
l’épitrachilion du prêtre, avec leur main droite ou avec leur front, lors des
processions de la petite et surtout de la grande entrée, ou lorsque le prêtre
passe parmi eux pour encenser l’église (avant la lecture de l’évangile, et
pendant le chant du Chérubikon). Cette séquence gestuelle connaît un
développement maximal pendant le moment liturgique de la grande entrée,
lorsque le prêtre reste plus longtemps au milieu des fidèles. Dans ce cas,
elle se compose des figures gestuelles suivantes : /(position agenouillée
du corps)/ + /(on embrasse le bas de l’épitrachilion)/ + /(on touche le front
avec le bas de l’épitrachilion)/ + /(on touche les yeux avec le bas de
l’épitrachilion)/ + /(on embrasse un pan de la chasuble)/ + /(on touche le
front avec le pan de la chasuble)/ + /(on touche les yeux avec le pan de la
chasuble)/ + [ dans certains cas] /(on embrasse le sticharion)/ + /(on touche
le front avec le sticharion)/ + /(on embrasse le bas de la soutane)/. La
signification symbolique, investie par l’intermédiaire d’une analogie (de
type symbolique) entre le prêtre et le Christ, est l’humilité extrême
manifestée par rapport à la personne qui porte le vêtement en question
(vêtement qui fait partie de l’image de son corps), le geste étant mentionné
par l’évangile selon saint Matthieu (9, 20) : «Et voici qu’une femme atteinte
d’une perte de sang depuis douze ans s’approcha par derrière, et toucha
le bord de son vêtement. Car elle disait en elle-même : si je puis seulement
toucher son vêtement, je serai guérie».
Pratiquement, la même signification d’efficacité rituelle : guérison,
rémission des péchés, est investie dans le cas de la séquence gestuelle
exécutée par les fidèles lors de la grande entrée, en s’allongeant par terre
(entre la porte de gauche de l’iconostase et les portes royales), pour que le
prêtre officiant les enjambe avec les saints dons. Pareils aux malades des
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évangiles qui s’approchaient en toute humilité du Christ, en espérant être
guéris, les fidèles-participants au rituel liturgique s’abandonnent, dans
une position très humble, à la volonté divine et au pouvoir thaumaturge
du Christ, qui, conformément à l’interprétation allégorique de la grande
entrée, se dirige à ce moment liturgique, vers Jérusalem.
En ce qui concerne le geste du prêtre, actualisé au même moment du
scénario liturgique (la procession de la grande entrée), de toucher les
têtes des fidèles (agenouillés ou non), avec le calice qu’il porte dans sa
main droite, la signification d’efficacité rituelle est celle de sanctification
des bénéficiaires de cette manifestation gestuelle. Nous pensons que la
motivation de ce geste est la volonté du prêtre de faire partager à ses
fidèles la nature sanctificatrice du «saint calice» (soutenue par sa fonction
rituelle, de contenir et de conserver les saints dons), tout en les impliquant,
de cette façon participante, à la célébration du rituel eucharistique. Dans
la plupart des cas, dans les églises où la liturgie eucharistique est officiée
par deux ou plusieurs prêtres, ce geste est accompagné par la séquence
gestuelle de présenter aux fidèles-participants, pour l’embrasser, la croix
qui reste d’habitude, sur l’autel, et dont le prêtre se sert pour bénir
l’assemblée à certains moments du scénario liturgique. Cette croyance
selon laquelle on peut se sanctifier par le contact avec les objets porteurs
de sainteté n’est pas tellement récente. Dans la Vème Catéchèse
mystagogique (22, 1-6), saint Cyrille de Jérusalem enseignait aux chrétiens
qui recevaient la communion, «tandis que leurs lèvres étaient encore
humides, de les effleurer de leurs mains, et de sanctifier après, leurs yeux,
leur front et leurs autres sens». Dans ses réflexions sur le Sacerdoce, saint
Jean Chrysostome leur donnait le même conseil (III, 4,30).
Le prêtre touche le front des fidèles qui se tiennent debout pour
l’actualisation de ce geste, ou la tête de ceux qui s’agenouillent pendant
ce moment liturgique. Les fidèles ne sont que les bénéficiaires de ce geste ;
il leur est interdit d’embrasser le calice ou de le toucher avec la main.
Le geste des fidèles-participants au rituel liturgique, de s’agenouiller
très près du support-chevalet qui soutient l’évangéliaire pendant la lecture
de l’évangile (support utilisé seulement dans les églises où la liturgie n’est
pas célébrée avec des diacres, qui lisent l’évangile sur l’ambon, dans la
nef) est engendré par la signification attribuée à l’évangéliaire, l’objet
liturgique qui définit cette manifestation gestuelle. «Le sens d’un objet
rituel, écrit Pierre Cordoba, est à distinguer de sa fonction ; celle-ci
appartient au domaine de la conscience claire, celui-là relève de l’impensé
culturel qui est l’objet propre de la recherche anthropologique» (1990,
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p. 139-140). La fonction rituelle de l’évangéliaire est celle de contenir le
verbe divin, c’est-à-dire, un aspect révélé de la divinité. En tant que
contenant, il est donc, imprégné de la sainteté de son contenu, et c’est
pour cette raison que cet objet rituel est considéré comme sanctificateur
et comme porteur de vertus de guérison. Les fidèles s’agenouillent le plus
près possible du chevalet qui soutient l’évangéliaire, pour bénéficier, par
contagion, de la sainteté de l’objet liturgique posé par le prêtre sur ce
support. La qualité sanctificatrice de l’évangéliaire se transmet, par
contagion, à son support, et, après, toujours par contagion, aux fidèles
qui touchent le chevalet avec leur tête ou avec leur front. L’investissement
de la signification d’efficacité rituelle de cette position gestuelle (guérison
et sanctification) est réalisé par l’intermédiaire d’une analogie avec les
guérisons faites par le Christ, avec la parole, pendant son existence
historique. Et l’interprétation allégorique de la séquence liturgique de la
lecture de l’évangile (le moment d’actualisation de ce geste) est, justement,
l’annonce, la propagation, de l’enseignement du Christ, de son vivant,
qui a toujours été accompagnée par la guérison des malades qu’Il
rencontrait à cette occasion.
Quant à la séquence gestuelle de s’approcher du sanctuaire (en faisant
un ou deux pas vers l’iconostase), lorsque le prêtre invite, en fait, les
fidèles-participants à l’actualisation du geste de communier (en prononçant
les mots : «Approchez, avec crainte de Dieu, foi et amour»), nous pouvons
affirmer qu’elle représente une sorte de geste compensatoire, apparu
lorsque la communion a commencé à devenir de plus en plus rare (étant
conditionnée par des prescriptions restrictives : confession obligatoire et
jeûne). De nos jours, ce geste est repris, par imitation mécanique, par
plusieurs fidèles-participants à la liturgie, dont la plupart ignorent, le plus
souvent, la motivation initiale de son «invention».
Comme nous l’avons déjà vu, l’actualisation de certains gestes
liturgiques suppose l’intervention de quelques objets rituels. Essayons donc,
d’étudier, par la suite, leurs significations symboliques, leur rôle sémiotique,
les moments de leur intervention, les gestes liturgiques engendrés et les
croyances roumaines rattachées à ces objets.
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3. Les objets rituels impliqués dans le déroulement de la
liturgie byzantine et leur importance sémiotique
Les objets rituels utilisés par le prêtre officiant pendant la célébration
de la liturgie eucharistique, et montrés à l’assemblée des fidèles, sont la
croix, l’évangéliaire, le calice + la cuillère, et la patène ou le diskos. Ils
constituent des phanies, des représentations du sacré, qui engendrent une
grande partie des manifestations gestuelles des fidèles- participants au
rituel liturgique, tout en définissant certains gestes du prêtre. D’ailleurs,
dans ce dernier cas, ils représentent des prolongements du bras droit (ou
des bras) de celui-ci.
3.1. La croix
La croix représente le signe «du Fils de l’Homme», le signe de la victoire
des chrétiens contre la mort, et contre les péchés. En tant qu’objet rituel,
elle est utilisée par le prêtre officiant surtout pour l’actualisation de l’une
des formes du geste liturgique de la bénédiction. Dans ce cas, elle
représente un prolongement du bras droit du prêtre, qui bénit les fidèles,
en faisant sur eux le signe de la croix, l’objet représentant une sorte
d’authentification de la bénédiction. Nous avons déjà vu quel était le
moment liturgique d’actualisation de la bénédiction avec la croix (après
la récitation du Credo). Les réactions gestuelles engendrées par ce geste
sont la position inclinée de la tête et le signe de la croix (en ce qui concerne
les fidèles- participants au rituel liturgique) et, pour ce qui est du prêtre
qui l’exécute, le fait d’embrasser la croix, à la fin de cette bénédiction.
La croix est également montrée à l’assemblée pendant la procession
de la grande entrée, et proposée pour être embrassée aux
fidèles-participants, spécialement disposés dans l’espace intérieur de
l’église (de la porte de gauche de l’iconostase, devant les portes royales et
après, en laissant un petit couloir au milieu de la nef, jusqu’à la porte
d’entrée). Dans ce cas, elle participe à la définition sémiotique du geste
simple d’embrasser la croix, actualisé par les fidèles en même temps que
la séquence gestuelle (exécutée par le prêtre) de toucher leurs têtes,
pendant le même moment du scénario liturgique.
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3.2. L’évangéliaire
L’évangéliaire représente le livre de la nouvelle Alliance, de la nouvelle
loi du Christ, le livre qui renferme le Verbe divin. C’est pour cela qu’il est
relié en or ou en argent doré, avec des pierres précieuses. En tant qu’objet
rituel, l’évangéliaire est montré au peuple, pendant la célébration de la
liturgie eucharistique byzantine, lors de la procession de la petite entrée :
le prêtre sort par la porte de gauche du sanctuaire, en tenant l’évangéliaire
dans ses mains, précédé par le sacristain, un cierge allumé dans sa main,
et entre (après avoir béni le sanctuaire) par les portes royales de
l’iconostase. A l’origine, cette séquence liturgique avait une fonction
purement «pratique», celle d’entrée proprement-dite dans le temple (sens
premier de la petite entrée), puis celle de «procession du clergé à sa place
pour célébrer la liturgie de la Parole» (Schmémann 1985, p. 68).
Le rôle sémiotique de l’évangéliaire est celui de définir le geste simple
d’embrasser cet objet liturgique. Actualisé par les fidèles à la fin du moment
de la lecture de l’évangile, ce geste simple détermine tout un changement
de la disposition des actants liturgiques dans l’espace intérieur de l’église.
Debout, au seuil du sanctuaire (entre les portes royales), tenant
l’évangéliaire dans ses mains, le prêtre le présente aux fidèles-participants
à la liturgie, qui quittent leurs places, se déplacent vers l’iconostase et
passent devant celle-ci pour embrasser l’évangéliaire. Ensuite, ils
continuent leur déplacement, en passant devant l’icône de la Vierge (de
l’iconostase), et regagnent leurs places.
Nous avons déjà vu que l’évangéliaire engendrait également le geste
des fidèles de s’agenouiller très près du chevalet-support sur lequel il est
mis lors de la lecture de l’évangile. Un autre geste liturgique à
l’actualisation duquel il participe est la bénédiction avec l’évangéliaire,
réalisée par le prêtre à la fin de la lecture de l’évangile, en tenant
l’évangéliaire dans ses mains et en faisant avec lui, le signe de la croix
(selon le trajet sémiotique de toute bénédiction : de haut en bas et de
gauche à droite) sur l’assemblée. Les réactions gestuelles des
fidèles-participants au rituel liturgique, à la vue de l’évangéliaire, pendant
la procession de la petite entrée, tout comme lors de la lecture de l’évangile
ou de la bénédiction avec cet objet de culte, sont la position agenouillée
du corps, la position inclinée de la tête, le geste de se signer et la
prosternation.
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3.3. Le calice (+ la cuillère)
Le calice est l’un des objets liturgiques les plus anciens, dont l’utilisation
remonte aux origines de la célébration eucharistique. Sa fonction est celle
de garder le vin eucharistique et le Saint Sacrement pendant la liturgie.
Fait aux débuts du christianisme de matériaux très simples (bois ou verre),
il a commencé à être réalisé après (à partir du IVe siècle), de plus en plus
souvent et presque exclusivement, de matériaux précieux, or, ou argent
doré. Il est gardé également dans le sanctuaire, et montré à l’assemblée
des fidèles pendant la procession de la grande entrée, pendant la
communion, et après la communion, lors de quelques bénédictions
réalisées avec cet objet de culte, dont nous avons déjà parlé.
La vue du Saint Sacrement a engendré depuis toujours, chez les fidèles,
des réactions gestuelles de vénération, tout comme le désir du contact
direct, par l’intermédiaire du toucher, avec l’objet de culte qui le
renfermait. Si le monde orthodoxe ne connaît pas «le désir de voir l’hostie»
(Dumoutet 1926), par contre, la vue du calice (en dehors du sanctuaire,
bien évidemment, et surtout pendant la grande entrée) engendre toujours
des manifestations gestuelles de vénération et d’humilité : l’agenouillement,
la position inclinée de la tête et la prosternation, (dans certains cas, la
grande métanie), tout comme le désir de l’embrasser (geste actualisé dans
certaines églises orthodoxes roumaines de paroisse, pendant les
bénédictions données avec le calice après le moment liturgique de la
communion).
Le calice est également montré au peuple lors de l’invitation prononcée
par le prêtre à l’actualisation du geste de la communion. Le tenant dans
ses mains, le prêtre s’avance un peu en dehors du sanctuaire, devant les
portes royales, en exhortant les fidèles à s’approcher pour communier :
«Approchez avec crainte de Dieu, amour et foi». Les réactions gestuelles
de ces derniers sont le geste simple de communier, la séquence gestuelle
de s’approcher effectivement, en faisant quelques pas dans la direction
du sanctuaire, ou le signe de la croix combiné avec la prosternation.
Accompagné de la cuillère, le calice réalise la définition sémiotique
de la séquence gestuelle, actualisée par le prêtre-officiant, de donner la
communion aux fidèles. En citant un fragment de l’explication donnée
par saint Ephrème le Syrien au sixième chapitre du livre d’Esaïe,
Mitrofanovici affirme que la petite cuillère utilisée pour la communion
représente la pincette avec laquelle l’un des séraphins avait touché les
lèvres du prophète, après avoir pris une pierre ardente sur l’autel, en le
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purifiant, de cette façon, de ses péchés : «Il en toucha ma bouche et dit :
Ceci a touché tes lèvres ; ton iniquité est enlevée, et ton péché est expié»
(Esaïe 6,7) (Mitrofanovici 1929, p. 250). Par conséquent, la signification
du geste de communier serait engendrée non seulement par la signification
du Saint Sacrement, conservé dans le calice, mais aussi par la signification
symbolique de la cuillère.
3.4. La patène
La patène, ou le diskos, est toujours montrée au peuple avec le calice,
à deux moments liturgiques très précis : pendant la procession de la grande
entrée, et en accompagnant une bénédiction verbale, prononcée par le
prêtre officiant, après la communion: «En tout temps, maintenant et toujours
et dans les siècles des siècles». La signification symbolique de type
allégorique de la patène (vase liturgique de forme ronde et plate) est celle
de crèche, de lieu de la Nativité du Christ (Mitrofanovici 1929, p. 246).
Sa fonction liturgique est de garder les parcelles de prosphores, découpées
pendant la proscomidie, qui serviront à l’offrande eucharistique.
Pendant la procession de la grande entrée, la patène est portée par le
prêtre (qui garde le calice dans sa main droite) dans la main gauche, à
l’exception des cathédrales épiscopales et métropolitaines, où elle est
portée par un autre prêtre co-célébrant. Elle ne participe pas à
l’actualisation du geste du prêtre de toucher les têtes des fidèles avec le
calice, ni à la définition sémiotique d’un geste d’embrasser la patène. Le
seul geste qu’elle définit sémiotiquement, mais avec le calice, est la
bénédiction réalisée par le prêtre avec ces deux objets de culte, au moment
liturgique déjà mentionné.
Ces objets rituels sont présents également dans certaines croyances
roumaines, qui valorisent, en général, des significations d’efficacité rituelle:
«Si quelqu’un a mal à la tête, on croit que c’est bien de s’agenouiller sous
l’évangéliaire, et il sera guéri» (Gorovei 1925, p. 52); «On croit que pour
échapper à une douleur de la tête, c’est bien de regarder dans le saint
calice» (ibidem).
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4. L’appropriation de l’espace ecclésiastique et l’actualisation
des gestes liturgiques
4.1. Un espace sacré: l’église
L’espace intérieur de l’église byzantine est un espace bien défini et
individualisé. C’est un espace sacré, découpé dans l’ensemble amorphe
de l’espace profane, un «vase» qui reçoit, après un rituel de consécration,
le transcendant qui descend, pour s’y révéler (Blaga 1994). Définie par
saint Siméon, l’archevêque de Thessalonique, en tant que maison de Dieu
(1865, p. 120), l’église byzantine se compose de trois grandes parties,
parce que «Dieu est Trinité»: le vestibule, la nef et le sanctuaire. Chacune
de ces parties est occupée par les actants liturgiques selon une logique
traditionnelle: le sanctuaire est réservé aux prêtres et au clergé en général
(le canon 69 du concile in Trullo interdit aux laïcs l’entrée du sanctuaire:
Paprocki 1993, p. 195), la nef est occupée par les fidèles, et le vestibule
est réservé aux pénitents et aux femmes impures. En ce qui concerne la
distribution des fidèles dans la nef, les femmes doivent se tenir à part, à
l’écart des hommes (Les Constitutions Apostoliques le mentionnent déjà),
d’habitude dans la partie gauche, la partie droite étant occupée par les
hommes; les moniales, les moines et les enfants se tiennent toujours dans
la nef, devant tout le monde.
Les fidèles participent donc à l’interaction liturgique orientés vers le
sanctuaire, à l’intérieur duquel le prêtre célèbre l’eucharistie, et qui est
séparé de la nef, dans l’église byzantine, par la paroi de l’iconostase
recouverte d’icônes. Ils se trouveront donc toujours devant les icônes de
l’iconostase et devant le prêtre qui leur permet, à certains moments
liturgiques, l’accès visuel dans le sanctuaire (par exemple, conformément
à la décision du synode des Cent Chapitres, le prêtre doit fermer les portes
royales après la grande entrée: Paprocki 1993, p. 290). Cette disposition
spatiale oriente la plupart des manifestations proxémiques des actants
liturgiques: le prêtre s’avance vers le peuple, en sortant du sanctuaire, et
les fidèles s’approchent de l’iconostase (le seuil du sanctuaire), pour
actualiser toute une série de gestes ou de séquences gestuelles: le fait de
porter son offrande au sanctuaire, l’agenouillement sous l’évangéliaire
lors de la lecture de l’Evangile, le geste d’embrasser les icônes de
l’iconostase, l’agenouillement et les mains jointes pour la prière devant
ses icônes, le déplacement vers l’iconostase pour communier, la séquence
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gestuelle de faire quelques pas dans la direction du sanctuaire lors de
l’invitation du prêtre d’approcher pour la communion.
En même temps, le geste exécuté définit son propre espace, découpé
par les mouvements du corps à l’intérieur de l’espace personnel de chaque
actant liturgique. Cette délimitation est faite en fonction de quelques
aspects anthropologiques, tels le bilatéralisme du corps humain dont parle
Jousse (Jousse 1974), qui définit la gauche et la droite, et la verticalité de
celui- ci. Cet espace peut être modifié selon les distances établies entre
les actants liturgiques pendant le rituel; on remarque, par exemple,
l’impossibilité de se signer, ou de s’agenouiller, à cause de l’entassement
des fidèles, dans des églises trop pleines.
4.2. La relation espace - geste liturgique
La disposition des actants liturgiques dans l’espace intérieur de l’église
engendre, dans le cas des fidèles-participants à la liturgie eucharistique,
une série de gestes et de postures congruentes par rapport à ceux du
prêtre (l’agenouillement ou le signe de la croix), tout en leur imposant un
certain rythme et une certaine fréquence d’exécution. Le premier augmente
à mesure que l’on s’éloigne du sanctuaire, tandis que la deuxième diminue
à mesure que l’on s’éloigne de l’iconostase et que l’on approche de la
sortie.
Les manifestations gestuelles et proxémiques actualisées par les fidèles
pendant la célébration du rituel liturgique sont orientées également par la
modification des distances que le prêtre établit par rapport à eux, en
général, lorsqu’il sort du sanctuaire. Ainsi, la procession de la petite entrée
détermine-t- elle l’actualisation de l’agenouillement et du geste de se signer;
celle de la grande entrée, le déplacement vers le prêtre pour qu’il leur
touche la tête avec le calice et l’agenouillement; l’encensement de l’église
a comme réactions gestuelles chez les fidèles le geste de se signer, la
position inclinée de la tête, et de se rapprocher du prêtre pour toucher sa
chasuble ou l’épitrachilion; l’apparition du célébrant entre les portes
royales (en général, pour bénir l’assemblée) détermine l’agenouillement
des fidèles, leur geste de se signer ou leur prosternation.
L’actualisation de certains gestes liturgiques est condition- née par
une disposition bien précise des actants qui les exécutent, dans l’espace
intérieur de l’église. Ainsi, le prêtre exécute la plupart des gestes qui
relèvent de sa qualité de célébrant de la liturgie, seulement dans le
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sanctuaire; il s’agit, par exemple, de la séquence gestuelle de découper
les parcelles de prosphore, de celle de remuer le grand vélon au-dessus
des saints dons pendant la récitation du Credo, tout comme des gestes
simples d’élever les mains pour la prière et du baiser de la paix. La
bénédiction et la séquence gestuelle de donner la communion aux fidèles
ne sont actualisées qu’au seuil du sanctuaire, entre les portes royales.
Enfin, dans la nef, le prêtre actualise le geste de l’encensement de l’église
et les séquences gestuelles de toucher les têtes des fidèles avec le calice,
pendant la grande entrée, et celle de distribuer aux fidèles, à la fin de la
liturgie eucharistique, les fragments des prosphores d’où il a extrait les
parcelles consacrées: l’antidoron.
Il en est de même des manifestations gestuelles des fidèles-participants
au rituel liturgique. Le signe de la croix, l’agenouillement, la prosternation
et le geste de joindre les mains pour la prière sont exécutés à n’importe
quel endroit de la nef et du narthex. L’actualisation des gestes simples de
la communion et de celui d’embrasser l’évangéliaire, tout comme de
l’agenouillement sous l’évangéliaire pendant la lecture de l’Evangile, se
fait uniquement devant les portes royales de l’iconostase. Quant à la
séquence gestuelle de porter son don au sanctuaire, elle n’est exécutée
que devant la porte de gauche du sanctuaire.
5. La contribution du vêtement à l’actualisation des
significations du gestuel liturgique orthodoxe
5.1. Les vêtements sacerdotaux
Les vêtements sacerdotaux ont un rôle fondamental dans la définition
de la fonction liturgique du prêtre, en réalisant son investissement en tant
que célébrant du mystère eucharistique. Ils font donc partie de l’image du
corps du prêtre officiant, serviteur de l’autel. D’ailleurs, le Rituel contient
plusieurs prières que les célébrants prononcent pendant qu’ils s’habillent
avec ces vêtements. Quant à leurs significations (toujours symboliques),
elles présentent un rapport d’analogie, soit avec la forme, soit avec la
fonction du «référent».
Le sticharion, la longue robe blanche que le prêtre met par-dessus la
soutane, représente le linceul du Christ, et la pureté de celui qui le porte
(Siméon de Thessalonique, 1865). L’épitrachilion, l’étole qui entoure le
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cou du prêtre, dont les deux parties sont cousues sur le devant, symbolise
la grâce du Saint Esprit qui descend sur celui qui accomplit le sacrifice
eucharistique, représentant le joug doux de Jésus et la ficelle avec laquelle
il a été attaché à la croix. La chasuble ou le phélonion est le vêtement
liturgique de dessus, qui dérive de la pèlerine romaine (Paprocki 1993,
p. 176). Selon le même Siméon de Thessalonique, elle symbolise le
manteau écarlate dont les soldats du gouverneur avaient couvert Jésus
avant la crucifixion, ou, selon A. Schmémann, la gloire de l’Eglise comme
créature nouvelle (Schmémann 1985). La ceinture est un signe
d’obéissance, de disponibilité, de sobriété et de service (Schmémann 1985,
p. 17). Enfin, les surmanches, devenues vêtements liturgiques des prêtres
au XIIe ou au XIIIe siècle, «symbolisent que les mains de ceux-ci [...] ne
sont plus à eux, mais bien au Christ» (Paprocki 1993, p. 170).
Par rapport à d’autres offices, pour la célébration desquels, le prêtre
peut porter seulement l’épitrachilion et la chasuble, son habillement
complet, avec tous ces vêtements, est obligatoire pour l’accomplissement
du mystère eucharistique. Pratiquement, un geste liturgique que le prêtre
doit exécuter en sa qualité de serviteur de l’autel ne peut être actualisé
qu’après qu’il se soit vêtu complètement comme célébrant liturgique. Il
en est de même des séquences gestuelles qu’il doit exécuter dans son
hypostase de symbole du Christ.
5.2. Les habits des fidèles
L’habillement liturgique du prêtre est orienté, tout comme l’habillement
des fidèles participants à la liturgie, vers deux catégories de récepteurs: la
Divinité et les hommes. Si «aux yeux» de la Divinité, les vêtements
sacerdotaux confèrent au prêtre une identité nouvelle, choisie pour la
célébration du mystère eucharistique, aux yeux des hommes, ils
représentent des objets sacrés, sanctifiés et gardés dans le sanctuaire, qu’ils
touchent et qu’ils embrassent avec vénération, lorsqu’ils ont l’occasion
de le faire (quand le prêtre se trouve à leur proximité). Quant à leur propre
habillement, pour leur rencontre avec Dieu, les fidèles participants à la
liturgie portent des vêtements corrects, convenables. Proposé aux autres
hommes qui participent au rituel liturgique, leur habillement est un
habillement de fête, qui comporte, en général, leurs dernières acquisitions
vestimentaires.
Un habillement correct signifie une manière de s’habiller décente, qui
ne détourne pas l’attention ou les regards des autres, des choses essentielles
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de la liturgie, vers une élégance extravagante (condamnée entre autres,
par Tertullien dans La toilette des femmes), ou la dénudation de certaines
parties du corps, qui, conformément à un code traditionnel (plus ou moins
écrit), doivent être couvertes: la tête, les épaules et les jambes. Les plus
fondamentalistes interdisent même l’usage du pantalon (du moins à l’église)
chez les femmes. En fait, on rejette une image trop moderne de la femme,
habillée de pantalon, considérée comme signe d’un mélange des sexes,
en voulant garder à tout prix une image traditionnelle de celle-ci, qui
n’est pas du tout étrangère à celle des femmes du temps de Jésus: elle doit
avoir la tête couverte (Les Constitutions apostoliques mentionnent déjà
cette prescription), porter une longue jupe, et une blouse décente (qui lui
couvre les épaules, et qui ne soit pas trop décolletée). Tout écart défini
par rapport à cette norme vestimentaire détermine une certaine disposition
des fidèles dans l’espace intérieur de l’église (ceux qui ne sont pas habillés
d’une manière correcte se tiennent plus près de la sortie, dans le vestibule),
tout comme l’interdiction d’actualisation des gestes qui supposent le
rapprochement du sanctuaire, de l’élément sacré et du regard divin: la
séquence gestuelle de porter son don au sanctuaire, ou la communion.
Les habits du fidèle-participant à la liturgie font partie de l’image de son
corps. Ils contribuent donc, en même temps que celui-ci à l’actualisation
de ses gestes liturgiques. Si les vêtements sacerdotaux confèrent au prêtre
officiant une nouvelle identité, et leurs significations déterminent
l’actualisation des significations de ses gestes liturgiques, les habits des fidèles
doivent conférer à ceux-ci une identité la plus proche possible du religieux.
Les significations des gestes liturgiques qu’ils exécutent sont actualisées au
moment de l’exécution de ces gestes, leurs habits devenant (dans le cas
idéal) des sortes d’habits incarnés, qui font partie de leur corps, devenu,
pendant la liturgie le Corps de l’Homme, qui se rachète par la prière et se
transfigure par la communion avec le Christ.
6. En guise de conclusion
Dans une perspective théologique, les manifestations gestuelles des
fidèles-participants à la liturgie eucharistique pourraient être classées et
définies en fonction de deux manières différentes de concevoir et de vivre
le christianisme: l’orthodoxie et l’orthopraxie. Si l’orthodoxie représente
la vérité doctrinale, exprimée au niveau de la pratique gestuelle liturgique
par un état de connaissance, qui engendre une participation consciente,
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en toute foi, à la prière liturgique, l’orthopraxie est constituée par tous les
écarts définis et enregistrés par rapport à un modèle juridique, par une
pratique gestuelle désordonnée et multipliée du point de vue de la
fréquence, engendrée souvent par une connaissance insuffisante des
significations des gestes exécutés.
Pour le chercheur sémiologue, le gestuel liturgique byzantin constitue
un objet de recherche extrêmement riche et varié, dont la complexité
relève de la manière dont les deux grandes catégories d’actants liturgiques
envisagent leur participation communicationnelle à l’interaction liturgique.
Références bibliographiques
1. Austin, J. L., 1970, Quand dire, c’est faire, Paris, Seuil;
2. Barthes, R., 1967, Système de la mode, Paris, Seuil;
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23. Eco, U., 1972, La structure absente, Paris, Mercure de France;
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communication non verbale, Delachaux & Niestlé, Neuchâtel, Paris;
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Paris, Seuil;
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Langages, 10;
37. Ionescu-Amza, I., 1982, Sfînta liturghie pe înþelesul tuturor, Bucureºti;
38. Jaubert, A., 1990, La lecture pragmatique, Hachette;
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Klincksieck;
43. Larousse, 1977, Librairie Larousse;
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du corps, Meridiens Klincksieck;
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Casterman Tournai Paris, Editions de Maredsous, Belgique;
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50. Mãndiþã, N., 1994, Dumnezeeasca liturghie cu însemnãtatea ei, Editura
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Cernãuþi;
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Paris, Recherches de science religieuse;
53. Paprocki, H., 1993, Le mystère de l’Eucharistie, Genèse et interprétation de
la liturgie eucharistique byzantine, traduit du polonais par F. Lhoest, préface
par I.-H. Dalmais, Cerf, Paris;
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Paris;
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fonction symbolique, Essais d’anthropologie réunis par M. Izard et P. Smith,
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et Y. Winkin.
189
IOAN ICÃ, JR.
Born in 1960, in Sibiu
Ph.D., Orthodox Theological Faculty of Cluj-Napoca, 1998
Dissertation: Mystagogia Trinitatis. The Trinitarian Theology of St. Maximus the
Confessor
Associate Professor in Philosophy of Religion at the Orthodox Theological
Faculty of Sibiu
Associate Professor in Philosophy of Religion at the Orthodox Theological
Faculty of Cluj-Napoca
Visiting Professor at the Lateranense Pontifical University, Rome, 2000-2001
Editor and General Director of the Deisis Publishing House, 1994-present
Deacon of the Romanian Orthodox Church, ordained 1988
Member of the International Association for Patristic Studies, 1995-present
Representative of the Romanian Orthodox Church in the International
Commission for Theological Dialogue between the Orthodox Churches and
the Roman Catholic Church, 1997-present
Research scholarship of the Evangelische Kirche Deutschlands (EKD) at the
Friedrich-Alexander University, Erlangen-Nürenberg, 1990–1991
Research fellowship at the Pontifical Oriental Institute, Centro Aletti, Rome, 1998
Books:
Mystagogia Trinitatis. Sibiu: Deisis Publishing House, 1998
Numerous articles, studies, and papers published in Romania and abroad.
Editor and translator.
POLITICAL EUROPE, SPIRITUAL EUROPE
The following pages are meant to be a meditation on the relationship
between the political and the spiritual (culture, religion) dimensions in
Western and Eastern Europe, starting from the new historical circumstances
created in this century by the prospects of European unification (in the
West) and European integration (in the East).
European unification is undoubtedly the most important phenomenon
witnessed in the second half of our century and it will most likely dominate
the beginning of the following century as well. It’s a design which has
been dreamt of for centuries by a Europeans divided on national and
denominational grounds, inheritance of 28 centuries1 of “European”
thought and “conscience” (a “European idea”). European unification has
asserted itself as the political, economic and military co-ordinate of our
continent for the 21st century. European thought and the creation of this
design were strongly stimulated by the major historical crises which have
constantly endangered the existence of Europe, be it in the form of external
aggressions - the almost constant attacks of Islam lasting from the 7th to
the 17th century, or the communist aggression - “the Islam of the 20th
century” (J. Monnerot) - or of an endless civil strife between the European
nations themselves. The culminating point of this conflictual paradigm
was reached in this century - a “century of extremes”2, indeed - in the
form of the great “European Civil War”3 of 1914-1915. The “hot” version
of the two World Wars was doubled by a “Cold War” between opposed
principles and alliances. It ended only in 1989-1991 with the East European
revolutions and the collapse of the USSR. During all this period, the
destructive spectrums of totalitarian utopias and ideologies based on race
hatred (Nazism) or on class hatred (communism) hung over Europe, as
both were seeking to impose their continental and world hegemony.
Radically denying the traditional sources of European identity (Greek
rationalism, Roman law and Biblical morals) in their Christian synthesis
as seen by a modern liberal civilisation based on capitalism, democracy,
separation between the fields of social existence and the sets of values
(religious, political, economic, aesthetic etc.), communism and Nazism
193
came to be authentic totalitarian “political religions”4. Unjustly combining
politics and theology in a sui generis mixture of secularised religion and
consecrated politics, they basically resulted in some “pervert imitations”
of Judaism (Nazism) and, respectively, Christianity (communism)5. Bringing
together, through the myth of the revolution, the cult of the particular and
the mysticism of the universal, nationalism and imperialism, the totalitarian
ideologies competed one another into creating a “new Europe”,
post-liberal, post-democratic and post-Christian. They aimed at creating
a “new man” and a “new society” by means of a violent attempt to level
all categories of natural existence. According to a secularised “Gnostic”
scenario6 inherited from romanticism, all natural realities were to be melt
into the phoney “supra-reality” of a perverted eschatology, guided by the
totalitarian ideology which provided for the confiscation of the entire
society by an all-powerful state, worshipped and with an imperialist call.
The disappearance of the old Europe which begun in the year 1871
with a mounting of antagonism, nationalism and imperialism - on the
background of the domination of a late capitalism and of the devastating
recrudescence of totalitarian ideologies in our century - was doubled by a
deep crisis of the classical European values (Ortega, Spengler, Toynbee,
Husserl). Reason, science, liberalism, democracy, Christian morals, all
seemed to shift towards a legitimisation of force and of social levelling.
Technology, economy, politics, all came to question the spiritual values
of Europe. Original thought and spiritual freedom seemed to irreversibly
succumb to their utilitarian manipulation, the accumulation of wealth
and knowledge; the stir in the mass-media, the economic, technical and
political mobilisations of the masses were announcing a deep “crisis of
the spirit” (Valery)7 and an irreversible “forgetfulness” of the ultimate being.
“The calculating thought” of technology and the mass mobilisations of
the totalitarian systems were thus irreversibly blocking the access of man
to the real “meditative thought” of poets, the gentle and careful voicing of
which is the only refuge of the real being in front of technological
aggression, political conspiracy and expansion of globalising economies
(Heidegger)8. Western Europe seemed to find its last shelter in the spirit of
its poets and of some philosophers, yielding in front of ideological violence,
techno-scientific invasion and military and political mobilisations which
were announcing an imminent finis Europae.
In the meantime, “the other Europe”, Central and Eastern Europe, was
concentrating its efforts towards a forced modernisation (capitalism,
democracy, liberalism) and a political consolidation of the young national
194
IOAN ICÃ, JR.
states which had emerged after 1918 from the ruins of the previous empires.
This effort was considerably undermined by the tensions existing between
this policy of modernisation and national consolidation and the archaic
background of the traditional folk civilisations defining most of the
East-European populations, on the one hand, and the existence of strong
minorities within the new national or federal states, on the other. The
obsession of national homogenisation and of revisionism, the economic
and political crises that occurred, made these states easily turn towards
authoritarianism, while their unfavourable geopolitical location between
great empires with expansionist tendencies made them extremely
vulnerable to aggression and annexation. Trapped between the imperial
ambitions of Germany and Soviet Russia, in 1945 Central and Eastern
Europe fell under a Soviet domination which was to last for almost half a
century. Communist ideology, economy and politics were to isolate it
from Western Europe for five decades. Utopian social engineering and
the collectivist, totalitarian system were to result here in tremendous
economic failure and moral disaster. During all this time of internal
occupation, the resistance to the anti-European aggression of the
communist “humane barbarism” was concentrated into spirituality and
culture. Faced with poverty, moral humiliation and ideological oppression,
Central and Eastern Europe would, in its turn, seek shelter in the spirit of
some poets, writers and philosophers who refused to accept the “captive
thought”.
Thus, the year 1945 meant a turning point in the history of Europe,
marking not only a painful split of the continent into two blocs with opposed
political, social and ideological systems, but also, as a reaction to Soviet
expansionism, the revival in Western Europe of the idea of European
unification. The history of the two Europes and of the European idea were
divided for half a century berfore meeting again in 1989. These two distinct
“histories” (stories) are the object of our essay. Central will be issue of the
relation between the political and the spiritual in the understanding and
the accomplishment of the European idea. At the end of the two stories
we shall attempt to draw a conclusion applying to the present moment.
West Side Story
In the West the idea of European unification took shape and gained
momentum following the demands created by the European resistance to
195
the attempts of Nazi enslavement. Under the pressure of history, the
Europeans were forced to remember their living sources, the European
values and virtues. The end of the Hitlerite nightmare and the real
prospective of Sovietization under the strong pressure of communist parties,
increasingly strong in the West, made the clear-headed politicians of the
time understand the imperative of passing “from cultural unity to political
unity”, from “cultural organism to political organisation”. And, as European
culture had the form of “unity in diversity”, the political unity it inspired
could only be a “federal union”9.
We must not forget that Western Europe’s cure from the schizophrenia
of totalitarian ideologies and its double reconstruction within the states
and as interstate union were largely inspired from the thought and actions
of the great Christian-democrat politicians and theorists (R. Schuman, A.
de Gasperi, K. Adenauer a.o.)10. It is to them that we owe not only the
revival of Christian democracy as a political alternative (“the third way”)
to liberalism and communism and the economic reconstruction along the
lines of social market economy, but also the concrete initiation in the free
West of the European unification along federal lines. These outstanding
Christian-democrat politicians - true “Founding Fathers” of a united Europe
- saw the federalisation of the continent, the integration of European nations
along the spiritual-cultural model of unity in diversity as merely the
application, at a regional as well as at a national and international level,
of the principles of communal personalism11 of Christian extraction (taken
from the social doctrine of the Catholic Church). It’s on this basis they
operated the denazification, defascization and the internal anti-totalitarian
and democratic political reconstruction of post-war Germany and Italy.
At the core of this unique attempt at political reconstruction one could
identify the theoretical and practical redefinition of the relations between
individual, society, state, as well as of those between states. The ambition
of the programme was to avoid, within a new version of democratic
capitalism and social market economy (a Christian-democrat concept,
not a socialist one!), the dangerous extremes of the anarchical ultraliberal
individualism as well as those of the centralising socialist collectivism,
nevertheless preserving the legitimate concern of liberalism for individual
freedom, initiative and creativity and the just as legitimate socialist
commitment to social justice. To the idea of freedom exulted by liberals
and to that of equality worshipped by socialists, the social doctrine of the
Catholic Church and the Christian-democrat one as vision of an “integral
humanism” (Maritain) oppose as an integrating principle of absolute value,
196
IOAN ICÃ, JR.
the ontological dignity of any human being as “image of God” (imago
Dei). But human dignity is what authenticates real freedom and equality.
Therefore, the normative purpose of society is ensuring the dignity of the
human being against the corruption of both liberty and equality: anarchical
libertinage and levelling egalitarianism. But the basic goal of the entire
programme was the reconstruction of the civil society through a limitation
and reform of the modern Jacobite-Napoleonic state. Bureaucratic,
centralist and national state, it was operating as an authentic
Providence-State. Claiming absolute sovereignty outside as well as inside,
it was practising absolutism inside and autarchic or imperialist selfishness
outside. To the modern national Providence-State, the “Founding Fathers”
opposed the model of the subsidiary and federal State.
Taken from the social doctrine of the Catholic Church whose theoretical
axis it is, the principle of subsidiarity12 was included in the constitutions
of the post-war Western federal states, as well as in article 3b of the
Maastricht Treaty. Subsidiarity expresses a certain outlook on authority,
reflecting the pre-eminence of society over state: between individual and
state we have the multitude of autonomous intermediate groups, with the
various elements which make up the social entity. The political authority,
serving the needs of this social entity, offers the support (subsidium)
necessary to these groups and acts in those matters mutually considered
as pertaining to the accomplishment of common welfare and social justice.
Thus, the intermediate communities have all the prerogatives normally
belonging to states with the exception of the competencies freely granted
to the central authority. The principle of subsidiarity demands that authority
should not interfere with the autonomy of the social groups and at the
same time that it should positively act in matters pertaining to the mutual
agreement of groups and to social justice. Consequently, it allows a
conciliation between a decentralised state and a social policy, “paying
this paradoxical combination with a double abandon: that of socialist
equalitarianism in favour of the value of dignity and, respectively, that of
philosophical individualism in the formation of a structured and federate
society”13. This realistic anti-ideological and antiutopian outlook proceeds
upwards, “from the roots of the grass” (M. ªora), from individual to
community, from community to state, from states to federation.
Consequently, it involves a radical acceptance of pluralism and of the
finitude of human existence, giving thus back to individuals their dignity,
their ontological pre-eminence (as the only existing real substances) as
well as their theological pre-eminence (as different beings, equally created
197
in the image of God, nonetheless). We are not talking about an anarchical
denial of the state existence or of a central authority; these are not
secondary, but second, namely subsidiary, they must be actions of the
state in relation to the individuals, because the accomplishment of common
welfare must pass through individuals and groups. The main problem of
subsidiarity and of federalism is the sharing of competencies: the freedom
of action and the proximity of authority and individuals claiming the
consolidation of autonomy (and stressing the non-interference of the state),
while the need for justice, security and solidarity leads to a shift of
competencies towards the central authority (stressing the interference of
the state). The subsidiary state is a limited and decentralised one which
requires considerable effort and discretion from the part of the authority
as well as maximum initiative from individuals or groups; therefore, it is
an anti-natural state, to the extent in which the natural tendency of authority
is its monopolisation, multiplication and enhancement, while that of
individuals is the search for protection and security, resulting in the
destruction of the unstructured civil society. The subsidiary state protects
the state from abusive groups or individuals and at the same time it protects
the society and its groups from the abuse of the state. It offers a solution to
the dilemma of the Jacobite-Napoleonic democratic regimes, in which
equality is obtained through a forcible atomisation and levelling of society,
resulting in a suffocation of individual initiative, disappearance of
intermediate groups and excessive development of a bureaucratic
absolutist state, the modern Providence-State. The superiority of
Anglo-Saxon evolutionist democracy lies, as Tocqueville himself had
noticed (1840), precisely in the existence of autonomous associations
which leads to an alternate, federal and non-invading state.
Still, subsidiarity and federalism are not tied to a specific form of
government, but to the manner of exercising authority (answering not to
the question which?, but how?). Consequently, examples of subsidiary
and federal theories and practices are also to be found in the Western
Middle Ages, with the juristconsults of the Roman-German Empire (Baldus,
Dante, Ockham, Marsilio of Padua) or with the canonists supporting the
conciliary theory of the Church (Gerson, Cusanus a.o.)14. The imperial
constitution was based on an articulated and pluralist outlook on law,
society and politics. “Christianity” (christianitas) was a federation of local
corporations and associations (cities, republics, lands etc.) based on the
rule of associative consent; each level had its own dignity, independent
and not coming from the upper one. (See the remarkable book of the
198
IOAN ICÃ, JR.
Emden jurist Johannes Althusius, Politica methodice gestita (1603),
authentic manifesto of the subsidiary and federal state, of surprising
actuality15). The sovereignty of the prince or of the emperor was in its turn
subordinated to associative consent and did not absorb that of groups, it
was a global sovereignty based on the Aristotelian theory of spontaneous
political association of people, and not on the stoic, Augustinian and
modern one of trading protection for submission. The unity of this
christianitas was based on the reference to a common law, the Roman
one, and to just one emperor, whose sovereignty was global and not
absolute, with clearly defined competencies. But the model of this
European “Christianity” was undermined by the papal absolutism which
repressed conciliatoriness, and also by the confiscation/secularisation of
this spiritual absolutism by the kings of the modern nations (especially
France) (cf. J. Bodin’s Republica, 1576). Based on this monist and absolute
(not global) idea of sovereignty, they were to claim complete monopoly
over law and political power, as well as the full centralisation of their
exercise. This idea and practice came to define the absolutist national
monarchies and remained unchanged in the democratic republics that
followed, which only transferred the sovereignty of the monarch to the
people. Nevertheless, the model of the national absolutist state was a
derived one, historically conditioned; it appeared in the 16th century, in
a Europe torn by endless religious wars and internal instability for which
the imperatives of ensuring unity and maintaining internal security, as
well as that of a massive military presence abroad were essential. This
model became dated in the 19th - 20th century when, against the
background of an uncontrolled upsurge of nationalism, revolutions and
nationalism, the Providence-State confiscated not only the political
structures, society, but also the religion which it secularised, and the
imperial ideology it nationalised. The effects of these confiscations were
to be seen in the expropriation, or more precisely, in the nationalisation
of the universalist discourse on man as member of a universal community
of judicial nature (romanitas), or of a religious one (christianitas). Each
nation will see itself as the only one expressing the essence of mankind,
the Europe of democratic or authoritarian absolutisms becoming “a
collection of tiny empires” (B. Farago) stirred by bellicose ideologies, as
European unity could now be imagined only through the brutal hegemony
of the strongest nation. It was thus that we came to have the “extremes”
and the historical catastrophes which have characterised our century.
Their common denominator: the absolutism of the Providence-State and
199
the triumphant march of the late capitalism were to result in the
considerable de-personalisation of social existence within the liberal
democratic societies centred on the individual, as well as within the
totalitarian ones promoting socialist collectivism.
The thought of the Founding Fathers of united Europe had the merit of
having pointed out the essential connection between personalism subsidiarity - federalism. The policy of the united Europe can only be the
“policy of the Person”, the policy of responsible freedom and of community
solidarity. Authentic articulus stantis et cadentis Europae, the person is
nevertheless a reality, or rather a theological-political design inextricably
tied to the Christian faith. According to this outlook, Europe was born in
Nicaea in the year 32516 with the first Ecumenical Synod of the Christian
Church, convened as a reaction to the Arian heresy. The latter were
preaching a Unitarian and subordinationist view of the divinity (only the
Father is the real God, the Son and the Holy Spirit are inferior entities, later
created by Him to serve as tools in the creation of the world). This outlook
was to be actively supported for an entire century by the emperors from
Constantinople, as they saw in Arianism an ideological legitimisation of the
absolutist theocratic monarchy they were exercising (there is a God in
heavens who sends a Redeemer to earth, Jesus, who later ascends back to
heaven and leaves the emperor as His vicar). Opposing this political theology,
the Nicaean Synod drew up the orthodox creed, namely the fundamental
dogma on God, revealed in Jesus Christ as Trinity: comm-union of Love in
the relationships of which the ontological con-substantiality of Three divine
Persons is expressed: the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.
So, Jesus Christ is not a creature, a mere prophet. He is at the same
time God and man, one Person in two natures (divinity and mankind),
and His Person as Son reveals God in Him at the same time as One and as
Three. The understanding of the mystery of this revelation as unity in
difference required and still requires a new relational and paradoxical
manner of thinking (and living); it keeps a tension between two opposed
and irreducible, but equally valid terms (their reduction was the distinctive
mark of the heresy as compared to orthodoxy). This manner of thinking opposed not only to the dialectic reduction to a monist identity, but also
to the alternative dualism - has become through Christianism the true
forma mentis of Europe, spreading in the most various fields, leading to a
relational-personal outlook not only on God, but also on man, world and
history. Based on this, Europe could assimilate the most various traditions
and cultural inheritances, becoming an open culture.
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Now the key-notion of European culture and unknown as such in Asia,
the person - distinct from the individual - has (as shown by Denis de
Rougemont) a double genesis: theological and political17. Politically, it
managed to integrate the two opposed acceptations previously given to
man: as “individual” existing in himself and by himself (discovery of ancient
Greece, in fact of the revolution of the “axial” era mentioned by K. Jaspers18)
and as “citizen” existing exclusively through and for the state (ancient
Rome). If the individual is exposed to the temptation of selfishness,
scepticism, profanation and anarchy, the citizen is exposed to the
collectivist-totalitarian one. Bringing - through the virtues of faith, hope
and love - a new “vertical” reference axis, that of the personal
transcendence of the three-and-one God, the person breaks the vicious
“horizontal” circle of the vacillation between individualism and
collectivism. This vertical relation sets the believer free from the terror of
the social and of the arbitrariness of the individual, compelling him to an
infinite responsibility towards his neighbour and to the creation of a new
type of community: the supra-natural, and therefore universal, comm-union
of the Ecclesia (Church) whose model is the Trinitarian Communion.
Through faith and grace, the person goes beyond the arbitrary and selfish
individual and also beyond the citizen unconditionally subservient to the
community. Relational entity, the person means therefore not only the
leap to a paradoxical “logic”, but mainly the adoption of a new, paradoxical
“manner” of existence, at the same time solitary and solidary, personal
and communal, that of the comm-union. The asymptotic aspiration towards
this convergence between the personal and the communal marks the entire
history of Europe, the “dialectics” of which Denis de Rougemont views in
the form of the following structure:
“Sacred TRIBE Magic in the Orient and in the Middle Ages
Profane INDIVIDUAL Reason in the Greek Polis and in the Renaissance
Official cult STATE Civicism in Rome and in the French
Revolution+Napoleon
Scepticism SOCIAL VACUUM Absurd in the Hellenistic Society and
in the 18th century”
Which basically leaves two possibilities:
“EITHER Nationalism - STATE-NATION - Fanaticism - Totalitarian
regressive collectivism
OR Democracy - FEDERATION - Faith - Progressive Community”19.
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This personalist-communal wisdom of Europe representing the
“orthodoxy” of the authentic Europe is undermined by the subversion of
three “heresies” or “idolatries” perverting its inner structure, either the
person or the communion, “turning them into nothingness”; these are the
“worshipped” erotic “passion”, the revolution or the “socialised passion”,
and the “nationalism” or the divine “call” of the “socialised” man20.
Rejecting both the “heretic” perversities of communal personalism as
well as its “gnostic” ideological subversion, Europe has therefore to
reassume not only the theological-philosophical “orthodoxy”, but also
the social-political “orthopraxy”, accomplishing the personal-communal
comm-union in the form of the pluralist institutions of the subsidiary and
federal state. This will be regulated by the old scholastic adage distinguere
per unire or ex pluribus unum.
The problem with the subsidiary and federal state is that it presupposes
(and does not create) the existence of a society articulated into dynamic
groups. Subsidiarity and federalisation proceed upwards and do not identify
with the decentralisation ordered and imposed from the top to the bottom21.
They can be achieved in those societies in which communities prosper
and allow the development of individual freedom and creativity and the
capacity of creative and spontaneous association, as individuals need such
communities for the development of their capabilities. Beyond the mere
natural communities (family, nation, people), the cultural, political and
economic consensus of the free persons leads to the creation of new free
communities: communities of faith (the Church), political (parties, society)
and economic ones (free markets). The creationist perspective of human
diversity and the existence of finitude, of evil and sin, require not only the
separation of powers, but also the division of the systems and institutions
of society, three-one system of plural systems: the political system; the
economic system; and the moral-cultural-religious system as in- and
interdependent systems. The institutionalised operation of these three
systems in the spirit of communal personalism results in freedom within
the community, and this is the “key for Europe”: “through freedom in
community, Europe imitates the life of God”22. But the real freedom in the
community cannot be taken apart from the economic dimension and is
best ensured and turned to account by the system of democratic capitalism.
The right to property and to economic initiative are an inalienable
expression of human dignity and creativity. In spite of the long
anti-capitalist tradition of the Western spiritual and cultural elite,
democratic capitalism is based upon undeniable moral and religious
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resources. The most defining invention of the democratic capitalist system
(says M. Novak) is not the possessive individual or the citizen subservient
to the state, but the free association or the corporation23. Markets have a
centripetal force, they take individuals out of isolation, put them into
stimulating contact with their fellow men, even with those at a great
distance24. Markets are highly social institutions, they presuppose a series
of special virtues, like for instance creativity, trust, openness. The markets
and the trade in goods have always accompanied and enhanced the
exchange of ideas, the market of cultural values. The analogy between
the economy of material needs and that of spiritual values, between the
economic categories and the spiritual ones was identified long ago25. A
free economy is centripetal, and not centrifugal. Economic freedom pushes
individuals to co-operation and association, and not to anarchy26.
Nevertheless, according to the classical theorists of liberal economy,
economic freedom has as a moral pre-requisite, Christian freedom of the
individuals who feel responsible for their deeds in front of God and of
their fellow men. This is a “third” concept of freedom (theorised by
Jefferson, Lord Acton), different not only from the “negative”, liberal one,
but also from the “positive”, socialist, totalitarian one (theorised by Isaiah
Berlin)27. We are talking about the freedom gained through a determination
to do what has to be done, and not what you would like to do. But this
can only be promoted in an indirect manner: positively through education
and rational persuasion, and negatively through a clear cut sharing and
limitation of social authority. All this in order to avoid the risks of dogmatism
and constraint in the education of a guided “positive” freedom, risks which
affected the Christianism and the socialism of the “great inquisitors”, as
well as the indefinite vacuum of “negative” freedom. The cultivation of
responsible freedom in each human soul is “the supreme art of human
reason - the work of practical wisdom”28. The presence or the lack of
equilibrium in the moral-spiritual field are reflected in the sphere of
economy as well as in that of politics.
It is precisely the political nature of the European Union which was
and still is at the core of all ambiguities manifested in the process of
European construction. “The paradox of political Europe”29 has remained
the supreme challenge for the architects and the supporters of European
unification. The entire process of European construction has been taking
place “under the sign of provisionality”30, taking advantage of the two
great fractures in the world order that made it possible, in 1947 and in
1989. The first stage of Western European construction began together
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with the Cold War. The European political federalist impetus was
dampened by the failure of the European Constituency and of the European
Defence Community in 1954. The 1957 Treaty of Rome put an end to
these attempts, resetting European construction in the framework of the
Economic Community initiated in 1950 with the Coal and Steel
Community. Thus, the economically integrated Europe stood at the centre
of European construction until the late 80s. In thirty years, economic
integration resulted in a bizarre accumulation of European technical and
political institutions with supranational characters, approximating what is
supposed to be an executive, two legislative bodies, a court of law, covering
the member nation-states and deprived of authentic democratic legitimacy
and of efficient mechanisms for applying the communal decisions. The
fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, that of communism, German unification
and the prospects of Union enlargement towards the east radically changed
the terms of the matter. The Maastricht Treaty, solid from a monetary
point of view, leaves a lot to be desired from the political one and keeps
postponing the key issue of institutional reform before the planned eastern
expansion. There is a crisis of European institutions accused of lacking in
of transparency, efficiency and democratisation. There are economic
problems related to the decline of industrial competitiveness (Asian
competition) and to the prospects of globalisation. The Yugoslavian crisis
and the soaring unemployment rates have eaten into the prestige of the
Union and consolidated the Euro-scepticism. There are different outlooks
regarding the Union: a Europe-space for Britain, a Europe-power for France;
a considerable gap can be seen between the German model focused on
economy and security, aimed at surpassing the sovereignty of the
nation-state and the creation of a federal European Wirtschaftsnation under
the NATO umbrella, and the French one stressing the political dimension
and the subordination of economic matters to a grandiose European
political adventure (dream of General de Gaulle): a Europe from the
Atlantic to the Ural Mountains, independent from America31. Therefore,
there is talk about “taking Europe out of the mud”32, about surpassing
“the political infirmity of Europe” which is “a fact”, about avoiding the
“Polish syndrome” represented by the “scenario of decision paralysis”33.
It was requested to drop the “Monnet method” of creating institutions
from above (to which the adhesion was to be imposed from the outside).
As opposed to this method it was finally requested to “begin a popular
debate on the objectives of the European process”, the “design resulted
from this debate being the one to dictate the European institutions and
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procedures”34. “The great market is the engine, but essential is the model
of the society”35. No less important is the issue of the political model:
“federation of peoples” (Monnet), “confederation of states” (de Gaulle),
“federation of nations” (Delors). Anyway, the passing from economic
integration to political unification is the strategic issue of European
construction. Paradoxically, a major difficulty is represented by the absence
of a foreign threat (Soviet) and that of an internal centripetal force.
Neither state, nor mere league of states, Europe continues to be an
“unidentified political object” (Delors), a political pseudo-entity, practically
reduced to mere institutionalised inter-government conferences. Vacillating
between a “helpless confederation” and an “illegitimate federation”,
Europe could be seen as a real “empire of helplessness” (similar to the
Austrian-Hungarian Kakania described by Musil), a “pseudo-empire” with
a “phoney citizenship” and a “phoney parliament”. The solution would
be a break with the existing non-political and antidemocratic federalism
based on a technical-judicial pseudo-legitimacy and the adoption of an
authentic democratic and political federalism, with a real citizenship and
efficient European sovereignty. A democratic and federal political Europe,
finally master not of others, but of herself, “could be the ‘republican’ empire
of the future that we need”36. The Europe of today appears as an artificial
object, a technocratic and pseudo-federal construction, a “political forgery”
suffering from a “incurable political deficit”. European norms express a
purely economic logic whose ultimate foundations are the dogmas of the
ultra-liberal ideologies of the four liberalisations and of the free circulation
of people, services, goods and capitals imposed by the multinational
corporations quite often in conflict with the regional and national civil
societies. These reflect the tendency of “depolitisation” in European
matters, transforming the latter into “infra- and para-political” ones, taking
them out of public debate and democratic control. The conclusion: if the
two tasks currently assumed by Europe - expansion and consolidation will be pursued within the existing European mechanisms, there is
considerable risk that, just like the Austrian-Hungarian Empire, the
European Union might become “the threatening image of our irreparable
decadence”37. A solution would be the creation of a united and democratic
federal Europe as one Nation-State of the American type. But for this we
need to invent or rather recover (Europe is facing the task of “re-striking
roots” - réenracinement) a “European” political “nation” which would
not replace but complete the cultural nations of Europe by creating its
“mystical body” and serving as foundation for an authentic sovereignty.
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“Such sovereignty could only be rooted in the only European reality whose
traces are still present in the cultural identity of Europe. Before becoming
a Europe of nations, Europe was essentially a romanitas and christianitas,
realities marking the absolute priority of the city and of man, anterior and
superior to the division into nations. In fact, it was only by assuming these
two attributes that the “all Christian” nations of the continent centred
around the “empire” of their kings could find the way towards their
diversifying developments. “Isn’t it time for them to give back to Europe a
part of this inheritance precisely in order to be able to preserve what they
have essential?”38 Patterns of a “universal people”, chriatianitas and
romanitas can be a “paradigm creating a new possible citizenship and a
new European cultural universalism”. Anyway, Europe must turn back to
this tradition, “buried for a moment by the historical developments and
betrayed by ideologies to the national royalty”39. But the vision of a federal
Europe does not have to be connected to the dated prospects of the
Nation-State. It should rather use the Roman-German Empire as term of
reference. Even a very brief examination of the European judicial history
will reveal the surprising actuality of the subsidiary and federal model of
the old medieval imperial jurists (like, for instance, the polymorphic and
decentralised empire of Baldus Ubaldi); this “must be brought out of
oblivion”, “a return to the debate abandoned by political philosophy in
the 16th and 17th centuries”40 being the theoretical pre-requisite essential
for the rediscovery of political analysis and practice required by the
European construction.
Contrary to what one may think, the process of European unification
does not mean going beyond nations. Europe can only be a common
action of the European nations. The moral and political axis of European
construction (the French - German reconciliation) was created through a
political decision taken by nations, and not by supranational institutions.
If immediately after World War II federalists saw in nations the source of
all evil and were pleading for abandoning them, the European federalists
of today clearly plead for there political resuscitation. Europe is now seen
as a “federation of nations” meant to consolidate and not annihilate them41.
Only the nation can offer “substance” to democracy, serving as warrant
of individual rights and as source maintaining and rebuilding social
cohesion. But one point has to be made: we must make a difference
between nation in a “cultural” sense as a distinctive feature, passive, past
identity, which must be preserved and defended, and nation in a “political”
sense, source of active identification, operating, which must be built within
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a particular activity frame open to the universal. The nation must be
recovered, “not as particular feature, but as a political body, not caring
for particularity but for universalism”42. The nation can be also rendered
obsolete, but only by developing its features as political entity, and not
forgetting them, aware of the fact that “the road towards Europe is by
developing and opening the national political cultures”43.
But the political and democratic deficit of the Union expresses through
the faults of its political culture a deep spiritual crisis of Western liberal
societies. “There is no passion for the public matters. The phenomenon is
a serious one and it endangers the vitality, the prosperity and the acting
capacity of our democracies. I am not talking about the behaviour of
those elected, but about the efforts made by a citizen to go beyond his
own problems and take an interest in the public matters. There is no
democracy without minimum virtue”44. The decline of democracy was
essentially caused by the “so-called media fast food policy”, a simulacrum
of political culture made by the mass-media through opinion polls and
talk shows. “It is clear than in such an environment one cannot exercise
ambitious policies, meant to set the society moving and make it capable
of both memory and future”45. Moral and philosophical relativism, the
intellectual decline caused by the global levelling and mediatisation of
societies are leading to a crisis of reason and of communication, weakening
the wills and causing a decline of interrogation and argumentation, of
dialogue. The phenomenon of political decline is connected to the religious
changes occurred in the liberal societies of the late modern period, a time
of denominational involution and “triumph of Godless religions”46.
Secularism appears today just as fragile as Christianism, declining along
with the latter. The comeback of religion is a fact, but it marks the triumph
of some new religious forms (from sects to esoterism and neo-Buddhism
up to the cult of paranormal phenomena) which cancel the classical borders
between the realm of God and that of Man. The great religions vacillate
between extreme politicisation (the Islam) and complete lack of
involvement (Buddhism). The triumph of the new religious forms reflects
the recoil of the classical Jewish-Christian culture, a suspension of the
symbolic and spiritual elements which structured in depth the European
identity as well as the classical modernity, the European spirit and
democracy. Their intellectual and spiritual framework (the spirit of the
distinction between values: political, religious, aesthetic etc. and the
institutions they represent) is questioned or rejected. Centred on the
personal search for a meaning and a supreme care for oneself (an
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Epicureanism of a stoic type - very much in vogue), they take the form of
equivocal wisdom, of the autist-comforting and pietistic utopias of
interiority, practising the fideism, sapientialism and the sentimental
outbursts. The dominant feature is the refusal or the clear attack on the
political and its autonomy. At the same time, we are witnessing a decline
of hope and faith (generated by the collapse of the great messianic
philosophies of history), an end of linear time through a devaluation of
both past and future and a unilateral fixation on the present moment and
on the self. The refusal of the future is also accompanied by the decline of
transcendence and of the vertical axis, the new spiritual techniques being
structured on “horizontal” polarities (meaning/non-meaning; life/death;
self/non-self; unity/duality; reality/unreality etc.). The split of the classical
religious-political articulation under the form of the State-Church duality
affects not only the political but also the religious. The withdrawal of the
political causes the privatisation of both philosophy and religion, reduced
to the status of practical wisdom or mysticism without God or
transcendence. The situation seems to repeat that of the Hellenistic and
Roman-Greek periods, when the advent of stoicism, Epicureanism and
neo-Platonism as techniques of individual salvation marked the end of
the ancient city, the passing from the polis to an apolitical cosmopolis.
Interesting is the fact that the connection between democracy, pantheism
and cosmopolitanism had been noticed by Tocqueville (1840): the idea
of equality finds separation and transcendence hard to bear, “as democratic
nations are naturally tending towards pantheism”, “this system, albeit
destroying human individuality or precisely because of this, will have a
mysterious influence upon those living in a democracy... nurtures the
pride of their spirit and encourages laziness”. Therefore, “all those believing
in the true greatness of man must rally and fight against it”47.
So far, there are two global scenarios imagined for the new geopolitical
situation created in Europe and in the world after 1989. To various extents,
they set into question within different, even opposed approaches, the
relationship between the political and the spiritual. We are talking about
the scenario of the “end of history” and, respectively, that of “civilisation
clash”. Both mean to give a global interpretation of the post-1989 era.
The “End of History?” scenario was born in 1989 together with the
famous essay with the same interrogative title of the American political
scientist of Japanese origin Francis Fukuyama48. The entire demonstration
was taken and enhanced three years later by the same author in the book
“The End of History no question marke and the Last Man”49. Starting from
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the suggestion of A. Kojève’s Hegelian interpretation50, Fukuyama
considers that the fall of communism in Eastern Europe in 1989 mustn’t
only be seen as an end to the Cold War and a death of ideologies. The
victory of liberalism, the triumph of market economy and democracy,
marking the exhaustion of alternate resources, signifies, through a
universalisation of liberal democracy, of market economy and of consumer
capitalism, in its media version, the end of the ideological and philosophical
evolution of mankind. “The end of history” announced by Hegel for the
year 1806 took in fact place in 1989 after a century and a half of Marxist
and totalitarian parenthesis. Western - American and European - societies
of liberal and democratic capitalism are the ones which in fact secure
prosperity and egalitarianism, equal and universal acknowledgement of
human beings, of a classless society as seen by Marx, moving towards the
universal and homogeneous State in which Hegel saw the “end of history”.
Satisfying material needs and reaching equal and universal
acknowledgement, the liberal state solves in principle all intellectual and
social contradictions (between “master” and “servant”) which have marked
our history, and all mankind has to do now is to solve the technical and
ecological problems connected to a more refined consumption and
environment protection. With this, liberal societies reach the post-history.
The place of wars and conflicts is increasingly taken by economy, trade
and consumption. World politics and international relations enter a process
of “Common Marketisation”. A symbol of this evolution would be precisely
the countries of Western Europe in the post-war period, “flaccid and
prosperous countries, dominated by self-satisfaction deprived of will,
whose major project did not challenge heroism beyond the creation of a
Common Market”51. The world will be divided into two large camps: the
developed societies of liberal democracies and capitalism who enter the
post-history, and the historical ones, underdeveloped, torn by religious,
nationalist or ideological conflicts, by sacrifice and endless struggle for
prestige or superiority.
The weak point of this description lies, on the one hand, in the mirage
of any neo-Hegelian philosophy of history: favouring one sense of society
development and correlatively disqualifying others, implicit in the
understanding of the wars and totalitarianisms of the 20th century as huge
and pointless parentheses and aberrations of history on its road towards a
liberal-democratic post-history. Fykuyama seems to vacillate between
Hegel/Kojève and Spengler/Sorokin. Is the present situation of liberal
societies an essential mutation within world history, an end of history as
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such, or a just symptom of decline for a mere historical cycle, the
exhaustion of which opens the way for the following cycle52? On the
other hand, this hesitation is rooted in the anthropological risk of describing
the situation of the post-historical man (detailed by Fukuyama in the 1992
book). Kojève’s interpretation of the “end of history” comes here close to
the description made by Nietzsche to the “last man”. If the end of history
is the road towards a generalised common life, then this means for Kojève
that the world has been demystified: all myths, arts, philosophies, sciences
have in the long run contributed only to the satisfaction of our original
animal needs. We are witnessing the ultimate trivialisation of man, as
reason, history and philosophy bring him back among the beasts. We
have now “the last man”, the “bourgeois”, the “democratic” man of
Tocqueville, the “slave” man of Nietzsche, deprived of ambitions and
aspirations, made only of “reason” and “desire”, but with no “soul”, “heart”,
“impetus”. For the sake of self-preservation, consumption, of petty interests
and designs, of peace and prosperity he gives up the fight and the risking
of life for an immaterial ideal and prestige; the only purpose of this struggle
being to create in battle free men, “masters”.
In his analyses, Fukuyama outlines the surprising actuality of Plato’s
psychology from the book IV of his “Republic”. The soul is made up of
three faculties: a transcendent one - the intellect - oriented towards the
immaterial, of divine origin and located in the brain, an immanent one concupiscence, desire - oriented towards matter, of animal extraction and
located in the abdomen, and an intermediate one, constituting as such
the essence of human soul, represented by “impetus” - or “spirit”, with
the stoics -, located in the heart. The “thymos” is source not only of
violence, tyranny, will of domination, but also of virtues like courage,
justice, civic spirit. If the activity of the intellect leads to knowledge,
science, and the activity of desire creates economy, politics and religion
come from the passion of the heart or of the spirit. They are the main
forms of education for “impetus” or for “spirit”, of gaining
acknowledgement and cultivating the aristocratic or chivalrous feeling of
moral superiority, but at the same time they are the main sources of conflicts
for supremacy and domination. This is why the thymos was the constant
concern of practical philosophy from Plato to Nietzsche53. They all meant
to educate or resuscitate it. An essential mutation in this respect was brought
by the modern era. Obsessed with the eradication of aristocracy and the
accomplishment of democratic equality, this era tried through Hobbes
and Locke to completely eliminate the thymos from public life, replacing
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it with a combination of desire and reason, respectively economy and
science, combination typical for the “bourgeois” man. According to the
new social contract, the philosopher becomes a scientist (intellect is
reduced to reason), the warrior is supposed to become a merchant, giving
up risk and glory for the sake of material gain and the prospect of a
happiness understood as quiet life secured by the endless accumulation
of wealth and possible for everybody. The modern liberal and democratic
state was meant to ensure a universal rational acknowledgement of all
individuals bent on the pursuit of some rational personal interests. Economy
and science were encouraged at a social level, while nationalism, religion
and politics had to become private or subordinated to the first two. The
democrat and liberal capitalist man (bourgeois) “was a deliberate creation
of early modern thought, an effort of social engineering trying to create
social peace by changing human nature itself”54. The apparition of the
“heartless man”, of the “last man” brings an internal crisis within modern
liberal democracy itself, also undermined by the constant pressure for
egalitarianism and relativism. These came to erode the very values of
liberalism and democracy, whose political culture, as Tocqueville had
demonstrated, cannot afford the luxury of abandoning the pre-liberal
traditions (religious, philosophical, national, ethnic etc.) of cultivating the
thymos or the spirit, without seriously endangering its existence. And this
because the best political system is the one satisfying all three Platonic
parts of the soul. The generalisation of the “last man” deprived of thymos
would clearly mean the “end of history”, the death of politics, of
philosophy, of art, the end of human creativity and the prospect of “a very
sad era”, of “centuries of boredom” which might make the human beings
reduced to a state of post-historical animals (Kojève) feel the need to
reaffirm their human nature, to regain through revolt their “impetus” in
the form of an unleashed megalothymia; they will thus return to the conflicts
forming the “first man”, opening the era of “tremendous wars of the spirit”
(Nietzsche), much more dangerous as they will put together fanaticism
and advanced technology. Because, on the one hand, the elements of
human nature can be repressed or sublimated, but never completely
eliminated, and on the other, the stability of all regimes is eroded by the
corrosive power of time. Aristotle and Plato seem to be much closer to the
truth than Hegel or Kojève, at least from a conservative standpoint. The
fall of communism does not necessarily mean the unconditional triumph
of liberalism. “Fascism was defeated on the battlefield, his possibilities
were not completely exhausted”; in various forms, under the guise of
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racism, nationalism, fundamentalism “it has a future, if not the future”.
Paradoxically, it was precisely the opposition to fascism and communism,
the evils that Western democracies had to face, that has “revealed what is
best in them”, “the external threat disciplined us within”, “gave us clear
moral and political, albeit negative goals”55. “In spite of our triumphant
air, American democracy is in danger... We have won the Cold War, but
this means that now we are the enemy, and no longer them”56.
In fact, Kojève’s theories had received a theoretical reply of great depth
in the fifties, from the part of Léo Strauss. The Strauss/Kojève debate upon
the interpretation given by Strauss to Xenophon’s dialogue “On Tyranny”57
was rightfully considered as “probably the deepest debate between two
philosophers of our century”58. Léo Strauss thoroughly demonstrates the
inconsistency of historicism, the superficial and precarious character of
Kojève’s simplifying anthropology, brilliantly outlining the unmatched
depth and the actuality of classical philosophy as compared to its modern
reductions. Neither war, nor work or consumption, but thought is seen by
the ancients as the expression of human nature; it is not through universal
acknowledgement, but by ensuring the conditions of a search for wisdom
and of a new contemplation for each man that the universal and
homogeneous democratic state can gain legitimacy. Given the weakness
of human nature, the ancients believed that universal happiness is
impossible, as the best regime could only give it the conditions to happen,
its accomplishment being conditioned not by history, but precisely by the
individual separation from history. On the other hand, the moderns believe
that they can secure universal happiness within history, but for this they
lower the ideal of man replacing moral virtue with universal
acknowledgement and understanding happiness as coming from this
acknowledgement and from material wealth59. Believing that it broadened
the horizon of ancient and medieval “idealism”, modern philosophical
and political “realism” only brings an unfortunate narrowing of the
anthropological and philosophical horizon. Rejecting the transcendence
of spirit and the horizon of eternity (the access to the “heliological” truth
from the parable of Plato’s cave), it condemns man to the captivity of
natural, social and historical determinisms (holding him prisoner of the
“speological” truth of the cave).
The other post-1989 scenario is that of the “civilisation clash” theorised
in 1993 in a famous essay by the Harvard professor and director of the
“Olim” Institute for Strategic Studies, Samuel Huntington60. According to
him, far from heading towards a liberal democratic and increasingly
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economic post-history, post-communist mankind will find itself
increasingly wrapped up in history and politics. The thymos will experience
a dramatic world-scale escalation. Conflicts will become a common sight,
but they will no longer be ideological or economic in nature, but rather
civilisation conflicts. The future will not see the advent of a world
civilisation. 7-8 civilisations will compete on the political arena of the
world (Western, Slavic-Orthodox, Islamic, Confucianist, Japanese,
Hinduist, Latin-American, African). Nations will be grouped according to
cultural, spiritual and not ideological and economic criteria, following
the “sister country syndrome” and that of the spiritual “sister nation”. The
axis of international relation will be “the West vs. the rest of the world”.
During the separation into civilisation blocs there will be a number of
“torn” countries (Turkey, Mexico, Russia, Romania) which are at risk of
repeating the example of Yugoslavia (rehearsal of a universal scenario).
Based on fragile arguments (confusion between politics and culture, D.
Bell) and on easy and simplifying generalisations which set Huntington
among the descendants of Spengler and Toynbee, the essay takes the risk
of compensating for the absence of one explanatory paradigm, unavoidably
distorted (P. Hassner), for the geopolitical situation of the world after 1989.
But he is of top interest, as he seems to actually inspire American foreign
policy, and even that of the institutions of the European Union. He is
trying to impose the idea that the real Europe is only that of the Western
civilisation, implying that Eastern Europe (Orthodox), belonging in fact to
another civilisation, should not be included in the European Union. The
boundaries of the latter would be, according to Wallace’s map (1990),
those of Western Christianity around the year 1500, stretching as far as
the former boundaries separating the Habsburg Empire, Poland and the
Baltic states from the Ottoman and Tsarist Empires. “The velvet curtain of
culture has replaced the iron culture of ideology as main separation line
for Europe”61. It might also indicate the possible limits of European Union
expansion.
The presentation of these two scenarios brings about a legitimate
question: what is left of the classical Europe in the gentle apocalypse of
post-history and in the historical Armageddon of civilisations? How much
spirit and politics will survive in a Europe implacably dissolved by the
effects of economic globalisation or reduced to the role of defence bulwark
for a besieged civilisation with its centre outside? Everything seems to
confirm the extremely lucid diagnosis of the European condition developed
by Paul Valery as early as 1919 in his reflections on the “crisis of the
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spirit” or “on the greatness and the decadence of Europe”. The utilitarian
reduction of European spirit to science and of science to ware, the
transformation of culture in economy, all made possible the global
spreading of technology. Together with the democratic levelling, in his
opinion this would lead to an unavoidable deminutio capitis of Europe. In
a civilisation determined by figures and quantities, by some statistics in
which “forces become proportional to masses”, “there is still some
confusion, but we shall witness, in the long run, the advent of a miraculous
animal society, perfect and ultimate anthill”. Europe unavoidably
succumbs. Or, “the superiority of Europe had to be determined by the
quality of man”, by the European spirit or soul (psyche), characterised by
“active eagerness, burning and unselfish curiosity, a fortunate mixture of
imagination and logical rigour, a certain unpessimistic scepticism, an
unresigned mysticism”62. “Europe conspicuously aspires to be lead by an
American commission. This is the direction of its entire policy”. But “Europe
will be punished for its policy”, or rather for the discrepancy between its
subtle spirit and crude policy, marked now by “an amazing lack of poise”.
“Any policy implies (usually it has no idea that it implies) a certain outlook
on man and even an opinion regarding the destiny of the species, an
entire metaphysics, from the most crude sensualism to the most daring
mysticism”63. “Be them parties, regimes or statesmen, it could be most
instructive to draw from their tactics and actions the ideas they have or
they are making on man”64. Or, Europe meant above all the creation
through Romanisation, Christianisation and Hellenisation of a homo
europaeus, stake of its entire historical design65. The crisis of European
politics is the crisis of the European man, or rather of the European “soul”
and of the European “culture” - this is the message sent to Western Europe
by the philosophers from the centre and the east of the continent, from
Prague, Pãltiniº or Bucharest.
Central-European interlude
One of the most disturbing reflections regarding the essence and the
historical and contemporary destiny of Europe, and at the same time a
spiritual and political design, belongs to Czech philosopher Jan Patocka.
Strong disciple of Husserl and Heidegger, private philosopher kept in the
shadow for decades by all totalitarian regimes oppressing the Czech
Republic, Nazi as well as communist, reduced to a secret existence in the
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basements of Prague where he kept underground seminars, he became
particularly known as the philosopher-martyr. His short activity as
spokesman (together with Vaclav Havel) of the “Charta ‘77” movement,
Socratic gesture of sublime philosophical testimony, was to cost him his
life in consequence of the brutal questionings to which he was subjected
at an age of 70 by the political police. But his sacrifice was to bring to the
European public opinion a vast philosophical work, centred around an
original re-argumentation of the natural world phenomenology and
completed with a fascinating philosophy of history66, at the centre of which
we find the problem of Europe’s destiny.
The Czech philosopher begins his meditation by noticing the general
fatigue and decline felt by contemporary Europe. Uncertain as to its
essential values and institutions, Europe seems crushed by its gigantic
successors: America and Russia, and increasingly dispossessed of its
technical-scientific inheritance by the non-European nations now free from
its colonial rule.
The central idea of the Prague philosopher is concentrated in a
statement which at a first glance seems exclusive: History is in fact the
history of Europe - all that the rest of the world knows is historiography and it appears together with the creation of philosophy and politics in the
ancient Greek city, to disappear with the loss of this spiritual inheritance.
According to him, there are three types of societies based, in their turn, on
the existence of three fundamental movements of human life in relation
to the natural world67: - the movement of unconditional acceptance of
natural life, specific to the an-historical societies whose life takes place in
the timeless anonymity of the cyclic rhythms of nature; - the movement of
self-defence typical for the developed archaic and traditional societies
which have a collective memory in the form of mythical traditions and
whose life, oriented towards an archetypal past, takes place still in the
pre-history; - the movement towards truth, specific to European societies
and cultures. These have cut all ties with nature and mythical past and
assumed the problematic character of existence, the risk of uncertainty
and of the search for a rational meaning of existence. This meaning was
found not in the past but in the stable and eternal presence of real and
ultimate principles behind the phenomenal and changing manifestation
of the natural flow of things. Real history is the expression of this movement
towards truth; it only exists where existence itself receives a problematic
character, because, according to Patocka, neither labour nor myth can
effectively break the circle of natural life.
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History - and consequently Europe - appear thus only with the
emergence, as individual and social ideal, of the virile movement of the
soul which lives the risks and the tension of an existence in truth and
freedom, resisting the double temptation of the comfort of a usual natural
existence and, respectively, of the orgiastic outburst (sexual, violent,
passional) compensating for its annoying routine - outlets offered by the
natural sacredness of archaic religions.
For him who accepts the movement towards truth, world and man are
taken apart doubling themselves into a natural phenomenal side, obvious
and varied, but subjected to accident, illusions and falsehood, perishable
and ending in finitude and death, and another, less obvious, spiritual,
essential, eternal (and consequently divine), real and authentic. Facing
this dilemma, the problematic man must freely and rationally assume
responsibility for accomplishing his essential spiritual and authentic
dimension (see the Platonic myth of the choice between the two ways of
life made by Hercules at a cross-roads). Based of a philosophical belief68,
a reasonable decision not deprived of risks though, it is this individual
design of real and authentic existence - of the care for one’s soul, for
oneself through oneself (cf. Alcibiades 132c) - expanded to social
dimensions that constitutes, according to Patocka, the essence of historical
development.
Thus, the principle of historical existence is the struggle69, the
acceptance of the problematic nature of existence and the exposure to
the risks of an unnatural existence in order to attain a true, free and
consequently fearless life. History is thus lived not only from the diurnal
angle of acceptance, but also from the nocturnal one, that of the night
and of the open battle, dangerous and terrifying; it lies in fact under the
sign of Polemos. History, philosophy and politics are born of Polemos
and Eris - as said by Heraclitus himself: “We must know that war is common
and justice is struggle and that all are born of struggle and need” (fragment
80) or: “war is father to all and emperor of all; some he showed to be
gods, other humans, some he made slaves, others he made free men”
(fragment 53). Beyond the destructive aspects, the violence of war has a
positive nature - metaphysical as well as sacred. He creates among those
fighting a unity of thought (phrónesis), a special “solidarity” “of the shaken
but fearless”. The means of this struggle are, alongside war, philosophy
and politics; only when the last two appear can we speak of History, says
the Czech philosopher. In fact, philosophy and politics were born during
Athens’ struggle for freedom and democracy against the Orient represented
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by the Persian Empire, as well as against the internal tyranny and the
Spartan militarist tribalism70.
But the internal crisis of the Greek city is marked by the killing of the
philosophical man par excellence, Socrates, by the representatives of the
most free and democratic society of the time, the one which had defeated
the Persians. The testament left by Socrates to his disciples was that, while
meditating upon this catastrophe, they should create a city in which
philosophers could no longer be killed and justice would not be based on
fluctuating traditions or on the irrational tyranny of the power-hungry or
of the crowds manipulated by them, but on the reason and the science of
philosophers. Yet, the creation of this rational state requires first a recovery
of the unity of the soul. Consequently, the Greek philosophical-political
design centred on the “care for the soul” in all its relations: with the cosmos,
the city and the self, would take the form of a “total science” (A. Cornea)
made of the triptych generated by the sum of three sub-designs: 1)
onto-cosmological, 2) psycho-political and 3) metaphysical-religious71:
the first would be centred around the definition of the medial position of
the soul in the general architecture of existence; the second would explain
the analogical relations existing between the functions of the psyche and
those of the polis; the third would establish, in contrast with the finitude
and morality of physical existence, the eternity of the Psyché, as a corollary
to its nature as principle of movement (that autò heautò kinoûn, “moving
itself” from Phaidros 246a).
From this unitary fundamental design - developed in other but not
centrifugal directions by Plato, Democritus and Aristotle and later taken
by the stoics and the neo-Platonists - Europe was born. In spite of the
catastrophes leading to the successive falls of the Polis, the Roman Empire
and the medieval Christian one, and of its successive historical
metamorphoses, the philosophical design of creating a community based
on the aspiration towards the complete and ultimate truth of existence
was preserved - according to the Czech philosopher - until the 16th
century72. Gradually replacing the “care for the soul”, that is for truth and
being, with the passion for possession and dominance of the outside world,
the Renaissance, the Reform, the Enlightenment, modern scientism and
technocracy would unavoidably lead to the nihilism, scepticism and social
and moral crisis of contemporary Europe. In front of man’s will of
knowledge and power, the being finds shelter behind the beings turned
into simple things. In his desire to dominate the external objects, man
comes in fact to be dominated by the realities of the world turned into a
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mere network of forces73. The absence of a global metaphysical design,
the collapse of the impetus towards an absolute meaning and truth of
existence under the circumstances of an utilitarian operation of reason,
have come to generate a gigantic boredom (taedium vitae), sign of a false
existence, dominated more and more by a dull, absurd and impersonal
present. According to Patocka, the main problem of Europe is therefore
not the solution to the West-East, liberalism-socialism,
democracy-totalitarianism alternative, but the paradox of an increasingly
involution of history towards pre-history, towards the situation of a society
satisfied with natural life, with reproduction and material sustention74.
The boredom and the anxieties of this society are solved by the eternal
orgiastic rites: sex, drugs, violence, revolutions and especially “war”, the
perfect revolution for the world of everyday boredom. This has made the
20th century practically an “endless war”75.
The only chance of avoiding this strong decline of Europe (and America)
from history to pre-history (the utopia of liberal post-history belonging to
Kojève-Fukuyama) - the only possibility of maintaining mankind on the
track of history is conditioned, says Patocka, by a “huge, unseen before”
philosophical “metanoia” of the European elite76. In other words, he is
talking about the rehabilitation of the ancient ideal of the “spiritual man”,
the ideal of a problematic and truthful existence which nevertheless
requires a break with the naive natural meaning of existence and taking
the risks of fighting falsehood.
Exemplary figure, the archetype of this European “spiritual man” would
be Socrates in whose myth drawn up by Plato (and continued by the
neo-Platonists) the Czech philosophers thinks he can find all the essential
features of Christ - the same distinction between the dishonest but reputedly
honest man and the perfectly honest sentenced to death by the
pseudo-honest77. Therefore, in his opinion (very close here to that of
Simone Wiel), Europe is not based upon two pillars - the ancient tradition
and the Jewish-Christian one - as it is generally accepted, but just on one,
the ancient Greek one which “Hellenised” both the Jewish and the
Christian elements entered in its spiritual corpus.
“Europe as Europe was born of the care for the soul. It has perished
because it was once again left in oblivion”78.
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East Side Story
Extremely interesting and suggestive reflections on the cultural “soul”
of Europe have also been given by the East-European space. Just like in
the Central-European space, they were generated in reply to the historical
terror represented by the Soviet occupation and communism, felt as
ideological and historical forces aiming to “take Romania out of Europe”.
But the European reflections of the Romanian philosophers and intellectuals
were not something new, their apparition did not only have the value of a
reaction to unfavourable historical circumstances. They belong to a vast
national cultural “debate”79 which still goes on today and the origins of
which are to be found in the 19th century, at the beginning of Romania’s
modernisation, as it accompanied the main stages in the creation of the
modern national and unitary Romanian state. This vast debate has come
to involve the supporters of two great cultural and social-political trends:
the modernists, pro-European, pro-Western synchronists, on the one hand,
and on the other the traditionalists, Orthodoxist, autochtonist, protocronist.
The former are the representatives of the bourgeoisie, promoters of
liberalism, capitalism and Western democracy, the others are the
champions of the peasants, advocating a rural economy and an
authoritarian, patriarchal political regime.
Common to all East-European nations, the debate in Romania gains
unique complexity, as it comes to tackle the thorny issue of the “Romanian
specific” and identity. In the structure of this Romanian national specific
we can find, due to the geo-spiritual setting and to historical circumstances,
contrasting and often contradictory notes which render extremely difficult
a clear and final identification. Formed as a nation and located right
between the great European empires (Roman, Byzantine, Ottoman,
Austrian-Hungarian, Russian), the Romanians have managed to survive
and politically exist due to the weakness of the empires in whose area of
influence they were and with regard to which they had to secure a difficult
autonomy. Latin nation of Eastern Christian faith, from a linguistic and
ethnic point of view they belong to Western Europe, but from a religious
and spiritual one to South-Eastern and Eastern Europe. Consequently, they
never fully identified with nor were fully acknowledged as such by any of
the political and spiritual entities fighting for domination in Europe. Quite
significantly, romanitas and christianitas have become for the Romanians
formulas of national self-identification (designating the Romanian “people”
and “law”) and not of integration in supranational political or spiritual
219
structures, like the Empire and the Church in the West. The general
tendency was instinctively that of locally absorbing the universal resources
of acknowledgement and identification, using them to the advantage of a
national policy of solitary, isolationist independence, defined by a stubborn
refusal of integration in, or co-operation with, the supranational political
or religious structures perceived as potential factors of spiritual annexation
and alienation. Consequently, typical for the entire Romanian culture and
politics was a fixation of the spirit on the idiomatic, the tendency to render
universal the already existing particular, proclaiming universalist
orientations, and not that of rendering particular the universals
independently or previously existing by including them in the
autochtonous. The specific movement was therefore one from local to
general, and not the other way around. Thus, the action of forced
universalisation through the Catholic faith (13th-14th century) or, later,
through a modernisation along Western lines was seen as an aggression
against the Romanian nature itself. The reaction to the strong demands of
modernisation was a double one. The first was the utopian attempt to
adopt a right-wing nationalist political-cultural attitude, traditionalistOrthodoxist, authoritarian, violently irrational, anti-Western, anti-Semite
and xenophobe80, doomed to fail by history itself. The second was the
attempt to affirm in front of the harsh dilemmas, typical for a developing
society, the national specific sublimating it into cultural creativity. Avoiding
the extremes of regressive autochthonism and “progressive” imitation,
the representatives of this trend tried to find surprising combinations and
identify new thought formulas which would fruitfully combine tradition
and modernity. Their purpose was to offer “coherent visions to a deeply
schizoid society, trapped between an archaic and pre-feudal way of life
and a stratum of modern urbanisation, a society which had begun only
late, in a twisted and incomplete manner, the modernisation of a social
psyche haunted by the complex of marginality”81.
One of the dominant features of Romanian philosophy is the absence
of a political philosophy of the classical type, the social-political field
being, with some notable exceptions, confiscated by a reductionist
sociological outlook of Marxist extraction and with materialist overtones.
On the other hand, a privileged place and a dominant role went to the
aesthetic values82. Their importance is explained by the essentially
contemplative character of Orthodox theology and religious practice,
through which the patristic neo-Platonism (to which the romantic one
was later added) became one of the fundamental constituent elements of
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Romanian culture83. “We might say that, in fact, the modernisation of
Romanian public life and its full access to a European status and sovereignty
were accompanied by an option for aesthetic and mystical-rational
connotations, ultimately of neo-Platonic extraction; this special type of
philosophical tradition can be identified in the very fabric of most
intellectual discourses on Romania”. It explains why “within Romanian
culture the aesthetic values kept a long and rare prestige, being superior
to the political and ethical ones”. The aesthetic was offering an ideal
space for mediation and harmonisation between the “archaic” tradition
of “instinctive faithfulness” belonging to the Romanian society and the
“rationalist, contractual and modernising impulses”84 defining the public
and intellectual sphere. Romanian philosophers were to seek thus formulas
for the relativisation of the classical oppositions within Western thought
(man-nature, subject-object, identity-difference, empiricism-rationalism
etc.) which would go beyond the dialectics of final contradictions and
offer epistemological alternatives and ontological options meant to
rehabilitate the secondary, the nuance, the imperfection, the individual85.
Avoiding the antithetical negation and choosing to adopt the inclusion,
they will attempt intellectual constructs meant to rehabilitate and reconcile
under the sign of a generous humanism science and tradition, West and
East (Aron Dumitriu), dogma and science, conscious and unconscious,
philosophy and poetry (Lucian Blaga), archaic and modern, sacred and
profane (Mircea Eliade, Sergiu Al-George), theology and philosophy, faith
and reason (Mircea Vulcãnescu, Mihai ªora), being and becoming,
idiomatic and universal (Constantin Noica).
All these outstanding representatives of Romanian thought have
manifested at the same time a real cultural fury inspired by the desire to
compensate through creativity the historical delay and for fragility of
political constructions. This feeling consolidated after 1945. As Romania
was Sovietised, “culture came to replace politics; creation became an
almost mystical technique to fight and defeat time”86, being invested with
a quasi-soteriological function. The terms of the “great debate” reversed
their sign: the “progressive attitude” and the modernisation became
anti-European through Sovietisation and traditionalism became
pro-Western87. Europe was shown that because of an excessive feeling of
guilt towards the abandoned East, its elite fell victim to Marxist
propaganda88 and accepted with an irresponsible frivolity the division of
Europe by the Iron Curtain89. Accepting the suicidal amputation of the
East-European patrimony, Europe basically agreed with a large scale attack
221
on the diversity which gives it its richness. “We cannot imagine a European
culture reduced only to its Western forms. From a cultural and spiritual
point of view, Europe is completed by everything that the area of the
Carpathians and the Balkans has created and preserved”. Therefore, “today
Europe can no longer afford to once again abandon Dacia”, this sacrifice
might “endanger the very existence and spiritual integrity of Europe”90.
In Romania, the model of “resistance through culture” to the communist
era was best represented with all his accomplishments and ambiguities,
by philosopher Constantin Noica. “Culturalism as access to a more
authentic history” and as measure of the real history, plus the “paideic
dimension” turned cultural creativity into a secular esoterism and into a
modern version of sacredness which both had, due to his disciples from
the “Pãltiniº School”, an enormous echo in the Romanian culture of the
80s91. The central theme of Noica’s philosophy is metaphysical in nature.
It aims to recover from a reversed perspective Hegel’s plan of speculative
reconciliation between ancient philosophy and the modern philosophy
of becoming in the form of the so-called “becoming into being”92. Between
being (absolute) and becoming (nature) there is a unilateral contradiction:
becoming contradicts being, it is not being but tends towards being (without
having to reach it when it remains a mere “becoming into becoming”),
while being does not contradict becoming, it is becoming accomplished
in the form of “becoming into being”. The latter takes the form of subjective,
objective and absolute reason embodied in man and appearing as person,
community and mankind in morals, politics and religion, and also has a
life of its own, as absolute reason, ideal model which makes possible all
its embodiments. This model has three terms: individual, determinations,
general. The terms of this model enter various binary combinations,
representing just as many ontological uncertainties (“diseases of the spirit”
at a conscious level) before reaching the ternary order of being. Different
from Hegel’s version: general - determinations - individual (G-D-I), and
from the Marxist one: determinations - general - individual (D-G-I), with
Noica it finds the Platonic form individual - determinations - general
(I-D-G): something individual gives its determinations which, by means
of their constituent fields or elements, turn it into something universal. In
a highly general analogy, Noica’s ontological model has the following
synthetic formula: the individual “body” of becoming passes through the
“soul” made up of elements (as possibility of becoming) into the general
“spirit” of its becoming which is being. But the modulations of being and
the entwinement of being and becoming are, according to Noica, “a priori”
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embedded in the Romanian language93 and especially in the preposition
“întru” (towards, into) which gave the philosopher the ontological operator
for the integration of being and becoming, man and nature, one and
multiple, impossible to reconcile for the religions and the philosophies of
the world.
The Romanian solution to the becoming into (towards) being under
the form of the multiple One offers the philosopher, in one last book with
the value of a legacy, the principle for the recreation of the scheme,
structure and model of the European culture94, considered to be the culture
par excellence, the “culture of cultures”. The general classification of
cultures is operated by Noica according to the criterion of the five possible
solutions to the fundamental metaphysical problem of the relation between
One and multiple95: 1) One and its repetition - totemic cultures; 2) One
and its variation - monotheistic cultures (Islam, America); 3) One in multiple
- pantheistic cultures (India); in all these three forms the multiple is
shadowed by the One which, in its turn, is degraded and reduced to the
rank of mere unit; 4) One and multiple - polytheistic cultures (Ancient
Greece); and, finally, 5) multiple One, the only to legitimate the multiple
distributing itself without splitting - the Trinitarian culture of Europe96.
The trinitarian culture, the culture of Europe as such, was born not how
Spengler believed, in the Germany of the years 900-1000 as a Faustian
culture, but in the Byzantine East, “namely in the year 325 of our Lord, at
Nicaea” 97 together with the Trinitarian idea and the myth of the
embodiment. This theological beginning left a decisive mark on the entire
European culture which, in all its authentic forms of manifestation, even
in the most secularised ones, has a Trinitarian constant: all that is authentic
has the form of law - embodiment - manifestations (general - individual determinations), and an incarnational orientation98. To the unifying,
reductive unity of synthesis of the ancients, the European trinitarian model
opposes a new kind of unity, the synthetic unity characterised by
diversification and expansion. This type of synthetic unity seeks itself in
all creations of the European spirit: religious, artistic, scientific, technical99.
C. Noica thinks that the periods of European culture can be understood
as chapters in an original morphology of culture, which includes the
“grammar” of the logos and of being with the uncertainties of the
ontological model imperfectly or partially accomplished100: 1) Middle
Ages - age of the noun; 2) Renaissance - age of the adjective; 3) Reform,
Counter-Reform, Classicism - age of the adverb; 4) Renaissance,
Enlightenment, Revolution - age of the pronoun (from the individualist “I”
223
to the collectivist “we”); 5) modern and contemporary era - era of the
numeral and of the conjunction (stagnation, alienation, absurd, nihilism)
and, finally, 6) future - age of the preposition (of the “întru” - into, towards),
of synthetic units, with no correctives, of the multiple One type. This will
mark the end of the tyranny of generalisations and the complete
rehabilitation of the individual (obviously proportional with the
accomplishment of the ontological model, namely universalised). On the
basis of this argumentation, Noica feels entitled to a final suggestion101:
as the mathematical logos has today drifted into formalism and the historical
one into nihilism, the only chance of Europe is to recover the ontological
model on the open line of the cultural logos. We are talking about a real
cultural eschatology: this culture is the chance for surpassing not only the
cyclic character of the ancient natural time, but also the linearity of the
entropic Christian historical time. It introduces a new, ecstatic temporality
of the non-gentropic “kairotic” kind, similar to that of the mystics, not
static and contemplative, but active and dynamic. As it offers access to
being in its ideal model, culture even comes to tame time itself, which it
encapsulates in creations and turns from devouring it. By accelerating
time, it allows access to the good infinity (and not to a bad one, as inert as
the eternity of mysticism) of a sui generis cultural super-nature and
super-history: authentic transcendence without transcendence, the endless
culture will finally render superfluous even the platitude the of
millennia-old fundamental obsession of mankind: death102.
There are two main objections to Noica’s cultural Platonism, the
exclusivism and attachments of which have never ceased to cause protests
and condemnation. A first objection has in view the confusion, or rather
the reduction of spirit to reason. But reason is different from intellect (the
former operating with ideas or meanings, the latter with mere concepts or
knowledge) and also from the soul (made of intellect - feeling - will).
Noica’s “spiritual”/cultural man could very well be a man with no heart
or soul; he is comfortable “offending the world”, taking interest only in
the “logical (or ontological) individual” and not in the “statistical one”,
concern of the “politicians, common logicians and theologians with no
preference”. “The politicians, logicians and prophets do not have the
courage to say: ‘I’m not interested!’”103 Or, from the perspective of the
“spiritual”/cultural man, there are “three things which we can ignore:
politics, history and time. All that is good, all that is culture goes out of
time”104. Such proud indifference and philosophical superiority towards
the real human community expressed so directly were quick to cause
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critical reactions, this attitude being openly accused in the press of that
time as the expression of elitism or cultural gnosticism105. Dissident
intellectuals were to radicalise their objections denouncing in Noica’s
cultural utopia not only the compromise with Ceauºescu’s aggressive
national communist regime, but also some other negative features
enhanced by the economic and moral disaster lived by Romania in the
80s: lack of responsibility, social indifference, ethical inconsistency,
speculative retreat in front of the seriousness of reality, cultural
provincialism, the inadequacy and the aggressive complex of Romanian
pride by means of which Noica found excuses for Ceauºescu’s regime106.
Noica was indeed paying no attention to the issues of political regime or
economic system. Without being a supporter either of socialism, or of
capitalism, totalitarianism, democracy, his outlook on politics found an
ideal in the utopia of a “state of culture”, at equal distance between the
excessive prosperity of the West and the poverty of the East, as both were
hindering cultural creativity. According to his disciples, Noica “did not
imagine post-communist Romania at all”, and even if he would have lived
to see it, “his lesson in terms of philosophy of history would have been
that we must leave the communist inferno without heading for the false
paradise of the West”107. In his opinion - similar up to a certain point to
that of Heidegger on contemporary Western civilisation -, by choosing
the consumption and libertarian kind of society, the technical civilisation
of the Faustian type, the West has betrayed the Europe of spirit and culture
for the sake of the Europe of “butter”, has lost the being and the
philosophical meanings of existence for the sake of an endless
accumulation of wealth and knowledge. In front of a diseased Europe,
lost in statistics and nihilism, the real resurrection of European spirit can
only come from the East, where its ontological model was miraculously
preserved in the Romanian language108. With this we come to the second
major objection that can be raised to Noica’s thought. Identified even by
his own disciples, it is connected to the “unsolved tension between the
idiomatic and the universal”109. As I was trying to show above, this is not
specific to the Pãltiniº philosopher, but to the entire Romanian traditional
culture which has always had the tendency to consider that the universal,
the “spirit”, the being (Christianism, culture) are to be found in the
particular, in the “body” of Romanian autochtonous realities, appearing
as a mere exhalation or aura of these, after the model of the manifestation
or exteriorisation of something hidden, and not after that of the embodiment
or the interiorisation of an external universal “spirit” into a particular
“body”.
225
The model of the “manifestation of the universal”, with its determined
presence, accounts for the resistance to the idea of European integration
which is perceived and operates along the model of its “embodiment”. It
also accounts very well for the tensions and the debates appeared in
Romania after 1989. The Romanian intellectual elite, dominantly
pro-European, is now once again divided, “the great debate” of Romanian
culture continues in a new form between the supporters of the “return” to
Europe through a fast integration and adoption by Romania of European
Union legislative and economic standards and demands110, on the one
hand, and the supporters of the theory according to which, by its culture
and spirit, Romania has “remained” in Europe, never abandoning it, in
fact111. According to the former, Romania’s European identity must be
imposed from the outside and built against the Romanian tradition, while
the latter say that it only has to be manifested from within in the direction
of the same tradition112. The former lay stress on uniformity and institutional
identity, the latter on diversity, difference, culture, tradition.
But the main challenge brought by the historical events of 1989 to
Romanian society obviously regards the extraordinary opportunity it has
to reinvent and redefine itself in a new, more flexible and beneficial
manner. This would first of all mean to discipline and adapt our economy
and society so as to meet the criteria of performance and legislative
compatibility allowing us to hope for an adhesion to the European Union.
Second, we have to face the hardships of post-communism and gather
the courage to rethink from the very foundations the state and the type of
society we want. Finally, this requires a cultural redefinition of national
identity as Romanian and at the same time as European identity, which
would freely combine, in a creative and beneficial manner, the multiple
and stratified resources present in the seemingly ill-assorted and
heterogeneous elements of the Romanian traditional identity as well as of
the European identity. Refusing here, on a cultural and spiritual level, any
form of exclusivism or uniformity (like, for instance, the adoption of a
levelling “European rhetoric” of the ideological kind, a new “continental
wooden language”, with “new propaganda agents and party workers”)113,
beneficial would be precisely the adoption of an ever open dialectics
between “imitation and identity” which would imitate not the static, but
the “dynamic” side of the Western world. “The example to follow would
be that of an abundant and ingenious culture, of a respect for human
dignity, of a fascinating and tenaciously supported diversity, of liberty as
supreme guide in human relations, of the creative openness towards the
226
IOAN ICÃ, JR.
potential of transcendence (rather than blind obedience to a set image),
of the endless search for new relations between the material and the
ideal”114. This does not exclude, but implies a critical attitude towards
the social-political developments in the Western society, but only on the
basis of a consciously assumed solidarity of destiny. Lucid foreign
observers, solidary with the Romanian phenomenon, are today drawing
the attention on the obsessively repeated slogan of the “entrance in
Europe”. We are suggested that, before proclaiming the adhesion, the
interrogation regarding the space called “Europe” should be much more
radical, reaching even the extreme: “Is there still a Europe? Or, in
Heidegger’s terms: Which is the essence of the European being (Seiende)?”
And then we may have the surprise to see that this “space of our hopes”
has become completely separated from the transcendent, a space now of
pure economic immanence whose “Holy Trinity is: Production,
Consumption, Profit” and in which “being” (être) has become one with
“welfare” (bien-être) (R. Guideri), being ultimately reduced to the exchange
value (according to G. Vattimo, equation representing the essence of
nihilism). Reduced to a social model of the alliance between
techno-science and productivity in the service of consumption and profit,
Europe is seen as already dissolved in the global nature of world economy,
in the Westernisation of the world and the third-worldisation of the West115.
Under such circumstances, it may be possible that the Eastern cultures
will have to become the defenders of the classical European spirit, or
rather of the “spiritual man”, as archetype of homo europaeus. Surpassing
the fixation on the idiomatic and rediscovering the pluralist, democratic,
universalist potentialities implicit in christianitas and romanitas, using the
open modernising and diversifying resources of tradition in front of the
unsettling prospects of uniformisation by turning to account the differences
opened by a late, post-modern modernity, a Christian democracy116 aware
of the meaning of its choices could play a decisive part in the European
reconstruction of Romanian society in a tolerant and natural spirit.
Romanians are today faced with the transition from a “free Europe” to
the more prosaic demands of a “united Europe”, seriously risking to become
the “victims of a bad investment of freedom” in front of a “united Europe”
which seems less and less like a “crowning of the ‘free Europe’”117 and of
the spirit, in which administrative unification tends to increasingly erase
all differences. The integration is also rendered difficult by the perception
dominant in the West that this is a process of reintegration of a “diseased
world” (the East) into a “healthy world” (the West). Or, more realisticaly
227
that this triumphalist outlook is that of the “two infirmities” caused by the
“pampering” or by the “barbarity” of history, which have to complete one
another to attain common health118. In front of the Western “new Europe”,
Eastern Europe is aware of being the past of Europe, the “old Europe”, the
Europe of the “rejuvenating elixir” of the spirit, but also of the “dangerous
toxins” of nationalism. Its problem is that of “using the elixir and
transubstantiating the toxin”, while the problem of the “new Europe” is
that of being a Europe “in which the prestige of the eternal and ancient
Europe would be visible through transparence”119.
The object of this essay was to present the actual situation of the
discussions regarding European unification in the West and European
integration in the East. We have briefly presented the debates in France
and in Romania in the form of two stories, West-European and
East-European, with a Central-European interlude. At the core of these
debates the political nature of the European design has appeared as
inextricably tied to the destiny of the European spirit. Taking into account
the difference of temporal sequences between West and East, the political
and spiritual nature of European unification is challenged from an
economic point of view (West) and, respectively, from a cultural one (East)
within the two scenarios drawn up for the post-communist era: “the end
of history” and “the civilisation clash”. Institutional Europe needs spiritual
Europe and the other way around, provided that the spirit be not confiscated
by the economic dimension (West), or by national civilisations and cultures
(East). Consequently, the accomplishment of a unitary political Europe
demands an extremely serious redefinition of spirit in order to defend
both its transcendence and universality.
From what has been presented so far, we believe that two correlative
theories can be considered as demonstrated:
1) Spiritual Europe cannot be taken apart from political Europe. The
spiritual “soul” of Europe, created along a Trinitarian model, as Christian
synthesis between Greek rationalism, Roman law and Biblical ethics, needs
in order to survive the “body” of adequate institutions. The political
expression of the philosophy of European spirit is given by the distinctions
and the articulations brought by communal personalism and the principle
of subsidiarity on which in the 50s the Founding Fathers of United Europe
centred their design of European federalisation.
2) Political Europe cannot be taken apart form spiritual Europe. Because,
in a classical meaning, politics is “the art of governing free people”
(Aristotle). The communal body of political institutions can be animated
228
IOAN ICÃ, JR.
by the spiritual “soul” of Europe only by means of the individuals who
embody this spirit. The analysis of the work of several important Westand East- European philosophers has pointed out the great actuality of
homo europaeus, shaped along the lines of the archetype of the ancient
or Christian “spiritual” man (the person), in ensuring and maintaining the
political pulse of a unitary European organism.
Given that to any “body” animated by a “spirit” (individuals,
communities, nations) corresponds an “angel”, the “new Europe” - a Europe
at the same time political and spiritual - cannot be deprived of an “angel”.
But this indispensable protective spirit, this mysterious angelus Europae
has a strange behaviour, similar to the paradoxical structure of the entity
it protects. “He is behaving like the mysterious angelus novus of W.
Benjamin in front of history: he is flying rapidly towards the future, but
backwards, so that his eyes recover every second the entire past of
mankind, a past that is always and completely actual, a seminal past, the
only vital substance of any renewal”120.
NOTES
1. Cf. Denis de Rougemont, Vingt-huit siècles d’Europe. La conscience européene
a travers les textes d’Hesiode à nos jours, Paris, 1961, and Jean-Baptiste
Duroselle, L’idée d’Europe dans l’histoire, Paris, 1965.
2. Cf. Hobsbawm, The Age of Extremes, and the debate around this book in Le
Débat no.
3. Cf. Ernst Nolte, Der europäische Bürgerkrieg 1917-1945. Nazionalsozialismus
und Bolschevismus, Berlin, 1987.
4. Cf. the monumental monograph of Jean-Pierre Sironneau, Secularisation et
religions politiques (Religions & Society 17), Mouton, The Hague - Paris New York, 1982.
5. Alain Besançon, La confusion des langages. La crise ideologique de l’Église,
Paris, 1978. Romanian translation by Mona and Sorin Antohi, Humanitas,
Bucureºti, 1992, p. 54, 52.
6. Ibid., p. 75 sq.
7. Paul Valery, the essay “Criza spiritului” (1919) in Criza spiritului ºi alte eseuri;
Romanian translation by M. Ivãnescu, Polirom, Iaºi, 1996, p. 260 sq.
8. Martin Heidegger, Die Frage nach der Technik (1954) and Brief über den
Humanismus (1946); Romanian translation by Th. Kleininer and G. Liiceanu,
introductory study by C. Noica in Originea operei de artã, Univers, 1982, p.
106 sq, 321 sq, and in Repere pe drumul gândirii, Ed. Politicã, Bucureºti,
1988, p. 297 sq.
229
9. Denis de Rougemont, Vingt-huit siècles d’Europe, 1961, p. 333 sq, 390 sq.
10. Cf. Jean-Dominique Durand, L’Europe de la démocratie chretiénne (Questions
au XXe siècle), Éditions Complexe, Bruxelles, 1995, p. 143 sq and passim.
11. Jean Lacroix, Le personnalisme, sources, fondement, actualité, Lyon, 1981
and Roberto Papini (dir.), L’apporto del personalismo alla costruzione
dell’Europa, Milano, 1981.
12. Chantal Millon-Delsol, L’Etat subsidiaire. Ingérence et non-ingérence de ‘Etat:
le principe de subsidiarité aux fondements de l’histoire européene, PUF, Paris,
1992.
13. Ibid., p. 14.
14. Cf. Antoine Winckler, “Description d’une crise ou crise d’une description?”,
Le Débat, no. 87, nov.-dec. 1995, p. 59-73. With references to the works of
some historians specialised in medieval law and politics: O. Gierke, Q. Skinner,
W. Ulmann etc.
15. On Althusius and his Politica, cf. Ch. Millon-Delsol, L’Etat subsidiaire, 1992,
p. 45 sq. The crucial importance of Althusius’s thought for federalism had
been noticed by Denis de Rougemont, L’avenir c’est notre affaire, Paris, 1977.
16. Denis de Rougemont, L’aventure occidentale de l’homme, Paris, 1957, p. 55
sq, 85 sq, 161 sq. Also cf. C. Noica, infra, note 97.
17. Ibid., p. 57 sq, 62 sq.
18. K. Jaspers, Vom Ursprung und Ziel der Geschichte (1949) and the documents
of the 1983 seminar edited by S. N. Eisenstadt, The Origins and Diversity of
Axial Age Civilisations, New York University Press, 1986.
19. Denis de Rougemont, L’aventure occidentale de l’homme, Paris, 1957, p. 78.
20. Ibid., p. 94 sq.
21. Millon-Delsol, op. cit., p. 193, 217.
22. Michael Novak, “Ex pluribus unum: Perspectives of European Common
Cultural Action for Unity and Pluralism”, in : The Common Christian Roots of
the European Nations. An International Colloquium in the Vatican, 3-7
November. 1981, Le Monnier-Florence, 1982, p. 245-252, here p. 251. There
are seven “stamps” of European spirit: 1) pluralism; 2) person; 3) consentual
community; 4) emergent possibility (history is open, but not determined,
progress in contingent); 5) sin, conteracted through 6) separation of powers
and triple-one division of political, economic and moral-cultural systems,
leading to pluralist institutions; and 7) commercial and industrial skills
extremely necessary given the demographical explosion and multimedia
culture.
23. Michael Novak, Morality, Christianity and Democracy, IEA Healthal Welfare
Unit, London, 1990, p. 13.
24. Ibid., p. 13-14.
25. Cf. Paul Valery, the essay “Libertatea spiritului” (1939) in Criza spiritului ºi
alte eseuri, 1996, p. 100 sq.
26. M. Novak, Morality, Christianity and Democracy, 1990, p. 14-22.
230
IOAN ICÃ, JR.
27. Isaiah Berlin, “Two Concepts of Liberty” (1958), in: Four Essays on Liberty,
Oxford, 1969; Romanian translation by L. ªtefan-Scalat, Humanitas, 1996, p.
200sq; cf. the C. Preda’s review in Polis nr.1/1996, p. 183 sq.
28. M. Novak, op. cit., p. 23.
29. Cf. Dominique Bocquet, “Le paradoxe de l’Europe politique”, Le Débat no.87,
nov.-dec. 1995, p. 50-58.
30. Cf. Perry Anderson, “Sous le signe du provisoire”, Le Débat no. 91, sept.-oct.
1996, p. 115-133, analysing the books of Alain Milward (The Reconstruction
of Europe, London, 1984, and The European Rescue of the Nation-State,
London, 1994). The latter is a supporter of the “neo-realist” outlook in
explaining the process of European construction. According to this perspective,
European integration was based on a plan of the founding nation-states founded
on the similarity and compatibility of social-economic interests and democratic
consensus, and was consequently meant to strengthen and not to weaken the
nation-state. The European Union would be in this case a mere
institutionalisation of an inter-government conference. The “neo-realist”
outlook is opposed to the “neo-functionalist” one promoted by one of its
main architects in the 50s, Jean Monnet, according to whom European
unification will be the result of a process of creation and development of
communal institutions, the gradual accumulation of which will turn the
“community” into a “union”, respectively, into a supranational democratic
federation. Cf. Paul Thibaud, “Jean Monnet, entrepreneur en politique”, Le
Débat no. 97, sept.-oct. 1996, p. 142-162. For the conflict between federalists
and inter-governmentalists from a federalist perspective, cf. Martin Holland,
European Integration. From Community to Union,London, 1993 [fragments
translated into Romanian in Polis nr. 3/1995 (special issue dedicated to
Instituþiile Uniunii Europene), p. 5-46].
31. Cf. the debate on “L’Europe sera-t-elle allemande?” “Allemagne - un ‘phare’
pour l’Europe?” in Esprit, no. 221, mai 1996; Marc Olivier Padis, “Au coeur
du débat europeén” (p. 5-9), L. Debattre, “La logique allemande” (p. 10-23),
and especially Paul Thibaud, “L’Europe allemande... définitivement?” (p.
53-62).
32. Jean François-Poncet, “Désembourber l’Europe”, Commentaire no. 68, hiver
1994-1995, p. 797-801.
33. D. Boquet, op. cit., p. 54, 53.
34. Henri Prévot, “La fin de la ‘méthode Monnet’”, Esprit no. 221, mai 1996, p.
168-172.
35. “Le moment et la méthode: entretien avec Jacques Delors”, Le Débat no. 83,
jan.-fevr., 1995 (issue dedicated to the topic “L’Europe de Delors, l’Europe
après Delors”), p. 22.
36. Bela Farago, “L’Europe, empire introuvable?”, Le Débat, no. 83, jan.-fevr.,
1995, p. 42-58.
231
37. Bela Farago, “Le deficit politique de l’Europe”, Le Débat, no. 87, nov.-dec.,
1995 [dedicated to the topic “Nation, federation - quelle Europe?”], p. 26-43.
Bela Farago’s essay is critically analysed in the same issue by Olivier Beaud
(p. 44-49) and Antoine Winckler (p. 59-73), the debate being concluded with
the succint considerations of the same Bela Farago, “Exorciser les voeux pieux”
(p. 74-81).
38. Ibid., p. 43 (Bela Farago).
39. Ibid., p. 78 (Bela Farago).
40. Ibid., p. 72, 68 sq (A. Winckler).
41. J. Delors, Le Débat no. 83, 1995, p. 17-19 and P. Thibaud, Esprit no. 221,
1996, p. 63-64.
42. P. Manent, “La démocratie sans la nation?”, Commentaire no. 76, été 1996,
p. 569-575.
43. P. Thibaud, op. cit., p. 64.
44. J. Delors, op. cit., p. 20.
45. Ibidem.
46. Cf. the essays from the massive group (327 p.) recently dedicated by the Esprit
review, no. 233, juin 1997, to the topic “Le temps des religions sans Dieu”.
For the following pages we shall use the description of the overall situation
from the introductory synthesis essays (p. 4-6) and the conclusive ones (p.
321-327), as well as the useful survey of Jean-Claude Eslin, p. 7-19.
47. Alexis de Tocqueville, Despre democraþie în America II (1840) partea I, cap.
VII; Romanian translation, Humanitas, Bucureºti, vol. II, p. 37-38.
48. Francis Fukuyama, “The End of History?”, in the American foreign policy
review The National Interest, summer 1989, with comments by Alan Bloom,
Irving Kristol, Pierre Hassner a.o. French translation in Commentaire no. 47,
automme 1989; Romanian translation by D. Bercea, Sfârºitul istoriei?, Ed.
Vremea, Bucureºti, 1994.
49. Francis Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man, New York, 1992;
Romanian translation: Sfârºitul istoriei ºi ultimul om, Paideia, Bucureºti, 1994.
50. Alexander Kojève, Introduction à la lecture de Hegel, Paris, 1947; Romanian
summary by E. Pastenague: Introducere în lectura lui Hegel, Editura Apostrof,
Cluj, 1996. Cf. Dominique Duffret, A. Kojève: La philosophie, l’état, la fin de
la philosophie, Paris, 1990.
51. Fukuyama, Sfârºitul istoriei? I, p. 15.
52. P. Hassner, in Fukuyama, Sfârºitul istoriei?, p. 64.
53. Cf. Fukuyama, Sfârºitul istoriei ºi ultimul om, cap. 13-19, p. 129 sq. Cf.
Catharina Zuckert, Understanding the Political Spirit: Philosophical
Investigations from Socrates to Nietzsche, Yale University Press, 1988.
54. Fukuyama, ibid., cap. 17, p. 164.
55. Alan Bloom, ibid., p. 58, 53.
56. Irving Kristol, in Fukuyama, Sfârºitul istoriei?, p. 75.
57. Cf. Léo Strauss, De la tyrannie, Gallimard, 1954; A. Kojève, Tyrannie et sagesse
(p. 215-280) - L. Strauss, Mise au point (p. 283-344).
232
IOAN ICÃ, JR.
58. Alan Bloom, in Fukuyama, Sfârºitul istoriei?, p. 57.
59. Léo Strauss, De la tyrannie, Paris, 1954, p. 339-340 (Mise au point).
60. Samuel Huntington, “Will Civilisations Clash?”, Foreign Affairs, 1993, French
e
translation in Commentaire, no. 66, été 1994 (Le monde au XXI siècle?), p.
238-257: “Le choc des civilisations?”. With critical comments by Daniel Bell,
Alain Besançon, Pierre Hassner, Giuseppe Sacco, Francis Fukuyama a.o.
61. Ibid., p. 242.
62. Paul Valery, the essay “Criza spiritului” (1919) in Criza spiritului ºi alte eseuri,
Polirom, Iaºi, 1996, p. 266-272.
63. The essay “Reflecþii despre mãreþia ºi decadenþa Europei”, ibid., p. 6-7.
64. “Divagaþia despre libertate” (1938), ibid., p. 31.
65. “Nota (sau Europeanul”, ibid., p. 227-240.
66. This is included in a wide study on Europa ºi post-Europa. Epoca postmodernã
ºi problemele ei spirituale (late 60s, early 70s), ideas developed within the
private seminars of 1973-1975, the lectures and debates of which circulated
underground (samizdat) in Prague under the titles: Plato and Europe (summer
seminar 1973) (translation by Erika Abrams, Platon et l’Europe, Verdier, 1983)
and Heretic Essays in the Philosophy of History (1975) edited by the Institut
für die Wissenscheften vom Menschen (Wien) in the series Jan Patocka
Ausgewälte Werke: Ketzerische Essais zur Geschichte der Philosophie und
ergänzende Schriften (hg. v. K. Nellen u. J. Nemec), Klett-Cotta, Stuttgart,
1988. Cf. Olivier Mongin, “Jan Patocka, notre contemporain”, Esprit, no. 220,
avril, 1996, p. 175-176.
67. Ketzerische Essais, p. 52 sq.
68. Platon et l’Europe, p. 149.
69. Without explicitly quoting him, Patocka describes under other forms “the
struggle for rebirth” (creator of the “master-slave” relation) as a mechanism of
history theorised by Hegel in his Phänomenologie des Geistes (1806).
70. Ketzerische Essais, p. 64-68.
71. Ibid., p. 265-285; Platon et l’Europe, passim.
72. Ibid., p. 183 sq.
73. Ibid., p. 109 sq.
74. Ibid., p. 140 sq. In 1964, Emil Cioran was giving, in his La chute dans le
temps, the amazingly similar diagnosis of a second, unavoidable and final
fall of mankind: after the paradisiac fall in time, it is now experiencing the
“fall from time into the inert, in the inferno of the sub-temporal historical
time, which is the * that does not move, this tension in monotony, this reversed
eternity which opens towards nothing, not even towards death”.
75. Ibid., p. 146 sq.
76. Ibid., p. 101-102, 162.
77. Platon et l’Europe, p. 138-159.
78. Ibid., p. 79.
79. Cf. for details Keith Hitchins, Romania: 1866-1947, Oxford University Press,
1994; Romanian translation: Românii: 1866-1947, Humanitas, Bucureºti,
233
1996, cap. VII, p. 311-358. The most comprehensive anthology with the texts
of the “great debate” is the one edited by Iordan Chimet: Dreptul la memorie,
Ed. Dacia, Cluj, 1992-1993, vol. I-IV.
80. Details in Zigu Ornea, Tradiþionalism ºi modernitate în deceniul al treilea,
Bucureºti, 1980, and Anii ‘30. Extrema dreaptã româneascã, Bucureºti, 1995.
81. Virgil Nemoianu, Diagnostic românesc: trecut, prezent, viitor, the anthology
of Iordan Chimet (ed.), Momentul adevãrului, Editura Dacia, Cluj, 1996, p.
134-142, here p. 139. This dense text dated “Washington D.C., December
1989” offers the most interesting and challenging re-evaluation of the
Romanian culture of the years 1860-1950 made in the recent years. Its essential
merit is that of going beyond the extreme polarisation in the evaluation of the
creativity of Romanian philosophers and traditionalist intellectuals within the
clichés of the Manicheist ideology of the “reactionary-progressive” kind
cultivated by their democrat or communist opponents. The right-wing or
nationalist stance of some remarkable “reactionary” thinkers on the line of M.
Eminescu or N. Ionescu, like for instance L. Blaga, M. Eliade, C. Noica a.o.,
be it firm or opportunist, must be (just like in the case of Heidegger, for instance)
carefully dissociated from their non-conventional and daring ideas which,
when read in an epistemological key, prove to be of surprising actuality,
anticipating similar intentions manifested in the Western thought of the last
decades (cf. Virgil Nemoianu, A Theory of the Secondary. Literature, Progress
and Reaction, John Hopkins University Press, 1989; Romanian translation by
L.S. Câmpeanu: O teorie a secundarului, Ed. Univers, Bucureºti, 1997, p.
168 sq = cap. 9: Dialectics of Imperfection: Girard, Blaga, Serres). Considered
from a processual and dynamic point of view, rather than from a particular
and static one, as interaction in the context as “continuous debate started
around 1840” “in the general context of the developing societies everywhere”,
the Romanian intellectual debate of the pre-communist century “becomes
much more clear, but also escapes the full and radical condemnations” (p.
140, 139). Consequently, the “debational” perspective of Professor Nemoianu
allows one to avoid in interpretation the idolatric exaltations as well as the
iconoclast exaggerations, giving a calm, lucid perspective, free of any
resentment. “Impressive, above all, is the diversity of the debate: from the
left-wing considerations of Stere, Dobrogeanu-Gherea, ªerban Voinea and
Ibrãileanu, to the liberal centrism of Zeletin and Lovinescu, to the
conservatorism of Maiorescu and Blaga, through the nationalist populism of
Iorga or the integrating or progressive “peasant”-ism of Spiru Haret, Gusti or
Madgearu, to the ontological localism of Noica or the rationalist idealism of
Vianu, and to the existentialist vitalism of Eliade or Cioran - a gallery of creative
and original voices” (p. 140).
82. Ibidem, p. 136.
83. Virgil Nemoianu, “Neoplatonism ºi culturã românã” (conference at the New
Europe College, May 1995), Revista de istorie ºi teorie literarã, 43 (1995), no.
3-4, p. 261-271.
234
IOAN ICÃ, JR.
84. Virgil Nemoianu, “Mihai ªora and the Traditions of Romanian Philosophy”,
Review of Metaphysics, 43 (March 1990), p. 591-605, here p. 594; Romanian
translation by Mona and Sorin Antohi: “Mihai ªora ºi tradiþiile filozofiei
româneºti”, in S. Antohi and A. Crãiuþu (coord.), Dialog ºi libertate. Eseuri în
onoarea lui Mihai ªora, Nemira, Bucureºti, 1997, p. 186-201, here p. 189.
85. Ibid., p. 596-600; Romanian translation p. 190-194.
86. Mircea Eliade, “Destinul culturii româneºti” (article from the exile, 1949), in
Impotriva deznãdejdii. Publicistica exilului, Humanitas, Bucureºti, 1992, p.
28-37, here p. 35, 49-50.
87. Idem, “Probleme de culturã româneascã” (1951), ibid., p. 73-79, here p. 76.
88. Id., “Infelix culpa” (1952), ibid., p. 147-150.
89. Id., “Europa ºi cortina de fier” (1952), ibid., p. 151-160. The entire article is a
remarcable avant la lettre reply to the “Huntington doctrine”. “The Iron Curtain
corresponds only to a balance of forces and to nothing more”, “it does not
separate two ‘worlds’, two opposed lifestyles of two opposed ‘philosophies’”.
“The East is not necessarily a bloc because the dominant religion is the
Orthodox one”, as the Orthodox churches maintain their distinctive features.
“There is no exclusive solidarity anywhere in Eastern Europe”, but only
“multiple cultural solidarities”.
90. Id., “Destinul culturii româneºti” (1953), ibid., p. 164-176, here p. 176.
91. The popularity of the Noica model was imposed by the enormous success of
the two books edited by Gabriel Liiceanu, Jurnalul de la Pãltiniº 1977-1981,
un model paideic în cultura umanistã, Bucureºti, 1983, and Epistolar, Bucureºti,
1987, with the main reactions to the Jurnal.
92. Presented in a speculative form in two versions: “Încercare asupra filosofiei
tradiþionale” (1950) and “Tratat de ontologie” (1980), both published in the
volume Devenirea întru fiinþã, Editura ªtiinþificã, 1981.
93. Cf. Constantin Noica, Sentimentul românesc al fiinþei, Editura Eminescu,
Bucureºti, 1978. For a basic criticism from a Heideggerian angle of Noica’s
entire approach attempting to perform a metaphysical synthesis between being
and becoming, itself expression of the transcendent harmony between tradition
and modernity, as solution to the identity crisis of Romanian culture, see
Claude Karnoouh, L’invention du peuple. Chroniques de Roumanie, Arcantère,
1990; Romanian translation: Românii. Tipologie ºi mentalitãþi, Humanitas,
Bucureºti, 1994, p. 171 sq (chapter: “C. Noica, metafizician al
ethniei-naþiune”). For the French anthropologist tradition and modernity, state
and city are basically incompatible, each belonging to a different “age of
being”.
94. Modelul cultural european, Humanitas, Bucureºti, 1993. This is the last book
of the philosopher and had been published in the form of articles in the cultural
press of the years 1986-1987. To be found in the German version of G. Scherg:
De dignitate Europae, Editura Kriterion, Bucureºti, 1988.
235
95. Solutions already presented in the article “Unu ºi multiplu” published in:
Izvoare de filosofie. Culegere de studii ºi texte, ed. C. Floru, C. Noica and M.
Vulcãnescu, Bucureºti, 1942, p. 233-241.
96. Modelul cultural european, 1993, p. 42 sq.
97. Ibid., p. 64 sq. Also cf. Jurnal de idei, Humanitas, Bucureºti, 1990, p. 337:
“Europe begins in 325 with the Council of Nicaea. This gives the model.
Faustian Europe will perish, as it has been foreseen, but that of pluralism in
being will not. The Norse replaced Europe in the year 1000 and made it more
dynamic. But it continues to be the trinitarian one. This remained in the deep
structure. Christianism is the “religion of religions” and Europe the culture of
cultures”.
98. “The embodiment (G-I) is the core of our world. Philosophy follows the model
of Christ. I know no other divinity than Jesus Christ. He gives truth to history
and to speculative thought” (Jurnal de idei, p. 366). “The absolute synalethism,
that of divinity (G and D and I)” (ibid., p. 377). “People are divided into
believers and arians. The former believe in the multiple One (Trinity), the
latter in One and multiple, or only in the multiple, the only one that can be
“seen”. These are the enlightened ones, but know nothing of the Taborite
light of good philosophy” (ibid., p. 361).
99. Modelul cultural european, p. 54 sq.
100. Ibid., p. 82 sq, ch. IX-XVII.
101. Ibid., p. 177 sq, ch. XVIII-XIX.
102. Ibid., p. 185.
103. Jurnal de idei, p. 290.
104. Ibid., p. 373.
105. Cf. Nicolae Steinhardt’s article, “The Cathars form Pãltiniº” (Familia,
decembrie 1983), also included in: G. Liiceanu, Epistolar, 1987, p. 324-327.
106. Cf. the essay of Gabriel Andeescu, “Resurecþia spiritualã la Pãltiniº” (nov.-dec.
1986), published in: Spre o filosofie a dizidenþei, Editura Litera, 1992, p.
78-93.
107. Andrei Pleºu in Gabriel Liiceanu, “Despre Constantin Noica” (interview
with R. Þurcanu), Euphorion (Sibiu), nr. 6-8/1991, p. 16, 26.
108. Cf. the pathetic “Scrisoare cãtre un intelectual occidental” set as preface to
Modelul cultural european (1993, p. 7-10), the harsh reproofs of which caused
the indignation of pro-European intellectuals (Ion Negoiþescu, Virgil Ierunca,
Adrian Marino).
109. Gabriel Liiceanu, Jurnalul de la Pãltiniº, 1983, p. 230 sq. Also cf. Claude
Karnoouh’s criticism, supra, note 93.
110. Adrian Marino, Pentru Europa. Integrarea României. Aspecte ideologice ºi
culturale, Polirom, Iaºi, 1996; Gabriel Andreescu, cf. infra, note 112; Alina
Mungiu, “Identitate politicã româneascã ºi identitate europeanã”, Cuvântul
nr. 12/1995 also published in Revenirea în Europa (infra, note 112), p. 281-291
and Momentul adevãrului (supra, note 81), p. 253-260. The support of this
unconditional Europeanisation is accompanied by a harsh criticism of Nae
236
IOAN ICÃ, JR.
Ionescu’s traditionalist thought and of his school represented by P. Þuþea and
N. Ionescu, accused of “reactionary” (anti-progressive) thinking, of
“nationalism”, “anti-European attitude”, “anacronism” and “bad” influence
upon the present intellectual circles, cf. the polemic essays of Al. George and
M. Petreu (vs. N. Ionescu) or A. Marino (vs. N. Ionescu, Þuþea, Noica). “Teorii
antieuropene”, “Cazul Noica”, in the chapter “Modele fictive, modele nocive”
of the anthology Momentul adevãrului, p. 294-382. Perfectly legitimate and
natural, the critical debate of the “reactionary” Romanian thinkers of the
inter-war generation is a useful and necessary approach. Unfortunately, it
often unjustly combines thought with the political involvement and the private
opinions of the thinkers and often degenerates in an ideological trial with
inquisitorial overtones resulting in anathemae and exclusions passed in the
name of a “canon” of in triumphant liberal-democratic “vulgata”. The result
of these “disclosures is a profound understanding, an unacceptable
impoverishment of the Romanian cultural landscape in which only the
“politically correct” authors could find a place”.
111. For instance, Octavian Paler, Alexandru Paleologu, cf. infra, note 112.
112. See the articles in A. Marino’s anthology, Revenirea în Europa. Idei ºi
controverse româneºti 1990-1995, Editura Aius, Craiova, 1995, 448 p. and
the recent debate of 1995-1996 between G. Andreescu, on the one hand,
and O. Paler and Al. Paleologu, on the other, partially included in Gabriel
Andreescu’s book, Naþionaliºti, antinaþionaliºti. O polemicã în publicistica
româneascã, Polirom, Iaºi, 1996.
113. Cf. Andrei Pleºu, interview by M. Sin in the 22 magazine, Nov. 1992, also
published in Revenirea în Europa, 1996, p. 311-315.
114. Virgil Nemoianu, “Imitaþie ºi identitate”, 22 magazine, nr. 355 (49), 1996,
p. 17-18.
115. Claude Karnoouh, “Mai existã oare Europa?” (May 1993), as introduction to
the volume of essays Adio diferenþei. Eseu asupra modernitãþii târzii [= Adieu
à la difference, Arcantère, 1993], Editura Dacia, Cluj, 1994, p. 7-19.
116. Cf. Virgil Nemoianu, “Ce rost are miºcarea creºtin-democratã?”, 22 magazine,
nr. 361, ian. 1997.
117. Andrei Pleºu, “De la ‘Europa liberã’ la ‘Europa unitã’”, Dilema nr. 124, mai
1995, also published in Chipuri ºi mãºti ale tranziþiei, Humanitas, Bucureºti,
1996, p. 282-284.
118. “Europa între douã infirmitãþi”, Dilema nr. 45, nov. 1993, and in Chipuri ºi
mãºti..., p. 237-239.
119. “Noua ºi vechea Europã”, Dilema nr. 44, nov. 1993, and in Chipuri ºi mãºti...,
p. 233-236.
120. Ibid., p. 236.
237
ION MANOLESCU
Ph.D., University of Bucharest, 2000
Dissertation: The Dictatorship of the Image in Postmodernism
Assistant Professor, Faculty of Letters, University of Bucharest
Editor of Vineri, the monthly cultural supplement of the Dilema magazine,
Bucharest, 1997-present
Member of the Romanian Association of Comparative Literature
Founding member of ASPRO (Professional Writers’ Association of Romania)
Advanced Study Fellow at the Netherlands Institute for Advanced Study in the
Humanities and Social Sciences (NIAS), Wassenaar, 1998
First Prize of the Amfiteatru magazine, for short story, 1988
First prize of “Morning Fictional Encounters”, Iaºi, for short story, 1988
Debut Prize for the novel Alexandru awarded by the Univers Publishing
House, 1996, and at the National Book Fair, Cluj-Napoca, 1998
Books:
Alexandru. Bucharest: Univers, 1998
Happenings in Our Little Town. Bucharest: Cartea Româneascã, 1993
Fictions. Bucharest: Litera, 1992
Numerous articles, essays, and works of fiction published in Romania and
abroad (Netherlands, USA). Editor and translator.
VISUAL TECHNIQUES IN POSTMODERN
LITERATURE. TOWARDS AN
INTERDISCIPLINARY APPROACH OF
FICTIONAL PERSPECTIVE
Introduction
The present study focuses on two main theories of narrative and iconic
perspective, as identified in the post-modern fiction of American and
European writers. The first one is the deconstructive theory, showing reality
as a self-referential, undecidable process, while image becomes its own
mirror or a series of self-reflecting mirrors, deprived of any original source.
The second one is the fractal theory, emphasizing the chaotic, yet ordered
patterns of reality; here, image is perceived in its shattered, irregular textual
and iconic design.
Both parts of the study (A Voyage on the Deconstructive Continent
and A Voyage on the Fractal Continent) are conceived as multi-cultural,
inter-disciplinary scientific debates, which cross the borders of literature
and lead to the formation of new aesthetic, philosophic and psychological
geographies. They are meant to deal at the same time with fictional
examples of visual structures specifically considered post-modern, and
with the scientific grounds these structures rely on.
As a conclusion of the study, post-modern fiction is to be seen as part
of a wider aesthetic and existential attitude, characterized by the
acceleration of perception and the hybridization of perspectives. Thus,
post-modern literature may be regarded as a spectacular visual melting-pot,
connected to the sensibility of both today and tomorrow.
241
1. A Voyage on the Deconstructive Continent
The deconstructive continent does not really exist, since visiting it for
a thorough exploration implies undermining the very geography it is based
on: its theoretical boundaries get diluted, its philosophical shapes become
geometrically variable, while its literary topography is lost in a virtual,
post-modern map. Any investigation, of whatever kind, becomes a part of
the paradox which it systematically enhances by attempting to solve it. In
a similar way, by means of deconstructive contamination, any critical
attempt turns into a meta-critical one, itself related to its meta-meta-critical
referent. This paradoxical situation may be perceived as a natural
consequence of the phenomenon of intertextuality, such as it was defined
by the members of the Tel Quel group (Kristeva, 1968; Sollers, 1968).
Therefore, in the post-modern age (considered as a cultural period in
the second half of the 20 th century), one may discover that the very
enunciation of the most elementary theoretical or critical matter is bound
to cross an almost endless network of notes and references. Consequently,
any account is to be conceived as an infinite set of quotations and as a
bricolage of quotations. Even this plain, unimportant remark you are
reading this very moment could be related to a substantially large number
of post-modern critical references, meant to sustain it!
Although developed in the mid-sixties, the theoretical innovations
brought in by deconstruction to the post-modern way of thinking and
understanding art are still quite uncomfortable to us, no matter the nature
of their implications: methodological as well as hermeneutical, axiological
as well as ontological, logical as well as literary. Connected to fields as
various as philosophy, linguistics, politics, gender and literature,
deconstruction is highly illustrative for its own mixed, ambiguous status:
it has been -and still is- interpreted either as current or attitude, method or
position, technique or strategy (Derrida, 1972 a; Hartman, 1981; Culler,
1982 etc.).
Yet more troubling for our common sense would be the suggestion
underlying the theoretical contributions of the so-called “cognitive
philosophers”. They assert the fact that our rational structures are based
on mise-en-abîme-like mechanisms which we may be able to identify in
a process similar to that of deconstruction; hence, there would supposedly
exist some kind of a deconstructive DNA of the human mind, which we
could recognize, without ever fully “decoding” its pattern (Dennett, 1978;
Hofstadter, 1979).
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ION MANOLESCU
In order to see whether deconstruction represents, in itself, a theory of
perspective, or if it merely provides a technical support for such a theory,
we should first define the sets of problems on which it exerts its influence,
as well as its immediate consequences.
The first main problem issued by deconstruction is the questioning of
concepts such as truth and certitude. Embodying one of the most frequently
used post-modern principles, fragmentarism (Hassan, 1982, and especially
1990, pp. 18-23), deconstruction enforces an entropic perception of the
notion of truth, itself used in order to criticize and undermine what is
consensually regarded as truth (1). Since deconstruction does not call for
a superior logical principle, but uses the very principle it deconstructs,
truth is being considered both indispensable and optional; in other words,
it becomes a fluctuating unit. Such theoretical grounds may sound alarming
with respect to philosophy and religion; as far as literature is concerned,
they are appealingly welcome. Both the pulverization of “great truths”,
and the relativization of literary certitudes have generated decisive cultural
reaction against many long-lasting historical prejudices (the elitist
prejudice, or the prejudice of the closed, inertial canon). At the same
time, during the past four or five decades, understanding literature as a
display of conflicting options and chaotic tensions has allowed us to
reinterpret in a post-modern fashion the entire process of cultural
production. To put it bluntly, by fragmenting acquired certitudes and
preconceived ideas, deconstruction enabled literary historians and theorists
to redefine their object of study and reconstruct it beyond any imaginable,
deterministic limits.
The second main problem which deconstruction deals with in an
unconventional way is that of meaning. No matter if they refer to linguistic
or literary meaning, the deconstructive philosophers proclaim a violent
dismissal of any kind of consensus (Derrida, 1972 a; Lyotard, 1979, 1986).
They shatter hierarchies traditionally accepted as stable, by asserting that
meaning, as well as text and reading, is being produced within a flexible
process of contextualization, decontextualization and recontextualization.
As a matter of fact, the discovery of the principles of semantic instability
and unavailability does not belong to deconstructive philosophy, but to
linguistics and literary criticism. It may start with the elementary Saussurian
theory of the linguistic sign’s arbitrary character, go further to the Tel-Quel
notion of intertextuality and reach the more recent definitions of the
transactional text (Holland, 1968) and of the text as reader (Prince, 1980)
elaborated by reader-response criticism (2).
243
Rather unsurprisingly, most of the theoretical concepts used by
reader-response critics, as well as by aestheticians of reception of the
so-called Konstanz School, can be transferred from the field of literary
studies to that of semantics. Such is the case with the “transactionality” of
the literary text (Holland, 1968, p.123), the “virtuality” of the literary work
(Iser, 1980, p.106) or the “indeterminance” and “unconclusiveness” of
reading (Freund, 1987, pp.152-53). Consequently, from the viewpoint of
contemporary linguistics and philosophy, meaning becomes a negotiable
unit, largely depending on the way in which it deconstructs the very
principles it is constructed on. If deconstructing a discourse implies showing
“how it undermines the philosophy it presupposes or the hierarchical
oppositions it is based on”, while identifying within the text the rhetorical
operations which provide the basis of argumentation (Culler, 1982, p.86),
then the deconstruction of linguistic or literary meaning may be referred
to as a potentially irrational, schizoid operation. Ultimately, both meaning
and truth would turn into concepts of perspective, as easy to manipulate
as a Rubik cube.
However, what is at stake here, the equally profound and alarming
challenge of deconstructive philosophy, is not the urge to bring back into
attention the ever-lasting problem of perceptive subjectivity. The essential
issue of deconstruction lies at the same time in the radical questioning of
the most stable premises of our conscious mental activities, and in the
enunciation of a valid alternative for these activities. The extended version
of the antique Epimenides paradox (also known as the liar’s paradox) may
be regarded as a convincing example of relativization of certitudes, which
clearly disturbs our faith in the unshrugging stability of human logics:
The following sentence is false. The preceding sentence is true.
(Hofstadter, 1989, p.21)
Our ability to identify the paradox, without being able to provide a
satisfactory explanation of the neuro-psychological, semantic or logical
mechanisms which led to its existence, suggests that human thinking may
be structured on random permutations on different levels. When
deconstructing a paradox, one can notice that its “proper” functioning
depends on the contradictory, inter-changeable relation between an
informational/semantic excess and a similar kind of omission. For instance,
the graphic paradox of M.C. Escher’s hands drawing each other (Tekenen,
1948) is built up at the same time on the excess of realism of the two
hands and on the pictural absence of the “real” hand creating them.
244
ION MANOLESCU
Conceived “three-dimensionally” in comparison to the “bi-dimensional”
sheet of paper (pinned to a table) on which they draw each other, these
two self-recycling hands miss the graphic Big-Bang which would either
cancel, or justify their frozen perpetuum mobile state (3). A third, “real”
hand (Escher’s one, for example), drawing the other two “artificial”/
”artifactial” hands and suddenly appearing as an extension of a camera
which took simultaneous shots of the lithography, its contents and the
creator-operator’s arm would have probably offered a partial solution to
the paradox.
The same difficulties in defining a stable semantic dimension can be
encountered in several short stories of Romanian author I.L.Caragiale,
notably Inspecþiune, published in 1900. Here, the suicide of a bank
employee one day before a routine financial inspection generates several
contradictory suppositions among his closest friends. The mystery of the
suicide is the more inexplicable as the employee, Mr.Anghelache, had an
irreproachable reputation. Even more troubling is the result of the financial
investigation: not only did Mr.Anghelache carefully keep all the money
he was supposed to handle, but he also put an extra golden nickel in the
safe deposit, “wrapped up in a cigarette paper” (Caragiale, 1960, p.190).
Curiously enough, the story’s excess of information -the existence of this
golden coin, as some kind of a “narrative indication of the employee’s
honesty” (F. Manolescu, 1983, p.282) - is connected to an essential
narrative omission: what logic leads Mr.Anghelache’s actions? Since the
dead are not to be psychoanalysed, despite all the naive efforts of the
employee’s friends; since the logical/narrative networks of the story have
been deliberately short-circuited; since information has been suspended,
without being cancelled, Inspecþiune remains a brilliant example of
unsolvable fictional paradox (4). In a manner similar to that of Epimenide’s
paradox, as well as to Escher’s lithography, the narrative possibly of
displaying various permutations in Caragiale’s short story, between the
textual/semantic minimal and maximal structures, creates an
overwhelming feeling of logical dizziness.
Having reached this point, we can now assert that deconstruction is,
in itself, a theory of perspective. If deconstructing a sister of discourse
means to simultaneously analyse it from inside and outside and if
deconstructing a hierarchic sister means reversing its levels, then
deconstruction is a matter of repositioning perspectives and negotiating a
new contract with “reality”. These two characteristics are also specific to
postmodernism. Moreover, they have been discussed by several literary
245
theorists who, though they make use of different deconstructive techniques,
do not consider themselves as deconstructionists (see especially Kearney,
1988; McHale, 1992).
The repositioning of perspectives which happens in deconstruction
has at the same time ontological, epistemological and aesthetic
implications. Both Jacques Derrida and Paul de Man reverse the traditional
hierarchic relation between philosophy and other disciplines and seriously
question the predominant role of philosophy; in their opinion, the first
place within any systemic hierarchies is to be taken by literature (Derrida,
1967, 1972 a; de Man, 1983). They contend the hypothesis that, should
truth be regarded as fiction and serious language as a particular case of
unreliable language, then the historical, philosophical, psychoanalytical
discourses -and not literature- ought to be treated as deviant, parasitic
instances of language (Culler, 1982, p.181). Applying the category of the
“literary” to any kind of language, one may conclude that philosophy, for
example, represents a particular literary genre, quite close to poetry. This
assumption seems less outrageous if we accept that both these fields operate
with numerous meta-codifying, meta-significant elements. Ultimately, both
the strict “precision” of the philosophical language and the “liberty” of
the poetic language stand for the same mentally schizoid mechanism,
working as a creative act. In both these situations, the deviation from the
“proper” level of language (itself defined by means of fragile consensus)
or, in the terms of Romanian aesthetician Tudor Vianu, the drifting from
“transitivity” to “reflexivity” (Vianu, 1941, pp.15-21) refers to the effects
of a puzzling split taking place within our mind’s personal library. The
very use of the metaphor “mind’s library” in a context quite polemical to
the efficiency of poetic language represents a deconstructive self-recycling
cause and effect: the more we try to plead for a neutral, non-connotative
language, the less we should reject the “impure” elements of poetic
language. Or, to put it in psycho-cognitive terms, should we systematically
look for structures of human rationality and confirmation of their validity,
we would have to decompose these same structures by means of
non-rational criteria, in fragments hierarchically opposed to the truths
and rational certitudes they are based on.
Irrespective of the levels on which it operates, deconstruction creates
an implicit and at the same time explicit theory of hybridized perspective,
redefining the relation between reality and its representation. Its main
articulations are to be found in meta-perspectivism (Chinese boxes and
Matrioshka dolls perspectives), self-recycling perspectivism (Ouroboros
246
ION MANOLESCU
and Moebius perspectives) and hyper-perspectivism (virtual perspectives);
some theorists associated them to the concept of postmodernism (Hassan,
1990, pp.18-23).
On the ontological level, deconstruction shatters and reconstructs the
concept of mimesis, arguing that representation, and not its object, comes
first. Therefore, it states the superiority of the copy with respect to the
original. On such theoretical grounds, deconstructive philosophers
proclaim the existence of infinite series of imitations of the imitations
(Derrida, 1972 a, p.217). The original has vanished, coming to being
already as an imitation, and everything begins with a reproduction. In
Jonathan Culler’s words:
The mimetic relations may be regarded as intertextual: relations between
one representation and another, rather than between a textual imitation
and its non-textual original.
(1982, p.187)
The Derridean idea of the mimesis with no origins clearly illustrates
the deconstructive theory and method of the affirmation which becomes
its own negation. There is no longer a pre-existing truth to be reproduced,
since it has been replaced by the imitation of an imitation and the copy of
a copy whose original can never be traced (5). Hence, one may shape a
convincing post-modern paradigm of the “labyrinth of mirrors” (Kearney,
1988, p.17), relying on endless inter-plays and reflections.
The deconstructive hierarchical permutations also extend their
influence on the linguistic and literary levels. For instance, deconstruction
reverses the relation between use and mentioning and asserts that use is a
special case of mentioning. No matter how eager we were to “use” certain
expressions, we would simply mention them, that is, have them as
quotations (Culler, 1982, p.120). The validity of this phenomenon is testified
by the effects of “using” expressions such as “I love you” or “I adore you”
in everyday life. Lacking originality, losing their significance because of
excessive use, they belong to an infinite series of mirrored expressions,
like Juliet’s in Romeo and Juliet or Ali MacGraw’s in Love Story.
In psychology (to take another example), the deconstructive perspective
seems to embody the very basis of theory. Freud’s psychoanalysis, for
instance, relies on the deconstruction of several hierarchic oppositions:
real/imaginary; conscious/unconscious; manifest/latent; normal/
pathological. Although the first range of terms seems fundamental, it is
the definition of the second one which makes the understanding of the
“fundamental” terms possible (see Freud, 1904).
247
In literature, deconstruction deals with the mechanisms through which
texts generate effects in the area of meaning and truth, undermining both
these notions. Especially in his second edition of Blindness & Insight, Paul
de Man discusses the undecidable character of textual meaning and the
instability of the structures which validate texts. To him, there are no such
things as a priori privileged principles and there are no longer any structures
which may be considered exemplary for other structures; all the
assumptions regarding ontological hierarchization have been shrugged:
If we no longer take for granted the idea that a literary text can be reduced
to a finite meaning or set of meanings, viewing literature as an endless
process in which truth and falsehood are inextricably intertwined, then
the predominant criteria used in the history of literature (and generally
derived from genetic models) are no longer applicable.
(1983, p.ix)
Although de Man’s perception of the literary text and literary history
must be considered an extensive one (because of the supposed existence
of an archi-literature which determines its own particular historical,
anthropological, psycho-analytical instances and so on), his suggestion to
resort to forms of analysis oriented towards the dismemberment of the
stable concepts of meaning and textual identity may also be directed to
the field of literature, as an autonomous discipline. Hence, his theory of
the critical “blindness” would become not only a means to assert the
interdependence text/interpretation, but also a way to state the ontological
status of error within the production of literature and its investigation as a
particular genre:
The critic not only says something the work doesn’t say, but he even says
things he himself doesn’t want to say. The semantics of interpretation has
no epistemological consistency and therefore cannot be considered
scientific [...] The critics’ moments of greatest blindness with regard to
their own assertions are at the same time the moments of their greatest
insight.
(p.109)
The process of mapping perspective in postmodernism can not leave
apart the literary consequences of deconstruction. The use of paradoxes,
the recurrence of schizoid patterns, the paradigmatic value conferred to
error and hybridization are at the same time causes and effects of
post-modern literature. However, according to all deconstructionists, if
the effect -and not the cause- is to be considered as the origin (since it is
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ION MANOLESCU
what makes the cause be perceived as cause), then any post-modern
hermeneutics of perspective is bound to turn into aporia and unsolvable
alternance (6). The lack of any original “presence” (truth, reality, idea,
meaning etc.) which analysis or interpretation could be derived from stands
for the dictatorship of the mimesis without origins (Derrida, 1972 a) and
determines what we may call the universalization of undecidability.
The concept of undecidability was discovered by mathematician Kurt
Gödel, in his study “Uber Formal Unentscheidbare Satze der Principia
Mathematica und Verwandter Systeme I”. It is a part of the so-called
incompleteness theorem. According to it, a proposition is undecidable
when, having a system of axioms which govern a multiplicity, that
proposition neither is a consequence, nor does it contradict these axioms;
in other words, it is neither true, nor false with respect to them (Gödel,
1931, pp.173-98). Essentially, Gödel’s theorem asserts that any system
which is sufficiently “powerful” is by virtue of its “power” incomplete,
meaning that “there are well-formed strings which express true statements
of number theory, but which are not theorems” (Hofstadter, 1989, p.101).
In Douglas Hofstadter’s paraphrase of the theory, all consistent axiomatic
formulations of number theory include undecidable propositions (p.17).
In other terms, there are truths which belong to number theory that can
not be proved within the system.
Transferring Gödel’s theorem from mathematics and logic to literature,
we may bring up several puzzling hypothesises. One of them would be
related to the assumption that consistency is not an intrinsic characteristic
of any formal system, since it depends on the interpretation it is being
subjected to. However, if consistency becomes a matter of perspective,
then literature should be understood exclusively on the basis of reception.
Among the adepts of this theory, Stanley Fish is one of the most
“outrageous”. His famous book of essays, Is There a Text in This Class?
(1980), convincingly stands for the idea that the formal structures of the
literary text should first be replaced by the structures of reading experience,
then by the very process of interpretation:
I now believe that interpretation is the source of texts, facts and intentions.
Or to put it in another way, the entities that were once seen as competing
for the right to constrain inter pretation (text, reader, author) are now all
seen to be the products of interpretation.
(1980, pp.16-17)
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Another conclusion derived from the literary application of Gödel’s
theorem would be linked to the undecidability of imagination. Should
imagination be considered undecidable, since it is neither true, nor false,
then literature would be deprived of all identity, while authors, readers
and interpretations could mirror themselves in an endless intertextual,
inter-iconic process. In fact, this is the case of postmodernism, which
asserts that the modern belief in the authenticity of image and the validity
of text should be undermined. To paraphrase Richard Kearney, who shows
how reproduction has managed to replace the original in postmodernism
”The image which is, already existed “ (1988, p.4), we may perceive the
text as the space of its own recycling and literature as its own
deconstruction. Nothing arises, without having previously existed; nothing
is said, without having already been said. In a similar manner, hermeneutics
is based on the paradoxical use of its own pre-existence.
Ultimately, the application of Gödel’s theorem to deconstruction (or
vice-versa) illustrates the implosive effects of self-reflexivity and
meta-self-reflexivity, which lead to the dissolution of all demonstrative
validities. Deconstruction, much the same as literature, proves
undecidable. Thus, we reach an unsatisfactory theoretic model of literary
postmodernism, created by its own stroboscopic recycling. It is at the
same time a “strong” model, because of its universal invulnerability, and
a “weak” one, due to the ontological, epistemological, axiological vacuum
in which it is situated by its very invulnerability. Q.e.d., by means of a
demonstration which precedes itself in an infinite series of accolades...(7)
One last conclusion resulting from the literary use of Gödel’s theorem
concerns literature’s capability of confering aesthetic value to its own
insufficiency. More specific, within post-modern fiction, a partial,
insufficient method is able to become its very narrative or character.
Consequently, the deconstructive method frequently gains “aesthetic
personality” in the work of post-modern prose writers. Much the same as
it happened with the so-called literary textualism (which led to a significant
Romanian fictional trend, illustrated by writers such as Mircea Nedelciu
and Gheorghe Crãciun), deconstruction has shifted from theory to literary
practice. As a result, nowadays it has become a literary structure, theme,
motive and character. If we take into account the fact that deconstruction
has turned into some kind of fictional trend, we may just as well dismiss
the distinction between theory and literature. And is this not just the
supreme evidence that Gödel’s undecidability principle is as valid in art,
as in science?
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The literary applications of deconstruction are usually illustrations of a
logical, semantic, iconic or narrative reversal: between cause and effect,
interior and exterior, beginning and end. The deconstruction of these two
kinds of elements/structures results in a new narrative pattern:
self-referential, self-reflexive, meta-textual, self-recycling, anti-mimetic,
playful, hybrid, which has been defined as post-modern (see, among many
others, Hassan, 1982; Brooks, 1984; McHale, 1987). It can be related to a
new aesthetic sensibility, based on simultaneity, bricolage and perceptive
simulacrum (see mainly Baudrillard, 1981; 1983).
For the American writer Donald Barthelme, for example, the natural
connections between the beginning and the end of a narrative can be
shattered any time, according to a logic of infinite reversibility which
allows the text to “take off the mask of its own fictionality” (Federman,
1975, p.8), without revealing an original referent. As Barbara L. Roe points
out in a recent study of Barthelme’s short stories, we deal with a
“double-minded” author, who enjoys using narrative multiplications and
permutations; they often stand for several mixed shifts of perspective:
In these aural and visual complexes, a spatially designed text displaces
linear plot, an ahistorical presence supersedes character, and a collage
format fragments narrative viewpoint.
(1992, p.xiv)
In one of Barthelme’s short stories, called The Dolt and included in his
Sixty Stories volume, a character named Edgar concocts a story for his
written examination. During this process, he complains that his text has
no substance (no “middle”), but only an “oblique” end. The story’s narrator
(a paranoid alter-ego of Edgar’s) has his own opinion about writing texts.
He complains about the same identity problems as his character and ends
up his story by deconstructing its beginning:
I myself have these problems. The endings are elusive, the middle parts
nowhere to be found, but the hardest thing is to begin, to begin, to begin.
(1981, p.96)
In The Wound, one of Barthelme’s short stories in Forty Stories (1987),
the author does not merely deconstruct the relation between the beginning
and the end of the narrative, but also dismantles to such extent the relation
between originary reality and meta-reality, that distinctions are no longer
possible. In short, the story is being directed by a static narrative camera,
while all the characters move around it. The characters (the toreador, the
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mother, the lover), viewed on a meta-fictional stage inspired by
Hemingway’s stories, become themselves “directors”: they consider the
verbal images of the story which they are part of as an attractive movie,
which they can play back home. Hence, the narrative perspective of
Barthelme’s story turns into a flexible unit, directly depending on the
fluctuations of its own deconstruction: of the relation fictional story-movie,
author (creator)-characters, primal reference-subordinate references etc.
Several relevant fictional applications of deconstruction are also to be
noticed in the stories and novels of French author Michel Tournier. His
collection of stories Le medianoche amoureux (1989), translated in
Romanian three years later, provides many examples of deconstructive
textual or iconic perspectives.
In the opening story of the volume, omonimously called Le medianoche
amoureux, Tournier proceeds to the deconstruction of the relation between
“real” life and fictional life [the term real is being put here within quotation
marks because, in postmodernism, reality is perceived as desubstantialized,
deprived of its own valid, objective nucleus (see Baudrillard, 1970; 1976;
1981; 1983)]. Two youngsters, Nadege and Oudalle, listen carefully to
nineteen stories (the very number of stories in Tournier’s book!) which
influence their lives while being written:
They watched with great interest the slow transformation which those
successive fictions made them subject to. It seemed that the pessimistic,
destructive, mercilessly realistic novelettes were meant to separate them
and tear their relationship apart, while the optimistic, warm, welcoming
stories, on the contrary, did their best to reinforce their relationship.
(Tournier, 1992, pp.38-39)
In Ecrire debout, what is being deconstructed is the relation between
present and past and between the present narrator and his predecessors.
As a result, the former elements become the implicit cause of the later’s
existence: the prisoners from Clericourt send the narrator a desk “on which
Balzac, Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas used to write in the past”
(1992, p.162). By writing himself on that desk, while “standing up”, the
narrator implicitly becomes the ancestor of his own literary predecessors.
Nevertheless, the most interesting cases of logical deconstruction arising
from the disturbances of the past-present and cause-effect relations can
be related to science-fiction literature. They either belong to the
post-modern current, or precede it by far (but does it really matter, when
the present is bound to begin in the past and vice-versa?). We may recall
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here the time paradoxes on which are based stories and novels such as
those written by H.G.Wells (1895), Isaac Asimov (1955), Poul Anderson
(1965), Gerard Klein (1971). Needless to say, the mechanisms of the time
paradoxes and their specific functions in science-fiction literature have
been analysed by various critics and theorists, with or without being
associated to deconstruction. Romanian critic Florin Manolescu, for
instance, asserts that:
Imagination can resort to different strategies which allow the past or the
future to become accessible realities and remove the barrier of time [...]
When writers dismiss the law of time irreversibility, invent a way of
escaping historical determinism and try to solve the resulting logical
difficulties, time travel turns into a major theme of S.F. literature.
(1980, pp.113-14)
Coming back to Michel Tournier’s stories, we should discuss one of
the most sophisticated examples of deconstructive narrative and iconic
perspective in Lucie. Here, the narrator makes a seemingly uninteresting
digression about the intelligence and the sexuality of women:
The vagina rising to her head, it starts to feed on the brain.
(1992, pp.128-29)
What might seem at first sight a plain “politically incorrect” statement
is, in fact, a subtle deconstruction of female and textual body. Both rely
on atypical inversions, both are shaped through a redistribution of causes
and effects. Consequently, the female and textual bodies in Tournier’s
story perform a role depending on the fluctuating perspectives in which
they are viewed. Thus, they become inter-changeable elements of a
common body, subject to anamorphotic deconstructions.
This is precisely what happens in one of Gheorghe Crãciun’s stories,
Alte copii legalizate, where a sex scene takes place at the very point
where the female body’s anatomy intersects with a typographic text ripped
off the bedroom’s walls:
Let the light flow into the room, but let the walls remain dirty, stained, pencil
written, scribbled, pealed [...] Let her struggle, apparently helpless: shame on
you! Let your white teeth clinch her golden neck and hear her yell: you crazy
fool! Bite her and see her shudder in defeat, moaning with delight, falling
aside and pressing your lips with her merciless mouth with sharp canines. An
then tell her, later on: guess what I had in mind; what about a story in which
a man lies in a room like this one and stares at the walls...
(1988, p.8,13)
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The deconstruction of human or textual anatomies usually reflects the
post-modern writers’ intention to negotiate the relation between interior
and exterior, as well as their will to redesign logical, textual and iconic
perspectives according to new premises. For example, what we think of
as the most internal spaces of the body (vagina, stomach, intestines) would
in fact be some kind of external pockets, “folded” within. Transferring this
theory to literature, Jonathan Culler argues that the structure (and implicitly
the perspective) of a work can be related to the process of textual/iconic
“folding” and “unfolding”:
An exterior frame may function as the most intrinsic part of a work, folding
within it; and vice-versa, what seems the most interior, the central aspect
of a work will assume this role through the features which unfold it outside
and against the work.
(1982, pp.198-99)
A convincing illustration of this theory may be found in Michel
Tournier’s novel Vendredi ou les limbes du Pacifique (1967). Here, the
island Robinson is shipwrecked on is not inasmuch a territory of land and
vegetation, as a fictional world, a meta-island built up by the unfolding of
the intertextual, multi-cultural geographies of all the fictional/mythological
islands over the “real” island. Exploring the “real” island actually means
searching for the mechanisms of the entire universe in a deconstructive
manner:
However, that milky night, to Robinson the lightning’s effects seemed
reversed [...] One would say an ink wave flowed in the cave, then instantly
receded, without any visible trace.
(1977, p.128)
The protagonist’s sensations and perceptions are desubstantialized;
they turn into ghosts of mind, created by reversing experience and memory:
in Tournier’s novel, memories are included in direct experience, and not
the other way round. For instance, baking bread on the island allows the
hero to “rediscover” (in other words, to substantialize) his own smell and
touch, within a process which dismantles traditional deterministic relations:
bread precedes sediment, while sediment precedes smell!
Relying on several such fragments, Robinson’s story systematically folds
and unfolds itself, in a textual attempt to question the very limits of language
and meaning. However, language and meaning themselves are being
deconstructed, by a continuous dissolution of the signifier/signified relation.
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This makes the character’s efforts to provide an acceptable, coherent
perspective on himself or the events he is part of undecidable:
For a long time, my mind was filled with enough memories to provide
imagination with desirable, yet inexistent creatures. Now it’s all over. My
memories are bodiless. They are merely empty, faded pods. I say: woman,
breasts, hips, hips moving by my own free will. Nothing happens. The
magic of these words is no longer working.
(1977, p.137)
One last example of a post-modern anatomical deconstruction is related
to Ursula K. Le Guin’s science-fiction novel, The Left Hand of Darkness
(1969). Here, an ethnologist comes to the planet Gethen, which has an
androgynous population (meaning that, at the climax of their sexual cycle,
its members can become either men, or women). The story of the
ethnologist’s painful accommodation to the mentality and the rich feelings
of the Gethenians reflects not only the theme of the lack of human
communication in the future to come, but also that of actual sexual
prejudices and sexist attitudes. In a wider sense, it illustrates the idea of
cultural alienation.
The novel can be understood by deconstructing the oppositions male/
female, left/right, light/darkness; consequently, an adequate perception
of the former terms becomes impossible in the absence of the latter.
According to Ursula K. Le Guin’s deconstructive pattern, the androgynous
anatomy can be decoded by reinterpreting the title as Male Is the Left
Hand of Female (Scholes, 1985, p.127).
At the end of the voyage on the deconstructive continent, one may
rise several objections against the deconstructive principles. First of all,
the very limits of perspective are too loose: from whose point of view and
with respect to what can we create a theory of perspective? In other terms,
which is the subject, and which is the object of perspectivism? Is
deconstruction an instrument of research in post-modern perspectivism,
or is it simply a medium? As long as the principle of shifts among levels of
investigation (logical, narrative, iconic) represents at the same time a
deconstructive cause and effect; as long as postmodernism (no matter
how we perceive it: as a chronological moment, a current, a movement
or a wider sensibility) recycles the past and searches for the future, without
explicitly drawing a line between them (see Lyotard, 1979; 1986); finally,
as long as these very lines are the ambiguous result of an universal
intertextual process in which in order to establish the identity of text,
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interpretation and reader one has to permanently shift from one category
to another, any attempt to define the notion of perspective in a coherent,
acceptable way turns out to be useless. What one can still do is make
successive estimations of post-modern perspectives, by means of deliberate
incomplete criteria and instruments.
Secondly, to dismiss perception and reference on grounds of their own
imperfection is to proclaim the uselessness of hermeneutics: since the
premises of deconstructive reading assert that any investigated system is
insufficient (as well as any method of investigation we intend to use in
order to prove its insufficiency!), why should one bother reading/
interpreting literature, for instance? If deconstructive indeterminence of
meaning has such high theoretical credit, can the deconstructive approach
be said to have any particular valid goal, except being enuntiative? These
are questions which both critics of deconstruction (Scholes, 1985) and its
supporters (Culler, 1982) find difficult to answer.
However, the plain affirmation of incomplete, fallacious character of
the critical act may stand for a more profound phenomenon: that of
bestowing an ontological status to relativity. The manifold, acute
implications of this phenomenon will be dealt with in the following part
of this study.
2. A Voyage on the Fractal Continent
The geography of literary postmodernism includes a second important
continent, as diffuse and extended as the deconstructive one. Chaotic,
but still governed by order, dismantled, but still coherent, unmeasurable,
but still mathematically calculable, relative, but still omnipotent, the fractal
continent is probably the most elaborate form of present literature, together
with the virtual (or cyberspace) one, which it matches entirely or partially.
Because of its simultaneously entropic and negentropic structure, it brings
up theories of a logical, iconic and narrative perspective which look
shattered, dismembered in an infinite number of differently shaped shards.
These splinters are connected by a seemingly random common
denominator. Consequently, both the mapping of post-modern fiction and
the global understanding of literature, on all its levels (fictional, critical,
historical, theoretical etc.), undergo a substantial process of reconsidering
and restructuring.
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The key-term useful to understand a great part of contemporary fiction
by means of perspectivism belongs to the field of mathematics and was
discovered by French mathematician of Polish origins, Benoit Mandelbrot.
It was theorized in his 1975 volume, nowadays regarded as a classic of
science: Les objets fractals:forme, hasard et dimension.
Etymologically speaking, fractal comes from the Latin fractus, having
the same lexical root as fraction and fragment; it is also related to the verb
frangere, whose signification is close to irregular and fragmented. In one
of the simplified definitions provided in Fractals.Forms, Chance and
Dimension, a fuller, modified version of his 1975 book, Mandelbrot
considers the fractal:
[...] a mathematical set or a concrete object, whose form is extremely
irregular and/or fragmented in all dimensions.
(1977, p.294)
Further on, we may speak of fractal objects, fractal dimensions and a
fractal geometry, all meant to orchestrate several universal non-Euclidean
patterns, based on irregularity, hazard, amorphism and complexity.
According to Alain Boutot,
Fractal means fragmented, fractioned, irregular, interrupted. In general,
the fractal theory is a theory of the fractured and broken, of granulation,
dissemination, porosity and so on. The shapes it deals with are
characterized by an intrinsic complexity of fundamental irregularity, which
is present at all the levels of observation.
(1996, p.26)
The fractal theory appeared as a theory regarding the geometry of
nature. In time, its applications were transferred to several other extremely
different fields, such as astronomy, economy, social theory or human
anatomy. Hence, fractal mathematics allows at the same time the
measuring of the clouds’ dimensions in the sky, of air turbulence
phenomena, of the waves in the ocean and of the pellet we can obtain by
rumpling this very piece of paper. As measurable in their apparent
irregularity and lack of precision are also the moon’s craters, the erratic
topography of a large city’s streets, the shape of a river such as the Missouri,
our sanguine system of veins and arteries or the oil trails leaking in the
ocean from some desperate tanker (8).
Irrespective of its applications or explanations, fractals are still
characterized by a feature which was called self-similarity (Mandelbrot,
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1977, p.31) or dilatative symmetry (Hurd, 1989, p.1). This feature makes
it possible for any section of a fractal which is magnified by an arbitrary
factor to look exactly the same as the original fractal. As Leonard M.Sander
points out, discussing fractal geometry implies an analysis of a fractal
growth:
A fractal is an object with a sprawling, tenuous pattern. As the pattern is
magnified, it reveals repetitive levels of detail, so that similar structure
exists on all scales. A fractal might, for example, look the same whether
viewed on the scale of a meter, a millimetre or a micrometer.
(1989, p.15)
Since fractal dimensions are being expressed in fractions and not in
numbers, the self-similarity of fractals should be related to their fractional
character. This is one of Mandelbrot’s main ideas, enabling his mathematics
to reshape our entire view of the surrounding universe. By finding
self-similarity in a series of irregular phenomena, apparently taking place
at random, by comparing the shapes of mountains, clouds, plants, soap
bubbles, ice crystals and lunar cavities, by putting together the structure
of the Eiffel tower, of an old branching tree and of the linguistic trees from
the transformational grammar, the French mathematician provided both
our scientific and our artistic world with an new ontological dimension
(Mandelbrot, 1975; 1977; 1983). As Benjamin Wooley keenly remarks,
Mandelbrot seems to have found some kind of a “universal meaning”
(always existent, nevertheless hard to decode) plotting the boundary
conditions that govern the behaviour of many potentially chaotic or
turbulent phenomena: vortexes, twisters, lightnings, galactic clusterings
etc. (Wooley, 1992, p.90). Moreover, the two of them discussed in the
United States (where Mandelbrot settled since 1958 as one of the main
scientists at IBM Research Center in Yorktown Heights, New York) the
very importance of measuring the unmeasurable and shaping the
unshapable. As Wooley remembers in his book Virtual Worlds. A Journey
in Hype and Hyperreality, the father of all fractals told his listener, while
eating a “highly fractal” endive:
I did not discover the fact that clouds are like billows upon billows upon
billows. Every child knows that. What I did was identify tools that turn this
intuitive perception of shape into something that science can grab.
(1992, p.89)
Of similar importance to the understanding of the worlds around
us(including the world of literature, as shall be seen further on) is the
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fractal mathematicians’ success to create a geometry of the traditionally
non-geometrical, that is to map in an “Euclidean” way the diffuse,
dissoluted non-Euclidean shapes and forms. Territories such as the natural,
living beings’ one which seemed, until the seventies, irreparably
disorganized, forever irreductible to mathematic formulas and equations,
are being gradually mastered by mathematicians, chemists, physicists and
biologists (see, among others, Stevens, 1974; Poston and Stewart, 1978;
Prigogine and Stengers, 1979; Hao, 1984; Cvitanovic, 1984).
A fractal dimension is situated somewhere between two “ordinary “
dimensions. For instance, Great Britain’s shore or the shape of a cauliflower
cut from the middle in two pieces exist between the one-dimensional line
and the two-dimensional surface. That is, we are surrounded by many
sinuous curves, which give the impression they fill a surface. Their
mathematical measuring, as well as its graphic materialization, is mainly
based on the understanding of the relation between dimension and the
degree of filling of the space. In other terms, this means we deal with a
scientific highlighting of a perspective problem. Such is the case, for
example, when reinterpreting on fractal grounds the relation between
veins, arteries and tissues in the human body: each point in a non-vascular
tissue relies on the boundary between two sanguine networks; the tissue
filled with veins and arteries intersecting in all points (none of which
remains free) is called a fractal surface (see Mandelbrot, 1977, pp.77, 79;
1983, pp.150, 159). Ultimately, through the deconstruction of its own
principles, fractal geometry can be considered a fractal itself, built up on
the fragile boundary between two mathematic dimensions:
Fractal geometry is a workable geometric middle ground between the
excessive geometric order of Euclid and the geometric chaos of general
mathematics. It is based on a form of symmetry that has previously been
underutilized, namely invariance under contraction or dilation.
(Mandelbrot, 1989, p.8)
The most interesting thing regarding the relationship fractals have with
literature is of a general concern. Since fractal theory does not provide
exact mathematical predictions, but quantitative, subtle models to describe
the evolution of a system, in other words, since it has no mathematic
“practical” applications (Mandelbrot, idem); since, on the other hand,
fractal theory suggests a better understanding of the real world rather by
checking its display of forms, than by comprising it through figures and
statistics, it can be regarded as an almost poetic theory. Its aesthetic
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relevance, resulting both from the observation of natural fractals and the
computer graphics’ materialization of fractal equations, have been noticed
by most of the researchers in the field.
For example, Mandelbrot refers to the “plastic beauty” of the fractal
world and a “new form of geometric minimal art” (1983, pp.2, 23). He
also identifies its poetic interactions with realist and abstract art (1989,
pp.8-11). H. O. Peitgen and P. H. Richter, two of the most famous
researchers in fractal mathematics and physics, discuss “The Beauty of
Fractals” (the title of their classic book from 1986). Mathematician Martin
Golubitsky collaborates with Michael Field for a photographic album in
which fractals are discovered in or associated with the Islamic art of
symmetry -tapestries, stained glass, ceramics- (1992), while the aesthetician
and psychologist John Briggs argues that fractals belong to “a new aesthetics
of art, science and nature” (1992, p.4). In a similar manner, James Gleick,
author of several popular books on chaos theory, asserts that the fractal
universe is one of natural, intrinsic beauty (Gleick, 1987; Gleick and Porter,
1990) (9).
Among the most pertinent demonstrations of the logic and aesthetic
impact of fractal theory, at least two are worth mentioning: Clifford A.
Pickover and Ian Stewart’s. The former, a researcher at IBM Research
Center in New York, writes kinds of pop-up books (partly scientific, partly
literary -in the absurdist manner of Lewis Carroll). They are illustrated
with drawings and computer-generated pictures, which turn the
mathematical inquiry of the surrounding world in true “Visual Adventures
in a Fractal World “ - that is the subtitle of his 1994 book, Chaos in
Wonderland (see also 1990; 1991; 1992). The latter, Ian Stewart, a
mathematician specialized in the research of universal symmetry, has
written several...scientific comics in which he attempts to make catastrophy
or fractal theories accessible to non-academic readers. Although they may
be taken as frivolous (especially from the viewpoint of the scientific
community) - fractals, for example, are defined as “A class of very
interesting objects, whose dimension is not entire” (1982, p.24)-, they
remain an extremely useful instrument to illustrate the principles of recent
mathematics. In fact, Ian Stewart’s scientific comics enable the
literaturization of scientific fields already considered significant from an
aesthetic point of view (see above). In comic strips, the fractal world gets
a personal ID, mathematical calculation becomes a game at hand, whereas
the new logical mechanisms on which it relies seem more accessible (as
anecdotic micro-narratives).
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For instance, in one of the episodes of Les fractals. Les chroniques de
Rose Polymath (1982), Rose Polymath and her friend Gaston (two
alien-looking characters, similar to the Martians in the pulp magazines of
the thirties) get a strange job from an inter-galactic boss: they have to
measure the exact dimension of a winding shore on the planet Ombilicus.
Since it proves impossible to map its dimension by means of traditional,
Euclidean geometry, the two protagonists resort to another kind of
investigation, which will allow the exact calculation of the examined land;
it is, of course, the fractal investigation. At the end of this new calculation,
Rose and Gaston conclude that the dimension of the surface to be mapped
is infinite (endlessly self-similar in smaller or larger folds of the original
“lace”); as a result, they are being fired, because their boss intended to
build a dam on the entire surface of the shore!
Apart from the deliberate theorizing of the expressive character of
fractals (sometimes achieved by less orthodox scientific methods, as one
may see in the previous example), there are also intuitive, rather empirical
testimonies of the “beauty” of self-similar disorder. Many of them precede
Mandelbrot’s discovery or are contemporary to it.
For instance, back in 1965, Theodore Schwenk, a researcher in the
field of water and air chaotic turbulence, suggested the existence of a
natural, human and cosmic geometry based on the regularity of irregular
shapes. The 1976 English edition of his work collects both photographic
illustrations which we may identify as fractal today (waves, curls of the
sand, vortexes, clouds, rinds), and empirical reference to the functioning
of what we now call fractal dimensions:
Plants are vascular systems through which water, the blood of the earth,
flows in a live interdependence with the atmosphere. Together, earth, the
world of plants and the atmosphere make one big organism, through which
water flows like the blood of a living organism.
(1976, p.14)
Less “antroposophical” and more clearly scientific are the remarks
made in the seventies by Peter S. Stevens, a researcher at Harvard Medical
Arena. In his opinion there is a close resemblance between the inner
structure of the human ear and the spirals of snails and galaxies or between
the branching of trees and the winding of rivers; this resemblance is based
on the infinite recycling of a finite number of patterns:
When we see how the branching of trees resembles the branching of
arteries and the branching of rivers, how crystal grains look like soap
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bubbles and the plates of a tortoise shell, how the fiddle heads of ferns,
stellar galaxies and water emptying from the bath tube spiral in a similar
manner, we cannot help but wonder why nature uses only a few kindred
forms in so many contexts... It turns out that those patterns and forms are
peculiarly restricted, that the immense variety that nature creates emerges
from the working and reworking of only a few formal themes.
(1977, p.1)
Cyril Stanley Smith, one of the most famous researchers in the field of
metals, is also interested in the “beauty” of ordered chaos. At least two of
his books, From Art to Science. Seventy-Two Objects Illustrating the Nature
of Discovery (1980) and A Search for Structure.Selected Essays on Science,
Art and History (1981) provide an illustrated aesthetics of the fractal world,
relying on the understanding of the interdependence between
fragmentation and continuity and on the decoding of branching structures
included in the design of chaos (1981, p.54).
The research of both Mandelbrot and the theorists of chaos and
catastrophies proves to be extremely valuable. Its applications help
scientists refine synthetic images and study telephonic perturbations. They
also enable an accurate mapping of nature’s interactive dimensions and
the reinterpretation of baroque architecture by reconsidering the relation
between the global shape of a building and the distribution of its ornaments
(10). No matter which of these segments we may refer to, the impersonal
figures and equations that explain the fractal perspective are simply
irrelevant when compared to its easily accessible, universal beauty:
The beauty of fractals is accessible not just to scientists and engineers, but
to everyone who has an eye for art.
(Hurd, 1989, p.1)
The application of fractal and chaos theories in the field of literature
may be traced in several directions. One of them is resumed in the following
question: is literature, in general, and post-modern literature, in particular,
a fractal unit? This supposition implies, on the one hand, the redefinition
of literature as a field of open tensions in which the authors and their
works are rather erratically placed, and, on the other, the discovery of the
ordered “equation” (or “equations”) to be considered their common
denominator.
However, if the unifying factor is in itself the reiteration on several
scales of the initial fractal pattern (namely literature), then its “mathematic”
redesigning turns out to be as difficult as Gaston and Rose Polymath’s
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attempt to measure the shore of Ombilicus! With no doubt, understanding
literature in a traditional manner (that is, as a deterministic chain of events,
periods, currents, authors and works) precludes such potential difficulties:
it is quite easy to find historical, linear causes, from which to establish
what is literary “deviant” and “abnormal”. Such a perspective hardly takes
into account the erratic, non-linear characteristics of those splinters in the
field of tensions which we conventionally name “literature”.
To regard literature as a fractal unit therefore implies a strong argument
with the comfortable way in which traditional literary critics and historians,
including many Romanian ones, categorise authors and texts on stable,
authoritative historicist grounds (see, among others, Cãlinescu, 1941;
Simion, 1978-1989; N. Manolescu, 1990; Ulici, 1995). Actually, literature
should not be considered a wax museum where the public are bound to
wear gloves and protection glasses in order to visit it. Maybe it should be
viewed as a space with chaotic geometry (some kind of an infinitely
branching fractal, on an infinity of scales), whose dimensions, styles,
configurations and centres are being simultaneously and alternatively
multiplied. The result would by no means lie in the construction of a
literary monument, but in the shaping of a discontinuous, conflictual
architecture (similar to the deconstructive one), capable of transforming
the museum in a series of changing holograms (I. Manolescu, 1996,
pp.196-200). Such a specific post-modern synopsis would help the
designing of what theorist Jim Collins calls intertextual arenas, namely:
[...] tension-filled environments that have enormous impact on the
construction of both representations and the subjects which interact within
them.
(1989, p.27)
The fractal perception of literature may be regarded as one of the major
goals of post-modern theorists, even if they do not explicitly resort to
Mandelbrot’s mathematical vocabulary and instruments. We should quote
several such examples in an endless series of definitions or estimations of
postmodernism’s features. For instance, the chains of postmodernism
established by Ihab Hassan include the terms anarchy, hazard, dispersion
(1982, pp.184-85) and fragmentation (1990, p.18); the strategies of
postmodernism identified by David Lodge are related to discontinuity and
hazard (1977, pp.220-45); Douwe W. Fokkema’s analysis of post-modern
conventions follows the relation continuity vs. discontinuity and situates
inclusiveness and assimilation at the core of the post-modern semantic
263
universe; last but not least, the simultaneously closed and open, entropic
and negentropic character of post-modern literature is asserted and
illustrated by Gerhard Hoffman’s examples (1996, pp.132-69).
Hence, even the terms postmodernism and fractal have something in
common, due to their mutual semantic ambiguity and the lack of critical
consensus around their definitions. With respect to postmodernism, this
ambiguity is still obvious more than half a century from the first use of the
term:
Nothing concerning the term is free from debate, nothing regarding it is
satisfactory.
(McHale, 1989, p.3)
On the other hand, the lack of consistency in the definition of the
fractal is being stated by its inventor:
Although the term fractal is defined in Chapter 3, I continue to believe
that one would do better without a definition.
(Mandelbrot, 1983, p.361)
A second way in which fractals could be related to post-modern
literature is that of reconsidering the latter as a fractal dimension. From
this perspective, post-modern literature can be perceived as a fractal
geometry working between two dimensions: one of the cultural past (which
it systematically recycles) and the other of the future to come (which it
anticipates by means of its most experimental forms). Between the two
dimensions, postmodernism permanently negotiates its origins, while its
genealogical determinations remain suspended in a paradoxical, blurred
temporality (Lyotard, 1979). Therefore, we deal with an infinitely diverse
dimension, whose fragmentations and foldings reflect on different scales
the same repetitive, self-similar features. Ultimately, post-modern literature
could be seen as an intermediate fractal dimension, among an infinite
number of other possible fractal dimensions (history, mentalities, culture,
the history of literature etc.).
To understand post-modern literature as a fractal dimension also raises
a problem of reading. Should post-modern novels be regarded as a literary
dimension of ordered chaos? Then any reading would be necessarily
related to each of the dimensions in the proximity of the post-modern
one. In other words, reading becomes a compelling intertextual,
inter-cultural, inter-iconic act. Or, to put it in scientific terms, it becomes
an inter-fractalic process.
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On the other hand, if post-modern literature does not alter its self-similar
features irrespective of the scales we decide to view it on, then two different
ways of reading become possible: we may read a novel starting from
whatever other post-modern one; or we may read the same novel starting
from whatever point of its narrative. That is, in postmodernism, we may
read one single infinite novel, made of a series of other novels belonging
to the post-modern age or to any other cultural period, or we may read a
large number of separate novels, starting from wherever we wished and
ending wherever we wanted (11). Both options are equally valid. Actually,
the virtues of such a fractal reading (quite similar to the accelerated
post-modern ways of reading, like browsing or scanning) are mentioned
by many of the theorists in the field. John Briggs, for example, opens his
book on Fractals.The Patterns of Chaos contending that:
Chaos and fractals are non-linear phenomena, so you are hereby invited
to avoid reading this book linearly. Try weaving your own fractal path
through the text. Perhaps you started to do that when you first picked the
book up. Jumping around might seem a little chaotic, but that’s the pattern
under discussion here.
(1992, p.11)
Finally, a third way in which a close connection between fractals and
post-modern literature can be accomplished is by identifying and defining
a fractal perspective in post-modern fiction. In general, no matter the place
or level we intended to view it from, the relation between literature and
fractal theory is based on a problem of perspectives. The reinterpretation
of links between authors, texts and periods leads to a new kind of
perspective in literary history, whereas the reconsideration of proportions
in the relation reality-image emphasizes a new aesthetic sensibility,
consistently illustrated in post-modern fiction. One deals here with a theory
of logical, narrative and iconic perspective, relying less on the endless
deconstructive mirrorings and more on the chaotization of concepts such
as reality and image. One also has to find out the “subliminal” patterns
which reassemble these concepts.
In such particular cases, the decoding of the post-modern narrative
can be achieved by searching the fractal details (that is the most fractured,
“accidental” and the “less significant” iconic and narrative guidelines)
which reconstruct on a certain perceptive scale the wrinkled pattern of
the whole. Most of the time, the scale resulted from reading the text in a
fractal manner is simply a small fragment of a logical, psychological,
philosophical, historical, literary, mediatic reality and so on, itself shattered
265
to infinite pieces. Moreover, one must not forget that between the
dimension of the whole and its pieces there are always other various
fractal dimensions.
The most convincing examples of fractal perspective in post-modern
narrative come from American fiction. With Thomas Pynchon, the narrative
is conceived as a fractal dimension dependent of the interaction of two
principles: the textual entropy and negentropy. Between brownian disorder
and reordering, between chaotic dismemberment and reassembling,
between increasing and decreasing, Pynchon’s narrative thermodynamics
fluctuates in one of the most weird fractal patterns. For instance, in his
short story Entropy, published in 1960 and included in the volume Slow
Learner (1984), the narrative itself is a fractal dimension whose patterns
are released by the interaction of two spatial, iconic and thermodynamic
dimensions: it connects two flats (situated one above the other and “sealed
hermetically”) to the chaos of the outside town. By breaking a window,
which may be seen as an act of destroying the symbolic seal between
order and chaos, the balance between the two dimensions is lost and the
characters resignedly await a new and final form of equilibrium, that is
the thermic death of the universe:
[...] she turned to face the man on the bed and wait with him until the
moment of equilibrium was reached, when 37 degrees Fahrenheit should
prevail both outside and inside, and forever, and the hovering, curious
dominant of their separate lives should resolve into a tonic of darkness
the final absence of all motion.
(1985, p.94)
A similar phenomenon takes place in Pynchon’s novel The Crying of
Lot 49 (1965), where by means of a device called The Nefastis Machine
the universe of thermodynamics is connected in a chaotic and ordered
way to the informational one, while the narrative appears as a fractal
feed-back mechanism between these two universes. Without being
described as such, the fractal condition of Thomas Pynchon’s narrative
has been approximated by some critics and theorists who have associated
it to interface fiction (Schaub, 1981, pp.103-20; partly, McHale, 1992,
pp.236-37). Thomas S.Schaub, one of the most thorough investigators of
Pynchon’s work, identifies several kinds of fictional interfaces in the
American writer’s novels:
Pynchon’s characters exist in the conditional space between the facts of
their situations and the meaning these facts could have. The readers of
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Pynchon’s texts fill the same ambiguous space, because his stories do not
have an ending to tie form and meaning.
(1981, p.103)
Besides, the oblique, fractal relation reader-printed word- text, where
meaning is often a medium, is usually mastered by characters who are
engineers: they work on the interface between events and their explanation
(John Nefastis, in The Crying of Lot 49; Tyrone Slothrop, in Gravity’s
Rainbow and so on).
The fractal perspective on which Pynchon’s texts are “engineered” a
decade before Mandelbrot’s discovery results not only from the architecture
of narrative interfaces, but also from the fictional distribution of fractal
objects or images. They are themselves a part of a larger random pattern.
Thus, in Gravity’s Rainbow (1973), the trajectories of the falling German
V2 rockets in Second World War London design a chaotic, yet ordered
pattern: their points of impact tend to regroup in clusters similar to the
galactic ones (1975, p.222), while in The Crying of Lot 49 one of the
protagonists, Mucho Maas, finds the human face to have symmetries similar
to those of the Rorschach spot (1979, p.11).
Nevertheless, the main fractal feature of Thomas Pynchon’s fiction
results from the interaction between dimensions and the degree in which
the narrative space is filled. From this point of view, the deconstruction of
the originary mimesis in an endlessly regressive series (from which the
“model” has vanished) is followed by a pulverization of this series in chaotic
shards: the relation “reality”-image is no longer dependent on the
phenomenon of infinite mirrorings. Actually, it is caught in a dispersive
process through which mirrors reflect the shattered splinters and make up
an intermediate picture of the patterns among them. What in visual arts is
the relation between the positive and negative space of a drawing, painting
or video [see, among others, Hofstadter’s analysis of Escher’s graphics
(1989, pp.63, 67)], in Pynchon’s fiction becomes a way of narrative
structuring, with disturbing logical and iconic implications.
For example, in the novel Vineland (1990), the fractal shards of a
window through which the protagonist, Zoyd Wheeler, jumps (in order to
cash an annual cheque for mentally disabled people) are being recomposed
in the imperfect splinters of the different narrative episodes. This leads to
both a disordered and a precise narrative/iconic pattern. From a logical
perspective, the novel looks like a schizoid mixture of episodes (see also
the name of the protagonist!), whereas from an iconic perspective, it has
267
the appearance of a random, multi-dimensional space. The element which
unifies the fractures in the text is embodied by the presence of an
omnipotent supra-narrator, some kind of a fractal God of the narrative;
this textual God is shattered in an infinite number of pieces, but its mere
presence allows him to control the conventions of dispersion, of dispersion
within dispersion and of dispersion among other dispersions. Thus, by
means of an authorial pantheism working on all possible scales, the
post-modern narrative displays its multiple perspectives within a general
pattern whose existence is emphasized by its very infinite imprecision.
Persuasive illustrations of fractal objects and dimensions are also to be
found in John Barth’s novels. In The Tidewater Tales (1987), the tides of
the ocean in Chesapeake Bay and the narrative’s tides in which Katherine
and Peter Sagamore are, in turn, characters and fictional authors, tell more
than a story of symbolic coincidence. In a similar way, the increase and
decrease of Katherine’s sexual lust during her pregnancy and the increase
and the decrease of the told stories’ intensity stand for a chaotic, still
ordered pattern of textual and iconic movement. Moreover, although the
movement of the waves seems as hard to represent as the foetal slidings
inside the amniotic liquid, John Barth suggests both these two submit to
the same geometry of aleatory coincidences:
[...] a perfectly unlikely chain of perfectly fortunate coincidences.
(1988, p.115)
The same fractal “coincidences” appear in the novel The Last Voyage
of Somebody the Sailor (1991), where the repetitions of “chaotic” narrative
and iconic details work on very different scales. For instance, a similar
fractal unit is to be perceived in the pattern of the Atlantic Ocean, of the
ocean of stories on which Sindbad’s metafictional alter-ego, Somebody
the Sailor (himself a meta-meta-fictional projection of newspaperman
Simon “Baylor” Behler) is sailing, and of the placentary ocean in which
Simon was born. Another fractal unit is represented by the neighbouring
presence of the chaotic Maryland shore and of the scorchings on the toast
Simon eats during breakfast:
The scorchings on the egg-yellow field of my French toast made a
false-colour map of our tidewater county.
(1991, p.30)
Obviously, both Thomas Pynchon and John Barth’s fiction witness a
chaotically ordered relation between their narrative foldings and the
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foldings of different fictional objects (such as scorchings on a toast, scorches
on trees, fragments of windows and so on). It is the same relation as the
one between the branching of a tree in nature and the vascular geometry
of the human body. However, we should not necessarily confer objective
status to an always interpretable reality -since it depends on the perspective
through which the observer “reads” it; we also need not mechanically
apply a pre-established reading mode, turned into an universal remedy.
According to scientists, in the absence of the creator of this world, no one
can grasp the correct relation between observers and the object of their
observation:
Are symmetries intrinsic patterns of nature or artefacts of human perception?
To this question, there is no universal answer.
(Stewart and Golubitsky, 1992, p.259)
Actually, the problem raised nowadays by the fractal geometry of
post-modern literature is the problem of the ontological redefinition of
the surrounding universe. Nevertheless, we should not associate such an
endeavour with an attempt to submit the world to forceful aesthetic
patterns, nor should we adopt it as a unique ontological code, since the
world does also exist otherwise than sensed by our human perception (for
instance, cats can “smell” colours, while bees have an ultra-violet spectrum
“sight”). The fractal theory simply provides one of the many possible
answers to the question: can chaos be ordered? -or, in other terms, are we
able to measure the “unmeasurable”? Through it, universal asymmetries
have been found a repetitive symmetry; at the same time, scientists and
artists have drawn a transitory boundary between chaos and order, so as
to illustrate the spectacular character of natural and artistic creation.
At this point of the analysis, we may discuss at least two important
issues: is the fractal “material” unlimited? and, if so, what would the role
of literature in ontologically redefining the world look like?
The examples concerning fractal applications selected from
post-modern American fiction are enough for an affirmative answer to the
first question. However, recent Romanian novels such as those written by
Mircea Cãrtãrescu and Sebastian A. Corn prove the same thing.
In Mircea Cãrtãrescu’s novel Orbitor (1996), almost every micro and
macro-cosmic structure is bound to represent a fractal unit: from the atoms
in the body of the narrator (himself named Mircea), to the particles of
stellar dust; from the wings of the Lorenz butterfly which haunts the
protagonist’s dreams and fantasies, to the random architecture of
269
underground pipes in Doamna Ghica district; from the chaotic geometry
of streets and avenues in Nicolae Ceauºescu’s Bucharest, to the neuronal
mind patterns of the protagonist’s teen-aged friends:
Our cerebro-spinal body is the very proof we are worms of a large astral
being.With its marrow like a root and with its two brain hemispheres like
two plumpy cotyledons, it looks exactly like a small plant in its first
blooming stages.
(1996, p.61)
In other episodes of Cãrtãrescu’s novel, the suggestion of a universally
extended fractal network is even more poignant, while the narratological
effect proves rather realistic, than phantasmatic:
We live on a small piece of limestone from the cosmic sclerosis. A small,
compact animal, a single particle, a billion times smaller than the nucleus
of the sun, gathered in a unifying force the entire pattern our mind perceives
at the time when it is allowed to perceive it. Inside, it had bubbles of
space and strings, milky galactic streams and the planet’s political map
and the unpleasant smell of the neighbour’s mouth in the tram and
Jezechiel’s vision on the shore of the Chebar and each molecule of melanin
in the freckles under the left eyebrow of the woman you undressed and
made love to the night before and the wax from the year of one of
Artaxerxes’ ten thousand immortal warriors and the bunch of
catecolamynergic neurones in the rahidian bulb of a badger sleeping in
the forests of the Caucasus.
(1996, p.57)
In Sebastian A. Corn’s science-fiction novel Aquarius (1995), the action
simultaneously and alternatively takes place in the real, historical America
of John Kennedy and in the diffuse geography of the liquid tissues interacting
in the president’s body and mind. These mysterious tissues are also populated
with primitive humanoids, cyber-spatial sects and fractal assassins. However,
the assassination of president Kennedy in his “real” dimension does not
cancel the existence of the inner fractal dimensions, but reinforces it in
other mental dimensions piled inside the president’s mind. Moreover, the
narrator’s conclusions become an infinitely branching fractal unit:
Actually, a conclusion regarding common things is no longer possible; it
has been replaced by a set of multiple conclusions. Piled over the logics
of biology, should it really exist. Should it be rational. A restart of
Mandelbrot’s way of establishing tendencies, although starting from simple
cause-effect statements.
(1995, p.209)
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The same examples may also provide an answer to the second question
concerning the ontological redefining of the surrounding world. The fractal
view of literature upon the universe is essentially a fictional transcript of a
new kind of existential sensibility, where the dispersion of experienced
facts is equal to that of imagined ones, logical and iconic associations
between symmetry and asymmetry have a common pattern and the
“processing” of information is being achieved through zappings from one
perspective to the other.
Therefore, the discussion is focused on a new sensibility, allowing one
to access perceptive simultaneity and successivity without disturbing the
mind in a schizoid way. By means of systematic logical and iconic
juxtaposition, interpolation and overprint, which recent psychologists and
theorists of literature have identified with the mechanisms of thought
(Kosslyn, 1980) or with contemporary methods of textual construction
(McHale, 1987), this sensibility may be regarded as revolutionary. Its fractal
elements, together with the deconstructive ones, provide multiple pathways
to the realm of post-modern alternative aesthetics.
From this final, pluralist perspective, there is no question that both
deconstruction and fractal theory have proved their ability to challenge
our firm belief in the stability of rational artistic structures. In the future to
come, one may assume the switch to variable, hyper-rational patterns of
mind and art will be completed.
Notes
1. Even the term deconstruction suggests an undermining and a surpassing of
the oppositional logic on which it is founded (construction/deconstruction).
2. However, we should still mention the fact that Derrida’s deconstructive
philosophy is conceived as an attack on the structuralist opposition between
signifier and signified (1967, 1972 a). The Saussurian logical opposition is
radically questioned on basis that there is no valid transcendent reason to
connect a certain signifier to a certain signified, in order to assert a unique,
immobile meaning of that signified. In other words, Derrida criticizes the
reduction of the signifier to a stable signified, that is he disagrees with the
tendency of attributing the signifier a privileged position in the process of
making meaning. Instead, he asserts the existence of an infinitely regressive
movement of the signifiers (Derrida, 1972 b, p.38).
3. Here, the use of the oxymoron (“frozen perpetuum mobile”) was thought best
suited to the explanation of the paradoxical logics of deconstruction in Escher’s
271
graphics. As one may easily notice, the very deconstruction of a paradox
implies the use of paradox.
4. Actually, because of its simultaneously perfect and imperfect structure, the
“geometry” of I.L.Caragiale’s story resembles the geometry of impossible
objects, such as those in the graphics of Bruno Ernst, Oscar Reutersvard, Jos
de Mey (see, among others, Ernst, 1986, pp.62-67).
5. In semiotic research, the process is identified by Charles Sanders Peirce. To
him, the process of signifying is equivalent to an infinite regression of the
signifiers (“interpretants”, as he calls them) towards a logical illimitation, that
is, towards an endless semiosis (Peirce, 1932, p.300; 1935, p.470).
6. In the field of logics, the profound motivations of unsolvable alternations are
being analysed, among others, by Douglas Hofstadter, who tries to dismantle
the epistemological prejudices they created in time (1979, 1985).
7. Apart from the deconstructive philosophical context, the problem of accolades
also has an explanation in the field of cognitive psychology. It may be found
in the attempts of several researchers to identify the mechanisms through
which mental imagery is being produced; functionally, these mechanisms
are associated with the operations of computers: both are able to “copy” and
stroboscopically process all the intermediary “steps” (Kosslyn, 1980).
8. The relation between a series of deterministic causes and the random effects
they generate is discussed especially by chaos and catastrophy theorists. In
situations such as the evolution of stock exchange or the riots of prisoners,
they are likely to detect unexpected “turbulent” effects, produced by linear
causes (see, among other sources, Prigogine and Stengers, 1979, p.191;
Cvitanovic, 1984, pp.3-4; Hao, 1989, p.3).
9. The fractal world can be viewed also from the perspective of aesthetics of
ugliness. Several mathematicians who have created fractals without having
any idea about what they meant (such as Waclaw Sierpinsi, David Hilbert or
Georg Cantor) did regard them as...disgracious, monstrous or pathological
(see, among other sources, Mandelbrot, 1977, p.77; Oliver, 1996, p.19).
10. Analysing the relation between form (shape) and distribution is essential to
understand most of Escher’s drawings. They may be defined as dimensionally
ambiguous and perspectivally polysemantic; so may several post-modern
novels (Pynchon, 1973; Cãrtãrescu, 1996).
11. The same kind of inter-changeable layered reading may also be applied to
post-modern short stories, such as those included in the Romanian anthology
Desant’83 (1983). Here, although quite different, the stories of eighteen young
Romanian writers make up something like a Tel-Quelian novel of everyday
life.
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Klein, Gerard, Les seigneurs de la guerre, Paris, Robert Laffont, 1971
Kosslyn, Steven Michael, Image and Mind, Cambridge, Massachussetts and
London, England, Harvard University Press, 1980
Kristeva, Julia, Semeiotike, Paris, Seuil, 1968
Le Guin, Ursula K., The Left Hand of Darkness (1969), translated La main gauche
de la nuit, Paris, Robert Laffont, 1971
Lodge, David, The Modes of Modern Writing, Ithaca, NY, Cornell University
Press, 1977
Lyotard, Jean-Francois, La condition post-moderne, Paris, Minuit, 1979, Le
postmoderne, Paris, Galilee, 1986
Mandelbrot, Benoit, Les objets fractals:forme, hasard et dimension, Paris &
Montreal, Flammarion, 1975, Fractals. Form, Chance and Dimension, San
Francisco, W.H.Freeman and Company, 1977, ”Fractal Geometry:What Is it
and What Does it Do?” in Hurd (ed.), 1989
Manolescu, Florin, Literatura S.F., Bucureºti, Univers, 1980, Caragiale ºi
Caragiale.Jocuri cu mai multe strategii, Bucureºti, Cartea Romaneascã, 1983
Manolescu, Ion, ”La prose postmoderne et le textualisme mediatique”, in
Euresis.Cahiers roumains d’etudes litteraires (1-2/1995), Bucarest, Univers,
1996
Manolescu, Nicolae, Istoria criticã a literaturii romane, Bucureºti, Minerva, 1990
McHale, Brian, Postmodernist Fiction, London & NY, Routledge, 1989,
Constructing Postmodernism, ibidem, 1992
Oliver, Dick, Fractalvision:Put Fractals to Work, Sams Publishing, 1992 [translated
Fractali, Bucureºti, Teora, 1996]
Peirce, Charles Sanders, Collected Papers, Cambridge, Harvard University Press,
1931-35
Peitgen, H.-O.; Richter, P.H., The Beauty of Fractals.Images of Complex Dynamical
Systems, Berlin, Heidelberg, NY, Toronto, Springer-Verlag, 1986
Pickover, Clifford A., Computers, Pattern, Chaos and Beauty.Graphics from an
Unseen World, NY, St Martin’s Press, 1990, Computers and the
Imagination.Visual Adventures from beyond the Edge, ibidem, 1991, Mazes
for the Mind:Computers and the Unexpected, ibid, 1992, Chaos in
Wonderland.Visual Adventures in a Fractal World, NY, St Martin’s Griffin,
1994
Poston, Tim; Stewart, Ian, Catastrophe Theory and its Applications, Boston,
London, Melbourne, Pitman, 1981 [first edition:1978]
Prigogine, Ilya; Stengers, Isabelle, La Nouvelle Alliance.Metamorphose de la
science, Paris, Galimard, 1979
Prince, Gerald, ”Notes on the Text as Reader”, in Suleiman/Crosman (eds.), 1980,
see above
Pynchon, Thomas, Gravity’s Rainbow, London, Picador, 1975 [first edition:1973],
V, ibidem [first edition:1961], The Crying of Lot 49, ibidem, 1979 [first edition:
1965], Slow Learner, ibidem, 1985 [first edition:1984], Vineland, Boston,
Little, Brown and Company,1990
275
Roe, Barbara L., Donald Barthelme.A Study of the Short Fiction, NY, Twayne
Publishers, 1992
Sander, Leonard M., ”Fractal Growth”, in Hurd (ed.), 1989
Schaub, Thomas S., Pynchon:The Voice of Ambiguity, Urbana, Chicago, London,
University of Illinois, 1981
Scholes, Robert, Textual Power.Literary Theory and the Teaching of English, New
Haven & London, Yale University Press, 1985
Schwenk, Theodore, Sensitive Chaos.The Creation of Flowing Forms in Water
and Air, NY, Shocken Books, 1976 [first edition, in German:1965]
Simion, Eugen, Scriitori români de azi, I-IV, Bucureºti, Cartea Româneascã,
1976-1989
Smith, Cyril Stanley, From Art to Science.Seventy-Two Objects Illustrating the
Nature of Discovery, Cambridge, Massachusetts and London, England, MIT
Press, 1980, A Search for Structure.Selected Essays on Science, ibidem, 1981
Sollers, Philippe, Logiques, Paris, Seuil, 1968
Stevens, Peter, Patterns in Nature, London, Penguin, 1977 [first edition: 1974]
Stewart, Ian, Les Fractals.Les chroniques de Rose Polymath, Paris, Belin, 1972
Stewart, Ian; Golubitsky, Martin, Fearful Symmetry.Is God a Geometer?, Oxford
UK & Cambridge USA, Blackwell, 1992
Suleiman, Susan R.; Crosman, Inge (eds.), The Reader in the Text.Essays on
Audience and Interpretation, Princeton, New Jersey, Princeton University Press,
1980
Tournier, Michel, Vendredi ou les limbes du Pacifique, Paris, Gallimard, 1967
[translated Vineri sau limburile Pacificului, Bucureºti, Univers, 1977], Le
medianoche amoureux, Paris, Gallimard, 1989 [translated Amanþii taciturni,
Bucureºti, Univers, 1992]
Ulici, Laurenþiu, Literatura romanã contemporanã, Bucureºti, Eminescu, 1995
Vianu, Tudor, ”Dubla intenþie a limbajului ºi problema stilului”, in Arta prozatorilor
români, Editura Contemporanã, 1941
Wells, H.G., The Time Machine and Other Stories, NY, Holt, 1895
Wooley, Benjamin, Virtual Worlds.A Journey in Hype and Hyperreality, Oxford
UK & Cambridge USA, Blackwell, 1992
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Born in 1962, in Piteºti, Romania
B.A., University of Bucharest, 1986
Ph.D., University of Glasgow, 1998
Dissertation: Plato’s Hypothetical Method
Visiting Assistant Professor of Philosophy, Bucharest Academy of
Fine Arts, 1998-99
Research Fellow, Institute of Philosophy, Bucharest, 1995-1996
Horia Georgescu Scholarship, University of Oxford, 1990-1991
University of Glasgow Doctoral Fellowship, 1991-1994
Overseas Research Student Award, awarded by the Committee of
Vice-Chancellors and Principals of the Universities of the United Kingdom,
1991-1994
Sir Daniel Stevenson Scholarship, Ruprecht-Karls-Universität Heidelberg,
1994-1995
Bourse postdoctorale, Université du Québec à Montréal, 1999-2001
Author of various articles and studies on Greek philosophy; co-translator
(into Romanian) of Plato’s Timaeus (1993); editor of the complete works of
Plato in Romanian (forthcoming)
PLATONIC IMMORTALITY
REVISITED
This text is based on a series of lectures I gave in 1996-97 at the New
Europe College in Bucharest, as a NEC Fellow. The lectures were pitched
to an audience of scholars from all fields except philosophy. I am grateful
to Prof. Andrei Plesu, Father André Scrima, Mr. Alexandru Dragomir and
all those who attended my lectures for their interest and critical remarks.
There is a saying about the existence of God that goes like this: God does
exist, and the proof is that he does not want to get involved in anything. I
would like to express my profound gratitude to Wissenschaftskolleg zu
Berlin, the main patron of the New Europe College, for encouraging God
to get involved in this part of Eastern Europe. Finally, I wish to thank the
New Europe College for awarding me a NEC Fellowship. I dedicate this
essay to all my fellow Romanians who in December 1989 overcame their
fears and stood up for freedom.
On. Say on. Be said on. Somehow on. Till
nohow on. Said nohow on. [...] All of old.
Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No
matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
Samuel Beckett, Worstward Ho
I
Nowadays we seem to wonder more whether there is life after five
o’clock than whether there is life after death. So, if we happen to see
Woody Allen’s Hannah and Her Sisters, we are bound to be more or less
surprised, for this film deals precisely with the issue of afterlife (and with
that of Sein zum Tode, if I may use this Heideggerian expression).
279
The character played by Woody Allen is a TV director who is a
hypochondriac and who realizes, eventually, that his hypochondria is
caused by his fear of death. “If death means nothingness”, he says, “then
isn’t that enough to spoil everything?” He then seeks comfort in religion.
He attempts to convert to Catholicism, but his father mocks him (“Why
Jesus?” “Well, I know it sounds funny...”). Then he muses about joining a
Hare Krishna group, but he mocks himself (“You’re gonna shave your
head and put on robes and dance around airports? You’ll look like Jerry
Lewis. Oh God, I’m so depressed”). In the end, after he fails to shoot
himself, he enters a cinema theatre where, looking at a most funny scene
from a Marx Brothers’ film, he has a sort of illumination and says to himself:
[…] how can you even think of killing yourself? I mean, look at all the
people up there on the screen. You know, they’re really funny and, what
if the worst is true? What if there is no God, and you only go around once
and that’s it? Well, you know, don’t you want to be part of the experience?
You know, what the hell, it’s not all a drag. Geez, I should stop ruining my
life searching for answers I’m never going to get, and just enjoy it while it
lasts. And, you know, after, who knows? I mean, you know, maybe there
is something. Nobody really knows.
Allen’s character is, as I said, a TV director and he has his illumination
about afterlife in a cinema theatre, while he watches a Marx Brothers
film. We, the spectators, may experience the same illumination while we
watch, in a cinema theatre, this Woody Allen film. Here, however, we
are in medialand and that should make us suspicious. Films are addressed
to the masses, to hoi polloi, the vulgus, to das Man himself; so this
illumination may contain just a lay view about afterlife.
The most successful experts are nowadays the scientists. What do the
scientists say about afterlife? Do they claim that the most reasonable thing
to do is to enjoy the time we have within this world, the only world there is?
We all know that each scientific discipline ends up by being accompanied
by its own vulgata. But things have deteriorated lately, for we, the lay public,
can hardly follow nowadays any scientific vulgata (in 1995 the University
of Oxford announced a vacant readership in the public understanding of
science; let us hope that they will come up with something).
New Europe College, where we are now, is an institute for advanced
studies in the humanities. We, the experts in humanities that form its
community, must admit that we do not have a clue about what the scientists
say about afterlife. We only know that some of them, after they have won
the Nobel Prize, start to talk about God, but no one, apparently, takes
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them seriously when they do this. So, all we can do, hic et nunc, is to see
what the experts in humanities have to say about afterlife.
Maintenant, sur une immense terrasse d’Elsinore, qui va de Bâle à Cologne,
qui touche aux sables de Nieuport, aux marais de la Somme, aux craies
de Champagne, aux granits d’Alsace — l’Hamlet européen regarde des
milliers de spectres. Mais il est un Hamlet intellectuel. Il médite sur la vie
et la mort des vérités. Il a pour fantômes tous les objets de nos controverses;
il a pour remords tous les titres de notre gloire [...]. S’il saisit un crâne,
c’est un crâne illustre. — Whose was it? — Celui-ci fut Lionardo. [...] Et ce
autre crâne est celui de Leibniz qui rêva de la paix universelle. Et celui-ci
fut Kant qui genuit Hegel, qui genuit Marx, qui genuit ... Hamlet ne sait
trop que faire de tous ces crânes. Mais s’il les abandonne! ... Va-t-il cesser
d’être lui-même?
These are Paul Valéry’s words1. They manage, I think, to express very
well what happens to the modern humanist, who, unlike the modern
scientist, is haunted by the history of his own discipline and who cannot
make sense of any problem if he does not unfold its history. So, if we raise
the question about afterlife to a modern humanist, we are bound to end
up with something about the history of the doctrines and views that regard
the issue of afterlife.
Like any other expert, the modern humanist is someone who manages
to know something well because he, inter alia, has narrowed down to the
extreme the area of his scholarly interest. And this fact has its importance;
for it means that if we raise the question about afterlife to a modern humanist,
we are bound to end up with something about a rather small segment of the
history of this question. My field is philosophy, and within this field I have
narrowed down my interest to one philosopher – Plato. So, if one asks me
what I have to say about afterlife, I shall offer him an account of what Plato
says about it. But, how relevant can be for us such a small segment of the
history of the doctrines and views that regard the issue of afterlife? Let us
first see, however, what Plato has to say about this issue.
II
“The most appealing account of the Big Bang I’ve ever read”, claims
Salman Rushdie in his Imaginary Homelands, “was written by Italo Calvino
in his marvellous Cosmicomics. In the beginning, we’re told by Calvino’s
narrator, the proto-being Qfwfq, ‘Every point of each of us coincided with
281
every point of each of the others in a single point, which was where we
all were ... it wasn’t the sort of situation that encourage sociability.’ Then
a certain Mrs Ph(i)Nko cried out, ‘Oh, if only I had some room, how I’d
like to make some noodles for you boys!’ And at once — bam! — there it
was: spacetime, the cosmos. Room.”2
In Plato’s late writings there are several accounts of the soul’s
immortality and afterlife. They are a mixture of traditional legends and
Platonic myths, linked with a cosmology that is even stranger than Italo
Calvino’s account of the Big Bang – a cosmology that involves a Demiurge,
human reincarnation and many other curious things. We certainly do not
want to rush into that. We had better start chronologically. (The modern
humanists are so addicted to unfolding stories, that they would use any
excuse for a chronological approach.)
Plato’s earlier writings, the so-called Socratic dialogues, are dominated
by their main character, namely Socrates, who was Plato’s guru. Socrates
is the weirdest philosopher ever. When the Delphic god was asked who is
the wisest man, he replied that there is no one wiser than Socrates (cf. Ap.
21 b and Phd. 85 b)3. Socrates attempted to test the Delphic god, but
eventually he came to the conclusion that all his fellow citizens – poets,
politicians, sophists, skilled craftsmen – were less wise than he (for they
all claimed they knew something without actually knowing it). And so, he
proved the god’s oracle to be true. Obviously, he annoyed everybody.
Soon after he was brought before an Athenian court on a most ridiculous
charge (corrupting the minds of the young and believing in other deities
instead of the gods recognized by the state); and, eventually, he was
condemned to death. The fact that all this happened in a democratic Athens
is usually taken as an accident; for philosophers, we believe, have always
been safe in a democratic regime. To this, Heidegger replies: it is true that
Socrates seems to be the only philosopher killed by a democracy; but this
is more likely to mean that, since the time of Socrates, not a single
philosopher of his stature has ever lived in a democracy4. Mais passons;
regardless of whether this is or not true, Socrates remains the most singular
and eccentric philosopher.
Part of his eccentricity consists in his refusal to write anything. He
would have perished of course, had Plato (and a few others) not written
about him. As far as Plato’s account of Socrates’ views is concerned, there
are no reliable means to determine its fidelity to them (the moment we
approach Plato, we are faced with the issue of original and copy.) This is,
however, what Socrates says about death at the end of Plato’s Apology
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(one of Plato’s earlier writings, which contains, allegedly, the speech given
by Socrates in his defence at the trial):
Death is one of two things. Either it is annihilation and the dead have no
consciousness of anything, or, as we are told, it is really a change — a
migration of the soul from this place to another. Now if there is no
consciousness but only a dreamless sleep, death must be a marvellous
gain [for it is like a one single resting night – cf. 40 c 9-d 1]. [...] If on the
other hand death is a removal from here to some other place, and if what
we are told is true, that all the dead are there, what greater blessing could
there be than this, gentlemen? [For that would mean that one can entertain
himself with all the famous man that have ever lived and with all the
half-divinities — Minos, Rhadamanthus, Orpheus, Musaeus, Hesiod,
Homer, Palamedes, Ajax, etc. – cf. 41 a-b.]5
(40 c-41 c)
Some of us, being workaholics, would not find the possibility of an
eternal dreamless sleep as appealing as Socrates did, while others might
be reluctant to mingle with half-divinities for ever. But apart from these
peculiarities, Socrates appears, surprisingly, fairly sensible in his views
about afterlife, for he simply says that death is either a conscious or a
non-conscious state.
Plato’s views on the matter, however, are less sensible; and yet, one of
them, which first occurs in the Symposium, is not actually unreasonable.
This view has in a way a Socratic origin.
When the Delphic god uttered his oracle about me, says Socrates in
the Apology, he “is not referring literally to Socrates; he has merely taken
my name as a paradeigma” (23 a 8-b). A paradeigma is, in this context, an
instance or embodiment of something. It seems then that Socrates, Plato’s
spiritual father, invites us to look at him platonically; he invites us, that is,
to focus not on him, but on what is embodied in him. So, what does
Socrates embody?
In the Crito, when Crito asks Socrates to run away from prison and
save his life, Socrates says: “[...] it has always been my nature never to
accept advice from any of my friends unless reflection shows that it is the
best course that reason offers” (46 b). Socrates, we know only too well,
has always lived according to reason (Grg. 527 e; cf. also Phd. 82 d, 84
a-b). He embodies then, we may say, the possibility of living according to
reason.
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Now, most of us also claim to live according to reason. Does that
mean that Socrates and we embody the same thing? Obviously, we are
not as serene as he was when we contemplate the finitude of our life. We
do not live without having any fears, as he did (cf. Phd. 84 b and 114 e);
and, of course, we would not attack any flattering oracle. But whenever
we live according to what our reason tells us, we embody the same thing
as he did and so we resemble him. Only that our embodiment of a life led
by reason is not as resistant and enduring as his; that is: we are not as
committed to our reason as he was to his, and we cannot live all the time
according to what reason tells us, as he did.
Socrates, says Alcibiades in the Symposium, “does not resemble any
other man” (221 c), and so he appears to be a divine (theios, daimonios)
person (cf. 215 b, 216 e, 219 c, 222 a). Why? The answer that Alcibiades’
praise suggests, in the Symposium, is this: what is divine in Socrates, and
so what differentiates him from other men, is his remaining the same for
the sake of something thought of as good (cf. 213 e, 216 d-e, 217 d-e).
For, as Alcibiades says, nobody and nothing can force him to do something
which does not agree with what he believes reason recommends us as
being good – be it wine (214 a, 220 a), bodily temptations (219 b-d),
hardships (220 a-b), dangers or wars (221 b-d). This belief that the divine
must always remain the same is to be found in many ancient religious
doctrines, such as the Mosaic one (see, inter alia, the Old Testament, Mal.
3,6). But we should confine our inquiry to Plato. So: why did he hold this
belief? This is a very difficult question, which I cannot enter here; but this
motif of remaining the same, which Socrates brought forward in his life, is
interwoven with all major Platonic themes.
In the Symposium Plato claims that human beings (like all mortal
creatures) are always changing (207 d-e), and so they cannot, like the
divine, be fully and always the same (208 a). Not even Socrates, we may
say, going along with Plato’s thought; although he always listens to what
reason has to say, Socrates grows older too and thus he is not fully and
always the same. So, Plato concludes, the only way in which man partakes
of what is always the same is by perpetuating himself, i.e. by “leaving
behind new life to fill the vacancy that is left in its species by obsolescence”
(208 a-b). And he seems to suggest that love, Eros (that drives each
individual man during his life), is nothing but a longing for maintaining
the sameness of the human race (cf. for instance 206 e, 207 a, 212 a). A
very similar view occurs in the Laws (allegedly, Plato’s last work), at 721
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b-c; here, claiming that a man should marry when he has reached the age
of thirty and before he comes to that of thirty-five, Plato argues that
[…] there is a sense in which mankind naturally partakes of immortality,
a prize our nature makes desirable to all of us in its every form, for to win
renown and not lie in our graves without a name is a desire of this. Thus
the race of man is time’s equal twin and companion, bound up with him
in a union never to be broken, and the manner of their immortality is in
this wise. By succession of generations the race [of man] abides one and
the same [tauton kai hen on aei], so partaking in immortality through
procreation.
That is: it is the human race that has (actually: can have) an endless
duration, not the individual soul. This implies that there is no actual afterlife
and conveniently solves the whole matter. Thus, the Symposium and the
Laws contain a view of the soul’s immortality that seems, to us, quite
reasonable (though in the Book X of the Laws things are slightly more
complicated). In the Phaedo, however, Plato argues that it is the individual
soul that is immortal. And this casts a long shadow on this appealing
(because down to earth) approach from the Symposium and the Laws.
III
The Phaedo is the dialogue in which Plato describes Socrates’ last
conversation with some of his friends. Socrates knows that he will soon
die and he tells his friends, as he told the jury at his trial, that he looks
forward to it.
If I did not expect to enter the company, first, of other wise and good
gods, and secondly of men now dead who are better than those who are
in this world now, it is true that I should be wrong in not grieving at death.
As it is, you can be assured that I expect to find myself among good men.
I would not insist particularly on this point, but on the other I assure you
that I shall insist most strongly — that I shall find there divine masters who
are supremely good. That is why I am not so much distressed as I might
be, and why I have a firm hope that there is something in store for those
who have died, and, as we have been told for many years, something
much better for the good than for the wicked.
(63 b-c)
285
This echoes what he said in the Apology. Now, however, he is Plato’s
voice and he is caught up in a scenario that has at stake an elaborated
philosophical construction.
Cebes, one of those listening to Socrates’ brave words, says that, after
all, “it requires no little faith and assurance to believe that the soul exists
after death and retains some active force and intelligence” (70 b). Socrates,
in response, produces several arguments that, in his view, demonstrate
that the soul is immortal: one about the existence of pure knowledge (63
e-67 a); one about opposites (70 d-71 e); one that introduces the so-called
theory of recollection (cf. 72 e-73 b); and one about the nature of the soul
(78 c-81 a). These arguments may be quite exasperating for a modern
reader. The one about opposites, for instance, states that, since “everything
which has an opposite is generated from that opposite and from no other
source” (70 e), and since death is the opposite of living (71 c), the living
must come from the dead, just as the dead come from the living (71 d-e),
which amounts to say that the soul exists in the next world (71 e). One of
these arguments, however, the one that introduces the so-called theory of
recollection, is a most complex philosophical argument. It resumes, in a
different form, the argument about pure knowledge and it goes like this:
“if what we call learning is really just recollection, [...] then surely what
we recollect now we must have learned at some time before, which is
impossible unless our souls existed somewhere before they entered this
human shape. So in that way too it seems likely that the soul is immortal”
(72 e). Now, what does all this mean?
Seeing is one of our most intimate experiences; and yet we seldom
understand what does in fact happen when we see something. When we
look around, we see things that have an identity – trees, stars, mountains.
That is: we always see the things that we look at as something: this one as
a tree, that one as a mountain; which means that when we look at things
we instantly identify them as being what they are. Now, in order to identify
an object as something, say that thing over there as being a chair, I must
realize that that object has the appearance, the look, the aspect of a chair.
I must recognize, in other words, a specific aspect, viz. the aspect of
chair, in that thing over there. This act of recognizing a particular aspect
in a given object brings forth a can of philosophical worms, which was
first opened by Plato.
If in looking at things we identify them as being what they are, then
our seeing is not actually a mere visual sensation: it is rather a sort of an
interpretation, in which I see something as something. In which case we
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should say that that which must be responsible for this interpretation, for
this hermeneutic experience (to be pretentious), cannot be my eyes, but
my mind. Plato stresses out this point explicitly in the Theaetetus, a dialogue
written later than the Phaedo. There, at 184 c, he makes Socrates ask:
“Do we see with our eyes or through our eyes?” That is, he continues, do
we see with the eyes or do we see with something else — “a soul, or
whatever is to be called” (184 d) — through the eyes, as they would be
merely an instrument? And Plato’s answer is very clearly stated: we see
through the eyes with the soul (184 d). Let us go back, however, to the
Phaedo.
Here the question of recognizing specific aspects in the things we look
at is explicitly put; at 74 e-75 a and 75 b ff., for instance, Plato brings
forward the case of seeing equal things:
We must have had some previous knowledge of equality before the time
when we first saw equal things and realized that they were striving after
equality, but fell short of it. […So] before we began to see and hear and
use our other senses we must somewhere have acquired the knowledge
that there is such a thing as absolute equality. Otherwise we could never
have realized, by using it as a standard for comparison, that all equal
objects of sense are desirous of being like it, but are only imperfect copies.
Here in the Phaedo Plato calls the act of recognizing specific aspects
in the things we look at anamnêsis, recollection (73 c-d, 74 c-d; cf. also
73 d); and for “aspect” he uses the words eidos and idea (102 a, 103 e),
which in Greek mean “form” or “shape”, and which are usually rendered
in English by “form”. (Both eidos and idea contain an implicit reference to
sight, which we do not perceive any more in the modern word “idea”;
and they seem to come from a verb root that originally meant “to see”.)
So, to put it Plato’s terms: when we look at an object and see it as being a
particular object, say, an arrow (or as having a particular feature – say, as
being equal to another arrow), we actually recollect the form, the idea of
arrow in that object (and the idea of equality in the two equal arrows)6.
Now, Plato said many queer things about forms and he developed an
actual doctrine about them, usually referred to as his theory of forms. He
believed, however, that to know what a form actually is, say, the form of
equality, it is not enough to recollect it in the various equal things we see
around us; we have, he believed, to discuss about it in a particular way
(which he called dialectical) (Phd. 67 a-b, 78 e-79 a; cf. also R. 534 b ff.)
(at Phd. 99 d ff. he goes even further and says that the senses are more
287
likely to prevent us from reaching true knowledge). But we have to leave
all this aside and focus on our subject – recollection and immortality.
If seeing implies a recollection of forms, then we must somehow know
that form beforehand; and this brings forth the question of when we first
came to know all those forms. In the Phaedo he claims that the right
answer is this: before our birth. Here is what he says at 72 e (cf. also 75 c):
[… if] what we call learning is really just recollection, [...] then surely
what we recollect now we must have learned at some time before, which
is impossible unless our souls existed somewhere before they entered this
human shape.
So, Plato argues, if your soul existed before your birth, it will continue to
exist after your death, which means that your soul is immortal (athanaton)
and imperishable (adiaphthoron) (102 b-106 e). And if all this is so, he
concludes, then after death soul reaches pure knowledge (66 e); and,
eventually, it is reincarnated and lives another earthly life (81 d ff.), but
without being able to preserve the pure knowledge it received in its afterlife
(a point which is implicit in the Phaedo, but explicit in the Republic)7.
Recollection and reincarnation are issues that are brought forth by the
so-called theory of forms, which is introduced as a theory that explains
the way our soul knows things (e.g. our recognizing forms in the things
we look at). And immortality is an issue that is brought forth by the issues
of recollection and reincarnation. That is: immortality, as it appears in the
Phaedo, is a question that occurs within the broader context of Plato’s
way of putting the problem of knowledge (cf. 92 d: “the theory that our
soul exists even before it enters the body surely stands or falls with the
soul’s possession [of the forms]”). This theoretical package about forms
and recollection, however, comes with an ethical point, which, in its
turn, brings forth a complex and fantastical eschatology.
IV
In the Phaedo, Plato attaches to the theory of recollection a most
unexpected argument, which may be summarized as follows. (i) The
knowledge that we recollect is a pure knowledge of forms (66 d), i.e. a
knowledge that the soul acquires in the other world, where it is pure, viz.
released from its body (66 e). (ii) In the other world, however, the access
to this pure knowledge is not democratic; “for one who is not pure himself
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to attain the realm of purity would no doubt be a breach of universal
justice” (67 b) (cf. also 82 b-c: “no soul which is not absolutely pure when
it leaves the body, may attain the divine nature [of the pure knowledge]”).
(iii) During its earthly life, the soul is “permeated by the corporeal” (81 c);
and purification aims precisely at “separating the soul as much as possible
from the body” (67 c). (iv) So, one should attempt to accomplish this
separation in his earthly life (67 b, 69 d, 84 a-b); yet, this “desire to free
the soul [from the body] is found chiefly, or rather only, in the true
philosophers” (67 d), who seem thus to “make dying their profession” (67
e) and whose life seem to be a “practice of death” (81 a).
But this is not all. At the end of the dialogue, Plato includes in all this
an ethical point. At 107 c he makes Socrates say this:
If death were a release from everything, it would be a boon for the wicked,
because by dying they would be released not only from the body but also
from their own wickedness together with the soul, but as it is, since the
soul is clearly immortal, it can have no escape or security from evil except
by becoming as good and wise as it possibly can.
I do not think that this inference – “since the soul is immortal, it can
have no escape or security from evil except by becoming as good and
wise as it possibly can” – is safe from objections. And the claim made
further on, at 107 d, that the soul takes with it to the next world not only
its education (paideia, i.e. its knowledge in a very broad sense) but also
the way it has lived, is simply postulated. One may accept that if knowledge
is recollection, then soul must be immortal in order to acquire that pure
knowledge that makes possible the act of recollection; and that if pure
knowledge is easier to acquire when the soul has purified itself in its
earthly life through philosophy, then one should consider the practice of
philosophy very seriously. But the view that one should be not only as
wise, but also as good as one possibly can is, apparently, not grounded on
anything.
Plato, however, construes in the Phaedo a complex eschatology, at
the core of which lies the idea that soul, in its afterlife, is judged and then
punished, or rewarded (as the case may be), for its moral conduct in its
earthly life (107 d-108 a, 113 d) (an idea that was also expounded, in a
different form, in the Gorgias 523 ff.; cf. also R. 614 b-621 d); and he
argues that when soul is reincarnated, its reincarnation and its new life is
part of the punishment or the reward for what it did in its former earthly
life (see for instance 81 e: “those who have cultivated gluttony and
selfishness or drunkenness, instead of taking pains to avoid them, are likely
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to assume the form of donkeys and other perverse animals [when they are
reincarnated]”). Here is a sample of this eschatology as it occurs in the
Phaedo:
This is how the story goes. When any man dies, his own guardian spirit,
which was given charge over him in his life, tries to bring him to a certain
place where all must assemble, and from which, after submitting their
several cases to judgement, they must set out for the next world, under the
guidance of one who has the office of escorting souls from this world to
the other. When they have there undergone the necessary experiences
and remained as long as is required, another guide brings them back again
after many vast periods of time. Of course this journey is not as Aeschylus
makes Telephus describe it. He says that the path to Hades is
straightforward, but it seems clear to me that it is neither straightforward
nor single. If it were, there would be no need for a guide, because surely
nobody could lose his way anywhere if there were only one road. In fact,
it seems likely that it contains many forkings and crossroads, to judge
from the ceremonies and observances of this world. Well, the wise and
disciplined soul follows its guide and is not ignorant of it surroundings,
but the soul which is deeply attached to the body, as I said before, hovers
round it and the visible world for a long time, and it is only after much
resistance and suffering that it is at last forcibly led away by its appointed
guardian spirit. And when it reaches the same place as the rest, the soul
which is impure through having done some impure deed, either by setting
its hand to lawless bloodshed or by committing other kindred crimes which
are the work of kindred souls, this soul is shunned and avoided by all.
(107 d-108 b)
All this is bound to discourage anyone who wants to learn something
about Plato’s views on afterlife. First, everything is too complicated; secondly,
we do not know if we should take his fantastical stories literally or figuratively.
Harold Cherniss, a fine Plato scholar, said that “the Analysts of Oxford have
succeeded to their own satisfaction in reading the dialogues that they call
‘critical’ as primitive essays in their own philosophical method. The author
of these works, they feel, they could adopt as their worthy precursor, if only
he could be absolved of the embarrassing doctrine of ideas that he elaborated
in all its metaphysical and epistemological absurdity in the Phaedo, the
Symposium, the Republic, and the Phaedrus”8. Well, if you think you have
a difficulty in accepting Plato’s theories from the Phaedo, you had better
have a look at one of his last writings, the Timaeus.
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V
If forms are recognized in the things we see, then it means that the
latter somehow embody the former. So we have to admit that there are
two main ontological realms — that of the forms and that of their sensible
embodiments. And this brings forth the question of the nature of the relation
between forms and their embodiments.
In the Phaedo Plato says that this relation is causal, in the sense that
the forms are responsible for the way their sensible embodiments are (100
c-d). But he does not determine this causal relation (which he refers to by
the obscure verb metechein, usually rendered in English by “to partake
of”) (cf. 100 d: “I do not go so far as to insist upon the precise details –
only upon the fact that it is by beauty that beautiful things are beautiful”).
Only in the later dialogues, such as the Republic (see for instance 596 a
ff.), he describes this relation as a model-copy relation; that is: the forms
we recognize in various visible objects are to be conceived as models,
and the objects that embody them as their copies.
Now, according to Plato these models of sensible objects, the forms,
must always remain the same (cf. Phd. 78 c ff.). Why? Because, as he
claims the Cratylus, “you cannot know that which has no state” (440 a);
because, in other words, “we cannot reasonably say that there is knowledge
at all, if everything is in a state of transition and there is nothing abiding”
(440 a-b; see also R. 585 c ff.) (and here, that motif of remaining the same,
of which I said earlier that Socrates brought forward in his life, surfaces
again). You may have never thought about it, but here Plato is certainly
right: only that which remains the same can be known. That table over
there is obviously quite old; its colour has become uncertain and its drawers
look stuck. But I still recognize it, I have sat at it many times. Yet, Plato
would claim, each time you looked at that table, your mind saw, through
your eyes, only unchanging forms – the form of table, the form of drawer.
And here comes the Timaeus, which makes everyone interested in
Plato’s philosophy despair. Plato develops in this dialogue the model-copy
idea by claiming that the whole universe is a product framed from a
primordial given matter (52 d), by a Demiurge (28 a ff., 29 d-e, 31 b) and
other gods, who had an ideal model in front of their eyes (30 c), i.e. an
ideal universe (cf. 38 b-c, 39 e). And, as if all this was not strange enough,
he introduces, at 37 c-38 c, a most bizarre distinction between time
(chronos) and eternity (aion).
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Time, claims Plato, is a “moving image of eternity” (37 d). In other
words: time does resemble eternity, but they are not actually the same,
just as a copy of a model is similar to, but not the same as its model. One
may be tempted to construe eternity as an endless duration, but then,
since time is not the same as eternity, one would have to construe time as
a limited duration. This interpretation, however, has to cope with a major
difficulty, for Plato says that the existence of the universe (and so of time,
with which the universe was bound from its very beginning – cf. 38 b) is
endless: the created universe, he says at 38 c, “has been and is and will
be in all time” (cf. also 33 a, where it is claimed that the existence of the
universe is not limited by old age and disease).
Plato says very little about what eternity is, and this very little is a
rather confusing phrase, namely that “eternity remains in one” (37 d).
What could this “one” mean here? Plato does not explicitly say, in the
Timaeus or elsewhere, what this “one” might be. According to several
Ancient scholars the Platonic notion of eternity should be understood as a
timeless present9. In which case we should read the phrase from 37 d like
this: “eternity [is: to] remain in the same one [now]”, and we should take
eternity as a “remaining in the same now”, and time as a “moving from
one now to another”. The Latin scholars, who were very good at finding
clear-cut expressions for the obscure thoughts of the Greek philosophers,
called the timeless present of eternity nunc stans, and the running present
of time nunc fluens; and Boethius is credited with introducing another
clever pair of Latin words into all this: sempiternitas, for the endlessness
of time; and aeternitas, for the timeless eternity (de Trinitate 4, ll.64-77).
To use this more convenient Latin terminology, we may say then that the
realm of that which is always the same, i.e. the realm of forms, should be
understood as existing in a nunc stans, i.e. as being eternal, while the
sensible embodiments of the forms as existing in a nunc fluens, i.e. as
being sempiternal.
If so, what happens to the human soul? Is it eternal? If eternity is “to
remain in a single now”, then a soul cannot be eternal during the time in
which it is embodied in a man, for during this time it exists in the moving
now of time. Yet a soul, one might argue, can be eternal after the death of
the body that embodied it. But if so, then “during” such an eternal, i.e.
timeless present, the soul will be deprived of any kind of motion; and if
there is no motion in it, then it cannot perceive or know anything, for,
according to Plato, any kind of awareness requires movement (cf. Sph.
249 a, where Plato claims that human soul, human thinking and life in
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general cannot be separated from motion; cf. also Tht. 153 b-c: “soul
acquires knowledge and is kept going and improved by learning and
practice, which are of the nature of movements”). Yet in the Phaedo (and
in some later dialogues, such as the Phaedrus 246-249), Plato claims that
only after death does soul reach real knowledge (cf. Phd. 66 e: “wisdom
[...] will be attainable only when we are dead, and not in our lifetime”).
And in the Republic, in the so-called myth of Er, he claims that soul, after
it witnessed the harmony of the world and fate (616 ff.), journeys to the
Plain of Oblivion and drinks from the River of Forgetfulness (621 a-b),
reaching thus, we may say, a state of complete oblivion, i.e. a state in
which it is not perceiving anything any more (and this complete oblivion
is what makes recollection necessary when soul is reincarnated).
We are facing then, after too long a discussion, a difficulty, an aporia.
“Geez, I should stop ruining my life searching for answers I’m never going
to get, and just enjoy it while it lasts” – one can say, borrowing this line
from Woody Allen’s character in Hannah and Her Sisters. Almost all of
Plato’s Socratic dialogues, however, end up in an aporia; and for him an
aporia is simply the beginning of understanding. Which means that,
according to Plato, we may be on the right track after all.
VI
I have, at this point, to make a digression. There is a piece of practical
advice about luggage which goes like this: when you pack, put in only
the necessary things; then take them all out and put back only half of
them. I did the same with this essay of mine (on the assumption that,
outside my community of fellow-Platonists, it is better to travel light). I left
out, that is, half of the things I first considered necessary for a brief account
of Plato’s views on immortality and I confined myself to the task of stressing
a few points he makes about it in the Symposium, the Phaedo and the
Timaeus10.
Now, does my account of Plato’s views on immortality describe
accurately his thoughts? My account is just one interpretation amongst
many; and there is no widely accepted interpretation of Plato’s philosophy
(like there is one of, say, Newton’s physics). Suppose, however, that Plato
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himself would endorse my account of his views and let us ask ourselves if
these views are true.
In Oedipus Wrecked, if I may refer to another Woody Allen film (which
is his segment of New York Stories), Allen’s character listens to a woman
who plays something very nice on the piano; she is a fortune-teller and a
magician who is helping him to find his mother, but never mind. “Wow,”
he says, “you play very well; do you practice a lot?” “No,” she replies, “I
was a musician in a former life”. Most of us find this joke funny and
Plato’s doctrine of reincarnation ridiculous.
Some of us may accept several philosophical points made by Plato’s
theory of forms. But most of us would find embarrassing the countless
fantastical details that occur in his philosophical accounts of the origin of
the universe and afterlife. And it is precisely these fantastical details that
almost convince us that his views could not be true. The Renaissance
scholars found Plato’s mythical explanations of the universe rather
seductive, but in the long run these explanations provoked the hostility of
the majority of modern scientists. There are nevertheless a few notable
exceptions to this severe excommunication – such as Heisenberg or
Popper, to cite only the best known names – who claim that Plato’s
explanations of the universe have influenced many important scientists,
from Galileo to Kepler, Newton, and even Einstein. But, most of the modern
scientists tend to consider Plato an illustrious representative of Greek
pseudo-science; and we are quite tempted, I would guess, to say they are
right in doing so.
Why, however, did he use so many fantastical stories and metaphors?
Because, one may argue, he had no choice. That is: in dealing with
philosophical matters, with what is most abstract, we cannot but produce,
eventually, various metaphors. Can we rely on a metaphor? According to
Plato, we certainly can, for according to him metaphorical language has
heuristic powers, i.e. it has a certain ability to lead us to truth (cf. Ti. 48 d
and 53 d-e). But why did he hold such a view?
Roughly speaking, Plato’s fantastical stories aim at finding a non-abstract
embodiment for an abstract matter, in such a way that that embodiment
(partially) reveals that which is embodied in it (cf. what he says in the
Politicus, at 277 d: “It is difficult […] to demonstrate anything of real
importance without the use of examples. Every one of us is like a man
who sees things in a dream and thinks that he knows them perfectly and
then wakes up, as it were, to find that he knows nothing.”) For Plato,
however, one might argue, this act of revealing is metaphysically justified
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by the fact that the forms are embodied, and thus partially revealed, by
the sensible things. That is: for Plato the fact that we can (partially) express
abstract ideas through non-abstract terms is grounded on the fact that the
sensible is a “manifestation” of the intelligible.
So, we may conclude, for Plato a philosophical account of the origin
of the universe and afterlife cannot be phantasm-free (for the unfolding of
these subjects requires, besides an abstract, yet rough framework, an
amount of fantastical details); and these details, insofar as they embody
something that cannot be grasped otherwise (viz. in an abstract way),
may be said to be leading us in the proximity of truth (for the meta-physics
and meta-phorical discourse correspond to each other in their attempt to
go beyond, meta, what is before our senses)11. This is a very refined
explanation of Plato’s use of fantastical stories. But it somehow fails to
persuade us to believe that his fantastical cosmology and eschatology
may lead us to truth.
Whitehead is credited with a saying that has made a beautiful career:
“the safest general characterisation of the European philosophical tradition
is that it consists of a series of footnotes to Plato”12. For many philosophers
this is simply an exaggeration, though no one could deny Plato’s enormous
influence on the history of philosophy. But, you may ask, if his philosophy
seems so unlikely to be true, then, apart from satisfying a historical interest,
à quoi bon lire Platon?
VII
Plato claims in the Phaedo that his eschatology is accessible only to
the true philosophers (67 d, 80 e, 83 b) and that it is quite different from
the views entertained by the “masses” (64 b, 68 c, 77 b, 80 d, 83 e). And
in the Timaeus, his cosmology is presented as being the view of one who
“has scaled the heights of all philosophy” (20 a), namely Timaeus (the
character who tells Socrates and a few others the story of the creation of
the universe); and this view is opposed to the common understanding (cf.
28 c: “the father and maker of all this universe is past finding out, and
even if we found him, to tell of him to all men would be impossible”). So,
we may say, we are apprehensive about Plato’s fantastical cosmology
and eschatology because we are not true philosophers. What is then for
him a true philosopher?
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Plato’s most famous myth is the so-called myth of the cave, from the
Republic. In this myth men are represented as prisoners in a cave (514 ff.);
they have their necks chained and can look only in front of them, at some
shadows projected on the wall of the cave which they believe are true
beings (cf. 515 c). One of them, however, escapes from his fetters and
realizes that the shadows seen before on the wall of the cave are only
shadows (515 c ff.), and that the true light and the true beings are outside
the cave (516 a ff.). The sun, which generates the true light, seems here to
be used as an analogy for the ultimate principle of the entire existence,
called also “the good”, to agathon (cf. the passages known as the Sun, the
Divided Line and the Cave: 507 a-509 c, 509 d-511 e and 514 a-517 a).
Socrates presents this myth about the cave and its dwellers as an analogy
for “our nature in respect of education and its lack to such an experience”
(514 a). What is then for Plato education, paideia (of which he says in the
Phaedo 107 c-d that it is a thing the soul takes with itself to the next
world)? After Socrates told his audience the myth, he says that education
is not “what some people proclaim it to be in their professions”, when
they say “they can put true knowledge into a soul that does not posses it,
as if they were inserting vision into blind eyes” (518 b-d). In the Republic,
vision is often taken as an analogy for knowledge. The seen things (507 b,
508 a) correspond to the known things (508 e, 509 b) and sight (507 d)
corresponds to knowledge (508 e). So, says Socrates, according to this
analogy (which is at the core of the myth of the cave), education appears
as the process of turning one’s eyes from darkness to light (518 a-c). That
is: education is not like an art of producing vision in an eye, but, “on the
assumption that it [i.e. the eye] possesses vision but does not rightly direct
it and does not look where it should, an art of bringing this about” (518 d).
Yet, says Socrates, the eye cannot be converted from the darkness (say,
the darkness of a cave) to the light (say, the light of the sun outside) except
by “turning the whole body” (without which the eye cannot be brought
outside the cave); and, he continues, so it is with knowledge, which requires
“a turning around of the entire soul” (periagôgê tês holês psuchês) from
the world of becoming to the world of ideas, of which the brightest one is
the idea of the good (518 c-d). And he concludes: “a conversion and
turning about of the soul from a day whose light is darkness to the veritable
day [is] that ascension to reality of our parable which we will affirm to be
true philosophy” (521 c).
Most of us will certainly look with suspicion at the claim that the
ultimate goal of one’s education is to grasp, sometimes through metaphors
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or fantastical stories, the principle of everything, which one can compare
with the sun and call “the good”. Yet, we must admit, the idea that
education implies the effort to see things differently does appeal to us. We
may even put everything in Kuhn’s terms and say that each one lives in a
paradigm, which becomes, eventually, one’s own cave. So, we may
conclude, one’s spiritual growth (i.e. his paideia) depends on his attempt
to escape from such a paradigm and experience something else. If so,
then even a particular philosophy, say the Platonic one, may turn into a
cave, outside of which there is a world full of other disciplines and points
of view.
Applied to our case, namely that of dealing with the topic of immortality,
this view will lead us to say that what is important is to escape the given
phantasms about immortality that surround us and attempt to reach another
points of view about it, even if some of them, like the Platonic ones, are
nothing more than a collection of more sophisticated phantasms. One
could also venture to claim that in fields such as the one of eschatology,
where truth is beyond our reach, this is the only thing to do.
Plato would certainly look at all this with suspicion. For him, what is
important is the attempt to grasp the ultimate, singular truth. But he would
certainly encourage us to do whatever we can to challenge all the views
and opinions that we take for granted and turn our mind from what is
familiar to us to what makes us wonder and lead us to an aporia. So, if
thinking about afterlife and what Plato has to say about it will do, then
why look further?
Notes
1. La Crise de l’esprit, Oeuvres (Paris: Gallimard, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade,
1957) t.1, 993.
2. S. Rushdie, Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism 1981-1991 (London:
Granta, 1991), 262.
3. References to Plato’s text are given by means of the marginal sigla derived
from the pagination and page subdivision of the Stephanus edition of Plato’s
works (1578). The abbreviations I use are those of the Liddell-Scott-Jones’s
Greek-English Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1961).
4. M. Heidegger, Vom Wesen der Wahrheit. Zu Platons Höhlengleichnis und
Theätet (Frankfurt am Main: Vittorio Klostermann, 1988), Gesamtausgabe,
Band 34, 84-5.
297
5. Translations of Plato’s texts are from The Collected Dialogues of Plato, E.
Hamilton and H. Cairns (eds.) (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press,
1989).
6. The Platonic notion of recollection has raised many controversies; the scope
of this essay, however, does not permit a proper discussion of it.
7. Before souls are reincarnated, he says in the Republic, they journey to the
Plain of Oblivion and there they drink from the River of Forgetfulness, thus
losing that pure knowledge they reached after they separated from they former
bodies (621 a-b).
8. H. Cherniss, “The Relation of the Timaeus to Plato’s Later Dialogues”, The
American Journal of Philology (1957) LXXVIII, 3, 234.
9. See for instance Proclus in Tim., Diehl, 3, 51, 11.15-21 and Plotinus III, 3, 20
ff..
10. In the Politicus, which comes, chronologically, between the Phaedo and the
Timaeus, Plato introduces a rather strange cosmological account that can be
summarised as follows:
(i) The universe has two alternating cosmic eras: the reign of Kronus, in which
time moves from past to future (making that “with which it moves” older), and
the reign of Zeus, in which time moves from future to past (making that “with
which it moves” younger) (269 a-270 e).
(ii) In the reign of Kronus “all men rose up anew into life out of the earth, having
no memory of the former things” (272 a); they had no political constitutions
(271 e), for God was their shepherd, and fruits “sprang up of themselves out
of the ground without man’s toil” (272 a).
(iii) In the reign of Zeus, God abandons men. “[...] things go well enough in the
years immediately after he abandons control, but as time goes on and
forgetfulness of God arises in it [the world], the ancient condition of chaos
also begins to assert its sway” (273 c-d). (“At last, as this cosmic era draws to
its close, this disorder comes to a head. The few good things it produces it
corrupts with so gross a taint of evil that it hovers on the very brink of
destruction, both of itself and of the creatures in it. The God looks upon it
again, he who first set it in order. Beholding it in its troubles, and anxious for
it lest it sink racked by storms and confusion, and be dissolved again in the
bottomless abyss of unlikeness, he takes control of the helm once more. Its
former sickness he heals; what was disrupted in its former revolution under its
own impulse he brings back into the way of regularity, and, so ordering and
correcting it, he achieves for it its agelessness and deathlessness” — 273 d-e.)
Could this account be integrated in the larger picture I have retrieved
from the Symposium, the Phaedo and the Timaeus? In my view, it could; but
most Plato scholars do not like combining Plato’s doctrines that belong to
dialogues written in different periods and so every claim of this kind needs a
careful argumentation. Given the limited space I have at my disposal here, I
have to leave the cosmology from the Politicus aside.
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11. As Ricoeur put it, the idea that meta-physics and meta-phorical discourse
correspond to each other in their attempt to “emporte les mots et les choses
au-delà..., meta... revient à dire que tout l’usage de l’analogie, en apparence
neutre au regard de la tradition ‘métaphysique’, reposerait à son insu sur un
concept métaphysique d’analogie qui désigne le mouvement de renvoi du
visible à l’invisible; la primordiale ‘iconicité’ serait ici contenue: ce qui,
fondamentalement, fait ‘image’, ce serait le visible tout entier; c’est sa
ressemblance à l’invisible qui le constituerait comme image; conséquemment,
la toute première transposition serait le transfert du sens de l’empirie dans le
‘lieu intelligible’” (La Métaphore vive, Paris, 1975, 366). This view is to be
found in several other philosophers, such as Heidegger, who claims, in Der
Satz vom Grund, (Pfullingen, 1957, 89) that “das Metaphorische gibt es nur
innerhalb der Metaphysik”.
12. A. N. Whitehead, Process and Reality: An Essay in Cosmology (New York,
1929), 62.
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CRISTIAN PREDA
Né en 1966, à Bucarest
Docteur en sciences politiques à l’Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences
Sociales, Paris, 1998
Thèse : Le libéralisme du désespoir. Tradition libérale et critique du
totalitarisme (1938-1960)
Maître de conférence à la Faculté des Sciences Politiques et Administratives,
Université de Bucarest
Conseiller présidentiel, Département de politique publique, bureau des
analyses politiques internes,
à partir de 1999
Rédacteur des revues Sfera Politicii (1992-1996) et Polis, à partir de 1995
Coordonnateur de la collection “Societatea politicã” des Editions Nemira,
Bucarest, a partir de décembre 1998
Membre de la « Social Science Center » de l’Université de Bucarest, 1993-1994
Membre de l’Association roumaine de sciences politiques, à partir de 1995
Membre du Groupe de Dialogue Social, Bucarest, à partir de 1995
Membre du Centre d’Etudes Politiques de l’Université de Bucarest, à partir de
1995
Bourse du gouvernement français, Paris I Panthéon Sorbonne, 1990-1994
Bourse AUPELF-UREF, EHESS, Paris, 1995
Bourse Tempus, Université Libre de Bruxelles, 1996
Bourse du gouvernement français, EHESS Paris, 1998
Livres:
Modernité politique et «roumanité». Bucarest, Nemira, 1998
Notre Occident. Bucarest, Nemira, 1999
Le libéralisme du désespoir. Tradition libérale et critique du totalitarisme dans
les années 1938-1960. Bucarest, Babel (en préparation)
Nombreux articles, études et traductions dans la presse quotidienne, culturelle,
dans des périodiques scientifiques et dans des volumes collectifs. Editeur et
traducteur.
NOUS, LES MODERNES
1. La crise de la philosophie politique
En parlant de la crise de la philosophie politique, nous cherchons en
fait à définir la philosophie politique. En effet, par la mise en évidence de
ses limites et de ses tensions internes, la crise d’un certain type de pensée
offre le meilleur prétexte pour définir la pensée même ; or, de ce point de
vue, il est difficile de considérer que la philosophie politique pourrait être
une exception.
La définition que nous emploierons ne ressemblera pas à un article de
dictionnaire sec et exact, car, dans ce cas, elle interdirait toute
conversation. Tout le monde sait que le dialogue ne résulte pas de la
manipulation des articles de dictionnaire ; au contraire, pour constituer
autre chose qu’une juxtaposition de monologues, une véritable discussion
a besoin d’un point de départ vague qui puisse être amendé. La définition
vague que nous voulons proposer ici sera une tentative de provoquer un
dialogue. Mais, avant tout, on doit préciser qu’elle-même sera déduite de
la confrontation, de la conversation très particulière de quelques grands
esprits. Nous cherchons à suivre, de cette manière, une suggestion de Léo
Strauss, le plus sagace des historiens de la philosophie politique de notre
siècle. Strauss invitait ceux qui s’occupent de l’histoire des idées à faire
dialoguer les esprits éclairés, les grands philosophes politiques, car ceux-ci,
alors même qu’ils ont écrit des dialogues, ne faisaient autre chose que
monologuer1 .
La supposition impliquée par l’invitation de Strauss était que tous les
monologues des philosophes politiques communiquent au niveau profond
des questions fondamentales auxquelles ils cherchent une réponse. Malgré
les apparences, Strauss n’était pas optimiste. Car le principe de cette
communication des monologues est en fait très difficile à préciser,
notamment dans le cas où le dialogue que l’historien des idées doit créer
confronte, d’un côté, un philosophe antique, et de l’autre, un philosophe
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moderne. Dans ces cas, les différences sont parfois fondamentales et l’unité
supposée par la définition d’un principe devient une illusion. Malgré cela,
il est certain, par exemple, qu’un dialogue entre Platon et Thomas More
peut être plus aisément mis en scène qu’un dialogue entre Hobbes et
Aristote. Finalement, la raison en est banale : tandis que l’auteur de l’Utopie
voulait reprendre la vérité platonicienne, la vérité des “républiques
imaginaires” (pour parler comme Machiavel2 ), Hobbes voulait contredire
radicalement Aristote3 . De sorte que la première partie de l’Utopie de
More qui, du point de vue littéraire, est un dialogue inspiré par l’histoire
la plus banale (celle de la diplomatie), est suivie par une seconde partie
qui, en dépit de sa forme descriptive, peut être lue comme un dialogue
artificiel avec Platon ; au contraire, le Léviathan de Hobbes, dépourvu
d’un regard historique authentique, est une réplique implicite à la thèse
aristotélicienne du caractère naturel de l’être politique, mais une réplique
organisée dans tout le texte comme un monologue austère. Il semble que
la manière dont les questions strictement historiques s’insèrent dans le
discours des philosophes politiques est décisive pour l’orientation qu’ils
donnent à leur propre monologue.
Pour simplifier, on pourrait dire que la difficulté qui apparaît dans la
compréhension de la “communication des monologues” n’est pas tellement
liée au sujet du dialogue artificiel des grands esprits (en dernière instance
- Strauss avait raison -, les monologues ont les mêmes thèmes) qu’au style
d’une telle conversation. Un dialogue artificiel court en effet le risque de
falsifier le ton particulier qui accompagne la pensée de chaque auteur. En
outre, selon la remarque de Léo Strauss, il y a une différence énorme
entre le style de la philosophie politique classique et le style de la
philosophie politique moderne4 . La première était naturelle et vulgaire :
en d’autres mots, elle a inventé les questions politiques fondamentales et
a fait cela en utilisant la langue de l’homme commun de la cité grecque.
En échange, la philosophie politique moderne est dérivée (car elle ne fait
autre chose que réinterpréter les questions classiques) et technicisée (son
langage étant radicalement différent du langage naturel).
Il existe quand même une issue à cette situation désagréable : car si la
philosophie classique parlait la langue de l’homme de la cité, à présent
l’homme démocratique parle un dialecte de la langue des philosophes
modernes. Les mots-clé de ce dialecte - souveraineté, représentation,
régime, volonté, constitution, révolution ou acteur politique - sont
empruntés à la philosophie où ils ont subi - avant de devenir une référence
politique habituelle - un examen philosophique. En fait, c’est justement
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parce que nous vivons dans un tel monde, qui a rendu vulgaire la
philosophie jusqu’à ce qu’elle ne puisse plus être reconnue, que nous
sommes obligés de faire appel aux esprits les plus éclairés. Comme nous
l’avons suggéré au début, ce n’est pas la rigueur de la définition plate,
mais la profondeur de la pensée (fût-elle vaguement exprimée) qui peut
ouvrir les voies du dialogue véritable.
Il va de soi que, dans ce contexte, la détechnicisation du discours est
une solution profitable à tout le monde : l’homme démocratique pourra
feindre de comprendre ce qu’on lui dit, l’historien des idées (confondu
aujourd’hui souvent avec le philosophe politique) pourra sauver à son
tour l’apparence du caractère subversif de son propre discours. Quel sujet
pourrait être choisi pour définir la philosophie politique par le style de
son dialogue actuel, dans une tentative explicite de “co-intéresser”
l’homme démocratique ? Un sujet s’impose à notre attention, pour ainsi
dire, de manière absolue : il s’agit de la nature de la démocratie, de son
état actuel. Quel meilleur prétexte pour parler de crise ? L’histoire intervient
de nouveau dans la discussion.
Nous avons choisi comme guides de cet exposé consacré à la crise de
la philosophie politique (et non de la démocratie !) trois auteurs libéraux,
trois grands esprits de notre époque : il s’agit de Pierre Manent (né en
1948), de Karl Raimund Popper (1902-1994) et de Ludwig von Mises
(1881-1973). Bien qu’ils fassent partie tous les trois de la très honorable
famille des esprits libéraux, ils sont très différents. En fait, notre choix vise
leur différence. Nous nous sommes permis parfois - pour rendre plus souple
cette démarche - de considérer le premier comme un représentant du
point de vue “conservateur”, le second comme un représentant de la
“social-démocratie contemporaine”, le troisième comme un bon exemple
du “libertarianisme”. Ces trois “orientations” font partie déjà de la tradition
libérale ; il est vrai que les trois perspectives sont souvent confondues, ce
qui est au détriment de chacune d’elles, dans la mesure où l’esprit libéral
assume explicitement la fécondité du conflit5 , et non pas du consensus
interprétatif. Les étiquettes sont d’une certaine façon arbitraires, car le
“conservatisme”, la “social-démocratie” et le “libertarianisme” ne sont
pas du tout épuisés par le discours de ces trois auteurs. Les étiquettes sont
liées pourtant à quelques accidents historiques. Ainsi Pierre Manent, le
disciple préféré de Raymond Aron, n’a-t-il pas caché son admiration pour
deux conservateurs américains, Léo Strauss et son disciple le plus brillant,
Allan Bloom6 . Popper a été à un certain moment, plus précisément au
début des années 80, l’une des références obsédantes de la
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social-démocratie allemande7 , tandis que Ludwig von Mises a inspiré le
courant anarcho-capitaliste américain, dominé par des théoriciens tels
Murray Rothbard et Hans-Hermann Hoppe8 .
Qu’est-ce que la démocratie pour ces trois auteurs ? À quelle histoire
intellectuelle s’attache chacune des trois définitions proposées par eux ?
Quelles sont les conséquences de ces trois réponses pour la compréhension
de la philosophie politique ? Ce sont là les questions qui seront abordées
dans les pages suivantes.
Qu’est-ce que la démocratie ?
Les trois réponses sont très éloignées des préjugés communs, mais cet
écart est justifié par des raisons différentes. Faisons l’analyse de chacune
à son tour.
Dans un texte de 1993, Pierre Manent considérait la démocratie, telle
qu’elle nous apparaît aujourd’hui, comme un système qui “pour la
première fois de son histoire”, n’a plus, “au moins dans le monde chrétien”,
aucun “concurrent idéologique crédible”9 . Pour l’auteur français, “les
concurrents de droite – qui veulent remplacer la démocratie par un régime
non démocratique ou antidémocratique – sont pour ainsi dire maudits
depuis 1945 ; les concurrents de gauche – qui veulent remplacer la
démocratie par un régime supposément encore plus, c’est-à-dire enfin
vraiment démocratique – ont été discrédités par l’évidence croissante,
ces dernières années, de la catastrophe communiste”. Bref, la démocratie
est à présent le régime unique. La suggestion ironique de Manent peut
être saisie par tous ceux qui connaissent le domaine des idées politiques:
l’unicité de la démocratie est très problématique. En effet, la philosophie
politique - dans ses développements classiques et modernes, de Platon à
Raymond Aron10 - a toujours traité la question des régimes politiques à
partir de la supposition de leur multiplicité, à partir de l’idée qu’il y a des
styles de vie différents, que les relations entre le commandement et la
soumission sont (ou peuvent être) extrêmement diverses. En d’autres mots,
donner une réponse au problème central de la philosophie politique –
“quel est le meilleur régime ?” - a toujours signifié choisir, dans une
multiplicité de régimes réels ou seulement possibles11 , celui qui s’avère
être supérieur à tous les autres. Devenant unique, la démocratie semble
perdre justement la qualité de … régime, dans la mesure où - comme
nous l’avons montré ci-dessus - celui-ci suppose la multiplicité. Voici le
motif pour lequel à la fin de son article Pierre Manent se demandait - de
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façon rhétorique, évidemment - si la démocratie n’est pas en fait “la forme
enfin trouvée de la religion de l’Humanité”12 .
Pour Karl Raimund Popper, le deuxième personnage de notre dialogue
artificiel, non seulement la démocratie n’est pas un régime, mais elle ne
l’a jamais été13 . Il serait erroné de penser que Popper voulait seulement
radicaliser une conclusion comme celle adoptée par Manent. Comme
nous allons voir, le fameux épistémologue voulait affirmer tout autre chose
que l’auteur français. Dans sa démonstration, Popper partait du sens le
plus banal, celui étymologique, de la démocratie. Parler du “pouvoir du
peuple” est très dangereux, car - disait Popper - “chacun des membres du
peuple sait très bien qu’il ne commande pas, et il a donc l’impression que
la démocratie est une escroquerie. C’est là que réside le danger”.
L’alternative terminologique proposée par Popper est clairement exprimée:
“Il est important que l’on apprenne dès l’école que le terme démocratie,
depuis la démocratie athénienne, est le nom traditionnel que l’on donne
à une Constitution qui doit empêcher une dictature, une tyrannis”.
L’invocation d’Athènes n’est pas rhétorique, comme le montre le passage
suivant du texte poppérien : “On peut démontrer historiquement que la
démocratie athénienne, déjà, au moins jusqu’à Périclès et Thucydide,
n’était pas tant une souveraineté du peuple qu’un moyen pour essayer
d’éviter à tout prix une tyrannie”. Popper avance deux preuves pour justifier
cette identification de la démocratie à un moyen, et toutes les deux sont
choquantes. La première preuve est une tentative de réinterpréter
l’ostracisme : souvent mal compris, celui-ci serait, en fait, le prix, parfois
très coûteux, payé pour éviter la tyrannie ou, plus exactement, “le moyen
par lequel tout citoyen qui devenait trop populaire pouvait et devait être
éloigné, en raison justement de cette popularité”. La seconde preuve est
encore plus choquante, car l’histoire est lue par l’intermédiaire du grand
Thucydide, qui nous apprend, selon Popper, que “Périclès lui-même
semble s’être rendu compte que la démocratie athénienne n’était pas une
souveraineté populaire et que celle-ci ne pouvait exister. En effet, dans
son fameux discours, que l’on peut lire dans Thucydide, il dit : bien que
rares soient les gens capables de concevoir un projet politique, nous
sommes néanmoins tous à même de le juger. Cela signifie que nous ne
pouvons pas tous gouverner et diriger, mais que nous pouvons tous porter
un jugement sur le gouvernement, que nous pouvons jouer le rôle de
jurés”14 . Comparée aux deux preuves résumées ci-dessus, l’imprécision
terminologique de Popper - qui parle par exemple de “dictature”, invention
romaine, quand il explique l’ostracisme grec – n’est plus stridente. En
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somme, la thèse de Popper affirme que la démocratie n’est pas (et elle n’a
pas été) un régime, mais un moyen ; il s’agit de quelque chose de similaire
à l’ostracisme, c’est-à-dire, en général, d’un instrument qu’on peut utiliser
(et qui a été déjà utilisé) pour éviter la tyrannie, acte dont - en dépit de
celui de gouverner - nous sommes tous capables. Ainsi qu’on peut aisément
le remarquer, en tant que moyen, la démocratie implique le choix, et un
choix qui est à la portée de chacun. Pour Popper, la souveraineté du
peuple n’existe pas, elle est justement une illusion dangereuse ; le seul
choix réel est celui vulgaire.
Le troisième personnage auquel nous ferons appel, Ludwig von Mises,
organise son discours autour du statut du choix humain. Sa thèse est la
plus simple de celles qui ont été présentées ici. En dernière analyse, Mises
affirme que le type de choix que la démocratie suppose est seulement
une préfiguration, une esquisse imparfaite du choix qu’on rencontre à
l’intérieur du système du marché : “lorsqu’on dit de la société capitaliste
qu’elle est une démocratie de consommateurs, on veut dire par-là que le
droit, attribué aux chefs d’entreprises et aux capitalistes, de disposer des
moyens de production ne peut s’obtenir autrement que par le vote,
renouvelé chaque jour sur le marché, des consommateurs… Dans cette
démocratie, il est vrai, n’existe pas l’égalité du droit de vote, mais le droit
de vote plural”15 . En d’autres mots : la démocratie et le marché ont en
commun le choix, elles sont épuisées par cet acte. L’électeur et le
consommateur choisissent. Mais, alors que le choix démocratique est un
choix rare, qui a lieu a des intervalles précisément déterminés, le choix
du consommateur est quotidien, orienté en fonction des préférences et
des goûts qui ne peuvent pas être réglementés. Le consommateur parfait
le comportement électoral, en réduisant la vie même à une succession de
choix. Voici la raison pour laquelle c’est lui, le consommateur, qui est le
vrai maître du marché, et non pas le capitaliste sans scrupules que nous
propose la vulgate marxiste16 . Aujourd’hui, la démocratie, le choix
incomplet, est seulement une annexe du marché, du choix complet ;
l’annexion est justifiée : seule la démocratie peut assurer la paix, si
nécessaire au développement des échanges commerciaux, ou selon
l’expression de Mises, “si nécessaire au progrès constant vers un état de
plus en plus satisfaisant des affaires humaines”17 . Les affirmations de Mises
sont, il faut l’avouer, séduisantes. Machiavel aurait été probablement
envieux : en effet, une telle réduction des relations humaines à un seul
principe n’est pas à la portée de chacun. En outre, si Machiavel pariait sur
la “fécondité du mal”18 , Mises est beaucoup moins ambitieux : il fait
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l’apologie de la “fécondité du choix”. Le parallèle avec Machiavel n’est
pas accidentel car, tout comme le secrétaire florentin, Mises considérait
que la pensée politique devait prendre en compte la verità effetuale della
cosa, les gens “tels qu’ils sont” et non pas tels que les métaphysiciens se
les imaginent. (Est-il vraiment important que dans le premier cas il s’agit
de la métaphysique des platoniciens et dans le second de la métaphysique
des socialistes ?) De Machiavel à Mises, le libéralisme est le discours de
ce système du “monde d’en bas”, des gestes quotidiens19 . Or, dans cette
perspective libertarienne, loin d’être un régime, la démocratie est l’esquisse
imparfaite du choix quotidien.
La démocratie n’est pas/n’est plus un régime politique, mais une
religion ; la démocratie n’est pas (et elle n’a pas été) un régime politique,
mais un moyen d’éviter la violence ; la démocratie n’est pas (bien qu’elle
ait été) un régime politique, mais une incarnation imparfaite du marché.
Nous avons affaire à trois thèses qui se rencontrent dans leur négation de
la manière traditionnelle de définir la démocratie, mais qui semblent se
séparer quand même radicalement, si nous prenons en compte le contenu
de chaque opposition mise à part. Comment peuvent communiquer ces
trois thèses ? On ne peut rien dire jusqu’à présent, puisque leurs
suppositions fondamentales, que nous avons cherché à mettre en évidence,
nous avertissent que nous avons affaire plutôt à trois monologues imparfaits.
Nous devrons nous orienter peut-être vers les conséquences des thèses
exposées pour identifier des éventuels points de contact. Mais, avant
d’examiner ces conséquences, nous allons chercher à déceler les
revendications fondamentales de ces trois thèses de la philosophie politique
moderne.
Qu’est-ce que l’histoire ?
Étudier la manière dont un auteur se réclame de la philosophie politique
moderne, c’est découvrir ce que l’histoire représente pour lui. Car l’histoire
moderne est uniquement texte20 . En effet, la mutation profonde qu’opère
la modernité politique peut être comprise comme une substitution de
l’être politique traditionnel, où le logos et la praxis étaient ensemble, par
un être politique réduit à un simple texte. Le traité de principes, les
idéologies et le bulletin de vote sont des formes de manifestation de cet
être politique très inédit. C’est pour cela que tout rapport nouveau au
politique est inévitablement un commentaire consacré à l’une de ces
formes. Suivant la manière dont s’articulent les commentaires des trois
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philosophes que nous avons mentionnés ci-dessus, nous découvrirons
que la réponse à la question “qu’est-ce que l’histoire ?” est une réponse à
la question “comment est l’histoire ?”. Communiqueront-ils à ce niveau
où l’enjeu devient accablant ?
Remarquons tout d’abord que Pierre Manent n’est pas le premier auteur
qui ait suggéré la condition paradoxale que la démocratie assume quand
elle devient une sorte de religion. Il y a plus de 150 ans, Tocqueville
décrivait dans le même registre, la terreur religieuse que l’auteur de La
démocratie ressentait devant le phénomène démocratique21 étant dès
lors un emblème de la sensibilité libérale française. Il est indubitable que
Manent est un esprit tocquevillien, dans la mesure où il n’hésite pas à
soutenir les affirmations suivantes : “Il semble donc qu’il y ait une force
irrésistible dans cette démocratie dont la droite dénonçait jadis la honteuse
faiblesse ou corruption, dont la gauche dénonçait naguère la honteuse
imposture ou injustice”22 . Mais si Tocqueville affirmait l’irrésistibilité du
mouvement démocratique pour l’opposer à l’ancien régime auquel
personne ne croyait plus, Manent préfère multiplier le nombre des
adversaires vaincus de la démocratie. Pour expliquer ce qu’est l’histoire
de cette perspective, Manent reprend Nietzsche, celui qui écrivait que
“l’histoire des deux derniers siècles ressemble à un fleuve qui veut arriver
à son terme”. De façon ironique, l’auteur français se demande
“sommes-nous parvenus au point où le fleuve voulait aller ?”. Au moment
où la démocratie devient religion, l’histoire commence à ressembler à un
fleuve qui a trouvé son terme. Notons que, pour Manent, il s’agit d’une
situation inacceptable, car une telle histoire est seulement l’expression
d’une volonté “faible”, celle de l’homme qui est resté seul, de l’homme
qui ne se revendique plus ni de Dieu, ni de la nature23 . Telle est, dans des
mots simples, mais quand même effrayants, la Cité de l’homme.
Popper n’était pas si pessimiste. Au contraire, il croyait que notre
époque est la meilleure de celles vécues par l’homme jusqu’à présent et
recommandait sans réserves son propre optimisme24 à la jeune génération.
Sa vision, beaucoup plus tranchante que celle de Manent, était fondée
sur l’idée que la démocratie-moyen a depuis toujours affronté la tyrannie.
Plus précisément, l’Athènes des Trente Tyrans et la Chine de Deng Xiaoping
ont en commun “l’immoralité de la dictature”, celle “dont on ne peut s’en
libérer sans effusion de sang” ou celle qui “condamne les citoyens de
l’Etat, contre leur conscience et leurs convictions morales, à collaborer
avec le mal ; ne serait-ce que par leur silence. Elle prive l’homme de sa
responsabilité morale, sans laquelle il n’est plus qu’une moitié, voire un
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centième d’homme”. Le principe de la démocratie est d’essence morale,
bien qu’il revêtît toujours cette forme négative qui dit que “toute dictature
est moralement mauvaise”. Par contre, la démocratie est bonne car elle
nous permet “de destituer les gouvernants sans que le sang soit versé”25 .
En fait, la perspective poppérienne combine le manichéisme le plus banal
avec l’austérité d’une morale de la responsabilité et de la faillibilité :
l’histoire est de cette façon traversée par la lutte entre la démocratie et la
tyrannie, entre la destitution pacifique des gouvernants et le fait de les
tuer ; de cette perspective, arriver à la meilleure époque parmi celles
connues par l’homme, atteindre l’âge démocratique, c’est accepter le
principe du changement pacifique, c’est-à-dire reconnaître qu’on peut se
tromper. On comprend probablement que, à l’encontre de Manent, Popper
ne goûtait pas l’ironie. Pour lui, l’histoire moderne est une histoire de la
volonté “forte”, mais qui acquiert sa force par la reconnaissance de sa
propre “faiblesse” : en acceptant qu’il puisse se tromper, l’individu refusera
la violence. Nous devons reconnaître qu’un optimisme construit sur une
telle alchimie est tout aussi séduisant, c’est-à-dire tout aussi naïf que celui
qui voulait faire du travail une “joie” infinie, pour le banaliser ensuite
comme “droit”. L’auteur de la formule citée a vécu, tout comme
Tocqueville, au siècle précédent : il s’appellait Karl Marx.
Ludwig von Mises n’était ni ironique, ni optimiste quand il s’agissait
de l’histoire. Malgré tout cela, tout comme pour les deux autres
interlocuteurs que nous avons introduits dans ce dialogue, l’histoire
demeurait pour Mises la scène de quelques confrontations plus ou moins
violentes. Selon Mises, le plus intéressant conflit du monde moderne est
celui qui a opposé les partisans du droit naturel aux utilitaristes. Quelle
est la forme de manifestation de ce conflit ? Prenons l’exemple de l’égalité
devant la loi. Le jus naturalisme l’a soutenue, disait Mises, en vertu de la
croyance que “les hommes sont égaux du point de vue biologique, ayant
ainsi un droit inaliénable à une égale répartition de tous les biens”.
Remarquons qu’une telle définition du droit naturel permet à Mises de
soutenir la thèse paradoxale selon laquelle le socialisme est une variante
de la “fausse et absurde” théorie jus naturaliste : ainsi, “tout comme les
éminents citoyens de Virginie, dont les idées ont inspiré la Révolution
américaine, ont admis le maintien de l’esclavage des Noirs, le plus
despotique système connu par l’Histoire, le bolchevisme, prétend être
l’incarnation authéntique du principe de l’égalité et de la liberté de tous
les hommes”. Refusant la supposition de l’égalité biologique et croyant
que c’est justement l’inégalité qui crée la coopération sociale, les
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utilitaristes ont considéré, par contre, que “l’égalité devant la loi était
l’appareil capable d’assurer à toute l’humanité le maximum d’avantage
que les hommes puissent tirer de cette inégalité… Pour les libéraux, l’égalité
devant la loi est une bonne chose non pas du point de vue d’un prétendu
droit inaliénable des individus, mais parce qu’elle sert au mieux les intérêts
de tous. Elle laisse aux électeurs le soin de décider qui va détenir les
fonctions publiques et aux consommateurs le soin de décider qui doit
produire”26 . Les utilitaristes, les seuls libéraux authentiques, selon Mises,
sont ceux qui ont identifié la relation qu’entretiennent la démocratie et le
marché. Malgré cela, quand il définit l’individu qui fournit “le corps” de
cette relation, Mises s’inspire de manière explicite d’un adepte fervent du
jus naturalisme : il s’agit de John Locke. Définir l’homme comme être qui
choisit en tant que consommateur ou, encore inachevé, en tant qu’électeur,
c’est une tentative de réinterpréter la célèbre formule de Locke qui dit
que l’homme agit justement pour éliminer une insatisfaction27 . L’histoire
moderne est la création d’une volonté “forte”, capable d’éliminer, d’abord
incomplètement, ensuite entièrement, toute insatisfaction. L’interprétation
en termes de volonté de la formule misésienne n’est pas du tout forcée :
l’auteur des traités sur le socialisme et sur l’action humaine accentuait le
fait que l’action est raison et que la raison est volonté28 .
Tocqueville, Marx et Locke offrent pour Manent, Popper et Mises le
principe de la compréhension de l’histoire. Le point où nous sommes
arrivés est choquant, notamment si l’on compare les résultats obtenus
dans les deux sections. Ainsi, la question “qu’est-ce que la démocratie”
alimentait un consensus négatif (la démocratie n’est pas un régime), mais
en même temps une séparation positive radicale des trois auteurs analysés,
qui y voyaient une religion (Manent), un moyen banal (Popper) et une
anticipation du marché libre (Mises). En échange, “qu’est-ce que (comment
est) l’histoire ?” produit un consensus positif (l’histoire doit être interprétée
en termes de volonté), mais aussi un conflit inconfortable des
compréhensions du principe de l’histoire : la volonté est soit éminemment
“faible” (Manent), soit “forte”, née d’une “faiblesse” (Popper), soit
éminemment forte (Mises). Alors que nous avons affirmé que l’histoire
politique moderne est seulement un texte, nous considérions la manière
dont la coexistence entre des combinaisons de ce genre est possible : une
religion fondée sur une volonté faible, un moyen d’éviter la violence à
l’aide d’une volonté dont la force provient de la faiblesse et, finalement,
une anticipation du marché qui extrait ses énergies vitales d’une volonté
forte, toutes ces choses revendiquent le nom de démocratie. Une telle
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dispute est imaginable seulement si tout l’univers politique est un univers
textuel29 . Mais de quel côté est la raison alors que tout est texte ? Est-ce
qu’on peut distinguer entre ces trois solutions ?
Qu’est-ce que la philosophie politique ?
Une réponse pourra être plus aisément anticipée si, selon ce qu’on a
suggéré plus haut, on prenait en compte quelques-unes des conséquences
auxquelles mènent les thèses sur la démocratie. Pour ordonner les
conséquences qui nous intéressent, on va privilégier ici un seul critère : il
s’agit du rapport que la démocratie entretient avec le temps. La diversité
des perspectives proposées à cet égard à l’intérieur de la famille libérale
nous aidera à comprendre ensuite la relation de la philosophie politique
avec sa propre histoire intellectuelle, condition décisive de sa définition.
La solution conservatrice est sans ambiguïté : si “durant ce cycle de
deux siècles que nous venons de parcourir, la démocratie ne pouvait
vivre au présent”, dans la mesure où, “déchirés entre le passé et l’avenir”,
les démocratie se trouve aujourd’hui dans une situation qu’on peut envier.
En effet, nous connaissons la démocratie grecque grâce aux discours qui
se sont constitués après la fin du grand cycle de la politique classique ;
nous avons connu ensuite la démocratie moderne comme projet
philosophique, comme un avenir esquissé en concurrence avec les projets
des régimes qu’on a cru possibles jusqu’à un temps récent ; aujourd’hui,
la démocratie, en tant que fait et idée, est enlacée au présent. La
philosophie politique a eu comme objet la description des régimes et, sur
cette base, la désignation du meilleur régime. N’ayant à faire qu’à un seul
régime, la philosophie politique se transforme en histoire de la philosophie
politique, en analyse de cette évolution à la suite de laquelle, avec une
formule qui est agréable aux métaphysiciens, le Multiple est réduit à l’Un.
La réponse social-démocrate est tout aussi tranchante : la démocratie,
ce moyen qui s’oppose à la violence, a non seulement un passé et un
présent, mais aussi un avenir qui est ouvert. Car le retour à la tyrannie est
possible. Notons que c’est justement le point où Popper se sépare de
Marx : ce dernier ne croyait pas que l’histoire puisse rebrousser chemin.
D’autre part, si la démocratie n’a jamais été un régime, la philosophie
politique n’a existé que comme une illusion. En d’autres mots, le discours
sur la politique a mal choisi son objet : selon Popper, de Platon à Hitler,
les hommes se sont demandés “qui doit commander ?” et non pas - et
c’est là la question juste - “quelles sont ces institutions capables de diminuer
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les risques d’un gouvernement tyrannique ?”30 . Le débat sur les régimes a
été une erreur, dans la mesure où ce qu’on croyait être le but était en fait
un moyen. Aujourd’hui, dégénéré de but en moyen, l’objet de l’explication
politique offre l’occasion de substituer à l’ingénierie utopique une
piecemeal engineering, la seule formule raisonnable d’action.
La solution libertarienne est ambiguë : anticipation du marché, la
démocratie n’est que du passé. Son remplacement par le système généralisé
des consommations individuelles est accompagné par le remplacement
de la philosophie politique par la praxéologie, cette science de l’action
humaine qui veut éliminer l’insatisfaction31 . Le reste est métaphysique,
affirme de manière très convaincue Mises. La démocratie est aujourd’hui
tout au plus une annexe du marché, conservée évidemment aussi pour
des raisons d’utilité. De manière symétrique, la philosophie politique est,
à la rigueur, une annexe de la praxéologie, conservée pour des raisons
polémiques.
Une récapitulation s’impose. La solution conservatrice affirme que la
démocratie, devenue religion d’une volonté faible qui se veut soi-même,
aboutit à un discours de type historique, qui doit évoquer l’évolution
intellectuelle du régime qu’on appelle démocratie. La solution
social-démocrate soutient que la démocratie, qui a été depuis toujours un
moyen d’éviter la violence, engendre aujourd’hui un discours où, tout
comme la volonté devient forte en reconnaissant sa faiblesse et parfois
ses échecs, l’ingénierie sociale graduelle est justifiée, conditionnée par la
reconnaissance de l’erreur du projet utopique. La solution libertarienne
voit dans la démocratie cet arrêt intermédiaire d’une volonté forte, dont
la force entière s’est manifestée seulement dans le marché libre, tout
comme la philosophie politique est un arrêt provisoire de l’entendement
qui révèle sa vérité seulement dans la praxéologie, science de l’homme
qui veut faire oublier le disconfort.
Qu’ont en commun ces trois solutions ? En effet, en affirmant qu’elles
appartiennent, en dépit des différences, à la même famille spirituelle, à
l’idéologie libérale, nous avons supposé qu’elles ont quelque chose en
commun. Le résumé présenté ci-dessus nous permet de découvrir ce fonds
commun : la philosophie politique est aujourd’hui le discours qui considère
que la démocratie n’est pas un régime et que l’histoire est l’incarnation de
la volonté humaine libre. La relation entre la démocratie et l’histoire fait
l’objet de la philosophie politique. Mais l’accord sur cette définition est
très fragile : il est en permanence subminé par les sens qu’on donne à la
démocratie et à l’histoire.
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2. La démocratie, un monde bigarré
D’habitude, la liaison entre la démocratie et la philosophie est limitée
à un cadre historique qui nous est absolument étranger : il s’agit de
l’Antiquité. On croit généralement que les philosophes antiques peuvent
nous éclairer sur ce qu’est la démocratie, malgré le fait que - il ne faudrait
pas oublier ce détail - ils détestaient le régime démocratique. La liaison
entre les philosophes modernes et la démocratie moderne est plus rarement
étudiée, bien que plusieurs parmi les philosophes politiques d’après
Spinoza aient considéré, avec enthousiasme, que la démocratie soit la
meilleure formule politique que l’homme ait imaginé.
On pourrait en conclure que l’enthousiasme devient suspect quand il
s’agit de comprendre le politique ; par contre, cette compréhension pourrait
être favorisée par le cynisme ridiculisant (et esthétisant) avec lequel Platon,
par exemple, regardait la “cité démocratique”. En effet, après avoir suggéré
que la démocratie est le plus beau régime, car on “trouve des hommes de
toute sorte dans ce gouvernement plus que dans aucune autre” et “chacun
organise sa vie de la façon qui lui plaît”32 , Platon affirmait que la beauté
de la démocratie est seulement apparente. Pour comprendre ce problème
du discours platonicien sur la démocratie, on doit préciser qu’il y avait
encore un régime qu’il considérait comme “le plus beau” : il s’agit de la
tyrannie33 ; le fait que Socrate ne conteste pas du tout cette seconde
observation sur la beauté des régimes politiques nous montre très
clairement la perspective d’où est apprécié le trait principal attribué à la
démocratie. Voici le passage qui illustre de la meilleure façon ce que
nous nous sommes permis d’appeler le “cynisme esthétisant” de Platon :
“il y a chance que la démocratie soit le plus beau régime de tous. Comme
un vêtement bigarré qui offre toute la variété des couleurs, offrant toute la
variété des caractères, il pourra paraître d’une beauté achevée. Et peut-être,
ajoutai-je, beaucoup de gens, pareils aux enfants et aux femmes qui
admirent les bigarrures, décideront-ils qu’il est le plus beau”34 . En somme,
on pourrait dire que, pour Platon, la démocratie, l’ordre où chacun vivra
selon sa propre volonté, est loin d’être le meilleur régime ; bien plus, sa
beauté est celle que les enfants ou les femmes éprouvent devant les
vêtements vivement colorés35 . C’est probablement une “ironie de
l’histoire” le fait que les dernières lignes du Traité politique inachevé de
Spinoza, “le premier philosophe à avoir écrit une défense systématique
de la démocratie”36 portent toujours sur la faiblesse des enfants et des
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femmes, pour justifier une conclusion que Platon aurait probablement
admis lui-même : “on ne pourrait instituer le règne égal des hommes et
des femmes sans grand dommage pour la paix”37 . Spinoza diffère
radicalement de Platon par l’optimisme viril qui se dégage de son écriture.
On pourrait soutenir que c’est ici la première différence clairement affirmée
entre la sensibilité politique moderne et celle antique qui porte sur la
démocratie.
Évidemment, chacun de nous peut choisir entre le cynisme ridiculisant
et l’optimisme viril. Ce qu’on doit retenir, c’est que la seconde variante
est celle qui a inspiré la modernité politique. Deuxièmement, il faut
observer qu’en dépit de notre choix nous sommes obligés de nous justifier
de manière rigoureuse. Nous essayerons de montrer quelles sont les
surprises de cette justification rigoureuse à partir des conclusions
auxquelles nous sommes arrivés dans le chapitre précédent. Nous
essayerons de démontrer qu’il y a une liaison entre la démocratie moderne
et la philosophie, liaison qui n’est pas épuisée par une certaine sensibilité,
mais par une intelligence particulière.
La démocratie est un projet philosophique : le plus vulgaire des
régimes requiert la pensée la plus raffinée
Quand nous avons parlé de la crise de la philosophie politique
contemporaine, nous avons décrit trois approximations de la démocratie
qui, malgré le fait qu’elles utilisaient des termes quasi-identiques, ne
communiquaient pas directement (immédiatement), cette diversité
incommunicable étant l’essence de la crise qu’on a évoquée.
Afin de rendre intelligibles les trois définitions, nous étions obligés de
faire appel à quelques philosophes modernes, à partir de l’idée que la
crise actuelle devient explicable si on retourne aux sources plus anciennes
de la pensée libérale.
Nous nous proposons d’appeler à notre aide de manière plus ordonnée
les philosophes modernes, pour voir la façon dont ils peuvent éclaircir
une nouvelle démarche de la philosophie politique ; cette nouvelle
démarche devrait, à notre avis, réorienter l’attention et les énergies de
ceux qui ressentent une crise dans la diversité incommunicable
d’aujourd’hui. Afin de comprendre les philosophes contemporains nous
aurions pu, évidemment, comparer les définitions qu’ils donnent à la
démocratie avec ce que chacun de nous considère comme étant la réalité
politique actuelle, avec notre perception, celle qui nous rend, pour ainsi
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dire, des êtres politiques sensibles. Cet appel aux sensations politiques du
moment présent (et le terme de sensation doit être pris ici dans tous ses
sens, du contact “faible” avec le réel jusqu’au choc séduisant du
sensationnel) est indiscutablement nécessaire. Mais il doit être précédé
par une comparaison entre les définitions données aujourd’hui par les
grands esprits et les définitions de la démocratie proposées par la tradition
intellectuelle du libéralisme. Nous essayerons de comprendre la
démocratie en tant qu’êtres exclusivement intellectuels.
Il y a au moins deux raisons qui justifient cet appel à la tradition de la
pensée libérale avant de comparer les définitions actuelles de la démocratie
avec les opinions des êtres politiques sensibles. Il s’agit, tout d’abord, du
fait que les philosophes contemporains - Mises, Manent ou Popper - ont
élaboré leurs discours comme une note aux élaborations très sophistiquées
des philosophes modernes. Bien que, tout comme nous le verrons plus
tard, la tentation de la nouveauté ait traversé toutes les démarches
modernes, tout discours post-machiavélien sur la politique est intertextuel.
La seconde raison est plus profonde, car elle est plus radicale : l’histoire
politique moderne est, dans son essence, un texte et elle nous oblige à
revenir aux Pères fondateurs en tant qu’auteurs de notre propre vie, d’autant
plus qu’il s’agit de la démocratie, forme politique qui est fondamentalement
soumise au texte. En effet, avant d’être une réalité et en dépit de l’intérêt
profond pour la réalité, la démocratie est pour les modernes un projet, un
discours philosophique. La démocratie, la cité de l’homme, le régime de
la vie terrestre, la formule politique la plus vulgaire a comme point de
départ un texte, le discours philosophique, le plus raffiné discours possible.
La question qui apparaît de façon naturelle est si le projet philosophique
de la démocratie est unique. Autrement dit : les philosophes modernes
ont-ils élaboré une seule démocratie ? La réponse est évidemment négative.
Les philosophes modernes se contredisent délibérément quand il s’agit
de la démocratie. Le monde démocratique moderne est avant tout un
univers où les idées sont bigarrées.
Est-ce qu’on peut vivre dans un monde pareil ? Analysant la manière
dont les philosophes modernes se contredisent sur la question de la
démocratie, nous allons voir la façon dont on peut vivre dans une cité de
l’homme. Plus exactement, nous allons comparer les textes de Popper et
de Mises aux thèses de Locke et de Spinoza pour voir la manière dont se
construit la diversité de la philosophie démocratique.
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Mises et Locke : du marché ou de la démocratie qui est apparu le
premier ?
Rappelons la thèse principale de Mises : la démocratie est une
préfiguration du marché libre. Les conséquences de cette thèse se situent
dans des horizons différents : la première conséquence affirme l’opposition
entre le droit naturel et l’utilitarisme, le premier étant la source d’inspiration
du socialisme. La seconde conséquence est que la démocratie n’est que
du passé, pouvant être, à la rigueur, annexée par commodité par les
régimes libéraux, plus précisément par les systèmes libres et multiples
d’échange. Finalement, la troisième conclusion affirme que la philosophie
politique doit être remplacée par la praxéologie pour pouvoir décrire le
comportement humain de manière vraiment efficace. La définition
misésienne de l’homme était empruntée à Locke : tout homme agit pour
éliminer une insatisfaction.
L’auteur des Deux traités sur le gouvernement civil n’aurait pas accepté
quand même la thèse principale de Mises. Nous devons en voir la raison.
L’idée que la démocratie est une anticipation du marché libre est fondée
sur la supposition que le choix humain peut s’étendre infiniment, que
l’élection des gouvernants (rare, fixe, réglementée) peut être remplacée
par le choix des produits, des biens de toutes sortes (l’homme politique
étant lui-même, en dernière instance, un bien quelconque, comparable
au hamburger ou à un livre de philosophie). Chez Locke, par contre, le
choix est foncièrement limité : à l’état naturel, c’est-à-dire à l’état
pré-politique (dont les lois sont ensuite copiées à l’état politique), “la nature
a nettement défini les limites de la propriété en fixant l’étendue du travail
dont les hommes sont capables et en fixant ce qui est nécessaire pour la
commodité de la vie”38 . Personne ne pouvait commander sur tout, disait
Locke, personne ne pouvait consommer pour son propre plaisir plus qu’une
petite partie du tout : “il était ainsi impossible à un homme d’empiéter sur
le droit d’un autre, ou d’acquérir pour lui-même une propriété au préjudice
de son voisin”39 . La possession de chacun avait des limites très modestes.
“cette même règle de propriété, à savoir que tout homme devrait posséder
autant de terre qu’il sera capable d’en faire usage, demeurerait valide
dans le monde sans gêner personne, puisqu’il y aurait encore assez de
terres disponibles dans le monde pour pourvoir à un nombre deux fois
plus important d’habitants, si l’invention de la monnaie, et l’accord tacite
des hommes pour lui accorder une valeur n’avaient introduit (par
consentement) des possessions plus vastes et établi un droit sur elles”40 .
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Ce passage est extrêmement important pour plusieurs raisons : tout
d’abord, Locke suggère que l’état naturel, essentiellement pacifique,
devient état de guerre au moment où l’on invente la monnaie ou, dans
des termes actuels, au moment où le marché est inventé. D’autre part, le
consentement que suppose la naissance du marché était pour Locke
certainement antérieur au consentement requis par la naissance de la
communauté politique. Le marché est antérieur à toute existence politique.
Dans les termes de Locke, la monnaie est antérieure à toute “démocratie
parfaite”. Cette expression, assez bizarre, avait un sens précis : “lorsque
des hommes s’unissent pour la première fois en société, la majorité possède
naturellement l’ensemble du pouvoir de la communauté ; elle peut
employer ce pouvoir pour faire de temps à autre des lois pour la
commuanuté, et pour les faire exécuter par des officiers qu’elle nomme
elle-même ; dès lors, la forme de gouvernment est une démocratie
parfaite”41 . La monnaie engendre l’état de guerre, la “démocratie parfaite”
engendre l’état politique.
En d’autres mots, bien que l’homme de Locke soit le même que
l’homme de Mises, les conclusions des deux auteurs sont radicalement
différentes : pour le premier, le marché est antérieur et contraire à la
démocratie, pour le second, il est postérieur et parfaitement compatible à
la démocratie (étant une extension, un accomplissement de celle-ci).
Remarquons que la suggestion de Locke (la monnaie produit l’état de
guerre, l’économie est le domaine de la confrontation impitoyable) est
plus proche du sens commun ; en ce sens, Marx est lui aussi un philosophe
du sens commun.
Les autres thèses de Mises perdent à leur tour la valabilité, si la définition
donnée à l’homme reste rigoureusement encadrée dans les limites de
l’interprétation lockéenne : la démocratie ne peut être que du passé ; par
contre, chez Locke, la démocratie est le lieu d’un nouveau début, d’un
nouveau commencement : si le souverain enfreint les règles du contrat,
n’ayant plus de juge neutre, on tombe à l’état de nature en tant qu’état de
guerre, et les gens ont de nouveau besoin de la “démocratie parfaite”42 .
D’autre part, la philosophie politique ne peut pas être réduite à la
praxéologie, à une théorie de l’action qui n’accorde rien à la nature
humaine et qui dissout la politique dans l’économie. Si nous suivons Locke,
la philosophie politique naît de l’effort de distinguer l’insatisfaction (la
raison d’agir de l’homo oeconomicus) de la justice (le mobile de l’action
politique). En effet, c’est l’existence d’un juge commun investi de l’autorité
d’appliquer la loi civile qui distingue l’état naturel de la société civile. La
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protection de la propriété, qui est le but de l’institution de la communauté
politique, est assurée par celui qui partage la justice. La démocratie est la
forme politique moderne qui accueille ce débat sur la justice après que
l’homme ait quitté l’état de guerre (c’est-à-dire l’économie, dans
l’interprétation lockéenne). La troisième conséquence de la démarche de
Mises, celle qui porte sur l’opposition droit naturel / utilitarisme, devient
insignifiante.
La confrontation de la thèse de Mises à quelques-uns des contenus de
la philosophie de celui dont il emprunte la définition de l’homme nous a
conduits finalement à une remarque sur la démocratie : la démocratie est
le régime où la justice se substitue à la violence, où le juge remplace
l’ennemi économique.
Popper et Spinoza sur l’excellence de la démocratie : pourquoi être
optimistes ?
La thèse principale de Karl Popper était que la démocratie n’est pas (et
n’a pas été) un régime, mais un moyen d’éviter la violence. Pour le
philosophe autrichien, l’opposition politique fondamentale est entre la
tyrannie (le changement violent des gouvernants) et la démocratie (le
changement pacifique des gouvernants) ; dans ce sens, la démocratie a
un avenir, car on peut revenir à la tyrannie ; finalement, si la démocratie
n’a pas été un régime, alors la philosophie politique, la discipline qui a
essayé de chercher une réponse à la question “quel est le meilleur
régime ?”, n’a pas existé.
Si dans les pages antérieures nous avons essayé de démontrer qu’à
partir de la même définition de l’homme on peut arriver (on est arrivé)
aux conclusions politiques opposées et aux images différentes de la
philosophie politique, nous chercherons maintenant à montrer qu’on peut
construire la même approximation de la philosophie politique et la même
sensibilité liée au sort de la démocratie à partir des références tout à fait
différentes. Nous comparerons donc la démarche de Popper à celle de
Spinoza.
Popper n’invoque pas Spinoza. Malgré cela, les thèses de Popper
auraient probablement été acceptées par Spinoza. Les deux sont liés, avant
tout, par une certaine opinion sur le statut et le sort de la démocratie : la
démocratie, qui est la meilleure formule politique, suppose l’effort de
l’homme43 . En d’autres mots, la démocratie est difficile, elle est la forme
politique la plus sollicitante. Popper exprimait cette chose en écrivant
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que “nos démocraties occidentales – et surtout les Etats-Unis, la plus
ancienne des démocraties occidentales – sont une réussite sans précédent ;
cette réussite est le fruit de beaucoup de travail, de beaucoup d’efforts, de
beaucoup de bonne volonté et avant tout de beaucoup d’idées créatrices
dans des domaines variés. Le résultat, c’est qu’un plus grand nombre
d’hommes heureux vivent une vie plus libre, plus belle, et plus longue
que jamais auparavant”44 . Spinoza disait à son tour que la démocratie est
“du tout absolu”45 et que “dans le gouvernement démocratique, tous
décident, d’un commun consentement, de vivre selon l’injonction de la
Raison” 46 ; or, pour Spinoza, c’est la raison qui définit l’effort du
philosophe ; rien de plus difficile, donc, que le gouvernement
démocratique. On ajoute à cette tautologie (la Cité de l’homme suppose
évidemment son effort, la démocratie est le gouvernement où l’on écoute
la raison humaine), l’optimisme commun à Popper et à Spinoza. Chez
Popper, cet optimisme peut se déduire du passage qu’on a cité ; chez
Spinoza, les choses sont plus difficiles à saisir : bien qu’il ne recommande
le Traité théologico-politique aux gens communs, étant su qu’il est
“également impossible d’extirper de l’âme du vulgaire la superstition et la
crainte”47 , Spinoza définissait quand-même l’individu (et la Nature, pour
lui, ne crée que des individus) par le fait qu’il “est le défenseur de sa
propre liberté” ; mais la liberté est la suite de l’accomplissement du but de
la philosophie, la connaissance de la vérité ; Spinoza pensait que son
Traité théologico-politique a réussi à imposer la liberté, en d’autres mots,
à séparer à l’intérieur de la nature humaine la passion, la superstition et la
crainte de ce qui est la raison ; l’optimisme de Spinoza concernant le sort
de la démocratie est alors du type suivant : si on réussit à découvrir la
liberté, nous serons des philosophes, c’est-à-dire nous vivrons suivant la
raison ; moi, un homme, “qui aurait pu se tromper”, j’ai découvert la liberté,
donc chacun qui croit qu’il est un homme et qu’il peut se tromper peut
devenir philosophe. La démocratie est le régime où l’abandon de l’état de
nature est accessible, selon le modèle du philosophe, à chacun. Personne
n’a argumenté de manière plus séduisante que Spinoza l’idée de la
démocratie comme le régime des citoyens philosophes. Remarquons qu’on
a reproché parfois à Popper que le modèle de l’action humaine qu’il
propose - l’essai et l’erreur - est trop élevé, philosophique. Tout ce qu’on
peut dire c’est que l’optimisme commun à Spinoza et à Popper trouve son
énergie non pas dans la condition des gens vulgaires, mais dans la
confiance en la raison. Notons ensuite que les références qui marquent la
démarche de Spinoza et celle de Popper sont apparemment les mêmes :
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la démocratie poppérienne est l’opposé de la tyrannie, c’est-à-dire de
l’utilisation de la violence ; la démocratie de Spinoza est l’opposé de l’état
naturel, caractérisé par la guerre. Remarquant les détails, on se rend compte
que les références sont différentes : Spinoza définit en fait la démocratie
d’abord comme “droit de la société” auquel on transfère le pouvoir de
l’individu, ou plus exactement comme “l’union des hommes en un tout
qui a un droit souverain collectif sur tout ce qui est en son pouvoir”48 .
Avant d’être régime, la Démocratie est un droit. (L’auteur hollandais utilise
la majuscule pour différencier ce droit du régime nommé toujours
démocratique.) De la définition de la Démocratie, Spinoza tirait la
conclusion que “le souverain n’est tenu par aucune loi et que tous lui
doivent obéissance pour tout, car tous ont dû, par un pacte tacite ou
exprès, lui transférer toute la puissance qu’ils avaient de se maintenir,
c’est-à-dire tout leur droit naturel”. Encore plus, “nous sommes tous tenus
d’exécuter absolument tout ce qu’enjoint le souverain, alors même que
ses commandements seraient les plus absurdes du monde ; la Raison nous
ordonne de le faire, parce que c’est choisir de deux maux le moindre”49 .
L’affirmation de Spinoza est fondée sur la croyance qu’il est “extrêmement
rare que les souverains commandent des choses très absurdes ; il leur
importe au plus haut point, en effet, par prévoyance et pour garder le
pouvoir, de veiller au bien commun et de tout diriger selon l’injonction
de la Raison” Et pour être encore plus explicite, Spinoza ajoutait : “dans
un Etat démocratique l’absurde est moins à craindre, car il est presque
impossible que la majorité des hommes unis en un tout, si ce tout est
considérable, s’accordent en une absurdité” 50 . Pour Spinoza, la
démocratie est préférable à l’état de guerre puisque la majorité ne peut
tomber d’accord sur une absurdité. Popper voyait les choses de manière
tout à fait différente : de l’observation que tout individu peut se tromper
(acceptée aussi par Spinoza), l’auteur autrichien tirait - rigoureusement la conclusion que les majorités peuvent aussi se tromper ; la démocratie
est préférable à l’état de guerre non pas parce que la majorité ne pourrait
soutenir une absurdité, mais purement et simplement puisque la violence
est absolument inacceptable ; elle pourrait nous affecter en dépit du fait
que nous ayons raison ou tort.
La différence entre la démarche de Popper et celle de Spinoza est
mise en évidence plus clairement si nous prenons en compte un autre
aspect. Refusant à la démocratie le statut de régime, Popper niait
implicitement le sérieux de la démarche de la philosophie politique : si la
question sur le meilleur régime est une erreur, alors la discipline
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intellectuelle qui l’a formulée est inutile. Spinoza affirmait lui aussi que la
philosophie politique n’a pas existé réellement51 . Mais le penseur
hollandais voulait dire qu’il est le premier qui ait réussi à la construire ;
cette prétention lie Machiavel et Hobbes, Spinoza et Tocqueville. Chacun
d’eux, dans des formes plus ou moins décentes, a essayé de suggérer qu’il
est le vrai fondateur de la science du politique. Spinoza faisait cela prenant
comme référence ce qu’il appelait la Théologie ou la Croyance : celle-ci
a eu comme but la soumission et la piété, et comme fondement l’Écriture ;
il n’y a pas eu de philosophie, c’est-à-dire une véritable justification de la
liberté humaine, puisque tous les philosophes antérieurs, opérant dans
les limites indiquées par la Théologie, ont conçu “les affections qui se
livrent bataille en nous comme des vices” ; il a donc considéré comme
juste “de tourner en dérision ces affections, de les déplorer, de les
réprimander, quand ils voulaient paraître plus moraux, de les détester” ;
croyant qu’ils agissent de manière divine, ils ont apporté de cette façon
des louanges à “une nature humaine qui n‘existe nulle part”, concevant
les gens “non tels qu’ils sont, mais tels qu’eux-mêmes voudraient qu’ils
fussent”52 . Rien de plus étranger à la démarche poppérienne que ces
lignes de Spinoza. Pour Popper, le gouvernement des philosophes est une
des réponses données à une question erronée : “qui doit gouverner ?”,
question à laquelle on peut répondre également (en fait, de façon tout
aussi désastreuse) “les meilleurs” (Platon), les “prolétaires” (Marx) ou “moi”
(Hitler)53 . À la question “qui doit commander ?” il faut substituer la question
“y a-t-il des formes de gouvernement qui, pour des raisons morales, sont
répréhensibles ?” ou, sous une autre forme, “y a-t-il des formes de
gouvernement qui nous permettent de nous défaire d’un gouvernement
mauvais, ou seulement incompétent, qui cause du tort au pays ?”54 .
Voici donc que bien qu’apparemment ils soutiennent les mêmes thèses
- la démocratie, effort de l’homme rationnel, est la meilleure formule
politique, la philosophie politique n’a pas existé, le retour à la tyrannie
est possible55 -, Spinoza et Popper sont séparés par des références tout à
fait différentes. Leurs certitudes (liées à la majorité, par exemple), mais
surtout leurs questions (avant tout, la question qu’ils considèrent comme
fondamentale) les séparent.
Toutes ces choses tiennent à l’histoire de la démocratie. Nous sommes
obligés, tout comme nous l’avons dit ci-dessus, à choisir rigoureusement
une solution ou une autre. Le choix rigoureux d’une solution, qui peut
signifier parfois le simple choix de la question, est propre à la philosophie.
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Dans le monde bigarré des idées que constitue la démocratie moderne, la
philosophie nous aide à survivre.
3. L’histoire moderne comme texte
Comment pourrait-on expliquer cette coexistence des questions et des
solutions si contradictoires ? Tout ce qu’on sait est que la modernité a fait
de la diversité contradictoire son propre manifeste. Elle a trouvé aussi la
justification ultime, tout comme les limites politico-juridiques de la
diversité : il s’agit ici de la Constitution. Ce mot serait, à coup sûr, celui
qu’on choisirait, si on nous demandait d’exprimer le sens de l’histoire
politique moderne à l’aide d’une seule notion, à l’aide d’un terme unique.
La constitution est un texte, le Texte du citoyen. Une suite de mots,
ordonnée dans un ensemble, qui est non seulement suffisant à soi-même,
mais aussi - par principe - capable de rendre possible d’autres énoncés.
Fermé (par rapport aux règles de l’existence politique antérieure) et ouvert
(car c’est à lui qu’on doit subordonner les lois proprement dites), le texte
de la Constitution assure tant la stabilité que l’évolution de la communauté
politique. Il accompagne - en les réglementant, en les situant au même
niveau, c’est-à-dire en annulant la différence entre elles - tant le temps
commun (le quotidien banal de l’exercice des droits ou de l’activité des
Chambres législatives), que le temps extraordinaire (les élections, la
révocation des dignitaires, la réponse à une agression externe etc.). À vrai
dire, ce règne tout-puissant de la Constitution ne peut être imaginé que
dans ce qu’on pourrait appeler de façon conventionnelle “l’âge
démocratique du monde”.
En fait, la phrase de Tocqueville selon laquelle “le peuple règne sur le
monde politique américain comme Dieu sur l’univers. Il est la cause et la
fin de toutes choses ; tout en sort et tout s’y absorbe”56 devrait être
amendée. Aujourd’hui, elle n’est plus valable seulement pour “le monde
politique américain”, mais pour tout le monde chrétien57 ; ensuite, le
règne démocratique n’est pas direct, mais médié, et donc d’une toute
autre façon qu’au temps de l’auteur De la démocratie en Amérique.
Tocqueville avait raison : le peuple a détrôné Dieu et il n’est pas surprenant
que “l’irrésistible révolution” inspire aujourd’hui, tout comme au moment
où l’auteur français le pressentait, une sorte de “terreur religieuse”58 . Ce
qu’il y a de nouveau à notre époque, c’est que les textes des différentes
Constitutions du monde chrétien ont remplacé les variantes locales de la
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Bible. Un Texte, celui constitutionnel, domine - finalement - le monde.
Plus exactement, chaque monde politique.
Celle-ci n’est que la séquence finale - la plus spectaculaire, à vrai dire
- d’une évolution qui s’est déployée dans les derniers cinq siècles. Il s’agit
de l’évolution à la suite de laquelle le texte comme tel est devenu l’unique
référence de l’individu, la “substance” politique de celui-ci. En effet,
l’homme était naturellement, selon la tradition, un être politique, un être
qui combinait un logos et une praxis ; il n’est plus aujourd’hui décrit que
par le texte. Nous allons montrer en ce qui suit la manière dont la praxis
s’est dissoute dans le logos pour engendrer le texte. Il y a trois repères
fondamentaux, dans notre perspective, sur le chemin de la transformation
de l’homme en tant qu’être politique en texte. La connaissance de ces
trois repères est indispensable pour la compréhension de la suprématie
de la Constitution, car ils scandent la modernité politique.
Machiavel
Le premier repère est étroitement lié au moment machiavélien de la
science politique, moment à partir duquel l’être du Prince n’est plus une
union personnelle du logos et de la praxis. Cette union résultait clairement
d’un genre littéraire traditionnel au Moyen Âge, ce qu’on appelait Le
miroir des princes - un véritable secretum secretorum, selon Roger Bacon59
- qui décrivait la manière dont l’auto-gouvernement, et non pas le
gouvernement, est possible, c’est-à-dire la formation de son propre discours
et de sa propre action. Son action est préparée et justifiée dans et par le
texte de quelqu’un d’autre, de celui qui - secrétaire ou, plus tard, idéologue
- dira “ce qu’il est à faire”. Ce qui signifie que le Prince post-machiavélien
renonce à chercher le bonheur en gouvernant sa propre communauté ; il
ne fait qu’agir, en appliquant une science, qui est préparée par les
idéologues et qui n’est pas destinée à l’auto-gouvernement princier, mais
au gouvernement du peuple. Dans ce sens, et c’est aussi la remarque de
Sir Isaiah Berlin, Machiavel est le premier ancêtre connu de Lénine60 , car
il est le premier qui ait placé la science politique au début de l’action, et
non pas à la fin de celle-ci, comme c’est le cas après Thucydide61 . Jusqu’à
Machiavel, le texte de la science politique est donc postérieur à l’action,
qui est accompagnée par le logos de l’homme politique. C’est seulement
une obsession typiquement moderne - l’altérité et l’antériorité du discours
par rapport à l’action - qui a fait que Platon, par exemple, soit lu comme
idéologue, y inclus par des critiques comme Popper62 . En séparant le
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logos et la praxis et en les réservant à des personnages distincts, la
modernité annonçait en fait sa nouveauté radicale, d’une simplicité
difficilement égalable : l’idéologue produit des idées, l’homme politique
agit. Rousseau était très clair sur ce point : “si j’étais prince ou législateur,
je ne perdrais pas mon temps à dire ce qu’il faut faire ; je le ferais, ou je
me tairais”63 . Le premier principe de la modernité établit que le monde
politique n’existe que s’il est d’abord affirmé en tant que “programme”.
Voici pourquoi Marx n’est pas le premier moderne qui ait affirmé la
nécessité que les philosophes renoncent à l’interprétation du monde, en
faveur de sa modification, mais toujours Machiavel64 . Car l’auteur du
Prince est celui qui s’arroge - pour la première fois - la capacité de fournir
le texte du bon gouvernement. Son discours - qui revendique à juste raison
la nouveauté65 - voulait être la Constitution du Prince, un texte qui
réglementait l’action de ce haut personnage sur les humbles, satisfatti e
stupidi. Il est évident, d’autre part, que ce premier moment de la modernité
peut être considéré comme celui de la cohérence absolue du texte. Le fait
que Machiavel invoquait, à l’aide de son propre discours, “la longue
expérience des antiques”, doit être jugé de ce point de vue : le logos,
séparé de l’action, précédant celle-ci - sera complètement (épuisant d’une
certaine façon à l’avance l’action du Prince) et rapidement assimilable (la
supposition tacite de Machiavel étant que le Prince n’a pas de temps à
perdre avec les lectures)66 . Seul un texte traversé par une cohérence
maximale est complètement et rapidement assimilable. Les lectures
consacrées à Machiavel lui ont confirmé d’ailleurs l’intention
systématique67 .
De Hobbes à Tocqueville
Le second repère nous est offert non pas par l’œuvre d’un certain auteur,
mais par la transformation opérée - de Hobbes à Tocqueville - au niveau
du nouveau texte politique subordonné à l’action. Dans cet intervalle, il y
a deux mutations profondes. Il s’agit, tout d’abord, de la multiplication du
nombre de ceux qu’on suppose être capables de préparer et de justifier
l’action du Prince (du souverain, selon Bodin) : la place de l’auteur savant
sera prise par les citoyens, qui sont devenus pendant ce temps - dans
l’imaginaire politique - capables de savoir vouloir. “Les hommes que les
actions de Borgia laissent satisfatti et stupidi voudront être satisfaits, et
sauront comment obtenir cette satisfaction. Pour être satisfaits, ils
deviendront intelligents”68 . Deuxièmement, il s’agit de la transformation
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radicale du type de texte fondateur de l’action, le traité de principes (de
type machiavélien) étant simplifié dans le discours électoral et, à la rigueur,
dans le bulletin de vote. Voyons la façon dont ces simplifications se sont
passées, en conduisant de la cohérence machiavélienne absolue à
l’incohérence démocratique absolue.
La première mutation - la démocratisation du texte - est, en fait, celle
qui accompagne la définition de la démocratie comme le meilleur régime
(pour la première fois, dans l’œuvre de Spinoza) et, ensuite, la
transformation de la démocratie d’un régime en une société (Tocqueville
étant responsable de cette transformation unique d’un type de régime
politique, parmi les régimes classiques, en une société). Ce processus
peut être regardé, selon la remarque de Léo Strauss, comme le résultat
d’un “adoucissement” nécessaire de Machiavel69 . Au lieu de l’auteur
orgueilleux qui énonce les conditions de possibilité de l’action du Prince
on trouve à présent le citoyen commun, capable d’énoncer les conditions
ci-dessus par l’acte simple du vote. Et si Machiavel avait besoin, pour
élaborer le résumé destiné au Prince, “de la longue expérience des choses
modernes et d’une lecture continuelle des anciennes”, pour le citoyen
qui se trouve devant le bulletin de vote il suffit “la simple capacité de lire
et d’écrire”. C’est là l’intelligence requise du citoyen, c’est par-là qu’il
prouvera qu’il sait ce qu’il veut. En effet, selon la remarque juste de Léo
Strauss, “tout électeur est conscient que la démocratie moderne se
maintient ou s’écroule par la capacité d’écrire et de lire”70 . La formule
selon laquelle l’acte d’élire démocratiquement est fondé sur la capacité
d’écrire et de lire semblerait à coup sûr appartenir à un libéral comme
Mises d’un point de vue métaphysique. Et quand même, le conflit qui
mine l’identité démocratique moderne - conflit qui mène à l’incohérence
absolue des textes - est justement relevé par cette métaphysique sommaire.
En effet, pour celui qui définit l’action humaine comme choix, il est
extrêmement tentant de soutenir que la démocratie est le prélude,
l’anticipation imparfaite du marché71 . Mais la substitution complète de
l’électeur par le consommateur est impossible, car l’imposition définitive
du marché est équivalente à la disparition de tout discours. Or, rien n’est
plus étranger aux temps actuels que la disparition du texte. Par contre, ce
que chacun peut constater est la multiplication illimitée des textes et leur
simplification extrême. Ce constat “phénoménologique” nous montre que
le monde d’aujourd’hui peut être plutôt subordonné au modèle
contractualiste (et non pas à celui économiste) de la politique moderne,
modèle à l’intérieur duquel on suppose la production d’un texte qui épuise,
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dès le moment initial, toutes les conditions de la survivance physique,
c’est-à-dire de l’existence politique (conformément à la thèse hobbesienne).
La seule différence entre le monde de Hobbes et le monde de Tocqueville
est que, dans le second cas (le cas des démocraties constitutionnellespluralistes72 ), le texte épuise - non seulement au moment de la fondation,
mais à chaque moment - les conditions de la survie73 . Voici pourquoi le
monde démocratique post-tocquevillien n’est pas le monde sans mots,
mais le monde où le texte justifie - par principe - tout arrangement des
relations entre individus, y compris le marché. Le caractère inévitable de
la naissance d’un tel monde incohérent ne devient intelligible que si on
prend en considération le mot-clé qui a accompagné cette évolution. Il
s’agit de la “volonté”.
De Bodin à Rousseau
“L’universalisation de la volonté” est en fait le troisième repère
intéressant dans le schéma dont nous nous occupons. Elle peut nous aider
à mieux comprendre l’horizon où l’on a placé la définition moderne de la
démocratie. Nous allons évoquer ici, en résumé, les deux variantes limite,
conflictuelles, de cette définition et de cette “résolution” surprenante
donnée à ce conflit. Nous avons en vue, tout d’abord, le moment limite
du discrédit du modèle de la démocratie antique74 , moment où commence
en fait l’histoire de la démocratie moderne. Jean Bodin est celui qui - par
la définition donnée au souverain - a démontré l’impossibilité de ce qu’il
appelait “l’état populaire”, l’impossibilité de la démocratie d’Aristote. La
clé de l’interprétation bodinienne se trouve dans la justification en termes
de volonté de la position privilégiée du souverain : si souverain est argumentait Bodin - celui qui formule la loi, sans pouvoir s’y soumettre,
c’est parce qu’il est “impossible par nature de se donner loi”, car il est
impossible “de commander à soi-même chose qui dépende de sa
volonté”75 . Comme le peuple forme - dans une démocratie à l’ancienne
- un seul corps, il ne peut obliger personne : ni soi-même (car on ne peut
commander à sa propre volonté), ni les autres (car dans un état populaire
il n’y a personne sauf le souverain)76 . La volonté rendait impossible la
démocratie antique. Le second moment limite est celui du discrédit
théorique du modèle de la démocratie moderne. Rousseau est celui qui
illustre - avec la grâce des grands “amoureux de la liberté”, selon
l’expression de Benjamin Constant - ce moment. Le souverain - disait
Rousseau - ne peut s’imposer une loi qu’il ne puisse enfreindre77 . En
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d’autres mots, le contrat social - la condition de possibilité de la démocratie
représentative - rencontrera toujours sur sa voie cet obstacle : la soumission
est toujours plus faible que l’action qui la prépare. En fait, la vérité
rousseauiste est d’autant plus tragiquement expérimenté que la
représentation de la volonté est plus raffinée (plus compliquée) ou,
autrement dit, que “l’exercice de la souveraineté seulement pour
l’abdiquer”78 se fait dans des termes plus vagues, différents d’un contrat à
un autre. À la rigueur, diluée jusqu’à être toujours, à chaque nouveau
choix, autre chose, la volonté fait possible la démocratie moderne qui vit
alimentée par sa propre contradiction. Le conflit entre “le peuple ne peut
se donner loi car il n’existe personne pour s’assujettir” et “le peuple ne
peut se donner aucune loi qu’il ne puisse enfreindre” a été “résolu” (ou
plutôt sa résolution a été remise) dû au fait d’assumer la démocratie en
tant que formule politique, annonçant peut-être une religion de “la volonté
qui se veut elle-même”. Ce sens de la démocratie est celui qui peut nous
faire appeler le monde politique moderne la Cité de l’homme79 . Il est
indiscutable qu’une croyance si claire - partagée le siècle passé (par
Constant ou par Tocqueville), mais aujourd’hui aussi, par tout le monde
(qui a été) chrétien, après la chute du totalitarisme - une croyance telle
l’irrésistibilité de la démocratie est traversée par l’idée que la démocratie
n’est que l’institution de la volonté : la démocratie est finalement inévitable
car l’homme moderne a choisi de vouloir et ne peut ne pas vouloir ce
qu’il veut lui-même80 .
Comment s’explique le fait que “l’universalisation de la volonté” a fait
du texte son unique instrument? Pourquoi, en d’autres mots, la relation
humaine, la relation des volontés humaines, est seulement texte? D’où
provient la censure exercée sur toute passion? Comment l’histoire politique
est-elle devenue simplement texte? La seule réponse raisonnable est celle
qui assume comme n’étant pas problématique la prémisse cartésienne de
la volonté en tant que partie de la réflexion81 . En effet, à condition que
seule la volonté soit une zone de la réflexion, on peut comprendre la
raison pour laquelle la vie humaine s’est transformée en texte. La cité
d’aujourd’hui est intertextuelle car l’ordre fictif du texte est la seule
incarnation de la volonté qui comprend ou de la compréhension qui veut.
Les citoyens des démocraties d’aujourd’hui sont, en ce sens, des copies
du philosophe Descartes, et leurs textes, ceux qui rendent possibles le
gouvernement, des discours électoraux aux simples bulletins de vote, sont
tout aussi profondément liés à leur intimité démocratique que le Discours
de la méthode était lié à l’intimité philosophique de Descartes. Ce stade -
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qui nous est très connu, car il est celui de nos jours - est celui où la
cohérence et l’incohérence sont dépassées, afin de se confondre dans la
simple capacité de produire des textes. Il faut ajouter ici que la société
moderne s’est offert le luxe du raffinement de l’ancien porteur de ces
textes: le passage de l’imprimerie à l’imprimante est le passage du monde
où l’individu cherche à multiplier les textes des autres (utiles au bon
gouvernement) au monde où l’homme lui-même n’existe que dans la
mesure où il participe au jeu intertextuel.
Tous ces phénomènes forment un ensemble sans fissure : la cohérence
du texte fondateur, l’incohérence des citoyens, donc la capacité de
produire des textes s’entrelacent dans un univers politique caractérisé par
Karl Popper comme le meilleur qu’a connu l’homme82 .
C’est là le fonds sur lequel la Constitution est devenue le Texte qui
rend possibles les textes. Remarquons que, dans ce dispositif, les deux
derniers repères - l’incohérence des citoyens et la (con)textualisation de
leur volonté - sont ceux qui produisent, le plus souvent, le sentiment de la
relativisation maximale des styles de vie. Seul le Texte fondateur est
contrôlable et évaluable dans l’absolu. D’ailleurs, sans la cohérence de
chaque texte fondateur de chaque communauté politique, les deux autres
phénomènes (la démocratisation et l’intertextualisation des relations
humaines) se transforment radicalement. En effet, choisir
“démocratiquement” en l’absence d’un texte qui limite ces choix signifie
créer un univers politique qui arrive n’importe où: il n’est plus un mystère
pour personne que la domination la plus cruelle peut être instituée par un
vote populaire valablement exprimé. Un monde libéral peut aussi arriver
n’importe où, dans la mesure où choisir “sur-démocratiquement” (en tant
que simple consommateur) n’est pas un acte accompagné par la
délibération sur ce qu’est commun, sur la justice, par exemple. En l’absence
d’une telle délibération, on peut vivre dans une Cité de l’homme, où tout
appartient aux individus solitaires, qui ne sont pas à l’état de nature, mais
à la fin de toute histoire. De la même façon, sans la cohérence du texte
fondateur, la capacité de produire des textes peut signifier la coexistence
destructrice de tous les contraires, l’absence de tout sens moral, et
finalement, le manque de sens de tout texte. La simple succession d’images,
la récupération et le recyclement, dits “postmodernes”, de tous les
fantasmes passés est le stade vers lequel tendent toutes les démocraties
qui ne contiennent pas en leur sein une aristocratie spirituelle83 . Un monde
démocratique (ou sur-démocratique) sans aristocratie spirituelle est un
monde tel celui produit par l’écran de télévision: un monde où coexistent
330
CRISTIAN PREDA
de manière destructrice la Révolution transmise en direct et l’investiture
des présidents élus par vote universel, le monde qui place dans le même
horizon les commentateurs d’Aristote et les amateurs des bandes dessinées,
finalement, le monde qui permet de rapprocher la pornographie et la
liturgie. Le nom de ce Texte fondateur, en l’absence duquel la Cité de
l’homme devient un monde où les individus n’ont rien en commun ou un
monde où ils ont tout en commun, est la Constitution.
La définition de l’être politique non pas en tant que praxis jointe à un
logos, mais en tant qu’acte préparé quelque part à l’extérieur, par un
texte; le passage de ce texte intentionnellement savant au discours du
citoyen pour lequel il suffit de savoir lire et écrire; la multiplication de ces
discours incohérents à la suite de l’acceptation de la prémisse organisatrice
de la logique démocratique qui universalise la volonté; finalement,
l’expression décente de la volonté universalisée seulement en base du
texte fondateur - telles sont les conditions de possibilité de la modernité
politique.
NOTES
1. Leo Strauss, “What is Liberal Education ?”, in Liberalism. Ancient and Modern,
New York/London, Basic Books, 1968, p. 12.
2. Machiavel, Le Prince, ch. XV.
3. Hobbes, De cive, I, 2.
4. Leo Strauss, What is Political Philosophy ? (1959), trad. fr. Qu’est-ce que la
philosophie politique ? , P.U.F., 1992, pp. 32-33.
5. La formule est de Norberto Bobbio (v. Liberalism and Democracy, trans. by
Martin Ryle & Kate Soper, ch. 5 : “The Fruitfulness of Conflict”, Verso, London/
New York, 1990, pp. 21-24), mais elle pourrait caractériser aussi la perspective
de Sir Isaiah Berlin sur l’histoire des idées politiques de notre siècle.
6. Voir Raymond Aron, Mémoires, Julliard, 1983, p. 353. Pour la manière dont
Manent se revendique de Strauss et de Bloom, v. son article “L’homme lié et
délié”, in Commentaire, numéro 76/Hiver 1996-97, pp. 807-809.
7. V. Alain Bergounioux, Bernard Manin, Le régime social-démocrate, P.U.F.,
1989, p. 129.
8. La revendication des libertariens de Mises peut être suivie, par exemple, chez
Murray Rothbard, For a New Liberty. The Libertarian Manifesto, Fox & Wilkes,
San Francisco, 1973, et chez Hans-Hermann Hoppe, The Economics and
Ethics of Private Property, Boston, 1993.
9. Pierre Manent, “La démocratie comme régime et comme religion”, in La pensée
politique, Hautes Études, Gallimard-Seuil, no. 1/mai 1993, p. 62.
331
10. V. Platon, La République, VIII, 544b-569c ; Aristote, La politique, III, 7-18 ;
Montesquieu, De l’esprit des lois, III, 1-9 ; J.-J. Rousseau, Du contrat social,
III, III-IV ; Leo Strauss, Qu’est-ce que la philosophie politique ? , P.U.F., 1992,
pp. 15-58 ; Raymond Aron, Démocratie et totalitarisme (1965), Gallimard,
1985, pp. 21-107.
11. Le fait que la bonne communauté récupérait de manière nostalgique les
données de “l’âge d’or”, comme dans la philosophie politique classique, ou
que, par contre, elle était projetée dans le futur en fonction de l’existence en
acte, et c’est le cas des discours des modernes, ne diminuait pas du tout la
sensibilité du philosophe politique devant la présence d’autres régimes. Le
cas typique pour le discours nostalgique est la République platonicienne.
L’intérêt pour “l’existence actuelle” est très clair à partir de Machiavel et peut
être illustré de la meilleure façon par le discours de Montesquieu : voir ses
lignes fameuses sur l’Angleterre en tant qu’incarnation de la liberté et l’adage
“pour découvrir la liberté politique dans la Constitution, il ne faut pas tant de
peine. Si on peut la voir où elle est, si on l’a trouvée, pourquoi la chercher ?”
(De l’esprit des lois, X, 5). Un commentaire subtil de ces lignes chez Pierre
Manent, La cité de l’homme, Fayard, 1994, pp. 17-31.
12. Manent, art. cit. , p. 75.
13. K.R. Popper, La Lezione di questo secolo (1992), trad. fr. La leçon de ce
siècle, Entretien avec Giancarlo Bosetti, suivi de deux essais de Karl Popper
sur la liberté et l’État démocratique, trad. de J. Henry et C. Orsoni, Anatolia
Éditions, 1993, p. 102. Popper est très clair : “la démocratie ne fut jamais le
pouvoir du peuple, elle ne peut et ne doit pas l’être”. Nous avons commenté
ce texte dans Polis, vol. 1, nr. 3/1994, pp. 202-207.
14. Popper, “Liberté et responsabilité intellectuelle”, in op. cit., pp. 131-133.
15. Ludwig von Mises, Le socialisme. Étude économique et sociologique (1937),
trad. fr. par Paul Bastier et André Terrasse, Médicis, 1938, p. 18.
16. Mises, op. cit. , pp. 511-512.
17. Mises, L’action humaine. Traité d’économie (1963), trad. fr. par Raoul Audouin,
P.U.F., 1985, p. 887.
18. Pour cette interprétation de Machiavel, v. Pierre Manent, Histoire intellectuelle
du libéralisme, Calmann-Lévy, 1987, chap. I.
19. Mises, Le socialisme, p. 51.
20. V. infra, le chapitre L’histoire moderne comme texte.
21. Alexis de Tocqueville, De la démocratie en Amérique, Robert Laffont, coll.
“Bouquins”, Paris, 1986, p. 43.
22. Manent, art. cit. , p. 62.
23. Pour la manière dont les formes de cette volonté s’articulent, voir Pierre
Manent, La cité de l’homme, Fayard, Paris, 1994.
24. Popper, op. cit. , pp. 123-125.
25. Popper, op. cit. , p. 132.
26. Mises, L’action humaine, pp. 886-887.
332
CRISTIAN PREDA
27. Mises, op. cit. , p. 16. Notons que, bien que dans le texte de 1937 il utilisât
une définition identique, Mises n’y citait pas Locke, la source d’inspiration de
celle-ci (v. Le socialisme, p. 127).
28. Mises, Le Socialisme, p. 128.
29. Le texte est considéré ici de la perspective qui faisait déjà les auteurs du
XVII-e siècle parler de der Papierstaat, c’est-à-dire de cette forme politique
où les rapports entre les personnes sont reliés par des textes, par des documents
écrits, perdant de cette façon la substance purement biologique.
30. Popper a consacré à ce thème toute la démonstration de The Open Society
and Its Enemies.
31. Mises, L’action humaine, pp. 1-11.
32. Platon ; La République, 557b. Nous suivrons la traduction de Robert Baccou,
Garnier-Flammarion, 1966. Le passage cité se trouve à la page 317.
33. Platon, La République, 562a, p. 321.
34. Platon, La République, 557 c, p. 317.
35. Notons que le sens donné ici à la démocratie est un des sens les plus invoqués
aujourd’hui.
36. Stanley Rosen, Spinoza, in Leo Strauss & Joseph Cropsey (eds.), Histoire de la
philosophie politique, P.U.F., 1995, p. 501.
37. Spinoza, Le Traité politique, ch. XI, 4. Nous suivons la traduction de Charles
Appuhn, Garnier Flammarion, 1966, p. 115.
38. Locke, Le deuxième traité, ch. V, “Sur la propriété”, le paragraphe 36. Nous
suivons la traduction de Jean Fabien Spitz, P.U.F., 1994, p. 27.
39. Ibid.
40. Ibid.
41. Locke, Le deuxième traité, ch. X, “Sur la forme de la République”, le paragraphe
132, p. 94.
42. Locke exprime toutes ces choses parlant en deux occasions différentes sur le
détenteur du pouvoir suprême : le législatif et le peuple.
43. Un effort quotidien ajoutera, dans cette direction, aujourd’hui oubliée,
Tocqueville, quand il définit le patriotisme, dans sa tentative de faire de la
démocratie quelque chose de vif, comme une logique de l’égalité qui acquière
de la consistance.
44. Popper, La leçon de ce siècle, Paris, Anatolia Éditions, 1992, p. 123.
45. Le traité politique, XI.1, p. 113.
46. Le traité théologico-politique, XIX. Nous suivons la traduction de Charles
Appuhn, Garnier Flammarion, 1965, p. 315.
47. Le traité théologico-politique, Préface, p. 27.
48. Le traité théologico-politique, XVI, p. 266.
51. Cf. la préface et le chapitre XX du Traité théologico-politique, tout comme le
début du Traité politique.
52. Le traité politique, ch. 1, p. 11.
333
53. V. Popper, La leçon de ce siècle, op. cit. , pp. 103-104.
54. Ibid., p. 105.
55. Spinoza considérait, dans sa célèbre Lettre à Jarig Jelles, que l’état de nature
continue aussi à l’état civil.
56. Tocqueville, De la démocratie en Amérique, livre I, ch. IV, Paris, Robert Laffont,
“Bouquins”, 1986, p. 83.
57. V. Pierre Manent, “La démocratie comme régime et comme religion’, in La
pensée politique, no. 1, Seuil-Gallimard, 1993, pp. 62-75. On doit préciser
que Tocqueville utilisait déjà l’expression l’univers chrétien pour fixer les
limites géographico-spirituelles de la révolution démocratique (cf. Tocqueville,
op. cit. , p. 43).
58. Tocqueville, op. cit. , p. 43 ; Manent, op. cit. , p. 43.
59. Une bonne lecture de Roger Bacon de la perspective de la révolution
machiavélienne se trouve dans l’article de Irving Kristol “Machiavel et la
profanation du politique”, in Réflexions d’un néoconservateur, Paris, P.U.F.,
1989, pp. 169-184.
60. Pour cette interprétation, v. Isaiah Berlin en toutes libertés, Dialogues avec
Ramin Jahanbegloo, Paris, Éditions du Félin, 1990, p. 83.
61. Thucydide avait décrit la guerre de Péloponnèse à partir de “son début”,
stimulé par le fait qu’il était conscient que c’était “l’ébranlement le plus
considérable qui ait remué le peuple grec, une partie des Barbares, et pour
ainsi dire presque tout le genre humain ”, cf. Thucydide, Histoire I, l, traduction
par Jean Voilquin, Garnier Flammarion, 1966, p.31. Voir, pour des détails,
David Bolotin, “Thucydide”, in Leo Strauss, Joseph Cropsey (eds.), Histoire
de la philosophie politique, Paris, P.U.F., 1995, pp. 7-34. On doit remarquer
que Platon et Aristote, ceux qui ont offert, jusqu’à Machiavel, le modèle de la
réflexion politique, avaient écrit eux aussi après la fin du grand cycle de la
politique grecque.
62. Voir K.R. Popper, La société ouverte et ses ennemies, 2 tomes, Seuil, 1979.
63. Rousseau, Du contrat social, I, 1, édition Bertrand de Jouvenel, Le livre de
poche, 1988, p. 157.
64. Pierre Manent est celui qui fait cette suggestion quand il soutient que le
libéralisme - qui a son origine dans l’œuvre de Machiavel - suppose “quelque
chose d’essentiellement délibéré et construit”, un “projet conscient et
construit”. Voir Pierre Manent, Histoire intellectuelle du libéralisme, trad.
roumaine par Mona et Sorin Antohi, Humanitas, Bucuresti, 1992, p. 12.
Manent choisit ensuite comme preuve de cette “émancipation de l’idée”, de
cette “croissance du pouvoir politique de la théorie”, le cas américain du
Fédéraliste, qui énonce dès sa première page que les Américains se sont donnés
comme tache “de décider si c’est possible de fonder un bon gouvernement
sur la réflexion et le choix”. Cet exemple a de relevance pour nous dans le
contexte du second repère - celui vraiment démocratique - de l’installation
de la toute-puissance du texte.
334
CRISTIAN PREDA
65. Celle-ci deviendra une autre obsession de la modernité, qui peut être trouvée
chez Hobbes, Spinoza etc. et, dans sa forme la plus claire, chez Tocqueville,
dans la simplicité pleine de vanité dont l’auteur de la Démocratie disait que
“pour un monde politique absolument nouveaux, il faut une science politique
nouvelle”. Il est important d’accentuer que, parlant d’un “monde politique
absolument nouveau”, Tocqueville y pensait non pas aux États-Unis, mais à
la France, espace politique qui n’était pas encore démocratique. L’auteur
français assumait donc lui aussi la prémisse machiavélienne de l’antériorité
du discours (scientifique) par rapport au monde politique. Il insistait aussi
beaucoup sur le fait que le monde politique américain - le “nouveau monde”
par excellence - était né toujours délibérément, à partir des principes que les
pèlerins anglais avaient apportés, dont le puritanisme “n’était pas seulement
une doctrine religieuse ; il se confondait encore en plusieurs points avec les
théories démocratiques et républicaines les plus absolues” - Tocqueville, op.
cit. , p. 64. Voir aussi la note antérieure.
66. Machiavel, Le Prince, la dédicace adressée à Laurent le Magnifique. Toutes
ces choses pourraient aussi être argumentées de la façon suivante : Machiavel
assumait la nouveauté de la démarche seulement parce qu’il se croyait le
seul capable d’incarner l’expérience décrite par les philosophes politiques
grecs : en effet, du point de vue de Machiavel, il était le seul à avoir réussi à
unir la praxis - l’expérience des choses modernes - et le discours - la lecture
des antiques, mais aussi le résumé destiné au Prince ; à celui-ci, il réservait
l’action, alors que les masses n’avaient accès ni à la praxis (car ceux qui sont
satisfatti n’ont plus de motif pour l’action), ni au logos (car ceux qui n’agissent
pas ne peuvent être que stupidi).
67. L’exemple le plus significatif est celui de la lecture cartésienne contenue dans
la lettre courte, mais importante de septembre 1646, adressée à la princesse
Elisabeth. Descartes explique le Prince comme un traité systématique, un
texte qui peut être rapidement résumé et auquel on peut substituer sa propre
“leçon”. Voir la lettre de Descartes dans l’édition des Oeuvres complètes de
Charles Adam et Paul Tannery, vol. IV, lettre 351, Paris, 1904, pp. 485-494.
68. Manent, op. cit. , p. 41.
69. Leo Strauss, What is Political Philosophy ? , trad. fr. Qu’est-ce que la philosophie
politique ? , Paris, P.U.F., 1991, p. 51.
70. Leo Strauss, “What is Liberal Education ?”, in Liberalism Ancient and Modern,
New York/London, Basic Books, 1968, p. 5.
71. C’est ce qu’on peut déduire du système que Mises expose dans Human Action.
Nous avons évoqué les limites de cette démarche misésienne dans l’article
“Testul populist”, de Sfera politicii, nr. 38, pp. 9-12.
72. Le terme est de Raymond Aron, Démocratie et totalitarisme, Paris, Gallimard,
1985, pp. 131-151.
73. C’est là la différence entre un individualisme gouverné de manière absolutiste
(de type hobbesien) et un individualisme démocratique (de type hayékien).
335
74. Personne d’autre n’a mieux suggéré les difficultés de l’imposition de ce
discrédit que Benjamin Constant. Voir sa célèbre conférence sur La liberté
des anciens comparée à la liberté des modernes, texte où liberté signifie en
fait démocratie. En dépit de ces difficultés, saisissables aussi dans le conflit
contemporain entre la démocratie formelle et la démocratie matérielle, le
discrédit du modèle antique est l’une des constantes de la pensée libérale
d’après Bodin.
75. Jean Bodin, Les six livres de la République, I, VIII, édition et présentation de
Gerard Mairet, Paris, Librairie Générale Française, Livre de Poche, 1993, p.
121.
76. Jean Bodin, op. cit. , p. 126.
77. Rousseau, Du contrat social, I, VII, pp. 182-185.
78. La formule appartient toujours à Benjamin Constant.
79. C’est justement le titre d’un livre de Pierre Manent, La cité de l’homme, Paris,
Fayard, 1994.
80. Pour ce sens donné à la démocratie, v. Pierre Manent, “La démocratie sans
corps”, in Commentaire, no. 75, automne 1996, pp. 569-576.
81. René Descartes, Meditationes de prima philosophia, Seconde Méditation,
traduction roumaine par C. Noica, Humanitas, 1992, p. 255.
82. Karl R. Popper, La leçon de ce siècle, Anatolia Éditions, 1993, p. 123.
83. V. Leo Strauss, “What is Liberal Education ?”, in op. cit. , p. 31.
336
Né en 1966, à Bucarest
Doctorat en histoire accordé par l’Institut National des Langues et Civilisations
Orientales (INALCO), Paris, 1995
Thèse : L’Elite libérale roumaine (1866-1900)
Maître de conférence à la Faculté d’Histoire de l’Université de Bucarest
Secrétaire de la Commission d’Héraldique, de Généalogie et de Sphragistique
de l’Académie Roumaine, depuis 1990
Secrétaire de rédaction de la Revue Roumaine d’Histoire, depuis 1996
Membre correspondant de l’Académie Americano-Roumaine, depuis 1998
Boursier de l’Insitut für Europäische Geschichte, Mainz, 1995
Espagne, Italie, Allemagne, Bulgarie, Roumanie.
Livres:
L’élite libérale roumaine 1866-1900. Bucarest, Ed. All, 1998
Généalogies. Bucarest, Ed. Albatros, 1999
La généalogie roumaine. Brãila, Ed. Istros, 2000
Environ 150 études et articles. Editeur.
SUR L’ARISTOCRATIE ROUMAINE DE
L’ENTRE-DEUX-GUERRES
Un tel sujet pourrait surprendre parce qu’il soulève, par son énoncé
même, une série de questions: y-a-t-il eu une véritable aristocratie
roumaine ? Peut-on parler d’aristocratie au XXe siècle dans notre espace
géographique et culturel ? Peut-on étudier ce problème complexe sans
disposer de sources systématiques et d’ une analyse statistique qui avec
nos moyens actuels semble plutôt irréalisable ? Et comment étudier
l’évolution de cette élite sans instruments de travail nécessaires, mais aussi
sans ouvrages généraux d’histoire sociale, puisque manquent encore les
synthèses dans ce domaine ? Il n’existe encore ni histoire de la classe des
boyards ni histoire de la bourgeoisie roumaine. Les ouvrages de ªtefan
Zeletin, Eugen Lovinescu, Mihail Manoilescu, Ioan C. Filitti, Constantin
C. Giurescu - et cette énumération est fatalement incomplète -, qu’il faut
apprécier comme des contributions de valeur dans ce domaine, ne comble
pas le manque d’histoire des classes sociales roumaines. Il nous manque
également des dictionnaires des hommes politiques roumains ainsi que
des études de prosopographie des partis politiques, de même que des
ouvrages généalogiques de synthèse. Ces difficultés historiographiques
ont des explications claires: elles sont dues aux circonstances historiques
imposées par le régime instauré en Roumanie après la Seconde Guerre
mondiale. Ainsi, pendant cette très longue période d’oppression totalitaire
les archives n’étaient que partiellement accessibles; malheureusement
aujourd’hui encore certains fonds liés à la vie politique de
l’entre-deux-guerres ne sont pas mis à la disposition des chercheurs. A de
nombreux sujets on donnait une interprétation officielle qui ne laissait
guère de place à des opinions alternatives. Dans ce climat l’étude des
élites roumaines a été en grande mesure ignorée et la notion même d’”élite”
avait un caractère subversif1. Cependant , qu’on veuille ou non le
reconnaître, la société roumaine a engendré durant la période entre le
règne du prince Alexandru Ioan Cuza et l’instauration du régime
communiste, des élites socio-politiques désignées par un terme
simplificateur et de propagande: “burghezo-moºierime” - (bourgeoisie et
propriétaires terriens). L’importance de ces élites ne peut être niée ou
339
minimisée sans mystifier l’histoire même de cette époque. C’est en effet
des couches supérieures de la société roumaine que sont pour la plupart
issus des grands acteurs de la scène politique roumaine depuis le
mouvement des jeunes boyards révolutionnaires de 18482 jusqu’aux
leaders des partis démocratiques ou antidémocratiques de
l’entre-deux-guerres.
L’aristocratie a peu intéressé les historiens et les sociologues roumains,
qui en essayant de surprendre la spécificité nationale ont laissé sur un
plan secondaire la composante nobiliaire de la société roumaine. Cet état
de choses paraît bizarre étant donné le rôle important que les boyards ont
joué pendant tout le Moyen Age dans la conservation de l’Etat ainsi que
dans la vie culturelle. Les familles de boyards ont continué à exister après
1858, en maintenant leur prestige accumulé. L’aristocratie s’est perpétuée
donc longtemps après avoir cessé de représenter une partie nettement
délimitée de la société. En ce sens la définition que Mihail Manoilescu
donnait au concept de ”classe” nous semble opérationnelle : celle-ci “est
caractérisée par une permanence relative des générations successives de
la même famille. On reconnaît la classe par le fait qu’au cours du temps
les individus qui sont ses membres changent par disparition physique,
mais les lignées familiales ne changent qu’en petite mesure”3. Cette
définition peut être utilisée pour les familles de boyards, dont les filiations
se poursuivent assez souvent jusqu’à nos jours. Plus que dans n’importe
quelle autre partie de la société roumaine, l’idée de la continuité familiale
se retrouve au sein de l’aristocratie. Manoilescu énonça trois
caractéristiques principales de la notion de “classe”: “1. La classe est un
groupe social composé de nombreuses familles. 2. Elle présente une
continuité à travers les générations, résultant du recrutement de ses
membres par filiation. 3. La classe est un groupe social hiérarchique et
horizontal”4.
La recherche généalogique mène à la conclusion que pendant
l’entre-deux-guerres les familles de boyards ont constitué une véritable
classe5, même si leur pouvoir économique et leur influence politique ont
diminué de manière considérable par rapport à la situation d’avant la
Première Guerre mondiale. Les opinions des historiens concernant la
persistance de l’aristocratie sont différentes. L’historien Radu Rosetti,
descendant des grands boyards moldaves et petit-fils du dernier hospodar
de Moldavie Grigore Alexandru Ghica, écrivait sur la “ruine parfaite des
boyards qui avaient cessé d’être un facteur politique” même avant la
Première Guerre mondiale 6 . Pour cet auteur, même en 1907, les
340
descendants des boyards, “tant par leur nombre que par leur importance
économique sont devenus une quantité tout à fait négligeable, une fraction
avec des prétentions, mais infime, de la nouvelle classe dirigeante.
L’ancienne oligarchie roumaine, si elle vit encore, doit ce reste de vie au
souvenir de sa force passée, et non pas à sa force actuelle qui n’existe
pas”7. Nous ne partageons pas l’opinion de Radu Rosetti sur la sortie des
boyards de la scène de l’histoire. Nous allons offrir plus loin des arguments
concrets par lesquels on peut soutenir de manière pertinente le maintien
des boyards dans les structures politiques et culturelles même après la
Première Guerre mondiale.
Une opinion intéressante a été exprimée par ªtefan Zeletin qui parlait
de la suppression de la noblesse par la bourgeoisie, de l’opposition
culturelle que l’ancienne classe dirigeante a exercée8. Si dans d’autres
pays la noblesse a essayé de garder le pouvoir dans ses mains par la voie
des armes, “nos boyards ont utilisé des armes plus nobles que celles
habituelles: en tant que classe dirigeante, elle avait l’apanage de la culture,
de l’intelligence, c’est pourquoi elle a dirigé contre la bourgeoisie les
armes subtiles de la science. Autrement dit, sa lutte a été une lutte
culturelle” 9 . Ainsi a pris naissance la société “Junimea”, en tant
qu’expression culturelle de la “lutte théorique contre la bourgeoisie
roumaine”10. En même temps la bourgeoisie roumaine avait de plus en
plus tendance à imiter l’aristocratie, dont le modèle social et culturel
s’imposa 11.L’aristocratisation est un processus qui a aussi eu lieu pendant
l’entre-deux-guerres et que George Cãlinescu a surpris en l94l: “Il y a un
siècle Gh. Eminovici pouvait devenir boyard, car il y avait un prince qui
pouvait lui conférer le titre, tandis qu’aujourd’hui le bourgeois est dépourvu
pour toujours de cette vanité. L’aristocratie roumaine se constitue même
de nos jours et les nombreuses généalogies, études d’archives familiales
montre que les individus qui peuvent produire des documents ont tendance
à se constituer en caste et à résister de manière collective à l’initiative de
l’individu et, c’est chose à retenir, en dépassant le cadre national”12. Les
observations de Cãlinescu ont été engendrées par le roman Donna Alba
de Gib Mihãescu, auteur qui éprouvait une certaine fascination pour l’esprit
aristocratique.
Comme le remarquait George Cãlinescu dont l’histoire monumentale
de la littérature roumaine contient de nombreuses généalogies d’écrivains,
on peut établir un lien entre la conscience de soi des descendants des
boyards roumains et l’essor pris pendant l’entre-deux-guerres par les
recherches généalogiques. C’est de cette période que datent les
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généalogies des familles de boyards de Valachie, dressées par Ioan C.Filitti,
Emanoil Hagi Mosco et George D.Florescu (restées inédites jusqu’à
aujourd’hui). Pour la Moldavie on peut citer les ouvrages de Gheorghe
Ghibãnescu, Constantin Gane et Gheorghe Bezviconi, l’éditeur de la revue
“Din trecutul nostru”. La plus rigoureuse monographie de famille est due
au général Radu Rosetti et elle s’intitule Familia Rosetti (2 volumes,
Bucarest, l938 - l940). Le livre est remarquablement documenté, avec
des notes pour chaque renseignement. Et ce n’est pas le seul ouvrage de
ce genre. Dans la même catégorie on peut citer les monographies de Ioan
Nãdejde13, du général Mihai Racoviþã-Cehan14, Teodor Bãlan15, Gheorghe
Ungureanu16, Teodor Botiº17 etc.
L’intérêt pour l’histoire des familles de boyards est prouvé par le nombre
et la qualité de ces monographies, ainsi que par les tentatives de
constitution d’un institut de recherches généalogiques. Au moment où les
études dans ce domaine ont connu un haut degré de diversification, leur
coordination est devenue nécessaire. Dans la Roumanie de
l’entre-deux-guerres il n’y a pas eu un institut ou une société généalogique
qui aurait pu remplir cette fonction. Une Commission Consultative
Héraldique a été fondée en 1921 - présidée par Dimitre Onciul - pour
élaborer les blasons des districts, des communes et des villes.
Le 7 juillet 1938 Gheorghe Bezviconi a présenté à Nicolae Iorga un
mémoire montrant la nécessité d’un institut généalogique18. Il y a eu ensuite
le mémoire de George D.Florescu, publié par N.Iorga, cette même année
dans “Revista istorica”19. C’est sans doute un des textes les plus intéressants
de la littérature généalogique roumaine, dans lequel on parle de l’existence
d’une mémoire généalogique chez les boyards roumains du Moyen Age.
Les tableaux votifs sont autant de témoignages du culte des ancêtres dans
le Moyen Age roumain.
Cet institut devait exercer un contrôle sur les travaux d’intérêt
généalogique pour combattre le dilettantisme et promouvoir les études
scientifiques, documentaires. L’institut devait être divisé en cinq sections:
1. La Valachie avec l’Olténie (centres : Bucarest et Craiova) ; 2. La
Moldavie, avec la Bessarabie et la Bucovine (centres : Iaºi, Chiºinãu,
Cernãuþi) ; 3. La Transylvanie, le Maramureº, le Banat (centre : Cluj) ; 4.
La Dobrudja, avec le Qudrilatère (centre: Constanþa). 5. Une section pour
la Macédoine. George D.Florescu précisait les objectifs de chaque section
de l’institut envisageant aussi la constitution d’une Association d’entre-aide
de la noblesse roumaine, sur le modèle de l’ ”Association d’entre-aide de
la noblesse française”.
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Aurel George Stino, Theodor Râºcanu, George Grecianu20, Scarlat
Preajbã (le général N.Negreanu)21, N.Moþoc-Epureanu22 se sont prononcés
dans des articles pour la fondation d’un institut généalogique roumain.
Cet institut n’a pas été fondé à cause de la guerre. Pourtant, au printemps
de l’année 1943 une association de spécialistes appelée “Cercul
Genealogic Român” (Le Cercle Généalogique Roumain) est fondée le
soir du 7 mars l943 dans la maison du général Mihai Racoviþã-Cehan à
Bucarest, en présence de Octav George Lecca, Ion Ionascu, George
D.Florescu, Gheorghe Bezviconi, Traian Larionescu, Vasile Panopol, Ioan
Cârlova, Alexandru Saint-Georges, Mihai M.Racoviþã, Emanoil Bogdan,
Dan et ªtefan Cernovodeanu23. Le but de ce groupe était “la recherche
du passé des familles du pays” et “l’établissement d’un rapprochement
d’âme entre tous les chercheurs de notre passé“. Il s’agit en premier lieu
de l’étude des familles de boyards, mais le cercle se proposait une ouverture
plus large, vers toutes les couches sociales. A la tête de l’association il y
avait des descendants de boyards. En tant que président fut élu le général
Mihai Racoviþã-Cehan, en tant que vice-président - George D.Florescu.
Du comité dirigeant faisaient partie le procureur Constantin I.Prodan, Ion
Ionaºcu et Gheorghe Bezviconi et en tant que secrétaire fut élu Traian
Larionescu, bibliothécaire à la Fondation du Roi Carol I. Le 16 avril 1943
le Cercle Généalogique Roumain fut inscrit au Tribunal d’Ilfov. Il a édité
une publication intitulée “Arhiva Genealogicã Românã” dont le nom
voulait rémémorer la revue éditée par Sever Zotta en 1912 - 1913. Cette
forme d’association des généalogistes n’a duré qu’une année. Elle est née
dans une atmosphère d’émulation des recherches nobiliaires et d’histoire
des familles, qu’avait remarquée George Cãlinescu.
Les descendants des boyards de l’entre-deux-guerres étaient-ils
conscients et intéressés par leur origine ? Que pensaient-ils de leur propre
lignée? C’est la littérature de la mémoire de l’époque qui répond à ces
questions, littérature que l’on peut illustrer par quelques exemples. Ainsi
Constantin Argetoianu consacrait à son origine une riche incursion
généalogique24. Alexandru Tzigara-Samurcaº découvrait les sources de
sa noblesse dans une église de Venise: “Je suis flatté d’avoir pu trouver
intacte, dans l’église San Giorgio dei Greci de Venise, dans l’axe de l’autel,
sous le ciel libre, la pierre tombale du grand porte-glaive Zotu Tzigara,
mort en 1599 et dont le nom est resté inchangé de père en fils, que j’espère
avoir porté avec la dignité traditionnelle de la famille./ C’est au portrait
fier du porte-glaive Zotu, tenant à sa droite l’épée de son rang, et à sa
gauche le poignard, que j’ai emprunté son blason, une main tenant une
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épée, - que j’ai ajoutée au cœur des armoiries des Samurcaº, avec le
sourcil et le “samur”, d’où vient le nom. Ce blason combiné constitue
mon ex-libris et est gravé sur la plaque de marbre placé sur le lieu de
notre repos éternel”25. Tzigara-Samurcaº, le fondateur du Musée d’Art
National, a été élevé parmi de vieux documents de famille, dont il a appris
la valeur dès son enfance26. C’est dans son milieu familial qu’il a appris la
beauté de l’art populaire27.
Si Tzigara-Samurcaº liait son affinité pour la culture à son origine,
Nicolae Iorga considérait son implication dans la vie politique comme la
conséquence de sa descendance des anciens boyards moldaves (des
Miclescu, des Catargi etc.). “C’est d’eux et d’autres hérités par la mère de
ma mère que j’ai cette affection pour tout ce qui se lie à cette terre, en
faisant de mes écrits, de chaque instant que je touche ce passé, un
hommage à eux et en même temps une reconnaissance de tout ce qui me
lie à la chère histoire de notre Moldavie”28. Pour Nicolae Iorga, l’attraction
de l’histoire est l’héritage laissé par les ancêtres et la liaison étroite avec
ceux-ci. Le grand historien croyait en l’ascendance byzantine de la famille
de sa mère (les Arghiropol).
La conscience de son appartenance sociale est clairement exprimée
par l’écrivain Alexandru Paleologu, dont le témoignage peut être considéré
comme révélateur pour son enfance, pendant l’entre-deux-guerres.
“D’ailleurs j’ai eu une attitude personnelle dans ce domaine. J’ai toujours
déclaré que j’avais une “origine bourgeoise” - moi je l’aurais appelé
“noble”, mais la formule était celle-là, je n’ai donc pas caché mon origine
(...). Il aurait été absurde de procéder d’une autre manière; en publiant
mes mémoires on voit clairement que mes souvenirs d’enfance étaient
liés à un milieu et à une culture noble”29.
La société roumaine s’est développée sans ruptures pendant des siècles,
en créant, au Moyen Age, une couche supérieure que l’on pourrait appeler
aristocratie, en utilisant une notion générale. Sa sphère large permet d’y
inclure tant les familles de boyards de Moldavie et de Valachie que les
descendants des boyards du pays de Fagaras, les nobles roumains de
Maramures et d’autres régions de la Transylvanie. Cette notion comprend
les différents groupes sociaux mentionnés, ayant un attribut commun, la
noblesse, dont la valeur symbolique et culturelle a gardé sa force depuis
le Moyen Age jusqu’à nos jours. Nous ne nous proposons pas de définir
dans ce cadre le concept de “noblesse”, mais il faut mettre en évidence
que la noblesse ressurgit de la continuité des traditions au sein de la même
famille ou le long de certaines lignées.
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La noblesse est un attribut d’excellence conféré d’habitude par une
autorité monarchique, attribut transmis et conservé dans le cadre d’une
succession généalogique. “La noblesse c’est l’œuvre du temps”, disait un
adage qui se vérifie aussi dans le cas de l’histoire roumaine. L’attribut de
la noblesse n’est pas nécessairement lié aux titres nobiliaires héréditaires
qui n’ont pas existé (sauf quelques exceptions) chez les boyards de
Moldavie et de Valachie.
Les titres existants qui n’étaient pas reconnus par la Constitution
roumaine de 1923, provenaient d’autorités étrangères, d’habitude de
l’empereur autrichien. C’est le cas, très connu, de la famille Brancovan
qui figure aussi dans les almanachs de Gotha (sous la forme “Bassaraba
de Brancovan”), en vertu du fait que le hospodar Constantin Brâncoveanu
a été élevé en 1695 au rang de prince du Saint Empire
romain-germanique30. Le titre de prince fut également reçu en 1900 par
Radu (Rodolphe) Kretzulescu, de la part du roi d’Italie Umberto I31, avec
la fille duquel il allait se fiancer. Et les exemples pourraient se poursuivre,
en incluant l’ “aga” Constantin Bãlãceanu, qui a reçu le titre de comte32,
les barons Bellu, Meitani, Kapri etc.
Le système nobiliaire occidental a fonctionné tant en Transylvanie
qu’en Bucovine33, pendant la domination autrichienne. En Transylvanie
beaucoup de Roumains sont restés au niveau de la petite noblesse (gentry),
sans titres34. Les Roumains qui se sont magyarisés et qui ont changé de
confession ont pu entrer dans la catégorie des magnats. Ainsi, on connaît
l’origine roumaine des familles Bánffy, Kendéffy, Kemény etc. En Bucovine,
les autorités ont reconnu et ont confirmé la noblesse de beaucoup de
familles de boyards35. Tout au long de la domination autrichienne ont été
conférés des titres de noble, chevalier, baron et singulièrement celui de
comte pour la famille Wassilko, avec le prédicat ”de Serecki”.
Aux porteurs des titres nobiliaires reçus s’ajoutaient ceux des titres
auto-assumés. Il s’agit des descendants des hospodars des principautés
qui utilisaient fréquemment le titre princier : d’abord les descendants de
Gheorghe Bibescu et de Barbu ªtirbei, ultérieurement aussi ceux des
princes phanariotes36; ainsi que certains Cantacuzène, surtout de la
branche du hospodar ªerban Cantacuzène, et des Ghica, comme le prêtre
catholique Vladimir Ghika, petit-fils du hospodar Grigore Alexandru
Ghica37. En pleine période de l’entre-deux-guerres dans la haute société
roumaine il y avait le “prince” Barbu ªtirbei, Premier-ministre en 1927, et
le “prince” George Valentin Bibescu, président de la Fédération
Aéronautique Internationale. Les titres nobiliaires avaient donc dans la
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Roumanie de l’entre-deux-guerres une valeur mondaine et non pas
juridique.
Après 1918, l’aristocratie roumaine comprenait les descendants des
boyards de Valachie et de Moldavie, les descendants de la noblesse
roumaine de Transylvanie, ainsi que ceux de la noblesse de Bucovine et
de Bessarabie qui avaient leurs racines dans la classe des boyards
moldaves. S’y ajoutaient des éléments de la grande bourgeoisie qui ont
été assimilés par l’aristocratie à travers les mariages. Il y a eu une tendance
d’homogénéisation de l’aristocratie roumaine, manifestée par les mariages
mixtes, entre transylvains et “moldo-valaques” - quelques exemples dans
ce sens provenant de générations différentes: Constantin Sãrãþeanu (premier
président de la Haute Cour de Cassation, membre de la Régence) et Olga
Popovici, la soeur de l’homme politique Mihai Popovici; Octavian
C.Tãslãuanu, écrivain et homme politique, et Fatma Sturdza, petite-fille
de Vasile Sturdza, membre de la lieutenance princière de Moldavie en
1858 - 1859; Eugen Goga, le frère du poète Octavian Goga et Eliza
Odobescu, nièce de l’écrivain Alexandru Odobescu et descendante du
côté maternel des familles Florescu et Manu; le folkloriste Mihai Pop,
neveu de l’homme politique Ilie Lazãr (de Purcareti) et Irina Sturdza,
descendante du même Vasile Sturdza, ainsi que de Ion Câmpineanu - du
côté maternel. Si sur le plan matrimonial on peut trouver de telles alliances,
dans la politique il y a eu des frictions entre la classe politique de l’ancien
royaume et les hommes politiques de Transylvanie38. Celles-ci se sont
exprimées dans la concurrence pour le pouvoir entre le Parti
National-Libéral et le Parti National-Paysan.
Dans ce qui suit je me propose de restreindre l’objet de la recherche,
en essayant d’examiner la place de l’aristocratie dans la société roumaine
entre 1918 et 1947. C’est le moment peut-être de préciser que je vois ici
une équivalence entre la notion d’élite historique traditionnelle et celle
d’aristocratie qui décrit bien sûr une réalité sociale en grande mesure
différente de celle qui existe en Europe Occidentale. Les considérations
qui suivront sont fondées sur l’analyse généalogique de plusieurs
personnalités politiques roumaines, dont j’ai reconstitué les lignées
d’ancêtres et les liens de parenté.
Si avec l’abolition des privilèges des boyards en 1858, l’existence
juridique de la classe des boyards prend fin, son existence physique et
spirituelle se poursuivra dans le domaine privé. Si je pouvais oser une
telle comparaison, un peu forcée, la qualité de boyard pendant le Moyen
Age roumain (XVe - XVIe siècle) était rarement due à la dignité remplie
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par tel ou tel personnage. Il la devait à sa naissance au sein d’une famille
de boyards qui détenait un certain patrimoine foncier et qui jouissait d’un
prestige social particulier, étant éventuellement apparentée au prince
régnant (hospodar) (dans le cas des grands boyards appelés “vlastelini”)
et certainement à d’autres familles de boyards39. De même, si je peux me
permettre un tel saut dans le temps et dans l’espace, une autre question
peut se poser : après l’adoption de la constitution républicaine et l’abolition
des privilèges de l’aristocratie, la noblesse a-t-elle cessé d’exister “de facto”
en France, alors que la disparition de la noblesse “de jure” était prononcée
et que tous les citoyens étaient devenus égaux? La réponse est négative et
même actuellement la noblesse continue à exister en France en tant que
groupe social relativement clos, avec des traits spécifiques40. Des
problèmes identiques pourraient se poser dans la société roumaine d’après
1858, mais ils méritent certainement une analyse plus profonde et plus
étendue que celle présentée dans cet exposé.
Jusqu’à l’instauration du régime communiste, la société roumaine a
connu une évolution organique, sans transformations violentes et sans
convulsions sociales d’importance structurale. Un changement significatif
dans l’évolution de la classe politique sous le régime démocrate-libéral
fut l’assimilation des éléments transylvains qui se sont avérés très actifs
sur la scène politique roumaine après 1918. Cette élite qui est entrée dans
le jeu comprenait de nombreux descendants des familles nobles roumaines,
tels Iuliu Maniu41 et Alexandru Vaida Voevod. Après la disparition des
boyards comme classe privilégiée de la société, leurs descendants ont
continué à se manifester dans la vie publique roumaine, forts du capital
symbolique et culturel associé à l’ancienneté de leurs familles42. Si
biologiquement, elles ne se sont pas éteintes, les vieilles familles de
boyards, alliées parfois à des familles de la haute et moyenne bourgeoisie
et qui continuaient dans de nombreux cas de longues files de dignitaires
médiévaux, ont gardé leur position sociale jusqu’à la soviétisation du pays,
malgré les changements survenus après la Première Guerre mondiale.
Souvent marquées par l’impact généalogique des Phanariotes, elles ont
connu quand même des fluctuations dans la hiérachie sociale du XIXe
siècle et du début du XXe.
Sur la pénétration des familles phanariotes dans la société roumaine,
il faudrait entreprendre des recherches systématiques. On peut déjà se
demander dans ce contexte s’il y a eu, par exemple, une “politique
matrimoniale “ des Phanariotes. D’autres questions suivent : peut-on parler
de l’assimilation d’une famille phanariote, et après combien de générations
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sur le territoire roumain ? Dans quelle mesure les Phanariotes ont-ils
influencé la naissance et le développement des élites roumaines au XIXe
siècle ? De nombreux Grecs parmi ceux qui ont pénétré dans la classe
des boyards roumains, comme les membres des familles Mano, Ventura
et beaucoup d’autres se sont roumanisés très rapidement, alors que les
Soutzo, par exemple, à la suite de leur forte endogamie, sont restés très
liés à ses idéaux de renaissance nationale politique et culturelle43. Les
Phanariotes intégrés dans la société roumaine ont apporté une contribution
importante à la cristallisation de la classe politique roumaine ; ainsi c’est
de deux puissantes familles phanariotes que descendait le politicien libéral
Mihail G.Orleanu (1859-1942), ancien ministre et président de la chambre
des députés : les Plagino et les Aristarchi44. Cependant les descendants
des Phanariotes ne faisaient pas partie seulement de l’élite libérale, ils se
perpétuèrent aussi dans le milieu social du Parti Conservateur. C’est le
cas par exemple du général Gheorghe Mano (1833-1911), l’un des
personnages les plus influents de ce parti, fils du lieutenant-princier
(“caimacam”) Ioan Mano et de son épouse Ana, née Ghika45. Plusieurs
grands dignitaires de la Patriarchie de Constantinople - l’héritière culturelle
et historique de la légitimité byzantine - avaient appartenu à la famille
Mano46 et une branche de cette famille est restée en Grèce où elle existe
encore de nos jours.
Malgré l’ouverture que l’introduction du suffrage universel a apportée
à la vie publique roumaine après la Première Guerre mondiale, les
descendants des boyards ont continué de fournir des leaders politiques
au pays, ainsi que des intellectuels célèbres. Les membres de ce groupe
social apportaient avec eux la tradition des occupations publiques, ainsi
qu’une éducation soignée, le plus souvent parachevée en Occident, surtout
en France. Ils entraient dans la vie politique avec un large prestige social
offert par leur passé, par leurs fortunes, par leurs liens de parenté, par des
amitiés qui se sont perpétuées au fil des générations. Tous ces atouts que
définissaient leur statut social - l’énumération que je viens de faire est loin
d’être exhaustive - devaient être conservés par des alliances matrimoniales
souhaitables qui, elles, avaient aussi pour objet de sauver les fortunes
foncières affectées par la réforme agraire de 1921.
Le fait que beaucoup d’hommes politiques roumains qui se
manifestèrent dans la vie publique tant avant qu’après la Première Guerre
mondiale étaient les continuateurs des anciennes familles de boyards a
été relevé par l’historien Neagu Djuvara dans une étude publiée en 198747.
Dans ce qui suit on détaillera cet aspect par le biais des généalogies.
348
Ainsi I.G.Duca, l’un des hommes politiques libéraux les plus illustres de
l’époque, descendait, par sa mère Lucie née Ghica-Budeºti, de la
nombreuse famille princière des Ghica et sa grand-mère était issue de la
famille des grands boyards de Valachie Filipescu48. Les ancêtres de
l’homme politique Constantin Argetoianu, grande figure de la
franc-maçonnerie roumaine de l’entre-deux-guerres, étaient des membres
des familles Oteteleºanu, Rahtivanu et Slãtineanu49, pour ne donner que
quelques noms de son ascendance. Cette constatation pourrait être illustrée
également par la généalogie du grand diplomate Nicolae Titulescu dont
la mère descendait de la vieille famille de boyards Urdãreanu. La
grand-mère du côté maternel de Titulescu était la sœur du peintre Theodor
Aman et de Costache Aman, dont la fille Hélène s’était mariée en 1853
avec Barbu Bãlcescu, frère cadet de l’historien et homme politique Nicolae
Bãlcescu (1819-1852)50. L’une de leurs filles sera la mère de l’ingénieur
Ion Gigurtu51 qui était, donc, le neveu de Nicolae Titulescu. Les
représentants de l’élite historique roumaine n’apparaissent pas seulement
dans les formations politiques d’inspiration libérale et démocratique, mais
aussi dans les mouvements d’extrême droite ou d’extrême gauche. Ainsi,
le général Gheorghe Cantacuzène - “Grãnicerul” (le Garde-frontière),
président du parti ultra-nationaliste “Totul pentru þarã” (“Tout pour la
patrie”), descendait directement du prince régnant de Valachie ªerban
Cantacuzène52, tandis qu’Alecu Cantacuzène, jeune espoir intellectuel
de la Garde de fer était le petit-fils de l’homme politique conservateur
Georges Grégoire Cantacuzène dit “le Nabab”53. Alexandru Ghyka - chef
de la police légionnaire - était l’arrière-petit-fils de Grégoire V.Ghyka,
dernier prince régnant de Moldavie (1849-1856) et aussi descendant direct
de l’homme politique Ion Câmpineanu 54 . L’un des intellectuels
communistes les plus connus fut le poète et historien Scarlat Callimachi,
surnommé “le prince rouge”, descendant en droite ligne d’un frère du
prince régnant de Moldavie Ioan Theodor Callimachi, sa mère étant la
fille de l’homme politique Gheorghe Vernescu55.
Parmi les 20 Premiers ministres roumains entre 1918-1940, plusieurs
descendaient (par lignée paternelle ou maternelle) de l’élite historique des
principautés extracarpathiques (le général Constantin Coandã, Ion
I.C.Brãtianu, Barbu ªtirbei, Vintilã Brãtianu, Nicolae Iorga, I.G.Duca,
dr.Constantin Angelescu, Gheorghe Tãtãrascu, le général Gheorghe
Argeºanu, Constantin Argetoianu, Ion Gigurtu) ; deux étaient issus de la
noblesse roumaine de Transylvanie (Iuliu Maniu, Alexandru Vaida Voevod) ;
deux provenaient du milieu bourgeois (Take Ionescu, Armand Cãlinescu),
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deux étaient d’origine paysanne (le général Alexandru Averescu, le
patriarche Miron Cristea), un descendait de familles de prêtres orthodoxes
du sud de la Transylvanie (Octavian Goga), un descendait de paysans libres
moldaves (le professeur George G.Mironescu) ; un dernier était le fils d’un
fonctionnaire d’origine étrangère (le général Arthur Vãitoianu).
Les Brãtianu qui se trouvaient à la tête d’un parti qui avait pour but la
formation d’une bourgeoisie nationale étaient eux aussi de vieille souche
noble, dans le sens local de ce mot56. Leur filiation remonte jusqu’au XVe
siècle et même jusqu’à la fin du XIVe, si on suit la lignée des boyards
Vlãdescu, qui étaient leurs ancêtres par les femmes57.
La disparition de la scène politique du Parti Conservateur a été une
conséquence de l’élargissement considérable du droit de vote après la
première conflagration mondiale, de l’accès à la vie politique d’un grand
nombre de citoyens - surtout d’origine rurale - qui jusqu’alors n’avaient
pas eu le droit de se manifester sur ce terrain. Les grandes réformes qui
sont survenues après 1918 ont restreint la base économique de l’élite
historique roumaine. Cependant les descendants des familles de boyards
ont continué de s’affirmer dans la vie publique roumaine, tant dans les
sciences que dans les arts. On peut en citer de nombreux exemples. Au
cours de l’entre-deux-guerres, la revue “Convorbiri literare” était dirigée
par l’historien d’art Alexandru Tzigara-Samurcaº, arrière-neveu du vornic
(chambellan) Constantin Samurcaº, membre de l’Hétairie et haut dignitaire
à la cour princière de Bucarest au début du XIXe siècle58.
L’une des figures remarquables de l’école roumaine d’architecture, à
la fois créateur et historien du phénomène artistique, Nicolae
Ghika-Budeºti (1869-1943), auteur de l’ouvrage monumental Evolutia
arhitecturii în Muntenia si Oltenia, descendait d’une branche moldave de
la nombreuse famille des Ghika59. Par sa mère il était cousin germain de
l’architecte G.M.Cantacuzène (1899-1960) et du peintre Theodor Pallady
(1871-1956), deux autres aristocrates, brillants intellectuels qui
descendaient tous les deux - l’un par lignée paternelle, l’autre par lignée
maternelle - de la branche Deleanu-Mãgureanu de la famille
Cantacuzène60. La classe des boyards avait encore du souffle pour donner
de nombreux talents à la culture roumaine. L’inventeur Henri Coandã,
fils du général Constantin Coandã, était l’arrière-petit-fils d’un Ghiþã
Coandã, élevé en 1845 au rang de “pitar”61. L’un des juristes les plus
fameux du pays, Istrate Micescu était le petit-fils d’un personnage du même
nom, nommé toujours “pitar” le 30 août 1839 et qui était le fils du “ceaus”
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Rãducanu Micescu, fils à son tour de Pârvu Micescu de Miceºti (dans
l’ancien département de Muscel, aujourd’hui Argeº)62.
A la tête de l’école historique roumaine de l’époque se trouvaient
toujours des descendants de l’ancienne classe des boyards. Nicolae Iorga
avait dans la famille de son père cinq porteurs de rangs de boyard ; son
père même avait été promu “medelnicer” en 1858. Mais la vieille noblesse
venait chez Nicolae Iorga par sa filiation maternelle, plus précisément
par son arrière-grand-mère Catinca Miclescu qui avait épousé le “parucic”
(sous-lieutenant) Ioan Arghiropol, ayant un fils Gheorghe Arghiropol qui
s’était marié avec Hélène, fille du “vornic” Iordache Drãghici, l’un des
boyards éclairés du règne du prince Ioniþã Sandu Sturdza (1822-1828).
De ce dernier mariage est issue Zulnie Arghiropol, la mère de Nicolae
Iorga63. De même, Georges Brãtianu, historien d’envergure européenne,
descendait directement, par sa mère Marie née Mourousi64 des princes
phanariotes Constantin et Alexandre Mourousi, tandis que son épouse
Hélène née Sturdza était l’arrière-petite-fille du prince règnant de Moldavie
Mihail Sturdza (1834-1849)65. L’historien P.P.Panaitescu descendait par
sa mère Leonia née Greceanu de la famille des boyards moldaves
Greceanu66, des familles Mano (branche de Moldavie), Miclescu67 etc.
Par une arrière-grand-mère, Profira Mano née Miclescu, P.P.Panaitescu
était le cousin au quatrième degré (malgré la différence d’âge) de Nicolae
Iorga68. On pourrait également mentionner l’historien et généalogiste Ioan
C.Filitti, descendant du côté maternel des boyards Slãtineanu. L’un des
archéologues de valeur de l’époque, Scarlat Lambrino, qui après
l’avènement des communistes au pouvoir en Roumanie, s’est réfugié en
France, descendait lui aussi d’une famille de boyards moldaves d’origine
grecque, qui s’était établie en Moldavie au XVIIe siècle69.
Dans la science biologique roumaine se sont distingués à la même
époque au moins trois représentants de l’aristocratie : l’entomologiste
Aristide Caradja, le docteur Jean Cantacuzène et le spéléologue Emile
Racoviþã. Aristide Caradja était l’arrière-petit-fils de Ioan Caradja, prince
régnant de Valachie entre 1812 et 181870 et sa mère Euphrosyne née
Soutzo descendait en lignée directe d’un autre prince phanariote, celui
qui succéda à Caradja sur le trône de Bucarest, Alexandre Soutzo.
Le docteur Jean Cantacuzène était le petit-fils du grand boyard
Constantin Cantacuzène, lieutenant princier de Valachie en 1848/49 alors
que sa mère était la fille du général Nicolae Mavros71. Emile Racoviþã
descendait de la vieille famille de boyards moldaves Racoviþã-Cehan,
attestée dès le XVe siècle72.
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Dans la musique et la musicologie se sont affirmés, entre autres,
l’ethnomusicologue Constantin Brãiloiu, issu d’une vieille famille
d’Olténie, et Mihail Jora, compositeur et chef d’orchestre renommé,
descendant d’une très vieille famille moldave à laquelle avait appartenu
la mère du chroniqueur Grigore Ureche. Sa grand-mère paternelle
Smaranda Jora née Rosetti était la nièce de Costache Negri (1812-1876),
homme politique et écrivain bien connu73. Mihail Jora était également le
cousin germain de Maruca Cantacuzène née Rosetti-Teþcanu, l’épouse
du compositeur Georges Enesco. La liste des hommes de lettres, des
scientifiques et des artistes de cette époque issus des familles de
l’aristocratie roumaine est très longue et risque de devenir fastidieuse.
C’est pourquoi nous ne citerons plus que quelques noms : les poètes Hélène
Vacaresco, Ion Pillat, Adrian Maniu, la princesse Marthe Bibesco, le
linguiste Alexandre Rosetti, l’actrice Lucie Sturdza-Bulandra, le
mathématicien Alexandre Ghika, le géologue Stefan Ghika-Budeºti, etc.
La diplomatie est l’un des corps roumains d’élite auquel la classe des
boyards a fourni de nombreux éléments. Ainsi, en raison de leur
connaissance des langues étrangères, de l’éducation privilégiée dont ils
avaient bénéficié et du statut social qu’assurait une carrière diplomatique,
les descendants des familles aristocratiques entraient notamment dans la
diplomatie, comme l’illustrent de nombreux exemples. On vient de
mentionner Nicolae Titulescu; de même Grigore Gafencu descendait par
son père d’une famille de boyards de Bucovine et par sa mère de la
nombreuse famille des Costaki 74 , à laquelle avaient appartenu le
métropolite de Moldavie Veniamin Costaki et l’homme politique
Manolache Costaki Epurean. La mère du diplomate Nicolae
Petrescu-Comnen, ancien ministre des Affaires étrangères de Roumanie,
était issue de la famille Cernovodeanu75. Même dans le gouvernement
légionnaire, le portefeuille des Affaires étrangères était détenu par un
Sturdza, Mihail (Lucã) Sturdza, qui était le petit-fils de Vasile Sturdza
(1810-1870), l’un des trois lieutenants princiers de Moldavie en 1858-1859
et le premier-président de la Haute Cour de Cassation dont l’épouse était
l’une des soeurs de Costache Negri76 . Mihail Manoilescu, savant
économiste et ministre des Affaires étrangères dans le cabinet Gigurtu,
descendait par filiation maternelle des familles de boyards moldaves
Bãdãrau et Tãutu77.
Tous ces exemples - et on aurait pu en choisir bien d’autres - prouvent
qu’avant le processus de soviétisation, la société roumaine était représentée
et, dans une grande mesure, dirigée par des élites légitimes, formées non
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seulement par des descendants des familles aristocratiques, mais aussi
par des membres de la bourgeoisie et par des intellectuels de souche
nouvelle. Avant l’avènement des communistes au pouvoir à Bucarest, la
société roumaine avait connu une évolution sans ruptures, fortement
influencée par le modèle français, l’élite historique conservant son prestige
social et culturel et réussissant à le transmettre d’une génération à l’autre.
Les régimes dictatoriaux qui se sont succédés en 1938 et en 1940 n’ont
pas eu pour conséquence des changements dans la structure de la société.
Le premier chef du gouvernement après le rétablissement du régime
démocratique, le général Constantin Sãnãtescu descendait d’une famille
de boyards du département de Gorj, anoblie par l’empereur autrichien
Charles VI en 171778.
Jusqu’à l’instauration du régime totalitaire, les descendants des boyards
ont continué à mener une vie spécifique, profondément marquée par la
civilisation française de l’époque, ils ont gardé leurs manoirs et leurs
résidences à Bucarest.
La vie à la campagne a continué à avoir son importance pendant
l’entre-deux-guerres. Les expropriations effctuées par la réforme agraire
de 1921 ont affecté fortement le support économique de l’aristocratie, en
réduisant “de 6 millions d’hectares la surface des terrains détenue par la
grande propriété“, selon l’estimation d’un historien contemporain79. Les
descendants des boyards ont continué à posséder des domaines étendus
sur lesquels ils ont construit des manoirs. Le fief des Brãtianu était Florica,
celui de Gheorghe Tãtãrescu, Poiana (dans le district de Gorj), celui de
Iuliu Maniu, son village natal de Bãdãcin (dans le district de Sãlaj). C’était
des lieux entourées d’une certaine atmosphère mythique.
La vie à la campagne de l’aristocratie a fait l’objet de souvenirs et
mémoires après 1989: ainsi Matei Cãlinescu évoquait le manoir de Dârvari
(dans le district de Mehedinþi), qui avait appartenu à la famille de sa mère
née Vulcãnescu80. Elisabeta Varlam, fille du général Radu Rosetti, se
souvenait à propos de son père: “Je crois que le lieu où mon père se
sentait le mieux était Brusturoasa - sur le Trotuº, dans le district de Bacãu.
C’était la propriété de ma mère îIoana Rosetti née Stirbeiº, où ils passaient
leurs étés dans les années d’après leur mariage. Ma mère était très liée à
ces lieux, comme mon père aussi. En souvenir de ma mère, mon père y a
élevé une école et un dispensaire, il a réparé des églises et il a aidé comme
il a su les gens de cet endroit, en nous montrant par toutes ses manifestations
son profond amour pour les paysans et pour le pays81.
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Pendant l’entre-deux-guerres Martha Bibescu résidait à Mogoºoaia,
palais qu’elle a fait restaurer d’après les plans des architectes Domenico
Rupolo et G.M.Cantacuzène. A Strejeºti (dans le district d’Olt) le vieux
manoir des boyards Buzescu a été hérité par la famille Darvari; à
Storobãneasa (dans le district de Teleorman) il y avait la propriété de la
famille Racottã; à Buftea, Voila (dans le district de Prahova) et Dãrmãnesti
s’élevaient les manoirs de la famille ªtirbei; à Sihlea (dans le district de
Buzãu) le manoir des Grãdiºteanu avait été hérité par la famille Ghica
(par la branche de l’ingénieur Serban Ghica). Les Ghica de Valachie (la
branche de Nicolae I.Ghica, fils de l’écrivain Ion Ghica) possédaient le
manoir de Ghergani (dans le district de Damboviþa), tandis que les Ghica
moldaves étaient les propriétaires de vrais châteaux en Moldavie: à
Comãneºti, Dofteana etc. Les Brâncoveanu avaient un manoir à Breaza
(dans le district de Prahova). Le diplomate Antoine Bibescu avait comme
résidence d’été le manoir de Corcova (dans le district de Mehedinþi). A
Ciocãneºti (dans le district d’Ilfov) se trouvait le manoir apporté en dot
par Alexandrine Cantacuzène née Paladi, présidente de la Société des
Femmes Orthodoxes Roumaines. Les Cantacuzène continuaient à posséder
pendant l’entre-deux-guerres des propriétés foncières et des manoirs dans
le district de Prahova: à Râfov (la branche de Serban Vodã), à Floreºti et à
Poiana Þapului (la branche du Nabab) etc. A Cãciulaþi (dans le district
d’Ilfov) le manoir bâti par le hospodar Alexandru Ghica a appartenu ensuite
aux descendants de la famille Blaremberg (les Mavrocordat et les Filipescu).
L’ancien manoir de Udriºte Nãsturel de Herãºti (dans le district d’Ilfov)
était la propriété des descendants de l’homme politique libéral Anastase
Stolojan. Le fief de la famille Callimachi était le manoir de Stânceºti (dans
le district de Botoºani)82, celui d’une branche des Miclescu - le manoir de
Cãlineºti (dans le district de Botoºani). Les Vãcãrescu possédaient les
manoirs de Vãcãreºti (dans le district de Damboviþa) et de Mãneºti (dans
le district de Prahova).
Les “gardenparties” organisés par Lydia Filipescu née Handjerli,
descendante directe du prince phanariote Alexandre Handjerli, dans le
jardin de son hôtel rue Dionisie Lupu, les réunions de musique dans la
demeure de Constance Cantacuzène - soeur du professeur Jean
Cantacuzène - boulevard Lascãr Catargi ou dans le palais Cantacuzène
Calea Victoriei, la résidence des époux Georges Enesco, étaient réputées83.
La plupart des représentants de l’aristocratie roumaine de
l’entre-deux-guerres étaient les porteurs d’une orientation favorable à la
démocratie et pro-occidentale. Le modèle français exerçait son influence
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d’abord par l’intermédiaire de l’utilisation de la langue française comme
signe de la distinction sociale84. La France et Paris exerçaient une
fascination magique sur les élites roumaines85, dont quelques membres
ont lutté même dans l’armée française, comme c’était le cas de Ioan
Olãnescu, neveu de Martha Bibescu, mort en juin 1940 dans les combats
de France86. “La chute de la France a été un événement qui nous a coupé
à tous le souffle”, racontait Alexandru Paleologu87. Cela parce que la
France constituait la base de la hiérarchie des valeurs de la société
roumaine 88 . Le caractère européen de l’aristocratie roumaine de
l’entre-deux-guerres était dû à son éducation89, ainsi qu’aux fréquents
voyages en Occident90. Les descendants de la noblesse roumaine de
Transylvanie et de Bucovine étaient par contre élevés dans la langue et la
culture allemande.
Le culte de l’honneur se concrétisait dans le rituel nobiliaire des duels
qui existait encore dans la société aristocratique roumaine de
l’entre-deux-guerres91. Selon Paul Morand, “Bucarest est encore une des
villes où les duels sont le plus fréquents, et les vieux garçons officient
comme pontifes de ce rite en voie de disparition”92.
La vie mondaine de l’aristocratie bucarestoise est minutieusement
décrite dans la revue ”Je sais tout de Bucarest”, éditée en 1939 - 1944 par
ªtefan Miculescu. On est impressionné par le grand nombre de bals qui
réunissaient les membres du corps diplomatique et ceux des élites
roumaines93. Les bals organisés par les diplomates étrangers accrédités à
Bucarest étaient aussi très appréciés94. Les aristocrates roumains se
rencontraient aussi à différentes soirées musicales, dans différents salons95
et aux vernissages d’expositions96.
Si on se demande quel était le mode de vie de l’aristocratie roumaine
pendant l’entre-deux-guerres, la réponse est très complexe. Quelques-uns
partageaient leur temps entre “busy leisure” et des voyages97. Mais
beaucoup de descendants des boyards moldo-valaques et de la noblesse
roumaine de Transylvanie se sont intégrés dans la vie active, en illustrant
de nombreux domaines. L’aviation, domaine de manifestation de l’esprit
aristocratique, était représentée par quelques noms sonores: George
Valentin Bibescu, Constantin (Bâzu) Cantacuzène, Ionel Ghica, Marina
Stirbei-Brâncoveanu. Le palais royal était un milieu aristocratique par
excellence, les dames d’honneur (parmi lesquelles Simona Lahovary, Elena
Mavrodi née Greceanu, Irina Procopiu née Berindei, Nelly Catargi née
Miclescu) et les maréchaux du Palais (par exemple Henri Catargi,
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Constantin Hiott, I.Mocsonyi-Stârcea, Octav Ullea, Dimitrie Negel) étaient
issus des familles de boyards.
Les membres de l’aristocratie roumaine se rencontraient lors des
réunions des clubs d’élite, tels le Jockey Club, le club Tinerimea Românã,
l’Automobil-Club, le Yacht-Club. L’accès à ces clubs se faisait sur
recommandation de certains membres. Surtout le Jockey Club, fondé en
1875, avait un caractère assez fermé, étant une association à composante
essentiellement aristocratique. Toutes ces institutions ont été supprimées
à l’avènement au pouvoir des nouveaux dirigeants ; tout le train de vie de
l’aristocratie roumaine a été radicalement bouleversée.
Le Jockey Club est issu du désir de rassembler l’élite aristocratique
roumaine, de la tendance de se créer une institution spécifique, dépourvue
de caractère politique. Pour la vie politique il y avait les partis qui se
succédaient au gouvernement, en respectant la règle du jeu démocratique.
Les membres du Jockey Club étaient unis par leur passion pour les chevaux
et pour les courses, mais aussi par la conscience de leur appartenance à
l’élite de la société.
Pendant l’entre-deux-guerres le Jockey Club a été dirigé effectivement
par les vice-présidents suivants, tous issus des familles de boyards:
Alexandru Marghiloman et Constantin I.Bãlãceanu (1919 - 1920),
Alexandru Marghiloman et Dimitrie Greceanu (1920 - 1921), Alexandru
Marghiloman et Mihail Deºliu (1921 - 1923), Alexandru Marghiloman
(1924 - 1925), Constantin I.Bãlãceanu (1925 - 1926), Constantin
Argetoianu et Barbu Catargi (1926 - 1947).
Le Jockey Club avait comme activité principale l’organisation des
courses de galop à Bãneasa, qui représentaient autant d’occasions de
rencontre de l’élite aristocratique bucarestoise. Ces courses constituaient
pendant l’entre-deux-guerres l’un des spectacles sportifs les plus aimés
de la capitale, où on accordait le prix du Jockey Club, le prix Royal et le
prix de Diane.
Le plus fameux propriétaire de chevaux de l’histoire du Jockey Club
roumain a été Alexandru Marghiloman, dont le haras ”Albatros” de Buzãu
contenait plusieurs chevaux pur sang anglais. Il y avait également d’autres
haras connus : celui de Târgºor (Prahova) du général Gheorghe Moruzi,
celui de Afumaþi (Ilfov) de Gheorghe Negroponte, celui de Mãgureni
(Prahova) de Barbu Catargi, celui de Scroviºtea (Ilfov) de la Maison Royale,
celui du Ministère des Domaines de Cislãu (Buzãu), Ruºetu (Brãila) et
Jegãlia (Ialomiþa), celui du colonel Polizu-Micºuneºti, celui de Logreºti
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(Gorj) du colonel E.Sãvoiu, celui de Carapciu (Storojineþ) de la famille
Grigorcea, celui de Balc (Bihor) de Joseph Pinkas.
Pendant l’entre-deux-guerres le siège du Jockey Club se trouvait dans
un hôtel particulier qui auparavant avait appartenu à la famille Gianni,
au croisement des rues Episcopiei et Nicolae Golescu, près de l’Athénée
Roumain. L’intérieur du club était aménagé avec bon goût, sans ostentation
et il assurait une atmosphère agréable, intime à ses membres. M.Manole
Filitti, membre du vieux Jockey Club le décrivait ainsi : “D’une grande
attraction était la salle de lecture, avec de grands fauteuils de cuir,
idéalement éclairée. Des revues et des journaux de tous les domaines,
dans les langues de grande circulation étaient sur les tables et sur les
étagères. On pouvait lire sans se soucier du temps. Il y avait un silence, le
plus parfait silence qui entourait celui qui était plongé dans la lecture./ Il
y avait ensuite une chambre élégante de protocole, pour des entrevues,
disons, secrètes. Ensuite, deux salles où l’on jouait au bridge et au black
gamon et où assis sur des canapés et des fauteuils on menait différentes
conversations. Personne n’aurait eu l’idée de lever le ton. Je le répète, la
politesse, la bienséance, les bonnes manières étaient de rigueur./ Si on se
trouvait en ville, si on avait une fenêtre entre deux affaires, on pouvait
passer au Club. On était toujours bien reçu, servi, en trouvant ainsi un
instant de détente soit en lisant, soit en échangeant quelques paroles avec
un ami”98.
La salle d’escrime du Jockey Club a été inaugurée par Gheorghe
Bibescu, le fils de l’ancien hospodar avec le même nom, qui a amené de
Paris le professeur d’escrime Michel. Les femmes n’avaient pas accès dans
les salles du Jockey Club, sauf dans une salle spéciale ou elles étaient
acceptées. Les pièces du Club étaient ornées avec les portraits de ses
membres de marque, avec des gravures de chevaux célèbres des haras
anglais. Les tableaux, les meubles créaient une ambiance hospitalière qui
par exemple, faisaient que le peintre Theodor Pallady y passe beaucoup
d’heures où il avait aussi l’habitude de dessiner. Certains membres du
Club jouaient aux cartes, un grand joueur était l’aviateur Constantin (dit
Bâzu) Cantacuzène, le fils de Maruca George Enescu, de son premier lit,
avec Mihail G.Cantacuzène.
Le Jockey Club roumain coomprenait en 1937, 263 “membres
permanents”, 16 “membres titulaires” (les chefs des représentations
diplomatiques étrangères), 7 “membres temporaires” (d’autres diplomates
étrangers); en 1939 il comptait 275 “membres permanents”, l6 “membres
titulaires” et 6 “membres temporaires”; en 1941 il contenait 283 “membres
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permanents”, 16 “membres titulaires” et 13 “membres temporaires”; en
1947 il comptait 307 “membres permanents”.
Le Jockey Club était dirigé par le Comité du cercle et par le Comité
des courses. En 1937 le Comité du cercle était composé des deux
vice-présidents du Club, Constantin Argetoianu et Barbu Catargi, et de
dix membres : Dinu C. Arion, Radu Crutzescu, Nicolae C. Filitti, Radu
I.Florescu, Alexandru Em.Lahovary, Filip Lahovary, Radu Laptev, A.de
Mocsonyi, Ioan C. Miclescu-Prãjescu, le général Grigore Odobescu99. La
même année, le Comité des courses était composé des mêmes
vice-présidents et de dix membres: Ioan N. Cãmãrãºescu, le colonel
Gheorghe Capºa, Henri Catargi, Grigore G.Duca, Dimitrie Al. Ghika,
George Grigorcea, le général Gheorghe Gh. Manu, le général Gheorghe
Moruzi, Grigore Rioºanu, Alexandru Zãnescu100. En 1938 on trouve dans
la composition du Comité du cercle, Ioan P.Rosetti-Bãlãnescu, à la place
du diplomate Radu Crutzescu101. Dans le Comité des courses de l’année
1940 il y a également une modification : à la place du général Moruzi,
décédé en 1939, fut élu le général Victor Dombrovski102.
Les temps tourmentés ont également influencé le Jockey Club. Ainsi,
le 11 juin 1938 fut imposé l’effacement de l’annuaire de ses membres
Alexandru Cantacuzène, Alexandru Tell et Radu Meitani, à cause de leur
appartenance au mouvement légionnaire103. Pendant plusieurs années
de l’entre-deux-guerres apparaissent comme censeurs du Club Manole
Halfon et Mihail I.Kogãlniceanu; en 1946 il y avait dans cette fonction
Mihail I.Kogãlniceanu et A. A. Romalo104.
Pendant l’entre-deux-guerres, dans le Jockey fut reçue une série de
personnalités de la vie publique roumaine provenant de l’aristocratie: le
diplomate Radu Crutzescu (1920), Ioan N.Cãmãrãºescu (1920), l’ingénieur
Ioan C.Miclescu-Prãjescu (1920), le diplomate et historien Raoul Bossy
(1921), le diplomate Ioan Carp (1921; fils de P. P. Carp), le diplomate
Constantin Laptev (1921), le peintre Henri H.Catargi (1922), les frères
Alexandru et George Cretzianu (le premier diplomate, le second - directeur
de la Banque roumaine), le contre-amiral Gheorghe Koslinski (1922),
l’officier Alexandru Rioºanu (1922), le colonel et compositeur Emil Skeletti
(1923), Constantin Flondor, maréchal du Palais (1924), l’ingénieur Serban
Ghica, petit-fils de Ion Ghica (1924), le diplomate Dinu C. Hiott (1924),
Mihail Oromolu, gouverneur de la Banque Nationale (1924), le général
Aristide Razu (1924), l’architecte George Matei Cantacuzène (1926), le
diplomate Dimitrie I. Ghika (1926), le diplomate Radu Djuvara (1927), le
diplomate Dimitrie Iuraºcu (1927), le peintre Theodor Pallady (1927),
358
l’archéologue Gheorghe Gr.Cantacuzène (1928), le colonel Gheorghe
Capºa (1928), le diplomate Vasile Grigorcea (1928), Mihail I.Kogãlniceanu,
le petit-fils du grand homme politique du même nom (1928), le diplomate
Frederic Nanu (1928), le diplomate Radu Arion (1929), le juriste Mircea
Djuvara (1929), l’architecte Ion Ghika-Budeºti (1930), l’historien d’art Radu
Cretzianu (1930), le publiciste et diplomate Gheorghe Crutzescu (1930),
le juriste Alfred Juvara (1930), l’historien et diplomate Constantin I.Karadja
(1930), l’aviateur George Miclescu (1930), le juriste George Meitani (1930),
le médecin Alexandru G.Moruzi (1930), le critique de théatre Paul Prodan
(1930), le compositeur Mihail Jora (1931), le diplomate Gheorghe Lecca
(1931), le prince Jean Korybut Woroniecki (1931), le juriste Radu Meitani
(1932), le général Paul Teodorescu (1932), descendant du côté maternel
de la famille Sturdza, le médecin professeur Daniel Danielopolu (1933),
le général Victor Dombrovski (1934), le physicien Gheorghe I.Manu
(1935), le diplomate Grigore Gafencu (1936), le baron Ioan de
Mocsonyi-Stârcea (1936), futur maréchal du Palais, le colonel Octav Ullea
(1936), le diplomate Nicolae M.Vlãdescu (1936)105.
Le dernier annuaire paru du vieux Jockey Club (1947) montre une
croissance importante du nombre de ses membres, parmi lesquels il y
avait aussi des membres jeunes. De cette liste on pourrait citer : le futur
médecin professeur Constantin Bãlãceanu-Stolnici (1946)106, le comte
N. Banffy (1939), l’architecte Ioan I.Berindei (1938), l’ingénieur Constantin
D. Buºilã (1940)107, le diplomate Edmond Ciuntu (1938), le général Grigore
Constandache (1934), Nicolae Chrissoveloni (1942)108, Manole Filitti
(1945), le diplomate Eugen Filotti (1939), l’ingénieur Ion Gigurtu (1937)109,
Dimitrie Negel (1942), l’avocat Mihail Paleologu (1938) et son fils le futur
écrivain Alexandru Paleologu (1946)110, l’écrivain Grigore Sturdza
(1941)111, le juriste Alexandru Vãlimãrescu (1945)112.
Une césure profonde s’est produite dans l’évolution des structures
sociales roumaines, avec l’élimination violente de l’ancienne classe
politique qui était à la tête de la société. L’instauration du régime
communiste a écartée brutalement l’aristocratie du sommet de la vie
sociale. Les leaders communistes, représentants les intérêts de Moscou,
ont poursuivi par tous les moyens leur but de transformer la structure de
la société, d’éliminer les anciens hommes politiques, de détruire toute
tentative de résistance de ceux-ci.
On peut se poser la question de ce qui s’est passé avec l’aristocratie
roumaine après l’instauration du régime totalitaire. En l’écartant de la
scène politique on a voulu décapiter la société roumaine et rompre ses
359
liens avec son propre passé. La répression du régime n’a pas frappé
seulement l’aristocratie, elle a affecté également la bourgeoisie et la
paysannerie roumaines, classes sociales stratifiées qui ont subi des
transformations radicales. L’aristocratie a eu le plus à souffrir à cause du
régime, parce qu’elle a été la partie de la société la plus attachée au
passé. Les membres de ce groupe ont transmis de génération en génération
des valeurs et des souvenirs liés à l’ancienne Roumanie, que le pouvoir
communiste a essayé de transformer complètement.
La fin de la guerre a apporté une apparence de normalisation dans la
vie de l’aristocratie roumaine. “Dans les premières trois - quatre années
après la guerre - écrivait Ion Ioanid -, années encore pleines d’espoir en
l’avenir politique et de liberté du pays, dans les maisons de la haute
bourgeoisie bucarestoise les soirées étaient fréquentes, la société de la
capitale étant en compétition pour avoir parmi ses invités le plus de
membres des missions alliées occidentales en Roumanie”113. L’atmosphère
de normalité disparaît graduellement, comme conséquence des
événements patronés par le cabinet Groza : la loi agraire de 1945, les
élections faussées de novembre 1946, l’étatisation des propriétés
imobiliaires, les procès politiques culminant avec l’abdication forcée du
Roi Michel. Un régime de terreur a été instauré contre “la classe des
exploiteurs”, dont les représentants vont être obligés de supporter les
conséquences de leur simple appartenance aux couches supérieures de
la société. Ce n’est pas le cas de tous les descendants de l’aristocratie,
quelques-uns se sont exilés en Occident, en essayant de mener à l’extérieur
du pays un combat, souvent sans succès, contre le régime instauré à
Bucarest par les troupes soviétiques.
L’inexistence des titres de noblesse dans la société roumaine d’avant
le communisme (avec quelques exceptions mentionnées), mais surtout la
dureté de la répression ont eu des conséquences importantes sur le
sentiment d’appartenance à l’aristocratie. Cependant ce sentiment existe
encore de nos jours. Dans les sociétés libérales il est transmis de génération
en génération et ce n’est qu’un régime politique libéral qui peut garantir
et favoriser la continuité de l’existence de l’élite historique.
NOTES
1. Mihai Sorin Rãdulescu, Noþiunea de elitã în istoriografia occidentalã, în
0
“Contemporanul”, n 7, 19 février 1993, pp.8-9.
360
2. Dan Berindei, Legãturile genealogice dintre fruntaºii revoluþiei de la 1848
din Þara Româneascã , în “Caietele Bãlcescu” IX-X, Bãlceºti pe Topolog, 1984,
pp.113-120.
3. Mihail Manoilescu, Rostul ºi destinul burgheziei româneºti, Bucureºti, sans
année, p.23.
4. Ibidem, p.25.
5. Ibidem, pp.303-305.
6. Radu Rosetti, Pentru ce s-au rãsculat þãranii, édition parue par les soins de
Z. Ornea, Bucureºti, 1987, pp.368-369.
7. Ibidem, p.369; voir ausi pp.370, 372.
e
8. Stefan Zeletin, Neoliberalismul, III édition, Bucureºti, 1992, p.34.
9. Ibidem, loc.cit.
10. Ibidem, p.35.
11. Guy Chaussinand-Nogaret, La noblesse, ministère de l’idéal dans Noblesse
0
oblige, n 89 de la publication “Autrement”, avril 1987, pp.88-95.
e
12. G. Cãlinescu, Istoria literaturii române de la origini pânã în prezent, II édition,
Bucureºti, 1982, p.764.
13. Ioan Nãdejde, V.G.Morþun. Biografia lui si genealogia familiei Morþun,
Bucureºti, 1923.
14. Mihai Racoviþã-Cehan, Familia Racoviþã-Cehan. Genealogie ºi istoric,
Bucureºti, 1942.
15. Teodor Bãlan, Familia Onciul. Studiu si documente, Cernãuþi, 1927.
16. Gheorghe Ungureanu, Familia Sion. Studiu ºi documente, Iaºi, 1936.
17. Teodor Botiº, Monografia familiei Mocioni, Bucureºti, 1939.
18. La revue “Cetatea Moldovei”, janvier 1944, p.67.
19. George D. Florescu, Planul unui Institut de genealogie. Memoriu, in “Revista
0s
istoricã”, n 10-12, Bucureºti, 1938, pp.340-350.
os
20. Réproduits dans “Din trecutul nostru”, n 36-39, 1936, pp.88-89; janvier-avril
1939, pp.1-7; mai-juillet, pp.25-31; octobre, pp.1-4.
21. Scarlat Preajbã, Prezentãri literare, extrait de la revue “Bugeacul”, Bucureºti,
1941, pp.21-27.
22. N. Moþoc-Epureanu, Un imperativ al vremii : Institutul român de cercetãri
genealogice, Iaºi, 1942.
23. “Arhiva Genealogicã Românã”, Bucureºti, 1944, p.85.
24. Constantin Argetoianu, Pentru cei de mâine, vol.I, partea I, Bucuresti,
ed.Humanitas, 1991, pp.8-11, 13-14.
25. Al. Tzigara-Samurcaº, Memorii, vol.I, édition parue par les soins de Ioan ªerb
et Florica Serb, Bucureºti, 1991, p.21.
26. Idem, Muzeografie româneascã, Bucureºti, 1936, pp.XIII-XIV.
27. Ibidem.
28. N. Iorga, Orizonturile mele. O viaþã de om aºa cum a fost, édition parue par
les soins de Valeriu Râpeanu et Sanda Râpeanu, Bucureºti, 1976, p.7.
29. Al. Paleologu, Stelian Tãnase, Sfidarea memoriei (convorbiri), Bucureºti, 1996,
p.59.
361
30. Les Brancovan sont présents dans nombre d’almanachs de Gotha. On cite
par exemple, L’almanach de Gotha pour l’année 1912, p.287.
31. Ibidem, p.355.
32. Constantin Bãlãceanu-Stolnici, Cele trei sãgeti, Bucureºti, 1990, p.59.
33. Traian Larionescu, Familii vechi bucovinene, in “Arhiva Genealogicã
Românã”, Bucureºti, 1944, pp.26-27.
34. Ioan cavaler de Puºcariu, Date istorice privitoare la familiile nobile române,2
vol., Sibiu, 1892-1895.
35. Traian Larionescu, op.cit.
36. Constantin Argetoianu, Pentru cei de mâine, vol.I, partea I, Bucureºti,
ed.Humanitas, 1991, p.110.
37. Raoul Bossy, Amintiri din viaþa diplomaticã, vol.I, Bucureºti, 1993, p.187.
38. Constantin Argetoianu, Memorii, vol.VI, partea a VI-a, Bucureºti, ed.
Machiavelli, 1996, pp.220-221.
e
e
39. Dan Plesia, Quelques grandes familles valaques des XIV et XV siècles, dans
12. Internationaler Kongress fur genealogische und heraldische
Wissenschaften, Munchen, 1974, vol.Genealogie, pp.209-219.
40. “Noblesse oblige”, “Autrement”, numéro dirigé par Yan de Kerorguen et Olivier
Poivre d’Arvor, Paris, 1987.
41. Mihai Sorin Rãdulescu, Despre genealogia lui Iuliu Maniu, in ”Iuliu Maniu în
faþa istoriei”, Bucureºti, 1993, pp.14-20.
42. Dan Berindei, Mutations dans le sein de la classe dirigeante valaque au cours
e
du deuxième quart du XIX siècle, in “Genealogica et Heraldica. Reports of
the 14. International Congress of Genealogical and Heraldic Sciences in
Copenhagen 25-28 August 1988”, Copenhague, 1988; idem, Societatea
româneascã în vremea lui Carol I (1866-1876), Bucureºti, 1992, pp.104-107.
43. Mihail Dimitri Sturdza, Grandes familles de Grèce, d’Albanie et de
Constantinople. Dictionnaire historique et généalogique, Paris, 1983.
44. Dr. Grigore Ghyka, Mihai Sorin Rãdulescu, Orlenii, in “Porto-Franco” nos
3-4 (9-10), 1991, p.42; idem, Din trecutul P.N.L. - Mihail G.Orleanu (Mihail
o
G. Orleanu, figure du Parti National Libéral), in “Liberalul”, n 34, 18-25 janvier
1991, p.1.
45. Mihail Dimitri Sturdza, op.cit., p.315.
46. Constantin G.Mano, Documente din secolele al XIV-lea - al XIX-lea privitoare
la familia Mano, Bucureºti, 1907.
47. Neagu Djuvara, Les Grands Boyards ont-ils constitué dans les principautés
roumaines une véritable oligarchie institutionnelle et héréditaire? in
“Südostforschungen”, Munchen, XLVI, 1987.
48. Cf. l’ouvrage généalogique, à juste titre constesté, mais parfois utilisable (pour
les dernières générations) de Octav George Lecca, Genealogia a 100 de case
din Þara Româneascã ºi Moldova, Bucureºti, 1911, planche 45.
49. Constantin Argetoianu, op.cit., pp.7-17.
362
50. Mihai Sorin Rãdulescu, Despre originea ºi înrudirile lui Nicolae Titulescu, in
0
“Dreptatea”, n 278, 11 janvier 1991, p.2; idem, Theodor Aman – legãturi
genealogice, dans le volume Centenar Theodor Aman 1991, Bucureºti, 1991.
51. Mihai Sorin Rãdulescu, op.cit., p.26.
52. Ioan C.Filitti, Arhiva Gheorghe Grigore Cantacuzino, Bucureºti, 1919, annexe
II.
53. Ibidem.
54. Octav George Lecca, op.cit., planches 23, 45.
55. A. D. Xenopol, Istoria ºi genealogia casei Callimachi, Bucureºti, 1897,
pp.198-199.
56. Genealogia familiei Brãtianu, dressée par George D.Florescu, vérifiée et
complétée par Dan Cernovodeanu, publiée dans la brochure de Ion I.Brãtianu,
Contribuþia lui Ioan C.Brãtianu la revoluþia paºoptistã din Tara Româneascã
ºi cugetãrile sale despre aceastã revoluþie, Paris, 1983.
57. Nicolae M. Vlãdescu, arbre généalogique de la famille Vlãdescu (inédit);
également l’ouvrage généalogique sur la famille Vlãdescu, à la section des
Manuscrits de la Bibliothèque de l’Académie Roumaine, à Bucarest (côte A
2460).
58. Alexandru Tzigara - Samurcaº, Memorii, vol.I, Bucureºti, 1991, p.15.
59. Octav George Lecca, op.cit., planche 45.
60. Jean - Michel Cantacuzène, Mille ans dans les Balkans, Paris, 1992, p.442.
61. Mihai Sorin Rãdulescu, Genealogia lui Henri Coandã, in “Contemporanul”,
0
n 1, 8 janvier 1993, pp.1, 6, 7.
62. Ioan C.Filitti, Catagrafie oficialã de toþi boierii Þãrii Româneºti la 1829 ,
63. ªtefan S.Gorovei, Mihai Sorin Rãdulescu, Strãmoºii cunoscuþi ai lui N.Iorga,
in “Acta Moldaviae Meridionalis”, VII-VIII, Vaslui, 1985 - 1986.
64. Florin Marinescu, Etude généalogique sur la famille Mourouzi, Athènes, 1987,
p.127.
65. Mihai Sorin Rãdulescu, Posteritatea lui Mihail Sturdza Voda, exposé présenté
e
au V symposium de généalogie à Iaºi, le 14 mai 1994 (sous presse).
o
66. Gh.Ghibãnescu, Familia Greceanu din Moldova, dans “Ion Neculce”, n 9,
ere
I parte, 1931, pp.191-219.
67. En préparation, Mihai Sorin Rãdulescu, une étude sur les ancêtres de l’historien
P.P. Panaitescu.
68. ªtefan S. Gorovei, Mihai Sorin Rãdulescu, op.cit., p.442, notes 23 et 36.
69. Cf. Alexandru V. Perietzianu - Buzãu, arbre généalogique (inédit) de la famille
Lambrino.
70. Mihail Dimitri Sturdza, op.cit., pp.257-258, 420.
71. Jean - Michel Cantacuzène, op.cit., p.440.
72. Général M. Racoviþã - Cehan, Familia Racoviþã - Cehan. Genealogie ºi Istorie,
Bucureºti, 1942.
73. Octav George Lecca, op.cit., planche 48.
363
74. Mihai Sorin Rãdulescu, Grigore Gafencu - date genealogice in
o
“Contemporanul”, n 38 (75), 20 sept.1991, p.6; idem, Completãri la genealogia
o
lui Grigore Gafencu, ibidem, n 41 (182), 15 oct.1993, p.11.
75. Cf.l’arbre généalogique inédit de la famille Cernovodeanu dressé par dr.Paul
Cernovodeanu.
76. Mihail Sturdza, România ºi sfârºitul Europei. Amintiri din þara pierdutã, Alba
Iulia - Paris, 1994, p.52.
77. Mihail Manoilescu, Memorii, vol.I, Bucureºti, 1993, p.19.
e
78. Mihail G. Stephanescu, Ioan N.Mãnescu, Enluminures héraldiques des XVI e
XVII siècle dans la collection de l’Académie Roumaine, “Revue Roumaine
d’Histoire de l’Art”, série Beaux-Arts, t.XVII, 1980, pp.32-33.
79. D. Sandru, Reforma agrarã din 1921 din România, Bucureºti, 1975, p.350.
80. Matei Cãlinescu, Ion Vianu, Amintiri în dialog, Bucureºti, 1994, pp.31-32.
81. Elisabeta H.Varlam, Un remember, in Radu Rosetti, Pagini de jurnal, Bucureºti,
1993, p.35.
82. Princess Anne-Marie Callimachi, Yesterday Was Mine, London, 1952,
pp.230-231.
83. Paul Emil Miclescu, Din Bucureºtii trãsurilor cu cai, Bucureºti, 1985, pp.101,
105.
84. Alexandru Paleologu, Minunatele amintiri ale unui ambasador al golanilor,
85. Roxane J. Berindei Mavrocordato, En tournant les pages, Bucureºti, 1939,
p.52.
86. Martha Bibescu, Jurnal politic ian. 1939-ian. 1941, Bucureºti, 1979, p.220.
87. Alexandru Paleologu, Stelian Tãnase, Sfidarea memoriei (convorbiri),
88. Ibidem.
89. Princesse Anne-Marie Callimachi, op.cit., p.236.
90. Ibidem, p.207.
91. Emanoil Hagi Mosco, Bucureºti. Amintirile unui oraº, Bucureºti, 1995,
pp.267-268.
e
92. Paul Morand, Bucarest, II édition, Paris, 1990, p.247.
93. Voir, par exemple, le compte-rendu d’un bal au Country-Club dans la revue
os
“Je sais tout de Bucarest”, I-ère année, n 3-4, 20 juillet 1939.
94. Constantin Argetoianu, op.cit., pp.115-116.
95. Stefan J. Fay, Caietele unui fiu risipitor, Bucureºti, 1994, p.12.
os
96. Par exemple dans “Je sais tout de Bucarest”, n 22-23, déc.1940, sans page,
le vernissage de l’exposition d’Anna Tzigara-Berza, à la salle Dalles.
97. Anne Marie Callimachi, op.cit., p.224.
o
98. Manole Filitti, Jockey Clubul Român , “Dilema”, II e année, n 69, 6-12 mai
1994, p.16.
99. Jockey Club. Dare de seamã pentru anul 1936, Bucureºti, 1937, p.4.
100. Ibidem, p.5.
364
103. Ibidem, p.8.
105. Jockey Club. Dare de seamã pentru anul 1936, Bucureºti, 1937, pp.35-45.
107. Ibidem, p.27.
108. Ibidem, p.28.
109. Ibidem, p.29.
110. Ibidem, p.32.
111. Ibidem, p.34.
112. Ibidem, p.35.
113. Ion Ioanid, Inchisoarea noastrã cea de toate zilele, vol.II, Bucureºti, 1991,
p.222.
365
Ph.D., University of Music of Bucharest, 1995
Dissertation: Stylistic and Symbolic Hypostases of Mannerism in Music
Associate Professor at the University of Music of Bucharest
Co-ordinator of the collection “Speculum Musicae”, Editura Muzicalã [Musical
Publishing House], Bucharest, 1998-present
Editor at the Editura Muzicalã [Musical Publishing House], Bucharest 1990-1993
Researcher in Contemporary Music at the Institute for Art History “G. Oprescu”,
Bucharest 1993-1997
Member of the Composers’ and Musicologists’ Union of Romania, 1991-present
Member of the «M. Jora» College of Musical Critics, Bucharest, 1991-present
Member of the International Society of Contemporary Music (I.S.C.M.),
1992-present
Director of the Information Center on Contemporary Music (I.S.C.M.), 1994-1995
Research scholarship granted by the «Alban Berg» Foundation, Vienna, 1991
Mellon Fellow at Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin, 2000
Awards (selection):
1st Prize at the National Competition for Young Musicologists,
Cluj-Napoca, 1989
Prize of the «Mihail Jora» Union of Musical Critics, 1992
Prize of Composers’ and Musicologists’ Union of Romania 1998
Förder-Preis der Ernst von Siemens Stiftung, München 1998-2001
Books:
Wozzeck – Prophecy and Fulfillment. Bucharest: Editura Muzicalã, 1991
Ludwig van Beethoven. Bucharest: Publishing House of the Music University of
Bucharest, 1997
Stylistic and Symbolic Hypostases of Mannerism in Music. Bucharest: Editura
Muzicalã, 1997
Studies in Musical Rhetoric and Stylistics. Bucharest: Publishing House of the
Music University of Bucharest, 1999
Dan Constantinescu : Compositional Substance. [co-authored with Dan
Dediu], Bucharest: Inpress, 1998
Participation in international conferences, symposia, and seminars in Romania,
Austria, Canada, and Poland.
Over 300 studies, reviews, interviews, and translations published in Romania
and abroad.
As a pianist, concerts and broadcasts of chamber music in Romania and
abroad.
COMMON SUBJECTS IN MUSICAL
RHETORIC AND STYLISTICS. ASPECTS AND
PROPOSALS
Some explanatory notes
For several years now, I have been concerned with the notion of musical
style. In the beginning it was as a concept of art history that had migrated
into musicology, by treating - globally, historically - epochs like the
Renaissance, Baroque, Classic, Romantic or Modern music, or dealing
with the personal style of a composer. My thesis on mannerism in music
may be an example of this. This sort of approach is well known in Romanian
musicology and it reflects older trends in the thinking about style.
What about musical stylistics ? There is a field yet unexploited by our
musicologists and that needs a necessary reference to the theory of
literature. Being interested in a definition of musical stylistics, I discovered
very soon that I must deal, in fact, with musical rhetorics, and that the
field of my research would actually become very large.
The present paper, however, remains basically an introduction to the
problems of musical rhetorics and stylistics. Further details will emerge
by restraining my area of research to the rhetorics of modern and
contemporary music. But the following pages will draw only a general
frame of the discipline (that seems to be an up-to-date subject in many
musicological writings by European or American scholars) and propose a
few hypotheses.
Usefull clarifications and many ideas came from discussions I have
had with Prof. Dinu Ciocan (Academy of Music, Bucharest), Prof. Dr.
Hermann Danuser (Humboldt-Universität, Berlin) and Dr. Reinhart
Meyer-Kalkus (Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin), to whom I express my
gratitude for helping me entering into new territories, both in
“Musikwissenschaft” and “Literaturwissenschaft”. But my work on this
369
study was supported first of all by the “New Europe College” and its Rector,
Andrei Pleºu, who offered the necessary impulse of intellectual
interdisciplinarity during ten wonderful months.
Modern musicology has been - often successfully - trying to transpose
concepts from other domains in its vision of the sonorous phenomenon,
given the fact that the latter is modelled by various disciplines. Most
frequently, literature and linguistics seem to provide paradigms to follow
- from structuralism to the semiotic approach -, but mathematics and
computer science have been full of resources for musical research.
Interdisciplinarity proves to be indispensable, the more so as we are talking
about a domain, by definition pluralist, musical stylistics. It is supposed to
take into account the type of approach that characterises literary stylistics:
an older and better founded discipline, which is able to provide at least
ideas of a methodological nature.
From rhetoric to musical stylistics.
The rhetorical device as a binder.
First of all, relating rhetoric with stylistics - a commonplace in linguistics
- might offer enough fields to explore in musical composition, especially
in the analysis of rhetorical devices, even though musical rhetoric,
flourishing in the Middle Ages, the Renaissance and the Baroque, has
practically faded away as a science generating real treatises of writing.
But isn’t the situation the same in other humanistic disciplines as well?
From ancient rhetoric, a technique with a pragmatic character (of orally
persuading the audience), the following centuries will gradually lose this
pragmatism, maintaining only the notions of structuring a “beautiful
discourse”. Thus, out of the components inventio, dispositio, elocutio,
pronuntiatio, memoria, all is left in the end is elocutio - as an art of style,
and the last “Rhetorics” of the 18th-19th centuries represent almost a
mere enumeration of devices. And it is not a matter of chance that, as
rhetoric disappears from the educational system (also because of the
romantic spirit, manifestly opposed to rules and classifications), a new
science comes up, somehow “replacing it”: literary stylistics consecrated
at the turn of this century (although the notion of style is much older) as a
direct inheritor of rhetoric.1
Similarly, and to a certain extent, in music, the climactic period of
rhetorical theorising and applications in composition - the Baroque - seems
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to be followed by a total disappearance of the interest in the latter. It was
only for 20th century exegeses to rediscover the Bachian creation from
the perspective of rhetoric and the theory of affections.2 At the same time,
though it is also at the beginning of the century that we register the first
musicological-stylistic approaches (Guido Adler, Knut Jeppesen, Ernst
Bücken, Paul Mies a.s.o.), they do not claim derivation from the science
of musical rhetoric - the situation in this case being different from that of
the literary science. However, in order to point out what brings them
together (in a less obvious way), we shall have to describe, as briefly as
possible, the profile of the two disciplines in their historical evolution.
Musicians (in the Renaissance and the Baroque) will take over
musical-rhetorical devices from ancient oratory (Aristotle, Cicero, Quintilian),
and the rediscovery of the work Institutio oratoria by Quintilian (in 1416)
will lead to 16th century musical rhetoric, but the very stylistic delimitation
between the two types of ancient oratoric discourse - Atticist (dense,
concentrated, brief, harmonious, conservative) and Asianic (equivocal,
prolix, purposefully faking the angle of perspective, disharmonical, modern,
loaded with tension). This will subsequently be applied (by art history and,
to a lesser extent, by musicology) in defining stylistic typologies (namely
classical/non-classical or Apollonian/ Dyonisian).
Later on, liturgical chant - of the Gregorian and Byzantine types -, as
well as early polyphony will contain frequent and various reflexes of
rhetoric. But the direct, indisputable impact of rhetoric with music will be
produced starting with the end of the 15th century. It is then that a new
attitude appear, the creator with respect to music linked to a text (be it
sacred or profane), transforming musical composition into a science based
on the word-sound relationship. If in the Middle Ages there are theorists
that (stylistically) classify music into theoretica, practica, then poetica3 ,
into sacra and secularis or ecclesiastica / vulgaris, and monodic creation
into cantus planus, musica mensurabilis a.s.o, starting with the beginning
of the 16th century we can talk about a conceptualisation of the term
style, most often equivalent with the manner of composition in a certain
genre (such as stile grave / stile madrigale4 ). At the same time, humanist
influences bring music (at the time, exclusively accompanied by text)
close to the art of rhetoric by imitazione delle parole, which is absolutely
natural in a creation, be it religious or secular, which is strictly to follow
the significance of the word sung. Thus, stile espressivo will stand for the
climactic point of the expressive emphasis of the text, of the sonorous
reproduction of the affection in a type of creation reserved for the initiated
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- as revealed by its very title, musica riservata. (Out of all these stylistic
“classifications” there also results the specified relationship between the
two disciplines.)
The stylistic break around the year 1600 - acknowledged and defined
as such in all histories of the musical style seen as an age5 -, obvious in
the fundamental syntactic change (from modal to tonal, from polyphony
to homophony and polyphony, from vocal to instrumental and vocal etc.),
resulting in the appearance of new genres (opera is the most outstanding
example), will generate a theoretical perspective oriented towards the
“old” and the “new”. Of course, the important syntactic modifications are
due to the new pragmatic attitude towards culture (a certain growing
secularisation of music), to a new musical semantics, given the fact that
stylistic mutations are first of all related to the history of ideas.
Consequently, writings will abound in oppositions of the kind stile antico
/stile moderno, prima prattica/seconda prattica6 , where the second
category emphasises the affection. (Giulio Caccini, in Le nuove musiche,
1601, describes modern style by “cantare con affetto”, which will lead
directly to the theory of affections in the Baroque.)
On the other hand, other classifications are based on style as a musical
genre or compartment: musica teatrale, musica da camera, musica da
ballo; stylus ecclesiasticus (masses, motets a.s.o.), cubicularis (the madrigal
a cappella), scenicus (opera). Important authors of treatises develop an
elevated theory of style in the 17th century, from Christoph Bernhard
(who, in Tractatus compositionis augmentatus, ca. 1660, makes a
distinction between stilus gravis or antiquus, illustrated by Palestrina, and
stilus luxurians or modernus, that is free phrase, in instrumental music
included, with rhetoric and the theory of affections as an expression of
human passions) with Athanasius Kircher (who, in Musurgia universalis,
1650, differentiates between musica ecclesiastica and vulgaris, between
stylus impressus and expressus, that is, art influenced by the human psyche
and the art of composition with affections, between stylus ecclesiasticus,
drammaticus, madrigalescus, melismaticus)7 . Athanasius Kircher also
includes in Musurgia universalis a section entitled Musurgia rhetorica, in
order to complete the music-rhetoric analogy by the vitality of rhetorical
concepts: the baroque composer is bound to invent the idea as a suitable
basis for a composition, equivalent to a construction, a development
according to the rhetorical discourse.
Actually, the musical treatises of the Baroque consider composition as
an art of a primarily rhetorical nature, offering real summaries of musical
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figures analogous to the ones in ancient oratory (but I will come back to the
rhetorical figure in more details). For instance, Joachim Burmeister is the
first to come up with a systematic grounding for “musica poetica” (in three
treatises - 1599, 1601, 1606, out of which the last one is even entitled
Musica poetica). Johannes Lippius (Synopsis musices, 1612) considers
rhetoric as a structural basis of a composition and Johannes Nucius (Musices
Practicae, 1613) analyses various Renaissance masters (from Dunstable to
Lassus) as exponents of a new rhetorical-expressive musical tradition8 . What
may come out of this enumeration is the growing interest for the music /
rhetoric analogy (especially in the German exegesis) which will come to a
climax in the 17th-18th centuries, finding a way into the multiple levels of
musical thinking - style, form, expression, interpretive practice.
Here is an example of the migration of concepts from one domain into
another, in the making of a composition plan on rhetorical grounds: Johann
Mattheson (Der vollkommene Capellmeister, 1739) proposes the generating
of a work according to the stages inventio (the invention of the idea),
dispositio (the arrangement of the idea into the parts of the musical discourse),
decoratio or elaboratio or elocutio (the elaboration of the idea), pronuntiatio
(the performance of discourse production). Here, the most important stage,
dispositio, contains in its turn exordium (introduction), narratio (telling the
facts), divisio or propositio (foreseeing the main points, to the composer’s
advantage), confirmatio (the affirmative proof), confutatio (opposing
counter-arguments), peroratio or conclusio (conclusion), all these being
nothing else but routine techniques of the composition process9 . Thus, a
theory of composition is established, a syntax, a grammar of the text, not
only of the sentence (accomplished definitely through figures), which follows
components of classical rhetoric. Pronuntiatio and memoria are connected
to another creative process, that of musical interpretation, without which,
of course, composition cannot really have a life of its own.
Many other examples of important theorisings, however, may illustrate
the baroque ideal of fusion between music and rhetorical principles (from
Mersenne to Heinichen...), as a distinctive feature of the age-specific
rationalism, but also of the stylistic unity based on those emotional
abstractions called affections. The purpose of rhetoric being, since ancient
times, that of rendering human passions, it will be made in adequation to
the representations of affections, which will appear as a necessity to
baroque composers, especially to those in the German space. (Getting
once again on the territory of interdisciplinarity, we are bound to mention
the origin of the concept of affections in philosophy - Descartes, Francis
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Bacon, Leibnitz -, wherefrom musicians took over the rational rendering
of passions, the objectivisation of emotions). The same above-cited
exegetes - Mattheson, Kircher a.s.o. - will celebrate the expression of
affections in creation, not only in the one with a text, but also in the
instrumental one, in order to transmit emotional states to the audience,
according to the musical message. Therefore, the composer plans the
affective content of the work - he directs the semantics of the work, in
modern terms -, all the sonorous parameters (tonalities, harmonies,
rhythms, forms, timbres) being interpreted effectively. Even if he thus lays
the emphasis on feeling, his approach will however be much different
from that of the romantic creator, based on emotional spontaneity, on a
different kind of ideology, which rejects rationalism (without, however,
being able to entirely avoid it). One must insist upon the fact that resorting
to rhetorical figures (components of a real musical vocabulary) to embody
musical affection is not enough to ensure the value of a musical piece,
which may remain a mere summing up of figures, without getting a place
among masterpieces. Anyway, for the 20th century researcher, rather used
to a syntactic representation of Renaissance and baroque music, the
restoration of the interest for an exact interpretation of the latter, in the
authentic terms that were being circulated at the time, means the obligation
to reformulate the perspective.
This is why all this (brief) outline of certain characteristic notions had
as sole purpose to open a - still opaque - horizon to Romanian musicology
(with the outstanding exception of Sigismund Toduþã, in Formele muzicale
ale Barocului în operele lui J.S. Bach). At this time, modern musical writings
abound in references to rhetoric within the analysis of certain creations,
genres or composers in the above-mentioned epochs. But, unlike in
literature, the researchers do not manifestly declare their rhetorical
approaches as related to stylistics, although there is no doubt with respect
to that. On the other hand, studies and volumes written on musical style
and stylistics only briefly refer to rhetoric and only when, for instance, the
author deals with the style of the age - the Baroque, most often -, where
rhetorical concepts cannot be avoided10 .
I would, however, go on, wondering why one couldn’t write a history
of styles through the filter of types of musical rhetoric, which might clarify
many uncertainties, especially within the modern landscape. For instance,
a severe reformulation of musical rhetoric of a traditional type can be
found with Anton Webern, that exponent of the second Vienna school.
He condenses the timing of sonorous events to several minutes for a work
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(which, to many, occasioned a comparison with Japanese haiku art), this
being loaded with information anyway. How are the stages of the musical
“discourse” metamorphosed here11 , what types of rhetorical devices could
we discover in a music that is rather ascetic, purified of any persuasive
“ornament”, practically of elocutio itself? The old baroque wish to
communicate emotional states as diverse as possible seems (but only in a
superficial look) to be missing here altogether. This is where one might
find a profound change in the perception of new music: not so much in
the atonal language, the serial one etc., but rather in another rhetorical
manner, prolongued and radicalized after World War II by integral serialists
(such as Stockhausen or Boulez) and which has come to a deadlock that
has not yet found its solution. The new type of affections or emotions
might be defined by an appeal to ideology, will, personality, temperament...
Beyond the apparent “exploding into the individual”12 of contemporary
music, what brings together creations that are special from the perspective
of the sonorous system may be the type of rhetoric - or... anti-rhetoric used (as in John Cage’s extreme case). A good composer knows how to
combine and graduate his arguments from an initial idea towards a climax,
he infers for how long or in what place to use figures of repetition (to put
it differently - anaphora, repetitio, gradatio, polyptoton, synonymia), of
contrast (antitheton, mutatio toni), of silence (suspiratio, abruptio,
aposiopesis) a.s.o. Irrespective of the sonorous system used or of various
techniques - serialism, aleatorism, modalism, textures, stochastic or spectral
elements etc. - and however far all these may be from the musical tradition,
the configuration of the musical discourse should however respect the
somewhat “organic” laws of rhetoric, with a view to intelligibility and
establishing a relation with the audience, who will undoubtedly feel that
type of construction, even if one of the strictly musical techniques
enumerated is foreign to them. As what is rhetoric if not, ultimately, “a
relationship of communication by means of which an individual, through
his discourse, tries to obtain from an interlocutor his adherence to certain
acts”13 . The discourse must point out and persuade by means of inventio
(the search for arguments), dispositio (the syntax of arguments), elocutio
(the presentation of arguments) - here is a necessity formulated by Aristotle
and constantly valuable for the viability of a work of art.
Ultimately, rhetorical devices are based on old and generally valid
conventions, whose description seems easy: usually, light, the seraphic,
joy or some kind of elevating state of mind will be suggested by means of
the acute register and, on the contrary, the gloomy and the teluric by
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means of the low register. Negating or neglecting such conventions may
constitute an aesthetic in itself (Cage again), but, as demonstrated by the
musical present, reconciliation with the past, if not achieved at the level
of language or forms, could rather be correlated to rhetoric.
In fact, what brings together stylistics and rhetoric, irrespective of the
age or of the composer analysed, that is, rhetorical devices, must first of
all be defined as those means of adorning, of elaborating a discourse on
the basis of a purposeful affective representation, of adding musical
dramatic tension to words and poetic concepts. As basic units, building
stones, elements of vocabulary (situated at the level of the musical phrase),
rhetorical devices - melodic, rhythmic, dynamic, timbral microstructures
- render unity and homogeneity to the musical discourse. Inherent parts
of decoratio, rhetorical devices were theorised and considered essential
in musical composition, at some point. Of course, baroque theorists
borrowed Latin and Greek rhetorical terminology for musical devices,
inventing however many other names, out of specific sonorous needs.
But there is no well-defined system of devices, though 20th century exegesis
has been trying to organize, to classify them on the basis of 17th-18th
century treatises (Burmeister, Lippius, Nucius, Thuringus, Herbst, Kircher,
Bernhard, Ahle, Janovka, Walther, Vogt, Scheibe, Spiess, Forkel)14 . The
most illustrative, concise and eloquent is the suggestion of the Grove
Encyclopaedia to systematically group seven categories of devices that
are most frequently used in creation (wherefrom I have already quoted
repetition, contrast or silence devices): of melodic repetition, based on
fugue imitation, formed by dissonance, intervallic, hypotyposis, sonorous,
as well as break-formed structures.15
Resorting to linguistics once again, to bring the parallel I have previously
suggested to a conclusion, we shall see that the most widely spread
definition of rhetorical device is the concept of deviation, of modification
of a primary expression which is considered as “normal” (the norm being,
for instance, everyday language)16 . This does not imply that we can find
in music (an exclusively artistic language) the possibility to trace any
distinction of the kind that exists between everyday language/literary
language, the norm will have to be sought elsewhere, but the devices will
stay as much connected to an affective or a decorative purpose. Actually,
discussions around the idea of deviation have generated quite a lot of
controversies in literary theory: not all devices are deviations (according
to an imaginary rule of a language that should have no devices in order to
meet the requirements of the idea of “norm”) and the other way round;
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devices are not a privilege of literary language etc., that is, the entire
scaffolding of deviation from the rule fails at the level of explanation, but
may offer suggestions in a concrete description.17
Musical style as deviation
The same problems will be raised in the vision of style as deviation, one
of the possible interpretations of particular features in an artistic discourse,
together with style as choice or as elaboration (categories I shall come back
to). Starting from Aristotle (The Poetics), poetic discourse is defined as
deviation, opposed to practical, everyday discourse: these are the origins of
the concept of deviation, seen by Aristotle in two situations, either exteriorised
in concrete elements for the unwontedness of the discourse (devices), or
becoming one with the unwonted discourse itself.18
Difficulties that may sometimes be insuperable are raised by the need to
specify, to establish a norm according to which one may detect deviation.
To resort to a concrete example, the Bachian style would distinguish itself
as “deviation” from an average baroque style, possibly illustrated by the
works of someone who is a lesser composer, but a great theorician –
Mattheson. His fugues are impeccable from a technical point of view,
however they lack the semantic load, the refinement and the complexity of
Bach’s fugues; only by comparison will one be able to analyse the means to
measure all these Bachian attributes in the score. Or, getting to further details,
the Mozartian style, as compared to that of one of Bach’s sons, Johann
Christian (whose influence on Mozart is a commonplace in music history),
will reveal an increase of poeticity at least at the level of the construction of
musical phrases. With Johann Christian Bach, quadrature has a consistence
that is almost untouched by asymmetries, while the analysis of the musical
text in an instrumental work by Mozart will lead to the discovery of patterns
of the type 3 + 5 bars or 4 + 6 or 6 + 3 etc.
Specifying the four types of literature, and thus a construction that may
reverberate in musical stylistics, Heinrich Plett19 analyses deviation
depending on them. Let us briefly remember - with the inevitable risk of a
schematisation - the typological acceptions. Mimetic literature lays the
emphasis on mimesis, on imitating reality, but not as a mere copy, but as a
representation of a reality that “may exist”, being adequately reflected in
literary genres such as the epic or the tragedy, with the specific man-universe
relationship. Expressive literature means emphasising emotionality,
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spontaneity, originality, the notion of “genius”, it means exteriorising the
poetic ego by a suggestive character, any imitation (both of nature and of
classical models) being “of evil repute” in genres such as lyrical poetry,
autobiography, diary, subjective essay, epistle, memoirs, literature with
philosophical reflections. Receptive literature is translated through the effect,
the impression produced by the work of art on the reader/audience, the
reception being pshychoagogical, sociological, intraliterary, the latter aiming
at the effect of texts on texts and containing references to the sources, parallels
between themes, motives and forms. Finally, rhetorical literature, “that
literature that distinguishes itself by a special linguistic form”, contains the
system of rhetorical devices as deviations that “describe in a differentiated
way the various degrees of linguistic artificiality and of aesthetic and
emotional effects produced by them”.20
If we trace possible correspondences between mimetic literature and
aspects of musical Classicism, between expressive literature and
Romanticism (especially the programmatic one) -, then it is easy to bring
together rhetorical literature and music based on rhetorical devices and
on the theory of affections in the Renaissance and the Baroque. Finally,
receptive literature, offering a scale of values depending on reception,
may also be transposed on musical grounds - as various aesthetics of
reception, hermeneutics or musical pragmatics have already proved. Of
course, it is not for these types to be found in an absolutely pure form in
creation (the author admits their importance only as instruments of
systematisation), but a multitude of valid interferences - such as “a mimetic
text with a rhetorical linguistic form and an affective effect”.
Plett himself signals the connection with historical styles: the
neoclassicists stress the mimetic, but never give up a rhetorical linguistic
form; the romantic passage from mimesis to expressivity does not mean
giving up linguistic art and its effects; rhetoric and reception have always
been in tight connection. And as regards deviation, this comes, with the
mimetic notion of literature, from the opposition between fiction and
reality; with the expressive notion, from the opposition between reference
to the ego and reference to the object; with the receptive one, from the
opposition between the emotional effect and the rational one; with the
rhetorical one, from the opposition between the language of art and
everyday language21 . Only the two median situations can be translated
into musical composition, offering models to follow.
But what reveals many resources for musicology is the specification of
the four criteria of poeticity (two qualitative and two quantitative ones) -
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of course insufficient in themselves to ensure the aesthetic value of a
literary, respectively musical text. Deviation as non-grammaticality, that
is, deviation from the rule by not observing the grammatical norm of
standard language at several levels, a text being however supposed to
combine grammatical phenomena with anti-grammatical ones, may be
illustrated by the example above: Mozart - J. Chr. Bach, at the level where
musical microstructures are intertwined. Deviation as equivalence, a
deviation that strengthens the rule (equivalent structures overlapping the
rules of everyday language grammaticality) may be rendered by means of
synonyms as repetition, correspondence, concordance, identity, similarity,
analogy etc. If here Plett exemplifies by the device of paronomasia, the
latter has a musical equivalent, according to Scheibe22 , by repetition of a
musical idea on the same sounds, but with new additions or modifications,
with a view to emphasising it. Deviation as occurrence, a statistically rare
appearance of linguistic phenomena, determines the following alternative:
all that is rare, exceptional, appears as poetic - such as atypical dissonances
and “diabolus in musica” in the Renaissance, the plagius in the tonal
system, the major chord in atonalism (see the C major chord in Wozzeck
by Alban Berg, in Polymorphia by Penderecki or in Winter Music by John
Cage) -, all that is frequent, normal, is non-poetic. Finally, deviation as
recurrence, the statistically frequent return of linguistic phenomena, with
an excess of linguistic elements that is not to be found in everyday language,
may be found in the abundance of rhetorical devices in a baroque musical
text - which however does not ensure its value.
Therefore, structural asymmetry, the multitude of rhetorical devices or
the rareness of a phenomenon are not enough to ensure the poeticity of a
music, but the four principles enumerated may be a good starting point in
a stylistic analysis. But they must be completed by a “literary-aesthetic
pragmatics (performance), that should confirm the validity of one or the
other of the aesthetic norms by certain textual updating in a certain place
and at a certain moment and in a certain society.”23 When applied, for
instance, at the level of styles in an era, they may become the vehicle of
describing, hypothetically, a mannerist period (with a predominance of
non-grammaticality, of occurrence) or a classical one (where equivalence
and recurrence have the status of norms), with an emphasis, respectively,
on singularity, non-predictability, newness or frequency and
predictability.24
A last specification with respect to deviation will be useful to musical
research, for which, as I have already stated, norm cannot be represented
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in everyday language: “linguistic-aesthetic deviation is not only different
from the synchronic everyday norm, but also from a poetic norm of the
forerunners, which it, as a deviation from the deviation, has replaced in
the process of <literary evolution>.”25 This is why we are - for instance analysing musical forms or harmony in Romanticism by signalling
permanent “deviations” from the classical norm: widening, structural
“liberties”, as well as the “enrichment” or “chromatisation” of harmony
implies an underlying classical model which the romantics take over,
modifying it.
Musical style as choice
The acception of style as deviation does not exclude the one of style
as choice, which other literary theorists operate with, thus explaining the
option of the author within the elements provided by a given system.26 In
this case, there is a musicological approach in the American space belonging to Leonard B. Meyer - which grounds the idea of choice in
musical stylistics: “Style is a replication of patterning, whether in human
behaviour or in the artifacts produced by human behaviour, that results
from a series of choices made within some set of constraints.”27 The author
is referring to lexical, grammatical, syntactic choices in a given language,
justified by the premise that the entire human behaviour appears as a
result of a choice. Differentiation comes up in the context of stable styles
(such as Classicism) or of prospection, leaving room for few, respectively
many possibilities of choice, equivalent to alternative modes of saying
the same thing. Meyer does not exclude, however, the possibility of
classifying a style function of deviations, seen as differences of manner
with respect to constant, recurrent features, which actually constitute the
major preoccupation of musicology. This is what a difference of style
perspective in literary criticism and in musicology would consist in: either
does it refer to particular features of a poem, novel etc., or to common
features, reproduced by a musical work, an artist’s work, a movement or
a period. This is maybe why people of letters correlate style with deviation
from norms and conventions, while musicologists insist on common
conventions and norms.
A few specifications made by Meyer - of the “psychological approach”
type of his book28 - configurate the theory of choice. It may for instance
be analysed by the relationship between composition sketches and the
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complete work (starting from Beethoven, a famous source for such
comparisons, this has been common practice) to explain the purposes,
the intentions in the composition choice. Of course, aesthetic elegance
or expressive richness, the wish of a specific master or audience, orders,
interpretation or acoustic conditions, a cultural ideology the author belongs
to may become - separately or in a combined way - the determining
parameters of artistic choice. What is still important is the way in which
imitation turns into influence. According to the specificities of their
personalities, some composers tend to choose more novel relations than
others - Handel seems more of an “adventurer” than Bach (a debatable
assertion!) -, which does not necessarily presuppose the value of the
respective works. Ultimately, particular choices depend to a greater extent
on cultural-musical constraints than on personal inclinations. Innovations
compatible with the inclinations and constraints of the human processes
of knowledge tend to be understood as stable, coherent, memorable.
A key formulation, signalled by L.B. Meyer - “a pattern, concept,
attitude, and so on, is not chosen because it is influential; rather it is
influential because it is chosen”29 - remains emblematic for a certain
mentality of research. Music history tends to lay the stress on the action of
the past on a passive present - of the kind: Enescu was influenced by
Fauré or by Brahms (etc.)... -, omitting the fact that it is for several
contemporary composers to be exposed to the same virtual influences,
though not all of them take them over, or, if they do, it is not in the same
way. Influence implies interpreting the source: Beethoven’s fugues are
certainly tributary to Bach or Handel, but how big is the distance from the
baroque composers to the classical one! A specific situation thus brings
face to face the classical fugue and the baroque fugue. In the former,
articulations are disjunct (closing cadence, then the new beginning of the
polyphonic discourse) as compared to the second, where they overlap
(the reason probably being in the need for a greater tonal-cadential clarity
with the classics - see Haydn’s fugue in the String Quartet Op. 20 No. 5 or
the fugue-sonata at the end of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony).
Stylistic change consequently seems to take place not by a gradual
transformation of certain complex entities, but by permuting and
recombining certain more or less discrete features or ensembles of features
which, chosen by the composer, may come from separate sources. It is
not so much the past that models the present, but the present, selecting
from the abundance of its possibilities, models the type of past that we are
building, history thus being the result of a selective present.30
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In order to establish a repertoire of alternatives out of which the
composition choice will be operated, it is necessary to specify the
constraints, which in the case of the nature of musical style are
psychological and cultural constraints. Conceptualised by musicians in
treatises of composition, harmony, counterpoint, forms, constraints are
analysed by Meyer by means of a hierarchy of laws, rules and strategies.
Namely, laws are transcultural, universal constraints, such as regularity,
repetition, similarity of stimuli and events, generating connections. Rules,
as the highest level of stylistic constraints, differentiate large periods (such
as the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, the Baroque, Classicism and
Romanticism, the 20th century). The discussion is placed within the
dimensions of harmony or counterpoint rules (and, as such, of the history
of the respective treatises) or of dependence rules, which are contextual
and syntactic. Ultimately, the modification of rules in music history leads
to delimiting the epochs in a more or less precise way: the modal, then
the tonal one (starting from ca. 1600) and looking for solutions to avoid
the tonal (after 1900). And strategies aim at the individual by composition
choices within the possibilities established by the rules of a style, thus
resulting an infinity of possible strategies. Changes of rules make new
strategies possible, the strategic game is that which can be defined as an
“exception from the rule”, stylistic theory thus witnessing a combination
of deviation and choice.
In its turn, the composer’s individual choice is also placed at three
levels, according to the above-cited American author. Dialect would be
equivalent with a sub-style, such as Northern / Southern Renaissance music,
Venetian/Roman opera, early/high classical style, impressionism/
expressionism. (Which means, we must add, that 20th century music
engulfs sub-styles within a style that has not yet found its name.) Idiom
would represent the level of individual selection: Bach and Handel use
the same dialect, in different idioms. Idiom - somehow synonymous with
manner - is divided into other sublevels, such as a composer’s creation
stages. Predictably, what is left is the intra-opus style as a level of the
work itself, the distinction between intra-opus style and intra-opus
structure31 generates the differentiation between style criticism and style
analysis (the former being a more refined stage of the latter, according to
Meyer). Stylistic analysis does not deal with what recurs with a certain
constancy, and individual works serve as a basis for generalisation on the
nature of the rules and strategies which guide the option of a composer or
of a group of composers. The style of a work is not only a matter of
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intra-opus constraints, but also of constraints predominating at the level
of idiom and of dialect.
All these classifications, besides pointing out the importance of choice
in the building of a style, have gradually led us to the type of approach,
ultimately to the methodology of stylistic analysis. There are many modern
analytical models focusing on the notion of style, without specifying a
certain position with respect to the understanding of style as deviation or
as choice, nor as elaboration32 , therefore limiting themselves to the musical
arena, without trying to establish any parallels (that may be productive
sometimes) with the literary theory of style. But certain analytical grids
remain of importance in musicology by getting away from structuralist
approaches and opening towards comparison in order to establish the
style of a work, of a composer, of an epoch, of a certain region, a.s.o. - as
we shall see while looking at certain taxonomies proposed.
Analytical models in musical stylistics
A review of the “stylistic consciousness” in 20th century musicology
is, consequently, not without use. Musical stylistics seems to mainly attract
the interest in the context of a fin de siècle “syndrome”, paradoxically as
it may seem in a moment when musical composition - as well as the other
arts - lacks definitions, global stylistic orientations. The fashion of
postmodernism (which anyway did not offer a terminological solution to
musical creation) fades away in the conclusion that there are, of course,
infiltrations of a postmodern aeshetic in the late 20th century art of sounds,
without its being subsumable to an integrating concept. Manifest stylistic
pluralism, the creative individualisation started by Romanticism and
sometimes led to its extremes in our century could be characterised by
one single unifying feature: the experimentation and systematisation of a
getting away from the tonal system or its reinterpretation in a “modern”
perspective.
This is why the types of analysis performed on classical texts can, in
most cases, no longer match the new situations - may they be
impressionistic, expressionistic, serial, aleatory, spectral a.s.o. On the other
hand, new analytical grids are being suggested even for the tonal music
of past centuries, corresponding to the renewing vision of the present.
And, as any valid musical analysis ends up being a stylistic approach -
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even if only owing to its stages of description (putting forth a list of features,
their frequency) and classification, comparison, study of features replicated
in works or a repertoire of works, elaboration of hypotheses and their
interpretations -, modern systems of musical analysis may be almost entirely
circumscribed to stylistic research.
Theorising may take the aspect of a rhetorical analysis, especially with
Renaissance, baroque music (manifestly operating, as we have already
seen, with musical-rhetorical figures, with devices), but extended to other
types of music, including modern and contemporary creation, by analogy
with literary research. Western musicology has already demonstrated this
in various texts, such as Missa Solemnis by Beethoven, for instance33 ; it is
true that, in this particular case, the rhetorical tradition may easier be
discovered in a vocal-symphonic work, with religious lyrics, thus directly
originating from the Renaissance and Baroque musical past. Generally,
vocal music allows rhetorical interpretations, be it in Lieder by Schubert,
Schumann, Wolf, Webern, von Einem34 or in the opera, where rhetorical
analysis becomes indispensable, irrespective of historical context.35
Another field of stylistic analysis would aim at computer-assisted generation
of music types in a given style, forcing a dissection - as minute, rigorous
and exhaustive as possible of that style (most often, a composer’s style).36
For such approaches, the methodological apparatus remains the first
condition to meet, that is, the choice of a method of analysis is fundamental,
and this is why I shall enumerate several modern analytical models, some
of them manifestly stating their stylistic finality. Distinct modalities of
approach to the musical text have challenged modern analysts to try to
create systems based either on the “fundamental structure” (Heinrich
Schenker), on the “thematic process” (Rudolph Réti) or “functional analysis”
(Hans Keller), on stylistic features and parameters (Jan La Rue), on semiotics
(Nicolas Ruwet and Jean-Jacques Nattiez), information theory (Norbert
Böcker-Heil) or the theory of sets (Allen Forte) a.s.o.37 , all these adding to
(and completing, opposing) older, well-known approaches, signed by Hugo
Riemann (phraseological analysis), Guido Adler and Knut Jeppesen
(analysis based on stylistic concepts) or Ernst Kurth and Alfred Lorenz (the
“gestaltists”) etc.
In each case, modern analysis is trying to overcome traditional
guidemarks that created artificial situations of form, frozen patterns,
necessary to study music, but separating it from one of its primordial
elements - temporal movement. The models enumerated more or less
avoid this shortcoming (it is not easy to resist the temptation of a “Procustean
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bed” as an analytical grid), all having, however, comparison as a common,
indispensable method. Another obstacle in accepting traditional analyses
remains their limitation to tonal, functional scores, that is, the impossibility
to use them in exploring a modern or contemporary text.38
Among the exegeses interested in stylistics, Guido Adler’s modifies
the angle of historical writing on music, introducing the notion of STYLE
(Der Stil in der Musik, 1911), as an ensemble of those features that bring
together the works of a certain historical period. Jeppesen’s works on
counterpoint (especially Palestrina’s Style and Dissonance, 1925) have
consecrated among the most outstanding examples of concrete, detailed
analysis.
On the one hand, Guido Adler defines concepts such as stylistic
direction, stylistic modification, stylistic transfer, stylistic hybridisation,
stylistic mixture and, on the other hand, he exposes two analytical methods
(and the criteria implied): the inductive one (consisting of examining several
works in order to identify what they share and in what sense they differ)
and the deductive one (comparing one given work with the “surrounding”
ones, both contemporary and preceding creations, measuring it by a set
of conditions and establishing its position in a given context). In fact, Adler
remains one of the first musicologists who consider that the comparative
method is the essential one for the stylistic kind of approach. Adler’s opinion
- expressed in the statement “the building of style is made of minor, as
well as major devices” 39 - is essential in pointing out the importance of a
creative personality such as Mozart’s, for instance, as compared to a middle
style of his age represented by Bach’s sons, and not only. Adler’s disciples,
who carried on his stylistic preoccupations - Ernst Bücken and Paul Mies
- will intensively work on Beethoven’s scores, an adequate object to focus
on when investigating personal style, and similar methods will be applied
in their research by other of Adler’s followers, up to our days - Helm,
Becking, Besseler.
The “empirical-descriptive” method, comparable to Adler’s, is also
used by Knud Jeppesen in tracing the (intervallic, rhythmical etc.)
coordinates of Palestrina’s melodic style, on the basis of comprehensive
analyses of the Renaissance composer’s vocal creation, the scientific aspect
coming from the exhaustive, detailed analysis that objectively puts forth
laws of writing. Jeppesen stresses the statistic aspect and thus opens the
way to modern computer-assisted analyses, based on statistic techniques.40
But these are only possible in the case of a restricted observation corpus,
even reduced to one single dimension: for instance, in the study of the
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romantic lied, five musical versions on the same poetic text have been
compared, but only the vocal line could be computer-generated.41 The
easiest to formalise is serial music - to which one may adequately and
successfully apply the theory of sets -, which is explainable also by the
abstract aspect of its generating process. Although with promising results,
computer-assisted analysis of modal-tonal music maintains a certain
difficulty of language conceptualisation, necessary to computer
manipulation.
While just overviewing historiographic generalisations signed by Richard
Crocker - A History of Musical Style, 1966 - and Günter Hausswald Musikalische Stilkunde, 1973 - to point out the late 20th century
preoccupation for style as period, La Rue’s methodological suggestion in
Guidelines for Style Analysis42 deserves, in its turn, special attention. The
novelty of stylistic analysis in Romanian musicology will determine two
obstacles - not easy to handle at all - in the understanding of this work,
namely: adapting Anglo-Saxon terminology to Romanian musicological
language and accepting the fact that, generally, American musical theory
(where the author belongs) contains certain principles different from the
European one. I refer, first of all, to the five elements suggested to be
analytically cut up by Jan La Rue - on the side of stylistic observation - and
to the temptation (that is not to follow) of assimilating them to sound
parameters in European theory: Sound, Harmony, Melody, Rhythm and
Growth.43 These will be pursued according to a well-established routine,
specifying three standard dimensions of analysis (which may vary according
to the genre and the length of the work analysed, the levels modifying in an
instrumental miniature as compared to an opera work, for instance): small
(the level of the motif, phrase, maybe period), middle (maybe period,
paragraph, section, part) and big (movement, work, group of works).
A certain three-fold rule generally governs La Rue’s approach, with
the intention to avoid polarities of the type acute / low, faint / loud, simple
/ complex, rarefied / dense, stable / active, disorder / order etc., by admitting
a “medium” solution between the two extremes: for instance, simple/
composed / complex. And the stylistic artistic phenomenon analysed goes
through three main stages: background, observation, evaluation, detailed
through various phases and conditions, from establishing the historical
references of the period the work analysed belongs to, to the following
step - significant observation (not dispersion into details, but selection of
important data) -, each musical text generating a particular analysis law,
even if there is a generalising grid providing the “guidelines”. The first
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axiom of the analyst in the three stages (which may appear as
self-explaining, but not at all negligible if we take into account the
simplifying temptation to go all along the analytical path, step by step)
will always be the integrating vision of the work as a whole, and only
afterwards the extraction of significant details.
Jan La Rue’s principles best apply to music of the traditional functional
kind (modal, tonal music), though they may be adapted to 20th
century-specific languages. The author’s musical-analytical
exemplifications are however mainly limited to the period 1600-1900,
with a predilection for the Baroque (for whose creation there is a special
competence), though the SHMRG formula also contains - even though
only theoretically - references to the Sonority of concrete music or to
atonal, dodecaphonic, serial Harmony. (Here is, once again, the
first-ranking difficulty of an analytical method, that of offering a
comprehensive generality.) From the stylistic point of view, however, La
Rue’s volume has the merit of offering various sets of questions (according
to the three dimensions) which the analyst - after having gone through the
given work by a method always “adjusted” to the respective conditions must be capable to answer, in order to define as exactly as possible the
stylistic orientation of a composition.
Although the spectrum of American musicology is rich in stylistic
definitions, I shall only refer to two works that seem essential to me, one
of them being contemporary with La Rue (therefore belonging to the ‘70s),
the other being more recent, maybe the latest significant approach in the
field of musical style, namely Charles Rosen - The Classical Style44 and
the already cited work of Leonard B. Meyer - Style and Music. Theory,
History, Ideology. Rosen offers extremely valuable analyses from the
creation of the three Viennese classics, purposefully limiting the spectrum
of his preoccupations to the style of a certain group of creators, defined
by the most individual accomplishments. The analyst’s role is, therefore,
to select the most advanced works, the elements that denote the most
elaborated musical thinking of Haydn, Mozart or Beethoven, but also a
comparison between them and the average of the composers of the age
(for instance, by pointing out the most frequent melodic outlines and then
detecting distinctive features).
In his turn, Meyer synthesises decades of research in a book of authentic
theorising of musical style (which is unique from this point of view), where,
inevitably, an enumeration of principles of stylistic analysis also finds its
place (only a chapter of the complex texture of the volume). Establishing
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a hierarchy of levels of analysis imposes natural similitudes with literary
theory, where the notion of extremely wide extension - style - may apply
to a group of languages, to one language, to an age, to literary genres or
subjects, to certain literary schools or milieus, to a writer or to a moment
in his creation, to a work or a part of a work (chapter, fragment, paragraph,
phrase).45 At the same time, a similar ordering is plastically represented
by the upside-down pyramid of the semiotician and musicologist
Jean-Jacques Nattiez46 , where the semantic strata of the concept of musical
style start at the upper part, with the universal dimension of music, crossing
the system of reference, the style of a genre or of an epoch, a composer’s
style, the style of a period in a composer’s life, in order to arrive at the top
of the pyramid - the work. With Meyer, stylistic analysis treats as a set the
works in a certain repertoire, suggesting the following taxonomy47 : a. a
composer’s works (in periods or as a whole); b. the works of a group of
composers (maybe from a certain period and belonging to the same culture,
such as the Viennese school, impressionism etc.); c. works written in the
same geographical area (the Russian style, North-Indian music as compared
to the South-Indian one); d. works of a specific genre (opera, lied, chamber
etc.); e. works written for a specific socially-defined cultural segment (folk
music); f. works written for a utilitarian purpose (liturgic, military music);
g. works written in an important period, in an extended cultural area (the
Renaissance, the Baroque etc. in Western European music)48 ; h. the music
of an entire civilisation (Amerindian music, Renaissance European music
etc.), and other divisions and subdivisions are possible.
The classification of certain features is achieved according to affinities
among elements, aspects that are extracted out of time and treated as
isolated entities: for instance, according to the melodic contour, rhythmical
and metrical groupings, according to formal typologies, expression (a.s.o.).
There result structures of classes, where the (non-hierarchical) relationships
are synchronic, not diachronic (but the importance of history must not be
neglected). But classification - as a descriptive discipline - is only the
primary stage of stylistic analysis, which continues by formulating and
testing hypotheses. A concrete example of an analysis scheme, in Meyer’s
book, refers to the features of Wagner’s maturity style.
Here were several suggestions of analytical systems focusing on stylistic
parameters; we may, however, come back to the idea that, ultimately,
any analysis that does not stop at the level of classifications and deals
with comparison in the first place is equivalent with a stylistic research,
that is, with the definition of specific characteristics of a composer or a
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group of composers, reflected in the way of turning to good account
language, of choosing specific instruments within the latter. The description
of a style, of the specificity of the creative gesture ultimately means relating
the object of study to a normative system, it means pointing out the norm
and the exceptions from the norm. Consequently, the two postulates of
linguistics - style as deviation and style as choice - may be combined,
may interfere in defining the musical style, towards a discipline that goes
beyond the historiographic frame of traditional writing on style, in order
to become a modern, interdisciplinary one.
A few particular aspects
For a natural completion of the theoretical principles exposed, a few
examples of practical applications will be chosen, first of all from relatively
recent theoretical writings that rediscover musical rhetoric. I have already
stated that (in general) these studies do not manifestly claim to be of a
stylistic nature, but their definition as such cannot be doubted. A notable
exception, a book fundamental for understanding the German musical
Baroque - Der Musikbegriff im deutschen Barock by Rolf Damman49 clearly and profoundly emphasises the inclusion of rhetoric musical
thinking in the respective about style, as well as the relationship of
continuity with ancient rhetoric-style. An exquisite example of analysis of
an epoch’s style, by its interdisciplinary - philosophical, aesthetic,
theological parameters -, but also specifically musical ones, the work
contains, within its six chapters, one that is entitled Das
musikalisch-rhetorische Prinzip and another one, Der Affektbegriff.
The very term of style, which starts being more and more frequently
circulated in scientific-musical writings around the year 1600, comes from
rhetoric, and in the Baroque a vast theoretical system of musical style is
built, which could not be conceived of without resorting to rhetoric. G.B.
Doni, for instance, was defining (in 1640) solo vocal singing in three stylistic
categories, on the basis of its evoking the affections: stile Narrativo (natural
declamation), stile specialo Recitativo (a type of disocourse that specifies
the affections) and stile Espressivo (climactically dramatic representation).50
Damman also establishes a necessary distinction (coming from the same
theories of the age) between simple composition and adorned one, namely
between composition with and without musical-rhetorical devices,
wherefrom one can derive the composition possibilities to create a “pure”
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music, with a specifically sonorous semantics, or one that resorts to the
vocabulary of devices adding a type of semantics which is connected to a
certain literary text. Finally, the most convincing approach is the one that
concretises theoretical ideas by score analysis. The author cited deals with
prosody with Schütz and Bach (that is, in two distinct periods of the Baroque),
demonstrating the complexity and the efficiency of rhetorical analysis
especially in vocal-symphonic creation on religious texts.
At the same level of an epoch’s style one may place rhetorical detailing
of a musical mannerism, in Claude V. Palisca’s study51 , but this time by
means of particularising a certain composer - Orlando di Lasso - from the
perspective of the writings at the time. Consequently, Lasso’s elegant style,
which is unpredictable and “resourceful” rather than transparent, clear,
uniform, presupposes constructivist procedures, allusions, word and sound
combinations, artifices of musical notation etc., as well as a phrase of
vocal composition that represents an affection which is distinct by a certain
text-inspired manner. The favourite rhetorical figures become various
modalities to correlate the parts of a polyphonic composition - such as
fugue, mimesis, anadiplosis, hypallage, anaphora -, or means of achieving
continuity - climax, auxesis. Given the remarkable frequency of melodic
repetition devices, the author of the study cited, Claude Palisca, puts down
the conclusion of a music like “a natural sanctuary for the rhetorical figures
that involve repetition”.52
If we accept the fact that in late Renaissance music there is no
well-formed manneristic style with a group of creators - as it happens in
fine arts -, but that mannerism appears, in the hypostasis of “curiosities”
or of novelty, infiltrated in the creation of certain composers, then we
shall move the level of stylistic analysis to the author. The consecrated
example of manneristic music is Gesualdo da Venosa, and it is not the
figures in his madrigals as such that we call manneristic, but his way of
making use of them: when he reveals shocking sonorities, expressive
tension, aesthetic violence, then it corresponds to the manneristic aesthetic
ideal - as it was first and foremost described by the fine arts of the age.
Moreover, the novelty of expressing the poetic oxymoron in music pleads
for a manneristic coordinate, given the fact that oxymoron is among the
favourite figures of manneristic literature. “It is the first time a composer
tries, by breaks in the unifying structures of a work - here a madrigal or a
polyphonic motet - to express oxymoron of the type <suave dolore> or
<dolorosa gioia> in the texts it uses, which belong to certain mannerist
poets of his time.” (Aurel Stroe)53
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Finally, the characteristic tendency - not to destroy traditions, but to
modify them up to the extremes (as Carl Dahlhaus points out54 ) - may
also be noticed in the rhythmical transformations of dissonant figures,
inexhaustible with Gesualdo, the “concettisto”: Multiplicatio (the split of
a dissonance by reapeating the respective sound), Extensio (prolonging a
dissonance, contrary to the rule requiring that this should not last more
than the preparing note and the solving one), Ellipsis (an interruption in
the connection between the preparing consonance and dissonance or
between dissonance and the solving consonance, by a break).55 Thus,
from a “secondary phenomenon”, dissonance becomes a “primary” one;
but it does not appear unjustifiably, by contradicting the valid norms, but
by deforming them (as it can be deduced from the examples above).
Technical means cannot be then analysed “in themselves”, but viewed
from a semantic perspective, as it is only like this that the “agglomeration”
of dissonances and exceptions, as well as the expressive tension generated
by them, will find an explanation.
Other importan contributions in the field of musical rhetoric may
configurate the style of a certain genre, such as 17th century harpshichord
music or baroque fugue56 , in situations that include welcome interferences
with an interpretive stylistics. As, finally, emphasising the sonorous
language of that epoch as a direct translator of human affections and
passions by means of rhetorical devices nowadays reveals its importance,
especially in the field of musical interpretation. No instrument-player or
singer that approaches this type of repertoire can avoid understanding the
structuring of the rhetorical discourse and the role of the art of persuasion
(elocutio), nor the emphasis on particularities such as the expressive
importance of ornament (with its function, not at all negligible, of
“entertaining”) or of madrigalisms (“word-painting”). It is true that an
extreme of attention given to the “bien-dire” can be reached to the
detriment of the content, both by the composer and by the performer, and
an agglomeration of rhetorical devices in a musical text is not enough to
ensure its artistic value. But a mentality that has for a long time been
reducing Renaissance and baroque scores (and not only) to strictly syntactic
analyses57 should be surpassed, so as to integrate the real practice of the
age - that of rhetorical devices -, which brings together purely musical
semantics, as well as the one deriving from the word-music relationship.
This is why an evaluation of the fugue genre (in its historical evolution
from mere imitation to the complex Bachian form), from the perspective
of 16th-18th century writings, is the more so interesting. Erudite Greek or
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Latin terminology will maybe make a musicological approach more
difficult, but will render the reality and the initial intentionality of the
score in a more faithful and more refined manner. For instance, Gregory
G. Butler, in a vast study dedicated to the rhetoric of the fugue genre and
form, demonstrates how the use of terms such as “episode” or “interlude”
for certain fugue structures distorts the authentic nature of musical
description, much more plastically suggested by confutatio. Present-day
theory emphasises counterpoint compatibilities among voices, but leaves
the fugue devoid of life, of poetry, neglecting the vitality it used to have at
the time when it represented the supreme formal musical frame. While,
in fact, fugue proves to have been, at the time, one of the most analysed
musical-rhetorical structures, from the frequent application: fugue = canon
= mimesis, mere analogies between fugue and mimesis or fugue and
repetition (anaphora, repetitio), to the scope of a demonstration that
minutely compares the sonorous building with a vast, complicated one of
the classical rhetorical discourse.
Namely, the parallellism of the chria scheme, equivalent, with the
German rhetorician Christoph Weissenborn, with dispositio58 , with fugue
development defined by Johann Christoph Schmidt (in 1718), reveals an
art of composition impossible to conceive without being initiated in
rhetoric. Here is the example of relating fugue-specific composition
techniques with sections and subsections of dispositio and of chria, as
offered by G. Butler’s study:
DISPOSITIO
(classical
rhetoric)
exordium
narratio
propositio
divisio
confutatio
CHRIA
(Weissenborn)
FUGUE
(Schmidt)
protasis
aetiologia (probatio)
...
amplificatio - a contrario
- a comparato
- ab exemplo
confirmatio
conclusio
- a testimonio
...
conclusio
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propositio (dux)
aetiologia (comes)
oppositum (inversion)
similia (alteration in duration
of notes of subject)
exempla (transposition,
augmentation, diminution)
...
confirmatio (stretto)
conclusio (closer stretto
over pedal)
Theoretical references to fugue rhetoric are numerous in Gregory G.
Butler’s remarkable systematisation. I would like to point out only two
principles that might be derived from here, one serving as a basis for
generally analysing fugue as an extended rhetorical discourse, amplifying
a given subject, like a conversation, an argument, a dispute, a debate or
even a fight, and the other one placing fugue musical structures in parallel
with various rhetorical devices. The multitude of interpretive possibilities
in this second situation reveals a fascinating semantic universe for the
musician of the present. Who is nowadays thinking of naming a double
fugue metalepsis, a counterfugue, hypallage, an incomplete subject
entrance - apocopa or an incomplete subject exposition - anaphora? In
what counterpoint treatises does one meet inversion defined as
commutatio, renversement as antimetabole, slightly altered repetition as
traduction or adnominatio or polyptoton, accumulation as congeries,
augmentation as incrementum, subject / countersubject or dissonance /
consonance opposition as antitheton a.s.o.?
It is true, present-day practical, didactic spirit cannot be criticised for
limiting itself to the syntactic arena, which is easier to explain and to
apply, especially in an age when the study of classical rhetoric has
disappeared. But just as in literary theory, its place has been taken by
stylistics. The discipline of style in musicology can no longer avoid such a
problem either, the approach at any level being necessarily
interdisciplinary.
From the age and the genre, rhetorical analysis naturally arrives at the
composer and the creation, that is, at other two stylistic levels. Their
permanent interference does not need emphasising when, for instance,
the analytical conclusions derived from a work demonstrate their efficacy
for an author’s entire creation (or the other way round, situations that are
however not obligatory). Here are two cases from different ages and
geographical areas: Machaut and Purcell59 , two creators who are just as
much interested in the deep fusion of sound and music, either in the ballads
of the French Ars Nova or in English baroque stage productions.
Marie-Danielle Audbourg-Popin’s musicological perspective on a ballad
by Machaut has the merit not only to particularise the respective musical
language, but also to treat musical rhetoric in a comprehensive sense.
Any musical message, just like any literary one, necessarily has a rhythm,
a gradation, it interferes with another one or it is opposed to another one.
Consequently, any score with a text may be regarded from the perspective
of the ancient procedures of reciting, declaiming: voicing, maintaining
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the sound, gliding or protracting sounds, maintaining or adorning a reciting
string etc., artifices well-known in composition as early as the
Meistersingers’ age, belonging both to talking and to singing.60 Actually,
the strategy of analysis suggested by the author for a 14th century vocal
piece may be extended to any other type of music: if the identifying
cadential and precadential elements may be achieved only in music of a
functional type, the stresses pointed out by heights, durations, intervals,
ascending or descending movements make up a rhetorical ensemble which
is possible to evaluate in any style - for example, spontaneous effects of
contrast, owed to the opposition between ascending or descending lines,
generated by an intervallic style in a predominantly gradual melody (or
the other way round), by the disproportion of consecutive durations a.s.o.
At the same time, poetic contrast may stand for one of the rhetorical
analysis criteria in Purcell’s “semi-opera”, King Arthur, the idea of contraries
being musically embodied in “good / evil” or “the chtonic / the celestial”.61
Besides the musical figures with which Purcell adorns a text by Dryden well-known as one of the great rhetorical poets of the time -, rhetorical
gestures such as intervallic leaps for the word “far” and gradual amble for
“near” or the affective properties of tonalities correlated with the
Aristotelian rhetorical concept (such as the ethos of D-Minor and F-Major)
are integrated to a rich range of composition meansm, meant to persuade
the audience.
After all these examples, which suggest the generalising capacity of a
rhetorical analysis, all that is left to us is to concretely show its qualities,
for example following the figure of exclamatio in different styles. Defined
within the Baroque by Johann Gottfried Walther62 , exclamatio is
reproduced in musical terms by a small sixth ascending leap, signifying a
certain pathetic expression (with Bach, in invoking divinity), a dramatic
climactic point, an emphasis of the pathos, an amplifying means often
correlated to another rhetorical device, interrogatio. The acception widens
in current practice, any intervallic leap bigger than a third is interpretable
as exclamatio (according to text and character), and if it becomes dissonant
(decreased seventh), it usually bears the name of saltus duriusculus.
Baroque music abounds in such leaps, but also subsequent creations even if purely instrumental ones - do not completely lose its significance.
This is why a paradigmatic class can be formed of famous motives
containing exclamatio, from the air Erbarme Dich in Matthäus Passion by
Bach to the first theme of the first part of Symphony No 40, in G-Minor by
Mozart, at the beginning of the Prelude in Tristan and Isolde by Wagner,
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up to Maria’s air (“Soldaten, Soldaten...”) in the third scene of Act I of
Wozzeck by Alban Berg.
Other figures maintaining their structural and semantic importance
along time are those formed by breaks, silence having its own expressive
role in an art of sounds. Two main types of such figures come to the fore
- one of them containing a general pause or a silence that surprisingly
comes up within a musical development, the other one interrupting the
melody by breaks meant to illustrate the text.63 In the first category we
may include abruptio, aposiopesis, homoioteleuton, tmesis, and in the
second - suspiratio. (Plasticising the sigh by breaks which fragment a
melody is common practice in the Renaissance and the Baroque, in many
musical works - such as the madrigal Itene, o miei sospiri by Gesualdo or
the 6th scene in Act III of the opera L’incoronazione di Poppea by
Monteverdi.)
And, to follow along music history, break or silence in the musical
discourse remain sources of expressivity, in various situaions. The functions
of a break coming up in the discourse abruptly (in traditional, as well as
new creation) may aim at heightening the curve of semantic tension, like
(emphatically) withholding breath before a climactic point; either, in the
case of a gradual fading away, to draw attention to the disappearing sound
(The Separation Symphony by Haydn, the last part), or to produce
humorous effects (like Haydn in the String Quartet Op 33 No 2, at the
end, when breaks are interspersed between thematic fragments), or simply
to mark segments of form, like in Bruckner’s Symphonies.64
Musical language (with the theory of musical phrases and their
classification into main, secondary, subordinate) includes syntactic
punctuation signs: the discourse starts, has respiration moments, it is led
further on, it contains interrogation signs, semicolon, period. (All these
are integrated in an age-specific musical rhetoric, but with certain generally
valid laws.) Johann Nikolaus Forkel already (in 1788, Allgemeine
Geschichte der Musik) was mentioning musical punctuation marks
(comma, semicolon, period, interrogation mark, parenthesis etc.).
Concretely, one may talk about “silence in music” also when fermatas,
caesuras, interrogations interrupt the musical movement stream;
performers, for instance, know what a crown that “sounds” means, as
well as a “telling break”, unlike breaks proper or free bars in which a
partner is to be waited for.
395
20th century music marks - just as it happens in almost all of its
components - a change of composition paradigm in evaluating silence or
quietness as a musical parameter (paradoxically as it may sound) and not
as a secondary phenomenon, like breaks in the classical tradition.65
Moments of silence in new music multiply the functionality of the
procedure: breaks may count not as interruptions, cut, caesura in the
sonorous development, but as “elements with equal rights in a
sound-silence continuum”66 . This is how, after democratising the 12
semitones, after introducing noise in modern music, a third great renewal
is represented by the position of equality of the break (the “non-sound”)
with the sound, emphasising the ephemerity of music as a temporal
phenomenon (sonority appears from and disappears into silence).
This is not the right place to go into further details, and important
contemporary theorising (Martin Zenck and Ulrich Dibelius) have already
approached the theme of silence in present-day composition, the extreme
example being, of course, John Cage. Cage’s famous “silence work” in
which no sound is produced for, 4’33” is a work declared to consist of
three parts, the pianist or the ensemble chosen “performs” on stage, without
actually playing anything. A paradoxical formulation of “music of silence”
may here mean the foregrounding of the inner image by a practical
initiation into listening to silence.67 Many others of Cage’s creations or
Cage-inspired contemporary works may be cited as examples.
What we must emphasise in the given context is that silence, as a
parameter of musical thinking, has not been an occasion for meditation in
itself, going through the musical tradition (up to the end of the 19th century)
only peripherally, in particular ways, the essential preoccupation focusing
on acoustic achievement. The change of the sound / silence paradigm
can be noticed with late Mahlerian creation, Webern’s and Berg’s orchestra
works, then Cage, Zimmermann, Nono. From now on, music is no longer
projected from and towards sound, but from the absence of sound, from
silence, from the various “timbres of silence”.68
With a view to establishing a necessary typology, M. Zenck puts forth
four dimensions of the concept analysed:
1. Silence in western European music up to the end of the 19th century,
with three variants - pianissimo / morendo (after big outbreaks or preparing
the grounds for them, when complex chordic masses get thinner etc.), the
remoteness effect and break, free bar -, is argued for with traditional
examples (with Schumann - the echo effect in Davidsbündlertänze, piece
No 17, “Come da lontano”; with Mahler - the well-known “remoteness
396
effects” with brass instruments, grounding an orchestral principle of music
spatialisation). The ordering of break types in western tradition is achieved
with the same consistence in Zenck’s study, which reminds of the baroque
rhetorical figure for “death” (aposiopesis), with Schütz and Bach (to be
later found with Beethoven in Egmont69 ); breaks as empty bars, as an
expression of the trivial (Zenck exemplifies by analysing the 13th of the
Diabelli Variations, showing how Beethoven uses breaks to change the
trivial character of Diabelli’s waltz); “General Pause”, as a tough cut in
the musical movement, as a form of a powerful contrast, as a connection
of disparates etc. (examples are given by Scherzi by Beethoven and
Schubert). The 20th century change of paradigm will not mean a
spectacular leap, but the three already existing dimensions of silence the fading of music into silence, music disappearing in the distance,
suppression of music in general breaks or free bars -, will combine sound
and nothingness within music.
2. The philosophy of evanescence means, to Zenck, going through
certain essential guidemarks in Kant’s and Hegel’s thinking, showing that
the philosophy of musical time felt “irritated” by the opposite of sound,
that is, by silence. The particularisation of the concept of “Verlöschen”, in
function of each of the two philosophers and in relation to other romantic
thinkers (E.T.A. Hoffmann, Hölderlin) is invested with significance,
especially from the perspective of new music. The reflection on silence in
music, on the birth and disappearance of music will lead to the predilection
of authors such as Webern and Berg to compose by (consciously)
conceiving of music out of silence and then coming back to the same
stage, a tendency fully asserted with Cage and Nono as well.
3. The “Dal niente” places and finales in Alban Berg’s music will point
out three moments of assimilating tradition in Bergian music (with a certain
affinity for the idea of “infinite”, expressed in musical terms): a. the romantic
rhetorical device “quasi da lontano” (achieved by spatial disposition of
the orchestra from a distance, by thinning out sonority, by nuancing, by
weakening dynamics etc.), in Reigen from The Three Orchestra Pieces
Op 6; b. a radical change in the typology of the finale in Mahler’s last
works (Symphony No 9, The Song of the Earth) as compared to 19th century
symphonic music, where finales were conceived of apotheotically, as
glorious climaxes (Beethoven, Bruckner a.s.o.) - a change with a direct
impact on the second Vienna school: it is enough to mention the pendulum
movement in the finale of the Lyrical Suite (and Berg’s indications of
“völlige Verlöschen” - complete fading), in the Orchestra Pieces Op 6 or
397
in Wozzeck; c. taking over certain effects of “nature music” from Mahler’s
symphonies (quint sonorities, birds’ chirping etc.): in Wozzeck, scene 2
of Act I, the static vacillation of three chords plasticise the silence of the
field, but it is not a quiet happy one (like sometimes with Mahler) but a
threatening, expressionistic one. (In this latter case - although Zenck does
not specify it - the type of “silence” is dramaturgical, achieved by sonorous
means that are meant to suggest silence in the middle of nature, practically
only the silence of human characters, veiled in noises specific to the natural
environment.)
4. Evanescence in Nono’s music means first of all approaching the
creation of the ‘70s-’80s, while emphasising the fact that now music does
not start with a tone or a sound, but before and after any music there is
silence; hence, the transformation of the poetics of beginnings and endings
of musical works (as compared to tradition). Thus, some of Helmut
Lachenmann’s works either explicitly assert a “destruction of sonorous
musical time” 70 , like the clarinet piece Dal niente, or they point out
those processes of sonorous appearance and fading, before and after the
music - in Ausklang, concerto for piano and orchestra.
Together with many works entitled “Silence”, “Silenzio”, belonging to
contemporary composers, Nono writes the String Quartet Fragments, Stille
- an Diotima, without intending (as the title might suggest) to obtain silence
between one musical fragment and another, on crowns and endless breaks,
but incorporating the parameter of silence in a continuity where it becomes
a norm, and it is for the sonorous figures (“delicate eruptions”) to represent
the exception. Silence thus gives birth to continuity, it is projected into
the foreground of composition preoccupations (hence the often-cited
change of sound / silence paradigm).
All this theory of silence in new music, continuing a systematisation of
rhetorical devices coming from breaks in the Renaissance and the Baroque,
illustrates only one compartment of musical stylistics that operates with
rhetorical notions. Applications may be extended to following all types of
figures in the 17th-18th centuries, their becoming in music history - in
text-bound or merely instrumental creation -, in order to bring to the fore
their efficiency and vitality exclusively in present-day music. Paradigmatic
catalogues can thus be made up, out of musical pieces built on ascensio
/ descensio, anabasis / catabasis a.s.o. But the purpose of these lines has
been only to arouse the interest for such approaches, and only big volumes
could adequately complete the subject of the relation between musical
rhetoric and stylistics.
398
The viability of the rhetorical concept in
present-day musical thinking
One may raise the question: what is the good of stressing rhetorical
problematics, of arousing the interest in it, in an age when any
“scholastically”-connoted approach seems elitist ? Well, my intention is
not to insist on the classical meaning of rhetoric, but on the widening, the
opening of musical-stylistic research by engulfing the general, fundamental
principles of rhetoric. From the role of a mediator between music and
speech, from the importance of an adequate decoding of the meanings of
a text-bound music, the applicability of rhetorical theories may be extended
- in contemporary composition - towards achieving communication.
Especially in the present, it is very suitable to talk about the old rhetorical
desiderata - persuadere, docere, delectare, movere - and this is irrespective
of the sonorous language adopted by a contemporary creator, which can
no longer be that of the Renaissance, baroque, classical or romantic creator.
But if the technical aspect of writing (as complicated as it may be)
preoccupies the composer in his intimate creation workshop, he should
be as much interested in the way of determining a convincing sonorous
configuration. The only “process” that cannot be learnt and is connected
to an authentic composer’s nature is inventio (Erfindung in the Baroque,
Inspiration in Romanticism). The others (dispositio, elocutio, memoria,
pronuntiatio) are more or less generated by acquired skills, and they should
be followed in the temporal development of a musical discourse, at the
level of its syntax, as they will be perceived as such by a listener
predominantly educated in a traditional culture.
In contemporary art history writings, one may often meet a similarity
between 20th century and baroque (or mannerist) creation, owing to the
luxuriousness of ornament, the predilection for disharmony, asymmetry,
irregularity, the oneiric and the fantastic, in general. Without directly
aiming at this type of stylistic affinities, I shall only point out that, if, in the
Baroque, rhetoric offered theoretical grounds for musical composition,
emphasising the relationship of a reciprocal interaction between “Ratio”
and “Affekt”, some dialects (Impressionism, Neoclassicism, partially
Expressionism) or idioms (Berg, Berio, Lutoslawski, Ligeti a.s.o.) of the
style of our century still observe it. (I do not intend, of course, to attribute
any baroque feature to these dialects or idioms, but only to appreciate the
necessary equilibrium of reason and affection in a music, irrespective of
the language it is written in.) The problem that remains is however to
define the new types of rhetoric derived from the poetic ideas and the
399
avant-garde techniques used, for instance, in integral serialism, in stocastic,
aleatory music, in the “New complexity” a.s.o., all these dialects being
more or less permeable to the audience. Thus, maybe the multitude of
20th century musical dialects could be summed up in a few rhetorical
types, and musicological classification could be simplified - which remains
a field open to research.
Alongside the indispensable musicological instruments of rhetorical
discourse and of rhetorical-musical devices, which any musicologist should
possess when approaching Renaissance and baroque music, here are some
possible applications of rhetoric in modern and contemporary music, in
stylistically defining some decades that have not yet been reunited under
some global stylistic name. Musical interpretation represents, in its turn, a
privileged field of rhetorical explanations, especially from the perspective
of memoria, pronuntiatio or actio concepts. Also, one must recreate a
Renaissance or baroque score with fidelity in understanding the specific
musical devices.
Even the theories of style as deviation or as choice are being
permanently reformulated. For instance, the difficulty of establishing a
norm with respect to which one may measure deviation becomes almost
insuperable given the fact that exception often quickly turns into a rule,
and the other way round. The 20th century musical landscape would
rather permit - but only at the level of dialect, idiom, intraopus structure a stylistic clarification on the basis of the concept of choice. The extremely
wide stylistic spectrum, at the disposal of composition options, may turn
either into a handicap, leading to the birth of a style first of all by negating
another one (as it happened with atonalism or dodecaphonism), or into a
blessing for a creator that knows how to extract any sources that are
convenient to him from (European and extra-European) musical tradition.
In a period that is marked by a postmodern lack of prejudices, and then in
another, contemporary one, of a need for integrating syntheses, the starting
point for authentic innovation will probably be found in poetic ideas
(inventio) that originally and coherently combine the multiple suggestions
of tradition.
400
NOTES
1. See Oswald Ducrot, Tzvetan Todorov, Dictionnaire encyclopédique des
sciences du langage, Seuil, Paris, 1972: Rhétorique et stylistique.
2. By way of illustration, the bibliography offered by Sigismund Toduþã and
Hans-Peter Türk in The Musical Forms of the Baroque in J.S. Bach’s Works,
The Musical Publishing House, Bucharest, 1973, vol. II, pp. 67-92, contains
an important Bachian exegesis (especially up to the middle of this century)
which permanently emphasises the implications of rhetoric in Bach’s creation
or of that of his contemporaries. Thus, among the musicologists cited there
are Arnold Schering, Philipp Spitta, Hans Keller, Wilhelm Gurlitt, Arnold
Schmitz, Gotthold Frotscher, H.H. Eggebrecht, Heinrich Besseler, Walter
Serauky, Hans Heinrich Unger, Rolf Damman a.s.o.
3. In 1537, Listenius adds to the duality formulated by Boethius - musica
theoretica / practica a new division - musica poetica. S. George J. Buelow,
Rhetoric and Music, in The New GROVE Dictionary of Music and Musicians,
ed. Stanley Sadie, Macmillan Publ. Ltd., London 1981.
4. Here are just a few examples from the brief review of “the stylistic historical
conscience”, that is, of the writings about style - even before this concept was
defined as such -, from Günter Hausswald’s book, Musikalische Stilkunde,
Heinrichshofen’s Verlag, Wilhelmshaven, 1973 / 1984, pp. 37-87.
5. For instance, A History of Musical Style by Richard L. Crocker, McGraw-Hill
Book Company, 1966.
6. The composer Claudio Monteverdi is the author of this distinction, defined
precisely on the basis of the musical representation of the text, seconda prattica
standing for the expressive style of the work; another classification made by
him: stile concitato, molle, temperato is based on three fundamental human
affections, ranging from passion to silence, according to the registers of human
voice.
7. See Hausswald, op. cit.
8. See George J. Buelow, op. cit.
9. Idem.
10. See Manfred Bukofzer, Music in the Baroque Era, from Monteverdi to Bach,
New York, 1947 and Rolf Damman, Der Musikbegriff im deutschen Barock,
Köln, 1967.
11. The very concept of “discourse”, very frequent in musicological terminology,
denotes its being taken over from rhetoric.
12. The phrase belongs to composer ªtefan Niculescu, in Un nou “spirit al
timpului” în muzicã, in “Muzica” Review No. 9/1986, Bucharest.
13. Iulian Munteanu, Stil ºi mentalitãþi, Edit. Pontica, Constanþa 1991.
14. See George J. Buelow, op. cit.
15. Idem.
401
16. See Ducrot, Todorov, op. cit., as well as Heinrich Plett, Text Knowledge and
Text Analysis, Univers Publishing House, Bucharest, 1983, Romanian version
by Speranþa Stãnescu, for the following definition of rhetorical devices: “system
of modification categories, that is, deviations, which describe in a differentiated
way various degrees of linguistic artificiality and aesthetic and emotional effects
triggered by the latter”. (p. 26)
17. Ducrot / Todorov, op. cit.
18. I. Munteanu, op. cit.
19. Op. cit.
20. Plett, op. cit., pp. 25-26.
21. Plett, op. cit., p. 134.
22. Quoted in GROVE, p. 796, in the category of melodic repetition devices.
23. Plett, op. cit., p. 145.
24. Idem.
25. Idem, p. 149.
26. See Terminologie poeticã ºi retoricã (Poetical and Rhetorical Terminology),
“Al. I. Cuza” University Publishing House, Iaºi, 1994, p. 190.
27. Leonard B. Meyer, Style in Music; Theory, History and Ideology, Philadelphia,
Univ. of Pennsylvania Press, 1990, p. 3.
28. Defined as such by Nicholas Cook, in A Guide to Musical Analysis, Oxford
Univ. Press, 1987, but referring to another of Meyer’s works, Emotion and
Meaning in Music, Univ. of Chicago Press, 1956.
29. Style in Music, op. cit., p. 143.
30. Idem, p. 148.
31. A distinction also operated by Eugene Narmour in Beyond Schenkerism,
University of Chicago Press, 1977.
32. See Roman Jakobson’s theory in Poetic and Rhetorical Terminology, op. cit.,
“Stil” (“Style”).
33. See Warren Kirkendale, Beethovens Missa Solemnis und die rhetorische
Tradition (1971), in Ludwig van Beethoven, edited by Ludwig Finscher, vol.
CDXXVIII in “Wege der Forschung”, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft
Darmstadt, 1983.
34. See Lothar Hoffmann-Erbrecht, Vom Weiterleben der Figurenlehre im
Liedschaffen Schuberts und Schumanns, in “Augsburger Jahrbuch für
Musikwissenschaft” 1989, ed. by Franz Krautwurst; Robert Schollum,
Wolf-Webern-von Einem. Anmerkungen zu Deklamatorik, musikalischer
Gestik, Szenik, in “Wort-Ton-Verhältnis. Beiträge zur Geschichte im
europäischen Raum”, ed.by E.Haselauer, Graz 1981.
35. See Hartmut Krones, 1805-1823 : Vier Opern - Ein Vokabular.
Musiksprachliche Bedeutungskonstanten in “Fidelio”, “Il Barbiere di Siviglia”,
“Der Freischütz” und “Fierrabras”, in “Österreichische Musikzeitschrift” 44 /
1989.
402
36. See V. Lefkoff: Computers and the Study of Musical Style, in “West Virginia
University Conference on computer applications in music”, Morgantown 1966;
N. Böcker-Heil: Musikalische Stilanalyse und Computer: einige grundsätzliche
Erwägungen and L. Treitler: Methods, Style, Analysis in “International Musical
Society, Report of the 10th Congress”, XI, Copenhagen 1972, I; J.L. Broeckx
& W. Landrieu: Comparative Computer Study of Style, Based on Five Lied
Melodies, in “Interface I”, 1972.
37. See The New Grove Dictionary of Music, ed. cit., the article Analysis, signed
by Ian Bent; as well, Ian Bent & William Drabkin, Analisi musicale, Editioni
di Torino, 1990.
38. An exception is the reinterpretation of the Schenkerian approach which, though
it appeared in the first decades of the 19th century - see Harmonielehre, 1906
and Der freie Satz, 1935 -, demonstrated its modernity by the fact that its
parameters were taken over by the present-day American school, in analyses
such as those of Allen Forte, for instance.
39. Quoted by Bent, op. cit.
40. See Bent, Grove, op. cit. and Jean-Pierre Bartoli, Le notion de style et l’analyse
musicale: bilan at essai d’interpretation, in “Analyse musicale”, 1989.
41. An example given by Jean-Pierre Bartoli, op. cit. In Romanian musicology, a
singular case of computer-assisted stylistic analysis has lately been represented
by Professor Dinu Ciocan, the Academy of Music in Bucharest, see also his
study in The “Muzica” Review No 3/1995: Quelques aspectes de la
modélisation sémiotique et computationelle du langage musical.
42. Ed. W.W. Norton & Co, New York, 1970.
43. Sound, Harmony, Melody, Rhythm, Growth - marked as SHMRG.
44. Faber, New York, 1971.
45. See Poetic and Rhetorical Terminology, op. cit., “Style”.
46. See Musicologie générale et sémiologie, Paris, 1987, p. 172.
47. Op. cit., p. 38.
48. In this category one may include important volumes of musicology, such as
Manfred Bukofzer - Music in the Baroque Era, 1947, or Epochen der
Musikgeschichte in Einzeldarstellungen, a collective volume, Bärenreiter ed.
MGG, Kassel 1974 a.s.o.
49. Op. cit.
50. See Damman, op. cit., p. 149.
51. “Ut Oratoria Musica”: The Rhetorical Basis of Musical Mannerism, in “The
Meaning of Mannerism”, ed. Fr. W. Robinson & St. G. Nicholas, Univ. Press
of New England, Hanover, New Hampshire, 1972.
52. Palisca, op. cit., p. 56.
53. Bifurcations chez Gesualdo, in “Quadrivium musique / sciences”, ed. ipmc,
Paris, 1992, p. 67. Aurel Stroes refers to a work in the sixth book of madrigals
by Gesualdo.
403
54. Carl Dahlhaus, Gesualdos manieristische Dissonanztechnik, in “Festchrift W.
Boetticher”, B 1974.
55. Acc. to Christoph Bernhard, Tractatus compositionis augmentatis, quoted by
Dahlhaus, pp. 38-39. A larger analysis of the Gesualdo “subject”, in a
stylistic-rhetorical acception, I have done in my doctoral thesis - Stylistic and
Symbolical Hypostases of Mannerism in Music, The Music Academy,
Bucharest, 1995.
56. See Emilia Fandini, Ornement et structure musicale: essai d’analyse rhétorique
de la musique pour clavecin du XVIIe siècle, in “Analyse musicale” No 17,
Oct. 1989 and Gregory G. Butler, Fugue and Rhetoric, in “Journal of Music
Theory”, 21.1, Yale University, Spring 1977.
57. This was happening at least in the musical training in Romania before 1989,
when the relationship between music and the sacred text was omitted, therefore
all the poetical-rhetorical implications disappeared, in favour of a syntactic,
truncated analysis, not only of a Mass or a Passion, but also of instrumental
repertoire, where figures “migrate” from the vocal one.
58. See Gregory G. Butler, op. cit., p. 70 and foll.
59. I shall refer to the studies: Riches d’amour et mendians d’amie”. La rhétorique
de Machaut by Marie Danielle Audbourg-Popin, in “Revue de musicologie”,
Tome 72, Paris 1986 and “Hither. This way”: A Rhetorical Musical Analysis
of a Scene from Purcell’s King Arthur by Rodney Farnsworth, in “The Musical
Quarterly” 74/1, 1990.
60. See M.D. Audbourg-Popin, op. cit., p. 103.
61. See R. Farnsworth, op. cit., p. 88.
62. See George J. Buelow, op. cit., p. 798 and Rolf Damman, op. cit., p. 138.
63. Idem, p. 800.
64. See Ulrich Dibelius, Kraft aus der Stille. Erfahrungen mit Klang und Stille in
der Neueren Musik, in “MusikTexte”, Zeitschrift für neue Musik, 55/August
1994, Cologne.
65. Acc. to M. Zenck, Dal niente - Vom Verlöschen der Musik. Zum
Paradigmenwechsel vom Klang und Stille in der Musik des neunzehnten und
zwangzigsten Jahrhunderts. In “MusikTexte, Zeitschrift für neue Musik” , 55/
August 1994, Köln.
66. U. Dibelius, op. cit., p. 10.
67. Idem.
68. M. Zenck, p. 16.
69. Only that Beethoven was no longer situated within the theory of musical
figures, which had faded away before the climax of musical Classicism. The
break, however, remains a means of expression with a similar meaning.
70. Idem, p. 20.
404
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Dahlhaus, CARL : Gesualdos manieristische Dissonanztechnik, în “Festschrift
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DAHLHAUS, C. : Seconda prattica und musikalische Figurenlehre, in “Festschrift
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DAHLHAUS, C. : Zur Geschichtlichkeit der musikalischen Figurenlehre, in
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DAHLHAUS, C. : Bach und der Zerfall der musikalischen Figurenlehre, in “Musica”
42 / 1988.
DAMMAN, ROLF : Der Musikbegriff im deutschen Barock, Köln 1967.
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DEDIU, DAN : Phenomenology of Composition. Archetypus, Archetropus and
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Bucharest 1984.
Dibelius, ULRICH - Kraft aus der Stille. Erfahrungen mit Klang und Stille in der
neueren Musik, în “MusikTexte”, Zeitschrift für neue Musik , 55/ August 1994,
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sciences du langage, Edit. du Seuil, 1972.
EGGEBRECHT, HANS HEINRICH : Zum Figur-Begriff der Musica Poetica, in
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FEDERHOFER, HELMUT : Musica poetica und musikalische Figur in ihrer
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HOFFMANN-ERBRECHT, LOTHAR : Vom Weiterleben der Figurenlehre im
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COLEGIUL „NOUA EUROPÃ”
Punctul de pornire
New Europe College, un mic “centru de excelenþã” independent în
domeniul disciplinelor umaniste ºi sociale, primul ºi – cel puþin
deocamdatã – unicul de acest fel din România, a fost întemeiat în 1994
ca persoanã juridicã de drept privat. Punctul de pornire l-a constituit New
Europe Prize, acordat profesorului Andrei Pleºu în 1993 de un grup de
institute de studii avansate (Stanford, Princeton, North Carolina, Wassenaar,
Uppsala ºi Berlin). Acest premiu a fãcut posibilã înfiinþarea Colegiului ºi
selecþia primei generaþii de bursieri ai acestuia. Finanþãri ulterioare au
permis continuarea programului, astfel încât, în momentul de faþã, existã
cca. 100 de bursieri ºi alumni NEC. Prestigiul internaþional al colegiului a
fost recunoscut prin acordarea premiului Hannah Arendt, instituit pentru
a încuraja eforturi exemplare în domeniul învãþãmântului superior ºi al
cercetãrii. În 1999 Ministerul Educaþiei Naþionale a recunoscut Colegiul
Noua Europã ca formã instituþionalizatã de educaþie permanentã ºi formare
profesionalã.
Obiective
• realizarea unui context instituþional care sã ofere tinerilor cercetãtori
români din domeniile ºtiinþelor umaniste ºi sociale posibilitatea de a
lucra la nivelul standardelor europene: burse care sã le permitã sã se
dedice în mod eficient muncii lor ºtiinþifice, echipament tehnic modern
ºi o atmosferã de lucru, de naturã sã încurajeze dezbaterea criticã,
inter- ºi trans-disciplinarã;
411
• sincronizarea cercetãrii din România cu aceea a mediilor academice
internaþionale ºi, totodatã, valorificarea a ceea ce e încã preluabil din
achiziþiile intelectuale obþinute, împotriva opreliºtilor, în perioada
dictaturii comuniste;
• intensificarea contactelor dintre specialiºtii români ºi colegii lor strãini
din centre universitare ºi de cercetare din întreaga lume;
• constituirea unui nucleu de intelectuali tineri care sã contribuie la
normalizarea vieþii ºtiinþifice ºi intelectuale din România.
Programe
NEC nu este, propriu-zis, o instituþie de învãþãmânt; activitatea NEC
este axatã pe cercetare, la nivelul “studiilor avansate”, prin urmãtoarele
programe:
Bursele NEC
În fiecare an New Europe College oferã, pe baza unui concurs public,
zece burse pentru tineri cercetãtori români din domeniile ºtiinþelor
umaniste ºi sociale. Bursierii sunt selectaþi de un juriu format din specialiºti
români ºi strãini ºi beneficiazã de o bursã care se acordã pe durata unui
an universitar (octombrie - iulie). Cei selectaþi îºi discutã proiectele de
cercetare în cadrul unor colocvii sãptãmânale (“colocviile de miercuri”).
În timpul anului academic fiecare bursier are posibilitatea de a petrece o
lunã într-un centru universitar din strãinãtate. La sfârºitul anului universitar
bursierii prezintã o lucrare ce constituie rezultatul cercetãrii efectuate în
cadrul Colegiului. Lucrãrile sunt publicate în anuarul NEC.
Bursele RELINK
Iniþiat în 1996, programul RELINK vizeazã (cu predilecþie) tineri
cercetãtori români din domeniile ºtiinþelor umaniste ºi sociale care au
beneficiat de burse/stagii de studiu în strãinãtate ºi s-au reîntors în România,
ocupând posturi în universitãþi sau în institute de cercetare. Urmãrind
îmbunãtãþirea condiþiilor de cercetare ºi revigorarea vieþii academice în
412
NEW EUROPE COLLEGE
România, programul RELINK oferã anual (pe baza unei proces de selecþie
similar celui pentru bursele NEC) un numãr de zece burse, durata acestora
fiind de trei ani. Bursele includ: un stipendiu lunar, un suport financiar
care permite fiecãrui bursier sã întreprindã o cãlãtorie de cercetare de o
lunã pe an la un centru universitar din strãinãtate, pentru a-ºi menþine ºi
lãrgi contactele cu specialiºti strãini; un laptop pus la dispoziþie fiecãrui
bursier pentru utilizare individualã; fonduri pentru achiziþionarea de
literaturã de specialitate.
Programul GE-NEC
Începând din toamna anului 2000 Colegiul Noua Europã va organiza
ºi gãzdui timp de trei ani universitari un nou program, finanþat de Getty
Grant Program. Acest program îºi propune sã contribuie la dezvoltarea
învãþãmântului ºi cercetãrii în domeniul culturii vizuale prin invitarea
unor specialiºti marcanþi care vor susþine prelegeri ºi seminarii în cadrul
NEC, în beneficiul unor studenþi, masteranzi, doctoranzi ºi tineri specialiºti
interesaþi de acest domeniu. Programul include douã burse senior ºi douã
burse junior pe an. Bursierii, selectaþi în consultare cu Consiliul ªtiinþific
al Colegiului, sunt integraþi în viaþa Colegiului, primesc un stipendiu lunar
ºi au posibilitatea de a efectua o cãlãtorie de studii de o lunã în strãinãtate.
Colegiul Noua Europã organizeazã pentru toþi bursierii sãi, cât ºi pentru
alþi specialiºti români din diverse domenii, un program permanent de
conferinþe (“conferinþele de searã”), susþinute de personalitãþi ºtiinþifice
strãine ºi româneºti. Periodic se organizeazã, deasemenea, seminarii ºi
simpozioane la nivel naþional ºi internaþional.
Finanþare
Activitãþile Colegiului Noua Europã au fost finanþate pânã în prezent
de Elveþia (Departamentul Afacerilor Externe ºi Zuger Kulturstiftung Landis
& Gyr), Germania (Stifterverband für die Deutsche Wissenschaft ºi
Volkswagen-Stiftung), de Open Society Institute, Budapesta, prin Higher
Education Support Program pentru Programul RELINK ºi de Getty Grant
Program pentru Programul GE-NEC.
413
Fondator al Fundaþiei Noua Europã ºi Rector al Colegiului Noua Europã:
Dr. Andrei PLEªU
Director executiv
Marina HASNAª
Director ºtiinþific
Dr. Anca OROVEANU
Consiliul Administrativ:
Dr. Victor BABIUC, profesor de drept, Universitatea Bucureºti
Maria BERZA, secretar de stat, Ministerul Culturii
Heinz HERTACH, director, Zuger Kulturstiftung Landis & Gyr, Elveþia
Dr. Helga JUNKERS, Volkswagen-Stiftung, Hanovra, Germania
Dr. Joachim NETTELBECK, director executiv, Wissenschaftskolleg zu
Berlin, Germania
Dr. Heinz-Rudi SPIEGEL, Stifterverband für die Deutsche Wissenschaft,
Germania
Dr. Ilie ªERBÃNESCU, director, Ziarul Financiar
Mihai-Rãzvan UNGUREANU, lector, Universitatea din Iaºi, secretar
de stat, Ministerul Afacerilor Externe
Consiliul ªtiinþific:
Dr. Horst BREDEKAMP, profesor de istoria artei, Humboldt-Universität,
Berlin
Dr. Iso CAMARTIN, scriitor, Zürich; specialist în romanisticã; director,
Departamentul cultural al Televiziunii Elveþiene (SFDRS)
Dr. Daniel DÃIANU, profesor, Academia de Studii Economice
Dr. dr. h.c. Wolf LEPENIES, profesor de sociologie, Freie Universität
Berlin; rector al Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin
Dr. Gabriel LIICEANU, profesor de filosofie, Universitatea Bucureºti;
director, Editura Humanitas
Dr. Andrei PIPPIDI, profesor de istorie, Universitatea Bucureºti;
preºedinte al Comisiei Naþionale a Monumentelor Istorice
Dr. Istvan REV, director, Open Society Archives, Budapesta
414
NEW EUROPE COLLEGE
Institute of Advanced Study
Starting Point
The New Europe College is a small independent Romanian “center of
excellence” in the humanities and social sciences. It was founded in 1994
by Professor Andrei Pleºu (philosopher, art historian, writer, 1990/91
Romanian Minister of Culture, 1997/99 Romanian Minister of Foreign
Affairs), as a private foundation subject to Romanian law. Its starting point
was the New Europe Prize, awarded to Professor Pleºu in 1993 by a group
of institutes of advanced studies (Stanford, Princeton, North Carolina,
Wassenraar, Uppsala and Berlin). This price made possible the founding
of the college and the selection of the first generation of its fellows.
Subsequent financial support enabled the college to continue and enlarge
its program, so that it currently numbers around a hundred fellows and
alumni. In 1998 the New Europe College was awarded the prestigious
Hannah Arendt Prize for its achievements in setting new standards in
higher education and research. In 1999 the Romanian Ministry of Education
officially recognized the New Europe College as an institutional structure
of continuous education in the humanities and social sciences, at the
level of advanced studies.
Aims and Purposes
• to create an institutional framework with strong international links,
offering young Romanian scholars in the fields of humanities and social
sciences working conditions similar to those in the West: individual
grants enabling them to focus on their research projects, access to modern
technical equipment, an environment that stimulates the dialogue
between different fields of research and encourages critical debate
415
• to cultivate the receptivity of scholars and academics in Romania
towards methods and areas of research as yet not firmly established
here, while preserving what might still be precious in a type of approach
developed, against all odds, in an unpropitious intellectual, cultural
and political context before 1989
• to promote contacts between Romanian scholars and their peers
worldwide
• to contribute to the forming of a core of promising young academics,
expected to play a significant role in the renewal of Romania’s
academic, scholarly and intellectual life
Academic Programs
NEC is not, strictly speaking, a higher education institution, even though
it has been consistently contributing to the advance of higher education
in Romania in a number of ways, through the activities organized under
its aegis. It focuses on research at the level of advanced studies, through
the following programs:
NEC Fellowships
Each year, ten NEC Fellowships for outstanding young Romanian
scholars in humanities and social sciences are publicly announced. Fellows
are chosen by an international Academic Advisory Board, and receive a
monthly stipend for the duration of one academic year (October through
July). The Fellows gather for weekly seminars to discuss their research
projects. In the course of the year, the Fellows are given the opportunity
to pursue their research for one month abroad, at a university or research
institution of their choice. At the end of the grant period, the Fellows
submit a paper representing the results of their research. These papers are
published in the New Europe College Yearbook.
RELINK Grants
The RELINK Program targets highly qualified, preferably young
Romanian scholars returning from studies abroad to work in one of
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NEW EUROPE COLLEGE
Romania’s universities or research institutes. Ten RELINK Fellows are
selected each year through an open competition; in order to facilitate
their reintegration in the local research milieu and to improve their working
conditions, a modest support lasting for three years is offered, consisting
of: a monthly stipend, funds in order to acquire scholarly literature; an
annual allowance enabling the recipients to make a one-month research
trip to a foreign institute of their choice in order to sustain existing scholarly
contacts and forge new ones; the use of a laptop computer and printer.
The GE-NEC Program
Starting with the academic year 2000-2001, the New Europe College
will organize and host for three consecutive academic years an additional
program, supported by the Getty Grant Program. This program aims at
strengthening research and education in visual culture by inviting leading
specialists to give lectures and hold seminars at the New Europe College
for the benefit of MA students, PhD candidates and young scholars from
this field. The program includes two senior and two junior fellowships per
year, selected in consultation with the Academic Advisory Board. The
recipients of these fellowships are integrated in the life of the College,
receive a monthly stipend, and are given the opprotunity of spending one
month aboad for a study trip.
The New Europe College hosts a permanent program of lectures given
by prominent Romanian and foreign academics and researchers, open
not only to its fellows, but also to a larger audience of specialists and
students in the fields of humanities and social sciences. The College also
organizes national and international seminars, workshops and symposia.
Financing
To date, the activities of the New Europe College have been financed
by German and Swiss foundations (Stifterverband für die Deutsche
Wissenschaft, Volkswagen-Stiftung, Zuger Kulturstiftung Landis & Gyr),
by the Swiss Department of Foreign Affairs, the Higher Education Support
Program of the Open Society Institute, Budapest for the RELINK Program,
and by the Getty Grant Program for the GE-NEC Program.
417
Founder of the New Europe Foundation
and Rector of the New Europe College
Dr. Andrei PLEªU
Executive Director
Marina HASNAª
Scientific Director
Dr. Anca OROVEANU
Administrative Board
Dr. Victor BABIUC, Professor of Law, University of Bucharest
Maria BERZA, Secretary of State, Romanian Ministry of Culture
Heinz HERTACH, Director, Zuger Kulturstiftung Landis & Gyr, Zug,
Switzerland
Dr. Helga JUNKERS, Volkswagen-Stiftung, Hanover
Dr. Joachim NETTELBECK, Secretary, Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin
Essen
Dr. Ilei ªERBÃNESCU, economist, Director of the daily “Financial
News”
Dr. Mihai-Rãzvan UNGUREANU, Associate Professor, University of
Iaºi, Secretary of State, Ministry of Foreign Affairs
Academic Advisory Board
Dr. Horst BREDEKAMP, Professor of Art History, Humboldt University,
Berlin
Dr. Iso CAMARTIN, writer, specialist in Romansh Literature and
Culture, Zürich; Head of the Cultural Dept. Swiss Television (SFDRS)
Dr. Daniel DÃIANU, Professor, Academy of Economic Sciences,
Bucharest
Dr. Dr. h.c. Wolf LEPENIES, Rector, Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin;
Professor of Sociology, Free University, Berlin
Dr. Gabriel LIICEANU, Professor of Philosophy, University of
Bucharest; Director of the Humanitas Publishing House
Dr. Andrei PIPPIDI, Professor of History, University of Bucharest;
President of the National Commission for Monuments, Bucharest;
Dr. Istvan REV, Director of the Open Society Archives, Budapest
418
NEW EUROPE COLLEGE
Institut d’études avancées
Point de départ
New Europe College (NEC) est un institut d’études avancées, un “centre
d’excellence” indépendant dans le domaine des sciences humaines et
sociales. Fondé en 1994, il est le premier, et pour le moment tout au
moins, reste le seul dans son genre en Roumanie. A l’origine de sa création
il y a eu le Prix La Nouvelle Europe attribué au professeur Andrei Pleºu en
1993 par un groupe d’instituts d’études avancées : Center for Advanced
Study in the Behavioral Sciences, Stanford, Institute for Advanced Study,
Princeton, National Humanities Center, Research Triangle Park, North
Carolina, Netherlands Institute for Advanced Study in the Humanities and
Social Sciences (NIAS), Wassenaar, Swedish Collegium for Advanced Study
in the Social Sciences (SCASSS) Uppsala et Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin.
C’est grâce à ce prix que le Collège a pu voir le jour et sélectionner sa
première génération de boursiers. Des financements ultérieurs ont permis
au Collège de poursuivre ses activités, de sorte qu’aujourd’hui le nombre
de ses boursiers a atteint la centaine.
Objectifs
• Créer un contexte institutionnel avec une large ouverture internationale,
qui offre aux jeunes chercheurs roumains dans les sciences humaines
et sociales la possibilité de travailler dans des conditions comparables
à celles de leurs collègues de l’Ouest : des bourses leur permettant de
se dédier à leurs recherches scientifiques dans des conditions de travail
acceptables, un équipement technique moderne et surtout une
atmosphère de travail de nature à stimuler le dialogue entre différents
domaines de recherche et encourager les débats critiques
• Cultiver la réceptivité des chercheurs et des universitaires roumains
pour des domaines de recherche et des approches encore
insuffisamment développées en Roumanie, tout en préservant ce qui
419
peut être encore précieux dans des types de démarche mises en place
avant 1989, malgré un climat intellectuel, culturel et politique néfaste
• Faciliter et élargir les contacts entre spécialistes roumains et étrangers
en développant des contacts avec des centres d’enseignement et de
recherche du monde entier
• Constituer un noyau de jeunes intellectuels pouvant contribuer à la
normalisation de la vie scientifique et intellectuelle en Roumanie
Programmes
Le NEC n’est pas une institution d’enseignement au sens propre du
mot. Son activité est consacrée à la recherche au niveau d’études avancées,
par les programmes suivants :
Les bourses NEC
Chaque année le New Europe College offre, sur la base d’un concours
public, dix bourses destinées à des jeunes chercheurs roumains dans les
sciences humaines et sociales. Les boursiers sont sélectionnés par un jury
des spécialistes roumains et étrangers et reçoivent une bourse d’une année
universitaire (d’octobre à juillet). Pendant l’année universitaire, les boursiers
participent aux rencontres hebdomadaires (“les colloques de mercredi”),
au cours desquelles ils présentent, à tour de rôle, leurs projets de recherche,
qui sont discutés par le groupe interdisciplinaire ainsi constitué. Au cours
de l’année universitaire, chaque boursier a la possibilité de passer un
mois dans un centre universitaire à l’étranger dans le cadre d’un voyage
d’études. A la fin de l’année universitaire les boursiers doivent présenter
un travail scientifique, résultat des recherches effectuées dans le cadre du
Collège. Ces travaux sont ensuite publiés dans l’annuaire du NEC.
Les bourses RELINK
Initié en 1996, le programme RELINK s’adresse aux chercheurs roumains,
de préférence jeunes, dans les sciences humaines et sociales, ayant bénéficié
des bourses ou des stages d’études à l’étranger et étant rentrés en Roumanie
pour y occuper des postes dans des universités ou des instituts de recherche.
Le programme RELINK vise à améliorer les conditions de recherche et à
donner un nouveau souffle à la recherche et à l’enseignement supérieur en
420
NEW EUROPE COLLEGE
Roumanie. Pour ce faire, le programme RELINK offre chaque année (selon
la même procédure de sélection que pour les bourses NEC) 10 bourses qui
attachent les boursiers au Collège pour une durée de trois ans. Ces bourses
comprennent : une bourse mensuelle ; un soutien financier permettant à
chaque boursier d’entreprendre un voyage de recherche d’un mois par an
à l’étranger, pour maintenir et développer ainsi leurs contacts avec des
spécialistes dans leur domaine de recherche ; des fonds spécifiques pour
l’acquisition des ouvrages de spécialité ; un ordinateur portable mis à la
disposition de chaque boursier pour un usage individuel.
Le programme GE-NEC
En commençant par l’année universitaire 2000-2001, le New Europe
College sera, pendant trois années universitaires consécutives,
l’organisateur et l’hôte d’un nouveau programme, financé par le Getty
Grant Program. Ce programme se propose de contribuer au développement
de la recherche et de l’enseignement dans des domaines ayant trait à la
culture visuelle, en invitant des spécialistes réputés pour tenir au NEC des
conférences et des séminaires, au bénéfice des jeunes étudiants, doctorands
et spécialistes dans ces domaines. Le programme inclut deux bourses
senior et deux bourses junior par an. Les boursiers, sélectionnés en
consultation avec le Conseil Scientifique du Collège, sont intégrés dans
les activités du Collège ; ils reçoivent une bourse mensuelle et ont la
possibilité d’effectuer un voyage d’études d’un mois à l’étranger.
Le New Europe College organise pour ses boursiers, ainsi que pour un
cercle plus large d’universitaires et chercheurs roumains, un programme
permanent de conférences, dont les protagonistes sont des personnalités
scientifiques de Roumanie et de l’étranger. Le NEC organise également
des manifestations spéciales, tels que séminaires, ateliers, colloques et
conférences, à caractère national et international.
Financement
Les activités du New Europe College ont été financées jusqu’à présent
par la Suisse (Département des Affaires Etrangères et Zuger Kulturstiftung
Landis & Gyr), par l’Allemagne (Stifterverband für die Deutsche Wissenschaft
et Volkswagen-Stiftung) par Open Society Institute de Budapest à travers
son Higher Education Support Program pour le programme RELINK et par
Getty Grant Program pour le programme GE-NEC.
421
Recteur et fondateur de la Fondation Nouvelle Europe
et du New Europe College
Dr. Andrei PLEªU
Directrice administrative
Marina HASNAª
Directrice scientifique
Dr. Anca OROVEANU
Conseil d’Administration :
Dr. Victor BABIUC, professeur de droit, Univesité de Bucarest
Maria BERZA, secrétaire d’état, Ministère de la Culture
Heinz HERTACH, directeur, Zuger Kulturstiftung Landis & Gyr, Suisse
Dr. Helga JUNKERS, Volkswagen-Stiftung, Hanovre, Allemagne
Dr. Joachim NETTELBECK, directeur administratif, Wissenschaftskolleg
zu Berlin, Allemagne
Essen, Allemagne
Dr. Ilie ªERBÃNESCU, économiste, directeur du journal « Financial News »
Mihai-Razvan UNGUREANU, maître de conférence, Université de
Iassy; secrétaire d’état, Ministère des Affaires Etrangères
Conseil scientifique :
Dr. Horst BREDEKAMP, professeur d’histoire de l’art, HumboldtUniversität, Berlin
Dr. Iso CAMARTIN, écrivain; spécialiste de littérature et de culture
retoromane, Zürich; directeur du département culturel de la Télévision
Suisse (SFDRS)
Dr. Daniel DÃIANU, professeur, Académie des Etudes Economiques,
Bucarest
Dr. dr. hc. Wolf LEPENIES, professeur de sociologie, Freie Universität
Berlin ; recteur de la Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin
Dr. Gabriel LIICEANU, professeur de philosophie, Université de
Bucarest ; directeur des Editions Humanitas
Dr. Andrei PIPPIDI, professeur d’histoire, Université de Bucarest ;
Présidant de la Commission Nationale des Monuments
Dr. Istvan REV, directeur, Open Society Archives, Budapest
422

New Europe College Yearbook 1996-1997

Transcription

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