Posted on 12/05/2004 8:52:07 PM PST by Askel5
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Philosophy Marcel was concerned that scientific thinking had bankrupted human experience. Scientific thinking, with its reductionism and technicality, avoids the mystery of life in favor of ‘problems’ and ‘solutions’. In modernity, man has, “…become unsure of his own essence and a stranger to himself.”(4) He has divorced himself from fundamental experience by turning to objective analysis. As a result, “the dignity and sacredness of being” is replaced by “the idea of function.” Man views himself as a functional being, incorporated into biological, mental, and social systems. Life Gabriel Marcel is difficult to categorize as a philosopher. He was idiosyncratic in his writing, intentionally avoiding systematic formulations. At the heart of his writing is concrete experience, and such experience provides the way for man to find his place in the universe. Marcel's emphasis of being over knowledge stands in stark contrast to our increasingly scientific age. For this reason, his criticisms are particularly relevant and must be carefully weighed. Marcel was born in Paris on December 7, 1889, the son of a state official. His early life was marked by tragedy as his mother died when he was only four. His father took Marcel’s aunt as his second wife. Both his father and stepmother were religiously agnostic, the former an unbelieving aesthete, the latter an unbelieving moralist. Marcel was greatly influenced by his deceased mother. He tells us, “that all my childhood, that probably my entire life has been dominated by the death of my mother, an absolutely sudden death which was to unsettle all our existences.”(1) Marcel characterized his childhood as a ‘desolate universe’. (2) His desolation was caused by the absence of his mother and the sense of irrevocable loss. In addition, his education was “impersonal” and “objectivist”, and his family placed great emphasis on academic success. This arid and impersonal existence contributed to Marcel’s passion for “the faraway, the alien, and the remote.” As a result, Marcel convinced his family members to take him on journeys throughout Europe, some devised through his own imagination. Exasperated by an education, which devalued personal growth in favor of academic success, Marcel pursued philosophical idealism. Marcel’s brilliance allowed him to transcend the problems of his personal life by seeking refuge in abstract thought. World War I proved to be a turning-point, not only in Marcel’s thought, but also his personal life. He served as a Red Cross official in the War, and relayed information concerning missing soldiers to the next of kin. His idealism did not survive in the face of constant tragedy. In fact, he became suspicious of idealism, and instead pursued concrete, existential philosophy. Marcel did not convert to Christianity until he was forty years old. However, he did have a concern to establish the validity of religious thought long before his conversion. He began by exploring how, “…immediate existence, then the concrete faith-relation, could be grasped by the mind, hypothetically, without any personal commitment to a particular faith; but he realized later that the faith he intended was Christian faith, and that by religious history he meant Christian history.(3) Marcel’s conversion came through a “seemingly slight” event. After he had reviewed Francois Mauriac’s Dieu et Mammon, the author wrote Marcel a letter which ended with the question, “But, then why aren’t you one of us?” Marcel did not so much consider this appeal as coming from Mauriac as from God. He responded by embracing Catholicism. Marcel was struck by tragedy again in 1947. His wife of nearly thirty years, Jacqueline Boegner, died of an incurable disease. This loss echoed the tragedy of his childhood, and again his life was dominated by her absence. Marcel was primarily not an academic figure. Although he spent brief stints at the University of Aberdeen in Scotland, 1951-1952, and Harvard University, 1961-1962, teaching philosophy, his income was mostly dependant on his free-lance writing. He is well known not only for several dramatic works, but also for his work as an editor, critic, and lecturer. Marcel died October 8th, 1973. Marcel's criticisms are particularly relevant in light of the growth of science and technology since his death. Through his writing, we can better understand the sense of alienation and lack of richness that characterizes human experience of our scientific age. (1), (3) ---- Cain, Seymour. Gabriel Marcel’s Theory of Religious Experience. New York: Peter Lang, 1995. (2) (4) (5) (6) (7) -- Keen, Sam. Gabriel Marcel. Richmond: John Knox Press, 1967. |
Enough said.
| To Mme. JEANNE VIAL Lecture given to the Institut Superieur de Pedagogie at Lyons. December 13th, 1942. THE EGO AND ITS RELATION TO OTHERS Gabriel Marcel IN OUR SUBJECT to-day we shall find that the distinction, in any case uncertain, between child psychology and psychology pure and simple has practically no importance. If we forget, as I think we should, the theories and definitions of philosophy in order to learn all we can from direct experiences, we are led to the conclusion that the act which establishes the ego, or rather by which the ego establishes itself, is always identically the same: it is this act which we must try to grasp without allowing ourselves to be led astray by the fictitious speculations which throughout human history have been accumulating in this field. I think that we should employ current forms of ordinary language which distort our experiences far less than the elaborate expressions in which philosophical language is crystallised. The most elementary example, the closest to earth, is also the most instructive. Take, for instance, the child who brings his mother flowers he has just been gathering in the meadow. "Look", he cries, "I picked these." Mark the triumph in his voice and above all the gesture, simple and rapid enough, perhaps, which accompanies his announcement. The child points himself out for admiration and gratitude: "It was I, I who am with you here, who picked these lovely flowers, don't go thinking it was Nanny or my sister; it was I and no one else." This exclusion is of the greatest importance: it seems that the child wants to attract attention almost materially. He claims enthusiastic praise, and it would be the most calamitous thing in the world if by mistake it was bestowed on someone who did not deserve it. Thus the child draws attention to himself, he offers himself to the other in order to receive a special tribute. I do not believe it is possible to insist too much upon the presence of the other, or more exactly others, involved in the statement: "It is I who. . ." It implies that "There are, on the one hand, those who are excluded about whom you must be careful not to think, and, on the other, there is the you to whom the child speaks and whom he wants as a witness." The same affirmation on the part of an adult would be less openly advertised; it would be enveloped in a halo of false modesty where the complexities of the game of social hypocrisy are discernible. Think of the amateur composer who has just been singing an unknown melody in some drawing-room. People exclaim: "What is that? Is it an unpublished song by Faure?" etc. .... "No, as a matter of fact, it is my own. . ." etc. If we leave on one side, as we should, all the elaborations of social convention, we shall recognise the fundamental identity of the act. The difference has only to do with the attitude adopted or simulated regarding the expected tribute. I Produce Myself To go on with our analysis, we observe that this ego here before us, considered as a centre of magnetism, cannot be reduced to certain parts which can be specified such as "my body, my hands, my brain"; it is a global presence--a presence which gains glory from the magnificent bouquet which I myself have picked, which I have brought you; and I do not know whether you should admire more the artistic taste of which it is a proof or the generosity which I have shown in giving it to you, I, who might so easily have kept it for myself. Thus the beauty of the object is in a fashion reflected upon me, and if I appeal to you, then, I repeat, I do so as to a qualified witness whom I invite to wonder at the whole we form-the bouquet and I. But we must not fail to notice that the admiration which I expect from you, which you give me, can only confirm and heighten the satisfaction I feel in recognising my own merits. Why should we not conclude from this that the ego here present certainly involves a reference to someone else, only this other someone is treated as a foil or amplifier for my own self-satisfaction. "But", you will object, "self-satisfaction, self-confidence, self-love: all this takes for granted a self already established which it is necessary to define." I think that here we must be careful not to fall into a trap of language. This pre-existent ego can only be postulated, and if we try to describe it, we can only do so negatively, by way of exclusion. On the other hand it is very instructive to give a careful account of the act which establishes what I call myself, the act, for instance, by which I attract the attention of others so that they may praise me, maybe, or blame me, gut at all events so that they notice me. In every case I produce myself, in the etymological sense of the word, that is to say I put myself forward. |
I wish it always were that easy to corral others for high adventure.
I'm dying to see if the linkage will work but I promised myself no more than two sections (or one post) a day so the thread will last in the same way the book did as I rationed it to myself. =)
Trust all is well.
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THE EGO AND ITS RELATION TO OTHERS Gabriel Marcel Secure against Criticism and the Passage of Time Other examples bring us to the same conclusion. Let us keep to the level of a child's experience. A little stranger stretches out his hand to take the ball which I have left on the ground; I jump up; the ball is mine. Here again the relationship with others is at the root of the matter, but it takes the form of an order: Do not touch. I have no hesitation in saying that the instantaneous claiming of our own property is one of the most significant of our experiences. Here again I "produce" myself. I warn the other person that he must conform his conduct to the rule I have given him. It can be observed without any great subtlety that the sense of possession was already implicit in the previous examples, only it was possession of a virtue rather than a thing. Here, however, more clearly than just now, the ego is seen as a global and indefinable presence. I, here before you, possess the ball, perhaps I might consent to lend it to you for a few moments, but you must quite understand that it is I who am very kindly lending it to you and that, in consequence, I can take it back from you at any minute if I so wish; I the despot, I the autocrat. I have used the term presence several times; now I will try as far as possible to define what I mean by it. Presence denotes something rather different and more comprehensive than the fact of just being there; to be quite exact one should not actually say that an object is present. We might say that presence is always dependent on an experience which is at the same time irreducible and vague, the sense of existing, of being in the world. Very early in the development of a human being this consciousness of existing, which we surely have no reason to doubt is common also to animals, is linked up with the urge to make ourselves recognised by some other person, some witness, helper, rival or adversary who, whatever may be said, is needed to integrate the self, but whose place in the field of consciousness can vary almost indefinitely. If this analysis as a whole is correct, it is necessary to see what I call my ego in no way as an isolated reality, whether it be an element or a principle, but as an emphasis which I give, not of course to the whole of my experience, but to that part of it which I want to safeguard in a special manner against some attack or possible infringement. It is in this sense that the impossibility of establishing any precise frontiers of the ego has been often and rightly pointed out. This becomes clear as soon as one understands that the ego can never be thought of as a portion of space. . On the other hand, it cannot be repeated often enough that, after all, the self is here, now; or at any rate there are such close affinities between these facts that we really cannot separate them. I own that I cannot in any way conceive how a being for whom there was neither a here nor a now could nevertheless appear as "I." From this it follows paradoxically enough that the emphasis of which I have spoken cannot avoid tending to conceive of itself as an enclosure, that is to say as exactly the thing it is not; and it is only on deeper reflection that it will be possible to detect what is deceptive in this localisation. I spoke of an enclosure, but it is an enclosure which moves, and what is even more essential, it is vulnerable: a highly sensitive enclosure. [The incomparable analyses of Meredith in The egoist would fit in very naturally here. Nobody, perhaps, has ever gone so far in the analysis of a susceptibility for which the term self-love is manifestly incomplete.] Actually, this susceptibility is rooted in anguish rather than in love. Burdened with myself, plunged in this disturbing world, sometimes threatening me, sometimes my accomplice, I keep an eager look-out for everything emanating from it which might either soothe or ulcerate the wound I bear within me, which is my ego. This state is strikingly analogous to that of a man who has an abscess at the root of his tooth and who experiments cautiously with heat and cold, acid and sugar, to get relief What then is this anguish, this wound? The answer is that it is above all the experience of being torn by a contradiction between the all which I aspire to possess, to annex, or, still more absurd, to monopolise, and the obscure consciousness that after all I am nothing but an empty void; for, still, I can affirm nothing about myself which would be really myself; nothing, either, which would be permanent; nothing which would be secure against criticism and the passage of time. Hence the craving to be confirmed from outside, by another; this paradox, by virtue of which even the most self-centred among us looks to others and only to others for his final investiture. This contradiction is constantly appearing here. |
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To Pose Before Myself Nowhere does it show up in greater relief than in the attitude which our everyday language so aptly terms pose. The poseur who seems only to be preoccupied with others is in reality entirely taken up with himself. Indeed, the person he is with only interests him in so far as he is likely to form a favourable picture of him which in turn he will receive back. The other person reflects him, returns to him this picture which he finds so enchanting. It would be interesting to find out what social climate is most favourable for posing, and what on the other hand are the conditions most likely to discourage it. It might generally be said that in a virile atmosphere posing is unmasked immediately and made fun of. At school or in barracks the poseur has practically no chance of success. A consensus of opinion is almost certain to be formed against him, his companions see through him at once, each one of them accuses him of infringing a certain implicit pact, that of the little community to which he belongs. It is not easy to formulate it exactly, but it is a distinct perception of the incompatibility between a certain reality in which each one participates and this play-acting which degrades and betrays it. On the other hand, the more artificial, unreal and, in a certain sense, effeminate the environment, the less the incompatibility will be felt. This is because in such circles everything depends upon opinions and appearances, from which it follows that seduction and flattery have the last word. Now, posing is a form of flattery, a manner of paying court while seeming to obtrude oneself. Beneath it all we invariably find self-love and, I might add, pretension. This last, by its very ambiguity, is particularly instructive. To pretend is not only to aspire or to aim high, it is also to simulate, and actually there is simulation in all posing. To realise this we only need to recall what affectation is in all its forms. From the moment that I become preoccupied about the effect I want to produce on the other person, my every act, word and attitude loses its authenticity; and we all know what even a studied or affected simplicity can be. Here, however, we must note something of capital importance. From the very fact that I treat the other person merely as a means of resonance or an amplifier, I tend to consider him as a sort of apparatus which I can, or think I can, manipulate, or of which I can dispose at will. I form my own idea of him and, strangely enough, this idea can become a substitute for the real person, a shadow to which I shall come to refer my acts and words. The truth of the matter is that to pose is always to pose before oneself. "To play to the gallery. . .", we are accustomed to say, but the gallery is still the self. To be more exact, we might say that the other person is the provisional and as it were accessory medium, through which I can arrive at forming a certain image, or idol of myself; the work of stylisation by which each of us fashions this image might be traced step by step. This work is helped by social failure as much as by success. When he who poses is scoffed at by his companions, he decides, more often than not, that he has to do with imbeciles and shuts himself up with jealous care in a little private sanctuary where he can be alone with his idol. Here we are in line with the merciless analyses to which the anti-romantics have subjected the cult of the ego. "But", you may ask, "should we not take care not to go too far? Is there not a normal condition of the ego which should not be confused with its abnormalities or perversions?" The question is a very delicate one., It must in no way be mistaken for a problem of technical philosophy, with which we are not dealing here and which involves the question of the very existence of a superior principle of unity which guides our personal development. What concerns us here is only to know under what conditions I become conscious of myself as a person. It must be repeated that these conditions are essentially social. There is, in particular, every reason to think that the system of perpetual competition to which the individual is subjected in the world of to-day cannot fail to increase and exasperate this consciousness of the ego. Ego as Abode of Originality (A Fatal Error) It must be repeated that these conditions are essentially social. There is, in particular, every reason to think that the system of perpetual competition to which the individual is subjected in the world of to-day cannot fail to increase and exasperate this consciousness of the ego. I have no hesitation in saying that if we want to fight effectively against individualism in its most harmful form, we must find some way of breaking free from the asphyxiating atmosphere of examinations and competition in which our young people are struggling. "I must win, not you! I must get above you!" We can never insist enough upon how the real sense of fellowship which shows itself in such striking contrast among any team worthy of the name, has been rendered weak and anaemic by the competitive system. This system does in fact encourage each one to compare himself with his neighbour, to give himself a mark or a number by which he can be measured against him. Moreover, we must notice a thing which is essential in our argument: such a system, which makes self-consciousness or if you prefer to call it so, self-love ten times worse, is at the same time the most depersonalising process possible; for the thing in us which has real value cannot be judged by comparison, having no common measure with anything else. Unfortunately, however, it seems as though people have taken a delight in accumulating every possible confusion concerning this point, and I have no hesitation in saying that the responsibilities of those who claim to celebrate the cult of the individual are overwhelming. Maybe there is no more fatal error than that which conceives of the ego as the secret abode of originality. To get a better idea of this we must here introduce the wrongly discredited notion of gifts. The best part of my personality does not belong to me. I am in no sense the owner, only the trustee. Except in the realm of metaphysics, with which we are not dealing to-day, there is no sense in enquiring into the origin of these gifts. On the other hand, it is very important to know what my attitude should be with regard to them. If I consider myself as their guardian, responsible for their fruitfulness, that is to say if I recognise in them a call or even perhaps a question to which I must respond, it will not occur to me to be proud about them and to parade them before an audience, which, I repeat, really means myself. |
| Patriots who Resist the Treason of Despair ... Personal Exchange as Mark of All Spiritual Life [H]ope appears to be bound up with the use of a method of surmounting, by which thought rises above the imaginings and formulations upon which it had at first been tempted to depend. But, in [the case of the invalid], it depends no doubt on more than a question of dates. The very idea of recovery is capable, at any rate in a certain spiritual register, of being purified and transformed. "Everything is lost for me if I do not get well", the invalid is at first tempted to exclaim, naively identifying recovery with salvation. From the moment when he will have not only recognised in an abstract manner, but understood in the depths of his being, that is to say seen, that everything is not necessarily lost if there is no cure, it is more than likely that his inner attitude towards recovery or non-recovery will be radically changed; he will have regained the liberty, the faculty of relaxing to which we referred at length further back. It really seems to be from this point of view that the distinction between believer and unbeliever stands out in its true meaning. The believer is he who will meet with no insurmountable obstacle on his way towards transcendence. Let us say again, to fix the meaning of the word obstacle more precisely, that in so far as I make my hope conditional I myself put up limits to the process by which I could triumph over all successive disappointments. Still more, I give a part of myself over to anguish; indeed I own implicitly that if my expectations are not fulfilled in some particular point, I shall have no possibility of escaping from the despair into which I must inevitably sink. We can, on the other hand, conceive, at least theoretically, of the inner disposition of one who, setting no condition or limit and abandoning himself in absolute confidence, would thus transcend all possible disappointment and would experience a security of his being, or in his being, which is contrary to the radical insecurity of Having. This is what determines the ontological position of hope—absolute hope, inseparable from a faith which is likewise absolute, transcending all laying down of conditions, and for this very reason every kind of representation whatever it might be. The only possible source from which this absolute hope springs must once more be stressed. It appears as a response of the creature to the infinite Being to whom it is conscious of owing everything that it has and upon whom it cannot impose any condition whatsoever without scandal. From the moment that I abase myself in some sense before the absolute Thou who in his infinite condescension has brought me forth out of nothingness, it seems as though I forbid myself ever again to despair, or, more exactly, that I implicitly accept the possibility of despair as an indication of treason, so that I could not give way to it without pronouncing my own condemnation. Indeed, seen in this perspective, what is the meaning of despair if not a declaration that God has withdrawn himself from me? In addition to the fact that such an accusation is incompatible with the nature of the absolute Thou, it is to be observed that in advancing it I am unwarrantably attributing to myself a distinct reality which I do not possess. It would however be vain to try to hide the difficulties, from the human point of view, of this position of which no one would dream of contesting the metaphysical and religious purity. Does not this invincible hope arise from the ruins of all human and limited hopes? Must not the true believer be ready to accept the death and ruin of his dear ones, the temporal destruction of his country, as possibilities against which it is forbidden to rebel? To go further: if these things come about, must he not be ready to adore the divine will in them? We cannot be enough on our guard against the softening processes to which some people have recourse in order to reassure those whose faith might fail in the presence of such terrible happenings. I have in mind particularly the allegations of those who claim to calm us by observing that God, being infinitely good, cannot tempt us beyond our strength by driving us to despair which he has actually forbidden us. I am afraid that these are no more than verbal tricks; we know neither the real extent of our powers nor the ultimate designs of God; and, if the arguments were really possible to accept, it would in the long run amount to an implicit and as it were hypocritical way of laying down conditions which would bring hope once more within the limits of the relative. But then must it not be agreed that the absolute hope to which we are invited tends to become identified with despair itself-with a despair however which it is no longer even pemitted for us to inulge in, and which is perhaps no more than an infinite apathy? On the other hand, it is to be wondered whether, in claiming to establish himself beyond the reach of any possible disappointment in a zone of utter metaphysical security, man does not become guilty of what might well be called treason from above. Does he not tend to violate in this way the fundamental conditions under which he is introduced into the world? To tell the truth, in falling back upon the idea of what I have called absolute hope, it seems that I elude my problems far more than I solve them and that I am juggling with the given facts. But are we not then losing our way again in the inextricable? Here I take the example once more of the patriot who refuses to despair of the liberation of his native land which is provisionally conquered. In what, or in whom, does he place his hope? Does he not conditionalise his hope in the way which just now we decided was unwarrantable? Even if he recognises that there is no chance that he will himself witness the hoped-for liberation, he carries beyond his own existence the fulfilment of his desires, he refuses with all his being to admit that the darkness which, has fallen upon his country can be enduring, he affirms that it is only an eclipse. Still more: it is not enough to say that he cannot believe in the death of his country, the truth is much more that he does not even consider he has the right to believe in it, and that it would seem to him that he was committing a real act of treason in admitting this possibility; and this is true whether he is a believer or not. In every case he has made a judgment, which lies outside all his power of reflection, that to despair would be disloyal, it would be to go over to the enemy. This judgment. rests on a postulate which is actually very likely to remain implicit but which we must examine. It consists in the affirmation that in hoping for liberation I really help to prepare the way for it, and that, inversely, in raising a doubt about its possibility I reduce the chance of it to some degree. It is not that strictly speaking I impute a causal efficacy to the fact of hoping or not hoping. The truth is much rather that I am conscious that when I hope I strengthen, and when I despair, or simply doubt, I weaken or let go of, a certain bond which unites me to the matter in question. This bond shows every evidence of being religious in essence. Here we come up, however, against a difficulty. Where the matter in question is strictly speaking my own fate, can we speak of a bond or indeed of religion? It is probably necessary here to introduce a distinction which we have previously had occasion to bring out. When I tremble for my own existence, it may be that I am giving way to the simple instinct of self-preservation: it is very doubtful if one can legitimately designate by the word "hope" the kind of organic attachment to myself which makes me imagine final liberation in the midst of danger, even where the future seems most threatening. It is different when piety towards oneself intervenes. By this I mean a reference to a certain spiritual interconnection at the heart of which my existence can preserve its meaning and its value. We are not dealing here ,with an abstraction, an impersonal order: if I inspire another being with love which I value and to which I respond, that will be enough to create this spiritual interconnection. The fact of the reciprocal love, the communion, will be enough to bring about a deep transformation in the nature of the bond which unites me to myself. Where the matter concerns me alone, or more exactly when I consider myself as though I were the only one concerned, the question of knowing what is going to happen to me may strike me as practically without interest or importance. This, however, will not prevent the instinct of self-preservation from remaining active in me with all that it entails. It is obviously not the same if I know that he whom I love is in some way dependent on me, and that what happens to me will affect him vitally. We might say in the manner of Hegel that my relationship to myself is mediated by the presence of the other person, by what he is for me and what I am for him. But it is of capital importance for our subject that we see at the same time that this spiritual interconnection of which I have only examined the simplest example here, invariably appears as veiled in mystery to him who is conscious of having a part in it. Here again, let us be as concrete as possible. To love anybody is to expect something from him, something which can neither be defined nor foreseen; it is at the same time in some way to make it possible for him to fulfil this expectation. Yes, paradoxical as it may seem, to expect is in some way to give: but the opposite is none the less true; no longer to expect is to strike with sterility the being from whom no more is expected, it is then in some way to deprvie him or take from him in advance what is surely a certain possibility of inventing or creating. Everything looks as though we can only speak of hope where the interaction exists between him who gives and him who receives, where there is that exchange which is the mark of all spiritual life. |
Here I take the example once more of the patriot who refuses to despair of the liberation of his native land which is provisionally conquered. In what, or in whom, does he place his hope? Does he not conditionalise his hope in the way which just now we decided was unwarrantable?
You always did wonder why I could still be in a good mood "if, for the sake of argument, you're right." (Save for the occasional slip-up. We're all human.)
(Well, until hordes of impatient Readers start jamming my FReepmail box demanding the next installment ... =)
I do hope all is well with you and yours, Dumb_Ox.
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Capitivity as Counter to Death of Secular Hope Now let us suppose, on the contrary, that I am going through a time of trial, either in my private affairs or in those of the group to which I belong. I long for some deliverance which would bring the trial to an end. The "I hope" in all its strength is directed towards salvation. It really is a matter of my coming out of a darkness in which I am at present plunged, and which may be the darkness of illness, of separation, exile or slavery. It is obviously impossible in such cases to separate the "I hope" from a certain type of situation of which it is really a part. Hope is situated within the framework of the trial, not only corresponding to it, but constituting our being's veritable response. I have used the metaphorical term of darkness, but this metaphor has nothing accidental about it. It is, indeed, true that throughout a trial of the kind I have in mind, I find I am deprived for an indefinite period of a certain light for which I long. In fact, I should say that every trial of this order can be considered as a form of captivity. Let us try to get a closer view of the meaning of the word captivity, or rather let us examine the characteristics of any state which can be described as "being a captive or prisoner." A special kind of endurance is, of course, involved, but what are the conditions under which endurance becomes part of the experience of captivity? Here we must emphasise the part played by duration. I should consider myself a captive if I found myself not merely precipitated into, but as it were pledged by external constraint to a compulsory mode of existence involving restrictions of every kind touching my personal actions. In addition, that which characterises all the situations we are evoking at the moment, is that they invariably imply the impossibility, not necessarily of moving or even of acting in a manner which is relatively free, but of rising to a certain fullness of life, which may be in the realms of sensation or even of thought in the strict sense of the word. It is quite clear, for instance, that the artist or the writer who suffers from a prolonged sterility has literally a sense of being in prison, or, if you prefer, in exile, as though he had really been taken out of the light in which he normally has his being. We can, therefore, say that all captivity partakes of the nature of alienation. It may be in reality that, in tearing me out of myself, it gives me an opportunity of realising far more acutely than I should have done without it, the nature of that lost integrity which I now long to regain. This is illustrated in the case of the invalid for whom the word health arouses a wealth of associations generally unsuspected by those who are well. Yet, at the same time, we must determine not only what is positive but what is illusory in this idea of health which the sick man cherishes. A similar problem is presented when the beloved being whose disappearance I deplore seems to me more real and distinct now he is no longer with me than when I was able to enjoy a mutual and direct relationship with him. I will not elaborate the details of the discussion which would take us away from our subject. I will merely remark that this method of reasoning does not seem to open the way for hope to us: quite on the contrary it is likely to land us in an anguish whence there is no escape, to make us prisoners of an experience which tears our hearts, where fact and memory are endlessly. opposed and, far from merging together, are bound to contradict each other unrelentingly. All that we can say is that this form of reasoning brings into stronger relief the fundamental situation to which it is hope's mission to reply as to a signal of distress. But, it may be objected, are not some situations, where the tragic element seems to be absent, of such a nature as nevertheless to encourage or even to invite the exercise of hope? The woman who is expecting a baby, for instance, is literally inhabited by hope. It seems to me, however, that such examples, and I would even include that of the adolescent who anxiously awaits the coming of love, only seem to confirm what was said above. As a matter of fact, the soul always turns towards a light which it does not yet perceive, a light yet to be born, in the hope of being delivered from its present darkness, the darkness of waiting, a darkness which cannot be prolonged without dragging it in some way towards an organic dissolution. And might we not say in passing that it is from this point of view that such peculiarities as the aberrations frequent in adolescents and expectant mothers are to be explained? In reality, we should probably go a step further in this direction and, interpreting the phenomena somewhat differently from Plato and the leaders of traditional spiritualism, recognise that there is quite a general aspect under which human existence appears as a captivity and that, precisely when it takes on this form, it becomes so to speak subject to hope. It would actually be easy to show, and as we proceed we shall probably realise more fully, that there is also an ever-present possibility of degrading this same existence to a state in which it would gradually lose all capacity for hope. By a paradox which need surprise only the very superficial thinker, the less life is experienced as a captivity the less the soul will be able to see the shining of that veiled, mysterious light, which, we feel sure without any analysis, illumines the very centre of hope's dwelling-place. It is incontestable, for instance, that free-thought impregnated with naturalism, however it may struggle, alas with increasing success, to obliterate certain great contrasts and to flood the world with the harsh light of the lecture hall, however it may at the same time advertise what I have elsewhere styled the category of the perfectly natural, it is--I repeat--incontestable that such a dogmatically standardised free-thought eventually runs the risk of depriving souls of the very rudiments of secular hope. |
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MASTER OVER, SLAVE TO -AND- OWNER OF MY BODY [T]here can only be a problem for me where I have to deal with facts which are, or which I can at least cause to be, exterior to myself; facts presenting themselves to me in a certain disorder for which I struggle to substitute an orderliness capable of satisfying the requirements of my thought. When this substitution has been effected the problem is solved. As for me, who devote myself to this operation, I am outside (above or below, if you like) the facts with which it deals. But when it involves realities closely bound up with my existence, realities which unquestionably influence my existence as such, I cannot conscientiously proceed in this way. That is to say, I cannot make an abstraction of myself, or, if you like, bring about this division between myself on the one hand and some ever-present given principle of my life on the other; I am effectively and vitally involved in these realities. This holds good for instance in the case of the union of body and soul, or, in more precise terms, the bond which unites me to my body. I cannot make of this bond a pure idea to be placed in front of me and considered as an object, without misunderstanding its essential nature. Thus it follows that every term by which I try to qualify it as a relationship or to determine its function will invariably prove to be inadequate: I cannot exactly say that I am master of my body, or that I am the slave of my body, or that I own my body. All these relationships are true at once, which amounts to saying that each one of them taken by itself is false, that it does not so much translate as it traduces a certain fundamental unity. This unity is less a given principle than a giving one, because it is the root from which springs the fact of my presence to myself and the presence of all else to me. Thus it encroaches upon its own data and, invading them, passes beyond the range of a simple problem. It is in this very definite sense that the family is a mystery, and it is for this reason that we cannot properly and without confusion treat it simply as a question to be solved. Anticipating what is coming later, I want to point out right away that there is a deep similarity between the union of soul and body and the mystery of the family. In both cases we are in the presence of the same fact, or rather of something which is far more than a fact since it is the very condition of all facts whatever they may be: I mean incarnation. I am not, of course, using this term in its theological sense. It is not a question of our Lord's coming into the world, but of the infinitely mysterious act by which an essence assumes a body, an act around which the meditation of a Plato crystallised, and to which modern philosophers only cease to give their attention in so far as they have lost the intelligence's essential gift, that is to say the faculty of wonder. |
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Responsibility: The Mark Proper to a Person It is, on the contrary, in the nature of a person to face any given situation directly and, I should add, to make an effective decision upon it. But, it may be asked, is not this the ego appearing once more? I think not. Let us understand each other. There could naturally be no question of conceiving of the person as of something distinct from that other thing, the ego; as if they were in separate compartments. Such an idea would be completely fictitious. We must go further. The person cannot be regarded as an element or attribute of the ego either. It would be better to say that it is something compelling, which most certainly takes its birth in what appears to me to be mine, or to be me myself, but this compelling force only becomes conscious of itself when it becomes a reality. It can thus in no way be compared with a slight desire. Let us say that it is of the order of "I will" and not of "I would like. . .". I claim to be a person in so far as I assume responsibility for what I do and what I say. But to whom am I responsible, to whom do I acknowledge my responsibility? We must reply that I am conjointly responsible both to myself and to everyone else, and that this conjunction is precisely characteristic of an engagement of the person, that it is the mark proper to the person. We will not stay any longer among abstractions where there is always a risk of be coming imprisoned by words. Supposing that I wish or feel bound to put a certain person on his guard against someone else. I decide to write him a letter to this effect. If I do not sign my letter I am still as it were moving in a realm of play, of pastimes, and I might readily add mystification; I reserve to myself the possibility of denying my action; I deliberately maintain my position in a zone as it were halfway between dreams and reality, where self-complacency triumphs, the chosen land of those who, in our time, have made themselves the champions of the gratuitous act. From the moment that I sign my letter, on the contrary, I have taken on the responsibility for it, that is to say I have shouldered the consequences in advance. I have created the irrevocable not only for the other person but for myself. Of my own tree will I have brought into existence new decisions which will bear upon my own life with all their weight. This, of course, does not exclude the possibility that it was a reprehensible, perhaps even a criminal action to write the letter. There is nevertheless a radical difference of quality, or more exactly of weight, between this action and that of writing a letter without signing it. Let us repeat that I tend to establish myself as a person in so far as I assume responsibility for my acts and so behave as a real being (rather than a dreamer who reserves the strange power of modifying his dreams, without having to trouble whether this modification has any repercussions in the hypothetical outside world in which everybody else dwells). From the same point of view we might also say that I establish myself as a person in so far as I really believe in the existence of others and allow this belief to influence my conduct. What is the actual meaning of believing here? It means to realise or acknowledge their existence in itself, and not only through those points of intersection which bring it into relation with my own. |
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we might also say that I establish myself as a person in so far as I really believe in the existence of others and allow this belief to influence my conduct. What is the actual meaning of believing here? It means to realise or acknowledge their existence in itself, and not only through those points of intersection which bring it into relation with my own. |
Cool painting. Yours?
Frantisek Kupka ... Bohemian Czech, I think, born around 1870something and died in '57 having ended up a cubist, abstract artist of some note.
I love it even though it's probably a result of his Eastern occultism moreso than the "Conquering Worm" and other images equally startling for their presaging of Christendom's fiercely independent nationals collectivizing into a militant atheist Euro Soviet.
May I bayou a cup of decaf?!
I'm an educated...and understanding.....man, but.......what exactly does this mean?
Vincent Price Flashback.
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