Seneca: Epistles. Number 88: “”On Liberal and Vocational Studies.” Richard Mott Gummere translation. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1920.

 

Addressed to “his friend Lucilius,” a Roman procurator, Seneca’s letters range over an array of topics likely to concern a gentleman-politician. Gentleman-politicians distinguish themselves from ‘the vulgar.’ But on what terms? By what criteria? Most immediately, because they are “free-born,” neither slaves nor dependent upon civil-social superiors, and therefore potentially capable of self-government and of governing the city. But capable in what way? And how can the desired capability be cultivated? Roman gentleman often hope to make their sons distinguished from ‘the vulgar’ by providing them with an education in the liberal arts.

“You have been wishing to know my views with regard to liberal studies,” Seneca begins, alluding to the famous opening sentence of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, “All men by nature desire to know.” Gentlemen, however, direct this natural human inclination in a gentlemanly direction. “I respect no study,” Seneca continues, “and deem no study good, which results in money-making.” Respect or honor; deeming or judging; goodness: these are the preoccupations of one who wants to rule, one who wants to rule prudently, one who wants to rule virtuously, not with mere virtuosity. And surely not for a task so base as money-making. Seneca distinguishes the work of a gentleman from the work of buying and selling, some “profit-bringing” work “useful only in so far as” it prepares the mind for better things, which is “our real work” as gentlemen and perhaps as human beings simply. That is, while practical, the gentleman is no ‘utilitarian.’ Liberal studies “are studies worthy of a free-born gentleman,” and there is really only one such study, the one “which gives a man his liberty.” That is “the study of wisdom,” which is “lofty, brave, and great-souled.” The love of wisdom, which will lead a soul to the study of wisdom, is philosophy. But loftiness or high-mindedness, courage, and magnanimity are moral virtues par excellence. Seneca seems to conjoin philosophy not only with a life animated by morality but with the most conspicuous virtues, the virtues a gentleman-politician might most want to possess. He associates liberty primarily with philosophy, secondarily with what a gentleman would ordinarily think, that liberty is citizenship, sharing in the rule of the city.

Do liberal studies really “make men good,” though? The liberal arts, the objects of liberal studies, consist of the trivium—grammar, rhetoric, logic—and the quadrivium—arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, music. What have they to do with moral virtue? When it comes to “investigations into language,” including works of history and poetry, Seneca doubts that they have much to do with it at all. “Pronouncing syllables, investigating words, memorizing plays, or making rules for the scansion of poetry, what is there in all this that rids one of fear, roots out desire, or bridles the passions?” Unlikely: linguistics, history, and poetry “would resemble each other if they taught the same thing,” whether it were morality or anything else. They don’t. That is, in terms of the trivium, logic tells us that grammar and rhetoric (specimens of which highlighted the works of the classical historians) do not teach virtue. 

What about rhetoric, the most persuasive manifestation of which might be said to be poetry? Teachers of this liberal art often make the claim that Homer teaches virtue, that Homer “was a philosopher,” and therefore a teacher of virtue as Seneca has defined “philosopher.” Did Homer deploy poetry in defense of philosophy? If so, what school of philosophy did Homer represent? Some call him a Stoic, some an Epicurean, some a Peripatetic/Aristotelian, some an Academic/Platonist. “Yet “no one of these doctrines is to be fathered upon Homer,” just “because they are all there,” all seen in one or another of the characters he presents in his poems, and these characters “are irreconcilable with one another.” Homer’s characters thus defy the principle of non-contradiction, the principle of logic, the third liberal art of the Trivium. And even if Homer was indeed a philosopher, a philosopher who anticipated and comprehended all subsequent philosophic schools, “surely he became a wise man before he had any knowledge of poetry.” His wisdom must have preceded his art. The study of poetry didn’t make him wise. 

What did? One cannot learn that by what ‘moderns’ would call the facts one might turn up by reading his poems—asking where Ulysses voyaged “instead of trying to prevent ourselves from going astray at all times.” There are storms of the soul “which toss us daily,” troubling us as much as all the misadventures of the Homeric hero. “For us there is never lacking the beauty to tempt our eyes, or the enemy to assail us; on this side are savage monsters that delight in human blood, on that side the treacherous allurements of the ear, and yonder is shipwreck and all the varied category of misfortune”; “show me rather, by the example of Ulysses, how I am to love my country, my wife, my father, and how, even after suffering shipwreck, I am to sail toward these ends, honorable as they are.” A philosopher will inquire not whether Penelope actually was “a pattern of purity,” or whether “she suspected that the man in her presence was Ulysses, before she knew it was he”; “teach me rather what purity is, and how great a good we have in it, and whether it is situated in the body or in the soul.” That is, a philosopher will ask questions about how things are, what they are, what good things are, and the nature of things—the ‘What is?’ questions of Plato’s Socrates. At best, poems might be the work of a poet who, already knowing the answers to these questions, or at least knowing the several opinions about them and thereby being capable of raising questions about the answers, portrays characters who illustrate virtues, vices, good fortune and bad, bringing them to us for our own investigation. 

As for the quadrivium, the study of music teaches virtue no more than poetry does. It teaches me to produce harmonies of sound, but that doesn’t “bring my soul into harmony with itself” or prevent “my purposes [to] be out of tune.” Mathematics, in particular geometry, teaches me “how to lay out the dimensions of my estates” but not “how to lay out what is enough for a man to own.” In teaching me to count, arithmetic only “adapts my fingers to avarice” without teaching me “that there is no point in such calculations,” except to ruin my soul. And as for my estate, why should I allow myself to indulge the love of what is my own—or rather, what only seems to be my own? If someone connives to take your carefully measured land that your father and grandfather owned, “Who owned the land before your grandfather?” And who owned it originally? After all, you are only tenant on that land, keeping it for some future tenant. Moreover, “what you hold and call your own is public property—it belongs to mankind at large.” And as for your grander calculations, your computations of “the distance between the stars,” if you were “the real master of your profession, measure me the mind of man!” And in terms of ethics, knowing what a straight line is doesn’t tell you what a straight life is.

Astronomy? “What benefit will it be to know this?” As for astrology, the planets and stars “are driven along by an unending round of destiny, on a course from which they cannot swerve.” That being so, “if they are responsible for whatever happens, how will it help you to know the secrets of the immutable?” You can’t do anything about them. The right-minded man weighs probabilities, preparing for whatever events may befall, good or evil, exhibiting phronēsis, practical wisdom.

What of the non-liberal, if not illiberal arts? Painting and sculpture are not liberal arts but mere “helps toward luxury.” Athletic training is even less liberal; to learn how to wrestle (for example) is to gain knowledge “compounded of oil and mud”—the oil with which wrestlers slather their bodies, the mud in the pits where wrestlers fight. As to the arts of perfumery and of cooking, they serve bodily pleasures, not the mind, catering to the wrong ordering of the soul. What of the strict warlike skills? “Do we really believe that the training which they give is ‘liberal’ for the young men of Rome, who used to be taught by our ancestors to stand straight and hurl a spear, to wield a pike, to guide a horse, and to handle weapons?” Those ancestors who taught their children “nothing that could be learned while lying down” were no better educators than our teachers of the arts of satiation. Why learn to “guide a horse and control his speed” without knowing how to bridle our passions? And why learn to beat opponents in wrestling, if we “find that we ourselves are beaten by anger?”

Do liberal studies “contribute nothing to our welfare,” then? Yes, “but nothing at all as regards virtue.” They contribute to “the equipment of life.” Like all equipment, and like all the arts that equip us for thinking and acting, they cannot “bestow virtue,” but they can “prepare the soul for the reception of virtue.” “The liberal arts do not conduct the soul all the way to virtue,” but they do “set it going in that direction.” 

How so? Seneca calls upon the authority of Posidonius, the massively learned Greek who promoted the advancement of Stoicism throughout the Roman Empire. Posidonius identified four arts: the “common and low”—arts worked with the hands, “concerned with the equipping of life” with “no pretense to beauty or honor”; “those which serve for amusement,” pleasing to eye and ear; those deployed to educate boys, especially the trivium and quadrivium, which Romans call liberal; and the genuinely liberal arts, “whose concern is virtue,” which is what truly liberates the human soul from its passions. Only those are truly liberal, truly liberating. Stoic philosophy has exactly that purpose. 

Admittedly, philosophy also consists of the study of nature, and quadrivial geometry and arithmetic assist in that study. “But many things aid us and yet are not parts of ourselves”; were they parts of ourselves, we would not need to acquire them. “Mathematics is as indispensable to philosopher as the carpenter is to the mathematician” but carpentry isn’t mathematics and mathematics isn’t philosophy. The natural philosopher inquires into the causes of natural phenomena “while the mathematician follows up and computes their numbers and their measurements.” Similarly, the natural philosopher learns “the laws by which the heavenly bodies persist” and “what powers belong to them,” while the astronomer “merely notes their comings and goings.” No art is self-sufficient because all arts rest on “first principles” the art itself cannot and does not discover. If an art “could march unassisted to the truth, if it were able to understand the nature of the universe, I should say that it would offer much assistance to our minds; for the mind grows by contact with things heavenly and draws into itself something from on high.” But the only thing that perfects the soul is “the unalterable knowledge of good and evil.” Arts exist in order to alter things, not to discover the unalterable. No art “investigates good and evil.” The arts are amoral in and of themselves, although they may be propaedeutic to morality, and to philosophy generally. The possible exception, the third art of the Roman trivium, logic, is no exception in the sense that logic does not discover its first principle, the principle of non-contradiction; it rests upon that principle. Exercise in the art of logic can aid morality by helping (for example) to prevent incoherence of moral precepts. But it is itself no virtue; it does not make us good.

Consider the virtues, Seneca tells Lucilius, following the ‘What is?’ line of philosophic inquiry. Do liberal studies make us courageous? Courage “challenges and crushes the powers of terror and all that would drive our freedom under the yoke,” all that would deprive us of liberty, whether political or philosophic. In what way do liberal studies strengthen souls in this? Loyalty, a foundation of the friendship Seneca and Lucilius enjoy, “the holiest good in the human heart,” does not arise from such study, either. Nor does moderation, which “knows that the best measure of the appetites is not what you want to take”—which a mathematician might count and measure—but “what you ought to take,” which might be measurable in terms of bodily good, but not moral good. Liberal studies cannot teach us to be kind, to know “that it is not for man to make wasteful use of his fellow man.” Liberal studies are worthwhile preparations for the attainment of wisdom but wisdom “is not learned by means of these studies.”

Yet although “wisdom is not to be found in letters,” no man “ignorant of letters” will ever “be a wise man.” This is because “wisdom is a large and spacious thing,” indeed liberating, too large and spacious for any one person to become comprehensively wise. “One must learn about things divine and human, the past and the future, the ephemeral and the eternal”—time, the soul, the cosmos. “Whatever phase of things human and divine you have apprehended, you will be wearied by the vast number of things to be answered and things to be learned.” Better to “let all other things be driven out, and let the breast be emptied to receive virtue.” Winnow down your liberal studies to “as much of them as is essential.” Yes, all men by nature desire to know, but that desire too can be immoderate, as all desires can be. Pursue it immoderately to the peril of your soul. The “unseemly pursuit of the liberal arts makes men troublesome, wordy, tactless, self-satisfied bores, who fail to learn the essentials just because they have learned the non-essentials.” One scholarly pest wrote four thousand books; “I should feel pity for him if he had only read the same number of superfluous volumes,” writings that address “problems the answers to which, if found, were forthwith to be forgotten.” This being so, “I can show you many works which ought to be cut down with the axe.” To want to hear the praise, “What a learned man you are!” is vanity. If you want to be praised, seek the compliment, “What a good man you are!” A good man will refrain from “wallow[ing] in the geometrician’s dust.”

You are a gentleman, Lucilius. You have no time for such things. To chase after them, you would need to “take no thought of all the time which one loses by ill-health, public duties, private duties, daily duties, and sleep.” Life is too short to be wasted on “superfluous and unpractical matter.”

Where does this leave philosophy? In its place. Philosophers “have taken over into their own art all the superfluities of these arts,” and “the result is that they know more about careful speaking than about careful living.” That is, philosophy too is an art, but not often a liberal one, one that sets the soul free. Philosophers indulge in “over-nice exactness,” an enemy of truth. In so doing, they have gathered themselves into the distinct and opposing philosophic sects supposedly seen in Homeric poetry. Protagoras (the sophist Seneca classes with the philosophers) “declares that one can take either side on any question and debate it with equal success,” including the question of whether one can take either side on any question and debate it with equal success. And so it would seem, when examining philosophers who argue plausibly for atomism and reduce morality to mere rhetoric (Nausiphanes), for a cosmos that is real but whose various phenomenal manifestations are illusory (Parmenides), for the denial that anything at all exists (Zeno), and for the denial that we can know anything at all, with the possible exception of knowing that we do not know (the several schools of Skepticism). “You may sweep all these theories in with the superfluous troops of ‘liberal’ studies; the on class of men give me a knowledge that will be of no use to me, the other class do away with any hope of attaining knowledge.” Such philosophizing is nothing but a source of vexation. It is sophistry. It leads to intellectual confusion, not theoretical wisdom, and undermines morality, which requires practical wisdom not rhetorical posturing.

Genuine philosophy, Stoicism, centers the soul upon the virtues. In this, it calms the suspicions of the gentlemen who regard philosophy itself as suspect because so many philosophers evidently think in vain and undermine morality. At the same time, Stoic philosophy frees the philosopher, Seneca, not only from the threat of persecution by indignant gentlemen but for the pursuit of philosophy, including the investigation of nature—of the cosmos and of the place of human beings within it. 

 

 

André Malraux: The Kingdom of Farfelu with Paper Moons. W. B. Keckler translation. New York: Fugue State Press, 2005.

Georges Lemaitre: From Cubism to Surrealism in French Literature.  Westport: Greenwood Press, 1978 (1947).

André Vandegans: La Jeunesse Littéraire d’André Malraux: Essai Sur L’Inspiration Farfelue. Abbeville: Jean-Jacques Pauvert, 1964.

Domnica Radulescu: André Malraux: The “Farfelu” as Expression of the Feminine and the Erotic. New York: Peter Lang, 1994.

 

In 1921, the very young André Malraux dedicated his first published work of fiction, Paper Moons, to the Cubist writer, Max Jacob, an early friend and mentor in Paris. Paris in the years after the Great War saw a continuation of the artistic ferment that had begun before the war, an atmosphere of social and political security now of course long vanished. Lemaitre’s history evokes that time and place.

The French, he writes, “with almost complete consistency,” have esteemed rationality and realism, considering themselves “the upholders of le bon sens.” Seen in the neoclassicism of the seventeenth century and the Enlightenment counter-rationalism of the eighteenth, what Malraux would later call the “mania for logic” has animated French minds. The stance has not been without its critics; Lemaitre cites the Rousseau of the Reveries and such Romantics as Gérard Nerval, Victor Hugo, Charles Baudelaire. Two generations before Malraux, the poet Stéphane Mallarmé strove to transcend ordinary reality, “to enter the realm of the Absolute, which for him meant simply a more or less abstract, immaterial conception of perfect, ideal beauty” evoked by literary incantations tapping into “the hidden magic power of words,” which he compared to sentient, animated “living organisms,” organisms that have lost their original vitality in “the drab, stale vocabulary of modern days.”  Once “freed from the tyranny of reality, released from the necessity of having to ‘mean’ something definite,” words “will encounter a thousand possibilities of self-realization,” re-revealing “the ‘other’ world—the world of the ideal.” In philosophy, this was the time of the ‘irrationalists,’ of Nietzsche’s will to power and of Bergson’s élan vital. Moreover, from the 1890s on, science and mathematics themselves seemed to corroborate the unreality of reality, as “a series of correlated discoveries…revolutionized the conception of the structure of the universe that had prevailed since about the time of the Renaissance,” dissociating “certain aspects of reality that had been hitherto considered as forming an indivisible unity.” Mathematical physics, atomistic chemistry, and experimental psychology together left “the impression that every sentiment we entertain and every solid object that we perceive is but a flimsy assemblage ready to collapse into fragments at the impact of some new discovery.” “The world of our experience” seemed to disintegrate “into minute particles,” as the world “was seen as “infinitely more complex than had ever been imagined before,” with “enormous and profound unknown forces” were now understood to “envelop human life on all sides.” Such claims were no longer the province of poets, mystics, and madmen; “human intelligence, which the rationalistic Frenchman had so long trusted as the safest guide in the intricate maze of puzzling reality, came to be regarded with suspicion and even with contempt.” Rousseau’s noble savage reigned once more: “Since intelligence had betrayed the confidence placed in her, the desire was to return to a pre-intellectual state, to a primitivism akin to that of the Negroes of Central Africa—a stage of development in which intellect had not yet had a chance to draw an interpretative veil between the core of reality and man’s sentient being.” 

One littérateur who typified the Parisian scene near the turn of the century was the wealthy, garrulous, massively erudite absinthe drinker, Alfred Jarry, whose 1896 play, Ubu-Roi enjoyed a succès de scandale with its “hideous presentation” of “cupidity, cowardice, gluttony, lechery, bourgeois respectability, philosophical wisdom, and shar, dangerous cunning,” all set for with “a monstrous vital intensity reminiscent of the powerful creations of Rabelais.” King Ubu “stands as a symbol of the lowest human instincts, which, if given a free hand, might easily take possession of our whole being and…fasten the tyranny of ignoble appetites upon our entire personality”—a “bitter satire on the society in which we live,” a society in which the play “aroused either violent resentment or wild enthusiasm.” Among his young admirers were Guillaume Apollinaire, Pablo Picasso, and Max Jacob, the men who went on to start the Cubist movement in literature, painting, and sculpture. For the Cubists, Jarry “came to be regarded as the standard-bearer of a generation in revolt, a champion who had fallen”—he died in 1907 at the age of 34—in “a lofty struggle” against what young artists yawned at: the dullness of middle-class existence, with its stubborn insentience of the harrowing reality beneath the surface of worldly comforts.

Picasso and Jacob befriended one another in Paris in 1901, the year Malraux was born. They met Apollinaire a few years later. “Cubism is the most direct and evident consequence of that collaboration,” finding an impetus in the statuettes now being imported from the Ivory Coast and Congo. “The candid expression of genuine, though brutal, sensations and sentiments stirred man in a way that was beyond the power of a clever, sophisticated technique,” that “hard crust of an age-old civilization,” with “the thick layer of interpretive notions and traditions which intelligence had deposited upon all things,” now held to be “the main obstacle to direct contact with the richest sources of human inspiration and emotion.” The “geometric simplification” seen in African art suggested that the artists had “succeeded in suggesting with almost overpowering force a mysterious order, not thrust upon passive objects by an organizing intelligence but existing, as it were, at the very core of things themselves.” A 1908 exhibition by Picasso’s friend Georges Braque provoked Henri Matisse (other art historians credit the critic Louis Vauxcelles) to describe the paintings as having been composed “with little cubes.” “At the bottom of the Cubist movement was an eager and fervent desire to penetrate beneath the motley exterior of material appearances and to grasp something of the fundamental substance of reality,” inasmuch as the structured atomism of geometric shapes leaves literary and visual art “utterly free from entanglements and compromises with the materialism of life,” especially as exemplified by those money-grubbing bourgeois. “Even though discursive logic was now discredited, the Cubists had little difficulty in persuading themselves that pure geometry reflected the basic architecture of the universe,” so long as it helped them “to dislocate the world of appearances” and got them well beyond the unthinking materialism of the middle classes. In a sense, they asserted themselves as a new class of aristocrats, inasmuch as this hitherto undisclosed geometrical metaphysic “was not to be determined logically, nor even mathematically, but solely by intuition” by “the poet and to the artist alone,” bringing forth a vision “reserved for those who have something of the poet in them” as the effect of paintings and poems intended “to arouse an enraptured response in the souls of the privileged few who held within themselves a spark of the sublime.” “Sublime” is exactly right: Cubist art had no patience for the merely beautiful, dismissing it as superficial, ornamental, decorative. Da Vinci’s perspectivism was out, medieval depictions of tortured saints in. The Cubists “were fully aware of the intervening rationalistic evolution,” the shift from Christian art to the art of Renaissance neo-classicism, “would have to be eradicated,” and they “were prepared to reject all the intellectual and technical advances achieved in the field of painting since the Renaissance,” which interfered with “a sense of the totality of the universe,” with “close contact with a sublime spiritual entity.” Whether “the force of spiritual energy” was Bergson’s élan vital, Nietzsche’s will to power, or T. S. Eliot’s Christianity, Cubists averred that it came “from the deepest recesses of man’s fundamental vitality.” As in Nietzsche, as in the Christian churches, music came to be seen as a more direct emanation from those deep recesses than any other art; Guillaume Apollinaire wrote, “We are drifting towards an entirely new art which will stand in relation to painting, as hitherto regarded, just as music stands in relation to literature.”

Apollinaire classified Cubist painters into four groups. “Scientific” or “conceptual” cubists remained ‘geometric,’ taking (for example) those Renaissance masterpieces and “decomposing” them into their supposedly underlying triangles, circles, and squares; Picasso and Braque were the masters among them. “Physical” cubists depicted new structures, borrowing elements from physical reality, as seen in the later paintings of Henri Le Fauconnier, whereas “Orphic” Cubism borrowed forms not from physical objects spun them out of their own minds, as seen in the paintings of the Czech artist, František Kupka, a man given to theosophy and trance states. “Instinctive” Cubism, perhaps more properly described as intuitionist Cubism, took its bearings from Bergson; Matisse was among its many practitioners.

Apollinaire—in Cubist fashion, he reshaped his Polish name, Wilhelm Apolinaris de Kostrowitzki— himself remained the foremost among the literary Cubists. His Catholic upbringing left “a spiritual exaltation [that] was always at work within him, concealed from public view,” an exaltation which did not interfere with either his “marked taste for the open and unrestrained enjoyment of material pleasures,” including “the art of eating,” or his “utter lack of respect for rules and self-imposed discipline.” He wrote copiously on the “Esprit nouveau” in literature, philosophy, and art, his masterpiece acknowledged to be his 1913 book of poems, Alcools. (Could a poem not be like a glass of absinthe, a delightful, risky, mind-bending intoxicant?) Unlike the shattered souls of the ‘Lost Generation,’ he found the Great War, in which he fought and was severely wounded, a source of “spiritual exaltation inspired by constant danger, the proximity of death, and a thousand weird and exciting adventures,” an event that caused a “universal breakdown of tradition values” that served as “an inspiriting confirmation of his own views and of his fondest hopes.” Jettisoning the French “superstitious reverence for good taste,” the “set of conventions and prejudices particularly developed in the old civilizations, that forbid the direct and unpolished expression of spontaneous and instinctive feelings,” Apollinaire insisted that “even the lowest, the crudest, the most banal, the most despised aspects of everyday existence, even the most hideous and repulsive actions committed in the war, were not to be excluded but joyously welcomed in their entirety,” as “they all contain a magic kernel of essential poetry which the vulgar may not perceive but which inspired men like Apollinaire himself can express with compelling power.” This “cannot be achieved through careful, rational analysis, nor through cold-blooded dissection of the external aspects of the world” but can be “realized only in a state of lyrical enthusiasm, when the soul of man enters into communion with the spirit of the whole Cosmos and the two vibrate together in perfect harmony,” the soul drawing upon the “superior, transcendental energy” or élan vital which animates all of Being. The poet-hero would then “be as much a benefactor to mankind as Christopher Columbus,” freeing man “to go and find something new, something real, at last.” Hence the practice of “automatic writing,” whereby the poet would go into a self-induced trance, writing down whatever popped into his head, kaleidoscopically. (It must be admitted that Apollinaire then took the trouble to edit the results.) This practice eventuated in, and was continued by, the Surrealist movement. [1]

Apollinaire adapted the methods of Cubism to literary purposes by breaking up his poetic narrative “arbitrarily into short or long passages, arranged in direct sequence but with almost no ascertainable connection between them, interrupted by digressions, personal reflections, or unexpected anecdotes,” dislocating “the forms of reality” into the verbal equivalent of geometric shapes or atoms. “All statements are made abruptly, without any preparation or transition, in a manner suggestive of the angles and bare surfaces to be found in the paintings of the same period,” producing “an atmosphere of unbridled fantasy and odd supernatural occurrence, carrying the reader into a half-real, half-imaginary world where the objects are solid enough, although their setting has none of the compelling stability that our senses find in normal circumstances.” Drawing from but reversing the Catholic mysticism that had found new life before and during the Great War, Apollinaire’s poetry features “strange outbursts of sadism [that] call up disturbingly the truly infernal abysses existing in human consciousness.”

Second only to Apollinaire among the literary Cubists, Malraux’s friend and mentor, Max Jacob, came from an entirely different milieu, a family of Jewish atheists in Brittany. He met Apollinaire in 1904, dabbled in occultism while taking care to make some money out of it. “His comic verve was prodigious,” as “he made fun of everything and everybody, including himself,” with the sole exception of his friend Picasso. Reaching for “the realm which was beyond the reach of his reason or his senses,” he eventually found it as he walked home from the Bibliothèque Nationale in September 1909, when “there appeared to him what he took to be an entrancing supernatural vision of the Deity Himself” and he fell, Paul the Apostle-like, to the ground, entranced, then picked himself up and reported to the nearest Catholic priest, who, suspecting a prank, laughed him off. Undeterred, he integrated his occultism and Cubism “within the compass of his Christian mystic revelation,” conversing with angels and “the blessed souls of the departing.” Nor did he abandon his “grotesque clowning,” now in front of God, acts of a “buffoon and prophet rolled into one.” “If I have sinned horribly on a certain day, then on the following day…I choke, I sob I cry, I beat my face, my beast, my limbs, my hands; I bleed, I make the sign of the cross with my blood, with my tears. In the end God is taken in.” His reader may be permitted to wonder if that were really the case, but in any event, he eventually received his baptism, “having Pablo Picasso himself for a godfather.” His years’-long, sincere-ironic soul-wrestling left him sympathetic to young men undergoing similar quests, including André Malraux. And none of his eccentricities should detract from his literary achievement. As LeMaitre writes, “Max Jacob has assisted perhaps more than any of our contemporaries”—he had died in a German concentration camp only five years before LeMaitre published his study—in “ridding the French sentence of all its superfluous literary ornaments and in reducing it to a plain, angular bareness reminiscent of the most aggressive Cubist paintings.” By doing so, he “struck at intellectual reasoning itself” by “ruining on principle the power of carefully arrayed words” in a quasi-Nietzschean foray into irrationalist estheticism which registered “the strangeness, the inexplicableness of the universe”—the spirit of the farfelu Malraux took on and never fully left behind. The marvelously named Fugue State Press, evidently the publishing arm of a university without walls, has made Lunes en Papier (dedicated to Jacob) and Royaume-Farfelu available in an English translation by the noted poet, W. B. Keckler.

In the frontispiece, Malraux calls Paper Moons “a small book in which one learns of several little-known conflicts, and a voyage among objects familiar but strange, all of it true.” But true in what sense? That is the question, Hamlet might ask, if in an epistemological mood. What is true, if we are take the author at his word, is that “There are no symbols in this book.” According to Jean Moréas, author of The Symbolist Manifesto of 1886, the poetry of the Symbolistes—Stephane Mallarmé, Paul Verlaine—would “clothe the ideal in perceptible form.” There is nothing ideal about the perceptible forms sketched in Paper Moons; blink, and they have changed, a band of shape-shifting teases.

The beings we meet are geometric figures, beginning with the moon itself, which, “like a luminous advertising sign”—a novel thing, in 1921—changes color “in phases,” reflecting on a lake, itself changing with every ripple, producing “the play of light and water.” Geometric lines define what is, as seen in Plato’s Meno and, among Frenchmen, Descartes. They give the appearance of clarity, stability. But what if the lines undulate, thanks either to an electric current or a summer breeze? Do these surfaces not then reflect the inner instability of things, the physics and metaphysics of Cubism? Not stability but metamorphoses—even, as Malraux himself will style it, decades later, The Metamorphosis of the Gods.

The moon laughs and produces children whose eyes, “fearful and ironic,” evidently perceive the unstable nature of the world into which they have been born. [2] Fearful, because they cannot know what will come next? Ironic, because there is little to revere in what cannot be permanent? The moon-children can be irritated, however—their moods are no more stable than the world. They see “ominous balloons” on the lake, “a harem of smooth, hairless, roly-poly sultans” (sultans, who by convention keep harems); when the moon-children realize that the balloons are not “carrying out complicated, invisible duties” as rulers are expected to do,” when they “realized the truth” Malraux has promised to tell, they become “indignant,” their noses shift shapes into billiard cues, and they knock the balloons around, only to bounce indifferently on the shimmering water, “inflam[ing] the jealousy of the baby moons, who wanted them dead.” 

The balloons prove unkillable, even undeflatable, at least under billiard cue assault, yet not imperturbable; they “found themselves, alas, forced to act,” and, seeing “a flickering amber palace” thrown up by an “enchanted fountain,” they determine to invade it, anticipating “all kinds of lovely infamy” to be perpetrated therein. The palace’s inhabitants, hanging from the crossbeams under the roof, hoping to escape a beating, are tied up by the “savage balloons,” metamorphosed into beings of action from their previous languor on the lake. Among the inhabitants are philosophers, “black radishes full of sound.” In the world of paper moons and sultan balloons, philosophers are indistinguishable from the windbag rhetoricians and shape-shifting sophists we meet in the Platonic dialogues. Like all distinctions in the anti-bon sens universe, these blur. 

The balloons’ triumph doesn’t last, any more than anything else does. Insolently jeering at the “genie of the lake,” a “cat-shaped pincushion,” they are soon punished. The Genie captures them and decides to inflict the death penalty, after finding that no one wants to take them. “Since no one desires these cruel balloons, We, the Genie of the Lake, who possess rights of justice, high and low, over the totality of this, Our Fiefdom, condemn these balloons to death in the name of justice,” indistinguishable from revenge. And rightly so, by the light of the occasionally silvery moon, inasmuch as justice in a world of flux can only be a matter of arbitrary passion. But when they are hanged, the balloons’ tongues don’t stick out, and the frustrated Cat-pincushion hangs himself, exclaiming, “O passion, you’re about to lose your little Cat Deluxe!” His paws lay “fittingly across each other in the shape of a cross,” a parody-Christ who commits suicide. The weight of the Cat’s body pulls the ropes tight on the balloons, causing the balloons’ tongues to stick out, after all. The death of this mock-Christ consummates his intention not by saving but by humiliating his enemies. 

And yet some of the balloons are resurrected, metamorphosed—some “blossom[ing] into huge flowers,” others into “fruits with the soft gleam of antique polished wood,” but all exuding an “aphrodisiac aroma” which draws stuffed alligators out of the antique shops, running after them. One of the fruits then produces nine “new beings,” seven of whom are the Deadly Seven Sins, of which two, Envy and Greed, promptly explode, leaving Anger, Lust, Gluttony, Sloth, and Pride—fittingly the largest of the brood—who introduces his companions. One of the other surviving beings introduces himself as Hifili, a name perhaps derived from the Hebrew hifil, denoting causation. (“Perhaps” indeed—who knows? But to pretend it’s so runs with the spirit of the Lunes.) “Before the metamorphoses that gave me this balloon soul,” he announces, “I was a man who carefully studied shapes,” especially glassware, and among glassware especially the retorts, long-nosed flasks (he is a “red Pinocchio”) used in alchemical transformations. To shift from science to alchemy is to shift from ancient and modern geometry, from stable definition to the metamorphic geometry of Cubism. “I loved the retorts most of all,” beings that “would have run to eat out of my hand if they had known how to eat,” sardonic presences given to “contemptuous laughter,” and so the spirit of irony, regnant throughout the story. “I am the master of glass.” The other red being, who never gives his name, recalls his previous life as a musician, “before I had the mind of a balloon.” In that former life, he had been trapped by “an immense translucent lace” emitted by some fifty small rods “all hopping up and down like bobbins.” He was trapped, and “the trunk of my body had been replaced with a mandolin,” which sounded discordantly. “Can you imagine my despair?” And he couldn’t tune himself because the tuning pegs and the neck of the mandolin “were hidden inside my head!” Quel dommage. Pride offers them a role, to replace the exploded sins. “Being a mortal sin can not only give your life a purpose, but is also a career with many attractive benefits.” They accept, “for a number of reasons,” the Mandolin announces. “You will never know them all,” except this one: “If we didn’t accept your offer, we would end up in a lot of trouble,” which he leaves unspecified. Evidently, the trouble won’t come from God, who has by this day and age become “completely oblivious,” replaced by Satan. 

Would Satan, then, be the cause of trouble for the newly-minted Sins, if they hadn’t accepted Pride’s offer? Possibly, but Pride is as rebellious against Satan as was Satan against God. “We could take over from Satan.” But “our authority would be almost nil,” Anger complains, as “Satan’s best ally, Death, will destroy us.” Not to worry, Pride insists, “We’ll just kill Death!” And so the campaign, the expedition, begins.

They march into the forest, where “they saw the at the low-hanging leaves made geometric patterns: spheres, cubes, prisms and each pattern had a luminous core, like the bright eye of an ironic Russian hare.” The forest is a Cubist wonderland. Death seeks to destroy the Sins, but while soft Gluttony worries (“Maybe we should take some precautions”), “ingenious Hifili,” master of glass and of alchemical transformations, demurs: “No point. Because Death has an impoverished imagination.”

“Everyone knows that ‘Death’s empire’ is called the Kingdom of Farfelu,” Pride observes. Farfelu, André Vandegans explains in his erudite, exhaustively researched study, derives from a Greek word for bubble of air; in Rabelais (where Malraux found it) it means a bagatelle, fantasy. As Malraux himself wrote, a few years later, “The talent of a writer of fantasy consists almost always in perceiving that the commonly accepted world is only a dream, not because it is not true, but because it is fixed.” In the Lunes, the life world isn’t fixed and the kingdom of death isn’t final. Both are susceptible of being mocked, since neither finally can impose itself on anything or anyone.

On the way toward the river “that led to the Kingdom of Farfelu”—Lethe?—”they were delighted with themselves, because they saw how much Creation is in need of touching up, and how much more harmonious it could all be through the contributions of Sin.” They seem to have forgotten their troubles. Hifili, “metamorphosed into Greed now,” having replaced him, “watched all the sins brightened,” feeling he “could accept them as true friends,” but when they face the river his “reverie” ends. “An animal musk, intoxicating as ether,” arises from tufts of red fur floating on the river; “he felt that fruits of the flesh were against his lips, that he took a bite, and that the fruits were bursting open, splattering all across this face their sugared blood.” Birds hover above the river, then fall in, their feathers mixing with the animal fur. Nor is the reptilian absent, as the snakelike Bigophones appear, frightening the Sins, who, “without knowing why,” understood “that great and tragic events loomed ahead.” The carnival-cardboard instruments promise to drive the Sins “to the very edge of the Kingdom of Farfelu,” with their “banal poems and stupid songs, too frightful to image,” a prospect the former musician rescues them.

After a night at an inn managed by a poet, the Sins soldier on to the walls of the Kingdom of Farfelu, where the townspeople are celebrating but the queen Death herself, “was suffering a bout of listlessness” and has called for a retinue of physicians. Queen Death “inhabited a chamber with immense mirrored walls, reproducing to infinity the furniture in the room”—an illusion of infinity. As for Her Majesty, she “resembled a giant insect, because of her dinner jacket,” which fluttered in the breeze, giving the impression of wings. Death boasts to the head physician of her new skeleton, made of aluminum: “We must keep up with project,” as in modernity “everything has become mechanical, metallic, dazzling, and yet my beauty remained Gothic. I was slipping into passé.” Death, too, feels the desire to metamorphose, to keep up with ever-changing fashion, which imitates the ever-changing Cubist universe. 

But, sad for Queen Death, the physician turns out to be Pride in disguise, who prepares a liquid to destroy her. Being prideful, Pride orders the other Sins out of the room, “back into hiding,” but the Mandolin ex-musician admonishes, “No melodrama, please. A sin owes it to himself not to act as his title suggests. Even the various loves of Lust were only chimeras, and didn’t last.” Pride glares, “jealous of the musician’s intelligence,” but commands no more, proceeding to poison Death, who is thankful for whomever “helped me out this sorrow.” Sorrow? Yes, because, you see, “the world is only tolerable to us because of our habit of tolerating it,” and “my departure” from it “will be a great practical joke,” inasmuch as I am called Death “but you know perfectly well that I’m only Chance. Slow decay is just one of my disguises.” The farfelu world is really the world of atomism, but not the atomism of Democritus, who supposed atoms to be impenetrable. Now, atoms themselves are dissolvable, not to say dissolute, as scientists know that they can be split into careening sub-particles, driven by chaos-making energy. 

“Death was dead.” The Mandolin-musician muses, asking: “Forgive me, dear friends… When I was a man, I was subject to a kind of mental anemia. So please don’t mind too much if I ask: Why, exactly, did we kill Death?” The Sins “put their heads into their hands and wept,” as they can’t remember.

Readers will remember. The Sins set out to kill Death because they feared that Death would kill them at the behest of Satan, who has replaced an indifferent God and whom the Sins, spurred on by Pride, wanted to overthrow. But Cubist sins partake of the same randomness as the rest of things, and so cannot form any lasting intention, being finally mindless. The readers, considering Malraux’s art, however, will see that he has drawn order out of this disorder. As Vandegans remarks, in a contemporaneous article on Cubism Malraux paid homage “to the effort of art”; “fantasy and the fantastic are the modes of expression of the independence of the artist in relation to the world and of his individuality that are especially effective” against the randomness, the absurdity, of the world. Cubism, Malraux wrote, reveals “the desire of purity and of construction,” the “desire of discipline” seen in the literary style of the writers and painters who are its practitioners. He called this the opposite of “Hamletism,” of indecision, “the creation of an autonomous reality”—of paper moons, moons written on paper, or painted on it, as Picasso does, exhibiting “absolute creation.” [2] Vandegans finds this in Lunes en papier, “an absolute creation” which “opposes to the real a universe of art.” “Dominated by Death,” the “world is the kingdom of malice, of cruelty, of the absurd, of combat always renewed against enemy forces,” a combat so banal that Death herself has wearied of it. With the Cubists, Malraux opposes vitality against Death, order against Chance. 

Malraux’s second and final purely farfelu fiction, Royaume-Farfelu, appeared seen years after Lunes, in 1928. In it, Malraux has abandoned Cubist geometric figures, however, replacing them with human beings, however fantastic. What had intervened in those years was Malraux’s experience of a real alternative reality, one that needed imagination not to create but to understand: the East, Asia, “a civilization,” Vandegans remarks, “radically different from his own” one ruled by European imperialists. While in Cambodia, he made contact with the anti-imperialist members of Jeune Annam. “In Asia, Malraux had submitted to the grip of the real,” confronted no longer by risible modern Western banality, the regime of the bourgeoisie, but with the harder side of the French regime, which jailed him for stealing some ancient bas-reliefs, which he hoped to sell to a Paris collector. In response, he wrote The Temptation of the West and The Conquerors. 

The Temptation of the West is an epistolary novel, the correspondences being two young men, the European “A.D.,” symbol of the West after the turn to Christianity, and “Ling,” whose name means ‘sensibility.’ Ling sees in Europe “an attentively ordered barbarity,” as seen in Christianity, in which “all the intensity of love is concentrated on a body that has been tortured.” One body: the West also prizes individuality. Whether Christian or Napoleonic, the individual aims at conquest. True enough, A.D concedes, but China’s Confucianism, its sensibility, its refinement, nears collapse in the face of the West. While he feels his friend’s anguish, he neither embraces the Chinese sensibility nor adverts to the faith of Christianity. Instead, he faces the crisis of East and West with courage and “voracious lucidity.” With these virtues, he will resist “the most subtle temptation” that faces the young men of the West, which is the passion for ingenious artistic revival—obviously, the several ‘movements,’ announced in ‘manifestos,’ that proliferated just before and just subsequent to Malraux’s own arrival in Paris as a youth: Symbolism, Cubism, Fauvism, Dadaism, Surrealism. A.D. and Malraux ready themselves for new discoveries.

The Conquerors takes the same struggle from words, the letters in an epistolary novel, to actions, the events narrated in a novel on a workers’ rebellion in Canton. These Chinese are no longer men of sensibility but of political revolution, ‘Westernized’ Chinese, organized by Borodine, a Soviet agent. In this novel, one character offers the first enunciation of what eventually came to be called Malraux’s “tragic humanism”: “it is rare, ein Mensch…a man”—a genuine man, conscious of his own humanness and standing against those who would reduce him, and other men, to sub-humans, to the conquered. Such dehumanizing conquest may be seen both in capitalism and in Bolshevism. Malraux called The Conquerors “above all an accusation against the human condition,” the condition of fatedness, of oppression of human beings by human beings and indeed Being itself, a condition to be resisted defense of the humanity that is capable of resisting tyranny. [4]

Published in 1928, the same year The Conquerors appeared, Royaume-Farfelu takes the artistic techniques of Cubism and literally humanizes them. That is, instead of characters who are anthropomorphized geometric figures—anthropomorphism itself being one of the many metamorphoses Cubism valorizes—the characters here are human (with a few devils thrown in). The fiction begins with a warning: “Watch out, curlyhaired devils: ghost images are forming on the silent sea. This hour no longer belongs to you.” Curlyhaired devils aren’t really devils but the men of the West, where “gilded popes and antipopes walk along the empty gutters of Rome; behind them, demons with silken tails—who are former emperors—laugh mutely.” Church and state are ruined, and “a king, who no longer cares for anything but music and the art of torture, wanders the night disconsolate, blowing on upraised silver trumpets, leading his dancing subjects onward.” In the East, “a broken conqueror sleeps in black armor, surrounded by restless monkeys.” The Western project of conquest has exhausted itself. 

The narrator (“a mysterious voice,” Vandegans calls him) is on a voyage, along the coast of Turkey, where “merchants threw themselves upon us as soon as we touched land.” One of them sells phoenixes, but the phoenix he burns to impress the voyagers reconstitutes itself from its ashes and “took advantage of the merchant’s foolhardy joy and escaped.” “As I left all of this behind, I thought: Oh seas of Asia, I yearn for the pale light of the medusas that drift on your warm tides,” for the “barks and vessels of the Orient, whose “scent rests in my heart.” But this Oriental reverie is interrupted by a summons to the prince, the Little Mogul. Neither the conquests of the West, nor the commerce of the Near East, nor dreams of the dreamlike Far East can evade the human reality of obeying the ruler.

He listens as the Little Mogul interrogates a messenger named Idekel, “an old man, sweet-tempered,” whom he had sent on an expedition to Babylon, whose hanging gardens, Idekel reports, have collapsed. The farthest reaches of the Little Mogul’s domains are deserts, now. His daughter, whom Idekel guided to “the fish-eating tsar” of Russia, now “rules by herself” in an empire in which she oversaw a “deathly flotilla” of the gods of the old religions, gods who rotted “while the Christian priests sang.” Like the narrator, the Little Mogul longs for the East, but specifically for the Princess of China, embodiment of the grace and wisdom of her civilization. Does he order his armies to advance toward Persia in order to move closer to China, to her? [5]

The Little Mogul appoints the narrator to the post of Historian to the Prince, who, after having destroyed the Persian army, intends to conquer Persia’s great city, “the undefended Ispahan.” The expeditionary forces of the Little Mogul seized Ispahan and the historian wrote the narrative of the conquest, aided by Idekel, who deems his youth “spent in scholarship” as an apprentice magician to have been worthless. “I journeyed with all the other magicians to the islands of Hell,” where he saw “the damned file along trough snow, like lines of miserable ants, escorted by fluttering demons.” The magicians’ spells scattered the demons, but they returned “to conquer us in the end.” In the aftermath of this disaster, “bit by bit I forgot my conscience; I was indifferent to learning, teaching, everything.” After conquering the city, the soldiers sacked it. “This night,” Idekel says, “was certainly one of the greatest nights in the history of the world, one of those nights when the stunned gods surrender the earth to the savage demons of poetry.” “And didn’t we find every last scrap?” But as for the narrator, “I found nothing.” “A few hours passed: I remained sprawled out on the roof, conquering cities in my daydreams,” while “the demons of the ruins were born, who are faceless and live in our own bodies.” The demon who inhabits the narrator tells him, “You won’t remember Ispahan, because Ispahan belongs to the beasts,” who were even then returning to its ruins. Ispahan’s “crown of desolation will protect it from your cursed comrades and their vile officers.” “Dream of your death, artist.” And each soldier, too, “heard the voice that rose up within him, and was shattered by it.”  The conquerors fled the city.

“It seemed as if mankind had disappeared from the earth, and that plants, silent animals, and stones lived in the perfect liberty that follows upon hopeless abandonment.” The remaining army retreated across the desert, chased by an “immense insect sheet” of scorpions. “Madness suddenly seized the whole multitude of troops and threw them by handfuls like grains of sand out to the vultures of the desert.” 

“I will never know how I reached Trebizond,” one of several smaller successor states to Byzantium, conquered by the Turks. “I arrived there dazed, senseless, guarded by children covered with amulets,” and “the prince took me in.” He now “manage[s] to make a living selling beautiful shells,” some of which “communicate with demons in hell, but nobody knows it.” Having collected two sirens, he intends to sell them to the prince of Trebizond, whose “Christian minister” denies the existence of. “With the money he will give me, maybe I’ll book passage on one of the ships that sail to the Fortune Islands. I’m only sixty years old….” The Fortune Islands, the Isles of the Blessed celebrated by ancient Greek poets, were supposed to be somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, reserved for aristocrats who had chosen to be reincarnated three times.

The Kingdom of Farfelu, instantiated in the Persian city, is both the Kingdom of Death and the Kingdom of Madness, setting limits on the ambition to conquer. The narrator himself survives but is mad, driven mad by the uncontrollable forces within the limbo between West and East. 

Radulescu devotes most of her book to tracing the theme of the farfelu from Malraux’s most celebrated novel, Man’s Fate, and to his last great book, his ‘anti-memoir,’ Mirror of Limbo. In Man’s Fate the farfelu character is Clappique, erstwhile dealer in antiques and art, now an arms dealer, happy to sell his wares to either side in the ongoing civil war between the communists and the nationalist Kuomintang. Clappique, “the incarnation of the ‘farfelu,'” acts as “an anomaly in the midst of all that is normal, natural,” a “skinny Polichinelle,” the marionette, Punch, in the Punch-and-Judy show, who attempts to conceal the force of the strings that jerk him around from others and from himself with alcools and mythomania. But in this novel, “Malraux opposes mythomania, the conscious denial of reality, the grimacing laughter of the clown.” Clappique hangs out in the Black Cat bar; Radulescu remarks that in Christian folk tales the black cat is the agent of the Devil, “who, in his turn, negotiates best with women.” Clappique is a bit of “a prostitute himself,” perpetually “asking for money and perform[ing] services for money”—a capitalist who demonstrates the absurdity of pure capitalism, which would sell arms not only to the forces controlled by the Shanghai business corporations but to the communists who would ruin those capitalists and throw wheeler-dealers like Clappique into ‘re-education’ camps. Radulescu sees that Clappique is not all talk; “his actions make crucial points in the development of the narrative,” and that is the problem. His fantasies turned into action destroy the best man in the novel, Kyo Gisors, the head of the rebellion. Having learned that Kyo will be captured and killed in the next day or two if he doesn’t get out of the city, Clappique goes off to gamble at the casino (a type of fantasy land), instead of warning him. At the gambling table, “he surrenders entirely to hazard,” to Fortuna, to the strings that jerk him around. He himself will later take care to escape, disguised as a sailor. 

Radulescu goes easy on Clappique, calling him “a quite endearing figure,” a Trickster who “floats through the novel as a symbol of aesthetic values, opposed to both the Capitalist and Communist values.” But that is the problem. Clappique refuses the responsibility of humanness, as seen when he looks at himself in the mirror and makes faces, grotesquely. “A world made only of clowns, fluttering Pierrots, and watery creatures can well form the main substance of poetry,” or of prose fantasies like Paper Moons, “but it becomes aesthetically insufficient for a novel.” Yes, but not only aesthetically insufficient: it is morally and politically insufficient, deadly to the bodies of others and to the soul of the fantasist. Clappique’s “betrayal of Kyo” and “his abandonment to the round ball of the gambling table are all deliberate actions through which Clappique takes hold of his own destiny.” This is exactly wrong. He is abandoning himself to man’s fate, not resisting it. In a bit of misplaced feminism, Radulescu observes that “the tragic heroes, the complete men in the novel [emphasis in the text], die the violent and transformative death of fire, the masculine element, which consumes and reduces them to a substance other than their own.” This misses the climactic moment in Man’s Fate, when Kyo, about to be thrown into a furnace by his captors, takes the cyanide capsules he had secreted on his person in the event of such a fate, giving them to his terrified companions; when the men drop the capsules and grope blindly for them, one of his nameless comrades grips Kyo’s hand and says, “Even if we don’t find it….” The gesture of self-sacrificing human fraternity is the real answer to the human condition, a condition of mortality, fatedness. [6] In Man’s Fate, farfelu freedom meets the real freedom of responsibility, leaving its attentive readers with the sense that responsibility is better.

Radulescu is much more reliable in her discussion of the farfelu in Days of Limbo. Here, the farfelu floats in the air, an aspect of the Eternal Feminine, seen in the legendary figure of the Queen of Sheba, for whose lost temple Malraux searched, and in the imagery of flowers and butterflies and fire, and above all the image of the cat, no longer simply the devil of medieval Christendom, instead betokening a femininity “unleashed and ironic, a new kind of sensuality, dynamic and haunting.” The farfelu, like fate, is beyond human control, but it is not ‘fatal,’ destructive of human beings. In Man’s Fate, the women (Kyo’s wife, May, and Valérie, independent-minded mistress of the inhuman capitalist, Ferral) balance the men; so, too, in Mirror of Limbo, where even General Charles de Gaulle’s wife, Yvonne, appears as the courageous partner of her husband, responding to a failed assassination attempt by brushing the shattered car window glass off her clothes and straightening her hat. 

Malraux imagines a butterfly lighting on the nose of the Queen of Sheba. He encounters butterflies once more when he meets Méry, a former French colonial official in Indochina, now living in Singapore, whose hobby is butterfly collecting. They speak of colonialism, Méry wondering why individualistic Europeans forgot their taste for liberty “when the found themselves in the fact of another civilization.” Malraux deepens the question to the question of the memoir itself: “How do we become what we are?” “How does man become the Man that he carries in himself?” His answer is the answer embodied by Kyo’s act in Man’s Fate, an act seen again in Mirror of Limbo when a French Mother Superior interrupted his interrogation by a Nazi officer to bring him food, which Malraux offered to share with the Nazi. Méry takes the point, then raises the political question of mass, rather than individual, sentiments. This brings him to a discussion of butterflies, which he identifies with nature, with which “we begin to converse only when we begin to converse with death.” “In the face of Asia, I feel myself singular; in the face of the butterflies, humanity seems to me unprecedented”; nature is “the life that will continue if all men disappeared.” Malraux cites a Hindu text, in which butterflies descend upon the bones of dead soldiers on a battlefield. “Qu’importe?” Given the indifference of nature, what does human life mean, whether it confronts us in its grim aspect of death or in the beautiful indifference of life? Men ask that question in the face of death, women when they look at the face of a child, the face of new life. The answer Malraux’s book gives remains the answer of the anonymous prisoner: Even if we don’t find it in some metaphysical sense, we have it in one another, in our shared understanding that we are not fate, even if we are fated.

Radulescu cites one of Malraux’s favorite anecdotes, the story Mallarmé told about his cat. One night, Mallarmé listened as the neighborhood cats talked with one another in the ally outside his room. “Whose cat are you?” one asked. “At the moment, I pretend to be the cat of the Mallarmé household.” “Malraux, too, glided gracefully through History as if among pieces of temporary furniture” with an “ironic smile at his own different incarnations”—young literary arriviste in Paris, fascinated by the Cubism that came out of but opposed the Symbolisme of Mallarmé, adventurer in Asia, novelist of tragic humanism and winner of the Prix Goncourt, fighter in the Spanish Civil war, Résistant during the Second World War, writer on art and its metamorphoses, Minister of Culture in de Gaulle’s cabinet in the first decade of the Fifth Republic, anti-memorialist. A cat’s tail curls like a question-mark. What does it all mean? Life, he writes at the beginning of the book, “like the gods of vanished religions, appears to me as the libretto for an unknown music.”

Radulescu considers Malraux’s visit to the cave at Lascaux, where some boys looking for adventure found paintings on the wall made by the earliest humans on French soil, men of pre-History. She speaks of the sexual imagery of the cave itself, with its evocation of the return to Mother Earth; decades earlier, upon his return to earth from the near-fatal airplane ride through a desert storm after his attempt to locate Sheba’s tomb, he thought of the lines on the earth as resembling the lines on his mother’s palm and, one might add, that his own lifeline was long. He sees that tourists’ breath has caused the paintings to deteriorate; the paintings can be saved on condition that men stop “coming there as they please”—that is, for light, ‘farfelu‘ reasons. In another irony, in this novel full of war and rumors of war, the conservation work has been left to the conscientious objectors. Here, for this task, they are the responsible ones.

Why does the Minister of Culture minister to culture? Because even near the beginning of human life, the man who took refuge in the earth against the certainty of death and the velleities of life left his mark on the earth, his art not a mere expression of estheticism, of beauty, but of human freedom, distinct from the human condition. The metamorphosis of the gods effected by men, differs from the farfelu metamorphoses of Cubism because the men who effect them take responsibility for them and for themselves, for human beings. What the Cubists did unwittingly, Malraux does deliberately, understanding even an art that bows to atomism as art, beyond the mystery of matter.

 

Notes

1. The most prominent of the political Surrealists was Louis Aragon, later an apologist for Stalinism. Stalin himself might be described as the apogee of political Surrealism, murderer of tens of millions, albeit in the name of a ‘scientific socialism’—in the hands of genocidists, a self-contradictory, irrationalist rationalism.
2. Domnica Radulescu remarks that “the birth process of the Moon Children is the opposite of a real birth: the little Moons are born as a result of their mother’s laughter, without pain, tears or blood. They effortlessly fall off and float through the universe.”
3. Radulescu sees this clearly: “The noun ‘paper’ points to the writing of literature” and of painting. “Malraux’s later view of art as an ‘anti-destin‘ is being prefigured here.” Additionally, and insightfully, Radulescu, writing after ‘second-wave’ feminism took control over much lit-crit terrain, emphasizes the Rabelaisian sexuality of the Lunes —the way in which the beings change sex, as sexual boundaries too loose their “corporeal nature, acquiring instead a playful, yet grotesque, quality” as changelings, as linear, phallic masculinity intermixes with round, fecund femininity in acts of “poetic alchemy.” Although sympathetic to feminism, Radulescu justly vindicates Malraux from charges of misogyny, as “the bizarre universe of this tale offers, in fact, a criticism of misogyny, a mockery of the male’s arrogance, for the protagonists and their actions are constantly projected into comedy, never truly taken seriously by either the author, whose tome is touched throughout by irony, or the Sins, since each of their undertakings stats with pomp but ends in a failure of some sort,” Pride leading the way to buffoonish failure in his very success. 
4. For a discussion of The Temptation of the West and The Conquerors, see Will Morrisey: Reflections on Malraux: Cultural Founding in Modernity (Lanham: University Press of America, 1984.
5. Radulescu makes much of the Princess of China, describing her as “the embodiment of female beauty and grace,” a person “entirely identified with Nature, in all of its majesty and succulence,” which “appears clearly dissociated from the fabricated world of man.” She is not Queen Death in the Lunes, and the Little Mogul would possess, not kill her. “She is a combination of death and nature.” One might add that for Malraux nature is ‘farfelu’ or self-contradictory, giving birth and dealing death, seductive and dangerous, a siren, a point Radulescu herself makes, in her conclusion to her chapter. 
6. See Morrisey, op. cit., Chapter 3.

 

 

 

 

 

John Guillory: Professing Literature: Essays on the Organization of Literary Study. Part Two: “Organizing Literature: Foundations, Antecedents, Consequences.” Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2022.

 

From his discussion of the purposes of literary study in the first part of his book, Guillory turns to the matter of how literature has been defined. An “epochal change” occurred at the beginning of modern life, and he intends to show what it was and what its effects have been, not only on literary study but on the humanities as a whole. The objects of study themselves have changed, and along with them the ways in which those objects have been taught.

He begins with art historian Erwin Panofsky’s 1940 essay, “The History of Art as a Humanistic Discipline.” Panofsky distinguishes between “documents” and “monuments.” Documents are “all those artifacts or traces of human making, action, or thought surviving into the present.” Monuments are the subset of documents that “have the most urgent meaning for us at any present moment, that most demand our recognition of study.” In literary study, documents range from Shakespeare’s Last Will and Testament to The Tempest. But only The Tempest is monumental. What has this to do with ‘the humanities’? It has to do with them because to study in a field called ‘the humanities’ one ought first to consider what a human is. Man is “the only animal to leave records behind him,” Panofsky writes, “for he is the only animal whose products ‘recall to mind’ an idea distinct from their material existence.” Such “records left by man” are often, though not always, intended to last beyond the lifetime of the man who made them. The “humanistic disciplines” belong “in the field of a long temporality, not that of memory but of memorialization,” as Guillory summarizes: “the domain of ‘culture.'” 

Panofsky then establishes a second distinction, that between the humanities and the sciences. Scientists make their observations by using “instruments which are themselves subject to the laws of nature” they investigate. What they investigate is “the cosmos of nature,” something not constructed by man. Humanists use documents as instruments for the investigation of other documents, studying the notebooks of Leonardo to better understand his sculptures and paintings (or vice-versa). Humanists often then produce their own documents, recording the results of their investigation into the documents they have studied. Thus, humanistic study differs in its objects from scientific study, ‘ontologically’: “If documents existed in the natural world, it would be as though light could report on its own speed.” But that report might be false. Documents “do not bear with them the assumption of truth telling, as do scientific instruments, which are designed to say only what they must say,” assuming the scientist really wants to know, not to distort or conceal. Panofsky can see the difference between the sciences and the humanities as a radical one because modern science has redefined ‘matter’ as something “that eludes natural languages altogether and bears little relation at all to the perception of matter on the macro scale of the human sensorium.” In the higher, or at least the most obscure reaches of science, words fail us.

As mentioned, some documents are also monuments. The word ‘monument’ derives etymologically from the Latin monera, which means “calling to mind.” They “make a particular demand upon us, whenever in human experience, past or present, that says ‘Remember me!'” Admittedly, one scholar’s monument is another’s document, “and vice versa”; “the condition of reversibility between document and monument obtains for all the objects of study in the humanities,” as a historian of the Renaissance might use Michelangelo’s Pieta as a document, while an art historian might use the historian’s history as a document that aids in understanding the Pieta. It should be noticed that this reversibility can deceive, as seen in Burckhardt’s Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy. There, the historian so to speak ‘folds Machiavelli into’ the Renaissance, obscuring the fact that Machiavelli aims at revolutionizing the Renaissance, not only by undermining the Catholic Church and Christianity itself but by undermining Renaissance humanism, including the way in which the literary classics beloved by the humanists were studied. [1]

Treating a document as a monument implies a choice, since monumentality “crowds out other contenders to the margins or to obscurity”; Medusa-like, one statue might seem to turn another statue into mere stone, although in fact we are the ones who select the one over the other for our attention. (Critics can act as Medusas.) Whether considering documents or monuments, whatever the interchange we choose to make among them, “the humanities have an institutional home.” To have an institutional home is to have a regime, and the regime also ‘chooses’ what it holds up as a monument, and what it classifies as a document, as when it orders the removal of Robert E. Lee from his pedestal and places him in a warehouse, consigning him to documentary status, only.

What, then, do the documents, whether monumental or ordinary, tell Guillory about the epochal change undergone by literary study? That change saw “the demise of rhetoric” as the centerpiece not only of literary study but of education generally, a discipline undertaken principally in Latin. Classical rhetoric consisted not only of speaking with force and elegance but of “the full array of pedagogic techniques for raising language to the level of a formal practice, what in Greek culture was called a technē and in Roman an ars.” While rhetoric had its critics among the philosophers, even they did not regard it as bad in itself, as Aristotle and Cicero show; education in Latin (and to some extent Greek and Hebrew) amounted to a words-centered education that comprehended both what we now call the arts and the sciences. “The rhetorical system must be seen as a total program of cognitive-linguistic training, whose parts, though conceptually distinct, were thoroughly interconnected in the actual rhetorical practice of the premodern world.” Central to it was inventio, which wasn’t ‘invention’ in our sense of the term, a form of devising, but a feature of Aristotelian logic described in his Topics, “support[ing] rhetoric as a form of reasoning,” not merely as beguiling sophistry. This suggests that the pedagogy of rhetoric had absorbed some of Plato’s critique of rhetoric. In strengthening the distinctive human capacity to reason, the art of rhetoric was understood to cultivate (‘culture’ in the older sense) human nature, to bring it closer to its telos.

In this system of pedagogy, the ‘monumental’ registered in the practice of memorializing. For the ancients, memoria formed the basis of education, of rhetoric. Memoria was part of cognitive training. Moderns denigrate memorization as “rote”—that is, of mere parrotlike recitation. But under the pedagogy of classical rhetoric, memory was an art aimed at developing the human intellect, an art of mindfulness, an art that made human beings more human.

The epochal break came with the promotion of reading and writing at the expense of speaking in the curriculum and the reconception of reading and writing as ‘basic skills,’ a reconception that democratized reading and writing, enabling them to be extended “to the populace as a whole.” This democratization also required that the vernacular languages displace Latin as the means of education, since the populace more readily learned to read and write their own language. “Vernacularization is a condition and a cause of the demise of rhetoric, a force undermining the ‘dead languages’ of antiquity that could not be resisted forever.”

“But why was rhetoric not capable of vernacularization, leaving Latin behind?” It might have been; after all, oratory in English during the nineteenth century saw Daniel Webster and Abraham Lincoln among its practitioners, both trained under the auspices of a democratized but still largely traditional curriculum, including the King James Bible. But a verbal education did not serve the purposes of the ‘New Class’ of professional managers, who implemented what Woodrow Wilson (himself no mean orator) called the science of administration. “The new scientific and technical disciplines and vernacular language study together displaced the classical curriculum”—democratization for the populace, but underneath a new ‘aristocracy’ that based its claim to rule on the prestige of modern science. True, a part of rhetoric remained: oratory, “an elaborate program for training voice and gesture.” But this was turned to the service of education tailored to the new political regime. As early as the eighteenth century, oratory conceived not only as a means of delivering a speech but as developing a topic, arranging a speech logically and in an elegant style, was being replaced by ‘belles lettres,’ a pedagogy centered on writing, not speaking. Under the belletristic dispensation, speaking consisted of reciting “passages from works of literature”; that is, speaking was increasingly distanced from thought. Public speaking, the art of saying something one’s fellow citizens can judge, began to give way to polite speaking, which meant that speaking was increasingly relegated to civil society, to private life. This may well register modernity’s Machiavellian turn to statism, in which the prince wants to hear no ‘back-talk.’

“It was only in the later nineteenth century,” however, “when an increasingly writing-based pedagogy converged with the new vernacular curriculum of literary, scientific, technical, and vocational subjects,” a coincidence in which “the complementary relation between speaking and writing was irrevocably altered and speaking ceased to be a mater of any but the most rudimentary instruction.” Speech has become informal, not part of the formation of students. 

Guillory doesn’t know Machiavelli very well and does not appreciate his importance in the founding of modernity. But he does see the importance of several influential readers of Machiavelli. For René Descartes, memory is a “gift of the mind,” not a capacity to be developed as an important element of educating the human person. (Is there a ‘human person’ for Descartes?) Descartes rejects the art of rhetoric, turning instead to mathematics, to numbers not to words. And in his Thoughts Concerning Education, John Locke denies that reasoning is aided by rhetoric or even (primarily) by logic, which he associates with the Scholastics. “Locke envisions a pedagogical scene in which the effects of rhetorical persuasion are produced by an intuitive practice”—his ‘simple ideas’ or sense impressions, the building blocks of the complex ideas—and “that rests upon a theory of human nature rather than a notion of language art or technē.” This isn’t quite correct, however. The distinction isn’t so much between nature and art as between rival claims about human nature. Classical rhetorical education understood human nature as teleological, art as a means of ‘imitating’ nature and, in the case of education, getting students to imitate the best examples of human being, to get them to grow into full humanity. Locke founds his educational system upon a non-teleological conception of human nature, a materialist conception that aims at getting students to come down to earth, to avoid the word-nets of rhetoricians, whether clerical or statesmanly. Finally, Adam Smith reduced rhetoric and belles lettres to the expression of moral sentiment—again, pushing moral theory away from reasoning.

But not quite finally. “The most sweeping critique of rhetoric” came at the hands of Immanuel Kant, who called rhetoric “the art of using the weakness of people for one’s own purposes.” Not art but “vigor” and sincerity were what Kant wanted in speech. The anti-Machiavellian Kant thus accepted the Machiavellian conception of rhetoric, the language of the fox, and rejected it for its Machiavellianism.

“If the Western school was rhetoric, what is it now?” Modern pedagogy centers on a particular kind of knowledge, namely, “information.” Information is “knowledge detached from individual knowers,” stored or transmitted “in symbolic form,” whether as words or numbers. Information informs; it bypasses teaching by one person of another person. It is “knowledge in disembodied form,” depersonalized. One only need access to it. Technē as the imparting of knowledge from master to apprentice becomes limited to the ‘fine arts,’ on one end of the scale, and ‘craftsmanship’ (carpentry, bricklaying) on the other end. It is true that “the very practice by which information is generated, transmitted, and manipulated is itself an art which, by definition, cannot be reduced to information.” But in general modern education, following Descartes, attempts to teach by means of method, not technē in the classical sense. The very term ‘technical’ has come to be defined as methodical. “Always in our society there is an effort to reduce the transmission of an art to the transmission of information.”

Modern pedagogy replaces comprehension in the sense of comprehensiveness—any “knowledge expressed in language, about any subject,” including both moral and natural philosophy—with “differentiation”—knowledge acquired by learning and applying methods “specific to different kinds of object.” “The emergence of new sciences in the early modern period was contingent on the differentiation of knowledge discourses and the development of new information technologies, such as the algebraic geometry,” the calculus. With this, mathematics became “a language for representing and intervening substantially into this world, not an ideal or Platonic realm of numbers and shapes.” Math became Machiavellian/Cartesian/Baconian, adapted to the conquest of nature. [2] Modern thinkers transformed logic, as well, shunting aside “the old formal logic of the syllogism” as well as the practical reasoning esteemed by Aristotle and Cicero, central to political life, for logics reducible to mathematical symbols, probabilities that could be calculated. This enterprise sharpened the difference between mathematics and what we now think of as the ‘hard’ sciences and ‘the humanities,’ now scarcely considered rational at all. In the classical sense, the humanities have been dehumanized, as seen in the title of José Ortega y Gasset’s The Dehumanization of Art. This brings a characteristic feature of the modern university, and of the modern way of life generally, its specialization of knowledge(s). “Many discourses we now think of as distinct disciplines, such as psychology or poetics or political science,” which once could be understood “within and through rhetoric, as belonging to technē” broadly defined, fit into bureaucratic ‘departments’ because they have become epistemologically compartmentalized.

Guillory acknowledges one important advantage moderns enjoy over the ancients. The rhetorical system, “rigorous and comprehensive” though it was, “was limited as a means of developing new knowledge.” The ambition to conquer nature, made desirable by the re-conception of nature as manipulable matter with no stable form and no inherent purpose, and therefore unfriendly to man, spurred an effort to learn more about matter itself, a practical interest in knowing one’s enemy. Such knowledge of matter can be accumulated, as Bacon recommended, discovered by experimentation instead of formal reasoning. Bacon’s The Advancement of Learning marshals the techniques of the old rhetoric in order to persuade one of the supreme use of non-rhetorical, non-verbal learning. Bacon specifically redefines inventio as the discovery of “what we know not” instead of “recover[ing] or resummariz[ing] what we already know.” “Knowledge in the form of accumulated information seems to stand outside of the body, as a ‘body of knowledge.'” Disembodied knowledge is knowledge readily manipulated, an “art of devising methods.” Masters of the art of devising methods are the “experts,” the members of the professional-managerial “New Class.” “The new class of knowers was in possession of greater knowledge than all the generations of its predecessors, but at the price of understanding less well than ever the process, of learning, the relation between art and information,” the verbal arts that “stretch beneath and across all the fields of knowledge as their common cognitive foundation.” No amount of information, and no mathematical formula, can teach a student why he should learn.

With modern research universities establishing themselves, literature professors struggled to find a place in the new regime. Two such attempts enjoyed only fleeting success: belles lettres and philology, which “belong neither to the older curriculum of the arts nor to the current system of the disciplines.” (“The history of Western education can be summed up” in the phrase, “From arts to disciplines.”) Guillory identifies the origin of belles lettres to the 1746 publication of The Fine Arts Reduced to a Single Principle by the philosophe Charles Batteux. In that book, Batteux classified poetry, painting, sculpture, music, and dance as the fine arts, arts which “have in common the intention to give pleasure”—Batteux had Epicurean leanings—which he distinguished from the utilitarian “mechanical arts” and the partly utilitarian, partly pleasurable arts of rhetoric and architecture. G. W. F. Hegel later lent his considerable philosophic heft to this classification. A generation earlier, the French historian and educator Charles Rollin popularized the term ‘belles lettres’ in a work translated from the French into English in 1734, thereby “establish[ing] the idea of belles lettres as a course of study in England.” For Rollin, belles lettres included not only the fine arts but philosophy and rhetoric, too, making it into “a comprehensive system of education,” albeit one heavily weighted to the esthetic genres, those that give “pleasure.” For example, Adam Smith delivered a series of lectures on rhetoric and belles lettres at the University of Edinburg in the 1762-63 term and his former student Hugh Blair published an influential book based in part on those lectures twenty years later. Blair brought the term ‘taste’ into vogue in English literary study (“Latin had no word corresponding” to it), a term then allied with ‘criticism,’ which included the discriminations concerning poetry (John Dryden, the essayists Addison and Steele), of ‘moral sentiments’ (Smith), and civil society (Shaftesbury, Hutcheson). Such thinkers made belles lettres “a way of systematizing judgment across a range of writing genres.” In the commercial and industrial regime late nineteenth-century America, however, such an attempt could not sustain itself as a mode of university study, given the ever-increasing prestige of the sciences.

Enter philology, which claimed scientific status—an import not from France but from Germany. German Kultur centered on the study of vernacular languages, consonant with the nation-state the Hohenzollerns and Bismarck had built. “The German university successfully transmitted” an even “more powerful ideal to its Anglo-American counterparts: research.” This was indeed congenial to the notion of ‘discipline,’ and also to the sharp division between moral and natural philosophy, inaugurated long before by Hume but institutionalized in Germany as the division between the humanities and the sciences. Philology attempted to mediate between the two. “By giving nations a cultural origin in a common language, philology effectively fused the philosophical [German idealist] concept of culture with that of ethnos” in a discipline that could be understood as empirical. Philology could bring study of the classics, history, philosophy, and literature “into a close relation to current standards of scientific knowledge at the same time that it unified scholarly enterprises within a total view of the history of civilization,” as propounded by such historicists as Hegel, but now within a positivist framework. “In England and the United States, the philologists who trained in the German universities of the later nineteenth century returned to their home institutions with a conception of their discipline more than ever prescribed by norms of scientific investigation, as well as by the turn to vernacular languages.” This put philologists squarely into conflict with belletrists.

As Hegel might have predicted, the two disciplines did not so much kill each other off as ‘synthesize’ into ‘literary history.’ “By the 1890s, the curricular structure of literary study in the university was organized according to the period concepts of literary history the same period concepts that organize the discipline today.” But in institutional terms, the synthesis was far from complete, as belletrists and philologists stuck to their lasts, continuing to compete with the new literary historians and even the remaining teachers of rhetoric, now reduced to teaching composition classes. The problem for philologists, whose discipline might have seemed the most compatible with the new university regime, was that literature “resisted scientific treatment,” “yield[ing] diminishing returns when applied to literature.” What can philology tell me about Paradise Lost that Milton wants me to know? As a consequence, philology “open[ed] space for a new science of language: linguistics,” which eventually “traveled very far indeed from philology” into the realms of such ‘harder’ sciences as biology and psychology. As for belles lettres, the criticism it fostered now inclined to resist utilitarianism, industrialism, and ‘scientism’ generally, arguing that such disciplines may at best serve but never rule human beings, never support the civility of civil society, never lend prudence to politics. But given the universities’ esteem for the sciences, this has caused literary study to become more marginal to academic life. Tocqueville might well have nodded with approval at the reading clubs that arose in the nineteenth century and continue to this day.

The reading clubs, consisting of ‘lay readers,’ evidently follow Tocqueville’s understanding of democratization, being democracy’s equivalent of the aristocratic salons. Thus, “the word literacy did not become current until later in the nineteenth century, when the ability to read one’s native tongue was becoming universal” and the study of classical languages declined. Guillory recalls that the Latin word literatus referred “only to someone who read Latin”; one who had no Latin was a laicus, a layman. Initially, this distinction characterized clergy from non-clergy, but also those practicing the professions of medicine and law. Even as the elevation of vernacular languages to professional status began, professionals developed their own specialized ‘languages’ or jargon, deploying vernacular terms in ways incomprehensible to outsiders, as readers of medical and legal ‘literature’ quickly discover. In universities today, this has led to the establishment of ‘composition’ courses intended to teach students to ‘write for business,’ or, as one observer has put it, to “teach students how to write the kind of utilitarian prose they will be asked to produce in their other college classes and later on in their jobs.” Boswell has triumphed over Johnson.

Even the reading of poetry and imaginative prose became ‘professionalized,’ with the rise of literary “modernism.” James Joyce and Ezra Pound aren’t easy to read. Both polemicized against rhetoric, against writing and speaking that aims at being understood by laymen. Guillory cites Wallace Stevens, who called poetics “the imagination’s Latin,” the new demarcation line between the learned and the unlearned. “A defense of modernism such as we find in Robert Graves and Laura Riding’s important Survey of Modernist Poetry projected a reading public that was rapidly bifurcating into those who were receptive to the experiments of the modernists and those who were resistant, those Graves and Riding called ‘plain readers.'” The adoption of literary modernism by academics subordinated judgment of texts to the interpretation of them, a task that was manifestly more difficult when dealing with the new vernacular literature. Interpretation soon extended to earlier literary works (as seen in William Empson’s Seven Types of Ambiguity), which were discovered to have difficulties of their own, difficulties insufficiently clarified by literary history. “This movement gave birth to a discipline of reading even as it rescued older vernacular literature in English from oblivion.” 

Today, professional and lay reading divide along four lines: professional reading is work, lay reading leisured; professional reading is disciplined by certain accepted techniques and procedures (which, however, change over time), lay reading undisciplined in that sense; professional reading scrutinizes the pleasure readers take in reading, lay reading simply enjoys the ride, which may or may not include moral edification; professional reading is of, by, and for members of the literary profession, university professors, lay reading solitary or within a reading group, that is, among friends. Guillory regrets that “lay reading so often falls to the level of ephemeral consumption, with no other end than pleasure or distraction”; he also regrets “the mutual incomprehension of these two practices of reading.” Neither of these conditions need be, if professionals will begin to think of reading as an “ethical practice,” that is, the development of character, an ethos reinforcing, and reinforced by a way of life, a Bios ti, itself one element of a regime, a politeia. Guillory distinguishes classical ethics from Christian morality, the former being “a cultivation of the self”—actually, the soul, inasmuch as the ‘self’ is a modern, Montaignian invention—unburdened by “notions of salvation or damnation.” “Lay reading is best understood as a practice that belongs to the ethical domain,” a domain Guillory tends to conceive of in terms of a democratized Epicureanism including “physical exercise, cooking, conversation with friends, sexual activity, or any number of other pleasures which enlarge our experience and enrich our sensibilities,” a “practice of pleasure” that makes pleasures both more intense and “better for us.” Professionals, too, experience such pleasure, albeit in “rarefied” form. To reconceive reading as an ethical practice might have “political consequence,” although it must be remarked that the original Epicureans shunned politics and the first modern political Epicurean was Hobbes, that great despiser of literature, followed by Locke, who advised the father who detected any literary inclinations in his son to move decisively to stamp it out. Admittedly, the American Epicureans amongst the Founders, Franklin and Jefferson, were less unrelenting.

Guillory isn’t thinking of the American Founders, however. He has his critical sights on New Left literati of the past few decades, who defend pleasure “only when it comes dressed in the garb of a transgressive politics,” only when it has been politicized—that is, moralized, reduced to separating moral sheep from sinful goats. “If the failure of both lay and professional readers to recognize reading as an ethical practice underlies their mutual antagonism and miscomprehension, I have, alas, no program for reconciling these practices.”  Still, “many lay readers very much desire the improvement of their reading experience, a desire that is widely expressed in lay engagement with the other arts as well.” Indeed, but perhaps this receptivity might only be answered by professionals less bent on proselytizing transgressive politics?

The professoriate is unlikely to reform itself anytime soon. One problem, quite possibly intractable, is what Guillory calls “the democratization of the educational system,” by which he means the refusal of graduate program administrators and indeed of undergraduate program administrators to restrict access to higher education when fewer non-academic institutions want to hire the graduates. Ordinary businesses respond to flagging market demands by reducing supply, by lowering prices, and/or by attempting to (as economists say) ‘creating’ greater demand. Colleges and universities succeeded in persuading potential students and their parent that what they offer is valuable—people still want to ‘go to college’—but the resulting oversupply of graduates devalues the degrees themselves in the eyes of the marketplace. This might turn out to be a good thing: “I would like to think that the devastation of the job market might liberate students to pursue whatever mot interests them.” I would like to think so, too, but, as a critic once said, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

The European model of the research university makes sense if you run your university as the Europeans do—by being undemocratic, restricting admissions to students who are ready to learn, thus freeing professors to teach good students and conduct research, as well. Otherwise, one gets a two-tiered faculty; senior, tenured researchers with a few good students combined with part-time people who do the grunt work of teaching the masses. Guillory holds up the example of the “composition course,” wherein junior faculty teach writing in the “new professional, managerial, bureaucratic, and technical settings,” which has largely jettisoned the inventio of the old rhetoric instruction, “the finding of arguments.” But students learn how to write by reading good books, by following the reasoned thought of writers who know how to think. Not enough of that gets done, anymore, and the composition courses are reduced to the application of rules—that is, to the managerial, the bureaucratic, and the technical. Guillory supposes that removing grades from freshman composition courses might “de-inhibit writing,” get it away from the dreary grind of such pedagogy, although it might also (probably would?) de-inhibit working, too. He also wants English departments to reach out to the field of “communications studies,” to widen their ‘market’ by allying with those who teach the non-written ways in which human beings signal one another. That might work as a business model, but in doing so it blurs the distinction Aristotle sees between human beings, who speak to one another, and birds, which merely call.

And this isn’t what Guillory really wants, as he shows in his concluding chapter. What is literary study for? Once settled, how shall that purpose be attained? What sort of curriculum is needed? And how shall teachers balance the various elements within that curriculum?

“The study of literature is a rational procedure for establishing what can be known about an object,” a “discipline,” not “an ineffable expression of taste or the intuitive cultivation of sensibility.” Its purpose is knowledge, presumably about things worth knowing, as identified by the rulers of the university regime. (As with all regimes, there are better and worse.) A discipline or way of life in a regime requires a plan, in the case of the university a plan of study or curriculum, as outlined in a variety of thinkers, including Erasmus, Bacon, and Vico; the contrast between the curricula of Erasmus and Bacon reflects the difference in the regime purposes of each. In language, “the knowledge that was foundational for this structure was the ability to read, write, and speak Latin (or sometimes both Latin and Greek”), but “this linguistic coherence disappeared from the educational system with the venularization of learning”—fortunately, not quite an Ivory Tower of Babel, in part because Latin remained de rigeur (as we vernacularists might say) in the sciences for a long time, and partly because mathematical science began to tie the system together, across national boundaries. Given vernacularization, literary study can no longer be unitary but it can be coherent if its practitioners think in an orderly way. 

Guillory begins by identifying five “rationales” for literary study: linguistic/cognitive, moral/judicial, national/cultural, esthetic/critical, and epistemic/disciplinary. Linguistic/cognitive literary study establishes a parallel between writing and speaking, with writing being speaking’s “companion art,” a means of formulating an rational argument, or at least a persuasive one, before you open your mouth. The Greeks understood arts to “refer to cognitive abilities and not to the objects that such abilities might bring into existence”—forming a plan for your statue and a rational means of realizing that plan. Teachers of literature “no longer see what we do, even though we have always been engaged in the transmission of this art.” Since “no one can deny the importance of language arts among the modes of cognition,” of reading before we write, listening before we speak, and thinking while we do all of those things,” an effort to recover the way of the ‘ancients’ might yet regain momentum, energeia. 

“The moral/judicial rationale is as old as the linguistic/cognitive, but it subjects the accumulation of writing to greater selection; the judiciousness of its designers gives students a praxis to emulate.” “The occasions of rhetoric in ancient Greece—the forensic, the deliberative, and the epideictic—largely involved moral judgments, expressed in highly structured arguments.” It is the purpose of presenting moral/judicial arguments to students that discourages mindlessness or, as Guillory more courteously puts it, “defaults” to judgment’s “intuitive base, where it often echoes contemporary norms and biases.” As “teachers know,” or once knew, “the impulse to judge characters in literature is difficult to resist and that it often precipitates judgment of the work,” making readers “heavy-handed,” inducing them to indulge in “an overwriting of the literary work by unexamined moral attitudes.” Guillory hopes that the (to us) immorality of the “moral norms” that informed the earlier societies which characters in that literature often exemplified will prove “the motive for a deeper inquiry into the historicity of moral precepts.” But if historical relativism prevails, what good does it serve, and why is that putative good not itself an artifact of ‘history’? And if current “moral norms” are historical artifacts, how would one justify changing them, as Guillory evidently wants to do, regarding literary study? 

The national/cultural rationale for literary study obviously addresses politics, regimes, more directly than any of the others, although all of them have political implications. Vernacularization of literary study went with the formation of modern states, particularly of ‘nation-states,’ as seen in (for example) Machiavelli and Montaigne. “The notion of the ‘transnational’ that literary scholars favor at present”—notice that the question of historicism persists—is “at once a repudiation of the ‘national’ and at the same time an invocation of it.” That is, it might decline toward a universal ‘culture’ under a world state or a demand to treat all ‘cultures’ equally, or a claim that one ‘culture’ is superior to all the others (yesterday, Germany, today, China, in practice if not in theory, America). “Literary study can only liberate itself from its bond to national languages” (again, because that’s the current fashion?) “by thinking through its own origins.” This returns Guillory to Panofsky’s distinction between documents and monuments, preservation and canonization. “Let us admit that cultural production today is no longer principally constituted by works of literature”; this notwithstanding, there is a new universal language, English. “To whom does Shakespeare belong?” To anyone who can learn English and then learn in English but ‘making it his own’—but there’s the rub. Ezra Pound appropriated Confucius in the service of Italian Fascism. That is, the liberation of literary studies from its bond to national languages, or the universalization of one of those languages, will not settle the regime question.

Can literary study attempt to float above the regimes altogether? Guillory recalls the origin of ‘aesthetics’ in a study by the German philosopher Alexander Baumgarten, who flourished in the eighteenth century. In his Aesthetica, Baumgarten took the Greek word, aisthesis, meaning sensibility as “sensory experience,” and elevated it to our contemporary meaning, the refinement of such experience, setting standards for it, in relation both to nature and to works of art. Esthetics shifts judgment from an appreciation of form as it relates to ethics to an appreciation of form alone. In the hands of Kantian ‘epistemology’ (another coinage derived from Greek, appearing a century later), this “sacrifice[ed] the objective status of aesthetic judgment” by asserting that esthetic judgment is “without concept.” Such a conceptless conception militates against Guillory’s argument for the rational practice of literary study, unless he recurs to historicist doctrine as the authoritative framework for rationalism. Recent history tells him that “the waning of literary culture is a ‘media situation’ that is probably irreversible,” turning literature into yet another form of “entertainment.” And to view literature as entertainment, alone, means that there is little point in reading anything that takes effort to understand. This again suggests that the democratization of literary study proceeds apace.

Guillory’s fifth and final rationale for literary study, the epistemic/disciplinary, pushes against the reconception of literature within the limits of entertainment alone. “Literary scholarship is most definitely a form of knowledge,” but it is knowledge quite different from that pursued by modern scientists. Literary knowledge does not accumulate, except insofar as it is knowledge of literary history. For this reason, “scientists do indeed wonder whether disciplines such as literary study produce knowledge” at all. In their terms, it doesn’t, or doesn’t produce much. “Arguments in literary study” not only contradict each other, as scientific hypotheses do, but they cannot be confirmed “in the manner of scientific hypotheses,” by experimentation. In reply, Guillory “want[s] most to bring to light…that the articulation of understanding can be communicated a knowledge but not as fact.” Accumulating facts is one thing, understanding them another. By understanding, Guillory means the kind of knowledge that says, “I know what you mean.” “The proof of that knowledge is the ability to articulate understanding—to say, in other words, what you mean.” That is, literary scholars and all students of literature intend “to express their understanding of literary works in other words, that is, their own words.” In doing so, they integrate those works into their own souls, first by understanding them as their authors intended them to be understood (the proper understanding of ‘historicity’) and only then by subjecting them to assessment, to judgment, to ‘critique.’ In this, literary study can contribute to what the litteratteur/philosopher/scientist Francis Bacon calls “the advancement of learning.”

 

 

Note

1. See Harvey C. Mansfield: Machiavelli’s Effectual Truth: Creating the Modern World. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2023. For discussion, see “What Is ‘Effectual Truth’?” on this website under the category, “Philosophers.”
2. On the philosophic significance of the calculus, see Jacob Klein: Greek Mathematical Thought and the Origin of Algebra. New York: Dover Publications, 1992 [1968].