imaginary lives

 Marcel Schwob’s preface to his Vies imaginaires makes a plea for the vita as art, instead of history. History, Schwob writes, aims at the general, and puts the stress in the meaning of human lives in their connection with greater events. For history, “all individuals have value only because they have modified events or made them deviate.” Art, on the other hand, “doesn’t classify; it de-classifies.”

The preface carries out the argument, such as it is, with brio. But the imaginary lives do not all carry out that de-classifying imperative. The life of Herostratus, for instance, distinctly lacks a certain detail – or rather, Schwob lacks a certain wonder at this detail.

Herostratus was famous, or infamous, for having torched the temple of Artemis in Epheseus. Schwob does an interesting, proleptic thing about Herostratus by describing him from the beginning in terms of the tortures to which he was subjected after his act. This proleptic magic act is nice. I applaud it. But then, when we read the end of the life, we get this:

“The twelve cities of Ionia forbad, on penalty of death, the announcing of Herostratus name to future ages. But the murmur has come just as far as us. The night when Herostratus torched the temple of Epheseus, Alexander, kind of Macedonia, was born.”

For those of us more historian than artist – or who reject Schwob’s division – there is much lost in that “murmur.” How is it that, somehow, the agent of this particular fait divers was able to avoid a suppression that seems, given the time, the lack of news save by messenger and singer, and the penalty, to have more appropriately submerged that pyromaniac fameseeker?

How do secrets get passed along?

Pessoa wrote an essay on Erostratus in English, which was discovered, like much of Pessoa’s work, after his death. The English is a bit brushed up and too too British, but Pessoa makes a deep remark about Erostratus’s, so to speak, existential figuration.

“His act may be compared, in a way, to that terrible element of the initiation of the Templars, who, being first proven absolute believers in Christ – both as Christians, and in the general tradition of the Church, and as occult Gnostics and therefore in the great particular tradition of Christianity, had to spit upon the Crucifix in their initiation. The act may seem no more than humanly revolting from a modern standpoint, for we are not believers, and, when, since the romantics, we defy God and hell, defy things which for us are dead and thus send challenges to corpses. But no human courage, in any field or sea where men are brave with mere daring, can compare with the horror of that initiation. The God they spat upon was the holy substance of Redemption. They looked into hell when their mouths watered with the necessary blasphemy.”

Pessoa no doubt read Schwob. The Templar story was, of course, a legend transmitted by way of the trials of the Templars, who were overthrown in a power struggle that sought justification, as so many do, in a courtroom padded with lies and crooked lawyers. But secret calls to secret – the initiation of the Templars was a secret kept within the group, and yet it forced itself out – a necessary blasphemy – to future generations.

It is hard to keep a secret. And it is hard to say why it is hard to keep a secret.

journalism and protocol

 
I was talking to a friend the other day, and she said something that opened my mind. She was talking about a meeting she had gone to, and remarked that one of her colleagues there was talking to everyone in a tone that was out of protocol. It hit me then, this thing I have been puzzling over. The style of Le Monde.
The lead articles on politics in Le Monde, even more than the political reporting in the New York Times, have a curious tone. I guess it is the tone of the servant who is following the rules of protocol at the court. In such ceremonies, as we know from countless movies, there is not much room for maneuver. The names and titles on the list must be read out distinctly and smoothly. They are communication of a sort, but to who? Sometimes to the king, or the master of the revels, and sometimes to the assorted guests. But mostly, these people know each others titles and names.
Here, communication is subsumed in pomp. It is just this surplus of information that is the point. Just as the sorting procedure that organizes the names is the point. The guests and the royals are not going to listen to the names and the titles: they are listening to the tone, the music. It is the music of deference and hierarchy.
This is exactly the music of Le Monde’s lead articles about President Macron.
Here’s the entry on protocol on  Brewer’s Phrase and Fable”
“Protocol (pro' t5 kol). The first rough draft or original copy of a dispatch, which is to form the basis of a treaty; from Gr. proto-koleon, a sheet glued to the front of a manuscript, or to the case containing it, and bearing an abstract of the contents and purport. Also the ceremonial procedure used in affairs of diplomacy or on state occasions.”
There’s an interesting movement between, on the one hand, the rough draft as a supplement, and the procedure as a ceremony. Protocol survived the French revolutions, the Republics, Vichy, DeGaulle, 1968, the sexual revolution, Mitterand and the neoliberal turn. The political reporting in Le Monde is much like the “echoes” social columns that used to appear in all the Paris newspapers, reporting this or that aristocrat’s or plutocrat’s ball. It fills a space in which the uninvited reader is definitely an intruder, and the tone is such that the reader should be happy just to have gawking rights.
Protocol in the U.S. is of a more rough and tumble variety, but in D.C. society it has definitely formed its own music, its own inner and outer circles.
Macron, unlike other recent French Presidents, is a highly protocol oriented boy-man. He’s been in this business since he was weaned on the silver spoon – a much different background than, say, Sarkozy’s. In this way, as in so many others, he is most like the despicable Giscard D’Estaing. This comfort with protocol is something that Le Monde’s writers are ultra down with.
Take, for instance, the big story about the leg of Macron’s “pacification” tour in Ganges. Elsewhere in the world, on Twitter and TV, the big story was about that antithesis of protocol, the banging pot. The prefect of Ganges had forbidden “l’usage des instruments sonores portatifs” – the kind of interesting detail that historians of the micro-history school die for. In Le Monde, though, under the headline MACRON AUGMENT LES PROFESSORS ET LES CRISPE – the kind of nudgework that Macronites and Le Monde’s editorialists love – the first paragraph is like unto a court announcement.
For his second trip [deuxieme deplacement] after the promulgatin of the very contested reform of retirements, Emmanuel Macron chose to speak of education. This was done in the middle of a little circle of fifteen professors, students and parents, sitting the sunny courtyard of a rural Herault establishment, the college Louise-Michel de Gange, where he himself put an end to the suspense on the promised measures on wages for teachers.|
The exact number of people in a circle about the President, who is “putting an end to the suspense” regarding the compensation of teachers, is an almost too perfect figure of court society and reporting. “Put an end” to whose suspense? Not really anybody’s. Neither the fifteen people, nor the reporter, nor the reader are in suspense over the compensation proposed, as this has long been batted around. The professors are on edge – crisper – because the proposal is actually Sarkozy’s work more and make more in the realm of the sadly underinvested realm of public education. However, the subject matter here is of less importance than the style of announcing and describing what the case is.
I am not a man  on whom protocol sits very well. I like it sometimes, but I find it boring most of the time, and I find it an absurd approach to what is happening in France at the moment. However, day after day Le Monde plays the role of the valet leading out the order of the dances and putting an end to the suspense: for tonight’s fete, his highness has ordered a waltz!
Even twitter is better than this.  

Dial 0 for the operator, 1 for billing

 

Dial O for the operator, 1 for billing

 

Who invents? We repair, or we have the man

Bring his tools for a look-see. We aren’t familiar

With the specs,  the codes, the at-hand

Or have anything at our fingertips.

 

We have to back up, we miss the appointment.

We talk to the secretaries of those who have secretaries

Wondering who is holding when we are put on hold.

Are they the holders, really? Is this a hold up

 

That the Lord has made, we in his hands

He in our hearts, the hold em and fold em

Of gross contingency? Are we being

Offered muzak and headache again,

 

Like when we were  little girls in the back seat

When we had to go so bad

And mom said hold it

And we couldn’t, we couldn’t?

The paradox of the heap and the effect of the real

 

It is said that Chryssipus the Stoic held that there were, for all problems, true solutions. But he also held that at times, we can’t see them – and those times called for a morally disciplined silence. It is in this spirit he approached the paradox of the heap – the sorites. The paradox is as follows: if we construct a heap from seeds, say, we can, by adding seeds successively, reach a point where we might say that we have a heap, and identify that with the number of seeds we have used – say, 200. And yet, when we subtract one seed, we are disinclined to say that we no longer have a heap. Given that fact, we might play the game by claiming that we haven’t reached a heap no matter how many seeds we use in order to avoid identifying the heap with a certain number of seeds – but then, paradoxically, we will never achieve a heap. In fact, we don’t really seem to be able to quantify a thing like a heap; neither do we want to say that the heap is a quality when clearly it can be analyzed into its separate parts. To borrow a term from contemporary logic,  there is no “heapmaker” – so how can there be a heap? Chryssipus, according to Sextus Empiricus, recommended that “when the Sorites is being propounded one should, while the argument is proceeding, stop and suspend judgement to avoid falling into absurdity.”  Analytic philosophers, such as Mario Magnucci, who wrote a seminal paper on the stoic response to the sorites, have attempted to incorporate Chryssipus’s response into standard Western logic. To me, the stoic response is closer to the notion of Mu in Rinzai Zen. The famous Mu Koan goes like this: a disciple of Zhaozhou, a Chinese zen master, asked him if a dog has the Buddha nature. Zhaouzhou answered Wu – Mu in Japanese – which means no, empty, vacant, and – it is said – applies in different ways to the question: that there is no dog, that there is no Buddha nature, that the dog does not have Buddha nature, and so on. In other words, the answer is meant to break the mental habit of thinking that the way of assembly – where distinct parts are put together – and the way of disassembly, where distinct parts are separated, are grounded in the real. Indetermination is neither a fact of the real nor not a fact of the real.

 

I believe the sorites paradox shows us something interesting, maybe deep, about the boundary between logic and structure. Structure, of course, is assemblage, inevitably, even as it pops out from various compositions in terms of motif, pattern, point of view. Logic deals with the structure of propositions, and in particular, the structure of variables and substitutions, but it cannot explain that structure. What substitution is cannot be explained by the logical use of substitution.

And, in turn, structure falls down helpless before the detail. What Barthes meant by the Reality effect concerns this moment.

“However, it seems that if analysis intends to be exhaustive (and what value could a method have that could not account for the completeness of its object, or in other words, here, the complete surface of the narrative text?) in looking to reach to the absolute detail, the indivisible unit, the fugitive transition,  in order to assign it to a place in the structure,  it must fatally encounter notations that no function (even indirectly) can  justify: these notations are scandalous (from the point of view of structure) or, what is still more disquieting, they seem to be accorded by a sort of narrative luxury, prodigal to the point of dispersing “useless” details and thus elevating the cost of narrative information.”

Barthes’ point is one that no reader of a text in a foreign language does not know well: the word – for me, in French or German, the languages I read in other than English – that I have to look up. Or skip looking up. Often, of course, skipping makes no difference – and here we are amidst luxury indeed.

Substitution – that unplumbed dimension of modernity!

 

 

The Underground Reader

 

There is a certain type of reader – the Jew in Europe, the African-American in the States,etc. – whose relationship to literature, to the great novels, essays and poems, is mediated by the humiliations inflicted even by the so called great writers on the Jew and the African-American, etc. in image and abstract; humiliations that are often casual, often astonishing low points in their writing, byproducts of a certain conformism to social norms, an overlooking or blindness to historical injustices, of the thoughtless acceptance of accumulated capital’s accumulated suffering. Here is a puzzle: the author, that distant and yet intimate source of the text, becomes for the reader a problem of the reader’s own complicity in humiliation: hopeful that the higher liberalism will win out, the reader, this extraterritorial reader, this reader who finds, in the community of readers, that he or she is not included in the general “we” of the gentle reader, finds themselves in an ethical dilemma: are they to accept, even here, the all too familiar relationship of abused to abuser? And we know, we know too well, that abuse is not all lumps, that it is a labyrinth of generosity and violence. Like any of the humiliated and the wounded, the abused reader will take the course of becoming the best close reader – for in a life in which one is dodging blows, the humiliated party has to become, as a matter of survival, a great reader of physiognomy and the smallest signs and tics of the abuser.

One of these readers I am imaging existed in Czarist Russia. He is a figure who appears in the outskirts of Doestoevsky studies – his name is Avraam Uri Kovner. He fled the Jewish community in Czarist Russia when he was a young man, committing himself to the program of positivism, science and enlightenment – from which point of view he severely criticized the piety and practices of the Jews. At the same time, he was proud to be Jewish and he was a biting critic of anti-semites.

As this critic, he modelled himself on Pisarov – the scathing materialist whose essays were never translated, as wholes, in English, but who survives in the Anglosphere as the man who claimed that good pair of shoes had more value than the greatest poem. Yet Kovner had a vast respect for Pisarov’s opposite – Dostoevsky. And as he saw his life spoiled by a crime he committed, he also saw himself rather eerily doubled in the figure of Raskolnikov.

The fait divers goes like this: Kovner took a job at a bank as an accountant. He saw that the bank was making money through the squeezing process of usury and fraud. He also, at this point in his life, In Leonid Grossman’s “Confessions of a Jew”, his account of Kovner, he uses an epigraph from Crime and Punishment to entitle what happened: “that the extraordinary man has a right… to leap over certain obstacles, especially in cases where, for perhaps the fulfilment of an idea that is important for all mankind, this is necessary.” All mankind, of course, is always represented in this extraordinary man – he somehow received their votes.

The story begins like a good Dostoevsky story. In 1871, Kovner found himself on the outs with the Jewish community, for whose newspapers he used to write, and on the outs with the other journals he wrote for, which were being closed, in that year of the Paris commune, as being too radical. Pluse he – oh saints and martyrs@ - wanted to write a novel. I do know that feeling. So he found a lodging in Petersburg. To quote from Kovner’s letter to Dostoevsky:

“In the first months I rented a room in the household of the poor Kanngiesser family… They consisted of a mother, who was a poor widow, the elder daughter and two younger daughters and a son, who was apprenticed as a glovemaker’s assistant. When I learned that they were Jews, I thought about fleeing; but then I saw, that these people were poor and honorable, and I meant a certain income for them, so I stayed out of pity. Later I learned that Sophia Kanngiesser had lost her father four years ago, and that her mother through the course of things had gained some money. In a word, it was horrible misery. I strove with my energy to help them, as much as I could. Sophia could not yet read and write and asked me to teach her. Out of gratitude she, who had never let anyone near her, become affectionate to me. In a word, she fell in love with me.”

Of course, this novelistic situation was animated not just by love, but by sickness: Sophia suffered from some lung ailment. Everything falls horribly into place. Through an advertisement in a paper he used to write for – Voices – he finds a job in a bank. The job pays fifty rubles a month. For that, Kovner has to suffer the humiliation that the bank’s managerial staff consider him a pity hire and treat him as such. Imagine, Raskolnikov having to count out money and bow his head to a bunch of bank officials out of a novella by Gogol! And all the while the coughing of his girlfriend resounding in his ears. Between the miserable pay, the sickness of his girlfriend, and his earlier dreams of being a great writer, Kovner breaks down. The break comes, of course, after Sophia, gasping for breath, tells him: I can’t live without you! And faints.

How to pay for everything. This is the world of urban capitalism in which Kovner and Dostoevsky live. Dostoevsky became a gambler. Kovner, stepping over the barrier put up by lesser men to impede lesser men, defrauds the bank. As Grossman puts it: “The logic of Raskolnikov, cutting as sharply as a knife, bored through the thoughts of this unhappy reformer and hypnotized him even as that cursed illusion had bewitched the Petersburg student. In both cases the same persuasion that the planning is not a crime. In both cases the same calculation: on one side the senselessly squandered, irredeemably pent up sources of life and action, and on the other side young, fresh powers, that are unnecessarily destroyed, everywhere and in their thousands… In both cases the same moral temptation: isn’t a single, insignificant crime redeemed through thousand of good acts?”

Kovner stole. Kovner fled. Kovner disguised himself. Kovner was caught. Kovner was tried, and condemned. It was in his prison cell that Kovner wrote his first letter to Dostoevsky, challenging him as though he were a character come alive: and lo and behold, Raskolnikov is Jewish. As Kovner wrote: “First of all, I am a Jew – and you are not overly fond of Jews (I will speak about this later, however).”

A masterly, a Dostoevskian parenthesis, that one. A challenge on every level. Which will be carried onward in various of Kovner’s letters, to which Dostoevsky responded, in his ongoing column, Diary of a Writer, with a defence of anti-semitism that Kovner pretty easily tore apart – from the standpoint of being one of Dostoevsky’s great readers. In the response to Kovner’s letter, Dostoevsky indulged in the usual banalities of banking and evil Jews gulling innocent Russians ad nauseum, juxtaposing these passages with Dostoevsky’s ideal of the omni-human. The blatant contradiction was fingered by Kovner, and that must have hurt. But the sting did not wake Dostoevsky out of his anti-semitic trance.

Kovner’s standpoint, his existential point of view as a reader, fascinates me. I am a great reader of Dostoevsky myself. And of T.S. Eliot, and of Ezra Pound. But I am not a Jew, nor a Gypsy, nor black. I’m your standard white American, a mongel mix of German, Welsh and what have you picked up on the emigrant trail. I was patched and pealed in the suburbs of Atlanta, which sprang up in the sixties with an influx of white people from the North, although gradually, over the decades, becoming more multi-cultural, more interesting, less my facial white bread.. Somehow, though, through the years, I became a sensitive – which was the name given in the early twentieth century to certain paranormal freaks, mindreaders and telekinetics. I could, at least, see how the alien reader, the one written out – Jews in Dostoevsky, women in Bellow and Roth, blacks in the bulk of White American literary classics, gays from Shakespeare to Mailer, etc. – will and must stake their claim, and in doing so dive into the “written out” part, play the fool, here, erupt as the obscene and the censorious. This is called wokeness, now, by the readers and writers who pretend that a little hemming and hawing will make, has made it all better. Who want to go back to a suitably bandaged teaching. An exercise in tergiversation unworthy of the culture that is supposedly being defended.

Ah, but this is egotism on my part - how much of a sensitive am I, really? - and not of interest.

You say you wanna revolution - so stuff it up your ass

 

Liberation today has four or five pages about the situation of the opposition in France. Le Pen's fascists are gaining in the polls, the left, on the other hand, is doing their crumbling act. Macron's Apres moi le deluge is going to bear fruit, at this rate, in a French government much like Italy's. Fascism. In our screwy post cold war view of history, fascism was defeated in 1945. But actually, the U.S. helped fascism survive into the seventies, and it had a strong presence all around the Meditteranean the 60s, with Greece, Spain, Portugal and Turkey all having more or less fascist governments. Adenauer's government full of the far right or worse. One notices that this was also the time of the revival of the Left - in Germany and in France in the seventies - and the second wave of economic reforms that made life better for the working class majority.

Everybody has their diagnosis. Mine, to be brief, is that the "left" is caught in the rhetoric that successfully created a number of social democratic institutions from the 30s to the 80s. That rhetoric was heavy on change, revolution, and an avant gardiste position. In the face of neoliberalism, however, which as easily assimilated "revolution" to its lingo as its billionaires assimilated "revolutionary avant garde art" for their private collections or storage houses in Switzerland - it is time for the left to appeal to what has been gained. In short, to slip the yoke of the rhetoric of revolution and speak of maintaining the heritage of social democracy that has made life better for all. Not good enough for all, not equal enough given the current rebarbative circumstances, but a past to fight for, a heritage of hope instead of slavery and oppression. To extend this point to the frivolous "anti-woke"/woke" dichotomy - I think the woke culture, which I am absolutely for, needs to work on how to deal with massive shame. That shame is a lively thing - that shame is all over the current economic system, and the favoritism of an upper mostly white class that make it so blandly and blindly evil in the lives of the majority of people. Having never properly understood the shame of slavery in the U.S., having never really mourned it, the U.S. political system is stuck with shame in its gullet. The moment of shame and the moment of legacy - the legacy of resistance, of building up social democracy, of what was gained in the post-war period - are dialectically joined. This is the reason conservatives are so avid to destroy discussions around the 1619 project, or african-american history teaching in general. In France, the same elements are in the mix. The left - Nupes, the ecolo and socialist groups, etc. - have to present both a conservative program of retaining what we, the vast majority, have - for instance, the social security system - and what we need to preserve it - expanding it to serve all the people in france, immigrants and non-immigrants (who are often two generations, or even one, away from some immigrant ancestor). The forces of shame and glory - a glory that isn't reactionary, but progressive - have to be evoked constantly. Let the neolibs keep their "revolution". Make them eat it.

Jesus, Salome and playing the dozens

 
Yesterday, it being Easter, we read the account of Jesus’s resurrection in Mark. Mark is not my favorite gospel, but I like the rawness. I like the side references to witnesses, as though Jesus was seen as a fait divers, a story in True Detective.  Mark’s is truly the tabloid gospel, and it has a tabloid ending, complete with various provincial, cultish promises by the risen Jesus. For instance, that you can take up snakes and they won’t bite you – which is not exactly the most useful quality one can imagine –  that you can heal the sick and cast out demons – which is again a nice thing, but not exactly cosmically important - and that anyone who doesn’t believe is condemned. On the whole, Mark’s story seems to just miss the occasion.
This time, I read the names of the women who come to the tomb and find the rock rolled away and realised how strange they are. “When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices so that they might go to anoint Jesus’ body.” In the King James version, which has the sound, the vibe for me, the sentence reads: “And when the sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome, had bought sweet spices, that they might come and anoint him.”
When I was a boy in my Southern Baptist bible school, I dutifully learned that there was twelve disciples. They are painted by Leonardo, they are proverbially twelve in our phrase and fable, and I did not think about it. Of course, more aware of gender as I hope we all are, we know that the actual count is at least 15, as the above women should  also be counted as disciples. They seem to have ventured more, in following Jesus from Galilee, since wandering women were, in an Eastern Mediterranean society like Judea, viewed with an evil eye.
Salome, according to a study of 247 recorded names of Jewish women in Palestine in the century around Jesus’s life, was the name of 61 women, and Mary was the name of 58 – almost half of the women, then. But this Salome – not to be confused with the dancer so beloved of the decadents – is a floating signifier in the mythos. There is some tradition that she is Jesus’s stepsister, if you buy the story that Joseph was married and had kids before, as a widower, he met Jesus’s mother, Mary. Others call her Mary’s sister, which would make her Jesus’s aunt.
She is given some odd lines in the apocryphal writings. The oddest is in the Gospel of Thomas: “Jesus said, "Two will repose on a couch: one will die, one will live. Salome said, "Who are you, O man? Like a stranger (?) you have gotten upon my couch and you have eaten from my table." Jesus said to her, "It is I who come from that which is integrated. I was given (some) of the things of my father." <. . .> "I am your female disciple." <. . .> "Therefore I say that such a person, once integrated, will become full of light; but such a person, once divided will become full of darkness.” This passage, admittedly, sounds like the first draft of some Leonard Cohen song. It probably has to do with the notion of the androgyn, the overcomer of the sexes – a right pertinent person in this age of persecuting the transsexual. Lets just say that the Gnostic Jesus would not have approved of the latter.
Clement cites some text which some scholars believe was originally in some version of Mark. This is another enigmatic dialogue. The banter between Salome and Jesus has a certain screwball comedy speed, as if they were doing the dozens:
“Salome asked the Lord: “How long shall people die?” He answered: “As long as you women bear children.” Salome said: “I did well then in not bearing.” The Lord answered and said: “Eat every herb, but that which is bitter do not eat.”
This, I suppose, makes a little more sense when projected against the dictum that there is no giving or taking of husbands and wives in the Kingdom of Heaven.  But it makes most sense if we suppose that by this part of the road movie, Jesus and Salome have a question and answer patter down. “As long as you women bear children” seems less magisterial than wisecracking, and Salome’s answer, mutatis mutandis, would def find a place in a Preston Sturges’s Lady Eve.
I’m playing the rimshot here. Hope all had a happy Easter.