The arche–arte dualism (concrete–abstract) is fundamental and basic, due to its universality and comprehensive generative function. This duality characterizes our actions in every dimension, and is thus necessarily involved in cognitive and creative acts. The “arteic” includes the categories of consciousness, consideration, calculation, ordering, knowledge, intellect, and artificiality. On the other hand, the “archeic” refers to that which is, in us, subconscious, eternal, primordial, innate, instinctive, and natural. When this basic duality is posited at the outset, it furnishes an analytical‑interpretative‑synthesizing (...) tool that can be applied to diverse facts. The omnipresence and explanatory potential of the arche‑arte dualism are illustrated through musical examples. The dual nature of sound is thereby revealed to be a structural model for the subconscious sensations that music evokes in us. (shrink)

The aim of the present research was to test whether involvement in a 14-days training program in the performing arts could reduce implicit biases. We asked healthy participants to complete an Implicit Association Test to assess biased attitudes to physical illness in two separate sessions, before and after the training program. Two separate control groups matched by age, gender and educational level completed the two IAT sessions, separated by same number of days, without being involved in the training program. Results (...) showed that participants who were involved in the training program reduced their implicit bias toward illness measured through IAT in the second session. This reduction in IAT measures was not observed in the control samples, despite the two IAT measures being matched in temporal delay with the experimental group. These findings suggest that an interventional program based on the performing arts could be effective in reducing levels of implicit biases among the general population. (shrink)

IN HIS System des transzendentalen Idealismus, Schelling describes the philosophy of art as the “key stone” of the entire “arch” of the system. The purpose of the following essay is to explore why this is so, why Schelling’s idea of philosophy led him to take up the question of “art” not only as philosophically interesting, but as the key to understanding his system as a whole.

A work of music as an artefact is a particular acoustic material. However, the sounds are not identical with music since they only constitute the external appearance of a musical work and its most explicit layer, while aesthetic perception is certainly not limited to the superficial perception of sounds. Contemporary research in the field of fine arts by Gottfried Boehm and Georges Didi-Huberman showed new possibilities of revealing the hidden inner phenomenality of a work of art. Yet, is it possible (...) to apply the methodology of research on the invisible visuality of a painting to the field of non-acoustic sound of a musical work? What kind of additional research problems does a work of music cause, taking into account the fact that it is not only created by its author-composer, but it also requires a re-creational performance to phenomenally exist? The article provides the critical analysis of Roman Ingarden’s views on the subject of a musical work and indicates the need to expand the research horizon as regards the issue of nonsounding elements of music. The article aims mainly at bringing new research perspectives on a work of music in the light of contemporary phenomenology. (shrink)

Le nom de Kierkegaard est aujourd'hui bien connu des Français : " Ah, oui, le père de l'existentialisme! ". Ou encore : " Sa fiancée ne se prénommait-elle pas Régine? N'a-t-il pas été affreusement malheureux en amour? ". Ou parfois " Le solitaire de Copenhague, l'original, l'isolé... ". Et aussi : " Un non-philosophe ou même un anti-philosophe, un contempteur du système hégélien, précurseur de Nietzsche, frère en esprit de Rimbaud, de Van Gogh, de Dostdevski, de Pascal - et de (...) quelques autres ". Pourtant, l'œuvre de Soren Kierkegaard mérite mieux que ces amalgames, ces approximations, ces jugements à l'emporte-pièce. Le présent ouvrage, résultat d'une longue et patiente enquête, retrace les principales étapes de la réception de Kierkegaard en France ; documents à l'appui, il montre comment, au fil du XXe siècle, les malentendus autour de sa personne et de son œuvre se sont accumulés, se confortant curieusement les uns les autres jusqu'à devenir " vérité avérée ". Dès 1835 Kierkegaard disait, avec une belle lucidité prémonitoire, que " suivre le chemin des commentateurs, c'est souvent faire comme ce voyageur qui se rendait à Londres : le chemin mène bien à Londres ; mais lorsqu'on veut y aller, on doit se retourner ". Retournons-nous donc! Et reprenons à notre compte, pour notre plus grand bonheur, ces paroles de Constantin Constantius, l'auteur pseudonyme de La répétition : " C'est un art d'être un bon lecteur, sans même parler du fait que c'est aussi un art d'employer du temps à le devenir ". (shrink)

"One might say that where Religion becomes artificial, it is reserved for Art to save the spirit of religion." With these words Richard Wagner began "Religion and Art" (1880), one of his most passionate essays. That passion made Wagner himself a central icon in the growing cult of art. Wagner felt that he lived in an age of spiritual crisis. "It can but rouse our apprehension, to see the progress of the art-of-war departing from the springs of moral force, and (...) turning more and more to the mechanical," he wrote. In response to the frightening progress of dynamite and steel, Wagner adopted the role of the Tone Poet Seer, who reveals the inexpressible in concert halls and cleanses souls in waves of symhonic revelation. "Religion and Art" is the pivot of the works collected here. Also included are his defining essays "Public and Popularity" and "The Public in Time and Space"; his papers relating to the creation of the Bayreuth School; his complaint against publishers, "On Poetry and Composition" (1879); his article on the first production of Parsifal (1882); and other works that speak his mind about strengthening the spirit through music. These works participated in the duel between Wagner and Nietzsche that ensued after the breakup of their friendship in 1878. Nietzsche publicly called Wagner an incurable romantic, emphasizing how sick he thought both Wagner and his art were. Here Wagner counterattacks with arch innuendo and sarcasm. This edition includes the complete volume 6 of the 1897 translation of Wagner's works commissioned by the London Wagner Society. William Ashton Ellis is one of the most important translators of nineteenth-century musicology. In addition to his monumental translation of Wagner's prose works, he translated Wagner's correspondence with Franz Lizst, Mathilde Wesendonck, and Wagner's own family. Ellis died in 1919. (shrink)

The question naturally arises: Is public art inherently violent, or is it a provocation to violence? Is violence built into the monument in its very conception? Or is violence simply an accident that befalls some monuments, a matter of the fortunes of history? The historical record suggests that if violence is simply an accident that happens to public art, it is one that is always waiting to happen. The principal media and materials of public art are stone and metal sculpture (...) not so much by choice as by necessity. “A public sculpture,” says Lawrence Alloway, “should be invulnerable or inaccessible. It should have the material strength to resist attack or be easily cleanable, but it also needs a formal structure that is not wrecked by alterations.”12 The violence that surrounds public art is more, however, than simply the ever-present possibility of an accident—the natural disaster or random act of vandalism. Much of the world’s public art—memorials, monuments, triumphal arches, obelisks, columns, and statues—has a rather direct reference to violence in the form of war or conquest. From Ozymandias to Caesar to Napoleon to Hitler, public art has served as a kind of monumentalizing of violence, and never more powerfully than when it presents the conqueror as a man of peace, imposing a Napoleonic code or a pax Romana on the world. Public sculpture that is too frank or explicit about this monumentalizing of violence, whether the Assyrian palace reliefs of the ninth century b.c., or Morris’s bomb sculpture proposal of 1981, is likely to offend the sensibilities of a public committed to the repression of its own complicity in violence.13 The very notion of public art as we receive it is inseparable from what Jürgen Habermas has called “the liberal model of the public sphere,” a dimension distinct from the economic, the private, and the political. This ideal realm provides the space in which disinterested citizens may contemplate a transparent emblem of their own inclusiveness and solidarity, and deliberate on the general good, free of coercion, violence, or private interests.14 12. Lawrence Alloway, “The Public Sculpture Problem,” Studio International 184 : 124.13. See Leo Bersani and Ulysse Dutoit, “The Forms of Violence,” October, no. 8 : 17-29, for an important critique of the “narrativization” of violence in Western art and an examination of the alternative suggested by the Assyrian palace reliefs.14. Habermas first introduced this concept in The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, trans. Thomas Burger and Frederick Lawrence . First published in 1962, it has since become the focus of an extensive literature. See also Habermas’s short encyclopedia article, “The Public Sphere,” trans. Sara Lennox and Frank Lennox, New German Critique 1 : 49-55, and the introduction to it by Peter Hohendahl in the same issue, pp. 45-48. I owe much to the guidance of Miriam Hansen and Lauren Berlant on this complex and crucial topic. W. J. T. Mitchell, editor of Critical Inquiry, is Gaylord Donnelly Distinguished Service Professor of English and art at the University of Chicago. His recent book is Iconology: Image, Text, Ideology. (shrink)

Współcześnie próby systematyzowania sztuki na podstawie jej wartości zastępują raczej teorie opisowe, które stronią od jej ocen. Co więcej, refleksja postmodernistyczna, zmieniając swój stosunek do sztuki niskiej, skutecznie zatarła różnice w hierarchizacji walentnych treści sztuki. Wzmocnienie głoszonych w awangardzie programowych tez zmierzających do unieważnienia dotychczasowych kryteriów postaw oceniających wartość sztuki przyszło wraz z tzw. filozofią postmodernizmu. Założenia postmodernizmu ukazują wizję sztuki współczesnej, która osiągnęła kres swoich możliwości twórczych, innymi słowy nie ma współczesnej możliwości powiedzenia w sztuce czegoś nowego, co nie (...) będzie tylko cytatem, powtórzeniem, rekapitulacją tego, co już w sztuce było. Tego rodzaju hipoteza zakłada, że wyobraźnia ludzka jest zbiorem skończonych możliwości, a w procesie rozwoju kultury doszliśmy w czasach współczesnych do punktu, w którym wszystkie możliwe kombinacje zostały już wykorzystane. W tej sytuacji możemy albo przyjąć postawę zniechęcenia, albo sięgnąć do czasów minionych i wyselekcjonować poszczególne elementy, zestawiając je w eklektycznej kombinacji tak, aby nosiły znamiona nowości. Ale, aby przeprowadzić ten eklektyzm, który ma spełniać pozory nowości, trzeba wyjść od zwątpienia w kategorię racjonalnego rozumu, czyli braku wiary w naturalny porządek świata. Tylko wtedy głównym operatywem na gruncie kultury pozostanie wszechobecna ironia. I w tym duchu, zgodnie z założeniami postmodernizmu, należy czytać tzw. wielkie narracje historyczne, czyli systemy filozoficzne, religie, projekty społeczne czy też teorię sztuki. Obecne w historii narracje należy traktować jak wielkie literackie opowieści, które, być może, mają ciekawą fabułę, ale nie są prawdziwe i nie wychodzą poza zdawkowy komentarz. Katalog często stawianych hipotez wybranych i omówionych w artykule wskazuje na ich niejasną i często wadliwą konstrukcję. Nie oznacza to jednak niemożności stawiania pytań o wartościowanie na gruncie estetyki. Należy pamiętać, że pewne kwestie pozostają niezmienne w ocenie sztuki. Kryterium oceny dzieła sztuki uzyskane na podstawie cech empirycznych pozostaje niezmienne, a zatem to, co nazywamy kwestiami warsztatowymi, może przejść jako pierwsza przesłanka uznania, bądź nie, dzieła sztuki za wartościowe. Podobnie na bazie pewnej fikcji wizualnej urzeczywistniane są wartości, które nie są dostępne w świecie realnym, tym samym nie pełnią funkcji czystej repetycji doświadczenia ze świata realnego, więc mogą zaistnieć w świecie sztuki. Tym samym wartość sztuki może być mierzona skalą wprowadzenia do doświadczenia podmiotu poznającego czegoś, czego dotąd podmiot nie doświadczył. (shrink)

" This, explains Pies, "is the keystone in the arch of Stoic philosophy." In a sense, then, the rest of the book is an extended meditation on how we might avoid letting things touch our souls too much.

Formes simples : présentes dans l'art avant l'histoire, inspirées de la nature ou des outils élémentaires, de l'évolution des techniques, des avancées en mathématiques, en biologie ou encore des découvertes archéologiques, elles sont réapparues au XIXe siècle en Occident. Ce livre explore la fascination qu'elles suscitent, leurs significations et leurs influences sur l'invention des formes modernes."--Page 4 of cover.

Idealization is a central feature of human thought. We build ideal models in the sciences, our politics is guided by pictures of impossible utopias, and our thinking about the arts and moral life is guided by images of how things might have been. In all these cases we sometimes proceed with a representation of the world that we know is not true or aim at a world we accept we cannot realize. This is the world of the "as if," which (...) the philosopher Hans Vaihinger delineated at the turn of the century, in ways he traced back to Kant. In this book, I aim to explore idealization in aesthetics, ethics, and metaphysics, as well as in the philosophy of mind, of language, of religion, and of the social and natural sciences. No one could be an expert on all of these things, but sometimes in philosophy it helps to stand back and take a broader view. On the way I hope to illuminate many issues, large and small, but there is one over-arching lesson: our best chance of understanding the world must be to have a plurality of ways of thinking about it. This book is about why we need a multitude of pictures of the world. It is a gentle jeremiad against theoretical monism. (shrink)

Bilişsel Din Bilimi (CSR), dini inanç ve uygulamaların nedensel açıklamalarını sağlamayı amaçlayan din araştırmalarına bilimsel bir yaklaşımdır. CSR savunucuları, insan zihninin doğal özelliklerini ve nasıl işlediğini açıklayarak dini inançların oluşumu, kabulü, aktarımı ve yaygınlığı sürecini açıklamaya çalışırlar. Tüm insan kültürlerinde var olan ve son on yılda birçok CSR akademisyeninin dikkatini çeken dini inançlardan biri de öbür dünyaya olan inançtır. CSR araştırmacılarına göre, bu inanç, insan zihninin doğal yapılarına dayanmaktadır. Ölümden sonraki hayata olan inancı, zihinsel araçların işleyişinden kaynaklanan, yansıtıcı olmayan veya (...) sezgisel bir inanç olarak görürler. Ölümden sonra hayata inancın oluşumunu, gelişimini, yayılmasını ve aktarılmasını açıklamak için çeşitli teoriler önerdiler. Ancak bu teoriler arasında, iki teori daha geniş kabul görmüştür, sezgisel düalizm teorisi ve simülasyon kısıtlama teorisi. Sezgisel düalizm teorisi, tüm insanların iki zihinsel araca sahip olduğunu söyler: Sezgisel Biyoloji ve Sezgisel Psikoloji. Sezgisel Biyoloji, ölü bir kişinin karşısına geçip hareket edemediği için artık hayatta olmadığına inanmamızı sağlar. Sezgisel Psikoloji, ölü kişiye otomatik olarak görünmez özellikleri (arzular, düşünceler, inançlar ve duygular gibi) atfetmeye devam eder. Yukarıdaki iki zihinsel aracın aynı anda işleyişi, insan zihnini ölü kişinin bir kısmının önemsiz olduğuna ve fiziksel ölümden sonra kaldığına inandırır. Simülasyon kısıtlama teorisi, tüm insanların çevreden gelen bilgileri işlemek ve dini inançlar edinmek için zihinsel araçlara sahip olduğunu söyler. Zihinsel araçların hiçbiri, kişinin arzularının, düşüncelerinin, inançlarının ve duygularının var olmadığını hayal edemez veya simüle edemez. Bu nedenle ölü kişinin karşısındaki insan zihni, fiziksel ölümünü kolayca hayal etmesine rağmen, kişinin başka bir bölümünün (düşünceler, arzular vb.) Varlığına inanmaya devam eder. Bu teorilerin her ikisi de, öbür dünyaya inancın oluşumunu açıklamada zorluklar ve sınırlamalarla karşı karşıya görünüyor. Bunlar arasında nedensel açıklama yapamama, ölümden sonraki hayata olan inancın doğal ve rasyonel temelleri arasındaki ayrım eksikliği ve öbür dünya inancının doğaüstü temellerini göz ardı etme yer alır. İki teoriden hiçbiri öbür dünyaya inancın oluşumu için yeterli nedensel açıklama sağlamıyor gibi görünmektedir. Her iki teori de zihinsel araçların nasıl işlediğine bağlı olarak öbür dünya inançlarının oluşumu hakkında olası bir hikaye sunmaya çalışır. Ölümden sonraki hayata inanmaya yol açan sürecin yalnızca makul bir hikayesini sunarlar. Bu iki teorinin sunduğu şey, insan zihninin ve araçlarının ve bunların nasıl işlediğinin bir açıklamasıdır (nedensel açıklama değil). Bu, kendi başına, bu aletlerin öbür dünyaya bir inanç ürettiğini açıklamaz. Dolayısıyla ahirete olan inancın zihinsel araçların işleyişinin bir sonucu olduğu iddiası, zihinsel araçlar ile bu inanç arasında nedensel bir ilişki gerektirir. Bu iki teoriden hiçbiri bu nedensel ilişkiyi açıklayamaz ve yalnızca aralarındaki ilişkinin makul bir hikayesini açıklarlar. Dahası, dini inancın rasyonel temelleri ile dini inancın doğal temelleri arasındaki ayrım, ahirete inanmak veya onunla ilişkili bilişsel mekanizmaları tanımlamak için doğal bir köken bulmanın hiçbir şekilde bu inancı reddetmek veya itibarını sarsmak anlamına gelmediğini göstermektedir. Ahirete olan inancın doğal kökenleri hakkındaki bilişsel teoriler bize bu inancın rasyonel mi irrasyonel mi olduğunu gösteremez. Bu açıklamalar ancak (eğer yapabilirlerse) bize bu inancın oluşumunun ve yaygınlığının doğal köklerini gösterebilir. Ayrıca Dinsel inanç karmaşık bir kavramdır. Birincisi, doğal bir kavramdır, bu anlamda insan doğasına dayanır ve insanın bilişsel sistemleri ve zihinsel araçlarıyla ilgilidir. İkincisi, kültürel ve sosyal bir kavramdır, bu anlamda hem kültürel ve sosyal değişimden etkilenir hem de onu etkiler. Üçüncüsü, doğaüstü bir kavramdır, bu anlamda hem vahiy hem de kehanet ve insanın maddi olmayan yönüyle derinden bağlantılıdır. Öbür dünyaya inanç, her üç düzeyde açıklamayı gerektiriyor gibi görünüyor. (shrink)

La Cappella Carafa di Santa Severina, nella chiesa di San Domenico Maggiore a Napoli, era uno dei luoghi preferiti della giovinezza di Giordano Bruno. La sua struttura, che ricorda il teatro di Giulio Camillo, e la presenza di trenta simboli astrologici scolpiti sugli archi, la rendono la “stanza della memoria” ideale per l’applicazione dell’innovativa arte della memoria sviluppata dal filosofo Nolano. -/- The ‘memory place’ of Giordano Bruno. The Carafa of Santa Severina Chapel in the church of San Domenico Maggiore, (...) Naples, was one of the favourite places of Giordano Bruno’s youth. Its structure, similar to that of Giulio Camillo’s theatre, and the presence of thirty astrological symbols carved on the arches, make it the ideal ‘memory place’ for the application of the innovative ‘art of memory’ developed by the philosopher. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Elizabethan Bacchae STEPHEN ORGEL Euripides’s Bacchae, with its antic hero and celebration of the joys of revenge, would seem to be especially relevant to Elizabethan drama, an ancestor of The Spanish Tragedy or Hamlet. In fact, however, it seems to have been practically unknown to the Elizabethans. With the new ProQuest version of EEBO (Early English Books Online) it is now possible to search early English books for (...) specific references; so I paired the name Euripides with books printed in England before 1640 to see what came up. I got 474 hits. Many of these, of course, were duplicates, appearing in works that were issued in multiple editions—the actual figure, however, was still something over three hundred. Most of those, however, were cases in which Euripides’s name simply appears in a list of famous ancient authors. Citations which actually quoted Euripides for the most part indicated no knowledge of the work cited, but were only bits of wisdom that might have come from any of the multitude of collections of aphorisms and moral stories throughout the period. There was only one English edition of a play of Euripides in Greek, The Trojan Women, published by John Day in 1575— continental editions were, of course, easily obtainable, but it must be to the point that English publishers did not see a sufficient market to produce them domestically; and there were no subsequent editions of Day’s Trojan Women. As for The Bacchae, I found only a single case where I believe it is being cited, and in a context, moreover, that indicates some familiarity with the play. John Bishop’s Beautiful Blossoms, a collection of historical anecdotes published in 1577, recounting the history of Demetrius, king of Macedonia, says, “Then fled Demetrius unto Thebes, where one scoffingly applied vnto him that verse arion 28.3 winter 2021 64 the elizabethan bacchae of Euripides: he came vnto the Dyrcean springs, and Ismenus, his divine and goodly fourme and shape being chaunged in to a mortall.”1 This is a version of a bit of Dionysus’s opening speech, I am here at the springs of Dirce, the river Ismenos, Changing my shape from divine to mortal... There is no reason to assume that John Bishop (about whom I can learn nothing) knew the play, but he is certainly citing someone who did. The play, then, to the Elizabethans was either practically unknown or deliberately ignored. It was not translated into English until the 1780s, and then two translations were published within a year of each other—for the English, it was an enlightenment and romantic text. Schlegel’s Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature (delivered 1806, published 1846) and Nietzsche’s Birth of Tragedy (1872) were the works that established The Bacchae as the quintessential Greek tragedy, though for Nietzsche, ironically, the two destroyers of the Greek tragic sense, the two great cultural villains, were Euripides the ironist and Socrates the arch-rationalist. But Nietzsche sees Euripides, at the end of his life, having a major change of heart, realizing that Dionysus was simply too powerful to be expunged from art and society; and The Bacchae was thus the fullest expression of this tragic truth. The problems with this argument are manifold: Euripides the ironist is quite evident in The Bacchae, so it hardly represents a change of heart; and the claims of the irrational are fully present in his earlier plays, for example, in Hippolytus, where all the poetic energy is in expressing the uncontrollable violence of passion, and the virtues of morality and self-control are meagre indeed. The essay was soundly refuted in its own time, and Nietzsche withdrew and recanted it. Its celebrity is a modern phenomenon: whatever its historical defects, it speaks to the dangerous attractions of unreason. There is a perverse element in Nietzsche’s argument, too: Dionysus, as the embodiment of revelry, is surely as essential Stephen Orgel 65 to comedy as to tragedy; and one could press this further. At the end of The Symposium, Socrates tells Agathon and Aristophanes, tragic and comic dramatists, that their arts (or crafts: the word is techne) are essentially the same. Heavy weather has... (shrink)

Obóz Kultury 2.0 Mirosław Filiciak, Alek Tarkowski, Agata Jałosińska, Andrzej Klimczuk, Maciej Rynarzewski, Jacek Seweryn, Stunża M., D. Grzegorz, Marcin Wilkowski & Anna Orlik .

I argue that Plato’s deployment of the resumptive phrase πάλιν ἐξ ἀρχῆς illuminates the philosophical significance of his art of transition in Socratic dialogues. These explicit calls for a new beginning often appear when a conversation fails to account for two particular elements of ordinary experience: assumptions about whole-part relations and about the interlocutor’s self-conception as a being responsive to basic rational and normative distinctions. Returning to the archē is a form of ἀνάμνησις, reminding us that these assumptions constitute true, (...) but inarticulate, opinions of a fundamental kind. They are the preconditions for discourse that philosophical διαλέγεσθαι must preserve and ground. (shrink)

When a rainbow spans the sky the eye may rest with simple rapture on the arch of colours, or the mind may interpret it as an interplay between raindrops and light. This perceptibly separates the aesthetic relish of the colours from the scientific understanding of the bow. Archbishop Temple distinguished the restfulness of art from the restlessness of science. This applies to the wider aesthetic which includes natural products, such as snow-scenes or daffodils or rainbows, with the pictures, statues, buildings, (...) poems, and other products of man-made art. The rainbow clearly separates the understanding sought by science from the immediate contemplative aesthetic satisfaction with the colours. (shrink)

Intergenerational justice and democratic theory -- A narrative turn -- Archê, finitude, and community in Aristophanes -- Mothers, powerlessness, and intergenerational agency in Euripides -- Freedom, responsibility, and transgenerational orientation in Aeschylus -- Art, space, and possibilities for intergenerational justice in our time.

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Is Literature Self-Referential?Eric MillerIIs literary language necessarily self-referential? And does this put paradox at the heart of literature? For at least two decades now, affirmative answers to both questions have been articles of faith among critics in the structuralist and poststructuralist mainstream. Literature’s ineluctable paradoxicality attracts us so because a paradox suggests that there are limits to human rationality, and thus strikes a blow for literature and against science. (...) Paradox ensures literature its own special realm, safe from the culturally imperialistic inroads of science’s orderly, rational-empirical constructions. Literature thus gets to be seen as “bigger” than reason, because only literature can live with paradox, and thus only literature reveals those “deeper” truths of contradiction-ridden human existence, whereas science can never penetrate beyond rational manipulations of phenomenal surfaces. Indeed, for anyone who holds all human existence to be fundamentally paradoxical, this special capacity makes literature the only genuine, demystified species of human knowledge. In the war between C. P. Snow’s Two Cultures, a war humanists are now losing badly, we like to regard paradox as our ultimate weapon.Belief in the paradoxicality of literature may also be found among the New Critics, 1 and in fact goes back at least to the Romantics, 2 but they did not derive this belief from a necessary self-referentiality of literary language. This newer way of deriving paradox appears to offer several competitive advantages. Self-reference seems to be the ultimate version of “art for art’s sake”: if all literary language is necessarily self-referential, then literature must be something totally self-contained, and is thus legitimized solely in and through itself. In addition, deriving [End Page 475] literature’s paradoxicality from self-reference seems to ground it in the same conceptual realm as mathematical logic, and thus tempts us to claim for literature a “rigor” normally conceded only to logic, mathematics, and theoretical physics. Self-referentiality would thus seem both to protect literature’s autonomy and to raise its cultural status into the company of mathematics and science.But it is a trap. For behind this new strategy lurks a capitulation to the underlying conceptual scheme of natural science, and literature thus comes to be conceived, in effect, as a science. Self-reference is, after all, still a kind of reference; paradox is still a kind of truth-relational construction;—and truth-relations built around reference constitute the correspondence theory of truth. From such a foundational commitment to reference and correspondence-truth, flows the rest of the scientific worldview: the dualism of referring expression and referent, word and object, sentence and fact, theory and data, language and world, culture and nature. The presentation of literature as a quasi-negation of this ontology changes nothing. The dualism of reference still functions as literature’s conceptual starting point, as its arche. We only appear to be defining a peculiar and radically distinct sphere for literature when we insist on its self-referentiality, on the (recursive) identity, for it, of referring expression and referent. For, this is still to treat the conceptual distinction between the two as foundational, and literature thereby tacitly assimilates science’s fundamental categorial division: the referential language-world duality of correspondence truth. Indeed, literature thus comes to live even more completely in the margins of science: it will have no essence of its own; it will differ at most in being a photo-negative image of science’s positiv(istic) project. In Snow’s war, self-reference is a Trojan horse.With self-reference as the essence of literature, we are thus staking our reputations on literature’s being a special field of formalizable “knowledge about...,” rather than, say, a quality or kind or realm of possible experience—which is to adopt science’s understanding of what is important. Matters are only made worse by that other attempt to define literary studies as a negation of the theory-data dualism of natural science: the poststructuralist denial of the distinction between criticism and literature. For the institutional need professional critics have to be seen as a discipline with a method and a subject, as a form of “knowledge about,” hardly disappears with... (shrink)

Marie-José Mondzain, philosophe, est directrice de recherche au CNRS. Elle a publié des livres sur l’image, entre autres, Image, icône, économie (Seuil, 1996), L’image peut-elle tuer? (Bayard, 2002), Le Commerce des regards (Seuil, 2003) ; des livres sur la peinture : Van Gogh ou la Peinture comme tauromachie (Éd. de l’Épure, 1996), Henri Cueco, vol. 2 (Cercle d’Art, 1997), L’Arche et l’Arc-en-ciel, Michel-Ange – la voûte de la chapelle Sixtine (Le Passage, 2006). Sa réflexion sur l’image l’a conduite à collaborer (...) avec des gens de théâtre et de cinéma, et à participer à des ouvrages collectifs : L’Assemblée théâtrale, 1 (Éd. de l’Amandier, 2002) et 2 ( La Représentation, Éd. de l’Amandier, 2004), Voir ensemble. Autour de Jean-Toussaint Desanti (Gallimard, 2003, coll. « Réfléchir le cinéma »), Le Cinéma et la Shoah. Un art à l’épreuve de la tragédie du xx e siècle (sous la dir. de J.-M. Frodon, Cahiers du Cinéma, 2007). Elle vient de publier Homo spectator (Bayard, 2007). (shrink)

This article describes a logic of distinction and succession within the late-twentieth-century Leningrad-St. Petersburg cultural field, whereby consecutive intelligentsia mainstreams were replaced by their avant-garde peripheries. In this dynamic picture of socio-cultural transformations, I propose a working hypothesis of a repeated stratification of the field into an ‘official’, an ‘unofficial’, and a third ‘non-aligned’ intelligentsia. This hypothesis is tested in reference to the ‘non-aligned’ groups founded by the avant-garde artist and ideologue Timur Novikov (1958–2002). Three major shifts are described: from (...) the politicized late-Brezhnevite early 1980s to the apolitical radicalism of Novikov’s New Artists; from this anarchistic underground, through the perestroika era, to the playful ‘classicism’ of the New Academy of Fine Arts in the 1990s; and from this postmodern international orientation to an arch-reactionary, neo-imperial posturing at the turn of the 2000s. Lastly, this ‘non-aligned’ intelligentsia is suggested as a possible precedent, or, indeed, a model for understanding other historically significant avant-garde peripheries, which commonly seek to distinguish themselves from (often mutually-exclusive) centres. (shrink)

Critical writing about music and music history in nineteenth-century Britain was permeated with metaphor and analogy. Music and Metaphor examines how over-arching theories of music history were affected by reference to various figurative linguistic templates adopted from other disciplines such as art, religion, politics and science.

"Contemporary" is the controlling word in the title of this book of provocative readings, but foundational ideas of a timeless stamp are also brought to bear after the reader’s attention has been captured. In the section on ethics and society, for example, some selections deal with sex, marriage, abortion, eugenics, and women’s rights, but others are archly included on free will, the good life, duty, and the nature of ethical disagreement. The nineteen philosophers whose works are excerpted for this section (...) range from Kant and Bentham in an earlier era through Bertrand Russell and A. H. Maslow of the recent past to today’s Simone de Beauvoir, A. C. Ewing, and Charles L. Stevenson, as well as younger thinkers such as Arthur C. Danto and Nicholas Rescher. The remaining sections of the book cover political problems, language and art, experience and nature, and existential, religious, and other views of the meaning of life. An article by Huston Smith on the religious import of drugs concludes the volume. The editors’ introduction describes in fresh ways what a philosophical approach to an issue is and provides a useful setting for the relevant readings which follow. In the introductions to the five sections of the book, they take a closer look at the particular areas of interest and again try to illuminate the readings, in a different way by setting before the reader the truly challenging questions with which the readings will grapple.—W. G. (shrink)

People develop and deploy epistemic norms – normative sensibilities in light of which they regulate both their individual and community epistemic practice. There is a similarity to folk's epistemic normative sensibilities – and it is by virtue of this that folk commonly can rely on each other, and even work jointly to produce systems of true beliefs – a kind of epistemic common good. Agents not only regulate their belief forming practices in light of these sensitivities, but they make clear (...) to others that they approve or disapprove of practices as these accord with their sensibilities – they thus regulate the belief forming practices of others in an interdependent pursuit of a good – something on the order of a community stock of true beliefs. Such general observations suggest ways in which common epistemic norms function as social norms, as these are characterized by Cristina Bicchieri's (2006) discussion of various kinds of norms. I draw on this framework – together with an important elaboration in Bicchieri (2017) – as it affords an analysis of the various related ways in which normative sensibilities function in communities of interdependent agents. The framework allows one to probe how these normative sensibilities function in the various associated choice situations. I argue that epistemic norms are fundamentally social norms, and, at the same time, they also are widely shared sensibilities about state-of-the-art ways of pursuing projects of individual veritistic value. The two foundations suggest the analogy of an arch. (shrink)

In order to show how Michel Serres’s work diverges from traditional Western philosophy, this article explores a multitude of texts and contexts against which Serres might be better understood. Most starkly, Serres’s work diverges from the eighteenth and nineteenth century Germanic tradition of Bildung, meaning cultivation through introspection, apolitical thought and character building through education. Serres’s moves away from ego-centric thought to eco-centric thought more akin to what Gregory Bateson called an ecology of mind. That is, Serres’s integrates—in a more (...) ecological fashion—poetry, science, the arts, ecology and politics to raise philosophical questions. Further, this author suggests that Serres’s reference to the nineteenth century poem Pierrot Lunaire ) serves as a trope for Serres’s over-arching philosophy. Pierrot is an artist, a sage, an outlier, a Hermes-like figure who breaks with tradition. Arnold Schoenberg’s atonal performance piece, spoken and sung, shattered the boundaries of classical music. Like Schoenberg’s work, Serres’s work, both in style and content, shatters the boundaries of traditional philosophy. Serres’s breaks open a new paradigm in philosophy. (shrink)

The goal of this paper is to argue that the Neptuno Alegórico and the Theatro de Virtudes Políticas, which were composed in 1680 by the Novohispanic philosophers Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz and Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora to accompany respectively two arches erected to celebrate the entry of the Spanish viceroy to Mexico City, are notable not only as examples of panegyrical Baroque literature but also as philosophical texts aimed at moral instruction. To be specific, I argue that (...) the Neptuno and the Theatro belong to a hybrid genre that I label ekphrastic moral mirrors. Ekphrastic moral mirrors, which constitute a subset of the traditional speculum principis, are characterized by offering moral instruction to a prince indirectly, by means of an elaborate ekphrasis of a work of art (which, in the case of the Neptuno and the Theatro, were the two arches that they were paired with). I also argue that, insofar as the Neptuno and the Theatro create different audiences that are mutually aware of each other in virtue of systematically relying on ekphrasis deployed in a public setting, they are potentially more effective for moral instruction than other traditional mirrors of princes. (shrink)

The following presents an excerpt from Nishitani Keiji’s “Prajña and Reason” (1979), which can be considered Nishitani’s last attempt to make his case for the importance of the “standpoint of śūnyatā (‘emptiness’)” in confrontation with the history of Western philosophy. The translator’s preface situates “Prajña and Reason” (1) in Nishitani’s oeuvre and (2) in the context of his broader reception of Western thought, before (3) outlining the place of the excerpt within the full study. The translation here excerpts section six (...) and a portion of the final section seven. Where the prior sections develop and motivate his unified interpretation of G. W. F. Hegel (from the Differenzschrift to the Encyclopedia), in this excerpt, Nishitani diagnoses a problem in the relationships between the domains of Absolute Spirit, specifically, philosophy and religion. As argued in the translator’s preface, the arch of this study points to the contributions that religion (and art) make in evincing “living activity,” a “Knowing” that, while perhaps “un-Scientific” and, in that way, a “not-Knowing,” is for all that “Truthful.”. (shrink)

This essay argues that Oscar Wilde noticeably contributed to the emerging discourse about world literature, even though his views in this regard have to be unearthed from the margins of his works, from his early and unpublished American lectures and ‘between the lines’ of his major critical essays. Wilde’s implicit ideas around world literature can be understood as being closely related to his broader endeavour of redirecting and revaluing the pejorative discourse around ‘decadence’ in art and literature. More specifically, the (...) arch-aesthete preferred to use the word ‘romance’ rather than ‘decadence’ (a term he hardly used at all in his writings), signalling a sensitivity attuned to what he called the ‘love of things impossible’. This reconceptualization of the decadent outlook was to inspire a critical ideal of literature which relied on creatively activating the other as Other, culminating in a vision of intersubjective, transcultural and unlimited literary communication. Wilde’s thought can be more specifically understood as anticipating central tenets of Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s evocations of the planetary, thus preparing the way for an alterity-oriented understanding of literary cosmopolitanism. (shrink)

continent. 2.2 (2012): 66–75 ~*~ We’re Doomed. Pessimism is the night-side of thought, a melodrama of the futility of the brain, a poetry written in the graveyard of philosophy. Pessimism is a lyrical failure of philosophical thinking, each attempt at clear and coherent thought, sullen and submerged in the hidden joy of its own futility. The closest pessimism comes to philosophical argument is the droll and laconic “We’ll never make it,” or simply: “We’re doomed.” Every effort doomed to failure, every (...) project doomed to incompletion, every life doomed to be unlived, every thought doomed to be unthought. Pessimism is the lowest form of philosophy, frequently disparaged and dismissed, merely the symptom of a bad attitude. No one ever needs pessimism, in the way that one needs optimism to inspire one to great heights and to pick oneself up, in the way one needs constructive criticism, advice and feedback, inspirational books or a pat on the back. No one needs pessimism, though I like to imagine the idea of a pessimist activism. No one needs pessimism, and yet everyone—without exception—has, at some point in their lives, had to confront pessimism, if not as a philosophy then as a grievance—against one’s self or others, against one’s surroundings or one’s life, against the state of things or the world in general. There is little redemption for pessimism, and no consolation prize. Ultimately, pessimism is weary of everything and of itself. Pessimism is the philosophical form of disenchantment—disenchantment as chanting, a chant, a mantra, a solitary, monophonic voice rendered insignificant by the intimate immensity surrounding it. In pessimism, the first axiom is a long, low, funereal sigh. ~*~ We’re Still Doomed. No one has time for pessimism. After all, there are only so many hours in a day. Whatever our temperament, happy or sad, engaged or disengaged, we know pessimism when we hear it. The pessimist is usually understood as the complainer, forever pointing out what is wrong with the world without ever once offering a solution. But more often than not pessimists are the quietest of philosophers, submerging their own sighs within the lethargy of discontent. What little sound it makes is of interest to no one—“I’ve heard it all before,” “tell me something I don’t know,” sound and fury, signifying nothing. In raising problems without solutions, in posing questions without answers, in retreating to the hermetic, cavernous abode of complaint, pessimism is guilty of that most inexcusable of Occidental crimes—the crime of not pretending it’s for real. Pessimism fails to live up to the most basic tenet of philosophy—the “as if.” Think as if it will be helpful, act as if it will make a difference, speak as if there is something to say, live as if you are not, in fact, being lived by some murmuring non-entity both shadowy and muddied. Had it more self-assurance and better social skills, pessimism would turn its disenchantment into a religion, possibly calling itself The Great Refusal. But there is a negation in pessimism that refuses even such a Refusal, an awareness that, from the start, it has already failed, and that the culmination of all that is, is that all is for naught. Pessimism tries very hard to present itself in the low, sustained tones of a Requiem Mass, or the tectonic rumbling of Tibetan chant. But it frequently lets loose dissonant notes at once plaintive and pathetic. Often, its voice cracks, its weighty words abruptly reduced to mere shards of guttural sound. ~*~ Maybe It’s Not So Bad, After All. If we know pessimism when we hear it, this is because we’ve heard it all before—and we didn’t need to hear it in the first place. Life is hard enough. What you need is a change of attitude, a new outlook, a shift in perspective... a cup of coffee. If we have no ears for pessimism, this is because it is always reducible to something as reliably mutable as a voice. If pessimism is so frequently disparaged, it is because it brings everyone down, determined as it is to view each day as a bad day, if only by virtue of the fact that it is not yet a bad day. For pessimism the world is brimming with negative possibility, the collision of a bad mood with an impassive world. In fact, pessimism is the result of a confusion between the world and a statement about the world, a confusion that also prevents it from fully entering the hallowed halls of philosophy. If pessimism is so often dismissed, this is because it is often impossible to separate a “bad mood” from a philosophical proposition (and do not all philosophies stem from a bad mood?) The very term “pessimism” suggests a school of thought, a movement, even a community. But pessimism always has a membership of one—maybe two. Ideally, of course, it would have a membership of none, with only a scribbled, illegible note left behind by someone long forgotten. But this seems unrealistic, though one can always hope. ~*~ Anatomy of Pessimism. Though it may locate itself at the margins of philosophy, pessimism is as much subject to philosophical analysis as any other form of thought. Pessimism’s lyricism of failure gives it the structure of music. What time is to the music of sorrow, reason is to a philosophy of the worst. Pessimism’s two major keys are moral and metaphysical pessimism, its subjective and objective poles, an attitude towards the world and a claim about the world. For moral pessimism, it is better not to have been born at all; for metaphysical pessimism, this is the worst of all possible worlds. For moral pessimism the problem is the solipsism of human beings, the world made in our own image, a world-for-us. For metaphysical pessimism, the problem is the solipsism of the world, objected and projected as a world-in-itself. Both moral and metaphysical pessimism are compromised philosophically; moral pessimism by its failure to locate the human within a larger context, and metaphysical pessimism by its failure to recognize the complicity in the very claim of realism. This is how pessimism makes its music of the worst, a generalized misanthropy without the anthropos . Pessimism crystallizes around this futility—it is its amor fati , rendered as musical form. ~*~ Melancholy of Anatomy. There is a logic of pessimism that is fundamental to its suspicion of philosophical system. Pessimism involves a statement about a condition . In pessimism each statement boils down to an affirmation or a negation, just as any condition boils down to the best or the worst. With Schopenhauer, that arch-pessimist, the thinker for whom the philosopher and the curmudgeon perfectly overlap, we see a no-saying to the worst, a no-saying that secretly covets a yes-saying (through asceticism, mysticism, quietism), even if this hidden yes-saying is a horizon at the limits of comprehension. With Nietzsche comes the pronouncement of a Dionysian pessimism, a pessimism of strength or joy, a yes-saying to the worst, a yes-saying to this world as it is. And with Cioran yet another variation, futile yet lyrical, a no-saying to the worst, and a further no-saying to the possibility of any other world, in here or out there. With Cioran one approaches, but never reaches, an absolute no-saying, a studied abandonment of pessimism itself. The logic of pessimism moves through three refusals: a no-saying to the worst (refusal of the world-for-us, or Schopenhauer’s tears); a yes-saying to the worst (refusal of the world-in-itself, or Nietzsche’s laughter); and a no-saying to the for-us and the in-itself (a double refusal, or Cioran’s sleep). Crying, laughing, sleeping—what other responses are adequate to a life that is so indifferent? ~*~ Cosmic Pessimism. Both moral and metaphysical pessimism point to another kind, a pessimism that is neither subjective nor objective, neither for-us nor in-itself, and instead a pessimism of the world-without-us. We could call this a cosmic pessimism ... but this sounds too majestic, too full of wonder, too much the bitter aftertaste of the Great Beyond. Words falter. And so do ideas. And so we have a cosmic pessimism, a pessimism that is first and last a pessimism about cosmos , about the necessity and possibility of order. The contours of cosmic pessimism are a drastic scaling-up or scaling-down of the human point of view, the unhuman orientation of deep space and deep time, and all of this shadowed by an impasse, a primordial insignificance, the impossibility of ever adequately accounting for one’s relationship to thought—all that remains of pessimism is the desiderata of affects—agonistic, impassive, defiant, reclusive, filled with sorrow and flailing at that architectonic chess match called philosophy, a flailing that pessimism tries to raise to the level of an art form (though what usually results is slapstick). ~*~ Song of Futility. An ethics of futility pervades pessimism. Futility, however, is different from fatality, and different again from simple failure (though failure is never simple). Failure is a breakage within the heart of relations, a fissure between cause and effect, a fissure hastily covered over by trying and trying again. With failure, there is always plenty of blame to go around; it’s not my fault, it’s a technical difficulty, it’s a miscommunication. For the pessimist, failure is a question of “when,” not “if”—failure as a metaphysical principle. Everything withers and passes into an obscurity blacker than night, everything from the melodramatic decline of a person’s life to the banal flickering moments that constitute each day. Everything that is done undone, everything said or known destined for a kind of stellar oblivion. When scaled up in this way, failure becomes fatality. Fatality is the hermeticism of cause and effect. In fatality, everything you do, whatever you do, always leads to a certain end, and ultimately to the end—though that end, or the means to that end, remain shrouded in obscurity. Nothing you do makes a difference because everything you do makes a difference. Hence the effects of your actions are hidden from you, even as you deceive yourself into thinking that, at last, this time you will outwit the order of things. By having a goal, planning ahead, and thinking things through carefully, we attempt, in a daily Prometheanism, to turn fatality to our advantage, to gain a glimpse of an order that seems buried deeper and deeper in the fabric of the universe. But even fatality has its comforts. The chain of cause and effect may be hidden from us, but that’s just because disorder is the order we don’t yet see; it’s just complex, distributed, and requires advanced mathematics. Fatality still clings to the sufficiency of everything that exists... When fatality relinquishes even this idea, it becomes futility. Futility arises out of the grim suspicion that, behind the shroud of causality we drape over the world, there is only the indifference of what exists or doesn’t exist; whatever you do ultimately leads to no end, an irrevocable chasm between thought and world. Futility transforms the act of thinking into a zero-sum game. ~*~ Song of the Worst. At the center of pessimism lies the term pessimus , “the worst,” a term as relative as it is absolute. The worst is about as bad as it gets, “the worst” as “the best” in disguise, shrouded by the passage of time or the twists and turns of fortune. For the pessimist, “the worst” is the propensity for suffering that gradually occludes each living moment, until it eclipses it entirely, overlapping perfectly in death... which, for the pessimist, is no longer “the worst.” Pessimism is marked by an unwillingness to move beyond “the worst,” something only partially attributable to a lack in motivation. In pessimism “the worst” is the ground that gives way beneath every existent—things could be worse, and , things could be better. “The worst” invariably implies a value judgment, one made based on scant evidence and little experience; in this way, pessimism’s greatest nemesis is its moral orientation. Pessimism’s propositions have all the gravitas of a bad joke. Perhaps this is why the true optimists are the most severe pessimists—they are optimists that have run out of options. They are almost ecstatically inundated by the worst. Such an optimism is the only possible outcome of a prolonged period of suffering, physical or metaphysical, intellectual or spiritual. But does this not also describe all the trials and tribulations of each day—in short, of “life?” It seems that sooner or later we are all doomed to become optimists of this sort (the most depressing of thoughts...) ~*~ Song of Doom. Rather than serving as a cause for despair, gloom and doom are the forms of consolation for any pessimist philosophy. Neither quite affects nor quite concepts, gloom and doom transform pessimism into a mortification of philosophy. Doom is not just the sense that all things will turn out badly, but that all things inevitably come to an end, irrespective of whether or not they really do come to an end. What emerges from doom is a sense of the unhuman as an attractor, a horizon towards which the human is fatally drawn. Doom is humanity given over to unhumanity in an act of crystalline self-abnegation. Gloom is not simply the anxiety that precedes doom. Gloom is literally atmospheric, climate as much as impression, and if people are also gloomy, this is simply the by-product of an anodyne atmosphere that only incidentally involves human beings. Gloom is more climatological than psychological, the stuff of dim, hazy, overcast skies, of ruins and overgrown tombs, of a misty, lethargic fog that moves with the same languorousness as our own crouched and sullen listening to a disinterested world. In a sense, gloom is the counterpoint to doom—what futility is to the former, fatality is to the latter. Doom is marked by temporality—all things precariously drawn to their end—whereas gloom is the austerity of stillness, all things sad, static, and suspended, a meandering smoke hovering over cold lichen stones and damp fir trees. If doom is the terror of temporality and death, then gloom is the horror of a hovering stasis that is life. At times I like to imagine that this realization alone is the thread that connects the charnel ground Aghori and the graveyard poets. ~*~ Song of Spite. There is an intolerance in pessimism that knows no bounds. In pessimism spite begins by fixing on a particular object of spite—someone one hardly knows, or someone one knows too well; a spite for this person or a spite for all of humanity; a spectacular or a banal spite; a spite for a noisy neighbor, a yapping dog, a battalion of strollers, the meandering idiot walking in front of you on their smart phone, large loud celebrations, traumatic injustices anywhere in the world regurgitated as media blitz, spite for the self-absorbed and overly performative people talking way too loud at the table next to you, technical difficulties and troubleshooting, the reduction of everything to branding, spite of the refusal to admit one’s own errors, of self-help books, of people who know absolutely everything and make sure to tell you, of all people, all living beings, all things, the world, the spiteful planet, the inanity of existence... Spite is the motor of pessimism because it is so egalitarian, so expansive, it runs amok, stumbling across intuitions that can only half-heartedly be called philosophical. Spite lacks the confidence and the clarity of hatred, but it also lacks the almost cordial judgment of dislike. For the pessimist, the smallest detail can be an indication of a metaphysical futility so vast and funereal that it eclipses pessimism itself—a spite that pessimism carefully places beyond the horizon of intelligibility, like the experience of dusk, or like the phrase, “it is raining jewels and daggers.” ~*~ Song of Sleep. A paraphrase of Schopenhauer: what death is for the organism, sleep is for the individual. Pessimists sleep not because they are depressed, but because for them sleep is a form of ascetic practice. Sleep is the askesis of pessimism. If, while sleeping, we have a bad dream, we abruptly wake up, and suddenly the horrors of the night vanish. There is no reason to think that the same does not happen with the bad dream we call “life.” ~*~ Song of Sorrow. Nietzsche, commenting on pessimism, once castigated Schopenhauer for taking things too lightly. He writes: ...Schopenhauer, though a pessimist, really —played the flute. Every day, after dinner: one should read his biography on that. And incidentally: a pessimist, one who denies God and the world but comes to a stop before morality—who affirms morality and plays the flute... what? Is that really—a pessimist? We know that Schopenhauer did possess a collection of instruments, and we also know that Nietzsche himself composed music. There is no reason to think that either of them would ever banish music from the Republic of philosophy. But Nietzsche’s jibes at Schopenhauer are as much about music as they are about pessimism. For the pessimist who says no to everything and yet finds comfort in music, the no-saying of pessimism can only be a weak way of saying yes—the weightiest statement undercut by the flightiest of replies. The least that Schopenhauer could’ve done is to play the bass. I’m not a big fan of the flute, or, for that matter, wind instruments generally. But what Nietzsche forgets is the role that the flute has historically played in Greek tragedy. In tragedy, the flute ( aulos ) is not an instrument of levity and joy, but of solitude and sorrow. The Greek aulos not only expresses the grief of tragic loss, but it does so in a way that renders weeping and singing inseparable from each other. The classicist Nicole Loraux calls this the mourning voice . Set apart from the more official civic rituals of funerary mourning, the mourning voice of Greek tragedy constantly threatens to dissolve song into wailing, music into moaning, and the voice into a primordial, disarticulate anti-music. The mourning voice delineates all the forms of suffering—tears, weeping, sobbing, wailing, moaning, and the convulsions of thought reduced to an elemental unintelligibility. In the collapsed space between the voice that speaks and the voice that sings, pessimism discovers its mourning voice. Pessimism: the failure of sound and sense, the disarticulation of phone and logos . Have we rescued Schopenhauer from Nietzsche? Probably not. Perhaps Schopenhauer played the flute to remind himself of the real function of the mourning voice—sorrow, sighs, and moaning rendered indistinguishable from music, the crumbling of the human into the unhuman. Failure par excellence of pessimism. ~*~ Song of Nothing. In Buddhist thought, the First Noble Truth of existence is encapsulated in the Pali term dukkha , conventionally translated as “suffering,” “sorrow,” or “misery.” The Buddhist teachings are clear, however, that this is an objective claim, and not simply one point of view among others. Existence is suffering and sorrow—and yet this is not, the teachings tell us, a pessimistic attitude. It is likely that Schopenhauer, reading the Buddhist texts available to him, recognized some filiation with the concept of dukkha . But dukkha is a multi-faceted term. There is, certainly, dukkha in the usual sense of the suffering, strife, and loss associated with living a life. But this is, in turn, dependent on the finitude and temporality of dukkha , existence as determined by impermanence and imperfection. And this ultimately points to the way in which both suffering and finitude are grounded by the paradoxical groundlessness of dukkha as a metaphysical principle—the insubstantiality and the emptiness of all that is. Beyond what is worse to me, beyond a world ordered for the worst, there is the emptiness of dukkha as an impersonal suffering... the tears of the cosmos. In this context, it is easy to see how Schopenhauer’s pessimism attempts to compress all the aspects of dukkha into a nothingness at the core of existence, a Willlessness coursing through the Will. Though one thing for certain is that with Schopenhauer we do not find the “ever-smiling” countenance of Buddhism—or do we? The texts of the Pali Canon also contain lists of the different types of happiness—including the happiness of renunciation and the strange happiness of detachment. But Buddhism considers even the different types of happiness as part of dukkha , in this final sense of nothingness or emptiness. Perhaps Schopenhauer understood Buddhism better than he is usually given credit for. Thus the experiment of Schopenhauer’s philosophy—the point at which a Western pessimus and an Eastern dukkha overlap or exchange glances. Empty sorrow, a lyricism of indifference. The result is a strange, and ultimately untenable, nocturnal form of Buddhism. ~*~ Cioran once called music a “physics of tears.” If this is true, then perhaps metaphysics is its commentary. Or its apology. ~*~ Pessimism would be more mystical were it not for its defeatism. Mysticism is much too proactive for the pessimist, and pessimism too impassive even for the mystic. At the same time, there is something enviable about mysticism—despite its sufferings. There is a sense in which pessimists are really failed mystics. ~*~ You, the Night, and the Music. In a suggestive passage, Schopenhauer once noted that, “music is the melody to which the world is the text." Given Schopenhauer’s view on life—that life is suffering, that human life is absurd, that the nothingness before my birth is equal to the nothingness after my death—given all this, one wonders what kind of music Schopenhauer had in mind when he described music as the melody to which the world is text—was it opera, a Requiem Mass, a madrigal, or perhaps a drinking song? Or something like Eine kleine Nachtmusik , a little night music for the twilight of thought, a sullen nocturne for the night-side of logic, an era of sad wings sung by a solitary banshee. Perhaps the music Schopenhauer had in mind is music eliminated to non-music. A whisper would suffice. Perhaps a sigh of fatigue or resignation, perhaps a moan of despair or sorrow. Perhaps a sound just articulate enough that it could be heard to dissipate. ~*~ Teach me to laugh through tears. ~*~ Pessimism always falls short of being philosophical. My back aches, my knees hurt, I couldn’t sleep last night, I’m stressed-out, and I think I’m finally coming down with something. Pessimism abjures all pretenses towards system—towards the purity of analysis and the dignity of critique. We didn’t really think we could figure it out, did we? It was just passing time, taking a piss, something to do, a bold gesture put forth in all its fragility, according to rules that we have agreed to forget that we made up in the first place. Every thought marked by a shadowy incomprehension that precedes it, and a futility that undermines it. That pessimism speaks, in whatever voice, is the singing testimony to this futility and this incomprehension—take a chance and step outside, lose some sleep and say you tried... ~*~ Is there a music of pessimism? And would such a music be audible? ~*~ The impact of music on a person compels them to put their experience into words. When this fails, the result is a faltering of thought and language that is itself a kind of music. Cioran writes: “Music is everything. God himself is nothing more than an acoustic hallucination.” ~*~ If a thinker like Schopenhauer has any redeeming qualities, it is that he identified the great lie of Western culture—the preference for existence over non-existence. As he notes: “If we knocked on the graves and asked the dead whether they would like to rise again, they would shake their heads.” In Western cultures it is commonly accepted that one celebrates birth and mourns death. But there must be a mistake here. Wouldn’t it make more sense to mourn birth and celebrate death? Strange though, because the mourning of birth would, presumably, last the entirety of that person’s life, so that mourning and living would the be same thing. ~*~ To the musical idea of the harmony of the universe corresponds the philosophical principle of sufficient reason. Like the music of mourning, pessimism gives voice to the inevitable breakdown of word and song. In this way, music is the overtone of thought. ~*~ The Patron Saints of Pessimism. The patron saints of pessimism watch over suffering. Laconic and sullen, the patron saints of pessimism never seem to do a good job at protecting, interceding, or advocating for those who suffer. Perhaps they need us more than we need them. Lest we forget, there do exist patron saints of philosophy, but their stories are not happy ones. There is, for instance, the fourth century Saint Catherine of Alexandria, or Catherine of the Wheel, named after the torture device used on her. A precocious fourteen year old scholar, Catherine was subject to continual persecution. After all forms of torture failed—including the “breaking wheel”—the emperor finally settled for her decapitation, a violent yet appropriate reminder of the protector of philosophers. There are also patron saints of music and musicians, but theirs too are sad stories. In the second century, Saint Cecilia was also subject to persecution and torture. As she knelt to receive the blade that would separate her head from her body, she ardently sang a song to God. It took three attempts before she was fully decapitated, all the while she continued, perhaps miraculously, to sing. Does pessimism not deserve its own patron saints, even if they are unworthy of martyrdom? But in our search, even the most ardent nay-sayers frequently lapse into brief moments of enthusiasm—Pascal’s love of solitude, Leopardi’s love of poetry, Schopenhauer’s love of music, Nietzsche’s love of Schopenhauer, and so on. Should one then focus on individual works of pessimism? We could include Kierkegaard’s trilogy of horror— Sickness Unto Death , The Concept of Dread , and Fear and Trembling —but all these are undermined by their fabricated and unreliable authors. Besides, how can one separate the pessimist from the optimist in works like Unamuno’s The Tragic Sense of Life , Shestov’s Postetas Clavium , or Edgar Saltus’ under-read The Philosophy of Disenchantment ? Even in cases where the entire corpus of an author is pessimistic, the project always seems incomplete—witness Cioran’s trajectory, from his first book, On the Heights of Despair , to the last unpublished notebooks of acrid and taut aphorisms. And this is to say nothing of literary pessimism, from Goethe’s sorrowful Werther, to Dostoevsky’s underground man, to Pessoa’s disquiet scribbler; Baudelaire’s spleen and ennui, the mystical Satanism of Huysmans and Strindberg, the hauntologies of Mário de Sá-Carniero, Izumi Kyoka, H.P. Lovecraft, grumpy old Beckett... even the great pessimist comedians. All that remains are singular, perhaps anomalous statements of pessimism, a litany of quotes and citations crammed into fortune cookies. Patron saints are traditionally named after a locale, either a place of birth or of a mystical experience. Perhaps the better approach is to focus on the places where pessimists were forced to live out their pessimism—Schopenhauer facing an empty Berlin lecture hall, Nietzsche mute and convalescent at the home of his sister, Wittgenstein the relinquished professor and solitary gardener, Cioran grappling with Alzheimer’s in his tiny writing alcove in the Latin Quarter. ~*~ There’s a ghost that grows inside of me, damaged in the making, and there’s a hunt sprung from necessity, elliptical and drowned. Where the moving quiet of our insomnia offers up each thought, there’s a luminous field of grey inertia, and obsidian dreams burnt all the way down. ~*~ If pessimism has any pedagogical value, it is that the failure of pessimism as a philosophy is inextricably tied to the failure of pessimism as voice. I read the following, from Shestov’s The Apotheosis of Groundlessness : When a person is young he writes because it seems to him he has discovered a new almighty truth which he must make haste to impart to forlorn humankind. Later, becoming more modest, he begins to doubt his truths: and then he tries to convince himself. A few more years go by, and he knows he was mistaken all round, so there is no need to convince himself. Nevertheless he continues to write, because he is not fit for any other work, and to be accounted a superfluous person is so horrible. (shrink)

The prevalence of colourful metaphors and figurative language in critics’ descriptions of artworks has long attracted attention. Talk of ‘liquid melodies’, ‘purple prose’, ‘soaring arches’, and the use of still more elaborate figurative descriptions, is not uncommon. My aim in this paper is to explain why metaphor is so prevalent in critical description. Many have taken the prevalence of art-critical metaphors to reveal something important about aesthetic experience and aesthetic properties. My focus is different. I attempt to determine what metaphor (...) enables critics to achieve and why it is so well suited to helping them achieve it. I begin by outlining my account of what metaphors communicate and defend it against objections to the effect that it does not apply to art-critical metaphors. I then distinguish between two kinds of art-critical metaphor. This distinction is not normally drawn, but drawing it is essential to understanding why critics use metaphor. I then explain why each kind of metaphor is so common in criticism. (shrink)

What is wonder? What would it mean to live our lives in wonder or with wonder? Is it possible for wonder to play an integral role in our aesthetic, ethical, and pedagogical experiences? Philosophy is said to begin with wonder. For Plato, wonder is the arche that grounds all philosophical inquiry. I propose to begin my ethical and aesthetic investigation of wonder with Plato, but, unlike Plato who places the imagination’s capacity to be astonished at the bottom of a hierarchy (...) that quests for knowledge and understanding, I will argue that an ethics and aesthetics based on wonder would allow for the imagination to play an active role in all our encounters. First, I look at different philosophical treatments of wonder and then consider the role wonder plays as a virtue. Next I examine the wondrous in relation to aesthetic and ethical experiences, exploring art exhibits and a play, and conclude by drawing upon the many sides of wonder and considering its role in education. In my wanderings on wonder, I seek to value wonder as an integral part of ourselves, in all our imaginings, understandings, growth, and knowledge acquisition. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Nature and Freedom, Purity and Impurity in Reconsidering the Life of PowerJames Garrison (bio)My book Reconsidering the Life of Power: Ritual, Body, and Art in Critical Theory and Chinese Philosophy is not so much about providing a systematic account of what it means to be a self-monitoring, self-regulating subject, the branches of which might resolve down to some single root, despite its clear debt to Judith Butler's 1997 The (...) Psychic Life of Power: Theories in Subjection.1 My book is instead more self-consciously rhizomatic in the [End Page 833] manner of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari.2 Describing my rhizomatic approach in this book, Joseph Harroff observes in his preceding article that:Instead of thinking about thinking as being conducive to the construction of totalizing systems, final vocabularies, or epistemic closure, Garrison connects our embodied reflection in the interstices of habit to the always changing life of power—that is, the conditions for the possibility of becoming a thinking, feeling, body-subject—to the dynamic and amorphous nature of the multitudinous processes by which we are constantly being rendered subjectival in daily life by forces working relatively synchronically in the present as "subjectivation" and relatively diachronically in cultural traditions as so many forms of "subjectality"3This is a very nuanced way of saying that my efforts to present subject life as being (1) relational, (2) bodily, (3) discursive, and (4) ritually philosophy. Indeed, thoughmpelled have led to a book that sprawls.4 This sprawl is thus like that of a rhizome (think of ginger), not proceeding from a single source of growth with a single, clear arche. Do I revel in the imprecision? Yes, but only when it is justified by the investigation itself. And in the case of this inquiry—which spans what Judith Butler captures regarding ritual performativity by drawing on figures like Hegel, Nietzsche, Freud, and Foucault and the complex approaches to ritual seen in classical and contemporary Rú 儒 philosophy (Confucianism)—the rhizomatic approach very much is.With my book having hopefully earned its own rhizomatic badge of honor, my response to the thoughtful questions posed by Kelly Coble and Joseph Harroff likewise takes up this spirit and cuts its own course through what has been presented in their articles. Hence, I will proceed in a non-linear fashion that draws links between ideas capriciously and unapologetically.That said, my way of looking at Reconsidering the Life of Power and what I immodestly call its insights is far from the only perspective. I hold a copyright on the book (fact check: ctually, it's SUNY Press), but in the marketplace of ideas, I hold no monopoly, even over what I have authored. Therefore, while I feel a degree of ownership over the ideas presented here, I am delighted to see my thinking challenged and extended by people like Kelly Coble and Joseph Harroff in this forum and by others (like Michael J. Ardoline in the article "Building a Way: Becoming Active in One's Own Subjectivation through Deleuze and Xunzi" from the journal Philosophies),5 all of whom see so much present in the text beyond what I, even in its conception, was able.To wit, Joseph Harroff's characterization of my efforts to reclaim and redefine the term "liberal arts" captures so much of what I tried to convey so much more succinctly and with so much more in the way of provocative connection to a wealth of texts of a decidedly European lineage on the connection between freedom, the arts, and self-cultivation.6 However, as he well identifies, whereas classical European conceptions of liberal arts tend to [End Page 834] be more about self-cultivation of an atomic individual, what I am offering is more about finding freedom while taking the "self" in question to be deeply and constitutively relational along the lines that he very effectively links to the pragmatism of John Dewey and also in Rú, philosophy. Indeed, though not much of this specific pragmatist thread made it directly into this book, the influence of Roger T. Ames from my time at the University of Hawai'i at Mānoa pervades Reconsidering the Life... (shrink)

Os sentidos da paixão foram originalmente um curso livre que o Núcleo de Estudos e Pesquisas da Fundação Nacional de Arte (Funarte) promoveu no Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, Brasília e Curitiba e que atraiu cerca de setecentas a mil pessoas em cada cidade. Prova da fertilidade do curso é este livro apaixonado. Nele, alguns dos mais brilhantes intelectuais brasileiros discutem desde o amor em Platão até a paixão em Pasolini, passando por Freud, Walter Benjamin e Clarice Lispector, o que (...) só comprova a riqueza de um tema que até então não havia sido objeto de um debate como este.ÍndiceApresentaçãoPor que tanta paixão? Adauto NovaesOS SENTIDOS DA PAIXÃOO conceito de paixão - Gérard LebrunSobre o medo - Marilena ChauiPlatão: as várias faces do amor - José Américo Motta PessanhaO CANTO DAS PAIXÕESA glória - Renato Janine RibeiroA inveja - Renato MezanA melancolia de Ulisses - Olgária MatosPaixão da igualdade, paixão da liberdade: a amizade em Montaigne - Sérgio CardosoA paixão dionisíaca em Tristão e Isolda - José Miguel WisnikO lenço e o caos - Jorge ColiPasolini: paixão e ideologia - Michel LahudA paixão de Clarice Lispector - Benedito NunesPoesia: a paixão da linguagem - Paulo LeminskiÉdipo e a paixão - Hélio PellegrinoO Dom de Édipo - Luiz Renato MartinsLou Andreas-Salomé: a paixão viva - Luzilá Gonçalves FerreiraA PAIXÃO REVOLUCIONÁRIAA alegoria da liberdade - Jorge ColiA paixão revolucionária e a paixão amorosa em Stendhal - Renato Janine RibeiroA PAIXÃO SILENCIOSARazão e paixão - Sérgio Paulo RouanetA psicanálise e o domínio das paixões - Maria Rita KehlBenjamin: política e paixão - Katia Muricy. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:American Journal of Philology 124.4 (2003) 621-624 [Access article in PDF] HARRY B. EVANS. Aqueduct Hunting in the Seventeenth Century: Raffaello Fabretti's De aquis et aquaeductibus veteris Romae. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2002. xvi + 309 pp. 38 black-and-white figures. Cloth, $55. Stretching across the Roman Campagna, the tall arches of ancient aqueducts, even in their present ruined condition, are vivid reminders of the powerful state (...) and skilled engineers that built them. Scholarly interest in the geography and topography of the Campagna, with its natural and manmade wonders, had its genesis in such ancient commentators as Pliny the Elder and Strabo, but perhaps no scholars were more energetic than the early modern. Antiquarians and archaeologists perused the ruins of Rome and its countryside, among them the talented epigrapher and hunter of aqueducts, Raffaello Fabretti. A prominent figure in the learned world of seventeenth-century Rome, Fabretti published a study of the city's ancient aqueducts in 1680. It was the earliest modern topographical work to take the water system as its subject and among the most influential studies of its kind. Until now, Fabretti's treatise, titled De aquis et aquaeductibus veteris Romae, was available only in the original Latin (reprinted in The Printed Sources of Western Art series); its language quirky, ornate, and difficult, the treatise was not readily accessible to most readers.In the volume under review, Harry Evans, a veteran scholar of the Roman countryside and its water system, provides a complete English translation of and commentary on Fabretti's Deaquis. In the original text, Fabretti takes his readers on an exhaustive tour of the Roman Campagna that includes not only the aqueducts—whose water sources, conduit routes, and distribution systems he details—but also the ancient road system and city gates; he even assesses the size of the ancient city itself. His discussion encompasses literary, epigraphic, and archaeological evidence and is invaluable for its description of physical remains long since lost. Focusing primarily on the topographical issues addressed by Fabretti, Evans assesses his methods, contributions, and errors; at the same time, Evans offers a glimpse into the lively, often deeply contentious world of early modern scholarship.Fabretti's treatise was initially written as three separate "dissertations," published together in 1680. The first addresses the route and purpose of the Aqua Alexandrina, a third-century imperial conduit; the second explores the sources of the Aqua Marcia and Aqua Claudia in the upper Anio valley east of Tivoli; the third investigates a discrepancy between the number of aqueducts cited by Procopius (14) and the number of water sources listed in the fourth-century regionary catalogues (20). In two introductory chapters, Evans reviews Fabretti's biography and provides historical context for the treatise. Each of the following three chapters addresses one of the dissertations, with Evans' commentary following a full translation of the text. In a brief conclusion, Evan reflects upon Fabretti's contribution to later archaeological and topographical scholarship down to the twentieth century. Evans provides a readable translation of Fabretti's Latin text (while remaining faithful to the original), a text that will amuse [End Page 621] readers with its frequent barbs aimed at rivals in the field. Amply illustrated, including reproductions of the topographical maps that accompany each dissertation, this volume is a significant resource not only for philologists but also for historians of Rome more generally.Like many polymaths of his day, Fabretti had a career in the Church but made his name as a scholar of the ancients. His knowledge of Rome and the Campagna was not simply literary, though his command of the written sources was unquestionable, for as superintendent of the catacombs and custodian of antiquities, Fabretti had ample opportunity to excavate and examine Roman remains firsthand. He formed his own collection of inscriptions and published a number of ambitious archaeological tomes, including one on the column of Trajan. Intimate with the most learned persons of his day, Bernard Montfaucon and Giovanni Ciampini among them, Fabretti moved in the scholarly... (shrink)

Inizialmente, il saggio tratteggia una breve storia estetico-artistica della nuvola, dagli archè della filosofia naturalistica presocratica, in cui si mostrano le nuvole come un compendio perfetto della vita e della sua immagine mutevole, alla tesi kantiana sull’origine nuvolosa del cosmo. Le nuvole sono immagini attraverso le quali si evoca la struttura di cui è fatta ogni forma che ha in sé le leggi dell’apparire e della materia. Esse rappresentano, dunque, un’origine senza origine e il complesso rapporto analogico e linguistico con (...) la realtà. A partire da tali considerazioni lo scritto analizza per via analogica Equivalents (1993) dell’artista brasiliano Vik Muniz. Queste opere intensificano la riflessione sul vedere e sull’esistenza, mettono in discussione i principi della fotografia e aprono a nuove pratiche non più fotografiche ma forografiche. Le nuvole dimostrano come l’arte non sia il tentativo di cercare la bellezza ma di avere il coraggio di riceverla, sollecitando costantemente nuovi e mutevoli linguaggi. (shrink)

Since both these readings of Tracing Expression converge on a number of focal issues, namely the diacriticity and creativity of expression, memory, temporality, and the trace, the relation of artistic creation to the proto-artistic creativity of nature, and the elemental or what Toadvine calls “the end of the world,” I enter into dialogue with both interlocutors on these issues.Given the differential character of expression and the silences that permeate the sedimentation that it draws upon, nothing is replicatively bodied forth by (...) it, and itsspontaneity remains intact. While Lawlor suggests that a fundamental negation is at the core of of manifestation, I call attention to the need to guard against absolutizing the negative or giving it a “secondary positivity.”I do not think that there is any fundamental tension, for Merleau-Ponty, between nascency and memory, given that sedimentation, as “the trace of the forgotten” remains efficacious as the exigency of a future. The basic character of the trace is not that of a mere residue but is akin to the archē-trace; and the past that it refers to iis immemorial. It is important, in this context, to bear in mind the event- and the field-character of institution.I do not think that my emphasis on the autonomy of art breaks the contitnuity between art and the proto-artistic creativity of nature. Firstly, Merleau-Ponty’s ownunderstanding of painting as a “secret science” interrogatively addresses, not perceptual configurations, but “wild being” and thus presencing itself, whereas the autonomy I call attention to is not a pure transcendence. Indeed, Merleau-Ponty, in “Cézanne’s Doubt,” stresses that Cézanne’s approach to his work undercuts conceptual dichotomies.As concerns an understanding of non-figurative painting as an initmation of “the end of the world,” understood as a return to the pure elements in a paroxysm of sheer materiality, I voice three reservations. These concern, firstly, any unitary understanding of “world,” secondly a reductive understanding of the primordial elements, and thirdly that there cannot be any genuine art in the absence of perceptual configuration, or in sheer formlessness. Notwithstanding these reservations, however, I am profoundly appreciative of Lawlor’s and Toadvine’s intellectually engaged and perceptive readings of Tracing Expression. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:American Journal of Philology 126.4 (2005) 613-622 [Access article in PDF] The Triumph of Cupid: Marlowe's Dido Queen of Carthage Mary-Kay Gamel University of California, Santa Cruz e-mail: [email protected] is a lot for classicists to like in Marlowe's The Tragedy of Dido Queen of Carthage. There was a lot for theatergoers to like in Neil Bartlett's production of this play at the American Repertory Theatre (ART) in Cambridge, Massachusetts (...) (March 5–26, 2005).The script of Dido is based primarily on the Aeneid (Books I, II, and IV). Vergil's text contains many formal and thematic allusions to tragedy, especially in IV: the agonistic speeches; Anna's role as nutrix/confidante; comparisons of Dido to a raging Bacchant (301–3), Pentheus (469–70) and scaenis agitatus Orestes 471; and her thoughts of imitating the savage violence of Medea and Atreus 600–602. Aeneid IV raises the possibility that the poem will metamorphose from epic to tragedy, with Dido taking center stage from Aeneas.That is what happens in Ovid's Heroides 7, and it happens again in Dido Queen of Carthage. Marlowe probably wrote this play—his first—in 1585, when he was a twenty-one year old student at Cambridge University. An excellent Latinist, Marlowe did a superb translation of Ovid's Amores, probably before writing Dido. In writing Dido, Marlowe focused on Aeneid I, II, and IV, the books of the poem best known to ancient, Elizabethan, and modern audiences, and in a few places his characters speak Latin lines from the Aeneid. In dramatizing this material, Marlowe did not simply translate but made many changes in structure, characters, and language. Aeneas' account of the fall of Troy, for example, condenses all of Aeneid II (more than 800 lines) into 163 lines (still a very long speech, which includes horrific details not in Vergil: "young infants swimming in their parents' blood, / headless carcasses piled up in heaps" [II.i.193–94]).1 [End Page 613]Most significantly, Marlowe makes his gods Ovidian rather than Vergilian—selfish and petty, concerned only with status and pleasure, using human beings only to satisfy their desires. Jupiter is a middle-aged man making a fool of himself over a teenager: in the first scene he is not, as in the Aeneid, looking down from Olympus and already thinking about Aeneas, but rather trying to seduce Ganymede, a "female wanton boy," when Venus indignantly interrupts with "Ay, this is it!" (I.i.50).Venus' encounter with Aeneas in Carthage (Aeneid I.314–417) ends with Aeneas' unanswerable question, "Why talk we not together hand in hand / And tell our griefs in more familiar terms?" (I.i.245–46). Venus and Juno's plot to unite Dido and Aeneas is complete with sexual double-entendre: in the cave, Juno says, they will "interchangeably discourse their thoughts / Whose short conclusion will seal up their hearts" (III.ii.93–94). Costumes in the ART production reflected the gods' iconic status, though more in terms of Hollywood than ancient representations: Juno was a drag queen, Hermes an unearthly figure in gold paint with huge wings, while Venus was played by an African-American actress in white satin and spike heels (including her hunting outfit) with exaggeratedly "black" gestures and intonations—waving her long fingernails, arching her neck, posing her head, and calling Juno "sistah!" Bartlett was clearly not worried about using sexual and racial stereotypes to make an impact.Marlowe's mortals are dignified, yet wounded and vulnerable. His Dido is proud, independent, initially uninterested in Aeneas; his Iarbas genuinely loves Dido, warmly welcomes Ilioneus and the others; Anna is in love with Iarbas. All try to behave reasonably and honorably but are invariably thwarted by the gods' games. The ART Aeneas was deeply damaged by his experiences in Troy. A craggy man, wearing a scoured breastplate over worn fatigues, he staggered on, stooped, beaten. The text supports this interpretation: before beginning his speech about the fall of Troy, he says "memory... beats forth my senses from this... (shrink)

One of the common and commonsensical ways to distinguish cinema from every other art and semiotic system, and to define the property of its uniqueness, is to claim that cinema is the only art/”language” that links images. This “linking” can imply three different yet complementary operations. First, cinema links individual still photographs into an apparently continuous sequence of movement by pushing the individual frames or photographs through a camera or projector at sixteen or twenty-four or however many frames per second. (...) Second, cinema links images by editing , by splicing together individual shots, which are continuous chains of linked frames. Finally, cinema links images with sounds, synchronously or otherwise. The only problem with such an apparently unrestrictive and unprescriptive definition of cinema and the “cinematic” is that it obscures an essentially cinematic operation that precedes the linking of cinema images: the image must first be framed before it can be linked with another.But is framing unique to cinema? Don’t paintings have frames? Aren’t photographs frames? Isn’t the theater’s proscenium arch a frame? A consequence of such perfectly sensible questions is a consistent undervaluing of the cinema frame as an essentially and uniquely cinematic tool, unlike that of any other art, producing serious errors in the writing of film theory and serious misunderstandings of the processes of film history. The goal of this article is to diagnose some of these errors so they might someday be cured. Gerald Mast is professor of English and general in the humanities at the University of Chicago. Among his many books are A Short History of the Movies, The Comic Mind: Comedy and the Movies, Film/Cinema/Movie, The Movies in Our Midst, and Howard Hawks, Storyteller. His previous contributions to Critical Inquiry are “What Isn’t Cinema?” and “Kracauer’s Two Tendencies and the Early History of Film Narrative”. (shrink)