A contribution to the Common Knowledge symposium “Antipolitics,” this article examines the diverse types of imaginary that support sortition, which is currently at the heart of important debates on the reform of existing democratic institutions. Different and often diametrically opposed actors now advocate sortition as a tool for addressing crises of political representation. How are we to understand this convergence? Over the past two decades, the field of experience and the horizon of expectation of citizens in the global North have (...) profoundly changed, and this article seeks to assess those changes in the context of three ideal types that advocate the use of randomly selected minipublics. This article analyzes, each in turn, the attraction of sortition for supporters and theorists of deliberative democracy, antipolitical democracy, and radical democracy, outlining the elements that unite and divide these imaginaries to help explain the astonishing convergence of voices in defense of sortition in politics. (shrink)

Simondon is scarcely known to English-language philosophers, though with these translations that may begin to change. They have been a long time coming. Simondon writes a complicated academic prose in French and calls on an unusually wide range of expertise, but reading his books is worth the effort. Individuation in the Light of Notions of Form and Information (1964) is a dense and at times technical contribution to the philosophy of biology, though there is little in metaphysics that is not (...) implicated in his argument. Science and philosophy are enjoined to pursue knowledge of individuation, a genetic process, rather than starting with individuals of any sort. Individuation, the process, is primitive, and individuals a relative reality.On the Mode of Existence of Technical Objects (1958) is the best work ever in the philosophy of technology. Contributions by Heidegger and others pale in comparison. Simondon analyzes a wide variety of technical objects with a mastery of engineering science. Heidegger would not know a diode from a triode. He thought meditation on ancient Greek words would take philosophy closer to “the essence of Teknik” than anything learned from science and engineering. Simondon shows why this view is mistaken. In this one, very technical difference (diode and triode), which is replicated ubiquitously in modern technology, he discerns what makes something technical rather than natural or accidental. He applies his thesis about the priority of individuation. Technical objects are phases of a technical individuation that he calls concretization, by which their operation becomes more internally resonant, as for example in the step from diode to triode (to pentode, to transistor and integrated circuit). There is much, much more of value in this book; for instance, his argument is implicitly anti-Marxist. Workers’ alienation is not attributable to economy. Industrial technology alienates workers because machines do what used to be the most satisfying, skillful (and expensive) part of industrial production, leaving workers with only regulative and custodial functions—which is alienating to people born, as we all are, to the technical life. (shrink)

The work of French philosopher Raymond Ruyer (1902–87) is making a belated appearance in English translation with the publication of these two works. Ruyer is a philosopher of science who continues a French tradition of finding Lamarck neglected and Darwin overrated. Ruyer is also among those who think the best hints for problems of evolutionary biology come from the theory of development. He advances arguments seldom aired in Anglophone philosophy, including a rehabilitation of biological teleology, a reformulation of the problem (...) of consciousness, and a new statement of panpsychism. Finalist or teleological action advancing life-cycle goals is a primitive characteristic of life, and for Ruyer it is the primary expression of consciousness. He departs from default positions in Anglophone philosophy when he declines to equate consciousness with either mental representation or neurological action. Consciousness comes with organic form and is coextensive with life and even surpasses it, as Ruyer finds the activity characteristic of consciousness in all natural physical forms. This is his new panpsychism: nature is full of consciousness. Bergson lit the fuse of neofinalism when he dismissed biological finality as an inverted mechanism no less defective than its specular counterpart. What makes Ruyer's finalism new is its replacement of a Platonic-Christian teleology with a new theory based on a Stoic model, which includes the idea of a universe that is one ultimate domain of finality—a kosmos, with all finalist activity harmoniously one finalist activity: deus sive natura. (shrink)

Copyright gives creators a monopoly on most uses of their work throughout their lives and for seventy years post mortem. Copyfraud, in Mazzone's striking but far from unjustified usage, is a claim of ownership made by institutions and individuals that do not possess it. To discover how prevalent such frauds are (and the degree to which they constrain and contort writers, musicians, filmmakers, and others) is truly amazing. Mazzone deals only with the US, but though the precise contours of copyright (...) are slightly different in the UK and the EU, the same kinds of overreach arise more or less everywhere nowadays. Who are the perpetrators? Museums that claim copyright in images of works that they own or hold but that are in the public domain; picture libraries that charge license fees for out-of-copyright works; publishers who make false assertions of copyright in government publications, even in law school editions of the US Constitution; media corporations that claim to be able to license excerpts of works that they own despite the provisions of the (admittedly vague) “fair use” clause in long-established copyright laws; and the heirs and estates of writers who claim control of all uses made of the published and unpublished words of their fathers, aunts, and so forth. Publishers collude in this now rampant abuse of public access to cultural goods by insisting that authors of fiction and nonfiction works undertake to clear copyright to material borrowed from sources, a laborious process for which most writers are ill equipped. The result is that key evidence in scholarly work is often simply left out. In documentary film, the effects of copyfraud can be seen only in those films that are not made: the industry convention—“when in doubt, obtain a license”—makes many subjects financially and practically unviable.This book should have been a wake-up call, when it appeared a decade ago, for all involved in what is now called “cultural production” to reassert their rights, and the rights of the public, to free access to material that is not and never will be privately owned. Alas, Mazzone's detailed chapters on what ought to be done next have remained dead letters. It is time to reread them and to heave the ball back down the false mountain of improper claims of ownership made by corporations and individuals who know what they are doing and know they can get away with it. This laudably clear, direct, and readable book brings to mind an old English rhyme that remains as relevant today as it ever was: The law doth punish man or woman / That steals the goose from off the common / But lets the greater felon loose / Who steals the common from the goose. (shrink)

To those who know little about the Middle Ages, the copying of manuscripts of “the ancients” (whether classical, such as the Roman poet Horace, or Christian, such as Saints Jerome or Augustine) often seems either a laudable act of preserving the past or an unfortunate fixation on repeating the words of others rather than penning new and original compositions. Even scholars of the Middle Ages appear sometimes more interested in new types of works such as fabliaux or courtly romances written (...) in the vernacular; when they study the practice of copying, they often concentrate on identifying prototypes or legacies. Finding old wine in old bottles has been a fairly constant theme in medieval studies; sometimes, we must admit, medievalists have just thrown out the old bottles and moved on to something completely new. In this context, it may seem strange to find a work about medieval Latin manuscript commentaries titled “The Birth of the Author,” responding to Roland Barthes's well-known essay “The Death of the Author,” published in 1984 and cited repeatedly since. What can it mean to see new, self-conscious awareness of the act of personal creation in works that are copies by scribes of other works that themselves comment on yet earlier works, often of a certain age or canonicity? Yet in this intelligent, engaging, and beautifully produced book, art historian Jeffrey Hamburger not only shows how those who wrote commentaries came to suggest that anyone who composes a work (even the scribe who copies it) could be considered a creator of meaning but also that the images in commentaries themselves sometimes make statements—indeed, statements more radical than those in the text—about the author of the work being illustrated. Long known as one of the relatively rare historians of medieval art equipped with a wide knowledge of theology and hence of how images respond to and reflect text, Hamburger here shows himself possessed of a shrewd eye for the image itself. He studies illuminated prefaces to, among other texts, the prose and poetic works of Horace as used in the medieval classroom, copies of the major biblical commentary of the High Middle Ages, the Glossa ordinaria, and Rupert of Deutz's erotically charged commentary on the Song of Songs. Changing the lens through which scholars have usually viewed such texts, Hamburger argues that images of authors of commentaries sometimes go beyond anything in the text to assert the authority not only of the author of the text commented on and of the commentator but occasionally even of the scribe.The Birth of the Author is a work of complicated analysis, and its full power demands close attention. Understanding how images construct claims that go beyond the text involves a good deal of careful looking. Hamburger is a patient and clear guide, but the reader must be prepared to flip back and forth between the magnificent colored images the publisher provides and to follow what are often painstaking arguments from comparison of small visual differences or puzzling identifications of seemingly strange details. The result of doing so is, however, to gain not only the reward of Hamburger's ingenious conclusions but also a lesson in how to look. For example, in a discussion of Gilbert Universalis's commentary on the Lamentations of the Hebrew prophet Jeremiah, Hamburger shows how Gilbert not only identifies Jeremiah as a “divine rhetorician” but also assimilates his own act of authorship to Jeremiah's prophetic speech. In the only extant copy of Gilbert's text that has a program of illustrations, the artist constructs both Jeremiah's speech and Gilbert's interpretation as similar acts of creation by framing both authors in parallel architectural images that evoke the Old Testament temple and a Christian church. Or to give a final example of Hamburger's interpretive reach: the book concludes not with yet another medieval preface but with an example of the far less usual manuscript epilogue. Here not only commentator, scribe, and illustrator but even the medieval reader construct themselves. Reception becomes interpretation, illustration becomes construction. In a commentary by the Carolingian figure Sedulius Scotus (fl. 840–60) on the Roman grammarian Donatus (mid-fourth century), the illustrator depicts Donatus as author and scribe (thus assimilating author into copier and vice versa). On the same folio, a later medieval reader constructs himself as reader/author in a charming marginal doodle that seems to entrap Donatus in a sort of hangman's noose. Thus, a bit wryly perhaps, Hamburger—himself teacher, commentator, and consummate scholar—seems to suggest that even frustrated students can construct themselves as interpreters and, yes, authors. Behind the seeming repetition and backward glance of the images in medieval commentaries lies radical and forward-looking self-awareness of the acts of authoring, interpreting, reading, and imagining. In Hamburger's analysis, the most seemingly conventional of medieval genres—the preface to commentaries on the texts of others—is a locus of the birth in illustration of the self-conscious and self-expressive author and reader. (shrink)

The title of this book, by one of the great editors and publishers of our time, comes from its first and longest chapter: “How to Organize a Library.” In it, Calasso celebrates the “golden rule” proposed by Aby Warburg: “In the perfect library, when we look for a given book, we end up taking the one next to it, which would reveal itself even more useful than the one we were looking for.” It demands effort, knowledge, and sensibility to “curate” (...) such a library, where each book maintains good neighborly relations with the others. Such a library is an oeuvre requiring constantly to be maintained and refreshed, because a book is never a self-contained, self-sufficient object. Each book is connected to others in myriad and surprising ways.Calasso applies this relational understanding of books in a very short chapter on, reputedly, the first book review ever written: Madame de Sablé’s little note of 1665 on her friend La Rochefoucauld's Maximes. In that book, which prefigures some of Nietzsche's ideas, La Rochefoucauld argues that “most often our virtues are nothing but disguised vices” (Nos vertus ne sont, le plus souvent, que des vices déguisés). Before submitting her review to the Journal des Savants, which had been inaugurated only a few months earlier, Madame de Sablé sent it to La Rochefoucauld, asking him to amend it as needed or even to “throw it into the fire.” Calasso compares the original review and the corrected version that was eventually published. La Rochefoucauld erased many passages, making a short text (273 words) even shorter (189 words). In the process, he wiped out the first sentence, the most important, where Sablé summarized what she saw as the achievement of the Maximes: “It is a treatise about movements of the heart of man which we may say have been ignored until now” (C'est un traité des mouvements du cœur de l'homme, qu'on peut dire lui avoir été inconnus jusqu’à cette heure). Calasso comments: “Nothing more radical and more courageous could be written about the Maximes of La Rochefoucauld. However, the author of the work did not hesitate to cancel those very words—perhaps to avoid frightening people, himself included.” In other words, Calasso suggests that Sablé understood the Maximes better than its author did. The culture of book reviewing ushered in by Madame de Sablé taught and continues to teach us that a book may be more than its author believes it to be. Indeed, every book is in need of attentive and penetrating readers to discover its latent potentialities. (shrink)

Magritte et les philosophes, written by a Belgian semiotician, puts in dialogue some paintings by René Magritte with some thoughts of Kant, Hegel, Nietzsche, Wittgenstein, Sartre, Foucault, and, in a chapter on La condition humaine, even Plato. Painted in 1933, La condition humaine represents a garden as seen from a salon, but in the room there is already a painting on an easel that represents the same garden. Because the second-order painting (the painting in the painting) is placed in front (...) of the window, we cannot see the full garden of the first-order painting. In it we see only the bottom of a hill and a part of a hedge, but in the second-order painting we see, in perfect continuity, the rest of the hill and the hedge. Thus we are inclined to think that the second-order painting covers exactly the reality it reproduces from the first-order painting and that, if we removed the second-order painting, we would see the same garden with a tree in the middle—a tree that for the moment we see only in the second-order painting.Therefore, some perceive in La condition humaine (and also in a similar painting, La belle captive) a parable of the transparency of painting. Opposing this position, Badir claims instead that “the pictures that are represented [that is, the second-order pictures] seem transparent; they give the sensation of transparency,... but their nature is totally different, and the painted landscapes in the [second-order] painting cannot make the representation [of the first-order painting] disappear.” We cannot superpose the painting over the reality to see whether the strokes of the painting cover exactly the lines of reality, since, if we do so, the painting gets between us and the garden. Still, we as observers cannot help but think that the second-order painting reproduces the reality behind it. But from where does that irresistible intuition come? Not from the resemblance between the picture and what it represents (since we know nothing about what is hidden by the picture), but from the continuity of the brushstrokes in the second-order painting and the lines of reality in the first-order picture.As in Plato's cave, in Magritte's room we have access to a semblance of reality, but in contrast to Plato, who regarded those shadows as pale imitations, Magritte offers us what may be a method of connecting semblance to reality less invidiously. The relation between the second-order picture and the first-order picture, between painting and reality, is not primarily a relation of analogy, since the analogy between the two orders is insinuated by other, nonanalogical relations—those of continuity and proximity between the brushstrokes of the painting and the lines of the garden. Even if Gilles Deleuze is not mentioned in Badir's book, this option seems to me to capture the gist of his critique of Platonism. When we are inclined to see a relation of analogy, Deleuze, like Magritte, wants us to pay attention to other, more diverse and more creative relations: nonanalogical relations that in some cases induce the sensation of resemblance.The title of Badir's book is Magritte and Philosophers, but it could just as well have been Magritte as Philosopher, because the classical philosophers he deals with play only a minor role as possible interlocutors for the painter. Magritte's thinking, as developed in his artwork, constitutes the main subject of this study. We learn while reading this book that painting can be a powerful tool for developing complex concepts and not merely percepts. Its argument may indeed be a critique of Deleuze's too-categorical distinction between the percepts proper to art and the concepts developed by philosophers. (shrink)

Over the last decade, the Anthropocene has overrun the discourses of the humanities and social sciences. Remarkably, two of the most astute commentators, the cross-disciplinary theorist Barbara Herrnstein Smith and the unorthodox philosopher Isabelle Stengers, find inspiration for grappling with these issues in the same apparently odd place: the work of the Polish microbiologist and comparative epistemologist Ludwik Fleck. The first part of this essay explores the role of Fleck's radical constructivism in Smith's analyses of perplexing Anthropocene realities and Stengers's (...) arguments for slowing down science and learning to “compose with Gaia.” In conjunction, they generate a pattern of speculative, conceptual, practical, and political motifs for dealing with changing climates. The second half of the essay uses those insights to test a divergent series of proposals for how to conceive science, politics, theory, and environmental relations in the Anthropocene. (shrink)

Originally published in Common Knowledge 11, no. 2 (Fall 2005), this essay is reprinted in 2022 as the prelude to the first installment of a project titled “Antipolitics” and dedicated to the author's memory. “To really know” what a writer “is like,” Konrád writes here, “he would have to look back on his biography from after death” — and in this piece he hauntingly does so. Explaining that he composed his first autobiography upon being expelled from university in Hungary after (...) Stalin's death in 1953, he defines the process as “the main event in the ritual of political detention.” In an overview of the writer's life, he describes any act of writing as like scratching one's initials “into the brick of a prison wall” in an effort “to avoid dying completely.” The editors of Common Knowledge, of whose editorial board Konrád was a founding member, chose to reprint this statement at the head of a symposium whose purpose is, in no small part, to help secure his posthumous existence. (shrink)

This review-essay examines two books about the history of the modern humanities: Permanent Crisis: The Humanities in a Disenchanted Age by Paul Reitter and Chad Wellmon and Battle of the Classics: How a Nineteenth-Century Debate Can Save the Humanities Today by Eric Adler. Both studies reconstruct genealogies of discourse and practice by which to understand the “crisis” of the humanities, yet they draw disparate lessons from these reconstructions. The review traces the two monographs’ competing accounts of the historical continuity of (...) humanities practices and the moral dimension of humanistic inquiry. Together, Permanent Crisis and Battle of the Classics describe an antinomy that can be neither resolved nor ignored: the methodological norms of the modern university tend to subvert the humanities’ investment in meaning and value, but without that investment, humanistic study loses the motivations and purposes that define it. (shrink)

In this piece, the editor of Common Knowledge introduces a long-term project titled “Antipolitics: Symposium in Memory of György Konrád.” Konrád, who died in 2019, was a founding member of the Common Knowledge editorial board, and the symposium is meant to find present-day applications for the arguments of his book Antipolitics, published in 1982 in Hungarian. Although written under Cold War conditions and to that extent dated, the book is directed against politics and politicians as such: “What Machiavelli's Prince is (...) to would-be rulers, Antipolitics should be for those resistant to being ruled — a treasury of axioms and apothegms,” which this editorial collects, updates, and analyzes. Given that democratic systems and constitutions are “open and subject to further development,” Konrád urges us to devise and run experiments in governance that apply “creative imagination” to problems that, in better times, we might leave to politicians to resolve. “The crisis for democracy today,” Perl argues, “is that bad government (as Konrád, Václav Havel, and Adam Michnik defined it in the 1980s) appears to be what various electorates crave and therefore choose.” Realizing that elections produce, as Aristotle said, oligarchy rather than democracy, we should rethink majority rule and experiment with sortition as a counterpolitical means of self-government. (shrink)

The Japanese poet-scholar John Solt is perhaps best known in the United States for his excellent biocritical study (Harvard, 1999) of the avant-garde poet Kitasono Katue, who served, from the mid-1930s on, as Ezra Pound's primary conduit to the stylization of Japanese poetics that he so admired. “Kit Kat,” as Pound fondly called the poet he knew only via their extensive correspondence, was Pound's translator, editor, and sometime collaborator; in return, Pound (who did not read Japanese) wrote admiringly of Katue's (...) work in Guide to Kulchur and elsewhere.Solt has now published a beautifully produced volume of his own distinctive poetry—a poetry that fuses the concision of Japanese tanka and haiku with very up-to-date explorations of what Pound called moeurs contemporaines: riddling short lyrics laced with humor and a telling irony that makes the reader smile with a shock of recognition. In the spirit of Kenneth Rexroth, with whom he studied in Santa Barbara, Solt's seemingly “simple” free verse is carefully structured. The minimalist poems are placed, one per page, in different spatial positions, with the Japanese translation en face. The volume contains a sprinkle of elegies and occasional poems, but Solt's signature poems are epigrams or aphorisms in the vein of the Zen koan: i held my tongueas if it werea ticketThe pun on the word held and the ticket metaphor can be read quite variously: I said nothing, saving my “ticket” for future gain. Or I “held” my tongue as one holds on to a precious ticket for some form of entrance, perhaps erotic. Indeed, Solt excels at the erotic poem—one that is never directly confessional or even personally expressive but that gives the reader a strong sense of a particular moment, as inice cubes meltin the crackleof your nakednessyou roll down your lace stockingsexposing the same designin tattoo... where it is the imprint the lace leaves on the skin that produces arousal. We never know who the “you” of these poems is, nor does it matter. We only know—in the case of a neighboring poem—that the lovers have “met again / and again / like spinning tops,” until “with centrifugal force / we easily slipped / outside the windows / of our eyes.” Caught up in the moment of ecstasy, they no longer see one another.In this complex and subtle poetry, comparisons come readily, only to be given an ironic twist: the mind is a kitehe thoughtletting goof both stringsAnd things are never quite what they seem: you toasted“happiness to usand confusionto our enemies”and I laughedsecureuntil a cloud formedin my mindWe have all had this experience of group approval only to wonder—the next minute—whether we really agree. Solt's minimalist lyrics not only make us smile: they also make us think. (shrink)

In old age, I seldom keep the books I read, but The Books of Jacob has been shelved next to Sabbatai Sevi: The Mystical Messiah; my copy of the latter bears an inscription on its flyleaf, “Gift of Jacob Taubes to Tantur, 1978,” which in some way (possibly mystical) authenticates bringing the two books together. It seems I have been waiting for the conjunction since first reading Gerhom Scholem on the Frankists, in his Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism, in the (...) carriage of a train waiting to depart from New Street Station, Birmingham, sometime in the mid-1980s. It was a moment of revelation; reading Tokarczuk has been too.A major literary achievement—no question: published in Polish in 2014, Tokarczuk's narrative meditation on the Frankists is a model of what may be done by integrating imagination with documentation. This is how what is loosely termed historical fiction should be written. Terrific when evoking the tastes and smells of Podolia or Smyrna, Tokarczuk is no less profound when expressing the aspirations and hesitations of a Jewish people trapped between two other religions, Islam and Christianity. Like Scholem before her, but in her own, entirely different manner, she brings to center stage movements of the mind that had previously been relegated to the wings. What was once regarded contemptuously as too “other”—other, that is, to post-Enlightenment descriptions of the world, past and present—has been shown by Scholem and now Tokarczuk to be crucial to an understanding of the modern world's genesis. What Scholem did for Sabbatai Sevi, Tokarczuk has done for Jacob Frank—and for his followers as well: those beyond-the-pale Jews who saw in him a savior who was no less anti-messianic than he was the messiah. (shrink)

Relativism, most philosophers seem to agree, is an elusive and frustrating doctrine, difficult to define and, despite the efforts of the best philosophical minds for over two thousand years, evidently impossible to eradicate. Perhaps, as with other elusive entities, like the Loch Ness Monster or extraterrestrials, attention would be more fruitfully turned on its alleged sightings. Where and when is it observed? By whom? With what discernible provocations and possible motives or interests? What is wanted, perhaps, are not more precise (...) definitions, discriminating classifications, or rigorous logical analyses, but historical, sociological, and even political investigations—perhaps even, where specific texts are invoked, close readings and rhetorical analyses. The editors of this volume, all associated with a long-term project of relativism-inquiry pursued in the philosophy department at the University of Vienna, evidently sought to provide such an alternative approach. Consisting of thirteen articles by an international group of scholars and a set of introductory essays by the editors, The Emergence of Relativism offers a range of perspectives on how “the problem of relativism” was framed in German intellectual discourses over the course of the long nineteenth century. It also yields some perspectives on the problems of philosophy, both across the period examined and in our own.The volume is at odds with itself in several ways. What becomes clear from early chapters on is that the relativism that exercised German thought was not the set of wooden claims characterized, in the editors’ general introduction, as what “the relativist” “holds.” Rather, along with nihilism, historicism, psychologism, and, later, scientism, it was an alarming but spectral doctrine evoked, largely in writings by holders of chairs in philosophy, by new ideas and methods arising from the natural and social sciences. The distress was often professional as well as intellectual. In an illuminating essay, Kinzel writes: “When Troeltsch [a neo-Kantian theologian] worries that ‘historicism’ leads to the ‘anarchy of values,’ he does so in a situation in which the ‘historicization’ of philosophy and theology has seemingly rendered these disciplines incapable of defending a consistent and convincing worldview.” Accordingly, much intellectual energy was devoted to affirming and defending both the traditional views and the traditional role of philosophy in articulating and justifying them. Such worries also provoked a range of more inventive efforts that sought to give empirical methods and naturalistic explanations due recognition while minimizing their feared intellectual and societal consequences, commonly by subordinating evident particulars and dependencies to new or newly emphasized universals or by attempting, through new methods of transcendence, to reground familiar absolutes seen as necessary for intellectual, moral, and political order.Of course, not everyone found relativism a problem. For many historians, scientists, and philosopher-theorists working in empirical fields, relativistic views were, as Kusch writes, “an obvious consequence of natural-scientific attitudes and theorizing.” Notable among those in the later period were Georg Simmel and Karl Mannheim, whose ideas are sympathetically described here by Kusch, and (as detailed by Richard Staley in an especially rich chapter) Einstein and Ernst Mach, both of whom, contrary to a later practice of protective distinction, understood the concept of “relativity” expansively. Other notable and perhaps surprising exceptions include Marx and Engels. At the end of his canny close reading of their early manuscripts, Terrell Carver, alluding to the relativistic ideas discernible therein (the chapter is titled “Socializing Knowledge and Historicizing Society”), writes: “Transcending the epistemological framing of conventional ontologies—both materialisms and idealisms—and indeed formulating an anti-philosophy, as they did, rendered the problem of relativism—from the perspective of their ‘outlook’ or ‘conception’—redundant.” While the volume's arresting title may suggest a familiar narrative of consequence and/or consummation, the final chapter tells a different story. In a patient if clearly dismayed account, Steizinger describes the attractions of National Socialism for established German philosophers and their contributions to its ultimate doctrine—at once quasi-relativist, anti-relativist, and absolutist—that each people and race has a culture “suited to” it and that one is absolutely superior to all others.Authors of the chapters described above treat relativism as a term with multiple, shifting meanings, invoked under various conditions to serve a range of conceptual, ideological, or polemical purposes. Their contributions trace its usage by members of various communities across a particular period of time. For a second group, the term designates a timeless folly situated in a fixed logical landscape. Accordingly, they undertake the task of determining whether it is discernible in the thought of one or another eminent German philosopher. As it happens, all those examined are acquitted, the price of their exoneration being, in most cases, the reduction of richly elaborated and arguably revolutionary ideas to a handful of pieties and platitudes. Herder's suspicious embrace of human and cultural variety is seen as offset by his theologically grounded conviction of the ultimate harmony of all differences. Nietzsche's remarks on perspective in Genealogy of Morals III, regarded by many scholars as epistemologically radical or at least interesting, are said to amount only to the “banal point” (conspicuously un-Nietzschean in idiom and, one may think, in conception) that the more perspectives we have, “the more truths about the world we will know.” Husserl's “singularly consistent critique of relativism” is rehearsed along with appreciative notice of his “recognition” of the societal and spiritual ills allegedly attending “psychologism.” A chapter on Heidegger argues that, far from being a relativist or anything else philosophically or otherwise untoward, he was a Christian Kantian phenomenologist whose positions in Being and Time can be plausibly read as “a straightforward realism.” Toward the end of the volume (in which chronology is scrambled in favor of a division into four poorly explained sections), Herder is exonerated a second time, here by a laborious demonstration of how different his views are from those of sociologist of science David Bloor, the latter now evidently, after Protagoras, the exemplary relativist for due analytic refutations.The aims described in the volume's introduction are spacious, but consideration of the broader historical implications and effects of the ideas discussed is limited, and so too is the extent of any sociological, much less rhetorical, analysis. This is disappointing but not surprising: most of the contributors are academic philosophers, typically trained, at least where analytic principles prevail, to examine the logical structure of claims, not the social or cultural contexts of ideas or their intellectual contexts outside academic philosophy itself. One may hope, therefore, for continued inquiry into these topics, at the University of Vienna or elsewhere, with participants from other fields who would raise other questions and explore relevant areas not examined here. Where else, for example, did relativism emerge as a problem, and, if it emerged only or especially in the German states, why there? How did the views and concerns described here play out in succeeding years in Germany and elsewhere? Given the volume's extensive account of the ferocious anti-relativism brought to Harvard by German-American psychologist Hugo Münsterberg, one misses any mention of the genial relativism brought to Columbia by anthropologist Franz Boas. Indeed, especially interesting might be explorations of the role of these and other twentieth-century German and Austrian expatriates in elaborating relativisms and perpetuating relativism-anxieties that continue to inspire and provoke theoretical energies, nominally philosophical and other, in our own era. (shrink)

On the face of it, Phillips's claim is that we are getting better all the time, or at least that we may do so. For him, “to talk about getting better... is to talk about pursuing the life we want.” His book, always suggestive and often brilliant, entails an argument in moral philosophy, roughly in favor of Millean experiments in living. A number of difficulties, however, arise. The first and perhaps the foremost is that the moral philosophy is covered by (...) several layers of sheep's clothing. The first three chapters of the book (“Cure,” “Unsatisfying Pleasures,” “Truth”) put forth a version of psychotherapy that substitutes a cheerful William James for Freud and, ultimately, for every conceivable psychoanalyst. James is also the explicit topic of the fifth and final chapter (“Loose Change”). Phillips argues that James's description of conversion turns out to be a theory of change and that “the new way we should describe change is experimenting with beliefs.” To believe is, for Phillips's James, “to act as if something is true.” The lupine part of Phillips's argument, and the most complex and best section of the book, comes up in the fourth chapter (“On Not Having Experiences”). The picture painted is not rosy. Children, babies, and conceivably the rest of us are depicted there as Humean skeptics, for whom, since there cannot be any future experiences, there really cannot be any criteria for engaging in any particular experiment in living. Alas, our present condition does not allow for any experience of the future—which is to say that pragmatism about the future is just wishful thinking; we cannot experiment with experience. Phillips perceives the deep affinity between Humean and Freudian metaphysics but is unwilling to subscribe to either version. He somehow knows that there is no getting better there. (shrink)

It may seem odd to review a New York social club's yearbook, with its list of members’ addresses and series of committee reports. But such books sometimes contain material of more general interest. The latest one from the Century Association, for example, devotes 250 of its 685 pages to “Century Memorials”—that is, biographical sketches of recently deceased members, written by other members. Among the well-known figures taken up in these eighty-three sketches are the artists Richard Anuszkiewicz and Robert Motherwell; the (...) architects Henry N. Cobb and Charles A. Platt; the newspaper editors Harold Evans and Whitelaw Reid; the historians Henry F. Graff and William McFeely; the translator and literary scholar Donald Keene; the collector of literary and musical manuscripts Frederick Koch; the popular writer on Russian history Robert K. Massie; the clergyman James Parks Morton; the financier Felix G. Rohatyn; the lawyers Whitney North Seymour Jr. and Isaac N. Phelps Stokes; the literary editor Elisabeth Sifton; the university president Michael Sovern; the museum director Evan H. Turner; and the broadcast journalist Sander Vanocur. The sketches are generally well written and often richly evocative: the writers include Louis Begley, Kenneth T. Jackson, D. T. Max, and Honor Moore.The long shelf of Century volumes like this one clearly constitutes a valuable contribution to prosopographical literature. And the Century is not the only institution with such a tradition (other examples are the British Academy and the American Philosophical Society); but their publications are a frequently overlooked source, one not always available in research libraries. Unfortunately, it is also a source that seems to be diminishing: the American Antiquarian Society and the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation are examples of organizations, each with a history of providing biographical information, that are no longer doing so. Of course, the great previous runs of the former's Proceedings and the latter's Reports remain (one hopes) on the shelves for those who know to look for them. A step in the opposite direction has recently been taken by the Grolier Club, which has not had such a tradition (except for two biographical volumes in 1959 and 2000): its Gazette now includes a section of memorials in each issue. This is a welcome move, but one has to regret that so little scholarly use is made of this whole body of biographical detail and reminiscence. (shrink)

As a follow-up to the Common Knowledge symposium “Apology for Quietism” (15:1 to 16:3), this guest column asks what it means to say nothing. Strictly speaking, to “say nothing” is a contradiction in terms (unless, of course, one says “Nothing,” which is another thing entirely and generally not nothing). This essay explores what it means to say nothing in Tove Jansson's novella Fair Play (first published in Finland Swedish as Rent spel, 1989), an episodic account of the intertwined lives of (...) two elderly artists. Through its careful staging of saying nothing, the text calls attention to the many vital functions that silence serves: exposing tacit expectations, opening up creative and psychological space, enabling otherwise impossible relations. Bringing forth the diversity, complexity, and mystery behind hesitation and reticence, Jansson's novella emerges here as a quiet celebration of conversational practices associated with weakness, redefining the genre of the “love story” along the way. (shrink)

This essay—a contribution to the Common Knowledge symposium on contextualism—is concerned with the gradual rise of awareness of the existence of modes of thought or systems of belief that are different from those that are dominant in one's own culture. The awareness can be found in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries but was developed further in the early to mid-twentieth century. Its main consequence has been to encourage individuals to distance themselves from their own system—to criticize and change it.

This essay, published originally in 2002, is reprinted in “Contextualism—The Next Generation: Symposium on the Future of a Methodology,” because of its impact on the thinking that informs and has led to this new symposium. Burke's argument is that the term context has become “an intellectual slogan or shibboleth” and that “there is a price to pay” for its “more and more frequent use... in a number of disciplines—among them, anthropology, archaeology, art history, geography, intellectual history, law, linguistics, literary criticism, (...) philosophy, politics, psychology, sociology, and theology.” A brief history of the uses of the term and its cognates in these disciplines is provided, along with an examination of “recent interest in the phenomenology of recontextualism or ‘reframing,’” which “depends on agency, creativity, and the power to adapt” and which, indeed, almost defines what is meant by “originality, innovation, invention, or creativity.” The essay concludes that context ought to be used mainly in the plural to indicate that no topic is properly interpretable in any single framework. (shrink)

In a monograph-length contribution to the Common Knowledge symposium on contextualism, the journal's editor decontextualizes and then recontextualizes the medieval iconographic trope of Ecclesia and Synagoga in an effort to make plausible a news story about Pope Francis that received little coverage in the press. During 2015, the fiftieth anniversary of the Vatican II declaration Nostra Aetate, Francis paid a surprise visit to a new statue in the United States, “Synagoga and Ecclesia in Our Time” by Joshua Koffman, as a (...) sign of his endorsement of its radical reconsideration of a trope long associated with anti-Jewish sentiment in the Catholic Church. This article, which begins with a detailed analysis of Emeritus Pope Benedict XVI's essay on the Nostra Aetate treatise De Iudaeis, deals primarily with twelfth- and thirteenth-century uses of the iconography. Special attention is paid to the Anagogical Window of the Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis and to the Ecclesia, Synagoga, and King Solomon statues on the south facade of Strasbourg Cathedral, in both of which is found previously overlooked evidence of philo-Semitic, rather than anti-Semitic, thinking on the part of the designers. The article concludes that contextualist scholars of medieval art have found what they expected to find and ignored contrary indications. (shrink)

This contribution to the final installment of the Common Knowledge symposium on contextualism is a reply to another contribution, Peter Burke's “Alternative Modes of Thought.” Or rather, this essay responds to the historians and social scientists whom Burke cites as arguing that only some ways of thinking are possible in any given place and time. Richmond's response is that a human context in which there is but one mode of thought in evidence, and no evident ambivalence regarding it, is a (...) context in which great numbers have died, violently and recently. His essay takes the form of a report on his eleven research visits since 1985 to the death camp at Auschwitz. In Nazi-occupied Europe, he concludes, “ ‘alternative modes of thought’ were by no means impossible. Rather, people who thought differently from the regime were gathered to Auschwitz and other such camps, then murdered and incinerated. The Nazi ‘mental framework,’ if that is what it was, had to be imposed, and the millions incapable of participating in it had to die rapidly.... The problem for us, in the Nazis’ wake, is that the their ‘mode of thought’ is so alien that we have yet to find a context that enables us to understand it.... The need, then, is not for the context that intellectual, cultural, and social historians might provide, but for the aid of phenomenologists, because what we are hoping to understand is—in the words of Thomas Nagel's essay ‘What Is It Like to Be a Bat?’—a ‘fundamentally alien form of life.’ ”. (shrink)