English translation of the French transcript, made with AI and not yet proofread — click a paragraph to jump to it. Show the French original
A session open to questions from the audience 0:00 Yes, thank you Erwan. Indeed, last time I shamefully cut short the question period, and out of concern to finish what I had to say about the last lines of Angélique, so as not to run out of time, and to make up for it, I promised you that next time, that is today, unlike what we've always done up to now, I wouldn't give a preliminary speech, but we'd start directly with your questions.
0:39 So this is an unhoped-for opportunity for you: you have two hours to ask all the questions you want, provided that — Erwan, we agree on this — provided that these questions... because otherwise you could ask me what my favorite color is, I have no idea. I'm not yet at the Proust questionnaire stage, but still, it mustn't go off in all directions; the questions should relate, if not exactly, to the material we've been stirring up this year, reading Nerval's text. We've gone over it, we've stirred it up enough, with all the digressions you know I'm prone to, that what I just said isn't too limiting, but still, one way or another, the questions, as well as my answers for that matter, need to hook onto this or that passage of the text.
1:28 There we go — whether you've read it fully and reread it, which I presume you've all done, without believing a word of it, or simply assimilated a few passages at least. So, I'm at your disposal. Yes, Erwan. So, one of the first questions I'd like to ask is this: in one of the workshops you claimed, well, asserted, that a text could be studied in an extremely rigorous way, as if it were almost an exact science, notably in the passage where you compared Angélique to Aurélia, saying there was no chance involved, there was determinism, and that it was...
2:21 So a text could be studied almost scientifically, the text itself. But at the same time, in your talks, you keep repeating that there is... that's what reveals a contradiction... that there's an unbridgeable gulf between, on one hand, the exact sciences, well, the way the exact sciences proceed, and the practical field, the field of human actions, of which aesthetics is also a part.
2:51 So how does that fit together... isn't there a contradiction there? There isn't a certain contradiction? Well, that's a good question, yes. Let's circulate the questions a bit. I'd like there to be four or five at least before I start answering. Hugo? Yes, so last time you gave a sort of assessment of these four years of the workshop. A bit louder, please, remember this isn't an amplifying microphone, but... Yes, you gave an assessment of the four years of the workshop, and you led us to the idea that Nerval, in the text you'd chosen, was repressing death, and that this might help us understand our modern condition a bit better.
3:30 So if that was meant as an assessment of these four years, is that... it's a very simple question... did you really want to leave us on such a bleak, rather dark note, or did you have something else to say on this question? There. Thank you. "Madam, I have no such base feelings." That's in the text, right? No, I want to thank you for this year on Nerval already, and then otherwise I have a question about...
4:07 Damn, your voice breaks up. Can you hear at the back? No. No, you can hear. There. I suspected as much, that's why. I'll speak a bit louder, I don't have a carrying voice. So, I thank Dominique for the year. And otherwise, I'd like to come back to a passage from episode 6, I believe, in fact I'm sure of it, where you brought up Chrétien de Troyes and drew a link between Nerval's character at Rousseau's tomb and Perceval...
4:40 And Perceval's silence. And Perceval's silence at the Fisher King's castle. And there you'd ended by saying that ultimately the journey was over, well it was already that episode number, I don't know if some remember it, but there was a kind of climactic moment there. So I'd be interested in you talking about it again, because in the end Perceval never came back in the following sessions.
5:11 We never found the way back to the Grail. There. So you had encouraged us at the time to ask questions. So I'll follow your example. And the question I'd like to ask you is the question that Perceval could have asked, should have asked — maybe it's also a personal question, well I don't know how you'll handle it — but the question is: what is your torment? Indeed, that's the question the Grail messenger says he should have asked the Fisher King.
5:43 Yes, it's not me who invented it. What is your wound? Thank you. Good, maybe one or two more. As you like, otherwise we'll start. Excuse me, I'm just looking for...
6:23 There. And there. And well... Yes, I'm listening. One last question, then. When we did the comparative analysis of... sorry... two texts by Nerval that seemed to be quite literally opposed, one being the dream of the other, if my memory serves.
7:01 Yes, a bit louder please. Sorry. So one being the dream of the other. Yes, it's the same passage Erwan alluded to. Yes, exactly. I compared a passage where he does a sort of reportage in the streets of Senlis, so we're at the opposite of the dream. That's it, with the young girls. And a dream that he recounts in Aurélia. There. Thanks for the clarification. And... we'd insisted a lot on the negative side of the dream. In the sense... the dream was the mirror, in a way, of...
7:35 A negative in the algebraic sense. Yes, yes, exactly. All right, all right. Exactly. And... I was wondering... So my question around that. Why, in fact, would the dream only be the negative? There. Why... why couldn't it be... a deformation or something else... or even... it has to transcribe reality. You're kind to the newcomers.
8:05 Tell us your first name. Sorry. Manuel. There. Just so we understand what I'm referring to. Are there no other questions? There we go.
Neopositivism and irrationalism, two untenable positions 8:46 Well then... Although I'm not obliged to answer in order, I'll still start with Erwan's question, which was the first one, because it encompasses somewhat important parts of the other questions. Yes. You corrected yourself. You said, you claimed. No, but it's true that objectively there's an enormous presumption in saying that... over two pages like that of a... a minor romantic, as we used to say back when Nerval was less well known, there is the resolution of a question that runs diagonally across all of...
9:22 The sphere of contemporary reflection, yes, I'm using an extremely broad expression. I won't say philosophy, political philosophy, literature, the human sciences. I'm taking something compatible with all of that. Contemporary — I won't say in France, Parisian, Parisianist — but it concerns both Anglo-Saxon neo-positivism, analytic philosophy, and so-called continental thought. That's us, who still carry traces of metaphysics.
9:56 There, so I mean symbolism, mythology, all of that is crossed by this question. Of the... of the scientific... sorry, of the status of scientificity, of the so-called scientific approach, in disciplines that are, at first glance, as different as... I don't know, the...
10:26 The... the geometry of transformations and... and social psychology. So... so literature and political economy. And... how... problems as complex as these, which are still being raised even now, so much so that, before answering through Nerval's text, I'll first recall where contemporary reflection stands on this question.
11:00 That would let us take stock — not to answer it, but to show how the question is most often formulated today. Perhaps even without the awareness of those who ask it. So it's I who am making the breakdown that follows. I note that most of the time the question splits into two answers. Antagonistic, of course. A first answer... which I'd call neo-positivist.
11:33 And... well, to understand what I mean, we need to recall what positivism is, before understanding what neo-positivism is. I'll come back to that right away. But so as not to interrupt what I'm laying out — between a neo-positivist answer, whose most current forms, not the most conceptually elaborate, but let's say, not the most conceptually elaborate, even if they may be very technically sophisticated — I'm thinking of cognitive science, for example, which claims to answer every question — love, anguish, the taste for travel, anything — through brain imaging, enzymes.
12:12 I sound like I'm speaking ironically about it, but that really is the program being proposed. So, a neo-positivism. And besides, at the opposite extreme, well of course I'm setting aside all the intermediate ideologies, we can come back to that, but it's clearer when we first set boundaries to the space I'm describing — and at the opposite end, an irrationalism which would be, facing this positivism that seems extremely rational, but on the model of the so-called hard sciences, precisely, here.
12:54 That is, subject to mechanism, in the philosophical sense of the term, mechanism, not in the sense of the local mechanic, whom I respect, but physico-chemico-biological mechanism. I include biology in that; some might jump when I speak of biology by reducing it to physics or chemistry — this is to recall that the founder of biology, still, was Claude Bernard — not that no one spoke of life before him, but it wasn't spoken of scientifically, and if there's one domain where people rave, it's certainly that one. It's he who said, it's a famous line, that the living is the dead.
13:25 I'm not judging whether he's right or wrong, I'm just saying that it's from that moment that biology became a science. And so, at the opposite end, there's irrationalism, which would rather stand in the shadow of a Heidegger, if you will, who keeps coming back — that's why I'm alluding to Heidegger — I'm trying to speak of it seriously — to saying that all these considerations unfold on the surface of things, in short, are chatter alongside the essential question, which is ontological.
13:57 What is ontological? It's a learned word to say it's the science of being, on, in Greek. That's all. And that all these disciplines, the hard sciences and/or the human sciences, for Heidegger, because for him it's the same model, concern — I'm using his vocabulary — not being, but the being-there, the étant. The étant, the past participle of the verb 'to be.' There, deprived of being. That's roughly how the contemporary divide plays out.
14:32 I recall that the strands of thought toward which I've tried to draw us together lie neither at one of these extremes nor at the other. So we're living in an unhappy age, since we're being given the choice between two positions that seem to me equally untenable. So we shouldn't be too surprised if there's quite a lot of unhappiness in this generation. And I say this because the split between these two extremes is unsatisfactory in both cases.
15:10 Neo-positivism — there, I'm trying to acquit myself of it — now we're going to end up being even more irrationalist than the irrationalist, so much does something seem missing somewhere, don't you think? And how many times have I heard guys — I told you last time — guys, sorry, businessmen, who had spent their whole lives in business, which I did too for a while, I'm not saying that's shameful, but who told me at the end, I don't know if you remember, who told me, 'Ah, if I could start again, I'd start with the arts, with music.'
15:45 I'd even said, they extorted surplus value for 50 years, and then suddenly they say to themselves, 'Ah, but still, maybe I should have done like Mozart' — even if it meant being buried in a pauper's grave, that part I'm adding myself. Because Mozart, you know, you can't visit his tomb, he was so poor he was buried in a mass grave, there. So I'm not describing two sets of individuals opposed to one another, but there can be, you see, a back-and-forth between these two poles, and there are many individuals nowadays who oscillate a little between these two extremes, that's why I'm dwelling on it.
Auguste Comte's law of three stages 16:19 There, I promised earlier, I don't want to forget it — I spoke of neo-positivism, I said that made sense only if we recall what positivism is, so I'll acquit myself of that a bit; I'm sometimes a bit concerned to give you, if only in scraps, a few elements of the history of philosophy — I can't do only that or we'd spend years on it — I recall that positivism, which is the official philosophy of Mr. Auguste Comte, so the first half of the 19th century, I don't need to be much more precise, unless you're writing your thesis on it, in which case you don't need me anyway, you have plenty of documentation — is a school of thought that deserves respect, mind you, I mean, it is roughly the implicit thinking of everyone who works in the hard sciences, broadly speaking.
17:07 Whatever personal opinions they may claim to hold, he often repeats at a basic level — what I'm going to recall here, what needs to be remembered in anything Auguste Comte might say, is perhaps the best thing about him — is his famous law of the three states. Does anyone remember it? Has no one heard of Auguste Comte's law of the three states? Do you know it? I've heard of it, but I don't remember anymore... Ah, I wanted you to lay it out.
17:38 I'm a bad Corsican, I can't manage to exploit other people's work. No, is there no one who... Can you remind us what... Tristan, have you heard of it, no? So, yes? Not equality, but not physics either. Bravo, go ahead, but slowly and louder. According to Auguste Comte... I have some notions, not at all, but... No, no, but that's it, exactly. According to us, we're going to come...
18:08 Boris. Boris, hello. Auguste Comte has a temporal view of evolution, the way humans are going to consider what surrounds them and how they're going to... There. Yes, the sum of humanity's reflections passes through three states from the beginning, through three stages. That's why it's right to speak of temporality. There. The first stage, which will be purely religious.
18:42 The religious stage. Good, yes, that's it. And then, a second stage which will be metaphysical. There, the metaphysical state. And a third stage which will be... So, science or positivism. Yes, the positive state. Positive. We can go into detail later, yes. That's quickly summed up. Not too bad. The infancy of humanity is nothing but religion, the discourse used to explain the world around us. Which we still find traces of today — I'm not losing the thread with Nerval's text.
19:14 Even today, you'll find traces of it, for example in the French language. I'm taking that one because it's not the case in English or German. One must be rigorous. When you say — and these days it happens often — 'it rains' [il pleut]. I mean these last few days. It rains. You see what I'm alluding to? Why do we use a personal pronoun to talk about something purely mechanical, the weather? It's a trace of the time when people thought Jupiter made it rain.
19:45 Jupiter, or the deity. In Niger, it's Dongo. Mali. God of lightning, of storms. There's a storm god everywhere. Don't worry about that. So, Auguste Comte's idea isn't foolish. At the start, the explanation of the world is first religious. In the sense that these are personalized forces with proper names. You see? That's why I'm not joking around with Dongo, Jupiter, Zeus and company. Wotan, a god of thunder. Do you remember I told you that Nietzsche said, as a jab at Wagner, that Wotan is the god of bad weather.
20:16 Wut is the storm, isn't it, in German. Sorry, it's rage. You see the pun I made unconsciously. It's rage. And Wotan is violence. Like Zeus who unleashes lightning. He's the king of the gods. So, there, it starts with deities. Of day, of night, feminine, masculine, maternal, paternal, whatever you like, of vengeance, of reward, anything you want, of the harvest, of the reaping. But that's the religious stage.
20:47 Then afterward — we're not done with religion yet, I'm laying out a progression — the metaphysical age is characterized by the fact that there's no longer a personalized principle. That's why it was important to specify that in the previous stage. There's no longer a proper name. So we move on to the pre-Socratics, for example, who explain everything starting from being, becoming — being, Parmenides; becoming, Heraclitus. Everything is number, Pythagoras.
21:17 It's number that explains everything. Not bad at all, really. The atom, Democritus, I don't know — nothing exists but the atom and the void, and all the rest is commentary. All the rest, that is, you, me, carbon, gold, love, paper, excrement, all of that is combinations of atoms. You have to have some nerve, all the same. But what marked the change from the religious age? Sorry, we've seen the change, it's the fact that these are no longer personal principles, they're abstract principles.
21:54 So much so that many rightly see in this, historically, the cradle of philosophy. All that's left is the Socratic revolution to give it the final touch. But what does maintain continuity with the previous stage is the fact that these are absolute principles. Which means we're not yet at the positive age. And/or scientific, that's right. Scientific in today's sense, there's modernity involved. That is, there's a principle from which you can deduce everything else.
22:25 For Thales, it's water. From water you deduce everything. I seem to be laughing about it, but these are profound thoughts, mind you. You never know whether you're in the material order or the symbolic order, or both at once. And besides, the authors themselves aren't too sure either. Thales believes he's speaking as a scientist. Incidentally, they were called — the pre-Socratics, a good number of them — they were called, as you may know, those who said at the origin it's water, no it's fire, no it's the... Yes, bravo, the physicists, yes, that's it, the physicists.
22:56 Because they all wrote — this is what's been lost, you know. We know all this because Aristotle spoke of it, fortunately, we have a few traces. In writing — no, it's not about writing, you know, these are conjectures. They all wrote a book that shared a common title, Peri physeos, On Nature. Even Lucretius, the atomist, would write much later, in the Roman era, De rerum natura, of things, rerum, of nature. You see? So they thought of themselves as physicists, when in fact they weren't very far from the religious.
Plato's divided line and the anhypothetical principle 23:28 It's more the water in Brahmanism, you see, that's what I mean. The symbolic water, the maternal water of origins from which we all individually began, or life, collectively, which is supposed to have begun in the oceans. You see, we never know if it's in the literal or figurative sense. There you go, I won't decide, it's interesting, isn't it. But well, especially with someone like Nerval, we'll have the chance to come back to it. And so that's what still resonates from the religious incidence. It's the fact that there is a principle that explains everything, the absolute.
23:58 That famous principle that we also find in the greatest metaphysician of the era, who is Plato. In some books, he's the greatest metaphysician—well, this time it's pejorative—of all time. In the sixth book of the Republic, that famous passage where he divides the line of knowledge... You're late. Welcome to Inès, thank you very much. He divides the whole line running from opinion to knowledge, from the bottom of the cave, right, to the sun.
24:29 From bar-room chatter, opinion, doxa. To the Good, the final term. He divides it into a line, it's famous. And a division that all the history of philosophy will remember because it's tripartite, and we'll find it again like that in Aristotle, in Spinoza, in Descartes. Namely, the sensible world, opinions, at the bottom of the cave, well, all the evidences. In évidence, there's vidéo, I remind you every time. Those deceptive things that come to us from immediate knowledge, which we believe to be the richest and which is in fact the poorest, compared to the final result.
25:07 Then, freeing itself totally from this enslavement to sensible evidence, dianoia, which is called discursive knowledge. There, it's no longer things that impress us, it's statements, discourse. You recognize the mathematical model, of course, you start with definitions, statements. And you progress with statements that don't contradict the previous ones and so on. I'm going fast. Dianoia. And at this point, he is not yet a metaphysician, he has moved from opinion to science.
25:38 We're still answering your two questions on scientificity, that's the notion I'm digging into. And here's a profound remark by Plato, where Socrates says to his interlocutor, you'll notice that geometers start from hypotheses and proceed toward conclusions. Instead of going back up from hypotheses toward—there you go—the absolute principle, toward the anhypothetical principle. That's the Greek alpha privative. We add an N because there's an H. The anhypothetical principle.
26:09 I can finally hang up my chain, my chain where everything links together. That's why I speak of the metaphor of the chain, isn't it? There's one theorem from which we deduce another, etc. Or a definition that implies only. From the definition of a circle, we can derive the theorem that all the radii of the circle are equal, for example. It links together rigorously. When you have one, you have the other, right? But well, a chain, if you let go of it, everything falls. You have to hook it onto something. Otherwise it gets lost in the infinite chain of causes and effects.
26:39 There's a very beautiful text. If you want to deepen this notion of knowledge, go on, I say a new notion, I do it on purpose every time, it's not to confuse you. On the contrary, it's to tell you, don't let yourselves be impressed by one way of expressing it. There are a thousand. So as not to forget that we're talking about discursive knowledge, roughly speaking. We also say hypothetico-deductive knowledge. It's a bit of a mouthful, literally, it's a bit clunky as an expression, so I don't say it often. It means, we start first from a hypothesis and we deduce from it.
27:09 We have the definition of the circle as hypothesis, we deduce from it that all the radii are equal. I take examples, Thomas isn't here. Our math agrégé, I take the simplest possible examples so as not to mess up. There you go, hypothetical knowledge. And if you want to dig a bit into this moment—this moment, which isn't the first, the first was opinion, which isn't the last, you see, we're going to get to that afterward—but which nevertheless governs all positivist thought. And in any case positive, if not positivist, thought today, that is, the extraordinary edifice of the positive sciences.
Infinite causal regression and the wisdom of the positive age 27:45 There's a short text, that's why I recommend it, for those who don't have much time, that is, all of us. A short text by Pascal. Because Pascal already lives—when Pascal writes, it's been about a century and a half since the scientific revolution took place. With Galileo and all that, so he has some perspective, and besides he's an immense mind, and he has a formulation that's incomparable. In the great classical century, it's called De l'esprit géométrique et de l'art de persuader. I recommend it to you, because it sums things up very well.
28:15 The hypothetico-deductive point of view. I think of it because he precisely evokes this drawback in this point of view, which is always the same one. That is, when we ask why and why again, we end up with what's called the infinite causal regression. I've already told you it was a poetic metaphor to say that the wind was active and the trees passive when the wind shakes the trees.
28:45 In the statement, the wind shakes the trees, we get the impression that there's a guy with hands, the wind there. You see it in engravings of the period, it blows. Look at Botticelli's Primavera, you see it clearly, it blows into the veils of the young women who are Spring. And it lifts the skirts of the young women. And then the tree, which is passive—that's an illusion for a physicist, it's absurd, all of that is passive. The wind itself, not the sole cause but the effect, of differences in pressure. Sorry, of hot and cold air, that's what I meant to say.
29:21 You're kind to say yes, even if that's not quite what I meant. The differences between hot and cold air are themselves due to the rotation of the Earth, to I don't know, to solar activity, to all of that together. In short, to other causes, quite external to the wind, and so on to infinity. You see? It's a bit frustrating, someone might tell you, oh no no, it stops at the Big Bang, there are plenty who—look on the internet, there are even very great physicists, very great popularizers, I'm thinking of Mr. Klein who isn't bad, Mr. Klein—Mr. Klein is a film, excuse me, with Alain Delon.
29:56 What was there before the Big Bang? It's not illegitimate to ask the question, even if there's a somewhat comical and contradictory side to it. But there you go. So, the positive age is the one where we definitively renounce—it's a wisdom—on the part of Mr. Comte, that's why I insist. It's rather remarkable in him. Especially since it's the height of Romanticism in his time. So he turns his back completely on this dominant current, and he says, well, let's abandon—I'm speaking his vocabulary now—first causes and final causes, and let's occupy ourselves with what's in between.
30:31 What is within our reach, and indeed to go as far as possible within what is within our reach—that's a respectable line of thought. It's not far from the conclusion of one of the greatest philosophers of the 18th century, I'm alluding to someone. Go on, someone who said, let's stop occupying ourselves with what we'll never solve, and let's occupy ourselves with what we have at hand, under our feet, to guide you. And surely you know. What do we have under our feet?
31:03 Especially at the time, yes. Yes, the earth, well that's got to be found. But yes, who said we must occupy ourselves with the earth? Well, Voltaire. We must cultivate our garden. That's the great conclusion, that's perhaps the best thing in Voltaire, who is often a scoundrel in other respects. When I talk about Rousseau, I attack Voltaire a bit. But there, all the same, it's immense, that's it. There's a wisdom there too. Let's start by optimizing where we can be efficient, leaving to the lazy ones, in the last resort, who would want all or nothing, well...
31:39 Who wouldn't want to move, but who would want all or nothing. The search for what Auguste Comte will call first causes and final causes. There, I've answered what it is... I'm going to give a little technical fact sheet, rather quickly, on what positivism is—it's not a way of thinking to be despised. And in any case it's in step with, as I said, the majority of the implicit thoughts of the contemporary scientific world. Including among those who would never feel the need to make their thinking explicit, among scientists. There are quite a few. There you go.
Hard, exact, natural sciences: problematic names 32:10 That said, I now return to the dichotomy of the so-called hard sciences. Here too, let's take stock today. So, hard sciences, natural sciences, exact sciences—for now, I'm lumping all that together. In Kant's time, we would have said the sciences of nature. Even now, it's very often said. We're used to taking it in a rather extensive sense. Physics, chemistry, biology. But at that point, the small drawback is that the science that allows these sciences to be scientific, that is, mathematics, is not the science of any nature.
32:46 That's just this small drawback. That's why, well, exact sciences is a bit awkward. Me too, because as soon as you do physics, you learn—and Watt will explain it better than me—that we're always in error. I'm doing it on purpose, I'm making a pun. You know that you can't measure this table in an absolute way in physics. There's what's called absolute error, relative error. Not that our tools aren't capable, they're too crude compared to the complex reality that's there. We mustn't underestimate the powers of the mind.
33:18 It's not because we are disabled and nature overwhelms us. It's because it's the object itself that is incommensurable. That is, to measure it, I have to define where the ends are. So I presuppose—and that's not at all an experimental given—that the ends are static, motionless. And then wait to connect them with an exact measurement. Do you see what I mean? Now you know that nothing is motionless, there are atoms, electrons that are turning around their nucleus. So depending on whether I measure when the electron is here or there, it won't give the same length.
33:51 It's the old thought of Heraclitus, everything flows. Panta rhei. So exact science doesn't quite work either, I'm problematizing all these notions a bit for you. But it's not a big deal if you say exact sciences as long as we understand that we're roughly designating the same set. I'm not going to quibble when we're communicating. So the exact sciences, the natural sciences, the hard sciences—I find it strange, since when? Twenty, thirty years maybe that we say hard sciences. What does that mean?
34:22 That philosophy, sociology, are soft things. Well yes! Right? From a certain point of view, that's not wrong. If it's about strength, about persuasion, we now have mathematics, so that fits well, it's true that it's hard, as we also say in another domain. It's heavy-duty, as we say in politics sometimes. That said, even for mathematics, someone like Bertrand Russell, you know, who was at the origin, with his colleague Whitehead, of that enormous edifice which is the Principia Mathematica—I'm not going to give the history of mathematics today, but which, you see, practically everything that is modern mathematics, in the extensive sense, not just set theory, but everything that comes after Cantor, roughly—Russell said, mathematics is a science in which we never know what we're talking about, nor whether what we're saying is true.
35:22 Of course, when it's quoted like that, you get the impression that we're quoting a philosopher criticizing mathematics, but not at all, it's a mathematician who shows on the contrary the extraordinary freedom and sovereignty of mathematics with respect to any criterion external to itself, which would be that of exactness of being subject to a motionless object, to something already-there. There you go. And that pleases me because there's something sovereign there, something I've often come back to, from the appearance of mathematics up to today. It has only gotten worse, only gotten stronger, I mean.
The triangle of the poet, the mathematician, and the philosopher 35:54 For those who've been listening from the start, let me take the opportunity to open a parenthesis regarding our questions. Well, it's been a bit more than four years that we've been together. If we were at the café du commerce, I could choose a different subject each time and then we'd chat and move from one subject to another forgetting what we said the time before. I try to do something cumulative. I try, I'm not saying I succeed. That means, I take myself along with your questions, and those things carry over a little bit. I have to say, I don't want to be discourteous toward newcomers, but I mean, that does presuppose that you can see a bit of the whole path we've covered.
36:31 Because there are things, you know, that I can't keep going back to indefinitely, it wouldn't be courteous toward those who make the effort to follow from the beginning. So, let me open the parenthesis. Now, from the beginning, I recall that the philosopher—since I started by trying to position philosophy, that is indeed our main subject, since there are those who say it's become useless for quite a while now, so we must first justify that we're speaking philosophically—I said, among other justifications, I won't redo that, that the philosopher found himself in the middle, in any case positioned in a triangle with respect to words and language, where he was in the company of two others, two others at two opposite extremes, who are the...
37:17 Yes, louder. Oh no, that's something else. Yes, that's true, but those are his two adversaries. Whereas I'm talking about two accomplices. The poet and the mathematician. Well, bravo, there's the poet and the mathematician, who also have a fundamental relationship to language. You clearly see it's not the same, the poet and the mathematician. Well, the philosopher is someone who has an essential relationship, essential in the truly philosophical sense of the term, to language, which means there's no philosophy worthy of the name that doesn't go through a questioning of statements. It's the famous Socratic 'what do you call,' which practically founds the discipline, and which is more fundamental than 'what is it.'
37:56 I recall that 'what is the sun' is an astronomer's question, 'what do you call the sun' is a philosopher's question. And nothing prevents an intelligent astronomer from asking both questions. I'm not making separations between groups of people, but between approaches that are not at all contradictory. Still, 'what do you call' is more fundamental and logically prior, if you want to speak rigorously like Aristotle, to 'what is it.'
38:28 'What is it'—being is already given to me, I assume that it exists, and afterward I ask myself what it is, it being understood that it exists. Whereas when I say 'what do you call,' I suspend the existence of the thing pending how you're going to define it for me. You see? It's possible that God exists, it depends on how you're going to define for me what you call God. If God is the general will à la Rousseau, that can exist.
39:00 No, but I'm not joking. When Christ said my kingdom is not of this world, you can say, well, Nietzsche is quite right to criticize the other-worldly side there is in Christianity. Christianity appeals to invisible worlds, that are beyond, to which it sacrifices—what is most interesting for Nietzsche—life. There, I'm no death-worshipper, if that's Christianity, Nietzsche is quite right, isn't he, to say, let's leave those things aside, which are discourses of sacrifice, where by the way we send everyone off to be slaughtered, sacrificed, except those who define these values.
39:32 Except that, if I stick to the statement rigorously, without making it say more or less than it says, 'my kingdom is not of this world,' that can mean, it is not of this world such as it is now, but which can be changed. You see, at that point we arrive—because I once mentioned the so-called theologies of liberation, thank you, as they were put into practice in Latin America, for example, often in guerrilla movements, or liberation movements, precisely, as we say, or religious figures, well, priests, because in Latin America, so often Catholics, belonging to the hierarchy, unlike the great majority of the hierarchy who collaborated with the regimes, and often bloody dictatorships, especially in Latin America, a kind of permanent bloodbath—said, God will exist insofar as we make him exist in us by liberating ourselves.
40:27 Us, us, the whole human collectivity. There you go, that's a somewhat extreme example to tell you that, once again, the question 'what do you call' is fundamental. There, I've just interrogated the word of the Gospel that says 'this world'—I'm in the process of asking, what do you call this world? If this world means the world governed by capitalism, Christ's formula is no longer as far-fetched or metaphysical as it seems, you see.
40:57 There you go. As for this point, very precisely. So, yes, the philosopher is in this triangle that I—let me recall a bit the beginnings of our conversations four years ago—a triangle where, at each angle, there is a certain way of questioning what, as Mallarmé calls it in a very beautiful poem, the words of the tribe. The mathematician, for his part, rejects them completely. Take mathematics textbooks from Descartes's time, you can find them in the Pléiade, leaf through them in a bookstore, no need to buy the whole work, unless you want to acquire—I don't discourage you from acquiring—Descartes's complete works, far from it, especially since he writes with a still-provincial flavor that is admirable in the 17th century.
The mathematician rejects the words of the tribe 41:40 It's not yet the great classical language but it has precisely a flavor that will no longer exist in the great classical language. It's a bit like Louis XIII style, the Place des Vosges, you see, it's not yet Versailles but it's not bad at all, frankly. Descartes—you take these physics treatises because the interest of the Pléiade volume is that it includes these physical works. The theory of light, you know the first theorem of optics comes from Descartes, the incident ray, the reflected ray on a mirror, all that.
42:12 You see in these mathematical treatises pages and pages made with our everyday language. From which it follows that by a line one can, etc. You see, with words, of course, assembled Descartes-style with the rigor of one of the greatest scholars of all time. The more the history of science progresses, the fewer of these everyday-language words there are, in what we call mathematics, the metalanguage.
42:43 Isn't that so? The fewer everyday words there are, the more formalized expressions there are, where there are only algorithmic symbols. They are no longer words. You see? So, when I tell you that the mathematician tries to entirely reject everyday language, it's not only an intention, it's what he achieves as mathematics develops. Do we agree, Thomas? Do we agree? There's not too much... When you really open a proper textbook for the mathematics agrégation, I mean, there's not much waffle, to go quickly.
43:18 You have to know well the signs that are there and not make mistakes, and their combinations, etc. Good. That's the mathematician. And he has his reasons. In other words, from the standpoint of his reasons, he's perfectly right to reject everyday language. Because that language doesn't have the univocity that is the very condition of validity of the mathematical approach to things. You see how your questions make us revise many fundamental things. What is the mathematical approach to things?
43:48 It comes from a little sentence that seems perfectly simple and almost stupid, it's so obvious. Whereas it's one of the most profound sentences ever spoken. I say that because I said it once, I had African students and they burst out laughing. It's the famous sentence of Parmenides. What is, is; what is not, is not. They burst out laughing, sir, you don't need to be a philosopher to say things like that. We already suspected as much before coming to class. Yes. What they hadn't understood is that Parmenides had just formulated the principle of the excluded middle.
44:18 It comes down to about the same thing, that's right. Either this is an iPad or it isn't an iPad. Either this is an animal or it isn't an animal. A or not-A. That's how we say it in logico-mathematics. There's no third term. Well, it's a bit A on one side. If you give me a little money, I'll prove to you there's a bit of... No. We're not at the market here. It's not negotiable. It's A or not-A. Either it's straight or it's curved.
44:54 Either there's a root or there's no root to an equation. So, this principle of the excluded middle indeed leads us to the principle of identity and/or non-contradiction, which is the fundamental condition of validation for the mathematical approach to statements rather than to things. Now, everyday language—you understand better why mathematicians reject it. Not that it bores them, they use it every day as soon as they speak to their wife, as soon as they're at the office.
45:29 At the lab, you don't talk to your bosses in algorithms. Frankly. But because when we say the sun rises, that's everyday language. It's not a delirious statement, the day rises. But we're in a reality that is metaphorical. There can be contradictions. Am I talking about the astronomical sun or, just like that, about the habit I have of seeing it climb over the horizon, it rises. Well, it's us who are moving. You see? It's to avoid this plurivocity, the opposite of univocal, isn't it, that the mathematician, very wisely, since Euclid—so there's a deep cultural split in the West going back a long way—rejects everyday words, in order to speak now very precisely, to fine-tune, and fortunately for all sorts of consequences you know well, isn't it, for everything that science makes possible, with technology and a relative mastery of the world, a univocal language.
46:32 Only, well, that's not a problem, on the contrary, for the mathematician—not only is it not a problem, but it's beneficial, right? But for us, for our relationships with ourselves, of each of us with himself and of each of us with all the others and vice versa, so for inter-human relationships and no longer relationships to things—it's no longer a matter of the astronomer's relationship to the sun and the way of speaking of an external thing, but of relationships between men, intersubjective ones. How can we do without everyday language?
47:04 Because when I say the sun rises, there I suddenly find myself back in an inter-subjective world. It's the world of metaphor. In linguistics, we say that this is the poetic function of all language, of what's often called natural language, as opposed to very formalized languages, either fairly crudely formalized ones like the highway code, or highly formalized ones as happens in algebra or logic. Am I making myself clear here? I mean that the problems which are at stake in the words of everyday language, in the way of speaking of everyday language, are not resolved the moment we set them aside.
47:45 What's at stake is right there. Those of you who were kind enough to come to our debate with Friot will remember that I paid tribute to Bernard Friot as a philosopher, whether he knows it or not, because he himself very humbly calls himself an economist. But I mean, simply by clearly distinguishing the minimum old-age pension from pay-as-you-go retirement. For example. That's not at all two different ways of naming the same thing.
48:15 It's not the same thing at all. So these everyday words are extremely important because of what's at stake in them. But what's at stake is no longer what's at stake in external knowledge, as we'd say for astronomy. That's the big difference. Here it's a matter of self-knowledge. It's not that when I say the sun rises, I've forgotten that it's me who is rising. Well, it's me who's moving, it's the Earth that's moving and gives us the illusion of believing we're motionless while the sun is climbing like a bird in the morning, like a lark rising to its zenith.
48:51 You see? "Like to the lark at break of day arising," as Shakespeare says in the sonnets. So this business of everyday language—since it's left fallow by the mathematician's abandonment of it—the poet takes hold of it. That's the second vertex of the triangle. You see? The one who, according to Mallarmé, I repeat, gives a purer meaning to the words of the tribe.
The poet, "know thyself," and the philosopher's limping gait 49:21 The poet, he will go to the other extreme, taking interest precisely in the metaphorical and symbolic side of language. Everyday language always has this double function: sometimes it's really realistic. Pass me a pencil, watch out there's a stop sign, I'm not in the symbolic there. It's serious if I start answering, "what do you mean by a stop sign," at 140 kilometers an hour? You see? You mustn't. There, that really designates the real.
49:51 But everyday language also has something quite other than the real, which is what I'm insisting on when speaking of what the poet does with it. And the philosopher goes back and forth between the two. He needs the mathematician's approach when he wants to answer the question "what can I know?" When he wants to leave behind the vagueness of doxa, of opinion at the bottom of the cave, in order to make universal statements, transmissible, valid always and everywhere.
50:21 That's what universal means. And not just true on Monday but false on Tuesday, or true in Paris and false in Montauban. So for that the model is: if A equals B then B equals A. That's good, that's valid, that's not relativist. And he needs the poet—here's where I'm getting to, because of what I just said—because everyday language tells us little, unlike mathematical discourse, about the material world around us, but about ourselves it tells us a great deal, without our even knowing it.
51:00 Now the philosopher began by—what did Socrates do, before he started, not to preach, he's not a religious figure, but before he started dialoguing, questioning people in the street—he went to consult an oracle. Yes, like every good Greek when in doubt, when assailed by doubts, one goes to see the oracle. And there were oracles, there were plenty, there are everywhere...
51:33 Mamadou, Marabout of the Great Forest. You get that in your mailboxes. There were more important oracles than others, and for the Greeks it was the oracle of Delphi, wasn't it? The Greeks said that Delphi was the navel of the world. And to Socrates's great astonishment—assailed by doubt, so telling himself, I know nothing—the oracle answers him what? You are the wisest man on earth. First of all, and secondly, what was inscribed on the pediment for everyone, not just for Socrates.
52:03 When you arrive, the oracle begins by saying—it's written there—know thyself. Know thyself. There, we're not in "what do you call the sun." And even less in "what is the sun?" Because there, we move further and further away from myself. You see? That's why the philosopher has this kind of limp I was talking about. For me the image, it's Merleau-Ponty who used the image of limping. I mean, between rigor, non-contradiction, the epistemic finality of philosophy which is contained in the question "what can I know," and the question of values which then concerns only us, I mean, and not things, namely "what must I do?"
The West, a word made to hide reality 52:49 That's why it belongs both to the mathematical pole and the poetic pole. And that's what language does, our everyday language: sometimes it's completely realistic, watch out for the stop sign, right? Sometimes it has great symbolic functions, as when we say North Korea defies the West, to borrow from current events. What in that statement belongs to the symbolic order?
53:19 A little practical exercise. What is the symbolic part of my statement, "North Korea defies the West"? Bravo, "the West." What is that thing? North Korea, we know, we take a map, we locate it, I mean, there's a history or Wikipedia. It's a something, they're some someones, it amounts to about the same. The West, what is it? First answer: it's what's to the west. Well yes, well yes, you're laughing, because you know what it means when someone's "out west" in French slang—"à l'Ouest" means out of it.
53:52 That's not it either. At the same time, it's not a stupid answer. Let me remind you that Kafka's masterpiece, The Castle—well, "masterpiece," that's what the critics say—his last novel, the most mysterious, the most accomplished from the point of view of stripped-down form, the one with the least pathos, the most progression, and which is unfinished, like almost all of Kafka's great works, is about someone who tries, throughout the whole novel, in a village, to reach the castle, which is right above the village, and never manages to.
54:22 That's pure Kafka, you can already tell. And so he doesn't stay in the village, he's not from the village, he comes to the village in order to go up to the castle, and in the end, he's so tempted to go to the castle that he no longer belongs to the village and he never reaches the castle. He's neither wisely settled like those who stay at the bottom of the cave—that's the villagers. And as for the sun, if you take Plato's image, it remains forever inaccessible. But that's not what I'm going to talk to you about, you have all of Kafka's work to fill that in.
54:52 The thing is that the owner of the castle makes an appearance in the first pages, and we never hear of him again. Does anyone remember? This castle belongs to the count—what's the count's name? West West. In German, West West. It's nice, he's west of west. How do you expect to reach something like that?
55:23 It's like a spinning top, that. This castle belongs to Count West West. You know, the ancient Bretons, the Bretons of the Matter of Britain and the Arthurian romances, you see, to the west, you're on the western coast of England and Scotland, you see every evening this extraordinary value, for a northerner, that the sun—I don't know, it comes to dry the dampness of the rain and the mists of Scotland. Magnificent. But you see how a northerner—when he comes to see me in Corsica, he's dazzled by the sun.
55:57 And setting in the west every evening, so he thought paradise was over there, in the island of Avalon, you know, in the Arthurian romances, the island of Avalon which is somewhere out west, there. There you go. So the West is not the west. For a physical reason, ever since the Earth has been round, anyone can be to the west of someone. You're always west of somebody, right. When you go east from France, you have Germany, you have Poland, then you have Russia, then you have what?
56:27 Then you have the United States, once you cross the Bering Strait. And so you have the Western country par excellence, which is the furthest east. Well, you see, it doesn't designate anything physically. We're no longer in astronomy here. In other words, it's not a word made to express a reality. In "reality" there's res, the thing, a Latin term, res publica, the public thing. No. There are words made to express realities. The book, the stop sign, the iPad. And then there are words made to hide reality.
56:59 That's why we run after it in vain. Because then you can say, come on, that means the Europeans. Ah yes, the leader, he's in America. That's odd. That doesn't work either. You see, I'm doing a little Socratic exercise: the West is neither the west nor Europe. Ah, that's enough, it's the industrialized countries. Japan, then, frankly, is more industrialized than us. So the Japanese are Westerners. That doesn't work either. We're mixing everything up, getting confused.
57:32 Which means that here, I'm not going to say that "the West" means nothing. I mean that it has a symbolic function. We don't actually know what it means, but we know very well what we're doing when we use it. When we say, and I come back to it, North Korea defies the Westerners. Only a Westerner can say that. If you look closely. Or Saddam Hussein, or Gaddafi defies the West. It means: I'm in the kingdom of good and you're in the empire of evil.
58:02 It's more reassuring all the same. There. After this polemical parenthesis, let me remind you what the symbolic order is. In language, I mean, everyday language, natural language, we're neither in mathematical rigor, nor in the explicitly symbolic use the poet makes of it. We're always a little in between. We often think we're in the real, as with the word "West." There are several who believe it's really something tangible. Whereas, you know there are many now who doubt whether Russia is in Europe, for example.
58:38 Whereas when, in Paris, Greater Paris, when Paris was the quasi-world capital of culture—I say world, not just European, because Mexicans, Brazilians dreamed of coming to Paris, hence the aria of the Brazilian in Offenbach's operetta La Vie parisienne, the Brazilian who dreams of going to Paris. At that time, what was most fashionable in classical music, the most creative, were the famous Diaghilev ballets, which music lovers have heard of. The great premieres of contemporary music, The Rite of Spring by Stravinsky, Petrushka, etc., were created within the framework of the Ballets Russes, whose brilliant coach and choreographer was Diaghilev, so we call them the Diaghilev ballets.
59:15 At the time, Russia was even the center of European music. But no, Russia, because it's in Europe—that would mean Russia defies Europe here. We don't know where we stand anymore, you see, these are strange terms, all this. So, after this very extensive digression, I come back to this page of Nerval which prompted your question, which will bring us back to stop wandering a bit erratically—that's a pleonasm.
Parapraxes and the forgetting of "aliquis" in Freud 59:49 There is an undeniable scientificity in the hard sciences. I didn't say that the hard sciences were the last word in philosophical reflection. I mean, from the scientific point of view, there is an undeniable scientificity. But we've just seen what mathematics doesn't deal with—I'm not blaming it, it's not its field—it's the question of "what must I do," not "what can I know." There is already, in what I've just said, the beginning of an answer to your question.
1:00:19 An answer, I mean, on substance this time, not a preliminary one. I mean, when I recall that everyday language relates to our intentions, to something subjective, unlike mathematical language, whether it's conscious or not—we have intentions that are conscious, say, "I think I'll go to the movies tonight," that's fine, that's not mysterious, right? And then there are intentions in us that we only learn about when they're realized or when they fail to be realized, you know, that's what Freud calls parapraxes, slips, for example, right?
1:00:56 I want to go to the movies tonight, fine, I look for the car keys, damn, I can't find them, I panic, I have a fight with my wife, it's your fault, you should have told me, it's an impersonal game and everyone, no one in particular, I can't find them, and for good reason, we finally find them but it's too late, the cinema's closed, but a domestic scene in the meantime—the keys were on the electricity bill. That's why in my unconscious I didn't want to know where they were, because I know very well where they are, but in my unconscious it's inaccessible, it would ruin my evening, damn, I have to pay the electric bill—it's a crude example I'm giving, it's often more complicated than that, but there, there's a subject that doubles the subject, you see, there is, as Rimbaud the poet would say—I went through him before the philosopher, as he tells us—"I is an other," there's an I who wants to go to the movies, there's an I who prefers to stay home rather than go to the movies after paying the electricity bill, you see, read—I've recommended it to you often—this book, very comic in the end, called The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, which is very amusing, where Freud gives thousands of examples,
1:02:07 that's why it's enjoyable, it's not too demanding, in everyday life, not in the clinic, in our parapraxes—there I spoke of losing an object, but it can also be forgetting words, right, does anyone remember a case of forgetting a word that I had tried to develop, borrowed from Freud, it happens to us, wanting to make a quotation and saying, damn, I can't remember, you see, the word that's in the middle, or at the beginning, doesn't this remind you of anything, I'm going to quote it, because it's going to be important, to move on, otherwise it's too abstract if I don't give this example, Aliquis, does that mean anything to you?
1:02:48 Can you sum it up for us? Or do you not remember it anymore? I'd rather do it myself. Freud is talking with a friend, a fellow medical student like himself, so it's at the time when he's beginning to have some results in his psychoanalytic research, and a Jewish friend like himself, you'll see why that's important for understanding what follows, and the two are discussing what? What's topical at the time, in the 1890s—that the persecutions Jews were beginning to be subjected to, and not only at the university, in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, in Germany, etc.
1:03:25 In short, anxiety is rising, everyone has cousins who have already left for the Americas or elsewhere, and then Freud's friend, Freud's colleague, ends up saying that he won't die in Austria, his bones will go elsewhere, and he quotes—he makes a Latin quotation, at the time even medical students had a classical education, as we used to say, one "did one's humanities," there was a classical culture, incomparable to today—he makes a classical quotation, taken from Ovid, or Virgil, I don't remember exactly, doesn't matter, no, Virgil, "exoriare aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor," you're absolutely not required to understand Latin to understand what follows.
1:04:05 It turns out he forgets—it means roughly what I just said, this fatherland will not see my bones grow white—except that he forgets "aliquis," which means "some" in Latin, but we don't need to know that at all to understand what follows. I think that's the signifier, not the signified. He forgets "aliquis," he feels, as we all do when we've had a word slip, that it's not right, or when we play a musical passage and say, that's not it, that's not quite right, something's missing, that's not the real piece. And so Freud tells him, you mean 'exoriare aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor.'
1:04:39 There, Freud gives it back to him, he doesn't have the memory lapse, or at least not for that passage. The other says yes, and then he guesses, given Freud's smile, that his forgetting can't be random, and he throws himself into an exercise on the spot, like that, off the cuff, on the steps of the university, right? Come on, what will you find out? Why did I forget "aliquis"? Well, Freud tells him, if you insist, we'll—and he applies his method, that is, so-called free analysis, a bit ironically, because we'll see it's not free at all. You tell me everything that comes into your head when you think about the word you didn't think of.
1:05:11 When I say "aliquis" to you, what do you think of right away, without reflecting, without judgment, without saying, "I think of that because," and "that's not very important, that's a bit silly"—without any value judgment—you tell me what comes to your mind. Do you remember this example? Listen, we have mathematics, physics, now for once we also have chemistry. Welcome, Sacha. I had the pleasure of working south of the Sahara with Sacha, we were far away.
1:05:47 And so the other one says, well listen, that seems silly to me. Ah, don't start criticizing. But the first thing that comes to mind is to split "a" from "liquis." Ah, go on. Well, then, of course, "liquis" makes me think of liquid, but of course, you see, we're in a European language, we understand each other, right. And then, liquid, now that makes me think—the word liquid, the root makes me think of relic. And relic, yes, we're playing word games here, relic makes me think of, well, relic makes me think of saints.
1:06:22 Relics, you know, the relics of Saint Ambrose, relics, and here, a rung of the ladder that Jacob saw in his dream, I have here a feather fallen from the archangel Gabriel when he made the Annunciation. You're laughing, but that's what was sold at the time. Wouldn't you like a little rung from Jacob's ladder? And, well, go on—well, a saint, speaking of saints, I think of some saint in particular. Well, tell me which ones. I don't know, me, Saint Januarius, Saint Augustine, Saint... Ah, well, Saint Januarius makes me think of my vacation in Naples.
1:06:55 Some of you may know, when traveling in Italy, Saint Januarius is the patron saint of Naples. Let me continue this little aside. Tourists who have been to Naples know that when you visit the Cathedral of Saint Januarius, you're invited to see the relics of the saint. Isn't that right? The saint's relic is a little vial containing what is supposed to be the blood of Saint Januarius, taken during his martyrdom. The custom, tradition has it—this is historical fact—tradition has it that when the blood liquefies, on the feast day of Saint Januarius, they take it out, show it to the faithful; if the blood liquefies, it's a good sign.
1:07:32 If the blood doesn't liquefy, if it stays somewhat mineralized, like that, that's a bad sign. So, if it doesn't liquefy, I have to give up the trip I was planning to take, or the marriage I was planning to contract, etc., etc. You see? Go on, says Freud. Well, there I can't go on, because I'm getting to personal considerations that are painful for me to develop. And Freud says to him, that your girlfriend is expecting a child. But how did you guess that?
1:08:02 Don't you remember, isn't this negotiated—you read it, didn't you? I'll say it again, when did you see it. All right. I don't want to go on hearsay, it's better to look it up in Freud, it's better put, I'm skipping steps. How did you guess? Listen, you told me everything. Basically, he made a poem. You see, I come back to the poetic. That's where we see the logic of the poetic. It has nothing to do with the logic of the real. With the logic of reality, I mean. But it is very logical. I'm starting to answer your question. There's no contradiction between the logic of the dream in Nerval's two texts and the logic of the journalist Nerval.
1:08:34 Namely, it's quite simple. Well, no, I was going to say, you all know it. But no, because you have the pill and all that, your generations, you no longer have these anxieties, at least. But before, if the blood liquefies, that's good, my girlfriend isn't pregnant. If it doesn't liquefy, that's a bad sign. Are you with me? You're starting to understand. Yes, but how did we get to blood? Listen, it's a calendar thing, the number of days. Do you agree? So, which two saints did he mention?
1:09:05 January. January and Saint Augustine. Augustine, in German, "August," and August. He makes a poem, without realizing it, that says everything. He unrolls a calendar, he says that if the blood flows, it's a good sign. Freud makes him understand that his great worry that day—and it's legitimate, poor guy—his great worry, in a fairly puritanical bourgeois milieu, etc., a mistress, of course—there's the problem of the Jews at the university, but that wasn't what preoccupied him most personally.
1:09:35 It's something he didn't feel like thinking about, which is also understandable—we're not always thinking about unpleasant things—our wives. Our wives are right to say that men's main faults are cowardice and weakness of will. You know, we men are always saying, yes, there's this problem, we'll deal with it tomorrow. Yes, yes. And so, no question of thinking about... if he had said "aliquis," you see, he himself proves that "aliquis," when one—without reflecting, if you dig a little, will bring all that up.
1:10:05 Ah, there's no question about it. So, bam, I forget the word. Are you starting to realize how much rigor there is, down to the tiniest detail, in everyday language, whereas we were in the process of making a total dichotomy with scientific language, if A equals B equals A, yes, and even the "if" can be removed, with a sign representing it, and so on. Good. So I had applied that to an exceptional text, since Nerval begins by making us believe that he is, from the start, giving us a report, that he wants to associate us with the half-humorous, half-literary quest for a rare book concerning an abbé who lived in the eighteenth century and who was supposedly one of the Illuminati.
Angélique: from reportage to the symbolic, the Senlis scene 1:10:56 It was quite fashionable at the time. You know that at the end of the eighteenth century, religion was so attacked by the Enlightenment that there was a kind of revenge in fashion, a swing of the pendulum back, a flare-up of irrationalism, but one that could not express itself in Christian and Catholic terms—that was too discredited. Hence Freemasonry, you see? A religiosity that owes nothing to official religion. For some, you see, that gives us Mozart, the 1780s, and it was a cooptation of mutual aid amid the misery of the time.
1:11:27 Freemasonry has changed a great deal. Freemasonry, Illuminism, the Rosicrucians—this is the age of the Rosicrucians. For those who know a little about it, there are the doctrines of Weishaupt. In short, the Illuminati, who were especially widespread in the Germanic part of Europe. There, I'll close that parenthesis because it's a file we don't need in the foreground—it's mainly of historical interest. And Nerval, who worked a fair amount on this, produced a collection called Les Illuminés, in which we find the story of the Abbé de Bucquoy, by the way—except that here, we're in search of that very story, in this novella.
1:11:59 So here, he's acting as a reporter. So when Nerval says "I am in Frankfurt, I find the book," Frankfurt exists, we're not dreaming, I mean—but then, in two days, "I will be in Paris"; in Paris, he goes to the Sainte-Geneviève library to find the book, he doesn't find it; he goes to the library of the Institute, he doesn't find it; he goes to the Arsenal library—I recommend it to you, we never think of it, near the Bastille. It's one of the best libraries in Paris, one of the richest, and in a quiet neighborhood, a kind of peninsula right in the middle of Paris, between the Arsenal canal, the Seine, etc.—a very pretty district.
1:12:36 There, we're in the realm of reality, right up until the famous fourth letter—I'll go rather quickly—the fourth letter, where he tells us: we don't find the book, but lo and behold, while doing research on the Abbé de Bucquoy, on his family besides, I came across documents that must exist at the Compiègne library. Compiègne, northeast of Paris, the Valois—it's starting to take shape, what we know will be the sequel, the high point of the novella. That's when he transports us there, but without telling us at first, into the region where he spent his childhood; he won't tell us until we're already there.
1:13:08 He doesn't tell us beforehand, because we might say: look, you've already worn us out, we can't take any more of your Parisian library staircases, we never find your book, and now on top of that you want to drag us 80 kilometers out into the countryside. You see? And to seduce us, there's this passage that opens, or sets the direction for, the walk we're going to take—which we haven't taken yet, because at this moment we're in a stagecoach. Old provincial France is barely known in these parts especially, which nevertheless are part of the immediate surroundings of Paris, at the point where—we had analyzed this, I insist on the word "point," it's a limit—at the point where the Île-de-France, Picardy, and the Valois meet, that is, nowhere.
1:13:50 The limit is what is common to all three, without belonging to any of the three. "At the point where Picardy and the Île-de-France meet," comma, "it ends." What happens? "One can dream of the loveliest sheepfolds in the world." Ah, but still, some people do read a little. Yes: "at that point, one is permitted to dream of the loveliest sheepfolds in the world." If that doesn't make you want, all of a sudden, to say—after the libraries, Paris, the stress, enough of that, let's head to the countryside. And that's what the rest of the novella does.
1:14:20 All right? But we're still in reality. He describes the forests in autumn; we learn that it's All Souls' Day. It's heavy. There's a heavy symbolic charge in all this. "It is All Saints' Day that I write to you, forgive me these melancholy thoughts." There, we already start, you see, to tip over into another order. Because we all know that death is the journey par excellence. You remember, I said "to leave is to die a little," it's built into the language. It's in the language, not in reality.
1:14:50 The dead do not travel. You see? Well, among the ancient Egyptians, there's a whole journey, a whole procession on solar barques, they head toward the land of Punt. There. We're in the symbolic order. And you know, there was an Italian, I remember, in the audience here, who was about fifty apparently. And I told him in French, "to leave is to die a little." He said, "yes, yes, it's the same in Italian." Partire è un po' morire. Yes, the journey par excellence.
1:15:22 And autumn—you read Chateaubriand, when he watches the migrating birds pass by, the great lyricist Chateaubriand: take me away, over there, into the beyond of life, etc. You see, Baudelaire, the longest poem in Les Fleurs du Mal, the last one, "Le Voyage," which ends with that famous stanza. "O Death, old captain, it is time, let's weigh anchor, this country wearies us." This country is reality, the reality of life. It's a phenomenal world, Kant would say. "This country wearies us, O Death, let us set sail, if the sky and sea are as black as ink, our hearts, which you know, are filled with light."
1:15:55 And death is always associated with the metaphor of the journey. But there, we're in metaphor. Now, Nerval, as soon as he sets out, says, "it is All Souls' Day that I write to you." And he takes us to his mother's country, she who died and whom he never knew. You see the weight of the symbolic charge. But for now, he keeps acting as if he were a reporter—that is, we arrive at Senlis, Senlis being indeed in the Oise. Isn't that so? And there, coming out of...
1:16:27 It's in the fifth letter, I point out for those who have the text. We arrive of course at Senlis, everyone goes to see the cathedral—I recommend it, by the way. It's one of the finest in Christendom, not just in the Île-de-France. And, having arrived at Senlis—yes, because I'm mixing up the third and the fifth. Yes, that's it. It's indeed the fifth. So, there.
1:17:00 Coming out, coming out of the cathedral, he visits the cathedral with his friend. "I was able to admire, in a ray of sunlight"—allow me to read this short passage for those who weren't there. So pay attention to the letter of the signifier here, because we're in the symbolic order, nothing must be left to chance. We just saw that with Freud's friend. No, but I was saying, yes, that's fine. Good. "Coming out, I was able to admire in a ray of the setting sun the old towers of the half-demolished Roman fortifications, covered in ivy." In Senlis, there are Gallo-Roman remains.
1:17:30 It's not he who invents this, it's reality. "Passing near the priory, I noticed a group of little girls who had sat down on the steps of the doorway." They were singing—everyone familiar with Nerval knows he is extremely sensitive to popular song, isn't he? Especially when it comes from young girls. "They were singing under the direction of the eldest, who, standing before them, clapped her hands to keep the beat." You see the scene? It's a touching, familiar, provincial scene.
1:18:01 "Come now, young ladies, let's start again. The little ones aren't getting it right. I want to hear that little one there, on the left. No, there, on the left, excuse me. The first one on the second step. Come on, sing by yourself." And the little girl begins to sing with a weak but well-pitched voice: "The ducks on the river," etc. That's the sequence I'm singling out in the walk to which he invites us—at Senlis and the sights he witnesses there. All right? We have the impression we're still in the sphere of reality. Let me read it again, a bit faster.
1:18:33 "Coming out, I was able to admire in a ray of the setting sun the old towers of the half-demolished Roman fortifications, covered in ivy. I noticed a group of little girls who had sat down on the steps of the doorway. They were singing under the direction of the eldest, who, standing before them, clapped her hands to keep the beat." I'm skipping three lines—"and the little girl begins to sing with a weak but well-pitched voice." You now have all the material for what follows. And then after that, it's... So here, I need to turn to Aurélia, which is, as you know, the account of a dream, in which we find this.
The dream in Aurélia, exact negative of the Senlis scene 1:19:07 There. Sorry. That's not the one. There are so many dreams in Aurélia. Let me remind you, while I look for it, that it was the doctor, the psychiatrist of Nerval's time, who told him something very advanced for the era: "to do yourself good, write your dreams down." And it is to that good Dr. Blanche, who has a street named after him in Paris, by the way, that we owe this extraordinary text, of which the Surrealists said that Nerval had invented automatic writing, in expressing his visions.
1:19:43 There. "A dream I am still having confirmed me in this thought." So here, we're at the opposite of dream—a dream explicitly treated as a dream. "I suddenly found myself in a room that was part of my ancestor's dwelling. It only seemed to have grown larger. The old furniture gleamed with a marvelous polish." Since our time is limited, I don't want to proceed Socratically, waiting for us to give birth, the maieutic method. I'll stop on: "I suddenly found myself in a room that was part of my ancestor's dwelling."
1:20:14 "It only seemed to have grown larger." You immediately see the asymmetry, or rather the anti-symmetry, with respect to the preceding text. Everything that tells us about buildings—if I take the notion of a building—the Roman towers, half-demolished and covered in ivy. So there, the building is diminished. This is no accident in the poet, one of whose most famous lines is: "I am the Prince of Aquitaine, his tower laid low"—outright razed this time. And here, on the contrary, it's not castration, it's almost erection.
1:20:45 So, "it only seemed to have grown larger. The old furniture gleamed with a marvelous polish," whereas we were at sunset, that is, in fading light. "The old furniture gleamed with a marvelous polish. The carpets and curtains looked as good as new. A daylight three times brighter than natural daylight" streamed in through the window and the door—and remember that we were on November 1st, so in autumn—"and there was in the air"—remember, we were on November 1st, in autumn—"there was in the air a freshness and a fragrance of the first mornings of spring."
1:21:16 He could have said it could have happened in winter, it could have happened in summer. It has to be exactly the season that is the inverse symmetrical counterpart of autumn, diametrically opposed—spring. So it's worth going out, isn't it? So, "three women were working in this room." There was one adult with little girls in the previous text, right? And now here there are adult women, and so, if you're a bit scientific—go ahead, you'll see I'm answering your question.
1:21:47 We're going to make a prediction, like astronomers who, using Newton's equations, deduce that there is a planet somewhere that we'll call Neptune. Right? That's how it happened—a planet deduced before being observed. That's exactly it, Neptune. Just as there are elements in Mendeleev's table that were deduced—correct me if I'm wrong—before being discovered on Earth. Some were even discovered in the sun, like helium, right? That's why it's called that, in fact, before being known on Earth. So, empirically, here, what can we predict?
1:22:21 If the women are adults, how should he appear? As a child. You see? Now that we have a hypothesis, let's move to the experiment. I'm being rigorous. "Three women were working in this room and represented, without exactly resembling them, relatives and friends of my youth. It seemed that each one had the features of several of these people. The contours of their faces"—it's beautiful, isn't it? I'm not here for the poetic aspect, it's magnificent.
1:22:51 "The contours of their faces varied like the flame of a lamp, and at every moment something of one passed into another. The smile, the voice, the tint of the eyes, of the hair, the stature, the familiar gestures were exchanged as if they had lived the same life, and each was thus a composite of all of them—like those types that painters compose from several models to achieve a complete beauty. The eldest spoke to me with a vibrant, melodious voice." Notice that—the little girl had a weak voice. Remember earlier, the little girl on the church steps. And now, the voice is vibrant and melodious.
1:23:25 "That I recognized for having heard it in my childhood." Here it comes. "And I don't know what she was saying to me that struck me by its deep aptness. But she drew my thoughts to myself." There it is, the narrator enters the scene. "And I saw myself dressed in a little brown coat of old-fashioned cut, entirely woven by needle from threads as fine as those of spiderwebs. The coat was dainty, graceful, and steeped in sweet scents. I felt completely rejuvenated and quite dapper"—dapper, fitting for a child—"in this garment that had come from their fairy fingers."
1:24:00 "And I thanked them, blushing, as if I were only a little child before great and beautiful ladies." Our hypothesis is confirmed by the experiment. We are within a symbolic rigor with a predictability like an astronomer predicting eclipses. It's really extraordinary, the reading we're doing here. Because we're told that the serious sciences, the hard sciences, are mathematics and physics, and that's true. Whereas in literature you can say whatever you like, it's up to the reader's whim.
1:24:32 I'm caricaturing a bit. Still, it's often what one hears. Now here we see that there is the possibility of raising what is placed within what we vaguely lump together as the human sciences or social sciences—whichever term you prefer—the possibility of raising them to scientificity. So much for the question that was common to several questions; I lingered on it a bit. And as for Hugo's question about the fact that I ended with the black sail of Tristan, if I understood correctly, with something despairing—that's what I meant, that being modern is being haunted by the idea of death, which we repress.
The laws of genre and modernity that hates modernity 1:25:20 Well, not entirely, since that's not how I left you—that's not really my style, and since I'm speaking of style, or rather gender, let me remind you that I'm obsessed with questions of gender—I'm bouncing off that a bit on purpose, you know: are we here in prose or in poetry, in philosophy or in literature? Are we in the epic, lyric, or dramatic genre? And let me remind you, not to dwell on it too long, that generally we believe we choose our genre—"oh, I'll write a tragedy"—whereas in fact we develop the genre of the choice, that is, the moment we write, we're within a genre, whether we intended it or not. It could be journalistic, it could be essayistic, political, whatever—but as soon as you write a pamphlet, a poem, you're inscribed within a genre, exactly as you're inscribed within a sex when you love, or within a social class when you work—it's not just... there, I've pointed out that within humanity there are social classes, sexes, and genders. So now I come directly
1:26:30 to your question. The genre of tragedy among the Greeks consisted—you'll see why I take this example to answer you somewhat indirectly—of presenting three tragedies belonging to the same cycle, the cycle of the Labdacids, that is, the Oedipus cycle. You know, for instance, there's Oedipus Rex with the tragedy you know, where he kills his father and marries his mother, then the sequel, Oedipus at Colonus, read less often, but read it, it's admirable, the death of Oedipus. And then there's the Atreus cycle, with Agamemnon, Orestes, Achilles, Iphigenia, etc. And so as not to leave the audience on a tragic note, the Greeks would finish with a comedy. You see, genres are serious things, exactly as in sonata form in music, in so-called classical music, as it's called to keep the young away from it—well yes, because "the music we do in class," that sort of thing. There are two ways of keeping young people away from classical music, especially young people from the working classes—that is, keeping them away in order to keep it
1:27:40 for oneself alone: one is to say that classical music is for classicists, you need to be cultured, and second, it's music for the rich—though most great classical musicians ended up in poverty, if you think about it, whereas certain great rock singers ended up in obscene wealth—I won't name names since you know them better than I do—some who used to ride motorcycles inside their own house. Well, let's leave the motorcycles aside. It ended with a comedy. In classical music, the finale in sonata form is always supposed to have a cheerful note, a rondo for instance, so that the listener—no longer a spectator here—doesn't remain stuck in the slow movement, where there's been an emotional deepening, somewhat melancholic, etc. You see, a law of the genre. I was trying to do the same, but of course I say: modernity hates modernity, I maintain that, I'm not backing off—being modern is spending your time fleeing modernity. "I am modern, I am a lover of classical music," well then I'll take refuge in the baroque repertoire, against which I have nothing—I'm not talking about the repertoire, I'm talking about the act of suddenly resurrecting it while claiming everything else
1:28:51 is nonsense—which wasn't far off when the return to Bach happened, and suddenly it became fashionable to speak ill of Beethoven. It's really extraordinary. That's somewhat passed now, to the point that contemporary musicians say, "but it's Beethoven who created contemporary music." Good, and especially Beethoven, with the cult of Bach—well, it's ideological, all these dichotomies. Modernity hates modernity—I could give a thousand other examples. Our interest, as moderns, in archaic cultures: a Pygmy is not drawn to the cultures that preceded Pygmy culture. No, a Pygmy—all that's left for him is to have a transistor radio to listen to the soccer match in the capital. Yes, it's disappointing for you, but I'm telling you, isn't that so, Jean—we lived over there, didn't we, Sacha—a Tuareg dreams of becoming a driver. Oh yes, in the desert, he spends his time on a camel, so when he looks for work in the city, it's to be a driver, because a Tuareg would never take a servile job. You see, but as for us
1:30:01 I mean, myself first of all—I'm not passing judgments of value—you go to the home of someone reasonably averagely cultured, and he'll have an African mask on the wall next to a reproduction of Watteau, of Picasso, or whatever—we swim among different eras. But this is new; it didn't exist in periods prior to modernity. We were, for eternity, within the era we lived in; there was neither past nor future. Let me remind you that Racine has his heroes, who are supposed to be Greeks—Theseus, Iphigenia, etc.—speak exactly the language of the courtiers of the grand siècle, and Corneille too, for that matter—"like our misfortune, it is at its highest point, allow me to admire it and not imitate it." The Homeric heroes did not speak like that; they addressed each other like good Mediterraneans would. Well, here, if you dare—well yes, that's how it was, the Homeric heroes, it's often a brawl in Homer, well yes, exactly, and with epic grandeur nonetheless. So, I never—I never said, "listen, that's it, my lecture series is over, it ends on death,"
From The Mastersingers to Nietzsche's midnight song 1:31:11 go ahead and kill yourselves—what are you making me say there! Let me remind you, what work follows Tristan in Wagner? Which work, the most despairing one? The only comic work by Wagner—Die Meistersinger. Yes, sorry, bravo, very good, excuse me, I stole your answer, of course. And Wagner explicitly says that, like the Greeks, he wanted to end on a happy note. What does Nietzsche say—Nietzsche, who knew Wagner well, on the subject of modernity, of decadence—even though he makes value judgments, he begins by denouncing all decadence only to say afterward that he never feels so well as within decadence itself—but that's Nietzsche—and he says, in that famous poem, you know, in Zarathustra, the twelve strokes of midnight: "Mensch, gib Acht"—man, take heed—first stroke, second stroke, what does deep midnight say, third stroke, the world is deep, deep, that's what midnight says, fourth—deep is its pain, right, and then there are more strokes, and at the end: but deeper still is joy—deeper than pain—for all pain says: pass away, die—that's Goethe, all Germans know that.
1:32:21 "Stirb und werde"—die and become, pass away, die—but joy, all joy wants eternity, that's the end of the poem, the deep, deep eternity. If one day you travel at 3,000 meters altitude to a little European Tibet called the Saint-Moritz region—you know, that Swiss ski resort—there in the Swiss Alps—I said Tibet because it's flat there, it's nice, you don't get tired, you're on flat ground and you're at 3,000 meters, it's extraordinary—you see the stars as in the Sahara desert, swarming with stars, it's extraordinary. And you see, here, the forest and the hotel where Nietzsche often went to spend the summer—winter in the Mediterranean, he wasn't foolish about his rhythm, winter in Nice, he dreamed of going to Corsica too, winter in Nice or Turin or Genoa, and summer in the Upper Engadine, over there, Upper Austria or Switzerland mostly. And there's Lake Silvaplana, you see, those little flat expanses on which there's a rock where this poem is engraved—I'm telling you, you're out for a walk, you come across it, "oh listen, what does deep midnight say"—it's engraved on the rock along Nietzsche's path—joy deeper than pain—let me remind you nonetheless of the happy element
Shared death: Hölderlin's Greece and Hegel's festival 1:33:32 that I perhaps didn't have time to develop at that moment—that's possible, my mistake—which is that I ended on the greatest possible misfortune, which is to suddenly remind ourselves that death lies behind our entire symbolic field—which is a despairing thought if one is alone—but the moment it's shared, on the contrary, it's the greatest happiness. Hence the quotations from Hölderlin that I so often make, his nostalgia for Greece—it's not nostalgia for an era, it's not like Nietzsche's, for an era where there was an aristocracy of free men and then the mass of slaves who deserve to be slaves—I'm not joking, Nietzsche still has worshippers, that Nietzsche—me, I prefer a different Nietzsche than the one of Deleuze, of Foucault, and of Derrida, I won't even mention Onfray, I won't stoop that low. So let's be serious: Hölderlin's Greece is the one of which he says, no one was alone in bearing life. There would have been an era when there wasn't the monarch alone, Pharaoh, Emperor of China, the Sun King, the monarch alone doing—well, almost—whatever he wants, the Roman emperor of course,
1:34:42 the rest being at his disposal, so to speak—nor humanity entirely liberated either—but in between, the Greeks, for the first time, a community, that of free men who, within itself, held the same rights—no one was alone in bearing life, right, even though everything set them against each other—rivalry between Thebes, Sparta, Athens—but they were united around three things: religion, that is, mythology—all children, whether from Thebes, Sparta, or Athens, knew the exploits of Theseus, of Heracles—mythology, religion, language—and what brought all the Greeks together once a year? The Olympic Games, where all wars, all quarrels were flatly suspended—that is, everything that unites: the festival. I say this because there's a paragraph in Hegel, a short chapter of Hegel's in the Phenomenology of Spirit, in the chapter titled "the religion of art," where we know he's talking about the Greeks at that point—you know there isn't a single proper name
1:35:52 in that work—and there is a progression within the religion of art that goes from architecture, the art most deployed in space—architecture has three dimensions—to the arts that exist purely in time, with no spatial dimension at all, like music for instance—passing through sculpture, which still has three dimensions, and painting, which has only two. Ah, you hadn't noticed that painting has always been abstract? You see why I like genres—within the pictorial genre there's a dimension, perspective, which is always an abstraction: we abstract away real depth thanks to a magnificent illusion called perspective. There, I'll close the parenthesis. So there is indeed a progression, architecture, sculpture, painting, and then with music there's no longer any spatial dimension at all—circulate, there's nothing to see, but close your eyes, open your ears—and so we arrive, for him, at the hymn, the hymn which seems to have reached the summit of art—he's alluding to the hymn to Dionysus, the little we know of it—but he says the hymn has a drawback compared to architecture, which is where we started, you see, it's dialectical, he doesn't say it's better,
1:37:02 progress isn't the naive kind of progress where every time we advance we're at a deeper stage—we also lose feathers along the way each time. The hymn is what is deepest, closest to the immobility of the statue, which is as immobile as Mont Blanc—but on the other hand we've lost precisely that stability, the hymn is evanescent, and that's why he finds the synthesis in the Olympiad, in the body of the athlete, who, unlike the sculptor's statue, is both the work and the object of his own work—the two are not separated: when he trains, the athlete works on his body and he has the result of his labor right there. So, I'm making this little parenthesis because, once again, it's no accident—I like your question because it lets me fill a gap—it's true I didn't have time to develop the chapter outline I had promised in last time's summary, where I said that all modern poetry has a political conclusion, whether it knows it or not, or even an explicit one. Take Rimbaud, take truly the emblematic figures of modernity—it's Rimbaud who said "one must be absolutely modern"—it's not the Rimbaud
All modern poetry has a political conclusion: Rimbaud, Faust 1:38:12 who is modern by fleeing modernity, even though he did everything to flee it—what foolishness, as they say, in Une Saison en Enfer—I know today how to salute beauty. Well, and how does Une Saison en Enfer end? Precisely with "my boat turns toward the city"—you know these famous passages, don't you—"sometimes I see in the sky endless shores of snow, in the company of a joyous angel of ivory"—"the song of the heavens, the marching of peoples in bondage"—"let us not curse life"—there's a collective conclusion, if you prefer that word to "political," because the more conservative one is, the more the word "political" becomes something coarse and laborious. Take Goethe's Faust, one of the works that inaugurates modernity, since it stands at the dawn of Romanticism—you see, I always place modernity, if you want a precise chronology, at the point where the English Industrial Revolution and the French political revolution, packed tightly together chronologically, produce cracking sounds that are otherwise heard only every ten or fifteen centuries in human history—and we have not emerged from those two great cracks, from which were born the industrial revolution,
1:39:22 the urban world, and at the same time that inner way of expressing it which is Romanticism—sensibility as a world different from that of previous centuries, which is why we take refuge in them. But Goethe—you know Faust's journey—Faust is someone who, like every modern, seeks a satisfaction he never finds. A great scholar, he seeks it in knowledge—you know, it begins that way, right at the start of Faust: medicine, astrology, astronomy, every scientific discipline—"I have studied them all and I see myself no wiser than before," as at the beginning, etc. Good, I'll go quickly: he ends up summoning the Devil, because he says, the Devil must know a thing or two about pleasure—maybe with him I'll have a bit more luck than with everything I've sought in knowledge, right? And the Devil offers him a deal—you all know it—what does the Devil ask for, in a deal with the Devil, what does he ask for?
1:40:12 the soul, bravo, there's the devil - what interests him is a question of numbers, it's a political matter where you vote for my enemy or you vote for me, I mean, there it is, yes that's it, the devil or the good Lord, and the counterpart is Faust who says all the same, you don't give your soul just like that, Faust says I give you my soul if and only if - this is less well known - this is us all the same, Faust is modern man after all, you have to know it, man, woman, you know, sorry, louder, desire is not a condition, it's an isolated word, no not desire, the opposite: if, well, you give me something that satisfies my desires, then he stops desire, I stop desiring, I am fulfilled and satisfied, not like I often believed, I'm satisfied but tomorrow it bores me, the best dish in the world, give it to me every day and it disgusts me, it's not a personal game, we agree, so that's the poetic formulation in Goethe's Faust
1:41:22 if and only if you make me experience a moment so extraordinary that I can say to the instant, in German, verweile doch, du bist so schön - stay, you are so beautiful - and of course the devil doesn't manage it, and yet the devil has means, he even goes so far as to resurrect Helen of Troy to say to him, here, take the woman as woman, the most beautiful woman of all time according to the story - meh, Faust - and how does it end? Faust is old, 40 years have passed, he's blind, he's an old man, and his wanderings have brought him to the Netherlands - does that tell you anything?
1:41:59 Does that remind you of anything? And there, with his ears, since he no longer has eyes, he hears that a community is building an island in the Netherlands, taking it from the sea to make itself a soil of its own - that's what the Netherlands is, a great contemporary of Goethe's, and he had enormous admiration for that small nation and its painting, and he hears them building a dam, that is, Rotterdam, Amsterdam - that means barrage, dike, like the Hoover Dam in the United States - and all of a sudden he says, I have reached the end of my quest: to live free on a free land, and he dies blind. His conclusion is collective, but not a servile collectivity, not an alienated collectivity - to live free on a free land. I'm giving you examples, I could give more, that's modernity. Now this modernity seems strange to you because today's reference ideals are anything but that, it's individualism, it's not collectivity - when you see that, it means there's a postmodernity
Postmodernity, Hegelian synthesis, and "my wound" 1:43:09 which is a great revenge against modernity - that's how I answer your question, there's a political stake at play, it's up to you to play it, a journey has been made, as long as we still believe we're looking for a solution outside of politics - I'm talking about a solution to those problems, not about how to adjust my lamp at home, we do have the right to a private sphere, it's even a duty, I even think that true collectivism is the one that gives full place to the individual - here I would read you, if I weren't afraid of losing time looking for it, a magnificent text by Hegel in the Philosophy of Right where he criticizes those who want to return to the model of patriarchal societies where particularism is the supreme fault, there is always a threat of subversion as soon as particularism manifests itself, and he says these societies are condemned to disappear once freedom begins to manifest itself in whatever form, including its most negative form, the freedom of the mere particular who cares
1:44:19 about no one and nothing, provided he plays his own card - Don Giovanni, for example - and he says in it that he sends back to back both the one who seeks a solution in a return to traditional, substantial society, as he calls it, which tries to stifle any claim to individual originality - you recognize, I'll say, our grandmothers, I'm not going to insult your grandmothers, in fact I'm not insulting you at all, because it made sense at that time - when you're a pygmy in the virgin forest, you'd better not let all particularisms develop, or you'll quickly starve to death, and without going looking for pygmies, in my home region of Corsica, not so long ago, it was like that, you had to watch out for the well, the water, the path - and at the other extreme, the pleasure-seeker who wants to profit maximally from all the wealth and means accumulated by modernity but without any political concern - he sends them both back to back precisely, and says the synthesis is to submit immediate being-there, as he says, to a work of clearing, and give it the form of spirit, so there you have it
1:45:29 I'm answering your question - it's not bad news at all, on the contrary, it's tragic, as he says, you have to go through, as Rimbaud does, a season in hell in order afterward to write, as Rimbaud does, the Illuminations - after all, I have embraced the summer dawn, that's not hopeless - nothing was yet stirring on the front of the palaces, the water was dead, the camps of shadows had not left the woodland road, I walked, waking the quick warm breaths - there you go, you can suddenly arrive at true poetry because you've passed through the very temptation to deny all poetry. You might tell me, that's exactly what he did since he fled to Ethiopia, you could tell me he fled modernity, etc. - yes, that's his individual path, precisely because it's too long to wait here, isn't it, because there's no political solution, especially in his time, he's a contemporary of the crushing of the Commune, exactly, Rimbaud - but precisely, you know Alain Borer's books on Rimbaud, I'm dwelling on this example a bit because it's a good illustration where he says it's not because he went there and didn't write anything that he gave up poetry - the carpenter who took Hölderlin in
1:46:39 another emblematic example of modernity, but this time a madman, he said so himself, he saw him for 37 years every day - what is the carpenter talking about, when asked does he still write poems, almost the whole day, but he doesn't write, he chants verses, an die blaue Luft, to the blue of the sky and at the window - good news, there you go, so once again, what is worst if you're alone bearing the weight of the truth on your shoulders becomes the best when it's shared. Have I at least partly answered your question? It's time to go eat - what was your question? I never answer my own questions - no no no, I answer, I have your questions that concern me - well there you go, if I answer indirectly, do you agree, Philippe? I shouldn't solicit your thinking - no, but I'm ready, I'm quite ready to do 5 minutes of overtime, it deserves it, but my wound
1:47:50 it's the wound of every modern man, that I'm waiting for a political change and as long as it's not here, well, we have the right to depression, to whatever we want, I mean I'm not moralizing, but at the same time we shouldn't act as if we didn't have the solution - does that answer the question - one must be absolutely modern, hold the step gained - not 'pas Gani', 'le pas gagné' is in Rimbaud, hold the step gained, humility, not the thing that goes off, the great evening that comes all at once like that - there you go, thank you all, and I hope you'll be many to continue with us, there you go, and above all have a very good vacation