the present alone is our happiness

THE PRESENT ALONE

IS OUR HAPPINESS

Conversations with Jeannie Carlier

and Arnold I. Davidson

Pierre Hadot

Translated byMarc Djaballah

STANFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

STANFORD, CALIFORNIA

2009

. I

Stanford University Press

Stanford) California

The Present Alone Is Our Happiness: Conversations withJeannie Carlier andArnold

J. Davidson was originally published in French under the title La Philosophic

comme maniere de vivre. Entretiens avecJeannie earlier et Arnold I. Davidson

© 2001, Editions Albin Michel.

~~~e~L(30, H'334- English translation © 2009 by the Board ofTrustees of the Leland StanfordA- 5" Junior University. All tights reserved.

~q

Publication assistance for this book was provided by the

French Ministry of Culture-National Center for the Book.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means) electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in

any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission

of Stanford University Press.

The translator wishes to thank Cheri Lynne Carr for her assistance in the

translation of this volume.

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free, archival-quality paper

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hadot, Pierre.

[Philosophie comme maniere de vivre. English]

The present alone is our happiness: conversations with Jeannie Carlier and

Arnold I. Davidson / Pierre Hadot, Marc Djaballah.

p. em. - (Cultural memory in the present)

Originally published in French under the title La Philosophie comme maniere

de vivre.

Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN 978-0-8°47-4835-3 (cloth: alk. paper)

ISBN 978-0-8047-4836-0 (pbk, : alk. paper)

I. Hadot, Pierre-Interviews. 2. Philosophers-France-Interviews.

3. Philosophy, Ancient. 4. Philosophy-History. I. Djaballah, Marc, 1975

II. Carlier, Jeannie. III. Davidson, Arnold Ira. IV. Title. V. Series.

B2430.H334A5 2009

194-dc22

[B]

2008011094

Contents

Introduction

I Tied to the Apron Strings of the Church

2 Researcher, Teacher, Philosopher

3 Philosophical Discourse

4 Interpretation, Objectivity, and Nonsense

5 Unitary Experience and Philosophical Life

6 Philosophical Discourse as Spiritual Exercise

7 Philosophy as Life and as Quest for Wisdom

8 From Socrates to Foucault. A Long Tradition

9 Unacceptable?

10 The Present Alone Is Our Happiness

Postface

Notes

IX

3°

52

61

121

145

162

Introduction

To change life. Even to change a life. Few books have this effect.And yet, after reading Qu'est-ce que la philosophie antique? [What is Ancient philosophy?], this is what a young American, who was not a philosopher but a historian, wrote to Pierre Hadot: "You changed my life." Thisreader anticipated a question that I asked Hadot in these interviews: "Beyond their great erudition, are your books not protreptics, that is, booksthat aim to turn ttrepein in Greek) the reader toward philosophical life?"Carrying out this aim involves two distinct projects: on the one hand, toinform the reader of a set of facts that decisively show that for the Greeksphilosophy was not the construction of a system but a choice of life; andon the other hand, to allow the reader to turn toward philosophy thusunderstood. The distinction is captured by the difference between theFrench title ofHader's book Exercices spirituels etphilosophie antique [Spiritual exercisesand ancient philosophy], which certainly does not grab one'sattention (although it sold well), and the title of the English translation,Philosophy as a Way ofLife. This unfaithful title is certainly not misleading, however. In the interviews contained in this volume, Hadot explainswhat might be called the indirectly protreptic character of his three greatworks of erudition on ancient philosophy: Exercices spirituels etphilosophieantique (1981), La Citadelle interieur[The inner citadel] (1992), and Qu'estceque faphilosophie antique?(1995). He invokes Kierkegaard's "method ofindirect communication) and suggests that rather than telling people to"do this," one "allows a call to be heard"; by describing the "spiritual exercises lived by another, [one can] give a glimpse ofand suggest a spiritualattitude, allow a call to be heard" (Chapter 9). These three books do thiswith irreproachable erudition that remains clear and is never weighty. Letters that Hadot has received from readers are) as it were, proof that the callhas been heard. Perhaps the present book goes slightly beyond these dis-

x Introduction

crete suggestions. The discussions presented in it do not attempt to answerthe question What isancientphilosophy?even though they do often discussGreek and Latin philosophers. "The main problem that poses itself to thephilosopher," Hadot maintains-not at the beginning of these interviews,as a program, but at the end, as an assessment-"is ultimately to knowwhat it is to do philosophy" (Chapter 8). To this central question-Whatis it to do philosophy?-Hadot ultimately gives only one answer, but an answer that is modulated in rather diverse forms, as though variations on atheme. These modulations of his response are inscribed in his intellectualand personal "path" of development, which is retraced in the first interviews and revisited in subsequent interviews in the course of discussinghow to read and interpret ancient philosophy, what is perennial in it andwhat might no longer be acceptable for us; about the value we can find inthe "experimental laboratories" that are the ancient philosophies; and in aword, about how they can help us to live better.

In its first form, Hader's response is extraordinarily precocious: hewas practically still a child when the sky-the starry sky-granted himan unforgettable, inexpressible experience (remarkably, the idea that whatis most important cannot be said appeared already) that he subsequentlyrecognized as what Romain Rolland called the "oceanic sentiment": "1was filled with an anxiety that was both terrifying and delicious, provokedby the sentiment of the presence of the world, or of the Whole [Tout], andof myself as part of this world" (Chapter I). "1 think that I have been aphilosopher since that time," Hadot says some sixty years later (ChapterI). Thus he did not wait for his encounter with ancient philosophers (hestudied Thomism first, a systematic philosophy if ever there was one) todiscover that philosophy is not the construction of a system but a livedexperience. Hador identifies Rolland's "oceanic sentiment" with MichelHulin's "savage mysticism," which he discusses several times in the conversations presented here. To the mysticism of negation and separationthat in his youth had so fascinated him in Plotinus (aphele panta, "removeeverything") he prefers a mysticism of welcoming: "welcome all things."Hadot's superb anthology that concludes this volume makes it clear thatthe "oceanic sentiment," felt many times throughout his life, has notceased to nourish his philosophical reflection. This is the only theme thatdoes not originate in ancient thought: in their admirable texts the ancients

Introduction Xl

expressed their amazement before the cosmos and" the lived awareness of

belonging to the great chain of being that puts us into solidarity withstones, trees, animals, men, and the stars; but if they felt this sense of fusion with the whole, they did not say so.

Hadot's first real contact with ancient philosophy was indirect. Itwas through Montaigne that he discovered the famous Platonic definition: Philosophy is an exercise in dying. "Perhaps I did not understand' itproperly at the time," Hadot says today, "but it was in fact one of the textsthat led me to represent philosophy as something other than a theoreticaldiscourse" (Chapter 8). Montaigne's text is rich precisely because, when it

is not taken absolutely and out of context, it supports several interpretations, and it gradually migrates to the heart of Hader's reflection both as ascholar and as a human being.

Yet it was not this Platonic phrase from Monraigne that allowedHadot to discover that ancient philosophical discourses did not aim toconstruct systems; he came to see this through what (on reflection andwithout worrying about adhering to current trends, which is never aconcern for him) he called "spiritual exercises." It was rather the realization of a Frenchman who by grade 9 had already been taught to write awell-formed essay with a clear discourse and without repetition or con

tradiction. Ancient philosophical discourse, by contrast, did not respondto criteria of order and clarity. The works of Aristotle and Augustine are

poorly written, and those of Plato contradict themselves. Although Hadotis obviously not the first to have pointed out these facts, he calls our attention to a particularly important consequence. In the present interviews,addressing himself to the nonspecialist more directly than in perhaps anyof his previous works, Hadot shows that the inconsistencies of ancientphilosophers are explained by the fact that they are addressed to a specificaudience or listener. Hadot aimed not to inform but rather to persuade,transform, or produce a "formative effect"-in short, to persuade the lis

tener that the ancient treatises are, almost without exception, protreptics,

and that at the same time these discourses, whether dialogues or not, arealso "experiences of thought" or exercises in "how to think," for the benefit

of the listener and sometimes with his or her collaboration. For the an

cients, philosophy was above all a way of life, and this is why they callednot only the Cynics, who had no theoretical discourse, philosophers, but

XlI Introduction

also anyone-including women, simple citizens, and political men-wholived as a philosopher, even without writing or teaching, These peoplewere called philosophers because the ancients considered philosophy tobe above all a way of life. They admired Socrates for his life and his deathmore than for his doctrine, which was not written and was immediately captured and modified by those who used his name. In the presentconversations, Hadot gives brief indications of this theme's resurgencebeyond the Christian Middle Ages. He also emphasizes the temptation,for all philosophers, to believe that to do philosophy is to construct animpeccable and absolutely new theoretical discourse. "The more or lessskillful construction of a conceptual edifice will become an end in itself"(Chapter 3), and "the philosopher always has a tendency to be contentwith his own discourse" (Chapter 8). This slope is especially steep in acountry in which the formal philosophical essay sows the first seeds ofmany honorable merits.

Hadot's interpretation of Plato's text on the exercise of death, reinforced by years of extensive work with the ancient texts from both thePlatonic and the Stoic traditions, departs entirely from the fascinationwith death, from the Christian memento mori as from all exegesis thatwould make death preferable to life. For Hadot, to exercise death is really to exercise life, that is, to overcome "the partial and biased self" [Iemoi partiel et partial], to elevate oneself to a "vision from above," to a"universal perspective." This triadic, but ultimately unified theme is-likea leitmotif-constantly taken up in the course of these interviews, forHadot sees possible applications in all the dimensions and situations ofeveryday life, for all human beings. To overcome the "partial and biasedself" is first to become aware of our belonging to the human community,and of the necessity to keep the good of this koinonia in view when weact. Hadot masterfully shows the importance of this theme both in thediscourse ofancient philosophy and in the practice of the ancient philosophers, from Socrates to Plotinus, as well as of all those who, without being"professional" philosophers, have been inspired by their precepts. Was itknown that the Scaevolas, adepts of Stoicism, showed themselves to behonest magistrates? Or that governor Mucius Scaevola paid for his tripsout of his own pocket rather than use his position to fill his pockets, andeven demanded that his subordinates share this integrity? Or that when

Introduction xru

Stoic emperor Marcus Aurelius, who was accountable for millions of sub

jects, learned of the deaths of child trapeze artists, he went to the troubleof commanding that these exercises should henceforth be protected bynets? Or that he asked himself about the legitimacy of the war in whichhe was involved as he defended the Roman borders against the Sarmatianssomewhere in the Balkans? These principles and examples are useful forapplication to contemporary contexts without having to be updated.

In line with the ancient philosophers, perhaps especially Aristotle,Hadot considers this rule-the overcoming of the "partial and biasedself,' and the "look from above" or the "universal perspective"-also toconstrain the scholar: "In order to study a text or microbes or the stars,one must undo oneself from one's subjectivity" (Chapter 4). Both in thepractice ofdemocracy and in scientific work, "one must undo oneself fromthe partiality of the individual and impassioned self in order to elevateoneself to the universality of the rational self" (Chapter 4). Hadot breaksa spear on the timely idea that all discourses are of equal value, that all interpretations are equally subjective, that is, incapable not only of attainingobjectivity but even of attempting to do so. Let there be no mistake, however: because the historian-in particular the historian of philosophy-isin question, it is clear that adopting a universal perspective can in no wayimply the aim to interpret texts as though they were outside time, place,or the society in which they were produced. Hadot explains the shift inhis course of development from an atemporal and atopical conception ofphilosophical discourse, which he considers to be.nefariously widespread,to one that takes its historical inscription into account with precision(Chapter 8).

For the ancients, this self-overcoming or universal perspective concerns not only the scholar and the politician but the entire human genre.The Greeks were the first to conceive of the unity of the human community, slaves included, and to proclaim themselves citizens of the world.When asked about the meaning of chis "universal perspective," and aboutits relation to Kant's "universal law" (Chapter 8), Hadot underlines theirresemblances: in Kant, "morality creates itself in the unexpected and, in asense, heroic leap that brings us from a limited perspective to a universalperspective" (Chapter 8), or "from a self that sees only its own interest to aselfopen to other humans and to the universe" (Chapter 8). This is indeed

XIV Introduction

the heritage ofSocrates, who said to the Athenians, "Who more than I hasforgotten his personal interest to take care ofyou?"

Three further, related themes are admirably expressed-much moreeffectively than I could do here in a few lines-in the small collection oftexts that closes the volume. Hadot initially encountered the first themein high school when writing an essay on a text by Henri Bergson thatdefined philosophy as "the decision taken once to look at the world naively

in and around oneself." He found this naive perception in the ancients,for example, in Seneca's text that he cites, as well as in painters and poets closer to our time. Another connected theme is related to the aware

ness of the importance of the instant constantly expressed by the Stoicsand the Epicureans (this is the actual meaning of the Epicurean Horace'scarpe diem), but also by certain modern authors, such as Montaigne andGoethe-the present alone is our happiness. This wealth of the instantis tied to what Hadot calls "the pure happiness of existing"-wonder,.but also, for the moderns, anxiety and even terror before the enigma ofexistence.

These themes are quite obviously intertwined. The "oceanic sentiment" is the fine point of what Hadot calls cosmic conscience: to experience the present instant-s-the only time and the only place we can graspin the immensity of the times and places to which we belong-means "tolive as though we were seeing the world both for the last and for the firsttime" (Chapter 10), as though looking at the world naively for the firsttime. And the consciousness of belonging to the world is also inclusionin the community of humans, with the ensuing duties. Will we say thatHadot has ceded in turn to the temptation to construct an impeccablesystem? In no way. Metaphysics and ontology are entirely absent from thepresent volume. Plato had previously attempted to prove rationally thatvirtue is more advantageous than vice, that it is in our interest to do good.This is not the case here. Nothing is proven. Happiness is not promised.In fact, nothing at all is promised. We are told only that today, as in theday of Socrates or Marcus Aurelius, a certain number of principles thatguided the everyday life of these philosophers can also produce for us alife that is "more conscious, more rational, more open to others and to theimmensity of the world" (Chapter 7).

Introduction xv

Thus this is a book written for everyone. Does this mean it holdsno interest for professional philosophers? I do not think so. A mix of coincidences and predictable consequences has given this book three voices,united by friendship. Arnold I. Davidson is professor of philosophy at theUniversity of Chicago; he is the person primarily responsible for introducing Pierre Hadot to the United States, and for arranging for his works to betranslated into English. For some time he had had the project of conducting interviews with Hadot. When Helene Monsacre, our editor-aware ofmy very old friendship with Hadot and his wife-approached him abouta series of interviews, the four of us decided that Davidson and I wouldshare the task. We were well aware that our questions, our interests, andour spheres ofcompetence were not the same. Davidson is really a philosopher and very attuned to all of the contemporary philosophical problems.For my part, I evoked themes that were only marginally philosophical,such as the critique of astrology, prayer, and Stoic determinism, as I doin my seminar at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales. Theresult is that, like ancient philosophical discourses, this book contains, ifnot contradictions, at least repetitions, themes approached from differentpoints of view-one could almost say, answers that address the listener,whether "profane" or "professional" philosopher. Its unity is closer to thatof a sonata than to that of an essay. Thus it is clear that the question hereis not about the construction of a system but about philosophy as a wayof life.

Jeannie Carlier

THE PRESENT ALONE IS OUR HAPPINESS

ll-

Tied to the Apron Strings

of the Church

Jeannie earlier: You were born in Paris to French parents, but yourcousins spoke German. May we assume that it is not an accident that you areasfond ofGoethe asyou are of'Montaigne?

My mother was the daughter of a man from Lorraine who had refused to opt for Germany at the time of the annex of Alsace-Lorrainein 1871. She had found work at Rheims as a cellar worker in a countryhouse. Every year during my childhood, around 1930, we would go onvacation to the Lorraine repossessed by France afterthe First World War.My cousins lived in villages or in small cities close to the German border,not far from Sarreguemines and Sarralbe. Many of them spoke not Frenchbut a German dialect. In the train stations, for example, all the instructions for the travelers were written in German. The parish priests, who didnot hide their hostility toward secular France, delivered their sermons inhigh German, which was also used by the children to say their prayers inChurch. Catholicism was very rigorist. My shorts were scandalous. Theboys of my age wore pants that fell below the knee, in order to hide their"pieces of flesh," as the Bliesbri.ickpriest would say. The parish priests, decently paid thanks to the concordat with the Vatican that was maintainedin Alsace-Lorraine by France after the war, were absolute masters in theirparish. For example, in the 1920S, the priest ofZetting had refused to give

2 Tied to theApron Strings ofthe Church

my cousin Communion, humiliating her in front of the other parishionersbecause, as was the fashion after the war, she had cut her hair.

So I encountered the problem of the complex relations betweenFrance and Germany very early, during my childhood, through the experience of Lorraine vacations, but also by way of the stories of my grandfather and my parents, who had had to leave Rheims on foot in 1914 andhad finally found refuge in Paris, where I was born in 1922. They returnedto Rheims a month after my birth, to a city almost entirely destroyed bythe bombings. It took twenty years to repair the cathedral, inaugurated in1939-on the eve of the Second World War. I have always loved the goodcity of Rheims, famous for its cathedral and its champagne, where I lived

from 1922 to 1945.To get back to Lorraine, I have always been annoyed by the igno

rance of the French de l'interieur ["mainland"] (as those from Lorrainesay) about the part of France in which German was spoken. At the beginning of the war, in 1939, Lorraine had been completely evacuated. Oneof my cousins from Lorraine, who was able to return to his village underexceptional conditions, found his house ransacked; stupidly, the pigs hadeven been locked in the closets. The French, seeing German inscriptions,thought they were in Germany.

Speaking more generally, the ignorance that many French have ofGerman realities irritates me. I think, for example, of a rather dramaticevent that took place around 1970. A young German professor had beeninvited to give a paper in Paris. On this occasion, he met a professor, aFrench and Jewish historian, whose parents had died in the Holocaust.He refused to shake his German colleague's hand. He later told me this,and that he had suffered from it terribly because his own father, a communist, had died in a concentration- camp. Why would one have the systematic and blind attitude of this French historian, ignorant ofor ignoringthe fact that others in the opposing camp might have suffered' as well?But I think that everything worth saying on this subject has been saidin Alfred Grosser's admirable book Le Crime et La memoire [Crime andmemory], which addressed in certain intellectuals a "display of the willnot to know."

Tied to the Apron Strings ofthe Church 3

]. C.: Your mother was a practicing Catholic?

My mother was very pious; she went to Mass every morning. Shewas a very complex person: she was very happy, sang a great deal, andsometimes amused herself by making appalling grimaces. Despite beingvery sociable (as opposed to my father, who never wanted to see anyone),she was hostile to young people and to exaggerated" mortifications, butshe was of an almost fanatical faith. In my childhood I felt that there wasconflict between my parents. My mother made me pray for the conversionof my father, who no longer went to Mass and who sometimes made bizarre allusions to my mother's confessor, the father of Bretizel, Since then,

I have come to understand that after my birth, my mother, who had beenvery ill, could not have children. As a result, her confessor had forbidden

her to have conjugal relations, according to the doctrine of the Church:no union if it does not aim at procreation. My father and my mother sleptin separate rooms. Eventually, my father went back to Sunday Mass, butalways alone, at six or seven in the morning. Every year he also took hiseight days ofvacation, always alone, which, incidentally, was a privilege ofthe employees of country houses; it took until 1936 for the employees andthe workers to be allowed paid vacations. He spent these vacations eitherin Alsace or in the Sarre.

J C.: What memories do you have ofthis somewhat removedfather?

lowe him a great deal because of everything he taught me about themost diverse subjects. He was self-taught. He ..was from a village in the areaof Vertus in the Marne. His family was very poor and he had begun towork at the age of eleven or twelve, at Chdlons-sur-Marne (as they said atthe time). This did not stop him from learning German and English, stenography and accounting. It was also the period of Esperanto, the attempt

at a universal language. He had correspondents in Esperanto in various

European cities. He owned a good library of German books and had donea study of the physical education associations (Turnvereine) in Germany.

He drew and painted well; I kept one ofhis self-portraits. An accident lefthim blind toward the age of fifty. He endured this suffering with exemplary patience for twenty years, until his death. I learned braille from him.We were very complicit: I often read to him, took walks with him.


].c.: Yourfather had thus somewhatmovedawayfrom religion, but youreceived a very religious education nonetheless?

Yes, I would say, to invoke the title ofa novel by Denise Bombardier,

that 1 had a "holy water childhood." I went to the grade school of theFreres des Ecoles chretiennes, on rue de Contrai at Rheims. These religious men were very devout and gave us what seemed to be a very goodeducation. They also went to the effort of organizing our games at recess.But we were quite scared by what they told us in the moral education thattook place every morning. There was, for example, the question of the ap

pearance of the devil in the seances at the Masonic lodges, and of the nun

who appeared to another in a dream in order to reveal to her that she wassuffering eternal torments because, despite her exemplary Christian life,she had hidden a mortal sin in confession.

My mother had had three sons (I was the last, ten and fifteen yearsyounger than my older brothers) and decided that her three sons would bepriests. She had decided this with such passion that when one of my brothers, the one who she perhaps loved the most, asked her what she wouldsay if he left the priesthood, she replied, "I would rather see you dead,'thereby repeating a phrase attributed in sermons to Blanche of Castile,who is alleged to have said it to her son, Saint Louis, about "mortal sin."

In any case, I never imagined that I could do anything in life other than

what my two brothers did, and thus I naturally found myself at the PetitSeminaire de Rheims at the age of ten.

I boarded there for two years, and then I lived at home because ofmy delicate health. The priests who taught at the Petit Seminaire werevery devoted and qualified, especially those who were in the upper classes,grades II and 12. They were really humanists who instilled in me the loveof antiquity. But some of the teachers of the "grammar" classes [roughlygrades 7 to 9] were not as qualified, and sometimes were of inferior moral

character. One of them, a uniformly detested eighth-grade teacher by thename of Beuge, was even downright sadistic. Naively, I had taken him asa confessor. When I would confess in his room, sometimes he would leave

me kneeling until I was so uncomfortable that I had to ask him to let mesit down. In his eighth-grade class it was not rare to see an unfortunatestudent sitting on the ground, holding a dictionary up in front of him ina position knowingly chosen to hurt the most. This type of attitude was

Tied to theApron Strings ofthe Church 5

not, for that matter, foreign to the way the school was run in general.Besides the public spanking I witnessed in seventh grade, administered bythe superior to a child who had misbehaved in the dormitory, on Mondaynights-Monday being the day that grades were given for conduct andwork from the previous week-one could see the elevated platform ofthe refectory, where the professors had their meal, decorated by punishedchildren on their knees facing the other students or standing in a corner,deprived of their meal.

J C.: Were you apious childyourself?

Yes, I had a faith that was completely naive but, I must say, withoutenthusiasm. For example, the day ofmy first Communion my grandfathersaid, "This is the happiest day ofyour life," and I wasn't happy at all thathe had told me that, because I did not feel anything special. When, at theage of twelve, I went to Rome on a pilgrimage with my two brothers andthe pope appeared on the sedia gestatoria [portable throne], my brotherHenri began to scream, "Long live the pope!" and I was completely surprised by this enthusiasm. I thought that it was interesting but that he didnot need to put himself into such a state.

Things changed at the time of my adolescence. Indeed, for a longtime I have had the impression of having been in the world only from thetime of my adolescence. I will always regret having thrown away-out ofChristian humility-s-the first notes written that were like the echo of mypersonality, for it is very difficult for me now to rediscover the psychological content of the overwhelming discoveries I made then. I do remembertheir framework. One happened on rue Ruinart, on the path I took hometo my parents' house every day from the Petit Serninaire, Night had fallen.The stars were shining in the immense sky. At this time one could stillsee them. Another took place in a room of our house. In both cases I wasfilled with an anxiety that was both terrifying and delicious, provoked bythe sentiment of the presence of the world, or of the Whole, and of mein that world. In fact, I was incapable of formulating my experience, butafter the fact I felt that it might correspond to questions such as What amI? Why am I here? What is this worldI am.ini i experienced a sentiment ofstrangeness, of astonishment, and of wonder at being there. At the sametime I had the sentiment of being immersed in the world, of being a part


of it, the world extending from the smallest blade ofgrass to the stars. Thisworld was present to me, intensely present. Much later I would discoverthat this awareness of belonging to the Whole was what Romain Rollandcalled the "oceanic sentiment." I believe that I have been a philosophersince that time, ifby philosophy one means this awareness ofexistence, ofbeing-in-the-world. At that time I did not know how to formulate what Ifelt, but I experienced the need to write, and I remember very clearly thatthe first text I wrote was a sort of monologue in which Adam discovershis body and the world around him. From this moment on I have had thesentiment of being apart from others, for it did not seem possible that myfriends or even my parents could imagine things of the kind. It was onlymuch later that I realized that many people have analogous experiences,

_ but do not speak of them.I began to perceive the world in a new way. The sky, the clouds, the

stars, the "evenings of the world," as I would say to myself, fascinated me.With my back on the window ledge, I looked toward the sky at night withthe impression of being plunged into the starry immensity. This experience dominated my entire life. I experienced it many times again-severaltimes, for example, in front of Lac Majeur at Ascona: or at the sight ofthe chain of the Alps from the bank of Lake Geneva at Lausanne or fromSalvan, in Valais. This experience has been the discovery for me of something overwhelming and fascinating that was absolutely not connectedto Christian faith. Thus it played an important role in my inner development. Moreover, it considerably influenced: my conception of philosophy.I have always conceived of philosophy as a transformation of one's perception of the world.

Since then, I have been strongly impressed by the radical oppositionbetween everyday life-which is 'lived in semiconsciousness and in whichwe are guided~ by autornatisms and habits without being aware ofour exisrenee in the world-and of the privileged states in which we live intenselyand are aware of our being in the world. Bergson as well as Heideggerclearly distinguished these two levels of the self: the self that remains atthe level of what Heidegger calls the "they," and the one that rises to thelevel ofwhat he calls the "authentic." I did not dare tell anyone what I hadexperienced: I felt for the first time that there are things that cannot besaid. I also remembered that when the priests spoke about God or about


death, crushing or terrifying realities, they recited ready-made phrasesthat appeared conventional and contrived to me. What was most essentialfor us could not be expressed.

J C.: What is the relationship between the experience that would become the leitmotif ofyour philosophy-what you often also call "the purejoy ofexisting" and the certainty that what is most important cannot be said,which you hadalready had as an adolescent-and the religious education youreceivedat the Seminaire and at home?

It was an experience that was entirely foreign to Christianity. Thisseemed much more essential, much more fundamental than the experience I could have in Christianity, in the liturgy, in the religious offices. Christianity seemed to be tied rather to everyday banality. The twoworlds, the one of secret experience and the one ofsocial convention, wereultimately juxtaposed for me because at this age Christianity did not poseany problems. Things were like that, and that is all there was to it. LaterI encountered someone for whom this situation posed a problem. It wasReiner Schiirmann [the author of Principe d'anarchie [Principle of anarchy], Le Seuil, 1982], who attended my courses for at least a year at the EcolePratique des Hautes Etudes in the 1970s, when he was a Dominican noviceat Saulchoir.' He was highly influenced by Heidegger, and his Christianfaith was juxtaposed without harmony onto his experience of "authentic"existence, of the openness to Being. He shared with me personal notes inwhich he expressed his helplessness, and I remained rather perplexed, notknowing how to help him. I tried to put myself into his Christian perspective and to persuade him of the possibility of accepting this coexistence inhimself but I believe he ultimately renounced the Christian faith.

Moreover, while still at the Petit Seminaire, thanks to my excellentprofessors, I also discovered Greek and Latin antiquity, Greek tragedy,Virgil, and his Aeneid. In the tenth grade we studied the episode of Didoand Aeneas. Although everything that had to do with love was hiddenfrom us, here there were very moving verses about this theme. Again I hadthe confused impression-I did not clearly realize it-that there was anexperience here that was also entirely foreign to Christianity,

8 Tied to the Apron Strings ofthe Church

J c.: What you follow Romain Rolland in calling "oceanic sentiment, "

one might be inclined to call "cosmic sentiment," because it is more general.

Has it not, moreover, happened to everyone~ undoubtedly with less intensity?

But one does nothing about it, as though it is just something that falls on us

in this manner. Furthermore, you say that this "sentiment" is entirely foreign

to Christianity. In fact, with the exception ofthe Old Testament (the heavens

and the Earth tell the glory of'death), in all the Christian texts you cite-most

notably the Christian spiritual exercises-this sentiment does not appear a

great deal, whereas in antiquity, the sentiment ofwonder before nature is re

peated with an extraordinary lyricism, not only amongpoets such as Lucretius,

but even among the driest ofphilosophers, such as Epictetus. Is this not ulti

mately a deep rupture?

I would defend the expression "oceanic sentiment" used by Romain

Rolland, and on this basis I would distinguish this experience from theexperience of wonder in the face of nature, which I have also experienced.In speaking of the oceanic sentiment, Romain Rolland wanted to expressa very particular nuance, the impression of being a wave in a limitlessocean, of being part of a mysterious and infinite reality. Michel Hulin, in

his admirable book La Mystique sauvage [Savage mysticism] (and for him,

"savage mysticism" is nothing other than the oceanic sentiment), charac

terizes this experience as "the sentiment of being present here and now in a

work that is itself intensely existing," and also speaks of a "sentiment of an

essential co-belonging between myself and the ambient universe.'? What

is capital is the impression of immersion, of dilation of the self in Anotherto which the self is not foreign, because it belongs to it.

The sentiment of nature exists in the gospel. Jesus speaks of thesplendor of the lilies of the field. But I said that the oceanic sentimentas I experienced it, which is different from the sentiment of nature-is

foreign to Christianity because it does not involve either God or Christ.

It is something situated at the level of the pure sentiment of existing. I am

not certain that it was familiar to the Greeks. You are right to say that theyhad the sentiment of nature, and they had it to the highest degree, but

they speak very rarely of immersion in the Whole. It is true that there is

this phrase by Seneca-toti se inserens mundo, "plunging into the totalityof the world"-with regard to the perfect soul." But in fact one cannot besure that it corresponds to the experience we are talking about. Perhaps


there is also an allusion to this experience when Lucretius speaks of thechill and of the divine will that seized him when thinking about infinitespaces." The absence of literary testimony does not signify the absence ofthe experience, but we are reduced to ignoring it.

This experience is, in any case, by no means exceptional. The mostdiverse of writers allude to it, for example, Julien Green in his journal,Arthur Koestler in Darkness at Noon, Michel Polac in his journal,Jacqueline de Romilly in Sur les cheminsde Sainte-Victoire [On the pathsof Sainte-Victoire], Dostoevsky in The Brothers Karamazov, and perhapsRousseau in The Reveries ofa Solitary Walker (the fifth reverie), to mentiononly a few names from a very long list. It is found in other cultures-suchas Hindu (in Ramakrishna, for example)! or Chinese: one can see it incertain aspects of Chinese thought and painting.

j. C.: At the ageoffifteen, you enteredthe Grand Seminaire. What wereyour impressions at the time? What wasa Grand Seminaire like at the end ofthe I930s?

After the first part of my high school diploma, which included aFrench essay, I entered the Rheims Grand Seminaire in 1937. I was veryhappy there. We each had a room of our own, a luxury that had notbeen allowed before then. Once night had fallen, the electricity was cut.Often, before falling asleep, I looked at the immensity of the starry sky.Intellectually speaking, the setting we worked in was agreeable. Therewas meditation every morning, and we attended two Masses. The rest ofthe day was divided between courses and reading and studying works ofspirituality. The philosophy class lasted two years. Thomist philosophywas studied, but so was Bergson, who, after having been condemned bythe Church for writing L'euolution creatrice [Creative Evolution], had allbut become a Church Father since writing Les Deux Sources de la Moraleet de la Religion [The Two Sources ofMorality and Religion]. Bergson hashad a considerable influence on the development of my thought insofar ashis philosophy centers on the experience of a bursting forth of existence,of life, that we experience in ourselves in the exercise of willpower andin duration, and when we see ourselves at work in the elan [motivatingforce] that produces living evolution. I passed my high school examination in philosophy in 1939, and the subject of the essay was this sentence by

10 Tied to the Apron Strings o/the Church

Bergson: "Philosophy is not the construction of a system, but the resolution made once to look naively at the world in and around onesel£" I haveoften, too often perhaps, told about the enthusiasm I felt while treatingthis subject. But this also testifies to the fact that it was a considerableevent for me, and it shows that in 1939 philosophy professors also questioned themselves about the problem of the essence of philosophy.

J c.: The war would break out the sameyear. How didyou experienceit?

After the period that was called the Phony War, there was the offensive of May 1940. All the inhabitants of Rheims had to be evacuated. TheGrand Seminaire sought refuge in Lucon, in Vendee. This gave me theopportunity to discover the incredibly reactionary mentality of the clergyfrom Vendee. During Sunday Mass at the Lucon Cathedral, prayer forthe Republic (in Latin at the time, Domine saluamfac rempublicam [Godsave the Republic]) was not said. I played the organ during the proceedings, and when the time came, I played the first notes and my co-disciplesmade a scandal by breaking into this, one might say, revolutionary prayer.I also think of a comment by a professor from the Lucon seminary whenhe announced the armistice ofJune 1940 and the formation of the Petaingovernment: "At last we have a Catholic minister of national education!"Millions of French were thrown into the street, hundreds of thousands ofsoldiers were taken prisoner, France was defeated, humiliated, and that isall they could come up with to tell us!

Shortly thereafter, I joined my parents, who had taken refuge nearLa Rochelle. We stayed in the village of Croix-Chapeau until October,during the course of which we were able to go back to Rheims. Then Iwent back to the Grand Serninaire.

J c.: Didyou stay there throughout the Occupation?

No, only between 1940 and 1942. In our ivory tower, life continuedas it did before. The only problem was nourishment, but the priests giventhis task proved themselves very skilled at transporting meat and potatoesinto hiding, and the farmers were very generous. One day a German pilotwho was doing acrobatics above the high school nearby in order to impress

Tied to the Apron Strings ofthe Church I I

his mistress crashed into the steeple of the Grand Seminaire-s-but fortunately not into the adjacent refectory, where we were eating! The Germansrushed in and took over the seminary. We barely had time to hide thesheep and calves in a classroom, where they did their business copiously.

Protected.in this way from famine, we could read the works of mystic writers. I was especially interested in the monumental His toire litteraire

du sentiment religieux [A literary history of religious thought] by AbbeBremond. But there was also Jean de la Croix [John of the Cross] andhis admirable poems, and Teresa of Avila, and Therese of Lisieux. ThenI fervently experienced the desire for mystical union. The idea of a directcontact with God fascinated me. Ever since, I have asked myself the following question: "Given that God is absolute, how can there be contact'and especially identification between what is relative and what is absolute?" In the books of mysticism that we read, the director of conscienceplayed a considerable role: he was the guide on the path of purgatory, oron the path of illumination, or on the path of unity-three steps, incidentally, inherited from Neoplatonism. I was thus very disappointed todiscover that my director of conscience did not seem to be very interestedin this. I even changed my director of conscience, thinking that the newone would be somewhat more inclined to address these questions, but theywere all very reserved.

J c.: Did you have the impression that the Churchs reserve toward

mysticism was rather typical? Although there had been such great Christianmystics, mysticism was considered with suspicion. Was it not discouraged, just

as today, when a miracle appears, the Church becomes involved as little as

possible?

I believe that there is a historical problem here. It seems to me that inthe sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, at the time ofJean de la Croix, orlater, of Fenelon, a great deal of attention was given to mystical phenomena and to the classical paths inherited from Neoplatonism: the purgative,illuminative, and unitary paths. The mentality has changed, but I do notknow the reasons for this. Whatever the case may be, we were not atall encouraged to attain mystical experience, because ultimately it wasthought to be a matter of exceptional phenomena. What mattered was to


do one's duty. In any case, given that Christian mystical experience was

a divine gift, one that cannot be attained by human forces alone, it wasthought that God himself would take care of giving it according to hisgood graces.

Whatever the case may be, I never had a mystical experience in theChristian sense, which is not surprising, but I had a very sentimental piety. During Holy Week, I participated in Christ's suffering so intenselythat when he arrived at church on Holy Saturday or Easter Sunday, Ihad the impression of a real deliverance. During the night between HolyThursday and Good Friday we took turns praying all night, and I tried toparticipate in Christ's agony. I had in fact read in Pascal that Christ would

be in agony until the end of the world and that one should not sleep during this time.

J C.: What haveyou retainedfrom your theologicalformation?

All of the studies in theology that I had begun at the time includeda part devoted to biblical exegesis. Our professor of exegesis personifiedprudence, but we were nevertheless able to get a glimpse-notably in theexegesis of the New Testament, but of the Old Testament as well-that

there was an important human element in this inspired text. At this point

I read Jean Guitton's admirable book Portrait de Monsieur Pouget, whichis devoted to the life and ideas of a blind Vincentian priest who seems in

deed to have been an extraordinary character. His superiors had forbidden

him to give his exegesis course because he used a historical and criticallet us say, scientificv--merhod to study the books of the Bible. He said thatin these studies one must take into account the collective mentalities that

had influenced the authors of the sacred books. This was the first stageof my education in the interpretation of texts, to which I have devoted aconsiderable part of my life.

The superior ofthe Grand Seminaire had decided that for the 1941-42

year I would have to interrupt my theological studies because of my youngage (there was a chance that I would be ordained at the age oftwenty-one),

and that I would be a supervisor at the Petit Serninaire, At the same time, I

was to begin my philosophy degree (incidentally, without being able to goto Paris to follow classes). In June and July of 1942, while supervising thestudy of the older boys [les grands] during the day and the younger boys


[Ies petits] during the evening, I passed the Certificat d 'Etudes litterairesclassiques [certificate of classical literary studies] (which required me toread all ofBalzac's novels, the Arthurian novels, and the works ofChenier)and the Certificate d'Histoire de la philosophie [certificate of history ofphilosophy]. (The essay was on the cogito in Descartes and in Kant, andthe Latin version with commentary of a text by Seneca). I came back tothe Grand Serninaire in October 1942, where I spent the 1942-43 schoolyear. But that year Service du Travail Obligatoire (STO) [compulsorywork service] was decreed, and after a medical examination I was put intothis service in Germany. I was supposed to leave in July 1943. Now, therewere many of us in this situation and the superior had to give us, catastrophically and in a single sitting, the courses of initiation to the realitiesofsexual life (we called them the diaconals) so that we would not seem toofoolish. This entire world that had been totally unknown revealed itself tome that evening, and l must say that I was totally floored.

One ofmy older brothers, who was a professor at the Grand Seminaireof Versailles, knew of channels one could take to do the STO in France.It was intended for the students of the major schools (the Centrale and soon). Officially it was for metal specialists, who were exempted from goingto Germany because they were indispensable to French industry. I cameto Paris to undertake the administrative procedures of which I no longerremember the details but that resulted in my assignment to the SNCF[the Societe Nationale des Chemins de fer Francais, or French NationalRailway Company]. Thus I found myself in the locomotive repair factoryof Vitry-sur-Seine, not far from the Rhone-Poulenc factory, which stunkand continues to make the whole city smell of-the strong odor of chlorine.Because while being welcomed I had made a naive remark that had madeall my pseudo metal specialist companions laugh, the director of the factory put me in the most difficult workshop, in which locomotives aretaken apart. We worked under the machines in order to take the different very heavy pieces apart while being splashed with mud. I did what Icould, but I dragged down the team, for which my blunders made outputlevels plunge. The workers did not hold it against me. At the same time,I was made to take the metalworkers apprenticeship certification, whichwas granted to me even though I had to adjust my pieces with a hammer,having sawed everything crooked.


J c.: You are not thefirst philosopher to have worked with his hands:Cleanthes wasaporter, I believe. But a metalworker-what a symbol!

This allowed me to learn at least one important thing. Until then, inmy literary, philosophical, or theological essays, I had adjusted not metalbut ideas. In this case, one can always manage, in one way or another.Concepts are easily malleable. But with matter, things became more serious. No more give, no more approximating, no more or less artificialarrangements. This does not mean that no rigor is possible in the worksof the spirit, but it is very rare, and it is very easy to delude both oneselfand others.

J C.:Soyou were in Paris, far from Rheimsandfar from the ecclesiasticalmilieu?

Dead tired every evening, I got up every day at about five o'clockin the morning to go to six o'clock Mass at the Peres du Saint-Esprit, onrue Lhomond. Afterward, I took the train to Vitry, On Sunday I got upearly to spend my day at the Grand Seminaire of Versailles, where Plybrother was. I tried to remain tied to the Church's apron strings as muchas possible.

In September I was moved to another factory. Now I worked at theMassena station, repairing wagon bellows. It was less difficult. In Octoberthere was another change. As a result of the actions of the Resistance,trains were often derailed. To raise them back up there was a very powerful crane-the so-called most powerful crane in Europe-that was alsostationed, I believe, at Massena. Obviously it might have been a targetof destruction for those in the Resistance. The Germans thus requiredthat it be guarded day and night. This guard remained close to it, inorder to be blown up with it, in the event that it was destroyed. In sum,I became a hostage. When it left-accompanied by workers-to pull upa locomotive, we had to go with it, and even, in principle, to stay insideit. Only once a foreman obliged me to stay inside during the transport,even during the night, in the roar and the vibrations of this machine. Butall the other trips were quite pleasant, all things considered. During thetrip, which lasted several days, we slept in the freight car, we cooked-


French fries, for example, which were an extremely rare dish in this timeof restriction.

This hostage situation had its advantages. Often I could read, because of the inattentiveness of the guards. I remember discovering Plato'sPhaedo for the first time in this way. When I was on night duty, duringthe day I could go to the Parisian libraries, such as the one at the GuimetMuseum. I was interested in Hindu mysticism at the time.

Toward the end of the year it became clear that ultimately everyonewould have to go to Germany. The exceptions were no longer accepted.Once again, the Grand Serninaire of Versailles intervened. I no longerremember the details, but I was summoned by a work inspector who,as I discovered afterward, belonged to the Resistance. He sent me for amedical visit. The doctor discovered a heart murmur, which was quitereal. This was the beginning of cardiac problems that have followed methroughout my life. As a result, I was "posted at the Grand Seminaire," astatement that figured on my work card.

I believe that the experience I had' just lived, and that had been livedby a certain number of seminarians, was one of the causes that provokedthe development of the priest-worker movement at the time. They hadcome to the realization that there was an all but insuperable gulf betweenthe workers' world and the ecclesiastical world, the latter being too tied tothe prejudices and values of the bourgeoisie.

J C.: Your lastyear ofseminary school tookplace in Versailles in I944?

Yes,and this issued in my ordination as apriest at Rheims, in a seminary entirely occupied by American soldiers. I was twenty-two at the time,and normally I should have obtained an age dispensation from Rome, butit was impossible to communicate with Rome. If I was ordained quickly,it was because a philosophy professor was needed at the Grand Seminaireof Rheims for the 1944-45 school year.

J C.: YOu enteredthepriesthood without hesitation and without qualms?

This event should be situated in the framework ofmy childhood andyouth. As I have said, my mother wanted her three sons to be pastors. Idid not imagine that I could do anything else. There was pressure, not at


all on the part of my father but on the part of my mother. When I was atGrand Serninaire, I felt certain that I would not be made a parish priestprofessor at the most. I was too intellectual to take care of the patronageof children, to do catechism, and so on. I told myself that the best wouldbe to be a monk, perhaps a Dominican. I also thought of the Carmelites,because of Jean de la Croix. I did not consider the Jesuits because wewere swayed by Pascal's dark depiction of them in his Lettres prouinciales[Provincial letters]: "There is nothing like Jesuits!" But when I spoke tomy mother about it, she exclaimed, "That is impossible, it would be thedeath of your father" (my father was blind and very attached to me). Infact, she absolutely wanted to have us at her disposal. She could not allowme to be closed up in a convent, no longer able to visit her.

My future was thus programmed from a very young age. I did notimagine anything else. One could say that everything that was not ecclesiastical was completely foreign to me, and my six months of military service did not allow me to see the allure of the outside world. But it remainsthat I was extremely reticent to take the Oath Against Modernism. I hadnot been warned of this formality and I was made to read a text almostevery line ofwhich repelled me. I believe that this oath is no longer in use.It had been introduced in a directive by Pius X dated September I, 1910.

I was to declare, among other things, that I believed that the doctrine offaith transmitted by the apostles and the Fathers had remained absolutelyimmutable since its origins and that the idea of the evolution of dogmawas heretical. I also had to declare that a purely scientific exegesis of theHoly Scriptures and the writings of the Fathers was inadmissible and thatfreedom of judgment in this situation was forbidden. I remember that Iwas terribly perplexed in this unexpected situation, but I finally told myself: "Let us see how things turn aut"-an attitude that I can now, withthe perspective of age, say is, like pity, disastrous and engenders manytragedies. Ultimately, aside from this doubt at the moment of the OathAgainst Modernism, I had no hesitation; I simply had no idea what mycommitment entailed. I did not make the decision in light of knowledgeofwhat was involved. I only discovered the realities of life little by little.

J C.: So hereyou are, in the autumn ofI944, a freshly ordainedpriest,assigned to teach philosophy before having completed your degree. Under


what conditions did you lead this double life, that ofa teacher and that ofa

student?

I spent the 1944-45 school year teaching philosophy, not only in theGrand Seminaire but also in a young girls' boarding school (I was barelyolder than some of them) kept by nuns. In the back of the class, a sisterwatched over the orthodoxy and decency of my remarks.

The archbishop ofRheims sent me to complete my degree in Paris atthe end of this year of teaching. I was to follow courses at both the InstitutCatholique and the Sorbonne. This is how I arrived in Paris in October1945. I lived on rue Cassette, in a house that received the priests studyingat the Institut Catholique, and where one can still see the door where theSeptember massacres took place during the Revolution.

At the Institut Carholique I followed courses, notably by FatherLallemand, an ultra-Thomist; by Verneaux, a scholar of Kant; and bySimeterre, a plato specialist. At the Sorbonne, Poirier taught modern logic(we were introduced· to formal logic, that is, ultimately Scholastics, at theInstitur Catholique)." It was written in the stars that I would never acquirea mastery of modern logic. Poirier spoke about everything but logic, andwhen he did deign to speak of it, it was without pedagogy. This did notstop me from getting my logic certificate in February 1946, during a special session reserved for residents and those who refused to work for theSTO during the war. Now I had received, without requesting it, a document concerning my visit to the work inspector of Versailles at the end of1943. It attested that I was entitled to the status of rifractere au Service duTravail (a French civilian who worked in Germany during the war). Thisdocument was certified by the Association de Resistance "Les Negriers,'

14 rue Vergniaud, Paris. This was obviously completely false. In my lifeI used this fake, which I did not request, for no other purpose than topass this exam quickly and easily. Easily because Poirier-whom some,I do not know why, accused of collaboration (by circulating tracts in hisclasses)-had decided that on the program for the semester there wouldbe only formal logic. I was thus punished for this weakness by a seriousflaw in my formation. I have since attempted to rectify this lacuna, but inall very poorly.

There was also Albert Bayer, who gave ethics courses.' He spokewith a bit of a cocky tone, fervently believed in progress, and predicted


that we would see men go to the moon. Rene Le Senne gave admirablecourses, written as formal essays, with an introduction, a development,and a conclusion. I also learned a great deal from his Traite de morale

generale [Treatise 01) general morals]." Georges Davy taught us sociology,"and Raymond Bayer, aesthetics, with projections of works of art." As aresult of a scheduling conflict, I unfortunately was not able to follow JeanWahl's course on Heidegger."

1945-46 was a year of dense intellectual activity, in the effervescenceof the end of the war and of existentialism. Aside from two educarions-sfrom the Institut Carholique and from the Sorbonne-and from com

pleting the two corresponding certificates, I also attended many lectures,by Henri-Irenee Marrou, Berdyaev, and Albert Camus, among others.'?

Every Friday, I went to the circle led by Gabriel Marcel. I had read severalof his books at the Grand Serninaire, and even his dramatic play, TheBroken World, and I had learned a great deal. I was admitted, by way ofan intermediary I no longer recall, to the discussions he held late in theafternoon every Friday. I attended them for a year, but his personality seenclose-up, as well as the people around him, displeased me by its artificialverbiage.

J C.: So your first contact with existentialism was through Christianexistentialism?

I tried to reconcile Thomism and existentialism. I thought I wasfollowing Jacques Maritain. In his Sept leconssur I'etre [Seven lectures onbeing], he said that in order to have the sense of being, which is the objectof metaphysics, speculation was insufficient. One must "feel things vividlyand deeply." I especially intended to follow the example ofEtienne Gilson,who proposed a version of the doctrine of Thomas Aquinas that wasstrongly tainted by the philosophy of the moment. Real existentialism, in

his eyes, was found in the Thomistic distinction between essence and existence. He also gave a sustained homage to Merleau-Ponty: «For the firsttime in a long time, philosophy decides to speak of serious things." On

this point he also evoked an experience of the whole being in which "thebody is vitally interested." For him, philosophy consisted in knowing, andnot in constructing and producing a system. I do not regret, incidentally,having begun with Thomism. It was at least a philosophy that attempted


to speak "formally," and I have always been disappointed by the vagueness

of the concepts of modern philosophy.Then I met Father Paul Henry, Jesuit and editor ofworks ofPlot inus,

who would playa very important role in my choice of thesis topic for theInstitut Catholique and for the Sorbonne, but especially in the generalorientation of my methods of study and perhaps even in my spiritualevolution."

This stage in my development also involved a nun who was alsopreparing her certificate at the Institut Catholique and whom I wouldsee regularly. I felt a love for her that was as Platonic as it was passionate.

Father Louis, having noticed this, asked us not to see each other any longer. But in fact we continued to correspond and we remained friends.

J c.: Paul Henry suggesteda thesis topicthat did not really correspond toyour wishes and which, assuredly, was not designed to guarantee large print

ings and a career sustained by the interest ofa vast audience.

In effect. I hesitated between a thesis on Rilke and Heidegger,under the direction of Jean Wahl, and a thesis on Marius Victorinus, aNeoplatonic Christian writer from the fourth century of our era who is

far from having given up all his secrets, which would have been officiallyunder the direction of Raymond Bayer but in fact under the direction ofPaul Henry. I ultimately opted for Victorinus.

Since my youth I had experienced a great attraction to mysticism inall its forms, which, it seemed to me, would open me to the inexpressibleexperience of God. Saint Jean de la Croix but also Plotinus were amongmy favorite authors. As a result, I thought I could unify my universitywork and my interest in mysticism. When I went to see Father Henry, Iwas expecting him to propose a thesis on Plotinus. To my great surprise,he recommended that I study an obscure Latin author, Marins Vicrorinus.

He thought that in the Latin I would be able to make sense of this author,taken to be almost incomprehensible on the basis of the pieces translatedby Plotinus, Thus I worked on this author for more than twenty years,

until the publication of my doctoral thesis. In it I found neither mysticismnor Plotinus, but, it seemed to me, traces of his disciple Porphyry.

The archbishop of Rheims had granted me a supplementary year(1946-47) to begin this work, but at the beginning of the academic year


there was an emergency and he called me back. The priest and professorof philosophy at Saint-Remy College in Charleville had left with a younggirl. Thus I found myself in the cold Ardennes, teaching in a boys' schooland in a boarding school for young women. The library of the city ownedthe old nineteenth-century translations of Proclus and of Damascius, potentially very useful for my thesis research. I still remember reading thesetwo Neoplatonic writers during lunch break, at the summit of MountOlympus, beside the Meuse.

The following year (1947-48) I felt it was necessary to go to Paristo work on my thesis seriously. Thus I traveled back and forth betweenParis and Charleville every week. During my Parisian sojourns, I stayedat Antony, where I gave classes in a girls' boarding school to pay for mytravels and lodging. But I did not hold to this regimen and had to stop allteaching as a result of extreme fatigue. After resting in the Vosges and inSwitzerland, I was received that year and the next at Saint-Germain-enLaye by the sisters responsible for the nursing services in that city.

It was in 1949-50 that I began to follow Henri-Charles Puech'scourses in the fifth section," and Pierre Courcelle's course in the fourthsection of the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes." It was also in 1949 thatRaymond Bayer had me admitted to the Centre National de la RechercheScientifique (CNRS) [National Center for Scientific Research], to workon both a doctoral dissertation, still on Victorinus, and the catalog ofphilosophical vocabulary of the Middle Ages that he directed. The sameyear, my thesis at the Institut Catholique was accepted. It was a study ofthe notion ofGod causa sui in Marius Victorinus. My thesis director was avery mysterious character, the priest Cadiou." Paul Henry and, I believe,Dominique Dubarle were on the committee. I gave a doctoral lecture onan eminently Thomistic subject, but treated it in an existentialist spirit, asthe real distinction between essence and existence. Henri-Charles Puechand Pierre Courcelle attended this defense. The same study relating toVictorinus served as my Diplome d'etudes superieurs [post-master's, predoctoral degree of advanced studies], presented at the Sorbonne underthe direction of Raymond Bayer. Puech encouraged me to apply for adegree at the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, still on Victorinus. Therequired text was submitted to Alexandre Koyre, This time I presenteda translation of the Christian works of Victorinus. I devoted myself to it


from 1950-60. The work was published in 1960 in the collection Sources

Cbretiennes [Christian sources].

J C.: The year I949-50 thus marked a turning point: a thesis for theInstitut Catholique, a degree ofEtudes Superieurs, and especially entering

the CNRS. YOu left secondary teaching definitively, and, with a salary, youbecame less dependent on the Church. What have your relations with the

ecclesiasticalworld been since I949?

In 1949 I obtained authorization from the parish priest (of the"students' parish") to live in the presbytery, which was very close to theSorbonne, and to participate in the communal life of the parish. Thanksto him, I lived in this magnificent context for two years. I never tired ofthis beautiful church, with its forest of pillars. In exchange for this hospitality, I was expected to offer certain services, including to take chargeof the parish newspaper. In this manner I discovered what it is to make anewspaper. It is very interesting. I wrote several articles in it-notably, arather lengthy review of L'Homme reuolte [The Rebe{J, by Albert Camus,who on this occasion wrote me a letter that I have unfortunately since lost.I was working on my dissertation and I attended Jean Hyppolite's courseson Hegel and on Heidegger. He explained, most remarkably, the chapterin Heidegger's Holzwege [Offthe beaten track] devoted to Holderlin: "WhyPoets in a Time of Distress?" I greatly admired the clarity with which heexplained difficult texts.

The years I spent at Saint-Severin represent a turning point in mylife. During this period I began to adopt a critical attitude toward theChurch. I had more than one reason for this. For example, there was avicar in the clergy of the parish who wanted to reestablish February 2 asthe day of purification for women who had just givep birth, a ceremonyanalogous to the one to which Mary had submitted herself in conformitywith Jewish law. For this vicar-who incidentally was a medical doctorthe ceremony implied that women were impure as a result of sexual relations and of childbirth. This seemed crazy to me. There were also twoseminarians there who were supposed to be initiated into parish life andwho, in their juvenile ardor, were revolted by the ecclesiastical mentality,which they did not consider to be evangelical. I must say that I agreedwith them completely. They often showed a zeal that the parish priest


found untimely, especially on certain days, or rather on certain nights,when he discovered that people in difficulty, homeless people, were lodgedon all of the floors of his presbytery, and he had to throw them out. Theseminarians reproached him then for lacking an evangelical spirit. But thepractice of the Gospel would have required a complete upheaval of ourmode of life!

There was also Jean Massin, the future musicologist, who directedspiritual teams. They assembled many students, a good number of themfrom the Ecole Normale. He gradually developed a criticism ofthe Churchas well. I was assigned by the parish priest to bring a more orthodox dimension to these teams. Thus 1participated in the movement that offeredthe students, among other things, an initiation into biblical problems byusing historical and exegetical methods that aimed to be rigorous. Hereagain, especially in the domain of exegesis, I recognized that there was abasis to Massin's criticisms. I struck a pale figure next to his personality,next to his eloquence (I heard students from the Ecole Normale cry whilelistening to him; I heard him talk for a whole hour, if not two, about thesesimple words from Genesis: "Abraham sits")-and next to "his satiricalspirit, often inspired by what was perhaps a somewhat broad psychoanalysis (he would say "well oedipalized" instead of "well educated").

A terrible shock added itself to this: the encyclical Humani Generisof August 12, 1950. Everything that was keeping me in the Church wascondemned: Teilhard de Chardin's evolutionism, and ecumenicalism. (Ialso read the Protestant journal Riformewith great interest.) Moreover, theproclamation of the dogma of Assumption on November I, 1950, addeditself to my disappointment. This development of martial theology haddeviated, it seemed to me, from the very essence of Christianity. Whyattempt to attach Mary to the human condition? Finally, a sentimentalproblem added itself to this. Since 1949 I had loved the one who for morethan ten years would be my wife and I thought I did not have the right, asmany of my colleagues did, to lead a double life. All these factors togetherresulted in my decision to leave Saint-Severin and the Church in June of1952, and I was married in August 1953, despite the warnings from peoplein my entourage who knew the one I would marry and told me that ourmarriage was a very poor match from every point ofview. (It would in factend in divorce eleven years later.)

Tied to the Apron Strings ofthe Churchl

23

J C.: Was this a terrible disappointment for your mother, and evenmaybe, for her, afeelingoffailure?

I must say that I did Dot have the courage to go to Rheims to confront her face-to-face. I wrote her a letter, feeling as though I had committed a murder. I had in my mind the image of an aviator who drops hisbombs on a city. For her it was the crumbling of all her hopes. The ideathat she would not have the right to see me anymore added itself to this.But finally the tension calmed, and in the following years I visited herfrom time to time at Rheims.

J C.: J imagine that in addition to all the heartbreak involvedin yourdecision, you also had to deal with crassly materialproblems?

In fact, when I informed the CNRS of the change in my situation,the result was a rather substantial increase in salary. This was because, ifI recall correctly, the CNRS attributed only a quarter of its research allocation to ecclesiastics, on the basis of the principle that they have otherrevenues available to them. But my material situation was rather difficultnonetheless. I was lodged in a maid's room in the sixth arrondissement [theParisian administrative circumscriptions], at 14 rue des Pyramides, whichJean Massin lent to me. During the 1952-53 year, I was able to appreciatethe comfort that the good Parisian bourgeoisie provided for its help: oneor two toilets for twenty rooms or so, no heating, and torrid heat in thesummer. One day when I had invited someone over for lunch, the booksbalanced precariously atop the cupboard fell.into the bowl of fries, stillfull of oil. ...

After I was married, I moved to Vitry-sur-Seine, where the smell ofthe chlorine from Rhone-Poulenc was always floating in the air. We werewith my mother's aunt, but under very uncomfortable material conditions.These years were very difficult. Beyond family problems, I was alwaysworried about my future. At the time, CNRS researchers did not have thecomfortable security of the functionary that they now know. They weresubmitted to a yearly renewal, and it was understood that one could stay atCNRS only temporarily. One year, their decisional committee, overtakenby untimely zeal, fired a great number of researchers. 1 was saved fromshipwreck and welfare by Maurice de Gandillac, who intervened so that


I would be retained. I am very grateful to him for this, as I am for thevery understanding letter he wrote to me when I informed him that I wasleaving the Church. Pierre-Maxime Schuhl, whose seminar I attended,became worried about my plight.1

? He told me that I had no hope for aposition at the university because I was not a certified teacher [agrege1. Herecommended that I take the exams to become a librarian, which I did,and during the year of preparation I learned many things. But the careerof a librarian did not attract me. So I stayed at CNRS and continued towork on my doctoral dissertation.

J C.: In short, you stayed tied to the apron strings of the Church fortwenty years, from your tenth to your thirtieth year. What do you now thinkofthis ecclesiastical world that you knew well from the inside?

I must say first that I have a great deal of gratitude for the completeintellectual education that I received from most of the professors who devoted themselves to giving it to me-c-all the more so in that, I realizedonly much later, all my studies, secondary and advanced, were financedby the archbishop of Rheims. If I had not gone to the Petit, then to theGrand Seminaire, my parents would surely not have been able to pay formy studies.

Moreover, I would say that my rupture with the Church was not arupture with my friends, who continued to display much sympathy towardme, especially Paul Henry, Jean Daniele, and Claude Mondesert, as wellas my very good friend Georges Folliet. I moved away from Christian faithvery slowly. For a time I would sometimes attend religious ceremonies,but they always seemed rather artificial because, following the councilof Vatican II, they were recited or sung in French. I was not opposed tothe translation in principle, bur it always seemed to reveal the immensedistance between the world of the twentieth century and the mythical orstereotypical formulas of Christian liturgy-a distance that was sensedless when the people did not understand what was being said. I believethat Henri-Charles Puech had the same impression I did when he toldme with a big smile, "Jesus, God's sheep," alluding to the translation ofthe Agnus Dei. It was not the Latin that was incomprehensible, but theconcepts and the images hidden behind Latin for centuries.

Tied to the Apron Stringsofthe Church 25

The ecclesiastical world that I knew from 1930-50 is obviously extremely different than the actual ecclesiastical world. Since then, there hasbeen the Council ofVatican II, which took the unfortunate experiences ofthe first half of the century and the biblical criticism of great theologiansfrom that period into account. I had read with enthusiasm the writings ofFather Henri de Lubac, Father YvesCongar, and Father Marie-DominiqueChenu, who played important roles in the reform brought about by theCouncil.

But I also have certain grievances. My main reproach to the clergyof the past is aimed especially at the Sulpicians, a society of priests established in the seventeenth century, who directed most of the large seminaries in France. Whether at Rheims or at Versailles, one might say that,for the most part, they still lived in the time of their founding father,Jean-Jacques Olier, a bizarre character whom the curious reader can read apage about in Father Mugnier's [ournal." To give a single example, everyday before eating, both in Rheims and in Versailles, we gathered for readings of the examinations of conscience of Monsieur Tronson, a Sulpicianfrom the seventeenth century. These examinations had been somewhatmodernized, the stagecoaches had been removed, but all the situationsenvisaged in fact supposed the daily life of the seventeenth and not thetwentieth century. We irreverently called these exercises the tronsonnade;

it was the Sulpicians' aperitif But this is merely an amusing detail. Whatis more serious is this artificial space, entirely isolated from the exteriorworld, where all personal initiative, all originality, all taking responsibilitywere repressed. We were totally ignorant of the reality of the world, andespecially of the reality of the feminine world/When my mother offered,much to my surprise, to ask Mademoiselle Chevrot, the young and beautiful organist of the Rheims cathedral, to give me organ lessons, I refusedout of fear, because in my subconscious th-ere was something diabolicalabout women. The result of this confined education is that, for my part,when I was ordained as a priest in 1944, I was absolutely not prepared toface the concrete realities of the daily life of normal people. It is only littleby little that I freed and affirmed myself. We were capable, at the limit,of exercising our ministry in the conservative, chic world of a bourgeoisparish, but, for example, completely disarmed in the face of the sad realityof the suburbs of the big cities.


I believe that things have changed considerably now. However, Ithink the real source of harm is what I would call surnaturalism. What Iunderstand by surnaturalism is the idea that it is especially by supernatural means that one can modify one's way of conducting oneself: It is theblind confidence in the omnipotence of grace that allows one to face allsituations. On television these days, one hears stories of pedophile priests.On this occasion one can very clearly see what surnaturalism is. The confessors and the bishops too often have the tendency to think that if someone cannot dominate certain impulses, it is enough to pray, especially tothe Virgin Mary, and he will end up being cured of these impulses. Infact, there is a total lack of psychology in this attitude, and in these recentmatters ofpedophilia ofwhich I was speaking, one can say that those whoare really responsible are the confessors who had these priests believe thatconfidence in the grace of God was enough, that one can through prayereasily get out of these difficulties; and also the bishops, who should-it issimple common sense, for that matter-find a ministry for these prieststhat keeps them far from contact with children. In the ,past I have seensituations in which the priest, conscious of his weaknesses, asked to betaken away from the place in which he was exposed to dangers, and thebishop or the superior responded, "If God put you here, it is that he alsogives you the grace to overcome your difficulties; all you need to do is pray,and" everything will be well."

In fact, in Thomistic theology-and perhaps even in a general wayin all Christian theology-surnaturalism is based on the idea that sincethe Revelation and the Redemption there is no longer a natural morality.In the scholastic philosophy textbook that I used in my studies, all theparts of philosophy were treated, except morality, for it was expressly saidthat it was useless to teach purely natural morals to seminary students-onthe one hand, because the only true morality is theological morality; andon the other hand, because if one explained natural morality, one wouldrisk exposing the students to the danger of naturalism, which consists inbelieving that one can practice virtues without grace. This tendency hasanother noteworthy aspect. One says to oneself: What counts is faith inGod, and the fact that one remains a sinner is of little importance. FatherHenry sometimes cited, approvingly, Luther's phrase, Peccafortiter et crede


fortius ("Sin with all your forces, but believe even more forcefully"). This is

fundamentally the theme of Graham Greene's The Power and the Glory.It is all well and good to confess that one is a sinner, but it would be

even better to think of the harm that one does to another through one's

sin. In Le Canard enchaineof December 6, 2000 (yes, I do read Le Canardenchain! from time to time), the following remarks of Monseigneur

Jacques David, bishop of Evreux, who had advised a pedophile priest to .

turn himself in, were reported: "I had also advised colleagues [that is, oth

er bishops] confronted by priests in difficulty to do the same thing." This

is all well and good but, Le Canard added, accurately, "It is especially the

kids who are in difficulty." Here we are in fact in the presence of a rather

ecclesiastical reaction. What counts above all, in the aim of the Church, is

the priest in difficulty, and the Church he puts into difficulty. The victims

are not considered first; it is not thought that the danger to which they are

exposed should be put to an end immediately. One can imagine all theunhappy children who, in the past were, and still now are, victims of the

conspiracy of silence that surrounded such actions. The Church is not, for

that matter, the only one practicing hypocrisy. In analogous situations, the

army or the police are not outdone; they also have esprit de corps. Reasons

of state, reasons of the Church-there are always good reasons.

One of the consequences of this surnaturalism is also that priests

often consider themselves to be excused from practicing the natural vir

tues if it is useful to the Church, or to themselves-hence the pious lies,

the infringements on the virtue of justice. For example, the employees

in the businesses run by the clergy are often poorly paid because theseemployees are in the service of the Church and are expected to sacrifice

themselves for it; or as I myself observed, the readers who cut pages out of

Migne's Pathologie in the library of the Institut Catholique are most likely

ecclesiastics.

On this score, it is perhaps useful to recall an old history, that of

Americanism. Americanism was a movement that corresponded to cer

tain characteristics proper to American Catholicism at the end of the

nineteenth century: attention to moral and social problems more than

to dogmas and devotions, and respect for the individual freedom and re

sponsibility of laymen. By translating the works of an American bishop,Monseigneur Ireland, in 1894, and by prefacing a translation of Walter


Elliott's Life ofFather Heeke (1897), arguably the inspiration for tendenciesproper to American Catholicism, in France, Father Klein had provoked aquarrel that Pope Leon XIII thought he could end in 1899 by issuing TestemBenevolentiae, which condemns Americanism, to Cardinal Gibbons, bishop of Baltimore. According to this letter, the Americanists maintained,among other things, that in order to attract dissidents more effectively, itis appropriate to leave in the shade or to attenuate certain elements of thedoctrine as being of lesser importance. They also maintained the need tolet go of the relation that the faithful have to ecclesiastical authority, inorder to guarantee laymen's freedom of thought and to leave them greaterfreedom to follow the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. I remember that theopposition between clerical domination and the initiatives of laymen hadalways been a problem in the Church, as one can see, for example, inRuedi Imbach's book Dante, laphilosophie et les laics [Dante, philosophy,and laymen]. Finally, the Americanists think that natural and active virtues are better suited to the present day than surnatural and passive virtues. This Roman wariness with regard to naturalism is still alive today,a century later, and I believe that the ecclesiastics still too often neglectnatural morals.

J C.: You have briefly evoked the Oath Against Modernism that wasimposed on you in the course ofyour ordination, and at the beginning ofthe movement ofpriest-workers. How did you experience the attitude oftheChurch on these matters?

I have just evoked Roman condemnations. I believe that the brutality of these condemnations is to be deplored. Notably, this began withmodernism, at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries. Alfred Loisy, accused of modernism, was hit with excommunication. This means, for example, that as a professor at the Collegede France, he was not able to attend the religious burial of the administrator, because his presence alone would have obliged the officiator tointerrupt the religious ceremony. After the Second World War, under thepontificate of Pious XII, the priest-workers were condemned. On this subject, I would mention Francois Leprieur's utterly remarkable book QuandRome condamne: Dominicains et pritres ouvrier [When Rome condemns:Dominicans and priest-workers], which shows how the Dominicans, tied

Tied to the Apron Strings o/the Church 29

to the movement of priest-workers, were condemned in a way that is "prejudicial to natural law.'"? Many were sanctioned (banned from teaching,exiled sometimes) without knowing the exact reasons that something washappening to them. And when there was a trial, the accused, entering thetribunal, did not know what he was accused of; he had not been previouslyinformed about his dossier, he did not even know that, at the end of thetrial, he would be imposed with the obligation to keep secret everythingthat was said during the interrogation and the condemnation. Leprieur, inhis conclusion, speaks of the unhealable wound left in their hearts by theRoman condemnation. I cannot enter into all the details, but one mustindeed recognize that we are in the presence here, and probably since PopePious IX, of a both centralist and dictatorial system that, if fortunately itno longer turns the guilty over to the secular arm to be executed, nevertheless retains an inquisitional mark and, too often, shows a serious lackof respect toward the human person. A worthy effort was made at theCouncil ofVatican II to remedy this attitude. But it seems, unfortunately,that this system, which has nothing evangelical in it, continues to be usedtoday. What is extraordinary is that since Galileo (to take a famous example), Roman theologians-persuaded that the truth is their own andabsolutely immutable-at given times have severely condemned opinionsor methods that a few years later everyone, including Roman theologians,has recognized are correct. The most flagrant case is in the domain ofexegeSIS.

2l-

Researcher, Teacher, Philosopher

Jeannie Carlier: Were youfree to devoteyourselfentirelytoyour doctoraldissertation as ofI953?

I began preparing the critical edition ofMarius Victorinus with FatherHenry. This collaboration marks a decisive turning point in the methodof my work. Until then I had been a "pure philosopher." I was interested

in metaphysics and, truth be told, in mysticism, especially Plotinus. But

from that point on, I undertook training as a philologist and historian.I discovered philological disciplines that I had never practiced-the cri

tique of texts, the reading of manuscripts, at least ofLatin manuscripts. Toprepare for this reading, I took courses at the Ecole des Chartes and at theFourth Section of the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes (EPHE).

Many philosophers do not realize what is involved in the study ofancient texts. When translating Marcus Aurelius, for example, it is possible to spend an entire day determining what a particular Greek word canmean in a given context. Thus, with Paul Henry, I edited the complete

theological works ofMarius Victorinus. Alone I edited Ambrose ofMilan's

ApologyofDavid, and the fragments of the commentary On Parmenedesthat I attributed to Porphyry. I collaborated in the preparation of the critical edition of a very interesting Greek fragment found at Ai-Khanoum,

at the border of Afghanistan, and which may be a passage from a lostdialogue of Aristotle. Finally, I edited the first book of Marcus Aurelius'Meditations. I am currently undertaking further editing projects.

Researcher, Teacher, Philosopher 31

During this period I also discovered the methodology of the his

tory of philosophy. Previously I treated philosophical texts, whether ofAristotle, Saint Thomas, or Bergson, as though they were aternporal, as

though words had the same meaning in every philosophical period. I understood that the evolution of thoughts and mentalities throughout thecenturies had to be taken into account. Henri-Irenee Marrou once dedicated an offprint to me by writing, "To the philosopher who has become

a historian. A historian who has become a philosopher." The discipline ofphilology is exhausting, but it often gives a certain pleasure, for example,

when one realizes that the text that is accepted by everyone is obviously

mistaken, and that, thanks to the examination of manuscripts or of the

context or of the grammar, one has rediscovered the right lesson, which

has happened to me a few times with Marcus Aurelius, and with Ambrose.

It is a discipline that is useful to the philosopher in that it teaches humility; the texts are very often problematic and one must be prudent whenone attempts to interpret them. It is also a discipline that can be dangerousto him, to the extent that it runs the risk of being satisfied with itself: andholds up real philosophical reflection. I think that for Paul Henry himselfit was a way to avoid asking serious theological questions.

J C.: Who is thisMarius Victorinus with whom no oneisfamiliar?

He is a rhetorician from the city of Rome who translated the trea

tises of Plotinus and finally converted to Christianity. He left an apologet

ics oeuvre, in which he defends the doctrine of the consubstanriality ofthe three persons of the Trinity, affirmed at the council of Nicea. This isa very enigmatic oeuvre. He cites Plotinus, and develops a Neoplatonic

metaphysics that I thought I could attribute to Porphyry, the disciple ofPlotinus; but recently Michel Tardieu discovered that entire passages of

Victorinus' oeuvre correspond literally to a Gnostic text, the Apocalypse deZostrien [Apocalypse ofZostrien], which we know only through its copied

version. There is also likely a common source to this passage ofVictorinus

and the passage from the Gnostic text, but which one?

I spent twenty years of my life (from 1946 to 1968), at least in part,translating Victorinus and writing a doctoral dissertation about him.Ultimately this has not been time totally lost. I have learned many thingsby working on it, from the point of view of historical method as well as


critical method, I discovered little-known aspects of Neoplatonism, notably, the magnificent fragments of a commentary on. the Parmenedes thatI attributed to Porphyry. But finally, perhaps I spent too much time onthis enigma. I would like to see someone solve the enigma of Victorinus'sources nonetheless.

]. C.,, In I959 you wereamong thefirst in France to speakofWittgenstein.Is therea relation to Victorinus?

In a certain sense. In effect, my research on Victorinus in no waysatisfied my passion for philosophy, This is why, especially during theyears 1958-60, I participated in different research circles: the philosophical research group of the journal Esprit, led by Paul Ricoeur, where I met,most notably, Jean-Pierre Faye; Ignace Meyerson's Centre de Recherchesde psychologie comparatives [Research center ofcomparative psychology],where I met, among others, Jean-Pierre Vernant, Madeleine Biardeau, andthe doctor Hecaen. In 1960, Ignace Meyerson organized at Royaumonta very interesting colloquium on the person, in which I participated andduring which I became friends with Louis Dumont, with whom I haveremained in contact. I also discovered Wittgenstein's Tractatus LogicoPhilosopbicus, then his Philosophical Investigations. I was quite surprisedto observe that this philosopher, who was presented as a logical positivist,spoke ofmysticism in the last pages ofhis work. I tried to understand howthis was possible. Thus, on April 29, 1959, I gave a paper to the CollegePhilosophique, led by Jean Wahl, on the Tractatus. I know the exact datethanks to the book Emmanuel Levinas by Marie-Anne Lescourret, whogives a lively description of the meetings of the College. They took placein the building that is facing the gate of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. At thistime I found a series of articles on Wittgenstein, who was little known inFrance. I even attempted a translation of the Tractatus, but it never gotpast the stage of a rough draft.

In 1963, at the request ofAngele and Hubert de Radkowski, I wrote,in a month, a little book for the collection La recherche de l'Absolu [Thesearch for the absolute], Plotin ou la Simplicite du regard [Plotinus or theSimplicity of Vision], which since then has often been reedited. I' was attracted by Plotinus' mysticism, while sensing to what point it was foreignto our modern world.


In 1968, I struck out in an entirely different direction, most notablyby preparing for a conference at Eranos a paper entitled "Influences du neoplatonisme sur la philosophie de la nature" [Influences of Neoplatonismon the philosophy of nature]. This work gave me a better appreciation forthe importance of reflection on the notion of nature, and I hope that afterthirty years of research in the area I will perhaps manage to publish theresults in a book. '

J C.: In many respects, I964 was only a hinge year. You were electeddirector o/studies at the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, section ofreligious

sciences, andyou metyour wife.

I was not unknown to the fifth section of EPHE. I had followedthe courses of Henri-Charles Puech and prepared for a degree under hisdirection-a translation of Marius Victorinus-and I had also followedthe courses ofAndre-Jean Festugiere. I had heard him translate and comment on the Life ofProclus by Marinus, and on the Commentary on Plato'sTimaeus, by Proclus. One learned a great deal by listening to him. Mycandidature was upheld primarily by Rene Roques' and Paul Vignaux.?I was elected, I believe without difficulty, to the chair of Patristic Latin,because of my works on Marius Victorinus.

J C.: The sameyear, at the Hardt Foundation, you met a German who

would becomeyour wife.

More exactly, I found her again. If I believed in destiny, I wouldsay that our meeting was written in the sky. In effect, I had seen her forthe first time at the Congres de Philosophie Medievale in Cologne, andfor me it was love at first sight. Afterward we exchanged books, a correspondence, but one letter was lost, and everything came to an end. InSeptember 1964I went to the Fondation Hardt at Geneve-Vandoeuvres toput the finishing touches, with the German theologian Carl Andresen,on a German translation of Marius Victorinus that was to be publishedby Artemis Verlag. When r arrived I was told that Mme Ilsetraut Martenwas there. I understood then that a new life would begin for me. We weremarried in 1966in Berlin.


When I met her, I absolutely did not know that my wife was writing

a doctorate under the direction of Paul Moraux at the Freie Universitat ofBerlin on the theme of Seneca and the tradition of spiritual direction in

antiquity. It was very close to my own preoccupations, which had beenoriented for some time toward the definition of philosophy as spiritualexercise and way of living. My wife has exercised a very important influence on the evolution of my thought.

But moreover, lowe to her the fact that I am still alive. I am a regular at Parisian hospitals. Over the course of the past twenty years I haveundergone four serious operations. If I did not have my wife next to me

day and nighr-

]. C.: Your direction ofstudy in the Fifth section ofthe Ecole Pratiquedes Hautes Etudes wascalled the chairofPatristic Latin. Didyou choose thistitleyourself?

My colleagues wished to keep this direction of study illustrated byPaul Monceaux. Moreover, my studies on Marius Victorinus, my translation of his works, might give the impression that I am above all a Latinist.But a few years later my colleagues authorized me to change the title of thesection so that it would read "Theologies and Mysticisms of HellenisticGreece at the End of Antiquity." After having offered courses on the sermons of Ambrose of Milan and on Augustine's Confessions-a master

piece of universal literature that I began to translate for the Bibliothequede la Pleiade (the project was abandoned, but it gave me the opportunityto meet Brice Parain, whom I have always admired)-I was able to givecourses on the mystic texts ofPlotinus, on Marcus Aurelius, and on ancientlogic. This last subject brought me auditors who would become famous.The Hautes Etudes is a remarkable institution. The auditors are free tocome and go, and the director of studies is free to choose his subjects of

research. The courses must be the fruit of original research. As of 1971 or1972, I became secretary of the section, first assigned to education, then toadministration, which is a rather heavy task. My first cardiac arrest, which

was a plunge into arrhythmia, occurred during a difficult argument. 1nshort, a work accident, the cardiologist told me.

In 1968, at a Sorbonne that was yet to bear the traces of the "events,"I finally passed my state doctoral dissertation entitled "Porphyre et

Researcher; Teache1; Philosopher 35

Victorinus," accompanied by a these complementaire (published in 1972)on the life and work of this enigmatic Christian rhetorician. Maurice deGandillac, Henri-Irenee Marrou, Joseph Moreau, Pierre Courcelle, and

Pierre-Maxime Schuhl were on the committee.At this time I began to be read abroad. It was in 1968 that I was

invited to the Eranos Conferences at Ascona," thanks to the interventionof Henry Corbin, my colleague from the Fifth Section, who thought I had'the same enthusiasm for archangels and the imaginary as he did for Jung'sarchetypes. The context was splendid, and the other invited participantswere very kind, but I was not an adept of the reigning orthodoxy. I gave

a paper on the influence of Neoplatonism on the philosophy of naturein the West, which generated only moderate enthusiasm. I was invited a

second time, in 1974. The scenery of Lac Majeur was just as magnificent.My paper on the figure ofSocrates was slightly more warmly received, butI have not been invited back since then.

Thanks to Hans Blumenberg, around 1970I became a correspondingmember ofthe Academic des Sciences et le Litterature [Academy ofScienceand Literature] of Mayence. I assiduously attended' the sessions, which allowed me to be in sustained contact with my German colleagues.

]. C.: Around I968, then, the title ofyour chair was broad and MariusVictorinus was behind you. He obligedyou to learn philological rigor, andit was also in part because ofhim, ofhis incoherence, that you began to askyourselfwhat ancientphilosophy is. Is this the direction your research took?

First of all, in my teaching I developed my research on Plotinus'mystical treatises, and I finally felt the desire, which was fulfilled onlylater on, to do an annotated translation of Plotinus' treatises. But thistime, Plotinus himself: and Marcus Aurelius, to whom I began at this time

to devote courses, led me to think in a general way ofwhat I call the phe

nomenon of ancient philosophy-a phenomenon in the sense of not onlya mental phenomenon, but also a social, sociological phenomenon. I triedto ask myself the question, What is a philosopher? What do philosophicalschools consist of? This is how I was brought to conceive of philosophynot as pure theory but as a way of life.

Around this period I also began to attach considerable importance to the existence of spiritual exercises in antiquity, that is, to the


practices-some of which are of a physical order, such as nutritional or

discursive regimenting, dialogue, and meditation; others of which are

intuitive, such as contemplation; but all of which aim to generate a trans

formation in the subject practicing them. The discourse of the master of

philosophy could also itself take the form of a spiritual exercise in thatby listening to him or by participating in a dialogue, the disciple coulddevelop spiritually, transform himself internally. This is when I read the

book Seelenfuhrung [Direction of the soul] by Paul Rabbow, which pre

sented the different possible forms of these practices among the Epicureans

and the Stoics, and which also had the merit of marking the continuity

that exists between ancient spirituality and Christian spirituality, but per

haps by limiting itself too exclusively to the rhetorical aspects of spiritual

exercises.

My wife's books and the exchanges we had together revealed new

aspects of the phenomenon that I was trying to understand. In 1977 thisultimately culminated in the opening article of the Annuaire de la Ve sec

tion, entitled "Exercices spirituels." This article was obviously supposed

to provide a sample of what I was doing in my course. At the same time,

however, I gradually developed the sense that what I had proposed in this

article, to those who cannot or do not want to live according to a religious

life, was the possibility of choosing a purely philosophical mode of life.

J c.: Is it not a remarkable program to propose to the nonreligious thepossibility ofchoosing apurelyphilosophical modeoflife? Is this not whatgivesmeaning, on another level, to a gooddeal ofyour scholarly research? But thisarticle wascalled "Exercices spirituels. "Is therenot, after all, something religious in this expression? Doyou think that the onlytrue religion isphilosophyor, like Porphyry, that "only the sage is a priest"?

We believe that spiritual exercises are of a religious order because

there are Christian spiritual exercises. But spiritual exercises appeared in

Christianity only and precisely because of Christianity's will, beginning

in the second century, to present itself as a philosophy on the model of

Greek philosophy, that is, as a mode of life comprising spiritual exercises

borrowed from Greek philosophy. In the Greek and Roman religions,which did not involve an inner commitment of the individual but were

primarily social phenomena, the notion of spiritual exercises was absent.


However, many religions, such as Buddhism and Taoism, impose a modeof life on their adepts that includes spiritual exercises. Thus there canbe philosophical spiritual exercises and religious spiritual exercises. Forexample, in the heyday of secularism, Jules Payot, in his book L'Educationde la uolonte[TheEducation ofthe Will], published in 1900, recommendedwhat I call spiritual exercises; thus he discussed spiritual retreat-whichis possible, he said, even in the midst of a crowd-as an exercise for theexamination of conscience, or the different techniques of self-mastery.

More generally speaking, it seems to me that religion and philosophymust be carefully distinguished. I have discussed this question frequentlywith Fernand Brunner, the late philosopher from Neuchatel, with whom Iwas good friends. He attempted to bring religion and philosophy closer bygiving religion a philosophical tonality, and philosophy a religious tonality. For my part, I think-perhaps falsely-that the word religion shouldbe used to designate a phenomenon that involves images, people, offerings, celebrations, and places that are devoted to God or to gods. Thisabsolutely does not exist in philosophy. One might say, but then what doyou do with the religion in spirit and in truth, with religion freed from sociological and ritualistic aspects and reduced to an exercise of the presenceof God? I would respond, it is of the order of wisdom or philosophy.

This is also why I consider that mystical phenomena, even if it happens that they can be observed in different religions, are not specificallyreligious. They do not involve the social aspects that I mentioned, and theysituate thems~lves-for example, in Plotinus-in a purely philosophicalperspective. They can be observed in philosophers who are totally atheist,such as Georges Bataille.

From its origins, philosophy developed itself as a critique of religion, with destructive critique-for example, that of Xenophon, whosaid that men made gods in their own image-or purifying critiquesuch as that of Plato, Aristotle, the Stoics, the Epicureans, and finally theNeoplatonists. Critique is purifying in, the sense that philosophy finallytends to transform religion into philosophy. It does this either by developing a theology, albeit a purely rational theology, or by using allegory tothink about the different divinities in many different ways, as did theStoics, for whom Zeus was fire, Hera air, and so on. The Neoplatonists didthis as well, identifying the gods of paganism with Platonic entities; and


the Epicureans, who represented the gods as sages. In a general manner,philosophy has always had the tendency to rationalize religious myths,specifically by giving them philosophical content.

J C.: One could object that in the fourth andfifth centuries there wereNeoplatonists who integrated practices ofa specifically religious order intotheirphilosophy, becausethe mode ofphilosophical life involved rites, the rites

oftheurgy, iftheurgy is not magic but something that can resemble magic tothe extent that material objectsare used to obtain a spiritual effect.

One must first recognize that the Neoplatonists, in wanting to establish a correspondence between the gods of Paganism and the variousentities of their system, killed all the charm and the sacred horror theseproducts of the human imagination may have had. Their purifying critique is almost a destructive critique. However, at times they have alsobrought superstitious and puerile practices into philosophy. This is absolutely right, and I find this difficult to forgive. This is why I do not particularly appreciate Iamblichus or Proclus. This intrusion of religion intophilosophy had always been rather enigmatic to me. I believe that it is anunfortunate attempt to compete with Christianity, which at the time alsopresented itself as a philosophy of Platonic inclinations, but one associatedwith purifying rituals.

This intrusion of religion was, moreover, tied to the metaphysics ofIamblichus' successors. Like the Christians, they discovered that the soulhad really fallen into matter by a sort of original sin, as it were, and thusone can have faith through material rites and the help of divine grace.This cannot be found in Plotinus.

j C.: Platonism, traditionally since Plato, is reservedfor the elites. The

hoi polloi-literally, "the numerous," the masses-understand nothing. Now,

the Neoplatonist Iamblichus instituted threegrades oftheurgy, and he reserved

one for the level ofordinary men, attached to matter. This is perhaps an at

tempt to comb as broadly as Christians, who have always said, our message isuniversal.

Yes, thus we encounter the concern of the Pagan philosophers tocombat Christianity on its own terrain. The emperor Julian would have


wanted secular priests to be just as austere as Christian priests and devote

themselves to acts of charity. This represents, as it were, the birth of neopaganism, including a theology that reduces the different gods to emana

tions ofa single and unknowable principle, and a purifying or sacramentalritual allowing the polloi to be saved as well. This is the neo-paganismthat Gemiste Plerhon and other humanists attempted to resuscitate during the Renaissance. One can also make out a contamination ofPaganismand of Christianity in this Neopaganism.

J c.: Do not most "real" religions, the ones that mostpeople practiceand not the ones the theologians theorize, have the characteristic that onecan,through prayer (sacrifices, magicalrituals, everything one can imagine), hopethat the gods will give a fortunate outcome to those in an otherwise hopelesssituation? The god ofthe Bible and the Greek gods let themselves be swayed.Thegods ofthephilosophers do nothingofthe kind. A famous verse in Homerprovoked the indignation ofall the Greek philosophers: "Thegods themselvescan beswayed. "

Yes. One of the aspects of the critical purification of philosophy ineffect consists in denouncing the vanity ofprayers of request to underscore

their absurdity, because the most contradictory invocations are raised toward the gods as men ask at the same time for rain and for good weather,for their victory and the defeat of the adversary.

There are nuances to be made about this subject, however. On theone hand, philosophy, Greek or Latin, can very well be directed towardGod or the gods without it being a "religious" prayer that seeks to swayGod; on the contrary, as Epictetus says, it could be a hymn of praise, oneof the tasks of the Stoic philosopher being to sing God's praises, which is,for him, universal reason. This is the spiritual exercise of contemplation.

On the other hand, it is worth considering that for the Stoics and

the Platonic tradition, religion has a precise place in philosophy. It is situated exactly in the theory of duties. Duties toward the gods, as one cansee in Epictetus' Manuel [Manual], indicate both that one accepts, as a

philosopher, their will without attempting to sway it, and that, as a citizenpracticing religion, one can very well still admit the legitimacy of religiouspractices, ofsacrifices, ofdivination, and ofother things as elements of thesocial reality that surrounds one.


J C.: This critical attitude toward religion, common-with a fewexceptions-to ancient philosophers, reappears in the Renaissance, after theeclipse ofthe Middle Ages?

During the Middle Ages everything changes, because philosophyis no longer merely religion's servant. As soon as philosophy frees itselffrom a theology, it becomes a critique, either purifying or destroying, ofreligion. Philosophers-Spinoza no less than Kant, for example-have always had a tendency to purify the idea of God and detach it from properlyreligious representations. It seems to me that what has been called naturalreligion is merely a theistic philosophy. As such, it lacks what is essentialin religion: the rites. Now, I recognize that by defining religion in thisway, I oppose a rather general use of the word, namely, to speak of God,transcendence, or mystery. I have observed the fact in Thomas Mann,who in a letter remarks, "We live and we die in a mystery, and one can, ifone wishes, qualify the consciousness we have of it as religious." Similarly,Einstein spoke of the scientific religiosity and the cosmic religion of hisown position, which he expresses by reporting, "I have the strongest emotion in front of the mystery of life," while refusing a God who rewards andpunishes.' In his inaugural lecture, Merleau-Ponty said roughly the samething as Thomas Mann and Einstein, but was careful to specify that thisis a philosophical attitude: "Philosophy awakens us to what is problematicin itself in the existence of the world and our own existence, to the pointthat we are never healed from searching, as Bergson would say, for a solution 'in the master's book.'" 6 This is a philosophical attitude that MerleauPonty refuses to qualify as atheist, because it merely consists of displacingthe sacred or defining it in another way.

J C..' YOu neither passed the agregation [examination for teachingcertification] nor attended the Ecole Normale Superieure, and you did notensure a career by choosing a fashionable thesis topic either. Andyet, in I982,you were elected to the College de France. This wasthe initiative ofFoucault,from whomyou areseparated by many things.

The process began in the fall of 1980. I had just left the hospitalafter my first heart operation. I received a telephone call from Foucault.Pasquale Pasquino, an auditor of mine from Hautes Etudes who had had


many discussions with Foucault, had made my article on spiritual exercises known to him. He asked me if I would accept to be presented as acandidate. I was both very surprised and very happy. The election alwaystakes place in two steps. First, the name of the chair is voted on, with fullknowledge that the title in fact corresponds to a particular candidate. Forthis first phase, one must write a notice of "titles and works," and visit allthe professors, scientific or literary. I made these visits in the fall of 198'1.It was a very interesting experience. I was very surprised .by the vast literary culture of the scientists and by the interest they had in my research.Finally the day of the vote arrived; it was Sunday, November 29. My presenter was Paul Veyne. In the course of the afternoon, Foucault informed;me by telephone that the assembly had unanimously adopted the title ofmy chair. In the spring of 1982, the second stage of the ceremony tookplace: the "nominal" election, which is rarely problematic. A third stage,it too ritualistic, was the inaugural lecture in February 1983, in which Iattempted to present the notion of ancient philosophy. Thus I was admitted into this venerable institution, in which the assembly meets around animmense table in the presence of a large painting representing its founding by Francois I. It is a remarkable institution, for the freedom it givesits members to develop their research and to let a vast audience benefitfrom it. I would reproach only its slightly pretentious slogan: Docet omnia

[All things are taught]. For everything is not taught there, obviously, andeven individual professors do not teach the entirety of the subject matterimplied by their titles, but rather the particular domain in which, in hisdiscipline, he thinks he has advanced science the most. This in itself is avery good thing. For my part, during my nine years of teaching I spokeof themes on which I had worked considerably and that were dear to me:philosophy as a way of life, the attitude of the ancients toward nature,Plotinus' mysticism, Marcus Aurelius' stoicism.

So I kept company with very great scholars for about ten years, butI have regretted that I was not able to profit from it. I was able to formfriendships only rarely.

J C.: What are thegeneralimpressions you retainfrom these forty yearsofresearch and teaching? What doyou think ofthe French universitysystem?


First of all, I recognize that I was very fortunate to be admitted insuccession to institutions in which one can focus on personal research.I began as a researcher at the CNRS [Centre National de la RechercheScientifique] at a time when researchers in the humanities were allowed towork primarily on their own projects, even if they individually also participated in collective works. (I compiled the cards for Raymond Bayer'sVocabulairephilosophique du latin [Latin philosophical vocabulary].) Now,however, according to a method copied from the normal situation in theexact sciences, researchers are asked to collaborate on a group work. Thisoften draws them away from their fields of interest, and at times even from

their areas of competence. At times, considerable personnel are gatheredto do a piece of work that a single researcher or small group of researcherscould complete much more quickly. It is true, however, that the isola

tion of researchers, with which I was familia.r;, in the 1950S and 19605, wasvery difficult. T-hereafter I was admitted to two ideal institutions, EcolePratique des Hautes Etudes and the College de France, where, as I saidbefore, one can reconcile teaching and research admirably. .I was admittedto the first with no teaching certification, and no doctoral dissertationyet, and to the second while I did not belong to the intellectual noblesse,

of which one of the principle titles is to be a former student of the Ecole

Normale Superieure, I did not even speak the language of initiates that isindispensable today in the humanities.

So I had a great deal of luck. I was admitted to the CNRS on the

recommendation ofRaymond Bayer alone. At the time, in 1950 or 1951, theprofessors, the members of the CNRS commissions, were all-powerful.Afterward I was admitted to the EPHE, thanks to the support of myprofessor Henri-Charles Puech. As I said, if I was admitted to the Collegede France, it is in large part due to Pasquale Pasquino, who had spokenof me to Michel Foucault. 1 was so unknown that one of Foucault's col

leagues, to whom Foucault had recommended my candidature, confusedme with my wife: "Ah yes, the one who wrote a book on Seneca!" Inrecognizing that I have been very fortunate, I already sketch a criticism

of the system that regulates elections in national education. I was luckydespite my ignorance of everything that one must generally do to succeed.One must begin early. Already when their children are in high school,parents must think of the best way to have them succeed in the contest of


the Ecole Normale Superieure or the other major schools [grandes ecoles].What is the best high school, the best preparatory class? Afterward, onemust choose well one's thesis director-the powerful person who will be

capable ofgetting you admitted into the CNRS or into the university. For

everything depends on the sponsor.Whether it is a question of career or of publication, one must think

of everything, one must adopt an expert tactic. During a meeting of theCollege International de Philosophie a few years ago, I was practically

reproached for publishing my book Exercises spirituels et philosophie antique [Spiritual exercises and ancient philosophy] in a "confidential" way,

through Etudes Augustiniennes, a publisher that did not have a large distribution. But I had no relations in the circle of publishers that aim at the

general public, and I was very thankful to my friend Georges Folliet for

accepting to publish this collection of studies. Things changed when Ibecame a professor at the College de France. Curiously, I was no longertransparent! I certainly was before this. Consider, for example, how thecandidate for a chair at the College who had come to see me on a candi

dacy visit told me that he was happy to make my acquaintance, althoughtwo or three years earlier I had participated with him in a colloquium in

which there were not very many of us. I had given a presentation in front

of him, had lunch facing him several times, and even spoken to him....But at the time, I was merely director at EPHE, and so not very interesting

because ineffectual in the perspective of a great career. I had not especially

retained his attention.An election is often a matter of luck, of the fortuitous meeting be

tween different interests and different politics, In the three elections I

have spoken about, there is no proof that I was admitted for reasons of

personal merit. I would be mistaken to take pride in it. The fact of havingbeen elected to an institution, as prestigious as it may be, in no way proves

that the one elected is prestigious. They often speak of elitist systems, of

elitocracies, or of meritocracies. But is it really an elite that is chosen? Is

the choice always a function ofthe competence, the intelligence, the moral

value of the work? What are the real factors that contributed to the choice?

It is ultimately a set of coincidences: the birth, the fortune, the good highschool, the ability, the luck (to have fallen on the question that one wasprepared to answer, or to have had a powerful sponsor, or to have been


used as a bargaining chip in a negotiation). Are the famous contests that

ope.n careers and ensure the recruitment of state personnel often contestsof circumstance and of luck?

J C.: You seem not to appreciate contests very much, and the teachingcertification in particular.

Does this system of contests, notably the famous teaching certification (agregation) , not harm the scientific and human development ofthe candidates? Does it not too often privilege rhetorical qualities; the

ability to treat a subject, even if one is barely familiar with it; the artof speaking in an elegant and obscure manner? Already in 1841, Balzac,in Le Cure de village [The Village Priest], brilliantly put our contest sys

tem, which was already in place at the time, on trial. (The success of ayoung man in a contest, he said, gives no certainty about the value of thegrown man he will become.) In 1900, Rene Haussoulier, in his preface toCharles Michel's collection of Greek inscriptions, spoke of the "degradingexams," of the "horizons narrowed by the B.A. or the teaching certification contests," of the French students "who have neither the leisure nor

the courage to undertake such tasks."? In 1961-62, in the summary of his

courses provided in the Annuaire de la Ve Section of I 'Ecole Pratique desHautes Etudes, Father Festugiere in turn declared, "It is saddening thatthe French students are completely devoid of curiosity, One sinks into the

emptiest of routines and watches disappear the essence of the humanities,which is to form minds." Have things really changed in this beginning ofthe twenty-first century?

Whatever the case may be, to get back to the problem I was evoking,it sometimes happens that the candidate's qualities are not the decisivefactor in an election. Here i blame not people, who always believe they aredoing what is best, but the electoral system, which seems defective to me.

In this system, politics too often plays an important role, and by "politics"

I mean especially local politics. In the universities, the advantage is givento the candidates who are already there, which can be understood to a

certain point. But it often totally eliminates consideration of the meritsof the other candidates. Moreover, when professors approach retirement,they often think of their succession and obstruct the elect jon ofcandidateswho, by their competence, could compromise and make useless the future


election of their proteges. There is also politics involved in connection

with the legitimate desire of a given professor to be elected to a particularacademy. For this, one must make oneself useful. One sometimes com

placently accepts the insistent council of a given academician who would

want to have one of his proteges elected and whose voice would be precious. Moreover, under the influence of powerful people, it also happens

that a given academy that has the right to give its opinion about the elections of the Ecole des Hautes Etudes and the College de France refuses to

accept the vote of one of these institutions' assemblies in order to obstruct

the ministry of education's nomination of a given candidate-for reasons

that appear to be more political or even religious than scientific. It thereby

inverses the order of choice: the one who had been in second position is

thus placed in first. This rarely happens, but it has been seen. There have

been famous examples. Fortunately, the national ministry of educationdoes not always allow itself to be influenced. It is almost a question of acentenary use: the Academic des Sciences Morales et Politiques had triedto obstruct Alfred Leisy's election to the College de France in this manner

in 1909.

In the case of the College de France, one must recall that this insti

tution is surrounded by serious guarantees to ensure the objectivity of its

elections. The candidate must present his titles and works, and a precise

teaching project, which all the members of the assembly are supposed to

read attentively. Moreover, the candidate must visit each of the professors,

who through questioning can take his personal qualities into account. Butthe assembly is made up of scientists and literary scholars, and one mustsay that the scientists have difficulty understanding the literary projects,and the literary scholars, the scientists' projects. The difficulty is exacer

bated by the fact that the candidates' research, particularly in the literarydomain) is so specialized that even their own colleagues have difficulty

assessing them in full knowledge of their value. How can this be rem

edied? Perhaps by obtaining evaluations from outside the assembly-andif possible, outside of France-from specialists in the field in question. In

any case, there is a real problem here, one that may be insurmountable. I

note the difficulties, but the pros and cons would have to be weighed withconsideration to find a solution.


J C.: Doyou haveanything to say about the CNRS?

I belonged to the CNRS for about fourteen years. Given the precariousness of the situation of researchers at the time, which was the almostheroic period of the CNRS, I joined a union, the CFDT [ConfederationFrancaise Democratique du Travail], to be defended, if possible, in caseI was laid off. Because the membership of the CFDT was not very largeat the time, I was even obliged to take on certain union functions, in thehuman sciences, while Mademoiselle Yon, a biologist, took care of the

exact sciences. It was a matter, for example, when the researchers obtained

the right to have delegates in the commissions, ofchoosing representativesfrom the CFDT. I myself was elected to the philosophy commission as a

union representative. This allowed me to participate in the functioning ofthe CNRS and to see how things work, In my humble opinion, duringthis period the way that researchers were recruited was rather defective. Itwas the principle do ut des [I will scratch your back if you scratch mine]that reigned.

A characteristic example: During a session in which I participated,the president of the commission, who had chosen the reporters who wereto read their evaluations of the dossiers ofa given candidate in session, had

given the dossier of his protege to Mr. X and had taken the dossier of Mr.X's protege to report on himself But I discovered after the fact that he had

prepared two reports: a favorable one, in case Mr. X upheld his end of thecontract, and an unfavorable one, in case Mr. X did not. It turned out thatMr. X upheld the contract. The president's protege was thus admitted, aswas, consequently, Mr. X's protege. He was merely a means of reward orof revenge.

Moreover, the CFDT union was not very powerful at the CNRS, atleast at the time, to the point that to be admitted as a researcher, one hadto be supported by the national syndicate of scientific researchers, tied to

the FEN [Federation de l'Education Nationale, or Federation of National

Education]. Having become director at the EPHE, after 1964 I wanted to

present a candidate who was an absolutely remarkable person and who hassince proven himself: I did not succeed in getting him admitted. For threeyears in a row I presented the same candidate, with no result, after whichI told him, Have yourself presented by another union; meet with so-andso. He was taken immediately, the following year. Thus the recruitment


was made not on the basis of the value of the candidates, but according tounion politics.

In 1968 or 1969, we had been asked for advice concerning the reformof the CNRS. In a letter to the director of the humanities at the time, Iwrote that it would be good to choose a system analogous to the one thatexists outside France, such as in Germany, in Switzerland, and I believe inCanada as well. In these countries, reports are requested from specialistsoutside the commission and even often outside the country, whether it isa question of the recruitment ofa researcher, the constitution ofa researchlaboratory, or a book grant.

This preponderance of certain university or union personalities washarmful, I think, in certain sectors, to the harmonious development of theCNRS, at least in the domain of the human sciences. When I was in thephilosophy commission, I had the habit of saying that in nature, functioncreates the organ, but at the CNRS, it is the organ that creates the function.By this I meant that if the powerful professor or a given powerful unionfelt like presenting a vague research project, it was immediately deemed tobe indispensable, without the com~ission asking itself seriously whetherthe project was really urgent and useful in the general framework of thediscipline. Incidentally, I made a committee for the reform of the CNRSlaugh one day by appealing to a terribly incoherent metaphor: "the sharkswho take the lion's share." I have the excuse of being furious.

j. C.: You were undoubtedly no softerwhen it came to the matter ofthefunctioning ofuniversity libraries.

I will leave aside the question of the Bibliotheque Nationale deFrance and focus on university libraries. When we were in the other cities,and when we saw the libraries in Canada, in England, in Germany, andin Switzerland (I did not go to the United States), it became clear thatthe students have much easier and abundant access to material than inFrance. In Canada I saw libraries in which there are small offices wherethe students can work and use computers. In Great Britain and Canada,the students have access to the book stacks. In Germany, at the Frankfurtlibrary, there is access to the book stacks; in Berlin, in an immense room,the students had at hand practically all useful literature, all the basicbooks, the collections of texts, the historical collections. In a reading room


at the Sorbonne library, there are a few dictionaries and-now this is an

enormous progress-the Collection des Universites de France (bilingualGreek and Latin texts), but it is ultimately insufficient.

The greatest concern is that students, who have great difficulty finding a place to sit in overcrowded study rooms, have all the difficulty inthe world finding books that haven't been bound, borrowed, or stolen.

Several years ago, during the winter, the lights went out in half of thereading room at the Sorbonne library; this lasted several months withoutthe slightest reparations being made. Either the students brought flash

lights, or they did not come. At the time I protested to the library admin

istrator, which had no effect-perhaps due to lack of funds! But is this

not a case in which emergency funds should have been released? The state

of great misery of the provincial libraries must also be discussed. I once

criticized the quality of a doctoral dissertation in the presence of HenriIrenee Marrou. He answered me, "Oh, what do you expect? He works inthe provinces."

J C.: Before retiring in the fall ofI99I, did you have the opportunity inthe course ofyour career to distract yourselfat all, to do anything other than

to teach or to write books?

I had the good fortune that my parents bought a piano and gave melessons when I was five years old. I took piano lessons until I entered the

Petit Seminaire at the age of ten. Then I played sonatas by Mozart andBeethoven, and waltzes by Chopin. When I got older I would say that onernust play Mozart in the morning, Beethoven at noon, and Chopin in the

evening. Subsequently, I learned to play the organ, which is a wonderfulinstrument made for the great naves and cathedrals, and it gives the impression of having an entire orchestra at one's disposal. My participation

in the liturgical ceremonies consisted in playing the organ. The one re

sponsible for liturgical music at the Grand Serninaire would reproach me

for playing pieces that were too sentimental and romantic. He put a bookof the works of Bach in my hands, demanding that I play nothing else. I

exacted my revenge by executing in such a languorous way a piece that included triplets that he came to find me, furious, saying that I had certainlynot played music by Bach. I triumphantly showed him the page of music.It remains that Bach's organ music is something to be admired. In my


youth, the piano was a passion for me. In the family home, I played severalhours a day. After leaving the Church, I continued to playa great deal,but ultimately work and concerns no longer left me the needed leisure. Ihave often attempted to come back to it. I even began taking lessons againlast year. I sometimes listen to music while working, when the effort ofreflection. is not too constraining. I heard that Merleau-Ponty did this too.Certain operas fascinate me, for example, the Chevalier a la Rose [TheKnight of the Rose], which I have listened to on videocassette every yearsince the night of Saint-Sylvestre. I adore Wagner, in relation to whom Ishare Baudelaire's enthusiasm: freed from weight, Baudelaire glided abovethe world here below by listening to Wagner's music. But there are alsoCesar Franck, Gabriel Faure, and the "In Paradisum" of the requiem, andGustav Mahler. Certain passages ofhis symphony Resurrection seem to meto express the springing up of existence.

I will not enumerate all my readings, but I will mention the authorsI have reread throughout my life. There was Montaigne, who enabled meto discover ancient philosophy and who is so inexhaustible that I have yetto explore him entirely.

Rilke was my breviary, especially during the years 1945-60. I discovered him in 1944, thanks to Gabriel Marcel's Homo Viator, which containsthe very beautiful chapter "Rilke, Witness of the Spiritual." 1 read theElegies and the Sonnets to Orpheus in the excellent edition with commentary by d'Angelloz. As I have already said, I wanted to write a dissertation on Rilke and Heidegger, because Heidegger had said that the Elegiesexpressed in poetic form what he had wanted to say in Being and Time.Jean Wahl was very sad when I gave it up, and furious at Raymond Bayer:"It is not enough that he takes my time (Bayer always ate into at least aquarter of an hour of Wahl's class, which followed his), but now he takesmy students!" I do not know whether Heidegger would have approved ofthe verse from the seventh elegy, "Being is here a splendor," but I wouldtell it to myself often. I also read Letters to a Young Poet, The NotebooksofMalte Laurids Brigge, and The Book ofHours, which spoke a great dealabout God, but in an entirely different way than in Christianity. It spokeof a God who will come, of a God who we begin to make through ourexistence, of a God who lives all lives, even the most humble. Throughhis criticism of industrial and technical civilization, Rilke made me feel


forcefully the breach between man and the Earth, between man and nature, between man and cosmic unity. Filled with enthusiasm by Rilke, Imade Rilkean pilgrimages to Sierre, where I visited the castle of Muzotand where I met Rudolf Kassner, one of Rilke's friends; and to Raron,where I saw Rilke's tomb and all of the scenery of the Valais. In this valleyof the Rhone before it Bows into Lake Leman, I always feel the presence ofRilke. I do not regret having seen the scenery of Ouino.

During the time I was discovering Rilke, I was also discoveringGerman Romanticism, thanks to Albert Beguin's L:Ame romantique etle reve [The romantic soul and the dream]. This is why for a long timeI have had a passion for Novalis, most notably for his Disciples at Sassand his Hymns to the Night; for C.W.F. Schelling as well, and for GeorgLichtenberg, who is not really a romantic but whose aphorisms are attimes entertaining and especially very profound, and I still read and reread him.

I became interested in Goethe, especially as of 1968; my paper inAscona on the philosophy of nature pushed me to him. I was seducedby his aesthetic understanding of the science of nature, which ultimatelyhas no great scientific value but already harkens, it seems to me, to thephilosophy of perception of Bergson and of Merleau-Ponty. I liked hiscriticism of human chattering, trivial and smug, which he opposes to thesilence and gravity of nature, which expresses itself in eloquent drawings.I have also read and reread Goethe's Elective Affinities, Wilhelm Meister,Faust, and especially Faust II, in which I discovered the Epicurean andStoic idea of the value of the present instant. It is an inexhaustible work.In the course of reading Goethe and books on Goethe, I realized that hewas not the Olympian we usually take him to be. Humanly speaking, hewas somewhat disappointing, often lacking courage, somewhat inclinedto the bottle, with bizarre ideas, like the one of giving his son a guillotineas a toy. Often. there is no Goethean serenity, but on the contrary, as Ihope to show in a forthcoming book, a man divided between terror andamazement.

Nietzsche is another author I have read and reread, but not entirely.Ultimately I am far from knowing the heart of his thought. I discovered him first through Ernst Bertram's Nietzsche: Essai de Mythologie[Nietzsche: an essay of mythology], which enchanted me first by its form.

Researcher, Teacher, Philosopher 5I

The book has the originality of regrouping all sorts of significant detailsabout Nietzsche's work around themes-unifying symbols, for example,such as Durer's painting, the knight, death and the devil, or the figure ofSocrates, and the scenery, such as Portofino, and Venice. I believe that thismethod is promising, because it ties the work of the author to the various experiences he has had, to the visions he has seen. Independently ofthis uncommon form, the book revealed Nietzsche himself to me in the'extraordinary richness of his internal life. Thomas Mann admired thisbook by Bertram, but it was harshly contested by the Nietzsche specialists, most notably by Charles Andler, because it does not sufficiently attend to Nietzsche's doctrine. But personally, I find that the man Nietzscheis, in all his contradictions, very well revealed in this book. Thanks toBernard Condorninas, I had the opportunity to have the translation of thebook (which had been published in 1932) republished with a new preface,in which I especially speak of Bertram and of the circle around StefanGeorge to which he belonged. This is a man, it is true, whose life and ideascan be criticized. I read Nietzsche himself the way one reads aphorisms, bydelighting myself always in his perspicacity and his lucidity.

In an entirely other order of ideas, but I will mention it nonetheless,there is a modern novelist who I adore, David Lodge, because of the truthand the humor of his paintings of the university setting, but also becauseof the Catholic setting. He is both very entertaining and very profound.

J C.: Butyour retirement is also verystudious?

In effect, I profit from this freedom to write books that have beenwaiting to be written for years: translations with commentary of Plotinus,a study on Marcus Aurelius (The Inner Citadel), a translation of book oneof Marcus Aurelius' Meditations (the sequel will follow soon, I hope). Iwas also very happy to be able to write the small book What Is AncientPhilosophy? In addition, I am trying to complete a study, begun aboutthirty years ago, devoted to the theme of the veil of nature. My grandson,who is eight, monopolizes a good deal of my time. Sometimes he asks meto write on the computer the stories he invents, and he dictates them tome as he walks from one end of my office to the other. I am very happyand proud of it.

3l__

Philosophical Discourse

Arnold I Davidson: When we approach a text ofancient philosophy,we tend to treat it as though it were a text ofmodern philosophy-either as asystematic theory o/the world, ofman, and so on, or as a sum ofpropositionsthat can be demonstrated or refuted, as it were, abstractly. According to yourperspective, however, it is a mistake oforientation to treat the texts ofancient

philosophy in the same way as the texts of modern philosophy. Would youexplain thefundamental differences between these two types oftexts, and thusthe two types ofreading required?

You are absolutely right. Ancient philosophy texts and modern philosophy texts are extremely different. The first difference is that ancientphilosophy texts also have a relation to the oral, to oral style. For example,Plato's dialogues were designed for presentation in public readings, andeven the very austere texts ofAristotle's commentators had to be presentedto students orally first. Often they come to us thanks to notes that students took during the course. It is also possible that the pre-Socratics' textswere first read in public. Incidentally, this phenomenon was not particularto philosophy; as the linguist Antoine Meillet suggests, all literary worksofantiquity have a relation to the oral. This is what explains, notably, "theimpression of slowness that they give."· Despite what certain historiansmay think, I am persuaded that ancient and even medieval civilizationswere dominated by the oral. As a result, the philosophical texts of antiquity were always directed at a limited audience. Unlike the modern

Philosophical Discourse 53

book, which can be read throughout the world, at any moment by anyone,in thousands of copies, ancient texts were addressed to precise people,whether it be the group of students or a particular disciple to whom onewrote. And one always wrote in particular, precise circumstances, whetherone put down the courses one gave in writing or wrote to a correspondentwho had asked a question. In fact, the vast majority of the philosophical writings of antiquity correspond to a play of questions and answers,because for almost three centuries, from Socrates to the first century B.C.,

the teaching of philosophy was almost always presented on the questionanswer schema. It was always a matter of responding to a question, a question posed by a student, or rather, posed by the teacher-Socrates, forexample-to oblige the student to understand all the implications of hisown thought. This culture of the question still subsisted in the scholasticism of the Middle Ages.

Teaching, then, was practiced in large part in the form of dialogue.However, after the first century ofour era, something modern, so to speak,was introduced: texts by Plato, Aristotle, Chrysippus, other Stoics, andEpicureans began to be explained and commented on. But as Hans-GeorgGadamer has remarked, their commentaries are also questions posed tothe text." Exegesis still largely consisted in responding to a question: DidPlato think that the world waseternal? for example, was a way to treat thequestion, Is the world eternal? Thus, from the beginning to the end ofancient philosophy, we have almost the same situation: philosophical writings respond to questions. For example, in the Life ofPlotinus, Porphyrysays that Plorinus composed his writings in response to the questions thatwere asked in the course. We are thus in the presence of an extremelyinteresting phenomenon: the thought that is exposed in writing is notdeveloped as the exposition of a complete system of reality. This complete system of reality probably exists in the mind of Plato, ofAristotle, ofEpicurus, or of Chrysippus, but it is supposed only in the answers to thequestions, or in the type of questions posed. The writing itself does notconsist of systematic exposition. Furthermore, as a result of this contextof writing, which is almost always narrowly tied to teaching, questionsand answers are given as a function of the needs of the audience. Theteacher who writes, or whose words are written, knows his disciples; heknows, by previous discussions, what they know, what they do not know;


he also knows their moral state, the problems that present themselves tothem; and he often speaks as a function of this particular situation. One isalways faced with a writing that is more or less a writing of circumstance,not an exposition that is absolutely universal in breadth, valid for all timesand in all countries, but rather particularized. Everything I have just saidcontrasts with the structural method, endorsed most notably by VictorGoldschmidt, which tends to minimize the role of the oral character ofancient philosophy.'

A.D.: This means that the oral has its own constraints, which are notexactly the sameas those ofthe modern mind no longer tied to the oralor toteaching for a particular group. Do you think the dialogue is a privilegedgenre in ancientphilosophy? The dialogue as aphilosophicalgenre hasall butdisappeared todayfor us; we especially havesystematic treatises. What doyouthink ofthepriority ofdialogue as literary genre tied to a very specific group,to a very specific audience?

It is true that in antiquity the dialogue was one of the fundamentalforms of teaching. For the sake of simplicity, let us say that it took ratherdiverse forms. It could take the form of an exercise of argumentation withcodified rules that aimed both to form the mind and to prepare the disciple for the oratory games of the city or the tribunal. It could take theform of a free discussion that would at times be reduced by a disciple toa single question, which the teacher would answer with a long expositionbut that was always addressed to a well-defined audience. In a certainsense, as Epictetus says about discussion with his teacher Musonius Rufus,everyone had the impression of being addressed by Musonius." At the beginning of the second book of his Definibus, Cicero does indeed describethese different forms of dialogue, but it is the form of dialogue, the question-answer schema that we have already discussed, that matters above allfor our purposes. It is very interesting to note that the Latins, when theyspoke of a philosophical writing, called it a dialogue, for example, whenreferring to the works of Cicero or of Seneca, in which we always findquestions asked by a real or fictional character.

In antiquity, philosophy was thus essentially dialogue, a living relationship between people rather than an abstract relation to ideas. It aimed


to form rather than to inform, to take up Victor Goldschmidt's excellentphrase, which he used in reference to Plato's dialogues.'

But one must add that there were other literary genres in antiquity.We have already evoked, for example, the commentary, about which wehave said, among other things, that it consisted in asking questions abouta text. But it can also be the systematic exposition' of a geometrical type,on the model of Euclid's Elements. We see it outlined in Epicurus (Letter

to Pythocles), and finding its perfect form in Proclus (Elements ofTheology

and Elements ofPhysics). I think the goal ofhis rigorous demonstration wasless to undertake a theoretical exercise ofaxiomatization than to allow thedisciple to acquire an unshakable certainty in the dogmas of the schoolthat must regulate his life. I think this is clear enough in Epicurus' case,but possibly in the case of Proclus as well.

A.D.: In antiquity there were still other philosophical genres that have

disappeared today: for example, consolations and correspondence. Now, itseems that at a certain moment, the systematic treatise invaded allphilosophy:

consolations and correspondence have become purely private: real dialogues

happen only exceptionally. What have we lost with the absence ofthese differ

ent literary genres?

Consolations and correspondence are literary genres in which thephilosopher exhorts his disciples or his friends in very specific circumstances-an unfortunate event in the case of consolations, various life circumstances in the case of correspondence, such as Epicufus' and Seneca'sLetters. These are ultimately other forms of_ dialogue. These literaryforms-dialogue, consolations, correspondence-continued to exist in theMiddle Ages, in the Renaissance, and still in the seventeenth century,but precisely in literary form, without the philosophical teaching itselftaking a dialogical form. Thus we have the dialogues of Berkeley, Hume,and other philosophers. Descartes' Letters to princess Elisabeth sometimesseem to be letters of spiritual direction, worthy of antiquity. I believe thatsystematic treatises, written with the intention of proposing a system,belong to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (Descartes, Leibniz,Wolff). The ancient literary genres gradually disappeared.

You ask if there has not been a loss from this point of view. Wewill return to this question later, but there is a partial but very real loss


of the. conception of philosophy as a mode of life, as a choice of life, astherapy as well. We have lost the personal and communal aspect of philosophy. Moreover, philosophy has progressively entrenched itself on thispurely formal path, in the search for novelty in itself at all costs. For thephilosopher, it is a question of being as original as possible, if not by creating a new system, at least by producing a discourse that makes itselfcomplicated in order to ·be original. The more or less skillful constructionof a conceptual edifice will become an end in itself. Philosophy thus hasprogressively distanced itself from the concrete life of humans.

It should also be remarked that it is possible to understand thisevolution in terms of historical and institutional factors. From the narrow perspective of the universities, it is a question of preparing studentsfor study in a scholastic program that will allow them to obtain a civilservant degree and that will open a career for them. As a result, the personal and communal relation necessarily disappears for them, in order tomake way for a teaching addressed to everyone, that is to say, to no one.Unfortunately, I think it is extremely difficult in our day to resurrect thedialogical character of ancient philosophy. It seems to me that this dialogical form of teaching is realizable only in communities of the type ofthe ancient schools, organized to live philosophy communally (sumphiloso

phein, as they used to say). Perhaps this might be possible in communitiesthat would be of the monastic type? But I believe that in everyday life andin university life, it would be very artificial.

However, without returning to a dialogical form of teaching, itdoes seem as though since the beginning of the nineteenth century weare witnessing a rediscovery of the philosophical and ethical fecundity ofdialogue, that is, of the relationship between the I and the You, which isoutlined in Schleiermacher and Feuerbach, and developed in Buber andHabermas.

A.D.: The close relations between the philosophical signification ofa

text and its literary genre are noticeable-something that is obvious in your

interpretation ofthe Thoughts ofMarcus Aurelius. Ifone thinks that these

Thoughts are a systematic treatise, one immediately realizes all sorts ofinco

herence, ofcontradictions; it seems as though there is no structure; but ifone

does understand the literary genre and the relation between literary genre

and philosophical finality of the Meditations ofMarcus Aurelius, one can


understand the text from another point ofview; one can seea logic in it, but

it is not at all the logic ofa modern systematic treatise. Can you explain how a

text like Marcus Aurelius' can again show the necessityofputting literary genre

andphilosophical specificity together in antiquity?

Marcus Aurelius' book is an absolutely privileged example to illus

trate this problem of literary genres. Different historians have fundamen- .

tally understood the Meditations as a function of their own ideal of the

philosophical literary genre. Moreover, it is remarkable that the English

did such good work on Marcus Aurelius in the seventeenth century-that

is, Thomas Gataker and Meric Casaubon (who was not English but lived

in England) both recognized the real literary genre of Marcus Aurelius;

they used the Greek word hupomnemata, which designates the notes one

takes for oneself: Furthermore, they saw that it was a question of exhorta

tions that Marcus Aurelius made to himself: By contrast, during the same

century, a Frenchman, Jean-Pierre Joly, had the notion that the apparentlydisjointed character of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations came from the fact

that he had written a systematic treatise that had been destroyed and that

someone had tried to put back into order, not unlike what happened with

Pascal's Pensees. At the time of Romanticism, it was thought to be a diary

[journal intime], like the diary of Henri Frederic Amiel or of Maurice

de Guerin-s-Marcus Aurelius, on the eve of the battles on the Danube,

expressing his disgust for life, his sadness.

There has been a return, recently, to the position of Gataker and

Casaubon, notably, in an article by Brunt," in a book by Rutherford'? andin my own work as well. There has thus been a recovery of the idea that

Marcus Aurelius was attempting to awaken in .himself the Stoic dogmas

that were to govern his life but that had lost some of their persuasive force;

thus it was necessary to attempt constantly to persuade himself anew.. His

goal was to have the Stoic dogmas at hand in an efficient manner-in

particular, the three fundamental precepts of Epictetus: never let any

thing into the mind that is not objective, always take the good of the

human community as the end of one's actions, and make one's desires

conform to the rational order of the universe. There is thus an internal

logic to Marcus Aurelius' book. Bur in order to awaken these principles inall circumstances, one must adopt the form of the aphorism: the short and

striking formula that gives them life again. Appreciation of this dimension


can enhance an understanding of ancient philosophy more generally. Inthis connection, I was influenced in' my youth by Cardinal John HenryNewman's Grammar ofAssent, in which he distinguishes notional assentand real assent. Notional assent is the acceptance of a theoretical proposition to which one adheres in an abstract way, such as a mathematicalproposition, for example, 2 and 2 make 4. This commits one to nothing;it is purely intellectual. Real assent is something that involves the whole being; one understands that the proposition to which one adheres is going tochange one's life. Newman developed this theory from the perspective ofChristian anthropology, but I think it can also be applied to the particularcase ofMarcus Aurelius. What he wants is to have real assentwith the dogmas of Stoic propositions, for example, that there is no good or evil otherthan moral good or evil, or that other human beings are related to one inreason and that one must therefore love them, forgive them. To arrive atthis real assent, one must use the imagination as well as reasoning, and anentire psychological discipline.

A.D.: In relation to thisproblem, Ifind it remarkable that WittgensteinsPhilosophical Investigations can be read in the same framework. It is in no

way a systematic treatise; ifit is read as a systematic treatise, as it sometimes

is in the United States, one says that it is full of inconsistencies and poorlywritten-the same criticisms that had been addressed to the writing ofMarcus

Aurelius. As Stanley Cavell and others have shown, however, it is a type of

dialogue-many small, continually renewed dialogues-because one must

repeatedly overcome a temptation, conduct a real therapy, in order to changethe life, not only the opinion, ofthe interlocutor, who is also Wittgenstein, who

must change himself It is not insignificant, therefore, thatyou were the first inFrance to have discovered Wittgenstein. In a text from 1959 or I960 ((Jeux de

langage et philosophic" [Language Games and Philosophy]), you used, perhapsfor the first time, the expression "spiritual exercises" to discuss Wittgenstein,

andyou insisted on the fact that in Wittgenstein there is a whole therapy, that

there is no systematicity ofthe modern type. This suggests that one can even

today recoverthe literary genre and type ofancientphilosophy, so that at every

moment in the history a/philosophy one canfind an author who tries to renewthem. Why do you think that this model-philosophy as a mode of life, asnecessity to transform onese/f---::.remains so alive, even ifit is somewhat hidden

by the things you have indicated, the university, and so on?


First I would briefly like to say something parenthetically. You haveinsisted on the fact that Wittgenstein's readers have found that there aremany inconsistencies in the Philosophical Investigations. Concerning thegenesis of the notion of philosophy as a choice of life or of the notion ofspiritual exercises in my work, it should also be said that I began by reflecting on this problem: how to understand the apparent inconsistencies ofcertain philosophers. In Munich in the 1960s, I even gave a paper that was'never published called, I believe, "Sysrerne et incoherence en philosophic"[System and incoherence in philosophy]. I have always been struck by thefact that the historians say, "Aristotle is incoherent" and "Saint Augustinewrites poorly." And this is what led me to the idea that the philosophical works of antiquity were not written as the exposition of a system butin order to produce an effect of formation. The philosopher wanted tomake the minds of his readers or listeners work, in order to improve theirdisposition. This is a rather important point, I believe. I did not beginwith more or less edifying considerations about philosophy as therapy,and so on, as opposed to philosophy as, for example.... No, it was reallya strictly literary problem, which is the following: For what reasons doancient philosophical writings seem incoherent? Why is it so difficult torecognize their rational plane?

To answer your question about the possible renewal of the ancientmodel ofphilosophy, I will restrict myself to the problem ofliterary genres,because it is our present topic. To begin, I believe that the ancient civilization of the oral has definitively disappeared since the invention of theprinting press, which itself will eventually be surpassed by the I nterner. Isaid earlier that I doubted the possibility of reviving the dialogical character of philosophical teaching. But you are right to remark that, from theRenaissance to our day, there have been authors who have tried to renew,in their writings, ancient literary genres. One can think, for example, ofMontaigne's Essays, which perfectly recalls the genres of Plutarch's treatises and Descartes' Meditations. These are spiritual exercises that takeinto consideration the time it will take the reader to be able to change hismentality and transform his way of seeing things: Shafstbury's Exercises,inspired by Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus; Schopenhauer's aphorisms;Nietzsche; or Wittgenstein's Tractatus.


II} a certain sense, one might say that there have always been twoopposed conceptions of philosophy, one puts the emphasis on the poleof discourse, the other, on the pole of choice of life. Already in antiquity,Sophists and philosophers confronted each other. The former sought toshine through the subtleties of dialectic or the magic of words; the latterrequired their disciples to make a concrete commitment to a certain modeof life. This situation ultimately spread, at times with the preponderanceof one tendency or the other. I believe that philosophers will never getbeyond the self-satisfaction they experience in the pleasure of speaking.In any event, to remain faithful to the deep-Socratic, one might sayinspiration of philosophy, a new ethic of philosophical discourse wouldhave to be proposed. As a result, philosophy would renounce taking itselfas an end in itself or, worse yet, as a means to display the philosopher'selegance, and would instead become a means to overcome oneself and tomove onto the plane of universal reason and opening to others.

41-

Interpretation, Objectivity, and

Nonsense

Arnold1. Davidson: A whole current ofcontemporary thought insists onthe fact that it is impossible to give an objective interpretation ofa text, thatinterpretation always depends on the interpreter's point ofview. This hermeneutic problem can be considered in relation to the following question: Is the

author's will, what the author meant, most important for the understanding

ofa text, or is it the autonomy ofthe text itselfthat is most important? Consequently, in order to interpret a text, should one attempt to recoverthe author's

intention, and can it be done in a more or less objective modality?

This is a question that I have asked myself often since readingGadamer's theories-which, as you say, show that the subject does indeedinterpret texts as a function of its subjectivity-as well as the very interesting Introduction to the Philosophy ofHistory by Raymond Aron, whichaddresses the difficulty of being objective. These theories have merit thatshould be recognized: they have legitimately uncovered the illusions thatwere held about the historian's objectivity as a result of neglecting theinfluence on historical interpretations of the passions, of rancor, of socialsituation, and of philosophical options. This is quite true, but it is merelyone aspect of the problem. Indeed, I believe that this relativism representsa danger, for it has quickly issued in a position that, in a sense, Foucaulthimself accepted at a certain time: not only is the exegete incapable of


really 'knowing what the author meant, but more important, the author

himself no longer exists. From here one can generate interpretations inwhich one can say anything about anything. I am not the only one to consider this to be very dangerous, and numerous examples prove it. Notably,I was struck by Ernst Gombrich's remarks in one of his books on art. He

reflects on the sense of the statue of Eros situated at Piccadilly Circus,above a fountain put up between 1886 and 1897 to honor the memory ofthe seventh Count of Shaftesbury, a great philanthropist.' He enumeratesthe successive interpretations of the monument that could have been given. At the time, the sculptor, Albert Gilbert, had declared that he wanted

to symbolize Christian charity with the figure of Eros. However, explanations of every kind-that we can now list-have been proposed since

then. Inspired by this example, Gombrich firmly states the principle thatin order to interpret a work ofart or a text, one must, before anything else,look for the author's intention. On this point, he cites a very importantbook by E. D. Hirsch concerning the interpretation of literary works.iHirsch distinguishes sense and signification in such works. He shows thatthere is a sense meant by the author, an intention that one must attemptto grasp. But subsequently he recognizes that it is possible to discoverdifferent significations that various audiences can give to the work. This

can explain the successive interpretations of the status ofEros at PiccadillyCircus. Furthermore, this or that expression, or such and such a symbol,

can, by themselves, have various implications. For example, the choice

of the figure of Eros can carry, as a result of the collective representations concerning the figure of Eros, certain implications that escape theauthor's intention. As Andre Gide said in Paludes, "If we know what we

meant to say, we do not know if that is all we were saying. One always saysmore than 'that.'" Hirsch's book is also relevant in another respect. He

effectively insists on the fact that the sense of the text meant by the author

depends narrowly on the literary genre to which the text belongs. It is clearthat this book, which is in fact very nuanced, runs against the current ofthe present fashion. Is this the reason it has never been translated into

French, despite my efforts to have it translated? It leads one to believe thatit is not only in Rome that there is a list of prohibited books.

A. D.: Those who criticize the idea that the sense ofthe text can be re

covered through the author's intention conceive ofthe author's intention as a

Interpretation, Objectivity, and Nonsense 63

secret psychological reality that must be uncovered. One might say that youhavefound the key to readingMarcus Aurelius' Meditations without introducing a secret or a psychological or biological discovery.

In the aphorisms of Marcus Aurelius' book, a triadic structure canbe recognized-the distinction of three disciplines or exercises (asceses):the discipline of desires, the discipline of action, and the discipline ofjudgment. These disciplines consist, respectively, in making one's desires,actions, and judgments conform to reason. The presence of this schema,easily recognizable throughout the book, shows that it responds to an intention of the author. These repetitions do not aim, for example, to informthe readers about a Stoic doctrine. No, the author's intention is clear. ForMarcus Aurelius, it is a matter of reactualizing, of awakening, the dogmasthat must conduct life. The manuscripts say that Marcus Aurelius' bookis "By himself," which corresponds perfectly to the intention of the author. These are not thoughts directed at others, or effusions of the author'ssensibility. The author's intention is not a matter of psychological or biographical discovery. His intention is clearly inscribed in the content andform of the work. One must nevertheless recognize that, for the moderninterpreter, it is very difficult to grasp the author's intention. It is very easyto fall into anachronism, because we are not aware of many of the historical conditions under which it was written-who it is aimed at, who it copies, perhaps. This is how it can have been thought that in his book MarcusAurelius was giving us his everyday states of mind, just as Rousseau wasconfessing in pis Confessions, or Plato was methodically developing in hisdialogues. In fact, Augustine's title, Confessiones, means "God's praises,"as the opening lines of the work clearly show-praises for what God didfor Augustine, but also for humans in general-because Augustine hada tendency to consider the events of his life as symbols of the history offaith. For example, in describing the famous theft of pears committed inhis youth, he in fact means to describe Adam's sin in taking the forbiddenfruit in the Garden of Eden. The allusions to the biblical texts that appearin his text show it clearly. As for Plato's dialogues, without getting into thequarrel about Plato's oral teaching, there seems to be general agreementwith Victor Goldschmidt on the point that Plato wrote them not to inform but to form. Whatever the case may be, as E. D. Hirsch has correctly


remarked, the first way to recognize the author's intention is to look forthe literary genre to which the work belongs.

In a general way, in fact, with regard to ancient authors, the rules ofdiscourse are rigorously codified. One must take into account the fact thatthey were writing in a traditional system that obeyed the requirementsproper to each literary genre. One does not write in the same way whenone exhorts someone, when one consoles him, when one exposes a doctrine, or when one dialogues. In order to understand exactly the breadthof an affirmation, and all the more so for the general sense of a work, onemust carefully distinguish, first, what the author must say-for example,because he is a Platonist or a Stoic, or because he is addressing a particularaudience that is more or less formed-then what the author can say-forexample, he can exaggerate the presentation ofa doctrine in order to strikethe mind more effectively, or be unfaithful to the dogmas of the schoolbecause he wants to adapt to a certain audience-and finally, what theauthor means [veux dire, literally, wants to say]' his deep intention-forexample, in Marcus Aurelius' case it is self-exhortation; in the case ofAugustine's Confessions, it is not so much to confess as to sing the work ofGod in the world and in humans.

It is possible to suppose that the archaic authors or the founders ofthe schools were also conditioned by a tradition of preexisting literarygenres. I think this is in fact the case. In history there is never an absolutebeginning. Oriental models influenced the first Greek thinkers. GerardNaddaf has shown the importance of a triadic structure in the writingsof the pre-Socratics-genesis of the gods, genesis of humans, and genesisof the city-inherited from Babylonian cosmogonical myths, the literarygenre to which the biblical genesis belongs.I This schema is found in theTimaeus [dialogue], which is also a genesis, a history ofgenerations. Theseauthors thereby attach themselves to a tradition that precedes them. Theschool founders are tributaries of multiple traditions. Plato, for example,should be situated in the Socratic, Pythagorean, and sophistical traditions.I believe it was Bergson who said that every philosopher thinks in reactionto another thinker, but this situation also conditions; it imposes a determinate problematic, and sometimes restrains the momentum of everyphilosopher's thought.


Besides, C1-S you said, if one speaks of the intention of the author, it is

not a matter ofa more or less secret psychology. This type ofpsychologicalinterpretation is based on the idea that a work of art is the expression ofa unique individuality, a Romantic idea that neglects the constraints thatalways weigh on an author. With regard to the ancient world, it does nottake into account the conception of literary composition at the time. Theauthor's intention is in fact the choice made with regard to the goal of hiswork, its mode of presentation, its method, the way in which it plays withall the rules that impose themselves.

Historical psychology must be handled with much precaution. For

example, despite what some have meant to show on the basis of the factthat Fronto, Marcus Aurelius' future rhetoric teacher, wrote to him about

his illnesses after Galen had given anatomy lectures to the Roman aristocrats, one must not believe that the second century after Jesus Christ washypochondriacal. Here again, the true intentions must be determined.The content of the letters shows that Fronto did not intend to describe hismalaises complacently, but simply wished to excuse himself for his absences. With respect to the Roman aristocrats, it was a matter not of morbidcuriosity but of scientific curiosity. We know that these characters were

Aristotelians, and thus impassioned by scientific research. That Lucretius,

as a good Epicurean, sought to deliver humans from their anxiety does notmean that he was anxious himself: It is very risky to speak of "the anxietyof Lucretius/"

There are also cases in which the author does not mean everythinghe says and in which all the sentences of a text do not necessarily expresshis thought. This happens especially in cases where an author uses another author without saying so, as happens quite often, at least it did atthe end of antiquity (and sometimes does in our day ... ). For example,the Latin Fathers and the Greek Fathers sometimes wanted to illustrate

their sermons with beautiful thoughts borrowed from pagans. Thus they

cited Plotinus, but without saying so and often for one, single sentence.One can see the relation between this sentence and the rest of the sermon.Thus they wanted to cite this passage of Plotinus because of one sentence.They cited the context of the sentence, even though the context dealt withsomething different than the sentence that mattered to them. As a result,many interpreters say that Ambrose and Gregory ofNyssa were Platonists.


But one cannot saddle the author with the entire doctrine contained in

one too-frequently cited passage. Thus there will be sentences in a textthat do not correspond to an assertion the author makes. One cannotsay, at that moment, that it is the author's intention to affirm this or thatdoctrine. To arrive at the author's will in a probable manner, one mustundertake a tight criticism of the author's text.

A. D.: Then you think it ispossible to attain a sortofobjectivityin theinterpretation?

All the work of the interpreter must consist in attempting to locateobjective facts whenever possible. To take an example from late antiquity,

if one reads a text by Ambrose of Milan and finds in it a Greek text byOrigen translated word for word, as I happened to find in Ambrose's sermon on the apology of David, one thing is certain: he had contact withthe Greek text. Sometimes it is so flagrant that one could find a Greekword missing in Origen's text, thanks to Ambrose's Latin. Here is a domain in which scientific rigor is the goal. The great idea I retained fromPaul Henry is precisely that only literal and not doctrinal comparisonsare conclusive. That is to say that when one looks for doctrinal relations,

which is what most historians do, one can maintain that a given authorhad been influenced by another author strictly on the basis of vague resemblances or places described by many authors. But this proves nothingat all. On the contrary, when there really is an accumulation of incontestable paraIIels, one can conclude in an objective manner that a relationexists between the authors. This is only one example in a very specificdomain, but many others could be listed. Thus the parallels between specific conceptual structures, expressed in a characteristic vocabulary, canalso be conclusive. Consider, for example, the triadic structure shared by

Epicretus and Marcus Aurelius that I discussed earlier. There again, objective facts can be found.

The problem of scientific objectivity is extremely interesting fromthe point of view of spiritual exercises. Since Aristotle, it has been recognized that science should be disinterested. To study a text or microbes orthe stars, one must undo oneself from one's subjectivity. Gadamer andRaymond Aron will say, that is impossible. But I nevertheless think thisis an ideal that one must attempt to attain through constant practice.


Thus the scholars who have the rare courage to recognize that they weremistaken in aparticular case, or who try not to be influenced by their ownprejudices, are undertaking a spiritual exercise of self-detachment. Let ussay that objectivity is a virtue, and one that is very difficult to practice.One must undo oneself from the partiality of the individual and impassioned self in order to elevate oneself to the universality of the rational self:I have always thought that the exercise of political democracy, as it should'be practiced, should correspond to this attitude as well. Self-detachmentis a moral attitude that should be demanded of both the politician andthe scholar.

A.D.: Let usproceedto another aspect ofyour thought about the objectivity ofinterpretation. You have written, "Investigations about thepast musthave an actual, personal, formative, and existential sense." You have alwaysinsistedon thispoint, sothefollowing questionpresents itself: How to reconcilethe objectivity, albeitprobable, ofthe interpretation with the actual sense ofaphilosophical text?I find what you wrote in the preface to Bertram's book onNietzsche extraordinary: "The writing ofhistory, indeedprobably much likeall human activity, must bea coincidentia oppositorum by trying to respondto two equallyurgentcontraryrequirements. In ordertoperceive and evaluatehistoricalreality, there must be, on the one hand, a conscious and total selfcommitment, and on the other hand, an intended objectivity and impartiality. To my eyes, it is only the ascesis ofscientific rigor, that selfdetachmentrequiredfor an objective and impartial judgment, that will be able to giveus the right to implicate ourselves in history, to give it an existential sense. "5

What remains betweenthese two requirements ofthepossibility ofan "actual"sense ofa text?

I did not remember having written that, but I am quite pleased thatyou refer to it, because it corresponds nicely with what I feel about theproblem today. I think that the first of these requirements, not only fora scholar but also for someone who reads an ancient text, is to aim forobjectivity and, if possible) for truth. That is to say that there is no pointin distorting the meaning of a text in order to adapt it to the requirementsof modern life, or to the aspirations of the soul, and so on. The first taskis above all objectivity. Wh~never possible, one must attempt to resituatethe text under study in its historical perspective. It is extremely important


not to commit anachronisms in the haste of giving texts meaning. Onthis score, I would like to evoke briefly one ofmy constant concerns in theinterpretation of texts, precisely to avoid anachronism. This is the effortto resiruate, as much as possible, the works within the concrete conditionsin which they were written. On the one hand, there are spiritual conditions, that is, philosophical, rhetorical, or poetic traditions. On the otherhand, there are material conditions, namely, scholastic and social milieu,constraints arising from the material support of writing, and historicalcircumstances. Every work should be resiruared in the praxis from whichit emanates.

But as Aristotle said about pleasure, there is always added to theeffort of objectivity a supplement, a surplus, which is the possibility offinding our spiritual nourishment in it. This time, we are in a certainsense implicated in the interpretation. If one tries to understand a textproperly, I believe that afterward one can be brought, almost spontaneously, to discover its human meaning, that is, to situate it in relation tothe general problem of humanity, of the human, even if it is not edifying at all. Thus one can basically do as the Stoics did concerning theirrepresentations.. First, begin with adequate and objective judgment: thisis what was said. Then, eventually, make a judgment of value: this hasa given significance for my life. This time, one can speak of a return tosubjectivity, a subjectivity that, incidentally, attempts to elevate itself to auniversal perspective.

In fact, the meaning intended by the ancient author is never actual.It is ancient, and that is all there is to it. But it can take on an actualsignificance for us to the extent that it can appear to us as, for example,the source of certain actual ideas, or especially because it can inspire anactual attitude in us, an inner act, or a spiritual exercise. On this point,I find what Raymond Ruyer has written interesting: "No one except thespecialists are very interested in the preambles of Stoicism, taken fromHeraclitus' physics, or in Epicurean morality, or Democritean atomism.But as attitudes, Stoicism and Epicureanism remain very alive."? Onemust therefore distinguish from the ideology that justified the attitude inthe past, the concrete attitude that can be actualized. In order to actualizea message from antiquity, one must draw from it everything that marksits time. One must demythologize it, as Bultmann said about the gospel.


One must attempt to isolate the inner reasoning, the concrete attitude itimplies. In Epicureanism, for example, there is an attitude of welcomingthe present that remains valuable without taking into account the theoriesabout the minimum and maximum of pleasure-very technical theories that Epicurus had in any case apparently borrowed from Aristotle.Analogously, the Stoic attitude of concentrating on the present withoutallowing oneself to be crushed by the past or worried about the futurealso remains valuable. Furthermore, at times an ancient phrase remainscompletely free of the mythological and sociological conditionings we discussed. For example, when Marcus Aurelius writes, "Soon you will haveforgotten everything, soon everyone will forget you," the aphorism speaksto us directly. It has, one might say, an eternal value. Nietzsche refers to the"good sentence, too hard' for the tooth of time, imperishable in the midstof everything that changes."? The meaning intended by Marcus Aureliuswas tied to- the need to exhort himself to think of death. In this sense, it is

. historically marked, but it can be reactualized without difficulty.

A.D.: IfI understand you correctly, this means that after the quest forobjectivity there is a second moment ofevaluation, and to evaluate an ancienttext, one must do something to actualize it. One must not deform it, but

reemploy it in another context, from the point ofview ofour actual requirements. This implies that what remains important is the coreo/significance tobe reactualized. This callsto mind our idea that there are universal philosophical attitudes, that is, a universal Platonic type, a universal Epicureanism)and so on, always equal to itselfbut always in a different context, and alwaysto be reactualized.

Obviously, affirming that there are universal attitudes supposessomething like the idea of a human nature..Let us say at least that theseattitudes are transhistorical and transcultural. When I previously calledattention to this question in The Inner Citadel, I said, if I recall, thatfinally there are really only a few possible attitudes in relation to existence,and without the influence of historical order, the different civilizationsare led to have, in this regard, analogous attitudes. This is obvious for theChinese. In What isAncient Philosophy? I cited this extraordinary examplefrom Pyrrho, who tried to arrive at perfect indifference by living a life thatwas perfectly equal to the life of every other human, who took care of his


sister's pig, and who sold fowl in the market. Then I cited the attitudeof the Chinese philosopher Lie Yukou, who did exactly the same thing,taking CC1:re of the pig and the household chores to help his wife. This attitude of indifference-for example, remaining the same regardless of thecircumstances; refusing to judge the value of things; refusing to say, this isgood, this is bad; accepting everything in life; doing everything like everyone else but without getting attached to anything, by remaining indifferent to everything-that is the skeptical attitude. I do not mean skepticalin the seventeenth-century sense of the word, as signifying the intellectualrefusal of certainty, but rather in reference to the contexts of Greece andChina, for example, where it is a matter of refusing to pass value judgments on things. This is an attitude that does seem to be universal, thatone might, for that matter, discover for oneself: Without needing to readthis or that, it can happen by itself: Olivier Lacombe compared Plotinus'mysticism to certain tendencies of Hindu thought. One could say thatthere is in both cases an effort to overcome all duality. Might one notthink that this analogy is based in one of the universal forms of mysticalexperience? Another example: the Stoic attitude, which consists in consenting to destiny, and also in putting oneself in a universal perspective,can be found in China. The Chinese texts cited by Jacques Gernet arerather conclusive. Emile Brehier, for his part, compared the Stoic attitudeswith certain Buddhist attitudes. It is quite feasible also to conceive thatEpicureanism, that is, an attitude of release, could be universal. This ideaof a universality of spiritual exercises can also be situated in the perspective ofthe effort to remove what is essential in an attitude~in a choice oflife-from its mythical and traditional straightjacket.

A.D.: I would like to mention another methodological domain thatyou outlined in a little text from I968: "Philosophie, exegese et contresens"[Philosophy, exegesis, and nonsense]. You emphasize that there are in the

history ofphilosophy cases of nonsense and incomprehension that, you say,"very often provoked an important evolution in the history ofphilosophy,and notably made new notions appear." Obviously, nonsense is not a mode

ofobjectivity, but you have signaled the importance ofwhat you call creatingnonsense.

Interpretation> ObjectivifJ!, and Nonsense 7 I

In the short, perhaps thirty-year-old text you refer to, I may havebeen somewhat temerarious in formulating, as it were, general principlesto understand the evolution of the history of philosophy. Also, in speaking of cases of nonsense in the history of philosophy; I was thinking especially of ancient philosophy. The deformations that Aristotle inflictedon the thought of the pre-Socratics is, for example, well known. TheNeoplatonists were not to be outdone in attempting to artificially systematize disparate and often irreconcilable notions taken from Plato's dialogues, and moreover, associating them with mythical notions taken fromOrphic poems or the Chaldean Oracles [Oracles chaldaiques: Ancient, especially Neoplatonic, hermeneutics makes a text say exactly what it wantsit to say, and thereby quietly commits a multitude of inconsistencies thattake the most varied form. Moreover, it has a very efficient instrument atits service for this, namely, the allegory, which allows one to attribute totexts significations that are all the further from their original meaning.The allegory was dear to the Stoics, the Platonists, and. the Christians. Itnotably allows the Christians to vindicate the continuity between the OldTestament and the New Testament, as .Michel Tardieu has shown.

It is true that new concepts were occasioned by false interpretationsand nonsense. It seems to me that a good example is the Heraclitean aphorism usually translated "Nature likes to hide itself" [phusis kruptesthaiphilell. I studied the history of the interpretation of this text in my 1983courses at College de France, and I hope to publish a book on rhis subject. The original meaning of this aphorism is very difficult to determine.Without repeating the entire discussion, I can say only that it seems to methat this meaning is connected to the antithesis between life and death.Given the meaning of the word phusisat the time, this could be either,"That which gives life tends to give death" or "That which is born tends todie." But with the evolution of the word phusis in the following centuries,the aphorism took on very different meanings in different philosophies.Philo of Alexandria, who cites it at the beginning of our era, gives it themeaning, "Nature likes to hide," which seems to me to contradict theoriginal meaning, especially in view of the fact that for Philo nature isnothing other than the creating God. From this perspective, nature hidesitself because it is transcendent. The aphorism takes on yet another meaning for the Neoplatonists. For them, nature corresponds to the lowest part


of reality, to the sensible world, and to inferior divinities. If nature likes

to hide, it is not because of its transcendence but rather because of its

weakness and inferiority; and from this perspective, "to hide" signifies to

wrap oneself in the veils of the body and of myth. I cannot give the entirehistory of the theme here, ·but I will say that for Heidegger, Heraclitus'aphorism takes on yet another meaning. He translated it as follows: "To

hide belongs to the predilection of Being." Thus he identifies phusis andBeing: it is in the very essence of Being to hide itself: What appears is beings, but their very appearing, that through which they appear-that is,

Being-refuses to reveal itself: That which makes beings appear hides it

self Thus one can see an entire series of new meanings emerge from three

enigmatic words, and we are not even sure of-knowing what the author

meant by them. In any case, it is possible to speak of creative nonsense,

of creators of new sense, because his sense implies concepts that not evenHeraclitus could have thought of. This does not mean that nonsense creates truth.

What had impressed me in 1968 was this accumulation of momentsof incomprehension, of false interpretations, of allegorical fantasies that

had survived throughout the history of philosophy, at least of ancient

philosophy-for example, the history of the philosophy of ousia, that

is, of essence or substance, from Aristotle to the theological quarrels of

the Church Fathers and of the Scholastics. What a tower of Babel! It is

troubling to think that reason operates with such irrational methods and

that philosophical discourse (and theological discourse as well) can haveevolved at the whim of exegetical fantasies and nonsense. But this is atopic that cannot be addressed with a few sentences, and I was, as I have

already said, temerarious to treat it in such a short text.

A.D.: We spoke first ofobjectivity, then of the searchfor an "original

meaning," then ofcreating nonsense. Perhaps a case of creating nonsense is

sometimes tied to a requirement that makes it actual? The actualization ofancient thought has sometimes required cases ofnonsense. Do you think thereare two requirements, that ofobjectivity and that of the "actual" meaning,

and that sometimes the reactualization happens through a caseofnonsense?

To answer you, I would appeal to an example from Husser! that I developed in my inaugural lecture to the College de France. At the end ofhis


Cartesian Meditations, Husserl cites, to illustrate his thought, a phrase ofAugustine: Noli foras ire, in te redi, in interiore homine habitat ueritas, "Do

not look outside, return to yourself: truth lives inside man." Augustine'stext is a citation from Saint Paul, but as Augustine presents it, the citationis nonsense in relation to Saint Paul's text. The mistake is not Augustine'sbut that of the Latin version of the Bible he cites. This version undulybrings together elements that belong to different sentences. In the firstsentence, Paul says he hopes that Christ lives (a) in the heart ofhis disciples.In the second sentence, Paul hopes. that his disciples will be fortified in re

gard to what concerns inner man (b). The Latin version that Augustine citespresents the following text: "That Christ lives [a] in inner man [b]." Thisgroup of words obviously does not correspond to the author's intention,but Augustine recognizes his own doctrine in it. He replaces Christ withTruth, which is obvious for him. He gives a new meaning to the phrase byusing it to affirm that Truth is found in the conversion of the self towarditself. Husserl uses this phrase by tying it to another phrase, the one by theoracle at Delphi: "Know yourself,' He writes, "The Delphic oracle 'Knowyourself' has taken on a new meaning. First, one must lose the world byepoche (that is, the phenomenological bracketing of the world), in order torecover it thereafter in a universal coming to consciousness ofoneself: Noli

foras ire, in te redi, interiore homine habitat ueritas" One is in the presencehere, first, of an actualization of the Pauline phrase that Augustine reemploys to describe the attitude of inner conversion; then, ofan actualization of the Delphic phrase by Husserl, for whom self-knowledge becomesthe transcendental ego's coming to consciousness; and finally, of Husserl'sactualization of the Augustinian phrase: inner man become transcendental ego. I would say that if we have a good example of reactualization anda remarkable homage given by Husserl to the ancient tradition, prolongedin his eyes by Descartes' Meditations, which he thereby restores to thattradition, there really is no nonsense. This is because, in the case of theDelphic oracle, in the case ofAugustine, and finally in the case of Husserl,the reactualization operated by Husserl is not situated in the conceptualorder. It is a matter not of the interpretation of a text but of the retrieving[reprise] of an existential attitude, a deepening of the self-consciousnessthat undoes itself from the world in order better to find it. It is preciselya matter of the successive reactualizations of a spiritual exercise, of an act


of spirit. If it is possible to actualize an attitude, then a spiritual exercise,an inner act, a text must, on the contrary, be understood and interpretedwithin the perspective of its time. Even if it is acts of creating nonsensethat allow new concepts to appear unexpectedly, this does not mean thatone can actualize a text at the price of nonsense. The requirement of objectivity must never disappear. In other words-and this brings us backto the beginning of the conversation-ancient texts cannot be treated asthough they were contemporary texts without the risk of completely deforming their meaning. This is often the error of analytic philosophers,who treat philosophers without any historical distance. It leads one to believe that they would be astonished that Aristotle was not aware of Russelland Whitehead's Principia Mathematica. It seems to me that the primaryquality of a historian of philosophy, and undoubtedly of a philosopher, isto have a historical sense.

5l-

Unitary Experience and

Philosophical Life

Arnold I Davidson: You have had a vigorous interest in mysticism forsome time nato, and in Plotinus' mysticism in particular. What is the originof the reasonfor, this interest?

This did not come from the experience of my adolescence that Ialluded to. If: in the course of my religious education, I encounteredChristian mysticism, I did not make the connection between what I wasexperiencing and what I was reading in the Christian mystics. When Iwas still very young I read Pascal, who had used the famous phrase "Godsensible to the heart." There was also a "memorial" found sewn into hissuit after his death that relates a sort ofecstasy he had experienced in 1654.In any case, I discovered the term mystical experience for the first time ina book by distinguished neo-Thomist Jacques Maritain, Distinguer pourunir ou les degresdu savoir [Distinguish to unite, or the degrees of knowledge], which locates it precisely at the peak of knowledge. More importantly, however, in the "spiritual" readings we did at the Grand Seminairewere works by jean de la Croix [John of the Cross]. This mystic codifiedthe steps of the mystical itinerary, distinguishing three paths: the purgative path, the illuminative path, and the unitary path, which, incidentally,were inherited" from Plotinus and Neoplatonism. But he also wrote admirable poems that were very seductive to me. I experienced the desire


to have analogous experiences. In my eyes, this was the highest point ahuman life could attain. I naively believed myself capable of reaching it,as every Christian does, for that matter. I was so fascinated by Jean de laCroix that I wanted to abandon the secular clergy to join the religiousorder of the Carmelites, a contemplative and eremitic order-preciselythe one to which Jean de la Croix belonged. The prior of the CarmelitesofAvon, not far from Fontainebleau, where I went on a retreat, helpedmeunderstand that the desire for direct contact with God was a mistake, and

that one must absolutely pass through Jesus Christ. One might also askoneself whether finally the Christian message is compatible with mysticism, because mystical experience, as I was saying, is supposed to afforddirect contact with God, whereas in Christianity, Christ is the indispens

able mediator. But this is not the occasion to tackle this difficult problem.In any case, I did not have even the slightest mystical experience.

In Maritain's book, Plotinus' mysticism was evoked several times inorder to show the extent to which it was inferior to Christian mysticism,but Maritain recognized that it had iniluenced Saint Augustine. This iswhy, in 1945-46, I began to read Plotinus, especially the treatises in whichhe speaks about his mystical experience. I also discovered a purely philosophical mysticism in this way.

I would add that although I worked on Plotinus' mystical texts for along time, in doing so I approached only a minuscule part of the giganticdomain of universal mysticism.

A. D.: Is thereaphilosophicalpreparationfor mysticalexperience, even ifthispreparationdoes not guarantee the desiredresult, that is, mysticalunion?The questioncan be asked in another way. In your view, what is the relationbetweenspiritual exercises and unitary experience?

In Plotinus, there are two paths that prepare one for experience:

first there is a cognitive path, on which one studies theology, and notably, negative theology. Plotinus says it is a matter, as it were, of signpoststhat indicate the path but do not make us take it. Then there is a practical path, which is the real path that concretely leads to experience. ForPlotinus, this' practical path consists of purifications, askesis, spiritualexercises, the practice of virtues, and the effort to live according to theSpirit. In this sense, one might say that, for Plotinus, philosophy, both in

Unitary Experience and Philosophical Life 77

its discourse and in its choice of life, prepares one for mystical experience.I just used the word Spiritdesignedly, as I have in some of my translationsof Plotinus. What I mean by the word Spirit is a reality that most translators and commentators of Plotinus call, and with good reason, Intellect.This is the first being that emanates immediately from the supreme reality, the supreme reality being for Plotinus the absolute One. The Intellect,which is divine, contains all the Forms of beings, all the Ideas. If I h~ve

often used the word Spirit, a word that has obvious spiritual connotations, it is precisely it) order to be in a better position to understand theexpression "live according to the Spirit." For it is perhaps more difficultto understand what it might mean to live according to the Intellect. Butas Emile Brehier has convincingly shown, for Plotinus the Intellect represents, above all, a spiritual attitude ofself-collection in meditation.' Whenone says that the human self lives according to the Intellect or the Spirit,or identifies with it, this means it has perfect transparency in its relationto itself: that it overcomes the individual aspect of the self to attain thelevel of universality and interiority. In effect, the Intellect is, as it were, theplace where all beings are interior to one another, each Form being bothitself and all the Forms. The self is thus interior to itself: to the others, andto the Spirit. To attain this level of self is, incidentally, already to attain afirst degree ofmystical experience, for it is a matter ofa mode of being andof suprarational thought. The superior degree would be the state of totalunity, contact with the One, which is also the Good.

A. D.: In other words, there are levels ofmysticism. But there is anotherproblem tied to the type ofmysticism. Given that a mystical experience canbe provoked by artificial means-drugs, for example-is there a differencebetween an experienceprovoked in this manner and the unitary experienceofthe great mystics?

On this point I can't pretend that I have anything relevant to say.I can only recommend Michel Hulin's book, which gives this problemexcellent treatment. His book is called La Mystique sauvage [Savage mysticism]; I have already mentioned it.2 He means by this term the set ofmystical experiences that are tied not to a religion or to a spiritual tradition, in which he includes both the "oceanic sentiment" and experiencesobtained through the use of drugs. As for the experiences obtained under


the influence of drugs, which seem to give an impression that is ratheranalogous to mystical experience, he shows that these are artificial experiences. This is because they are not based on an effective transformationof the individual in the framework of a moral and ascetic preparation,and they have the result that the individual is prey to an impression of theunreal, of despair, of anxiety; therefore, in the end it is a matter of ratherdestructive experiences.

We have already called attention to the oceanic sentiment-to whichMichel Hulin devotes some extremely interesting pages-s-in relation tothe experiences I have had, in my youth especially but occasionally since.In general, primarily at first, they presented themselves to me suddenly,spontaneously, with no ascetic or intellectual preparation. Since then, Ihave often tried to awaken the consciousness of my existence as part of theuniverse, to recover the intensity of this experience, and sometimes I havesucceeded. Whatever the case may be, I think that what I experienced wasa piece of good luck for me. It was at the origin of my philosophical vocation and ofa greater sensibility to nature, to the universe, and to existence.I have the impression that the oceanic sentiment is quite different from,for example, Christian or Plotinian mystical experience, Obviously onecould say that what both experiences share is that the self experiences thesentiment of a presence or a fusion with something else, but it seems tome that there is in mysticism of the Christian or Plorinian type a certainpersonal relationship, often expressed in terms borrowed from the vocabulary of love. One can guess that there is a tendency in Plotinus to personifywhen he speaks of the One as a god.

A. D.: In effect, the terms used to describe mystical experience and ex

periences oflove are often the same. What exactly is the relation between theexperience oflove and the mystical operation?

It is a fact that all the mystics in all the spiritual traditions describewhat they experience in terms borrowed from the experience of love. It isa universal phenomenon-for example, in the Jewish tradition, in whichthe Song of Songs is both a love poem and a mystical poem. This is alsothe case for the Muslims, the Hindus, and the Christians, where onceagain the Song of Songs is taken to express union with God. This is alsotrue in the Platonic tradition, in Plato's Phaedrusand Symposium, in which

Unitary Experience and Philosophical Life 79

this love is sublimated. What is remarkable in Plotinus is that, unlike in

Plato-I noticed this in Treatise 50-not only masculine love but alsoconjugal love can be a model for mystical experience. In fact, in Plotinusthere is not only a comparison between union with God and union inlove; there is also the idea that human love is the point of departure formystical experience, which is the prolonging ofhuman love. For ifwe lovea being, it is because, first and foremost, we love supreme Beauty. It is be~

cause through love supreme Beauty attracts us, and thus Beauty is alreadya sign of the possibility of a mystical experience. The union of bodies, forthat matter, to be two in one, serves as a model for the union between the

mystic and the object of his experience. One would have to relate everyother problem to this subject. Mystical experience could be, for the mystic,

a compensation for ascetic privation of the pleasures of love, and it couldeven be that mystical experience is accompanied by sexual pleasures, by asexual repercussion in the body. But I do not have sufficient expertise inthe psychology of the mystics to be able to discuss this.

A.D.: You have made an important distinction, recently, between nega

tive theology and mystical experience. Negative theology is a rational method,

a philosophical discourse, but mystical experience requires a concrete itinerary

o/transformation beyond rational discourse. Asyou wrote in your commentaryon Treatise 38, "reason, by theological methods, can raise itself to the notion

ofthe Good, but only life according to the Spirit can lead to the reality ofthe

Good. '-S Can you specify the relationship between negative theology and the

concrete expression ofmysticism?

To begin, let us specify what negative theology means. It is a theology, thus a discourse on God, but one that uses only negations. Thus, toborrow examples from Pseudo-Denys the Areopagite's Mystical Theology,

God is not mobile, or immobile, or unity, or deity, or good, or spirit,

and so on. The reason for these negations is that God is considered totranscend all the predicates that humans can use to speak of him. Thismethod makes us aware of the fact that the supreme principle is inconceiv

able, that the Absolute cannot be an object that one can speak about and,as Plotinus says, that in speaking of him we are merely speaking aboutourselves. (It is understood that one can speak only of what is relative.)"This theological method was developed in Platonism, especially since the


first century B.C. (by Philo ofAlexandria), and was taken up by Christiansand Gnostics. I think that negative theology and mysticism are too oftenconfused. This is indeed a pervasive confusion, and one might say that itis historically grounded. Pseudo-Denys' book does have the word mysticalin its title. But for the Greek tradition, this word signifies "secret." In fact,if we examine its content, it is nothing but a treatise on negative theology. But Plotinus, as you said, very clearly distinguishes negative theology,which is a purely rational and abstract method, from unitary experience.Earlier I said that he compares it to a signpost that indicates the path,but the signpost is not the path. The path is askesis and life by the Spirit.However, negative theology is nevertheless closely related to unitary experience. One might say that the accumulation of negations provokes a voidin the soul that predisposes one to the experience.

There is a link between unspeakable and mystical in Wittgenstein'sTractatus Logico-Philosophicus (but one cannot say that this is a case ofnegative theology). He writes, "There are, indeed, things that cannot beput into .words. They make themselves manifest. They are what is mystical."5 It seems to me that for Wittgenstein the limit of language-theunsayable-s-which is also the "mystical," is existence itself: the existenceof the world. "The mystical is the fact that the world is."

A.D.: You wrote that mystical experience seems universal whereas the

description and the interpretation ofthis experience are always tied to a tradi

tion, a set ofdogmas, a universe ofdeterminate thought. How does one com

bine the universality ofthis experience and the plurality ofthese descriptions?

I think it is in fact a case ofa universal phenomenon. There is an immense mystical literature throughout the world: in the Far East (Taoism,Brahmanism, Buddhism), in Greece (Platonism and Neoplatonism), andin Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, under the influence, incidentally, ofNeoplatonism. To this one must add the numerous experiences of "savagemysticism" that Michel Hulin discusses. In the descriptions of the mystics, mystical experience appears everywhere with the same fundamentalcharacteristics: it is unspeakable; it brings either delicious anguish or joyand appeasement; in general, it comes and goes suddenly. But there arealso differences. First, the mystic's attention may be directed toward spiritual objects-for example, in Plotinus, toward the Spirit and the One, and

UnitaryExperience and Philosophical Life 81

in Jean de la Croix, toward the Trinity-but it may also be directed at thesensible-for example, in Zen Buddhism, as Pierre Ryckmans says, "TheBuddha's absolute is discovered in the absolute ofthe banal and immediatereal.'" In Wittgenstein, one might think that the mystic's attention is directed at existence ("that the world is"). Moreover, the theoretical or theological explanations of this state differ considerably from one tradition toanother. For example, Jean de la Croix and the Christian mystics consider'these states to be the effect of a divine grace that associates the soul withthe inner life of the Trinity: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Plotinus, for hispart, explains the union of love with the One as follows: There are twoaspects or two moments of the divine Spirit or the Divine Intellect-themoment in which it is generated from the One and in which it is not yet"thinking" but only "loving" or in a contact of loving intoxication withits source, and another moment in which it constitutes itself as thinkingSpirit. The soul, unified with the divine Spirit, undergoes unitary experience when it coincides with the loving Spirit. In other traditions onewould find different explanations.

But of what does the experience itself really consist, and how is oneto explain it? This is what is most important, and I am completely incapable of saying. I have tried, in my works on Plotinus, to provide theelements of a response. But it is a very slim contribution, for the problemis gigantic.

A.D.: It seems as though philosophical preparations-s-ascetic, moral,intellectual-s-baue become just as important for you as unitary experience.Even ifthis experience isneverproduced, the behaviors thatpreparefor it havevalue. What is the relation between thepossibility ofa unitary experience andall the necessities ofa philosophical life?

Before giving my opinion, I will, after all, say a few words aboutPlotinus. I believe that, for him, if philosophical life in fact prepares onefor an eventual mystical experience, this philosophical life has value initself: All things considered, Plotinus' mystical experiences were extremelyrare. Porphyry tells us that the rest of the time-that is, almost all thetime-he tried "to be present to himself and to others,"? which ultimatelyis an excellent definition ofwhat every philosophical life should be.


If we now consider the problem in a general manner, we must alsosay that ecstatic experiences are not an integral part ofa philosophical life.If they occur, under one form or another, it is true that they can open perspectives on the mystery of existence for the philosopher, but they cannotbe ends, and seeking to provoke them would be useless.

A.D.: At the end of the Postface of the most recent edition of Plotinou la simplicite du regard [Plotinus or the simplicity ofvision}, you directa small criticism at Plotinian mysticism. You write, "Cut away everything,

said Plotinus; but in a living contradiction would not one also have to say,

Welcome all things?" This criticism is undoubtedly tied to a change in yourphilosophicalpreferences, for it seemsto me thatyou are now more attracted byStoicism and the Stoic spiritual exercises than by Neoplatonic mysticism.

In itself: Plotinus' advice to the one who wishes to attain unitaryexperience-"Cut away everything"-can appear to remain legitimate,in its own particular perspective. It is a matter of overcoming everythingparticular, determinate, or limited, in a moment that stops at nothingbut always goes toward infinity; for in the Platonic tradition, every determination is something negative. Yet by adding "Welcome all things," Iwanted to convey that, in the face of this mysticism of cutting away, therewas room for a mysticism of welcoming, a mysticism according to whichthings are not a screen that would hinder us from seeing the light, buta colored reflection that reveals it and in which "we have life," as Faustsaid about a waterfall in the prologue to Faust II One can recognize thepresence of the indescribable in the simplest, humblest, most everydayrealities. Allow me, in order to make myself understood, to indulge in alengthy citation of Hugo von Hofmannsthal's The Lord Chandos Letter:"When I found a half-full watering can the other evening forgotten undera walnut tree by some gardener, with its water darkened by the shade ofthe tree and covered from one end to the other by an aquatic insect, all thisassemblage of insignificant things communicated the presence of infinityto me so strongly that a chill ran through me from the roots of my hair tothe base ofmy heels, to the point that I would like to burst into words thatI know, if I found them, would bring these Cherubimsthat I do not believein down." It is not only a question of inanimate objects. Daily life itself:notably the relations we have with other humans, can be charged with a

UnitaryExperience and Philosophical Life 83

mystical, or at least sacred, value. Already Seneca had said, "The humanis for humans a sacred thing." My criticism of Plotinus is thus situated inthe general perspective of universal mysticism. I wanted to emphasize thatthere are numerous types of mystical experience.

I would add that my doubts concerning Plotinian mysticism alreadyappeared in 1963, in the conclusion of Plotin ou La simplicite du regard[Plotinus or the simplicity of vision]. There I insisted on the distance thatnow separates us from Plotinus. Plotinus' mysticism appeared in this context as, to use Bergson's expression, a "call"-a call not to reproduce thePlotinian experience with servility, but simply to welcome the mysterious,the ineffable, and the transcendent in human experience with courage.For I had sensed in writing this book how it would risk, if taken literally,leading the reader into the mirage, the illusion of the "purely spiritual," farfrom concrete reality. The danger was confirmed for me as soon as I hadcompleted the book. 1 have already elsewhere described how, after havingstayed cloistered for a month in order to write this small work, I had, whileout to get bread from the baker, a strange impression. But I rnisexpressedmyself in my story when I wrote, "I had the impression of finding myselfon an unknown planet." In fact, in seeing the ordinary folks all aroundme in the bakery, I rather had the impression of having lived a month inanother world, completely strange to our world, and worse than thistotally unreal and even unlivable. This did not stop me from continuingfor years to work on Plotinus, both to study the extraordinary phenomenon that is mystical experience, and to attempt to define the relation thatconnected this experience and the teaching of Plotinus, as well as out oflove for the beauty of certain mystical pages of Plotinus. Yet, from a personal point of view, mystical experience, whether Christian or Platonic,did not hold my interest as it did during my youth, and Neoplatonismseemed to me an untenable position. Notably, I had quickly moved awayfrom the attitude ofJean Trouillard, who both in his books and in his lifeprofessed a sort of Neoplatonism. For him, Plotinus was still actual, andhe reproached me for having written the sentence at the end of Plotinou fasimplicite du regard on the gap separating us from Plotinus.

To return to your question, it is true that, now, in order to understandmy idea of philosophy, it seems to me that Stoicism and Epicureanism aremore accessible than Plotinus to our contemporaries. Certain Epicurean


thoughts, certain aphorisms by Marcus Aurelius, and certain pages bySeneca can suggest attitudes that can still be taken up today. On the contrary, it is almost impossible for us to understand what Plotinus meantwithout clarifying his text with long commentaries; this is, incidentally,why in 1987 I undertook my collection, published at Editions de Cerf andnow in Le Livre de Poche, of Plotinus' Les Ecrits [Writings].

A.D.: In mystical experience thereis a transformation ofthe self Thereisalso, and this isan apparentparadox, a rupture with the self How canselftransformation also bea rupture with the self?

On the one hand, in the description that Plotinus gives of mysticalexperience, one finds numerous expressions in which he insists on the factthat the self loses itself One might say he is no longer soul, he is not evenSpirit anymore, obviously he is no longer body; that is the rupture withthe self:8 On the other hand, there is also a whole series of expressions,notably in the ninth Treatise, in which he speaks ofeffusion, of dilatation,of expansion of the self which give the impression of an intensificationof the self.9 This would be the aspect of self-transformation. Finally, Iwonder whether these two aspects are not one and the same. At the moment ofecstasy, the selfleaves its limits and dilates itself in infinity. This isboth a loss and a gain, the ascension of the self to a higher mode of being.One might say that the highest point the self can attain is the point atwhich one has the impression of losing oneself in something that totallyovercomes one. But it remains that, for Plotinus, .this state is not a break inthe train ofconsciousness, because the soul will remember the ecstasy andwill talk about it-in an inexact way, Plotinus emphasizes.

A.D.: In Plotin ou la simplicite du regard [Plotinus or the simplicityofvision}, you usedthe expression "the true self" [Ie vrai moil. But is it not atransformation ofthe selfratherthan the discovery ofthe "true self"?

This question brings me to specify what one might mean by levelsof the "self" I would distinguish three levels, plus one. The three levelswould be, first, that of sensible consciousness, whereby the self behavesas though it were indistinguishable from the body; then, that of rational consciousness, whereby the self becomes aware of itself as soul and

Unitary Experience and PhilosophicalLife 85

as discursive reflection; and finally, the level of spiritual consciousness,in which the self discovers that it has always been, unconsciously, Spiritor Intellect, and thus overcomes rational consciousness to attain a sort ofspiritual and intuitive lucidity, without discourse and without reflection.This is the level that Plotinus and especially his disciple Porphyry considerto be the true self. Philosophy consists in elevating oneself from the firstto the third level. '

I said three levels, plus one, because mystical experience would represent a completely different level. In the mystical experience of the One,this true self overcomes its state of identification with Spirit and achievesa state of absolute unity and simplicity. He lives, as it were, with Spirit inthe state of indetermination and infinity-of drunkenness, Plotinus says,in which the Spirit finds itself at the moment of its birth out of the One. Itovercomes itself: therefore, and transforms itself; it dilates itself in infinity.But for a philosopher, this is an exceptional experience.

A.D.: You cite, in connection with Plotinus' experience, this verse byPaul Claudel: "Someone within me who is even more myselfthan me."

In Claudel, it is a case not of Plotinian mysticism but of a Christianperspective, that is, the idea that the Creator is fundamentally more ourselves than we are ourselves, because he is the origin of the self: One couldsay that the same holds in the case of Plotinus' doctrine, because the Oneis also at the origin of things. But I wonder if I was right to cite Claudelabout Plotinus. On this point I can list only the aporias. First, the ChristianGod is personal, and he can be conceived-as "someone," as a self internalto ourselves. The Plotinian One is not personal. The Spirit can be ourtrue self because it is defined and doubled into subject and object, but theAbsolute of the One cannot be our self. This is why I wonder whether, inPlotinian mystical experience, one can speak of an identification betweenthe self and the One. How can the relative coincide with the Absolute?It would be preferable to speak of a sense of an indefinable Presence. Itremains that Plotinus does seem to speak of identification explicitly, in theninth treatise." I understand this passage as the description of an impression of identification. These are the questions I am asking myself:


A. D.: One might add that in your article "Lafigure du sage,"you have

shown that the problem ofthe true selfis also tied to the problem ofwisdomand not only to the problem ofmysticism; one must always seek the selfabove

oneself The true selfis both inside and outside; it is a continual searchfor thebestpart ofoneself which is a selfovercoming as well as the recognition ofthe

fact that one part ofourselves is our true self This is the case in Stoicism, in

Aristotle, and in Plotinus.

It is true that in Aristotle, for example, the Intellect appears as something that overcomes us and that is of a divine order while remaining ourtrue self. That which is the essence of the human is thus something thatsurpasses it. Plotinus says of the Intellect that it is a part of ourselves towhich we elevate ourselves. Marcus Aurelius speaks of the daimon, aninner divinity, that is no other, ultimately, than reason, which is bothourselves and above ourselves. When the philosopher attempts to attainwisdom, he tends toward this state, in which he would be perfectly identical to the true self: which is the ideal self.

Generally speaking, I personally tend to conceive of the fundamental philosophical choice as an overcoming of the partial, biased, egocentric, egoist self in order to attain the level of a higher self This self seesall things from a perspective of universality and totality, and becomesaware of itself as part of the cosmos that encompasses, then, the totality of things. I retained the following sentence from Anne Cheng's bookHistoire de la pensee chinoise [History of Chinese thought], about the Tao(or Dao): "Every form of spirituality begins by a 'letting go,' a renunciation of the limited and limiting self,"!' This remark makes me think thatthis idea of a change of levels of self can be found in extremely differentphilosophies.

Gl__

Philosophical Discourse as

Spiritual Exercise

Arnold I. Davidson: From aphilosophicalpoint ofview, what isa spiritual exercise? Wouldyou give us some examples?

As far as I know, the expression "spiritual exercises" has not beenused very often in relation to philosophy. In a book published in 1954entitled Seelenfiihrung: Methodik der Exerzitien in derAntike [The direction ofsouls: Method of exercises in antiquity], Paul Rabbow, whose workhas been an inspiration for all those interested in this aspect of philosophy, used the expression "moral exercise." He showed that Saint Ignatius'famous Spiritual Exercises belong to this tradition. In 1945, Louis Gernetspoke of an "exercise" in reference to the technique of collecting and concentrating the soul.' And in 1964, in his book Myth and Thought in theGreeks, Jean-Pierre Vernant spoke of "spiritual exercises" in relation toEmpedocles and techniques of recollection of past lives.? The expressionseems rare, but it is not all that unusual.

I would define spiritual exercises as voluntary, personal practicesmeant to bring about a transformation of the individual, a transformation of the sel£ We have seen two examples of these spiritual exerciseswith Jean-Pierre Vernant and Louis Gernet. Another ancient example ispreparations for the difficulties oflife, an exercise thought highly ofby theStoics. To be able to bear the strokes of fate, sickness, poverty, and exile,

88 Philosophical Discourse asSpiritualExercise

one must prepare oneself in thought for their possibility. One is better ableto bear what is expected. This exercise can in fact be found considerablyearlier than the Stoics. It had been favored by Anaxagoras and again byEuripides, in his play about Theseus. Besides, Anaxagoras spoke like aStoic before his time when, upon learning of the death of his son, he declared, "I knew that I had given birth to a mortal being." Another exampleis formulated by Plato in the Phaedo: "To do philosophy is to exercisedying," that is, to separate oneself from the body, from the order of thesenses and the selfish point of view it implies. The Epicureans also appealto spiritual exercises: the examination of conscience, for example, or theconfession of misdeeds, meditation, and the limitation of desires.

Despite my attempts to avoid it, some of what I have written aboutspiritual exercises in general may suggest that spiritual exercises are addedto philosophical theory, to philosophical discourse, that they would bepractice that merely complements theory and abstract discourse. In fact,all philosophy is an exercise-instructional discourse no less than the inner discourse that orients our actions. Obviously the exercises take placeprimarily in and through inner discourse-there is even an expression forthis, a Greek term often used by Epictetus in his Manuel: epilegein, that isto say, "to add an inner discourse to the situation," for example, by recitingmaxims such as "One must not will what does not occur, but one mustwill that what occurs, occurs as it occurs." These are inner expressionsthat are used, and they alter the individual's disposition. But there are alsospiritual exercises in outer discourse, in the discourse of instruction, andthis is very important for me insofar as my main preoccupation has beenprecisely to show that what was considered to be pure theory, abstraction,was practice in both its mode of exposition and its finality. When Platowrites his dialogues, when Aristotle gives his courses and publishes hiscourse notes, when Epictetus writes his letters or even his very complicated and lengthy treatise on nature {which has unfortunately come tous in tatters, in small pieces found in Herculaneum)-in all these cases,indeed, the philosopher expounds a doctrine. However, he exposes it in acertain way-a way that aims to form more than to inform. Often, as Ihave said, philosophical discourse presents itself in the form of an answerto a question, in connection with the school's method of instruction. Infact, one does not answer the question right away. If the goal were simply

Philosophical Discourseas Spiritual Exercise 89

to satisfy the desire for knowledge, it would suffice to provide for a givenquestion a given answer. Most of the time in the ancient context, and thisis characteristic of Aristotle, the question is not answered immediately.Many detours are taken in order to provide an answer. The same holds inPlato's dialogues or in Plotinus. The demonstration is even rehearsed several times. These detours and repetitions aim first to teach one to how toreason, but also to allow the object of investigation to become, as Aristotlewould say, perfectly familiar and connatural, and ultimately to interiorizeknowledge perfectly.' The meaning of these exercises is obvious in whatwe call Socratic discourse, which of course is ultimately also Platonic discourse, in which the questions or the answers aim to provoke a doubt, anemotion-as Plato says, to make a bite mark in the reader. This type ofdialogue is an exercise (ascese); one must subject oneself to the laws of discussion, that is, (I) to recognize the other's right to self-expression; (2) torecognize that what is obvious is to be welcomed, which is often difficultwhen one is wrong; and (3) to recognize the norm, above the interlocutors, of what the Greeks call logos-an objective discourse, or at least onethat aims to be objective. This is obviously true of Socratic discourse, butit is also true of so-called theoretical exposition, which aims primarily atbringing the disciple to lead a spiritual life. It is a matter of rising aboveand moving :beyond inferior reasoning-and especially what is obviousto the senses, knowledge of the senses-to rise toward pure thought andthe love of truth. This is why I think that theoretical exposition can beconsidered a spiritual exercise. It is also true that theoretical expositioncannot be complete if the listener does not make an inner effort at thesame time, for as Plotinus, for example, said, it is impossible to understandthat the soul is immortal if one does not detach oneself from the passionsand the body.

A.D.: How did you come to realize the centrality ofspiritual exercises

in antiquity? As you have said, it was not at all the result ofa quest forspirituality, but rather the consequence ofa methodologicalproblem: how to

interpret ancient philosophy texts. Can exercise and system be methodologi

cally opposed?

At first, as I have already said, the problem for me was to explainthe (apparent) incoherencies of the philosophers. There was the enigma of


Plato's dialogues, which are often aporetic and not consistent with eachother, I was also surprised to see Paul Moraux, in "his introduction toAristotle's Treatise on the Heavens, say that Aristotle contradicts himselfand that he writes poorly. Moreover, it was extremely difficult to grasp themovement of thought in Plotinus' treatises. Finally, I came to think thatthese apparent inconsistencies could be explained by the fact that Greekphilosophers did not aim, above all, to provide a systematic theory of reality, but to teach their disciples a method with which to orient themselves,both in thought and in life. I would not say that the notion of a system-did not exist in antiquity. The word existed, but it designated an organized totality whose parts depended on each other rather than an edificeof thoughts. The notion of systematic thought existed as well, under theinfluence of Euclid's geometry and axiomatics. I have already touched onthe existence of a philosophical literary genre that can be characterized assystematic that consists in deducing all the possible consequences fromfundamental principles and axioms. In fact, this effort at systematizationwas meant to allow the disciple to have at hand the fundamental dogmasthat gujde action and to acquire the .unshakable certainty given by the impression of logical rigor and coherence. This is true of the Stoics, famousfor the coherence of their doctrine, but also of Epicurus in his Letters, inwhich the trace of the model for Euclid's Elements can be recognized.

In summary, two things can be remarked. On the one hand, in myefforts of interpretation, I have discovered that when one wishes to interpret a philosophical work of antiquity, one must first of all endeavor tofollow the movement, the meanders of the author's thought-in short, theseries of dialectical or spiritual exercises that are not necessarily rigorouslycoherent but that the philosopher has his disciples practice. In Aristotle,for example, it takes the form of repeating an exposition from differentpoints ofdeparture. On the other hand, when the philosopher aims to besystematic, for example, in certain texts of Epicurus or the Stoics, it is often a matter of the practice of a spiritual-as it were, a mnemotechnicexercise that aims for a better assimilation of the dogmas that determinea mode of life, and for the possession of these dogmas in oneself withcertainty.

Philosophical Discourse asSpiritualExercise 91

A.D.: Might one not say that the goal ofa modern system is to give an

explanation ofthe world, ofman, and that, contrary to this, the primary goalin an ancientphilosophical text is to transform the listener?

I think I have already mentioned it but recall Victor Goldschmidt'sformula about Plato's dialogues, which is absolutely extraordinary, Hesaid, "These dialogues aim not to inform but to form." I think that in factthis is valid for all ancient philosophy. Naturally, philosophical discoursealso provides information about being, matter, heavenly phenomena, andthe elements. However, it is also meant to form the spirit, to teach it torecognize problems and methods of reasoning, and to allow one to orientoneselfin thought and in life. I believe that Werner Jaeger had an excellentintuition when he titled his book Paideia, which signifies "formation"-abook in which he gives an exposition of the entire universe of archaic andclassical thought. For the Greeks, what counts is the formation of thebody and the spirit. When Epictetus designates the philosopher who hasmade progress, he often says that he is pepaideumenos, that he is "formed."This is perhaps the main contrast with a certain modern philosophy, thisattitude in relation to formation.

A .. D.: This means that ifone tears the philosophers'formulas from theircontext ofenunciation to see in them the expression oftheoretical propositions

that are absolutely valid, one risks twisting their signification, deforming themeaning?

Personally, I always prefer to study a philosopher by analyzing his orher works rather than looking to put together a system by extracting theoretical propositions from his or her works, separated from their context.The works are alive; they are an act, a movement that carries the authorand the reader. Systematic studies are like herbariums full of dead leaves.Within the framework of a particular work-for example, Epicurus'Letter to Herodotus-it is perfectly acceptable to take the assertions aboutnature proposed by Epicurus as absolutely valid theoretical propositions.Epicurus himself meant to present them as theoretical propositions whenhe wrote the letter. But one must also not forget their context, that is,the therapeutic role he explicitly ascribes to them at the end of the Letter.these propositions must ensure the peace of the disciple's soul, to deliver

92 Philosophical Discourse asSpiritual Exercise

him from the fear of the gods. Presumably these theoretical propositionswere made in a way that aimed to produce their .liberating effect mosteffectively.

One must always be prudent when it comes to deciding about thetheoretical content of a philosophical text. Throughout antiquity, thePlatonists argued about whether in the Timaeus Plato had really wantedto teach that the world was created in time by a maker who would havereasoned in order to make it the best possible. This is nevertheless what heexplicitly says. But the Neoplatonists believed that for Plato the world ofthe senses was eternal, that it emanated from the intelligible world withoutintervention from a will or an act ofreasoning. For them, Plato's assertionsmust be situated in the perspective of the mythic discourse that Platoset out to develop in the Timaeus. In general, the meaning of an assertion must be interpreted as a function of the literary genre chosen by theauthor, and of the context in which this assertion is inscribed. We havediscussed this in a previous conversation.

A. D.: When we hear the expression "spiritual exercises, "we almost spontaneously think ofChristian religion and spirituality; but you maintain thatthis interpretation ofthe expression is too limited, because spiritual exercisesneed not be tied to religion, either historically orphilosophically. What doyoumean by the word spiritual?

The expression "spiritual exercises" has been vigorously disputed,even by my dear colleague and friend Sandra Laugier at a meeting of theCollege Philosophique devoted to my work. As I said the first time I wroteabout the subject, it is not currently in favor (de bon ton). Yet a certainnumber of philosophers have quite easily accepted it-thus my colleagueLuc Brisson, or Michel Onfray, who professes a hedonistic materialism.

Why did I choose it, and why can I say that it was not because of itspossible religious connotations? I chose it for the following reasons. I hadbeen quite struck by the title of a collection that appeared shortly afterthe war: La Poesie comme exercice spirituel [Poetry as a spiritual exercise].Unfortunately I lost this book, but the title had shed light for me on thenotion ofpoetry. Later, in Elisabeth Brisson's book, I read that Beethovenreferred to the exercises of musical composition that he required of hisstudents and that were meant to attain a form of wisdom-one that

Philosophical Discourse as Spiritual Exercise 93

might be called aesthetic-as spiritual exercises." Moreover, Paul Rabbow,whom I mentioned earlier, has shown that Saint Ignatius' famous SpiritualExercises were inherited from ancient thought through the intermediationof the monks, who employed the expression "spiritual exercises" to referto their own practice. The guiding thread of Paul Rabbow's book, at leastin my eyes, was to show that ultimately the expression "spiritual exercises"was not religious because it had a philosophical origin. This is the secondreason I employed the words. Thirdly, I nevertheless attempted to avoidthe words, and I tried everything that one could say instead. "Moral exercises" was not good because they were not only exercises of a moral order;"ethical exercises" did not work either; and "intellectual exercises" did notcover everything that is represented by the notion of spiritual exercises.One could speak, if need be, of practices. Raymond Ruyer had employedthe expression montages, but this gives the impression of something arrificial.' I don't like the expression "self-practices" [pratiques de SOl] thatFoucault brought into style, and the expression "self-writing" [ecriture deSOt] even less. It is not "self" [SOt] that one practices any more than it is"self" [sotl that one writes. One practices exercises to transform the self [LemOl] and one writes sentences to influence the self [Le mOl]. It is worth noting, parenthetically, that this is yet another example of the impropriety ofcontemporary philosophical jargon. Thus I have resigned myselfto employthe expression "spiritual exercises," and all things considered, this is quitestandard; the notion has been employed frequently and" for a long time todesignate the voluntary practices I have discussed. Finally, the expression"spiritual exercises" does not fool anyone; people-philosophers, historians-have used it without thinking of either 'religion or Saint Ignatius.I made up my mind when I found a fragment of his journal in GeorgesFriedmann's La Puissance et La sagesse [Power and wisdom] in which hesays, "Every day, a spiritual exercise," and the examples of practices heprovides could very well be those of the Stoics. He was in no way thinkingof practices of a religious order. Moreover, as I have already said, JeanPierre Vernant has used the words in relation to ancient practices, whichincluded exercises such as respiratory techniques. Even if these techniquesare corporeal, they nonetheless have spiritual value, because they provokea psychic effect. Ultimately, I do not think the expression is problematic.


Nevertheless, it is not in itself enough to express my conception ofancient philosophy, which is a spiritual exercise because it is a mode of life,a form of life, a choice of life.

A.D.: Spiritual exercises are usually situated in the ethicalpart ofphilosopby, whereas the logical and physical parts remain theoretical. But youhaveshown that in reality the border between the theoretical and thepracticalpasses inside each part or discipline ofphilosophy. It is an elementofcapitalimportance for your interpretation to establish that logic, physics, and ethicsare bothpracticaland theoretical.

I think that what you have just said is very important. The thingseemed clear to me about the Stoics, but I came to the realization that itwas a general phenomenon in all antiquity. The Stoics thus distinguishedphilosophical discourse, and philosophy itself: By this they meant thatwhen one teaches philosophy-philosophical discourse being divided intothree parts: logic, physics, and ethics-one explains the theory oflogic, thetheory of physics, and the theory of morality to the students. At the sametime, they would say that this philosophical discourse was not philosophy.Philosophy was the effective, concrete, lived exercise; the practice of logic,ofethics, and of physics. Real logic is not the pure theory of logic but livedlogic, the act of thinking in a correct way, of exercising one's thinking ina correct way in everyday life. There is thus a lived logic, which the Stoicswould say consists in criticizing representations, that is, the images thatcome from the outside world~to not rush to say that a given thing thathappens is evil or good, but to reflect, to criticize representation.

This is obviously also true of ethics. Genuine ethics is not ethicaltheory but ethics lived in life with other people. The same holds for physics. Real physics is not the theory of physics but lived physics, that is, acertain attitude toward the cosmos. This lived physics consists, first of all,in seeing things such as they are-not from an anthropological and egoistical point of view, but from the perspective of the cosmos and nature.This attitude appears clearly in what might be called Marcus Aurelius'physical definitions-definitions that consider the object of the definition to be part of nature, for example, the earth and human things are aninfinitesimal point in the immensity; the imperial crimson, the blood ofaseashell; death, a phenomenon of nature.

Philosophical Discourse as Spiritual Exercise 95

This lived physics also consists in becoming aware of the fact thatwe are a part of the Whole and must accept the necessary unfolding ofthis Whole with which we identify, because we are one of its parts. Itconsists, finally, in contemplating the universe, in its splendor, by recognizing the beauty of the most humble things. For that matter, this aspectof lived physics can be found in all the schools. In an article I wrote called"Physique et poesie dans le Timeetie Platon" [Physics and poetry in Plato'sTimaeus], I tried to show that Plato's Timaeus is indeed basically a spiritualexercise in which the philosopher tries to put himself back in the perspective of the Whole. This is even true in the tradition of Platonists with, asit were, skeptical tendencies. Cicero says, for example, that even if onecannot know much about nature, applying oneself to the knowledge ofnature, that is, contemplating nature, is something that provokes a verygreat pleasure. And here, basically, Cicero is merely Aristotle's heir in thevery beautiful passage of the book On the Parts ofAnimals, where he tooexplains that the study of natural phenomena, even the ones that can seemthe most repugnant, provokes a great pleasure. I believe that this holdsuntil the end of antiquity. Think also of Ptolemy's famous poem that says,when I contemplate the stars, I am no longer a mere mortal.f To broadenthe historical horizon somewhat, I think that this practice of physics as aspiritual exercise has in fact always existed in the history of philosophy.Goethe is a perfect example of this, for all his naturalist studies are alwaystied to a certain existential experience. It is a physics, but one that hasspiritual value. One also finds this conception of physics, despite certainextravagances, in German Romanticism.

A.D.: The idea ofa cosmic consciousness, which is for us a rather dis

concerting idea, belongs to the perspective ofa spiritual exercise ofphysics.

One can thus endeavor to attain cosmic consciousness. Do you think this is an

exercise that one can practice today?

In his book entitled Malicorne, Hubert Reeves speaks of the shockthat observers experience in discovering Saturn through a telescope for thefirst time." This emotion and this experience depend not on the developments of contemporary physics, but on the experience of perception, onthe contact of one part of the universe with another part of the universe.


In fact, there are two ways to apprehend the world. There is the scientificway, which uses measuring instruments, exploration, and mathematicalcalculations. But there is also the naive use of perception. This dualitycan be more fully understood by thinking of Husserl's remark, taken upby Merleau-Ponty: ,theoretical physics admits and proves that the Earthmoves, but from the point of view of perception, the Earth is immobile.Now, perception is the foundation of the life we live. It is from the perspective of perception that the spiritual exercise you refer to can be seen,and it is probably better not to call it "spiritual exercise of physics," because in our day the word physics has only one, very precise meaning. Itis preferable, rather, to call it the realization of the presence of the worldand of our belonging to the world. Here the experience of the philosophercoincides with the experience of the poet and the painter. As Bergson hasconvincingly shown, this exercise effectively consists in overcoming theutilitarian perception we have of the world, in order to attain a disinterested perception of the world-not as a means of satisfying our interests,but simply as the world, which emerges before our eyes as though wewere seeing it for the first time. As Merleau-Ponty says, "Real philosophyis to learn to see the world again." Thus it appears as a transformation ofperception. On this point I would also cite an article by Carlo Ginzburgthat alludes to a spiritual exercise that is sometimes practiced by writers(Ginzburg speaks of Tolstoy), and that consists of perceiving things asstrange." As an example of such a mode of vision, he specifically citesMarcus Aurelius and his physical definitions, of which I have spoken. Toperceive things as strange is to transform one's way of looking so that onehas the impression of seeing them for the first time, by freeing oneselffrom habit and banality.

For that matter, it is a question not of a purely aesthetic contemplation, but of an exercise meant to bring us beyond, once again, our biasedand partial point of view, to bring us to see things and our personal existence in a cosmic and universal perspective, to situate us in the immenseevent of the universe, but also, one might say, in the unfathomable mystery of existence. This is what I call cosmic consciousness.

I add, moreover, that the developments ofcontemporary physics andastronomy, through the vertiginous perspectives that they open, can lead

Philosophical Discourse asSpiritual Exercise 97

even the scholar to overcome the limits of pure scientific reasoning andto realize both the enigmatic and the grandiose character of the universe.This was the case with Einstein, and there are certainly many other casesof this kind. I am not sufficiently acquainted with the current scientificliterature to be able to cite them all.

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Philosophy as Life and as

Quest for Wisdom

Arnold I Davidson: In antiquity, six schools ofphilosophy stoodoutPlatonism, Stoicism, Cynicism, Epicureanism, and Skepticism-each with itsown characteristic spiritual exercises. But these schools can also be diffirentiated bytheir choice ofa veryparticular way oflife. This choice ofa way oflife,ofan existentialattitude, represents, as it were, the specificity ofeach school.What isa philosophical way oflife, and what is the relationship that exists between thephilosophical choice ofa way oflife and everyday life?

The philosophical way of life is quite simply the philosopher's behavior in everyday life. For example, Quintus Mucius Scaevola, a RomanStoic of the Republican period who was governor of the province ofAsia,made it a point of honor to pay for his stay in Asia out of his own pocket,thereby effectively obliging those around him to do the same and to putan end to the excesses of the Roman tax collectors. The Stoics from theScaevola family were also the only ones to apply to themselves the laws decreed against luxury. Thus, in everyday life they had an austerity, a moralrigor that the others lacked. Obviously here I'm talking especially about amoral attitude, but one that could be extended to other domains. In fact,each school has a characteristic behavior. Incidentally, there is a need herefor a study that has never, to my knowledge, been exhaustively conductedaround the question of how the comic actors, and thus ordinary folks,

Philosophy as Lifeand as Questfor Wisdom 99

saw the different schools of philosophy. The Platonists were consideredproud, having-Epictetus discusses it as well-"a haughty brow." As forthe Epicureans, they had the reputation of not eating anything. Unlikethe current picture of Epicureanism, they were considered to be peoplewho lived a very simple life. The Stoics were regarded as excessively austere people. The only ones who were not remarked on were the Skeptics)because they were conformists. This is the external aspect, seen by the'comic authors.

How philosophy could have been a way of life can be readily understood if one thinks of the Cynics, who developed no doctrines and taughtnothing but were content to live according to a certain style. I will refrainfrom telling the story of Diogenes' tub and merely submit that these werepeople who refused the conventions of everyday life, the habitual mentality of ordinary people. They were content with very little, begged, werefull of shamelessness, and masturbated in public. Their way of life was areturn to noncivilized nature. Without going to this extreme, all of theschools were distinguished especially by their choice of a way of life. InPlato's time, the philosophical attitude of the Platonists was characterized by a triple aspect. There was first the concern to exercise a politicalinfluence, but directed toward the norms of the Platonic ideal. There wasalso, second, the Socratic tradition, that is, the will to discuss, to presentteaching according to the method of questions and answers; and intellectualism, for what was essential in Platonism was the movement towardseparation of the soul and thebody, the detachment of the body, and evena tendency to exceed reasoning. With the Neoplatonists, finally, there was,third, the idea that life should be a life of thought, a life of the mind.

In the Aristotelian tradition, one might say that the way oflife-andthis is also characteristic-is finally the life of the scholar, a life devotedto studies, not only of the natural sciences but of mathematics, astronomy,history, and geography as well. Perhaps we will return to the matter lateron, but this is a mode of life that, to use the Aristotelian term, can becalled theoretics, the mode of life in which one "contemplates" things. Thisalso involves participation in divine thought, with the Prime Mover ofthe universe, as well as contemplation of the stars. Here one finds thenotion of physics as a spiritual exercise. The Aristotelian recognition ofthe purely disinterested character of the sciences is also interesting. The

100 Philosophy asLife and as Questfor Wisdom

theoretic is study that is not undertaken for a particular interest, for material objectives.

As for the Epicureans, to whom I alluded earlier, their way of lifeconsisted primarily in a certain kind of asceticism of desires meant tomaintain the most perfect tranquility of spirit. The elimination of desireswas a condition of happiness. It is well known that they distinguishedbetween- natural desires and necessities (drinking, eating, sleeping), natural and non-necessary desires (sexual desire), and desires that are neithernatural nor necessary (desires for glory and for wealth). Normally onehad to content oneself with the absolutely necessary desires. At least inprinciple, this excluded political action, but there were exceptions. Theywithdrew from matters of-the city as much as possible. In general, we havean idea of Epicurean life primarily through Epicurus' correspondence, aswell as through the poems of the Epicurean Philodemus, who discussesvery sober meals between friends-for friendship plays a considerable rolein Epicureanism. Finally, the Epicureans sought to enjoy the simple joyof existing.

As for the Skeptics, they were, rather, conformists, as I have said.This is because the only rule of conduct they admitted was obedience tothe rules and customs of the city. But they refused to judge; by suspendingtheir judgment about things they found a tranquility of soul.

Basically-and you alluded to this-in antiquity the philosopher isalways regarded somewhat like Socrates himself; he is not "in his place,"he is atopos. He cannot be put in a particular place, in a special class. Heis unclassifiable. For quite different reasons there is a rupture of all theseschools with the everyday, even among the skeptics, who approach everyday life with a total inner indifference. But at the same time, philosophygoverns everyday life and sometimes even gives detailed prescriptions.Thus the Stoics were reputed to have textbooks that might be called casuist textbooks-to use the seventeenth-century term-and that detailedproper conduct in all the situations of life. Alexander of Aphrodisias,Aristotle's commentator, mocks the Stoics' asking themselves whether onehas the right to cross one's legs during philosophy class, or whether one hasthe right to take the biggest portion of the meal when eating with one's father! In an article about Roman Stoicism, about the Gracchi brothers butalso about Cicero's treatise On Duty, my wife has shown that the Stoics

Philosophy asLifeand as Questfor Wisdom 101

displayed two opposing attitudes during this casuist period. For example,one would ask oneself the following question: if one sells a house, does onehave the right to hide the house's faults or must one disclose them? Therewere rather heretical Stoics who would say yes, one can hide the faults; butthe orthodox Stoics would say no, one does not have the right to do that.There is also the case of the grain dealer whose boat full of wheat arrivesin a port during a famine. Will he say that there are other loads comingbehind him, which would have the consequence of a plunge in prices?Allsorts of possible behaviors in everyday life were foreseen, but as you cansee, the problem was always to determine the attitude that conformed tothe philosophical ideal. Nothing is more opposed to the cult of profit,which progressively destroys humanity, than this Stoic morality that requires of everyone absolute loyalty, transparence, and disinterestedness.

One can also say that shared tendencies take shape in the differentphilosophical schools through these different forms of life. These tendencies would essentially include the refusal to attribute differences in valueto things that merely express the individual's partial point of view; disinterestedness and indifference lead to peace of the soul.

This problem ofeveryday life was rather complex for ancient philosophers. I recently studied Epictetus' Handbook and realized that, both inhis Handbookand in the Discourses, Epictetus often seems to recommendcontrary attitudes. The students he has at Nicopolis are young people whoare generally wealthy and who will undertake a political career. While hehas them in his school, however, he tries to have them practice the strictest of philosophies. So he tells them, one must not run after girls, onemust moderate one's diet, and so on-all kinds ofpieces of advice that arerigorist, as it were. And I compared this to the religious novices who arelocked up in the convent, who are formed for religious life but thereafterare sent outside, into the world. Epictetus' students, they too, will leave,and Epictetus foresees what they will do when they go home. TQ.llS hegives them pieces of advice about the way to participate in banquets, toattend shows, and even to lead their political life. It is the problem ofthe philosopher who should, theoretically speaking, separate himself fromthe world, but in fact must enter it and lead the everyday life of others.Socrates has always remained the model in this domain. I have in mind afine text by Plutarch that in fact says that Socrates was a philosopher not


because he taught from a pulpit but because he chatted with his friendsand joked with them; he also would go to the agora, and after all this hehad an exemplary death. Thus Socrates' real philosophy is the practice ofeveryday life.'

A.D.: There would be both a rupture between everyday life and philosophicallife, and a great influence ofphilosophical life on everyday life.

Exactly. Moreover, philosophy even had a certain influence on theevolution of political life. To take a concrete case as an example, mostlegal historians recognize that law evolved under Stoicism, notably in themanner of treating slaves, but also in the domain of the meaning of penalresponsibility, which supposes a conscious will.

A.D.: In your opinion, isit always necessary to choose between schools, tomakean exclusive choice ofa school, ofafundamental attitude?Can onemixthe Stoic attitude with the Epicurean attitude, as did, for example, Goethe,Rousseau, or Thoreau?

In the Metaphysics ofMorals (theory of ethical method), Kant declares that the exercise of virtue must be practiced with Stoic energy andEpicurean joie de vivre. This conjunction of Stoicism and Epicureanismcan be found in Rousseau's Reveries ofa Solitary Walker, in which there isboth the pleasure of existing and the awareness of being part of nature.Goethe describes beings who, by their innate tendencies, are half Stoicand half Epicurean." And one can also make out an attitude of this kindin Thoreau's Walden. In a posthumous fragment, Nietzsche says that onemust not be scared of adopting a Stoic attitude after having benefitedfrom an Epicurean recipe." Ultimately, an attitude like this one is whatis called eclecticism. This word is often rather poorly viewed by philosophers. In general, from Kant to Nietzsche, we have spoken ofStoicism andEpicureanism. But there are many other models.

This attitude of eclecticism is potentially of great importance in thecontemporary world, in which the schools no longer exist and in whichone feels reticent to let oneself be influenced by any kind of school. Thiswas in a sense already Cicero's position, connected to the tendency of

Philosophy as Life and as Questfor Wisdom 103

Platonism that can be qualified as probabilist." He said, we are free, we

are independent; no obligation imposes itself on us; we live from one dayto the next, deciding on the basis of the circumstances and the particularcase, choosing what seems to be the best solution each time, whether it beinspired by Epicureanism, or Stoicism, or Platonism, or any other modelof life.

One might raise the objection to everything I have just said abouteclecticism that if one begins by choosing to be free and not to give one'sallegiance to a school, then one may as well find one's own solution, with

out choosing a model. But precisely the significance of everything that weare saying about Stoicism and Epicureanism, for example, is that theseare experiences that have been lived for centuries and that have also been

disputed, criticized, and corrected. In this perspective, Nietzsche spokeof the ancient moral schools as experimental laboratories, from which wecan, as it were, use the results. As Michelet put it, "Antiquity containsideas in a state of concentration, in the state ofelixir."5 Very recently, three

great specialists ofancient anthropology have convincingly shown that theexperience of political life in antiquity could inspire our modern democracies. Why would this not also be the case when it comes to the experience

of ethics and of philosophical life?

A. D.:A fundamental but difficult question: canthe choice ofwayoflifebejustified?

Cicero and the probabilist Platonists would have answered that rational reflection allows us to discover what one must in all likelihoodchoose in any given circumstance. Cicero himself practices this method inhis letter to Atticusof March 49, in which he details the questions he askshimself about what conduct he should practice at the time of the political

crisis generated by the confrontation between Caesar and Pompey: Shouldone combat tyranny at the risk of ruining the city? Would it not be betterto negotiate? Does one have the right to remove oneself from politicalaffairs in a circumstance like this one? Must one support the tyrant's adversaries when they have themselves accumulated errorsi"

A.D.: It is indeed difficult to justify the exclusive choice ofa single attitude; but if we are brought to act like a Stoic in a particular case and in


another asan Epicurean, it is somewhat easier tojustify the attitude, becauseit isalways tied to a particularcontext.

I -entirely agree, but I would like to specify a point. In What IsAncient Philosophy? I wanted to show that philosophers who have foundedschools have meant, in doing so, to propose modes of life. It seems to methis means that, in the formation of the thought of Plato, or Aristotle, orEpicurus, the main factor is the representation of a certain mode of Iife-sfor Plato, ofa politician enlightened by the Ideas; for Aristotle, of a schol

ar contemplating nature; for Epicurus, of a sage enjoying peace of mind.This representation can be motivated by a reaction to the other choices oflife and is thus tied to a unified theoretical reflection. But it seems that it

is never a purely theoretical reflection that determines choice of life. Withrespect to this choice, Sextus Empiricus, as a good Skeptic, gives a caricatured portrait of the philosophical choices and ironically says, the choiceof Stoicism is motivated by the passion of pride (the Jansenists will say thesame thing): the choice of Epicureanism, by the passion of pleasure of thesenses (volptej.7 But there is truth to this remark, to the extent that there

can be personal motivations that explain a given choice of life. Theoretical

reflection goes in a certain direction as a result of a fundamental orientation of inner life, and this tendency of inner life defines itself and takes

shape as a result of theoretical reflection. In my youth I illustrated this tomyself by the way a bicycle's movement provides for its lighting. In thenight one needs a light that illuminates and allows one to guide oneself(this is theoretical reflection), but in order to have light, the generatorhad to turn by the movement of the wheel. The movement of the wheel

is the choice of life. Then one could move forward, but one had to beginby moving for a very short time in the dark. In other words, theoreticalreflection already supposes a certain choice of life, but this choice of life

can progress and define itself only as a result of theoretical reflection.

A. D.: You haveoftenspoken ot citingprimarily Plato, philosophy asanexercise in dying. What can this idea meanfor us today?

Let us specify first the meaning this formula had in antiquity. Onemust obviously begin with Plato, because he literally said that philosophy is an exercise in dying. But he said it in a paradoxical way. He did

Philosophy as Life and as Quest for Wisdom 105

not mean that one must exercise at being dead, for example, like CharlesQuint putting himself in his coffin. Rather, he wanted to say, one mustdetach the soul from the body. This was not a matter of an exercise indying, but an exercise ofspiritual or intellectual life, of the life of thought.It was a matter of finding a mode ofknowledge other than sensible knowledge. It is also worth pointing out that one had to pass from the empiricaland lower self destined to die, to the transcendental sel£ In the Pbaedo,Socrates clearly distinguishes the self who will soon become a cadaverafter having drunk the hemlock and the self who dialogues and acts spiritually. It is not at all a matter ofpreparing for death; but because Plato wasalways ironic, he appealed to the representation that nonphilosophers hadof philosophers-as folks who are all pale and look like the dying. Whathe meant is simply that one had to detach oneself from sensible life. Thismight have an incidental effect on health, but death was not the goal.In fact, the Stoics too made much of the exercise of dying, within theperspective of an exercise that we have already discussed: the preparationsfor the difficulties of life, the praemeditatio malorum. The Stoics would always say, one must think that death is imminent, but it was less to preparefor death than it was to discover the seriousness of life. Marcus Aurelius,for example, as a Stoic, said, one must undertake every action as though itwere one's last; or again, one must spend every day as though it were one'slast. It is a matter ofbecoming aware that the moment one is still living hasinfinite value. Because death may interrupt it, it is a matter of living in anextremely intense manner as long as death has not arrived. Epicureans alsodiscussed death. According to Seneca, Epicurus said, "think ofdeath"; butthis was in no way to prepare oneself for death, but on the contrary, exactly as for the Stoics, to remain aware of the value of the present instant.It is Horace's carpe diem: harvest today without thinking of tomorrow.Moreover, the thought of death, from an Epicurean perspective, aims toallow us to understand thoroughly the absence between death and theliving being that we are: "death is nothing for us," the Epicureans wouldsay; it has no relation to us. There is no passing from being to nothingness. What is, is, and there is nothing more to be said. Death is not anevent of life, Wittgenstein would say." For the Epicureans there was alsothe idea, shared with the Stoics, that one must live every day as thoughone had completed one's life, and thus with the satisfaction of saying in


the evening, "1 have lived." There are two aspects in this: first, from this

perspective, the day has been lived in all its intensity, but at the same time,

when tomorrow comes, one will consider each day as an expected piece ofgood fortune. At base, one will say, one already has everything in a singleinstant of existence. It is always a matter of becoming aware of the valueof existence.

Finally, Plato, no less than the Stoics and the Epicureans, had alwaysconsidered the exercise ofdeath as an experience oflife. In a famous phrase

from his Ethics, Spinoza says, "The free man does not think of death; his

wisdom is not meditation on death, but meditation on life."9 He is obvi

ously criticizing the Platonic phrase, but perhaps also the Christians, the

memento mori of the Christians. Thus, although Spinoza criticized the

exercise in dying, he may in fact have been fundamentally mistaken, formeditation, thought, and the exercise in dying are ultimately exercises inliving.

A.D.: Can onesaythe samething ofHeidegger?

I think it is the same thing, to the extent that the anticipation of

death for Heidegger is a condition of authentic existence. Consciousness

of finitude must bring humans to take on existence such as it is. But

for Heidegger, one does not aim to eliminate the anxiety of death, as in

antiquity!" I believe that this is a characteristic of the modern world

perhaps I will treat the problem in a subsequent book-an aspect that,to my mind, appears first in Goethe, Schelling, and Nietzsche. The ideais that the consciousness of existing is tied to an anxiety, but that the

value of life comes precisely from, as Goethe said, the chill (frisson) beforethe Ungeheure-the terrible, the prodigious, the monstrous, if it can betranslated in this way.'! This is something that is found in all of modern

thought, in Rilke too. I believe that this nuance of anxiety does not exist

at all either in Spinoza, in Epicurus, in the Stoics, or in Plato.

A. D.: Sometimes onehears that spiritualexercises are egoistical. But foryou, is it certain that thephilosophical life is not a form ofegoism?

One must, as always, see the complexity of things. It is sure thatthere is a permanent danger of egoism in the efforts one makes to perfect

Philosophy asLifeand as Questfor Wisdom 107

oneself: especially from the ancient perspective, where one seeks to attain

ataraxie, that is, peace of mind. Often one undoes oneself from politicalactivity, and there is an appearance of egoism in the declarations thatimmediately shocked me in Epicretus' Handbook, where Epicterus says,Think that your child is mortal and you will not be troubled by his death.I also realized that in the case of Epictetus, it was not a sort of spiritual egocentrism but rather an attitude that was quite analogous to theChristian who submits himself to the will of God. Finally, this can beunderstood when one knows that he had considerably emphasized family

affections. It must be admitted that this is a complicated problem, evenfor the Christians. To care for oneself can seem egocentric. It remainsthat when one reads the texts of Seneca, of Epictetus, of Marcus Aurelius,

I mean the Stoics, or when one studies the way life worked out in theEpicurean school, one realizes that spiritual practice, which-as I justsaid-aims to establish peace in the soul, is not egoistical. This is the casefor several reasons. First, spiritual exercises are oriented away from egoismin that egoism is first and foremost provoked by the appeal of pleasures orby concern for the body. Philosophers have always, in Plato no less thanin the Stoics (let us leave the Epicureans aside for the moment), made an

effort to undo themselves from the partial self [mot] and to elevate themselves to the level of the superior self: In fact, we have already discussedthis in relation to dialogue as a spiritual exercise; it consists precisely in

the recognition of the rights of the other in discussion, especially in therecognition ofa superior norm to which the selfmust elevate itself in ordersimply to dialogue-a superior norm that is reason. It is fundamentallysimple: from the moment one attempts to subject oneself to reason, oneis almost necessarily obliged to renounce egoism. This then is the firstargument.

The second argument, which I have already discussed in relation

to Socrates, is that one must recognize that ancient philosophers had avery strong concern for others. Indeed, Socrates presents himself as theone who received the mission to take care of others, to have them make

the decision of having concern for themselves. Here we come back to thefirst reason: the care of the self is not at all a concern for well-being, in themodern sense of the term. Rather..the care of the self consists in becoming conscious of what one really is, that is, finally, of our identity with


reason, and even, with the Stoics, with reason considered as God. Thusphilosophers have always had concern for others. With Plato it is veryclear in his Letter VII, as well as in his political intentions; with the firstStoics as well, and it is more explicit still in Seneca, in Epictetus, and inMarcus Aurelius. I have discussed the three disciplines of Epictetus thatcan be found in Marcus Aurelius: the discipline of desire, the disciplineof action, and the discipline of judgment. Now, the discipline of actioncontains a very important element, which is the concern for the commongood. For Marcus Aurelius, in fact, this becomes very valuable, because,as emperor, he exhorts himself to have concern for the common good.Moreover-and here we return to Epicureanism-one can say that philosophers in antiquity aimed to perpetuate themselves [se repandre]. Theyhave a missionary aspect, one might say, even if it is not on a very largescale; and the Epicureans, who for that matter seem to turn back on themselves, have a great sense of friendship, which- for them is a pleasure: theydesire friendship because it is a pure pleasure. And they especially havethe desire to perpetuate their doctrine. A magnificent and extraordinaryexample is Diogenes of Oenonanda, lie had had immense inscriptionsfrom Epicurean texts engraved on the walls of the city, aiming to converthis fellow citizens to the Epicurean doctrine. A number of these inscrip

rions were found in Turkey.

A.D.: In other words, in antiquity one could not take care ofothers ifonedid not take care ofoneselfDoyou think this isa necessary relation? Thereare many ways to take care ofothers. Thereisa philosophical and a nonpbilosophical mode. It seems to me that thephilosophical way oftaking care ofothersalways requires a selfconcern, which is also a selftransformation.

I believe that your phrase should be reversed, at least insofar as itconcerns the Stoics. Not, one cannot take care of others if one does nottake care of oneself but on the contrary, as Seneca says, ((Live for others ifyou want to live for yoursel£"12 For, Seneca adds, one cannot be happy ifone considers only oneself. It is true that one could think that in order totake care of others one must first transform oneself: but this self-transformation consists precisely in being attentive to others. Finally, undoubtedlyin a somewhat exaggerated formulation, I would say that there is no realconcern for others if there is no self-forgetting. Certainly, in any case, if


there is no forgetting of one's personal interest, as Socrates maintains in

The Apology ofSocrates, "Ask yourself if it is humanly possible to neglect,as I have, all one's personal interests [ ... ] for so many years and this tobe able to take care only of yoU."l3

Perhaps you will say, to forget one's personal interests is precisely tohave concern for oneself: that is, in fact, to have concern for the superior self(moi) beyond all egoism. This is true, all the more so, as Marcus Aureliussays clearly, that the reason on which love of others is based, at least for

the Stoics, is the consciousness of being members of the same body, such

that each member, by putting itself in the service of the body, puts itselfin its own service." One finds one's joy by doing good to others, because,

by doing good to others, one does good to oneself: But here again there

is a danger of which Marcus Aurelius was well aware: If one is consciousof and happy about doing good, one risks looking at oneself doing goodand not having a perfectly pure intention in doing the good." For him,one must belong to those who do good, as it were, unconsciously.l" Thisrecalls the word of the gospel: "When you give alms, may your left handnot know what your right hand is doing." Goodness supposes total disinterestedness; it must be, as it were, spontaneous and unreflective, without

the least calculation, without the least self-complacency. Goodness mustbe an instinct: one must do good as the bee makes its honey and seeksnothing else. But to my knowledge, no ancient philosopher attained thissummit of the purity of intention as did Marcus Aurelius.

A.D.: Can we not saythat the search for justice is also a spiritual exercise? One cannot brutally divide spiritual exercises that concern only the selfand those that concern only others. When one aims for justice, it is also anexercise ofself

I think you are right for what concerns most ancient philosophies.

A. D.: You have recently emphasizedthe distinction between philosophical discourse and philosophy itself Unlike what, let us say, philosophy professors may think, philosophy cannot be reduced to philosophical discourse.Yet discourse remainsan integralpart ofphilosophy. There arephilosophicaldiscourses and concepts, and the exercises, the nonconceptualpractices ofphi-


losophy. What is the role ofphilosophical discourse and ofthepractices (the notpurelyconceptualpractices) in your own conception ofphilosophy?

As I said, I borrowed this distinction from the Stoics, but it can befound implicitly throughout the history of philosophy, because the opposition between words, on the one hand, and practices, on the other, hasalways been alive. It has always been emphasized that the real philosopheris not the one who speaks but the one who acts. As you have just madeclear, it is a complex distinction. Once again, when the Stoics said thatphilosophical discourse was not philosophy, they did not mean that thediscourse was not philosophical, for when the students were taught thethree parts of philosophy-logic, physics, and ethics-one was in factdoing philosophy; it was indispensable for being able to practice philosophy. Moreover, when it was said that philosophy was not philosophicaldiscourse, it did not mean that there was no discourse in this philosophical life, for the good reason that it would take at least one inner discoursefor it to act on itself. Basically, one can speak of philosophy as an ellipsisthat has two poles-a pole ofdiscourse and a pole ofaction, outer but alsoinner-for philosophy, in opposition to philosophical discourse, is also aneffort to put oneself into certain inner dispositions.

In antiquity, these two poles appear clearly in two different socialphenomena: philosophical discourse corresponds to the teaching dispensed in the school, and philosophical life corresponds to the community of institutional life that reunites master and disciple and implies acertain genre of life-a spiritual direction, examinations of conscience,exercises of meditation-and it also corresponds to the right way to live asa citizen in one's city. On the one hand, as I have said, philosophy as lifeis inspired by a discourse of philosophical teaching; for example, one seesMarcus Aurelius write his Pensees in order to revive in himself philosophical discourse that always ends up being abstract. That is, byhabit, distraction, and the concerns of life, philosophical discourse quickly becomespurely theoretical and no longer has the force necessary to motivate theindividual to live her or his philosophy. One must therefore give life andeffectiveness to discourse. On the other hand, pedagogical discourse inantiquity is rarely purely theoretical; it too often takes the form of an exercise. There is the perfect example of Socratic dialogue, but there is also,even in teaching that is not a dialogue, a rhetorical effort to influence the

Philosophy asLife and as Questfor Wisdom III

minds of the disciples. The two poles of philosophy are indispensable, but

it is important to distinguish them.In fact, they have always been distinguished. Already Plato says in

Letter VII that he has come to Syracuse to prove to himself that he is notmerely full of hot air: "Out of fear of passing to myself for nothing but afine talker, incapable of resolutely undertaking an action.":" In all antiq

uity, such as in Plutarch, philosophers who are merely Sophists and who,when they get off their chair, neither know how to live nor how to teach

their disciples to live are mocked. I cannot give the history of this rich

tradition, from Petrarch and Montaigne to Kant, who opposed the philosophers who were satisfied with the academic conception of philosophy,those who are thus only what he calls "artists of reason" because they are

interested only in pure speculation; to those who are capable of being attentive to what interests everyone, that is, finally, to practice. These latterones Kant calls the "philosophers of the world," and he forcefully maintained the connection between philosophical discourse and philosophicallife when he said, today one considers the one who lives in conformity withwhat he teaches fanatical iexalte). In the same spirit, Thoreau will say, "We

have philosophy professors, but no philosophers." As for Schopenhauer, he

wrote a pamphlet called AgainstAcademicPhilosophy. To get backto thetwentieth century, and to give a single example, I have never forgotten myamazement ·upon reading in Charles Peguy the phrase "La philosophie nevapas en classe depbilosophie" [Philosophy is not suited to the classroom].The influence of Bergson on Peguy must be recognized here.

You asked me about the role that philosophical discourse andphilosophical practices have in my own conception of philosophy. It istrue-but I will not make value judgments on this subject-that manyof my contemporaries consider philosophy to be a discourse, more exactlya discourse on discourse, and that is that. Personally, I have a different

conception. To make myself understood, I will once again take a detour

by way of antiquity. We have seen that throughout antiquity there weremen who were considered to be philosophers because they lived as philosophers-for example, Dion of Syracuse, Plato's friend; Cato the Younger;and Quintus Mucius Scaevola, the Augur. The remarkable Dictionnairedes philosophes antiques [Dictionary of ancient philosophers], so efficientlyedited by Richard Goulet, is exemplary on this subject. We meet in it

112 Philosophy as Life and as Quest for Wisdom

many characters who are neither scholars nor philosophy professorspolitical men, such as King Antigonus Gonatas, and women famous fortheir philosophical life. Sometimes, without being inventors of philosophical doctrines, they composed philosophical works that did not have thepretension of proposing new theories but that exposed the doctrines oftheir chosen philosophical school in order to formulate in this manner,for others and for themselves, the principles ofconduct. This was the case,for example, with Cicero, Brutus, Seneca, Arrian, and Marcus Aurelius.By recognizing, as I am proposing, two poles of philosophy, there wouldbe place once again in our contemporary world for philosophers in theetymological sense of the word, that is, seekers of wisdom who certainlywould not renew philosophical discourse but would search not for happiness-it seems that that is no longer in style-but for a life that is moreconscious, more rational, more open to others and the immensity of theworld. Now, it is obvious that those who have the vocation for it, the professors and the writers who talk about philosophy, have the duty to continue to renew and transform the discourse of philosophy, and I believethat this is a passionate and infinite task. But it is desirable that they beconscious that discourse and life are inseparable. Personally, while tryingto accomplish my historian's and exegete's tasks, I especially attempt tolead a philosophical life, that is, very simply, as I have just said, conscious,coherent, and rational. It must be said that the results are not always of avery high level. And during my sojourns in hospitals, for example, I havenot always maintained the serenity of mind in which I would have liked tohold myself: But regardless, I attempt to put myself in certain inner attitudes such as concentration on the present instant, wonder in the presenceof the world, looking at things from above-"to take flight every day,"as Georges Friedmann said-becoming conscious of the mystery of existence. I must admit that as I get older, but it is certainly a default of age,I increasingly prefer experience to discourse. I even dare admit that I amvery fond of the phrase, one that is paradoxical, enigmatic, but weightywith meaning, of a Chinese critic cited by Simon Leys, "Everything thatcan be said is stripped of importance."18

A. D.: Thus a priority ofpractice, and if theoretical discourse is tornaway from its practical context, the significance of the discourse cannot beunderstood.


Here we return to a principle of interpretation that we have alreadydiscussed. One cannot understand a text if one does not examine the intention of the author, that is, the effect it aims to produce; this is precisely thepractical context. To take an example that has already often been evoked,one cannot understand Marcus Aurelius' book if one does not understandthat he wants to exhort himself by telling himself Stoic dogmas in a striking form. He does not want to give a theoretical exposition of the Stoicdoctrine. It is neither a journal nor a theoretical textbook.

A.D.: Even ifyou do not want to pass judgment, at the end ofyourhigh school examination in the Monde de I' education [World ofeducation}

(March I992), you asked the question, "What is finally most useful to man asman? Is it discoursing on language or on nonbeing? Is it not rather to learn tolive a human life?" One can say that this is an implicitjudgment ofvalue. Andthen, how does one explain the recession ofthe practice ofspiritual exercises

after antiquity?

First I will turn to the question of the citation of my high schoolexamination. In speaking of being "useful to man as man," I thought ofwhat Kant said about "worldly" or "cosmic" philosophy, ofwhich we havealready spoken-philosophy that takes the perspective of wisdom intoconsideration. It is philosophy that asks the questions that, Kant says,"interest everybody," for example, What must I do? What can I hope for?"Every interest," says Kant, "is ultimately practical, and even the interestof speculative reason is only conditioned, is only completed in practicaluse."" For me it is clear that there is a primacy of practical reason, explicitin Kant, implicit in the ancient idea of philosophy.

I turn now to your question concerning the receding and the forgetting of this conception of philosophy. I believe that Christianity playeda very large role in this recession. Right at the end of antiquity, in theface of pagan philosophers, revealed Christian theology replaced philosophy and absorbed both ancient philosophy and ancient philosophical life.The concepts studied throughout antiquity, and notably by Aristotelianand Neoplatonist commentators from the end of antiquity, were used toresolve theological and philosophical problems posed by Christian dogmas-for example, the notion ofessence and ofhypostasis for the Trinity,the notion of nature for the Incarnation, the notion of substance for

114 Philosophy asLifeand as Questfor Wisdom

transubstantiation. And besides, it was Christian theology that becameascetic and mystic, recuperating and Christianizing the spiritual exercisesand certain themes from philosophy.

In the Middle Ages, this situation was inherited, because it wasentirely Christian. It inherited, on the one hand, Christianized spiritualexercises, which entered into monastic practice and in part into lay practices, that is, the examination of conscience, the meditation on death, theimaginative exercises to think of hell, and so on. On the other hand, itinherited a philosophy that had been put in the service of theology. ForScholastics in the universities of the Middle Ages, the supreme sciencewas theology, a Christian theology that used philosophical concepts asinstruments. In the faculties of arts, a philosophy was taught that consisted, according to the ancient tradition, in commenting especially onAristotle by following the models of late antiquity. Basically, the MiddleAges inherited both from Christian theology at the end of antiquity andfrom the activity of Aristotle's late commentators. Now, on one hand,Scholastics continued at least until the end of the eighteenth century, andon the other hand, from the time that philosophy attained its autonomy,it found itself: at least until the eighteenth century, and even later, in anofficially Christian civilization in which the mode of life was Christian.Philosophy could not propose another mode of life than the one that wastied to Christian theology. Therefore it remained a primarily theoreticaldiscipline.

A.D.: But havethere not been exceptions? Has the ideaofphilosophy asa wayoflife notfinally always remained alive in the history ofphilosophy?

You are right to evoke exceptions, because they are very important. Ihave just presented a very simplified schema of the evolution that it is nownecessary to rectify. In effect, a very interesting phenomenon happenedalready in the Middle Ages, in the thirteenth century, which began in thefaculties ofarts, where Aristotle was commented on and where philosophywas taught for itsel£ Here a certain number of philosophers-Siger deBrabant, Boece de Dacie, and Aubry de Reims-found in Aristotle theidea that philosophy could bring happiness through contemplation, andthus that philosophy, independent of theology, could be a mode of life.This proves that Aristotelian philosophy is in no way a purely theoretical

Philosophy as Life and as Questfor Wisdom I I 5

philosophy. They in effect found in Aristotle the idea that contemplationand the work of the mind bring happiness to the human being (this isthe end of the Nicomachean Ethics). These philosophers were very poorlyconsidered because they suggested that man could find his happinessobviously they said it was merely an inferior happiness-in contemplation. This corresponds to the distinction I observe between tbeoretiqueand tbeorique (theoretical), where the former means contemplative.

On this subject, one can read Imbach's Dante: philosophie et les laics[Dante, philosophers, and laymen], which effectively displays the wholescope of this secularization ofphilosophy. 20 With the Renaissance, Seneca,Epictetus, and later Marcus Aurelius, and Cicero and Epicureanism, itbegan to become apparent that philosophy itself could be a way of life.One finds traces of this movement in Italy, in Petrarch for example, inErasmus, and obviously in Montaigne. Augustine undoubtedly influencedDescartes to the extent that one finds remembrances of spiritual exercisesof ancient philosophy in the dialogues written in Augustine's youth atCassiaciacum. I have tried to show that Descartes practices and has hisreader practice philosophical meditation, notably in the Meditations.

In the eighteenth century there appeared the notion ofwhat is calledpopular philosophy, a philosophy that could be practiced by ordinarypeople and that was a way oflife. The word philosophy then took on a veryspecial sense. This popular philosophy influenced the notion of "cosmic"philosophy in Kant, the word cosmic signifying worldly (mondaine) philosophy. But in fact, significantly for Kant, he opposes this practiced philosophy to the purely theoretical philosophy of the "artists of reason." I cannotoffer the entire history of this tradition, but finally you are right: one canobserve the continuity of the two traditions since the Middle Ages-onethat privileges philosophical discourse, the other that integrates the perspective of mode of life, of the lived exercise, into philosophy.

A.D.: With respect to the first tendency, you once wrote rather strikingly that the tendencyto besatisfied with discourse is nearlyconnaturalwithphilosophy itself What did you mean?

This tendency was denounced throughout antiquity. Earlier I evokedPlato. He said he got into politics only so it could not be said of himthat he contented himself with words. Plaronists, Stoics, and Epicureans

I I 6 Philosophy asLife and as Questfor Wisdom

attacked the philosophers who were satisfied with appealing discoursesand subtle syllogistic reasoning. It is not merely a question of sophisticalvanity, of vainglory, of the pleasure of speaking. In fact, all philosophers,even those who orient their discourse in function ofphilosophical life, risktelling themselves that everything is resolved simply because they havesaid something and said it well. Yet everything remains to be done. Thepassage from discourse to life is a truly perilous leap that it is difficult todecide to make. I will allow myself to cite Kant, again, here: "When areyou finally going to begin to live virtuously, said Plato to an old man whowas telling him that he was attending lessons on virtue, you must fil1allythink of passing into action, and not always speculate. But today we consider one who lives in conformity with what he teaches to be fanatic."21This notable remark lets us see that in Kant's time there was already aconflict between the partisans of pure speculation and those who, likeKant, wanted to connect philosophy and life. I previously encounteredthis problem at the time of existentialism. I felt there was a contradiction:in existentialism between the idea ofa philosophy involved in life, almostconfounded with life, and the discourse that said that philosophy shouldbe committed but which was content merely to say so. One spoke about itextensively, and one was content to have spoken about it, like at the opera,where people sing, "Let us walk, let us walk" or "let us flee, let us flee,"and do not move.

A.D.: This was also a criticism formulated by[ankeleuitch, who saidthat therearepeople who think that beingcommitted meansknowing how toconjugate the verb to commit. . ..

Absolutely. I believeit is precisely a connatural vice, this danger, thatlies in wait for all philosophers and that consists in being satisfied with awell-composed discourse because it is easier to speak than to do.

A. D.: YOu have evokedthefigure ofthe sage in antiquity as a norm, asa transcendent ideal. Can you describe thefigure ofthe sage for us? And doesthefigure remain current?

There is a considerable literature in antiquity on the theme of thedescription of the sage. There are numerous treatises, entitled Of the


Steadfastness ofthe Sageor That the Sage Is Free, and so on. In fact, these

are descriptions of the perfect philosopher, such as he should be. This is

why I said that the figure of the sage was in antiquity a norm, a transcendent ideal. Plato, in the Symposium, explicitly said that only God was wise,and that man could only be philosopher, that is, "friend of wisdom," "in

search ofwisdom." And by emphasizing the extreme rarity of the sage, the

Stoics too make of wisdom a transcendent ideal. When Lucretius praisesEpicurus in his first poem on nature, in reality he describes the philo

sophical ideal. What, then, are the qualities Lucretius admires in him?

The first is his love of men. When he taught his doctrine, he wanted

to save human beings, who were in the grip of the terror of superstition

and the torments of the passions. A second characteristic of his wisdom

is the audacity of his cosmic vision. As Lucretius says, Epicurus mentallyovercame the enflamed barriers that limit the universe, such that he hastraversed the immensity of the Whole. A third trait, finally: he is free,

without fear, with an inner peace analogous to that of the gods, of whomone can say, precisely according to his doctrine, that no troubles agitatethe peace of their soul. These three basic traits are common to the figure

of the sage as it is described by the other schools, with the exception of

the Skeptics. First, as Bernard Groethuysen has effectively shown, cosmicconsciousness "constantly has the Whole in mind."22 There is also the

awareness of a role to fill in the guidance of other men, todeliver them

from their ignorance, their terrors, and their passions, by helping them.to

discover this cosmos he has unveiled. Finally, there is the inexpugnableand untamable freedom of the inner citadel-freedom that procures anabsolute peace. In the end, these are the characteristics of an ideal phi

losopher. Throughout the Western tradition, one finds the figure of theancient sage, for example, in the traits of the free man in Spinoza or in

the form of the Idea of the philosopher, of whom Kant speaks when he

says (incidentally thereby anticipating Kierkegaard), "A philosopher cor

responding to this model does not exist any more than a true Christianreally exists. Both are norms."23

You ask if this figure, still alive in Kant's day, is still actual? Despite

the snickering that my naivete has provoked in some, I would say yes,on condition of first remembering that the figure of the sage is merelya model, an ideal, that orients and inspires the way of life, and that to

118 Philosophy asLife and as Quest for Wisdom

conceive of this figure one must keep in mind new historical conditions,

I believe that there is nothing more ridiculous than to declare someone asage, or a saint, for that matter. I will be a little ferocious here. I recentlyremembered that Cardinal Danielou had wished to canonize de Gaulle.The fact that he can have had such an idea is for me inconceivable. In thesame order of ideas, the recent canonization of Pius IX seemed unbelievable. And as for John XXIII, I have a brief anecdote to tell. When I was atSaine-Severin parish, he was nuncio in Paris and had come to inspect theparish because the priest had introduced certain liturgical innovations.He was to breakfast at the presbytery. The priest was obviously crazed; itwas difficult to receive the nuncio. So he came up with the idea ofhavingsomeone serve the meal-a layman who lived in the presbytery and whorather surprisingly was a British officer who often leant his services to theparish. This officer kindly accepted. The moment to serve the wine arrived, but as he had never learned table service, the officer served the nuncio to the right-unless it was to the left, I don't know, myself ignorantof how it must be done. And the future John XXIII became angry, sayingthat this was not how to serve wine. He was furious. For me, the nunciowas definitively classified. To get angry for such a small thing! He mightat least have had the tact to say nothing and not to remark heavily on thissmall error. It is in these small details that personalities are revealed. Thisremoves nothing from the merit of the one who, as John XXIII, wanted tomake the Vatican II council. And yet, although recently beatified, in myeyes this man is not a saint.

After this somewhat amusing parenthesis, let us return to the figureof the sage. In fact, on reflection, it could be that the word sage has agedpoorly. It evokes a sort of slightly egoistical inertia, which is the very opposite of what was paradoxical and active to the ancient sopbos, of whichUlysses, the crafty one, the adventurer, was sometimes the incarnation. Letus give up the word but look for what might be the content of the thing.The idea of inner peace and freedom would still seem actual. Moreover,cosmic conscience, of which Groethuysen spoke, seems to me a capitalelement, but we have already addressed this theme. It is especially the concern for others that would need to be intensified. Georges Friedmann hassaid that «the modern sage (ifhe existed) today would not turn away fromthe cesspool of men."24 It is impossible for the philosopher to forget the

Philosophy as Life and as Questfor Wisdom I 19

generalized misery in the world, the suffering of all kinds that oppressesmen) and for him not to suffer in the feeling of powerlessness to reformanything. Schopenhauer evoked the scandal of childhood labor, where atthe age ofIive years old children were shut up in mills for ten hours a day.But there would be many other things to say about the scandalous suffering that children, women, and men live every day, such as the tragedy ofthe Afghan women or the Palestinian children, doomed for despair. Howis it possible to keep inner peace when one feels revolt grumbling inside?I nevertheless believe that without inner peace, no action can ultimatelybe effective. How can the irreconcilable be reconciled? It will no longerbe indifference that will give peace to the soul, as it was for the ancientphilosophers, but the concern to act well without being misled by hatredor pity, and this will oblige one to conquer the peace of the soul.

A.D.: In otherwords, for you thepracticeofphilosophy and the questforphilosophical wisdom never end; one must alwaysexercise it, because wisdomrequires more: it requires that one alwaysgo beyond, that one continue to renewphilosophicalpractices and life indefinitely. [ankeleuitchentitled his bookofinterviews Somewhere in the Incomplete. This is a citation from Rilke.Andfor you too we are, let us say, somewhere in the unfinished-or to useasimilar expression, the great French composer Jean Barraque, unfortunatelylittle known today, put the words ofHermann Broch into music: "the endlessincomplete. " I believe that for you philosophy, or the philosopher, is always inan incomplete state. But is the incompleteness ofphilosophy perhaps somethingpositive?

I agree entirely. It is in fact an interesting problem, the problem ofthe end of philosophy. I believe I spoke about it in the past in relation toWittgenstein, because in the Tractatus he wanted to put an end to philosophy in order to leave room for a wisdom that he defined as "an accuratevision of the world." We can say parenthetically that this is an exampleof "modern" wisdom, which Wittgenstein attempted to live by giving upphilosophical writing for several years and living the everyday life of men.And then he came back to philosophical discourse, which in effect provesthat it is not easy to complete the philosophical quest. Wittgenstein's experience is interesting because it shows that it is difficult-perhaps evenimpossible-to consider what it would be to attain a state of definitive

120 Philosophy asLifeand as Questfor Wisdom

wisdom. In fact, what Wittgenstein considered to be a state ofwisdom wasa philosophical life, full of imperfections and of efforts, and accompaniedby sketches of philosophical discourses, which is what brought him toreturn to philosophical writing with the Philosophical Investigations.

Wittgenstein's experience thus shows that philosophy moves in anasymptote, in the direction of the idea of wisdom, but it is not easy to bedone with philosophy. The effort in the direction of wisdom, that is, theeffort to realize a philosophical life, is always incomplete. For example,one can think that meditation as a spiritual exercise is something admirable, but one must, after all, account for what happens in reality. Ourinner discourse is always interrupted, chaotic, dispersed. How does oneput one's thoughts in order? It is possible, in effect, that certain men arriveat a great mastery ofinner language. These people are closer to the idea ofwisdom. There will surely be moments in which the philosopher managesto reunify himself: to take stock of himself and of the world. But to arriveat these states, one must lead a perpetual combat that ultimately can precisely not be perpetual. The Stoics, who require ofman an attention at allmoments, speak of an ideal sage rather than the concrete man. The poorMarcus Aurelius is obliged to write pages and pages in order to be able tofind the inner disposition that he should normally have.

One might say that it is the transcendent ideal of wisdom that explains this incompleteness of philosophy.

8

From Socrates to Foucault.

A Long Tradition

Arnold I. Davidson: Inyour essay CCEloge deSocrate"[InpraiseofSocrates],the interpretations ofthefigure ofSocrates byKierkegaard and Nietzsche playa prominent role. What relation doyou see between the Socrates ofantiquityand the constantrevelation ofthisfigure in the history ofphilosophy?

There is truly something extraordinary in the pervasiveness of thefigure of Socrates. I have a great deal of admiration for Merleau-Ponty'sinaugural lecture at College de France; I read and reread it even now. In ithe maintains that all philosophers, or almost all philosophers (I would exclude Epicurus), "have accepted as their patron a man who did not write,who did not teach, [ . . . ] spoke to those whom he met in the street andwho had difficulties with opinion and powers." It brings me even morepleasure to cite this passage because, in the context, Merleau-Ponty makesexplicit the problem we are entertaining in these interviews: "Philosophyput into books no longer appeals to people. What is unusual and almostinsupportable in it is hidden in the proper life of philosophical systems."Now, this praise of Socrates from the middle of the twentieth centuryechoes a text written by Plutarch nineteen centuries earlier. It is a text thatI have already evoked. It says that if Socrates was a philosopher, it was inwalking with his friends, in eating with them, in discussing with them, ingoing like them to war, and finally in drinking the hemlock, and not byteaching from the height of a podium. Thus he showed that everyday lifemakes it possible to do philosophy. Through the centuries, then, and in


antiquity especially, and notably for the Stoics and the Cynics, Socrates has

always been the model of the philosopher, and more precisely the model of

the philosopher for whom life and death are the main teaching.In fact, despite what Merleau-Ponty says about it, not all philosophers

have recognized Socrates as their patron. Descartes and Spinoza barelymention him, for example. Those who have associated themselves withhim are primarily existentialist thinkers, such as Merleau-Ponty himself:Kierkegaard, and Nietzsche. In fact, Kierkegaard and Nietzsche have two

apparently different visions, although perhaps they can ultimately be rec

onciled. What Nietzsche liked in Socrates, after having attacked him forso long, is finally this gaiety, this wisdom full of impishness that he maintains Jesus is missing.' Nietzsche's Socrates is the Socrates ofXenophon'sMemorabilia rather than Plato's Socrates, as well as the dancing Socrates ofXenophon's Symposium. And Nietzsche adds that one must use Montaigneand Horace as guides to understanding Socrates. It is true that the figure ofSocrates appears as a perfect ideal of life throughout Montaigne's Essays. 2

Socrates' greatness was to be able to play with children, and to considerthat his time was thus well spent. Montaigne admires Socrates' capacity to

adapt to all the circumstances of life, to war and to peace, to abundance

and to shortage, to ecstasy and to play. He likes the simplicity of his lifeand his language, his sense of the limits of the human condition, his confidence in the resources of simple nature, which gives humble and simplefolks the courage to live and to die without need for all the philosophers'discourses. Socrates lives a human life fully and simply.

As we have seen, this Socrates in love with life is apparently Nietzsche'sSocrates, But unlike Montaigne, Nietzsche thinks that the simplicity ofSocrates, the banality ofhis proposals, his irony, are a way to communicateindirectly so as to avoid saying what he was thinking clearly. And what hewas hiding was perhaps a terrible secret. For there is this statement made

by Socrates at the end of the Phaedo, at the moment of his death: "We owe

a cock to Aesclepius," This suggests that Socrates wants to make a sacrificeof recognition to the god of medicine for having cured him of life. Couldit thus be that life, existence, is an illness? Might this not be Socrates' secret? Would Socrates have lied throughout his life? For Nietzsche, Socrateswould have been greater had he not said anything, had he kept his secret.In- fact, I think that Nietzsche generated a contradiction. The meaning

From Socrates to Foucault. A Long Tradition 123

of Socrates' statement is not that life in itself is an illness, but that the

life of the body is an illness and that the only true life is the life of thesoul. Plato wanted to put a Platonic doctrine into Socrates' mouth, but Ido not believe that Socrates himself could have uttered this statement, atleast in this sense. Perhaps he said it ironically, as Jankelevitch suggestedin his book L'Ironie [Irony]. The problem posed by this "we owe a cock toAesclepius" is famous and difficult, moreover, and several possible solutions have been suggested." Whatever the case may be, Nietzsche's doubtconcerning Socrates especially reveals his own doubt on the subject of

the meaning of life. Nietzsche's impish Socrates has thus finally becometragic. As for Kierkegaard's Socrates, he is tragic from the outset. He represents the seriousness of the existential responsibility of the Individual, of

the Existing, who is the Individual and the Existing precisely because heis strange, unclassifiable, divided, and torn by his inner incompleteness,deprived of the one he loves. Just as Kierkegaard is Christian only by hisawareness that he is not Christian, Socrates is wise only by his awarenessthat he is not wise. It is in this respect that he is a philosopher, deprivedof wisdom, but in love with wisdom. Kierkegaard also has beautiful pagesabout Socratic method. Socrates wants to be a mere midwife; he has no

pretensions to being a master. He has no pretensions on the soul of hisdisciple, no more than on that of his master. Montaigne had also praisedSocrates' refusal to vindicate the authority of a master.

Through these few examples one can begin to see the variety of theforms in which the figure of Socrates appears in the writings of philosophers. It is ultimately a mythical and not a historical Socrates who has hada great influence on the history of philosophy.:

A.D.: When you oppose the mythical Socrates to the historical Socrates,

there are at least two ways to think about the first: a purely fictional Socrates,

and a Socrates who is not historical but rooted in history and who neverthe

lessfunctions as an ideal; there is history as fiction and history as an ideal.

Therefore, mythicalfor you means not only fictional, but also ideal.

Plato is the first philosopher who began to project his own philosophical conceptions onto the figure of Socrates. He is at the origin of themythical Socrates. And almost all of the philosophers who have discussedSocrates have discussed the figure of Socrates such as it is drawn by Plato,

124 From Socrates to Foucault. A LongTradition

or at times by Xenophon, but this latter one too is probably rather mythical. Plato idealized Socrates, but to put him into relation with his ownPlatonic perspectives, and also perhaps because he wanted to valorize allthe philosophical signification of the figure of Socrates. Things here arerather complex. On the one hand, philosophers have followed the exampleof Plato and projected all their preoccupations onto Socrates. From thispoint ofview, Socrates can take part in the history of rather different faces. But on the other hand, there is also a certain consistency to one's ideaof what is essential in Socrates' message. In a preceding conversation wehave spoken of the possibility of actualizing this or that aspect of ancientphilosophy. The example of Socrates is interesting because it is not thedoctrine that one attempts to actualize, because it is very difficult to knowwhat it might have been, beyond the enigmatic affirmation of nonknowledge. Rather, what one is attempting to actualize, what becomes a philosophical ideal, is his life and his death entirely devoted to others, devotedto making them understand themselves, to making them better. I wouldreadily believe that it was Montaigne who best understood the essence ofSocrates. Finally, I think that those whom I called existentialist thinkerswere right to recognize the exemplary philosopher in Socrates insofar as,by living a simple ordinary life, he transfigured it by the awareness he hadof the infinite value of every instant of this ordinary life.

A. D.: I know that Montaigne, amongyour favorite philosophers, hasalways impressedyou a greatdeal. When and why?

I first encountered Montaigne at the age of fourteen or fifteen, bychance. Excerpts from Montaigne translated into modern French werefound in the library that was at our disposal at the Petit Seminaire. I wasfascinated. I no longer know why exactly-perhaps because Montaigne,who spoke ofhimself and ofmen in detail, allowed me to discover strangehuman nature. All of antiquity was there, as were the realities of his time,including both American Indians and local peasants. Human nature appeared so complex that it authorized all attitudes: skepticism and faith,Stoic rigor and Epicurean ease. In Montaigne I learned the importanceof simplicity, the ridicule of pedantry. I was extremely struck by the essaycalled "To do philosophy is to learn to die." Perhaps I did not understandit properly at the time, but it proved to be one of the texts that led me


to represent philosophy as something other than a theoretical discourse.Now, in class we studied Montaigne's theories on education, which areextremely interesting in the respect they manifest for the personality ofthe child, and always also in the criticism of abstract teaching that privileges information at the expense of formation. Montaigne, it is known,opposed well-made heads to full heads. I have read and reread the Essais[Essays] several times in my life, always with undiminished pleasure.' Ihave been delighted, encountering all kinds of savory anecdotes. Morerecently, a text that I used for an epigraph at the beginning of the bookWhat Is Ancient Philosophy? impressed me a great deal; it is a text thatI find absolutely extraordinary. Montaigne imagines someone who saysthey have done nothing with their day, and Montaigne responds, "What,you have done nothing, but have you not lived! Is that not the most illustrious of your preoccupationsl'" Nietzsche echoes him in this respect,in his claim that human institutions aim to forbid human beings to sensetheir lives." One finds in this passage from Montaigne the recognition ofthe infinite value oflife itself: of existence; this reverses all of the habitualvalues and especially the pervasive idea that what counts above all is to dosomething, whereas for Montaigne what is most important is to be. I realized at -the same time that there was also the heritage of ancient thoughtin Montaigne. He fundamentally understood the meaning of ancient philosophy very well,

A.D.: I know you continue to think that Henri Bergson is an interesting and current philosopher, someone who is in no way outdated. You havealready mentioned the Bergsonian idea ofa transformation ofour habitual

perception. Are there otheraspects ofBergson that remain aliveforyou?

Bergson, for me, was first my baccalaureat paper of 1939, in whichI was given the subject from a text by Bergson: "Philosophy is not theconstruction of a system but the resolution, once taken [that is, takenonce and for all], to look naively in oneself and around oneself." First,the phrase "philosophy is not the construction of a system" eliminatedall theoretical and abstract construction from the outset. Moreover, thesecond part of the sentence signified that philosophy is above all a choiceand not a discourse. It was a decision, an attitude, a comportment, a wayof seeing the world. "To look naively in oneself and around oneself': the


word naively-rerninds us that although Bergson. defines philosophy as atransformation of perception, he chooses the example of the painter who,in order to look naively, that is, attempts to return, I would almost say,to the brute perception of reality, to get rid of all habits of seeing things.Thus the phrase "to look naively" means to undo oneself from the artificial, from the habitual, the conventional, and to return basically to whatmight be called an elementary perception, removed from all prejudice.One can say that this effort, which is analogous to the one of the painter,is a spiritual exercise. In Bergson, this new perception consists in a visionof reality as becoming, evolving, as the manifestation of an unpredictablenovelty-a world not already made, but making itself. It is true that manyof Bergson's claims now appear to be outdated, be it concerning evolutionitself: or be it the function of the brain. But I think that what is essentialin Bergsonism is not in these details, which science can discard. For methe essential of Bergsonism will always be the idea of philosophy as transformation of perception.

In the religious teaching I received, which ought to have been purelyThomist, Bergson had' a place, at least in psychology. Bergson's work hadinaugurated a psychology of introspection, which aligned itself with thespiritual life that we were being made to discover. But Bergson was alsothe affirmation of a creative evolution, which seemed difficultly compatible with the Christian idea of creation. Soon Father Teilhard de Chardinwould propose an evolutionist version of Christianity, to which I enthusiastically adhered.

Later, around 1968 and for a certain time after, I became interestedin the philosophy of nature, and it was the natural philosopher Bergsonwhom I rediscovered, thanks to jankelevitch's Bergson and to the works ofMerleau-Ponty. I rediscovered the importance of the notion of organism,the conception of nature as creation, as movement that comes from theinside (note that this is the ancient sense of phusis). Nature gave itself nomore trouble making an eye than I have raising my hand. In a presentation at the Rencontres Eranos [Eranos conference], I tried to show howthese conceptions were finally from Plotinus.

A.D.: Vladimir [ankeleuitch is both the successor ofBergson5 thoughtand an utterlysingularphilosopher. ]ankelevitchhasconsiderably emphasizedthefact that moral life must always be renewed, like an exercise ofselfthat is


never completed; and as opposed to most contemporary philosophers, for him

the role oflove in moral life is absolutely central.

I am not familiar with all of jankelevitch's body of work. As I said,in the context of IJ:lY research on Plotinus, I was highly influenced byjankelevitch's book on Bergson. It makes striking allusions to the relations between Plotinus and Bergson, but he allowed me to understandthe influence that Neoplatonism had on the philosophy of nature. I alsoenjoyed his book L'Ironie [Irony], which testifies to an extraordinary forceof analysis of human psychology.

I think that you are alluding to what jankelevitch says in the secondvolume of Traite des Vertus [Treatise on virtues]. You are right to say thatjankelevitch differs from contemporary philosophers in that he gives acentral place to love in moral life. In this respect, he is again the faithfuldisciple of Bergson. The subtleness with which he reflects on problemsthat have long been discussed in theology and morals, on the possibility ofpure love and of the relation between egoism and love, is truly astonishing. But he saw the mysterious element in love particularly well: How canlovers be egoistical and interested when their love transcends them, whenit is pure and disinterested?

A.D.: You have written that in Plato's Symposium the appearance of

the theme oflove introduces an element ofirrationality, that is, an element

that is in no way ofthe order ofthe intellect, but that implies other domains ofpsychic life, the will, and even passion. The transformation ofthe individualcan take place through love. What does this element ofirrationality in Plato

imply?

When I spoke of irrationality, I wanted to convey that Plato's philosophy was much more complex than it is considered to be when Platonicphilosophy is presented as a magnificent rational edifice. One mightthink that, in the perspective of the Symposium, love serves only to provide a foundation for the community of souls that makes dialogue andphilosophical reflection possible. However, as the end of Diotirna's speechshows, love is an integral part of this properly philosophical procedure inthat the ascension toward Beauty begins with the love of a beautiful body,even if it continues with the love of more spiritual beauties. The love of a


beautiful body is already, potentially, the love of eternal Beauty. The loveof a beautiful body can be understood as the attraction of eternal Beauty.The engine of the philosophical procedure is thus desire, and it implies anondiscursive element. The dimension of love gives philosophy the character of a lived, live experience of a presence. This is true of Plato, but it isalso true of all philosophy.

A.D.: When did you begin to readHeidegger?

It was in 1946. At that time I was fortunate enough to encounter,under conditions I have now forgotten, Alphonse de Waelhens' book onHeidegger's philosophy. This was lucky, because at that time Heideggerwas not easily accessible. Only short texts had been translated into French.Now, the year I did my bachelor's degree, there were courses on Heideggeroffered by Jean Wahl. Unfortunately, for a reason I have forgotten, I couldnot attend them. Perhaps precisely to fill this lack, I read the book by deWaelhens, which has the advantage ofbeing clear; I attempted at the sametime to translate Heidegger, not Sein und Zeit [Being and Time], but thework on Plato. I must say that I was rather disappointed, because I had theimpression that it was uselessly complicated, and also because the reasoning was sometimes overly simplistic, at least for Plato. It remains that deWaelhens' book allowed me to understand what I consider the essentialof Heidegger-at least what is very important in what Heidegger broughtme, especially the distinction between the everyday, or as Heidegger says,the "they" (Ie "on'), and authentic existence. Heidegger, on the one hand,admirably describes what we call the everyday, which Bergson had basically also described by showing that, in everyday life, our decisions andour reactions are not very conscious, but this does not really come fromourselves and is not of our personalities. Rather, it is a question of stereotypical reactions that everyone can have; there is a kind of depersonalization in everyday life. And Bergson precisely opposed this attitude to theconscious attitude of one who looks naively in oneself and around oneself in a way that completely transforms one's perception of the world. InHeidegger this becomes the opposition between the everyday, the banal,and a state in which one is conscious of existence, and precisely, as wehave discussed, conscious of being doomed to death (this is what he calledbeing-toward-death), thus conscious of one's finitude. At this moment,


existence takes on an entirely different aspect, which moreover generatesanxiety-perhaps because of death, but also because of the enigma represented by the fact of existing. I sincerely believe that Heidegger's analysesstill hold, and they have influenced me considerably. I should specify thatthis opposition between the everyday and the authentic in no way signifiesthat one must always live in the authentic. Humans live normally and, onemight say, necessarily in the everyday, but it is sometimes possible to geta glimpse of existence in an entirely other perspective. And this is alreadyconsiderable.

A.D.: You have written an article that shows the Neoplatonic rootsofHeidegger's famous idea of the ontological difference between beingandbeings.

You refer to the distinction between being and beings found ina fragment of a commentary on Plato's Parmenides that I attribute toPorphyry, a Neoplatonic disciple of Plotinus. It is an opposition betweenthe infinitive of the verb to be, that is, the action of being, and a realitythat is defined, the "being"-"what is," which is an inferior reality becauseit merely participates in the action of being. What is extraordinary inthis theory is the idea of an activity of being, taken in itself pure of allsubstantiality.

This opposition between infinitive being (esse) and the "what is"(quodest) is found in Boethius in his short treatise called De hebdomadibus[On the Hebdornads], a treatise often commented on during the MiddleAges. It is possible that Heidegger, who had ~ good scholastic education,encountered the opposition in this context. But it is also possible that hearrived at it on his own.

In any case, there is a considerable difference between the hierarchical opposition between being and beings found in the commentary on theParmenides and the ontological difference in Heidegger. I would hesitateto speak of the Neoplatonic roots of this difference.

A.D.: I haveoftenbeen struckby thefact that Heidegger's writingis in acertain respect the opposite a/your style ofphilosophical writing. It seems to methat simplicity, lucidity representfor you almosta moralobligation.


Ah, it is very kind ofyou to say so! But perhaps what I have had to express is not as deep as what Heidegger expressed. It is true that Heidegger'sstyle really poses a problem, first for the German language itself: whichhe did indeed torture. It is also a problem because his emulators tortureddifferent languages in order to imitate him, and this might have createda trend that will perhaps come to an end-a very obscure way of writingphilosophy that has the result of discouraging many readers. Sometimesone also has the impression that it is a game for the philosopher, who, asthey used to say, always has a natural inclination to listen to himself talkand to watch himselfwrite. In fact, the problem is less the technical refinement of language, for in antiquity the Stoics were reputed for this kind oftechnical refinement, as were the Scholastics. This technical refinementoften corresponds to the fact that one must render a nuance that is difficult to express. One is obliged to invent a word, or to redirect a wordaway from its usual meaning. In these contexts, there are technical words,but one knows exactly to what they correspond. In post-Heideggerian philosophy, however, metaphor, which is too often poorly defined, plays anabusive role.

A.D.: French existentialism made a great impression on you. What ex

istentialist themes were most importantfor you?

First there was a problem, which appears, for example, in a discussion that took place at the Societe de Philosophie, about a presentation byJean Wahl: "Subjectivite et transcendence." A number of participants discussed the possibility of distinguishing between an existentialphilosopherand a philosopher ofexistence.An existential philosopher would in the endbe a philosopher who through his existence is a philosopher, whose philosophy is in large part confounded with his existence, while a philosopherof existence is a philosopher who holds discourses on existence. I wouldaccept this position gladly. I have always had the impression that existentialists did in fact conceive of philosophy as a decision, a choice of life, butthey often held themselves strictly at the level of discourse on existence.It is a general problem, but it is probably insoluble. One is constantlybrought back to this realization; the philosopher always has a tendencyto be content with his own discourse. Beyond this, in 1946, when I wasstudying in Paris, existentialism for me was especially Gabriel Marcel,


because he was a Christian existentialist. In fact, I learned many thingsfrom him (less when I heard him lecture than when I read his books): tobegin with, the very rich distinction between to be and to have, accordingto which being relates to the person whereas having relates to everythingthat is not the person but that the person is at risk of losing. There is alsothe distinction between mystery and problem, which is very interesting.Problems are questions that can be answered and definitively resolved,and mysteries, as Gabriel Marcel said, encroach on their own given sothat one is stuck inside. There is a mystery of the body, because one is

one's own body. And then there was also obviously Sartre. I read L'Etre

et le neant [Being and Nothingness], and especially Nausea, which was interesting in that one can see that there was indeed an experience here, asort of ecstasy even, with existence as an object. But with respect to thisnausea, I have always thought that it was a sentiment proper to Sartre'spsychology. One might just as well speak ofwonder rather than nausea inthe face of existence. There was one person especially who I insufficientlyheard at College de France, and it was Merleau-Ponty, who was in part theinheritor of Bergson. His philosophy was centered on perception; he usedphrases such as "philosophy consists of learning to see the world again,"and he had developed an interesting reflection on modern art, all ofwhichinfluenced me a great deal.

A.D.: But the idea ofthe absurdity of life, which is fundamental forCamus, Sartre, even the Russian existentialists-it is my impression that youhave never spoken about it.

This is precisely what repulsed me about existentialism, especially in1946 when I was strongly influenced by Christianity. In fact, the notionseems rather strange to me; it is abstract, for that matter, because it is theresult of reasoning. From the moment that God is dead there is no longerany justification of existence; therefore existence is absurd. Personally, Ido not experience it as absurd. I prefer Merleau-Ponty's position in thepreface to the Phenomenology ofPerception: "The world and reason do notpose a problem; one might say that they are mysterious, but this mysterydefines them. It could not be a question of dissipating it by some solution;it is prior to solutions. Real philosophy is to learn to see the world again."


Astonishment, wonder when faced with an inexplicable outpouring, indeed-but why nausea?

.. A. D.: An entire metaphysics offreedom can be found in Sartre, for ex

ample, and in others. But when one reads your texts, it is obvious that the

practices offreedom at the center ofyour thought have neverpushedyou to de

velop a metaphysics. Is there a fundamental difference between an existential

metaphysics and existentialpractices?

By the term metaphysics I suppose you mean a philosophical theory.It is true that I have never had the pretension ofproposing an existentialistmetaphysics. On the contrary, I have very modestly attempted to proposea theory of existential practices. As you say, it is obvious that existentialpractices suppose freedom. In my humble opinion, it is extremely difficultto advance a theory or a metaphysics of freedom. The human sciences, noless than the exact sciences, raise doubts about the freedom of our actions,and I do not believe that a theory or a metaphysics of freedom wouldchange this at all. One must follow Diogenes the Cynic, who, without saying anything, simply proved the existence ofmovement by walking. I havemaintained the stance of my high-school oral exam; when the examinerasked me, «What is the definition of the will?" I answered, "The will is notdefined, it is experienced." One might also think with Kant that freedomis one of the postulates of practical reason.

A.D.: How didyou discover Wittgenstein?

I do not remember very clearly. I suppose that I was a researcher atCNRS, since 1960 or so, and because we had to examine articles for theBulletin Analytique du CNRS, I must have read an article on Wittgensteinthat alluded to the fact that the Tractatus mentions mysticism. This iswhat interested me, and at first I found an Italian translation with commentary; this is how I came into contact with the work of Wittgenstein.Thereafter I attempted to translate it myself: but I have never had the timeto make my translation of the Tractatus publishable (it is, incidentally, avery difficult text to translate), but I did give some presentations and Iwrote some articles on it.


A.D.: You have spoken of the Tractatus at Jean Wahl's CollegePhilosophique, and you have told me that everybody was a little surprised,because Wittgenstein was all but unknown.

Yes, but Jean Wahl certainly knew him as early as 1946. I gave mypresentation in 1959-60, and there still was no French translation. Thesame year there was also a presentation on Wittgenstein by Shalom at theCollege Philosophique, as well as an article by this same Shalom, and itseems to me that there was not much beyond this. I believe that FatherStanislas Breton had briefly invoked him in one of his works. I also remember saying that, in line with good French tradition, no editor considered having the Tractatus translated, because it had not been forty yearssince its publication.

A. D.: Was it especially the mythical aspect at the end ofthe Tractatus

that attractedyou?

Absolutely. For me it was a paradox, an extraordinary enigma, thatsomeone who presented himself: or rather who was presented, as a logicalpositivist could speak of mysticism. I tried to explain this passage of logicto mysticism, especially in the articles I wrote at the time. It seems to menow that the end of the Tractatus cannot be totally explained by the logical argumentation that precedes it. Many of the aphorisms can in effect befound in the Notebooks that preceded the Tractatus, and they correspondto Wittgenstein's personal reflections, thereby betraying his spiritual anxiety. Often, I have had the opportunity to note, they correspond to themesofancient philosophy, concerning, for example, life in the present. Indeed,it seems as though what Wittgenstein calls mysticism has a relation to theworld, that the mystical is the existence of the world. He adds, "The sentiment of the world as a limited whole is mysticism" after having writtenthis enigmatic sentence: "The vision of the world sub specie aeterni is thevision of the world as a limited whole."6 In short, it is a question of anaffective experience of the world, seen, as it were, from above. It is thewonder in front of the fact that the world exists, this wonder before theexistence of the world, that Wittgenstein called his exemplary experience.Here again, as in Plato, it is thus in lived experience that philosophy findsits completion.


A.D.: YOu told me one day that you continue toprefer the Wittgensteinofthe Tractatus to the Wittgenstein ofthe Philosophical Investigations, butyou havealso written a text on the Investigations: "[euxde langage etphilosophie" [Language gamesandphilosophy], in whichyou usethe idea oflanguagegamesas aframe for the historyofphilosophy.

First, one must try to understand what a language game is. ForWittgenstein, it is basically the activity, the situation, that gives meaningto what one says. It is the concrete context in which a sentence is uttered.In this article, thinking of Sartre, I had given the example of the formula"God is dead." On the one hand, I said, in antiquity there were processions in which one said, if not perhaps "God is dead," then at least "theGreat Pan is dead," and obviously it was simply a religious allusion tomyth; it was a language game that was attached to a rite, to a religiousceremony. On the other hand, there is the philosopher Jean-Paul Sartrelanding at the Geneva or some other airport and, in response to the bevyof journalists surrounding him and asking whether he had a statement tomake, saying, "God is dead." At that moment, it was a language game intwo respects: first, because it was an allusion to Nietzsche; second, because

_it was also a way of playing a bit of comedy, of giving the impression ofbeing the profound, even prophetic, philosopher. Here one had the opposition of two language games. Obviously there are many other languagegames; for example, to say "I am hurting." Philosophers have a tendencyto represent language as an activity of naming or designating objects, oftranslating thoughts; but for Wittgenstein, when I say, "I am hurting" atthe moment of my suffering, I am not expressing my suffering, which isincommunicable; I am rather playing a language game. I am calling forhelp or for commiseration in a certain social context. It is an idea that hadguided all my works. When one is in the presence of a text, or an utterance, it is not sufficient to take this text or this utterance in the absolute, asthough it had not been uttered by someone in particular under particularcircumstances, on a particular day, during a particular period and in adeterminate context. This is a weakness of religious fundamentalists, andis in fact shared by many historians of philosophy or by philosophers whoconduct themselves as fundamentalists. They approach a text as though itwas the word of the gospel, as though God had pronounced it, and cannot be restituted in space and time. On the contrary, the historical and


psychological perspective is very important in the history of philosophy,because it is always a question of re-placing the claims of philosophers intothe social, historical, traditional, and psychological context in which theywere written. And one must take into account the fact that a philosophicalphrase does not necessarily express a group of concepts but can have only,for example, a mythical value, as happens sometimes in Plato.

If I recall;correctly, it was also in relation to language games that Ihad the idea that philosophy is also a spiritual exercise because, ultimately,spiritual e:x:ercises are frequently language games. It is a matter of tellingoneself a phrase to provoke an effect, whether in others or in oneself thusunder certain circumstances and with a certain goal. Moreover, in thesame context, Wittgenstein also used the expression "form of life." Thisalso inspired me to understand philosophy as a form of life or way of life.

The article you referred to, written under the influence ofWittgenstein, was a first attempt at reflecting on the role of language inour life. One might say that at that time and for a certain period, I washypnotized by the problem of language, by the idea that we are, as it were,prisoners of language; that all our life was as though spoken. But I gradually told myself that one must not allow oneself to be locked into such aposition, but quite simply accept the everyday experience that gives us thesentiment that our language aims at something, that it is intentional.

A.D.: When did youfirst meetMichel Foucault?

The first time was on the telephone. I think he was the first to askme if I would submit my candidature to College de France; it was theautumn of 1980. I did not meet him in person until I visited College deFrance as a candidate. It was an easy visit, because he was one of my supporters. Then he came to the reception I had organized for the day of myinaugural lecture. I also undoubtedly met him in the professor assemblies,and I ate with him once or twice. I did not have much contact with him,because he died prematurely shortly thereafter.

A.D.: But did you discuss ancientphilosophy with him?

Not very much. During a meal he asked me about the meaning ofthe expression vindicare sibi in the first of Seneca's Letters to Lucilius. Weespecially discussed that.


A.D.: Can you sum up your philosophical divergences with Foucault~

and especiallyyour criticism ofhis ideas on the culture ofthe self on the aes

thetics ofexistence?

It should first of all be said that our methods were very different.Foucault was certainly, at the same time as being a philosopher, a historianofsocial facts and of ideas; but he did not practice philology, that is, all theproblems tied to the tradition of ancient texts: the deciphering of manuscripts, the problem of critical editions, of the choice of textual variations.By editing and translating Marius Victorinus, Ambrose ofMilan, the fragments of the commentary of the Parmenides, Marcus Aurelius, and someof Plotinus' treatises, I acquired a certain experience that allowed me toapproach ancient texts from another perspective than he did. In particular, I have always attached myself to the attentive study of the movementof the author's thought. Foucault did not attribute much importance tothe exactitude of translations, often using old, unreliable translations.

My first divergence concerns the notion of pleasure. For Foucault,the ethics of the Greco-Roman world is an ethics of pleasure that onetakes in oneself: This could be true for the Epicureans, who Foucault ultimately speaks of rather little. But the Stoics would have rejected this ideaof an ethics of pleasure. They were careful to distinguish pleasure and joy:as opposed to pleasure, joy was found in the self (Ie moi), specifically inthe best part of the self (moi). Seneca finds joy not in Seneca but in Senecaidentified with universal reason. One elevates oneself from the level of theself to another, transcendent level. Moreover, in his descriptions of whathe calls the practices of the self: Foucault does not sufficiently valorize theprocess of becoming aware of belonging to the cosmic Whole, a processthat also corresponds to an overcoming of oneself Finally, I do not thinkthat the ethical model adapted to modern man can be an aesthetics ofexistence. I am worried that this may ultimately be no more than a newform of dandyism.

A.D.: YOu often speak ofthe necessity to elevate oneself to a universal

perspective, but this should not be confused with Kant's idea ofthe universal

law, which always prescribes the same actions for every reasonable being. How

do you explain this notion ofa universalperspective?


This universal perspective would correspond rather well to what Ihave called "the look from above" (Ie regard den haut). For example, inthe Republic, Plato praises the natural philosopher by saying that the onewho is naturally a philosopher contemplates the totality of reality; he doesnot fear death, thus he puts himself at a level, at a height, from which hecan see all of the universe, all of humanity. He sees things not at his individual level but at a universal level. With the Stoics there is an analogousmovement, first because, very clearly with Epicretus and Marcus Aurelius,one sees the point of Nature with a capital N, of universal Nature, whichis universal reason. One situates events in the perspective of what theybring to the universe, of the collaboration that we give to the balance andharmony of the universe. This is what I also called the "physical definitionof objects"; objects that attract us or scare us must be seen, not accordingto our personal point of view, but once again in a universal perspective,in a totally objective manner. This is also true for Plotinus, for whom thesoul must elevate itself from its individual level to the level of the universalsoul or even of the divine Intellect, in whom the entire ideal system of theuniverse is found.

For me, what counts is above all the effort to pass from one perspective to another. I have always rather liked the saying of a Chinese philosopher who holds that we are like vinegar flies trapped in a vat; one mustget out of this confinement to breathe fresh air in the world. Our conductis not automatically dictated by a sort of abstract universalism, but whatis important in each case is to liberate ourselves from our blinders, if youwill, which limit our vision to our interest alone. It is a matter of puttingoneself in the place of others and trying to align our action with humanity-with the humanity of other humans and then abstract humanity, aswell as with the world. This orientation aims less to determine what wecan bring to the cosmos than to situate events in this broad perspective.It is a very traditional and capital theme that can be summarized as follows: the earth itself is only a point; we are something microscopic in theimmensity.

Is this attitude that consists of situating our vision in a universalperspective different than the universal law Kant speaks of when he says,for example, "Act in such a way that the law that guides you can be a universallaw of nature"? I would tend to think that this is fundamentally not

138 From Socrates to Foucault. A .Long Tradition

very different. In Kant's formulation, one precisely situates oneself in theuniversal perspective of nature. One thus passes from a self that sees onlyits own interest to a self open to other humans and to the universe. Sucha maxim does not fix a precise behavior, but invites one to act so that onecan take into account all the consequences of one's action for everythingthat is other. It is a law that ope gives to oneself

A.D.: It is especially the effort ofself0 vercoming that counts for you;

does this not mean that there exists a world oftranscendent, absolute values,

always established, which directs each action?

Here we are in the presence of an immense and very complex problem, which it is perhaps not reasonable to treat in a few words. I will attempt to do so nonetheless. First ofall, i would say this: even ifone admitsan order of transcendent and' absolute values, it does not mean that thisorder directs every action, because most of the time in life, when it is amatter of choosing an action, we have not necessarily to opt for or againsta value, but to invent what is often a very difficult solution to a conflictof duties, and thus of values. The typical example is the debate betweenBenjamin Constant and Kant: is it possible to be outside of humanity? Inevery action we do not have to apply a fixed rule once and for all, but wehave to make our personal decision as a function of the value that appearsto be most important in the present case.

There remains the problem of the existence of a transcendent, absolute, eternal world of values. Two questions present themselves: on onehand, the existence of the world ofvalues; on the other, its permanence. Ido not wish to let myselfbe pulled into a metaphysical, abstract, and theoretical argument on the philosophy of values. Personally, I would speaknot of a world of values but of a transcendent value that aims at the goodof man. This absolute value is the one Socrates aims for when, withoutconsidering his personal interest, he refuses to escape from his prison andinstead chooses to obey the laws of the city. 1n principle, nothing obligeshim to take these laws ofthe city into consideration. But he obliges himselfby occupying a point ofview that surpasses his personal interest. Nor is ita question of conforming to laws blindly, but on the contrary, of showingthat one can freely give oneself the obligation to obey laws. I still remainwith Kant: morality creates itself in the unexpected and, in a sense, heroic


leap that brings us from a limited perspective to a universal perspective.

"Act only on the maxim that can at the same time be willed as a universalmaxim." Absolute value situates itself at the level of an elevation of self:of the self capable of putting itself in the place of others, of purifying itsintention, that is, of acting in a disinterested manner, out of love or outof duty.

This is the absolute value that then manifests itself in the multiple'

values that man formulates little by little throughout the ages but that areimplicitly contained in the adhesion to this absolute value. It was discov

ered only very slowly that slavery was a crime against the respect of thehuman person, and I wonder whether in our day we have really become

conscious of it when we consider the exploitation of man by man in ourwell-meaning civilizations. Before we were able to discover it fully, therespect of the human person was not less "valid." It was a value, but onethat had not been brought entirely into awareness yet was still taken intoconsideration by certain philosophers, such as Seneca, who wrote, for example, that man is a sacred thing for man. Christianity, for example, didnot put an end to slavery and had not forbidden it at the moment of the

slave trade.

Whatever the case may be, it seems to me that seeing things in auniversal perspective necessarily leads to recognizing certain permanentvalues: respect for the human person, respect for life, respect for the giftof language, to mention only a few. There can obviously be an evolutionin the intensity of the awareness that one can have of these values. Forexample, we are more sensitive now in our respect for life and nature,because of the recent catastrophes that have occurred.

A. D.: Ifone was interested in philosophy as a way oflife and askedyou

where to begin in order to deepen one's comprehension ofthis idea, what text

wouldyou recommend?

If it is a text of ancient philosophy, it is very difficult to recommendone that would be easily understandable without a commentary. I thinkthat Epicurus' Letter to Menoeceus would perhaps be the simplest text.Marcus Aurelius' Meditations or Epictetus' Handbook would also help oneto understand this conception of philosophy, but these texts neverthelessneed commentary. As for modern philosophy, I am very fond of Merleau-


Ponty's inaugural lecture at College de France entitled Eloge de laphilosophie [In praise ofphilosophy], which gives one a glimpse ofa conception ofphilosophy as a way of life. I also appreciated Louis Lavelle's book L'Erreurde Narcisse [The Error ofNarcissus], because each of the short meditationsthat form this work is an invitation to practice a spiritual exercise, whichgradually leads the reader to "this present in which the summit of ourconscience is found" and to becoming aware of "pure presence."

A.D.: To see philosophy asa way oflifeand not onlya coherent system ofconcepts andpropositions has many consequences for the relationship betweenphilosophy and the otherliteraryandartisticdisciplines. A novel, apoem, evenapainting or music, can represent a wayoflifeand sometimesprovokea transformation in our way ofliving. In this light,philosophy asa discipline does notinsulate itselfbut opens itselfto all the descriptions ofour ways ofliving. Doesthis imply that we must rethink the borders ofphilosophy?

I would say that art can be a powerful auxiliary to philosophy, butit can never be life itself: the decision, the existential choice. The idea of asuppression of the limits between literature and philosophy was very muchin style at the time of existentialism, but I believe it was already presentin English or German Romanticism. Jean Wahl, for example, speaking ofthe relationship between poetry and metaphysics, defined romanticism asthe rebirth of amazement; it makes familiar things strange, he said, andstrange things familiar? He also added that art, for Bergson, was the power to lift the veil that habit weaves between us and things. Here one findsthe theme of the article we discussed by Carlo Ginzburg: to make thingsstrange. This is why in a general way we can say that art, poetry, literature,painting, or even music can be a spiritual exercise. The best example isProust's In Search ofLost Time, because his search for lost time is an itinerary of consciousness, which, thanks to the exercises of memory, discoversthe sentiment of its spiritual permanence. This is very Bergsonian.

Without being, let us say, itinerants of the soul, many novels posephilosophical problems, for example, Sartre's novels, especially La nausee[Nausea], or Albert Camus' La Peste [The Plague]. The novel is often adescription of an existential experience that the reader can redo herself: atleast in thought. I am thinking, for example, ofsome ofTolstoy's works-


among others, The Death ofIvan Ilych, which is a reflection on death-orsome of Dostoyevsky's novels-for example, The Brothers Karamazov.

There are, in addition, the dramatic pieces, also in style at the timeof existentialism. I would emphasize the importance ofJean-Paul Sartre'sdrama, and of his screenplay for the film Lesjeux sontfaits [The chips aredown], All his plays have a real, dramatic value and a philosophical valuethat is more striking than a treatise.

One can also speak of poetry. I am thinking above all of thatFar East form of poetry, the haiku, which seems insignificant. An apparently banal moment of existence is described in it-a butterfly whoposes himself on a flower, for example-but it has a philosophical depthbecause it suggests everything it does not- say-that is, all the splendorof the world. In Western literature there is also an entire tradition ofphilosophical poetry, especially among the British, I believe. First therewere the British Platonists, and then the British Romantics-Shelley andWordsworth-often cited, among many others, by the philosopher AlfredNorth Whitehead, for their representation of nature. Jean Wahl went tothe trouble of translating The Poems ofFelicity, by Thomas Traherne, apoet of wonder who spoke, for example, of his co-presence with things.In the world closer to us there are two great philosophical poets, Rilkeand Hugo von Hofmannsthal. Concerning Rilke, as I said earlier, I hadenvisaged a study of the relations between his poetry and Heidegger'sphilosophy. It would have maintained that Rilke's poetry is fundamentally an expression of the philosophy of Heidegger. In any case, there is ameditation on death, on existence, on objects, on the limits of languageas well. For example, in Sonnets to Orpheus he speaks of fruit, which areat first only words; then, when one eats fruit, the word disappears butthe inexpressible sensation arises, which gives a presentiment of the wholeuniverse." In Hugo von Hofmannsthal, one can think of the "Ballade desdusseren Lebens" [Ballad of the outer life] and the famous letter to LordChandos, which is quite unique in the history of literature. Here one findsprecisely the presence of things felt in such an intense manner that onecan no longer speak of them, and this is more or less what I was sayingabout the fruit.

But one must always take stock of the limits of literature. It is finally discourse, at times even, in a certain sense, a system, because of the


requirements of literary composition. It is thus very close to philosophical discourse. If it can at times be a spiritual exercise, most of the timeit can only be an expression of experience, which means that it is notexperience itself it is not philosophical life, it is not the manifestation ofan existential decision. Moreover, it risks lacking true sincerity. One canhave the tendency to cheat for formal or personal reasons. At the timeof existentialism, the literary critic Claude-Edmonde Magny had writtenLes Sandales d'Empedocle: Essai sur la limite de la literature [Empedocles'sandals: Essays on the limits of literature], which I have often read andreread," It shows that literature, like Empedocles' sandals left at the footof Mount Etna, could only bear witness to a step in the spiritual development of man, an aid for inner progress. But the book finally had to bethrown away, which Gide recommended to the readers of his Nourrituresterrestres [Fruits ofthe Earth], or Wittgenstein at the end ofhis Tractatus.

A.D.: You have alsocited Cezanne and Paul Klee as examplesofpainting connectedto spiritual exercises.

Yes. I had forgotten these artists. In Klee it is perhaps somewhatabstract. In any case, he thinks that the artist can rediscover the way thatnature acts. In Cezanne, allusions to a sort of experience of the world aresometimes expressed in his painting. I do not think it was an accident,moreover, that Bergson took the example of painting to indicate the character of the change that results from his philosophy, because ultimatelypainting requires a movement ofstripping away habits and prejudices, anda natural will to grasp things in a, one might say, "natural" way of reallyremaining at the level of naked reality. I have also recently discovered,thanks to my colleague Jacques Gernet, all the philosophical significanceofChinese painting, notably in Shi Tao, who shows how painting is communication with nature, in a movement that espouses the creative methodof the latter.'?

One must also mention music, at least the music of certain musicians, such as Beethoven. I have already alluded to the work of ElisabethBrisson, Le Sacre du musicien: La reference a l'Antiquite chez Beethoven[The reference to antiquity in Beethoven], which shows how Beethovenconsidered his art to be a mission-that of favoring humanity's accession


to the universe of joy, to assent of the world, and to the harmony of theuniverse. I I

A.D.: In your opinion, what is the relationship between the history ofphilosophy andphilosophy itself?At theend ofyourpreface to theDictionnairedes philosophes antiques [Dictionary ofphilosophers], you spoke ofthephilosopher whomustalways remainaliveashistorian ofphilosophy. How doyouunderstandthis relationship?

I would begin, before answering you, by developing a few reflectionson the history of philosophy. I would say first of all that one always speaksof the history of philosophy in the singular, but in fact one rarely writesthe history of philosophy itself: I think, but I may perhaps be mistaken,that Hegel was the only philosopher to do the history of the becomingof 'philosophy, and the movement he describes confounds itself with hisown philosophy. Perhaps one must also add August Comte. Concretely,historians of philosophy study philosophies and philosophical works.Personally, I tend to study philosophical works rather than philosophies,because I have doubts about the possibility of reconstructing with exactitude bodies of philosophical doctrine or systems. We can study only thestructure ofworks and their finality, what the philosopher meant to say ina given determinate work. To take the example of a modern philosopher,such as Bergson, it is impossible to discover an absolutely perfect coherence among his different writings. When I say that the philosopher mustalways remain alive in the historian, I mean especially that, in each workof a philosopher, one must attempt to relive the author's philosophicalreasoning as a whole, both the movement of thought and, if possible, allthe intentions of the author. The study of this reasoning makes possiblethe recognition of the two poles of philosophical activity: discourse andchoice of life. This may seem to be a paradoxical situation, but the mainproblem that poses itself to the philosopher is ultimately to know what itis to do philosophy. It is a constantly renewed question that the philosopher can ask in the reading of Plato, Aristotle, Plotinus, Spinoza, or Kant.The history of philosophy then procures him a vast field of experiences inwhich to orient his thought and his life.


A.D.: Recently you have begun to be interested in the philosophy ofothercultures, especiallyChinese philosophy) and this isperhaps tied to the idea that

there is something like universal philosophical attitudes-attitudes that canbefound even in a culture such as Chinese culture and that also represent, in

another context, what can also befound in Western antiquity.

I have been reticent for a long time with regard to comparativism(for example, on the subject of the relationship between Plotinus and the

Orient). Now I have changed my mind somewhat, by observing undeni

able analogies between Chinese thought and Greek philosophy. I havespoken about the attitude of indifference toward things, a sort of Stoicattitude; one could also add the notion of instant illumination. I explain

to myself these analogies, not in terms of historical relations but in thefact that analogous spiritual attitudes can be found in different cultures.At times I have also found phrases in Chinese thought that seemed more

enlightening than anything that can be found in Greek thought-for example, to describe the unconscious situation in which we live, the imageof the frog at the bottom of the pit, or of the vinegar fly at the bottom ofthe vat, "ignoring the universe in its grandiose wholeness,' as Tchouang

Tseu says.'? But I cannot speak as a specialist of Chinese thought.

9l-

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Jeannie earlier: There are booksfrom which one emergesas a different

person than one was when one opened them. I think this is the casefor three of

your books:Spiritual Exercises and Ancient Philosophy [Exercicesspirituels

et philosophic antique], What Is Ancient Philosophy? and especiallyThe Inner Citadel. I have taken weeks to reread them and have seen my way ofsee

ing things change subtly, on tiny points, it is true-a critical viewpoint on myjudgments, or a more vigorous awareness ofthe present instant. There are re

ally~ it seems to me, books that oblige one to take into consideration thefamous

statement by Socrates:an unexamined life is not worth living. I will neverthe

less play the devils advocate-a naive and somewhat ignorant devil-by tell

ing you that in reading your books ofancient philosophy, one is extremely seduced, indeed, even changed, but there are things thatpeople today, ordinary

people, must tell themselves: no, I cannot, I do not accept this.

First of all, I salute the devil's advocate. I heard that he is no longera part of the canonization process. Perhaps this explains why certain contestable characters have been canonized. But having said this, to lightenthings up somewhat, I would like to begin by making another remark.You say people today, ordinary people, must say no, I cannot, I do notaccept this. But who, exactly, are these people today, these ordinary people? At any given time there is no single collective mentality. Collectivementalities belong to different social groups. For example, there are socialgroups and milieus that are resolutely racist. They say no, I cannot, I do

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not accept-s-such as the time around 1950 when a furious woman hurledinsults at me because I had dared to say that blacks were just as respectableas whites. Before saying I cannot, I do not accept, I must ask myself inthe name ofwhat I cannot or do not accept. Is it because my social groupimposes this way of seeing things? Or is it rather because, having thoughtabout it thoroughly, my philosophical commitments do not allow me tothink in this way? Is it because religion forbids it? Or it is because sciencehas shown it to be impossible? Is it because it is in fashion at the moment?Is it because my favorite newspaper or the television said the opposite?Finally, in the name of what can one say that I cannot, I do not, accept,that everyone today, ordinary people do not accept it?

These questions are nevertheless entirely worthwhile. If I have notspoken about them in my books, it is because I already had enough to doin presenting the themes of ancient philosophy. Perhaps you think that Iam not inclined to talk about it now. It is true that I do not like to get veryinvolved in this discussion. Not that it bothers me to answer your questions. As my studies for a certificate in metalworking-that I so brilliantlypassed!-show, one always manages to find a way out when it comes todiscussing, and this is precisely what does not please me. For it is one ofthe problems with the literary genre of the interview: it is the problem ofthe seriousness, of the validity of the discussion, when it is improvised andleaves little time for reflection. In the interviews that some of my eminentcolleagues have given, I have noticed that in speech they let themselvesbe pulled into approximations, even caricatured presentations, when itwas a question precisely of the reception of ancient philosophy by ourcontemporaries. I would not like to fall into the same trap. How manymassive and inaccurate assertions have been thrust forward in this manner with tranquil assurance? Notably, historians have been at the edge ofthe decisive turning point, of the radial innovation that characterizes themodern period, since the Renaissance. The number of types of blindnessand ignorance that have been attributed to the Greeks on this occasion ~s

rather amazing. They would have been ignorant of linear time, progress,the idea of an infinite world, or they were not aware of the oppositionbetween high and low; they would never have dared climb a mountain!

I would thus prefer to be able to respond to your questions in thecontext of a reflective and documented book, for we are in the presence of

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extremely complex problems, related both to the collective mentalities of

the ancients and to the collective mentalities of our contemporaries. Butlet us discuss nonetheless.

J c.: Throughout these interviews, and in different works, you give theimpression thatyou believe ancient philosophy has something to teach modern

man, to have meaningfor him, and to help him guide his conduct. But whythis detour? Would it not be better to try to invent solutions to problems that

pose themselves to us in this, the beginning ofthe twenty-first century, and that

are all new?

I would answer first by saying that I am not the only one to take

this detour. To begin with the example of a modern thinker, the attitudeis already in Nietzsche when he writes, "The Greeks make it easier formodern man to communicate many difficult things and give us matter forreflection."} One might object that Nietzsche was thinking of the epoch

of Greek tragedy, or of Heraclitus rather than Epicrerus or Plotinus, but itremains, as I have already said in these interviews, that he considered the

schools of Greek philosophy to be an experimental laboratory from which

we can still benefit. It must also be said that it is a fact that the twentieth

century has operated, in the most varied of forms, a vast return to theGreeks, from Heidegger to Foucault.

Why this detour? I would say that, for my part, it is a matter ofwhat Kierkegaard called the method of indirect communication. If onesays directly, do this or do that, one dictates a conduct with a tone of falsecertainty. But thanks to the description of the. spiritual exercises lived byanother, one can give a glimpse of and suggest a spiritual attitude; oneallows a call to be heard that the reader has the freedom to accept or to refuse. It is up to the reader to decide. One is free to believe or not to believe,

to act or not to act. If I judge on the basis of the numerous letters I have

received, written by very different people, from France, Germany, and the

United States, telling me that my books have helped them spirituallysomeone even wrote to me, "You have changed my life"-I think that the

method is good, and I have always been able to respond to these people,with reason, that it is not me but the ancient philosophers who broughtthem this help;

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It is true that one often says our task is to invent solutions for problems that pose themselves to us today. But while waiting for the creativegenius we would need to appear, in this beginning of the twenty-firstcentury, everyone must do what they are capable of: and for my part, I tryto be, like Michelet, "the link of time," to ensure that "this vital chain thatfrom the dead past appears to make the sap circulate toward the future,'?

J C.: In short, you are suggesting that your books are not only works oferudition but also, in an indirect way, "protreptics," as the ancients wouldsay.3 Because I am goingto raise criticisms againstphilosophy asa way oflife,I will begin with a captatio benevolentiae by citingyour dear Goethe. Faustsays, "Two souls cohabitate in me, and onewantsto undo itselffrom the other.The onegrabs holdofthe worldwith everyoneofits organs, the otherwantstoflee thedarkness. " This is totally Christian, as wellas totally Platonic. I wouldlikeyou to specify something about whichyou have said little in your books.One ofthefirst ancientprinciples that markedyou in your youth is "tophilosophize is to learn to die. "In the Greeks, especially the Platonists-actually,it is Parmenides who began by saying that what is good is what does notchange-one finds this strong opposition between this world and the otherworld, the body and the soul, the sensible and the intelligible. All Platonismis impregnated by the will to be elsewhere; there is Tbeaetetus'famous "fromthe here-below toward the there-after to escape as quickly aspossible;" andin the Phaedo, everything is about separating oneselffrom the body. I thinkwe would no longer quite accept this. Saturated by twenty centuries of "mykingdom is not ofthis world,"wefeel like saying, my life is here because it isnot elsewhere, and the body is not the source ofall evil. Do you not slightlymodify the meaningof"to escape the world, to detach oneselffrom the body"in Plato bypulling them a little toward Stoicism, bygiving them a meaningthat is acceptable today? But after all, why not?

Here you allude to my interpretation of the Platonic formula: tophilosophize is an exercise in dying. I said in Exercices spirituels etphilosophie antique [Spiritual exercises and ancient philosophy} that this formulaof the Phaedo could be interpreted as a change in the way things werelooked at. For a vision dominated by the needs of the body and the individual and egoistical passions is substituted a representation of the worldgoverned by the universality of thought and reason. One thinks here of

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the passage from the Republic in which the philosopher appears as the onewho will contemplate the totality of time and being.' And in the Pbaedo,the problem is clearly situated at the level of knowledge-knowledge ofthe senses can mislead the reasoning of the soul." One can obviously question the value of this refusal ofknowledge of the senses, but what interestsus here is the mode of life and the meaning of the spiritual exercise ofdeath, which it seems to me, in Plato and in all the philosophical schools,consists in a change in the vision of things, a passage from the individualand the passionate to the rational and universal perspective. The exerciseof death is in fact an exercise of life. I completely agree with you to theextent that for our contemporaries this devalorizing of the sensible in favor of the intelligible is difficult to accept. I suggested this at the end ofmy little book on Plotinus, but I think it was already difficult for Plato'scontemporaries to accept. As Plato says in the Pbaedo, his contemporarieslaughed at the philosophers of Plato's school, whom they called moribund,precisely because these philosophers criticized the body and the sensibleworld. To return to the devalorizing of the sensible, one certainly has theright to prefer, as I do, philosophers who give a central role to perception,such as Bergson or Merleau-Ponty,

J C.: This interpretationofthefamous PLatonic maxim "tophilosophizeis an exercise in dying" wouLd thusfit very weLL with Stoicism, andyou could,for that matter, arguefor it with a number ofStoic texts. Now it seems to methat this way ofconceiving the "exercise in death" or "flee the body" is entirelyacceptable for us. In your Exercices spirituels [Spiritual exercises), to exerciseat dying is in no way to torture one's body; it is "to exercise at being deadto one's individuality, to ones passions, to see thingsfrom the perspective ofuniversaLity and objectivity. ''1 this is, after aLL, rather different than whatone beLieves when one reads Plato superficially. It can beaccepted today to theextent that, with the Greek, especially the Stoicphilosophers, it isaccepted thatone must aLways see things from the universalpoint ofview. The refusal ofthe body wouLd then be a refusalofthe minuscule objectthat one is with one'sbody, and a return to the universal, to the One?

Perhaps it is not even a refusal, but the process of becoming awarethat one is merely a minuscule object and that there are things that are

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much more important, values that are, as it were, absolute. But this doesnot imply repulsion with respect to the flesh.

J c.: But is there really not repulsion with respect to the body and thepleasures it allows?Does Epictetus himselfnot speak ofthe body as a cadaver?

This repulsion exists neither in the Cynics, who after all practice arigorous ascetic, nor in the Aristotelians, who are content to modify theirpassions, nor in the Ancient Stoics, who would have wanted the sage tobe absolutely without passion, nor in the Epicureans, who gave themselvesover to an ascetics of the desires. One might believe that this repulsion appears in the late Stoics, such as Epictetus or Marcus Aurelius. But in thesetwo philosophers one must also relate the part of the formula that aimsto shock as a means to correct a distortion of the spirit. It is a question, Ithink, of simply reminding man that he is mortal, Moreover, simultaneously, in practical life, in their way of life, these Stoics-Marcus Aurelius,for example-did not hesitate to allow themselves pleasures. After havingmourned his wife, Faustine, Marcus Aurelius took another woman without marrying her. Apparently he admitted the legitimacy of pleasure.

Things begin to change with Neoplatonism in the third century ofour era. Plotinus was ashamed of having a body, his biographer tells us.One must say that, for him, the fact of having a body signified that hewas a soul who had not been able to remain in the spiritual world andwas guilty, in a certain sense, of a fault. And Porphyry cannot admit theChristian idea of the incarnation of God, because, having become man,God was stained by blood, bile, and worse yet. But obviously there is acontrast here between God's spirituality and the materiality of the body.

Let us also add that if Marcus Aurelius repeats Epictetus' formula,"the body is a cadaver," he does not deprive himself of admiring "the maturity and the flowering of the aged woman or man, and the likeablecharm of little children."B

]. C.: This opposition between, on the one hand, a refusal ofthe bodyand the sensible, material world and, on the other hand, the admiration, atleast,for this sensible world is often found in the same thinkers and in the sameplaces. In Plato there are texts that say the world is as beautiful as possible.One finds these ideas in Christianity: my kingdom is not ofthis world, but the

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skyand the earthsingtheglory ofGodthecreator. Father Festugiere effectivelyshows this contradiction in relation to hermeticism; he even said, hermeticism is not a religion, for it is impossible for a religion to rest onprinciples ascompletely opposed as the worldisgood, theflesh is acceptable, and the worldisevil, theflesh must bebanished absolutely. Goethe's darkness mademe thinkofGnosticism, whichisa sortofpassage at the limit to theattitude that refusesthis world and this body, this world created by an evil god, this body thatbelongs to the darkness. How doyou react to this contradiction?

It does not surprise me that there are rather contradictory positionsin the ancient philosophers. For precisely, these are not systems. Theydevelop their reasoning by beginning with successively different problematics, Whe.n one situates oneself within the problematic of the world, atthis moment, one has the atmosphere of the Timaeus; the sensible world isbeautiful, even though in the Timaeus there is the whole development ofthe shock of the soul meeting matter, completely disoriented, and needingto be reeducated. But it is nevertheless quite coherent. When one situatesoneself within the problematic of individual ethics, one has the Phaedo;the body appears as a danger to knowledge and virtue. In the Stoics, atleast the late Stoics, there is also this contradiction, as we have just seen.Furthermore, it is not useless to recall that Greek civilization was not theenemy of the body; it was the civilization of the Olympic games, of gymnastics, of thermae [bathhouses]. Everyone took particular care of theirbodies. If for certain philosophers the body was a source of passions, it didnot stop them from going to the bathhouses and taking physical exercisethere.

J c.: When we superficial readers of Plato read in his dialogues thecontemptfor the body, the refusal ofthe body, are we not influenced by whatthe Christians did with it, despite the doctrine ofthe resurrection ofthe body?After all, it was not Plato whoflagellated himselfand lived on a post. Whatdoyou think? Was it not the Christians whopulled this to the sideofextrememacerations?All the Platonists did wasabstain from eatingmeat.

It seems to me, but it will have to be verified, that the evangelicalmessage itself in no way contains this sort of macerations. Moreover, thePharisees said of Christ, he eats and drinks with everyone. But two things

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happened: on the one hand, the Christians, wanting Christianity to seemlike a philosophy, adopted Platonic philosophy in general, tainted at timesby Stoicism, because it was practically the only philosophy that was stillvery powerful in the first centuries of our era. Thus they accepted thePlatonists' refusal of the body, and this oriented Christianity in the direction of an intellectualist metaphysics that was in no way implied in thegospel. On the other hand, the meditation on the suffering and death ofChrist added itself to this. Christians believed themselves to be obliged tosuffer what Christ had suffered at a moment in his life. It is Pascal's famousformula: Christ will be in agony until the end of the world; one must notsleep during this time. The difference between Christian spiritual exer

cises and philosophical spiritual exercises is precisely that in the former theperson Christ is introduced, the imitation of Christ. Thus the imitationof the passion of Christ suffering is introduced, which leads to Hagellations and other mortifications. But one must also consider the followingnuance: the ascetic champions, such as the monks of the desert, cultivatedthe exercise especially to arrive, like the philosophers, at total indifferenceand the total absence of passions, as well as to perfect tranquility of thesoul. Finally, I think it was Neoplatonism and not Christianity that provoked greater contempt for the body in the interpretation of Plato.

J C.: You have written a superb book on Marcus Aurelius, calledTheInner Citadel. This is a very beautiful title, borrowed in fact from MarcusAurelius himself a title that alludes to a constant in Greekphilosophy, regardless ofthe other theories ofthe philosophers: one must build a citadel aroundoneself one must not allow oneselfto be troubled byanything. The Stoic position, as well as the Platonic position, is simple and extremely coherent: forthe sage there is no other ill than to commit a moral offense, which dependson one's choice. All the rest, which does not depend on one's choice-sickness,

poverty, death-is not an evil and should not trouble the serenity ofthe soul;thus, as Spinoza will say, happiness is not the consequenceofvirtue, but virtueitself There are admirable texts, for example, when Socrates says, "They canput me to death, they cannot bother me";and history, not only ancient history,regurgitates examples oflived Stoicism. But at the same time-not in whatyou say but in what the Stoics say-there are things that make one'shair standon end. For example, when Epictetus says-and this is in sum a passageto theuniversal, an overcoming ofindividuality-your slave breaks a vase, you are

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furious; your more objective neighbor tellsyou, vases get broken, it happens?To this point we sayyes~ Epictetus and the neighbor are right that vases getting broken is in the order ofthings. But Epictetus pursues his example: yourchild dies, you suffer, you have a troubled soul; this is not good becauseyourbrother, for hispart, tells himse/fi children, they die. Worse, Epictetus says, you

can show compassion to a friend, but do notyourselfsuffer from compassion.At this point we absolutely refuse the idea that we could accept these thingswithout difficulty. The price to pay for becoming invulnerable, which would

be to not lovepeople, is too high.

First, recall a principle that I believe I posed rather clearly: to con

sider that philosophy is a mode of life, as the Greek philosophers thought,does not mean that one must accept all the attitudes and especially all theassertions of ancient philosophers with servility. Nietzsche was right whenhe said that these attitudes are experiences as experiments. As such, therecan be both success and failure in them. They can show what it would begood to do, but also what it would be good to avoid.

Having said this, in my commentary on Epictetus' Handbook I my

self have pointed out what might be shocking for us in the formulas that

Epictetus employs. But as I have said in this commentary, the Handbookis a summary for students, and in Epictetus' Conversations one finds histhought completely developed. He says, Socrates sincerely loved children,but he also accepted the order of the world, the will of the gods. First ofall, the Stoic is not a miraculously insensible being. If the Stoic is struckwith the death ofhis child or someone else who is close to him, he will firstfeel a shock and will be deeply troubled. Epicrerus and the other Stoics sayit repeatedly. These are involuntary movements. But afterward the Stoicwill have to take hold ofhimself not only in the goal of not suffering or ofnot being troubled. Seneca also said that there would be no merit in val

iantly supporting what one cannot feel." No, if he takes hold of himself:it is because he believes that one must say yes to the world in all its reality,

even if it is atrocious. This yes to the world is admired in Nietzsche; whywould it not be admired in the Stoics? This does not signify that, to beinvulnerable, one must not love people. The goal of Stoicism, let us say itagain, is not to avoid suffering.

Moreover, in the eyes of the Stoics, pity and compassion are irrational passions. But one must understand that when they speak of passions

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they are thinking not of a vague sentiment but of a profound upheaval ofthe intelligence, of insanity (deraison). This insanity is situated not in theinvoluntary affective shock undergone in the face of an event, but in thefalse judgment that one passes on the event. For the Stoics, the passionsare false judgments. When they speak of pity as a passion, they are thusthinking of people for whom passion makes them lose their head andwho become incapable of acting, of saving those who suffer, such as thesurgeon who out of pity would not dare operate on the sick man for fearof hurting him. However, the Stoic admits a pity, which in a certain senseis not a passion. Marcus Aurelius says that one must undergo a sort of pityfor those who do evil, because they do not know what they are doing." Inthis case, this "sort of pity" is not a passion that would disrupt the soul,but an absence of anger; better yet, he says it himself: it is an indulgence,a softness, a patience, a kindness, much more efficient than passion-pity.These virtues imply respect of the other, whereas passion-pity impliescontempt for the other. One thinks that he is not capable of supporting a suffering or a difficulty. When Epictetus says that one must showcompassion to a friend without undergoing it himself: he means that onemust not allow oneself to be pulled into passion-pity, which disrupts thesoul and obscures reason. Thus, what Epictetus means is that one mustnot lose one's head with the one who is suffering, but really help him tosurmount his suffering. In our day, when a catastrophe happens, we sendpsychologists to help the victims absorb the shock. These psychologists donot take themselves to be obliged to cry, to wring their arms, to screamlike victims. They attempt to help without letting themselves be pulledinto panic or despair. I think this is the perspective from which one mustunderstand the Stoic critique of passion-pity. Moreover, the moderns havealso questioned the value of the sentiment of pity. Georges Friedmann,inviting himself to practice spiritual exercises, writes, "Cast aside pity andhatred."

Let us add that Marcus Aurelius cried-first, at the death of hispreceptor. His entourage entreated him to restrain the visible marks ofhis affection. Then his adoptive father, the emperor Antonin, spoke thesebeautiful words: "Let-him be human. Neither philosophy nor imperialpower suppress sentiments." But the emperor Julian reproached him laterfor having cried for his wife, Faustine, more than was reasonable, despite

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her misdemeanors. He also cried while listening to the speech of the rhetorician Aelius Aristide, sent to the emperor after the Smyrne earthquake toask for his help in rebuilding the city.

Here again the critics of our contemporaries resemble the critics ofthe contemporaries of the Stoics ofantiquity, as Seneca witnesses: "I knowthat the Stoic school has a poor reputation among the ignorant, becausethey believe it to be insensible to excess't-s-to which Seneca answers, "Noschool has more love for humans and is more attentive to the good ofall."12

J C.: The Stoic attitude that we could certainly accept, and that we

would even judge honorable, would consist in saying (1 am slightly skewing

Marcus Aurelius), it is not a joy to losea child, but it is a joy to support the losswith courage.'? This is one way to interpret Stoicism. And is it not ultimately

a quarrel over words? Ifone speaks ofphysical pain (Epicurus and Epictetus

have, in this domain, given the example ofualiance), is there not the story of

a philosopher who cries, Torment me, pain; you will riot make me admit that

you are an evil. This is in effect the ambiguity ofStoicism: even ifit hurts, it

is not an evil. Everything is in the judgment.

One might think that it is a quarrel over words, which could besummarized as follows: What people call an evil is not an evil for theStoics, for example, poverty, sickness, death. The only evil is moral evil.This is what is essential not only in Stoicism but for Socrates as well, whoaccording to Plato had said, "For the good man, there is not evil possible,whether it be living or dead," given that the only evil is moral evil. TheStoic experience of life, the Stoic choice of life, would thus consist (1) inconsidering what one must desire absolutely as good and what one mustreject absolutely as evil, and (2) in deciding that the moral good, the goodwill is the only thing that deserves to be desired absolutely, and that theevil will is the only thing that deserves to be rejected absolutely. On thispoint, Kant's theory of the good will is indeed the inheritor of Stoicism.The Stoic will has to confront death, if necessary, rather than renouncethe supreme value of virtue and of the good will. It is a heroic decision,by Socrates and the Stoics, that runs against received ideas. The supremevalue is the good intention, the good will. The death of Socrates canbe understood in this perspective. Thereafter, the Stoics refused to call

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illness, death, or natural catastrophes pains; for them these things wereneither good nor bad but indifferent, the consequences of the necessarycourse of events in the universe, which had to be accepted if they couldnot be remedied, and that became goods or evils according to our attitudetoward them.

But one can obviously admit other less heroic and more relaxedmodes of philosophical life, such as Epicureanism.

]. C.: Can one not say that our desires themselves have changed? Wealth,

power, and honors appear constantly in the Stoics and the Epicureans on lists

ofthings not to desire. Now, today, there are certainly people who desire all

this, but most ofour desires are much more modest. In the registers ofthe pil

grimage churches one reads, "Saint Virgin, do not let my parents get divorced.Let Patrick find a job. Let my little girl get well." An Epicurean may wellsay, these are natural desires that are not necessary, and his point ofview is

true, but this does not change the fact that we moderns consider them to beabsolutely legitimate desires.

I do not think that the fundamental desires of humans can change.The ruling or rich class seeks wealth, power, and honors, in antiquity justas in our day. All the misfortune of our actual civilization is in effect theexasperation of the desire for profit, in all the classes of society, for thatmatter, but especially in the ruling class. Common morals can have simpler desires: work, happiness at home, health. The invocations of the godsin antiquity were the same ones that are now made to the Virgin Mary.One asked the same things to soothsayers as we ask ofour horoscopes. It isnot a question of the epoch. But when Epicurus distinguished natural andnecessary desires, natural desires that are not necessary, and desires thatare neither natural nor necessary, he did not want to enumerate alliegitimate desires and explain how they could be satisfied; he wanted to define astyle of life, taking conclusions from his intuition, according to which thepleasure corresponds to the suppression ofa suffering caused by the desire.There is an analogy with Buddhism, very much in fashion these days. Tobe happy one must thus maximally diminish the causes of suffering, thatis, the desires. In this manner he wanted to heal the suffering of humans.He thus recommended renouncing desires that are very difficult to satisfyin order to attempt to be content with the desires that can more easily be

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satisfied-that is, finally and simply, the desire to eat, to drink, and to

clothe oneself: Under an apparently down-to-earth aspect, there is something extraordinary in Epicureanism: the recognition of the fact that thereis only one true pleasure, the pleasure of existing, and that to experience itone merely has to satisfy the desires that are natural and necessary for theexistence of the body. The Epicurean experience is extremely instructive;it invites us, like Stoicism, to a total reversal of values. '

J C.: Evidently the question ofdivine providence was not somethingcapital, because the Epicureans did not believe in it at all, and Aristotle, forhis part, thought that it did not descend lower than the moon. Nevertheless,

it was very important for the Platonists, for the Stoics, and ofcoursefor the

Christians, even if each schoolconceived ofthis providence differently.

Philosophical providence and Christian providence are extremelydifferent. The notion of providence appears in the Timaeus, when Platosays that the world is born of the reflective decision (pronoia) of the god."But this idea ofa sort ofdivine reasoning is part of the myth ofa fabricator

god and merely signifies that there is a divine intelligence at the origin ofthe universe, Similarly, in the Stoics, one must represent providence not

as a divine will interested in all the particular cases, but as an original impulse that instigates the movement of the universe and the links betweencause and effect that constitute destiny. Plotinus, resisting the Gnostics,energetically refuses the notion that the world was created by reason andwill. Finally, philosophical providence corresponds to a rational necessity,which is of the order of the world. On the Gontrary, the Hebrew God,taken up by Christianity, is a person who conducts the history of theworld and of individuals according to his unpredictable will.

J C.: Can an order ofthe world be admitted today?

I believe it is extremely difficult to answer that question, for scienceconstantly evolves, and with it the philosophical opinions of scholars. Forexample, Einstein went into raptures over the laws of nature, supposing atranscending intellect, against an order of the world, corresponding to theorder of thought. On this subject one might say, what is incomprehensibleis that the world is comprehensible. Others reduce everything to chance,

158 Unacceptable?

or to chance and necessity. For our purposes, as you yourself realized, thequestion of providence and of the order of the world is of rather little importance. Epicurus did not believe in it, and moreover the Stoic necessityis not ultimately very far from certain modern conceptions.

J C.: In effect, many ofour contemporaries have given up believing in agod who would watch over everyone ofthe hairs on our head and who would

decide at every moment what would happen on Earth and in heaven, and

this allows us to avoid questioning ourselvesabout the immediate responsibil

ity ofa just and good god, in earthquakes and in the massacre of innocentpeople. However, instructed by our scholars about the evolution ofthe Earth

and ofhumans, we want to admit that there are natural regularities, such as

earthquakes and even the death ofchildren, or recurrences in the behavior of

humans. we are thus very close to believing in a rational order as the ancientsdid-rational in that one can isolate regularities in it ("laws"), but not ratio

nal in that it would beprogrammed by a reason that is always just andgood.This is where we differfrom the ancient, Stoic, and Platonicphilosophers, who

said, before Leibniz, everything isfor the best in the best ofall possible worlds,

or what happened is better, because it happened. Because it is a question of

these "anthropological regularities," when they are criminal-injustices, mas

sacres, provoked famines, the great misery ofa billion humans-we cannotjoyfully collaborate in "the work ofthe Whole," to its cgoodandjust govern

ment, " as the Stoics request. On the contrary, it seems that our first duty is tocombat these regularities.

Here we encounter an example of the difficulty involved in discussing such a complex problem within the framework of a simple conversation. Let us leave aside the vast philosophical problem that would have tobe treated independently: Do anthropological regularities, that is, war,misery, and the perversity of humans, belong to the order of the world?Let us speak only ofwhat the Stoics could have thought of it. I could notexplain the complex problem of the relations between human freedomand destiny in a few words. Let us repeat it again: the Stoics consideredthat the locus of evil was the will of humans. Thus, for them, what youcall anthropological regularities do not belong to the order of the world,and thus, when they speak of collaborating in the world of the Whole, itsignifies being able to recognize themselves as a part of the universe; that

Unacceptable? 159

through one's existence one contributes one's part to the general movement of the universe. It is not that one should consent to everything that isa moral evil, such as injustice and the exploitation of humans by humans,but that one should combat it. Parenthetically, Marcus Aurelius runs intothe problem, just as the Christians did later, without managing to resolveit, of the "necessary" evil of war. He does not hesitate to call a brigand,thus to call himself a brigand, the one who captures a Sarmatian (thepeople with whom he is at war)." Whatever the case may be, one must actin the service of the human community, one must oppose all the bad actions ofhumans. But if the action against evil fails, the Stoic is in this caseobliged to recognize reality such as it is-let us say the massacre that wasperpetrated. Then he must try to face this new situation in order to orienthis action in another way. If he is absolutely reduced to powerlessness, hedoes not revolt uselessly against destiny, but believes that universal Natureand Reason, which here seem to suffer a failure, are capable of turningwhat obstructs their path to their favor.16 To believe this is to believe in thefinal triumph of reason in the world. Some ofour contemporaries believedor still believe in this power of reason; others do not. It was undoubtedlythe same in the time of Marcus Aurelius.

I believe that you are wrong to identify Epictetus' formula, "Willthat which happens as it happens,"? with formulas of the type, if it happened, it is that it was for the best. This is because, for the Stoics, whathappens is neither good nor bad. It is something indifferent. It depends onthe human will to give it its value, good or bad, according to the use that ismade of it. Good and evil exist only in thought and in the will of humans,not in things. But with Epictetus' formula, once again one finds the cherne

ofconsenting to the universe, under the hypothesis that we cannot changewhat works as an obstacle to the order of the world. You said that a modern could not joyfully consent, but Nietzsche said, "Not only to supportthe ineluctable . . . , but to love it."IB An attitude of this sort was therefore admitted by one of the masters of contemporary thought. Moreover,Bergson, who, if he is no longer in fashion, nevertheless influenced recentphilosophy, wrote in La Pensee et leMouvant [Thought and the moving],"To the great work of creation taking place under our eyes [for Bergson itis a creative evolution], we would feel ourselves participating, creators of

160 Unacceptable?

ourselves." One is not very far from a "joyful collaboration in the work ofthe Whole."19

J c.: With respect to this "inner citadel" that makes the sage invulnerable, is there not something that considerably distinguishes us from the an

cients, namely, that we have completely lost the envy ofthe gods?Is there not anentire current in antiquity that is, in all kinds ofways, a sort ofrefusal ofthehuman condition? I am speaking not ofthe mythological gods but ofthe god

ofthe philosophers, who is totally shelteredfrom passions, who does not move,

who is never angry, who does not suffer. You cite a good number oftexts that

suggest this, andfirst ofall the famous text from the Theaeretus, "Escaping is

to make onese/fsimilar to God, as much as it ispossible"; or Seneca, ~s God,[the sage] says: 'Everything is mine. s s» we want no more ofthis. we accept the

human condition.

This envy of the gods corresponds to the ideal of the sage. I havealways been struck by Michelet's text that says, antiquity ends up findingits own god, the sage. It is true that, for many modern humans, this idealof identification no longer makes sense; but it is easy to remove this, in acertain sense, mythological character from the ideal ofwisdom.

And I would precisely like to end this conversation with a few general considerations. It is obvious that modern humans do not have to accept all the metaphysical presuppositions or the mythological representations of Stoicism, or of Epicureanism, or of Cynicism. What I thinkis that essentially one should apply to philosophers the treatment thatBultmann wanted to apply to Christianity, that is, the demythologization, or the "dernythization" (demythisation) , the separation between, onthe one hand, the essential core and, on the other, the gangue constitutedby the collective representations of the day. Raymond Ruyer, in his bookwith the somewhat misleading title La Gnose de Princeton [The gnosisof Princeton], speaks of what I call spiritual exercises-he calls them"montages"-and says that Epicurean, Stoic montages are still valid, butwhat is no longer valid is the "ideological fog" that accompanied them.I believe that this remark is quite right. Ultimately what is interesting inthe mode of spiritual exercises is that they can be practiced independentlyof the discourse that justifies or councils them. For example, the spiritualexercise of concentration on the present exists in the Epicureans and the

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Stoics, with slight differences, but for entirely different reasons. Thus Ithink that this spiritual exercise of concentration on the present momenthas a value in itself: independently of the theories; I have practiced this exercise rather often, but this does not imply that I believe, as the Stoics did,in the eternal return, a doctrine that can be connected to this exercise.

Moreover, at the beginning of this interview you spoke of peopletoday who say, I cannot accept this. But I believe we have begun to seethat, if they do say this, it is not because they are our contemporaries, forordinary people in antiquity said exactly the same thing about Socrates orabout Plato or the Stoics. Their criticism, their rejection, is concerned notespecially with the theories but with the ethical and spiritual attitudes.But why do they say, I cannot accept this? Are they echoing modern prejudices that often have nothing modern in them? In every historical periodthere have been and there will be opposition between the customs and theconventions of everyday life and the mode of life of the philosophers, whoscandalize nonphilosophers, or make them laugh.

10

The Present Alone Is Our

Happiness

Jeannie earlier: Among the inner attitudes and the spiritual exercisesofancient philosophy, which ones do you prefer, andperhaps practice?

I would say that the theme that struck me the most is the meditationon death, because of my reading at the time of my youth, and thereafterbecause of my various surgeries (I have been anesthetized ten times orso). Not that 1 am obsessed by the thought of death. I have always beenamazed, however, that the thought of death helps one to live better, to liveas though one were living one's last day, one's last hour. An attitude suchas this one requires a total conversion of attention. To no longer projectoneself into the future, but to consider one's action in itself and for itself:to no longer consider the world to be the simple frame of our action, butto look at it in itself and for itself-this attitude has both an existentialand an ethical value. It allows one to become aware of the infinite valueof the present moment, of the infinite value of today's moments, as wellas the infinite value of tomorrow's moments, welcomed with gratitude asan unexpected chance. But it also allows one to become conscious of theseriousness of every moment of life, to do what one does habitually, notby habit but as though one were doing it for the first time, by discoveringeverything this action implies for it to be well done. Somewhere in Peguythere is a passage where he describes something Saint Aloysius Gonzaga

The PresentAlone Is Our Happiness 163

(who was often cited to us for that matter, and he surprised me a great

deal) said as a child. When asked what he would do ifhe were told that hewas going to die in an hour, he answered, I would continue to play ball.Thus he recognized that one can give, as it were, absolute value to everyinstant of life, as banal and humble as it may be. What matters is not whatone does but how one does it. The thought of death was thus leading meto the exercise of concentration on the present recommended by both theEpicureans and the Stoics.

J C.: But how can this concentration on the present be reconciled with

the imperatives of the action, which always require a finality and thus an

orientation toward the future?

Indeed, it should be specified that this concentration on the presentimplies a double liberation: from the weight of the past and from the fearof the future. This does not mean that life becomes in a sense instantaneous, without the present being related to what has been and what willbe. But more precisely, this concentration on the present is a concentration

on what we can really do; we can no longer change the past, nor can we

act on what is not yet. The present is the only moment in which we canact. Consequently, concentration on the present is a requirement ofaction.The present here is not a mathematical and infinitesimal moment; it is,for example, the duration in which the action is exercised, the durationof the sentence one utters, of the movement that one executes, or of themelody one hears.

J C.: You like to cite the verses from Goethe's Faust II, to which youhave devoted an article: "So the spirit looks neither forward nor backward.

The present alone is our happiness." How can one say that the present alone is

our happiness?

I am quite pleased that you ask me this, for two reasons. First, because this allusion to Goethe suggests that spiritual exercises have a historythat should be written. I have always liked this maxim by Vauvenargues:"A rather new and rather original book would be the one that would makeone love old truths."! These old truths are the ones that reappear in every period of history, in ours as well, both because they have been lived

164 ThePresent AloneIs Our Happiness

so strongly in the past that they continue to mark our unconscious, andbecause they are always reborn gradually as the generations reexperiencelife. These fundamental spiritual attitudes are in fact the themes of meditations that have dominated the history ofWestern thought. The theme ofthe present is an example of this. I am also pleased that I have the opportunity to speak about this article, because I noticed that some of its detailscall for specification. However, the general thesis is still valid. Goethemade repeated and abundant use of the Epicurean and Stoic idea that onefinds happiness only in the present moment. For him, the characteristicfeature of ancient life and art was to know how to live in the present, toknow, as he said, "the health of the moment."

I will cite only the small poem entitled "The Rule of Life." It isexplicit and responds in part to your question. "Do you want to live a lifewithout disturbance? Do not let the past worry you, get angry as little aspossible, rejoice of the present, rejoice without ceasing, hate no one, andabandon the future to God." Happiness is in the present moment, for thesimple reason that we live only the present, on the one hand, and on theother, that the past and the future are always the source of suffering. Thepast chagrins us, either simply because it is past and escapes us, or becauseit gives us the impression of imperfection; the future worries us because itis uncertain and unknown. But every present moment offers us the possibility ofhappiness. Ifwe put ourselves in a Stoic perspective, it gives us theopportunity to attend to our duties, to live according to reason; if we putourselves in an Epicurean perspective, it affords the pleasure of existing atevery instant, as Rousseau describes so well in the fifth promenade of theReveries ofa Solitary Walker.

What needs to be specified in the article is the interpretation of FaustII's verse: "So the spirit looks neither forward nor backward. The present alone is our happiness." Apparently these verses express exactly thesame idea as the poem "The Rule of Life." And it is true that Faust, oncontact with Helen, adopts an ancient language when he recommendsthis concentration on the instant. But a number of things must nevertheless be specified. The art of life taught in the poem "The Rule of Life"conforms entirely to the art of living in ancient philosophy, that is, thatevery moment, anyone at all, offers a possibility of happiness. In the caseof the meeting between Faust and Helen, however, it is the case not of


any moment at all but of an exceptional moment, a beautiful instant,wonderful instant, in the strong sense of the word. For in this instant, ina magical way, a man of the Middle Ages, Faust, meets a woman fromarchaic antiquity, Helen. This is why, when Faust says to Helen, do notlook toward either the past or the future, hold yourself in the present, heis alluding to the situation of the two lovers. Helen, in effect, cannot helpbeing afraid because of the absence of ties between her past and her meeting with Faust, and she is worried about the possibility of a future for suchan, as it were, artificial connection. What Faust wants to say, finally, is,"Do not think, do not reflect about the past or the future; take advantageof the present occasion; love!" Moreover, in the perspective of the tragedyof Faust, one might also ask whether this beautiful instant does not correspond to the "Instant" in question at the beginning of the work, whenFaust says, as he concludes his pact with the devil, "If I say to the Instant,'Stop, you are so beautiful,' then you will be able to enchain me." Hereagain, it is not a question of any instant at all, but a particularly fortunateinstant, a sort of summit of existence, and the meeting with Helen is precisely this beautiful instant of which Faust speaks. It is why one can alsoask oneselfwhy Mephistopheles, hearing Faust say to Helen, "The presentalone is our happiness," does not take advantage of it to avail himself ofFaust, in conformity with the pact. Perhaps it is because Faust does notrepeat what he said word for word and, especially, does not command theinstant to stop, for he wants to live in the future with Helen. In any case,in the tragedy, except in the short scene with Helen and in the final scene,Faust does not know how to enjoy the present, whatever it may be. He isdevoured by insatiable desires, by the appeal of the future. In the eyes ofGoethe he is a modern man, but did the philosophers of antiquity not reproach their contemporaries for being too devoured by insatiable desires?Goethe has an idyllic representation of ancient man when he affirms thatthe ancients know how to live in the present. He should have said thatonly certain philosophers tried to do it.

In any case, the exercise of concentration on the present does notconsist of knowing how to enjoy, when the opportunity presents itself: afortuitous instant-one of those instants that Sartre speaks of in Nauseabut it consists in knowing how to recognize the infinite value ofevery mo-

166 The PresentAlone Is Our Happiness

mente In fact, it is very difficult, but it is good to regain consciousness ofthis wealth of the present instant as much as possible.

J C.: What do you mean by this wealth of the present instant ormoment?

This wealth is the one we give it, thanks to a transformation of ourrelationship to time. Ordinarily our life is always incomplete, in the strongest sense of the term, because we project all our hopes, all our aspirations,all our attention into the future, telling ourselves that we will be happywhen we will have attained this or that goal. We are scared as long as thegoal is not attained, but if we attain it, already it no longer interests usand we continue to run after something else. We do pot live, we hope tolive, we are waiting to live. Stoics and Epicureans invite us, then, to effecta total conversion of our relation to time, to live in the only moment welive in, that is, the presel)t; to live not in the future but, on the contrary,as though there were no future, as though we only had this day, only thismoment, to live; to live it then as well as possible, as though-as we weresaying earlier-it were the last day, the last moment of our life, in ourrelationship to ourselves and to those around us. It is not a question hereof a false tragedy, which would be ridiculous, but of a way to discovereverything that can be possessed in the instant. First of all, we can realizean action well done, done for itself: with attention and consciousness. Wecan tell ourselves, I apply myself at concentrating on my action of thismoment; I do it as well as possible. We can also tell ourselves, I am here,alive, and this is enough; that is, we can become conscious of the value ofexistence-or one can repeat Montaigne's inexhaustible sentence on thissubject, saying to the one who has the impression of having done nothing,"What? Have you not lived? It is not only the most fundamental, but themost illustrious ofyour occupations."2 We can even add, Here I am, in animmense and wonderful world. It is the presel).t instant, Marcus-Aureliussaid, that puts us into contact with the whole cosmos." At every instantI can think of the indescribable cosmic event to which I belong. But thisbrings us to another theme we will have to address: that ofwonder in frontof the world. For the moment, suffice it to say briefly that to live in thepresent is to live as though we were seeing the world for the first and for

The Present Alone Is Our Happiness 167

the last time. Every present moment can thus be a moment of happiness,

whether it is the pleasure of existing or the joy of doing things well.It is quite clear that we cannot always live in this disposition, be

cause one must make a difficult effort to liberate oneself from fascinationwith the future and from daily routine.

J C.: In your books, do you not alsodiscuss what you call the lookfromabove?

It is another exercise that seems very important and that I have triedto practice. The look from above, directed at the earth from a mountaintop, an airplane, or a spaceship, must obviously be distinguished from theimagined, thought look from above, but that obviously supposes the experience of the look directed from an elevated point. It happens that this,one might say, physiological look from above was discussed extensively inGreek civilization. Hans Blumenberg has maintained that it took untilApril 26, 1336, and the climbing of Mount Ventoux by Petrarch for manfinally to have the courage to look at the world from above, such a lookhaving until then been reserved for the gods. This is a nice example of thesort of blindness that affects researchers when they have a preconceivedidea. According to Blumenberg, following Jacob Burckhardt in this respect, ancient man would never have climbed mountains out of pleasureor curiosity, only to build temples. In fact, the existence of a look fromabove is indeed attested to by the Greeks and the Romans. There are lookouts in Homer who see danger from afar. I cannot enumerate all the looksfrom above that appear in ancient poetry, from Aristophanes' Clouds toApollonius of Rhodes' Argonautika. And the climbs, ofEtna, for example,are thoroughly attested. Similarly, one also finds representations of thelandscape seen from above in Greco-Roman art. It is interesting that theexperience ofan overarching vision of things has allowed one to imagine amental vision that encompasses the Earth and the world. Allusion is madeto it throughout antiquity. This exercise consists in imaginatively goingover the immensity of space, and the accompanying movement of thestars, but also looking at the Earth from above, and observing the behavior of humans. It is described frequently, for example, in Plato, Epicurus,Lucretius, Philo ofAlexandria, Ovid, Marcus Aurelius, and Lucian.


These efforts of the imagination and of the intellect are destined toplace one within the vastness of the universe so that one can become awareof who one is. First of all, awareness of one's weakness-this allows oneto sense how the human things that seem to be of capital importance are,envisaged from this perspective, ridiculously small. The ancient authors,such as Lucian, thus allude to the wars that, seen from above, seem to bebattles of ants, and to borders, which seem pointless. It is also a matter ofletting the human being become aware ofthe greatness ofhumans, becausetheir minds are capable of covering the whole universe. This exercise leadsto an expansion ofawareness, to a sort of flight of the soul into the infinite,which Lucretius describes in reference to Epicurus. It especially has theeffect ofallowing an individual to see things in a universal perspective andto remove oneself from one's egoistical point ofview. This is why this lookfrom above leads to impartiality. Such must be the point of view of thehistorian, which Lucian was already saying in The True History.

J C.: It is a theme that has very often been exploited by the moderns,and in the Orient as well, even when the intention is satirical (one thinks of

Voltaire). However, most often the message is not forgotten.

This theme, like the theme of the present, has been abundantlydeveloped in all of Western literature, most notably in Pascal, Voltaire,and Andre Chenier, but especially in Goethe (for example, in the poem"Genius Gliding Above the Terrestrial Sphere") and in Baudelaire's admirable poem entitled "Elevation," which begins with these verses: ''Abovethe ponds, above the valleys, /The mountains, the woods, the clouds, thesea, I Beyond the sun, beyond the ethers, I Beyond the confines of the starry spheres, / My spirit, you move with agility ... ". Goethe, fascinated bythe look from above, was very enthusiastic about the first hot air balloonflights (in 1783), by which humans tore themselves away from their terrestrial weight. Our generation has achieved flight in space. And those wholived this experience underwent a terrible shock and reported ideas andsentiments analogous to what was felt by those who had lived it merelyas a spiritual exercise. They felt like stars among stars, and they felt thevanity of borders and of all the barriers, physical and moral, that separatehumans. You see that we encounter a tradition of immense wealth, onethat I hope to be able to describe in a subsequent book.


The spiritual exercise of the look from above, stripped of all out

dated cosmology and of all mythology, is thus still valid today. It consistssimply of occupying what has been called "the point of view of Sirius," toborrow the title of an editorial written for years in Le Monde by HubertBeuve-Mery. To put oneself in the point of view of Sirius is to aim forthe objectivity, the impartiality, of the historian and the scholar, but it isalso to undo oneself from oneself in order to open oneself to a universalperspective. This exercise aims to allow one to become aware ofone's place

in the universe, thus to detach oneself from one's egoistical point of view,and to lead one to become aware ofone's belonging, not only to the Wholeof the universe, but also to the Whole of the human community; to leave

a unilateral view of things, to put oneself in the place of others.

]. c.: Andyet, do you not think that there is a contradiction between thepoint ofview ofSirius, which should necessarily move us away from humans,

and the concernfor community, which places us among humans?

I once read a text on an invitation card that was attributed without

reference to Einstein-a text that expresses so well what I have just tried

to say that I feel obliged to cite it: "Ahuman being is only a part, limitedin time and space, of the Whole that we call the 'universe.' However, heconsiders his person, his thought, his sentiments as a separate entity. Thisis a sort of optical illusion that locks us into a kind of prison, since we canonly see in it our own aspirations and since we give our affection only tothe people who are closest to us. It is our duty to leave these narrow limitsand to open our hearts to all living beings and to all of nature in its magnificence. No one is capable ofattaining this goal, but our efforts to arrivethere continue to free us and to bring inner security." This is preciselythe sentiment from above that allows humans to escape their limits, that

puts humanity back in the Whole, and that at the same time allows us tobecome aware that we are a part of the Whole, leads us to open our heartsto all living beings. Everything is Stoic in this text, even the idea of theinaccessible character ofwisdom. Is it really from Einstein? Michael Chaseand I have looked for years in the published works ofEinstein. It is impossible to find it. Perhaps it is hidden in a letter? It effectively correspondsrather well to the ideas of the great scientist, who wrote, for example, thatin order to know the authentic value of a human, one must ask to what


degree and to what end he has freed himself from himself." In any case,in the text I cited, one sees the intimate connection between, on the onehand, the passage from a partial vision to a universal vision, and on theother hand, an awareness of the duty to put oneself in the service of thehuman community.

J C.: Is this concernfor the human community found in all the ancient

philosophical schools, or is it properly Stoic?

One already finds it in Plato's attempts at political reform in Syracuse.Afterward, there is progress with Epicurus, who in the life of his schoolmade no distinction between free men and slaves. Finally, the idea of humankind seems to appear only in the Stoics, to the extent that they extendthe concept of the city to the community of reasonable beings. What isthe human? asks Epictetus, and he answers, a part of the city, that is, ofthe great city, the city of the gods and of humans, as well as a part of thelesser city, which is merely the image of the universal city.'

The most decisive Stoic text is from Seneca. The eminent dignityof every human is recognized, and the idea of human rights is impliedin Letter to Lucilius. Seneca criticizes the circus acts in which naked andunarmed men are put to death as a chastisement for their crimes, and inthis connection he uses the expression "the human, a sacred thing for thehuman."6 It is worth noting that he uses it in reference to people who wereconsidered to be criminals. It is the human as human that is a sacred thingfor the human. For the human of antiquity, the word sacred is chargedwith religious value. Epictetus, for his part, speaks of slaves as "sons ofGod."

Thus the Stoics had a sharp sense of what one could call the socialvocation of humans, the service of the human community, and thus ofthe political duty of the philosopher. In his eyes, however, the philosophermust not exercise political activities in a state in-which one would haveto renounce one's moral principals in order to exercise them. The Stoicsrequire a close relation between morality and politics.

J C.: Has ancient history conserved any traces ofpolitical action byStoicism and the Stoics?


Throughout the history of ancient Stoicism, one can observe thetestimonies of political action they exercised. In the third century beforeour era, the king of Sparta, Cleomenes, was inspired in his reforms by theStoic Sphairos. These reforms insured the absolute equality of all citizensby opposing all division into social classes, and proposing the equality ofmen and women, the division of the land, and the repayment of debts.In the second century before our era, the famous agrarian reforms of the'Gracchi brothers are pursued in a Stoic milieu, that of the Scaevola family,and also under the influence of the Stoic Blossius. They are inspired by thecompassion for misery, remarkably expressed in a passage ofa discourse byTiberius Gracchus. After the failure ofTiberius Gracchus, the philosopherBlossius fled to Asia, to Aristonicus, who was fighting the Romans forthe kingdom of Pergamon and had the political program of liberatingthe slaves and establishing the equality of citizens. Provincial governors,such as Quintus Mucius Scaevola, also applied humanitarian principlesof Stoicism as their way of administrating the provinces." But I am givinga history lesson, so I will pass very quickly and regretfully over the Stoicopposition to the empire in the first century after Jesus Christ.

]. C.: But in the following century, a Stoic will become emperor; it willbe your dear Marcus Aurelius. Can one perceive traces of Stoicism in hisadministration?

One thing is certain: he did not envisage sensational reforms likeKing Cleomenes or like the Gracchi. But in his book he praises those,Stoics or otherwise, who fought and died for a state in which the lawswould be equal for everyone, where everyone would have freedom ofspeech and where the freedom of the subjects would be respected. Oneclearly sees where his sympathies lie.

Consider a few details of his administration that bear witness tohis concerns. I speak of "details" because Marcus Aurelius seemed to bepersuaded that the first duty of the emperor was precisely to be concernedwith details, for example, protecting citizens from the abuses of the functionaries of the state or from judicial mistakes. The ancient historians andjurists praise him for the scrupulous care he put into upholding justice,by prolonging the length of judicial sessions, by always worrying aboutwrongfully condemning someone, by attempting to preserve the rights of


the defense as much as possible. The legislation of Marcus Aurelius atteststo his concern to facilitate the liberation of the slaves, even when fiscalconsiderations opposed it, on the basis of the principle that the cause offreedom must take precedence over all pecuniary considerations. In ordernot to charge the provinces taxes that were too high, in order to financethe campaigns to Germania, he auctioned objects of value belonging tothe imperial family. He had learned of the mortal falls of child tightropewalkers and demanded that in the future mats and nets be made availableto avoid such accidents. At this point in history it is a rare example ofattention given to humble citizens. Few emperors would have been interested in what they would consider to be an insignificant detail.

J c.: I think we can agree that this concernfor the human communityis, among the spiritual attitudes adopted bythe Stoics, the one that retains themost value for us.

Yes, the notes in Marcus Aurelius' book are precious. There is anextraordinary lucidity in the advice the emperor gives himself to make outall the dangers that threaten the person of action. One must take care torespect others, to remain perfectly impartial, to be totally disinterested, todo good without being aware of it, to avoid egotistically attaching oneselfto one's action, to accept the advice of others. All these remarks are valuable today.

In a more general way, this concern for the human community isan essential dimension of thought and of philosophical life. Socrates, inPlato's Apology, insists a great deal on the fact that he neglects all his personal interests to occupy himself only with others. Obviously one cansay that he only takes care of souls. But there were others in antiquity,philosophers who were statesmen, such as Tiberius Gracchus or QuintusMucius Scaevola, who concerned themselves with the well-being ofpeopleand especially of the poor.

From this perspective, one can reconsider all contemporary actionthat aims to ease misery, suffering, and sickness, and all political actioninspired by ethical motives, such as defined by Vaclav Havel when hewrites, "The only politics, the only one worthy of this name, and moreoverthe only one I consent to practice, is politics in the service of the neighbor,


in the service of the community," in order to take them as philosophicalactions, in the strongest and most noble sense of the word."

J C.: One last theme returns frequently in your work, the theme ofwon

der in the face ofthe splendor ofexistence and ofthe universe. Is this once again

an attitude ofthe ancientphilosophers that you consider to be still alive?

You now give me the opportunity to return to an idea that 1alludedto earlier: to live in the present moment is to live as though one were seeing the world both for the last and for the first time. To work at seeing theworld as though one were seeing it for the first time is to get rid of the conventional and routine vision we have of things, to discover a brute, naivevision of reality, to take note of the splendor of the world, which habituallyescapes us. This is what Lucretius is attempting to do when he suggeststhat if the spectacle of the world appeared briskly and unexpectedly to oureyes, the human imagination would be incapable ofconceiving somethingmore wonderful. And when Seneca speaks of the stupefaction that strikeshim when he looks at the world, he says that it often happens that he looksat it as though he were looking at it for the first time."

We find this stupefaction, this wonder in the face of the unbelievableexistence of the world, in an entire part of Western literature. From theseventeenth century there are the admirable Poems ofFelicity by ThomasTraherne, which Jean Wahl went to the trouble of translating, most notably the poem entitled "Wonder": "Rare splendors [ ... ] Mine eyes dideverywhere behold. Great wonders cloth'd with glory did appear." At thebeginning of the nineteenth century there was, once again, Goethe, forexample, in the song of Lynceus in Faust II: "I see in all things an eternallivery." And more recently there was, among others, Rilke ("To be herebelow is a splendor") and Wittgenstein, who said that his experience par

excellence was the wonder before the existence of the world.1 am therefore not the only one to be filled with wonder before the

existence of the world. But I have a scruple: this livery of which Lynceusspeaks, is it not a sumptuous veil that hides horror, the horror of the battlefor life, of these animals, but also of these humans who savagely tear eachother apart? The Stoics tell us that one must see nature as it is in andof itself: independently of our anthropomorphic representations. Thereis something true in this rigor. Certain nature films in which one sees

174 The Present AloneIs Our Happiness

the wildcats devour their prey suppose that ultimately this horror is asplendor. And already Aristotle was amazed by the fact that terrifying ormonstrous things in nature repel us, although we admire them in works ofart. A true connoisseur of nature must also love its repugnant aspects. Inall the works of nature, he said, there is something wonderful.

But for the billions of humans who suffer and are in misery, existence in the world really cannot appear as something wonderful. Thesethings are beautiful to see, Schopenhauer said, but to be one of them isan entirely different story. Philosophical life consists in the. courage to assume consciously the fact ofprecisely being one of them. Certain humans,sometimes very simple and "ordinary" ones, as Montaigne remarked, havethe courage for and thus gain access to the philosophical life. Even whenthey suffer and find themselves in a desperate situation, they sometimesmanage to consider existence as something splendid. After a paper I gavein Montreal, someone in the audience told' me that I should read RosaLuxemburg's letters from prison, because one could find in them something analogous to what I had said. I read these letters from the time ofher captivity in 1917-18 (she would be assassinated in 1919), and I found ahymn to the beauty of the world on almost every page. She admired thesky, the clouds, the flowers, the birds, and wrote, "Before such a sky, howcould one be mean or petty?" And there is also that hero Solzhenitsyn, inthe First Circle, who describes his sentiments as a prisoner, lying in bedand focusing on the dilapidated ceiling: "The pure joy of existing makesme tremble."

In the final analysis, the world is perhaps splendid, it is often atrocious, but it is especially enigmatic. Admiration can become astonishment, stupefaction, even terror. Lucretius, speaking about the vision ofnature that Epicurus revealed to him, cries out: "At this spectacle, a sort ofdivine pleasure and a quiver of terror seize me." These are indeed the twocomponents of our relation to the world, both divine pleasure and terror.But this text is, to my knowledge, the only one in antiquity that alludesto this dimension of our experience. Perhaps one should add Seneca's stupefaction, of which we have just spoken. This sacred quiver that humansfeel, according to Goethe's Faust, before the enigmatic character of realityis "the best part ofhumanity," because it is an intensification of the awareness that we have of the world. The moderns, that is, Schelling, Goethe,


Nietzsche, von Hofmannsthal, Rilke (in his first Elegy, "For the beautifulis nothing other than the beginning of the terrible") and also MerleauPonty, have expressed better, and perhaps felt better, than the Ancientswhat is strange and mysterious in the existence of the world. One does notproduce this sacred quiver, but on the rare occasions that it takes hold ofone, one must not attempt to remove oneself from it, because one musthave the courage to confront the inexpressible mystery of existence.

Postface

The moment has now come for me to tell my friends of my deepgratitude. It is directed first to my dear colleagues, Arnold I. Davidsonand Jeannie Carlier, who obliged me to develop my reflection and to ex

press my thought about very important problems. Helene Monsacre leantus all her efficient help for the carrying out of these interviews. I wish tothank her wholeheartedly for her prodigious encouragement and advice. Ialso was given advice, very precious advice, from colleagues who are verydear to me: Sandra Laugier, jean-Francois Balaude, and Alain Segonds.In rereading the definitive version of this work, they gave me very useful remarks. This book was thus born in an atmosphere of cordiality and

friendship.At this point I will follow Arrien, the editor of Epictetus' Handbook.

He ended his book with quotations from several authors whom he thoughtcaptured what he had attempted to say. In turn, I will propose a short,chronologically ordered anthology of texts that I was unable to cite or tocite entirely in these interviews, about the sentiment of existence or thecosmic and "oceanic" sentiment. To comment on them would be to makethem fade. They speak for themselves, and I propose them as a way tocontinue to communicate indirectly with my readers.

T chouang Tseu

I knew of the Tao only what a fruit fly caught in a vat could know ofit. If the master had not lifted my cover, I would always have been ignorant of the universe in its grandiose wholeness.'

178 Postface

Seneca

For my part, I have the habit of spending a lot of time contemplating wisdom: I look at it with the same stupefaction with which, at othermoments, I look at the world-this world that I have many times lookedat as though I were seeing it for the first time."

Pascal

I do not know who put me into the world, what the world is, or what

I am myself . .. I see these frightening spaces of the universe around meand I find myself attached to a corner of this vast expanse, without knowing why I am in this place rather than another, or why the little time thatis given to me to ··live is assigned to me at this point rather than anotherin all the eternity that preceded me and in all the eternity that will followme. I only see infinities of all parts that close in on me like an atom andlike a shadow that does not last longer than an instant that will not return.All I know is that I will die soon, but I do not know what this death is it

self this death that I will not be able to avoid."

Rousseau

The sentiment of existence stripped of all other affection is by itselfa precious sentiment of contentment and peace, which would alone suffice to make this existence dear and gentle to the one who knows how tokeep at a distance all the sensual and' earthly impressions that relentlesslydistract and trouble this gentleness in the here-below.

He loses himself with a delicious inebriation in the immensity of

this beautiful system" with which he feels identified. Then all particularobjects escape him; he feels nothing but the whole."

Kant

Two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing admirationand reverence, the more often and more steadily one reflects on them:

Postface 179

the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me. I do not need to

search for them and merely conjecture them as though they were veiledin obscurity or in the transcendent region beyond my horizon; I see them

before me and connect them immediately with the consciousness of myexistence.f

Goethe

Sacred dread, that is the best part of humans. As much as the world

makes them pay for what they feel, it is in shock that they feel prodigious

reality profoundly.?

Blake

To see the world in a grain ofsand, and to see heaven in a wildflower,

hold infinity in the palm of your hands, and eternity in an hour."

Thoreau

Sympathy with the fluttering alder and poplar leaves almost takes

away my breath; yet, like the lake, my serenity is rippled but not ruffled.

Why should I feel lonely? Is not our planet in the Milky Way?I go and come with a strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself

Perhaps the facts most astounding and most real are never commu

nicated by man to man. The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as

intangible and indescribable as the tints ofmorning or evening. It is a little

stardust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched."

Nietzsche

Let us suppose that we say yes to a single moment; we would thushave said yes not only to ourselves but to all existence. For nothing is iso

lated, either in ourselves, or in things. And if happiness makes our souls

vibrate and resonate even once, all the eternities will have been necessary

180 Postface

to create the conditions of this single event, and all eternity has been approved, saved, justified, affirmed in this unique instant in which we havesaid yes.'?

Thompson

All things by immortal power,Near or far, HiddenlyTo each other linked are,That thou canst not stir a flowerWithout troubling of a star.II

Hugo von Hofmannsthal

Most people do not live in life, but in a simulacrum, in a sort of algebra in which nothing exists and in which everything only signifies. Iwould like to profoundly experience the being of all things."

Rilke

We must accept our existence to the greatest extent possible; everything, the unprecedented also, needs to be accepted. That is basicallythe only case of courage required of us: to be courageous in the face ofthe strangest, the most whimsical and unexplainable thing that we couldencounter. . .. The fear of the unexplainable impoverished not only theexistence of the individual, but also caused the relationship of one personto another to be limited. It is as though fear has caused something to belifted out of the riverbed of limitless possibilities to a fallow stretch ofshore where nothing happens."

Wi ttgenstein

[ ... ] I think that the best way to describe my experience par excel

lence is to say that when I have this experience, I am amazed by the existence of the world. . . . And I would describe the experience of being

Postface 181

amazed by the existence of the world by saying: it is the experience of seeing the world as a miracle."

Cezanne

The immensity, the torrent of the world, in a little inch of matter."

Laborit

The experience of the sea is too global, too mystical, to be reducedto an interindividual relation. . . . There is an essential difference betweenan interindividual relation situated in a cultural space and what one feelswhen one is alone at sea on a beautiful starry night, filled with wonder bythe splendor and the immensity of the cosmos, feeling entirely engulfedin this global space, without being able to do anything other than participate in it, and words will never manage to describe this. . . . At sea I amnot myself: I am the Cosmos."

Notes

CHAPTER 1

I. Reiner Schtirmann was of German origin but spoke French admirably well.In 1971 I was a part of his doctoral dissertation committee for Maitre Eckhart ouLa joie errante [Meister Eckhart or errant joy]. Henri Birault, the great Heideggerscholar, harshly criticized Schiirrnann's interpretation of Heidegger, whose doctoral dissertation-Le principe d'anarchie [The principle of anarchy] (Paris: LeSeuil, 1982), defended around 198o-precisely proposed to draw the consequences of Heidegger's thought: the impossibility of unifying the real around a centralprinciple. Thereafter, Schtirmann became a brilliant professor in the United Statesand wrote a remarkable autobiographical narrative, Les origines [Origins] (Paris:Fayard, 1978).

2. Michel Hulin, La Mystique Sauvage [Savage mysticism] (Paris: Presses Uni-versitaires de France, 1993), 56-57.

3. Seneca, Lettres aLucilius [Letters to Lucilius]' Letter 66, 6.4. Lucretius, De rerum natura [On the nature of things], Book III, line 29.5. See Michel Hulin, Ope cit., 27.6. Rene Poirier (19°0-1995), a member of the Institut (1956), was elected pro

fessor at the Sorbonne in 1937, assigned to a mission in Brazil from 1939-45, andreturned to the Sorbonne after 1945. He authored two important texts: Remarquessur La probabilite des inductions [Remarks on the probability of inductions] (1931)and Essai sur quelques caracteres des notions d'espace et de temps [Essay on certaincharacteristics of the notions of space and time] (1932). In a general manner, theseworks refer to epistemology. Poirier attempted to define an "intellectual anthropology." His was a mind of a such prodigious agility that, during these courses, healso presented a number of logical theories of which I understood nothing other than that they were subtle psychological analyses of, for example, jealousy orbelief

7. Author of Histoire de la morale en France [History of morals in France](1930-31), L'ldeede bien [The idea of good] (1908), and La Science desfaits moraux[Science and moral facts] (1925), Albert Bayet championed secular morality, hesi-

184 Notes

taring between the science of morals (the science of moral facts) and the morals ofscience (that is, morality founded on science).

8. Rene Le Senne (1888-1954), professor at the Sorbonne, was author ot: amongother works, Traitede moralegenerale [Treatise on general morals] (1942), Traitedecaracterologie [Treatise on characterology] (1946), and Obstacle et valeur [Obstacleand value] (s.d.). His thought belongs to the spiritualist and idealist traditions.From his teaching I especially retained the idea of "conflict of duties."

9. Georges Davy was a sociologist of the Durkheim school. In his book La Foi[uree [The sworn faith] (1922), in order to explain the formation of the contractual relation, Davy attached great importance to the Indian custom of potlatch,a gift constituting a challenge to give an equivalent gift. The word would amusethe students.

10. Raymond Bayer was married to Emile Brehier's daughter, who took careof her husband's students with great solicitude; I was one of them when he wasparalyzed after suffering a stroke in the United States. He was notably the authorof two important works: Traite d'esthetique [Aesthetics treatise] and Esthetique defagrace [Aesthetics of grace].

II. Jean Wahl (1888-1974) was professor at the Sorbonne from 1936; as a result of persecutions against Jews, he took exile in the United States in 1942. Hereclaimed his position at the Sorbonne in 1945, directed the Revue de Metaphy

sique et de Morale, and founded the College Philosophique. Of his works one cancite, among others, Le Rolede l'ideed'instant dans la philosophiede Descartes [Therole of the instant in Descartes' philosophy], La Philosophic pluraliste d'Angleterreet d'Amerique [Pluralist philosophy in England and America], Etude sur le Parrnenide de Platon [Study on Plato's Permenides], Le Malheur de fa conscience dans faphilosophiede Hegel[The misfortune of conscience in Hegel's philosophy], Etudeskierkegaardiennes [Kierkegaardian studies], and Traitede metapbysique [Metaphysical treatise]. He contributed to introducing the French to Anglo-Saxon philosophyand Heidegger's thought.

12. Nikolai Berdyaev (1874-1948), born in Kiev, attempted after the revolutionof 1917, to which he was not hostile, to preserve "spiritual culture." Vice presidentof the Society ofWriters, in 1920 he became a professor at the University of Moscow, but he was thrown out in 1922. After spending some time in Germany, wherehe wrote Un nouveau Moyen Age (A new Middle Ages], he settled in Clamart,France, in 1924 where he wrote his most important books: Essai d'autobiograpbiespirituelle[An essay in spiritual autobiography] (1938) and his translation ofJacobBoehme's Mysterium magnum. Both mystical and revolutionary, his work is a pleafor freedom and for the spirit.

13. Paul Henry, of Belgian nationality, professor of theology at the InstitutCatholique, and author with Hans-Rudolph Schwyzer of a remarkable editionof Plotinus' Ennead, taught a very enlightened theology. He showed sympathy

Notes 185

for the work ofTeilhard de Chardin. In his Plotin et l'Occident [Plotinus and theWest] (1934), he revealed the influence of Plotinus on the Latin world.

14. Henri-Charles Puech (1902-86) was director of studies at Ecole Pratiquedes Hautes Etudes (Section des Sciences Religieuses), tutelary of the chair of history of religions at the College de France (1952-72), specialist of Gnosticism andManichaeism, and editor and translator ofseveral Gnostic texts discovered at NagHammadi.

15. Pierre Courcelle (1912-80) was director of studies at Ecole Pratique desHautes Etudes (Section des Sciences historiques et philologiques), tutelary of thechair of Litterature latine [Latin literature] at College de France (1952-80), andauthor of very important texts, including, among others, Les Lettresgrecques enOccident, de MacrobeaCassiodore [The Western Greek letters, from Macrobius toCassiodorus] (1948); Recherches sur les Confessions de saint Augustin [Studies onSaint Augustine's Confessions] (1968); and Les confessions de saint Augustin dans Latradition litteraire [Saint Augustine's Confessions in the literary tradition] (1963).He considered himself to be a student of Paul Henry and of his method of literalcitations in the identification of literary influences.

16. R. Cadiou, professor at the Institut Catholique and author of interestingworks on Origen, directed my thesis for the Institut Catholique with great solicitude. I say that he is mysterious because I asked myself what his position was withregard to the Church, When I informed him by letter that I was leaving the ecclesiastical order, he said, "It would be very difficult to give you my opinion. Becausethe orientation of my sentiment is no different, I would like to be dispensed ofproviding an explanation. The concordaire status of the clergy has never filled mewith admiration and I have approvingly observed a similarity in the points ofviewof Western churches and Oriental churches, in particular in the doctrine of thevenerated Cardinal Suhard."

17. After teaching at the Aurillac high school and at several other provincialseminaries, Pierre-Maxime Schuhl (1902-84) was drafted in 1939.Taken prisoner,he was detained in several German camps. He was named professor at the Sorbonne after the war. He wrote, among other works, Essai sur La formation de fapensee grecque [Essay on the formation of Greek thought] (1934), Machinisme etphilosophie [Mechanization and philosophy] (1938), and Le merueilleux, la penseeet taction [The supernatural, thought and action] (1952). He also practiced the artof painting.

18. Mugnier, Journal de l'abbe Mugnier Oournal of Abbot Mugnier], 1985,

378.19. Francois Leprieur, Quand Rome condamne: Dominicains et pretres ouvri-

er [When Rome condemns: Dominicans and priest-workers] (Paris: Editions duCerf, 1989). See also Yves Congar, Journal d'un theologien, 1946-1956 [A theologian's journal, 1946-1956] (Paris: Editions du Cerf 2001).

186 Notes

CHAPTER 2

I. Rene Roques was canon of the diocese of Albi and titular in the Fifth Section, "Doctrines and Methods of the High Middle Ages," of the Ecole Pratiquedes Hautes Etudes. I met him in 1945-46, my year of study in Paris, at the Maison de la rue Cassette.

2. In 1934, Paul Vignaux (19°4-87) became Etienne Gilson's successor as titular in the fifth section of the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, of the directiond'etudesentitled Histoire des theologies medievales [History of medieval theologies], and he was section president from 1962 to 1972. He was particularly interested in the nominalist philosophers from the end of the Middle Ages. A Christianunion militant, he played an important role in the creation of the Confederation Fran<;aise Democratique du Travail [French Democratic Confederation ofLabour] (CFDT). As a member of the CFDT in the 1960s, I had the opportunityto collaborate with him.

3. The Eranos conferences, which continue to take place, were instituted byCarl G. Jung at an enchanting site: the Swiss shore of Lac Majeur at Ascona. Thefirst meeting took place in 1933, under the title "Yoga and Meditation in the Eastand the West." The following, among others (the list is very long), were invitedto these meetings: H. Corbin,]. Danielou, G. Holton, K. Kerenyi, L. Massignon,~-J. de Menasce, P Pelliot, H.-Ch. Puech, K. Raine, S. Sambursky, G. Scholem,E. Schrodinger, and so on. The person who most impressed me at the time of my1968 visit was the biologist A. Portmann.

4. Thomas Mann, Lettres [Letters], vol. III, 1948-55 (Paris, 1973), 424.5. Albert Einstein, Commentje vois le monde [The World as I See It] (Paris:

Flammarion, 1979), 10, 17-19.6. Maurice Merleau-Ponry, Eloge de fa philosophie [In praise of philosophy]

(Paris: Gallimard, 1953), 53, 54-55·7. Rene Haussoulier, Preface, in Charles Michel, Paris, 1900.

CHAPTER 3

I. Antoine Meillet, Bullentinde fa societe de linguistique de Paris, 32 (1931), 23.2. Hans-Georg Gadamer, Wahrheit und Methode [Truth and method], 345.3. Victor Goldschmidt, "Reflexions sur la methode structurale en histoire de la

philosophie" [Reflections on the structural method in the history of philosophy],in Metaphysique: Histoire de la philosophie [Metaphysics: history of philosophy](Neuchatel: Recueil d'etudes offert aFernand Brunner, 1981), 230-31.

4. Epictetus, Entretiens [Discourses], III, 23, 29.5. Victor Goldschmidt, Les Dialogues de Platen [Plato's dialogues] (Paris,

1947), 3·

Notes 187

6. Peter A. Brunt, "Marcus Aurelius in his Meditations," Journal ofRomanStudies, 64 (1974), 1-20.

7. R. B. Rutherford, The Meditations ofMarcusAurelius(Oxford, UK: OxfordUniversity Press, 1989).

CHAPTER 4

I. Ernst H. Gombrich, Symbolic Images: Study in the Art ofRenaissance (Oxford: Phaidon Press, 1978).

2. E. D. Hirsch, Validity in Interpretation (New Haven: Yale University Press,

1967).3. Gerard Naddaf L'Origine et l'euolution du conceptgrec de phusis [Origin and

evolution of the Greek concept of phusis] (Lewiston, N.Y.: Edwin Mellon Press,

1992 ) .

4. J. B. Logre, L'Anxietede Lucrece[The anxiety of Lucretius] (Paris, 1946).5. R Hader, Preface. In E. Bertram, Nietzsche: Essai de mythologie [Nietzsche:

essay in mythology] (Paris, 1990 ) , 34.6. Raymond Ruyer, La Gnose de Princeton [The Princeton gnosis] (Paris,

1974),220.7. Friedrich Nietzsche, Humain trop humain [Human, too human], vol. 2, in

Fragments posthumes [Posthumous fragments], sec. 168, III, 2 (Paris: Gallimard,

1988), 74·

CHAPTER 5

I. Emile Brehier, La philosophie de Plotin [Plato's philosophy] (Paris: Vrin,

1982), 97-98.2. MichelHulin, La mystiquesauvage [Savage mysticism] (Paris: Presses Uni

versitaires de France, 1993), 27.3. Plotinus, Traite 38 [Treatise 38J, translation and commentary by Pierre

Hadot (Paris: Le Cerf, 1988), 349.

4. Plotinus, Traite 9 [Treatise 9], translation and commentary by Pierre Hadot(Paris: Le Cerf 1994), 82.

5. Ludwig Wittgenstein. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, trans. C. K. Ogden(Dover: 1998), 6.522.

6. Shi Tao, LesPropos sur lapeinture du moine Citrouille-amere [On the paint-ing of the Monk of Bitter Melon] (Paris, 1984), 45.

7. Porphyry, Life ofPlotinus, 8, 19.8. VI, 8,34

9· VI, 9·10. VI, 9, 10, 21.

188 Notes

II. Anne Cheng, Histoire de fa pensee chinoise [History of Chinese thought]

(Paris, 1997), 198.

CHAPTE~ 6

1. Louis Gernet, Anthropologie de fa Grece antique [Anthropology of AncientGreece] (Paris, 1968; znd ed., 1992), 252.

2. Jean-Pierre Vernant, Mythe et pensee chez les Grecs [Myth and thought according to the Greeks], vol. I (Paris: 1965), 94.

3. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, VI, 1147a22.4. Elisabeth Brisson, Le Sacre du musicien: La reftrence a l'Antiquite chez

Beethoven [The musician is sacred: The reference to antiquity in Beethoven] (Paris: CNRS, 2000), 261.

5. Raymond Ruyer, La Gnose dePrinceton [The Princeton gnosis] (Paris, 1974),216.

6. "I know that I am born mortal and only live a day, but when I follow thewise circular revolutions of the stars, I no longer tread the earth with my feet, but,with Zeus, I am full of the nourishing ambrosia of the gods" (Ptolemy, Anthologiepalatine [Palatine anthology], IX, 577).

7. Hubert Reeves, Malicorne (Paris: Le Seuil, 1990), 183.8. Carlo Ginzburg, "Making Things Strange," Representations 56 (Fall 1996),

8-28.

CHAPTER 7

I. Plutarch, Si La politique estl'affaire des vieilLards [If politics is old men's business], 26, 796d.

2. Goethe, Gesprdcbe [Conversations], IV (Leipzig, Germany: F. von Biedermann, 1910), 469.

3. Friedrich- Nietzsche, Oeuvres completes [Complete works], V. (Paris: Galli-mard, ,1982), 530.

4. Cicero, Tusculanes, V. II, 33; Lucullus, 3, 7-8.

5. Michelet, Journal, I, 393.6. Cicero, Letters toAtticus, IX, 4.7. Sextus Empiricus, Contre les professeurs [Against the professors], XI,

178-80.8. Tractatus, 6.4311.9. Spinoza, Ethics, I~ 67.10. C£ Pierre Hadot, "Plotin et Heidegger," Critique, 145 (1959), 550.II. Faust II, verse 6272.12. Seneca, Letters, 48, 3.13. Apology ofSocrates, 32b, 3Ib.

Notes 189

14. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, VII, 13.

15. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, V, 6,3.16. See the text by Marcus Aurelius (V, 6, 3) cited in r Hadot, La citadelle in

terieure [The inner citadel] (Paris: Fayard, 1992), 217.

17. Plato, Letter VIL 328 c.18. Simon Leys, La Foret en feu [The forest on fire] (Paris: Hermann, 1983),

39·19. Kant, Critique de faRaisonPure [The critique of pure reason], trans. E. Gi-

belin and E. Gilson (Paris: Vrin, 1971), 136.

20. Ruedi Imbach, Dante: Philosophie et les laics [Dante: philosophy and laymen] (Paris: Le Cerf/Editions universitaires de Fribourg, 1996).

21. Immanuel Kant, Vorlesungen iiberdiephilosophische Enzyclopiidie [Lectureson the philosophical Encyclopedia], in Kanis gesammelte Schriften, XXIX (Berlin:Akademie, 1980), 12.

22. Bernard Groethuysen, Anthropologie philosophique [Philosophical anthropology] (Paris: Gallimard, 1952), 80.

23. Kant, Vorlesungen iiber die philosophische Enzyclopiidie [Lectures on thephilosophical Encyclopedia], 8.

24. Georges Friedmann, La Puissance et fa Sagesse [Power and wisdom] (Paris:Gallimard, 1952 ) , 360.

CHAPTER 8

1. Friedrich Nietzsche, "Le voyageur et sonombre," Humain trophumain [Human too human] (Paris: Gallimard, 1988), sec. 86.

2. For example, Essais [Essays], vol. III, chap. 13 (Paris: Gallimard, 1992),

1090.

3. The interpretation offered by Georges Dumezil in Le Moyne noir en grisdedans vtzrennes [The black monk in gray within Varennes] (Paris: Gallimard, 1984)was kindly pointed out to me by M. Michel Auphon; it would be a matter of thehealing of Crito; he would have been cured of the error he committed by supporting the partisans in Socrates' escape.

4. Montaigne, Essais [Essays], III, 13, 1088.

5. Friedrich Nietzsche, Considerations intempestiues, Scbopenhauer comme educateur [Untimely meditations, Schopenhauer as educator] (Paris, 19 66), 79.

6. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 6.44-6.45.7. Jean Wahl, Existence humaine et transcendance [Human existence and

transendence] (Neuchatel: Editions de la Baconniere, 1944), 80.

8. Rainer Maria Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus, I, 13.

190 Notes

9. Claude-Edmonde Magny, LesSandales d'Empedocle: Essai sur fa limite de Laliterature [Empedocles' sandals: essay on the limit of literature] (Neuchatel: Editions de la Baconniere, 1945).

10. See Shi Tao, Lespropos sur fapeinture du moine Citrouille Amere [Paintingmethod of the Monk of Bitter Melon], trans. and commentary Pierre Ryckmans(Paris: Hermann, 1984).

II. Brisson, Le Sacre du musicien [The right of the musician].12. Tchouang-Tseu, "La Crue d'Automne" and "Tien Tseu Fang," in Philoso

phes taoistes [Taoist philosophers] (Paris: Gallimard, 1980), 202, 244.

CHAPTER 9

I. Friedrich Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human, II, sec. 218.

2. Michelet, Sept. 2, 1850, Journal, II, 125.3. Protreptikos: discourse that aims to "turn toward" the practice of

philosophy.4. Plato, Theaetetus, 76 a-b.5. Plato, Republic, 486 a.6. Plato, Phaedo, 65 e, for example.7. Pierre Hadot, Exercices spirituels et philosophie antique [Spiritual exercises

and ancient philosophy] (Paris: Etudes Augustiniennes, 1981; jrd ed. 1993), 38.

8. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, III, 2.

9. Epictetus, Manuel, 26.10. Seneca, On the Constancy ofthe Sage, X 4.II. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, II 13, 3.

12. Seneca, a/CLemency, II, 3, 2.13. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, I~ 49, 6; cited in Hadot, Citadelle, 52, which

in fact says "not only is it not a misfortune.... "14. Plato, Timaeus, 30C I.

15. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, X, ro, I.

16. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, VIII, 35.

17. Epicrerus, Handbook, 8.18. Friedrich Nietzsche, Oeuvres Completes [Complete works], vol. VIII (Paris:

Gallimard, 1945), 275·19. Henri Bergson, La Pensee et le Mouvant [Thought and the moving] (Paris:

Seuil, 1934), 116.

CHAPTER 10

I. Marquis de Vauvenargues, Rejlexions et maximes [Reflections and maxims],sec. 400.

2. Montaigne, Essais [Essays], III, 13 (Paris: Gallimard, 1962), 1088.

Notes 191

3. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations,VI, 25.4. Albert Einstein, Comment je vois le monde [The World as I See It] (Paris:

.Flammarion, 1979), II.

5. Epictetus, II, 5, 26.6. Seneca, Letter to Lucilius,95, 33.7. 1. Hadot, "Tradition stoicienne ... ," cited in Chap. 7, n. I.

8. Vaclav Havel, Meditations dete [Meditations on summer] (Paris: Editions,

Aube, 1992) , 137.9. Lucrese, De fa nature des choses [On the nature of things], II, 1023; Seneca,

Letter to Lucilius, 64, 6.

POSTFACE

I. Tchouang-Tseu, L'oeuvre complete [The complete work), XXI, Tien TseuFang, in Philosophes taotstes [Taoist philosophers] (Paris: Gallimard, Bibliothequede la Pleiade), 244.

2. Seneca, Letter to Lucilius,64, 6.3. Blaise Pascal, Pensees, sec. 194 of Brunschvicg ed. (Paris, 1971), 418. Pascal

expresses the sentiments of one who wishes to remain in doubt, but there is a remarkable description of the enigma of existence here.

4. In the sense of "totality,'5. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, LesReveries du promeneursolitaire [Reveries of a soli

tary walker], yth and 7th reveries.6. Immanuel Kant, Critique ofPractical Reason, trans. M. J. Gregor (Cam-

bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 5, 16I.7. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, FaustII, verse 6272.8. William Blake, AuguresofInnocence.9. Henry David Thoreau, Walden.10. Friedrich Nietzsche, Fragments posthumes [Posthumous fragments], 1886

87, 7 [38J, XII (Paris: Gallimard, 1988), 298.II. Francis Thompson, "The Mistress of Vision."12. Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Lettre a Edgar Karg [Letter to Edgar King],

June 18, 1895; cited by J.-Cl. Schneider and A. Kahn in Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Lettrede Lord Chandos et autrestexts [Letter to Lord Chandos and other texts],

1992,223.13. Rainer Maria Rilke, Lettersto a iOungPoet, August 12, 1904.14. Ludwig Wittgenstein, "Conference sur l'ethique" [Lecture on ethics], in

Leconset conversations [Lectures and conversations] (Paris, 2000), 148, 153.15. J. Gasquet, Cezanne (Paris, 1988), 154.16. Henri Laborit, biologist, in Le Monde Dimanche, April 24, 1983.

the present alone is our happiness

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