Marx and the Revolution of the Sacred

Marx and the Revolution of the Sacred

James Luchte

Contents

Opening: Marx and the Sacred

Chapter 1:  Into the Breach – the Meaning of Marx

Chapter 2:  Marx’s Criticism of Religion

Chapter 3:  From Religion to the Sacred

Chapter 4:  Marx and Sacred Rebellion

Chapter 5:  Marx and Contemporary Radical Theology

Chapter 6:  Marx, Heidegger and ‘Eigentlichkeit’

Chapter 7:  A Violent Sacred – Marx and Bataille

Chapter 8:  A Retrieval of the Sacred in Marx

Chapter 9: A Genealogy of the Sacred in Marx

Closing:  The Sacred After Marx

Opening: Marx and the Sacred

Religious suffering is at one and the same time the expression of real suffering and a protest against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world and the soul of soulless conditions.[1]

Religion is the general theory of that world, its encyclopaedic compendium, its logic in a popular form, its spiritualistic point d’honneur, its enthusiasm, its moral sanction, its solemn complement, its universal source of consolation and justification.  It is the fantastic realization of the human essence because the human essence has no true reality.  The struggle against religion is therefore indirectly a fight against the world of which religion is the spiritual aroma.[2]

Perhaps the most formidable obstacle in the task of retrieving a sense of the sacred in Marx consists in his repeated, and often polemical, statements against religion – or the edited selections of his editors and guardians.  Indeed, such an obstacle may in the end be one of our own making, as we are trapped within the labyrinth of our own historical understanding.[3] Yet, assuming, for the moment, that religion and the sacred are the same phenomena, if we take his pronouncement that religion is the opium of the people – which I purposely left out in the opening quotation – in isolation, we may be lead to believe that Marx felt that at best religion – and thus the ’sacred’ – is a narcotic, which while it may be utilized to alleviate pain, remains an illusory amelioration for a situation of humiliation and despair.  Religion is an opiate in that it not only implies sedation from the pain of a life of exploitation, but also – ambivalently – suggests a systematic and strategic attempt to deaden or absorb any critical impulse to liberation.  In this sense, Marx’s characterization of religion as an opiate is a forerunner of many of the most radical criticisms of religion and ‘negative’ theology in last century – Gutierrez, Miranda, Bultmann, Heidegger, Derrida, and Bataille.  Each of these thinkers, in his own way, articulated a sense of the sacred in the wake of Marx and his deconstruction of religion as an ‘ideology’ – despite, perhaps,his own blindness to the regulative status of his own ideas.

The kinship which is shared by each of these thinkers is a disdain for mere religion in favour of the ’sacred’.[4] Religion simultaneously constructs a ‘picture’ (Bild) for contemplation (Anschauung) and an organization that cultivates our captivity to that ‘picture’ (Wittgenstein).  The sacred, on the contrary, intimates ‘love’ (Badiou), ‘binding commitment’ (Heidegger), an engaged and affirmative eruption of liberation amidst finite existence.  Religion constructs its eternal church as an everlasting perpetuation of the ‘picture’, of an idol – a captivating grammar of existence – while the sacred exults in this moment of lived existence,[5] in the haeccitas of Duns Scotus.  If religion is a ‘rational’ and ‘systematic’ orchestration of feeling and phenomena, the sacred is an attempt to seek access to a phenomenon beyond the array of objectification towards traces of the numen.  Indeed, for Otto, one need only begin amidst this singular event.

In light of this preliminary distinction between religion and the sacred, it will be the task of Marx and the Revolution of the Sacred to excavate and disclose in the writings and historical activism of Marx an affirmative sense of the sacred which is alterior to his inherently negative conception of religion.  With Marx’s empathy in his ’sigh of the oppressed creature’, we can glimpse a sense of the sacred dissociated from a religious leviathan that merely serves to perpetuate suffering – we can begin to glimpse a sacred that exists as a radical commitment to liberation.  In this way, I will contend that Marx’s criticism of religion as an ideology of oppression and sedation in no way forecloses on a possible relationship between his work and Twentieth and Twenty-First Century attempts to articulate a sense of the sacred in the world.  There emerges in these latter attempts the possibility of an openness which discloses a topos for an encounter with a sense of a sacred not mediated by ‘ideology’ (or positive theology).

In this way, that which will be disclosed as the ‘unity’ and coherence in these encounters of Marx with different strands of contemporary theology and philosophy is the inner kernel of ‘love’ and ‘commitment’, of affirmation, against nihilism and oppression — it is this ‘inner kernel’ that is an openness to the sacred.  That which is sought is an indication in Marx’s writings and advocacy of a personal expression and articulation of the sacred which transcends both scientific prognostication and political advocacy.  What we seek is the deeper ground of the sacred in Marx.

To read the rest of this essay, please visit: Marx and the Revolution of the Sacred

Damascus

I thought it would be different -

a police state, definitely,

with defeated souls wandering

with dower, abject eyes,

trained & disciplined to the dirt.

The propaganda had done its work

on me, built the limits of my knowledge,

not to mention the auxiliary websites,

which spoke of the tortures of the regime.

I was expecting the worst -

It is just that I was so ignorant -

and so late in the game… & the

lacerated meanness of my soul,

manipulated by propaganda -

[the truth regime (family, private property, state) -

breeding & discipline – natality - though some heritages &

legacies must not be honoured],

had heard too long the lies that

breathe out of ‘our’ dark mouths.

I had overcome such horizons

of distortion and lies before,

but, why was this so difficult, different….

Looking back, I look into myself… I wonder if it could

possibly be some type of residual racismsubliminal fear of

the ‘ragheads’, ’spics’ & ‘wetbacks’ of my father’s diatribes,

‘nigger toes’ for Brazil nuts… ‘Martin Luther King was

an uppity nigger’ and ‘Ted Kennedy is a communist’….. ?

‘Peace is nuclear blackmail’…. ‘If you go to college, they

will turn you into a hophead’ – his adulation of Israeli military

prowess against the ‘sand niggers’…. ?

But, does any of this old news really matter any longer…

Could it not ’simply’ be a sense of guilt in the anticipated face of the other -

outside of the cradle of Europe & its playground in the new world -

anxiety in the face of an imminent reversal of facelessness, turning on & tuning

into these anonymous howls and cries of otherness –

myriad calls of conscience scream from countless

unmarked graves of rape, murder & genocide…

Or, is it something else besides…. ?

(I never told anyone I was (‘originally’) ‘American’… (a complicated emotion)…

but let each assume as he wished from my European passport…

my own cowardice… and treason…)

As I am moved along

the winding river of the jungle,

I feel the winds of difference,

new horizons beckoning, new rules,

new customs  — even if in Europe itself,

‘unity’ does not simply mean ‘conformity’ –

‘Unity’? ….. Lies, propaganda, throw this twisted scaffolding down…

I had an argument with my love’s mother

about illusions that swirl about us like a tornado -

illusory except that I could not sleep

(no fault to her) with her daughter in the night…

I finally understand the expression, ‘Fordidden fruit’…

An irony, perhaps a Muslim irony….

Hammadia market, this frenzied arcade

of voices, bodies, styles, and joy –

children spill their ice creams amid the

plethora of faces, swirling arms, eyes…

Belly dancing customes & masques….

Winnie the Pooh pajamas & spices,

Pocket qurans with a little boy

collecting money, giving change.

Swirling in a circle in the grand mosque,

falling – disoriented – into

the women’s prayer section,

seeing sacred things I should not see.

Sufis guide me to my feet,

spin me away & around & around…

Children run around this open space &

chaotically dance betwixt these pillars…

They hold hands & twirl around, around…

On the streets, an (un-armed) police officer

smokes & gives directions to passerbys….

smokes & gives directions to passerbys….

smokes & gives directions to passerbys….

A woman with a short mini-skirt with a visible thong

walks hand in hand with a woman who is ‘covered’,

pushing along a pram in which a baby smiles….

Two young men hold hands on the bus to Aleppo…

It is Thursday night & we dine at

Bashar’s favourite place, right across

the street from a Greek Orthodox church

that shares this starlight with a Muslim minaret

We drink our wine as a blizzard of food

descends upon us from all sides, Arabic cuisine….

We wish to run into the night – yet,

‘custom’ enacts myriad layers of pleasure…

in the hot air, underneath flights of bats,

we have coffee – then a tray of watermelon –

then plates of wonderful Syrian sweets –

Night, the fate of gods, calls to us,

& we grab a cab back to Cora Assad.

The cab driver names a price in Arabic

& the host of voices explode, haggling,

negotiating, bartering from 1000 to 400….

Everything is negotiable,

every price is contingent….

like the ‘free market’ of the fairy tales –

But, in a (Baathist) ’socialist’ state???

Pan-Arab, secular, but with an executive

symbology of Islam – emergency government

since the coup in 1963… it is a parliamentary

government, except that – due to the state of

emergency – the executive is controlled by a

member of the Baathist party and must be a Muslim.

Ten sanctioned parties sit on a consultative council.

This current hegemony of one party – and one religion –

is being questioned by philosophers, poets,

artists and film-makers in Syria.

Nizar Qabbani whispers that every word and act

from the government is a lie, is a lie – Qabbani, it

should be remembered, wished to be buried in Syria,

the womb of his creativity under the Jasmin trees -

Will  Adonis (who, I think, has the wrong ‘friends’)

return to Damascus to help her be born into maturity?

It is the haunting war with Israel that is

the major, determining factor

in Syrian domestic and foreign

policy research and strategy.

Most resources are either placed

in projects which are designed

to prepare for the next invasion,

or are diverted to other countries,

such as electricity to Jordan, as

a means and manner of maintaining

and growing, the ‘unity’ of ‘Arab’ states….

It is Thursday night…. the sublime night

in the Arab and Muslim worlds —

the night before a day of prayer….

as with the night of the fast, in which pleasure abounds,

Thursday night in Damascus is a night of celebration…

Across the myriad parks in the night families dance,

mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters –

grandparents, uncles and aunts, friends… so many people

that the green grass disappears amid this flux of humanity….

smiling faces, shisha pipes, lovely food & drink….

Little children running under the stars & moon amid

the night of the world, families have their picnics,

smoke shisha, and dance – all past the witching hour…

There are little shops on the streets

selling anything you could want (vodka,

wine, beer, cigarettes, food, sweets, etc.)

until three o’clock in the morning —

That’s better than London, at least….

One would be a criminal if he were to eat, dance

and smoke shisha (or even be there) in Hyde Park in the night…….

No one ever wants to go into Central Park or Prospect Park at night…

But, that is only due to propaganda – ‘if you go to X,

then you will be raped & murdered… is this a threat, perhaps,

with the subwhisper, ‘We certainly don’t want them hippies

to set up their communes again – or, anybody else to

have the space to create chaos in the Night!’….

It is all a fear compaign – I used to go there

at night, sometimes with a dog I had, and

sit, think, smoke & drink – sometimes a

homeless guy would pass nearby, carrying a trashbag…

A sublime space, one that is perhaps

thankfully neglected…

We sit with dear friends at an open air cafe, imbibing

the local beer – three different colored bottles,

three colors of beer – but it was the same brand -

televisions set at the edge of each table… Arab music

videos vibrate the space as a girl & boy smile upon us

from a Coke™ ad that spans the entire side of a building…

Who would have expected it?

Just from the standpoint of freedom

of movement, I felt freer in Syria

(cascading small motorcycles & taxis –

the unbounded eruption of Damascus,

much too ecstatic to control with force)

than in London or Paris, & in some

parts of New York – we need free spaces,

a place for this, a place to be, to exist…

Why don’t lots of people go to Central Park

or Hyde Park or Tiergarten in Berlin– AT NIGHT -

ALL AT ONCE

throw unannounced ecstatic night festivals

with musicians, poets, artists, philosophers,

film-makers & political and cultural activists –

and – god forbid, ‘real’, ‘actual’ people…..

wine et al., smoke, lovely flesh, music

& dance – a Dionysian festival of resistance…?

A Saturnalia in December?

Why not take advantage of this space –

for which – at night – there is no demand…..

it is free & it is free & it is free….

Perhaps a little risk is involved, at first…

But, if you persist, maybe, in a little

while, you can be as free as the Syrians!

Just think!  As free as the Syrians!!!

Passing Over

Passing over

into that silent showing,

revealing that abides

this space

where we can hear

the peal of laughter

in the wake of

our primal secret…

The peal of laughter,

that sublime, unexpected response

entangled in this tightening rope

of horror and nihilism,

reminds us of the chaos, open space

that surrounds us at every moment …

Laughter is one affirmation of be-ing

amid ever enclosing horizons.

If we listen near enough,

We can hear that it is

We – ourselves – who are laughing.

The Fall of Communism

What do you hear, see, smell…. taste….

perhaps feel – definitely touch

when you come out of

train stations in Eastern

(‘the New’) Europe(s)????

Do you pray to the tombs of

proletarian martyrs, or weep within

ubiquitous abandoned factories -

do you lament

the facelessness of

drab stalinist ‘architecture’?

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

This constellation disseminates -

It is right in your face -

the spoils of the cold war…

trivialisation, humiliation and rape,

sex trafficking, desolate streets, drugs -

this fatal desperation of many peoples,

still coming to terms….. surreal confusion -

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

As they try to take away our lives here,

as we see with healthcare etc. now &

the trains before (and the buses)

nationalised dental care….  education >

(or prevent us from even

wishing and willing it) &

all the rest, all the rest, all the rest -

in this very second, right now -

let us prick up our ears for once -

and stop this demonic quaternary,

this endless, inexorable repetition of

a fourfold of triumphalist conquest -

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop et. al

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Sex Shop

Their advertisements infiltrate your very dreams

They shatter you when you shop, you shopper

you acquiesce to the machinations of power -

but you do not even really notice it, not at all -

Do you know where I can go to have some fun?

Get something to eat?

Use the bathroom?

You know, somewhere nice?

Do you know where I can go to buy a slave?

Can I have some fries with that?

The Dogs of Athens

Enchantingly free, these beings,

Friendly guardians of sacred places,

Living as one wishes to live.

Enlightened governance

That allows them

To just be.

Diogenes lies with his dog

In the caves of the Agora,

Fleeing the noontide heat.

In the sacred grove,

We laugh with Dionysus.

We sing with the Cicadas.

Visited by a lovely collie,

We give her a scratch and massage.

She savours the attention, touch.

The collie runs off, brings another

Who wishes a scratch and massage.

We give it to him as the collie keeps watch.

Suddenly, the collie pricks up her ears.

She darts into the darkness, barking.

She scares away the monsters of the night.

We sit and the world is disclosed to us.

There is only joy and new creation.

The dogs sit at our feet, smiling.

We stand to return home,

The dogs stir, keeping close by.

We walk with them along the path.

The dogs walk with us

All the way home.

The dogs surround, guard us,

As they did for the infant Zeus.

They follow us to our door,

Making sure that we are safe

Amid the night of the world.

They run off into the shadows,

The souls of life,

The spirits of free existence.

The Road to Damascus

Aziza Jalal, this goddess of song,

flavours my coffee as I wait

for my love to return.

Shattered by expression, emotion… though

I cannot understand any of her words….

I wave to and greet Bashar’s portraits

on the road, especially near

guarded military bases that

set in wait for the next war.

Trees grow in front of the portraits,

concealing the faces of emergency.

(Damascus is surrounded by

fortified hills, building, preparing

for the ever-impending invasion).

He is waving back with

a funny, awkward smile.

The terrain is rough, dry,

with blooming orchards,

olive trees, grapes, and figs.

Half way between Aleppo

and Damascus, we stop at

a petrol station – immediately

a frenetic smiling man pulls

us out for tea and shisha.

He is watching ‘Neighbours’ with

Arabic subtitles, he asks

in a rhetorical way, ‘Isn’t it good?’

We drive past a new university,

dancing to Arabic music – it will

have its own shopping mall.

The cab driver sings to us, pointing

out the site of an Israeli bombing.

We pass by Damascus to the suburbs,

to Cora Assad, Assad Villages, where

my love’s parents await our arrival.

Damascus will have to wait.

The Laughter of Dionysus: Bataille and Derrida on Joyce

In his essay on Bataille, ‘From Restricted to General Economy: A Hegelianism without Reserve,’[1] Derrida alludes to Bataille’s reference to Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake in his essay, ‘Hegel, Death and Sacrifice’,[2] in which the ‘Welsh Coffin’ is illustrated as the symbol of a communal event that is performed – comically, as with the ‘wake’ in the southern United States – in the face of the tragic ‘event’ of death.  As Derrida retells Bataille’s (second-hand) story,[3] the deceased is stood up in his coffin in pride of place amongst his fellows – dressed with a top hat, cigar and suit – and who, contrary to the usual and useful expulsion of the corpse – begin to essentially ‘roast’ the one who had passed – but, is still strangely in attendance.  Such a surreal performance, similar to the dark comic absurdities of Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood,[4] or Buňuel, as with The Exterminating Angel (1962) and The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972), is an example of a Dionysian mortality that is shared by each member of the community.[5]

In the following pages, I will explore various threads of philosophical questioning that have emerged in light of this ‘unconscious’ and ‘unstable’ last text of Joyce – in its reception by the exiled surrealist Bataille, and by the post-structuralist Derrida, in his own excursions into Joyce and Bataille.  I will argue that Finnegan’s Wake is a disseminal text for questions of ‘truth’/’lies’, of  meaning/meaningless, of sense/non-sense.  In the wake of the dispersion of the text, it will be necessary for us to go elsewhere…  into a poetics of becoming and being.

For the rest of the essay, please visit: http://luchte.wordpress.com/the-laughter-of-dionysus/

The Death of the Academy

The Death of the Academy

James Luchte

It is noontide, disparate groups of people gather near a fountain from which no water flows.  Socrates is standing with Alcibiades,  they look around the square at the various people coming and going.

Plato stands back, leaning on the rim of the fountain, scratching notes into a small book.  Diogenes approaches with his lantern, coming to harass Socrates and his coterie, as is his daily ritual.

Diogenes: (holds his lantern up to the faces of those he passes on his way toward Socrates) I am looking for an honest man.  Can any of you point me in the right direction?  Is any of you an honest man? (louder and toward Socrates) I am looking for an honest man! Yo there, is that Socrates I see?  Have we indeed found our honest man?  Are you honest, Socrates?

Socrates: (grasps Alcibiades forearm and whispers something in his ear, trying to ignore Diogenes.  Alcibiades smiles and gazes at a group of youths which is approaching the fountain.)

Diogenes: (pretends to be exasperated)  Oh not this again! Silence! Will you ignore me again, Socrates?  Do you prefer blindness, blind force over openness, ignorance to conversation?  (taunts) I thought that you were a master of discourse, of the spoken word.  Has that cat over there got your tongue?  Or, are you angry with me?

Socrates: (continues to ignore Diogenes, whispering in the ear of Alcibiades, who smiles as he gazes at the youths.)

Diogenes: (mocks) And you Alcibiades, have you cured your master’s bout of pig’s itch, has your beauty cured his long sickness unto death, has his madness flown away that he no longer wishes to speak of truth, of wisdom? Have you indeed corrupted your master?   And, you the master, Socrates, what frightens you – that I will steal your beautiful lad, take him away from you to keep for myself?

Alcibiades: (scornful) Go away old man, back to your cave! You have no business with us and we none with the likes of you!  Move along from here, Diogenes, leave friends in peace to enjoy the afternoon.

Socrates: (grasps Alcibiades arm, Socrates pulls his ear toward his mouth.  He shows his displeasure with Alcibiades’ words to Diogenes as this was the acknowledgement which Diogenes craved).

Alcibiades: (bitter look upon his face, he tears his arm away from Socrates and quickly bolts away to the other side of the fountain.

Diogenes: (laughing jeers, mocking Socrates)  Who will hide you now Socrates? Will you not talk to me, look me in the eyes?  I seek an honest man, could you be that one, my dear Socrates?  You must know that I have no interest in the pretty youths that flaunt themselves around you, who use you for your knowledge – no, I have no interest in these many pebbles – it is you who I seek to fathom –

To read the rest of the dialogue, please visit: http://luchte.wordpress.com/the-death-of-the-academy/

On Freedom: Heidegger and Deleuze on Spinoza

On Freedom: Heidegger and Deleuze on Spinoza

James Luchte

University of Wales, Lampeter

                                                                                                                                                  Ah the wind, the wind is blowing

Through the graves, the wind is blowing

Freedom soon will come;

Then we’ll come from the shadows.

Leonard Cohen, ‘The Partisan’[i]

Spinoza is often quoted approvingly (for instance, by Deleuze in his Expressionism in Philosophy: Spinoza and Andre Garcia Düttman in his Address to the 3rd Annual Joint Conference of the Society for European Philosophy and the Forum for European Philosophy in 2007) to the effect that the free man is the one who thinks about, or fears, death the least.  Such fear he considers to be a passive emotion, or affection, a bondage to pain, symptomatic of impotence and servitude.  The free man, in this light, is one who has not only cultivated the stronger active emotion of acquiescence to the univocal chorus of necessity (Eternity), but has also learned to disengage external factors which bring about such passive emotions – to organise the ‘order of encounters’ as Deleuze describes in his Expressionism.  Heidegger, on the contrary, who criticises Spinoza, and the impersonal, mathematical character of his system, in his 1936 lecture course, Schelling’s Treatise on Freedom, would seem to take further issue with Spinoza in his own contention that the one who faces his or her ownmost possibility of death without evasion, is the one who is most free, or who, perhaps, will have found him or herself in a moment that discloses the necessity of one’s own singular, personal freedom.

Heidegger places a great emphasis upon the epistemic role of mood, and specifically, upon anxiety, in this context; and with the usual stipulations, we could argue that he has a different, and seemingly more positive, relationship with the (negative) emotional aspect of existence than does Spinoza. Of course, Spinoza, as Deleuze advertises, is a great seeker of Joy and pleasant emotions (in moderation); yet, it is his aversion to the ‘sad passions’ and ‘pain’ which clearly distinguishes him from Heidegger (and from Schopenhauer, for that matter).  At the same time, however, Spinoza does contend that ‘passions’ do disclose our weakness, and they thus have an epistemological role, though one not pursued in the way Heidegger suggests.  While this disagreement may seem to be irreconcilable, I would like to show that in essential respects, the philosophies of Spinoza and Heidegger exhibit a marked similarity and that the source of their difference lies primarily in the domain of ‘ontology’, and thus, also, and related to the latter, to their respective conceptions of time.  Their philosophies diverge in that Spinoza espouses an ontology of a divine, eternal substance, while Heidegger explicitly seeks to destroy the history of ontology, one of the primary targets of which being the ‘ousiology’ of the metaphysical tradition.  For Heidegger, substance, whether eternal and divine as in Spinoza, or as the monads, created and supreme, in Leibniz, remains within the domain of beings, of an entitive metaphysics.  Or, in other words, Spinoza and Leibniz give ontic answers to the question of Being.  Such an ontic metaphysics, as it is grounded upon the principle of identity, is furthermore not only limited to a conception of time as duration, but places the seat of freedom in that which is, contrary to the claims of immanentism by Spinoza, actually transcendent to the being of human existence, as this latter is irreducibly temporal – in between time and eternity, to express ourselves in a variation of Plato.  That which is significant will be the implication of the difference in ontological perspectives for the meaning of freedom, which, for both philosophers, nevertheless remains, as Deleuze points out in Difference and Repetition, dependent upon their respective preliminary ontological investigations.  


[i] Cohen, Leonard, ‘The Partisan’, a song of the French Resistance:

When they poured across the border
I was cautioned to surrender,
this I could not do;
I took my gun and vanished.
I have changed my name so often,
I’ve lost my wife and children
but I have many friends,
and some of them are with me.

An old woman gave us shelter,
kept us hidden in the garret,
then the soldiers came;
she died without a whisper.

There were three of us this morning
I’m the only one this evening
but I must go on;
the frontiers are my prison.

Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing,
through the graves the wind is blowing,
freedom soon will come;
then we’ll come from the shadows.

Les Allemands e’taient chez moi, (The Germans were at my home)
ils me dirent, “Signe toi,” (They said, “Sign yourself,”)
mais je n’ai pas peur; (But I am not afraid)
j’ai repris mon arme. (I have retaken my weapon.)

J’ai change’ cent fois de nom, (I have changed names a hundred times)
j’ai perdu femme et enfants (I have lost wife and children)
mais j’ai tant d’amis; (But I have so many friends)
j’ai la France entie`re. (I have all of France)

Un vieil homme dans un grenier (An old man, in an attic)
pour la nuit nous a cache’, (Hid us for the night)
les Allemands l’ont pris; (The Germans captured him)
il est mort sans surprise. (He died without surprise.)

Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing,
through the graves the wind is blowing,
freedom soon will come;
then we’ll come from the shadows.

Read the rest of this essay at: http://luchte.wordpress.com/on-freedom-heidegger-and-deleuze-on-spinoza/

Wandering Souls: The Doctrine of Transmigration in Pythagorean Philosophy

(This is an earlier draft of a manuscript that will be published in 2009 by Continuum International Publishing.  Please do not quote.)

Contents

Introduction: The Topos of Transmigration

Chapter One: Sources of the Doctrine of Transmigration

Chapter Two: Beyond Mysticism and Science: Symbolism and Philosophical Magic

Chapter Three: The Emergence of Mystic Cults and the Immortal Soul

Chapter Four: Philolaus and the Character of Pythagorean Harmony

Chapter Five: The Alleged Critique of Pythagoras by Parmenides

Chapter Six: Between the Earth and the Sky, On the Pythagorean Divine

Chapter Seven: The Pythagorean Bios and the Doctrine of Transmigration

The Path of the Event

The Path of Remembrance, or Return

Chapter Eight: The Platonic Rupture: Writing and Difference

Chapter Nine: Plotinus: The Ascent of the Soul toward the One

Chapter Ten: Plotinus as Neoplatonic Mystic: Letter to Flaccus

Epilogue: The Pythagorean Doctrine of Transmigration

Introduction: The Poetic Topos of Transmigration

I made up rhymes in dark and scary places,

And like a lyre I plucked the tired laces

Of my worn-out shoes, one foot beneath my heart.

(Rimbaud, ‘Wandering,’ Stanza 4)

Remind yourself that all men assert wisdom is the greatest good,

but that there are few, who, strenuously endeavor to obtain

this greatest good.

(attributed to Pythagoras by Stobaeus)

The mythical narrative of transmigration tells the story of myriad wandering souls, each migrating from body to body along a path of recurrence amid the becoming of the All. Yet, for the Pythagoreans, this story does not describe the passive revolution of a circle, but a pathway for an active exploration of the All and return to the divine. This endeavor is strenuous as it occurs amidst a suspension within the double bind of nativity and fatality, again and again to be born and to die, and to be reborn as still another being.[1] The thread of the narrative, of reminiscence, is always severed with each demise amid the labyrinth of mortal existence. Yet, as the narrative is a rope of many threads, the persistent re-articulation of the narrative instigates a mnemopoiesis of remembrance that transcends the individual mortal life amid the broader travels of the soul.

The Pythagoreans, along with others, cultivated an ethos of an immortal soul, one thought to be capable of communion with the divine. For Homer, such a desire would have been hubris, even if it was not in the end articulated outside of his mythological ontology. Pythagoras, against the background of Homer’s portrayal of the thirsting soul, maintained the requirement of a body, of a ‘substance’, for its life and its expansion (but only during life, as the soul had its own integrity beyond body). Pythagoras articulated a philosophy of return of the soul to its divine source through yet another – though forbidden – possibility in the Homeric constellation. He turned the necessity of body into a virtuous topos of return of finitude to the infinite. Indeed, despite this ‘mingling of essences,’ Pythagoras remained true to the Homeric valorization of the life of the body, of this self that is remembered by the passive soul. Yet, as the shade can return to another body, and as the divine is the cosmos, the body becomes the site from which the pursuit of the All commences, finds its way, and it is the variety of bodies which are the successive abodes of the soul amid its transmigration through each of the circuits of the All.

To read the entire book, please visit:

http://luchte.wordpress.com/wandering-souls-the-doctrine-of-transmigration-in-pythagorean-philosophy/

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