James Luchte: Philosophy

Marx and the Revolution of the Sacred

luchte — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 04:59:50 +0000

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

Zarathustra’s Children

luchte — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 01:34:11 +0000

Zarathustra’s Children

James Luchte

Supposing truth is a woman – what then?

Are there not grounds for the suspicion

that all philosophers,

insofar as they were dogmatists,

have been very inexpert about women?

That the gruesome seriousness, the

clumsy obtrusiveness with which they

have usually approached truth so far

have been awkward and very improper

methods for winning a woman’s heart?

Friedrich Nietzsche

Women do not have as great a need for poetry

because their own essence is poetry.

Friedrich Schlegel

Beyond Dionysus and Apollo in ‘Greek’ Tragedy and Comedy

If it is the last man, the spectator who consents to the Euripidean denial of the Dionysian power of life, of the terrible truth of existence, it is the Overman (Übermensch) who is that one that can affirm this chaos of being in the world and give birth to novelty under the sun. Yet, the Overman is not the Tragic Hero in the sense of Euripides. It is even doubtful that Nietzsche’s Overman is ‘tragic’ at all – notably in the nostalgic senses of Sophocles or Aeschylus.

We have forgotten that devastating myriadity of this power of life in the wake of the suppression of the Dionysian in Late Tragedy. The ‘tragic’ becomes – for a time – an epochal indifference and unwillingness to confront and master the rage and chaos of the Dionysian power of life.

Indeed, this power is erased and conscientiously ignored, suppressed in Late Tragedy. In the early tragedies of Sophocles and Aeschylus, narratives that preserve an explicit reference to Homer, the tragic hero, emerging from the Dionysian musical ecstasy of the Chorus, is transported into a rapture of self-annihilation. In the context of this Festival of the power of life, it is the Apollonian dream image that makes manifest the power that loves to hide. The devastating tension and chaos of the Dionysian apotheosis, while made manifest in the dream image, is not suppressed or even sublimated, but is allowed to play itself out in the destruction of tragic sacrifice.

To read the entire essay, please visit: http://luchte.wordpress.com/zarathustras-children/

Damascus

luchte — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 05:54:52 +0000

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 racism – subliminal 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….

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

luchte — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 23:08:45 +0000

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

luchte — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 04:15:55 +0000

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

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

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

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

luchte — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 01:19:36 +0000

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

luchte — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 01:04:14 +0000

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

luchte — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 04:46:40 +0000

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

luchte — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 00:56:07 +0000

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/

Zarathustra and the Children of Abraham

luchte — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 00:59:51 +0000

Despite the fact that Nietzsche and his family considered his magnum opus to be blasphemous, and feared a backlash from the religious and political establishments, Thus Spoke Zarathustra was never banned.[1] Indeed, not much notice was taken of it until well after Nietzsche’s collapse.[2] In our era, this idiosyncratic work seems to stand in a paradoxical place, all its own. On the one hand, it is a work that is very well known and referenced with respect to some of its most famous phrases and words, such as ‘God is dead’, the ‘Last Man’, ‘Overman’ and ‘eternal recurrence of the same.’ On the other hand, it is a work that is little studied, either in literary, theological or philosophical contexts. The present essay seeks to redress this neglect through an exploration of the polemical context of Nietzsche’s charge of nihilism against monotheistic religions. Such a focus will allow an intersection of literary, theological and philosophical perspectives in a broader interpretation of the significance of Thus Spoke Zarathustra as a challenge to both traditional, and radical, religious orthodoxies.

To read the rest of the essay, please visit:

http://luchte.wordpress.com/zarathustra-and-the-children-of-abraham/