Tag: philosophy

  • Castoriadis: From Ecology to Autonomy

    Castoriadis: From Ecology to Autonomy

    The following reflection on the ecological movement and concept of autonomy by the Greek-French philosopher Cornelius Castoriadis comes from a meeting on “The Antinuclear Struggle, Ecology and Politics” held on 27 February 1980 at Louvain-Ia-Neuve, Belgium. The other principal speaker was Daniel Cohn-Bendit, the former May 1968 Paris student leader and later German Greens Pany member. Cornelius Castoriadis has been one of the most important and innovative philosophers of the second half of the 20th century who formulated a new political theory rooted in the concept of “autonomy”.  Castoriadis gave a brief but potent definition of autonomy during an interview, where he explained: “You know, in the word autonomy, two roots exist. Αυτός (me, myself) and νόμος (law). But most people think of the root αυτός and forget the root νόμος. Autonomous is he who gives to himself a law. Of course, I wouldn’t call autonomous a person that fulfills his wishes without any control …This also applies to society. Social and collective life cannot exist without an organization and without a minimum of social rules and purposes … The autonomous society is a society that knows that there is no transcendence, no transcendent source of institutions and laws, no life after death (a thing that the ancient Greeks, who did not believe in life after death, knew). The members of this society know for sure that, what is going to happen, has to be done by them, and then offered to themselves and to the society as a whole. It’s a society that knows the art of making institutions and laws for itself. This sort of ‘self employment’ guarantees the project of autonomy and defends the interests of society, since it allows its members to exist as autonomous individuals within its framework”

    Cornelius Castoriadis (1922 Constantinople – 1997 Paris)

    I am happy to be here and to see you. And I am very surprised by the number of participants, very pleasantly surprised and happy. But at the same time, this increases my fear of disappointing you, in as much as when I spoke with Dany before coming here he told me that he did not know what he was going to say, that he would improvise. Well, he has a habit of doing that and as one knows, historically, he comes out quite well. [Laughter.] As for myself, I would have liked to have devoted more time than I was able to preparing what I wish to say to you. 

    But perhaps, in the last analysis, this would not have made a difference since the four or five things I have to say, you will see, end in the interroga­ tory mode and they would have ended that way in any case. And I believe that the point of an evening like this is precisely to get you to speak, either on the questions that for you are already open or – and this would be a considerable gain – on new questions that would arise in the course of the debate, perhaps with the help of those who have been charged with introducing it. 

    Today, everyone knows, everyone thinks they know – this was not the case a short time ago – that science and technique are in their very essence inserted, inscribed, rooted in a given institution of society. Likewise, everyone knows that the science and the technique of today have nothing transhistorical about them, have no value that lies beyond question; these belong, on the contrary, to the social-historical institution that is capitalism as it was born in the West a few centuries ago. 

    That is a general truth. People know that each society creates its technique and its type of knowledge, as well as its type of transmission of knowledge. 

    People know, too, that capitalist society not only has gone very far toward the creation and the development of a type of technology that distinguishes it from all others but – and this also distinguishes it from all others that it has placed these activities at the centre of its social life and granted them an importance they did not have previously or elsewhere. 

    Likewise, everyone knows today, or everyone thinks they know, that the alleged neutrality, the alleged instrumentality of technique and even of scientific knowledge are illusions. In truth, even this expression is in­ adequate, and it masks the essential aspect of the question. The presentation of science and of technique as neutral means or as instruments pure and simple is not a mere ‘illusion’: it is an integral part ofthe contemporary in­ stitution of society – that is, it partakes of the dominant social imaginary of our age. 

    This dominant social imaginary can be encapsulated in one sentence: The central aim of social life is the unlimited expansion of rational mastery. Of course, when one looks from close up – and it is not necessary to go very, very close to see it this mastery is a pseudomastery, this rationality a pseudorationality. That does not stop it from being the core of the social imaginary significations now holding society together. And this is not only the case in the countries of so-called private or Western capitalism. It is equally the case in the allegedly socialist countries, in the countries of the East, where the same instruments, the same factories, the same organiza­ tional procedures and knowledge procedures are equally put in the service of this same social imaginary signification, namely, the unlimited expansion of an allegedly rational alleged mastery. 

    Here I shall open a parenthesis, for in no way can we discuss these matters in abstraction from the serious things now going on around the world. We see much more clearly today, with Afghanistan – more exactly, I shall say: People can see; as for myself, I claim to have seen it for going on thirty-five years – that the coexistence and the antagonism of these two subsystems, each of which claims to have a monopoly on the way in which ‘rational mastery’ over everything shall be attained, are now reaching the point where we run the risk of total rational mastery by the one true master, as Hegel would say, that is, by death. 

    You know that the domination of this imaginary begins first via the form of the unlimited expansion of the forces of production – of ‘wealth’, of ‘capital’. This expansion rapidly becomes the extension and the develop­ ment of the knowledge necessary for increased production, that is to say, of technology and science. Finally, the tendency toward ‘rationally’ re­ organizing and reconstructing all spheres of social life – production, administration, education, culture, etc. – transforms the whole institution of society and penetrates ever further into all activities. 

    But you also know that, despite its pretensions, this institution of society is torn by a host of internal contradictions, that its history is shot through with large-scale social conflicts. In our view, these conflicts basically express the fact that contemporary society is divided asymmetrically and antagonis­ tically between dominators and dominated, and that this division is expressed, notably, in the facts of exploitation and oppression. From this point of view we ought to say that, defacto, the immense majority of people who live in present-day society ought to be opposed to the established form of the institution of society. But it is equally difficult for us to believe that if such were the case, this society could last for long or even could have lasted until today. A very important question therefore arises. How does this society succeed in maintaining itself and holding itself together when it ‘ought’ to arouse the opposition of the great majority of its members? There is a response to this question that we must eliminate once and for all from our minds, the one characteristic of the old mentality of the Left. This is the idea that the system is held together only through the repression and manipulation of people, in an external and superficial sense of the term manipulation.

    This idea is totally false and, what is graver still, it is pernicious because it masks the depth of the social and political problem. If we truly want to struggle against the system and, also, if we want to see the problems which, for example, today confront a movement like the ecology movement, we have to comprehend an elementary truth that will seem very disagreeable to certain people : The system holds together because it succeeds in creating people’s adherence to the way things are [ce qui est] . It succeeds in creating, somehow or other, for the majority of people and over the great majority of the moments of their life, their adherence to the effective, instituted, concrete way of life of this society. If we want to engage in an activity that is not vain and futile, it is from a recognition ofthis fundamental fact that we must begin our efforts. 

    This adherence is, of course, contradictory. It goes hand in hand with moments of revolt against the system. But it nevertheless is a form of adherence, and it is not mere passivity. Just look around you and you can easily see it. Moreover, if people didn’t effectively adhere to the system, everything would collapse in the next six hours. To take just one example: that marvel of ‘organization’ and ‘rationality’ that is the capitalist factory – or, more generally, every capitalist business enterprise, in the West as in the East – would then produce nothing at all, it would quickly collapse under the weight of its absurd regulations and of the internal antinomies characteristic of its pseudorationality if the labouring population did not make it function half the time against the regulations – and quite beyond what could ever be explained by coercion or by the effect of ‘material stimulants’ . 

    This adherence depends on extremely complex processes, which there can be no question of analysing here. These processes constitute what I call the social fabrication of the individual and of individuals of us all – in and through instituted capitalist society, such as it exists. 

    I shall simply mention two aspects of this fabrication process. One concerns the instillation in people, from their most tender infancy, of a relationship to authority, of a certain type of relationship to a certain type of authority. And the other, the instillation in people of a set of ‘needs’, to the ‘satisfaction’ of which they will then be harnessed their whole life long. 

    First, authority. When one looks at contemporary society and one compares it to previous societies, one notes one important difference: today, authority is presented as desacralized; no more are there kings by the grace of God. 

    DANIEL COHN-BENDIT: You are in Belgium. 

    CASTORIADIS: I am not forgetting that I am in Belgium. But I do not believe that the king ofthe Belgians is considered a king by the grace ofGod. I think that this must be a principle of Belgian constitutional law, that if there is a king of the Belgians, it is because the Belgian people have sovereignly decided to have a king – no? [Laughter.]

    One would think, then, that authority today is desacralized. But in reality it is not. What, in former times, sacralized-authority was religion: as Saint Paul said in Romans, ‘There is no power but ofGod.’ Today, something else has taken the place of religion and of God, something that is not for us ‘sacred’ but which has succeeded, somehow or other, in setting itself up as the prac­ tical equivalent of the sacred, a sort of substitute for religion, a flat and deflated religion. And this is the idea, the representation, the imaginary signification of knowledge and of technique.

    I do not mean thereby, of course, that those who exercise power ‘know’ . But they pretend to know and it is in the name of this alleged knowledge – specialized, s,cientific, technical knowledge – that they justify their power in the eyes of the populace. And if they are able to do so, it is because the popu­ lation believes this, it is because the populace has been trained to believe this. 

    Thus, in France one is saddled with a president of the Republic who claims to be an economic specialist. This ‘specialist’, when he was Minister ofFinance, held forth in the Chamber ofDeputies with a three-hour speech in which he laid out statistics rounded to four decimal places. This means he would have flunked first-year economics, since when it comes to prices and production a four-decimal statistic is strictly meaningless: at best, in these areas, one can speak about roughly 10 per cent. That did not stop President Giscard, who is not an economist, from unearthing a dinosaur of conomic knowledge by the name of Raymond Barre[laughter and applause], whom he publicly baptized as ‘the best economist in France’. The result is that the mess the French economy is in at present is much greater than it was three years ago and also than what it would have been had a cleaning lady been prime minister. [Laughter.]

    There is a practical conclusion to be drawn from this. There is a field of struggle, especially for people like us here who are more or less involved in intellectual or scientific activities. It is a matter of showing, in the first place, that in the present age power is not knowledge, that not only does it not know everything but even that it knows many fewer things than people in general know, and that there are profound and organic reasons for this. And in the second place, it is a matter of showing that this ‘knowledge’ claimed by power, even when it does exist, is at bottom of a quite particular, partial, and biased character. 

    But there is also a question I do not want to pass over in silence – although it is only one of the questions we will have to dwell on this evening. It is that – forgetting completely now about Messrs Giscard, Barre, and their fellow plotters – there is a genuine problem of knowledge, and even of technique, that really does challenge us in as much as this knowledge and even this technique go beyond [depassent] the present institution of society. Even if one grants – as I do – that the orientation, the ends, the mode of trans­ mission, and internal organization of scientific knowledge are anchored in the present-day social system and, even more, that they are, in a sense, consubstantial with it; even then it must be granted that here there is a creation of something that certainly outstrips [depasse] the contemporary era. This is also true, moreover, for previous eras of history. To take one easy example, Pythagoras’s theorem was discovered and demonstrated on Samos or wherever twenty-five centuries ago. Clearly, it was discovered in a context that in no way was ‘neutral’, this context being formed as it was by a set of imaginary schemata indissociably and profoundly tied to the Greek conception of the world, to the Greek imaginary institution of the world, as is the case for all Greek geometry. That does not prevent, twenty-five centuries later, Pythagoras’s theorem, or something that has the same name, not only from continuing to ‘be true’ (one can add as many quotation marks and question marks to this expression as one wishes), but also from appearing infinitely truer than Pythagoras himself could have thought it to be, since the present statement ofPythagoras’s theorem, such as you will find it in a contemporary analytical geometry textbook, con­ stitutes an immense generalization ofits original formulation. It is still called Pythagoras’s theorem, but now it states: In every pre-Hilbertian space, the square of the measure of the sum of two orthogonal vectors is equal to the sum of the squares of their measures. Or, to take another example, no society is possible without arithmetic – no matter how archaic, primitive, or savage this society might be. But where, then, does arithmetic stop? This, too, is part of the question of knowledge. It is too easy to evacuate this ques­ tion by saying, as a recent small-minded Parisian clown [microfarceur] said, that totalitarianism is the scientists in power, which evidently serves only to condone and to reinforce the dominant ideological mystification. As if Stalin, who directed the operations of the Russian Army during the Second World War on an ordinary globe, as Khrushchev revealed, was a ‘scientist in power’! But it is also too easy to evacuate the question, as is often done in our circles and by people close to us, by trying to jettison science and tech­ nique as such because they are said to be the pure products of the established system; one would thus end up eliminating any interrogations bearing on the world, on ourselves, on our knowledge. 

    I come now to the other dimension of the process whereby the individual is socially fabricated, that concerning ‘needs’. Quite evidently, the human being has no ‘natural needs’, in any definition of the term natural – save, perhaps, in a philosophical definition in which ‘nature’ would be something completely different from what you usually think of under this term: a ‘nature’ according to Aristotle, or Spinoza, something like a norm that is both ideal and real. Beyond the fact that we are not here tonight to discuss these kinds of philosophical questions, this acceptation ‘of the term nature does not interest us for a precise reason: it is unclear how one could agree socially on how to defme what would cor:respond to a ‘nature’ of that kind. 

    There are no natural needs. Every society creates a set of needs for its members and teaches them that life is not worth living, and cannot even be lived physically, unless those created needs are ‘satisfied’ somehow or other. What is capitalism’s specificity in this regard? In the first place, capitalism was able to arise, maintain itself, develop, and become stabilized (despite and along with the intense working-class struggles tearing through its history) only by putting ‘economic’ needs at the centre of everything. A Muslim, or a Hindu, will put aside some money his whole life long in order to make a pilgrimage to Mecca or to some temple; for him, that is a ‘need’ . I t is not one for a n individual fabricated b y capitalist culture: this pilgrimage is a superstition or a whim. But for this same individual it is not a supersti­ tion or a whim, but an absolute ‘need’, to have a car or to change one’s car every three years, or to have a colour television set as soon as one exists. 

    In the second place, therefore, capitalism succeeds in creating a humanity for which, more or less and somehow or other, these ‘needs’ are almost all that count in life. In the third place – and this is one of the points radically separating us from a view such as the one Marx could have of capitalist society – these needs that capitalism creates, somehow-or-other-and-most­ of-the-time it satisfies them. As one says in English, ‘It promises the goods and it delivers the goods’. The junk is there, the stores are overflowing with the stuff- and you have only to work in order to be able to buy some. You have only to be well-behaved and work, and you will earn more, you will clamber up, you will buy more, and there you are. And historical experience shows that, with a few exceptions, it works: production goes on, people work, things are bought, consumption continues, and it works all over again. 

    At this stage in the discussion, the question is not whether we are ‘criti­ cizing’ this set of needs from a personal point of view, tastewise, from the human, philosophical, biological, medical, or what have you point of view. The question bears upon the facts, about which one should not nourish any illusions. Briefly speaking, this society works because people yearn to have a car and because they can, in general, have one, and because they can buy petrol for this car. This is why one of the things that might knock down the social system in the West is not ‘pauperization’, whether absolute or rela­ tive, but, rather, for example, the fact that governments might not be able to furnish drivers with petrol. 

    We really must realize what this means. When we speak of the energy problem, nuclear power, and so on, what in fact is involved is the entire political and social functioning of society, and the whole contemporary way oflife. It is so both ‘objectively’ and from people’s point of view, and in this regard our criticisms of the brutality of a consumer society count for little. 

    This situation may easily be illustrated by means of the future – and already past and present – political speeches of citizen [and Communist Party leader Georges] Marchais, who explains ( 1 ) if you no longer have any petrol to drive around with, it is the fault of the trusts, the multinationals, and of the government that is in bed with them; and (2) if the Communist Party comes to power, it will give you petrol because it will not be subject to the multinationals and because our great ally, friend of the French people, and great oil producer the Soviet Union will provide us with petrol (little matter if things are starting to go very badly over there, too, in this regard as well). That, clearly, is one possible scenario, just as there exists a possible scenario from an apparently opposite quarter, that is to say, from a neo-Fascist demagogue who might emerge from an energy crisis and the attendant fallout. 

    The energy crisis has meaning as a crisis, and is a crisis, only in relation to the present model of society. It is this society that has need, each year, of 1 0 per cent more oil or energy in order to be able to keep running. This means that the energy crisis is, in a sense, a crisis of this society. Thus, it contains in germ – and here is a question to which it is for you, much more than for me, to respond – a challenge on people’s part to the whole system. But perhaps it contains, as well, in germinal form the possibility that people will follow the most aberrant, the most monstrous political currents. For, this society, such as it is, probably could not continue if the process of ever increased consumption did not keep droning on. It might be able to chal­ lenge itselfby saying: What we are doing is completely mad, the way we live is absurd. But it could also cling to the present-day way of life, saying to itself: This or that party has the solution; or, We only have to kick out the Jews, the Arabs, or whoever, in order to solve our problems. 

    This is the question that is posed, and I pose it now to you: Where are people now at, concerning the crisis of their way of life? And what might a lucid political activity be that would accelerate the raising of people’s consciousness concerning the absurdity ofthe system and would aid them in sorting things out among the various critiques of the system already now forming both on the Right and on the Left. 

    I now would like to broach, in immediate connection with the foregoing, the question of the ecology movement. It seems to me that one can observe, in the history of modern society, a sort of evolution in the field on which challenges, contestation, revolts, and revolutions take place. It also seems to me that one can shed some light on this evolution if one looks at the two dimensions of the institution of society I mentioned earlier: the instillation in individuals of a scheme of authority and the instillation in individuals of a scheme of needs. From the outset, the workers’ movement challenged the entire organization of society, but it did so in a way that, retrospectively, cannot help but appear to us to be somewhat abstract. What the workers’ movement attacked above all was the dimension of authority – that is to say, domination, which is its ‘objective’ side_. Even on this point it left in the shadows – as was almost inevitable at the time – some completely decisive aspects of the problem of authority and domination, therefore also political problems concerning the reconstruction of an autonomous society. Some of these aspects were put into question later on, and especially, more recently, by the women’s movement and the youth movement, both ofwhich attacked the schemata, the figures, and the relations of authority as these existed in other spheres of social life. 

    What the ecology movement has put into question, on its side, is the other dimension: the scheme and structure of needs, the way of life, of society. And this constitutes a capital breakthrough [depassement] in comparison with what can be seen as the unilateral character of previous movements. What is at issue in the ecology movement is the entire conception, the entire position of the relations between humanity and the world, and ultimately the central and eternal question: What is human life? What are we living for? 

    To this question there already exists, as we know, an answer: it is the capitalist response. Allow me here to open a parenthesis, proceeding rapidly in reverse. The most beautiful and concise formulation of the spirit of capitalism I know ofis Descartes’s well-known programmatic statement: We are to attain knowledge and truth in order to ‘make ourselves masters and possessors of nature’. It is in this statement of the great rationalist philoso­ pher that one sees most clearly the illusion, the madness, the absurdity of capitalism (as well as of a certain philosophy and a certain theology that precedes it). What does it mean to ‘make ourselves the masters and posses­ sors of nature’? Note, too, that both capitalism and the work of Marx and ofMarxism are founded upon this meaningless idea. 

    Now, what becomes apparent, perhaps in fits and starts, through the ecology movement is that we certainly do not want to be masters and posses­ sors of nature. First of all, because we have understood that this does not mean anything, it has no meaning – except to enslave society to an absurd project and to the structures of domination embodying that project. And next, because we want another relationship with nature and with the world – which means, too, another way of life and other needs . 

    The question, however, is this: What way of life, and what needs? What do we want? And who can answer to these questions, how, and on what basis? By answer I mean not in a state of absolute knowledge but, rather, in full knowledge of the relevant facts and lucidly. 

    In my view, the ecology movement has appeared as one ofthe movements that tend toward the autonomy of society. Each time I have spoken of it, either orally or in writing, I have included it in the series of those movements I just mentioned. In the ecology movement it is a matter, in the first place, of autonomy in relation to a technico-productive system that is alleged to be inevitable or optimal, the technico-productive system present in society today. But it is absolutely certain that, by the questions it raises, the ecology movement goes far beyond this question of the technico-productive system, since it engages potentially the entire political problem and the entire social problem. I shall explain myself here and end on this point. 

    That the ecology movement engages the entire political problem and the entire social problem can immediately be seen by starting with an apparently limited question. I hope you will excuse me if I tell you things you must already have heard dozens of times, and if I say them abruptly. The anti­ nuclear struggle: Yes, very good, bravo. But does that mean at the same time an antielectricity struggle? If yes, then one must say so, right away, loud and clear. And one must also say: We are against electricity and we know all the implications ofwhat we are saying: no sound system in a hall like this one – but that’s already happened [laughter]; no telephones; no surgery rooms (after all, Illich says medicine only increases the mortality rate); no radio, pirated or otherwise; no tape recorders; no Keith.Jarrett records like the one I just heard in your club, and so on. It must be realized that there is practi­ cally no object of modern-day life that in one way or another, directly or indirectly, does not imply electricity. This total rejection is perhaps accept­ able – but one must know it and say it. 

    Or else, the only logical thing would be to propose other sources of energy, stating and showing that it is not necessary to deprive oneself of electricity if one rules out nuclear power plants, provided that the entire system of energy production be reformed in such a way that only renewable sources of energy would be allowed. As I am sure you know many more things than I do about renewable energy sources, I won’t bother to extend my remarks on this question considered in its own right. But the question of renewable energy sources goes far beyond the question of renewable energy sources. First, it implies the totality ofproduction. And then (or, rather, at the same time), it implies the totality of social organization. The only attempt I personally know of to take the question in its entirety into account is the Alter project Philippe Courrege is working on in France with a tiny group of volunteer workers. I say seriously because Courrege saw straight away that it is not only a question of ensuring the production of renewable sources of energy; he saw that this implies the totality ofproduction and, consequently, he proceeded to construct a small complete ‘system’ (or, rather, a broad range of such systems, each depending upon the final objectives one sets for oneself), a closed matrix covering the totality of ‘inputs’ and ‘ outputs’ of a small, fairly much autarkic region. But I also say seriously because Courrege 

    also saw, and said, that what on the ‘technical’ or ‘economic’ level is, if not a simple solution, at least a feasible one raises immense political and social (he says ‘societal’) problems: the definition ofthe final objective ofproduc­ tion, the community’s acceptance of a steady state, the management of the whole, and so on. Here I can say I feel I am on familiar ground – not that I, of course, have the solution, but because these are the questions on which I have been reflecting and working for thirtY years and they become both more precise and more clear when one gives concrete underpinning to the idea of self-governed social units living in large part upon locally renewable resources. But there remains the ‘negative’ aspect, so to speak, which the Alter project also shows: if one wants to touch upon the problem of energy, one has to touch upon everything. Now, all that is neither theory nor literary posturing. As is known, governments are saying even now that without nuclear power plants there will be no more electricity in a few years. Certainly, if nothing else happens – and as, since 1 973, these governments have done nothing but blow hot air on the energy problem without doing anything real about it – we really will end with something happening like the breakdown of the power grid last year in France. 

    Now, on the other hand, projects that deal with renewable energy resources can,in part be co-opted towards ends that could not even be labelled reformist – that is, toward the end of plugging up the holes in the existing system. And beyond this question of co-option, this leads to another question: Does an antinuclear, energy-oriented ecological ‘reformism’ have any meaning and can it be lucidly supported? I mean here by ‘reformism’ the support given to partial measures we consider viable and meaningful (that is to say, those not cancelled out by the very fact that they are inserted into an overall system that, itself, is not changed); for example, the laws against the pollution of waterways – laws that leave everything else in place: multinational companies, the State, the Communist Party, the king, etc. A certain traditional position responded in the negative to this question. It was said: We are fighting for the Revolution, and one of the by­ products of the Revolution will be the nonpollution of rivers (as well as the emancipation of women, the reform of education, etc.) . We know that this response is absurd and mystificatory, and fortunately women and students have stopped waiting for the Revolution to demand and obtain real changes in their condition. I think that the same thing holds for the ecology strug­ gle: there is, for example and among a thousand other issues, a grave question of the pollution of waterways, and the struggle against this state of affairs makes complete sense, provided one·knows what one is doing, pro­ vided one is lucid. This means that one knows that at present one is struggling for this or that partial objective because it has a certain value, and that one knows, too, that the measure of which one is demanding the intro­ duction or the implementation will, so long as the present system exists, necessarily have an ambiguous signification and can even be diverted from its initial objective. You know that Social Security was, in many countries, 

    a conquest wrested by the working class in the midst of struggle. But you know, too, that there are Marxists who explain – and after all, it is not totally false from a certain point ofview – that Social Security makes the capitalist system function because it serves the upkeep of the labour force. Well, so what? Should one demand the abolition of Social Security on the basis of that argument? 

    I shall close in broaching the problem that to me seems the most profound, the most critical – critical in the initial sense of the word crisis: the moment and process of decision. To speak of an autonomous society, of the auton­omy of society, not only with regard to this or that particular dominant stratum but with regard to its own institution, needs, techniques, etc., pre­ supposes both the capacity and the will of human beings to govern themselves in the strongest sense of this term. For a very long time, in fact from the beginning of the period I was engaged in Socialisme ou Barbarie with my comrades, it was basically in these terms that for me the question of the possibility of a radical, revolutionary trans­ formation of society was formulated: Do human beings have the capacity and especially the will to govern themselves? (I say especially wz11 to gov­ ern themselves, for in my view ‘capacity’ does not really pose a problem.) Do they truly want to be their own masters? For, after all, if they really wanted it, nothing could stop them: this has been known since Rosa Luxemburg, since La BOt!tie, even since the Greeks. But little by little another aspect of this question – the question of the possibility of a radical transformation of society – began to appear to me, and to preoccupy me more and more. It is that another society, an autonomous society, does not imply only self-management, self-government, self-institution. It implies another culture, in the most profound sense of this term. It implies another way of life, other needs, other orientations for human life. You will agree with me if I say that a socialism of traffic jams is an absurd con­tradiction in terms and that the socialist solution to this problem would not be to eliminate traffic jams by quadrupling the width of the Champs­ Elysees. What are these cities, then? What do the people who fill them truly desire to do? How the devil does it happen that they ‘prefer’ to have their cars and spend hours each day in traffic jams, rather than something else? 

    To pose the problem of a new society is to pose the problem of an extra­ ordinary cultural creation. And the question that is posed, and that I pose to you, is the following: Do we have, before us, some precursory and pre­ monitory signs of this cultural creation? We who reject, at least in words, the capitalist way of life and what it involves – and it involves every­ thing, absolutely everything that exists today – do we see coming to life around us another way of life that heralds, that prefigures something new, something that would give some substantive content to the idea of self­ management, self-government, autonomy, self-institution? In other words, can the idea of self-government take on its full force, attain its full appeal, if it is not also borne by other desires, by other ‘needs’ that cannot be satisfied within the contemporary social system? 

    The rest of us, probably, we who are here, can no doubt think of such needs, we feel them, and perhaps for us they count for a lot. For example, I don’t know, to be able to go when one wants to wander in the woods for two days. But the question does not lie there. At issue are not our wishes and needs, but those of the great mass of people. What is being asked is this: Is something of this sort, a rejection of the needs being nourished at present by the system and the appearance of other aims, beginning to dawn, to appear to be important to people living today? 

    And finally, what is being asked is this: Don’t we effectively encounter on this point, on this line, the limit to political thought and action? Like all thought and all action, this kind, too, must have a limit – and must endeav­ our to recognize it. Is not this limit, on this point, the following: that neither we ourselves nor anyone else can decide on a way of life for others? We are saying, we can say, we have the right to say that we are against the contemporary way of life – which, once again, implies nearly everything that exists and not only the construction of such and such a nuclear power plant, which is only one ofits implications to the nth degree. But to say that we are against such a way of life introduces, in a roundabout way, a tremendous problem, what can be called the problem of right in the most general sense, not simply formal rights, but right in terms of content. What is going to happen if others continue to want this other way of life? I inten­ tionally take an extreme and absurd example, since it is close to the starting point of our meeting. Suppose there were people who not only want electricity but specifically want electricity of nuclear origin? You offer them all the electricity in the world, but they don’t want it: they want it to be nuclear. All sorts of tastes exist in nature, after all. What would you say in such a case, what shall we say? We will say, I suppose, that there will be a majority decision (at least we hope it will be) that forbids people from sat­ isfying their taste for nuclear-powered electricity. Again, this is an absurd example – and one easy to resolve. But you can easily imagine thousands of others that are neither absurd nor easy to resolve, for what is posed in this issue of one’s way of life is ultimately the following question: How far can the ‘right’ (the legally and collectively assured effective possibility) of each individual, of each group, of each commune, of each nation to act as it wants, extend once we know – and we have always known it, but the ecology movement forcefully reminds us of it – that we are all embarked on the same planetary boat and that what each one of us does can have repercussions on everyone else? The question of self-government, of the autonomy of society, is also the question of the self-limitation of society. Self-limitation has two sides to it: limitation by the society of what it con­ siders to be the unacceptable wishes, tendencies, acts, and so on of this or that portion of its members, but also self-limitation of society itself in its rules and regulations, the legislative authority it exercises over its members. The positive and substantive problem ofright lies in the ability to conceive a society that is founded upon substantive universal rules (the prohibition of murder is not a ‘formal’ rule) and at the same time is compatible with 

    the greatest possible diversity of cultural creation and therefore also of ways of life and systems of needs (I am · not talking here about folklore for tourists) . And this synthesis, this conciliation is not something we can just pull out of our heads . It will come out of society itself, or it will not come out at all. 

    To recognize this limit to political thought and to political action is to prohibit oneself from redoing the work of the political philosophers of the past, substituting oneself for society and deciding, as Plato and even Aristotle did, that some musical scale is good for the education of the young, whereas some other one is bad and ought therefore to be banned from the city. This in no way implies that we are to renounce our own thinking, our own action, our own point of view, or that we are to accept blindly and religiously all that society and history can produce. Again, it is ultimately an abstract philosophical point of view that led Marx to decide (for it was he who decided) that what history will decide or has already decided is good. (History almost decided for the Gulag.) We maintain our responsibility, our judgement, our thought, and our action, but we also recognize the limit thereto. And to recognize this limit is to give full con­ tent to what at bottom·we are saying, namely, that first and foremost a revolutionary politics today entails recognition of people’s autonomy, that is to say, the recognition of society itself as the ultimate source of institu­ tional creation. [Applause.] 

  • Isonomia: Thoughts on equality

    Isonomia: Thoughts on equality

    In his ground-breaking work, published in English only in 2017 under the title Isonomia and the Origins of Philosophy, the Japanese philosopher Kojin Karatani convincingly shows that taking Athenian democracy as a model will never allow us to solve the problems modern democracy is facing. Being the composite of liberalism plus democracy, it is not able to resolve its basic contradiction, one between equality and freedom: “If one aims for freedom, inequalities arise. If one aims for equality, freedom is compromised. Liberal democracy cannot transcend this contradiction.” .[1]

     So instead of making constant references to Athenian democracy as the desired model of democracy in the 21st century, it is more important to recognize in Athens the very prototype of these problems.

    While Athenian democracy sought to equalize people via the redistribution of wealth, it was at the same time rooted in the homogeneity of its members. Not only did it exclude heterogeneity, but it was realized by relying on the internal exploitation (of slaves and resident foreigners, the so called metic) and external exploitation of others (the colonization and subjugation of other poleis). At the same time, Athenian democracy was already inseparable from the sort of nationalism that resembles Benedict Anderson’s famous definition of the modern nation as “imagined community”.[2]

    In order to fully understand the spectre of “illiberal democracy”, instead of turning to Athenian democracy, perhaps we should look to Ionian isonomia (ἰσονομία “equality of political rights, from the Greek isos, “equal”, and nomos, “law”), and to the philosophy of the so-called Pre-Socratic philosophers, who are still usually dismissed as those who were dealing only with “natural philosophy”. It is assumed that ethical and political questions were not something they were seriously thinking through and dealing with – a phase that, according to the traditional history of philosophy, only emerged with Socrates.

    This however, according to Karatani, is a mistake. The origin of Greek political philosophy (and “democracy” with it) rather has to be seen from Ionia. And Socrates, by the way, wasn’t the first one to deal with ethical questions. His thought is rather to be seen as a “transition” from Pre-Socratic to Athenian philosophy, owing many of its ideas and values to the Ionian philosophers themselves.

    But why was the political system of Ionia (called isonomia) a more equal and free system than the Athenian democracy? First of all, the Ionians did not place great importance on ties with their place of origin, which led to a culture free from deep attachment to the traditions of a tribal society that characterized the mainland. Instead of just belonging to the polis, the Ionians considered themselves as belonging to the cosmopolis. And it is precisely this kind of political philosophy that is already to be found in the Pre-Socratic Ionian philosophers. For instance, already for Democritus, true ethics cannot come from within the polis but rather only from the cosmopolis.

    The cities of Ionia were formed by colonists, who did not bring with them the tradition of the clans. The settlers were freed from the bonds and restraints of kinship. As a result, what was restored in the poleis of Ionia was the nomadic existence that preceded tribal societies, that now took the form of foreign trade and manufacturing, but not only as a matter of exchanging goods but equally of knowledge and culture.

    For instance, Thales, who is considered the first philosopher, worked as a civil engineer in Egypt, and many other philosophers of the so-called Pre-Socratic era were influenced either by Asia or Africa (Babylonian astronomy, mathematics and so on).

    Unlike the Ionian isonomia, the greek polis was based on social strata that ascended from the household (oikos) to the clan (genos), from the brotherhood or kinship (phratry) to that of the tribe (phylai). Athens was no longer a clan society, but the tribal traditions were still alive and well. Even with the transformation of the people into a demos, this didn’t prompt the formation of the kind of polis which would be based on autonomous social contracts between individuals. On the contrary, even in the age of Pericles, often regarded as the zenith of Athens, citizenship was determined by kinship, and foreigners (people from the other poleis) were excluded. Moreover, Athenian direct democracy was directly dependent upon the ruling and plundering of the other poleis. It was precisely this imperialistic expansion that was the precondition for Athenian democracy which was also closely tied to the development of the slave system. At the same time, civil society in Athens was driven by a deep class conflict, namely, the majority of citizens were poor.


    [1] Kojin Karatani, Isonomia and the Origins of Philosophy, Duke University Press, 2017

    [2] See Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, Verso, 2006.

  • Gilles Deleuze: Desert Islands

    Gilles Deleuze: Desert Islands

    Desert Islands

    Geographers say there are two kinds of islands. This is valuable information for the imagination because it confirms what the imagination already knew. Nor is it the only case where science makes mythology more concrete, and mythology makes science more vivid. Continental islands are accidental, derived islands. They are separated from a continent, born of disarticulation, erosion, fracture; they survive the absorption of what once contained them. Oceanic islands are originary, essential islands. Some are formed from coral reefs and display a genuine organism. Others emerge from underwater eruptions, bringing to the light of day a movement from the lowest depths. Some rise slowly; some disappear and then return, leaving us no time to annex them. These two kinds of islands, continental and originary, reveal a profound opposition between ocean and land. Continental islands serve as a reminder that the sea is on top of the earth, taking advantage of the slightest sagging in the highest structures; oceanic islands, that the earth is still there, under the sea, gathering its strength to punch through to the surface. We can assume that these elements are in constant strife, displaying a repulsion for one another. In this we find nothing to reassure us. Also, that an island is deserted must appear philosophically normal to us. Humans cannot live, nor live in security, unless they assume that the active struggle between earth and water is over, or at least contained. People like to call these two elements mother and father, assigning them gender roles according to the whim of their fancy. They must somehow persuade themselves that a struggle of this kind does not exist, or that it has somehow ended. In one way or another, the very existence of islands is the negation of this point of view, of this effort, this conviction. That England is populated will always come as a surprise; humans can live on an island only by forgetting what an island represents. Islands are either from before or for after humankind. But everything that geography has told us about the two kinds of islands, the imagination knew already on its own and in another way. The elan that draws humans toward islands extends the double movement that produces islands in themselves. Dreaming of islands—whether with joy or in fear, it doesn’t matter—is dreaming of pulling away, of being already separate, far from any continent, of being lost and alone—or it is dreaming of starting from scratch, recreating, beginning anew. Some islands drifted away from the continent, but the island is also that toward which one drifts; other islands originated in the ocean, but the island is also the origin, radical and absolute. Certainly, separating and creating are not mutually exclusive: one has to hold one’s own when one is separated, and had better be separate to create anew; nevertheless, one of the two tendencies always predominates. In this way, the movement of the imagination of islands takes up the movement of their production, but they don’t have the same objective. It is the same movement, but a different goal. It is no longer the island that is separated from the continent, it is humans who find themselves separated from the world when on an island. It is no longer the island that is created from the bowels of the earth through the liquid depths, it is humans who create the world anew from the island and on the waters. Humans thus take up for themselves both movements of the island and are able to do so on an island that, precisely, lacks one kind of movement: humans can drift toward an island that is nonetheless originary, and they can create on an island that has merely drifted away. On closer inspection, we find here a new reason for every island to be and remain in theory deserted.

    An island doesn’t stop being deserted simply because it is inhabited. While it is true that the movement of humans toward and on the island takes up the movement of the island prior to humankind, some people can occupy the island—it is still deserted, all the more so, provided they are sufficiently, that is, absolutely separate, and provided they are sufficient, absolute creators. Certainly, this is never the case in fact, though people who are shipwrecked approach such a condition. But for this to be the case, we need only extrapolate in imagination the movement they bring with them to the island. Only in appearance does such a movement put an end to the island’s desertedness; in reality, it takes up and prolongs the elan that produced the island as deserted. Far from compromising it, humans bring the desertedness to its perfection and highest point. In certain conditions which attach them to the very movement of things, humans do not put an end to desertedness, they make it sacred. Those people who come to the island indeed occupy and populate it; but in reality, were they sufficiently separate, sufficiently creative, they would give the island only a dynamic image of itself, a consciousness of the movement which produced the island, such that through them the island would in the end become conscious of itself as deserted and unpeopled. The island would be only the dream of humans, and humans, the pure consciousness of the island.

    For this to be the case, there is again but one condition: humans would have to reduce themselves to the movement that brings them to the island, the movement which prolongs and takes up the elan that produced the island. Then geography and the imagination would be one. To that question so dear to the old explorers—”which creatures live on deserted islands?”—one could only answer: human beings live there already, but uncommon humans, they are absolutely separate, absolute creators, in short, an Idea of humanity, a prototype, a man who would almost be a god, a woman who would be a goddess, a great Amnesiac, a pure Artist, a consciousness of Earth and Ocean, an enormous hurricane, a beautiful witch, a statue from the Easter Islands. There you have a human being who precedes itself. Such a creature on a deserted island would be the deserted island itself, insofar as it imagines and reflects itself in its first movement. A consciousness of the earth and ocean, such is the deserted island, ready to begin the world anew. But since human beings, even voluntarily, are not identical to the movement that puts them on the island, they are unable to join with the elan that produces the island; they always encounter it from the outside, and their presence in fact spoils its desertedness. The unity of the deserted island and its inhabitant is thus not actual, only imaginary, like the idea of looking behind the curtain when one is not behind it. More importantly, it is doubtful whether the individual imagination, unaided, could raise itself up to such an admirable identity; it would require the collective imagination, what is most profound in it, i.e. rites and mythology.

    In the facts themselves we find at least a negative confirmation of all this, if we consider what a deserted island is in reality, that is, geographically. The island, and all the more so the deserted island, is an extremely poor or weak notion from the point of view of geography. This is to its credit. The range of islands has no objective unity, and deserted islands have even less. The deserted island may indeed have extremely poor soil. Deserted, the island may be a desert, but not necessarily. The real desert is uninhabited only insofar as it presents no conditions that by rights would make life possible, whether vegetable, animal, or human. On the contrary, the lack of inhabitants on the deserted island is a pure fact due to circumstance, in other words, the island’s surroundings. The island is what the sea surrounds and what we travel around. It is like an egg. An egg of the sea, it is round. It is as though the island had pushed its desert outside. What is deserted is the ocean around it. It is by virtue of circumstance, for other reasons than the principle on which the island depends, that ships pass in the distance and never come ashore. The island is deserted more than it is a desert. So much so, that in itself the island may contain the liveliest of rivers, the most agile fauna, the brightest flora, the most amazing nourishment, the hardiest of savages, and the castaway as its most precious fruit, it may even contain, however momentarily, the ship that comes to take him away. For all that, it is not any less a deserted island. To change this situation, we would have to overhaul the general distribution of the continents, the state of the seas, and the lines of navigation.

    This is to state once again that the essence of the deserted island is imaginary and not actual, mythological and not geographical. At the same time, its destiny is subject to those human conditions that make mythology possible. Mythology is not simply willed into existence, and the peoples of the earth quickly ensured they would no longer understand their own myths. It is at this very moment  literature begins. Literature is the attempt to interpret, in an ingenious way, the myths we no longer understand, at the moment we no longer understand them, since we no longer know how to dream them or reproduce them. Literature is the competition of misinterpretations that consciousness naturally and necessarily produces on themes of the unconscious, and like every competition it has its prizes. One would have to show exactly how in this sense mythology fails and dies in two classic novels of the deserted island, Robinson and Suzanne. Suzanne and the Pacific emphasizes the separated aspect of islands, the separation of the young woman who finds herself there;1 Robinson Crusoe, the creative aspect, the beginning anew. It is true that the way mythology fails is different in each case. In the case of Giraudoux’s Suzanne, mythology dies the prettiest, most graceful death. In Robinson’s case, its death is heavy indeed. One can hardly imagine a more boring novel, and it is sad to see children still reading it today. Robinson’s vision of the world resides exclusively in property; never have we seen an owner more ready to preach. The mythical recreation of the world from the deserted island gives way to the reconstitution of everyday bourgeois life from a reserve of capital. Everything is taken from the ship. Nothing is invented. It is all painstakingly applied on the island. Time is nothing but the time necessary for capital to produce a benefit as the outcome of work. And the providential function of God is to guarantee a return. God knows his people, the hardworking honest type, by their beautiful properties, and the evil doers, by their poorly maintained, shabby property. Robinson’s companion is not Eve, but Friday, docile towards work, happy to be a slave, and too easily disgusted by cannibalism. Any healthy reader would dream of seeing him eat Robinson. Robinson Crusoe represents the best illustration of that thesis which affirms the close ties between capitalism and Protestantism. The novel develops the failure and the death of mythology in Puritanism. Things are quite different with Suzanne. In her case, the deserted island is a depository of ready-made, luxurious objects. The island bears immediately what it has taken civilization centuries to produce, perfect, and ripen. But mythology still dies, though in Suzanne’s case it dies in a particularly Parisian way. Suzanne has nothing to create anew. The deserted island provides her with the double of every object from the city, in the windows of the shops; it is a double without consistency, separated from the real, since it does not receive the solidity that objects ordinarily take on in human relations, amidst buying and selling, exchanges and presents. She is an insipid young woman. Her companions are not Adam, but young cadavers, and when she reenters the world of living men, she will love them in a uniform way, like a priest, as though love were the minimum threshold of her perception.

    What must be recovered is the mythological life of the deserted island. However, in its very failure, Robinson gives us some indication: he first needed a reserve of capital. In Suzanne’s case, she was first and foremost separate. And neither the one nor the other could be part of a couple. These three indications must be restored to their mythological purity. We have to get back to the movement of the imagination that makes the deserted island a model, a prototype of the collective soul. First, it is true that from the deserted island it is not creation but re-creation, not the beginning but a re-beginning that takes place. The deserted island is the origin, but a second origin. From it everything begins anew. The island is the necessary minimum for this re-beginning, the material that survives the first origin, the radiating seed or egg that must be sufficient to re-produce everything. Clearly, this presupposes that the formation of the world happens in two stages, in two periods of time, birth and re-birth, and that the second is just as necessary and essential as the first, and thus the first is necessarily compromised, born for renewal and already renounced in a catastrophe. It is not that there is a second birth because there has been a catastrophe, but the reverse, there is a catastrophe after the origin because there must be, from the beginning, a second birth. Within ourselves we can locate the source of such a theme: it is not the production of life that we look for when we judge it to be life, but its reproduction. The animal whose mode of reproduction remains unknown to us has not yet taken its place among living beings. It is not enough that everything begin, everything must begin again once the cycle of possible combinations has come to completion. The second moment does not succeed the first: it is the reappearance of the first when the cycle of the other moments has been completed. The second origin is thus more essential than the first, since it gives us the law of repetition, the law of the series, whose first origin gave us only moments. But this theme, even more than in our fantasies, finds expression in every mythology. It is well known as the myth of the flood. The ark sets down on the one place on earth that remains uncovered by water, a circular and sacred place, from which the world begins anew. It is an island or a mountain, or both at once: the island is a mountain under water, and the mountain, an island that is still dry. Here we see original creation caught in a re-creation, which is concentrated in a holy land in the middle of the ocean. This second origin of the world is more important than the first: it is a sacred island. Many myths recount that what we find there is an egg, a cosmic egg. Since the island is a second origin, it is entrusted to man and not to the gods. It is separate, separated by the massive expanse of the flood. Ocean and water embody a principle of segregation such that, on sacred islands, exclusively female communities can come to be, such as the island of Circe or Calypso. After all, the beginning started from God and from a couple, but not the new beginning, the beginning again, which starts from an egg: mythological maternity is often a parthenogenesis. The idea of a second origin gives the deserted island its whole meaning, the survival of a sacred place in a world that is slow to re-begin. In the ideal of beginning anew there is something that precedes the beginning itself, that takes it up to deepen it and delay it in the passage of time. The desert island is the material of this something immemorial, this something most profound.

    Source: https://monoskop.org/images/2/23/Deleuze_Gilles_Desert_Islands_and_Other_Texts_1953-1974.pdf