Author: staceymeeker

  • GA in the Public Sphere

    As I see it, the most urgent task of our originally Western but now global civilization is to defend itself against victimary thinking, the White Guilt that tempts us to leave it undefended by making it appear morally indefensible. For this mode of thought, affirming or simply acquiescing in human reality is necessarily in bad faith. The victimary thinker adopts the Existentialist credo, if not its vocabulary, by insisting on the individual’s responsibility to maintain at each moment an independent moral stance that brings judgment on the entire world. Where there is injustice, patent or even suspected, it is this that must occupy our attention. Even if we admit that 98% of the human relations in a given society are justifiable, to openly or tacitly affirm one’s loyalty to this society is to be complicit in the evil embodied in the other 2%. For the upholder of White Guilt, there is no sin greater than this complacency.

    Although the general, “non-intellectual” public has not accepted this perspective, it eats away at the legitimacy of our social order, in the first place in the political sphere; it has all but conquered the Democratic Party. Yet it is not the United States but Europe that is the original homeland of White Guilt. For several months I have been reading articles by Mark Steyn and others on Europe’s demographic decline and its parallel refusal to defend its culture against Islamic aggression. An article in the May 2006 Commentary by George Weigel (“Europe’s Two Culture Wars”) is the most cogent overall statement of this problem that I have seen. On the one hand, Europe combats its own religious tradition on behalf of an aggressive secularism that refuses even the most fundamental biological differences in the name of formal equality (for example, formerly Catholic Spain’s legalization of homosexual marriage and its replacement of “father” and “mother” on birth certificates by “Progenitor A” and “Progenitor B”); Weigel calls this Culture War A. On the other hand, Europe bends over backward not to offend even–or especially–the most intolerant forms of Islam, as was made painfully obvious in the recent cartoon incident; he calls this Culture War B. Weigel’s point is that both these “wars” are parts of the same general phenomenon: a cultural death-wish whose most unambiguous manifestation, beyond all ideology, is Europe’s rapidly declining indigenous population.

    I see this situation as a challenge to generative anthropology. What’s the use of what I like to call a “new way of thinking” if it can’t help us to understand the current crisis of European and “Western” civilization, and by understanding it contribute to its solution? The literature I refer to consists mostly in denunciation, however justified; it offers no real explanation. Polemics against White Guilt may be useful in galvanizing the resolve of those who would resist it, but this noble rhetorical operation leaves its theoretical basis untouched. Tout comprendre is not tout pardonner; to explain is not to justify. A more powerful anthropology should be of benefit to all the participants in the discussion, especially to those who may be unaware of the existence of an antidote for White Guilt.


    The origin of victimary thinking in the postwar reaction to the Holocaust seems to be confirmed by its strength in the European countries that fought in WWII, particularly in Germany. But “the Holocaust” is not an inexplicable singularity that can serve as an explanation in itself; it has a historical meaning. Historically, the Holocaust was the endpoint of centuries of antisemitism, which is the constitutive example in the West of the resentment of firstness. The moral reciprocity that is the equilibrium state of human interaction cannot be achieved all at once; we owe to Adam Katz the insight that in the originary scene someone must go first to understand his aborted gesture of appropriation as a sign. Similarly, the discovery/invention of monotheism is a step toward universal reciprocity, but the people who achieves it will always remain the first to have done so. Christianity does not merely resent the historical priority of Judaism; it explicitly defines itself by its supersessive secondarity, as the community of the New Testament. (Islam’s more deep-seated resentment denies the Hebrews’ temporal priority outright; the uncreated Koran is on a different plane from both historical Testaments, relegated to failed experiments in transmitting its eternal truth.) The Nazis’ largely successful project of annihilating the Jews may then be understood not simply as a barbaric return to the communal “compactness” of the Gemeinschaft but as an attempt to realize the fundamental project of Western/Christian resentment. Its folly lies less in this attempt than in the very fact of turning resentment into a project to be executed; this revelation of resentment-as-project is the historical inspiration for postmodern victimary thought, including on a higher plane Girard’s conception of the scapegoat. This ultimate crystallization of Western resentment in a practical task coincides with the last conceivable all-out war. That the Holocaust was carried out without deferral, with no weapon or force held in reserve, and at the same time gratuitously, even to the detriment of the German war effort, defines it as the extreme point of human violence independently of any “objective” measure of the violence that occurred before or since.

    The persistent pattern of postwar White Guilt derives from the Nazi/Jew paradigm in the following manner. The Nazis sought the “final solution” to the “Jewish question” by eliminating the “chosen people” of firstness and establishing thereby the firstness of their own “Aryan” lineage. Nineteenth-century racialists such as Gobineau designated the Semites as a bastard race, a secondary product of corruption halfway between the African and the “Aryan” or Caucasian. The fact that these “Semites” were really the Jews only corroborates my point that the underlying purpose of all this pseudo-science was to deprive the Jews of their historical firstness. The combination of (overt) weakness and (hidden) strength implicit in this vision of the corrupt and corrupting “Semites” is inherent in the antisemite’s view of the Jew, particularly in its modern variant. Eduard Drumont in La France juive (1886) denounced the Jews’ ability to fool the potentially much more powerful Christians into letting them dominate France, and the Protocols of the Elders of Zion would enshrine this idea at the heart of modern antisemitism. But the scandal of the Holocaust was that the systematic eradication of this “first” or “chosen” people demonstrated the Jews’ powerlessness; the easy success of the enterprise undermined its rationale.

    Hence the real point of the Holocaust, the rivalry over firstness, was masked by the more obvious horror of the slaughter of the weak by the strong. What remained of this rivalry in the public mind was the programmatic nature of the slaughter rather than its specific motivation. History’s relative indifference to the body-count of Communism in its various forms reflects the fact that the individuals massacred are only “accidentally” necessary to the cause. Unlike resentment of the Jews, resentment of the “bourgeois” cannot be considered the ultimate project of the Christian West, except to the extent that, as Marx lucidly points out in his Considerations on the Jewish Question, the “bourgeois” are really just an updated version of the Jews. Just as the victims of Communist massacres were “contingent” recalcitrants rather than essential precursors, so their ubiquity was not to be confused with ideological centrality. The Communists considered themselves forced to kill by circumstances; the Nazis killed by design. Elimination of the Jews was the foundation of their political philosophy. I have already quoted in Chronicle 313 the last part of the sentence that concludes Chapter 2 of Mein Kampf, but the sentence deserves to be quoted in full, and in German: “So glaube ich heute im Sinne des allmächtigen Schöpfers zu handeln: Indem ich mich des Juden erwehre, kämpfe ich für das Werk des Herrn.” [Thus I believe today that I am acting in the spirit of the all-powerful Creator: In defending myself against the Jew, I am fighting for the handiwork of the Lord.]


    The emergence of postwar victimary thinking was a historical phenomenon independent of its specific individual, class, and national vehicles. The postwar espousal of the cause of the weak against the strong was all in all a Good Thing, but since dismissing the usurpation of the Jews’ historical firstness left only the firstness of the Nazis’ brute force, discredit was cast over firstness in general. Thus the domination of European colonial powers over their non-European territories, which had previously been defended as on balance a benevolent example of firstness–the “White man’s burden” as a means of extending the benefits of Western civilization–was suddenly denounced not merely as hypocritical but as an altogether inadmissible oppression of the weak by the strong. No doubt there had been colonial liberation movements, such as Mahatma Gandhi’s, before WWII. But the new, often virulent energy of postwar anti-colonialism, as theorized by Frantz Fanon in The Wretched of the Earth (1963), cannot be understood independently of postmodern victimary thought as a whole. White Guilt fed the indigenous liberation movements and was largely instrumental in their success. The colonialist idea that Europe’s dominance was justified by the vast superiority of its economy, polity, and culture could no longer be entertained; a later generation would denounce such Western attitudes toward the “Other” as “Orientalism.” (I have discussed elsewhere–for example, in Chronicle 267–the difficulty the discrediting of firstness posed for the Jews and for their postwar creation, Israel.)

    Because it recognizes the existence of significant differences among individuals and civilizations, the category of firstness cannot be reconciled directly with the moral model of universal reciprocity. In the practical tasks of life, firstness is taken for granted: students must pass examinations, workers must be qualified for the jobs they perform, more efficient methods of production triumph over their competitors. Practical firstness is ubiquitous in White-Guilt-ridden societies; only the productive triumph it unleashes makes the luxury of White Guilt possible.

    The unsavory racial philosophies of the nineteenth century, in addition to providing ammunition against the historical priority of the Jews, may be understood as attempts within the context of a secularizing early market society to establish European firstness on a “scientific” basis rather than on the dubious authority of religious texts. In a world of exchange, it is the market that is the presumed judge of value, yet the social order, even the economic order, depend on prior conditions that market competition is too inefficient to bring about. Racial theories provided a useful supplement to the problematic task of justifying the “white man’s burden” on purely economic and cultural grounds. The phenomenon of colonialism, not to speak of apartheid or racial segregation, cannot be justified solely in terms of moral reciprocity; its only conceivable justification is that of firstness, the authoritarian imposition of a superior socioeconomic system being presumed to contribute to the eventual welfare of the colonized and thereby of humanity in general. The racialist notion of firstness, however, goes beyond anthropological bounds to postulate what are for all practical purposes separate species–a new ontology that was not lost on the Nazi propagandists who depicted the Jews as subhuman vermin. Conversely, once firstness comes to be excluded as a justification for de jure social differences under any circumstances, such phenomena as the colonization of Africa or the conquest of the American West at the expense of the Indians can no longer be “explained” at all, but only condemned as monstrous violations of morality. A whole generation of academics has been trained to reveal and denounce such monstrosities within the archive constituted by hegemonic colonial powers and their class, race, and gender counterparts on the domestic scene. The direct application of the moral model to history substitutes one-dimensional judgment for the conceptualization of the complex articulations of reality.

    In contrast to victimary thinking, the originary hypothesis makes firstness a prerequisite of the moral model that is so often unthinkingly evoked in order to condemn it. An anthropology within which firstness can be defended theoretically rather than merely politically offers a powerful new weapon in defense of our civilization at a time when its defenders need all the help they can get.


  • GA and the Linguistic Turn

    The impetus for the first important mode of postmodern thought was given by the fateful encounter of anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss and linguist-poetician Roman Jakobson at the New School for Social Research in New York in 1942. The meeting of these two European Jewish exiles led to the extension of Saussurean structural linguistics to the human and humanistic sciences that is known as structuralism. This first stage of what has been referred to as the “linguistic turn” placed the distinctive feature of humanity in our use of semiotic systems, each element of which acquires its signifying function within the system from its difference from all the others. Beginning with Tristes tropiques (1955), Lévi-Strauss applied this Saussurean principle to such ethnological data as village configurations, patterns of tattoos, legal and kinship systems, and above all to myths–although the tension between the chronological, narrative structure of the latter and the inherent synchrony of sign-systems makes the extensive analyses of Mythologiques (1964-71) better examples of creative disequilibrium than of rigorous exposition. Roland Barthes is often spoken of as a structuralist on the basis of the semiotic analyses of Mythologies (1957), Système de la mode (1967), and S/Z (1970). Perhaps the most serious application of structuralism to cultural texts was that of A. J. Greimas (Sémantique structurale, 1966), who analyzed narratives in terms of movement within a semantic field. The relative obscurity of Greimas and his disciples today suggests the limitations of structuralist methods for understanding narrativity.

    In reaction to structuralism’s ontological neutrality, which lent itself to the accusation of ethical complacency, a post-structuralist mode of thought arose among France’s “generation of 1968,” whose most prominent and brilliant proponent was Jacques Derrida. Derrida’s early works critique structuralism as just another variety of the metaphysics it purported to be replacing. The synchronic sign-structures, linguistic or modeled on language, that structuralism deemed the defining trait of the human could function only if they were present to the individual all at once. This anomaly provided Derrida with the means for debunking the notion of presence itself, which he traced back to the Platonic origins of metaphysics. Synchronic systems of differences are inhabited by différance, the temporal deferral that is required in order to bring to mind the paradigm of differences from which meaning is generated. To differ is to defer, as the French translation of both words as différer suggests. The language-user’s choice of a member of a paradigm is not made instantaneously in the voiced self-presence of the speaker; it is rather a act of self-absenting, the best model for which is not a spoken word but an inscription. Metaphysical discourse presents itself as the direct or derived word of God, of Being present to itself; Derrida’s procedure of deconstruction reveals the arbitrariness of this unitary construction by demonstrating that it depends on hidden assertions of an arbitrary authority, both political and semantic, presented as inherent in reality. Deconstruction extends the familiar but crude Marxist critique of ideology to the totality of cultural discourse. This vision of human time obeys the contours of the Heideggerian history of metaphysics as the fall of Being; it is noteworthy that Derrida’s philosophical deconstructions begin with Plato, not with the pre-Socratics in whom the Master saw the last true guardians of Being.

    The post-structuralists were certainly correct that structuralism shares the chief presuppositions of the metaphysics it claims to liberate us from. This becomes all the clearer if we understand metaphysics as the mode of thought that takes the declarative sentence or proposition as the fundamental form of language. The Saussurean reduction of meaning to pure difference is the reductio ad absurdum of Platonic idealism, not its transcendence. Plato’s Ideas–the Good, the Beautiful, the True, the Holy–are reified predicates, components of propositions. By bracketing these words’ extralinguistic referents, structuralism only makes explicit the failure of metaphysics to situate language–more specifically, the origin of language–in human history. Structuralism is wedded to the metaphysics of the declarative sentence, the linguistic form that makes language a “map” of reality. Post-structuralism rejects this atemporal formalism, but has no thought of putting a human temporality in its place. Because deconstruction remains wholly tributary to the philosophical-metaphysical tradition, its practitioner cannot see that the deconstruction of metaphysics is not simply a moment in a resentful oscillation with the inevitable but untenable proposition, but that it points to a core of language more fundamental than the declarative sentence.

    It is only with generative anthropology, the third generation of the linguistic turn, that the anthropological reality of language is taken into account. In Hegelian terms, if structuralism is the thesis, and post-structuralism, its antithesis, generative anthropology is the synthesis of these two positions, replacing the metaphysical reliance on always-already-constituted structure by an originary anthropology of language. Every term in Derrida’s ever-changing terminology of deconstruction, from différance to pharmakon and beyond, can be associated with a moment of the originary event. Before différance can refer to the deferral inherent in actualizing the paradigm from which an individual element of language is taken, it describes the originary deferral that presides over the birth of the sign: the deferral of violence through representation.


    The interest of the “linguistic turn” that made language a model for human culture and behavior is that it is essentially unwilled. Since Marx, thinkers had attributed to human beings a false consciousness of their most significant modes of interaction. But Marx thought that the praxis of the proletariat provided the wherewithal for a true consciousness of the production-relations that he saw as the foundation of the human order, just as Freud derived the unconscious determinants of human behavior from the subject’s repressed but ultimately recoverable experience. In contrast, structuralism denies that such a consciousness can ever be made available within a given culture; its underlying patterns are formal, not experiential. No revelation of unconscious experience along the lines of the Freudian model can free the structuralist psyche from servitude; even if one can be made aware of the patterns characteristic of one’s own society, one has no way of getting beyond them. Structuralism even goes beyond the Whorfian notion that specific languages inflect perception of the world, that, for example, the members of different cultures who use different color-words may be said to see colors according to these words. For Lévi-Strauss, the patterns that structure language and thought lie below the level of the formulation of perceptions in words.

    As the first postmodern philosophical mode, structuralism undermines the authority of centralized consciousness. Although it would be stretching a point to call structuralism a victimary mode of thought, the effect of its devaluation of human will is to deny the applicability of the traditional scenic center-periphery model to human culture. In its refutation of structuralism’s confident assertion that formalism can supplant metaphysics, the post-structuralist critique insists that a center is always implicit in the centerless structural grid. It is this implicit, hidden center that is the object of deconstruction. In post-structuralism, the devaluation of the center gives way to the denunciation of the center, and to victimary thinking proper.

    In contrast to these postmodern modes of thought, generative anthropology takes language as a model for human behavior within its originary anthropological context. If language is at the center of human exchange from the outset, then the syntactic structures of mature language, all-important in making language an instrument of efficient communication, cannot be essential to the fulfillment of its originary function. Before a system of Saussurean differences could have evolved, the first difference must have separated off the significant or sacred object designated by the sign from the rest of the universe and made this referent the mediator of a new fundamental mode of relation: the reciprocal exchange of the sign. Reciprocal linguistic exchange provides the model for the moral reciprocity that permitted humanity to come into being; only subsequently could the structure of linguistic differences become a template for the organization of tribal spaces and myths.


    If structuralism is already a postmodern mode and post-structuralism is self-consciously so, GA is beyond postmodernity. Originary thinking is incompatible with victimary thinking; it is affirmative, not nihilistic. I have called GA’s new cultural disposition post-millennial in order to connect its rejection of postmodern white guilt to the defining event of the new millennium that occurred on September 11, 2001. No doubt the emptiness of the “post” designation is itself a trait of postmodernism; yet it seems appropriate for an era that has hardly begun and whose historical shape we cannot begin to anticipate. We are “after” the millennium in the sense that we must dispense with millenarianism, the awaiting of the final apocalypse.

    It is no exaggeration to say that our Western/global civilization is by no means assured of survival in confrontation with the self-confident fanaticism of a cult of resentment. This is not a matter of regional chauvinism, a fear that a Japanese or Chinese or Indian version of the market system is in the process of superseding its original Western form. Islamism is antithetical to both the political and the economic components of the liberal-democratic market system that sustains the current world population, including that of the “third-world” nations that appear to benefit from it only marginally. In tacit alliance with Islamism, the more extreme forms of Western victimary thinking are merely more sophisticated condemnations of the sociopolitical system in which they were nourished, prolongations of white guilt into self-denying nihilism.

    In contrast, originary thinking, the realization that language is founded on the ostensive creation of significance rather than the play of equivalent differences, is conducive to respect for Being rather than its demonization. What is essential to the human is the center itself, not its “oppression” of the periphery. The solution to the inequities of the exchange system is to add new degrees of freedom to the system, not to be complicit in its destruction.

    Rightly understood, the postwar “linguistic turn” is not a turning-away from human desires and intentions toward an impenetrable formalism, and even less the deconstructive delegitimization of these desires and intentions. The human and its institutions are indeed founded on the reciprocal exchange of representations. Our confidence in language as the fundamental institution that underlies and explains all the others is not misplaced, provided that we situate language first of all not in a formal-semiotic or even a neurological context, but in the anthropological context of human interaction. Only thus can the “linguistic turn” serve the intellectual defense of market democracy and its civilization.


  • Originary Guilt

    At the recent American Comparative Literature Association meeting at Princeton (about which I may have more to say in another Chronicle), Adam Katz and I discussed among other things the significance of guilt as a component of the originary event. The ideas expressed below are an extension of this discussion.


    In Totem and Taboo, Freud goes to great lengths to derive the Oedipus complex from an “originary” father-murder. Freud’s murder scene is a direct ancestor of Girard’s, which replaces the tyrannical father by an “arbitrary” emissary victim. For both, this event is the beginning of interdiction. Freud attributes the “sons’” subsequent renunciation of the father’s wives–the purported origin of the incest taboo–to guilt over the murder. But the guilt in Freud’s scene does not require a murder; it is structurally implicit in the sons’ resentment of their asymmetrical relationship with their father. The resenter desires the end of this asymmetry at the same time as he requires its persistence in order to maintain his desire. As for Girard’s “unanimous” participants, the extreme contrast between the preceding mimetic crisis and the peace that follows the discharge of aggression in the murder provokes a feeling of awe in which both the crisis and the peace are identified with the victim of this aggression. The overt sense of guilt toward the victim begins for Girard with the Judeo-Christian tradition, as exemplified in the Biblical story of Cain and Abel.

    For generative anthropology, guilt is best understood as a correlate of participation in the originary sparagmos. We understand guilt not as an emotion but, like resentment, as an existential attitude or disposition, a function of the structure of the scene. Where Freud puts the father at the center, in our more parsimonious configuration, originary resentment is directed at the sacred center as such. (The Girardian scapegoat is an emanation of this resentment rather than the other way around.) Since the central object, but not central Being, is destroyed in the sparagmos, originary resentment is followed by originary guilt, both of which are directed not at fellow humans on the periphery but at the sacred center itself, which mediates all interhuman relationships. The Ten Commandments make this mediation evident, if not explicit, by listing first crimes against God, then crimes against other humans.

    The representation that sacralizes the object anticipates its desecration; the sacred feast is a guilty celebration. Freud’s originary intuition is justified, except that guilt is not a derivative of the Oedipus complex but of our coexistence with the sacred. Guilt is the awareness inherent in the sign that its user is complicit in the destruction of the sacred object. The resentment previously focused on the object is now directed at the sacred itself as a being or force that interdicts the full possession of this object . Since the center is now empty, the resentment can only be renewed in the participant’s “guilty” imagining of the remembered victim. The deliberate evocation of the object through representation arouses in the perceiver the oscillatory movement between the representation and its imaginary referent that we call the esthetic.

    When interdictions become laws, criteria are established by which their infraction may be judged. In appearance, such procedures localize guilt among those responsible for specific infractions, leaving the others “innocent.” But originary guilt or original sin is a part of human ontology that preexists the juridical notion of criminal or civil guilt, which derives from it. The violation of a law may even be motivated by the need to expiate originary guilt through one’s crime; readers of literature will not lack for examples.


    As a test of the concept of originary guilt, we may turn to the Heideggerian-existentialist view of the human as presence-to being (Dasein) thrown-into the world (geworfen), filled with Angst before death. How are these “modern” attitudes to be understood in terms of the originary hypothesis?

    The ontologies of Heidegger and Sartre are atemporal; modernity, to the extent it is considered at all, is characterized by the “inauthentic” dissimulation of the truths of the human condition, which implicitly provides a stimulus to the philosopher’s analysis. The inherent problem in these ontologies of the human is that a trait such as thrownness (Geworfenheit), which we associate willy-nilly with the era in which the analysis was composed, has no clear anthropological status. We are all formed within a culture we did not create, but is the member of a tribal culture “thrown” in the same way as we, but merely less, or differently, aware of it? Considered in the context of the originary hypothesis, the lateness of the “thrown” individual is not merely the fate of those not present at the originary event, but of its participants as well, in the sense that the being of the central object is experienced as preexisting the sign that represents it. The participant who first converts his gesture of appropriation into a sign implies that the object is not a neutral element selected out of the world by his appetite but is, within the “cultural” context of the scene, the preexisting source of his attentiveness to it, which we must therefore call desire. The use of the sign, in other words, is from the outset a tacit admission that its user was “thrown” into the world where representation of a preexistent Being is necessary. The sign-user is present-to being by definition, but insofar as he must obliterate this presence, he experiences originary guilt for his “crime.”

    Similarly, being-for-death, which depends on our consciousness of our own mortality, has its origin not simply in the fear of death that makes the individual participants in the scene back off from attempting to possess the object, but in the incarnation of this fear in the object itself, for whose destruction the participants are responsible. What does it mean to know that we will die? We do not know it merely as a proposition, something that is the case. In the originary scene it is the contrast between the permanence of the sign and the impermanence of its referent that provides us with the means to “know” our own death. But the sign does not refer to us directly. In order to “be toward death” we must identify with the central object as victim and see ourselves in its place. The appearance of half-human, half-animal figures in archaic cave paintings gives evidence that identification with the sacred victim was present at the earliest stages of human culture. The alternation between this originary identification and our originary guilt for participation in the victim’s demise becomes explicit in the esthetic form of tragedy, where we identify both with the victim’s desire and with the necessity of his agony.

    We do not become aware of our originary guilt through a collective unconscious. Religious traditions, in one way or another, make us aware of the “original sin” we inherit from the originary scene. In all human experience this awareness is minimally provided by our possession of language, which links us historically to the violence of the originary event as well as to its deferral of violence. This suggests a way of understanding what we really mean when we characterize our society as secular as opposed to religious. In a religious community, an explicit story links our shared humanity to the originary event, so that our participation in the transcendence afforded by the sign is at the same time participation in the destruction of its originary referent. (Since the story, however “holy” its believers take it to be, posits a series of events, it can also be disbelieved; “free-thinking” is a possibility inherent in thinking tout court.) In contrast, in what we call secular society, no such story is generally accepted. But rejecting such stories on principle does not sever our historical connection to the originary event; it merely makes it less accessible, harder to thematize in relation to the individual self. The “secular” individual is forced to reconstitute for himself this historical connection that religious discourse provides as a ready-made package for the individual believer to assimilate to his own experience; whence the familiar Angst of modernity. Whence also the possibility of conceiving of an explicitly minimal reconstitution of the originary scene.

    I have already dealt with the postmodern phenomenon of White Guilt at some length in several previous Chronicles (310,311, 313, 316, 320, 323); a few words will suffice to situate it in the context of the present discussion. The Holocaust provided the West with a “secular” demonstration of originary guilt; unfettered human self-affirmation was equated with genocide. Whence the turn against not merely inequality but any form of consumption. White guilt is still expiating the originary sparagmos. An essential feature of white guilt, which these analyses have tended to take for granted, is its unreflective character. It is often expressed in religious terms, but not generally those of one’s own religious tradition; on the contrary, the tendency is to adopt a “personal” religion, whether Buddhism or Gaia-worship, primarily as a vehicle for the guilt. The Girardian scapegoat too may be seen as a figure of this postmodern return of originary guilt.

    Generative anthropology differs from previous modes of thought by making explicit the historical derivation of guilt from the origin; it postulates the existence of a chain of events and leaves us to discover and reconstitute its links on the basis of available evidence. No doubt this does not simply free us from originary guilt; but conversely, this very fact is explicable most parsimoniously by the historical connection to the originary scene that GA proposes. The psychoanalytic search for the source of guilt in an unconscious trace of experience, personal or collective, is merely an attempt to short-circuit the reconstitution of this connection. On the contrary, accepting our originary guilt as a guarantee of anthropological knowledge is the first step toward acquiring it.


  • GA and Mimetic Theory II: The Scapegoat

    The central Girardian critique of generative anthropology is that it fails to account for scapegoating. If we claim that the originary sign embodies an agreement to defer violence, how can we explain the cultural universality of emissary victimage, with its ambivalent attribution to the victim of beneficent and maleficent powers?

    What most readers retain of Girard’s conceptual scheme is indeed the centrality of the scapegoat. For Girard, the scapegoat is implicit in all cultural phenomena, from cannibalistic sacrifice to Symbolist poetry. In Girardian anthropology, the discharge of mimetic violence takes precedence over the appetite for life-sustaining objects. The originary model of the human community is the all-against-one configuration of scapegoating rather than the equal division of the sacrificial feast, the configuration of maximal injustice rather than the originary model of fairness. Where GA hypothesizes that human culture comes into being to defer violence, Girard’s mimetic theory sees its mission as deflecting violence from the community and its institutions onto a victim who by definition cannot be altogether deserving of it. In Girard’s Christocentric view of history, outside the Judeo-Christian religious tradition, sacrificial violence was unproblematic; humanity lived in méconnaissance of the arbitrariness of its choice of scapegoats. But once Jesus came into the world and was crucified, the cat was out of the bag, and the méconnaissance that continued to reign on earth became one of bad faith; however one tried to put the Christian revelation out of one’s mind, one could no longer live in blissful ignorance of the murderous mechanism at the heart of human society.

    The term “scapegoat” as Girard uses it is fundamentally ambivalent. We must distinguish between the scapegoat’s role as a physical object of communal violence and its role as a mental object of communal ideation, whether positive or negative. The object that plays the first role can range from a mere punching bag to the arch-criminal whose real or imagined crimes make him the object of communal opprobrium. But in Girard’s anthropology, whether we hit the punching bag, execute the mass murderer, or choose as our victim a marginal, seemingly accursed figure, we are “scapegoating” because we have put ourselves in the configuration of the originary sparagmos, and from this physical configuration, presumably the ideational one will follow. Both the strength and weakness of Girard’s concept of the scapegoat come from the fact that, in the absence of a theory of the sign, the constituents of this polarity can never be articulated. The scapegoat concept is eminently generalizable; its functionality as a notion of everyday victimary thinking is demonstrated by the “vulgar Girardianism” that labels every conflict as scapegoating. But what is gained in applicability is lost in anthropological rigor. A key sign of this is that Girard’s scapegoat scene never achieves the status of singularity; despite a few evocative references to la première fois in La violence et le sacré, it remains a mechanism repeated on the occasion of each new “mimetic crisis,” and out of whose repetition the specific phenomena of representational culture, including language, presumably emerge. The specificity of the scene only reaches the status of uniqueness with the Crucifixion, which effects the revelation of the mechanism, however little this revelation itself is understood.

    What this suggests is not that the Girardian system is incompatible with the originary hypothesis but that it is a partial version of it, in which the focus of aggression against the central figure leads directly to the sparagmos without the mediating intervention of a sign. No system of representations is required to unite the group of lynchers; they are wholly motivated by mimetic desire, which is in turn fueled by appetite. This appetite is, however, exclusively aggressive; in itself, the scene furnishes no appetitive satisfaction beyond the discharge of aggression. Once this discharge has occurred, the community presumably operates as before the crisis to obtain food and other necessities of life, but there is no direct relationship between the scapegoating action and the provision of these necessities. Thus Girard interprets the Tikopia myth cited in Des choses cachées…, where Tikarau, the scapegoat-god, “flies away” with most elements of the feast but leaves behind (vegetable) foods important to the Tikopia, as a cause-and-effect relationship between (1) the “radical elimination” of the scapegoat and (2) the subsequent alimentary (and classificatory) well-being of the people, rather than as a representation of the sparagmos itself with the subsequent feasting on the food it provides. The fact that the foods left behind are all vegetal suggests nonetheless that the god-victim was not merely “eliminated” (perhaps by driving him off a cliff) but provided the meat for the feast.


    From the generative perspective, the prevalence in major cultural works of figures of sacrifice in which, following the example of Oedipus, the tragic hero takes upon himself the sins of his community, may be discussed in two ways. The simpler answer to the Girardian claim of the universality of the scapegoat is that the sparagmos is indeed a moment of the originary hypothesis; the aggressive concentration on the central figure is less uniquely emphasized but no less present in the generative scenario than in Girard’s. But there is a stronger answer: the centrality of the human figure in the scapegoating/tragic scenario is not merely a late development of the originary scene but bears this lateness on its face as a feature of hierarchical society.

    Although the classical esthetic does not thematize the sacrificial scene in the manner of neo-classical tragedy, it does thematize individual significance or fame, “making a name for oneself.” Achilles, the first hero of Western epic, has chosen a short glorious life over a long anonymous one. The names of the protagonists of tragedy or epic are in principle already known to the audience. Aristotle’s admonition that the tragic hero be “better than we” boils down to this: we are all expected to know his name but others need not know ours. This is the most fundamental asymmetry that emerges in the use of language in hierarchical societies: we all know the name of whatever is significant, but only some are worthy of having their names known to all. Today’s celebrity culture puts the emphasis of fame where it belongs, simply in being known by name. The tragic protagonist, before being sacrificed, is already invested with significance; the tragic narrative traces his fame to the sacred center of the originary scene. The sacrificial king, in Girard’s analysis, usurps the central role by emphasizing the positive moment of the ambivalent good/bad peace/war-bringing emissary victim. (Cf. my analysis of the “big-man” in The End of Culture.) But it is this “origin of inequality” as the usurpation of the center by a human that makes the king vulnerable to communal violence; there is no reason to assume the humanity of the victim or victims in pre-hierarchical societies. Placing a human at the center is not the beginning of human society but the end of the primordial form of this society. Ethnology has never to my knowledge found a hunter-gatherer society with a social hierarchy that grants a central individual power over others and their goods. It would be in these societies that we would need to find traces of the Girardian emissary victim, not in the hierarchical societies that hold a central figure hostage to communal resentment. Tikarau in the Tikopia myth represents not an arbitrary scapegoat but a big-man, a provider of the feast, as are in different ways the sacrificial figures in the Bible and in Greek literature. If the originary emissary victims were human, how do we explain that the gods of all pre-hierarchical peoples are (almost always meat-providing) animals, or that the members of various tribes identify with them as “totems”? The nutritive value of the central being/victim is more fundamental than the attribution to this figure of human identity.

    As Chris Morrissey astutely pointed out in his (as yet unpublished) doctoral dissertation, the scapegoat concept has its roots in postmodern victimary thinking. Girardian anthropology imposes a moral valence on the human scene of representation itself by making the configuration of all-against-one the originary form of the scenic periphery-center relationship. Because the term “scapegoating” presupposes a higher level of consciousness on the part of its user than in those engaged in the act it describes, it forecloses ethical reasoning; any pretext furnished by the participants is invalid on its face, an example of bad faith or méconnaissance. It is the postmodern, post-Holocaust intuition of the inherent violence of the scenic configuration that permits Girard to go beyond Durkheim in grasping the centrality of (the deferral of) violence to religious ritual. The scapegoat theory is a constructive as opposed to the usual deconstructive form of victimary thinking, whose moral limitations it avoids by affirming that the méconnaissance can indeed be lifted by genuine attentiveness to the Christian revelation of the scenic mechanism.

    As Girard himself would be the first to point out, the notions of “guilt” and “blame” can only be formulated in the context of moral norms (not to speak of language) inconceivable in the first stages of hominization. But in the absence of these norms, the most parsimonious originary hypothesis can dispense with the assumption that the drive to discharge aggression is so powerful as to render moot the need for appetitive satisfaction. The desirability of the originary central being, which is a sufficient condition for a linguistic or “symbolic” sign to represent it, also suffices to attract potential aggression and the need for its deferral without it being necessary to hypothesize that this aggression becomes wholly independent of appetite-based desire.


    The model of scapegoating is the model of attention in general. Any common attention directed to a center is a concentration of desire that is potentially a concentration of violence. A crowd of hungry people may collect around a source of food and fight over it just as a crowd of angry people may collect around someone they consider guilty of a crime and beat or even lynch him. In some cases, no doubt, the guilt may be manufactured for the sake of the lynching. But the appetitive value of a food-source, however supplemented by mimesis, does not have to be invented. A means must be found to distribute this source in such a way that it adds more energy to the community than internal conflict subtracts. Pecking-order hierarchy suffices for higher animals, but not for humans. This is the life and death issue of the protohuman community. The fact that internal conflict becomes more of a danger than external nature to the stability of this community by no means implies that the resolution of internal conflict is independent of the acquisition of nourishment; on the contrary, the crucial necessity of this acquisition makes it the most likely source of mimetic crisis.

    What is at stake here is not limited to the relatively narrow matter of the role of hunger in the originary event. The objects of appetite, whether alimentary, sexual, or cognitive, have content or differential meaningfulness; one is not identical to another, and the history of human culture is one of their at first gradual and then increasingly rapid differentiation. In contrast, the objects of aggression, in Girard’s own terms, are all functionally equivalent. The choice of a scapegoat is aleatory; one is as good as another. The same can be said for the object of the “metaphysical” desire described in Mensonge romantique; its specific identity is unimportant, provided that it be designated by the “mediator.” An anthropology that begins with indifferentiation rather than différance has no way of valorizing the content of desire. In La violence et le sacré, the differentiation of meaning in this punning Derridean concept is ignored, leaving only deferral as postponement of violence:

    . . . le retour de la violence à son point de départ, dans les rapports humains, n’a rien d’imaginaire. Si nous n’en savons rien encore ce n’est peut-être pas parce que nous avons échappé définitivement à cette loi, parce que nous l’avons “dépassée” mais parce que son application, dans le monde moderne, a été longuement différée, pour des raisons qui nous échappent. (p. 360 – italics the author’s)

    [. . . the return of violence to its starting point in human relationships is in no way imaginary. If as yet we know nothing of this, it is perhaps not because we have definitively escaped this law, because we have “transcended” it, but because its application, in the modern world, has been long deferred, for reasons that escape us.]

    This univocal emphasis on violence deferred over what defers it explains the unsatisfactory nature of attempts to apply mimetic theory to the modern economy. Aglietta and Orléan’s La violence de la monnaie (1982) is a noble effort, but its vision of market society is limited to such things as panics and crises. Mimetic desire explains why we all desire the “same” things, but not what those things might be and certainly not how they contribute to the mutual differentiation that makes us all uniquely precious human selves and souls. In the passage above, Girard appears to forget that the very purpose of the 360 pages we have just read is to provide “reasons” for why culture defers the application of “the law” of the return of violence. What motivates this rhetorical gesture is that in Girard’s view the modern world, freed by Christianity from its slavery to the emissary mechanism, has itself forgotten the centrality of this mechanism, believing it has finally done away with the danger of violence rather than being obliged continually to defer it.

    Whether or not the mutual deterrence of the Cold War constituted a forgetting of the necessity of deferring violence is by now a moot point, but certainly since 9/11 we are all too aware that the “end of (violent) history” is a chimera. Yet as we contemplate the ever-present danger of mimetic violence, we should not forget what protects many of us from it so well in our everyday lives that we are tempted to relegate it to John Kerry’s hopeful category of “nuisance.” Fukuyama’s liberal market democracy may not achieve the end of history, but it offers our species its only chance to survive in large numbers, or perhaps at all, through the remainder of the new century.


  • Richard Rorty’s Metaphysics

    Richard Rorty’s February Comparative Literature lecture at UCLA prompted me to take a closer look at his best-known and most influential book, Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity (1989, henceforth CIS), a work I had known chiefly through my wife Stacey Meeker’s article on Rorty’s utopianism in Anthropoetics 4, 2.

    As might be expected after seventeen years and in a very different context, there were some disparities between the book and Rorty’s brief talk. The book’s elitism had been tempered by the idea that each person constructs her own unique set of “redescriptions” (Rorty insistently uses the feminine neutral, although he scarcely mentions a single woman’s thought or writings): “Anything from the sound of a word through the color of a leaf to the feel of a piece of skin can . . . serve to dramatize and crystallize a human being’s sense of self-identity” (37). In contrast, addressing himself to a group of Humanities professors, this self-declared disciple of Harold Bloom emphasized the distinction between “geniuses” (a word I had scarcely heard in the last fifty years) who “create new knowledge” and professors like us–here he included himself–who are assigned the humbler task of transmitting their creations to the younger generation, a role he christened “Mr. Chips.” (When asked by a young man in the audience why he himself had written so many books, Rorty had no pertinent answer.) His chief point, in the quasi-literal sense of something meant to prick the conscience of the listener, was that the fashion of “theory” that dominated literary studies until recently was an intellectual and pedagogical disaster; by persuading teachers of literature that they too were creators, “theory” had turned them away from teaching and interpreting to theorizing in often sterile and incomprehensible ways, thereby making the primary, genius-created texts less accessible to students than before. Rorty had devoted part of a chapter of CIS to an appreciative reflection on Derrida, not the philosophical Derrida of De la grammatologie but the “literary” one of La carte postale; he put this book, whose narcissism I find impenetrable, on a par with Proust’s Recherche du temps perdu as a unique recuperation of personal experience. I wonder if he would make the same comparison today.

    I applaud Rorty’s lack of patience with “theory,” although I suspect that he would find GA’s claims still more outrageous. Rorty’s brand of postmodern pragmatism, for which the model attitude is that of the liberal ironist, always aware of the contingency of her own beliefs as of all modes of redescription, is incompatible with a mode of thought that grounds all cultural phenomena in a hypothetical originary scene. What I find most significant about Rorty’s philosophical stance is how transparently it displays the insufficiency of “philosophical” efforts to transcend metaphysics; the effect of ridding language of the intrinsic moral content that links it to the originary event is to cleanse metaphysics of its virtues while retaining its defects.

    I have defined metaphysics as the mode of thought that conceives language as made up essentially of declarative sentences or propositions. Metaphysicians, who are not usually grammarians, are unconcerned with the relationship between the declarative and the “elementary forms,” the ostensive and imperative. Metaphysical thought cannot conceive language as emerging in a punctual moment of origin. For metaphysics, language does not “emerge” within the world at all; it is so to speak an invisible ether within which thoughts are transmitted. The metaphysical ontology of language becomes the foundation of the institution we call philosophy when it is transformed into an ontology of reality by means of Plato/Socrates’ hypostasis of predicate adjectives into “Ideas.” From the existence of the indexical concept of goodness, the fact that one can call something “good” for a given person in a given context, Plato extrapolates the conclusion that there exists a non-indexical Idea of the Good. In strictly logical terms, this is a non sequitur, but what Plato is really doing is extrapolating from the communal nature of language and the collective agreement on the meaning of words that it entails to the collective harmony of the originary scene, in which the sign was the instrument of reciprocity and unity. The “Good” of the originary scene and its evocation in sacrificial rites is indeed shared by all; the anthropological basis of Plato’s argument, however specious it may be in its own terms, is that the idea of “the Good” whose meaning we all share implies the existence of a collective state of affairs in which the Good was not just linguistically but substantially shared, where the “indexicality” of good-for-me and good-at-this-moment is irrelevant.


    Rorty begins “Contingency,” the first part of CIS, with a discussion of truth; philosophers for whom science is the paradigmatic human activity think that “truth is out there” and must be discovered, whereas other philosophers (including himself), mindful that “the world as it is described by the physical sciences teaches no moral lesson” (a surprising and revelatory criterion), consider scientific “truths” just a set of “descriptions” of reality to put beside those of poets and political utopians.

    GA’s definition of metaphysics is formulated in the “metaphysical” language of propositions, but its point of reference is a state of language that is not metaphysical. Critiques that fail to do this remain within the domain whose inadequacies they denounce. Thus it is not the reduction of language to the proposition, but the Platonic hypostasis of words into Ideas, the passage from the “in-here” of language to the “out-there” of the world that Rorty calls “metaphysics,” and that his philosophy attempts to refute in the most direct way possible, by denying that the anthropologically meaningful terms of language have any relevance to the world “out there.” Rorty is far from impugning the validity of the models by which both scientists and simple mortals attempt to make sense of the phenomena of the real world; Newton’s Law can be verified with every fall of an apple from the tree. But the predictive value of the Law in the world of trees and apples is not its “truth”; the phenomenon we call gravitation could arguably be described by other equations, using other concepts–for example, “the curvature of space-time.” Rorty insists on the difference between the world that “common sense” tells him is out there, and truth, which is a quality of human mental states:

    We need to make a distinction between the claim that the world is out there and the claim that truth is out there. To say that the world is out there, that it is not our creation, is to say, with common sense, that most things in space and time are the effects of causes which do not include human mental states. To say that truth is not out there is simply to say that where there are no sentences there is no truth, that sentences are elements of human languages, and that human languages are human creations.

    Truth cannot be out there–cannot exist independently of the human mind–because sentences cannot so exist, or be out there. The world is out there, but descriptions of the world are not. Only descriptions of the world can be true or false. The world on its own–unaided by the describing activities of human beings–cannot. (5)

    Certainly only sentences, or more precisely, propositions, can be true or false. Nor can our “vocabularies” or “language games”–the arch Wittgensteinian locution by which Rorty designates what used to be called our “world view”–be found “out there.” The metaphysician, in Rorty’s view, is one who believes that the world embodies the truths of language, that certain words stand in a privileged correspondence with certain elements of reality that captures their “essence,” so that redescription of these elements in another vocabulary is invalid, or at any rate, less valid. Rorty’s radical nominalism categorically denies the existence of any such accessible essences. But it soon becomes evident that this critique of metaphysics only makes things worse. Whereas philosophy from Plato to Kant and beyond found in the hypostasis of certain words a way of retrieving the “moral lesson” implicit in the originary anthropological function of language, whether as Socrates/Plato’s “Good” or as Kant’s “categorical imperative,” the radical separation of language from moral reality, rather than abolishing metaphysics, merely reduces it to its bare shell: a purely formal correspondence between language and experience, words and phenomena, with no mapping of things into words having any more ontological significance than any other. For Rorty, intellectual history is nothing more than changes in “the habit of using certain words”:

    Europe did not decide to accept the idiom of Romantic poetry, or of socialist politics, or of Galilean mechanics. That sort of shift was no more an act of will than it was a result of argument. Rather, Europe gradually lost the habit of using certain words and gradually acquired the habit of using others. (6)This explanation replaces a couple of intentional straw men (“act of will,” “argument”) with no intention at all (“habit”). Rorty refers to Thomas Kuhn’s notion of scientific paradigms, but omits the decision criteria by which Kuhn explains, in however problematized a form, what we call scientific progress. No doubt in principle the solar system can be described by Ptolemy just as accurately as by Copernicus, but certainly not just as parsimoniously. Rorty cannot be unaware that the question of why cultures lose and gain “habits” and “vocabularies” is what history is all about; he is merely trying to make the point that the world “out there” cannot supply the answer to such questions.

    Rorty’s seriousness and lucidity make clear the anthropological basis for the epistemological flippancy characteristic of our postmodern era, which more subtle and perverse thinkers such as Derrida deliberately conceal. Language conceived as a pure “contingency” purged of its implicit moral content and reduced to “language games” can bear no essential relationship to the creatures who use it. This is the destiny of metaphysics, and of metaphysical anti-metaphysics, in the postmodern, post-war, post-Holocaust age. Reducing the history of ideas to a series of “changes of habit” is by no means the most extreme consequence of this impoverishment. Cutting off language from its originary ethical function makes it impossible to articulate the most basic distinctive features of human communication. Since language has no intrinsic relationship to the reality out there that it describes, there is no “objective correlative” connecting different speakers even when they speak the same language. Rorty follows Donald Davidson in describing linguistic communication between two people as the convergence of the “passing theories” each has of the other’s “noises and inscriptions.” My “theory” is not a hypothesis concerning the meaning of my interlocutor’s noises, rejected as a positivistic construct, but “a set of guesses about what she will do under what conditions.”

    To make things easier, imagine that I am forming such a theory about the current behavior of a native of an exotic culture into which I have unexpectedly parachuted. This strange person, who presumably finds me equally strange, will simultaneously be busy forming a theory about my behavior. If we ever succeed in communicating easily and happily, it will be because her guesses about what I am going to do, including what noises I am going to make next, and my own expectations about what I shall do or say under certain circumstances, come more or less to coincide, and because the converse is also true. She and I are coping with each other as we might cope with mangoes or boa constrictors–we are trying not to be taken by surprise. To say that we come to speak the same language is to say, as Davidson puts it, that “we tend to converge on passing theories.” Davidson’s point is that all “two people need, if they are to understand one another through speech, is the ability to converge on passing theories from utterance to utterance.” (14)Not to put too fine a point on it, as a description of the way human beings use language, this is utter nonsense. It seemed to me that decades ago, Chomsky’s review of Skinner’s Verbal Behavior had definitively refuted such behaviorist theories of language, but that was the behaviorism of psychologists, not the more resilient variety espoused by philosophers who never venture near a laboratory. If people had to invent “passing theories” to make sense (assuming this term is permissible) of other people’s “noises and inscriptions,” every conversation would resemble a visit to the Tower of Babel. The anthropological absurdity of the metaphysical conception of language has never been more blatant than in the sentence where Rorty compares the human Other to a mango.

    Since we know this other person is a (presumably female) human being, why is Rorty talking about mangoes and boa constrictors? As a way of emphasizing the strangeness of the Other, this is vastly inferior to Rousseau’s speculation, quoted in the preceding Chronicle, that when a group of humans encountered members of another tribe they would call them “giants” out of fear of the potential danger they represent–a danger quite different from that presented by snakes, let alone mangoes. For one thing, when we hear our new friend making “noises,” we naturally assume that they are phonemes constitutive of speech. The bas– behaviorist idea that language is a set of “noises” fails to take into consideration that the components of speech are phonemic rather than phonetic; they are forms, not raw sounds. That both she and I are busy making such noises is not a given of biological nature but something that links us as fellow humans and common possessors of culture, albeit of different varieties. It is curious that a few pages after describing language as occupying an ontological space all to itself where alone the category of truth applies, Rorty depicts language as just a bunch of sounds not fundamentally different from those made by chimpanzees or birds–or mangoes falling to the ground. Rorty never tells us what connection there might be between guessing what noises the lady will make and evaluating the truth-value of her speech, which is presumably composed of propositions. It does not occur to him that rather than “guessing what noises” the other would make, the way we would communicate on meeting would be to teach each other the words of our languages by ostensively pointing at different phenomena in our environment.

    It is not surprising that Rorty’s non-anthropological view of language is accompanied by a categorical rejection of the sacred. The ambition of generative anthropology is to reach the point where the believer and the unbeliever share the same description of human reality; Rorty wants us “to get to the point where we no longer worship anything . . . where we treat everything . . . as a product of time and chance” (22, italics the author’s). I am not suggesting that we should worship anything; but to consider the human, as every good Darwinian must, as a contingent “product of time and chance” does not imply that insofar as we are human we can treat our possession of language and culture–and worship–as a contingency. We cannot improve on Aristotle’s definition of man as “the animal having logos“– Aristotle’s word for the noises we use to make sense of the world, and to which we attribute the entirely unnatural qualities of truth and falsity. Rorty is absolutely correct to insist that truth is a quality of sentences and not of the world, but because his conception of language does not allow him to hypothesize how this unprecedented relationship between human language and the world out there ever came about, he cannot conceive that the very existence of this relationship might entail consequences about the relationship of humans to the world, and above all, to each other. The “vocabularies” and “language games” we make use of to describe and redescribe the world are not dictated by external reality, but their origin in an event where their cognitive function is subordinate to that of deferring mimetic violence imposes on them constraints wholly invisible to Rorty’s mode of thought.


    If the strange lady and I are able to create passing theories that allow us to understand each other, it is because we are fellow participants in what Rorty calls the “solidarity” of the human community, which can be traced back to the originary use of the sign to defer violence. After arguing in the second part of CIS that the “liberal ironist” embodies the exemplary attitude with respect to the “contingency” established in the first part, in the third and last part of the book, Rorty turns to this matter of solidarity. Having stripped metaphysics of the moral intuition that preserved its essential anthropological content, Rorty has no way of linking our power to construct propositions about the world to our need to maintain peace among ourselves while so doing. The only moral category he can find to ground human solidarity is the negative one of cruelty–the obverse of Rousseau’s positive category of pity, which draws us to sympathize with our fellow creatures except when our own well-being is in danger. Following Judith Shklar, Rorty equates the individual’s sentiment of solidarity with the human community, as if self-evidently, with the avoidance of cruelty (“the worst thing they [liberals] do”), as though this principle could substitute unproblematically for the morality implicit in linguistic exchange. Rorty gives no hint of the relationship between the common morality in which human solidarity is grounded and the linguistic bond whose pure contingency he was so eager to demonstrate in the first part, nor does he draw any conclusions from the fact that the irony with which he tempers propositional truth in the second part of the book is itself a hard-won corollary of the human logos.

    Avoidance of cruelty is a highly unsatisfactory way to describe what the originary hypothesis refers to as the deferral of violence. “Cruelty” is a weasel-word, part “objectively” physical–pointing toward the body in pain as the concrete universal of what to avoid–and part purely verbal, since the word is irrevocably pejorative, containing a prejudgment that what it refers to is morally wrong. (This would be all too obvious if instead of Shklar’s “cruelty is the worst thing they do” Rorty had written, “evil is the worst thing they do.”) Instead of evoking a generative scene like that already present in Hobbes, where “cruelty” having been shown to have adverse consequences all around, its prevention is in the interest of the community as a whole, Rorty proposes two literary examples that purportedly reveal to us cruelties in our individual lives of which we are unaware. Thus just at the moment when we expect to be enlightened about the cruel choices that solidarity imposes on us–how to know when to wage war, how severely to punish criminals, whether torture is ever justified, what to do about abortion or assisted suicide…–imaginary particularities take the place of philosophical models. Whatever the potential benefits of reading Nabokov and Orwell, this recourse to literary texts, so typical of postmodern thought, is a sign of the dilapidated state of the metaphysical “prison-house of language” within which Rorty the philosopher resides.

    When in conclusion Rorty does offer a philosophical conception of solidarity, it is as resolutely unanthropological as his conception of language. We cannot, Rorty says, take as given our solidarity with all humanity; we can only start with the “we” to which we belong and “keep trying to expand our sense of ‘us’ as far as we can” (196). There is nothing to argue with in this exhortation to overcome prejudice and “create a more expansive sense of solidarity than we presently have.” But Rorty seems blind to the fact that the “we” implicit in these very sentences is one that already includes “human beings as such,” or that as a philosopher he should be expected to offer an explanation for why he feels, and why he implies that we all, or at least, all “liberals” really feel, that in principle all human beings, even those we “instinctively think of as ‘they,’”should be included in our “we.” When I meet a lady in the forest, we both know that we share with each other, but not with a snake or mango, the capacity to use representations to defer violence, and that this shared capacity guarantees our equality as reciprocal exchangers of these representations. No doubt our common humanity guarantees only a virtual “we” that Rorty has every reason to exhort us to realize in practice, and no doubt the hostilities of religions, classes, ethnic groups, and nations cannot be wished away by a general assertion of human solidarity. But in the absence of a shared concept of “human being” that includes the anthropological basis for this solidarity, Rorty’s exhortations are merely expressions of personal preference. A sermon is not a philosophical discourse.

    In this regard, it is significant that in its last incarnation in the book, the concept of “cruelty” has become “the question ‘Are you suffering?’ . . . the question of whether you are in pain” (198). The conflation of guilt for causing pain with the perception of the Other’s experiencing it is an example of victimary thinking that applies only to humans, in contrast with Rousseau’s pre-human notion of visceral “pity.” My apprehension that your pain may be the result of my cruelty is only possible because as human beings we share a common moral intuition that transcends animal “instinct.” It is because I already recognize you as my moral equal that your pain arouses my guilt, as a violation of our originary reciprocal status. Because Rorty’s concept of our common humanity has lost the moral content that the old metaphysics found in language, he can only evoke our mutual moral responsibility in Gödelian terms, as a necessary basis for discourse that can never be explicitly posited within it. We are exhorted to expand our “we” to the limits of humanity at the same time as we are told that until this is done, the very notion of “humanity” is without content.

    Rorty’s text reveals the consequences for philosophy of the exposure and abandonment of the moral implications that had linked the metaphysical ontology of language to its anthropological origin. What we relate to in art is its ostensivity, its capacity for making its “noises and inscriptions” evoke a scene of significance in our imagination. Religion too helps us maintain our link to the originary ostensive sign, but Rorty’s book is one more indication that philosophy in the traditional sense can no longer do so. It is the aim of generative anthropology to restore our ability to think the ostensive basis of language and other forms of representation.


  • Art and Otherness

    One point that has sometimes been made against Generative Anthropology is that the originary hypothesis and the mode of analysis that derives from it limit the universe of discourse to a single community, whereas many if not all traits of human history are inconceivable without a plurality of communities: war, the plurality of languages, polytheism and monotheism, market exchange. The anthropological significance of the plurality of societies is not merely that the Darwinian “struggle for life” leads to increased social efficiency; the interaction of human societies is cooperative as well as destructive. Although we need not speculate on how communities reach the point where they no longer recognize the common identity of their origin and of the sacred center to which they pledge allegiance, we must take into account the fact that the originary event makes such a splitting-off possible.


    Insofar as humans are the animals whose greatest danger comes from themselves, their most critical source of conflict is within their own societies. But by the same token, to the extent that representational culture makes a functioning community possible, it makes inevitable the expansion of culture beyond the maintainable boundaries of a single society and its splitting into a plurality of communities. The communal solidarity created by the originary event is not a final state; it provides the individual members of society with the opportunity to engage in economically useful activities no longer in the one-on-one pattern of animal societies but focused on a common center that provides them with a criterion of usefulness, if not yet of value. This is the world of Marcel Mauss’ Essai sur le don [The Gift]. As a result of its superior organization, the newly human society will tend both to expand and to conquer and absorb surrounding protohuman groups. The subsequent division of the originary community and the “contagious” transmission of hominizing cultural values to other protohuman groups are inevitable consequences of the energies unleashed by the success of the originary event.

    The relationship of a given culture to its Other is characterized, as in the episode of the Tower of Babel, by the absence of common representations of the experience both societies have inherited from the originary event. The Other culture is encountered as something monstrous that we understand through its analogy to our own “true” humanity rather than as a fellow heir of the originary scene. The strangeness of the Other lies between the transcendental otherness of the sacred center and the profane banality of the periphery, an intermediate state that Rousseau insightfully represented by the ambivalently admiring and alienating or “scapegoating” term géant in his Essai sur l’origine des langues. The interaction of cultures creates new information rather than illustrating fundamental generative paradigms. The simplest definition of the Other in anthropological terms is as that which is not amenable to the minimalism of originary analysis.

    In this light, it is worth remarking that both major genres of ancient Greek literature, epic and tragedy, begin with accounts of cultural interaction. The Iliad is not simply about a war but concerns itself with both sides of the war; the same is true of the first extant tragedy, Aeschylus’ Persians. The Iliad defines the epic for all time as the story of a clash of civilizations, and although in the Odyssey the war serves as a mere backdrop for Odysseus’ local quarrel with the “suitors,” the exotic element returns in the included adventure tales, fantasies of external Otherness that are arguably what kept the second Homeric epic alive. Among Athenian tragedies, the seniority of The Persians may be fortuitous, but this example of historical Otherness should remind us of the cultural Otherness implicit in the entire mythic universe that we know from Homer, Hesiod, and their successors. The polytheistic pantheon reflects the social plurality that had come together in the Eastern Mediterranean, the first Western marketplace of goods and ideas. Philosophy too has its roots in the experience of social and linguistic plurality; like Herodotus’ story of the Egyptian pharaoh Psammetichus isolating a pair of children from speech in order to discover the oldest and presumably most “natural” language, both the motivated etymologies of the Cratylus and Plato’s defensive separation of words from Ideas can be understood only in the context of a plurality of languages.

    Both the Iliad and the Persians are stories of Greek triumphs over enemies that threatened their civilization, yet both works make the defeat of their enemies occasions for mourning; the last line of the Iliad refers to Hector’s funeral rites. The cultural Other is assimilated to the otherness of the originary sacred. The “high-cultural” narrative thus founded turns on the deadly necessity of Otherness: epic depicts the inevitable violence between societies that makes obligatory the deferral of violence within, and the resentment (Achilles’ “wrath”) that results from it, whereas tragedy enacts the interaction of society with its Other as an encounter with a single protagonist, the Xerxes of the Persians being in this light a precursor of Oedipus. A further variation on this theme is the comic assimilation of Otherness through ridicule, which becomes formalized in the New Comedy or comédie de caractère in the “eccentric” comic hero: miser, misanthrope, malade imaginaire. The mimetic contagion noted by Girard in all these forms takes on a new complexion if we consider the symmetry of the tragic agon as a mode of assimilation of Otherness internal to the society, just as the symmetry of war allows the epic to depict the enemy as much like ourselves.


    The esthetic moment of the originary scene is that of the contemplation of the sign in its adequacy to its sacred referent. The esthetic experience oscillates between the sign and the imaginary scene we construct with its aid; the sign represents the scene, but when we imagine the scene, we must return to the sign for confirmation. This experience differs from one art to another, but its fundamental structure remains the same; that we all have the intuition of this underlying identity is evident from the mere fact that we speak of “the arts.”

    In traditional societies, and in parts of our own, the esthetic continues to exist as a contingency of the sacred context; the imaginary construct that depends on the sign is at the same time the communal sacred center, which ultimately needs no imaginary figuration, as the iconoclasm of monotheistic religion demonstrates. Secular, non-ritual art emerges in the context of Otherness. This is not simply because the Other can share our artworks but not our rituals. Art is for us, not for the Other; the Iliad does not depict the Trojans as similar to the Greeks in order to attract a Trojan clientele. What is crucial is that art serves a society that is aware of Otherness. Once we are aware of Others for whom our rituals are inaccessible, we can either assimilate the Other within our cultural imagination or take the radical step to monotheism, the denial of the validity of all other rituals and the consequent denial of legitimacy to other cultures. Hebrew monotheism is itself a mimetic reaction to the gods of Egypt and elsewhere; the culture of the One God is a refusal of Otherness. The universalization of the “god of the Hebrews” leads to a sharper if narrower intuition of the moral reciprocity of the originary event than that afforded by art, one in which each member of the community of believers is given a narrative guarantee of direct descent from a unique moment of creation.

    The esthetic assimilation of the Other is not irenic: as the Trojans are given their voice in the imaginary universe, resentment emerges as the primordial literary theme within the Greek camp. Adhesion to one’s own culture becomes the problematic subject of a new form of narrative; Achilles’ wrath against Agamemnon is specific to a society facing its Other. Were Achilles and Agamemnon compatriots rather than leaders of armies allied against the Trojans, Achilles would either accept Agamemnon’s authority and put away his resentment, that is, accept to play his given role in his society’s ritual culture, or he would challenge Agamemnon for the kingship. Resentment, frustrated rage, as distinct from the cowardice or prudence that makes the weaker reluctant to face the stronger, is conceivable only within a social group whose solidarity is endangered from without.

    In the Iliad the Achaians or Argives are not a compact ritual community but an ad hoc alliance of many principalities united by a military aim. The Otherness of the Trojans invades the world of the Iliad as an incentive to rationality, that is, the substitution of market for ritual exchange. In The End of Culture (1985), I developed the idea that the battlefield was the first “marketplace” in which “value” could be established–noting that the French word valeur means both value and valor. The hero of the Iliad is given the choice of a long, uneventful, meaningless life and a short, glorious, meaningful one, one that embodies his free choice to contribute to the communal effort. Within this newly instrumentalized world in which each individual makes a similar choice, the praxis of mortals becomes the subject of narration. The society now requires models for the meaning of life that in simpler times were supplied by the ritualized  exchange of “gifts” that contributed to perpetuation and renewal. However unheroic literary protagonists eventually become, their creator has chosen for them glory over uneventfulness–a glory whose first task is to defend their society against the Other.

    As I also noted in The End of Culture, ancient Egypt’s closest approach to secular literature occurs in about 1900 BC in the Tale of Sinuhe, which takes place in the interregnum between two pharaohs; the protagonist’s travels are a product of this gap in authority. But the denouement of the story is not the hero’s personal fulfillment or discomfiture but his welcoming back to Egypt by the new pharaoh, who erects for him a tomb on Egyptian soil. The pharaoh is no rex ex machina as in Molière’s Tartufe but a transcendent source of Being, a divinity on earth. Literature proper begins when individual resentment can no longer thus be contained within a compact ritual system; I would add here that this is the result of a confrontation with Otherness. Achilles’ resentment and its consequences, which lead to its eventual overcoming, work themselves out in the “marketplace” of the battlefield, not through the intervention of a god-king. The ritual affirmation of the primacy of one’s own society is reinforced by the esthetic practice that transcends it in the imagination. Confrontation with the Other makes art not “global” but nationalistic. To enjoy it is to adopt both its nationalism and its transcendence.


    The frisson that great art arouses in us is our reaction to the imaginary possibility that human praxis, and why not our own, can have meaning, because it reproduces in itself the conditions of originary signification. The alternative, which produces a frisson of a different sort, is the adherence to the One God whose story cuts through the overgrowth of history to trace the linear descent of the children of the covenant from the moment of origin. The Bible is not a fiction, but it is a narrative without which the mere affirmation of the omnipotence of our God would be empty. If the story of Achilles offers me a model for individual praxis, the story of the Hebrews provides me with a direct link to the origin. The twin foundations of Western civilization are responses to the challenge of Otherness.


  • GA and Mimetic Theory I: Violence

    The current flurry of Girardian activity in France gives new visibility to the critique of Generative Anthropology by the proponents of mimetic theory. As I see it, Girardians (and Girard himself) level two related objections at the originary hypothesis:

    1. The hypothesis describes a social contract by which the culture of the sign emerges from a rational agreement inconceivable in the midst of mimetic crisis. Culture cannot be founded on the deferral of mimetic violence but only on the relief that follows the discharge of this violence in the emissary murder.

    2. The originary hypothesis ignores the central cultural phenomenon of scapegoating. A theory for which the central being of the originary event is an object of appetite rather than an emissary victim can account neither for the scapegoating events, disguised but legible, that we find at the center of all sacrificial rites, nor for the cultural texts that derive directly or implicitly from these rites, including the Passion story.

    I have responded to these and related critiques on a number of occasions, but I have generally avoided direct polemics with Girard, both out of respect for the Master and because at a time when Girard’s work was not accorded the attention it deserved, I felt it important to stress our common generative approach to central anthropological questions rather than the differences between our specific hypotheses. (An exception is the recent Chronicle entitled René et moi, which was written in response to Girard’s own published remarks.) Now that mimetic theory no longer appears in danger, there is no reason to avoid answering these objections directly. The present Chronicle will respond to the first objection concerning violence; a subsequent one will take up the question of the scapegoat.


    Those who claim that I treat the first sign as the result of a social contract in the traditional sense have not only not read my work very carefully, they fail to recognize the revolutionary significance of the social-contract model itself, which is the first example of the characteristic Enlightenment use of a communal scene as a heuristic for explaining social institutions.

    The originary hypothesis does not postulate a nonviolent utopia either before or after the originary event. What is at stake is not how much violence to include in the originary event, but the generative capacity of this originary violence. In my view, our task as anthropologists is to model the genesis of the fundamental human institutions, including language. Even if we accept the Girardian scapegoating scenario, which I adopted in my first work of Generative Anthropology, The Origin of Language (1981), what must emerge from the originary scene is a cultural/representational institution that for the first time memorializes an event and begins human history. What Girard calls the “first non-instinctual attention” paid to the remains of the victim is literally meaningless in the absence of a representational form within which this attention can be preserved and transmitted.

    In semiotic terms, the Girardian claim is that the indexical relationship between the victim’s remains and the locus in which the slaughter takes place, on the one hand, and the sense of peaceful relief from mimetic violence on the other, is so powerful as to render nugatory any further explanation of the origin of the symbolic representational institutions that fall under the heading of the logos. If Christ is the incarnation of the logos, then the model of emissary victimage that the Crucifixion both obeys and reveals to us suffices to explain the totality of forms in which the logos is transmitted to humanity. Hence the Girardian account contains no attempt to model the emergence of language, or even of ritual in the sense of deliberate repetition according to a fixed pattern rather than the mere unfolding of a mechanism.

    The culturally directed violence of the sparagmos within the event proposed by the originary hypothesis is no “less violent” than the emissary violence of Girard’s scenario; it is merely less irrational, since it seeks appetitive satisfaction as well as the discharge of aggression. That virtually all known acts of sacrificial violence terminate in a meal in which part or all of the victim is consumed, and that in traditional societies all eating of meat is linked to such sacrificial feasts would seem to suggest that appetitive satisfaction is not merely an indirect consequence of the establishment of a sacred order but its chief motivating factor. Since it is in order to sustain and reproduce life that a means must be found to avert internal violence, it stands to reason that the two moments, Eros and Thanatos, should be found together in the scene of origin.

    The Origin of Language presents a synthesis of the Girardian and GA scenarios: after the emissary murder, the participants take advantage of the newly peaceful “non-instinctual attention” to divide up the body of the victim, whether for food or as relics of the resolved crisis. But when it comes to effecting this division, there is no obvious procedure to follow, the old animal pecking-order hierarchy having been dissolved by the preceding mimetic violence. Since the body of the victim is the object of a sacred interdiction, each individual participant, including the former alpha animal, would hesitate to come forward to take the first piece; hence it is plausible that the common desire to do so should lead to the production of the aborted gesture of appropriation that would constitute the first ostensive sign.

    But as I subsequently realized, if this is how the sign originates, then one can dispense with the preceding mimetic crisis and war of all against all–the Big Bang–and postulate simply a minimal crisis or little bang of a small group confronted with a desirable object. Neither evidence nor logic obliges us to derive the originary moment from aggression against a marginal member of the protohuman group itself, or against any protohuman at all. Prehistoric cave-art paintings represent animals with great care and humans as stick-figures; if the originary sacred object was a human victim, why is it that not until the sourire grec in the sixth century B.C. are deities represented in wholly human form?


    The purpose of the originary hypothesis is to provide a plausible explanation for the emergence of the sign, which is at the same time that of the sacred. However much violence surrounds this emergence, the originary sign itself is not an act of violence. Signs defer violence, even if this violence subsequently reemerges. Girard himself describes language and thought as emerging in the aftermath of the emissary murder; indeed, his only relatively concrete pronouncement on the subject of the origin of language (we may ignore his reference to the remains of the victim as “the first signifier”) is not without resemblance to GA’s account of the birth of the ostensive:

    Le meurtre collectif, on l’a dit, ramène le calme, en un contraste prodigieux avec le paroxysme hystérique qui précède ; les conditions favorables à la pensée se présentent en même temps que l’objet le plus digne de la provoquer. . . . Qui dit l’origine de la pensée symbolique dit également l’origine du langage, le véritable fort / da d’où surgit toute nomination, l’alternance formidable de la violence et de la paix. Si le mécanisme de la victime émissaire suscite le langage, s’imposant lui-même comme premier objet, on conçoit que langage dise d’abord la conjonction du pire et du meilleur, l’épiphanie divine, le rite qui la commémore et le mythe qui se la remémore.
    (La violence et le sacré, p. 323)

    [The collective murder, as we have said, restores calm, in a prodigious contrast with the hysterical paroxysm of violence that preceded it; conditions favorable to thinking arise at the same moment as the object most worthy to be thought. . . . To speak of the origin of symbolic thought is also to speak of the origin of language, the veritable fort/da that is the source of all naming, the formidable alternation of violence and peace. If the mechanism of the emissary victim generates language, imposing itself as the first object [referent?], we can understand that in the beginning language should represent [literally: say] the conjunction of the worst and the best–divine epiphany, the rite that commemorates it, and the myth that recalls it.]

    The “fort/da d’où surgit toute nomination” opposes the significant object to its absence, just as the first ostensive name-of-God opposes the significant/sacred central object to the insignificant/profane periphery.

    The phenomenon of deferral, Derrida’s différance transferred from a metaphysical to an anthropological context, from its creator’s paradoxical non-concept of the non-presence of meaning to the deferral of violence, is central to human culture. Deferral is the source of Sartre’s néant or space of freedom between the human mind and its “intended” object; it is also that of Girard’s non-instinctual attention. But lacking formalization in an anthropological model, this terminology remains metaphorical. In a brilliant Saussurean intuition, Derrida inserted deferral into the interpretation of the differential paradigms of language, but the primary object of deferral is not the differential meaning of the sign, which depends on the absent features of the other members of the paradigm, but the pre-human, “instinctual” act of appropriation that the sign replaces with meaning tout court.

    Girard’s theory of culture, taking its watchword from Heraclitus (“War is the father and king of all”) attributes all creativity to violence. The sacred, from which derive all cultural phenomena including language, is nothing but the violence that we expel from the human community to have peace: la violence ou le sacré. The peace thus obtained, during which we are able to proceed rationally, that is, economically, with the satisfaction of our worldly appetites, is effectively outside of culture, the terrain of méconnaissance on which we discharge our mimetic rage against arbitrarily chosen sacrificial victims. Because humanity can never defer this rage, merely discharge it, the elaborate forms of representation with which we surround this discharge of violence provide no independent insight into its originary basis.

    The most powerful argument in favor of the originary hypothesis is independent of the necessarily ambiguous evidence of such phenomena as prehistoric cave art: it is the heuristic value of tracing the various aspects of human culture to their roots in the hypothetical originary scene through the procedure I call originary analysis. Language, morality, religion, political and economic systems, ethical and esthetic forms–all the central human institutions from the most general to the historically specific can be understood as elaborations of moments of the originary event’s deferral of violence through representation. In contrast, mimetic desire and scapegoating are ahistorical categories for which, in Girard’s mature system, the Christian revelation as prepared by the Hebraic tradition–the history contained in the Christian bible–supplies the only independent historical determinant.


    The classical Girardian approach to what the French call a différend is to demonstrate that the two parties are frères ennemis whose positions, whether moral, intellectual, esthetic, judicial, diplomatic, or military, are figures symmetrically reflected in the mirror of rivalrous mimesis. The more the opponents try to distinguish themselves from each other, the more clearly their agon reveals their underlying identity. Could some third party apply this Olympian perspective to the present discussion, he might well find the difference between Girard’s and my interpretation of the originary event no more significant than that between Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Yet no thinker is close enough to the truth to be justified in theorizing away all difference but his own. The most frivolous cultural difference requires of us an ethical and intellectual choice that contributes to the self-awareness we call anthropology. Nor does this self-awareness have an upper limit that we can aspire to attain; it progresses (and sometimes recedes) through ethical revelations large and small, stimulated by the competition of war, or more productively, of the marketplace. The great religious revelations have irreversibly transformed our understanding of ourselves, but this understanding does not cease to evolve; it is coextensive with human history. Neither the Gospels, nor mimetic theory, nor Generative Anthropology can hope to have the last word; we can only attempt to improve our grasp of the first.

    [to be continued]

  • I Promise

    In 1962, J. L. Austin published a seminal little book entitled How to Do Things with Words in which he proposed the idea of the performative, a “speech-act” that not only said something but did something. Virtually all Austin’s examples, utterances such as “I hereby declare the court adjourned,” “I now pronounce you man and wife,” “I baptize you in the name of the Father…” were associated with institutional, often explicitly ritual practices. Austin’s new perspective on language led to considerable discussion and debate, the upshot of which was that he felt obliged to efface the distinction between performatives and constatives or statements; the latter too “do things” by producing perlocutionary (indirect) as well as illocutionary (direct) effects upon their audience. Now that the dust has settled, one might regret that this salutary if tardy recognition of the interactive nature of language was obtained at the price of sacrificing Austin’s valuable insight into the institutional nature of performatives. My saying “It’s cold in this room” may get you to close the window, but it doesn’t permanently redefine the room like the ceremony that converts it into a holy place, or as marriage redefines the individuals it joins together.

    Some years later, John Searle published “A Taxonomy of Illocutionary Acts” (in Expression and Meaning, Cambridge, 1979) which systematically divided speech acts into a proposed set of categories. (Searle has since revised his theory of performatives, but this is not relevant in the present context.) Searle’s classifications were plausible, but as with virtually all linguistic and absolutely all philosophical analyses, he made no attempt to give them an originary anthropological basis. This deficiency, tolerable in linguistics proper, which is chiefly concerned with the form of utterances, is more worrisome with regard to speech acts, which cannot be abstracted from their function in human interaction. As a prolongation of my originary anthropology of language, I constructed an alternative taxonomy of speech-acts that was subsequently included in Originary Thinking. Among the speech-acts I discussed in passing was promising, a form of performative that Austin and Searle had called the commissive.

    Taking up the subject a decade later in this year’s GA seminar, I am struck by the superior insight that promising offers into the originary constitution of language. Unlike the institutional performatives that rely as a felicity condition on a prior conferral of authority– that is, on the implicit guarantee of a prior institutional speech-act and/or its worldly equivalent appointing this individual as a priest or judge–promising is an institution unto itself. Available to any speaker of human language, the promise creates an obligation, one that can under certain circumstances in our own society be enforceable in court. Solemn promises may indeed be ritualized as oaths guaranteed by a sacred being or by a figurative hostage offered in potential sacrifice (“I swear on the head of my mother/child/spouse…”), but even the most informal promise is understood by both parties as creating an obligation on the part of the promiser that the promisee can count on and that he has a right to reproach the promiser for not fulfilling.

    Promising is an exclusively human phenomenon; it is not only inherent in language, it is inconceivable without language. Animals cannot promise; they can at best express an intention, analogous to the gesture of appropriation whose “abortion” converted it into the originary sign. The aborted gesture of the first speaker, the first member of the group to renounce the enterprise of appropriation, constitutes in effect a promise to the other members of the group not to attempt further to appropriate the object; this promise is implicit in the originary institution of language. There is perhaps no clearer corroboration of the originary hypothesis than the continued existence of this “institutional” function in language independently of any specific institutional context. I have insisted that the originary use of language is an event; a singular moment that the sign commemorates, the beginning of human history. This same singularity may equally well be expressed as the first promise; for the first time, a creature commits itself before the community of its fellows to a course of action; the sign creates an obligation where none previously existed and that can be dated from this moment. No doubt the form of the promise can be institutionalized; in ritual-centered societies and even in our own the most solemn promises are expressed as oaths using religious formulas. But the capacity of language to formulate promises requires no fixed procedure. In my taxonomy I cited the example of an adolescent’s responding “OK” to a request to clean his room. The acceptability and comprehensibility of such a reply demonstrates that promising requires no specialized syntactical form, confirming our hypothesis that it is inherent in the very core of linguistic communication.

    The imperative is an attempt to use language to affect reality; it cannot be called a performative in Austin’s original sense because its enunciation does not effect the act it calls for but requires the action of another, an action that for various reasons may not be forthcoming. (In my derivation of sentence-forms in the Origin of Language, the declarative form promises truth as a substitute for the performance demanded by an imperative.) It is only where the imperative is felicitous to begin with that it can elicit a commissive response, which implicitly affirms its felicity. When I ask my son to clean his room, he may answer with an excuse (“I don’t have time right now”) or with a promise (“I’ll do it this afternoon”); but if, say, his sister asks him to clean his room, he might answer with an insult or simply not reply at all. To promise in answer to an imperative is to accept the latter as creating an obligation. In the originary event, the promissory nature of the sign is a response, at first anticipatory, to the implicit imperative of the other members of the group not to attempt to appropriate the central object. If this “imperative” is first experienced as a menacing atmosphere of mimetic desire, once the sign is emitted, it acquires its own imperative force; the originary sign symmetrically both orders and promises, permitting it to circulate as an object of reciprocal exchange within the group. The originary ostensive sign that designates and represents the present central object is implicitly both an order and a promise, an imperative of interdiction and a pledge of obedience to this interdiction, lacking which it could not be exchanged as a sign. Symbolic representation is in the first place a rendering of mortal reality into timeless signs whose semiotic immortality preserves the originary interdiction and our promise to respect it. It is only later that an imperative syntax can emerge in which the sign is emitted in order to make–and with the expectation of making–its absent object appear.

    It is under the rubric of the promise, explicit or implicit, that we find the gift theorized by Marcel Mauss in his Essai sur le don. The deferred exchange of gifts extends the deferral of the originary scene into the “profane” everyday life of the community by making the latter the locus of the promise and obligation of such exchange, if not of the ritual act of exchange itself, which may occur in an institutionalized setting. Thus if I offer a child to another clan in marriage in the expectation of receiving at some future date a “cross-cousin” in return, the obligation extends over the interval between these two ritual acts and serves, as Mauss points out, to maintain the “solidarity” whose reinforcement Durkheim located exclusively in the communal rituals themselves.

    That the possibility of obligating oneself is inherent in the very existence of language is a fact that has never been and can never be explained in the absence of an originary hypothesis. If one begins with the cognitive function of language as expressed in the constative/declarative sentence or logical proposition, one can never derive from it the commissive or even the imperative in other than a purely formal manner. The linguist’s classification of the imperative as a “defective” form of declarative tells us nothing about the anthropological phenomenon of language and its evolution. On the contrary, this classification provides an exemplary illustration of my definition of metaphysics as the mode of thought for which the declarative sentence is the fundamental syntactic form. The logician’s model of language as the instrument that makes it possible to represent the “world” (or what is the case) by a countably infinite number of propositions cannot account for the non-declarative aspects of language.


    The act of “doing things with words” is in every case, as at the origin, an event that perpetuates its own memory. If I baptize a child or a ship, marry a couple, or sentence someone to prison, I have “done something” of a different nature from driving a nail, building a bridge, or eating a meal–or for that matter, from making a statement or giving an order. It would be difficult to find an institutional speech act that does not leave a physical record through the conferral of some permanent token, often inscribed or implanted on the bodies of the participants themselves (e.g., circumcision and various initiatory mutilations, wedding rings, insignia of office); conversely, the various forms of baptism simulate a total unmarking. But even in the absence of a physical record, the institutional speech act is meant to be remembered. The point of the accompanying ritual acts is to commemorate in the natural world the change of state that the speech act has already realized in the world of culture. It is inherent in such changes that they are permanent until undone by some new official act: divorce, the fulfillment of a judicial sentence, legal change of name, promotion to higher rank. In many cases, the permanence of the performatively accorded status is not ended by death; the remaining partner is a “surviving spouse” until s/he remarries, the sunk battleship retains its name, the soldier killed in battle retains his rank. These examples are homologous to promises. What we consider to be a typical promise has an endpoint, like a legal sentence; when my son has cleaned his room, he has fulfilled his obligation. But one can promise “never to touch another drop,” “to stop seeing that woman,” and so on, where the promise is never discharged. In both cases, the performative creates a cultural state that can be modified or abolished only under culturally recognized circumstances.

    Every performative, institutional or personal, anticipates permanent recognition by the members of the society of the status it confers. It is easy enough to understand the official conferral of a status as a derivative of the originary event. The officiant presides over a rite at which the entire community is virtually present, and often materially present as well in the persons of a large number of its members. He stands at the center as the representative both of the community and the central divinity, and etymologically sacrifices or consecrates a member of the community by conferring upon him a new status. In contrast, the community’s virtual presence in an everyday promise, which may have no witnesses other than the parties themselves, is confined to the promissory use of language. Yet this abstract virtuality suffices to make the promise enforceable; we all recognize what a promise is and what constitutes its fulfillment or non-fulfillment. This second originary derivation, less obvious, is all the more revelatory; it shows that every speaker of human language understands each individual human interaction as possessing the same structure as the originary event. We may be thrown into a world of obligations embodied in communal institutions, but we are free to create our own ad hoc institutions in which we impose on ourselves obligations for the future. Language gives each human being the ability to extend the sphere of culture up to and beyond the limit imposed by his mortality.


  • Return of the Sacred II — Secularism

    As I attempted to show in Chronicle 326, what we call religious belief is adherence to an institutional dogma, which is always implicitly or explicitly an account of human origin. (Anterior to dogmatic belief is obedience to a ritual procedure that embodies this account of origin; in such a universe the only conceivable “secularism” is individual disaffection.) The real question is not whether one “believes in God” but whether one believes in the virgin birth or in the uncreated Koran. In the Enlightenment, when it first became acceptable to reject dogma altogether rather than fighting over its content, the contingent of philosophes included both deists such as Voltaire and Rousseau and atheists such as d’Holbach and La Mettrie.

    The affirmation or denial of the existence of God is really the choice between two communities whose point of contention is their attitude toward organized religion. The self-identified atheist tends to be hostile to god-talk and may wish to banish it from the public sphere, whereas the deist is willing to engage in such talk in the form of “natural theology.” The term agnostic is meant to refer to the epistemological black hole that lies between these two positions, but taken literally the term is meaningless: to claim “one does not know” whether God exists implies that this existence is a factual matter that could in principle be ascertained, whereas the believer knows God’s existence through faith alone. Awaiting the enlightenment of faith and awaiting the progress of knowledge are very different epistemological attitudes; the first is implicitly focused on the originary event as the source of religious faith, whereas the second relies on the accomplishments of natural science, which ignores or at best “brackets” this event.

    We can avoid the fuzzy deism-atheism distinction by distinguishing instead between two modes of secularismStrong secularism may be defined as the combination of non-acceptance of any institutional dogma with the rejection of what dogma is ultimately about, the eventful origin of the human. The strong secularist believes that the entire anthropological content of religious accounts of the creation is contained within the Darwinian descent of man; in this view, neither the transcendental “verticality” of symbolic language nor the notion of transcendence itself as expressed in the concept of God differ in kind from other biological adaptations. In contrast, weak or minimal secularism consists in the non-acceptance of dogma independently of either belief in God or the originary anthropology implicit in religious discourse. The non-acceptance of institutional dogma is not in itself a dogmatic position, since the anthropological hypotheses that can be extracted from such dogmas are judged on their explanatory merits. For example, René Girard’s Christian anthropology can be evaluated independently of its creator’s–or one’s own–belief in Christian doctrine. In the general case, much anthropological truth can be found in religious discourse–theology being bad cosmology but good anthropology.

    Despite its theoretical coherence, weak secularism is a difficult position to maintain politically. Those on the left tend to be strong secularists; conversely, most conservatives, including neo- as well as traditional or paleo- conservatives, are hostile to secularism across the board, and many are sympathetic to the “theory” of intelligent design. In the Burkean tradition, conservatives are suspicious of radical theorizing, in both the etymological and the political senses of radical.


    A forceful statement of the anti-secularist position by a neoconservative polemicist whose insight and forthrightness I greatly admire is Mark Steyn’s article, “O come, all ye faithless” in the December 17, 2005 Spectator (UK). Steyn notes that in comparison with secular societies, those held together by religion are more concerned with the human community in the present and above all in the future; they are consequently more successful demographically. Steyn contrasts secular Western Europe’s demographic suicide with the increasing populations of religious societies, particularly that of Islam, which he sees transforming Europe into Eurabia. Blind or indifferent to the link between religious observance and demographic success, Europe becomes increasingly alienated from religious dogma, its marginalized churches consumed with such issues as gay marriage and divesting from Israel. “Rationalism is killing poor childless Europe,” Steyn claims; religious dogma, mythical or not, gets results:

    . . . [A]ssume that there was no baby in the manger, no virgin birth, no resurrection. A rationalist ought still to be able to conclude that, as a societal model, Christianity is more rational than Eutopian secularism. If Matthew, Mark, Luke and John cooked the whole racket up, it’s nevertheless a stroke of genius to anchor the whole phony-baloney rigmarole in the birth of a child and his triumph over death. Whether or not there is a hereafter, new life is our triumph over death here on Earth. A religiosity centred on eternal life will by definition be a more efficient organising principle for an enduring society than a secularism focused on the here and now . . . What’s so rational about putting yourself out of business? On both sides of the Atlantic, the godly will inherit the Earth: in the United States, blue-state birthrates mean that in 20 years America will look a lot less like John Kerry’s Massachusetts and a lot more like Texas and Utah; Europe will look a lot less like an Amsterdam sex club and a lot more like Clichy-sous-Bois. Post-Christian Europe will also be post-European.Concerned as he is with ideology rather than anthropology, Steyn skirts the problem of reconciling the anthropological content of Christianity with “the whole phony-baloney rigmarole” of Christian dogma.

    If Steyn’s view is correct, the “return of the sacred” is the result of superiority in a Darwinian survival competition in which religious societies display greater reproductive fitness than “secular rationalist” societies, which are fast unbreeding themselves out of existence. In this perspective, the increased influence of religion in American politics would be less the result of the conversion of former secularists than of a growing demographic disparity between members of organized religious communities such as Mormons and evangelicals, and urban secularists whose low birth rate reflects their emphasis on individual success, both their own and that of the few individually nurtured children on whom they lavish their parental resources.

    The Darwinian explanation of the “return of the sacred” is like that of the origin of the sacred: true but superficial. There is nothing wrong with Steyn’s correlation between religiosity and fertility, but demography does not suffice to explain the changed configuration of ideas. Even among generally secular academics, the past generation has shown a new appreciation for religion’s adaptivity that goes beyond the traditional secularist view of religion as the guardian of morality. The work of sociologist Rodney Stark, anthropologist Roy Rappaport, or evolutionary psychologist Pascal Boyer exemplify from a variety of perspectives a quasi-Durkheimian respect for religion’s structural contribution to the social order, a respect rarely encountered in the academic social science of the preceding generation. Broad intellectual developments of this sort reflect equally broad changes in attitude that are conditioned by deeper factors than the observation of population shifts.

    In the world of ideas, the return of the sacred is a reaction against the victimary paradigm that dates in its modern, all-inclusive form to the postwar era and which has become more radical since its original goal of de jure equality was achieved. Victimary radicalism has surged since the demise of Western communism has removed the constraint on victimary thinking exercised by Marxist class analysis. In its radical form, the victimary paradigm is asocial, which effectively means antisocial. Its condemnation of hierarchical difference or firstness goes beyond any rational (e.g., Rawlsian) notion of egalitarianism to ethical nihilism; on the pretext of uncovering the hidden oppressiveness of all human institutions, the victimary thinker abdicates all concern for the actual functioning of these institutions. Book after book denounces the political, economic, civil, and familial institutions within which the denouncers live and within which their denunciations are generated and publicized. The failure to acknowledge the anthropological basis for the moral model that stands behind these denunciations allows this deconstructive discourse to resist its historical localization in the postmodern era and in the ideological context of a critique of the market system that no longer has a socialist alternative to propose. This discourse, no longer confined to the academic world, is dominant in Western European politics, and in the United States it has been adopted by the dominant Left faction of the Democratic Party. The right-left opposition that has characterized Western politics since the turn of the 19th century no longer opposes alternative means for strengthening the social order, even revolutionary means. For the Left, modern market society is essentially evil, not as a historically necessary prelude to the utopian realm of socialism, but from a timeless moral perspective. No doubt in everyday politics the Left’s nihilism is tempered by the desires and resentments of its constituency; but its lack of an alternative to the “Western” market system testifies to the strength of the association between strong secularism and untempered victimary thinking. Not even Noam Chomsky is a pure nihilist who denies a priori the possibility of ethical Being. But pure nihilism is a Dostoevskian fantasy. Practical nihilism begins when one comes to place the denunciation of the oppressive structure of institutional relationships over the affirmation of their human usefulness. The Left has come to occupy the resentful position of young Hamlet in Claudius’ court, denouncing the inequity of the reality he depends on for the occasion of his resentment.


    Both the American and the European experience suggest that secularism is incapable of sustaining Western civilization. The pragmatic paradox inherent in such a statement is that it can be made only in a weak secular context, where non-adherence to dogma is not itself dogmatic. What is more, it can be made coherently only within the context of a generative anthropology that traces both dogma and secularism to a common origin. In this post-Durkheimian version of Voltaire’s si Dieu n’existait pas il fallait l’inventer, the institutional sacred is posited as a permanent necessity of the social order not against but within the heritage of Enlightenment rationalism that permeates mature market society.

    The secular Left’s fear of the Islamists, so graphically illustrated in the 2004 Spanish election, indeed reflects confidence in dogmatic religiosity, but only in that of the “Other.” This is more than a merely demographic issue. The European secularist is willing to sacrifice the quest for future victory to buy time before his civilization is submerged by the unstoppable power of the sacred. In contrast, when George Bush affirms the universality of the desire for democracy, he is proposing a model of mature market society in which religion–any religion–is essential to the social order. This model resolves the Durkheimian problem of anomie by denying the necessarily alienating nature of modern industrial society. Recent history has scandalized the Left by demonstrating, as well as history can demonstrate anything, that after two centuries of “revolution,” both market exchange and religion’s “pie in the sky” remain permanent features of the modern human condition, and that the alternative to religion and the modern economy is either religion and the medieval economy, or worse.


    Religious dogma is a reconstruction of the originary event and as such an affirmation of Being, which pace the philosophers has no other source than this event. Generative Anthropology is an explicit affirmation of this scene, a minimal faith. It is not necessary, in order to avoid contradiction, that GA affirm its own triumph. On the contrary, if faith in the scene’s expression in ritual or dogma is a necessity of social organization, GA in its minimality can never be a social organizing principle. As a theoretical anthropology it recognizes religion as a practical anthropology. The minimal faith GA shares with religious dogma is not enough to create an ethos, an common “emic” internality of conceptual vocabulary, but it is sufficient to permit the religious believer to understand GA’s analysis in his own terms. This seems to me the greatest conceivable ambition for anthropological thought in our time.


  • Return of the Sacred I — The Sacred and the Significant

    If we would understand the sacred, we must first detach it from the institutional contexts within which it is usually embedded: on the one hand, from religion, which exists to preserve and reinforce the sacred, but which cannot have created it, and on the other, from psychology and phenomenology—related to each other more or less as phonetics is to phonology—which isolate the sacred in a single mind as a “variety of religious experience.” It is a fallacy to imagine that one reduces a cultural phenomenon to lowest terms by confining it to a single mind when it originates within the communal context and can subsist outside it only residually.

    According to the originary hypothesis, the originary experience of the sacred is that of the aborting of the act of appropriation of the central object and the conversion of its gesture into a sign. The birth of the sacred is not analogous to the coup de pouce given by the watchmaker-God of Deism, after which no further divine intervention is necessary. Signification is not a mechanism; its functioning depends on the fact that each use of a “symbolic” sign reactivates, with vastly diminished affect, the originary sacred context. This context is, however little we are conscious of it, a collective one; the sign is a mode of communication whose reduction to a solipsistic recording of thought distorts its function beyond repair.

    In the originary event, the movement of appropriative intent toward the object becomes a signifying gesture representing the object. The prehuman movement of appropriation has as its intention or final cause the possession of the object; it has no meaning in the sense of an intention to signify. In becoming a sign, the movement becomes a formal whole separate from its original worldly goal, closed on itself, repeatable, and existing independently of its object, notwithstanding the fact that as an ostensive sign it has as an appropriateness condition that its object be present. The first sign is the name-of-God that represents the central object as (already) sacred. The sacredness of the object is not an inherent but a situational quality, dependent on its position in the center of the circle. Conversely, this center must be filled by an object in order to be referred to by the sign. What we call in Saussure’s terminology the signified of the first sign/signifier is not simply its singular referent (say, a bison), or even simply its generic referent (bison in general), but includes the sacrality/centrality that motivates the sign in the first place. This motivation is never entirely absent from the signified of any sign. To refer to something is to reference not only the thing but its significance.

    Yet the sacred cannot be reduced to the significant; if the two terms were synonymous, we would not need both. The sacred tends to inhere in stable religious institutions dedicated to reinforcing the solidarity (to use Durkheim’s term) of the community by reproducing the configuration of the originary event in a more or less formalized manner as ritual. “Religious experience” is in essence collective; one-person rites such as individual prayer are derivative of communal acts of devotion. Sacrificial ritual typically expends considerable energy in reproducing both the resentment discharged in the violence of the original sparagmos and the love expressed in the community’s mutual exchange of signs and (generally edible) goods. Language, in contrast, is typically a one-on-one phenomenon; as a self-contained gesture that has renounced any role in worldly action, the linguistic sign has no minimal energy requirement. Whereas ritual reproduces the center of the scene, the sign is generated on the profane periphery to represent this center on an imaginary scene of representation that each assumes is accessible to his interlocutor. We need not speculate on the stages by which the linguistic sign detached itself from the ritual ensemble; as its minimal, “symbolic” element, it is from the outset detachable from the scene as a whole and therefore from its reproduction. The linguistic community of the sign is a virtual one from the outset, any two members being presumed to understand the meaning of each other’s aborted gesture; the religious community, in contrast, comes into being in the unanimity of this gesture that is followed by the unanimity of the sparagmos.

    The originary sign designates a thing-in-a-locus inaccessible to the appetite it provokes, which may then properly be called desire. Once the central object has been consumed, the central locus remains vacant and its status as a focus of desire is remembered rather than experienced. The shared meaning of the sign is reinfused with the sentiment of sacred interdiction when its reproduction is contextualized by ritual; as a “portable” linguistic sign independent of ritual reproduction, it tacitly implies the object’s sacrality rather than making its user reexperience it. Conversely, a linguistic sign wholly bound to the ritual reexperience of the sacred no longer functions linguistically; prayers recited by rote tend to become incantations rather than meaningful utterances. Signification is sacrality implied but only minimally reexperienced, known but only minimally felt. As we come into the world and learn language, we are taught what things are significant enough to name; the sole function of many of the names we learn in the early years is to exemplify this significance. Exotic animals that we may never see figure prominently in alphabet books beside the familiar objects whose names we need to know. When Helen Keller first discovered language on understanding the sign for “water,” she realized that “everything has a name” and began requesting and reproducing the signs for the other elements of her experience. But “everything” has a name precisely because it is an element of possible significant experience, the experience of thematization or reference within a context that minimally reproduces that of the originary event.


    The sacred is experienced in the originary scene as a will that opposes the participants’ desire to possess the central object. When I abort my gesture because I feel the center to be inaccessible, the gesture-sign through which for the first time I express my own “willful” intention to represent the object is in response to my sense of a will that forbids me to possess it. The individual and collective intending of the sign stands in a relationship of mimetic rivalry to the will that we experience as interdiction. The central object, whose aura of inaccessibility the anthropologist “etically” explains as the resultant of the desires of all the members of the group, appears to interdict itself, and this repulsing will forms our gesture into the sign. The subject of this will is anthropomorphic in the near-tautological sense that the thematizing intentionality of representation is the distinguishing trait of humanity.

    Religious or institutional representation attributes this will to a permanently subsisting being, analogous to the signified of the sign. The sacred is difficult to isolate and define independently of institutional religion because in the absence of an institutional guarantee, the experience of interdiction that distinguishes the sacred from the significant has no objective, “meaningful” existence. Dialogues de sourds about the existence of God and similar antinomies are not really factual disputes. Religious dogma may enjoin all sorts of apparently factual beliefs, but behind the specificity of dogma is the institution that guarantees it. Rational choice theory explains dogma’s credo quia absurdum as a means of protecting the religious community against freeloaders by making the requirements for participation more onerous; rival dogmas help define rival communities. But the core of any religion is the ritual reproduction of the originary event, and the sacred inheres, in the first place, in this sacrificial or sacred-making repetition itself. In some religions the law that imposes on the performers the details of this repetition suffices to incarnate the sacred will that Western religions attribute to an individualized God. Religion can do without gods, but it cannot do without a will whose subject stands outside the human community.

    What the believer believes that the nonbeliever does not is the institutional supplement to the originary sign, the—oral or written—scripture that makes a particular totality of words and actions the expression of the divine will. The minimal scripture is the originary sign, the name-of-God whose status as the “word of God” derives from the force that turns the gesture back upon itself as a sign. From the institutional standpoint of ritual, this utterance is constrained by the event as a whole, but from the formal standpoint of language, it is in principle a free act whose meaning is constrained by its situation in the event, so that the freedom to utter the sign outside its originary context does not entail the freedom to alter what it signifies. The sacred inheres in the “profane” use of language in the constraint of meaning that binds the sign independently of any ritual context. This minimal sacred inherent in the laws of language is too weak to support a god or a law of ritual sacrifice; it can guarantee only the most parsimonious of anthropologies. The promise of generative anthropology is that its minimal hypothesis of the common origin of the sacred and the significant offers the most favorable basis for common understanding between those who believe that God created humanity and those who affirm that humanity created God.